by Ed James
Fenchurch traced it to a white box under the silver telly. No buttons. He fiddled about but couldn’t get it to stop. Nobody even noticed him.
‘Por-por. Por-por-por. Selene. Por-por. Por-por-por. Selene. Por-por. Por-por-por. Selene. Porcelain. Goddess.’
He pulled the cord out of the back of the machine and the music died.
Loud groans and jeers. ‘What!?’ A plastic cup of punch hit the wall behind him, spraying pink gunk everywhere.
‘Police!’ Fenchurch held up his warrant card. ‘We’re looking for Elliot Lynch!’
Reed flicked on the lights and Fenchurch got a good look at the kids. Some of them were still dancing to the beat in their heads. Nobody matching Elliot’s description. ‘Anyone seen Elliot Lynch?’
A greasy kid in a tracksuit pointed outside. ‘Out there.’
‘Come on, Kay.’ Fenchurch led Reed back into the hall.
‘Por-por. Por-por-por.’
‘That song’s doing my head in.’
‘Try hearing it on one-track repeat all day long, guv.’
Fenchurch pushed through four snogging couples in the kitchen, hands in each other’s pants, and stepped out into the back garden. A few more couples kissing on the patio furniture, including two boys — so different from Fenchurch’s day. Behind, a row of kids sat on the edge of the lawn, one at the side hunched over, vomiting white chunks on to the grass.
A window opened a crack. ‘Porcelain. Goddess.’
Fenchurch checked the kid vomiting. ‘Shit, it’s Elliot.’ He grabbed hold of him and pulled him to his feet.
‘You can’t do that, man!’
‘He’s coming with me.’ Fenchurch tried to drag Elliot away, but the kid was stumbling. His T-shirt was soaked through with sweat like he’d run two marathons.
‘Goddess!’ Elliot laughed as he spun round. ‘Goddess! Gayle’s my goddess, you punk-ass bitch!’ He started dancing, fists in the air. ‘Por-por! Por-por-por!’ He fell to his knees. ‘Selene.’ Then face down on the grass, right in the pile of sick.
Fenchurch tried to lift him up. No hope, just a dead weight. He rolled Elliot over and peered into his eyes. The pupils wiggled from side to side, rapid, like fish evading the hook. He lifted him up to sitting. ‘Elliot, can you—?’
‘I love you, man!’ His head rolled forward, then back. Eyes wiggling worse now. ‘I love everyone!’
‘Ecstasy. Shit.’ Fenchurch grabbed Elliot and set him on a garden chair, while Reed kept the other kids at a distance. ‘Elliot, I need to ask you some questions about Gayle.’
‘I love her, man. She’s my goddess. Por-por! Por-por-por! Selene!’
Kid’s too far gone to take anything in or give anything out except deep, deep love.
‘Por-por! Por-por-por!’ Sweat trickled down his forehead like a flood after heavy rain, drenching Elliot’s face. ‘Por-por! Por-por-por!’ He started twitching, his pupils a blur. Then he groaned and collapsed back in the chair.
Fenchurch caught a whiff of something sharp. ‘What the hell?’
Chapter Fifteen
The paramedics loaded Elliot into the ambulance. Kid was out of it, not even muttering.
A few kids were hanging around, faces etched with panic and fear as the real world interrupted their party. A squad of uniforms marched into the house, heading for a gang of kids still shouting that bloody song in the back garden.
The first paramedic came up to Fenchurch, leaning against his car. Tall and looked like a grizzled copper who’d just decided to focus on helping people rather than convicting them. ‘Hey, buddy.’ His Canadian drawl sounded really out of place on the streets of London.
‘James Mackay, as I live and breathe.’ A familiar face from crime scenes over the years, but Fenchurch hadn’t seen him in a while.
‘One and the same.’ Mackay thumbed behind him. ‘We’ve sedated the kid. Going to take a good scrub to get that stink out. You’re sure it’s ecstasy?’
‘I know the signs, James. His eyes were waggling. Then he started sweating and twitching before he had his little accident.’
‘Much as I hate to say it, you’ve probably saved the kid’s life.’ Mackay glowered at the house. ‘Looks like it’s Blockchain. That super-strong MDMA.’ He snarled. ‘Had two corpses from it in the last month. Whoever’s dealing that . . . Give me two minutes in a room with them. Least they deserve.’ He bared his teeth. ‘A shitload of deaths, even more hospitalisations. We’re saving people’s lives, but they’re suffering brain damage or kidney failure. You need to check—’
‘—every kid here. I know. I’ll get on it.’ Fenchurch looked around. ‘Nobody is in the same state as Elliot.’
‘I’ll take that as a good thing.’ The ambulance tooted and he looked over. ‘We’re taking him to the Royal London. I’ll keep you posted, all right?’
‘Save him.’
‘I’ll try.’ Mackay patted Fenchurch on the shoulder and marched off and hopped in the side. The ambulance hurtled off down the street in a blaze of sirens.
A fresh batch of uniforms showed up, same time as a pair of silver SUVs, angry-faced parents demanding to see their kids.
Fenchurch joined Reed standing by the pool car. She was on the phone so he just stared at the mayhem. Yellow-jacketed officers trying to manage parents through the discovery of their kids’ drug taking and heavy drinking.
And Elliot Lynch almost dying in the middle of it.
Going to a house party and almost dying. Kid is way off the lead.
Weird how nobody else seems to be suffering the same effects.
Reed killed her call and flared her nostrils. ‘And that song’s stuck in my bloody head. It was on all the time in—’
Fenchurch’s phone rang. He checked the display — Mulholland. ‘Here comes trouble.’ He put it to his ear. ‘Dawn. You got my voicemail, then?’
‘You need to make them shorter.’ Mulholland’s yawn hissed into the microphone. ‘Does it look like we’ll get to speak to him tonight?’
‘He might die.’ Fenchurch got in the car. ‘The paramedic thinks it looks like Blockchain.’
‘Jesus.’ Mulholland paused. ‘You think he’s a suspect?’
‘Could be any number of reasons he’d kill Gayle Fisher, but until we get in a room with him or find something, we’re snookered.’ Fenchurch checked his watch. Way past time to see Baby Al. ‘Do you mind if I go to the hospital?’
‘Not now. I’ve got a better use for you.’
Mulholland was waiting outside an interview room in Leman Street, thumbs tapping out a text. She looked up at Fenchurch’s thunderous approach and put her phone away. ‘How are you doing, Simon?’
‘I’ve had better days, Dawn.’ He folded his arms. ‘So, what’s this better use for me?’
‘Brendan Holding.’
‘Doesn’t ring a bell. Another suspect?’
‘Simon, Simon, Simon. You really need to do your homework.’ Mulholland stared right into his eyes, then wrapped her scarf tight around her throat. ‘He’s the Headmaster at Shadwell Grammar.’
‘And why are you treating him as a suspect?’
‘I like to unnerve intelligence sources, Simon.’ She pointed at the interview room door. ‘Mr Holding was having a nice evening at the British Film Institute when we got hold of him.’ She opened the door and entered.
Fenchurch followed her in.
Brendan Holding was early fifties, but dressed young. Bulging biceps and a checked shirt open to show off chest hair. Sunglasses pushed up over greying hair, shaved close. His face shone, smooth skin like a teenager but without the acne. He smiled at Fenchurch like he recognised him. ‘Do I know you?’
Fenchurch sat opposite. ‘I’ve got one of those faces.’
Mulholland gave Fenchurch a weary sigh. Then a beatific smile at Holding. ‘Thanks for joining us, sir. We’re sorry for your loss.’
‘Well.’ Holding nodded slowly. ‘I’m struggling to process it, but you’re right — she’ll be a loss. Gayle was a
great teacher. One of the most popular I’ve ever worked with. The kids loved her.’
‘I understand how upsetting it can be, sir.’ Mulholland adjusted the box of tissues in the middle of the table. Didn’t look like Holding was going to use it. ‘And the staff?’
‘She and her husband were the ones who herded the cats for the Friday-night drinks. Great for team bonding. Always knew there was a crowd heading out. I popped in a couple of times to buy the first round, but I suspect my name was mud.’
‘You mean you didn’t get on well with her?’
‘Not at all. Just that . . .’ Holding offered a tight shrug. ‘Well, I’m keeping Shadwell Grammar afloat. Treading water, at best. Means I have to make a lot of hard decisions.’ He tilted his head. ‘Sure someone in your position understands?’
‘Feels like drowning.’ Mulholland gave a coquettish smile. ‘My father went to Shadwell Grammar in the sixties. Hated it, but said it set him up for life.’
Holding took his sunglasses off his head and folded them carefully before setting them down on the desk. ‘What does he do?’
‘He’s retired.’
‘You’ve got a retired father?’
‘I’m not that young.’ Mulholland blushed. ‘NatWest, man and boy. Worked his way from the mailroom to senior management. Put me and my sister through a proper education.’
‘You mean private?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well, a lot of people hated that school. Which is why they’re trying to stop all my good work.’ Holding locked eyes with Fenchurch. Then started wagging his finger, getting faster as he added in nodding. ‘Good God! Simon Fenchurch!’
‘That’s me, sir. You’ve probably seen me in the papers.’
‘Well, yes . . .’ Holding leaned in like they were old mates down the pub. ‘How’s Abi?’
‘You know my wife?’
‘Worked together at Lewisham. Great times. We . . . lost touch a few years back. How’s she doing?’
‘New baby, sir. Sure you know what it’s like?’
‘I never married.’
‘Oh.’
‘It’s fine. I mean, I like children, but I couldn’t eat a whole one.’ Holding laughed, making Mulholland grimace. ‘When you work with kids all day long, you quickly tire of them. Last thing you want at home, you know?’ He left a pause. ‘Tell you what, though, I could do with Abi at Southpaw Grammar.’ He flicked his head as he grinned. ‘Sorry, Shadwell. A little joke there.’
Fenchurch frowned. ‘Morrissey album, right?’
‘His last good one, if you ask me.’
‘Hard to disagree with that.’ Fenchurch took a deep breath. ‘We need to ask you some questions about certain allegations made against Mrs Fisher.’
‘Her affair, right?’ Holding picked up his shades and stared into the lenses, like he was using a mirror. ‘I heard rumours that a teacher had been sleeping with a pupil. Get them all the time and it just becomes noise. Always complete balderdash. This one, though . . . This one just kept bubbling up. Smoke and fire and all that.’
Fenchurch frowned. ‘They mentioned Gayle by name?’
‘Not the student, though.’ Holding finished preening in the mirror and rested the glasses down again. His head flicked again, like he wasn’t in control of the movement. ‘I spoke to Gayle. She denied it.’ An angry flick this time, definitely deliberate. ‘And I believed her, didn’t I? Then this little oik from the Post turned up, looking for quotes on the story. I thought it was just a smear against me. That bloody paper hates me for turning around an inner-city school. I asked them not to publish.’ Another shake. ‘But they did, didn’t they? Put her photo on the front page. Suggested she’d had sex with a student at another’s house.’
‘How did Gayle react?’
‘How do you think? She panicked. Didn’t come in yesterday. Had to arrange a supply teacher.’ Holding gritted his teeth like he had to arrange it himself. ‘I visited her at home yesterday. Had a cup of tea. She was . . . repentant. Said she’d let me down. Let the school down. That old cliché, but I could tell she meant it. I told her I had no choice but to put her on suspension, pending an investigation.’
‘How far have you got with that?’
‘I just started it this morning. Most of my week is filled up and I only get round to the meaty stuff on a Saturday.’ Holding swallowed hard. ‘That said, my little friend from the Post did share some information. Turns out it wasn’t a one-off. And he had evidence that Gayle and Elliot had . . . Jesus Christ. That they’d had an affair. They’d had sex in a park, for God’s sake.’
‘Why didn’t you go to the police? It’s a criminal offence.’
The only answer Holding had was another shake of the head.
‘You should’ve come to us about this, sir. It’s a criminal matter. A prison sentence for the offending teacher.’
‘I know, I know, it’s just . . .’
‘Worried about your reputation?’
‘Look, of course I would’ve spoken to the police. I’m sorry. It’s just . . . We didn’t know who it was until—’ His shoulders deflated. ‘Until I saw that story in the papers.’
‘Did you speak to his parents?’
‘Not had a chance.’
Fenchurch laughed. ‘You should’ve—’
‘Simon.’ Mulholland grabbed Fenchurch by the arm and led him outside. ‘We’ll be back in a second, sir.’ She shut the door and glared at Fenchurch. ‘You need to calm down.’
‘He should’ve gone to the police.’ Fenchurch jabbed a finger at the door. ‘Not that the parents would’ve cared.’ He folded his arms. ‘You heard him, the Post are all over this. They’ve already got a deep involvement in the case, Liam’s mucking us about. We need a media strategy now.’
Mulholland gave a patronising grin, her forehead creasing. ‘I’m consulting with Julian on the matter. In the meantime, I really need you to stop leaking, accidentally or otherwise.’
‘I’m not leaking to anyone.’
‘Not to Liam Sharpe and Cally Morris?’ She held a smirk for a few seconds. ‘Just make sure they don’t get anything else they shouldn’t. Am I clear?’
‘I don’t know who you think you’re talking to.’ Fenchurch stared at her until she looked away. ‘I’m going to catch up with Elliot’s parents at the hospital. Then I’m going to spend time with my family. Any objections to that?’
‘Fill your boots.’ She pushed back into the interview room and shut the door behind her.
‘Mr Lynch was close to dying.’ Dr Lucy Mulkalwar snorted. Sniffed. Tiny and pale-skinned, her black hair cut into a severe bob. Her accent was purest Glasgow. ‘He’s not out of the woods yet. And it’s worse than it looks.’
Elliot lay in the hospital bed, his face covered with an oxygen mask, an IV drip driven into his wrist. Looked comatose, but his eyes were flicking open. Even caught Fenchurch’s eye.
‘It looks pretty bad to me.’
Mulkalwar snorted again. ‘To be perfectly frank, it’s about seventy per cent that he might not survive the night.’
‘He took Blockchain, right?’
‘Yes. And technically it’s serotonin syndrome that’s killing him.’ Mulkalwar barked out a cough. Then snorted again. ‘This is becoming quite common. We see it a lot with patients taking too many of their anti-depressants. Or having an adverse reaction. He had a fit, but we’ve sedated him. Restlessness. Sweating. Tremors, shivering, muscle twitches, jerking. Mental confusion.’
‘Diarrhoea?’
‘That’s at the less severe end of the spectrum, but yes.’
‘Because he—’
‘We know. The nurses are nipping my head about the mess.’ Mulkalwar gave a sour look. ‘It’s not just that, it’s the risk of infection and so on.’
‘Do you know if anyone else at the party took it?’
‘Doesn’t look like it. According to the attending sergeant, only five of the partygoers were on ecstasy. None of them showed signs of serotonin syndrom
e.’
‘Some better news, I suppose.’
‘Here, you!’ Derek Lynch was charging down the corridor, anger burning his face red, his stocky frame all bunched up and aggressive. ‘What’s going on with my boy?’
Mulkalwar stepped behind Fenchurch. ‘I am awaiting test results and will—’
‘That’s bollocks.’ Derek tried to get round Fenchurch, but had to settle for prodding a finger in her direction. ‘You know what’s wrong with him! You know!’
‘Sir, I am await—’
‘I want the truth, and now!’
‘We’re awaiting—’
Fenchurch held out a hand. ‘Doc, give us a moment?’
Mulkalwar swallowed hard. ‘You can’t tell him anything!’
‘But there’s nothing to tell.’ Fenchurch frowned at her, adding a wink for good measure. ‘Right?’
‘Of course.’ Mulkalwar left them, her Crocs squelching down the corridor.
‘Sir.’ Fenchurch gave Derek a reassuring smile. ‘The doctor—’
‘You.’ Derek scowled at Fenchurch. ‘I know you, by the way. Seen your face in the papers. You seem like a good guy, so I’m asking you to help me out here. What’s going on with my boy?’
‘The doctor is still assessing your son’s condition. You need to let her get on with her job.’
‘But she won’t tell us anything.’
‘I know the feeling. There’s no agenda here. She genuinely doesn’t know.’
‘Is it drugs?’
Fenchurch looked away. ‘Probably.’
Derek laughed. ‘Boys will be boys, eh?’
‘Your son’s practically comatose and that’s all you can say?’
‘Why are you so interested in my boy, anyway?’
‘He was sleeping with a teacher.’
Another laugh. ‘That’s my boy.’
‘It’s a criminal offence.’
‘Aye, for her.’ Derek bellowed out a laugh. ‘He’s the victim, right?’
‘This isn’t funny.’
‘Ah, come on. Shagging a teacher. What a boy.’
‘You don’t care about him, do you?’ Fenchurch wanted to pick him up and shove him in the bin upside down. ‘He’s having sex with a teacher and you just don’t give a shit.’