Kill With Kindness (A DI Fenchurch novel Book 5)

by Ed James

  ‘Could be getting rid of something.’ Fenchurch walked off. ‘Let’s have a look.’

  Muscat was out on the back lane, smoking with a woman laughing at something he said. Muscat caught Fenchurch’s eye and she walked off towards the next-door office. ‘Catch you later, Mary.’ He sucked deep and offered his pack to Fenchurch. ‘Smoke, sir?’

  ‘Never got into it, sorry.’ Fenchurch leaned against the bike shed. ‘Busy?’

  ‘Hardly. Not a lot going on here, is there?’ Muscat exhaled slowly. ‘You lot shutting the place. No guests for me to guard, eh?’ Seemed to think it was the funniest joke ever.

  Fenchurch showed him Bridge’s laptop. ‘Recognise this guy?’

  ‘Oooh.’ Muscat squinted at it. ‘Can’t say I do. Then again, my eyes ain’t exactly what they were when I joined the force.’ He put his cigarette to his mouth but stopped short. ‘Let’s see.’ He finally took his drag. ‘Nah, sorry.’

  The Met aren’t exactly missing you, are they?

  Fenchurch walked over to the spot the man had stood in and crouched down, his knee twanging. Couldn’t smell any piss and it hadn’t rained overnight.

  Wait. What’s that?

  A copy of the Metro, trapped between the wall and a bin. Fenchurch nudged it away with his foot. Underneath was a navy purse, half-open.

  So the mystery man threw something away.

  Fenchurch snapped on some gloves and went through it. Fifty quid in notes. A load of change fell out, tinkling on the pavement. Inside, house keys zipped away. Gayle Fisher’s driving licence.

  He got up and put it in an evidence bag, scanning the area for anything else.

  Muscat’s cigarette smoke was clouding him. Hard to breathe. Dirty bastard.

  A pink bin bag lay not far from the Metro. Fenchurch crouched down and lifted it up.

  Underneath, an iPhone. White handset, no case. The screen was a spider’s web of cracks, but he could still read the message notifications on the lock screen. A load of them, all from someone called Total Prick, some truncated.

  GAYLE, I NEED TIME+SPACE. STEVE X

  So Total Prick is her husband. Meaning she’s changed the contact, probably after the argument.

  AT MY BROTHERS. DON’T CHUCK MY STUFF. BE . . .

  Less romantic, less loving. But a possible location.

  STOP CALLING, YOU STUPID BITCH

  Sent at 20.25. Starting to look like a suspect.

  Then three in a minute:

  U THERE?

  GAYLE? WORRIED! CALL ME!

  AT LEAST CALL JOHN AND LET HIM KNOW YOUR OK!

  John is his brother . . .

  Fenchurch put his Airwave handset to his ear. ‘Control, I need an address for a John Fisher.’

  Chapter Nine

  Unbelievable.’ Fenchurch parked outside a pub and got out on to the street. ‘Right round the corner from the bloody station.’

  The address was an art deco building wedged between ancient wharves and mills. The pub door opened and two football fans staggered out, red-faced and shouting. One was Spurs, one Arsenal. They took one look at Fenchurch’s warrant card and went back inside, best of mates. Funny how their bravery faded so quickly.

  Uzma got out of the driver’s side and locked the pool car. ‘Must be a million John Fishers in London, right?’

  ‘Only one with a brother called Steve married to a Gayle.’ Fenchurch set off down the back road.

  The building wasn’t so nice from the back, the rounded edges all squared off. Six stairwells led up, with a couple of ground-floor flats either side of each one. No security cameras to speak of, though. Typical.

  Fenchurch looked down the list by the buzzer. Couldn’t find number one. ‘What’s the story with you and DC Bridge?’

  ‘No story.’ Uzma was frowning. ‘She’s a decent copper who thinks she’s a great one. Needs reminding, otherwise she’ll make a blunder.’

  Fenchurch held her gaze until she looked away. ‘As long as that’s all it is.’

  ‘In here.’ Uzma walked over to a door and thumped it with the heel of her palm.

  The door opened and a man looked out, his blond hair flying everywhere, covering his mouth in sandy stubble. ‘What?’

  ‘John Fisher?’ Uzma waited for a nod. ‘Police.’ She showed her warrant card. ‘Your brother in?’

  John opened the door wide and went back into the flat. ‘Steve!’ He stormed through to the kitchen, fists clenched. Guy was like a whippet, barely any body fat. Could see the tendons and muscles shifting round on his neck, like cogs on a bike’s gears. He thumped on a door. ‘The police are in my flat, Steve!’

  ‘Give us a minute, would you?’ Fenchurch gave John a nod, then twisted the handle.

  Steve Fisher sat on the bed, bleary-eyed. Didn’t have his brother’s physique, but had the same blond hair, spiked to a point. He mumbled to himself, but Fenchurch couldn’t make out a word.

  ‘DI Simon Fenchurch.’ He showed his warrant card.

  Steve stared into space for a few seconds, his forehead knitting tighter and tighter. Then he looked up, his focus trained right on Fenchurch. ‘It’s about Gayle, isn’t it?’

  Fenchurch took a deep breath. ‘I’m afraid we need you to identify a body.’

  Pratt walked alongside Steve Fisher, slow like they were in a funeral procession. Then the ID Suite door shut.

  ‘What’s your take on him, Sergeant?’

  ‘Pratt?’ Uzma was fiddling with her phone, thumbs dancing quick and fast. ‘The om-pom-pom gets—’

  ‘I meant Steven Fisher.’

  Uzma looked up and locked her phone. ‘I prefer to let my opinion form over time, Simon. I don’t like to prejudice an investigation.’

  Through the glass, Steve stood in front of a bed, a sheet pulled over a body.

  ‘Nothing strike you as odd?’

  ‘Should it?’

  ‘I didn’t even have to say it was Gayle. And he seemed to relax.’

  Through the window, Pratt reached over to lift up the sheet and Steve looked at the body. He nodded then shook his head, but Fenchurch couldn’t follow what they were saying.

  ‘Like he was expecting something else.’

  ‘Could just be the natural reaction to having the police turn up.’ Uzma pouted, her eyes gleaming under the harsh lighting. ‘Or this blazing argument DS Reed’s investigating?’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not.’

  Through the glass, Pratt’s thumb flashed up.

  ‘So it’s her.’ Fenchurch let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. ‘Take him back to Leman Street. I need a word with Pratt.’ He watched her go over to Steve, almost sashaying.

  ‘Om-pom-pom.’ Pratt waltzed through, about five times the speed of his earlier procession. ‘Simon, Simon, Simon. You’ll be glad to know that Mr Fisher has given a positive ID for Gayle’s body.’

  ‘I saw. I’m not glad there’s a dead body through there, but at least we know who it is.’

  ‘Indeedy-doodly.’ Pratt grabbed a green Barbour off the rack and slipped his left arm down the sleeve. ‘Do you need any more from me?’

  ‘The post-mortem?’

  ‘It’s not happening today, kind sir.’

  ‘William . . .’

  ‘Simon. I don’t have the staff to do it today.’

  ‘Tomorrow. First thing. No excuses or chess matches.’

  ‘Thank you for your assistance, sir.’ Fenchurch leaned back in the chair and watched Steve for any further reaction. Guy looked genuinely devastated. ‘I understand how difficult this must be. I can only offer my deepest sympathy and the promise that I’ll do whatever I can to bring your wife’s killer to justice.’

  Even if it’s you.

  Steve looked at Uzma standing by the window, then nodded at Fenchurch.

  ‘It’d be useful if you could tell us a bit about your wife.’

  ‘Not much to tell.’ Steve scratched at his chin, yellow stubble poking through. ‘Gayle’s an only child. Grew up in South London. She’s
an English teacher at Shadwell Grammar.’

  Fenchurch knew it well. Despite the grand name, it had fallen from its peak in the fifties as the area lost its industry and hope, replaced by drugs and crime.

  ‘We met at uni, Durham, even though we’re both London, but it took us going to the north-east to meet.’ His laugh died on his lips. ‘Then we end up working at the same school.’

  ‘You’re a teacher, right?’

  Steve nodded. ‘Chemistry.’

  ‘Just wondering how two teachers can afford a house like that.’

  ‘It’s hardly a palace.’ Steve waved through the door. ‘John’s the monied one. Works in IT at a City bank, but hates it. I followed my passion, he followed the money.’

  ‘That house is worth a packet, though, isn’t it?’ Fenchurch leaned across the desk, locking eyes with Steve. God, does he look tired. Guy must’ve barely slept. ‘Seven hundred grand, I reckon.’

  ‘Gayle’s parents weren’t rich, but they bought their home in the eighties. They died just after we graduated. Gayle was twenty-one.’ Steve stared at the table, started scratching the surface with a nail. ‘It completely destroyed her, but I was there for her. She wanted to move into that house, raise a family there.’

  ‘You have kids?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Steve shut his eyes. ‘Not ever, now.’

  Fenchurch left a space, but Steve didn’t fill it. ‘Nice place, though. Be nicer to see inside it. Shame about your neighbour, of course.’

  ‘Can’t have everything.’ A smiled flashed on Steve’s lips. ‘Marjory’s been there since the Blitz, I think. She’s not too bad, just keep her off the subject of IRA pub bombings or police surveillance.’

  ‘So I gather.’ Fenchurch drummed his thumbs on the table. ‘Didn’t seem to know you, though?’

  ‘That’s Alzheimer’s for you. Her daughter visits twice a week, but she should be in a home. Joyce won’t listen to us. Bethany across the road looks in on her, but she’s a bit . . . We try not to have any dealings with her.’

  ‘She saw you arguing.’

  Steve went back to scratching the desk. ‘See what I mean?’

  ‘Not really. Said it was yesterday afternoon. About five o’clock.’ Still nothing. ‘You want to tell us what the argument was about?’

  ‘It’s none of your business. None of Bethany’s either.’

  ‘You say that, Mr Fisher, but then your wife’s been murdered and you’re staying on your brother’s couch.’

  Steve dug his palms into his eye sockets.

  ‘Did you kill Gayle?’

  ‘What?’ Steve’s hands dropped to the table with a smack. ‘No!’

  ‘You told her to stop calling you. Called her a “stupid bitch”, didn’t you?’

  ‘That’s bullshit.’

  ‘No, it’s not.’ Fenchurch took out Gayle’s iPhone and kept his eyes on Steve. Sweating, eyes narrowed. ‘See, that’s the message there.’

  Steve kept his focus on it.

  ‘I don’t have one myself, but these phones are amazing.’ Fenchurch rested it back on the table. ‘You know you can share locations with each other? Doesn’t even have to be an Apple thing, either. Can do it with— what’s it called?’

  ‘WhatsApp.’ Uzma grinned wide. ‘Bet they regret calling it that now.’

  Fenchurch tapped the power button on the side of the phone. ‘Anyway, you’d have Gayle’s location on your phone, wouldn’t you?’

  Steve opened his mouth but didn’t say anything.

  ‘Before you lie, Mr Fisher, just remember that we will check everything.’

  Steve slouched back in his chair, arms folded tight. ‘Gayle turned off location sharing.’ Couldn’t take his eyes off her phone. ‘I couldn’t see where she was.’

  ‘Probably did that at the same time she renamed your contact Total Prick.’

  Steve raised his arms in the air, his fists clenching. ‘She was having a laugh. I was angry with her.’

  ‘What about?’

  Steve let his hands go again, and shut his eyes. His shoulders slouched. ‘Usual shit. We’re in a pressure-cooker environment. We work together, have the same friends. It gets too much sometimes.’

  ‘So, what, you had an affair?’

  Steve rubbed his temples.

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘No. I didn’t.’

  ‘But she did?’

  And he was gone again, brushing his right arm with his left hand, staring into space.

  ‘Mr Fisher, you keep evading the subject of this argument. Makes me think it was something.’

  ‘It was nothing!’

  ‘Now I know it was something.’ Fenchurch leaned forward again, resting on his elbows. ‘Something big. Something important. Maybe big enough to kill over?’

  ‘I didn’t kill her!’

  ‘Really?’ Fenchurch gave him space, but he just kept brushing his arms. ‘Mr Fisher, please take us through your movements yesterday. Start with lunchtime, I don’t need to know about you munching your Corn Flakes.’

  ‘After lunch, I had a double period all afternoon. Lower Sixth.’ Steve leaned forward, head in hands. ‘Then I went to the pub. Standing arrangement every week. A group of us, nine or ten usually.’

  ‘Was Gayle there?’

  ‘She . . . couldn’t make it.’

  ‘Is that unusual?’

  ‘She hadn’t warned me she wasn’t coming, either.’

  ‘But she had been at school, right?’

  ‘I . . . think so.’ Steve sat back and swallowed hard. ‘I just had a couple of swift halves, then headed home. Usually watch some telly.’

  ‘But you didn’t get a chance to fire up Netflix, did you?’

  ‘No. We . . . argued.’

  Fenchurch stared deep into Steve’s eyes, but there was no warmth there, just hatred and steel. ‘So what happened? You called each other names, then you stormed off?’

  ‘About the size of it.’ Steve’s sigh was filled with regret. ‘I needed space. My brother . . . He broke up with his wife a while ago. His spare room’s lying empty, so I thought I’d let Gayle calm down.’

  ‘You want to tell me what this argument was about?’

  ‘I don’t. But . . .’ Steve shook his head. ‘Do you know what it feels like to have everything in your life be a house of cards, eh?’

  ‘I do.’ Fenchurch returned the steely glare with interest. ‘When it all falls apart, it’s very hard to build it up again. When it happened to me, it was over something pretty major.’

  ‘Gayle . . .’ Steve rocked back in his seat and stared up at the ceiling. ‘She’s . . . I can’t believe what’s happened.’

  Fenchurch glanced at Uzma. She didn’t seem to have any better ideas. ‘Okay, so what did you do at your brother’s flat?’

  ‘We talked.’

  ‘And after you were done talking?’

  ‘We went for a walk. Then John took me to the pub and we watched the football. Premier League on a Friday night. Doubt it’ll catch on. West Ham versus Man United. He said I needed to take my mind off what happened.’

  ‘And did it?’

  ‘Hardly. It was just people running around.’

  ‘That’s West Ham for you.’ Fenchurch smiled, but Steve didn’t pick it up. ‘Do you know when Gayle switched off the location sharing?’

  Steve looked at the iPhone. ‘You tell me.’

  ‘You know her code.’

  ‘We didn’t share them.’

  ‘That the truth?’

  ‘I’m not lying.’

  Hard to figure him out. Evasive, but that could be explained by guilt or grief. His wife has just died and his last memory is her shouting at him, then him calling her a bitch in a text.

  It all comes down to what the argument was about. Something small and it’s unlikely that Steve killed her. But him being so cagey means that the probability of something major is increasing to the point where he’s a suspect.

  ‘What about after the pub?’

  ‘
Went back to John’s. Tried to get some sleep but . . . I was too angry.’ Steve rubbed at his red eyes, maybe trying to show how tired he was. Is it the tiredness of a guilty man, though?

  Steve looked up at him. ‘Where was she found?’

  ‘Sure you don’t know?’

  ‘What? Just tell me.’

  Fenchurch paused. ‘The Hotel Bennaceur.’

  ‘On the Minories, right?’

  ‘Right. It’s not far from here. Same with your brother’s flat.’

  ‘I’ve told you where I was. I didn’t kill Gayle. Didn’t know she was there.’

  An alibi. Something to probe and tear apart. Until we get into her phone, that’s probably about as far as we’ll get. Maybe he’s innocent, but he’s our first suspect. Progress. Ish.

  ‘Okay, Steve, what was the argument about?’

  ‘I . . .’ Steve looked at Fenchurch, puzzled. ‘Wait, you really don’t know?’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘Gayle was having an affair.’ Steve swallowed. ‘With a school pupil. It’s all over the papers.’

  And we bloody missed it.

  Chapter Ten

  Fenchurch found a copy of yesterday’s Post in the canteen.

  TEACHER-PUPIL SEX SHAME.

  And there she was, front and centre — Gayle. Not some model or film star or pop star. A teacher. In Shadwell, of all places.

  Yesterday’s Post. The one in my bloody car.

  He sent a text: MEET ME AT JOHN’S. NOW.

  Fenchurch tried to wrap his head around it. The something major Steve might’ve been hiding was now something massive, something colossal. A huge billboard with MOTIVE flashing in bright-red letters.

  ‘So DS Reed missed it?’ Uzma was standing in the door, hands on hips.

  ‘Easy, Sergeant. The papers hadn’t actually named her yet.’ Fenchurch raised his eyebrows. ‘Now, I need you to verify that story, okay?’

  Uzma leaned back against the wall. ‘Fine. You think he killed her?’

  ‘We’ve got no other suspects.’ Fenchurch started walking off. ‘I’m going to see what his brother has to say for himself.’

  ‘Where is he?’ John Fisher was pacing around his kitchen, arms flapping, wild like his hair. ‘What have you done with him?’