by Ed James
‘Cally.’ Liam stepped in. ‘They’re just called Makepeace now.’
‘Anyway.’ Cally smiled. ‘I told them in no uncertain terms that we won’t be intimidated by vermin like him.’
‘That’s all very impressive, but we need to find a murderer.’ Reed joined Cally by the door. ‘We need Liam to share everything. And I mean everything. And now.’
Cally shrugged. ‘Fine, but no sources.’
‘It’s fairly obvious to me that his source is Katerina Raptis, right?’
‘She’s not my source.’ Liam held up his hands. ‘Okay?’
’But she is at that school.’
‘Yeah, and she told me some rumours. I’ve been doing pieces on that school for months. It’s a cesspit. Worse than my one back in Halifax. I’ve got other sources.’
‘Who?’
‘A teacher.’ Liam’s grin slipped away as soon as it appeared. ‘Been working on it for a long time. There’s a drugs angle, bullying too. Then my source told me that the Head asked Gayle about sleeping with a pupil two weeks ago.’
‘Two weeks?’
‘Denied it, too. Told him flat out that it didn’t happen. Worse, the Head believed her. But I got a video from a source.’
‘What sort of—’
‘Calm down.’ Liam raised a finger. ‘We’d never publish anything salacious. It’s on a pen drive sitting in Cally’s office, along with those photos of what’s-her-name at it with a dog.’
‘Liam!’ Cally shot daggers at him.
Fenchurch got between them. ‘You have a video of Gayle Fisher having sex with a student?’
Cally looked at the paper with bitter disappointment. ‘You know it’s not illegal to possess that video, Simon.’
‘Okay.’ Fenchurch snatched the paper off Cally. ‘One of you two is going to tell me the name of the boy she was sleeping with.’
‘We’re not allowed to publish anyone’s name if they’re under eighteen.’
‘You can’t publish his name, sure.’ Fenchurch held up a hand. ‘But you can tell us.’
Liam hung his head low.
‘Come on. Now.’
‘Elliot Lynch. I’ve got his address on my laptop.’
Chapter Twelve
A long row of two-up, two-downs, overlooked by the railway out to the Essex coast. Looked the same as Fenchurch’s old man’s flat in Limehouse, just a couple of miles down the road. Party sounds came from a house over the road. Cannabis smell mixed with diesel. Young kids squealing and shouting nearby, out way past their bedtime. Someone kicked a football against a wall somewhere.
‘That little shit.’ Fenchurch knocked on the door and stepped back. Ant and Dec blared out from the TV, the kind of Saturday-night shit that’d rot your brains worse than white cider. ‘He’s been banging this schoolgirl and—’
‘Banging? Guv, come on.’
‘Sorry, Chloe’s been watching this show on Netflix . . .’ Fenchurch tried the door again.
It flew open. A man stood there, squinting into the evening. Little guy with a checked shirt on, maybe late thirties. Squinting through thick glasses. ‘What do you want?’ Irish accent, south Dublin maybe.
‘Police, sir.’ Fenchurch showed his warrant card. ‘Looking for Elliot Lynch.’
‘Ah, Christ. What’s he done now?’
‘Derek? What’s going on?’ A woman appeared, maybe in her forties. Taller than her husband. Grey roots, her face lined hard. London accent, London face. She pushed the door wide and clocked the warrant card. ‘Oh, bloody hell.’
‘Amanda, I’m dealing with this.’ Derek Lynch nudged his wife away. ‘Tell us now. What’s our boy done?’
‘We just need a word with him in relation to an inquiry, sir.’
‘Right.’ Derek shrugged, then reached for the door. ‘Well, our boy’s out for the night. Good luck finding him.’
‘How about the names of any mates?’
‘Amanda, get the list.’ Derek waited while his wife brought back a sheet of paper. ‘Much easier every time one of you lot comes round to have our answers in advance, you know?’ He handed them a photo. ‘And this is his ugly mug, yeah?’
Reed took the shot and snapped the list with her phone. ‘You’ve no idea where he is?’
‘Do you need a hearing test or something?’
Chapter Thirteen
Fenchurch slammed the door and stabbed the ignition. Started revving the engine, getting a nice roar.
‘Guv!’ Reed hit the ignition button and killed his fun. ‘What the hell?’
Fenchurch reached for the ignition but got a slapped hand instead.
‘Guv, it’s not the end of the world. We’ll find him.’
Fenchurch stared back at the house. The curtains twitched.
‘It’s not that, is it?’
Fenchurch let out a stinging breath, eyes closed, then clenched his jaw. Ran his hand down his face, rasping across prickly stubble, and he slumped back in the seat. ‘My son is dying in hospital, fighting for his life, and they don’t give a shit where theirs even is.’
‘Jesus. I didn’t think.’
Fenchurch brushed his eyelids with his fingers. ‘They don’t understand, do they? They don’t understand how fragile his life is. I deal with all this shit every day and I’m sick of how other people don’t care.’ He snapped forward in the seat. ‘This isn’t getting us anywhere.’
Down the road, the curtain twitched again.
‘People like that, not giving a shit about what their son’s up to now, means that today’s cheeky little rascal is tomorrow’s gang member. Stabbing people. Dealing drugs. Splashing acid on their face.’ Fenchurch took the photo from Reed. A teenage boy, fresh-faced, smirking at the camera, mischief twinkling in his eyes. Elliot Lynch. He took another look at the house, at the parents who didn’t care about him.
‘We should go in there and batter them with the news about their son’s love life, guv.’
‘Our priority is finding him. Making their lives a misery isn’t going to help anyone.’ Fenchurch waved a hand at the swishing curtains. ‘Once we get hold of Elliot, we can haul them over the coals. If there’s the slightest suspicion that he’s killed Gayle, then we need to get their reaction on the record. Might’ve told his dear old mum something. Could’ve let something slip to his old man while watching the football.’
‘Fair enough.’ Reed held up her phone, showing the list of friends. ‘How about we start with Jarvis Reynolds?’
‘Couldn’t tell you, love.’ A heavy man with a red face, greasy hair, beery breath, beer-stained tracksuit. ‘Where Jarvis gets to of an evening is a complete mystery to me. I’d ask his mother but she’s working.’
‘Could he be with Elliott Lynch?’
A shrug. ‘I just told you it was a complete mystery. Now.’ He scratched his arse and sniffed his fingers. ‘My pizza’s getting cold and this football’s heating up, so if you—’
‘—don’t mind?’ A woman in a silk dressing gown, hiding behind the door. ‘My Dean’s been on a tour of Syria and I’m drying up down there.’
‘It’s Dean junior we’re looking for. Any ideas?’
‘Could try his mates, I suppose.’
‘You have seen your son today, right?’
‘Probably. Those two and Curtis, they’re thick as thieves, might want to—’
‘—try for another one, you know?’ Face like a thirteen-year-old beauty pageant girl, body like a fifty-year-old lorry driver. Blonde hair, in a cut that probably cost more than her home. She giggled. ‘We’ve just got six now.’ She squeezed her husband’s hand, though he didn’t register it. ‘Owen says he misses when Curtis was a wee one. Course, he’s got five sisters, just like I had, but it’d be nice to have a young ’un again, you know? A boy.’
‘My boy’s ten months.’ Fenchurch grimaced, then flashed a smile over it.
‘That’s my favourite age! They’re so cute!’
‘We just need to speak to your son.’
‘He’s a
dark horse, is Curtis.’ She squeezed her husband’s hand again, but his focus was still on the football. ‘Isn’t he, Owen?’
‘The darkest. Like Croatia or Turkey at a World Cup.’ Owen sat forward, still holding his wife’s hand. ‘Oh, go on, son. Go on! Oh.’ He fell back in the seat and burped. ‘What were we saying, Kelly?’
‘Your son, Owen.’ She slapped his arm. ‘Curtis?’
‘Good lad. Smart with the computers.’
‘The police are looking for him?’
‘Oh, yeah.’ Back to the football. ‘Come on, ref. That’s a stonewall penalty!’
Fenchurch shifted over and blocked his view. ‘Mr Ashman, we need a word with your son.’
Owen tried to peer round Fenchurch. ‘Why’s that?’
‘Just need to ask him a few questions as part of our inquiry.’
‘You looking into what’s going on at the school?’
‘What do you mean by that?’
Owen settled back in the chair and reached for his beer. ‘You know, the stuff in the paper. Some teacher bonking a student.’
‘It’s related, sir.’
‘Tell you, in my day, the teachers . . . I wouldn’t give them a second look. See on our parents’ evenings?’ Owen’s mouth twisted up and he grunted. ‘It’s like going to a nightclub. Some of them.’ He whistled.
‘Owen!’ Kelly giggled as she batted her husband’s arm. ‘We wanted to take our kids out of that school, but Curtis is doing A-levels and we’ve still got three there, three at the primary. We can’t afford to pay for their education so we’ve not got much choice.’
‘I don’t believe in all that Catholic or C of E bollocks. My kids aren’t going to a religious school.’ Owen snarled as he took another swig. ‘That’s our school, you know? It’s owned by the community, not anyone else. They need to fix it for us.’
Fenchurch leaned back in his chair. Is this just idle chat or does he have anything useful to say?
Owen slammed his can down on the table, sending beer spraying up. ‘I work mornings, right, so I pick my kids up from school. Have a little chat with the mums and, well, I’m usually the only dad. We’re all worried about it, you know? Our kids are at this school that’s all over the papers. All that publicity isn’t going to do anyone any good, is it?’
‘You ever do anything about it?’
‘Not me, no.’ Another burp. ‘Someone spoke to the Headmaster. And he was a prick about it. That guy . . . Real seedy bastard, I swear.’
Nah, he’s got nothing.
‘We just need to speak to your son.’
‘He’ll be back eventually.’
‘You know where Elliot Lynch might be?’
A frown settled on Owen’s forehead, followed by a wry grin. ‘Elliot’s a right little bugger. What’s he done now?’
‘Just need a word with him.’
Owen smirked. ‘Last weekend, walking the dog with our youngest two, I spotted that boy in the park with a top-class piece of tail. Fit as a butcher’s dog.’ Another burp. He frowned. ‘Recognise the bird from somewhere, though. Gorgeous, she was. Stunning. Like that one off Tits and Dragons.’
Kelly giggled. ‘Owen, what are you like?’
Fenchurch had more than an idea of who he was talking about. ‘You mean Game of Thrones?’
‘Yeah, you know. I don’t watch it for the dragons, if you know what I mean. I just watch it for the tits.’ He swallowed a burp for once. ‘Think she’s the queen. But she was younger. Cracking piece of crumpet.’
‘So, where is your son?’
Owen ran a hand across his mouth. ‘Don’t know about you, but when I was seventeen, on any given Saturday I’d either be out of my skull with my mates at a party somewhere or bollock-deep in this one here.’ He gave a loud cackle as he prodded his wife. ‘Given how fit the one Elliot’s smashing is, I think you should be looking for her, yeah?’
‘She’s dead, sir.’
‘Oh, bloody hell.’
‘They don’t give a shit, do they?’ Fenchurch slowed as he drove past Shadwell Grammar. No kids lurking in the school grounds. A few punters hanging outside the pub, blackened doors and windows, but definitely still open and serving. Probably never shut. No name on the door, either. The Shadwell United football stadium over the road was still lit up hours after they’d played. ‘Not a single shit.’ He sped up.
‘That prick was right, though, guv.’ Reed folded her arms. ‘Kid Elliot’s age, he’ll be at a party or drinking cider in a graveyard or something.’
Fenchurch slowed to inspect a group of kids hanging about down the lane backing on to the stadium. He checked the photo of Elliot again. None looked even remotely like him. ‘We’re getting nowhere, Kay. Short of knocking on every door between here and the City, we’re just drawing a bloody blank.’
Reed took the photo back and tapped it with her fingers. ‘I’ve got an idea.’
Chapter Fourteen
Mrs Raptis.’ Reed smiled at her from the doorstep. A stench of mushroom pizza and used underpants wafted out from the hallway. ‘We need another word with Katerina, if that’s okay?’
Katerina stood next to her mother, using her as a shield. ‘Have you caught Mrs Fisher’s killer yet?’
‘Working on it.’ Fenchurch leaned against the door, stopping them from shutting it. ‘We need to talk to an Elliot Lynch, any idea where he might be?’
‘Well, don’t mind me.’ Jocasta let go of her daughter and stepped to the side, holding out a hand to Reed. ‘It’s Jocasta, by the way. Jo for short.’
‘A pleasure.’ Reed gave a fake smile, then focused on Katerina. ‘It’s important that we speak to Elliot. So, if—’
‘What’s he done?’ Jocasta was frowning like she was catching up on the latest episode of EastEnders or something.
‘That’s not important.’
‘It’s got to be, otherwise you wouldn’t want to speak to him, would you?’
Reed shifted her gaze to Katerina. ‘You do know Elliot Lynch, don’t you?’ Her steely glare added some hard diamond. ‘Because if you don’t and you’re just messing with us . . .’
‘That supposed to frighten me?’ Katerina leaned back. Then her head hung low. ‘Sorry. I’ve been bullied a lot at school and Mrs Fisher . . .’
‘That woman is a saint.’ Jocasta squeezed her daughter’s shoulder. ‘Helped my baby through it all. Horrible place, that school. We tried another one, but it wasn’t as good academically and it’s more important that she gets good grades, right?’
‘This has reminded me of a lot of things.’ Katerina didn’t look up. Just grabbed her mother’s hand. ‘That’s why I’m messing with you. It’s how I coped with it until Mrs Fisher taught me how to focus on how I feel and figure out what I can do. I’ll miss her.’
Jocasta wrapped her arms around her daughter. ‘Are you okay, my little pumpkin?’
‘Katerina, we really need to find Elliot.’
‘I hate that prick.’ Katerina pouted, her bottom lip sticking out like she was six again. Not that she looked much older. ‘He was one of the worst bullies. But I—’
‘Kat, I thought that was all over? Didn’t Mrs Fisher—?’
‘Mum, shut up!’ Katerina pushed her mother away, then leaned forward. ‘Look, not that I’m ever invited to these things, but there’s a house party this weekend. This prick Jayden, his parents are away. Elliot’s got to be there.’
‘You got an address?’
Katerina got out her phone. ‘I can show you on Google Maps?’
Fenchurch noted the address and handed her a business card. ‘Give me a call if you think of any other likely places, okay?’
The address was a big house in that American east-coast style, all weatherboards and verandas. Stuffed down a back lane not far from the school and not the sort of place you associated with Shadwell.
Deep, deep bass came from inside the house, loud enough that Fenchurch felt it in his chest. Teenagers visible in both front windows, laughter and shouting
just about audible over the din.
Fenchurch remembered a few parties like this. More than a few. Someone’s parents away for the weekend, leaving just one idiot to bring his mates along. And their mates. And theirs. Then it gets out of hand. Once, the police got involved. Fenchurch’s dad wasn’t impressed, his son at a party where structural damage was done to the house.
Not something I had to contend with — Chloe grew up hundreds of miles away. Did she go to any parties like this? Did she vomit up a gutful of cheap vodka? Did she ever get too pissed to stop some idiot taking a sledgehammer to a wall?
Not that I’d know. Parents are the last to know, unless something bad happened. Just the nagging doubt of her absence, sitting in front of the telly on a Saturday night, watching the clock. Going to bed and she’s still not home. Lying there, listening for drunken giggles as the keys drop. Listening to her being sick all over the bathroom floor. Putting her in bed and clearing it up.
His scalp itched.
All that time, all that history . . . Someone else had to deal with what should’ve been my trials and tribulations. Mine and Abi’s.
‘Come on.’ Fenchurch walked up the path, the bass squeezing his heart.
‘This takes me back, guv.’ Reed joined him by the door. ‘So, we just going to enter?’
‘Don’t see any reason why not.’ Fenchurch opened the door and walked in like he owned the place.
The bass was joined by mid and treble, some knuckle-dragging dance music. ‘Por-por. Por-por-por. Selene. Por-por. Por-por-por. Selene. Por-por. Por-por-por. Selene. Porcelain. Goddess.’
The place stank of cheap perfume, vape misting a long hallway done up like a John Lewis catalogue. At the end, a pile of teenagers lay together, laughing and joking on their phones. In the dark living room, twenty or so kids were dancing, lights flashing.
‘Por-por. Por-por-por. Selene. Por-por.’
No sign of where the music was coming from.
‘Por-por-por. Selene. Porcelain. Goddess.’