Kill the Messenger

by Ed James

  ‘Evening, Kirk.’ Webster stopped by the porch, hand held out. ‘Lovely to see you outside, son.’

  ‘Pleasure’s all mine.’ Tracksuit shook Webster’s hand, his lips twitching, thinking something over.

  Webster grabbed him into a hug, clapping his back in an age-old power move.

  A child’s scream jerked him from his reverie.

  Webster led inside and Kirk followed. The door slammed, the sound echoing round the quiet street.

  Fenchurch crouched, watching. Thinking.

  Too late.

  Way too late.

  Missed my chance.

  He glanced back at his car on the opposite side, hazards blinking in the harsh evening light.

  Plan B — a good old-fashioned stakeout.

  Maybe that’s the trick, beat Webster at his own game. Buy some tonic and some lemons. Dress up in lycra, head up the short garden path and knock on the door. Present from some old friends. Then bang, stab him in the chest. Make him see what’s coming. Let him know who’s done it.

  But make sure I kill him.

  Then I’m gone, into the car, and off.

  Done.

  Fenchurch crossed the road, hands in his pockets, whistling.

  The house door opened again and Webster came out, mobile to his ear. ‘It’d be my pleasure, mate. Thank you for keeping hold of it so long. Be good to reacquaint myself with it.’

  Fenchurch crouched by his car, cupping a hand around his ear.

  What the hell?

  His gun?

  Headlights washed the street as the taxi returned with a fresh cloud of fumes. Webster flagged it down and slid in the back.

  Webster’s taxi passed Leman Street station, but didn’t stop, instead trundling past and crossing the lights. It stopped outside Aldgate Tower.

  Loco.

  Fenchurch parked, killed the lights and wound down his window. Traffic noise, some lads shouting at the football pitches a few streets away, the rumble of a passing train heading out to the Essex coast. Nothing else.

  ‘Hopefully not, mate.’ Webster paid the driver. ‘Should be okay to get back myself.’ He watched the cab drive off.

  The tower door slid open and Pavel wheeled a gleaming racer bike out onto the street. A car whooshed past, masking what he said.

  Webster knelt on the pavement, stroking his bike like it was a family pet.

  Another car passed, slower, blocking their voices. Hard to read what they were saying.

  ‘—didn’t kill anyone.’ Webster winked at Pavel. ‘They framed me.’

  Pavel patted Webster on the arm. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?’

  ‘Cheers, mate.’ Webster hopped on his bike and sat there, nodding his head. Then he bumped down onto the road and cycled off.

  Fenchurch started the car and the engine woke up with a growl. He rolled up the windows and tailed Webster at a distance.

  His phone rang, blasting out ‘Thank You’ by Led Zep. Abi. The dashboard clock read 4:58.

  Shit. Al’s hospital appointment.

  He pulled in at the kerb, reached into his pocket and answered the call. ‘Sorry, love, running a bit late. Be there in five.’

  22

  Fenchurch’s footsteps were louder in the bustling hospital, squeaking on the lino as he traced the yellow line to the ward. He checked his watch. Ten past.

  Abi’s going to kill me.

  He yanked open the door and bumped into someone.

  ‘Jesus!’ She scowled. Chloe Fenchurch, his daughter. A smile filled her face. ‘Dad!’ She grabbed him in a tight hug.

  Fenchurch let himself be wrapped up in it.

  Every time, it’s a fresh reminder that she’s back in our life. Living under our roof again. Owning her real name, not the one those monsters gave her. The one we gave her. The one on her birth certificate.

  ‘Jeez, Dad.’ Chloe broke off the hug. ‘You okay?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Fenchurch caught his breath. ‘You?’

  ‘I’m good. My little brother’s doing well today.’ She pointed into the room behind her. ‘Us Fenchurches are made of hard stuff.’

  ‘The hardest.’

  ‘The doc wanted a word with Mum, so I’m going to get coffee.’

  Fenchurch’s gut lurched. ‘What about?’

  ‘Wouldn’t tell me. Do you want anything?’

  ‘I’m good. Isn’t it too late for a coffee?’

  ‘Never too late.’

  ‘Just like your grandfather.’

  ‘Not just him.’ She pecked his cheek and powered off, just like her mother. Never enough time in the day.

  Fenchurch watched her go. So hard to believe it’s actually her. A grown woman, at least physically. Still needs to grow up mentally and emotionally, but… It feels like a dream, like a hallucination. Like being in some alien’s virtual reality game and they’re pushing my emotions to the limits.

  Fenchurch took a sharp breath and entered the room.

  Abi sat in the corner, arms tight around her torso, legs crossed. She glared at Fenchurch.

  For being late? Or something else?

  Mr Stephenson was behind the desk, bouncing Baby Al on his knee. He wore a grey suit, the fabric matching his hair. ‘Well…’

  Fenchurch sat next to Abi and tried to take her hand. She yanked it away. He rubbed her arm to apologise, but her expression stopped him. So he leaned forward. ‘What’s going on?’

  Stephenson was still focused on Baby Al. ‘Your wife was telling me how well he’s been sleeping.’

  ‘Like a baby. And not a screaming one.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Stephenson didn’t laugh, just twisted his head to examine Al that little bit closer. ‘And how would you say he’s been settling in?’

  Fenchurch glanced at Abi. Hard to read her expression, other than annoyance. He took Abi’s hand and this time she let him. ‘I can’t believe he’s home with us after all this time. I was up three times in the night to check he was actually there and that I hadn’t dreamt it.’

  ‘That’s a common occurrence.’ Stephenson passed Al to Fenchurch. Abi reached over to take him. ‘Well. I like what I see. He’s doing really well.’ He smiled at Fenchurch. Actually smiled. ‘As far as I can tell, there are no issues with young Alistair.’

  ‘Alan.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Another six months of checks here, starting with weekly for a month. Then fortnightly for two, switching to once a month, and then he’ll be under your GP’s care. I’ll still want to keep an eye on him every year until he’s eighteen, but I don’t foresee any issues.’

  Fenchurch looked over at his wife, cuddling the baby tight. ‘He’s clear?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Abi grabbed Fenchurch’s hand. ‘That’s fantastic.’

  Fenchurch climbed the stairs towards their flat. At the top, a tell-tale Quentin letter placed carefully on the doormat. He bent over to collect it, opening it as he got up again. An invoice for their share of a bill for fixing the common chimney.

  Not that we can use it for a proper fire.

  Fenchurch opened the flat door and went in. Dark, voices in the living room. He hung up his coat and tried to listen.

  Abi was in the living room doorway. ‘Simon. What’s up?’

  ‘Well, you just ran off at the hospital.’

  ‘You were late.’

  ‘I…’ Fenchurch tugged off his clip-on tie and dumped it on the sideboard. ‘Been a shit day, love.’ He saw Chloe behind Abi in the living room, playing with Baby Al. ‘A really shit one.’

  ‘You want to talk about it?’

  ‘Wouldn’t mind.’ Fenchurch let out a long sigh. ‘Why did you leave me, though?’

  ‘Because your daughter left her keys at home this morning. That’s all.’

  ‘Wonder where she gets that from?’

  ‘This isn’t the time, Simon.’ Abi grinned though, despite herself. ‘Now, do you want to talk about your day?’

  ‘Jesus…’ Abi sat there, thinking, the kitchen si
lent around them, electronic music bleeding through from the living room. ‘He’s free?’

  ‘Afraid so, love.’ Fenchurch walked over to the doorway and looked at Chloe in the other room, lost in a world that only contained her tiny brother. ‘I wish he’d paid for what he’s done to us. I know he’s not the ringleader, but he’s the one who…’ He waved at the kitchen window, at the sink he stood at all those years. ‘Webster drove up, lured Chloe and bundled her into the car and did God knows what… He’s the one who took her. And he’s out. He’s free.’

  ‘What does Loftus say?’

  ‘He’s fuming.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘He says we can reopen the case against Webster if I find enough evidence. But they’re going to prosecute this guy who took the fall. The look of him, he won’t survive a year in prison.’

  ‘Meanwhile, he’s free to kidnap other children?’

  ‘I don’t think he’ll be doing that, love.’

  She gave a fiery glare. ‘You told me he was some sort of assassin?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So he’ll be killing people?’

  Fenchurch could only shrug.

  In the living room, Chloe was dancing Al on her lap. She spotted Fenchurch and smiled, making Baby Al wave at them.

  Abi waved back at her children, but the fire stayed in her voice. ‘This’ll be all over the papers, won’t it?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘She’s making good progress and… This could derail her.’

  Fenchurch scratched his head. ‘I’ll tell her in the morning.’ He took off his jacket, the knife in the pocket hitting his hip. ‘Tonight, I almost…’

  ‘Almost what?’

  ‘Had a pizza.’

  Abi laughed. ‘Carbs won’t kill you.’

  ‘Feels like it sometimes.’ Fenchurch leaned over and gave her a kiss. ‘I’ll tell her tomorrow, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  Fenchurch walked through to the living room and took Al from his daughter. ‘Who’s for a pizza?’

  Chloe joined him, standing. ‘Even with your diet, Dad?’

  Day 2

  Wednesday, 4th October

  23

  ‘—ming up next is a real stone-cold classic from Ocean Colour Scene.’

  Fenchurch reached over and turned off the kitchen radio just as the jerky guitar riff kicked in. ‘That’s quite enough of that.’

  ‘I like that song.’ Abi was bottle-feeding Baby Al at the head of the table, still piled with empty pizza boxes.

  ‘It’s not a song, it’s…’ Fenchurch went back to stirring the porridge. Just about done. He took it off the heat and got three bowls out of the cupboard. ‘Never mind.’

  Chloe padded through, staring at her phone, and sat at the far end of the table, brushing a hand through her hair.

  Abi frowned at her. ‘What’s up, love?’

  Chloe scowled at her mother, then her father, then poured a cup of tea from the pot.

  ‘Chloe?’ Abi pulled the bottle away from Al, then sniffed. ‘He needs changing.’ She raised her eyebrows, first at Fenchurch, then at Chloe. ‘Fine, I’ll do it.’

  Fenchurch tried to stop her. ‘Love, I’ll do it.’

  ‘You’ve got work, haven’t you?’

  ‘You say that like it’s a bad thing.’

  ‘It is. You’re supposed to be off this week. Like I am. You know how hard it was for me to get that time off.’ Abi got up, jiggling Baby Al as she kissed Fenchurch on the cheek, hugging him tight. ‘It’s fine.’ She left them to it, singing a lullaby as she went.

  Fenchurch took two bowls of porridge over to the table, putting the smaller one to Chloe. ‘Here’s my carbs for the day.’ He burped. ‘God, that pizza’s repeating on me something rotten.’

  ‘Gross, Dad.’ Chloe stayed focused on her phone.

  ‘What’s up?’

  Chloe slathered her porridge in maple syrup and rested her spoon on the edge of the bowl. ‘When were you going to tell me about Desmond Webster?’

  Fenchurch put his bowl to the side. ‘Listen, I—’

  ‘The guy who took me is out on the street?’ Chloe clenched her fists. ‘You should’ve told me.’ She brushed her long hair to the side, revealing the long scar above her ear. ‘You didn’t think I should know about him getting released yesterday?’ She dropped her spoon onto the table. ‘He’s out, Dad! Out there, somewhere. Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘You said he’d be going away!’ Chloe waved her mobile around. ‘The case collapsed! What happened?’

  ‘I’m going to get him, love. One way or another.’

  ‘Is this what you and Mum were talking about last night? Through here? Thinking I wouldn’t know something was going on?’

  ‘Partly. I will catch him.’

  ‘Listen to me.’ Chloe drilled her gaze into him. ‘I’m sick of secrets and lies, and you guys hiding things from me. Okay? I’m sick fed up of being this weak girl in your eyes.’

  ‘You’re not—’

  ‘Dad, I get that you want to protect me. But I need to stand on my own two feet. If I can’t trust you, then—’

  ‘You can trust us.’

  ‘How? You didn’t tell me!’

  ‘Chloe, I…’ Fenchurch blew on his tea, making the surface ripple. ‘I wanted to make sure you slept well last night.’

  ‘But he’s out there!’

  ‘And he’ll come nowhere near you.’ Fenchurch dipped his spoon into his porridge bowl. ‘I want to protect you. Always have, always will. But I don’t want to smother you.’ He reached over, offering her his hand. ‘But I will do everything in my power to bring Webster to justice. For what he did to you, to your mother and me, and for whatever else he’s done. I want him off the streets. Everything I do is to protect you, okay? I’m sorry if it’s overbearing — if it’s stifling — but I can’t help it.’

  She took his hand. ‘Thanks.’ She took a spoonful of porridge and blew on it. ‘Are you confident you’ll get him?’

  ‘Your auntie Kay and I will do everything we can to take him down.’

  ‘At least she won’t make an arse of it.’ Chloe ate the porridge, her teeth clanking off the spoon.

  ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’ Fenchurch took a mouthful. ‘You need a lift to university?’

  ‘Mum’s driving me.’

  ‘What about tonight? Need a lift home.’

  ‘Thanks but no. I’m going to go for a drink with a couple of the girls I work with.’

  ‘That sounds good.’

  ‘It is, Dad.’

  ‘So where does that leave us?’ Fenchurch sipped tea from the paper cup. His office was cold, like the heating was still on the summer setting. ‘Kay?’

  DS Kay Reed sat opposite, fiddling with her short ponytail, just about long enough again to tie up. ‘Well.’ She rifled through her notebook. ‘I didn’t work the original case, so I’ve got a fresh pair of eyes on it. I started on the file first thing. As far as I can tell, we’ve got precious few leads.’

  DS Uzma Ashkani perched on her chair with perfect poise, like she was doing yoga. She smiled, betraying how much she liked herself. ‘That’s not exactly what he wanted to hear, Kay.’

  ‘Sorry, but it’s the truth.’ Reed leaned back with a sigh. ‘I’m not sure where else we can look.’

  Ashkani snorted a laugh. ‘There’s a whole raft of—’

  The door creaked open and the mail lad slipped in — skinny and tall. Most days, he had a quip about West Ham, either results or fixtures or possible transfers. Nothing today, just a letter. ‘Alright, mate?’

  ‘Cheers.’ Fenchurch took it off him and waited for the door to shut before opening it.

  Bloody hell, that was quick.

  The Acting DCI position, a contract in black and white. A slight salary bump, enough for a week away.

  God knows we need one.

  ‘What’s that?’ Ashkani was frowning at him.

 
; Fenchurch stuffed the letter in his drawer. ‘Both of you should be aware that I’m now Acting DCI.’

  ‘Congrats.’ Reed gave him a wink.

  ‘Well done.’ Ashkani’s smile was cold. ‘So, will there be an Acting DI?’

  Always the same with her…

  ‘I’ll discuss that with Superintendent Loftus.’ Fenchurch finished his tea and chucked the cup in the recycling bin. ‘Until then, you two are front and centre on this case, okay?’

  ‘And what is that case? Going after a man who was cleared yesterday?’ Ashkani rolled her eyes. ‘I was in that interview, Simon. Neale has another suspect for this, one who’s confessed. With a witness backing up his story.’

  ‘You believe Oldham?’

  ‘You don’t?’

  ‘I could list a million reasons why I don’t think Oldham killed Amelia.’

  ‘I’ve got three reasons that he did. A confession, another statement, and the forensics.’

  Reed tossed her notebook onto the desk and sneered at her. ‘It’s always the—’

  ‘Kay.’ Fenchurch shot Reed a warning, got her to back off. He focused on Ashkani, trying to keep his expression neutral. ‘Uzma, Loftus wants us to validate the story. Okay?’

  ‘It feels very much like you’re going after the man you believe kidnapped your daughter.’

  Fenchurch lost any neutrality in his expression. ‘Kay, I need you to go through all of the existing evidence against Webster. Every single item, check there’s nothing we’ve missed. And go through everything we’ve got on Oldham. Historical shit, plus his recent movements.’

  Reed grabbed her notebook and stabbed her pen against the page as she wrote. ‘Okay…’ She looked over at Ashkani, then at Fenchurch. ‘And what are you two going to do?’

  ‘Someone’s got to break the news to Amelia’s sister.’

  Fenchurch tried the buzzer and waited. Brick Lane bustled around them. Two Asian men lugged bags full of shopping down the street, kicking a door to a curry house to be let in. In the other direction, a gaggle of hipsters hung around outside a bagel shop, sipping coffees from small cups.