Worth Killing For (A DI Fenchurch Novel Book 2)

by Ed James

  ‘Maybe, but I bet none of them are gang leaders on Trident’s radar.’

  ‘So why has he killed her?’

  ‘I’ve been trying to work that out. You should be aware of the people I’ve spoken to today, right?’

  Mulholland gave him a wink. ‘I would if you’d bothered to document it.’

  Fenchurch switched his focus to Docherty. His gut ached — he hated having to plead like this. ‘Boss, I want to bring Kamal down.’

  ‘A noble goal, Si, believe me but I agree with Dawn. I’m worried about the hero cop stuff here.’ Docherty got up from his seat and grabbed his stress ball, pounding it with his fingers. ‘I just want a result on that lassie’s death, okay? Nothing more, nothing less.’

  ‘But, sir—’

  ‘Simon, Simon, Simon.’ Docherty stopped pumping the ball and held up a hand. ‘We need to focus, okay? Focus on the result, nothing else. Especially on a case which isn’t even on our patch.’

  ‘You know I want to find out why Saskia was killed.’ Fenchurch positioned himself so Docherty couldn’t see Mulholland. ‘If we can get a kill order, we can put Kamal away. Stop more deaths.’

  ‘We need to find him first, though, right?’ Docherty collapsed into his seat and tossed the ball into the air. ‘Simon, I shouldn’t be having to tell you this. Like Grandmaster bloody Flash said, it’s a jungle out there.’

  Mulholland roared with laughter, like she’d ever heard of Grandmaster Flash. ‘It’s very true, though. These sorts of transient crimes just don’t get solved.’ She crossed her legs and smoothed down her trousers. ‘I was speaking to Sergeant Greenhill up at Islington. He said he gets a few of these every year. Multiply that across our whole area and there’s tens, maybe hundreds of these cases.’

  Fenchurch gripped the arms of the chair. ‘Dawn, are you saying we shouldn’t try to solve them?’

  ‘I’m saying I’m worried we’re losing ourselves to solving something bigger than what we have in front of us.’

  Fenchurch stomped his feet on the floor, readying himself to stand. No. Don’t give her the satisfaction. He gave her a smile back, polite and professional. ‘I’m trying to put this guy away for what he’s done to Saskia.’

  ‘And that’s very noble. But, if we can’t solve it, we can’t solve it. Don’t give yourself an ulcer.’

  Fenchurch sat back in the chair and switched his gaze to burn into Docherty. ‘Boss, I need you to escalate something for me.’

  ‘Let me guess, with Trident?’

  Fenchurch gave him a smile. ‘Given I’m so crap at the whole diplomacy thing, any chance you can speak to them for me?’

  ‘They’re out in the Empress State Building, right? Where Savage and his crew dwell, right?’ Docherty made a note on a piece of paper. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He dumped his stress ball in the mouth of the Rangers mug. ‘Now, I’m heading home. I suggest you do the same, Simon. Dawn, you’re in charge now.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Fenchurch got out of the door first and thundered down the corridor. Who the bloody hell does she think she is?

  ‘Simon, is all this because you think it’s your daughter?’

  Fenchurch stopped dead. Slowly, he turned round to face Mulholland. Fists clenched, ready to punch something. Something that wouldn’t report him, like the wall. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I think you heard?’

  ‘You think I’m losing my edge?’

  ‘Not the words I’d use, but that’s the sentiment.’ She propped herself up against the Incident Room door. ‘You’ve got previous, haven’t you? There was that thing last Christmas where you thought Chloe was—’

  ‘Don’t you ever mention her name again, do you hear me?’ Fenchurch turned back and stormed off towards his office.

  Where the bloody hell did she get off?

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Fenchurch stared at himself in the mirror above the key bowl. Deep bags accompanied the lines. You need some sleep, sunshine.

  The place was deathly quiet.

  He strolled through to the kitchen, gloomy with just the under-counter lights on. The shared garden out back was dark, light from the flats criss-crossing the scorched grass.

  ‘Your dad left.’

  Fenchurch swung round. ‘Didn’t see you there.’

  Abi was sitting at the table, locking her glowing Kindle. She had her dressing gown on, hanging open to show her bed vest, white and flowery. Smelled like she’d been microwaving milk until it spilled over.

  Fenchurch kissed her on the top of her head and rested his hands on her shoulders. ‘Thought you’d have gone to bed by now.’

  ‘Can’t sleep. Didn’t get much last night. Been drinking coffee all day.’

  ‘Ab, I don’t want you getting into a vicious cycle again.’

  ‘I’ll be fine once my heart rate’s below a hundred and fifty.’ She leaned back into him, letting him tease out the kinks in her hair, eyes closing. ‘Had a good chat with your old man, though.’

  ‘Dad’s good like that. Just wish I could do the same for you.’

  She shot a glare up through half-closed eyelids. ‘You don’t have to do everything for me all the time, you know?’

  He held up his hands. ‘Sorry.’

  She closed her eyes again and smiled. ‘I didn’t tell you to stop.’

  He grinned as he restarted the combing. ‘I’ll be working tomorrow.’

  A long sigh. Her shoulders tightened. ‘A policeman’s wife’s lot is a lonely one . . .’

  ‘It’s not that bad, is it?’

  She clasped his hand, her skin soft and delicate. ‘I can think of worse people to be with, Simon.’

  ‘That supposed to be a compliment?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’ Her left eye peeked through the eyelid. ‘You know your dad’s still looking for Chloe, don’t you?’

  Fenchurch stopped combing. ‘I can’t stop him.’

  ‘You’re not helping him, are you?’

  ‘Of course I’m not.’

  She grabbed his hand. ‘I know when you’re lying.’

  ‘I’m not lying.’ Fenchurch looked away. ‘It’s just . . . Look, I spoke to someone for him. Just a chance meeting out west this evening.’ He tugged harder at her hair like he was tearing lies out of his soul. ‘There’s nothing in it, I swear.’

  ‘Stop that. It’s hurting.’ She sat forward and propped herself on the tabletop.

  ‘He’s trying to involve me, Ab. You know what he’s like. He just doesn’t listen.’

  ‘That where you get it from?’ She picked up her Kindle and folded the cover back. ‘Simon, you need to be honest with me. We renewed our vows on the basis that you’ve moved on. Are you still looking for her?’

  Fenchurch’s gut lurched. He struggled for breath. ‘I swear I’m not looking.’ He sat next to her and stroked her arm. ‘I still think about her every day, Ab, but I’m at peace with it. Okay?’

  ‘Simon . . .’ She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. ‘Look, I’ve been thinking. I’m thirty-nine. I’m not too old to still have kids.’

  Fenchurch stopped stroking. ‘What?’

  ‘I said, we can still have kids.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Forget it.’ She tugged her dressing gown shut and got up, nudging him out of the way. ‘I’ll see you when you get home tomorrow.’

  ‘Wait.’ He held out a hand.

  ‘Simon . . .’

  ‘Look, do you want to have kids, Abi?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know.’

  ‘So why bring it up?’

  ‘Because . . . We need to sort it out. Make a decision.’

  Fenchurch screwed his eyes closed. Just him and the drumming and the thudding in his chest. He opened them again, moisture forming around the rims. ‘I wasn’t aware there was a decision to be made.’

  ‘Simon, you loved Chloe. Wouldn’t you like to have another child?’

  Fenchurch’s gut was burning. Acid reflux bubbled away.
‘You want to replace her?’

  ‘I want to fill up our lives again.’

  Fenchurch collapsed into the dining chair next to her. Banged his knee off the table. Ground his teeth together. ‘Look, Ab, I’m scared.’ He rubbed his eyes, his knuckles pushing at the balls. ‘Scared I’ll just see Chloe every time I looked at her.’

  ‘Or him.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Anyway, that might not be a bad thing, you know? Help you deal with what happened.’

  Fenchurch got up and flicked the overhead light on. The room was a bloody pigsty. He reached into the fridge for a beer and tried twisting the cap like they did on films. Just got a cut on his forefinger. He grabbed the corkscrew from the counter and snapped it off. Took a deep pull from the bottle. Tasted like lemonade. ‘Love, I’ll be sixty by the time he or she left school.’

  ‘Old parents are all the rage these days.’

  ‘Abi, we live in London. If . . . Chloe taught us anything, it’s not a nice place to live if you’ve got a kid.’ Fenchurch leaned against the wall and folded his arms tight. Took another pull on the beer. ‘Look, I just need to think about it. Okay?’

  ‘Simon, if you don’t want to, that’s fine. We just need to talk about it and agree what we’re doing.’

  ‘It’s just this world. The shit I’ve seen, Ab. I was twenty-four when we had Chloe. Still walking the beat, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. What happened with her made me grow up, you know? I just don’t know if I can bring another life into this world. Not in London.’

  ‘We can move. We’ve talked about selling your flat. If we sell this place as well. Buy somewhere a lot bigger, maybe with our own garden. Maybe even a house. It’s still marginally cheaper south of the river.’

  Another tug of beer. ‘It’s also south of the river.’

  She winked at him. ‘Not sure there’s any good burrito places in Elephant and Castle.’

  ‘Well, then, we’re not moving.’ His grin turned to a frown as he looked out at the night sky. ‘I like it here. I’ve just moved back to my old stomping ground. Feels like I’m back home.’

  ‘Look, just think about it, okay?’ She got up and caressed his neck. ‘Just remember the clock’s ticking.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You coming to bed?’

  ‘I’m wired more than you are, love. There’s probably some football on BT or Sky.’

  ‘No more beer after that one, okay?’ She pecked him on the cheek and grabbed her Kindle. ‘Let me know when you’ll be home tomorrow, okay?’

  Day 3

  Saturday, 23rd April 2016

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Fenchurch took a slug of builder’s tea, nowhere near enough milk for once, and stared around the Incident Room. Looked like everyone was there, finally. He put the mug down and clapped his hands together. ‘Okay, come on, you lot.’ He stood up and waited for them to assemble.

  The drone died down, replaced with a thick silence. Tired officers slurping and chewing. Stale air. Nelson was lurking near the back with his posy coffee cup, something Lad seemed to have picked up from twenty-four hours in his shadow. Reed sat at the nearest desk, sipping on an extra-large Red Bull. Mulholland was sitting there like a cat surveying its territory.

  ‘Right. Jon, you’re up first.’

  ‘Sure thing, guv.’ A long sip through the black lid, then Nelson dumped the cup on the table next to Fenchurch. ‘As you know, guv, we’re still struggling to locate Kamal. DC Lad has been working with some lads from Trident but, unless there are back channels we can use, we’re stuck there.’

  Lad crumpled his coffee cup. ‘I spent most of yesterday out there. There’s an undercover officer we need to speak to urgently but they’re still blocking access.’

  Mulholland craned her neck to look behind at him. ‘Why are we so set on him?’

  ‘Because he’s the only person we know who’s ever met Kamal.’ Lad couldn’t help but grin. Red rag to a bull. ‘Well, other than our little friend in custody downstairs and his lawyer. The undercover officer is the only one I expect to play ball, though.’

  ‘Does this officer actually know where we can find Kamal?’

  Lad blushed, his cappuccino skin turning cranberry red. ‘We won’t know until we speak to him, ma’am.’

  ‘Well, I know people in the Trident team, so let’s have a word after this. Not too late, I do need to disappear.’

  Lad gave her a wink. ‘Ma’am.’

  ‘While we wait for hell to freeze over with Trident, DC Lad, I want you to shadow forensics. That doable?’

  Lad gave a loose shrug. ‘That’s fine.’

  Fenchurch looked around the room. Mulholland seemed like she was about to jump in. ‘Okay, dismissed.’

  Fenchurch shut his eyes. The smell of the whiteboard marker stung his nostrils. He shook his head and reopened his eyes, staring at the wall. Reed’s timeline sprawled across the white paintwork, stained from spilled coffee and bashing tables. He marched over and tapped the two gaps. ‘We’re still missing details on her last few minutes. I want her texts and calls from the network.’

  ‘Still waiting on Clooney, guv.’ Reed loosened off her ponytail, restoring her forehead’s lines and dimples. ‘Not had a chance to—’

  ‘Kay, you looking for me?’ Clooney stood behind her, clutching a coffee. He waved at the timeline. ‘The Sistine Chapel’s looking a bit rough today.’

  ‘Thanks for joining us at the briefing, Mick.’ Fenchurch took a sip of lukewarm tea.

  ‘Sorry, young Ms Reed here’s got me working ten to the dozen.’

  ‘Mrs Reed.’ She tightened her ponytail again. ‘Do you want to give your update now?’

  ‘You’ll be glad to know I’ve finished the Crime Scene Report for Upper Street.’ Clooney handed a document to Fenchurch. A bit on the thin side. ‘Here’s your copy.’

  Fenchurch flipped through it. ‘There’s not much here, is there?’

  ‘What were you expecting, a third Testament or something?’

  ‘A lot more than this.’ Fenchurch dumped the pamphlet on the desk near the whiteboard. ‘The fingerprint analysis on the knife? Blood-type DNA matching?’

  ‘They’ll be supplemental reports, Simon. You know that. Besides, I’ve got other cases on the go.’

  ‘This isn’t good enough. Fast track them. Please.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can get done while I fast track everything else.’

  Fenchurch made a note on the whiteboard, twice the size of the others. ‘What about Saskia’s phone? Has that turned up yet?’

  ‘Eh?’ Clooney screwed up his face. ‘We found it yesterday.’

  Fenchurch glared at him, wishing a sandworm or something would eat him up. ‘What?’

  Clooney scowled at Reed then Fenchurch. ‘I thought you all knew?’

  Fenchurch frowned, glancing over at Reed in time to see her shrugging. ‘Well, we’re not aware of it. Where was it?’

  ‘It was in the phone recycler in that place you raided yesterday morning. I told DI Bell.’

  Fenchurch curled his lip. ‘You bloody tell me next time, okay?’

  Clooney bowed his head. ‘Sure thing.’

  ‘So, have you done any analysis on it?’

  ‘Well . . .’ Clooney gritted his teeth — here comes another wave of bullshit. ‘The problem is it’s been wiped.’

  ‘Wiped?’

  ‘I swear you’ve still not cleared the echo in here.’ Clooney beamed at Reed. She didn’t grin back. He cleared his throat instead. ‘Whoever recycled it did a factory reset.’ He raised a hand. ‘And before you ask, these things are encrypted and the drive gets zeroed. Meaning that, even if we could undelete anything from it, it’d just be gobbledygook.’

  ‘So how do you know it was hers?’

  ‘She had a cheap “Hello Kitty” case on it. It’s scratched the plastic underneath and imprinted on it. While it’s not a hundred per cent, we’ve got no other reports of stolen Galaxy Notes matching anything like that. And
it’s the sort of thing people do report. Insurance companies need a crime number, right?’

  ‘Any idea who had recycled it?’

  ‘None. The CCTV camera on the machine was disabled. Whoever did it got fifty quid for it, though.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Fenchurch focused on the gaping holes in the timeline. They were getting wide enough to send coach parties to visit and open a gift shop. ‘How are we doing with her phone records?’

  ‘Tom’s sending them over to DC Bridge.’ Clooney tilted his head from side to side, like he was weighing up the cost of telling the truth. ‘It’s not the complete story, though. We’re still waiting on Facebook.’

  ‘Facebook? I’ve not asked for any social media searches.’ Fenchurch shot a glare at Reed. ‘Have you?’

  ‘Not me, guv.’

  ‘Forget the social stuff.’ Clooney waved his hands in the air, like he was trying to cool down or take flight. ‘Look, according to her boyfriend, she was on WhatsApp all the time. Lots of kids with Androids are. It’s like iMessages but cross-platform. Anyway, Facebook own it.’

  ‘Just get me the bloody messages without the excuses.’

  ‘I’ll see what can be done.’ Clooney’s phone rang. He looked up at Fenchurch. ‘Sorry, I need to take this.’

  ‘Be my guest.’ Fenchurch focused on the timeline again as Clooney strode across the room, answering the call too loudly. ‘Kay, we’re solid up to the point I spotted Saskia, right?’

  ‘That’s right, sir.’ Reed cradled her notebook like it was a baby. ‘Even with all the nut jobs from the press conference, we still haven’t got anything before she met with Yana Ikonnikova.’

  Fenchurch focused on the far left of the line, completely blank. ‘So we can see if Kamal had been following her before her appointment?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Keep on it.’

  Reed crumpled up her Red Bull can. She seemed to take weeks to drink one. ‘People will spot a black guy hanging around in that part of town.’