by Ed James
ALSO BY ED JAMES
DC SCOTT CULLEN CRIME SERIES
Ghost in the Machine
Devil in the Detail
Fire in the Blood
Dyed in the Wool
Bottleneck
Windchill
Cowboys and Indians
DS VICKY DODDS CRIME SERIES
Snared
SUPERNATURE SERIES (WRITING AS EDWIN JAMES)
Shot Through the Heart
Just Walking the Dead
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2016 Ed James
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503936553
ISBN-10: 1503936554
Cover design by Stuart Bache
To the other Ed
Contents
Day 1
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Day 2
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Day 3
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Day 4
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Day 1
Wednesday, 16th December 2015
Chapter One
DI Simon Fenchurch leaned against the window frame, kneading his aching back. Rain battered against the glass, long streaks running down the pane. Outside on Leman Street, streetlights painted the stone buildings opposite a harsh white. Stray gusts of winter wind blew the last few leaves around, mixing with carrier bags and fast food containers.
He checked his mobile. Just after half past seven. No new messages. No new calls to action.
He went back to his desk and opened the case file. The brown card was ragged in places, a tear running up the inside.
Fenchurch took a long look at the cover.
01-AT-00748-04
Chloe Fenchurch (DOB 12-Jun-97)
Missing Person
17/07/2005
His fingers tore at the pages. Too few leads. Not much of anything. He swallowed and returned to the start.
The photo stared out at him. The last one they had, one of the best. Chloe’s smile punctuated by the gap in her front teeth. Her school uniform ironed and pressed. Uneven blonde pigtails made her look like trouble. The flash had caught the dimple in her cheek, just like her mother’s. Her shadow was cast against the matte painting pretending to be sky.
He shut the folder again. Fingers traced the edges of the rough sticker. Over ten years now. Where had the time gone?
He unlocked his desktop and entered the case number into the Police National Computer. The machine started processing the request, as if it was powered by a hamster on a wheel. He drummed his fingers on the fake-oak desk, watching the hourglass empty and refill. The screen flashed to the crime report. All it took was a quick glance, the contents of every field long since etched into memory.
Nothing had changed. Same as it ever was.
He let out a sigh and found a blank sheet of A4. He started a mind map, the same one he always drew. ‘Chloe’ in the middle. Then ‘Leads’, ‘Witnesses’, ‘Suspects’. Still too few in each subcategory. Nobody had seen—
His desk phone rang. ‘Fenchurch.’
‘Simon, it’s me.’ Gruff London accent, like a forty-a-day taxi driver.
‘Dad.’
‘You’re in her PNC file again, aren’t you?’
Fenchurch returned the search to the home screen. ‘Nothing’s changed.’
‘It tells me when you check, you know?’
Fenchurch’s stomach rumbled. Acid reflux gnawed at his gullet. ‘I knew I’d regret supporting your return to duty.’
Laughter rattled down the line. ‘I’ll tell you when there’s something new, Simon. Don’t you worry on that score.’
‘Is this the only reason for your call?’
‘Let’s just say you jogged my memory.’
Fenchurch sat up straight. ‘You’ve found something?’
‘I need to speak to you, face-to-face.’
If Dad had something new, he’d be the one coming over. Would already be here. Fenchurch sighed into the handset. ‘I’m pretty busy just now.’
‘Too busy for your old man?’
‘Too busy for anything.’
‘I worry about you, son.’ A pause on the line, heavy mouth breathing. ‘Come out and see me in Lewisham, will you?’
‘Let me think about it.’ Fenchurch looked up at the office door as it juddered open. ‘I’ve got to go, Dad. I’ll maybe come see you soon, okay? Bye.’ He slammed the phone down in its cradle. ‘I was just about to send out a search party, Sergeant.’
DS Jon Nelson nudged the door shut behind him. Tall and black with the kind of suit a City lawyer would kill for. He dumped a brown Chilango paper bag on the desk and sat opposite Fenchurch. The table dug into his bulk, mostly muscle. ‘That carpet’s still not fixed, guv.’
‘I can only chase up Facilities so many times.’
‘Not fancying getting down on your hands and knees with a stapler?’
Fenchurch plonked a pile of expenses on top of Chloe’s case file. He used his Airwave police radio as a paperweight. ‘That’s why I’ve got two Detective Sergeants.’
‘Funny.’ Nelson shrugged off his overcoat and frowned at the fresh heap of paper. ‘What’s that you’re hiding from me, guv?’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘It’s never nothing with you.’ Nelson nudged his chair back a few inches and unloaded the bag’s contents onto the table. Took care with the tall, clear cups of lemonade, lidded with straws sticking out. He squinted at the long tubes of silver foil then tossed one over, marked with a ‘C’. ‘This is yours, I think.’
‘My turn next time.’ Fenchurch slowly unwrapped the top of his burrito to give a clear stretch of tortilla. He took a bite, closing his eyes as he chewed. ‘Always a good burrito from there. Always lacking something, though.’ He reached into his desk drawer for his bottle of hot sauce and tipped some on the exposed filling. Another bite
and the fire started to burn. ‘That’s better.’
Nelson picked up a serviette from the pile and cleaned his fingers, nodding at Fenchurch’s food. ‘You’re not worried about your acid reflux?’
‘Like I’ve got a choice in the matter, Jon. Which one was that you went to?’
‘Spitalfields.’ Nelson unwound more foil and grinned. ‘You’re not still ranking the Chilangos in London, are you?’
‘That one’s still behind the one on Upper Street. Just.’
‘Used to be your local, right?’
Fenchurch looked away. The rain had stopped battering the window with so much violence. ‘I’ve not even been to the Leather Lane one yet.’
‘You’re something else.’ Nelson laughed hard, his head and torso rocking.
Fenchurch took another mouthful and stretched out. The knot in his back started to unkink. ‘I’m still sore from beasting it in the gym this morning.’
‘You should give up the weights, guv.’
‘What, at my age?’
‘I don’t mean that. Come running with me.’
‘I’m not much of a runner.’
‘And I am? Couple of lunchtime jogs out to Canary Wharf and back, you’ll become more of a runner.’
‘I’ll be getting the DLR back from Shadwell after I do my ankle in.’
Nelson laughed before slurping his lemonade through the straw.
Fenchurch’s Airwave chirruped on the desk. The display showed a familiar badge number. He tapped the screen to answer. A Scottish accent blasted out, softened by a few years in civilisation. ‘DCI Alan Docherty to DI Fenchurch.’
Fenchurch held the device out and rolled his eyes at Nelson. ‘Safe to talk, sir.’
‘Get your arse over to Little Somerset House. That’s just off the Minories, by the bus station. Got ourselves a body.’
Fenchurch’s frown was mirrored on Nelson’s forehead. ‘Last I checked, boss, the Minories is City of London territory.’
‘That building’s just inside Met territory.’
Fenchurch glanced at his watch. ‘Well, I’m off-duty, sir. I thought you’d want DI Mulholland there?’
‘I’m asking you. Don’t make me tell you twice. And bring some friends.’
‘We’ll be five minutes.’ Fenchurch ended the call and stood up. ‘Come on, Sergeant, look lively.’
Nelson waved at Fenchurch’s burrito. ‘You not finishing that?’
Fenchurch retied the stray fronds of foil. ‘I’ll take it with me.’
Chapter Two
That’s it here.’ Fenchurch pulled off Aldgate High Street into the bus station and headed for the uniform manning the crime scene entrance. He wound down his window and flashed his warrant card. Rain sprayed into the car. He got a nod from the shivering soul. ‘Poor bugger.’ The window whirred back up as he parked behind the Scenes of Crime, the back looking even grimier in the sodium glare.
Fenchurch killed the engine and checked his burrito was secured in the door. He zipped up his jacket and got out. The bitter air smelled like half the Thames was pouring down. The breeze caught the vaguest whiff from a nearby kebab shop.
The dull arc-light glow bled across the wet tarmac. Lights flashed in the fourth-floor windows of the smallest of the three hulking brick buildings surrounding them. At least twenty floors of brutalist ugliness, the gentle curves betraying their recent construction. Eighties, by the look of it. Already obsolete and shut down.
‘Come on, Sergeant.’ Fenchurch led him over to the building. A slab of chipboard was dumped next to the entranceway. He waved at another shivering figure. ‘Evening, Kay.’
‘Nice night for it, guv.’ DS Kay Reed cowered under a bent and battered umbrella. No chance it was keeping the rain off the red hair spidering behind her ears. Her navy pinstripe trouser suit was baggy enough to hide her wide hips. Essex accent from way out in the estuary. She handed him a clipboard. ‘I need you to sign in.’
Fenchurch grabbed it and jotted their names on blank lines halfway down the page. ‘Getting quite full in there already, I see.’
‘And then some.’ She took back the clipboard, nostrils twitching. ‘Chilli and garlic. Mexican, I take it?’
‘As if I eat anything else.’ Fenchurch held up his Airwave. ‘Just got the usual vague nonsense from Docherty. What’s happened here?’
‘Disused offices, guv. The security guard found the body of a girl just after six.’
‘Were you First Attending?’
‘First of our lot.’ Reed tugged at her hair. A spray of water flashed out. ‘Nothing on her. Just cash and condoms. No ID. Could be a prostitute.’
‘How old?’
‘I’d say sixteen, seventeen.’
Fenchurch swallowed. His throat felt a nanometre in diameter. ‘That’s no age at all.’
‘IC1’s about as close as I can give.’ Reed exhaled, her breath misting in the air. ‘Could be English, Polish, Bulgarian, Czech, American, Australian. You name it.’
Fenchurch nodded at Nelson. ‘Let’s have a butcher’s.’
Nelson smiled at Reed. ‘See you later, Kay.’
Fenchurch walked inside. The stench of mould and mushrooms mingled with a strong dose of aftershave. He followed the trail up the stairs, the footplates missing on most of the steps. Graffiti adorned the walls.
Fenchurch waited on the third-floor landing. Shouting cut through the crackle of Airwaves. ‘I don’t like the fact we’ve not got an ID, Jon. Gives me the feeling we’ll lose Christmas to this case.’
‘Tenner says we solve it by then.’
‘Never take up gambling, Sergeant.’ Fenchurch started up again, two steps at a time.
The shouting got louder as they climbed. Flashes of light blasted out, outlining a figure standing in the doorway.
DC Lisa Bridge was staring into a mirror, trying to restore her blonde locks to the usual rough bedhead look. The SOCO suit’s blue mask hung behind her head. She stood up straight and held out her clipboard. ‘Need you to sign in, sir.’
‘Completing forms is my life, Constable.’ Fenchurch grinned at her as he filled it in. He caught a suit Nelson threw over. ‘Make sure you never get promoted beyond sergeant.’
‘Will do, sir.’
Fenchurch got a leg into the suit. ‘That was a joke.’
‘Right. Sorry.’ Bridge cleared her throat and fiddled with an earring. ‘DCI Docherty’s waiting for you through there.’
‘I thought I could smell his aftershave.’
‘Bit overpowering, sir.’
Fenchurch tugged the hood over his head and secured the mask around his mouth.
Nelson was struggling with his zip, caught halfway up. ‘These things weren’t designed with the larger gentleman in mind, were they?’
‘Maybe you need more runs out to Canary Wharf.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Nelson yanked at the zip. ‘That’s got it.’
‘Come on.’ Fenchurch followed the flashes into the large chamber. Hundreds of wooden desks were rammed together in the middle, decaying IT equipment stacked on top. Ten or so Scenes of Crime officers combed the area behind, dusting and cataloguing, obscuring what they were investigating.
Two suited figures stood apart from the rest. Arms folded, locked in conversation, both clearly male. One of them broke off, holding an Airwave to his head, mask dangling free.
Fenchurch made for the other one. ‘That you, George?’
‘Wish it wasn’t, but yes.’ Mick Clooney tilted his head towards the other figure. ‘Your guv’nor’s around somewhere.’ He gestured at the far wall. ‘The body’s over there.’
‘Cheers.’ Fenchurch peered through the group of SOCOs. A pale thigh, navy tights and pink knickers around the knees.
Bloody hell fire.
‘Hoy!’ Fenchurch stormed across the room, fists clenched. He nudged a pair of gawkers out of the way. ‘Give her some dignity.’ He pointed at a female figure holding another clipboard. ‘And set up a bloody tent around her. Now.’
The SOCO gave a nod and moved off, head bowed.
Fenchurch shook his head. ‘Bloody amateurs.’
A heavy-set man was kneeling over the body, his thick beard filling out his SOCO suit. Dr William Pratt. He was prodding the flesh with a metal cylinder. The needle was sharp enough to make your eyes water.
Fenchurch tapped him on the shoulder. ‘William, this is a shambles.’
Pratt looked up, his mask puffing. ‘Evening, Simon.’
‘You’ve got the victim on public display here. Didn’t think to cover her up, did you?’
‘Sorry. Should’ve thought.’ Pratt went back to the body. ‘My kingdom for some peace and quiet to do my bloody job . . .’
Fenchurch gave up on him and switched his focus to Nelson. ‘Jon, get this place organised.’
‘Will do, guv.’
Fenchurch took in the body. The chilli heat felt close to climbing back up from his stomach.
Reed was right. Barely a woman. She lay on her back, open eyes staring up at the ceiling. Spatters of blood covered her neck and matted her hair. The beige carpet beneath her soaked up a red pool. A thick crust lined her blonde hair, partially obscuring her face.
Wait a second . . . Shit.
Fenchurch’s heart started hammering, the blood thudding in his ears like drums beating a staccato rhythm. He reached out a gloved hand and pushed the hair away.
A face he didn’t recognise. No traces of his ugly mug or of Abi’s dimple. It wasn’t Chloe.
He let out his breath and stood up. His mask was dripping with moisture around the eyes. ‘You been here long, William?’
‘Twenty minutes, give or take. Have a look at this.’ Pratt knelt down and eased up the girl’s top.
Her upper torso was a swamp of knife wounds. Gouges spread from her throat down to her ribcage. A ladder of cuts down her chest bisected her small breasts, deepening as they progressed to her flat belly.
Fenchurch sucked in cold air and blinked back the tears. ‘Cover her over, for crying out loud.’
‘Right, yes. Of course.’ Dr Pratt pulled her top back down. He stood up with a groan. ‘That’s some impressive butchery there.’
‘You think this is a pro?’
