by Ed James
‘I see who it is.’ A man sat behind the desk, thin and well dressed. He spoke in the plummy tones of a private education, but looked Middle Eastern. Whether he was the son of immigrants or just educated over here wasn’t clear. Late forties, his dark hair tousled into an almost-perfect flow, catching the light just right. Guy was good-looking and he knew it. Behind him, a signed Shadwell United shirt hung on the wall. Number 9, WALSH, the white-and-gold hoops splattered with mud, grass and blue-ink signatures. Nazar shot a glare into the corner of the room. ‘Sutekh!’
An almost-exact copy of Nazar sat slumped on a chair, just heavier and balding. Mouth hanging open, head rocking back and forth, snoring like a burst drain. He didn’t have his twin brother’s dress sense, instead settling for a black-and-white tracksuit.
Nazar flicked a hand at Roderick. ‘Get us coffees. Now.’ He waited for him to comply, then stood up, offering a hand and a smile to Fenchurch. ‘Sutekh?’ Sleepy just snored. ‘Sutekh?’ Still nothing, so Nazar just gave a polite smile. ‘This is a horrific business, Inspector, and we are very glad that you’re taking your time to investigate fully. I was wondering if we could work towards a—’
‘Open the goddamn hotel!’ Sutekh was awake now, fury burning in his eyes as he got up, jabbing a finger in the air. He’d either never got his brother’s accent or had lost it, instead finding a Middlesex grunt behind some bins somewhere. ‘We’re losing goddamn money here! Hand over goddamn fist! Open up! Open up!’
Fenchurch just stood there. If it’s a good cop/bad cop thing, they’re terrible at it.
‘Sutekh, that’s not our prime concern here.’ Nazar snapped a hand in the direction of his brother. Then gave a polite smile to Fenchurch. ‘They told me when we bought this place that we’d get suicides — at least ten a year in a place this size. We’ve owned this hotel nine years and had only five deaths. All explained, all suicides.’ A smile parted his lips, his pearly whites shining through. ‘This, though . . . A murder? Here? It’s shocking. Shocking.’
‘Open the goddamn doors!’
‘Sutekh!’ Another snap of the wrist. ‘My brother and I, we really want to help. We want to support you doing anything in your power to find the culprit and bring them to justice.’
‘Sir, thanks for your support but I need to get back to the investigation.’
Snoring droned from the corner again. Sutekh’s head was on his chest.
Fenchurch scowled. ‘Is he okay?’
‘I’m sorry.’ Nazar tiptoed across the room. ‘My brother suffers from narcolepsy. We’re twins, identical as you can see, but I’m lucky, as I somehow didn’t get the family affliction. I can only apologise for him — I know how it looks. Indifference. Apathy. Ignorance. But Sutekh has the heart of a bull.’ His forehead knotted. ‘The brain of one at times.’ He nudged his brother on the shoulder.
‘Goddamn prick!’ Sutekh grabbed his brother’s finger and twisted it. Then seemed to realise where he was and slackened off. He focused on Fenchurch, that fire back in his glare. ‘When are you going to open our goddamn hotel? Eh?’
‘Sir, your hotel will be shut for the foreseeable future. I’d advise that you cancel all bookings for the next few days at least, then claim on any insurance pol—’
‘No!’ Sutekh hauled himself to his feet and squared up to Fenchurch. ‘You need to let us open the goddamn doors. Now! Or we will sue the police for loss of income!’
‘You will, will you?’ Fenchurch stood his ground, nodding slowly. ‘See, if you’d had insurance, you’d not be in this mess.’
‘Insurance is the work of the devil!’ Sutekh thumped his chest. ‘Why the hell should I pay for someone else’s goddamn murdering?’
‘Sutekh, let the officer get on with his job.’
Fenchurch waved Nazar off, keeping his gaze on his brother. ‘You’re not involved in this, are you?’
‘What did you say to me?’
‘Mr Bennaceur, you don’t seem to care that someone’s wife is lying upstairs, dead.’ Fenchurch got in his face, going eyeball to eyeball. ‘Most murderers are sociopaths. They kill without remorse because they can’t care about other living things. I could put you in a room and ask you a lot of difficult questions about where you were last night.’
‘I was in Nice.’ Sutekh stepped back but snapped his own wrist in his brother’s direction. ‘We both were.’
Fenchurch smirked at Nazar. ‘Sure your sleeping isn’t just a coke comedown?’ He stared at Sutekh until he looked away then made for the door. ‘As part of this case, we’ll look into your backgrounds. We might just have that chat, okay?’ He left the room and slammed the door.
Pair of arseholes.
Are they up to something? Hiding a murder? Or just another pair of cheap bastards worried about the bottom line?
Always so hard to tell.
Fenchurch found Katerina Raptis with Uzma in Leman Street’s nicest interview room, not that it was up to much. Katerina was short, her legs barely touching the ground, and had an impish look about her. Round cheeks and jet-black hair. Even though she was crying, she still looked like she was taking the piss. She rocked back and forth, avoiding looking at Uzma. Then she screwed up her face, gasping as tears flooded her cheeks.
‘Katerina, it’s okay.’ Uzma walked over and rubbed the girl’s back, standing like that for a few seconds. Then she leaned round and smiled at her. ‘Your mother is just about here.’
Katerina finally looked up at her, a snarl on her lips, then burst into tears again, covering her face. Bunched-up tissues in both hands, her fists twisting and twisting. Still no sign of the girl’s mother.
Fenchurch leaned back against the interview room door. ‘Why is she crying?’
‘No idea.’ Uzma kept her gaze on the girl. ‘Been like this since I got here.’
Raised voices out in the corridor, someone shouting. Fenchurch opened the door and peered out.
‘Where is she?’ A woman flounced along the corridor, just out of a uniform’s reach. Heavy make-up plastering over lines, perfect hair and the stench of floral perfume. She caught sight of Fenchurch and raced over to him. ‘Where’s my baby?’
‘Mrs Raptis?’
‘I prefer Ms these days.’ She tilted her head at Fenchurch, then raised her pristine eyebrows, thin pencil-width lines. ‘Call me Jocasta. Or Jo, if you prefer?’
‘I’ll stick with—’
‘Oh my God!’ Jocasta put a hand to her mouth. ‘It’s you!’ Then both hands out wide, like her eyes. ‘Simon Fenchurch!’ She bit her lip, frowning. ‘We followed your story in the papers. Me and Katerina. Heartbreaking story, you poor thing.’ She reached out and stroked his chin. ‘You poor lamb.’
‘Right.’ Fenchurch brushed her hand away. ‘Well.’
‘Thought I recognised you, but it was maybe just that you look like that Jason Statham.’ She pouted. ‘Your story resonated with us. Me and Katerina. You must’ve gone through hell. I read someone online saying it was the same group as Maddy McCann?’
‘We don’t think it’s in any way connected, no.’
Her eyebrows turned in on themselves. Then she tried to peer behind him. ‘Where’s my girl?’
‘Through there.’ Fenchurch made sure the door was shut. ‘A colleague is working through some details in her statement.’ He gave her a stern look. ‘I’ll warn you now: she’s been through a traumatic event and I recommend counselling.’
‘Katerina? Counselling?’ Jocasta threw her head back. ‘Do me a favour! I tried to get her to see a headshrinker when her—’ She huffed out a sigh. ‘She ran rings round the poor woman. Didn’t make Kat any better, neither.’
‘Well.’ Fenchurch nudged the handle down. ‘I need to just check on progress, so—’
Jocasta barged past him. ‘Kat!’ She raced over and smothered her daughter in a hug. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Mum.’ Katerina flinched, jerking away from her mother. ‘I want to help.’
‘That can wait. Let’s get you home!’
<
br /> Katerina was on her feet, face twisted. ‘Mum, back off!’ She brushed some tears from her face and gave Fenchurch a slight nod. ‘What do you want to know?’
Fenchurch sat opposite them and leaned forward. ‘Let’s start with you leaving the hotel.’
‘I got my coat from the staff room . . .’
‘What time was that?’
‘Ten. Just after? It was pretty quiet for a Friday, but Siresh was late so I had to stay on and . . .’ Katerina sat back and brushed her hair out of her eyes.
Fenchurch held out his hands. ‘We still don’t have an ID on—’
‘Mrs Fisher.’
Uzma jerked round, scowling at Katerina. ‘You know her?’
‘I checked her in.’ Katerina ran her teeth over her top lip, stretching it out. ‘She’s my English teacher.’
‘What?’
‘Joanna freaked out. She let me see her body.’ She started crying again, her breath coming in slow bursts. ‘Mrs Fisher was . . . I can’t . . . She was so nice. We were really close. And I can’t . . . can’t . . .’
‘Do you know her first name? Where she lives? Anything like that?’
Katerina shook her head, biting into her lip. ‘I don’t know anything other than she’s called Gayle.’
‘We need to tell someone their wife’s dead. Anything—’
‘Her husband’s a teacher at the school too.’ Katerina sniffed. ‘Mr Fisher. Steve, I think.’
Chapter Eight
A brick terraced house in Elephant and Castle, the sort of area where a brick terraced house was now insanely expensive. Three storeys of acid-cleaned brickwork, even had a small front garden.
‘Very swish.’ Fenchurch peered through the window. Empty. Certainly no signs of movement. Cream walls, wooden floors. Nice telly, big wooden mirror. ‘Which floor is it?’
Reed was over at the door, grinning. ‘Guv, there’s only one buzzer here.’
‘It’s the whole house?’ Fenchurch let out a deep breath. ‘This is much more than a teacher can afford, isn’t it?’
‘Her husband must do something flash.’ Reed tried the buzzer again. ‘Maybe he’s a City boy like my Dave.’
‘Katerina said he’s a teacher, too.’
‘Weird.’ Reed hit the buzzer one last time. ‘Either way, it doesn’t look like there’s anyone in.’
Fenchurch stepped back out on to the street, a block away from their pool car. Thumping bass came from a nearby house, football commentary and crowd noise from another. Distant traffic rumbled, probably the Old Kent Road. ‘Not like we can just nip over the side wall to have a shufti.’
‘Next best thing.’ Reed stepped over the short brick wall into the neighbour’s garden and knocked on the door.
It opened slowly and a little old lady peered out, her face like one of the many gnomes in her garden. Accompanied by a waft of cat piss and cigarette smoke. The wallpaper was chipped and torn. ‘What do you want?’ Old, Cockney accent, probably born in the house during the last ice age. ‘Eh?’
‘Police, madam.’ Reed flashed her warrant card. ‘Looking to speak to—’
‘My husband died in 1996!’ The door started to close. ‘You lot can’t torment him any more!’
Reed grabbed the door and stopped it shutting. ‘We’re not after—’
‘You bloody are!’ The woman shot an evil look at Reed, like she was dealing with the devil himself. ‘You think he was in the Guildford Four! Trying to make out he was number five!’
‘We just need to—’
‘Well, he’s in heaven now, no thanks to you lot!’
‘Madam, can I take your name, please?’
‘No, you bloody can’t!’
‘Madam, this is about your—’
‘Lawyer! I want a lawyer!’
Fenchurch stepped over the wall and put another hand on the door. ‘Madam, we’re murder squad detectives looking—’
‘He didn’t kill that copper! You can—’
Fenchurch grabbed her by the arms. ‘Madam, we don’t give a shit about your husband.’
Spit lashed his cheek.
‘You bloody should! Twenty-two years you lot were stalking him, making his life a pigging misery. And for what, eh? He was as Irish as you are.’
‘What was your husband’s name?’
‘Edward Deeley, God rest his soul.’
‘I’m very sorry for your loss, madam, but—’
A sharp pain hit Fenchurch in his bad knee. The other one cracked off the pavement as he went down.
Reed grabbed the gnome woman round the waist and lifted the old dear off her feet, legs kicking out. ‘Madam, we’re looking for your neighbours.’
‘Lies!’
‘What’s going on?’ Footsteps thumped from behind. A burly woman in her fifties was jogging from the other side of the road. ‘Marjory, are you okay?’
‘They’re here about my Edward!’
Fenchurch showed his warrant card before he could get any hassle. ‘Madam, we’re investigating a murder.’
‘But her Edward died of a heart attack twenty-odd years ago?’
‘It’s about her neighbour. Gayle Fisher.’
‘Oh my God.’ Her mouth hung open. ‘What happened?’
‘We have reason to believe we’ve found Mrs Fisher’s body in a hotel room.’
‘Lord save us.’ She crossed herself.
Fenchurch led her away from the old bat’s house, his knee throbbing. ‘Can I take your name?’
She stopped on the opposite side of the road. ‘Bethany.’ Didn’t look like a Bethany.
‘We need Mrs Fisher’s husband to identify the body. And, well, we just need to find him.’
‘I’d love to help.’ Bethany gave a shifty look at the house, like she couldn’t stare at it without sucking in a demon’s spawn. ‘Thing is, they keep themselves to themselves. Didn’t even know their names until the other day.’ She sneered at Fenchurch. ‘But I tell you, that couple. Always having blazing rows. Had one yesterday evening.’
‘What?’
‘Be about half five, maybe earlier. She can handle herself. They was out on the street, and she was giving that husband of hers what for. Shouting and bawling. Never heard the like.’
If she’s telling the truth, there’s a four-hour gap between this argument and . . . someone poisoning Gayle.
Fenchurch checked back at the house. Reed was still with old Marjory. ‘Have you seen either of them since?’
‘He got in his motor and hotfooted it. Not been back since.’
‘This was definitely last night?’
‘You saying I’ve lost the plot?’ Her eyebrows locked together in fury. ‘You calling me a liar?’
‘No, I just need to know exactly what happened.’
Bethany’s rage slackened. ‘I could check my notebook, give you an exact time.’
‘That’d be helpful, thanks.’
‘Just doing my bit for the community.’ Bethany walked off towards a block that hadn’t been acid-cleaned.
‘Bloody hell, guv.’ Reed joined him, nostrils flaring. ‘Can I do that old bat for anything?’
‘Battering my knee.’ Fenchurch reached down and rubbed the lump. ‘We need to find this husband.’ He waved at Bethany’s house. ‘Stay here and wait for her story. Get some more officers out here and start a door-to-door.’
‘This isn’t rocket science, Constable.’ Uzma was back at the reception desk, gripping both chair backs. Bridge sat in front of her, not looking impressed. ‘We need to get confirmation of all movements in and around the hotel. Don’t know what you were told during training but that’s how policing works. Okay?’
Bridge barely glanced at her. ‘Sarge.’
‘Can you at least—?’ Uzma clocked Fenchurch and stood up tall. She cleared her throat. ‘Simon, didn’t see you there.’
‘So I see.’ Fenchurch beckoned her over to the hotel entrance. ‘What’s going on?’
‘I’ve got them going through CCTV from outside
, but they’re just not up to it.’
‘That right?’ Fenchurch held her gaze. ‘Because what I see is a DS bullying a DC.’
‘People need pressure, Simon. Positive stress.’
‘Back down, okay? DC Bridge is a good officer.’
‘Like you’re a good judge of character.’ Uzma walked off, putting her phone to her ear.
What have I done to deserve her?
Fenchurch joined Bridge. ‘Lisa, how you getting on?’
‘I’m struggling to pin down the timeline.’ Bridge swivelled her laptop round. ‘But I’ve got Gayle Fisher’s arrival just before seven.’
A figure skipped on to the street, walking fast, looking behind her. Glasses, scarf tied up like a fifties movie star. She slipped in the door.
‘Anyone following her?’
‘That’s what DS Ashkani wants to know.’ Bridge switched the display to a spreadsheet. ‘This is all of the sightings of people going in and out. Your mate Jim Muscat had eleven smoke breaks before seven last night.’
‘Must be getting a decent wedge here, given the price of cigarettes.’
‘Or he knows someone who works on an oil rig.’ Bridge chanced a sneaky look over at Uzma, chatting away, hand covering her mouth. ‘This is what’s got her knickers in a twist, sir.’
The screen filled with a video of the street behind the hotel: 22.23. Someone standing by the bike sheds next door to the hotel, facing away.
‘Why is this relevant?’
‘Because . . .’ Bridge wound it back and the screen went grey, the time at 22.17. After Katerina left. After someone picked her up. ‘This van delivered laundry for the other hotel.’ She flipped to another image. ‘Before that, the lane was empty.’ Then to another one. ‘After, our friend’s there.’ She pointed at the time. ‘Either way, it’s just after the window of opportunity. And here’s the other thing.’ She showed him more video, this time showing the man sloping off, face hidden by a hoodie and a baseball cap.
Fenchurch checked the video image again. ‘What’s he doing?’
‘That’s what I wonder, sir. It looks like he’s having a pee, but there’s no puddle.’
‘Could be getting rid of something.’ Fenchurch walked off. ‘Let’s have a look.’