What Doesn't Kill You (A DI Fenchurch novel Book 3)

by Ed James

  ALSO BY ED JAMES

  DI FENCHURCH SERIES

  The Hope that Kills

  Worth Killing For

  DC SCOTT CULLEN CRIME SERIES

  Ghost in the Machine

  Devil in the Detail

  Fire in the Blood

  Dyed in the Wool

  Bottleneck

  Windchill

  Cowboys and Indians

  DS DODDS CRIME SERIES

  Snared

  CRAIG HUNTER CRIME SERIES

  Missing

  Hunted

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2017 Ed James

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503942325

  ISBN-10: 1503942325

  Cover design by @blacksheep-uk.com

  For Jon

  Contents

  Day 1 Night Shift

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Day 2 Back Shift

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Day 3 Day Shift

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Day 4 Day Shift

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Day 1

  Night Shift

  Thursday, 9th June 2016

  Chapter One

  DI Simon Fenchurch stepped out of his Mondeo onto the pavement, stretching out with one of those yawns that threatened to never end. Bishopsgate milled around him. Some suits carried giant coffees back to their City trader desks like ants returning to the colony, fuel for a busy Thursday evening. The yawn decided it’d had enough and Fenchurch nudged his car door shut with a thunk. ‘I need my bed. These night shifts are killing me.’

  ‘You’re not the only one.’ DS Kay Reed joined him outside the Bishopsgate Institute’s front door, her own yawn twisting her cheeks. She covered her mouth and swept back her new haircut, a bob she couldn’t yank into a ponytail. The deep red was bleeding white at the roots, not that Fenchurch could talk. She let her jacket hang loose. ‘Wish I was in the garden on a night like this, guv.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’ Fenchurch hauled open the scarred oak door and entered the cool building, silent as an old cathedral. ‘Much better in here.’ Another set of doors led into the auditorium, while a corridor meandered off to the side street. No sign of—

  ‘Evening.’ DI Steve Clarke was just round the kink in the hallway. He raised his watch, chunky and with enough gold to refinance the RBS office across the road. His spray tan had shifted to a real one, no doubt picked up in Cannes or Nice, maybe even on someone’s yacht off Monaco. His tailored suit was film-star tight, not the sort you’d want when chasing an idiot down a train line.

  Bloody City cops . . .

  Clarke did up the top button of his jacket. ‘There’s a green room upstairs but it’s a somewhat unsecure location, so we’re through in the café.’ He thumbed behind him and set off. ‘Thanks for lending a hand, by the way.’

  Not that we had a choice . . .

  Fenchurch followed him, giving Reed a flash of the eyebrows.

  Halfway down the corridor, a hatchet-faced woman in uniform stormed towards them, flanked by two similarly armoured beefcakes. ‘DI Clarke, it’s a complete disaster outside.’ She gave Fenchurch a frown and Reed a friendly smile.

  Michelle Grove, something like that. DS in CO11, Public Order Operational Command. Riot Squad. She waved her arms wide. ‘You’ve got two hundred angry cabbies spoiling for a fight out there.’

  Clarke stepped to the side and grabbed her bulky forearm, puffing out his cheeks. ‘You’re here under my remit, okay? I don’t care that you’re Met and this is City ground, you’re doing what I tell you.’

  Grove clicked her fingers and waved her two officers off. ‘The last time they did something like this, they got inside City Hall. We’re heavily understaffed.’

  ‘Well, your job is to make sure they don’t get in here.’ Clarke adjusted his cufflinks, big gold pound-signs shining in the spotlights. ‘Now, Sergeant, I suggest you get out there and sort it out.’

  Grove shot him a full-on police-officer glare, then smiled at Reed. ‘Kay, good luck dealing with this.’ She strode off down the corridor.

  Clarke let out a breath, his tan whitening a couple of shades. ‘If people just did their jobs . . .’ He plastered a smile on his face and set off again.

  Fenchurch followed the coffee smell like a thread through a labyrinth. He held the café door for Reed, yawning into his free hand.

  Clarke stood just inside the almost empty café, his uniformed colleagues acting more like they were policing a World Cup final than an amiable panel discussion. Riot gear, sharp movements, helmets drawn, clutching shields and sticks.

  Reed nodded at them. ‘You really should go on the firearms training course, guv.’

  ‘Me with a gun? Stroll on . . .’ Fenchurch let her go first. Baking hot in here . . . Pockets of sweat formed on his shirt.

  Should’ve been full of post-work diners, but it was empty, just a small squad of armed cops sipping at espressos, their Heckler & Koch carbines hanging from their padded shoulders. Bitter coffee smells lingered in the air, softened by the fruity tang of cakes heating in a fake Victorian oven set into the far wall. Shards of light blazed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, flickering as suits of both genders passed. Behind the throng, a scrum of protestors propped themselves against the full row of Boris bikes, the red hire bicycles glowing in the evening sunshine. Should really be called Khan cycles now.

  Most of the protestors were fatherly cabbies — red faces, white hair, faded denim jeans, a rainbow of polo shirts. Over by the RBS office, some old-school skinheads, English Defence League types by the look of things, were eyeing up the next-door Pizza Express’s windows, their hands hidden from sight. A wave cut into
the protestors from the Bishopsgate end, the jeering muted by the glass.

  ‘Here we go.’ Clarke charged forward, gesturing with his fingers at an armed cop guarding the side entrance.

  A dark-grey Bentley pulled up by the kerb, Batmobile-like, drawing the crowd towards it as much as the paint job sucked in the sunlight. Four officers surrounded the vehicle, pushing back the howling protestors.

  Fenchurch waved a hand at the scene. ‘And to think he’s on their side . . .’

  ‘Nobody’s on anybody’s side these days.’ Clarke opened the door and let his officers part the angry sea. Two armed cops hurried in a group of men as the Bentley crawled off.

  Clarke locked the door and left the officers guarding it. ‘DI Fenchurch, DS Reed, I’d like you to meet Lord Gilbert Ingham.’ He patted one of the men on the back.

  Ingham’s port-coloured cheeks were cut with red Stilton veins. His tweeds were more suited for a countryside shooting weekend than an in-depth discussion of the technological disruption of the taxi business. He was smiling at them, the sort of shit-eating grin that screamed, ‘Don’t you know who I am?’ He gave Clarke a dark look. ‘And these are?’

  ‘Colleagues from the Met, sir.’ Clarke beamed at Fenchurch and Reed like they were his kids at sports day. ‘They’re here in an advisory capacity as they have more experience with public security. I’m sure you’ll have experienced that during your time in office?’

  Ingham flashed another of those grins, cheeky and knowing. ‘Well, Margaret caused a bit of a stir back in the day.’

  ‘I imagine she did.’ Clarke barked out a laugh, then led them back through the café, his officers’ guns pointing at the floor as they walked. ‘They’re just about ready for us through here, sir.’

  Fenchurch rested against the auditorium’s cold side wall. The room lights were low, making their job that bit more difficult. Can’t see a thing in there.

  On the stage, the three figures were cast in a white-hot glow.

  Yvette Farley, the London Post’s Managing Editor, sat in the middle, wearing a sort of pink trouser suit a flamingo would be proud of. ‘Joining me this evening are two figures who should need no introduction, but I shall give one anyway.’ She waved a hand at Ingham. ‘Our first guest served in successive Conservative cabinets, first under Baroness Thatcher as Under Secretary of State for Social Security in 1989, then as Secretary of State for Trade and Industry under John Major until 1997. Lord Gilbert Ingham of Poundbury.’

  Applause cannoned round the room.

  Ingham sat on the left of the stage, looking like he’d escaped from Toad Hall, his frog tongue slurping all over his lips as he waited for the clapping to die down. ‘I was a mere slip of a lad under Margaret.’ He held up a hand. ‘And we don’t like to talk about 1997.’ His laugh failed to set off any more echoes round the room.

  ‘Quite.’ Yvette smiled, more than a hint of politeness in it. ‘And we’re also joined by Mr John Q. Gomez, the CEO of Travis Cars, Inc.’ She beamed at Gomez like she wanted to take him home with her. ‘Our audience are probably more familiar with your competitors, so do you wish to give them an overview of your company?’

  ‘Sure.’ Gomez got up from his seat and paced around the deep stage, his black jeans and crisp white shirt barely moving. He stopped in front of Yvette, obscuring Fenchurch’s view of Ingham. ‘Gimme a show of hands. Who here’s heard of Travis?’

  Most of the audience raised their arms.

  Fenchurch scanned through, still couldn’t find anything like a threat. The worst of them would be outside, leaving the talk to City fund managers and the like.

  Gomez raised his own hand. ‘Okay, so some of you know all about us.’ He grinned to himself, then steepled his fingers, creasing his forehead. ‘We started Travis in San Diego just two years ago. Feels a lot longer, I can assure you.’

  Laughter rippled through the crowd, though it didn’t quite reach Ingham’s lips.

  ‘Our competitors do things their way.’ Gomez chopped his left hand at an imaginary sparring partner. ‘They disrupt.’ Another chop. ‘We set up our business to work with drivers.’ He pulled his hands in from out wide to form a tight ball in front of his chest. ‘Our mission statement is to enable established and trusted taxi companies to harness new technology. We’re creating a platform so you guys can do your jobs. We want to support existing infrastructure and make it better. Stronger. More integrated with modern life. With apps. Mapping and GPS. Real-time traffic.’

  A loud cheer flooded the dark auditorium.

  ‘I see we’ve got some fans here.’ Gomez sucked in the applause as he paced over to the side of the stage, like a rock star letting the band play the opening bars to his biggest hit. ‘The reason we’re here in old London town is to enable you guys.’ He waved theatrically at Ingham, who looked like he was already asleep, and grinned, his perfect teeth twinkling. ‘Some people have vested interests, though, and don’t want us to help the little guys.’

  Yvette waited for the blast of applause to die down before motioning for Gomez to sit. ‘Lord Ingham, that seems to be aimed at you. Do you have a response?’

  Ingham wiped a tweed-clad arm across his forehead. ‘It’s an interesting position, that’s for sure.’ He ran his frog-like tongue around his lips. ‘And I’m sure my lawyers would be interested in Mr Gomez’s allegations regarding vested interests.’ He sat forward and clasped his hands together, rocking slightly. ‘But listen, Travis is dangerous.’

  A jeer shot out of the audience. ‘You’re lying!’

  ‘I assure you I’m not. Travis let any Tom, Dick or Harry drive your mother to the shops, or your daughter home from a nightclub.’ Ingham waved a shaking hand around the auditorium. ‘Mr Gomez says he’s working with taxi drivers. Some firms can access their platform, providing they pay a healthy stipend, but they are in direct competition with his employees, who don’t have to cover that monthly overhead, who get assistance purchasing state-of-the-art vehicles.’ He shook his head as he spoke, his jowls wobbling. ‘And these drivers don’t go through “The Knowledge” to understand London.’ He paused to nibble at his bottom lip. ‘Customers get into a cab on the basis of a shiny app. But, instead of getting a licensed driver with a wife and children, they are merely rolling dice. Roll a six, you might get a normal cabbie. Roll a one, however, and . . .’ He licked his lips again, slowly. ‘Well, as you all know, women have been raped and killed by Travis drivers.’

  Fenchurch whispered to Reed, ‘Now I see why we’re here. Ingham’s turning this lot into a lynch mob.’

  Gomez shifted in his seat and brushed some lint from his shoulder. ‘Now those are some serious allegations.’

  ‘They’re facts, Mr Gomez.’ Ingham loosely aimed a finger across Yvette at the CEO. ‘And aside from the safety concerns, Travis are taking away jobs from Londoners and placing them in the hands of immigrants. You don’t care what happens to taxi drivers or their families. Travis don’t pay tax in this country. It’s the worst sort of neoliberal, disruptive technological upstart.’

  ‘That’s rich.’ Gomez smirked at Yvette, giving her a raised eyebrow. ‘You were a journalist at the London Post in the eighties, correct?’

  Yvette’s cheeks flushed crimson. ‘I was very young, I can assure you.’

  ‘But you remember Lord Ingham here being in Baroness Thatcher’s cabinet?’ Gomez winked at her as he draped his left leg over his right. ‘Along with the Reagan administration in my country, that government implemented the neoliberal policies.’

  ‘Listen, sir.’ Ingham spoke with his eyes clamped shut. ‘I am, and always have been, a one-nation Conservative. Things must remain as they should be. Taxis should be driven by honest men, not by Johnny Foreign—’

  ‘So you weren’t on board with Mrs Thatcher’s policies?’

  ‘My memoirs are clear on the matter.’ Ingham snorted, blasting a wave of noise through his microphone. ‘It was a marriage of convenience to further the party’s agenda at a time of dire straits for
this country.’

  ‘But you were involved?’ Gomez waited for a response but didn’t get one. The audience rippled with chat. ‘And correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you also oversee the demolition of the—’

  ‘Right, that’s the limit!’ Ingham shot to his feet and tore at his microphone. He tossed it to the floor, a huge thud popping the speakers, and stormed off, heading straight for Fenchurch.

  ‘We’re on.’ Fenchurch pushed away from the wall and tried to clear a path between Ingham and the audience. ‘Sir, if you’ll just—’

  ‘Absolute disgrace.’ Ingham barged past him and rattled the door. ‘Don’t they see what I’m trying to do for them?’

  Clarke stayed with the squad of armed officers in the auditorium, guarding the exit. ‘Go with him.’

  Fenchurch followed Reed out into the cool corridor. ‘Where is he?’

  Reed waved over at the far wall.

  Ingham was pacing around, barking into a Nokia museum piece a street drug dealer wouldn’t hold on to for longer than a week. ‘Giles, bring the Bentley round now.’ He killed the call and pocketed the phone, yellowy eyes on Fenchurch. ‘Inspector, I shouldn’t have to put up with that sort of thing from an American!’

  ‘I can only thank you for leaving in an orderly fashion, sir.’ Fenchurch had to lock his neck muscles to stop shaking his head. ‘Shit . . .’

  A middle-aged man swaggered down the corridor towards them, like he was at a Stone Roses gig in the late eighties: draped in a St George’s flag, honking on a plastic vuvuzela that must’ve seen service at the South African World Cup, silver hair in a quasi-mullet, grey shirt open to his gold chain. ‘Got a bone to pick with you, sunshine.’

  Ingham pushed himself back against the wall, eyes almost popping out on stalks.

  Fenchurch stabbed at his Airwave, his other hand reaching for his baton. ‘Urgent assistance needed at the side—’

  ‘You Tory prick!’ The protestor lurched forward, a flash of steel catching in the light.

  Fenchurch lashed out with his baton and cracked it off the cabbie’s hand, sending the knife flying across the marble floor. He raised it high, ready to slash down again. ‘Stop!’