by Ed James
‘Seven and a half. Assuming I go the quickest way. I want to rediscover this city.’ Kent nodded at Unwin. ‘Thanks for everything, Dalton.’ With a dip of the head, he left the meeting room and walked over to the stairs, a man without a care in the world.
Unwin sat back in his chair and let the breath go. ‘He’s making a mistake.’
‘You and I both know Mr Kent will change his mind when he can’t get work. Five years will get him a million quid. And you’ll get a cut.’
‘Touché.’
‘You know, the number of times I’ve worked cases that you’ve been involved with, where you’re defending some scumbag, I ask myself how you can do this for a living. How you can sleep at night. But when I see what you’ve done for him, I suppose that’s what you cling to, isn’t it?’
‘It’s all about taking victories like this. Our client work pays for the freedom of men and women who can’t pay for it themselves.’
Fenchurch exhaled slowly. ‘Do you think there’s anything in Liam’s evidence?’
‘It’s fairly detailed, I’ll give him that. My team have been through it, taking copious notes, but we were approaching it from a certain angle, proving Mr Kent’s innocence. There are many sources in there, many statements. It’s possible it’ll open doors for you in your case.’
‘Okay. Thanks, Dalton. I mean it.’
Unwin pushed up to standing. ‘If you follow me, we can sign the boxes over to your custody.’
‘Boxes?’
‘Yes. You’ll need a few trips.’
Fenchurch slotted the last box into the boot and looked up at the office. He thought he caught a wave from Unwin.
He’d need to get this lot over to Leman Street, get some DCs to sign it into evidence and transport the rest of it to Leman Street. Then fill a meeting room with it and get stuck in.
Weeks and months of work, with no guarantee it’d yield anything.
He slammed the boot and looked down the street. There was a fancy off-licence that sold the rosé Abi loved. Maybe he should get a bottle for her return tomorrow night, celebrate her and Chloe and Al being back.
His phone blasted out “Little Monster” by Royal Blood. He answered it and put it to his ear. ‘Evening, Stringer Bell.’
Bell sighed. ‘Simon, Simon, Simon, you’ll never tire of that, will you?’
‘Sorry, I should grow up. How can I help?’
‘Just wanted to call to say thank you.’
‘What for?’
‘Thanks to you, Simon, we’ve made excellent progress on Younis’s operation. We’ve got three drivers on record, and another six suspects. The noose is tightening.’
‘Well done, Jason. How big a medal do you want?’ Fenchurch set off towards the off-licence. Maybe some things were worth celebrating after all?
‘A medal?’
The off-licence door chimed and opened, then James Kent walked out, lugging a chinking plastic bag. He stopped and opened a beer can, then caught Fenchurch’s stare and turned tail and headed off towards the City.
‘Simon, you’ve really got the wrong idea about me.’
Fenchurch stood there, wanting to stop him, or at least have a word. Almost five years didn’t become five years if you drank a beer at the first sign of freedom.
Sod it, Fenchurch needed to stop the guy making a massive mistake. ‘Sorry, Jason, I need to go. Have a good weekend.’ He ended the call and set off after Kent.
Just in time to see a Transit van pull in just ahead of him, bumping onto the pavement. The driver door opened and a big man hopped down onto the street. He was wearing a balaclava.
Kent stopped dead. He dropped his bag and his can, the beer foaming up on the pavement.
Fenchurch pushed off into a sprint.
The man grabbed Kent and tore open the back door of the van.
Fenchurch was ten metres away, his knee staying strong, then five, then two and another stride and he flew forward, crashing shoulder-first into the attacker, knocking him into the van.
Fenchurch landed in a heap on the ground, only his hands stopping his face hitting the concrete.
Kent stared down at him from inside the van. ‘What the hell is going on?’
‘Run!’ Fenchurch tried to push up to standing, but something cracked off his shoulder from behind. He stumbled forward, then took a blow to the back of his knee, and the bastard thing rolled as he went down like a sack of potatoes. He lay there, tasting citrusy IPA and diesel fumes from the idling engine.
The man shut the door on Kent and jabbed a finger at Fenchurch. ‘Leave it.’ He ran off towards the open door.
Fenchurch slipped in spilt beer.
The van drove off into traffic. It had no licence plate.
Fenchurch hadn’t recognised the attacker.
26
Fenchurch could barely stand up. He had to rest against his car to open the door. And even then, he hadn’t managed to unlock it. He reached into his pocket for the keys and hit the button. The lights flashed.
‘What the devil happened?’ Unwin was outside his office, surrounded by other suits, presumably his staff.
‘Someone just kidnapped James Kent.’
‘What? Who?’
‘I’ve got a good idea.’ Fenchurch opened the door but didn’t get in. ‘Dalton, I need to ask you a big favour. Can you manage this area, get names of eyewitnesses? Just until some uniforms turn up.’
‘Of course.’ And Unwin set off towards the discarded carrier bag, shouting at two kids who were looking interested in it.
Fenchurch got in his car and headed off along the street, towards the City. Any closer and he’d have to call in favours from his mates in the City police, not that they were that friendly. He grabbed his radio. ‘Control, can you get two squad cars to the Liberal Justice office on Shoreditch High Street? There’s just been an abduction.’
‘Okay, sir, that’s them dispatched.’
‘Thanks. Another two things. First, can you get someone to bring in Liam Sharpe and Barney Richardson. Get the units to call DS Reed or DI Ashkani if they need any clarification.’
‘On it.’
‘Last thing. Please can you patch me through to DS Lisa Bridge?’ Fenchurch was stuck in the traffic at the lights. He could see the van up ahead, driving away. Sod it. He kicked down and shot into the oncoming lane, just as a bus hurtled towards him, then back in to his own side of the road, then hammering the accelerator as much as his knackered knee would allow. That whole side of his body was going numb.
And this whole thing was playing out just as he feared. In the belly of grief, Clive Taylor had taken Kent because of the overturned conviction, delivering his own vigilante justice.
Fenchurch shouldn’t have let him leave the court alone. He should’ve kept the uniform at his home. Should’ve got Liam to press charges. Should’ve done a million things.
‘Sir?’
‘Lisa, I really need you to roll up your sleeves. Time to pull up some CCTV for me. It’s urgent.’
Sounded like she was in an office at least. Though her sigh wasn’t a good sign. ‘Okay, where?’
Fenchurch swerved round the bend and hit the junction. Left was Commercial Street, right was Bishopsgate and the City. No obvious way Taylor would’ve taken. ‘Start on Shoreditch High Street, outside the Liberal Justice office.’
‘On it. Got a camera mounted on that hotel over the road.’
Fenchurch glanced at his clock. ‘Nine minutes ago.’ Sod it, he took the left turn, heading towards the river. ‘You’re looking for a Transit.’
‘Okay, so I’ve got that. Oh, and I can see you.’
‘Can you see someone take James Kent?’
‘I can— Wait, there we go. It’s… Jesus, that’s brutal. Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine.’ Fenchurch caught a fresh wave of beer, not even stale yet. ‘Can you follow the van?’
‘Just a second.’ Sounded like she was typing. ‘Yeah. I’ve got it on Bishopsgate.’
‘Bollocks.’ Fenchu
rch swung across the path of a van and shot up Folgate Street. ‘Any update?’
‘Lost it, sir. Sorry.’
‘Shit.’
‘Wait, I’ve got it on Folgate Street.’
‘Same as me.’ Fenchurch slowed and kept his gaze wide.
There, the van was hurtling towards him. The windscreen was tinted and he couldn’t see inside. Typical. It took the left, and powered down Elder Street.
Fenchurch swerved right to follow, but some bloody tourists got in his way. Took three honks of the horn before they cleared off, then he flew along a side street to a back road, and hit another junction. Another choice. ‘Okay, so next?’
‘I’ve got it back on Shoreditch High Street.’
‘Buggeration.’ Fenchurch floored it and shot left, over the railway line, then back up the start of Shoreditch, where he took the right-side chicane.
Outside Liberal Justice, two squad cars were helping Dalton Unwin secure his client’s booze takeaway.
God, he realised it was another potential target who needed to be taken care of. At least as central as Liam Kent’s liberation, the man who’d done all the legal wizardry.
‘Lisa, can you make sure Dalton Unwin is placed in protective custody?’
‘On it.’
‘Okay, where am I going now?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘You’ve lost him?’
‘Afraid so. I’ve got cameras all over that area, but there’s just no sign of it.’
Meaning he’d either dumped the van, maybe parked up somewhere, or lucked out and slipped through the net.
Neither of them were trivial tasks to solve and could take days tracking. But it didn’t stop Fenchurch driving up the high street, looking for any sign of a van.
‘I’m really sorry, sir.’
‘This isn’t on you, Lisa. You’ve done a great job.’
Fenchurch’s mobile rang with “Bigmouth Strikes Again”.
Reed calling…
He swapped calls. ‘Kay, can you call me back—’
‘It’s urgent, guv.’ She sighed. ‘Uniform said you were looking for Liam Sharpe?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, it just so happens that Bell’s team have a warrant on him.’
‘Bell?’
‘Sure. They’ve authorised covert surveillance on him. Looks like he’s a target in their investigation. Doesn’t even have a car to install a gizmo on, so they’ve tapped into the GPS on his mobile.’
‘Call Bell, tell him he owes me. We need his location immediately.’
‘On it.’
‘And have you got an update on Taylor?’
‘Nope.’
‘Christ.’
‘But uniform are at Schneider’s now. Barney Richardson left the court at four, but was meeting some colleagues in the pub.’
‘You know where?’
The Barrowboy and Banker was spitting distance from London Bridge with a good wind behind you.
Fenchurch got out into rain that was blown right at him, soaking his face like he was back in Glasgow. That thin mist you got on the west coast of Scotland. And it was already sluicing down his neck.
The Shard towered over his head, lit up in the night sky. Not too far away either. And not much further over to the Schneider’s office on More London Place, that little part of the city devoted to management consultancies. Perfect place to start an evening’s destruction.
Fenchurch looked inside the boozer, a place he knew from years ago. Some old mate of Abi’s who’d made it big as a banker, used to prop up the bar in there. Ended up selling up and moving to Devon. Or was that somebody else?
The wood panelling stretched over half the bar, with every table filled. No sign of anyone he recognised in the raised mezzanine at the back.
Fenchurch checked his phone again. Bridge’s text was so precise it even had an updated GPS location of Barney’s phone, and it hadn’t changed since the last time he’d checked. Meaning Barney was still here. Fenchurch clicked on it and it opened his map app. He pinched and zoomed in.
Bingo, the phone was behind him.
A throng of red-faced boozers stood by the door. No sign of Barney Richardson amongst them.
He stepped over with his warrant card out. ‘DCI Simon Fenchurch. Looking for a Bernard Richardson. You may know him as Barney.’
The guy nearest cradled his beer in a strange way. His black T-shirt had a stencilled picture of a horse and “Albion” emblazoned on it, though whether it was Brighton & Hove, West Brom, Burton or any number of Scottish teams was unclear. ‘Sorry, mate. Never heard of him.’
‘Any of the rest of you?’
They just stared into their pints.
Fenchurch checked the area again. No signs of Barney there. Sod it, he called the number.
A phone rang. Nearby. A familiar ringtone. The one from 24, that doot-doot-de-duh syncopated pattern, out of tune but catchy as hell. But no sign of anyone answering it. Sounded like it came from below.
Fenchurch spotted a glow from the gutter. A black Samsung rattled around, almost tipping down the drain.
Fenchurch crouched and picked it up in his sleeve. The screen was lit up, with his number displayed. He snapped on a glove and tried to get into the phone, but of course it was locked. He went back over to Albion Man and waved the phone around. ‘Did you see anyone drop this?’
Albion Guy shook his head. ‘Sorry, we’ve just got here.’
‘Thanks. Did anyone see a van?’
‘Wait a sec.’ His mate was frowning at Fenchurch. A ratty little guy with a pie in one hand and a pint of Stella in the other, a white T-shirt with “Crime” stencilled over a squash racquet. ‘Me and Jabs have been here since four.’ He burped, and seemed a bit too pissed for two hours of boozing. ’There was a Transit here. Some guy got in. Weird, because it was parked on this side. You know. It’s the wrong side. Had to swerve around to head up to the bridge.’
‘Did you see the plates?’
‘Sorry, no.’
‘Were there any?’
‘Asking the wrong man, sorry.’
‘Okay, thanks.’ Fenchurch stepped away from them and called Bridge. ‘Lisa, I’m outside the Barrowboy and Banker. Can you access the CCTV here? And send a squad of detectives to interview the drinkers outside, particularly one with a Crime Racquet T-shirt.’
‘Crime racket?’
‘Like a pun on squash racquet.’
‘Okay.’
‘Someone’s taken Barney Richardson. Same van as before.’
‘Wait, you’re down on London Bridge? How did they get over there?’
‘I think they took Barney first.’
‘Shit. Right.’
Fenchurch could picture it. Barney leaving the Old Bailey just before the judgement was cast down, then heading here to lose himself in booze with his workmates.
Clive Taylor must’ve seen that as callous. In his eyes, Barney’d just liberated the killer of his daughter, only to go out drinking.
Stood to reason he’d take Barney as well.
Noise clicked on this phone. ‘Sir, Kay’s here. Wants a word.’
The phone was muffled for a few seconds.
‘Guv, I’ve just spoken to DCI Bell. We’ve got a location on Liam Sharpe.’
27
Right back to the start.
Fenchurch got out of his car and the Old School Brewery was lit up like it hadn’t been a crime scene earlier that morning. Spirals of fairy lights covered the old trees in the playground, now filled with outside tables, though only a couple of hardy smokers were brave enough to smoke roll-ups in the lashing rain while they sipped from those small beer glasses, Schooners or whatever they were called. And the tang suggested it wasn’t just tobacco they were smoking.
Maybe letting Maynard and Neil open up the place wasn’t the smartest move, but he’d protected his crime scene down in the basement, kept the forensics locked tight while they served their beer upstairs.
Fenchurch walked through the entrance just like when he was a kid all those years ago, and it had that warm school feeling, like the iron radiators burned the air as well as heating it. Deep bass thudded like a steady heartbeat, clashing with some proper old cockney piano. Toasty pizza smells mixed with sour alcohol.
Fenchurch took it slowly as he walked down the corridor. If Liam was indeed here, then he needed to actually find him and get him into protective custody, and he was a slippery eel at the best of times, capable of rushing off before you’d even noticed him.
The brewery’s tap room was rammed. Either they didn’t know there’d been a murder downstairs in the last twenty-four hours, or they didn’t care. Or maybe it added to their enjoyment.
Liam stood by the bar, clutching a litre stein glass that none of the others seemed to have access to. Holding court was one way of putting it. He had a group of six men all hanging on his every word. ‘I mean, it’s all thanks to me, so of course I’ll take credit.’
Fenchurch was relieved to see him alive, well and not stuffed into the back of a van. And Liam was rat-arsed. God knows how many of those litres he’d drunk.
‘Not many guys land two massive stories on the same day.’ Liam burped into his glass, then took another drink. ‘But the biggest problem is my editor… She’s—’ He spotted Fenchurch and tried to hide behind his beer.
Fenchurch eased his way through the group. ‘Liam, a word.’
Someone nudged Fenchurch in the ribs. ‘Back off, mate.’
Fenchurch disarmed him with a glare. His mates got the same message and they all cleared off, dispersing throughout the room. Within seconds, Fenchurch couldn’t say which ones had been around Liam, except for the idiot with the flat cap playing Kraftwerk tunes in a cockney style on the upright piano.
‘I love you, Si.’ Liam was struggling to focus on Fenchurch. Absolutely hammered. ‘You come to help me celebrate being king of London?’
‘Would’ve thought you’d invite me to your coronation.’
Liam collapsed back onto a stool, but cradled his beer glass in both hands. ‘It’s a figure of speech, mate.’
‘What makes you king?’
