by Ed James
‘Every five minutes, sir.’
A female delivery driver cycled up to the front door and hopped off her bike. Adrian opened the front door and gave her a stack of pizzas. He watched her go, taking a moment to himself as he looked up and down the lane.
‘I’ve got eyes on Adrian Hall. I want to bring him in, sir. At the least, he’s got information. Given we know he’s Mario’s son, his involvement in Amelia’s murder seems a lot likelier. Possibly Casey’s too.’
‘Stay put until Howard gives us confirmation. And I need you to await further instruction from DCI Broadfoot’s team. DI Nelson should be there.’
‘Already been here, sir. Aside from eating most of my pizza, he’s chasing down a fresh lead.’
‘I know it’s difficult taking orders from someone who was once a subordinate—’
‘It’s not that, sir. Someone bought drugs from there.’
‘Proof?’
‘Maybe. I just—’
‘Stay there.’ Another drag. ‘I’ll keep you apprised, Inspector.’ And he was gone.
Fenchurch stared at his phone. So much for being an Acting DCI.
The restaurant door opened with a tinkle and two men left, hands in pockets, locked in a deep conversation. No sign of any drugs on them.
Fenchurch clutched his mobile tight, keeping a watch on Mario’s. His legs were locking. Need to get out and stretch. He rubbed at his quads, finding a tight knot halfway down. A few seconds of pressing and it popped. Bliss.
Ashkani scowled at him. ‘That doesn’t sound good.’
‘It’s very far from good, Uzma.’ Fenchurch let the relief wash over him. ‘We’re getting nowhere fast. How do you see this?’
‘If you’re asking me my advice, I say let Jon Nelson do most of the damage, sir. Then you can take the glory.’
‘Not my style.’ Fenchurch leaned back and tried to massage some energy into his dead legs.
That Nirvana song blared out. The one from the second album, with the name he could never remember, not even when he read it. Nelson loved it, though. Fenchurch answered it.
Nelson was out of breath. ‘Simon, I’ve arrested Dunston outside his office.’
‘Quick work.’
‘He’s a fast walker.’ Some muffled shouting in the background. ‘Got a pair of uniforms taking him back to Leman Street just now. I swear, the quantity he’s got on him, it’s like he was going to deal.’
‘To his colleagues?’
‘Maybe. Even though he got off with a warning last time, this is twenty grams of coke and at least the same in ketamine. Like I say, dealing.’
‘He say where he got it?’
‘Guy’s hardened and smart. Not even said “no comment”.’
Fenchurch rasped the stubble on his head. ‘Broadfoot want us to move on Adrian yet?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Come on, Jon.’
‘He’s speaking to Loftus and Savage now. I’ll let you know, okay?’
‘Well, keep me updated.’ Fenchurch killed the call, but held onto the phone.
Fenchurch spotted Adrian through the restaurant window, nodding his head in time to the music blasting out of the open door. He pulled on a heavy coat and scarf, then left, heading off along the lane away from them.
‘Sod it.’ Fenchurch opened his door and got out. ‘Stay here, Uzma. Something’s spooked him.’
‘Still got eyes on him, Jon.’ Fenchurch weaved through heavy foot traffic, keeping a good distance behind Adrian, twenty or so metres ahead. He followed along Goulston Street, passing the spot where Amelia was killed all those months ago.
Adrian acted like nothing had happened or like he’d blotted it out of his mind. He crossed the road, heading for Aldgate East tube.
Where are you going?
Fenchurch stopped, waiting on the traffic island.
Adrian passed the tube entrance and cut down Leman Street.
Fenchurch let out a sigh of relief. ‘He’s heading to the station.’
Nelson sounded out of breath down the phone line. ‘Aldgate East?’
‘No, I mean Leman Street. I told him to give a statement. Maybe he’s listened.’
‘Is he going to confess? Maybe he knows that Dunston’s been nicked so he’s going to give it all up. Shit. He can’t know…’
‘Not the first time we’d have a leak, Jon.’ Fenchurch rounded the corner and spotted Adrian taking a side lane behind the construction site. ‘He’s not heading to the station.’
Nelson groaned.
Fenchurch quickened his pace, the wind rattling down the lane between the two-metre high boards and the adjacent building, a Sixties tower currently being renovated by the site’s developer.
Adrian paused halfway along and looked behind him.
Fenchurch knelt down to tie his laces, resting his mobile on the slabs. Gave himself a count of three, then he looked back up.
No sign of Adrian.
Shit!
‘I’ve lost him, Jon.’ Fenchurch jogged along the lane, bursting out onto Commercial Road, busy with vans and lorries.
Adrian was jogging over the road, narrowly missing being clipped by a white van. He set off down a back street.
‘It’s okay, Jon. He’s going to his flat.’ Fenchurch rounded the van, waiting for a car to power past on the other lane. ‘Any orders from on high?’
Nelson paused, voices muffled in the background. ‘Broadfoot says take him.’
‘Just as well I followed him, isn’t it?’ Fenchurch set off into a run and shot off down the street.
Adrian stood in the path leading to his flat. He turned towards Fenchurch. ‘You stalking me or something?’
‘I need a word with you down the station, sir.’ Fenchurch grabbed his coat and walked him away from the block of flats, onto the wide pavement. ‘Thought you were on your way to the police station, but no.’
Adrian stopped dead, his gaze shooting around the street. ‘I ain’t done nothing!’
‘Oh yeah?’ Fenchurch blocked his exit. ‘We had a little chat with your mate. Zamir. Said you’re dealing drugs from the restaurant.’
‘Complete bollocks. I told you, Zamir’s been coming in and threatening me. Asking for protection money.’
‘We arrested Colin Dunston. It’s over.’
Adrian slumped back against the garden gate.
‘We know you’re Mario’s son.’
Adrian looked up, the relief of years of lies and extortion seeming to ease off his shoulders.
‘Come on.’ Fenchurch grabbed his shoulder and led him down the street.
Adrian elbowed Fenchurch in the guts, pushing him over onto his knees. Something hit the back of Fenchurch’s skull, something hard, and he stumbled forward, struggling to stay upright. He tripped and fell, smacking his head off the pavement.
Adrian sprinted off, heading back the way they’d come.
A loud crack and Adrian fell over.
A gunshot. Came from behind.
Fenchurch pushed up to standing, dizzy, wheeling around like he was on a waltzer. Everything was a blur.
Another shot. Then another.
Adrian lay on the pavement at his feet. Blood spilled onto the slabs, his head burst open like a dropped melon. A crimson stain spread out from his heart, soaking his beige coat.
Movement to the left.
Fenchurch wheeled round, swaying.
Someone got on a bike.
But the world spun and Fenchurch fell forward again. He tried, but just couldn’t make them out.
The bike sped off.
Fenchurch tried to get up, but landed on the ground, the concrete biting at his cheek.
Everything went black.
32
‘Simon?’ Ashkani loomed over him, her mouth open. ‘Are you okay?’
Fenchurch tried to stand up, but stumbled back again. His skull felt like it’d been caved in, but he couldn’t feel any damage. He looked back at Adrian’s house, breathing hard. At the body on the ground. At
the pool of blood. ‘What the hell happened?’
God, I sound wasted.
‘I was just behind you… I saw it all.’
‘It’s okay, Uzma.’ Fenchurch got up at the fourth attempt. Had to brace himself against the wall.
‘Simon…’ She grabbed him in a hug, wrapping herself around him. ‘He was shot in front of me. Of us.’
‘Hey…’ Fenchurch tried to step away, but she was clinging tight. He saw fragility in her eyes, misted by tears. ‘Why did Webster kill him?’
‘You saw Desmond Webster?’
‘I… I don’t know who I saw.’ Fenchurch’s head thudded. ‘Did you see them?’
Her hands balled into fists. ‘I…’ She shook her head. ‘I just saw Adrian fall over. You were in the way. I…’ She brushed away her tears and sucked in a breath. She stared at him, her steely resolve reappearing. ‘Simon, you’ve been concussed, you need to get to hospital.’
Fenchurch focused on the body in the doorway.
I need to find out who killed him and why.
A wound had opened Adrian’s skull. A second in the windpipe. Then a third over the heart.
Jesus. Like there’s any doubt about who did it.
He turned to Ashkani. ‘I need to bring Webster in.’ He called Savage.
‘We’re sorry, but—’
Fenchurch held the mobile away from his head, listening for the beep. ‘Howard, it’s Simon, call me back immediately.’
He fired off a text:
CALL ME. URGENT.
Fenchurch pocketed his phone and swayed. He set off towards the main road.
Ashkani grabbed him. ‘You’re going nowhere except hospital.’
Fenchurch stared at her for a few seconds. ‘Fine, but I need you to manage this crime scene.’
Fenchurch blinked hard. The light disappeared, leaving a ghost circle in his vision. Then it shone into his other eye. He struggled against shutting his eyelids, against even blinking.
The doctor removed her thumb from his cheek and let his blink reflex return. ‘Okay, well, you’re not concussed.’
Fenchurch shut his eyes until both circles of light faded. He reopened them, blinking quickly.
The doctor sat back, legs crossed. ‘But you’ve got to stop doing this to yourself.’
‘It’s other people doing it to me.’
‘I’m not being funny. You’re a police officer, you’re not a prop forward. Take better care of yourself and you can keep going, otherwise you’ll have to retire early. And it won’t be much of a retirement. No long cruises or pottering in the garden. You’ll be limping to the toilet in the middle of the night. Sitting on the settee all day, watching golf.’
‘Point taken.’
‘You’re not listening, are you?’
‘I am, it’s just…’ Fenchurch got up. Had to stabilise himself on the edge of the bed. But the fug was clear, just an aching pain at the back of his skull. He patted it, felt a cricket ball lump there. Someone certainly hit me for six… He looked over at the doctor, tried to give her a serious stare, make her accept what he was saying. ‘There’s a killer out there and I’ve got to catch them.’
‘You don’t have to solve every single crime in London, you know?’
‘Feels like it.’ Fenchurch gave her a smile as he grabbed his jacket. ‘I take your point, though. I’ll change. Promise.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ The doctor picked up her tablet computer. ‘Now, can I get someone to collect you?’
‘I’ll walk.’ Fenchurch swallowed hard. ‘It’s just round the corner and I could do with some fresh air.’
Cars and trucks still thundered past on the main road as Fenchurch walked back to the crime scene. His head felt like it was turned inside out.
Adrian’s street was filled with police vehicles and associated officers. The SOCO van was right outside, the flash bulb pulsing in the gloom. A pair of uniforms stood either end, managing entry through the wall of crime tape flapping in the breeze, a wide expanse blocking most of the street.
Fenchurch took a clipboard and signed in. He passed under the tape, catching his growing lump, making him gasp. The area around the house was split off again, the inner locus thrumming with suited SOCOs and William Pratt’s tell-tale stoop as he walked away. Guy must be getting fed up with all these bodies.
In the middle, a pair of SOCOs assembled a tent next to where Adrian Hall still stared up at the sky, a hole in his forehead and throat.
Assassinated. Webster’s hallmarks. His MO.
Ashkani left a uniform with a pat and came over. ‘You okay?’
‘I’m cleared for duty, if that’s what you’re asking.’ Fenchurch waved at the body. ‘Amelia, Casey and now Adrian. They all worked at Mario’s. Who paid Webster to kill them?’
Ashkani nodded along with his logic. ‘You’re sure it was Webster?’
‘He killed Amelia and Casey. Now Adrian. It’s him, I know. And he’s covering up for the bad guys. Last year, Adrian ordered a pizza, right? He lured Amelia Nicholas here so that Webster could murder her. Now he’s dead. Someone’s closing off loose ends.’
‘You want to speak to Webster again, don’t you?’
‘No. We’ve done that already and he’s got answers for everything. Alibis too. We need to build a case here.’
‘We’re getting nowhere with the CCTV.’ Ashkani turned back to the road. ‘No cameras on this street and the three nearest ones are all due for replacement before year end in April. Until then they’re broken, not recording anything.’
‘So whoever shot him just gets away?’
‘We could scan the whole area’s CCTV, but it won’t prove anything.’
‘Might give us some clues, though.’
‘Fine.’ She got out her mobile and tapped out a message. ‘Let’s see what it gives us.’ She put the phone away and stared at Fenchurch. ‘What now?’
‘Not sure.’ Fenchurch called Nelson, listening to the ringing. ‘Right, stay here and run things for me.’
‘What’s up?’
Fenchurch set off. ‘Need you to meet me at Belmarsh, Jon.’
Mario sat in his chair, all casual like he was back in his restaurant with a De Niro film playing, and not on remand for drug dealing, prostitution and people-trafficking.
Fenchurch waited for him to look across the table. ‘Mr Esposito, a man called Adrian Hall worked for you, didn’t he?’
‘Adrian? What’s he got to do with anything?’
‘Did he or didn’t he?’
Mario’s lips settled into a grimace. ‘He did, before all this cock and bullshit.’ He waved around the room, like it was his restaurant and not a prison interview room. ‘But now he runs the place for me.’
‘And Adriano’s your son, correct?’
Mario gripped the table edge like he was holding on for dear life. ‘What?’
‘We found some paperwork up at your office. You transferred the business into his name, made it look like he’d bought it.’
Mario slumped back in his chair, deflating like a punctured beach ball. ‘My boy… He took my wife’s new surname when we divorced. Bitch.’ He bared his teeth. ‘Adriana married this faccia di culo.’
‘I’ve watched the Sopranos.’ Fenchurch smiled at him. ‘Face like an arse, right?’
Mario shrugged. ‘My boy was fourteen when… when she, she left me and married this banker.’ Said with more venom than faccia di culo. ‘He made my boy change his name, tried to own my son. Adriano Esposito sounds magnificent. Adrian Hall sounds so vanilla. So plain.’
‘We know he’s been dealing drugs from the restaurant.’
‘That’s bullshit.’
‘We’ve got proof. Now, I need to know who you and your boy have been working for.’
Mario rasped the stubble on his chin. ‘Nobody.’
‘Not Zamir?’ Mario looked up. ‘Zamir Selinaj.’
‘I don’t know who you’re talking about.’
‘You got into bed with him. Knew exactly
what him and his gang were doing, didn’t you? Took the money, took your cut. You gave them cover. And your son helped.’ Mario stopped scratching, his mouth twitching. Still kept his peace. ‘These Albanians, the people behind this, they don’t just back off.’
‘I’m keeping quiet. I don’t want anyone going after my family.’
Fenchurch left a pause, let Mario think he’d won. ‘Sorry to be the one to tell you this, but Adrian’s dead.’
‘Shit on it…’ Mario collapsed back in his chair. He slouched forward, head in his hands. Tears filled his eyes, slid down his face. ‘How?’ He wiped at his cheeks. ‘How did this happen?’
‘He was shot outside his home.’
‘Who did it?’ Mario smashed a fist off the table. ‘Who did this to my boy?!’
‘Wondering if you had any ideas.’
‘I’ll kill them with my own hands!’
‘That’s going to quite difficult for you in here, sir.’
‘You’ve arrested someone?’
‘We have a few suspects.’
‘Desmond Webster, yes?’ Mario smashed a fist off the table again. ‘That… He… My son… My Adriano…’
Fenchurch gave him a few seconds space. ‘Why him?’
Mario kept quiet.
‘Tell me about Webster.’
‘He delivered pizzas. This, this Loco company, they sent him. But it’s all cover. He killed Amelia, drove that van into her.’
Fenchurch left him all the space he’d need.
‘We needed to cover our tracks, make it all go away. A series of accidents.’
‘We’ve got Zamir in custody. He’s no threat to you in here.’
‘It’s not him. He’s not behind this.’ Mario pleaded with him. ‘Listen to me, you need to catch Webster, you need to bring him down for what he’s done.’