by Ed James
‘Oy!’ Fenchurch shot up the steps and pulled them apart. A mix of perfume and hissing breath. ‘What the hell is going on here?’
Reed waved an angry hand. ‘She started it.’ Couldn’t look at Fenchurch.
‘Bollocks.’ Uzma jabbed an angrier finger, shaking slightly. Eyes pleading with Fenchurch. ‘She’s out of order, sir.’
Back at the playground . . .
‘DS Ashkani, can you please tell everyone that I’m delaying the briefing until my two sergeants can act like adults?’
‘This isn’t my—’
‘Now, please. I’ll see you in my office afterwards. Okay?’
With a huff, Uzma swiped through the security door, then glared at Reed as the door shut behind her.
Fenchurch waited until she was inside, teeth clenched. ‘Kay, the last thing I expect when I turn up is you tearing lumps out of her.’
‘I would’ve thought it’d be the first thing.’ Reed waved at the door. ‘She’s . . .’ The rain was flattening Reed’s hair. ‘Bloody hell . . .’
Fenchurch stared into her eyes, head tilted to the side. ‘What’s she done?’
‘The same divisive shit as Mulholland.’ Reed paced away from him, then stopped and came back, arms folded. ‘She said everything has to go through her.’
Fenchurch prodded his own chest. ‘It goes through me, Kay.’
‘I know that. Didn’t help that I couldn’t get hold of you.’
Fenchurch got out his phone. The screen was filled with missed calls and texts from her. Not a million miles away from what Gayle Fisher’s phone had looked like. ‘Sorry, I was driving.’
‘And last night?’
‘Busy.’ The texts were all a variation on Call me, progressing to Have you lost your phone? Fenchurch wiped the rain off the screen and put his mobile away. ‘What did you want?’
‘Loads of things.’ Reed started counting off on her fingers. ‘First, we’re still getting hassle getting hold of CCTV in the Minories. Lisa lost her account again.’
‘I spoke to that guy, Kay. Sure you can run rings around him.’
‘Piss off . . .’ Reed counted off another finger. ‘Last night, I found out that Gayle has a life insurance policy. Steve’s going to receive over half a million.’
Fenchurch leaned back against the wet brick. ‘Shit.’
‘And her will gives him sole ownership of the house. I checked with an estate agent Dave plays squash with. He reckons it’s worth eight hundred grand. Minimum. No mortgage. She inherited it when it was worth a hundred. Didn’t have to pay any inheritance tax.’
Fenchurch totted up in his head. Didn’t take long. ‘So Steve gets over a million in the event of her death?’
‘Except for suicide.’
‘Of course.’ Fenchurch walked over to the door, wiping rain out of his hair in a spray. ‘Let me guess, Uzma’s been trying to take credit for the discovery?’
‘Taking all the brownie points from Mulholland. I was in till ten last night, guv. On a Sunday. I mentioned it to her when we were queuing for coffee next door and she thinks it’s hers.’
Fenchurch swiped through the door. ‘Get Unwin back in.’
Fenchurch nudged his office door open with his wrist. His coffee’s cardboard sleeve had slid up the cup and he was holding molten lava.
Uzma was standing there, frowning at him. ‘Simon, I need a word.’
‘Just a sec.’ Fenchurch dumped his coffee on his desk and shook his hand in the air. ‘Bloody hell. Why do they have to make it so hot?’
Uzma was frowning at his hand. ‘You okay?’
‘I’m fine.’ Fenchurch stretched it out. Felt like third-degree burns, like those Americans who sued fast-food chains when a Pop-Tart exploded in their faces or whatever. Or he just needed to man up. He snapped the lid off and blew on the coffee. ‘DS Ashkani, did you manage to defer the briefing?’
‘I did, but I’ve got something you need to see now.’ She held up a sheet of paper. ‘One of my officers has managed to get hold of the hotel’s security card supplier. This is the access log for Gayle’s room.’
‘Okay, is there anything interesting on it?’
‘Oh yes.’ Uzma sucked in a deep breath as she passed him the page. ‘The only card used to access the room after Gayle belonged to Jim Muscat.’
Uzma pointed at an interview room. ‘He’s in there, but—’
‘Muscat’s still here?’ Fenchurch stomped down the corridor towards the interview room. ‘He should’ve been in front of a judge this morning. Why haven’t you charged him yet?’
‘DCI Mulholland told me not to. Said it’s not revenge porn until he publishes it. Also, got to prove that he intended to use it for pornographic reasons.’
‘Great.’ Fenchurch tried a sip of coffee. Cold. Seemed like all the warmth had gone into superheating the cup. ‘Makes sense, I suppose.’ He sunk the coffee in one go and dropped the cup in the recycling. ‘You okay to lead in here?’
‘Sure.’ Uzma entered the interview room, head high.
‘Sir.’ Jim Muscat looked up when Fenchurch entered, sweating like he’d just run from Wales. ‘What’s going on? When am I getting out of here?’
‘Not my remit, sir.’ Fenchurch sat down next to Uzma. ‘Sergeant?’
‘We need to ask about this.’ She passed the access log to Muscat’s lawyer, who looked a bit too young to be able to represent his client effectively. ‘Care to explain how—?’
‘This is bollocks!’ Muscat snatched the sheet off his lawyer. ‘Complete bollocks!’ His mouth hung open. ‘You think I killed her?’
‘It would explain a few things. You’ve covered up for someone running a brothel in this hotel, now this.’
‘I haven’t.’
‘Just stop. You knew what was going on here. And you’re an ex-cop.’ Fenchurch shook his head. ‘What do they have on you?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Do you get a free shot or something? Claudia’s a nice young woman. You’re a single man. That what’s going on?’
‘I can’t lose this job.’
‘Security is a growth business in this day and age. There are tons of other ones.’
‘It’s not that simple . . .’ Muscat bit his lip, then snorted. ‘The reason Oliver’s mother left me is I like a gamble. Horses, football, casino, you name it. Got myself in a bit of debt and Beth left me. Wanted to take Oliver, but he wanted to stay with me. Then, somehow, my sergeant got wind of it, hence me leaving the force. Bet it was that bitch who told him . . .’
‘And let me guess, Nazar owns a casino?’
‘Sutekh does. Down in Putney. He covered the debt, in exchange for me working the security gig and turning a blind eye to certain activities.’
‘Like the brothel?’
‘No, like the fact that half the East End drug lords drink in the bar and screw Russian whores in one of the rooms.’ Muscat picked at a scab on his lip. ‘Anyway, it’s all fine. I’m sitting there, pretending to work while all these scumbags are coming and going.’ He punched his fist into the table edge. Looked like it hurt but he didn’t even flinch. ‘I still owe him eighty grand.’
‘Jim.’ His lawyer elbowed him gently. Then whispered in his ear as he tapped on the page.
‘Oh, right.’ Muscat leaned back, smiling. ‘I wasn’t here when that girl was killed.’
Fenchurch shot a glance at Uzma. ‘What?’
‘I left work at six, then went to the football to watch my boy play.’
‘You were at the football?’
‘All night.’ Muscat’s smile widened. ‘I’m a season ticket holder at Shadwell, so I didn’t have to pay.’ Then he glowered at them. ‘And, before you ask, I stayed until the bitter end, unlike that little shit, Oliver. Waste of blood and spunk.’ His smile returned. ‘Beautiful goal in the second half, though.’
Fenchurch couldn’t help himself from glaring at Uzma. ‘What about after the match?’
‘Went to that boozer down the road.’ Muscat
frowned. ‘The one without the name. Can’t remember what it’s called. We just say “the pub”.’
‘Did you have your card with you all the time?’
‘It’s attached to my neck chain. You know, the one you broke yesterday?’
Fenchurch sighed. ‘Could anybody else have had your card?’
‘Not mine. I mean, someone could’ve cloned it, right?’
Fenchurch flinched. Make a copy of the bloody thing. I was too quick to jump to the same conclusion as Uzma.
‘But they’d need that, surely?’
Muscat cleared his throat. ‘I didn’t have my eyes on it when I was backing up that video . . .’
Chapter Thirty-Three
You didn’t even check that he had the card on him.’ Fenchurch stormed down the corridor, pushing between Nelson and Bridge, then turned the corner. He chanced a glance at Uzma to check she was still with him. ‘You need to tie your shoelaces before you run. Otherwise you’ll knock your own bloody teeth out.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Fenchurch stopped outside the interview room. ‘You’ve been grassing on me to Dawn Mulholland, when I need you to focus on your core activities. Okay?’
Uzma slipped into the Incident Room without a word.
She’ll be the death of me. Her or her bloody puppet master . . .
He looked behind him. Nelson and Bridge were locked in deep conversation.
Take a step back. What does it all mean?
Someone used Muscat’s card to get in the room.
But he swore that he had it with him at the football.
So, someone had to clone the card. Time to check.
Bridge walked past on her way back to the Incident Room.
Fenchurch blocked her passage. ‘Lisa, have you still got the hotel CCTV for Friday night?’
‘Sure. What time?’
‘Around six?’
Bridge walked over to her desk and sat, yawning. ‘In or out?’
‘Both.’
‘Front or back?’
‘Start with the front. Looking for Jim Muscat.’
‘Okay . . .’ Bridge pulled it up. The screen filled with footage of the hotel’s front door. Bang on six, Jim Muscat left, like he’d just clocked off in a Victorian factory.
‘Is that what you wanted to see?’
‘Well, no, but it makes sense.’ Fenchurch drew a finger round Muscat. ‘Lisa, can you do me a favour?’
‘If it involves looking at more bloody CCTV . . .’
‘I need you to visit Shadwell United Football Club and check that he was there on Friday night.’ Fenchurch retraced the shape around Muscat. ‘Oh, and that pub down the road, too. The one without a sign up. He said he was in there after the match.’
‘Sir.’ She wrote it in her notebook, nodded keenly. ‘I’ll get right out there. Thanks.’ She walked off, striding like she’d just been promoted.
Fenchurch had a look round the Incident Room. Uzma and Nelson were chatting by the whiteboard. Wonder what that’s ab—
His phone rang. The spiders crawled up his spine. Martin, the Custody Sergeant. Nothing to do with Baby Al. He put the phone to his ear. ‘What’s up?’
‘Got Steve Fisher’s lawyer down here for you.’
Uzma was outside the interview room, looking like she was going to wrap her fingers round someone’s throat and just squeeze. Then she clocked Fenchurch and did a double take. ‘Sir, his lawyer’s just gone in.’
‘Could’ve sworn I told you to delay the briefing, Sergeant, then meet me in my office.’
‘I did, sir.’ Uzma was looking round Fenchurch at Reed. ‘Thought you’d want me in the interview?’
‘What gave you that impression?’
Uzma cleared her throat and stared at the corridor floor. ‘Sorry.’
‘Delay the—’ Fenchurch frowned, then started nodding at her. ‘Actually, Uzma, can you run the briefing for me?’
‘Simon, I’m not sure I’m up to speed with—’
‘This is your chance, okay?’ Fenchurch leaned back against the interview room door.
Uzma walked off, giving Reed a curt nod as she passed her.
‘She looks pissed off.’ Reed patted Fenchurch on the arm. ‘What happened?’
‘Nothing. You okay to run this?’
‘Sure thing.’ Reed entered the room.
Fenchurch went into the Obs Suite and settled down on the chair. The room reeked of toffee popcorn.
Onscreen, Steve Fisher and his lawyer, Dalton Unwin, were locked in conference, nodding and frowning at each other.
Reed sat opposite, elbows on the table, next to one of Uzma’s DCs. Couldn’t remember his name. ‘You need any more time?’
Unwin sat back, fiddling with his jewelled earring. ‘We’re good to go, Sergeant.’
Reed gave a polite nod. ‘Mr Fisher, did you or your wife have any insurance policies?’
‘Car. House.’ Steve shrugged. ‘Usual stuff. Gayle had one for her phone that I didn’t think was good value.’
Reed smiled. ‘I meant life insurance.’
‘Don’t think so.’
‘What about when you got married?’
‘Not that I can think of.’
Reed nudged a document across the table. ‘So this joint-names insurance policy we found isn’t yours?’
‘I for—’ Steve got a nudge from Unwin and shut up.
‘Were you about to say that you forgot that you took out an insurance policy?’
‘No comment.’
‘Okay.’ Reed pushed more paper across the table. ‘These are copies of your bank statements. You’ve been paying just short of fifty quid a month for this policy.’
‘No comment.’
‘Do you pay close attention to your finances, Mr Fisher?’
‘Gayle did all that. I fixed up the house, cooked and cleaned. She did the shopping, the garden and all the admin.’
‘Sounds fair.’ Reed sat back in her seat, taking a few seconds to switch her gaze back to Steve. ‘Thing is, I’ve got a mortgage on my house. Bloody huge one, too. Costs a lot to live in London, doesn’t it? Most people in the south-east don’t pay down the capital on their mortgages. They just pay the interest, safe in the knowledge that when they sell up, they can pay off the capital, but have a huge amount of profit left over to buy something else when their kids leave home. You and Gayle weren’t in either boat, were you?’
Steve just exhaled through his nostrils.
‘You owned the house outright. Not far off a million quid.’ She nudged the page across the desk. ‘Add in the insurance, and you’d be financially secure for life.’
Fenchurch’s gut clenched.
Pete and his broken liver, sold in exchange for a life of liberty and freedom. He seemed to think it was worth it. Maybe Steve applied the same calculus to murdering his wife? Cost vs benefit.
‘With murders, it’s always good to work out who benefits from the death.’ Reed prodded the page yet again, ramming home the point. ‘That insurance policy and the value of your house . . . Taken together, that seems like a very strong motivation to me.’
The Obs Suite door opened and Mulholland appeared, lips pursed. ‘Simon.’ She sat next to him but left the door open, the chat in the corridor close to drowning out the monitor. ‘I gather DS Ashkani has unearthed some useful evidence against Mr Fisher?’
‘DS Reed, Dawn.’ Fenchurch turned the volume up a couple of steps but still couldn’t quite hear it. ‘Not Ashkani.’
‘Well, I’ll be the judge of that.’ Mulholland pointed at the screen. ‘I’ve spoken with Julian and we’re going to charge Mr Fisher. Coupled with the items yourself and DS Reed have acquired, Uzma’s work gives quite the body of evidence.’
‘Still feels very circumstantial, Dawn. And Unwin’s got him keeping quiet. Sure you’ve got enough?’
‘Quite sure.’ Mulholland left the room, meeting Uzma in the corridor. Looked like they were going to take over.
�
��Wait!’ Fenchurch joined them in the corridor. ‘Dawn, you need to let Kay progress the interview.’
‘No.’ Mulholland patted him on the arm. ‘Thanks for all of the work, Simon, but we’ll take it from here.’ She smiled as Uzma opened the interview room door.
What the hell have I done to deserve this?
Seconds later, Reed stormed out, face like thunder. Straight into the Obs Suite, slamming the door behind her. ‘Guv, she—’
‘I know, Kay.’
‘That’s it? You’re just letting them win? Guv . . .’
‘I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do about it.’ Fenchurch switched off the screen. Blank, but it was like Mulholland’s face was burnt into it, goading him, teasing him. ‘It’s all still circumstantial. No matter how good a tale the CPS weave in court, it won’t be anywhere near enough to beat Dalton Unwin.’
‘Bloody hell, guv.’ Reed crunched back in the chair. ‘You think Steve will get away with this?’
‘Or it’s not him.’
‘It bloody is.’ She huffed out a sigh and stared at him, eyes narrow. Then frowned. ‘Hang on.’ She got out her Airwave Pronto and tapped at the screen. ‘Remember when you had me looking at that press stuff on Saturday? Well, the Post ran a story a few months back about Shadwell Grammar, how a teacher was dealing drugs.’
‘That school’s definitely getting a lot of bad press. Almost like there’s something in Holding’s theory of a conspiracy against him.’
‘He went out of his way to try and make the world a better place, guv. People don’t like that.’
‘True enough.’
‘We found shitloads of pills last night at a house just round the bloody corner from the school.’ She switched the monitor on again and pointed at Steve Fisher. ‘Those pills belonged to Coldcut. Steve’s mate.’
‘What’s your point, Kay?’
‘What if Steve’s the dealer? Doesn’t matter what happens in the murder trial if we can put him away for that.’
‘I see your point.’
‘Because it’s a really good one.’ Reed checked her phone again. Her eyes narrowed as she passed it to him. ‘Guv, check the byline.’ She tapped on the screen.
