by Ed James
‘So he’s a terror suspect?’
Grove nodded slowly. ‘What’s your interest?’
‘Our victim was a student, worked as a camgirl. She received a lot of messages from Keane. Sexual, businesslike, if you follow me. But there’s also some stuff that’d make your hair stand up on end, but for a different reason.’
Grove waved at Reed’s quiff. ‘As opposed to a can of hairspray each morning?’
‘It’s only half and it’s organic.’ Reed smoothed down the page in her notebook. ‘So, what can you tell us about him?’
‘Precious little, I’m afraid.’
Reed held out her hands. ‘Michelle, we’ve driven over from Leman Street at rush hour. You could’ve said “no, piss off” over the phone.’
‘It’s not that . . .’ Grove’s glower faded. ‘I would if I could. He’s a terror suspect. That’s pretty much all I can tell you.’
‘Come on, Michelle . . .’
‘Seriously, Kay. Terror trumps murder every time. Now, how about you tell me what you’ve got, then we’ll see where we stand. Okay?’
Fenchurch drummed his fingers on the table. ‘I haven’t played “you show me yours, I’ll show you mine” since primary school. But, anyway, you first.’
‘I’ll tell you what I can share.’ Grove settled on her seat and unbuttoned her jacket, letting it hang loose. ‘Okay, so Keane grew up in London, went to Cambridge, then to the States for his PhD. Think he went to Stanford. But anyway, he got a gig in Silicon Valley working for Google. Then a few years running a start-up. Fast forward to now and he’s returned to London, having sold up.’
Reed was following it. ‘He didn’t do an IPO?’
‘Sold the start-up.’ Grove shook her head. ‘Can’t remember who to, but it was a decent amount. Saved all the hassle and he didn’t have to stay on over there.’
‘What’s an IPO?’
‘Initial Public Offering.’ Reed smiled at Fenchurch. ‘The owners sell a big chunk of the company to the stock market. It’s how they’re all billionaires.’
‘How much did Keane make?’
‘He’s not in the three-comma club.’ Grove winked at him. ‘I mean, he’s not a billionaire. But I think it’s a hundred million or so. Never needs to work again unless he’s very stupid. He’s semi-retired now, doing a second degree. Mature student at Southwark, studying Sociology and Social Anthropology. Something that interests him rather than will get him a good job.’
‘So why are Special Branch investigating him?’
‘I told you, Fenchurch, this can’t be quid pro quo.’
‘I could’ve got that from Wikipedia.’
‘And it would’ve saved you a trip across London at rush hour.’
‘Come on, none of that’s remotely suspicious. You lot don’t keep tabs on someone because they’re a mature student.’
Reed’s hand flashed up, telling Fenchurch to back off. ‘Michelle, was Keane planning something?’
‘What?’
‘Some of the emails he sent the victim, they were terror-related. Said he was going to change the world for white people.’
‘Bloody hell.’
Reed got to her feet. ‘Guv, time to head back to Leman Street.’
‘Wait.’ Grove sat forward, bracing against the table edge like there was an earthquake. ‘The reason he’s on our radar is because he posted a manifesto on his website a few months back. It’s fairly eye-watering, to say the least. So right-wing it’s practically left again. He was talking about absolute white rule in this country. Deportations, work camps. Then he wanted to reclaim the Empire and populate it with white British people.’
Fenchurch’s gut tightened. Acid started spitting. ‘How is this guy not in prison?’
‘Because . . .’ Grove settled back in her chair, gripping the arms. She craned her neck to look out into the corridor. ‘I didn’t tell you this, but we think he’s connected to the English Defence League and its splinter groups. Also, our American cousins think he has ties to some militias from his time over there. Silicon Valley is in northern California. Ish. East and you’re into Nevada. North and you’re in Oregon. Bandit country. White supremacists, biker gangs, meth labs. Everything.’
‘What have you done about him?’
‘We’ve been monitoring him.’
‘Surveillance?’
‘Of a sort.’
‘What about the early hours of Monday morning. Between three and seven.’
‘I know for a fact that we didn’t have anyone on him then.’ Grove held up a finger. ‘Now, you show me yours.’
Fenchurch reached into his jacket pocket and got out an email. Slid it over the table to Reed, who passed it along. ‘What do you make of this?’
‘If this is true, I better change my knickers.’ Grove flipped it over and kept on reading. ‘We know he’s planning something, but we think he could just be all mouth and no trousers.’ She put the printout on the desk. ‘That’s why we haven’t moved on him yet.’
Reed scowled. ‘Even after the Paris and Nice attacks?’
‘This is a different kettle of fish to Islamic terror.’ Grove traced her finger along the folds in the paper. ‘Highly organised, hierarchical. Not just a load of nutters exploiting angry kids, or some angry kid self-radicalising and blowing himself up. Someone like Oliver Keane isn’t going to kill himself for seventy virgins, is he?’ She tapped the printout. ‘But, anyway, I can’t have you going in there and jeopardising our operation.’
‘Wouldn’t let us in, anyway.’
Grove pinched her nose. ‘Kay, tell me you’re joking?’
‘Wish I was. Quite some place he’s got.’
‘Those flats on Mansell Street got me this gig. Previous DI dropped a bollock during a raid there in March. Now he’s managing traffic on the Westway.’ Grove’s forehead knitted tighter. ‘One of Keane’s manifesto points is “forced gentrification of ethnic areas”. He bought that whole estate off Tower Hamlets Council to prove what he can do.’
‘Michelle.’ Reed gave her a broad smile. ‘We need to speak to him.’
Grove got up and stood in the doorway. Actually blocked them from leaving. ‘You’re not going in there.’
Fenchurch walked over, standing face-to-face with Grove. ‘This isn’t related to hate crimes or American militias. He’s a murder suspect, cyber-stalking our victim, pressing her to meet up and have sex. Nothing to do with terror.’ He left her a gap, but she didn’t fill it. ‘So, we’re going to speak to him.’
‘You’ve got nothing.’
Fenchurch reached into his pocket and got out a screenshot of the shadowy figure entering Hannah’s room. ‘This was captured just before the murder.’ He held it out, waiting for her to take it. ‘You’ll agree that it fits Keane’s description, yeah? And you can’t account for his whereabouts at the time, meaning you’re blocking access to a suspect.’
‘Look, guys, I know where you’re coming from. Believe me.’ Grove returned the sheet. ‘But this is a monitoring job. That’s an order from the Commissioner. If you disagree, you need to escalate.’ She checked the emails again. ‘And if you want to speak to him, you really need better evidence than this.’
Fenchurch was all out of ideas.
Reed piped up. ‘Michelle, does the smell of dead fish mean anything to you?’
‘What?’ Grove stepped back towards her chair. ‘Oh, shit. HMTD.’
‘HM-what?’
‘Hexamethylene Triperoxide Diamine.’ Grove ran a hand through her hair, sending it sticking skywards. ‘It’s a home-made explosive. Can stink of fish.’
‘His house was reeking of it.’
Grove slumped down in her chair. ‘Kay, you’re making this shit up, aren’t you?’
‘Michelle, I’ve known you for years. We went through Hendon together. I wouldn’t lie about this.’
‘Your guv’nor would, though.’ Grove squeezed her knuckles into her eye sockets. ‘You can’t speak to him. I’m sorry.’
&nbs
p; ‘Come on, if Keane killed Hannah, that gives you leverage to find out what he knows. Plea deals. You name it.’
‘Kay, that’s a big if. And you know how much of a shitshow the Crown Prosecution Service are in thanks to what happened in June.’
Fenchurch grimaced. ‘Don’t need to mention that to me.’
Grove hauled herself to her feet. ‘I’m not promising anything, but let me run this up the flagpole. Okay?’
‘She’s bloody piece of work.’ Fenchurch sat in the window of the Pret a Manger on Mansell Street, drinking coffee from a paper cup. The sort of posh tar that Nelson would drink. Nah, Pret wasn’t hip enough for him. ‘So you went to Hendon with her?’
‘For my sins.’ Reed was halfway through a pack of mango fingers. Hadn’t even squeezed out the lime. ‘She had her son between my two.’
‘Son? Thought she was gay.’
‘She is.’ Reed smiled at him as she chewed. ‘One of her colleagues provided the, uh, sperm for her and Ashley.’
‘Sam Edwards told me he’s a donor.’
Reed put the lid back on her fruit. ‘Is there no way that boy won’t abuse his body for money?’
‘Clearly not.’ Fenchurch scanned down the street. ‘Unless it’s a front for his cuckold services.’
The builders were still at it at this hour, turning old hell flats into yuppie townhouses. Made the place seem different when some white supremacist was using it to prove his mad-bastard theories.
Fenchurch pointed at the crew. ‘Must be paying them a pretty penny to still be working.’
‘Notice how half are black? Bet the others are Polish, too.’ Reed took a sip of tea. ‘Couldn’t make this shit up, could you?’
His phone blared out. Nelson. ‘Guv, I’m still at the hospital.’
‘Glad to hear it, Jon.’
‘I’ve taken Sam’s statement, not sure what else I can do.’
‘Are they letting him go?’
‘Still not had his X-ray.’
‘Keep on him, Jon. I don’t trust him.’
‘Guv, I’m not happy about this. I think we’re wasting our time with him.’
‘Has he said something that gives you that opinion?’
‘No, it’s . . .’ Nelson’s sigh hissed down the line. ‘Guv, he’s a kid. If he killed her, there’d be some signs of him doing it. We’ve got nothing.’
‘He was in a screaming match with her outside her room. A few hours later, she’s dead. And he can’t account for his movements at the time of death, can he?’
‘Says he was asleep. We’ve checked his housemates, but nobody can confirm or deny it.’
‘Keep him there, then we’ll talk about it later, okay?’
‘Guv, I’m a Detective Sergeant. You really want me to babysit a suspect?’
‘I ask you because I trust you, Jon.’ Fenchurch killed the call with a sigh. He sipped his coffee, getting too cold to drink now. ‘Has he got a point? Should a DS be doing that?’
‘I wouldn’t be happy.’ Reed stuffed her mango tub in the bin. ‘And I’m not chasing the career ladder like he is.’
Fenchurch took another drink of coffee. Couldn’t get the memory of Nelson’s last appraisal out of his head. Him going on and on about getting a promotion. ‘He’s gone all quiet on that front.’
‘That’s cos Mulholland’s coaching him.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve seen them in the canteen, guv.’
‘Jesus Christ.’
‘Everyone’s getting promoted but us.’ Reed laughed. ‘Am I too close to you?’
‘What, you think I’ve got a shit vortex around me or something?’
‘You’re at the plughole, guv. And you’ve not got Docherty to protect you any more.’
‘You trying to cheer me up?’ Fenchurch sat back and finished his coffee. Definitely too cold to drink. ‘I can’t stop thinking about Docherty. The guy protected me through the hardest part of my life, now he’s . . . And I can’t even bring myself to visit him in hospital, Kay. What’s wrong with me?’
‘It’s natural, guv. You’ll see him when you’re ready—’
‘Very cosy.’ Grove stood in the doorway, dressed in body armour. An armed officer next to her, similarly attired, drawing as many glances from the rest of the punters in there as he was giving to Reed. Worse than Younis, earlier.
‘Okay, so my bosses have reviewed the evidence and, assuming you’re on the level about this fish smell, they’ve approved a raid. We bring him to your station, interview him about the murder, then if there’s something there, we’ll see where we take it from there.’
‘Thanks, Michelle.’
Grove gave a tight nod, as though wearing the armour turned her into a soldier. ‘Look lively.’
Fenchurch dumped his cup in the bin and followed Grove and Reed out onto Mansell Street.
A squad huddled outside the Sainsbury’s, rifles hanging from their shoulders, gripping the handles, waiting for some direction. Grove headed over and chatted to them. Then it was go.
Two armed officers sprinted up the path towards Keane’s house and pushed themselves flat against the wall. A third joined, lugging an Enforcer battering ram.
Fenchurch stayed back with Reed, waiting.
His Airwave rasped. ‘This is Serial Bravo. Rear exit secured.’
The officer by the door spoke into his sleeve. ‘Serial Alpha. Kitchen entrance secured.’
Grove nodded at them. ‘Let’s go!’
By the time Fenchurch and Reed were at the door, the two officers had the glass door off the rails and were stomping into Keane’s flat. ‘Kitchen, clear.’
Grove joined them, then set off into a hallway. Fenchurch followed, gripping his baton tight. Hard to feel it was adequate when they were all wandering round with guns.
The hallway was a glass-roofed atrium, probably would’ve been a garden between two blocks before the renovation. A staircase climbed up to the higher floors.
A pair of officers bustled past them, taking a door on the right. Grove took one ahead of them.
‘Lounge clear.’
‘Bathroom clear.’
Grove pointed up the staircase. ‘Thwaite, you go first.’
‘Ma’am.’ The officer from the Pret took his time idling up. Grove followed, repeating the manoeuvre. Fenchurch’s baton was sweaty in his grip. Grove and Thwaite went over to the first of three doors.
‘Bedroom, clear.’
They came back out and Grove pointed at a second door. Thwaite opened it slowly, then raised a finger in warning. ‘Contact.’ He waited until Grove was in position, then stepped inside.
Fenchurch followed Grove, Reed close behind him.
Keane sat by a window framing the City skyline, working at a laptop, bobbing his head in time to a beat blasting out of huge speakers. He wore a plain black polo neck and bleached jeans. He jerked round, eyes wide, then raised his hands. ‘I am not speaking to you. I am maintaining my silence.’ His phone lay on the desk, flashing.
Thwaite swivelled round the room until he was behind Keane. Grove got in next to him. Another two armed officers piled in, squeezing Fenchurch and Reed to the sides.
‘I request legal advice! I am maintaining my silence!’
Grove frowned at Fenchurch through her mask, then raised her pistol to point at Keane’s head. ‘On your knees!’
‘I request legal advice!’ Keane shot to his feet, looking round the room. Spent a few seconds checking out Thwaite.
Someone muttered, ‘Shut up, gimp.’
That’s the last thing we bloody need. His phone picking up that sort of shit.
Fenchurch nudged past an armed officer and stepped over to Keane. He locked eyes with Thwaite, trying to figure out if he was the culprit. Then he focused on Keane. ‘We know about the HMTD.’
‘What?’ Keane stepped forward, his forehead twitching. ‘HMTD?’
‘You’re making a bomb in here.’ Fenchurch glanced at Grove. ‘We smelled it earlier.’
&nbs
p; ‘You’ve got nothing on me.’ Keane twisted so he was side on to them. Then he lurched back to the desk.
A gunshot blasted round the room, white noise whistling in Fenchurch’s ear.
Keane tumbled over. Landed hard. A knife toppled to the floor, digging into the wooden boards.
Fenchurch raced over to Keane. Gargling, face down, a red pool spreading out across the floorboards, dripping between the cracks. Fenchurch flipped him over. A bullet wound dug into his chest, right in the heart.
Dead.
Grove grabbed Thwaite and pushed him against the wall. Fenchurch couldn’t make out a word she said.
Chapter Twenty
Oliver Keane lay on the floor, his pale jeans mostly red now.
Fenchurch was leaning against the wall. A police shooting. On Fenchurch’s watch. Grove’s watch, really, but . . . Shit.
‘You okay, guv?’ Reed was by the door, her phone pressed against her chest.
‘Need a hearing test, but otherwise I’m fine. You?’
‘I’ve got to get back to the Incident Room.’
‘I’ll take it from here.’
‘Guv.’ She left him to his thoughts.
A gang of CSIs arrived and started doing their thing. A house this big could take weeks to process. On top of the work that was already overdue on Hannah’s room.
Disaster.
Keane had lunged for the knife, though. If Thwaite hadn’t shot him, maybe Fenchurch would be the one going to Lewisham in a body bag.
But that was the end of the line with Keane. Whatever he meant by the messages to Hannah had died with him. Any plots or plans were gone. Any links to extremist groups.
Unless his computers could give up any of his secrets. At least ten machines in the room, all humming. Laptops and desktops. Decent kit, too.
The one Keane had been working on was still unlocked. Fenchurch slid a glass paperweight onto the spacebar to stop it locking.
Grove’s breath hissed out slowly. ‘Well.’
‘I’m sorry, Michelle. This is on me.’
‘My operation, Simon. My mistake.’ Grove raised her eyebrows. ‘Why did he have to shoot?’
‘Might’ve saved your life or mine, Michelle. We were closest.’
She took one glimpse at the blood pool and gave her own entry to the world’s biggest sigh contest. ‘Did you hear someone say “gimp”?’
