by Ed James
Fenchurch grimaced. ‘Not yet.’
‘I see.’ McLaren passed him a flyer. ‘Well. I’m hosting a candlelit vigil tonight for Hannah. She was well loved here and . . . it just seems the proper thing to do.’
Fenchurch held up the flyer then pocketed it. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
Besides, someone might turn up that shouldn’t . . .
‘Hope to see you.’ And McLaren shot off, passing out flyers to students.
The flyer burnt in Fenchurch’s pocket. He really should go. Show solidarity with the students, show them the Met cared. Put a human face to it.
A newspaper trundled past, caught up with the plastic bag. This morning’s Metro, splashed with a photo of Hannah cadged from her Facebook profile. Tomorrow it’d be something else. Another dead girl in a city that didn’t give a shit about anyone or anything. Could be Chloe lying in Lewisham. Just a twist of the knife away.
This is someone’s daughter. Someone’s girlfriend. Someone’s student. Someone’s friend. But Hannah had also been someone’s enemy. Too many to list, even now.
The plastic bag swished, staying out of his reach.
And there she was, standing by the Starbucks, fiddling with a mobile phone. A dimple denting her cheek, her forehead creased with concentration. Or worry.
Chloe.
She bent down to snatch up the plastic bag, then stuffed it in a bin. Like in the dreams . . . She clocked Fenchurch and walked off.
Fenchurch caught up with her by the alleyway, dodgy knee or not, and blocked her path. ‘Did you send it?’
‘What?’ She tried to barge past but he wouldn’t let her. ‘Get out of my way!’
‘Chloe, someone sent me a video of you auditioning for a . . .’ He swallowed hard. ‘For a stripper website.’
She folded her arms, giving him a scowl Abi would be proud of. ‘You expect me to dignify that, do you?’
‘Well, it’s in my inbox. Whoever sent it is trying to get a reaction, seeing if they can use it as leverage.’
She let out a sigh. ‘Well, since you and your mates decided to lock up my parents and freeze their assets, I have to pay for my degree somehow.’
‘Stripping’s not the answer.’
‘I know that. Christ. If you’d watched it, you’d have seen that I couldn’t go through with it.’
‘I can help.’ His mouth was dry. She was winning and he’d no chance to get her back. Losing her all over again. ‘I’m selling my flat. I can give you the money. The profit. Help you pay your fees.’
‘I’m working in Tesco. I’m fine.’
The tiniest weight lifted off Fenchurch’s shoulders. She was handling it herself. ‘Someone got hold of your audition. Who suggested you do it?’
‘You did watch it, didn’t you? You . . . pervert.’ She shook her head, her mouth twisting up with rage, her neck burning red. ‘All that bullshit about me being your daughter. If incest porn is what gets you hard, you really need to speak to someone. Jesus.’
‘Let us help, Chloe.’
‘I wouldn’t throw water on you if you were on fire.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with wanting to help your daughter.’
‘You’re not my father!’ Her scream tore his eardrums. Turned a few heads outside the café. She pushed his chest and he bumped into the wall. Her footsteps rattled around the alleyway as she ran off.
Fenchurch steadied himself and started to follow. His knee felt like it was going to pop out. He ran out to a crossroads, one way leading to Jaines Tower, another to the halls of residence, the third a mystery. No sign of her.
‘Inspector?’ Thomas Zachary was frowning at him, mobile to his ear. ‘Are you okay?’
Chloe was nowhere to be seen.
‘What’s up?’ Zachary held his phone away from his ear. ‘Seen a ghost?’
‘I’m fine.’ Fenchurch took the third path, to avoid Zachary as much as anything else.
What an idiot, tearing after her. Did that so many times when she was a little girl. She was an adult now. And throwing money at her to buy affection?
But she was getting close to the case. And someone knew about her, knew about him and their history. And they were trying to use it against him.
Fenchurch turned a corner, limping badly now, and spotted his car parked on the main road.
Halfway over, Chloe was standing with a couple of friends, talking, nervously looking his way. A woman who probably should still be at school, and a man even older than Fenchurch.
He hobbled towards them, ignoring the glares from her friends. ‘Chloe, I really need a word.’
The man intercepted him, dropping his rucksack as he walked. A mature student, probably one of those City traders who burnt out in their thirties, cashed out and did something else with what little time their ravaged bodies had left. He got in Fenchurch’s face, standing like someone who could handle himself. ‘She doesn’t want to speak to you, mate.’
‘Who the hell do you think you are?’
‘Listen to me.’ The mature student had the same silver hair as Fenchurch, the same gnarled skin, aged by the bullshit of a career that took more than it gave back. He thumbed behind him. ‘That poor girl’s been through hell since the summer. She doesn’t need you sending her back.’
Fenchurch glanced over at her. Terrified, huddling behind her young-looking friend. ‘She’s my daughter.’
‘If you really believe that, then you need to let her come out the other side, okay?’ He opened his palms. ‘Chasing after her isn’t helping you and it certainly isn’t helping Jen. Give her space. Okay?’
Fenchurch glanced at Chloe. Close to tears. He nodded at her friend and walked off. ‘Tell her I’m sorry.’
Chapter Eighteen
Fenchurch took the back stairs up to his office, a naughty schoolboy trying to avoid being caught messing around.
Docherty was right. Loftus was right. He was an idiot. A complete idiot. Trying to protect his daughter but only succeeding in pushing her away.
Voices inside his office. No doubt Mulholland and Loftus, carving out the new empire before Docherty had even left the building.
Shit. Docherty. Really need to get out and see him. Stop avoiding it. Stop avoiding everything.
He opened the door and walked in like he owned the place. Reed and Bridge were sitting at his desk. ‘Sorry, I’ll come back later.’
‘No, guv. You don’t get off that easily.’ Reed was already halfway towards the door. ‘You didn’t think to tell me about the email?’
Fenchurch shot Bridge a hard stare. But really, she was right. He was wrong. ‘Sorry, Kay. I . . .’
Reed spoke in an undertone, ‘Guv, you’ve got to stop this secret-squirrel shit, okay?’ She clapped his arm. ‘Okay?’
He gave her a nod then crouched. ‘Lisa, have you got anything else?’
‘Not on that email, sir.’ Bridge glanced at Reed. Didn’t want to jump the gun. ‘Sarge?’
Reed smiled at Bridge. ‘Lisa’s been through the HP laptop you got from the shop.’
Bridge held the bagged machine in the air. ‘Even though the guy had zeroed it, sir, I’ve managed to undo it with some tricks from a mate in MI6. Got a full clone of the hard disk as Hannah had it.’
‘Bloody hell. I’d hoped but didn’t expect we’d get anything out of it.’
‘You don’t know the half of it.’ She put the laptop back down. ‘Anyway, I’m in. And I’ve got access to Hannah’s Gmail account.’ She reached over the desk for a pile of papers. ‘I found an email on Hannah’s laptop from an Oliver Keane.’ She passed a page to Fenchurch. ‘He asked to meet up with her for sex.’
Fenchurch scanned the email. The guy was a fan of Hannah’s camgirl shows and wanted to take it to the next level: Bridge tapped at her own laptop. ‘I’m running a server search for anything else from him.’
‘Any idea who this Oliver Keane guy is?’
‘None.’ Reed was staring at her Airwave handset. ‘Got far too many hits on the PNC
to narrow it down. Twelve of that name in the South-East alone. He could be anywhere. America, maybe.’
Fenchurch ran through the second page. Hannah’s replies were flirty and playful, but kept a professional distance. Keane’s were sinister and direct. ‘Is there any more of this?’
‘Not yet, guv.’ Reed dropped her Airwave on the desk, giving up on her side of the hunt. ‘But those emails were sent last week, which means he was stalking her before she died.’
‘Stalking’s a bit harsh.’ Fenchurch waved the printouts around. ‘I don’t approve of what he’s doing, but he’s not exactly stalking her, is he?’
Bridge’s computer pinged and she glanced at it. ‘Jesus.’
‘What?’ Fenchurch hovered over her, trying to peer at her screen, but it was far too small for his old man’s eyesight.
‘More emails from him.’ Bridge ran her finger down the screen. ‘A load were deleted on Sunday night. Whoever this guy is, he’s been messaging Hannah constantly. He was obsessed.’ Her forehead twitched as she read. ‘Shit. He said he paid thousands to watch her strip on his computer. Meeting up was the least she could do. That was sent on Sunday.’
Fenchurch swallowed. All adding up to a credible suspect. Another one. ‘Is this the Natasha Sparks account?’
‘Shit.’ Bridge groaned. ‘No. These are in her personal account, sir.’
Fenchurch’s gut fell through the floor. ‘So this guy found out her real name?’
‘Oh here we go.’ Bridge pointed at the screen. ‘He’s sent her his address.’
Mansell Street was a quick hobble over from Leman Street, half-City, half-East End. A fresh wave of traffic hurtled up from the Tower of London, mainly vans and lorries.
Fenchurch led Reed up the street, trying to match Keane’s address to a building. A council estate occupied the middle of the street, four stories of red brick, precarious balconies and satellite dishes of all sizes. The sort of council housing that trapped people. Except, the grime stopped halfway up. The end block was shrouded in scaffolding, the sandblasting droning out. The end flats had been cleaned and refurbished, the window frames painted the latest shade of grey that all the posh pubs wanted. Looked expensive inside, too, all spotlights and Farrow & Ball.
‘Got anywhere with the PNC yet, Kay?’
‘Sorry, guv.’ Reed was checking her handset. ‘This is the only address I can find for Oliver Keane. Just moved in, by the looks of it. Says he owns the whole building.’
‘So, nothing. Great.’ Fenchurch tried to spot the joins. Couldn’t find any. Keane had turned eight flats of misery into a bachelor pad for a single male pervert. Not that Fenchurch was prejudging him based on his internet activity . . .
‘Bet it cost a bloody packet.’ Fenchurch crossed over and walked up the path. Workmen filled the front yard next door, standing around a cement mixer like tramps at a brazier. Keane had a nascent garden, dark earth dotted with baby bushes and shrubs, probably the wrong time of year for it to start growing. Fenchurch was the last person to give gardening advice. Could drown a cactus.
He knocked on the glass door. A well fitted-out kitchen inside, black units with a granite worktop.
The door slid open and a man peered out, frowning. Dark hair streaked grey, thick red beard. He wore one of those Japanese dressing gowns. A kimono? Or was that something else? Music blared out, early XTC by the sounds of it. ‘Towers of London’, ironically enough. The stench of dead fish wafted out, like he was smoking kippers or fermenting his own nam pla. ‘Can I help?’
‘Oliver Keane?’ Fenchurch had to cover his mouth to avoid the stink.
Keane stepped back into the house. ‘Alexa, stop.’ XTC died. ‘How can I help?’
‘Police, sir. We need to—’
Keane held up his mobile phone. ‘I am recording this. I am maintaining my silence.’
Jesus, what did Younis say about tinfoil hats?
‘I know my rights.’ Keane’s gaze darted between Fenchurch and Reed. ‘If you want to speak to me, you will have to arrest me.’
‘This is about Hannah Nunn, sir.’
‘Who?’
‘Natasha Sparks.’
‘I am refusing entry!’
Fenchurch got in his face. Trying to goad him. ‘You managed to get her real name, didn’t you?’
‘I am refusing entry and maintaining my silence.’ Keane grabbed the door handle. ‘I am refusing entry and maintaining my silence!’
‘We’ve seen the emails you sent her.’
Keane tugged at the door. ‘I am refusing entry and calling my solicitor!’
‘This is your last chance, sir.’ Fenchurch grabbed the sliding door and tried to stop it. ‘Come with me now and I’ll look favourably on it.’
Another push and the door lurched forward. Fenchurch let it shut.
Fenchurch opened his office door. Luckily, Mulholland wasn’t in. He sat behind his desk and let out a sigh of relief. ‘Okay, what’s our plan here?’
‘Not a lot we can do, is there?’ Reed sat opposite him, hands on her knees. ‘You think he’s our guy?’
Fenchurch found the pile of emails on his desk. ‘This is pretty convincing to me. Enough to make him a person of interest, as they say.’
‘He’s the, what, fourth suspect, guv?’ Reed started counting on her thumb and fingers. ‘Troy Danton, Graham Pickersgill, Sam Edwards, now Oliver Keane. We’re not clearing them.’
‘Add Thomas Zachary to that list, too.’ Fenchurch tossed the emails onto the desk. ‘We can probably cross Danton off.’
‘Don’t disagree.’ Reed was frowning. ‘But much as I despise him, I don’t buy Zachary as a suspect. Speaking of which, you’ve missed off Younis.’
‘He’s another one, isn’t he?’ Fenchurch blew out a deep breath. ‘Think we should focus on Keane. We’re not getting in there, Kay. That guy isn’t going to be intimidated by us dirty pigeons, is he? He knows how to play it. Wouldn’t be surprised if that house of his is under video surveillance. Any wrong moves and we’re stuffed. If he can afford that, he can afford a lawsuit against the Met. And I’ve had more than my share of them.’
A knock on the door. Nelson, sucking on his vape stick. ‘You wanted me, guv?’
‘Jon, thanks.’ Fenchurch shrugged off his jacket. ‘I need you to have a very long word with Sam Edwards.’
‘You mean, man-mark him. Got surveillance approval?’
‘I mean keep on him, Jon. Ask him very detailed questions, so detailed that he doesn’t slip out of the hospital without us knowing, okay?’
‘Fine.’ Seemed anything but.
Reed’s phone blasted out. ‘Back in a sec, guv.’ She got up and left. ‘Michelle . . .’
Nelson waited until she was out of the door. ‘Seriously, guv, I’m a Detective Sergeant.’
‘I ask you because I trust you, Jon. Edwards is deep in this. He introduced those girls to e-stripping or whatever it is. He’s sharing himself with couples, getting his todger out on his laptop. God knows what else he’s doing. And I really, really don’t believe anything he tells us.’
Nelson took a puff on his vape stick. ‘I’m not happy about it, but fine.’
‘Such a team player, Jon.’
Nelson took another puff, letting the vapour rest in his chest before a slow exhale through his nostrils. ‘Fine.’
Footsteps stomped out in the corridor. Not Reed, but Bridge thundering towards him, cradling her laptop like a newborn. She flashed a smile at Nelson as she sat next to Fenchurch. ‘Sir, I’ve been digging into more of the messages. What I was saying earlier about these men thinking those girls are their girlfriends?’
‘I’ll never forget.’
‘Well, I found some messages from this Keane person . . . It might be me, but I’m worried, sir.’ Bridge rested the computer on Fenchurch’s desk, far enough away that the text was a blurry blob on a white background. ‘He started telling her about how he’s going to change the world, cleanse it for their people.’
Fench
urch clenched his fist. ‘Their people?’
‘White people.’ Bridge glanced nervously at Nelson. ‘One big act, he says she’ll love him for it.’
‘Any idea what it is?’
‘I might know.’ Reed was peering into the room. ‘Just had a call from Special Branch, guv. My PNC search alerted them. Keane is flagged as a terror suspect. They want us over there now.’
Chapter Nineteen
More of a hotel than a police headquarters, Kay.’ Fenchurch climbed up the steps to the front entrance, his knee clicking like his mother was knitting. Scotland Yard loomed above them, eight storeys of stone grandeur. Cost a pretty penny to move from the old place, but some bean counters thought it was worth it. New Scotland Yard was becoming posh flats and the Met were back near where they started. He pushed through the revolving door and showed his ID to the security guards. ‘Thought Michelle Grove was CO11, Kay?’
‘Was.’ Reed held out her own ID. ‘Moved from Public Order to Counter Terror last month. SO15.’
‘And it’s DI Grove now, Sergeant.’ Grove was walking towards them, her heels clacking off the flagstones. Plain grey trouser suit and pink blouse, her dark hair trimmed short. Black-framed glasses with neon-lime flashes on the legs. She grabbed Kay and wrapped her in a hug. ‘How’re you doing?’
‘Still a Sergeant.’ Reed’s smile glared at Fenchurch. ‘Anyway, we need to talk about this Keane geezer.’
‘This way.’ Grove led them towards some glass-sided meeting rooms, pitch-black inside. She popped her head through the door and waved them in.
By the time Fenchurch got there, the lights had flashed on and Grove was sitting at the head of the table. He sat at the opposite end.
Reed took a seat halfway up. ‘So, Counter Terror Command, eh?’
‘Yeah, it’s chaos at times, but it’s a promotion. Precious few of them about these days.’
‘Tell me about it.’ Reed pulled her Pronto out of her jacket pocket. ‘So, we’ve got this murder case. Oliver Keane.’
‘And I have to say, it intrigued me when the alert came through.’