by Ed James
Reed pulled left onto the Highbury Island roundabout, her head darting around, looking for threats as she hit the right-hand lane. They cut past the thin patch of trees swaying in the breeze and swung round, back onto the outer reaches of Upper Street. One long road filled with so many memories, Fenchurch’s whole career in trees and concrete and brick. Hell, his whole life since he left home.
‘Sorry, guv. Bastard of a roundabout that. What were you saying?’
Fenchurch slumped back in his chair and grinned. ‘I was saying, why is Zara Redshaw campaigning against all this gentrification?’
‘Cultural slumming?’ Reed was back in driving position, eyes front, hands on the wheel. No more jerky head movements. ‘Or maybe you’re judging a book by its cover. Could be she’s really passionate about what’s going on in London.’
‘Maybe. Seems to go pretty deep with her but doesn’t touch the surface.’ Fenchurch focused on the traffic in the oncoming lane. A thick wedge of work vans led north out of the city. ‘You could be right, but there’s something I’m not getting with her.’
‘Your Spidey-sense going off?’
‘It’s been tingling like a bastard since last night, Kay.’ Fenchurch checked his phone for messages. Still nothing from anyone. ‘Maybe she gains by keeping the story out of the papers?’
‘I’ve had a look through Saskia’s stories online, though. Nothing on Redshaw so far.’
Fenchurch glanced over as she gave a motorcyclist the finger. ‘What if there’s an unpublished story? Something Victor Morgan’s sitting on?’
‘I’ll call him when we get back.’
They drove in silence. Lots of strands but nothing seemed to connect. Just too many loose ends and a suspect keeping quiet.
‘Look at this place, guv.’ Reed waved across to the right. A Costa had planted itself between a KFC and a local pharmacy, fighting a beachhead against airport taxi companies and small-time bookmakers. The old man’s boozer on the corner had been reborn as a gastropub, a chalkboard on the pavement outside. ‘I remember when this place was rough. I mean, it’s never been Shoreditch or Hackney, but it wasn’t the best, was it?’
‘That’s how we can afford to live here.’ Fenchurch snorted. ‘Couldn’t now, even with selling my flat.’
‘Exactly my point. The people who’ve lived here for years will hate all these hipsters moving in and taking over. Coffee bars and wood-fired pizza ovens. Vinyl shops. Microbreweries.’
‘Sounds like you’re sympathetic, Kay.’
‘It’s not that, it’s just. I don’t know. Anti-hipster movements are popular.’
‘You think she’s just using it as a platform to get on the council?’ Fenchurch couldn’t see it. While hypocrisy and politics were easy bedfellows, this wasn’t the sort of shit that’d wash with the great unwashed. ‘She’d need to keep up the act, if that’s what it is.’
‘People tend to forget what politicians say during an election once they’re in power.’
‘Maybe.’ Fenchurch swallowed as they passed the marble-like stone registry office where they’d got married years ago. Very different place to where they renewed their vows. He’d been so unromantic back then — what changed? Other than that.
‘Been thinking, guv.’ Reed stopped to let a gang of already-drunk teens shout across the zebra crossing. ‘This Saskia seemed to be pretty good at kicking hornet’s nests.’
‘Good old Stieg Larsson could’ve written about her. What are you thinking?’
‘This Kamal kid’s killed her because of something she did. What if it’s something she did to him? Revenge. We’re focusing on all these conspiracies. Stories she was writing about people. What if it’s personal?’
‘Maybe. Any way up, we need to find this Kamal.’ Fenchurch scowled at the drunk teenager in the Jesus Christ pose halfway across the crossing. A mate twice his size picked him up and carried him across like he weighed nothing.
Fenchurch’s phone throbbed in his pocket, still on silent. He got it out — Abi — and answered it. ‘Hey.’
Silence.
‘Abi, are you okay?’ Fenchurch turned away as Reed frowned at him. They were sitting at the lights just by the Hope & Anchor pub. Lots of memories of that place. Felt like a few lifetimes ago. A gang of hipsters were drinking outside, tapered jeans and NHS specs. Still silence. ‘Abi, talk to me.’
A long sniff. ‘When are you coming home?’
Fenchurch released a breath he didn’t know he was holding. ‘Be late, I expect. Why?’
‘I . . . Never mind.’
‘What’s up?’
‘I can’t stop thinking about that girl.’
‘Did you go to work today?’
‘I’ve just got home. It’s been playing on my mind all day. Doubt my kids learnt anything.’
Fenchurch checked the dashboard — 18.26. ‘Look, I’m not far from home just now. I’ll be there in two ticks.’
‘You sure?’
‘Sure I’m sure. You’re more important than this bloody case. Love you.’ A whisper he hoped Reed didn’t overhear. He pocketed the phone and let out another breath.
She looked over, her forehead creased. ‘Abi okay?’
‘Not coping well with what happened last night. I forget how desensitised we are to all this shit. Can you drop me at home?’
‘Sure thing.’ Reed grimaced. ‘You’ll have to brave the Northern Line in the morning.’
‘Thanks for reminding me.’
‘Need me to clear this with Docherty?’
‘If he asks, just get him to call me, okay?’
Reed set off once the traffic lights changed, racing to get round a dawdling bus. ‘Will do.’
Chapter Nineteen
Reed hung a right along Theberton Street and drove past the family restaurants — the Indian, Thai, Italian. The old pub across the way was now a wine bar. Like the bloody eighties all over again. She took a left and ploughed on down the road, mercifully quiet given the time. ‘You don’t talk about Abi much. What you’ve done is a huge change.’
Fenchurch tapped the window. ‘End of the street’s fine.’
Reed pulled in by the Chinese on the corner that’d been there long before they moved in. ‘I take it that means “Shut up, Kay”?’
‘Things are good. Genuinely good.’ Fenchurch looked up at the brick building, dyed a burnt orange in the fading sunlight. ‘Need to sell my flat and pay off the mortgage on this place.’
‘Why not rent it out to some students and then kick in a café?’
Fenchurch couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Maybe. No, it’s genuinely good, Kay. Christ but I’ve missed her. Eight years apart. Wasn’t very good for me.’
‘Guv, are you still looking for Chloe?’
Fenchurch opened the door and let the cooling air in. ‘Abi’ll cut my nuts off if she finds I have.’
‘So should she be sharpening her knives?’
‘No, I haven’t. Genuinely. Now, piss off and find this Kamal character.’
‘Sure thing, guv.’ Reed was focusing on the rear-view mirror.
Fenchurch got out and leaned back in. ‘Don’t know why I grabbed this bloody case in the first place, it’s going nowhere.’
‘We’re getting there. You just need to be patient.’
‘Not one of my virtues. See you tomorrow.’ Fenchurch smacked the door shut and waved as Reed shot off. He turned into Barford Street. Their street. Again. The fourth block over was taking a turn to have the scaffolding up. Hopefully Quentin was off to Munich or Madrid again.
He navigated his way around a Range Rover making a pig’s arse of a three-pointer. The red-face driver looked like he was trying to mount the Chinese restaurant as well as the kerb.
Otherwise the street was quiet — time was, kids would’ve been out on their bikes or playing. Maybe hoofing a football off the back of the Design Centre.
He opened the front door and trudged up the stairs. Stuck his newly cut key in the flat door.
Same as it ev
er was.
The freshness had gone. This was routine now. When did that happen?
Fenchurch locked the flat door behind him and hung his coat on the rack. Then dumped his keys in the dish on top of Abi’s, hers absolutely stuffed, like a prison jailer. No idea what half of them were for. He fingered the tiny USB drive hanging off his. His will and everything important about him. Jesus. ‘You still home, love?’
‘In the kitchen.’
He followed her voice through the flat, maybe just a bit too big for two people. Worth too much to give up on, though, in case they slip down the property ladder.
Abi sat at the kitchen table, clutching a cup of tea and staring out of the window. She looked round and gave him a weak smile, just a fleeting flicker on her lips, never touching her eyes. ‘Just made a fresh pot.’
‘Thank God.’ Fenchurch grabbed a cup and sat next to her, easing his suit jacket off. He poured out some milk, then tipped in the tea, wisps of steam spiralling up.
‘Always liked how you did that. Milk first, then tea.’ She was staring into space, focusing on the vapour. ‘Shows you don’t come from the landed gentry, Simon. No airs and graces about you.’
‘Never pretended there was.’ Fenchurch took a big slurp. Hot and sweet, almost like it had sugar in it. ‘How you doing, love?’
She went back to looking out of the window. Across the roof of the Business Design Centre, the City was gearing up for the Friday evening darkness. A frown teased its way across her forehead, deciding to stick there for a while. ‘Can’t get it out of my head.’ A dainty sip of tea, the ceiling spotlights catching on the ceramic. The mug almost clattered down, not enough liquid to spill over the side. ‘How do you cope?’
Fenchurch set his cup down on the table. ‘Thought you said I didn’t.’
That got a smile. ‘Have you got anywhere with the case?’
‘Yes and no. Very difficult to pin down a motive.’ He took another glug and shook his head. ‘Two hundred quid for a nicked phone. Can you believe it? This bloody city.’
‘I can believe anything.’ She fidgeted with her cup, the rim rattling off the table. ‘You will get him, won’t you? He won’t be allowed to do it again?’
‘Trust me, that kid’s going away.’
Thump, thump. The front door. Thump, thump.
Fenchurch locked eyes with Abi. ‘We expecting anyone?’
‘Not me. Any more of your attack parcels from Amazon?’
‘Nothing due for a while.’ Fenchurch got up and padded through the flat. The usual floorboard creaked in a new way, a crunch rather than a squeak. Worrying. He twisted his key in the lock and opened the door.
Dad stood there, his wide smile stretching out the moustache. ‘Sorry if I’m a bit early, son.’
‘What?’
‘For dinner. You invited me round, remember?’
‘Better go and drain the lizard.’ Dad got to his feet and cracked his spine. ‘Oh, don’t get old, son. It’s shit.’ He ambled off into the hall, one hand supporting his back, like it was doing the job his vertebrae should.
Abi leaned over, eyes cut to tight slits. ‘You didn’t tell me he was coming round.’
‘He didn’t tell me.’ Fenchurch shook his head, scowling after his old man. ‘He just pounced on us. Worse than your parents.’
‘Well, I’d rather have been able to get something proper in.’ She stared down at her half-eaten plate of spaghetti, smothered in pesto and sun-dried tomatoes. Just the skin of the salmon fillet left.
Fenchurch speared a chunk of her pasta and ate it. ‘That was really good.’
‘I need some time just with you, Simon. If I’d wanted to see your dad I would’ve invited him.’
Fenchurch took another sip of water. ‘Can’t be helped, I suppose.’
The toilet flushed and Dad strolled back through, all signs of back pain gone. ‘That’s better.’ He sighed as he collapsed into his seat at the end of the table. ‘Smashing grub, Ab. You can cook for me any time.’
‘Feels like I have to.’
Dad frowned, cupping a hand over his ear. ‘Sorry?’
‘Any time you want to, Ian. Just a bit of warning, yeah?’
‘Right, right.’ Dad slurped at his tea. ‘Lovely cup of tea, too, Ab. Smashing.’ He shot a wink at Fenchurch. ‘Did I tell you Erica called the other day, son?’
He swallowed hard. ‘No?’
‘She was asking after you. I said you were pretty busy but you’d call her when you got some time.’
‘Thanks for putting me in it. You know I hate you setting expectations like that.’
‘Listen, I bought you some time.’ Dad twirled his pasta around his fork, bracing it against the spoon, and held it over his mouth. ‘She’s living in Sheffield now with her family. Trying to figure out what the hell to do with her life. Might go to uni, she said, but she needs some qualifications first.’ He chomped at his pasta, like a fish at bait. ‘Do they still have A Levels?’
Abi nodded. ‘For now.’
‘That’s good. Thought they’d done away with it. Anyway, I told her to avoid London.’ Dad dropped his cutlery and pushed his plate away. ‘What’s for pudding, Ab?’
Her eyes widened. ‘I think there’s some of that mint Ben & Jerry’s in the freezer.’ She winked at Fenchurch. ‘Unless Simon’s eaten it.’
‘Wouldn’t go near the stuff, your honour.’ Fenchurch gave a mock cough.
Abi stacked up the plates. ‘I’ll just get it, then.’
Fenchurch watched her go over to the recess they’d jammed the new American-style fridge into a few weeks ago. Bloody nightmare — scraped more paint off the wall than the appliance. Wished he could just talk to her, suck all the poison out of her head.
Dad took another sip of tea and smacked his lips. ‘You want to get back to it, don’t you?’
‘I want to put the little shit away.’ Fenchurch sighed in his father’s direction. ‘We didn’t have an arrangement for tonight, did we?’
Dad picked at his teeth, tiny black seeds stuck there. ‘I need to speak to you, son.’
Fenchurch shut his eyes and let his head fall. ‘You’re still looking, aren’t you?’
‘It’s not a crime—’
‘Dad, I told you. It’s not healthy.’
‘Simon, if you’re not going to look, at least let me. This case you’re working—’
‘Dad . . .’ Fenchurch shot him a glare. ‘You were the one who used to tell me off.’
‘Maybe I shouldn’t have.’
Fenchurch wanted to shout, wanted to scream. He leaned low and spoke in a harsh whisper: ‘Are you telling me you’ve got something?’
‘Maybe.’
Fenchurch sat back and stared at the tabletop. Pale pine artfully knotted. A little scuff where he’d dropped a beer bottle a couple of weeks ago. ‘I really don’t want to know.’
‘Simon, twenty-three black kids have gone missing in east London in the last two years. They all match the pattern.’
Fenchurch rubbed at his left eye, just about caught the tear. ‘That’s a lot of kids. Someone would’ve noticed.’
‘Yeah, me. I have. You know what it’s like in the wild east. Half the kids are on crack by the time they’re fifteen. That many going missing isn’t going to run up any flagpoles. Especially with a Tory government.’ Dad tilted his teacup and drained it. ‘I linked four cases on the system. Same MO as Chloe. Then I started canvassing the area.’
‘Jesus, Dad, I don’t want you going out in those areas on your own.’
‘Had a uniform Constable with me, son.’
‘Doesn’t make it right.’ Fenchurch glanced over to the kitchen area. Abi was still rooting around in the freezer, half of the contents now on the counter or the floor. ‘Have you got any leads?’
‘Nothing solid. I’ve been speaking to your old mate Savage.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s got power. And a budget.’
‘Dad . . .’
Abi dumped three b
owls on the table, the spoons clattering against the china. ‘There’s quite a lot left. Almost like Simon’s bought a replacement.’ She dropped the tub onto the table and ice cracked off. ‘What are you two discussing?’
Fenchurch narrowed his eyes at his father. ‘Dad’s just moaning about how much the West Ham season tickets are going to cost at the Olympic stadium next year.’
Abi frowned. ‘Thought they were going to be cheap?’
‘Exactly.’ Dad wrapped his hands around his empty teacup, like he wanted a refill. ‘It’s less than a third of what Arsenal charge at the bloody airline ground. Should put the prices up and keep the riff-raff out. Going to get loads of Orient fans pitching up if we qualify for the Champions League.’
‘Don’t you want the stadium full, Ian?’
‘Would rather stay at the Boleyn.’
Fenchurch winked at her. ‘At least Big Sam’s gone.’
‘Small mercies, son. Small mercies.’ Dad took a bowl from the pile and grabbed the tub. ‘I’ll be mother, shall I?’ He prised the lid off, taking a lot more effort than it should. ‘Away to bloody Newcastle on Sunday, isn’t it?’
‘Think so.’ Fenchurch’s phone rattled in his pocket. Unknown caller. Take it or not? ‘Sorry, I need to see who this is.’ He got up and marched over to the hall. ‘Fenchurch.’
‘It’s DS Greenhall.’
‘Owen.’ Fenchurch perched against the dresser. ‘What’s up?’
‘Thought you’d like to know. There’s been a stabbing down at the Central.’
Chapter Twenty
Fenchurch jogged down the back street, the same one he’d chased Qasid down just a day ago. He emerged onto City Road, a teeming sea of white and red lights. He waited for the green man and crossed over, panting heavily.
His bloody car was at the sodding station.
As he neared the Central, he felt a deep thud through the soles of his feet. Boom, boom, boom, boom. Four to the floor. Must be the basement disco.
