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

by Ed James

  ‘How did you mess with them?’

  ‘I never used to be like this.’ Johnson swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. ‘Back then, I was a good cop. Decent conviction rate, played by the rules. Then one day, I was investigating this kidnapping.’ He shut his eyes. ‘I brought this geezer into the station. You know what he said to me? He said, speak to your wife.’ He wiped at his cheek. ‘I got out of there and I called her, called her mother, called her mates. Nobody’d seen her.’ He opened his eyes, deep holes without any emotion left. ‘They’ve got my wife and my son. I get to see them once a month. I’m so far in the shit, right? I’ve had enough of this. This constant struggle. This worry. If you catch them, then . . . Maybe . . .’

  Docherty held up a hand, stopping Fenchurch from continuing. ‘Did you kill Steven Shelvey?’

  ‘I’m not answering that.’

  Fenchurch butted in. ‘Where is my daughter?’

  ‘She was rehomed, mate, but I don’t know where. The agency is in Hammersmith.’

  Fenchurch gripped Johnson’s shirt tight again. ‘What’s the address?’

  ‘Not so fast.’ Johnson brushed him off. ‘I can take you there. Get you inside. Show you how it all works.’

  Chapter Thirty

  Fenchurch drove through the night-time traffic, taking a right past the Hammersmith Apollo. He switched his rear-view from the trailing squad car and focused it on Johnson in the back, pondering his own mortality.

  Nothing worse than a dirty cop.

  Especially one who’d . . .

  Why not just drive into the Berkshire countryside and smash his brains out with a tyre iron? Drive down to Brighton and dump his body in the sea? Drive up to Scotland and dig a shallow grave somewhere. Enough cans of Red Bull and you were there in eight hours. Yorkshire, Wales or Cornwall, even less time and just as barren.

  ‘—along, guv?’

  Fenchurch pulled onto King Street and caught Reed’s glower from the passenger seat. ‘What?’

  ‘You’ve gone all quiet, guv. I’m getting a little bit worried.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I was asking why you brought me along.’

  Fenchurch checked Johnson wasn’t listening and spoke in an undertone. ‘Because you’re the only one I can trust. Well, you and Paul Temple.’

  ‘He’s a good guy.’ She glanced behind them. ‘Unlike our chum there.’

  Johnson’s cuffed hands rattled between the seats. ‘It’s just up ahead. On the right.’

  Fenchurch cut across a black cab and took the side street.

  The cuffs jangled as Johnson pointed to the left. ‘There.’

  Fenchurch parked between a Saab and a Fiat. ‘This us?’

  ‘This is us.’ Johnson waved his hands at a shop on the left, stuck between a Polish supermarket and an upmarket café. Dark-grey frontage, heavy oak door, FRESH START daubed in a tasteful font, with two stick-figure adults holding hands with a child and waving.

  ‘Come on, then.’ Fenchurch caught a whiff of hash from somewhere. No sign where. The squad car double-parked up ahead, the uniforms staying inside.

  A tropical bird flapped between two trees, squawking loud enough to draw in the neighbourhood’s cats. Yellow and blue feathers dusted the pavement.

  ‘That’s not a Kingston parakeet, guv.’ Reed already had her Airwave out. ‘I’ll call the RSPCA.’

  Fenchurch helped Johnson out of the car. ‘Right, no funny business here, okay?’

  ‘I’m a desperate man in a desperate situation.’ Johnson stepped across the pavement and flipped down a security panel by the door. He tapped in a code and smiled at Fenchurch. ‘Keys?’

  The street was empty apart from the now-wild bird. ‘Fine.’ Fenchurch rummaged in his pocket and got out Johnson’s keys, all neat and tidy, not even a supermarket trolley token.

  Johnson caught them and unlocked the shutter. ‘Going to need a hand here.’

  Fenchurch crouched down and helped haul up the metal gate.

  Johnson put another key in the door, his eyes dancing up and down the street as he twisted it in the lock.

  Inside, it was more like a funeral home than an adoption agency, whatever one of them should look like. Flowers and cartoons of smiling children, maybe. Not dark panelling and the sort of paintings that’d give you a hefty shrink’s bill.

  Johnson hefted up a partition in the middle of the long bench and sat behind a computer, shaking the mouse to wake it. ‘Okay, this should be quick.’

  Fenchurch joined him behind the partition, making sure there wasn’t any funny business going on. ‘What’s the password?’

  Johnson hammered the keyboard. ‘What’s going to happen to me?’

  ‘I’ll owe you a massive favour.’

  ‘You still going to prosecute me?’

  ‘Not my remit.’ Fenchurch rested against the counter. ‘If things go well, we might get your wife and son back to you. You won’t keep your job, not this time. But you might just get a short prison sentence.’ He clapped him on the back, hard enough to pass on the threat. ‘Now, what’s the password?’

  ‘Right. It’s “Bubbles” with a capital “B” and a zero instead of the “u”.’ Johnson typed it in slowly. It opened to a web browser, the Fresh Start logo above a few buttons. He entered ‘July 2005’ and hit return. The screen switched to show a list of names and dates. He ran his finger down the monitor and tapped at one. ‘There you go.’

  Fenchurch frowned at it. Couldn’t make it out. ‘What?’

  Johnson clicked on a name. ‘Your daughter came in under the name Chloe Holland.’

  Fenchurch sucked in a deep breath. ‘Why Holland?’

  ‘They keep the first name because the kids answer to it. But they change the surname to hide the truth.’ Johnson switched to another tab on the screen. ‘She was adopted by a couple in early August 2005.’

  Fenchurch swallowed hard, hope burning at the acid in his gut, pushing up to his chest. ‘Is she still alive?’

  ‘You’ll have to find out for yourself.’ The laser printer next to Johnson rumbled and he grabbed the sheet of paper it spat out. ‘This is their address.’

  The one thing I’ve been after for so long . . . Now it was finally here?

  Can’t even look at it.

  Fenchurch folded it in half and put it in his pocket. ‘Come on, I’ve got to get you back to safety.’

  ‘Right.’ Johnson stared at the floor. ‘I thought—’

  ‘You didn’t expect me to just let you go, did you?’

  ‘No.’ Johnson huffed to his feet and led Fenchurch through the partition and out into the street.

  Reed was putting her Airwave away, a motorbike engine droning in the distance, the bird still squawking. ‘Guv?’

  Fenchurch just nodded at her, unable to get any words out of—

  BANG.

  A motorbike revved past as Johnson toppled over.

  Reed dived at Fenchurch, pushing him back against the door.

  BANG.

  The door frame splintered with a gunshot. The squad car’s siren screeched out as it revved off after the bike.

  Reed rolled off Fenchurch and sat up in a squat. ‘You okay, guv?’

  ‘I’ll live.’ Fenchurch eased himself up, panting. ‘Oh, shit.’

  Johnson lay on his side, a pool of blood leaking out of his skull onto the pavement, forming a speech bubble on the slabs.

  The crime scene was a mess of police tape and an RSPCA van trying to rescue the bird of paradise.

  Fenchurch unfolded the paper and read it for the first time.

  CHILD: CHLOE HOLLAND

  ADOPTION: 03/08/2005

  ADOPTERS: LAWRENCE SIMON

  CHERYL SIMON

  ADDRESS: 27 REMPSTONE ROAD

  SWANAGE

  DORSET

  BH19 1DW

  Dorset . . . Bloody miles away. Hundred and twenty, maybe more. Other side of the bloody country.

  He got out his Airwave Pronto and put the names i
nto the PNC. A drink-driving charge on the father. Nothing on the mother. Looked like they’d moved in August 2005, not long after they’d adopted Chloe. Then again a few years later. And again. Current address was some place called Poundbury in Dorchester.

  The Airwave blared out. ‘Control to DI Fenchurch.’

  ‘Receiving.’

  ‘Sir, all three units in pursuit of the motorcycle are reporting they’ve lost it somewhere between the South Circular and Richmond Park.’

  Somewhere between . . . Got to love the precision.

  ‘Thanks.’ Fenchurch killed the call and closed his eyes, shaking his head.

  Reed was over the road, briefing the two SOCOs who’d turned up.

  Docherty’s car pulled in and he got out, leaving his door open. He clocked Fenchurch and made a beeline for him. ‘Si . . . What the bloody hell is going on?’

  ‘We’ve lost Johnson, boss. The shooter . . .’

  ‘Aye, so it goes.’ Docherty did up his tie, almost choking himself. ‘Well, I’ve grabbed this case with both hands. Or rather, had it shat on my head.’ He slackened the tie off. ‘You okay?’

  Over the road, Reed was waving her hands in the air as she spoke. ‘If Kay hadn’t pushed me to the ground . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This was an assassination, boss.’ Fenchurch pointed at the splintered door frame, a SOCO photographing the wood. ‘That bullet had my name on it.’

  ‘Well, it’s better wedged in a door than in some nutter’s gun.’ Docherty waved over at Fresh Start, tape flapping in the breeze, the blood dialogue balloon now a flat paddling pool. ‘Did you get anything?’

  Fenchurch handed him the sheet of paper, waited while he scanned it. ‘Boss, I want to—’

  ‘Go.’ Docherty returned him the page. ‘Get to the bottom of this.’

  Fenchurch waited for Rosie’s door to clunk open. Heart thudding, eyes shut, ears almost bleeding with the cacophony of drums. He expected bedlam inside, kids running up and down the stairs, shouting at each other, but it was as quiet as a funeral.

  Another knock.

  The evening breeze rustled the hedge lining the road and rippled his jacket like a corner flag at Upton Park.

  Dorchester. A hundred and thirty miles away. Far enough to hide her from them in plain sight. Far enough to let her start a new life with new parents.

  Rosie opened the door and tucked her arms around herself. ‘You’re back, then. Thought you’d call before—’

  ‘Is Abi still here?’

  ‘We’re in the kitchen.’ Rosie stepped out into the night. ‘I sent Peter out with the kids to give us some space. They’re—’

  ‘Thanks.’ Fenchurch barged past her into the house, storming through the hall into the kitchen at the back.

  Abi was waiting for the kettle to boil, picking at her nails. A football goal dominated the floodlit lawn, a punctured ball lying in the net. She turned to him and frowned. ‘Simon?’

  Fenchurch tried to get the words out but nothing happened. ‘Ehm.’

  Rosie entered the room, arms still folded. ‘Abi, I think there’s enough milk for—’

  Fenchurch twisted round to smile at her, but he was struggling to get his mouth to move. Christ knows what it looked like . . . ‘Can you give us a minute, sis?’

  ‘Okay.’ Rosie backed out of the room, shutting the door behind her. No doubt standing with her ear to the stripped wood, a cup placed against it.

  Abi came over to him and brushed her hand up and down his arm. ‘Simon, what’s up? You look . . . odd.’

  ‘I feel it.’ Fenchurch rubbed a hand across his face. ‘Chloe . . .’ He shut his eyes and tried to swallow down the bitter tears. ‘She’s . . .’ He broke off, his throat like sandpaper. ‘There’s a possibility she’s alive.’

  Abi’s lips formed a horizontal line as her eyes shifted around. Then her face twisted up. ‘What? What are you talking about?’

  ‘Chloe.’ Fenchurch reached into his jacket pocket for the tear-stained print and handed it to her, like it was the golden ticket. ‘They took her, Ab. Gave her a new name.’

  Abi snatched it off him and scanned down the page, her frown deepening. She looked up at him, tears welling in her eyes. ‘Chloe Holland?’

  ‘Can’t find anything here.’ Fenchurch piled along a road in Dorchester, no vanishing points or landmarks to navigate by, just posh new houses, like a Cotswold village stretched out of all recognition. Nowhere near enough lighting, either. He finished the second can of Red Bull, the caffeine just about holding him together. ‘Never even heard of Poundbury.’

  ‘I thought about moving here a few years ago, when . . .’ Abi broke off. ‘Don’t you think it’s lovely?’

  ‘I think it’s a maze.’

  ‘It’s supposed to be. It’s meant to make it more welcoming. If you’d switch that satnav on . . .’ Abi stabbed at her phone, then pointed to the right. ‘Just down there.’

  ‘There?’ Fenchurch squinted down the lane, dark and menacing. Looked like a building site at the other end. Reed’s red Fiat was parked halfway down, the cabin lit up in the night-time gloom. He set off again. ‘I’m wondering where the bloody werewolves are.’

  ‘Simon, do you think this is funny? Because I’m not laughing.’

  ‘Force of habit, love. Sorry.’ Fenchurch’s hands were clammy on the wheel. Sweat trickled down his back. He trundled along the lane and pulled up outside a stone cottage that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a small Yorkshire village. No lights on, clear rear exits, too.

  Abi opened her door and made eye contact. ‘Now . . . Jesus Christ.’ She swallowed and got out onto the street, covering her face.

  Reed got out of her Fiat and jogged over, speaking into her Airwave. She grabbed Abi in a hug. ‘How you doing?’

  ‘How do you bloody think?’ Abi glared at the house. ‘I just want to see my daughter.’

  Squad cars pulled down the lane from both directions, trapping them in.

  ‘Got the place surrounded, guv.’ Reed waved at the cottage. ‘Been here an hour. There’s people inside. Don’t know who, but nobody’s entered or left in that time. Thought you’d appreciate it if I left the approach to you guys.’

  ‘Thanks, Kay . . .’ Fenchurch joined Abi at the front door. Waiting . . . The rage building up. He reached out and held his hand over the door knocker, breathing hard and deep.

  The moment it all becomes real, all of Chloe’s many possible pasts coalescing into a single present. Reality. What happened to her. What they did to her. Who she is now. Everything.

  Sounds came from inside. Music and chatter. Laughter.

  Fenchurch cracked the brass knocker off the plate. A stab of pain sliced through his gut.

  Footsteps thumped through the hall. An eye appeared at the window, peering out. Then nothing.

  A pause for what felt like days, weeks. Abi tugged her hair behind her ear.

  The door flew open and a red-faced man scowled out. Tall, bald and silver-haired, mid-sixties, but like those years had taken a toll. His gaze swept over Fenchurch and Abi, then Reed behind them. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Mr Simon?’

  ‘That’s correct. My friends call me Larry.’ His smile fizzed to a grimace and back again. ‘It’s quite late. What’s this about?’

  Fenchurch flashed his warrant card. ‘DI Simon Fenchurch. I need you to answer a few questions about a case dating back to 2005.’

  Larry blinked hard and slow. ‘I’m sorry, what?’

  ‘Are you the . . .’ Fenchurch put his warrant card away, his heart like a pneumatic drill tearing into his ribs. ‘Are you the father of Chloe Holland?’

  ‘Chloe?’ Larry swallowed. ‘Good heavens.’

  Fenchurch gritted his teeth. ‘Are you her father?’

  The door creaked open and a woman appeared next to Larry. Looked about twenty years younger than him. Could’ve been his daughter. Her face was pinched tight, like Fenchurch and Abi were trying to steal from her. Lines spidered ar
ound her eyes, a few silver threads in her dark hair. ‘What’s this about?’

  Larry stepped to the side. ‘Cheryl, they wanted to ask us about Chloe.’

  Cheryl eyed them suspiciously. ‘Why?’

  ‘Are you her father, Mr Simon?’

  ‘I am. Well, I was.’

  Fenchurch’s breathing sped up. ‘What do you mean, was?’

  ‘Can’t this wait until the morning?’

  Fenchurch grabbed fistfuls of his shirt. ‘What do you mean, was?’

  Cheryl bit at her lip. ‘Not long after we took her in. She was hit by a bus. She died.’

  What? She . . . Dead?

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Fenchurch pulled off the roundabout, then drove down the long road lined with tall stone buildings. ‘Do you want to talk, love?’

  ‘I want to know what the hell happened, Simon.’ Abi was leaning back in her seat, one arm folded across her chest, the other guarding her belly. ‘I need to know what happened to my baby girl.’

  Fenchurch pulled into the police station’s car park, less than half the size of Leman Street, even though it seemed to be the divisional HQ. He turned off the engine and ran a hand through his hair, damp with sweat. ‘This is probably going to be very difficult to process, love. There’s . . .’ He brushed tears from his eyes. ‘There’s going to be—’

  Water welled around Abi’s eyes. A tear slid down her cheek, soon turning into a torrent. ‘Let’s get this over with, okay?’ She tugged her door open and got out.

  Fenchurch sat there, watching her step over the wet tarmac to the side entrance.

  Maybe Chloe had walked along this street during her short second life, holding hands with her new parents, skipping, running off.

  How could they let her die? After the pain and torment the girl had been through. Just months after he and Abi had lost her.

  Reed’s car pulled in behind him, flanked by the squad car. Two local uniforms raced through the rain from the station. Larry Simon stepped out of the first car, his head bowed.