by Ed James
Fenchurch touched a hand to his cheek. Could melt butter on it. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t, sir. Not had a chance to.’
‘You were up to some cowboy crap, weren’t you?’ Docherty waved a hand at Oscar. ‘You and Kevin bloody Saunders. Anyone who’s heard of Trident knows the boy’s got straw for a parking space. You and him decided to raid a bloody squat.’
‘Sir, he had a warrant. DC Lad and I—’
‘Enough!’ Docherty was panting, spit flecking his cheek. ‘You know how much shit you’ve got us into with that? A wee crusty bird’s in A&E, thinking she’s lost her baby. All cos of you and your mate.’
‘Sir, we’ve got useful intel on Kamal.’
Docherty looked over at Mulholland. ‘Dawn, can you go and start the interview with Kamal, please?’
She pouted at him, her eyes long slits. ‘Sir.’
Fenchurch twisted his head to the side away from her. Almost bit his cheek. ‘He’s not in custody.’
‘Oh and why the bloody hell not? Thought you had intel on him?’
‘We do, but we’ve—’
‘—not got the bugger in custody.’ Docherty slammed his fist on the desk. ‘Christ on a bloody bike, Si, you’re really doing my head in here.’
‘Sir, this intel could get us access to him.’
‘How?’
Fenchurch’s mouth was dry. He ran his tongue around his teeth, trying to get some moisture from somewhere. ‘I don’t know, boss.’
‘Aye, I bloody know you don’t.’ Docherty got up and stormed across the room, towering over Mulholland. ‘Dawn’s the Deputy SIO on this now, okay?’
‘But, sir, she—’
‘Simon, she’s been Deputy since two o’clock this afternoon, if you’d bothered to check in with anyone.’
Fenchurch didn’t have anything to say to that. Just gave a short nod.
Docherty opened his office door. ‘Dawn, Paul, can you give us a minute, please?’
Mulholland got up and followed Oscar out, grinning all the way to the corridor. Her smirk was cut off by Docherty slamming the door.
‘Boss, we’re getting somewh—’
‘Shut. Up.’ Docherty sat on the edge of his desk. ‘Simon, I know what’s going on here. You think this is connected to Chloe, don’t you?’
Fenchurch looked away. ‘I don’t.’
‘You’re telling me your old man hasn’t mentioned his latest theory to you?’
‘Christ. No, I don’t think this has anything to do with Chloe, sir.’
‘No? Well, how come he phoned me up and thanked me for the lead. What lead, I asked. Turns out you bloody told him Lewis Cole’s linked to his latest wild goose chase, eh?’
‘It’s a dead end for us, sir. His parents don’t—’
‘I don’t like finding out key facts on my case from your bloody father.’
‘Sir.’
‘Is it connected or not?’
‘It’s nothing to do with Chloe, sir. None of it is.’ Fenchurch snorted again, fists curled tight. ‘Nothing to do with what happened to her.’
‘Simon, are you burning out?’
‘Course I’m not burning out.’ Fenchurch bit at his breath. ‘Boss, I’m your Deputy SIO on this case and I aim to solve it.’
‘Were you even listening to me? Dawn’s taken over.’
‘With all due respect, sir, she’s—’
‘Don’t give me that shite.’ Docherty put a hand on Fenchurch’s shoulder. ‘Look, you’re not capable of dealing with this. I don’t know what the hell’s up with you, Si, but you’re falling apart. Get yourself home, have a day off and come in here fresh on Monday morning.’
‘I need to stay here and—’
‘You need to get your head out of your arse and do a proper job.’ Docherty squeezed the shoulder tight, like a Vulcan neck pinch. ‘This was supposed to be a bloody favour, if you remember. Now there’s a flashing red ball against my name. This isn’t the sort of case that solves itself, you know?’
‘Which is why I want to—’
‘I need an officer who can focus on this. You’re all over the bloody shop, Si.’
‘Boss—’
‘Get out of my sight.’ Docherty gave another squeeze. Any more and he was getting a fist in the face. ‘Dawn’s team are running this from now on, okay?’
‘They’ll not find anything.’
‘Simon, if you stay here, the way you’re going you’ll be locked up by morning, you stupid bastard.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
Fenchurch pushed through the door into the stairwell. Heart thumping, drums pounding. The door whistled shut behind him and he was in almost darkness, just a light on the verge of popping flickering on and off. Shards of light fell across the plastic bumps on the flooring, swallowed just as quickly as they appeared.
Bloody Docherty.
Where did he get off? Sitting there in his bloody office, never lifting a finger while Fenchurch made him look good. As soon as something happened he didn’t like, he dropped him. Just like that.
There’s bloody gratitude.
Footsteps boomed out from below, the click turned into a clatter by the time it reached him.
‘Guv?’ Reed was frowning in the flicker. ‘What the hell are you doing there?’
‘Just heading home, Kay.’
‘What, we’re working our arses off while you piss off home? You did that yesterday, remember?’
Fenchurch gripped the handrail tight, twisting his fingers around the cold metal. ‘Docherty sent me home.’
‘What?’
‘He’s given the case to Mulholland.’
‘Shit.’ She reached out and patted his arm. ‘You okay?’
‘Not really, Kay. He carpeted me in front of her and that Oscar clown from Trident.’
‘You look like you need a drink.’
‘Here you go, guv.’ Reed dumped a foaming pint of craft beer on Fenchurch’s side of the table, a curvy bottom-heavy thing looking more like a wine glass. ‘This is the hoppiest thing they’ve got.’
‘Good.’ Fenchurch took a deep gulp. Citrus tang cut into the bitter taste. ‘Lovely stuff, well chosen.’
‘Brew it up in Hackney, guv. Satan’s Scrotum or something.’ She winked and took a sip of her own Peroni. ‘You’ve got that look in your eyes, like you want to tear someone a couple of new arseholes.’
‘Maybe I’ll start with that little shit, Qasid.’
‘You need to stop calling him a little bastard and a little shit.’ She raised her eyebrows and looked around the pub. ‘Someone will hear you.’
‘Maybe.’ Fenchurch stared out of the window, back across to the vulgar brutality of Leman Street’s concrete front. ‘Or maybe it’s just Docherty I want to do it to.’
‘You’ve got to admit you’re acting a bit odd, guv.’
‘How?’
‘You ran away from Docherty after that evidence about Lewis Cole. We were pissing about up in Islington all morning.’
‘Meanwhile, Docherty was giving my case to Mulholland.’
‘What would you do in his situation?’
‘Eh?’
‘Say you’ve got, I don’t know, Jon Nelson or me pissing about, off on our own, trying to sort stuff out how we saw fit. What would you do?’
‘Nothing.’
‘That’s bollocks and you know it.’ Reed took another sip of lager and tilted her head to the side. Her ponytail dangled free. ‘You’d be all over us, tearing us a new one.’ She clasped both hands around the tall glass, heavy with beads of perspiration. ‘Like you did with Waheed in February?’
‘He was out of order and he’s paid for it.’
‘You and him were in that raid, weren’t you?’
‘We were.’
‘And did that get you anywhere?’
Fenchurch took another sip. Could barely taste it. ‘Maybe.’
‘As successful as that raid on the phone shop this morning?’
Fenchurch pushed his glass away. ‘If
people spoke to each other in this bloody force, we’d have had DS bloody Xolani in an interview room, spilling what he knows, instead of my bollocks being nailed to Docherty’s wall.’
‘You’ve got to admit, guv, you’re no closer to finding this Kamal geezer, are you?’
Fenchurch got out his mobile and checked for messages. Nothing. ‘Are you trying to help me, or what?’
‘I’m trying to, guv, yes. But I’m trying to give you some perspective, as well.’ She held his gaze for a few seconds. ‘I’m worried you’re losing it.’
‘Losing it?’
‘You’re not acting like yourself.’
Fenchurch’s throat tightened, like he had a cold on the way. Or . . . ‘Kay, I think Docherty’s going to boot me back to uniform.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, he sort of said that.’
‘He doesn’t mean half of what he says, guv.’
‘Investigating murders is how I keep myself sane, Kay.’ Another gulp of beer. ‘Focusing on who did what to whoever. That’s how I cope with the world.’ More beer, starting to taste it again. ‘That raid we were on today. They were terrified of us. How many times have those poor buggers been kicked out of a squat? Makes me wonder if we’re on the right side.’ He swallowed down saliva, trying to force his throat wider.
‘I try not to think about it.’
‘What, otherwise you’d go mad?’
‘Like you’re doing, guv.’ She nodded at his glass. ‘You ready for another?’
Fenchurch stared at the empty. Hadn’t even noticed. ‘I need to get home to Abi, Kay.’
‘Do you want another or not?’
‘What do I do?’
‘About what?’
‘Docherty and Mulholland. Everything’s crumbling around me. Maybe I should just go back on the beat.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘Maybe not. Makes me shudder, Kay. I liked doing what we do. It feels good. Sometimes I worry that all we’re doing is protecting property. Keeping the masses from owning it and making sure the likes of Guy Eustace keep making money off it.’
‘Didn’t know you were a commie. Voting for Corbyn at the next election?’
‘That’s not very funny.’
‘Are you being serious, guv?’
‘Deadly, Kay.’ Fenchurch shook his head, teeth grinding together. ‘You heard what Guy Eustace said yesterday. London’s turning into a city state. It’s so far removed from the rest of the UK. That can’t be a good thing.’
‘Yep, you’ve lost it.’ She gripped his hand tight. ‘Go home and have a bath.’
‘I was going to spend a nice evening with Abi.’
‘Well she’s meeting up with me and Claire.’
‘Always the last to bloody know.’
‘She puts up with a lot of shit from you.’
‘Is this you trying to tell me something?’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘You’re her friend, Kay.’ Fenchurch pushed his glass away, grinding across the table. ‘Has she been talking about me?’
‘Yes, guv. She still loves you. Even despite all the . . .’ Reed waved her hands around Fenchurch’s general shape. ‘You know.’
‘Not really. Does she think things have happened too quickly? Me moving in again, renewing our vows.’
Reed grabbed his hand again. ‘If anything, it’s happening too slowly for her.’ She picked up their empty glasses, foam still clinging to the sides. ‘Now, go get some sleep, guv. You look like you died.’
Chapter Thirty-Four
‘It wasn’t him? Jesus.’ Abi took another sip of wine, her lips dyed red, and let out a deep breath. She put the glass back on the kitchen table and leaned in close to him on the bench. ‘I’m glad I didn’t lie at the ID parade.’
‘You never would’ve, love.’ Fenchurch sipped his own wine. An intense Rioja, finally just past the breathing point. The Man United match played on the TV hanging by the window, a steamroller against a pathetic Sunderland.
‘Where does this leave the case, then?’
‘Docherty’s pissed off with me. Worse than ever.’ Another sip of wine, starting to feel a bit on the merry side. ‘He’s taken me off the case, love. Given it to bloody Mulholland.’
‘Simon. Christ.’
‘I’ve really dropped a bollock, Ab. Haven’t handled myself at all well.’
‘What’ve you done? This can’t be because you caught the wrong bloke, can it?’
‘Well, I kind of went off the reservation a bit. Didn’t do anything bad, but I’ve not covered myself in glory.’ He downed the rest of his glass. ‘That little shit . . . I thought I’d caught her killer. I really did.’
‘What’s happening now?’
‘I don’t know, Abi.’ He reached over for the bottle. ‘Those little bastards bloody played me.’ He tipped half of the remaining wine into his glass and dumped the rest into hers, filling it almost to the brim. ‘Made me look like a bloody racist.’
‘They didn’t do that, Simon.’
‘What, you think I did?’
‘No, you don’t look racist, you pillock. I suspect they’ve planned this. They get guys who look alike to hunt together in packs. Same clothes, same bikes, same age, same skin colour. If you lot get onto one of them, another can take over who’s not carrying anything. Stacks the odds in their favour.’
‘Maybe.’
She stared at her glass, like she could drink it through her eyes. ‘Have you been thinking about . . . what we talked about last night?’
‘I’ve not had a chance to think all day, Ab. It’s full on, you know how it is.’
‘But you will think about it?’
‘Of course I will. Next week. We’ll talk about it next week. Maybe go out for something to eat.’ He smiled, then worried it was too much, too soon. ‘Your choice this time.’
She took a big dent out of her glass. ‘Remember Pamela who I used to work with? She moved to just outside Sevenoaks. Turned a two-bedroom flat in bloody Brixton into a three-bed cottage. We’ve got two flats, as well.’
‘This is one of the nicer bits of London, love. I’m not moving to Kent. It’ll be a bugger of a commute for you. Train in then tube across town.’
‘It’ll let me catch up on my reading.’
‘Costs a bloody fortune, too. Forty quid into London Bridge, last time I did it from Tonbridge.’
‘I could get a different job. You could, too.’
He took another sip of wine. ‘Investigate garages getting turned over? I’d go mad.’
She laughed. ‘Are you saying you’re sane now?’
‘Touché.’ He chinked glasses with her, sending ripples across the surface. ‘We should think about it, though.’
‘This is the first big case you’ve worked since we got back together.’ She finally took another drink and stared into space. ‘I forgot all about this, you know? Losing my Saturdays to your job.’
‘It’s what I am, Ab. It’s who I am. I can’t let it go.’
‘I’m not suggesting it’s not. I’d just forgotten, that’s all.’
‘Are you saying you regret getting back with me?’
‘Did I say that? Would you stop being so bloody melodramatic?’ She held up her ring finger and tapped it. ‘I wear this because I’m committed to you, you big idiot. Job and all. Warts and all.’
Fenchurch took another sip. Didn’t know what to say to that. ‘Maybe I should go to the doctor about the warts.’
‘Can you stop bloody joking for a second? I’m just saying I find it difficult not knowing when you’re coming back.’ She stared over at the window. ‘I was going to meet some of the girls for a drink. Try to take my mind off it.’
‘Kay said. We went for a beer after work. You can still go out if you want.’
‘And let you brood in front of the Spanish football and another bottle of wine? Hardly.’
‘Do you want to go to the cinema?’
‘Maybe.’ She took a big gul
p of wine and kissed his forehead. ‘What about an early night instead?’
Day 4
Sunday, 24th April 2016
Chapter Thirty-Five
The sun climbed above the nearby buildings, bathing Barford Street in an early morning glow and crawling over their bedroom floor.
Fenchurch blinked at the alarm clock, pumping out Prince’s ‘Purple Rain’. The shock news still stung his gut like a knife.
Half six and no sign of Abi. Why the hell was it going off on a Sunday, anyway?
He sank back into the pillow.
Cooking smells. Bacon, egg, maybe.
He got up and padded through to the kitchen, yawning into his fist.
Abi was standing over the cooker, stirring something with a spatula, wearing trackie bottoms and a loose T-shirt.
He snuggled into her from behind, kissing just below her ear. ‘Morning, you.’
‘Morning yourself.’ She wriggled around and spread her arms around his neck. ‘How you feeling?’
‘Reborn.’ Fenchurch kissed her on the lips. ‘Like a new man.’
‘Don’t get any ideas, you.’ She slapped his wrist and nudged him back. ‘I’m going out for a run.’
‘Right.’
‘I’m cooking your breakfast. Thought you might appreciate it.’
‘Fry up?’
‘Better than a fry up. Take a seat.’
Fenchurch did as he was told. The microwave pinged. Outside the window, the only thing out and about was a cleaning truck clearing away the mess of a Saturday night in Islington. Even the arse end of the centre had late-night bars and all-night kebab shops.
He tipped some milk from the open pint on the counter and poured some tea from the pot. Then picked up the paper. The Post on Sunday’s cover had some news about the Mayoral election underneath a splash of the latest Chelsea FC melodrama. Let’s have a look at that.
‘Here you go.’ Abi put a plate in front of him. ‘A breakfast burrito.’ Sausage, egg, refried beans, cheese and salsa, all sort of wrapped in a tortilla, loosely secured and hanging over the edge of the plate. ‘Maybe not as good as Chilangos, but that’s not open yet.’
‘It’ll piss all over theirs.’ He gripped her wrist and reached up to kiss her. ‘This looks brilliant.’