by Ed James
Reed grimaced at Fenchurch. ‘That’s what I feared, guv.’
He nodded at her then narrowed his eyes at Lawson. ‘Does the name Kamal mean anything to you?’
‘None of me bells are ringing.’ Lawson frowned and clicked his fingers. ‘Wait a sec. You’re Fenchurch, right?’
‘That’s what I said when we gave our intro half an hour ago.’
‘So where do I know you from?’
‘I’ve been in this station a few times over the years, Constable.’
‘It’s not that.’ Lawson looked long and hard at Fenchurch, rubbing his arms. ‘Hang on, I’ve got it. You lost your daughter, didn’t you?’
Fenchurch looked away. Blood thundered in his inner ear. ‘That’s not important.’
‘Yeah, I remember now. Saw the story in the Job magazine a few years back. This isn’t anything to do with her, is it?’
Fenchurch glared at him, drilling his eyes into his skull. ‘I’m looking for a murder suspect.’
‘Look, I’m sorry. Don’t mean anything by it, sir.’ Lawson frowned then wagged his finger in the air. ‘There was another geezer called Fenchurch here the other week. He was asking questions about young Ashley and all.’
‘That’ll be my father, Ian.’
‘Chip off the old block, are you?’
‘Some say that. What was he asking?’
‘Like I said, he was looking into cases like young Ashley’s. Said this case could help him.’
‘The boy’s name is Lewis. Not Ashley. Okay?’ Fenchurch got to his feet and leaned against the table. ‘Try to treat him with some respect.’
Lawson looked away, couldn’t hide the smirk. ‘Yeah, sorry, sir.’
‘You should send a unit round to Lewis’s parents’ house in Walthamstow. We just broke the news to his father.’
‘Oh, thanks for nothing.’ Lawson grabbed his peaked cap and stormed out of the room.
Reed slumped back in her chair. ‘How to make friends and influence people, guv?’
Fenchurch was still scowling at the closed door. ‘He’d’ve found that kid if he’d applied some bloody elbow grease five years ago.’
‘Sounds like he didn’t have much to go on.’
‘That’s what they all say. I’m sick to death of excuses.’
‘Back to the station, guv?’ Reed plipped the pool car door. ‘Or are you still keeping away from Docherty?’
‘The prospect of my nuts getting toasted doesn’t exactly fill me with glee.’ Fenchurch stared back at the Walthamstow station, a couple of upstairs units in a shoddy block of shops, across the road from a Pizza Express and a Costa. A community-facing policing initiative in brick and wood. Not that it ever solved any crimes. He leaned against the car and folded his arms. ‘Think that was Kamal playing football with Lewis Cole?’
‘Makes sense to me but it’s still an assumption, guv.’ She held her door in the open position. ‘Is it worth speaking to the other kids? See what they remember?’
‘If they’re still around.’ Fenchurch dialled a mobile number from memory. ‘Just a sec.’
Indistinct office chatter cut short the ringing tone. ‘Hello?’
‘Dad, it’s Simon.’
‘Didn’t think you was still talking to me after you ran away last night.’
‘Relax. I’m still talking to you.’
‘How can I help?’
Fenchurch stared down the high street, busy with mid-morning shoppers. A woman in a burqa dragged two feral kids behind her. ‘We’re up in Walthamstow speaking to Dean Lawson.’
‘Worked with old Ged, didn’t he? He was a lovely old geezer. Monster at the dominoes, I tell you. Shame he was Chelsea, mind. Went to his funeral. One of many, these days.’
‘I can bet. Were you looking into Lewis Cole’s disappearance?’
‘Not one of mine. Sorry.’ Sounded like Dad was in a bathroom. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘You mean he’s not one of the kids on your list?’
‘Didn’t really fit the pattern. Should he be?’
‘I spoke to his father. He went missing five years ago. Two older black kids played football with him the day before.’
Another long pause. Definitely in a bloody toilet. ‘Got a couple like that. I’ll dig into it. Bit annoyed at myself for missing it. Why you asking, anyway?’
‘Long story.’
‘I’m listening.’
Fenchurch chuckled. That’s where he got the blind-faced belligerence from. ‘Turns out his prints are all over the knife.’
‘Bloody hell. Thought you had who did it?’
‘So did I.’
‘Right. Well, I’ve not been looking back as long ago as five years, son. You think it’s this Kamal geezer?’
Fenchurch tightened his grip on the phone. ‘How the bloody hell did you find that out?’
‘Forty years’ service opens a few doors, I tell you. Even now. I’ll get back up there and add it to my list.’
‘Make sure you get Lawson to do the actual graft, yeah? Don’t want you wandering round bloody Walthamstow on your own.’
‘I can still kick my fair share of arse, son.’
‘I doubt it. Be careful. And let me know if you find anything.’
‘Scouts’ honour.’ The line clicked dead.
‘Dib, dib, bloody dib.’ Fenchurch pocketed his phone.
Reed was ending a call of her own. ‘Anything?’
‘Square root of bugger all, Kay.’ Fenchurch scowled. ‘Other than my old man’s got a mole on this investigation.’
‘Long as it’s just him, guv.’
‘True.’ Fenchurch’s Airwave blasted out. Owen Greenhill. He answered it. ‘Hello?’
‘Simon, I’ve got some good news for you.’
‘Go on.’
‘We’ve found that girl’s laptop.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Fenchurch got out of the car first. Over the road, Hackney Marshes was swamped with a children’s rugby tournament. Clumps of parents huddled together dotted around the expanse of grass as their offspring got muddy. In the distance, a fat boy booted a ball over the crossbar, disinterest etched on the kids’ faces, bitter rivalry on the parents’. ‘Why are you asking if I’m okay?’
Reed led down a small path cut out of a hedge, heading into a triangle of trees stuck between the rumble of the A12 and two forks of the River Lea. The Olympic Park was behind, leaving its legacy of wetlands, private flats and a technology hub, like London needed another one. ‘All that stuff with the missing kids. Did you know your dad’s been doing that?’
‘I had an inkling.’
‘Take it Abi doesn’t know.’
‘She’s got an inkling, too.’ Fenchurch caught a flash of mid-blue through the trees. ‘There we are.’ He trotted over to a police cordon surrounding a holly bush just off the path.
Owen Greenhill stood just inside the perimeter, hands looped through the straps on his stab-proof vest, watching a SOCO work away at his feet. ‘Like I say, Jim, bit of overkill for a bloody laptop.’
Fenchurch got close to him. ‘It’s a murder case, Sergeant.’
‘Christ. Didn’t see you there.’
‘Keep your opinion to yourself in future.’
‘Sorry.’ Greenhill stuck his peaked cap back on. ‘You were quick getting here.’
‘Just been up in Walthamstow.’ Fenchurch tried to get a view past him. ‘What have we got?’
The SOCO held up the battered carcass of a laptop, already bagged and tagged. ‘Someone’s smashed this up with a hammer then hid it under this bush.’ He held up a burnished-silver rectangle, a metallic circle sitting off-centre. ‘The hard drive got the same treatment, by the looks of things, then they set it on fire.’
‘Bloody overkill.’ Fenchurch scowled at the device. ‘Any chance you can do any data recovery on it?’
‘Afraid we’re not on 24, sir. It’s beyond broken.’
‘Any sign of an iPhone?’
A pause. ‘Not here,
sorry.’
Fenchurch stepped on something that squelched. Used condoms carpeted the ground. ‘Jesus Christ.’
‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ Greenhill smirked as he waved around the cordoned-off area. ‘Makes you wonder what they were doing when they found it. Bit off the beaten track, if you catch my drift.’ He winked. ‘Lot of lonely men out here of an evening. Remember when—’
‘I remember. Have you got a name for whoever called it in?’
‘Nine-nine-nine job from a call box in Dalston. Didn’t leave a name.’
‘Take it you’ve listened to it?’
‘Northern accent. Probably a lorry driver up to a bit of how’s your father with a rent boy. Didn’t want us lot turning up at his house, asking his wife difficult questions.’
‘Interesting.’ Fenchurch nodded at the SOCO. ‘Do whatever you can with the laptop, okay? Get Clooney to call me.’
‘Fenchurch, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right. Why?’
‘Mick’s always moaning about you calling him George.’
‘Good to know.’ Fenchurch stared at the destroyed computer on the ground, surrounded by used rubbers. He nodded at Reed. ‘Come on, Kay.’ He started off away from them.
Something glinted on the pinecone carpet just outside the cordon.
He bent down and picked it up with his pen, dangling it off the end. Stumpy black thing, plastic. Maybe two inches long. Looked like it’d been in the fires of Mount Doom. ‘What’s this?’
Reed squinted at it. ‘Looks like a Flash drive thing, like you and Abi have got on your key rings.’
Fenchurch had another look at it. ‘Bloody hell, so it is.’ He reached into his pocket for a bag and dropped it in. He beckoned the SOCO over and handed it to him. ‘Add this to the search.’
‘Think it’s related?’
‘You sure it’s not?’
‘You’re the boss.’ The SOCO wandered off, shaking his head.
Fenchurch watched him go. ‘Work with me here, Kay. One of Kamal’s associates broke in to Liam’s flat and stole her laptop and that USB drive. Then they dumped them here. Why?’
‘So they could wipe whatever was on them, I suspect. Would’ve made a ton of noise, guv. Maybe thought they could get away with trashing it here.’
‘Maybe. And maybe not.’ Fenchurch started off down the path, fists balled. ‘What I’m getting at is we’ve just got Liam’s word for what happened, right?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘How are those phone records coming along?’
Fenchurch perched on the edge of the kitchen counter and glared at Liam Sharpe. ‘We found her laptop.’
Liam stopped fussing with his stovetop espresso maker, leaving both halves unscrewed. ‘That’s a relief. You can get the stories back off it, right?’ He tipped some coffee grounds into the top and filled the bottom with water. Then screwed the two pieces of aluminium together and put it on the gas hob, already burning away.
‘I’m afraid not. It’s completely destroyed.’ Fenchurch spotted a new baseball bat in the corner of the room, still in the shrink-wrap. ‘And your phone’s still missing.’
‘Bastard.’ Liam reached into the cupboard for some mugs.
‘We found a USB flash drive, too.’ Fenchurch dangled his keys from his own memory stick. ‘Saskia ever use one?’
‘All the time. That’s how she backed stuff up. Never even emailed files to herself.’
‘So it could’ve been hers?’
‘Maybe.’ Liam gave a shrug as he inspected the inside of a green mug.
Fenchurch shared a look with Reed. ‘Makes me wonder if the laptop went missing in the first place.’
He put the mug down on the counter. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Well, we’ve just got your word that it was taken.’
‘Look, it happened. They nicked my phone at the same time. My whole life’s on that thing.’
‘A member of the public called in to report the discovery. Anonymously. They found it not far from here.’ Fenchurch let it rest, waiting for him to look up from the coffee maker. ‘The caller had a northern accent, as it happens. Didn’t leave their details.’
Liam finally looked round. ‘What, you think it was me?’
‘Tell me it wasn’t.’
‘You know how many northerners live in London these days?’ Liam crouched down to pick up a tortoiseshell cat that waddled like a pig. ‘The gold pavements still draw us down, you know?’
Fenchurch had to stop himself smiling. ‘Are you swindling the insurance, Liam? Sell the old one on once you’ve got a replacement?’
‘My girlfriend’s been killed and someone assaulted me.’ Liam hugged the cat tight. ‘You really think I could do that now?’
‘I’ve seen a lot of messed-up things in my time. How about you, Sergeant Reed?’
‘Like you wouldn’t believe, guv.’ She focused on Liam, eyes narrow. ‘I’ve just spoken to an officer who works for me. She’s been looking through Saskia’s call records. Turns out she made a few just before she was killed.’ She nodded at him. ‘Six to your number, as it happens.’
‘Right.’ Liam put the cat back down and leaned back against the opposite counter, arms folded. He stared at the coffee maker, as if willing it to spew out black gold. ‘There’s something I haven’t told you.’
‘Go on.’
Liam arranged three little espresso cups, gleaming white china, next to the pastel mugs, blue, green and orange. ‘Sas sent me a WhatsApp message on Thursday night. Said someone called Kamal was after her.’
‘What?’ Fenchurch’s gaze shot between him and Reed. ‘Why didn’t you tell us this before?’
‘Because I’d been bloody playing Batman since I got in. And then you came round. My mobile was in my room, charging. I didn’t see her message until yesterday morning. Hours after I’d spoken to you.’
‘But we spoke to you yesterday morning. At the paper. Just after her laptop got stolen.’
‘Look, I didn’t know she’d texted me. I should’ve told you.’ Liam rubbed at his thick beard. ‘I was going to call you but then they took it and I felt so bad and there’s no way to back up my story and . . .’
‘You’re an idiot, son.’
‘I know I am.’ Liam peered inside the espresso maker. ‘When I checked my phone, I had a few missed calls from her. If I’d answered one of them, I could’ve saved her. Maybe. I feel bad enough about this as it is, okay?’
‘So that’s why you didn’t tell us?’
‘How would you feel if you could’ve stopped what happened but your bloody mobile was off?’ Liam snorted, his nostrils flaring. ‘She’d been trying to speak to me and I just . . . I just didn’t answer. That’s why she died.’ He pinched his nose, eyes shut. ‘I let her down.’
‘It’s not your fault. She was killed in front of me, not you.’ Fenchurch swallowed, drums starting to clatter. ‘I’ve been asking myself those questions since Thursday night. The answer is there’s nothing anyone could’ve done. This Kamal character ordered someone to kill her and it just happened too quickly.’ His voice was close to cracking. He sucked down bile. ‘The police were on the scene.’ He jabbed a finger to his heart. ‘Me. And I couldn’t stop it.’
Liam looked up from the coffee maker and nodded. ‘I understand.’
‘Do you know who Kamal is?’
‘I’ve honestly no idea.’
‘You expect me to believe that? It wasn’t “There’s someone stalking me”. She told you Kamal, gave you his name. The message was very specific, like you knew who he was.’
Liam pushed the cups back on the counter. ‘What possible reason would I have to lie?’
‘I can think of a thousand.’
‘I’ve never heard of Kamal.’ Liam picked up the espresso maker and swirled it around, as if that’d speed things up. ‘I can’t think why she’d have been telling me.’
‘Was there anything in the documents she was working on?’
‘Not that I’ve f
ound.’ Liam shrugged just as the coffee whooshed up in the machine. ‘Maybe she was thinking she could get the message out about who killed her.’
Fenchurch’s gut started burning. ‘Is that likely?’
‘Her mind worked like that sometimes.’
‘Liam.’ Fenchurch waited for him to look up. ‘I want you to go back through the files you do have and look for that name.’
‘I’ll need to get back to the Incident Room, guv.’ Reed finished the last of her chicken salad and dumped the bag in the bin under Mulholland’s desk. ‘It’s been fun, but I’d better show my face.’
‘I’ll head through once I’m done here, Kay. Thanks for the help.’
‘No problem.’
Fenchurch put his feet up on his desk and leaned back. Still glorious sunshine outside the window — should really be out there. He polished off his chilli and dumped the container in the recycling. They did recycle that sort of thing, didn’t they? Been ages since a cleaner’d left a note, anyway.
There were signs Mulholland was back in, but nothing indicating she’d taken over the case. No emails, texts or calls.
A knock on the door.
‘Guv?’ Lad stood there, hands in pockets. ‘Thought you’d gone home?’
‘Been out chasing down some leads, Constable. I hope this is you telling me you’ve got Kamal downstairs.’
‘Nah, he’s over at Brick Lane.’
Fenchurch jumped to his feet and grabbed his suit jacket. ‘Come on, then.’
Lad held up his hands. ‘I’m just joking.’
For crying out loud . . . Fenchurch slumped back down. ‘That’s not funny.’
‘Depends on where you’re standing, guv.’
‘So why are you here, then?’
‘Well, Mulholland’s back in. Docherty’s got her running the case.’ Lad flicked up his eyebrows. ‘I thought you’d want to know the jelly peanut’s interviewing Qasid again.’
‘The jelly who?’
‘DI Bell.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Fenchurch held open a fire door, the glass zigzagged with fine mesh, and let Lad go through first. ‘What’re they asking him about?’
