In for the Kill (A DI Fenchurch novel Book 4)

by Ed James

  ‘Watch this, guv.’ Nelson zoomed out and hit play again.

  Hannah continued her walk, now three buildings away from the hipsters. Four, five, then another pub, quieter. She walked across a side street and someone stepped in behind her, matching her pace. She continued over to the left-hand side of the frame, then disappeared, her tail following.

  ‘What the hell is this, Jon?’

  ‘Keep watching.’

  The man staggered back into the shot, his arms windmilling. He hit a wall and slumped down, his arse touching his ankles.

  Hannah appeared in the shot and stood over him, shouting. He got up, arms outstretched, pleading with her. Then she cracked him one, her right fist denting his cheek. Hannah tried sticking the boot in, but she was pulled back by the hipsters, a flurry of beards, skinny jeans and waistcoats.

  Nelson hit pause again and circled a finger round them. ‘Spoke to this lot about half an hour ago. Sod’s law, guv, but they’re off-duty cops out on the lash. Cyber Crime Unit, based over in Scotland Yard. Can you believe it?’

  ‘Believe anything, Jon, given enough evidence.’ Fenchurch glanced at Reed, still transfixed by the screen. ‘So these guys stopped her beating up this bloke?’

  ‘She got two good hits in before they got her off him. Broke his nose, blood everywhere. She was a strong girl. Whoever killed her must’ve surprised her because I doubt they could’ve overpowered her.’

  Reed tapped the screen. ‘Got a name for this guy?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Nelson drew a circle around the hipsters. ‘They thought they were being clever, putting the frighteners on her, showing their warrant cards.’

  ‘You’re kidding me.’ Fenchurch groaned. ‘And they didn’t think to arrest her for assault?’

  ‘No, guv. And it gets worse. While they were doing that, our chum ran off.’ Nelson hit play again. Hannah’s victim retreated up the side street. ‘It’s all laptops and spreadsheets with those guys, guv. Wouldn’t have the first clue about community policing. Not real cops, are they?’

  Fenchurch found it hard to argue. ‘If they’d arrested her, we’d have a much better lead on who this plonker in the video is. I’ll mention this to Docherty.’

  Nelson looked like he was about to say something but he just gave a slight shrug.

  ‘Still, this is interesting.’ Fenchurch cracked his knuckles. ‘How did you find it, anyway?’

  ‘That boyfriend of hers came through. Gave us a list of Hannah’s friends. One of them told us about this.’ Nelson took the Airwave back from Reed. ‘Hannah broke her hand. Still waiting to speak to a couple of them who were out drinking with her that night.’

  ‘Why the delay?’

  ‘They’re in the gym, guv.’

  Reed charged through the hangar-sized gym, rammed with cardio equipment, virtually all of it taken. The cross-trainers and cycles hissed and whirred. A man in tight shorts held himself up on a treadmill blurring past underneath, then dropped for a mad sprint. Then up again. Crazy.

  In the corner, a tall guy was swinging a kettlebell, his grey T-shirt soaked through with sweat, the slogan just about visible. MAYBE IT’S BECAUSE I’M BAVARIAN. Could smell him from here.

  Reed was scanning round the gym. ‘Focus on the machines, guv.’

  Fenchurch tried to match the faces Nelson had given them. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I saw how you were looking at that video of Hannah, guv.’

  ‘I wasn’t perving, okay?’ Fenchurch let out a sigh. ‘Come on, Kay, you of all people should know that.’ He rubbed at his neck. Burning red, a trickle of sweat. Must be all the exercise pushing the humidity through the roof. ‘Go with me on this. On that video, her skirt thing was really tight, yeah? To show off her legs and . . . her bum. It was all overdeveloped, like she was going for bulk and size.’

  ‘Guv, quit while you’re behind, yeah?’

  ‘Kay, come on. I’m serious. She put a lot of effort into it.’ Fenchurch clocked two girls in the corner, hunched over stair-climber machines, clinging on for dear life. Sweat soaked their long hair, leaving traces of blonde in the murky brown. Steel thighs and diamond buttocks pounded the machines. ‘Like those two.’

  ‘You dirty pervert.’ Reed squinted at them. ‘Hang on, that’s who we’re looking for.’ She set off.

  The two girls wore matching white T-shirts, soaked through with sweat, VICKS and LIBBY stencilled on the back in dark blue. SOUTHWARK TO BRIGHTON ULTRA MARATHON 2016

  Reed tried to catch their attention. Both had earbuds in, white tails trailing up to smartphones cradled on the machines. She waved a hand in front of them.

  The girl on the right took an earbud out and scowled. ‘What?’

  ‘Police. Need to speak to Victoria Summerton and Olivia Magrane.’

  ‘I’m Vicks, she’s Libby.’ The sort of Essex accent Reed was losing by the week. Out on the estuary, Grays or somewhere feral like that. ‘What do you want?’

  She was still pounding away. The machines were on long multi-hour programs: 2.56:34 remaining. Set to level 15, too. Made Fenchurch’s eyes water just thinking about it. Could grind your hips to dust doing it for that long.

  Reed flashed her warrant card. ‘Need to speak to you about Hannah Nunn.’

  The machines clicked as they both stopped. Victoria got off first. ‘All right if we get showered first?’

  Reed smirked in Fenchurch’s direction then gave them both a tight nod. ‘Don’t be too long, yeah? Otherwise, I’ll send him in after you.’

  Fenchurch took the coffees from the barista and set them on a tray. The café was closer to a Caffè Nero than the sort of greasy spoons you’d find in most gyms he’d frequented at that age. A glass window looked out on the free weights area, two idiots daring each other to deadlift increasingly more stupid weights.

  Reed stood next to him, watching the door. ‘What do you reckon, guv, divide and conquer?’

  Victoria and Olivia walked in, bags slung over their shoulders, wet hair dripping on the floor.

  Fenchurch picked up the tray, careful not to spill any. He smiled at Victoria and nodded to a free table in the corner. She followed him and slumped in the chair. Frowned at the cups. ‘Which is mine?’

  Fenchurch pushed one across the table. ‘Hazelnut skinny latte.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She tore off the lid and peeked inside, like he was lying to her. She took a deep sniff of it and sat back, legs crossed. ‘So, what do you want to know?’

  Fenchurch cradled his coffee, letting it cool. The heat spread through his fingers. ‘I gather you were good friends?’

  ‘Met her at Freshers’ Week at a cheese and wine thing in halls. Not that either of us had any cheese.’ She took a sip of coffee. ‘Too fattening.’ She gave Fenchurch a flash of long eyelashes. ‘We drank too much vodka together that year.’

  ‘You talk like you’re not friends any more.’

  ‘Hannah started seeing Sam.’ Her gaze swept around the room. Then it settled on Fenchurch with a smile and another flash of the lashes. She dipped a finger into the foam, then licked it off slowly, eyes trained on him. ‘You work out, don’t you?’

  Oh Christ. The last thing I bloody need . . .

  Bloody girl’s flirting with me. Same age as Chloe, give or take.

  ‘Three times a week.’ Fenchurch took a sip of coffee, his mouth burning like his neck. ‘I saw the program you were doing on the machines.’

  ‘Got to keep in shape.’ Victoria patted her stomach, flat through her lilac T-shirt. ‘I listen to lectures and audiobooks while I’m doing it. Beats sitting in the library.’

  ‘Did Hannah ever talk about a Graham Pickersgill?’

  She blew air up her face, sweat pricking the skin round her eyebrows. ‘Not to me.’

  ‘Sure? Because we heard about Hannah assaulting someone in Shoreditch in June.’ Fenchurch took another biting glug of coffee. ‘I gather you were with her that night?’

  ‘Me and Libby were, yeah. Clubbing. Thursday nights
can be wild up that way. It’s not exactly cheap but we have ways of getting drinks.’ Victoria shifted forward on her seat. ‘We were flirting with these bankers, real City boys. Two of them, yeah? They kept on buying us bottles of rosé and shots. I didn’t notice that Hannah had gone until an hour later. She got fed up. She was seeing Sam, so she wasn’t trying it with these guys. Taking candy from a baby. But I never commit.’ Another flash of lashes. ‘Waiting for the right man. Someone with experience.’

  ‘So you didn’t leave with Hannah that night?’

  ‘No.’ She cradled her cup, the realisation that he wasn’t going to flirt with her starting to sink in. ‘Heard she beat up some guy who followed her or something.’

  ‘Did she say who?’

  Victoria took another drink, slowly licking her lips. ‘Can’t remember. It was some random, wasn’t it?’

  ‘She didn’t mention the name Graham Pickersgill?’

  ‘Sorry. Never heard of him.’ Victoria fanned out her hair, leaving it frizzing around her ears. ‘She told us the cops let her off with it because the bloke ran away.’

  ‘We noticed a few things we can’t explain in her room.’ Fenchurch spun his paper cup round. ‘A missing laptop, for starters. You ever see her with a MacBook Pro?’

  Victoria sunk the rest of her coffee in one go then stuffed the lid back on, pulling it tight until it snapped. ‘I do a lot of the same lectures as Hannah. Never saw a MacBook, just a small laptop. HP or something.’

  ‘That’s missing, too. When did you last see it?’

  ‘Not for a while, actually.’ She peered into Fenchurch’s coffee cup for a few seconds, her forehead creased. ‘It had a pink Charlie the Seahorse sticker on it.’

  Fenchurch noted it down. Might narrow their search a little. ‘The other thing we found was a few grand’s worth of lingerie.’

  ‘Didn’t know she had any.’ No coquettish smiles. No lashes. No flirting. ‘What she wore when her and Sam were at it, she kept secret.’ Victoria rolled her eyes. ‘It’s a bit of a puzzle, isn’t it? Missing laptops, lots of expensive lingerie. Glad I’m not a cop.’

  Cheeky. Fenchurch held her gaze for a few seconds, then took a long drink of coffee. ‘She ever have any disagreements with anyone?’

  ‘Hannah was good people.’ Victoria bit her bottom lip. ‘You heard what happened with Zachary, yeah?’

  Chapter Seven

  The lift pinged but the doors didn’t open. Fenchurch hammered the button, but they stayed shut.

  Bloody, bloody hell.

  He held it down again, still nothing. ‘Are we bloody stuck?’

  Reed pressed the button for the twentieth floor. There was a thud, then the doors ground open, as though someone was taking a diamond-tooth chainsaw to them. ‘Stairs next time, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Fenchurch stepped out into the atrium. Three corridors led off, the one opposite them marked CHANCELLOR’S OFFICE. ‘Take it you’ve heard of this Thomas Zachary?’

  ‘Abi was moaning about him last time I saw her. This place has gone to the dogs since we were here.’ Reed grimaced as she led down the corridor. ‘How could they vote a scumbag in as Rector?’

  ‘The way Victoria talked about it, it was a choice between him, that bloke off Strictly Come Dancing and some ex-footballer she can’t remember. Zachary won.’

  ‘In my day, the Chancellor would’ve cancelled it. They’re screwing these kids over, guv.’ Reed’s mouth was almost snarling. ‘Nine grand a year and voted for a Nazi as Rector. People respond to tough talk and hate, don’t they?’

  A receptionist straight out of a black-and-white film sat outside the office. Twinset and pearls, hair that would take a good hour of curling every evening. She took one look at Fenchurch and got to her feet. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘DI Fenchurch. I called the Chancellor, he said to come straight up?’

  ‘Mr Uttley’s waiting for you.’ She held open the door and let them pass.

  Rupert Uttley was on his feet before Fenchurch could even get in. His office was near the top of the Jaines Tower, one giant window trained across the South Bank skyline, filling up with newer towers. The Shard was centre stage, almost like Uttley had planned his office around the view. ‘Inspector, good evening. This is Gordon McLaren, Hannah’s Director of Studies.’

  A big man sat in front of the desk, legs crossed. Short hair, jeans and a hooped shirt, almost skintight. Open-toed sandals with painted nails, matching the purple on his fingers. Tasteful make-up, his face creasing as he smiled, stood and offered a hand. A silver band wrapped round his wrist. And a wedding ring. ‘Also her lecturer in English Literature, for my sins.’ Glasgow accent, though with less of a threat of knife crime than most. ‘And yeah, you’ve probably noticed that I’m non-binary.’ Looked like he had that discussion twenty times a day and had decided to get in first.

  Reed remained standing. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Pleasure to meet you, sir.’ Fenchurch shook McLaren’s hand and took the seat next to him. ‘As I suspect Mr Uttley’s mentioned, we’re investigating the murder of Hannah Nunn.’

  Uttley took a sip from a china teacup, bone white and unadorned. Didn’t seem in a hurry to offer any to Fenchurch or Reed. ‘We’ve just been discussing this horrendous, horrendous matter.’

  McLaren’s lips formed a full stop. ‘Hideous.’ He drank from his own cup. ‘I had a catch-up with her scheduled for tomorrow. Such a shame.’

  ‘Were you close?’

  ‘Ish. Hannah was great. Really smart. Could destroy a book in a day. And I’m not talking skimming, she’d pick up on all the subtext and thematic constructs. She was gifted. Such a shame.’

  ‘Inspector.’ Uttley set his teacup down and rested his palms on his desk. Giant oak thing that probably dated back to the university’s founding in the mists of time. ‘What does this pertain to?’

  ‘Thomas Zachary.’

  ‘Ah.’ Uttley circled his lips with his tongue a few times. ‘Our Rector.’

  ‘Why was Hannah Nunn organising protests against him?’

  ‘The Rector is a ceremonial position voted on by the student body.’ Uttley exchanged a look with McLaren, but it wasn’t sympathetic. ‘As part of their tenure, the Rector is allowed to give an optional series of talks. Usually, this isn’t taken up or the topic relates directly to the life of a student. Rent prices, tuition fees, life after college. Mr Zachary was very keen to share his worldview with our students, especially after such a resounding victory in the contest.’

  An open transgender man at the same institution as someone a couple of stops from Fascist Central. That had to open wounds.

  Fenchurch brought McLaren in with a glance. ‘And you’re happy with this?’

  McLaren grimaced, deferring to Uttley without a word.

  ‘Experiencing multiple worldviews will only serve to enrich the education of our students.’ Uttley groaned like he’d done this a million times before. ‘Mr McLaren here isn’t on Mr Zachary’s Christmas-card list, it’s fair to say.’

  ‘Seems nice enough.’ McLaren spoke through a twisted grin. ‘Charming as hell and all that, but Christ, some of the shite he writes . . .’

  ‘This is evidence of the broad school of thought we have at Southwark.’ Uttley’s eyelids fluttered as he spoke. ‘This isn’t some Facebook echo chamber or a lefty commune. I want my students to experience all schools of thought and challenge their own beliefs. It’ll help them contribute to wider society.’

  ‘Mr Uttley, my officers have questioned your students and staff all afternoon and this protest only came up this evening. You could’ve mentioned it when I saw you this morning. You wouldn’t be trying to cover anything up, would you?’

  A flat smile spread over Uttley’s lips. ‘You may wish to divert attention to your own officers’ inadequacies.’ He held Fenchurch’s gaze for a few seconds. ‘There is absolutely no way that Mr Zachary is involved in Hannah’s death, Inspector. Hannah was indeed leading the protests, but they’re the sort you see everywh
ere. Students expressing themselves. Harmless fun.’

  Fenchurch clocked Reed shaking her head.

  ‘When I look back on my time here, Inspector, I’m proud of establishing a university that lets all voices speak.’ Uttley touched the tips of his fingers together, as if he was praying. ‘Our last Rector was Yvette Farley of the London Post, who is at the opposite end of the political spectrum from Mr Zachary. And having both Thomas Zachary and Gordon McLaren at the same institution. Two very difference voices, that can only serve the greater good.’

  ‘Sure?’ Reed’s nostrils flared. ‘Sure it’s not just stoking flames? You saw what happened to Jo Cox. You’ve got to be very careful when you let certain voices speak.’

  ‘Are you accusing me—’

  McLaren silenced the Chancellor with a wave. ‘Rupert, if I may?’ He smiled at Fenchurch. ‘Listen, all of that nonsense . . . Hannah put it behind her, got on with her studies.’

  ‘What nonsense?’

  ‘She organised a mass drop-out because of Zachary.’

  Chapter Eight

  McLaren shuffled along the corridor, his shoes slapping against his feet like he hadn’t tied his laces properly, chatting to Reed.

  Fenchurch followed behind, trying to process it. Zachary, paragon of the alt right, annoying Hannah so much that she arranged protests against his very presence there. Another suspect, possibly. Probably. Had to make sure they didn’t jump to any conclusions with the guy, try to throw him out of the window because of his beliefs before he’d even had a chance to defend himself. Innocent until proven guilty.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong.’ McLaren opened a fire door to an empty corridor, letting out the faint smell of Pot Noodle. He blocked their way. ‘Zachary seems nice enough, aye? Funny. Charming, even. But you have to read some of his bile, man.’

  ‘Not a fan?’

  ‘Hard to be a fan of a man who wants you drowned at birth.’ McLaren held up a finger. ‘His words, before you start. Not even a drop in the ocean of the bile he’s spreading at the university, mind. Very clever man, though. Always careful to toe the line when it comes to hate crimes.’ He blew air up his face then pointed to a door down the corridor. ‘That’s his office there. I try not to get too close to him.’