Kill With Kindness

by Ed James

  ‘Don’t have to tell me.’ Uzma pouted as she applied some more lipstick. ‘Back in uniform, I had to police an FA Cup third-round match here between Shadwell and West Ham. The Shadwell crew blocked off the DLR station.’

  A club official came through the door, blazer and comb-over. ‘We’re a bit busy just now.’

  ‘Police.’ Fenchurch got out his warrant card. Sounded like someone scored. From the groans and swearing, it wasn’t Shadwell. ‘Thought you were playing yesterday?’

  ‘Reserves today. Portsmouth are tearing us apart.’

  ‘I need to speak to whoever was in charge of Friday night’s match.’

  ‘Under Eighteens.’ The blazer sniffed, then thumbed behind him. ‘Follow me.’

  Down in the dark recesses of the stadium, the walls were bare concrete blocks, the floor dirty lino. The place had that stink of mud mixed with the bittersweet tang of Ralgex. The blazer knocked on a door. ‘Jack?’

  ‘Referee!’ Dirty Cockney accent shouting inside. ‘He was a mile offside!’

  The blazer opened the door. ‘Jack, it’s the police for you.’

  A tiny little office, football playing on two giant screens on the wall. Chelsea–West Brom in glorious HD on the left. Shadwell Reserves played Portsmouth Reserves on a dodgy CCTV feed on the right, shot from high up in the main stand, half the pitch out of shot, the players like ants.

  Jack spun round on his office chair and scowled at them. His hair flopped down. Mid-forties if a day and had the look of a shagger gone to seed, his face bearing the brunt of his youthful exertions. ‘What?’

  ‘Police, sir.’ Uzma held out her ID. ‘Need a word.’

  Panic filled Jack’s eyes, darting around like he was going to run. Looked fit enough to be a bastard to catch. ‘What’s this about, darling?’

  ‘Friday night.’

  Jack let out a sigh. ‘Come on, then. Cheers, Wilbur.’ He waved at the blazer, then cleared some of the shit off his desk. No computer, but loads of notepads and DVD cases. Ten bottles of red wine, one uncorked and breathing. His glass was ringed with dark red, wet like he’d just finished a bottle. ‘Don’t mind if I keep an eye on this, do you? Reserves playing upstairs but I’ve got a touchline ban.’

  Uzma raised her eyebrows. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Told the ref a few home truths.’ Another sniff. ‘Don’t mind if I keep it on, love?’

  ‘Not a problem, sir.’

  Jack sat back, eyes locked on the TV. ‘Good, good.’

  Fenchurch sat in his eyeline, blocking the Chelsea match. ‘I know you from somewhere, just can’t place it.’

  ‘Jack Walsh.’ He held out a hand, adjusting his position so he could see the match again. ‘I played for Charlton in the late nineties.’

  ‘That’ll be it.’ Fenchurch scooted over to block him again. ‘Saw you against West Ham a couple of times.’

  ‘Scored a hat-trick against that shower. March 1998. Only hat-trick I ever scored in the top-flight. Fell out with the boss not long after, got loaned out here, they sold me at the end of the season and I’ve been stuck ever since. Player, coach and now manager.’

  ‘Must be busy.’ Uzma pressed her notebook flat on the desk. ‘The bloke upstairs said you were in charge of Friday night’s match?’

  ‘For my sins.’

  ‘That was Under Eighteens, though, right?’

  ‘Right. The manager here covers a multitude of sins. Only thing I don’t manage is the Ladies’ team.’ Jack waved a hand at the screen. ‘I make the bleeding tea in the morning for the lads.’

  ‘We need to ask you about Elliot Lynch.’

  ‘Stupid bastard.’ Walsh glowered. ‘Got a call from my mate over at Millwall. Elliot didn’t turn up for his trial today. Kid’s on his last chance of making it as a pro, otherwise he’ll end up stuck down here in the non-league. Not enough money to live off, I tell you. Trouble is, he’s good enough to make me think of moving him up to the seniors. Tell you, he’d make a difference to the Reserves, if he could stay on the pitch.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘He’s a walking red card, that lad.’ Walsh followed an attack on the screen then settled back in his seat and wrote something in a notebook. ‘I mean, fair enough if you leather someone and break a bone. I can stand by that. But he’s doing cheeky little stamps here and there.’ Rage flared across his lips. ‘Caught him slapping a left-back two weeks ago. Slapping? What’s that going to achieve? I keep telling him, if you’re going to hurt someone, hurt them.’

  Uzma was keeping her patience, a polite smile on her lips. ‘And Elliot played on Friday?’

  ‘He played.’ Eyes locked on the screen, the rage building. ‘Had to sub him off after thirty minutes. My stupid prick of a goalkeeper got sent off. The way he was playing, Elliot was going to be next so I took him off to bring on my sub goalie. Kid did well, too. Saved a pen in the second half and that was after he took a hefty whack in the cobblers.’

  ‘I take it Elliot stayed around after he was subbed?’

  ‘Do me a favour.’ Jack poured out some red wine into his glass and sniffed it. ‘Soon as the board went up with his number, he was off down the tunnel. Got changed, then pissed off with his mate, my stupid prick of a goalkeeper.’ He sipped the wine and sat back, clutching the glass. ‘That’s the trouble with Elliot. Thinks he’s already made it. Much more interested in drinking and partying than playing football. Pair of them spend their bloody wages on booze, when they should be knuckling down.’ A deeper glug of wine. ‘Him and Ollie, the bloody pair of them.’

  ‘Did you say “Ollie”?’

  ‘Yeah. Stupid prick went flying at the opposition centre forward, arms out. Poleaxed the poor bastard, like Schumacher in ’82 except he didn’t put the lad in a coma. Ollie’s a big unit.’ Another sip of wine, then he reached for the bottle. ‘Do you want a glass?’

  ‘We’re good, thanks.’ Uzma rolled her eyes. ‘We could do with speaking to this friend.’

  ‘Oliver Muscat-Smith. Think I’ve got his—’

  ‘He’s on our radar.’ Fenchurch played it through. Elliot’s mate is the barman at the hotel. Does that give him an opportunity? ‘Any idea where they went?’

  ‘Oh yeah. The bar in that bloody hotel on the Minor—’ Walsh cut off.

  ‘Which one? The Bennaceur?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Walsh shrugged. ‘You know kids, though. So bloody fickle. Could be anywhere. Hackney, Shoreditch, Brixton, you name it.’

  ‘Why did you cut off?’

  ‘Just didn’t want you going to the wrong place, that’s all.’

  Guy’s hiding something. But what?

  Doesn’t matter. Nail down Elliot’s movements as a priority.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The Muscats lived in a square box at the arse end of Shadwell. Not far from the school and the football stadium. A small front garden, well tended, but just not much of it. Even though it was still afternoon, a sodium streetlight flickered outside.

  Fenchurch got out of the car first. ‘You lead here, okay?’

  ‘I know what I’m doing.’ Uzma marched up the path, a spring in her step. She thumped the door and waited for Fenchurch to join her. ‘That guy . . .’

  ‘Footballers live in a different world from the rest of us.’ Fenchurch peered through the window. A kitchen, the counters covered in plates and bowls. ‘I pay a small fortune for the privilege of watching West Ham getting battered every fortnight, but—’

  The door opened and Oliver Muscat-Smith blinked out at them. He seemed to relax when he saw who it was, his scowl fading. ‘My old man’s at work.’

  Uzma nudged a foot in the doorway. ‘It’s you we want to speak to.’

  ‘Come in, then.’ Oliver stooped as he led through the door. ‘Have a seat.’

  Fenchurch sat in a nice comfy chair by the window. A bulky TV in the corner of the living room, hooked up to a stack of games consoles of varying vintages. The fan on one sounded like a jet engine taking off.
The place had the look of a bachelor pad — the Smith in Oliver’s surname was long gone.

  Uzma stayed by the door, gesturing for Oliver to sit on the green sofa, waiting until he complied. ‘A little birdie tells me you were a naughty boy on Friday night.’

  ‘What?’ Oliver’s eyes shot between them. Then he let out a breath. ‘You mean getting sent off, don’t you?’

  ‘Is there another way you’ve been naughty?’

  ‘Not like I get much of a chance.’ Oliver took another deep breath, slower, puffing up his cheeks. ‘That clown Walsh told you, right?’

  ‘Had a thing or two to say, yeah.’ Uzma got out her notebook and read down a page. ‘Said you got sent off after half an hour.’

  ‘That ref was a useless prick. It was a fifty-fifty. Their striker went down like a sack of spuds. Total joke.’

  ‘Did you have a nice long bath afterwards?’

  Oliver put his feet up on the coffee table, knocking a pair of PlayStation controllers on to the floor. ‘You fantasising about me or something?’

  ‘Just like to know what happened.’ Uzma was blushing. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘I’d just got in the shower when Elliot comes in. Walsh had subbed him off.’ Oliver leaned over and picked up the controllers with his long arms. ‘Then we started wanking each other off.’ He shook his head. ‘Who do you think I am?’

  Uzma’s blushing got worse, but she was otherwise keeping her cool. ‘You didn’t hang around to support your teammates?’

  ‘Bugger that. Under Eighteens, man. I’m doing them a favour.’ Oliver hugged his legs tight. ‘I’m nineteen in February. I should be in the first team. Our first-choice keeper’s forty. Swear he weighs forty stone, too. Walsh is holding me back, for some reason.’

  Try focusing on your attitude first, son . . .

  ‘The guy’s a dick. Said I could make it pro, but he’s keeping me in the Under Eighteens. Just to mess with me, you know? Swear we’re all praying that knobber gets caught fiddling the Under Sixteens.’

  Uzma perked up. ‘Is that likely?’

  ‘Nah, just a forlorn hope.’ Oliver stood up and walked over to the sideboard. Picked up a ship in a bottle. No doubt his old man had spent ages putting it together while his son played on his games consoles. ‘Me and Elliot went into town. Had a few beers, then we hit a club in Hackney.’

  ‘Where did you go for these beers?’

  ‘Third Planet.’ The bottle thunked to the sideboard. ‘Get staff discount.’

  ‘Was Elliot with you all that time?’

  ‘Yeah, he was. We got chatting to these girls at the bar. Lovely tits on one of them.’ Oliver leered at Uzma. ‘Much bigger than yours. More like that MILF who was chatting me up the other day.’

  Uzma rolled her eyes. ‘And?’

  ‘Anyway, I like to fly with a wingman, know what I mean? So I kept trying to set Elliot up with this bird’s mate, but he was having none of it. Kept going on about his own bit of filth.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Gayle. His bloody teacher.’ Oliver curled his lip as he inspected the damage to his father’s ship. ‘I mean, she’s fit and everything, but what’s the point in seeing someone ten years older than you?’ He set the bottle down and took his place back on the sofa. ‘Took me a while, but I got this bird’s number, said we’d see her up in Hackney. And that’s when I spotted Elliot again.’

  ‘You said he was with you?’

  ‘Not in a biblical sense, sweetheart. Like I said, he wasn’t interested in this bird’s mate, so he sloped off, left me with them. She was definitely up for it. Gagging for it.’

  ‘You meet her up in Hackney?’

  ‘The bouncer’s a regular in the Third Planet, so he let us straight in.’ Oliver rubbed his neck. ‘He let this bird and her mate in, too. Elliot was still being weird about it. I went back to theirs after. Pair of them were students at Southwark. Wanted a threesome. Not my scene, you know? So I got out of there quick smart. One pair of tits is enough for me, you know?’

  Fenchurch leaned forward in his chair and gave Uzma a warning glance. ‘Where had Elliot been?’

  ‘No idea.’ Oliver picked up a PlayStation controller like he was away to get stuck into FIFA or whatever the latest thing was. ‘Anyway, we went to that club and—’

  ‘Let me get this straight.’ Fenchurch got up and crossed the small room. ‘Elliot wasn’t with you all night?’

  ‘Kid’s like that. Floats in and out, you know?’ Oliver frowned at Fenchurch. ‘What’s this about, anyway?’

  ‘We just need to know where he was.’ Fenchurch shrugged. ‘When did you get to the bar?’

  ‘Got an Uber from Shadwell.’ Oliver reached for his phone and fiddled about with it. ‘Half eight.’

  ‘And when did Elliot go missing?’

  ‘Now you’re asking . . .’ Oliver frowned. ‘Why are you so interested in him?’

  ‘Just help us, son.’

  ‘We left for the club at half ten, so . . . think I found him about half nine? And he’d been away for a good few minutes.’

  Right in the middle of the window of opportunity.

  Fenchurch signed the clipboard and passed it to the uniform still manning the hotel’s front entrance. Bloke seemed more interested in the women on the street than his job.

  ‘Eyes on the prize, son.’ Fenchurch walked through the front door to the reception. ‘Lisa, what you doing here?’

  Bridge was sitting at the security desk, scowling at her laptop. ‘What do you think?’ She slapped the keyboard. ‘CCTV. I really need to do something else, sir. This is driving me up the wall.’

  ‘Next case, I swear.’

  ‘Believe it when I see it.’ She sat back, arms folded. ‘Tammy said she’s found another seven cameras here that I don’t have footage for.’

  Fenchurch scanned around the room. ‘You got it yet?’

  ‘I’m waiting on Jim Muscat.’

  Fenchurch peered through the door to the bar. Jim Muscat was sitting on a stool, yawning. ‘Lisa, he’s right there.’ He walked over and opened the door. ‘Need a word with you, Jim.’

  ‘This is a bloody joke!’ Roderick, the manager, stomped towards him, like a small child with low blood sugar. He stopped and kicked a chair, toppling it and sending it skidding across the floor. ‘I need to open my hotel!’

  Fenchurch got out of Roderick’s way. ‘Sir, that whole floor is a murder scene.’

  ‘I get that.’ Roderick didn’t look like he did. ‘Believe me, I do. Shut that floor off, by all means, but for the love of goodness, let me open the other three?’ He thumbed behind him. ‘And the Third Planet . . . You know how much I lost last night? A Saturday! Eh? And the Chelsea game today. It took years to build up that crowd of regulars. Years!’

  ‘I understand your concerns, sir.’ Fenchurch spotted Tammy’s hair glinting in the reception light. ‘Give me a minute.’ He left the office and caught up with her. ‘Have you finished?’

  ‘The room, yes.’ Tammy shook out her platinum hair, still looked bunched up from her crime scene suit. She was an inch or two taller than Fenchurch. ‘Nothing that’ll solve it for you, but as soon as you get yourselves a suspect, we’ll be able to prove they were there. In a week or so.’

  ‘It’s just, the manager—’

  ‘I know.’ Tammy narrowed her eyes at Roderick, shaking her head in disgust. ‘He keeps asking me to open the place. Every hour, on the hour. Had those owners in earlier. The brothers. Swear I think Mick can spot a nightmare crime scene a mile off and passes it on to me. Every bloody time.’

  Fenchurch smiled. ‘That’s his speciality.’

  ‘Yeah, well, doing the graft isn’t.’ Tammy zipped up her coat. ‘Next time, he can deal with those brothers. One of them was sleazing all over me. Dirty, dirty bastards.’

  ‘Anything I can do them for?’

  ‘If looks could rape, you know?’ Her smile was half-grimace. ‘If he stepped over the line, I’d have taken him down, big time.’
<
br />   Fenchurch didn’t doubt it. ‘Well, if you’re just about done, I’ll let you get off.’

  ‘Cheers.’ Tammy walked off, still shaking out her hair.

  Fenchurch walked back into the bar. Empty. What the hell? He walked back to reception and got Bridge’s attention with a wave. ‘Where did the manager go?’

  ‘Got a call. Took Muscat with him.’ She was still focused on her laptop. ‘It’s like they’re hiding something.’

  ‘I’m getting that a lot on this case.’

  ‘Managed to get hold of this myself.’ Bridge swivelled her laptop round. The screen showed grainy footage of a man speaking to a woman in a corridor. Looked like the hotel, but the quality was so bad. She circled the woman. ‘We have two missing guests, sir. She is one of them.’

  ‘So who is she?’

  ‘Don’t know, but that is the bloke outside.’ Bridge pointed at the staff door. ‘The guy out in the lane who chucked her bag?’

  ‘Right.’ Fenchurch squinted at the image. So hard to make out. Could be Elliot. Could be anyone. ‘Have you got any more?’

  ‘That’s all Muscat got.’

  ‘One out of seven?’

  The staff door cracked open and Muscat wandered through, shoulders slouching. ‘Swear that guy will be the death of me.’

  Fenchurch walked over to Muscat. ‘Jim, I need the other six cameras. Now.’

  Muscat’s gaze shot over to Bridge. ‘I’ve given her access!’

  ‘No, you haven’t.’

  ‘I bloody swear I have!’

  ‘Follow me.’ Bridge grabbed his arm and led him back through the staff door to the corridor near the exit. ‘Three here.’ She pointed at three cameras. ‘And another three round that bend.’

  ‘Come on, Jim.’ Fenchurch got between Muscat and Bridge, tilting his head to the side. ‘We need your help.’

  Muscat looked away. ‘They’re dummy cameras.’

  ‘Make me believe it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think you’re lying.’ Fenchurch reached up to the first one. ‘It’s wired in.’ He shook his head at Muscat, his bitter disappointment hopefully shining through. ‘You’re an ex-cop, Jim. Did you hand back your integrity with your warrant card?’