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

by Ed James

  ‘Boss, I need to have a word.’

  A young woman stood by the door, tall and waif-like, her hair dark enough to be delivered by a coal van.

  ‘This is Zenna Abercrombie from the IPCC Commissioner’s office.’ Docherty flicked up his eyebrows and tucked his tongue into his cheek. He stayed by the door, like he didn’t trust Fenchurch to leave the varnish off the truth.

  ‘Good afternoon, Inspector.’ Zenna Abercrombie gave a tight smile as she sat across from him, her eyes scanning up and down. Felt like she was monitoring his heart rate. She glanced over at the door. ‘DCI Docherty said I could have some of your time?’

  Docherty stepped into the room and tilted his head at Fenchurch. ‘Si, can you—’ His Airwave blared out. He reached into his pocket and checked the display. ‘It’s the boss. Give me a minute.’ He stomped out into the corridor.

  Fenchurch wished he could fire lasers into Docherty’s arse. Or piles at the very least. He gave Zenna a tight smile. ‘So?’

  Zenna slumped down into a chair. ‘So.’

  Another glug of tea, his hand just about steady. ‘Zenna, eh? Never heard that name before.’

  ‘Mum was Greek.’ She opened a leather document holder and got out some paperwork. ‘It means “daughter of Zeus”. He’d be preferable to my real father.’

  ‘Tell me about it . . .’

  She looked up, frowning. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Nothing. What can I help you with?’

  ‘As I’m sure you’re aware, we’ve been drafted in to investigate the death of Steven Robert Shelvey whilst in custody.’ Zenna handed him a wad of paper, at least twenty sheets thick. Didn’t even look padded. ‘There will, of course, be an inquest. This is the draft Terms of Reference for my initial investigation leading up to the opening of the inquest.’ She tapped the document. ‘I require you to review it by close of business tonight.’ She slid the pages over to him. ‘I’ve sent you an invite for a meeting at five p.m. so we can go through the points in person.’

  ‘That’s an hour. I won’t have time to do it justice.’ Fenchurch squinted at the microscopic text, arching his eyebrow like that’d have any impact. He dumped the document into his drawer next to the whisky. Better not let her see that. ‘I’ll have a look when I get the chance.’

  ‘It’s critical.’

  ‘Sure it is.’ Fenchurch slammed the drawer. ‘I’ve got a team to run and we need to close off all the actions relating to the murder of Victoria Brocklehurst.’

  Zenna reached into her document holder and opened another copy. She tapped on a page halfway through. ‘According to my TOR, that case falls within our purview.’

  Still no sign of Docherty in the doorway. ‘Does my boss think that?’

  ‘He’s got his opinion. I’ve got mine.’

  ‘Then I’m afraid I’ll have to defer to his judgement.’

  ‘Very well, Inspector. I shall formally interview you at some point.’ Zenna got to her feet and held out a hand, a business card tucked inside. ‘Please make sure all documentation is up to date.’ She smiled at Fenchurch. ‘We need to establish a Chinese Wall around this. I can’t have you tampering with any evidence.’

  Fenchurch slumped back in his chair. ‘Ms Abercrombie, if you’re running this shitstorm, you—’

  ‘That’s not how I’d put it.’

  ‘A man dying in custody is what the Germans would term “ein riesen Shitstorm”.’ Fenchurch held her gaze. ‘Now, I’ve been trying to piece together that girl’s murder. If it’s in your remit, then you need to speak to her godfather. I promised to keep in touch with him. He deserves an update.’

  Zenna stuck a hand on her hip. ‘You haven’t told him about Mr Shelvey’s death, have you?’

  Fenchurch winked at her. ‘I’m not that stupid.’

  ‘Simon, if I can call you that, you—’

  ‘Let’s just keep it as Inspector for now, yeah?’ Fenchurch stuffed his hands in his pockets. ‘Have you spoken to DC Chris Johnson yet?’

  ‘Detectives from DI Mulholland’s team have been taking his statement all morning, so I’ve not had the pleasure.’

  ‘Might be worth getting in there before someone poisons him.’

  Zenna’s eyes tightened. ‘We still haven’t ascertained whether that’s the cause of death.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you see if laughing boy downstairs got access to any thallium or whatever.’

  ‘Thallium? How do you know it’s that?’

  ‘I don’t. I’m just—’

  The door burst open and Temple flew through. ‘Si, I need a— Oh.’ He smiled at Zenna. ‘Sorry, am I interrupting something?’

  ‘We’re just about done. And your presence might be helpful.’ Zenna switched her precision focus back to Fenchurch. She put her other hand on her hip, her mouth twitching back and forth. ‘I’ll be in touch, Inspector. In the meantime, I’d appreciate it if you could review my Terms of Reference and document your movements during the last shift.’

  ‘Will do.’ Fenchurch gave her a salute.

  Temple smiled at her. ‘I’ll be with you in a minute.’

  ‘We’re in room three.’ She stomped down the corridor, shaking her head.

  Fenchurch collapsed back in his chair. ‘You’d think I’d done something wrong here.’

  Temple sat on Mulholland’s desk and picked up a stray scarf from her seat. ‘Did you kill Shelvey?’

  ‘What?’ Fenchurch burst to his feet. ‘Of course I didn’t.’

  ‘Is anyone trying to frame you?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  Temple dumped the scarf and grinned. ‘Then you’re not in the shit.’

  Fenchurch waved a hand at the open door. ‘I thought they’d be kicking our arses over this.’

  ‘That’s not how they work. Very formal. Very slow. Just keep your nose clean, mate.’

  ‘I don’t need reminding, Paul. Do you think she’ll charge Johnson?’

  ‘Only a matter of time, amigo.’ Temple sprang to his feet, like a small child getting off a trampoline. ‘Now, if I were you, I’d get with the type-y type-y.’

  Fenchurch battered the computer keys like they were parts of Docherty’s anatomy. His fingertips hit the stained white plastic so hard that bits of bread and tortilla bounced out of the cracks, covering his desk in a fine dusting of crud. He lifted up the keyboard and wiped the spray into the bin.

  ‘Guv?’ Reed was in the doorway, her face like she’d just caught her brother masturbating. ‘What on Earth are you doing?’

  ‘They don’t clean these things any more.’ Fenchurch tipped up the keyboard and showered ex-food into the bin. ‘Disgusting.’ He thumped it from behind, another wave of crap falling out. ‘How the hell am I supposed to write my report with this thing?’

  ‘A bad workman blames his tools.’ Reed’s face twisted back into its resting position. ‘IPCC got to you yet?’

  ‘Still just about got all my teeth.’ Fenchurch sat back in his office chair. ‘You?’

  ‘Me and Jon have already given our statements, guv. Naismith’s speaking to them now. They’re keeping Martin waiting.’

  ‘You couldn’t have been in that long.’ Fenchurch adjusted his keyboard on the desk. He’d missed a few patches of crumbs. ‘I don’t want to know what they asked you, okay?’

  ‘Wasn’t going to tell you.’ Reed shut the door and sat opposite, leaning forward, her head almost halfway across. ‘Steve downstairs said some bloke gave you something.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Fenchurch scuttled the keyboard across the desk. ‘Is nothing sacred in this place?’

  ‘Nothing, guv.’ She nibbled at her lip. ‘What was it?’

  Fenchurch sighed, then opened his drawer and got out the bag. ‘It’s a four-grand bottle of whisky.’

  ‘Shit. You’re serious?’ Reed picked up the black box and ran it around her hands. ‘What’s this for?’

  ‘Saving his life.’

  She smirked. ‘Could’ve spent some money on it, then,
couldn’t he?’

  ‘I’m serious, Kay.’ Fenchurch put the bag away. ‘What the hell do I do with it?’

  ‘Sticking it on eBay’s out of the question.’ Reed perched on the edge of his desk, arms crossed. ‘Anyone you could just give it to?’

  ‘My old man likes a tipple, but he’s more of a meths kind of guy.’ Fenchurch locked his drawer.

  The door burst open again and Docherty appeared, running his tongue over his teeth. ‘Have you lost our chum already?’

  ‘She’s speaking with Temple about Johnson.’

  ‘Ah. Good.’ Docherty folded his bony arms, like a skull and crossbones. ‘Decent effort finding that guy, by the way. A bent cop is always a good deflection for us.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘But you pair really do need to keep yourselves a million miles away from this Shelvey case, okay?’

  Fenchurch saluted. ‘I’ll set my controls for the heart of the sun, boss.’

  ‘Less of that Pink Floyd shite, Si. Bloody hell.’

  Reed smirked at Fenchurch again. ‘You’re showing your age, guv.’

  ‘I’m serious.’ Docherty wagged his finger at them. ‘I want you pair running everything past me.’

  ‘Boss.’ Fenchurch eyed his desk drawer. ‘I need to have a word with you about something.’

  ‘Is it urgent, Si?’

  ‘Not very.’ Fenchurch glanced at Reed. ‘Just that Lord Ingham dropped off a bottle of whisky.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with a wee dram, is there?’ Docherty pointed at him. ‘So long as you bloody log it.’ He waited for a nod. ‘In the meantime, I’ve got a bone for you, Si.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That call was another case coming in. Get your arse out to Canning Town.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Fenchurch powered up the road, glad to be driving rather than stuck in traffic. The Holiday Inn Express passed on the right, a huge complex surrounded by empty space, like it was waiting for the rest of the world to discover Canning Town as a thriving business hub. ‘No, I don’t think I’ll mention how much the whisky cost.’

  ‘You sure about that?’ Reed looked over at him. ‘What about if Steve mentions it?’

  ‘I thought it was a ten-quid bottle.’ Fenchurch slowed towards the lights. The DLR station and its conjoined bus interchange lurked over to the left.

  A bulbous new block of flats rushed past, followed by the navy boards of the Canning Town Caravanserai, a community performance space. A last-ditch effort at some social cohesion in this hellhole before it all got gentrified. Blue light strobed from the right, brighter than the late-afternoon sun. A male uniformed officer pulled a roll of police tape across the side-street entrance, wrapping it around a tall sycamore.

  Reed screwed her eyes up at the crime scene. ‘Plausible deniability.’

  The lights were still red, so Fenchurch pulled across the oncoming lane and bumped onto the pavement, coming to a halt behind a Lexus.

  ‘Jon Nelson and his posh motors.’ Fenchurch got out and charged over to the uniform, now taping up part of the Caravanserai’s hoarding. ‘Where’s DS Nelson?’

  ‘Over by the motor, sir.’ The uniform let the tape hang and reached for a clipboard. ‘Think you’ve got to sign in.’

  ‘You think?’ Fenchurch snatched it off him and autographed the page, before handing it to Reed. ‘Make sure nobody even gets to this point without you knowing their inside-leg measurement, okay?’

  ‘Sir.’ He took the clipboard back from Reed, frowning like he needed a tape measure, wondering if the crime-scene tape would do.

  Bloody useless.

  Fenchurch set off down the side street towards the huddle of officers in white SOCO suits surrounding a red car, the Nissan logo glinting in the sun, a circle with a horizontal bar across it. One of those space-age Japanese things. Electric. Hybrid. Something like that. An answer to the Toyota Prius Shelvey drove for Travis.

  A suited figure broke off and limped over to him, tearing his mask open as he reached the outer edge of the police tape. Nelson, out of breath. ‘Guv. Kay.’

  Fenchurch peered past him but couldn’t get much of a view. ‘What’ve we got?’

  Nelson stepped over to their side of the tape and let his romper suit hang free behind him. Beads of sweat slid down his cheeks. Expensive aftershave rolled off him. He shifted to the side so they could get a better look at the car. The driver’s window was down, the passenger side sprayed red. ‘I’m thinking she pulled up, then . . .’ He made his hand into a pistol, holding it side-on, gangster-style. ‘BANG.’

  Fenchurch shut his eyes. ‘What’s this bloody city coming to?’

  ‘Two shots, guv.’ Nelson tapped his neck. ‘One in her throat, the other in her chest. Dead when we got here.’

  Fenchurch opened his eyes again, the late-afternoon sunshine still blinding. ‘Any good news?’

  ‘Don’t have the weapon yet, guv. But the paramedics have confirmed that there were only two gunshot wounds, and we’ve got both casings.’ Nelson waved over at the car. ‘Not got a time of death, but three separate sources have reported two gunshots just after four p.m.’ He pointed over the road at the transport terminus. ‘Got a team going round the DLR station and the bus terminal for eyewitnesses or . . .’ He grinned. ‘Earwitnesses.’

  ‘Not now, Jon.’

  The wide car park next to them was probably parking for the station into the City. A grim set of houses sat in an L-shape behind, two-up two-downs. New-build flats further over, at least eight storeys.

  ‘Get people going through every single car there, okay? Someone might’ve parked here just before it happened.’ Which begged the question . . . ‘Do we know who called it in?’

  ‘Working on it, guv. Think it was a call box a few blocks away.’ Nelson thumbed back at the car. ‘You want to have a look at the car?’

  ‘I’ll just get suited up.’

  ‘Get out of the way.’ Fenchurch brushed past the SOCO, his suit crinkling in the gentle breeze, his breath misting in the goggles. He followed Nelson down the side street towards the car, a slightly bulbous red thing. If anything was a hybrid, this car was it. Like one of those concept cars you used to get, now a reality.

  The driver’s window was down and a SOCO was dusting around it.

  Fenchurch stopped beside them. ‘Was it like this when you arrived?’

  The SOCO nodded. ‘Wound down on arrival. And, before you ask, she was shot through this window.’

  Fenchurch squatted down to peer inside. A young woman sat in the driver’s seat, hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead. Early twenties, maybe. Tousled hair in ringlets. Still looked like she was driving, just the two holes in her neck and chest giving any clue to her death.

  The interior of the car was a mess. A mobile phone was mounted in the middle, the system of cables linking it to the car stereo similar to Fenchurch’s. A fine spray of blood misted the passenger window and the other seat. Confirmed the shooting angle, if nothing else.

  Sickening.

  Fenchurch looked around the masked faces. ‘Do we know who she is?’

  They all shook their heads at different frequencies.

  ‘We’ve got nothing?’ Fenchurch stabbed a finger at the car. ‘Nobody’s run these plates?’

  ‘I’ve just done it, guv.’ Reed was over by the crime-scene tape, holding her Airwave Pronto. ‘The owner’s name is Cassie McBride.’

  Fenchurch pointed back at the car. ‘Do we know if this is her?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Reed waved her gloved hand at the brick terrace on the other side of the wide car park behind them. ‘The address is one of those houses, though.’

  ‘God, I hate those suits.’ Fenchurch was still flapping his jacket, waiting on the doorbell. Felt like the SOCO suit was still clinging to him, squeezing him. ‘That car . . . I don’t like the implications of someone just shooting her on the street like that.’ He stepped back onto the road.

  A sixties terrace with tiny gardens, most of them filled with shiny new cars
. Cassie McBride’s address was pretty much the only one on the row that hadn’t had a porch stuck on the front. Curtains drawn in both upstairs windows, the downstairs one too small to see in.

  Fenchurch thumped the door. ‘This is the police! Open up!’

  A new block of flats overlooked the houses and the car park opposite.

  ‘We got anyone going door-to-door up there?’

  ‘Just a sec.’ Reed stabbed something into her Pronto. ‘Still not got enough officers.’

  ‘I’ll have a word with Docherty.’ Fenchurch checked his watch. Ten seconds up. Still nothing. Then he kicked the bottom of the door and got a satisfying thunk in response. ‘This is the police!’

  Upstairs curtains twitched next door.

  ‘Come on.’ Fenchurch skipped along the pavement and crossed over the block-paved driveway past an old Vectra, glowing silver where it wasn’t rusty. He knocked on the door and waited as Reed joined him.

  The door opened to a crack and a middle-aged man stomped out, wearing a tartan dressing gown and monster-feet slippers. ‘What?’

  ‘I’m a police officer, sir.’ Fenchurch flipped out his warrant card. ‘We’re looking to speak to your neighbours.’

  ‘Pair of bloody dykes.’ He snarled the words out. Stale BO wafted off him. ‘I’ve written to their bloody landlord God knows how many times. It’s not bloody natural. Should still be illegal, if you ask me.’

  Nobody’s asked you.

  ‘When was the last time you saw either of them?’

  ‘I hear them all the bloody time.’ His lips twitched. ‘Moaning and groaning in the middle of the night. Pleasuring each other. Dirty little bitches. I know sod all about them.’

  ‘A young woman was shot about an hour ago.’ Fenchurch pointed towards the crime scene. ‘Just down the road there, sir. You didn’t hear anything?’

  ‘If it was one of them clam-jousters from next door, then good bloody riddance.’ He slammed the door in their faces.

  ‘Charming geezer.’ Fenchurch checked out the other houses on the road. ‘Worth trying any others?’

  ‘Lesbians were never illegal, anyway.’ Reed was still glaring at the door. ‘I think we should do him, guv.’