Dead Man's Shoes (DI Fenchurch Book 7)

by Ed James

  Fenchurch tried to weigh it all up in his head. What he’d seen, what he’d heard, what he thought. He’d spoken to two of the three key players. Clive Taylor and Barney Richardson. But he was missing the third cog in the wheel.

  He leaned back against the window and it was like the rain was drumming into his shoulders. ‘When we spoke to Dawn Mulholland, sir, she didn’t seem convinced by the conviction.’

  Ashkani was looking at him, probably surprised to hear him say that name without spitting afterwards. Maybe more upset that she hadn’t heard about the meeting from either party until now.

  Fenchurch was caught in the crossfire of an old case, one he wasn’t even in the country for, and these two chancers, who were busy covering their arses. He sat down behind his desk again. ‘Dawn suggested I do my own digging, speak to people. And I have. And to be honest, this whole thing feels thin.’

  Loftus sat there, shaking his head. ‘Simon, you’ve not seen the evidence, you’ve not spoken to the—’

  ‘I have, sir. Two of them anyway. But I need to speak to Kent himself. The alleged killer. Then I can make up my own mind on this.’

  Loftus started buttoning up his jacket. ‘I should be there, then.’

  ‘No, sir. As the original SIO, you have to be excluded.’

  Loftus didn’t look too pleased to be dictated to by an underling, but then he didn’t have much of a choice.

  Fenchurch shifted his gaze between Loftus and Sally. ‘Meanwhile, I suggest you two use your darkest of dark arts to speak to Liam Sharpe’s editor and find out what the hell evidence he has.’

  21

  Second time that day that Fenchurch had visited Belmarsh. Strange as it was to be sitting in the presence of a convicted murderer, one who’d shown no remorse or even offered a defence, that his security was looser than that of Younis when they’d visited that morning was telling. Just one guard outside the room, and the sort of casual type who did the job for the money, rather than a power trip.

  Bottom line, the prison warden didn’t see James Kent as a threat.

  And it was easy to see why. He looked every inch the schoolteacher. Greying at the temples, with glasses that distorted his eyes down to tiny pinpricks. Maybe he was at the upper limit of corrective lenswear, but it looked like he wasn’t getting a lot of sleep. Almost four years since he’d been sentenced, and the magnitude of his crime still seemed to weigh heavy.

  Fenchurch had seen enough murderers to know that there was mostly a point where they accepted their crimes and were ready to start considering their debt to society, if not to repay it.

  James Kent was pretty far from the path. A professional life teaching in a private school in Hampstead wasn’t going to train anyone in how to deal with the secure wing in a prison like this.

  Fenchurch sat back and cracked his knuckles. ‘But you didn’t plead guilty.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Why?’

  Kent shrugged.

  ‘Because you were innocent?’

  Another shrug.

  ‘Strange how you didn’t really put up much of a defence, despite pleading not guilty.’

  The third shrug came with a sigh.

  ‘Very few who are truly guilty will plead that way. There’s always some angle. I mean, some guys do it despite being caught red-handed, hoping their expensive lawyer can swindle the jury and get them off. Maybe get a few of the worse charges dropped, or a lowered sentence. Anything like that. And some are just in complete denial about what they’ve done.’

  Kent sniffed.

  ‘But some people plead not guilty because they’re genuinely innocent. They didn’t do the crime, and they sure as hell can’t do the time. The right thing to do would be to plead guilty, to let the victim’s family and friends get closure, start their grief with secure knowledge that justice has been served. But some psychopathic dickheads who just don’t care will plead not guilty. Sure, they killed him or her. They know it, the evidence shows it, but they’re lashing out at the system, as much as anything. They know they’re screwed, but they want everyone to suffer. For them, it’s not just about the victim, it’s about making everyone suffer. The family, those wives or husbands, those fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters, sons and daughters. Friends, work colleagues, university course mates. Not to mention the cops who had the temerity to actually catch you, interview you, your family and your friends. And the prosecutors like Sally McGovern who spend their time building a rock-solid case. And even then, you still don’t plead guilty because all you want to do is to make people suffer. To inflict pain on people, either physically like your victims or emotionally on everyone else.’

  ‘Don’t think I didn’t notice what you did there.’

  ‘Enlighten me.’

  ‘You switched from third person to second.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t do well in English at school. My written reports are perfunctory at best. Care to enlighten me?’

  ‘You were talking about “them’. “Some people” who pled not guilty. Then turned it to “you” and accused me of being a psychopath who just wants to watch the world burn.’

  ‘Aren’t you?’

  ‘No, I’m not. I’m very much not.’

  ‘So, you’re an innocent who didn’t get a fair trial? You got railroaded into a murder conviction?’

  They lost him to staring at the wall.

  ‘The reason I’m here, James, is because I’m the Senior Investigating Officer on a murder case. Almost a double murder, but the other is stuck at attempted murder.’ Fenchurch waited for a reaction, but didn’t get one. ‘Well, it’s not quite a double murder, as one victim survived. His throat was cut, but he managed to escape. We found him, still clinging on to life, but he was in a coma. If he manages to pull through, it’s very likely he’ll suffer long-term brain damage. Hell of a way to go out. Suspect he’ll wish the killer succeeded.’

  Kent shook his head. ‘Are you trying to intimidate me into helping you?’

  ‘Mate, I’m just here because it touches on your case. The second victim I’m talking about, the one who’s still alive, his name is Tom Wiley.’

  ‘And that’s supposed to mean something to me?’

  ‘Does it?’

  ‘You know how many people I interacted with on an annual basis as a teacher? I had ten classes every year. Twenty kids per class. That’s a lot of parents. If I’ve upset one of them, well that’s what happens. Some kids just aren’t good enough. And some parents can’t accept that.’

  ‘He isn’t the parent of a kid at your school.’

  ‘So who is he?’

  ‘He’s the father of Micah Wiley.’

  Another shrug. ‘I’ve no idea who that is.’

  ‘You’ve honestly never heard of him?’

  ‘Soldier? Sailor? Tinker? Tailor? Footballer? Pop star? Banker? I’ve no idea. Sorry.’

  ‘He was murdered in August 2014.’

  Kent looked over at Fenchurch.

  ‘The day before Hermione Tayl—’

  ‘Woah, woah, woah!’ Kent raised his hands. ‘If you’re going to try and pin serial killing on me, I should have my lawyer here.’

  ‘Want me to call him?’

  ‘Do I need to?’

  ‘Well, it’d help to know if you’re a serial killer.’

  ‘In this place, you do a lot of reading and learning. Criminal psychology is a subject not exactly close to my heart, but it’s all around me. The people I interact with in my daily life are all fascinating subjects. I mean, we’re all capable of anything. You, me, her. We all delude ourselves, tell ourselves lies to justify anything, lies that we believe to be true. Some just scale that up to rape or murder. And some keep scaling it up and up. Do you think I’m a serial killer?’

  Fenchurch looked deep into Kent’s eyes. He’d met a couple when he worked in America, real nasty psychopaths, the kind they make films about. And he just didn’t know, but he didn’t want to let Kent off the hook so easily. He was clearly wo
rking an angle here, so he let him have it. ‘Persuade me you’re not.’

  ‘Most murders are by people known to the victim and I was convicted of Minnie’s murder because I had an existing relationship with her. I’d taught her since she was thirteen, so if I was a serial killer, she’d be my first, right? Most serial killers have a cooling-off period. So, logically, I’d build up to her, then savour the experience, and the cycle would start up, but it would take months, maybe years before I plucked up the courage to do it again.’

  ‘That’s one way of looking at it.’

  ‘What’s another?’

  ‘A lot of serial killers choose to build up to the killing of someone in their life by first murdering strangers.’

  ‘For instance?’

  ‘Well, you could’ve been killing prostitutes in East London because they reminded you of Hermione. You might’ve had a crush on her, or you might’ve just hated her. But either way, you’d kill them to build up to her death.’

  ‘You got much experience?’

  ‘Some.’

  ‘Well, that is insightful.’

  ‘Not as interesting as your use of Minnie.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘During your sermon on the mount there, you didn’t call her Hermione. Minnie.’

  ‘That was just what she wanted to be called. If you, say, wanted to shorten Simon to Sam, which has happened, then I’d respect that. Just because the school roll said Hermione, if she wanted to be called Minnie, then she was called Minnie.’

  ‘Is it true that you sent messages to Hermione on Schoolbook?’

  ‘That wasn’t me.’

  The first denial, rather than obfuscating through theory and cold analysis. ‘You don’t have an account on there?’

  ‘No, I mean that I can’t explain those messages. It’s… It’s entirely within the realms of the possible that I sent them, but…’

  ‘But?’

  ‘Maybe I sent them when I was under the influence.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘But it’s also possible that someone hacked me.’

  ‘Oh, that old chestnut.’

  ‘I’m not trying to play you here.’

  ‘What are you trying to do?’

  ‘It’s… That’s all I can offer. I don’t remember sending the messages, but it doesn’t mean that I didn’t. They came from my home, I know that. The trouble is, you’ll know that IP addresses are related to your home and not necessarily to you. Someone could’ve hacked my computer, taken it over remotely, or broken in during the night. Anything is possible.’

  ‘And yet incredibly unlikely.’

  ‘I’d love to offer a defence or an explanation, believe me. I lie here at night trying to remember things, but I’m an alcoholic. It’s how I coped with the stresses of my life. I married young, but it lasted barely a year. Then I was faced with an eternity of emotional emptiness. So I started to drink every night, then it was making sure I was home for the wine delivery every week. Many different vendors, and their cheapest wines. I was a volume drinker. Then it was whisky, but still in quantity. And it was easier and cheaper, but it gave me such horrific blackouts. And that’s why I can’t remember. A bottle a night. Sometimes more.’

  ‘Does that explain all the others?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hermione wasn’t the first, was she?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Mr Kent, you’re a schoolteacher with a history of allegations of improper conduct from many female students over the years.’

  Kent shut his eyes.

  ‘You want to talk to me about it? Confession is good for the soul.’

  ‘Weren’t you listening to me? There’s nothing to confess. I can’t remember big chunks of my life. I blacked out most nights. I could’ve been in bed, asleep, or I could’ve been murdering prostitutes. I can’t remember.’

  Fenchurch didn’t want to point out that most black-out drunks would struggle to open a door, let alone kill someone. But then again, he’d seen what some could do. Men who were probably technically sleepwalking, capable of doing something they’d have found impossible in their waking lives. ‘Why didn’t you offer an alibi for her death?’

  ‘Because Minnie had reported me to the school board. The previous night, there was a hearing after school, and I was put on suspension. Then I went home and got drunk. And I stayed drunk. When I came to, it was three days later and I had six empty bottles of whisky. I remembered none of it.’

  ‘So why didn’t you say anything?’

  ‘Because… Look, I’ve had anger issues since my youth. It’s the reason for my divorce. I’m ashamed of it, and of myself. So it’s entirely possible that I could’ve approached her about this whole farrago and… And accidentally killed her. That’s why I didn’t try to defend myself.’

  Fenchurch focused back on Kent, who was digging his thumbs into his temples. ‘So have you been speaking to Liam?’

  ‘Liam?’

  ‘Sharpe. He’s a journalist.’

  ‘Why would I?’

  The door clattered open and the guard stormed back in, but stepped aside.

  Dalton Unwin charged in. ‘Get out of here!’ He pointed at Fenchurch, and his arm was like a sausage, bursting out of the casing, his three-piece suit stretched in all sorts of ways. The guy had put on weight, but Fenchurch couldn’t decide if it was muscle or fat, probably a mixture of both. ‘This is unconscionable.’

  Sally followed him in, hands up. ‘Steady there, cowboy. This interview has been approved by Mr Kent’s solicitor.’

  ‘I’m his solicitor and I haven’t approved anything.’

  Sally frowned. ‘I spoke to Anna Xiang an hour ago.’

  Unwin huffed out a bigger sigh than anything his alleged client had so far managed. ‘And therein lies the rub, doesn’t it? Anna is refusing to acknowledge the notice of termination of her services.’

  ‘Why would that be?’

  ‘Because she believes my client owes her on an invoice. It was settled. I’ve got the transactional history from Mr Kent’s bank account and I’ve paid it again myself. She’s playing games. End of story.’

  Sally rolled her eyes. ‘Sorry, Dalton, but you’ll have to file a related notice with our office if you wish to be informed of such matters.’

  Unwin was nodding. ‘Sent on Thursday by courier. Signed for, therefore it’s been served. You need to process such documents as a matter of urgency.’

  ‘We live in turbulent times. I have no control over administrative matters.’

  ‘Just get out and leave me with my client.’

  Sally looked over at Fenchurch and nodded at the door. ‘Let’s not irritate him any further, Simon. Come on.’ She grabbed her briefcase and left the room.

  Fenchurch took his time getting up, then stopped by Unwin and leaned in, close enough to taste his cologne. ‘Has Liam spoken to you?’

  Unwin took one lingering look at Fenchurch, then jabbed a finger at the door. ‘Get out!’

  ‘That’s a fairly telling response.’ Fenchurch held his gaze for long enough to get a final sigh, then left the room.

  Sally was halfway up the corridor, fiddling with her phone. She looked up at his approach and put it away. ‘You get anything out of that?’

  ‘A fair amount.’ Fenchurch grunted. ‘But I’m still none the wiser about whether he did it or not. The fact he’s still in denial, well, I’ve seen that all too often.’

  Sally shivered, and held herself tight. ‘It’s a common trait amongst the psychotic and the psychopathic. Those who are unable to accept responsibility for their actions. So they deny they even did them.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean he’s either psychotic or psychopathic, though.’

  ‘Well, he’s been tested, and he’s borderline on both. Any further on the psychotic score and he’d be in Broadmoor and not here in sunny Belmarsh.’

  ‘Look, I’m not debating that side of things. It’s just that… Just because he has no recollection, doesn’t mean he
did it. And it doesn’t mean he didn’t do it, either.’

  ‘Aside from the alcohol, we had a criminal psychologist get up on the stand and testify that sometimes the execution of the crime itself can trigger a psychotic break. In such cases, where subjects have sufficient dissonance from reality, they can actually pass a polygraph test. Not here, obviously, but the Yanks love it.’

  Again, Fenchurch thought back to his time in Florida, where he saw as many lie detector tests as had burritos. ‘So, what do you think Dalton Unwin’s got?’

  ‘That’s the big issue, isn’t it? Narcissism, possibly psychopathy.’

  ‘I mean evidence-wise.’

  ‘Oh. Well, Liam could have presented a smoking gun for some other suspect. Or he could have nothing. We just have to wait and see.’

  ‘I don’t like it one bit, though. Dealt with Unwin a few times. I mean, he’s a decent guy and some of the cases he does with his Liberal Justice firm truly deserve their justice, but I hate how much time he spends defending people I want to prosecute for murders.’

  His phone thrummed in his pocket. No music this time as it was muted, but if there was, it’d be The Who. “Don’t Get Fooled Again”.

  Loftus calling…

  ‘Sir, we’re just fin—’

  ‘Are you with Sally?’ Sounded like Loftus was walking somewhere, and fast judging by how out of breath he was.

  ‘I am, why?’

  ‘Need you to drag her over to the Old Bailey. Kent’s conviction for Hermione’s murder is… it’s bloody falling apart. The judge is hearing Dalton bloody Unwin’s motion in an hour.’

  22

  Of all the places in the world, Court Number One at the Old Bailey was pretty low down the list of where Fenchurch would like to be at four o’clock on a freezing, rainy Friday. Aside from prisons like Belmarsh, the other courts were probably the only things lower down, mainly because the seats inside this one had more legroom.