by Ed James
‘I don’t know him, but . . . Hannah talked about him. Guy was stalking her.’
‘You didn’t think to sort him out?’
‘I tried the whole chivalrous thing but she wouldn’t let me.’
‘You didn’t go behind her back?’
‘No.’ Sam was working at the other foot now, wincing. ‘Look, I want a lawyer.’
‘Son, your girlfriend’s lying on a slab out in Lewisham and I would’ve thought you’d want her killer brought to justice.’
Sam stared at him for a few seconds then looked away. ‘Listen, my old man was fitted up by the police. Lost his job because of it. It’s not personal, but . . . I just don’t trust cops.’
‘You can trust me.’
‘Can I?’ Sam’s shoulders deflated. ‘I’m sorry. I’m finding this hard.’
‘It’s not easy, son. What did Hannah say about Keane?’
‘Nothing. Guy was sleazing over her online. Watching her Facebook and Twitter pages. Sending messages.’
‘She never went to the police?’
‘Wasn’t that serious, far as I could tell. I can ask her mates, see if any of them heard anything?’
‘Do that. And give me a ring, okay?’ Fenchurch left him in the room.
PC Pimples stood up to attention. ‘Sir.’
‘Give him a lift home, okay?’
‘Sir.’ Pimples put his hat on, pulling the strap below his chin. ‘Oh, Control said DS Nelson is off duty.’
‘Is he, now?’
‘You’re Fenchurch, aren’t you?’
‘Why?’
‘DS Nelson said some old man was here to speak to that lad.’
‘You got a name?’
Pimples checked through some paperwork. ‘Yeah, it’s Ian— Oh. Fenchurch.’
Jesus Christ, Dad.
Fenchurch tried to cover his sigh with a smile. ‘Get DS Nelson to call me, please.’ He walked off, putting his phone to his ear. Nelson’s number rang and rang. He tried Reed instead.
‘Guv?’
‘Kay, seen Jon recently?’
‘Not for a while, why?’
‘No reason. Have a good evening.’
‘Guv, Lisa said they’re treating Keane as the chief suspect?’
‘That’s right. She still there?’
‘Nah, she knocked off about twenty minutes ago. She’s been stuck with Mulholland and Loftus.’
‘Bet she has. See you tomorrow.’ Fenchurch killed the call.
No choice but to go and see Docherty.
Fenchurch stood outside the ward. Felt like he’d been there for half an hour, trapped in indecision. He checked his watch. He had been.
Come on, you twat. Get in there. Just. Go.
Fenchurch pushed the door open and walked in. Six beds. The first three could’ve been body bags the state their occupants were in. Nearest, a young lad sat with his family, pipes and wires coming out of the poor bastard.
Docherty was nearest the window. Eyes open, at least. Headphones on, reading a book, coughing like a miner.
Can’t be too bad.
Fenchurch sidled up to the bed and rested against the chair, leaning forward. ‘There you are, boss.’
‘Simon?’ Docherty’s frown creased his forehead. ‘About bloody time.’
‘I got you this.’ Fenchurch passed him a bottle of Lucozade.
Docherty shot him a wink. ‘This isn’t going to be much use against terminal cancer.’
Fenchurch’s gut clenched. He collapsed into the chair. ‘There’s no hope?’
‘It’s just sugar and water. Unless you’ve stuck some single malt in it?’
Fenchurch felt like he’d fallen through the bottom of the chair and kept on falling, down and down. ‘They told you it’s terminal?’
‘Heathrow Terminal Five, but worse.’ Docherty twisted the lid on the bottle. Still had enough strength to do that, at least. ‘Get yourself a cup.’
Fenchurch picked up two, his hands shaking almost as much as Docherty’s as he poured. He handed one over and took a drink from the other, nowhere near quenching his thirst. ‘I’m sorry I’ve not been in.’
Docherty took a sip and grimaced. ‘Jesus, that’s vile.’ Then started coughing again. His lungs sounded ready to burst out through his mouth. ‘Heard you got a result in that girl’s death, though.’
‘How did you hear?’
‘Loftus.’ Docherty rubbed his fingers over his lips. ‘Sounds promising, though.’
‘We’ll see how it goes.’ Another sip of the orange gunk.
‘South London call him Lord Julian.’ Docherty grinned. ‘How you getting on with him?’
‘House on fire, boss.’ Fenchurch’s fingers tightened around the cup. ‘But I’m stuck inside and he’s not letting me out.’
‘Ah, good old Julian.’ Docherty snarled. Then started crying. Tears streaming down his cheeks. ‘I’m such an idiot.’
‘What’s up?’
Docherty held his gaze for a few seconds. ‘Si, I found a lump on a ball about a year ago. Wanted to go to the doctor’s but . . . something always came up. Work. Kids. Something. Anything. So I didn’t get round to going to the doctor’s.’ He pinched his nose. ‘Stage four. Stage fucking four.’
Fenchurch’s own balls had tightened, stuck up to his guts. He couldn’t speak. He tried but just croaked. Another splash of Lucozade and a sip. ‘Boss . . . I wish there was something I could do. Something I could say.’
‘Nobody can do anything for me. Six weeks, they said. Six. Weeks.’ Docherty rubbed his tears across his cheeks. ‘Enough about me. Si, you need to clean up your act. All the covering up I’ve done for you, all that anger, battering people like Kamal and those vermin that stole your daughter. Loftus won’t stand for it. Your next boss won’t stand for it, whoever that is.’
‘I’ve already had my nuts toasted.’ Fenchurch regretted the words as soon as he’d said them. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s fine, Si. Christ, I’m the idiot here. Not you.’ Docherty finished his cup. ‘So, this suspect?’
‘That case is the last thing you should be worrying about, boss.’
‘Shut up. I need something to take my mind off this.’
‘I shouldn’t—’
‘Doc!’ Fenchurch’s dad strolled over, grinning, tomato soup coating his moustache.
Docherty laughed. ‘How you doing, you old bastard?’
‘A lot better than you, by the sounds of things.’
‘Si, get your old boy a glass, eh? Finest ten-week-old Lucozade. Very peaty, though, Ian.’
‘Smashing.’ Dad did the honours himself, downing a glass in one go. ‘Either of you ever have this stuff with vodka? Lovely.’ He poured another and held it up in a toast. ‘Simon, I hear you’ve caught that girl’s killer?’
Docherty scowled at him. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Because I’m not convinced yet.’ Fenchurch leaned over to his dad. ‘You’ve clearly still got irons in the fire.’
‘Jon Nelson told me.’
‘Dad, you’re not a cop any more. You can’t be snooping around suspects and witnesses.’
‘I’m discreet.’
‘Hardly. Either way, you need to keep your distance.’
‘My lips are sealed, son.’
Fenchurch thundered up the staircase towards his old flat, the carpet getting a bit rough round the edges. He thumped on the door and waited. Bloody Nelson. Never give your friends anything.
The door opened to the security chain and Nelson peered out. ‘Guv?’
‘Open up, Jon.’
‘Can we do this tomorrow?’
Fenchurch laughed. ‘You really think I’d come out to the Isle of bloody Dogs on my way home to Islington just so we can do this tomorrow?’
‘Guv, I’m in the middle of something and—’
‘What have you been telling my old man?’
‘Just a second.’ The door clicked shut.
Cheeky bastard. Not even paying rent. Never do anyone a bloody favour eve
r again.
The door opened wide and Nelson stood to the side, wearing a silk dressing gown. ‘In you come.’
‘That’s a smashing blouse, Jon.’
‘Piss off.’ Nelson shut the door and led him through to the kitchen. Looked like Oliver Keane’s bomb had gone off in here. Foil curry containers on the counter, red and orange sauce dripping on the fake granite. Empty bottle of red. Plates everywhere. And all in one day. ‘Sorry about the mess.’
‘Glad you acknowledge it. I’m supposed to be having viewings, Jon.’
‘It’ll be clean, I swear.’ Nelson rested on the stool at the breakfast bar and forked out a lump of meat from the nearest container. ‘You had much interest?’
‘Jon, I’m not here about that.’ Fenchurch scanned around the room for any other damage. Seemed fine, but you never knew. ‘I visited Docherty.’
‘How is he?’
‘They’re talking weeks.’ A stab in the gut, like someone had stuck a knife in. ‘Weeks . . .’
‘You can talk to me, guv.’
‘Jon, you left Sam Edwards on his own. After I explicitly told you to stay with him.’
‘My shift ended.’
‘You didn’t call me.’
‘Really? “Please, sir, can I go home now? Please, sir, can I go to the toilet?” Eh?’
‘Don’t be stupid, Jon. I expect you to tell me what the state of play is before you piss off for the night. Act like an adult. But if you want to be treated like a child . . . ?’
Nelson broke off eye contact to focus on cold curry. ‘Sorry. You’re right. I should’ve phoned.’
‘You should’ve. And you definitely shouldn’t have let my old man anywhere near him.’
Nelson dropped the fork into the red mush.
‘Jon, he spoke to Sam Edwards. Why did you let him in?’
Nelson started stacking up the curry boxes in the sink. ‘I . . .’
‘He’s not an officer any more. Not since . . . that shit in June. He might not have killed Blunden, but he let himself get into the state where they could frame him.’
‘Then you need to keep him under control, guv.’
‘If you let him speak to suspects, then what’s the bloody point in me warning him?’ Fenchurch let the question rattle around the room.
Nelson turned on the tap and water blasted the curry trays.
‘Why was he asking?’
‘He’s got it in his head that this is connected to Chloe’s disappearance and—’
‘Oh, Jesus.’ Fenchurch had to prop himself up on the breakfast bar. ‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously.’
‘How did he find out about this?’
‘Not me, guv.’ Nelson was blushing. ‘He’s got contacts. Hundreds. Could be any one of them.’
Fenchurch clicked his tongue a few times. ‘I suspect Sam’ll be home by now. Leave dealing with my old man to me, okay?’
‘Guv.’ Nelson was scrubbing at the top tray, really working it. How much curry did one man need? He had to shout over the white noise. ‘Only problem is, DI Mulholland told me to get evidence against Oliver Keane?’
‘That’s right.’
‘We’re going after a dead man?’
Fenchurch sat on the stool, the energy seeping out of him. ‘It all fits. He had her laptop. Guy was making a bomb. He wanted to impress Hannah. Threw thousands at her for that computer stripping shit.’
‘And the guy was worth millions, wasn’t he?’
‘At least a hundred.’
Nelson stopped with the dishes. ‘I’m struggling to see why he’d kill her.’
‘That’s what Loftus wants Mulholland and me to focus on now. Close it all off.’
‘Guv, if she’s wrong, the real killer’s still out there. Could strike again.’
Fenchurch couldn’t help but look out of the French doors to the cold outside. Couldn’t help but think of Chloe, lying asleep in her room in halls when the killer breaks in during the night and—
Click.
‘Did you hear that?’ Fenchurch knew every sound in his flat off by heart. Every door. The electricity meter. Every click of laminate. The fridge hum. That was the front door opening. Someone was in the flat. Someone trying to kill Fenchurch. Or someone who knew Nelson was in here on his own.
Fenchurch edged through the kitchen, taking it slow.
Nelson was behind him. ‘Guv, I didn’t hear anything.’
Out into the hall and Fenchurch caught the flat door shutting. He grabbed it before it hit the lock, pulled it, then flew out into the corridor.
Lisa Bridge spun round. ‘Shit!’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Nelson pushed the door shut and put an arm around Bridge. Neither of them could even look at Fenchurch. ‘Guv, I—’
‘Jon, hold that thought.’ Fenchurch caught Bridge’s attention. ‘Lisa, I’ll see you at the briefing. Eight sharp, okay?’
‘Sir.’ She pecked Nelson on the cheek and left them to it.
‘Guv, I don’t know what to say.’
‘You could start with the truth.’ Fenchurch got in Nelson’s face, even though he was a few inches taller. ‘Then you can move on to apologising for lying to me, Jon. This is why Kate kicked you out, isn’t it?’
‘Sorry.’ Nelson collapsed against the door and sighed, ready to confide in someone. ‘Wasn’t just text messages. We’d been seeing each other for a few months. One Friday, Kate was supposed to be at her sister’s for the whole weekend. I bumped into Lisa in the pub after work. Went for dinner and . . . Well, one thing led to another and, instead of going to her place, we went to mine.’ His head hung low. ‘And Kate caught us.’
‘I hate people lying to me.’ Fenchurch bared his teeth, some animal instinct taking over. ‘You’re not a management consultant any more. Lying’s about ninety per cent of the game with that lot. You’re a cop, Jon. You’ve got to give evidence in court. People have to know you’re telling the truth.’ He stabbed a finger into his own sternum. ‘I need to.’
‘This is the only time I’ve not been straight with you. Ever.’
‘You expect me to believe that?’
‘Have you any reason not to?’
‘Jon, you decided to screw a direct report in your own bed.’ Fenchurch prodded Nelson’s chest through the silk. ‘Not only are you an idiot, but it’s seriously unprofessional.’
‘Guv, I’m sorry, but . . . we’ve got something.’ Nelson’s head hung low again. ‘I’ll switch her back to Kay tomorrow.’
‘And what about your wife, Jon? Ten years down the tubes for a tumble with her?’
‘It’s my life, guv.’ Steel glinted in Nelson’s eyes. Could see he believed he was in love with Bridge. ‘Besides, Kate and I don’t have any kids.’
‘You want kids with Lisa?’
Nelson shrugged.
‘Oh, Jesus H. Christ.’ Fenchurch rubbed his palms into his eye sockets. ‘Make sure she gets on with her work. I need her to focus on getting evidence off those laptops, okay?’
‘Guv.’
‘And no more leaking shit to my old man.’
Nelson scratched his head. ‘Old Bert who worked with your dad at the Archive?’ He rubbed at his nose and thumbed at the door. ‘He’s Lisa’s uncle.’
‘Why doesn’t anybody tell me anything about my own bloody case?’
‘She had to go over there, asking for some stuff on Keane, as per your orders. Then, well. Bert and your old man, they pressed and pressed, then started taking over.’
‘You don’t let them in, Jon, okay? Those pair . . . Never let them anywhere near a case. Right?’
‘Message received, guv.’
What a shambles. Where to go from here?
Fenchurch’s phone chimed out a reminder. ‘Hannah candlelit vigil.’ He grabbed Nelson’s arm. ‘Jon, get dressed. You’re coming with me.’
‘Guv, seriously, what’s the point in this?’ Nelson walked alongside Fenchurch toward Jaines Tower.
Singing came from t
he quad, hard to make it out. They turned the corner and the music was clearer. Someone singing ‘There Is a Light That Never Goes Out’ by The Smiths.
Gordon McLaren stood on a makeshift stage, wearing lime dungarees and a pink top, strumming an acoustic guitar, veins in his neck straining, his voice raw with emotion as the crowd sang along. They continued chanting the refrain as he passed the guitar to a male student.
‘This is an Ed Sheeran song that Hannah loved.’
Fenchurch looked for faces he recognised. Victoria Summerton was with a group of girls singing along. Uttley and some of his support staff were over at the entrance to Jaines Tower, arms folded, solemn and officious.
As the chords jangled out, McLaren walked away, wrapping his arm round a woman. Tall and slender, wearing jeans and a shirt, her wedding ring matching McLaren’s. Two kids swarmed around their parents’ legs. McLaren hefted his daughter up into his arms and pinched her cheek. His son hugged him tight.
Fenchurch set off towards him, but his phone blared out ‘Thank You’ by Led Zeppelin. Abi’s personal ringtone. His heart skipped a beat. Is the baby okay? ‘You okay, love?’
‘Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?’
Fenchurch shooed Nelson away. ‘What’s up?’
‘Wondering where you are, Simon. Jesus, is that Ed Sheeran?’
‘It’s not him. I’m at Hannah Nunn’s vigil.’ Fenchurch locked eyes with Nelson. ‘No accounting for taste.’
‘Okay. My parents are insisting on taking us out for dinner. We’re meeting your father in Shoreditch.’
‘I’ll be twenty minutes. Text me the address.’ Fenchurch killed the call. ‘Jon, can you stay and see if anyone turns up that we don’t think should have.’
‘Guv, come on—’
‘Jon, no messing about, okay? You owe me.’
‘Guv.’
Fenchurch parked on the street, already feeling dread. Not at seeing his father or Abi’s parents. Well, not completely.
The address in Abi’s text, the restaurant . . . It was where the Alicorn used to be. A lap-dancing bar Fenchurch shut down at Christmas. Typical London, blink and half the city changes. The place used to be black, even the windows, but they’d opened out all the painted-shut windows. And named it Noir.
Abi was in the window, smiling politely at her parents opposite her. Fenchurch walked through the front door and nodded at the maître d’ as he wandered over to the table.
