Kill the Messenger

by Ed James

  ‘I thought a vegan couldn’t eat cheese?’

  ‘Well.’ Ashkani shrugged and kept chewing. ‘There’s nothing much mmf mmf at base. Though mmf mmf probably mmf you.’

  ‘Probably what?’

  ‘Kill you, sir.’ Ashkani held the slice in front of her mouth. ‘She’s climbing the walls. All that CCTV.’

  Lisa Bridge. Right.

  Ashkani folded the slice in half and took another bite. ‘I did some digging into Kirk Naughton. Spoke to his probation officer. Reckons he’s clean.’

  ‘You agree with him?’

  ‘Her. She said nothing to make me disagree.’

  ‘But nothing either way on Kirk?’

  ‘Right.’ Ashkani put the crust back in the box and took another slice. ‘Starving.’

  ‘You okay to do this, then?’

  Ashkani bit into a slice. ‘Mmf mmf fine.’

  They passed a Shell on the right, followed by an almost-adjacent Esso. Fenchurch gestured at a cemetery on the left, rows upon rows of tombstones basking in the fresh wash of sunshine. ‘That’s where Docherty’s buried.’

  Savage took his eyes off the road to focus on Fenchurch. ‘You okay?’

  What I’d give to bring him back… To stop the cancer eating away at him.

  ‘Here we go.’ Savage powered on down the road and pointed at a betting shop just round the bend. ‘Zamir runs it as a cover.’ He pulled up in a spot that gave a decent-enough view of the shop.

  The sort of chain bookies you’d find anywhere. Grimy decor, loud adverts in the window. Two punters lurked outside, smoking and chatting. A cluster of cars and vans outside. Maybe they belonged to the gamblers still chatting away, still smoking.

  Or maybe not.

  Fenchurch waved at a van, Shrimper Flowers. ‘Well, there’s a Southend connection right there.’

  Savage squinted at it. ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘Southend United’s nickname is the Shrimpers.’

  ‘Shit.’ Savage got out onto the street, heading over to the van.

  Bloody hell…

  Fenchurch got out and tracked behind him, catching him at the van. A florist’s, with a giant cartoon shrimp holding a bouquet of flowers. Really badly done. ‘What’s up, Howard?’

  ‘This is how Derek’s lot suspect they distribute the coke. Flowers and plants.’ Savage slapped a hand on his bald head. ‘Bloody football.’

  One of the smokers kept looking at Savage. He wore a navy polo shirt with the betting shop’s logo embroidered in pale yellow. Not a punter, but an employee.

  And maybe even an employee of Savage, one set on blowing his cover.

  Inside the shop, a man peered out at them through the smoked-glass entrance. Evil eyes, narrowed. He came out onto the street. Guy was like he was cut from granite, and a big slab of it at that. Squared-off shoulders, bulging muscles, and the sort of neck you just couldn’t strangle, no matter how hard you tried. ‘Can I help you, gents?’ Slight accent to his Estuary English.

  Savage pointed at the shrimp cartoon. ‘This your van?’

  ‘It’s a mate’s.’ He pointed at the other smoker, the one in overalls. ‘Tell him, Dave.’

  ‘That’s right. You want some pansies, or something?’

  Savage stepped closer. ‘Zamir Selinaj, isn’t it?’

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ Zamir frowned at Savage, then at his employee. ‘Wait, I know you.’ He nodded, then again. ‘You and Stefan here, I’ve seen you, ain’t I?’

  ‘Sir, this is—’

  ‘No, this is bullshit.’ Zamir rounded on Stefan, towering over him. ‘You Old Bill, are you?’

  ‘Come on, mate. I’m—’

  ‘You’re filth!’ Zamir pushed him back against the flower van. ‘You think you can get something out of me, eh?’

  ‘Stop!’ Savage reached into his pocket. ‘I’m a police officer, sir. We need a—’

  Zamir snapped a punch at Savage and sent him flying across the van’s bonnet. Zamir pinned him down, wrapping his long fingers around Savage’s throat. Savage struggled, trying to reach Zamir’s own throat, but the big man had him where he wanted.

  Stefan, the employee, lurched to Savage’s defence, but Dave, the overalls guy, took him out with a trip.

  Fenchurch launched himself at Zamir, fists raised. He caught an elbow in the face and bounced off the side, sliding down until he crunched off the pavement.

  Dave grabbed Fenchurch’s collar and pulled him up. Then crumpled into a heap, with Stefan standing over him.

  Heavy footsteps pounded away from them, Zamir running off, past the bookies and the row of shops.

  Got to get him.

  Savage was sitting up, dizzy and swaying around.

  ‘Stay with him!’ Fenchurch got up and ran after Zamir, tugging his phone out of his pocket as he gave chase. He hit dial and put it to his ear. ‘Control, this is DI Fenchurch. Send an ambulance to my location.’ He rounded the end of the row and stopped. No sign of Zamir.

  Shit, where the hell is he?

  Fenchurch continued on down the road, slowly, still searching the place.

  Zamir was in the cemetery, his straight-backed run pounding through the gravestones, laser focused on getting the fuck out of there.

  Fenchurch hopped the low fence and sprinted after him, his throat on fire as he powered past the first row of graves, a much straighter row than the one Zamir was on. Fenchurch slipped onto the grass edge to dampen his footsteps and knew he’d catch Zamir where the paths merged if he just sped up that little bit. And he dived forward, crunching into Zamir with a rugby tackle.

  Zamir went down, but slipped out of Fenchurch’s grasp. He rolled over, onto the grass, and used a grave to haul himself up. He kicked Fenchurch, connecting with his arm.

  Fenchurch swept out with his feet, but Zamir jumped, landing on Fenchurch’s ankle with a sickening crunch.

  Then he went down in a blur.

  Savage lay on top of Zamir, heavily out of breath, and grabbed his wrist, pressing him face-first into the grass. ‘We should never have approached that shop.’

  ‘Well, we’ve got him now.’ Fenchurch limped over and passed his cuffs to Savage. ‘He assaulted you, so he’s going down for that.’

  Zamir was a dead weight. Savage couldn’t shift him.

  Fenchurch tried to help, gripping the big man’s armpit and hauling him up to standing. ‘Come on, sunshine, let’s get you somewhere nice and warm.’

  ‘I’m going nowhere.’ Zamir slumped against a gravestone, focusing his reptilian gaze on Fenchurch. ‘Staying right here.’

  Fenchurch crouched in front of him. ‘You know anything about Casey Nicholas?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘She died last night. Could be a gangland hit, or it could be one of you Albanians doing some sort of blood feud shenanigans. Either way, you’re in the frame for it, matey boy.’

  ‘You can’t do this to me.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Fenchurch pointed back towards the bookies. ‘Just wait till I get into that van and find all that lovely heroin.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Coke?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘People?’

  ‘No.’ Zamir laughed. ‘I tell you, my friend, if you want to get some good cocaine, speak to Adrian at Mario’s Pizza. He will sort you out. He’s selling drugs. I hear you can just go in there and buy them off him. At the table. Very simple process. Keeps it in the family.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, he’s Mario’s son, isn’t he?’

  31

  Blue lights danced off the bookmaker’s, which was surrounded by squad cars and an army of uniformed officers. One of them dipped Zamir’s head as he pushed him into the back seat.

  Savage seemed to relax, his shoulders slumping. ‘This isn’t how I wanted it to play out.’

  ‘Didn’t think it would be.’ Fenchurch leaned against Savage’s car, arms folded. ‘How long have you been after him?’
/>   ‘Two years.’ Savage shook his head. ‘We’ve got nowhere near enough evidence to put him away.’

  ‘He assaulted you, Howard. The old Al Capone trick. If you can’t get him for people-trafficking, drugs, prostitution, you can at least get him off the streets.’

  Savage nodded slowly. ‘Trouble is, he’ll still control things from in there.’

  ‘But it’ll inconvenience him. Try and take this as a win.’

  Savage laughed. ‘You’re right.’ He smiled across at Stefan, doling out orders to some uniform. ‘Steve there knows where some of the bodies are buried. The florists too. We might get something there.’

  ‘That’s more like it.’ Fenchurch clapped him on the back. Made him wince. ‘So, what’s the plan?’

  ‘Well…’ Savage exhaled. ‘I’m going to tail that car to ESB, along with at least five others. I want make sure nothing happens on the way.’

  ‘And that bombshell about Mario?’

  ‘You believe it?’

  Fenchurch shrugged. ‘We need proof.’

  ‘I’ll let you take lead on that.’ Savage set off towards his car. ‘Catch you later.’

  Fenchurch leaned back against the wall and got out his phone. He had a few missed calls from Loftus, but he dialled another number. He set off towards his car. And realised Savage had driven. He flagged down a uniform and held out his hand for the keys.

  ‘Guv?’ Reed, sounded like she was in an office somewhere.

  ‘Kay, need to meet you at that factory in Hackney.’ Fenchurch got behind the wheel of a Volvo. ‘Bring a hunting party.’

  Mario’s factory wasn’t in Hackney at all. One of the few remaining warehouses in Harringay that wasn’t turned into a loft. Triangular roofs, the right-angled peaks off-centre. The sign above the door read Espo International, but Fenchurch couldn’t miss it. Place was swarming with uniformed officers, a few shifty plainclothes guilty by association.

  Fenchurch got out of the squad Volvo and tossed the keys to an older uniform. ‘Make sure this gets back to Barking station.’

  ‘That’ll be tough.’ The uniform smirked. ‘Closed it, didn’t they?’

  Fenchurch grunted at him. ‘Well, get it to Dagenham or Romford or wherever the hell it’s come from.’

  ‘Sir.’ He pocketed the keys, but didn’t look like he was going anywhere in a hurry.

  Fenchurch walked over to the factory, calling Loftus. He bounced the call yet again. Fenchurch marched over to the door, shoving his warrant card into the face of the bum-fluffed uniform guarding the door. ‘DS Reed around?’

  ‘She’s inside, sir.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Fenchurch entered the factory, stepping back into the Eighties. Bare brick walls on three sides, the fourth a pair of wooden doors either end of a security desk. The guard was chatting to a pair of uniforms. The left door read MANAGER’S OFFICE so Fenchurch took that.

  Inside, Spencer was going through paperwork. He looked over with a smile that turned into a frown.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘DCI Savage told me to get out here.’

  Fenchurch got up close. ‘Well, I’m telling you to bloody clear off.’

  ‘You know where to look, do you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was undercover in this organisation for a year. I know where they keep stuff.’ Spencer stood his ground, puffing his chest out. ‘You honestly think Zamir’s telling the truth? That Mario is Adrian’s old man?’

  ‘I don’t know, son. I like evidence. Earlier, you said his place was clean.’

  ‘It is. Spotless. Adrian’s cleaned up.’

  ‘Just because it’s not baked into the crusts any more, doesn’t mean Adrian wasn’t dealing, wasn’t selling it at the tables.’ Fenchurch took a step closer. ‘Did you know?’

  ‘Of course I didn’t.’ Spencer stared at the floor. ‘I’ve been stuck behind a desk, ain’t I?’

  Fenchurch took another step and grabbed Spencer’s shirt, the material bunching around his fist. ‘This pizza business was a front for people-trafficking. Drugs, prostitution. Assuming Adrian is still selling coke and ketamine from that restaurant, then either you know and you’re involved, or you don’t know and you’re incapable of doing your job.’

  ‘Guv!’ Reed pushed them apart, and split Spencer off. ‘What the hell?’

  ‘Kay, I’ve been looking for you. What is he doing here?’

  ‘Savage’s orders.’

  ‘I want him out of here.’

  ‘Guv, he’s been helpful.’ Reed held out a document, shaking it like a lawyer in the Old Bailey. ‘Proof. Adrian is Mario’s son.’

  Fenchurch took the page and scanned it. ‘Go on?’

  ‘Adrian Hall’s not his real name. It’s Adriano Esposito. His mum remarried, I think. Changed his name.’ Reed nodded at the page. ‘Ownership deeds for the restaurant, plus this place. Adrian was co-owner, fifty-fifty split with his old man. Then last summer, just after Flick Knife died, Mario switched full ownership of this place to Adrian. Made it appear to be a sale, but I doubt we’ll find a financial transaction.’

  Fenchurch tried to process it. He turned on Spencer, pinning him against the grubby wall without touching him. ‘How much do you know?’

  ‘Nothing!’

  Fenchurch focused on Reed. ‘This is a complete disaster, Kay. Get him out of here and keep him away.’

  Mario’s Pizza was still open, still trading. The lights glowed in the lingering lunchtime gloom as a young couple inspected the menu, no doubt trying to decide where to spend their precious pennies on their one date-night meal out this week. Maybe this month. It wasn’t to be here — she was pointing inside and scowling, her ski-jump nose twitching. Her boyfriend grabbed her hand and they waltzed off in search of somewhere else.

  Their absence gave Fenchurch a better view of the restaurant, of Adrian Hall working the front of house.

  And selling drugs, if Zamir was to be believed.

  Fenchurch opened the back door of Ashkani’s car and slid in. ‘Evening, Jon.’

  ‘Nice to see you, Simon.’ Nelson stayed focused on the restaurant, chewing away.

  Fenchurch reached between Nelson and Ashkani to grab a slice of pizza out of the box. ‘Well, Adrian is Mario’s son.’ He held the slice ready to eat, his mouth watering. ‘Kay found proof.’

  Nelson shared a look with Ashkani then craned round to stare at him. ‘Broadfoot said him and Savage are going to interview Zamir.’

  ‘Two DCIs in an interview…’ Fenchurch laughed. ‘They’ll spend the first hour figuring out how to switch on the recorder.’

  Over the road, Adrian opened the door and passed some pizzas to a delivery driver. A man on a moped, old and fat.

  Ashkani pointed at him. ‘He’s clearly not a prostitute.’

  ‘Rule thirty-four.’

  She scowled at Nelson. ‘What?’

  ‘Rule thirty-four of the internet.’ Nelson finished chewing his pizza. ‘If it exists, there’s porn of it. Someone somewhere will get off on fat men on mopeds.’

  ‘Jesus, Jon. You need to get away from the drugs squad before they eat the rest of your soul.’

  ‘It’s not all bad.’ Nelson pointed at Mario’s. ‘Think we should arrest Adrian?’ He chewed. Sloppy eating noises came from the back seat. ‘This is really good pizza. The guy’s got a gift.’

  Fenchurch reached round to take a second slice. Slightly burnt, but it was really good pizza. ‘Him being Mario’s son is one thing. Means it’s more likely that he’s continued to deal after we took him down. But it’d be useful if we had something else on him.’

  ‘Thing is, our snouts tell us someone round here’s dealing coke, ketamine, heroin, MDMA, spice, you name it.’ Nelson took another bite. ‘Just not got a name.’

  ‘So it could be Adrian?’

  ‘Right.’

  Fenchurch took his time chewing his pizza. ‘You want to move now?’

  ‘Waiting on Broadfoot’s orders.’

 
; ‘So we’re just sitting around, waiting?’

  ‘About the size of it.’ More chewing. ‘You got anything to drink?’

  ‘This isn’t a drive-through, Jon.’

  ‘You bastard.’ Nelson stared out of the window.

  Over the lane, a man left the restaurant, rubbing his nose, snorting.

  Fenchurch recognised him, but couldn’t quite place him. ‘Jon, who’s that?’

  ‘The geezer who bought coke from Mario.’ Nelson leaned across Ashkani, pressing her back in the driver’s seat. ‘Had a stuffed-crust pizza, didn’t he? Chicken and banana or something. Lived down by St Kath’s Docks, remember?’

  ‘The gym bunny.’ Fenchurch nodded. ‘Colin Dunston.’

  Nelson clicked his fingers. ‘That’s him.’

  Dunston stopped in the street, patting his suit jacket pocket a few times, like he was searching for some lost family heirloom. He seemed to relax as he set off down the lane, heading towards home.

  ‘Tenner says he’s been buying some product.’ Nelson opened the back door. ‘Stay here and keep eyes on Adrian. I’ll tail Dunston, then arrest him.’ The door clicked shut.

  And I’ll just sit here. A DCI, staking out a pizza restaurant. SIO, my big hairy arse.

  His phone blasted out the crashing opening of that Who track. He answered it before the second beat. ‘Sir.’

  Loftus yawned. Sounded like he was outside somewhere. ‘Listen, I’m out at ESB and Savage is still interviewing this Zamir character.’

  ‘Getting anywhere?’

  ‘Lawyer’s obfuscating things.’ Loftus sighed down the line. ‘Do you believe that Zamir’s behind this?’

  ‘Could be.’ Fenchurch played it through. ‘We know there’s a connection to an Albanian gang. People-smugglers, drug dealers. When Zamir spotted Savage, he knocked his block off. It was brutal. You don’t do that if you’re innocent.’

  ‘I’d expect a professional approach. Deny it, get lawyers involved. Not violence.’

  ‘We spooked him. It was an accident, sir.’

  ‘Still, I don’t like him just telling you that information. Feels staged.’ Loftus’s breath rattled the speaker. ‘Despite acting like the big man earlier, let’s just say that I’ve got orders to defer to Drugs on certain matters.’ Another sigh, deeper. ‘And to Howard ruddy Savage on anything pertaining to Mario’s Pizza.’ Sounded like Loftus was smoking, sucking a deep drag into his lungs. ‘Don’t you ever want to take a nice, quiet job out in the countryside? Get away from all the politics and the games?’