by Ed James
‘Desmond works—’
The door flapped open. ‘Simon!’ Mulholland’s voice. ‘Simon!’ She grabbed at Fenchurch, her claws tearing at his arm. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
Fenchurch didn’t let Mario go, instead yanking his arm further up. Made him squeal. ‘Who does Desmond work for?’
The door flapped again and Broadfoot stepped in, eyes wide. ‘Christ’s sake, let him go!’
Fenchurch twisted Mario’s arm another notch. ‘Tell me!’
‘Loco!’ Mario was panting hard. ‘He works for Loco.’
Fenchurch let him go and passed him over to Mulholland.
Who the hell are Loco?
Mulholland snapped out her handcuffs. ‘Mario Esposito, I’m arresting you for the murder of Amelja Nikolla.’ She started cuffing him. ‘Anything you say—’
‘Dawn, are you sure you—’
Her look shut him up. Boss’s orders.
Fenchurch stepped back and let her get on with it. He took out his mobile and googled the name. Shiny corporate logo, Wikipedia entry, photos of couriers with happy faces on bikes.
One of those new gig economy delivery companies.
With an address in Aldgate Tower.
Fenchurch parked outside Aldgate Tower and checked the screen grab again, Billy Desmond taking Spencer’s hired van.
You were driving that van, probably killed Amelia.
An assassination?
And where the hell do I know you from?
Fenchurch thought back to the earlier meeting in Mario’s.
An older guy laughed as he shoved three boxes into a bag. Tall and skinny, the silver stubble on his head catching the light. His tight lycra shirt and cycling shorts didn’t exactly hide anything. Arms and legs shaved closer than his face. He lugged the delivery bag on his shoulders and turned to face Fenchurch. A chunky goatee surrounded pink lips, the kind of thick hair Fenchurch could only dream of growing. He frowned at him but didn’t say anything.
Cockney, old East End. He’s not Albanian, unless they’re taking on old lags. Could be anyone.
Fenchurch got out into thin drizzle. Bloody hell. London summers ain’t what they used to be. A wide rainbow arced in the sky, way out west. Always where the gold is.
A car pulled up over the road and flashed its lights. Savage got out, now wearing dark grey trousers instead of shorts. ‘Inspector.’ He set off towards Aldgate Tower without another word.
Fenchurch rushed to catch up with him. ‘You still in a huff with me?’
‘Of course I am.’ Savage stopped by the entrance. ‘I gather that we’ve arrested Mario against my better judgement.’ He looked up at the tower with a grunt. ‘You’d better hope that DI Mulholland can get a tune out of him.’
‘What she does best, Howard. What she does best.’ Fenchurch gave him a smile. ‘We need to plough this path, okay? There’s a lot of runway left and the plane’s not even taken off.’
‘You really need to work on your metaphors.’ Savage entered first.
An unwelcoming tunnel led over to a spangly security desk. A young woman tilted her head to the side. ‘Can I help you, sirs?’
‘Detective Chief Inspector Savage.’ He showed his warrant card. ‘Need to speak to someone in charge of Loco.’
‘You’re in luck, sir. They’re working a Sunday.’
A humourless smile flashed across Savage’s face. ‘So, which floor?’
‘Oh, they’re part of Travis.’
‘Fantastic…’ Savage groaned as he set off towards the lift. ‘London’s favourite ride-hailing app is still trading?’
‘You’d be surprised what people put up with, Howard.’
‘Employing murderers?’
‘Yeah but it’s cheap.’
The doors shut and the lift whirred up, then opened at the next floor. Someone had pressed all the buttons and, try as he might, Fenchurch couldn’t get them to cancel. So they stopped at every single floor. He kept trying.
‘You seem a bit tetchy, Simon. Worse than usual.’
Fenchurch looked over at Savage, eyes narrow.
‘It’s about Chloe, isn’t it? I know what you’re going through and, despite your actions, I’m with you every step of the way.’ Savage patted him on the back. ‘You’re going through the worst… Just the worst…’
‘She won’t even speak to us, Howard. Won’t recognise who we are. You saw what it was like with I’Anson. She’s giving us messages through some social worker, won’t even meet us.’
The doors opened to another empty floor, bright and smelling of cleaning products. Not Travis’s floor. Again.
‘I understand. It must be horrific.’ Savage hit the door close button and the lift complied. ‘And I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. At all. Okay? But, you need to compartmentalise this, okay? I know you can do it, because you’ve done it for the last eleven years. You heard Jeff — just a few more months.’
Always a few more months.
Every time we climb to the top of the hill, there’s another ridge behind it. Every bloody time. It just never ends.
But maybe he’s right. Maybe I’Anson can work miracles. Maybe we can get Chloe back into our lives. Just speaking to her without her pushing us away would be like climbing Everest.
Another empty floor. Another press of the door close button.
‘But what if it just goes on and on? What if she moves to America? Or Australia?’
‘Knowing you, you’d just follow her, wouldn’t you?’
Fenchurch laughed. Couldn’t help himself. ‘Probably.’
‘You want me to lead here?’ Savage’s forehead was creased with concern. ‘I know you have previous with this operation.’
‘It led to us finding her, Howard. That case. Bloody hell…’ Fenchurch took a deep breath and stood up tall. ‘I’ll lead. It’s still a murder, okay? Still our case.’ The lift pinged and opened onto their floor. Fenchurch strolled over to reception like he owned the place. ‘Is Pavel Udzinski about?’
The security guard was stuffed into a brown uniform, his bulky arms spilling out of the short sleeves like burst sausages. ‘One second.’ He reached for a phone and put it to his ear, then hit a button.
Fenchurch scanned the area again. Not much different from his previous visits, just a little bit more lived-in, more human, more spoiled. Past the security barrier on the left, the floor was filled with office drones, even on a Sunday. Smelled of pine air freshener and fresh espresso. Floor-to-ceiling windows at the far end looked out onto Tower Bridge, the middle section raised to let a boat through. The rainbow looked like it deposited its pot of gold either on the London Eye, the giant Ferris wheel spinning slowly over the Thames, or on the Walkie-Talkie, the accidentally car-melting skyscraper.
The guard put the handset down with a grunt and nodded to his left.
‘You again.’ Pavel Udzinski paced across the carpet tiles, his mirror shades catching the low strip lights, showing miniature versions of Fenchurch and Savage in the lenses. His dark hair was cut short and messed up, either deliberately or through constant stress. He’d lost his goatee, but his sideburns had stretched down to his solid jawline. ‘Remember our deal? I only speak with DCI Bell?’
‘Well, he’s on holiday, I’m afraid.’ Fenchurch rested on the edge of his desk, acting all casual. ‘But I need to ask you about—’
‘As per our agreement with the Mayor of London’s office, the official liaison between Travis and law enforcement is via DCI Jason Bell and his team. If there’s an incident involving one of our co-signs, then we need to—’
‘This isn’t about Travis.’
‘What?’ Pavel’s face twisted tight. ‘Then get out of—’
‘It’s about Loco. Your bike courier business.’
Pavel peered round at Savage. ‘What about it?’
‘One of your cyclists is chief suspect in a case.’
Pavel’s mouth hung open. ‘Then I definitely need a warrant. We’ve no agreement for the Loco business.’
‘Or we’re in virgin territory.’ Fenchurch folded his arms. ‘So I need you to—’
‘No, Inspector. I won’t be bullied like last time. I need you to speak to DCI Bell or, like I said, someone in his team who can—’
‘Can you imagine what it must feel like to be squashed between two vehicles until your ribs crack, then to be run over so that your skull caves in?’
Pavel slumped back against the security desk.
‘That’s how Amelia Nicholas died.’ Fenchurch stepped forward. ‘She’d been chased by a van, one of your—’
‘Okay.’ Pavel tore off his shades. ‘I will help, but we need to formalise this, okay?’
‘Here we go.’ Pavel sat at his machine in the busy office space and rested his shades on the desk. Two giant monitors mounted above a fancy laptop, giving a third screen filled with emails. He typed at the laptop keyboard and the screens burst into life, inscrutable data tables and graphs. ‘Who are you after?’
‘Billy Desmond.’ Fenchurch wheeled a chair over, but Savage stayed standing, acting like he’d rather be elsewhere. Fenchurch pulled out his notebook and opened it on the desk. ‘I need to confirm his whereabouts around half one this afternoon.’
Pavel glanced round. ‘We track our riders by GPS.’
‘Using their phones?’
‘On the bikes. We have chips on each one. They don’t know, but it’s for our protection in cases like this.’
Fenchurch raised his eyebrows at Savage. ‘Is that legal?’
‘It’s in their contract.’ Pavel leaned forward, typing on this laptop. ‘If they don’t want us tracking them, they don’t have to work for us.’ He hit a key and tapped at the left-hand screen, filled with a spreadsheet. ‘Okay, I have him on Brick Lane at half past one.’
‘That’s where the van was.’ Fenchurch shuffled forward in the chair, getting closer. ‘And before?’
Pavel hit a few keys, then the right-hand screen filled with a map of East London. A red dot appeared over Lewisham, then turned into a red line speeding through the East End, down to Whitechapel High Street, then up to Brick Lane.
Fenchurch stood up, grinning. Got you, you bastard. ‘Can you export this data?’
Pavel gave a reluctant nod. ‘I can…’
‘Please.’ Fenchurch passed him a business card. ‘Send it to this address.’
‘I still have it from last time…’
Fenchurch put the card in his pocket. ‘Okay, so where is he now?’
‘Two seconds.’ Pavel typed then scuttled his mouse, leaving it lying on its back. ‘His tracker’s off.’
‘What?’ Fenchurch sat with a thump. The chair skidded back a few inches. ‘Does he think we’re on to him?’
‘No, no, no.’ Pavel tapped the laptop screen. ‘The trackers switch off when the rider is off duty. The bikes are partly theirs, but we install the chips and keep them topped up as part of the weekly service. Oil the chains, check the brakes, replace the transmitter’s battery. We don’t track them when they’re off duty.’
Frightening.
But not getting us anywhere.
Fenchurch ran a hand over his mouth, thinking through the options. Doesn’t feel like there’s much else. ‘Okay, last question — I need Desmond’s address.’
‘Of course.’ More typing. ‘Hmm.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It’s… Billy Desmond isn’t his full name, though.’ Pavel waved at the screen. ‘It’s William Desmond Webster.’
Fenchurch felt acid bubbling in his gut. ‘What did you say?’
12
Fenchurch started pacing the room. ‘Jesus Christ.’
Desmond Webster?
How the hell did I not recognise him?
Fenchurch searched for the name on his mobile. The screen filled with news stories of Desmond Webster back in the day.
Photos of him arriving at the court in a stretched suit. Greasy, lank hair, heavily overweight. A drawing of him getting sent down in the Old Bailey. An interview with his victim’s parents, looking crestfallen outside their Essex bungalow.
He thought back to seeing Billy Desmond in Mario’s Pizza. Tall, thin. Shaved head, thick goatee.
Easy mistake to make.
Webster’s lost a ton of weight, shaved his long hair. Guy even looks younger. All that cycling, on top of fitness he gained in the prison gym.
But the psychopathic bastard just acted like I was someone he didn’t know. Pretended it was because we’re both Hammers fans.
Savage came over to Fenchurch and spoke low: ‘Simon, do you know him?’
‘You should too, Howard.’ Fenchurch showed his phone. ‘William Desmond Webster. Worked for the late, great Flick Knife.’
‘He worked for Blunden?’ The blood seemed to drain from Savage’s face. ‘You’re positive?’
‘One hundred percent.’ Fenchurch looked him straight in the eye. ‘When Flick Knife ran the East End, Webster was one of his assassins. Step out of line or stop paying and he’d shoot you. Tap, tap, tap. Mouth, heart, brain. And he’s out, walking the streets again. Cycling them.’ He stared at the monster’s face on the screen. ‘My old man put him away. One of his last big cases. Webster did a ten stretch for murdering a prostitute. I’d heard he got out last year, but…’ He swallowed hard. ‘Don’t get my old man started on it. Guy was an assassin, but he couldn’t get anything to stick. Then all he needed was a good lawyer, good behaviour, overcrowded prisons. You name it, he’s back out.’
Savage perched on the edge of the desk. ‘Ten years for murder is hardly paying any debt.’
Pavel frowned at them. ‘He’s an ex-prisoner?’
‘Thought an operation like yours would love guys like him. They’ve paid their debt to society and all that, but nobody else will employ them.’ Fenchurch focused hard on Pavel. ‘I need that extract of his movements now. Okay?’
‘Very well.’ Pavel turned back to his machine and clattered the keyboard, muttering to himself.
Fenchurch spotted Bridge coming through the office, flanked by the bulky security guard. ‘Over here.’
She rested her laptop on the desk and held out a friendly hand to Pavel. ‘DC Lisa Bridge.’
Pavel shook it. ‘Pleasure.’ He focused on his computer again, his shades back on.
‘Have you made any progress, Lisa?’
‘Sort of.’ She opened her laptop. ‘It’s not easy, though. Should have a team of six people on this.’
‘You’re as good as at least five, you know that.’
Bridge rubbed at her eyes. ‘The Met will have to pay for me to get my eyesight fixed, I swear.’ She scowled at Pavel. ‘Are you looking at my legs?’
‘What? No!’ Blushing, Pavel pulled up a map on the left-hand screen, a red-dashed route cutting from east to west. ‘Mr Webster cycled out to Lewisham, but it seems the bike was driven to Hackney.’ He clicked the screen and zoomed in on a satellite map. ‘Looks like garages to me.’
‘Lisa, can you work with Pavel here and check if Webster was driving? Cross-reference it against street cameras, see if there’s any images.’
‘A lot of opportunities to swap drivers from Lewisham to Hackney.’
‘Exactly.’ Fenchurch focused on Pavel. ‘Now, you’re going to give me Webster’s home address?’
‘I’ll need to check—’
‘No. You’re giving me it now.’
‘I can’t. Legally. I need to check with—’
‘Fine. Lisa, get someone in DCI Bell’s team over here.’
‘Sir.’
Fenchurch stared hard at him. ‘Can you call me the second Webster’s tracker thing turns back on?’
Pavel thought about it. ‘That I can do.’
‘The very second. You hear me?’
Fenchurch double-parked on a quiet street in Limehouse. Years ago, kids would’ve been out playing on a night like this. Including him. Tonight, it was just parked cars and two old women sharing gossip under a streetlight, the lamp not yet glowing. H
e left his hazards on and got out to cross the narrow pavement to thump on his old man’s front door.
And he waited.
Nothing.
He put his ear to the door — quiet as the grave. No sign of Dad inside, no sign of anybody.
Where the bloody hell is the old sod?
He took out his mobile and checked the location again.
Says he’s right here.
Wouldn’t be the first time he’d left his phone at home, would it?
Even after what happened last month… I told him to keep it on him at all times. And did he listen?
Could be lying on his couch, a bottle of single malt in his belly.
Another thump, then he crouched down to bellow through the letterbox: ‘Dad!’
‘Here, what’s going on?’ Footsteps came from behind. Fenchurch’s dad wandered along the street, weaving slightly. He grabbed the lamppost and scowled. ‘Simon?’
‘Dad.’ Fenchurch charged over to meet him. ‘I told you to keep your bloody phone on you at all times!’
‘The battery was dead and I was just meeting Bert for a swift half.’ Dad hiccupped. He swallowed something down then rubbed a hand over his thick moustache. ‘Thought you’d know to find me in the Queen’s Head.’
‘I bought you that so I could make sure you…’ Fenchurch got a whiff of second-hand alcohol. ‘Christ, you smell like a brewery.’
‘Those in glass houses…’ Dad aimed his keys in the general direction of the door. Then dropped them. ‘Bloody hell.’ He went down in stages to pick them up, but managed to get the key in the lock at the second go. ‘You want a nice cup of tea?’
‘More like a very strong coffee for you.’
‘An Irish one.’ Dad bellowed a laugh as he led Fenchurch inside.
The flat was a mess. A square of four holes in the wall, right through the plaster. Torn-off wallpaper in two corners.
‘You really need to get this place fixed up.’ Fenchurch paced over to the sink and picked up the kettle, his hand shaking. ‘You know I’m happy to help.’
‘I told you, I’ll get a bloke in to do it.’ Dad collapsed into Mum’s old favourite armchair, the side fabric ripped open. ‘Been really busy, you know how it is.’
