by Ed James
Need to get someone to check up on Katerina. Clearly not dealing with the situation at all well.
He looked back at the car. Chloe and Abi were still inside, chatting away. And I need to keep her away from my daughter.
He walked over to the flat. Two men walked down from the end of the street. Dad was bellowing with laughter. Same as it ever was.
Pete was following him, dressed for a much more formal occasion — sports jacket, shirt, jeans, shiny shoes. Greying hair, chunky glasses, his chin covered in a wispy beard.
Jesus, he could be me. The silvering hair, the height, the build. Never healthy when your daughter’s type is you.
‘But I want to leave a nest egg for my grandkids.’ Fenchurch’s old man was clutching a bottle of Tizer. He looked knackered, liked he’d barely slept. He noticed his son and started limping over. ‘Simon!’
Fenchurch let Dad grab him in a hug. ‘What are you annoying him about?’
Pete grinned as he offered his hand to Fenchurch. ‘Just asking some investment advice.’
‘Dad . . .’ Fenchurch nudged him towards the door. ‘He’s not always like this, I promise.’
Pete chuckled. ‘He is every time I’ve met him.’
How many times was that before you met us?
Fenchurch glanced back at the car. Still locked in a deep and meaningful chat.
Dad clapped Fenchurch’s arm. ‘Simon, he worked for an investment bank! He knows all about investments.’
‘I ran the metals desk.’ Pete waved him off. ‘It’s completely different to investing savings.’
‘Can’t be that different.’ Dad took a glug of Tizer, gasping as he put the lid back on. ‘Bert told me about this thing he’s doing where—’
Pete held up his hands. ‘Ian, if it sounds too good to be true, it’s probably a Ponzi scheme.’
‘Bert likes to wear a cravat sometimes, but I wouldn’t call him poncey.’
‘Ponzi, Dad. Like Bernie Madoff?’
‘Oh, that Yank who stole all those film stars’ money?’ Dad grinned. ‘Right.’ Then he frowned. ‘So you think Bert’s going to lose his money?’
‘It might be legit, but I’d always be suspicious. Get your IFA to look it over.’ Pete gave him a wink. ‘Anyway, an ex-cop like you shouldn’t be trusting people too easily, Ian.’
‘Dad’s not exactly an idiot.’
‘I didn’t mean anything by it.’ Pete held up his hands again. ‘Just ask your IFA.’
‘I ain’t got one.’
‘Well get one. I could recommend a couple?’
‘Smashing.’
In the car, Abi and Chloe were arguing about something. He unlocked the front door. ‘Right, let’s get inside, then.’ He let Dad and Pete go first. ‘They’ll follow us up.’
‘And then I decided to get out.’ Pete sipped his tap water, then rested it back on the table. He was next to Dad, the pair of them crammed in on one side.
Fenchurch looked around the kitchen again. Abi and Chloe were over at the cooker, muttering to each other. Chloe kept scowling at her mother. He put his phone back in his pocket.
‘You okay, love?’
‘We’re fine, Dad.’
‘Okay.’ Fenchurch felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He got it out and checked the message.
Nelson: NOTHING TO REPORT. I’LL UPDATE YOU IN THE MORNING. OK? OUT.
Fenchurch tapped out a message: NOT GOOD ENOUGH. I WANT HIM SQUASHED, JON. GIVE ME AN UPDATE IN HALF AN HOUR.
The little dots appeared under the message. His phone buzzed again: YOU DON’T GET ANY BETTER, DO YOU? FINE. I’LL CALL WHEN I’VE GOT SOMETHING.
Fenchurch put his phone away and focused on Pete, leaning closer like he was interviewing him. ‘Why did you decide to?’
‘It was going to kill me if I stayed there. I’d given my life to it and all I had was an AA membership.’
‘Oh, I’m an RAC man.’ Dad leaned back, picking at his teeth. ‘But Bert was saying he gets breakdown cover free with his bank account or something?’
‘Alcoholics Anonymous, Dad.’ Fenchurch felt a sharp pain. ‘Like with Doc.’
‘Ah, right.’ Dad nodded slowly, still picking at his teeth. ‘So your doctor said you had a problem?’
‘My liver’s not what it once was. Too many client lunches and dinners. These guys were putting in millions every day, but we’d have to entertain them on expenses. Five pints of lager, nothing to eat.’ Pete looked like he was reliving the terror, drowning in each remembered pint. ‘Bottles of wine with dinner, pubs, clubs. Home at two in the morning and up again at six, trying to get a day’s work done before the drinking starts again.’
‘Sounds like when I joined the Met.’ Dad laughed. ‘Only joking.’
Pete stared at his glass of water like it was his tenth lager. ‘I wouldn’t recommend setting foot within the Square Mile, let alone working there.’
‘I’ve had a few run-ins with the City cops over the years. So’s Simon. They run their own police—’
‘I’ve seen them. Uzis on Bishopsgate. Like another country.’
Dad frowned as he took another glug of Tizer. ‘Was it cancer?’
‘Was what?’
‘Why you can’t drink?’
‘Just common or garden liver damage. That’s all. I’m fit as a fiddle otherwise. Run 10k every morning. Do yoga three times a week.’
‘You ever try to stop?’ Fenchurch leaned back in his chair, getting a creak, and took a sip of his wine. ‘Go to your bosses and say, I can do the job but I’m cutting out the booze?’
‘When you’re at the coal face, it’s sink or swim.’
Dad cackled. ‘Sounds like your Cornish engine’s knackered, mate.’
‘It’s my liver, not my heart.’
Dad bellowed out laughter, loud enough for Chloe and Abi to look over. ‘No, Pete. A Cornish engine’s what they used for pumping water out of a mine. If you’re sinking at the coal face, you’ve got a serious problem.’
Pete groaned. ‘It was a metaphor.’ Then he grinned. ‘Felt like I was swimming in Jägermeister sometimes.’
Fenchurch sipped his wine again. ‘Are we talking nightclubs or private members’ clubs?’
‘The latter.’
‘I’ll assume it’s not the Groucho or that artists’ one in Soho?’
Pete didn’t answer.
‘Lap dancing, yeah?’
‘Listen, I didn’t have a choice!’
Chloe and Abi both had their hands on their hips, synchronised glaring at Fenchurch.
‘You’ve always got a choice, Pete. Go along with it or fight it.’
‘It’s not that simple.’
‘You didn’t have to take that money. You didn’t have to ruin your body.’
‘You’re telling me . . . But I’m financially secure. Never have to work again. I can do the degree I want rather than the one I felt compelled to do—’
‘And that justifies it?’ Fenchurch put his glass down and rested on his forearms. ‘This city’s going to shit because of bankers and management consultants and property developers squeezing every last penny out of people. Forcing them out of areas they grew up in. Cutting public services just so they can cut their taxes.’
‘I worked in metals. I had nothing to do with that.’
‘Bet you’ve got a nice flat, yeah?’
‘Kensington. And it’s a house.’
‘There you go. You know how much that place costs to—’
Abi gripped Fenchurch’s bicep. ‘Can you give me a hand getting some more wine in?’
‘But I’m the only—’
‘Need to chill some white for Chloe.’ She gave him a frosty glare, her eyebrows raised. ‘You know I can’t get the chiller to work.’
‘Right. Okay.’ Fenchurch got up, whispering to Pete on his way up, ‘This isn’t over, okay?’
‘Simon!’
Fenchurch joined Abi in the hallway. ‘I’ve only got—’
‘This isn’t about the sodd
ing wine.’ She batted his chest, then pointed a finger at him. ‘You need to start behaving. You’re treating him like he’s killed someone.’
‘This is me going easy.’
‘Christ, Simon. He’s your daughter’s boyfriend. Be civil to him.’
‘You’ve heard his chat. He’s an ex-investment banker. Can’t drink any more.’ Fenchurch leaned against the door. ‘Bloody bankers. They’re all psychopaths. They don’t give a shit about anyone else. I’m trying to stop my daughter getting hooked up with Patrick Bateman and you’re—’
‘Patrick who?’
‘The guy in American Psycho.’
‘I haven’t seen it.’
‘It was a better book than a film.’ Fenchurch folded his arms. ‘For Chloe’s sake, I’ll treat him like he’s not a psychopath, but the second he starts talking about Genesis albums, I’ll—’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘It’s in the book. Never mind.’ Fenchurch nodded slowly. ‘Fine. I’ll be civil.’
Abi waved back through. ‘Get in there and help me mash the bloody potatoes.’
‘I know what you’re all going through.’ Pete reached across the table for Chloe’s hand. ‘Two years ago. My sister, she had a baby in . . . the same situation as your son.’ He wiped away some tears. ‘That’s the only time I ever had any leeway at work. Didn’t have to schmooze, just got on with the job, left at lunchtime, supported Cara through it.’ He bared his teeth. ‘Joshua died on Easter Sunday 2015, so we’ve got two anniversaries to mourn every year — the actual date and Easter Sunday. Her husband couldn’t even visit the hospital.’
Abi glared at Fenchurch and muttered, ‘Not a psychopath.’
Chloe sipped some wine, her glass frosted. ‘You poor thing. I didn’t know that.’
‘You’re the ones going through it all now.’ Pete pushed his chair back and got to his feet. ‘Anyway, I must head off.’ He buttoned up his sports jacket. ‘I’m working at the university over the summer and it’s an early start.’
‘I did that when I was a student.’ Abi joined him standing. ‘Stuffing prospectuses into envelopes for the International Office. Easy money.’
‘I’m doing research with a linguistics professor.’
‘Oh.’
‘It’s cool, actually. But taxing.’
Abi nodded. Then thumbed into the hall. ‘You can stay if you want.’
‘Mum!’ Chloe’s mouth hung open.
‘That’s fine.’ Pete raised his hands again. Such a bad habit that he must’ve been deflecting bullets all day, every day in his career. ‘I’ll politely decline the offer but this has been fantastic. Abi, the chicken was to die for.’
‘Just the chicken?’
‘And the rest of it.’ Pete laughed. ‘Simon, I’m sure your wine would’ve been lovely.’
‘It was, thanks.’ Fenchurch raised his glass.
‘But thanks for having me. I know this isn’t easy.’
‘You getting a cab?’ Dad downed the last of his Tizer. ‘I’ll join you.’
‘I’ll get a Travis.’ Pete held up his phone, showing the Travis Cars app. ‘Hang on, don’t you live out east?’
‘Limehouse.’
‘Well, you were listening when your son got the fact I live in Kensington out of me during his interrogation, weren’t you?’
‘That wasn’t him interrogating you, son. You can still walk.’ Dad laughed. ‘Anyway, help me catch one of them cab things, would you?’
‘I’ll help you, Grandpa.’ Chloe nudged the table as she got up, then took Pete and Dad into the hall.
Abi collapsed into her chair. ‘I’m shattered.’ She scanned the mess around them. ‘Think that’ll keep till the morning?’
‘I’ll fill the dishwasher.’ Fenchurch took his wife’s hand and squeezed. ‘We should’ve maybe postponed this, what with—’
‘No, you should’ve been less of an arsehole to Pete.’
‘What do you expect?’ Fenchurch stared into his glass, just a thin puddle left at the bottom. ‘Look, if he’s going to take our little girl away from us, I want to know he’s right for her, okay?’
She yawned into her fist. ‘I’m meeting my supervisor tomorrow morning.’
‘I forgot about that.’
‘A year’s maternity leave almost up and I’ve not settled our son in here.’ She went over and kissed his cheek. ‘Thank you for stopping being a twat to Pete.’
‘Don’t mention it.’
She walked off, yawning. ‘Night.’
‘Night.’ Fenchurch drank the last glug of his glass, savouring the peppery prickle. Caught Abi’s yawn.
Shouldn’t drink any more and end up like Pete.
One more glass isn’t going to take me there, though, is it?
He tipped the rest of the bottle in. Bit more than he’d expected.
The front door shut, a draught of cold air whispering across Fenchurch.
‘That stuff any good?’ Chloe sat next to him.
‘Have some.’ Fenchurch tipped half of his glass into hers, didn’t spill a drop. So many years of practice with Nelson. ‘Dad get his cab all right?’
‘Pete paid the fare up front.’
‘Least Dad’s not at risk of paying the fifty-quid vomit fine, unlike last night.’ Fenchurch waited for a laugh, but didn’t get one. ‘Sorry I was being a twat earlier; he didn’t deserve it. Pete seems okay. And I’m sorry for upsetting you.’
‘It’s okay, Dad. Really.’ She tried the wine. ‘Gah, that’s horrible.’
‘I used to hate the taste. One of those things you get used to. This is good stuff, too. Twenty quid a bottle.’
‘And you say Pete’s an idiot with his money . . .’ Didn’t stop her trying another sip. ‘In the hospital earlier, I could see how angry you felt.’
‘I hate it when I can’t control things, love. At work, I’m working for this woman and . . . it’s complicated.’
‘What’s she done?’
‘I told you, it’s complicated.’
‘You can trust me, Dad.’
‘Of everyone, you’re the only one that I can.’ Fenchurch gave her a warm smile. ‘When you went missing, she was on the team. Just a DS. I was a DI, but I wasn’t allowed on the case for obvious reasons. And she screwed up. Badly. Made a mess of a lead. The man who kidnapped you. We could’ve found you a lot sooner if it hadn’t been for that.’
She was staring into the glass. ‘You had them?’
‘Sort of. I don’t know.’ Fenchurch drank some wine, but it tasted like bleach instead of a rich Bordeaux. ‘Maybe it wouldn’t have done anything.’
‘So you’re angry with this poor woman because you’ve made an assumption?’ Chloe nudged her glass away. ‘Dad, the people who took me were professional. Organised. Efficient. It was even kind of an accident that you found me. Whatever this is, whatever you’re holding over her, you need to move on from it. Okay?’
‘Chloe, I—’
‘Dad, you see what clinging on has done to Pete, yeah?’ She got up and kissed him on the head. ‘Just stay sane, okay?’
Fenchurch nodded slowly. Then smiled at her. ‘You need a lift tomorrow?’
‘Not working. Let me sleep in, okay?’
‘No porridge?’
‘I’ll make some when I get up.’ She padded off through the kitchen. ‘Night.’
‘Night.’
Just stay sane . . . Easier said than done.
Fenchurch got out his phone and checked for updates. A text from Nelson: CALL ME.
So he did.
‘Si.’ Nelson yawned. ‘I’m just heading home now.’ Another yawn, halting this time. ‘We were in there for a couple of hours, me and Kay. Just like old times, but without you smashing the suspect in the face.’
‘Very good. Did you get anything?’
‘He knows Coldcut, but that’s all he’s giving us. Sorry.’
‘Right. Well. Thanks for keeping me updated.’
And he was gone.
Charming.
Fenchurch drained his glass and started on Chloe’s.
‘Simon?’
Fenchurch jolted awake. Heart thudding, head thick. Mouth like an ashtray. Sitting at the kitchen table. Empty bottle of red in front of him. The microwave read 2.48.
‘You okay?’ Abi nudged the door shut behind her and sat opposite him. ‘What the hell are you up to?’
‘Fell asleep.’ Fenchurch went over to the sink, full of dirty dishes he hadn’t tidied. Had to angle the glass as he filled it with water. ‘I dreamed about Chloe taking a load of this drug I’m investigating.’
‘You shouldn’t drink so much.’
‘You’re right.’ Fenchurch yawned, then took another gulp of water. Felt pissed. ‘Can’t sleep?’
‘I tried, but I keep thinking of the operation. This time tomorrow, Al will be recovering. But what if he’s not?’
Fenchurch put the glass to his cheeks, trying to cool himself down. ‘There’s nothing else we can do but wait and see.’
‘I know. It’s just . . .’ Her face screwed up, her eyes red. ‘I don’t want to lose him.’
‘Come here.’ Fenchurch walked over and held her tight. ‘Whatever happens, happens, okay? There’s nothing we can do. It’s down to Oates and his magic fingers.’
‘What if Al dies?’
‘Every second of every day since he was born, we’ve been there for him, fighting for him. All we can do is give him a chance, give him hope that he’ll pull through.’
Day 3
Monday, 11th September 2017
Chapter Thirty-Two
‘—another victim in a spate of acid attacks hitting London.’
Fenchurch pulled up outside Leman Street’s rear entrance and reached over to kill the radio. First time he’d listened to a music station in years: a terrible mix of vacuous pop and news of the world falling apart. Still, not as bad as the racist idiots on the phone-ins. Maybe.
He got out into the rain, pulling his suit jacket over his head to avoid the worst of it.
‘—my authority!’ Uzma was by the back door, hands out wide, face twisted up. ‘You stupid cow!’
‘I’ll smash your face in.’ Reed stepped forward into Fenchurch’s line of sight, fists clenched but still at her side. ‘You think you’re so much better than me, don’t you? Well, I’ve got news—’
