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

by Ed James

  Fenchurch blew air up his face, shaking his head. ‘If you had eight and a half million quid, why would you live in Vauxhall?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’ Reed stopped by a wide door and hit the buzzer.

  The door ground open and Gerald Ogden blinked out into the morning light. His face was lined with anger, fire burning in his eyes, doused by the tears slicking his cheeks. He wore a smoking jacket over silk pyjamas, but his feet were bare, his left middle toe missing. ‘Inspector.’ A smile flickered across his lips as his eyes took in Reed. ‘Well, come on in. Please.’

  He led inside the house, straight into a colossal room that belonged in Buckingham Palace a hundred years ago. Double height and painted white, grand portraits hanging from the walls. A black wrought-iron staircase crossed the face of a giant brick chimney that dominated the room. He led them through a large dining area to three sofas arranged in a U-shape around a crackling fire. The air-conditioning unit hissed above it.

  Ogden collapsed onto one near a small TV.

  Reed sat opposite Ogden, while Fenchurch took the one facing the fire. A picture of a stag on a misty Scottish moor hung from another chimney. Place was full of the bloody things.

  Ogden perched forward, tugging his gown tight. ‘So you wanted to speak to me?’

  Fenchurch gave Ogden a slow nod. ‘We’ve identified the driver who collected Ms Brocklehurst from outside your office. There’s some evidence pointing to him sexually assaulting her.’

  ‘Good heavens.’ Ogden shut his eyes and pushed the heels of his palms deep into his eye sockets. His breath came in short gasps. ‘Did this animal murder her?’

  ‘We’re unsure yet.’ Fenchurch waited for eye contact. ‘Does the name Steven Shelvey mean anything?’

  Ogden opened his eyes again and blinked hard. ‘Is this the creature who raped and killed Victoria?’

  ‘We’re holding him in custody. Does the name mean anything?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing.’ Ogden got to his feet and paced around, fists clenched, fury burning his neck red. ‘He’s a rapist and murderer . . . And Travis just let these people drive their cabs?’

  ‘I can’t comment on—’

  Ogden thumped the TV screen, Boris Johnson giving an opponent a withering look. ‘They employ murderers?’

  Fenchurch sat forward on the seat. ‘Did Ms Brocklehurst ever mention him?’

  ‘Never. And she would have. We were close, Inspector.’ Ogden tightened his gown as he rested on the chair. ‘Victoria had some dalliances, but never anything serious. And if some taxi driver was stalking her, she’d have come to me, after she’d reported it to the police. Victoria had her head screwed on very tight.’

  ‘This could be a chance thing, Mr Ogden.’ Reed’s forehead creasing. ‘It sounds like, tragically, Victoria just got in the wrong taxi.’

  ‘Is that supposed to console me? Are you trying to provide any comfort?’

  ‘Mr Ogden, I can only apologise.’ Fenchurch shot Reed a shut-the-hell-up glare. ‘How often did she get a cab?’

  ‘Most nights. Like I told you earlier, Victoria was a hard worker and worked late.’ Ogden drilled his focus into Reed. ‘Do you think you’ll be able to prosecute this Shelley character?’

  ‘Shelvey.’ Reed smiled at him. ‘We’ll certainly do our best, sir.’

  The Leman Street canteen was otherwise empty, not even the early-shift uniforms burning toast or superheating porridge in the microwave. Place reeked of second-hand Indian food.

  Reed put yet another box of pakora down on the table. ‘Found this in the fridge, in case you’re still hungry.’

  ‘Ravenous.’ Fenchurch mopped up the last of his curry with some third-hand naan bread. Just about edible. Could really have done with some bite, but the hot-sauce bottle in his desk was empty. And the old acid reflux was rearing its head.

  ‘Guv.’ Nelson plonked himself down between them. ‘Want me to send Naismith home?’

  ‘Fed up of him already?’

  ‘A bit.’ Nelson puffed on his vape stick. ‘Spent more time on his phone than on those case files.’

  ‘Texts or calls?’

  ‘Texts, I think.’

  ‘Send him home, but keep a close eye on him tomorrow, yeah? I’ll clear it with Docherty.’ Fenchurch spooned more curry from the tub onto his plate and tore off some more naan. ‘Has he found anything yet?’

  ‘Far too much, guv.’ Nelson picked up the pakora box and fished out another mushroom one. ‘Problem is, it’s all unsubstantiated. About twelve rape cases stalled because the victims wouldn’t come forward.’

  Fenchurch dunked his naan into the curry. ‘Any evidence Shelvey was intimidating them?’

  ‘Maybe. Nothing we can use immediately . . .’ Nelson patted the wad of paper files. ‘Might be something in here. People who’ll speak if they know he’s going away.’

  Fenchurch finished his second seconds. ‘Sounds good.’

  Reed reached over for another pakora. ‘I’ll get Lisa Bridge on it. She’s still twiddling her thumbs.’

  Fenchurch grabbed a pakora. ‘Why?’

  ‘Still a hold-up on the CCTV from the street by the crime scene, guv.’ Reed picked at her teeth. ‘Bell.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Fenchurch swallowed down the pakora. ‘I’ll have a word with Docherty in the morning.’ That one packed some heat. ‘He must have donkey pic—’ He stopped himself. Then tapped the wad of paperwork on the table, just missing a splodge of curry sauce. ‘Going back to this lot, anything?’

  Nelson picked up a file and flicked through it. ‘Naismith’s got photos and case notes. Mostly background on Shelvey.’

  ‘Why didn’t any of this go to trial?’

  ‘Like he said earlier, guv, the witnesses didn’t want to commit to court.’

  ‘So what’s the plan? Get out there and change their minds?’

  ‘Not a bad idea.’

  ‘There’s another option.’ Fenchurch finished his curry and dumped the tub in the recycling. The lamb had stuck between pretty much all of his teeth. ‘We could go in there, armed with that, and try and railroad him. Get a confession now.’

  ‘Think that’ll work?’

  ‘Ninety per cent chance.’ Fenchurch stood and stuffed the folder under his arm. ‘Jon, can you get on to the CCTV?’

  ‘Guv.’

  ‘Thought I’d find you lot here.’ Temple was standing over Fenchurch, though he was looking eye to eye. ‘Nice feed?’

  ‘Help yourself.’ Fenchurch waved at the spread on the table. ‘Pretty tasty, but not hot enough.’

  ‘That means it’ll be far too spicy for mere mortals like me.’ Temple sat down and spooned out some curry onto a paper plate. He bit into some lamb and tossed his head from side to side as he chewed. ‘Not bad.’ He dolloped another mound. ‘What did you make of that Ogden fella?’

  ‘How did you know we were visiting him?’

  ‘Kay told me.’ Temple unbuttoned his suit jacket. Then he yawned. ‘I know him of old.’

  ‘Any juice on him?’

  ‘Lawyers like him, the ones in this for the money, they’re usually sociopaths.’ Temple scooped some curry into his mouth. ‘Very easy to confuse them with normal people, but deep down they just don’t care.’

  Fenchurch speared a chunk of lamb off Temple’s plate. ‘I thought that was all lawyers.’

  ‘Very good.’ Temple dipped a pakora into the sauce. ‘I’m serious. Most City lawyers are sociopaths who don’t care how the money’s made.’

  ‘Can’t disagree with that.’

  Temple stretched out, a yawn still grabbing hold of him. ‘Don’t know how you lot can work all night.’

  ‘You get used to it.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’ Temple eyed the pakora box again. ‘Been meaning to say . . . This Shelvey guy’s lawyer has been speaking to me. Anna something or other?’

  ‘Xiang.’

  ‘Right. She’s saying she’s going to fight tooth and nail over the inc
ident at his house.’

  Fenchurch scowled at him. ‘What incident?’

  ‘You knocking his door down, chasing him along the street and twocking him in his car.’

  ‘Jesus H. Christ.’ Fenchurch stuffed his hands into his pockets, getting grease all over the fabric. ‘First things first, that little shit gobbed all over me. It was like Rudi Völler and Frank Rijkaard at Italia ’90.’

  Temple reached out for another pakora. ‘Is that your colourful way of saying you spat back?’

  ‘No.’ Fenchurch scratched at the stubble on his chin. ‘I mean, Shelvey was like both of them. Gobbed twice on me. Maybe three times.’

  ‘I’ll add that to the charge sheet, but get whoever was with you to straighten up their notebooks, okay?’ Temple tapped Fenchurch on the shoulder. ‘Good news about the knife, though.’

  Fenchurch dropped his pakora. ‘What?’

  ‘Positive against the girl’s blood type.’ Temple snatched up a couple more pakoras. ‘See you later.’ He wandered through the canteen and stopped by the door.

  Fenchurch got out his personal mobile. Three missed calls from Clooney. ‘Bugger.’ He showed his phone to Nelson. ‘Jon, can you chase this up? Get a print and we’ll meet you at the interview room.’

  ‘Guv.’ Nelson grabbed the half-full pakora box off him and fished out his mobile, stabbing at the screen, then putting it to his ear. ‘Mick, got a sec?’ He nodded his head and gave the thumbs-up.

  Reed entered the Custody Suite and looked around. ‘His lawyer was still lurking around when I last looked in, banging on about his human rights.’

  ‘Right.’ Fenchurch followed her in.

  ‘Nnnngahh.’ The Sergeant lay back in his chair, his mouth hanging open, honking out a snore. ‘Nnnngahh.’

  Reed prodded him in the chest. ‘Come on, Martin. Wakey-wakey.’

  Martin blinked hard, slowly, yawning like a stag the morning after the first of three nights in Magaluf. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Need to take Shelvey up to interview.’

  ‘He’s in six.’ Martin got up and grabbed his keys.

  ‘Cheers.’ Fenchurch had caught Martin’s yawn, another of the never-ending ones. Reed joined in.

  Martin unlocked the door to room six, then thumped it with his palm. ‘Out you come, Mr Shel— Shit!’

  Shelvey was convulsing on the cell floor in a pool of blood, moaning, eyes flickering.

  Chapter Ten

  Standing back was the only option.

  Fenchurch got out of the cell and let the duty doctor do his magic. Didn’t look good — Shelvey was still shaking, his torso twisting in ways it just shouldn’t. Smelled like the guy had shat himself.

  ‘Out of the way!’ A Northern Irish accent foghorned from behind, accompanied by the rattle of a gurney. ‘Coming through!’

  Fenchurch skipped to the side and hugged the cold wall, letting them get access to the room. The paramedic, what was his name? Not Pratt, but similar. Platt, that was it. Cream flashes on his NHS glasses, hair slicked back to cover his creeping baldness.

  The doctor got to his feet, jacket sleeves rolled up to the elbows, the grey suit covered in fluff like he’d cleaned it in a washing machine. He grimaced. ‘We’re losing him.’

  Platt took one look at Shelvey. ‘What do you think it is?’

  ‘Could be anything. A fit, though it’s not an epileptic seizure with all that blood.’ The doctor stroked his chin, like there was any time for that now. ‘I’m thinking poisoning.’

  Fenchurch’s spine tingled, shredding the nerves up his back. His stomach acid boiled like a cauldron. ‘Poisoning?’

  ‘I’ve never seen it before, but you read the textbooks and—’

  ‘Okay, okay. Let’s get him to the hospital.’ Platt lowered the gurney, the mechanism squealing as he pumped it. ‘I’ll mobilise a specialist while we’re en route. Okay?’

  ‘That’s . . . That’s fine with me.’ The duty doctor had all but given up. Standing inside the room was the only action he could take, aside from rolling his sleeves back down. ‘Where are you taking him?’

  ‘University College.’

  A figure slouched against the wall in the Custody Suite. Martin, the bloody inept Desk Sergeant who let someone get poisoned while he slept off six pints. He kept trying to peer inside the door. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘That’s a potential crime scene and you need to keep clear.’ Fenchurch snorted as he tugged at Martin’s arm and pulled him through to the Custody Suite, passing some rubbernecking prisoners pressed up to the open hatches. ‘You’re neck-deep in the shit. You’d better get someone to lock that cell down and start going through the CCTV in there to find out who’s done this.’

  Martin got behind his desk and tapped at his computer. His breathing was short and fast, his eyes bulging like he might have a heart attack any minute. He slammed the mouse on the wood. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘The sodding CCTV’s been wiped.’ Martin pointed at the monitor. The time at the bottom was correct but the screen was black. ‘Well, it’s not been deleted. The cable’s come out. It’s just been recording—’

  ‘Was it you?’

  ‘Hardly.’ Fire burnt Martin’s neck and ears. ‘As you know, I was asleep.’

  ‘So someone’s got in here, frigged the security system and killed him?’

  Martin pinched at the skin on his throat. ‘Has he been killed?’

  ‘Someone’s tried.’ Fenchurch pulled his shirt away from his back, now a wall of sweat. ‘You need to find out who’s been in there, and fast.’

  ‘Right.’ Martin rubbed a hand down his face, pulling his eyelids down. Then he shook himself and clicked wildly with the mouse. ‘Okay, here’s the visitor log.’ His fingers ran down the screen, his face glowing white in the reflection. ‘There’s nothing obvious. Two of my lads fed him at two . . . His lawyer’s seen him.’

  Fenchurch joined him on the other side of the desk. ‘Anna Xiang?’

  ‘That’s the bird’s name, yeah.’ Martin scratched at his chin. ‘Just wanted to see him, kept banging on about his human rights.’

  ‘She didn’t give him anything?’

  ‘What, like a poisoned apple?’

  ‘I’m being serious here, Martin. Did she give him anything?’

  ‘I was with her the whole time. Didn’t even get in the room, didn’t even open the door. Just wanted to see he was being treated right.’

  Fenchurch held his gaze, trying to tease out any crumbs of truth in there. ‘And was he?’

  ‘Are you saying I’ve got something to do with this?’

  The cold wall leeched through Fenchurch’s damp shirt. ‘What was he fed?’

  ‘A sandwich. Tuna, I think. Came from the canteen.’ Martin burped into his fist. Mostly. ‘I had half of it. Wish I’d waited for that ruby—’

  ‘For once, I’m thankful for your gluttony.’ Fenchurch tried to structure his thoughts into something coherent, fighting the tiredness like it was a rising tide.

  A cabbie probably rapes and most likely kills a lawyer. Looks guilty as sin. Catch him without much effort, find drugs and the murder weapon.

  Then this happens.

  Who did it? How did they get in there? Did it happen before the arrest? Or after?

  He glared at Martin. ‘This the first time you’ve lost a murder suspect?’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘You heard me.’ Fenchurch leaned in close, almost tasting his sweat. ‘Has this sort of thing happened on your watch before?’

  ‘Look, Inspector, that boy’s still alive. Nobody’s lost anything.’

  ‘I saw you sleeping.’ Fenchurch grabbed hold of his shirt. ‘It’s your bloody job to spot if there was something wrong with him. It shouldn’t be up to me.’

  Martin seemed to shrink away, his shoulders hunching and his chin digging into his chest. ‘I can only apologise . . .’

  ‘I’ll tell that to the boy’s mother, shall I? B
ig Martin sends his apologies.’ Fenchurch hauled him to his feet. ‘Is this the first time?’

  ‘Whatever’s happened here, it ain’t my doing.’

  The door juddered open and Nelson stormed in, his face twisted into a dark scowl, Naismith following.

  ‘Jon.’ Fenchurch stood up straight and puffed out his shirt. ‘Constable, I need to know your movements over the last few hours.’

  Nelson folded his arms across his chest. ‘Except for when we were having a catch-up, guv, he’s been with me all the time.’

  ‘And while you were doing that, I had a chat with that SOCO geezer.’ Naismith shrugged his shoulders. ‘The one with the piercings. Clooney or something?’

  Fenchurch curled his lip at Naismith, flashing teeth. ‘Constable, I want you to fill out a statement detailing your movements, okay?’ He nodded at Nelson. ‘Jon, same with you, and I need it all confirmed.’

  ‘Guv.’ Nelson led Naismith away from the Custody Suite.

  Fenchurch watched them leave, shaking his head. He got out his phone and dialled DCI Alan Docherty.

  Took a few rings before it was answered with a groan. ‘Si, do you know what time it is?’

  ‘Got some bad news, boss.’

  Through the window, London was a sea of light. The last night bus blurred along Euston Road, the top deck half full, trailed by taxis, like a presidential motorcade of drunks.

  ‘You can talk to me, Simon.’ Temple sipped from his machine tea. ‘You do know that, right?’

  Fenchurch blew on his drink. A scum had covered the surface, like a rank garden pond. ‘Funny how every time I do talk to you, it ends up back with Abi.’

  ‘Simon, you told me there are no secrets between you two these days.’

  ‘There aren’t.’ Fenchurch touched his lips to the tea. Still far too hot. ‘Doesn’t mean I don’t want the chance to tell her my secrets before you do.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry.’ Temple patted Fenchurch’s shoulder. ‘She’s just worried about you. Simon, you’ve got to stop putting up the Berlin Wall, okay? Talk to her. Share with her.’

  Floodlights shone on the grey stone opposite, some London bastardisation of an Oxbridge quad. The hospital corridor was dim and dark. Didn’t even have that cabbage smell, just cleaning fluids strong enough to burn your sinuses at a thousand paces.