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

by Ed James

  ‘Okay, okay.’ Gomez sighed. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Catch you later, Liam.’ Fenchurch killed the call. ‘Mr Udzinski here knows.’

  Gomez clicked his fingers at his security goons. ‘Get Kim to change my flight, would you? I’ll be here for a few more days.’ The left gorilla goose-stepped across the open-plan office. Gomez smiled at Udzinski. ‘Now, Paul, I need you to—’

  ‘I know.’ Udzinski unlocked his machine and started beating the shit out of the keyboard. ‘It’s Pavel.’

  Gomez doubled over in mock laughter. ‘I love this dude.’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’ Udzinski put his shades back on. ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘When you are.’ Bell clapped his back as he perched on the desk again. ‘What’ve you got?’

  Udzinski reached over to the droning printer and grabbed a sheet of paper. Bell scanned it and handed it over to Fenchurch.

  Blonde hair in a ponytail, hanging over her shoulder. No expression on her face, just catwalk ice. Cassie McBride was beautiful, even in a poorly lit passport shot printed on a crappy desktop printer. At least a stone underweight, though. Like something plagued her, eating away at her soul.

  Fenchurch handed the page to Reed and whispered, ‘This is her, right?’

  ‘Could be, guv. I didn’t get a look, remember.’

  ‘We’ll need to back this up, but I’m afraid that I believe this is our victim.’

  Gomez snatched Udzinski’s shades from his hand and put them on. ‘This isn’t good.’

  Fenchurch stared at him, just getting his own face reflected back. ‘It’s a tragedy, sir.’

  ‘No, you don’t get it.’ Gomez ran a hand across his designer stubble. ‘We’ve been in beta in this city since December and now we’re into our official launch. This is the worst possible time for this. The worst.’

  ‘I’ll pass your regards on to Ms McBride’s family, sir.’

  Gomez tore off the shades and threw them at Udzinski’s desk, the left lens snapping out and skidding over the floor. ‘Jesus Christ! You don’t get it, do you?’

  Udzinski reached over for the glasses, his chest rising and falling slowly. He snapped the lens back into the frame and put them back on, the lens slightly wonky. No idea what the eyes were doing, but they were probably glaring at Gomez. ‘What else do you need to know?’

  ‘Was she working today?’

  Udzinski ran a finger along a line of data on his screen. ‘Ms McBride logged on at three fifty-eight.’

  Fenchurch raised his eyebrows at Reed. ‘So she’d only just gone out on her rounds?’

  ‘Given she was shot near her house, that make sense.’

  ‘Ms McBride accepted a Travis Go at three fifty-nine.’ Udzinski glanced round at Gomez, busy tapping at his mobile. ‘The collect location was two hundred metres from her home. She responded to it and sat for forty-eight seconds waiting for the passenger.’

  Shit.

  Fenchurch stood and folded his arms. ‘Can you give us anything about this passenger?’

  ‘Mr Gomez?’

  Gomez looked up at the ceiling, clicking his tongue. ‘I’ll need to consult my General Counsel on that matter.’

  Fenchurch paced over to him, raising up his phone to Gomez’s eye line. ‘This is a murder, sir.’

  ‘And this is a legal precedent.’ Gomez stabbed his finger at Udzinski’s screen. ‘This passenger could have nothing to do with it. It could be a neighbour who shot her, could just be some random. I’m not giving you that info until I’ve run this past a lawyer.’

  Fenchurch tapped his foot a couple of times. ‘Just don’t take too long.’

  ‘Are you threatening me again?’

  ‘Nothing of the sort, sir.’ The remaining suited goon stepped towards Fenchurch, his right hand reaching into his jacket pocket. ‘What else can you tell us about her?’

  ‘We’ve got nothing else on her.’ Udzinski locked his machine again. ‘Just what your colleague has on that page.’

  ‘This is one of your employees and you’ve got that little on her?’ Fenchurch rattled the sheet Reed was looking at. ‘That’s not—’

  ‘Guv . . .’ Reed passed it to him. ‘Her reference is Howard Savage.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Fenchurch stormed down the corridor in Leman Street, his footsteps in serious danger of dislodging floorboards.

  Reed jogged to catch up with him, just as he pushed open the office door.

  Docherty was standing over by his shrine to Rangers tat, while Temple sat on the desk, huffing and puffing. ‘I’ve told you to knock, Fenchurch. We could’ve had our cocks out.’

  DCI Howard Savage was silhouetted in the evening light softened by the filthy windows. He’d finally seen sense and trimmed the comb-over down to a rough suedehead. Took years off. He marched over, his right hand outstretched, the left inside his blazer, like a minor royal at a tennis tournament. ‘Simon, it’s been a while.’

  ‘Just a couple of months . . .’ Fenchurch gripped the hand tight, resisting the urge to throw in a little masonic flourish to mess with him. ‘Your secretary said you’d be here, sir.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Savage frowned. ‘We’re just discussing prosecution strategy for those chaps we arrested in December, as it happens.’ His frown deepened, sending diagonal ridges out of his forehead. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘How come you’ve got a secretary? I actually need one.’ Looked like Docherty’d been on the strong coffee again. The room stank of it.

  Fenchurch shot him a shut-up glare and closed in on Savage, passing him the sheet of paper. ‘Do you want to tell me what’s going on with this girl?’

  ‘You’ll need to slow down.’ Savage checked the page, swigging at his coffee. His expression was unreadable.

  Fenchurch had no idea how he’d ever made it as a copper. Probably an ex-army officer, shunted up the ranks. Not a bloody clue what he’s doing.

  Fenchurch got closer to him, could almost taste the second-hand coffee fumes. ‘DS Reed and I just visited Travis cars.’

  ‘Wait a minute.’ Docherty got between them, gripping Fenchurch’s shoulder tight. ‘That wee IPCC lassie told you to keep clear of the Shelvey case.’

  ‘We are, boss.’ Fenchurch brushed off Docherty’s grip. ‘This is about that shooting in Canning Town.’

  Docherty dug his finger into Fenchurch’s chest, like he was breaking soil with a spade. ‘Did you—’

  ‘Relax, boss. You won’t be getting any calls from Bell.’ Fenchurch raised his eyebrows at Savage and stepped closer. ‘You know a Cassie McBride?’

  Savage passed the paper back. ‘Ah.’

  ‘Ah? That’s all I get?’ Fenchurch clicked his fingers in front of his face. ‘She’s dead, Howard.’

  Savage shut his eyes. ‘Oh dear God.’ He collapsed against the wall, huffing out breath. ‘It’s definitely her?’

  ‘I don’t bloody know, Howard, because you’re keeping shit from us!’ Fenchurch grabbed him under the armpits and pulled him to his feet. ‘Cut this Fight Club bollocks out, please. First rule of Trafficking and Prostitution Unit is there’s no such—’

  ‘Simon.’ Savage’s eyes opened again, filled with menace. ‘Get to the point, Inspector.’

  ‘You are Cassie McBride’s reference at Travis. Her next of kin needs to identify her body out at Lewisham. ASAP.’

  ‘There is no next of kin. She’s . . .’ Savage licked his lips, slowly. What the hell was he holding back? ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘Try me.’

  Savage glanced over at Docherty, then at Temple. Reed didn’t even warrant a look. ‘I can’t tell you. Any of you.’

  Fenchurch snarled at him, teeth bared. ‘Howard, I’m this close to tossing you out of that window.’

  ‘She’s under witness protection.’ Savage swallowed hard, trying to regain his composure. ‘Young Cassie’s starting a new life driving that car. I told her it didn’t pay well, but she’s a stubborn one. Tunnel vision.’ He pu
t a hand to his head, scrabbling at where the comb-over used to be. ‘And there’s no next of kin.’

  Fenchurch put his hands on his hips. ‘Can you ID the body?’

  ‘I’ll have to.’ Savage slumped into a chair. ‘Do you know who did it?’

  ‘We’ve just found her. Still early days.’ Fenchurch stood over him. ‘She was shot in cold blood, Howard. A public execution.’

  Savage ran his hand across his bald head but kept quiet.

  ‘Funny thing is . . .’ Fenchurch squatted in front of him, his thighs burning. ‘It was very much like they were sending a message. So if someone had found out about Cassie and her new life, who and how?’

  Savage’s skin had lost all of its summer tan, just blotchy pink.

  ‘Now, we were speaking to Rebecca Thur—’

  ‘Okay.’ Savage stood and cracked his knuckles. ‘Take me to Cassie, please.’

  Rebecca Thurston cowered in the corner of Fenchurch’s office, wiping at her cheeks. ‘She can’t be dead. She just can’t.’

  Savage crouched in front of her, looking like he wanted to hug her tight. ‘I’ve . . . I’ve just been out to Lewisham, where we . . .’ He coughed. ‘I saw her there, Rebecca. Cassie. She’s dead.’

  ‘How?’ Rebecca gasped. ‘Shot? How? How can that happen?’ She twirled her hair round, fury twisting it tight. ‘Will you find who did this, Howard?’

  ‘We’re going to try.’ Savage pecked her on the forehead, like a seedy stepfather. ‘First things first, we need to understand if anyone knew about you and Cassie.’

  Rebecca exhaled slowly, shaking her head. ‘Not that I can think of.’ A frown dented her forehead. ‘Wait. Cassie mentioned something about a bloke last night.’ She twisted her hair tighter. ‘Lurking out the back of our house, I think.’

  ‘Rebecca, you’re supposed to call in anything like that.’ Savage rubbed his face. ‘Anything.’

  ‘Okay, so did she?’ Fenchurch left him a space. ‘Howard?’

  ‘Not to me.’

  ‘Right, so a suspicious man was lurking in the street behind her house last night and you’ve done nothing about it?’

  ‘The standing order for our girls is to call either myself or DI Gill.’ Savage scratched the top of his head. ‘I can check with him, if you want?’

  ‘Go on.’ Fenchurch waited until Savage got out his mobile, an old Nokia job. ‘Kay, can you see if Control got anything on this?’

  ‘Guv.’ She left the room.

  Savage spoke into his phone, his free arm windmilling. ‘Jerry, hi, it’s Howard. Have you heard anything from the canaries?’ His arm flopped to his side. ‘No? Nothing last night? Okay. Thanks.’ He killed the call and glowered at Fenchurch. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘Guv.’ Reed entered the room. ‘Just checked with Control. No reports of suspicious activity in that location for the last month.’

  ‘Okay.’ Savage winced. ‘Leave this with me.’ He led Rebecca out into the corridor.

  ‘Leave it with him . . .’ Fenchurch slammed his office door and leaned back against it. ‘He’ll just sit on it, form a committee and escalate some shit to the Commissioner.’

  Reed twisted a chair round and sat. ‘So what do we do, guv?’

  The wall was blank except for next season’s West Ham season ticket pinned to his day planner. What can we do?

  Waiting for Savage didn’t seem like an option. Go back to the crime scene, maybe. Call up Bell and hope he doesn’t grass to teacher.

  ‘I don’t bloody know, Kay.’ Fenchurch perched on Mulholland’s desk. ‘Everything we’ve got on this so far doesn’t feel like a random attack.’

  ‘Of course it’s not random. Someone must’ve found out about them, put a hit out.’

  ‘Who and what are they covering up?’ Fenchurch stepped away from the door and jabbed his thumb at it as it swung open. ‘Of course, Savage is playing secret bloody squirrel with the why and the who.’

  Docherty peered through the doorway. ‘Who’s playing secret squirrel?’

  ‘Nobody.’

  ‘Aye, right. Never is with you.’ Docherty rapped his knuckles on the door frame. ‘By the way, the assorted ghouls and demons from the press are waiting for us.’

  The TV lights were so hot it felt like they could brand your skin. So bright they obscured the crowd of reporters. Craven arseholes scribbling in their notebooks, typing on their laptops. Just waiting to bite. The room stank of air freshener, not quite overpowering the stale-sweat smell.

  Fenchurch shuffled the papers on his desk like he was a newsreader. Stop doing that. He checked his watch just as it ticked to 19.30 and cleared his throat. ‘So, to reiterate, we appreciate you all coming here at such a late hour, but we hope this can still make the front page or the nightly news. Any coverage we get can only help.’ He raised a shot of the car, the shooter starting to run away. ‘We are looking to speak to the man in your press packs, but also the cyclist spotted here.’ He held up an enlarged A3 photo of the cyclist, even vaguer and murkier than the other. ‘We believe he may have seen something which could lead to us identifying this killer.’

  ‘Thanks, Simon.’ Docherty shifted his gaze round the audience, grinning wide. ‘Now, any questions?’

  A sea of hands raised up, partially eclipsing the lights.

  Docherty pointed to the nearest, a young woman holding out her mobile. ‘Aye?’

  ‘Kat Fletcher, Post. Who’s the victim in this shooting?’

  Docherty smiled. ‘We’re unable to give out that information at this time.’

  ‘But you’ve got a press release covering her death?’

  ‘Aye.’ Docherty pointed at an older woman peering over her laptop. ‘Your question, madam?’

  ‘Christine Spencer, Daily Mail. DI Fenchurch, does this seem connected to the disappearance of your daughter?’

  Bloody hell . . .

  Docherty folded his arms. ‘Why would you think that?’

  ‘Well, there’s this.’ She held up a copy of that morning’s Post. ‘And having DI Fenchurch on the case. What is it they say, “A coincidence is like Jesus winking at you”?’

  Docherty turned his head round to Fenchurch, eyes like laser beams. ‘Do you want to take that?’

  Fenchurch focused on the reporter, her eyes burrowing into his skull. Or at least trying to. ‘Of course I don’t believe this is connected.’ His focus swept through the hands and he pointed at a male reporter holding up an old-school notepad. ‘Next, you.’

  ‘Ian Mowat, Express. Have you had any responses from the public relating to the article in the Post this morning?’

  Docherty tapped the microphone. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we’re here to discuss this murder. Please can we stick to that?’

  ‘Christ on the cross.’ Docherty slammed his office door so hard it bounced back to fully open. He booted it shut and swung round, hands on hips. ‘What part of “stick to Cassie McBride” do those arseholes not understand?’ He thundered over to his desk and collapsed into his seat, arms folded. ‘Complete waste of time.’

  Fenchurch kept a room’s width away from Docherty. ‘If it’s any consolation, boss, you handled it well.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have to handle anything but the case at hand, you idiot.’ Docherty picked up his TV remote and switched on the set in the corner, a small LCD he’d bought to watch the Euros out of hours.

  BBC News showed the two of them, their clown make-up barely hiding their bad skin.

  Police Officer’s Missing Daughter: Connection to Current Case Denied

  ‘Oh, for crying out loud!’ Docherty picked up his Rangers mug and threw it against the wall, spraying dark brown liquid across the magnolia paint. ‘You really chose the worst possible time to run this story. You happy with this?’

  ‘Do I look happy?’ The coffee dribbled down the wall towards the shattered mug. Stale-coffee smell mixed with the rotting-banana stench coming from the bin. ‘This is my dad’s doing, not mine.’

 
‘Think the Commissioner’s going to care, eh?’ Spit flobbed onto Docherty’s chin. ‘You happy that your missing daughter is overshadowing a dead girl?’

  Fenchurch smoothed down his tie, his jaw clenched tight. ‘You want to take that back?’

  ‘You’re a cheeky bastard, Simon. Did you plan this?’

  ‘What, shooting a cabbie so my story got a little bit of traction? Piss off.’ Fenchurch opened the door. ‘My personal tragedy might help this case.’

  Docherty got up from his desk and crouched by the wall. He pieced together bits of Rangers blue. ‘God save us, Si. God save us.’

  Fenchurch left him to the ruins of his mug and turned his mobile back on. Fifteen missed calls. Shit.

  Could someone have seen the news?

  A shiver shot up his spine. No voicemail. What the hell did—

  His phone rang. Unknown caller. He stabbed the button to answer it. ‘Fenchurch.’

  A rasping, distorted robot voice blasted out, ‘Slacken off your hunt or your loved ones will suffer.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Cheers, Mick.’ Fenchurch stood in the corridor outside Docherty’s office, his shaking fingers fumbling through the menus on his mobile. Who designs these things? There we go . . . He hit ‘Abi’ and it switched to the phone app. He put it to his skull and listened to the ringing tone burning his eardrum.

  Come on, come on.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Thank God, Abi.’ Fenchurch let out his breath. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m at home, getting ready.’ She paused. ‘Where you should be.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re late again.’ Her voice echoed around the room. Sounded like she was in the kitchen. ‘Your dad’s already at the restaurant. I’ve got a hundred missed calls from him. Twice as many as I’ve got from you.’

  ‘I had my phone off. I was on the telly.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind.’ Fenchurch slumped back against the wall. ‘Has anyone been by the house? Anyone called? Anything like that?’

  ‘What? No, why?’

  ‘Nothing. Just . . . I’ll be home soon.’

  ‘You’ve not got the time, Simon. I’ll meet you at the restaurant.’