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

by Ed James

  ‘I’m sure you can appreciate it’s early days with this case.’ Fenchurch tapped out a few words on the Pronto. ‘When was the last time you saw her?’

  ‘This evening.’ Ogden set the picture down and cleared his throat. Sounded like he had a ton of tar down there. ‘She left about seven, maybe ten past?’ He walked over to the window looking onto a narrow passageway lined with stone buildings probably built by the Romans. ‘We’re up against it with a client. Victoria and I stayed late to complete the filing for first thing tomorrow. I’m still here putting the final touches to the document.’

  Fenchurch stabbed the details into a timeline. ‘So the last time you saw her was in this office?’

  ‘Not quite.’ Ogden walked back to his desk and picked up his cigarette case, running his finger along the lip. James Bond would be proud of it. ‘Victoria had summoned a Travis car.’

  Fenchurch looked up from the Pronto. ‘Did you say Travis?’

  ‘Indeed.’ Ogden dropped the case onto the table. ‘Our corporate policy is to avoid black cabs. Travis are cheaper and the app keeps everything neat and tidy, gives a nice little audit trail.’ He raised a finger. ‘But we don’t get access to the data until three days later.’

  Fenchurch typed in a reminder. ‘Did you see her get into the cab?’

  Ogden gave a tight military nod. ‘I needed a cigarette, so I joined her on Throgmorton Street. It was one of those . . . electric cars. Barely made a sound.’

  Drums thundered in Fenchurch’s ears as he stabbed it into the Pronto, underlining electric. ‘And she definitely got in?’

  ‘Saw it with my own eyes. Some Japanese thing.’

  ‘You didn’t get a model?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’ Ogden reached into his drawer again and produced a small card. ‘If there’s anything I can do to help, please don’t hesitate to call. Day or night.’

  ‘I appreciate it, sir.’ Dark-grey card, very thick. Even higher quality than Victoria Brocklehurst’s. Must’ve cost a pretty penny. ‘I’ll need—’

  His Airwave chimed out — Pratt.

  ‘Sorry, sir, I need to take this.’ Fenchurch left the office and headed back into the corridor. A man in a suit lugging a briefcase smiled at Fenchurch as he passed. ‘William, I think we’ve got an ID.’

  ‘Well, that’s a relief.’ Pratt’s sigh echoed his words, like a whole load of tension poured out. ‘I was calling to let you know that the body is on its way out to Lewisham as we speak.’

  ‘I’ll send the next of kin.’ Fenchurch beckoned Clarke over and nodded into the office, where Ogden was staring at the photo again. ‘Any chance you can give Lord Malfoy here a lift out to Lewisham?’

  Clarke rolled his eyes. ‘Can’t you?’

  ‘I’ve got a crime scene to manage.’

  ‘Been a long day . . .’ Clarke scratched his chin, thin dots of stubble breaking the surface of the tan. ‘I was going to head home . . .’

  ‘I think you still owe me for this evening, Steve.’

  Fenchurch zapped his Mondeo and got in, stretching out in his seat, as Reed wandered around in a circle on a phone call. Clarke’s BMW pootled down the street, the red lights ghosting in the mist.

  What next? Head to Lewisham and cramp Pratt’s style? Head back to the station and set up the Incident Room? Visit Victoria Brocklehurst’s flat?

  The passenger door opened and Reed got in, clutching her Airwave. ‘Want the good news or the bad?’

  ‘Is the good anything to do with connecting her Travis cab to the electric car?’

  ‘Sort of. I’ve just been on with that new Roads and Transport Policing Command. CO five million or something.’ Reed tucked her hair behind her ears, still not quite used to the new cut. ‘Thought I heard someone say they’ve got a line into the taxi companies. Turns out they do.’

  ‘Including Travis?’

  ‘Part of the deal to let them operate in London, apparently.’ Reed pocketed her Airwave. ‘Gives us full access to their database, full co-operation from their management. Everything.’

  Fenchurch waited for the other shoe to drop. ‘And the bad?’

  The New Scotland Yard sign spun around as ever, sitting in front of the bright-blue security entrance, waiting to move to the new HQ.

  Fenchurch rolled past and parked on the single yellow between yet another Eat and The Feathers pub, pretty much the only decent one round there. ‘You still won’t tell me who it is?’

  Reed just drew a zip across her mouth and tossed the key.

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Fenchurch slammed the door as he got out, then stomped past the TSB branch. Haven’t even locked the car. He zapped it once Reed was out, then entered the Yard’s corner entrance. ‘Oh, shit . . .’

  DI Jason Bell stood beside the security guard, chatting away like they were old mates. He’d put on even more weight, just a space princess on a chain short of being Jabba the Hutt. His tiny little peanut head scanned around the room, the strip lighting bouncing off his glasses, those stupid darkening lenses kicking in at this hour. He waddled away from the guard and thrust out his hand. ‘Simon!’

  Fenchurch shook it and recoiled. Sweaty as hell. ‘String.’

  Bell wagged a finger in the air. ‘You can’t call me that any more.’

  Who does he think he is?

  Fenchurch glowered at him. ‘Course I can.’

  ‘It’s insubordination, Inspector.’ Bell flashed his warrant card. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector now.’

  Fenchurch followed Bell and Reed along the corridor, his ears burning white hot.

  How the hell had that useless prick got a promotion? They should be kicking him off the force, not rewarding his . . . ways. Cut him out like a worm from an apple. Turn all that blubber into soap.

  Fenchurch stood outside the meeting room, fists clenched, eyes drilling into Bell at the head of the table. Henry VIII without the wives.

  ‘You not sitting down, Simon?’

  ‘I’m fine standing.’ Fenchurch closed the door behind him and leaned back against it, folding his arms across his chest. ‘You’re obviously dying to tell us about the promotion.’

  ‘I’ve got a much wider remit.’ Bell’s native Brummie accent receded with each rank. ‘My old team are still targeting mobile-phone theft, but Tom’s given me the technology side of unlicensed-taxi crime.’

  Whoever Tom was.

  ‘That doesn’t make any sense to me.’

  ‘They’re related, Simon.’ Bell stretched out in his seat, his shirt stretching the buttons almost to popping. ‘It’s all gang activity.’ He flashed a smile at Reed, like that would sweep her off her feet. ‘We’re prosecuting a large gang of mobile-phone thieves.’

  ‘What?’ Fenchurch couldn’t move back any further without passing through the door. ‘That was my case! You lot sat around, twiddling your thumbs, while we caught a murderer and took down a gang.’

  ‘Simon, the actions my team took would’ve secured the conviction had he not . . . you know, been killed in prison.’ Bell was talking with his eyes shut, the lids flickering like the strip lights. ‘Look, I’ve cut thefts across London.’ He ran a hand along his shoulder, as if there were a Chief Inspector’s epaulets there. ‘The senior officers gave me the promotion, Inspector.’

  Fenchurch sat down at the opposite end of the long table and opened his jacket.

  Reed was halfway between them, her face pinched tight. ‘I gather you know why we’re here, sir?’

  ‘Travis, right?’ Bell got out a notebook and flicked through the pages. ‘They’re the bane of my bloody life just now. Yesterday morning, I had to brief Sadiq on them.’

  Don’t rise to it.

  Don’t rise to it.

  ‘Sadiq Khan?’

  ‘Yes, Simon, the new mayor of London. Charming fella, as it happens.’ Bell smirked at himself. ‘Anyway, I was telling him how the digital economy affords as many opportunities to criminals as it does to the man on the street. They find new ways to exploit people, which is
why they need officers like Jason Bell leading things.’

  ‘Listen, I don’t need your mayoral campaign for 2020, Stri—’ Fenchurch snorted. ‘We just want to confirm whether a potential murder victim caught a cab, okay?’

  ‘I’ve met Sadiq three times since he took office. Got another session tomorrow, which is why I’m here so late.’ Bell splayed his hands on the table, palms up. ‘He’s taking this whole business very seriously.’

  Big wow.

  ‘From what I hear, Sadiq was at your little incident this evening.’ Bell gurned a toothy smile. ‘You saved someone’s life, didn’t you? Very well done, Simon.’ He gave a round of applause.

  Fenchurch let the drums cannon around. Give the scrote his time in the sun. ‘Jason, we just need to speak to this Travis lot. We’ve got a victim out east, last seen getting into one of their cabs.’

  ‘Shit on it.’ Bell scribbled something down in his notebook. ‘I’ll get back to you in the next couple of days, then.’

  ‘This is a murder, Stri—’ Fenchurch broke off. Close to running over and booting the git in the head. ‘Jason, I need to speak to them tonight. The driver is our main suspect. I shouldn’t have to tell you about the first twenty-four hours, should I?’

  ‘I hear you, Simon. And I’ll get back to you.’ Bell snapped his notebook shut. ‘Okay?’

  Chapter Five

  A stream of red lights lay ahead of them, cars idling in the night air as drills rattled the ground beneath them. Tower Hill was further up, just behind the gardens and a queue of traffic. Punters flooded out of the All Bar One on the left: chucking-out time.

  Fenchurch snapped two pills out of their blister pack and swallowed them down with some stale water from a bottle he’d slung in the door pocket. That’ll fix those drums for a bit.

  Just one bloody car made it through the change of roadworks lights.

  He punched the steering wheel hard enough that it unlocked and wobbled about. ‘Shit.’ He clipped it back in, not quite at the right height. Then he tried again. Still not right. ‘Should’ve gone south of the river, Kay.’

  Reed looked up from her Airwave, smirking at him. ‘You going to shift forward?’

  A car-length gap had opened up in the traffic. He slid in to fill it. ‘Who needs this Cycle Superhighway anyway?’

  ‘Boris Johnson did. Could’ve built it when he was still in office, I suppose.’ Reed winked at him. ‘Want me to get DCI Bell to have a word with Sadiq?’

  Fenchurch tried the steering wheel again. That’ll do. ‘We did all that work. Did that fat bastard get covered in soot? Did he almost get electrocuted? Did he have an officer lose—?’

  ‘He played by the rules, guv.’

  ‘Kay, I caught them. I solved that case. That little weasel doesn’t deserve to be a Sergeant, let alone a bloody DCI.’ Fenchurch hit the horn a couple of times. ‘Should’ve gone up by the Barbican.’

  ‘Are you angry because the victim reminds you of Chloe?’

  ‘No.’ Fenchurch kicked into gear and trundled up another car length. Two cars managed to not arse up driving through some lights for once. Not long now . . . ‘It’s got nothing to do with that, okay? I’m over it. It’s done. We’re moving on with our lives, Kay.’

  ‘Right, guv.’

  Fenchurch’s personal mobile blared out Led Zeppelin’s ‘Kashmir’, the tinny speakers not quite giving it the menace it deserved. Unknown caller. What the hell? He answered it. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Simon!’

  Fenchurch mouthed ‘Bell’ at Reed and pulled the phone away from his ear, the thudding building up. ‘How can I be of assistance, sir?’

  ‘Less of the lip, Simon. You should be thanking me.’ Bell left a pause. ‘I’ve managed to get some time for you with Travis.’

  ‘Already?’

  ‘If you don’t want it . . .’

  ‘No, that’s good. Thanks.’

  Bell cackled down the line. ‘Well, where are you, then?’

  ‘Been stuck in traffic for the last half an hour.’

  ‘At this time?’

  ‘It’s a flash mob working on the cycle path.’ Fenchurch grinned at Reed. ‘Should get your mate Sadiq to cancel it.’

  ‘You overestimate my importance, Si.’

  Don’t I just.

  ‘Simon, I’m at Leman Street. I’ll see you when you get here.’

  Fenchurch scowled. ‘How the hell have you got there so quickly?’

  ‘I went up by the Barbican. Much quicker.’

  Fenchurch pulled into East Tenter Street, the grey bulk of Leman Street station looming over them, the rear entrance lit up like a motorway services as an Armed Response Unit mobilised. He killed the engine. No sign of Bell.

  ‘Miracle him still being in at this time, guv.’ Reed stifled a yawn. ‘All that important PowerPoint shit he’s doing for Sadiq . . .’

  Up ahead, a brand-new Lexus flashed its headlights, the sort of bling they flog between football matches on Sky, soundtracked by some grime music. It drove up to them, stopping window-to-window. Bell sat behind the wheel like he thought he was a player. The window wound down almost in time with Fenchurch’s. ‘So you’ve finally got here.’

  ‘Where we headed?’

  Bell pointed upwards. ‘Up there.’

  Fenchurch craned his neck to see where Bell was aiming his stumpy finger. The Aldgate Tower climbed above them, glowing in the night sky. Still new enough that less than half of it was occupied. ‘They’re next door?’

  Bell burst out laughing. ‘Don’t even need a Travis to get there.’

  Wanker.

  London’s night flickered in the pitch darkness through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Tower Bridge lit up, the London Eye twinkling behind it in the distance. The City’s new skyline was over to the right, the orange sky silhouetting the Gherkin, the Cheesegrater, the Walkie-Talkie and the surrounding towers, as yet unnamed. The outline of Canary Wharf flashed in the darkness to the left.

  The floor was packed, even at one in the morning. The pine air freshener squished out of the ceiling every minute, drowning out the bitter coffee smell. Might be the busiest time for a cab company — drunks calling in or drivers stuck halfway to Amersham, only to find the dual carriageway is shut.

  Pavel Udzinski wore mirror shades at night, two small copies of Fenchurch and Reed in his lenses. His dark hair was swept back like a Mafioso, a vague goatee covering his chin but venturing no further up his face. Tiny traces of Polish amid his barrow-boy London accent. ‘Jason, does your existing warrant really cover this?’

  ‘Of course it does.’ Bell was sitting behind Udzinski, his gut hanging over his trousers. ‘Give us the information and we’ll be on our merry way.’

  Fenchurch smiled at Udzinski. Weird as hell seeing your fake grin reflected like that. ‘We just need some help verifying a trip made from the City this evening by one of your customers.’ He let the smile slip. ‘Her name is Victoria Brocklehurst.’

  ‘Very well.’ Udzinski hammered a few keys and shifted his glasses to focus on his monitor. ‘I’ve got someone by that name. Tell me where she lives.’

  Fenchurch checked his Pronto. ‘Bermondsey.’

  ‘I have someone by that name in Shad Thames.’

  ‘That’s just next to Bermondsey.’ Fenchurch glanced at Reed, his frown mirrored on her forehead and in Udzinski’s shades. ‘That’ll probably be her.’

  ‘“Probably” isn’t good enough.’

  Fenchurch glared through the glasses. ‘She was picked up near Austin Friars in the City at about seven o’clock this evening.’

  ‘Let me see.’ Udzinski drew his finger down the screen. ‘That’s correct.’ He scraped his fingernail across the monitor’s surface. ‘Okay, the co-sign is Steven Robert Shelvey.’

  Fenchurch jabbed the name into his Pronto. ‘“Co-sign”?’

  ‘Our direct drivers, as opposed to those who are employed by a third party, such as a taxi company.’

  ‘What can you tell us about him
?’

  ‘Hm.’ Udzinski swivelled round to look at Bell. ‘This feels like a non-standard case, Jason.’

  ‘This is a standard, Pavel. Standard.’

  ‘But he is only with us for a few months.’ Udzinski’s accent slipped. ‘That is non-standard.’

  Fenchurch got between them, blocking Bell out of the view. ‘Mr Udzinski, we found that passenger’s body at a building site a couple of miles down the road. She’d been strangled. Possibly raped.’

  Udzinski’s gaze was unwavering. He swallowed. ‘By my co-sign?’

  ‘I don’t know if your driver did it or not. Yet. But we need to speak to him.’

  ‘Travis Car Inc. can’t accept any responsibility for the actions of our co-signs.’

  The Police National Computer check came back empty. Fenchurch dumped his Pronto onto the desk. ‘What’s his address?’

  ‘All I’m at liberty to divulge is that the individual had recently passed the same enhanced criminal-record checks that all private-hire and taxi drivers in London go through as part of Transport for London’s licensing process.’ Fenchurch couldn’t see the script Udzinski was reading from. Udzinski lifted up his shades and rubbed his eyes. ‘In addition to these checks, we apply our own rigorous search of numerous databases to identify convictions, such as CCJs and sex offences.’

  Fenchurch tapped his foot. ‘I just need Mr Shelvey’s address.’

  ‘And I told you that Travis Car Inc. can’t accept any responsibility for the actions of our co-signs.’ Udzinski stopped typing. ‘Our CEO is in the country. I can set up some time with him to progress this matter tomorrow.’

  ‘Son, I need you to listen to me.’ Fenchurch wheeled his chair closer and peered at him. ‘The only option I’ll have to track down Mr Shelvey will be through a public request for information via the news media. It’ll be very difficult to keep his employer’s name out of the story.’