Worth Killing For (A DI Fenchurch Novel Book 2)

by Ed James

  ‘No idea, guv.’

  Fenchurch followed him down the corridor, feet thumping on the carpet. ‘If they’re not charging that little shit, I’ll tear Stringer a pair of new arseholes.’ He stopped outside interview room three and frowned at Lad. ‘The jelly peanut?’

  ‘That little peanut head and his big jelly body. Worked with him a few years back, guv. Total cock.’

  ‘Remind me never to get on your wrong side.’ Fenchurch pushed into the interview room and lurked in the far corner.

  Bell sat next to a female officer, a DC Fenchurch knew of old, and gave him a nod. ‘DI Simon Fenchurch has entered the room. Oh and DC Waheed Lad.’ He avoided staring at the newcomers, just focused on Qasid and Unwin opposite. ‘Sorry about that. Listen to me, your prints are all over those phones. All fifteen of them. We’re going to prosecute you for the theft of those mobiles.’

  Unwin cleared his throat and nodded at Fenchurch. ‘If you charge my client, we will sue your colleague here for unlawful arrest. I’m sure there are other offences, assault maybe.’

  ‘That’s not my concern.’ Bell leaned across the table. ‘Are you going to change your statement?’

  ‘The first time I saw them was when Detective Inspector Fenchurch showed them to me.’ Qasid’s eyes drilled into Fenchurch, his face a grim rictus. Said each word like he was reading it out, slow and deliberate. ‘You have planted my fingerprints on them.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a no, then.’ Bell got up and nodded at the Custody officer. ‘Can you escort—’

  Fenchurch lurched across the room and grabbed a handful of Bell’s jacket. ‘You can’t let him go.’

  Bell shrugged him off. ‘We’ve not got a choice, Simon.’

  ‘He knows who murdered Saskia.’

  ‘I’ve cleared this with DI Mulholland.’

  Fenchurch slumped back against the wall. This wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

  ‘You have no evidence of my client murdering anyone, Inspector.’ Unwin was on his feet, helping Qasid up. ‘There will be severe consequences if you don’t let him go. Even more severe for you than they are at present, I suspect.’

  Fenchurch held his gaze, heavily tempted to introduce the back of his head to the inside of the cavity wall.

  ‘Right, here’s what we’re going to do.’ Bell started shaking his head, then nodded at Unwin. ‘We’ll let Mr Williams go, but we need to be able to get hold of him.’

  Unwin hefted up his briefcase and unclipped both catches at the same time. He got out a business card and handed it to Bell. ‘You can contact him through me. Twenty-four seven.’

  ‘Then we’ll see you in court, gentlemen.’ Bell smiled at the Custody Officer and watched them leave the room. Qasid walked like he’d just grown a couple of inches and wanted everyone to notice.

  ‘Melissa, can you give us a minute, please?’ Bell didn’t even look at her. ‘Same with you, Waheed.’

  She left the room, widening her eyes at Fenchurch as the door closed. Lad’s eyes were on Melissa’s backside.

  Bell prodded Fenchurch in the chest. It actually hurt. ‘You think you can come in here and ruin my interview?’

  ‘You were making a brilliant job of ruining it yourself, String.’

  ‘Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! All these bloody names. Don’t you ever get tired of it?’

  ‘Are you feeling the pressure or something? Imagine what it’s like when you’ve got a proper case, String.’

  ‘We’re doing solid work. We’ve been in the papers. My team are going places. Don’t you ever forget it. Do you get to speak to Boris every month? No.’

  ‘You know Boris’ll be back to being an MP after the election, don’t you?’

  ‘So? That man’s going to be Prime Minister.’

  ‘You hope to be Minister of Tedium in his cabinet?’

  Bell collapsed against the wall. Looked like all the fight had left his body. ‘Simon, why the hell are you here?’

  ‘Because I want to see some pressure applied to Qasid. He knows who killed Saskia Barnett and he knows who Lewis Cole is. I’d put money on also knowing where we can find Kamal.’

  ‘That’s nothing to do with me.’ Bell dumped the business card in his briefcase and snapped it shut. ‘But then I hear it’s not your case either.’

  The drums started pounding harder, a Nirvana stomp. ‘You don’t give a shit about anyone else, do you?’

  ‘I’ve got my case, you’ve got yours. Never the twain and all that.’ Bell waddled over to the door. Jelly peanut indeed. ‘See you around, Simon.’

  Fenchurch slumped back onto the interview room table. How to lose a case in thirty hours . . .

  Lad entered the room. ‘What a clown.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’ Fenchurch stared at the empty seats. ‘You done any digging into Unwin yet?’

  ‘Was I supposed to?’

  ‘Shit, I asked Nelson, not you.’

  Lad smirked. ‘We all look the same to you, or something?’

  ‘That’s not even funny, Constable.’ Fenchurch let out a laugh. ‘Jesus Christ.’

  ‘Why did you ask him to investigate Unwin?’

  ‘Well, the guy’s obviously bent, for starters. He’s done work for Kamal. Sprang up here pretty quickly when Qasid came in.’

  ‘You smell shit when he’s around?’

  ‘Like most lawyers. But he’s worse.’

  ‘Well, DI Mulholland was looking for you, guv.’

  ‘Bollocks to that.’ Fenchurch checked his watch. ‘Have you spoken to your mates in Trident about Unwin?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Let’s see what they’ve got on him, shall we?’

  Chapter Thirty

  ‘We need to sort this out, okay, Paul?’ Fenchurch got up from his chair and wandered across the tiny office to stare out of the window. Just below them, Stamford Bridge was dowsed in floodlighting for the lunchtime kick-off. His old man would be watching on BT Sport. ‘I’m fed up of getting nowhere. You need to pull your finger out.’

  Paul Oscar sat behind his desk, looking like he’d been dragged out of bed without the fifteen minutes’ shave that morning. The sunlight bleached his face, illuminating a few pockmarks and patches of stubble. ‘Listen, your guv’nor was on the phone to mine. Docherty, right? He was moaning about the pair of us acting like school kids.’

  ‘Which is why I’ve come out here to try and get you to play nicely on two occasions. I just need you to work with us, okay?’

  ‘I’m thinking about it.’ The sandpaper rasp of hand on stubble. ‘Look, I want to help, Fenchurch, don’t get me wrong. Problem is we’re stretched beyond recognition at the moment. The reason I’m in on a Saturday is because my budget is so tight a gnat fancies his chances of touching both sides, know what I’m saying?’

  Fenchurch rested against the window and coughed into his hand. ‘Paul, I think the reason you’re in on a Saturday is more to do with your own failings than mine.’

  ‘At least you’re admitting you’ve got some. That’s progress.’

  ‘Oh, I’m well aware of them, don’t worry about that.’ Fenchurch blew air up his face and shared a look of contempt with Lad, arms folded, sitting across from Oscar. He leaned back, shoulders touching the windowpane, and stuffed his hands in his pockets to stop any physical finger-pointing. ‘So, will you help us?’

  Oscar stared at his screen, like it could approve his actions. ‘What do you need?’

  ‘Now we’re getting somewhere.’ Fenchurch clapped his hands together and stood up straight. ‘Let’s start with one Dalton Unwin.’

  ‘Him.’ Oscar rolled his eyes. ‘Let’s just say we’re aware of him. He led a campaign against our work back in the day, says we were treating black kids differently from whites. Seems to ignore the fact these gangs were doing that exact thing, targeting each other.’ He smirked and pushed his laptop back a bit. ‘Makes you think of that Krays quote. Barbara Windsor or someone. Can’t remember. “They only hurt their own”. It’s bollo
cks, though, right? We don’t want them hurting anyone, white or black. The fact they target other black kids is by the by. We just need to stop it.’

  Fenchurch wasn’t sure he’d finished his soliloquy or if he was starting on the third act. ‘How much trouble was Unwin causing?’

  ‘Kicked up a fair stink. Don’t know if you remember but a few of the more liberal papers ran a campaign about it. Indy, Guardian, Post. Mirror as well, I think.’ Oscar shut his laptop lid with a thunk. ‘What’s he done to you, anyway?’

  ‘He’s repping the kid who we caught for the murder. Just had to let the little scrotum go. And we think he’s Kamal’s lawyer.’

  Oscar looked up at Fenchurch. ‘He’s repped Kamal?’

  ‘Don’t you actually do any work?’ Fenchurch shook his head. ‘Have a word with Owen Greenhill up at Islington nick. Kamal was in there a few years back. Unwin got him off. And he’s connected with gang stuff but you lot seem uninterested in keeping him there.’

  ‘Sounds like it’s after our remit shifted.’ Oscar crossed one leg over the other and started drumming on the side of his pale-brown shoe. A shaft of light from the steel plate on the sole danced a circle on the ceiling above Lad’s head. ‘You’re going to have to leave it with me, I’m afraid.’

  Fenchurch locked eyes with him, but kept his eyebrows raised. ‘I’m assuming that means you’ll actually do something about it, then?’

  The drumming stopped. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  Fenchurch thumbed at Lad, blinking as the light hit his face. ‘It means that DC Lad’s been here a few times, trying to get access to your undercover officer. Feels very much like we’re getting the runaround.’

  ‘You get a lot of these feelings, Fenchurch, don’t you?’

  ‘All I want is to find Kamal. We need to speak to this officer.’

  ‘No can do.’

  ‘No, Paul. Here’s what’s going to happen.’ Fenchurch leaned against his desk, spraying tea breath over him. ‘You’re going to get him sent to Leman Street this afternoon. By five at the very latest.’

  ‘You don’t get it do you? Sibo . . .’ Oscar sighed. ‘He is undercover.’ He sat back in his chair, his gaze switching to the closed door — nobody there. ‘He’s not your officer and I don’t report to you. His life’s at risk all the time. So just quit it and move on. Do some other work. Stop making your failure my fault.’

  ‘He’s our only lead, Paul. We need to speak to him.’

  ‘I’ve already done way more than I should.’

  ‘Well, I’d hate to see you being unhelpful.’ Fenchurch rested his hands on the back of Oscar’s chair. ‘Arrange some time with your guy and I’ll let you get back to your precious spreadsheet.’

  ‘I’m enjoying this sparring, Fenchurch. It’s good fun.’

  ‘I want him in a room at Leman Street by five o’clock.’ Fenchurch marched over to the door, nodding for Lad to get up and follow him. He opened it and jabbed a finger in the air. ‘And I want something I can use on Unwin.’

  ‘Or what?’ Oscar opened his laptop and focused on the screen. ‘Get out of here with your empty threats.’

  ‘Bloody wanker.’ Fenchurch trotted down the staircase, heading for the basement car park. ‘We keep getting the runaround from this shower, Waheed.’

  ‘Tell me about it, guv. If I was being kind, I’d say he’s just doing his job.’

  ‘I wish people doing their jobs wasn’t such a pain in my arse.’ Fenchurch glanced back up the stairs. ‘What info have you got on this undercover officer, anyway?’

  ‘I thought I knew his name but Oscar’s just confirmed it.’ Lad gave him a wink. ‘Guy’s called Siboniso Xolani. Think that’s how you say it.’

  ‘Have you got a mobile number?’

  ‘I can try.’ Lad stopped at the next floor. ‘Give me a second.’ He pushed through double doors into a long corridor.

  Fenchurch got out his phone — there was a missed call from Reed he hadn’t felt. Stacked on top of the ten from Docherty he’d ignored. He tapped out a text. ‘Busy, boss. Speak later.’ Hope that’d do.

  He dialled Reed’s number, staring out of the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city pancake flat as far as the eye could see. Or as far as the afternoon fog would let it. Fewer towers out west, but just as much sprawl, some patches of grass amid blocks of flats and housing estates.

  ‘Guv?’

  ‘Kay, you called?’

  ‘Did I?’ A sigh exploded down the line, Reed sounding as pissed off as he felt. ‘Yeah, sorry, guv. I remember now. Just wanted to let you know I’m out with Clooney’s team in Lewisham. The hard drive on Saskia’s laptop is completely frazzled. Way beyond us getting anything off it.’

  ‘Just what we expected, right? Anything else?’

  ‘Got a squad out canvassing the area around the park. Doubtful we’ll get anybody to speak, assuming we can find someone who saw anything. Nobody’s spotted anyone with a laptop, guv.’

  ‘So, exactly as we expected.’ Fenchurch pressed his cheek against the glass. ‘So we’ve still got gaps in the timeline?’

  ‘Unwin could drive a bus through them, guv.’

  ‘What do we know about that laptop?’

  Reed blew air over the receiver. ‘Precious little, I’d say. We’ve still just got that Liam kid’s word for what happened.’

  ‘And we’ve already made a nuisance of ourselves with him. Worth getting him in a room?’

  ‘You think he’s actually done something, guv?’

  ‘He kept that text message from us.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s caused us any great hardship, though, has it? It just proves that she was frightened of Kamal. Poor guy must be feeling really low just now. All those missed calls and that message.’

  Fenchurch almost cracked the case of the phone with his grip. ‘I know what that feels like.’

  ‘Just saying we should give him some space. If he’s somehow wrapped up in this, then he’ll drop a bollock at some point.’

  The stairwell door flew open and Lad appeared through it, grinning.

  ‘How’s it going out—’

  ‘I better go, Kay.’ Fenchurch ended the call and frowned at Lad. ‘Well?’

  ‘Just got an address of the squat he’s staying in, guv.’ Lad held the door open for a burly male officer to stroll through. ‘Kev here’s just got a warrant to turf them out, too.’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The van rumbled down some East End road, the chassis bumping along. Fenchurch caught snatches of familiar landmarks — the train station that shared his name, then St Botolph’s in Aldgate, flanked by the Gherkin. In the distance, the new towers by Leman Street lurked out of the swamp of east London.

  ‘Kev Saunders.’ The burly officer held a meaty hand across the passageway, his other hand clutching a warrant. ‘Good to have you on board.’

  ‘We’re just helping out.’ Fenchurch glanced at Lad, unsure how much he’d shared with Trident. ‘How many you expecting in there?’

  ‘Five, maybe six.’

  Fenchurch nodded. That’d be containable. ‘You work for Oscar?’

  ‘That clown?’ Kev bellowed with laughter. He ran a hand over his shaved head. Definitely ex-military. ‘He’s just a pen-pusher. Suits S&O8 down to the ground. We do have an active investigation side, which we try to keep secret from you lot.’

  Lad gave Fenchurch a wink. ‘Me and Kev go back to Hendon, guv.’

  ‘I see.’ Fenchurch tightened his stab-proof vest over his suit jacket. Must look like a right muppet. ‘So what’s your interest in this place?’

  ‘I’ve got an undercover officer in there.’ Kev didn’t even have to brace himself as the van juddered to a halt. He folded up his warrant and stuffed it in a pocket on his own stab-proof. ‘He’s given us intel on a murder out in Canning Town a month back. The lad he’s fingering for it lives here.’

  ‘You don’t mind us tagging along?’

  ‘As long as you follow my lead. Hopefully you�
�ll find this girl in there.’ Kev put his Airwave to his lips. ‘Serial Bravo, are you in position? Over.’

  Fenchurch frowned at Lad and mouthed: ‘Girl?’

  He got a shrug in response.

  Kev’s Airwave crackled. ‘This is Serial Bravo, sir. We’re in position. Repeat, we are in position. Over.’

  ‘And we’re go, gentlemen.’ Kev hauled open the back door of the unmarked van and bounced onto the pavement. ‘Let’s do this!’

  Fenchurch jumped out and jogged down the street. His stab-proof was rattling like a bastard, felt like it was going to come off. No time to fix it.

  Heavy traffic trundled past them on Mile End Road, narrowing to single file beside another police van blocking the other way. Bus passengers gawped at the squad encroaching on the old building. Midland Bank Limited was cut into the stone above the door and there was still some HSBC signage in the window.

  Fenchurch got on the other side of the doorway and waited for the traffic to stop, eyes on Kev. The last taxi bundled past, the passengers eyeballing him.

  Kev stabbed his finger in the air three times. Three clicks on the open Airwave channel.

  Fenchurch snapped out his baton, getting ready. Blood pumping hard. Drums beating out a solo, fingers patting the skins like bongos, building up to the thwack of a stick. Harder, faster. Louder, his ears thundering, feeling like they were tearing.

  A uniform in riot-squad gear appeared, lugging an Enforcer battering ram. He placed it against the old door, oak thick enough to keep everyone away from the bank vault. It looked older than Fenchurch, older than his old man.

  The officer fired the ram at the lock. The wood dented but stayed standing. ‘Bloody hell.’ He took another go and it tumbled backwards into the building.

  Kev waited until it was clear and led inside. ‘This is the police! Please remain calm!’

  Sleeping bags filled the floor from the door to the old counter. Maybe twenty or so bodies in there — a couple with matching his-and-hers blonde dreadlocks were nearest, eyes wide. Their feet skidded on the marble as they tried to get through the empty doorway into the belly of the building. The security door was now a trestle table, a hotplate full of spitting sausages resting on top.