by Ed James
Reed waved from inside the room. ‘Guv, I need a word.’
‘What’s up?’
‘Two things. First, Pratt’s done some of the post-mortem early. He’s confirmed the overdose was the cause of death. Pure heroin, too, guv.’
Fenchurch leaned against the wall. ‘Pure? Tell me your alarm bells are ringing as well, Sergeant.’
‘You know me, guv.’ She grinned at him. ‘Pure heroin doesn’t look like suicide so I got him to look into it a bit further. Turns out Mr Hall’s been using a cocktail of drugs. Crack cocaine, Demerol, Viagra, ketamine. Looks like he’d been smoking smack, too.’
‘Bloody hell.’
‘I’ve told Pratt to do more tests and confirm it’s murder. He’ll have to compare answers with Clooney. Reckons he’ll get back to me tomorrow.’
‘Good effort. What’s the other thing?’
‘You know how we sent DC Bridge down to his other house? Well, Mr Hall’s wife wants to speak to whoever’s in charge.’
‘I’m not going to bloody Three Bridges, Kay.’
‘No need, she’s in your office, guv.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
Mrs Hall was practically lying in the chair opposite Fenchurch’s desk. She looked a lot younger than the photos of her husband. Mid-twenties at most, with shoulder-length blonde hair. A thick jumper was pulled up to her ears and her skin-tight jeans were tucked into beige Uggs. She barely looked up.
Fenchurch sat in his office chair and waited for Reed to sit. ‘Mrs Hall, I understand you’ve been—’
‘Please, call me Amelia.’
‘You’re Australian?’
She tutted. ‘I’m from New Zealand. Just outside Wellington.’
‘I take it you’ve not got any family over here?’
‘Rob’s mum treats me like family, you know?’ She fiddled with her wedding ring. ‘She lives nearby. She’s looking after our girls.’
Fenchurch’s stomach lurched. The guy had kids . . . Explained the Charlie the Seahorse book. ‘What about his father?’
‘He’s very much alive. Retired last year. Christ knows what this is going to do to him, though.’ She pinched her nose. ‘They moved down from Durham when we had Susi, our youngest.’
‘That’s an upheaval.’
‘It was a godsend.’
Fenchurch gave her his attempt at a warm smile. Didn’t seem to cut through. ‘Before we get started, we’ve got some admin we need to get out of the way.’
Reed smiled at her. ‘Do you know his phone’s lock code?’
‘His HTC?’ Amelia sighed. ‘I think the code’s two eight six eight.’
‘Right.’ Fenchurch picked up his Airwave and texted it to Clooney. He stretched across the desk, his cufflinks clunking on the wood. ‘I understand he stays in his London flat during the week. I take it you hadn’t seen him since Monday morning? Sunday night?’
‘I haven’t seen him for a couple of weeks.’ Amelia slid the wedding ring almost to the nail. ‘I asked him to move out.’
‘I’d like to know why.’
Amelia pulled her ring back to the knuckle and ran a hand through her hair. ‘Because I found something.’ Back to fiddling with the ring, spinning it round on her finger. ‘I was returning something, I can’t remember what. Maybe something I’d bought for Katie. Whatever it was, I had to go through an old credit card statement. Before he got that flat, Rob was staying in a hotel.’
Fenchurch frowned. ‘BES paid for it, didn’t they?’
‘They booked them, but Rob had to pay for them. Cheaper that way.’
‘And these statements?’
‘Well, the bills were higher than he’d told me, you know? Quite a lot higher. Hundreds more a week.’ She took the ring off and it thunked onto the table. ‘I went through his mail and found some invoices. It was all itemised. Some room service, breakfast, that sort of thing. But there were two items that just stuck out like a sore thumb. “Flowers” and “Additional Cleaning”. Rob, cleaning? Flowers?’
Fenchurch glanced at Reed. She caught his gaze and flicked up her eyebrows.
‘Anyway, one invoice said “Prostitute (Female)”. I didn’t know what to think.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I looked through his other invoices. The flowers or cleaning amounts were mostly for the same amount as this.’ She swallowed hard. ‘This prostitute line. Sometimes double.’ She pushed the ring away on the table. ‘I picked up the phone and spoke to a girl at the hotel. Said it was her last day. Told me Rob’d been getting prostitutes delivered.’
‘What was her name?’
Amelia brushed tears from her eyes, a bitter grin on her face. ‘Cindy.’
Fenchurch smiled at Amelia as Reed hurried out of the room. ‘Did you believe her?’
‘She emailed me some pictures in my email of Rob kissing a couple of girls.’ Amelia tore off another tissue and blew her nose. ‘I couldn’t believe he’d do that to me. After I stopped crying, I confronted him when he got home on the Friday.’ She closed her eyes for a few seconds, reopening them with intensity. ‘I asked him to leave. How do you Brits say it? Oh yeah, he caused a scene.’
‘In what way?’
‘Smashing things. Shouting. Screaming. It was like he was on something, you know?’ She chewed at a knuckle. ‘I called the police and some cops came out. They chucked him in the cells for the night.’
‘And that was it?’
‘Last time I saw him. He’s been staying up here in that flat of his. I didn’t want him to see our girls after . . .’ She shut her eyes. ‘After what he did.’
‘I can understand that.’ Fenchurch clasped his hands together. ‘Did you speak to your husband at all during this time?’
‘Just once or twice on the phone. He didn’t seem like himself, you know? He was ranting and raving, asking me lots of stuff. How I found out about it.’ Amelia bit her lip, staring into space. Her head fell into her hands and her shoulders started rocking. ‘How could he do this to us?’
Reed appeared at the door, eyes on Amelia. She treaded over and leaned across the desk to whisper: ‘Cindy’s just confirmed the story, guv. Jon’s hauling her over the coals about not telling us.’
‘Thanks for that.’ Then to Amelia: ‘I’ll need you or Mr Hall’s parents to identify his body.’
‘I’ll do it.’ Through gritted teeth. Eyes like fire. Forehead clenched. ‘Look, you need to tell me what he’s done.’
‘Do you know if he’s been using drugs?’
She looked up. ‘What?’
‘We believe the cause of death was a heroin overdose.’
‘Heroin?’ She lurched forward in her seat, knees almost buckling. ‘Oh my God.’
Fenchurch raised an eyebrow at Reed and tilted his head towards Amelia. She placed a hand on her back. ‘Do you need some time to yourself?’
Amelia brushed the hand off. ‘Did he kill himself?’
‘We don’t know. We hoped you might—’
‘This is bullshit.’ Amelia pushed the ring right up to the knuckle. ‘I mean, what evidence have you got?’
Reed clamped her hands to her knees, puckering the tights underneath. ‘We’ve done a blood toxicology on your husband’s body. He definitely died of a heroin overdose. We found traces of other drugs in his bloodstream. It’s possible he was using lots of drugs. We’ll check his bank account for withdrawals.’
Amelia reached into her handbag and tore off a paper tissue. She blew her nose with a loud honk. ‘How could he do this to us?’
Fenchurch checked his watch and nodded at Reed. ‘Kay, can you get a Family Liaison Officer to escort Mrs Hall out to Lewisham to ID the body? I need you in the briefing.’
Fenchurch shut his eyes and stared at the whiteboard. Drums clattered. Twenty or so eyes bore down on him. He just didn’t have the words. How could he explain it? He was supposed to have the questions not the answers, but there were just too many. Far too bloody many.
He locked eyes with Nelson standing a few yar
ds away. Gave him a nod then stared around the room. ‘In summary, all we’ve got on Robert Hall is he’s gone off the rails since his separation. Taking drugs. Uppers and downers, you name it. Just doesn’t seem enough to make him kill two prostitutes.’
Fenchurch shrugged. Felt like he could just keep doing that and it wouldn’t make any difference. ‘He’d been using prostitutes while staying in London.’ He gave a sigh. ‘Two weeks ago on Friday, his wife found out about it. Kicked him out. We’ve got a black hole between March and now. Nine months where he appears to have behaved himself.’ He tapped at the paper covering the wall. A new timeline in months instead of days had been added since he’d last looked, a giant question mark stuck in the middle. ‘We need to nail down this timeline.’ He looked around the room, making eye contact with Reed, the rest of them more interested in their shoes or coffees. ‘He’s killed two girls since Tuesday. Have we got any understanding of why?’
‘I wish I had good news, Simon.’ Clooney jangled a ring piercing the top of his ear. ‘The second girl’s crime scene isn’t looking promising. The rain washed away all forensics off her body and the ground.’ He shrugged, like he’d scored a last-minute own goal. ‘We’ve just about finished at his flat. Should be done tonight. Got the team staying late.’
‘I appreciate it.’
Clooney checked his spiral-bound notebook. Bits of multi-coloured paper hung out. ‘I managed to get a result on the DNA markers from the semen on your first victim’s abdomen. You’re in luck. The semen matches his DNA. While the prints still aren’t on there, it turns out Mr Hall’s DNA’s on file from this altercation in Three Bridges a couple of weeks ago.’
Fenchurch focused on the ceiling and let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. ‘So he definitely killed her.’
Clooney wagged a finger in the air. ‘All I’m telling you is he had sex with her that night. Whether he killed her is another matter.’
‘This is solid, though.’ Fenchurch wrote it on the whiteboard. DNA Match, a new line connecting the photo of Jane Doe 1 and Hall. ‘What about the fingernails for our second victim?’
‘I’m no miracle worker, much as you’d like me to be. That’ll be Monday at the earliest.’
‘Okay.’ Fenchurch jotted DNA Test 2 — MONDAY on the board and put the cap back on the pen. He checked around the room. ‘Anyone else got anything?’ He stared at Reed, who avoided his gaze. ‘Nothing?’
She frowned but kept quiet.
Nelson wandered away from the whiteboard and perched on the edge of a desk. ‘I spoke to that Mantilas guy’s brother. He pitched up to the car park just after eleven. I had a word with him in Brick Lane station. Story checks out.’
‘Not sufficiently close to his brother’s tale so as to arouse suspicion, I hope?’
‘Nothing like that, guv. Used his own words and everything.’
Fenchurch looked around the room again. ‘It’s Friday night, so don’t stay too late, okay? I need you to hand over to DI Mulholland’s team and be in fresh first thing tomorrow. Dismissed.’ He leaned back against the wall and kneaded his temples as they all went back to their computers and paper files.
Docherty strolled over, Mulholland following in his wake, pale fingers fiddling with her scarf. He picked at his teeth. ‘You look done in, Simon.’
‘Been a shit day, boss.’ Fenchurch stood up straight and cracked his spine. ‘Did you hear much of that?’
‘None, sorry.’ Docherty stabbed a finger on the whiteboard, smudging a couple of letters. ‘Looks like you’re getting somewhere, though.’
‘The floodgates are still shut, though, boss. Just a bloody trickle.’ Fenchurch put the cap back on his pen and tossed it on the table next to the board. ‘We’ve still no idea who our Jane Does are, just who killed them.’
Docherty scratched his five o’clock shadow, a lot more salt than pepper. ‘There’s nothing else we can do, right?’
‘Maybe. Maybe not.’ Fenchurch felt his phone buzz in his pocket. ‘Anything else for me, boss?’
‘Their lawyer’s asking us to let them reopen The Alicorn. Same guy who was representing that bouncer.’
‘Are you going to do it?’
‘Not got much choice.’
‘But, guv—’
‘But nothing.’ Docherty waved his hand, dismissing him. ‘Off you go, Simon. Have an evening for once. Recharge your batteries. Dawn’ll chivvy Pratt along, don’t you worry.’
Fenchurch marched across the Incident Room and checked his mobile. It was still ringing. Unknown Caller. He took a second to think then hit the answer button. ‘Fenchurch.’
Silence on the line. Not even background noise. ‘It’s Erica.’
‘Who?’
‘You’ve got a short memory, Simon.’
He leaned against the wall outside the room, his shoulder pressing into the hard edge of the noticeboard. ‘How did you get this number?’
‘You gave me your card last night. I thought you’d be more interested in why I’m phoning.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I need to speak to you. Meet me at my flat.’
‘I’m not doing that.’
‘It’s there or nowhere.’
‘Then it’s nowhere.’
‘You’ll be interested in what I’ve got to say.’
‘Out with it, then.’
‘It needs to be in person.’
‘Goodbye.’ Fenchurch killed the call.
It’s a trap. Clear as day. Get round there and some big guys in balaclavas batter him in.
But what if she knows something? They were still nowhere near anywhere. And if she could give them something. Anything. Well . . .
He popped his head into the Incident Room, looking for Nelson or Reed. Couldn’t see either of them.
Docherty was striding straight for him, looking very much like he wanted something. Another stupid insight into the case, no doubt.
Fenchurch spun round.
Reed was right behind him, dressed for the elements. ‘Just wondered if you fancied a beer across the road, guv?’
‘Now I know how Abi feels . . . ’ Reed brushed her hair behind her ears. Dubstep boomed out of the pub speakers, loud enough to drown out the other punters in the bar. A passing taxi’s headlights glinted in her eyes. ‘We’re here for a drink, guv. It helps if you do some talking.’
Fenchurch stared into his foaming pint of, what was it? Punk IPA? He’d barely touched it. Unlike Reed, now well below halfway on her Peroni. ‘Right. Sorry. Where are your kids tonight?’
‘Mother-in-law’s. Give her an inch and she takes a mile.’ She took another sip from her pint and winked at him. ‘You looked like you were struggling in the briefing.’
‘It’s this bloody case, Kay.’ Fenchurch gulped down some beer. That’s better. Lovely, in fact. ‘I just don’t understand how he could go off the rails like this. How he could do that to his family.’
‘Happened to a friend of mine.’ Reed raised a hand. ‘Not the murdering prostitutes part. Karen found her husband had been using . . . escorts, shall we say.’ She grimaced. ‘How could he bring something like that into their home?’
‘Doesn’t figure, does it? Makes me sick to be a bloke.’
‘You’ve never been with a call girl, have you, guv?’
Fenchurch took another swig. Nice stuff. Really nice stuff. ‘We’re off-duty, Kay. Don’t call me “guv”.’
‘Is that you avoiding the question, Simon?’
‘I’ve never been with one, no.’ Fenchurch took a big dent out of his pint. ‘Was on a stag in Amsterdam years ago. Couple of the blokes went to the red-light district.’ Bile swilled in his gut. ‘Didn’t speak to them for the rest of the weekend.’
‘Good for you.’
Fenchurch shrugged. ‘Bad for them. Pair of arseholes had their wives at the wedding a few weeks later.’ He clutched both hands round the glass, like it would suck in all the rage and disgust. ‘Feel like I’m letting those girls down, Kay.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We’ve still not identified them. There’s two mothers out there looking for their lost girls.’
‘We know who killed them, though. That’s a start.’
‘I just don’t get why, though. Why’s he bloody killed them? Thinking about it sends a shiver up and down my spine.’
‘People go off the rails sometimes. It happens.’
‘Not like this.’
She finished her pint and clinked a fingernail off his empty. ‘Sure it’s not because you’re reminded of Chloe.’
Fenchurch just took a drink.
‘Simon, I know how you think.’
Another drink. Didn’t even taste it. Might as well have been water. ‘Can’t stop thinking about her, Kay.’
‘You never stopped. The number of times Abi called me up at night, you wouldn’t believe.’
‘Bloody hell, remind me to sack the next of her uni mates I inherit in a department reshuffle.’
‘You missed your chance, Si.’ She winked at him. ‘Why’s this bringing it home to you?’
‘Chloe was eight when she . . .’ He swallowed. His mouth was bone dry. ‘When whatever happened, happened. Ten years ago. She’d be eighteen now.’
‘Like these girls?’
‘Like these girls.’
‘You think this is related to who took Chloe? You’re telling me you think Chloe’s a prostitute?’
‘I just don’t know.’ Fenchurch wiped away the tear from his cheek. ‘She’d be eighteen now, going to university.’ Another gulp of beer. ‘I wish something else had happened, that Chloe was still with us. Maybe studying at, I don’t know, Durham or Edinburgh, doing Philosophy or Law or Maths. Or working in a supermarket or anything. A hairdresser. Anything instead of . . . Instead of, I don’t know.’ He sighed. ‘I’ve lost ten years of her life. Every day goes past is another one lost.’ He shut his eyes, felt the tears sting. ‘My little girl.’
Her hand stroked his arm, gentle and delicate. ‘It’s okay.’
The dubstep shifted to some old-school jungle. Worse than the stuff in his head.
He stood up tall and composed himself. Sucked in breath, puffed out his chest. Let the breath go, along with the tears. Felt a couple of stone lighter.