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

by Ed James

  ‘Take a seat.’ Fenchurch stayed standing.

  ‘Don’t know if I’m coming or going.’ Naismith slumped into the chair. ‘When can I get off home?’

  ‘After we’ve asked you some questions, Constable.’ Fenchurch kept eye contact with Naismith. ‘Have you finished your statement?’

  ‘DS Nelson’s going through it just now.’

  Fenchurch sat next to Reed, his keys digging into his thighs. He adjusted them and stretched forward, speaking in an undertone. ‘I need to ask you about DC Chris Johnson.’

  Naismith’s mouth twisted into a scowl. ‘What’s he done now?’

  ‘I want to know everything there is about Johnson.’ Fenchurch jabbed a finger in the air. ‘For starters, I don’t like bent cops.’

  ‘You think I’m bent?’ Naismith laughed. ‘Is that what this is? You keeping me close so you can keep an eye on me?’

  Fenchurch held his gaze. ‘You’re providing key information to this case.’

  ‘I’m not stupid.’ Naismith raised a finger. ‘And I’m not bent.’

  ‘What about Johnson? Is he connected to Frank Blunden?’

  ‘Blunden? He’s just some git messing with us.’ Naismith clasped his hands together, locking his thumbs in place. ‘Me and Chris only got stuff about Shelvey. I know a few guys who got tipped off about drug deals. Another about some gang of black kids nicking mobile phones.’

  Acid burnt at Fenchurch’s gullet. ‘Did either of you take money from him?’

  ‘I never.’

  ‘And Johnson?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask him.’ He crunched back in his seat and started up the old thumb twiddling. Good enough to compete at Rio. ‘Look, sir, I’ll level with you here, okay? I worked with Chris Johnson for a few years. Always had to pull him back.’

  ‘At City Hall?’

  Naismith rolled his eyes. ‘What Chris got up to at City Hall was—’ He chuckled, cutting it off with a snort. ‘We was working for some CO11 DS, Greaves or something. You spoken to her?’

  ‘I believe you’re referring to DS Michelle Grove.’ Reed narrowed her eyes at him. ‘We have spoken to her. It’s our understanding that DC Johnson assaulted Mr Shelvey.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘It was all a blur.’ Naismith ran a hand through the stubble on top of his head, making what was there stand on end. ‘That kid came at us, all tooled up. Next thing I know, he’s on the ground, Chris is kicking and punching him. But he’s got that anger in him, yeah? He’s gone over the top a few times. He lost his job because of it, you know?’

  ‘Didn’t stop him returning, though, did it?’ Fenchurch rested against the desk, arms spread wide. ‘You saw what happened down in the Custody Suite, didn’t you?’

  Naismith’s eyes bulged. ‘That was Shelvey?’

  ‘Johnson was here last night. Could he have killed him?’

  ‘What, some sort of revenge thing?’ Naismith frowned. ‘Maybe. Wouldn’t put it past him. He’s got a load of mates in here. He’ll have heard Shelvey’s been brought in. Doesn’t take a lot to—’ He drew a line with his finger across his throat. ‘How did he die?’

  One of those mates wouldn’t be you, would it? ‘We’re still awaiting the post-mortem.’

  ‘Right. Well, you’ve heard what I’ve got to say.’ Naismith pushed his chair back and got to his feet. ‘You need anything else from me?’

  Fenchurch got a shrug off Reed. He checked his watch, just past half seven. ‘I need you in at five p.m. for the back shift, okay?’

  ‘What?’ Naismith held his hands out wide. ‘I’m supposed to be nights this week.’

  ‘Constable, you’re seconded to a murder case. End of.’

  Fenchurch opened the office door and stepped inside. Absolutely starving. Need a cereal bar from my—

  ‘The Scarlet Pimpernel returns.’ DCI Alan Docherty was in DI Mulholland’s chair, feet up on the desk, sitting at right angles to Fenchurch’s, dowsed in street light. His suit hung lank off his skinny body, like a wraith. He sat upright as the lights flickered on. ‘Well, I’ve just spent a couple of hours up at University College fighting off that kid’s solicitor. Have we got any idea who killed him?’

  Fenchurch perched on the edge of his desk. ‘Maybe.’ He shrugged off his jacket and slung it on the coat rack. ‘DC Chris Johnson.’ He tossed a paper file over at Docherty. ‘Battered Shelvey at a protest. Lost his job. As happens all the time, he’s back in over at the Yard.’

  Docherty scanned across the file. ‘How likely is he?’

  ‘He was here last night. We should treat him as a suspect.’ Fenchurch folded his arms. ‘There’s a possible connection to Blunden. Doubtful we could nail him, mind.’

  Docherty dumped the file on Mulholland’s desk. ‘It was you who found Shelvey, right?’

  ‘Martin did, boss.’ Fenchurch unfolded his arms and stretched out. ‘Shelvey’s got form. We were going to try and force a confession.’

  ‘What’s this new information?’

  ‘Possibly history of attempted sexual assault. Oh, and the murder weapon matched the victim.’

  ‘That old chestnut.’

  ‘Look, Johnson has a mate, Clive Naismith. Think they were partners before he got the old heave ho. They’re a bit too close to Blunden. I want to second Naismith to the investigation.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Keep him close in case anything slips.’ Fenchurch let his arms fall down to his sides. ‘But he’s the one giving us the background on Shelvey. I want that watertight.’

  ‘Right. Fine. I’ll raise it.’

  Fenchurch waited for him to write something down. Nothing. ‘He’s based in Brick Lane.’

  ‘And I said I’ll raise it.’ Docherty blew air up his face as he grabbed the file back. Then he dropped it with a smack. ‘The Independent Police Complaints Commission are coming in to investigate the boy’s death. This station’ll become infested with the buggers, just you watch.’ A finger pointed at Fenchurch. ‘Better not be any skeletons in your closet.’

  Cheeky bastard. Fenchurch held the glare. ‘You know all of them, boss.’

  ‘I better.’ Docherty scribbled something on his notepad. ‘DI Mulholland’s in with Shelvey’s mother. Not a very happy woman.’

  ‘Why Mulholland?’

  ‘Why not? She’s got no connection to the case, Si. You do.’

  ‘But I had nothing to do with the boy’s death.’

  ‘Then that’s what the IPCC will find at the inquest.’ Docherty scribbled another note and grimaced. ‘I’ve got an appointment with the Commissioner and a shitload of senior officers at nine. That’s not a good sign. You saw that guy dying in custody up in Fife last year?’

  ‘I take it Fife’s in Scotland, sir.’

  ‘Of course it is. Christ.’ Docherty dropped his pen on the desk. ‘That Shelvey prick should be getting a grilling right now, but the focus will be on some vigilante taking out a suspect without due process. The press won’t see it as us catching a young lawyer’s killer.’ He reached down and picked up a newspaper, dumping it on the desk. ‘I see this has finally landed.’

  Fenchurch didn’t even need to see the paper’s masthead. Blood flushed up his arms. ‘You should be talking to my dad about it, boss.’

  ‘Aye, I know. It’s just . . . shite timing.’ Docherty tapped at the page. ‘Plus I didn’t know it was going to be this in-depth. There are four photos in there of you and your old boy outside your house. Abi can’t be happy with that.’

  ‘It doesn’t say we still live there.’

  ‘Whatever. Now every idiot in London knows your face.’ Docherty folded the paper in half. ‘Christ.’

  ‘There’s nothing I can do about it, boss.’

  ‘Aye, now.’

  Fenchurch got to his feet, scraping the chair legs across the threadbare carpet. ‘Thanks for the sympathy.’

  Docherty swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. ‘This Liam boy’s behind it
, isn’t he?’

  ‘I kept warning him. Dad, too.’ Fenchurch collapsed back into his seat. ‘But you know what he’s like.’

  ‘Don’t I just.’ Docherty held up the paper. ‘You sure this is the right thing to do? It’s not got you anywhere in almost eleven years.’

  ‘There’s new stuff in there.’ Blood boiled behind Fenchurch’s ears. ‘I remembered seeing a car.’

  ‘Remembered?’

  ‘I’ve . . .’ Fenchurch coughed. ‘I had regressive hypnosis last month. It made things a lot clearer.’

  ‘Hang on a sec . . .’ Docherty leafed through the paper, taking care to lick his fingers. ‘Ah, here we go. Twelfth November is . . . Ah, yes, Scorpio. “You will meet a tall, dark stranger who kidnapped your daughter eleven years ago.” Christ’s sake, Si, sure it’s not scrambled your brain?’ He tossed the paper into the bin and got out his phone. ‘Speaking of scrambled brains, I got a text from none other than Jason sodding Bell.’

  Jesus Christ.

  Docherty waved his mobile around. ‘You know he’s got a DCI gig?’

  Fenchurch clenched his fists in his pockets, trying to hide his rage under the desk. ‘Sir, Bell’s—’

  ‘Simon, this crap with him has to stop, okay?’ Docherty got up from Mulholland’s chair and sat on Fenchurch’s desk. Close enough to grab. ‘I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. Your childish games with him and Mulholland and anyone else I can name . . . It all needs to stop.’

  The drums were back, thundering in Fenchurch’s ears. ‘Come on, boss—’

  ‘Any dealings with Bell come through me, okay? You need to speak to either of his areas, you come through me.’ Docherty snorted through his nostrils. ‘Through. Me.’

  ‘Look, whatever, you need to clear my team to access his CCTV. He’s got the keys to the kingdom, and DS Reed’s struggling to get anywhere.’

  ‘Right. Well, I’ll call Bell.’

  ‘Cheers.’ Fenchurch flashed him a smile. ‘A standing order would help.’

  ‘I’m not promising the Earth . . .’ Docherty huffed out acid breath and screwed up his face, propping himself against Fenchurch’s desk.

  A rap on the door. Paul Temple stood there, grinning away. ‘Am I interrupting something?’

  ‘I’m just waiting for you, Paul.’ Docherty stabbed a finger at Fenchurch. ‘Mind what I’m saying now, aye?’

  ‘Boss.’ Fenchurch tried a smile at Temple, but there was too much poison in his veins. ‘What are you still doing here?’

  ‘A DCI Bell told me to advise on the prosecution of a Steven Shelvey.’

  ‘Christ in a Volvo . . .’ Fenchurch got up again and marched over to Docherty. ‘You see what I’m up against here? Bell’s pissing about playing politics, while we’re investigating a murder.’

  Docherty prodded Fenchurch in the chest. ‘Right, I’ll make sure Bell disappears in a puff of smoke.’ He nodded at Temple. ‘Come on, Paul. Let’s have ourselves an adult chat.’ He left the room, Temple pursing his lips at Fenchurch.

  Fenchurch collapsed back into his chair, knackered. So bloody tired.

  Another pile of Brownie points swallowed up by that dickhead Bell.

  ‘Oy!’ Docherty craned his neck around the door. ‘Get your arse out of here, okay? Back in tonight, okay?’

  ‘Boss.’ Fenchurch got up again and paused by the door. ‘You remember I’ve got a . . . dinner tomorrow night. Shit. Tonight.’

  Docherty cocked his eyebrows. ‘Sure this isn’t you sneaking off to watch the France game?’

  ‘What? No, of course it—’

  ‘Shite.’ Docherty winced. ‘It’s Chloe’s thing.’ He screwed his eyes up tight. ‘Sorry, Si.’

  ‘Sorry you forgot or sorry I can’t go?’

  ‘Si, I can’t just let you—’

  ‘Boss, this has been in the diary since April. Just because you’ve decided to change the shift pattern—’

  Docherty huffed out a pathetic sigh. ‘Okay, it’s ten past six now. Get home, get some kip, then back for four p.m. I’ll need you to make up the time on Saturday, okay?’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Still early, but the café was buzzing. Most of the customers sat in booths, hiding behind laptop lids, headphones on, clinking spoons at their granola or crunching into bagels. A waitress strolled around, dressed like she was in a diner on Route 66, pouring out fresh filter coffee for people.

  Fenchurch bit into his fried-egg roll. Yolk dripped down his chin, splodging onto the plate. Beautiful. But lacking in something. He opened the hot-sauce bottle and tipped some in, then had another bite. That’s it.

  He sipped at his smoothie. Raspberry and nettle or something. Half decent. Then he got out his phone and checked for messages. Still nothing from—

  ‘Thought you’d be a sausage guy.’ Liam Sharpe stood over him, but only just. Guy wasn’t much over five and a half foot, even with those platform boots on. His bright eyes hid behind a lumberjack beard, stretching scarf-like over his jacket. He sat opposite Fenchurch and dumped his record bag on the floor, sweeping a hand over his shaved head, his comb-forward consigned to history. ‘Egg, right?’

  ‘And habanero sauce.’ Fenchurch mopped the yolk on his chin with a napkin. ‘I stopped eating sausages when they said it caused cancer. Same with bacon.’

  Liam adjusted his record bag, frowning. ‘When was that?’

  ‘November, I think.’ Fenchurch dropped the napkin onto the table. ‘You’re the journalist.’

  ‘I run a clickbait farm, mate.’ Liam reached into his bag for a copy of the Post.

  Fenchurch had lost count of how many he’d seen that day, and it wasn’t even eight o’clock. ‘I’ve read it.’

  ‘And what did you think?’

  Fenchurch took another bite of eggy mush, the fire building up. ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘You don’t think it’s any good?’

  ‘I’m not interested in the journalistic merits of the article. Just the outcome.’

  ‘Very Machiavellian.’

  ‘I was thinking Orwellian, but I’ll let you have that.’ Fenchurch finished his smoothie, sucking on the straw until it rattled. ‘You going to order something?’

  ‘Wish I had the time.’ Liam picked up a menu and absently turned it over in his hands. ‘Yvette is busting my balls at work, so I’ll need to piss off soon.’

  ‘Enjoying your new gig?’

  ‘Beats writing twenty “You’ll never believe what happened next!” articles a day.’ Liam placed the menu back in the holder. ‘Not sure I’m cut out for it.’

  ‘You’ll be fine.’ Fenchurch nodded at the paper. ‘That’s a well-written article.’

  ‘Thought you didn’t assess the journalistic merits?’ Liam grinned, then flagged down the passing waitress. ‘Can I get a large latte to take away, please? Extra shot.’ She scribbled on her pad and wandered off. Mischief twinkled in Liam’s eyes. ‘Your old man says “hi”.’

  Fenchurch dropped the last handful of roll. ‘You shouldn’t be involving him.’

  ‘He’s involved me.’

  Fenchurch tore his roll in half and smeared his plate with the yellow mess. ‘The sort of people you’re investigating don’t tend to take too kindly to people like you nosing around. Or my bloody father.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Liam smiled as the waitress handed him the coffee. He wrapped his hands around the cardboard sleeve. ‘Do you mind paying for this?’

  ‘So long as you keep my dad out of whatever you’re up to.’

  ‘It’d help if you listened to me. He’s involving me.’ Liam sucked coffee through the lid. ‘Besides, anything we get will go straight to you.’ He raised his cup, shaking his head. ‘Cheers for this.’

  ‘I’m serious.’ Fenchurch grabbed Liam’s wrists. ‘This isn’t a game, okay? You’re not in that job two months. You don’t know the rules. Remember what happened to your girlfriend. She was poking around where she shouldn’t have been. Someone paid to have her killed.’

  Liam p
ulled his hands away, bumping into the coffee and spilling some on the table. ‘You think I can forget, do you?’

  ‘Just make sure you’re safe, okay?’ Fenchurch bit into the roll. ‘And keep my old man out of it.’

  Liam got to his feet and wrapped his bag around his thick coat. ‘I’ll see you around.’

  Fenchurch opened his flat door, clutching his mobile tight to his head.

  The plummy voice rasped in his ear, ‘We’re sorry but . . .’ Crackle, hiss. ‘Em, eh, Ian Fenchurch.’ Crackle. ‘What’s—’ BEEP. ‘This fu—’ Hiss. ‘. . . is unable to take your call. Please leave a message after the tone.’

  BEEEEP!

  Fenchurch sat at the kitchen table. ‘Dad, it’s Simon. Give me a bell. Oh, and change your voicemail answering message. Cheers.’ He ended the call and dropped his phone onto the wood.

  Just after nine. Back in for four. Still nowhere near enough—

  The Post lay open at the photo of his father, filling most of a page. Classic tabloid shot: their block of flats behind him, his old man brooding at the camera, his stupid moustache ruining the effect.

  Dots of moisture covered the paper. Tears. The picture of Chloe was almost smudged out, just a pink mush with pigtails.

  Abi . . .

  Fenchurch grabbed his phone and dialled Abi’s number.

  She answered before it even rang. ‘Simon, where are you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’ve got the baby’s ultrasound now!’

  Fenchurch sprinted down the corridor, his old man’s knees twanging as he went, then cut round a tight bend.

  ‘Watch it!’ An orderly swerved the wheelchair out of his path, an old man muttering to himself.

  ‘Sorry . . .’ Fenchurch ran on, feet squeaking off the floor. He burst into the waiting room, the walls greener than a farm, and stopped at the counter, chest heaving. ‘Got an . . . appointment . . . Fenchurch.’

  The nurse flicked her glasses up and snorted at him. ‘Like that station?’ She tapped at her computer. ‘You’re with Mr Stephenson.’ She waved an arm to a door in the corridor behind her. ‘Through there.’