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

by Ed James

  The door pulled open a crack and Rosie looked out. ‘Simon? Abi?’ She opened it wide and stepped out, grabbing Abi in a hug. ‘I can’t believe it.’

  Fenchurch made eye contact, but his training failed him. The path was mossed up between the slabs. ‘Take it you heard about Dad, then?’

  Rosie dried her hands on her apron. ‘I just got a call from a DI Mullarkey.’

  ‘Mulholland.’

  ‘Whatever. Is it true?’

  Some grass crept up between another two slabs. ‘I found him, Rosie . . .’

  ‘Shit.’ Rosie nibbled at her lips. ‘Look.’ She rubbed her face. ‘Look, Peter’s out with the kids. Usual Saturday-afternoon craziness. Becca and Ollie are both at football.’ She tore at her apron, tears streaming down her face. ‘Look at the state of me.’

  Abi wrapped her in a hug. ‘Come on, love.’ She led her inside.

  Fenchurch followed them in, stepping over a fire engine and a spray of Lego as he navigated into the living room.

  Abi helped Rosie to an armchair, then perched on the mushroom sofa by the fireplace — dotted with photos of their childhood. Hugging each other as kids. Them as teenagers, more distant, him with a Madchester bowl cut, her in Nirvana grunge. Behind, a row of black-and-white shots showing Mum as a schoolgirl, Dad joining the force, thumbs up and grinning in his uniform.

  Fenchurch sat next to Abi and smiled at his sister. ‘How you doing, sis?’

  ‘I can’t believe what’s happened.’ Her west London accent was slipping a few miles in the opposite direction. ‘He’s really killed someone?’

  Fenchurch let breath slither out. ‘If it’s any consolation, the guy’s a nasty piece of work.’

  ‘Simon, what the hell?’ Rosie got up, clasping a hand to her forehead. ‘What am I going to tell Ollie and Becca? How do you tell children their grandfather’s a murderer?’ She stared at Fenchurch, then shook herself. ‘Where are my manners?’ She clapped her hands together. ‘Tea? Coffee?’

  Fenchurch slouched back in the sofa. ‘Tea, if you’re making some.’

  Abi got up and patted Rosie’s arm. ‘I’ll make the tea.’

  ‘Thanks. Do you need any—’

  ‘I’m sure I’ll find the kettle, teabags and milk.’

  ‘Well, it’s leaf tea and—’

  ‘Rosie, I’ll be fine.’ Abi left them to it, shutting the door behind her.

  The living room was very different to the last time Fenchurch’d been there. Had a wall been knocked through?

  ‘Is he going to be okay, Simon?’

  Fenchurch stroked Rosie’s arm as she sat next to him, just how she used to like it when Dad had blown a gasket at them. ‘He was there with the murder weapon, Rosie. Off his bloody trolley. Christ knows why he did it.’

  ‘I’ve been worried about him.’ Rosie picked at the stitches on her cardigan, just like she did as a kid. ‘You know that Alzheimer’s is in our family?’ She pushed the cardigan away, smoothing it down.

  ‘They brought him back as a civilian after his retirement. They wouldn’t let him back if his brain was rotting.’

  ‘He’s killed someone, Simon. If that doesn’t mean his brain’s rotting . . .’

  But had he killed Blunden? Had he really?

  Why didn’t he run? Well, half a bottle of whisky and he’d be on the bloody floor. But that phone call . . .

  Fenchurch got up and started pacing around the room. ‘He can’t have killed him. It’s not in his nature. He just can’t have.’

  ‘That DI Mullarkey told me the knife was definitely used to kill him.’

  Might as well have stuck the knife into Fenchurch’s heart.

  He huffed out air. ‘I can’t just sit around drinking tea. I’ve got to go and do something.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Fenchurch parked on Dad’s street and got out. A fat tabby lay on its back on the pavement outside the flat, basking in the morning sun, oblivious to the world. No sign of the rickety old Saab. He got out his Airwave and tapped a message to Reed: ‘Can you get someone to check round there for Dad’s Saab? It’s my old one.’

  He put the Airwave away and knocked on Dad’s door. It just swung open.

  Jesus, Dad.

  Fenchurch entered, fists clenched. The lights were blazing away, same as it ever was. Jazz blared from inside, definitely Weather Report. ‘Birdland’, the musicians sounding like they were fighting each other. A North Face jacket was heaped on the floor. House keys rattled on the rug. No sign of his car keys.

  Fenchurch listened hard. Sounds empty. Can never be too careful, though. He snapped on some gloves and crept through to the living room. Stank like an old pub, a cigarette burnt to a stub in the ashtray. A wooden table was smashed against the wall, just a pile of kindling. All four legs of a dining chair dug into the wall, stuck into the plaster. A family photo of Dad with his parents lay there, the glass like cracked ice. All that ivory shit had been swept off the dresser, scattered around the room. A well-used tumbler covered in ghostly fingerprints cuddled up to the half-empty bottle of Dunpender.

  Bloody hell. Four grand down the toilet. Plus eighteen years of investment return . . .

  Fenchurch sat on the sofa and pinched the bridge of his nose. He sucked in the stale air and tried to piece it all together.

  Dad’s shaking hand pouring out the nectar, sucking it down, not even tasting it. Pouring another. Then another.

  Why, though?

  Dad must’ve found something. Something new. Came back here, got hammered on expensive whisky. Can’t have been good.

  What did he find out? And then what did he do?

  That call. What the hell was that all about?

  Sex?

  Ring?

  Sex ring? What the bloody hell was he on about? Blunden running a sex ring?

  Fenchurch got out his mobile and called Reed.

  ‘Guv, thought you were off the reservation?’

  ‘Not in so many words . . .’

  ‘Mulholland’s been looking for you.’ The background chatter sounded more like a football match. ‘I’m still stuck up at Blunden’s office. She’s got me managing the crime scene, can you believe it?’

  ‘Bet she has.’

  ‘Just got your text. Not found your dad’s motor yet, but we’ll keep looking.’

  ‘I appreciate it.’ Fenchurch stood, unable to stay seated. ‘Kay, has anyone been round to my old man’s flat yet?’

  ‘Don’t think so.’

  ‘Get a team round here.’ Fenchurch coughed. ‘Sorry, to Dad’s flat.’

  ‘You’re there, right?’

  ‘Right. Either someone’s been in here or he’s smashed the place up in a drunken rage.’

  ‘Oh, shit, guv.’

  ‘He called me, Kay.’ Fenchurch stretched back on the sofa. ‘About half ten, quarter to eleven. Sounded drunk, didn’t make any sense. He might’ve said something about a sex ring.’

  ‘Mean anything to you?’

  ‘Well, I don’t think Dad was in one.’ Fenchurch walked through to the kitchen. The trail of destruction stopped here. ‘Must be about Flick Knife. I’m wondering, what if someone’s taken him? Picked him up here, driven him to Mile End and killed Blunden. Then—’

  The big knife block, the one he’d got Dad from Aldi at Christmas two years ago. All those white Japanese cooking knives.

  The bread knife was gone.

  ‘Guv?’

  It didn’t prove anything. Whoever framed him took the knife, killed Blunden, made it look like Dad.

  What to do with it, though? Leave the block for the SOCOs or . . . ?

  ‘Guv, you still there?’

  Fenchurch walked back to the living room. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Right. Who would do it, though? Who’d want to frame him?’

  Fenchurch sniffed the whisky. Four grand bought a rancid spirit. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I’m drawing a blank, guv.’

  Fenchurch sat forward. ‘Anything happening up there?’<
br />
  ‘Well, other than Mulholland thinking I know where you are. They’re accelerating Blunden’s post-mortem. It’s on now.’

  ‘Bloody hell. That witch can’t wait to put my old man away, can she?’

  ‘Guv.’

  ‘Have they found that Merc yet?’

  ‘Naismith’s still working on it.’ Reed paused, sounded like she’d covered her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Sorry, I’ve got to go, okay?’

  ‘Just send some of Clooney’s lot round here.’ Fenchurch ended the call and put his phone away, unsure how much of that she’d got.

  Better get out of here before they pitch up. If they do.

  Liam . . .

  Liam bloody Sharpe. What was that little punk up to at Lewisham?

  Fenchurch checked through the notes on his Pronto. That was just before eight. Quarter to, maybe.

  Three hours later, Dad slotted Flick Knife. What the hell was he doing there?

  He looked around the scuffed carpet at the tiny elephant figures. Drums thwacked as he picked up his phone and dialled Liam’s number.

  ‘Sorry, but I’m probably asleep or drunk in a hedge. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you!’ BEEEEP!

  ‘Liam, it’s Simon. I need a word with you. And if you don’t call me back, I’ll come round your flat, okay?’

  Fenchurch stood in the corridor in the basement and waited. Sounded like old music hall coming through the door.

  A cleaner squeaked behind him, his bucket and mop rattling as he trudged. Stank of bleach.

  Fenchurch called Liam again. Straight to voicemail. He swallowed hard and finally rapped on the door.

  It opened and Bert McArthur stood there. Dad’s mate and partner in crime, at least in investigating old ones. Wiry, like a ferret. Hair far too dark for his pale skin. He tilted his head to the side. ‘Simon.’

  ‘Take it you’ve heard?’

  ‘Stupid, stupid bastard.’ Bert nodded, puffing out his cheeks. ‘Come on in.’

  Fenchurch followed him inside and shut the door behind him. The place was even more chaotic than the last time he’d visited. Floor-to-ceiling shelves, rammed with files and boxes, covering all four walls. Even had a little document rack set into the back of the door.

  Bert slumped in a chair by a little alcove sculpted out of the mess. An old computer sat there, the sort that could only log on to the PNC. No emails or internet. He gave a sly wink. ‘You’re probably not supposed to be here, are you?’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Have you spoken to him?’

  ‘Not been allowed to.’ Fenchurch stayed standing, not that he had much choice. ‘I was the one who found him, Bert. Just sitting there, red-handed, out of his skull.’

  ‘Stupid old goat.’

  Going through those files would take weeks. Months, maybe. ‘What’s he been working on?’

  ‘Search me.’ Bert waved his hands around the room. ‘While this place is a bit of a dump, it’s an organised one. More archaeology, I’ll grant you.’

  ‘So you don’t know what he was looking into?’ Getting worse, not better . . . ‘But you both worked on that case at Christmas, didn’t you?’

  ‘That’s only because I found a case that looked funny.’ Bert slurped at some tea from an old mug that belonged in a skip. ‘Your old man did the rest, linking it with that Bishopsgate fish-gutter.’ He picked up a yellow Post-it and crumpled it into a ball. ‘Your dad’s been losing it, Simon. His obsessions have been worse than ever.’

  Fenchurch shut his eyes. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know how secretive he can be. He’s been beavering away at that . . . stuff full-time.’ Another drink of tea, followed by a grimace. ‘Your old man got a bollocking from our gaffer the other day.’ He pointed at a stack on the edge of his desk. ‘He’d been requesting old case files from 2008 and 2009.’

  That didn’t make any sense. Chloe’s file was 2005. There were those kids from the last two or three years, admittedly, but everything else had been eighties and nineties.

  Fenchurch picked up the top file. A missing persons from 2009. A young girl. ‘You’ve no idea what he’s working on?’

  ‘Nothing. Sorry, son.’

  ‘Who’s it for? Savage?’

  ‘Big posh sod? Works for the Trafficking and Prostitution Unit?’ Bert glugged at his tea, puckering up his nose. ‘Not him, no. And I’ve no idea who, before you ask.’

  ‘Right.’ Fenchurch put the file back. ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘Last night. Wasn’t he heading out with you and Abi?’

  ‘We had a meal together, yeah.’ Fenchurch frowned. ‘You know a Liam Sharpe?’

  ‘Yeah, journalist, right?’

  ‘I was here first thing this morning on another matter. Liam was coming in to see Dad.’

  ‘Always in early is Ian. He loves this job.’ Bert set the cup down. Thing was more encrusted tea than porcelain. ‘Anyway, I got here about ten, think he’d been here a while. No sign of your father or this Liam chap.’

  ‘He’d left or not been here?’

  ‘Hard to say.’ Bert waved around the chaos, chuckling away.

  ‘Well, thanks for your help, Bert.’ Fenchurch passed him a business card. ‘If anything comes up, give us a bell, yeah?’

  The door to the flat opened and Liam Sharpe took one look at Fenchurch and gave a sigh. Dressed like he’d just woken up and hadn’t had time to put on the full hipster uniform. Trackies and a ripped T-shirt. ‘Right. Simon.’

  ‘I need a word with you.’

  Liam wasn’t himself. No eye contact, no grin. Even worse than when— ‘Look, just leave me alone.’

  ‘Liam, I’ve tried calling you.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  ‘Are you okay?’

  Liam stepped back, his shoulders slumped. ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s cool.’

  ‘Liam, I need—’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  Fenchurch pushed at the door, barging through into the hall. He grabbed Liam’s T-shirt, bunching it up around his fists. ‘It looks like my old man’s just murdered someone.’

  ‘I know.’ Liam backed against the wall, like he was trying to go through it. ‘Frank Blunden. Flick Knife. He stabbed him.’ He slumped back, sliding down. ‘All my fault.’

  Fenchurch’s grip stopped him hitting the floor. ‘What’ve you done?’

  ‘I shouldn’t have . . .’

  Fenchurch pulled him close. ‘Liam, what the hell have you done?’

  Liam clumsily pushed himself up and pointed to the open door. ‘You should leave. I’ve had enough of putting my neck on the line for you.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere until I get answers.’ Fenchurch let go of Liam. ‘The only thing keeping my father from remand in a prison is he’s too late for a Saturday court. Now, you’re going to talk to me.’

  Liam swallowed hard, rubbing his arms. ‘You can’t just—’

  Fenchurch shut the flat door and barged in, his heart thudding. He rested against the kitchen wall, inches from a massive Batman poster. A pale-blue coffee cup steamed on the counter. ‘Did you meet him this morning?’

  ‘First thing.’ Liam propped himself up on the counter. His cat was on her haunches next to him, cracking at biscuits in a bowl with the Batman logo, the one from the old Michael Keaton film that looked like teeth if you stared at it too long. ‘We might’ve had a breakthrough.’

  Fenchurch’s gut plunged below his feet. ‘With Chloe?’

  Liam shook some more biscuits into the cat bowl.

  Fenchurch grabbed his wrist and stopped him pouring. ‘Is that why you were at Lewisham this morning?’

  Liam dropped the pack on the counter, a couple of biscuits spilling out. ‘I found an old driver, used to work for Flick Knife.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’ Liam wrapped his arms tight around his torso. ‘My source is a secretive type, so we met h
im at your old man’s flat. He told us Blunden had them picking up kids.’

  The drums rattled. ‘Like my daughter?’

  ‘He didn’t name her. But he’d seen the story in the paper. Said she might’ve been part of that whole thing.’

  Fenchurch launched himself across the kitchen towards Liam, getting right in his face. ‘Why didn’t you take this source in to the police?’

  ‘Er, your dad’s a cop?’

  ‘You should’ve come to me, Liam.’ Hackney loomed around them, just blocks and blocks of flats. That article had forced one of them out into the open. ‘When did you leave?’

  ‘Just before nine.’ Liam hefted the cat up and put her down on the floor, then stroked her back as she licked her lips. He sat on the kitchen counter, his legs swaying. ‘Had to come back here to file some copy.’

  Fenchurch pinched his nose. ‘I got a phone call last night. Told me to stop what I was doing.’ He shut his eyes, breath emptying from his lungs. ‘A robotic voice, warning harm would come to my loved ones.’

  ‘But you said your dad murdered someone.’

  Fenchurch got up and folded his arms. ‘So, between nine and eleven, my father’s managed to get blind drunk and kill Blunden.’ He narrowed his eyes at Liam. ‘Did this source leave with you?’

  ‘He stayed with your old man to give a statement.’

  ‘You stupid bastard.’ Fenchurch lurched across the kitchen and grabbed his T-shirt again, pressing his head to Liam’s. ‘That guy’s framed him.’

  ‘Come on, it’s not like that.’ Liam tried to wriggle away. ‘Can’t be . . .’

  ‘I need to know who he is.’

  ‘I can’t give you his name.’

  Fenchurch let him go. ‘It won’t have come from you, okay?’

  Liam dug the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. ‘If anything happens to him . . .’

  ‘Nothing’s going to happen.’ Fenchurch took a few steps back. Could still feel the fabric around his fingertips. ‘What exactly did he tell you?’

  ‘He might’ve said something about Chloe.’

  ‘“Might have”?’ Fenchurch raised his eyebrows. ‘Christ, Liam.’

  ‘He saw the stuff on the news last night. He read the story again and called me up.’ Liam clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, mate. He thinks she might’ve been involved.’