by Ed James
Reed sitting at a computer. Next to her, Bridge was rubbing her eyes. Reed stood up tall, eyes wide, forehead creased. ‘You need to see this, guv.’ She spun the laptop around.
A grainy CCTV shot of Victorian tenements, cars streaming by. A pedestrian trudged past, talking on her phone. Could’ve been anywhere.
‘What am I supposed to be looking at?’
Reed stared at the monitor. ‘That’s Commercial Street, guv. Just by the Ten Bells pub.’
‘I know it. Not far from Spitalfields Market, right?’
‘Right.’ Reed tapped Bridge’s shoulder. ‘Run it again.’
She pressed a finger into the corner of the screen. The time stamp read 22.02, 15/12/2015. ‘This is Tuesday night, sir. Around the time the girl was killed.’ She hit a key.
The footage ran on and a man staggered onto the frame. Looked like he’d gone twenty rounds with George Best. He propped himself against a shopfront. Then struggled on.
Fenchurch scowled at Reed. ‘This is all very amusing, Sergeant, but what’s the point in this?’
‘This is the geezer who was trying to buy people. Keep watching.’
The view flipped to further down Commercial Street. After a few seconds, the man appeared. He stopped a pair of women walking up. Miniskirts and leather boots, shivering against the cold. The one on the left shook her head. He shouted something at them.
Fenchurch hadn’t noticed he was holding his breath. ‘Have we got any audio on this?’
‘Just video, sir.’ Bridge tapped the keyboard and the footage shifted to a camera just by Lupita, halfway up the road.
A woman paced around at the bus stop across from the restaurant. Looked like she was keeping herself warm. Kept checking her mobile, white earbuds dangling down. The man from before lurched over and spoke to her, head tilted to the side. She shook her head and stared back at her phone. He got out his wallet and waved some cash in her face. She shook her head again and took a step back into the bus stop. He put his face right up to hers and held it there for a few seconds. He clicked his fingers in her face and walked on.
Bridge hammered the keys. ‘This is the big one, sir.’
The man staggered up the ramp to the hulking RBS building on Aldgate High Street and reached into his pocket for his wallet again.
Fenchurch jabbed the screen. ‘Does he work there?’
Reed brushed his finger away. ‘Keep watching.’
A woman stood up and stretched out. She must’ve been sitting on the concrete. He showed her his wallet. She looked around for a few seconds then nodded.
Reed circled the woman on the display. ‘This is our victim, guv.’
Fenchurch screwed up his eyes and tried to resolve the pixels. Tried to reconcile the living flesh with the body in the building. She certainly fit the description but it wasn’t conclusive.
Her bag bounced up and down as she walked, made it look like Hello Kitty was waving.
‘Well, it’s her bag, whoever she is.’ Fenchurch swallowed. ‘Is this the guy who killed her?’
‘Keep watching.’
The woman pointed down the back lane towards Little Somerset House. Bridge hit a key and the view changed to a camera a few doors down. It looked across to the bus depot and the Subway sandwich shop. Must be on Aldgate tube station.
The girl looked around and led him down Little Somerset Street. Another slapped key and they cut to a split view. The bus station camera was joined by another two, the clock whirring in double time.
‘This is from the Minories.’ Bridge tapped the monitor. ‘And this one’s by the Duke of Somerset pub at the other end of the lane.’ She let it run on. The whole room was silent, just their breathing. She tapped the screen again. ‘The girl doesn’t reappear.’
‘How long have you checked?’
‘Six hours, sir. Our friend came out, though.’ Bridge pressed a button on the keyboard.
The man strolled onto the camera by the Duke of Somerset, like he was going to meet a mate.
Fenchurch leaned forward to get a better view. ‘When was this?’
‘This is half an hour later.’
‘Can you follow him?’
‘I tried, sir.’ Bridge messed up her hair again, leaving tufts sticking out in all directions. ‘The coverage is pretty thin down Mansell Street. Lots of back streets he could’ve gone down.’
Fenchurch stood up and huffed. ‘Is this our killer?’
‘I think so.’ Reed held up a sheet of paper. ‘This is as good as we’ve got, guv.’
Fenchurch snatched it off her. A pair of blurry screen grabs of the man and their victim. ‘Get them run through the automatic CCTV system.’
‘I’ll try. Wouldn’t hold your breath, though.’
‘Feels like I’m making a habit of that.’ Fenchurch handed the sheet back to Reed, snapping the paper tight. ‘And get these to the street team.’
‘Already on it, guv. Looks like our victim might be a prostitute.’ Reed shrugged. ‘Or she’s homeless and looking for some money.’
‘I don’t disagree, but I’d like some more evidence.’ Fenchurch checked his watch. ‘I think it’d be an idea to get an appointment with Vice.’
‘They’re called Trafficking and Prostitution now.’ Reed raised her eyebrows. ‘And I can take a hint . . .’ She smiled as she made a note. ‘Oh, Docherty was looking for you. Said you’re due out at Lewisham for the PM?’
‘Shit.’ Fenchurch set off towards the corridor. ‘Get those Vice buggers to meet us here.’
Fenchurch opened his eyes again and stared at the brilliant-white tiles on the wall. At the ceiling. Anywhere, just so he didn’t look at the body on the gurney. ‘So, in conclusion?’
Pratt kept his focus on the girl, his eyelids flickering in quick succession. His beard looked like small birds could nest in it. He wiped his hands on the apron covering his waistcoat, his bow tie hanging untied. ‘I’ve performed a full genital examination and analysed her paragenital areas. Breasts, inner thigh, buttocks.’
Clooney looked as queasy as Fenchurch felt. Fingertips on his shaved head, skinny arms creeping out of a bright-yellow Brazil T-shirt. Socrates the philosopher dressed as his seventies footballer namesake. ‘Yeah, yeah, we get it.’
‘I’ve noted some vulvar inflammations and open lesions. There’s no sign of any discharge, but it’s enough to convince me that this young lady has had a lot of sexual activity recently. And not of a recreational variety. So, it would appear she is, indeed, a prostitute.’
The door opened and DCI Docherty appeared in the doorway. ‘Oh look, the gang’s all here!’
‘And you’ve missed all the fun.’ Dr Pratt went back to watching his assistant, a frail-looking Asian man, carefully slice a sliver off the heart.
Fenchurch’s gut lurched. Just as well he hadn’t eaten any breakfast.
Pratt looked up at Clooney then settled on Fenchurch. ‘Now remember, gents. We don’t discuss the DCI’s toilet problems in public.’
Docherty rested against the wall and looked around the attendees. ‘CPS not send anyone?’
‘Not yet.’ Pratt looked disappointed nobody’d laughed at his joke.
‘Because she’s a prostitute?’
‘It’s because they’re busy, Alan.’
‘Believe that when I see it. They’ll be wrapping each other’s Secret Santas just now.’
‘I presume you’ll want a summary?’ Pratt stood up and rubbed his chin with his wrist, waiting for a response. He gave up with a tut. ‘Well, for those who couldn’t bring themselves to turn up on time, we’ve identified signs of forced intercourse. The spermicide found in her vagina indicates the use of an extra-strong condom.’
‘So our killer was Mr Careful?’
‘He’s not exactly Charlie Sheen.’ Pratt snapped off his gloves. ‘Hopefully not too careful.’ He nodded at Clooney, like he was cueing him up. ‘And I’ll pass over to our forensics god.’
Clooney’s ear piercings rattled as he waved his arms
over the girl’s stomach. ‘The mucus on her abdomen was, indeed, semen.’
Docherty scowled at Pratt. ‘Thought the boy wore a condom?’
‘And he did.’ Pratt grimaced. ‘I suspect he decided to finish in that manner.’
Docherty smiled at him. ‘Couldn’t it be from a previous client?’
‘She would be unlikely to wander around with that stuff on her. It’d dry and flake off. This was perfectly intact, albeit merged with some blood.’
‘So it’s our killer’s spunk?’
‘The only conclusion we can draw.’
‘Any clues on who he is?’
Clooney ran a hand over the stubble on his head, smirking away. ‘You’re the ones with video footage of her.’
Docherty frowned at Fenchurch. ‘News to me.’
He raised a shoulder. ‘I sent you a text, boss.’
‘Like I’ve got time to read bloody text messages.’ Docherty clapped Clooney on the arm. ‘That DNA check’s your highest priority, right? Our guy’s screwed up here.’ He grinned. ‘Pardon the pun.’
‘We’re already on it, Al.’
‘Okay. Good.’ Docherty massaged his forehead. ‘So, take me through your results.’
Pratt waved a gloved hand around her neck area. ‘There were sixteen separate stab wounds to her throat and a further twenty-six to her mammary glands.’ He leaned forward and prised apart the flesh on her chest. ‘As you can see, they were cloven in two.’
‘How did she die, William?’
‘A melee attack of this nature results in a number of injuries. Exsanguination is the most likely cause of death.’
Fenchurch shut his eyes, acid reflux fizzing. ‘She just bled out?’
‘I’m afraid so. Would’ve taken maybe twenty minutes, I expect. The blow to her skull would’ve knocked her out, if that’s any consolation.’
‘Not much. Anything else?’
Pratt indicated her left arm. A rough grid of scratches covered it from hand to elbow. ‘These are defensive wounds, confirming the fact she was attacked. We’re still running checks on the blade we found at the crime scene.’
Clooney held up a bagged Stanley knife. ‘We’ve got a blood-type match between this and our victim. Also found some prints on the handle.’
‘Sounds promising.’ Docherty moved around to stand a few inches away from the SOCO. ‘So, what’s next?’
‘Blood toxicology’s running.’
‘Simon and I are first to know, right?’ Docherty pointed at Fenchurch. ‘Right, laughing boy, let’s get back to base.’
‘Cheers, William.’ Fenchurch smiled at Pratt and followed Docherty into the bleached white of the vestibule. ‘Surprised to see you out here, boss.’
‘Had to chase that bugger at the Archive about one of Mulholland’s bloody cases. Thought I’d pop in to wind up our friends there.’
Fenchurch laughed. ‘Wasn’t I doing a good enough job of it?’
‘You always try to get them onside, Simon, that’s your problem.’
‘It’s my style, boss. Trying to make sure they don’t make a mess in a monkey shop.’
‘A what?’
‘Never mind. I’ll keep them focused, sir. That DNA could crack this wide open.’ Fenchurch opened the front door and the biting air cooled his burning cheeks. A plane rumbled low in the sky. The lunchtime smells from the canteen made his stomach growl. ‘Good to be back outside, anyway.’
Docherty took a cigarette from a plain packet and stuck it between his lips. ‘So you do get squeamish.’
‘I hate post-mortems, boss, you know that.’ Fenchurch’s stomach rumbled even louder.
Docherty clicked at his lighter. ‘Come on, you bastard.’ He got a flame on the third go. ‘That you or me rumbling?’
‘Haven’t had lunch yet.’ Fenchurch adjusted the buttons on his suit jacket. ‘I think it’s time to get that press release done.’
‘I’ll get round to it this afternoon.’ Docherty lit his cigarette and sucked in smoke like it was fresh air. ‘Text you once it’s done.’ A frown danced across his forehead as he looked behind Fenchurch. It turned into a broad smile. ‘Ian Fenchurch, as I live and breathe.’ He held out a hand. ‘How you doing, Fenchy?’
‘Doc.’ Fenchurch’s dad cackled as he shook his hand. His eyes still had a twinkle the rest of his body had lost. Liver spots were using his face as a chessboard. ‘I’m doing okay, Doc. Doing okay.’
Docherty glowered at Fenchurch then at his old man. ‘So what are you doing here?’
‘I’m working here again.’ Dad tapped Fenchurch’s arm. ‘My boy put in a good word with the registrar at the Archive and they took me back. Me and old Bert have been in the Cold Case Unit since August.’
‘Can’t keep you retired. Still looking at that old case that got away?’
‘Like an itch I can’t scratch, Doc.’
Docherty sucked in a deep drag and patted Fenchurch on the arm. ‘Take your old man for something to eat, okay?’
‘Thought you needed me back at base, boss.’
‘Don’t wait till I’ve changed my mind.’ Docherty tugged at Fenchurch’s cheek, blowing out smoke. ‘Back by two, okay?’
Chapter Eight
Dad, I can’t tell you what I’m working on, so just drop it.’ Fenchurch held the canteen door open.
‘Suit yourself.’ Dad meandered through the doorway, like he was in a bloody dream. ‘I’ll get it out of you eventually.’
The place stunk of chip fat. Steam billowed up from the counter at the far end. They joined the ten-deep queue, the guy in front muttering something about no more chips.
Fenchurch squinted at the small text on the menu above the hatch. A blackboard separated into six sections, the chalk writing barely legible. Fish and chips, baked potatoes. Nothing Mexican or Indian, even Thai at a push.
‘Happens to the best of us, boy.’ Dad laughed as he got a blue specs case out of his shirt’s top pocket. ‘Get yourself a pair of specs.’
‘I don’t need them.’
‘You’re so proud, my boy.’ Dad put on his glasses, the clear frame and legs looking like something from a Chemistry lab. He nudged them up his long nose and sighed at the menu. ‘I hate it when they over-describe everything.’
Was that nachos? Fenchurch tried to focus on it. Probably was. He frowned at his dad. ‘What do you mean over-describe?’
‘The special always has a description longer than the back of one of my pill bottles.’ Dad pointed up at the menu. ‘Why’s it a “grass-fed tongue of ox”? What’s wrong with just ox tongue? It’s bloody soup. And what the hell’s a “red wine moule”?’ He shook his head. ‘This is a police canteen, not the bloody Ivy.’
Fenchurch stepped forward in the queue. ‘What can I get you?’
‘No pie and mash today . . .’ Dad twisted his head round to take in the full width of the menu. ‘I’ll have fish and chips. Hope it comes with lots of chips.’
‘Is that a good idea?’
‘I’ve been living off rabbit food for so long, son. Let me have a little treat for once, all right?’
Fenchurch smiled at the server. A young black woman, acting like she had to put up with Dad’s shit every day. ‘One nachos and one fish and chips, please.’
‘Anything to drink, sir?’
‘Diet Coke.’
Dad grinned. ‘Bottle of water, sweetheart.’
She rolled her eyes and reached into a fridge. The bottles were stuck at the back like they were hiding from the law.
‘You keeping well, Dad?’
‘Don’t reckon I’ve got much time left.’
Fenchurch’s buttocks clenched. ‘Don’t say that. You’re as fit as an ox.’
‘One with a triple heart bypass, maybe.’ Dad flashed him a cheeky wink. ‘Never mind, my old house’ll be worth a packet. Even without central heating.’
‘Dad—’
‘Five minutes stroll to the DLR. You and your sister will do well out of me and your old mum.’
‘When you get to my age, son, it’s all you think of. Being back here stops me thinking so much.’
The server returned and pushed a tray across the hatch’s scarred surface. The heaped plate of nachos bubbled away. They shouldn’t really do that.
Dad stared at his plate like a little kid who got a lump of coal on Christmas morning. A giant battered cod rested on top of four potato wedges. He tapped the plate. ‘That’s not a portion of chips.’
‘That’s a whole baking potato, Dad.’
‘Even so.’
The server pouted at them. ‘Want me to get you something else?’
‘No, it’s fine.’ Dad wandered off, shaking his head.
She smiled at Fenchurch. ‘Sixteen fifty.’
He stuffed his card into the machine and typed his PIN. ‘Sorry about him.’
‘He’s like that every day.’ She tore off his receipt and handed his card back. ‘You get used to it.’
‘Not sure you ever do.’ Fenchurch picked up the tray and squinted around the canteen, looking for his dad. A waving arm near the window. He walked over and clattered the tray off the tabletop. Sat on the hardwood bench. Felt like it was giving him piles already.
Dad handed him a mismatched knife and fork then grabbed his plate. He cleaved his fish in two and steam spiralled up from the white flesh. He snapped off a chunk of batter and ate it. ‘That’s lovely.’
‘After all that . . .’ Fenchurch’s plate was a big splodge of cheesy mess. Jesus. He dipped a couple of soggy nachos in the heap of salsa and wolfed them down. Not bad. He took a drink, panting. ‘This is bloody hot.’
‘Why do you like all that Mexican stuff?’ Dad scowled at his son’s dish. ‘You never used to eat it. What’s wrong with proper English food?’
‘You know, Dad. Those LAPD guys I trained with at the FBI in Florida. All they’d eat was Mexican.’
‘Waste of time that course, wasn’t it?’
Fenchurch looked away. ‘It didn’t give me any answers, no.’
‘I don’t see what’s wrong with good old English food, anyway.’
‘Fat, carbs, lack of vegetables, too much protein, no fibre.’
