by Ed James
‘Stick the plate in the sink when you’re done.’ She pecked him on the top of his head. ‘I’m going up to Finsbury and back down through Clissold Park, okay?’ She wandered out of the room, fiddling with her phone.
Fenchurch picked up the tortilla, his mouth watering, and bit into it. He chewed and fire burnt around the tang. Heaven.
He sifted through the sections of the paper looking for the sport section, sipping tea.
And stopped dead.
The Sunday magazine’s cover was a black-and-white shot of Saskia. She stared at the camera, trying for intensity, but a smile curled up her lips. Her wedge cut showed it was recent. The London Post and Post on Sunday logos featured at the top. ‘Saskia Barnett: Commemorative Edition’ in white text below.
Shit.
He took another bite, reading as he chewed.
An editorial by Victor Morgan gushed over the first two pages. Her life, her achievements. He scanned through it and the last paragraph caught his eye —
‘Throughout the short, short time I worked with her, Saskia produced some memorable journalism. The kind of investigative work you seldom see these days. If she hadn’t been taken from us, maybe she’d eventually be up there with Woodward and Bernstein. Hunter S. Thompson. Pulitzer, Novak. Hearst and Hersh. Greenwald. Today, we’re reprinting some of her best work of the last three years, helping you remember her big impact during her all-too-short time. But, we’re also using this opportunity to break some big stories. New stories. Important stories. The sort of stories Oliver Kidd wanted when he founded the Post and this sister paper in 1856.’
Fenchurch flicked through the pages past some old work on Boris Johnson, Tony Blair’s various new businesses, Gordon Brown’s post-Prime Ministerial record and the new architecture of central London. He stopped at the first article marked with a ‘New!’ badge.
Halfway down the page, Clinton Jackson stood outside the Central bar, scowling at the camera in the classic tabloid style of people who’d been done over. ‘Pillar of the New Community’. He skimmed the article. Saskia was defending Jackson, protecting what he was trying to achieve at his bar and castigating the authorities and the police for victimising him.
Scratch him off the list of suspects.
Over the page, Guy Eustace used his hands to block a camera as he walked away. ‘Kicked Her When She Was Pregnant: Sick UKIP MEP Hounded out of Dubai After Assault on Muslim Lover, 22.’ His stomach lurched as he swallowed another bite of burrito. Looked like Eustace had knocked up a Muslim woman in Dubai in 2009. Then kicked her in the stomach during an argument before booting her out of his penthouse apartment.
Move him up the list.
Overleaf, Zara Redshaw spoke at a rally. Her arm was caught in a Nazi salute, no doubt the result of creative photography rather than fascism. ‘Double Standards: Flats in Hackney Rented to Students while Campaigning Against Gentrification’. An exposé on her flat-renting business, focusing on the hypocrisy. Nothing he didn’t already know, maybe, but if she’d known this was coming, could she have taken a hit out on Saskia? It hadn’t stopped the story going to the press. Then again, she wasn’t to know that. He’d seen enough desperate men and women over the years.
Keep her on the list.
Another couple of pages of reprints, then Yana Ikonnikova grinning at the camera, dressed in a flowing black dress. Hair shining like she was worth it. ‘Stepping on the Homeless: Property Empire Kills THREE Shelters to Build Yuppie Pads.’
A damning indictment of Yana’s charitable foundation. Enough to put her on the list? Maybe.
Fenchurch flicked through the rest of the paper, his stomach starting to burn as the TV listings gave way to more reprints. He burped into his hand and wiped his mouth using a serviette.
There was a closing segment by the paper’s Editor, Yvette Farley. She beamed out of a stock photo, her hair neon-blue. He skimmed the platitudes until the penultimate paragraph.
‘And that’s why our sister paper, The London Post, will be printing more of Saskia’s tremendous work over the next three days. Old, important stories we shouldn’t forget until those in question leave public life. New, important stories where we bring the focus to bear on new faces. New hypocrites, new lawbreakers.’
And here we go again.
Fenchurch shut the paper and shook his head. He slurped at his tea, weighing up the decision. He needed a word with Victor Morgan. A long, hard word in an interview room.
‘—still on the lookout for persons matching the description of Kamal.’ Mulholland looked up from her notebook, the bookmark dangling just like her scarf. She made eye contact with Fenchurch then nudged Docherty in the arm.
Docherty cleared his throat. ‘You should all be aware that DI Mulholland is now the Deputy SIO on this case, though DI Fenchurch will continue to support us. Okay? Dismissed.’ He made a beeline for him, his skinny frame slipping through the crowd like an eel in a sandbank. ‘I could’ve sworn I told you to take some time off.’
Fenchurch thumbed behind him. ‘Need a word, boss.’
‘Right.’ Docherty turned round and beckoned Mulholland over. ‘We’re all ears.’
‘Not here and not with her.’
‘Beggars can’t be choosers, Si.’
Mulholland appeared, wrapping the scarf around her neck like a Bond villain with a cat. ‘Didn’t expect to see you, Simon.’
‘Bet you didn’t.’ Fenchurch looked around the room. The officers were thinning out, no doubt heading to the canteen or back out on the street, but there were still far too many for his liking. Sod it. He handed the Post’s supplement to Docherty. ‘Have you seen this?’
He squinted at the page. ‘Aye, Simon, we’ve seen it. If that’s all, you can—’
‘Boss, you need to bring Victor Morgan in and put him in protective custody.’
Docherty tilted his head. ‘Do you know something we don’t?’
‘They killed Saskia and now he’s published all this shit.’
Docherty shared a look with Mulholland, like something from One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest, and passed the paper back. ‘Are you aware of a threat being made against him?’
‘You tell me, boss. I’m off the case.’
‘Bloody McMurphy . . .’ Docherty pinched his nose. ‘Dawn, you got anything to add before I get stuck in here?’
‘I’ve got a few observations, Alan.’ Mulholland loosened off her scarf and started bunching it up. ‘First, given your concern for these poor, poor journalists, I’m intrigued why you let them publish these stories in the first place, Simon?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘If you’d done your job properly, you’d have got a warrant to obtain all of their documentation and IT equipment. At the very least, an injunction preventing it until the murder inquiry was resolved. As it is, we’re flying blind and I’m trying to press for access way after the horse has bolted.’
Fenchurch took a step back from her and let Lad past. He bit at his fingernail, tearing a great chunk off. ‘Are you having a laugh?’
‘Simon, back off.’ Docherty got between them, pressing a hand to Fenchurch’s chest. ‘You’ve been speaking to all these people, right? You should’ve known what they were publishing.’
‘We’ve spoken to the subjects of these stories, boss. The published works differ greatly from what Victor Morgan told me.’
‘That right?’
‘Speak to Jon or Kay. They’ll back up my story.’
‘I bet they bloody will.’
Fenchurch stepped forward, trying to crowd Docherty and push Mulholland into the margins. ‘Boss, you really need to get units round to his house now. He’s going to need protection.’
‘I’ll ask you again, Inspector.’ Docherty’s nostrils were flaring and his accent had gone all Gorbals. ‘Has there been a threat made against anyone?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Have you even spoken to this Morgan dude today?’
Fenchurch coul
dn’t help but grin. ‘Thought I was kicked off the case, boss?’
Docherty held his gaze for a few seconds. Felt like he was going to glass him. ‘I’m taking that as a no.’ He shook his head with amusement. ‘Simon, go and have a little chat with him, okay?’
Mulholland was trying to come in from the wings. ‘Sir, with all due respect—’
‘Dawn, Simon’s back on the case. We’re going to give him a length of rope and see what he does with it.’
‘I’m not convinced—’
‘Just shut up, will you?’ Fenchurch got in her face. Tempted to wrench the scarf from her hands and tie it round her throat. ‘Let me do my bloody job for once.’
‘Don’t you take that bloody tone with her, okay?’ Docherty gripped Fenchurch on the shoulder, skeletal fingers gripping tight through his suit jacket. ‘Dawn, give us a minute, okay?’
Mulholland pursed her lips and wrapped the scarf round her neck. Then turned to the side and called out: ‘DS Nelson, I need a word.’
‘Boss, you’re making a big—’
‘Simon, would you stop making my life so bloody difficult?’ Docherty nudged him back into the corner. ‘You’re acting like you’re going to have a nervous breakdown.’
‘Maybe I am, boss.’ Fenchurch leaned back, shoulder blades resting on the walls. Act like you own the bloody place. ‘Saskia was killed in front of me. I don’t want it to happen to anyone else.’
‘Unless there’s something concrete, we can’t help. Okay?’
‘Boss, there’s a clear threat here. They’ve pub—’
‘Speak to the dude and let me know what we’re doing, okay?’ Docherty dusted down his suit jacket. ‘Right, is that enough incident for the Incident Room for one day?’
Grinning, Fenchurch gave him a nod then marched through the room, out into the corridor. He got out his mobile and dialled.
‘Victor Morgan.’ Traffic sounds, pretty busy ones at that.
‘It’s DI Fenchurch. I need a word.’
‘We’re speaking just now, aren’t we? I assume this is about the stories we published today?’
‘Correct. Have you had any threats?’
‘Look, I’ve just left the office.’ A pause, cut with the drone of an underground train. ‘I’m just about to get on the tube and it’ll be half an hour getting anywhere.’
‘This is urgent, sir.’
‘Well, given it’s already a glorious day, how about I meet you at my favourite park?’
Fenchurch leaned forward on the bench, the metal studs digging into his back. He looked around Pitfield Park, a small patch of grass pockmarked with dog shit and used rubbers. Another area of northeast London between Shoreditch and Islington stuck mid-gentrification. The council high-rise nearby cast long shadows across the grass. A few bikes chained to the fence separating off the empty basketball court.
He’d brought Chloe here once, expecting swings and a roundabout. Instead, they got a load of kids swearing at each other as they played basketball, acting like they were in The Wire. He swallowed down mucus, meeting the broiling acid in his gut. Too much hot sauce, that’s all it was.
He checked his phone — still nothing from Victor.
Shit. Someone had followed him on the tube, hadn’t they?
The gate screeched open.
Victor Morgan tottered through, carrying a cardboard tray with two coffees. ‘Inspector, sorry I’m late. Had to put tomorrow’s Features to bed. The usual calls with the owners and their lawyers.’
‘Pulling an all-nighter?’
‘Thought I was done with them, but there’s so much pressure on my shoulders just now.’ Victor sat next to him and held out the tray. ‘I brought these as a peace offering.’
‘Is strong coffee a good idea before you sleep?’
‘I sleep like a baby, officer.’ Victor beamed wide before taking a drink. ‘Screaming and wetting myself every hour.’
‘I know how that feels.’
Victor held up his coffee, devoid of logo. ‘You can tell good coffee from the cups they use. You see so many people strolling into the office with designer cups full of sugary rubbish. This stuff is the real deal.’
‘I know how you feel.’ Fenchurch took another look around. A waft of dog shit hit his nostrils. ‘Why is this place your favourite park?’
‘It’s London in a nutshell, Inspector.’ Victor nodded across the park towards a grand Victorian building, looked like an old church. ‘That and we live just over there.’
The stone looked recently acid cleaned, back to its original colour. A hundred and fifty-odd years of London soot burnt off, just like bloody Quentin was trying with their less-grand building.
Victor handed a coffee to Fenchurch. ‘Here you go.’
Fenchurch took it. ‘Thanks.’ He sipped the acrid coffee, just above lukewarm, and threw the colour supplement at him. ‘What the hell’s this?’
‘Kenyan. Single estate according to—’
‘I meant the paper.’
‘It’s Saskia’s legacy, Inspector. What we want the whole city to remember her by.’ Victor had stopped with the eye contact, just stared at the cracked tarmac at their feet. ‘We’re not owned by an American media mogul or a Russian oligarch. It’s independent and capable of changing our little corner of the world.’
‘Don’t give me that bollocks. I’ve been through these stories.’ Fenchurch rested the coffee at his feet and snatched the paper from Victor’s hands. He held it open midway through. ‘Our neighbourhood MEP kicked a pregnant Muslim woman in Dubai? Surprised that wasn’t on the front page.’ He started flicking through the rest. ‘Zara Redshaw running three separate student houses in Hackney while she kicks in the window of that cereal café down the road from here?’ Over a few pages. ‘Iconic Property shutting down three homeless shelters despite what the charitable foundation says.’ He dumped the paper on the bench and grabbed his coffee. ‘Would’ve been useful to have known any of this yesterday.’
‘It doesn’t help your case, though.’ Victor stuck his cup to his lips and took a drink. ‘I doubt Guy Eustace is involved. Saskia was stabbed by a person who had my skin tone, not yours.’ He winked at him as he slurped more coffee. ‘Redshaw’s small-time, just a stupid hypocrite.’ Another sip, shaking his head this time. ‘And Iconic? Where’s the connection? Some morally bankrupt behaviour, maybe. That’s it. Nothing criminal.’
‘I’d still prefer to be the judge.’ Fenchurch picked up his cup and let the heat warm his hands. ‘Have you been threatened?’
‘Of course not. What makes you think I would’ve been?’
‘Saskia was most likely murdered because of something she wrote or was planning to write. You’ve just published stories about the same audience she’d been speaking to. One of them got sufficiently spooked that they got her killed.’
Victor patted his arm. ‘Relax, nobody’s arranged a hit on me, Inspector.’
Fenchurch sat forward and looked around the park again.
Two mixed-race kids ran across the patch of grass just ahead of their parents, white dad and black mum, walking hand in hand. A kid on a bike headed away from them, wearing similar garb to Qasid. Same as the other kid he’d assaulted the other day. Same as a million other kids. Bloody hiding in street fashions.
Fenchurch took another sip and turned back around. ‘This is good coffee.’
‘There’s a good place just by Old Street tube. I go there every day, usually on my way in but today’s a new day, right?’
‘You should’ve come to me about these stories. Yesterday, before you printed them.’ Fenchurch held up the page. ‘This makes you look like you’re not helping the investigation. My boss isn’t happy.’
‘That edition’s just the owners trying to cash in on us being the news for once. It’s PR bullshit, too.’
Fenchurch nudged the paper with his knee. ‘Says it’s going on all week. What are you running tomorrow?’
‘There’s a couple of things.’ Victor finished his cof
fee and stabbed the empty cup into the tray. ‘Where do I start?’
‘With the subject most likely to want—’
Bike brakes squealed behind them.
Fenchurch swung round and caught a flash of steel. A knife dug into Victor’s neck, catching him just below the chin.
A kid stepped off his bicycle pedals — grey hoodie, black trackies, black skin — and snatched at the handle, trying to pull it back out.
Fenchurch reached over and grasped the kid’s wrist. He tugged at him, pulling him to the bench with a clatter, pinning his hips to the wood. The bike tumbled over as his hood fell away.
Qasid, panting. Frightened eyes.
Fenchurch grabbed him under the arms and hauled him over the seat, hardly any weight to him just like a little kid. His muscles burned in agony, feeling like he’d torn a bicep again, as he raised him up in the air. ‘You little shit!’
‘Get away from me, man!’ Qasid lashed out and cracked Fenchurch in the balls. Then stuck his knee into his face.
Fenchurch screamed out and tumbled backwards onto the grass. Fire in his groin, searing his thighs and abdomen.
Qasid landed on him, squeezing his lungs like a sponge. He was up in a flash, darting behind the bench and sweeping up his bike. One last look at Fenchurch as he started to get up, then he was gone, powering across the grass.
Chapter Thirty-Six
‘Stay with me, stay with me.’ Fenchurch tried to plug the gaping hole in Victor Morgan’s neck, the wide slash in his throat like something out of an abattoir. Fenchurch’s shirt was soaked through with blood. Coffee splashed over his trousers, soaking the tarmac at his feet.
The light behind Victor’s eyes died. His head tilted to the side, mouth hanging open.
Fenchurch stood up straight and looked around the park, searching for anyone in a hoodie and trackies. Bike or no bike.
No sign of anyone. The couple he’d seen earlier hugged each other tight, cuddled their kids tighter.
He got out his Airwave. Almost dropped it, his hands were slicked red. ‘Control, this is DI Simon Fenchurch. I’m reporting a murder in Pitfield Park, requesting urgent assistance.’