by Ed James
‘Kay, I don’t think he knows anything, but we’ll get a statement to be on the safe side.’ Fenchurch trudged back towards the crime scene. ‘Okay?’
‘Maybe. Just . . .’ Reed clicked her tongue. ‘I don’t know, guv. That sort of shit really gets my back up.’
‘It’s not just you.’ Fenchurch stopped by the outer perimeter.
The crime scene had swollen with a squad of officers, both uniformed and plainclothes, taking in a good chunk of the main road, coated in red and white glow as rubberneckers slowed.
The arc lights bleached Cassie McBride’s car, a pre-emptive measure against a long night. SOCOs combed the vehicle, inside and out.
By the blue hoarding, uniforms had paired off with members of the public, each cop furiously scribbling in their notebooks. Nelson was chatting to a female DC, his gaze scattering across the scene. She winked at him and walked off towards the mobile unit, a hulking van that’d be more at home in a static caravan park.
Fenchurch tapped Nelson on the shoulder, causing him to spin round. ‘You getting anything, Jon?’
‘Nothing much, guv.’ Nelson put his vape stick away. ‘Just backing up the story.’ He waved over at the mobile unit. ‘Clive’s got a cut of the CCTV, though.’
‘Naismith?’ Fenchurch groaned. ‘We should’ve sent him back to Brick Lane, Jon.’
‘Nobody’s shouting for him, guv. Decent cop, actually. Might want to think about keeping him on. Keep your enemies close and all that.’
‘I’ll think about it.’ Fenchurch started off towards the crime van, Reed following. He knocked at the door as he entered.
The interior would be blinding if it wasn’t so grubby. The white walls and furniture probably hadn’t been cleaned since Thatcher had been in power. It stank of coffee whitener, a huge tub of it open to the elements, with three dirty spoons sticking out.
A tower of styrofoam cups arched over Clive Naismith’s head as he worked at a laptop. He glanced round at them and sat up straight, clearing his throat. ‘Sir.’
‘No need to salute, I’m not the Queen.’ Fenchurch pulled out a light-beige chair and scraped it over to sit next to him. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Slowly, sir.’ Naismith tapped at his laptop, which was showing a grainy shot of the street outside. ‘Finally got the CCTV through. You might like to see this.’ He jockeyed the footage back, switching to another view from over by the DLR station.
A man stood on the pavement, his face obscured by a hood. The red Nissan Leaf was dark grey in the monochrome image. The video rolled on and the car window wound down. The man stepped closer, reaching into his pocket. He aimed a gun through the window, maybe a metre from the victim’s head. They stayed like that for a few seconds. Then gunfire bleached him white. Then again. Then he marched off, casual as you like.
‘Well, that nails it, I suppose.’ Fenchurch’s lips bit together. ‘See when he’s pointing the gun at her? How long was it like that?’
‘Twenty-two seconds.’ Naismith tapped at a page in his notebook. ‘They had a chat first.’
The man was blurry as hell, his hood pulled up. No chance they’d get anything from it.
‘Still leaves a million and one questions.’
‘Hopefully this can answer one of them.’ Naismith clicked the mouse a couple of times, then tapped at the screen, focusing on the area at the top right, the part nearest the DLR.
By the lights, a cyclist stood on his pedals. The footage ran on and the shooter jogged towards the cyclist as he sped off past the Caravanserai.
Naismith wound it back and drew a circle around the cyclist with his finger. ‘Whoever that is, sir, they saw what happened.’
Docherty stood in the mobile unit, jangling keys in his pocket as he sucked coffee from the styrofoam cup, the earthy reek of instant and curdling milk coming off him in waves. On the screen, the cyclist shot off again, followed by the shooter, but no bullets. ‘So he doesn’t shoot this boy?’
‘No, boss.’ Fenchurch was resting against the back of the grimy chair, careful not to put too much weight on it. ‘The way I read it, he doesn’t want to shoot anyone else.’
‘You think this is an assassination?’ Docherty grimaced at another sip. ‘The girl pulls up at the lights, winds down the windows, he has a word with her, then shoots her.’ Another slurp, then Docherty smacked his lips together. ‘Any idea what this word’s about?’
‘None.’
‘See, if it’s an assassination, you’d just bang bang, then clear off, right?’ Docherty waved his free hand at the monitor. ‘Why talk to her?’
‘Not sure, guv.’ Fenchurch stood and stretched out his spine. That little nugget of connective tissue needed a bit of work before it popped. Crack. There we go. ‘We don’t know anything about this girl. It’s possible he could be a known associate. He’s probably giving her a death message.’
‘Well, I’ll get a press conference together, see if we can coax this cyclist out of hiding.’ Docherty finished the coffee with a glower. ‘I want you to thank Bell for this, okay?’
‘Come on, boss.’
‘Not often someone does us a favour, okay? Give him credit.’
‘Fine.’ Fenchurch clicked his teeth together and leaned in close. ‘Did you get anywhere with Naismith’s guv’nor?’
Docherty dumped the cup in a bin. ‘You’ve got him till Tuesday, if you need him.’
‘Cheers, boss.’
Fenchurch’s Airwave blared out. Nelson. ‘Guv, we’ve got an incident over at the girl’s house.’
Fenchurch’s knees clicked as he jogged through the car park towards the house, sending some gravel pinging off a pair of Fords.
Cassie McBride’s neighbour was outside the house, partially obscured by two uniformed officers, his face twisted into disgust. His tartan dressing gown flapped open to show a stained white T-shirt, a V of sweat at the neck and a muffin-top of flab wobbling over the matching pyjama bottoms. He jabbed a finger in the air, aiming at his target. ‘You sicken me. You and your bloody dyke bitch girlfriend!’
‘Oh yeah?’ A woman stepped forward, going head to head with him. ‘What about the shit we hear coming through the walls at night from your house, you filthy pervert? You should be locked up!’
Nelson grabbed hold of her arm. ‘Madam, can you—’
‘I should be locked up?’ The neighbour let out a belly laugh. ‘You and your girlfriend—’
‘Sir!’
‘She’s not my—’
‘—filthy bitches!’
Fenchurch stepped between them and pushed them apart. ‘Sir, I need you to back off.’ He grabbed the neighbour by the shoulder and walked him away. ‘Sir, can you give my colleague here a full statement?’ Then he whispered in the uniform’s ear. ‘Go door to door and see if he’s done anything physical to them, okay?’
The uniform scowled at him. ‘Fine.’
Fenchurch narrowed his eyes, making sure the punk got the message. ‘Am I clear?’
‘Sir.’ The uniform led the neighbour away.
‘Filthy bloody dykes! Hey! My oven’s on! I need to get in there!’
Fenchurch returned to the target of his abuse. ‘I’m sorry about that.’
The girl tucked her arms tight around her torso. ‘Nothing I haven’t heard a hundred times from him.’ Her skin was mid-tone, her chin rounded. As tall as Reed, even in flat shoes. ‘He’s a filthy pervert. Watching all sorts of dirty shit on his computer, loud as you like.’
‘Have you reported him to the police?’
Her eyes followed the uniform leading the neighbour into his house. ‘Is that what this is about?’
Fenchurch shook his head. Couldn’t keep eye contact. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Rebecca. Rebecca Thurston. I’ve just got back from work. What’s going on?’
‘Okay, Rebecca. Do you know a Cassie McBride?’
‘She’s my— What?’ Rebecca looked over to the crime scene. ‘What’s going on?’
Fenchurch
gestured at the house. ‘Let’s do this inside, Ms Thurston.’
Her gaze switched back to Fenchurch. ‘Has something happened to Cassie?’
‘We should do this inside.’
Rebecca shoved him backwards and he fell on his arse. She broke into a run, her shoes splashing across the car park towards the glowing crime scene.
Fenchurch clambered to his feet and set off after her, his knee twanging as he ran. ‘Rebecca!’
A uniform sprinted after her. She feinted left and darted round a parked Focus, then sped up, losing him.
Fenchurch followed her and spotted a shortcut as she cut round an Astra to avoid another uniform.
He crouched down behind a Porsche SUV and listened as she hurtled towards him. Then he burst out and grabbed hold of her, clutching his hands around her waist.
‘No!’
‘Rebecca, it’s okay.’
‘Let me go!’ She struggled for a few seconds, then her body went limp. ‘What happened to her?’
Fenchurch grabbed her shoulders and restrained her against the Porsche. ‘Cassie was shot.’
‘Over there?’
Fenchurch nodded.
‘I want to see her.’
‘Trust me, you don’t.’
‘Jesus . . .’ She slumped forward, Fenchurch’s grip the only thing holding her up. ‘What’ve they done?’
‘Who? What’ve who done?’
She screwed her eyes tight and covered her ears.
‘Rebecca, who?’
Fenchurch kneaded his brow as she nibbled at her lip. ‘Rebecca, do you have any idea who could’ve killed her?’
Her nostrils flared, mouth closed. ‘Cassie . . .’
Fenchurch let the female uniformed officer take Rebecca away, back towards her house. ‘Stay with her, okay?’
‘Sir.’ She led Rebecca off, still mute.
Was it just the murder of her friend?
Fenchurch stomped across the car park towards the crime scene, his left hand clasped around his keys.
The engine of a squad Astra growled into life, the neighbour in the back seat, shouting and screaming silent curses at the cops in the front.
Fenchurch stopped by Docherty. ‘Boss.’
Docherty glanced up from his Pronto and waved over at the departing car. ‘That your doing?’
‘It’s someone we can do on some homophobic hate crimes.’
‘That’s mightily impressive for the stats, but has it got anything to do with this case?’
‘No, boss.’
‘Christ with a harpoon gun.’
Fenchurch pointed at Rebecca, struggling with the uniform outside her house. ‘I’ve got an FLO heading to sit with the housemate. She’ll maybe coax her into speaking. Once we get the girl’s body out to Lewisham, we’ll do a full ID.’
‘You don’t think it’s her?’
‘No, I think it’s her. Her DVLA photo matches the body.’ Flashes of light cannoned off the inside of the car, dancing across the car park. ‘I’m just thrown by this.’ Rebecca dipped her head and nodded, letting the uniform drag her into the house. ‘We need a squad car stationed outside her house in case Rebecca’s next.’
‘Simon, do you honestly think someone will go after her?’
‘She clammed up after she said, “What have they done?” Didn’t say who.’
‘Fenchurch!’ A smurf was walking towards them, waving. He tore the mask away. Clooney’s face bulged out. ‘Get over here.’
Fenchurch stormed over. ‘What’s up?’
Clooney pointed over at Cassie’s car. ‘Might have something. Did you see that phone mounted on the dashboard?’
‘What about it, Mick?’
‘Well, the screen keeps lighting up.’ Clooney held up a bagged Sony smartphone, black body. The display was filled with text over a topless photo of David Beckham. ‘It’s got a ton of notifications from the Travis app . . .’ He tossed it over. ‘I think she might be a driver.’
Chapter Seventeen
Fenchurch couldn’t even look at Bell, but Pavel Udzinski’s shades mirrored two copies of the smug wanker. Standing in the open-plan office space, his shirt failing to halt the spillage of guts. Could even see Reed’s eyes rolling in the reflection. ‘I just need to know more about this girl.’
Udzinski sat back in his leather chair and steepled his fingers. ‘Okay, I hear you, but the answer’s still no.’
‘Listen, it’s possible this was a random attack, but . . .’ Fenchurch crouched down in front of Udzinski. ‘Someone put two bullets in her. Point-blank range.’ He tried to peer over the shades. ‘I need to know about Cassie McBride.’
‘I keep telling you . . .’ Udzinski tore off his shades and dumped them on his desk. Dark pools where his eyes should be, the whites more red than white, like he hadn’t slept in months. ‘I can’t give out that information.’
‘You gave us it last night for another of your drivers.’
‘Co-signs.’ Udzinski rubbed the skin under his eyes, pulling the bottom half of his lids out. ‘It’s very important you use the correct terminology. Our co-signs are our partners in the business. They’re equally liable should anything happen.’
‘I just need to know about this driver. Cassie McBride.’
‘I can’t tell you that.’ Udzinski picked up his shades and blew on the lenses. ‘From what I’m hearing, this sounds like an attack on Travis as a corporate entity.’
‘What? No—’
‘Simon, let me.’ Bell perched on the edge of Udzinski’s desk and flashed a grin, his belly rolling over the top of his trousers. ‘Pavel, mate, this is all covered under our standard warrant. Just give DI Fenchurch the information and we’ll be on our merry way.’
‘That warrant covers crimes committed by our co-signs, not our co-signs as victims.’
Fenchurch nearly reached out to grab Udzinski’s throat, but just about kept his hands by his sides. ‘So you’re not going to help us?’
‘Inspector.’ Bell’s glare shifted to a smile at Udzinski. ‘Pavel, this girl was murdered this afternoon. Shot dead. You don’t want me to go to the press with a story about how Travis refused to help us now, do you?’
‘You’re playing the same game as last night, yes?’
‘This is serious. You can’t just operate unilaterally in this city. You need to work with us.’
‘And I can’t just decide to do this unilaterally. This is a corporate policy.’ Udzinski waved his hand away. ‘Not part of my remit.’
Bell gripped Udzinski’s shoulder and squeezed hard. ‘So run it up the flagpole.’
‘Run . . . What?’
‘Go and call your boss.’
‘Stay here.’ Udzinski locked his computer and marched off, sticking his phone to his ear.
The floor was quieter than the other night, clearly in some sort of lull between shifts.
‘Think these would suit me?’ Bell picked up the mirror shades and gave them a thorough investigation. ‘We’re taking the kids to Florida next summer. Costs a—’
‘Jason, I need that—’
‘Simon, I’m telling you to butt out. Be thankful I don’t ask you to leave.’
I’ll knock you into the middle of next week.
Bell tried on the sunglasses. ‘They’re really comfortable, though. You can see why—’
‘Put them down!’ Udzinski yanked the glasses out of Bell’s podgy grasp. ‘I leave you for just one minute . . .’ He shook the shades around. ‘These are private property. Maybe I will report you to the police, eh?’
‘Hey, do I know you?’ An American accent. John Gomez stood there grinning, tanned and muscular. Black Levi’s and a crisp white shirt. He clicked his fingers a few times, trying to jog his memory, then pointed at Fenchurch, pistol-like. ‘I’ve got it. You were guarding that . . . guy at that panel I did yesterday.’ He held out a hand. ‘John Q. Gomez, CEO of Travis Cars, Inc.’
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.’ Bell shook his hand like he was meeting the
Prime Minister, only letting go after a good few healthy pumps. ‘The name’s DCI Jason Bell.’
Fenchurch waved to the side. ‘This is DS Kay Reed.’
Two heavies pushed past Gomez, both with an air of Israeli Defence Force about them. He raised a hand. ‘We’re cool, guys. These are the police.’
They relaxed and separated.
Bell waved over at Fenchurch. ‘My colleagues are assisting me with an investigation.’
Lying bastard.
Fenchurch kept his peace.
‘You’re lucky to be able to speak to me.’ Gomez flashed his perfect American teeth, white pillars which no doubt required a good salary to fix. ‘I fly back to SD tonight. I’m over here fixing out the teething problems with our UK operation, then things blow up back in the States.’ He pulled up the seat next to Udzinski and sat down. ‘So how can we help you, dude?’
‘We need to obtain some information on one of your dri—’ Bell caught himself with a grin. ‘One of your co-signs.’ His expression darkened as he swallowed the smile. ‘A Cassie McBride. She was murdered today.’
‘Shit.’ Gomez gritted his teeth. ‘Have the press got hold of this?’
‘Not yet.’ Bell’s mouth twitched, switching between a smile and a grimace. ‘We desperately need any information you can give us.’
‘You’re talking about something very sensitive. I can’t just—’
‘Mr Gomez, sir. This is a shooting on a London street. We don’t get a lot of them.’
Gomez raised his hands. ‘The answer’s no.’
‘I’ve got a good friend at the Post.’ Fenchurch got out his mobile and held it out. ‘Shall I give him a ring and tell him about what Mr Shelvey was up to?’
‘What?’ Gomez stepped forward, the goons shadowing his movement. ‘Are you threatening me?’
‘Sir, we need that information.’
‘Can’t do it.’
Fenchurch hit dial and put the phone to his ear. Let it ring a few times.
Sounded like Liam was at the gym. Machines whirred and house music thumped in the background. ‘Yo?’
‘Got a story for you, Liam.’
‘I’m all ears.’