by Ed James
‘Just told him to behave. He left not long after. I kept an eye on him as he went, just to make sure.’
‘Which way did he go?’
‘He headed right.’
Fenchurch tried to get his bearings. ‘Towards Shoreditch?’
‘I’ve no idea. Sorry.’
‘If you turn right again, you’re on Commercial Street.’ Fenchurch cracked his knuckles. ‘When did he leave?’
‘Couldn’t have been much before ten.’
‘Did you notice anything particular about him?’
‘The girl he was asking to see her, you know . . . He was really loud about it. I think he was a Geordie. Definitely from the North East.’
‘How did he seem?’
Quinn focused on the photo. ‘Well, he was banjaxed. All over the bloody place.’
‘What was he wearing?’
‘A work suit. Looked a bit grubby, though. Like he’d spilled something down the front.’
‘Thanks for this.’ Fenchurch stood up tall again. Knees didn’t like all the crouching. ‘I’ll need you to give a statement to my colleague here.’
Quinn worried at his neck. ‘Listen, I’ve got to catch a flight home at the back of eight.’
‘That gives you four hours. You should be fine.’
‘What if I miss it?’
‘We’ll put you on a train.’
Quinn bowed his head. ‘Great.’
Fenchurch pushed his shoulders back. ‘You should be proud of helping us. This could be the break we need.’
‘Pleased to do my bit.’
Fenchurch thumbed at the door and let Reed go first. He followed her out, pulling it shut behind them. ‘That’s good work, Sergeant.’
‘Thanks, guv. We’re taking statements from his colleagues at RBS. Might be something, might be nothing.’
‘What about at Dirty Dick’s?’
‘DC Lad’s up there now, trying to get hold of CCTV or bar tabs, anything we can.’
‘This is—’
His Airwave blasted out. A male voice spoke in a monotone. ‘Control to DI Fenchurch. Over.’ The desk sergeant downstairs. What did he bloody want?
‘Safe to speak, Steve.’
‘Got some officers from Traffic for you at the Leman Street front desk.’
Fenchurch scowled at Reed. ‘Traffic?’
‘Hang on.’ Silence. ‘Sorry, they’re from Trafficking and Prostitution.’
Fenchurch wandered around his office. Where was best to sit?
Perch on Mulholland’s desk at the far end of the room? Her coat was draped over her chair, meaning she might come in at any minute.
His own? The West Ham scarf on the top of his monitor was the only personalisation. The only sign a human being ever sat there.
Sod it. He collapsed into his seat and waited.
The door crept open, like there was a mouse coming through. Then a tall man strode into the room. Tight black pinstripe suit. White shirt gaping at the neck. Shoes with a high shine to them. He claimed the chair next to Fenchurch’s desk, a smirk on his face. Looked like a punter at the average lap-dancing bar. ‘Fenchurch, right?’ Welsh twang to his voice — south, maybe Swansea. ‘DS Chris Owen.’
‘Right. Thanks for coming over. I met your—’
‘DCI Savage briefed us as we drove out. Been doing an obbo out this way.’
‘“Us”?’
‘Should be along any minute.’
Another officer bundled in the room, just as seedy as Owen. His coal-black beard was trimmed to the jaw, pencil thin. Mid-blue shirt and beige suit jacket. ‘Sorry, had to go drain the lizard.’ Estuary accent. South Essex or north Kent, same neck of the woods as Kay Reed. He focused his blue eyes on Fenchurch and held out a damp hand. ‘DS Paul Kershaw.’
Fenchurch didn’t shake it. ‘Why’s Savage sent two of you?’
‘Because we can’t be trusted on our own.’ Kershaw yawned as he settled down next to Owen. Twisted it into a grin. ‘Can we cut to the chase here? What do you want from us?’
Fenchurch let out a sigh, maybe a bit more than he intended. ‘I need anything you’ve got on Frank Blunden running new girls in this part of town.’
‘That all?’
‘You’ve been working round here, right?’ Fenchurch pushed a fresh copy of the photo sheet towards them. ‘Recognise either of these two?’
‘Afraid not.’ Owen passed it over to Kershaw.
He gave a shrug and slid the page back. ‘Me neither.’
Fenchurch picked it back up but didn’t look at it. ‘First, I want you two to give a plan of attack on tackling Blunden. And if he’s not this girl’s pimp then we’ll need a list of credible suspects.’
Owen sniffed. Better not have a cold on the way. Or a coke habit. ‘Is Friday okay?’
Pair of bloody jokers. Fenchurch clicked his fingernails on the desk. ‘You’ve got an hour.’
‘Seriously?’
‘This is just speaking to someone, right?’
‘A murder squad detective might think that.’ Owen stared into space, looking really pleased with himself. ‘There are many subtle nuances to speaking to a character like Blunden.’ He glanced round at Kershaw. ‘Paul’s got a lot of intel to review before we can even start.’
‘We’re speaking to him this evening. End of.’
Owen swallowed. ‘We need to run everything by DCI Savage.’
‘Let me make myself absolutely clear, DS Owen. You’re both on secondment to my squad. You work for me until we charge someone or drop the case. Okay?’
‘DCI Savage just told us to get here for five. That’s it.’
‘Well, I don’t care. I want a plan of attack for Blunden after the briefing in five minutes.’
Kershaw raised a shoulder. ‘Sure thing. Boss.’
‘I’m glad one of you gets it.’ Fenchurch glared at Owen. ‘In addition, can you both shake down your black books and find out if anyone knows anything about this girl?’
‘We’ll get someone onto it, sir.’
‘Less of the attitude.’ Fenchurch grabbed his suit jacket from the back of his chair. ‘Right, I’ve got to brief the troops.’
Owen looked around the office. ‘Can we use this room?’
Fenchurch clenched his jaw. ‘There are two spare desks through in the Incident Room.’
Chapter Eleven
Bridge and Reed stood by the whiteboard, nodding at something Mulholland was saying. She was in bloody early. Like a shark sniffing blood.
‘Gather round, you lot!’ Fenchurch waited for the holy trinity to break up. ‘First things first, we’ve got two secondees from the Met Trafficking and Prostitution Unit. DS Chris Owen and DS Paul Kershaw.’ He left a pause for them to raise their hands, acting like they were guests of honour at a Presidential fundraiser. ‘Given the obvious Vice angle on this case, they’re joining us for the duration. They’ll mainly be working on intel. Both report to me.’ He gave them a space to fill.
Owen flicked his tongue between his lips. ‘A pleasure.’
‘Next, the press release has gone out. I believe DCI Docherty was speaking to the fourth estate this afternoon. Not aware of any leads coming back on it.’
Another gap, just a couple of shrugs from Reed and Nelson. Mulholland was pouting in that particular way, like she knew something but wasn’t telling him.
‘We’ll have to play that one by ear. DS Nelson, can you allocate some resource to dealing with the influx of sightings and fake confessions?’
‘Will do, guv.’
‘DS Reed, how’s it going up at Dirty Dick’s?’
‘No dice yet. We spoke to the bar staff. They did recognise the bloke, though. Reckon he’s been in a few times over the last couple of months. Bought himself a drink after the rest of his party left. Bottle of Peroni.’
‘Did he use a credit card?’
‘No dice again. Cash. And the CCTV’s bollocksed inside. Someone seems to have nudged the camera. All they’ve got is a view of the alleyway
leading to the toilets. The only thing remotely useful is a guy pissing against the wall.’
‘We’ve got a large collection of that already.’ Fenchurch sneered. ‘ITV4 might be interested in the footage.’
Reed smirked. ‘Never pissed against a wall in my life, guv.’
Fenchurch waited for the laughter to subside. ‘Anything else from the street team?’
‘Schools are still a negative. Same with the offices. But we’re not finished.’
‘We are where we are, I suppose.’ Fenchurch looked around the room. Blank faces stared back at him. Owen was tapping away at his phone. ‘Dismissed.’
Fenchurch barged through the throng to Owen’s desk. No sign of Kershaw. ‘I’ve got to update my boss. I expect that plan of attack when I’m done.’
‘Sounds like everything’s in hand.’ Docherty stretched out and yawned. His office was dimmer than a nightclub at one in the morning. ‘Dawn, are you ready to take the bull by the horns?’
‘On it, sir.’ Mulholland got to her feet and smoothed down her long skirt. ‘Like you say, I’ll batter them into a result.’ She winked and left the room, pulling the door shut behind her.
Fenchurch got up to follow her.
‘Not so bloody fast.’
Fenchurch lowered himself back down. ‘What’s up?’
‘Tell me what’s really happening with the case.’
‘I just did.’
‘And you usually redact what you say in front of DI Mulholland.’
Fenchurch grunted. ‘Right.’
‘Come on, Simon, I know you two don’t see eye to eye. It’s why I made you share an office.’ Docherty rolled his tongue over his lips, like he was about to tuck into a deep-fried chip roll. ‘What’s going on?’
‘That’s someone’s daughter lying in Pratt’s freezer.’ Fenchurch cocked his head to the side. ‘We’ve had this body for a day and we still haven’t identified her. It’s embarrassing.’
‘You sure that’s all it is?’ Docherty ran a hand through his hair, frosted grass on a frozen beach. ‘You’ve been miserable as sin since Abigail kicked you out. I watched you throw yourself into all this shite.’ He shook his head, a bitter scowl betraying his disappointment. ‘I lost my own marriage to the Job. All I’ve got to show for my thirty years is an ulcer and an AA sponsor.’
‘I don’t even have your extra stripe, boss.’
‘You can still drink, Simon. Be thankful for that.’ Docherty nudged the mug to the far edge of his desk. ‘If you want to talk about—’
A knock on the door. Owen stood there, one hand in his pocket. ‘You ready for us?’
‘Give me a second.’
‘We’re down the corridor.’ Owen turned and left them.
Fenchurch smiled at Docherty as he rose to his feet. ‘Thanks for the chat, boss.’
‘One day you’ll call me Doc like everyone else.’
Fenchurch sat at the end of the conference-room table. Place stank of bleach and vinegar. The flip chart was blank. He fixed a glare on Owen. ‘You got something for me, Sergeant?’
‘We’ve been speaking to our guv’nor.’
‘And what’s Savage saying?’
‘He okayed a light plan of attack.’
‘Define “light”.’
‘He doesn’t want us to go in there and cause a scene. Thinks it might not be worth speaking to Mr Blunden, after all.’
‘He bloody brought him up in the first place.’ Fenchurch had to fight the instinct to slam a fist on the table. ‘Are you two mucking about here?’
A frown danced across Kershaw’s forehead. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘We all know you lot can be as dirty as the scumbags you’re investigating. We’ve all heard of Vice cops taking backhanders.’ Fenchurch gritted his teeth. ‘Plan of attack. Now.’
‘Frank Blunden isn’t the sort of punter you mess around with.’ Owen smoothed out his crumpled notebook. ‘Hence the nickname Flick Knife. Only time he’s been inside was when he stabbed a geezer in the eighties.’
‘With a flick knife. Yeah, yeah, I get it. He’s calmed down a bit since, especially where the Old Bill are concerned.’
‘Look, he’s a potential lead at this stage, okay?’ Owen squinted at Fenchurch and sniffed. ‘Our intel suggests he doesn’t run girls in this part of town. Further out’s his speciality. Mile End, Walthamstow, Lewisham. The guv’nor’s wary about us going there and knocking his door down if he’s not done anything.’
‘So what are you suggesting?’
‘We have to get him onside. This isn’t his patch but he’s got his ear to the ground.’ Owen brushed down his suit jacket. ‘Blunden’s a racist, okay? He only runs blacks or Asians, no white girls.’
Fenchurch drummed his thumbs on the table. ‘I’m not following you.’
‘Way we hear it is he’ll find some pretty little black thing out of some East End hellhole.’ Kershaw traced a finger down the line of his beard. ‘Get her on smack, then stick her out on the street, sucking cocks. Same with the Asian girls, though they’re harder to snare. Get a lot more money for them, though, I understand.’
Owen raised an eyebrow at Fenchurch. ‘This Jane Doe of yours is as white as you are. She’s not one of his.’
‘Listen, son. I was at this point about three hours ago with your guv’nor. He told me Blunden had switched his MO.’
‘Hear us out, yeah?’ Kershaw picked at stubble on his chin. ‘We go to Blunden and tell him there’s a new player in town. Geezer who’s putting white girls on the street. Play to his racism. If he knows something, he’ll want them off the street.’
‘And if she works for Blunden?’
‘Then we’ve got a bigger problem than a dead hooker.’ Kershaw rocked forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees. ‘That’d mean he’s changed his business model. It’s never good when people do that. Makes things harder to police.’
Fenchurch tightened his fists. His fingernails bit into his palms. ‘Right, gents. DS Nelson and I will let you know—’
‘You can’t take him.’ Owen leaned across the desk, stabbing a finger in the air. ‘Aren’t you listening to us? Blunden’s racist. He’ll have Nelson shooting up by breakfast.’
‘I take your point, even if I don’t appreciate the way it was put.’ Fenchurch loosened off his tie and slipped it from his shirt collar. ‘DS Owen, looks like it’s you and me, then.’
Chapter Twelve
Owen parked his pool Vectra on a Mile End street bisected by a Victorian railway bridge. A DLR train rumbled above them, lit up in the night sky. Skodas, Mercedes and black cabs littered the place, telltale signs of a nearby taxi business. Frank’s Cabs was hidden under an arch between some old houses.
Owen let his seatbelt ride up and unlocked his door. ‘I’m leading in there. Right?’
‘Whatever gets the result.’ Fenchurch got out and followed him across the road.
The gate screeched open.
‘Shit.’ Owen looked around. Got away with that one. He marched through the archway into a car park. A wooden hut cowered under a weeping willow, its flat roof covered in decaying leaves. He led inside and rapped his knuckles on the reception desk. ‘Is Frank in?’
The receptionist looked like an extra from EastEnders. A blue pen tucked behind her ear, grey hair twisted into a ponytail. She gave a quick glance at them, then shut her ledger. A taxi radio crackled behind her, muttered speech garbled by the airwaves. ‘Who’s asking?’
‘DS Chris Owen.’ He showed her his credentials.
‘Give me a second.’ She knocked on the only door and stuck her head in. A late-eighties Page Three calendar hung off the white wood just above a handwritten sign for Frank’s Cabs. She returned and held the door open behind her. ‘Frank’ll see you now.’
‘Appreciate it.’ Owen squeezed past her into the room.
Fenchurch’s nose twitched at the stench of cigarette smoke as he followed him in.
Frank Blunden was a barrel of a m
an, his giant fists hammering away at a phone. His maroon cardigan was worn at the elbows. He tossed the mobile down and leaned back in his chair, sticking his crocodile-skin boots on the oak desk, and folded his arms. ‘Evening, gents.’
Owen sat on a sofa against the opposite wall. He pointed at the cigarette burning in the bronze ashtray in the middle of the desk. The window behind Blunden was open a crack. ‘You know you shouldn’t be smoking inside a place of work, don’t you?’
‘Oh, that?’ Blunden smirked. ‘It was here when I came back here an hour ago. Thought I’d best leave it so you lot could do some forensic analysis on it. Maybe find the bugger who broke in and put it there.’
Owen rolled his eyes. ‘We want to speak to you about a prostitute.’
‘And here’s me thinking you gentlemen were after a cab. Could get you a transfer to Heathrow for thirty quid. Cheapest round these parts by a country mile. I’m robbing myself.’
‘If it’s all the same, Frank, I’ll just hop on the DLR and get to City Airport.’
‘Suit yourself. The offer stands.’ Blunden went to shut the window. Still had a boxer’s gait, practically skipping over despite his bulk. He rested against the frame. ‘Why have you come in here to ask about prostitutes?’
‘Because you know an awful lot about them.’
‘I’m an honest businessman.’
‘And I’m Irish.’
‘That’s a funny accent. West coast, is it?’
‘Yeah, of Wales.’ Owen tossed some photos on the desk. Blown-up shots of their Jane Doe from the CCTV, the crime scene and the post-mortem. ‘We found this girl in Little Somerset House on Wednesday night.’
‘Those bloody eyesores down Aldgate way, right? Spitting distance from the Tower.’ Blunden raised his hands. ‘So?’
‘She’s sixteen, Frank. And white.’
‘What’s that got to do with a taxi business?’
‘She’s been out sucking black cock. Getting screwed by Arabs from the airlines, no doubt. You happy with that?’
Blunden sat back down and fingered the photos. ‘Is she English?’
‘We think so.’ Owen raised his left shoulder. ‘Know anything about it?’