Worth Killing For (A DI Fenchurch Novel Book 2)

by Ed James

  ‘They’re not my . . .’ Bell gave his old sigh, the one he did when he knew he’d lost. ‘So, you think this poor bastard you’re framing is in a gang?’

  Fenchurch held his gaze. ‘His pockets were full of phones, String. We found a bag he’d chucked. Got fifteen in total. One of them’s his, though. A burner.’

  ‘That’s a lot. They usually only ever carry a couple.’ Bell got out a notebook from his cavernous suit jacket. ‘I’ll just say we don’t get many violent crimes related to them. This isn’t New York. Yet.’ He ran his tongue over his lips. ‘Usually there’s just a punch involved. Maybe a kick. Never a stabbing. They don’t tend to escalate to killing.’

  ‘So they just leave it at brutal assault, do they?’

  ‘Simon . . .’

  The door juddered open and Reed appeared. She smiled at Fenchurch then frowned at Bell, caught in the middle of giving her the once over. Like how you’d appraise a steak at the butcher’s. ‘You wanted to see me?’

  ‘I thought I wanted you to help with this.’ Fenchurch got up. ‘But it turns out DI Bell’s got nothing for us.’

  Bell cleared his throat. ‘Nothing concrete, that’s for sure.’

  Fenchurch settled back down again. ‘What about anything vague?’

  ‘Look, there’ve been a couple of stabbings in the East End. Round Canning Town and Mile End, I think. One in Stratford by the Olympic stadium.’ Bell flashed some needle-sharp teeth posing as a smile. ‘Soon to be home of your beloved Hammers.’

  ‘Any arrests?’

  ‘Couldn’t pin them to anyone. Eyewitnesses say it was kids on bikes. Never got a knife, never got any clear suspects. Always happens so fast. But I expect you know that.’ Bell pocketed his notebook. ‘Been nice catching up, Si, but I need to get back to work.’

  Reed opened the meeting room door wide. ‘Did you ask him about Kamal?’

  Bell’s turn to sit back down, adding a frown for good measure. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘The victim’s last words were that name.’

  ‘Shit.’ Bell ran a hand over his face. ‘Look, there’s something that might help. It’s a long shot.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s not a what. It’s a who.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘We go back a long way, Kay.’ Fenchurch looked out of the window at Gower Street below. A grey stone University College London building sat opposite, glowering at the new hospital they stood in, all green glass and concrete. Students milled about below, carrying rucksacks and skateboards. One was on one of those hoverboard things, a pair of Beats headphones around his head. ‘He’s a bit of a . . .’ He looked up and down the corridor, still no sign of Bell. Or of anyone, just the ever-present reek of cleaning chemicals and boiled cabbage. ‘A bell end, to be honest.’

  ‘I got that impression, guv.’ Reed checked her mobile. ‘Why did you send Jon out to speak to Trident and not me?’

  ‘Because I needed him there and you here.’

  ‘Cos he’s black?’

  ‘Not really.’ A quick glance at his phone showed no new messages, no new emergencies to attend. ‘Cos he’s got Waheed Lad and I want him a million miles away from me.’

  ‘He’s not that bad.’

  ‘He’s like napalm, Kay. Give him something to work on and watch it explode.’

  Bell appeared from the nurses’ station with a matron who looked like she could be his sister. Similar round body and tiny head. He nodded at Reed, ignoring Fenchurch. ‘Good news, Si. We can look but we can’t touch.’

  Fenchurch scowled at the matron. ‘I wouldn’t mind a word, if it’s all the same.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you now?’ She squeaked across the corridor, her clogs marking the almost pristine floor, and tapped at a window. ‘Have a look at him.’

  Fenchurch squatted down to look through the blinds.

  A black kid lay on the bed, all tubed up and staring into space. His arms hung by his sides, his white smock rising and falling as the incubator pumped. ‘You see why you can’t speak to him?’

  ‘This is important.’

  ‘No, Inspector. Under no circumstances can you talk to him. Am I making myself clear?’ The matron strode off, the clogs squeaking up the corridor. ‘Don’t make me call security, now.’

  Fenchurch frowned at Bell. ‘What’s the story here?’

  ‘Hayden here nicked a guy’s phone outside King’s Cross.’ Bell folded his arms, stretching out his suit jacket. ‘Big Scottish guy, half-pissed and late for the train back to Edinburgh. He was calling his wife on speakerphone, holding his iPhone out. Kid swooped in on his bike, grabbed the phone and darted off through the crowds.’ He scratched a patch of stubble surrounding a painful-looking boil. ‘The guy went apeshit and chased after the kid, roaring his head off like he was in Braveheart.’ He waited for a laugh but didn’t get anything. ‘Must’ve thrown Hayden here. They usually head up the back of St Pancras but he went for that road up to Islington.’ He frowned, his eyebrows unsure which direction to point in. ‘What’s it called again?’

  ‘Pentonville Road.’

  ‘Should really remember that. Always slips my mind.’ The frown disappeared. ‘You still live up that way, Si?’

  ‘Just moved back.’

  ‘Doesn’t Abi still live there?’

  ‘Back with her.’ Fenchurch avoided Reed’s searching gaze. ‘What happened next, String?’

  ‘This big Scotch guy caught our friend just as a number thirty smacked into him. Bike got mangled.’ Bell tapped the window. ‘Not as bad as Hayden, though.’

  ‘Is he going to survive?’

  ‘Luckily for him, yeah. We’ll be charging him once he’s well enough. Be lucky if it’s this year, though.’

  ‘What about the Scottish guy?’

  Bell winked at him. ‘Didn’t get a great description of him.’

  ‘Like that, is it?’

  ‘Won’t be back in London for a while, I hope.’ Bell laughed at his own joke. ‘Anyway, young Hayden here had six phones on him. All broken beyond repair after his little accident. Also had a knife.’

  ‘What kind?’

  ‘Can’t remember the name. XS something or other. Sharp point, though. Looked horrible.’

  Fenchurch fiddled with his Pronto and pulled up an image from the case file. Looked like Reed was thinking the same thing as him. ‘Like this one?’

  ‘Pretty much. I’m no expert.’ Another laugh. ‘You’d think I would be after twenty-odd years in this bloody city.’

  Reed ran a hand through her hair. ‘So, you think Hayden works for Kamal?’

  ‘That’s our understanding.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘I told you. Hayden.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘That’s all he’ll give us. Not even sure it’s his real name.’

  Reed’s expertise at hiding her derision was slipping slightly. ‘Have you found his parents?’

  ‘Sorry, is my mouth not working? The only thing we’ve got from him is that name.’

  Fenchurch looked down the corridor — no sign of the battle-axe matron. ‘I’m going to ask him about Kamal.’

  ‘You can’t.’

  ‘Watch me.’ Fenchurch tried the door. Locked. ‘Shit.’ He waved at a passing nurse, a smiling black woman in a mid-blue uniform, clutching a clipboard. ‘Is Hayden allowed visitors?’

  She looked him up and down. ‘He look okay to you, boy?’ Rolling Jamaican accent.

  ‘Matron said it was fine.’

  ‘Did she?’ The nurse shrugged and swiped a card through the reader by the door. ‘On you go, sirs. Madam.’

  Fenchurch put his hand on the door.

  She smacked it with her clipboard. ‘Use the hand sanitiser, boy.’

  ‘Right.’ Fenchurch squirted some out and rubbed, the pink gunk disappearing in a haze of alcohol fumes. He nodded at Bell as he did the same. ‘You lead, String.’

  ‘Fine, but we’re keeping this low-key
, right?’ Bell entered the room and perched on a chair next to the bed. ‘Hayden, how you doing?’

  No response from the kid. His breathing looked a bit faster than before, though.

  Bell leaned forward in his seat. ‘We’ve got a few questions for you.’

  Hayden focused on him, like his eyes could do the damage his body couldn’t. ‘Ain’t saying nothing.’ His voice was barely a croak, like his voice box was still on the bus. Accent was ballpark similar to Qasid’s, though.

  ‘We still haven’t found your parents, Hayden.’

  ‘They dead.’

  ‘Is that true?’

  He looked away, shrugging as much as his injuries would allow. ‘True enough.’

  ‘Hayden, my colleagues here want to ask you a few questions, okay?’

  ‘Tol’ you. Ain’t saying nothing.’ The voice was more fluid now. Smoother.

  Fenchurch left some space between him and the bed. Kept eye contact with the kid. ‘A young man on a bike took a woman’s phone and handbag last night.’ He held up the Pronto, still on the image of the knife. ‘He stabbed her in the neck with this.’

  Hayden shrugged his right shoulder again, barely lifting it from the bed. ‘Wasn’t me, man.’

  ‘We know it wasn’t you. Does the name Qasid mean anything to you?’

  Another shrug, even less movement.

  ‘Because of how you made your livelihood before all this, I wondered if you knew him. Should I take that as a no?’

  Completely still, just more aggression through his eyes. ‘Don’t know him, bruv.’

  ‘What about Kamal?’

  Hayden looked away. ‘Don’t know no Kamal.’

  ‘You sure about that?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Why are you looking away?’

  ‘Because I don’t know nothing.’ His breathing was harder now, not all of it machine driven. ‘Know nothing, man.’

  ‘Come on, Hayden, a young woman’s been killed by someone who does what you used to.’

  ‘I don’t know him.’ Faster breaths, shorter. ‘I ain’t done nothing.’

  The door flew open and the matron squelched in, face twisted with rage. ‘What in the name of God is going on here?’

  Bell raised his hands. ‘It’s okay, April. We’ll be going.’

  Fenchurch got closer to the bed. ‘Hayden, how do I find Kamal?’

  He gave a little laugh. ‘You don’t find he. He find you.’

  ‘That’s enough.’ The matron hauled Fenchurch off the bed and pushed him out of the room. Much stronger than she looked. She shot daggers at Bell with her eyes. She checked the kid’s monitors and joined them out in the corridor. ‘That was a gross betrayal of trust.’

  ‘That kid’s a lead.’ Fenchurch tapped at the door. ‘I’m not finished with him.’

  ‘Look at the state of him. You did that to him.’

  Bell dusted himself off, bright sunlight bouncing off his bald head. ‘Thanks for letting us speak to him, anyway.’

  ‘Don’t come back in a hurry.’ The matron jabbed a finger at Fenchurch. ‘And don’t bring him next time.’

  Fenchurch wandered off, leaving Bell to apologise.

  Reed was following in his wake. ‘She’s a right charmer.’

  ‘She’s probably got a point, though, Kay.’

  Bell caught up by the lifts, just as Fenchurch thumped the down arrow. ‘Well, did that help at all?’

  Fenchurch got in the lift and leaned against the mirror. ‘He bloody knows Kamal. What have you got on him?’

  ‘Kamal? Very little, like I say. This was a long shot, Simon. Two plus two might equal five, you know?’

  ‘Long shot or not, it’s not really got me anywhere, String.’ Fenchurch stared at the closing doors, the corridor disappearing. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Why should I help you? You’ve just pissed her off. Who next?’

  ‘String, this is a murder case, okay? That little shit is in custody. He might get out unless we tighten the noose around him.’

  ‘I suppose I can take you on my rounds if you promise to behave.’

  ‘Me, behave?’ Fenchurch smirked at Reed. ‘Never.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘Just like the old days, this.’ Bell crawled through mid-morning traffic on Bishopsgate, the towers of the City lurking on their right. The bulbous mass of the gherkin shot up less than a block away, surrounded by more new towers. He swung a right past the Heron, a pointless slab of glass scraping the clouds. ‘Just like being back on the beat together.’

  ‘That was a month, String.’ Fenchurch watched the buildings switch from gentrified financial district to urban chaos, otherwise marketed as the fringe. Prets and Eats, posh salad bars and Pizza Expresses wrestled between greasy spoons, street markets and charity shops. ‘Still go to Petticoat Lane Market every couple of weeks.’

  ‘Still good, is it?’

  ‘Brilliant food. There’s a great Thai stand there. Amazing satay.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like cheese sandwiches to me.’

  ‘Gave those up a long time ago, String.’ Fenchurch checked his phone for messages. It was like the thing wasn’t even on. ‘I practically live off Mexican these days.’

  ‘Mexican?’ Bell glanced over. And again, looking up and down Fenchurch’s torso. ‘How’s that fair? All that cheese and guacamole and sour cream and you look like that?’

  ‘You saying you live off salad and rice cakes?’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  Fenchurch could just picture him sitting on his sofa at night, wolfing down wedges of cold pizza and buckets of ice cream. ‘Well, I go to the gym before my morning briefings. Every day.’

  ‘You must’ve been Mother Theresa in a past life, is all I can say.’

  ‘Don’t get me started on her.’ A glance in the rear view showed Reed was keeping up with them, singing along to something in her car. ‘What’s the plan here?’

  ‘We’re visiting a shop you might be interested in. One of a few places we’ve got enough budget to run surveillance on. Opens at ten o’clock.’ Bell tapped at the clock on the dashboard of his pool Saab. 09.53. ‘We know they handle the phones. A source says they take the bricked mobiles from the gangs and reset them to factory conditions. They box them up and send them abroad.’

  ‘Abroad?’

  ‘They go for crazy money in Malaysia and Indonesia.’

  Bloody hell. Fenchurch shook his head again. ‘Isn’t that where they make them?’

  ‘You’re thinking of China. The prices over there are insane. Nicked second-hand mobiles make good money there, like four hundred quid good.’

  ‘Christ almighty. You can see why they do it.’

  ‘Fifty-fifty split, we reckon. Two hundred to the gang per phone. Just think about how many your little friend had on him.’

  ‘Three grand for an evening’s thieving. No wonder these punks aren’t working in McDonald’s.’ Fenchurch leaned back in the seat and stretched his legs out. They were stuck behind a lorry trundling slower than his old man could walk. ‘How reliable’s this source?’

  ‘Unimpeachable. Works for Trident and they gave us a heads up.’

  ‘Trident?’ Fenchurch unlocked his phone, ready to message Nelson. ‘You got hooks into them?’

  ‘Why?’ Another flash of sharp teeth. ‘You need some help with them?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Call me when they stop answering your calls, Si.’ Bell pulled up beneath another sprawling City skyscraper. Spitalfields Tower or something.

  The left-hand side had gone through the gentrification sausage machine. A little Sainsbury’s, a branded gym, a posh pizza place and an outdoor clothing shop. The opposite side had missed it so far, still a family-run café, a battered hair studio and two cobblers, next to a shop stamped with ‘Ifone Repair’s’.

  ‘Take it you’re not arresting them for language abuse?’

  Bell laughed, a bit too hard to be genuine. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Isn’t th
is City of London turf?’

  ‘Just over the border. Heard about your little squabble with them at Christmas.’

  ‘How the bloody hell—’

  ‘The Met’s like a village, Si. Besides, they’ve let us run this obbo. Bigger fish to fry, they reckon. I spoke to Boris about it. He reckons we’re taking the strain off and letting them focus their resources on financial crime.’

  ‘Did he.’

  Bell let his seatbelt ride up and jabbed a sausage finger at a man with a turban sidling up to the front door. ‘That’s the owner. I was going to have a little word with them.’

  ‘Slap on the wrist?’

  ‘That kind of thing.’

  ‘Sure that’s the right play here? They know you. Might be best if I act the daft laddie, as my DCI says.’

  ‘You can’t—’

  ‘Watch me.’ Fenchurch got out of the car and jogged across the road. He entered and nodded at the owner. The place was filled with racks of video games, huge glass cases with phones of every make and model and a couple of rows of laptops. The far wall was rammed with big TVs and a pair of large iMacs, the kind John Lewis try to wow you with. An ATM machine sat near the back, stamped with ‘Phone Recycling Point’ in flashy green and blue.

  Fenchurch rested his hands on the glass counter, another display filled with Apple Watches and old-fashioned ones. ‘You the owner?’

  A slight nod. ‘Sir.’

  Fenchurch reached into his suit pocket for his warrant card and some photos. ‘DI Simon Fenchurch.’

  The owner licked his lips, blinking slow and hard a few times. ‘Call me Vikram.’

  ‘Only if that’s your name.’ Fenchurch held up the shots. First Qasid, then the man on the escalator. ‘You recognise either of these two?’

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘I gather they work here. Can I speak to them?’

  ‘I work here and my brother works here.’ The blinking turned into closed eyes. ‘That’s it.’

  ‘You sure about that, Vikram?’

  More blinking. ‘Sure.’

  ‘You definitely don’t know these lads?’

  Vikram pushed the photos away. ‘Never seen them in my life, officer.’

  ‘They’ve never supplied you with mobile phones, say?’