by Ed James
Part II
Tuesday, 3rd October
Fifteen months later
18
Abi hit the brakes and Fenchurch lurched forward, the seatbelt digging into his chest. He twisted round to check the back. Baby Al was cooing away to himself in the baby seat. He let out a breath of relief.
Abi was grimacing at the road ahead. ‘London traffic…’
‘Never changes.’ Fenchurch sat back against the headrest. The Old Bailey towered ahead of them — the eight tall pillars guarded by a row of uniformed officers in acid yellow. God knows who they think’s appearing in court today… Another glance at Abi. ‘You sure you don’t mind, love?’
‘I’m fine. I know this is high priority.’ She looked at her son on the back seat, who was giggling at something only he could see. ‘Besides, a day out with my little angel, just the two of us is...’ She exhaled. ‘It’ll be hell, but it’s what I’ve dreamed of for over a year. Can’t believe he’s home. After all that…’
‘Never rains but it pours.’ Fenchurch caught her smile. ‘Wish I could be with you, love. But I’ve had this date in court for ages. If it was anyone else, I’d defer it.’
‘I know. Give ’em hell.’ Abi reached over and pecked him on the cheek. ‘Remember we’re taking Al for his check-up at five.’
‘I’ll be there with bells on.’ Fenchurch returned the kiss and got out into driving wind, harsh rain lashing at his face. And it felt like it was only going to get worse. He waved Abi off and set off towards the court.
A crowd swelled around the entrance. Fenchurch clocked a couple of familiar faces in the uniform contingent, old City police lads from Snow Hill or thereabouts. He charged through the crowd towards them, warrant card ready.
Spit lashed his cheek.
He rubbed at it with the back of his hand and scanned the crowd.
A young woman stood inches away, her peroxide hair fanning out like an Eighties model’s. Her face was twisted into a scowl, worsening as Fenchurch grabbed her by the arm. Holly shrugged him off and stormed off towards the court entrance.
You’d think I was the bad guy here…
Fenchurch followed her up the steps, but lost her by the time he walked through the hulking great doors. Typical City opulence inside. A golden glow came from the ceiling, ornate and hand-carved with some medieval folk tale played out in masonic etchings. Right in the middle of the room was a square inside a circle. No doubt some ancient power focused on that spot.
Right in the middle, DI Jon Nelson sucked on a Pret coffee and sneered at his surroundings. ‘Guv.’
‘I’m not your guvnor, Jon.’ Fenchurch gave a broad grin. ‘Not any more.’
‘Right, sure.’ Nelson returned the smile with interest, then took a sip of coffee. ‘What’re you doing here?’
‘Giving evidence against Webster. You?’
Nelson tilted his coffee. ‘Trying to energise myself. Finally letting our old mate Younis have his day in court.’
Been a while since I heard that name. Lose track of all the cases, all the villains we drag in. And he’s a worse one than most. His quasi-legal camgirl empire is still running, as is his very illegal drug and prostitution one. And if it wasn’t him, it’d be someone else doing it.
Fenchurch stared at Nelson’s cup, wishing he had one. ‘Be good to get that scumbag off the street’
‘Well, we’re not there yet. He pleaded not guilty.’ Nelson finished his coffee and stuffed it in the bin. ‘What’s the latest with Webster, then?’
‘Just here to give my statement.’
‘Right.’ Nelson kept glancing away.
‘What’s up, Jon? You’re looking very shifty. And you’re asking me about Webster. Why?’
Nelson ran a hand down his face. ‘It’s nothing.’
Fenchurch still felt the spit on his cheek. But it wasn’t that. It was something else.
Oh.
There.
The reason for the heavy police presence outside. Dimitri Younis, wearing a sharp suit that fitted perfectly. He swivelled round, his snarling mouth hanging open. The row of rings on his brows was gone — no doubt a risk in prison — but his eyes were still full of menace.
Younis blew a kiss and gave a knowing wink. ‘Hiya, Fenchy, my love. I thought you’d be here to see my case, but it must be hard to watch, especially given your feelings for me.’
‘Come on, sunshine.’ A pair of burly court officers led him away, their bulk only partially hidden by their regalia.
Younis still managed to wink at Fenchurch. ‘See you soon, my love.’
Fenchurch watched him go. ‘He gets worse, doesn’t he?’
Nelson smirked. ‘Definitely got a soft spot for you.’
Fenchurch laughed. A cold sweat trickled down his back. ‘I’ll ask you again, why are you so interested in the Webster case?’
Nelson’s gaze was locked on the path Younis took as he weaved out of the court building. ‘It’s maybe nothing, but we’ve been through Younis’s financial records. We found a payment that came from Mario’s Pizza.’
‘You serious?’ Fenchurch waited for a nod, still didn’t get Nelson’s attention. ‘Protection money?’
‘That’s what we’re thinking. He ran a lot of scams like that. Still does.’
‘Keep me posted on—’
Fenchurch’s phone thrummed in his pocket and he checked the display. A text from Loftus:
I’M DOWNSTAIRS.
Fenchurch patted Nelson on the arm. ‘Keep me posted, Jon. And I’ll catch you later.’
Downstairs was less ornate — more like the trophy room in a provincial bowling club. Still had the whiff of money, but at least it wasn’t shoved in your face quite so much.
‘Ah, Inspector.’ Detective Superintendent Julian Loftus sat on a bench, scratching his bald head. His full uniform fit his athletic frame like a tailored suit, not even stretching as he reached forward to sip tea from a fancy tray, replenishing his cup from a silver teapot. ‘Good to see you.’ He poured milk from a silver jug and it ran out. ‘Bother.’ His gleaming forehead creased with effort. ‘I swear, this place is going to the dogs.’
Fenchurch spotted a court usher down a side corridor and waved until he got his attention. ‘Excuse me? Can we get some more milk, please?’
The usher looked down his nose at him. ‘Very well.’ He buggered off back down his corridor.
Fenchurch took a seat on the long bench next to Loftus. ‘Been here a while?’
‘I have. They’ve changed up the order. You’re on next.’
‘Right.’ Fenchurch poured himself a cup. Strong enough, at least, but now he too was praying for milk.
Loftus focused on his tea, seeming amused by it or like he wasn’t telling Fenchurch something. ‘I gather your friend Younis pleaded not guilty?’
‘Par for the course, sir.’
‘Indeed. But still. It’s a concern.’ Loftus gave a fresh frown. ‘He’s not going to get off, is he?’
‘Not sure, sir. Jon’s team are good. If anyone can get him, it’s them.’
‘Well, I shall cross every one of my extremities.’ Loftus caressed his furrowed brow. ‘The weight of it all…’ Anger flashed in his eyes. ‘It gets to you, you know? At least, it does to me. This last year has been a nightmare. A genuine annus horribilis.’ Another twitch of rage. ‘I, uh, I visited Dawn Mulholland this morning.’
Mulholland barged past Fenchurch into the room. Something splashed all over her face. She screamed. Sounded like the gates of hell had opened. Acid hitting flesh. Screeching. Squealing.
Fenchurch took a shallow breath and covered his mouth. ‘And how was she?’
‘Early days. The, uh, the specialist is going to see her later today. They’re hopeful of some sort of recovery.’
Fenchurch just sat there, his own acid burning in his gut.
Loftus clapped Fenchurch’s arm, gently. ‘Like I say, Inspector, an annus horribilis.’
‘Doesn’t even come close to describing
it.’ Fenchurch started pacing the small area, a flash of guilt churning in his belly.
I wouldn’t wish what happened to her on my worst enemy. And for so long, I thought she was.
We’re both police officers. Supposed to put people away, not play games with each other. Whatever she did back in the past, I can’t blame her. She was only a DC at the time. It wouldn’t have made the slightest difference — not in the end.
‘How’s your boy? Al, isn’t it?’
‘Right. Al. He’s fine, sir. Good, actually. We, uh, took him home, sir. Yesterday.’
‘That’s fantastic news. Fantastic.’
Fenchurch smiled, struggling to keep it under control, to stop it taking over. Sod it. He let go. ‘It is fantastic. I don’t know—’
‘Sirs.’ The usher put a fresh milk jug on the tray. Wouldn’t even do Fenchurch’s cup, let alone both of theirs.
Loftus poured milk into his. ‘Excuse me, but when will we—’
‘Sir.’ The usher gave a withering look. ‘I’m afraid I don’t control time. I merely ensure you’re here when requested, and present in court when needed.’ He tilted his head back. ‘That and fetching milk, it would seem.’
Loftus lifted his cup, but held it in front of him. ‘I just want to know when we’ll be called to give evidence.’
‘You’ll be called when you are called, sir. I extend the judge’s profound and deepest apologies.’ The usher traipsed off, shaking his head.
Loftus sipped his tea. ‘Your news sounds very promising.’
‘Thank you, sir. It’ll be good… It is good. Getting Al home, sir. Finally, after all that shit. A hole in the heart…’ Fenchurch poured the rest of the milk into his cup and drank his tea. Tasted very good, like from a tea room in a posh hotel. ‘I worry when things are good, though. But then, they’ve been shit for so long I must be due a break. Swear I must’ve smashed a mirror eleven years ago and someone upstairs forgot to stop sending me bad luck after seven.’
‘Well, I gave you some good luck.’
‘What?’
‘Do I have to spell everything out? The offer of a DCI position? When I offered you it, Inspector, you didn’t respond. That was a few weeks ago.’
Fenchurch leaned back on the bench with a creak. ‘My wife called, sir. Had to dash off to hospital.’
‘Ah yes. Yes.’ Loftus drank his tea, but kept his focus on Fenchurch. ‘Well?’
Fenchurch poured a second cup for himself, even though he didn’t have any more milk.
Do I want it?
Eleven years as a DI now. I used to be going places, then the drawbridge went up and I was stuck. But now this plonker’s letting it back down and sending me out. Do I want to go there?
Where I am now, I get to do good. I’m effective, even if I need air cover from time to time. If I take this position, I’ll be the one having to provide that cover.
I’ll be stuck behind my desk.
Behind Docherty’s old desk.
A stinging pain hit his gut.
But we have a new baby. A chance to take a step back, focus others on the job, on getting the worst vermin off our streets. Less stress, more time with Abi, with Chloe, with Al. A chance to be a present dad for a kid.
He looked Loftus in the eye. ‘I’ll take it.’
‘Excellent.’
‘But only Acting.’ Fenchurch raised his finger. ‘And only to honour Al Docherty’s memory. I want to see if being a DCI is for me.’
‘Of course.’ Loftus reached into his pocket and stared at his ringing mobile, the exact same old telephone sound half the world had. ‘Well, I’ll get on with the paperwork as soon as we’re done here.’ He put it to his ear. ‘Neale? Yes, in court just now. Where are you?’
‘Inspector?’ The court usher barrelled in. ‘It’s your time in the sun.’
Fenchurch made to stand. ‘See you on the other side, sir.’
Neale Blackhurst, the lead prosecutor. He’d taken Fenchurch through everything in the case, prepared and rehearsed so many times that lies almost became true. One single narrative emerged, a logical thread from the words in the witnesses’ mouths through to the jury’s guilty verdict.
That was the plan at least.
When the rubber hit the road, it was all about improvisation. Tiny little tweaks to the plan, adjustments here, new angles there. The narrative stayed the same, but the logic could change. Like a long chain, sometimes you needed to unhook the weakest links and attach another couple of links. Sometimes you just took it out and tossed it away.
But sometimes someone ripped the chain clean out of your hands.
‘Simon.’ Loftus cupped his hand around the microphone. ‘That’s Neale Blackhurst informing me that Terry Oldham has just walked into Bethnal Green nick and told the desk sergeant that he murdered Amelia Nicholas.’
‘Oldham?’ It hit Fenchurch in the gut. ‘He’s Webster’s mate. He… Webster gave him a lift to Tesco.’
‘And now he’s claiming that he murdered Amelia.’
‘That’s bollocks. We interviewed him.’
Loftus shook his head. ‘Get to the bottom of this. Now.’
19
Fenchurch inched through the bollarded chicane and found a space next to the park, opposite the row of silver-and-orange squad cars outside the brick police station. Down the one-way street, a fire engine trundled out onto Roman Road, whooping out a holler of siren as he got out of his car. He checked his mobile as he stepped across the street.
Nothing from Loftus — no doubt reassessing strategy still.
He entered the police station and walked over to the grimy front desk, a poor match for the recently refurbished exterior.
‘There you are.’ Sally McGovern, Blackhurst’s number two, sat in a leather chair in the waiting area. She smiled as she got up. Bright red hair, cropped to a severe fringe. Her ears pointed out at different angles. ‘So you’re here to mop up the mess?’
‘Something like that.’ Fenchurch offered her a hand, but she didn’t take it. So he put it in his pocket. ‘Where’s the fire, then?’
‘Upstairs.’ She set off towards the staircase. ‘A DS Ashkani is interviewing.’
Fenchurch stopped at the bottom. ‘She’s one of my bloody officers…’
Fenchurch found them in the bowels of Bethnal Green station. The Observation Suite here was high spec, full of brand-new monitors and furniture.
Fenchurch focused on the screen. DS Ashkani and DC Bridge were in the interview room, opposite Terry Oldham and — wonder of wonders — Dalton Unwin. ‘He sure gets around, doesn’t he?’
‘Unwin? Wish he didn’t.’ McGovern sat back and glanced over at Fenchurch, turning the volume down a few notches. ‘So how high is the platform we’re going to be suspended from?’
‘Usual one, I’m afraid. More likely to break our necks and live.’
She laughed.
‘How’s it going?’
‘Just getting started, but…’ She groaned. ‘How did we not know?’
‘Because it’s bollocks.’ Fenchurch gripped the arms of the chair. ‘We interviewed him, backed it all up with evidence and now he’s taking one for the team. He’ll go down for it, meaning we get our result, while he gets…’ He gestured at the screen. ‘Come on, it’s obvious what’s going on here. He’s been paid off. Old git like him, it’s the only way he can be useful.’
‘You’re sure Webster killed her?’
‘I’d stake Loftus’s life on it.’
She laughed again, then turned the volume back up.
‘My client was there. He’s admitted it.’
Ashkani was nodding along. ‘Trouble is, we get a lot of cases like this, where someone takes the rap for something. Usually means money or a favour.’
‘My client is helping you here, you should give him some respect.’
‘He’s taking a hit for a mate.’ Ashkani clicked her tongue. ‘What is it? Money? Debts? Pay your family off?’
Oldham laughed at her. His grey
hair was swept back over his head, though more white than black. The sort of red face that was hard-earned from a lifetime of fry-ups from his local caff, whiskies from the local offy. But his eyes… Like tiny lumps of coal recessed into a snowman’s skull.
‘Or have you got cancer and you’re just taking one for a mate?’
‘I ain’t got nothing, love.’
‘So, you took this van from Mr Webster, correct?’
‘That’s what I said.’ Oldham’s gaze got even colder. ‘You not listening, or something?’
‘I’m listening.’ Ashkani paused. ‘You’re acquainted with Mr Webster?’
A glimmer of amusement flashed in those dark eyes. ‘We go way back, me and Des. He’s a good kid.’
‘Why don’t you tell us what happened after you took the van?’
‘Well, I drove off, didn’t I? Me and Des went shopping. Took it all back to mine, loaded up me fridge. Then I drove it round to a lock-up in Hackney and told Des it’d been nicked. Next day, I went back and well. This girl was cycling, big load of pizzas in a bag on her back. I followed her along a stretch, tried to clip her, but she didn’t go down. She was pedalling so fast, I swear it was like she was on a bleeding motorbike. But I smashed her into a bus.’
Ashkani glanced over at the nearest camera, then leaned forward, tapping her thumb on the wood. The only sign of movement in there. ‘So you were driving the van?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you killed Amelia Nicholas?’
‘That’s right, love.’
‘And how did you know she’d be there?’
‘I called the place she worked in. Said I’d ordered a pizza from that shop, knowing she’d deliver it. Then I followed her.’
‘Why did you kill her?’
‘Because I’d got into an altercation with her on the road, didn’t I? She cut me up, called me an old bastard.’
‘That’s it?’
‘I killed that girl. End of.’
‘We interviewed you last year, why didn’t you tell us then?’
‘Because Des told me not to. That he’d take one for me. I’m too bloody old. But he’s been inside for, what, fifteen months now, doing time for me. I can’t handle the guilt.’