by Ed James
Blunden traced the face on the page like it was his own daughter. He gritted his teeth and nodded. ‘There’s some new geezers putting white girls on the street down that way.’
‘How does a mere taxi firm owner know about such things?’
‘Because my drivers have got ears, you little shit. My boys tell me stuff. Loose lips in the back of a cab after a few too many shandies. You know how it is. Now, do you want me to play ball or are you going to clear off?’
‘I’m listening. Promise I’ll behave.’
Blunden narrowed his eyes at him. ‘There’s a titty bar up Shoreditch way. Place called The Alicorn. I hear they’ve got English girls working there.’
‘A few places have English girls, Frank. That’s not illegal. Is this a high-end place?’
‘In that bit of Shoreditch? Do me a favour. They put some of these girls out on the street. Very cheap, too.’ Blunden reached over and stubbed out the cigarette. ‘From what I hear, that place does an out-of-hours service. If you like a girl who’s dancing for you, you can take her back home.’
‘That happen a lot?’
‘Less than you’d think. If they don’t make the grade they’re out the door.’ He whistled as he thumbed behind him. ‘Out on the street but still working for them. I despise what they’re doing. Despise it.’
‘This isn’t you just throwing us a bone, is it? A chance to shut down a rival.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘You must take a couple hundred a night from each skull you’ve got walking the streets.’
‘I run a clean business here, you little punk. Now, are we done here?’
‘Just one last thing.’ Fenchurch tapped the photo. ‘This girl was working on the fringe of the City, just off Commercial Street.’ He pointed to the post-mortem photos. Still made his gut churn. ‘We found her in Little Somerset House but you’re saying she’s connected to a club on the arse end of Shoreditch?’
‘I’m just relaying what I hear. Anyway, it’s a quick stroll up the City Road to Old Street roundabout, sunshine.’ Blunden scratched inside his left boot. ‘White girls, English ones. What sort of place does that when they can get blacks for next to nothing?’
Owen looked like he was failing to hide a smile. Blunden implicating himself in all sorts of nasty things. ‘You tell us what sort of place, Frank.’
‘A bloody cesspit is what.’ Blunden scowled. ‘Charging less than for blacks or Pakis. Even Romanians. Disgusting.’ He stabbed a finger on the photo. ‘If this girl’s sixteen . . .’ He broke off, a tight grimace on his face. ‘Give me ten minutes in a room with whoever it is.’
‘Do you know who’s behind it?’
‘This is all intel from my boys in the cabs, you understand?’ Blunden tipped the ashtray into a bin under his desk.
Owen tossed a business card onto Blunden’s desk. It landed on top of the sheet of photos. ‘Give us a call if “your boys” hear any more in the back of their cabs, okay?’
Owen pulled into one of the few free spaces outside Leman Street station and killed the engine. ‘Get what you needed there?’
‘I still don’t see why we needed your expertise.’ Fenchurch let his seatbelt ride up. ‘Me and Nelson could’ve got what little you did.’
‘Nelson? You think Frank Blunden would open up to a black man, no matter how nice a suit he wears or how eloquently he talks?’
‘You think your wand-waving got us a result, do you?’
‘As it happens, I do. Which is why I’m doing strategic work while you’re stuck investigating murders.’
‘Strategic?’ Fenchurch laughed. ‘Brilliant.’
‘We’re cutting down people trafficking in the whole of the UK.’ Owen tugged the key out of the ignition. ‘A murder investigation is the definition of tactical policing.’
‘You’re something else, Sergeant.’
Owen’s mobile buzzed in the hands-free cradle. He checked the message. ‘What do you want to do with this intel?’
‘First off, is this just Blunden trying to score a few points?’
‘It’s legit.’ Owen held up his mobile. ‘I sent a text to one of my DCs. He’s had a look at it for me. It all stacks up.’
‘They trust you to manage people?’
‘Just a couple.’ Owen pocketed his phone. ‘We’ve got some intel of our own on that Alicorn place. Most of what Blunden said matches our understanding. English girls, cheap as chips. Off-street whoring. Like he said, The Alicorn’s dodgy.’ He sniffed. ‘Whether we go in isn’t my call to make.’
Fenchurch swallowed and stared into the middle distance. Behind, a lorry trundling through the building site blocked the road. ‘Oh, we’re going in, all right.’ He looked up at the station. Docherty’s light was still on. ‘I need you to round up a squad while I fast-track a warrant.’
Chapter Thirteen
Fenchurch left the car and walked across Shoreditch High Street onto Hackney Road. The old church was lit up behind the trees, fanning out in front.
The Alicorn occupied the ground floor of a four-storey block of brick tenements. Neon lights flashed above the blacked-out windows and dry ice smoked out of pipes. Nelson and Kershaw were opposite it, waiting in a long queue at the Tesco Express’s cash machine.
He joined them and clapped his hands together. ‘You pair get anything this evening?’
‘We’ve just got a statement from a prostitute, guv.’ Nelson sucked on a vape stick. ‘Black girl called Lucy. She confirmed what Flick Knife told you.’
Kershaw tugged his collar up. ‘Got her on the record and all. Backed up the whole thing. New player in town.’
‘So it’s all slotting into place.’ Fenchurch glanced across the road. The grimy metal sign above the club’s door was swaying in the breeze, the grubbed-over shape of a horse. ‘What’s an Alicorn, anyway?’
‘Mythical creature, guv.’ Nelson held up his phone. The large screen showed a picture of a horse with wings, a horn sticking out of its forehead. ‘A flying unicorn.’
‘Like Pegasus?’
‘That’s only a flying horse.’
‘So Pegasus with a horn? Right.’ Fenchurch nodded at Kershaw. ‘You stay here, okay? Owen’s pulling together a team. DS Reed’s getting the warrant.’ Then at Nelson. ‘Jon, you’re with me. Let’s have a butcher’s at this place.’ He waited for a vintage Ford Capri to rumble past before trotting over.
A bouncer blocked the entrance, rubbing his gloved hands together. Hulking great black guy dressed in top hat and tails. Would make two of Nelson. ‘Gents.’
Nelson grinned at him. ‘Evening, squire.’
‘That supposed to be funny?’
‘Not in the slightest.’ Nelson took a suck from his vape stick. ‘Just want a drink.’
‘You can’t smoke that thing inside, sir.’ The bouncer looked him up and down. ‘We had some trouble in here earlier.’
‘Well, we ain’t looking to cause any.’
The bouncer stepped aside and looked away. ‘In you go.’
Fenchurch followed Nelson in.
The place was crowded. The decor was pretty much all black. Tables, chairs, the painted floors. Blacked-out boards where the front window should’ve been. Everything except for the white woodwork and purple curtains.
On the stage, a girl strutted to a Lana Del Rey song Fenchurch knew. Her leather corset barely concealed her. White-blonde hair, slightly darker than her skin. She caressed the silver pole running down from the ceiling. Open mouth, licking her lips at a pair of lorry drivers at the front. Dirty beards and Bon Jovi jeans. They clutched their pints tight, shagging her with their eyes.
A bar ran along the right-hand side of the room, opposite a series of half-moon booths. Groups of girls occupied them, surrounding one or two men at each. A bare chipboard partition blocked off the far end of the room, not even attempting elegance.
Fenchurch whispered at Nelson: ‘How’s this looking?’
‘Relax, guv. It�
��s fine. Just gathering intelligence, right?’ Nelson peered around the place. ‘I’ll get a round in. Make it look like we’re here under normal circumstances.’
‘Lager.’
‘Lager it is.’ Nelson swaggered up to the bar like he was wading through water. He started flirting with the barmaid. Her laugh filled a lull in the music.
Fenchurch joined him and scanned the faces near the bar. He thought he recognised a couple. Definitely the skinhead with the scar.
On the stage, the girl slid down the pole in slow motion, naked as the day she was born except for a pair of platform boots. The music cut off mid-line and she picked up her corset. She stepped into it and sashayed off the stage. Barely eighteen, if a day.
Another girl broke off from a group of men in suits. She held out a pint glass in front of Fenchurch, half filled with pound coins. ‘Pound in the jar?’
He tipped two coins in. ‘Don’t spend it all in the one shop.’
‘Okay!’ She frowned at him and walked over to another booth, rattling the glass. Eight girls to four men.
‘Here you go, gu— Simon.’ Nelson handed him a pint of lager, barely fizzing.
Fenchurch touched it to his lips and pretended to take a sip. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cost nine quid so you better bloody enjoy it.’ Nelson took a step back and let two girls join them. A brunette and a redhead. ‘Evening, ladies.’
‘Evening yourself.’ The brunette leaned in close to Nelson, hands spidering all over his shoulder. Her leather bikini showed a knife wound running from her ribcage to her thigh. ‘What are you boys looking for?’
The redhead made for Fenchurch. She stroked at his arm, hard and slow. Painted nails clawed at his shirtsleeve. ‘Would you like to buy me a drink?’
Fenchurch raised his glass. ‘Sorry, I just got a beer.’
‘Later?’
He gave her a shrug.
‘Later.’ She strutted over to the man with the scar.
The brunette whisper-shouted in Nelson’s ear: ‘You’re a big boy.’
‘You’ll be disappointed.’ Nelson took a fake drink, eyes on the surface of his stout. ‘Let me have my beer first then we can get a room?’
‘I’d like that.’ She swapped to Fenchurch, resting a hand around his waist. ‘Mmm, I like you.’
Fenchurch settled his pint on the nearest table. ‘You asking me for a dance?’
‘You asking me?’
‘Maybe later.’
She raised an eyebrow at Nelson and licked her lips. ‘I’ll be back for you both, boys.’
Fenchurch watched her go. ‘Both of them were English.’
‘London-shire, too.’ Nelson put his Guinness next to Fenchurch’s pint. ‘I need a slash.’ He swaggered across the place, checking everyone out like he was after a dance.
‘Enjoy the show?’
Fenchurch swung round.
The girl from the stage stood there, brushing against his arm. Her blonde hair was wedding-photo perfect. Strong perfume wafted off her. A dimple puckered her cheek.
Not a million miles from Abi’s . . .
Blonde hair . . .
The drums cut straight into a John Bonham smash. Acid reflux burnt at his guts. He moved away from her and focused on the floor. Anywhere but at her. ‘Wasn’t paying attention. Sorry.’
She fidgeted with her corset, a nipple close to popping out. ‘Why not? You gay or something?’ Her accent was somewhere north of London. Maybe Luton.
‘Just came in for a pint.’ Fenchurch shrugged and took a proper drink. Tasted like it went off during the Roman Empire. ‘This isn’t my scene.’
She held out a hand. ‘Erica.’
‘Erica?’
She spoke up: ‘Are you hard of hearing.’
‘No, it’s just . . .’ He shook it. ‘Simon.’
‘Got a surname?’
‘Fenchurch.’
‘You boys turned up as I was onstage. Means you got a show for free.’ She smiled, half of her mouth not moving. Still had the dimple. She nodded at the bar. ‘Would you be a gent?’
‘You expect me to get you a drink?’
‘It’s kind of the main rule round here.’
‘I wonder why. What do you want?’
‘Hooch.’
‘They still make that?’
‘It’s my favourite.’
‘Watch those.’ Fenchurch rested his pint on the table next to Nelson’s. Bubbles fizzed up, not as many as there should be. He went over to the bar and did up the top button on his suit jacket as he waited.
His drums were rattling through a long fill. Tom-toms to snare, kick drum thumping away underneath. He glanced back at Erica and got a coy smile. The dimple . . .
No way it could be her. No way.
‘What can I get you?’
He smiled at the barmaid. ‘A bottle of Hooch.’
She grinned back. ‘Ten pounds.’
‘Sorry, just the one bottle.’
‘Yeah, and that’s ten quid.’
‘Christ on a bike.’ Fenchurch fished out his wallet and handed her a tenner. No chance of a receipt in this place. He collected the ice-cold bottle and returned to Erica. ‘Here you go.’
She grabbed the drink and sucked at the straw. ‘Thanks, Simon.’ She stared at the floor. ‘You interested in a dance now? See what you missed?’
‘Not right now.’
‘You’ve bought me this, though.’
‘I like following rules.’
Nelson reappeared and picked up his pint. ‘Evening.’
Erica smiled at him. ‘Evening, yourself.’
He gave Fenchurch a wink. ‘You two look cosy.’
‘Don’t start.’
Erica ran her fingers along Nelson’s jacket. ‘Do you want a dance, handsome?’
Nelson swallowed down some Guinness, covering his top lip in creamy foam. ‘Later, yeah?’
‘Suit yourselves.’ Erica sashayed over to a booth filled with other girls. She cuddled into another dancer and locked her gaze on Fenchurch, raised up her bottle and winked.
The girl with the pint glass climbed onto the stage. ‘Celebrity Skin’ by Hole blasted out of the speakers.
Fenchurch turned to Nelson. ‘Come on, Sergeant. Let’s raid this infernal place.’
Fenchurch tied on the stab-proof vest and nodded at Nelson then at Owen. ‘We ready to rock?’
‘Think so.’ Owen flipped his Airwave to mute. ‘Serial bravo’s in place on the back alley.’
‘Have we got the warrant?’
Reed tossed over a folded-up sheet of paper and crossed her arms over her own vest. ‘Just came though, guv.’
‘Excellent.’ Fenchurch unfolded it and checked it through. Looked sound. Thank God for Docherty’s golf club membership. Worth every grand.
Hardcore punk thudded in his ears. He tried to keep his breath slow. Failed. ‘Let’s go.’ He clutched the warrant tight and jumped out of the van.
Nelson jogged ahead and stopped outside The Alicorn. Another team approached from the opposite side.
The bouncer’s eyes were bulging as Fenchurch arrived. He thumped the door behind him. A repeating pattern, twice in quick succession. It shut, leaving him alone on the street.
Fenchurch got in his face. ‘Police.’
The bouncer took a step to the side. ‘We’re not open, sir.’
‘We’ve got a warrant.’ Fenchurch held it up to his face. ‘Let us in.’
No reply.
‘Sir, you’re obliged to let us enter the premises.’
The bouncer frowned at them. ‘You two were just inside, weren’t you?’
‘This warrant lets us search the premises. Is the manager inside?’
‘He’s not. Anyway, the door’s locked.’
Fenchurch chopped his hand through the air. ‘Then open it up.’
‘No can do. I’ve not got the key.’
The din from inside the bar stopped, replaced with male voices shouting and female screaming.
; ‘This is your last chance.’
The bouncer held up his hands and shrugged.
Fenchurch flicked his hands at the door. ‘Go!’
Two officers ran past, one of them lugging the Enforcer battering ram. He hefted the large red tube in gloved hands and rested it against the door. Then swung back and let go. The steel plate crunched into the wood.
It stood firm.
He swung again.
Knocked the door clean off its hinges.
Nelson barged into the club first. Owen marched the bouncer inside, Fenchurch and Reed following.
Girls screamed out. Fifteen or so of them were cowering at the back near the chipboard. Half of them were wearing casual attire, the other in corsets and bikinis. At least one was fully naked. Erica was in the middle, standing with the redhead from earlier.
Fenchurch held out the warrant and spun around to take in the entire room. ‘This is a warrant allowing us to access and search these premises! Every single one of you is going to be formally interviewed!’
‘Let me see that.’ The bouncer tore it from Fenchurch’s grasp. He scanned down the page. ‘We can’t shut this place. We’ll lose money.’
‘You can and you will.’
The bouncer stepped closer to Fenchurch. ‘I need a private word with you.’
‘Take a step back, sir.’
‘I’m serious.’
‘Are you the manager here?’
‘He’s not in.’
Fenchurch waved at Owen. ‘Cuff him, please.’
The bouncer lurched forward and grabbed Fenchurch by the neck. Sharp nails broke his skin. ‘You think you can get away with this, you stupid bastard?’
Fenchurch kneed him in the balls and pushed him to the floor. ‘Of course I do.’ His throat was stinging where he’d been cut. ‘Now who’s a stupid bastard?’
Chapter Fourteen
The monitors in Leman Street’s Observation Suite showed the interviews with girls from The Alicorn. A pair of detectives in each one, begged, stolen and borrowed from across half of London.
Fenchurch’s throat was bloody agony. Had half a mind to take that bouncer and kick him down some stairs.
‘This is getting us nowhere.’ Owen glanced at him. ‘All we’ve got is Nelson and Kershaw backing up Blunden’s story from that prostitute.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘A black girl.’
