by Ed James
Fenchurch pulled up outside John Fisher’s flat. No sign of any journalists tonight.
Steve opened the door and put a foot on the tarmac. ‘You’ve treated me like a criminal.’
‘You are.’ Fenchurch motioned to the house. ‘All those drugs we found?’
‘Piss off.’
‘I’m serious.’ Fenchurch grabbed his jacket and stopped him getting out. ‘I’m not going to judge anyone for their personal life, but you really need to watch yourself. When you start mixing with people like Coldcut—’
‘You don’t know my background. You don’t know where I’ve come from.’
‘I’m an East End boy myself. I know how tough growing up round here is. You’ve done well for yourself. Be stupid to throw it all away.’
Steve huffed out a sigh. ‘Why did you push so hard?’
‘Because I thought you killed her.’
‘How could you?’ Steve tugged at his jacket, wrenching it from Fenchurch’s grip. ‘How could you? How could you? How?’
‘All that stuff in the papers. You being there. It looked simple.’
‘That’s what’s wrong with the police. You just make assumptions, then you barrel in. Convict the wrong bloody people.’
‘Steve, I got you off. I dug and I dug and I dug and we eventually found the truth. Feels like you could’ve been honest with us earlier.’
Steve slammed the door and walked off to his brother’s flat, turning to give Fenchurch an angry look. ‘Should never have told you about the drugs.’
Fenchurch trudged up the stairs, the weight of the case and his life pulling down on his shoulders.
Shouting came from inside the flat.
‘You need to tell him!’ Chloe’s voice.
‘It doesn’t matter!’ Abi.
What the hell?
Fenchurch wrestled with his keys and opened the door.
‘Mum . . . Jesus Christ!’ Coming from the kitchen.
‘You’re so pigheaded!’
‘Wonder where I get it from?’
Fenchurch raced through to the kitchen. They were close together, teeth bared. ‘What’s going on? Is Al okay?’
‘He’s—’ Chloe broke off and ran past him. The flat door slammed.
‘What the hell?’ Fenchurch stopped Abi following. ‘Is Al okay?’
‘He’s still in surgery!’ Abi broke free and charged off through the flat.
Fenchurch followed her, the slammed door and their footsteps cannoned round the stairwell. ‘What’s upset her?’
‘You tell me.’ Abi raced out of the front door on to the street. A car drove off. ‘We’ve lost her again, Simon.’
Chapter Forty-Two
It’s all ruined.’ Abi was clinging on for dear life as Fenchurch hurtled round a corner, his brakes squealing as he took the corner too fast. ‘We just got her back and we’ve lost her again!’
‘Will you listen to me?’ Fenchurch sped through the corner, narrowly avoiding rear-ending the car. ‘We haven’t lost her, okay?’ He followed the car down Shoreditch High Street. ‘She’s a grown woman. This is just our first big ding-dong with her outside of Paddy’s session. You want to tell me what it’s about?’
‘Simon, this isn’t just a little argument.’
‘What is it, then?’
She didn’t reply, her eyes scanning the street.
‘You remember when she was little? We had so many arguments with her. One time we were at that owl sanctuary, up in Norfolk. We hadn’t bought her a plastic football at the petrol station but she just kept banging on about it. Turned into this massive tantrum. She’s not like that any more.’
‘Because they stole a big chunk of her brain, Simon.’
Fenchurch overtook a bus and had to swerve back in to avoid a taxi. The car pulled into a side street just ahead. ‘What were you arguing about?’
‘We were . . . Chloe was asking how to break up with Pete.’
Fenchurch looked over, scowling at her. ‘Thought she was in love with him?’
‘She’s still young, doesn’t know her own mind half the time.’
‘What did you say that got her so angry?’
‘I didn’t handle it well. I tried to persuade her not to go through with it.’
‘And that’s what got her so upset?’ Fenchurch hurtled down the street. ‘Come on, love. I deal with liars all day. What really happened?’
‘I swear. It was that. She just . . . exploded. Couldn’t handle it. It’s the . . . I don’t know.’
Fenchurch pulled up at a T-junction. No brake lights in either direction. ‘Where the hell is she?’ He looked around. Knew the street, the area. It was familiar. He stuck the car in gear and turned left. ‘I know where she’s gone.’
Fenchurch jogged through the park he used to take her to when she was little. Past the basketball court, where some kids were playing, shouting and laughing. Slowing as he neared the benches from behind.
He’d met a witness there a while back and some craven bastard had stabbed his contact, right in front of his eyes.
Chloe was sitting on a bench, her head low.
Fenchurch slowed to a walking pace. ‘There you are.’
She looked up at him, eyes burning.
Fenchurch waved Abi off and cut in before Chloe could even start. Nipping the complaint before it started had always worked when she was little. ‘I used to bring you here as a kid.’ He sat next to her. ‘Remember?’
A smile crawled over Chloe’s lips. ‘You’d always take my last sweetie.’
‘Should’ve taken a lot more than the last one. You’d get into a right grump. Blood-sugar level on the floor.’
‘One of the few memories they left me with.’
Fenchurch reached into his pocket for the packet of wine gums. ‘Used to meet old grumpy bollocks here.’
‘Grandpa?’
‘And your grandmother.’
‘I . . . I don’t remember her.’
‘She was nice.’ Fenchurch tore at the bag and let her help herself. ‘So you’re going to dump Pete?’
‘Pete?’ She held the sweets in her hand, inspecting them like they were poisoned. ‘Is that what Mum told you?’
‘It’s not a lie, Chloe.’ Abi was standing in front of them now.
‘It’s about ten per cent of the truth.’ Chloe threw her sweets on the ground. ‘Dad, I do want to dump Pete. So I asked Mum for her advice on how to dump a guy who’s still grieving.’
‘Grieving?’
‘He never married, but his partner died of a heart defect. It’s one of the things that made him give up that job. And made him stop drinking.’
‘So why ask your mother?’
‘Because she’s been in a similar situation.’
Fenchurch frowned at his wife. Abi looked like she was going to run off. ‘What’s she talking about?’
Abi shrugged.
‘Jesus Christ.’ Chloe glared at her. ‘Still can’t tell him, can you?’
‘Chloe, come on.’ Abi grabbed her arm. ‘You need to back off.’
‘Mum!’ Chloe shook her off. ‘You’ve been lying to him!’
Abi let go of her daughter and started walking away, head bowed.
Fenchurch sat back on the bench. ‘Chloe, what the hell’s going on?’
‘She never told you, did she?’ Chloe picked the bag of sweets off the ground. ‘When you were separated, she was seeing this bloke.’
Fenchurch’s gaze shot over to Abi. Almost at the car. ‘Who?’
‘No idea.’ Chloe stuffed a sweet in her mouth. ‘I’m disgusted, Dad. Seeing some random when she was estranged from you. And you were . . . you were looking for me.’
‘Chloe . . .’ Fenchurch got up and hugged her. ‘It was a hard time for both of us, we . . .’
‘You’re not angry? You knew?’
‘I didn’t, no.’ Fenchurch’s gut tied in knots as it hit him. ‘But . . .’ He let out a slow breath. ‘Stay here.’
‘Look, I’ll stay with you
when you split up.’
‘Stay here. Okay?’
Fenchurch stopped Abi by the car. ‘Love, wait.’
She turned to face him. ‘She told you, didn’t she?’
Fenchurch felt that gnawing in his gut. Ants crawling across his scalp. ‘I’m not judging you. It’s understandable.’
Abi nodded, a halting breath bursting out. ‘You look like you’re going to bludgeon me to death.’
‘Part of me feels like it.’ Fenchurch closed his eyes as he exhaled. ‘The part I don’t like, the part I keep hidden. I’m angry, yes, but we were going through hell. Whatever it is, I can understand. Just . . .’
‘Brendan Holding.’
‘Bloody hell. Really?’
She nudged past, trying to walk off.
‘Wait.’
‘What?’ Abi’s eyes were filled with tears. ‘You want a divorce?’
‘Just tell me what happened.’
‘Simon, it . . . We were doing that community drugs outreach thing together. Working on it out of hours and . . . one thing led to another.’
Fenchurch nodded slowly, his guts feeling like they were going to spill on to the street. ‘Must’ve been nice.’
‘I needed distraction from all that shit. Chloe . . .’ She blinked back more tears. ‘All the guilt and shame and anger and . . .’
‘I know.’ Fenchurch held her. ‘Abi, I know what it felt like. I’ll be honest with you, I never . . . In all that time. Not once.’
‘Kay worked for you, Simon.’ Abi laughed through the tears. ‘I’d know.’
‘She’s only worked for me for a couple of years. I was in Florida and Glasgow, remember? I wasn’t even tempted. I still loved you and . . . I was too focused on finding her to see how much I loved you. The only thing I was married to then was my job and finding Chloe. I barely slept, love. Just worked at catching serial killers. Saint Simon, patron saint of pathetic losers.’
‘I thought you’d be angry that I kept this secret. Chloe was asking about Pete and how to dump him without, you know, him killing himself. And it came out. She . . . didn’t react well.’
‘Reminds me a lot of her at my age.’ Fenchurch frowned. ‘I mean, me at her age. Bull in a china shop.’
‘They can’t take that away from her.’ Abi kissed him on the lips. ‘Simon, if it hadn’t been for Brendan, I doubt we’d have got back together. What happened, it reminded me of what I liked about being with you. Made me start thinking about you.’
‘Believe me, I understand.’ Fenchurch took her hands and squeezed tight. ‘I’m fine with it.’
‘I’ll remind you of that when they’re dragging his body out of the Thames.’
‘The Thames?’ Fenchurch set off back towards the park. ‘That’s far too obvious. I’d take him up to the Scottish Highlands and—’
‘You’ve thought about this too much.’
‘Way too much.’ Fenchurch laughed. ‘It was the MO of a serial killer in Glasgow. He had this van and he—’
‘Okay, I get it.’
‘I can’t believe this!’ Chloe sat on the bench, chewing her way through more wine gums. She jabbed a finger at her mother as she approached. ‘She was banging this guy and—’
‘That’s your mother you’re talking about.’
‘Okay, she was letting this guy smash her back doors in.’ Chloe rolled her eyes. ‘Dad, the words aren’t important. You should be angry as—’
‘I’m fine, Chloe.’ Fenchurch pulsed Abi’s hand. The gnawing in his gut was still there. ‘Really.’
‘I don’t believe you.’ Chloe put more wine gums in her mouth. ‘Dad, she had an affair.’
Abi’s phone rang. She frowned at it, then walked off.
‘Chloe, what happened. It’s . . .’ Fenchurch could only shake his head. ‘The pressure, the pain, the everything. It was too much. Just because I didn’t move on, doesn’t mean she had to stay pining for me.’
‘I can’t believe you are being, like, mature about it?’
Fenchurch smiled at her. ‘I committed to your mother all those years ago. We renewed our vows again last year. If she slept with someone when we were apart, then I forgive her.’
‘Jesus.’ She handed him the wine gums. ‘Just a couple left. Can’t believe you let me eat a whole bag of these when I was little.’
‘The bags were smaller back then.’ Fenchurch squeezed her hand. ‘And I might’ve had a head start.’
‘I’m sorry if I freaked you out, Dad.’
‘It’s okay.’ Another squeeze. ‘Perfectly natural reaction. Just don’t run off again, okay?’
She squeezed his hand back. ‘Promise.’
Abi ran over to them. ‘Baby Al’s okay.’
Fenchurch let out a sigh of relief. ‘How’s he doing?’
‘Oates said he’s in recovery, but he’s concerned about some minor complications. He wouldn’t say over the phone.’ Abi brushed fresh tears out of her eyes. ‘It’s a success, but . . . they’re going to monitor the little sod overnight. We can see him tomorrow.’ She smiled at Chloe. ‘Love, I’m sorry for—’
‘Mum, just chill, okay? And stop banging teachers.’
Rage flared in Abi’s eyes. ‘Chloe, I—’ Then she took a breath. ‘I shouldn’t have told you.’
‘No, you were right to. But you should’ve told Dad ages ago.’
‘Chloe, it’s fine.’ Fenchurch raised his hands. ‘Your mother and I are fine. Okay?’
She nodded then rested her elbows on her knees and leaned forward. ‘What the hell am I going to do about Pete?’
‘Do you love him?’
‘Don’t know if I even like him, Dad.’
‘Meet him for a coffee and tell him it’s over.’ Fenchurch held her hand. ‘He’s old enough to get over it.’
‘I guess.’
‘It’s your decision, love.’ Abi’s eyebrows were standing up. ‘You want to have a fashion show for all that swag we bought?’
‘Swag, Mum? Jesus.’
Fenchurch’s phone rang. Liam Sharpe. He walked away and answered it.
‘I . . . I need to speak to you.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘In person, Si.’
Always some stupid game with him.
Chapter Forty-Three
The bar was rammed, Monday being the new Friday and all that. Giant barn of a place, God knows what it had been before it turned into a pub. Bare stone walls and a really high ceiling — looked like a floor had been taken out, doubling the height. The bar was a stack of wooden crates in front of a row of side-on beer kegs. A din, too, the thumping music lost among chatting and laughter. A waiter walked past with a sizzling plate of satay sticks, the sweet peanut smell lingering, and walked up a set of stairs that led up to a dining area.
Liam Sharpe was up top, sipping at a beer, tapping at his phone. Dressed in a plain white T-shirt with a baseball cap on.
Fenchurch barged past beards, dungarees, bleached denim jackets and clogs, and made his way up. No banister and the steps rocked as he climbed — how it’d got past Health & Safety was anyone’s guess. If they even knew about it.
Fenchurch walked over to Liam’s table. ‘This better be good.’
‘Thanks for coming. Have a seat.’ Liam was looking around like someone was watching him, ducking his cap over his eyes. ‘Quickly!’
Yet more cloak-and-dagger bullshit.
Fenchurch remained standing. ‘What’s so important it couldn’t have been discussed over the phone?’
Liam groaned. ‘Always the same with you.’ He finished his drink. ‘You can order using the app. How good is that?’
‘I’m driving.’
‘I wasn’t offering.’ Liam tapped his mobile screen a few times then set it down on the table. ‘Sit.’
Fenchurch took the seat opposite. ‘What’s so important?’
‘I had a— Oh.’ Liam took his pint off the waiter with a nod. ‘Thanks.’ He gulped at his beer. ‘Oh, that’s nice.’
�
��You want to slow down a bit there.’
‘I need as much craft beer as I can get. I’m meeting my girlfriend in half an hour, then we’re going to a happy hardcore night in an old warehouse in Dalston. It’ll be cans of Red Stripe and WKD.’
‘You’re taking her to a bloody rave? On a Monday? You’d better make sure she’s up for school in the morning.’
‘Piss off . . .’
‘I’m serious. You’re playing with fire. She’s far too young. If that comes out . . .’
‘Are you threatening me?’
‘I’m looking out for you, Liam. She’s still at school. She’s a child. Let her get on with her life and work out who she wants to be.’
‘She’s got a pretty good idea.’ Liam took another gulp, grimacing as he brushed a hand over his lips. ‘Right, so Steve Fisher turned up at my flat.’
Shit.
‘About an hour ago. Just as I was making myself beautiful. Guy was out of his skull.’
‘Drunk?’
‘And then some. I know ketamine when I see it.’
‘How did he get your address? Even your name?’
Liam took a dainty sip this time. ‘My name’s all over tomorrow’s edition. The story went online at six.’ Another gulp, then he picked up his phone and tapped the screen. ‘My name’s in the phone book. Anyway, Steve was in floods of tears. Wanted me to send him the video of Gayle and Elliot. I thought he’d have seen it, but no.’
‘Did you?’
‘Who do you think I am?’
‘A journalist who’s sleeping with a schoolgirl?’
‘Har har har.’ Liam picked up his glass again and toasted the air. ‘You’re not interested, are you?’
‘I’m trying to help.’
‘All this shit about me shagging Katerina.’ Liam slammed the glass down. Almost cracked the stem. ‘You any idea what she goes through at that school? She’s done really well to even get to sixth form. If she gets a decent grade, she can get to a university, escape Shadwell and start to live her life.’
‘And you can move in with her, right?’
‘You’re not listening to me, are you?’ Liam took another glass from the waiter, marked with ‘The Pterodactyl Head Brewing Co’. ‘Cheers.’ He sunk the last of his old one and took a sip of the new one. Grimaced but still sunk a second bigger gulp. ‘The only person at that school who cared about her was Gayle Fisher. She tried to help with the bullying. Tried to catch them doing it. Tried to make her mother at least care. Kat’s mother told her that if she just put on some make-up, wore shorter skirts, tighter tops, she’d be more popular. I mean . . .’