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

by Ed James

  Dad sat at the end, resting on his elbows. ‘Simon!’ He got up and wrapped his son in a hug. At least three sheets to the wind.

  Fenchurch sat next to Abi and pecked her on the cheek. ‘Nice of you to give me advance warning.’

  ‘Abi’s already ordered for you.’ Dad took a gulp of beer. ‘We couldn’t wait.’

  Jim and Evelyn stared into their full wine glasses, clear of fingerprints. Like they were at a wake, not a slap-up dinner. Jim managed a slight nod.

  ‘Have a taste of that, son.’ Dad passed his glass. ‘Lovely stuff.’

  Fenchurch had a sniff. Smelled like a can of Lilt. ‘Cheers, Dad.’ He took a sip. Tasted like Lilt. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Made by some microbrewery in Hackney. Called “Lilt”, I think.’ Dad shrugged and took another glug. ‘Bert’s been on about this place to me. They serve black pizza.’

  Fenchurch leaned in close. ‘Dad, I’ve told you about the racism.’

  ‘Simon, for crying out loud.’ Dad held out his arms. ‘The dough’s cut with charcoal.’ Then patted his stomach. ‘Helps the digestion.’

  Abi clasped Fenchurch’s hand. ‘I’ve ordered you a steak fajita one.’

  ‘Thanks. I’m starving.’ Fenchurch reached over for the red and splashed some into his glass. The bottle said it was from Shrewsbury. He had a sip. Surprisingly nice. He leaned in to whisper to Abi. ‘What’s up with your parents?’

  ‘It’s a nightmare.’ Then Abi smiled at her mum. ‘Tell Simon what you got up to today.’

  ‘Abigail . . .’ Evelyn glared at her daughter like she was ten years old again.

  ‘Come on, Mum. You came all the way up from Cornwall, so why don’t you tell Simon what you got up to?’

  ‘Abigail, that’s unbecoming.’ Jim reached for his wine and took a gentle sip. ‘Well, if you must know, Simon, this afternoon, we paid a visit to Chloe.’ Another sip, longer this time. ‘She refused to see us.’ He gritted his teeth and rested his arm round his wife’s shoulders. ‘She used to call us Mumpy and Grumpy, do you remember?’

  ‘Of course I do.’ Something stung his eyes. ‘What happened?’

  ‘She wouldn’t see us.’ Jim sipped some wine. ‘Then we tried to have a session with your counsellor. Asked him if he’d be able to help but he flat-out refused.’

  ‘Nothing is helping.’ Evelyn shrugged off her husband’s arm. ‘Nothing. It’s as if she’s still lost.’

  ‘She’s not lost. She’s still in denial.’ He focused on Evelyn, but she stared up at the ceiling. ‘What she needs is time to get used to the new situation.’

  ‘She’s had months.’

  ‘Evelyn, this isn’t a standard thing. She wasn’t handcuffed to a radiator in a damp basement and fed on live crickets while she was pining for us.’ Fenchurch drank an inch of wine. ‘They took care of her.’ His fist tightened around the glass. ‘And they operated on her, erased her memories. Stole her mind after they stole her body.’

  Fenchurch finished his glass. ‘Evelyn, I know you’re only trying to help, but please, please, please, can you stop butting in? We’re working with a professional on this. We’re trying, but we’ve got to accept that Chloe might never remember who any of us are.’

  Fenchurch’s dad finished his pint and spun the glass on the table. ‘While nobody’s interested in my opinion, I think you need to stop meddling.’

  ‘Meddling?’ Jim looked like he might fly out of his chair and thump Dad. ‘Meddling?’

  Dad clicked his fingers, trying to attract a waiter’s attention. ‘You and Evelyn, you’re meddling in this Chloe business. It should be for Simon and Abi to resolve. She’s their daughter and they found her. I tried, for so long I tried, but they’re the ones who actually rescued her.’

  ‘We’re not meddling, Ian.’

  ‘Sorry I used a five-pence word instead of five grand.’ Dad beckoned the waiter towards him. ‘But you need to let the process take shape. That’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘Meddling . . .’ Jim sank the rest of his glass. ‘And we wouldn’t catch you meddling in anything?’

  ‘I’ve kept my distance.’ Dad leaned to whisper to the waiter.

  Fenchurch let him order another beer. ‘What about when it comes to police business, Dad?’

  Dad winked at him. ‘Touché, son. Touché.’

  Another waiter appeared, somehow juggling four pizzas, all of them with black bases. ‘Okay, who ordered The Second Hole?’

  ‘Well, that was fun.’ Fenchurch pulled onto City Road, following the long line of traffic heading north. ‘We really must have your parents to stay more often.’

  ‘Be thankful they’ve checked into a hotel.’ Abi’s phone lit up her face in the darkness. ‘Your dad went a bit overboard on them.’

  ‘Don’t disagree. He had a point, though. This isn’t for them to solve.’

  ‘It was worth seeing if it’d work, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Fenchurch stopped at the lights, the engine catching every so often. ‘I had some . . . bad news today.’

  ‘Docherty?’

  Fenchurch grimaced. ‘That as well.’ He swallowed down some tears. ‘He’s got weeks to live.’

  ‘Jesus.’ She reached over and stroked his cheek. ‘You okay?’

  ‘It’s not really sunk in yet. He’s being strong about it. So strong. And I’m . . . I’m a bloody mess. All the support he’s given me over the years. You know what he’s been like. He helped me when we lost Chloe and we . . . Well. He was there for me.’

  ‘Poor guy.’ Abi pecked him on the cheek. ‘What was the other bad news?’

  ‘Shit, yeah.’ Fenchurch set off again, but he had to blink away fresh tears as he drove. ‘Someone sent me a link to a video file.’ He bit his lip, tore off a chunk of flesh. ‘It was Chloe, doing . . . an audition for a website. Stripping.’

  Abi’s mouth hung open. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘She ran out before . . . before anything happened, but yeah. I can’t believe she’s been reduced to that, to make ends meet.’

  ‘You know Kay did that at uni, don’t you?’

  ‘She told me.’ Fenchurch’s nostrils flared. ‘We’re failing Chloe.’ He turned onto Upper Street. ‘I’d give anything to have stopped this shit all those years ago. To not let her play on the bloody street. Even though we’ve found her, have we really made this any better?’

  ‘Of course we have. She’s got the truth. We’ve got some closure.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Fenchurch pulled up outside their flat and killed the engine. Didn’t sound healthy as it died. ‘This case I’m working . . . I’m already worried out of my skull about her, about someone getting into her room. But the victim, Hannah, she did shows on the site Chloe auditioned for. It’s possible she was murdered by one of the men who watched her.’

  ‘This bloody world, Simon. I swear.’ Abi let her seat belt go and massaged her belly. ‘Who’s to say she’s not on another site somewhere?’

  A chill ran up his spine. ‘She told me she’s working at Tesco to pay her way.’

  ‘You spoke to her?’

  ‘I saw her at the university. It just came out.’

  ‘Simon, do you think that sort of shit is helping?’

  ‘Come on. Someone sends me a video of her . . .’ Fenchurch’s throat tightened up. ‘Of her . . . And I’m not supposed to chase it down?’

  ‘Was finding her a mistake?’

  ‘Never say that, love.’ Fenchurch grabbed her hand and squeezed. ‘Never. Okay?’

  She nodded. ‘Okay.’

  Day 3

  Wednesday, 16th November 2016

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Daddy, you ate my last sweetie!’ Chloe threw the bag on the ground and mashed her foot into his shoe. ‘Buy me more!’

  ‘You ate the whole packet.’ Fenchurch bent down to pick it up. ‘And you don’t throw things away, okay?’

  ‘You do it.’

  Fenchurch leaned back on the bench and tried to soak in the sun. ‘If you
pick it up, you might get some more.’

  Rather be working than dealing with this strop.

  No. Don’t say that. Never say that. Never even think it. In three weeks, someone will take her from you. You’d do anything to have this again. To have her with you as she grows up.

  Chloe got up from her seat and started skipping around, muttering to herself. Took a few seconds for Fenchurch to tune in. ‘My daddy is a bad, bad man. My daddy catches bad, bad men. My daddy is the best daddy. My daddy steals my sweets.’ She skipped off to the side, round the bench. ‘My daddy is a bad, bad man.’

  Remember this. Focus on it. Stay with it. This keeps you going. Stops all the bad shit staying in your head.

  Then fingers coiled round his neck, ran down to his shirt. ‘My daddy is very, very bad.’ An adult voice, purring in his ear.

  Fenchurch stood up, spinning around.

  Chloe stood there, as an adult, wearing the tight top and short skirt from her audition, swaying her hips. Lifting up her top, running her fingers across her stomach. ‘My daddy is a very, very bad man.’

  ‘Stop it.’

  ‘Do you want me to check your balls for you? I can get rid of your cancer when you burn to black coal.’ Chloe vaulted onto the bench and started strutting around, her heels sparking off the painted metal. ‘I’ve got bad daddy issues and you’re my daddy.’ She jumped onto him, trying to stick her tongue—

  ‘Stop it!’ Fenchurch lurched up. ‘Stop!’

  Fenchurch sat up, drenched in sweat. He was in the bedroom. Of their flat. It was November 2016. Chloe was alive and . . .

  Jesus.

  ‘What’s up?’ Abi was lying on her side, stroking her belly. Staring straight at him.

  ‘Nothing.’ Fenchurch lay down. His pillow was soaked through. ‘Go back to sleep, love.’

  ‘I can’t. James has been kicking all night.’

  Fenchurch managed a chuckle. ‘We’re not calling him James.’

  ‘Was it another dream about Chloe?’

  ‘One of those memory ones.’ Fenchurch hauled off his T-shirt and dabbed at his forehead. ‘She was doing a strip, like on that video. I shouldn’t have watched it.’

  ‘You watched it?’

  ‘I didn’t know what it was. Jesus Christ. What’s wrong with me?’

  ‘The trauma of losing your daughter, then finding her, only for her to disown you?’

  Fenchurch pushed himself up out of bed. ‘You want any tea?’

  ‘I’ve stopped drinking it. Making me feel terrible.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Eh, about four weeks?’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Fenchurch padded through to the bathroom and switched the shower on. Got a good look of a seedy old man in the mirror, his hair lank and greasy like a true sex case. What a bloody idiot.

  He stripped off and had a good feel of his balls. Was that a lump? That bit on the top. Was it?

  ‘What the hell are you up to?’ Abi stood in the doorway, staring at his nether regions.

  Fenchurch blushed. ‘Checking myself for, you know.’ He let go. ‘Docherty told me he had a lump for about a year. Now it’s going to kill him.’

  ‘I can help.’ She brushed her belly up against him, fingers scanning all over his balls, reaching for his cock.

  Fenchurch pulled back. ‘Abi, sorry.’

  ‘What?’ She probed his balls to the point of pain, her nails digging into his scrotum. ‘The midwife said it’s good for him.’

  ‘The dream . . . It’s . . . Can we do this tonight?’

  ‘Fine.’ Clearly wasn’t.

  ‘Our focus today is collating evidence against Oliver Keane, who remains our prime suspect.’ Fenchurch stared around the Incident Room, concentrating on Nelson. Gritting his teeth, giving a slight shake of the head. ‘DS Nelson has a list of actions, please consult with him.’

  A list of actions DI Mulholland left overnight in his bloody inbox. Emailed. A note left on his desk.

  Nelson’s phone rang and he checked the display. Seemed to miss Fenchurch’s glare too. He held up a finger as he left the Incident Room, already talking by the time he was at the door.

  Loftus pushed through behind him, dressed in full uniform. He mouthed, ‘Carry on.’

  Fenchurch pointed at a photo on the whiteboard, the first in the long rogues’ gallery they were collecting. ‘Sam Edwards is still a person of interest, mainly for continually lying to us. As it stands, we have no specific motive for Hannah’s death, but I want his statement to be torn apart and see what’s left. If he’s innocent, fine.’ He tapped at the next photo along. ‘I also want us to keep tabs on Thomas Zachary. Hannah was organising protests against his presence at the university and I want to eliminate any possible involvement from him.’ Then the last photo. ‘And finally, we still haven’t located Graham Pickersgill. He was stalking Hannah back in her home town before they went to university, then her old laptop turned up in the repair shop he works in. We need to get him on the record and eliminate him.’ He smiled at Loftus. ‘Sir, anything to add?’

  ‘Thanks, Simon.’ Loftus marched over to the front of the room and leaned back against a desk. ‘Can I just echo what DI Fenchurch has said? Oliver Keane is our lead suspect in this case. It appears that he had acquired a laptop from Hannah’s bedroom on the night of her murder. Not long after, well, I’ll not bore you.’ He flashed a grin at Fenchurch. ‘Now, it pains me that Mr Keane unfortunately died during the raid on his home yesterday. I shall be working with the IPCC. Zenna Abercrombie is the lead investigator and those of you who were present should extend as much of your time as required.’ He gave Fenchurch a nod.

  ‘Okay, that’s all for today. Thanks for your efforts so far.’ As the room exploded with noise, Fenchurch picked up his tea mug and drank. ‘You dealt with Abercrombie before, sir?’

  ‘Couple of times now.’ Loftus pursed his lips. Clearly the experience hadn’t been a good one. ‘The most recent you know all about, of course, but DI Winter in South London got himself into a spot of bother a couple of years back.’

  ‘I know Rod.’

  ‘Yes, well, you’re peas in a pod, aren’t you?’

  Fenchurch let it go, but not without a glare. ‘When is she starting interviews?’

  ‘Their initial focus is on the Terms of Reference. Things were a tad rushed last time around and we’ve agreed to nail that down beforehand. Then they’ll interview the Firearms Trained Officers first. I expect you’ll be the tail end of next week. But that depends on whether SO15 are deemed higher priority. It was their operation, after all.’ He folded his arms. ‘So, that will give you enough of a chance to concoct a story with DS Reed.’

  ‘Sir, we’ve nothing to hide here. It was one of Grove’s officers who shot Keane.’

  ‘Then it’s all gravy, Simon.’ Loftus doffed his imaginary cap and sauntered off out of the Incident Room.

  Fenchurch finished his tea. Cheeky bastard. Poor old Docherty having to cope with that clown all the time. Shitting on his head every day, preventing the proper coppers doing their jobs.

  Nelson waltzed back in, grinning wide, and patted Fenchurch on the arm, like they were mates again. ‘Guv, can I get you a coffee?’

  ‘Not now, Jon.’

  ‘Fine.’ Nelson put his hands behind his head. ‘I’m still not happy about going to that vigil last night.’

  ‘Did you get anything?’

  ‘Was I expected to?’

  ‘I’ll take that as a no.’

  ‘It’s a no.’

  ‘Okay, Jon, I’ll let you get on with the actions.’

  ‘Listen, guv.’ Nelson held up his mobile. ‘That was the front desk downstairs. He’s got Sam Edwards in. Someone’s stolen his laptop.’

  Fenchurch groaned. ‘Tell me it’s not a MacBook Pro . . .’

  ‘Wish I could.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Fenchurch paced down the corridor towards the interview room. ‘Jon, if someone’s nicking these MacBooks, tell me it doesn�
�t look like Younis is covering something?’

  ‘Looks that way.’ Nelson rounded the corner first and stopped, frowning. ‘Kay?’

  Reed was outside the Obs Suite. She glanced at Nelson. ‘Guv, Sam Edwards told us—’

  ‘—his laptop’s missing. I know.’ Fenchurch felt a sigh beat its way out of his lungs. ‘We’re going to speak to him. Why are you here?’

  Reed pointed at the door. ‘Mulholland and Loftus are in there.’

  ‘Thought they were focusing on Keane?’

  ‘They got wind of this, guv. She asked me to lead the interview.’

  Fenchurch stared at the door, trying to decide what to do. Burst in on the interview or play the political game. Sam Edwards or Julian Loftus. He opened the door and entered.

  Loftus sat in front of the giant monitor. Mulholland loomed over him, like she was eating his soul. She glanced over at Fenchurch and frowned. Then stared back at the screen. Fenchurch’s presence wasn’t worthy of anything more.

  On the screen, Sam Edwards sat across from one of Mulholland’s DCs, a young male officer. He frowned at Reed as she sat opposite. ‘Have you found it?’

  Reed glanced at the camera. ‘We’ve only just discovered that it was missing. When did you notice it was gone?’

  Sam scratched at his neck. ‘I only noticed when I got home from the hospital. I was going to report it, but it was late. So I’m here now.’

  Reed sat back and folded her arms. ‘The truth about Oliver Keane would be a start.’

  ‘Oliver Keane?’ Sam stared at Reed for a few seconds, then shrugged. ‘He was making a nuisance of himself with Hannah. I had to sort him out, yeah?’

  Reed leaned across the table. ‘You told us Hannah wouldn’t let you.’

  ‘I didn’t let it stop me.’ Sam ran a hand over his scalp. ‘Okay. I visited him and threatened him. Asking her for sex wasn’t appropriate. Told him to stop it.’

  Bridge opened her laptop and frowned at something. ‘But she didn’t stop it, correct?’

  ‘She kept emailing him.’ Sam ran a hand across his shaved head. ‘She . . . she had to. Made a lot of cash out of him. It’s a tough gig, you know? You’ve got to tread the line between keeping them keen and pissing them off. His spend was at least half of her income.’