Worth Killing For (A DI Fenchurch Novel Book 2)

by Ed James

  ‘This is due process for a murder suspect, sir. You’d know that if you’d covered one before.’ Fenchurch loomed over him, trying to intimidate the little worm. ‘No idea how the hell you got here but this is a restricted area. I request you leave immediately.’

  ‘My client is innocent and I demand you let him go.’

  ‘He’s guilty and you know it.’

  ‘You’ve got no evidence.’

  ‘We’re holding him here overnight and that’s the end of the story. Okay?’

  Unwin clutched his briefcase to his chest and tilted his head to the side. ‘Want me to get Amnesty in here?’

  ‘That won’t be necessary, sir. We’re operating well within the law.’

  ‘I know people, Fenchurch.’

  ‘Then I hope those people tell you to let us get on with our jobs.’

  ‘My client’s done nothing other than be assaulted by you. Repeatedly.’

  ‘He was resisting arrest after he murdered a young woman. Need I remind you that we found a load of stolen mobile phones on him. With a good wind behind us, we might be able to return them to their rightful owners.’

  Unwin backed off and stood up tall. ‘You’ll be hearing about this from your superiors.’

  Reed’s eyes trailed Unwin down the corridor and she shuddered. ‘What a creep.’

  ‘He’s a criminal defence lawyer, Kay. Comes with the territory.’ Fenchurch couldn’t bring himself to look at him again. He put a hand to the door. ‘Time for you to get home before you turn into a pumpkin.’

  ‘Yeah, soon, guv. I want Dave to see what it’s like managing our bloody kids when he works late.’ She grimaced. ‘But first, I need to kick someone’s arse about letting Unwin up here.’

  Chapter Ten

  Fenchurch pulled off City Road onto Islington High Street and stopped at the lights. The traffic was now flowing freely after the incident. Just a solitary officer guarded the crime scene now. Gawkers hung around trying to see whatever they could.

  He glanced over at Abi. Distorted patches of sodium yellow lit up parts of her face, the corners of her mouth downturned. ‘You okay, love?’

  ‘Thank God we’re out of that place.’ She ran a hand through her hair and let it settle back over her ears. ‘How can you work there?’

  ‘What’s so bad about it?’

  ‘It’s just . . .’ She shut her eyes and shook her head in a long, slow arc. ‘I’m not okay.’

  ‘Talk to me. That’s what you always tell me, right?’

  She shot him a glare. ‘I can’t process what happened, Simon.’ She waved a hand down the street. ‘I watched her die right there. Saskia.’

  ‘I know what you saw.’ Fenchurch reached a hand over and patted her knee, cold through her tights. ‘Believe me, I know how bad that feels. Watching someone’s life just drain away like that.’ The lights changed and he set off, turning onto Liverpool Road. Not far from home now. ‘It gets easier over time, that’s all I can say.’

  ‘It’s now I’m worried about.’

  ‘Did you want me to stay with you at the crime scene?’

  ‘It’s not that.’ She bit her lip, looking like she’d slice all the flesh off. ‘I don’t know. Simon, it’s . . . I couldn’t do anything.’

  ‘Neither could I and I’m trained to be able to. All I could do was chase him. I couldn’t stop her dying.’

  She folded her arms and looked away. ‘At least you can do something now.’

  ‘You did something, Abi. You gave a statement, you helped at the ID parade.’

  She laughed, nothing like humour. ‘But I couldn’t pick him out. Not on the screen and not through that bloody window.’ Her mouth hung open. ‘I’ve let everyone down, haven’t I?’

  Fenchurch swung right just after the crowded bulk of the Business Design Centre. He pulled in outside their flat and killed the engine. ‘You did the right thing. Listen, these kids wear that gear to hide themselves. Hoodies, baseball caps, baggy clothes, whatever it is. Urban camouflage. They do it to stop people recognising them.’

  Dull streetlight spread across her face, showing her closed eyes. ‘I should’ve done more.’

  ‘I was much closer to what happened. You’d been in that shop. I watched it. It should be me beating myself up, not you.’

  She sucked in air and looked up at the car roof. ‘Did you ID him?’

  ‘After what I’ve done tonight, I’d be breaking all sorts of rules.’

  ‘So, you’re just going to let him go free?’

  ‘I’m not going to let that happen.’

  ‘But he’s going to get away with this, isn’t he?’ She looked over at him, the streetlights adding creases to her frown. ‘If I told them it was that kid, he’d be going to jail for it. Should I have said I recognised him?’

  ‘You saw what you saw. You’ve got to tell the truth, love. No matter what. Okay?’

  ‘But it’s my fault if he’s not going away.’

  ‘It’s nobody’s fault.’

  ‘Bullshit. It’s on my shoulders.’

  ‘Hey. Stop blaming yourself, okay? You were with her when she died.’ He let his hand go from her knee. ‘Have we got any wine in?’

  ‘Is that the answer? Get pissed?’ She was glaring at him now. ‘Is that what you were doing before we got back together? A bottle of wine every night?’

  ‘I just wouldn’t mind a glass, that’s all. Give me a bit of distance.’

  She bunched up her hair again. ‘I opened a Merlot earlier. It wasn’t any use.’

  ‘Hopefully it’ll have had a chance to breathe.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’ She got out of the car and slammed the door behind her.

  Fenchurch watched her unlock the front door, twisting the keys a bit too hard.

  Same as it ever was . . .

  He got out and zapped the car. Shouting came from Upper Street — drunken office boys up to Thursday night malarkey. A car alarm blared a few streets away.

  He managed to catch the door before it clicked shut and trudged up the stairs towards their floor, shoulders low.

  Abi was bending down outside their flat. Someone had dumped an Amazon package on their doormat. She scowled at him as she opened the door. ‘Looks like it’s for you.’

  ‘It’ll be those books.’

  ‘You need to get a Kindle, Simon. There’s too many books in this bloody flat.’

  ‘I know, I know.’

  The door across the hall crept open. ‘Simon, can I have a word?’

  Fenchurch closed his eyes and stifled a groan. Then swung round with a smile plastered on his face. ‘Quentin, how can I help?’

  ‘It’s about the stone cleaning. I put three quotes through your door last night.’

  ‘Now’s not the time.’

  ‘Listen, Simon, I don’t think you understand how severe this is. This is the only block on the street that hasn’t been cleaned. There could be any amount of damage being done to the brick.’

  Fenchurch took a step back. ‘I’ll look at it over the weekend, okay?’

  ‘There’s an urgency—’

  ‘Not. Now.’ Fenchurch went into the flat and kicked the door behind him. Same as it bloody ever was. He shrugged his suit jacket and shoes off and padded through to the kitchen. Abi had dumped the package on the counter. He tore it open. Both those Edward Snowden books Clooney had been on about. He uncorked the wine and took a sniff of the deep tang. Good, even though it was Merlot. He poured a fresh glass and topped up Abi’s half-empty one.

  She was leaning back against the new fridge. Staring into space, nibbling her lip again.

  He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her forehead into his chest. ‘I love you, Mrs Fenchurch.’

  ‘That still sounds funny. After all those years.’ She stared down at her left hand. The reforged wedding band sat next to a new engagement ring, ten times the bling of the original. She looked up at him, tears welling in her eyes again. ‘What happened tonight . . . I can’t stop thinking
about Chloe. How I couldn’t do anything there.’

  ‘Hey, hey.’ Fenchurch pulled her close. ‘It’s okay. I know what’s going on in that head of yours.’

  ‘How the hell can you?’

  ‘Because it’s going on in mine. There’s nothing we can do other than try to cope with it. That’s what you told me.’ Fenchurch pulled her tight again. ‘Someone kidnapped our daughter from that bloody road out there. That means she’s out there. Somewhere.’

  She nudged away from him. ‘Are you going to let it eat up your soul again?’

  ‘It’s never stopped eating me up.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ Abi pushed away and grabbed her wine. She rubbed away a red bead dribbling down the outside and took a long drink. ‘Simon, you need to be honest with me. Are you still looking for her?’

  ‘No. I swear I’m not.’

  ‘You told me that before.’

  ‘It’s the truth.’ Fenchurch took another drink and put the glass down. ‘That wasn’t Chloe lying there on the pavement but it’s someone else’s daughter. He’s a professor at Imperial. Posh git, but he’s lost his kid. I want to find out who killed her. And why.’

  Thousand yard stare as she sipped more wine. This wasn’t going away anywhere fast.

  ‘Look, Ab, I’ve got the case now. I’m going to make sure this Qasid kid goes down for it.’

  ‘Qasid? That’s his name?’

  Fenchurch slapped a hand to his forehead. ‘Shit, I shouldn’t have told you that.’

  ‘I’ll try to forget. Have you done your mindfulness today?’

  He swallowed. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Go on . . .’

  ‘Come on, Abi . . .’

  She wagged a finger at him. ‘Now.’

  ‘Right, right.’ He set the half-empty glass on the counter. ‘I’ll just go and visualise a bloody spark of light in the middle of my chest.’

  ‘Just don’t fall asleep like you usually do.’

  Day 2

  Friday, 22nd April 2016

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Got a little present for you, Simon.’ Docherty was leaning against the Nautilus machine in the station’s basement gym. His puny frame looked like he could barely lift the handle let alone any weights. ‘You’ll thank me for it.’

  Fenchurch pulled down on the bar, grinding pain through his shoulders. ‘You’ve sacked DI Mulholland?’

  ‘You need to quit that. Makes you look like a petty sod.’

  ‘I am a petty sod, boss.’ Fenchurch grunted at another pull down. ‘What is the present?’

  ‘Got an extra skull for your daytime team.’

  Fenchurch clamped his eyes shut. Nine, ten. He let the bar up and rested the weights against the stack. ‘Who?’

  ‘DC Lad.’

  Fenchurch brushed his towel across his face. ‘I’ve only just got shot of him.’

  ‘Dawn thought he’d be a better fit for your team.’

  ‘I’ll bet she did.’ Fenchurch ran the towel through his hair and draped it round his neck. Thank God there wasn’t a mirror down here. ‘The guy’s a liability, boss. I need people I can rely on, not that clown.’ He reached up for the handle. ‘I’ve not got to the bottom of it, but someone made a mess of those witness interviews. Meant we lost the prosecution of that nightclub bouncer.’

  ‘He was small fry.’

  ‘Still, DC Lad had jam all around his mouth, if you know what I’m saying.’ Fenchurch pulled the bar down again, the rough handle grinding against his palms. More callouses, no doubt.

  ‘Look, just take him, okay? He’s a good officer. Dawn wants him put in for a DS role.’

  ‘Why can’t she do that?’

  ‘Because she’s on nights.’

  ‘Right. Fine. I’ll give him to Jon Nelson.’

  ‘That’s the spirit.’ Docherty slapped him on the back. Squelch. He shook his hand in the air. ‘Christ, that’s disgusting.’

  ‘What’s disgusting?’ DC Waheed Lad appeared in the doorway, wearing designer running gear. That American brand that sponsored bloody Spurs. His shorts were almost bollock-high, his legs a gridwork of thick hair, his skin coffee brown.

  ‘The amount your new DI sweats.’ Docherty rubbed his hands on Fenchurch’s towel. ‘Christ, that’s almost as bad. I’ll leave you pair to it.’ He marched off out of the room, keeping his hand as far from his face as possible.

  Fenchurch got up and tried to dry his hand before holding it out. ‘Welcome to the team, I guess.’

  ‘Thanks for having me.’ Lad shook it, his mouth shifting between a scowl and a grin. ‘I’m happy to keep running with what DI Mulholland’s had me doing overnight.’

  ‘You should get some sleep.’

  ‘Hey, what’s coffee for, right?’

  ‘You’re working for DS Nelson, okay?’

  ‘Cool. You finished with that machine?’ Lad reached down and adjusted the weights up twenty kilos. He shot him a cheeky wink. ‘I’ll show you how to do it, sir.’

  Twenty officers crowded the Incident Room squatting on desks, leaning against pillars. They all looked at him, waiting. The bitter tang of espresso dominated the room, overpowering the cloying odours of brown sauce and bacon, tomato ketchup and sausage. Not much chat. Seven in uniform, four borrowed from another team and nine of Fenchurch’s own. Mulholland hadn’t bothered to show up. Most of them were sucking on giant coffee beakers, mostly Pret or Starbucks. Nelson had his logo-less cup from the gourmet shop on Whitechapel High Street, Reed her usual Red Bull can.

  Fenchurch yawned as he ran his hand through his hair, still wet from his post-gym shower. He glanced up at the clock on the wall. It struck seven — time to start. He held up his copy of that morning’s Post, bought from the shop round the corner.

  The tabloid’s front page was a shot of Saskia at some awards dinner. Wearing a strapless black dress. Victor Morgan stood next to her, clutching a statue, his bowtie undone like he was Tom Jones in Vegas.

  ‘KILLED DOING HER JOB’

  ‘That’s quite a strong headline.’ Fenchurch folded up the paper and tossed it on the table behind him. ‘Saskia Barnett was working when she was murdered. We don’t know whether it was because she was doing her job or she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. We do have a suspect in custody, though.’

  He let out a deep breath and nodded to the right of him. ‘You should all know that DC Waheed Lad is transitioning back from DI Mulholland’s team and I’ve asked him to support DS Nelson and take a lead on the forensic analysis.’ He focused on Nelson, unblinking eyes distorted by his glasses. ‘We got anywhere with her phone records?’

  Nelson looked around the room. ‘I was hoping DI Mulholland would approve access, but we’re still waiting.’

  ‘I’ll sign it after this, okay?’ Fenchurch nodded at Lad. ‘Given DI Mulholland hasn’t shown for the briefing, can you share your overnight progress with us?’

  ‘Sure thing, guv. Got some good news for you.’ Lad grinned as he reached into the jacket pocket of his business suit, a navy chalk stripe with a crisp white shirt and bright orange tie. He pulled out a knife, bagged and bloody, and dropped it on the desk in front of him. ‘We recovered this from the ground near the Regent’s Canal, just by the Islington Tunnel.’

  Fenchurch picked up the weapon and gave it a closer look. It was a unibody dagger, the long gunmetal blade coming to a needle-sharp point. The serrations by the hilt clearly meant business. Beneath the dark blood, the screwed-on handles were almost black. He put it back down, swallowing hard. Couldn’t see it in the killer’s hands, though. ‘Has Pratt confirmed that’s what killed Saskia Barnett?’

  ‘Don’t know yet, guv.’ Lad picked it up again. ‘Someone was clearly trying to lose it in the canal, though. We struck lucky.’

  Fenchurch swallowed hard.

  Nelson joined them at the front and crumpled up his coffee. ‘I take it you’ve got something more about it?’

  ‘It’s a Blackhawk BESH XSF-1.’ Lad smirked as he passed th
e knife to Nelson. ‘Didn’t realise that spelled out “excessive” until I said it out loud just there.’ He snatched it back and set it down on the table. Fenchurch couldn’t take his eyes from it. ‘We’ve done some digging into it, guv. It’s only available online. We’re checking for purchases in London but that’ll take weeks, unfortunately. Even then, it’ll probably be inconclusive. It’s also likely to be a dark web purchase. You know how much that team’s time costs, don’t you?’

  ‘Well, do what you can. We could be dealing with an idiot.’ Fenchurch gave Nelson a nod. ‘The post-mortem’s happening this morning, Jon. Can you attend for me?’

  ‘Again?’ Nelson snorted. ‘Right. Can I take Waheed? He seems to know a lot about this kind of wound.’

  ‘It’s fascinating, Sarge.’ Lad nodded, eyes locked on the blade. ‘Our killer used almost surgical precision. One slice and she was dead.’

  Nelson snatched the knife from Lad. ‘We’ll make sure Clooney confirms it’s definitely the murder weapon.’

  Clooney didn’t even look up from his laptop. ‘If you’ll just give me it, I’ll see if I can do a blood type match before lunch.’

  ‘Didn’t see you there.’ Nelson was blushing. ‘The guv mentioned something about prints?’

  ‘That’s going to take a bit longer.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because our space-age strong AI is broken.’ Clooney winked at Nelson. ‘Look, aside from our huge backlog, you know the score. I’ve got to get two analysts to check it, then me and a colleague have to validate the results. Might be a week, assuming you’ve got serviceable prints in the first place.’

  Fenchurch shook his head at him. ‘That’s not acceptable, Mick. We need them back tonight.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘We’ve got a suspect in custody and one of the worst lawyers I’ve ever encountered is representing him. This needs to be proven today.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ Clooney smacked at his laptop keyboard. ‘Something I don’t get, though. This looks like a professional operation, right? That knife attack was a surgical strike. So why wasn’t this guy you’ve got in custody wearing gloves?’