by Ed James
‘What are you drinking for?’
‘The shit I see every day. Dealing with that. Compressing my head so that I’m just in the present with you and your mother and I’m not thinking about the crime scene I’ve been to that afternoon.’
‘I didn’t think.’ She unpinned her name badge and stuck it on. ‘Dad, I don’t know whether Pete’s an alcoholic. Honestly. He never drinks, even on nights out. It’s one thing I like about him.’
‘Just one?’
‘Buy whatever you like and you can sit there getting hammered. Sure Mum won’t mind.’ Chloe tugged her hair up and scratched at her scar. ‘Sorry. Shouldn’t have said that. I’m upset about my brother.’
Fenchurch looked away. ‘We all are.’
‘Yeah, well, I’m struggling. You’re attuned to it, obviously.’
‘You never get attuned to loss.’
‘He’s just a baby. How can there be something that wrong with him?’
‘When you were that young, I worried about you all the time. I thought you’d just stop breathing, but you were a lot stronger. Much stronger.’ Fenchurch leaned back in his seat and smiled at her. ‘Listen, I might be able to get away at lunchtime. Do you want to meet, just you and me?’
‘I’d love it. Mexican?’
‘Like there’s any other food.’
She laughed, then opened her door fully. Then let out a sigh. ‘Dad . . .’
‘What?’
‘There’s . . .’ Another sigh.
‘Is it about me or your mother?’
‘Well, duh.’ She shut her eyes. ‘We should talk about it at the session tomorrow.’
‘What’s wrong with now?’
Chloe got out of the car and leaned back in. ‘I’ve been spending a lot of time with Mum. I’m really loving getting to know her, but . . .’
‘Is she being too clingy?’
‘Dad!’ She sighed again. ‘Look, we’ll talk about it in our session with Paddy tomorrow.’
‘Chloe, you can talk to me. About anything, everything. Whatever it is.’
‘It’s fine, Dad. Tomorrow.’ She leaned over to kiss his cheek then set off across the car park, meeting a colleague halfway.
Fenchurch’s phone blared out, rattling the holder. A mobile number, unknown caller. He answered it, watching Chloe traipse over to the store. ‘Yeah?’
‘Hi.’ A woman’s voice exploded out of the car’s speakers, set to Led Zeppelin volume, not phone calls. Sounded young.
‘Hi back. Who is this?’
‘Katerina.’
Liam’s jailbait girlfriend.
Fenchurch sat forward, gripping the steering wheel. ‘What’s up?’
‘I . . . Look, it’s nothing.’
‘What’s happened? Have you got something?’
‘No. I just . . . I need to talk to someone. About Mrs Fisher.’ Fenchurch stared at the speakers like he could see into her eyes. ‘I keep thinking about seeing her lying there.’
Seeing a body hits people hard, especially if it’s someone they know. Nobody thinks about them, the silent victims. Can take days to kick in. And it’ll take forever to leave.
‘I’ve been there.’ Fenchurch exhaled slowly. ‘A few times. It’s not easy, believe me.’ He caught a last glimpse of Chloe as she entered the supermarket. ‘Is there someone you can talk to about it?’
‘Mum doesn’t understand. And no.’ She paused. ‘You thought your daughter was dead, didn’t you?’ She gasped. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have bothered you.’
‘It’s okay.’ Fenchurch’s turn to pause. ‘Do you need to talk to someone?’
Another long pause, long enough to make him think he’d lost her. ‘I’ve got nobody.’
‘Look, come into the station at lunchtime. I’m busy all morning, but I’ll fit you in then. How’s that sound?’
‘Okay.’ And she was gone.
Fenchurch started the engine and drove off. What the hell was that about?
‘Moving on, then.’ Fenchurch sat in the Incident Room, looking around the morning briefing. ‘DS Reed, are we any further forward in proving that Steve Fisher’s behind his wife’s murder?’
‘Ish.’ Reed was sat on a desk halfway across the room flanked by a squad of uniformed knuckle draggers, the sort Fenchurch would’ve been twenty years ago. Trouser suit today, flat leather shoes, so at least she was dressed for work and not a baby shower. ‘His alibi’s still wide open. Lisa’s got the CCTV for the route he allegedly took.’
Bridge sat on her own, laptop clutched tight. ‘Not started it yet, sir. It’s literally just turned up.’
‘Right. Okay.’ Fenchurch focused on the rest of the group, trying to spot any other likely sources of hope. Didn’t find any. ‘I’m attending Gayle Fisher’s post-mortem at ten. Dr Pratt will hopefully figure out what killed her.’
‘Doubt it.’ Clooney covered his smirk with a cough. Laughter bounced around the room.
‘Let a guy hope, Mick. You got anything for me?’
‘Just a shit-ton of forensics to process.’ Clooney tapped at his tablet’s screen. ‘Hairs, a bit of saliva. Probably all from the victim. Most likely from the cleaners or previous guests.’
‘But possibly our killer?’
‘You know the rules, Si. You give me a suspect; I’ll tell you if they were there.’ Clooney hid his face behind his tablet, blocking Fenchurch’s view. ‘Tammy’s still at the crime scene this morning. We’ll hopefully finish tonight and get it all off to the lab. Then we’re waiting on the lab to get back to us.’
‘Can we—’
‘Simon, you always ask me to speed up. I don’t know why you think your cases are more important than anyone else’s.’ Clooney lowered his tablet just enough for Fenchurch to see his stupid face. ‘If it was the Queen or the Prime Minister going under Pratt’s knife, fair enough, you could bump it up. But if this was someone that important, Si, let’s be honest, you’re not going to be investigating it, are you?’
Fenchurch tried to hide his irritation with a sip of tea. ‘Do what you can, Mick.’
‘Always do, Si. I’ve also got that acid attack in Hackney and it just doesn’t end.’
‘I get it.’ Fenchurch switched back to Reed. ‘Kay, can you keep tearing apart Steve Fisher’s alibi?’ He waited for her to write it down, then raised his eyebrows at Uzma. ‘DS Ashkani, I need you to track down the two missing guests at the hotel.’ He got a nod, then clapped his hands together. ‘Okay, let’s find the killer.’
The squad dispersed in a puff of noise. Those words always rang hollow, no matter how many times he said them and how hard he meant them.
Mulholland joined him on the bench by the whiteboard. ‘A victim and no suspect. The hardest time in any case.’
‘Feels like every case, Dawn.’
Mulholland turned to face him, her left eyebrow raised. ‘Let me know if you want any coaching on running a more effective briefing.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Mick Clooney ran rings around you. And your team look somewhat deflated.’
‘You’re welcome to run it, what with you being SIO.’
‘Simon, as my Deputy, I need you to be able to run a briefing.’ She waved an arm round the room. ‘And you need to make this team work hard for you.’
Fenchurch finished his tea, though it tasted sour, like the milk had curdled. ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
‘My offer of coaching stands.’ Mulholland sprang to her feet and patted his arm. ‘I can get Uzma to deputise if you want?’
Fenchurch put his mug down, though really he should’ve smashed her face with it. ‘I just need that media strategy.’
‘It’s with Julian for review and sign-off.’
‘And we’re keeping a blackout until then? It’s been over twenty-four hours since Gayle died. Almost that since she was found.’
‘It’s with Julian.’ Mulholland scanned around the room, tugging hard at her scarf. ‘What’s your take on Elliot Lynch? Is he a valid suspect?’
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‘Wouldn’t put my money on him.’ Fenchurch joined her standing. ‘When we picked him up last night, he seemed to be in love with Gayle. Didn’t know she was dead, either. Usually if someone’s killed someone they love, it’s long since turned to hate. And the state he was in, he couldn’t have lied if he wanted to. We saw the boy’s soul.’
‘I take your point, however florally put.’ Another sharp tug at her scarf. ‘Well, the doctor called me. Could barely understand a word she said. I think Elliot’s ready for interview.’
Chapter Eighteen
Fenchurch pushed through the door into the waiting area and held it for Reed. No sign of Dr Mulkalwar. He walked over to the nurses’ station, but spotted her standing near the ward, a pained look on her face. ‘Doc, I need a word with Elliot Lynch.’
‘DCI Mulholland passed on my message, then.’ Mulkalwar led them down a corridor. ‘Elliot is in a stable condition but, to be perfectly frank, we need to tread carefully. The ecstasy he took last night was definitely Blockchain. We found some of these in his pocket.’ She stopped and held out her hand. A white pill inside a plastic bag.
‘This is evidence.’ Fenchurch took it off her and inspected it closer. The Bitcoin logo was stamped on the pill, a capital B with two vertical lines. ‘How sure are you that he took one?’
‘Fairly sure. Elliot was suffering from the early stages of serotonin syndrome, caused by an overdose of MDMA. It was progressing rapidly, so I suspect he’d taken more than one pill.’
‘Any more victims overnight?’
‘One in Croydon.’ Mulkalwar tried to take the drug back, but Fenchurch closed his fingers around the bag. ‘Okay. Well.’ She stared through the darkened window into the corridor, where an orderly was helping a limping man. ‘Anyway. I confirmed with your uniform colleagues — Elliot was the only one at that party who suffered these effects.’
‘Small mercies.’ Reed scowled at the doctor. ‘Can we see him?’
‘He isn’t taking visitors.’ Mulkalwar huffed out a sigh. ‘It’s easier if I show you.’
‘Elliot?’ Mulkalwar stood over the bed, pulling back the covers to take a look at Elliot. Kid was staring up at the ceiling. It was like they weren’t even there. ‘Two police officers are here to speak to you.’
Elliot took one look at them, struggling to keep his face straight.
‘They need to ask you some questions.’
Elliot lay back on the bed then burst out laughing like he was at a Billy Connolly gig.
Is this what Mulkalwar meant about his condition?
Fenchurch glanced at Mulkalwar, frowning. She just shrugged. So he crouched next to the bed. ‘Why are you laughing?’
Elliot didn’t stop, his sides shaking.
‘What are you laughing at?’
He gave a shrug, still laughing.
What’s up with him?
Fenchurch even touched his own head to make sure his hair was flat or that he wasn’t covered in bird crap. Nothing. He grabbed Elliot’s arm. That got his attention. ‘Listen to me. We found Gayle Fisher’s body yesterday.’ He waited, but didn’t get a reaction. At least the little sod stopped laughing. ‘We need to know your whereabouts on Friday night.’
Elliot leaned on his elbow, smirking. Then he started laughing again.
What the hell?
Fenchurch took Mulkalwar to the side. ‘Is this related to the serotonin syndrome?’
‘To be perfectly frank, I think he’s just messing with you.’
‘Right.’ Fenchurch walked back to Elliot. ‘Son, we think that the drugs you took almost killed you. Can you tell me who sold you them?’
Elliot lay back again, laughing hard.
‘I’m serious.’ Fenchurch reached out and grabbed the kid’s arm again. ‘Listen to me. What you took almost killed you. Has anyone else got it?’
‘Must have.’
Progress. Of a sort.
‘Who? Your friends from school?’
‘Don’t be daft.’ Elliot snorted with laughter. ‘I mean, seven billion people on the planet. Someone else must have some, right? I didn’t make the stuff.’
Cheeky bastard.
‘Elliot, I need to know where you were on Friday night.’
Elliot gave Fenchurch the up and down then started laughing again, bellowing out.
Fenchurch reached for Elliot again. But Mulkalwar stopped him. ‘Time to leave.’
‘Why the hell was he laughing?’ Fenchurch pulled out and overtook two buses trundling along Commercial Road. ‘It’s not like my fly was undone, was it?’
‘Guv, that kid was off his face.’ Reed was in the passenger seat, her face blank. ‘Who knows what he’s up to?’
‘That stuff almost killed him. I don’t understand why anyone would take the risk.’
‘Part of the thrill.’ Reed gave a shrug. ‘Looking for escape from their lives. The risk of death ups the thrill.’
‘I’ve seen a lot of heroin overdoses in my time and I could never understand why. Every time you stick some in your arm, it’s just rolling a dice.’ Fenchurch focused on the bag in Reed’s hands. ‘These Blockchain pills . . . Jesus. The dice is loaded with them.’
Reed shrugged again. ‘Better to die laughing than live in misery.’
Fenchurch’s phone rang. The spiders crawled up his spine again. He glanced at the dashboard display. Mulholland. He let out a breath, then nudged answer with his thumb. ‘Dawn, did you get my message?’
‘It was somewhat garbled, Simon.’ Fenchurch glared at the display, catching a smirk from Reed. ‘There’s a course at Hendon on clear communication. I advise—’
‘Elliot definitely took Blockchain. Dr Mulkalwar found some on him.’
Mulholland’s pause was long enough for Reed to get four full jerks in of the universal ‘wanker’ gesture. ‘She didn’t tell me that part.’
‘Elliot could’ve died last night, Dawn. Those kids at the party would’ve stuck him in a bed and woken up to a cold body. We need to find the supplier and the dealers.’
Another pause. Fenchurch reached over to stop Reed wanking the air, then turned right off the street between a bookie’s and a miserable council block.
‘Well done for saving him, Simon. Is that what you’re after?’
Fenchurch accelerated towards some new flats overlooking the train line. ‘I’m not asking for praise, I just—’
‘I don’t think this is a valid lead in our case.’
‘Don’t you think we should stop other kids dying?’ Another pause. Felt like victory, but you never knew with Mulholland. ‘All I’m asking is that you pick up the phone to the drug squad and let them know.’
‘Like I said, I don’t think—’
‘I’ve got contacts over there.’ Fenchurch took a sharp left. ‘You want me to go over your head? Fair enough.’
‘Fine.’ Mulholland sniffed. ‘Did Elliot give you anything at all relating to our case?’
‘He’s . . .’ Fenchurch took a right. Then stopped to let an old lady cross, her shopping basket rolling behind her. ‘He didn’t play ball.’
‘Do I need to send Uzma?’
‘That won’t help.’ Fenchurch was close to revving to hurry the old woman up, but she stopped in the middle of the road and said something to them. ‘The kid’s just mugging us off. Maybe an anti-police thing.’ He waved her over, then set off before the old dear reached the other side. ‘We’re going to speak to his parents.’ He turned on to Elliot’s street.
Rammed.
People lined both sides of the road. At least two cameras and a BBC van.
Bloody journalists.
Who told them?
‘I need to go.’ Fenchurch killed the call and pulled up behind a Sky News van. He got out and barged through the scrum, warrant card out. ‘Police! Coming through!’
‘Si!’ A hand grabbed his arm. Liam, eyes pleading. ‘Give us a quote?’
‘You can take a running jump.’ Fenchurch tried to shake him off, but he was like a c
at digging its claws in. Just wouldn’t let go. ‘You shouldn’t be here. Nobody should.’
‘Cally wants a quote.’
‘Get her to speak to the Media Office.’ Fenchurch finally shook him off and pushed past the last few reporters. He trudged up the path and knocked on the door. ‘Mr Lynch! Police!’
‘I’ve called the police!’ Derek Lynch’s voice boomed out of the letter box. ‘Can you just piss off?’
‘Sir, it’s DI Fenchurch.’ He crouched down and showed his warrant card through the letter box. ‘We need a word.’
‘Must’ve been you lot!’ Derek Lynch hovered over his chair, one of those wooden-framed jobs you get from IKEA. He seemed unable to sit but unable to commit to standing. The living room was crammed with furniture, barely any room.
Amanda Lynch’s voice droned through from another room, the kind of phone call where the other side was much more interesting. ‘Yeah, yeah, ah-ha. Well, I’m not sure about that. I’d need to speak to my husband.’
Fenchurch peered out of the window again. The reporters waved at him, their cheer inaudible through the double glazing. Then he shut the curtains.
Derek was waving his arms around. ‘We can’t get out of the house!’
Fenchurch leaned against the windowsill. Amanda’s voice was louder, but he still couldn’t make out much beyond ‘yes’ and ‘no’. ‘Our media strategy at present is to maintain a press blackout.’ He raised a finger to stop Derek. ‘We spoke to Elliot at the hospital. Dr—’
‘Yeah, I know. We’re picking him up once you’ve got that rabble off my front lawn, Inspector. Okay?’ Derek finally sat on his chair, getting a creak from the wood. ‘That stupid little sod . . . Elliot was supposed to have a trial at Millwall this afternoon.’
‘He’s a footballer?’
‘The one thing he’s good at. Crafty midfielder, you know? Can hit a pass like you wouldn’t believe. But this is last-chance saloon for him. Put it this way, he’s not doing well at the school. That new Headmaster’s great, but the damage is already done, you know? Hard to turn round an oil tanker.’ Derek punched the wooden arm of his chair. ‘The football’s all he can be arsed with, you know? Spurs and Chelsea watched him when he was fourteen. Came to nothing. Had a trial at West Ham, but of course he’s not gone through a boys’ club so he didn’t learn the West Ham way.’ He spat it out. ‘Charlton, too, but they didn’t like his attitude. We thought it was over, but then Millwall start sniffing about. Now he’ll not play in that trial.’