Worth Killing For (A DI Fenchurch Novel Book 2)

by Ed James

  ‘Kay . . .’

  ‘Look, guv, it’s the same with Jon Nelson or Waheed Lad and white guys.’

  ‘Still sounds like you’re saying I’m racist.’

  She shook her head, like she’d return to the argument at some future point, and looked past him. ‘Come on, then, let’s see what else you can remember.’

  ‘Thought you were supposed to be taking me home?’

  ‘Well, something’s come up, hasn’t it?’

  Reed swerved out into the traffic and followed the route they’d taken, pulling in by the Tesco Express. ‘You said you almost caught him here, right?’

  Fenchurch could still see the kid on the bike just ahead of him, pedalling away without a care in the world. Like he hadn’t just killed someone. ‘I remember thinking about whether I should ram him.’

  ‘Better for you that you didn’t, guv.’

  ‘True.’ Fenchurch tapped the windscreen, pointing at the magnolia-painted pub on the next corner. ‘Kid clocked me, though, and headed right by the Winchester.’

  Reed pulled into traffic and took a right, following their route, barely hitting ten miles an hour. ‘Then what?’

  Fenchurch waved a hand at the pavement, clear for the whole block. ‘The little shit bumped up there. There were roadworks here. Gone now.’

  ‘You definitely saw him?’

  ‘His head was bobbing up above the barriers.’

  She pulled in, almost mounting the kerb. ‘Then you attacked him with your car?’

  ‘He attacked my car, Kay.’ Fenchurch winked at her. Then he let out a deep sigh, his shoulders slumping low against the seat fabric. ‘It was the same kid up to this point, I swear.’

  ‘So you got out of the car and grabbed him. Then what?’

  ‘The little sod stamped on my foot.’ Fenchurch reached down to stroke it. Back to a dull ache now. ‘Just about better now, thanks for asking.’

  ‘Then what, he ran away?’

  Fenchurch nodded as he pointed ahead. ‘Through the park there.’

  ‘Come on.’ Reed let her seatbelt go and got out of the pool car. She waited for a black cab to pass then followed Fenchurch onto the tarmac and stopped. ‘So he was running?’

  ‘Very fast, too.’

  ‘He didn’t outpace you?’

  ‘Just for a second.’

  ‘Guv . . .’

  Fenchurch waved up ahead. ‘The entrance is on the right. Lost him up there.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Just a couple of seconds.’

  ‘Guv . . .’

  ‘Come on.’ Fenchurch led back to the car and got in.

  Reed waited for another cab to pass before pulling out. ‘Does your statement mention losing track of him?’

  ‘Of course it does. That’s what the street team were supposed to fill in. It’s why I’m so obsessed about the bloody timeline, Kay.’

  ‘You’re always obsessed about timelines, guv.’ She stopped at the end of the park and got out.

  Fenchurch joined her. Someone honked behind them. He turned round and gave an Audi the finger, then walked over to the gate at the side. ‘This is where I lost him. Happy?’ He looked up at the back of the office building. ‘That road goes up to the RBS building, I think.’

  ‘Regent’s House. Dave worked there for a bit.’ Reed leaned against the gate and sighed. ‘Okay. This is where they did the old switcheroo.’

  ‘What?’ Fenchurch frowned at her. ‘You think that’s what happened?’

  ‘Only thing that makes sense, guv. If they were wearing the same gear, they could swap. Meant this Lewis Cole got away and you focused on the wrong kid.’

  Fenchurch felt something like relief surge through him. ‘It’s nice having someone on my side.’

  ‘That’s the only explanation, isn’t it?’ She patted his arm. ‘They do this deliberately, guv. It’s not your fault.’

  Fenchurch stared at the cracked tarmac. ‘I don’t like this one bloody bit.’ He looked around at the sound of a bike bell.

  A blur powered towards them. Grey hoodie, black trackies. Young eyes lost deep in the hood.

  Fenchurch stepped out into the road and grabbed the cyclist by the shoulders. Lifted him clean off the bike. Couldn’t keep hold of him.

  The kid rolled over a few times and the bike clattered to the ground. ‘Get off me, man!’

  Fenchurch turned him over, pushing his arm up his back towards his rucksack. ‘Do you work for Kamal?’

  The kid’s face touched the pavement. ‘What?’

  ‘Kamal. Do you work for him?’

  ‘Help, police!’

  ‘We are police, son.’ Reed was crouched down, showing her warrant card. ‘He asked if you work for Kamal?’

  ‘I don’t know nothing.’

  Fenchurch stood him up and frisked through his pockets. Just one mobile — a Samsung with a cracked screen, a snowflake pattern filling the display. He turned him round and got a good look at his face. Looked the same age as Qasid. His mid-black skin was a few shades lighter than Saskia’s attacker. ‘What are you doing here, sir?’

  ‘I’m going to uni, man.’

  ‘Uni? Bullshit.’

  ‘London Met uni down in Aldgate. I swear, bruv.’

  ‘Bit far out of your way, isn’t it?’

  ‘Long commute, but I can’t afford the tube or the bus.’

  ‘Am I supposed to believe that?’

  ‘They tol’ me it was up in Highbury but then they moved the course, man. Still, it’s good exercise.’

  ‘What are you studying?’

  ‘Computing, man. You mind getting off me?’

  ‘Where is Kamal?’

  ‘I tol’ you, I don’t know nothing.’

  Reed clamped a fist on Fenchurch’s arm and whispered: ‘Guv, this isn’t helping. We need to get focused here. Okay?’

  Fenchurch handed the phone back. ‘I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.’

  He reached down and picked up his bike. ‘This is all scratched, man.’

  ‘You might want to consider wearing different clothes.’ Fenchurch headed back to the car and got in. He watched the kid trundle off down the road and eased off his shoulders. ‘I shouldn’t have done that.’

  ‘He didn’t get your name, guv.’ Reed stuck her key in the ignition. ‘You’re not feeling okay, are you?’

  ‘I feel like shit, Sergeant.’

  ‘So you want me to take you home, after all?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Abi can help, you kn—’

  ‘I don’t want to bloody go home.’ Fenchurch rubbed his forehead. ‘Look. Like you said, Qasid probably switched with this Lewis Cole kid. That means he’s someone who looks like him, someone who could pass for him.’

  ‘So, while you were off chasing Qasid, Lewis Cole dumped the bag and the knife. Think I’m following you, guv.’ Reed got out her Airwave and put it to her ear. ‘Control, can you give me an update on the whereabouts of a Lewis Cole?’ She nodded for a few seconds, listening. ‘Well, call me back when you bother your arse. Okay?’ She stabbed her finger on the screen. ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘Take it you’ve still not got anything?’

  ‘Haven’t even been bloody looking.’

  Fenchurch stared over at the canal. ‘Me and Nelson fished a body out of there a few years back. There’s a footpath running up to the other end of the tunnel, right?’

  ‘Far as I can remember, guv. Why?’

  ‘Let’s take a little walk.’

  Fenchurch followed Reed down the ramp, warm sun beating down on his neck, way too hot to be legal in April. He stopped on the towpath, busy with foot traffic. Joggers, dog walkers, hikers with backpacks. The cracked brick wall looked like it dated back to the Roman Empire.

  Two boats were moored on this side, four on the other. Giant things, like houses on the water. The water surface had a green dusting of algae, surrounding the boats like ropes. To the left, the canal narrowed to the width of the tunnel. An
underground mile and you were on the other side of Angel. The algae spread out around the boats, leaving the tunnel clear. Stagnant water versus flowing.

  ‘Guv?’

  Fenchurch looked over. ‘You got something?’

  Reed was on her knees, peering into the murky water. ‘Think so. Take this.’ She shrugged off her jacket and tossed it at Fenchurch. Then she got flat on her face and dipped her arm into the water, almost up to her short sleeve. ‘It’s bloody freezing.’

  ‘What have you got?’

  ‘Not sure, guv.’ She stood up and threw a dark object at Fenchurch, water spraying onto the tarmac.

  He caught it. A mass of fabric, almost black but mottled with green and dripping on the canal side. He snapped it out and held it up to the light. ‘It’s a hoodie. This’d be grey if it wasn’t so wet, right?’

  ‘Think so.’ Reed pointed at the Islington Tunnel mouth, under a road bridge a few metres away. ‘You lost the kid who killed Saskia at the other end, didn’t you?’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Well, after they swapped places there, Lewis Cole must’ve swum here. It’d be dark as hell, nobody around. No barges, nobody on the towpath. Would’ve taken the hoodie off to get away quicker. Barge must’ve dredged it up.’

  Fenchurch focused on the scum on the surface, swirling slowly. ‘I don’t like being played like this, Kay.’

  ‘Nobody does, guv. Another piece of the jigsaw, though.’ Her Airwave blasted out. She stuck it to her head and wheeled off away from him.

  Fenchurch looked around. A few old wharf buildings surrounded the canal by the road bridge. No street lights — not a chance anyone saw anything, least of all a dark figure emerging from the water.

  ‘Send it to my Pronto. Thanks.’ Reed spun round, fist pumping the air. ‘Guv?’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Got the last-known address of Lewis Cole.’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Reed knocked on the door and waited, staring at the patch of dirt in front of the house, avoiding making eye contact with Fenchurch.

  Walthamstow was now just the same as every other part of suburban London. The long street was filled with two-up/two-downs climbing the gentle slope, a mishmash of roughcast, bare brick and stone cladding. The Coles’ address looked like the last rundown house in a street riding the gentrification wave, dirty walls and a few slates missing from the roof. About halfway up, developed houses gave way to a flotilla of skips. Radio One, Capital FM and that new Radio X station created a hellish soundclash from the workers’ radios. Some had retained their original windows though the Coles hadn’t bothered to look after theirs. The rest of the street could’ve been a museum exhibiting ‘Double-glazing: a retrospective (1967 to 2016)’.

  The door opened and a black man in his late forties stood there. White vest, tartan boxer shorts, wiry white hair all over his arms and legs. Not much left on top. He looked them up and down. ‘I’m not buying. Goodbye.’ He started to shut the door.

  Reed kept it open with her foot. ‘Police, sir.’

  The door opened again. Another examination, slower and more thorough. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘We’re looking for a Lewis Cole.’

  ‘He not here.’ Eyes flickering. ‘Not for a long time.’

  ‘But you know him?’

  ‘I’m his father. Was. We . . . lost him.’

  Fenchurch saw it in the man’s eyes. The years of hope tormenting you, that bastard making you think your child would come back. Made you think that something overheard in a supermarket car park could lead to something. Anything. Years of staring at the ceiling all night, listening to kids thunder about in the flat above, screaming in the street outside. Sleep just something other people did. Years of thinking you’d give anything just for another minute with her.

  ‘—and this is DI Fenchurch.’ Reed put her warrant card away and tucked a few stray hairs behind her ear. ‘Can I take your name, sir?’

  ‘Ronald. Ronald Cole.’

  ‘And Lewis is your son?’

  ‘Isn’t that obvious?’

  Reed bristled and adjusted her jacket. ‘Can we come in, sir?’

  ‘No, you can’t.’ Ronald stepped out onto the path and pulled the door to behind him. He wrapped his bare arms across his chest. ‘It’s a Saturday morning, officer. I was on late shift last night. I’m a tube driver, before you ask.’

  ‘Mr Cole, we need to ask you a few questions about your son.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We think he’s involved in an inquiry.’

  ‘He’s still alive?’

  Fenchurch stepped forward and smiled. ‘You lost him, didn’t you?’

  Tears welled in Ronald’s eyes. ‘You keep this from my wife, you hear?’

  ‘I promise.’

  Ronald ran a hand across his cheeks and nodded slowly. ‘Someone took Lewis from right out here. This bloody street.’ He waved out to the parked cars. ‘Five years ago. Boy was fourteen.’ His forehead creased, the confusion of hope colliding with fear. ‘What makes you think Lewis is still out there?’

  ‘That’s why we wanted to do this inside, sir.’ Reed pocketed her warrant card. ‘We found his prints on a murder weapon.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It appears he stabbed a girl on Upper Street on Thursday night.’

  ‘No.’ His head shaking was speeding up, close to matching the tempo battering Fenchurch’s ears.

  ‘Our forensics—’

  ‘Get away from here. Get away!’ Ronald pushed Reed back and yanked the door open behind him. ‘You come here with these lies about me boy! Get away!’

  Reed stepped forward to block the doorway. ‘Sir, we matched the fingerprints on the murder weapon to those on file from before his disappearance. We understand he got into trouble when he was a boy and, had he not disappeared, those prints would’ve been expunged. Your son is still out there.’

  Ronald ran a hand across his bald scalp. ‘I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.’

  Fenchurch nudged Reed out of the way. ‘I know what you’re going through, Mr Cole. It’s okay.’

  ‘How can you? How the hell can anyone?’

  ‘I lost . . . someone myself. Ten years ago.’ Fenchurch locked eyes with Ronald, saw his torment mirrored in the deep brown as another tear slicked down his face. ‘We need your help, sir. Do you have any idea where Lewis might be?

  ‘If I did, I would’ve brought him back here and kept him in his room! Thrown away the bloody key!’

  ‘You don’t know where he could’ve gone?’

  ‘We gave up looking long ago. The hope was killing us more than losing him did.’ Ronald shook his head, his lips curled tight. ‘And now you say he’s not dead?’

  Fenchurch gave him a smile, trying for reassuring. ‘We just need to find him.’

  ‘Get away from me!’ Ronald had enough clearance to shut the door now.

  Fenchurch stared at the chipped paint for a few seconds then glanced at Reed. ‘Did Control give you the name of the investigating officer?’

  ‘And they call this place a police office now. Not even a station, any more.’ PC Dean Lawson leaned back in the chair in the tiny interview room. Long face and heroin-thin stick arms poking out of his vest. He’d somehow found a uniform small enough to fit. ‘Barely a broom cupboard, I swear.’

  ‘I know the feeling.’ Fenchurch got out his Airwave Pronto, a fake smile on his face. He checked the display. No new messages. ‘So, going back to Lewis Cole?’

  ‘Yeah, sorry. Got sidetracked there.’ Lawson gurned at them, his cheeks twitching with the effort. ‘My partner at the time used to call him Ashley Cole.’ He stared up at the ceiling and laughed. ‘Shouldn’t have done but he did, you know? Ged was like that.’ He sniffed, rolling his tongue over his lips. ‘Season-ticket holder at the Bridge for years until he carked it last March. Poor geezer.’

  ‘Did you have any other leads on Lewis Cole?’

  ‘Nothing much. Someone snatched him,
never heard of him again. End of.’

  ‘So he just vanished?’

  ‘Into thin air, Inspector. I swear. Never had any leads.’

  ‘You said nothing much?’

  ‘Well, I meant nothing. Sorry.’ Lawson scratched at the back of his neck. ‘Nothing other than a pair of kids spotted in the street a few days before.’

  Fenchurch frowned at Reed, the drums starting to clatter again. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘This Cole kid. Ashley.’ Lawson smirked as he winked at Reed. ‘He used to play street football, yeah? Jumpers for goalposts and all that. Day before, these two kids were playing against them for about an hour.’

  ‘Who were they?’

  ‘No idea. We spoke to the other kids who played with them. Couldn’t name this pair, though. The descriptions were rubbish, too. Once we’d taken out all the noise, we just had that they were black and kids. Nasty bastards by the sounds of things. Threatened them with a knife if they didn’t let them play. Stole a kid’s ball, too. Poor lad’d just got it.’

  ‘What makes you think they took Lewis?’

  ‘I’d put money on it. Seems like a bit of a coincidence, doesn’t it?’ Lawson stared at the window, the pale-blue sky streaked with jet trails. ‘Problem is they’re made of thinner air than young Ashley. Hell of a business. Hell of a business.’

  Reed gripped the table edge. ‘Well, I hate to break it to you, Constable, but it seems Lewis is alive and well.’

  Lawson shot her a glare. ‘Shut up.’

  ‘As of Thursday night at half past six, he was alive and kicking.’

  Lawson let out a deep breath and laughed. ‘Thank God for some good news round here.’ He held up the case file for Lewis Cole’s disappearance. ‘Can I tear this bugger up now?’

  ‘Not so fast.’ Reed stared at him, a grim expression on her face. ‘Trouble is, we found young Lewis’s prints on a murder weapon.’

  The new-found hope deflated from Lawson just as quickly as it had appeared. ‘He’s murdered someone? Christ.’

  ‘Constable, we’d greatly appreciate it if you could think of anything.’ Reed left him a space. ‘Anything at all that might open this up for us.’

  ‘Hell of a business.’ Lawson looked across the room at the pockmarked wall. ‘I got nothing, I’m afraid. Nothing. Hell of a bloody business.’ He bit at his bottom lip, looked like he tore a strip of skin off. ‘Wish I’d found the little bastard before he started stabbing people, though.’