by Ed James
‘We can start with a few questions.’ Fenchurch leaned against the divider between the kitchen and the living area. Manga posters competed with moodier comic shots. Impossibly muscled men and impossibly proportioned women, all in body-tight spandex. ‘You don’t live together?’
‘We had talked about it but it’s so expensive, even round here. All this gentrification’s supposed to be good for middle-class hipsters like me, but hey.’ The smile returned then was beaten away by a frown. A hand ran through his hair, exposing the depth of his baldness. ‘Sorry. This is hard to take.’
‘Take as much time as you need, sir.’
‘I’m fine, really.’ Liam’s jaw was pulsing, like he was grinding his teeth together. He let out a sigh. ‘I had a couple of texts, pretty nothingy.’
Fenchurch made a note to follow up on them. ‘Where were you between six and seven?’
‘At work. I’ve just got back in.’ Liam tapped the PlayStation controller. ‘Was going to spend some quality time with Batman.’ He started resetting his hair. ‘Christ, sorry. How do you begin to process this?’
‘Can anyone confirm your whereabouts?’
‘My boss can. I work at the Post. Where I met Sas.’ Liam finished with his hair, not quite back to its previous elegance. His hands started tugging his beard, paying particular attention to the walrus moustache. ‘Why do you think she was killed?’
‘Probably for her phone. Do you know what kind she had?’
‘A Samsung Note. The one with the stylus. Not the most recent model, though. It was a two or a three? Couple of years old, anyway. I don’t know — I’m an iPhone guy.’ Another flash of smile. ‘Didn’t stop her asking me to fix it all the time. Here’s the number.’ He held out his own mobile. Saskia’s contact card filled the screen, a few numbers and email addresses. There was a cute close-up selfie of her in the top left.
‘We’ll check to see if we’ve recovered it.’ Fenchurch made a note to follow up on it. ‘Is it possible someone could’ve targeted her?’
‘It’s certainly possible.’ Liam nibbled at a fingernail, cut way past the quick. He pinched his nose. ‘God, that can’t be why they’ve done this. It just can’t.’
Fenchurch frowned. ‘What, you think it’s because of her job?’
‘Well, it’s hard to process her just being randomly killed for a phone.’
‘I understand, sir.’ Fenchurch left a gap, but Liam just sat scowling at the controller. ‘As she died, she said Kamal. Does that mean anything?’
‘Should it?’ Liam looked up, frowning. ‘You think that’s who stole her phone? Who killed her?’
‘We don’t know. It’s not the name of the suspect we have in custody. Could Kamal be someone she’d met through work?’
‘Maybe.’ Liam gave a one-shouldered shrug. ‘Sas was an investigative journalist. Had a tendency to piss people off. Never mentioned any threats. Might be worth speaking to her boss, though.’
Fenchurch stabbed it into his Pronto. ‘Do you work for him as well?’
‘Afraid not. I copy and paste people’s tweets into stories, pretending it’s news. She worked on Features. Proper journalism. The Post’s a twenty-four seven thing these days, though. Mr Morgan should still be there.’
‘Have you got anyone who can be with you tonight?’
‘My housemate’s in Cardiff for the weekend.’ Liam picked up the controller. ‘Batman might take my mind off it.’
Chapter Seven
Fenchurch got out onto Fleet Street, just another road now. Pretty much all of the newspaper offices were gone. St Paul’s glowed in the evening sky ahead while the old London stone sprawled behind. St Bride’s was similarly lit, though hidden down a lane opposite. Didn’t Rupert Murdoch get married there recently?
Nelson plipped the car doors locked and took a suck on his vape stick. ‘Sure that’ll be okay there?’ It was sitting in a police bay halfway across, letting the taxis and cars flow freely either side.
‘It’s night, Jon, nobody cares.’ Fenchurch stepped across the tarmac and jogged over to the office building. Giant oak doors led into a monolithic Georgian building underneath a curious circular window. The Post’s logo was etched into the left half of the glass, the right taken up with some start-up. He pressed the buzzer and glanced over at Nelson, busy working his Airwave Pronto. ‘This must be one of the last papers here.’
‘Last one, according to Wikipedia.’ Nelson raised his handset, a more modern rendering of the Post logo hazing out into the dark night. ‘Just got a note from Kay, as well. Saskia’s old man identified the body. Good news, right?’
‘Means we’re not wasting time. Not much consolation to him, though.’ Fenchurch hit the button again.
The door clicked open and Fenchurch entered into a big old hall, marble tiles and oak-panelled walls. A sprawling staircase led up into the heavens, next to an old-school Paternoster lift with a grille.
Where he expected a bored security guard was a female receptionist, behind a medium-height partition covered in the Post logo. Perfect posture, tapping away at a high-end desktop computer, as shiny as her blue nails. ‘Good evening, sir?’
A middle-aged black man looked up from a laptop, his dark skin was greying as much as his hair, thick silver curls shining under the spotlights. His desk was filled with years’ worth of crap. Stacks of papers, folders, reference books and enough pens to write the complete works of Shakespeare by hand. A mug near the front had ‘Eric’ written in a comic font, steam billowing out of the top.
Fenchurch flashed a smile and his warrant card. His foot was playing up again, throbs of pain pulsing through it. ‘Eric Morgan?’
That got a smile. ‘Eric’s my husband.’ He held out a hand, ink smudges almost covering the index finger. ‘Victor Morgan.’
Fenchurch shook it and sat in front of the desk, just about seeing over the junk. A square window looked across Fleet Street at the art-deco weirdness of the Daily Express Building opposite. ‘We need to ask a few questions about Saskia Barnett.’
‘I heard about what happened.’ Victor scowled, like he was sucking on a foul-tasting mint. ‘Can’t believe it, though.’ He pushed the laptop away, closing the lid. ‘She worked for me for two years. I’m the Features editor here and Sas was one of my investigative journalists. Young and hungry. And cheap enough that I could have two of them after the last round of cuts.’ He picked up his mug and slurped stale coffee, by the smell of it. ‘From what I heard, it sounded like someone killed her for her phone.’
‘We have a suspect in custody, but we’re keeping an open mind on the why. It might be useful to know if there was anything of note she was working on and eliminate, if necessary.’
‘Well, Sas had a few things on her plate. Like me in a lot of ways.’ Victor tapped at his temple, flashing a grin at them. ‘Juggling too many stories is the only way to keep the old brain ticking over. Couldn’t keep her focused on one story at a time, so I stopped trying. Keeps us fresh, I suppose.’ He let out a breath and rifled through a sheaf of papers. ‘She was working on a feature on one of London’s UKIP MEPs. Guy Eustace.’ He grimaced at the name, like it hurt him to say it out loud. ‘Just something we’d been asked to do. And when I say ask, I mean told.’
‘Is that Brexit stuff?’
‘The owners of this paper have . . . certain sympathies, shall we say. Britain leaving the EU seems to be one of them.’
‘Is it worth us speaking to Mr Eustace?’
‘Not really. He’s not a player, though he thinks he is. The piece was supposed to be gushing.’
‘And was it?’
Victor’s eyebrows danced upwards. ‘She hadn’t shared it with me.’
Fenchurch settled for adding a note to the case file. ‘What else was she juggling?’
‘There’s a piece on some flats near her home. She’d like to keep them in public hands, but there’s talk of them being sold off to a developer.’
Fenchurch glanced over at Nelson, frowning as he twisted
his head to the side. ‘Did she annoy any property companies?’
‘Not sure. Regardless, I doubt I’ll be allowed to publish the story, even if I wanted to. I told Sas to keep that one on the back burner.’ Victor held up his hands. ‘I’m sorry, but that’s all that springs to mind as contentious among the stuff she was working on.’
‘What about recently published stories?’
‘I think she only had five stories printed in the last month or so. All puff pieces. Advertorials.’
Nelson left the doorway and joined Fenchurch in front of the desk. ‘Nothing inflammatory?’
‘There was lots of that. I just didn’t publish it.’ Victor smiled as he crunched back in his seat. ‘Sas kept herself to herself. Sent me the finished articles, checked off her sources and that was that.’ Victor nodded and scribbled on a notepad. ‘How about I look out some stories for you?’
‘That’d certainly help.’ Fenchurch added the reminder on his Pronto. He reclined in his seat and took another measure of the man. Didn’t seem like he was hiding anything, but the information was just spewing out. Was it everything? Was there anything else? He slid the Pronto’s stylus onto the cradle. ‘Do you know a Liam Sharpe?’
‘Good kid. Saw him this evening for a coffee between meetings. You don’t think he had anything to do with this, do you?’
Fenchurch gave a non-committal shrug. ‘Just want to keep an open mind.’
‘He’s the opposite of Sas in so many ways. She was deadly serious, but I never saw him without that stupid grin. Kid’s like a puppy.’ Victor shook his head, eyes flickering. ‘He tell you what he does all day? Copying and pasting tweets, posting photos of actresses on the beach. And their children. It’s not proper journalism but it’s what passes for news these days.’ A tight grimace fixed his face. ‘Our website is the third biggest in the US, behind the Mail and the Guardian. Can you believe it?’
Fenchurch didn’t know what to make of it. ‘Ever heard of the name Kamal?’
‘You know, she mentioned it once or twice.’ Victor looked around the rubbish on his desk, like the answer was buried around the fifth paperweight. ‘Norwegian company, right?’
‘I was thinking it was a name. Arabic, maybe. Kamal.’ Fenchurch let it hang in the air. ‘She said it as she died.’
‘Christ.’ Victor’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. ‘Actually, now I think about it, it’s Kjaer Oil. She did a feature on their greenwashing last year. Planting trees instead of clearing up a spillage.’
‘So, Kamal doesn’t mean anything?’
‘Sorry.’
‘We’re trying to retrace her last movements, sir.’ Nelson was dragging his stylus across his Pronto’s screen. ‘What appointments did she have today?’
‘There was something.’ Victor frowned, deepening already yawning lines. ‘Let me check.’ Pen between his teeth, he opened his laptop and clattered the keys. ‘Here we go. I’ve got access to her calendar. Here’s the last appointment.’ He wrote it on a Post-It and handed it over. Completely illegible.
‘Can you print it for us?’
‘Sure thing.’ Another click of the mouse then he reached through the pile of crap for an old printer as it hummed to life. He gave the warm sheet to Fenchurch. ‘She was visiting Iconic Property Development at five. Their office is in Mayfair, I believe.’
The page was a calendar for the last week, filled with appointments. Fenchurch passed it to Nelson, along with a look that said ‘check all of these out’. He nodded at Victor. ‘Any idea what it was about?’
‘Supposed to be speaking to the owner about her charitable foundation.’
Chapter Eight
‘Cheers, Kay.’ Fenchurch killed the call and put his Airwave in the footwell. ‘They’ve still not found her phone yet, Jon.’
They were stopped at the set of lights at the end of Grosvenor Street. A late-night jogger bounded across the crossing. Ahead, the flags of a couple of embassies flapped in the breeze. Through the trees, the American Embassy was keeping a low profile, looking just like a normal office block.
‘Typical.’ Nelson gripped the wheel tight. ‘What’s on your mind, guv?’
‘About Morgan? It’s a dead end, Jon.’ Fenchurch clutched the grab handle a little bit tighter. ‘But me thinking it isn’t enough. It needs nipping in the bud.’
‘Before it blossoms?’ Nelson kicked into gear and set off. A van merged in out of nowhere from the left, getting a honk on the horn for its troubles. ‘What about this Kamal geezer?’
‘We don’t know anything about him, Jon.’ Fenchurch grimaced, eyes shut. ‘Could just be Abi mishearing.’ Nelson pulled into the second of two disabled bays outside a thin townhouse.
Fenchurch got out and took in the building as Nelson knocked on the door. The street level looked empty, but there were lights on upstairs. The old ground-floor windows had been defaced with adverts for expensive apartments, high-end developments in the East End and lining the Southbank. All gleaming new-build things, curved steel and glass. A million miles from the old London of the Mayfair street they were in. Not that they were much cheaper.
He gave it another knock and took a step back. ‘There’s nobody here, Jon.’
Nelson spoke into his Airwave: ‘Control, it’s DS Jon Nelson. Can I get an address for a Yana Ikonnikova?’
Nelson parked on Eaton Square, wedging his Vectra into a row of six Range Rovers. Walled-off gardens sat between two long rows of Regency opulence, criss-crossed by a few roads. ‘Used to work round here.’
‘Management consultancy war stories again?’ Fenchurch opened the door and stepped out onto the pavement. Could almost see the slivers of gold in the concrete. The chinking of shattered glass and drunken laughter came from the gardens. ‘Sounds like kids in there.’
‘Homeless, more like. Prime location. Wake up here, head down to Knightsbridge to beg outside Harrods first thing.’
The address they had was for a townhouse spanning double the width of the rest. Ornate mouldings ran between the fourth and fifth storeys. The columned entrance on the left was repeated halfway over, but the doorway was replaced with a window, the walkway cut off and the intervening odd number deleted from existence. Railings barred the lower-ground floor. ‘Saw an article in the Standard last year about an Arab prince owning a flat in this neck of the woods. He was trying to sell the leasehold for three and a half years. Guess how much?’
‘Half a million?’ Nelson gave him a wink. ‘Saw the same article, guv.’
Fenchurch grunted. ‘Reckoned the place was worth eighteen million or something stupid. That’s just a flat.’ He looked the building up and down again. ‘Must be ten flats in there?’
‘Hundred and eighty mill.’ Nelson shifted his gaze around the place. ‘Like a private country round here. Duke of Westminster used to own it all, but he’s had to sell up, I think. Doubt there’s many English tenants left.’
Fenchurch marched up to the front door and hammered the bell.
It swung open and a wall of muscle stood there, fingers pressing an earpiece. He wore the sort of suit you’d see standing a few feet behind the US President. ‘What do you want?’ Deep Slavic accent, maybe Russian, maybe somewhere that used to be part of Yugoslavia.
‘We’re looking for a Yana Ikonnikova.’
‘She’s not expecting anyone.’
Fenchurch flipped out his warrant card. ‘Police.’
The hired muscle turned around and spoke into his sleeve. He gave a tight nod and stood up tall. ‘Come inside.’
Fenchurch trotted past him into the hall.
Two similar-looking guards surrounded a shiny grand piano, standing on a chequerboard floor from a Disney cartoon. Three gleaming chandeliers hung low, surrounded by a spiral staircase, the marble sparkling in the light. Expensive-looking artwork covered the plain white walls, though the person who’d put it together had even less taste than Fenchurch.
The guard grabbed him from behind and started a pat down, another one giving t
he same treatment to Nelson.
Fenchurch craned his neck round. ‘You know that’s not legal, right?’
‘Maybe not, but I assure you it is necessary if you want to speak to Ms Ikonnikova.’
Fenchurch let him finish, muscular fingers kneading up and down his arms and legs. ‘You’ve just saved me a packet on a deep-tissue massage, mate. Cheers.’
That got a grunt. The guard led them past the staircase into a wide room, running front to back. Dark like a Paris wine bar, just a single light hanging low.
A woman perched on a stool in the middle, fondling a tablet computer. She swirled what looked and smelled like neat vodka around the crystal tumbler, the sole ice cube chinking off the sides. A dainty sip and then she looked up at the guard. ‘Thank you, Yevgeny.’
‘Of course.’ He tilted his head and took up a position by the door. Easier to walk through the wall than through him.
Despite the late hour, Yana Ikonnikova wore a trouser suit, navy pinstripe with a lilac blouse. Salon-perfect hair framed the Slavic curve of her face, blonde curls fixed in place. She narrowed her eyes at Fenchurch, a look that could curdle milk. Or blood. ‘What business do the police have in my home?’ Polished Russian accent, a million miles away from the Hollywood cliché.
Fenchurch looked around for a seat, couldn’t find one. ‘Thanks for granting us an audience, Ms Ikonnikova.’
‘I recognise sarcasm, Mr Fenchurch.’
He swallowed, drums beating a light pattern in his ears. ‘You know my name?’
She gave a nod. ‘My men are trained well and information flows quickly among us. Now, how can I help?’
‘Does the name Saskia Barnett mean anything to you?’
Yana took a sip of vodka and nibbled at her ruby-red bottom lip. ‘I gave her an interview this evening at my company’s office in Mayfair. Saskia left long after six, maybe? I had to cut it short because I’m running a charity event for my foundation later and some things needed my attention.’
‘What was she asking about?’