by Ed James
‘What?’ John stopped, arms out, fingers like claws. ‘Are you framing him?’
‘We’re just asking him a few questions.’
‘So what do you want from me?’
‘We just need to validate a few things about—’
‘I need a lawyer. I know my rights.’
‘This isn’t a formal interview, sir. You’re not under caution.’
‘What have you done to him?’ John lurched towards them. ‘You’ve abducted him! Is he in some government institution somewhere? Are you waterboarding him right now?’
Oh Jesus. Another conspiracy nutjob.
‘You might need to stop watching The X-Files and 24, sir.’
‘I know what’s going on.’ John stood up tall, hands in pockets, shaking his head. ‘Black sites. Torturing innocent civilians. Disappearing dissidents.’
‘Your brother’s a dissident?’ Fenchurch waited for John to frown. ‘I thought he was a chemistry teacher.’ He got to his feet. ‘If he’s starting a revolution, then—’
‘You’ve kidnapped him!’
Fenchurch stepped towards John, leaving a short gap between them, short enough to grab him if need be. ‘Sir, if we were up to that sort of stuff, we wouldn’t be asking questions in your own kitchen. You’d be in the gulag too.’ Didn’t have an answer to that. ‘Your brother’s at Leman Street, confirming his statement with DS Uzma Ashkani. That’s all that’s going on here.’
John backed away from Fenchurch, but started pacing again. ‘What are you fitting him up for?’
‘You think we have a file on him?’ Fenchurch huffed out a sigh. ‘Mr Fisher, we’re treating your brother as a suspect in his wife’s murder.’
‘I knew it was something big.’ John’s eyes went wide. ‘It’s definitely Gayle?’
‘Steve identified her. We found her body at lunchtime.’
‘And you think he did it. Steve? Come on!’
‘He had a blazing argument with her about her affair with a school pupil. Next thing, he’s staying here and she’s dead.’
John collapsed on to the empty sofa. ‘You really think he killed her?’
‘Do you?’
John’s shoulders deflated. ‘Steve’s my big brother. Always looked out for me. Let me kip at his when I finished uni and had nowhere to go. You think Steve could’ve killed Gayle? That’s my brother, man. My own brother!’
‘Mr Fisher, I’m keeping an open mind here. I want to know the truth and I want to be able to prove it. I need you to take us through what happened yesterday. From Steve’s arrival onwards.’
John sat back, arms folded. ‘I finished work at four, went to Dirty Dick’s on Bishopsgate for a couple of pints, then came home. A mate had tickets for the West Ham match.’
‘You a fan?’
‘I’m Palace, but it’s a night out, right? Not been to the London Stadium yet.’ John sighed. ‘I got back here at six, only Steve’s on the doorstep, staring into space, red-eyed like he’d been crying. Asked if he could stay in the spare room. Course he could. So I gave him a cup of tea, but he wasn’t interested in it. Took a beer, though, and we had a chat, you know? Like we were back home before our parents . . . you know.’ A dark fug settled on John. ‘Steve perked up a bit by the second bottle, so I took him out for a walk along the Thames. A lot nicer down that way than it used to be, that’s for sure. Went to the pub to watch the match. Had to bail on my mate, but you know, brothers are brothers.’
‘Which pub?’
‘The Prospect of Whitby in Wapping. Nice boozer, does lovely food.’
‘And what was the match?’
John’s eyes went wide. ‘You think you can catch me out? It was West Ham–Man U.’
‘Remember the score?’
‘Four-nil to Man U.’
‘Did Steve have much to drink?’
‘Couple of pints.’ John cracked his knuckles, getting a meaty thwack. ‘Kept insisting on buying.’
‘So, what, one in each half?’
John got to his feet and walked over to the sink. Started spraying water in some Budvar bottles. ‘The pub was rammed. Steve missed the opening goal when he was at the bar.’
Fenchurch joined him by the sink. ‘What aren’t you telling me?’
John stared into the plughole as he tipped out the beer bottles. One of them had the label torn off. ‘Steve left the pub at half-time.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Positive. Ref blew the whistle for half-time and Steve was like “See you, John.” Out of there.’
‘So, half eight?’
‘Think so.’ John dumped the bottles in a bucket under the sink. ‘I stayed. All this stuff with Gayle, I thought I’d give Steve some time on his own. I got back here about eleven. Steve was in the spare room. Had some Morrissey album on. Can’t stand him, but Steve’s a huge fan.’
Fenchurch thought it through, trying to piece it together.
Half past eight down in deepest, darkest Wapping. Take maybe half an hour to walk over to the Minories.
Next sighted at eleven.
Plenty of time for Steve to kill Gayle.
Chapter Eleven
Fenchurch walked along the street, scanning around for Reed. No sign of her.
A suspect, finally. But does it feel too convenient? Man murders adulterous wife? Seen it a hundred times. Sometimes it’s just as banal as that, no deep conspiracy, just rage in the heat of the moment.
A car rattled along the street and flashed the lights at him. Reed was behind the wheel.
Fenchurch got in the car and tugged at the seatbelt. Bastard thing wasn’t shifting. ‘It’s all over the bloody papers, Kay!’
‘I know.’ Reed swallowed as she read it. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve messed up. I should’ve found it earlier.’
‘It’s not just you . . .’ Fenchurch stabbed the belt into the clip. ‘I had it in my own bloody motor, Kay. I feel like a prize plonker.’
‘Thought you just read the back pages and did the sudoku?’ Reed started the car and eased off on the short drive back to Leman Street. ‘Sex scandal at Shadwell Grammar didn’t attract your attention?’
‘Hardly. I see enough bad shit on a daily basis, Kay. I just want to read about someone moaning about West Ham.’
She turned the corner and immediately got stuck in traffic. ‘Now I see why you didn’t drive to his flat.’ She inched forward in the row of cars. ‘Still got nothing from their street. Confirmed the argument, but nobody heard what it was about.’
‘Figures.’
‘Anyway, DS Ashkani passed it over to one of her team.’ Reed pushed forward in the queue, not far from the turning to Leman Street. ‘I’ll get Lisa Bridge looking for CCTV outside the pub.’
‘We need to make sure we’re giving her some sexier work, Kay.’
‘You like her, don’t you?’
Before he could dive in two-footed, her phone rang. She answered it on speaker. ‘Lisa, you’re on with DI Fenchurch.’
‘Oh.’ Sounded like all of Bridge’s excitement fizzed away. ‘The car that picked up Katerina from outside the hotel? Took me ages because it was a partial but I found another angle. It’s registered to a Liam Sharpe.’
Fenchurch heard his own groan echoing. ‘Shit.’
Never good when a mate turns up in a case.
Reed trundled along Fleet Street, stuck behind another procession of traffic. Felt like the City’s buildings were encroaching on the road, squeezing everything like toothpaste. She pulled in on the police parking bay outside the Post building and rummaged around for the ON POLICE BUSINESS sign.
Fenchurch’s phone blasted out. A shiver shot up his spine and his jaw clamped shut. Then he took a breath and checked the display, wiping the bead of sweat from his brow. Uzma. ‘Better take this.’ He got out on to the road and answered it, traffic rolling past. ‘What’s up?’ He waited for a gap big enough to cross.
‘The manager keeps banging on about when we can reopen.’
Fenchurch darted
between a bus and a Volvo. ‘The whole place is shut until Mick Clooney or one of his team clears it, okay?’
‘Simon, I—’
‘Uzma, am I clear?’
‘Right, sir. Okay.’
Fenchurch killed the call and set off towards the Post building.
‘Guv.’ Reed grabbed his arm and stopped him. She stood next to him, eyes narrow. ‘I saw you flinch when the phone rang.’
He couldn’t make eye contact with her. ‘It’s nothing.’
‘It’s not nothing. What’s up?’
What do I tell her?
Whatever she wants to hear?
The truth?
Sod it.
Fenchurch stopped trying to get past and swallowed hard. ‘Every time the phone rings, I think it’s about Baby Al. Abi calling me to . . . to say that he’s died.’
Reed patted his arm, her forehead knitted tight. ‘Jesus.’
‘Ten months he’s been in that bloody hospital and we get a couple of hours with him every day and . . . and it’s just not enough. Nowhere near enough, Kay. It’s . . . it’s horrible seeing him lying there, just waiting for him to die. Hoping he won’t.’
‘Jesus, guv. Have you talked to Abi about it?’
‘I’ve tried, but . . . it’s hard.’ Fenchurch stuffed his phone in his pocket. He dropped it, the bastard thing cracking off the pavement. He crouched down to pick it up. Barely a scratch. Stayed down there. ‘You know, I wish I was religious. Then I’d have someone to pray to, someone to blame if the worst happened. A philosophy that says I’ll get to see my son in the next life.’ He stood up, his dodgy knee aching. ‘I just want to get to know him in this one. He’s not even a year old. What kind of life is that for anyone?’
‘I know how hard this is.’
‘Do you?’
She looked away. ‘My brother died when I was five. He was two.’
‘Jesus, Kay. I never knew.’
‘I never told anyone. It was—’ She covered her mouth and let Fenchurch wrap her in a hug. ‘Leukaemia.’ Her voice against his shoulder was fighting a losing battle with tears. She broke off from the embrace, rubbing at her cheeks, blinking hard a few times.
Fenchurch stared off down the street, at a crowd of lads larking about. ‘Abi said that sometimes she wishes Al hadn’t been born. I’m starting to come round to that.’
‘Jesus.’ Reed lowered her head, her chin trembling. ‘You need to help each other. She’s not as tough as she acts.’
‘Yeah.’ But it felt like a no. ‘Trouble is, her way of coping is to hope that Al will get better.’ Fenchurch bared his teeth. ‘I know what hope does.’
‘Guv, hoping you’d find Chloe is what got her back.’
‘I was stupid to think I’d get lucky again.’ Fenchurch stretched out his eyes, trying to shake off the tears. ‘Al will get worse. One day he’ll stop breathing.’
‘We all die someday, guv. The pair of you decided on a fresh start. You’ve got to give that kid all the love and support he needs. You have to fight for him. For his whole life. That’s all you can do.’
Fenchurch looked away from her again. His breath felt like a sledgehammer in the gut. ‘You’re right.’
‘I just wish that being right didn’t hurt so much, guv.’ Reed pointed at the building. ‘Now, are you okay to get on with your job?’
Fenchurch paced around the meeting room, a glass-and-chrome box in the middle of the office area, open on all sides. Outside, journalists hunkered down for the Saturday-night crunch, all the last-minute revisions to the Sunday edition they’d spent a week preparing.
‘Simon!’ Liam Sharpe sauntered through the doorway, a grin on his face. Smart haircut and close-shaved face, even wore a business suit. The inevitable destiny of the ex-hipster. ‘Sorry, but I was right in the middle of something when you called. How you doing, Kay? Not seen you for a while.’
‘Getting by.’
‘Getting by, eh?’ Liam’s grin was still on duty as he kicked the door shut and dropped his phone on the table. ‘Simon, you were very brief on the phone. What’s up now?’
‘Your car was on Vine Street last night, just after ten.’ Fenchurch dropped a photo on the table. ‘Need to speak to whoever was driving it.’
Liam didn’t even look at it, instead seeing great interest in the open-plan office through the glass. ‘That’ll be me, then.’
Fenchurch put another photo down. ‘And you picked up this girl?’
Liam chanced a look. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. ‘She’s a woman, Simon.’
Fenchurch leaned back in his chair, eyes closed. ‘Are you seeing her?’
Liam glanced at Reed, then got up and walked around the small room. Looked shifty, like he wanted to scratch something he couldn’t.
Fenchurch motioned for Reed to leave the room, then waited for the door to click. ‘Liam, are you seeing this schoolgirl?’
‘It’s not—’ Liam rested against a chair, stretching out like he was about to run a marathon. ‘It’s . . .’
‘Liam, is Katerina Raptis your girlfriend?’
He jerked upright and started pacing around again. Guy couldn’t sit still.
‘She’s seventeen, Liam! She’s at school, you idiot!’
Liam pressed his forehead against the glass, his breath misting, his reflection betraying his self-hatred. Reed was on her phone out there, scowling.
‘I need you to be straight with me here. Are you seeing her?’
‘Why are you interested in Kat?’
‘Kat, is it? Not Katerina? Liam, tell me. Are you seeing her?’
He collapsed into a chair. ‘She’s older than she seems.’
‘She seems like a girl to me.’ Fenchurch prodded the photo. ‘Looks about twelve.’
‘Mentally, I mean. She’s wise. Smart. Mature.’
‘You’re almost thirty. She’s just turned seventeen. That’s almost double her age.’ Fenchurch picked up the photo and tossed it at Liam. ‘It’s . . . sinister.’
Liam’s lip shook. Eyes closed, his forehead knotted. Slow and steady breaths.
‘I’m sorry.’ Fenchurch reached over for him but he was too far away. ‘It’s okay for you to move on after what happened to Saskia. God knows I still see her murder when I shut my eyes. But a schoolgirl? Really?’
‘It’s not what you think.’ Liam’s face twisted up, tears flowing down his cheeks. His mouth lost all motor control. ‘Every time I come in here . . . It’s . . . it’s where Sas worked. Where we met. So bloody hard. When I met Kat, I thought she was a university graduate.’
‘At that hotel?’
‘I was meeting a source there.’ Liam’s face twisted into a snarl. ‘What’s she got to do with the price of corned beef?’
‘A cleaner found a body in that hotel. Katerina saw it and it freaked her out.’
‘Shit.’ Liam picked up his phone. ‘That explains why she’s not replied to my texts.’
‘So you are seeing her.’ Fenchurch shook his head. ‘Liam, she left the hotel around the time of the attack. She got in your car. We should be discussing this down the station. But we’re not. We’re here. I’m giving you a chance to be honest.’
‘I drove her home. I swear.’
‘Yours or hers?’
‘Jesus Christ.’ Liam huffed out a breath. ‘Hers. She lives with her mum.’
‘And you slipped in through her window and had a nice cuddle, yeah?’
And he’d lost him again. Anger flared across his lips.
I trusted him. He helped me out, big style. Now he’s shagging a schoolgirl and holding back information.
‘Liam, no!’ A tall woman charged into the meeting room, her jaw clenched tight. She got between Fenchurch and his prey. Her bangles shook as she pushed her dark hair behind her ears. ‘You can’t intimidate a reporter to give up his sources!’
‘You might want to get him to stop keeping things from a murder investigation.’
‘You need to let your Media Office handle—�
�� She stopped, her face lighting up. ‘Did you say murder? In the briefing, Superintendent Loftus said it was suicide?’
Reed glared at Fenchurch. ‘We’re treating it as murder, madam.’
‘Interesting.’ She picked up the paper and looked at it like she hadn’t seen it a hundred times over the last week. ‘This is priceless.’
Fenchurch jabbed a finger at her. ‘I need you to keep a lid on this, okay?’
‘Not going to happen.’
‘Who the hell are you, anyway?’
‘Cally Morris. I’m the News Editor here.’ Cally held up the paper to him, pointing at Gayle’s photo. ‘Her death killed our front page, you know? We were going to name Gayle tomorrow, lift the lid on the whole sordid affair. We can’t, for obvious reasons. But now . . . now, we can focus on her murder.’ Said like an orgasm. ‘Liam, I need three thousand words by midnight.’
‘This isn’t some tittle-tattle.’ Fenchurch blocked Cally’s exit. ‘Gayle Fisher was murdered. Liam’s not typing a word until I say so.’
‘Inspector, I get final say on this. We’ll publish and be damned.’
‘Listen to me. Gayle’s killer’s still out there. If you publish that story, you’re giving them information about an active police investigation.’
Cally stared hard at him. ‘If I haven’t heard from the Media Office by first thing tomorrow, we’ll publish.’
Fenchurch stared hard at her for a few seconds. Don’t have anything else to bargain with for now. ‘Deal.’
Cally set off towards the door. ‘Come on, Liam, we need to get back to work.’
Liam’s nod came with a sigh.
Cally stopped in the doorway and turned round, focusing on Reed. ‘Listen, Ben Maxfield called me. He wanted us to put a stop on the story. Said he’s repping Gayle. Apparently, she freaked out when we printed her photo and she went running into Ben’s arms. He put her in that hotel room, told her to lie low.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘He threatened us with legal action. Named some shyster from Ogden and Makepeace.’
Acid burnt in Fenchurch’s gut.
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Cally tilted her head to the side, concern furrowing her brow. ‘They’re the ones who were involved in what happened with your daughter, aren’t they?’