by Ed James
Ashkani was watching the street as well. ‘She definitely still lives here?’
‘According to Howard Savage, yes.’
‘Do we need to clear the air?’ She locked her gaze on him, her irises almost black. ‘I know we’ve not seen eye to eye over the years, so I want to make sure we’re on the same page on this case.’
Fenchurch caught a whiff of cooking pastrami, the heady meat smell mixing with the spices. ‘Why would you think that?’
‘It stands to reason, doesn’t it? I worked for DI Mulholland. And you… Well.’
Fenchurch tried the buzzer again. ‘I still don’t see why that’s a problem.’
‘You didn’t get on with her.’
‘She ever tell you why?’
‘You were being unreasonable.’
‘I was?’ Fenchurch tried the other buzzer, marked for a flat on the first floor. ‘That’s interesting.’ He shook his head. ‘I just need you to act professionally. Back in my office, you—’
‘Hello?’ A male voice rasped out of the speakers.
‘Police, sir. Need access to the stairwell.’
‘How do I know you’re cops?’
Fenchurch caught a snide expression on Ashkani’s face. ‘I can read out my warrant number, if you want. Or you could come down and see it for yourself.’
Silence.
‘Oh, bloody hell.’ Fenchurch hit the buzzer again. Nothing.
Feet thundered down the stairs and the door opened wide. An old-school pervert — thick specs, spots, greasy hair, Gola tracksuit — gurned into the light. ‘Let me see it, then.’
‘What?’
‘Your warrant card.’
‘Right.’ Fenchurch held it up. ‘Happy now?’
Pervo stared at it, running his fingers across it like he was checking a twenty-quid note was counterfeit. ‘Well, this appears to be in order.’ He scanned it again. ‘Or it’s a very, very good fake.’
Ashkani frowned at him. ‘How would you know?’
‘Walter Baker.’ His lips twitched as he held out his hand for her to shake. ‘I work at Lewisham.’ He gripped Fenchurch’s, tighter than it looked like he could manage. ‘I manage the security system for the whole force, plus the City lot. Very possible that I printed that warrant card off personally. Course it’s not just that, it’s all manner of security. Doors, access to cells, you name it.’ He wagged a finger at both of them. ‘I’ve seen your faces out in Lewisham, haven’t I?’
Fenchurch nodded, keen to keep him going. ‘I’m there all the time.’
‘Leman Street, eh? Not been in that nick for ages. Due an overhaul next summer, unless I’m very much mistaken.’ Baker’s face twisted tight. ‘Hang on, you don’t know an Ian Fenchurch, do you?’
‘My old man.’
‘Good lord. How’s—’
‘We just need access to your neighbour’s flat, sir. Be out of your hair in a jiffy.’
‘By all means.’ Baker stepped back. ‘What’s she done now?’
‘What do you mean?’
Baker glanced up the stairs. ‘Well, she’s always in and out. All day long. Makes me suspicious, you know?’
‘She’s a bike courier, sir.’
‘Oh, I see. Well, that explains it.’ Baker didn’t seem satisfied with that. ‘But she must’ve done something, yeah?’ His shifty gaze switched between Fenchurch and Ashkani. ‘Why else would two of Julian Loftus’s finest officers be here?’
‘That’s confidential, I’m afraid.’ Fenchurch set off up the stairs to the second floor flat. ‘Sure you can understand that, right?’
‘Course I do.’ Baker followed up as far as the first floor. ‘My mother and father bought one in 1981 for a pittance, and now it’s—’
Fenchurch cleared the second-floor landing. The flat door was hanging open. He snapped out his baton. ‘Stay here, sir.’
Ashkani inched towards the door, slowly, baton out, eyebrows raised.
Fenchurch matched her pace step for step, creeping through the hallway, catching a whiff of stale coffee.
Ashkani froze in the living room doorway. ‘Oh my God.’
Casey lay on the couch. A gunshot dotted her forehead. Another through her mouth. Blood stained her T-shirt red over a hole where her heart should have been.
All the signs of a Desmond Webster hit.
24
Tammy crouched low as she dusted round the body. Her mask covered her face, but not her irritation as Fenchurch ghosted past.
Casey still lay on the sofa, but a figure hovered in front of her. Pratt, humming away some opera melody, audible through his crime scene mask.
Over by the door, Reed and Ashkani were arguing, head to toe in crime scene suits, arms jerking around, fingers jabbing at each other. Couldn’t tell which was which — they were almost the same height.
‘Oi oi.’ Fenchurch got between them. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing, guv.’ Reed was on the left, scowling at Ashkani. ‘And that’s the problem.’
‘Not sure what you mean.’ Fenchurch pointed at the door. ‘Kay, I need you to run the street teams. Okay?’
‘I thought you wanted me to—’
‘This is a higher priority. I need you to be Deputy SIO, Kay.’
Ashkani folded her arms.
‘Thanks, guv.’ Reed’s cheeks plumped up behind her mask, the only sign that she was smiling. ‘I’ll go and round up some bodies.’
‘Thanks.’ Fenchurch watched her go. ‘It’s not personal, Uzma. I know I can trust Kay.’
She still had her arms folded, but at least she wasn’t shaking her head any more. ‘Meaning you can’t trust me?’
‘I just don’t know I can yet.’ Fenchurch stared through her mask, misting with every breath. ‘You’re shadowing me. I need you to tell me what I’m not seeing. Cool?’
‘I think I can do that.’
‘Hope you can.’ Fenchurch led over to the body.
Dr Pratt stopped humming long enough to look up at them. ‘A proper gangland killing, this one.’ Instead of his usual plummy tones, he put on a comedy Cockney accent. Fenchurch couldn’t figure out why. Pratt got up from his crouch with a series of painful clicks from his knees and exhaled slowly. ‘Albanians.’
‘What do you mean, Albanians? We know she was.’
‘It’s not that…’ Pratt took a few seconds to compose himself. ‘Neither of you have heard of gjakmarrja?’
Fenchurch saw his confusion in Ashkani’s eyes. ‘Why don’t you enlighten us, William?’
‘Gjakmarrja literally means “blood-taking”.’ Pratt hugged himself tight, squeezing the Tyvek suit until it rattled. ‘In Albanian society, the Kanun is their code of laws. It’s informal, passed down orally for centuries. Most of it is fairly innocuous, as I’m sure you can imagine, but the Kanun of Leke Dukagjini is infamous for authorising retaliation killings.’
‘Retaliation? She was shot in a gangland style, William. Just like how…’ Fenchurch swallowed his words. ‘Like how her sister was squashed between a van and a bus. How is this a retaliation?’
‘That’s the crux of the matter, my dear friend. The Kanun was originally used to control blood feuds, but it has been somewhat overridden by the notion of vengeance over all others.’ He pointed at the body, at the foam covering Casey’s knees. ‘You see the coffee?’
The stale smell crept through Fenchurch’s mask. ‘So she was having a cappuccino when the killer came in?’
‘Very droll.’
‘I’m serious.’
‘Simon.’ Pratt gave a longer pause. ‘In Albania and the wider diaspora, they have a tradition known as “coffee under the knee”. On feast days or at weddings, say, when coffee is served, those who did not avenge their killed relative have their coffee served on the floor, below the knee.’
Fenchurch stared at Casey, at her dead eyes and her broken face. ‘How the hell do you know all of this?’
‘This isn’t my first rodeo, as they say. Your good friend DI Winter has inve
stigated three gjakmarrja killings on his patch, which I also cover. Surprised you haven’t had any here, but hey ho.’
‘I’m struggling to get what you think is going on here, William. Casey and her sister worked as delivery drivers at a pizza restaurant — cover for prostitution.’
‘And, like you said, they’re both Albanians.’ Pratt gave him a stern look. ‘They were taken from their homes by persons unknown and blah blah blah. They didn’t come freely, Simon, and they stay because of the Kanun. The threat against their relatives is so severe.’
‘Why now?’
‘Well, quite. That’s something you’ll need to get to the bottom of.’
‘You think this is the gang who kidnapped her?’
Pratt shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
‘William, I was hoping for a lot more than a bloody maybe here.’ Fenchurch looked at the victim lying there, another life snuffed out in cold blood. ‘You’re saying this is gang-related because someone’s splashed coffee all over her legs?’
Pratt took his time. ‘I understand that discovering a body is—’
‘This isn’t to do with me.’ Fenchurch waved at the body. ‘This is about her.’
‘I see. Well, I’ll get back in my box.’ Pratt crouched back down, humming away as he prodded at the body.
Fenchurch caught a smirk from Ashkani. ‘William, I’m sorry.’
A wink was visible through Pratt’s mask. ‘I’m just winding you up.’ A belly laugh. ‘Simon, I’m just giving you some advice. It’s an avenue you should consider investigating.’
‘And I will. You can make up for this by telling us the time of death.’
‘And therein lies the rub.’ Pratt rested back on his heels, holding himself surprisingly steady. ‘Time of death remains a mystery and shall remain unknown.’ He pointed over to the street. ‘The window was open, so the body got cold. Could’ve been opened before or after death, hard to tell. And even then…’
‘Ballpark?’
‘Sorry.’ Pratt lifted his shoulders. ‘Could be last night, could be this morning. The fact the coffee still has foam on it might indicate this morning, but it could’ve been placed there independently of the body.’
Fenchurch left the crime scene — descending into a hive of activity, SOCOs and plainclothes officers milling around seeming busy — but he couldn’t see much, if any, progress being made. He kicked off his crime scene suit and dumped it in the discard pile.
I shouldn’t have let Webster go last night. Should’ve just killed him.
Sod Holly and the potential witnesses, sod the bloodstains on my clothes. Sod prison time as a cop. I’d give up my freedom to take the man who’d kidnapped my daughter off the street.
A chill ran up his spine as he set off down the stairwell.
Casey would still be alive. Webster wouldn’t have killed her.
But my son would grow up knowing his father was a murderer. Chloe would only remember me having killed someone. Would she understand? Would Abi?
The cold breeze bit his cheek. He focused on Ashkani. ‘Can you do a little bit of digging into the Albanian stuff? See if there’s something in what William’s saying here.’
‘I thought you wanted me to shadow you?’
‘This takes precedence.’
‘Sir.’ She slouched off towards her car.
A figure waltzed past her. Loftus, lost in thought, leaning against his Audi.
Fenchurch joined Loftus. ‘Sir, how do you want to progress this?’
‘I know what you’re thinking. Webster. Am I right?’
‘Am I that obvious?’ Fenchurch tried to keep calm. ‘Pratt’s going on about Albanian blood feuds, sir, but I can’t shake the feeling that it’s a bit of a coincidence that the night he’s released, someone dies in his trademark manner.’
Loftus just looked at him, breathing slowly.
‘I don’t want to jump to conclusions here, but I certainly want to speak to him about his whereabouts.’
‘Evidence first, okay? I need you to keep away from him until you’ve got a smoking gun, do you hear? Go nowhere near him, without approving it with me first. Clear?’
‘Of course.’
Reed beckoned Fenchurch over. She was standing on the street as Walter Baker gave a statement to a plainclothes officer. ‘Mr Baker, can you—?’
‘Simon!’ Baker recognised Fenchurch like an old friend. ‘I was just saying to your colleague here,’ he waved at Reed, ‘her warrant card needs updating, by the way. We had a batch of ’em where the magnetic strips stop working after a fashion. I did send out an email…’ He tutted. ‘You’ve got other priorities, though, I suppose.’
‘I’ll get onto it first thing. I swear.’ Reed gave him a broad smile, but Fenchurch knew she was just humouring him. ‘Tell DI Fenchurch what you saw.’
‘Yeah, so this was last night, way before you and… What’s her name?’
‘DS Ashkani.’
‘Right. Right, before you and DS Ashkani showed up this morning.’ Baker peered up at the top-floor flat. ‘I mean, you’re probably wondering what I’m doing here all day? Important job like mine? Well, today’s a special day. I’ve got a delivery coming — my new gaming PC. Seventeen packages coming from various vendors and I don’t trust the couriers round here, know what I’m saying? Things go missing. Even worse, I don’t trust my neighbours. They’ll sign for stuff and keep it. And I could get it all delivered to the office, but you know it’s not standard policy. So I needed to be in to get my goodies. Good chance I’ll be able to sit down with The Witcher 3 in full 4K.’ He grinned at Fenchurch, then at Reed. ‘So I’m working from home today. And I am genuinely working from home, pulling together some thoughts on the Strategic Access Programme I’ve been tasked with leading. Of course, you lot can’t do that, but I’m not a cop so I have some leeway. Anyway, as things stand, ten of my lovely little boxes have turned up but I’m not still able to start building the blessed thing until—’
‘Just tell the story, sir.’ Reed’s expression looked more and more strained with each syllable. ‘Last night?’
‘Right, yes of course.’ Baker pushed his glasses up his nose. ‘So last night, I was sitting doing the Sunday Times cryptic, you know it’s not as good as the—’
‘And?’
‘Right, so the buzzer goes and I thought, hello. I mean, I was thinking of getting one of those doorbell things, you know, where it’s a—’
‘And?’
‘Oh yes, so I answered the door but it wasn’t one of my boxes turning up early, just someone needing access to the stairwell. Just like you and your friend this morning. A crying shame, but not to be expected, I suppose. I was thinking it could’ve been one turning up early, you know? If it was the case and the motherboard, I could’ve had a head start. I mean, I’ve had deliveries on a Sunday night round Christmas time. Doesn’t happen that often and, of course, I usually—’
‘What time was this, sir?’
‘Yeah, sorry.’ Baker stared at his watch. ‘Be about… Ooooh. About half eleven?’
Comfortably in our window of opportunity.
Webster had his bike back. So easy to just come round here and get in, get back to killing ways.
‘So I went down to check. Don’t want to let anyone in. You never know who it could be—’
‘Mr Baker, someone was murdered in that flat last night.’ Fenchurch pointed up at Casey’s window, just as a camera flash went off. ‘Now can you cut to the chase, please?’
Baker stood there, hands on hips, scowling at Reed. ‘Does he want me to help or not?’
‘He does.’ Reed’s fake smile was back, trained on Baker. ‘Can you just tell DI Fenchurch what you saw?’
‘No need to be so shirty. Christ. So it was a delivery guy. Pizza. Said it was for my neighbours. Got the wrong address. Very polite, I have to say. Not a lot of them are. So I went back to my crossword, but there’s a lot of crosstalk on the entrycom, so I heard the buzzer go upstairs.’
‘De
finitely a man?’
‘I couldn’t say for definite. It could’ve been a woman, I suppose, the quality on those entrycoms is terrible. We had the vendors all in a few months back to pitch for upgrading the Met’s systems and the quality nowadays is frightening.’ He stared into space, then focused on Fenchurch. ‘But I think it was a man.’
Fenchurch powered along Brick Lane, his footsteps clicking as he checked the parked pool cars. Still no sign of her. ‘This fits Webster’s MO and he’s not got an alibi for it.’
‘You think he killed her?’ Reed looked up. ‘You’d normally have hauled him in for an interview by now.’
‘The timeline fits, Kay. But once bitten, twice shy. I’m taking this slow and steady like Loftus asked.’
There she is.
DC Lisa Bridge was in a pool Mondeo at the corner, outside the bagel shop, her forehead creased as she worked away at a laptop resting against the wheel.
Fenchurch got in the back seat. ‘Lisa, need your help with something.’
Bridge rolled her eyes, but didn’t look round. ‘Wouldn’t happen to be CCTV, would it?’
Fenchurch blushed. ‘I know I keep asking you to but if you could look at last night’s—’
‘Already on it.’ Bridge worked away on her laptop, kneading the soft keyboard. ‘Just let me finish— Shit.’
Fenchurch gripped the headrest as Reed got in the passenger seat. ‘You got something?’
‘See for yourself, sir.’ Bridge swivelled the laptop round.
Really bad quality image, grainy and greyscale, and from up high. Did give a good view of the street and all the flats in the block. Through the murk, someone bent to speak into the entrycom, propping up a road bike, a pizza bag wrapped around their torso. Time 23:26.
‘You got anything better than this?’
‘Got a lot worse. And this is after I processed it.’ Bridge hit a key.
The footage jerked back a few seconds. A bike courier showed up with a big bag, their face obscured by a helmet and shades. Baggy tracksuit, rather than lycras. The courier pressed the buzzer and waited a few seconds, before pushing the door and disappearing inside, lugging the bike with them.
