by Ed James
‘I deleted that app.’
Fenchurch stood up tall and cleared his throat. ‘Do you remember the name of the officer you spoke to?’
‘Smith. Didn’t catch his first name.’
‘I’ll make sure he loses his job for this.’ Fenchurch left her with the uniform and made his way into the hall.
Reed was giving orders to another officer. She waved him off as Fenchurch approached. ‘This is a shitty business, guv.’
‘Tell me about it. Can you babysit her for a while?’
Reed looked over at the slumped figure in the kitchen. ‘No problem.’
‘Get Clooney to dig into his use of that app, okay? This might plug some of the gaps in the timeline and—’
‘And you want it closed off. Got it. I’ll see if he’s been picking women up online.’
‘Thanks.’ Fenchurch stared at Trina, needling fingers into her eye sockets. ‘That poor woman . . .’
His Airwave chimed out. Docherty. ‘Here we bloody go.’ He strode off down the hall and stuck it to his ear. ‘Boss, we’ve—’
‘Simon, I need you at the PM out in Lewisham now.’
‘I’ve been caught up in a few things, boss.’
‘I don’t care about any of that shite. You. Here. Now.’
Pratt’s beard almost touched the naked corpse of Robert Hall. Pale skin, like he’d been in a crypt for months. Stubble dotted his legs, mossing over a tattoo of a bike.
Docherty swung round from chatting to Clooney and nodded at Fenchurch. ‘There you bloody are.’
‘You knew something came up.’ Fenchurch rested against the row of gunmetal cabinets lining the room. ‘What do you want, boss?’
‘I want you to see this, Simon. You, not any of your underlings.’
Fenchurch swallowed. Like he had time for this bollocks right now . . . ‘I assume there’s something for me to see?’
‘William?’
Pratt looked up from the body. ‘Oh, Simon. Didn’t notice you there . . .’ He jolted upright, as if he’d just realised how close he was to a dead body. ‘Nice of you to join us.’
‘So, what am I here for?’
Docherty thumbed at Pratt. ‘William’s just confirmed that Mr Hall was, in fact, murdered.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘One hundred per cent. Let me take you through the logic, as it stands.’ Pratt ran a hand down the corpse’s arm, lingering over the injection site. ‘The cause of death was definitely an overdose.’ He held up a finger. ‘How do I know this, you ask?’
Always the bloody showman. ‘Assume I’ve asked.’
‘Aha.’ Pratt pointed at the open ribcage. The bones had been yanked apart. ‘We’ve had a look inside his lungs.’ He rattled a silver tray. What looked like chicken tikka sat on the metal, sliced wide open. ‘Telltale sign of an overdose is water in the lungs. Tick.’ He flicked his finger in the air in a V-shape. ‘Secondary evidence is the presence of small amounts of talc crystals and cotton fibres. Again, tick.’ Another V. ‘The blood—’
‘Hang on.’ Fenchurch scowled, still trying to keep his gaze away from the open chest. ‘Talc and cotton? Thought this was pure?’
Pratt let out a deep sigh, like he was fed up having to slow down for mere mortals. ‘You know as well as I do that they cut cheap heroin with said substances. Have a tendency to get trapped in the lungs after the heart pumps them out. Now, we thought it was pure, but it had tiny amounts of those substances. Way above trace, though. It’s just very, very good stuff.’
‘But it’s definitely heroin?’
‘Absolutely.’ Pratt waved a hand over at Clooney, not bothering to look up from his tablet. ‘As our learned colleague’s blood toxicology report stated, Mr Hall had a large amount of monoacetylmorphine present in his bloodstream. As I hope you know, heroin breaks down into morphine fairly quickly. But in overdoses, not all of it gets the time to break down.’ He swivelled around the room, like he was performing the very first autopsy in an ancient lecture theatre. ‘Therefore, Mr Hall died shortly after he’d been injected with the heroin.’
Fenchurch frowned at Docherty. ‘Been injected?’
‘Well, yes.’ Pratt brushed a hand over Hall’s skull. The skin was peppered with bruises around a lobster-red lump. ‘You see these contusions and this depression? They happened perimortem, but were non-fatal. In layman’s terms, someone’s clobbered him before injecting him.’
Fenchurch stared at the floor. Murder was the only conclusion he could draw. He looked up at Pratt. ‘Did you get hold of his medical records?’
‘Indeed.’ Pratt propped himself up against the bed. ‘I perused them before I started here. There’s no history of mental illness, I’m afraid.’
‘So he’s just cracked. Great.’ Fenchurch focused on Clooney. ‘You’ve been very quiet.’
‘You’ve set Kay Reed on me. You’re lucky I’ve got time to attend this.’
‘I’m lucky you’ve got a team to make you look good, Mick.’
‘Yeah, good one.’ Clooney fingered the gaping hole in his earlobe. ‘I’ve managed to move heaven and earth for you. The skin under his nails came from the second girl’s throat.’
‘So he definitely killed her?’
Clooney wagged a finger at him. ‘I don’t connect the dots, Si, you do.’
Touché. Fenchurch stuck a smile on his face. ‘Have you got anything on the victims’ DNA? Anything that could identify them?’
‘Job’s running as we speak.’
Fenchurch flinched as his Airwave rang. A generic Leman Street number. He took a step away, eyes on Docherty. ‘Fenchurch.’
‘Si, it’s Steve on the front desk downstairs. Got a Mark Osbourne here for you.’
‘I’m out at Lewisham, kind of in the middle—’
‘Quit it with that, will you? Geezer says Frank Blunden sent him.’
‘Here you are.’ Fenchurch handed a coffee mug to Reed and checked his phone for any missed calls. Still nothing from Abi. Such a bloody idiot. He necked half of his lukewarm tea in one go. ‘He’s been here half an hour. Must be stewed worse than this tea.’
Reed tasted her coffee and made a face like she’d drunk her own urine. She clinked a painted nail off her mug. ‘I was thinking of offering him this but I’m sure the Geneva Convention mentions something about “own-brand instant coffee”.’
‘Let’s keep that in our back pocket.’ Fenchurch rested his free hand on the handle. ‘You want to lead in here?’
Reed flattened down her skirt. ‘I’ll be good cop.’
‘I expect nothing less.’ Fenchurch opened the door. ‘Good morning, sir.’
Mark Osbourne was tapping a nail off the tabletop. Jeans and a Fred Perry polo shirt. Early forties, had the look of a guy who only liked sports you could preface with ‘the’. The football, the rugby, the cricket. Never tennis, squash or F1. He gave a grunt. ‘Mr Blunden told me to come here.’
‘I’m very pleased for him.’ Reed towered over Osbourne as she started the recorder. ‘Interview commenced at ten fifteen on Saturday, the nineteenth of December. Present are myself, DS Kay Reed, and DI Simon Fenchurch. Also present is Mark Osbourne.’
‘Do I need a lawyer?’
‘Have you committed a crime?’
‘You saying I have?’
‘The purpose of this interview is to gain some intelligence into an ongoing investigation.’ Reed gave him a smile. ‘I hope we can count on your cooperation without legal representation?’
Osbourne raised a shoulder. ‘Fire away.’
‘We understand you had a pick-up by The Alicorn bar on Thursday night.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Can you describe your fare?’
‘Bloke in a suit. He was in a state.’
Reed slid a photo of Robert Hall across the table. ‘Was it this guy?’
‘Think so. It was Hackney Road at the Shoreditch end.’ Osbourne looked away. ‘Bit of a scene going on outside that bar. Geezer looked glad to get awa
y. Seemed jumpy, you know?’
‘Was he drunk?’
‘He was on something. Wasn’t sure I should take him but it’d been a quiet night, you know? He was dribbling a bit.’
‘Dribbling?’ Fenchurch nodded at Reed. ‘That confirms the heroin story, I think.’
She grimaced. ‘How did he pay?’
‘Cash. Looked like he had a lot of notes in his wallet. Dropped it on the floor of my cab, had to bend down to pick it up. Took a few goes, you know?’
‘Did you pick up a girl for him?’
‘Come again?’
‘Did you procure a prostitute for him?’
‘A prostitute?’ Osbourne shook his head slowly. ‘Are you having a laugh?’
Reed looked like she needed to sigh. ‘Did you let a woman into the car?’
‘Well. Geezer got me to pull in halfway down Commercial Street. I thought it was to get some cash out. This was before I saw his wallet, you know?’ Osbourne tugged at his polo shirt’s collar. ‘Next thing I know this girl jumped in the back with him. Chubby. Not bad looking, mind, but she had a scar on her face.’ He traced a line that matched Norma Barclay’s wound.
Reed showed him a photo of her. ‘Is this her?’
‘I’d say so.’
‘Where did you drop them off?’
‘A flat at the start of Prescot Street. The geezer paid me and asked me to wait for her.’
Fenchurch glanced at Reed. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said the geezer asked me to wait for her. You not listening?’
‘So you knew what they were up to in there?’
‘It pays not to ask questions, okay?’ Another sharp tug at his Fred Perry. Needed a good pressing. ‘She came out about ten, fifteen minutes later. I had TalkSport on. It was one of them evening fellas who just shouts. Anyway, she comes back out and I took her back up Commercial Street.’
It almost tallied with Norma’s story. Fenchurch sent a note to Bridge to get it checked. ‘Did you see anyone when you were there?’
‘Well, this motor pulled up, like it was from a Meatloaf album. You know, like a bat out of hell?’ Osbourne smirked. ‘It was a Beemer, I think. These two geezers got out and piled into that building.’
‘You saw two of them?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Could you identify them?’
‘One of them was a real George Michael lookalike. Had a suit on. A cheap one trying to look expensive.’
Reed pulled out a picture of Bruco. ‘Was this him?’
‘Pretty geezer, ain’t he?’
‘Not my type. What about the other bloke?’
‘Didn’t get a good look at this other fella. Had a hoodie on, pulled up like a snorkel parka. But, I swear, he could’ve been his brother.’
A frown tore across Reed’s forehead. ‘In what way?’
‘Had that same stupid beard. I don’t get why geezers do that, must take ages to shave in the morning.’
‘How tall was he?’
Osbourne nodded at Fenchurch. ‘Your height, I think.’
‘So, six-one?’ Reed got her Pronto out of her pocket and fiddled with it for a few seconds. She held it out at arm’s reach. ‘Was this him?’
‘That’s the geezer.’
Chapter Thirty
Fenchurch crunched back in his office seat. The wood cut into his back and sent another wave of pain to his rib. He gasped. ‘Bugger.’ He picked up his Airwave, eyes locked on Reed. ‘DI Fenchurch to Control. Over.’
‘Receiving.’
‘Do you have a location for DS Paul Kershaw yet?’
‘Not at present. His Airwave’s still off, sir. Over.’
‘Let me know when he switches it back on.’ Fenchurch tossed the device on his desk. ‘This is a bloody disaster.’
Reed bunched up her hair at the back of her head. ‘You think he killed him, guv?’
‘That or he saw Bruco do it.’
The door opened and Owen stormed in, fists clenched. ‘What’s up?’
‘Thanks for joining us, Sergeant.’ Fenchurch waved at the spare seat next to Reed. ‘A taxi driver just identified an accomplice in Robert Hall’s murder.’
Owen stayed standing. ‘It’s not death by misadventure, then?’
‘He identified your little mate, Paul Kershaw.’
Owen collapsed into the chair. ‘What the hell?’
Fenchurch reached into his desk drawer for a cereal bar. He waved the box at Owen, got only a shake of the head. Reed took one. ‘I’m assuming this is news to you?’
‘You can’t ask me that.’
Fenchurch stopped halfway through tearing open the wrapper. ‘What?’
‘I said, you can’t ask me that.’
Another knock on the door. Docherty and Savage ploughed in, looking like they were competing in a scowling competition.
Docherty stood in front of the window. Light bent around his skinny frame. ‘We’ve got a bit of a situation here.’ He didn’t seem to want Reed to clear out. ‘As chance would have it, Simon, I was with Howard when you called me. Any sign of DS Kershaw?’
‘Nothing yet, boss.’ Fenchurch chewed his cereal bar, keeping his gaze on Owen. ‘I was just asking his colleague here but he’s keeping quiet.’
‘Strict instructions, Fenchurch.’ Savage hauled off his waterproof jacket and tossed it onto Mulholland’s desk. He slumped into her chair. ‘First chance this month of getting on the golf course and I’ve had to come into the bloody office.’
‘This is a bit more important than a round of golf, sir.’ Fenchurch chewed the last of the bar and dumped the wrapper in the bin. ‘It looks like your officer was involved in the death of Robert Hall.’
‘I see.’
Docherty snapped out a laugh. ‘“I see”? That’s all we’re getting?’
‘That’s all you’re allowed to know.’
‘Howard, you’ve got a bent officer who’s making a cock and balls of my case.’ Docherty’s eyes looked like they needed a firearms warrant. ‘Now you’re telling me you knew?’
Savage stared at him for a few seconds. Then gave the slightest of nods. ‘Let’s say we had our suspicions.’
‘Christ on a bike.’ Docherty glowered at Fenchurch. ‘What have you got on him, Simon?’
‘We’ve got CCTV backed up with two statements. First, a prostitute paid a house call. She saw The Alicorn’s manager enter the building. Mr Vrykolakas was with another man but she couldn’t identify him. DC Bridge is trying to get her to ID Kershaw as we speak.’
‘So far so good.’
‘Then we spoke to one of Frank Blunden’s drivers, who—’
‘Frank Blunden?’ Docherty twisted up his face. ‘You’re taking Flick Knife’s word for it? Christ on a bloody bike.’
‘Guv, this driver identified DS Kershaw.’ Fenchurch waved over at Reed. ‘Kay’s had some uniform check with the neighbours and the concierge. Two of them have backed up his statement.’
Docherty paced over and grabbed Savage by the shoulders. ‘Howard, what the hell’s going on?’
Savage ignored him, instead locking onto Owen. ‘Chris, what were DS Kershaw’s movements on the night in question?’
‘He was at home.’ Owen opened a paper file. ‘We had a surveillance team on his street.’
Savage nudged Docherty off and focused on Fenchurch. ‘So how come he’s at your crime scene?’
Fenchurch glared at Owen. Drums clattered in a Ringo Starr solo. Loose and imprecise. ‘Were there any BMWs on the street?’
‘Hang on.’ Owen frowned at another page. ‘Shit, there was one. Left at nine.’
Fenchurch grabbed the sheet off him. A log of cars but no location. ‘Where does Kershaw live?’
‘Top end of Shoreditch.’
Fenchurch folded his arms. ‘So Bruco left the club at five to nine, drove to Kershaw’s flat and picked him up. Then they drove to Prescot Street and killed Robert Hall.’
Docherty punched a fist on the desk inches from Sav
age. ‘Howard, this is a bloody joke.’
Savage stroked his temples. ‘We can handle this.’
‘Whatever you’re handling has just exploded all over my bloody murder case. You’ve got a nest of corruption in your team.’ Docherty widened his eyes. ‘Give us the truth. Now.’
‘It’s just a single bad apple. It’s nothing worse than that.’ Savage waved a hand at Owen. ‘DCI Owen is undercover.’
Fenchurch swallowed. ‘DCI?’
‘I’m from Professional Standards. South Wales Police.’ Owen puffed out his chest. ‘You can call me “guv” if you fancy.’
‘You’re serious?’
‘Deadly.’
Fenchurch couldn’t decide which one to swing for first. ‘Why is Kershaw still on the loose?’
‘Because I want to catch him red-handed.’ Savage bit into his knuckle. ‘We’ve been running a sting on him for over eighteen months. Chris has been man-marking him all that time. We want who Kershaw’s working for.’
Owen chewed the broken skin on his hand and looked at Fenchurch, Reed and Docherty. ‘You three have really messed this up.’
‘We’ve messed it up?’ Docherty raised his eyebrows at Savage. ‘You allocated dodgy officers to my case.’
‘I couldn’t risk exposing Chris’s operation.’
‘Did you know Kershaw was connected to The Alicorn?’
‘That’s the one good thing to come out of this, I suppose.’ Savage puckered his lips. ‘Means we’re a step closer to identifying his paymasters.’
Fenchurch glared at Owen. ‘You’ve been at this eighteen months and you’ve not even found that out?’
‘Take a step back, tiger.’ Owen winked at him.
Cheeky bastard.
‘I’ll not do anything like that.’ Fenchurch got on his face. Could smell his coffee and aftershave. ‘If you’d had your house in order, three people would still be alive. Why haven’t you arrested Kershaw?’
‘Because we lack a coherent evidence trail.’ Owen was fiddling with the edge of his paper file. ‘Your taxi driver witness is our first solid intel on him.’ He gave Savage a nod, like he was still subordinate to him. ‘What’s the plan now, Howard?’
‘We need to find him.’ Savage stroked a hand across his face, eyes locked shut. ‘But we need to confront him in a safe manner. I don’t want him warning his handlers.’
