by Ed James
‘That all?’
‘Someone near the Minories.’
‘I’ve got some candidates.’ Another laugh from Nelson. ‘Trouble is, we can’t just burst in there and start asking questions. We need to be smart about it.’
‘You’re telling me.’ Fenchurch caught a thumbs-up from the uniform. ‘Come on.’ He walked over to Steve, getting close enough to get a waft of Lynx and bike oil, unsure whether it was Steve or one of the uniforms. ‘Mr Fisher, you’re here to show us your drug stash. That’s it. Any shenanigans and, well, it’s not going to look good, is it?’
‘I know what I’m here for.’ Steve let himself be led over. He took the keys from Uzma and unlocked the flat door. ‘John?’
Nothing, just his voice echoing round an empty flat.
‘Looks like he’s gone out.’ Steve led inside, through the fug of stale coffee grounds and burnt toast, and took them into the spare room at the back. A massive gaming PC sat there, sucking enough power in seconds to keep Ecuador going for a year. ‘It’s inside the computer. This thing is super-cooled so the gear won’t get hot.’ He opened the DVD tray.
Nelson slapped his hand away and snapped on a pair of blue gloves, then reached in. ‘What have we got here?’ He held up a package containing white powder. ‘That’ll be the ketamine.’ He passed it to Uzma and she put it in an evidence bag. He kept his gaze on it. ‘Good stuff, too. Usually tell by the colour what it’s been cut with. This is pure.’
‘So far so good, then.’ Fenchurch took the bag from Uzma. So much pain in one little bag. Then he looked at Steve. ‘Next?’
‘Right.’ Steve reached round the back of the computer for a large silver box, attached to the PC by a couple of long cables.
‘Stop!’ Nelson took it off him. ‘I’m doing it, okay? How do I get it open?’
Steve pointed at a small screwdriver. ‘That one.’
Nelson picked it up and started working away at the screws, then carefully lifted the lid. The inside was filled with bags of white powder.
‘Shit.’
‘What?’
‘The E’s missing. Shit.’ Steve crawled behind the computer, frantically searching. ‘Shit.’ He crawled out from under the desk and dusted himself off. ‘Shit.’ He looked up, focusing on Fenchurch like he’d just noticed he was there for the first time. ‘Look, those tablets in the Vuitton bag, they weren’t my wife’s.’
‘I knew you’d lied to us.’
‘But someone’s taken the rest of them!’
‘Your brother?’
‘John doesn’t know about this.’
‘So someone’s broken in here and only taken some of your drugs?’ Fenchurch perched on the edge of the desk and tapped the computer. ‘One of these things costs a few grand. Is your brother involved in the drug trade?’
‘No!’
‘Sure?’
‘He’s got a job in the City. I told you!’
Fenchurch switched his focus to Nelson. ‘This sounds like bollocks to me. What do you think?’
‘Bollocks.’
Steve raised his arms in the air and a uniform grabbed them. ‘I told you about that E I found in Gayle’s bag! It’s from the same batch!’
‘Which makes me think you planted it in your dead wife’s bag. That’s low.’
‘I didn’t kill her!’
‘The only way you can recover this is if you give us your dealer’s name, okay?’
‘I can’t . . .’
‘DI Nelson here works for the drug squad. His team are looking for your man. Not that many left in that area, is there? It’s going to be a lot better for you if you just tell us.’
Steve walked over to the window and looked out on to the street. ‘His name is Daniel.’
‘And does Daniel have a surname?’
Steve leaned back against the glass.
‘Okay.’ Fenchurch clapped his hands and bounced to his feet. Got a slight twinge in his balls, but didn’t let Nelson or Steve see any discomfort. ‘We’re done here. Let’s get—’
‘Dodoo.’ Dough-doo. Steve sat back, frowning. ‘Daniel Dodoo.’
‘Jon?’
‘Oh, I know him. Had him at Daniel.’
‘Daniel Doo-doo.’ Uzma covered her mouth as she drove, struggling to keep her eyes open. ‘What sort of name is that?’
‘It’s pronounced Dough-doo.’ Nelson was in the passenger seat, scowling at her. ‘It’s Ghanaian.’ He folded his arms. ‘My family’s Jamaican, right? When people enslaved us in Ghana, they took our names from us and gave us theirs. Nelson is Scottish or Irish. My ancestors could have a Dodoo or two. I don’t know. Daniel does, though, so please give him that respect.’
‘I didn’t know that.’ Uzma wiped a hand across her lips. ‘Sorry. But he is a drug dealer, right?’
‘We’ve got a longstanding operation against the organisation he’s working for.’
‘And he’s selling Blockchain?’
‘Among other items. It’s not simple.’
‘But he’s sold super-strong E?’
‘Yes, but there’s a lot more to it.’
‘So he’s a drug-dealing scumbag. I’m not giving him any respect.’ Uzma smiled at him as she pulled up outside the Bennaceur. The place was dead inside, the lights off, silent. Good. ‘How are we playing this, Simon?’
‘We’re playing the daft laddie.’ Fenchurch felt a stab of pain in his balls. ‘As Docherty used to call it.’
Uzma undid her seatbelt. ‘Come on, then.’
‘Not you, Sergeant.’ Nelson opened his door. ‘DI Fenchurch and I will deal with this.’
‘But, I—’
‘No buts. Stay here and keep an eye out, okay?’ Nelson got out on to the street and headed down a side lane.
Fenchurch followed him and caught up by a gate. ‘See what I’m dealing with?’
Nelson walked up to a house. A rotting red-brick tomb, wedged between new office developments, restaurants, pubs and hotels. House music blasted out of the windows further down the lane. He pressed the buzzer in a weird pattern. Bz-bz, bz-bz-bz, bz-bz, bz-bz-bz.
The door clicked.
‘What the hell was that, Jon?’
‘Secrets of the trade.’ Nelson opened the door and stepped in.
Inside, the hallway was empty. Race-driving noise droned from somewhere in the flat. Seemed to come from the door on the left. Clanking noises came from another room, but Nelson led into a large living room, clean and pristine. A massive TV sat on a wooden unit, that Mario racing game in all its garish cartoon glory. The sound was earsplitting, exploding out of huge floor-standing speakers.
Nelson cleared his throat. ‘Evening, Daniel.’
Dodoo sat on one end of a leather sofa, the room’s only chair, barely acknowledging them. Tall and black, head shaved. Wearing baggy clothes, his sleeves pulled up to show off tattoos. ‘Pull up a pew, Jon.’ He waved at the screen. ‘Mario Kart 8 is the bomb.’
‘Heard that.’ Nelson sat next to him and picked up a pink controller, tiny in his giant hands. Each nudge of the stick pinged from the speakers. ‘Need to ask you a favour.’
‘I don’t deal drugs.’ Dodoo sneaked a glance at him, raised an eyebrow at Fenchurch, then back at the screen as the race countdown started. ‘Whatever you want to know, that shit’s off the table. Okay?’
‘That’s cool.’ Nelson leaned forward, concentrating on the game. Looked like he was controlling a green dinosaur in a cartoon racing kart with monster-truck tyres. ‘You know a Steve Fisher?’
Another nervous glance. ‘Never heard of the cat.’
‘See, he’s given you as an alibi for Friday night.’
‘What’s he done?’
‘Killed his wife.’
‘Shit.’ Dodoo sat forward, exhaling slowly. ‘Well, I ain’t even heard of the cat, you know?’
‘Sure about that? Said he was here.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘We’re not talking about that, Daniel.’
‘Goo
d to hear it.’ Dodoo leaned forward. Then tossed his controller on the floor. ‘Bastard blue shell, man.’ He picked it up and set off again. Looked like he was driving as a fairy-tale princess, emerging from a mushroom cloud attack.
Maybe you needed to be on drugs to play it . . .
Nelson punched the air as he overtook. ‘So?’
‘So what?’ Dodoo leaned left as his character did the same on screen, veering down on Nelson’s dragon. ‘Cat wasn’t even here. Wasn’t doing nothing.’
A big white guy dressed in hip-hop gear entered the room, eyeing them up.
Nelson’s eyes bulged as he saw him, then went back to the game.
Hip-hop walked over to Dodoo and whispered in his ear.
‘You mean Steve the teacher?’ Dodoo’s forehead knotted in concentration. ’Cos he was here. Cat came round and we played Mario Kart for, like, half an hour? Just got it that day, man, and the cat helped me set it up. Not that it was complicated or anything. Cat’s good at this game, man. Beat me all ends up.’
Fenchurch couldn’t take his eyes off the Ali G clone. ‘It was Steve Fisher?’
‘Definitely. You can put my name on it.’
‘How long was he here?’
‘Maybe forty minutes, man?’ Dodoo grinned as he overtook Nelson. ‘He left at ten past nine at the latest, man.’
Steve, Steve, Steve . . .
Why do you keep doing this to us? And yourself.
Nelson glanced at Dodoo. ‘You’re sure about that?’
‘My Domino’s guy turned up at ten past nine.’ Dodoo reached for his phone and held it up. ‘Steve was gone by then.’
‘Thanks for that.’ Nelson put his controller down. ‘We’ll be on our way.’
‘Sure you don’t want to keep playing?’ Dodoo pointed at the screen. ‘Domino’s man is on his way again, bro.’
‘Sod your computer games and pizza.’ Fenchurch got in Dodoo’s face, so close that he couldn’t focus on the kid. ‘This Blockchain you’re selling is killing people. Stop it.’
‘I told you, I ain’t discussing drugs.’ Dodoo grinned at him. ‘You see any round here?’
‘Just because I don’t see it doesn’t mean you’re not selling it.’
Dodoo’s friend pointed at the door. ‘Mate, leave.’
Fenchurch laughed. ‘What did you say?’
‘Come on.’ Nelson grabbed Fenchurch by the jacket and pulled him away, tugging until they were out of the flat, only letting go when he slammed the door. ‘What the hell are you playing at?’
Fenchurch stomped off down the path. ‘Ali G in there thinks he can tell me to leave?’
‘Simon, forget it.’
‘I’m not forgetting anything. That prick’s going down.’
‘It doesn’t matter. You’ve got a giant hole in Steve’s alibi. Focus on that. He left with enough time to get over to the hotel and kill Gayle. You’ve got him there. He did it. End of.’
‘I suppose.’ Fenchurch got in the back of the car, ignoring Uzma. ‘Who was that, anyway?’
Nelson got in the passenger seat. ‘Thought it was just going to be Dodoo. If I’d known . . .’
‘Jon, who was it?’
‘Coldcut.’
‘I remember the band name.’ Uzma smirked. ‘That’s going back a bit, though, isn’t it? Doctorin’ the House? Yazz? Lisa Stansfield?’
‘Whatever.’ Nelson looked like he’d seen a ghost. ‘I told you about Coldcut. He’s the supplier of Blockchain.’ He stared back at the flat. ‘This is the first time we’ve got close to him. We don’t even know his real name.’
‘You mean he wasn’t christened Coldcut?’ Fenchurch’s smile bounced off Nelson’s glare. ‘You okay?’
‘Not really. He’s seen my face and now he knows we’re sniffing around. This isn’t good. Not good at all.’
‘You need a minute?’
‘We need to take him down.’ Nelson buckled up. ‘Let’s start with Steve Fisher and see where he leads us.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Inspector . . .’ Unwin leaned forward on his elbows as he gently shook his head. ‘I’m bored of your attempts to goad my client.’
‘I’m just trying to save everyone a lot of time and hassle.’ Fenchurch leaned against his chair back, resting on his hands. ‘This sort of case costs millions of pounds if it goes to court. You’re telling me you’d rather that money didn’t go to something more useful than convicting a guilty man?’
‘You can’t put a price on making sure innocence is preserved.’
‘Let me out.’ Steve’s breathing was laboured, his mouth hanging open. ‘I’ve given you an alibi. Cast-iron.’ He hit the table. ‘Cast. Iron.’
‘Your alibi’s made of talcum powder. Could drive a bus through it.’
Steve looked up at Fenchurch. ‘What?’
‘Turns out you were at your dealer’s house all right, but you left just after nine o’clock.’ Fenchurch gave him a few seconds, which he didn’t fill. ‘Five past at the very latest. Gayle was given that Blockchain at quarter past. The drug that killed her, Steve. And you were right next door to that hotel.’
Steve rocked back and forth.
‘Are you denying it?’
‘I . . .’
Unwin leaned over to whisper in his ear. Steve frowned, then nodded slowly. ‘I went for a drink with a mate. Left after ten.’
Fenchurch laughed. ‘A mate now?’
‘He paid.’
‘And does he have a name?’
Steve rested his head on the table.
‘Back to that, Steve? Come on. You’re mixing with some dodgy, dodgy people here. Drug dealers. Pretty soon, you’ll be inside. Coldcut knows people inside, I suspect. Killers. You’ve rattled their cage — can you trust them not to kill you?’
‘Colin’s cool.’
Nelson frowned at him. ‘Colin?’
‘Shit.’ Steve started banging his head off the desk. ‘Shit.’
‘What do you mean by Colin?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You know Coldcut?’
‘That’s who I went for a drink with.’ Steve shook his head, rubbing his forehead off the wood. ‘We went to the Third Planet. The bar next to the Bennaceur. That’s why I was there.’
‘You were drinking with a drug supplier?’
‘I was at school with Colin. Our lives took different paths. I went to Durham; he . . . stayed in Shadwell.’
‘Any chance we can confirm this story with him?’
‘I’ve got a mobile number, but I’m not giving you it. Like you said, I’ll have a target on my back.’
‘Give us his full name, then?’
Steve thunked his forehead off the wood. ‘What’s the bloody point?’ Again. He looked up at Fenchurch. ‘Colin David Cutler.’
Nelson almost fell over as he tried to sit at a computer, the chair spinning underneath him. He shuffled over, his fingers typing faster than the machine wanted, making it spit out error beeps. ‘This is the first lead we’ve had on Coldcut.’ More typing. ‘If we can get him and Younis in the same year . . .’ His typing was furious, like it would crack the keyboard. ‘Colin David Cutler. Col D Cut. Coldcut.’ He grimaced. ‘Quite cute when you think about it.’
‘If that’s your thing.’
Still typing, Nelson glanced at Fenchurch. ‘You’re welcome to get back in there with Steve.’
‘The moment’s passed, Jon.’
‘Sweet Jesus!’ Nelson punched the air like he’d just overtaken Dodoo on Mario Kart. ‘We’ve got ourselves Coldcut.’ He showed Fenchurch the screen. ‘Born at the Royal London on the twelfth of June 1988. Grew up in Shadwell. Parents divorced at six. Shoplifting charge at fourteen. Stolen car at sixteen. Dealing at nineteen.’ He frowned. ‘Then nothing until—’ He punched the desk. ‘Shit.’
‘What?’ Fenchurch focused on the screen, reading all the detail: ‘Colin Cutler died on fifteenth April 2008. Not even twenty. Shot in the face in Woolwich. This is bollocks!’ Fenchurch
pinged a nail off the screen. ‘He was in the room with us!’
‘Give me a second.’ Nelson started typing again, like that’d do any good. ‘Got something.’ He let Fenchurch see. ‘There’s a note from Social Work. Says that after his parents’ divorce, he lived with his paternal grandmother, Irene Jean Cutler.’ He brought up a PNC. ‘God rest her soul. Died in 2010.’ Then he grinned wide.
Fenchurch scowled at him. ‘Why aren’t you pissed off?’
‘Because I know that address.’ Nelson pressed hard on the screen. ‘Tower Hamlets have thirty-odd flats in Shadwell which they know they’re renting to dead people. We’ve told them to keep it like that.’
‘You think Coldcut’s staying there?’
‘One way to find out.’
Nelson parked outside a grim council house a couple of streets over from the school. Bare concrete blocks, flat roof. No greenery for miles around, just urban hell. ‘You know you should tell Mulholland, don’t you?’
‘I know.’ Fenchurch grinned. ‘You’re leading here. I’m just support.’
‘Glad that’s clear.’ Nelson got out of the car and started off towards the big squad surrounding a meat wagon. He stopped at the garden gate. A settee and an old telly sat on a patch of bare mud, still splattered with rain days after the last shower. ‘Now, let’s bring Coldcut down.’ He put his Airwave to his mouth. ‘Kay, you in position?’
‘Ready, Jon. Just like old times.’
Nelson laughed. ‘Just waiting for Serial Alpha to sort themselves out.’ He stopped by the squad.
A female DS was briefing them, getting nods and grunts for her trouble.
‘Been years since I’ve seen you like this, Jon.’
‘We’re going to bring down Coldcut.’ A broad grin. ‘No bigger rush than that.’
The building looked empty. Whole row did, eight grotty little houses. ‘You honestly think he’s in there?’
‘Fingers and toes crossed.’
The DS nodded at Nelson. ‘We’re good to go, Jon.’
Nelson’s Airwave blasted out. ‘Serial Bravo in position.’ Reed’s voice. ‘Waiting for your signal, Jon. Over.’
Nelson checked around behind them. Six uniforms had followed them. He gave them a thumbs-up and got nods in return. Airwave to his mouth. ‘We’re good to go, Kay.’ He waved at the house.
