by Ed James
Fenchurch smiled at the lad, maybe not used to such a grilling. ‘And do they back up mine?’
‘Em.’ The uniform sniffed. ‘They said he came in the building through the front door. Then you chased him up to the fourth floor and caught him. Some phones clattered onto the ground. That’s all I’ve got, nobody got a decent look at him as he entered.’
‘Have you found anything between here and Angel?’
‘Afraid not, sir.’ The uniform’s left index finger pressed down on a giant boil hooded by his lank hair.
The Boris bike still lay on its side, next to the cycle he’d borrowed. ‘Get it dusted for prints, okay?’
‘Sir. Oh, and the owner wants his bike back. He’s causing merry hell up at Islington nick.’ Another press on the boil. ‘It’s a cracker, sir. Specialized S-Works. Best part of six grand, that.’
‘If that goes missing, Constable, you’re for it.’ Fenchurch let out a deep sigh and nodded at Nelson. ‘Jon, I’m off for a walk. Bring the car round.’ He set off along City Road, past the rubberneckers in their Volvos and Golfs, and rounded the petrol station. Turned out it was a Texaco — he couldn’t even recall that. The Co-op, yes, but not the petrol station.
He remembered a drunken night in there years ago, trying to get a pork pie from a scared Asian man after the McDonald’s shut. Thought they saw that guy who covered horse racing on the telly filling up an old Range Rover. Wasn’t him.
Nothing from tonight, though.
Fenchurch stopped and stared at the traffic on the main road, headlights pulsing in waves. Just one long stretch from Old Street to Angel, yet another London thoroughfare trapped between two tube stations. For once, even the Northern Line was quicker than walking between the two.
Too dark now to recover a mental snapshot. Like at Upper Street, it just happened too fast. Too many events, too little time, focusing more on avoiding lorries and buses than capturing every single detail.
Nelson pulled up in his Vauxhall Insignia, sucking on his e-cigarette, the window wound down. ‘Anything, guv?’
‘Lots of things, Sergeant, just none of it particularly useful.’ Fenchurch walked back towards the street, scanning around for anything Qasid could’ve tossed on the way. Nothing.
Then he trudged back onto City Road, Nelson keeping pace in the car. A hoarding across the way marked out yet another forthcoming development.
‘All change round here, guv. Remember when it was all fields.’
‘Worse than fields, Jon. Feral housing estates.’ Fenchurch got in. Dub techno played from the speakers — deep, minimal, lots of white noise clattering around the electronics. He reached over and turned it off. ‘Always in and out of them when I was in uniform. Little bastards could hide in the rabbit warrens in these places.’
Nelson pulled out and swerved across the oncoming traffic, heading towards Angel. ‘Think this is any better?’ He waved his hand around ahead of them.
The new towers above them seemed to be unoccupied. More like some futuristic Tokyo film than London. Certainly didn’t look like anyone was at home on this side, let alone would’ve seen anything.
‘It’s just different.’ Fenchurch tried to remember weaving through the bus lane on the bike. Shiny new buildings on the right, dirty old ones opposite. Some dodgy-looking little boozer. No detail, nothing useful. Nelson got into the right-turn lane, waiting for a break in the steady stream of vehicles. ‘You remembered anything yet?’
‘Square root of sod all.’ Fenchurch had been quite close to Qasid as he turned, almost tyre-to-tyre. Kid definitely didn’t drop anything. Definitely didn’t have anything to drop. So where the hell were the phone and bag? Not to mention the knife.
Nelson trundled along Graham Street. Same story — Qasid ahead of him, powering down the road. The advantages of Fenchurch’s purloined racer were more than offset by his old man’s legs. His thighs still burned, even though his foot was barely twinging.
Nothing dropped, nothing on his person.
Past the park and round the bend. Low-rise new-builds in among older buildings, a mishmash of eras. A sixties council block glowed across the way, the dirty thump of a bass drum accompanied by a fug of ganja.
‘Stop there.’ Fenchurch pointed to the bike rack. ‘The little punk got on one of these, didn’t he?’
‘Even with his hack code, it was a bit of a gamble, guv.’ Nelson pulled in and killed the engine. ‘Last time I rented one, it took me half an hour to get the bloody thing working.’
Fenchurch grabbed a torch and got out. A solitary street light above the row of bike stands. Only a couple of bikes had been returned. ‘You know, I’ve seen the ghost van redistributing the bikes across the city after dark. Lets down the environmental aspect a bit, doesn’t it?’ He arced the beam around the dark street and swallowed down a sigh. ‘This is near where I lost him the second time.’
Nelson’s vape stick hovered over his mouth. ‘You lost him?’
‘For a split second.’
Nelson took a puff, the car fumes still spilling out. ‘You’re not a hundred per cent certain it’s him, are you?’
‘Eighty, ninety.’ Fenchurch flashed the light across the bike racks. Nothing.
He can’t have caught the wrong kid, surely? No way . . .
Wait — there.
Fenchurch jogged over to the last stand. A tote bag lay by a drain cover. Cream with blue lettering, stained dirty brown. He extended his baton and flicked at the bag, opening it wide. Six or seven iPhones or their clones. He looked up at Nelson. ‘The little shit was definitely up to something, Jon. He wasn’t wearing gloves. Get these done for prints.’
‘Guv. I bet they’ve all been nicked tonight. Maybe we can find their owners.’ Nelson put on a pair of nitrile gloves and lifted the bag, keeping it arm’s reach. ‘If this was the second time you lost him, where’s the first?’
Fenchurch was standing where he’d stopped the car in Qasid’s path. Colebrooke Row bent left at the end, Regency-style flats separated by the road and a thin strip of grass. ‘You got anything?’
‘Five pence in coppers, guv.’ Nelson got up with a groan. ‘No bags, phones or knives.’
‘Qasid led me through the park up there, Jon.’ Fenchurch got back in the car and slammed the door.
The car growled as Nelson stuck it in gear, strapping his seatbelt on as they set off past the grass where he’d climbed up. Torchlight danced behind the railings surrounding the small park, shining off the uniform search team and catching a panting Alsatian as it sniffed in a bare flower bed. ‘I had sight of Qasid for the entire time. They won’t find anything.’ He tapped the windscreen as they trundled along the road, heading to a pedestrian crossing. ‘Right here.’
Nelson swung onto the wider street and pulled in on the double yellows behind some panda cars. The park continued on the left, bigger and less like an afterthought.
Fenchurch got out and jogged over the road. He flashed his ID at the uniformed Sergeant guarding the entrance. ‘Anything?’
‘Nothing yet, sir. Well, certainly not what you’re after.’
‘Keep me posted.’ Fenchurch stared past him at the squad going through the bushes. A street led back the way they’d come and headed further west. West-ish. He paced off down the pavement opposite the idling Vauxhall. ‘He went this way, Jon.’
Nelson got in front of Fenchurch, slowing him down. ‘So, you lost sight of him back there at the park entrance.’
‘That’s what I bloody said.’ Fenchurch tried to nudge past but couldn’t get through. He stood tall and sighed. ‘What?’
‘Guv, you told me you were eighty, ninety per cent certain. If he got out back there, he could’ve continued onto the next bit of the park, gone down Duncan Terrace in either direction or up Duncan Street towards Angel.’ Anger flared in Nelson’s eyes, tempered by disappointment, maybe. ‘That’s five different ways in addition to the one you thought he went.’
‘But I saw him go this way, Jon.’ Fenchurch barged pa
st him and stopped at the crossroads where a thin wood lurked across from the park. He shone his torch through the trees. ‘That’s the canal there, right?’
‘Remember we had to fish a body out of there a few years back?’ Nelson frowned as he took another suck of his e-cig. ‘There’s a tunnel that lets you take your barge up to Camden. Comes out past Sainsbury’s, I think.’
Fenchurch tried to picture Qasid running again. Had he been carrying anything? Her phone — was it really among the batch Qasid had on him?
The torch caught something. A glint sparkled just through the railings.
Fenchurch clambered over, his foot sending a jolt of pain as he landed.
‘Found something, guv?’
‘Not sure.’ Fenchurch crouched down and directed the light at the ground, thick with undergrowth. There. He scrabbled around at the earth, torch hanging from his teeth, and cleared some space. The buckle of a handbag. He put a glove on and picked it up. It looked new. He showed it to Nelson. ‘Call Kay and get her to check the statements about the bag.’
‘Guv.’ Nelson held up his Airwave and turned away.
Fenchurch tore through the contents. At least six different compartments. Lipstick. White phone charger cable. Enough tampons to last a hundred years. A lanyard with a work pass.
He shone the torch against it, heart pounding. The face on the photo vaguely matched the victim’s. Early twenties. Blonde hair, though longer, more normal. None of that wedge shit.
Saskia Barnett. Worked at the London Post newspaper, by the looks of things.
Nelson reappeared. ‘Guv, Kay’s got statements from a couple sitting outside Chilango. The kid did nick her bag.’
Fenchurch stood up and passed it to Nelson. ‘Get me an address for her.’
‘Will do. Anything else of note in here?’
‘Nothing.’
Nelson spoke into his Airwave, facing away.
Fenchurch looked back the way he’d chased Qasid. Was her phone lying there somewhere? Or was it in the tote bag?
Nelson turned around. ‘Just checking, guv.’
‘Get a team knocking on doors round here. I need the story confirmed.’
Nelson lifted the Airwave away from his face and frowned. ‘Look at this place. It’s dark as hell. No chance they’ll have seen anything.’
‘I need them to. And I need her phone found.’
‘You’re definitely sure it’s the same kid we’ve got in the interview room? He could’ve escaped up the tunnel.’
‘It’s a canal, Sergeant.’
‘So? Despite popular misconceptions, black men can swim.’
Fenchurch couldn’t stop laughing. ‘It was him, Jon. I’m sure of it.’
The Airwave crackled. ‘Control to DS Nelson. I’ve got an address off Upper Street. Highbury end.’
Chapter Six
‘Nice place.’ Fenchurch pressed the bell and took a step back. A two-window wide townhouse, the mustard-yellow paintwork distinct from the gleaming white next door. Modern mews houses lined Napier Terrace, trees rustling in the wind, drowning out the distant rumble of backed-up traffic a few streets away.
He gave the entrycom another go. ‘It’s the police!’
It opened with a jolt. A middle-aged man scowled out into the night. Musketeer facial hair — a salt-and-pepper moustache with a thick square of beard below his thin lips. Tweed jacket over a pink shirt and red trousers. He gave them both the once over. ‘Yes?’
‘DI Simon Fenchurch.’ He flipped out his warrant card and held it out for inspection. ‘Does a Saskia Barnett live here?’
‘She’s not in.’
‘But she lives here?’
‘That’s correct. What does this relate to?’
‘Can I ask your name, sir?’
‘Hugo Barnett.’ A frown crawled over his forehead. ‘Is Sas in trouble?’
‘We should do this inside, sir.’
The drawing room was bigger than Fenchurch’s old flat. Expensive paintings on the wall. Designer furniture, chunky and Scandinavian. He claimed a dimpled leather armchair by a tall window overlooking the street — would feel like a goldfish bowl when the neighbours peered in. ‘Does anyone else live here?’
‘Saskia’s mother passed away two years ago. What’s happened?’
Nelson was staying by the entrance. ‘You should have a seat, sir.’
Hugo didn’t seem to want to leave him. His frown deepened, like his forehead was fed up of his eyes looking at things. A hand went to his mouth, covering the beard. ‘Is Saskia dead?’
Nelson’s gaze flashed over to Fenchurch then back to Hugo with a nod. ‘I’m afraid so, sir.’
Hugo let the tears out, flowing down his cheeks. ‘My God. Sas . . .’ He collapsed onto a Chesterfield sofa and seemed to disappear into it. Head bowed, shoulders slumped, rocking back and forth. His head shot up, eyebrows raised, eyes drilling into Nelson. ‘How do you know it’s her?’
‘We’ll need a formal identification but we found photo ID in her bag matching the body.’ Nelson snatched a box of tissues from the top of an antique chest and placed them on the arm of the sofa, tearing one off for Hugo. ‘She was robbed on Upper Street this evening. Her assailant stabbed her.’
Hugo thumbed at the window. ‘All that traffic was because of her?’
Nelson gave a slight nod. ‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Have you caught the man who did this?’
‘We believe we have, sir.’
Hugo shut his eyes, his teeth grinding together. He opened them again and locked his gaze on Fenchurch. ‘What do you mean you believe you’ve caught her killer?’
‘We need to make sure our case against this suspect is watertight, sir.’ Fenchurch gave a warning glance to Nelson. ‘We’re in the process of dotting the I’s and crossing the T’s. We think she was killed for her phone, though we’re investigating other possibilities. Is there anyone you can think of who held a grudge against your daughter?’
‘Not off the top of my head.’ Hugo’s hands were clamped around the arms of the sofa. ‘She was well liked. We were close but I can’t think of anyone she even had a bad word to say about, you know? She was all I had left.’ His face crumpled up. ‘She’s gone . . .’
Fenchurch took out his Airwave Pronto and unlocked the machine. He scribbled a few notes on the screen. ‘Can I ask what you do for a living?’
Hugo stopped wiping his cheeks. ‘I fail to see how that’s relevant.’
‘It pays to paint a solid picture of the victim in cases such as this. I’ve seen children killed because their parents worked for a bank, for instance.’
Hugo rubbed a hand across his nose. ‘I’m the professor of Economics at Imperial College.’
‘Anyone there who’d—’
‘It’s a university, Inspector. I teach students and, when I get a chance, I write papers.’ Hugo balled up the tissue and tossed it at a bin, just missing. ‘And before you ask, I’m not writing about the economics of ISIS or whatever we’re supposed to call them this week.’
Fenchurch exchanged a frown with Nelson, the same curiosity blossoming in his eyes. ‘Why do you bring that up?’
‘I’m just being flippant with you. I have no reason to believe my daughter was involved with ISIS or anyone connected to it.’ Hugo let out a despairing sigh. ‘I’m sorry I mentioned it.’
Fenchurch stabbed it into the device. Maybe worthy of follow-up. Maybe not. ‘It would be useful if we could get some background on her.’
‘Where do I start?’ Hugo dabbed at his eyes with the tissue. ‘She’s twenty-four. Worked as a journalist at The London Post. She’s lived here since she finished university. Very difficult for people her age to get on the property ladder, these days. Even renting. And there’s more than enough space in this old house.’
‘Did she study in London?’
‘Edinburgh.’ Hugo reached forward for another tissue and blew his nose with a loud honk. ‘Then a year doing her post-grad qualification in Leeds. Ma
de sense for her to move back in after.’
Fenchurch made a note of it. Being a receptionist or in HR would’ve been neater. ‘How was she getting on there?’
‘She loved her job. Been there two years now. It’s all she would talk about.’
‘What about friends?’
‘Some. Most of them are in Edinburgh. Some in Leeds. There are a few down here. She didn’t keep in touch with people from school, as far as I’m aware.’ Hugo sucked in air, his lip quivering. ‘I could give you a list, if that’d help?’
‘That would be good, sir.’ Fenchurch stabbed the stylus on the screen, the typing just about keeping up with him. ‘Was she seeing anyone?’
‘There’s a man on the scene. Young chap called Liam Sharpe. Been seeing him for a while now. Lives up in Hackney.’
‘Thanks, sir.’ Fenchurch got to his feet and stuck his Airwave back in his jacket pocket. ‘I’ll get a car to take you out to Lewisham to identify the body.’
‘She’s what?’ Liam Sharpe was barely five eight tall, though he looked up with a glinting smile. Bright eyes full of humour. ‘Dead?’ The grin slipped into a frown. ‘What?’ His thick carpet of beard was getting into an argument with his T-shirt. Four heads bobbing out of a body of water with Slint written underneath. Some band, presumably. Thinning hair kept in check with a complex comb-over. ‘You’d better come in.’ His generic Northern accent could’ve come from anywhere in Yorkshire, maybe even County Durham or Nottinghamshire. Shoulders slumped, he trudged into the flat, his skinny-fit jeans thwapping louder than his flip-flops. Hairy hobbit toes.
Fenchurch followed Liam into a kitchen area. An IKEA headache of bright-yellow units and black-marble worktops. Restaurant-grade cooker and hob. Place reeked of skunk — expensive stuff, too. Didn’t seem to care they could prosecute him for that. Didn’t seem right to prosecute him, either.
‘Jesus.’ Liam squelched into an inflatable chair. A PlayStation controller rested next to a half-drunk bottle of craft beer on a coffee table. A giant flat-screen TV hung off the wall, Batman frozen in the middle of throwing his batarang. ‘How can I help you catch whoever . . . did this to Sas?’