by Ed James
‘Just tell me this guy’s name.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
The Golden Lane Estate swamped Fenchurch, a huge chunk of the Barbican that hadn’t succumbed to gentrification, a feral housing development just spitting distance from the City and Shoreditch. A couple of kids glared at him for having the temerity to park on their patch. Better put out the ‘ON POLICE BUSINESS’ sign.
He got out of his car and powered across the road. ‘Kashmir’ yanked him from his reverie. He fished out his phone. Zenna Abercrombie added another to her five missed calls.
Fenchurch pocketed the mobile and bumped between the kids, getting a high-pitched ‘Oy’ in response. He entered the external stairwell and climbed. Three storeys of concrete and misery, someone’s idea of social housing. He strolled along the corridor. At the back, bare slabs surrounding a token tree were dusted with smashed lager bottles.
Number eighteen’s door was battered and broken, the paint peeling off, ‘CONNOLLY’ handwritten above the one and the eight, hanging loose.
Fenchurch knocked and stepped back.
No answer.
Another knock and the neighbouring door opened. A black woman who looked to be in her sixties looked out. ‘Can I help you, boy?’ Thick Jamaican accent, like she was still on the island.
Fenchurch held his warrant card close enough for her to inspect. ‘DI Simon Fenchurch. I’m looking for a Daniel Connolly.’
‘Who?’
He thumbed at the door. ‘Your neighbour?’
‘He not in. I never spoke to him but I hear him. All the time. Not been back today, boy.’
‘Okay, thanks.’ One last look inside the door window and Fenchurch marched off towards the stairwell, getting his mobile out and dialling. ‘Kay, it’s Simon. How’s it going?’
‘Shit.’ From the grinding and shouting in the background it sounded like Reed was in a mine somewhere. ‘I’m still at Frank’s Cabs. Mulholland’s using this as an opportunity to take most of Blunden’s fleet apart.’
‘Good luck with that.’ Fenchurch danced down the stairs, his knee clicking with each step. ‘Got a hold of the Merc yet?’
‘Not that I’ve heard, guv. How you doing?’
‘Coping. Just.’ Fenchurch stopped at the bottom of the stairs. The kids were still scoping out his motor. He whistled and they cleared off, hands deep in pockets. ‘Wonder if you could do me a favour?’
‘Depends on what it is.’
‘I need you to get a lookout for one Daniel Connolly.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘At this point, it’s better you don’t know.’
‘Jesus, Simon.’ Temple sat back in the meeting-room chair and brushed a hand through his hair. ‘Have you told anyone about this?’
‘Just Kay.’ Fenchurch was lurking by the door, keeping an ear out for passing feet. Could recognise Docherty’s gait a mile off in about five types of shoes. Always like he was marching across a glen to war with a rival clan. ‘I doubt they’ll believe me.’
‘All that shit I said back at the crime scene? Forget it.’ Temple smoothed down his trouser legs. ‘It was an act for Docherty and the others there. I meant it when I said I’m your guardian angel.’
‘Feels like we could do this another time.’ Click, clack in the corridor. Not Docherty. ‘This isn’t—’
‘Simon, I want to help, okay? It just needs to be subtle.’
‘I can do subtle.’
‘Believe that when I see it.’ Temple sat back in his seat and crossed one leg over the other. ‘You think this Connolly guy will close the gap in your timeline?’
Fenchurch nodded slowly. ‘I hope so.’
‘Leave it with me.’ Temple jotted something in his notebook. ‘I’ll raise it with DI Mulholland.’
‘She’s still out at Lewisham?’
‘At the PM, yeah. They kicked me out after Blunden’s. The IPCC have made it abundantly clear that the Brocklehurst–Shelvey case is no longer part of my remit.’
The familiar burn hit Fenchurch’s gut. ‘For my sanity, was it just drink in Dad’s system?’
‘I haven’t seen the blood toxicology yet, but I did have a word on the QT with the duty doctor.’ Temple sighed. ‘Just booze. No drugs.’
And the scale tips back . . .
Fenchurch drummed his fingers on the door. ‘Look, given Mulholland’s away, is there any chance I can speak to my old man?’
‘You’re pushing it, Simon. What happened to subtle?’
‘I just need to know what happened between Liam leaving Dad’s flat and me turning up in Mile End.’ Fenchurch tried to get some moisture back into his tongue. ‘I don’t care if it helps with prosecuting him. Right now, I just need closure.’
Temple snapped his notebook shut and got up. ‘Let’s see what we can do.’
‘Give me a call, yeah?’ Temple sloped off down the corridor away from the Custody Suite.
Martin took yet another look back towards the front desk, then at Fenchurch. He swallowed hard, shaking his head. ‘This is a favour, okay?’ His voice was a hiss. ‘They’re still ramming a red-hot poker up my hoop every five minutes as it is.’
‘I appreciate it.’ Fenchurch locked eyes with him. ‘I really do.’
Martin raised up his pile of keys and opened the lock. ‘Here you go.’
Dad lay on the bed, barely looking up. Bleary-eyed and stinking like a tramp. ‘Simon? What— Where am I?’
‘You’re in Leman Street, Dad.’
‘Piss off.’ Dad rolled to the side and toppled over, landing on the concrete floor with a crunch.
‘Shit!’ Fenchurch darted over and crouched next to him. ‘Is your hip okay?’
‘Ah, you bastard.’ Dad hauled himself up, wincing at the pain. ‘I’ll live. What’s going on? Why are you here?’
‘Dad, I—’
In the corridor, Martin’s hands were in the air, waving away. ‘Shit! Get out!’
Fenchurch leaned closer. ‘Dad, I need to speak to Daniel Connolly.’
Dad grimaced. ‘Don’t talk to me about him.’
‘What did he tell you?’
Dad stared at him with mad eyes. ‘He took Chloe!’
‘Who did? Connolly?’
‘No, Flick Knife! Blunden took her, son!’
‘Simon!’ Mulholland stormed into the cell and pulled Fenchurch away. ‘What the hell are you doing in here?’
‘Speaking to my father!’
‘Only under my supervision.’ She pointed a finger at Martin. ‘Did you know about this?’
‘Ma’am, he’s an Inspector. I couldn’t—’
‘You should’ve called me.’ She hauled Fenchurch out into the corridor. ‘Listen to me, Simon, this behaviour has to stop. Your father’s under investigation for murder. You need to back off.’
‘Have you found Daniel Connolly yet?’
‘Daniel who?’
‘Connolly. He’s . . .’ Fenchurch shrugged off her grip. ‘You need to speak to him. He was with Dad before he—’
‘Right. Okay.’ Mulholland gripped his arm by the elbow. ‘Alan Docherty’s searching for you. Do I need to get someone to escort you upstairs?’
Fenchurch stormed into Docherty’s office and slammed the door behind him. ‘Boss.’
‘Here he is.’ Docherty picked up a Scotland football mug, navy blue with a yellow lion rampant, and slurped, like he was trying to be as irritating as possible. ‘Dawn just called me. What are you playing at?’
Fenchurch collapsed into a chair. Felt like he’d fallen through it. ‘Boss, I—’
‘You need to get out of here, you daft bastard.’ Docherty set the mug down, his eyebrows shrouding his eyes. ‘And the last thing you should be doing is sneaking around behind anyone’s back, you arsehead.’
Fenchurch ran his hand over his face. ‘My old man’s being framed, boss.’
‘I worked for and with your old boy for years.’ Docherty hunched his shoulders. ‘I know him. But, Simon, you saw it with your own
eyes. Him sitting there with that knife. He’s as guilty as Gary Glitter in an orphanage.’
Fenchurch sprang to his feet, fists clenched. ‘Come on, boss. You need to—’
‘Get out of here.’ Docherty pointed at the door. ‘Now. No second chances this time. As of Monday, you’re out in Middlesex.’
Fenchurch stomped down the corridor, hands thrust deep into his pockets. Past open meeting-room doors. Past the Incident Room, buzzing at this time, the new shift swelling the numbers and giving a bit more enthusiasm for the task at hand.
Bloody Docherty.
Bloody Mulholland.
Middlesex? Bloody hell.
Fenchurch opened the stair door and clattered down the steps, the sound of his feet ricocheting round the tight space like fireworks.
Destroying that bottle of whisky can’t have been the only option Dad had when he found out—
Fenchurch slipped on the stairs, stumbling a few steps. He caught hold of the handrail and pulled himself up. Chest heaving, a jolt of adrenaline firing through his veins.
Bloody hell.
He sat on the step, sucking in air, trying to calm his breathing. A downstairs door opened.
Think it through, slowly. Connolly told Dad what happened to Chloe, then he got blind drunk and killed Blunden.
How did he get to Mile End? It was about half an hour’s walk up from Dad’s flat in Limehouse, maybe ten minutes’ drive if you went round the houses. Dad’s driving was terrible at the best of times, and with a half-bottle of whisky in his guts?
No chance.
He definitely had help getting there.
His car was gone, meaning he probably didn’t get a cab up there. The amount of whisky in his system meant he couldn’t have driven up there without getting pulled over.
Meaning Daniel Connolly. And where the—
‘Guv?’ Reed was climbing the stairs, frowning at him over the banister. ‘You frightened the life out of me.’
‘Kay.’ Fenchurch hauled himself to his feet and slouched past her. ‘I’ll see you later.’
She grabbed his wrist, her fingers digging deep. ‘Not so fast. You okay, guv?’
‘Not really, Kay.’ Fenchurch stepped back from her, the buzz from the trip still surging through his system. ‘Docherty’s . . .’ He huffed out and shook her off. ‘You got anything from the taxi office?’
‘If we did, I can’t tell you.’
Fenchurch winked at her, but he couldn’t put much effort in. ‘So can you tell me?’
‘Very good. I can’t tell you if there wasn’t anything, either. Still nothing on your APB.’ She glanced upstairs at an opening door, footsteps thundering up, away from them. ‘Found your old man’s motor three streets away.’
‘Oh shit.’
Fenchurch’s phone blasted out ‘Kashmir’. Unknown caller. Could be anyone. His heart thudded again. ‘Better take this.’ He stabbed the call button and sloped back, though Reed still had her eyes on him. ‘Fenchurch.’
‘We told you to stop. You didn’t.’ The same robotic voice, hissing and distorted. ‘Who’s next, Simon?’ Click, and it was gone.
Fenchurch swallowed as he turned away from Reed. ‘Okay, well, I’ll . . . I’ll see you there.’
‘Quit it with the act, guv.’ Reed snatched his mobile from his hands. ‘Was that another call?’
Fenchurch couldn’t look at her. ‘They said someone’s next.’
‘You?’
‘Shit, not me.’ Fenchurch grabbed the phone from her and dialled. He listened to the ringing tone, then the voicemail kicked in.
‘We’re sorry but . . .’ Click. ‘Abi Fenchurch.’ Click. ‘. . . isn’t available to take your call right now. Please—’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Same story as last time, Si.’ Clooney’s voice was almost drowned out by the roar of the engine as Fenchurch pulled off the Westway and descended the ramp. ‘Call was made in the Isle of Dogs this time. Another burner — on, then switched off after the call. Suspect this one’s in the Thames as well.’
Fenchurch took a quick right, then a left. ‘So there’s nothing at all?’
‘Just that your guy likes east London.’
‘Cheers, Mick.’ Fenchurch killed the call and hit dial again as he roared over cobbles, the whole car rattling.
‘We’re sorry but . . .’ Click. ‘Abi Fenchurch.’ Click. ‘. . . isn’t—’
He stabbed the screen and pressed another button, just before a sharp right chicane by a modern church.
‘Simon?’ Temple’s voice dominated the car, even drowning out the rattle from the cobbles. ‘What’s up?’
‘Where are you?’
‘At Leman Street. Mulholland’s asked me to supervise the prosecution of your father. I told her I can’t, but—’
‘Have you heard from Abi?’
‘Abi? Not since last night. Why?’
‘Get her to call me if you hear from her, okay?’ Fenchurch killed the call and screeched to a halt, tearing off his seat belt as he tugged at the door. He grabbed his keys and bolted out of the double-parked car, rushing in front of a silver Škoda as it powered towards him.
Too close . . .
He sprinted up the path and hammered on the door, panting already. ‘Rosie!’ He thumped on her door again, the din echoing down the street.
The door slid open and Rosie stood there, her arms folded across her chest, glowering at him. Bacon smells accompanied her. ‘Simon, have you got him off?’
‘What? No. Is Ab—’
‘What’s happened? Is he—’ She put a hand to her mouth.
‘Where’s Abi?’ Fenchurch got a slapped arm for his troubles.
‘You said you were going to—’ Rosie’s accent slipped right back from Maida Vale to Limehouse. ‘Oh my god, he did it. He killed him!’
‘Rosie, listen to me. I’ve just not got him off yet, okay?’ Fenchurch danced around, like a naughty little boy not getting let in. ‘Is Abi still here?’
‘I am.’ She was in the hall, head tilted to the side, arms folded like his sister. ‘What’s happened?’
‘I had a phone call. Another warning one.’
‘You thought someone had taken me?’
Fenchurch huffed out air. ‘They said someone else close to me was next. I thought it’d be you. I couldn’t get hold of you . . .’
‘My phone’s been in my purse on silent.’ Abi reached down onto the hall parquet and picked up her bag. She checked her phone and her eyes bulged. ‘Simon, if you can’t get hold of someone, calling them twenty-six times isn’t going to get them any quicker.’
‘I need to feel I’m doing something.’ Fenchurch collapsed against the railings separating the two houses, his lungs deflating like a burst beach ball. The street was deadly quiet, just parked cars and an elderly couple walking some poodle chimera thing. ‘You’ve seen nothing?’
Abi padded over the slabs and hugged Fenchurch, her perfume snaking over him. Calming him. ‘We’ve just been catching up, Simon.’ She grinned, her cheek dimpling. ‘Wouldn’t be the first time you were being paranoid.’
‘No, it wouldn’t . . .’ Fenchurch smiled at Rosie. ‘Thanks for looking after her.’
‘Erm, Simon, it’s more the other way round?’
‘Right, right.’
A silver Škoda trundled past, going as slowly as a funeral procession.
Same one as before . . .
‘Shit.’ Fenchurch stormed down the path, then onto the road. He waved the Škoda to a halt, then thrust his warrant card at the lowering window. ‘Step out of the car, please, sir.’
The driver was a pimply oik, all tracksuit and limbs, shrouded in the vinegary tang of takeaway pizza competing with Lynx. ‘Ain’t doing nothing, mate.’
‘I need you to step out of the car, sir.’
‘You ain’t got any probable cause, mate.’ He hit the window button and it started grinding back up. He reached over for the central locking.
Fenchurch tore open the d
oor and grabbed two handfuls of T-shirt. He picked him up like a small child, kicking and screaming, and dumped him on the road. ‘Oh, I’ve got probable cause, son.’ He flipped the wriggling kid onto his front and pinned his arm behind his back. ‘Who was your target, son? Eh? My wife?’
‘“Target”?’ Pimples’ cheek was flat against the bitumen, his mouth sticking out to the side. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Quit it with the shit, okay?’ Fenchurch ratcheted the arm up the kid’s back. ‘You were sent to kill someone, weren’t you? Maybe abduct them?’
‘I wasn’t!’
Another notch on the ratchet. ‘Who was it?’
‘I’m delivering pizza!’
What?
‘You’re lying!’ Fenchurch let the arm go a touch. ‘Who are you targeting? My wife?’
‘I’m not targeting— Check in the—’
‘Simon!’ Abi held up a giant leather pouch, unzipped slightly to show five huge pizza boxes. ‘Let him go.’
Fenchurch released his grip and stepped away. ‘Sorry, son.’
‘I’m going to get your badge for this, mate.’ The kid snarled at him as he got up, shaking his head slowly and rubbing his puny arm. ‘Bloody police state.’
‘I’m truly sorry, sir.’
‘Yeah, bullshit you are. You fascist wanker!’ He tore the pizza bag from Abi’s hands and got in the car. Then he fiddled with his phone and the Škoda screeched off.
That’ll come back to haunt me.
‘Uncle Simon! That was so cool!’ Footsteps pounded towards them. Becca and Ollie came to a halt next to their mother, both dressed in Chelsea strips, the bright blue catching in the sun. That fresh grass smell. ‘Did you see that, Mummy? He just took him down!’
Peter caught up with his kids and grabbed their shoulders. ‘Let’s get you two inside, okay?’
‘Daddy!’
‘Your uncle will be in soon, won’t he?’
Fenchurch crouched down, his knees grinding a little bit. ‘I’ll be in soon, just do as your old man says.’
Ollie grinned at him. ‘What’s an old man?’
