by Ed James
‘RING! Fu-fu-fu—’ Beeeeep.
Shit. Fenchurch hit redial, but it went to voicemail. ‘Dad, it’s Simon. Call me.’ He set off again, letting his phone dial again. Voicemail again. ‘Dad. This is important, okay? Call me.’
Fenchurch pocketed the mobile.
Just my old man out of his tree. Nothing to worry about.
He opened Docherty’s office door and entered. ‘Boss, I need—’
‘Wait your turn.’ Docherty was behind his desk, tearing apart a pain au chocolat with his fingers like some fifteenth-century peasant who’d not eaten in days.
Temple was sitting opposite Docherty, slurping from a coffee. He gave a brief nod, but he seemed irritated by something.
Fenchurch rested against the back of the other chair. ‘Boss, this is urgent.’
‘Jesus Christ.’ Docherty slammed his pastry on the table, sending shards of it everywhere. ‘What isn’t with you?’
‘The cyclist came forward.’ Fenchurch waved the photo in the air. ‘Whoever shot Cassie tried to run this guy over.’ Then he showed him the PNC print. ‘Problem is, he’s in one of Flick Knife’s cabs.’
Docherty picked up a crumb and put it in his mouth slowly, his forehead creasing. ‘And you want a word with Blunden?’
‘If I just wanted a word, boss, I’d be in Mile End by now. I want to raid his office.’
‘Christ on a scooter.’
‘And his house, if necessary.’
‘Sodding hell.’ Docherty glugged some coffee and dabbed up the pastry with his fingers. ‘Paul, can you get us a warrant?’
Temple got up and crushed his cup. ‘How soon do you need it?’
Fenchurch winked at him. ‘How soon is now?’
Fenchurch clutched his Airwave. ‘Right, let’s take this slowly.’
Down the road, a DLR train rumbled by overhead, mostly empty. The street was quiet in both directions. That Smiths song rattled round his head, ‘How Soon Is Now?’ Serves me bloody right for joking . . .
‘Serial Alpha, are you in position?’
He got a wave from Naismith down towards Mile End Road. ‘Confirmed. Over.’
‘Serial Bravo?’
Up the street, Nelson waved out at him. ‘In position, guv. Over.’
‘Serial Charlie?’
‘In position, sir.’
Fenchurch couldn’t see them, but if they said they were blocking the rear entrance . . . He looked round at Reed. ‘Ready?’
She huffed out breath. ‘Ready, guv.’
‘Come on, then.’ Fenchurch set off, Airwave to his mouth. ‘We are go. Hold position. Repeat, hold position.’
‘Don’t you think this is overkill, guv?’
‘What?’ Fenchurch entered the courtyard and strode over to Frank’s Cabs, the office basking in the mid-morning sun. ‘Whoever shot Cassie McBride was in one of Flick Knife’s cabs. He’s got one gun. How many more can he have?’ He knocked on the door and waited. ‘Come on, come on, come on . . .’
Another knock and he stepped back, peering through the window. Couldn’t see anything. Nobody working, that’s for sure.
The courtyard was filled with empty black cabs.
‘Think he’s bolted, guv?’
‘Don’t say that, Kay.’
‘What about the cancer? Think he’s . . . ?’
Noise came from inside, shouting.
‘Oh, shit . . .’ Fenchurch snapped out his baton with his free hand. ‘We are entering the building. Everybody stay ready.’ He reached for the handle and twisted it open, standing there, watching and listening.
Voices boomed out from the back. Quite a heated argument.
Fenchurch held up a finger, stopping anyone else advancing. He entered, taking it slowly. He stopped by Blunden’s office door, baton raised, and stepped back. A drunken Scotsman and a Scouser.
He twisted the handle and pulled the door open.
Blunden sat in his chair, slumped forward into a crimson pool covering his desk, dripping onto the floor, pat, pat, pat. Blood dribbled from a cut on his throat, soaking his white shirt.
Fenchurch raced in, shouting into the Airwave, ‘Urgent medical assistance needed! Repeat, urgent medical assistance is required!’ He felt Blunden’s neck for a pulse. Still warm, but definitely dead.
‘And here’s Alan Thomson with the news.’ A bloody radio.
‘Sex!’
Fenchurch lurched back. The shout came from the far side of the room.
His dad sat wedged into the corner, clutching a white bread knife in both hands, the blade covered in blood. Rocking forward, eyes closed. ‘Sex!’
Chapter Twenty-Four
Bloody, bloody hell!’ Fenchurch wheeled around the quadrangle, fists clenched. ‘What is he doing here?’
‘Guv.’ Reed pressed a hand into his chest, stopping his movement. ‘You need to calm down.’
‘“Calm down”?’ Fenchurch glared at her. ‘How the hell am I supposed to react?’
She tilted her head to the side. ‘Talk about it, maybe?’
‘You’re not my shrink, Kay.’
‘I’m glad of that.’
Fenchurch stopped dead, clenching his fists tighter. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing. Just . . .’ She pursed her lips, her forehead creasing up. ‘I’m sorry, guv. I don’t understand what’s happened.’
‘Oh, I’ll tell you what’s bloody happened.’ Fenchurch pointed at the office. ‘My father’s gone off on a vigilante crusade. Killing Flick Knife before . . .’
‘Before what, guv?’
Fenchurch sighed. ‘I don’t know, Kay.’
‘What’s getting to you is you don’t know what he’s been up to and you don’t know why he’s done this.’
‘You’re . . .’ Fenchurch shook his head at her. ‘Bloody hell.’
Nelson emerged from Frank’s Cabs and tore off his SOCO suit. Another ripped off his mask — Naismith, leading two officers as they helped Dad out, handcuffed and wobbling all over the place.
Fenchurch stepped towards them. ‘Jon!’
Nelson held out his free hand, the other carrying a bag with the knife — keep away from us . . .
They disappeared through the gap out to the street, the waiting meat wagon rumbling, its diesel stink filling the courtyard.
‘Guv, your dad’s a decent bloke.’ Reed’s face settled back to its resting position. ‘Why’s he here, though? Has he talked to you about Flick Knife?’
Fenchurch shrugged. ‘Not for a while.’
‘You think this is something to do with the newspaper?’
‘Maybe. Look, we just don’t know, Kay.’
Reed smoothed a hand down his arm. ‘He can’t actually have done this, can he?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Guv, really?’
‘You don’t know what he was like when me and Rosie were growing up.’ Fenchurch pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes shut, trying to blot it all out. ‘Had a bloody temper on him. Every little scrote that got away from him, he’d take it out on us. Not physical.’ A shard of glass dug into his gut. ‘Well, only when I really took the piss. But he’d shout. A lot.’
‘You really think he could do this, though? At his age?’
SOCOs milled around the open door.
Just through there. Christ.
‘He was right there, Kay, knife in his bloody hand.’
Dr Pratt staggered out of the door, his monstrous beard catching the light breeze. He glanced at Fenchurch and marched away, head down.
‘William.’ Fenchurch jogged after him. ‘Come on, mate. What’s happened?’
Pratt kept on walking. ‘I’m not sure I should even be looking at you, Simon.’
Fenchurch got in front of him and stopped him in his tracks. Still didn’t get any eye contact. ‘Come on, William, I need to know what’s going on here.’
‘I’m under strict instructions not to speak to you or any of your close team.’
‘Come on, you owe me.’
‘I owe you nothing, Simon.’
‘Just . . . When did it happen?’
Pratt glowered at him. ‘Listen, if I give you that, will you let me go?’
‘I never heard it from you.’
Pratt finally made brief eye contact. ‘Mr Blunden’s time of death was just before eleven a.m. this morning.’
Fenchurch ran his hands through his damp hair. ‘We just bloody missed it.’
‘I’m sorry, I—’
‘Oy! Get away from him!’ Docherty was sprinting over the tarmac towards them. He grabbed Fenchurch’s arm and pulled him away from Pratt. ‘William, get the hell out of here.’
Pratt slunk off. Fenchurch wanted to grab him and pull him back for more questions.
Docherty waved a hand at Reed. ‘You too, Sergeant!’
Fenchurch watched her follow Pratt, then switched to Docherty. ‘Guv, I need to—’
‘Shut it!’ Docherty shook him like he was a misbehaving child. ‘Do you honestly think I’ll let you investigate a case where your father is the prime suspect? Eh?’ Another shake. ‘It’s not even “Ooh, he might get off with a decent lawyer.” You caught him red-handed!’
Fenchurch broke free of him and stepped back, getting away from the coffee breath. The squad car finally powered off, Dad slouched over in the back seat.
Looks every inch the guilty party.
Maybe he did do it. His brain crumbling with all the pressure he put himself under. What didn’t help anyone was ambiguity. Confusion. Uncertainty.
‘If he killed him, boss, I don’t get it.’
‘Aye, neither do I.’ Docherty walked him away from the queue of SOCOs heading into the building. ‘But you need to get your arse out of here, okay? I’m not warning you, I’m telling you. Your old man’s gone all Wild West here, and you need to distance yourself from it if you still want a career after the dust settles.’
‘You can’t expect me—’
‘I expect you to act like a professional.’ Docherty jabbed a finger into Fenchurch’s chest. It actually hurt. ‘Like a professional. I know you have difficulty with authority at times, but you need to back off, okay? Keep a million miles away from this.’
Fenchurch stuck his hands on his hips. ‘Or what?’
‘What?’ Docherty’s eyes inflated like air balloons. ‘Or I’ll send you out to Adrian Farrell in Middlesex. He’s down a DI.’
‘Let me think on that . . .’
‘Like you’ve got a choice.’ Docherty winked at Temple as he strolled over. ‘DI Mulholland is investigating this case for me, okay?’
Not her. Anyone but her . . .
‘Boss, look, it’s possible he didn’t do this.’
‘What?’ Docherty screwed his face up. ‘You honestly—’
‘Guys, guys.’ Temple got between them, smiling at Fenchurch, then at Docherty. ‘Al, do you want to give us a minute?’
Docherty stared hard at Fenchurch, his nostrils flaring. Then he nodded with a final snort. ‘I’d better inspect the disaster zone, I suppose.’ He wandered over to Frank’s Cabs, shaking his head.
Temple exhaled slowly, watching him go, then he attached a smile to Fenchurch. ‘Simon, I’m really sorry about this.’
‘Paul, you need to help me.’
Temple’s mouth seemed undecided on whether it should smile or grimace, twitching between the two. ‘The Director of Public Prosecutions just called me. Told me to work with the IPCC and the Met’s Professional Standards.’ He settled for the grimace. ‘Unfortunately, we have to prosecute your father. A serving officer going all vigilante isn’t good for anyone. Worst case, it’ll undermine faith in the criminal justice system and cause more riots.’
Fenchurch slumped back against a wall, knocking off a chunk of roughcast. ‘You’re talking shit.’
‘Am I? Simon, your father’s been carrying out clandestine investigations on Met time for years. We’ve turned a blind eye to it, because of your situation, but this has to stop.’
‘Dad’s put away hundreds of stabbings over his career. If he killed Blunden, why was he still there?’ Fenchurch dug the heels of his hands into his eyeballs, trying to drive some pain into his skull. ‘Why didn’t he run off?’
‘Because your father’s off his face.’ Temple walked away, shaking his head. ‘You of all people should know how irrational drunk people are.’
‘What’s that supposed to bloody mean?’
‘It means all those times you called Abi up out of the blue when you were off your tits, Simon.’ Temple spun round on his heels. ‘You think that was easy for her? Listening to you dribbling down the line, swearing, talking nonsense?’
Fenchurch swallowed. ‘I can’t believe she told you.’
‘What do you expect, you idiot? We’re best friends. Who do you think she talked to? Kay’s too close to you.’ Temple looked him up and down, sneering like a public-school headmaster. ‘You’re lucky she didn’t report you.’
Fenchurch watched him go, his heart thudding even harder, drums pounding like they were being hit with mallets.
Good to know who your friends are . . .
Speak of the devil.
DI Dawn Mulholland appeared under the overhanging building, tightening her black scarf to reveal just enough skin to show it hadn’t had a chance to burn in the sun yet. She was pouting like the cat who’d broken into the dairy and found the cream. ‘Simon. There you are. I need to take your statement now.’
‘Now’s not a good—’
Fenchurch’s phone blasted out ‘Kashmir’. Zenna Abercrombie.
Mulholland raised an eyebrow.
Which was the lesser evil?
Fenchurch sat on the wrong side of the table in the interview room. So this is how it feels.
Opposite, Mulholland and Nelson pouted and grinned. Interviewing him when . . .
When what?
When his old man had killed a known underworld ganglord?
When his old man had killed the racist scumbag who ran black prostitutes because he didn’t want white girls out on the streets?
When his old man had killed the scumbag who used his cabs as a front for God knows what. Drugs, off-street prostitution . . .
Couldn’t really blame his target, but . . . why? Why do it now? What the hell was going through his mind? Other than whisky.
Maybe he did do it. Maybe he just snapped and decided to take Blunden’s death away from cancer’s icy grip. Ten minutes bleeding to death versus six months rotting away, the morphine masking the pain until it ate him whole. Six months of putting his affairs in order, ensuring the misery he’d inflicted on east London kept on into the next generation.
‘—your father?’ Nelson’s eyebrows were standing to attention. ‘Guv?’
‘Sorry, I was miles away.’ Fenchurch rested his elbows on the table and rubbed his hands together. ‘What was the question?’
‘I asked you what your father said when—?’
‘I’m not giving you the story backwards.’ Fenchurch waited until Nelson looked away. ‘You’ve got your statement. Happy to spell out anything you don’t get, but you’re not interrogating me, okay?’
Mulholland looked up from her notebook, pouting. ‘Simon, I do need to clarify a few points.’
‘Then send me the rough draft and I’ll fix anything either of you have failed to capture correctly.’
Mulholland ran her tongue round her lips, slowly. She tightened her scarf. ‘Very well, I shall arrange for a paper copy. Mark that up, please.’
Fenchurch held her gaze. ‘I’d just like to speak to my father.’
‘That’s not going to happen.’ Mulholland gave him a wide smile. ‘Given the state he’s in, the duty doctor tells me his blood-alcohol level is consistent with drinking half a bottle of whisky.’
Jesus, Dad. Fenchurch deflated as he tumbled back into his seat. He cleared his throat. ‘Have you got the shooter yet?’
Mulholland was standing by the door now, like she’d just transported
there. ‘Excuse me?’
‘The whole reason we went round was to find out who Blunden had sent to shoot Cassie McBride. Have you got someone going through the records to find out who was driving the Mercedes?’
‘We’ll arrange for that.’ Mulholland opened the door and let Nelson out first. She gave Fenchurch an icy smile. ‘I’m truly sorry about this, Simon, but I am just doing my job.’
Like hell you are. You’re enjoying every second of this.
Fenchurch waited for them to leave him alone. He sat there, like some chav from the arse end of Hackney who’d stabbed a mate in the pub for a dare.
Treating him like a criminal. Like he’d stuck the knife into Blunden himself. Like he was the one dribbling in a cell, shouting, ‘Sex!’
What was up with that, anyway?
Maybe Dad has finally cracked, his mind crumbling after too much stress, too much booze, too much life. All the work he was doing looking for Chloe . . .
Fenchurch fished his phone out of his pocket and hit dial.
‘Simon?’ Sounded like Abi was out and about. ‘What’s up?’
‘I just don’t know, Abi.’ Fenchurch pulled up on the street, Maida Vale sprawling around them, the long row of magnolia-painted Georgian terraces disrupted by a sixties block replacing a wartime bombsite. ‘What makes it harder is I just don’t know what he was up to.’
A deep frown creased Abi’s forehead. ‘Did you put him up to it?’
‘What? Of course I bloody didn’t.’ He hit the steering wheel. ‘How can you think that?’
‘Sorry. I don’t know what I’m saying. This is a shock.’ She reached over to play with the hair on the back of his neck. ‘Could you have said anything that sparked off one of his flights of fancy?’
‘Chance’d be a fine thing. He wasn’t answering my calls after he stormed off last night.’ Fenchurch switched off the engine and nudged his door open. ‘He’s not mentioned anything to you?’
‘I try to have as little to do with him as possible.’
‘Right.’ Fenchurch got out onto the pavement, his whole soul feeling emptied. The sun beat down on his neck, fresh grass cuttings hit his nose. ‘How do you even begin to think about this?’
‘In tiny steps. Come on.’ Abi grabbed his hand and led him across the road and up the path. She rang the bell and leaned over to peck his cheek. ‘Be strong.’