by Ed James
‘What brand were they?’
‘Benson & Hedges Gold.’
Fenchurch held up the shot of Hall’s stand-off with the bouncer. ‘This was taken at eight thirty on Thursday night. Twenty-five minutes before your excursion. It shows Mr Robert Hall in a heated discussion with one of your employees.’
Bruco snorted. ‘We chucked that geezer out.’
‘Why?’
‘You spoke to my girls last night and this morning, didn’t you?’ Bruco stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘So why don’t you tell me why we chucked him out?’
‘You’re playing a dangerous game here, Mr Vrykolakas.’
‘I’m innocent.’
‘Of what?’
‘Whatever you’re implying I’ve done.’
‘We’re investigating the murder of two prostitutes.’ Fenchurch tapped the page. ‘And Mr Hall here.’
‘Do these girls have names?’
‘Neither of them have been identified yet.’ Fenchurch tilted his head to the side. ‘We believe they were both sex workers, hence asking you whether you knew them.’
Bruco traced his finger down the thin pencil beard lining his jaw. He frowned, creases deepening across his forehead. ‘Could Jack the Ripper be back from the dead?’
Fenchurch rolled his eyes. ‘Oh, come on.’
‘You never caught him, did you?’
‘We know they worked for you. What were their names?’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘That’s the way you’re playing it, is it?’ Fenchurch tossed another sheet onto the tabletop. ‘Mr Vrykolakas, this CCTV shows you on Prescot Street at nine fifteen last night. That’s Mr Hall’s address. Twenty minutes have passed since this previous one.’ He prodded the photo outside The Alicorn. ‘You showed up at his flat around the time he died.’
‘No comment.’
‘Is this you in the picture?’
‘No comment.’
‘What did you do when you left your club?’
‘I went for a drive.’
Fenchurch grinned. ‘What did you do between leaving your club and turning up outside Mr Hall’s flat?’
‘I told you, I went for cigarettes.’
Fenchurch drew a circle with his finger around the shadowy figure next to Bruco. ‘Who’s your friend here?’
‘No comment.’
‘Speak to us, Mr Vrykolakas.’
‘My client has the right to remain silent. You might’ve heard of it?’
‘More than enough times.’ Fenchurch glared at Bruco. ‘You’re going to be charged with the murder of Mr Hall unless you start cooperating.’
‘No further comment.’
‘Gentlemen, we’re done here.’ Edgar started packing away his stationery. ‘Do I need to stay to witness more harassment of an innocent man or can I go grab a burger?’
‘Go get your burger.’ Fenchurch nodded at the Custody Officer. ‘Take Mr Vrykolakas downstairs and stick him in a cell, please.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
Thanks for taking a back seat, Simon.’ Docherty held his office door open to let Fenchurch through. ‘I needed Dawn to focus on processing the whole lot of them. There’s a lot of girls and punters in that bloody club.’
‘I didn’t see Erica McArthur there.’
‘That’s very specific, Si.’
‘She was very helpful last time, that’s all.’ Fenchurch perched on the edge of the desk. He winced as the rib flared up again. Had bruises all over his arse. ‘Did you watch the interview?’
‘Caught the bit of his lawyer going for a burger. Cheeky bastard.’
‘I wished I could’ve torn that bloody beard off.’
‘I bet that’s not the end of it.’
‘Those braces were ripe for snapping, as well.’ Fenchurch yawned. ‘Been a long day, boss.’
‘I suspect tomorrow’ll be even worse. We had a shut case and now you’ve bloody opened it again.’ Docherty leaned against the closed door. ‘You think this Bruco character killed him?’
‘Him or his accomplice.’ Fenchurch slumped back, his hip touching the monitor. ‘Hall’s death isn’t looking accidental or suicidal.’
‘You honestly think they forced him to OD?’
‘Only logical conclusion I can come up with.’
‘Guy got turfed out of that club.’ Docherty started fiddling with the doorknob, tightening and untightening. ‘I can’t imagine he did anything bad enough to warrant what they did to him.’
‘They could’ve just paid him a visit and found him dead.’
‘If that’s their story, we can still do them with something.’
‘I’m sure DI Mulholland’s team will find out, boss.’
‘Aye, well. Early report is the girls who were on last night are keeping quiet about what happened with Mr Hall.’
‘Bloody typical. TPU had The Alicorn on their radar but didn’t even have the manager’s name.’
‘You think they’re bent?’
‘I’m not saying anything of the sort, boss.’ Fenchurch winked. ‘That club’s linked to prostitution and they’ve done nothing about it.’
‘Well, Hall’s PM is first thing in the morning. I want you out in Lewisham, okay?’ Docherty stood up. ‘I’ve had to move heaven and bloody earth to get Pratt to come in on a Saturday morning.’
‘Fair enough.’ Fenchurch walked over to the door. ‘Will I see you at the briefing?’
‘Aye, that’ll be shining bright.’
‘That’ll be what?’
‘Never mind.’ Docherty laughed. ‘Get out of here.’
Fenchurch went back into the corridor and fumbled with his phone as he walked. No messages from—
‘Guv.’ Nelson clapped him on the back. ‘Good result, right?’
‘I’ve had easier ones, Jon.’ Fenchurch touched his side. ‘My rib’s bloody aching and I think my whole body’s purple.’
‘Seen anyone about it?’
‘Duty doctor said it’s just bruising.’
‘Well, whatever. We’ve got him.’
Fenchurch stopped by the stairwell. ‘That was some good work with the CCTV earlier, Jon. You and Kay have still got the chops. I’ve no idea what to do with all that stuff.’
‘Can’t use new technology?’
‘Eh?’
‘Never mind. Let’s use the next one as a training exercise. Are you up for a celebratory beer, guv?’
‘You know, I’d actually love one, but I’ve got another appointment tonight.’
Fenchurch shivered outside the tenement and pressed the buzzer again. Up on the top floor, the lights from inside bleached the brick. Back along Barford Street, the old-fashioned lamp glowed in the downpour, raindrops caught in the haze. ‘Come on, come on, come on.’
‘Hello?’
‘Abi, it’s Simon.’
‘You’re late.’
‘I know, I’m sorry.’
‘Well, you did warn me, I suppose.’
The door clunked open and he stepped inside, dripping rain onto the tiles. He climbed the spiral stairs, swallowing hard. Half eight wasn’t that late. He reached her floor and knocked on her flat door. His old home. Same as it ever was.
The pale-blue door opened. Abi peered out into the hall. She’d lost weight and gained lines, her eyes ringed with dark bags. Her hair was much shorter, touching her earlobes instead of her shoulders. She still looked miles better than him. She grinned at him, dimpling her cheek.
He smiled back, his heart thudding. Drums cannoned in his ears. ‘You’ve painted the door.’
She tilted her head, frowning. ‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’
‘It’s good to see you.’ He coughed. ‘You’re looking well.’
‘And you.’ She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. ‘In you come.’
He followed her inside. She’d replaced the old red carpet with gleaming floorboards. The grey walls were now a stark white, like an art gallery. New spotlights, too. ‘T
he flat looks good.’
‘Finally got round to painting it in the summer.’ She looked him up and down. ‘My God, you’re soaked.’
‘It’s tipping it down out there.’
‘I’ll get you a towel.’
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Ever the martyr.’
Bloody martyrdom. ‘I was going to blame my lateness on the Star Wars queue.’
‘You’re old enough to remember it the first time round.’ Abi led him into the kitchen with a cheeky grin on her face.
The dimple . . .
The extractor droned away above a steaming pot on the hob, garlic aroma filling the room. She stirred the pan and tapped the spoon on the side. ‘It’s just about done.’
‘Smells good. But I thought it’d be ready an hour ago?’
‘I knew better than that, Simon.’ She reached over and pressed start on the microwave. The machine hummed as it spun around. ‘Beer?’
‘Better not. I’m driving.’
‘I got them in especially for you.’
He smiled. ‘Just the one, then.’
‘Have a seat.’ She pointed into the corner.
He sat down. Another new arrangement. Grey table and chairs almost matching the new subway tiles on the wall. They’d replaced the marks as Chloe grew up.
She poured beer into a glass. It foamed up. ‘Here you go.’ She dumped the bottle down and handed him the glass, half foam.
Fenchurch took it and tilted it up. ‘Here’s cheers.’ Craft beer attacked his tongue. Hops turned up to eleven. ‘God, that’s good stuff.’
‘Glad you like it.’ She took a mouthful of white wine. The glass was way below anyone’s measure of halfway. ‘You look like shit, by the way.’
‘Thanks. I feel like shit. Just had the pleasure of receiving a kicking from a nightclub owner. Feels like he cracked a rib.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘I’ll live.’
‘Did you catch him?’
‘Eventually. Ended up chasing the bugger onto the Northern Line.’ He held up a hand. ‘Not the tracks.’
She sat opposite and flattened down her skirt. ‘Take it you’re busy?’
‘Same as it ever was.’ He grinned. ‘Can’t talk about it.’
‘You mean you won’t talk about it.’
‘True.’ Another pull of cold beer. ‘Bastard of a case, Ab.’
‘What is it?’
‘You really want to know?’
‘If it’ll stop you being such a bloody nightmare, then yes.’
‘Two dead girls, young women really. Both killed by the same geezer, only he’s turned up dead.’ He took another glug of beer. ‘This is my life, Ab. Death and murder.’
‘I take it you’ve closed it?’
‘I wish. Still got a mountain of paperwork to get through. A load of interviews still taking place, not all of the evidence is collected. Not got a motive, either.’
She drained her glass. ‘There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?’
‘Like what?’
‘I know you, Simon Fenchurch. What you don’t tell me.’
‘This case . . . It’s a bit close to home, Ab. I really shouldn’t talk about it.’
The microwave pinged and Abi went over to the fridge. She got out a bottle of wine and refilled her glass. ‘Simon, the only way you’ll bloody talk to me is about work. Spill.’
‘There’s a couple of things.’ Fenchurch finished his glass and poured in the rest of the small bottle. A lot less foam with his trained hand. ‘It reminds me a lot of . . . what happened.’
‘Say it.’
The beer fizzed away, tiny sparks popping just above the surface. ‘I mean what happened to us.’
‘Say her bloody name.’
‘Fine.’ He let out a deep sigh and looked up. ‘I mean Chloe.’
She took a big hit of wine and dumped the bottle on the counter, uncorked. ‘How does it remind you of her?’
‘There’s this girl. Her name’s Erica. She’s eighteen, works in a nightclub. A lap-dancing bar. There’s something about her. She thinks I’m her father.’
Abi slammed the glass down. ‘Is it Chloe?’
‘No.’ Like he knew the answers. Like he knew anything. ‘She asked if I want her to be my daughter.’
‘You told her we’d lost Chloe? Why the bloody hell did you do that?’
‘Because . . . I don’t know. I just did. I was tired and . . . My head’s so full of shit. This case. Seeing that girl. Wanting to do something.’
Abi reached into the microwave for a steaming bowl and tipped the contents onto two plates. She ladled sauce on top and handed him one. ‘Here you go.’
‘Looks brilliant.’ Fenchurch put it on the table. Little bows of pasta, some sort of green filling inside. No appetite, no matter how good it smelled. ‘I’ve pissed you off.’
She sat down and had another drink. ‘It’s fine.’
‘Not even in the door five minutes and I’ve made you want to open a vein.’
‘I did ask.’ She stabbed a fork into a parcel. Didn’t lift it up, just held it against the plate. ‘What else do you know about this girl?’
‘Nothing much.’ Fenchurch stared at the ceiling. ‘She doesn’t remember her dad. What little she does, she said I reminded her of him.’
‘I said evidence, not what you want to hear.’
‘I swear I’ve not been putting words in her mouth.’
‘What have you been putting in her mouth?’
‘Abi, there’s nothing going on. Bloody hell.’ Fenchurch speared a pasta parcel with a fork and held it in the air. Steam twisted up from it. ‘She got me in my weakest point.’ He swallowed without eating it. ‘Chloe’d be eighteen by now. Same age as Erica.’
‘We both lost her.’
He put the pasta back on the plate, uneaten. ‘I lost you as well. Lost my marriage, my bloody future.’
‘You stopped speaking to me that day.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘No, you didn’t, did you? You asked me about cups of tea and where your socks were. Never talked about how you bloody felt.’
‘I tried to. Believe me, I tried.’ He took a slug of beer. The booze was flushing his cheeks. Took the edge off his ribs, though. ‘I went looking for her. Every day, before and after work.’ He bared his teeth. ‘I’d sit outside here, watching for whoever took her.’ He dug the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. ‘Then you kicked me out.’
‘I didn’t want to, Simon. I still . . .’ She took another drink of wine. ‘I don’t know what I still do or don’t feel.’
‘I still love you, Abi. Never stopped.’
‘Right.’ She shut her eyes and massaged her forehead. Then another sip of wine. ‘This girl’s playing you, but you’re too blind to see it.’
He shook his head. ‘But what if she knows what happened to Chloe?’
‘Could you believe anything she said?’
‘Maybe.’
‘What does your dad say about it?’
Fenchurch scowled at her. ‘Dad?’
‘You know he phones me. He reckons he’s onto something.’
Fenchurch reached into his pocket for his mobile. ‘I’m going to tell him to bloody stop calling you.’
‘No, it’s fine. It shows someone cares.’
‘He still shouldn’t be doing it.’
‘Why not? You’re still hunting. Still checking her case file every bloody day.’
Fenchurch didn’t have a response to that.
She reached a hand across the table. ‘You need to move on, Simon.’
He gripped her soft hands, like silk, and blinked away a battery of tears. ‘But what if she’s out there, Ab? What if she misses us as much as we miss her?’
‘Simon, stop. This is killing you.’
‘I wish I could stop.’
She pulled her hand away. ‘Why have you come here?’
‘To see you. To talk.’
‘If y
ou want to . . . If you want to talk, you need to be prepared to move on.’
‘I don’t know if I can.’
‘Simon, you need to let go of her. It’s the past.’
Fenchurch shut his eyes. Tears ringed the lids. He sucked in a deep breath and opened them again. ‘The pain’s still at a thousand, Ab. I can’t just let go. All I bloody do every day is dredge up the past. Looking into other people’s lives. Why did they die? Who wanted to kill them? Who’d benefit from their death?’ He sighed. ‘I haven’t got any answers to those questions about Chloe.’
‘Simon, this fire in your gut is killing you.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Fenchurch stared at his full plate, the red pasta parcel still on the fork. An inch of beer in the glass. He scraped the chair back and got up. ‘Thanks for dinner.’
‘Simon, wait—’
Fenchurch stormed out of the flat and thumped down the stairs, wiping at his wet cheeks. He bumped past Quentin, still Abi’s neighbour and still in rude health. Same as it bloody ever was. He stepped out into the rain and let his tears merge with the deluge. He looked up at the flat.
Abi was in the living room, looking down at him. She gave a gentle wave, the other hand covering her mouth.
He flicked up his hand and set off for the car.
What a bloody idiot. Same old Fenchurch.
Day 4
Saturday, 19th December 2015
Chapter Twenty-Seven
You’re not listening to me.’ Fenchurch crunched back in his seat and tightened the grip on the handset, the cord coiling away to the desk phone. He slurped his morning tea in its Christmassy Pret container, all reds and greens. Bloody enforced happiness. Rain battered against the windows, still pitch-dark outside. His legs felt like he’d spent all night squatting at the gym. ‘That DNA could be the key to this bloody case.’
Clooney sighed down the line. ‘You don’t have to keep putting pressure on me, you know?’
‘So when am I getting the results back?’
‘DNA sequencing takes time. I can’t just click my fingers and magic them up.’
‘Not this long, though. It’s 2015.’
‘It’s less than a week to Christmas, Simon. You know how many people die in suspicious circumstances at this time of year?’