Kill With Kindness (A DI Fenchurch novel Book 5)

by Ed James

  ‘Sure they’ll reschedule.’

  ‘Why, because he OD’ed? Yeah, good one.’ Derek rocked himself up to standing, then walked over to the doorway. He squinted at something but Fenchurch couldn’t see what. ‘It’s all gone to his head. Thought he’d made it when West Ham were sniffing around. Best if it all dies away, then Elliot can treat it as a hobby and focus on the school.’

  ‘He needs to focus on proving his innocence first.’

  Derek twisted round, scowling at Fenchurch. ‘What are you wittering about?’

  ‘He’s a suspect in the murder of Gayle Fisher.’

  ‘That’s horseshit.’ Derek stomped across the wooden boards and stopped inches from Fenchurch’s face. ’Horse. Shit.’ Then he seemed to remember he was dealing with a police officer. ‘He told me there’s nothing in it. And I believe him.’

  ‘There’s evidence. Photos and videos.’ Fenchurch left it hanging. Derek took another step forward, baring his teeth, but kept quiet. ‘Your son won’t give us an alibi for Friday night.’

  ‘My boy did not kill that woman!’ Then Derek was off, wheeling around the room, throwing his arms in the air. ‘You can’t seriously think he did it, can you? Killing a teacher?’

  ‘Sir, it’s my job to think everyone did it until they tell me otherwise.’ Fenchurch waited for his logic to click round in Derek’s skull. ‘Where was he on Friday night?’

  Derek collapsed into his seat and started kneading the bridge of his nose. ‘I’ve no idea.’ He let out a deep sigh. ‘Soon as he leaves school on a Friday, we’re lucky if we see him before Sunday night.’

  ‘Even when he’s got a trial with Millwall?’

  ‘Even then.’

  Fenchurch wanted to walk over there, pick him up and throw him on the floor. Tell Derek he should look after his son, be grateful to have any time with him.

  ‘Stop!’ Amanda Lynch clomped through from the other room, waving her hands at her husband. ‘Derek, Mr Maxfield is going to represent Elliot.’ She gave Fenchurch a sour look, eyes narrow. ‘He told us not to speak to the police without him or a lawyer present.’

  Fenchurch felt his neck tighten, like someone had stuck an Allen key in a bolt and twisted and twisted and . . .

  Ben Maxfield. Time to put that little shit in his place.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Reed pulled up outside Maximum Exposure and killed the engine. ‘Right. Here again.’

  Fenchurch stared up at the office. Signs of life inside, blue-tinged lights in the meeting rooms and offices, but nobody visible from the street. He opened his door and got out.

  ‘It’s really, really good to see you both.’ Maxfield stood in the office doorway, smoking, his face stretched tight. Dark rings under his eyes, like he’d been up all night working. Or partying hard. Maybe both. ‘I’m so, so busy.’

  Fenchurch barged past into the office. ‘You’re getting on my nerves.’

  ‘Good.’ Maxfield blew out a plume of smoke. ‘What am I supposed to have done?’ He started yawning. Didn’t seem like he’d ever stop. ‘There’s nothing I can help you with, I’m afraid. Gayle’s dead, end of.’ He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a can of WakeyWakey energy drink. ‘The plan was to ride out the publicity, then start doing tabloid confessionals. Raise her profile.’ Syrupy-sweet mist hissed as he opened the can. ‘Then we could think about Celeb Big Brother, then move up to Strictly or I’m A Celebrity. It’s all about how you spin it.’

  ‘She was going to go to prison for having sex with a pupil.’

  ‘Think you’ll find she was going to go to the jungle with Ant and Dec.’ Maxfield winked as he took a long slug. ‘Sorry, I should’ve offered you some.’ Another glug. ‘But I can’t be arsed. Anyway, you’ll know that I’ve got the very, very best lawyers on retainer. Gather you’re acquainted with Makepeace and company?’

  Fenchurch sat forward, his gut fizzing with rage. ‘Gayle wouldn’t have got away with it.’

  ‘You wouldn’t even get into court, Fenchurch.’

  ‘I wouldn’t personally, no. I’m murder squad. But someone else would. There’s solid evidence.’

  ‘Inspector.’ Maxfield covered his yawn with another sip. ‘All we did was book a hotel to keep the papers away until it worked to our advantage.’

  ‘And now you’re advising a suspect to stay away.’

  ‘I’m not representing Steve Fisher.’

  Fenchurch glanced at Reed. ‘What?’

  ‘He told me in no uncertain terms where to go.’ Maxfield finished his drink and tossed the empty in the bin, a couple of dots spraying on Fenchurch’s trousers. ‘Could’ve helped him so, so much but them’s the breaks.’

  ‘I meant Elliot Lynch.’

  ‘Oh, him.’ Another yawn. ‘Right, I really don’t give a shit. Now, I need to get out to Stamford Bridge, okay? I’m meeting a client at the Butcher’s Hook for a spot of lunch before Chelsea annihilate West Brom.’

  ‘Elliot’s a murder suspect. We need to speak to him and you’re stopping us. Time to use that retainer.’

  Maxfield yawned again, his mouth staying open for a few seconds. Then mischief twinkled in his eyes. ‘At this stage, it’s just an offer. I’ve not signed anything with the boy.’ The mischief turned into full-blown mayhem. ‘Elliot’s mother told me about that scrum on their doorstep on Sky News. Must be hell out there.’

  ‘You did that, didn’t you?’

  ‘You got evidence I did?’ Maxfield got up and collected a navy Barbour from his coat stand. ‘Promising young kid, though. Like Gayle, he’s really, really good-looking. I’ve got a Stateside sports agent calling up Major League Soccer clubs, seeing if they can use this current profile to get him a club over in the good ol’ US of A. Good money to be made and the standard is so, so low in the States. Even worse than Scottish football.’

  ‘You’re sick.’ Reed got in his face. ‘You’ve stopped his parents talking to us.’

  Maxfield stopped zipping up his coat. ‘And?’

  ‘He’s a suspect.’

  ‘And?’ Maxfield zipped his coat up to his chin. ‘Have I done anything wrong here?’

  ‘You’re hindering a murder case.’

  Maxfield held out his hands, ready to be cuffed. ‘Come on, then. Stop me watching my football. I’ll come with you, refuse to answer your questions while you could’ve been doing some good with taxpayers’ money, then you let me go.’

  Reed looked at Fenchurch, fury burning in her eyes. Fenchurch gave a light shake of his head.

  ‘Thought not.’ Maxfield walked over to the door and opened it again. He waved out of the door. ‘Now get out of here, you pair of arseholes.’

  Reed grabbed him by the jacket and pinned him to the door. ‘Say that again.’

  ‘Pair. Of. Arseholes.’

  ‘You want me to rip you a new one, do you?’

  ‘Let go, Sergeant.’ Maxfield waited until she complied then laughed in her face. ‘Atta girl.’

  ‘Kay, it’s bad enough when I go over the score.’ Fenchurch pulled up outside Leman Street and killed the engine. ‘I need you keeping calm.’

  ‘That guy deserved a whole lot more, guv.’ Reed scowled as her seatbelt whizzed up. ‘What now?’

  Fenchurch checked his mirrors. Clear, for once. ‘Right, I’m heading out to Lewisham for the PM. Can you get on top of Lisa?’

  Reed opened her door and planted her feet on the ground. ‘Thought you didn’t approve of sex tapes?’

  ‘Jesus, Kay.’ Fenchurch started the car with a rev and flicked on his indicator. ‘Don’t let that prick get to you, okay?’

  ‘Spoken like you bother doing it yourself.’

  ‘Do as I say, Kay. Do as I say.’

  ‘Well, my dear fellow.’ Pratt stood over Gayle Fisher’s body, humming something from an opera, probing at her innards with some shiny tools. ‘I have the great pleasure in confirming that our victim was indeed bound by ties on her wrists, hidden under those pink handcuffs.’

  Fenchur
ch was leaning against the wall, his legs close to falling asleep. ‘Two hours for this?’

  ‘Two hours?’ Pratt looked up long enough to register a glare. ‘I’ve been in since four, dear heart. Your edited highlights take a lot of work behind the scenes.’

  Fenchurch shook his legs, trying to wake them. ‘What killed her?’

  ‘She died between eleven p.m. and midnight of . . .’ Pratt stopped, a frown twisting his brow. ‘How do I record it?’

  ‘It’s not my place to put words—’

  ‘I’m thinking out loud.’ Another glare. ‘So far, I’ve got “A twenty-eight-year-old woman was found dead in a hotel room. No history of depression. No containers of medication or narcotics paraphernalia were found at the scene. Autopsy findings included fully developed rigor mortis and pulmonary oedema with haemorr—”’

  ‘Fluid on the lungs?’

  ‘So you do pay attention?’ Pratt stood up tall, arms folded, grinning. ‘Her lungs filled with fluid and she stopped being able to breathe.’

  ‘What a way to go . . .’

  ‘There are many worse. Besides, I think she probably wasn’t aware of what was going on.’ Pratt settled back into his crouch. ‘The cause of death is clearly drug intoxication resulting in serotonin syndrome. Like I say, she died between eleven and midnight, but the drug was administered earlier. As noted at the scene of the crime, the blood marks on her wrist show a struggle happening circa nine o’clock.’

  ‘You mean someone got into her room and held her down?’

  ‘That much is certain. Now, as to the manner of death, my good friend, well, that’s something else.’

  ‘If your next word is suicide, I’m handing in my warrant card.’

  ‘Sadly, I won’t be sparing the Met from any lawsuits.’ Pratt stood up again. ‘What I’m trying to figure out is whether it’s an accidental death from drug abuse.’

  ‘Don’t follow.’

  ‘I mean, she took the drugs and some as-yet-unknown lover tied her down as they were partaking in some edge play. A cheeky bit of chemsex going too far.’

  ‘Taking ecstasy and having sex?’

  Pratt gave a nod, then tapped Gayle’s cranium. ‘The issue with that theory is we have a blow on the head here. It looks very much like someone attacked her and subdued her. Tied her up. And drugged her. Her blood toxicology shows rat poison, caffeine, all the usual crap, but also a huge amount of MDMA. A very high dose.’

  Fenchurch took out the Blockchain pill Mulkalwar had given him. ‘Like this?’

  Pratt was transfixed by it. ‘Precisely.’

  ‘So someone stuck a pill down her throat, enough to kill her, then she overdosed, slipped into a coma and died of fluid on the lungs?’

  Pratt clicked his fingers and pointed at Fenchurch. ‘Correct! Worse ways to go.’ He stared into space, then chuckled. ‘In a way, whoever did this killed her with kindness.’

  ‘Jesus, William.’

  ‘It fits, though, doesn’t it? Tie someone up, pop some of these little babies down her throat.’ Pratt held up the pill and clicked his tongue a few times. ‘Working it back, my calculations indicate a single twelve-hundred-milligram dose of MDMA.’

  ‘That’s a lot.’

  ‘A heck of a lot. The strongest we used to see was the so-called UPS pills at two seventy-eight. Killed a few inexperienced clubbers. Then Burger King came in at the three hundred mark.’

  ‘And Blockchain?’

  ‘Four hundred milligrams per tablet, my friend.’ Pratt seemed to shudder. ‘Gayle had three. Enough to kill an elephant.’

  Jesus. Three super-strong pills. Nobody would take that themselves. Whoever did this knew what they were doing.

  And they meant to kill her.

  Chapter Twenty

  Fenchurch stepped out into the warm air. Smokers huddled outside the Lewisham police support building, soaking up the sun as they shortened their lifespans. Summer still lingered. Just. His old man would no doubt call it an Indian summer, like that meant anything.

  He set off towards his car. His phone rang. He picked it up, sweat pricking his spine. Mulholland. ‘Dawn.’

  ‘You called me?’

  ‘And I left a voicemail, if you’d care to listen.’ Her pause showed she hadn’t bothered. ‘I’m just out of the PM. Pratt reckons someone had forced three Blockchain pills down her throat.’

  ‘Not suicide?’

  She’s out of her depth. Clinging to a suicide so she can massage the figures. Doesn’t want to face up to the truth.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about an accident?’

  ‘Dawn, she was tied up. How could it be an accident?’

  ‘What did Pratt say?’

  ‘He said, “They killed her with kindness.”’

  Mulholland laughed.

  ‘It’s not funny.’

  ‘It’s so Pratt, though.’ A long pause. ‘Okay, if he’s saying that, then she was likely murdered. Whoever killed her didn’t bludgeon her, they made her die laughing.’

  Fenchurch unlocked his car and got in. Sat there watching the smokers joking like there weren’t twenty or so dead bodies in the building behind them, murder victims like Gayle Fisher.

  Maybe Pratt’s right — whoever did this killed Gayle with love. The least-worst way to kill someone. Maybe. Ply them with enough strong drugs that they don’t know where they are or what the hell’s happening to them.

  But who?

  Someone whose love for Gayle had turned to hate, who wanted her to die, but couldn’t stomach a knife to the guts or couldn’t afford a hitman.

  ‘I’m thinking through the suspects, Dawn. Steve Fisher has a strong motive — cuckolded by a young lover, then shamed in the press. Anyone who knew them would see the photo and know about Gayle’s adultery. That’s enough to drive most people to action.’

  ‘Enough to kill her, though?’

  ‘Don’t know. Tying her up and chucking three Blockchain pills down her throat . . . It’s cold-blooded, and Steve must’ve been angry. A knife frenzy, yes. This? Not so sure.’

  ‘Okay, so means and opportunity?’

  ‘His alibi’s still wide open, mainly because we’ve got such patchy CCTV coverage. Said he was watching the football with his brother, but he left in time to have attacked Gayle and given her the Blockchain. As for means . . . A school teacher getting hold of super-strong ecstasy? Unlikely.’

  ‘But possible.’ Mulholland shut a door. The sound changed. Probably in Docherty’s office. Hard to think it’s hers now. ‘What about Elliot Lynch as a suspect?’

  Fenchurch thought it through, an ache in his gut telling him Elliot might be their prime suspect. ‘He had the means. He almost died from taking a Blockchain last night.’

  ‘What about opportunity?’

  ‘Every time we’ve asked for an alibi, he’s . . . refused.’

  Squeaking, like she was writing on a whiteboard. ‘An open book, then?’

  ‘When we picked him up on Saturday, when he was coming down with serotonin syndrome, it was like he was still in love with Gayle. Kept saying she was his porcelain goddess.’

  ‘That bloody song . . . My son can’t stop listening to it.’

  ‘Right. Well. In the state Elliot was in, there’s no lying. He thought Gayle was still alive. He still loved her.’

  ‘So slightly less likely than Steve.’ More squeaking. ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘That’s where I’m drawing a blank.’ Fenchurch turned on the ignition and set off across the car park. ‘Have you got hold of the drug squad yet?’

  ‘I reached out, but I’m waiting for a call back.’

  Take that as a no, then . . . Like ‘reached out’ means anything.

  ‘Dawn, this is linked to their Blockchain investigation.’

  ‘Operation Lydian.’ The squeaking started again. ‘The investigation into Blockchain. Bitcoin is a new currency. The Lydians were the first to mint coins.’ She laughed. ‘Anyway, what do you propose as next steps?’


  Fenchurch gripped the steering wheel tight. ‘I want to search both of their homes. We have enough for warrants.’

  ‘Fine in principle, but the press are camped outside Elliot’s home. We can’t go in there all guns blazing. Am I clear?’

  ‘Clear. I’ll start with Steve, then.’

  ‘I need to approve this.’

  ‘No, Dawn, you don’t. It’d be better if you backed me, though.’

  She huffed. Sounded like she sat down at the desk. ‘I’ve got a meeting with Julian in five minutes. Hold off on raiding anyone’s home until you hear back from me.’

  Fenchurch twisted his fingers round the wheel like it was her neck.

  Another pair of smokers waddled out of the front door.

  ‘Am I clear?’

  ‘Crystal.’ Fenchurch hit the end call button.

  Way out of her depth. Drowning.

  And he was late for Chloe.

  Fenchurch walked into the restaurant in Southwark, checking out each table. No sign of Chloe. He walked over to the poncho-wearing, handlebar-moustached maître d’. ‘Got a reservation. Fenchurch.’

  ‘Over here. Oh.’ He stopped by a table. Empty. ‘Your, ah, lunch partner must’ve left, sir.’

  ‘Right.’ Fenchurch sat at the table and got out his phone. He dialled Chloe’s number. Light streamed through the full-height windows. Absolute shithole of an area, but at least there was a decent burrito place.

  Straight to voicemail.

  Well played, you arsehole. You let her down and didn’t even warn her.

  Fingers dug into his shoulders from behind. ‘You’re late.’