by Ed James
‘The socks are in the shoes, in case you’re wondering.’
Fenchurch looked round at Tammy. ‘Well, I wasn’t really, but thanks anyway. Okay, so we’ve got two victims, but only one body?’
‘That’s correct. I’m thinking either a victim escaped, or tried to?’ Tammy seemed as puzzled as Fenchurch. ‘I mean, they could have, say, caught them on the stairs, and dragged them back here? But there’s no indicative marks. Say, drag marks or blood drips. That we’ve found, anyway. And there’s a lot of blood. And we’ve got a lot of work to do.’
‘Well, I’ll let you get on with it.’ Fenchurch used the crime scene walkway to make his way over to the body.
Christ, it never got any easier.
A male, mid- to late-twenties. Wearing a business suit, the shirt open to the neck, his throat a wide slash. The white shirt fabric was soaked through, as was the suit material. Bare feet.
Before killing someone, they took off their socks and shoes?
Why the hell would anyone do that?
‘Om pom tiddly om— Oh, I didn’t see you there, Simon.’ Dr Pratt was crouched low, at a stretch that a man half his age would struggle with. ‘Surprised to see you here.’
‘Why?’
‘Budgets are due, aren’t they? You’re a department head. Yourself and Michael Clooney, at least that’s why I presume he’s sent Tammy.’
Fenchurch grimaced. ‘Mick’s off on long-term sick.’
‘Is he?’ Pratt looked up, his frown creasing his slack skin. ‘Well, I never.’
Fenchurch hunkered down next to him and felt his knee click. ‘What have we got?’
Pratt prodded at the victim’s neck. ‘His throat appears to have been cut with a serrated blade. Double whammy, too, severing both the carotid artery,’ he waved a hand around the walls, the same colour as the other room, but sprayed with red, ‘hence the spurt marks on the walls and ceilings. But, the curious thing is they also severed the jugular vein, giving this rapid ooze upon which we find ourselves standing.’
‘So, you’re thinking it’s a pro?’
‘I don’t know. Could be a committed amateur giving it their all, or just a Game of Thrones afficionado.’
‘Is it a single cut?’
‘It would appear so, yes.’
Fenchurch nodded. Arterial spray meant someone dying quickly, not someone able to run. ‘Okay, so this is where you don’t give me time of death?’
‘Simon, you’re in luck for once. The body of our poor dear departed here is somewhat cold now. As you can see,’ he pointed at a basement window high up the wall, ‘that was left open, which allowed in the rain to affect poor Tammy’s hunt for forensics. It was perishing last night, but my calculations lead me to say sometime between seven and midnight.’
‘That’s a big time slot. Any chance you—’
‘Quite. While this is an exact science, it’s an incredibly complex one that’s subject to many, many rules and assumptions. That’s as good as you’ll get.’
‘Any phones or wallets in here?’
‘Oh come come, Simon. That’s a matter for Tammy, not me.’
‘Right you are.’ Fenchurch tried to replay the horror show that would’ve been in here the previous night.
Two pairs of shoes could mean two victims.
Or one victim and one killer. Chase through the place and return them here. But Tammy hadn’t found any evidence to indicate that.
It gave him a tingle of hope that there was a victim alive somewhere, someone who could point to a killer.
‘Two individuals, two pairs of shoes, but I’ve only got one body?’
‘And it’s your remit to determine which role they played. Some consolation, though, is that the culprit would likely be covered in a blood spray.’
3
Fenchurch found DS Kay Reed upstairs sitting in a bar.
He swore this room used to be his old classroom. Primary four, or whatever they called it these days. Not that the place was that much different from Fenchurch’s time, even though this was clearly now a bar. Still had the old chalkboard, though cleaned and covered with a list of various beers, and their strengths, volumes and prices. And it had that shabby chic thing going on, with absolutely battered tables and chairs. Mismatched cutlery.
Still be a couple of years before his son was going to endure that ordeal. Actually, it was High School when things turned sour, but it was more the worry of Al being out in the world. Him being in Cornwall for even a few days felt like a massive wrench.
Reed played with her long red ponytail, like it was a pet snake, but it seemed like the only thing she could do to stop nodding off.
She was sitting at right angles to a prize plonker hipster with a big curly beard like Father Christmas, and he even had the walrus moustache, dark and shiny like he waxed it every morning. Got to the point with those beards where just shaving every morning must surely be a lot less hassle. Or even once a week.
The hipster peered over at the door.
Reed followed his gaze then smiled at Fenchurch. ‘This is my boss. DCI Simon Fenchurch.’
The hipster thrust out a hand as he approached. ‘Maynard. Maynard Johnson. I…’ He just swallowed instead of continuing. American accent, west coast.
Reed looked back at the hipster. ‘You were saying you don’t have CCTV here, Maynard, do you?’
‘Upgrading security is on the long list of things to get on with.’ Maynard stared into space. ‘But that actually implies we have much of one just now.’
Fenchurch pulled up a chair and sat between them. ‘You found him, right?’
Maynard nodded.
‘I’m sorry you had to go through that, sir.’
‘Sure.’ Maynard ran a hand over his shaved scalp and shook his head. ‘Strangest thing.’
‘I’ve just been downstairs. That must’ve been horrific for you to see.’
Maynard shrugged. ‘Grew up on a farm, so it’s not like I’ve never seen blood. Just… human blood? And so goddamn much of it. And I opened the door and found him and…’ He slumped forward, resting on his elbows, staring at the scarred tabletop. Yeah, he wasn’t saying much for a while now.
Reed scraped her chair back and led Fenchurch over to the door. ‘Guv, surprised to see you here.’
Fenchurch locked eyes with Reed for a few seconds, enough for their many years of shared experience to communicate how little she’d managed to get out of him so far. Trauma could do that to even the chattiest witness. He focused on Maynard, trying to get a read on the guy, but struggled to get much other than trauma from him.
The thing with hipsters is they all seemed to be sheep, following the trend, but the whole thing was about passion, not fashion. And running a brewery seemed to be Maynard’s.
But the reaction…
This was more than just someone finding a body, like a dog walker in a park. This felt personal.
‘Does he know the victim?’
Reed folded her arms. ‘Won’t talk about it, guv. You saw what he was like.’
‘Right. You seen Uzma?’
‘I’ve seen her.’ She wasn’t making eye contact now, and her mouth was a thin line.
‘I wish you’d taken that job, Kay. Not her.’
‘Well, not all of us want to become commissioner.’
Fenchurch stifled a laugh. ‘Okay, let’s see if we can get him talking.’ He walked over and joined Maynard again, waiting for Reed to sit. ‘What are you doing over this side of the pond?’
‘Long story.’
‘I’ve got time, sir.’
‘Well. I was at Harvard, majoring in biotech, then during my post-grad was a Rhodes scholar. This is ten years ago, and I fell in love with this city and a guy who lived here. I mean, I lived in Oxford, but I couldn’t stop coming up to London at the weekend. The beer, the music, the clubs. And I just couldn’t not live here.’
That intrigued Fenchurch. ‘And this guy you fell in love with?’
‘Oh, Neil. Neil Harris
on. He’s my partner. Both business and romantic. Met him in a bar, where we bonded over citrus-y IPAs. Turned out we were both into home brew, and making good beer. But also, we shared a love of music and movies and videogames and walks in the countryside. And the rest is history.’
‘Sure there’s a film in that story.’ Fenchurch waved his arms around the place. ‘I went to school here. Place is riddled with memories.’
‘Sure, sure.’
‘How long you had it?’
‘Three years now. We, uh, picked it up for a bargain.’
‘You own it?’
‘Sure. This developer we bought it from couldn’t get planning permission to knock it down and stick up some gaudy-ass condos in its place, so we managed to snare it for a knock-down price. It’s not perfect, but it’s got a lot of character and enough space. We’re planning on being here five years, after that we’ll renovate and flip it.’
Big plans as well as a big beard.
Fenchurch was nodding along to every word, though, trying to spur him on. ‘So, a brewery, huh?’
‘Been our dream for so long.’ Maynard pointed over at the bar. ‘Got a tap room running in here, get a few good nights a week now. Would you believe Tuesdays are our biggest draws?’
‘Can believe it. Pub quiz?’
‘Old favourite.’
‘What kind of beers do you brew?’
‘Anything, really. Pilsners, English ales, and we make a couple of award-winning IPAs. Tried making what you dudes call cider, but it wasn’t worth it. Oh, and we’ve just finished a grapefruit porter.’
A stout laced with bitter fruit didn’t seem like it was going to take over the world. ‘That’s a bold pairing.’
‘Fortune favours the brave, right?’
‘Heard it does. So, what were you guys up to downstairs? Digging a tunnel or something?’
‘Hardly.’ Maynard exhaled slowly. ‘What you saw down there is stage two in our plan for world domination. We’re expanding into distilling.’
That explained the alchemical machinery. ‘So that’s what that is.’
‘Sure is. A big old copper still, putting the still in distilling. It’s a beauty. Neil sourced it online from a distillery in Wales. Two guys who bought it and just got fed up of it, really. Of course, that could happen to us, but hey ho, got to try these things, right?’
‘I know that feeling.’
‘Right. So we drove over there at the weekend. Went to a beer festival up that way, so it wasn’t a wasted effort.’
‘A beer festival in December, eh?’
‘I know. I mean, it was inside this big hall, but it still got pretty wild. Anyhoo, we brought the still back and we were just getting it all unpacked and…’ The pain of the discovery clouded his eyes.
They’d lost him again.
Fenchurch decided that focusing on the production of alcohol might get him back. ‘So, the still is for, what? Whisky? Gin? Vodka?’
‘All of that. And it’ll be whiskey with an e. Bourbon. Gin and vodka are easy, and we can get them on the market within a year. Whiskey’s another matter entirely. It’ll take time. Ten years, minimum ageing in the barrels, but ideally fifteen. And we’ve not even sourced proper bourbon barrels yet. I kinda want to see how we go with gin before I let Neil loose with grain spirit.’
‘Sounds like you’re planning long-term here.’
‘Damn straight. We want to be the next Stone or Brewdog.’
‘Stretch goals, right?’
‘So much that.’
‘With your biochemistry background, I take it you’re the brains behind this whole thing?’
‘No, I was biotech. It’s a different beast. Waste of my life, really. But I am the one who knows how to grade hops and where to get the best yeasts and barley and so on. Neil’s great with his hands, so I design the process and he implements it. Works real well.’
‘Were you planning on installing the still in that room?’
‘Kinda. It used to be the coal store, there’s a chute in the back.’
Fenchurch hadn’t noticed, instead being too focused on the blood and the body.
‘Used to be a boiler down there, but we shipped it out to this architectural salvage place up near Stratford. So we wanted to use the coal chute as part of the distilling process. Waste not, want not, am I right? Neil wanted to knock through the wall, but he just wants to tear stuff down, you know? We haven’t got planning permission, and those walls feel like they’re load-bearing. And one of the reasons I want to hold back on whiskey, is that you need to make a mash from the malt and let it sit and ferment for a while, like months. So I was suggesting we just do that in sections of the main room, and put the still in the coal room. And the door was locked and… Well, we had to force it open.’ Maynard stared up at the ceiling. ‘That’s when I found the body. The blood. The shoes.’ He locked eyes with Fenchurch. ‘I mean, who… who takes someone’s shoes off to kill them?’
Fenchurch nodded. ‘It’s a mystery, that’s for sure.’
‘I got my hand stuck…’ Maynard rubbed at a red mark around his wrist. ‘Look, there was a bit of plywood screwed to the door. Someone had put a new door handle there. But the wood was damp from the rain, so it came off, by accident. I managed to reach through, but when I was trying to get the mechanism to click open, well. I realised I was stuck. Neil had to use his jigsaw to get me out.’
‘So this door had been sealed up?’
‘Right.’ Maynard was nodding slowly, his eyes glazed over. ‘I mean, when we got it open and I saw Damo there, I just—’
‘Wait, Damo?’ Reed shot daggers at him. ‘You know him?’
‘Sure. Damo. I mean, Damon Lombardi, he’s a partner in this business.’
‘Why didn’t—’ Reed stopped herself with a sigh. ‘Any idea why he was in there?’
‘Nope. He shouldn’t have been down there at all. He’s the money behind this whole thing. I mean, he’s a buddy, don’t get me wrong, but he’s not supposed to just come here without me or Neil being here too. Not least health and safety, but he might get the wrong end of the stick about what we’re up to.’
‘That happen a lot?’
‘Way back when we started, sure. He’s the kind of guy who wants everything done his way. And he wants it all yesterday. But it’s beer and spirits, man, it takes time.’ He rubbed at his eyes. ‘Can’t believe he’s dead.’
Reed gave him a few seconds. ‘You got an address for him?’
4
Reed pressed the buzzer and stepped back. ‘Having you here is really cramping my style, guv.’
‘Can’t help myself.’ Fenchurch leaned against the wall and looked along the Hackney backroad. He’d driven and walked and ran and chased scumbags down it countless times, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember the street’s name. Just as well Reed was on the ball.
Brick flats sat on both sides, stretching for at least a mile before turning into fifties bungalows, all deformed with extensions and dormer windows. Could be anywhere in that patch of north-east London, which was colonised by hipsters like Maynard Johnson, their mortgages gentrifying deprived areas and forcing the existing tenants further out of the city, into worse areas. That wasn’t good for anyone.
Reed hit the buzzer again. ‘Haven’t you got a compliance report or something to do?’
Fenchurch looked over at her, but she was checking out the block of flats for any signs of movement. He’d trained her well. ‘Budget, yeah. How did you guess?’
‘Because you’re always moaning about the paperwork. Worse than my bloody kids, you are.’
A car drove past them, slow enough to raise some suspicion, and tricked out enough to heighten it. The driver wasn’t watching them, and it looked like he was alone. So it was innocent. Maybe.
Fenchurch let out a long breath. ‘It’s just… constant, Kay. I joined the force to put bad guys away. All the shit I have to deal with from Loftus, how is any of that putting bad guys away?’
Reed was staring at her phone, while she held the buzzer down. ‘If you do your job, people like me and Uzma have the resources to do ours. Bad guys are put away, end of story.’
‘But I’m just not any good at it, Kay.’ Fenchurch stepped back and looked up at their target.
First floor, left. At least, that was assuming the building was conventional. Blinds drawn on one window, another hanging open. No sounds or smells, but the frying bacon tang came from somewhere round here.
He looked back at Reed. ‘Reminds me of this garage I used to take my car to. The mechanic was great. Big Welsh guy, with a voice like a foghorn. You take your car in there, it was coming back out in a much better state. And he was cheap as you like. But one night, I got kept in. A few hours of overtime interviewing one of Flick Knife’s goons or something, can’t remember. My car was due in for the MOT in the morning, and I dropped it off at half eleven at night, so he could get on with it when he turned up first thing. But he was still there, Kay. He was doing his accounts.’
A battered old Toyota pulled into the space opposite them. DS Lisa Bridge was behind the wheel, looking like a school mum having to argue with the pair of cheeky sods in the back seat. Fenchurch didn’t know their first names, just their ranks and surnames. But he knew enough of their records to know they were no match for Bridge.
Reed thumped the door now, the heel of her palm hitting the wood hard. ‘You’re saying you’re like that mechanic? Good at fixing cars, bad at paperwork?’
‘It’s more than that. One of the things Docherty drilled into me was to focus on your strengths and weaknesses. Some of those weaknesses can be turned into strengths, sure. Like, if I have a tendency to get into chases with villains, then actually planning stuff out before we go with squad cars everywhere, then it’s going to lead to better outcomes. But some of the things you don’t like about yourself, well you just can’t change them. And those you have to delegate.’
‘Which you’re actually good at.’
‘Right, but I’m shit at budget reports, Kay, and I can’t delegate that task to anyone. How the hell can I forecast my numbers into 2020?’