Dead Man's Shoes (DI Fenchurch Book 7)

by Ed James

  And this was going badly. Not necessarily for Fenchurch, but for the English criminal justice system.

  Barney Richardson stood in the dock, wearing his pristine business suit, his head bowed, showing the sadder aspect of his personality — the grieving boyfriend instead of the successful management consultant. He looked up and wiped tears from his damp eyes. Even at this distance, Fenchurch could see he’d been crying. ‘That’s correct.’

  Unwin stood there in his wig and tails, all pomp and circumstance. Fenchurch didn’t know he’d passed the bar, but there he was, a full barrister. ‘Can you cast your mind back to the night of the eighth of August, 2014?’

  ‘Okay. I was hanging out with some mates in the park, talking about football and stuff.’ Barney looked across the crowded courtroom, away from Unwin’s piercing stare. ‘One of the lads had a trial for QPR the next day and we were messing about with him. Then I had to get home, as I had football in the morning, so I went home along the high street. And that’s where I bumped into Mr Kent.’

  ‘Where was this?’

  ‘The Ring of Bells.’

  Fenchurch knew the place. It was a dive. Every area had one, even Hampstead. The kind of place with a chalkboard outside offering special beer offers rather than fancy main courses. The pub where all the idiots who’d been barred from the others in the area would congregate.

  ‘Continue.’

  Barney frowned. ‘Mr Kent came out, and he had a cigarette in his lips. Unlit, but he dropped it. I picked it up for him.’

  Fenchurch looked down at Kent, sitting near the judge, head bowed too, but his eyes were shut. This was likely news to him.

  ‘Are you acquainted with him?’

  ‘He was my history teacher. Has been, on and off, since I was twelve.’

  ‘And how did he seem?’

  ‘He was… drunk, sir. Very drunk. He kept on dropping his cigarette. Like not once, but ten times?’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘It was obvious that someone needed to get him home, so I did.’

  ‘You walked him home?’

  ‘Correct. Well, I flagged down a taxi first, but they wouldn’t let him in given how… how drunk he was. And Mr Kent was still arguing with the pub landlord. He wanted to finish the rest of his whisky, but the landlord wouldn’t let him take it with him.’

  ‘So you walked him home?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Continue.’

  ‘Em. It took a while, because Mr Kent… He was… You get my point. Anyway, I took him to his house and—’

  ‘Where is his home?’

  ‘It’s a flat. Above a shop. An organic pharmacy, I think.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘He was struggling to get his key in the lock, so I helped him.’

  ‘And did you enter his home?’

  ‘I did. Just to make sure he was okay, you know? And the place was an absolute state. Bottles of whisky everywhere. And Mr Kent… he just drank more.’

  Unwin flashed a nod at Barney, then shifted his attention over to the judge. ‘M’lud, we have submitted video evidence of this matter.’

  ‘Very well.’ The judge sat back like he was watching an episode of Columbo, rapt.

  The giant TV screen mounted on a wheeled board started playing. CCTV footage, greyscale and timestamped with 08-08-14 21:24. The Ring of Bells pub was lit up, almost bleaching the screen white, but there was enough resolution to make out Barney Richardson helping James Kent collect his dropped cigarette.

  As the video played, with each successive pick up and drop, Fenchurch took in the dramatis personae.

  Kent wasn’t even watching. Probably too shamed by this public display of drunkenness.

  Barney watched every second pass, every frame. And it all matched his tale, the aborted taxi trip, the walk along Hampstead High Street.

  Then the video shifted to outside his flat. It was hard to read the shop name, but it was too easy to see James Kent drunkenly dropping his keys as he tried to insert one into the door, sharing the paint colour of the upmarket bakery next to the pharmacy. And Kent wasn’t a happy drunk, instead shouting and screaming, especially at Barney as he tried to help him inside.

  The video ended and the judge sat forward. ‘Thank you, Mr Unwin.’

  ‘The defence rests, your honour.’

  The judge nodded at Sally. ‘Ms McGovern?’

  Sally stood up tall, her wig hiding her pixie hair. ‘Mr Richardson, do you remember the dates of the murder trial into the death of Hermione Taylor?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘The trial opened on the eighteenth of November 2015, and rested on the twenty-second. You were in attendance, were you not?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘Why was that, Bernard?’

  ‘It’s Barney. And because I was romantically involved with Minnie. I mean, Hermione.’

  ‘Can I ask why you didn’t come forward with this information at the time?’

  ‘My girlfriend had been murdered. I’d completely forgotten.’

  ‘And this lack of memory lasted until now?’

  ‘Have you ever lost a loved one?’

  ‘Indeed. My mother was murdered when I was a student. I would’ve done anything to ensure the conviction of—’

  Unwin shot to his feet. ‘Objection!’

  The judge picked up the gavel. ‘Sustained.’ He banged it. ‘Please refrain from this malarkey, Ms McGovern. This isn’t a jury trial. You just need to impress me.’

  Even Fenchurch knew this was the wrong avenue of attack. All the way over from Belmarsh, she’d had a chance to plan it out and all she could manage was Zeno’s Paradox:

  Why didn’t you tell us sooner?

  Discrediting a witness was a tactic for the trial, not this. Especially not when Barney was on black and white, adding credence to the alibi of the man convicted of the murder.

  ‘I didn’t come forward, I suppose, because me and Minnie’s dad and her sister, we all had closure. I’d forgotten, genuinely. But a few weeks ago, this journalist came asking me questions, and it sparked some memories.’

  Fenchurch spotted Liam over to the right. He hadn’t seen him before, but it was hard to miss his bright cyan cyclist’s bag. Why the hell had Bell let him go?

  Fenchurch could get up now, head over, and nail the little bastard to the bench.

  ‘It reminded me of that night. It’s… When they told me what happened to Minnie, I seem to have forgotten a lot of it. It’s not been easy for me, losing my girlfriend when I was a kid.’

  McGovern stood there, her fingers twitching. ‘The prosecution rests, your honour.’

  A man shot to his feet and shouted: ‘What?!’ Clive Taylor. He looked around the court, then collapsed back into his seat with a loud thump.

  The judge banged his gavel again. ‘You may leave, Mr Richardson.’

  Barney nodded, then stepped down back to the courtroom. He scurried over towards the rear exit.

  ‘In light of this fresh evidence, I have no option but to rule that we must set aside the original verdict.’

  Taylor was on his feet again. ‘This is bollocks!’

  The security guards had a hand each on both arms and started to lead him away.

  ‘Absolute bollocks!’

  Another bang. ‘As such, I shall order a new trial. Mr Kent, I am letting you leave custody on bail.’

  23

  Fenchurch looked down at the court, at the source of the gasps and shouts and the general hubbub.

  James Kent let himself be led away by the guards. Just like when he’d been in the dock, his head was hung low. But not with a smirk on his face that read “look what I’ve got off with, you stupid police bastards!” No, he still had the confused air of a troubled man who couldn’t remember the first thing about what he’d done on the night in question.

  Either way, he was innocent of Hermione Taylor’s murder. At least directly. Maybe he had paid someone, maybe a friendly brother or cousin
had killed her, any of the outlandish prospects Fenchurch always had to consider, but at least she hadn’t died at his hands.

  And he didn’t fancy their chances of the retrial even making it to court.

  Loftus and Ashkani sat next to Fenchurch in the back row of the courts. Both were still as statues, shocked to their cores.

  Liam Sharpe was trying to navigate his way through the crowd.

  Fenchurch got up and started skipping down the steps, feeling like a gameshow host as he careered down, doing everything he could to keep upright, to stop his dodgy knee locking, until he hit the crowd.

  Liam was shuffling towards the exit, looking over his shoulder every so often, but not seeing his tail.

  ‘Coming through.’ Fenchurch muscled between two other reporters he knew but couldn’t name, and he was three heads away from Liam now.

  Part of him was glad he was doing his job, making sure that miscarriages of justice weren’t swept under the rug, but the rest of him was furious at how he’d gone about it.

  Two bodies away now, and they were heading towards the main concourse, though that wasn’t as grand a term as the place deserved, but it was all Fenchurch had. He took his chance by the entrance and grabbed Liam’s arm, then led him away into an alcove hidden by a pillar.

  Liam was about to complain, to shout for help, but he locked eyes with Fenchurch, and all the fight left him. ‘Simon.’

  Fenchurch stopped when they were far enough away from the conga line of attenders that they wouldn’t be overheard. ‘Liam, you should’ve come to me with this.’

  ‘That’s what you’re going to say to me?’ Liam shook his head. ‘Really? I should’ve brought the evidence to a friendly cop like you? Yeah, right.’

  ‘That would’ve been the right thing to do. I would’ve made sure it—’

  ‘You work for Loftus.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So you’d bury it.’

  ‘Liam, we’ve known each other more than three and a half years. You’ve helped me a few times. I’ve helped you get where you are. Does that mean nothing to you?’

  Liam just raised his eyebrows.

  ‘This evidence came from Tom Wiley. He thought you were helping him, didn’t he?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘How? You didn’t catch his son’s killer. Instead, you let the killer of another man’s daughter go free.’

  ‘James Kent may be a lot of things, Si, but he’s not a killer.’

  Fenchurch was going to have to adjust to that realisation over time. A lot of time. ‘But you took your story, your big exclusive, to a defence lawyer. A few days ago, Dalton Unwin is suddenly representing Kent. How much did he pay you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Come on, Liam, you know how this looks, don’t you? You found some evidence, and you sold this for more than the paper would give?’

  ‘That’s how little you think of me?’

  ‘Hard to say. Before this, I would’ve trusted you to do the right thing, but you’ve been behaving erratically.’

  ‘Christ, get over yourself.’

  Maybe it was financially motivated, but maybe, just maybe, it was because of the personal connection to this case. Liam shared a flat with Damon Lombardi, who seemed to be friendly with Tom Wiley. Maybe he was doing the right thing, after all.

  ‘Is there any more?’

  Before he could answer, a big meaty fist cracked off Liam’s chin, sending him sprawling.

  Fenchurch caught an elbow in the chest and had to grab the pillar to stay upright.

  Clive Taylor stood over Liam, jabbing a finger at him. ‘You little shit!’ He moved to kick, but Fenchurch managed to haul him back.

  ‘Stop!’

  ‘I’ll kill him!’ Now it was Taylor who had the look of a murderer, the focus and determination in his eyes matched only by pure rage. ‘He’s let that animal escape!’

  Fenchurch grabbed his arm and pulled him away. No matter how big or ugly Taylor was, Fenchurch was bigger and uglier, and had much more training. ‘Sir, you need to leave.’

  Taylor snapped back to reality. The crowd of people watching their show, the journalists and reporters amongst their number already mentally filing copy.

  Liam was up on his feet, and it didn’t look like he’d been too badly hurt by the attack. Maybe a lump would form on his cheek, but it was most likely his pride that had taken the worst of the beating. ‘Arrest him!’

  Another surge from Taylor. This time, it wasn’t just Fenchurch who stopped him, but two uniformed officers forming a barrier between them.

  Fenchurch still held Taylor’s arm over the bicep and dug his thumb in. ‘You’re not doing yourself any favours here.’

  Taylor seemed to get the message. He shut his eyes, and the rage fizzled out. Fenchurch knew how he must be feeling on the inside. The last five years had been hell for him, but at least he’d been able to cling to the knowledge that they had his daughter’s killer under lock and key. Now, he was facing up to the truth of a reopened investigation, of a retrial, and that James Kent was going to be a free man once the bail was settled. And he just had no words for anyone.

  Fenchurch passed him to the nearer uniform. The young guy looked pretty hardcore and more than a match for Taylor. Then again, grieving parents seemed to have a deep well of rage and power they could draw on. ‘Take him home. Cups of sweet tea, biscuits, all that good stuff. And stay with him until I get there.’

  ‘Sir, shouldn’t we be pressing charges for assault?’

  ‘I’ll speak to Liam Sharpe. Just get Taylor out of here.’ Fenchurch tried to give Taylor a reassuring smile. ‘I know this is the last thing you want to hear, but I will do all I can to find your daughter’s killer, sir.’

  Taylor returned the smile, but it seemed slightly forced, or just in conflict with the emotions swirling around in his head. ‘Thank you.’ He let the uniforms lead him away towards the rear entrance, passing through the crowd of rubbernecking onlookers, head held high. This was a man who wouldn’t go down without a fight.

  But the man he’d put down with one punch had sloped off. No sign of Liam or his garish bag.

  Fenchurch stood there for a few seconds, feeling the after-effects of the jolt of adrenaline. He slipped back in through the side door and saw that the court wasn’t in session again yet, but Loftus and Ashkani were still sitting up at the back.

  Fenchurch hobbled up the steps, his knee clicking with each one. ‘You missed all the action.’

  Ashkani looked over with a frown. ‘Huh?’

  ‘Clive Taylor lamped our little friend Liam Sharpe. I had to separate them and get a uniform to drive him home.’

  ‘Is Liam going to press charges?’

  ‘I hope not.’ Fenchurch got out his phone and tried calling Liam, but it just rang and rang. Either he was ghosting him, or his phone was sitting at the bottom of his bag. Fenchurch killed the call and texted: I suggest you don’t press charges. Think of what he’s been through.

  ‘This can’t be happening.’ Loftus slumped back against the wood, shaking his head.

  Fenchurch had seen it a few times, the high-flyer who’d flown high. And Loftus had built his career on that case, on that conviction. The profile he’d gained from a case played out in the media, the kudos with peers and with the Met’s senior leadership. A man who knew how to get things done, how to get results when it mattered most. And now he could see just how flimsy a castle made of sand was.

  Ashkani sat between them, fury making her lips quiver. At least, that’s what Fenchurch saw. A natural reaction to that kind of news. ‘He killed her.’

  ‘Uzma, you—’

  ‘No, Simon. I sat with him in fifteen interviews. Fifteen. That’s hours of my life, sitting with a killer. I know he killed her. Knew it. How could I have been wrong?’ But her voice was a hoarse gasp.

  ‘It’s okay, Uzma.’ Fenchurch held her gaze. ‘I know you’re blaming herself. That was your first full job as sergeant, as well.’

  Lof
tus didn’t even look over at them, just sat there, staring into space, rasping the stubble on his chin. He was maybe still in denial about it, or maybe he was planning how to stage-manage the fallout, preparing the bullet points of the speech that he’d inevitably have to give to his boss, and to the press. Maybe even to the IPCC or to a parliament select committee.

  Now who was escalating things in their head?

  Telescoping terror.

  Fenchurch smiled at Ashkani. ‘It’s going to be okay, alright? This kind of thing happens. People in your position, sergeants and constables, you’re given tasks to perform and you do, to the best of your ability. You don’t usually see the whole picture. The SIO, like me now, like Julian back then, they set the assignments and the direction and tempo of the investigation. This isn’t on you.’

  ‘So who’s it on, Simon?’ The anger was flaring now, reaching her eyes. ‘Whose fault is it that a killer is walking free?’

  ‘It’s my fault entirely.’ Loftus sat back, arms folded. He grinned, bearing nicotine-stained teeth. ‘All these months, I’ve been on your case about being a better administrator. I should’ve been a better investigator.’

  Fenchurch didn’t have any reassuring words for him. He had bungled it. Gone for a conviction to make it look to the wide world that it was all under control. But it was a flimsy conviction. How the hell it had even got to court — let alone persuading a jury — was staggering.

  Then again, James Kent wasn’t exactly making the case for his innocence. When Fenchurch had interviewed him, he wasn’t even in denial, just an empty shell of a man, battered by years of alcohol dependency until he could believe he murdered a student.

  Most SIOs Fenchurch worked for were transparent and had open team discussions. He’d tried to do that himself now he was in that position.

  But some did a fair amount of gatekeeping, only letting in one or two other people as their core team. The inner circle, a shield that protected them from the truth as much as anything. It’s how dodgy convictions happened, but it was more likely how cases got thrown out of court.

  Investigative tunnel vision.

  He’d seen it before, so many times. An alibi is offered, but the lead investigator ignores it, or buries it for the sake of a conviction. Even worse, they force through a conviction to get the press and senior officers off their backs. Or it just looked good for their careers in a promotion year.