Dead Man's Shoes (DI Fenchurch Book 7)

by Ed James

  Reed had her notebook out, scribbling. ‘We will check that, sir.’

  ‘Do it. The CCTV will show me sitting here, hitting my keys on that machine and going to the toilet, or eating a bagel or a pizza, or getting a coffee. A lot of coffee.’

  ‘Do you have any idea who Mr Lombardi was meeting?’

  ‘No. And he was absolutely desperate to go. All I know is it was those clowns he was brewing beer with. Liam, Neil and Maynard.’

  ‘Did they know he was—’

  ‘Yes, they weren’t happy about Damon selling up.’

  ‘You know why?’

  ‘Not in so many words.’ Summers pinched his nose. ‘As far as I’m aware, the other three couldn’t afford to buy him out and really didn’t want someone else involved.’

  ‘But you think someone else might’ve been buying it?’

  ‘It’s possible. But I don’t know who.’ Summers sat back. ‘Can you return my laptop?’

  ‘Not until you stop lying to me. You know what his debts were, don’t you?’

  Summers nodded. ‘I do. They were from gambling.’

  Reed narrowed her eyes at him. ‘So why spin the line about student debts?’

  ‘Because I’m really, really tired. And I don’t know what I’m even thinking, let alone doing or saying.’

  ‘Lying to the police isn’t a smart move, sir.’

  Summers swallowed hard. ‘No. It wasn’t Damon who told me about his debts.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He was under surveillance from above. Management thought he was acting erratically, so they snooped into his life. They found out about his debts, sure. And I suppose I can tell you this. They also believe he was co-operating with a police investigation into our business.’

  And that made more sense than gambling debts and stakes.

  ‘Did they get a name?’

  7

  Fenchurch had the security system at Scotland Yard’s rear door down to a T now. Lanyard off, ID card in his right hand pressed against the reader as his left pushed the door, aided by his shoulder. Then he was into the bowels of the new building, and on the pathway to the lift up. Open a few years now, but still stank of paint, mixing with the canteen’s fry-up smells, even at this late hour. Half past nine.

  Already? That’s what happened when you got up at five because you couldn’t sleep and, for once, it wasn’t down to your toddler screaming the place down.

  Fenchurch hit the lift button and listened to the winding and grinding as it rumbled down towards him. He got out his phone and checked for messages. Nothing in reply, so he hit dial and it went straight to voicemail. He cut the call before the human voice message replaced the automated robot thing. He tapped out another text:

  Jason, I really need to speak to you. Either call me, answer my calls, or I’m coming to your office. Right now, I’m coming to your office. Love and kisses, Simon

  It read like he was a bully, but he sent the message anyway, then put his phone away.

  The lift was stuck in the basement. The smoking level, where the Met’s great and good shortened their lifespans out of the view of the public. Typical.

  He checked his messages again and Bell hadn’t even received it, let alone read it. Had the cheeky sod turned off his phone to avoid speaking to Fenchurch? Typical.

  The lift door slid open. ‘Ah, Simon!’ Loftus stood in the elevator, clutching his gold cigarette case and lighter, shrouded in the smell of second-hand smoke. He was always the type to take that last drag before heading inside, to savour the taste as much as minimise the delay until his next hit, unaware of how annoying it’d be to anyone riding the lift with them.

  ‘Sir.’ Fenchurch joined him and hit the button for Bell’s floor. The same floor as Loftus. One of the problems with being stuck out in Leman Street was being so far away from all the water-cooler chats here, the bumping into in the corridor, and the politics. Not a bad thing, just irritating when a toad like Bell could get to Loftus before him. ‘Thought you’d given up?’

  Loftus slid his cigarette case into his pocket. ‘Once a smoker, always a smoker, sadly.’ He flashed a smile. ‘Thank you for attending this diversity meeting, Simon. I had a suspicion you would use this case to bunk off.’

  Three hours of discussing diversity and inclusion, over and above the hour first thing that morning on—

  He couldn’t even remember. Budgets? That was it. And Christ, he still had to deliver that budget report to Loftus, didn’t he? At least he had started, even if he had only done two rows. ‘Of course, sir. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Loftus tapped the button and the doors closed, trapping Fenchurch in with the smoke and the excuses. ‘Listen, I know you and Jason Bell have a history…’

  ‘We just go back a long way. Same with any two cops with history.’

  ‘He speaks very highly of you.’

  Fenchurch couldn’t figure out why. Everything about Bell irritated him to his very core, so much that he had to behave like an arsehole just to cope with him. ‘He’s a very driven officer, sir. The Met could do with more like him.’

  ‘Indeed we could. How’s your case going?’

  Fenchurch got out his phone again, mainly as a prop to show he was still in touch with the case, but also to check whether Bell had bothered to reply. Nope. ‘Uzma’s keeping me updated, sir. We’ve identified the victim.’

  ‘Excellent, excellent. And I’m glad you’re not getting too close to the case.’

  Fenchurch just smiled. ‘Not a problem, sir.’

  ‘I appreciate you taking the time to attend my diversity meeting. I expected an excuse. Too busy, or another exhortation that your team’s makeup stands up against anybody’s in the Met.’

  ‘It does, sir.’

  ‘Indeed. And you’re finally getting to grips with the new budgeting template? Millie says you’re on track to deliver the report to me by lunchtime.’

  ‘Something like that, sir.’

  ‘Excellent.’ The door opened and Loftus was out first. ‘Chop, chop.’ He powered along the corridor towards the meeting room.

  Fenchurch looked back the way to Bell’s room. He knew Reed had a call in with him as well, but there was no substitute for knocking on someone’s door and getting a straight answer here and now.

  No, he needed to trust his team to get on with the matter at hand, so he took a right towards the meeting room.

  And of course Bell was waiting outside, laptop under his squidgy arm, his face loaded up with a deferential smile. ‘We need to stop meeting like this, sir.’

  Loftus bellowed with laughter. ‘Another of those days when it’s like all we have is meetings with each other, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh yeah. Makes you long for those days when you could just walk the streets and solve cases, doesn’t it?’

  Fenchurch let himself smile. He doubted there was ever a time when Loftus or Bell ever walked the streets. ‘Morning, Stringer.’

  Bell frowned, his gaze shooting between Fenchurch and Loftus.

  The meeting room door opened and a procession of senior officers filed out. Fenchurch could tell the important ones by how low Loftus dipped his head as they passed and whether there was some quip about golf courses or school. Then they were all gone and Loftus walked in.

  Fenchurch cut Bell off, blocking his path to the meeting room door and to Loftus. ‘Need a word, Jason.’

  Bell looked around Fenchurch, trying to navigate his way to the boss. ‘What about?’

  ‘It’s complicated. If you’d answered your phone instead of getting here before Loftus, you might’ve been able to help me.’

  ‘Us being peers again is as odd for me as it is for you, Simon.’ Bell raised his laptop. ‘Do you need help with your budget report?’

  ‘No, I need to talk to you about the investigation into Travis Cars.’

  ‘Which one? The strategic or tactical?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s important that we—’

/>   ‘You are leading both, right?’

  ‘Julian added the tactical to my portfolio, yes.’

  Fenchurch didn’t need to hear his joke about being Minister Without Portfolio again, a gag as old as Peter Mandelson’s short-lived role in government twenty years ago. ‘Talk to me about either.’

  Bell huffed out a sigh, but Fenchurch was glad that he’d got the message through to him — it was way easier to just talk than to resist it. ‘What’s there to say? I’ve been leading the strategic investigation for three years now. Tactical for about three hours.’ He smiled. ‘But I’m cool with your team speaking to them without approval, especially for a murder case.’

  ‘Thank you for being so gracious, Jason.’

  ‘Just so long as it’s not related to my case.’

  ‘And that’s the issue.’ Fenchurch fished out his phone and opened up the photos app. He held it up to Bell. ‘We’ve caught the murder of one Damon Lombardi.’

  Bell shut his eyes. ‘Shit.’ His laptop dropped to the floor and he punched the wall. ‘Shitting hell!’

  ‘You okay there?’

  ‘Okay?’ Bell’s mouth hung open. ‘Simon, my chief witness is dead!’

  ‘Lombardi’s your source?’

  ‘That’s what chief witness means!’

  Fenchurch tried to play it all through and none of it felt right. Trouble with some cases is they were too easy. Brothers, sisters, brothers-in-law, work rivals, bloke from the pub. Anything. But then other cases grew arms and legs, and had way too many possible motives. Just like this one. Money was at the heart of it, seemingly, but who wanted what?

  ‘Any idea who killed him, Simon?’

  ‘Not yet. I called you as soon as I was aware of your involvement. Feels like you might have some insight into the case.’

  ‘Right.’ Bell was looking down the long corridor, to the window that pointed out across the City and east London. He picked up his laptop and inspected it, then pushed off and opened the door to the meeting room opposite Loftus’s session. He didn’t sit, instead waiting for Fenchurch to enter, then he leaned back against the glass. ‘Damon’s been speaking to us for a few months now. Given us some solid intel. He’s been at the company a long time and knows the systems inside out, knows how to export evidence without being caught.’

  ‘Makes me wonder if anyone there got wind of this.’

  Bell nodded. ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘They were on to him, which is why I’m here talking to you.’

  ‘Shit. Like I say, there’s a lot of money at stake.’

  ‘Billions, right?’

  ‘Billions indeed. Tens of them.’

  ‘Anyone who he—’

  ‘What, anyone who wanted to kill him? No, Simon. They’re all business or technology people. They’re not the type to hire a dark web assassin.’

  ‘Sure? Even with billions at stake?’

  Bell crumpled against the door. ‘No.’

  ‘So what have you got?’

  ‘You know I shouldn’t tell you anything.’ Bell sighed. ‘But I know that you won’t listen, you’ll keep badgering me, you’ll speak to Julian, and eventually I’ll have to tell you. Okay, so thanks to Damon’s work, we’ve got wind of some illegal operations there. There’s a lot of Saudi and Chinese financing we know about, which is fine. All fits with Boris’s strategy for this country. But there was a big financial hole in the ownership structure. Thanks to Damon’s information, we’ve traced it to offshore businesses owned by Russians.’

  ‘That’s not dodgy, per se.’

  ‘No, but these ones are. The Russian mafia kind, using the business to turn their ill-gotten gains into legitimate money through Travis.’

  Fenchurch could see that as a possible motive. And MO. Dodgy Russian gangsters fed up of getting the run-around from Damon, taking the law into their own hands. ‘You got any names?’

  ‘I’ll need to get someone on it, Simon. Top priority now.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Fenchurch smiled. ‘One thing that’s come up is that Damon was selling his Travis stake.’

  Bell’s mouth hung open. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I have my sources.’

  ‘Damon was working with the tactical guys and that came up. But there was an overlap with my strategic investigation, so we spoke to him. He quickly became a key witness.’

  ‘So he was selling his stake?’

  ‘Right. Getting out before the business went belly up, or before they went public. Selling for millions now, rather than tens of millions next year. All because of his gambling debts.’

  ‘Who was he in debt to?’

  ‘Well, one of the avenues we’ve got is that we received word of someone using Travis to launder cash and distribute drugs.’

  ‘Damon told you?’

  ‘Correct. This individual owns several illicit bookmaking firms, both online and old-fashioned bricks and mortar. If he acquired Damon’s stake, it would help him, both with legitimising his business and with gaining influence inside Travis. That would help him to expand these operations.’

  ‘Was he trying to acquire it?’

  ‘Word on the grapevine is, yes. He was. Very much so. Turns out those debts were going to be swapped for his stake.’

  ‘You’re going to tell me it’s Younis, aren’t you?’

  Bell shut his eyes and nodded. ‘Your number one fan, Simon.’ He sighed yet again. ‘Trouble is, Simon, he won’t speak to me.’

  8

  The trouble with prison chairs is they were all bolted into the floor, meaning it was impossible to get into anything like a comfortable position. Fenchurch sat back in the chair.

  Part of his discomfort was how much manspreading Bell was doing. Legs at right angles, and his left was jigging up and down, and every so often it would bump against Fenchurch. Like just now. And he couldn’t predict when.

  ‘You okay, Jason?’

  ‘Hardly.’

  ‘Because I’m here?’

  ‘Partly.’

  ‘Look, I put this arsehole away. He’s got a—’

  The door opened and a guard stepped in, rattling his keys.

  While Younis wasn’t exactly the most-deadly inmate at Belmarsh, he still needed three guards on him at all times. Fenchurch wondered how many of them were on his payroll.

  ‘Oooh, I’m getting double-teamed today.’ Dimitri Younis raised his arms to show he was clear, then ambled over to the seats. A slight limp in his left leg, maybe from an attack in the showers, but maybe just an aggressive prison football challenge. He eased himself down and smiled, that reptilian menace not far from the surface. Somehow, he’d been allowed to restore a couple of rings to the row of piercings above his eyes. His hair had grown back since Fenchurch had last seen him, hiding that network of scars. ‘Morning, Fenchy my love.’ He shifted his gaze between Fenchurch and Bell. ‘We having a threesome here?’

  Fenchurch gave a broad smile. ‘Can be arranged.’

  ‘What I wouldn’t give for that.’ Younis rolled his eyes. ‘You should hear the squeaking in my bed as I pull myself off into a dirty sock every night, imagining it’s your luscious mouth. You’ve got such gorgeous lips.’

  Fenchurch let himself laugh. Playing along was the way to win here. Despite everything Younis had done to him and to others, he was still a lead who might help them discover the truth. No matter how badly Fenchurch’s stomach was churning.

  But Younis seemed more interested in Bell. ‘You a giver or a taker, Jason?’

  Bell’s eyes widened. ‘A what?’

  ‘When you’re having sex with a fella, do you give it,’ Younis thrust his hips forward, nudging against the table leg, ‘or do you take it?’ He stood up slightly to bend over.

  ‘I…’ Bell coughed. ‘I’m not sure what to say to that.’

  Didn’t take a forensic psychologist to figure out why Bell was having no joy with him. If you don’t like the rules, don’t play the bloody game.

  But a big part of Fenchurch enjoyed
seeing Bell squirming. Besides, a fresh twist on the “good cop/bad cop” dynamic could sometimes work wonders.

  And Younis was, if nothing else, an equal opportunities pervert. ‘Tell me you’ve never sucked a cock.’

  ‘No! I’ve got four children.’

  ‘Doesn’t stop some fellas.’

  ‘Well, I’m not really into gay sex, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Okay, but when you’re in the sack with Mrs Bell, Jason, and you’re trying for a fifth little bugger, do you like her to go on top?’

  ‘I…’ Bell was floundering. As good as he was with Loftus and other senior officers, he’d been lucky to get to DCI the administrative route rather than through police work. ‘Look, Mr Younis, we—’

  ‘Call me Dimitri.’

  ‘Okay, Dimitri, we—’

  ‘Nah, let’s settle for Mr Younis.’ He flashed his eyebrows at Fenchurch. ‘This one here can call me whatever he likes, but me and you ain’t there yet.’

  Fenchurch soaked up the eye contact. He didn’t know when, or how it was possible, but one of Younis’s eyes had changed colour. He couldn’t think which one. The left was blue, the right a light brown. How was that possible to change so late in life? Maybe someone had hit him in here. ‘Dimitri, we—’

  And Younis was back to Bell. ‘See when you’re shagging Mrs Bell, do you think you’re shagging anyone else?’

  Bell sat back and grabbed the folds of flab through his shirt. ‘I bet she does.’

  Younis leaned back, roaring with laughter.

  ‘Dimitri, we’re here to ask you a few questions. And I have to say I’m impressed, actually, by your latest efforts.’

  ‘Tell me more, Fenchy.’

  ‘Every time I deal with you, there’s always some new grift you’ve been up to. Or an old one we haven’t heard about.’

  ‘Which one are we talking about here?’

  ‘Gambling. That’s a new one, yeah?’

  ‘But it ain’t illegal.’

  ‘No, you’re right. It ain’t illegal for you to take money from punters for a correct score bet on West Ham versus Newcastle, is it? And it ain’t illegal for punters to rack up massive debts to you.’