by Ed James
Fenchurch stared at the ground. A puddle had formed on the pavement, from the earlier downpour. No pots of gold out this way.
‘You were with your old man, weren’t you?’
Fenchurch looked up at Nelson.
But his phone blasted out. Sex Pistols, Pretty Vacant.
DAD
‘Just a sec, Jon.’ Fenchurch put it to his ear. ‘Dad?’
‘Simon, I’ve just spoken to Eddie Morris, Webster’s parole officer.’
‘And?’
‘Had a little chinwag, you know how it is. Says Webster’s doing well. Been out a year, not slipped once. Never even put a line on at the bookies. Had another PI on it too, not just me. Got himself a decent enough job at Loco, cycling around and delivering pizzas or something. Lot of his guys do that. Lets them get back on their feet, see a bit of the city rather than the insides of a choice boozer.’ A sigh rasped the speaker. ‘Said Webster had turned a corner. His baby mother died when he was inside and he changed his life around. Got fit, discovered fasting and meditation and all that Buddhist shit.’
‘All very good, Dad.’ Fenchurch leaned back against his car. ‘He give you any idea where he could be?’
‘Not really, sorry. There’s a Tibetan meditation centre up the Holloway Road.’
‘Dad, this isn’t the time for—’ Another rumble in his hand. Fenchurch checked the display. Unknown number. ‘Sorry, Dad, I need to take this. Thanks. And call me back if you get anything else.’ He ended the call and took the other one. ‘Hello?’
‘Hello, it’s Pavel from Loco. I’ve got Webster’s location.’
14
Fenchurch shifted down and took a hard right, powering down the narrow street, desperately searching the road for cyclists. ‘Where is he?’
Nelson sat in the passenger seat, grabbing hold of anything as he was thrown around. ‘There!’
The Royal London Hospital loomed over them — the giant blue mosaic tiles glowing in the fading light. The side road was blocked off with bollards, a lone cyclist powering through.
Webster, standing on his pedals to look back at them.
And they couldn’t follow him.
Then he was gone, lost to the night.
Fenchurch stuck the car in reverse and whizzed back the way they’d come, swerving to avoid a smoker in a wheelchair.
‘Just a sec.’ Nelson reached over and pressed buttons on the stereo. ‘Hello?’
‘Hello?’ Pavel’s voice burst out of the dashboard speakers.
Fenchurch revved the engine as he thundered back towards Whitechapel Road. ‘Get me an update on Webster’s location, now!’
Pavel tapped away in the background, his keyboard sounds clicking loud. ‘I really need to head home, but—’
‘I’m not in the bloody mood for this!’ Fenchurch swung round the corner, then hit sixty as he overtook a pair of buses. ‘Where is he?’
‘Okay, okay. He’s heading east along Mile End Road.’
Fenchurch swerved left into the bus lane and powered past a Range Rover. ‘Can’t see him.’
‘He’s heading north on… Don’t know how to say it? Cephas?’
‘Got it. Cephas Avenue.’ Fenchurch hit the brakes and tugged the wheel left, hurtling over the wrong side of the road. Managed to avoid hitting anything.
No sign of Webster, but his house was halfway along the street.
Fenchurch screeched to a halt and tumbled out, hitting the tarmac running.
Lights on downstairs, music bleeding through the windows. Holly stood there, her lips moving in sync with the song.
A squad car pulled up across the street and Bridge jumped out, a couple of male DCs following.
Fenchurch waited on the pavement, heart racing, scanning the street for any signs of Webster. Nothing.
Bridge joined them. ‘You see him?’
‘Not yet.’
Bridge pointed at the house. ‘There’s a squad car in place in the street behind.’
‘Good.’ Fenchurch nodded at the male DCs. ‘Okay, you two, stay here. Jon, sit in the car in case he scarpers.’
‘Guv.’ Nelson jogged back to the idling Mondeo.
‘Lisa, you’re with me.’ Fenchurch waited, blood thudding in his ears, watching until Nelson got behind the wheel. ‘Okay, let’s do this.’ He led Bridge up to the door and knocked. ‘I promised you I’d get you away from the CCTV.’
‘Gee, thanks.’ Bridge rolled her eyes. ‘I’m kidding. This is good.’
Another knock.
The door opened and Holly glowered at them, rocking the baby in her arms. ‘What now?’
‘Holly, where is he?’
‘Get out!’
Fenchurch stepped inside, blocking her slaps with his forearm, keeping her at arm’s reach. ‘I know he’s here.’
‘Get out!’ Holly slapped his face, like hitting water from the top diving board. ‘Get out of here!’
Bridge grabbed Holly’s wrist and took the baby in one fluid movement.
Fenchurch charged through the house. The large kitchen-living room was still a bomb site.
Two doors.
The first was a small bathroom, empty, but the cistern filling up.
The second was a utility room, empty, with a washing machine rolling its drum round. A big cupboard dominated the space, big enough to hide a man, even Webster.
Fenchurch snapped out his baton and poked it open.
An ironing board fell out, clattering off the lino.
Fenchurch stomped back through. Holly was now sitting on the sofa, cradling the baby.
Bridge stood over her, blocking any attempt at an exit. She held an Airwave radio in her hand. ‘DS Nelson says there’s no sign of him outside, sir.’
‘You can’t do this!’ Holly hugged her daughter tight. ‘He’s not here!’
‘I like to see things with my own eyes.’ Fenchurch took the stairs two at a time.
Three doors.
The first was a bathroom. He flicked the shower curtain aside — Webster wasn’t lying in the bath.
Back in the hallway, he tried the next door. A bedroom, filled with a super-king, just a narrow path separating it from the wall. IKEA chests filled the opposite wall.
Nowhere to hide, except…
Fenchurch dropped down onto all fours and checked underneath the bed. Not there, either. He jumped back up to standing and went back out into the hall.
The third door hid a smaller bedroom, barely furnished. An exercise bike rested by the window, cold and dry, no tell-tale signs of sweat or anything. The bed was solid, made out of shipping pallets. No space underneath, either.
Fenchurch sifted through the crap on his bedside table: bills and Post-It notes and so on. Nothing to indicate where Webster might be. He stormed out and skipped down the stairs.
Holly held Sandy at arm’s reach, the baby screaming at her mother. ‘You’ve woke her up, you pig bastards.’
Fenchurch stood over her. ‘Where’s your old man, Holly?’
‘He’s not here.’
‘I can see that. Where is he?’
‘I don’t know. He says it’s best if I don’t.’
Fenchurch crouched in front of her, making eye contact. ‘Holly, we’ve got reasonable suspicion that your old man murdered someone, okay? Before we put him away, ten years ago, he worked for a nasty piece of work. He was an assassin. He murdered people in cold blood.’ He let it settle in but it didn’t seem like she was even listening, let alone caring. ‘Now, this job he was doing for some old mates, just so happened to be around the same time he hired a van that was used to squash a girl against a bus. Doesn’t take too smart a person to figure out what that work actually was, does it?’
Holly slumped back in the sofa.
Bridge took the baby off her again, without a fight this time.
‘This is your chance to help us, okay? Your father’s killed someone. I don’t know who he’s working for, but he’s probably doing it for you and Sandy.’
Holl
y flinched.
‘I’m not saying you’re involved, Holly, but your old man killed a girl. She was about the same age as you.’
Still nothing.
‘Only, this girl and her sister were taken from their homes in Albania. Forced to work as prostitutes, forced into dealing drugs to people. If they so much as looked at their boss funny, their family back home would be slaughtered. But your old man killed her. He smashed her between a van and a bus, Holly. There’s nothing left of her head.’
Holly gasped. She stared at her daughter, then back at Fenchurch. ‘What do you want from me?’
‘Your old man—’
Something clattered outside. Bins knocked over.
Fenchurch shot over to the kitchen window.
Webster was lugging his bike along the path.
The man who took my daughter.
Right there.
Right fucking there.
Fenchurch ran over to the door. ‘Lisa, stay here!’ He piled outside and paced down the side of the house, trying to keep quiet.
But Webster was getting on his bike, lifting his left leg over the crossbar, then down onto the pavement. He hit the pedal and wobbled off.
Fenchurch swiped with his baton. Caught clean air.
Webster raced off down the street, knees pounding away, in and out of streetlights. Then he hopped down onto the road and sped up.
Fenchurch tried to run faster, but he was chasing a man on a bike. Maybe I can throw my baton?
Behind, a car engine revved and Fenchurch dived out of the way, sprawling over the bonnet of a Fiesta. He looked at the road as his Mondeo clattered into Webster, sending him flying across the tarmac.
Fenchurch darted off, catching up with the car just as Nelson got out.
Webster hauled himself up to standing and took one look at his discarded bike, then sprinted away from them. He was holding his shoulder.
Fenchurch sprinted off after him, all his rage building up in his head.
You fucking animal.
You took my daughter. You ruined my life. Stole years. Made someone else raise her.
His feet thumped the road, every step jolting up his spine.
And she doesn’t speak to us. The sweetest girl in the world, twisted into a young woman who hates her parents.
All because you took her, you craven fuck!
He closed on Webster, metres away, then centimetres.
You worked for the worst people alive. Took a child from her life, from her parents, from her world.
For money.
Fenchurch launched himself into the air and smacked into Webster’s shoulder. A scream tore out into the night air. Loud, like a trapped animal.
Fenchurch lay on Webster, then got up first. He kicked Webster in the face, he pushed his shoulder against the kerb.
Another scream.
Then Fenchurch grabbed Webster’s lycra shirt, panting, breathing hard, and got in his face: ‘You fucking animal. You took my daughter!’ He gripped Webster’s ears and bounced his skull off the pavement with a sickening crunch.
15
Fenchurch waited in the corridor, sipping machine tea from a beige plastic cup, his hand shaking.
Face-to-face with a monster, the vermin who took our girl. The animal who deserved to die.
But he’s finally in a cell, being checked over by the duty doctor.
Did I go over the line there?
No. Nowhere near. Webster deserves to die, deserves to swing for what he did to us. For what he’s done to countless others, as well.
He got off lightly here.
Fenchurch’s phone throbbed in his trouser pocket. He took another shaking sip of tea as he checked the display. Missed calls and unread texts from Abi stacked up on the screen. He hit dial. The ring tone drilled against his skull.
‘We’re sorry but the person you’re calling is unavailable.’
Fenchurch exhaled slowly. Took another sip, spilling a dribble onto the carpet tiles.
‘Please leave a message after the tone.’
‘Abi, it’s Simon. Sorry, I just saw your messages. Give me a call.’ Fenchurch put the phone away and took his tea into the Obs Suite.
Broadfoot rested against the wall in the far corner, narrowing his eyes at Fenchurch.
Fenchurch took a seat in front of the giant display, split in quarters to show different angles of the interview.
Mulholland filled the two left-hand panels. Arms folded, feet crossed at the ankles, sitting next to DS Uzma Ashkani. ‘Mr Esposito, you’re going away for a long time.’
In the top right side, Mario sat next to a male lawyer, scratching at his stubble. He looked like he’d been taken from the trenches, shell-shocked and brutalised. He didn’t respond to Mulholland, didn’t even acknowledge that she’d said anything.
Mulholland smoothed out a sheet of paper on the table. ‘We finished searching your restaurant. Three kilos of cocaine under the sink. Not very well hidden. I assume there’s more?’
Still nothing, just Mario giving his thousand-yard stare. Could be practised, like he’d been trained by someone senior in the people-trafficking operation. Could also be that he was that someone, sitting at the top of an empire, brutalising the innocent and the guilty alike. Or it could be that he was one of those innocents, coerced into drug-running and prostitution.
‘My team is searching your factory in Hackney.’ Mulholland stared up from the sheet of paper, wetting her lips. She gave him a few seconds. ‘What will they find?’
Again, nothing.
Fenchurch looked into the corner. ‘She’s getting nowhere, right?’
‘That how it seems.’ Broadfoot stayed focused on his phone, staring at the glowing screen in the dim room. ‘Doesn’t really matter, though. We’ve got him on countless drug charges. We’ve picked up five of his couriers, all Albanian nationals. Just awaiting lawyers, then we can get in and about them. And that factory in Hackney is a treasure trove, I swear. I just know there’s a ton of drugs there.’
‘Feel it in your water, right?’
Broadfoot gave Fenchurch a withering look. But the draw of the mobile pulled him back, his thumbs tapping away at whatever was going on elsewhere that was much more important than the interview unfolding on the screen.
Fenchurch waved at the display, not that Broadfoot noticed. ‘Doesn’t seem like Mario’s folding.’
‘He doesn’t need to, Inspector. We have way more than enough evidence to convict him.’
‘Has Dawn asked about the people-trafficking?’
‘That’s Howard Savage’s purview. He’s getting my sloppy seconds.’ Broadfoot sniggered, looking over at the door. ‘Heard you caught Desmond Webster?’
‘Just waiting on his lawyer.’ Fenchurch checked his phone, still no word. ‘You know him?’
Broadfoot gave a curt nod. ‘I was on the case that put him away. A DC at the time, wet behind the ears and all that. Me and Dawn Mulholland were partners.’
‘So you go back?’
‘Oh yeah. I know her.’ Broadfoot locked his gaze on Fenchurch’s and held it for a good few seconds. ‘Never put your trust in her.’
‘I don’t.’
Broadfoot’s steely expression softened to a tight smile. ‘Good.’
Fenchurch folded his arms, trying to reflect the smile. ‘Any chance you can give me a couple of minutes with Mario?’
Broadfoot was back at his phone, frowning at some piece of news from elsewhere. ‘Why?’
‘Like you say, I’ve got Webster, but I’ve also got a shitload of questions. He’s killed this girl, that’s pretty obvious, but I want to know who he’s doing it for.’
Broadfoot thumbed the phone again. ‘You don’t think he’s the big bad wolf?’
‘No, I don’t. But I think he knows who is.’
Broadfoot stretched out like a dog getting up from its bed. ‘Come on, then.’ He traipsed out into the corridor with a yawn.
Fenchurch followed, catching up as Broadfoot knocked on t
he door.
The door creaked open and Mulholland peered out into the corridor, settling a glare on Fenchurch, then on Broadfoot. ‘Sir?’
‘Need a word, Dawn.’ Broadfoot stepped away from the door and beckoned her out. He gestured for Fenchurch to go in.
Mulholland stood her ground, arms wide. ‘Sir, this is my interview.’
‘And Si’s just keeping your seat warm, that’s all. Come on.’
Mulholland folded her arms. Still didn’t get out of the way. ‘Do I have a choice?’
‘Let him make an arse of it, Dawn.’ Broadfoot winked at her. ‘Thanks.’
She grudgingly shifted to the side, finally letting Fenchurch push past into the interview room.
Ashkani glanced round at the door, then did a double take, eyebrows raised. Her black hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, but her forehead creased enough to slacken it off. She leaned into the microphone. ‘DI Simon Fenchurch has entered the room.’
Fenchurch stayed standing, resting his weight on the chair next to Ashkani. He stared at Mario, gave his lawyer a broad smile. ‘Good news. Webster’s in custody.’
Mario slumped back in his chair. He didn’t give any eye contact.
Fenchurch rounded the table and towered over him. ‘We know he killed Amelia.’ That got his attention, but Mario broke off eye contact quickly. ‘The only thing missing is who Webster’s working for. Was it you?’
Mario just sat there, his jaw clamped shut.
‘See, I don’t think it was you. The way I see it, there’s someone pulling your strings. Same with Webster.’ Fenchurch left a long pause. ‘I just want to help, Mr Esposito. Just want to find out who’s been terrorising you. And I want to take them down.’
Still nothing.
‘You should know how this works. If you’re not as deep in this as you seem to be, you can help us and we can help you. You could get out with no time served. Maybe even get a new identity. Maybe even get a medal.’ Fenchurch waited for eye contact. ‘All depends on what you give us. I need your help. I need you to put your cards on the table.’
Muscles along Mario’s jaw pulsed in a chaotic rhythm. His nostrils twitched. ‘Like it’s that easy.’