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

by Ed James

  ‘Thanks.’ Fenchurch marched over to the door and knocked. Felt like he’d popped the kneecap right off.

  Something clattered behind the door, then it opened. A heavy man leered out, tall and hairy, wearing a designer suit smudged with egg yolk and red sauce. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Simon Fenchurch.’ He peered behind the doctor, though he pretty much filled the doorway. ‘Is Abi here?’

  ‘I’m Mr Stephenson. Come on in.’ He stood to the side and let Fenchurch past.

  Abi was lying on the bed, her belly covered in gunk. A ringlet slipped from her ponytail, obscuring the dimple on her cheek. A greyscale image slithered slowly on the screen next to her. Then she noticed him. ‘Simon.’

  ‘Sorry, love. Been a hell of a day.’ Fenchurch leaned over to kiss her. Her perfume smelled like walking through a Highland wood. He collapsed into a chair by the bed. Could do with lying down on that, just for a few minutes. ‘I was in here a couple of hours ago.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Long story.’ Fenchurch reached over and kissed her on the forehead. ‘Have I missed anything?’

  ‘Just about everything.’

  Fenchurch smiled at the doctor. Lank grey hair, with a rash of grey stubble crawling over his grey skin, Stephenson was that John Major Spitting Image puppet. ‘Can I get the highlights, then?’

  Stephenson picked up a paddle and ran it over Abi’s tummy. ‘The good news, Mr Fenchurch, is baby is healthy.’

  The grey dots on the screen coalesced into a king prawn, its tiny heartbeat squishing the gunk around it.

  Fenchurch slumped back in the chair. The tiniest bump in the world on Abi’s stomach.

  His baby . . . Their baby . . . Living, its little heart pumping away.

  And healthy. Thank God.

  Another chance to do it right.

  He sat forward, rubbing his hands together. ‘So what’s the bad news?’

  Stephenson glanced over at Abi. ‘Mrs Fenchurch doesn’t wish to know the gender.’

  Abi shifted round, getting another view of the little monster bug. ‘I don’t know why you’d want to know before you give birth. It ruins the surprise.’

  ‘It’s a surprise whether we find out now or in seven months, love.’ Fenchurch squeezed her hand. ‘But it’s your choice. We’ll wait.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She returned the squeeze.

  Stephenson put the paddle down. ‘Well, that’s us for now. We should do another test in a month’s time.’

  ‘It used to be at eighteen weeks.’ Fenchurch frowned at him. ‘Is that because of Abi’s age?’

  ‘It’s best practice with older mothers, yes. Mrs Fenchurch will be forty by the time baby arrives, so I’d like to keep a close eye on—’ Stephenson grinned. ‘On baby. And on Mrs Fenchurch. As I’m sure you both know, there can be complications with mothers over the age of thirty-five. Over forty and the risk factors are a lot higher.’ He stretched out and fiddled with his stethoscope. ‘But there’s nothing concrete to worry about at this stage, okay?’

  ‘I know all that stuff.’ Fenchurch tried to swallow the lump in his throat. ‘Have you tested for Down’s?’

  ‘I’ve taken a sample, from which I shall perform what we call the combined test. It’ll assess the risk levels for Down’s, Edwards’ or Patau’s syndromes. The res—’

  ‘What are those other two?’

  ‘They’re unfortunately fatal for most babies.’

  Fenchurch stared at Abi, then at her exposed belly. ‘So our child could die?’

  ‘Mr Fenchurch, that’s only possible if he or she is at risk.’ Stephenson wrapped his stethoscope round his neck like a scarf. ‘The results will take a couple of weeks, though we might be able to accelerate that using some new techniques.’

  ‘I’d appreciate it.’ Fenchurch winked at Abi. ‘But other than that?’

  ‘We’ll just need to keep on top of it.’ Stephenson tugged down the stethoscope like he was doing a lat pulldown. ‘Now, if you could make a follow-up appointment with the nurse on your way out? I’ll leave you to get changed.’ He squelched across the floor to the door, his bright-green crocs clashing with his navy suit, and left them to it.

  Fenchurch got up and handed Abi her trousers. ‘Charming bastard.’

  ‘At least he turned up on time.’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe the night shift I’ve just had, love.’

  ‘I’ll get it out of you later, Simon.’ She wriggled off the bed. ‘I’ve got to get to work.’

  ‘Right.’ Fenchurch swallowed hard, the lump forcing its way back up into his mouth. ‘So we’ll just wait, yeah?’

  Abi shook out her trousers, dust flying around the room. ‘Are you worried?’

  Fenchurch’s focus settled on her stomach as she pulled her trousers on. ‘I know the risks but—’

  ‘Having a doctor talk about it makes it real?’

  Fenchurch collapsed onto the bed, the wheels squeaking against his weight. ‘Our baby could have Down’s.’

  She grabbed his shoulder and pumped it. ‘If it does, we’ll love him or her just the same. Okay?’

  ‘I know that. It’s just . . .’ Fenchurch let out his breath. ‘At my age, it’ll be extra hard.’

  ‘You old bastard.’ A smile flickered across her lips, swept away by the tide of a frown. ‘I saw the paper.’

  ‘I’ve been kicking arse about it, love. I’m really sorry for bringing this back up.’

  Abi eased off her gown and picked up her blouse, just standing there in her bra and trousers. ‘Your bloody father . . .’ She wiped away a tear. ‘But, if someone knows anything about what happened . . .’

  Fenchurch pulled her close and kissed the top of her head. ‘I’ll have a stronger word with him.’

  Fenchurch killed the Mondeo’s engine and listened to it grind to a halt, the suspension slumping away. He picked up the Chilango’s bag and slumped back in his seat.

  Their flat was empty in the sunshine, just one of a long, squat row of brick tenements without a roof. Half of them were townhouses, the other half flats. Some worth millions, theirs much less.

  Ahead, the pavement where Chloe . . .

  Fenchurch swallowed the lump in his throat and got out of the car, zapping it as the door slammed. His stomach was growling, but the thought of food just . . .

  Jesus, keep it together.

  ‘Excuse me, mate.’ A liveried delivery driver stood by a van, lugging a big package. ‘You wouldn’t happen to know an Abigail Fenchurch, would you? I’ve been buzzing but—’

  ‘She’s my wife.’

  ‘Lifesaver.’ The driver handed the box to Fenchurch. Weighed a ton. He had to stick it on the car roof. ‘Can you sign this?’

  Fenchurch snatched the digital device thing and scrawled something vaguely resembling his signature across it. ‘That it?’

  ‘Cheers, mate.’ The driver strolled over to his van, whistling that new Stone Roses song. Or what could pass for it.

  Fenchurch hefted up the box and walked it over to the building door, his burrito bag swinging underneath. He got out his keys and entered. Nobody on the stairs, thank God. He staggered up, dropping the bag just the once, and got inside the flat. The telltale click gave it away as he dumped the box down. Not another one . . .

  He tore at the tape, pulling it from the cardboard in a single rip. An antique typewriter, the fifth that month. He carried it through to the spare room and put it with the others.

  A row of the old keyboards sat on the dresser, various bits hanging off them. One was on the desk by the window, loaded with paper. Fenchurch hit a few keys, the hammers clacking as they spelled out C-H-L-O-E. He yanked the paper through the mechanism and twisted it into a ball.

  Chloe’s old room. No longer a museum to her, just full of the shit Abi had replaced her with.

  Fenchurch shut the door and went back into the hall. He dumped his keys in the bowl and got out his mobile. Three missed calls, all from Dad. He took the burrito through to the bedroom, blinking
in the bright sunlight. He rolled the blinds down and collapsed onto the bed, pulling off his shirt and dumping it on the floor.

  Bloody hell, I am so tired . . .

  He redialled Dad’s number, and it rang and rang and rang. Here comes the voicemail.

  ‘Simon?’

  ‘Dad. Finally.’

  ‘What’s happened, son?’

  ‘What?’ Fenchurch tightened his grip on the phone. ‘Nothing’s happened, Dad. Why?’

  ‘Oh.’ Sounded like Dad was in a café. No doubt out at Lewisham, charming the canteen servers. ‘What did you want, then?’

  ‘I’ve seen this morning’s paper.’ Fenchurch kicked off his left shoe, getting a satisfying thunk on the floor. ‘Then I had breakfast with Liam Sharpe.’

  Dad gasped. ‘Has someone got in touch?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  No response, just the clanking of cutlery.

  ‘What’ve you been up to with him, Dad?’

  ‘Nothing, son.’

  ‘Sure about that?’

  Dad let out a sigh. ‘I met him for a coffee last week and we had a chat about this story going in the paper. I told him about all that private-detective shit I was doing when Chloe . . . When . . . You remember? Your mother went mental at me. Didn’t achieve anything. He didn’t even put it in the story.’

  ‘There are two recent photos of you next to the story.’ Fenchurch let the pillows snake round his neck. So easy to just let go . . . ‘Liam seemed to be under the impression you were working with him.’

  ‘Well, he’s got the wrong end of the stick, son.’ Dad cackled down the line. ‘I’d not use that lad for changing a lightbulb. There’s nothing going on.’

  ‘Dad . . . If there is . . . Just be careful, okay?’

  ‘Always am, son.’ Dad left a pause, filled with background chatter. ‘How’s Abi?’

  ‘She’s pissed off with you. You really need to make it up to her.’

  ‘Right, right. We still on for dinner tonight?’

  ‘For now.’ Fenchurch kicked the other shoe off. ‘I’ve really got to get to sleep.’

  ‘I’ll see you later, then.’

  ‘Just keep yourself out of trouble, Dad.’ Fenchurch killed the call and lay back, his head on the tall pile of pillows. He untwisted the foil at the top of his burrito, his mouth watering, and reached over to set the alarm clock.

  Six hours of sleep would have to be enough . . .

  Day 2

  Back Shift

  Friday, 10th June 2016

  Chapter Fourteen

  Fenchurch dipped his hands into the soapy water and picked up a slimy plate, the suds sliding off as he held it under the cold tap.

  Blur’s oiky noise faded out on the radio. ‘Good afternoon. The news at two o’clock. The former Prime Minister, Ted Heath, has died at his home in—’

  Fenchurch twisted the dial and cut the voice dead. He caught his reflection in the window. More than a flash of grey in his blond hair. Alan Docherty was right — the soul patch made him look like a twat.

  Through the glass, Chloe was downstairs in her full England kit, the lilywhite glowing in the sun, the red offset St George’s cross on her right shoulder. She skipped across the blue-chalk hopscotch grid on the opposite pavement and came to a halt, glancing up at the window and grinning at him, her mother’s dimple in her cheek, her blonde pigtails dancing.

  ‘Simon, have you seen this?’ Abi marched into the kitchen, waving a sheet of paper in the air. ‘Another bloody garage bill.’

  ‘That was last week.’ Fenchurch turned round and folded his wet arms. ‘You know the ignition’s been playing up, love.’

  ‘That car’s costing a fortune!’

  ‘I’m a DI now. We’ll manage.’

  ‘I’m not sure—’

  SCREEECH.

  VRRRRRRRRRR.

  Fenchurch swung round. The hopscotch grid was empty. Chloe wasn’t there. ‘Shit!’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Chloe!’ Fenchurch rushed through the flat and bounced down the stairs three at a time. His foot gave way halfway down. He caught himself on the banister and hauled himself up, then powered out of the front door onto the street.

  Spinning around.

  Trying to see her.

  Trying to spot her.

  Trying to—

  ‘Mr Fenchurch?’

  He swung round. Amy was licking a red lolly, holding up another one. ‘I got an ice cream for Chloe.’

  ‘Where did she go?’

  ‘She was waiting here for her lolly.’

  ‘Have you seen anyone?’ Liverpool Road was empty and quiet. ‘Anyone at all?’

  ‘There was a car.’

  ‘What kind?’

  ‘I didn’t see.’

  ‘Stay there, Amy.’ Fenchurch sprinted down to the end of the street. Nothing moving in either direction on Liverpool Road. He fished in his pocket for his mobile and dialled 999. ‘This is DI Simon Fenchurch, I need urgent assistance at—’

  A man stood at the end of the street beside a grey Volvo, or was it a Saab? He was over ten foot tall, holding Chloe up over his head, swinging her out like a kettle bell. ‘Hey, little girl, do you want some sweets?’

  Chloe squealed out, laughing. ‘Bye-bye, Daddy!’

  ‘—Chloe!’ Fenchurch opened his eyes, his voice echoing round the empty room. His chest heaved, sweat all up his back, the bedsheet yanked out so he was lying on the bare mattress.

  He lay back, eyes shut. Just a dream. He rubbed his eye sockets, encrusted with sleep. Just another dream. The same bloody one.

  He reached over to his bedside table and wrote ‘Volvo’. The fifth time it’d appeared now. Could he really remember it? Was it just wish fulfilment?

  The clock radio clicked round to 15.00. ‘—continue the build-up to tonight’s Euro 2016 opener at the Stade de France between the hosts and Romania. But first, the news with—’

  Fenchurch snapped it off. A half-eaten burrito lay on the bedside table. No time for a workout today. He got up and padded towards the shower.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Bloody sodding, buggering, bastarding hell.

  Fenchurch pulled in next to the Bentley again and took another look at the space.

  You’ve got Advanced Drivers’ Training, you stupid git. You can get into that.

  Fenchurch slid the Mondeo back and swung the wheel round, missing the Bentley’s wing mirror by inches. Not lost my mojo after all. He got out of the car and trotted over the road, yawning as he entered the building. Another bloody day. Same as it ever was . . .

  Fenchurch made for the security door and patted in his pockets for his ID.

  ‘Si!’

  Fenchurch swung round.

  Steve, the Desk Sergeant, was sweating over by the front desk. A hulking brute with a skinhead, he was a good couple of stones heavier than he should be. ‘Got a minute?’

  Fenchurch trudged over, still yawning into his hand. ‘What’s up?’

  Steve nodded over to the side. ‘Geezer to see you.’

  Lord Ingham hauled himself to his feet. Despite the twenty-odd-degree heat outside, he was wearing a long duster and a trilby. He grinned at Fenchurch like they were old roommates at Eton. ‘Inspector, thanks for your efforts in apprehending my assailant yesterday afternoon.’

  Fenchurch rubbed at his burning ears. ‘All part of the job, sir.’

  ‘Oh, poppycock. You saved my life.’ Ingham handed him a designer paper bag, black with a logo embossed in black. ‘A small token of my gratitude.’

  Fenchurch peered inside the bag, heavier than it looked. A long black box sat at the bottom, some arcane lettering indented into the wood. Dunpender or something. Some stupid ornament . . . ‘Well, I appreciate it.’

  ‘I imagine you officers still enjoy a tipple.’ Ingham winked like a grandfather handing over a bag of sherbet lemons. ‘Or have things changed so much since my day, eh?’

  Fenchurch checked the contents again. ‘Sorry, what is th
is?’

  ‘It’s Scotch, my dear boy. Single malt.’ Ingham clapped Fenchurch on the arm. ‘And a jolly good one, too.’

  Fenchurch tried to push the bag back. ‘I can’t accept this, sir.’

  ‘Accept what?’ Another wink. ‘I shall be seeing you, Inspector.’ Ingham marched past him and doffed his hat to Steve. ‘Sergeant.’

  Steve stepped over the tiles, eyes on Ingham through the window as he got into the waiting Bentley. ‘That bloke used to be Foreign Secretary, didn’t he?’

  ‘Something like that.’ Fenchurch swung the bag back and forth. ‘What the hell do I do with this?’

  ‘What is it?’ Steve grabbed the bag and it rattled. ‘Let me see . . .’ He reached in and took out the box. Then he whistled. ‘Lovely jubbly . . .’ He couldn’t keep his eyes from it. ‘That’s their centenary edition, you know? Bit of a story about it, as it happens. Not many got made at all. Worth a pretty penny.’

  ‘Shit.’ Fenchurch wrapped the bag around the box. ‘I’ll have to bloody log this, then.’

  ‘Too right. If you fancy sharing, though . . .’

  Fenchurch snuck another peek at the whisky container thing before wrapping the bag around it and dumping it in his bottom drawer.

  Becoming a bloody cliché now. Just need some always-clean glasses in the desk drawer.

  He unlocked his computer and typed DUNPENDER CENTENARY EDITION, then clicked enter. His eyes scanned down the search results. A few news stories about a dead body at the distillery, then some shopping listings, some images of the black box standing proud behind the amber spirit.

  What. The. Hell?

  Four grand for a bottle of bloody whisky?

  Fenchurch picked up his tea mug and sipped, his hands shaking. Shit. That screamed bribe. And Steve wasn’t exactly Secret Squirrel about these things.

  What the hell was Ingham playing at? Four grand’s worth of whisky to a cop. Maybe the toad-faced arse candle didn’t know that was a month’s salary to us mere mortals.

  A knock on the door. Sounded like Thor’s hammer striking the wood.

  Just Docherty, his face like Thor had been at it with some clouds. ‘Afternoon, Si. Nice of you to join us.’ He stepped in and prowled around the office.