Kill With Kindness (A DI Fenchurch novel Book 5)

by Ed James

  ‘A few times.’ Reed yawned, like she’d caught it off Maxfield. ‘You think he’ll help?’

  ‘Not a chance.’

  Fenchurch gripped his keys tight in his pocket. ‘I’m so tempted to chuck him down some steps, Kay.’

  ‘At least wait until I’ve put the big spikes at the bottom.’

  Fenchurch laughed. ‘He knows her identity, doesn’t he? Why is he mucking us about?’

  ‘He’s playing us. That or he just doesn’t believe you.’

  Fenchurch stabbed his key in the ignition and twisted like it was Ben Maxfield’s throat. ‘The victim’s face, Kay. I know it from somewhere. A film? A TV show? Is she a singer?’

  ‘Maybe it’s just someone from the news?’ Reed smirked at him. ‘Though she’d have to be one of those dolly birds on Sky Sports News, right?’

  ‘Not one of them, Kay.’ Fenchurch’s throat tightened. ‘Maybe she’s an MP or some minor celebrity or . . . I don’t know.’

  ‘Tell you what, I’ll get someone to look into it. Okay?’

  Fenchurch started the car. ‘You know, I’d much rather you did it than gave it to some idiot.’

  Reed slumped back in her seat. ‘Guv . . .’

  ‘Come on, Kay. Look, I’ll see what’s happening at the hotel, you find her identity. That’s a much sexier job.’

  Chapter Five

  Fenchurch held open the hotel’s front door to let someone leave. Then grabbed their sleeve as they passed. ‘Not so fast, Mick.’

  ‘Oh, it’s you.’ Clooney tried to walk off but Fenchurch’s grip held him in place. ‘I’ve got to head up to sunny Hackney. Acid attack outside a bar.’ His lip curled. ‘It just gets worse, Si. Feels like we’re living in the end times.’

  ‘I’ll look for you wearing a sandwich board at Old Street tube.’ Fenchurch still didn’t let go. ‘Have you got any forensics for me?’

  ‘Some.’ Clooney tried another tug at his sleeve and just gave up. ‘Listen, Tammy’s in charge here and you’ve got twelve of my best. I’ll give you an update by close of play, okay?’

  Fenchurch let his grip go. ‘By six at the latest.’

  And Clooney was gone.

  Fenchurch entered the building. His turn to get his arm grabbed.

  A short man, boyish looks fading into middle-aged seediness. Sleeves short like the wearer, who barely came up to Fenchurch’s armpits. Name badge: RODERICK. MANAGER. Spelled trouble. ‘Are you Fenchurch?’

  ‘That’s me.’ He pushed his hand away. ‘Take it you’re in charge?’

  ‘For what that’s worth.’ Roderick breathed on to his badge and rubbed it against his shirt tails. ‘You need to let me reopen the hotel. The owners are jumping on my balls. With this place shut, they’re not making any money. And when they’re—’

  ‘They’ll have insurance for this sort of thing.’

  Roderick tucked in his shirt. ‘Wouldn’t be so sure of it.’

  ‘They should be more worried that there’s been a murder here.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Not until forensics have been completed, sir. But that floor is staying shut.’

  ‘You really don’t get it, do you?’ Roderick walked off, muttering to himself as he pushed through to the staff area.

  What a guy . . .

  Bridge was behind the reception desk working at a laptop. She grinned at him as he approached. ‘Need a room for the night, sir?’

  ‘Prefer one without a dead body.’ Fenchurch motioned at the still-swinging door. ‘The manager causing you any hassle?’

  ‘Nothing I can’t handle, sir.’

  ‘What sort of thing?’

  ‘Oh, nothing much, just . . . He’s pushy. Trying to get this place opened, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Any more of that and you point him at me, okay?’ Fenchurch took another look around. Suspicious lack of any police officers. ‘Got an ID yet?’

  ‘Not yet, sir.’ Bridge closed her laptop and leaned forward. ‘DS Ashkani is having a briefing. I wasn’t invited.’

  ‘I take it you’re working on something too important?’

  ‘Well.’ Bridge opened the laptop again. ‘Like Jim Muscat said, sir, there’s barely any CCTV inside.’ She pointed up at the ceiling. ‘Just those two in here and a couple of corridors on the ground floor. Nothing outside the victim’s room or anywhere near. That I’ve found, anyway. I had a look, but I couldn’t spot any.’

  ‘They can be well hidden.’

  ‘Don’t have to tell me, sir.’

  ‘So there’s no useful CCTV?’

  ‘Well. There’s this.’ Bridge turned her laptop so he could see the screen. The reception area, frozen. A man was walking out, carrying a blow-up doll under his arm like he was lugging a lilo to the beach.

  ‘What the hell is this?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’ Bridge turned the laptop back round. ‘I’ve been going through the footage between nine and nine thirty. Ten people left, two arrived.’ She stopped Fenchurch before he started. ‘And the two arriving are part of the ten.’

  ‘And what about outside our window? Someone getting here early, lying in wait, killing her, then leaving when the coast’s clear?’

  ‘That’s next on my list, sir.’ Bridge slouched back in the chair. ‘Putting names to that initial set of faces has been tricky enough. The rest is going to take ages.’

  ‘You’re doing a great job, Lisa.’

  ‘Always seem to get landed with this, sir.’

  ‘We’ll need to do something about that.’ Fenchurch gave her a smile. ‘So, this list?’

  ‘Thanks for speaking to us, sir.’ Bridge sat in the staff canteen area, her leg jogging. ‘You arrived here—’

  ‘I can explain this.’ Sam Cornwall was tall, with a sharp haircut and huge bags under his red eyes. Bristol or Swindon accent. Wearing a potato sack. Had to keep tucking it down to preserve his modesty. ‘My mates glued it on last night. It’s my stag weekend and those bastards . . .’ He laughed like he was still pissed. Probably was. ‘What’s this about, anyway?’

  Fenchurch cut in: ‘Someone was murdered in a room on your floor.’

  ‘Shut up.’ Sam’s drunken laugh died on his lips. ‘Really? Shit. Look. Mate, the only person I killed last night was myself. Very slowly.’

  ‘We still need to understand your movements at the time in question.’

  Another drunken laugh. He’d clearly forgotten the death. ‘You’ll have to help me with the time.’

  ‘You left here just after nine. Did you see anything on your way out?’

  ‘Mate, I’m lucky I even got out. Those bastards.’

  ‘Can anyone verify your movements?’

  ‘Four of us staying here. They’ll be able to confirm.’

  ‘You need a hand getting that sack off?’

  Sam gave Bridge another grin. ‘I’ve got to keep it on tonight.’

  ‘Aye, I was out with Sam.’ Ed was Scottish, no sign of a hangover except for a deep voice. A frown danced across his forehead, almost getting lost in his thick eyebrows. ‘Did we glue Sam—?’ He coughed. ‘Nah, didn’t see anything on our way out. Last thing I remember is Chris opening bottles of sambuca and Jägermeister in Dave’s. He reckons it’s—’

  ‘—much cheaper if you buy bottles rather than shots.’ The chubby guy next to Fenchurch pushed his glasses up his nose, eyes bulging. Northern accent, but hard to place. ‘I left here with Dave but he—’

  ‘—got a kebab on my way back.’ Another Scot, big and burly. Looked like someone off the TV, but hard to picture who. ‘Woke up this morning and I’d only eaten the meat. What was I thinking? The pitta, soaked in the fat and chilli sauce, that’s the best bit!’

  ‘Did you see anything on your way out?’

  ‘After a bottle of sambuca, I was lucky to even get out, doll.’

  ‘Had a day from hell.’ A businessman in a shirt-and-jumper combo, though both were struggling to contain his gut. ‘Up and down the Northern Line seeing clients al
l day long. I know what I’ll be doing when I die and go to hell. Then I had a . . . meeting on Mansell Street.’

  ‘We have you on CCTV arriving back here at nine oh five.’ Bridge twirled her pen. ‘Seems like a long meeting.’

  ‘I had a few light ales with . . . an ex-colleague. We were going for a curry up on Brick Lane, but I wanted to drop off my laptop.’

  ‘And this ex-colleague can confirm the story?’

  ‘They could . . .’

  ‘It’s a woman, isn’t it?’

  He rubbed his neck. ‘It might be.’

  ‘And if we looked at CCTV from later, we wouldn’t find you and her coming back here, would we?’

  He cleared his throat. ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘Someone was murdered in a room down the corridor from yours.’

  He gulped. Then again. Then his cheeks bulged and he ran off towards the toilet.

  ‘And Jenny didn’t even get here until lunchtime today.’ Hen 1 pointed at Hen 2. Black dress, stinking of sour perfume. Geordie accent. Fake tan. Sitting on a sofa next to a clone of her, opposite another two clones. ‘Here, hon, you want to sit between us?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Fenchurch was standing between the sofas. ‘Just wondering if you saw anything?’

  Hen 1 pointed at Hen 3. ‘Ash here thought it’d be a good idea to have a quiet night in the rooms and go big tonight, like.’

  ‘Quiet night with this lot and three bottles of vodka?’ Hen 3 bellowed out laughter. ‘We ran out of booze at nine! Then went to a club!’

  ‘This slag here!’ Hen 1 pointed at Hen 3. ‘She got finger—’

  Fenchurch reached in and clicked on the lights. They flashed on, showing a load of cleaning equipment.

  Bridge followed him in. ‘Getting nowhere, sir.’ She looked like she was going to kick a steel bucket. ‘An hour to herd those cats, then none of them saw anything. Wasting our time.’

  ‘Not quite.’ Fenchurch held up his hands, palms out. ‘We started today with ten leaving, two of whom came back. We’re now down to two arriving, one leaving. That’s progress.’

  Bridge gave a slight shrug. ‘I suppose.’

  ‘It’s good.’ Fenchurch leaned back against the door. ‘Can I see the photos of the missing two?’

  ‘Both women.’ Bridge pulled up two shots on her laptop.

  Hard to be more different. One was short and stocky, her hair shining in the grainy black-and-white. The other was tall and overly thin with dark hair.

  Neither was their victim.

  Fenchurch pushed it back. ‘Can you find them, please?’

  ‘I’ll try.’ Bridge pinched her nose and waved a hand out of the door. ‘I can get that barman to get us home addresses for the others?’

  ‘Do it.’ Fenchurch opened the door and peered out. Uzma was walking towards them. ‘Keep me updated.’ He met Uzma halfway along the corridor. ‘Sergeant, nice to—’

  ‘Need your help, Simon.’ Uzma jerked her thumb behind her. ‘Jim Muscat . . . He’s hiding something. Won’t speak to me. Says he’ll talk to you. Did he work for you?’

  ‘No, but he thinks he did . . .’

  Chapter Six

  Jim, you know how this looks, yeah?’ Uzma sat on the guard’s desk, swinging her legs. ‘You need to keep talking to us.’

  Muscat was on his own chair, staring at the floor, shoulders slouched.

  Uzma raised her eyebrows at Fenchurch.

  He joined her sitting on the desk and smiled at Muscat. ‘You ever been to a cop’s funeral, Jim?’

  Muscat looked up at him, squinting.

  ‘Course you have.’ Fenchurch nodded slowly. ‘Must’ve been to, what, ten? Twenty?’

  Muscat gave a shrug. ‘About that.’

  ‘My old boss got cremated this afternoon.’ Fenchurch felt the lump in his throat again. ‘I worked for him for twelve years, on and off. My old man worked with him, too, back in the day. Said to me, you shouldn’t be angry that it’s over—’

  ‘—but be glad that it happened.’ Muscat exhaled through his nostrils, nodding. ‘My old man was a copper, too. East Ham, Shoreditch, Lewisham. Twenty-five years on the beat. Can’t see my son signing up.’

  Or mine . . .

  Pain stabbed Fenchurch’s gut. He cleared his throat.

  ‘Course, you met my boy earlier, didn’t you? You’ll know what I mean, mate. Ollie’s walking his own path and it’s not public service, that’s for sure.’ Muscat rocked back in his chair, getting an almighty crack from the mechanism. ‘Maybe one day he’ll decide to do something worthwhile. Me, I always wanted to be a copper. Broke my heart when I failed my medical and had to leave. You?’

  ‘Keep passing my medicals. But if you’re talking about wanting to be a cop, well, I was a bit of an arsehole in my teens.’ Fenchurch sat back on the table. ‘Some people say I’ve got worse.’

  ‘Heard that.’ Muscat laughed. ‘Heard that, all right!’

  Fenchurch joined in the laughter and let it run for a few seconds. ‘Jim, I need your help finding these women.’ He passed him some CCTV prints of the two missing guests. ‘They arrived here last night. She left. She stayed.’

  Muscat snatched the prints with gusto and stared hard at them like he was back on duty again.

  Fenchurch scanned the foyer while Muscat looked at the photos. ‘My DC said you don’t have internal CCTV here?’

  ‘Afraid not, mate. Keep asking for it, but it falls on deaf ears. The brothers who own this place . . . Pair of crooks.’ Muscat tossed the photos on the cabinet next to him. ‘They’re penny-pinching bastards. Everything’s so tight here. Always about the bottom line. I swear, that CCTV’s just the tip of the iceberg.’

  ‘Anything we should look into?’

  ‘Nah, mate. Just not the best geezers to work for.’

  Something’s not right here.

  Fenchurch picked up the photos again. ‘You recognise them, don’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  Fenchurch showed him the photo of the short woman. ‘Is it her?’

  ‘What? Do me a favour.’

  ‘So it’s this woman.’ Fenchurch pointed at the tall woman. ‘Who is she?’ He waited, but Muscat just stared at the floor. ‘What the hell’s going on, Jim?’

  ‘Nothing, I swear.’

  Fenchurch focused on the image. A well-to-do woman, young, arriving back at the hotel. What is he hiding? ‘Someone killed our victim and got out of here without a trace. If you’re up to something, mate, you want to—’

  ‘You take me for a common criminal? Eh?’

  ‘Jim, I don’t know you from Adam.’ Fenchurch held up both photos. ‘I just want to find these two.’

  Muscat snatched them back, a vein throbbing in his temple. ‘If it was me and I wanted to murder someone here and then get out on the QT, I’d use the back door. It’s unmarked.’

  The hotel kitchen smelled of burnt toast and rotting fish. Fenchurch tried a door. ‘It’s locked, Jim.’

  Muscat got out a key. ‘I shouldn’t be showing you this.’ He unlocked the door and opened it on to some cobbles. Vine Street. Back-street boozers and hipster cafés. Further down it opened out for some office buildings. Cigarette smoke billowed down from somewhere.

  Uzma followed him out, Bridge just behind her. ‘There’s got to be a camera round here.’

  ‘I’m looking.’ Bridge spun around, cross-referencing with her laptop.

  ‘You got that one?’ Uzma pointed above the smoking area outside the next-door office block, a couple of cleaners huddling under the bike shed, sucking on roll-ups.

  ‘What? Oh.’ Bridge hit the keyboard like she was tenderising a steak. ‘This is us now.’ She rested the laptop on a bollard, close enough for Fenchurch to see. Onscreen, the three of them were standing around on the street, staring at Bridge’s laptop. She wound the footage back to the night before.

  The lane was dark and empty except for a fox sniffing about. At 20.48, a couple walked out of one of the back entrances to a bar, hand in
hand, then walked over to a white van. She knelt down out of sight and the man rested back against the wall. Could see a ponytail bobbing back and forth every so often.

  ‘Oh, Jesus Christ.’ Bridge sped it up. Nine minutes later and the man was screaming with delight. ‘Impressive stamina.’

  ‘Look at the state of them, though.’ Uzma watched the couple stagger off down the lane back into the bar. ‘Surprised he could even get it up.’

  Then nothing, just a fox rooting around near a bin.

  Some headlights shone as a car pulled up. It sat there, idling, the exhaust pluming behind it.

  Fenchurch leaned in close. ‘Lisa, can you find the driver for me?’

  ‘Sir.’ Bridge frowned at her laptop. ‘It’s a partial plate. Might take me a while.’ She set it playing again. ‘I’ll see if—’

  The hotel’s back door opened and a short woman left the building. She got in the car and it drove off.

  Bridge tapped the screen. ‘Sir, this is at ten. Around the time of the murder.’

  Uzma leaned in close. ‘I know who this is.’

  Chapter Seven

  Uzma led towards the staff room, shaking her head. ‘It’s the receptionist. Katerina.’

  Fenchurch looked around the room as he sat next to her. ‘Did you get anything out of her earlier?’

  ‘Well. Muscat said her shift ended at ten. Trouble is, she’s under eighteen so I’ve asked her mother to head to Leman Street. Still not shown up yet. Had her life story on the phone about how her husband left her and died in a car crash and—’

  ‘Did you get anything out of the cleaner?’

  ‘Don’t think she knows anything. Sent her home with her husband. She was pretty shaken up.’

  A thump at the door. Roderick, the manager. Wild-eyed and twitchy, like he’d drunk a jar of coffee. He clicked his fingers in Fenchurch’s face. ‘I really need a word with you. Now.’ He set off down the corridor.

  ‘Right.’ Fenchurch made eye contact with Uzma. ‘Can you chase up this girl’s mother?’ Then he followed Roderick out into the reception area. ‘What?’