by Ed James
Fenchurch was marching down the street, the drums drowning out the honking of car horns and the squealing feedback up ahead.
A crowd had formed around Chilango, maybe three hundred people spilling out over the road and blocking the traffic, swamping the Superdry shop. Tattoos and shaven heads.
Fenchurch barged past two skinheads, more interested in their burritos than in politics.
Guy Eustace was standing on a box by the scene of Saskia’s death, bellowing into a microphone, distorting his already shrill voice. He was dressed like he was going shooting, though it was unclear whether he was hunting game or immigrants.
‘A young woman was murdered here the other night. You all know this, that’s why you’re here. You’ve all seen the newspapers this morning, cashing in on her death, selling the lie that a girl in her twenties has a legacy. I met Saskia a few times. She was a nice girl, kind-hearted and warm. She had an eye for a story, that’s what they say. The problem was, she missed the real story.’
Fenchurch waited for Reed to catch up then jostled ahead through the crowd, pushing towards the front.
Eustace locked eyes with him, holding his gaze as he spoke. ‘The police . . . The police are spending a lot of time investigating Saskia’s death.’ He looked away, across his audience. ‘But the real crime here is they’re missing the story that’s killing people.’ He held up a copy of his election manifesto, a glossy brochure like you’d get selling luxury holidays. ‘In this city, there’s a campaign of social cleansing. People are losing the homes they grew up in or they’ve raised families in. They’re being kicked out, just so Syrian migrants can move in. They’re disrupting communities and for what? I’ll tell you.’ He let it hang in the air. ‘Political correctness. We’re losing, guys. This used to be Great Britain but it’s lost its greatness. Saskia was killed by black men. Sons of immigrants. How long until your children or your wives are murdered by immigrants?’
That got a cheer. A half-eaten burrito landed near Fenchurch, thrown by a supporter just behind Reed.
‘This is getting worse, not better. The government want to open our doors further. The EU want to include half of the world. Turkey is next? How long before we’re letting Islamic extremists just walk through the door?’ Eustace paused to look around, eyes narrowing. ‘I’ll tell you, shall I? It’s now. It’s happening now. It’s always been happening, since we sold our country to the Germans and the EU.’
A lone dissenting voice shot up near Fenchurch. ‘You’re worse than Trump!’
‘Trump? There’s a man with the right idea.’ Eustace laughed to himself. ‘What can be done to stop this social cleansing?’ He raised his left hand in the air, waving like he was a Presidential nominee. ‘Vote to leave the EU! Vote for English control for English people! Thank you and God bless!’
A huge roar went up. The burrito couple applauded more than anyone else he could see.
Fenchurch raised his eyebrows at Reed then pointed at the TV cameras at the far side. ‘Their opponents haven’t had time to mobilise but the press have.’
‘We can do him for inciting racial hatred, guv.’
‘Not a bad idea.’ Fenchurch nodded at her and she slipped off towards their uniform cover.
Eustace made his way to Fenchurch, reaching out to kiss a baby on his way. ‘Didn’t think you were interested in politics, Sergeant.’
‘Inspector. And yes, I am interested. I read Private Eye, anyway.’ Fenchurch waved at the crowd around them. ‘How long have you planned this?’
‘Not long. Why?’
‘Take it you heard Victor Morgan was murdered this morning?’
‘Who?’
‘Features Editor at the Post. Saskia’s boss.’
Eustace clasped a hand over his mouth. ‘Oh my God. What happened?’
‘Stabbed in broad daylight. You didn’t have anything to do with it, did you?’
‘Why on earth would you think that?’
‘That’s not answering my question. I saw what she published this morning.’
‘That’s all lies.’ Eustace stepped closer to him, as if that would quieten him. ‘Look, if you’re here to intimidate me, I know absolutely nothing about either death.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘It’s the truth. Now, I need to speak to the Press. Good day.’
Fenchurch tugged at the sleeve of his Barbour jacket. ‘Does the name Purple Heron ring any bells?’
‘Sounds like a pub in Hackney.’
Fenchurch let him have his joke, watching the crowd for a few seconds. He clocked Reed’s approach, accompanied by some uniform, then snapped out his handcuffs and gripped Eustace’s wrists. ‘Guy Eustace, I’m arresting you under the—’
‘—and Guy Eustace, who is representing himself.’ Fenchurch locked eyes with the MEP, aware of the digital recorder flashing away. ‘Are you sure about that, sir?’
‘I’ve passed the bar, Inspector. Better than some Pakistani oik on Legal Aid.’ Eustace brushed some fluff from his shoulder. ‘Sooner we get this over with, the sooner I can get out doing my bloody job.’
‘Mr Eustace, do you recognise the name Purple Heron?’
‘No comment.’
‘Who owns it?’
‘No comment.’
Fenchurch pushed a sheet of paper over. ‘Says here it’s co-owned by “Dubai Investments (UK) Ltd”. That business is, in turn, owned by yourself.’
‘No comment.’
‘Who are you in league with?’
‘No comment.’
‘This’ll come back to bite you, one way or another, Mr Eustace. We’ll find out who else’s behind it.’
‘What, so you can publish that in the press?’
‘Like Victor Morgan did? Is that you admitting you ordered his death?’
‘No comment.’
‘Look. Either way, you’re finished. Your glittering career in Brussels will be in tatters.’
‘I’ve done nothing. You need to let me go.’
‘Victor Morgan had more stuff on you, didn’t he?’
Eustace stomped down, kicking a boot heel off the floor. ‘He already published a tissue of lies.’
‘That’s not quite what I said.’ Fenchurch shook his head. ‘I believe Mr Morgan had something else on you. Something unpublished.’
Eustace flicked his reptilian tongue. ‘What?’
‘Two hundred thousand pounds worth of help to a load of councillors.’
Eustace looked away, desperate eyes searching the walls. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Saskia Barnett found payments you’d made to Islington borough councillors. Something to do with planning permission for Buxton Court, right?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘We know what you’re planning, Mr Eustace. A team is going through the transactions just now.’ Fenchurch grinned at him. ‘It’ll look better for you if you come clean.’
‘There’s absolutely nothing to come clean about, I can assure you.’
‘Just tell me who you’re working with and we’re done here.’
‘Seems like you already know.’
‘I don’t. I’d appreciate it if you told me.’
‘No comment.’
‘Back to that, are you?’
Fenchurch kicked his bin, sending a stream of crap all over the floor. Burrito foil, lemonade cups, Mulholland’s scarf. ‘He’s not getting away with this, Kay.’
‘And you’re not either.’ She stared at the pile of rubbish. ‘Is that Mulholland’s scarf?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Guv . . .’
‘Kay, it wasn’t me. Okay? Like I’ve had time to be so bloody petty.’ Fenchurch picked up a soggy foil ball and dumped it back in the bin. ‘We need to link Eustace to Kamal.’
‘Yeah, like that’s going to be easy.’
‘Come on, Kay . . .’
‘Well, Lisa Bridge is pulling his phone records and bank accounts.’
‘We should get Liam Sharpe in here. There might be someth
ing in that pile of shit he’s got.’
‘Guv.’
‘You know what you said last night?’ Fenchurch ran a hand through his hair, thick with sweat. ‘Am I losing it?’
Reed looked up, eyebrows standing to attention. ‘What?’
‘This case. What the hell’s going on?’
Reed clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You’re not losing your mind, guv.’
‘I meant my touch.’
‘Right. No, you’re not. Things are escalating, guv. You know what it’s like. They’ll get worse before they get better. These kids aren’t like anything else we’ve ever dealt with. Guerrilla tactics.’
‘More like gorilla. Strike hard and fast.’
Nelson appeared in the doorway, phone clamped between his ear and shoulder. ‘It’s guerrilla, boss.’ He pronounced it like he was using the original Spanish.
‘It’s bloody not.’ Fenchurch pinched his nose. ‘What do you want?’
‘Charming.’ Nelson handed him a sheet of paper. ‘That’s the results of the company checks. Eustace is the sole owner of this Dubai company.’
‘Just him?’
‘Just him, guv. Steve’s looking at the co-owner of Purple Heron just— Just a sec.’ Nelson turned away, nodding. ‘Cheers, Steve. That’s superb.’ He grinned at Fenchurch. ‘It’s a charity, guv. That’s why it took so long. Different database. Something called the Iconic Foundation.’
Chapter Forty-Seven
‘Well, then you need to bloody hurry up.’ Fenchurch leaned against the black railings and clutched his Airwave to his chest. ‘Bloody uniform.’ He gave the Belgravia townhouse another once over. Didn’t look like anyone was in, but then that never proved anything.
Eaton Square was quiet for a Sunday evening. Just an elderly couple walking a yapping ball of anger, keeping their distance from the police officers. The flags at the embassy flapped in the gentle breeze. He still hadn’t worked out who was in there. Chile? Bolivia? Just the one Range Rover this time as opposed to the six.
To his left, Nelson had paired off with uniformed officers. Another team stood to the right.
Fenchurch put his Airwave to his mouth. ‘Have you covered the back yet?’
‘Affirmative, sir.’ Heavy panting. ‘Both ends. Eccleston Mews is under our control.’
‘Then we are go. Hold your position until I tell you otherwise.’ Fenchurch waved a finger at Nelson then jogged over the road, bounding up the steps. He thumped at the door and waited.
Nothing.
He looked around, locking eyes with Nelson, and spoke into the Airwave: ‘Any movement out the back?’
‘Negative, sir.’
Another thump on the door. ‘Ms Ikonnikova, it’s the police! Open up, please!’
Nothing, again.
Fenchurch kicked it this time, his size elevens thudding against the black wood. ‘Ms Ikonnikova, we have a search warrant to enter your property!’
The door opened to a crack. A woman peered out. Latte-coloured skin, black hair, hazel eyes. Nothing like Yana Ikonnikova. ‘Yes?’
‘We’re looking for Ms Ikonnikova.’
‘She not here.’ Spanish accent. She wore a cleaner’s uniform, clutching a St Christopher around her neck, mouth twitching as if she was reciting incantations. ‘She not here!’
Fenchurch let out a sigh. ‘Where is she?’
‘I told you. She not here.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Out. Men took her.’
Fenchurch’s pulse shot up a few BPM. Drums skittered in his ears. ‘Men took her?’
‘In cars. Her men.’ She slid back the chain and pulled the door open wide. ‘Her guards? Yes, yes. Guards. Yevgeni. He nice to me.’
Fenchurch stepped forward and stuck his foot in front of the door. ‘Where did they take her?’
‘I just clean the house.’
‘Is there anyone else—’
‘Stop!’ A man wearing a towel stomped across the chequerboard floor, leaving puddles behind him. Rippling muscles, big rather than toned. As bald as if he’d just been born. ‘You are in charge, yes?’ Thick Russian accent.
‘That’s right.’ Fenchurch gritted his teeth, pushing fillings together. Didn’t fancy his chances against him. ‘And you are?’
‘Dmitri. You call me Dmitri. Who are you?’
‘DI Fenchurch.’ He handed him his warrant card. ‘We need a word with Ms Ikonnikova? I’d rather speak to her directly.’
Dmitri involuntarily flexed his pecs. ‘She out.’
‘Can you get a message to her?’
‘Do I have to?’ Dmitri folded his arms across his chest. ‘I don’t think I do.’
‘You will tell me where she is. We can do this down the station, if you’d rather.’
‘You’re threatening me?’ Dmitri held out his hands, crossed at the wrists. ‘Then take me instead.’
‘I’d rather you put on some clothes first.’ Fenchurch waved to a nearby uniform, beckoning him over. ‘Make sure Dolph Lundgren stays here, okay?’ He turned round and put the Airwave to his ear. ‘Anything out the back yet?’
‘Still a negative, sir.’
Fenchurch killed the call and dialled Reed’s badge number. ‘Kay, I need an update.’
‘We’re just at the office, guv.’ She was breathing hard. ‘Hold on a sec.’
‘Anybody there?’
‘Place is empty, guv. Sunday empty. It’s not like they’ve cut and run.’
‘So where the hell is she?’ Fenchurch groaned, his gut sinking deep. ‘She’s got a yacht moored at St Katharine Docks.’
Dmitri’s eyes were widening.
‘Kay, get out of there and head to the yacht.’
St Katharine Docks were a mix of an ancient wharf, an old brewery and new-build flats surrounding a chaotic grid of a marina on four sides, just a thin channel leading out to the Thames. Tower Bridge loomed over to their right.
Nelson stopped on the steps and pointed at a boat, just one among many. ‘That’s it there, guv.’
Brilliant white in the sunshine, the murky water below was calm enough to give some sort of reflection. Maybe thirty metres long, the yacht looked like the sharp bow could spear the water. The stern was open and backed onto the mooring. A viewing platform jutted out of the top, just a couple of bodies up there. Lights shone through the windows below deck even in the midday glow.
Fenchurch scowled at it. ‘It’s hardly Roman Abramovich’s yacht, is it?’
Reed winked at him, a cheeky smirk on her face. ‘She doesn’t need a penis substitute, guv.’ She held up her Airwave Pronto. ‘Anyway, according to this, she’s got a three-hundred footer moored out near Poole.’
‘She better not be on that one.’ Fenchurch stormed down the gangplank towards the boat, the wood creaking beneath his feet. Something swarmed in the dark water below.
A group of men stood near the back of the boat, suited and booted. Probably armed.
Fenchurch stepped onto the deck. The boat wobbled more than it should. ‘Afternoon, gents.’
A hand gripped his shirt. ‘Stop.’ Yevgeni, the guard from Ikonnikova’s house on Thursday night. The same suit, a bulge just over the heart. A handgun. ‘I’m going to ask you politely. Get off this boat.’
Nelson stepped next to Fenchurch, three uniforms behind him.
‘We’re looking to speak with Ms Ikonnikova.’ Fenchurch craned his neck to look round him. ‘Is she here?’
‘She’s here.’ Yevgeni took a step forward, towering over Fenchurch. ‘Get off this boat.’ The two others fanned out into some military formation. Just as big and broad as him. Same suits, same telltale bulge. Yevgeni put a hand to Fenchurch’s chest. ‘I can’t let you on board.’
Drums clattered in Fenchurch’s ears. He tapped Yevgeni’s chest. Definitely a gun. ‘You got licenses for those firearms?’
‘What firearms?’
‘So, it’s a copy of the Bible, is it? A cigarette case?’
‘You funny guy.’ Yevgeni�
��s grin switched to a scowl. ‘Now, get off the boat. Sir.’
‘Can’t do that.’ Fenchurch reach out and gripped Yevgeni’s wrist. He twisted it hard.
It didn’t move.
Yevgeni countered, steel fingers clawing at Fenchurch’s forearm. He pulled his arms wide, wrenching Fenchurch’s shoulders, sending him squirming to his knees. Yevgeni let go and Fenchurch’s arms dropped. He tried to kick out but nothing was stopping the monster. The Russian picked him up and grabbed him in a bear hug, squeezing the air out of his lungs. Felt like he was drowning.
‘If I let you go, you promise to get off the boat, ah?’
Fenchurch pulled his head back and drove it forward. His forehead cracked into Yevgeni’s nose. He lashed out with his knee and crunched it into his groin. The guard collapsed into a heap at his feet, clutching his balls and squealing like a pig.
‘That’s how we do it in London, sunshine.’ Fenchurch waved at a stunned-looking uniform. ‘Cuff him.’
The uniform snapped a cuff on the groaning man’s wrist. Another knelt next to him, keeping him secure.
Fenchurch nodded at the other two hired muscle. ‘Are you pair going to cause me any trouble?’
They stood back, leaning against the designer-brown walls of the yacht’s interior, and raised their hands.
Fenchurch made for the staircase, a sharp left bend off the entranceway. He stopped halfway down and sucked in air. ‘Christ.’
Nelson put an arm round his shoulder. ‘You okay, guv?’
‘Feel like I’m dying, Jon.’ Hard, deep breaths. Didn’t seem to make any difference. ‘That ugly bastard’s stronger than he looks.’
‘Looks pretty strong to me. Where’d you learn that move?’
‘Our little friend, Qasid. Pulled it on me after he’d . . .’ Fenchurch grimaced. ‘After he killed Victor Morgan.’
‘You want me to supervise the search?’
Fenchurch sucked in a final breath and stretched out. ‘No, I’m fine.’ He trotted down the stairs like he owned the place, hand skirting the oak banister.
A side lamp shone to the left, recessed into the wood panelling covering the walls. Looked like an open door led to some bedrooms. Smelled like the other was a kitchen.
To the right, three windows looked out across the docks, a reassuring police presence visible in all of them. Sixteen chairs huddled round a dark wood dining table in the middle of the room. Three cream sofas sat beyond, arranged in a U-shape, matching sidelights on inset tables behind them.