by Ed James
Fenchurch opened the squad car’s back door and craned his neck to focus on the skinny figure inside. ‘Why do you think Coldcut’s here?’
‘Cat’s lying low.’ Dodoo’s gaze darted around behind Fenchurch, like he was expecting to be shot at any moment. Or splashed with acid. ‘Keeping away from you pricks. Must know you’re on to him now.’
Fenchurch beckoned over a uniformed officer. ‘Get him back to Leman Street, okay?’
Dodoo’s eyes bulged. ‘You don’t want me in there with you?’
‘Good one.’ Fenchurch waved him off then focused on the six officers waiting around. Two of them yawned hard. Someone else’s stomach rumbled louder than the BA plane taking off.
Then his Airwave chimed. ‘Serial Bravo in place, sir. Over.’ He caught a hand waving down the lane.
‘No letting them get away this time, okay?’
A long pause. ‘Noted. Over.’
‘Okay.’ Fenchurch took a deep breath. ‘We are go!’
The nearest uniform picked up the Enforcer battering ram and sauntered up the back path towards the house. Another yawn, then he hefted it up and forced it against the door. Clunk and it toppled into the dark house.
Three uniforms burst in, leaving two out front.
Fenchurch followed Nelson into a hallway. Full of acrid smoke. Shrill football noises came from another room. A teenage girl lay at the bottom of the stairs, eyes rolling back in her head. Skin covered in black marks. She smiled at them, the sort of slow grin that Baby Al did when he recognised his old man.
Heart pounding, Fenchurch entered the living room, the smoke thicker than in the hall. The bitter taste of toasted marshmallows in his mouth. Four junkies sat around a broken telly, playing a football game on a PlayStation. Four sacks of skin and bone, eyes only capable of focusing on their game. A huge crack ran down the side of the TV screen. One of them looked over, then away again. ‘Sod off.’
No bloody sign of Coldcut . . .
Fenchurch stormed back out into the hallway, past the sleeping girl, and looked upstairs. Just got shaking heads. Same in the kitchen. He trudged back outside, sticking his Airwave to his lips, glaring at the squad car. ‘Put Dodoo on, right now.’
Muffled sounds, then Dodoo cleared his throat. ‘What?’
‘Daniel, you said Coldcut was here. He’s not.’
‘He is! I was there this morning!’
‘Son, you’re in enough trouble as it is. Leading us literally up the garden path is just going to—’
‘Kitchen cabinets.’
‘What?’
‘Check behind the kitchen cabinets.’
Fenchurch raced back in the house, then through to the dark kitchen.
A bored uniform leaned against the sink, his lips smacking as he chewed gum. He clocked Fenchurch and stood up all, pushing the wad into his cheek. ‘No sign of anyone, sir.’
Fenchurch tried the first cabinet door. Locked. He shook the handle but it was solid. Tried another, same result. They were all like that.
The uniform scratched his head. ‘What the hell?’
Fenchurch looked at the cabinets again. That beige melamine stuff you used to see everywhere, dark-brown kick plates underneath.
Hang on . . .
He got down on all fours and prodded the nearest kick plate. As solid as the door above. Then he tried the one under the sink. Same. Hang on. The far edge wobbled. He shuffled over and pushed it back. The other end swivelled round. Faint light crawled out from behind. He peered in — the bottoms of the cabinets had been crudely sawn off and there was a catch on the back wall, stuck on the bare brick. He grabbed the uniform’s baton and flicked it.
The cabinet door clicked and toppled on top of him.
Fenchurch pushed it away and got up to a crouch. The uniform was shining his torch in, pointing at a hole in the back wall. Looked like a tunnel under the house.
The great bloody escape . . .
‘You going in there, sir?’
‘Not after last—’
‘I’m coming out!’ Coldcut’s face appeared in the hole, his baseball cap covered in dust and soot. ‘I’m coming out!’ He eased his large frame out of the hole, his shell suit flapping, then bellyflopped on to the kitchen floor. Hands up, he got to his feet. ‘I’m coming out peacefully.’
The uniform stepped forward, holding out his cuffs.
Then Coldcut lashed out with a fist. A sickening crack and the uniform slumped back. Followed up with two quick kicks to the gut.
Fenchurch hefted up the baton and started his backswing. But Coldcut was on him, wrapping his arms round his shoulders and pushing him back against the cabinet. Pushed him back over the worktop, jabs raining on Fenchurch’s sides, kicks digging into his legs.
Guy’s like a wild bull . . .
Someone stormed in, heavy boots thudding on the floor. Coldcut turned round and aimed a punch at someone. Nelson! He ducked it, but caught the low one in the gut. He coughed, doubling over. Then Coldcut hammered his fist into his face and Nelson went down like a sack of spuds.
Fenchurch lashed out and caught Coldcut’s left knee. Then kicked out with the right, locking his feet together and twisting. Coldcut fell forward, cracking his head against the sink.
Fenchurch pushed forward, reaching for the spilled cuffs and snapping them round Coldcut’s chunky wrists. Even so, he wasn’t going anywhere. Out cold.
Fenchurch went over to Nelson and cradled his head. ‘You okay?’
Nelson clenched his jaw tight. Blood poured out of his nose, soaked his white shirt. ‘Did you get him?’
‘Relax, Jon, I got him.’
‘No comment.’ Coldcut pressed a finger on to the bandage on his forehead. Blood soaked through in patches.
‘No comment, eh?’ Nelson dabbed at his nose with a hanky. Looked bad but the devil and his horsemen couldn’t keep him out of the interview. ‘This isn’t your first time in a police station, is it?’
‘What?’
Nelson snorted. ‘Your first time in a police station.’
‘Struggling to understand you, brother.’ Coldcut sounded like he’d been sucking helium. Running a criminal empire with a Mickey Mouse voice was impressive work. He smiled at Nelson. ‘It’s like someone’s broken your nose.’
‘Shoplifting. Car theft.’ Nelson flicked through a couple of prints. ‘And then you died, of course.’
‘You think you’re smart, don’t you?’ Coldcut’s voice went down in pitch, still sounded like a swarm of bees. ‘Who grassed on me? Dodoo?’
‘Colin, how do you think we caught you, eh?’ Fenchurch splayed his hands on the table. ‘Magic? Summoning the devil? Selling our souls at the crossroads?’ He grinned. ‘You’re not as good as you think. Or as dead as we thought. Colin David Cutler. Very cute.’
‘Who told you? Was it Steve?’
‘Gather you and he go back a ways. Schoolmates, right?’
‘Not seen him in years.’
‘And you’re worried that he’s grassed on you?’
‘Not seen him in years.’
‘He says you went for a drink with him on Friday.’
‘Hadn’t seen him in years until then.’
Fenchurch nodded slowly. ‘Did you have that drink?’
‘Bloke was in a state, wasn’t he?’ Coldcut leaned back until he was almost horizontal. His shell suit rode up to show his hairy belly. ‘Found out his missus had been screwing some kid behind his back. Taking him for a pint was the least I could do.’
‘And you just happened to be at Mr Dodoo’s place of residence when Steve popped in, right?’
Coldcut dabbed at his wound again. ‘I was playing Mario Kart with Daniel.’
Fenchurch stared at him hard, a few seconds that felt like hours.
Guy doesn’t look so bad, but if what Nelson said is true . . . The guy killed two undercover cops investigating him, so he’s both smart and dangerous.
‘Why did you order Daniel to attack Elliot Lynch?’
‘Nobody’s died.
’
‘No, but Elliot’s lying in hospital with his face melting. You did that.’
‘You just said Daniel did.’
‘You gave the order. Might as well have tossed it on yourself. Then again, can’t see you getting on a bike in your’ — Fenchurch looked down at Coldcut’s gut — ‘condition. You look pregnant.’
‘That kid—’ Coldcut’s voice went up an octave. ‘He’s an arrogant little shit.’
‘So you do know him?’
‘I might’ve played Mario Kart with him at Daniel’s. Otherwise I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘You got Daniel to scar him for life. What’s he done to you?’
‘An acid attack on a kid is a nasty business, Inspector.’ Coldcut held up his hands. ‘But it’s nothing to do with me. I hope you throw the book at Daniel.’
‘You got nowhere with him, Simon.’ Mulholland sat behind Docherty’s old desk. She tugged her scarf tight around her neck, even though the room was roasting. ‘What does someone have to do for you to get a confession out of them?’
Nelson was keeping his counsel, sitting opposite her, biding his time. ‘That man is a ghost.’
‘Simon, have a seat.’
Fenchurch didn’t want to. Didn’t want to be in the same room as her. ‘His record says he died a few years ago. And yet he’s in here—’
‘—failing to answer your questions.’ She glowered at him. ‘Simon, this Coldcut character isn’t going to talk to us. He’s lived as a ghost for the last few years, why do you think he’ll suddenly start talking?’
‘Faking your own death might be very illegal. But sod it — he ordered Dodoo to throw acid at Elliot.’
‘Simon, I know you want to be the hero cop, but I need you to answer one simple question.’ She grinned at him, eyes narrow, like she was a criminal defence lawyer, not his boss. Playing devil’s advocate when you were the devil. ‘Why?’
‘Because—’ Fenchurch broke off. He didn’t have anything. He looked at Nelson — he didn’t either.
‘You’ve no idea, have you? All you’ve got is that Elliot might’ve given some money to Steve Fisher.’
‘For drugs. We know Steve is a dealer. He went to school with Coldcut. He was at Dodoo’s flat.’
‘I still don’t buy the connection.’
‘Is Steve’s lawyer still in?’
Mulholland waved her hands in the air. ‘You’re not getting back in with him until I have a detailed interview strategy from you.’
‘I want one last tilt—’
‘No!’
Someone knocked on the door. ‘You wanted a word, Dawn?’ DI Rod Winter stood there, scraping his dirty black hair from his eyes. Clean-shaven for once, looking about ten years younger. Gave Fenchurch and Nelson a nod. ‘Si. Jon.’
Fenchurch returned the nod. What the bloody hell is he doing here?
‘Have a seat, Rod.’ Mulholland waved at the seat she’d offered Fenchurch, watching Winter as he slumped in it, arms tight across his chest. ‘Gentlemen, Julian and I are uncomfortable with the . . . tone of the investigation so far. What started out as a rudimentary murder now has a sizeable drugs element, not to mention a suspect being the victim of an acid attack. As such, we need to diversify the portfolio and manage accordingly. Starting now, DI Winter will take lead on the acid attack investigation.’
Winter looked over at Fenchurch then back at Mulholland. ‘Are you winding me up?’
‘Am I in the habit of getting involved in office banter?’ Mulholland raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m deadly serious, Inspector.’
Fenchurch kicked the door shut. Didn’t slam as loudly as he’d have liked. ‘Why?’
Mulholland could only focus on Winter. ‘Because acid attacks are part of his remit.’
Fenchurch pointed at his own chest. ‘It’s my case.’
‘DI Winter is in charge of the strategic prosecution of acid attacks.’
‘Dawn, I keep telling you . . .’ Winter shook his head. ‘I’ve got no slack to take on your—’
‘Superintendent Loftus has allocated you to this activity, Inspector. Any disagreement, you take it up with him. Am I clear?’ Mulholland stared at him until he looked away. ‘DI Nelson, your secondment is now officially over. You will run the Coldcut investigation from Operation Lydian.’ She shot a withering glare at Fenchurch. ‘Which leaves DI Fenchurch. You are to charge Steve Fisher with his wife’s murder.’
‘Dawn, I disagree with this. We need to—’
‘Simon.’ She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Let’s see if you can focus on one thing at a time without dipping your toes into other people’s cases. Mm?’
Fenchurch leaned back against the wall. Couldn’t find the energy to argue.
‘Now, I need to brief Julian on the latest . . . clusterfuck.’ Mulholland got to her feet, wrapping her scarf tightly around her neck as she moved over to the door. ‘Feel free to use this office to organise the handover, gentlemen.’
Winter watched the door close, then let out an almighty sigh. ‘Well, boys, many thanks for getting me into this.’
‘You shouldn’t be here, Rod.’ Fenchurch walked over and perched on Docherty’s old seat. ‘This isn’t your case.’
‘Tell me about it.’ Winter took out a tobacco pouch and tipped the contents on to a pair of filter papers. ‘Four acid attacks in South London, that one up in Hackney and she’s pushing me to take this one, too.’
‘We’ve got someone for the Hackney attack.’
‘I gather. Means I’ve got to put a pair of DCs on interviewing him.’ Winter licked the filter and rolled. ‘Trouble is, my gaffer’s in Majorca for a fortnight and Loftus listens to her over me.’ He licked the paper again but slipped, covering his tongue in dry tobacco. He coughed, trying to cover it. ‘Anyway, you pair got any ideas how I get back to what I’m supposed to be doing?’
‘It’s open-and-shut, Rod.’ Fenchurch put his feet up on the desk, just like Docherty would’ve done back in the day. ‘Jon and I are witnesses.’
‘You saw it? Shitting hell.’
‘You just need to run with it.’
‘Oh, another one of those cases that’s too good to be true? All they do is hoover up resource and I’m scrimping around as it is. Six Acting DCs, can you believe it? Six. Big daft lumps from uniform, none of whom I’d take if I had a choice. But I’m desperate.’ He spat out tobacco. ‘Total farce.’
Fenchurch walked over to the whiteboard and started drawing. ‘Here’s my thinking so far. We can connect Dodoo to Coldcut, right? Dealer. Supplier.’ He joined the boxes. ‘Then Dodoo was Steve’s dealer, right?’
‘Supposedly.’ Nelson joined Fenchurch by the board. ‘And Steve was at school with Coldcut.’ He frowned. ‘Add in those rumours that Steve Fisher is dealing drugs on the school playground.’
‘Seriously? That teacher who killed his wife?’ Winter looked up, his lips still covered in tobacco. ‘Talk about open-and-shut, Si. Teacher kills his wife. Bosh.’
‘Unproven at the moment.’ Nelson uncapped a whiteboard pen, looking like he was back wearing his management consultant hat. ‘So.’ He wrote Elliot next to Steve. ‘Teacher, pupil. Elliot was sleeping with Steve’s wife.’
Winter started on another roll-up. ‘How does Elliot hook into Dodoo and Coldcut? Why did they splash him?’
Nelson drew lines from Dodoo and Coldcut to Elliot. ‘We don’t know.’
Fenchurch stabbed his pen on to the boy’s name. ‘We think Elliot bought some drugs from Steve. We were going to speak to Elliot when he was attacked.’
‘Could be Blockchain.’ Nelson added it with a question mark. ‘Elliot almost died from taking it, and Steve’s supply is conveniently missing.’
Winter picked some tobacco off his tongue. ‘You think Steve used them to kill her?’
‘That’s Dawn’s working hypothesis.’ Fenchurch tapped Elliot’s name again. ‘I haven’t excluded him yet.’
‘Right, so you don’t know.’ Winter put his tobacco
away and joined them by the board. ‘From where I’m standing, it looks like Steve connects Elliot to the other two. Retribution for Elliot bonking Steve’s wife?’
Nelson redrew the hard line between Elliot and Steve. ‘That’s the only thing that makes sense.’
Winter stared at the spidery diagram, then nodded slowly. He tapped on Elliot’s name. ‘I need to speak to him. Find out if he knows why he was attacked.’
Fenchurch grabbed his jacket off the table. ‘I’ll join you.’
‘You heard Mulholland, Si.’ Winter smiled at him. ‘You’re focusing on Steve Fisher.’
‘I heard her. We’re handing over, mate. I’ll show you Elliot, get him talking, then we’re golden.’
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The room was guarded by two male uniforms, big lumps who looked like they could handle themselves. Through the glass, Elliot was lying on his back, wearing a white gown with black polka dots. His face was red, eyes shut and puffed up, skin marked in a few places. White cream covered his jaw, like he’d left some foam on from his morning shave. Cling film held everything in place.
‘Jesus.’ Fenchurch felt his gut contract. ‘Can we speak to him?’
Dr Mulkalwar shook her head hard, teasing one of her hair clips free. ‘We need to keep him in a sterile environment for at least two days.’ She grinned at Fenchurch. ‘Thanks to you, though, we’ve saved his face. To be perfectly frank, if you hadn’t acted so quickly, he’d have lost his skin. It looks bad, but he’ll recover in a few days, believe it or not.’
Winter’s skin was tinged green like he was going to vomit. ‘We’ve got to the point where an acid attack in London is like dealing with a nosebleed.’
‘Inspector, thanks to the work you and other specialist teams are doing across this city, we’re getting the message out there. When this sort of attack happens, people like DI Fenchurch now have the knowledge to save the victims. Thanks to you.’
‘I guess.’ Winter took a gulping breath. ‘Just wish it wasn’t happening.’
‘In six months, it’ll be something new.’ Fenchurch nodded at the room. ‘We really need to speak to him.’
‘I can’t let you in there.’
‘Have you got a phone or something?’
