by Ed James
Another few seconds later, something flashed in the front room of the second-floor flat. Another two in quick succession.
‘The gunshots.’ Fenchurch braced himself.
Moments after, the courier left by the front door and hopped back on the bike. Still couldn’t see their face, even as they cycled off.
Could be Webster.
Shit, could even be Kirk. Holly’s baby daddy.
‘Wind it back.’ Fenchurch peered at the screen, rewatching from the arrival.
‘You happy with this, sir?’
Fenchurch nodded slowly. ‘Slightly.’
‘I’m trying my best here.’
‘I know. This isn’t a criticism of you, Lisa. This is good work. Confirms the timeline. And confirms it was an assassination. We need more evidence to prove it’s Desmond Webster, though.’
25
‘His name is Pavel.’ Fenchurch loomed over the security guard behind the desk in Aldgate Tower, the foyer empty and sterile. ‘He works for Loco.’ He pointed up. ‘Up there. Tenth floor.’
‘Okay, sir.’ The guard picked at his teeth with a fingernail. ‘The problem is the address book runs on surnames. I can’t search for a first name.’
‘In 2018?’
‘Yeah.’
‘This is a bloody tech company.’
‘Not my problem, mate.’
Fenchurch took a deep breath. ‘Can you call the Loco or Travis receptionist and get his surname, then?’
‘I suppose I could.’ The guard picked up the phone and dialled a number.
Fenchurch’s mobile rumbled in his pocket. Three missed calls from Savage, only one voicemail. He tried returning it, but no answer.
How the hell did he find out about this?
The guard pointed at the lift. ‘Mr Udzinski will meet you upstairs.’
‘Thanks.’ Fenchurch marched over to lift and got in.
‘Hold it!’ A female cyclist jogged towards him, carrying her bike over her shoulder.
Fenchurch hit the open button and kicked a foot in to block the doors.
‘Thanks.’ She got in, panting hard, sweat dripping onto the floor. Her headphones bled out tinny hi-hat and cymbals, but didn’t cover her ears, missing by a good centimetre. She smiled at him and tapped them. ‘They’re bone-conducting. Means I can still hear street noise when I cycle. I’d die of boredom if I couldn’t listen to my podcasts, I tell you.’
‘Better than dying of being squashed.’ Fenchurch grimaced at his own joke.
The door opened and the cyclist wheeled her bike off through the busy office.
Pavel waited by the reception desk, breathing on his shades and rubbing the lenses against his T-shirt. He saluted at Fenchurch’s approach. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you.’
‘I’ve not even asked what it is yet.’
‘I don’t care. My hands are tied.’ Pavel held them up, pressed together at the wrists. Annoying git. ‘We’ve got a new agreement in place with the Met for both Travis and Loco businesses.’
‘Mate, a girl’s been—’
‘You’re not listening to me. I can’t help. You need to speak to DCI Jason Bell.’
Fenchurch groaned. ‘You’re kidding me.’
‘Them’s the rules, mate. DCI Bell has established a process for the information for both businesses.’
‘This is about Desmond Webster. I know he’s back here.’
Pavel’s head jerked round and he sighed. ‘How the hell—?’ He drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘That’s supposed to be secret.’ He fixed his mirror shades on Fenchurch, no doubt masking a glare. ‘After everything you’ve put him and his family through, you’re still victimising him?’
After what he put my family through. Yeah, a million times.
‘You know he’s a killer, right?’
Pavel laughed. ‘He’s paid his debt to society.’
No he hasn’t. Not by a long shot.
‘Right, wait there.’ Fenchurch got out his phone. Two numbers for DCI Jason Bell. He tried the desk.
Pavel watched him, arms folded, mirror shades on.
‘Simon, how the devil are you?’ Bell’s Brummie tones rasped out of the speaker. Always that bit louder than everyone else.
‘Had better.’ Fenchurch turned away from Pavel. ‘Listen, I’m just at Loco and I need—’
‘Right, Inspector, you need to come to my office. Now.’
Fenchurch drove into the lane for the Scotland Yard car park and he joined a three-strong queue. The leafy tree-lined block felt a million miles away from the claustrophobic space it used to occupy just over the river. The famous sign turned round in the breeze to the left.
Two cars ahead, a suit was out of his Audi, shouting at the guard but getting nowhere.
Fenchurch pulled up and waited, drumming his thumbs in time to Roxy Music playing on the radio.
Audi man still shouted, but the guard was getting his way.
Fenchurch picked up his phone and checked the display. Another two missed calls from Savage. No texts or voicemails. And nothing from Loftus. He tried again. Got voicemail again.
Audi man got back in his car with a flounce and swerved round in a tight curve, shouting and screaming to himself.
Fenchurch tried Loftus now.
‘This is Julian, but I can’t take your call. Drop me a message and I’ll call back ay-sap. Okay? Cheers!’
Fenchurch waited for the beep. ‘Sir, I imagine you’re busy, but I’m about to meet up with DCI Jason Bell. You’ll know what that means. Well. I’m not leaving there without access to the data at Loco. Okay?’ He killed the call and flashed his warrant card at the guard, then pulled through the gates into the car park.
No spaces.
Fenchurch stomped into Bell’s office in Scotland Yard. Bloody empty.
Jesus Christ. Where the hell is he?
He called Bell’s mobile. Another clown bouncing him to voicemail.
So Fenchurch sat in his chair and put his feet up on the mahogany desk. Nice office, have to say. High up the new building, with a choice view across Victoria Embankment to the London Eye slowly wheeling around in the sunshine.
The door opened and Bell waddled in. Just about as fat as it was possible to get without keeling over on the walk between his car and the lift. He looked exhausted, dark rings around his eyes, either from stress or undiagnosed diabetes. ‘There you are.’
‘Where did you expect me?’
‘Can I get you a coffee, Simon?’
‘I just want what I asked for on the call, Jason.’ Fenchurch crunched back in the chair. ‘Nice office.’
‘Comes with the territory.’ Bell sauntered over to the window and took a slug of coffee. ‘What I’m doing is of strategic importance. There’s talk of me getting the knife crime task force.’
‘You deserve a stabbing.’
Bell laughed. ‘Have a seat. Oh, I see you’ve taken mine.’
Fenchurch didn’t move.
‘You’ll never change, will you?’ Bell rested against the window and took another drink. ‘You can’t just rock up at Loco, you know?’ He left a space, but Fenchurch didn’t fill it. ‘Last time you were there… July, wasn’t it? Heard all about it from Pavel. I was on holiday so you were a little bit naughty, weren’t you? We hadn’t yet reached a service-level agreement with Travis about their Loco business.’ He ripped the lid off his coffee and took a big slurp, getting foam all over his mouth and nose. ‘We have now.’
‘Jason, I need you to stop getting in the way. I know how easy it is for them to give me the information I need.’
‘Well, as ever, you’re right in the middle of a clusterfuck.’ Bell wiped at his face, removing foam from his nose. ‘Two of their cyclists got stabbed last night. One in Croydon, one in West Ham. So, I’m trying to manage the situation with them. Last thing I need is you rocking up like that. It doesn’t help me or you. Am I making myself clear?’
‘Not really.’ Fenchurch leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk.
‘If they’ve had two stabbings, they should be bending over backwards to help.’
‘Who are you framing this time?’
Fenchurch rolled his eyes. ‘Jason, you’re better than this.’
‘Am I?’ Bell smiled. ‘Had a call from Jules the other day. You’ll know him as Superintendent Loftus. That, or sir.’
‘I’d love to have been a fly on the wall.’
Bell turned back, his grin gone. ‘Jules was asking me if you were ready for a DCI role.’
‘Right.’ Fenchurch’s neck burned. ‘You’re mates.’
‘Go back a long way. Worked together in Shepherd’s Bush. I was DC to his DS. Fun times.’
‘Before we met.’
‘Indeed.’ Bell slumped in one of the chairs opposite his desk and tossed his empty cup in the bin. ‘Jules asked if I could put in a good word for you.’ He paused, licking his lips. ‘Or a bad one.’
‘Jason, are you going to help me with Loco or not?’
‘You need to learn to relax, mate.’ Bell smirked. Prick’s enjoying himself here. His mouth twisted into a sneer. ‘But I told Jules that I think you’re good enough for that position. High stress, but you’ve been living in intolerable conditions for years, so I reckon you can cope.’
‘I took the role on an acting basis.’
‘It’s really tough, mate. The transition from street-level stuff to what I do isn’t for the faint-hearted. Let me know if you need any coaching.’
Wanker.
‘I’ll bear than in mind. Thanks.’
Bell raised his eyebrows. ‘How’s Chloe doing?’
‘She’s okay.’ Fenchurch tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but it stuck there. ‘She’s living with us again.’
‘That must be nice.’
‘It’s good.’ Fenchurch shifted on the chair. Couldn’t get comfortable. ‘Jason, I’ve got a dead body on her way to Lewisham, so…’
‘Okay, okay. What’s the story?’
‘Sister of the pizza driver who died last summer. We got Desmond Webster for it last year.’
‘Heard he got off last night. You went tonto at the judge, right?’
‘What? No. Where the hell did you hear that?’
‘Rumour mill. You didn’t?’
‘Someone came forward and confessed. Thing is, I know Webster did this one and I don’t want him getting off this time.’ Fenchurch stared over at the window, then back at Bell. ‘But before I speak to him, I need his movements from your buddy Pavel.’
‘Wise move.’ Bell nodded slowly. ‘Okay, so you want me to sort this out ASAP, correct?’
‘That’d be helpful. Then I know whether I should be speaking to him.’
‘You doing it by the book…’ Bell looked out of the window. ‘Is that a pig flapping its wings out there?’ He clapped his hands together. ‘Alright, mate, I’ll take it up with Pavel. Doubt it’ll be quick though.’
Stupid bastard… Should’ve gone south of the river.
Fenchurch inched towards the lights. Tower Bridge was on the horizon, its namesake tower between them, flags whipped by the breeze. The lights turned green, letting the car in front trundle a few feet towards the roadworks.
A constant in this bloody city these days.
His mobile blasted out Won’t Get Fooled Again by The Who, that line about meeting the new boss…
Fenchurch hit answer and sound exploded out of the speakers, still set at Led Zep volume. ‘Sir, I need a—’
‘Jason’s already called me.’ Loftus sighed down the line. ‘I thought we had words about your behaviour?’
‘We did, sir, and I’m behaving. If it’d been the old me, Webster would be sitting in a holding cell in Leman Street with half his teeth missing.’ Fenchurch waited for a laugh, but didn’t get one. ‘I’m building a case against him.’
‘Hmm.’ Loftus paused. Sounded like he was driving as well. ‘Jason’s a good cop. It doesn’t stand to upset good cops.’
‘I’m not saying he’s good or bad, sir. I just need you to apply pressure on him so I can get the data this century.’ Fenchurch tightened his grip on the steering wheel as he inched forward into the hallowed slot by the roadworks. ‘So, can you speak to him for me?’
‘Jason doesn’t work for me so it’s not like I can give him a direct order.’
‘I’m not suggesting it, sir.’ Fenchurch set off, racing through the roadworks and pulling up the left lane towards the Minories before a wave of cyclists got there first. ‘I need to access their data. I need Desmond Webster’s movements.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’ And Loftus was gone.
Not like I’m asking you to do anything special, sir, just your bloody job.
Fenchurch drove through the lights and slalomed round the roadworks, then cut along the back to Leman Street.
Yet again, Fenchurch wished Docherty was alive and well.
He parked at the back of Leman Street and got out into the cool air. Felt like it was going to rain. He set off towards the back entrance, but spotted Ashkani over by the smoking area, sucking on a cigarette.
She stamped it out and jogged over. ‘Sir.’
‘Just call me Simon, it’s fine.’
‘Right.’ She held the door open for him. ‘Any chance you could have a word with Howard Savage?’
Bloody hierarchies… Why do people have to be arseholes to each other? ‘What about?’
‘The Albanian angle. He’s spoken to Pratt and, well, it’s getting murkier by the minute. He’s all over their operations in the East End.’
‘It’s just drugs, right? Why’s Savage involved?’
‘Drugs are just the start of it.’
‘Jesus. Right, I’ll speak to him and see what I can do.’
She smiled a thank you. Seemed genuine, too. ‘Heard you were over at Scotland Yard?’
‘Is nothing a secret these days?’
‘DCI Bell, right?’
‘Right.’
‘That guy’s a total prick.’ Ashkani snarled. ‘Used to rub DI Mulholland up the wrong way.’
Like there’s a right way.
Stop thinking like that.
‘Well, Uzma, it’s with Loftus to fix.’
‘You think it’s Webster?’
Fenchurch let out a breath. ‘I do.’
‘Bell’s a dingbat. He’s going to dick you about for weeks on this.’
‘Is there anything in this Albanian blood feud stuff?’
‘I don’t know what to make of it, sir. I mean, Casey and Amelia are both Albanians, but there’s very little to point towards a ritual killing. There’s so much stuff on Albanian gangs, it’ll take longer than forever to find anything. Needs a lot more bodies on it than just me for an hour, you know?’
‘But we know Webster killed Amelia.’ Fenchurch stared off into the distance, trying to focus his thoughts. ‘Doesn’t make sense for someone else to kill Casey, does it?’
‘Well, they both worked for that pizzeria, didn’t they? Prostitution, drug running, people trafficking. They’re evidence. Stands to reason that the Albanians would want to clear their trail.’
Fenchurch nodded. ‘Why get Webster to do it, though?’
‘You’re sure it’s him?’
‘Not a hundred percent, but…’ Fenchurch stared back across the car park, thinking it through. ‘Seems so unlikely that some Albanian gangs would pick now to kill Casey. Surely they’d pick her off before she had a chance to speak to Savage. He’s had over a year of investigating their operation.’
‘Well, here’s an idea.’
‘What?’
‘I’m supposed to be shadowing you, right?’ Ashkani got out her phone. ‘Got a call from Julian Loftus, told me to make sure it was by the book. We’ve got some evidence, don’t we?’
‘What, the CCTV?’
‘Correct. It sure looks like Webster on there. Fits his MO. What’s more “by the book” than getting a suspect to conflict known movements.’
‘Uzma, we don’t kno
w it was him on the video.’
‘I’m happy to work with you here.’
‘What’s the play?’
‘Nothing to it. We go in, take him in for questioning, then we tear apart whatever bullshit alibi he comes up with.’
‘Simple as that?’
‘Never is, sir, but I live in hope.’
What’s her game? Giving me enough rope to hang myself? Deny any of this was discussed?
Fenchurch shook his head. ‘Sod it, let’s do it.’
‘Thanks.’
‘But I’ve a feeling we’re going to need to speak to Holly. Can you track her down for me?’
Ashkani frowned. ‘You don’t want me in the interview?’
‘I do, Uzma, but I don’t want anyone speaking to Holly and giving her a chance to alibi her father. Okay?’
‘Sir.’ Ashkani marched off towards her car, eyebrows raised.
26
Fenchurch trundled along Mile End Road, passing the only coach full of schoolkids in England where someone wasn’t mooning the traffic. He pulled a left and came to a halt a few car lengths away from Webster’s house, bumping onto the pavement. He killed the engine and waited, close enough to keep an eye out, but far enough to not be immediately obvious that cops were scoping the place.
Up ahead, on the right, halfway up the road was the man who took my daughter.
His phone chirruped. A text from Ashkani:
GOT HOLLY. TAKING HER TO LEMAN STREET.
Fenchurch thanked her in a reply and got out, the breeze blowing grit and leaves into his face. He crossed the road and skipped up to knock on the front door.
The door opened and Kirk peered out, shrouded in frying bacon smells and thin smoke. Holly’s baby daddy, in the same place as last night. Are they back together? Either way, Kirk sniffed at him. ‘You’re Old Bill, ain’t you?’
‘Well done.’ Fenchurch held up his credentials, peering past him into the dingy flat. Sounded like Sky Sports News playing loud inside.
Kirk folded his arms. ‘Holly’s at work.’
