by Ed James
Fenchurch held up his hands. ‘Thought it was “he said, she said”?’
‘Just being negative, mate. Saves me getting kicked in the balls later.’
‘You’ll never change, Rod.’
A random attack, vicious and sadistic, but still random and different to the shit Keane was up to.
‘Picked her up just over there.’ Winter pointed at the house across the road, an overflowing skip sitting outside, bags of cement spilling out into the rain. ‘Pulled up, balaclava on, knife to the back and off.’
Fenchurch waved at the crime scene. ‘Whoever killed her found out where she lived.’
Winter groaned. ‘Ah, shitting hell. Here comes trouble.’
An exec-class Audi trundled along the street and pulled up by the skip. Loftus got out and stepped in a pile of cement. He gave Fenchurch a nod as he walked over, saving a glare for Winter. ‘Gentlemen. This is . . . Well.’
Mulholland got out of the passenger side, talking into a phone. ‘Yes, Jon, another one. Goodbye.’ She ended the call and sidled over. ‘Simon, Rod.’
‘Dawn.’ Winter exhaled out of the side of his mouth. ‘Sir, this is my fault.’
‘Nonsense.’ Loftus clapped his shoulder. ‘Just one of those things. Happens to the best of us.’ He paused to run his tongue over his lips. ‘I do expect you to make good on it, however.’
‘Of course, sir.’
Pratt wandered out of the flat. Om-pom-pom-pom-tiddly-om-pom. He threw his medical bag on the ground next to them. ‘Ah, there you are.’ He popped a mint in his mouth and pushed it into his cheek. ‘Well, that’s fairly unpleasant inside. I’ll get at her in Lewisham as soon as Mick Clooney lets me.’
‘Appreciate it, William.’ Loftus gestured at the house. ‘So, what have you got?’
‘She died yesterday lunchtime.’ Pratt grabbed his own throat. ‘Manual strangulation, of course. And I’d place the time at one o’clock, plus or minus an hour.’
Mulholland flashed her eyebrows at Loftus. ‘When Keane was still alive.’
Loftus focused on Fenchurch. ‘Are you in agreement, Simon?’
‘I don’t want to jump to a conclusion, sir.’ Fenchurch shrugged. ‘The only connection is that Keane was paying Greenwood’s defence.’
‘Well, confirming it is something, isn’t it?’ Loftus clapped his hands together. ‘Come on, Dawn, let’s venture inside, shall we?’
Fenchurch watched them go. ‘She’s a . . .’
‘What’s your problem with her?’ Winter got out another cigarette and sparked his lighter. The wind kept blowing it out. ‘Bastard thing!’
‘Rod.’ Fenchurch snatched the lighter off him. ‘I was saying that someone found Sharon’s address. Did Greenwood target her?’
‘We think Greenwood found her online, then managed to track her down in real life, as the kids say.’
Fenchurch gave back the lighter, groaning. ‘Tell me he saw her on Facebook or something.’
Winter got his lighter to stick, managed to get the cigarette going. ‘Why?’
‘Tell me Sharon Reynolds wasn’t a camgirl.’
Winter almost choked on his smoke. ‘How did you guess?’
‘Jesus Christ.’ Fenchurch felt like he’d been punched in the gut.
The biggest connection of all and he’d missed it. Not that he could’ve saved Sharon Reynolds, but . . . Searching the wrong bloody places, fixating on rape defence funds when the answer was different.
He grabbed Winter’s wrist. ‘Tell me everything. Now.’
‘Let go of me!’ Winter pushed away from Fenchurch. ‘Christ, you don’t get any better, do you?’ He sucked on his cigarette. ‘Sharon left school with one GCSE, got a job in Boots. Then a friend suggested she did a camgirl show.’
‘On Manor House?’
‘Shitting hell. How did you know that?’
‘You’re sure it was that site?’
‘We visited them. Spoke to some freak who tried to get one of my officers to do a strip for him. Anyway, Sharon did this whole goth thing on there under the name Elektra De’Ath. It became really successful and she was earning a good full-time wage from it. And I mean good. Way more than a cop earns.’ Winter took another long drag. ‘Then she got kidnapped and raped. Girl’s been a shell since.’
‘Rod, mate. You should’ve told me this back in your office.’
‘Wouldn’t have saved her, Si. You saw her. She’s been dead since yesterday.’
Fenchurch tried to think of a counter, but Winter was right. Nothing could’ve saved her. Nothing short of taking every last raping monster off the streets. Even then, another would pop up in their place.
All it did was link her to Hannah’s death. Maybe. Could just be coincidence. Then again, the method of murder and the fact the perpetrators had been careful after the sex . . .
But Greenwood was in Wandsworth and he was the careful one. Wasn’t he?
Still, Sharon had been very much alive when she was raped; Hannah, well.
Yep, it still sickened Fenchurch. He nodded over at the house. ‘Did Greenwood act alone?’
‘Possibly not.’ Winter finished his sixth fag and stamped it out. ‘Said there was someone else with him during at least one of the . . . incidents.’
‘Keane?’
‘No idea. Sorry.’ Winter was fidgeting with his cigarette packet. ‘Shit. I’m out.’
‘You’ve already smoked enough for a week.’
‘Never enough.’
Fenchurch glanced at Winter. ‘Rod, I’m thinking this might be linked to my case.’
‘No, no, no.’ Winter stepped towards Fenchurch. ‘Loftus is going to steal this off me, isn’t he? Give it to that witch.’
‘No idea.’
‘Shitting hell.’ Winter lurched off, jogging across the road, blocking off a figure in a crime scene suit. ‘You get anything?’
‘Rod, you’re even worse than—’ Clooney tore off his mask. ‘Oh, here he is . . .’
‘Mick.’ Fenchurch smiled. ‘You need to practise your straw-drawing. Or at least check that there are actually long ones in the cup.’
‘Tell me about it.’ Clooney tore off his jacket and stamped on it. The wind buffeted it, threatening to steal it. ‘Bloody hell.’
Fenchurch nodded at the house. ‘You get anything inside?’
‘Nothing.’ Clooney stuffed his tablet under his arm as he started on his trousers. ‘A dead woman, Si. Need to stop making a habit of it.’
Is he lying? Probably.
Fenchurch grabbed the computer off him. The flat inventory. ‘Are you doing monkey work, Mick?’
‘Inventory’s the most important job. Christ.’ Clooney almost fell over as the wind billowed in his trousers. ‘If you don’t know what you’ve got, how can you focus people on tasks?’
‘Fair enough.’ Fenchurch read the list in detail. Lots of lingerie, like Hannah. Tracksuits too. Fitness equipment stuffed into her shoebox of a flat. Surely a gym membership would be better? But something was missing. He held the tablet out. ‘Mick, where’s her computer?’
‘It’s not mandatory to own one, you nipple.’
‘She’s a camgirl, Mick. She’d have a computer with a webcam. This lot all have MacBook Pros.’ Fenchurch scanned the rest of the list. ‘Hang on, there’s no smartphone either.’ Fenchurch passed back the tablet. ‘Whoever killed her took her computer and phone.’
Fenchurch knocked on the door and a lumbering goon opened it. ‘Looking for your boss.’
‘He’s not in.’ More of a dull roar than actual speech. ‘Mr Younis is doing some personal business, sir. He’ll be back shortly.’
‘Okay.’ Fenchurch walked back to his car. Winter was on another call, sucking down yet another cigarette. He got out his mobile, found a business card and started dialling.
Younis answered, driving sounds rumbling in the background. ‘Oh, Fenchurch, so you do want a tumble in the back of my BMW!’
Fenchurch sighed. ‘I need a word.’
&nb
sp; ‘Ooh, two for one. You and another big stud. Have you dumped the delectable Ms Reed? Mm, mm.’ Click.
‘What the hell?’
A car horn blasted out, headlights flashing. A BMW X5 pulled up, the tinted window sliding down, George Michael’s ‘Fast Love’ pumping out at high volume. ‘Hey, baby.’ Younis peeked out over mirrored shades. ‘Looking good. Mm, mm.’
Fenchurch leaned into the car and got a blast of menthol cigarettes. ‘Need a word, sir.’
‘So hop on in.’ Younis reached over and opened the door.
‘I’ll stay here, if it’s all the same.’
‘Don’t know what you’re missing.’
‘Sharon Reynolds.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Might know her as Elektra De’Ath.’
‘Ah.’ Younis turned down the music. ‘And what of her?’
‘She died. Yesterday. Only just found her body.’
‘Oh, sweet Jesus.’ Younis stared down at the pedals, twisting his fingers around the steering wheel. ‘That’s a real bloody shame. She was a good earner. Been off the scene for a few months, though.’
‘You hear what happened to her?’
‘Fenchurch, baby, you’re so hot but so cold between the ears. I tell my girls to keep themselves to themselves. Online only. Anything more is illegal.’
‘I meant about her being kidnapped by a punter and tied to a radiator. Raped repeatedly until she escaped.’
Younis held up his hands. ‘Nothing to do with me.’
Fenchurch pulled open the door. Wanted to grab his throat and kick the shit out of him. He rested against the car instead. ‘I want access to all of her messages.’
‘If Sharon was turning tricks, then it’s news to me. You might not like it, but I’ve got to keep this all above board. Last thing I need is you pricks all over me. Well, except you, sweetie.’
‘Who’s been messaging her?’
‘Good luck.’
‘We have a warrant.’
‘Very pleased for you. Still can’t help.’ Younis slouched back in his chair and pulled off his sunglasses. ‘You really need to listen more, sweetie. We encrypt the private chats. I don’t want to be party to what these girls and boys are doing behind my back. Dancing? Fine. Chatting to their customers? I don’t really care. Meeting them for sex? I can’t know about it, otherwise you guys will be straight up my arse.’ He looked Fenchurch up and down. ‘Though that’s only a bad thing depending on who they send.’
Fenchurch was about to tear the door off, or at least give it a good go. ‘Listen, you dirty scumbag, two of your girls are in the morgue, so—’
‘Fenchurch, listen to me.’ Younis sucked on the metal leg of his shades. ‘They’re not my girls or boys. They’re all independent contractors who run their own businesses through my platform. I give them the equipment and charge them a percentage and that’s the end of it.’
‘You don’t mind that your punters are sending them death threats?’
‘Nothing surprises me, but they’re big girls. And boys. I run the platform, that’s it. This isn’t my issue.’
Fenchurch stared him down, got the prick to look to the side. ‘Tell me about Zoe.’
Younis folded his shades and put them down. ‘Zoe?’
‘A girl Sam Edwards was . . . seeing. Met her on your site.’
‘Not my issue, Fenchurch. In case you haven’t been listening, the chats are encrypted.’
‘I don’t really care what they’ve been talking about. I need to speak to her.’
‘Fancy her, do you?’
‘In case you’ve not noticed, you’ve got two dead strippers on your hands. You need to start playing ball.’
‘Well, I’m not giving you anything.’ Younis held up a finger. ‘Not without a warrant.’
‘Bloody hell, Rod.’ Fenchurch got in the passenger side of the car. Across the courtyard, Younis was hugging his security like they were teammates and they’d just won the World Cup. ‘See what we’re up against?’
Winter was already unwrapping a fresh box of cigarettes, clicking a dirty finger against the tear. ‘Did he give you the whole spiel about zero-hour-contract strippers?’
‘Doesn’t even want to know what they’re up to. Doesn’t care, just takes the money from them.’
‘Makes sense, though. He’s interested in the money, not any of the hassle from us.’ Winter put his key in the ignition and turned the heating up, keeping the engine off. ‘He’s getting to you, isn’t he?’ He twisted the key and sparked the pool car to life. ‘You think he sent that video of your Sam Edwards, don’t you?’
‘I could do him under revenge porn laws. Just need to prove it was him. I know he’s hiding something. Every time I get at him, he’s all over me like a snakeskin suit.’
‘He’s not as good as the guy he got the suit from. He’ll stumble. And when he does, we’ll catch him.’
‘I’m not so sure, Rod.’ Fenchurch eyeballed Younis giving a bodybuilder type a high five. What was he hiding? Not his sexuality, that’s for sure.
Fenchurch let out a sigh. ‘Come on, Rod. Let’s get back to the station and dig into that prick’s business.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I don’t really care, Rod.’ Fenchurch held open the Leman Street stairwell door. ‘So long as it’s not Mulholland.’
Winter blasted stale cigarette breath across Fenchurch’s face. ‘It’ll be Mulholland.’
‘Shut up, Rod.’
‘Seriously. It’s not going to be you.’ Winter took out a cigarette from his latest packet. ‘Sure as hell won’t be me. Can’t think of many others. And Loftus won’t want to bring someone else in. East London is hardcore, mate. Whoever gets Docherty’s job will need bollocks as big as my head.’
Fenchurch played it through his politics filters, trying to sand off the rough edges. Still looked like shit, smelled like shit, tasted like shit. ‘Let’s get on with work and leave the politics to the arseholes.’
‘Bloody Leman Street.’ Winter followed him along the corridor. ‘Not been back here in years.’
‘It’s not changed much.’ Fenchurch limped over to the Incident Room door and pushed it open.
A gang of DCs were huddled by the whiteboard, one of Mulholland’s DSs leading some sort of update session. Nelson was chatting to Bridge in the far corner, though she was focusing on her laptop. Fenchurch shot Nelson a warning glare as they approached.
‘Rod!’ Nelson stood and grabbed hold of Winter’s hand. ‘Mate, I’ve not seen you in ages!’
‘Yeah, likewise. You look well, mate.’
‘Never better.’
Fenchurch sat in Nelson’s seat and leaned in close to Bridge. ‘Lisa, do you know if Keane sent emails to any other camgirls?’
Bridge punched her desk. ‘We still haven’t been able to unlock Hannah’s MacBook. Mulholland’s got three guys in IT working on it.’
‘What about the one I found in his house?’
‘Jon told me to focus on Hannah’s. Evidence trail and all that shit. And I’m blocked.’
‘Lisa, I need you to get into that other MacBook, okay?’
‘But DI Mulholland—’
‘—is over there.’ Bridge nodded at the door.
The room hushed as Mulholland entered, undoing her scarf as she walked, almost gliding. Her expression darkened as she spotted Fenchurch. She came over and gripped Bridge’s shoulder. ‘Lisa, how are we doing? Anything linking Keane to Sharon Reynolds?’
‘Sharon Reynolds? Ma’am, I’m—’
‘His movements during her time of death are unknown.’ She pouted at Fenchurch. ‘Unless you disagree with me, Simon?’
Fenchurch kept his focus on Winter. ‘Dawn, if you’re asking me, I think you need stronger evidence against him in general.’
‘Well, I’m not, Simon. In the brief time that you’ve been off the Hannah Nunn case, we’ve somehow managed to push the evidence forward a few miles.’ Mulholland squeezed Bridge’s shoulders. ‘Mr Keane is
the shady figure entering her room.’
‘What?’
Mulholland opened her own laptop and held it in front of Fenchurch’s face. ‘Have a look.’ She flicked through the case file. ‘This is the street camera from round the corner from the halls of residence.’
Fenchurch snatched it off her.
The screen showed a man walking down the street towards the camera, his face shrouded in a hoodie. 4.56. The next was 5.32, showing him walking off. Enough time for him to get inside and enter her room.
He hit pause and focused hard on the screen. ‘Is that a laptop under his arm?’
‘That’s what I think.’
‘So it’s Keane?’
Bridge hit play again. The screen shifted to a zoomed-in shot, focusing on the face. Definitely Oliver Keane.
Fenchurch’s blood ran cold. She was correct. All the pissing about he’d done, letting his tedious feud with her get in the way of the case.
There was a reason Docherty kept them apart. Fenchurch hated to think it was him.
She took the laptop back. ‘Mick Clooney sent on the preliminary analysis from Mr Keane’s house. Turns out he left some clothes in his washing machine. The hair on them matches Hannah’s DNA.’
Fenchurch’s skin prickled. ‘Should have his prints on Hannah’s laptop, though. Right?’
‘Which you found in his house.’ She waved her finger in his face, like she was chiding a naughty child. ‘Which he took from her room.’ Her smile spread across her face. ‘And we’ve got CCTV of Mr Keane’s Lexus LS600h driving from Mansell Street to this address around the time of Hannah’s murder.’ She tapped the screen, the sharp figure not ghostly any more. ‘He did it, Simon.’ Fenchurch still couldn’t look at her for longer than a second. ‘Why kill Sharon Reynolds, then?’
‘He’s obviously involved in the abduction. Him and this Christian Greenwood.’
‘That’s what my team will be working on next.’ Mulholland flashed a smile at him. ‘You’re welcome to watch.’