by Ed James
‘We need some evidence.’
Unwin pushed a piece of paper across the desk. ‘David Kelly provided this. He was there, he saw my client.’
Fenchurch frowned at McGovern. ‘Where do I know that name?’
She looked through her paperwork. ‘He was the cyclist who witnessed the death.’
‘Shit. And he saw Oldham?’
She nodded. ‘This is a disaster for you.’
Onscreen, Ashkani tossed the page on the desk. ‘We spoke to Mr Kelly and he didn’t mention Mr Oldham.’
‘Well, he did to my company. You should’ve done your job properly.’
‘Bugger this.’ Fenchurch got up and stormed through to the interview room. He gave Ashkani the cut-throat gesture.
She leaned forward. ‘Interview terminated at fifteen oh seven.’
Fenchurch whispered in her ear: ‘Get hold of this clown, tear it apart.’
‘Sergeant?’ Unwin waved at her. ‘Hello.’ He smiled. ‘Mr Kelly’s waiting in reception to give a statement.’
‘Right.’ Ashkani left the room, phone to her ear before she’d even opened the door.
Fenchurch nodded at Bridge, then the exit. Gave her a few seconds to leave. Then he took the seat opposite Oldham. ‘Let’s have a little chat off the record, yeah?’
‘I killed that girl.’ Oldham glanced at Unwin. ‘Not the first. Probably my last, mind.’
‘You’re a serial killer?’
‘Not like that. I don’t wear their skins as suits, nothing like that. Just keeping order on the streets.’
‘Because someone called you an old bastard?’
‘In my day, it paid to respect your elders. Girl like her, foreigner too, coming here and calling me that.’
‘This is all bollocks. I know you’ve been paid to take the rap. Who was it?’
‘Fuck off, you arsehole.’
‘Taking care of your family, was it?’
‘Fuck off.’
‘You’re a charmer.’ Fenchurch smiled. ‘You take the rap for this and they take care of your family when you’re inside, yeah?’
‘You need to do your homework, son. My boy lives in Australia with his wife. Me daughter’s in Dubai, working for that airline. Neither of them need my help.’
‘So it’s debts, then?’
Oldham looked at Unwin.
‘Nailed.’ Fenchurch laughed. ‘Gambling or drug?’
‘Inspector, I suggest you speak to the witness we have provided, then we can commence prosecuting my client. I assure you that he will put in a guilty plea and we can be done with this whole charade. My client has lived with the guilt of a lie for the last fifteen months.’
Fenchurch took a long hard look at Oldham. ‘You’re making a big mistake.’
While Fenchurch couldn’t really recall speaking to him, David Kelly clearly could remember Fenchurch.
‘Inspector.’ Kelly rose to his feet and held out a hand, like they were meeting to discuss a mortgage or a promotion. He wore a navy pinstripe suit, white shirt and a light-salmon tie. His thinning hair had miraculously regrown in the fifteen months since the crime scene in Aldgate, though he had tell-tale red marks around the scalp. ‘How you doing?’
Fenchurch left his hand hanging and took a seat.
Ashkani leaned forward. ‘DI Fenchurch has entered the room.’ She widened her eyes at him. ‘Sir?’
Fenchurch smiled at her, then gave Kelly a frosty look. ‘So I gather you’ve suddenly remembered some new information?’
‘That’s correct.’ His soft Scouse tones exuded confidence. ‘I saw this article in the Standard. Saw the guy who’s in the dock for it and… it wasn’t him.’
‘We spoke to you, sir. Took a statement. You said you didn’t see the attacker.’
‘Well, that’s not quite what I said.’
‘It’s what you signed.’
‘Well, that was remiss of me.’ Kelly smoothed down his tie. ‘I told your colleague here that I saw an older man. The guy you’ve got in court for it is about twenty years too young.’
‘You decided to contact a criminal defence lawyer instead of coming in to us?’
‘That’s right. I…’ Kelly carefully refixed his slight quiff. Probably cost a DI’s salary to install and six months to bed it. ‘I needed legal advice, so I thought, you know, kill two birds with one stone.’
‘You spoke to Dalton Unwin about this?’
‘Right. I went to his office and… Look, could you just sit there while an innocent man faced trial?’
‘No. But I’d make sure I told the police who I did see.’
‘I saw Terence Oldham.’
‘Excuse me.’ Fenchurch gave him a policeman’s stare, the kind that’d make the toughest Saturday night hardman wilt. Kelly just took it. ‘You know his name?’
Kelly pointed at Ashkani. ‘Your colleague here took me through this VIPER thing.’
Ashkani nodded. ‘He picked out Oldham.’
Fenchurch bit down on his lip. ‘What did you see him do?’
‘Like I told you ages back, I saw someone,’ he swallowed hard, ‘smash a cyclist into a bus. They drove over them. Then they got out and nicked their wallet.’
‘And you saw Mr Oldham?’
‘Swear on my life.’
‘Has anyone put you up to this?’
‘What? Of course not. This is my conscience speaking.’
Fenchurch let out a slow breath as he stared at the camera. Shirley McGovern would be watching this, would probably have already called her boss to break the news. He pushed his chair back and got up. ‘Okay, Sergeant, please finish taking Mr Kelly’s statement.’
‘I know you don’t believe me, but I saw what I saw. It’ll go with me to the grave.’
‘Just make sure that grave isn’t filled in early.’
20
Loftus was in one of the top-floor offices of Bethnal Green station, now long since emptied. Just a local policing hub, all the strategic units in nearby Leman Street or back in the Yard. He fidgeted with his cigarettes, the box unmarked except for unheeded health warnings, as he talked on the phone, then snapped the lid shut. ‘Neale, Broadfoot and Savage are still investigating Webster from their respective angles. Okay, me too. Catch you later.’ He killed the call and started patting himself down, fingers twitching. ‘I need a cigarette.’ He walked over and wrestled with a patio door, holding it open for Fenchurch to step out onto the balcony. He shut the door behind them and clicked a lighter, JFL embossed in the side. ‘Gave up ten years ago.’ He took a deep suck and held the smoke in his lungs. ‘But this last year…’
Fenchurch stepped further from the door to get upwind of Loftus. ‘Sir, did you get my message?’
‘I did.’ Loftus looked round at him, then away again, letting the smoke out in a slow puff, his eyes closing in almost-orgasmic pleasure as he watched the cigarette burn. ‘Maybe I should get a vape stick like your mate, Jon Nelson. Though that’ll no doubt prove to be just as bad as this.’ He took another long drag, holding the smoke in his lungs, and stared over the rooftops towards the City. He let the mist out slowly, eyeing Fenchurch again. ‘What’s your take?’
‘Someone’s pulling in favours. Getting Terry Oldham to take the rap for this. But getting David Kelly to change his statement.’
‘You believe him?’
‘I don’t believe anyone, sir. It is what it is.’
‘I get that.’ Loftus waved out into the wind, then leaned back against the wall, arms folded. ‘You don’t believe Oldham, then?’
‘No, I don’t. I was with McGovern and her and Blackhurst will drive a bus through us. Let me make it right, sir.’
‘How?’
Slash Unwin’s tyres. Cut his brakes.
Follow Webster home. Stab him in his sleep. Get him drunk, set fire to the house.
‘I’ll get a team together and rebuild the case against Webster.’
Loftus exhaled smoke through his nostrils. ‘You still think it’s him?’
‘I know it’s him. Let me dig into his story. Give me DS Reed and a couple of officers. She’s good.’
Loftus took another drag. ‘Good, yes. Great, though?’
‘I trust her with my life, sir. God knows she’s saved it enough times.’
‘What about Uzma Ashkani?’
Fenchurch almost laughed. He caught himself just in time. ‘Uzma’s one of Dawn Mulholland’s officers, sir. I don’t know her well enough to give a frank assessment.’
‘Inspector, I’ve lost a DCI and a DI in the last few months. I don’t have time to step down to this level.’
‘I’m stepping up.’
Loftus tapped off some ash. ‘Okay, I’ll file the paperwork this evening, but we’ll still be down two DIs.’
‘You should ask for Jon Nelson back.’
‘I should, should I?’ Loftus squared up to him, the cigarette perched between his lips, smoke wafting all over Fenchurch. ‘No, Jon Nelson’s doing fine away from your clutches. Broadfoot speaks highly of him.’
‘Let me reopen the investigation, reinterview the witnesses. Shake things down.’
The door thundered open and Blackhurst charged through, his knuckles white from clutching his briefcase. Neale Blackhurst noticed Fenchurch and gave a baleful look long enough for Fenchurch to have a proper taste before staring at Loftus’s cigarette, jaw clenched. ‘You got one for me?’
Cigarette clamped between his lips, Loftus held out the packet and his lighter.
Blackhurst took a long drag and the smoke from the cigarette coiled over towards Fenchurch. No escaping it. ‘Which of you pair dropped the clanger here?’
Fenchurch joined them, his mouth dry. ‘This is on both of us.’
‘Really? Because I’ve just had a word with Sally and I fail to see how we can de-fuck this.’
‘Neale, this is on you as much as us. You were to—’
‘I went over your evidence, Julian.’ Blackhurst rested against the stone walls, leaning over as he blew out smoke, hitting Fenchurch in the face. ‘We’ve dropped the case against Webster and we’re prosecuting Oldham for her murder.’
‘Webster killed her. The forensics were solid. He was in the van.’
‘All we could prove was that Webster was in the van at some point. His story has always said that. And wasn’t Terry Oldham in it, as well?’
‘We… Yes. Webster said he was, told us he took him to the shops.’
‘You checked it?’
‘The till receipt is on file.’ Fenchurch stared at Blackhurst. ‘Then they conjure him as a confessor.’
Loftus took a long drag on his cigarette, staring at something far down below. ‘What do you want to do?’
‘Well, while Mr Blackhurst here prosecutes the wrong man for Amelia’s murder, I want to progress Webster.’
‘The wrong man…’ Blackhurst got between them, dropping his bulging briefcase on the flagstones. ‘You’ve made a right arse of this, Fenchurch.’
Loftus stared hard at Blackhurst. ‘I treat this as a failure in the CPS as much as in the Met.’
‘Julian, Julian, Julian… This one’s definitely on you.’ Blackhurst glared at Fenchurch. ‘You should’ve been more thorough with the forensics.’
‘We had everything tight, Neale.’ Loftus fumbled his cigarettes out of his pocket, dropping them on the scarred flagstones. He crouched to retrieve them. ‘This is all of our mess.’
‘I’ll see you around.’ Blackhurst left them to it, taking two goes to push through the heavy door.
Fenchurch crouched to help with the last couple of cigarettes. ‘Whoever’s behind this has created a perfect storm, sir. I don’t know how they’ve done it, but they’ve paid off Oldham to take the hit for this. Neale’s got a collar for a murder, meaning Blackhurst’s going to be happy.’
‘You honestly think it was Webster?’
Fenchurch could only nod.
‘Okay.’ Loftus lit another cigarette. ‘First thing tomorrow, take DS Reed and DS Ashkani, plus their teams. Ashkani is to shadow you. I’ll brief her to make sure she knows. I need to know that everything’s above board. Since we lost Alan Docherty, you’ve not had the same air cover. You’ve been much more focused. Most of all, though, you’ve been more controlled.’ He smiled as he stamped out his cigarette against the bin. ‘Make sure Webster stops terrorising this city.’
‘I’ll put him away, sir. Mark my words.’
21
Fenchurch slumped behind the wheel, low enough to get a good look at the Old Bailey’s back door.
Dalton Unwin stood there in a loose suit, next to his client Desmond Webster. He’d bulked up in the year or so inside, shaved his head even closer.
Holly burst into tears, rushing forward to grab her old man in an embrace.
Humour in Webster’s eyes. He even winked as his daughter treated him like they’d just masterminded an improbable cup final victory.
Maybe not so improbable.
Unwin’s office will be calling round coach firms looking for someone to do an open-top bus tour of the East End for them. Announce the reign of terror is back.
Bloody hell.
Fenchurch slid the window down to listen, but couldn’t hear anything. Nothing like them owning up to getting Oldham to take the rap.
I should go and—
And what?
What the hell would I do?
That arsehole got off, because Terry Oldham took a hit for him.
Jesus. The man who took my daughter. The man who put us through this whole thing. Back out on the street.
I need to get him for this.
Unwin led Webster across the road towards the Magpie and Stump, simultaneously the safest and most dangerous pub in London. Half-filled with cops and journos, the other half with lags and mates of lags.
Fenchurch reached into the glovebox and found the small locked case. He opened it and eased out the knife, still in its sheath.
But instead of going in, Webster opened a waiting black cab’s door and let Holly in first, then got in the back beside her.
Unwin stood on the pavement, watching the cab disappear towards Holborn Viaduct.
Fenchurch gave them a count of twenty before driving off.
Two cars ahead, the taxi trundled up to the lights, indicating left.
Fenchurch took it slow, shifting gears early to let the engine slow the car. He glanced in the left-hand wing mirror, checking for any oncoming vehicles likely to try anything. Nothing.
The lights shifted to green and the taxi set off with a belch of fumes. Dirty old cab, not one of those new electric ones. Old-school, just like the passenger. The left indicator pulsed.
The car between them started up and Fenchurch followed slowly.
A Porsche Cayenne powered past Fenchurch on the inside, hurtling round the bend. Webster’s taxi stopped, the horn blaring. Not that the Porsche paid any heed.
Fenchurch flashed for the cab to go, then flicked the indicator and followed it into the left-turn lane. Just as the lights turned red.
He sat there, listening to that last Tycho album, the bass throbbing. He snapped off the stereo and set off. No sign of the taxi.
Bloody hell.
Fenchurch sped up, catching the Porsche at another junction.
Where the hell is Webster’s cab?
He lives round here. At least, his daughter does.
Fenchurch mapped out the route in his head, and took a right.
There.
The idling taxi pulled up onto the kerb and the driver stepped out, his hazards dancing in the fading light. He opened the back door, his lips twisted into a whistle.
Desmond Webster got out, rummaging through his pockets.
Fenchurch parked a few car lengths away, on the opposite side from Webster’s home. Engine off, seatbelt released, door cracked.
Ready.
Waiting.
He reached into his coat pocket and felt the blade, sharp through the sheath.
Perfect.
Webster sifted through his change, saying something that made the driver bellow with laughter. Always one for the cheeky banter. The driver took the money and got back in, the hazards giving way to a left indicator.
Now.
Fenchurch put his foot on the pavement and put the knife away. He left his door ajar and set off, his soft-soled shoes sucking in the sound of his approach, eating up the distance between him and his prey. He reached into his pocket and grabbed the knife handle, unsheathing it so he was ready.
The taxi engine started up, pumping a fresh cloud of dirty diesel into the air. The engine swallowed up the rest of the sound.
Fenchurch slowed as he approached, ducking behind the next car, a gleaming Fiesta.
Holly’s heels clicked as she walked round the back of the cab.
Fenchurch peeked out again.
The taxi drove off. Webster was over at the door, pressing the wrong key into the lock. ‘I’d kill for a gin and tonic. Nice slice of lemon, too.’ He tried another key. ‘Settle for some tonic water, though. You got any in?’
‘Dad…’ Holly snatched the keys off him and dropped them herself, the cymbal crash rattling Fenchurch’s head.
‘Sorry.’ Webster bent over for the keys.
Now.
Do it now.
Race over there, stick the knife in Webster’s neck. Stab, stab, stab, stab. Quick, fast, as many as it needs. Puncture his lungs, let him drown in his own blood.
Any defence lawyer I could hire would tear Holly’s story apart in seconds.
No witnesses on the other side of the road. Even if I’m missing any, there are enough parked cars to block the view of the most ardent curtain-twitcher.
Do it.
Do it now.
Kill him.
Webster reached over to open the door and beckoned his daughter inside.
A skinny man in a tracksuit stood in the doorway, peering out, his lank and greasy hair like it was slicked with whale blubber. His drawn face brightened at the sight of Holly. ‘Whassup?’ He reached over for a kiss, but Holly darted past him.