Kill With Kindness (A DI Fenchurch novel Book 5)

by Ed James

‘I think you’re lying.’ Fenchurch reached up to the first one. ‘It’s wired in.’ He shook his head at Muscat, his bitter disappointment hopefully shining through. ‘You’re an ex-cop, Jim. Did you hand back your integrity with your warrant card?’

  ‘I . . .’ Muscat jerked his head around like he was going to run off. ‘Look, they told me to keep quiet.’

  ‘Who? The brothers?’

  ‘Them, they . . . I can’t.’

  ‘What are you hiding, Jim?’

  Muscat slumped back against the wall. ‘Nazar’ll kill me.’ He brushed sweat from his forehead. ‘Okay.’ He took a deep breath and swallowed hard. ‘Nazar Bennaceur co-owns this place with his brother, right? Trouble is, he’s asked me to help him out.’

  ‘With a secret?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘The kind that makes you switch off half your CCTV?’

  ‘That type, yeah.’ Muscat wiped at more sweat on his brow. ‘If the press get hold of it.’

  ‘Just tell me.’

  ‘Nazar’s got a mate who . . . Well, he’s set this place up as a . . .’ Muscat looked down the corridor, then back towards reception. ‘A shagging pad.’ He walked over to the bend and waved a shaking finger at a door. ‘That one there.’ He opened the door. The bed wasn’t made, but otherwise it looked like any other room in the hotel. Six used condoms in the bin next to the door, though. ‘Nazar’s mate meets his mistress in here every afternoon for a bit of how’s your father.’

  ‘Someone famous?’

  ‘Ish.’

  ‘Just spit it out.’

  ‘I can’t!’

  Bridge held up her laptop, showing their missing female guest talking to the mystery man. ‘This is Nazar’s mate, right?’

  ‘Right, no. I don’t know that fella.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  Muscat shut his eyes, waving his hands. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Come on, Jim?’

  ‘They’ll sack me!’

  Fenchurch grabbed Muscat’s collar and spun him round. ‘And I’ll lock you up. You’ll struggle to get any security work with a criminal record.’

  ‘It’s not connected to your case! I swear!’

  ‘Rather find that out myself, if it’s all the same.’ Fenchurch grabbed the other lapel. ‘Jim. Where is the video?’

  ‘It’s . . . That video gets wiped every hour.’

  ‘Why don’t I believe you?’

  Muscat reached into his collar and pulled out a chain, a USB drive dangling from it. ‘I keep a copy on this. Every hour. Just in case something happens, you know?’

  ‘What, like a murder in this hotel?’ Fenchurch stepped forward, going head-to-head with Muscat. ‘Anything on that I should see?’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘Jim . . .’

  ‘Look, I’m in a difficult situation here. I don’t want to be stuck in the middle of this.’

  Fenchurch snatched the drive off him, snapping the chain, and tossed it to Bridge.

  Muscat tried to break free. ‘No!’

  Fenchurch grabbed his arm in a lock and pushed him face first against the wall. ‘Jim, I want to let you go, but I need you to behave, okay?’

  He mumbled something. Could barely make out a word.

  Fenchurch slackened his grip and Muscat shook himself off. Good to his word.

  ‘It’s not even encrypted.’ Bridge showed the laptop screen. Their missing guest stood in the corridor, her hair fanned out over a long, black expensive-looking coat. Checking her phone and her watch every two seconds. Maybe early twenties but pretty and she looked like she knew it. Then she entered the room they were standing outside.

  Bridge tapped the screen. ‘Shit, this is from Thursday night.’

  Fenchurch let go of Muscat. ‘So it’s a waste of time.’

  ‘It’s the same woman, though.’ Bridge held up her laptop again. A man sloped up to the room, checking behind him. Then down the corridor. Then behind him again. He swiped the door and looked straight into the camera.

  Jack Walsh.

  Fenchurch grabbed hold of Muscat again. ‘Is this who you were protecting?’

  ‘I swear it’s not!’

  ‘Come on, Jim. You used to be able to stand up in court and tell the truth. Now look at you. Who is he sleeping with?’

  ‘I can’t tell you!’

  ‘Right, James Muscat. I’m arresting you for perverting the course of justice. You do not have to say anything, but—’

  Bridge’s nose was wrinkled up. ‘Sir, he’s got a video of them inside the room. They’re . . . at it.’

  ‘So that’s why you kept it, eh?’ Fenchurch pushed his face against the wall, hard, making it hurt. ‘You’re a filthy pervert, Jim.’

  ‘That’s all you’re getting out of me.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  You’re messing us about here, sir.’ Fenchurch stood in front of Walsh’s TV screen, blocking the view of the punditry. ‘We know about your little love nest at the hotel.’

  He got a sideway glance from Jack. ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Nice little room. Bin full of used rubbers. You’re not denying it, either.’

  ‘Ain’t done nothing wrong, mate.’

  ‘Poor Jim Muscat, having to cover for you.’

  ‘Jim who?’

  ‘The security guard.’

  ‘I’ve no idea who you’re talking about.’

  ‘Well, he had this USB drive. Full of video from outside the room.’ Fenchurch reached into his jacket pocket for a screen grab. ‘You look very shifty there, sunshine.’

  ‘You can piss off, you arsecandle.’

  ‘Charming. Only thing in your favour is this was Thursday night and you’ve got a few hundred people who can alibi you for Friday night.’ Fenchurch passed him another shot. ‘Trouble is, we really need to speak to this woman here. That’s all I care about.’

  ‘Don’t know her.’

  ‘I’ll spare your shame, sir.’ Fenchurch put the photos away. ‘Jim also has a video of what goes on behind that door.’

  Walsh’s head slouched forward. ‘Oh, Christ.’

  ‘Some stamina you’ve got. At it for hours. Viagra, is it? And six rubbers? I couldn’t even fill that many when I was fourteen.’

  ‘Piss off.’

  ‘We just want to speak to her.’

  ‘Well, you can piss off.’

  ‘My colleague here did a bit of googling on our way back here.’ Fenchurch grinned at Uzma. ‘Turns out that old Nazar Bennaceur owns a few things, doesn’t he? Hotels, shops. And Shadwell United.’ He crouched in front of Walsh. ‘He’s your chairman, isn’t he? And a good enough mate to set up this love nest for you at his hotel. Nazar ever get any action behind the green door?’

  ‘Don’t be sick.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Walsh rocked forward, clearing his throat. ‘You said this Mustard guy has—’

  ‘Muscat.’

  ‘Whatever. You said he’s got a video of me . . . Isn’t that illegal?’

  ‘We’ll prosecute Jim Muscat for this. Don’t you worry about it.’

  ‘Deviant . . .’

  Fenchurch tapped the shot of the mystery woman. ‘We need to speak to her. It’s looking like she might’ve spoken to the murderer.’

  Walsh looked like he was close to cracking. Then steel filled his eyes again. ‘“Might have” isn’t worth me getting my arse handed to me by Nazar.’

  Why the hell is he keeping this a secret? It doesn’t make any sense.

  Unless . . .

  Fenchurch checked the image again and nodded slowly. ‘Is this Nazar’s wife?’

  Walsh hung his head low. ‘His daughter.’

  Explains a few things . . .

  ‘And he doesn’t know about it, does he?’

  A slow shake of the head.

  Fenchurch got to his feet, hard not to laugh. ‘Got to admire getting Nazar to give you a room at his hotel so you could shag his daughter behind his back. Impressive.’


  ‘He’ll sack me if he finds out.’

  ‘He’s going to have to, sir.’ Fenchurch gave him a flat grin. ‘I’ve no choice but to tell him.’

  ‘Whatever you want. Anything. Just keep this away from him.’

  ‘Her name and address. Then I’ll see if I can keep a secret.’

  ‘Unbelievable.’ Fenchurch pulled past a new development, bus-sized pot plants dotted around the pavement to somehow advertise the flats, then on to an old back lane spitting distance from Borough Market. A row of three-storey brick townhouses, old-style gas lanterns above the door. ‘How much do you reckon it’s worth?’

  Uzma exhaled slowly. ‘Over a million.’

  ‘And all paid for by her old man.’ Fenchurch got out on to the street and pressed the buzzer. They were blocking the road, but he didn’t really care.

  ‘Excuse me?’ A woman was behind the car, late teens, early twenties. Expensive dress. Striking cheekbones. Fenchurch didn’t even have to check the print — it was Claudia Bennaceur, the woman from the hotel CCTV. ‘I need to get past?’

  Fenchurch blocked her way. ‘Claudia?’ He unfolded his warrant card. ‘Need a—’

  She shot off, back towards the main road.

  ‘Shit.’ Fenchurch darted off after her, his knee cracking with every step, an ache drilling into his bones.

  Claudia was fast, but heels hampered her long stride. She stopped, spinning round as she kicked off her shoes, then she was away again, dodging round the oversized pot plants. For every agonising step of Fenchurch’s, she took two, getting further and further away.

  Then she shifted left to avoid a woman pushing a pram and bumped into a man coming out of a shop. The pair of them tumbled over in a heap, a carton of milk splatting and spraying all over the ground. Claudia tried to get up but slipped in the white liquid and fell face first.

  Fenchurch grabbed both arms and held her down, wriggling and kicking. She lashed out, kicking Fenchurch in the thigh. Then another caught him in the groin. ‘Shit.’ Pain burnt at his gut, flared across his stomach. He let go and she was off.

  Fenchurch pushed himself up, could only watch as she ran off, leaving milky footprints on the tarmac.

  Then Uzma tackled her, pushing her on to a planter and pinning her to the ground. ‘Stop!’

  Fenchurch staggered over, pain shooting from his balls all the way up to his brain. ‘Get her back to the station!’

  Uzma was driving, rattling along the cobbled back street. Every bump speared Fenchurch’s gonads. Felt like they’d swollen up to twice normal size. She’d caught both of them. Even breathing hurt. Made him think about Docherty, the testicular cancer that ate him up, that killed him because he hadn’t gone to the doctor about it, just left the lumps growing. Had to start somewhere — a blow to the balls seemed as likely as anything.

  Uzma pulled up at the lights. ‘What are you running from, eh?’

  Claudia sat on the back seat, cuffed to the post. Covered in milk. Her dress, the back seat, even the window. Be smelling the sour odour for months. ‘Nothing.’ Didn’t even look at him.

  Fenchurch looked back at her. ‘We know about you and Jack.’

  That got her attention. She gave him a sharp look.

  ‘A real stallion, isn’t he? Proper alpha-male type. You like older men?’

  She snarled at Fenchurch. ‘You’re too old.’

  Uzma smirked. ‘Nothing wrong with what you were doing at your father’s hotel, is there? Consenting adults and all that. I don’t get why you’d run from us, Claudia. Your old man doesn’t know that his manager is at it with his daughter, does he?’

  ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘This is you, right?’ Fenchurch showed her the still. All crumpled now, but still good enough to see the detail. ‘On Friday night. I just want to know who you’re speaking to. That’s all.’

  She looked out of the window, nostrils wide. On the main road now, smoother, fewer painful jolts.

  ‘I know this isn’t Jack Walsh because he was at the football. So . . .’ Then it clicked into place . . . Fenchurch groaned. ‘You’re charging him, aren’t you?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘You bloody are.’ Fenchurch leaned round and got a fresh stab of pain in the balls. ‘This isn’t his love nest, it’s your knocking shop. Right?’

  She shifted her arms, rattling the cuffs.

  ‘Listen to me, Claudia, I know people in Vice. I can have a word with them, yeah? See what they want to charge you with.’ He watched her squirm. ‘Uzma, head to the Empress Sta—’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  Uzma pulled in at the side of the road.

  ‘This man here.’ Fenchurch showed her the photo again. ‘You spoke to him on Friday night. Is he a client?’

  ‘No.’ She nibbled at a nail, the only one where the natural colour was exposed, instead of the fake powder-blue. Must’ve been knocked off in the scuffle. ‘The client was staying in the hotel. His wife was in the gym and he came to visit me. Don’t ask how we got in touch. I spoke to this man when I was leaving.’

  ‘I don’t care about that.’ Fenchurch tapped the page again. ‘Just his name.’

  ‘I don’t know it. He just started talking to me. Asking me where the rooms were.’

  Fenchurch showed her a photo of Elliot Lynch. ‘Was it him?’

  Claudia didn’t take much of a look at it. ‘He was much, much older. Not as old as you, though.’

  Fenchurch sat back in his seat. Thought it was Elliot. After Oliver landed him in it, it made perfect sense. Who else could it be?

  Another throb of pain, not as sore as the realisation.

  Steve Fisher.

  Fenchurch searched through his Airwave Pronto and found a photo of him buried in the case file. He showed it to Claudia. ‘Him?’

  ‘That’s him!’

  What the hell?

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘One hundred per cent. I’d recognise that face anywhere.’

  Why is he lying to us? And what the hell was he doing at the hotel? Other than killing his wife . . .

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Through here.’ Martin, the Custody Sergeant, opened the door to the identification suite and led Claudia in. He held the door and grinned at Fenchurch. ‘Should be out in a jiffy, mate.’

  ‘Make sure it’ll stand up in court, okay?’

  ‘Like a judge’s hard-on.’ And Martin was gone.

  Fenchurch leaned against the cold wall. His balls were aching. Really should see the doctor about it.

  ‘Guv?’ Reed was in the opposite doorway, frowning at him.

  Fenchurch stood up tall and cleared his throat. ‘Kay.’

  ‘Got a sec?’ Reed motioned towards the room she’d come out of. A woman sat the table. Ginger hair, short. Swaying like she’d been on the sauce and like she was out of touch with the Earth’s movement through space. ‘Once we got rid of all those drunks and so on, we were left with two people. Two women came in, but only one left again, yeah?’

  Fenchurch’s turn to wave at the ID Suite. ‘We’ve got the one who left.’

  ‘Oh.’ Reed frowned. ‘Well, this is the other one.’ Her friend kept running a hand across her forehead and blowing air up her face. ‘Alison McBrain. Just found her in her room. Two down from Gayle Fisher’s. Says she was out all day yesterday, but must’ve torn through the police tape when she came back . . .’

  ‘She’s still off her skull.’ Fenchurch was already walking into the room. He gave Alison a warm smile as he sat. ‘Thanks for coming forward.’

  Reed shut the door and air wafted through the interview room, blowing a strong mint smell and also the sort of alcohol reek you only got from someone’s pores. Alison McBrain had obviously been drinking, and hard.

  ‘My name is DI Simon Fenchurch and I’m leading the—’

  ‘Your colleague here says that woman was poisoned with an ecky?’ A Glaswegian accent, but more on the lilting side than the stab-you-in-the-face-pal one. ‘
That right?’

  ‘Where in Glasgow are you from? Partick?’

  Her head jerked up, a coy smile on her lips. ‘How’d you guess?’

  ‘Based there for a bit.’ Fenchurch returned the smile. ‘Anyway, we’re looking for anyone who saw anything suspicious on Friday night around nine o’clock.’

  Alison grunted. ‘So why am I in here?’

  ‘Because you were there?’

  ‘You sure about that?’

  ‘We’ve got you on CCTV in the reception area.’ Reed reached into a pocket for a still of Alison lumbering through reception, lugging a hessian shopping bag in each hand, big packets of crisps on the top. ‘This is you, isn’t it?’

  She patted her head. ‘Will you look at my hair?’

  Fenchurch caught a fresh wave of second-hand booze. No guessing what was in those bags. A pisshead getting out of her skull in a London hotel. Two possible witnesses, neither of them anywhere near credible. ‘Did you see anything in your corridor as you came in?’

  ‘Well, aye, now you mention it, there might’ve been this boy in the corridor, but look, I was at my pal’s wedding and . . .’ She let out a mournful sigh. ‘Had a shite time, you know? Big do at St Paul’s, then at a posh hotel round the corner. Bloody hell, it’s a bit of a mission on a Friday, isn’t it?’ Her lips pressed tight. ‘Tell you, people say Glasgow’s bad but London’s a shitehole. Total shitehole.’

  ‘You saw a man in the corridor?’

  ‘Aye, but that wedding was in St Paul’s Cathedral, you know? My wee pal Jodie, we grew up together in Partick and it’s not the same place as it was, I tell you. It’s all flash pubs and that now. No, when we were wee, it was a lovely place. Full of right characters and that, and people looked out for each other, you know? None of these hipsters and trannies and what have you.’

  Oh, Christ . . .

  ‘Did you—’

  ‘Anyway, Jodie’s husband’s ma did some charity stuff way back when, got an MBE or something. Means you can, like, have your wedding at St Paul’s? So there’s my wee pal Jodie having her big day there. Can you imagine? A wee lassie from Partick in there? Brilliant, eh?’

  ‘Heartwarming.’ Fenchurch tried to keep a smile on his face but it was a struggle. ‘When you got back to the hotel, you saw a man in the corridor?’