by Ed James
The lights flickered on as Fenchurch followed Docherty into the top-floor conference room. As posh as it got in Leman Street. The place stank of marker pens and cleaning fluids. ‘Know who the City are sending, boss?’
‘DI Clarke and DCI Thompson.’
‘Never heard of them.’
‘You and me both, pal.’ Docherty sat at the head. He locked his BlackBerry and spun it round on the table. ‘You okay, Simon?’
Fenchurch let out a breath. ‘What makes you think I’m not?’
‘I heard about you kicking up a stink at the crime scene.’
‘Pratt and Clooney had been careless. The girl needs some dignity.’
‘Sure it’s not because—’
The door slid open. A male officer in full City uniform stepped through the doorway, peaked cap under his arm. Heavy-set, looking like he belonged on a Dorset pig farm. ‘DCI Thompson. Which one of you gentlemen is DCI Docherty?’ The sort of accent that let you into private members’ clubs.
‘That’s me.’ He was spinning his BlackBerry on the desk again.
Thompson sat next to him. ‘Nice to meet up, one Chief Inspector to another.’
‘You are a Detective, though, right? The woolly suit’s throwing me.’
‘Our brass like us to dress up when we come out of our high castle.’ Thompson adjusted his black tie before shrugging the jacket off onto the chair. ‘That’s better.’ He frowned at Fenchurch. ‘Who are you?’
‘DI Simon Fenchurch.’
Another uniformed officer appeared, zipping up his flies. He dried his hands on his trouser legs. Muscular with a dark spray tan, hair even whiter than Docherty’s. ‘DI Steve Clarke.’
Fenchurch grinned. ‘Didn’t you just get sacked by Reading?’
Clarke rolled his eyes as he sat near Thompson. ‘Never heard that one before.’ Could’ve worked on Bishopsgate with that accent.
‘Gentleman, if you’re quite done?’ Thompson let Fenchurch and Clarke settle. ‘The reason we’re here’s twofold.’ He pushed his hands together, forcing the fingers vertical. Pudgy little things, just little stumps covered in thick hair. ‘Firstly, Little Somerset House is almost our jurisdiction.’
‘Aye, almost.’ Docherty sat back in his chair. Legs wide, like he owned the place. ‘As you’re well aware, it’s outside the City of London boundary. Mansell Street’s ours. I’d have been washing my hands of this case if it was either of the other two buildings.’
‘This is on the fringe of the City and the East End, Chief Inspector. A few metres west and you’re in our land. The area’s of prime concern to us.’
‘And I’m very pleased for you. That body was in Met territory, not City. End of. Okay? Done.’ Docherty got up.
Thompson waved him back down. ‘We’re very far from done.’
Docherty took a few seconds before sitting. ‘Any idea how many times a year I have this sort of dispute, whether it’s with you lot, Kent or Essex?’ He pinched his lips together. Thompson and Clarke didn’t butt in. ‘Last year it was seventy-three times. I’m surprised we’ve never locked horns before.’
‘You’re Scottish.’
‘Well spotted. Ex-Lothian and Borders. That’s Edinburgh, in case you’re wondering.’ Docherty pocketed his BlackBerry and flashed a smile. ‘Listen, lads. We work in one of the most densely populated areas in the world. This kind of thing happens all the time. The way we sort it out is by looking at where our boundaries are. Little Somerset House is in our bit of London, more’s the pity.’
‘Before you two get into a “my dad’s bigger than your dad” thing, I should make you aware of something.’ Fenchurch tried to ease out the kink in his spine again. ‘We don’t have an ID on the body yet.’
He got Clarke’s attention, Thompson just fluttered his eyes. ‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning it’s not an open-and-shut case. If you’re thinking you can swoop in and tick off another row on your spreadsheet, then think again.’
‘Thanks for that input, Inspector.’ Thompson held his gaze. ‘My superiors have asked me to take an active interest in this case.’
‘Have they now . . .’ Docherty clicked his teeth together a few times. ‘Listen, I know what you lot are like. If it’s not the Uzi ninjas up on Bishopsgate, it’s financial crime. Some wee lassie getting cut up in a disused building doesn’t sound like your cup of Châteauneuf-du-Pape.’
‘I’m more of a Bollinger guy. Krug at a push.’ Thompson laughed, tilting his head back as he roared. He sniffed at the lack of reaction. ‘We’re concerned about the proximity of the crime scene to our jurisdiction. We need to be party to all investigations relating to the City and its denizens.’
Docherty winked at him. ‘That’s too many long words for a wee laddie like me.’
‘I expect you’ll find some way to stray into my territory. When that happens, you call us.’
‘Deal.’ Docherty shrugged, like he was ordering a sandwich. ‘That us?’
‘That’s us.’ Thompson raised an eyebrow as he gestured at his colleague. ‘Inspector Clarke will be your primary conduit.’
‘And DI Fenchurch will be the one calling him, okay?’
Fenchurch gritted his teeth. Here we go. Dragged into this shit now. He locked eyes with Clarke. The guy looked as bored by the pissing-up-the-wall contest as he was. Pair of pillocks still acting like they’re in a bloody playground.
Thompson kneaded his ruddy face before picking up his jacket. ‘I’ll need to re-engage my superiors to ensure they’re in accord with this, but I think we’ve got a working agreement.’
Docherty raised his eyebrows and flashed a grin. ‘Wouldn’t dream of doing it any other way.’
‘Until the next time.’ Thompson stood up and nodded at Fenchurch. ‘Inspector.’ He stormed out of the room, leaving Clarke to shut the door behind them.
‘Christ on a bloody bike.’ Docherty tightened his face. ‘Pair of them couldn’t tie their own bloody shoelaces.’
‘Doubt it’s the last we’ve heard from them, boss.’
‘Never is, but thank Christ they’ve buggered off. This case is far too much like hard work for them.’
‘They do have a point about the jurisdiction, though.’
‘Whatever.’ Docherty dug Fenchurch in the chest. ‘Just don’t make their dad call me up about it, okay?’
Chapter Five
Fenchurch pulled into the space right outside the flat. For once. He opened the car door. The second half of his burrito fell out, spilling some rice onto the tarmac. ‘Bloody hell.’ He picked it up as he got out.
The cold wind hit his face and he tugged his jacket tight. Above, Canary Wharf’s towers twinkled in the night sky. A roll of thunder pealed down from a plane coming in to land at City Airport. He remote-locked the Mondeo and bounded up the five steps in one stride. His old man’s thighs grumbled as he landed.
Inside, his pigeonhole was empty. Same as it ever was. He locked it and set off up the stairs. The vaguest whiff of marijuana from across the carpeted hall. Grinding hip-hop cannoned through the dark-grey door. Bloody City playboys monkeying about again.
Fenchurch opened his door and stepped inside the dark flat. He bumped his thigh off the ironing board. Bloody thing was still plugged in. Stupid, stupid bastard. He crouched down and turned it off. At least it had switched itself off.
He set the burrito down on the kitchen counter and searched for a clean plate. Nothing. The dirty dishes still filled the sink. He didn’t need a cleaner so much as a mum.
He reached into the cupboard for some hot sauce. Not much left. Three splashes and that was it. Where did it all go?
He leaned back against the counter and ate a mouthful. Fire burnt his tongue as he took another bite.
He got a bottle of wine out of the rack. The last one. An Aldi Rioja. Need a lot more to get through Christmas. Maybe Nelson would be up for another booze cruise . . .
He uncorked it and poured some into the only clean teacup. Let it breathe for a bit. He p
ut the corkscrew back in the drawer, almost the only thing in there, and sucked in the wine’s aroma. Dark and chocolatey. Maybe it wouldn’t need that much breathing, after all.
Sod the playboys next door. He cued up Morrissey’s Your Arsenal on his Sonos and the bass line thudded through the flat. He raised the cup to the glam-rock stomp of ‘You’re Gonna Need Someone On Your Side’.
Anyone would do.
Fenchurch grimaced slightly and grabbed the burrito, bottle and teacup. He took them out onto the balcony, leaving the door open. A swift kick shook the rainwater off the patio chair. The side wall gave him the night view without the wind as the Thames sucked away London’s daytime warmth.
He finished the burrito as he took in the night’s activity, scattering rice and beans on the concrete between his feet.
What a pathetic existence. Shivering on a patio with cold food and cheap wine.
He reached into his pocket for his mobile and dialled Nelson.
‘Guv?’
‘Stand at ease, soldier.’ Fenchurch smiled as he splashed out another glass with his free hand. He jammed the plastic cork on, his thumb wrestling with the catch. ‘Just checking on progress.’
‘And I could’ve sworn we had a briefing at seven tomorrow for that very purpose.’
Fenchurch couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Wanted to see if there’s anything I can worry about as I struggle to get off to sleep tonight.’
‘Nobody’s got anything so far, guv. Tried that building manager but he’s foxtrot oscared for the night. Just off home myself. Kate’s put an M&S ready meal in the oven for me.’
‘The oven? She’s treating you?’
‘I’m salivating as I drive, mate.’ Nelson paused, engine sounds swelling up down the line. ‘One of Mulholland’s lads relieved me. Tell me she’s not the Deputy?’
‘I am, but I’m still counting my teeth from the fight she gave.’
‘I love the friendly atmosphere you DIs have instilled. Sends an example to the rest of us.’
‘It’s not our atmosphere but that of our beloved leader.’ Fenchurch took another drink. Delicious. ‘I’ll see you first thing tomorrow. Goodnight.’
‘Night.’
Fenchurch ended the call and stretched out in the cool air. A rush of warmth hit his face. The open bottle stared up at him. He finished the second teacup and poured another.
A girl, blue eyes ringed by hair. Smiling, her cheek dimpled. Eight years old and hiding from her father. Chasing her, catching her, tickling her. Squealing out. Laughing.
He swallowed hard and gritted his teeth. Finished the glass. Didn’t feel any better. Maybe felt worse. Just a trickle left in the bottle.
A dimpled cheek smiling at him.
A dimpled cheek dead. Stabbed, gouged wide open.
He reached into his shirt collar and grabbed hold of his chain. Unhooked it and let it dangle to the ground. He put his finger through the wedding ring, the gold long since tarnished. It still fit.
Would’ve been worse if it was pristine, like that geezer with the painting in his attic.
He picked up his phone and stared at the contacts page. Still the first one. He pressed dial. It just rang and rang. Bloody thing.
Second entry was a house number, North London area code. A few seconds of sipping. Then he hit the button. More ringtone.
‘Hello?’
Caught him unawares. ‘Abi. It’s Simon.’
A pause filled with a deep sigh. ‘Simon? It’s twenty past ten.’
‘Sorry. I just needed to speak to you.’
She yawned. ‘Right?’
‘I’ve been thinking about Chloe today. A case came in this evening. A young girl. She’d be Chloe’s age.’
‘A murder?’
He nodded. Couldn’t force the words out. ‘I don’t know what to think.’
‘Is it her?’
He wiped at his cheek – damp. ‘No.’ Blinked hard in the light. ‘I don’t think it is, anyway. Looks nothing like her, even ten years on.’
‘Simon, why are you doing this to me?’
‘It just hit me like a train.’
‘You’re finally trying to process it after ten years?’
He swallowed and shut his eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘You’re sorry? I lived with a zombie for two years and you’re sorry now?’
A car pulled into a parking bay below. Someone he didn’t recognise. Making a bloody mess of it. Better not scratch his car.
‘You can’t just phone me up out of the blue and do this.’
‘Look, I shouldn’t have phoned. I’ll hang up, if you want.’
No response. Just breathing.
Fenchurch stared down at the car. Looked like a City boy in an Uber car. What was wrong with bloody taxis? ‘I’d like to see you.’
Another deep sigh down the line. ‘Simon . . .’
‘Just for a coffee.’
‘I can’t. We . . .’ Sounded like she gasped. ‘I’ve not heard from you in years and now this? It’s over, Simon. It’s been over for years. You know that.’
Fenchurch took another glug of wine. Still fiddled with the ring. ‘Do you want me to hang up?’
No response.
‘Goodnight, Abi.’ Fenchurch prised the phone away from his face and ended the call.
His breath hung in the air in front of him. Across the street, the couple were arguing behind the decorative trees on their patio. Same as it ever was.
His jaw tightened. He finished the cup and shivered. Glad there’s no whisky inside. He got up and nudged the door open.
Day 2
Thursday, 17th December 2015
Chapter Six
Fenchurch took a gulp of builder’s tea. Strong and milky. Those extra-strong teabags really cut the mustard. Wind rattled the token-gesture trees outside the station. The sky above the narrow corridor of Leman Street was still dark.
He turned to look across the Incident Room. Yawns, muffled phone calls and fingers caressing laptop keyboards. Mulholland was hovering by the whiteboard, filling in some detail. A whole night and she’d progressed bugger all by the looks of things.
The clock hit seven and he clapped his hands together. ‘Come on, you lot. Briefing time.’
Nelson wandered over, flanked by a pair of DCs. Reed got up from her laptop and hugged her suit jacket tight. She perched on the edge of her desk and sipped from a can of Red Bull.
Another gulp of tea. ‘I appreciate some of you have been in all night, so I’ll keep this brief.’ He focused on Reed. ‘Kay, where have the street team got to?’
‘Just been brought up to speed, guv.’ She grimaced over at the female night-shift DS. Dark brown hair tied up in a ponytail. Icy stare. Jennifer something. ‘We’ve got nothing of note, I’m afraid.’
‘Define nothing.’
‘Nobody in the pubs saw anything.’ Reed yawned into her fist. ‘We’ve checked the Minories, Aldgate High Street and the back streets round this way. That’s all going on the assumption people drinking on Tuesday would’ve gone back on Wednesday. From what we can gather, Tuesday night was pretty quiet.’
‘In that case, nothing’s a decent summary.’ Fenchurch went up to the whiteboard. Mulholland glared at him for a few seconds and shifted to the side. He scribbled a note in the Actions box. ‘Make sure you get into the offices today. Look for anyone working late on Tuesday night.’
‘Already on the docket, guv. Going to get onto it after we’ve cleared the schools.’ Reed crumpled her can and rested it on the desk. ‘We’ve spoken to all the prostitutes we could find in the vicinity.’ Her fist covered another yawn. ‘One of them saw a man walking down Commercial Street, asking anyone he came across if he could “buy them”.’
‘Isn’t that common parlance for you know what?’
‘Hardly. He wanted to own them outright.’ She adjusted her hair, flicking it behind her ears. ‘Sounds like this guy was approaching a lot of women. Including non-prostitutes. We’ve got a statement from a waitr
ess in the Mexican restaurant halfway up.’
‘That’s a regular haunt of mine.’ Fenchurch made a note of it on the board. Still didn’t get what any of it meant. He put the pen down. ‘Did he do anything else?’
‘Not that we know of. We’re taking detailed statements from these women. As detailed as it gets, anyway.’
‘Extend the CCTV search to include Commercial Street, okay? If some idiot’s trying to buy prostitutes, I want him excluded as soon as possible.’
‘Guv.’
Fenchurch finished his tea and plonked the cup on the table under the window. He focused on the wide prairie of the whiteboard. ‘Anything else?’
‘One of my team’s analysing the notebook.’ Mulholland stabbed a finger on Hello Kitty, right in the centre. ‘No DNA on it. There were prints, though. Bad news is they don’t match anyone on the system.’
‘So she’s still unknown.’ Fenchurch added the note, unsure why she hadn’t bothered. Other than to get attention and show him up, maybe. ‘We’re still assuming it’s our victim’s book and bag. Anything in the content?’
‘Well, the owner of the book seems mentally underdeveloped for her age. The handwriting is like a small child’s, maybe seven or eight. Looked like she was practising spelling.’
Bloody hell. Fenchurch stared at Nelson. Kept his eyes off Mulholland. ‘Jon, can you get people looking at similar cases with a lack of ID?’
‘Sure thing, guv.’ Nelson scribbled on his Pronto. ‘While I’ve got my fifteen minutes, I’ve managed to track down Jason Smith, the building manager’s supervisor. Nobody’s spoken to him so far.’
‘Then let’s head out there after this.’
Mulholland narrowed her eyes, like a cat about to pounce on a mouse. ‘Simon, I think we’re at the point where we have to put out a press release. Don’t you?’
Fenchurch held her gaze. Watch who you’re attacking. ‘It’s the next logical step. I’ll raise it with DCI Docherty again.’