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

by Ed James

‘Front-page story, eh?’ Blunden stabbed at the cover, his finger bouncing off it. ‘Saving that old Tory bastard from what was coming to him. Can’t stand him. Public-school pansy, arguing about stupid stuff like it matters to the man on the street.’

  ‘Just doing my job, Frank.’

  ‘Bet you were.’ Blunden opened the paper fully and let the magazine section fall out. ‘Oh, what have we got here?’ He picked it up and winked at Fenchurch. ‘Looks very much like an article about your daughter.’

  Fenchurch shut his eyes, the thundering drums taking over. ‘I’m not in the mood, Frank.’

  ‘Really?’ Blunden tossed the paper down on the desk. ‘Makes the old heart bleed, doesn’t it? Only bit of me that’s not riddled with cancer, I tell you.’ He sucked in breath and coughed it out. ‘This why you’re here?’

  Fenchurch raised an eyebrow. ‘That mean you know something about it?’

  ‘Always quick with that, aren’t you?’ Blunden grinned, his tongue darting around the bottom of his nose. ‘Like I keep telling you and that stupid bastard father of yours, I know nothing about what happened to your daughter.’ He switched the smile to the sort of frown you’d give a small child. ‘Terrible story, mind.’ He sniffed as he rummaged around in his trousers. ‘So why are you here?’

  ‘Steven Shelvey.’

  Blunden groaned like Millwall had conceded a last-minute own goal. ‘What’s he done now?’

  ‘You know him, then?’

  ‘Afraid I do.’ Blunden did some more fiddling. ‘Shelvey . . . Now he was a bit of a lad.’

  ‘How’d you mean?’

  ‘Got involved in those protests. You remember? All those cabbies crowding out town hall? He was eighteen but he was like a sixty-year-old shop steward, I tell you.’ Blunden snarled. ‘Unsightly business, mind. Just need to let that shit wash over, let things stabilise. This Travis lot, now that’s stability. I love them, get a ton of work through them. Less hassle than answering the phones. Means I don’t need a girl through the night. Plus, our rating’s really high so we get even more business. Win bloody win.’

  ‘Shelvey was doing a Travis run tonight. Wasn’t for you?’

  ‘I’d heard he’d gone direct with them.’ Blunden glowered at the window. ‘Now that is a scam. That lot loan these geezers fifteen grand or whatever to go buy themselves an electric car.’ He chuckled hard, his squat torso rocking. ‘An electric car, I ask you. Heard that ponce was driving around in a Prius like he’s some Californian hippie.’

  ‘He definitely doesn’t work for you?’

  ‘No, he bloody doesn’t. I got shot of the punk last year.’ Blunden’s arms almost met in the middle of his huge chest. ‘No, that prick tried it on with one too many girls in one of my cabs.’

  Here we go.

  Fenchurch grimaced. ‘What do you mean by trying it on?’

  ‘Oh, never anything too naughty. But, every few weeks, I’d get an angry husband, boyfriend or father showing up here asking me a few difficult questions.’ Blunden picked up the paper and split out the sport section, covered in build-up for the Euros. ‘Pestering these girls for dates, cheeky little grab of their thighs. Couldn’t have that, now, could I? So I let him go.’

  ‘You didn’t come to us about any of it, I notice.’

  ‘That’s not the game I’m playing, Inspector.’ Blunden held up the front page of the sport section, Wayne Rooney, Harry Kane and Jamie Vardy dressed in their official suits. ‘I’m thinking we’ll get knocked out in the second round. Probably to Portugal. You?’

  ‘Don’t follow international football.’

  ‘Not a patriot?’

  ‘Not a nationalist.’ Fenchurch spotted a tatty St George’s cross over by the door. ‘I like my Hammers, that’s about it.’

  ‘Bunch of bloody thugs.’

  ‘You’re Millwall, aren’t you?’

  ‘For my sins.’ Blunden folded the paper in half. ‘I passed all that stuff about Shelvey on to some contacts in the local nick. Brick Lane. I don’t know if they did anything with it.’

  ‘Very public-spirited of you. Got their names?’

  Blunden smirked at him. ‘Smith and Jones, as it happens.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘It’s the truth, Inspector. Big lumps, the pair of ’em. Can see their skulls through their skinheads.’

  ‘Sound like your sort of cops.’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t bribe ’em if I wanted to. These boys are honest as the day is long.’ Another smirk. ‘Unlike you.’

  ‘Inoperable?’ Reed stopped outside Brick Lane station and killed the engine. ‘Is that karma or something?’

  ‘Of the instant variety.’ Fenchurch undid the seat belt and tried to open the door. Her car was smaller than a hen cage. He got out and marched up to the door. Inside, the place was still packed with drunken fighters, even at this hour. He rested against the charred melamine counter and tapped the buzzer. Then gave Reed another glance. ‘You get anywhere while I was with Blunden?’

  Reed hovered behind him and grimaced. ‘That reminds me . . .’ She wandered off with her Airwave.

  The side door opened and the Desk Sergeant hobbled over to sit on a stool, like he was running a Victorian factory. Huge whiskers veiled his eyes, darting around like he was fed up with modern life. Then they settled on Fenchurch and he groaned. ‘Yes?’

  Fenchurch flashed his warrant card. ‘I need to speak to two of your officers.’ He looked away. ‘Smith and Jones.’

  ‘Smith and Jones?’ The Sergeant’s eyes narrowed at Fenchurch. ‘You having a laugh? We ain’t got a Smith and bloody Jones here.’

  Reed rested her hands on the counter and grinned at the Sergeant. ‘Morning, Bunk.’

  ‘Kay.’ Bunk, if that was his first or last name, grimaced at the recognition. ‘So you’re here, are you? Finally got what’s coming to you, then.’

  Reed rubbed at her lip, then flashed him a grin. ‘This is about a cab driver who killed a girl out by Bromley-by-Bow earlier on our shift.’

  ‘You guys caught that one?’ Bunk’s eyes flicked between them. ‘Heard it come through. Sounded nasty. That sort of case can take weeks to even get a suspect.’

  ‘Well, we’ve got one in custody, we’re just chasing up a lead.’ Reed tilted her head, like she was trying to draw Bunk’s eyes towards the computer. ‘Problem is, our lead told us he’d reported some sexual assaults to these cops, who he called Smith and Jones.’

  ‘Right, right.’ Bunk hammered at the keyboard like it’d been sleeping with his wife for eighteen months. ‘Smith and bloody Jones. You don’t get any better, Kay, I swear.’

  ‘This came from Frank Blunden.’

  ‘Blunden? Cheeky bastard.’ Bunk dug his fingers into his sideburns. ‘Always a little nugget of truth in what he says, mind. Like a bit of sweetcorn in your morning dum—’

  ‘You got anything yet, Bunk?’

  ‘Yeah, here we go. You daft buggers.’ Bunk rolled his eyes at Reed. ‘It’s not bloody Smith and Jones, it’s Naismith and Johnson.’

  Reed raised her eyebrows at Fenchurch, inches from pissing herself laughing. ‘And have you got any idea where Naismith and Johnson are now?’

  ‘Clive’s upstairs.’ Bunk buzzed the security door. ‘Watching DVDs, if I know him.’

  Reed winked at him. ‘And which one’s Clive?’

  DC Clive Naismith sat in the station’s tiny canteen, the room reeking of Indian food, like most of Brick Lane outside. Tall and heavy-set, his stubbly skinhead adding to the layer of psychotic he was born with. Sharp suit, though at least he’d covered it with a napkin. ‘Don’t mind me.’ He hovered over a clear plastic tub, jabbing his fork in to skewer a gristly chunk of lamb floating in a beige sauce. ‘Lovely grub.’ The surrounding tables were filled with blue bags.

  Reed couldn’t take her eyes off the food. ‘Take it you didn’t pay for it?’

  ‘Hardly.’ Naismith finished chewing and swallowed it down. ‘Fight in one of the curry houses up the street earlier
on. Daft buggers let in a rugby team at one in the morning. Never learn, do they?’ He tore off a strip of naan and dipped it into the sauce. ‘Always letting in pissed-up drunks at all hours. Always a surprise when they chuck food and chairs at each other. Caught one lad pissing in the ladies’ sink. Can you believe it?’

  The coconut aroma was tying Fenchurch’s stomach in knots. ‘Don’t quite understand how a DC gets involved in local policing matters, though.’

  ‘Bit quiet on a Thursday night shift till the clubs start chucking people out.’ Naismith took another slab of naan. ‘Helping plod fills the time, you know? Only so many forms you can complete before you nod off, am I right?’ He opened a tub filled with pakoras. ‘Help yourselves.’

  ‘You’ll regret that.’ Fenchurch took two of them, saliva almost dribbling onto his chin, and ate the first in one go. A lot hotter than he expected. Lovely. ‘You ever speak to Flick Knife?’

  ‘Frank Blunden?’ Naismith stopped eating, his plastic fork hanging in the air waiting for Fenchurch’s nod. ‘I hear the poor guy’s not so well these days. Cock cancer or something.’ Another mouthful of curry, chewing the beige slush with his mouth open, his lips slapping together. ‘We speak to him a fair amount, as it happens. Occasionally has some good gen on the street.’ He held up his fork. ‘He’s not on our Covert Sources log, if that’s what you’re after.’

  Fenchurch bit the second pakora in two and swallowed the first half down. ‘What sort of things does he help you with?’

  ‘All the horrible little crimes that aren’t sexy enough for you rock stars.’

  An answer for everything.

  Fenchurch ate the other half. ‘These are lovely.’ He took another from the tub and scoffed it in one go. ‘Does the name Steven Shelvey ring any bells?’

  Naismith pushed the curry away, brushing his tongue between his teeth. ‘What about him?’

  ‘So you know him?’

  ‘Quit it with the games, sir. What do you want to know about him?’

  ‘Frank Blunden mentioned him.’ Reed got out her notebook and opened it up. ‘What do you know?’

  ‘Main thing is when those cabbies swarmed City Hall. Few of them got in. Shelvey got arrested, from what I remember.’ Naismith licked his fork clean, his serpentine tongue running down the tines to the point. ‘Got a bit over-exuberant, started thinking he could take down the Met on his own. So we picked him up, stuck him inside.’

  ‘Why’s he not still inside?’

  ‘No idea.’ Naismith folded his naan bread over, still rubbing at his teeth. ‘Thought he was a shagger, that’s for sure.’ He stared into his curry. ‘Blunden fired the little scrotal sack when he went too far with this Indian girl. Way I hear it, he had the child locks on, got in the back of the cab and tried it on with her.’ He stirred the sauce with the plastic fork, then dropped it in, almost up to the end of the handle. ‘She scratched his cheek, he punched her.’

  ‘Did he rape her?’

  ‘No, he just left her at a building site and pissed off.’

  Fenchurch leaned forward. ‘A building site?’

  ‘Yeah, down Woolwich way.’

  Fenchurch stabbed it into his Pronto. ‘And you didn’t do him for this attempted rape?’

  ‘Girl wouldn’t testify.’ Naismith shrugged, like he was saying, ‘What can you do, eh?’ ‘See that a lot. These girls get frightened easy.’ He snapped the plastic lid back on the curry. ‘What’s Shelvey done, anyway?’

  ‘Looks like he’s raped a girl, then murdered her.’

  Naismith pinched his nose. ‘Shit.’

  ‘Anything you’ve got on Shelvey would be greatly appreciated . . .’

  ‘Oh, I’ve got a bucketload . . .’

  Chapter Nine

  Leman Street’s rear door buzzed. Fenchurch held it open and hauled it out of the way.

  Naismith lugged the evidence folder under his left arm, the big bag of leftover curry in the other. ‘You’re going to clear this with my DI, right?’

  Fenchurch fixed him a glare. ‘In the morning.’

  ‘Look, I’ve got import—’

  ‘Constable, you’re pissing about with curry houses, so don’t give me the old “I’ve got a critical task on, sir”. Okay?’ Fenchurch folded his arms and gestured at the door. ‘Now, get up the stairs and start organising what you’ve got on Shelvey. DS Nelson will be up shortly.’

  ‘Sir.’ Naismith trudged off, his shoulders low.

  ‘You can leave that food.’

  ‘Here, then.’ Naismith held out a blue bag. ‘I’ll dump the rest in the canteen, okay?’

  ‘Thanks.’ Fenchurch watched him trudge off, then opened the bag. ‘I’m starving. Kay?’

  Reed tried peering inside. ‘What have you got?’

  Fenchurch fished out a box and tore off the lid. ‘Mixed pakora, I think.’ He ate one in a single bite. ‘Mushroom.’ Then he grimaced. ‘Bloody hot, too.’

  Reed frowned as she took one. ‘Thought they were bhajis, guv.’

  ‘They’re the same thing. One’s north India, the other’s south. Can’t remember which is which.’

  ‘Right.’ Reed blew out as she chewed. ‘What do you think about this Naismith character, guv?’

  The upstairs door clanked shut, rattling round the stairwell. ‘I don’t trust him.’

  Reed rested against the wall, munching on another pakora. ‘What’s the—’

  ‘Simon!’ Clooney was jogging down the hallway, his trainers squeaking off the floor, earrings jangling. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Doing our job, Mick.’ Fenchurch swallowed his pakora. ‘What’s up?’

  Clooney sniffed the air, the spicy tang already replacing the corridor’s usual bitter smell. ‘Been out for a ruby?’

  Reed hefted up the bag. ‘There’s more up in the canteen.’

  ‘I could eat a horse.’ Clooney picked out a pakora and bit into it, eyes closed. ‘Heaven.’ He ate the second half and cleared his throat. ‘Anyway, Nina found some more knickers in a bag under the boy’s bed.’ He held up three small bags containing three pieces of fabric and lace.

  ‘Jesus Christ.’ Reed inspected them. ‘Hiding stuff from his mum is different to hiding it from us.’ She shifted the contents around. ‘He could’ve raped a few women.’

  ‘Let’s be careful about assumptions.’ Fenchurch handed the bag back, shaking his head at Clooney. ‘Take it you’ve got the budget to test them?’

  ‘Doing that when I get back.’ Clooney grabbed another pakora. ‘I’ll run any DNA I find against any unsolved rapes, okay?’

  ‘Right.’ Fenchurch wiped grease off his lips, succeeding in covering his hands. ‘You getting anywhere with the knife yet?’

  ‘Mandy’s running it now.’ Clooney stuffed two pakoras in his mouth.

  ‘I need to know ASAP, okay?’ Fenchurch waved Clooney off and grabbed the evidence file. ‘You think Shelvey knew Victoria?’

  Reed’s gaze trailed after Clooney. ‘The alternative is she just got in the wrong cab at the wrong time. Don’t know which is worse, guv.’

  Fenchurch’s mobile rang, the opening drone of ‘Kashmir’. He checked the display — an unrecognised number, but not a hidden one. ‘Better take this, Kay. Can you find Jon and get him to supervise Naismith?’ He walked off and answered the call. ‘Fenchurch.’

  ‘Ah, Inspector.’ A snuffle filled the line. ‘I was wondering if there was any news?’

  Fenchurch caught his reflection in the glass and let his forehead slacken. Made him look slightly less homicidal. Slightly. ‘Sorry, who is this?’

  ‘It’s Gerald Ogden.’

  ‘Right, right.’ Fenchurch brushed his hair back, restoring the bedhead. ‘Thanks for calling me, sir. I can’t—’

  ‘Have you caught whoever did this to my Victoria?’

  We caught the scumbag who raped and killed your goddaughter, sir. And we’ve no idea how many others he’s done . . . How can I push him back to tomorrow?

  Fenchurch coughed, the p
akora’s fire loosening something. ‘I’ll need to ask you a few additional questions, sir. When would be convenient?’

  ‘Well, I’m at home now and I can’t seem to sleep.’

  The lights on Vauxhall Bridge Road were still stuck at red. Up ahead, two new towers marked out the north shore of the Thames, square glass on the right, rounded concrete on the left. Alien towers setting up camp opposite MI6’s headquarters. A mishmash of towers camped on the south bank in both directions, barely any blank lots remaining, certainly none without cranes marked by blinking lights. The Vauxhall Tower was outlined in blue like something from Tron, though the Eye of Sauron wasn’t in flame tonight.

  Fenchurch stuck the car in neutral. ‘Hardly recognise this city any more.’

  ‘Is that senility or something?’ Reed’s grin was lit up by her mobile in the pre-dawn darkness. ‘Still think you should’ve taken the Lambeth Bridge, guv.’

  ‘Not that shit again. After the cycle-lane roadworks, I’m not taking another chance.’ Fenchurch put the car in gear and set off from the lights, powering over Vauxhall Bridge. He turned right after the station, then the next left, navigating the web of chicanes by the park. ‘Quiet tonight.’

  ‘It’s half four in the morning, guv. The post-club cottagers will have gone home.’

  ‘I’d pick you up on that if it wasn’t true.’ Fenchurch trundled round the bend in the dark street, the mix of grime and luxury you’d expect in Vauxhall, and came to a long row of terraced houses leading back to the main road.

  ‘Think that’s it there.’ Reed waved at a gate stuck between two lead-roofed columns. Behind it, a sprawling old factory was floodlit from below. Beige brick with a giant clock tower, once there to keep the workers right, now just a rich man’s folly.

  Fenchurch pulled in, blocking the gates. He got out of the car and set off towards the building’s entrance. The pattern of lights inside and the way the bricks had been cleaned made it look like it had been subdivided into flats, just not too many.

  ‘Three mill a flat, I reckon.’ Reed tapped at her phone as they walked over. ‘Shitting hell. Last sale for the penthouse was eight point four five million.’