The Hope That Kills (A DI Fenchurch Novel Book 1)

by Ed James

  ‘After you go to the post-mortem?’

  ‘I’m awaiting instruction on that.’ Fenchurch looked around the room. ‘For the record, I’m the Deputy SIO on this case. DI Mulholland is covering for me in the hours of darkness. Clear?’

  The old Southwark warehouses were now all designer apartments and offices. Ancient maritime frontage to modern shells. Audis and Mercs jammed the street. Not even the congestion charge discouraged the City boys from driving.

  ‘Always hate going south of the river.’ Fenchurch got out of the car. ‘The traffic’s a bloody nightmare.’

  Nelson grinned over the roof. ‘You’re full of joy this morning.’

  Fenchurch wrapped up against the biting cold. Still dark in the sky, just a faint glow to the east. ‘Maybe I should let you run back to the station. You know the route, don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, from Canary Wharf.’ Nelson bellowed with laughter. ‘Believe me, it’d be better than listening to you moan about the traffic.’ He waved at an old wharf building across the road, a canal running underneath. The Hutchison and Barker logo shouted out in lime green on a grey background. ‘This is us here, I think.’ He darted between two idling BMWs and opened the building’s front door. The wind almost tore it off. ‘After you.’

  Fenchurch led into a brightly lit corridor. Boards of rental properties lined the walls, some of them a cop’s salary for a week’s rent. He peered through the glass into the dark reception space. Looked a world away from Selma Burns’ office in Little Somerset House. Stripped brick covered with vintage photographs of Southwark’s prime days as a port. An old bread oven filled the far wall.

  The lights flickered on. A middle-aged woman dumped her leather gloves onto the desk. Then a heavy overcoat.

  Nelson rapped on the glass door and flashed his warrant card.

  She hurried over and shifted her scowl from the card to him. A streak of grey lined her shoulder-length fringe. She unlocked the door and opened it an inch. ‘Can I help, officers?’

  ‘DS Nelson. DI Fenchurch. We’re looking to speak to Jason Smith.’

  ‘In you come.’ She went back over and checked her computer. Grinding came from somewhere to the left, faint and distant. ‘Mr Smith’s diary’s currently free, Sergeant. You can go through.’ She nodded at a hole in the wall. Whoever had renovated the place hadn’t bothered with the trivialities of putting a door in. ‘It’s on the right through there.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Nelson led, climbing a couple of steps. He pushed at a door recessed into the brick. The office wall was dominated by a large print of the Arsenal Invincibles team in a huddle. ‘Jason Smith?’

  A man was behind a tall desk, typing at an iMac as he marched on a treadmill. The whirring suggested it wasn’t that happy supporting his massive body. He squinted at them. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘DS Jon Nelson. This is DI Simon Fenchurch.’ Another wave of his warrant card. ‘We understand your firm manages Little Somerset House.’

  ‘That’s correct.’ Jason reached for a white towel on his desk and dried his fat face, breathing hard. ‘I’ll just give you the number of my building manager.’

  ‘We spoke to Selma Burns last night.’ Fenchurch hovered next to Nelson. ‘We’ve got a few additional questions to ask you.’

  ‘I see.’ Jason started walking again, sucking at air. ‘Shoot.’

  ‘Do you mind stopping that?’

  ‘Doctor’s orders. I’ve lost six stone since I got this little baby. Down to twenty, aiming to lose another six by this time next year.’

  ‘Your doctor won’t mind you stopping for five minutes.’ Fenchurch narrowed his eyes at him. ‘Why did you tell her to let prostitutes service their clients in Little Somerset House?’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Jason slowed to a halt and jumped off the machine. Another wipe then he draped the towel across his shoulders. Face like a smacked arse. ‘Who told you that? Selma Burns?’ He shook his head, the loose skin wobbling. ‘She was to make sure nobody used the place as a squat, that’s it.’

  ‘So she never mentioned prostitutes to you?’

  ‘Listen, I’ve no problem with that. They’re in and out.’ He smirked and raised a hand. ‘Pardon the pun. I don’t care so long as they don’t stay there and it doesn’t cost my client a bean. That’s how we manage that place for our clients.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘Not sure about that, sir. A young woman’s turned up dead in their building. We’d appreciate speaking to them.’

  ‘I assure you there’s no connection between them and a junkie’s corpse.’

  ‘She wasn’t a drug user, as far as we know. If you’ve got evidence to the cont—’

  ‘Look, I just don’t see them as being pertinent to your investigation.’

  ‘Just tell us, sir.’

  ‘No.’

  Fenchurch barked out a bullet of laughter. ‘We can get a warrant.’

  A shard of sunlight flashed in the floor-to-ceiling windows and caught Jason’s face. ‘I’m not stopping you.’

  ‘And I’m wondering why you’re being so evasive. Turning a blind eye to prostitution probably warrants a word with one of our specialist units. They’ll be here as soon as you get back on that treadmill.’

  Jason ran the towel across his ruddy face again. ‘Fine, fine. Darke Matter Capital own the building. That’s Darke with an E. They’re a hedge fund out in Canary Wharf.’ He tossed the towel onto the desk. It missed, flapping to the floor like a seagull on a pile of chips. ‘The contract’s with a chap called Aleister Vaughn. That’s with an E and an I.’

  Bloody hedge funds. Love their obscure names as much as avoiding tax. Fenchurch scribbled it on his Pronto. ‘Do you have many dealings with him?’

  ‘I’ve met him once. That’s it.’ Jason bent down to collect the towel and dumped it on a radiator. ‘They retained us from the previous owners. Operate very much at arm’s reach. I send them an invoice every month and get a cheque in return.’

  ‘This instruction about the prostitutes came from him, though, yeah?’

  ‘It’s not about prostitutes. Look, when they took it over, I went over to Canary Wharf to speak to Mr Vaughn. He explicitly instructed me to keep the budget tight. It’ll be a struggle to get anyone as cheap as Selma if she ever left.’

  ‘You’re not a living-wage employer?’

  ‘Bottom line’s everything in this game.’

  ‘Can you arrange a meeting with him?’

  ‘I can try.’ Jason fiddled with the mouse on his desk and glanced over. ‘I’ll make a call.’

  ‘Be our guest.’

  ‘I’d rather do it in private?’

  ‘Would you now?’ Fenchurch took a step forward. Just inches from Jason. His sweat stank like stale biscuits. ‘I’d appreciate it if you set up the meeting now, sir.’

  Jason opened his mouth to say something but stopped. He scratched at an eyebrow. ‘Fine.’ He picked up the phone and grinned as he spoke. ‘Hi, Sara. It’s Jason Smith. Yes, yes. Another stone. Yes. Listen, I’ve got some police officers here asking about Little Somerset. I take it you heard— Nasty business, I know. Well, I tried but they want to speak to Aleister. Yes, I think so. Yes. Okay.’ He put a hand over the mouthpiece. ‘How long will it take you to get to Canary Wharf?’

  ‘This time of day?’ Fenchurch let out a long breath. ‘About half an hour, plus parking.’

  Jason put the phone back to his ear and replaced the smile. ‘They’ll be there at quarter to nine. And if you could— Yes, the underground one. Thanks, Sara. Bye.’ He lowered the phone and the smile. ‘They’re arranging parking.’

  ‘I appreciate you doing that. Sounds like you’re a regular there, though.’

  Jason clambered onto the treadmill and stretched out the towel. ‘I have other clients in that building.’

  Fenchurch pushed the ice-cold handrail and spun through the revolving door. He marched across mid-brown flagstones towards the reception. Suited-
and-booted office drones criss-crossed the open space. Chatter and clicking heels bounced off the hard surfaces, stone, chrome and glass.

  What the hell was that?

  Fenchurch stopped and leaned to the side.

  In the far corner, a military helicopter crouched behind a Starbucks concession. The queue snaked around it, the propellers drooping down to head height. People checked phones, chatted about dates or childcare or bosses like a helicopter was normal.

  Nelson chuckled. ‘Quite some place this.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’ Fenchurch fumbled for his warrant card and flashed it at the security guard. ‘DI Simon Fenchurch of the Met. Here to see Aleister Vaughn of Darke Matter Capital.’

  ‘Darke Matter, eh?’ The guard was a middle-aged Indian man. Grey streaked his black hair. He was missing the index finger on his left hand. ‘Expecting you, is he?’

  ‘His PA booked in the appointment.’

  ‘Sara? Right, I’ll see what’s what.’ The guard mumbled into a telephone handset, like he was incanting Satanic verse.

  Fenchurch still couldn’t take his eyes off the helicopter.

  The guard smiled at them. ‘Mr Vaughn will meet you upstairs. He’s on the eighteenth floor.’ He waved a hand across the foyer. ‘The lifts are over there.’

  Fenchurch nodded. ‘What’s with the helicopter?’

  ‘The building owners bought it ten years ago. It served in Iraq, I believe.’

  ‘So why’s it here?’

  ‘Now that I can’t answer.’

  Fenchurch marched across the flagstones to the lifts. All four doors were shut, mirror-perfect sheets of steel. He tapped their floor number on a keypad and it flashed up Lift 1. The door to their left slid open with a ping. ‘Feels like I’m on bloody Star Trek.’ He got inside.

  The door just about shut on Nelson. ‘Bloody thing.’

  Fenchurch shook his head, laughing. ‘Thing I love about London, Jon, is you’ve got millions of people stuffing themselves into a barely competent transport system every day. Forces them to get in at the crack of sparrow fart and work on late. All to avoid getting crushed on the bloody Northern Line. Means we can always speak to someone no matter how stupid the time is.’

  ‘You should try getting from West London to Aldgate in the morning, guv.’

  ‘Bollocks to West London.’

  The lift doors slid open and Fenchurch stepped out onto a marble floor. Dark walnut lined the pale-blue walls. A window looked west to the growing collection of towers in the City. The teeming rain obscured much beyond the Gherkin, the Cheesegrater and the Walkie Talkie, with its car-melting concave glass. The Shard speared the sky on the south bank surrounded by its smaller children.

  ‘It’s quite some view, isn’t it?’ A man stood to their right, grinning at them. Tall, thin and pale. Blonde hair hung across his eyes in a side parting. He fiddled with his double-collared shirt, resting just so under the jacket’s sleeves. He stretched out a hand. ‘Aleister Vaughn, Darke Matter Capital.’

  ‘DI Fenchurch.’ He smiled as he shook his hand, eyes narrow. ‘And this is DS Nelson.’

  ‘If you’ll follow me into my office?’ Vaughn strolled down the corridor, leather loafers clicking off the marble. He held open a matt-black door, grinning like a vampire inviting them into his lair, and pointed at a flotilla of four cream armchairs by the window. ‘Please, have a seat.’

  Fenchurch took the one nearest the glass. His flat was just below as the Thames kinked around Greenwich and the Isle of Dogs. ‘Another nice view.’

  ‘We pay a lot of money for them. I’d say it’s worth it.’

  Fenchurch waved at the pale-green wall. ‘And that’s some picture.’

  A colossal landscape painting, a quaint pastoral scene. Carthorses and a group of men threshing wheat in front of an imposing stately home.

  ‘Ah, that.’ Vaughn undid his suit jacket’s top button and perched on the chair next to Nelson. ‘Yes, it’s the family seat.’

  ‘You’re of the landed gentry?’

  Vaughn held up his hands and smirked, eyebrows arched high. Like he was in some seventies sitcom. ‘Try not to hold it against me, officers.’

  ‘Not something we tend to do, sir.’ Nelson waved around the place. The office looked like it took up a large chunk of the building’s floor. ‘I take it business is good?’

  ‘Always is in this industry. We’ve built DMC to eighteen billion pounds under management in ten years. From scratch.’

  Nelson’s mouth slackened. ‘Impressive.’

  Fenchurch gave a shrug. ‘I wish that meant something to me.’

  Vaughn flicked up his eyebrows again and shifted to a frown. ‘Now, I’m afraid Sara neglected to capture any details of your visit?’

  Fenchurch unclipped the stylus from his Pronto’s case. ‘We gather you own Little Somerset House in Aldgate.’

  ‘This business does, yes.’

  ‘You’ll be aware of a young woman’s body being found there last night, of course.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Do you need me to repeat it?’ Fenchurch let it hang in the air and watched Vaughn squirm. ‘Wouldn’t happen to know anything about it, would you?’

  ‘We own that building. That’s it. The history of our involvement would send you to sleep.’

  ‘I’m all ears.’

  ‘It’s a long and dull story, I’m afraid.’ Vaughn smoothed down his suit trousers. ‘We bought that one and its siblings in 2011. They represent a very small portion of one of the Property portfolios under my management.’ He reclined in his seat and did a bit of manspreading. ‘We’re a small firm. Six on the board and an army of bean counters like myself to manage our assets. Plus a team who perform due diligence on acquisitions.’

  ‘And I presume these buildings passed with flying colours?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ Vaughn gave a nervous laugh. Followed it with a calm smile. ‘The previous owners went into liquidation in 2010. I’m afraid the whole portfolio had been rather poorly managed. When they acquired them in 2004, the campus carried a rental income in excess of two million pounds per month. With all the development in and around the City, they haemorrhaged tenants. The firm went bankrupt before they could get through planning.’

  ‘Are you responsible for any of their difficulties?’

  ‘Indirectly, maybe.’ Vaughn brushed some fluff off his otherwise pristine shirt collar. ‘The investment management community swell my Property funds because the fringe area of the City has been very lucrative for us. Fewer listed buildings and a surplus of post-war ones awaiting demolition.’

  ‘Why buy a building with no tenants?’ Nelson steepled his fingers. ‘I would’ve thought a Property fund needed rental income.’

  ‘It does.’ Vaughn grinned at Nelson. ‘You seem fairly well educated for a police officer.’

  ‘I worked in financial services before I decided to do something with my life.’

  Vaughn pursed his lips. ‘Well, I used one of our development funds to purchase those buildings. The investors for those vehicles are encouraged to take a long-term view.’

  ‘What’s that particular site’s objective, then?’

  ‘We’re working with our partners to build another prestige development.’

  Fenchurch poked his tongue into his cheek. ‘Like London needs any more.’

  ‘London can support an awful lot more, believe me. The rest of the UK?’ Vaughn snarled. ‘Not so much.’

  ‘And Hutchison and Barker manage the estate until the bulldozers go in.’ Fenchurch propped his elbows onto the arms of the chair. ‘We gather you know they let prostitutes use Little Somerset House.’

  Vaughn spluttered. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You instructed your factors to turn a blind eye on them.’

  ‘Did we now?’ Vaughn cleared his throat, a manicured hand covering his mouth. ‘Inspector, I’m a fund manager. We outsource all of that frippery to a specialist firm. Hutchison and Barker manage day-to-day operational ma
tters.’

  ‘You’re telling me this is their decision, not yours?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘They didn’t discuss the matter with you?’

  ‘I instructed them to minimise spend on an empty property. I’m a slave to my investors. Every pound spent is closely scrutinised, believe me. There’s very little point in us, for example, reglazing a condemned building.’

  ‘You didn’t even have chipboard up, though.’

  Vaughn shifted forward in his seat to perch on the edge. Looked like he could just topple off. ‘If the Metropolitan Police Force let prostitutes carry crowbars, then that’s your decision.’

  ‘When do the bulldozers move in there?’

  ‘We’re still in the planning stages.’

  ‘So they’ll be getting away with this for the foreseeable?’

  ‘Officers, I don’t know what else I can give you. That building’s an asset, that’s all. I suggest you pick up with Hutchison and Barker directly.’

  ‘We have.’

  ‘I’ll apply some pressure to ensure they support your investigation. Believe me, I want this killer caught as much as you do.’

  ‘Thanks for your time.’ Fenchurch got to his feet and handed him a business card. ‘Give us a call if the pressure leads to anything.’

  ‘Most certainly.’ Vaughn led them across his office and held the door open. ‘I mean it when I say this is bad for business. A prostitute being murdered in our asset won’t bode well for the planning process. Not to mention reputational damage to the City fringe.’

  ‘Your concerns are duly noted.’ Fenchurch smiled then left him to it. He led Nelson back to the lifts and hammered the button for the basement. ‘What a bleeding arsehole.’ He let out a sigh and took in the view again. ‘What do you make of his story, Jon?’

  ‘Well, it tallies with what Jason Smith said.’

  ‘Almost as if they had half an hour to plan it.’ Fenchurch got in the lift and collapsed against the side. The cage shook a little. ‘This is a bloody dead end.’

  Chapter Seven

  Fenchurch opened the Incident Room door. The place was a hell of a lot quieter than it should’ve been.