by Ed James
A paramedic crouched down beside her, obscuring the view. His green uniform was tight over his bulky arms, less than half of it muscle. He gave Fenchurch a nod as he adjusted his hipster glasses, cream outlining the black frames. Short hair swept back over a barely concealed bald spot. ‘Can I help you?’ Northern Irish accent, Belfast by the sounds of it.
‘DI Fenchurch.’ He showed his warrant card.
The paramedic stood up and had a long look before handing it back. ‘You in charge?’
‘I guess so. Where’s Pratt gone?’
‘What are you saying, pal?’ Nostrils flared, eyes narrowed. ‘You calling me a prat?’
Fenchurch pointed at the receding figure, now slipping through the outer cordon. ‘Dr William Pratt.’
‘Right, right. I didn’t know that was him.’ The paramedic got up and snapped off his gloves. ‘The name’s Jonny Platt. Heard people call me a prat since I was this high.’ He held out a hand at waist height. ‘He barged in here, took a little look at her and cleared off. Didn’t even give a name, said I’ve got to get this body out to Lewisham. Can you sign it off?’
‘Did he say anything about the victim?’
‘Not to me, sorry. I was here first, though. Hell of a business.’
Fenchurch tried to swallow down the lump in his throat. ‘Could we have saved her?’
‘Look, I couldn’t and I’m trained in this.’ Platt traced a line across his throat. ‘Got both of her carotid arteries. Brain death was inevitable. Missed the trachea, though.’
Fenchurch took another look at her. Another unknown body . . . ‘Okay, shift her once Clooney’s finished.’
‘Oh, come on. The SOCOs’ll be ages.’
‘I don’t make the rules. Has DS Reed—’
‘Guv!’ DS Kay Reed stood in front of a mobile phone shop, an arm wrapped round Abi. Looked like she’d collapsed in on herself, shoulders hunched and staring at the pavement. Reed tilted her head up at Fenchurch as he approached, jaw clenched tight. She ran a hand over her red hair, tied back in the old Croydon facelift, an overtight ponytail smoothing out her forehead.
Fenchurch tried to make eye contact with his wife. Nothing. Back to Reed. ‘Thanks for getting here so soon, Kay.’
She gave a shrug with her free shoulder. ‘Did you get him, guv?’ Essex accent despite ten years in London.
‘On his way to the station. Jon Nelson’s coming in as well.’ Fenchurch tried to get Abi’s attention again but it wasn’t happening. Another glance at Reed. ‘I saw Pratt leaving.’
‘Yeah. Good thing is he lives around the corner like you. Bad thing is he’s late for the theatre or something.’
‘So you spoke to him? Did he give you anything?’
‘You know what he’s like.’ Reed was barely holding it together, herself. ‘She never stood a chance, guv. Looks like an expert to my untrained eye.’
‘Have you got an ID for her?’
‘Not yet, I’m afraid. Didn’t have a purse or anything on her.’ Reed let her grip go a touch.
Abi looked up from the ground, noticing him for the first time. ‘Simon.’
Fenchurch thumbed behind them. ‘Kay, get this place organised, would you?’
‘Guv.’ She set off, looking reluctant to leave them.
Fenchurch clutched Abi’s hand tight and led her away from the crime scene. ‘How you doing, love?’
‘She . . .’ Abi shut her eyes and swallowed. ‘She died.’
Fenchurch glanced over at the paramedic, now humping the body onto a gurney. His stomach burnt. ‘I saw. Are you—’
‘Right in front of me, Simon.’ Abi stared into space again. ‘The girl.’ She locked eyes with him. ‘I stayed with her but she just slipped away. Just stopped breathing.’
Fenchurch wrapped her up in a deep hug. ‘It’s okay, love.’
‘It’s not.’ She pushed back and thumped his chest, but her heart wasn’t in it. ‘I could’ve saved her.’
‘Nobody could’ve, love. It’s okay.’ Fenchurch pecked the top of her head. The wild flower scent mixed with a bitter tang. ‘Did she tell you her name?’
A frown appeared as she focused on him. ‘She said something like camel.’
‘Camel? What?’
‘I don’t know. Could be Kamal.’
‘You sure?’
‘No. I’m not sure at all, Simon.’ Eyes like fire. ‘She was too busy dying and spitting out blood to make sure she was clearly heard. Jesus.’
Fenchurch tightened his hug. ‘I wish you hadn’t seen that.’
‘I should’ve saved her.’ Clothing muffled her voice, her head stuck to his chest. ‘She didn’t need to die.’
‘It’s not your fault.’ Fenchurch let her go and tried a smile on for size. Didn’t really fit. ‘There was nothing you could do. Nothing anyone could’ve done. The paramedics—’
‘I hate that.’ She looked up, hair plastered to her face. ‘Of course there’s something—’ Tears were streaking down her cheeks. ‘I should’ve . . .’
‘As soon as that kid stuck the knife in her throat, that was it.’ Fenchurch nodded over to the ambulance as Platt slammed the back door and trotted round the front. ‘The paramedic couldn’t save her. She’d need to get to hospital. University College or Royal London, both are about ten minutes from here.’ Fenchurch gripped her hand tighter. ‘You did all you could, love, okay?’
She brushed the hair from her face. ‘Did you get him?’
‘He’s on the way to the station.’ Fenchurch kissed her on the lips. ‘Have you given your statement?’
‘Kay was going to do it.’ She grimaced, her pupils like red-hot coals. ‘Put him away for this, Simon.’
Chapter Three
Fenchurch parked outside the back of Leman Street station, the brick grid-work glowing in the sodium glare. He got out of his car and gave a nod at the figure leaning against the wall. ‘Thanks for coming in, Sergeant.’
DS Jon Nelson sucked on a vape stick and exhaled, sending a cloud of nicotine into the night air. He tugged at his suit jacket, as if drawing attention away from his belly. ‘Not like I had anything important on tonight, guv.’ He gave a grin as he pocketed the e-cigarette, his deep voice echoing around the tight space. ‘There’ll be other parents’ nights.’
‘Sadly, there’ll be other murders.’ Fenchurch swiped the back door and tucked in his ID lanyard. ‘Kid upstairs?’
‘Room three.’ Nelson marched across the floor tiles. ‘Not asked for a lawyer.’
‘Let’s hope he keeps it that way.’
Nelson entered first and started jogging up the stairs, losing his breath after the first few steps. ‘How’s Abi?’
‘Not good. You and I have seen this sort of thing a few times. She hasn’t.’ Fenchurch opened the door to their floor and stopped, rubbing at his nose. ‘Happened right in front of my eyes, Jon.’
‘Jesus.’ Nelson led off down the corridor, his lopsided walk getting more pronounced by the day. ‘Must feel pretty weird being a witness for once.’
‘A world of difference to giving them a grilling, that’s for sure.’ Fenchurch paused outside the interview room and rested his hand on the handle. ‘Got a name from him yet?’
‘Not said anything. No ID on him. No bank cards, no security, no nothing.’
‘What about those mobiles he had?’
Nelson lifted up a load of evidence bags, each one containing a high-end mobile. ‘Your guess is as good as mine, guv. Not sure if any of them belong to the victim.’
Fenchurch took one off him. A gleaming HTC thing, looked just like an iPhone. ‘Killing someone over a bloody phone. What’s the world coming to?’ He shook his head and pushed into the room.
The black kid he’d chased was leaning against the table, chin resting on his wrists. He looked even younger, like a frightened rabbit more than a stone-cold killer. His dark skin almost sucked in the light. He ran his fingers along the short cornrows on his head, uneven lines zigzagging across his scalp, twirled into
long strands at the back. He’d draped his grey hoodie on the tabletop, maybe to draw attention to his yellow Superdry shirt. It certainly showed off his marathon runner arms and torso, skinny to the point of bony. A wonder that a forty-two-year-old had caught him.
‘Hello again.’ Fenchurch perched on a chair and shrugged off his suit jacket. He started the recorder going and glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘Interview commenced at seven sixteen p.m. Present are myself, DI Simon Fenchurch, and DS Jonathan Nelson.’ He took his time rolling up his shirtsleeves, gaze drilling into the kid. ‘You going to give us your name, son?’
He just sniffed and looked away.
‘That’s how you’re playing it, is it?’ Fenchurch scratched at his chin, rasping like sandpaper. ‘See, I saw you stab a girl with my own eyes.’
‘I ain’t did nothing, man.’
‘So you do speak.’ Fenchurch tried a grin, see if that keeps him talking. ‘This girl died not long after you stabbed her. We’ve got three witnesses on Upper Street giving statements about what you did. I’ll add another once we’re done here. Once you’ve confessed.’
Another petulant sniff. ‘I told you, man. I ain’t did nothing.’
‘You stabbed a woman with a knife. Then you cycled away. I chased you and caught you.’
The kid gave a wink. ‘You sure it was me, bruv?’
‘I saw you. You don’t run unless you’re guilty.’
‘You saw a black kid riding a bike, that’s all.’ The kid smirked, pupils dipping behind his sockets. ‘I can’t afford no bike, man. Don’t got a job.’
‘You dumped it when you ran into my car. Then you stole a Boris bike, which you left outside the flats on Buxton Court.’
‘Call them Santander cycles, man.’ The smirk widened, joined by gleaming white teeth. ‘Not Boris bikes.’
‘You killed that girl.’
‘Weren’t me, bruv.’
‘So why were you running from me, then?’
‘Because police brutality, man. You saw the colour of my skin.’ He looked over at Nelson, still standing by the wall, and shot him a smile. ‘What do you think of that, brother?’
‘I’m not your brother.’
The kid sniffed again and stared up at the ceiling, bobbing his head to some silent beat.
Nelson stepped forward and dumped the bags onto the table. ‘Care to tell us why you had seven smartphones on your person when DI Fenchurch arrested you?’
‘Juggling a lot of girls, you know? Use all me minutes every month. Got a system to keep ’em keen.’
‘Charming.’ Nelson sat next to Fenchurch, the chair leg scraping off the floor. Probably deliberate. ‘Heard of guys doing that sort of thing with two phones, maybe three. Not seven.’
‘Them boys not getting as much as me, bruv.’
Nelson tossed another bag on the table, containing a flip-top Motorola looking like it came from the Iron Age. Smart was the last thing it was. ‘This is the eighth.’ He nudged it until it touched the hoodie. ‘It’s what we call a burner. A pay-as-you-go SIM in a disposable handset. You can toss the SIM or you can toss the mobile, doesn’t matter. No contacts on the card. Memorise all the numbers you need. Input them the old-fashioned way.’ He picked it up and started playing with the buttons. ‘I had a look through this one. Turns out the only call made was to a number entered manually.’ He gave the sort of grin a snake would before eating a mouse. ‘We’re tracing it just now.’
The kid stared at him, silent. Just the ticking of the clock and the hum of the digital recorder. Another sniff. ‘That ain’t my phone.’
‘No?’ Nelson pulled it back towards him. ‘It was in your hoodie pocket when my DI arrested you.’
‘He’s planting evidence on me, man. It’s racist. All cops is racist, bruv.’
Nelson pushed the smartphones over to the kid. ‘Can you unlock these phones for me?’
‘No way, man.’
‘You just said they’re yours, right?’ Nelson flicked up an eyebrow, head tilted slightly. ‘You should be able to unlock them, if that’s the case.’
‘I ain’t doing nothing, man.’
‘These aren’t your phones, then?’
Tick. Tick. Tick. Sniff.
‘You’re an Apple picker, aren’t you? You steal smartphones off people in the street.’
‘Nah, man.’
‘You nick iPhones and posh Samsungs. Fence them with some shop owner in Walthamstow or Mile End. These shops sell them on to people who don’t care where they come from. People who just want the logo on the back.’ Nelson held up a bagged iPhone, silver-white and looking so high-tech it could guide you to the moon if only you knew how to use it. ‘How much do you get for one of these? Couple of hundred?’
‘iPhones aren’t worth nicking, man. Kill switch, innit?’
Nelson grinned. ‘You shouldn’t have said that.’
The kid jabbed a finger towards him. ‘You work for the white man, bruv. Betray your race. Get away from me. You a slave.’
Nelson cleared his throat, nostrils twitching. Clenching and unclenching his fists. ‘You telling me you’re emancipated?’
The grin turned to a frown. ‘A man say what?’
‘E-man-ci-pated. It means liberated from the slave trade.’
‘Go to hell. You like an Oreo cookie, bruv. Black on the outside, white on the inside, know what I’m saying?’
‘Only too well.’ Nelson nudged the burner back across. ‘Can we look at your phone, please?’
‘I don’t consent to that.’
‘Unlock it. Now.’
‘Said, I don’t consent to that.’
Fenchurch raised a hand to Nelson and leaned forward, narrowing his eyes at the kid. ‘The person you killed. Who is she?’
‘Don’t know who you talking about, bruv.’
‘Like I said earlier, I saw you on Upper Street. You cycled up to her, stabbed her in the neck and rode off. You might remember me chasing you.’
‘Don’t remember nothing. Where’s this knife, then?’
The little shit had tossed it somewhere. But where? How could he have done it?
Fenchurch swallowed, trying to compose himself. ‘Your victim looks, I don’t know. Twenty? Twenty-five?’
‘You’re lying, bitch. Ain’t killed nobody.’
‘You murdered her for her bloody mobile. That’s really low.’ Fenchurch flicked through the bagged smartphones. ‘Which one of these is hers?’
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about. Wasn’t me, bruv.’
‘You severed that woman’s carotid artery. Know what that means?’
‘You guys trying to show me as some dumb black kid? I know what carotid means.’ He tapped at his neck, just below his ear. Then repeated the gesture on the other side. ‘Pair of arteries right here.’
‘Impressive.’ Fenchurch ran his fingers across a Sony phone, squat and shiny. ‘From what I can gather, this attack was clinical. Precise. Like the killer knew what to aim for. Makes me think this might not be random.’
‘Wasn’t me did it, though.’
‘You dug the knife into her neck. She didn’t stand a chance. How old are you?’
‘Eighteen, bruv.’
‘Sure about that?’
‘Saying I don’t look it? Think all blacks look old, is that it?’
‘You look like a kid to me.’
‘Prefer your rent boys older, do you?’
Cheeky little sod. Fenchurch shook his head. ‘When we put you away, son, you’ll not get out until you’re forty, I reckon. At least. Even with good behaviour. There’s a big crackdown on phone theft just now. Add in a murder . . .’ He tutted and left space for the kid to fill.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
‘I ain’t done nothing, bitch.’
‘You’re going away for this, son.’
‘You and Oreo think that so? I want a lawyer.’
Fenchurch gripped his right bicep, his free hand stroking his chin. ‘After we’re done with you.’
‘Lawyer.’
‘I said, after we’re done with you.’
‘Lawyer.’
Fenchurch let his arms drop to his side. Better let the little scrote get his wish, as they didn’t want someone tearing the conviction apart. He nodded at Nelson. ‘Get him his bloody lawyer, Jon.’
Chapter Four
‘There we go, guv.’ Nelson waved a hand at the monitor in the CCTV suite. ‘It’s show time.’
Fenchurch moved away from the cold wall and rested against the back of another chair, fingers grinding against the fraying felt.
DC Lisa Bridge tapped at her keyboard then ran a hand through her blonde hair, resetting the spiky messiness. ‘Watch this, sir.’
Grainy footage filled the screen, sharp and greyscale. The camera looked across Upper Street from the Camden Passage. Fenchurch’s car pulled into a space. Seconds later, he and Abi got out and climbed up to the pavement. They chatted briefly, then she went into the bookshop. Fenchurch sat next to a couple, grinning to himself and looking like a sex pest. On the left, the victim emerged from a crowd crossing from Angel underground.
Fenchurch stabbed a finger at the monitor. ‘Has she been in the tube station?’
‘Maybe.’ Bridge scribbled a note on her Airwave Pronto. ‘I’ll get someone on it, sir.’
The woman paced up the street, thumbing at her phone and glancing back the way she’d come. She tugged her bag, like it was—
‘Pause it.’ Fenchurch waited until the image froze then drew a circle around her arm. Looked like some expensive job, the sort that just about fit a kitchen sink in. ‘We didn’t get her bag, did we?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’ Bridge held up her Pronto, showing the Crime Scene Inventory on the case master file. ‘There’s not much on here, sir, but nothing about a bag.’
Fenchurch stood up tall and sucked in the old electronics musk, sharp and hot. ‘So that little shit dumped it before I clattered into him.’
Bridge made a note on the Pronto. ‘Shall I keep going?’
