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

by Ed James

  Fenchurch flashed his warrant card. ‘Police. I’m looking for a—’

  BOOM.

  The Lexus erupted in a bright explosion.

  Fenchurch hit the deck, hauling the guard down.

  Flames climbed ten feet high, licking at the store’s brick wall.

  Abi . . . No . . .

  Fenchurch rolled over, getting to his feet with a scraped knuckle. He darted over to the car. The air was on fire, felt like it could melt his skin. He tried to peer inside the car, the flames singeing his eyebrows and hair.

  Bloody thing was empty.

  He shrugged off his jacket and covered his hand, then opened the door. At least the central locking was off. Definitely nobody inside, front or back.

  He jogged round to the boot. A good kick and it bounced open. He flicked it up with his covered hand and the mechanism winched it open fully.

  Empty.

  He staggered back away from the nuclear heat and sucked in smoke, coughing hard.

  Abi wasn’t in there.

  One last look and Fenchurch jogged back to his car. He reached in and grabbed his Airwave.

  ‘—there, sir?’

  ‘The car’s gone, Clive.’ Fenchurch rested against the roof, still tasting soot. ‘They must’ve shifted to another car here. Can you get anything?’

  ‘This isn’t 24, sir. I can’t access satellites. I’m trying to get the CCTV, but it’s just the live feed.’

  ‘Call DCI Bell.’

  ‘Tried that. He’s not talking to me.’

  ‘Get Docherty to call him.’

  ‘Right. I’ll need to find him first.’

  ‘Bloody find him!’

  A car screeched to a halt behind him and footsteps rattled across the pavement.

  Fenchurch swung round, raising the baton, ready to lash out. Docherty’s Audi, Reed jumping out of the passenger side before it fully stopped.

  She grabbed him in a hug. ‘You okay, guv?’

  Fenchurch collapsed into her arms. ‘Someone’s got her, Kay. I should’ve protected her.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘It’s those warning calls. They framed Dad, and now they’ve got Abi.’

  ‘It’s okay, guv.’ Reed let him go. ‘We’ll get her.’

  Docherty was resting against the car, giving Fenchurch the up and down. The guard was scooshing a fire extinguisher at it. Like pissing in the Thames. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  Fenchurch’s mouth was dry, felt like he could drink the North Sea. His Airwave chimed from his car. He reached in and answered it. ‘Fenchurch.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s Clive Naismith again. Got some bad news, sir. I’ve lost the motor they transferred your wife into.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘That’s the thing, it’s just out of sight of the camera. And there’s too many motors leaving the car park.’

  ‘Right.’ Fenchurch ended the call and glared at Docherty. ‘This is the same MO as Chloe and Cassie. Swap the cars. Maybe they burnt them out back in the day.’ The flames were even higher now. He clicked his fingers. ‘Connolly . . . He knows who did this, boss.’

  Docherty shook his head. ‘We can’t have you in there speaking to him. The CPS will go ballistic.’

  ‘Al, just give me ten minutes in there. I need to speak to him.’

  ‘Si . . .’

  ‘They’ve got Abi.’

  ‘Bloody hell. Right, come on.’

  Daniel Connolly rolled up his shirt sleeve to show a welt of bruises. His eye had developed into a proper shiner. ‘Bet you hear this a lot, but this is police brutality.’

  Docherty’s mouth twitched. ‘What happened?’

  ‘You lot keep kicking the shit out of me, don’t you?’ Connolly drew a ring around his eye. ‘See this? Got booted there by a big strapping lad. Must’ve been the same size as me.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Didn’t even see him.’ Connolly prodded the bruise again. ‘The lights were out.’

  Docherty rolled his eyes. ‘So if the lights were out, how did you see he was a big strapping lad?’

  ‘Because he picked me up off the bed in that cell and chucked me on the floor. You know how much I weigh?’ Connolly pressed the flesh around the bruises, yellowing the purple. ‘He’d have killed me if I hadn’t caught him square in the knackers. You going to do anything about it?’

  Docherty kept his focus on Connolly. ‘That’s not why we’re here.’

  ‘My life’s in danger!’ Connolly ran his hand down his arm, puckering the flesh. ‘You need to protect me!’

  Fenchurch made eye contact with Connolly, trying hard to smile. ‘We need to ask you some questions.’

  ‘About me getting a shoeing?’

  ‘No, about your somewhat chequered employment history, you filthy little mongrel.’ Docherty thumbed at Fenchurch. ‘My colleague offered you a deal. You didn’t take it. Why?’

  ‘Why do you think, you bald arsehole?’

  ‘Here’s the deal, okay?’ Docherty let the insult slide. ‘You give up your paymasters and you walk. If we get your bosses, you walk. Even with the murder of Cassie McBride. No matter what else you’ve done.’ He kept his focus on Connolly. ‘New ID. New life. All you need to do is tell us exactly what’s happened, who your bosses are and where they’ve taken these girls.’

  Connolly rested his hands on his neck. ‘What choice have I got?’

  ‘None.’ Docherty folded his arms, a smirk dancing across his lips. ‘Son, we know you killed Cassie McBride. Marched up and shot her. You’re going to prison for a very long time.’

  ‘Look, I can’t.’

  Docherty reached across the table and grabbed a fistful of his shirt. He pulled Connolly towards him, yanking his gut into the table edge. ‘What have they got on you, son?’

  ‘What haven’t they got on me?’ Connolly choked as he jerked free. ‘There’s stuff that . . . Well, your immunity won’t cut it.’

  ‘Just tell us. Whatever it is, you walk. If it’s good enough, you’ll get a new life.’

  Connolly smoothed out his shirt collar. ‘I only ever dealt with Blunden.’

  ‘Blunden told you to shoot Cassie McBride?’

  ‘He’d got wind of her being back in London, wanted rid of her. I drove to near the girl’s house, called a Travis car on this phone he gave me. She pulls up, I walk over and shoot her.’ Connolly looked over at Fenchurch. ‘Happy now?’

  ‘I’m very far from happy.’ Fenchurch narrowed his eyes at Connolly. ‘Where are they taking people?’

  Connolly jammed his hands into his armpits and lowered his head. ‘A few years ago, I tried to run away. There’s this service, yeah? You pay them half a million quid and you get a new ID, new passport and they take you away somewhere hot and cheap to live.’ He swallowed hard. ‘But Blunden caught me, took all the cash I’d saved up, then showed me what they had on me.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘The people Blunden was working with. I don’t think he was in charge.’

  Fenchurch narrowed his eyes further. ‘Tell us where they take people and you can walk away. No strings.’

  Connolly pointed around the walls of the interview room. ‘I heard about that one that got shot last night. Johnson. That’s because I put you onto him, right? You think whoever did that won’t do it to me? You think whoever was in my cell last night won’t try again?’

  Docherty nodded at Fenchurch, then at Connolly. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I need to know you’re serious. They’ll kill me for this.’

  ‘So tell us where it is they take people.’

  ‘I’m not telling you, mate.’ Connolly untucked his hands from his armpits and rested them on the table. ‘But I will show you.’

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Fenchurch kept his gaze on the road as he hit dial on his Airwave. ‘I need an update on the whereabouts of Abigail Fenchurch.’

  ‘Just checking, sir.’ The line was filled with background chatter and typ
ing. ‘Sorry, no update, I’m afraid. There are units out across north London.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He sniffed. ‘Fenchurch to DS Nelson. Where now?’

  ‘Guv.’ Nelson drove the squad car behind them. He waved his hand at Connolly in the middle of the back seat, leaning forward. ‘Left here.’

  Fenchurch turned off the Old Kent Road onto a Peckham street still stuck in the Del Trotter era. ‘Then where?’

  ‘He says it’s just round the bend, guv. Only going to tell us when we get near.’

  ‘Charming.’ Fenchurch drove on with a deep sigh. ‘Heard anything?’

  Reed was in the passenger seat, texting away. ‘Nobody’s heard from her, guv.’

  Fenchurch slumped back in his chair, tried to ease out his thighs. So much driving . . .

  The Airwave buzzed again. ‘Left here, guv.’

  ‘Here?’ A lane running between a low blue office block and a sprawling Royal Mail depot. ‘Looks like a rat run, Jon.’

  ‘Says it’s not far, guv. Left at the end.’

  Fenchurch took the turning and trundled down the road, eyes peeled for any suspicious activity. He stopped and indicated left, waiting for Nelson’s car to join them. ‘What do you make of this geezer, Kay?’

  ‘I’m always suspicious of Greeks bearing gifts.’

  Fenchurch pulled left onto the main road. ‘Well, he’s driving me around the bend.’

  ‘Says it’s a right now, guv.’

  Fenchurch drove through an ancient part of London, Victorian brick mills and factories on the left now restored to flats, across from some post-war factory units still in service. ‘How much further?’

  ‘Pull in here.’

  Fenchurch stopped opposite a lock-up, wedging his Mondeo between a Porsche Cayenne SUV and a black cab. He spoke into his Airwave. ‘Serial Bravo, converge on my location on Curtis Street. Do not follow or enter any properties without my express permission. And for God’s sake, keep yourselves out of sight.’

  ‘Loud and clear.’

  Fenchurch stuffed the Airwave into his jacket pocket.

  Just up the road, Nelson hopped out of the squad car and stretched, before opening the back door.

  Connolly squinted into the morning sunlight, hunched over on the back seat. ‘I ain’t getting out until I know it’s safe.’

  Fenchurch led Reed over to them. ‘It’s clear.’

  ‘How do I know that?’

  ‘You’ve been warned about any funny business, sunshine.’ Fenchurch hauled him out of the car and spun him around. ‘See?’

  ‘Right.’ Connolly lowered his shoulders and swallowed. He tugged his hair down his forehead. ‘You sure it’s safe?’

  Give me bloody strength. Fenchurch thumbed behind him. ‘Why did we snake around back there?’

  ‘Because we might’ve been followed.’ Connolly was paying particular attention to the bare wall of the mill towering above, just one window overlooking them. ‘And I don’t know who might be here already.’

  ‘Let’s just get this over with, shall we?’

  Connolly slouched across the road, his cuffs dangling in front of him, and paced through the factory car park, cast in shadow and still damp from overnight rain. He stopped outside the fifth door along. The windows were painted black, the door covered with the sort of mechanical security a medium-scale drug dealer would install. He licked his lips as he gave the area another once-over. ‘Doesn’t look like this place has been used for a few months.’ He swallowed and glanced at Nelson. ‘Keys.’

  Nelson held up a keyring, jammed with about twenty keys. ‘Take your pick.’

  Connolly grabbed it from Nelson and started unbolting the doors, his cuffs rattling. ‘We lost a girl on her way to Fresh Start, back in March. You lot picked her up.’ He undid another bolt. ‘Blunden closed this place down, told us to keep clear of here.’

  Still quiet, just the usual traffic noise from the main road.

  Connolly glanced up at the brick tower, still visible from the yard. ‘Course, I’ve stayed away, but you never know who’s watching, though.’

  ‘They haven’t changed the locks.’

  ‘Don’t want to draw any attention to themselves.’ Connolly undid the large horizontal bolt. ‘The good news, though, is there’s no CCTV. For obvious reasons.’ He crouched down to undo a padlock, dropping it on the pavement. ‘That’s us.’ He hauled the door open and reached inside.

  Lights flickered on, subtle downlighters illuminating antique furnishing, like a West End designer-kitchen showroom. Four large cots lined the far wall, next to a bookshelf full of Harry Potter books and kids’ DVDs.

  Bitter saliva crawled down Fenchurch’s throat.

  The sort of place you’d keep children for six months to a year before sending them out to their eventual destination. The sort of place you’d keep children while you—

  ‘Cost a pretty penny to do up, I can tell you.’ Connolly waved a hand around. ‘No expense spared . . .’

  Fenchurch pointed at a staircase leading into a basement area, shining mirrors and fairy lights lining the way. ‘What’s down there?’

  ‘Place is a lot bigger than you think.’ Connolly thumped at the floor. ‘Must be under all of the units—’

  BANG.

  Connolly toppled backwards, clutching his shoulder. He hit the door, blood pouring out of an open wound on his neck.

  A motorbike droned off.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Not this bloody time!

  Fenchurch sprinted towards the road, Airwave to his mouth. ‘Serial Bravo, shooter is on a red Honda motorbike. Repeat: a red Honda motorbike!’

  Over to the left, the bike was closing on the junction with the main road, swerving out into the traffic and nearly hitting a white van. Blue lights throbbed from the opposite direction.

  Fenchurch battered down the pavement and skidded to a halt at the junction. The motorbike swerved to the right, heading the way they’d driven. Another siren blasted out from behind him.

  There.

  A path ran between the Royal Mail yard and an office block. He bombed down, his feet splashing in the puddles, legs burning.

  Not again. Not another stupid death. Not the only lead we’ve got.

  He cut out onto the main road. The bike was at the junction, pulling a tight three-pointer, boots kicking up spray from the road. Looked male under the leathers. Big, too.

  The squad car flashed towards it, siren wailing.

  Fenchurch darted after the bike, baton out. He swung at the motorcyclist’s helmet, cracking the baton off the plastic. The rider tumbled to the ground, the bike toppling in the opposite direction.

  Fenchurch stepped forward and swung out again. Just missed.

  In a flash, the rider was on his feet, reaching into his pocket.

  Fenchurch lashed out and caught the cyclist under the helmet, sending him back down again. He vaulted over the prone motorbike, which was growling in the morning air, and landed knee first on the attacker’s back. He grabbed his wrist and twisted it round, pushing it into his coccyx. He cracked the helmet off the tarmac.

  Fenchurch got up and pulled the choking motorcyclist to his feet. He hauled off the helmet.

  DC Clive Naismith, bruised and bloody.

  Fenchurch almost let go. ‘You?’

  ‘You’re a bit slow on the uptake, Fenchurch.’ Naismith’s fingers were reaching for his pocket.

  Fenchurch lashed out with the baton. ‘No, you don’t.’

  Naismith yanked his hand away.

  Fenchurch raised the baton. ‘Any more of that and you know what to expect, okay?’ He reached with his left hand and tore open the pocket. A pistol poked out, the same German thing Clooney had shown him, altered beyond recognition, the exact same model that Connolly had tried to shoot him with. He grabbed Naismith by the lapels. ‘Where the hell is my wife?’

  Naismith gobbed at him, warm spit splattering his cheek.

  Fenchurch swiped Naismith’s legs and pushed him onto the
ground. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Piss off.’

  Fenchurch smashed Naismith’s head on the concrete, the blue lights bouncing off everything.

  Feet thumped over the pavement and hands hauled Fenchurch back, digging into his armpits. ‘Easy, easy. We’ll take him from here.’

  ‘Get him back to Leman Street, okay? Now.’

  Fenchurch sprinted up the street and veered to the right, his knee just about giving way as he passed the front of the warehouses.

  Reed was on her knees, trying to keep Connolly alive. Blood plastered her cream blouse, soaking into her trousers. ‘Come on, Jon. Start it!’

  Fenchurch stopped beside them. ‘What’s going on?’

  Nelson held Connolly from behind, his giant Samsung mobile in front of the giant’s lips. ‘Trying to get a dying declaration from him.’

  Fenchurch sucked in breath. ‘Shit, it’s that bad?’

  ‘It’s not good.’ Reed cradled Connolly’s head. ‘Daniel, I need you to tell us it again.’

  Connolly spluttered blood down his chin. He rubbed his bloody gums, like a boxer without a mouth guard. ‘Who . . . who did this?’

  ‘Clive Naismith.’

  ‘Naismith? What?’ Connolly coughed again. ‘I told you we should be careful . . .’

  Nelson put the phone in front of him. ‘Tell him what you just told us.’

  ‘My name is Daniel Connolly and this is my dying declaration. Clive Naismith . . . killed Frank Blunden. I was there. We were told to frame Ian Fenchurch. There is a video recording on my phone. The passcode is four, two, three, one.’

  ‘Why did you kill Blunden?’

  ‘He’s not got long to live. That cancer.’ Connolly gasped in some air, his mouth twisted into a grimace. ‘Loose lips sink ships and all that. But we could frame your father at the same time.’

  ‘Jesus . . .’ Fenchurch leaned back against the cold brick and felt his breath escape. ‘Thought you only dealt with Blunden?’

  ‘I lied. I regret that now.’ Connolly waved a faltering hand at the building. ‘Inside.’ A glob of blood landed on his cheek. ‘Behind a radiator downstairs. Near the bathroom. There’s . . . there’s some video.’ His head lolled into Nelson’s lap.