The DCI Morton Box Set Read online

  The original building was long gone, destroyed by a bomb in the Second World War. But The Impartial had risen from the ashes inside a new building, clad in glass and steel.

  Staying in Fleet Street cost the owner of The Impartial, Derek Wood, more than a pretty penny, but it was worth every cent of his investment. On a clear day, Wood could see ten, maybe even twelve miles from the roof terrace. More importantly, London could see him. The bankers might have been masters of the universe, but it was Derek who decided who made the news.

  In the top-floor conference room, only a French door away from Wood's private terrace, a secretary laid out a breakfast of fresh fruit and bagels. A pot of freshly brewed coffee sat on a warming plate, waiting to be poured.

  Wood always began his mornings with a bagel and a coffee: black, no sugar. He did not believe in tea, and as such it was never served at the meetings he arranged, which greatly annoyed The Impartial's editor-in-chief, Edwin Murphy. Wood considered that a bonus.

  Wood's personal assistant, a simpering young man fresh from Oxford, laid out a selection of newspapers at the head of the table and hovered awkwardly as Wood scanned through the headlines. Wood always indulged in this ritual. He simply had to know what the other papers were up to. Three short sharp knocks announced Edwin's arrival.

  Wood glanced at his watch, nodded appreciatively at Edwin's punctual appearance and then gestured lazily at a leather chair and carried on reading. When he was finished reading the last paper, he lowered the broadsheet and gazed at Edwin over the dark rims of his designer glasses.

  Wood watched Edwin sit and then help himself to a glass of water. Edwin took a quick sip to moisten his lips, and said: 'Good morning, sir. I trust you are well.'

  Wood nodded for Edwin to get on with the month's presentation, tapping his watch impatiently.

  'Our total readership remained steady this month. We shipped 3.06 million copies per day on the weekdays, and almost 4.7 million for the Sunday edition. This is a 0.12% increase on last month.'

  'Good. Revenue is up then. By how much?'

  'Well... we forecast retail income at the rate of £2.2 million net per quarter, but our quarterly revenue generated was £2.1 million. This was under-forecast due to some write-downs on bad debt.'

  'How does advertising revenue stack up against the same quarter last year?'

  Edwin avoided meeting his boss's gaze, and braced himself for the inevitable tongue-lashing that would follow the rest of his report.

  'Despite that, sir, our advertising revenues have fallen due to...'

  'How much?' Wood interrupted him.

  'Well, sir, due to harsh market conditions...'

  Wood's eyes narrowed suspiciously. 'The numbers, Murphy, now.'

  '62%, year on year.'

  Mr Wood was an experienced businessman and knew that he had to roll with the punches but no executive could keep their cool when being told that their investment, previously showing a healthy profit, was suddenly a money pit. He exploded in a fit of rage.

  'What?' Wood roared, spit flying towards Edwin, who ducked instinctively. 'Why the hell am I only hearing about this now? It should have been brought to my attention months ago!'

  Edwin cowered, his eyes downcast, afraid to even look at his boss.

  'Answer me!'

  'Well... sir... it's been a very... ahem, difficult trading environment. It was not my fault that...'

  'Not your fault?' Wood mocked; his tone was suddenly cold, his eyes blazing with a fire Edwin had never seen before.

  'No, sir. It was Palmer in advertising. He was the one who...'

  'Who does Palmer work for?'

  'That would be me, sir.'

  'Then it's on your shoulders. You're finished here, Murphy.' Wood pressed a discreet button underneath the desk, summoning security. Two burly gentlemen appeared as if by magic in the doorway.

  'See Mr Murphy out please, gentlemen. Then get me Palmer.'

  As Wood turned his chair away, Edwin found himself flanked by the security team. He tried to shrug them off.

  'I'll show myself out,' he declared, trying to keep some dignity.

  'We have our orders, Mr Murphy.' Each guard placed a hand underneath one of Edwin's arms, practically hauling him out of the conference room, and then they led him towards his office.

  ***

  Edwin obstinately took his time packing the meagre belongings that he had amassed in the office, neatly stacking a few photo frames inside a cardboard box. He chucked one of the firm's industrial staplers into the box for good measure.

  Security turned a blind eye to the stationery theft, and allowed Edwin to shuffle into the lift without further indignity. He was soon standing outside the building he had called home for the last five years, while morning traffic zigzagged by without a care in the world.

  As he stood outside the building, a vagrant tugged at his elbow.

  'Spare some change, mister?'

  Edwin bit back a rude reply, but his mistake was looking down at the elderly man sitting on the pavement. He had a tuft of matted grey hair, and was sitting on a stack of old copies of The Impartial, with a skeletal greyhound resting next to him.

  Against his better judgement, Edwin thrust a hand into his jacket pocket, and pulled out his wallet. The beggar could barely believe his luck when Edwin shoved a fistful of notes into his hand.

  Before the vagrant could say thank you, Edwin flagged down a taxi and asked for the nearest bar that would be serving alcohol at quarter to nine in the morning.

  ***

  It was nearing eleven o'clock when the barman in Finnigan's Wake finally decided Edwin had probably had enough.

  'Hey, pal, how about you order some food?'

  'Two more shots. Now.' Edwin upended his wallet, and thrust his last note at the barman. Food was the last thing Edwin wanted.

  'No more booze unless you order some food first.'

  'Alright. What have you got?' Edwin slurred. He tried to squint at the menu chalked up on the wall but the text refused to stay in focus.

  'How about a burger and fries?'

  'All right, and a beer.' As Edwin spoke, another patron cracked a grin and rolled his eyes at the bartender.

  The bartender looked at Edwin disapprovingly but reluctantly moved to pour him a pint of London Pride. At least he had moved on from the whiskey.

  The bartender set the beer before him with a thud. 'Say, pal, what's so bad that you're drinking alone on a Monday morning?'

  Edwin, drunk and in no mood to talk, gave a dismissive shrug and finished the beer in one before demanding another.

  The bartender grew wary; it was his licence on the line.

  'One more, if you let me call someone for you, or call you a taxi.'

  'Deal.'

  ***

  In the Murphy residence in Belgravia, a gorgeous mid-terrace townhouse opposite the Portuguese embassy, Chelsea Murphy was off school sick. She had a mild flu, but Eleanor was not one to take chances. She wrapped up her baby girl in blankets, put her on the sofa and spent the morning hovering around checking that she had enough to drink, and zealously monitoring her temperature. Eleanor knew she would never cope if there were ever a real illness in the family.

  'Mummy, why do you keep asking me if I like New York?' Chelsea asked in between brow-moppings.

  'Well, how would you like to see what it's like to live somewhere new? Didn't you like our weekend shopping there?'

  'Yes, Mummy, but all my friends are here!' Chelsea protested.

  'You'll make new friends, darling. Mummy has been offered a job over there and without Daddy around, Mummy needs to work. It'll just be us girls in a sparkling city of lights. Won't that be wonderful, baby?'

  ***

  By half past midday, Finnigan's Wake was heaving with the lunch crowd. The barman decided that Edwin might put off the regular diners and shifted him to a booth in the back when he was joined by his brother-in-law, Mark.

  Mark was always the first to agree to a session
in the pub, and ever the Wyvern, he soon filled the booth with beers. The fries from Edwin's lunch lay abandoned as the pair got down to the serious business of drinking.

  Sometime during his third beer with Mark, Edwin's phone rang. He normally hated answering withheld numbers but his mood was vitriolic and he wanted nothing more than to verbally unload on some unsuspecting telesales person.

  'Edwin J Murphy speaking.' Edwin held the phone at arm's length, and giggled as he put on a plummy accent.

  'Good afternoon, Mr Murphy, this is Caroline Flack from Huntingdon Fox and Associates. Last week, your secretary retained me on your behalf. I contacted your wife's solicitors. She has given us notice that she intends to leave the country. Are you available to discuss your legal position?'

  'My position? I'm glad she's leaving. Good riddance,' Edwin spat, not realising the repercussions of his wife's leaving.

  'She intends to take Chelsea to New York with her,' the solicitor said hesitantly.

  Edwin let the words hang in the air, considering them in his drunken state. 'You’ve got to stop her,’ he pleaded. ‘I don't care how, just do it.'

  'Mr Murphy, it may be... difficult to find proper grounds to challenge her.'

  An anguished moan escaped from the drunken man as he threw his phone against the wall, watching it shatter into dozens of pieces.

  'That bitch. I wish she was dead!'

  Mark arched an eyebrow, and said after a slightly-too-long pause: 'Hey, that's my sister you're talking about. I think it's time to cut you off.'

  ***

  The next morning, Edwin's head felt like a pneumatic drill had been placed at his temple and set to maximum. He tried to sit up but the effort proved to be in vain. As his eyes slid into focus Edwin realised he was on Mark's sofa.

  Mark was splayed across the opposite armchair. Both men were wearing the same clothes as the day (and night) before.

  'Water,' Edwin hoarsely demanded of his host.

  With a thud Mark tossed a bottle towards him. It landed on Edwin's stomach with a thud. Edwin groaned in pain.

  'That's not water,' he complained, always grumpy in the mornings anyway, but even more so with the hangover from hell.

  'It's all you're getting unless you want to get up,' Mark replied with a grin, safe in the knowledge that Edwin was going nowhere fast.

  Edwin, ungrateful, twisted the top off the bottle of Lucozade and drained the whole bottle into his parched mouth, a few drops missing and dribbling down his cheek to rest on his collar.

  Mark slowly stretched out, picked up the television remote between his toes, and then kicked the remote up and caught it left-handed.

  'Got any preferences?' he asked, flipping on both the television and the surround-sound system that his sister had bought him the previous Christmas.

  'Anything but Jeremy Kyle.'

  Mark smirked, and changed the channel to ITV.

  'I hate you, you know that.' With that declaration Edwin turned over and went back to sleep.

  ***

  Edwin's hangover persisted late into the day, and his head was still throbbing as he entered the premises of Huntingdon Fox for his four o'clock meeting. Edwin was vaguely aware of the opulence of the law firm's Grosvenor address. He wondered how much of the four hundred pounds per hour fee he was being billed for would be spent maintaining the extravagant decor. The anteroom he was shown to could be described as no less than opulent, and the coffee was clearly not instant. He was soon sat face-to-face with his lawyer. He hadn't chosen her, but his former secretary had assured him she was the best available, and Betty had never led him astray. A pang of loneliness struck Edwin as he realised just how much he had taken Betty's comforting presence for granted.

  'Hello,' Edwin croaked. His head pounded as he read the golden nameplate on the lawyer's desk, Mrs Caroline Flack MA (Hons) (Cantab) LLM (Londis).

  'Mr Murphy, I asked you here today to discuss your estranged wife. Have you been in contact with her?'

  Edwin shook his head, and his lawyer continued her spiel.

  'Eleanor has notified us she intends to move to New York to pursue work with a law firm there. She obviously intends to take Chelsea with her. She can do this without your permission, although we can file for what is known as a "First Steps Order" to prevent her. We would need to show the court good reason to prevent her doing so.'

  'OK. Do it.'

  'This would involve our demonstrating the move is out of malice, or that the move would prevent you from the contact you are entitled to. However, Eleanor's solicitor has confirmed in writing that she would cover the costs of flying Chelsea back to the UK each year over the holidays to see you. It is unlikely that any court will issue such an order on the evidence we have available to us. The court's primary concern is for Chelsea, and Eleanor's proposal may well be sufficient to demonstrate that the best place for her is in New York.'

  'So there's no point contesting it?'

  'We can contest it, but you would probably not gain anything.' Mrs Flack paused for a moment to sip some water before continuing.

  'The other reason I wanted to talk to you is to discuss disposition of your assets in the divorce. Eleanor has cited both irreconcilable differences and unreasonable behaviour as grounds.'

  'She thinks I work too much.'

  'We could file a cross petition, but again this would require substantial grounds such as her unreasonable behaviour or adultery.'

  'So I'm screwed.' It was a statement, not a question. The lawyer didn't deny it.

  'Fine!' Edwin snarled. He almost added 'I'll deal with her myself' but thought better of it. The lawyer carried on for a few more minutes, but Edwin tuned her out. By the time he emerged back into Grosvenor, sunlight was fading fast.

  ***

  Edwin thumped a fist on his makeshift desk in anger, causing his mug to leap into the air. It landed on the kitchen floor, cracked and spilt the last drops of coffee onto the laminate. Edwin ignored the mess, rested his hands on the edge of the laptop and typed furiously.

  Access Denied flashed across his screen in a blinking bold type. The website he was trying to use was hidden from the public. It wasn't like visiting any old website. It wasn't listed on Google.

  This was a darknet site, part of the no-man's-land that few ever ventured onto. Edwin had first found it when he was an undergraduate doing his journalism degree, and writing up the story of a lifetime: a hidden marketplace for accessing illegal goods and services. Drugs, pornography and much more could be bought anonymously, for a price.

  The technology wasn't illegal. The United States government had created it for espionage, valuing the ability to send and receive anonymous messages. It had only been a matter of time before the technology had been co-opted by criminals.

  Edwin was never allowed to publish the article. The editor of the university paper had glanced at it, and immediately vetoed publication as not being in the public interest. With hindsight, it was probably the right decision. The ability to access a web of criminal activity could prove deadly in the wrong hands.

  Edwin entered the right logon credentials, and the laptop beeped three times to indicate a successful connection. Edwin had taken every precaution possible. He had not connected directly to the darknet, but used a series of proxy computers. The effect was like a daisy chain – it was impossible to see where the link began and ended.

  Edwin clicked to create a message, enabling a virtual drop box for replies.

  Even with his many precautions he was still cautious about what to type.

  'Problem solver needed. One problem to fix. Final solution required. Pay negotiable.'

  Edwin reread his message. He wasn't sure it would get his intentions across but hopefully it would pique some interest somewhere.

  Chapter 2: Red Spot

  When his son was born, Yosef Gershwin had paced back and forth frantically.

  'Cigarette to calm your nerves, bud?' another of the expectant fathers had asked.

  'Thanks,
but I'm on the patch.' Yosef slid his sleeve up to reveal a nicotine patch attached.

  'Wise. How about a cup of coffee then?'

  Yosef smiled He was about to ask if the man had anything stronger when a nurse called out his name to take him through to the recovery room. It was the proudest day of Yosef's life, seeing his son for the first time. He was tiny, and hairless, but he was beautiful.

  A year later, Yosef was back in a similar waiting room, but for a much less joyous occasion. Little baby Zachariah was nestled in his broad arms, swaddled in a blanket. The boy yawned, a tremendous effort in his condition.

  Just as he was debating calling his wife yet again to let her know they were still waiting, a nurse appeared and led him through to the consultant.

  He sat, this time in a much comfier chair, and surveyed the consultant's office. It was leaps and bounds ahead of the waiting room, but still in keeping with the hospital's apparent minimalism.

  'I'll be straight to the point. The blood test we conducted shows Zachariah has a deficiency of beta-hexosaminidase. This is an enzyme that breaks down fatty acids in the brain known as gangliocides. The condition is more commonly known as Tay-Sachs disease.'

  'What does it mean? More importantly, how do we fix it?'

  'Zachariah's nerves will become progressively distended. He will lose the ability to see and hear. He may be unable to move any muscles, which will necessitate the use of a feeding tube. His seizures will become more violent, and Zachariah will be prone to recurring infections. I'm sorry, Yosef, but there is no cure.'

  'Why him? What did he do to deserve this?' Yosef was no longer talking to his consultant, but pleading with God for his son.

  'I'm afraid it's quite common in the Jewish population. Is your wife also Jewish?'

  'What? No, she's not. She's from Slovakia.'

  'No Jewish blood at all on her side of the family?'

  'Not as far as I know. Are you sure the diagnosis is even right?'

  'I'm afraid so. The blood test is straightforward. I only ask as, while the Jewish population have an incidence of around 1 in 3000, it's closer to 1 in 40000 in the general population.'