Worth Killing For (A DI Fenchurch Novel Book 2)

by Ed James

  Fenchurch tried to stare him out. ‘Because uniform would pull them over at any opportunity.’

  Lad shrugged. ‘Maybe they don’t like wearing them?’

  Fenchurch waited for the laughter to subside. ‘What else has DI Mulholland been up to?’

  ‘Right, guv.’ Lad checked his notebook. ‘They’ve done some of the checks you asked for. The boyfriend’s clean, as far as they can tell. No criminal record. Nothing on file from any of our more sensitive departments. Same with the father.’

  ‘What about Yana Ikonnikova?’

  Lad flicked over the page. ‘Iconic Property’s going for a FTSE 250 listing. The owner is something else, though. Most of her fortune came from her father, Andriy Ikonnikov. Killed in Kiev five years ago. Poisoned, by the looks of things. She’s supposed to be worth over two billion quid.’

  Fenchurch raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s not to be sniffed at.’

  ‘Not that much in the grand scheme of things, I suppose. Doubt she’ll be buying the Hammers, guv. But there’s no red flags or anything. The DI was happy with the work done.’

  ‘Was she now.’ Fenchurch frowned in Reed’s direction. ‘Kay, did you finish up with the CCTV footage?’

  ‘Just received the latest batch.’ Reed took a dainty sip from her can. ‘Lisa’s going through it just now with a fine-tooth comb.’

  Fenchurch looked around. Hadn’t even noticed Bridge wasn’t there. ‘And how are the witness interviews going?’

  ‘Ten statements. He cycled past and stabbed her on the street. The CCTV of the chase checks out, too. Means we’ve pretty much backed up your statement.’

  ‘What does pretty much mean?’

  ‘Just a couple of black spots on Colebrooke Row. We’ll close them off this morning.’ Reed held up her notebook. ‘Jon’s passed me Saskia’s calendar. We’re going to go through her appointments for the last two weeks.’

  ‘Let me know how that goes. If there’s nothing, we should stretch it back a few months.’

  ‘Will do, guv.’

  Fenchurch flicked his gaze between Reed and Lad. ‘Anything more on Qasid?’

  ‘Tried every possible variation on Williams. Guy’s a ghost, I’m afraid.’ Lad finished his coffee. ‘Same with Kamal. Just one name isn’t giving us a whole heap of beans. There’s a ton of Kamals in London.’

  Fenchurch jotted an action on the whiteboard. ‘Jon, before you go to the PM, can you check into these names? See what intel we’ve got. Might want to start with Trident.’

  ‘The black-on-black guys? Doubt they’ll have anything.’

  ‘See what you can find, Sergeant.’ Fenchurch waited for him to make a note. ‘Anything else?’

  Clooney raised a hand. ‘Just finished the undelete on that phone I told you about last night.’

  ‘And?’

  He grimaced. ‘No texts. Well, there were a couple relating to voicemails, but they’re not on the network any more. They roll off after a month.’

  ‘Can they get them back?’

  ‘They’re trying it for me. The most recent ones were just a series of clicks. Checked it for Morse code and a few other things, but I think it’s just random. Not even anyone pocket dialling. We’re tracing the numbers, but they just look like more burners.’

  ‘Bloody hell. See what else you can dig up, okay?’ Fenchurch scanned around the room. Blank faces drinking coffee. ‘Dismissed.’

  They all burst into life as they clattered around the room, a din rising from the silence. Mobile ringtones blaring out amid football talk.

  ‘You okay, guv?’ Reed was standing over him. She crushed her can and dumped it in the bin. ‘You look like shit.’

  ‘Difficult night.’

  ‘Abi?’

  Fenchurch gave a curt nod. ‘She didn’t sleep much. Means I didn’t sleep much. The joys of cohabiting, right?’

  ‘She’s strong, guv, you know that.’

  ‘Do I?’ Fenchurch shook his head. ‘It’s just brought a few things home, Kay.’

  ‘You’re not still—’ Her mobile rang. She checked the display and winced. ‘It’s Lisa, I’d better take it.’

  ‘Tell her I want her to attend briefings no matter how important she thinks her work is.’

  ‘Guv.’ Reed put her phone to her head and walked off.

  Fenchurch turned round and checked the whiteboard again. Took a sip of lukewarm tea and put the mug down. The gaps in the timelines were huge. Holes in his bloody statement, gaping chasms they hadn’t filled yet. He’d let the kid out of his sight twice and Unwin would drive his tanks through, turning the cracks into ravines.

  Someone tugged at his sleeve. Reed, eyes wide. ‘Guv, Lisa’s got something downstairs.’

  In the CCTV suite, DC Lisa Bridge was leaning over a laptop. Low-cut blouse and tight skirt made her look like she’d been to a nightclub. Her messy hair made it look like she’d struck lucky. Dark rings surrounded her eyes, hardly any of it make-up.

  Fenchurch folded his arms and gave her a nod as he sat on the table. ‘Nice to see you, Constable. You should attend—’

  ‘I know, guv. Sorry but I’ve been up all night and I’ve—’

  ‘You attend briefings, Constable. I don’t want a suspect slipping through the net because you didn’t know about something Jon Nelson’s working on, okay?’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Now, why have you dragged us down here?’

  ‘I’ve got something you’ll want to see.’ Bridge gave Reed a nod then flicked a switch hanging out of her laptop. ‘There.’

  The ceiling-mounted projector switched on and a blue box filled most of the white wall, slightly off-kilter. She hammered her thumb off the space bar. It switched to CCTV footage. A Regency street at night, sharper than the stuff from Islington the previous night.

  Bridge tapped a finger off a figure at the right-hand side. ‘This is Saskia Barnett walking from that house in Belgravia to Victoria tube station.’

  Fenchurch looked over at Reed. ‘Thought she was headed to Green Park?’

  ‘It’s six and two threes, guv.’ Bridge flicked through her notebook. ‘DS Nelson asked me to look into it so I checked on the TfL website. Turns out Victoria’s slightly quicker. Saskia must’ve done the same search.’

  Fenchurch scanned around the screen. The usual London rush-hour slog going on — a man with a briefcase staring at an estate agents’ window, a woman on her mobile locking step with Saskia. ‘You got anything before this?’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s about a ten-minute walk to Victoria.’

  The footage on the wall switched to an escalator, rush-hour busy. Bridge got up and traced a circle around a figure descending, hands tucked into a dark jacket. Then a different station, Saskia waiting in the middle of a throng of passengers. Looked like she knew exactly which spot to stand on to get a door.

  ‘This is the Victoria line, guv.’

  Then another platform, Saskia getting off a train.

  ‘And this is Euston underground. I don’t have any more until this.’

  It jumped again and Fenchurch recognised the long escalator climbing out of the bowels of the dreaded Northern line. Saskia was reading an Evening Standard as she ascended. ‘That’s Angel, right?’

  ‘Well spotted, guv.’ Bridge blushed as the footage switched to Saskia, now looking behind her at irregular intervals. ‘That was the lower escalator. This is the upper one.’

  The video cut to the bustle outside Angel tube station. Then to Saskia crossing the road, fingers on her phone. Seconds before her death.

  Bridge stopped it and rewound it to Saskia on the first escalator, lost in her paper. ‘Notice anything?’

  Fenchurch frowned at Reed, looking similarly mystified. ‘What?’

  Bridge grinned as she circled another figure with her finger, five or six bodies below Saskia. A man in a hoodie, tucked up over his head. ‘This guy followed her.’

  ‘What?’

  Bridge brought up other shots from earlier in the j
ourney. The same person was on the street in Belgravia, behind Saskia at Victoria and on both platforms. ‘See?’

  ‘Christ.’ Fenchurch’s acid reflux bit into his gut. ‘He was following her.’

  ‘Now watch this.’ Bridge’s fingers danced across her laptop’s keyboard. ‘This is where mobile reception cuts back in at Angel tube. Still no Virgin Wi-Fi on the Northern Line, remember.’ She brought up three shots next to each other and zoomed in, grainy and pixelated, the sharpness lost.

  The man had a phone to his head, the hoodie down around his shoulders. He looked a lot older than Qasid, but dressed like he thought he was the same age. His dark beard was splattered with white. Footballer hair like that Man City winger who was at Liverpool last season, shaved at the side, Afro curls piling up on top.

  ‘Shit.’ Reed locked eyes with him. ‘So they weren’t after her phone.’

  Fenchurch swallowed hard. ‘This is a bloody hit.’

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘Well, Simon, I think I agree with your assessment.’ Docherty tightened his tie as he looked out of his office window. ‘Why’s someone targeting her, though?’

  Fenchurch was leaning against the wall, too fired up to sit. He couldn’t take his eyes off the photo of the man following her, the paper already crinkled around the edges. ‘That’s what we’re looking into, boss.’

  Docherty snatched it off him. ‘You think this is Kamal?’

  ‘Could be. Whoever he is, this guy followed her from Belgravia, boss. I’d put money on that phone call being him ordering Qasid to kill Saskia.’

  ‘Supposition, Si. Any way of tracing the call?’

  ‘Clooney’s going to see what can be done but I don’t hold out much hope. Must be thousands of calls in Angel at that time.’

  Docherty got out his notebook and turned to a page covered in squiggles. He clicked his pen and made a note near the edge. ‘So, assuming this is a hit, what are you doing to lock it down?’

  ‘Well, there’s the usual. Speak to the boyfriend again. Her father, her boss at the Post. But I’d rather give them some space. Let the other stuff play out.’

  ‘Sounds wise.’

  Fenchurch made for the door and clutched the cool handle. ‘That us?’

  ‘Not quite.’ Docherty flicked back in his notebook. ‘Does the name Unwin mean anything to you?’

  Fenchurch’s acid reflux started bubbling around his breakfast again. The drums tapped out a slow rhythm. ‘He’s Qasid’s solicitor. Has he been kicking up a fuss?’

  ‘Aye, he’s making a noise, all right. He’s got a bloody ghetto blaster booming out the best of Public Enemy.’ Docherty curled his lip and tilted his head to the side. Looked like he could bite raw flesh off the bone. ‘Anything I should be worried about?’

  ‘Just getting people to listen to him, boss. Geezer was in here defending Qasid before anyone should’ve known we had him. He’s poison.’

  ‘You looking into him yet?’

  ‘Thought I’d let him drop a bollock first. Keep our arses covered.’

  ‘Good man.’ Docherty scribbled a note on his book. ‘And how’s Abi?’

  ‘Not good. I’m sure time’ll heal it but . . . It’s tough, sir.’

  ‘Horrendous thing, Si.’ Docherty went back to his paperwork. ‘You got anything else I should know about?’

  ‘I’ve got a call out to SC&O8.’

  ‘The ex-Trident lot? Great.’ Docherty groaned. ‘Why do you always leave the politics to last?’

  ‘It’s not very interesting, boss. And I’ve not left it till last.’ Fenchurch thumbed at the door. ‘Clooney’s supposed to be setting up some time with a DI from the Mobile Phone Theft Unit. I’m thinking the sheer number of phones we’ve found mean Qasid and co might be on their radar.’

  ‘Be careful there, okay? They’re Boris bloody Johnson’s favourites, so don’t go pissing anyone off.’

  Fenchurch collapsed into his chair. The office door had swung open again. Bloody Mulholland getting the carpet fixed.

  He took a slurp of tea. Lovely. Then he got out his Airwave and dialled the number.

  ‘DI Paul Oscar, SC&O8.’ Essex barrow boy accent, high-pitched. Sounded like he was in a crowded restaurant.

  ‘It’s DI Fenchurch of the East London MIT.’

  ‘I’m very pleased for you. Now, unless you can tell me how to get a Starbucks queue to bugger off quickly, I’ll get back to you.’

  ‘I spoke to your secretary earlier. She said you’d call me back.’

  ‘Right.’ A pause. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Intelligence, hopefully.’ Fenchurch rubbed at his forehead, doubting he’d get any from Oscar. ‘I’m working a case in Islington. A young woman got stabbed on the street last night. Happened right in front of my eyes.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that. Two shots, please, love. Yeah, extra. That’s fine.’

  Fenchurch stuck his feet up on the desk. Nelson appeared at the other end of the corridor, his loping stride eating up the distance as he sucked on that bloody vape stick again. ‘To my untrained eye, it looks like a gang hit.’

  ‘I need a receipt. Sorry, Fenchurch. What was this girl’s name?’

  Fenchurch flicked up his eyebrows and leaned his head forward as Nelson pulled the door shut. ‘Saskia Barnett.’

  Oscar let out a sigh. ‘The journalist on Upper Street?’ He snorted down the line. ‘Yeah, good luck solving that one.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Phone theft plus murder equals bugger all, mate. These little bastards are slippery eels.’ Oscar slurped at something, no doubt some posh coffee. ‘You want my advice, you should take up a healthy hobby, something that takes away the stress of this bloody job.’

  ‘We’ve got someone in custody for it.’

  ‘That wasn’t in the paper.’

  ‘That’s deliberate. His name’s Qasid Williams. Ring any bells?’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘Because we think it’s a gang hit.’

  ‘And yet you’ve got no evidence for it.’

  ‘We’ve got a few pointers. How about the name Kamal?’

  A long pause down the line. ‘Right, I’m listening now.’

  ‘What do you know about him?’

  ‘Not a lot but if he’s connected to this, you’ve got my undivided attention.’

  Fenchurch locked eyes with Nelson. ‘I’m sending one of my officers over. DS Jon Nelson. Please assist him.’

  ‘Will do. Catch you later.’ The line clicked dead.

  Nelson took a gentle suck on his e-cigarette. ‘Take it I’m heading out to Empress State Building, guv?’

  Fenchurch gave him a nod. ‘Report to DI Paul Oscar when you’re there. Sounds like a smug prick, but you never know, I have a tendency to rub people up the wrong way.’

  ‘Kind of implies there’s a right way to rub someone.’

  Fenchurch laughed before taking another glug of scalding tea. ‘How’d it go with Qasid?’

  ‘I spared you an hour of listening to the words “no” and “comment”.’

  ‘I appreciate it.’ Fenchurch took a long drink. ‘This Unwin’s a bit of a snake, isn’t he?’

  ‘Not half, guv.’ Nelson pocketed his vape stick with a last exhalation of mist. ‘I bumped into Clooney on my way up. Said something like your mate Bell’s in room six upstairs?’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Fenchurch got up and drained his mug. ‘He could’ve told me himself.’

  Fenchurch stopped outside the meeting room and straightened his tie. He sucked in a deep breath and entered.

  DI Jason Bell lurked by the window, looking a doughnut shy of Type 2 diabetes. A small peanut head gave way to a squat body, the lapels of his suit jacket distant strangers, never to meet in the middle. His trousers were overstuffed sausages just about bursting at the seams. ‘Simon, mate, how’s it going?’ He had the sort of harsh, nasal Brummie accent people forgot about in favour of the sing-song Black Country roll.

  Fenchurc
h took the seat closest to the door. ‘Been a long time, Stringer.’

  ‘I still don’t get that bloody nickname.’ Bell collapsed into the chair by the window, his shirt buttons straining against his gut. ‘Where’s it from?’

  ‘The Wire finished years ago, String. You really should’ve caught up.’

  ‘Like I’ve got the time with four kids.’ A smirk flashed across Bell’s face. ‘You’re clearly not that desperate for my help, are you?’

  ‘Desperate’s only a state of mind.’ Fenchurch held a smile for longer than Bell would find comfortable. ‘You got my email, didn’t you?’

  ‘And I spoke to Clooney.’ Bell rubbed his hands together, giving a flash of a tattoo on his wrist — ‘Bloodshed speculators’.

  Fenchurch frowned at it. ‘What the hell’s that?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Bell tugged his shirtsleeve over it. ‘So, you had to get Mick Clooney to do your dirty work. Couldn’t call me yourself.’

  ‘Proper channels and all that, String.’

  ‘Do you even know what that means, Si?’ Bell laughed at his joke, then folded his arms tight. ‘This is about this girl in Islington last night, isn’t it?’ He unfolded his arms, though his suit jacket stayed crumpled. ‘I don’t see how it’s connected.’

  ‘String, the killer was an Apple picker.’

  ‘Clooney didn’t mention that part.’ Bell’s eyes scanned the corners of the room, looking for inspiration among the cobwebs. ‘Our focus is on prevention rather than cure these days. Since I took over two years ago, thefts of Apple phones have fallen fifty per cent.’

  Fenchurch rolled his eyes. ‘Even I know that’s because of the kill switch.’

  ‘That only does so much.’ Bell steepled his fingers, his brow creasing. ‘Some of them carry a little netbook so they can wipe them on their bikes before the kill switch is used. Switch them off, toss the SIMs. The shops can unbrick a bricked phone, if needed.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like you’re doing a lot, though. Just waiting for tech companies to invent stuff.’

  ‘Boris is very impressed with our progress.’

  ‘Well done you.’ Fenchurch leaned forward and rested on his elbows. ‘Still, she was killed by one of your Apple pickers.’