Kill the Messenger

by Ed James

  Chloe stood over Holly, holding out an extended police baton. ‘You don’t shoot my father!’

  Holly scrambled to her feet.

  Chloe walked towards her, still gripping Fenchurch’s baton.

  ‘Stop!’ Fenchurch tried to stand, but his knee burnt with pain. Took three separate movements to get upright.

  Holly pulled out a knife. Fenchurch’s blade, catching the light. ‘Get back.’ She reached to the side and wheeled a bike over, a racer.

  Webster’s bike.

  Shit.

  It was tracking her. She was the killer.

  Chloe closed on her, the police baton raised.

  Holly held the knife out. ‘I trust my skill with this more than you should yours.’

  ‘Stop!’ Fenchurch hauled Chloe away from Holly. She struggled, kicking out, but he had her. His baton dropped to the ground.

  Holly got on the bike and cycled off, back to the front of the supermarket.

  Fenchurch watched her go, quickly losing her in the crowd of shoppers.

  ‘I had her…’ Chloe broke free. Looked like she wanted to race off after her.

  ‘Chloe.’ Fenchurch grabbed her arm. ‘I need you to go inside the store and wait for your auntie Kay, okay?’

  ‘But I want to help!’

  ‘No. You’ve already messed up.’

  She frowned. ‘Dad, I saved your life!’

  ‘Chloe! She was pointing a gun at me! Do you know how dangerous that was?’

  She stared at the ground, jaw clenched.

  ‘I told you to stay in the car and you should’ve, okay? Whatever happens to me, I don’t want your mother losing you again. You hear me?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Can I have my keys back?’

  She passed them. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be.’ Fenchurch walked her round to the front of the supermarket. ‘But tomorrow, I’m booking you into a self-defence course.’

  She followed him over to the entrance. A giant display pushed Terry’s Chocolate Orange at punters, getting ahead of the Christmas rush.

  ‘Wait inside, okay?’ Fenchurch jogged off, heading round the back, towards the compactor and started searching the place.

  Where the hell is the gun?

  38

  Fenchurch drove past Holly’s house, taking it slow. No sign of her bike, but the lights were on inside.

  Could she have got here quicker than me? She could’ve done Tower Bridge instead of the Rotherhithe tunnel. Five minutes faster. Maybe. And those bikes go at a fair old lick.

  Fenchurch parked and got out. Music played inside Holly’s house, Desmond Webster singing along to Tom Jones. He got out his mobile and checked for any missed calls. Nothing. So he called Pavel.

  ‘I’m still running it.’

  ‘It was instant last time.’

  Pavel huffed. ‘Having a bit of an issue just now.’

  ‘That’s very convenient.’

  ‘Do you want my help or not?’

  ‘So long as you actually help. I really need that location. Now.’

  ‘Fine. Webster’s bike is at his home address.’

  So she’s here.

  Fenchurch let out a deep breath. ‘That’s all I wanted to hear.’

  The phone rang. Reed.

  ‘I’ve got to go, but thanks.’ Fenchurch switched calls. ‘Kay, you okay?’

  ‘Guv, I’m with Chloe. She’s fine.’

  Fenchurch charged over to the gate and peered in the garden. No sign of her bike, no tell-tale wheel ruts in the fresh mud. ‘Take her to Leman Street, okay? And don’t let her out of your sight until Abi or I get there.’

  ‘Guv.’

  ‘Can you get a search going at the back of the store. Holly dropped a gun by the trash compactor. I need to know if she’s armed or not.’

  ‘Holly pulled a gun on you?’

  A car parked up behind him. Ashkani got out.

  ‘Kay, I’ll speak later.’ Fenchurch ended the call. ‘Thanks for coming. I appreciate it.’

  ‘No worries. Is she here?’

  ‘Not that I can see.’ Fenchurch snapped out his baton. ‘It’s all falling into place, Uzma. She had her old man’s bike. It wasn’t his movements we were tracking, but hers.’

  Ashkani snapped out her own baton. ‘Have you called in SCO19?’

  ‘On their way.’ Fenchurch looked around the street. ‘But I hate waiting.’

  A BMW saloon turned off the main road and headed their way, silver but marked with Met signage, a blue siren above. Low to the ground, like some drug dealer’s pimped-up ride, but that was just the modifications.

  ‘Speak of the devil.’ Fenchurch waved down the Armed Response Vehicle and waited for them to park up and get out. He showed his warrant card. ‘DI Fenchurch.’

  The two officers looked like the sort of couple you’d see in the gym, him pushing it hard on the weights, her pounding the treadmill to within an inch of its life.

  ‘She’s Sergeant Smith, I’m Constable Roberts.’ The male officer opened the boot and set about the armoury, enough guns to start a coup. He got out a Heckler & Koch assault rifle and passed it to his colleague. ‘You two firearms-trained?’

  Fenchurch passed him his warrant card.

  Roberts checked it and passed him a Glock pistol.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’ Roberts got out another carbine and wrapped the strap round his bulky shoulders. ‘What have we got here?’

  ‘Possibly armed suspect.’

  ‘Possibly?’

  ‘I’ve got someone searching for a pistol. She dropped it, but I couldn’t find it.’ Fenchurch pointed at the house. ‘Suspect might not be present, but I urgently need a lead on her whereabouts.’

  Roberts nodded at Ashkani. ‘Uzma, can you guard the street? Any approach, give a rasp on the Airwave.’ He tapped the radio mounted on his chest.

  She held hers out. ‘Got it, Glyn.’

  ‘Come on, then.’ Roberts pointed at the house and set off, breaking into a slow trot, but keeping low. He went left, Smith took the right, and they mapped out a wide pattern until they converged on the house. Roberts pointed at Fenchurch, then Ashkani, then held up a fist at ear level.

  Wait.

  Fenchurch gripped the pistol, his palms sweaty.

  Roberts headed round the side of the house, leaving Fenchurch with Smith. Seconds later, he was back. He pointed at Fenchurch then put two fingers up to his eyes.

  Look.

  Fenchurch followed his footsteps on the muddy garden and rounded the side of the terrace.

  Inside a new-looking lean-to shed, a shiny road bike rested against the house wall, the pale brick just catching the light. A Mizani Swift 500. This year’s model, too.

  ‘She’s here.’

  Roberts raised his hand and made a walking motion with his fingers, then led back to the front. He raised his eyebrows at Smith and made a gun with his thumb and forefinger, then pointed the thumb down and the finger at the house.

  Smith approached the door, training her gun on the glass. She took a sharp breath, then knocked on the wood.

  The door opened and Webster peered out. Tom Jones blasted out, loud as hell. ‘What the hell?’

  Smith trained the gun on his head. ‘Need access, sir.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ Webster nudged the door open. He wore his cycling gear, tight and garish. ‘What is it now?’

  Fenchurch aimed his pistol at Webster. ‘Where’s Holly?’

  ‘What?’ Webster scowled. ‘Well, you can piss off.’

  ‘She just pointed a gun at me.’ Fenchurch stepped closer to him. ‘Where the hell is she?’

  Webster moved aside to let Smith and Roberts past. ‘She won’t speak to you, you filth. Her head’s screwed on proper.’

  ‘She killed them, didn’t she? Casey and Adrian. Where is she?’

  ‘At work, you pillock. Sandy’s with her old man. I’ve got to head out.’

  ‘She’s been using yo
ur bike, hasn’t she?’

  Webster laughed. ‘Mate, I’ve got to work tonight. Those cheese toasties won’t deliver themselves.’ He peered back into the living room.

  Smith reappeared. ‘House is clear, sir.’

  ‘Okay.’ Fenchurch set off and got out his mobile, hitting dial as he paced up the path. ‘Tammy, it’s Fenchurch.’

  ‘Can this wait? It’s just, I’ve got a ballistics expert coming in to—’

  ‘It’s urgent and you’re going to need that expert. I need you to get a team over to an address off Mile End Road, urgently. I’ll text you it. Need you to search the property. You’re searching for any loose-fit cycling gear. The suspect was wearing it when she shot the victim.’

  ‘She?’

  ‘Could be male clothing. Check it for residue, that kind of thing.’

  ‘I’ll send someone.’

  ‘Make it your best officers.’ Fenchurch joined Ashkani on the street. ‘Where the hell is she?’

  Ashkani frowned. ‘His bike’s here, right?’

  ‘Right. But she had it at the supermarket. It doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘Could she be riding Kirk’s bike?’

  ‘All of them!’ Fenchurch sped along Mile End Road, weaving in and out of traffic. ‘Any cars out on the streets, get them to Southern Grove. Get them all round there now.’

  His Airwave crackled. ‘Will be a few minutes, sir.’

  ‘Thanks for nothing…’ Fenchurch killed the call and followed the sign for Tower Hamlets Cemetery by pulling a hard right into a long street, four-storey brick buildings on both sides. Bloody useless.

  Fenchurch parked outside a block of flats on the left, a Sixties brick building, but already needing to be torn down. Opposite was a new build on the corner with balconies, the new primary school next door. An old Victorian primary school was at the end, already swallowed up by property developers. He pulled up in a parking space, two rows of bike racks in an L-shape. Some garages filled the ground-floor level. He got out and calked Ashkani. ‘Any sign of her there?’

  ‘Negative.’

  ‘Keep Webster there.’

  ‘Will do. Out.’

  The BMW pulled up, double parking next to him, but leaving him a clear run if he needed to get out of there. Roberts got out and popped the boot. ‘She’s definitely here?’ He passed the Glock back.

  ‘I think so.’ Fenchurch checked the pistol and stared over at the block of flats. ‘Hang on.’ He jogged over the bike rack and scanned up and down. No sign of any black road bikes, let alone a Mizani.

  Could be inside.

  ‘Come on.’ Fenchurch led Roberts over to the flat.

  Fenchurch hopped over the low wall and peered through the glass. Curtains drawn, with a thin crack in the middle. Kirk Naughton sprawled on the sofa, one hand down his trackies. ‘Here, Sandy, stop doing that!’

  The girl was in a cot by the far wall, crying and wailing.

  Roberts pointed at himself then motioned for the front of the building.

  Fenchurch waited with Smith, watching Kirk struggling to pacify his daughter. He swapped the Glock to his other hand to give it a rest, but it didn’t feel right.

  Two clicks on Smith’s radio. She set off towards the door.

  Fenchurch took a deep breath and followed. Did a double take. Through the crack, Holly came into the room, still wearing her Tesco uniform. She picked up her daughter and hugged her.

  Smith thumped the door and waited, rifle drawn.

  Wide-eyed, Holly passed their kid to Kirk, who walked over to the flat door and opened it, rocking Sandy in his arms. The baby was still crying, her face like it belonged in the deepest circles of hell. Kirk grimaced. ‘What?’

  ‘Need to speak to Holly.’

  ‘She ain’t here.’

  ‘I just saw her, you pillock.’ Fenchurch entered. ‘Is she armed?’

  ‘Not doing anything for you—’

  Smith barged past into the living room. ‘Clear!’

  Fenchurch stared at Kirk. ‘Where the hell is she?’

  ‘She ain’t here!’

  ‘Is there a back door?’

  Kirk was distracted by Sandy’s screaming. ‘Get the fuck out of here!’

  Sod it.

  Fenchurch joined Smith in the small living room. He tried the first door. A bedroom, the tiny bed unmade. On the far wall a door hung open. He nudged the gap wider with his gun. A shower room with a toilet and a sink.

  No sign of Holly.

  He went back through and put his Airwave to his lips. ‘Roberts, have you got eyes on her? Over.’

  ‘No. Over.’

  ‘Shit.’ Fenchurch walked over to the settee and stood over Kirk, who was finally nursing Sandy with a plastic bottle. ‘Is there a back door here?’

  Kirk pointed at a door in the far wall. ‘Laundry’s that way. Get out front through the lock-up.’

  ‘Stay here.’ Fenchurch jerked the door open and put his radio to his mouth. ‘Meet me out front.’ He inched through.

  A dark corridor, stale and musty, with multiple doors coming off. An old sign above a door read ‘LAUNDRY’. It was lit up by a too-bright bulb. He crept over and nudged the door. Low lights glowed on a bank of stainless steel washing machines. Another door at the far end, criss-crossed by security wire. He sneaked over and raised his gun.

  A cat screeched at him.

  Fenchurch felt his pulse jolt up another fifty BPM. He kept going and pushed the door open. Into a garage, filled with boxes of old Nokia phones. Burners, no doubt.

  Jesus Christ.

  The door was open at the bottom, a wide crack letting in yellow street light and wailing sirens.

  Fenchurch lowered himself, aiming the Glock where his gaze went.

  Someone was cycling off down the main road.

  Fenchurch rolled through the gap and set off towards the flashing lights. He flagged down the first car with his warrant card. ‘Follow that bike!’

  ‘Where the hell is she?’ Fenchurch grabbed the ‘oh-shit’ handle above the door as the uniform driver pulled out to overtake the bus. He put his mobile back to his ear.

  ‘—are you?’ Sounded like Pavel was typing.

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Fenchurch looked around. ‘Solebay Street.’

  ‘Okay. As far as I can tell, Kirk’s bike is on Mile End Road. Same block as you.’

  ‘Take a right here.’ Fenchurch held on again as the uniform hurtled round a corner. ‘Left!’ Another tight turn onto Mile End Road, cutting in front of a bus just outside the Bancroft Arms. ‘Which way is she heading?’

  ‘Up that street. Can’t quite make out the name.’

  ‘Got it.’ Fenchurch leaned forward. ‘She’s heading home.’ He got out his Airwave and called Ashkani.

  No answer.

  Shit.

  ‘Pull in here!’ Fenchurch jumped out of the car before it stopped, drawing the Glock as he raced across the road, vaulting the wall into Holly’s front garden.

  Ashkani lay on the ground, groaning.

  Fenchurch rushed over and crouched over her. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘She got me.’

  She’s been shot!

  Fenchurch scanned across her body with his fingers.

  ‘Get off!’ Ashkani sat up, rubbing her head. ‘Ow.’

  ‘You’re okay?’

  ‘No.’ She got up to all fours but fell back again. ‘What the hell happened?’

  ‘Stay here.’ Fenchurch left her and shot back towards the car, putting his phone back to his ear as he ran. ‘Pavel, have you got a location yet?’

  Pavel paused. ‘Hang on.’

  Fenchurch got in the passenger seat. ‘Hurry up!’

  ‘I’m trying, I’m trying… Pool hall. The pool hall on Mile End Road.’

  ‘Back where we were.’ Fenchurch waved at the road. ‘Go, go, go!’ The car screeched forward, pressing him back in his seat. ‘She still there?’ He wrestled with his seatbelt and got it to click.

  ‘I think so.’ />
  ‘Pavel…’

  The uniform swung them right, crossing the path of another squad car, and bore down on the pool hall.

  No sign of Holly.

  ‘Pavel, she’s not here!’

  ‘She’s heading that way!’

  Fenchurch squinted and saw Holly powering along Mile End Road. She bumped up onto the pavement just after Stepney Green tube.

  The uniform slowed, unable to follow.

  Holly bumped back down and shot across the road. The uniform floored it, but just missed her, almost hitting a car. She took the back road towards the pub. The uniform reversed back and chased her along another back road.

  She powered along, wobbling into the left, towards a big park, the kind of place where it’d be easy to lose her.

  The uniform hit the floor and jerked forward, clipping Holly’s back wheel. Sent her flying across the grass.

  Fenchurch jumped out and aimed the Glock at her. ‘Holly-Ann Evans, I’m arresting you for the—’

  Thump.

  Something hit Fenchurch on the head, right on the lump, and he fell back, white-hot pain exploding in his skull. He landed on his elbows and knees, next to Holly. He reached over for her, but a kick in the back pushed him flat on his face.

  A hand reached down to help Holly up. Desmond Webster. ‘Let’s get out of here.’ He booted Fenchurch in the side. ‘Oh, this’ll be useful.’ He picked up the Glock. ‘You, get out of the car!’ He aimed at the pool vehicle.

  Fenchurch rolled over, harsh pain searing his side, and could only watch them go.

  The uniform got out and sank to his knees, hands clasped behind his head.

  Webster helped Holly onto her bike. ‘You okay, love?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ She sped off, hurtling along the road.

  Webster got on his bike and raced after her.

  Fenchurch forced himself onto his feet. He staggered over to the squad car. Engine still running. He got behind the wheel and drove off after them. Everything was woozy, like he was following a whole peloton rather than just two cyclists.

  The first two versions of Holly and Webster cut through the gardens.

  Fenchurch hit the floor and raced up to the end of the road, tugged the wheel left, then again, rounding the square.

  They were over on the residential street, both pounding away.