by Ed James
‘My foundation.’ A weary sigh into her vodka. ‘I spend my hard-earned money on causes which support people less fortunate than me. We’re having an event on my yacht in St Katharine Docks.’ She smirked over the open mouth of her glass. ‘You’re welcome to join us.’
Fenchurch found himself grinning at her. ‘I know it well but I’ll pass on it just now.’ He let the grin fade to a frown, heat burning in his cheeks. ‘I gather from your accent you’re not from round here?’
‘Moscow.’ Her smile slipped away, restoring the icy grimace. ‘But I make a lot of money here. It’s good to, how you say, give back to the land?’
‘I’m sure it is.’ Fenchurch tried for another smile, but it fell flat on its face. ‘How did Ms Barnett seem?’
‘First time I met her. She was matter of fact, yes? Just asked questions, wrote down answers. How I like it. I hate it when I get all this . . .’ Yana scowled and waved a hand around in the air. ‘Sugar-coating. Massaging my ego. I prefer it kept straight.’ She finished the vodka and rested the glass on the table with an expensive sounding thud. ‘Why so many questions about this girl?’
‘She was killed this evening.’
A hand went to Yana’s mouth. She swore in Russian, something harsh and guttural. ‘Such a shame.’
‘When did you last see her?’
Yana clicked her fingers, jaw clenched tight. ‘Yevgeny, come here.’
The hired muscle prowled across the room, hands clasped behind his back. Eyes darting around, assessing targets. ‘Yes?’
‘When did she leave, this Saskia?’
‘Seventeen thirty. Asked me which tube station to use. I didn’t know.’
Yana beckoned him away again with a flick of her wrists. ‘My office assistant deals with all that. I remember now.’ She snapped her fingers again. ‘She told her to walk up to Green Park, had to swap lines somewhere. I would’ve sent her in my car, but I needed it to get to my yacht.’
Chapter Nine
‘A bloody yacht, Jon.’ Fenchurch crawled up the back stairs and pushed onto their floor. ‘I bet it’s a sixty-footer.’
Nelson held the door open. ‘You jealous?’
‘Not really. If I had that sort of money, I’d be living in Spain or Greece, not bloody London.’
‘You could sail your yacht down to the Algarve, get in some golf.’ Nelson took a final suck on his vape stick then pocketed it. ‘Know how much you love golf.’
‘Don’t get me started.’ Fenchurch pushed through the door into the long corridor, Docherty’s office at the end. ‘Anyway, I need to get in and have a word with the DCI before— Shit.’
A wraith-like figure crept up to the office door from the side corridor, wrapping a black scarf tight around its neck. DI Dawn Mulholland.
Fenchurch ran a hand across his forehead. ‘She’s crawled out of the coffin early tonight.’
‘Jesus, guv, you need to bury the hatchet.’ The vape stick was back out. Nelson tapped it in Fenchurch’s direction. ‘And I mean in the earth, not in her neck.’
Fenchurch waved a hand at the closing door. ‘Look at her, Jon. Sneaking in there ahead of me, just to score points.’
‘Maybe you need to stop seeing it that way.’
‘She’ll be trying to take the case away from me, as per bloody usual.’
‘I said, maybe you need to stop seeing her in that light.’
‘The only light I’d like to see her in is daylight. Watch her skin burn or whatever it is happens to bloody vampires.’ Fenchurch marched off down the corridor, hands deep in his pockets. ‘See you later, Jon.’
‘Right, right, right.’ Docherty crunched back in his office chair and put his hands behind his head. ‘Well, we are where we are, I suppose.’
DI Dawn Mulholland sat next to him. Still perma-tanned, still pouting like she had photos of Fenchurch in a compromising position. Her long dark hair was becoming one with her ever-present scarf.
Fenchurch folded his arms, narrowed his eyes at Docherty. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘We’re in a reasonably good place, I guess. Considering you’ve had the case, what . . .’ Docherty checked his watch. The gold thing looked like it weighed more than he did. ‘Four hours? Not bad. Press release has gone out and there’s a proper news conference scheduled for tomorrow morning at ten. You don’t have to attend, if you don’t want to.’
‘I’d rather not, but thanks for the invite.’
Docherty shook his head. ‘So, your victim ruffled some feathers, aye?’
‘I think her job’s a dead end, sir.’
‘Are you sure about that?’ Mulholland twisted round to glare at Fenchurch. Not so much a voice that could cut glass but make the stuff from sand. ‘You know what happens to assumptions.’
‘Which is why I want to exclude it.’ Fenchurch still couldn’t look at her for longer than a few seconds at a time, in case he turned into stone. He stood up and rested his hands against the back of the chair. ‘Her editor sent over links to all the stories she’s published in the last month. We’re tracking down her friends and we’re digging into the boyfriend’s background.’
‘He suspicious?’
‘You know me, sir. Everyone’s suspicious. But I want to eliminate him.’
‘We can also get CCTV of her journey from Mayfair to Angel.’ Mulholland was fiddling with her Pronto. ‘Looks like she came out of the tube. I want to know where she went in, which lines she took, where she was before she got on. I want everything nailed down.’
Fenchurch gripped the seat back hard. ‘And we should take a look at Iconic Property. See if there’s anything funny going on there.’
‘Like what?’ Mulholland lowered her Pronto and swung round. ‘You don’t like this Ikonnikova woman, I get that. But in what way was she suspicious?’
Fenchurch kept his focus on Docherty. ‘She’s got a private army, boss. Thinks she bloody owns this city. She’s heading down to St Kath’s Docks in a motorcade.’
‘She probably does own half of London.’ Docherty shrugged his shoulders and gave a laugh. ‘Well, the bits you’d want to own, anyway.’
‘Yeah, the bits we don’t have to police.’
‘You can get home.’ Docherty nodded at Mulholland. ‘You know the drill. Hand over to Dawn and team.’
Fenchurch still couldn’t bring himself to look at her. ‘I want to stay.’
Mulholland leaned forward, the pout catching his peripheral vision. ‘For what purpose, Simon?’
‘We’ve got witnesses. And all those phones we recovered. Someone needs to supervise the Forensics lads on that.’
‘I know I have to keep telling you this, but I’ve got three DIs for a reason.’ Docherty waved at Mulholland. ‘Dawn’s team are running the night shift. End of. You get yourself home.’
‘Right.’ Fenchurch got up, feeling weighed down by a load he couldn’t budge. He ducked his head at her, trying to keep it civil. ‘Let’s catch up first thing, yeah?’
‘Of course.’ She raised her eyebrows, creating deep fissures in her forehead. ‘From what Alan told me earlier, I suspect Abi might need you at home?’
Fenchurch flared his nostrils. ‘Right.’
Mulholland got up and adjusted her scarf. Always the same one, like she was hiding a vampire bite or something. ‘I’ll get back to chasing up your loose ends, Simon. This case is becoming frayed already.’
‘What loose ends?’
The pout appeared again, making her mouth look like a bill. ‘Your suspect isn’t definite, is he?’
‘Oh, he did it, all right.’ Fenchurch locked eyes with her. Felt like she could steal his soul just by looking. ‘I need you to work with me here, not against me.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Break it up, you two.’ Docherty was on his feet, just a stripy shirt away from being a boxing referee. ‘You’re like a pair of bloody children. Dawn, give us a minute here.’
‘Very well.’ Mulholland left the room, the scarf billowing be
hind her like ink in water. Just needed a broomstick and a black cat.
‘I need evidence, Si.’ Docherty slumped back in his chair, bitter disappointment all over his face. He gulped coffee from his sky-blue Rangers mug, chipped and faded from repeated assaults from the station dishwasher. ‘I need something more than you telling me he did it. Show me, aye?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to do here.’
‘Remember this is a favour, Simon. You asked me to take this case on. I’ve had the pleasure of spending three hours arguing the toss over at the Yard.’
Fenchurch looked at his shoes. A little scuff mark on the leather where Qasid had stamped. ‘Boss, this is the only way I can cope with what I saw. He killed a woman right in front of me.’ He rubbed at his forehead. ‘I need to bring that little scrote to justice.’
‘Scrote.’ Docherty bellowed with laughter. ‘Christ, Si, what are you? Something from The Bill?’
A smile forced its way onto Fenchurch’s lips. ‘We need to get evidence and snare him.’
‘That’s my boy.’ Another slurp from the Rangers mug. ‘Dawn’s looking into it. The results will be on your desk before tomorrow’s briefing.’ Docherty grinned at him. ‘Now get home to your wife. You’ve only been remarried a couple of months.’
‘Three.’ Fenchurch glanced at his wedding ring, the old gold band reworked to a fine sheen. Who knew how long that’d last? ‘I’ll head home after I’ve chased up Clooney.’
Fenchurch nudged open the door to his office. Mulholland wasn’t in her chair but . . . He leaned against the jamb. ‘Why are you in my office?’
Mick Clooney sat at Fenchurch’s desk, now covered in a tangle of IT equipment. He brushed a hand across his shaved head while the other fiddled with the ear piercings, at least one of them looked fresh and raw. The long sleeves of his Levellers T-shirt rode up, showing his other sleeves, the footballer tattoos covering his arms. ‘DI Mulholland said you wouldn’t mind.’
‘Did she now?’ Fenchurch got his Airwave out, tempted to type out a bitchy text to Mulholland. No messages from Reed or Abi, so he shoved it back in his pocket. ‘Well, I’ve been hunting high and low for you, Mick. Feel like that guy in the A-ha video, turning into a comic book.’
‘That was “Take On Me”, Simon, not “Hunting High and Low”. Same album, though.’
‘Quite the expert.’ Fenchurch walked over and tapped the bagged Samsung plugged into a laptop. ‘They got you retraining?’
Clooney stretched out and yawned. ‘Another string to my bow, or whatever it is.’ He tossed a mobile in the air and caught it. ‘Our jobs will be looking at computers and phones rather than dusting crime scenes. Five years max, you mark my words.’
‘As long as you bark when I come calling, I don’t care.’ Fenchurch rested against his desk. ‘What have you got for me?’
‘Nothing.’ Clooney unplugged the Samsung from his laptop and tossed it over to the others. ‘They’re all wiped. Reset back to factory condition. Everything’s gone from them. Happens all the time.’
Fenchurch scanned through the mobiles. What model did Saskia own? Samsung something or other. ‘Have you got hers?’
‘Afraid not. Jon Nelson told me she had a white Galaxy Note. None in here. Just iPhones and Galaxy S5s and 6s. Got one of the Edge ones, as well.’ He held up a large smartphone with a curved screen stretching to both sides. ‘Not sure what the point of this is, but I imagine you pay through the nose for it. And I bet it kills the battery.’
‘Pay through the nose for everything these days.’ Fenchurch reached over and grabbed his West Ham scarf from the top of his monitor. He balled it up like he used to at Upton Park. The Boleyn Ground, according to his old man. He stretched it out, resetting the fabric to just the way he liked it. ‘So it’s definitely possible she’s been killed over a theft?’
‘Well, hers isn’t here and she’s in the morgue, so yeah.’
‘Cheeky.’ Fenchurch put the scarf back on top of his monitor. ‘I mean . . .’ He pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Actually, I don’t know what I mean.’
‘You found fifteen of them but her phone’s still missing.’
Fenchurch stared at the mobiles covering the desk. ‘So where is it?’
‘Your job, not mine.’ Clooney held up an old Motorola, the one Nelson had shown Qasid. ‘This one’s definitely a burner, though.’
‘That’s his, right?’
‘Yup. Should be able to access the contents.’
‘Jon already checked it. Just been dialling the same number by hand.’
‘Like my old mum does, bless her.’ Clooney stared at the mobile. ‘It’s not what’s on here now, Simon, it’s what used to be there.’
‘I’m not following you.’
‘By the powers vested in me, I can undelete texts and emails.’ Clooney held the handset up to the light, squinting at it. ‘Assuming this thing even does email.’ He plugged it into his laptop.
Fenchurch walked over to the window and dialled Abi’s number. He listened to the dialling tone as he stared out across Leman Street. A lone taxi trundled past. The white lights made the new student flats opposite gleam. A piss artist staggered down the opposite side, bumping into a lamp post and shouting after the cab.
It just rang through to voicemail. ‘Ab, it’s me. Give me a call, okay?’ He pocketed his mobile and watched the drunk weave his way down the street.
Why wasn’t her phone among the fifteen they’d found? How had Qasid dumped it? And where?
Fenchurch shut his eyes. Had he dumped it?
His Airwave buzzed. Mulholland. ‘Simon, can you attend the ID parade?’ No greeting or formality just wind thumping against the microphone.
‘Docherty said you were to handle everything. Don’t want to get in the way.’
‘He also said you were still around. It starts at half past eleven.’
Fenchurch checked the time — just another ten minutes. ‘Fine, I’ll attend. Where are you? The crime scene?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, I’m with Clooney just now. We’re still missing the victim’s phone. Can you prioritise finding it?’
‘They’ve been searching between Upper Street and Colebrooke. I assume you want them to look elsewhere?’
‘Please.’ Fenchurch ended the call and locked the device. He went over to his desk and looked over Clooney’s shoulder. Couldn’t work out what the hell he was doing. He cleared his throat, making the SOCO jump. ‘You deal with much phone theft?’
‘A few times.’ Clooney craned his tattooed neck round, pierced eyebrow raised. ‘Why?’
‘This kid looks like he was in a gang, right?’
‘Bit of an assumption, but let’s go with it. There are gangs of kids out nicking smartphones. Every night, Simon.’
‘You ever deal with the team looking into it?’
Clooney let out a sigh. ‘I know where you’re going with this.’
‘Where?’
‘The Mobile Phone Theft Unit out in Mile End. Speak to them all the time.’
Fenchurch clapped a hand onto his shoulder. ‘Set up some time with them, would you?’
‘Sure thing.’
‘Who’s the DI?’
‘Jason Bell.’
‘Stringer? Christ, we went to Hendon together.’
‘Be like old times, then. Still want me to set it up?’
‘If you could. I prefer avoiding the old pal’s act.’
Fenchurch opened the door to the VIPER Identification suite. The darkened room was filled with high-end computer workstations, just one analyst looking like they were doing any work.
At the far end, a window looked onto another room. Five young black men stood in a row, all wearing grey hoodies, black trackies and deep scowls. The one in the middle had cornrows. A squint showed it was Qasid. The others had a mixture of shaved heads and flat tops.
Two figures were silhouetted in the glow. ‘Simon?’ The one on the left turned round and a shard of light caught
her face. Abi.
Fenchurch set off towards her. ‘Thought you were at home, love?’
‘And I came in.’ Her eyes swivelled around the room, like she could feel the years of hate and anger in the building. ‘No way I can sleep with this going on.’
The other figure nodded at him. ‘Guv.’ Kay Reed. She smiled at Abi. ‘So, do you recognise any of them?’
Abi took another look at the men and shrugged. ‘I can’t tell. It all happened so fast. And it was dark. And the bloody hood was up.’
‘We’ve had the hoods up and down.’
Abi shot her a glare. ‘It didn’t help me, though, did it? Jesus, Kay.’
‘Hey, it’s okay.’ Reed rubbed Abi’s arm. ‘Don’t worry. It’s fine.’
‘Sorry, I’m being a bitch, right?’ Abi slumped back against the wall, switching her frown between her husband and her friend.
‘I’ve seen worse from you.’ Reed nodded at the analyst behind her. ‘Jack, that’ll do.’
Fenchurch was glaring at the men through the window. ‘You don’t recognise any of them?’
‘Simon, I don’t remember.’ She shut her eyes, tears caught in the glow from the other room. ‘I’m really sorry but I don’t remember. I was stuffing that bloody book in my bag when he cycled past.’
‘It’s fine.’ Fenchurch held her in his arms, tugging her close to his chest. Her hair was damp from rain, the wildflowers joined by ozone. ‘I’ll give you a lift home, love. Just need a few seconds, if that’s okay?’
Abi broke off and looked up at him. ‘Right.’
‘A minute at most. Okay? Wait here.’ Fenchurch nodded at Reed then the door. He followed her out, pushing it shut behind him. His eyes started adjusting to the corridor’s brightness. ‘Mulholland said I was to supervise?’
‘See, that’s what I’m always telling you, guv. She always goes over our heads. Doesn’t think me or Jon can do anything.’
‘I’ll see what I can do about that.’ Fenchurch sighed — yet more fun and games to come. ‘You need anything else from—’
‘Inspector?’ Dalton Unwin stormed down the corridor, his jowls wobbling. Podgy fingers clutched a leather briefcase, looked as well tailored as his suit. ‘My client’s human rights are being ritually abused here.’