by Ed James
‘Is that why you killed her?’
‘I didn’t! Listen to me!’
‘Tell us what you did, Graham, and it’ll all feel better.’
‘No!’
‘It’s funny how you’ve been off work since you killed her. Sick with guilt, yeah?’
‘I moved flat on Monday. You saw the boxes. I’ve got so much shit to unpack. My old man kicked me out after I left uni. Had to take all my shit down here. I didn’t know she was dead.’ Pickersgill rubbed at his cheek. ‘It’s why I was outside her room on Sunday night.’
‘What did you just say?’
‘I was outside her room. I needed to apologise to her.’
‘You’re not on CCTV.’
‘Please. I can run rings around that. I know where the cameras are. I was away from the one outside her room, but I could see her door.’ Pickersgill frowned at them. ‘My security card still works. I . . . used to visit. Hang around outside her room.’
‘You were stalking her, but she wouldn’t speak to you. Then you killed her, didn’t you?’
‘I keep telling you! No!’
‘Did you see anything?’
‘She wouldn’t let me in.’
‘Did you see anyone?’
‘Sorry.’
Fenchurch shut the door, leaving Pickersgill inside with the Custody Officer, ready to take him downstairs for further processing. ‘What do you think?’
‘Guy’s messed up.’ Nelson got out his vape stick for a quick toot. ‘Do I think he killed Hannah?’ He shrugged. ‘Could’ve.’
‘If he didn’t kill her, Jon, he’s the last person near her room before the killer struck, but . . . I don’t know. He’s got a motive, he’s got means, he’s clearly had an opportunity.’
‘Guv, let me dig into his background a bit more.’ Nelson pocketed his e-cigarette. ‘He’s not going anywhere for a while. We can get him in court for pushing that box on my bloody foot.’
‘How does it feel?’
‘Not good. A solid-state amp landed on it. Vintage thing. Weighed a ton.’ Nelson stretched out his foot. ‘I’ll get a detailed witness statement from the cops who stopped her killing him in the street. See if we can get him for any of that, too.’
‘Good idea.’
‘This is excellent work.’ Loftus was outside the Incident Room, giving Mulholland a thumbs-up. He seemed to groan at the sight of Fenchurch. ‘Inspector.’
‘Sir, I need to—’
Loftus pointed at Bridge, now chatting to Nelson by the whiteboard. ‘She’s good, isn’t she?’
‘I think so, sir. Lot of potential. I need—’
‘Nice to see that we can still produce stars.’ Loftus tilted his head to both sides, cracking his neck. ‘Anyway, I need a word with you, Simon.’
‘Sir, this is important.’
‘Very well.’
Fenchurch flashed a smile. ‘We’ve got another suspect, sir. A strong one.’
Mulholland swung her scarf round her neck. ‘We don’t need any more.’
‘Graham Pickersgill.’
Mulholland nodded at Loftus. ‘The chap who Hannah beat up.’
‘You found him?’ Loftus cracked his neck again, even worse this time. ‘Do you think that he wanted to kill her because of that incident?’
Sweat trickled down Fenchurch’s spine. ‘He’s an ex-student, his card never got cancelled, so he could get into the halls at any time. Knew how to avoid the cameras. He said he was outside her room on Sunday night. Add in the history of stalking, extrapolate the escalation in his behaviour, and he’s a clear suspect.’
‘That spectre . . .’ Loftus glanced at Mulholland. ‘You think it’s him?’
‘DS Nelson’s digging into it, sir.’
Loftus clicked his tongue a few times. ‘Okay, let’s deal with them both as valid suspects at this juncture.’
‘Sir.’ Mulholland stood, hands on hips, scarf trailing behind her. ‘We need to focus on Keane. You heard the interview?’
‘I did, Dawn, but I want no cowboy behaviour here, okay?’ Loftus nodded at Fenchurch. ‘We’re treating Keane as our primary suspect and we’ll work on that basis. But if Pickersgill was at the crime scene at that time, he may be another witness. Okay?’ He waited for them both to nod then walked over to the door. ‘Good. Now, Dawn, can you take lead on both aspects? Thanks.’ And he was gone.
‘Thanks for that.’ Mulholland walked after Loftus, her parting gaze digging deep into Fenchurch’s soul, like she could freeze his bones and scoop out the marrow.
She was probably correct, though. Keane was the most likely suspect. He had Hannah’s laptop. If he hadn’t killed her, then who gave it to him?
Fenchurch peered inside the Incident Room, most of them looked like Mulholland’s officers. Loftus was doing the presidential thing, wandering round and waving to the little people, chatting to a few. If there’d been a baby in there, he’d have kissed it.
The door rattled open and Bridge walked out, carrying her laptop. ‘Sir, didn’t see you there.’ She bit her lip. ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Sure.’
‘Okay, so I’ve been doing some work for DI Mulholland, but . . . Well, she’s not listening to me.’
Fenchurch looked around for any of her spies or familiars. ‘What isn’t she listening about?’
‘Jon— Sorry, DS Nelson gave me the actions this morning to dig into Oliver Keane’s background. And . . . You’re probably not interested.’
‘Hit me with it.’
‘Fine. Okay. Keane owned an app called “Inside”. It’s basically a big blog platform. To entice people in, they gave away some of the columns for free. One of the first was by Thomas Zachary.’
Another suspect piling on the Keane bandwagon. ‘So Keane knew Zachary?’
‘Potentially.’ She opened a window on her computer. Keane and Zachary pictured at a press conference, sharing a stage, in front of Inside’s logo. ‘DI Mulholland has some of her team working on it, she said. But I don’t believe her.’
‘Okay. Keep digging. And if she asks, tell her it’s at my request and she needs to speak to me.’
‘Thanks, sir.’
Fenchurch walked off, away from the Incident Room, and called Liam’s number. Answered immediately. ‘You got a minute?’
‘Better be literally a minute.’ Liam Sharpe was somewhere noisy. Like an airport. Gatwick, if Fenchurch had to put any money on it. Shit.
‘You know your profile on Thomas Zachary? Are you aware of any connection between him and someone called Oliver Keane?’
‘Whatever you’ve heard, it’s all true, mate. They worked together in the States on Inside. Hideous platform. We had a hook into it for some online content and I got involved in it. Those guys are complete pricks.’
Fenchurch didn’t like the sound of it. ‘So Keane definitely knew Zachary?’
‘They were good friends, is what I hear. Close.’ Liam sighed. ‘Look, my flight’s boarding. Off to Marrakesh for a week. Have fun.’ Click and he was gone.
Fenchurch pocketed his phone and leaned against the wall.
Another link between Zachary and a murder victim. Is it enough? Is it anything?
Sometimes the guilty do innocent things. Is that all this is? Search for evidence against the big racist monster and you find it. Am I trying to pin shit on him because I don’t like his politics?
‘Simon.’ Loftus beckoned Fenchurch over from the door. ‘I gather you’re not as sold on this Keane chap as Dawn is?’
Fenchurch tried to think it through. Playing five-dimensional chess. In space. Sod it, be honest. ‘That’s right, sir. Feels too neat. And someone’s stealing these MacBooks. I hate easy explanations and I worry that’s what Keane is.’
‘Occam’s razor can certainly slice through any prosecution.’ Loftus did up the buttons on his uniform. ‘Follow me.’ He led Fenchurch further down the corridor, away from the squad of uniforms approaching the Incident Room. ‘DI Mulholland told me there’s now a connection betw
een Keane and Thomas Zachary?’
‘That’s correct, sir. DC Bridge told—’
‘I’ve had Dawn’s team investigate any connection.’ Loftus folded his arms. ‘When a celebrity pops up, well, let’s say I’m concerned that their fame can serve against us and any prosecution. So due diligence and all that.’
‘Seems wise.’
‘It is. But my issue isn’t about Mr Zachary and Mr Keane. It’s that he’s been dating one Jennifer Simon.’
Fenchurch opened his mouth to speak.
‘I know who she is, Simon. Your daughter.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
Footsteps cannoned around the university’s circular stairwell. Loftus was powering ahead, out of sight round the bend. But he could bloody hear him. Fenchurch clung to the banister, pulling himself up another flight, one step by one step. Strip lights caught the rough concrete surface. Sweat soaked his shirt, dripped down his forehead. His knee was on fire by the second floor; by the twentieth, it was self-medicating.
Another corner and Loftus was by the door, doing stretches. ‘You should’ve taken the lift, Inspector.’
‘I’m fine, sir.’ Fenchurch was about to vomit. Took everything to keep it down. ‘Fine.’
‘You look very far from fine.’ Loftus held open the door but stopped Fenchurch getting through. ‘I can see you limping.’
‘I had a tumble down some stairs arresting a suspect, that’s all.’ His knee locked and sent a jolt of pain up his thigh. ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Ah, an ill-advised chase after a “scrote”.’ Loftus did that air-quotes thing, his chunky fingers dancing like rabbit ears poking up over a barley field. ‘We’re supposed to push scrotes down stairs, not them us.’ He flashed a grin, but it was soon lost, a stone dropped in a fast-flowing river. His forehead creased. ‘Simon, I’m going to be frank here. You’ll know as well as I that, all along, there’s been a possible conflict of interest in this case.’
‘Because my daughter’s a student here?’
‘Correct. DCI Docherty liked to sail close to the wind on such matters and I respected his judgement. But . . . it’s not beyond the realms of possibility that a savvy defence lawyer could get your testimony thrown out.’
‘Sir, she’s not been—’
‘Let me finish.’ Loftus kept his hand in the air as he spoke. ‘If our intel is correct and your daughter is involved with this chap, then you’re off this case. Okay?’
No point in arguing. So long as he keeps Reed, Nelson or Bridge on it. Someone I can pressure for info . . .
‘Understood, sir. I wouldn’t want it any other way.’ Fenchurch nudged past and hobbled down the corridor, lopsided.
The same goon was stationed outside Zachary’s office, wearing shades in a London November. ‘Sirs, I need you to stop.’
Loftus smoothed down his uniform. ‘I don’t know who you think you are, but—’
‘I’ll stop you there, sir. Mr Zachary had a death threat this morning so we’re locking this place down.’
Loftus poked his tongue around his cheek. ‘And why weren’t we informed?’
‘Standard protocol, sir. Now I need you to back off.’
‘I’m a police officer, son.’ Loftus clenched his jaw. ‘You’re the one who’s going to back off.’
‘Sir, my job is to prot—’
The office door clattered open. ‘Brad, what the hell?’ Zachary was waving his arms, scowling at the security goon. ‘Can’t even think in here, man!’
Fenchurch stepped forward, as smoothly as his gammy knee allowed. ‘Need a word.’
Zachary huffed out a sigh. He arched his eyebrow and nibbled at his bottom lip, thinking it through. Not that there was much to think through. Then he nodded at his security. ‘Brad, go make yourself useful.’
‘Sir, I—’
‘These are cops, you moron.’ Zachary came out into the corridor, his suit jacket flapping behind him. ‘Get yourself a cup of Joe and be back in five.’
Brad’s massive shoulders slumped as he glared at Fenchurch. Then he sloped off, tearing out his earpiece and letting it dangle free. Prick thought he was guarding the President, not some big-mouthed racist. Not that there’d be any difference, come January . . .
Zachary was already inside his office.
Loftus took a seat in front of the desk, waiting for Fenchurch to sit. Didn’t seem to have calmed much, his skin a few shades redder than normal. He gave Zachary a professional smile, eyes narrowed and thin. ‘Does the name Jennifer Simon mean anything to you?’
‘Oh God, yeah.’ Zachary picked at something stuck between his teeth. ‘We dated for a couple of weeks.’
Loftus glanced at Fenchurch. ‘But not any more?’
‘Nope.’ Zachary rooted around in his desk drawer and pulled out a toothpick, then went to town on his teeth. ‘We had a few wild nights, I can tell you. But she broke it off with me a couple weeks back.’
Fenchurch let his held breath slip out. ‘Did she say why?’
‘Sorry, dude.’ Zachary swallowed something, but left the toothpick dangling, like he was a Mexican gangster in a mid-nineties film. ‘You’d have to ask her, I’m afraid. I’m a gentleman, I know when to listen to a “no”.’
Loftus was already on his feet. ‘Thanks for your time, sir.’
‘Through here, gentlemen.’ Uttley’s secretary flashed them a false smile. ‘Rupert won’t be long now.’
Loftus sat at the huge oak desk, keeping his silence. He brushed some fluff off his shoulder. Didn’t look particularly satisfied that he’d got rid of it all.
Fenchurch joined him, but couldn’t stay sitting. His knee kept wobbling and locking. He got up and walked over to the window. Rubbed his kneecap until he got another satisfying clunk. The pain dulled a touch.
The door clattered open and the Chancellor came through, wearing a gown over his suit as though he was in the middle of a ceremony. ‘Gentlemen.’ A tight nod, then he found a chair.
Chloe followed him through, head bowed, clasping her elbow.
Uttley stood behind his desk and gestured at the free chair next to Loftus. ‘Jennifer?’
Fenchurch hated to hear the name, felt like someone crushing glass in his eardrums.
‘I’m fine standing.’ But not anywhere near her old man. Chloe stayed by the door, leaning back against the oak panelling, her backpack at her feet. Couldn’t even look at the half of the room Fenchurch was in for longer than a second.
‘Very well.’ Uttley hauled off his robe and rested it on a dressmaker’s mannequin behind him. Took great care buttoning up the front. Then he collapsed into his chair like some slob in a Balham flat. ‘Gentlemen, Jennifer has kindly agreed to answer any questions you may have in my presence. Okay.’
Loftus smiled at her. ‘Nice to meet you, Chloe.’
‘It’s Jennifer.’
‘Okay.’ Loftus frowned at Fenchurch, then gave her another smile. ‘You’ll be aware that we’re investigating a murder case, yes?’
‘So I gather.’
‘When your name comes up in connection with a suspect, we have to investigate very carefully.’
She frowned at Uttley. ‘Shouldn’t we be doing this down a police station?’
‘Not yet.’ Loftus leaned forward on the chair, his forehead creasing. ‘Did you date one Thomas Zachary?’
‘Why—’ She gasped. ‘You think he killed her?’
‘We’re investigating a series of leads. Ms Nunn was organising a protest against Mr Zachary’s presence at the university. As such, we are deeming him a person of interest. Now, I need to confirm whether you were romantically involved with him?’
Uttley’s face could’ve soured cheese. Clearly not a fan of his staff consorting with students. Or of them keeping it from him.
Chloe rubbed her temples for a few seconds. Then she hefted up her bag over her shoulder. ‘I need to go.’
‘I don’t want to stand in your way.’ Loftus smiled. ‘After you’ve answered the question.’
/>
‘This is my personal business. You’ve no right.’
‘It’s a simple yes or no, Ms Simon.’
Chloe stared at her father, long enough to get his heart thudding in his chest. ‘Fine. We dated. For a couple of weeks. But it was just sex.’ She held Fenchurch’s gaze, then focused on Loftus. ‘But I got to know him. And I couldn’t stand the guy’s politics. So I ended it.’
‘How did you meet?’
‘Tinder.’
Fenchurch’s throat thickened, hardening around the truth. ‘Tinder?’
‘Yeah.’ She tilted her head to the side, frowning. ‘I saw his profile and swiped right. Might even have swiped up, which is a super-like.’
‘You know how dangerous—’
‘Simon, can you give us a minute?’ Loftus waved him out of the room. ‘Please?’
‘Sir, I—’
‘Now, Inspector.’
‘Okay.’ Fenchurch took his time leaving, trying to get Chloe to look at him again. She wouldn’t. He shut the door behind him, fizzing with energy.
Tinder.
She was using Tinder to . . . have sex with predatory old racists. Christ. Who else is she meeting on there?
Uttley’s secretary scowled at him like he’d smeared dog shit over her carpet. ‘Everything okay?’
‘Just dandy.’ Fenchurch walked off, dropping his mobile as he got it out of his pocket, the device cracking off the floor. He bent over to pick it up. Screen was mercifully intact. He hobbled away from the desk and phoned Abi.
‘Simon? You okay?’
Fenchurch stopped around the corner, out of earshot. ‘Chloe . . . She’s . . . she’s involved in this case.’
Abi gasped. ‘How?’
‘She . . .’ The words didn’t come out.
‘Is she okay?’
‘She’s fine.’ Fenchurch pressed his lips together. ‘She’s been using Tinder.’
‘That dating app?’
‘It’s more of a pick-up app, but yeah. That. Trouble is, she’s swiped right on a suspect in this case.’
‘Swiped right?’
‘That’s what you do when you like someone. Apparently.’
‘Should you be telling me about this?’
‘Abi, that’s our little girl.’ Fenchurch wanted to punch the walls, smash through to Uttley’s office and grab hold of her, shake her until she saw sense. ‘We found her again, but she’s lost to us. This is worse than—’