by Ed James
‘You’ve got me there.’ Dad laughed and skewered a hunk of batter. ‘Come on, what is it you’re working on?’
Fenchurch fixed a glare on him. ‘You free to go to Upton Park on Saturday?’
‘You know I hate it when people call it that.’ Dad glowered, like he’d eaten dog shit. ‘You’d call a patch of grass Upton Park. West Ham play at the Boleyn Ground, son. It’s got a grandness to it.’
‘We’re talking about West Ham, Dad.’
‘You’ve changed your tune since last season.’
Fenchurch shrugged. ‘Old Slaven’s got them playing proper football now.’ He dipped another tortilla chip into the congealed mound of salsa and guacamole. ‘Anyway, the boy next to me is back in Scotland for Christmas. You can have his ticket. It’s Sunderland.’
‘Three easy points with the way they’re playing. Shame I’m working.’
‘On a Saturday?’
‘Every week, son. Remember, I’m trying to find—’
‘It’s a quarter to one kick off. I’ll pick you up from here.’
‘That’s fine.’ Dad beamed at his son. ‘Thanks for putting in that word. I’m having a lot of fun here.’
‘I’ll bet you are.’ Fenchurch chewed on another tortilla. ‘You’re not here all the time, are you?’
‘It’s better than drinking whisky in front of the TV.’ He swallowed down a forkful of peas. ‘Any girls on the scene?’
‘I’m not fifteen.’
‘Yeah, but you’ve been a little hermit since Abi chucked you, haven’t you?’
Fenchurch picked up his cutlery and attacked the soggy tortillas stuck to the bottom of the plate. ‘What happened isn’t the sort of thing you recover from.’
‘Not a day goes by when I don’t miss your mother, son. The last thing she wanted was for me to be miserable.’
‘Is this your way of telling me there’s a lady?’
‘Actually, it’s a bloke called Reginald. He’s got a massive cock.’
Fenchurch dropped his cutlery onto the table. He covered his mouth as he laughed. ‘That the truth, yeah?’
‘No, there’s nobody kicking around.’ Dad stabbed half a potato wedge and stuffed it in his mouth. He swallowed it down without chewing. That’ll bloody give him indigestion. Again. ‘Last thing your mother would want was you moping round that bloody flat of yours, Simon. You’re still a young man.’
‘I’m forty-two. That’s not young.’
‘I’m just saying you should get out and play the field, son.’ Dad grabbed his wrist. ‘I am worried about you. So’s your sister. The other day, when I caught you in Chloe’s—’
‘Dad.’
‘You were in her file again. You’ve got to stop that. It’s not healthy.’
‘Says the man who’s back in here, trying to find her.’ Fenchurch finished his drink. Couldn’t taste it.
‘I’m still out in the world. Still see my mates. Your closest friendship is with that Scotch geezer at the Boleyn.’
‘I’ve got friends.’
‘Jon Nelson and Doc don’t count.’
‘I’m fine, Dad. Honest.’ Fenchurch tried to outstare him. Knew within seconds he wasn’t going to win. ‘Drop it.’
The grip tightened. ‘You’re lonely and you’re obsessed, son. You’ve been frozen for ten years. You didn’t bloody cry at your mother’s funeral.’
‘Dad . . .’ Tears burnt at the back of Fenchurch’s throat. He blinked them away. ‘Time I got back to work.’
‘Son . . .’
‘I’d love to say this has been fun, but . . .’
‘You’re not out here for something to do with Chloe, are you?’
Fenchurch got up. The bench almost toppled backwards. ‘Would I tell you if I was?’
‘Simon, there’s something I need to—’
‘Goodbye.’ Fenchurch tore off across the canteen, hands in pockets.
Going to bloody kill Docherty.
Chapter Nine
Fenchurch wandered back into the Incident Room. The clock above the whiteboard read 14.06. How the hell did it get to that time? He dumped his coat on his chair and had a look around. Nelson was scowling at his laptop, teeth gritted. He walked over and tapped him on the shoulder. ‘How’s it going, Jon?’
‘No further forward with an ID, guv.’
‘I was hoping I’d come back here and it’d all be solved.’
‘Fat chance of that.’ Nelson slammed the lid of the laptop. ‘Been looking into other cases with no ID. There’s a hell of a lot out there. Just no way to pin them to ours.’
‘Even if we narrow it to prostitutes?’
‘Still leaves us a gap a mile wide.’ Nelson leaned back and folded his arms. ‘Some geezer’s digital fingerprints are all over these cases, though. Guy called Ian Fenchurch.’
Fenchurch covered a burp. More acid reflux. ‘Keep away from him.’
‘What’s your old man up to?’
‘His own bloody thing, as ever.’ Fenchurch looked around. ‘Very quiet in here.’
‘Everyone’s out on the street teams while things are still fresh.’
‘I hope it’s not going stale.’ Fenchurch perched on the edge of the desk. ‘I told Docherty to get that press release out soon.’
‘We really need it, guv. How was the PM?’
‘Other than the DNA, we’ve got nothing much. Pratt reckons she was a prostitute.’ Fenchurch nodded at the interview room monitor near the whiteboard. Reed and Bridge sat across from a woman in room three. ‘Who’s Kay in with?’
‘Lisa Bridge.’
‘Not her, you muppet. Who’re they interviewing?’
‘That’s the prostitute who gave them the statement earlier about this geezer trying to buy her. Woman named Vicki, I think. Had a bit of a rigmarole getting hold of her again.’ Nelson scratched at his neck. ‘Don’t think they’re getting anywhere with her.’
‘Then why’s she waving at the camera?’
Reed smiled at Fenchurch as he hovered in the doorway. She stretched over the desk. ‘Interview suspended at fourteen eleven.’
Fenchurch waited for her to come out before he shut the door. ‘Why were you waving?’
‘She’s not speaking to us. I need Jon in here.’
‘Can’t I help?’
‘Worth a try, I suppose. Come on in.’ Reed shrugged and went back in. She sat and picked up the microphone. ‘Interview resumed at fourteen twelve. DI Simon Fenchurch has entered the room.’
He stayed by the door, watching Bridge and their interviewee.
Vicki was in her thirties and heroin thin. She wore a tight blue miniskirt dress, arms tangled up in a black cardigan. She reached down to scratch behind her knee-high boots, eyes on Fenchurch. ‘Getting a good look, are you?’
Fenchurch signalled at Bridge. ‘Continue, Constable.’
Bridge slid a sheet of photos across the desk. ‘Was this the man who approached you?’
The paper crinkled as Vicki picked it up. She stared at them for a few seconds, her mouth hanging open, showing a wad of pink gum. ‘Is this who you think killed that girl?’
‘Did he approach you?’
‘Is it him?’
‘We believe so, yes.’
‘So I could’ve been killed?’ Vicki tugged her cardigan tighter. Gave a look that could curdle cheese. ‘You should be protecting people from the likes of him!’
Bridge tapped the page. ‘What about her? Do you know her?’
‘I don’t go to the bingo with her, if that’s what you’re asking.’
‘But you recognise the face?’
Vicki nodded. ‘She’s a new girl. Seen her out the last few nights.’
‘Any idea who her pimp is?’
‘What’s a pimp?’
‘Very cute.’ Bridge groaned. ‘I take it you don’t know?’
‘I’ve no idea who runs her, no.’
Reed got up from her chair and led Fenchurch back into the corridor. ‘Well, that’s a bit further forward.
Thanks for the help, guv.’
‘Not sure what I did.’
‘She’d completely clammed up till then.’ She checked her watch. ‘What are you still doing here, anyway?’
‘Working?’
‘But I got you an appointment with Trafficking and Prostitution at three?’
‘Gives me a chance to read up beforehand.’
‘It’s at the Empress State Building, guv. Across town?’
Fenchurch stormed out of the lift. The windows opposite showed the view back across London. Kensington’s leafy opulence sprawled below them. Far away, the City and Canary Wharf skyscrapers sat apart on the horizon, like they’d fallen out over something. The cogs of the London Eye were stuck between them.
‘How the other half live, Jon. Bloody Vice. They’re all crooks.’ Fenchurch walked up to the reception desk, shoes clicking off the flagstones, and showed his warrant card to the young woman. ‘Here to see DCI Howard Savage.’
The receptionist checked her computer. ‘Is he expecting you?’
‘We’ve got an appointment at three.’
‘Then you’re late.’ She flashed a cheeky smile. ‘Just a moment, I’ll see if he’s still free.’ She picked up a handset and turned away from them.
Fenchurch raised an eyebrow at Nelson. ‘Remind you of anything?’
‘Darke Matter?’
‘This lot think they’re running a bloody hedge fund. They’re in this place and we’re stuck in Leman Street.’
‘You’ll get used to it.’ A man was standing at the glass doors behind them. His few remaining strands of grey hair were scraped across his head. He adjusted his tweed sporting jacket, one hand in the pocket of his black trousers. ‘DI Fenchurch, I presume?’ He had the voice of a dirty old pervert, nasal and smarmy.
He held out his hand. ‘That’s me.’
‘Howard Savage.’ He shook it. ‘Pleasure to meet you.’ He gave a thumbs up to the receptionist, still on the phone, and pushed through the glass. ‘In you come.’
Fenchurch followed him into an office, glancing at Nelson as they sat. ‘Thanks for seeing us, sir.’
‘Not a problem.’ Savage lowered himself into his chair. Took more effort than it should’ve done. His desk overlooked the white bulk of Earl’s Court Exhibition Centre. ‘Why do I know the name Fenchurch?’
‘It’ll be my father, Ian.’
Savage clicked his fingers, then pointed like a pistol. ‘That’s it. Anyway, thank you for making the trip across London.’
‘We actually needed you at Leman Street, sir. That’s where our case is.’
‘I’m much too busy for that.’
‘And we’re not?’ Fenchurch’s chair creaked as he eased off his suit jacket. ‘Have a look at these.’ He reached into his pocket for the sheet of photos and tossed it on the desk just out of Savage’s reach. ‘The girl’s our murder victim. The man’s the prime suspect.’
Savage frowned at it before looking up. ‘So?’
‘We believe this guy picked her up on Whitechapel High Street. He had sex with her, then killed her. The guard discovered her body last night.’
‘Well, it would appear you’ve had a wasted journey.’ Savage turned the page over. ‘I don’t recognise either of them.’
‘The autopsy indicated she was a prostitute.’
‘Inspector, there are times I wish I knew every single prostitute in London so I could warn them. But I’m afraid I just don’t know this girl.’
‘What about Little Somerset House.’
Savage blinked hard. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Your eyes just twitched, sir, so I’d prefer the truth.’
‘Ah, the joys of dealing with a murder squad.’ Savage smiled, his eyes narrowing to slits. ‘As I’m sure you know, Little Somerset House’s a notorious den for prostitutes.’
‘Why would I know that?’
‘Well, it’s your patch. Have you spoken to the building owners?’
‘First thing. A company called Darke Matter Capital.’
‘I’ve had meetings with Vincent Darke, the CEO.’ Savage stared out of the window. ‘We’ve been attempting to apply a modicum of pressure on them to accelerate the development of this new Minories skyscraper. While it means further gentrification of the area, it’s three fewer derelict buildings in East London. All of which pushes our, shall we say, temporary tenants further out.’
‘So you’re cleaning up the City for Boris?’
‘I can assure you the Mayor’s office has had nothing to do with this initiative.’
‘This girl’s new on the streets.’ Fenchurch tapped the photos. ‘You sure you don’t know her?’
‘I said I didn’t.’
‘Know who might be running her?’
Savage wheeled his chair around to look out of the window. ‘There are a few gentlemen out that way with thriving street operations.’
‘Anyone likely?’
‘Maybe.’ Savage turned back and held up the sheet. ‘Looking at her, I’m thinking Frank Blunden might know something.’
‘Flick Knife?’ Fenchurch groaned. ‘Blunden’s Mile End, isn’t he?’
‘Runs a cab firm as cover for a few other interests.’ Savage patted down a strand of hair. ‘Mr Blunden’s been putting a lot of girls onto the street recently. Not all of them his usual MO, either.’
‘Which is?’
‘Blacks and Asians. Never whites.’
‘Of course, it could be some new player.’
Savage let out a sigh. ‘If it is, I’ve never heard of them.’
‘I’m glad this hasn’t been a complete waste of time.’ Fenchurch got to his feet. ‘Come on, Jon, let’s get out to Mile End.’
‘You’re not speaking to him without my officers attending.’
‘You’ve presented us with a lead, sir. Standard operating procedure would be to interview him.’
‘We have several operations in play in that neck of the woods. I don’t want a Major Investigation Team’s blunderbuss antics jeopardising any of them.’
‘So lend me some.’
Savage laughed. ‘I can’t just snap my fingers and magic them up.’
‘This is a murder case, sir. We’re already outside the first twenty-four hours.’ Fenchurch kept his voice level. ‘Give me a skull and I’ll take him or her with me.’
Savage clenched his jaw, looked like he might crush a tooth. ‘I don’t appreciate the strong-arm tactics here.’
‘Are you giving me an officer or not?’
‘It’s not as simple as that.’
Fenchurch gripped the edge of the seat. ‘What if it’s not Blunden? I’ll need someone with access to your knowledge here.’
‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.’ Savage folded his arms. ‘Feels like there’s no way I’m getting out of this.’
‘Send him to Leman Street, please.’
Fenchurch locked the pool car and stared up at the back of Leman Street. The brick was dyed yellow in the street lights. ‘When I retire, I swear I’m moving to Spain.’
Nelson grinned. ‘Don’t you like a London winter, guv?’
‘I had a winter in Glasgow one year, hunting down a bloody serial killer. That was brutal.’
‘The weather, I take it?’
‘And the people. Gets dark at half three and it pisses down all day.’ Fenchurch started off towards the entrance. ‘Other end of the scale, I had a winter in Miami and Louisiana shadowing the FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit. Now that’s how to live. Beach parties on Christmas Day.’
Nelson held open the rear entrance. ‘Still had your turkey?’
‘Found a little English pub in Miami Beach.’ Fenchurch entered the station. Despite how cold it was outside, it felt colder in. Bloody place.
‘You think Savage is going to send a lad over?’
‘I’m not holding my breath. Not that I think Flick Knife will lead anywhere.’
‘I’ve dealt with him in the past, guv. Nasty piece of work.’
‘Y
eah?’ Fenchurch swiped through the security. ‘I don’t like being babysat by those crooks.’ His mobile rang — DS Reed. He answered it. ‘Hi, Kay.’
‘Got a witness for you in interview room one, guv. You’ll want to speak him.’
Chapter Ten
A large man in a navy suit was sitting opposite Reed, scratching his curly hair. His thick chest strained the buttons of his stripy shirt. His sideburns touched his jawline, puffed up with flab.
Fenchurch whispered in Reed’s ear: ‘This isn’t our guy.’
‘I know that, guv.’ She smiled at the man. ‘Mr Quinn works at the RBS on Bishopsgate. I thought you’d appreciate hearing his statement first hand.’
Fenchurch took a step back and leaned against the wall. ‘Let’s hear it, then.’
‘Now, where was I?’ Quinn had a Scottish accent, slower and deeper than Docherty’s. Less of a snarl. Made him sound a bit simple. ‘Like I told the guy who came round, I was out for a few beers with guys from the office.’ He prodded the printout in front of him — the man on the CCTV. ‘I saw him on Tuesday night in Dirty Dick’s on Bishopsgate.’
‘Been there a few times.’ Fenchurch tapped out an Action on his Pronto. Call DI Clarke. ‘Do you live down here?’
‘I’m based in Edinburgh. Came down for the Christmas night out.’ Quinn coughed, eyebrows raised. ‘Had a few meetings on as well.’
‘I get it.’ Fenchurch held out his own crumpled sheet of photos. ‘You’re sure it was this guy?’
‘Positive. He was drinking at the table next to us. Similar-sized group to ours, maybe twenty people?’
‘They look like bankers?’
‘What does a banker look like?’ Quinn soaked up the space Fenchurch gave him. ‘Maybe. I didn’t recognise them, though. They were all pretty hammered. Way worse than us. Most of them cleared off about nine.’ He pointed at the photo. ‘Except for him. He stayed around for another hour, I think. Flitting around tables, making a nuisance of himself. That’s how I remember him. Had to have a word.’
‘What sort of a nuisance?’
‘He was trying it on with a couple of the girls. Asked Lauren if he could see her vagina.’
‘Classy. What was this word you had?’
