by Ed James
ALSO BY ED JAMES
DC SCOTT CULLEN CRIME SERIES
Ghost in the Machine
Devil in the Detail
Fire in the Blood
Dyed in the Wool
Bottleneck
Windchill
Cowboys and Indians
DS DODDS CRIME SERIES
Snared
SUPERNATURE SERIES (writing as Edwin James)
Shot Through the Heart
Just Walking the Dead
DI FENCHURCH SERIES
The Hope That Kills
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2016 Ed James
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503938229
ISBN-10: 1503938220
Cover design by Stuart Bache
For Rich.
Contents
Day 1
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Day 2
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Day 3
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Day 4
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Afterword
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Day 1
Thursday, 21st April 2016
Chapter One
‘Oh, here we go.’ DI Simon Fenchurch pulled in on Upper Street, claiming the nearest space to Chilango. The raised-up pavement was busy with early evening diners and stressed commuters heading home. A couple were tucking into burritos outside the Day-Glo frontage, torn silver foil flashing in the setting sun. He glanced over to the passenger seat. ‘So, a chicken burrito, then, Mrs Fenchurch?’
Abi slumped back, the fading sunlight casting shadows over her face. She tugged her hair into a loose ponytail, just a few strands of grey compared with Fenchurch’s silver suedehead, then let it go with a shrug. Her smile, dimpled cheek and raised eyebrow, still sent shivers down his spine. She leaned over and kissed him on the lips. ‘It’s your choice, Simon.’
‘That means you’d rather get some pasta, right?’
‘No, Simon, I’m saying it’s your decision.’ The dimple puckered deeper. ‘So, go on, choose.’
‘You know how I hate choosing.’ Fenchurch clenched his jaw. A dirty red bus hissed at the stop just to their left, a car honking at some perceived infraction. ‘Chilangos, then you pick the film.’
‘Like there was ever any doubt.’ She opened the door and got out onto the road.
He followed her up the steps to the pavement level. ‘You’re sure you want a burrito?’
‘Learn to quit while you’re ahead, Simon.’ She strolled over and stopped just outside the Mexican, squinting at the bookshop next door. ‘I could do with another one of those cheap Moleskine clones, though.’
‘Get one, then.’
‘You sure?’ She let her handbag drop down and stared at the ground, frowning. ‘Get me a prawn burrito. Maybe a chicken one.’
‘Just get your book and I’ll wait.’ Fenchurch sat at the outside table and watched the world go by. His stomach wasn’t so much growling as screaming a death metal concert.
The deep-red sky promised another hot spring day tomorrow. A man next to him took a bite of burrito and got some foil snagged between his teeth, which his girlfriend found hilarious. The street lights flickered on, lighting up the row of elms or whatever they were. Little green buds on the branches, some even having the temerity to become leaves so early in the year. At the end, the Angel tube station spewed out another trainload. Heads down, sharp elbows out, headed for the M&S or Waitrose up the back street.
Movement caught his eye. No, more than that — body language.
A girl was hurrying across the road by Boots. Red jumper under a navy jacket, pulled tight. Blonde hair cut into a wedge — long on the left, tapering to stubble by the time it got to the opposite ear. Eyes darting around at the crowd passing her, the street, the shops, but mostly behind her.
Like someone was following.
Her gaze lingered on her phone, thumbs tapping at the screen. Another backwards look then she broke into a run, her shoulder bag bobbing up and down. Heading straight for Fenchurch.
Abi got in the way, stuffing a green carrier into her handbag. ‘Come on, Simon, let’s eat.’
Fenchurch was on his feet, stomping across the ground. ‘Wait here.’
Ahead of him, a blur of grey hoodie and black trackies on a bike bumped the kerb, getting a shout from a suited businessman talking on his mobile. Then up the wheelchair ramp to the higher level, silver wheels spinning, catching the nearby headlights.
The girl clocked his approach and darted towards a doorway.
Too late.
A flash of steel from a sharp blade glinting in the light.
The girl tumbled to the ground, desperate fingers clutching at her neck. Blood spilled through her useless hands, puddling onto the pavement slabs.
‘Stop!’ Fenchurch barged past shoppers and diners. Drums thundered in his head, drowning out the screaming.
The hoodie swivelled round to focus on him, like some monster from a horror film. Dark skin. Bloodshot eyes locking with Fenchurch. He started off, street lighting catching his face — just a kid, maybe sixteen at most. And he was gone, freewheeling down the ramp.
Fenchurch stopped beside the girl, tracking the cyclist on the pavement below.
Her eyes pleaded with him. ‘Help me.’
‘Simon?’ Abi’s bag skidded across the slabs, almost spinning through the growing pool of blood. ‘What the hell’s—’
Fenchurch grabbed her shoulders, scanning the street for the blur on the bike. There — just past the Superdry shop. A green l
ogo on his trackies, Everlast or something. ‘Stay with her.’
Abi gave a nod, her gaze on the girl as she fumbled in her bag. ‘I’ll call 999.’
‘Call Kay as well.’ Fenchurch set off, reaching into his jacket pocket for his Airwave. ‘Control, this is DI Simon Fenchurch in pursuit of an IC3 male on a bike. Suspect in a stabbing on Upper Street.’
The handset crackled with office chatter and the clattering of a keyboard. ‘Not got any reports—’
‘It’s just happened. Send as many units as you can to Upper Street. Now!’ Fenchurch stuffed the Airwave into his pocket and twisted into his Mondeo. He reversed back onto the road, the engine screaming out as loud as the sharp honks. Then he squealed off, wheels spinning.
Where was he?
Fenchurch cut across the path of a bus, following the trail of the bike. There he was, standing up on his pedals as he took a right at the Green, the tall trees still in winter mode.
Fenchurch caught up with him at the bend, almost touching his wheels. Kid didn’t even look round.
Ram him or don’t ram him?
The hood twisted round — the dark eyes locked on to Fenchurch, widening. The bike swung a right down the lane by the Winchester pub.
Fenchurch pumped the accelerator and swerved to the right. The left wing mirror took a whack as he mounted the pavement. Then he hit the tarmac and got going again.
Up ahead, the kid took another right instead of taking the one-way street, bobbing up onto the footpath and cutting along the pedestrian side of the roadworks.
Fenchurch stomped down on the accelerator and overtook him. He hauled the car left and lurched onto the pavement, just missing the wall.
Brakes screeched out, sounding like a banshee had broken free from hell. The front wheel clattered into the Mondeo’s hood. The cyclist flew over, Superman becoming Groucho Marx as he skidded along the concrete slabs.
Fenchurch tore out of the vehicle and grabbed hold of him, squeezing his fingers into his skinny arms.
‘Get off me, man!’ The kid wriggled, twisting his head away from Fenchurch. Bright eyes criss-crossed with rivers of red. Didn’t look like he’d slept in months. Steel-toed Timberlands crunched onto Fenchurch’s foot.
Fenchurch screamed. His grip slipped and the kid made a run for it, heavy feet thumping along the back street.
Fenchurch stretched out his toes and winced. His foot was already aching like he’d dropped a tractor on it. He set off at a fast hobble and crossed the road, managing to lengthen his stride. Then he jumped up the grass embankment to get some cover and a better view. The kid was maybe fifty metres away as he darted into the park, a thin strip of cherry blossom and tarmac surrounded by railings.
Fenchurch followed him in, weaving through ambling couples and dog walkers. A hipster talking on his oversized smartphone.
The kid was losing him now, the long strides of youth against cracking knees. He burst off to the right, towards the entrance shrouded by a metal fence.
Fenchurch lost him. ‘Shit!’ He pushed himself on, his aching foot screaming warnings back at him. He cut out of the park and stopped on the road, looking and listening, spinning around.
Fake Regency blocks of flats. More park. The canal. Shit, there was a tunnel near here somewhere, wasn’t there?
Where the hell was he?
Footsteps thundered behind him.
Fenchurch twisted round and spotted him again, that loping stride eating up the middle of the road. At least a block ahead.
How had he made up so much ground?
Fenchurch lost sight of the kid again around the curve of the street. Into the Airwave: ‘Control, this is DI Fenchurch. I’m on Vincent Terrace, requesting update on backup.’
‘Units responding to an incident on Upper Street.’
‘Send half of them to me, now!’ Fenchurch passed a pub on the right and clocked the kid again.
Same Everlast trackies, same hoodie. Beside the Transport for London bike stand, fifteen or so public bikes locked in. He rushed forward and pushed a student over, the preppy teenager getting caught up in the Boris bike. The kid snatched the bike up and shot off.
‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’ Fenchurch sprinted over the road and dived at him, aiming for his shoulders. He grabbed hold of the hoodie. It slipped out of his fingers. They tumbled backwards and something clattered to the ground. His old man’s knees crunched off the pavement, old man’s hands stopping the rest of him doing the same. He pushed himself up as his palms burnt.
The kid was on the bike, wobbling along the road. He steadied himself with a foot and shot forwards.
A cyclist powered in the opposite direction, all yellow Lycra and focused effort.
Fenchurch waved his warrant card. ‘Police, I need your bike!’
The cyclist came to a halt, rocking forward. ‘What?’
‘Just give me it!’ Fenchurch nudged him off and rested the Airwave on the handlebars. Thing looked like it weighed less than a feather. The crossbar was too high for him — took two goes to get over. He set off, the gears far too low. A few clicks and the socket reset, the chain loosening up. He sped up, tyres grinding against the road surface, starting to close the gap. A couple of bike lengths, maybe less.
A lorry belched out of an entrance on the left. Fenchurch pumped both brakes, almost flying over the handles. The kid hadn’t stopped, hadn’t been hit.
Fenchurch stood on the pedals and started off again, the same slow pace as before. Airwave to his mouth: ‘Control, this is Fenchurch again. I’m in pursuit heading towards the construction site halfway to City Road. Over.’
The street narrowed, the new-build flats encroaching on both sides, dwarfed by cranes.
The kid cut left onto City Road, four lanes of buses and taxis jostling for position under the shadow of a new tower block, the glass glowing in the night sky. He weaved around vans and cars into the bus lane.
Fenchurch followed, thighs burning.
The grey hoodie veered off to the left, into a petrol station forecourt, heading for a McDonald’s. He swung round and clocked Fenchurch closing on him. Then did a sharp right through a tangle of vehicles at the Co-op. He bounced over the tarmac and dumped the bike by a row of lock-ups.
Fenchurch tossed his bike to the ground and sprinted off. The kid vaulted over a low wall, making for a block of flats. Fenchurch tore across a patch of grass, heading for the building the kid had entered. He stopped outside and grabbed the Airwave: ‘This is DI Fenchurch, the suspect is entering Buxton Court.’ Eyes scanning around for other exit points. Nothing jumped out at him. ‘Repeat, suspect is entering Buxton Court. Over.’
‘Alpha Papa Seven is en route.’
Fenchurch spun round, listening for the sirens, watching for the blue lights. There they were. He tore the door open and stepped into the flickering light. Dark and damp, full of cannabis fug, misting his eyes and nostrils.
Footsteps clambered up the stairwell above.
He followed, as quick as his foot let him, listening closely.
A door scraped open diagonally opposite. He sprinted up the stairs, scanning round for one swinging shut. There — fourth floor. He pushed through it and hobbled along the corridor, felt like he had a basketball at the end of his leg.
The kid was hammering on doors, trying handles. He spotted Fenchurch and bolted towards another door, looking like it led to a back staircase.
Fenchurch sped up, far too slow.
The kid reached the stair door, fingers fumbling for the handle.
Locked, the door thudding against the frame. Not budging.
He darted over to a flat, hammered at the door. ‘Let me in! The cops are trying to kill me, man!’
Fenchurch grabbed hold of his wrist and twisted him round, pushing him to the ground. The kid wriggled, fighting against it with scratching fingers and kicking boots.
Clatter.
A pile of mobiles lay at the kid’s feet.
Chapter Two
Fenchurch
let out a sigh of relief — his car was still there. His door hung open, the engine purring away. The racer was gone, though.
Why take a bike and leave a running motor? Bloody London.
Fenchurch thumped the squad car’s roof. ‘Take him to Leman Street.’
The uniformed driver nodded through his window as it whirred up. He drove off, the kid slumped over in the back seat, face lost to the depths of the hood.
Fenchurch checked his bonnet — just a slight prang by the passenger door. He got in and shut the door. Then winced as his foot pressed down the clutch. He tried to ease it out, twisting his shoe around. Bloody foot had locked. He reversed off the kerb and drove back towards Upper Street.
A row of uniformed officers cordoned it off at the Green, the traffic looking like it stretched halfway to Watford. To the left was a riot of flashing blue lights, police and ambulance out of sync. He leaned over and held out his warrant card to the uniform by the barricade. ‘DI Fenchurch, I need access to the crime scene.’
‘On you go, sir.’
Fenchurch jotted his name on the clipboard and trundled over, sticking to the right-hand lane.
A uniform was unrolling police tape, a rough rectangle blocking off Chilangos. Next to the off-white Scenes of Crime van mounting the kerb was a gang of bodies pulling on blue overalls.
Fenchurch parked in the middle of the road and staggered across, wincing with each step. No sign of Abi.
A blue-suited officer unfolded a crime-scene tent, struggling to erect it. Behind them, another figure was tearing off his SOCO suit and shrugging on his tweed jacket at the same time. Dr William Pratt’s beard exploded from his face, almost as thick as his torso. He scattered his togs near the discard pile and marched off, bag in hand.
Fenchurch cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted: ‘William!’
No response.
‘William!’
Nothing.
He checked through the contacts on his phone. Just had Pratt’s office number. Shit.
Inside the inner circle, the victim lay on her side, outlined in blood like a question mark, dotted by a thick pool on the pavement. Her left hand was reaching towards Fenchurch, dead eyes pleading, the sort that’d follow him. Sharp cheekbones, one side covered in her hair.
Fenchurch stopped and clenched his fists tight, fingernails digging into his palms. The back of his throat was dry and raw, starting to fill with mucus. Tears clouded his vision. Drums started hammering, heavy and steady, like they were building up to something.
