by Ed James
‘Keep him alive, Jon!’ Fenchurch sprang forward and raced over to the building.
‘Forensics, guv!’
Bugger forensics.
Fenchurch clomped over the floor, snapping on a pair of gloves as he thumped down the stairs, Reed’s footsteps behind him, heels digging into the wood. He burst out into a corridor stretching another thirty metres or so, lined with mirrored doors like a really long changing room. ‘Where’s the bathroom, Kay?’
‘I don’t know.’ Reed tried a door. A six-foot bed lay in the middle of a small room, clean black sheets and duvet covered with a thin layer of dust. ‘Oh, Jesus Christ. What is this place?’
Fenchurch tried the next door. Black toilet and basin, a shower in the corner. Like something in a Wall Street film. ‘Well, here’s the bathroom . . .’
The light in the corridor was poor. Fenchurch squinted. The walls were painted grey, radiators in the same colour every few doors.
Wait, what’s that?
Fenchurch crouched down and scrabbled away at the wall behind a radiator, about halfway between the two rooms. He got out his phone and switched the torch on, shining it down the back. A panel wedged next to the metal brackets. He flicked at it with his baton. The front tumbled to the floor, along with some bits of plastic. ‘What the hell’s that?’
Reed reached down beneath the radiator and picked them up. ‘SD cards, guv.’
‘Shit. We need to get Mick Clooney out—’
‘Just a sec, guv.’ Reed fiddled with the back of her mobile and stuck the first card in. The screen lit up her face. ‘There’s a lot of files on here.’ She tapped at the screen, then held it up side-on so they could both see. ‘Video files, guv.’
Looked like the room they’d just been in. Still footage, like it was on a tripod. A girl lay on the bed, eyes closed, legs wide. Naked. She couldn’t have been any more than eight or nine. A man thrust away at her, greying hair on his muscled torso, his head just out of sight.
Fenchurch covered his mouth as sick climbed up from his gut. ‘Jesus Christ . . .’
Reed slid the footage further on, the pace ramped up and harder. The man’s head rolled forward.
‘Pause it!’ Fenchurch snatched the phone from Reed and stabbed at the screen. The image froze, the man mid-thrust at the child, his face in the shot a mixture of ecstasy and pain.
Gerald Ogden.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Fenchurch stood on Austin Friars, the City lane Sunday quiet. Not a soul around, not even a banker or lawyer earning a few extra quid. The Ogden & Makepeace sign still glowed in the shaft of morning sun crawling down the lane. He held up his Airwave. ‘Fenchurch to Nelson. Any movement at his house?’
‘Receiving, guv. There are people living here, right?’
Fenchurch groaned. ‘I’m taking that as a negative.’ He put the Airwave down.
Which means Ogden’s here.
Or he’s disappeared.
Half a million quid and he’s off to Connolly’s hot and cheap place, new identity.
Reed wandered over, sipping from a Pret tea. ‘What’s the plan?’
‘We wait on Clarke. It’s his patch.’
‘Guv.’
A silver Audi pulled up and DI Clarke got out, his tan looking fake in the bright morning. ‘We meet again.’
‘You want to lead in here?’ Fenchurch shook his hand. ‘It’s your patch, after all.’
‘Let’s not get into that sort of rubbish.’ Clarke stuck a hand on his shoulder. ‘I can’t imagine what you’re going through.’
Fenchurch brushed his hand away. ‘Forget it.’
‘I’m here to support, okay?’ Clarke pulsed his grip, an earnest grin spreading across his face. He put his hands in his pockets. ‘So what’s the plan?’
‘We’ve got him surrounded.’ Fenchurch looked around the area. ‘Four officers over here. Two round the back on Old Broad Street. Squad cars on Bishopsgate and Moorgate.’
‘Should be enough.’ Clarke flashed a grin. ‘Failing that, we could instigate the ring of steel.’
‘That’s overkill.’
‘What you talking about?’ Reed sipped her tea, eyes like piss holes in the snow. ‘Ring of what?’
‘DI Clarke’s lot can lock the City down, if they want. Stop anyone getting in or out.’ Fenchurch spoke into the Airwave again. ‘Serial Bravo, are you in position?’
‘Sir, Old Broad Street is secured.’
‘All units in Austin Friars. We are going in now.’ Fenchurch let Reed go first.
She put her empty cup on a squad car’s roof and marched down the ancient street, past the praying monk and round the bend. Over in the courtyard, a group of workers stood on steps, sucking on cigarettes, breaking off eye contact as soon as it was made.
Reed thumped on the front door and clenched her jaw. ‘Those videos . . . First gig I had as a DC, we raided this paedo’s house out in Southend. His computer was full of that sort of shit. Hundreds of thousands of pictures, thousands of videos. Would’ve taken him a hundred years to look through them all, let alone . . . you know.’ She gave a wanker gesture. ‘None of them with him in it, mind.’
‘You had to look through them, right?’
‘Standard procedure. Twenty of us spent twelve weeks, guv. These people. I swear . . .’
‘You’re after me in the queue, okay?’
The door flew open. Gerald Ogden stood there, dressed like he was running a start-up — jeans, brogues and a shirt under a jumper. A frown twitched across his forehead. ‘Officers . . . What are you doing here on a Sunday?’
‘I was going to ask you the same thing.’ Reed raised her warrant card and stepped inside the building. ‘My name is Detective Sergeant Kay Reed of the Metropolitan Police Service. Gerald Ogden, I request your presence at a police station to answer some questions—’
‘What? This isn’t about Victoria’s body?’ Ogden’s gaze strayed over to Fenchurch. ‘What the hell’s going on?’
Reed grabbed his forearm. ‘Down the station, sir.’
‘I want my lawyer!’ Ogden’s shoulders slouched and he let Reed lead him off. He stopped at the door. ‘Look, I’m the only one here. I need to lock up.’
‘On you go, sir.’
Ogden stepped over to the door and reached in, rustling a set of keys.
The officers were still in place down the street. Fenchurch beckoned them over.
‘Shit!’ Reed shouted.
The door was shut and Ogden missing. Reed was hauling at the handle. It didn’t budge. ‘He got in and closed the door, guv.’
‘Bollocks!’ Fenchurch spun back round.
‘That backs onto Old Broad Street?’ Clarke pointed the way they’d come. ‘Follow me!’
Fenchurch set off, keeping pace with Clarke as he hopped up onto the pavement, and screamed into his Airwave, ‘Serial Bravo, we have lost the suspect! Rendezvous on Old Broad Street! Over!’
Clarke raced ahead of him, his stride at least half as long again. ‘Left at the end.’
Fenchurch swung out onto Old Broad Street and turned towards the heart of the City, passing an almost-empty Tesco Express and a vacant new-build office block.
A revolving door spun slowly to a halt. Clarke stood next to it, wheeling around. ‘He’s come this way . . .’
Two red-faced uniforms jogged up, holding their hats flat to their skulls. ‘Sorry, sir, we were up the other end.’
Fenchurch gripped the Airwave. ‘Control, send a unit into the entrance two on from the Tesco Express on Old Broad Street. Urgently.’
‘Will do.’
Fenchurch put the handset away. Clarke was jogging down the street, the uniforms following.
Ogden can’t have gone the way they’d come. So where was he?
A tall tower climbed into the sky over the road, reflecting the dark clouds. Didn’t even know which bloody one it was, there were so many now. A couple were arguing, the woman jabbing a finger at the man. Just behind, a figure was darting down a lan
e.
‘Got him!’ Fenchurch burst off, sprinting hard, shouting into his Airwave, ‘He’s gone down the lane opposite my last location!’ He followed the lane’s curve round to a crossroads, the path heading onwards.
Which way now?
Fenchurch looked down the other lane running from Old Broad Street. Empty. Footsteps pounded behind him, heading the other way.
Fenchurch spun round and took Ogden’s only path, bursting out onto Bishopsgate, thick with taxis and buses. Roadworks, old buildings and new skyscrapers.
Left, right or straight on?
There! Ogden was getting into a cab, just a few metres away.
Fenchurch sprinted over and grabbed the door. He pulled it open and reached a hand in, grabbing Ogden’s cheek. Got a kick in the shin. He grasped at Ogden’s throat and hauled him out of the cab, throwing him down onto the pavement. ‘You filthy animal! You’re nicked—’
A boot up the arse sent Fenchurch flying, tumbling over Ogden. Pain burned through his knees as they clunked onto the slabs. Fenchurch swung round, fingers reaching for Ogden. He caught fresh air.
Ogden was up and away, running north towards Shoreditch.
Fenchurch got up.
An angry cabbie blocked his path. ‘What the hell are you—’
‘I’m police!’
The taxi driver spat in his face. ‘Dirty scum bastard!’
Fenchurch barged him out of the way and ran off after Ogden. ‘All units, I’m on Bishopsgate, following the suspect towards Shoreditch.’ He wiped his cheek mostly free of second-hand saliva. ‘Can any units in the vicinity please arrest the cab driver with his door open?’
Up ahead, Ogden was cutting across diagonally, heading for the base of the Heron tower, the bulbous mass of the Gherkin reflected in the glass.
Fenchurch crossed early at the black 100 Bishopsgate hoardings, still no sign of the tower breaking ground level yet.
If Ogden was staying on Bishopsgate, where the hell was he going? The pavement opened out on the left, a few people bursting out of Liverpool Street station.
Shit.
Fenchurch gasped into his Airwave, ‘Suspect is heading for Liverpool Street. All units.’
‘Want us to follow or take this cabbie back, guv?’ Reed, out of breath.
‘Take him to the station, Kay. If there’s any cars, the suspect is on foot. He’s just passed the Heron tower now.’ Fenchurch crossed the road and cut along the shadow of the tower block, sprinting past the square pillars.
Ogden snaked to the left, just out of eyesight.
The Airwave crackled. ‘Guv, we’re in a squad car, heading to your location.’ Reed again.
‘Good.’ Fenchurch sped up, taking the slight left incline and barrelling on.
Shit. No sign of Ogden.
He stopped opposite Liverpool Street, the escalators whirring and spitting out the underground’s sweet-sweat smell. Maybe he’d taken the back entrance into the station. Fenchurch crouched low and peered in. Just a stag party weaving their way out, a dwarf handcuffed to a man dressed as Snow White.
Ahead, Bishopsgate opened out, a raised pavement to the left of it. No sign of him. Which meant . . .
Fenchurch turned right. Devonshire Row crept away, a narrow lane between two old blocks.
‘—you friggin’ maniac!’ an Australian voice cannoned out.
Fenchurch crossed the road and sprinted down the street, his feet clacking off the double yellows marked onto the cobbles.
A squat man with a rugby-playing physique stood in the lane, glaring behind him.
Fenchurch caught his attention, huffing in breath. ‘Police. Did a man in his fifties come this way?’
‘Just about pushed me over, mate.’ The Aussie thumbed further down the lane. ‘Headed that way.’
Fenchurch set off again, his legs like concrete.
Ogden squeezed past some Japanese tourists, sending a huge camera and its owner tumbling over with a smash.
Fenchurch sprinted over and burst out into Devonshire Square, four sides of brick buildings with a road in on the far side. Old mills or something, now turned into organic cafés.
An engine thrummed behind a latticework of trees, their leaves obscuring the view.
Fenchurch clambered through just in time to see Ogden getting into a Range Rover. The car shot off out of the square. He screamed into his Airwave, ‘Suspect’s in a car leaving Devonshire Square!’
‘Get down to Cutler Street, guv! We’ll pick you up there!’
‘I’m dead on my feet, Kay.’
‘Wait, we’ve got—’ CRASH. ‘Guv—’
Fenchurch set off again, the fire in his legs climbing up his hips and back. His kneecap felt like it’d fallen off. He hobbled past a long row of pleached trees, their branches flattened out. The brick mills and seventies office blocks merged into the last ungentrified area in the City. Blue lights flashed at the base of a primeval tower hugging a newer Travelodge.
Fenchurch found another inch of energy and raced over.
The front of the Range Rover was mangled into a silver Passat, which hadn’t taken too much of a battering.
Reed got out of the Passat, rubbing at her head, her hair matted with blood. She leaned against the side of the car, like she was going to topple over at any minute. She blinked at Fenchurch. ‘Ambulance is on its way, guv.’
‘Stay there, okay?’
A squad Mondeo pulled up, light dancing, and two burly officers tore out. Fenchurch joined them by the Range Rover. The driver was unmoving, his head stuck to the steering wheel. The nearest officer felt for a pulse and gave Fenchurch a shake of the head.
Fenchurch opened the back door.
Ogden’s head between his knees, his chest heaving.
Fenchurch grabbed his right arm and hauled him out of the car. He pushed him face down on the tarmac and got out his cuffs. ‘Where’s my wife?’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about!’
Fenchurch waved at the second officer to cuff Ogden. The back seat was empty. He reached into the driver’s side and snatched the keys, then hobbled round and unlocked the boot, thunking it open.
Empty.
Bloody hell.
Fenchurch called Clarke. ‘Have you been through the office yet?’
‘Two employees here, that’s it. They say they were working with Ogden and he just ran off.’
‘Cheers.’ Fenchurch dialled Nelson’s number. ‘Have you found her?’
‘We’ve been through the whole house, guv. Completely spotless. Not even a hidden panic room.’
‘. . . that you’ve found.’ Fenchurch pocketed the device and grabbed Ogden by his shirt, hauling him to his feet. Another squad car pulled up and spilled out two officers. ‘Get him back to Leman Street, now.’
‘Sir.’ The first one stuck Ogden in the back, behind the driver’s seat.
Fenchurch got in next to Ogden. ‘You’re going to help me find my wife, okay?’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘You’ll be singing by the time I’m finished with you, you dirty pervert.’
The front doors shut and Fenchurch whizzed on his seat belt. The car shot forward and bundled along the side street. They pulled up at the end, indicating right. The car turned onto Middlesex Street. Could just about see the station from here.
Two white vans were coming down the opposite street, the front one not looking like it was going to stop.
Fenchurch grabbed the door handle. ‘Shiiiit!’
CRASH.
The van battered into the side of the car, sending Fenchurch flying, the seat belt digging into his shoulder.
The van’s driver got out and opened Ogden’s door. He helped him towards the second van. Ogden tripped halfway over. The masked driver pulled him to his feet.
Fenchurch tried to move but the seat-belt mechanism was locked. The door was bent in on itself.
The driver tore open the second van’s side door. A foot lashed out, crack
ing into his chest. He grabbed the leg and pulled someone out.
Abi, wriggling and kicking.
Fenchurch pushed against the mangled door, broken fists cracking off the glass. Still not shifting.
The driver pulled out a gun and pointed it at Abi. She raised her hands and got back into the van. Ogden and the driver followed her inside and it screeched off.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Hold still!’ The paramedic reached across from the far side and cut away at the seat belt with some brutal scissors. ‘These aren’t designed for this sort of work.’
Snip. Fenchurch struggled to stay still. Snip. Snip. He hauled at the seat belt and pulled the top half through the catch, slackening it off and squeezing out. He followed the paramedic onto the pavement and leaned against the squad car, as battered and broken as he felt. His body screamed like he’d been in a car crash.
Oh.
Back down the street, another paramedic tended to Reed. An Audi pulled in between them.
‘Si?’ Docherty got out and jogged over. ‘Jesus, are you okay?’
Fenchurch looked down at his clothes. Didn’t look too bad. He put a hand to his face. Covered in blood. ‘I almost had her, boss!’
‘Abi?’
‘She was in that van. Ogden’s lot have definitely got her!’
Docherty got out his Airwave. ‘Jason? It’s Alan Docherty. I need an urgent feed of CCTV from the corner of Middlesex Street and . . .’ He swung round. ‘Cobb Street.’ He shook his head. ‘For the whole city, you tube! And now! No, not to him!’ He killed the call. ‘Swear that fat bastard gets worse.’
Down Middlesex Street, the tall Bank of America building drowned out the surrounding council blocks.
‘I almost had her, boss . . . That bloody seat belt . . .’
‘That seat belt saved your life, you tit.’ Docherty grabbed his arm. ‘Let’s get you patched up back at the ranch, okay?’
My jaw shouldn’t click like that . . .
Fenchurch rested against the back of the chair in the Leman Street CCTV suite. His thighs and calves burned, his skin aching where the stitches pierced it. ‘Is Bell still playing silly beggars?’
‘No, guv. Here we go.’ Reed pulled up the footage on the giant screen, a greyscale rendering of the quiet City back street. She paused it and drew a box around the licence plate on the van that drove off. ‘I can run this against the Auto Number Plate Recognition system.’