by Ed James
‘One of Blunden’s girls?’
‘Kershaw didn’t think so. Doesn’t mean it’s not possible.’ Owen tapped at the leftmost screen. ‘Turn the sound up on that one.’
Fenchurch reached for the remote and adjusted the volume.
DS Reed sat in a dingy room. She passed over the set of photos, minus the post-mortem shot. ‘Have you seen this woman before?’
The girl leaned back in the chair and clutched her arms tight around her shoulders. Her baggy T-shirt had a cartoon picture of a squirrel on the front. ‘Never seen her.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘Positive.’
Fenchurch turned it down a couple of notches. ‘Why are we watching this?’
‘That girl.’ Owen drew a hand across his mouth. ‘I know her from somewhere.’
‘Where?’
‘Don’t know. I think she’s got a scar.’
‘You still wanting to watch it?’
‘You’re fine.’
Fenchurch muted it and looked at the next screen, the bouncer sitting opposite Kershaw. The Vice DS prowled the room like he was in an American TV show. Didn’t seem to be working. ‘He’s called Winston Gooch, right?’
‘Yes he is and he’s still not talking.’ Owen sniffed yet again. ‘Wonder if his balls have descended back from his stomach yet.’
‘He grabbed my throat.’ Fenchurch stretched out his collar to let the wound breathe. ‘Bastard scratched me, too. What kind of man—’
The door opened and Docherty stormed in, wearing full uniform for once. ‘Evening, gents.’
‘Boss.’ Fenchurch stared back at the screen, Kershaw getting in the bouncer’s face again. ‘Thanks for chasing up the warrant.’
‘I’m not as popular with our chums in the judiciary as I once was. Had to call in favours with the CPS.’ Docherty tore off his leather gloves and tossed them on the table in front of the monitors. ‘You’d better be getting something from this.’
Owen folded his arms and flared his nostrils. ‘We’re getting nowhere.’
‘Nowhere?’ Docherty scowled at Fenchurch. ‘That’s not what I want to hear.’
‘It’s not Simon’s fault, sir. These are all just rank and file. That bouncer’s the most senior and he’s not talking.’
Docherty waved his hand across the monitors. ‘There’s no management in any of these?’
‘None were there, boss.’ Owen bowed his head. ‘We don’t even know who owns it, sir.’
Docherty walked up to Owen and lifted his chin. ‘I’m paying through the nose for you pair and you’re not sure who owns a bloody strip club?’
‘That’s why we’re being cagey, sir.’ Owen leaned back in his chair. ‘The Alicorn is held by a series of shell companies. The only thing we can trace it to is a company called Dragon Entertainment Holdings.’
‘But you’ve got forensic accountants following the money trail, right?’
‘It leads offshore. Trail stops in the Cayman Islands.’
‘This isn’t good.’ Docherty shot a glare at both of them. ‘Remind me why we’re doing this?’
Fenchurch held his gaze. ‘We’ve got intel that our Jane Doe worked there. They kicked her out onto the street.’
‘How solid is this intel?’
‘Two whores and Frank Blunden.’
‘So pretty bloody far from solid?’
Owen lifted a shoulder. ‘Correct.’
‘If we get nothing here, we’re scubbed.’
Owen looked away. ‘I don’t know what scubbed means, sir, but I get the gist.’
‘Well, I’m off to brief your boss.’ Docherty opened the door and stopped halfway, twisting round to face them. ‘I’ll catch up with you two later. For the sake of your arses, I hope you get somewhere.’ He slammed the door behind him.
Owen let out a breath. ‘Charming.’
‘Welcome to my world.’ Fenchurch slumped in a seat, eyes drawn to the screen with Erica. She sat there, arms crossed, looking a lot younger than eighteen.
The drums started up again. Topper Headon hammering the kit in a Clash video.
Nelson handed her the set of photos. She picked them up then dropped them onto the table. Looked towards the camera, tears in her eyes.
Fenchurch reached across for the remote and turned the sound up.
Onscreen, Nelson tapped the discarded photo. ‘I take from your reaction you know who this is?’
Erica said nothing, just sat there, sobbing into her hand.
‘Ms McArthur, I showed you two photos. You started crying when you looked at the second. Who is she?’
Owen squinted at Fenchurch. ‘Why her in particular?’
‘Because she’s crying.’ Fenchurch gestured at the other screens. ‘None of the rest of them are.’
‘Is that all?’
‘That not enough?’ Fenchurch shifted forward, focusing on the monitor.
Erica clenched her jaw and tightened her arms around her. Like she was trying to turn into a ball.
‘She knows something. Come on.’ Fenchurch charged out of the room and jogged down the corridor. He burst into the interview room.
Nelson was prodding a finger against the photo. ‘Who is she?’
Erica shook her head. ‘I swear I don’t know.’
Nelson looked up then sat back, adjusting his suit jacket. ‘DI Simon Fenchurch and DS Chris Owen have entered the room.’
Fenchurch walked round to the other side and got in Erica’s eye line. ‘Who is she?’
Erica looked up at the ceiling and kept quiet.
‘Why are you crying if you don’t know her?’
‘I hate being locked up. This is police brutality.’
‘We’ve processed you according to the most stringent regulations. There’s no brutality going on here.’ Fenchurch crouched down. ‘Who is she?’
‘No comment.’
‘Did she work at The Alicorn?’
‘No comment.’
Fenchurch snatched up the sheet and waved it in front of her face. ‘You blinked when you looked at the photos. Is it him you recognise?’
‘When do I get out of here?’
‘When we’ve finished with you. Who is he?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘So why the reaction, then?’
‘I thought I recognised him, that’s all.’
‘Erica, has he been in the club?’
Her eyes looked up at him. ‘A few times.’
‘Now we’re getting somewhere.’ Fenchurch stood up and smiled. ‘Did he ever dance with you?’
She nodded. ‘I think his name’s Robert.’
‘Did you ever get a surname?’
‘Never said.’ She stared at the table. ‘Might not even be called Robert.’
Fenchurch pinched his nose. ‘Anything else?’
‘He said he was a banker. Earned a packet. That’s it, I swear.’
‘When was he last in?’
‘Tuesday night?’
Fenchurch walked over to the door. Sweat prickled his neck, stinging the cut. ‘Thanks for your help.’
‘Aye, of course I’m aware of that. Aye.’ Docherty stood in the office doorway, silhouetted against the light. Airwave clamped to his ear. ‘Have to go, Howard.’ He killed the call and entered the room. ‘You look like you’ve got something?’
‘We’ve got a name, guv.’ Fenchurch shuffled through the papers on his desk. ‘Robert.’
‘That’s amazing.’ Docherty settled against Mulholland’s desk and tilted his head to the side. ‘I’ve just burnt through fifty grand in one night raiding that bloody club and all you’ve got to show for it is a name?’
‘I appreciate the support, guv.’
‘You’re a cheeky bastard, Fenchurch.’ Docherty laughed. ‘You got anything on him?’
‘Not yet. Jon’s leading the hunt.’
‘With some of Dawn’s team, I hope?’
‘We’re keeping them updated.’ Fenchurch flashed a smile that had more in
common with a snarl. ‘Obviously, this could be bollocks. Geezer could be called Ray or Al or Len or God knows what else. I’ve got them working on both bases, boss.’
‘Great. Well, it’s progress, I guess.’ Docherty checked his watch. Giant gold thing that probably weighed more than both of his legs. ‘Right, that’s gone eleven. I need you to hand over to Dawn and piss off out of here. I want you in fresh tomorrow. Well, slightly less soiled, anyway.’
Fenchurch got up and shrugged on his coat. He yawned, one of those ones that didn’t want to stop. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, boss.’
‘I mean it.’ Docherty stabbed a finger at him. ‘You need to be fresh, okay? I don’t need you heading off looking for Chloe acting the bloody martyr.’
‘Sir.’ Fenchurch left his office, hands deep in pockets. Any deeper and he’d be grabbing his ankles. Might not be a bad position. He scuttled down the stairs and pushed through the ground-floor door.
‘Guv.’
Fenchurch swung round.
Nelson. The rings around his eyes as dark as the stubble on his head, several shades darker than his skin. ‘Still drawing a blank with this Robert geezer.’
‘Okay.’ Fenchurch rested against the door and yawned again. ‘Pass it onto Mulholland’s guys and bugger off home, okay?’
‘But I’m confident—’
‘Now, Jon. Get home.’
‘Okay, guv.’
‘See you tomorrow.’ Fenchurch buzzed through the door onto the street. The bitter cold clawed at his face as he walked over to his car.
‘Simon?’
He looked round.
Erica shivered in the shade of a street light. Her hoodie was tugged up over her hair.
‘I can arrange for uniform to give you a lift home. Wherever that is.’
‘It’s fine.’ She waved towards the new towers nearby. ‘My flat’s just up there.’
Fenchurch looked her up and down. Like a Barbie in urban gear. ‘Well, goodnight.’
‘Why were you watching my interview?’
He frowned. ‘I watched all of them.’
‘That right?’
‘Of course it’s right.’ Fenchurch checked down the lane. Nobody about. Lazy jazz drums hissed. ‘You’re acting like you want to speak to me.’
She sighed. A cloud of mist floated in the air between them. ‘I might have something for you.’
‘What?’
She bit her lip, her turn to scan the street. ‘Not sure I should tell you.’
Fenchurch handed her a business card. ‘Well, call me if you think of it.’
‘It’s not that . . .’ She ran a ruby-red fingernail across the print. ‘Aren’t you going to ask me what it is?’
‘I’ve not got the energy.’ Fenchurch took a couple of steps away then turned back. ‘How old are you?’
‘How old do you think I am?’
‘I’ll go for sixteen.’
‘You saw me drink in the club.’
‘So you’re at least eighteen?’
Erica fluttered her eyelashes at him. ‘I’m more than old enough.’
‘You’re old enough to be my daughter.’ Fenchurch clenched his fists as soon as he said it. The drums cannoned in his ears.
‘Is that a problem? Do you prefer women your own age?’
‘There’s a rule, you know? Half your age plus seven.’
She flashed her eyebrows up and bit her lip. ‘What age would I need to be?’
‘Goodnight.’
‘No, seriously, what age?’
Fenchurch rattled through the calculation in his head. ‘Twenty-eight.’
She arched an eyebrow. ‘So you’re forty-two?’
‘That’s quick.’
‘I like sums.’ Her eyelids flickered for a few seconds. ‘Twenty years.’
‘What is?’
‘How long I’d need to wait until our ages match.’ She smirked. ‘I’ll be thirty-eight, you’ll be sixty-two.’
‘Just have to take your word for it.’ Fenchurch got out his key and hit the remote unlock. The Mondeo’s headlights flashed in the quiet street. ‘What you do isn’t a great way to make a living. Your looks will only last so long.’
‘You think I don’t know that?’ She stared into space. ‘Most guys in there . . . But it’s the only thing I’ve got.’
‘What about your sums? You did an equation in your head. Two, in fact. That’s impressive.’
‘It’s not like I can do anything with it.’
‘You mean this isn’t paying your way through university?’
‘Why aren’t you getting into your car?’
Fenchurch just shrugged.
‘Do you want me to come with you?’
‘You remind me of someone.’
‘Your daughter?’
‘Maybe.’ Fenchurch let out a deep breath. Jazz triplets on a cymbal. ‘I lost my daughter about ten years ago. She was eight.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. How did she die?’
‘She’s not dead.’ He sucked in cold air. Someone was smoking upwind of them. ‘Someone kidnapped her. Or she ran away. But eight-year-olds don’t tend to run away.’
‘I don’t suppose they do.’ She tugged her hair behind her ear.
‘You’ve got the same hair as her.’
‘I could pretend to be her for you.’
Fenchurch walked over to his car, jaw clamped tight.
She trotted after him, platform heels clicking on the pavement, and stuck an arm out to block him. ‘You were interested in me in the club. Same as in that interview room. You like me, don’t you?’
‘You’re really overstepping the mark here. Get back.’
‘I could be your daughter.’
He grabbed her by the shoulders. ‘Go. Home.’
‘Simon . . .’
‘Erica!’
She swung round.
A car pulled up. Driver-side window down, a dark-haired man behind the wheel. Close-cropped hair, sculpted beard, designer suit. Like George Michael, post-Wham!, pre-cottaging.
Fenchurch let her go. ‘Who’s that?’
‘It’s nobody important.’ She wandered over to the car. As she opened the passenger door, she craned her neck around to Fenchurch. ‘The offer still stands.’
Chapter Fifteen
Fenchurch leaned against the windowpane. The cold glass flattened his cheek, hot breath fogging the uPVC. No arguments across the street tonight. No need to show his warrant card again or call Control.
Another bloody martyr. Bloody hell.
He went over to the counter and opened the wine, sniffing it. It smelled okay. Thank God for the twenty-four-hour off-licence on Commercial Road. A twenty-quid bottle there was same quality as a tenner in Tesco, a fiver in Aldi. The ladder of booze.
He reached into the dishwasher for a glass and poured it up to the brim. Just over half left in the bottle. He took a glug and collapsed onto the sofa. Just about drinkable.
He fumbled around for the remote and flicked on the TV. Jim White was shouting at the camera on Sky Sports News. Nothing happening. Spurs and Liverpool drew in the Europa League. Like anyone cared. Not proper football. He switched it off and put Lana Del Rey on the stereo.
A flash of Erica dancing on the stage. Strutting, young and carefree. The age Chloe’d—
His mobile rang. ‘Evening, Dad.’
‘All right, my boy. You had another look today, didn’t you?’
‘Docherty hasn’t briefed me on you policing me.’
Dad laughed. ‘Listen, what are you working on?’
Fenchurch took another drink. ‘You know I can’t tell you that.’
‘I’m ex-Job, son, of course you can.’ Dad chuckled down the line. ‘And I’m back!’
‘Still can’t tell you.’
‘Is it something to do with—’
‘Got a new case last night, all right. Prostitute with no ID.’
‘I tell you, son—’
‘Leave it, Dad. We’ll get an ID.’
‘And if you don’t . . .’
‘If I don’t, I’ll come knocking on your door. How’s that sound?’
‘I think I’m onto something, son.’ Dad left a pause. Heavy breaths hit the receiver. ‘I’ve found a few cases I think might be connected to Chloe. Me and Bert call it the Machine—’
Fenchurch shut his eyes, clamping them tight. ‘Dad, we’ve been over this . . .’
‘You’re over it so much you check her PNC record every day? Can’t I bloody look? I wanted to speak to you about it at lunchtime but you just buggered off.’
‘You knew I’d be there, didn’t you?’
‘Might’ve done.’
Bloody Docherty. ‘Dad, I appreciate the offer but—’
‘But you don’t need my help looking for your daughter. Right, right, I get it.’
Fenchurch felt a sting in his gut, not all from the chilli. Sharp thwacks at a snare drum. ‘Of course I still miss her.’
‘We all miss her. Chloe was a lovely girl. Abi said you called her.’
‘What?’
‘You know I talk to Abi about her, don’t you?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Why did you call her, son?’
‘I shouldn’t have done that.’ Fenchurch’s landline rang. 1571 could take the brunt of whoever was spamming him. ‘Did I get a reply about going to see the Hammers on Saturday?’
‘You said you’d pick me up at eleven.’
‘I did, didn’t I? We’ll get something to eat before the match, all right?’
The house phone rang again. Fenchurch picked it up and checked the display. Abi calling . . .
‘Sorry, Dad, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you Saturday.’ Fenchurch killed the mobile call and stabbed the other phone’s answer button. ‘Hello?’
‘Simon.’
‘Abi.’
Silence. Sounded like she was smiling. Running a hand through her hair. ‘I’m sorry for acting like such a bitch last night.’
‘I was out of order. Shouldn’t have called.’
Another pause. ‘I’m glad you did.’
Fenchurch sat forward and put the wine glass on the coffee table. ‘Really?’
‘It’s . . . It’s been hard for us. I . . . It’s good that you’re at least thinking about . . . what happened.’
