by Ed James
Mosé was sitting opposite, the window behind him. Even with the blinds drawn, the sun blared through, shrouding him in light. ‘You heard me. No comment.’
‘Let me get this straight.’ Fenchurch leaned forward, but his eyes were already hurting from the blinding glow. ‘You just happened to be wandering around a van that’d been used to murder someone?’
‘Listen.’ Mosé yawned into his fist. ‘All I’ve done is go for a walk to fetch some pizza for my mates. That’s it.’
‘No pizza places up that way, though.’
Mosé yawned again.
‘See, it’s a bit of a coincidence that you were lurking around that van. And another coincidence that Amelia was on the way to deliver your pizzas when she was killed. Did you order them? Or was it your flatmate?’
More yawning.
Fenchurch pushed his chair back and trudged over to the door. He found a better angle to glare at him without blinding himself. ‘You ordered pizzas from the place you work in.’ He paused. ‘You knew where Amelia would be going, meaning you could murder her with that van.’
Mosé looked over at the door. ‘You should let me go.’
‘Not gonna happen.’ Fenchurch’s voice echoed round the room. ‘There’s no way you’re getting out of here, son. You placed that order, then you tailed Amelia in that van and you murdered her.’ He left another pause, but Mosé just yawned again. ‘When I visited your flat to check on the delivery, that spooked you, didn’t it? You went up to her flat, but I don’t understand why you parked the van there, though.’
‘Let me go.’
Fenchurch took a step closer, but got a flash of light from the window. ‘You’re not taking this very seriously.’
‘Because you’ve got nothing on me. Just a load of random information.’
‘You want to play that game?’ Fenchurch laughed. ‘Why did you murder her? You worked together, right? Did she knock you back, is that it?’
‘Really? That’s all you’ve got?’
Fenchurch gave a shrug. ‘Seen much simpler explanations in my time.’
‘If you want to put me away, you’ll need something stronger than me being near a van. I didn’t kill her.’
‘Bullshit.’ Fenchurch stepped forward again. A flash of sunlight made him blink hard. ‘Your housemate didn’t want me coming inside your house. Threatened me with needing a warrant.’ He leaned in close, using Mosé to block the sun. ‘What are you hiding in there? I assume you’re not really roasting coffee beans.’
‘We are, as it happens. Ade’s running a business on the side. You should taste them. Gorgeous.’ Mosé gave a smug grin. ‘You really need to let me go, mate.’
‘Do I? See, if I arrest you, I can get a squad to search your gaff like that.’ Fenchurch clicked his fingers, loud and sharp.
‘Inspector, you really should’ve done your homework before you brought me in.’
Cheeky little bastard.
Fenchurch stood up tall. ‘Mosé Tronci, I’m arresting you for—’
‘I’m an undercover cop.’
Fenchurch stopped dead. ‘What?’
‘DS Chris Spencer. I work for Howard Savage in the Vice and Trafficking Unit. Do us both a favour and give him a bell, would you?’
7
‘That lying, lying bast—’ Docherty jerked forward, coughing hard again, bracing himself on his office desk. ‘Christ on a bike.’ He gasped for breath, struggling to keep steady.
Fenchurch stood there, no idea what to do. ‘Seriously, are you okay?’
‘It’s this bastard cold. Or it’s hay fever. I’m plagued by it this time of year.’
‘Even so, you should get it checked out. I don’t want to have to carry you to hospital.’
‘Always about you, Si.’ Docherty rubbed at his throat. ‘Always about you.’
‘So, what’s our plan of attack with Savage, boss?’
‘Once that lying bastard bothers to pitch up, I’m going at him hell for leather.’ Docherty coughed again, but it sounded like he’d caught it, whatever it was. ‘You believe this boy? Mosé Tronci. Chris Spencer. Whatever his name is.’
‘There’s a Chris—’
The office door bundled open and Savage paced in, face like thunder. ‘Gentlemen.’ He still wore his shorts, though he lugged a dark-brown briefcase.
‘Sexy legs, Howard.’ Docherty flashed a smile, but there was fire behind his eyes. ‘You’ve got a lot of explaining to do.’
‘As do you.’ Savage gave Fenchurch a tight nod. ‘Didn’t expect to see you so soon, Simon.’
‘Enough chit-chat, Howard.’ Docherty cleared his throat again. ‘We’re running a murder investigation and our suspect numero uno says he’s one of your officers.’
‘That’s quite correct.’ Savage walked over to the window, the street outside now in the shade. ‘DS Spencer’s mother is from Italy, came to study here in the Eighties. Married his father and had young Christian. Given his ethnic background, he’s perfect to infiltrate Mario’s Pizzas.’
‘Howard, you need to prevent your undercover plants making a mess of my cases.’
‘You’ll make a mess of it all on your lonesome, Alan.’ Savage stared out of the window. ‘Spencer has been working there for the last eight months. He’s earned Mario’s trust, but only partially.’
‘Care to tell me why he’s there?’
Savage turned around slowly and crossed his arms. ‘We believe that Mario works for an organisation trafficking Albanians over here, then using them as prostitutes.’
Docherty laughed. ‘Are you pulling my plonker?’
‘Have you ever known me to jest?’
Fenchurch joined Savage by the window. ‘Albanians? Are you serious?’
‘Deadly. They’ve been using pizza delivery as cover for their illicit activities. Mario sends them all over East London on bikes. It’s perfect.’ Savage walked back over to his briefcase and unclipped the catch. He took out a file and tossed it to Fenchurch. ‘Your Amelia Nicholas is really Amelja Nikolla.’
Fenchurch flicked through it. Stills of the now-murdered Albanian national cycling around London. Down by Wapping, Canary Wharf, Mile End, even on Bishopsgate in the City. He found a list of times and dates, with men’s names. ‘What’s this?’
‘Prostitution, Simon. Upwards of eighty known clients.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Fenchurch handed the file to Docherty. ‘Your guy’s up to his nuts in this, Howard.’
Savage sat and crossed one hairy leg over the other. ‘Chris was only doing his job.’
‘That include lurking around the van used to kill her?’
Savage straightened up, but didn’t say anything.
‘You’re sure he’s not gone rogue, Howard?’ Fenchurch tilted his head to the side. ‘Maybe decided to take her out?’
‘Of course not.’ Savage kept his gaze on the floor. ‘Christ, Simon, I personally trained him.’
‘Like that means anything.’
Savage frowned over at him. ‘Let’s start with why someone would want to kill her, mm?’ His frown deepened. ‘It could be the prostitution. It could be another illicit activity, or it could be something else entirely. She could’ve cut someone up at the lights. This is London — take your pick. Also, it could be the gang who trafficked her here.’
‘Howard, I caught your guy red-handed. Are you not listening to me? He was standing by the van used to kill her.’
‘That’s not exactly red-handed.’ Savage made eye contact, the same fury burning in his eyes as in Docherty’s. ‘Would either of you like to accompany me in debriefing him?’
‘Because I didn’t!’ Spencer shot to his feet and started pacing around the interview room. ‘You need to listen to me!’
‘If not you, then who?’ Fenchurch sat back in his chair and folded his arms. Docherty was over by the door, eyes trained on his watch. Savage sat next to Spencer, like his defence lawyer. ‘Who did it, eh? Who killed her? Who squashed her against that bus? Who was driving the v
an? I’ve seen the video and it’s—’
‘I don’t know, do I.’ Spencer ran a hand through his long hair. ‘As per Howard’s instructions, I was trying to get to know Amelia. She had the best English of any of the girls. Her and her sister. I was worried about her, it’s why I was there.’
‘Amelia has a sister?’
‘Right. Casey. They share a flat on Brick Lane. When I heard about what happened to Amelia… You told Adrian… I started worrying.’
‘Sure you weren’t covering your tracks?’
‘Of course not.’ Spencer sat back down again, gripping his knees with his bony fingers. ‘It took me a while to earn their trust. Eight months I’ve been doing this. But Casey started to trust me. Same with Amelia. She knew more, started slipping me info, little titbits here and there. Stuff about the trafficking operation, about how these guys back home had kidnapped them both and took them by boat from Albania to Italy. There were about twenty of them, she said, but they split them up. Some stayed in Italy. Some went to Germany, some to France, and Amelia and Casey came to the UK.’
‘What do you know about these Albanians?’
Spencer looked at Savage, then at Fenchurch. ‘You ever come across any Albanians?’
Fenchurch shrugged. ‘One or two.’
‘Then you haven’t.’ Spencer laughed, but there was no humour in it. ‘You think the Mafia are bad? Please. The Albanians have no lower limit to their depravity. They think nothing of holding a whole village hostage to influence two girls in this country. Talk about the Sword of Damocles hanging over their heads. I’d call these men animals, but I actually like animals. They’re the most-human human beings you can find, exploiting their neighbours for personal gain.’
‘Just like listening to one of your chats, Howard.’ Docherty sneered at Savage. ‘I can see why you hired this boy.’
‘Alan, this is serious.’ Savage’s eyes were half-closed like he was meditating. ‘These gangs get away with it by exerting intolerable pressure on the people they bring to this country. The Sword of Damocles, like Christian says. These people aren’t seeking a new life. This isn’t a Chinese triad operation bringing people over here for a fee, or like the Cartel’s activities on the Mexican border with the USA. They don’t want to be here, they’ve been forced into this. And if they resist, their family back home will pay a horrendous price.’
Fenchurch thought it through. He knew next to nothing about the Albanians, other than they were taking over a lot of London’s illicit activities. Drugs, prostitution. It all matched, at least on the surface. ‘So why are these traffickers still getting away with it?’
‘We’re on top of this, Simon.’ Savage kept his focus on his officer. ‘DS Spencer here is but one small cog in the wheel.’
‘And how does Mario fit into this?’
‘I don’t know.’ Spencer looked over at Savage, like a child searching for the correct answer. ‘I mean, he’s as Italian as I am. Born within earshot of Bow bells and all that shit. I don’t know how deep he is in this operation. Could be the mastermind, could just be some poor mug forced into it. It’s not easy to find out. Designed that way.’
Savage raised himself from his meditation. ‘Mario isn’t the objective here. Those who transport these people from Albania are. Those who exert the pressure back home. This is a pan-European operation and we’re aiming high here.’
‘Fine, groovy.’ Fenchurch focused on Spencer. ‘None of that explains what he was doing next to that van.’
Spencer combed his fingers through his beard in silence. ‘Like I told you, it’s a coincidence.’
‘You expect me to believe that?’ Fenchurch started pacing the room. Then he stopped right next to Spencer. ‘Because that van was used to kill Amelia. Smacked her into a bus and ran over her skull.’ He crouched down next to him. ‘I’ve seen the body, what’s left of it. She hasn’t got a fucking head.’
Spencer took a halting breath, then covered his mouth with a fist.
‘And you having a butcher’s at that van, well that doesn’t add up for me.’
‘I didn’t—’
‘I spooked you when I turned up at your house, didn’t I? Asking questions, like I always do. You knew I’d find answers.’ Fenchurch waited until Spencer looked at him. ‘Why did you kill her?’
‘I didn’t.’ Spencer shot to his feet and retreated to the corner. ‘You turning up at the house… You freaked me out. You were going to blow my cover.’
‘Really?’ Fenchurch followed him, trying to use his superior size to intimidate him. ‘Still doesn’t explain why you were sniffing round the van. Or why you knew it’d be up there.’
‘I didn’t. I found it, just like you did. You pitched up and battered me.’
‘Trust me, son, that wasn’t me battering you.’ Fenchurch took another step closer. ‘You expect me to—’
‘Listen to me.’ Spencer pleaded with Savage. ‘I was there because I was worried about Amelja’s sister Kejsi. Casey. She works at Mario’s. Her life could be at risk too.’
8
‘You should’ve come clean earlier.’ Fenchurch glanced over at Spencer in the passenger seat as they trundled down Brick Lane, now in full Sunday evening flow. A pair of drunks staggered up to the front door of an Indian restaurant and even the curry pusher was having none of it. Fenchurch pulled up in almost the exact spot as before and killed the engine. He waited for Spencer to let his seatbelt go. ‘I appreciate you need to protect your cover, but seriously, you’re not doing yourself any favours here.’
Spencer opened the door and planted a foot on the ground. ‘You ever worked undercover?’
‘Not for longer than a week.’
‘Well, you can’t judge me.’ Spencer slammed the door and started walking.
Fenchurch got out. A warm breeze blew down Brick Lane, carrying smells of roast meat and caramelised onions. He followed Spencer at a distance, watching his body language. Not the gait of a man with dark secrets, maybe. But a man trying to hide, a man trying to escape. His hipster attire blended in with the drinkers outside the pub on the corner, thick woolly beards matching their fisherman’s jumpers.
Spencer stared up at the flat. ‘There’s a light on now.’
‘Not so fast.’ Fenchurch tugged his sleeve, holding him back. ‘Stay where I can see you.’
Spencer muttered something.
‘What was that?’
Spencer pointed over at the van. ‘You might want to see what forensics you’ve found on me.’
Tammy was working away inside the van, her masked face pressed up against the open back door.
‘Stay here.’ Fenchurch jabbed a finger at Spencer then paced over the road. ‘Tammy, you—’
She jolted forward, cracking her face off the door, and clambered back. ‘Don’t do that!’
‘Sorry!’ Fenchurch held up his hands. ‘Force of habit.’ He stepped back, trying to let her calm down. ‘You getting anything?’
‘Just losing a few years off my life, thanks to you.’ Tammy jumped out of the van and tugged her mask free. ‘Having to do it all myself because of holidays.’
‘You know, if this was Mick Clooney, I’d hear no end of excuses.’ Fenchurch gave her a warm smile. ‘I appreciate you rolling up your sleeves.’
‘I can’t do that, it’ll contaminate the crime scene!’
‘I meant—’
She laughed, wagging a finger at him. ‘Got you back.’
‘Touché.’ Fenchurch folded his arms, grinning. Nearby, a lorry was peeping. ‘You found anything?’
‘Well. There are some forensics. Hairs, skin. Could be nothing, could be something. I’m waiting on—Aha.’ She shut the back doors and waved at a lorry reversing along the narrow street, the reverse alarm sounding as it went. ‘We’ll get this van out to Lewisham and give it a proper going over. I’ll run the forensics too.’
‘I appreciate it.’ Fenchurch pointed at Spencer over the road, leaning against the wall, yawning. ‘Highest priority is
to check against DS Chris Spencer. Works for Howard Savage. Should be on the exclusion database, but he’s,’ he leaned forward to whisper, ‘undercover…’
‘Will do.’
‘Thanks, Tammy.’
She frowned. ‘How’s your old man doing?’
‘My dad? What’s he got to do with anything?’
‘No reason.’ Tammy blushed. ‘Well, other than the work he’s been doing with DCI Savage’s team. The pair of them would knock on my door every couple of days, asking questions.’
‘Curiouser and curiouser.’ Fenchurch got out of the way of the lorry driver, who was carrying a thick tow rope over to the van. ‘I’ll catch you later.’ He rejoined Spencer by the flat. ‘You want to come up with me?’
‘I’m worried she’s dead.’
‘Any reason?’
‘Every reason.’
‘Maintain your cover, okay? You’re just helping me.’
‘Fine.’ Spencer kept looking up at the flat as he pressed the buzzer.
The stairwell door clattered open. A young woman stood there, arms folded. Hair soaking wet, like she was fresh out of the shower. ‘Hello?’ Heavy accent.
‘Police.’ Fenchurch showed her his warrant card. ‘Need a—’
Her face lit up when she spotted Spencer. ‘Mosé, what’s going on?’
Spencer gave a flat smile. ‘Casey, we should do this inside.’
Casey sat on a battered couch, head bowed over her lap, crying hard. She swore in guttural Albanian. The sun shone over the opposite rooftop, a shaft of light crawling over the floor. A lavender scent filled the room, steam lingering in the air.
Spencer reached over and stroked her back. ‘You okay?’
Casey looked up. ‘Of course I’m not okay.’ Anger flared in her eyes, but it slipped away, replaced by more tears, streaking her blotchy skin.
Fenchurch walked over to the window and basked in the fading glow, watching them.
Spencer kept stroking her arm with the intimacy of lovers not friends. And she nestled into him, an instinct now, not a strange sensation.
