by Ed James
And the officer who brought the alibi forward could be discredited or banished. Or they’re promoted and brought into the circle of trust.
Trouble was, there wasn’t an obvious patsy. It just seemed sloppy.
Then again, Jason Bell was Deputy SIO on the case and he’d done really well for himself since. Leading this taskforce or that, that strategic investigation, while he cosied up to the Mayor and the Prime Minister.
Maybe Loftus was excellent with spreadsheets and budget reports and diversity meetings and leading a team of senior officers, but he was piss-poor at policing.
The bread-and-butter stuff.
The basics.
Where Fenchurch excelled.
Time to take control of this whole mess.
Fenchurch knelt on the seat in front of them, the soft tissue of his good knee touching the hard wood, and didn’t give them any choice but to look right at him. ‘In time, there’ll be court cases and reports and committees and newspaper stories and all sorts, but right now, we’ve got a live double homicide, coupled with two cold cases rather than one. We need to find who killed Damon, Micah and Hermione, and whoever attacked Tom. Forget about everything that could happen, forget about your own arses, because we need to focus. A lot of people are relying on us. Francine Wiley. Clive Taylor. Damon Lombardi’s parents. Hell, even Liam Sharpe.’
Loftus stared right at him, and for the first time since the judgement was cast down, it was like he saw him. ‘Okay.’
‘Good.’ Fenchurch smiled at him. ‘I think you need to brief the powers that be, okay? And you need to recuse yourself from the present investigation, sir.’
‘Garricks is going to be fizzing.’
‘So let him fizz. He’s a good cop, sir. But you need to reassure him that your team is on top of this.’
Loftus nodded.
‘I’ll make sure Rod’s team are still prioritising the brewery crime scene, and the fallout from that. And Uzma?’
She nodded now.
‘You need to lead a team of our best people pulling together all the evidence we’ve got on these cases. Look for similarities, differences, everything.’
‘Okay.’
Fenchurch stood up again. ‘I’m going to speak to Clive Taylor, and try to put things right with him.’ They were bloody well going to find his daughter’s killer.
24
Hampstead was a different place in the darkness. A trail of rush-hour red lights led along the high street, with all of the shops glowing and welcoming people inside.
Fenchurch pushed on past the Ring of Bells pub, where James Kent had been alibied, as yet another scuffle was breaking out. Two big bruisers were going at it, verbally knocking lumps out of each other. Even the landlord wasn’t going to step in. Could lose a tooth with the sheer size of them.
Fenchurch knew he should step in and break them apart, but he had more urgent things to do. He reached over for his police radio and called in. ‘Control, this is DCI Fenchurch. I need a car to the Ring of Bells pub in Hampstead. Potential fight escalating.’
‘Noted, sir. Got a couple of lads on drop-off duty. Something to do with a fight at the Old Bailey?’
‘Okay, get them to head over and sort them out. Cheers.’ Fenchurch rested his radio on the passenger seat, and slid the car along the street. Not a place designed for traffic, the thin roads and lanes all bunched together like it was still the dark ages. And nothing like a fast route through. Made him wonder why anyone would live here, but then that bug became a feature. Meant the only traffic was the local residents.
People like Clive Taylor.
Fenchurch took the right turn before Taylor’s block of flats and weaved his way around the old courtyards, now paved over and turned into parking for the mews houses.
He came to a dead end and stopped, punched the wheel and, for a moment, let out all the rage and frustration that had been building.
He could cope with massive events — his daughter’s disappearance, his mother losing her battle with cancer, his mentor suffering the same fate — but the most trivial things got to him.
Loftus acting like a petulant brat, when the flaws in his case were there for anyone to see. A better lawyer and James Kent wouldn’t even have been charged, let alone spending long years at Her Majesty’s pleasure.
Fenchurch took a deep breath and let it out slowly through his nose. He was in charge now, showing Loftus how it was done. He could take all his reports and—
A car pulled out of the side lane, like it’d just passed through a wall. Lights flashing, horn beeping, screaming from behind the wheel.
Fenchurch slammed into reverse and revved the way he’d come, to let the tosser past. Without a wave. Still, he knew there was a turning up ahead. And maybe even a space. So he powered off and took the left at the end.
Bingo. The rear entrance to Clive Taylor’s block of flats.
Lights on inside too. Hopefully the uniformed plonkers were getting him that nice cup of tea he’d ordered, easing Taylor into a nice relaxed state.
Fenchurch lucked out though. A free space next to a Jaguar, one of those newer SUVs. Fenchurch parked and called up the PNC on his phone and ran the plates, just to check that his ageing memory wasn’t failing him. Sure enough, it was Taylor’s.
Fenchurch got out into the downpour, now joined with a bitter wind that seemed to come straight from the Arctic. Or at least Glasgow. He hurried across the flagstones to the back entrance. He buzzed Taylor’s number, the porch protecting him from the worst of the rain. This side had no ambiguity to it, a clear name badge next to the button, unlike the street side where he’d visited with Loftus.
No answer, so Fenchurch hit the button again, holding it longer than he should’ve.
Fenchurch had wondered if Loftus’s presence here earlier was because he had fears that this might happen. He was always covering his own arse. Did he know the conviction was that shaky?
Fenchurch stepped back and looked up at the flat. Lights were still on, so why wasn’t he answering?
Instead of trying Taylor again, Fenchurch hit the neighbour’s buzzer. His lights were on too, so it might show a fault in the system or—
‘Hello?’
‘Police, sir.’
‘Forget something did you?’ The kind of monied accent Fenchurch expected round here, though he didn’t know what the guy meant.
‘I’m sorry, sir, I’m not sure—’
‘Well, your mates were just here to drop off Clive. What do you want?’
‘Sir, I need to speak to Mr Taylor. He’s not answering his buzzer, so if you could—’
‘Not surprised. Saw him buggering off just after your colleagues left.’
Fenchurch pinched his nose. He’d sent them away, over to the Ring of Bells. ‘Thank you, sir.’
The fight had escalated, but it looked like the two uniforms had it under control. One of those scenes where, no matter how tight a grip a police officer had on them, the assailants’ rage meant they were still trying to break free and clatter the other one.
Hazards already on, Fenchurch pulled in on the double yellow, this stretch unadorned by bollards and railings, and he hopped out into the pissing rain, then hurried over as fast as his dodgy leg would let him. ‘Settle down!’
‘Piss off, you pig scum!’ The bigger uniform held the smaller neanderthal, and his plain black T-shirt had two massive tears, revealing pale white flab underneath. Bulky arms, though, so if he managed to hit, the uniform would know all about it.
Even at a distance of two metres, Fenchurch could smell the stale booze wafting off the guy.
Not that his mate was much better. About a foot smaller, but with that short-guy syndrome and now all the buttons on his dress shirt pinged off and sprayed across the pavement. And you always bet on the scrawny git in a fight.
Fenchurch got between them, just as another squad car parked behind his car. ‘What’s this about?’
‘This bastard’s been shagging my Danielle, hasn’
t he?’
‘Pull the other one, you little prick!’
‘You’re the one with a little prick, you cu—’
‘So you are shagging her, then?’
‘I didn’t say that!’
‘Gentlemen!’ Fenchurch’s shout made them both jerk their heads back. ‘Fighting in public is bloody stupid and you don’t seem like stupid men.’
The flattery seemed to work. The smaller one stopped wriggling so much.
‘I don’t care what’s happened here, but you’re going to spend some time in the cells, okay?’
The fire went out in all four eyes.
Fenchurch nodded at the newcoming officers. ‘I think these gentlemen could avail themselves of the services in your nick.’
‘Sir.’ The new pair led the scrawny fighter over to their car.
The bigger uniform swapped over to help out his mate with the brute.
Fenchurch stopped him passing. ‘Were you the ones who took Clive Taylor home from court?’
‘That was us. Poor fella.’
‘Tell me about it. How did he seem?’
‘How do you think? Distraught.’
‘Not angry.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, I went around there just now, and he’s gone.’ Fenchurch raised a hand to placate him. ‘The neighbour saw him head out. Did he—’
‘Are you—’
‘No, I’m not blaming you. Did he say where he might be going?’
‘No, sir.’
Fenchurch had no idea what to do. ‘Okay, go.’
‘Cheers.’ The guy walked over to help his partner wrestle the fighter up the street.
Fenchurch looked inside the pub. Pretty quiet, the landlord drying a glass with a towel. A long row of solitary drinkers at the bar and Clive Taylor wasn’t one of them, but he didn’t seem the sort to frequent a place like the Ring of Bells, even if it was the nearest pub.
If he wasn’t seeking out oblivion, where was he?
More importantly, who was he after?
That stinging worry in his gut came back, worse than before.
Fenchurch called Loftus, but hit voicemail. What he wouldn’t give for Alan Docherty being back on this mortal coil. Never a man to duck out of a phone call. ‘Sir, it’s Fenchurch. Got a slight issue I need your help with. Clive Taylor is missing.’ He ended the call and sent a text:
Call me. Urgent.
He stood in the rain, trying to figure out what was next. Taylor had just had the third-worst news of his life, at least as far as Fenchurch could tell. Losing his wife and daughter would tie for first, but having his daughter’s murderer’s conviction overturned? That was going to sting.
Okay, so James Kent was going to be a free man for the first time in years, at least until his case was retried.
Despite the solid-looking evidence, Clive Taylor couldn’t bring himself to believe Kent hadn’t killed his daughter.
Fenchurch’s phone rang, blasting out The Who into the downpour.
The pair of uniforms muscling the idiot into their car were both frowning at him as he answered. ‘Sir, thanks for calling me back.’
‘Calling you back?’
‘About Clive Taylor?’
Loftus sighed down the line. ‘What’s he done?’
‘He’s left his home, sir. I don’t know what he’s going to do.’
‘You think he might go after Kent?’
‘Makes sense to me.’
‘Well, Simon, the good news is that he hasn’t succeeded. I’ve just spoken to Kent’s solicitor, Dalton Unwin. Kent is safe and well. Bail paid and he’s free to leave. But first, he wants to speak to you, and only you. Now.’
25
As well as his seemingly recent passing of the bar, Dalton Unwin’s firm was in expansion mode. The Liberal Justice office on Shoreditch High Street had absorbed the upper floor and the shop next door, filling the space with light even on dark days like this. Even at six o’clock on a Friday, when the nearby party streets outside were already in another wild weekend, the place was thrumming, now a drop-in centre for all sorts of ne’er-do-wells. And for people who had suffered miscarriages of justice, like James Kent.
Fenchurch hoped Unwin could tell the difference.
Kent was peering through the window. ‘I’ll never tire of seeing people having fun. I guess it’ll take a while before I can walk down a corridor without looking behind me after every second step, but I’ll enjoy walking the streets of this city again.’
Fenchurch glanced over at Unwin, who had the impatient bearing of a man who could be earning money, but was instead having to do something under duress.
Kent rocked forward in his clear plastic chair, elbows on the clear-glass table, his nose almost touching his coffee. ‘It’s the small things you miss, isn’t it?’
Fenchurch picked up his cup and took a taste, rich and tarry. ‘Mr Kent, I’m not here to discuss coffee with you.’
‘The stuff inside is barely drinkable.’ Kent finished it in one glug. ‘I mean, if it wasn’t for the fact I’m dependent on the stuff, I’d pass. But it’s the one addiction I couldn’t give up. I feel an infinite shame for what happened.’ He reached over for the coffee pot and refilled his cup. ‘And saying “what happened” isn’t me being euphemistic. I genuinely can’t remember anything about that night. Sitting in court and seeing it playing on video, it’s the first time I’m aware of what went on. The state of me.’ He shook his head. ‘My drinking was a problem, but I couldn’t see it.’
Fenchurch gave him space, hoping this led somewhere. Meanwhile, Clive Taylor was at large, angry and desperate.
Unwin was staring at his phone, bored, his thumb gliding up the screen.
‘It took a murder conviction to make me see what I’d become. I told myself I was a good teacher, but I was just going through the motions. Every year it got easier. I was teaching the same kids different stuff, or different kids the same stuff. But I had this empty hole at the centre of my life. I didn’t have a particularly tough childhood, but drinking gave me confidence. When I had a beer in my hand, I felt okay. And things went well for me. I went to university, and drank my way through it, but I graduated. Then teacher training college, including time in schools. They were tough, and wine helped with the stress. And I met someone, she was great, but we didn’t last. My drinking was too much for her, and… I chose drink over her. It’s pathetic.’
‘How long have you been sober now?’
‘Almost five years. The last drink I had was eight days after Hermione was killed. A week after her body was found. I’d been off work, drinking and hating myself and drinking some more, and… The police turned up. A man and a woman in suits, but I was so pissed they looked like two men and two women. Then they asked me some questions, but I could barely focus on them. I might even have laughed at them, so they took me to the police station and I sobered up a bit, then I spoke to a lawyer, who told me to just tell the truth, tell them what I remembered of the night. Which was absolutely nothing.’
‘You signed a confession.’
‘My client signed the confession they put in front of him.’
‘I thought I’d killed her. I could see it, you know?’ Kent took a deep breath. ‘But then, I’d had a row with her… When I told her I thought her essay was plagiarised, she started shouting at me, threatening me. I was the victim. She had done wrong and yet I was getting threatened by her? About how I’d made inappropriate advances to her? All bullshit, but I had this flash of anger, which I didn’t act on, but it was so clear. If I killed her, then all of my problems would go away. I thought I was capable of murder, I just didn’t know that I had done it. I figured these guys knew, and I knew nothing for sure. So that’s why I signed the confession.’
Fenchurch finished his own coffee, but didn’t refill it. ‘Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?’
‘No, but it might help you understand.’ Kent hid behind his coffee cup, sipping daintily.
‘I need you to b
e a lot clearer about what you want from me, sir.’
Kent put his cup down. ‘I want to help you with finding who killed Hermione. And Micah.’
‘How do you think you can do that?’
Kent shrugged, then looked over at Unwin. ‘My lawyer wants to sue the police, once we’re through the retrial. Assuming there will even be that, right?’
Unwin nodded. ‘I’ve filed another motion to dismiss. My client was coerced into a confession and there is strong evidence to suggest that he was incapable of the crime.’
‘Then again, the fact he’s confessed and can’t remember anything due to being an alcoholic, that shouldn’t sit right with you, Dalton.’
‘But I’m not going to sue.’
Fenchurch frowned. ‘Why? You’d be liable for hundreds of thousands.’
‘Possibly even millions.’ Unwin was back to checking his emails on his phone.
Kent leaned towards Fenchurch. ‘I just want you to find their killers. I want their parents to get some peace. That’s all.’
‘Again, how can you help with that?’
‘Liam Sharpe was a rock for me. He came forward with evidence that freed me. There might be something in the evidence he provided that can help their cases.’
‘That might be useful.’ Fenchurch doubted it.
‘Look, I understand if you don’t want to examine it, but I want to put it out there. I feel bad for their parents.’
‘You don’t have to do this. I appreciate it.’
‘I hope it helps.’ Kent finished his coffee and pushed the cup to the side. ‘Anyway, I’m going to go and enjoy my freedom.’
‘Where are you headed?’
‘My mother still lives in Hammersmith. She doesn’t know I’m out. I’m going to walk over and knock on her door.’
‘That’s, what, seven miles?’