by Ed James
Fenchurch shut his eyes and swallowed. ‘Abi said she spoke to her as she died. How could she, if the arteries were cut?’
‘Because her assailant missed her trachea.’ Pratt caressed the throat, less like a lover and more like a butcher. ‘Speech would’ve been entirely possible.’ He removed his hand and tightened the glove. ‘If only one of the carotids had been cut, there’s a possibility she could’ve survived. One would’ve carried enough oxygenated blood to the brain to allow Mr Platt to do his work. The body has some wonderful coping mechanisms.’ He sighed and knitted his brow as he looked down at the victim. ‘But, alas, nothing could save young Ms Barnett here.’
Fenchurch felt the air squeeze out of his lungs again. Dots of light spiralled round at the edge of his vision. Blinking didn’t make them go away. He cleared his throat. ‘That’s it?’
‘For once, it’s all as it appears to be.’ Pratt tore off his mask as he stepped away from the body. ‘While the victim was menstruating, her blood chemistry was exactly as I’d expect.’ He paused to frown at a dim shape visible through the glass. ‘In you come, Georgie-Porgie.’
Clooney opened the door and waltzed in, eyes dancing around the room, piercings rattling. ‘Less of that, please.’
‘Sorry, force of habit.’ Pratt gave Fenchurch a sidelong glance then winked at the SOCO.
‘I’m terribly sorry I couldn’t attend, gentlemen.’ Clooney thumbed at Fenchurch. ‘But this frightful bore has me working my fingers to the bone.’
Fenchurch folded his arms. ‘I’m not that boring, am I?’
‘Maybe not, but you are frightful. Anyhow . . .’ Clooney pulled out a tablet computer and cradled it like a newborn. ‘There it bloody is.’ He grabbed the bagged knife in his free hand. ‘Good news is we’ve confirmed the blood type matches Saskia’s. I’d say that’s pretty much conclusive, though I can run DNA if you want.’
‘Please.’
Clooney groaned as he tapped the screen, his long fingernail clacking off the glass. ‘Noted.’ He swiped across the display and frowned. ‘Oh, we’ve not finished the prints yet.’
‘But you are working on them?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, that’s all I ask.’ Fenchurch patted Pratt on the arm, making him jump. ‘We done here?’
‘Indeed. I shall see you anon.’
What a bloody waste of a morning.
Fenchurch’s belly rumbled as he climbed the stairs, trying to decide where to get a burrito from on the way back to Leman Street. There was that van opened up in Bermondsey he’d been meaning to try. Or the Tortilla by Borough Market at a push.
‘Simon!’
Fenchurch spun round.
His old man was jogging towards him across the Lewisham concourse, his Paisley-patterned tie flapping around. He stopped by Fenchurch and hunched over, sucking in breath. His lined face was dotted with liver spots and the new Des Lynam moustache made him look like a janitor. ‘What you doing out here, son?’
Fenchurch let him rest against him. ‘I’m in a hurry, Dad.’
‘You not got time for lunch with your old man?’
‘Not today. Sorry.’
‘Been a while since we had a sit-down.’ Dad’s breathing was just about under control. ‘What brings you here? A new case?’
‘A murder. Fresh one, too.’ Fenchurch felt his eyes start to water. ‘Happened right in front of my eyes. Ab was there, too.’
‘Christ.’ Dad clamped a hand to his arm. ‘You okay?’
‘I’ll live. It’s Abi I’m worried about, Dad. She was with the girl when she died.’
Dad shook his head slowly, flattening down his bushy moustache with both hands. ‘I wouldn’t mind a word with you.’
‘What about?’
Dad sucked in a long breath. ‘What do you think?’
‘Chloe.’ Fenchurch brushed his hand off and started off across the dimpled lino. ‘You know I stopped looking. I can’t do this any more.’
‘Just hear me out, Si—’
‘Hoping she was alive has taken years off my life. I can’t keep doing this to myself. And I certainly won’t do it to Abi.’ Fenchurch stormed off through the front door, his fists clenched tight.
Old goat never could take a bloody telling.
Fenchurch collapsed into his seat and tore another ring of foil off his burrito as he chewed. The beef positively sang with the cumin, melted in his mouth. Worth the extra trip over to Borough Market.
A knock at the door. He looked up.
Reed stood there, eyes on Fenchurch’s lunch. She sat opposite. ‘That looks good, guv.’
‘It is good.’ Fenchurch finished chewing and swallowed. ‘What’s been going on here?’
Reed got out her Pronto and checked the screen. ‘The SOCOs are done with all of the crime scenes, guv. Found nothing useful.’
‘Figures. Clooney’s been on blue-arsed-fly mode, or so he says. Keep close to him.’
‘Will do. They’re still running tests but I’m not holding my breath on anything positive coming from it.’ Reed grabbed a tortilla chip from the open bag on Fenchurch’s desk. He let it slide — it was one of those days and there were too many anyway. ‘Been through all the statements line by line since I got back from your little scuffle. Spent a good hour putting together a lovely timeline. It’s on the wall in the Incident Room.’
Fenchurch finished chewing another mouthful, his mouth in blissful agony. ‘Any noticeable gaps?’
‘Still a couple just before he nicked that bike. Trying to plug it, but . . .’
Nelson appeared behind Reed. ‘Thought I could smell Mexican food.’
Fenchurch grabbed a handful of chips and dipped them in the tub of guacamole. ‘You know how Abi and I were in Edinburgh in January after we renewed our vows? Well, had a haggis burrito there. Lovely.’
Nelson made a face. ‘What’s in that?’
‘Offal and stuff. Mostly black pepper. Very tasty.’
‘I believe you.’ Nelson sat on Mulholland’s desk. ‘Just got back from speaking to the Trident lot at ESB. Had to make do with a prawn sandwich.’ He flashed a photo through the air at Fenchurch. The man on the escalator. ‘Confirmed this guy is Kamal.’
Fenchurch stared at the shot. ‘Got a surname?’
‘Sorry, guv. They don’t know. Just got some undercover statements calling him by his first name. No photos, no ID, nothing. We’re a step ahead of them.’
‘How the hell don’t they know?’
‘Just don’t. All they’ve got is that name. Could be a code name, could be nothing.’ Nelson gave a shrug and got out his Pronto. ‘They think he runs a gang of phone thieves round Shoreditch, Hackney way.’
Reed finished chewing another stolen chip. ‘This was in north London, Jon.’
‘Yeah, that too. Islington anyway.’ Nelson tapped something on his Pronto. ‘Waheed and I spoke to two CHISes. They were scared stiff of him.’
‘If you think he’s running kids nicking phones, speak to DI Jason Bell about it.’
‘Guv.’
‘God, these are good.’ Reed reached over for another chip and the tub of salsa. ‘Why’s he on Trident’s radar, anyway?’
‘Stabbed a kid in Shoreditch a while back. Then another up at the arse end of Hackney.’
‘So, how do we get him in custody?’
‘No idea.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Fenchurch dumped his burrito on the desk. Some rice and peppers spilled out. ‘Sergeant, I covered the PM so you could find him.’
‘I left Waheed over there, guv. Believe me, they’re actively hunting him.’ Nelson cowered behind his Pronto. ‘Problem is, the guy’s just a ghost.’
Fenchurch took a sip of lemonade. ‘I’m sick of hearing that.’
‘Look, there’s a guy undercover in a gang out in Hackney. My contact at ESB reckons I should speak to him.’
‘So bloody speak to him.’
‘It’s not that simple, but I’ll get it done.’
Fenchurch finished his burrito without too much spillage and balled up the foil. ‘Let me get this straight. Saskia was running away from this Kamal kid, right?’
‘That’s right, guv.’ Reed dumped the salsa tub back down. ‘She spotted him and tried to tell Abi just as she died. Named him, meaning she knew him.’
Fenchurch spun the ball around on the desk. ‘What I don’t get is why she didn’t call someone.’
Reed shrugged. ‘She might’ve done.’
‘Where are we with her phone records?’
‘I’ll check on progress, guv.’ Reed’s turn to hide behind her Pronto. ‘Last I heard Clooney had a blocker. That RIPA wasn’t sufficient.’
‘Get on the rack, Kay.’ Fenchurch picked up a handful of chips then thought better of it. ‘Someone tell me we’ve found her phone?’
‘It’s still missing, guv.’ Reed’s note seemed long enough to cover a good chunk of War and Peace. ‘It’s been off since twelve minutes after the attack.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Fenchurch glared at Nelson as he chewed. ‘Jon, I want this Kamal guy found by close of play, okay?’
‘Guv, that’s—’
‘Stick him in a room, Jon, I don’t care where. I just want me and him in it.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘No, you’ll get him. Okay?’ Fenchurch stared at Nelson for a few seconds then switched his glare to Reed. ‘Kay, tell me you’ve got something other than a timeline we can actually progress.’
‘Well, I’ve managed to get an appointment with that MEP. Guy Eustace. Saskia spoke to him five times over the last month.’
‘I’m not buying him killing her.’ Fenchurch made a face. ‘I don’t think he’s going to have paid some black kids to kill her, is he?’
‘You never know.’
Fenchurch stuffed his foil in the bag for recycling. ‘Right, well, I’ll tag along with you.’
‘As long as you bring those chips, guv.’
Chapter Seventeen
Fenchurch took his seat in the office. The back window looked over Laycock Green towards the health centre and the primary school where . . . He clenched his jaw. Where Chloe attended.
‘You okay, guv?’
Fenchurch rubbed his eyes and looked over at Reed. ‘I’m fine.’
‘You don’t look it. And I know why.’
‘Bloody wind outside. Must’ve got something in my eyes.’
‘Guv . . .’
‘Sorry I’m late.’ Guy Eustace breezed in and squeezed through a thin passageway towards his desk. He collapsed into his sprawling office chair, a mound of dimpled leather on castors, and let out the mother of all sighs. He had one of those faces you’d never tire of punching, kicking, head butting. Nothing like a chin, just a wall of flab hanging from his jawline. Tintin haircut, the smallest of quiffs gelled up at the front. The dapper sports jacket looked like it didn’t care how badly it clashed with his green trousers. His eyes narrowed at Reed then darted away. ‘Now, what can I do for you?’
Fenchurch slid his warrant card across the cheap laminated desktop. Didn’t want to speak too soon in case it came out as a croak.
Eustace was taking his time examining it, as if he had the Met personnel database in his skull. He tossed it onto the desk. ‘Again, how can I help, Inspector?’
Fenchurch pocketed the card. ‘You know a Saskia Barnett?’
‘We’re acquainted, yes.’ Eustace grinned as he slumped back in the chair. Something clunked deep in the mechanism. ‘She was interviewing me for a profile for that paper she worked for.’ He raised his eyebrows at Fenchurch. ‘You know who I am, of course, don’t you?’
‘Can’t say I voted for your party, sir.’
‘A shame. Well, Ms Barnett found my life story to be a fascinating one. Guy Eustace, UKIP MEP.’ He grinned and shut his eyes, lost to some internal nostalgia. ‘Classic rags to riches. I was a property developer in the eighties, built up from a two-bedroom flat in Covent Garden to a twenty-property empire. Lost it all in ’92, of course, but I rebuilt from the ground up. The purest form of hard work. I’ve been out in Dubai since 2003, making a packet.’
‘She found that interesting, did she?’
‘Not as much as how I decided to come back and serve my community as an MEP.’
‘Doesn’t look like you’re serving much time, sir.’ Fenchurch waved a hand around the room. ‘You’re here in leafy Islington instead of Brussels. Is that why an investigative journalist was interviewing you?’
Eustace scowled at Fenchurch, finally cottoning on to the fact he wasn’t preaching to the converted. Not even the same religion. ‘You’ll probably know I’m a big player in the campaign to leave the EU. Well, it seems to have made me a target for the little madam. She’d been going through my expenses, trying to find dirt. She thought she had.’
‘Oh?’
‘It was all above board. I declare everything.’ Eustace raised his hands, the little pound sign cufflinks dangling free. ‘I’d stayed at an Italian friend’s house in Tuscany over Christmas last year. Put the flights through the books.’
‘Thought you lot hated Europeans?’
‘It’s the EU we hate, Inspector.’ Eustace licked his lips. ‘The imperial march of German jackboots. Could’ve sworn we stopped that seventy years ago, but here they still are, imposing their will on this great country of ours. Opening the door to Islamic extremists. Believe you me, England will be much stronger out of it.’
Fenchurch nodded, struggling to hide the smirk. ‘You mean the UK, right?’
‘Well, those parts who still wish to be a part of a United Kingdom.’ Eustace left it hanging in the air, dangling like his cufflinks, wobbling like his jowls. ‘Listen, I have no axe to grind with Ms Barnett. Why would I? She was just doing her job. As are you.’ He sat upright, frowning. ‘Why are you asking me all these questions, anyway?’
‘Just wondering if you had any idea why someone would want to kill her?’
Eustace blinked hard a few times. ‘Kill her? What?’
‘We’re looking into her murder, sir. She was killed last night.’
‘What?’ Eustace’s shaking hand ruffled the quiff. ‘I assure you I had nothing to do with this.’
‘Didn’t say you had.’
‘She was just someone I came across. Someone who took an interest in my crusade against the forces of darkness. A fascinating creature. I can’t believe she’s . . .’
Reed was clearly taking umbrage at the ‘creature’ description, her face looking like she’d drunk battery acid. ‘Does the name Qasid mean anything to you?’
‘Just trouble.’
‘You know him?’
Eustace stared up at the ceiling, his jowls tightening to a smooth sheet. ‘No, I don’t. Those ethnic names are the ones causing trouble around these parts.’
‘What about Kamal?’
Eustace looked back down, head tilted to the side. ‘Why are you interested?’
‘We believe Saskia was murdered by someone working for or with Kamal. Any information you had about him would be greatly appreciated.’
‘He’s just a myth, Sergeant. A Robin Hood folk tale for impressionable youth. The sort of youth who ISIS are radicalising at—’
‘Do you know where I can find him or not?’
Eustace shook his head, jowls flailing. ‘Like I said, he’s a folk tale.’
Fenchurch jumped in before Reed could. ‘Do you have any inkling of why Ms Barnett was murdered?’
‘None, whatsoever. Our dealings were mainly about my profile, she . . .’ Eustace’s brow creased. ‘Actually, are you aware of the Central Bar?’
Reed frowned. ‘Place on City Road, corner with Moreland Street?’
‘Correct.’ Eustace gave her the briefest of looks. ‘Right by the council flats.’
Reed stabbed a note into her Pronto. ‘Why do you bring it up, sir?’
‘Saskia was asking about that place at our last meeting.’
‘What was the context?’
&n
bsp; ‘Seemed to think I knew something about the place. I don’t.’ Eustace stood up and stretched out. ‘Thought it might be well worth a punt.’
Reed got out of the car first, stepping onto the pavement and waiting. ‘This is where you caught him, right?’
‘Near here.’ Fenchurch did a three-sixty, taking in the daytime drone of City Road. Delivery vans, taxis and buses queuing at the lights.
‘He made my skin crawl, guv.’
‘Eustace?’
‘What sort of creep calls someone “a fascinating creature”? Can you believe that?’
‘I saw you noticing.’ Fenchurch started off down the street. A gust of smoggy breeze hit his face. ‘Aside from his oiliness, did you get anything to suggest he’s involved?’
‘Not really, guv. Much as I’d hate to admit it.’
‘Yeah, me too.’ Fenchurch came round the bend and stopped.
The Central was an old brick building a couple of storeys tall and just as wide. Edwardian or late Victorian, but without much character beyond age. It stood in the shadows of an old council high-rise, flat-faced and architecturally plain. Left to fester and rot, rather than the sort of place university lecturers and the like would take over and renovate.
‘I’ll lead, guv.’ Reed pushed the scratched brass plate on the front door and entered.
Dub reggae throbbed out of the speakers, skanking guitar buried under a wall of echo, sub bass rattling the bottles behind the bar. Given it was only just after clocking-off time, it was busy. Friday-night drinkers were already laying claim to the tables dotted around the place. More than a few still in their uniforms — courier firms, Tesco shelf-stackers and construction-work denim.
The barman stood side on, spraying polish on the burnt-wood bar. He rubbed a cloth over the surface in time with the pulse of the music, getting it to a nice shine. He wore a gangster suit, thick chalk stripes and wide lapels. His hair was fused into tumbling dreadlocks, running halfway down his spine, the strands nearest his skull looking like the stuffing of an old settee. He swung round to face them and nodded. The half of his head that’d been facing away was shaved to his scalp. Harlequin man. ‘What can I get you?’ Thick Jamaican accent, or the London bastardisation of it.
