Kill the Messenger Read online

  ‘Sir, do you recognise this woman?’ Fenchurch showed the photo on his screen. ‘Her name is Amelia Nicholas.’

  Dunston squinted at it. ‘I mean, yeah, she’s delivered my pizza a couple of times, you know, but I didn’t kill her.’ He reached over for a wallet and took out a card. Bulk Gym in silver letters on matt black. ‘I was there since ten. Running, weights, sauna. Had a snack, then in the cryotank, then more running. You can check with them, if you want?’

  Fenchurch listened to the ring tone as he waited, but he wasn’t getting around that bus for at least an hour, while a stream of traffic ploughed the other way down Commercial Road. He indicated and pulled in. Then the phone was answered. ‘You getting anywhere, Jon?’

  ‘Mario’s office is a pigsty, guv.’ Nelson’s rattling laugh distorted in the speaker. ‘But I’ll get the address, don’t you worry.’

  ‘Can you to get someone out to Bulk Gym in Wapping? Check on the whereabouts of a Colin Dunston.’

  ‘Guv.’ Sounded like Nelson was writing. ‘I’ll get someone out there tout suite.’ Click and he was gone.

  Fenchurch got out onto Commercial Road, the summer sun burning at his neck, and used the bus to cross. He cut in to Parfett Street and set off down the quiet back street, checking the numbers as he went. There. Loud music came from number thirteen. At least they’re in. He paced up the path and knocked.

  The door clattered open and a stoner stared out, struggling to focus, his pupils filling up most of his eye sockets. Big hipster beard, but the guy would weigh about six stone soaking wet. Lank black hair tied in a man bun. Red velvet Adidas tracksuit like he was in the New York Mafia in the Seventies. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Police.’ Fenchurch showed his warrant card. ‘Need a word, sir. Start with your name?’

  ‘Adrian. Adrian Hall.’

  ‘Right. And you ordered a pizza, right?’

  ‘Yeah, and it’s half an hour late.’

  Fenchurch put his ID away and took out his phone, showing the photo of Amelia. ‘You know her?’

  ‘Nope.’

  Adrian’s eyes retracted even further, his pupils giant discs. ‘Amelia Nicholas.’

  ‘Never heard of her. Think she’s delivered my pizza a couple of times, though.’

  ‘You ever speak to her?’

  ‘Just to tip her.’ Adrian dug his knuckles into his eyes. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘She was on her way here when—’

  ‘Ade?’ Another hipster appeared in the doorway, bulkier like a male model, with a thicker beard and paler skin. ‘We getting our pizza or what?’

  ‘What, mate. Scarper. It’s the feds.’ Adrian shifted his focus back to Fenchurch. ‘Mate, I need to feed the five thousand, so if you don’t have loaves and fish…’

  ‘Son, I’m murder squad. Amelia was murdered.’ Fenchurch stepped inside the doorway. ‘Did you—?’

  ‘Woah, woah, you can’t come in here without a warrant!’

  Fenchurch stepped back outside. ‘There something I should be aware of?’ He sniffed the dank hair, a sweet smell catching the breeze. ‘Is that skunk?’

  ‘No, mate.’ Adrian’s mate snorted. ‘We’re roasting our own coffee.’

  ‘Ethiopian beans.’ Adrian tried a smile on for size, too big for his pallid face. ‘Mate, I don’t like cops trampling all over my possessions like you own the bleeding place, know what I mean?’

  ‘The delivery driver, Amelia, was murdered on her way here.’

  ‘Well, mate, I’m truly sorry, but it ain’t got nothing to do with me, alright? Now, I’m working tomorrow and I quite like my time off, so unless you’re hiding a margarita and a “Death by Meat”, you need to get out of my hair.’

  Fenchurch stared hard at him. Guy’s just a chancer. A privileged chancer, but a chancer nonetheless. ‘Alright, sunshine, you—’

  A rumble in his pocket. He checked the display — Nelson. He gave Adrian a card. ‘If the name Amelia Nicholas suddenly means something to you, then give me a bell.’

  ‘Sure thing.’ Adrian disappeared behind the closing door.

  Fenchurch set off, putting the phone to his ear. ‘Jon, what’s up?’

  ‘Mario’s found Amelia’s address.’

  5

  Fenchurch trundled along Brick Lane, following a slow-moving taxi that looked like it didn’t know where it was going. Still early, but the curry hustlers were out hassling pedestrians. He kept counting the numbers.

  There.

  Fenchurch yanked the wheel to the right and pulled into a space outside the old brewery. He rolled up the window to stop his car smelling of burnt onions, then stepped out onto the street.

  A crowd of lads jogged past, shouting at each other. Whoever they were, it was too early and they were way too old for that kind of nonsense.

  Over the road, Nelson sucked on his vape stick, giving a mock salute at Fenchurch’s approach. ‘That Acting DC was heading round to the gym. Not heard anything back yet.’

  ‘Him? Jon, I want a good person on it.’

  ‘He’s good. Trust me.’ Nelson toked on his vape stick like he was sharing a spliff with mates. ‘How’d you get on with the other delivery?’

  ‘Just a load of hipsters wanting some pizza.’

  A thick cloud billowed out of Nelson’s nostrils as he tried a door buzzer, marked for the second floor. ‘Bit low level for you, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Don’t like just standing around, Jon. Might be worth getting that Acting DC to run a check on them. If nothing else, they’re smoking a shit ton of skunk in there.’

  ‘Practically legal now, guv.’ Nelson tried the buzzer again, blowing vape smoke all over the entrycom. ‘You okay? You seem distracted.’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Fenchurch let out a slow yawn. ‘Who am I trying to kid? We had a meeting with Chloe’s social worker. This geezer who works with Howard Savage. Thinks we can get into sessions with her in a month.’

  ‘Right.’ Nelson stared back over the road, past Fenchurch.

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased, Jon. Interested at least.’

  ‘Sorry, guv.’ Nelson crossed over and set off towards a white van, putting his mobile to his ear. ‘Lisa, it’s Jon. Give me the plates for that van again.’ He paused, briefly making eye contact with Fenchurch. ‘Well, get them to hurry up. Just—’ He snorted. ‘Shit.’ He pocketed his phone and pointed at the van. ‘Guv, that’s it.’

  Fenchurch darted over, almost bumping into an arguing couple.

  Nelson was round the far side, backing onto the old brewery wall. ‘Bloody hell, guv.’

  Fenchurch followed him round. Blood spattered the side of the van, covering the suntan lotion advert. His stomach jolted. ‘Call Tammy and get her to send a team over here.’

  ‘Guv.’ Nelson stuck his phone to his ear again.

  Fenchurch started snapping photos of the van. He peered inside the cabin. Something shifted through the front glass.

  Fenchurch shot round.

  A man lurked on the pavement, looking inside the van.

  Fenchurch clocked him immediately.

  The mate of Adrian, the hipster who ordered the pizza. The other hipster — furtive eyes and thick beard. He clocked Fenchurch and sprinted off.

  ‘Shit!’ Fenchurch chased after him, feet pounding the pavement. A crowd of rugby lads closed around Adrian’s mate, blocking Fenchurch’s path and view of him. ‘Coming through!’ He pulled out his warrant card. ‘Police!’

  ‘No need to be a cu—’

  Fenchurch charged on, scanning the busy street. There — a loping run, like a gazelle in the headlights. Fenchurch barged through a foursome, two couples blagging a deal with a curry hawk.

  But the hipster was gone.

  Shit.

  Fenchurch stopped, spinning round and scanning every single face.

  A man loped past on the opposite pavement, jacket collar turned up high, hood covering his hair. But Fenchurch would recognise the stoned eyes anywhere.

  He shot across the road.


  But the guy saw Fenchurch coming and twisted him in an armbar. Pain burnt up Fenchurch’s arm, shooting up to his elbow. A kick to the right shin and he buckled at the knees, hitting the deck face down.

  The hipster let go and sprinted off down the street.

  Fenchurch pushed himself up to standing, but he’d lost him again.

  Then a scream, back the way, near the van.

  Fenchurch shot off into a sprint, running despite the harsh pain in his legs.

  Nelson lay on top of the hipster, arms wrapped round him. Must’ve rugby tackled him.

  Fenchurch grabbed the hipster by the wrists, digging his thumbs into the bone. No chance that little shit’s doing that again. He hauled him up to standing. ‘You stupid bastard. Should’ve ditched that van elsewhere.’

  ‘It’s not mine!’

  ‘Bullshit.’ Fenchurch bent his arm round his back and walked him towards his car and the van. ‘You and your mate Adrian kill that girl, yeah?’

  ‘I ain’t done nothing.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’ Fenchurch pinned him against his car and started searching him, aware of the crowd of rugby lads watching the drama unfold. He patted the hipster down, finding an old iPhone 4 in the pocket of his drainpipes. ‘This yours?’

  ‘No, it’s the bloody Queen’s.’ Hipster barked out a laugh. ‘Last great iPhone, that one. Design classic. Plus it fits in my pocket unlike the new ones.’

  ‘Take your word for it.’ Fenchurch found a wallet in his back pocket and started going through it.

  ‘I’ll save you the bother. My name is Mosé Tronci. And I work at Mario’s Pizza.’

  6

  Fenchurch stormed into Mario’s.

  Less busy than before, but most of the tables were occupied. A couple argued over by the salad bar, him filling a plate with hard-boiled eggs, her jabbing a finger in his face. A dad chased after a toddler heading for the front door, scooping him up in his arms.

  No sign of any staff.

  Fenchurch stomped over to the kitchen door and opened it.

  Mario was back in the kitchen, wearing full chef gear, sweating as he knelt down to nudge a paddle in to retrieve a pizza from the wood-fired oven. He stopped when he clocked Fenchurch.

  ‘Need a word with you, sir.’

  Mario slid the pizza into the top box of a teetering pile and folded the lid. ‘There you go, Des. Try not to lose these ones.’

  An older guy laughed as he shoved three boxes into a bag. Tall and skinny, the silver stubble on his head catching the light. His tight lycra shirt and cycling shorts didn’t exactly hide anything. Arms and legs shaved closer than his face. He lugged the delivery bag on his shoulders and turned to face Fenchurch. A chunky goatee surrounded pink lips, the kind of thick hair Fenchurch could only dream of growing. He frowned at him but didn’t say anything.

  Fenchurch tried to place the face, but couldn’t. Familiar, though. ‘I know you from somewhere, don’t I?’

  The cyclist shrugged. ‘Must’ve delivered a cheese toastie or something, mate.’

  ‘I don’t live round here. And I’m on this stupid keto diet.’

  ‘I tried that, couldn’t stick it.’ The cyclist held out a hand. ‘Billy Desmond.’ He shook Fenchurch’s with a tight grip. ‘You an ’Ammer?’

  ‘Must be that.’ Fenchurch gave him another close look. So bloody familiar…

  Mario clattered his pizza paddle down on the counter. ‘Billy’s picking up the delivery slack since I lost Amelia.’

  ‘Talk about drawing the short straw.’ Desmond gave Fenchurch a wink, then smiled at Mario. ‘Back in about half an hour, yeah?’

  ‘Alright.’ Mario watched him go, then shifted his gaze to Fenchurch. ‘What now?’

  ‘Need a word with you about a Mosé Tronci. He works here, right?’

  ‘Hell’s bells.’ Mario scowled as he tore off his apron and hung it up. ‘Why are you interested in Mosé? You think he’s involved in this murder?’

  ‘Not sure. Maybe.’ Fenchurch stayed by the door, leaning against the tatty wallpaper. ‘After you kindly passed us her address, we went round, and I found Mosé sniffing round the van that killed her.’

  ‘Shit on it…’ Mario slumped down in his chair. ‘What the hell?’

  ‘The way I see it, this Mosé character worked here, right? Meaning it’s possible he knew where Amelia was going on her delivery.’

  Mario looked up. Didn’t say anything, though.

  ‘Did he place the order?’

  ‘I don’t know, do I?’ Mario rasped his callused fingers over the thick stubble on his face. ‘This isn’t Domino’s, mate. I don’t have an app. We get a call, we write the order up on the board. I make the pizza.’

  ‘Right.’ Fenchurch glanced over at the magnetic strip with ten covers pinned to it. ‘Did Mosé know Amelia?’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be asking him that?’

  ‘I will, but I want what you know first. And you’re telling me now.’

  ‘Come on, mate, I’m backed up here. I need to make ten pizzas in the next fifteen minutes.’

  ‘You answer my question and you get to go back to your oven. What does he do here?’

  ‘The kid works with me in the kitchen, but this is his day off.’ Mario squeezed his thumb and forefinger together. ‘I was this close to calling him in to help out.’ Back to the scratching. ‘And now the little bastard’s in custody?’

  ‘So Mosé would pass pizzas to Amelia, just like you did there?’

  ‘Well, obviously.’ Mario shot Fenchurch a glare. ‘I did see them get into an argument a couple of weeks back. No idea what it was about, before you ask.’

  ‘You think he was trying it on with her?’

  ‘I said I’ve no idea.’

  Fenchurch lounged down the corridor in Leman Street station, jacket over his arm. As he neared Docherty’s office, the voices got louder, more heated. He stopped outside and listened, keeping an eye on the corridor for watching faces.

  ‘Dawn, I need to know your interview strategy.’ Sounded like Docherty was close to losing his rag.

  ‘I just want a shot at him.’ The door muffled Mulholland’s voice. ‘Do you want me to say please? Do you want me to beg?’

  ‘Don’t be like that.’ Something clunked off the wooden desk, probably a mug. ‘It’s beneath you.’

  ‘You’re entrusting Simon with this investigation?’

  ‘Entrusting? Dawn, it’s 2017. Nobody uses words like that any more.’

  ‘Well I do. If Simon goes over the line, this is on you.’

  Docherty paused, then something clunked again. ‘Thought you had a cello recital to attend?’

  ‘This is more important.’

  Here goes nothing…

  Fenchurch knocked and entered.

  Mulholland craned her neck round.

  Fenchurch stepped between them, hovering between Docherty’s desk and Mulholland’s chair. ‘I was just wondering if Mosé was ready for interview, but it seems like you don’t need me.’ He put his jacket on and made to leave. ‘Evening.’

  ‘Si, wait. Dawn was just—’ Docherty coughed, hard. Sounded like he’d produced a lung.

  Fenchurch clapped him on the back, hard. Then again. ‘You okay, boss?’

  ‘I’m fine. Just swallowed a sandwich the wrong bloody way. I don’t chew properly.’ Docherty took a drink of coffee from his mug. It dribbled down his chin and he rubbed it away.

  ‘Boss, if you want DI Mulholland to run this case, that’s fine by me. I’ve got better places to be.’

  ‘Si, no.’ Docherty coughed again, screwing up his face before taking another glug. ‘Look, this is your case, Si. You speak to the guy. End of.’

  ‘Sir, I’d appreciate the opportunity to—’

  ‘Wheesht.’ Docherty cleared his throat, shooting daggers at Mulholland. ‘Dawn, I need you managing the street teams, okay? As it stands, we’ve barely interviewed half the witnesses. Could be we need to ask this Mosé character about something we d
on’t know about yet, okay? So why don’t you see if you can dig that up, aye? Here’s a chance to make me and Si look like a pair of arseholes.’

  Mulholland stared hard at him for a few seconds, then nodded. ‘Sir.’ She walked over to the door, her black scarf trailing behind her. ‘I don’t believe this is the correct approach.’

  ‘Noted. Now, you can attend your niece’s recital if you want.’

  Mulholland stared hard at him, then left without another word, just the door clicking behind her. Her footsteps clattered down the corridor, muffled through the wood.

  Docherty collapsed back into his chair and sipped from his Rangers mug. ‘Coffee’s bloody cold now.’ He nudged the mug away with a slight cough. ‘She’ll be the death of me, Si, I swear to God. I keep moaning about her to Loftus, but the pair of them go back to Hendon, I think. He’s climbed the ladder faster, but I swear she’s after my job.’

  A bead of sweat trickled down Fenchurch’s back. ‘Didn’t know that.’

  ‘No, didn’t think you would. Anyway, Loftus isn’t going to do anything about her. Says I need to make it work.’ Docherty laughed. ‘But I’m sick of her nonsense. All day, every day, I’m stuck with the wicked witch of the west.’

  ‘Like you’re stuck with me.’

  ‘Ha, maybe. But she’s a worse nightmare than you.’

  ‘Just keep her out of my way, boss.’

  ‘Swear when I die and go to hell, I’ll be managing her all day and she’ll just be giving me this and that. What I’m trying to—’ Docherty lurched forward, coughing hard into his fist. ‘Christ.’

  Fenchurch kept his distance this time. ‘Seriously, boss, are you okay?’

  ‘Not really. This cold’s been lingering since March.’

  ‘March? It’s July. You should go to the doctor.’

  ‘Like I’ve got time to go to the doctor…’ Docherty waved at the door. ‘Get in there and interview this prick out before Dawn comes back here, cap in hand.’

  ‘That’s it?’ Fenchurch crunched back in his chair and shared a look with Nelson. The interview room was deadly silent. ‘No comment?’