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

by Ed James

  ‘Thanks.’ Reed smiled and let McLaren go, waiting until he was out of earshot. ‘Can’t imagine he had a fun childhood in Glasgow.’

  ‘Does anyone?’ Fenchurch marched down the corridor and rapped on the door. ‘Mulholland was reading Zachary’s book.’

  ‘That’s an escalation from the Mail, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not sure. Worried I’m prejudging him, Kay.’

  ‘Isn’t that what his type are all about, guv? Prejudice?’

  The door slid open and a guard lumbered out, more muscle than bone. Black suit, shades, earpiece. ‘Can I help you guys?’ Seemed to be capable of speech. Sounded like he was from Wolverhampton via Chicago.

  Fenchurch flipped out his warrant card and held it between them, like dangling bait above fish. ‘Need to speak to Thomas Zachary.’

  ‘You’ve found him.’ The man inside the room was frowning at them. Silver hair, mid-forties at a guess. Dark-brown suit, crisp white shirt and a bright-purple tie a few shades lighter than his black eye, despite the make-up covering it. A soft American accent, high-pitched but deep and resonating at the same time, like a musical instrument.

  Reed grinned at Fenchurch; shiner aside, she clearly thought Zachary was a dead ringer for Fenchurch, didn’t she? Then she caught herself and showed her own warrant card. ‘DS Kay Reed. DI Simon Fenchurch. Need to ask a few questions, sir.’

  ‘Brad, can you give us a few minutes?’ Zachary waved his security off and held out a paw for Fenchurch to shake. Yellowing bruises circled his wrist. ‘Please, come in.’

  The security guard twitched, then he let them through.

  Zachary’s gaze followed him out. ‘He’s solid. Ex-marine, as they all are. Loyal and almost cheap. I had to hire Brad after someone in the street gave me this.’ He gently patted his shiner. ‘Some people think free speech extends to violence.’

  ‘Our laws are more about what you can’t say than what you can, sir.’

  Zachary appraised him for a few seconds then stood aside. ‘Come in.’

  The office was on the small side, but immaculate. Oak panelling, thick curtains. A projector filled the far wall, showing a photo of Donald Trump shaking hands with Zachary, both of them grinning, the word INSTRUMENTAL overlaid across. The background was filled with MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN placards, fewer of TRUMP / PENCE.

  ‘Sorry about this. Just putting the final touches to my lecture tomorrow night.’ Zachary sat behind his desk and hit a few keys on his laptop. ‘Word to the wise: if you’re giving a public speech, don’t memorise a long screed. Have a series of images you can talk to. People engage better and you get less nervous.’

  Fenchurch waved at Donald Trump’s gurning face on the wall. ‘You know him?’

  ‘We’re close friends.’ Zachary beamed. ‘I was, uh, kinda instrumental in his victory.’ He rubbed at the dark rings under his eyes. ‘Slept maybe twelve hours in the last two weeks.’ He slammed the laptop’s lid. ‘Still, the world marches on and I’ll get my reward in heaven.’ The way he smiled, you could see he believed it.

  ‘We need a word about a student.’

  Zachary drummed his fingers on the laptop lid, nodding. ‘Hannah Nunn?’ He rubbed at his eyes again. ‘I heard what happened. Tragedy.’

  ‘You knew her?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘She’d organised protests against you, right?’

  ‘You think The Donald knows all the ants planning marches?’ Zachary grinned wide. ‘He might know the people paying them to march.’

  ‘But you were aware of the protests?’

  ‘Listen, all I heard was that some girl was trying to shut me up and prevent my free speech.’ Zachary drummed his fingernails on the laptop lid again. ‘In five years, all these protestors will be married housewives or in plum City jobs.’

  Fenchurch held his stare for a few seconds. ‘Hannah won’t.’

  Zachary raised his hands. ‘God, I’m sorry. I don’t mean that.’ He swallowed, still grinning, but you could see the cogs whirring behind his eyes. ‘Liberalism is transitory. They’ll stop caring about whether freaks use the wrong bathrooms when those same freaks start raping their children.’

  ‘That’s quite close to hate speech.’

  ‘I’m not discussing their religion or sexual orientation, sir. I’m not causing them distress, I’m trying to stop those perverts raping children.’ Zachary’s gaze switched to the door. ‘We have one here, dude called Gordon McLaren. Got a lot of time for him. I love that dry sense of humour Scottish guys have. So ironic.’ His expression darkened, his nostrils flaring. ‘But he’s not normal.’

  ‘Should be drowned at birth, yeah? That’s what you said, wasn’t it?’

  ‘You’re misquoting me. I said that in less enlightened times, he would’ve been. I don’t want these people to die, I just wish they’d stop holding out the begging bowl and expecting to be treated as better than straight white men.’

  Zachary’s sort had a defence or justification for everything. Don’t get involved. ‘I gather Hannah Nunn threatened to drop out because of you.’

  ‘Listen.’ Zachary tried a smile a couple of times, then replaced it with a scowl. ‘It’s her free choice to protest and get her voice heard. But I was voted in by the student body here. If some little girl hates me, whatever. It’s democracy, first past the post wins. Everyone else is a loser. I’m here to share my experience with the students and spend some time working on my next book.’

  ‘She threatened to leave the university because of you. Giving up her career and future on a point of principle.’

  ‘And it was an empty threat.’ Zachary rubbed at his eyes again. ‘Hannah sent Rupert Uttley an email with a list of three hundred or so students who would drop out if I didn’t leave. I met her, very briefly, right before I flew back to the States in early October. I wanted to make sure she wasn’t being rash. Hannah said she was dropping out. She wasn’t a fan of my work, didn’t want my voice heard.’ He scratched at his chin. ‘In the end, the Chancellor made a few calls to some concerned parents. The next day, ten of them pulled out. Then twenty. Pretty soon the whole thing crumbled. What they’re doing is censorship, my friend. They’re denying me a platform. Denying my rights.’

  ‘And that was the only time you spoke to her?’

  ‘Right before I left for Don’s final push.’

  ‘You didn’t visit her room last night?’

  ‘Of course not. I’ve nothing to hide here. Listen, when I met her, she brought a friend along. Why don’t you speak to her?’

  Fenchurch stomped down the corridor so hard he thought he might dislodge a floorboard. Or his knee. Some students ran out of his way, eyes wide like sheep at the side of the road. He swung round the corner and opened the kitchen door. A few DCs were using it as an interview room.

  Victoria Summerton was sitting opposite a male DC, wearing the same clothes as in the gym café. Her hair had settled into some tight curls, tamed by a ponytail. ‘Are we done?’

  Fenchurch caught the male DC’s gaze. Poor guy had fallen in love with her. ‘We need a word with Ms Summerton, so . . .’

  ‘I need to go.’ Victoria got to her feet. ‘I’m meeting a friend.’

  ‘Your friend can wait.’ Fenchurch shot her a dark glare. ‘Just a couple of minutes, that’s all.’

  Victoria folded toned arms across her chest. ‘I really need to go.’

  ‘You told us about Thomas Zachary.’ Fenchurch smiled at her. ‘But you didn’t tell us Hannah had threatened to quit over him.’

  Victoria settled back down. The DC wasn’t going anywhere. She muttered to herself, then let out a sigh. ‘We tried to get rid of him. We failed. He’s still here. We lost.’

  Fenchurch couldn’t argue. ‘Mr Zachary told us he met Hannah to persuade her to not quit. You were there too, weren’t you?’

  Victoria rubbed her face, smudging her make-up. ‘We met in the union for a coffee. He wanted to talk about the protest, about us all quitting. It’d all fallen apa
rt by then but Hannah was still threatening to quit.’

  ‘Did her parents know?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Victoria undid her scrunchie and dropped it on the table. ‘Zachary wanted to see if he could come to an agreement, keep her at the university.’

  ‘Did anything happen during this meeting?’

  ‘I was with them the whole time, nothing bad happened.’ Victoria stretched out the scrunchie. ‘He listened to us. Hannah was practically screaming at him at one point. Everyone was staring at us.’ She tossed the scrunchie back on the table. ‘But the thing was, he was actually concerned about her future. He sat there and just took it from her. He was very patient. Then he won her round by listening to her. Most of them here just try and shut you up. But Zachary wanted to hear what she had to say. In the end, she promised that she wouldn’t drop out.’

  ‘So why the new protests?’

  She nibbled her lip, in a completely different way than earlier, worry biting this time. ‘When he left for the States, Hannah got really pissed off with him. Saw who he was with in the States. Made her feel like he’d played her so he could look good with the Chancellor. That he didn’t care about her feelings. So she arranged those protests for when he came back.’ Her hands formed fists. ‘Christ, if you read about him, he thinks he single-handedly got Trump elected. Sickening.’

  ‘How far did these protests get?’

  ‘Hannah had one arranged for this week. Might be Wednesday. Can’t remember.’

  ‘Any press or anything like that?’

  ‘Not that I know of. Sorry. There’s like a Facebook group, but it’s private.’ Victoria checked her watch. ‘I’ve really got to go. Sorry.’

  Fenchurch studied her for a few seconds, trying to figure out if she was hiding anything. In the end, he just shrugged. ‘Fine.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Victoria snatched her scrunchie and her sweating gym bag, then stormed off.

  Fenchurch waited for the door to shut. ‘Think there’s any more in it, Kay?’

  ‘Could be something, could be nothing.’ Reed was fiddling with her own hair. ‘But I don’t think we should let Zachary out of our sight . . .’

  Fenchurch got out his phone and googled ‘Thomas Zachary London’. The first six hits were London Post articles, all with the same byline. ‘Here we go.’ He found the number and hit dial, walking off. ‘Liam, I need a word.’

  Even on a cold November night, suits lurked outside the Barrowboy and Banker, gulping pints of real ale and sipping Peroni. Sucking on cigarettes, red faces glowing as the buses and taxis trundled past.

  Fenchurch walked in and hit a wall of sweaty warmth. Central heating cranked up too high. The place was busy, filled with a good chunk of the South Bank’s post-work crowd. An oak-panelled bar downstairs, curved but not quite a horseshoe.

  Liam Sharpe sat under a marble staircase leading up to a mezzanine, his fingers cradling an IPA glass half-full of fizzing amber liquid. Flicking through his own newspaper, probably looking for his own byline. Kid had come a long way in the short time since Fenchurch first met him, his girlfriend the victim of knife crime, a slaying that Fenchurch witnessed. But his feature on Chloe had forced the insects out from under their rock. He looked up and grinned. ‘Simon!’ He clamped a hand round Fenchurch’s and patted his back. He’d shrunk in the wash since the last time Fenchurch saw him. His hipster beard was trimmed down to designer stubble, his thinning locks military-short. Thick glasses, like giant goldfish bowls. ‘Can I get you a beer?’

  ‘I’m good for now, Liam.’ Fenchurch took the seat opposite and wished he’d gone for a nice ale. The bar had Bristolian and Suffolk pumps, along with the ever-present Doom Bar, the Cornish ale stocked everywhere in London. He leaned forward and immediately soaked his elbow in stale beer. ‘So, Thomas Zachary.’

  ‘There this much foreplay with Mrs Fenchurch?’ Liam sat back, beaming, and folded his arms. He took a sip of beer, his eyes glinting in the light. ‘How’s Chloe?’

  Fenchurch wanted to drown himself in Liam’s pint. His mouth was as dry as the sands around Dungeness. ‘She’s still not speaking to us.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that.’

  ‘I appreciate everything you did for us.’

  Another sip and a doffed imaginary cap. ‘All part of the service.’

  ‘It helped flush those scumbags out into the open.’

  Liam sank half of the remaining beer in one go. ‘I heard Zachary got assaulted last night, battered good and proper.’

  ‘Why wasn’t that in the paper?’

  ‘No police report, either.’ Liam rasped his fingers over his stubble. ‘He’s a nasty bastard, but it didn’t stop the Post giving him a monthly column. Bloody clickbait for the far right. I mean, I’m not sure what’s worse, the content of it or the fact it’s called “A New York Man in England”. I mean, who names anything after a Sting song? I mean, Sting.’

  ‘Liam, the first two and a half Police records are good.’

  ‘I know.’ Liam adjusted his glasses. ‘But this is solo stuff.’

  Fenchurch leaned back in the chair, almost toppling over. ‘So, have you got any juice on him?’

  ‘I’ve met him a few times. He came to some editorial meetings, didn’t need to be there, but he was. Some of the . . . positions he was taking were . . .’ Liam sighed. ‘I hope that he’s the killer you’re looking for and that you lock him up.’

  ‘I didn’t mention anything about killers.’

  ‘Fenchurch . . .’ Liam finished the beer and grinned. ‘You never speak to me unless it’s about killing.’

  ‘I’m interested in him.’

  Liam frowned. ‘This isn’t because Chloe’s at Southwark, is it?’

  ‘It isn’t. It’s about a case.’

  ‘The girl’s murder this morning?’

  ‘Surprised they’ve not got you on that story.’

  ‘I’ve got bigger fish to fry, I’m afraid.’ Liam shrugged. ‘Well, different fish.’

  ‘So, tell me about him.’

  ‘Nasty bastard. When I heard he had a column, the first thing I did after getting Yvette’s PA to delete my resignation from her inbox was to investigate the guy. Know your enemy. Fight fire with fire.’

  ‘Did you find anything?’

  ‘Have you seen his website?’

  ‘RightFacts.’ Fenchurch nodded slowly. ‘Abi’s uncle shared a load of it on Facebook when Donald Trump got elected. She wasn’t happy. I’ve seen his book. You really think this guy’s a Nazi?’

  ‘The sort of people who read RightFacts, all they want is to wind the clock back to the thirties and be in Germany. Ironically, that book got prosecuted for hate speech in Germany. I’m writing a profile on him, but they don’t want to publish it while he works for the paper.’

  ‘You found anything interesting?’

  ‘His criminal record in the States is.’ Liam fiddled with his smartphone, the backlight making his face glow. ‘He was at Rutgers University in New Jersey in the nineties. I found a police report online.’ He held the screen round to show a news story, a young Zachary grinning at the camera, wasted like a movie star in career meltdown. ‘He beat the shit out of a gay man. Hospitalised him, knocked out six teeth, broke both arms. Got community service. Picking up rubbish at the side of the road.’

  ‘You’re serious?’

  ‘This is America, my friend. So long as you’re not black, female or gay, everything is open to you.’ Liam gritted his teeth. ‘Worse still. In 2002, his blog outed a chat show host as transgender. Ended his career. Guy killed himself.’ He flashed up his mobile. ‘And he’s spent the last two years campaigning against transgender rights in America. You’ve heard of the bathroom ban?’

  ‘Stopping transgender women using a female toilet.’

  ‘Total bullshit. Painting these girls as sexual predators. “Oh, think of the children.” But these aren’t the sort of people you need to worry about, are they? In actual fact, in the vast majority of cases, they’re the target
of abuse and violence. By Zachary’s people. He’s a nice suit and perfect teeth. The real animals are the knuckle-dragging mouth-breathers who read his bile. Assuming they can actually read. More likely watch his YouTube channel.’

  ‘Okay, Liam, that’s—’ Fenchurch’s mobile throbbed in his pocket. Nelson. He stuck it to his ear. ‘What’s up, Jon?’

  ‘Guv, we’ve got a lead on Graham Pickersgill.’

  Chapter Nine

  Fenchurch drove along the narrow street, a miserable corner of Southwark lined with a lot fewer trees than it had fifteen years ago. Nelson was lurking on the other side of the traffic lights, puffing on his vape stick. Fenchurch pulled in opposite the shop and sidled over.

  ‘Guv.’ Nelson nodded as he took one last toot. The fog misted out of his nostrils, a slow cloud building. He gestured around the street. Pizza restaurants, letting agents and boutique hotels. ‘I remember when this was all needle dens.’

  ‘Yeah, about five minutes ago.’ Fenchurch peered down the side street, one of those ancient London avenues that had lost whatever it was winding round, now all new flat developments with more glass than brick. And roof gardens. ‘So, where is he, Jon?’

  ‘This way.’ Nelson set off towards a pale-blue railway bridge, just tall enough for the queue of buses to squeeze under. GO FIX YOURSELF beneath a tick mark, an almost complete rip-off of the Nike logo, screamed out of a hoarding.

  The place had that new-computer smell, probably canned and sprayed every morning. Second-hand laptops rested in display cases, covered in stickers. Two high-powered gaming rigs stood either side of the door, glowing and throbbing, the 3D shooter looking more real than reality.

  The man behind the counter patted his turban, as though he could smell Old Bill. ‘Can I help you, officers?’

  Nelson showed his warrant card. ‘You the owner?’

  ‘Myself and my brother, yes. How can I help?’

  ‘Looking for a Graham Pickersgill.’