by Ed James
‘Fine.’ Udzinski battered the mouse. The printer next to him whirred into life.
Fenchurch took the page from him. ‘Is he still working?’
Udzinski hit the keyboard again and clicked the mouse button with enough force to snap it in half. ‘He clocked off at eleven.’
‘—and you’re sure? Okay.’ Reed put her Airwave away and let her seat belt rise up. ‘Control haven’t got this Shelvey guy on record, guv. So what’s the plan?’
‘Usual approach, Kay.’
Burford Street was a long row of two-up two-downs near where West Ham became East Ham. Some roughcast, others painted, but mostly just bare brick. A few even had those over-sized Polish satellite dishes.
Shelvey’s address was a double-glazed house halfway down. Plain brown door, wheelie bins instead of a garden, a downstairs bay window the only embellishment. A Vauxhall Corsa was wedged between two work vans. Opposite, two motorbikes blocked in a Toyota Prius.
Fenchurch tapped the Prius’s plate into the PNC search on his Pronto. Bingo. He held the device up and pointed across the street. ‘That’s his motor, anyway.’
Reed typed something onto her own Pronto. ‘I’ll get someone checking it against the CCTV from the streets near the building site.’
The victim was dumped at eight, killed before. If it was Shelvey, there was a good chance he’d taken a few more passengers since his motor had been at Bromley-by-Bow. Raping and killing someone, just dumping their body . . . Then going back to work. If it was him, he was an arrogant bastard.
Still a huge, huge if . . .
‘The plan, guv?’
Fenchurch looked over at Reed. ‘Let’s wait for the cavalry to turn up, then grab him and have a little word with him down the station.’
‘Right.’ She tapped the window, pointing at the wing mirror. ‘Here we go, guv.’
A panda car pulled up behind them and two uniforms got out, both of them snapping their batons out in time. Another car in front flashed the lights and the passenger got out.
‘Come on then.’ Fenchurch checked his baton was in place and joined them in the street. He gestured for two of them to stay and opened the gate with a screech that could wake a drunk desk sergeant. Then he walked to the door and hammered on it — rap rap, rap rap. ‘It’s the police! Open up!’
Curtains twitched in both neighbours’ houses — the poor bastards’ main bedrooms faced the street.
Footsteps rumbled down the stairs inside the house and the door opened a crack, a bleary eye peeking out, yellow and bloodshot. The door widened out. A woman in her mid-fifties, give or take. She gave Fenchurch the up and down. ‘What?’
‘Police, madam.’ Fenchurch showed her his warrant card. ‘We need to speak to a Steven Shelvey.’
‘Why?’
Fenchurch stepped forward, trying to get a foot between the door and the outside. ‘Is he in?’
The door pushed shut, bouncing off his toe.
Fenchurch beckoned the spare uniform over.
Inside the house, ‘Steve!’ boomed out.
More clumping on the stairs. ‘What?’
‘Police for you. What have you done now?’
Fenchurch waved off the uniform.
The door opened again, filled by a six-footer in a Union Jack T-shirt, his fingers twitching at his drainpipe jeans. Tattoos, skinhead, baby face. Sunburn lashed his face and arms. ‘What?’
‘Steven Shelvey?’
He gripped the door and sneered at Fenchurch. ‘Ain’t done nothing.’
‘Well, we still need a word with you about a passenger you picked up earlier this evening.’
‘I’m off duty. Come back in the morning.’ Shelvey slammed the door.
Fenchurch’s toe caught the weight of it. Stung like a bastard. Shelvey pushed it again and it shut.
‘Good work, guv.’ Reed put her hands on her hips and exhaled, shaking her head. ‘What’s the plan now?’
Fenchurch drilled his gaze into the door. ‘We’re speaking to him tonight.’
‘Not without probable cause, we’re not.’
A window clattered open above them. ‘Oy! What’s going on?’ An old man loomed out, glowering at them.
‘Police, sir.’ Fenchurch waved his warrant card. ‘Can you please go back to bed?’
‘Not until you lot bloody shut up. I’ve got to get up at half five!’
‘I can only apologise, sir.’
Reed’s Airwave blasted out, the sound bouncing off the buildings. She answered it and paced back down the path. ‘Lisa, you got anything?’ Then squinted at the Prius. ‘Yep, you’re right. It’s a P. No, papa. Okay, thanks.’ She killed the call and put her Airwave away. ‘That Prius matches the car on the CCTV. The one that project manager saw.’
Fenchurch hammered on the door again. ‘Open up!’
The man at the window shouted down again. ‘Give us a break.’ He disappeared inside.
Fenchurch hit the door. ‘Mr Shelvey, I need you to come out.’
‘Piss off!’ Shelvey must’ve been just behind the door, probably pushing back against it. ‘I know my rights! You can’t come in here without a warrant!’
‘Sir, we need you to answer some questions regarding your movements this evening.’ Fenchurch left a few moments’ grace, the drums building up in his ears. ‘I need you to come with me.’
‘Piss off!’
Fenchurch looked round at Reed. ‘Where’s the nearest Enforcer? Leman Street?’
‘Think Brick Lane have one.’
Fenchurch checked his watch. Half past one. No time. Then he thumped the door again. ‘Sir, you need to come with us.’
‘Piss off!’
‘Kay, stay here.’ Fenchurch stormed off down the path, then headed for the patrol car. He waited for the window to buzz down before leaning in. ‘Can one of you two get—’
‘Ow!’ Reed toppled over by the front door, light blazing out of the house. Footsteps pounded across the street, away from the squad car.
Shelvey was making a run for it.
Bloody hell!
The lights on his Prius flashed. He tore at the driver’s door and got in.
Fenchurch got there just in time to grab the door. Shelvey lay on his back, bracing his feet against the inside of the door and tugging at the handle for all he was worth. The door crept shut.
Uniformed hands grabbed the door and helped Fenchurch tear it open. Then Reed got in on the act, her lip split, a trail of blood dribbling down her chin. Fenchurch kicked out and cracked Shelvey’s wrist. Shelvey let go of the door and tumbled backwards into the car.
Fenchurch reached inside and grabbed a fistful of Shelvey’s T-shirt. ‘I’m done asking nicely.’ He yanked him and twisted Shelvey’s arm round his back. Then started a pat-down with his left hand. Wallet, keys.
‘You can’t do this!’
About seven quid in coins.
‘This is police brutality!’
No weapons.
Fenchurch flipped him round and pinned him against the car. ‘Sir, I need you to answer a few questions about one of your passengers this evening.’
A glob of spit hit Fenchurch’s chin.
‘I need you to stop that, sir.’
‘Make me.’
‘Guv.’ Reed got out of the passenger side. ‘You want to see this.’
Shelvey’s eyes bulged. ‘See what?’
Fenchurch pushed him towards the uniform and joined her on the pavement.
Reed pointed into the car. Just above the glove box, a small compartment had popped open. ‘He must’ve kicked it by accident.’ She snapped on a glove and pulled out a white plastic tub. She tore off the lid and rattled it. Thing was filled almost to the brim with blue pills. ‘Looks like Viagra.’
Shelvey was barely out of his teens. Can’t be using it, can he?
‘Think he’s dealing them?’
‘I’ve seen knock-offs before, guv.’ Reed held a pill up to the streetlight. ‘These are fakes.’ She passed it to Fen
church. ‘See how they’re stamped with Pfizer on the top and VGR100?’
‘Pfizer’s the manufacturer, right?’
Reed winked at him. ‘You’ve never had to take one, guv?’
‘Not for a while.’ Fenchurch squinted at the tablet, the blue greyed by the street lighting. ‘So how do you—?’
‘See how the “f” tapers off? The fake pills can’t get it right, something in the process or what they’re laced with. Or they’re just rat poison.’
‘So they’re fakes?’
Reed smirked. ‘You want to try one? Won’t work on me.’
Fenchurch laughed. ‘Maybe later.’ He stomped back to the other side of the car.
Shelvey snarled at some onlooking neighbours as he was cuffed from behind. ‘What did you plant?’
Fenchurch passed him the knock-off Viagra. ‘This yours?’
‘You planted them, you fascist bastard!’
Fenchurch rolled his eyes, then nodded at the uniform. ‘Get him to Leman Street as soon as, yeah?’
‘I WANT A LAWYER!’
Chapter Six
Fenchurch pulled in on Leman Street outside The Oliver Conquest, the pub’s recent hipster transformation still struggling to shrug off its cop clientele in favour of stray City boys and girls. ‘You okay?’
‘He just caught me on the ear, guv.’ Reed rubbed at the side of her skull. ‘Nothing I haven’t had a hundred times or more.’
‘Your lip’s bleeding.’
‘What?’ She dabbed at it. ‘Bloody hell.’
‘Make sure you see the duty doc, right?’ Fenchurch locked the car and followed Reed down the street, the night breeze cooling his neck. For once, the drums were quiet.
A couple in shorts and T-shirts walked hand in hand ahead of him, dawdling like only the young could. No mortgages, missing daughters or—
‘Simon!’ Paul Temple was standing on the steps, barely visible above the handrail. An old college mate of Reed and Fenchurch’s wife, he looked a few years younger than either, his blond hair and designer suit giving him the sort of image a public prosecutor shouldn’t have. Maybe that’s why he was so good at his job. That, or his lack of height induced some weird psychosis in the judiciary. He trotted down the stairs and offered Fenchurch a fist bump. ‘How’s tricks, amigo?’
‘Fine, actually.’ Fenchurch bumped knuckles. ‘What brings you here?’
‘Given our recent fun and games, the Crown Prosecutor’s asked me to get in on the ground level on this case.’ Temple shot Reed a wink as he patted her lip. ‘Simon taking his anger out on you?’
She dabbed at it again. ‘All part of doing a real job rather than prancing about in court.’
Temple chuckled. ‘Well, it’s nice to see you smiling for once, Kayleigh.’
‘It’s Kay, Pauline.’
Fenchurch frowned at Reed. ‘What’s going on?’
Temple grinned back at her. ‘Do you think Kayleigh has—’
‘—a resting bitch face?’ Reed folded her arms, scowling. ‘Well?’
Fenchurch shot his gaze between them. ‘A resting what?’
‘Resting bitch face.’ Reed forced a wide smile onto her face, completely unlike her. ‘Paul says I’ve got one.’ Her face slackened, a scowl dancing across her features, then back to the fake grin. ‘Well?’
Definitely.
Fenchurch raised his shoulders. ‘Not that I’ve noticed.’
Reed prodded Temple in the chest. ‘See?’
Temple’s eyes twinkled in the sodium light. ‘He just doesn’t want you mashing his balls, Kayleigh.’
The squad car parked and the two uniforms hauled Shelvey out onto the street, the cabbie walking with the slumped-shouldered gait of the guilty. The usually guilty . . . ‘I want a LAWYER!’
Reed grabbed his wrist and pulled him up the steps, the uniforms following. The four of them wobbled in the mirrored glass as the left-hand door opened. One final push from Reed and Shelvey was inside.
Temple hugged his briefcase like a small child. ‘So how’s this one seem?’
‘Dodgy as hell.’ Fenchurch rested against the handrail. Felt like it would give at any moment. ‘We’ve got his motor leaving the crime scene. Not that it’s indicative or anything, but we found a tub of fake Viagra in his cab.’
‘Dealing?’
‘Most likely.’
‘Well, if you need a warrant . . .’ Temple held up his briefcase. ‘Any timeline on the prosecution yet?’
Fenchurch checked his watch. ‘Another hour for his lawyer to turn up, then an hour taking an initial statement. Should be able to book him by three, with a good wind behind us.’
‘No chance I’m getting any more sleep tonight, is there?’
‘You get used to it.’ Fenchurch frowned at him. The handrail groaned a bit. ‘What are you doing here, Paul?’
‘This is the CPS taking a different approach.’ Temple scratched at a rash on his cheek. ‘Given events at Christmas, and with our friend Kamal dying on remand . . .’ He reached over and patted Fenchurch’s shoulder. ‘You believed him when he said he knew what happened to Chloe, didn’t you?’
‘I hoped he knew something, I guess.’ A breeze blew through Fenchurch on its way down the long corridor of a street. ‘One sharpened toothbrush was all it took to shut him up for good.’
‘Frontier justice, amigo. Our job is to stop it happening.’ Temple yawned and held out his fist for another bump. ‘I’ll see you inside, yeah?’
‘Sure.’ Fenchurch bumped knuckles again, sucking in the dark night air, and watched Temple bounce up the stairs.
Bloody CPS pissing all over our chips again. Like we need micromanaging.
Fenchurch’s throat tightened up. Another death on a case. Another lead into what happened, gone. Just like that.
His Airwave blasted out, cutting through the street’s silence. Lewisham Support Centre.
What the hell?
‘Fenchurch.’
‘Sir, it’s Bill on the front desk at Lewisham. A Gerald Ogden is still sitting here. Not very happy.’
Dr Pratt tightened his red gingham bow tie, lost behind his thick beard, which exceeded the current hipster fashion by a good foot. Deep grooves dug into his eye sockets. His skeletal fingers played with the edge of the white sheet covering the slab and the rough contours of the body beneath.
Fenchurch gave Ogden a once-over. ‘Are you ready, sir?’
Ogden stroked a finger down his long nose, his gaze scanning up and down the shape on the slab. He ran a hand through his blond locks, eyes closed. Then the smallest nod.
Fenchurch passed it on to Pratt.
‘Very well.’ The pathologist eased back the corner of the sheet, tucking it over Victoria Brocklehurst’s chest to preserve what modesty she had left.
Patches of thick soil covered Victoria’s dark hair, like she was still lying at the crime scene. The blood on her cheeks was dried, the gouges darkened in contrast with the pale skin around them. Her lips were blue where the lipstick was smudged aside. A burgundy ring surrounded her neck, choking her collapsed windpipe.
Ogden rested his hand on the slab and brushed his hair back again, leaving it splayed across his head, stuck there with sweat. He was panting, his teeth welded together. ‘Vicky . . .’
Fenchurch snatched back eye contact. ‘Is this is your goddaughter?’
Another tiny nod, eyes shut. ‘It’s Victoria.’
Fenchurch rested a hand on Ogden’s shoulder. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea, sir?’
‘I don’t need tea.’ Nuclear fire burned in Ogden’s eyes, locked onto Fenchurch. He stood up tall, pretty much the same height as Pratt. ‘Some animal has butchered my Vicky, and you—’ He broke off, fingers covering his eyes. ‘Vicky . . .’
Fenchurch made eyes at Pratt to cover Victoria again, then led Ogden out of the room, the lawyer following like a small child, his head bowed. He sat him on a wide settee in the empty waiting area, dark and gloomy.
Three uniformed officers
chatted by the door, bored but at least doing something other than watching DVDs through their night shift.
Fenchurch perched opposite, nudging a box of Kleenex across the table. ‘Sir, these might help—’
Ogden glowered at Fenchurch. ‘Tissues won’t bring Victoria back.’
‘Sir, I’m not—’
‘You’re not doing anything!’ Ogden jabbed a finger at the door through to the mortuary. ‘I was her only family and now I’m going to have to bury her, like I buried her parents. Do you have any idea what that’s like?’
Fenchurch gritted his teeth and had to look away. ‘I have some experience, sir.’
‘What?’ Ogden tore off a Kleenex and blew into it, honking like a tenor sax. ‘Seeing this sort of thing a few times in the line of duty isn’t the same as living through it.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but—’
‘How can you possibly know what I’m going through, eh?’ Ogden tossed the tissue onto the table, the paper skidding across and landing on the grey carpet tiles. ‘I let her down and there’s nothing I can do about it. How can you possibly know, eh?’
Fenchurch made eye contact again, his heart thundering, acid burning in his gut. ‘My own daughter . . . She was kidnapped from outside my house.’
Ogden shut his eyes. ‘Christ.’ He reached for another tissue and dabbed at his cheeks, avoiding looking anywhere near Fenchurch. ‘Forgive me, I—’
‘It’s fine, sir.’ Fenchurch tried for a conciliatory smile. ‘Now, I need to know that, beyond any doubt, the woman—’
‘It’s Victoria.’ Ogden dropped the tissue onto the table, though this one stayed there. ‘I wish it wasn’t. And I wish me saying it’s not her meant that she’s still out there. But it’s her. She’s . . . She’s dead.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘The stuff you were asking earlier.’ Ogden tore off another tissue and honked into it. ‘About Travis? Have you got anything from that?’
‘We’re still actively investigating Ms Brocklehurst’s death, sir, and have a number of open avenues of inquiry.’
‘Spare me.’ Ogden huffed out a deep breath. ‘So much of my time is spent working with abstract legalese. I like to deal in the concrete, Inspector. Please, do you have a suspect?’