by Ed James
It was Qasid. Clear as day.
Nelson whispered: ‘Shall we grab him, guv?’
Qasid stopped and tugged the hood back up. Sniffed again and looked around.
‘We need Kamal, Jon.’
Qasid’s eyes locked with Fenchurch. Then widened. He spun around and bounded down, hauled his bike away from the railings and hopped on.
‘Right, you little shit, let’s see you do your disappearing trick again.’ Fenchurch trotted down the steps and grabbed the bike on the left.
Qasid was pedalling hell for leather, weaving in front of a bus as he mounted the kerb.
‘Little bastard’s quicker than I thought.’ Fenchurch started off on his bike, gliding over the smooth tarmac. He shifted the gears up and tried pushing the pace.
Qasid twisted his head round and spotted him. He wound down a side street, spiralling through the central hub of the park.
Fenchurch stood up on his pedals and rounded the corner. The cobbles started rattling his frame, putting his teeth on edge. Felt like his fillings would come out.
Qasid was bang in the centre of the road. He swerved across the path of a Golf thundering the other way and bounced up onto the pavement on the right. The Golf swept past him.
Qasid had disappeared.
‘Shit!’ Fenchurch looked behind him. Lost Nelson already. He reached into his pocket for his Airwave. ‘Jon, I’ve lost sight of him and you.’
‘It’s okay, guv, I’ve still got him. He’s just come onto Shoreditch High Street.’
‘How’s he done that?’ Then Fenchurch spotted it. A little tunnel to the right. He cycled down it, catching his jacket on a streetlight halfway along. He stopped at the end. Shoreditch High Street grumbled ahead of him. He was maybe a hundred metres from Unwin’s office. Fenchurch barrelled up the wide pavement, dodging through the bus shelter. His heart was thudding, his breath coming in short gasps. Throat burning. Drums hammering in his ears.
He stopped by the boutique hotel opposite the office, trying to peer through a wall of idling buses.
Across the road, Qasid was hammering on Unwin’s door, loud thumps rattling around like gunshots.
Fenchurch picked up his bike and ran between the buses. He jerked to a halt to let a car past.
Qasid clocked him. He jumped on his pedals and powered off along the pavement, cutting down the lane between the newsagent and a kebab shop.
Fenchurch hopped on his bike and set off, wheezing, tasting blood in the back of his throat. He weaved around the corner and stopped under the railway bridge. No sign of Qasid. Where the bloody hell was he?
A flash of steel sliced through the air.
Fenchurch ducked, using his shoulder to parry the blow. He tumbled backwards, sprawling all over a car bonnet.
Metal clattered to the ground and feet clicked away from him.
Fenchurch got up and looked around. The same model of knife used on Saskia and Victor lay on the pavement.
The little shit had been waiting for him.
Fenchurch didn’t know which way Qasid went. His Airwave was lying on the opposite pavement. He crouched down to pick it up. ‘Nelson, I’ve lost him.’
‘Me too, guv.’
‘Shit. Where are you?’
‘Still on the High Street.’
Fenchurch looked down the lane, under the bridge. A tall block of flats made it twist to the right. ‘Get round to Great Eastern Street, Jon. He’s heading for Old Street.’
‘Guv.’
Fenchurch jumped back on the bike and shot off, powering across the tarmac. Past the flats, a makeshift fence was supposed to have blocked the lane but it’d been kicked down. He slowed to navigate through it then sped on through a tight passageway, bright graffiti covering the walls.
He burst out onto Curtain Road, trying to push back memories of a brutal Saturday afternoon drinking around there.
No sign of Qasid.
Time for a gamble. He took a right, then the first left onto Rivington Street, another tight jam of pale-brick buildings.
A car almost clattered into him at the crossroads. His brakes squealed and he rocked forward. He didn’t go over the handlebars, but only just.
Fenchurch ignored the Volvo driver’s shouts and cut through the back street, emerging onto Old Street, a wide and open prairie. He took a second to get his bearings. The little shit was nowhere. He turned right then forked to the left past the Holiday Inn Express and the perpetually derelict site opposite.
Still no sign of Qasid. Or Nelson.
Fenchurch weaved around the traffic and turned right into the fast lane of the dual carriageway. A car honked behind him. Into the Airwave: ‘Jon, where are you?’
‘Playing a hunch, guv.’ Another blast of static. ‘Where are you?’
Glossy office buildings opposite a mishmash of outdated housing and shops. Up ahead, ramps and steps led down to the tube station under Silicon Roundabout.
‘Just at Old Street tube.’
‘Okay, I’ve got him. Turn right up ahead. He’s on City Road, heading towards Islington.’
‘Shit.’ Fenchurch mounted the pavement separating the lanes and stopped between two trees, waiting for a gap.
Now.
He sprinted off then jumped on the bike, wheels spinning.
A motorbike growled round the corner, doing well over sixty, the brakes squealing as it swerved to avoid him.
Fenchurch took the ramp up and followed it round, dodging the queue of foot traffic coming up from the underground.
The lights were red, cars idling behind a section marked out for bikes on the tarmac. He bumped down onto it and cut into the traffic just ahead of a white van man, his screaming as loud as his horn.
Fenchurch swerved into the bus lane and powered on, thighs now burning as bad as his throat. Toxic fumes filled his lungs. He followed the road round to the left and raced on towards Islington. ‘Jon, where are you?’
‘Shit, I’ve lost him, guv.’
Fenchurch slowed down, keeping close to the kerb. ‘Where are you?’
‘Just by the Central bar.’
‘What?’
‘That’s where I lost him.’
Fenchurch spotted Nelson on the pavement just ahead. Off his bike, Airwave to his head. He raced over and stopped just beside him. ‘Where is he?’
Nelson pocketed his Airwave. Sweat poured from his head, soaking his shirt. ‘Sorry, guv.’
‘We’ve not got time for any of that shit. Where the hell is he?’ Fenchurch looked down the opposing side streets. Nobody on bikes, let alone Qasid. He recognised the pair of new towers opposite, another one just a mess of scaffolding half the height. Where he’d chased the kid the other night. ‘He can’t just have vanished into thin air. This isn’t happening again.’
‘Well, at least we know he’s working for Kamal. You called him and Qasid comes running.’
‘Scant consolation, Jon.’ Something caught Fenchurch’s eye. A silver bike jammed against the railings across the road. ‘That’s his bloody bike!’
‘What?’
Fenchurch looked around. Nowhere for him to go. Except . . . He spun round and looked inside the Central, squinting through the murky glass.
By the bar, a hooded figure was shaking his head at Clinton Jackson. Grey hoodie, black trackies, the lime fluorescent Everlast logo screaming out. He raised his arms in anger and stormed over to the staircase down. He shot a look back at the barman.
It was Qasid.
Fenchurch held up his Airwave. ‘Control, I need all you can spare to report to the Central bar on City Road. Now!’
Chapter Thirty-Nine
‘Come on, come on, come on.’ Fenchurch stared at the back wall of the pub, clutching the Airwave tight. Ringing tone in his ear, breeze in his face, his hair thick with sweat. ‘Kay, where the hell are you?’
‘Just around the corner, guv.’
‘Thank God. Nobody’s left the pub or gone inside since. Keep it that way.’ Fenchurch killed the call an
d jogged back round the front. His legs needed a week-long bath.
Nelson was guarding the door, getting a load of aggro off a pair of white skinheads in double denim. Must’ve looked out of place inside. He blocked their path. ‘I can’t let you back in. If you’ll just follow my colleagues.’ Two uniforms dragged them off down City Road towards the van.
A convoy of police cars appeared from the south. One blocked the road to the north, the other two cutting off the side streets.
Reed got out of the first one and jogged over, followed by a wave of uniforms. She handed out pages of A4.
Fenchurch took one. Qasid’s mugshot. The still of Kamal from the Angel escalator was on the back.
‘This is who we’re looking for, okay?’ She held it up and circled round to the assembled officers. ‘Both men. They are highly dangerous so watch your step. Ask around, don’t take no for an answer. Clear?’
A mumble of agreement.
‘Then let’s go.’ Reed let the uniforms plough inside and nodded at Fenchurch. ‘Guv. He’s definitely in there, right?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Fenchurch scowled at her. ‘We followed the little bastard over here from the arse end of Shoreditch.’ He stared through the open door.
The pub was pretty busy for a Sunday lunchtime. The build-up to the Spurs match played out on a big TV, three blokes on the screen looking like they were at a golf club. Techno pumped beneath the distorted voices.
Clinton Jackson was stabbing his finger into a uniform’s chest.
‘Here we go again.’ Fenchurch entered the bar and pulled Jackson away. ‘Sir, I need a word with you.’ He hauled him over to the corner of the room.
He gave Fenchurch the up and down, recognition flooding his eyes. ‘These guys are saying I’m hiding Kamal!’
‘Are you?’
‘No way, man. No way.’
‘I saw one of his people in here. Kid called Qasid.’
‘I don’t know no Qasid.’
‘Well, he’s in here, sir. I saw you talking with him.’
‘You got a warrant for this, man?’
Fenchurch waved through the door for Reed. ‘Kay, show him the warrant.’
She unfolded a sheet of paper and handed it to Jackson. ‘Here you go, sir.’
He inspected it, his shoulders slumping as he made it down the page. ‘You think you can tear apart all I’ve done here? All I’ve achieved?’
‘We’re just looking for someone. Tell us where he is and we’ll be gone.’
‘Well, he ain’t here!’
‘I’m supposed to just take your word for it, am I?’ Fenchurch pointed towards the door leading to the stairs. ‘You mind if I have a look downstairs?’
‘Course I mind, man. This is intimidation.’
‘I saw Qasid go down those stairs.’
‘He’s not here. Get out of my bar, man!’
Fenchurch nodded at Reed. ‘Get him down to Leman Street.’ He marched across the bar and pushed through the door.
Cold air hit his face. A dank smell, like fungus or an open sewer. The steps were slimy. No idea how they’d passed health and safety. If they had.
The bottom of the stairs opened out into a wide corridor, a vaulted arch crawling overhead, raw brick subdividing it into two rooms.
A house DJ was setting up her decks on the right, the larger of the two. Chilled music pulsed out of the speakers. A uniform went over and interrupted her, getting a glare as she tore off her headphones.
Five or six drinkers occupied the second room, lounging on sofas, clutching unlabelled beer bottles. White kids, not even vaguely like Qasid.
Fenchurch gestured for uniformed officers to interview them.
The Gents was at the end of the corridor — no Ladies, by the looks of things. A giant bookshelf took up half of the wall, filled with paperbacks. The sign halfway down advertised ‘BOOKS: £3 a pop — PAY at de bar’.
He looked around again. Where the hell was Qasid?
Nelson appeared at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Guv, that’s us clear upstairs.’
‘No sign of him, I take it?’
‘Right.’ Nelson tapped at his ear, the music still blasting out. ‘What about down here?’
‘Nothing. Just DJs, toilets and books.’
‘Thought you weren’t letting him do his Batman trick again?’
‘This isn’t over yet, Jon.’ Fenchurch waved over to the DJ. ‘Can someone turn that racket off?’
A female officer wandered over to the DJ, joining the male officer. Her slit-throat action got a result. Silence.
‘Thank God for that.’ Fenchurch let out his held breath. Felt a slight chill in the air. ‘He’s not getting out of here.’ He got a pair of uniforms to check each of the toilets.
‘What if it wasn’t him, guv? Lot of kids wearing those clothes.’
‘It was him, Jon, I saw him.’ Fenchurch stared at the bookshelf. Floor to ceiling, paperbacks wedged in tight, flush to the toilet door on the left. The space on the wall on the right of it was about the same size, just a bit bigger and filled with posters for upcoming club nights. Re:House, Insane in BRANE!, MetaDub.
He wandered over and had a look through the books, recognising some names. Famous black authors — Gil Scott-Heron, NoViolet Bulawayo, Eldritch Cleaver, Malcolm X, Taiye Selassi, even Barack Obama. He picked up the Obama book.
The bookcase rocked.
What the hell?
Fenchurch gripped the left edge of the bookcase and tugged it to the right. It budged a few centimetres. ‘Give me a hand here, Sergeant.’
Nelson scrambled over and grabbed the other side. ‘On three. One, two, three.’
Fenchurch hauled it. A little shunt to the right. Then it gave easily. Even colder air hit his face. Smell like a brazier, burning oil somewhere.
Just darkness behind the bookcase. Looked like a passage, curved into the depths of the city.
Nelson folded his arms across his chest. ‘It’s like bloody Narnia down here.’
‘Thanks, Constable.’ Fenchurch nodded at Lad then clicked on his torch. Bloody thing was brighter than the sun. He looked around at the nearby officers — Nelson, Lad and six uniforms. ‘Is the bar secure?’
The nearest uniform gave a nod. ‘Place is on lock down, sir.’
‘Good.’ Fenchurch turned around and stared at the gaping hole in the wall. He shone the torch against the rounded brick walls, lighting hitting the bare stone floor, looked like it was worn smooth. He looked back at Nelson, the gang of uniform behind him itching to get going. ‘You’re sure this is the old City Road tube?’
‘The pub’s the old station building. That’s got to be how they escaped, guv. Qasid just now and Kamal the other night.’
Fenchurch looked around the team. ‘Ready?’
Nelson nodded in response.
Fenchurch took a deep breath and started along the tunnel. Almost lost his footing after a couple of steps and had to rock back to keep upright. His heart skipped a few beats. ‘Watch out. The surface is slippery as a criminal defence lawyer.’ He stopped and pointed the beam ahead of them.
The passageway curved upwards slightly, but that might just be his imagination. The light spread along the floor then disappeared into a pool of black just up ahead. He sped up, eyes trained on the gap. Light glinted off red railings. Looked like a staircase down. He flashed the torch above it. ‘This is a chimney.’
‘For the underground?’ Nelson aimed his light at the steps. ‘I take it you’re going down there, guv?’
‘This is where Qasid’s gone, Jon. Tell me I’ve got another choice.’
‘You need to be careful, guv.’ Nelson thumbed down the staircase. ‘If that does lead down to the Northern Line . . . The tracks are live.’
‘Shit.’ Fenchurch focused on the diagonal crisscross patternwork on the metal steps.
No idea what they were heading into down there. Best be prepared.
He nodded at Nelson. ‘Last thing I bloody need is for
anyone to get electrocuted.’
Nelson wheeled round and gestured at the two nearest uniforms. ‘Call this in, okay?’
‘Sarge.’
‘Guard this area, okay? Nobody in or out.’
‘Come on, then.’ Fenchurch started down the steps, careful not to clank too loudly. He kept his gaze level as his gut clenched tight. Looked like hundreds of them. He hurried on, trying to ignore his vertigo. Just focus on how solid the steps feel. The bottom appeared, the path spreading off in both directions. On the ground level, he held a hand in the air, getting the squad to stop.
He could hear something. Thumping. And voices. American accents. Sounded angry.
Shiny brick walls led away in opposite directions, rounded underground tunnels looking like they were still in service.
Fenchurch stepped off the stairs onto a grimy flagstone and circled his finger above his head. Nelson paired off the remaining four uniformed officers and gestured at Lad. He shone his torch down one tunnel. The light caught sleeping bags and KFC buckets. A boombox was blasting out violent hip-hop. ‘What the hell’s going on here?’ He aimed the beam further over and caught a tall stack of wood, gaffer-taped together. A knife practise area. ‘Just like in True—’
Something clattered further over. He swung the beam round, the light creating circles on the walls. Some figures scurried away, like rats escaping a ship, and disappeared round the bend.
‘Did you see that, guv?’
Fenchurch broke into a run, dodging past pizza boxes and Coke bottles. The tunnel came to an abrupt stop, a wall made from scarred brick. A door rattled on its hinges.
Fenchurch stuck his torch between his teeth and snapped out his baton. He nudged the door open. Nobody waiting behind. He climbed through.
Feet pounded behind him, sounded like standard-issue beat shoes.
A high-pitched squeal burst out from the right, followed by a gust of air.
‘Shit!’ Fenchurch pressed himself against the wall.
A train blurred past. Passengers sat reading, stood listening to music. Chatted, flirted, avoided eye contact. And it was gone, a shrinking pair of red lights.
Fenchurch shone his torch on the ringing tracks to their right. ‘It is the bloody Northern Line.’ He grabbed his Airwave. ‘Get the bloody electricity switched off down here! Now!’