by Ed James
Reed showed her warrant card. ‘Looking for anyone who’s spoken to a Saskia Barnett.’
‘Who’s asking?’
‘DS Reed. This is DI Fenchurch.’ She stuffed the warrant card away and let the name settle in, waiting for the barman’s face to show how much he’d taken in. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m the manager.’
‘Just the manager?’
‘I own the place as well.’ He smirked. ‘Well, I own the lease.’
‘And what’s the name on the lease?’
‘Clinton Jackson. You want my phone number as well, sweetheart?’
‘You’re all right.’ Reed eyed the beer pumps. ‘So, you know Saskia?’
‘Sure I know her. She’s been in here a few times.’
‘What was she asking about?’
Jackson went back to spraying his bar, almost rubbing away the top layer of wood. ‘I’m doing a good job with this place, like you wouldn’t believe. But a lot of people round here hate me.’ He looked up, wide eyes pleading with her. ‘When I took over the lease, this place took in three hundred quid a week.’ He grinned. ‘Now it’s five grand.’ More polishing, more rubbing. ‘I set up club nights in the basement. Dub techno, soul, house, got a reggae sound system on tonight. We brew craft beer and craft rum downstairs, too.’
Reed frowned. ‘Is craft rum a thing?’
‘It is now. Sell it to America. A few joints in NYC love it, man. Love it.’
‘So why do people hate you?’
‘Because I’m a success.’ Jackson set the polish and cloth down. His clientele were keeping away from the serving area, though there were more than a few empty glasses and licked lips. ‘You know how hard it is being a successful black man in London? People hate any success. Racists. Attacking me. Hurting me. Saying I’ve done this or that.’
‘And have you?’
‘I sell beer and rum. Let people dance. I pay my taxes, pay my staff a living wage. Lot of people round here don’t.’ Jackson waved at a blacked-out window on the far wall, near the door. ‘You see those new buildings, how much of that money goes through this country, eh? I’ll tell you. Nothing.’
Reed nodded slowly and leaned against the bar, her palms down on the shiny surface. ‘Was Saskia helping you?’
‘She was writing a feature about me. About what I’m achieving here. And about my . . . difficulties.’
‘You ever speak to the police about them?’
Jackson gave a shrug. ‘They been in here. They hassle me. Hate me as well. Police are racist, man.’ He bellowed with laughter. ‘You’re excused, sister.’
‘I appreciate it.’ Reed straightened up, a slight amount of rose on her cheeks. ‘So you were close with her?’
‘We was tight, sister. Tight.’ Jackson knitted his fore and middle fingers together. ‘She’s good people. Came in for a drink all the time with that boy of hers.’
‘Liam?’
‘That’s him. They liked my rum. They in love. Deep in love.’ Jackson cackled. ‘So deep in love.’
‘She ever mention anyone who had it in for her?’
‘Nah. Not to me, anyway.’
‘What about Kamal?’
Jackson stared down at the counter, like he was using the surface as a mirror, trying to work out who was the fairest of them all. ‘He’s barred from here.’
Reed glanced over at Fenchurch. ‘You know him?’
‘I tell him don’t come back.’
‘What did he do?’
‘He’s bad people.’ Jackson nodded at the first customer whose desperation for a drink overcame their fear of the law. He started pouring a beer, already knowing the order. ‘Opposite of Saskia. She’s pure, he’s . . . Yeah, dirt. Soiled.’
‘You know where I can find him?’
‘Hopefully in the bottom of a ditch.’ The tap fizzed off and he slid the glass along the counter.
‘I’ll take that as a no.’
‘That’s a no, yeah.’ Jackson pulled on a smile as he handed over the foaming pint to a delivery driver.
‘Thanks for your time.’ Fenchurch led Reed out onto the pavement. They’d only been inside ten minutes but the traffic had doubled, now an overflowing river, close to jamming. ‘You got on well with him there.’
‘Maybe. Place is buzzing just after four.’ Reed skipped across the road, just avoiding a taxi. ‘Did that get us anything?’
‘Not sure, Kay. Feels like there’s something just out of reach.’
‘Back to the station?’
‘Yeah, but not ours.’
Islington police station was a squat brick building, flags blowing in the gentle breeze, not quite slicing any of the heat off the day. The architect had clearly designed a castle but the project manager had made sure a load of bricks got chucked together.
Fenchurch started across the four lanes of suburban traffic otherwise known as Tolpuddle Street. The sort of busy back road that riddled London, always a right turn away from a high street of some description. He nodded at Reed as they waited halfway for a queue of buses to pass and pushed through the front door.
Sergeant Owen Greenhill stood behind the partition, like he was protecting the civilian receptionist. He dominated the station’s entrance space, the flickering strip light above giving snapshots of his shaved head. Thin strands of beard sprouted from the tops of his ears and met under his chin. Well over six foot and the rugby-playing end of the spectrum, too. His intense stare slackened off a touch as he recognised Fenchurch. ‘Uncle Simon?’ His high-pitched squeak sounded like someone in a scrum had booted his testicles back into his stomach. He switched his attention back to the member of the public standing in front of him.
A haggard man with greying red hair, dancing like he needed the toilet. He gripped the counter like his life depended on it. ‘You swear you’ve not had any screenplays handed in?’
‘Not today, Pete.’
‘But someone’s stolen it!’
Reed got close to Fenchurch and winked. ‘Uncle Simon?’
‘I told you.’ Fenchurch took a deep breath. ‘He worked the beat for me when I was Sergeant at Brick Lane.’
‘Long time ago, that.’ Reed nodded over at Greenhill. ‘He’d have been in nappies, then, guv.’
‘Not as long ago as you’d think.’ Fenchurch looked over at the customer swaying about the place. Couldn’t smell any booze off him or anything. ‘Owen’s doing well for himself, career-wise, and wants everyone to know. Even though he’s still in uniform.’
‘I’ll see you again tomorrow, Pete.’ Greenhill smiled at the customer. ‘Take care of yourself.’ His gaze followed the man’s slow steps across the floor until the door shut behind him, shaking his head all the way. ‘Same thing every day at this time. Yet more care in the bloody community.’ He gave the civilian a nod then beckoned Fenchurch through to the back. ‘On you come.’
Fenchurch followed Reed through the back to a small Sergeants’ room. Maybe not as much of a high-flyer as he expected. ‘Did that guy mention a screenplay?’
‘Really sad story, as it happens. Worked in Hollywood for a few years as a screenwriter. Did some TV and a film. Way I hear it, some bad acid kicked off some genetic psychological problems. Lives with his mum now. Poor bastard.’ Greenhill shook his head as he typed something into a computer. ‘Now, where were we?’ A smile flickered across his lips as he hammered the keys. ‘Anyway, how’s my favourite uncle doing?’
‘Cut that out.’ Fenchurch tried to avoid looking at Reed’s snigger. ‘I’m fine, Owen. How are you?’
‘Just came on shift. That incident on Upper Street last night seems to have scared the bejesus out of the locals. They’ve all been in here repenting their sins.’ Greenhill shrugged. ‘Happy to act as confessional, though.’
‘I bet.’ Fenchurch rested against the counter. ‘We’ve just been down to the Central. Wonder if you’ve got any info on it?’
‘That place . . .’ Greenhill leaned forward, resting on his elbows, and rolled h
is eyes. ‘Bloody nightmare and a half. We’re out there every Friday and Saturday. Stabbings, assaults, you name it. Last week, we had twenty guys trying to start a bloody race war outside. Had to close City Road for an hour. Worse than your escapades last night.’
‘Less said about that the better. Got anything on the owner?’
‘Jackson? Guy’s a nuisance. Always in here complaining about racism. About people assaulting his staff.’
‘Anything ever in it?’
Greenhill drummed his stubby thumbs on the countertop. ‘Never found anything.’
‘What about Saskia Barnett?’
‘Her.’ A sigh accompanied another shrug. ‘I know her. Everyone does. Cheeky little madam.’
‘The incident on Upper Street that spooked your clientele? That was her.’
‘That was her?’ The colour drained from Greenhill’s ruddy face. ‘Christ. Like I said, I’m just on and haven’t had my briefing yet. Been away in the Algarve with the boys on a stag.’ His sigh sounded like it emptied his lungs. ‘Rich didn’t have time to brief me when I rocked on. She’s dead?’
Fenchurch nodded at Reed, making sure she left him in his grief for a few seconds. ‘I take it you knew her well?’
‘Not too well. She was thick as thieves with Jackson, though. Pair of them were in here all the time, causing a ruckus. She’d always be supporting whatever his latest beef was. Having a pretty young blonde on your side’s got to help, right?’ Greenhill blushed as he smiled at Reed. ‘No offence.’
‘I’m neither young nor blonde.’ She shot him a wink, leaving her prettiness uncorrected. ‘You sure you want to say that out loud, anyway?’
Greenhill shrugged again. ‘It might sound cynical, but my Uncle Simon taught me to be that way.’
‘Leave me out of it.’ Fenchurch scowled, trying to ignore Reed’s flirty laughter, little giggles cut in with a nibbled bottom lip. ‘What about Guy Eustace?’
‘Now there’s a liar and a bloody thief.’ Greenhill took a step back and stared up at the ceiling, like that’s where he’d hidden his inner calm. He looked back down and sighed. ‘Scumbag has the cheek to take all that cash out of Dubai then try to kick any ethnics out back here.’
‘Sure you should be using that word?’
‘Look, you know what I mean. If bloody UKIP get in, we’ll be staffing concentration camps within the first bloody week. Them or the bloody Tories.’ Greenhill itched at his beard. ‘Why are you asking about Eustace?’
‘He put us on to Jackson.’
‘Did he now? Cheeky sod. Way I hear it, he wants him to give up his lease. That pub’s a bloody gold mine. Shift it and you can tear down the council flats, kick them out to Essex or Kent. Redevelop that whole stretch.’
‘Tell me it’s not serious?’
‘Who knows? Nothing Eustace can do to shift him. He’s got a twenty-year lease on the place, from what I hear.’
Fenchurch locked eyes with Reed, trying to piece it together. ‘So Eustace owns stuff round there?’
‘Not that I know of, but you know what that lot are like. Everything’s in shell corporations and holding companies and God knows what else. I’m just a mere uniformed sergeant, I can’t conjure up ownership details for you.’
‘So Guy Eustace is a dead end?’
More typing. ‘He is with me.’
Fenchurch took another look deep into his eyes and decided there wasn’t anything else. ‘Does the name Kamal mean anything?’
Greenhill stopped typing. Didn’t look up. ‘Kamal?’
‘That’s unsettled my favourite nephew.’ Fenchurch handed him the shot of the man tailing Saskia in the tube station. ‘This him?’
Greenhill took a long look at the photo. He closed his eyes briefly. ‘I know the name, but I’ve never seen him.’
‘Ever had him in here?’
‘Once. Would’ve locked him up if I’d known what he did.’
‘Know his full name?’
‘Wish I did. Had him in for dealing. This big black lawyer turned up after fifteen minutes, went in with the CID lot and got him back out.’
‘This lawyer, wouldn’t happen to be Dalton Unwin, would it?’
‘That’s the fella.’ Greenhill went back to his typing. ‘I need to get on.’
Fenchurch winked at him. ‘Thanks for your time.’ He pulled open the door, held it open for Reed. ‘After you.’
Greenhill called over: ‘You have spoken to Zara Redshaw about Saskia, right?’
‘Who?’
Chapter Eighteen
Fenchurch thumped the buzzer and a fake doorbell sound chimed out, like a fifteenth-generation copy of a copy. He took a step back and checked out the house again. The smallest porch in the world pimpled an eighties brick thing with tiled dormers in the attic. Part of a long terrace running all the way to the Highbury and Islington station at the end of the road. An Overground train’s brakes squealed just behind the wall opposite.
The door juddered open and a woman stood there, hand on her hip. Early forties, though she clearly didn’t think so. Green skirt, no tights, boots up to her knees and a white blouse. She had a page-boy haircut, looking like she was growing out the Princess Di fringe. ‘Yes?’
‘Zara Redshaw?’
‘I’ve no time for Jehovah’s Witnesses or whatever you’re selling.’
‘DI Fenchurch and this is DS Reed.’ He showed his warrant card. ‘Need to have a word with you, if that’s okay.’
‘What’s this about?’ Her accent might’ve been Hampshire, though London had hardened the country burr.
‘Can we come inside?’
‘No, you can’t. I’ve asked what this is about, so please tell me.’
Fenchurch took his time folding up his warrant card and putting it away. ‘We gather a Saskia Barnett interviewed you recently?’
‘I’ve nothing to say about her.’ Zara looked up and down the street. ‘She comes in here, spouting a pack of lies. I’ve nothing to say about her.’ She pushed the door shut. ‘Goodbye.’
‘She’s dead.’
The door again. ‘What?’
‘Saskia Barnett was murdered last night.’ Fenchurch let it sink in, watched her face fall, her mouth hanging open. ‘We’re trying to establish a connection between her day job and her death.’
She switched her gaze between Fenchurch and Reed. ‘You’d better come in.’
‘—and he’s in custody just now.’ Reed looked like she could repeat the script without engaging her brain.
The living room was somehow freezing despite the weather outside. Felt like her open patio doors were actually a secret portal to Greenland. Bookcases lined the walls, filled with lots of right-on political tomes and what looked very much like a complete collection of original Penguins. Must be worth more than the house.
‘My God.’ Zara hugged her arms tight around her shoulders. ‘She was just sitting there a couple of weeks ago.’ She nodded at Reed. ‘That chair you’re in.’
Reed flashed a smile. ‘When did you last see her?’
‘Two weeks ago, like I said. She turned up, much like you did. They used to call it doorstepping. She came in here and told me this pack of lies.’
Fenchurch raised an eyebrow. ‘Would these lies have anything to do with you and your mates trashing that Cereal Killer café back in September?’
Zara scowled at the window. ‘How the hell did you find out about that?’
‘When you get arrested, we tend to keep a note of it.’ Fenchurch leaned forward just enough to attract her attention. Gave her a raised eyebrow. ‘You don’t think renting out a house in Hackney to some students wouldn’t be deemed hypocritical, given your actions?’
‘How the hell am I supposed to pay for my family?’
‘So, was she interviewing you about your hypocrisy?’
‘My hypocrisy? They set up a café like that in one of the poorest parts of London. Five quid for some cornflakes when people are starving on the streets.’ She nibbled at a fingernai
l, the varnish chipped and cracked. ‘Listen, those bloody hipsters are asking for it.’ She spat the word out. ‘They’re sucking the heart out of Shoreditch.’
Fenchurch got up and wandered over the bookshelf, picking up a George Bernard Shaw in a plastic bag. ‘Was she asking you about the Cereal Killer attack?’
‘I’m not answering that without a lawyer.’
‘Because you’re still awaiting trial on that one?’
‘That’s a nonsense. It’ll get thrown out.’ Zara fiddled with a bead of pearls on her wrist. ‘I want to keep that sort of thing out of the press because I’m standing for election to the Islington Council.’
‘And she uncovered some dirt on you. Sure you’re not worried how it’ll look to have an anti-gentrification candidate acting as a landlord?’
‘Look, she was clutching at straws. I’m just an honest woman trying to raise my kids. I need any money I can get.’ Zara started combing her hair again, her gaze on the book in his hands. ‘There’s no story here. I told her to leave. She complied.’ She marched over and snatched the paperback from Fenchurch. She carefully placed it back on the shelf. ‘Now, I’m asking you to leave me alone.’
‘We’re just about done, Ms Redshaw.’ Fenchurch nodded for Reed to back off. ‘Did she ever mention the name Kamal to you?’
She tilted her head to the side. ‘Should she have?’
‘It was the last thing she said. Might be her killer’s name.’
‘Well, I’ve never heard of it. Sorry to be such a disappointment.’
Fenchurch got back in the car and looked back at Zara Redshaw’s house. The curtains twitched in the living room, a thin sliver showing a slit of her face, a fraction of a scowl on her mouth. ‘What do you think, Kay?’
‘I don’t think she’s a likely suspect, guv.’ Reed yanked the key and the engine started with a crack before settling into a deep rumble. ‘What’s she really got to gain from killing Saskia?’
‘The sort of question I keep asking myself.’ Fenchurch took a last look at the house. The curtain had reset now. He clicked in his seatbelt and braced himself as Reed took off. ‘I don’t get her. Woman’s a cardboard cut-out Sloane Ranger, right? You saw that Princess Di haircut, saw what she was wearing. Why’s she into all this anti-gentrification stuff?’
