by Ed James
‘Protection from who? Who did you prosecute?’
Savage’s upper lip trembled.
Fenchurch gripped his arm. ‘You had suspects, right?’
‘Oh, we’ve had a couple. Problem is, they just disappeared.’ Savage clicked his fingers in the air. ‘Poof, like that. They’re either dead or hidden away somewhere.’
‘I hope you strung up the car’s owner.’
‘Paul Temple and I prosecuted the driver of the taxi Cassie and Rebecca were in.’ Savage sighed. ‘But, as is so often the case, he didn’t give up his accomplices. He got out of Belmarsh last year and moved to Greece. We couldn’t link the money he retired on to anything illegal. Neither girl knew where they’d been kept. We never found the place.’
‘And Blunden’s lot were behind this?’
‘We didn’t know it was him.’
‘Jesus.’ Fenchurch rubbed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. Wanted to squash his brain. ‘That’s what Chloe went through?’
‘If it’s any consolation, given the timelines, it appears she didn’t suffer the same . . . abuse the other girls did. Cassie and Rebecca . . . well, you couldn’t touch them without getting your eyes gouged out.’
‘Thought they were drugging them while they . . . ?’
‘Of course, but they told them their parents were dead and kept them hidden in a dungeon. They’d been in there a year, and they must’ve finished with them.’
‘So why shoot her, Howard? Why now?’
‘Someone must’ve spotted her. Wanted to close the door.’ Savage bared his teeth. ‘You know what these people are like. They treat these children like sex toys. Discard them when they’re done with them. They needed to close the door in case it ever opened again.’
Fenchurch dug his hands into his skull again. ‘We need to find these people, Howard.’
‘And I’m doing my best, Simon.’ Savage jerked his head around. ‘It’s not all bad news. We picked up another girl in March. Same circumstances as Cassie. We found her parents and reunited them.’
‘But you didn’t find these bastards?’ Fenchurch clenched his fists, the acid burning at his gut again, and he got in Savage’s face. ‘You’re nowhere near finding them, are you?’
‘Not nowhere, just . . .’ Savage smoothed his bald head, like his comb-over was still there. ‘That man in there, he’s our great hope. The first we’ve had in years. We’ve got access to the Fresh Start database, thanks to you. We will close in on them.’
‘Let me help. I want to do my job.’
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t let you get in the way of a prosecution on this scale.’ Savage patted Fenchurch’s arm. ‘There are other parents out there who’ve suffered the trauma you and Abigail have. But you need to be with her.’
Dorchester slept around the dark graveyard. Not even the thud of a nearby club or the reek of smoke from a taxi rank. Yew trees sucked in the glow of the street lights, leaving a thin shaft of light creeping over from the church’s uplighters to illuminate a handful of graves.
Fenchurch ran his fingers across ‘Chloe Geraldine Fenchurch’, the words etched into a plain grey stone, worn by almost eleven years of English weather. ‘We should get the name changed. Christ.’
Abi got up from her crouch and tossed the petrol-station flowers on the grass in front. She ran her hand over the stone. ‘My daughter deserves better than these.’
‘She’ll get the best, love.’ Fenchurch kissed her cheek. ‘The very best.’
Fenchurch sipped at the Rioja, smooth and clean. Barely tasted of anything. He stared out of the kitchen window, his hip still burning from the long drive back. Red Bull still battered his guts, throbbed in his brain. He sat at the table and reached over to grasp Abi’s hand. ‘How you doing?’
‘I’m okay. I think.’ She blew on her peppermint tea and took a dainty sip. ‘It’s over. All those years, Simon. All that time.’ She tightened her grip on his hand.
‘It’s all . . .’ Fenchurch let the tears on his cheeks sit there. ‘All that time, she was in bloody Dorchester. Dorchester.’
‘We know what happened to her, Simon. It sounds like she was happy in her . . . her final few days.’
‘She should’ve been here, Abi. Should’ve been playing with her friends. Going to your school, being embarrassed to have her mum as a teacher. She should’ve . . .’ Fenchurch broke off and gulped wine like it’d dowse the flame in his guts. ‘Howard said they’re still doing it, Ab. These people. They’re still out there, taking kids. People like us are still suffering.’
‘Simon, you need to let this go.’
Fenchurch drank again, starting to taste the dark wine. Starting to dowse the fire. He wiped a droplet threading its way down the side of the glass. ‘How could they not know?’
‘They didn’t, Simon. They lost a daughter.’ She held his hand. ‘After that, they just wanted to move on. It sounds like it was hell for them getting through the adoption process . . . We’ve been through what they went through without getting anything in return.’
‘They shouldn’t have done it with someone else’s kid.’
‘Simon.’
‘Come on, love. They’re as much to blame as the barbarians who took her.’
‘They’re not. After we lost Chloe, I thought about us adopting.’ She gripped his hand tight. ‘You wouldn’t speak, so . . . We were in their situation. If someone had given me the chance with someone else . . . Look, I don’t blame them.’
Fenchurch had a big gulp of wine, draining his glass. He got up and kissed her on the forehead. Then patted her stomach. ‘We’ve got that chance now.’
Day 4
Day Shift
Sunday, 12th June 2016
Chapter Thirty-Three
Fenchurch picked up Chloe and put her on the bench. ‘There you go, petal . . .’ He sat next to her and opened a bag of sweets, offering them to her. ‘Your favourites.’
She grinned at him, her cheek dimpling. ‘I’ll not tell Mummy.’
Fenchurch stroked a hand through her hair. ‘Good girl.’ He took a wine gum from the packet.
‘They’re mine, Daddy!’
‘Sorry, love. Can’t I just have one?’
‘Maybe one . . .’ She wagged a finger at him, like a referee admonishing a naughty player. ‘But that’s it.’
Fenchurch popped the wine gum in his mouth and chewed, the sweet sticking to his teeth. Lovely. He sat back on the bench and wrapped his arm around his daughter, like she’d be there forever.
Some rotting Victorian buildings surrounded the open park on one side, sixties towers on the other. Bit of a disappointment, but then most inner-city parks were. A group of black kids played basketball, spinning and swivelling like they were on their way to the NBA.
Fenchurch waved over at them. ‘You know what that is, pet?’
‘Basketball, Daddy. Mylo did his show-and-tell on it last week.’
Show-and-tell? Bloody Americanisation . . .
Fenchurch clasped her tiny hand in his lumps of meat. ‘What did I ask you to remember?’
‘Our phone number?’ Chloe’s cheek dimpled. ‘Can I get another sweetie if I get it right?’
‘I think that’s fair enough.’ Fenchurch tightened his grip on her hands, like it would keep her with him. Like it would stop what’s going to happen. Tears streamed down his face, dripping onto the tarmac at his feet like a heavy nosebleed.
‘Daddy? What’s up?’ Chloe’s smooth forehead puckered in the middle. ‘Are you okay?’
‘You knew our number, Chloe.’ Fenchurch rubbed at his eyes, but he couldn’t stop the tears. ‘Why didn’t you call?’
‘Daddy . . . That’s sore.’
Fenchurch let go and sucked in deep breaths. Couldn’t smell her, couldn’t . . . ‘Chloe, you knew our number, I made you recite it all the time. Why didn’t you call?’
‘They said that you, Mummy, Grandpa and Granny were all dead.’ Chloe’s face collapsed in on itself, her eyes closing as he
r lips quivered. ‘I didn’t have Mumpy and Grumpy’s number.’
Pain lanced Fenchurch’s chest. Mumpy and Grumpy . . . Abi’s bloody parents. How could I forget that?
‘Why didn’t you just call?’
‘Maybe they didn’t let me near the phone, Daddy. Did you ever think of that?’
The basketballers hit their moves on the court, a white kid slaloming through the tight defence. His slam dunk was about a foot short, barely touching the swaying tendrils of the net.
‘Here they are!’ Dad dumped himself in the seat next to Chloe and grabbed her cheek between thumb and forefinger. ‘How’s my favourite girl?’
‘Grandad!’ Chloe squealed. She hugged Dad tight, nestling into his chest. Then she peeked out. ‘If I’m your favourite girl, you better not tell Auntie Rosie.’
‘I’ll tell her what I like, sweetheart. You’re my favourite.’ Dad winked at Fenchurch. ‘Your mother’s on her way over, son. How’s my boy?’
‘I’m fine, Dad. For once.’ Fenchurch floated up off the bench, a good inch between his trousers and the wood. ‘It’s over.’
‘What is?’
Fenchurch reached over and hefted Chloe up onto his lap, tears streaming down his cheeks. She didn’t weigh anything. He kept floating in mid-air. ‘I know what happened to her.’
‘Is it really over, though?’ Dad blew out a kiss at Chloe. ‘I’ll be in court tomorrow morning. Stabbing Flick Knife . . . What was I thinking?’
Over at the basketball court, one of the kids broke off on his own and jumped on a racer. Fenchurch glanced away, and when he looked back it had turned into a Volvo.
A man sat behind the wheel, face in shadow, his evil eyes trained on Chloe. ‘Hey, little girl, do you want some sweets from me?’
‘Go away, you stinky idiot!’ Chloe snatched the bag off Fenchurch and raised it up, shaking it in the air. ‘My Daddy already gave me some!’
Fenchurch got up and shooed him away. ‘It’s over.’
‘We’ve won, Fenchurch . . . Your old man’s still inside.’ The car sped off across the grass.
Fenchurch looked over at his dad. ‘I’ll get you out of there.’
‘Thanks, boy.’ Dad ruffled Chloe’s hair, just like he’d done. ‘Your mother says she’ll look after Chloe for us, okay?’
‘Thanks.’ Fenchurch lifted Chloe up in the air, making her squeal. ‘Tell Granny that I miss her and I’m sorry I didn’t get to say good—’
‘. . . single by Richard Ashcroft. A real return to form, that record.’ The DJ cut back to the music, a thumping disco beat and strings. ‘Anyway, it’s coming up to six o’clock and here’s the news and sport with Jitinder.’
Fenchurch reached over to the clock radio, his hand hovering over the sleep button. Just give it a few seconds.
‘Trouble between English and Russian fans erupted in Marseilles last night following the last-minute equaliser by Russia in the one-all draw in the teams’ opening match of Euro 2016. UEFA have opened disciplinary proceedings against—’
He stabbed the button, killing the sound.
Bloody idiots. A little drop of foreign beer and you start smashing the place up.
He lay back on the bed, the matt flatness of the ceiling above. His back had straightened out after the drive back from Dorchester, each vertebra back in the right place. Just about. Then he let his eyes shut again.
Peace.
Relief.
It’s over.
So why does it still sting?
Dad . . . Rotting in the cell in Leman Street, waiting for his day in court. Not a chance he’ll get bail, with what he’s supposed to have done.
CRASH.
Fenchurch opened his eyes, head thumping, the daylight burning through the curtains.
What the hell was that?
He put his foot down on the cool wooden floor, then eased himself over to the corner, avoiding the floorboard he’d spent an afternoon failing to fix. He hefted up the baseball bat and nudged the door open. The hall was empty. He stepped out and raised the bat to shoulder height.
THUD.
Nothing in the lounge. He crept over to the kitchen.
Abi was by the sink, sipping from a teacup, her lined eyes focusing on the past. Her left hand absently stroked her belly. She noticed him and stood, smiling. ‘Morning.’
‘Shit.’ Fenchurch lowered the bat and let out a breath. ‘It’s just you.’
Her smile swapped to a frown. ‘Who did you expect?’
‘I heard a crash and thought . . .’ Fenchurch shut his eyes. ‘I thought someone had broken in.’
‘I dropped a typewriter. It took one of those mugs with it.’ The typewriter looked even more damaged than before. She held up some cracked cream pottery, the weird bird-like creature sliced down the middle. ‘One of the ones we got in Scotland when we renewed our vows?’
‘I liked them.’ Fenchurch put the bat on the table and leaned over to kiss her. ‘You okay?’
‘I didn’t sleep at all last night.’ Fresh dark rings had puffed up around her eyes. She wiped the tears on her cheeks. ‘You were right to keep looking.’
Fenchurch clutched her hand. ‘Trying to make me stop was right. I should’ve grieved back then. You got it out of your system.’
‘If you hadn’t kept this up, we wouldn’t know what happened to her . . .’ She smeared the tears across her cheek. ‘You had something to cling to. I had nothing. Just pushing you away, being a selfish cow.’
‘You’re the least selfish person I know.’ Fenchurch crouched down to kiss her belly. ‘We’ve got something else to worry about now.’
‘Christ . . . How can we . . . ?’
‘Because we have to.’ Fenchurch brushed the fresh tears from her cheeks. ‘Listen, I think we need to get out of the house. How about we drive out to Greenwich and walk around the park, maybe get something to eat in one of them lovely pubs over there? Maybe get a boat along the Thames?’
Abi gave a half-hearted shrug.
Fenchurch’s shoulders fell. ‘I take it that’s a no?’
‘Simon, I just don’t know what I want.’
Fenchurch shut his eyes. ‘Look, I should tell Dad about Chloe.’ Disappointment leached off Abi’s tiny nod. ‘He’s spent as long as I have searching for her. He deserves to know.’
She pecked his cheek. ‘Go on, then.’
‘Then we’ll do something, okay?’
‘That’d be nice.’
‘I’ll pick up some breakfast on the way back.’
‘Did you see the match, guv?’ Steve sat behind his partition, the Leman Street entry area quiet as the grave, despite it being a Sunday morning. No sign yet of the exodus of drunks having slept it off. ‘Thought I was having a low-level heart attack throughout that match, I swear. And that was a right kick in the bollocks at the end.’ His lips pinched together. ‘I mean—’
‘Didn’t see it. Sorry.’ Fenchurch swiped his card through the reader. A red cross flashed up. He tried again. Red cross again. ‘Steve?’
‘Been doing that all morning. With that chump Martin letting that geezer die on his watch, that Abercrombie bird’s made me update the whole database.’
Fenchurch swiped his card again, really ramming it into the slot. ‘I should still be on the database.’
‘Yeah, you might just need a new card, though.’ The scanner hit green and Steve gave a thumbs-up. ‘There you are. I swear, Roy Hodgson still hasn’t got a—’
‘Cheers.’ Fenchurch pushed through the door and stomped down the corridor. He entered the stairwell and draped his lanyard around his neck.
Martin was in the entrance to the Custody Suite, looking like someone had dug him up from a shallow grave. The skin under his eyes had the texture of golf balls.
Daniel Connolly stood in front of the desk, head bowed. His giant body slumped, looked like he’d lost six inches.
Fenchurch kept his distance, just listening.
Martin spotted Fenchurch and held up a set of cuffs, the
metal clanking. ‘I am arresting you for the murder of Cassandra McBride. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?’
Connolly curled his lips, baring his savage teeth at Fenchurch. Eyes screwed tight, a purple ring around the left. His expression said, You betrayed me. I gave you that information and you’re letting me rot in here. He nodded at Martin. ‘I understand.’
Martin gripped his shoulder and led him through the Custody Suite towards the cells.
Fenchurch climbed the stairs, shaking his head.
Did I betray him? What he told me started me off on the track that led to the truth about Chloe. Still, you don’t shoot someone in cold blood and get away with it.
A voice bounced off the stark walls from above. Male, deep. Whisper-shouting. ‘—don’t think we should, but okay.’ Paul Temple was on the first-floor landing, speaking on the phone. ‘I’ll press for it.’ He ended the call and gave Fenchurch a kind smile. ‘Simon, I heard what happened. You okay?’
‘Just want to put it behind us, Paul.’ Fenchurch turned to the side, struggling to keep his voice steady and hide the tears. ‘You know how it is.’
‘I do, I do. Come here.’ Temple grabbed Fenchurch into a tight hug, arms wrapped round his waist. ‘I mean it, mate, I really can’t imagine what you’re going through.’
Fenchurch broke off and pointed back down the stairs. ‘I see you got your man?’
‘What?’
‘Daniel Connolly?’
‘Ah, right. Yes.’ Temple’s eyebrows danced up. ‘Well, DI Mulholland and I agree that Daniel Connolly is responsible for the murder of Cassie McBride on Friday evening. Thanks to your efforts bringing him into custody yesterday. Must’ve been tempting to keep him away from official channels?’
Fenchurch winked. ‘Don’t know what you mean.’ He flashed his eyebrows. ‘How’s it going with my—’
Temple put a finger to Fenchurch’s lips. ‘You know I can’t talk about your father’s case.’
‘So you’re on that full-time?’