by Ed James
‘Go for it.’
Reed motioned over the big screen, filled with a map, a crooked red line leading east from the City. ‘That line joins the ANPR hits we’ve got.’
‘Is that live?’
‘It is, but . . .’ Her forehead crumpled like the car. ‘Sorry, guv. The last hit is twenty minutes ago.’
Fenchurch slouched forward, his hands gripping the chair back. ‘So we’ve lost it in bloody Millwall.’ He sighed. ‘Okay, Kay. See what else you can dig up.’
An almighty din droned through the glass. The party’s already started. Fenchurch pushed into the meeting room, the door juddering open.
Docherty was hovering by the whiteboard, pen in hand. He put the cap back on and tossed it in the air. ‘Any update on the CCTV?’
Clarke fiddled with his mobile, lips pinched tight. Savage stood behind, fidgeting with his jacket buttons. The table was covered in papers and takeaway coffee cups.
Fenchurch sat next to Clarke. ‘We lost him at Millwall, boss.’
‘So we’ve just lost this dude?’ Docherty perched on the end chair, side on. ‘No idea who else was in the van?’
Fenchurch grimaced. ‘My wife.’
‘Right. Aye.’ Docherty picked up a cup and sipped through the lid. ‘Buggeration.’
Fenchurch narrowed his eyes at Docherty. ‘Have you been through Connolly’s mobile yet?’
‘It’s with Michael Clooney. Don’t worry.’ Docherty put his feet up on the table and waved his hand around the room, settling his finger on Savage. ‘Anyway, DCI Savage has been helping us go through the files you found.’
‘Why? I don’t think that’s the priority here.’
‘Si, just let him speak, okay?’
‘Inspector, you’ve unearthed something quite, quite barbaric.’ Savage flipped open a document. ‘This evidence confirms our belief that Mr Ogden’s in a fairly senior position in this group.’ He rifled through the pages. ‘These horrific photographs show him up to no good. Child abuse. Everything I’ve briefed you on over the last couple of days.’ He held up some stills from the cache of SD cards. ‘We have enough to put Ogden away for at least one life stretch, if Paul Temple does his job right. All those conspiracy charges, bribing police officers, that will only compound it.’
‘Howard, do you know where he is?’
Savage smoothed his non-existent comb-over. ‘Not as yet.’
‘But Ogden is the big daddy?’
‘We don’t believe Ogden’s at the pinnacle, no.’ Savage let his words resonate around the room as he unbuttoned his blazer. ‘This group are the worst London’s ever seen, the worst western Europe’s seen. They make Rochdale look like . . . Well, they’re very bad.’
‘If Ogden’s not in charge, then who is?’
For once, Savage was lost for words. He sat there, tugging at his wild eyebrows.
‘Howard, I’m not in the mood. Out with it or I swear I’ll knock your bloody block off.’ Fenchurch gritted his teeth. ‘These bastards have my wife and I’m done playing silly buggers.’
‘Howard’s right.’ Clarke got up and marched over to Fenchurch. ‘Ogden isn’t number one. We’ve had our eye on him in the City police. He’s high up, probably number two.’
‘So who’s number one? And where have they taken my wife?’
‘I’ve been through the footage.’ Clarke tossed some stills over to Fenchurch and Savage. ‘This is the guy we think is in charge. We’ve found similar images over the years, but his identity always remains hidden.’ He flipped through another set. ‘But we did get this.’
That same room, this time a different man with a black boy. The shot was from behind, showing a masked man wearing a towel around his hips, thrusting away. The next photo showed the towel slipping away.
With his finger, Clarke circled a large purple area that covered the small of the man’s back. ‘This is a somewhat distinct birthmark and it belongs to the man who we believe to be the leader of this gang.’
‘Who the hell is it?’
‘That’s the thing.’ Clarke shuffled his papers. ‘We just don’t know.’
Savage kept his gaze on the page. ‘But you’ve got supporting evidence?’
‘We’ve seen a few shots of this guy.’ Clarke rubbed his smooth chin. ‘Doesn’t match any known perpetrator on any UK or European databases. Whoever it is is very good at covering their tracks.’
‘So we need someone on the inside, correct?’ Savage dropped the photos onto the desk in front of Docherty. ‘Alan, when you were briefing me, you mentioned Daniel Connolly’s sudden change of heart. Would he do?’
‘You’re in the wrong place, Howard. He’s in King’s College Hospital.’
Savage’s eyes bulged. ‘What?’
‘He got shot.’ Docherty rifled through the photographs, his lip curling up the further he went. ‘Last I heard, it’s not looking good.’
‘Christ.’ Savage’s lips twitched. ‘Did you—’
‘It was a cop.’ Docherty threw the photos back at Clarke. ‘DC Clive Naismith.’
‘He’s working for them?’
Fenchurch nodded. ‘Whoever they are. We believe he shot another witness: Chris Johnson.’
Savage got to his feet. ‘I need to speak to him.’
‘I’m not saying anything.’ Naismith slouched back in his chair, his head covered in thick bandages. ‘I’ve been a DC for thirteen years. I know the rules. I know the games you’ll play.’ He burped into his hand. ‘How’s about I just see you in court and we save each other a lot of time and effort, yeah?’
Fenchurch was standing by the door. Acid burned his knees and backside. Felt like he needed a hip replacement. ‘You tried to beat up Daniel Connolly, didn’t you?’
‘Who?’
‘In his cell last night.’ Fenchurch flicked through a page of the entry log. ‘You were in the station at that time. We had another CCTV blackout.’
‘Whatever.’
Games, games, games. Time to play a different one.
Fenchurch tossed the paper file onto the desk and crouched next to Naismith. ‘You killed someone, Constable.’
‘Did I?’ Naismith glared at him. ‘You saw me shoot someone?’
‘I was there. You shot Daniel Connolly in cold blood. He’s fighting for his life just now.’ Fenchurch sat opposite Naismith, spinning the paper file round on the desk. ‘It’s only a matter of time before we match your gun, your clothes, your motorbike’s plates, anything you own, to the slaying of DC Chris Johnson last night in Hammersmith.’
‘No comment.’
‘That’s it?’ Fenchurch raised his eyebrows. ‘You shot two people from a moving vehicle and you don’t want to boast about it? That’s very skilful, that. Must take a lot of practice.’
‘I said, no comment.’
‘We know you’re small fry in this organisation.’ Fenchurch waited until he had eye contact. ‘Being a cop in prison won’t be much fun. It’ll be—’
Naismith smirked. ‘Weren’t you listening when I said I knew all about your tricks?’
‘I know you’re bent. You know you’re bent.’ Fenchurch stood and clicked his jaw again. Felt like a bloody tooth was going to pop out. ‘The best thing for you is to tell us who you were working for.’
‘No comment.’
‘Was it Gerald Ogden?’
Naismith looked up. ‘What? Who?’
‘So you were working for him?’
Eyes back down. ‘No comment.’
Got you, you idiot. Ogden’s your boss.
Fenchurch smiled at him. ‘We’ll dig into your relationship with Mr Ogden in due course. We’ll find the patterns. Now we know there’s a link, we’ll connect you to him.’
‘No comment.’
‘We’ve got a SOCO team combing that unit in Peckham.’ Fenchurch watched Naismith’s Adam’s apple bob up and down. ‘How much of your DNA will we find there? Or have you scrubbed the place?’
‘No comment.’
Fenchurch le
ft a few seconds, just long enough for Naismith to look up. ‘Can’t have done that good a job cleaning it, because we found a load of video files.’
Naismith dabbed at a cut on his forehead.
‘I’ve seen what they do to the children they take.’ Fenchurch swallowed the bile down, but it caught in his throat. Almost made him gag. ‘I’ve seen Gerald Ogden on video.’
Naismith’s eyes bulged. ‘What?’
‘If I keep searching, am I going to see you having sex with a child?’
‘What?’ Naismith pushed a fist against his lips and puffed out his cheeks. ‘Of course not . . . Christ . . .’
Fenchurch paced around the room, waiting for Naismith’s eyes to follow him round. ‘This gang kidnapped my daughter eleven years ago. They killed her. They might as well have been driving the bus.’
‘Did they?’ Naismith stayed focused on the table, smirking. His cheeks widened. ‘Who says they weren’t?’
Fenchurch stopped dead, his heart skipping a beat. He swallowed hard. ‘Tell us what you know.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘They’ve abducted my wife.’ Fenchurch let the words echo round the room. ‘Where have they taken her?’
‘That’s very careless of you. Letting them frame your father, then losing your wife . . .’ Naismith wagged his finger in the air. ‘Tut tut.’
‘We know it was you who killed Frank Blunden.’ Fenchurch snarled at him. ‘You framed my father for his murder.’
‘No comment.’
Back to that.
‘We’ve got a video file from Daniel Connolly.’
Naismith’s eyes bulged. ‘No. No comment.’
‘You killing Frank Blunden. Framing my father.’
‘I said, no comment.’
‘Did you take her?’
‘No.’
Savage cleared his throat and put a hand on Fenchurch’s back. ‘Constable, we’re prepared to offer you a deal in exchange for the testimony against Gerald Ogden and—’
‘Oh yeah?’ Naismith grinned. ‘What kind of thing? Reduce my sentence?’
‘I’ll eliminate all charges if you give us this man.’ Savage slid a photograph across the table. ‘You see this?’ He circled the birthmark. ‘Who is it?’
Naismith shut his eyes. ‘Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t tell you.’
‘Why?’
‘No comment.’
‘This is your only chance, Constable. You clearly know who is in the photo.’ Savage tapped the image again. ‘We can stop them.’
‘Can you?’ Naismith chewed his nail.
Savage reached over and spoke into the microphone. ‘Interview terminated at ten twenty-three a.m.’ He got up and led Fenchurch out into the corridor. ‘This whole police force is a nest of vipers.’ He waved the photo around in the air. ‘He knows who this is. That bent cop is covering for . . .’
‘Give me a second. Alone.’ Fenchurch grabbed the photo and pushed into the room, sitting next to Naismith. He waited until the door swung shut and it was just them. Naismith’s stale sweat overpowered the musty-room smell. ‘Didn’t fancy bringing a lawyer in, did you?’
‘Don’t trust them.’
‘Howard’s right, you know? We can protect you and your family.’
‘You can’t even protect your own.’
Fenchurch put the photo down and smoothed it out. ‘You know who this is.’
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘Clive.’ Fenchurch pushed the sheet across the table. ‘Over the years, this man has abducted children, including my daughter. They took your mate Chris Johnson’s wife and kid. Still have them somewhere. Who knows what they’ll do to them now you’ve bumped him off. Kill them and chuck them in the North Sea. Now, what’ve they got on you?’
‘It’s complicated.’
Fenchurch patted the picture. ‘Is it something like this?’
‘Like I said, it’s complicated.’
‘It’s just you and me in here, okay?’ Fenchurch waved around the room. He tapped the recorder. ‘This isn’t doing anything. The video feed is off.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m letting you hedge your bets. You know I’m not bent, right?’
‘Because they’ve got your wife?’
‘And I’m not bowing down to them. If you tell me, nobody else will know. If we catch this geezer, you get your deal.’
‘And if not?’
Fenchurch smiled. ‘This chat never happened.’
Naismith picked at his fingernails. ‘You’ve no idea what they’ll do to me. To my sister and her kids. My poor old mum.’
‘I’ve got a good idea, Clive.’ Fenchurch held up the page. ‘It’s something like this, isn’t it?’
Naismith pointed at the birthmark on the photo. ‘I guarded these blokes while they were doing this, you know?’
‘How did that make you feel?’
Naismith stroked his throat, his nose wrinkling. ‘You really want to know who this is?’
‘I need to know.’
‘Fine.’ Naismith flipped the paper over and slapped it onto the desk. ‘It’s Lord Ingham.’
Chapter Forty
An elderly couple strolled down the quiet street, walking away from Fenchurch. ‘Steve, you had me guard him the other day.’
Clarke was staring at the wall hiding Ingham’s Hampstead mansion. He turned round, frowning. ‘So?’
‘Bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?’
Clarke looked away, shaking his head.
‘Steve, you knew he was behind this, didn’t you?’
Clarke shrugged. ‘I wanted you to get the measure of the man.’
‘Would’ve been useful to know that at the time. I stopped someone killing him.’ Fenchurch slammed his fist against the car, getting a dull crunch in return. ‘If you’re working—’
‘Whoa, whoa.’ Clarke raised his hands. ‘Listen, I’m not involved. We’ve got three open cases against that lot. Kidnapped some kids from round the Barbican. Look, I gave you that evidence, Fenchurch. That’s led us to this.’
‘But you bloody knew it was him.’
‘Remember that protestor?’ Clarke scowled at him. ‘The one who was spouting all that anti-Semitic shit? After you went, he told us Ingham was up to this. I just needed someone on the inside to confirm it.’
‘If this goes tits up, I swear I’ll—’
‘If this goes tits up, I’ll jump off Tower Bridge.’ Clarke swallowed and held up his Airwave. ‘All units, we are go!’ He pushed open the gate and led the team up the drive towards Ingham’s mansion.
Fenchurch kept near the back, searching around for threats, not seeing any. He stayed by the Bentley and let the others approach the house.
Clarke and Reed got on either side of the door, with two black-clad cops taking up the rear, their batons clinking slightly. One of them was lugging the big red Enforcer battering ram. Hopefully it wouldn’t be needed . . .
Reed cupped her hands round her mouth. ‘Mr Ingham, it’s the police! We have a search warrant and are entering your premises!’
Upstairs looked quiet, not even a rustling curtain to disrupt the stillness. The house next door was barely visible over the wall, just some brick and slate peeking over. Silent as the grave.
Fenchurch put his Airwave to his mouth. ‘Any movement out the back, Jon?’
‘Negative, guv.’ Nelson was out of breath. ‘Place is dead.’
‘Right. Keep on the line.’ Fenchurch jogged over to the house and got between Reed and Clarke. ‘The place is empty.’
‘That’s my assessment, too.’ Clarke thumped on the oak again. No response. He unfolded the pages in his pocket. ‘Let’s get in there.’
Fenchurch spoke into the Airwave again. ‘All units, we are go!’ He stepped back and got out of the way.
The uniformed officer rested the Big Key against the door and swung it back. It dumped against the wood, barely marking it. Another go and it cracked the door handle. H
e tossed the Enforcer aside and yanked at the brass. ‘Give us a minute . . .’ He shoved his shoulder at the timber and it stuttered open. ‘Sometimes, all it needs is a little bit of—’
‘Stay there!’ Fenchurch barged past him, Reed and Clarke following. His shoes clicked off a long parquet hallway, which looked like it ran to the back of the house. Several gleaming white doors led off, cut into the cream paintwork. A staircase towered up to the first floor.
Fenchurch waved at the officers following them in. ‘Get in each and every door.’ He grabbed the Airwave again. ‘Jon, any movement out back yet?’
‘Still negative, guv.’
Acid-yellow tangled with black as the officers opened the doors and entered in pairs. Six officers broke off and headed upstairs. ‘Thoughts, Kay?’
‘Let this play out, guv.’
‘There’s nobody here. Where the hell—’
BANG.
‘Shit!’ Fenchurch pushed Reed to the floor, rolling into a heap. ‘Was that a gunshot?’
‘Sounded like it.’ Reed craned her neck round, facing towards a door in the left wall. ‘Came from through there.’
BANG.
BANG.
‘Shots fired! Repeat, shots fired!’ Fenchurch got up to a crouch and spidered over to the wall, listening hard. No more gunfire, just raised voices. Reed was on the other side of the door. ‘There’s someone here after all.’
‘What’s the plan, guv?’ She was trying to peer in. ‘Wait for the ARU?’
‘There are officers at risk. We’ve not got time.’ Fenchurch crept round the edge of the doorway. Another hall, leading deep into one of the house’s wings. Two doors hung open halfway down, a bathroom on the left and a closet on the right. At the end, it widened out into a living room. A tight black jacket sleeve, holding out a pistol.
‘I’m going.’ Fenchurch pushed himself to his feet and extended his baton, quietly and slowly. He stepped forward and put his back to the right-hand wall, the side the shooter was on. He inched along the hallway and made it to the closet. He rested behind the open door, listening.