Worth Killing For (A DI Fenchurch Novel Book 2)

by Ed James

  ‘Very true. Can you get someone to dig into it?’

  ‘Guv.’ Reed checked her Pronto. ‘Made some progress with the knife purchases. There are a few online dealers who’ll sell in this area. Mostly American, but there’s the usual eBay sellers.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘We’ve got a stack of transactions to get through. Should generate some leads.’

  ‘I’m sensing a but here.’

  Reed grinned. ‘But, we’re assuming the knives weren’t bought on the dark net. That’s a whole other kettle of fish, guv. We’ll get nothing if they were.’

  ‘Okay. Feels like a wild goose chase. Give it the rest of today and see if we’ve got any likely suspects.’

  ‘Guv.’ Reed stabbed her stylus on the Pronto’s screen. Then frowned at it. ‘Looks like Lisa’s got the list of calls from Angel tube.’

  ‘So we can see who Kamal was calling?’

  ‘Right. Lisa’s going through it just now.’ Reed nodded over at Bridge near the back of the room, getting a wink in response before she went back to her laptop. ‘Three thousand calls at that time to the nearby cell towers. She’s reduced it to just over four hundred made to pay-as-you-go phones.’

  ‘You’re assuming he was calling a burner?’

  ‘Just an assumption, guv. If we get nowhere with that, we can look at the others.’

  ‘No, I think that’s the right approach.’

  ‘We’ll need resource to listen to the calls, though. Assuming we can get access to them and assuming they were recorded.’

  ‘That’s not going to happen, is it?’

  ‘Not—’

  Clooney barged back in, his face having lost a couple of shades of colour. ‘Simon, I need a word.’ He swallowed. ‘One of my analysts has just finished running the prints.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Two things. Good news first. Qasid’s prints are all over the bag you found by those bikes. He definitely nicked them.’

  ‘Good work.’ Fenchurch crossed his arms. ‘And the bad?’

  Clooney looked away. ‘The impressions on the murder weapon belong to someone called Lewis Cole.’

  Acid reflux curdled in Fenchurch’s gut. ‘Is that Qasid’s real name?’

  ‘We’ve checked his hands, Simon. He’s got a scar on his left index finger. What we got off the knife doesn’t match him.’

  Fenchurch swallowed hard. The drums started playing in his ears, lazy jazz time. ‘So the knife we found wasn’t the one he used to kill her?’

  ‘That’s the other thing. It’s her DNA markers in the blood.’ Clooney scratched his neck. ‘That is the murder weapon.’

  The drums hammered in Fenchurch’s ears, Led Zep thunder rolling. His vision condensed to a narrow tunnel. His brain started throbbing against his skull. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Qasid didn’t kill her.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Docherty was gazing at the middle screen in the Observation Suite, silent as the grave. On-screen, Qasid and Unwin were in quiet conference in interview room three. He shook his head again, still didn’t say anything.

  Fenchurch leaned against the wall, the plaster now almost matching his body temperature. The drums thudded harder and faster. ‘Boss, all I can say is I’m sorry.’

  Docherty looked round at Fenchurch, his eyes tiny slits. ‘Simon, you are an idiot.’

  ‘It was an honest mistake.’

  ‘A mistake? You sure about that? Have you any idea what that wee shite could do to us?’ Docherty got up and started counting on his fingers. ‘Racial discrimination. False arrest. Racial profiling. Assault. And I bet you Unwin’s the sort of sneaky bastard who knows precisely which bloody rules we’ve bent way past breaking point.’

  Fenchurch let the echo in the room die down and sucked in the stale sweat smell. Not all of it was his. ‘It wasn’t like that, boss. Qasid and whoever this Lewis Cole is were wearing the same clothes, hiding their identities from everyone. It doesn’t matter if it’d been a white kid on that bike, or an Asian kid or whatever, so long as they looked the same as the other one. They could still have played that trick.’

  ‘You’ve been tricked now, have you?’ Docherty slumped back in the seat and faced away from Fenchurch. He was using a blank monitor as a mirror to focus on Fenchurch. ‘These little neds on the street can outwit a Met DI with some bloody hooded tops. Christ, Simon, I should stick these guys on the payroll and get them doing your job.’

  Fenchurch tried a smile for size. ‘They might be able to bring in Kamal.’

  ‘This isn’t funny.’

  ‘I’m not saying it is.’ Fenchurch pushed away from the wall. A pool of sweat had welled around the contact point and soaked his shirt. ‘This isn’t about race, boss. In any other case, we get a description and we bring someone in. This is different. I saw him do it.’

  ‘It wasn’t him, you daft sod.’

  ‘He’s involved, though, sir. That little shit had a ton of stolen phones on him.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean he’s murdered that girl.’

  ‘But it doesn’t mean he doesn’t know who did.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Docherty shook his head again, laughing this time. ‘We got anything on this Lewis Cole boy?’

  ‘Sweet Fanny Adams, sir. Another ghost. Just like Kamal and like Qasid there.’

  ‘And he definitely isn’t Lewis Cole?’

  ‘Prints are nothing like each other.’

  ‘Is Kamal?’

  ‘Who knows, boss.’

  On the screen, Nelson entered the room, sitting down and adjusting his tiepin. He started the recorder. ‘Interview commenced at—’

  Fenchurch tapped the monitor, his fingernail pinging off the glass. ‘Let me lead the interview.’

  Docherty shook his head. ‘That can’t happen, Si.’

  ‘I’ve built up an understanding with the kid. If anyone can get anything out of him, it’s me.’

  ‘You’ve proven the opposite of that so far.’

  ‘Ten minutes. That’s all I ask.’

  Docherty stared at the display for a few seconds and sighed. ‘Fine, ten minutes. Then I’m taking over and you’re going to work traffic or whatever.’

  ‘Cheers, boss.’

  ‘And Dawn’ll be coming in after she’s had some sleep this morning.’

  Fenchurch hovered outside interview room three, sucking in deep breaths, trying to calm himself down. Eyes shut. Heavy metal drums banging away.

  Count to ten. Then again. And again.

  He opened his eyes, down to a slow jazz tempo now. The corridor’s brightness hit him, like when the colours were popped on a photo. He swallowed down bile, acid reflux boiling in his gut. Felt like it was clawing at his heart.

  Ready.

  He pushed open the door and entered the interview room.

  Nelson was nodding at something Qasid said. ‘So you understand the situation?’

  ‘No, man. This is police brutality. You’ve Guantanamoed me, yeah? We gonna take yo’ badge, bitch.’

  Nelson craned round and frowned at Fenchurch. He nodded then leaned towards the microphone. ‘DI Simon Fenchurch has entered the room.’

  ‘Good morning, Qasid.’ Fenchurch sat next to Nelson and started rolling up his shirtsleeves. ‘Who’s Lewis Cole?’

  Qasid smirked. ‘Roofie.’

  ‘What?’

  Unwin held up a hand. ‘I ask you to strike that from the record.’

  ‘We’re not going to do that.’ Fenchurch locked eyes with Qasid. The little shit looked like he was at a comedy show. ‘Did you say Roofie?’

  ‘So what if I said it, bitch?’ He sniffed. ‘He’s nobody.’

  ‘I insist that’s struck from the record.’

  ‘Qasid, is Lewis Cole called Roofie?’

  ‘He’s called Lewis, ayiii.’

  ‘He’s not Kamal?’

  ‘He not Kamal.’

  ‘Inspector! I insist you stop this. You’re infringing on my client’s human righ
ts here.’

  ‘Mr Unwin, your client has been cleared of all charges relating to the death of Saskia Barnett. This is merely intelligence gathering.’ Fenchurch waited for the lawyer to settle back in his seat and scribble a note. Then he smiled at Qasid. ‘We’ve just discovered that Lewis murdered the girl. It looks like he’s framing you for it.’

  The boy sniffed again, his forehead knotted into a deep frown. Then a huge grin broke out. ‘He wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘He my friend, bitch. Why he do that? He ain’t going do that to me.’

  ‘That’s enough.’ Unwin got up and put his hands on Qasid’s shoulders, trying to get him to stand. ‘This interview’s over and my client’s walking out of here with me.’

  Fenchurch slowly got up, stuffing his hands in his pockets. ‘I’ll be the judge of that.’

  ‘You’re letting him go now and we shall be seeking compensation for false arrest among a myriad other breaches of human-rights law.’ Unwin stared down at Qasid. ‘Mr Williams, you’re coming with me.’

  ‘He’s going nowhere.’

  ‘Inspector, you just said he’s cleared of all charges.’

  ‘Relating to the death of Saskia Barnett.’ Fenchurch shot him a wink. ‘Mr Unwin, your client had seven stolen phones on him, as well as his own. We found another seven where he nicked a bike. That’s fourteen stolen mobiles, maybe fifteen if he’s not claiming the burner as his own.’

  ‘That’s my phone, bitch. I tol’ you.’

  Fenchurch ignored Qasid, keeping his attention on the lawyer. ‘Even you should acknowledge your client’s handling a lot of stolen goods there.’ A quick glance at the kid. ‘While we’re clearing him of the murder charge, he’s not getting off. The Mobile Phone Theft Unit will be prosecuting him for this.’

  ‘Well, we’re still suing.’ Unwin stood up and did up the top button of his suit jacket. ‘You’ve got until noon to release him.’ He barged past the security officer and tried the door handle.

  Fenchurch gripped his arm and leaned in close. ‘We’re still watching you.’

  Unwin shoved him.

  Fenchurch tumbled backwards, struggling to stay on his feet. He slumped against the table and pretended to sit. Nobody seemed to notice his fall.

  The door clattered shut behind Unwin.

  ‘Looks like he’s running rings round you plonkers.’

  Fenchurch got up and went into the corridor, waiting for Nelson.

  ‘Interview terminated at seven thirty-six a.m.’ Nelson killed the recorder, nodded at the security officer and left the room. He shook his head at Fenchurch then at the door. ‘You going to do Unwin for that?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You should think about it. Technically assault, guv. Two witnesses on your side plus it was recorded.’ Nelson got out his vape stick and checked the display. ‘What happened on Thursday night, guv?’

  ‘I thought I’d caught the killer.’ Fenchurch collapsed against the wall, arms crossed, drums thundering again. ‘I hadn’t.’

  ‘How can that happen?’

  ‘Like you’ve been trying to tell me, Jon, I let him slip out of my sight when I chased him. There’s two, maybe three occasions when I could’ve lost him.’

  ‘This doesn’t look good, guv.’

  ‘Believe me, I know.’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m going to make myself so busy Docherty doesn’t know where I am.’ Fenchurch started off down the corridor. ‘You can come with me, if you want?’

  ‘Would love to, guv.’ Nelson was keeping pace with him. ‘Problem is, Docherty’s asked me to lead the case until Mulholland’s back in.’

  Fenchurch stopped at the doorway leading to the stairwell. ‘Well, don’t let me get in the way of your career, Sergeant.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  ‘Thanks for doing this, Kay.’ Fenchurch got out of the car onto Upper Street. Place was back to normal now — light Saturday morning traffic heading to shops or kid’s football or dancing or whatever. Wouldn’t suspect someone had been murdered there a day and a half ago. ‘I appreciate it.’

  ‘Don’t mention it, guv.’ Reed got out of the driver’s side and plipped the lock. ‘Just so long as Docherty doesn’t haul me over the coals for this.’

  Fenchurch climbed up the steps to the raised pavement, his foot starting to throb again. ‘As far as he’s concerned, you’re accompanying me home.’

  ‘Has he suspended you?’

  ‘Not in so many words.’ Fenchurch sat at the table he’d claimed the other night. Four bouquets of flowers outlined where she’d lain and the morning dew was winning the battle with her bloodstain. ‘This is where it happened. I was here with Abi.’

  ‘And so was I, remember?’ Reed wouldn’t look at the spot, kept her gaze on her shoes and the shoppers milling around. ‘What can you remember, guv?’

  Fenchurch tried to pull himself back in time, sucking in the street smells, bitter diesel spewing from the buses. The sweet sweat smell of the tube. Onions and peppers frying in Chilango. Cigarette smoke. Coffee. Aftershave, perfume, deodorant. ‘Nothing much, Kay. Just what the kid was wearing. Those trackie bottoms. The green Everlast logo. Proper Mardyke Estate stuff.’

  ‘Takes me back a few years, guv.’ Reed sat next to him, backside barely connecting with the silvery metal. ‘When did you first see Saskia?’

  ‘Her body language caught my eye.’ Fenchurch looked towards the underground station. There’d been a thick crowd, Islington residents returning home to replace workers commuting in for the day. ‘She was hurrying away from the tube, like someone was following her. Staring at her phone, then looking behind her. Something made her start running.’

  ‘Did you see what it was?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  Fenchurch stared at the pavement just ahead of them, tried to overlay the Thursday gloom onto Saturday’s glow. ‘I saw Saskia running past the gap leading up to the cinema, just by the bank there. Then a flash came from over there.’ He waved down at the street where two buses idled, the front one slowly swallowing a queue of passengers.

  ‘A flash of what?’

  ‘Must’ve been the knife, could’ve just been the bike.’

  ‘You’re not making any sense, guv. You definitely saw him?’

  The black kid in the urban camouflage of the hoodie and the black trackies. Standing on his pedals, bumping up onto the pavement. A snarl in a suit shouting after him.

  ‘I saw him. He came up the wheelchair ramp. I looked right in his eyes, Kay. Looked just like a kid.’

  ‘And you thought it was Qasid?’

  ‘Maybe. Could’ve been.’

  ‘Was it Kamal on the bike?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Fenchurch reached into his suit jacket for the photos. He stared at the one taken on the escalator. Stupid mushroom hair, evil eyes. He put it down on the table. ‘It wasn’t him. Too young.’

  ‘You think Kamal is this Lewis Cole?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s him, Kay. Too old.’

  ‘There are bikes chained to railings all along there, guv. Could he have got one of them?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘We don’t know the first thing about Lewis Cole, do we?’

  ‘True.’ Fenchurch closed his eyes, trying to visualise things again. ‘The first thing I saw was him bumping the pavement, already on the bike. Then I saw him stab Saskia.’ He opened his eyes again and slumped back in the chair, the metal digging into his back. ‘The way I see it, when he was on the escalator, Kamal was calling one of his guys in the area. Some kid out nicking stuff. He redirected him towards Saskia and told him to kill her.’

  Saskia collapsed onto the ground, grasping her neck. Her bag fell free, clattering to the ground. What happened to her mobile?

  ‘I can just remember the kid stabbing her. That’s it. But the attacker must’ve taken her phone as well as her bag. Next thing we know,
it’s turned up in that recycling machine. How did it get there?’

  ‘Lisa’s working on it, guv. What happened next?’

  Some frying steak from nearby caught Fenchurch’s nose. Buses hissing. A car horn blasted out somewhere.

  ‘I told Abi to stay with her. She told me she’d call 999.’

  ‘Which she did. And then she called me. Then?’

  ‘I must’ve lost him for a few seconds.’ Fenchurch waved down Upper Street, past the bus stops and the Superdry shop. ‘When he headed off that way.’

  ‘Did you lose sight of him?’

  ‘I glanced down at Saskia. Told Abi to call you. What was I supposed to do?’

  ‘You did fine, guv.’

  ‘But I lost him.’ Fenchurch swallowed down bile. Drums smashed double time. Out of time. ‘When I looked up again, he was cycling off, behind a bus. I called Control to get units despatched. Drove off after him.’

  ‘Was it still him?’

  ‘I think so. Well, I’m not definite. In his mind, he’s killed someone and he’s hotfooting out of there. Doesn’t know a DI has spotted him. He took a right at the Green. Turned down Essex Road. I caught up with him at the Tesco.’

  ‘And you’re definitely sure it was him?’

  ‘Sure as I am about anything.’

  ‘So, let me get this straight. You saw a skinny black kid, right?’

  ‘Kay, are you saying I’m racist?’

  ‘No need to play the old “some of my best friends are black” card, guv.’ Reed gave him a warm smile and patted him on the shoulder. ‘You ever heard about the “cross-race effect”?’

  ‘Sounds very much like you’re accusing me of racism.’

  ‘Hear me out, guv.’ Reed flicked up her hands, all casual. ‘It says people find it difficult to differentiate between different races.’

  ‘I know what it is. Do you honestly think I just can’t tell blacks apart?’

  ‘It’s saying you find it difficult. It’s an evolutionary thing. A science thing.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘It makes sense to me. Our ancestors only ever saw the same race for thousands of years. Longer. So we can differentiate lots of things about other white people, but only a few characteristics of blacks. Or Asians. Or Indians.’