Worth Killing For (A DI Fenchurch Novel Book 2)

by Ed James

He stopped and looked around. Not even the vaguest whiff of a police presence, other than the double-parked squad car causing hell with the traffic flow. Though there was a reek of ganja.

  Fenchurch pushed through the door, the frown feeling like it’d add another line to his forehead.

  The place was pretty much standing room only, old Rastas with greying dreads mixing with club girls and hipsters. Half eight on a Friday night was prime time, probably thirty or forty per cent of the weekly take. A poster on the wall indicated a dub reggae sound system on downstairs later that night.

  A door opened and deep bass thudded out, loud enough you could taste it in the air. No snare, no percussion, just smooth bass and echoing keyboard sounds. Not his kind of music. The door swung closed and the noise shut off again.

  No sign of Greenhill. The cheeky bastard.

  Clinton Jackson was behind the bar, pulling a pint as he flirted with some white girls. Dressed like they were heading to Ministry of Sound or wherever the kids went these days. He clocked Fenchurch and waved him through to the back.

  A green door was cordoned off with police tape. Fenchurch stepped over and opened it. A small office, stacked high with crates of Red Stripe, the walls covered with Ska memorabilia.

  Owen Greenhill was lumbering under the full stab-proof get-up and blocking the doorway. A rare excursion from his lair at Islington nick. He turned around, his Body-Worn Video camera blinking, indicating it was recording.

  Fenchurch entered the room and stomped across the small space to him. ‘I would’ve expected this place to be in lockdown if someone’s been stabbed inside.’

  ‘You cut the call too soon, Simon.’ Greenhill smirked as he thumbed at two of his colleagues behind him, dressed like they were dealing with a full-on riot. ‘Kid got slotted outside.’

  Between them, a black man in his twenties gripped his left bicep. Thick blood covered his right hand, dripping onto the floor, a pool forming at his feet. The angry glare on his face was just about killing the pain he was clearly experiencing.

  Greenhill thumbed out of the doorway. ‘Just down Moreland Street, by the flats. Got units canvassing the area. He came in here after he got attacked. Daft sod’s refusing medical help.’

  ‘I assume there’s an ambulance en route?’

  ‘Traffic’s a proper nightmare at this time of night. Kid’s called Lemar.’

  ‘Got a surname?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  Fenchurch pushed over towards Lemar, who was more interested in the pub doorway. He shook his free shoulder. ‘Sir, I’m a detective. Can you tell me what’s happened?’

  The sharp gaze switched to Fenchurch. Kid was like a walking fight, all pumped fists and snarling teeth. ‘You got a big nose, man.’

  Fenchurch knew the type. Such a bloody cliché. ‘I’m trying to help.’

  ‘Some prick on a bike stole my phone.’

  Fenchurch’s gut recoiled, wrapping tight around the digesting pasta. He caught a smug grin on Greenhill’s face — see why I called you? ‘Did you recognise them?’

  ‘No, man. Cost me six hundred quid. I chased after him along the road, past the flats. Didn’t see it coming, but someone else came at me with a knife.’ Lemar tightened his grip on his arm and grimaced. ‘I do karate, though, yeah? So I hit him, creamed the guy. Bastard caught me with the blade, man. Whole gang of them came after me so I ran off. Came in here.’

  ‘You called the police?’

  ‘Barman did.’ Greenhill nodded over at the bar, Jackson doing his best impression of Tom Cruise in that bloody film.

  ‘I’m going to kill them, man. Once my boys turn up, we’ll get out there and do them.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be telling us that.’

  ‘See if I care, cop. You lot need to let me call my boys. They’ll hear anyway, man, and they’ll come running. Hardest in Hackney.’

  Fenchurch caught Greenhill’s sigh. Another gang war avoided by blind luck. ‘What about a name?’

  Lemar screwed his eyes tight. A splodge of thick blood dripped to the floor followed by a faster trickle. It spattered on the lino. ‘Nah, man.’

  ‘You’re sure about that?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’ Another grimace.

  ‘You ever hear the name Kamal?’

  Lemar let out a sigh. ‘They’s all Kamal’s boys.’

  Fenchurch gritted his teeth. ‘Was Kamal there?’

  ‘Never met the dude, but heard his rep. One of the kids used that name. Think it was him with the knife, you know?’

  ‘Did you get a look at him?’

  ‘Pretty good.’

  ‘I’ll need to get a description from you.’

  ‘Once I kill him, sure.’

  Sirens squalled through the door, compressed by the doorway. Blue lights flashed through the bar. Outside, an ambulance had mounted the pavement, pretty much blocking the entrance.

  ‘Listen, sir, there’s an ambulance outside.’ Fenchurch thumbed through the door. ‘You need to get to hospital, okay?’

  ‘I ain’t going nowhere until he’s in the ground, man.’

  ‘Way you’re going, you’ll be there first. Once we’ve patched you up, my colleagues here will take your statement. We’re going to get after them just now.’

  ‘I want to get them myself, man.’

  ‘That’s not going to happen.’ Fenchurch nodded at the two uniforms bookending him. ‘Get him sorted out.’

  One of the bar staff appeared with a bucket and mop for the bloody puddle at their feet.

  ‘Come on, Owen.’ Fenchurch got up from the tower of beer and followed Greenhill outside. The crowd cheered as the stereo crackled into life again, pumping out the same thunking bass as below. Then he pushed out of the door into the warm night air and shook his head at Greenhill. ‘This place is a bloody disgrace. Kamal’s bloody been here.’

  ‘So, what’s the plan?’

  ‘Let’s find Kamal.’

  ‘Like it’s that easy. I’ve got uniform around the corner going through the flats.’

  ‘So come on, then.’ Fenchurch marched down the road, following the wet splashes on the pavement. ‘Where was it?’

  ‘Just there.’ Greenhill waved a hand at a pool of blood in front of Kestrel House. The hulking tower loomed over their heads, maybe eighteen, twenty storeys tall. Dotted with a few satellite dishes, fewer than you’d think. Most windows were lit up. The patch of grass was barely touched by the street lights.

  Two female uniformed officers stood in high-vis gear, one speaking into her crackling Airwave. The other gave Greenhill a nod. ‘Sarge.’

  ‘Any sign of anyone?’

  ‘They’re like rats, Sarge. They’ll just disappear when you go after them.’

  ‘So we’ve not caught anyone?’

  ‘Not likely to either.’ She checked with Airwave uniform and got a shrug. ‘Kate’s on with Alpha X-Ray Niner. They’ve got a gang round the back.’

  ‘Come on.’ Fenchurch started off away from them.

  A couple of cars swung past, rubberneckers gawping at them. Down at the side of the building was a playground, orange and blue swings and a slide. Three hip-hop kids were on the roundabout, slowly spinning around. A pair of male uniforms were struggling to keep them under control.

  Fenchurch got on between them and sat down, not upsetting their careful balance. ‘Nice night for it.’

  The one in the middle inched away from him but stayed sitting. ‘Get off, man.’

  ‘Not going to do that, son.’ Fenchurch moved close to him, getting the measure of the kid. Coffee skin and ginger hair. ‘Wondering if I can have a word with Kamal.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You heard. Kamal.’

  ‘Don’t know no Kamal, man.’

  ‘Sure about that?’ Fenchurch thumbed towards the bar. ‘He stabbed someone just down there.’

  ‘No, he didn’t, man. I did—’

  The kid next to him grabbed him. ‘Kiefer, man, shut up.’

  Kiefer
shrugged his friend off. ‘I stabbed him, man. Got my knife and that.’

  ‘This guy’s five oh, man. You don’t—’

  ‘Say what I like. Free planet.’

  Fenchurch held up a hand, keeping Greenhill and his uniform at a distance. ‘So Kamal wasn’t there?’

  ‘Didn’t say that, man.’

  ‘Just that you stabbed that guy?’

  ‘Punk shouldn’t have been here. Shouldn’t have been starting on us, man.’

  ‘Said he got his phone nicked.’

  ‘He lying.’

  ‘So, if I wanted to speak to Kamal?’

  ‘Forget about him, man.’

  Fenchurch stood up and adjusted his jacket. He beckoned the uniforms over and grabbed Kiefer’s arm. ‘Read him his rights.’ He waited until one of them had Kiefer under control then walked over to Greenhill.

  ‘Masterful.’

  Fenchurch shook his head. ‘Didn’t get us anywhere, though, did it?’

  ‘So what now?’

  Fenchurch started off again. ‘Let’s have another word with the owner.’

  Fenchurch waved across the bar, getting hold of Jackson’s attention. He beckoned him over.

  Jackson nodded apologies at the white girls he was chatting up and wandered over. ‘Yo, what’s up?’

  ‘Someone getting stabbed outside your bar is what’s up, Mr Jackson. From what I gather, this sort of trouble happens a lot round here.’

  ‘This is London, man.’ Jackson ran a hand through the half-dreads. ‘We got problems round here. They’re my problems, they’re your problems but they try to make me look bad in the eyes of you guys.’

  ‘You need to tell me about Kamal.’

  ‘I know nothing about no Kamal.’

  Fenchurch raised his eyebrows. ‘Sure about that, sir? You said you barred him.’

  Jackson let his shoulders slouch. ‘Brother causes trouble here so I bar him. He’s not come back. I’m trying to run a business here and he’s making me look bad.’

  ‘The man who was stabbed reckoned it was Kamal who did it. Have you seen him around here?’

  ‘No, man.’

  ‘Do you know where I can find him?’

  ‘Hell, I hope.’

  Fenchurch held his gaze for a few seconds then waved him away. He glowered at Greenhill. ‘Time to haul someone over some bloody coals.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ‘Cheers, Owen. Catch you later.’ Fenchurch got out of the squad car and slammed the door. He watched it disappear down Leman Street, quiet in the late evening lull before the pubs started emptying. Nobody was kicked out any more, they just head on somewhere else, the drinking never stopping. Places always ignored the licensing laws, opening when they shouldn’t.

  Leman Street was a narrow road crowded by tall buildings of all vintages, tight enough to give anyone claustrophobia. He jogged up the steps of the ugliest, most brutal building and barrelled through the front entrance.

  Steve was at the desk, looking like he was past the point of swearing at the drunk punter shouting the odds through the glass. ‘I have made a note of your complaint, sir, and you have a—’

  Fenchurch swiped through the security door and made for the stairwell. Voices echoed around, coming from above, the hearty laugh of Nelson among them.

  Fenchurch stopped on their office floor and nodded. ‘Sergeant.’

  Nelson stuck his vape stick in his pocket and gave a naughty schoolboy smile. The female uniformed officer he’d been chatting to sloped off upstairs, sucking on her own e-cigarette. A lot less shame in her habit than Nelson. ‘Guv. Thought we wouldn’t see you again tonight.’

  ‘Well, you thought wrong.’ Fenchurch tugged the door open. ‘You sure you should be doing that inside?’

  ‘It’s just nicotine vapour, guv. It’s not harming anyone.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  Nelson’s cheeks tightened. ‘Just a bit of friendly banter.’

  ‘Sure your wife would see it that way?’ Fenchurch raised his eyebrows and waited a beat. ‘I’m just pulling your leg, Jon.’

  ‘Well, don’t. Sir.’ Nelson tried to hold his gaze but looked away a microsecond later. ‘You hear about a scuffle at that boozer, guv?’

  ‘I’ve just been there. The stabber was Kamal.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘According to a witness who was more interested in frontier justice than the kind we offer. Which is why I wanted you to get hold of Kamal.’

  ‘Guy’s made of smoke.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Fenchurch raised his hand, ready to punch the wall. ‘I told you I wanted him in custody.’

  ‘I’ve been running things here, guv. Street teams, all the rubbish from the press release, you name it.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Fenchurch shook his head as he started off down the corridor. ‘How’s our little friend?’

  ‘Qasid?’

  ‘Nobody else in custody, Sergeant.’

  ‘Right. Kid’s a pro. Getting nowhere with him, guv. Just about to head back in with him.’

  ‘I’ll join you.’

  Qasid was sitting next to Unwin. The pair of them looked like they were competing in the sullen-look world championships.

  Fenchurch took his time taking his seat, his foot deciding now was the time to start throbbing again. There’s nothing broken but why’s it hurt so bloody much? He waved for Nelson to restart the interview.

  Nelson leaned across the table and tapped the digital recorder. ‘Interview recommenced at eight fifty-seven p.m. DI Simon Fenchurch has entered the room.’ He collapsed back with enough huff and puff to blow a house down. ‘Before our little intermission, I was asking you who Kamal is.’

  Qasid rolled his eyes and sniffed. ‘I tol’ you, man. Ain’t nobody by that name.’

  ‘Quit with that bullshit, son.’ Fenchurch picked up a chair and carried it to the side, sitting next to the young man. ‘We know you’re in league with Kamal. It’s in your best interests to help us find him.’

  ‘Ain’t helping nobody, bitch. This is police brutality. You guys are Guantanamoing me here, man.’

  Unwin reached across and gripped his client’s wrist. ‘My client means you’re still holding him without charge. What gives?’

  Fenchurch gave Unwin a few seconds of glare and restored his focus on Qasid. ‘I want to believe you, son, trust me.’ He grinned at the kid, inches away from him. A stench wafted off him, stale sweat and rank fear. ‘The problem is I just can’t bring myself to accept what you’re saying. I saw you stab someone in front of me. You nicked her phone and her bag and you scarpered.’ He leaned back and folded his arms. ‘That’s why I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Ain’t done nothing, bruv.’

  ‘There’s something you can do to help. We need a word with Kamal.’

  ‘I get that, bruv. You keep asking me, man. It’s all you and Oreo ask me.’

  Fenchurch gave Nelson a warning glance. Keep out of it. He smiled at Qasid again. ‘How can we find Kamal?’

  ‘You don’t find him, he find you.’

  Fenchurch leaned back in his seat, the metal creaking as he stretched out his sore arms. ‘I’ve heard that elsewhere.’ He tilted his head from side to side, as if he was thinking where. ‘Of course, we’ve got you on record telling us you don’t know him and now you say you do know him.’

  ‘I ain’t saying nothing.’

  ‘Inspector.’ Unwin got to his feet and started forcing buttons through holes on his suit jacket. ‘I’d like a word.’

  ‘I’m very pleased for you.’

  The top button slotted into place. ‘Now, Inspector.’

  ‘Come on, then.’ Fenchurch nodded at Nelson and followed Unwin out into the corridor.

  ‘Interview paused at—’

  Fenchurch shut the door and rested against it. ‘You’ve got ten seconds to have this word.’

  ‘This is out of order!’ Flecks of spit were flying from the lawyer’s mouth. ‘What the hell do you think y
ou’re playing at here?’

  ‘What does it bloody look like? I’m interviewing a murder suspect.’

  ‘It looks like you’re intimidating my client into a confession. It’s not the seventies, Inspector.’

  ‘Does that kid look intimidated to you?’ Fenchurch laughed and ran his tongue over his lips. ‘He’s, what, eighteen? He’s clearly been coached in dealing with the law. Now, who could’ve done that?’

  ‘Are you insinuating something here?’

  Fenchurch let it hang for a bit as a pair of uniforms passed in the corridor, the uglier one giving Unwin a visual shoeing. ‘I want to know how you managed to turn up here to rep him without a phone call.’

  ‘That’s none of your business.’

  ‘This isn’t pro-bono work, is it?’

  ‘Again, my business is none of yours, Inspector.’

  Fenchurch stood up tall. A good three inches above Unwin, whose slouching shoulders weren’t helping him any. ‘As it happens, I’m more interested in you repping Kamal.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You do rep him, right?’

  Unwin looked away and gave a sniff. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Fenchurch stared up at the ceiling, finger on his chin, and focused on the water-damaged tiles, more dirty brown than white. ‘Now, what was it?’ He looked back at Unwin and winked. ‘Oh yes. You rep this little oik in there. He works for Kamal, who I gather you know. He got himself into a bit of trouble up Islington way and his lawyer matched your description.’ He paused, watched the nerves pulse on Unwin’s temple. ‘Admit it, Mr Unwin, you work for Kamal.’

  ‘I’ve no idea who you’re referring to.’ Unwin brushed a hand across his forehead, masking the twitches or at least pushing them back in the box. ‘There’s no story here. My office received a call to defend an unnamed black youth.’

  ‘Qasid didn’t use his. Who placed the call?’

  ‘I didn’t ask.’

  ‘You mind asking your office staff?’

  ‘Fine.’ Unwin rested his notebook against the wall and jotted something down. ‘As for the other matter, I don’t know anything about him.’

  ‘That’s a lie and we both know it. Is Kamal his real name?’

  Unwin let out a deep sigh. ‘Inspector, just drop it.’