by Ed James
Fenchurch almost laughed. ‘The football manager?’
‘Your hair. White all over.’ Danton’s gaze drifted above Fenchurch. ‘Before you ask, nobody else here is involved. Well, a mate covers for me. This was the early crowd. Wake and bake, you know? Some of them ask me to drop off their gear in their rooms while they’re out. When I’m cleaning. Cannabis. E. Speed.’ He scowled. ‘Not smack!’
Kid dipped into his own stash, that’s for sure. And not just the cannabis. The denial of heroin, though . . . Kid was clearly on it, probably injected straight into the vein. Why deny selling it?
Fenchurch ran it through. All making sense. ‘So, before your shift?’
‘Visited my supplier.’ A grin ran over Danton’s quivering lips. ‘Plod. Dimmest geezer you ever met. Smokes so much skunk, I think time passes slower for him. So I was at his. Stocking up, as it were.’ He rubbed his neck. ‘Might be hard for him to give me an alibi, though.’
Fenchurch gave a tight nod. ‘All right, son. Assuming this story checks out, you’re in the clear.’
‘Thanks, mate.’ Danton’s shoulders slumped. ‘How much do you want?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘For clearing me.’ Danton got out his wallet. ‘How much?’
Fenchurch gripped the kid’s shoulders. ‘You’re in the clear over her murder, you berk. I’m taking you to the cleaners over your drug dealing. And for attempting to bribe a police officer.’
Fenchurch stood in the doorway, close enough to taste the dirty London smog as the rain hissed off the quad’s flagstones.
Reed was over by a squad car, the rain flattening her hair as Troy Danton was lowered in by two uniforms. Soon as the door slammed, she jogged back over and slicked a hand through her hair. ‘Stupid git’ll go away for a few months.’
Fenchurch stepped aside to let her in. ‘I don’t think he killed her, but let’s see what we can get out of him.’
‘Got a couple of monsters at Leman Street, guv. They’ll tear him apart.’
Out in the quad, Nelson was powering across the flagstones towards them, a frown on his forehead. He nodded behind him. ‘Sir, this is Rupert Uttley. The Chancellor.’
Uttley’s face was as red as the ginger patches in his mostly white beard. He was huddled under a golf brolly, wearing a suit almost as sharp as Nelson’s, the wool fighting a losing battle against his gut, thickened by wining and dining, no doubt. He held out a meaty paw, shaking Fenchurch’s hand like he was wielding a cane. ‘Horrendous business. Not the first time we’ve had a death, of course, but the first murder in at least twenty years. My tenure has been relatively uncontroversial.’
‘I’m sure it has.’ Fenchurch reached into his pocket for his Pronto. ‘Thanks for seeing us, sir. Can you confirm that security arrangements are in hand?’
Uttley’s face pinched tight. Looked like he’d had botox. ‘Security?’
‘A student has been murdered in their room, sir. I think it goes without saying that you need to step up security.’
‘Of course. How many officers can you provide?’
‘This isn’t a police matter, sir. You need to hire some external security.’
‘Of course, of course.’
Fenchurch didn’t believe it’d happen soon enough. ‘In order that we find Miss Nunn’s killer, my team require full access to the university, including your staff and students. Is that going to be a problem?’
‘Of course not.’ Uttley shook his head. His jowls took a while to stop wobbling. ‘Whatever you need. Press conference, TV interviews, anything.’
‘How about a home address for Hannah?’
‘Well, I’ll have one of my team dig it out.’
‘As soon as you can, sir. In cases like this, time is of the essence.’
‘Well, whatever you need. Anything at all. It goes without saying.’ Uttley adjusted his jacket, thumbs digging into his braces. ‘Who do you think did it?’
‘We’re at a very early stage, sir. Anything now would be supposition.’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Uttley flashed a smile at the three of them. ‘I’ll let you get on with it. My office remains open to you.’
‘Thanks, sir.’ Fenchurch watched him go. ‘Keep on him, Jon. Blokes like that can be as practical as an underwater hairdryer.’
Nelson chuckled. ‘I’ll help him tie his shoelaces, guv.’
‘How about the last person to see her?’
Nelson pointed down the long corridor filled with plainclothes and uniforms taking statements from students in various states of dress. A trustafarian played with his ginger dreads opposite a girl in trackies, her hair tied in a towel. ‘The last we’ve got so far is Saturday lunchtime.’
‘Keep digging.’
‘Early doors, guv. We’ll get something.’ Nelson flipped open his handset. ‘Oh. I spoke to the security guard who was on last night. He didn’t hear anything. His station is at the other end of the building, so that’s to be expected. Says his bosses told him not to leave it. The guy’s just sitting watching Netflix all night.’
‘That’s my future, Jon.’ Fenchurch scanned the corridor again. He doubted they’d get anything out of that lot, but you never knew. ‘A girl’s murdered in the middle of the night and nobody heard anything. We anywhere with CCTV?’
‘One second, guv.’ Nelson charged off, barging past the students.
Fenchurch followed, leading Reed through the parting tide in Nelson’s wake.
The corridor opened out to an atrium, rows and rows of tables, probably usually filled with students working or chatting. Today it was almost empty.
DC Lisa Bridge was at a table on the far side, twirling her blonde hair through her fingers, scowling at a laptop.
Nelson leaned in close to her, almost caressing her shoulder, and whispered in her ear.
Reed shared Fenchurch’s glower. ‘They seem cosy.’
Nelson and Bridge walked over, Bridge smiling at Reed, then Fenchurch. ‘Sir, I’ve acquired the CCTV from the corridor outside Hannah’s room.’ She held out her laptop, screen first.
Fenchurch snatched it off her. A shadowy figure stood outside Hannah’s room. Blurry, like it was recovered from an old VHS someone found in a skip. Couldn’t make anything out — it was like watching through mist.
They wore a black hooded top. Shades and a heavy duster jacket on, so it was hard to make out their build, even without the crappy video quality. The time stamp was ten to four.
‘This all you’ve got of him?’
‘That’s the best I’ve found so far.’
Fenchurch squinted hard then passed the computer back. ‘Show me the worst.’
‘Okay.’ Bridge rested the laptop on the desk and hit the spacebar. It started playing, the shadowy figure opening Hannah’s door and entering. She hit the keys again and it cut to the corridor, empty and quiet. Then a blur left the room, sneaking away.
Reed tapped the screen. 4.21. ‘This is half an hour later, sir.’
‘That’s our killer?’
‘Not sure.’ She did more typing. ‘But he returned forty-five mins later.’ — 5.06 — ‘Then he left fifteen minutes after that.’
Fenchurch stared at the spectre who seemed to have murdered Hannah. ‘So a ghost did it. The end. That’s what you’re telling me?’
‘Not quite, sir.’ Bridge wound the video back.
Fenchurch lurched forward. ‘Is that all you’ve got?’
‘Don’t kill the messenger, sir.’ Bridge smiled at him. ‘The problem is, whoever’s in charge of this place has bought the world’s worst CCTV system. Don’t even need to sneak past the cameras, they’re not going to pick anyone up.’
Fenchurch pushed the laptop away. ‘Jon, find this guy.’
‘I’ll see, guv.’ Nelson squeezed in for a closer inspection. ‘We’ll cross-reference to the other cams, see what we can dig up.’
Bridge took the laptop back and switched to another window. ‘There’s also this, sir.’
Fenchurch
’s gut lurched. On the screen, Hannah Nunn stood in her doorway, very much alive. The clock showed just after midnight. She was shouting at a tall, athletic man, really going to town on him. Her face twisted with rage, a finger jabbing at him. His rower’s shoulders slumped, head hanging low.
Nelson grabbed the laptop and flicked to the other window. ‘Hard to tell if that geezer matches this shadow figure.’
Bridge reached over and hit play. Mr Muscles stormed off as Hannah shouted after him, then she was alone in the corridor. She slumped back against her door, crying. Bridge stopped it playing. ‘I’ll find him, sir.’
Her Airwave radio crackled on the desk. ‘Backup needed at Room 37!’
Chapter Four
Fenchurch turned the corner and sprinted off towards Hannah’s room. A huddle of uniforms clustered round Room 37 at the far end, even more than when Millwall came to West Ham. Someone shouted, ‘LET ME IN THERE!’
Fenchurch barged his way through the crowd of cops.
Two burly uniforms wrestled a big man between them, a tangle of arms and shouting. They forced him to the ground, face down, and slapped a pair of cuffs on him.
His face was torn by rage. ‘This is bullshit!’
Fenchurch clocked the guy from the CCTV, the man arguing with Hannah in the corridor, reducing her to tears. ‘Give us some space!’
The crowd started to disperse around them, the uniforms muttering to each other as they walked off. The Crime Scene Manager was on his knees, rubbing his bloody nose. Not one of Fenchurch’s team, some South London muppet. ‘Kid pushed me over.’
Mr Muscles was trying to shake free, but the uniforms had him, the bulkier one digging a knee into his spine. ‘You need to let me see her!’ The kid looked about twenty and was over-developed. Glamour muscles, too. Couldn’t even shake off two fat uniforms who hadn’t graced the rugby pitch in a decade. Baby-smooth skin, though, and Hollywood looks. Lucky bastard.
Fenchurch nodded for them to let him up. Slowly. ‘Can I have your name, son?’
‘Sam.’ He stretched out his T-shirt, but there wasn’t any give in it. It hugged his torso like a lover, showing off his physique. Bloody ponce. ‘Sam Edwards. Are you going to let me see her?’
Fenchurch tilted his head towards the kitchen area, currently guarded by a bored-looking uniform. ‘Come on, sir, let’s have a chat.’
‘I need to see Hannah!’
‘Are you acquainted with the deceased?’
Sam seemed to deflate at that word. Like on the CCTV, his shoulders slumped. ‘She’s really dead?’
‘I’m afraid so.’ Fenchurch clocked some of Pratt’s Pathology team cowering inside the room, ready to take the body to Lewisham for the post-mortem. ‘Come with me, sir.’ He set off towards the kitchen, letting Sam follow, his cuffs jangling.
‘In here.’ Fenchurch uncuffed him.
Sam took a free stool, resting his head on the counter. Stayed that way for a few seconds.
Reed entered, her perpetual frown on her face. She clocked Sam then took a seat. ‘Mr Edwards, my name is DS Kay Reed. This is DI Simon Fenchurch.’
Sam sat up and dug the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. ‘What happened to her?’
‘That’s what we want to find out, sir.’ Fenchurch stayed by the door, guarding it. Reed could handle him, knew where to hit and how to take someone down. Not that Sam looked ready to run for it.
Reed propped herself up against the counter. ‘How well do you know Ms Nunn?’
‘Hannah.’ Sam nibbled at his bottom lip, the top one twisting into a snarl. ‘I’m her boyfriend. Been together a couple of years.’
‘Mr Edwards, as far as we can tell, you might be the last person to see her alive.’
Sam’s gaze shot up to Reed, locking on tight. ‘What?’
‘I’ve seen the CCTV footage.’ Reed splayed her hands wide. ‘All of it. You were outside her room. She was shouting at you. You ran off.’
‘That was the last I saw of her, I swear.’
‘What was the argument about?’
‘You think I killed her?’
‘Did you?’
‘Of course not. That’s the last time I saw her.’
Fenchurch let out a sigh, mainly for effect. ‘You didn’t return later on, did you? Around ten to four?’
Sam glanced over at him. ‘No.’ He clenched his fists, pressing his thumbs down so hard the flesh turned white. ‘After that argument, I . . . Hannah had a way of getting to me. She made me feel about two inches tall. So I went back to my room and worked out. Pull-ups from the bathroom door frame. Press-ups. Tried to take my mind off it.’
Reed tilted her head to the side. ‘What did you argue about?’
‘None of your business.’
‘Mr Edwards, I don’t think you realise the seriousness of this situation.’ Reed gave him her scary-policewoman stare. ‘Hannah’s dead. You were the last person to see her and you had a big argument with her. That makes you a suspect in my book.’
‘I can’t . . .’
‘Try me.’
Sam shoved his hands into the pockets of his tracksuit bottoms. ‘We were talking about our plans for after university.’ He swallowed. That there wouldn’t be anything to plan for was sinking in. ‘This is our final year. I’m staying in London. Got a job lined up. I love it here. I’m settled.’
‘But Hannah wasn’t?’
‘She had two offers for MA courses. One at Birmingham. One at Warwick, which might as well be Birmingham.’ Sam grimaced. ‘That means a long-distance relationship.’
‘I can understand how difficult that is, sir, but an MA is a year.’
‘A year’s a long time.’ Sam shrugged. Then his lip quivered, his eyes welling up.
Reed gave him a few seconds. ‘How did the argument end?’
‘You said you saw me storm off.’
‘I saw, yeah. I didn’t hear, though.’
Sam nodded slowly, thinking how much to tell. His shrug suggested he’d decided on the whole truth. ‘She wanted me to get a job in Birmingham. Even if she went to Warwick, we’d be able to live together.’
‘What did you think of that?’
‘My degree is in Psychology.’ Sam scowled. ‘But I want to get into AI. I’ve got the offer of an internship at a place in Hackney.’ He nibbled his bottom lip again. ‘Not much demand for it in Birmingham.’ He scratched the stubble on his head. ‘That’s what made me so angry. She wasn’t leaving me with a choice. They loved her here. She could’ve stayed on at Southwark to do her MA. This is a top-twenty uni.’
‘And this morning?’
The life seemed to drain from Sam. ‘I had a nine o’clock. Lasted two hours. My phone started buzzing towards the end. I had to ask the lecturer a couple of things about my dissertation, so I didn’t check my messages until I got out.’ He pinched his cheeks, slicked with tears. ‘They said Hannah was dead.’
Reed seemed bored now, which was a good sign. Sam Edwards wasn’t a suspect, more a witness. Or a very good actor.
Trust, but verify.
Where did that come from? Fenchurch couldn’t remember, but it worked for him. Let the kid grieve, but dig into the story. Then, if it didn’t stack up, haul him into an interview room.
‘We found a lot of lingerie in her wardrobe.’ Reed held out her Airwave Pronto. The screen showed a lingerie model. ‘Expensive stuff, the kind a student shouldn’t really have.’
Sam rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Our sex life is private.’
‘Not if it’s what got her killed.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I could mean anything by it, Mr Edwards.’ Reed stood up tall. ‘Thanks for your time. I’m going to leave you with a colleague for now. I’d really appreciate if you could give them a list of Hannah’s friends, even the ones she met in Freshers’ Week but lost touch with. As many people as you can.’
Camera flash shimmered out of Hannah’s room. The Crime Scene Manager patted his nose. Inside, CSIs were
on their hands and knees, cataloguing and bagging.
Fenchurch waited for Reed. ‘What do you make of him?’
‘Hard to read, guv.’ She was trying to restore her quiff but it was hanging limp. ‘Could be grieving, could be acting.’
Fenchurch leaned against the wall. ‘Go over his statement, okay? Everything on it. I want his movements as detailed as we can get them.’
‘Guv.’
A figure approached them, tugging at his mask. Tablet computer under his arm. Clooney stepped out into the corridor and snatched the clipboard off the Crime Scene Manager. ‘Simon, you’ve had your thirty minutes. I’m leaving.’ He shoved his gloves in a biohazard bag and tore at his suit.
Fenchurch glared at the Crime Scene Manager. ‘Did that interlude affect anything?’
He got a meek shrug. ‘The kid didn’t get in the room . . .’
‘And we’d already done the doors.’ Clooney tugged at his jacket, snapping the zip off the left side, and stuffed it into the respective bag. His arms seemed to have another couple of tattoos that Fenchurch hadn’t seen before. ‘Still nothing to help you, though. Well . . .’
Fenchurch pounced. ‘Well?’
‘It’s probably nothing.’ Clooney kicked off his crime scene trousers and put them in the bag. ‘Have a butcher’s at this.’ He held out his tablet.
Fenchurch took it and fiddled with the display. A white box stencilled with ‘MacBook Pro’ near the top, and below that a sleek silver laptop pictured side on. ‘It’s very elegant, but what does that give me?’ He passed the tablet back.
‘You’ve got a box, Si, but no computer.’ Clooney tapped the screen. ‘Tammy found it in the wardrobe, stuffed behind all those posh knickers and bras. She’s catalogued the SKU.’
Reed nodded. ‘Stock-Keeping Unit. So?’
‘This is the most expensive MacBook Pro. Two thousand seven hundred. And that’s before Brexit screwed the pound. And there’s no sign of it anywhere.’
Fenchurch scowled. Acid burnt in his gut. He knew the lengths certain people in this city would go to get hold of Apple products. ‘You’re saying someone’s sneaked into her room in the middle of the night to steal her laptop?’