by Ed James
Fenchurch followed them through the hole in the wall, taking it slow, Lad following.
A door up ahead toppled forward, knocking a surfer dude to the floor and blocking the path for a second. Kev led a squad of officers through the gap, trapping the squatters between them and Fenchurch’s team. A masked uniform pulled the door off the surfer.
Fenchurch held his baton out level but a wave of people pushed him back into the main hall of the bank. A fist connected with his cheek. Fingers clawed his forehead. He lost his footing and tumbled backwards. His baton skidded across the marble, coming to a rest on a sleeping bag. Two women fell on top of him, trapping him under their weight.
Complete disaster. Same as it ever was.
Fenchurch shrugged the women off. Or maybe they rolled off. Maybe both. He tried to get up — someone’s knee cracked off his shoulder, pushing him back down again.
Over to the right, Lad was swinging his baton wildly, just lashing out with it. He battered the metal off a middle-aged man’s head.
Fenchurch crawled over to the quiet of the sleeping bags and got up. At least twenty heads were bobbing up and down. Looked like they were outnumbered, three to one, maybe more, but they had the front door under control. For now.
Kev appeared in the doorway. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted: ‘This is the police! I need you to remain calm!’
Nobody listened. Shouts and screams cannoned off the bare walls. Sounded like there were thousands in there.
‘Police brutality!’
‘—our home, you can’t—’
‘—fascist! Haven’t you read 1984? Man, you—’
Another squad of uniforms entered through the front door. The squatters tore out at them, lashing with fists and boots. A white man with dreads went down near Fenchurch. The new squad started forming a loose circle around the squatters. Then tightened it, like a noose, closing them in.
Fenchurch spotted his baton on a crusty sleeping bag and grabbed it. He got up and rushed over to plug a gap in the circle. Trained his weapon on a middle-aged man with blotchy brown skin.
Kev was next to him. He split off from the main group, letting the circle shrink further and raised his hands, almost in surrender. ‘We are operating under instruction from the Tower Hamlets Council and the City of London Mayor.’ He spun around, looking like he was trying to make eye contact with as many people as possible. ‘Please remain calm and we will escort you to a nearby police station for interview.’
A pregnant woman stared at Fenchurch, arms guarding her swollen belly. Hair in pigtails, denim dungarees. Looked like she thought she was going to get crushed by the Death Star and Fenchurch was Darth Vader.
He wanted to tell her it was okay, they were just after one man, but he didn’t. Couldn’t.
He could only watch as Lad and a uniform led her out to the street, screaming.
Fenchurch leaned against the wall outside the interview room. ‘I’m beginning to think this was a mistake.’
Kev Saunders clapped Fenchurch’s shoulder. ‘Ends justify the means, right?’
‘I’m usually the first to think such Machiavellian thoughts, but . . .’ Fenchurch shut his eyes. Pigtails, dungarees, hands covering a swollen belly. ‘I’m struggling to see how this is a good idea.’
‘We got our guy, you’ve got yours. Push your case forward.’ Another matey clap on the shoulder and Kev was gone, loping off down the corridor.
Lad folded his arms and joined him propped against the wall. ‘You just about ready, guv?’
‘Give me a minute.’
‘You okay?’
‘I’m fine, it’s just . . .’ Fenchurch hissed out breath. He held Lad’s gaze but had to look away. ‘Never mind, Constable.’
All Lad seemed to be capable of was shrugging. ‘Want me to lead, guv?’
‘If you wouldn’t mind.’
‘No probs.’ Lad entered the room and claimed the seat nearest the door. He reached over to start the recorder.
Fenchurch followed him in, and stood near the door. He immediately recognised the man at the table.
The guy who accosted him in the phone shop the previous morning. He had the same dark skin as Qasid. All this pain could’ve been averted if only Oscar hadn’t held onto the few cards he had left.
Christ knows what he’d done or how, but he looked every inch the squatter. Worse, he smelled it, like he hadn’t washed in weeks, though his dreadlocks looked recently fused. His camouflage gear was tucked tight around his torso and a cream and brown jacket was hanging over the back of the chair.
‘—present is Siboniso Xolani.’ Lad stretched out and yawned. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’
‘I want a lawyer.’ Clipped South African accent. ‘I can give you his number.’
‘Your lawyer wouldn’t happen to be a DI Paul Oscar, would it?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Or should I say, your boss.’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, man.’
‘We staged that whole raid so we could get you in here, Mr Xolani. Your DI isn’t letting us speak to you.’
‘I’m not a cop.’
‘Really?’ Lad held up his Pronto. ‘Says here your name is Siboniso Xolani. That right?’
Xolani nodded. ‘My friends call me Sibo.’
‘See, it looks like they missed Detective Sergeant off the start.’
A sigh as Xolani scratched at his neck. ‘Fine, but you can call me DS Xolani.’
‘Now we’re getting somewhere.’ Lad rested his Pronto on the tabletop, setting it just so. ‘Never heard that name before. Is it Greek?’
‘Greek.’ Xolani bellowed with laughter. ‘It’s Zulu.’ A smirk danced across his face as he sang: ‘Z.U.L.U. That’s the way we say Zulu.’
Fenchurch nodded in recognition. ‘Leftfield, right?’
Xolani frowned at him. ‘Afrika Bambaataa, man. Not some posh white kids who heard house music at one of their parents’ parties.’ He shook his head. ‘I was born in South Africa. My parents left during apartheid and brought me to London. Feels like we should’ve stayed.’
Fenchurch recognised the feeling, had it crawling around his guts every month or so. ‘But you’re a DS in the Met now.’
‘And what good is it doing me? I’m sleeping in squats. Not washing, even when I really need to. Just so I don’t blow my cover. That’s no life.’
‘I assume it’s for some end?’
‘And I assume you’ve not got the clearance to know what that is.’
‘We’re protecting your cover here.’
‘You think?’ Xolani tugged at a dreadlock, pulling it tight like a length of string then letting it fly free. ‘The others will notice I’m in here longer than the rest of them.’
‘Maybe we could say it’s because of the trouble you caused at that phone shop yesterday morning?’
‘You shouldn’t have done that, man. That guy was scared out of his wits.’
‘I’m all about the result, Sergeant. But I’d also agree with you.’ Fenchurch clicked his tongue a few times. ‘Except for the fact we found a murder victim’s stolen mobile in his recycler.’
‘What?’
‘Take it you don’t know anything about it?’
Xolani swallowed, eyes switching between Fenchurch and Lad. ‘Of course I don’t bloody know anything.’
‘Why were you in there?’
‘The owner of that shop is a CHIS. He was giving me some info for an obbo DI Bell is running.’
Bloody Stringer and his secrets. Fenchurch scowled at Xolani. ‘What info?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘I’m ordering you to tell me.’
Xolani shot him a smirk. ‘What level of police brutality are you going to inflict on me?’
‘Let’s start with some light waterboarding.’ Fenchurch’s grin bounced off Xolani’s scowl. ‘We need your help.’ He waved to his left. ‘DC Lad here has been trying to secure access to you so we can progress our
case.’
‘This murder victim and his or her phone?’
‘Her phone. The name is Saskia Barnett.’
‘Am I supposed to know her?’
‘We’re also looking for someone called Lewis Cole, aka Roofie.’
‘Roofie, right.’
‘Mean anything.’
‘No.’
‘What about Kamal?’
Xolani’s mouth hung open. Then he collected himself and covered it over with a smile. ‘Does this Kamal have a surname?’
‘We don’t know but I gather you do.’
Xolani leaned back in the chair and blew air over his face. ‘I’ve been on the street for three years. Started off infiltrating a gang in Tottenham. Might’ve heard of them. They’re called the Mandem.’
‘Shit.’ Fenchurch felt his stomach lurch. ‘I can see why you’re protecting your identity so closely.’
‘Right.’ Xolani ran his hands through his dreads. ‘I’m on a tightrope, man. Every day. If they find out what I’ve done, who I am.’ He drew a vertical line down his throat and made a hacking noise. ‘You ever heard of a Colombian necktie? Well, they’ve got their own twist on it.’
‘How does this link to Kamal?’
‘I’ve met the guy twice.’
‘Was he a member?’
‘Was, yeah. He left.’
‘And you followed?’
‘In a way.’
‘Tell me about him.’
‘Guy disappeared into thin air both times. He’s invisible, like he’s made of smoke.’ Xolani grinned and flicked up his dreads. ‘Like Batman.’
‘Right, Batman. Take us through them, then.’
‘First time, a contact in the gang said someone needed help. Kid called Kamal. Told me to meet him near Hackney Downs. Said he’d show me the ropes. So we just wandered round Hackney and Shoreditch on a Saturday night.’
‘Just the two of you?’
‘Very romantic.’ Xolani barked out some laughter. ‘Cat was dealing to people. No, supplying to dealers. High-end stuff.’
‘So, even though it’s not black-on-black violence, they had you keep close to him so you could give intel to the drugs squad?’
‘Right, right. Thought it was containable.’ Xolani scratched at the thick stubble on his chin. ‘Problem is, the cat stabbed someone. Just right there on the street. One of his dealers. Kid was running a corner at the back end of Hackney. Some white punks had stolen his stash. This dealer got in Kamal’s face, right? Accusing him of this, that, the other thing. Saying he didn’t need him no more. So Kamal stabbed the guy in the neck.’
Fenchurch’s breath rustled over his fingers, grabbing the table tight. ‘Right in front of you?’
‘As far as you are from me.’
‘You didn’t think to arrest him?’
‘Some of Kamal’s other kids had turned up to watch the show. Learn from the master. There were ten of them, man. No way I’d be able to get Kamal away from them with my life intact, know what I’m saying?’
‘Who was this dealer?’
‘No idea.’ Xolani let out a sigh. ‘John something. Kamal called him Honest John, don’t know if that’s his name or him just being smart.’
Fenchurch gestured at Lad. ‘Look out this case, will you?’
‘Guv.’ He made a note.
‘So what happened before he disappeared?’
Xolani rubbed at his arms through his combats. ‘One of his apprentice kids starts shouting at Kamal, saying he shouldn’t have done that. Then someone else starts shouting at me. Next thing I know, it’s just me and these kids. Kamal’s gone.’ He made a sweeping gesture with his hands, like a puff of smoke. ‘Poof, just like that.’
Fenchurch nodded slowly. Tallied with everything they’d heard. ‘What about the other time?’
‘I’d been building the trust of his guys in the squat up in Islington, good friends of his. Helped out on a few things.’ Xolani raised a hand. ‘I’m not telling you what. Anyway, to cut a long story short, Kamal met me on Upper Street, other end from Angel. Almost where Arsenal used to play. Some posh kids were having a party. He gave me a package to take in. It was like twenty grams of coke.’
‘And you just took it in?’
‘This was my chance to prove myself to him, gain his trust and get in the inner circle.’
‘Was it just you two?’
‘I know what you’re getting at here, man. I couldn’t arrest him for the stabbing. It’d just’ve been my word against his. My partner didn’t see it.’
‘You’ve got a partner?’
‘I’m not telling you his name.’ Xolani gave him a wink. ‘Or hers.’
Fenchurch snorted. The drums were almost drowning out the room’s drone. ‘So, after you dropped the drugs off?’
‘I came back outside and Kamal was gone. Disappeared.’
‘We haven’t heard about him dealing.’
‘This is a couple of years ago, man. Not seen him in all that time. Moved on to other things. Heard about him a lot since, though. Cat’s baaad.’
Fenchurch shook his head and shot another glare at Lad. ‘How do people contact him?’
‘No idea. And that’s the truth. Word gets to him and he gets in touch with you.’
‘So, you’re telling me you can’t bring him to us?’
‘I don’t know what you were expecting, man. Kamal’s smart, always a step ahead of people.’
‘You think he’s onto you?’
‘If he was, I’d be dead.’
Fenchurch got up and nodded at Xolani. ‘I hope you’re doing what you’re supposed to be doing.’
‘Oh, I am. Good luck catching him. He’s one evil cat.’
Fenchurch collapsed behind his desk. Someone had scribbled on a Post-it. ‘Where are you?’ Looked like Docherty’s handwriting. He sipped at his tea and crumpled it up. ‘Well, we’ve just abused a load of people’s human rights. I sincerely hope none of them have Dalton Unwin’s number.’
Lad clutched his machine coffee, steam billowing into his face. ‘Sorry, guv.’
‘What for?’
‘That.’ Lad waved at the door. ‘That was all because of the intel I got. We’re wasting our time.’
‘Maybe, maybe not.’ Fenchurch put his feet up on the desk. ‘When we catch Kamal, we’ve got a murder we can pin on him.’
‘Just Xolani’s word against Kamal’s.’
‘Wouldn’t be so sure. There’s got to be something. Look into it for me, see if there’s any forensics we can use to back up his story.’
‘Guv.’
‘Why haven’t we heard about this drug dealing, though?’
‘No idea. Want me to speak to the drugs squad?’
‘Maybe.’ Fenchurch finished his tea. ‘Get back in with Xolani, all right? See if he passed this stabbing up the line.’
‘Guv.’
‘Then let him get back to that squat, okay?’
‘Shouldn’t be keeping him here overnight, anyway, should we?’
‘No. Need to keep a few of the others in to deflect from him.’
The office door crashed open, thunking off Mulholland’s desk.
Docherty burst in, Paul Oscar lurked behind him, face like a smacked arse. Docherty pointed at Lad then at the corridor. ‘I need a word, Simon.’
Lad got up and whispered. ‘Sounds like you want to shove some books down the back of your trousers, guv.’
Fenchurch watched Lad leave. Couldn’t look at Docherty or Oscar. ‘What’s up, boss?’
‘We’re doing this in my office.’
Chapter Thirty-Two
Docherty held open his office door. ‘In.’
Fenchurch entered, head bowed low like a naughty schoolboy. He sat opposite the desk and stared at his shoes. Keith Moon drumming in his ears, chaotic, erratic, heavy.
Mulholland was already in there, standing by Docherty’s whiteboard. She flapped across to a spare armchair and loosened off her scarf, as dark as the rings under her eyes, poutin
g as she flicked her eyebrows. ‘Good evening, Simon.’
Fenchurch just grunted.
Oscar sat next to him and rasped a hand across his stubble.
‘What the hell are you playing at, Inspector?’ Docherty collapsed into his seat and threw his notebook onto the desktop. ‘I hope you’ve got a bloody good explanation for your behaviour.’
Fenchurch shrugged, still not looking at his superior. ‘Trying to solve a murder, sir.’
‘You cheeky bastard. You think jeopardising a three-year undercover obbo is the bloody way to do it?’
‘That wasn’t my intention, boss. We—’
‘Don’t you “boss” me, Simon.’ Docherty reached his arms up into the air. ‘Christ, this is a disaster.’
Fenchurch snorted breath through his nostrils. ‘We need to find Kamal and the only lead we had was DS Xolani.’
‘And you need an evidence trail that supports a conviction.’
‘I’ve got one, believe me.’
‘Look at me when I’m talking to you.’
Fenchurch stared up. He caught a glimpse of Oscar next to him, grinning his head off. Happy to tear it off.
‘You’re mucking about, Simon. Like you’ve been doing all bloody day.’ Docherty tore open his notebook. ‘When you told me about the latest farrago with these fingerprints this morning, I gave you ten minutes with that wee laddie you assaulted and I’ve been looking for you ever since.’
‘We’re getting somewhere—’
‘No you’re not. Turns out you took DS Reed off on a picnic up in Islington. Jon bloody Nelson had to tell me you’d found the girl’s laptop.’
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Aye, bollocks you are. You bothered your arse to come back here, but didn’t even think to update me on your progress, did you?’
‘Sir, I tried but—’
‘Don’t. Lie.’
‘Sir.’
‘What were you up to?’
Fenchurch glanced at Mulholland. Not in front of her. ‘We chased a few leads that didn’t get us anywhere, sir. Retracing my steps on Thursday night.’
‘Working out precisely where you made an arse of it, right?’ Docherty slapped his notebook shut. ‘Care to explain why you haven’t phoned me back?’