by Ed James
‘I was driving.’ Savage looked over, wild eyed. ‘There’s this feature—’
‘While you two are carving up Africa on a map, I thought you’d want to know that we’ve made a breakthrough in the case.’
‘The drugs?’ Docherty grunted. ‘Aye, we know.’
Fenchurch leaned against the sill and folded his arms. ‘Tammy?’
‘Nothing’s ever a secret, Si.’ Docherty coughed hard into his fist. ‘Not in this place.’
A gentle rap on the door. Nelson, frowning at Fenchurch. ‘Guv, that’s Dunston in custody downstairs. Lawyer on the way.’
‘And Spencer?’
‘In the canteen, getting a cup of tea.’
‘Good work, Jon.’
‘The very man.’ Docherty got up from his desk and stormed over to close the door, trapping Nelson in with them. ‘The name Broadfoot mean anything to you?’
Nelson scanned the room, at Fenchurch, then Docherty. ‘I’ve got a mate of that name, yeah.’
‘This mate wouldn’t happen to work for the drugs squad, would he?’
Nelson avoided his gaze this time.
‘Wouldn’t happen to be who you told about our drug lead?’ Docherty got in Nelson’s face. ‘Wouldn’t happen to be a DCI who’s on his way here to steal my bloody case?’
Nelson pulled away, but just hit his back against the door. ‘Sir, I thought—’
‘Sergeant, that’s not your place to…’ Docherty broke off with a cough. ‘You couldn’t keep your trap shut, could you?’
‘I thought he should know.’ Nelson flashed him a smile. ‘You disagree with that assessment?’
‘I don’t disagree, Sergeant, but it should’ve been myself or Howard who informed DCI Broadfoot, not the other way round!’
‘Boss, I was trying to call you.’
Docherty rounded on Fenchurch, letting Nelson squirm free. ‘Aye? But only after you’d told Mr Loose Lips Sink Ships here.’
‘You didn’t answer your—’
The door shunted open, the wood cracking off Nelson’s calf. He grimaced as he got out of the way.
DCI Derek Broadfoot stepped through, hands in suit-trouser pockets. Short, with beady eyes and the sort of tidy scissors-only haircut that made him look like he ran a nightclub. ‘Al.’ He nodded at Docherty. ‘What’s done’s done, yeah? Jon’s just doing what I wish half my officers would. Sharing. We’re supposed to be one team in the Met, ain’t we?’
Docherty exhaled slowly. ‘Derek, this is my parish and I’m the bloody minister.’ He prodded his own sternum. ‘Me. Not you, and certainly not Howard.’
‘Well, my gaffer’s just been on with your gaffer. Loftus, yeah?’ Broadfoot picked up Docherty’s Rangers mug and spun it round his pinky. ‘The higher ups are all discussing this case, trying to figure out who’s eating the biscuit when they’ve—’
‘Christ, Derek.’
‘Too sick, even for you?’ Broadfoot laughed. ‘Al, if I was a betting man—’
‘You are a betting man. Ten grand debt, wasn’t it?’
Broadfoot smirked. ‘When the fun stops, stop. Yeah? Well, the fun’s stopping for you, Al. I’m taking over the case.’
‘Aye, bollocks you are.’
Broadfoot waved his phone around. ‘Should check your emails, Al.’
‘Shite.’ Docherty took a seat behind the desk and tapped at his keyboard. ‘Ah, shite.’ He deflated back in his chair, like all the air had rushed out of him. ‘What’s wrong with calling people?’
Broadfoot rested the mug on the edge of the table, close enough that it might fall off at any minute. ‘So, boys, how we going to play this?’
Savage was tapping at his BlackBerry. ‘I must insist that—’
‘I don’t care about all the people-trafficking shit, Howard. You’re welcome to it.’ Broadfoot beamed at Docherty, then at Fenchurch. ‘Which leaves you pair, eh?’
Docherty pointed at his machine. ‘According to this, I’m still running the murder case.’ He drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Right, Dawn Mulholland’s your liaison, Derek. Anything to do with the drugs shite, you speak to her. But I’m keeping the murder investigation.’ He shot a pointed look at Nelson. ‘It’s up to DI Fenchurch and DS Nelson to catch this girl’s murderer. As far as I can tell, this drugs thing could be a smokescreen.’
‘What? Of course it’s not. This is a crucial discovery, Al. You should be proud of yourself. Your team’s blown open an unknown drug and whore operation. Smart work.’
‘Right.’
Fenchurch’s phone blasted out Sleep Well Tonight by Gene. He checked the display — unknown number. ‘Better take this.’ He went out into the corridor to answer it, keeping the door open to see the power play going on inside. ‘Hello?’
‘Sir?’ Lisa Bridge’s voice, almost drowned out by traffic noise and light wind.
Fenchurch kept his focus on Broadfoot. ‘What’s up?’
‘Like you asked, I’m digging into the van hire. You know the one that killed Amelia?’
‘Right. Is this important? Because—’
‘Here’s the thing. I came to the hire company but it’s shut. I’ve just spoken to the head office and they’ve given me the name of the person who hired it.’
‘Derek! You can’t have it!’
Fenchurch kicked the door shut. ‘You going to keep me in suspense all night, Lisa?’
‘It was hired by Spencer.’
Fenchurch frowned. ‘You mean Mosé Tronci?’
‘No, sir. Christian Spencer. The van was hired under his real name.’
10
Fenchurch entered the canteen door. The place was empty, just Spencer staring at his mobile. The locked fridges hummed away, out of phase with the harsh strip lights arranged across the ceiling. Fenchurch stood over him. ‘You killed her, didn’t you?’
‘What?’
‘Amelia. You killed her. You hired the van, didn’t you?’
Spencer leaned back in the chair and stared up at the ceiling. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘Son, someone’s penetrated your cover and you don’t know who?’
‘Simon!’ Savage stomped across the canteen, fists raised. ‘Get away from him!’
‘No way.’ Fenchurch kept his ground. ‘You heard what this clown’s been up to. Did you use it to kill her?’
‘Simon, back off.’
‘No, Howard. Why the hell didn’t you hire it under your cover name?’
‘We have contacts in the hire company and the paperwork will be amended to Mosé Tronci.’
‘Howard, he hired a van used as a murder weapon! Just so happens that it was parked outside her flat! Just so happens that you were trying to get inside it!’
‘Simon, let’s be clear here.’ Savage stepped between them, placing a hand on Fenchurch’s chest. ‘All DS Spencer has done is hire a van. It’s not illegal.’
Spencer stared at his feet. ‘I’ve not hired anything.’
‘You sure about that?’ Fenchurch passed him a scan of the paperwork. ‘Christian Spencer. Your real name. Got yourself in too deep, haven’t you? Who did it?’
‘Not me!’ Spencer pleaded with his boss. ‘Howard, I was undercover. I’d use my fake ID, not my own name.’
Fenchurch narrowed his eyes. ‘Sergeant, this doesn’t look good for you. Not only have you been sleeping with someone when you were undercover, now you’re—’
‘Fuck off!’ Spencer lurched forward and shoved Fenchurch, sending him sprawling over a table. ‘You come in here and start shouting the fucking odds at me!’ Spit flew and lashed Fenchurch’s cheek. ‘Do you know what kind of pressure I’m under? Eh?’
Fenchurch kicked out, connecting with Spencer’s thigh. He barged him away, buying enough time to stand up.
Spencer jabbed a finger at him. ‘You must be a special kind of stupid to think I’d hire a fucking van and kill my bird’s sister with it. Is your IQ in single fucking digits?’
Fenchurch laughed at him. ‘Specia
l kind of stupid, eh?’
Spencer wasn’t seeing any humour in it. His snarl worsened, his face tightening. ‘I didn’t drive that van and I’ve no idea who hired it.’ He blew out hard. ‘I was in the house all day, until you came round. We were… I was… I was smoking dope with Adrian and his mates. All part of my cover.’
‘Not grinding coffee?’
‘No.’
‘Who ordered the pizza?’
‘Adrian did.’
‘Right.’ Fenchurch stood up tall. ‘Howard, I need you to keep Spencer in custody until this is sorted out.’
‘Simon, that’s—’
‘Howard!’ Fenchurch led Savage away by the arm. ‘In case you weren’t listening, he was shagging someone while he was undercover. This is a matter for the Directorate of Professional Standards, not us and certainly not you. We need to inform the DPS and they’ll take over this investigation. Spencer needs to wait downstairs until they arrive.’
Savage paused, focusing on Spencer. ‘Son, this is your chance to open up, okay?’
Spencer just sneered at him.
Savage patted his shoulder. ‘Fenchurch is right, Christian. What do you know about this van?’
‘I heard Mario talking about a van. He got someone to hire it. But it sounded like he was just going to the cash and carry with it.’ Spencer gave him a steely look. ‘I found the paperwork and called it in.’
‘What?’
‘Ran the plates, got a trace on it.’ Spencer clawed at his beard. ‘Trouble is, that van had been off the radar since just after it left the hire place.’ He looked at Fenchurch. ‘Just after you left the house, I received a notification. The van had passed a camera and we’d tracked it to Brick Lane. That’s why I was there.’
Fenchurch clenched his fists tight. ‘Why is this the first we’re hearing of it?’
‘I…’ Spencer let out a sigh. ‘You wouldn’t have listened.’
‘Come on.’ Savage helped him to his feet and led him to the door.
Fenchurch watched them go. His pulse was racing, adrenaline fizzing in his veins. What a pair of clowns. Up to all sorts, the pair of them.
His mobile blasted out Love Spreads by the Stone Roses.
LISA BRIDGE CALLING.
He hit answer and put it to his ear. ‘Lisa, you getting anywhere?’
‘Sir, I’ve just hold of the manager of the van hire place. He’s coming in to show me the CCTV.’
Fenchurch set off after Spencer and Savage. ‘I’ll be right there.’
Bridge was waiting outside Ten Mile Car Hire, a small concession by a Tesco petrol station in the arse end of Lewisham. A row of white vans all stamped with the logo sat beside another row of Vauxhall and Toyota saloons. Brick flats as far as the eye could see, all built in the last thirty years.
Fenchurch got out of his car and started walking over.
‘Simon!’ Footsteps thundered across the car park towards him. Someone grabbed him from behind. ‘Stop!’
Fenchurch shook Savage off. ‘Is Spencer in custody?’
‘That’s not the bloody point.’
‘Howard, I don’t care. This isn’t our fight. Let the DPS sort it out. Okay?’
‘Simon, I assure you—’
‘I said I don’t care.’ Fenchurch barged past and charged over to Bridge. ‘Lisa, where’s this manager?’
Bridge pointed at a guy limping towards them. ‘Hi, Alec.’
‘Got me out of me bleeding bed.’ Alec opened the door and limped inside. ‘On the early shift tomorrow an’ all. You wouldn’t believe who wants a bleeding van at five a.m.’ The lights flickered on, illuminating a grimy little office. More corporate signage than furniture. ‘Having a nice dream I was, but no, you had to drag me out of it, didn’t you? Should’ve turned my bleeding ringer off, but my boss will no doubt choose that exact moment to call me and I’ll never hear the bleeding end of it, I swear.’ He slumped behind a desk with a deep moan. ‘Speaking of the boss, he says he’d sent stuff to you?’
‘That’s correct. Thing is, we—’
‘Wasn’t that enough, eh? Couldn’t this wait until tomorrow?’
Bridge leaned against the counter and gave a polite smile. ‘It’s urgent, I’m afraid.’
‘Everything’s urgent these days.’ Alec gestured at the CCTV console behind the front desk. ‘Fill your boots, sweetheart. I’m sticking the bleeding kettle on.’ He hauled himself up to standing with a deeper moan. ‘Get you anything?’
‘We’re good.’
‘Suit yourself. Make the best tea in Lewisham, I do.’ Alec trudged off through a door.
‘Not the first time I’ve had the pleasure…’ Bridge sat behind the desk and started working the machine. ‘He’s usually grumpier. And his tea is disgusting.’
Savage picked up a leaflet and flicked through it. ‘This going to take long?’
‘A jiffy.’ Bridge clicked the mouse.
The computer screen showed the forecourt outside, dark with grey cones coming down from the street lights. A man limped towards the entrance. Alec. But another man jogged over.
‘Could be Spencer, sir.’ Bridge was squinting at it. ‘But it’s really bad quality. And this is the best we can get from it.’
‘Well, it matches his story.’ Fenchurch leaned back against the wall, listened to the kettle hissing in the other room. ‘You not saying anything, Howard?’
Savage just stared at the screen.
‘Sir?’ Bridge waved in front of Fenchurch’s face. ‘Watch this.’
The screen filled with more footage, again outside, but an angle showing a white van driving off.
‘This was it leaving yesterday morning.’ She clicked the mouse and dragged the footage back to an empty forecourt. No sign of Spencer. Just a row of empty vans.
A man carried a bike onto the screen and lugged it over to the van. He dumped the bike in the back, then got in the driver seat. Seconds later, the van drove off.
Savage let out a deep sigh. ‘Who the hell is that?’
Bridge switched to another screen and clicked through a list, a second window showing alternate camera angles. ‘The quality’s not great on that, sir. I’ll see—’
‘Constable, do you know where the van went next?’ Savage was jangling keys in his shorts pocket.
‘Just a sec.’ Bridge reached below the desk for her police laptop. She opened it on the desk and started clicking at things, way too fast for Fenchurch to keep up with. ‘All I have is the van parking outside that flat, not long after Amelia’s death. And I can’t see the driver getting out.’
‘Nothing between those times?’
‘Between it leaving here and that murder, it must’ve been parked somewhere.’
‘The incident happened on Whitechapel High Street.’ Fenchurch frowned at her. ‘You’re telling me there’s no cameras between here and there?’
‘There are, sir, but they’re not on the network. I’ve not had a chance to go through the footage at the office.’ She gestured around the room. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of the information on this hire like you asked.’
‘Right.’ Fenchurch exhaled slowly. ‘Focus on the footage and see if you can get anything out of laughing boy over there.’ Tinkling sounds came from the coffee area. ‘He might have some trackers or something. Or know how to get better camera angles.’
‘I’ll see you back at Leman Street, Simon.’ Savage marched off towards the entrance.
‘Do you mind?’ Alec shuffled past, steam billowing up from his tea cup, scum covering the oily surface, and he reclaimed his chair. He cracked his knuckles and snorted. ‘Have a peek at this, sweetness.’
Bridge squinted at the machine. ‘Who the hell is that?’
Fenchurch got between them. ‘Holy shit.’
On the screen, the van driver was frozen in high definition. A chunky goatee and skinhead.
Fenchurch knew the face. Who is that?
Then he got it.
It was Billy Desmond, Mario’s new pizza
delivery guy.
11
Fenchurch stormed into Mario’s Pizza and headed to the kitchen.
‘Can I help you, sir?’
Fenchurch barged past Sergio and opened the kitchen door.
Mario stood by the oven, whistling to an old Dean Martin tune playing on the radio as he tossed cheese onto pizzas.
‘Billy Desmond.’ Fenchurch grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him round. ‘Where is he?’
‘Get away from me!’ Mario tried to shake him off, but Fenchurch just tightened his grip. ‘Help!’
Fenchurch kicked the door shut in Sergio’s face and pressed Mario back against the wall, fists bunching up around his shirt fabric. ‘I know what you’ve been doing here. I know your filthy little game.’
Mario’s gaze shifted between the door and Fenchurch. Neither offered any help. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Prostitution, drugs, people trafficking.’
‘This is bullshit!’
Fenchurch straightened him up and stared right into his eyes. ‘You paid Billy Desmond to murder her, didn’t you?’
‘This is bullshit!’
‘You’re up to your neck in this.’ Fenchurch let his grip slacken off. ‘Now you tell where I can find him.’ He pulled him close again, close enough to taste his breath. ‘Okay?’
Mario nodded.
Fenchurch let him go and he slumped back against the wall. ‘Billy Desmond. An address. Now.’
‘But…’ Mario ran a hand down his face. ‘I don’t have an address for him.’
Fenchurch hauled him up to standing. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Get off me! I don’t know it!’
‘But he works for you, right?’
‘No!’
Fenchurch pushed Mario face first against the wall and pulled his arm back. ‘He was here earlier, I saw you giving him a load of pizzas!’
‘Shit on it…’ Mario slackened off and stopped fighting. ‘When Amelia died, I needed someone to deliver my pizzas. What else am I going to do?’
‘So you called him in? That means you’re close to him, doesn’t it?’
