by Ed James
‘Hang on.’
Fenchurch tore open the back door and grabbed Docherty. His pulse was still there, getting fainter with each beat. ‘Come on, boss, you don’t get out of this that easily.’ He dragged out Docherty’s legs and pulled him up to standing. Tried to put him on his shoulder, but his left knee locked. He stumbled into the car, his shoulder smacking off the glass. Almost dropped Docherty.
‘It’s okay, sir, we’ve got him.’ Two burly paramedics winched Docherty down from Fenchurch’s shoulder and rested him on a gurney. ‘We’ll take him inside, sir. You need to sign in at reception.’
‘Okay. Okay.’ Fenchurch leaned back against the car, rubbing at his shoulder. Sheer bloody agony. All he could do was watch them trundle Docherty inside.
‘Hello?’
Fenchurch put the phone to his ear. ‘They’ve got him. Thanks for your help.’
‘I’m sorry we couldn’t get an ambulance out, sir.’
‘Not your fault. Thanks.’ Fenchurch killed the call, his fingers clenched around the phone case. Nothing to do but stand around and wait. Nothing to influence, nothing to challenge. He scanned through his contacts and found the one he never wanted to see popping up. After a long breath he hit dial.
‘Detective Superintendent Julian Loftus. To whom am I speaking?’
‘Sir, it’s DI Fenchurch. I’ve had to take Docherty to hospital.’
‘I see.’ Loftus’s footsteps cannoned round a stairwell somewhere. ‘Have you spoken to Margaret?’
‘Next on my list, sir.’
‘Don’t bother. I’ll phone her.’
Fenchurch slurped machine tea and leaned against the windowsill. Cleaning chemicals assaulted his nostrils. Even the tea tasted of it. A long white corridor, doors regularly spaced, windows looking out across East London’s evening, households stuck in their cycle of addiction. Coronation Street, EastEnders, that baking nonsense. Football, Netflix binges, Facebook, Snapchat. God knows what else.
Another sip of tea and he tried Abi’s phone. Straight to voicemail. A text popped up. Bloody hell.
Fenchurch tried to avoid thinking about Docherty. Collapsing in the Obs Suite. Lying on the back seat of the car, limp and lifeless. Weighing less than a small child. All the stress and strain of managing a cop who gets results the wrong way. Someone who pushes and prods and needles and bends the rules way past breaking.
Another stab of pain in the knee.
Troy Danton.
Little bastard. Little, little bastard. Six stones of arsehole, barely weighing as much as Fenchurch’s legs. Pure instinct, blind luck.
Always bet on the scrawny bastard.
‘Inspector.’
Fenchurch looked over as he took another slurp of tea.
Detective Superintendent Julian Loftus approached, wearing full uniform. His bald head gleamed under the light, polished with Pledge or something. A good five years younger than Fenchurch, though the gap looked greater. The sort of athletic physique that wouldn’t get caught out by a scrawny bastard in a crappy flat. Then again, he wouldn’t deign to try to interview a suspect. Hand out, ready for a shake. ‘Simon, I can’t even begin to . . .’
Fenchurch clasped his hand and shook. ‘It’s horrible, sir.’
Loftus joined Fenchurch, resting against the windowsill. ‘I can’t even . . .’ He let out a gasp. ‘Did you—’
‘No, sir, I didn’t punch him.’ Fenchurch finished his tea and put the cup on the sill. ‘He was talking to me, discussing this case. Then he seemed to have a fit.’
‘Managing you has finally taken its toll.’ Loftus was grinning, but his eyes told Fenchurch to watch his step. ‘This Hannah Nunn case at Southwark University, isn’t it?’
‘Correct.’ Fenchurch wished he hadn’t finished his tea. Nothing to play with. No decoys, just twitching fingers. ‘We’re getting there, sir.’
‘Not quickly enough for Alan, I’ll wager.’ Loftus dusted off his left shoulder, seemed bothered by something still there. ‘You know, Southwark is my alma mater. For my undergraduate degree. St Andrews for my postgraduate, up in Scotland. Couldn’t get much different.’ His expression darkened. ‘Alan’s originally from near St Andrews, as well.’
‘Thought he was Edinburgh, sir?’
‘Fife. Crail. Lovely place. Visited a few times while I was up there.’ Loftus rubbed at his forehead. ‘How do you begin to . . .’
By finishing your sentences?
Fenchurch nodded slowly. ‘I can’t even, sir. Can’t even.’ As if on cue, his gut started bubbling, burning at his oesophagus. ‘Had he mentioned anything to you about being ill?’
‘You know Alan, Inspector. Always about the job. Stats this, evidence that, office politics, protecting you. Married to the Job, I thought, only I happened to discover he was actually married when my wife met his at a function near where we live.’
‘You’re Grays, too?’
‘Heavens, no. Hornchurch. A lot less of the estuary up there.’ Loftus checked his watch, frowning. ‘Wonder where she’s got to? Said she’d meet me here. Anyway, I had a call from the DI in charge of Cyber Crime saying that this case is linked to one of theirs.’
‘Hardly, sir. They should’ve arrested someone but were too busy getting drunk. That lot are just playing at being cops.’
‘I see. You do know that I ran that unit for five years?’
A door opened not far from them and a doctor appeared, drawn and haggard. His body looked melted, like someone had left him in a conservatory on a hot summer’s day. ‘Ah, Inspector Fenchurch?’ He was looking at Loftus.
‘Detective Superintendent Julian Loftus.’ He marched over and gave the doctor a thorough handshake. ‘Alan works for me.’
‘Ah, I see.’ The doctor focused on Fenchurch. ‘Thanks for bringing him in, sir. You’ve, ah, probably saved his life.’
‘Probably?’
‘Ah, well, we’re trying to figure out the full extent of his ailment.’
‘Was it a stroke? Heart attack?’
‘We’ve ruled out any, ah, cardiovascular event. Stroke, myocardial infarction, angina pectoris, you name it, ah, which leaves us with a mystery.’
Fenchurch frowned at Loftus then at the doctor. ‘So you don’t know?’
‘We’re running tests just now. He’s, ah, very heavily dehydrated, of course. Now, officers, I must get back to the patient. Is Mrs Docherty here?’
Loftus shook his head. ‘I’ll tell you the second . . .’
‘Ah, tell the nurse, please.’ And with that, the doctor swooshed off in a trail of white coat.
Loftus let out a deep breath. ‘Well, that’s helpful . . .’ He frowned down the corridor, at the rattle of heels clicking towards them. ‘There’s Margaret now. Might be time for you to get off home?’
Fenchurch hobbled into the Incident Room in Leman Street, his knee feeling like it’d dropped off at the hospital. That or he should’ve got someone to look at it. Trying to pop it in himself wasn’t the smartest move.
The room was almost empty. Nelson was over by the whiteboard, the pen squeaking as he scribbled an update. He noticed Fenchurch and his wonky knee. ‘Listen, guv, I need a—’
‘Did you get anything else out of Danton?’
A frown twitched on Nelson’s face. ‘Just what he told us outside his flat.’
‘You believe him?’
‘Feels legit, guv. Lisa’s returned to that laptop shop to confirm the story. Students pawning their possessions for drugs. The world doesn’t change.’
‘No . . .’ Fenchurch collapsed into a chair and put his left foot up. Took out some of the sting from his knee. ‘You honestly think he’s just her friendly neighbourhood drug dealer? Hasn’t got anything to do with her death?’
‘No idea, guv.’ Nelson sat next to him and took in his handiwork on the board. ‘Listen, I spoke to some old mates in the drugs squad. Danton’s going to be spending the rest of the week with them. He’s promised to pass on some information on his suppliers.’
/> ‘Reckon he will?’
‘Doubt it, but if anything else points to him in this case, guv, we know where he is.’ Nelson grinned at Fenchurch. ‘And you won’t have to knacker your knee chasing him again.’
Fenchurch laughed it off, but couldn’t look at Nelson. ‘It’ll be fine by tomorrow.’
‘You sure?’
‘No idea. It’s sore. Should’ve gone to A&E at the hospital.’
‘What hospital?’ Reed was standing behind them, eyebrows arched. ‘Is Abi okay?’
‘She’s fine, Kay.’ Fenchurch checked his mobile again. Nothing from her. ‘You got anything that’ll make me happy?’
‘Winning the lottery wouldn’t make you happy, guv.’ Reed hauled over a chair and perched on it. ‘Had a trip out to Lewisham. No further progress with the forensics, though Mick said his team are pulling an all-nighter to get over the backlog.’
‘Like no sleep will make them any less error-prone.’ Fenchurch rubbed at his knee. Getting better, but slowly. ‘Anyway. I . . .’ He swallowed down the lump in his throat, tried to brush away the tingling in his nostrils. ‘I had to take DCI Docherty to hospital. He collapsed in the Obs Suite while Jon was interviewing our little drug-dealing cleaner.’
Reed’s shoulders slouched. ‘You okay, guv?’
‘It’s Docherty and his wife I’m thinking about.’ Fenchurch pinched his nose. ‘I don’t have any update for you, but it’s not looking good. He was out of it. Thought he’d died.’
‘Poor guy.’ Reed let out a deep sigh. Then she hefted up her bag. ‘Well, I’m going to see my kids before they forget they’ve even got a mother, okay?’
‘See you, Kay.’
‘Night.’ Nelson waited until the door clicked to turn to face Fenchurch. ‘Think he’ll pull through?’
Fenchurch shrugged. ‘In the lap of the gods now, Jon.’
‘Right.’ Nelson put the pen down under the whiteboard. ‘Guv, earlier, I said I wanted a word?’
‘And?’
‘You sold your flat yet?’
‘The jewel in the crown of the Isle of Dogs property market is still available, yes. Why?’
‘Kate’s kicked me out.’
Fenchurch pulled up outside his old flat and killed the engine. Typical turn of the Millennium — white roughcast walls dyed yellow by sodium lighting and burst pipes, balconies with seating covered in forgotten washing. All under the flightpath for City Airport, but spitting distance of Canary Wharf. The FOR SALE sign caught the breeze, flapping back and forth like one of those things you saw outside garages in America.
Fenchurch got out and leaned against his car, waiting.
Nelson’s Audi pulled up in the space next to Fenchurch. Ten years old but purring, like he was still a management consultant and not a DS in the Met. He hauled himself out of the tight gap between the cars and nodded up at Fenchurch’s flat. ‘We shared a few bottles on your balcony over the years, didn’t we, guv?’
‘Not very happy times, Jon.’ Fenchurch blocked his exit. ‘You going to tell me why she kicked you out?’
‘Guv . . .’ Nelson barged past him, aided by Fenchurch’s knee locking, and set off towards the building. ‘How much is it on for?’
‘Put it this way, Jon: if you can afford it, I’m reporting you to Professional Standards as you’ve clearly been taking a bung.’ Fenchurch left a space for Nelson to open up. He didn’t. ‘Spill. What did you do?’
Nelson stuffed his hands in his pockets. ‘How did you afford it back in the day?’
‘Bought it off plan. Saved forty per cent when I only had about fifty.’ Fenchurch scratched his neck, feeling his eyes welling up. ‘Mum died the year before and Dad was holding my inheritance. So when Abi told me to leave, I got the rest off him and it all worked out. More than doubled since.’ He looked around the car park at the flash cars and hipster scooters. ‘I was lucky. Cops can’t afford to live in London any more, Jon. It’s sickening.’
‘Don’t have to tell me.’ Nelson beamed wide. ‘Got any wine in?’
Fenchurch folded his arms. ‘What did you do?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Kate kicked you out for nothing?’
‘Guv . . .’
‘Jon, we’re off duty. You can call me Simon. Or wanker, whatever. Not guv.’
‘She’s overreacting.’
‘Jon, I know a thing or two about being a selfish arsehole and getting kicked out by your better half. Have you been a selfish arsehole?’
‘I was in the shower and my phone was in the living room.’ Nelson was clawing at his neck now, close to drawing blood. ‘Got a load of texts from a colleague and she took it out of context.’
‘Who?’
‘Gu— Simon, there’s nothing in it. She just read too much into an innocent chat.’
‘You swear?’
Nelson barked out a sigh. ‘Come on, what is this?’
Fenchurch’s mobile blared out. Abi. He answered it. ‘What’s up, love?’
‘Where the hell are you?’
Fenchurch tossed his spare keys over, then pointed a finger at him and mouthed, ‘No more lying.’ He opened his car door and got in. ‘I’ll be about ten minutes, love. Where have you been?’
‘My bloody parents are in town.’
Chapter Eleven
Fenchurch trudged up the stairs, his knee a dull throb now. His key hovered over the lock but he couldn’t put it in. Bedlam inside, the kind he hadn’t heard since . . . since Chloe was a child.
She’d be in her room in halls, a few corridors over from Hannah. Someone had got into Hannah’s room. What if they could get into Chloe’s? In and out. What if Troy Danton was her cleaner? What if it was one of his mates?
A snake slithered up his leg and coiled itself round his guts, squeezing and squeezing. All that pain, just to find her and lose her again.
He slotted the key in and twisted. The noise swelled up to engulf him. Abi and her mother at loggerheads. Shouting about Basildon and Chelmsford and Sevenoaks and Rochester.
Same as it ever was.
He pushed the door shut and hung up his jacket. Abi’s dad piped up about the M25, his deep voice booming out. Fenchurch tossed his keys into the bowl and hobbled through to the kitchen, sticking a smile on. ‘Jim, Evelyn, we weren’t expecting you.’
Jim Ormonde was standing in the window, cradling some red wine in one of those giant glasses Abi bought as a joke. ‘Simon.’ He took another sip, then reached over to top up his glass, his red face almost the same colour as the reserve Rioja he was quaffing. Hairy arms crept out of his navy T-shirt, Ace of Bass scrawled on the front, a cartoon Jaco Pastorius playing his fretless. Jesus, another Weather Report fan. Still, him and Dad might cancel each other out.
Abi was trapped on the far side of the kitchen table, behind her mother and a pile of house brochures. Obviously, the whole internet had stopped working since he’d last checked.
A stack of plates, smeared red with pasta sauce.
‘Simon, have you eaten?’
‘Not yet.’ Fenchurch stifled a yawn as he checked his watch. ‘Could still get a burrito.’
Abi’s mother took her time scraping her chair round. The blonde hair framing her face was about thirty years too young, looked trapped in the mid-nineties. She’d pushed her sunglasses up her head, as though it wasn’t November in London. ‘You’re still eating burritos, Simon?’ She hardened the Ts like she was a DJ.
‘Yes, Evelyn. Most days. The old acid reflux is under control.’ Fenchurch reached into the cupboard for a normal-sized glass and poured the last dribble of wine from the nice stuff Docherty gave him for his birthday. A lump thickened his throat. ‘So, what brings you to sunny London?’
‘Well, we’ve been going through all these brochures.’ Evelyn fanned herself with a thick pamphlet for a new development near Tunbridge Wells in Kent. She waved around the room. ‘With the amount you’ll make out of this place and your old flat, you really should invest in something in a nicer part of the c
ountry.’
‘What about Cornwall?’
Jim smiled at his son-in-law. ‘That’d be too close for comfort, Simon.’
‘You still sailing?’
‘Every day, if I can get out.’
Fenchurch drained his glass. Didn’t want to start another one, given he’d cleaned out the last of the drinking wine at the weekend and hadn’t been to Aldi since. Not the time to dip into the good stuff with Jim around. ‘What brings you up here?’
‘Abigail told me about the counselling session you had with our granddaughter.’ Evelyn moved round to the other side of the table and sat next to her daughter. ‘We drove straight here.’
Abi’s expression showed she regretted the phone call as much as her father did, no doubt missing an afternoon out on the sea, away from his wife.
‘It wasn’t that bad.’ Sod it. Fenchurch reached for the Châteauneuf-du-Pape and tore at the foil. ‘She needs time.’
‘That’s what I said.’ Abi looked like she’d been saying it all day and all evening.
‘No! We were just saying how important it is that we intervene.’ Evelyn reached over the table for her glass, almost spilling out of her low-cut top. ‘We should all go round and force her to speak to us. She’s our granddaughter and we need to remind her of that!’
‘Hear, hear.’ Jim raised his glass between thumb and forefinger and took another sip.
‘I don’t think it’s wise.’ Fenchurch stuck the corkscrew in deep, twisting and turning, pretending it was Troy Danton’s neck. He popped out the cork and hobbled over to the bin.
‘You okay, love?’ Abi was frowning at his leg.
‘Hurt my knee.’ Fenchurch tossed the cork in the bin. ‘I don’t think it’s—’
The toilet flushed in the hall and footsteps clattered through, someone tunelessly whistling a Weather Report riff. ‘I’d leave it a minute if I were you.’ Fenchurch’s old man wandered into the room, drying his hands on his trousers, and reached into the fridge for one of his son’s beers. ‘Jim, did I tell you me and Bert saw Weather Report in—’ He frowned. ‘Simon?’
