Dead Man's Shoes (DI Fenchurch Book 7)

by Ed James

  ‘Wasn’t James Kent a teacher at your school?’

  ‘Yeah, he was my teacher too. Sick bastard.’ Barney looked over at him. ‘Listen, there was this one time, that Tom guy wasn’t alone when he hassled me. He was with some guy he called Ed.’

  ‘Ed? You’re sure?’

  ‘He said something like, “No, Ed, this kid knows what happened to my boy.” But I don’t know him.’

  ‘Would you recognise him if you saw him?’

  Barney shrugged. ‘Maybe. He was… is Black the right term? I think his mum was maybe Jamaican?’

  ‘Okay.’ Ashkani was already on her phone, her thumbs hammering the screen. She held it out to Barney. ‘Is this him?’

  Barney nodded. ‘That’s him.’

  Ashkani showed the phone screen to Fenchurch. It was Edward Summers.

  16

  Riding the lift up again, the only difference outside was it looked slightly wetter and darker. How did it get to be one o’clock? ‘Quick thinking back there, Uzma.’

  Ashkani was shaking out her umbrella, splattering the window with a fine mist of droplets. ‘What was?’

  ‘Finding his photograph.’

  ‘The shit people put on social media, sir, you wouldn’t believe. But that was his LinkedIn profile.’

  The lifts opened with a swooshing sound. Even more like Star Trek here.

  Fenchurch strode across to the Travis reception desk.

  On the upside, Bridge was standing there with a lump of a DC.

  On the downside, she was shaking her head at them. ‘Summers isn’t here, sir.’

  ‘Where is he then?’

  ‘Left about ten minutes ago.’

  ‘Bloody typical.’ Fenchurch rested his fingers on the green glass desk. ‘Did he say where he was going?’

  ‘Mr Mukherjee here doesn’t know.’

  The receptionist was nodding along with her.

  Bridge’s expression darkened like the weather outside. ‘I’ve got units at the home address we’ve got on file, sir, but he’s moved. No forwarding address.’

  And it just got better.

  Fenchurch leaned over the desk to the receptionist. ‘Can you get me his new address?’

  ‘I can’t, sorry.’

  ‘No, you can. And you will.’

  ‘But we’ve got a strict data protection policy here.’

  ‘Mr Summers is now a suspect in a murder case.’ Stretching it maybe, but he wasn’t a million miles away. ‘Trust me, son, you don’t want to be the guy who could’ve stopped another death.’

  Bridge leaned in to him. ‘Easy, sir.’

  But the receptionist turned to his computer. ‘I really shouldn’t be doing this.’

  ‘You get any flak, son, send your bosses to me.’ Fenchurch slid a business card across the desk. ‘When did he move?’

  The receptionist rolled his eyes. ‘He’s been moaning about his mortgage for months. It’s been extremely tricky for him, won’t stop talking. But he got the keys two weeks ago. And now he won’t stop banging on about how busy he is in here so he can’t furnish the place. And his bloody cat, never hear the end of that.’

  ‘You got the address or not?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ He scribbled something on a Post-it. ‘Here you go.’

  ‘Thanks. I appreciate it.’ Fenchurch took the paper without looking, and paced over to the lift, sticking his foot in the door to stop it disappearing. ‘Lisa, Uzma and I will head round to this address. The fact Summers left work at lunchtime, well that’s curious. I need you to stay with this bloke, okay?’

  ‘What am I looking for?’

  ‘Get the CCTV, find out when he left. And if he went.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘And see if he was here last night. He told us he was in the office, but let’s just say I’m not too keen on believing that.’

  ‘On it, sir. I’ll check if he nipped out for a smoke or a pizza or to kill someone, whatever.’

  ‘Thanks, Lisa. And call in backup for me. I think we’re going to need it.’

  Fenchurch was out of his car first, though the rain was hitting him like he was back in Glasgow. He crossed over the junction and got a good view down to the new buildings on the Thames at Wapping. Smaller towers than at Canary Wharf or in the City, but still, yet more towers in London. He knew these streets well, from cycling and running around them as a kid, to walking and running around them as a beat cop in his early days in uniform. And the address on the Post-it was in one of the posher houses in the area. Must be where the professional staff at the shipyards and docks lived.

  Fenchurch looked up and down the road. Not far from the brewery. Next street over, in fact. Kids growing up inside the house would have attended the school, unless their parents sent them somewhere private or religious.

  The lights were on inside, though, even now. So they were in luck. Maybe.

  His phone thrummed in his pocket, but AC/DC’s blast of power chords was soon lost to wind and rain as he got it out, then answered it and put to his ear. ‘Lisa, are you getting anywhere?’

  ‘Sorry, sir, it’s complicated.’

  ‘What isn’t?’

  ‘The security here aren’t so keen on sharing, but I’ve twisted a few arms and they’ve pulled up the CCTV for me. Edward Summers definitely left the building half an hour ago.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘What about last night?’

  ‘Well that’s the bit they’re being dicks about, sir.’

  ‘Get on it.’ Fenchurch was halfway up the path, following Ashkani. ‘And have you got any sign of my backup yet?’

  ‘Two cars at the brewery are on their way.’

  ‘Thanks, Lisa. Keep me posted.’

  ‘Sure thing, sir.’ And she was gone.

  Ashkani rang the bell. ‘Doesn’t look like he’s here, either.’

  Fenchurch heard something, though. Sirens, maybe? Was it inside the flat or on the street? Backup or something else? He couldn’t tell. He stepped up to the door and listened hard.

  A wild miaow burst out from somewhere inside. A trapped cat?

  He couldn’t tell.

  ‘Mr Summers, it’s the police.’ Fenchurch knocked on the wood.

  The door rattled open.

  The wooden floorboards were dotted with a trail of blood, leading into the house.

  ‘Get that backup here now, Uzma! And get an ambulance!’ Fenchurch snapped out his baton and stepped inside.

  In the middle of the hallway, Edward Summers was on his knees, leaning over Tom Wiley’s body, his hands around his throat.

  As damaged as his knees were these days, Fenchurch still had enough power in the old bones to clear the distance in four bounds. He didn’t even have to use the baton to take Summers down. The tight grip to his biker jacket was enough to haul him away from the body.

  Ashkani was crouching over Wiley, mobile pressed against her head. ‘No, let me check.’

  Fenchurch flipped Summers over and snapped his cuffs onto his wrist. ‘Edward Summers, I am arresting you for the attempted murder of Thomas Wiley.’ He applied the other cuff, just that bit too tight. ‘You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court.’ He eased himself up to standing. ‘Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’ He pulled Summers up to standing now too. ‘Do you understand?’

  Summers wouldn’t look round, just stared at the dried blood on the floorboards. ‘Will he be okay?’

  ‘Simon?’

  Fenchurch grabbed the cold leather of his biker jacket. ‘What do you expect? You were strangling him!’

  Summers shut his eyes now.

  ‘Simon!’

  Fenchurch let go and looked around at Ashkani. ‘What?’

  ‘He’s alive. His pulse is really weak, but he’s still breathing.’

  ‘Is there an ambulance on the way?’

  Ashkani nodded. ‘They’ll be twenty minutes.’ She snarled. ‘I d
on’t think he has twenty minutes.’

  Fenchurch examined Wiley’s body. Not quite a corpse, but not far off. Pale skin, eyes shut, sweating. And covered in blood. No socks, no shoes.

  Wiley was tall, but he was also thin, barely any muscle to him. Easy enough to carry.

  ‘Stay with Summers until backup arrives, then take him to Leman Street.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Fenchurch crouched down, cradling one hand behind Wiley’s neck and another under his knees, then pushed up until he was carrying him. He retraced his long strides back to the front door, feeling like Wiley weighed more with each step.

  17

  Back in the Royal London Hospital, and Fenchurch could barely breathe, let alone think.

  Everything was a blur.

  The closest to the crime scene, maybe, but it had so many grim memories for Fenchurch over the years. He looked across the car park below, seeing that his car door was still open. An orderly wasn’t looking too pleased with it.

  ‘Simon? Are you okay?’

  Hearing Abi’s voice down the phone line was like swimming in the warmest sea, like feeling the sunshine on his tanned skin again. His hands and shirt were covered in blood, but nowhere near as bad as he’d expected. Just as well he had a supply of replacements back at the station, ready for him after his shower.

  ‘I’m pretty far from okay, love.’ He managed to take that breath. ‘But it’s nothing I haven’t seen a million times before.’

  ‘Simon, I’ve heard this so many times from you.’

  ‘Abi, I’m okay.’ He turned away from the window and got a fresh blast of that cleaning smell, like someone was mixing the acids together in the corridor with him. ‘How’s the holiday?’

  ‘It’s not a holiday without you, Simon.’

  ‘I really need a break, Ab.’

  ‘I know you do. But my parents are being really annoying…’

  ‘Right, well, I’ve got Jon Nelson and his bloody flu to thank for not being able to come. He better be dying, I swear.’

  ‘Sure he’ll never hear the end of it. The kids are having a whale of a time.’

  Fenchurch didn’t want to press on Chloe’s earlier text, about Abi being a nightmare.

  No, he really wanted to, but it just didn’t feel like the right time. It never did.

  ‘That’s good. Really good.’

  ‘In a lot of ways, it’s like we’re getting her childhood back.’

  That lump in his throat was proving almost impossible to shift. ‘I wish I was there.’ His voice sounded like someone else’s, someone struggling to speak, struggling to breathe. ‘That’s… I’m sorry I’m not there.’

  ‘We all miss you.’

  ‘It’s just a weekend.’ Fenchurch felt that sting in his chest again. Different to the usual pain, the lingering one. A new flavour of regret, maybe regret at something he’d actually decided to do, instead of regret at not stopping something happening. A subtle difference, but it felt as real as the walls and floor. ‘Part of me wishes I hadn’t taken this job, Abi.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I’m… I’m struggling with keeping at a distance, you know? I want to do people’s jobs for them and I can’t get out of my own way.’

  ‘You’re the best at some things, right? Focus on doing them, and the ones you’re not good at, get someone who is good at it to do them.’

  ‘That’s delegation, but I need to delegate the act of delegation to someone who is actually good at it.’

  ‘It’s an art form, Simon.’

  ‘And I feel like I’m painting with sounds here.’

  She laughed. ‘You doing okay otherwise?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Fenchurch didn’t want to mention how much he really missed the three of them. How empty their flat felt without the noise of three other people. ‘I’m keeping myself busy. Well, Loftus is keeping me busy, but that’s another story.’

  ‘You’d better clear out all those bottles of wine before we get back.’

  ‘Haven’t touched a drop, Ab.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Ask old Quentin next door when you get back.’

  ‘Might just do that.’

  ‘Listen, Ab, there’s something—’

  The door to Wiley’s room opened and Dr Lucy Mulkalwar squelched out into the corridor. She looked up at Fenchurch from a gap of over a foot, her eyebrows raised.

  ‘Look, I better go, love.’ Fenchurch put his phone away. ‘Sorry, just checking in with—’

  ‘Aye, aye. Always the same with you, isn’t it?’ Dr Mulkalwar folded her arms, her Glaswegian accent not softening any with the years spent in east London. ‘Shall I just get to the point, or is there someone else you want to talk to?’

  Fenchurch tried to disarm her with a smile, but she still seemed loaded up with nukes. ‘How is he?’

  ‘How do you think? His throat’s been slashed wide open and he’s had no medical care for eighteen hours.’

  ‘But he’s still alive?’

  ‘Aye, just, but he was in a coma when you found him. It could be an embolism, and I mean air in his brain, or he’s suffered ischemia due to the lack of blood supply. It’s similar to a stroke, but it would mean his body’s put him in a coma.’

  ‘Is he going to pull through?’

  ‘In either case, the chances are low. I wouldn’t be banking on him waking up and identifying his killer right at the end of your case, put it that way. If he does come around, we’re talking weeks. But the chances are good that he could survive, albeit with some mental deficits.’

  So, Fenchurch was getting no answers out of her. Which really didn’t feel good. ‘Do you think Edward Summers was trying to kill him?’

  Mulkalwar stared off into space. ‘Hard to say.’

  ‘Is it possible?’

  ‘Right, it’s possible, sure.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Well, Mr Wiley’s been attacked, stabbed with a knife, and left for dead.’

  ‘Definitely a knife?’

  ‘A hundred percent, aye.’

  ‘Can you speak to Dr Pratt, because we have a—’

  ‘Aye, aye, already on it. He’s heading over to compare notes and give Mr Wiley a once-over. Not often he gets to see a “live corpse” as he put it. Weird bastard, if you ask me. But you’re the cop here, why don’t you tell me what you think happened and I can tell you what’s not worth progressing?’

  A lot to process, and a ton of noise. Hard to tell just how much signal was in there. ‘Two possibilities. First, Summers was trying to cover over a failed murder attempt. Second, he was trying to save him.’

  ‘You think this guy was attacked at this brewery, right?’

  ‘It’s just around the corner, yeah.’

  ‘So you’re thinking, attacked downstairs, probably after the other one, then he—’

  ‘Why after?’

  ‘Well, it stands to reason, right? Kill one, then you fail with the second. Easy peasy. But if you fail with the first? Bad news, because victim two is watching or maybe he’s just listening and he’s got a chance to escape.’

  ‘You should think about joining the Met.’

  ‘Aye, you lot couldn’t afford me.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Okay, so you think that he escaped after this failed attempt, and he runs off up the stairs. My question as an amateur sleuth is, if Summers is the killer, why did he take the boy round to his house, so he could leave him there, go to work, then leave and have a second go?’

  The noise was getting louder and more chaotic. ‘Good point.’

  ‘Why wait that long?’ Mulkalwar shrugged. ‘You lot barged in on him strangling Mr Wiley, aye?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, was he strangling him, or was he actually putting pressure on the jugular vein to stop the bleeding?’

  Fenchurch didn’t have an answer, but he had the lump in his throat again.

  Edward Summers was lying acro
ss Tom Wiley’s body, and anything could’ve been happening.

  Fenchurch’s instincts had kicked in and he separated the men, then he arrested Summers, then carried Wiley’s body to his car, and drove like an arsehole to get the dying man to the hospital.

  ‘Okay, so you’re saying my assumption was wrong? Summers was trying to save Wiley’s life?’

  Mulkalwar had a hand on the door. ‘Ask yourself, Inspector, how did he get there, bleeding heavily like that? And why there?’ She slipped through the door, leaving him in the corridor with even more questions, and a lot fewer answers.

  Focus on what you can do.

  Fenchurch got out his phone and called Reed.

  ‘Guv, I heard you—’

  ‘Kay, where are you?’

  ‘I’m with Francine Wiley.’ She gasped. ‘Do I need to sit her down with a sugary cup of tea?’

  ‘He’s not dead yet. Can you bring her here? The Royal London.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘And if you can get her talking about why her husband would go to Summers’s home…?’

  ‘On it, guv.’

  Turned out the only shirt Fenchurch actually had in his office was an old one, no longer white, more a beige.

  Could’ve been worse, it could’ve been pink, like the Moon Walk T-shirt Edward Summers was wearing. His own one, though, fetched by one of Ashkani’s team. Nice to see he supported worthy causes. And the colour suited him way more than Fenchurch’s shirt suited him. Summers looked so bloody tired. Fenchurch had sympathy for him, and wished he was in the room with him, asking the questions. Instead, the feed from the interview room filled the monitor of his computer.

  Edwards Summers looked completely broken by the five minutes he’d spent in the holding cell. The world turned, and he just sat on the bench, staring at his laceless shoes.

  Fenchurch collapsed back into his office chair. Time was, this wasn’t his seat. Like at the crime scene, his life was filled with dead men’s shoes, and those of one man in particular, DCI Alan Docherty, the shoes Fenchurch currently wore. Which didn’t fit at all. Too tight, too narrow.

  Still, Fenchurch didn’t know what the hell to think. He’d seen with his own eyes Summers hunched over the body of Tom Wiley, and it definitely looked like he was strangling him.