by Ed James
‘I’m saying nothing, Si. You’re the detective.’
The bed was empty now. Hannah had died wearing the same clothes as during the argument. Hardly the sort of thing you wore to sleep in.
‘I’ll run a full logistical analysis of the laptop, Si. Got the serial number, so we can check with Apple and their supply chain. Even if it doesn’t turn up at some second-hand shop in the East End, we’ll find out where she bought it.’
‘More worried about the “where the hell it is now”.’
Clooney stuffed his tablet in its purple sleeve and flashed a smile. ‘I’ll let you know how I get on.’
‘Cheers, Mick.’ Fenchurch watched him go. ‘What are you thinking, Kay?’
‘Someone killing her to nick a laptop? Doesn’t feel right, guv.’ She slicked her quiff over again. It wouldn’t stay still. ‘Could Troy Danton have taken it when he found the body?’
‘If it was there this morning. Danton could’ve sold it in the time it takes to roll a spliff. But it doesn’t feel right. He reported her body when he found her. Called 999. He didn’t have time to flog it.’
‘Could’ve passed it to his gaffer or the mate he’s covering for.’
Fenchurch snorted. ‘Yeah, he’s—’
‘Guv!’ Nelson was charging towards them, a sheet of paper flapping in his grip. ‘Got a home address for Hannah. Want me to head there?’
Fenchurch took the sheet. A Suffolk village with a Bury St Edmunds postcode. Two hours’ drive each way. He didn’t expect it to yield anything, but it was bad form for someone other than the Senior Investigating Officer or the Deputy to break the news. Give the parents the reassurance they were after, even if it all turned to shit in the end.
He pocketed the page. ‘Cheers, Jon. I’ll do it.’
‘Want me there?’
‘Not this time. Need you to stop this place turning into a mess in a monkey shop.’ Fenchurch nodded at Reed. ‘Kay, you’re with me.’
Chapter Five
Hannah Nunn’s home village was typical Suffolk. A few houses, loosely distributed across a large area, leafy roads leading out from the central pub and post office. Never too close to your neighbours, but never too far. Beautiful stone cottages with ornate walls. Older ones with thatched roofs. Sixties bungalows with trampolines in the front gardens.
Hell of a difference to London and less than two hours’ drive. Idyllic, rural, bucolic, everything. Even in November, even when it was pissing down.
Fenchurch leaned back in the passenger seat and stretched out his aching legs. ‘Take it Abi’s told you about wanting to leave London?’
‘Many, many times.’ Reed navigated the twists and bends about 10 mph too fast. Her quiff had been dried out and re-sculpted. ‘Can’t see you living in the middle of Middle England, though. Daily Mail through the door every morning. Probably get shot for reading the Guardian round here.’
‘You think?’
‘Got a cousin in Lowestoft. Eat their own there.’
‘That’s a dump, though.’ Fenchurch waved at a pair of cottages, a wall and a hundred metres or so between them. ‘This is beautiful. Even in November.’
Reed took a right and pulled up behind a squad car, a souped-up Fiesta in blue and acid yellow. ‘The worst crime Suffolk would see is cattle rustling.’
‘It’s arable round here, Kay.’
‘So someone sets fire to a hay bale or two.’
Fenchurch laughed. Couldn’t help himself. ‘Almost like you don’t want me to leave.’
‘Be my guest. Happily take your job.’
‘Bet you would.’ Fenchurch let his seat belt go. ‘Have to fight Jon Nelson for it.’
‘Don’t have to tell me about the glass ceiling, guv.’ Reed opened the door and held it there. ‘A black man always wins over a woman.’
‘How do you explain the new Commissioner? Or DI Mulholland, for that matter?’
‘Can’t speak for the Commissioner, but I don’t have Mulholland’s cauldron.’
Fenchurch got out, trying to hide his laughter as the rain spattered his hair.
Hannah’s parents lived in a house that looked older than civilisation. Beautiful. Peer closer, though, and you could see the flaking paint around the windows. The missing flagstones in the drive. Settlement cracks on the gable end.
And it hit him. They were here to tell someone their daughter was dead. No matter how many times, it always felt raw, just like the first.
It took him years to stop fearing every knock on the door, every phone call, in case it was someone telling him about Chloe. Telling him she was dead.
The door rattled open and two male uniforms strolled out, hats under the arms, the sort of frowns that you made when trying to appear professional.
Fenchurch strode up to the gate and waited for them to step down the path. Broken panes of glass in the windows. ‘Afternoon, gents.’ He held out his warrant card, not even bothering with an introduction. ‘Can I ask why you’re here?’
The first one was about ten years younger than the other, not long out of school. Stubble dotted his chin, thick sideburns framing his face. ‘To give the death message, sir?’
Fenchurch groaned. Couldn’t help himself. ‘You were told to wait.’ He thumbed at Reed. ‘We’ve just driven up from London.’
‘Sorry, sir, Sarge’s orders.’
‘Get out of my bloody sight.’ Fenchurch barged between them and splashed up the path towards the house. He rapped on the door and waited.
Reed joined him. ‘Shitshow, guv.’
‘Don’t get me started, Kay.’ Fenchurch tried the door again. Harder, more insistent.
A pink blob appeared through the glass, twisted and distorted. The chain rattled and the door opened. A tall woman in her late fifties, her red face lined. ‘Sorry, we’re not taking visitors.’
She got a flash of warrant card. ‘Mrs Nunn? DI Simon Fenchurch.’ He let her inspect his ID, her face crumpling up. ‘We’re here about Hannah.’
She swallowed hard. ‘We’ve just been told.’
‘I know. They should’ve waited. We’re Met detectives, Mrs Nunn. We’re investigating her murder.’
Tears streaked down Mrs Nunn’s face. She sank to her knees, rocking hard as she cried. ‘My poor, poor baby.’
‘My wife’s not handling this very well.’ Gerald Nunn walked over from the kitchen door, stooping like he’d grown since he’d bought the house. Or the building had shrunk. He sank into an armchair beside a roaring fire, blue flames kicking up from the red coals. He rubbed a hairy fist around the thick silvery beard covering his face.
Fenchurch sat on the left side of a sofa, Reed at the other end. The floorboards were battered and bent. Felt like the sofa could fall into a hole at any point. ‘We can come back, sir.’
‘It’s fine, fine. Fine.’ He gripped the arms of the chair as if he was on a rollercoaster. ‘I’m sorry this place isn’t up to much. Every spare penny went to Hannah. We wanted her to get the best education. The best.’
‘That’s very noble, sir.’
‘Is it?’ Nunn frowned at Fenchurch, rubbing his thick beard. Couldn’t take his hands off it. ‘Isn’t it what any parent would do?’
‘You’d be surprised.’
‘I’m sure you’ve seen things that’d make your hair stand on end.’ Nunn’s fingers dug into the armchair, twitching like they needed to get back to the beard. ‘Yes, things.’ His gaze settled on Fenchurch. ‘Have you got anywhere in finding who . . . did this?’
‘It’s still early, sir.’
‘Then what do you want to know?’
‘How would you describe your daughter?’
‘Impetuous. At times. At others, she’d think things through almost too much. Almost too much.’ He battered his fists onto his thighs. ‘She had a very loving upbringing, very loving. Didn’t want for anything. Anything at all.’
‘Like computers?’
Gerald’s brow twitched a few times, then settled into a deep frown. ‘Of c
ourse, of course. We scrimped together and bought her one for Christmas. A good one, according to my brother. Very good one.’ He frowned at them. ‘We got it from the . . .’ He clicked his fingers a few times. ‘From the, uh, from PC World. Had to go into Bury. Near the Sainsbury’s. My brother said it was a good one, anyway. Of course, he said that about that mower he sold me.’
Fenchurch got out his Pronto and dug through the forensics until he found the photo of the laptop box. ‘Was it this one?’
‘An Apple? Heavens, no. I’m not made of money. It was Hewlett Packard. Used to have one for my accounts back in the day. Very good machine, it was. Four hundred pounds, this one cost. Came with a student licence for that Microsoft Office thingy.’
Fenchurch searched through the case files while Nunn muttered about his daughter’s computer, and found the inventory. No mention of an HP, not even a stray charger or a box.
So now they had two missing laptops.
Reed smiled at Nunn, warm and reassuring. ‘Did Hannah like clothes?’
Nunn stared at her for a few seconds. ‘That was Hannah’s thing, yes. Her thing. Clothes. Always the best clothes. Her mother took her to London every so often. She’d get the best. The very best. Jeans. Tops. You know how it is. But the best stuff for her. Next and River Island. Maybe Debenhams. But the very best for her. Our daughter.’
Not posh lingerie, then.
Fenchurch found a note in the inventory — the lingerie was estimated at over four grand. Almost half of her annual fees. He glanced at Reed, then leaned forward. ‘We found some expensive . . . lingerie in her wardrobe.’
‘Lingerie?’ Nunn screwed up his eyes. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive. Do you—’
‘I don’t know anything about that, sir. Nothing. Like I say, she was into clothes. Nice clothes.’
Another dead end.
‘Did she ever mention any friends from university?’
‘All the time. Not to me, of course. Never to me. But Hannah talked to her mother about them.’
Fenchurch checked the kitchen door again. Mrs Nunn was sitting by the window, clutching a photo of Hannah. Not in any state to help answer their questions.
‘Did she ever talk about a boyfriend?’
‘Sam. Was it? Sounded like a nice man. Nice, yes. Never had the pleasure, I’m afraid.’
‘Did you ever worry about your daughter’s safety in London?’
‘No.’ His fingers needled the armchair. ‘Listen to me, at school . . . at school, there was a boy in the village who had a thing for Hannah. I threatened to knock his bloody block off, but . . . You know how some men are, don’t you?’
‘I mean, it might be the grief, guv, but . . .’ Reed knocked on the front door of a sixties bungalow on the other side of the village from the Nunns’. The house seemed like it had been grown in a field, plonked between a load of horse chestnut trees, the ground pockmarked with rotting conkers. ‘Given up a lot for their daughter’s education.’
Fenchurch raised an eyebrow. ‘Tell me you’re not the same.’
Reed knocked again. ‘Fat chance either of mine will get an A-Level, let alone a degree.’
‘Makes you think, though.’ Fenchurch tried to swallow down the lump in his throat. ‘I’ve no idea how Chloe’s paying her way through her degree. Nine grand a year, isn’t it?’
‘And the answer’s debt, guv. Student loans bigger than my first mortgage.’ Reed knocked again. ‘Doesn’t—’
The door opened a crack and an eye peered out, shrouded by wispy sideburns. ‘What?’
‘Police, sir.’ Reed showed her warrant card. ‘Looking for a Graham Pickersgill.’
‘That’s me.’ Still didn’t open the door.
Reed scowled at him. ‘Sir, we have reason to believe you were causing distress to a schoolgirl. Is that—’
‘That’s my son.’ The door opened a bit further. Guy was a rough forties or a spritely sixties. ‘Graham Pickersgill the fourth. I’m the third.’
‘Can we have a word with him?’
‘Chance’d be a fine thing, love. Not seen hide nor hair of the bugger in almost two years. I’ve no idea where the thieving little shit is now. Good day.’ And he slammed the door.
Chapter Six
Fenchurch pulled up on the pavement across from the halls of residence, where Reed had parked hours earlier. Still cordoned off. Uttley had stepped up the security, though. Bulky men and women in acid-yellow jackets lined the street. Possibly too many, but that was preferable to the alternative. Suspiciously normal, like all the excitement and drama of a dead body had been contained. Typical London, always pushing forward.
‘You okay, guv?’ Reed was still focusing on her notebook, scribbling and scrawling God knows what. ‘I mean it. You’ve been a grumpy sod all afternoon.’
‘Just as well you’ve only had to spend five hours in my company.’ Fenchurch unclipped his seat belt and sat back. The pool car annoyed him. The clicking from the passenger’s side. The lump in the chair. The armrest was too high. Even the bloody weather. Everything.
Another glance at Reed, typing on her Pronto. ‘You getting anywhere with this Pickersgill geezer?’
She held up her Airwave. ‘Did a PNC. You not listening?’
Fenchurch gripped the door handle, watching for a gap in the thrum of traffic. ‘Wasn’t listening.’
‘You never are. Nothing on him, anyway.’
Fenchurch twisted round, frowning. ‘So this geezer was stalking her at school and he just disappears? That’s not good.’
Reed snapped her notebook shut. ‘If only we’d discussed this during the drive back, guv.’ She got out and slammed the door.
Fenchurch waited for a row of three Ubers to pass before he got out. He locked the car and sprinted down the street to catch up with Reed. ‘What’s up?’
‘Five hours for nothing, guv.’ She waved over the road at Nelson, talking on his phone. ‘You could’ve taken Jon instead. You could’ve sent him for all we learned.’
‘But I trust you, Kay.’ Fenchurch hammered the button at the crossing. ‘Your insights are good.’
‘Guv . . . if Docherty’s busting your balls about behaving properly, think about how you use your resources, yeah?’ Reed set off over the road. ‘If you took me to show the sort of shit a Deputy SIO has to put up with, then I get it.’
Fenchurch leaned close to Reed. ‘Getting anything out of grieving parents is the hardest trick to pull off. We got a lead thanks to your persistence. This Pickersgill might be nothing; then again, he could be that figure in the corridor outside her room. You’ve done something instead of just looking important, okay?’
Reed seemed to think it through. Could see her go through all the stages. The denial of a frown, the anger of a scowl. Then depression as her forehead tightened, her jaw clenching. She sighed. Acceptance. ‘Guv, sorry. I’m acting like a child.’
‘I know, Kay. Same as it ever was.’
‘Come on, then.’ She set off.
Nelson finished his call and took a suck on his vape stick, exhaling a fine mist. ‘Kay. Guv.’ He pocketed the device, but just stood there, waiting. ‘You get anything up in Suffolk?’
‘What do you think?’ Reed sent a glare at Fenchurch. Not at acceptance yet, then.
Nelson had another puff of vape. ‘Anyway, we’ve pretty much finished here.’
‘Already?’
‘Students, guv. They’ve all been in their rooms or someone else’s. Or hanging about. We’ve spoken to everyone in Hannah’s corridor, plus the two adjacent ones. Both security guards on last night.’ Nelson waved at the guard standing by the doorway, acting like he was an American patrol cop in some film. ‘Nobody saw anything.’
‘And this man in the corridor on the CCTV?’
‘Still nothing, guv. The guards don’t have anyone coming in or out around that time, which makes me think it’s a student.’
‘Or they’re lying.’
‘Watched the CCTV myself, guv. They’
re on the level. All of the exits were covered.’
Fenchurch tried to think it through. Too many holes. ‘So this bloke, whoever he is, was already in the building by lights out?’
‘They dim them at ten.’
‘So between ten and three fifty, we’ve got nothing?’
‘That’s right. Other than Hannah and Sam’s argument.’
‘And nobody knows how they got in her room, I suppose?’
‘Wasn’t locked.’
Fenchurch slapped his forehead. ‘You’re bloody kidding me.’
‘Tammy confirmed it. She could tell by how the mechanisms were . . . arranged.’
‘Even though that cleaner went in?’
‘He’s got a different key. She can tell these things.’ Nelson held out his handset. ‘Check this.’
The screen showed a street in greyscale, bleached hard by the streetlights. Zoomed out to show ten or twelve buildings. Shoreditch, round the corner from the Brewdog bar on Bethnal Green Road. A few people milling about, hipsters and suits, girls in dresses and dungarees.
Nelson breathed stale coffee all over Fenchurch. ‘Here.’ He hit a play button on the screen and the scene came to life.
A young woman walked in from the right of the frame, arms crossed, gaze on the pavement in front of her. The gang of hipsters drinking outside an old pub gave her some chat. She started mouthing back at them. Got a round of applause from the hipsters. Then she turned and continued her angry walk, temporarily blocked by a bus.
Fenchurch hit pause and squinted at it. ‘Is this Hannah?’
‘Yep.’ Nelson zoomed in on the figure, turning it blocky. The footage skipped forward a few nanoseconds and sharpened up. ‘This is her, guv.’
Hair out in ringlets, a long dress almost covering her feet, tight around her legs. Difficult to miss how defined her thighs and buttocks were. Muscular, like she’d worked hard at it. Not the sort of athleticism you got from rowing or swimming, or the chunkiness of hockey or rugby. Something else, something he couldn’t pin down.
Fenchurch didn’t want to say anything in case it made him look like a dirty old pervert, but it didn’t hang right.