Dead on Demand (A DCI Morton Crime Novel) (4 page)

This time, he'd coughed up for premium economy, and asked to be put in the front row, next to the emergency exit. The airlines didn't mind. They needed someone able to open the door in the event of an emergency, and Edwin gained a few extra inches of legroom in return. The airline still refused to confirm that seat until he'd checked in.

He had grudgingly forked out for a travel cushion at Heathrow. He hated wasting money but it was a nine-hour flight, and another £10 made little difference when the bill for the flight had been £1183.

Edwin needn't have worried. He was soon snoozing in his seat, his Kindle tucked under his arm as the 747 soared majestically across the Atlantic.

An automated voice rudely woke him as the plane began the approach to Vancouver International.

'Please remain in your seats with your seatbelts fastened while the pilot begins our final descent. Please keep your seatbelt fastened until the plane has come to a complete stop, and the seatbelt signs have been turned off. Thank you for flying British Airways.'

***

Vanhi yelled out in pain, or she would have if she had not been gagged and bound. She struggled against her bonds, nylon rope cutting into her wrists and drawing blood.

She screamed again as he approached her. His pockmarked face leered down at her with blue eyes, shot through with crimson. He tugged at her hair, pulling her face to within inches of his, parading his power over her. She screamed again, feeling more helpless than ever before. As she screamed he became visibly aroused, advancing on her with a knife in one hand. He held the knife to her throat and slid his hands between her legs.

Vanhi screamed and woke with a start. She was sweating profusely. The dream
again
. She glanced bleary-eyed at the clock. It read 2:32 a.m. She cursed under her breath, careful not to disturb Jaison, and then swung her legs out of bed, before tiptoeing to the kitchen in search of cocaine.

There was none to be found. She searched her purse and found it empty. There wasn't even enough money to buy more, not that it would be easy to score a hit at half two in the morning anyway.

This had to end somehow. It was either her or him.

She pulled a serrated knife from the rack by the sink and placed it above her left wrist. One clean, simple swipe lengthways along the arm and her nightmare would be over.

Just as she was about to use the blade, Vanhi noticed her laptop had a small green LED flashing to indicate a new message had been posted on the darknet site she frequented.

At first, she thought it might be a new punter. She often found clients online, and using an anonymous service avoided being arrested for solicitation. She could find a dealer on there too, one willing to post her drugs to an anonymous PO box. Meeting up meant losing that anonymity, but with careful screening, it was possible to avoid problems.

The message didn't seem to be from a punter or a dealer. It was curiously titled 'You solve my problem, and I'll solve yours.'

The grammar was too perfect for it to be just another druggie looking to score, so Vanhi opened the thread. No author's name was listed, only the message and a time stamp, 1:08 a.m. GMT. Vanhi flicked the scroll wheel to show the body of the message.

'Help me eliminate my problem, and I'll eliminate yours.'

A small text box invited anonymous replies. Vanhi smiled. This was the opportunity she had been waiting for. If she was reading this right she could make sure
that
man never hurt anyone else as he had hurt her, and do it without ever even having to look at his pockmarked face ever again. First she had to make sure the message was what she thought it was. She typed cautiously, praying that the other person wasn't a prankster, or worse, the police.

'Seems like a fair swap. What is your problem?'

CHAPTER 5: OH, CANADA!

If Edwin hadn't been a Londoner for most of his adult life he would have found Vancouver to be both imposing and impressive in equal measure. The skyline resembled many of the other major cities Edwin had visited. Vast office blocks rose dozens of storeys above the waterline, with beautiful bridges such as the Granville Street Bridge in the north and the remarkably well-lit Lions Gate Bridge breaking up the seaways. It was a most beautiful city, with a vibrant metropolitan community, and a strong economy. It would be an ideal place to live and work for a newly single bachelor looking for a fresh start.

The interview was to take place in downtown Vancouver at 5433 West Georgia Street. It was a swanky address, but having lived and worked in the most exorbitantly expensive parts of London Edwin was not one to be intimidated by a postcode.

He was, however, impressed with the building. His office on Fleet Street had been opulent with incredible views, but the home of the Canadian Business Press Co eclipsed even that office. With over thirty floors, including a central atrium complete with indoor waterfall and a glass elevator, the building was a powerhouse.

Upon arrival Edwin was quickly escorted into the elevator by a businesslike secretary who had plainly been chosen on merit rather than her looks. The ride gave Edwin the opportunity to watch the laid-back attitude the Canadians took to their work. While the foyer at
The Impartial
was a veritable circus, CBC Co had a relaxed atmosphere. Colleagues could be seen chatting over the water cooler and strolling casually among the indoor fauna. It was a culture shock, but a pleasant one.

Equally shocking was the proliferation of proper etiquette. Everywhere Edwin went he was greeted warmly and with a politeness that to an Englishman would seem unnatural, perhaps even false. False it was not, however. There genuinely was a strong culture of being respectful and observing social boundaries.

There was no waiting room for Edwin to sit in and muster his thoughts before the interview. He was led straight into a series of psychometric tests. His brain strained as he fought to recall rules of grammar, and how to solve equations by integration. He was nearing a migraine when the secretary reappeared.

'Time is up, Mr Murphy. If you'd care to follow me, please.' Her tone was pleasant but firm.

Edwin was then led into his first-ever panel interview. A dozen individuals were arrayed down the length of a large, expensive, oak conference table. The secretary gestured for him to sit in the sole chair on the opposing side and left the room without further ado.

Edwin had noticed a coat rack by the door on the way in. He took his time removing his jacket and hanging it neatly before tucking his briefcase under the table and sitting before the waiting CBC executives.

'Good afternoon, Mr Murphy,' the central member of the panel said. He was a youngish man, and judging by the ill-fitting suit he was not truly an executive. Edwin replied with the usual courtesy as his eyes scanned the faces of those watching him. On the far left sat an older gentleman. His attire was nondescript: a simple white cotton shirt and black trousers. This would have been completely unmemorable had there not been a distinct pattern on his wrist, a void where his tan should have continued. Edwin deduced that the man customarily wore a large watch, probably a diver's watch. From the watch's absence it was clear that the man was concealing his wealth. He was probably someone important, but was trying to conceal who he was.

Edwin began to study the rest of the panel when the young man spoke again.

'Mr Murphy,' he began.

'Please, call me Edwin,' Edwin interrupted him.

The younger man frowned at the interruption and began the interview in earnest.

'If you were a dinosaur, what kind of a dinosaur would you be?'

Edwin almost burst out laughing. It was an absurd question, the sort used only by headhunters and human resources personnel.

It was the sort of question that is asked not to find out the answer, but to test how the candidate responds to the unexpected, to test how fast they think on their feet.

Edwin knew this and chose to ignore it entirely.

'I'm sure you have a number of quips ready no matter which of the common answers I give. I expect you're hoping I'll say tyrannosaurus rex. The truth of it is I am not a dinosaur. They are, after all, extinct.' Edwin turned to face the man on the left who was missing his watch.

'Forgive me for being blunt, sir, but I would prefer to deal with those in charge of hiring rather than some spotty-nosed kid.' Edwin flicked his hand at the human resources representative.

The man looked taken aback for a moment, then grinned a wide toothy smile.

'How'd you figure out who I am, son?' he asked

'Putting the important people on the end of the panel is a classic. The lackey chairs from the centre and distracts from the real panel. He asks frankly absurd questions, and you watch how I respond. That, and your tan line is a dead giveaway.'

The CEO guffawed.

'That'll be all, thanks, Tony.'

The younger man rose and left in silence, with three of his colleagues following him. Once they had closed the door the CEO introduced himself properly.

'I'm Barry Robbins, CEO here at CBC. To my left is our in-house counsel, our CFO and our deputy editor, Andy Hodgson. We've seen your work, and you spoke to Andy on the phone. We invited y'all here today to see if we liked the cut of your jib, and whether we think you'd fit in here in Vancouver. We're delighted to say you do fit in.'

***

Back at the Downtown Vancouver Hilton, Edwin practically fell into bed.

It had been a long day. They had most certainly liked him, but he had realised the interview was virtually a formality when they agreed to fly him halfway around the world for a face-to-face interview. It was nearly 7 p.m. Pacific time when he finally got to check his darknet messages. Vancouver lags eight hours behind London so it was no surprise to see the new message indicator flash as soon as he logged on.

'Seems like a fair swap. What is your problem?'
he read.

Did she understand what he was proposing? Was she an undercover cop? Did it make a difference even if she was? He was, after all, anonymous.

Edwin pecked out a reply, typing with just two fingers. He 'd become too reliant on Betty's touchtyping.

'A woman. I need her gone.'
He hit send, and his message zoomed around the globe in cyberspace, bouncing off relays in Singapore, California, Newfoundland and even Kenya before it reached Vanhi back in London.

***

Vanhi studied the reply. She had not figured that a woman would be the other person's target. Perhaps she had been too rash in responding to the message. But then Vanhi wondered if it even really mattered if her victim was a man or a woman. As long as she didn't have to see
him
ever again it would be worth it.

'Get me a picture.'
She typed.
'How and when?'

A few minutes later, Vanhi had a mini biography on Eleanor. She knew that Eleanor took a run at quarter to eight each morning for a circuit around Belgravia, and she had a clear image of Eleanor's bobbed auburn hair. She knew she had a week to pull off the kill, she just didn't know how to do it yet.

***

Edwin was a cautious man. He was not one to take risks that could be mitigated. Rather than providing a mere alibi, Edwin wanted to make his visit to Vancouver look genuine. He was a bona fide prospective citizen, so it was only natural to take some time to explore Vancouver. He'd booked a week in Canada, and he was in no rush to get back to London and his drab new apartment. There was no work to return to, and it looked like his choice to take a few days' break would provide the perfect alibi.

While Edwin was not much of a sports fan, a friend had recommended checking out the BC Sports Hall of Fame and its attached museum. Hockey is a national pastime in Canada, and if Edwin were to become a Canadian he would certainly need to know some background on the sport, even if he didn't fancy actually playing it. It was too violent for Edwin really; he had experienced his share of violence as a tight head prop on the school rugby team back at Harrow.

Edwin gladly paid the cover charge, and even picked up a gaudy souvenir t-shirt. He was every bit the tourist, studiously reading every plaque and memorising the names on various medals and trophies on display. He wasn't really interested but his years at
The Impartial
had imparted in him a thirst for knowledge, and the sports records allowed him to quench that thirst. Satiated, he moved on to the exhibits he was really fascinated by. One chronicled the life of Terry Fox, a cancer sufferer who ran cross-country across Canada, traversing 3,339 miles in just 143 days. The exhibit was aptly named the Marathon of Hope. If Edwin had still been an editor he would have loved to see such a great human-interest piece cross his desk.

Still, Terry Fox's story was not the most inspirational. That honour fell to a Paralympian who trekked 40,000 km through thirty-four countries on four continents in a wheelchair to raise awareness of spinal cord injuries. It was at BC Place Stadium that Rick Hansen made his triumphant return to Vancouver, cheered by the crowds in the packed stadium.

Feeling newly invigorated, Edwin left the Sports museum in search of lunch.

***

The syringe was ready. Vanhi had primed it with cocaine mixed with ethanol and put in a new hypodermic needle. Once injected, the coke would take around fifteen seconds to begin to take effect.

Eleanor's running route took her through Battersea Park on a circuitous route around the boating lake and then back across the Thames to Belgravia. The park was perfect. It was large, with plenty of places to hide. Getting away unseen would be easy.

Vanhi could simply stab Eleanor, then go. She didn't even need to wait for her to die. The cocaine would induce respiratory and cardiac arrest. As long as no medical treatment was administered within a few minutes, Eleanor would die and it would be almost impossible to trace. Vanhi knew that all she had to do was remove Eleanor's keys, the only personal possessions she took with her when she went for her daily run, and the police would find it difficult to identify the body.