by Ed James
‘Bosnia?’ Docherty shook his head. ‘Heard it all now.’
‘Rather you than Mick, Tammy.’ Fenchurch gave her a wink through his goggles, then took in the locus.
The large tent claimed about ten metres of an entire lane of the road. A pulse of light illuminated three large pizzas scattered across the tarmac, their open boxes lying nearby. The SOCO with the camera knelt down to get a different angle, taking great care in photographing them, like they were the dead body.
Over by a mangled bike wheel, another suited figure obscured whatever the huddle of SOCOs were doing. ‘Om pom diddly om pom.’ The chief pathologist, Dr William Pratt, looked up, his wispy beard filling goggles like hair in a plughole. ‘Speak of the devil and he shall appear.’ The beard twisted into a grin. ‘Well, gather round, gather round.’
Fenchurch squeezed past him.
A woman’s body lay on the road, all twisted and broken, her lime-and-grey lycra cycling top soaked red near the neck. Fenchurch flinched as he saw the bloody mush that should’ve been a head, dark blood pooling on the asphalt, dotted with teeth and bone.
Pratt winched himself up to standing with a loud crack. ‘The bad news is that we don’t have an ID on her.’
Fenchurch’s stomach fizzed with fear and hatred and rage. ‘What’s the good?’
‘The good…’ Pratt reached into his bag for a pair of metallic tongs. ‘Om pom pom.’ He picked up a chunk of bone with two teeth still attached, like corn on the cob. ‘Well, we know the cause of death.’ He gestured over at the tent entrance, flapping in the breeze. ‘The poor thing was squashed between a van and a number twenty-five bus.’
Jesus Christ.
Explains the state of the driver.
‘Sounds like an accident, William.’ Docherty folded his arms, the suit crinkling. ‘Why the hell are we here?’
‘As a seasoned detective, Alan, you’ll have noticed that, while the bus is still here, the van isn’t?’
A sly grin showed through Docherty’s mask. ‘Hit and run?’
‘Indeed. A witness says this was deliberate.’
3
Fenchurch tore off his crime scene suit but he kept seeing the mush where a head should have been. The pool of blood, dotted with teeth and bone. Pratt picking up the shattered jawbone, the teeth still attached. He dumped his suit in the discard pile, sucking in stale diesel fumes and cigarette smoke.
Over at the pavement, DS Jon Nelson clocked Fenchurch. His brown suit was a few shades lighter than his skin, his black hair fuzzing up, long overdue a fresh buzz cut. He gave a sympathetic smile to the bus driver and sauntered over. ‘Surprised to see you here, guv.’
‘Don’t start, Jon.’ Fenchurch caught a splash of red on the side of the bus, coating the window and the advert for suntan lotion. A SOCO was photographing it. ‘Not in the mood.’
‘When are you?’ Nelson grinned wide, then frowned. ‘Mulholland, right?’
‘Right.’ Fenchurch waved over at the pavement. ‘Saw you talking to the bus driver.’
‘Poor guy. People never think about them. Bus drivers, train drivers, lorry drivers. They’re the ones who suffer the trauma of someone jumping in front of them to kill themselves.’
‘Pratt thinks this wasn’t someone jumping in front.’
‘Right.’ Nelson patted his coat packet. ‘You want a word with the driver?’
‘Did he see anything?’
‘Just felt the impact of the bus crashing against the van.’
Fenchurch did another 360. Definitely no sign of a van. ‘So someone squashed her?’
‘Looks like it.’ Nelson scanned the assembled uniforms. ‘We’re taking statements from the passengers and pedestrians. Not many of them saw the whole thing. Still a few pedestrians to speak to, but they’re all in shock. One witness says it’s murder, though. Another cyclist. Calls himself an ogle.’
‘A what?’
‘O-G-I-L. Old Git In Lycra.’
Fenchurch groaned. ‘Show me.’
Nelson led him across the road. The traffic was still heavy, but at least it had started moving and that cabbie had cleared off. He stopped at the shuttered pub front over the road. ‘Mr Kelly?’
‘Call me David.’ A City type, wearing expensive cycling gear that was either skin-tight or dangling free. He shook Fenchurch’s hand, firm and tight. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Scouse accent, but refined. ‘I was telling him I wasn’t supposed to even be here.’
‘Oh?’
‘It’s a Sunday. I work up at EBS on Bishopsgate. Got a horrendously expensive IT system going in today and I was supposed to get text updates through the day. Thought it’d be fine to have some time where I wasn’t in the sodding office, but no.’ Kelly took a deep sigh. ‘They made a right mess of it. I was halfway to Brighton.’ He gestured at an expensive-looking road bike propped up outside the pub. ‘Train to Victoria, then I cycled over. Thought I’d save myself a bit of time, but…’ He swallowed. ‘As I came round the bend there, I saw this girl pedalling like the hounds of hell were after her. She was being chased by a white van.’ The colour drained from his face as he pointed at the bus. ‘I was going to follow but…’
‘Which way she was cycling?’
Kelly nodded over the road, past the dead pub and the jellied eels stand. ‘She was coming down Goulston Street.’
Fenchurch groaned. ‘From the City?’
‘Relax, guv.’ Nelson whispered: ‘This is our jurisdiction. Lisa Bridge is verifying the victim’s route on CCTV.’
‘Good work.’ Fenchurch shot a smile at Kelly. ‘Did you see her get attacked?’
‘Right there.’ Kelly stomped across the road and stood at the corner of Goulston Street and Whitechapel High Street, the one-way blocked off by a no-entry sign from this side. He drew his finger down the back street. ‘Van clipped her, sent her wobbling, but she stayed upright.’ He followed a curved path over the road towards the bus and the tent. ‘I mean, she dumped her pizzas and, this van… Jesus. It swerved into her and squashed her flat against the bus.’
‘What happened to the van?’
‘No idea, sorry. There was a commotion, I didn’t see anything. And besides, I was calling 999, you know?’ Kelly twisted his face up. ‘I mean, I’ve been chased myself a few times, you know, over the years. Happened so fast.’
‘You recognise her?’
‘Know her face. Seen her around. I cycle most days. You get to know other cyclists, at least by face.’
‘But other than that?’
‘No. Sorry.’
‘Well, that’s what I’m looking at, too.’ DC Lisa Bridge rested her laptop on the top of a pool Astra. She brushed her bleached hair over her ear and glanced at Nelson. Then she hit play on the computer. ‘Watch.’
A shot of a street filled the laptop screen, across Whitechapel High Street to the shuttered pub. The victim pedalled furiously, a pizza bag bobbing about on her back. A white van trailed after her, but slowed at a gap between two parked trucks. It shot through and swerved round the bend, lurching towards her and clipping her back wheel just like Kelly had said. The cyclist powered on, managing to keep her bike upright. She shrugged off the bag and the pizzas spilled out onto the tarmac.
The van smashed into her, sending her flying across the road. It buckled her bike under its wheels as she slammed against the bus, then dropped to the ground.
The van drove over her skull.
Fenchurch took a few shallow breaths, trying to get himself under control. He stared at the freeze frame of the bus and the van. ‘Looks very deliberate to me.’ He spotted Kelly on his bike, just by the entrance to Aldgate East tube station. He reached over and scrubbed the footage back to play it again, and scanned the screen.
Kelly’s movements matched his story — stopping as the cyclist hit the bus, then calling 999.
‘Have you found a good image of her face?’
‘Sorry. I’ve looked, but it’s too far away and her helmet obscures it.’
‘Figures
.’ Fenchurch tapped the van. ‘Have you traced the plates?’
‘It’s hired.’ Bridge switched to another screen. ‘Place out in Lewisham. Got some local uniform paying a visit.’
‘Lisa, can you get out there?’ Fenchurch gave her an encouraging smile. ‘I want my best people on it.’
‘I’ll try to take that as a compliment, sir.’ Bridge nudged him aside. ‘Thing is… Just watch this.’ She hit play again.
The video wound on, Kelly talking into his mobile as the van drove over the cyclist and her bike. A couple of men in the crowd rushed over to help the stricken cyclist. But the van stopped and the driver hopped out, wearing a motorbike helmet. He crouched down and rummaged around in the victim’s jacket. He put something in his own pocket as he stood up, then jumped back in the van and drove off.
‘Jesus Christ.’ Fenchurch stabbed his finger on the screen. ‘Find this guy. Highest priority.’
‘Sir.’ Bridge packed up her laptop and got in the Astra. The engine roared and she tore off through the crowd.
Nelson watched the car go, sucking on his vape stick. ‘So what’s our next move?’
‘Good question.’ Fenchurch took in the scene again, not much different from what he’d just seen on the laptop. Shocked faces standing round, stunned and lost. ‘Any ideas?’
‘Precious few. The statements will just back up the CCTV. Fingers crossed that Lisa gets somewhere finding the killer.’
A SOCO was bagging and tagging the pizza boxes, while another carefully placed the discarded pizzas into bags.
Fenchurch rushed over and grabbed one. Mario’s Pizza. ‘This place is just round the corner, isn’t it?’
4
Everyone knew Wentworth Street as Petticoat Lane Market, though good luck seeing a sign. A long street lined with brick buildings, shops on the ground floor, three or four floors of flats above. Not many traders left at this time on a Sunday, just an old Arab man bundling shoes back into boxes, muttering to himself. In the distance, the Gherkin poked up above the rough old Sixties buildings, the haves up in their tower, the have-nots down here, buying garish dresses off a rack.
‘There it is.’ Nelson squeezed past a burly builder type haggling over the price of a pair of dungarees with a trader.
Mario’s Pizza lay between a shoe shop and a café that ripped its design ethos from Pret a Manger. Burnt baking smells wafted out onto the street. Bright sunlight cut a long shaft on the gridwork paving.
Fenchurch stopped, sick to the stomach. ‘Seen a lot of things, Jon, but that… Jesus Christ.’
‘Tell me about it.’ Nelson sucked on his vape stick. ‘You okay?’
The Arab man shifted another armful of shoeboxes into his shop.
‘I’m fine. Docherty’s right, though, this does look like a murder.’ Fenchurch shut his eyes and caught a flash of the CCTV. ‘He’s checking she’s dead… Nicking her ID…’ He opened his eyes again and set off towards the restaurant. A shiny road bike was propped up against the window, not even chained up. ‘Come on.’ He entered Mario’s.
A small family pizza restaurant, busy with Sunday lunch trade, all of the tables full. Chart radio pulsed out of wall-mounted speakers, drowning out the chatter. A female bike courier barged past, the large bag on her back making her look like a snail.
A couple of members of staff chatted over by the salad bar. Young, dark-haired and attractive.
Fenchurch grabbed a passing waiter. ‘Need to speak to the owner.’
The guy frowned. ‘You want speak to Mario?’ His accent was thick. The waiter led them through the restaurant, strutting like he was hitting the dance floor. He leaned in through a door. ‘Boss?’
In a filthy back room, a scrawny man perched on an armchair, thick stubble dampening his sharp features, acting out boxing moves, a barrage of swift jabs followed by a hefty upper cut. Raging Bull played on the TV screen; Robert De Niro getting the snot punched out of him in the ring. Mario didn’t look over at the door. ‘What the hell do you want, Sergio?’ Thick Cockney accent.
Fenchurch stepped into the room, warrant card out. ‘One of your pizza delivery girls is dead.’
That made Mario turn around. ‘What are you talking about?’ He reached for a remote and paused his film.
‘DI Simon Fenchurch.’ He showed his warrant card. ‘You got a surname, Mario?’
‘Esposito.’ None of the Latin grace, just spat out in Cockney. ‘Now, what’s up?’
‘Found the body of a girl, had a bag full of your pizzas, left a trail of pepperoni all along Whitechapel High Street.’
‘Aw, shit on it!’ Mario jumped to his feet and stomped over to the door.
‘Oi!’ Fenchurch stopped him with a hand to the chest. ‘Sir, I need you to—’
‘Mate, that pizza oven doesn’t work itself.’ Mario pushed Fenchurch aside and made to leave again.
Fenchurch held firm. ‘Listen to me, sir. This is serious. Someone’s murdered your employee. Smacked them between a van and a bus. We don’t have an ID. I need your help identifying her.’
Mario took a moment, rasping the salt-and-pepper stubble. ‘You know how many delivery drivers I’ve got? I’d need to see her.’
‘She’s at a crime scene, then she’ll be moved to Lewisham, where our morgue is. You’re welcome to wait there.’
Mario set off towards the TV and turned the screen off. ‘Mate.’ He opened the door and showed a stack of uncooked pizzas sitting by the oven. ‘You see how busy I am? Stowed out the bleeding door, I am. Trying to take five minutes to watch a film. I need to redo that order, after I figure out which ones.’
‘Mr Esposito, this is a murder. Now, I need to ID this girl, so I can speak to her family and try and find out who killed her.’ Fenchurch held his gaze for a few seconds. ‘Wasn’t you, was it?’
‘What, of course not!’ Mario huffed out a sigh. ‘I’ve got three girls, and a couple of geezers. They’re all on today, all out delivering.’
‘They’re all out?’
‘You don’t make this easy.’ Mario held up his arms. ‘Yes, all three girls are on, all out delivering. Christa was just leaving with a pair of calzones, so it’s not her.’
‘Then I need you to call the other two.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Mario slumped in his armchair again and took out his mobile. After a few seconds of fiddling, he put it to his ear. ‘Shit on it.’ He went over to the kitchen door and barked out some guttural Italian. ‘Sergio!’
The waiter came through, masked by noise from the restaurant, a leather-skinned LG to his ear. He replied in Italian. ‘Si, si.’ More Italian. ‘No problemo, Casey, no problemo.’ Then he killed the call and nodded at Mario. ‘I spoke to Casey.’
Mario sank back against the kitchen wall. ‘I can’t get hold of Amelia.’ He focused on Fenchurch, his red eyes narrowing. ‘Amelia Nicholas. Sergio, find the last order and call them, yeah? Tell them their pizza’s delayed.’
‘Si.’ Sergio sloped off with a flourish. He doubled back. ‘It was, eh, two orders?’
‘Yeah, you’re right.’ Mario shook his head and made to follow Sergio.
Fenchurch grabbed hold of him. ‘Tell me about Amelia.’
‘What’s there to say?’ Mario walked over to a column of photos on the wall, employees reluctantly smiling at the camera. He patted one halfway along. ‘This is Amelia. Started a couple of months back.’
‘Need a home address for her.’
‘I’d need to check.’
‘Well, I’m not stopping you.’
‘Yeah, my office is up in Hackney. Got a factory. Sell to the supermarkets. I’d have to go up.’
Fenchurch pointed at Nelson. ‘DS Nelson will accompany you.’
Mario picked up a heavy coat with another sigh. ‘Come on, then.’
Fenchurch got in his way. ‘What’s the address for her last delivery?’
Mario picked up a notepad and skimmed down it. ‘Like Sergio said, she had two deliveries. One for two pizzas, but another came in jus
t as Amelia got back from her previous run. The guy was desperate, so I knocked up his chicken and banana pizza quick smart and sent it out with her.’ He held the notepad up to Fenchurch. ‘Here are the addresses.’
Fenchurch pulled up on a back street not too far from Leman Street station. New-build office blocks loomed nearby, both in modern chrome and older brick. No sign of any flats. He rechecked the photo he’d taken of Mario’s order book — certainly looked like the right place.
Nothing ventured…
He headed over, catching the smell of the Thames. A summery racket blared out of the pubs and restaurants of St Katharine Docks over the other side of the building. He found the number at the nearest entrycom system and hit the button.
A loud crackle. ‘Down in a sec.’ Male voice, gruff.
Fenchurch frowned. Must think it’s his pizza.
Footsteps thundered down some steps inside and the heavy-duty black door flew open. Another City banker type, sniffing like he was coming down with something. Scruffy jeans with a shirt and jumper combo, shiny black leather shoes. He spun around, twitching. ‘Where is it?’
‘What?’
‘My pizza. I’m starving.’
‘Police.’ Fenchurch showed his warrant card. ‘Need to ask you a few questions.’
‘Come on, mate. I’m starving.’
‘Name?’
‘It’s Colin. Colin Dunston. My stomach’s eating itself.’ He was holding an oversized Samsung, staring at it like it could give him his pizza. ‘Need to call that Italian git.’ He started tapping the screen. ‘I’m so hungry, I can hardly think.’
‘Sir, this is serious.’ Fenchurch stepped closer. ‘The girl who was delivering your pizza was murdered. Now, I need to know—’
‘Chicken and banana, stuffed crust.’ Dunston stared at his mobile again. ‘Have to order a Domino’s now.’ He thumbed the screen. ‘I’m just back from the gym, called in my order on my way back. Legs day, need my carbs after all that running I did. Three bleeding hours on the treadmill. Bar squats too. Mario said it’d be here.’