Kill the Messenger

by Ed James

  Fenchurch stuck the kettle on and jammed the spoon into the jar of instant coffee. It was all glued to the bottom, so he had to dig around to liberate enough for a cup. Three spoonfuls should do it. ‘You got any milk?’

  ‘Take it black, like my women.’

  Fenchurch stopped pouring hot water in. ‘Dad, that’s not funny.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Dad pinched his nose. ‘So what have I done now?’ He took his coffee and blew on it. ‘You okay, son?’

  Fenchurch sat opposite. Could do with a cup of tea but no milk… ‘Did you know?’

  ‘It’s one of those, is it?’ Dad took a sip and grimaced. ‘Simon, you’ve always got something going on that someone didn’t know about and should’ve done, or they knew about it and shouldn’t have. What is it this time?’

  ‘Desmond Webster.’

  ‘That prick.’

  ‘Tell me. Everything. Now.’

  ‘You got a few months?’ Dad cupped his hands round the mug. ‘Heard old Webster was a good boy inside. So good that he only served ten for that murder.’ He took an angry sip. ‘I remember going ballistic at my gaffer at the time. We knew he killed at least twenty people. Off the top of my head, I can still list ten victims that had his name all over them. But we couldn’t get him for any of them. Compromise was we did him for murdering Diane Slocum, this prostitute who Flick Knife was running. She’d nicked some money from him, so that was it for her. But he’d been careless. We thought he’d be off the streets for good, but ten years…’ He pushed his empty mug away. ‘Number of people we had to put in witness protection just to get that to stick, it’d make your eyes water, Simon, I swear.’

  ‘I need to speak to him.’

  ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘Can’t tell you that. You know that.’ Fenchurch smoothed down the arm of the chair. Could still remember his mother sitting there. Still smelled of her, even after all these years. ‘I’ve checked for his address, but it’s like he doesn’t exist.’

  ‘Right, so you want me to call his parole officer?’ Dad reached over to a pile of letters on the kitchen table and rummaged around. He pulled out a file and started rifling through it.

  ‘What the hell?’ Fenchurch snatched it off him. ‘Have you nicked police files?’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’ Dad took it back off him and put it at the top of the pile. ‘I’m an old cop, son, so I keep files on stuff.’ He sifted through and seemed to find what he was searching for. ‘Here we go.’ He tossed it to Fenchurch. ‘Eddie Morris rang me up a while back. Webster’s parole officer. Told me Webster was getting out and he’d caught him as a client. Only ten years, for murdering a hooker.’ He shook his head and took another sip of coffee. ‘Asked me if I minded doing some digging into his client for him. A regular PI…’

  ‘What did you find, Dad?’

  ‘Not much. I tracked down a few of those old geezers he worked with. Me and Bert met up with them, had a couple of beers, asked them about Desmond Webster…’ He burped. ‘You know when you’ve done something and you regret it but you keep telling yourself it never happened? Then you can’t even remember it. Well, I swear, these guys… They lie to themselves every day of their lives and they believe it.’

  ‘I know what you’re saying, Dad. Any idea where he is?’

  ‘Want me to speak to his PO?’

  ‘That’d be a start. Known associates, home address, that kind of thing.’

  ‘I’ll give him a bell. He’ll answer to me all hours.’ Dad hauled himself to his feet and waddled over to the kettle. As it came to the boil again, he yawned wide. ‘You think this is related to Chloe?’

  ‘What?’ Fenchurch frowned. ‘Dad, I’m talking about Desmond Webster.’

  ‘Ah, shit.’ Dad poured more instant coffee into his mug. ‘Forget I said anything.’

  Fenchurch shot over. ‘What are you hiding from me?’

  Dad looked up from his steaming cup, his expression full of grief and shame. He eyed the door like he wanted to run, then the window like he was going to dive through it.

  ‘Dad, what is it?’

  He sucked in a deep, deep breath. ‘Webster took Chloe from outside your flat.’

  13

  Fenchurch leaned against the sink, his whole body shaking. ‘What did you say?’

  Dad shut his eyes. ‘Desmond Webster. He’s the one who kidnapped Chloe. Stuck her in the back of his cab. Passed her on to someone, and they passed her on, and someone heard the call over the police radio and… He was the one.’

  ‘You knew?’

  Dad just nodded.

  ‘But we caught them. All of them.’

  ‘No, son. You found the guy who Webster passed her on to. Howard found the woman who pretended to be her mother. But you never found the guy who took her. You didn’t find Webster.’

  ‘You knew?’ Fenchurch clenched his jaw, almost biting his tongue. ‘You KNEW?’

  ‘That’s why I put him away, son. It’s how me and Bert knew all about the Machine — about what that lot were up to. That was the start of it all. But we could never get him for anything. Until I did. But he still just… He just kept quiet. Just sat there, laughing at me. He knew I knew.’

  ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘Word on the street, son. Desmond liked a drink. Geezer was usually very tight-lipped, but one time his shame got the better of him. And he started talking about this girl he’d kidnapped in Islington. Just a one-time thing. But one of my sources told me. Couldn’t back it up, but all the times and dates fitted.’ He rubbed at his chin. ‘I thought I’d taken him off the street, son. I thought he’d paid the price, not for what he did, but… But no. Ten years.’

  Fenchurch tried to process it. And failed. He started again, but it hit him in the gut. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘What good would it have done?’

  ‘He took Chloe, Dad. He. Took. Chloe.’

  ‘I know, but I’ll ask you again, what good would telling you have done?’ Dad raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘I’m asking you that honestly, son. Webster was inside, he was away. Someone might’ve slotted him in there.’

  ‘We could’ve found Chloe sooner.’

  ‘Really? Because I was on that case and Desmond still had all the cards, and he kept them close to his chest. And if he spoke, if he told us what happened, he would’ve got out, wouldn’t he? There’s no way someone like that’s giving anything up without a deal. I decided that a life sentence for him was enough penance.’

  ‘It wasn’t life.’

  ‘I know that. But think of the lives I saved with him being off the streets, eh? Think of that.’

  ‘Dad, this was ten years ago. He could’ve led us to Chloe.’

  ‘And maybe he’d have just shut up and sat there, laughing. Or maybe he’d have talked and you’d still be none the wiser. You know what these people are like, Simon. He’d have had ways of warning them.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Dad, he’s killed again.’

  Dad set the mug aside. ‘This is why you’re here?’

  Rage simmered in the pit of Fenchurch’s stomach, sending spasms up his legs and down his arms.

  I could kick off, start throwing shit around.

  But what would that achieve?

  Nothing.

  I’d be no further forward. I need to find Webster. Need to bring him down for Amelia’s death.

  Need to make him pay for taking my daughter.

  I need to find him. Then I’ll kill him with my bare hands.

  ‘Dad, you need to make this right.’ Fenchurch stood up tall and folded his arms. ‘You need to help me find him. Start with an address.’

  Fenchurch powered down the Mile End street, his feet clipping the pavement. ‘What’s going on back at base, Jon?’

  ‘Guv, hold up.’ Nelson was struggling to keep up, toking on his vape stick. ‘Load of Game of Thrones bullshit, guv. Wish I’d never called Broadfoot.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have.’ Fenchurch stopped in the street and checked again
. Right address. A rundown little end terrace house, two-up, two-down. Ex-council, and not well cared for. ‘Follow my lead, Jon.’

  Nelson blocked his path. ‘Guv, you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You don’t seem it.’

  ‘Just follow my lead in here, okay?’ Fenchurch knocked on the wood. The white paint had half flaked off.

  Chart pop played on a speaker somewhere inside. Footsteps got louder, along with someone singing out of tune. The door opened and a young woman peered out. Early twenties, maybe late teens. Bottle-blonde hair tugged back in a ponytail. Baggy tracksuit bottoms and a crop top showing way too much flesh. ‘What?’

  Could be a trophy wife, could be his daughter.

  Either way, Fenchurch smiled at her. ‘Is Desmond in?’

  ‘He ain’t.’ She hugged the door frame, keeping the crack as narrow as possible.

  ‘Know when he’ll be back?’

  She shrugged. ‘He’s out on his bike. Could be any time. Last week, he cycled out to Southend. Miles, that is. He’s mental.’ She laughed, her mouth hanging open.

  Laughing is good. Means she trusts me.

  ‘You his partner?’

  ‘Hardly.’ A genuine laugh this time, no teen snark. ‘I’m his daughter.’ She held out a hand. ‘Holly.’

  ‘Simon.’ Fenchurch shook it. ‘Didn’t know he had a daughter.’

  ‘Neither did he.’ Holly winked. ‘You want to come in and wait? Get you a cup of tea or something?’

  ‘Nah, we need to shoot, Holly. But if you could give your old man a bell, that’d really help us out.’

  ‘I’ll let him know.’

  ‘It’s kind of urgent.’

  ‘Sure. How about I call him?’ Holly disappeared inside.

  ‘Guv, this isn’t right.’ Nelson had his mobile out. ‘You’re playing her.’

  ‘Stay here, then.’ Fenchurch followed Holly inside, leaving Nelson on the front step. The house was even grottier inside. Stank of stale chips and cat piss, though there was no sign of the little buggers. He stepped into a large living room, a row of battered kitchen units taking up one wall. Stairs led up, washing hanging over the banister. A monster TV blared out some YouTube channel, a young woman talking to the camera as she applied makeup. The smoked-glass coffee table was covered in powders and lotions.

  Holly muted the telly and put the phone to her ear. ‘He’s not answering.’

  ‘Tell you, he used to be a right bugger for not answering. Could never get hold of him.’

  ‘Never knew him back then. Grew up without a dad, you know?’

  ‘Must’ve been hard.’

  ‘You get used to it.’ Holly slumped down on a sofa, resting her feet on the small patch of coffee table not covered in makeup. ‘Mum and her sisters used to say how she never knew my father, that he was just some bloke she met in a club. A one-night thing. But she knew him. Course she did.’ Her grimace was cut off with a gasp. ‘Daft old cow died of cancer few years ago. She was lying there in a bed.’ She pointed at the window. ‘Dying at home with dignity, thin as a skeleton… And she told me who my father was. Went out with him for a year, that cow did. Never even told him she was pregnant.’ She leaned forward, arms folded across her chest. ‘I tracked him down, found him in prison. Didn’t put me off, you know? That’s my old man. All I’ve got left. I was only sixteen when…’ She let out a sigh. ‘When Mum died. And I wanted to meet him. My old man. My father. So I went in and met him.’ She smiled, broad, seeming genuine. ‘And we got on like a house on fire. He’s a good bloke. I know he did wrong, with… that bird all those years ago. He said it was a mistake, said he’s trying to turn a corner.’

  ‘I heard. Mutual acquaintance said he’s a bike courier now. That true?’

  ‘Like I say, can’t get him off the thing. Tell you, it’s been good having him around. Not easy raising my little girl on my own.’

  Fenchurch covered his shock with a laugh. ‘He’s a grandfather?’

  ‘I know. He’s not even that old, is he?’ She tugged at her ponytail, draping it over her left shoulder. ‘He’s been a lifesaver. Looked after Sandy a few weeks ago, let me catch up with some old mates. Been ages since I did that. Good to let me hair down.’ She pushed her ponytail away.

  ‘Always was a kind soul when he put his mind to it.’

  ‘He’s been great. And having some money’s been great too. I mean, things were tight. New start for him. For both of us.’ She looked over at Fenchurch again. ‘I’m taking Sandy to see her old man next week. Kirk’s in Belmarsh.’

  Repeating her mother’s life. Christ…

  Fenchurch got to his feet and wandered around. ‘It’s important we speak to Des. Holly, back in the day, your old man would disappear for a bit every so often. Go on a bender, end up in some casino out west, or in some drinking den south of the river.’

  ‘He’s a changed man. Doesn’t even touch it these days.’

  ‘It wasn’t the drink that was the problem.’ Fenchurch tapped his left nostril. ‘He used to call it bugle.’

  ‘He ain’t touching that shit any more. Cleaned up inside.’ She folded her arms and eyed him differently, like she suspected him of something, just not sure what yet. ‘How did you know him again?’

  Fenchurch reached into his pocket for his warrant card.

  A baby started crying in another room.

  ‘Sorry, I’ll be right back.’ Holly stood up and left him.

  Fenchurch kept his warrant card in his pocket.

  I need to find him, and soon. He could be headed to France or Morocco or anywhere.

  Below the wall-mounted TV, a row of framed photos lay in a wiggly row on the mantelpiece. One in the middle had Webster, post-prison physique, sitting in a café with Holly, resting a blonde baby in a pink jumpsuit on his lap and grinning like he hadn’t murdered at least twenty people.

  If he was going to run, he wouldn’t leave these two behind.

  Holly came back down, carrying the baby from the photo. She’d grown, but still wore the pink suit. ‘You still here?’

  ‘Really need to speak to him, Holly. That’s all.’

  ‘He in trouble?’ She sneered at him. ‘You’re Old Bill, aren’t you?’

  Fenchurch showed his warrant card. ‘Just want a—’

  ‘Well you can fuck off! Get out!’

  ‘I’m worried for him.’

  She hugged Sandy tight. ‘What?’

  ‘Some people are after him. People from his old life. I need to speak to him.’

  ‘I told you the truth. Wish you’d done the same with me.’ She kissed Sandy’s head. ‘This about the money?’

  Fenchurch frowned. ‘I’ve heard about that, yeah.’

  ‘Shit.’ She perched on the edge of the sofa, rocking Sandy. ‘He said we could go on a holiday to Spain. He went to Santa Ponsa with my mum, few months before I was born. Wanted to take me and Sandy back there.’

  ‘Where did he get the money from?’

  ‘He said it was some old mates of his.’ Holly stared at her daughter. ‘Quite a lot of money, half up front. What’s he done?’

  ‘It could be that this money comes from some old mates who are less than good people. Or it could be those mates heard about his windfall and want a piece of it. I just want to help your old man. He ever mentioned any names?’

  ‘Never.’ Her right eye twitched. Maybe fear, maybe nerves. ‘Find him for me.’

  Fenchurch shut the garden gate and set off down the road towards his car. ‘What does money half up front sound like to you?’

  ‘Could be a hit.’ Nelson walked alongside, thinking it through for a few seconds. ‘Then again, lots of people have gone freelance these days. Could be anything. Half up front doesn’t mean it’s for shooting someone.’

  ‘With Webster’s history, though?’ Fenchurch unlocked his car. ‘He’s not exactly writing for the New Statesman, is he? A leopard never changes his spots.’

  ‘It could be a book advance. True crime s
hit.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘No. You think it was for Amelia, don’t you?’

  ‘Need to check into it.’ Fenchurch stared back at the house, saw the silhouette of Holly holding Sandy through the blinds. ‘Holly seems like a good kid. Messed up, like a lot of them.’ His gut churned again. ‘I worry about girls in her situation. Her baby’s father’s inside, God knows what for. They never seem to realise that the handsome geezer they let into their knickers is a total scumbag. Wish I could get rid of men, sometimes.’

  ‘Assuming we’re both still around, it’d make our roles a hell of a lot easier.’ Nelson laughed. ‘Can’t even think what it must be like for her. For them.’

  Fenchurch waved at the gentrified streets around them. ‘These areas are coming up, but not for people like Holly, and not for her daughter. The council will shunt them out into Essex at the first opportunity. Knock this lot down and sell it to some bankers or management consultants fresh out of Oxbridge. How’s that helping the people of London?’

  Nelson raised his eyebrows. ‘You don’t sound like a policeman, guv.’

  ‘The worse this bloody city gets, the more angry I get. Used to be anyone could buy a flat round here. Saw the other day you need to be on a hundred grand a year to buy a little shithole in Hackney. Can you imagine it?’

  ‘And you’re sitting on a nice little investment in the Isle of Dogs…’

  ‘Yeah, and no bugger’s buying it.’

  ‘Sure it’s not you wants to shunt out to Essex?’

  ‘Not Essex, no, but… Abi’s talked about Kent, maybe. I dunno. We can’t even think about it until this shit with Chloe’s sorted out. And the baby on the way…’

  ‘A wise move. Speaking of which, what now?’

  Fenchurch unlocked the car and opened the door. ‘We could head back to Leman Street, maybe. Brief Docherty.’

  ‘You’d rather lose a bollock than do that.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Fenchurch stared into the middle distance. The night breeze picked up the faint pop melody from Holly’s house.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Nelson was sucking on his vape stick again. ‘You look like you’re going to kill someone.’