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

by Ed James

  ‘Who’s seen it?’

  ‘My superior officers here for starters. Told me to keep digging.’ Dad closed a file on the desk behind him. ‘That’s why I took it to some geezers in Vice a couple of weeks ago.’

  Fenchurch frowned. ‘Wouldn’t happen to be DCI Savage, would it?’

  ‘That’s the fella.’

  ‘Do you know if he did anything with it?’

  ‘I got an email back from him.’ Dad stared into space, like he could access his Inbox through the air. ‘Said something like it’s on the active investigation pile, but he’s been unable to allocate any resource to it.’

  ‘So nothing, basically.’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘He’s given me some officers for this case.’

  ‘You couldn’t ask him for me, could you?’

  Fenchurch pushed away from the wall. ‘Thanks for that, Dad. I’d better get back.’

  ‘Sure you don’t fancy some lamb stew?’

  ‘Another time.’ Fenchurch patted his dad on the arm and left him to it. Out in the corridor, his breath came in short bursts.

  Fenchurch stared out of his office window. A few day-old Metros danced around Leman Street. A passing taxi kicked up a fresh swirl. The sun had disappeared around the Bank of America building round the corner so it was pretty much night now at half past one.

  He checked his phone — still nothing from Nelson. His stomach tightened around the lunchtime burrito. The hot sauce burnt in his guts. Acid reflux loomed.

  A knock at the door.

  Fenchurch swung around.

  Kershaw and Owen let themselves in.

  ‘Afternoon, gents. Nice of you to show your faces, finally.’

  Owen sat on the edge of Mulholland’s desk and sniffed. He spread his legs wide and let them swing. ‘DS Reed said you wanted an update from us?’

  Kershaw plonked himself into a seat opposite, scowling like a petulant teenager. Cheap aftershave started fogging the room.

  Fenchurch draped his suit jacket over the back of his chair and took a gulp of tea. Almost scalding. ‘You pair are mucking about here. Missing briefings is something I take seriously.’

  Owen smirked. ‘It’s just you who gets to miss them, is it?’

  Fenchurch gave each of the bloody idiots a long stare. ‘What do you two bring to this case?’

  Owen sniffed again. Blew air through his nostrils like he was trying to dislodge something. ‘We didn’t ask to be put on the case.’

  ‘Well, you’re on it. Now what have you got for me?’

  ‘We’ve just spent a few hours freezing our nuts off on the streets of merry Shoreditch. One of the black girls said they’d heard something from someone about your Jane Doe working in The Alicorn. That’s two now.’

  ‘Oh, “something from someone”?’ Fenchurch took another slurp. ‘Sounds solid.’

  ‘We’ve spoken to all the girls in the known daytime hangouts.’ Kershaw was tracing the line of his beard with a finger. ‘Nobody’s recognised the name or the photo of the killer. That’s us until DI Mulholland’s team go back out tonight.’

  ‘We’ve been speaking to the team back at ESB. The name’s drawing a blank with our sources there.’ Owen stretched forward on the desk. ‘Of course, that name could be a load of bollocks, couldn’t it?’

  ‘We know that, Sergeant. I’ve asked you to investigate it as if it was his name.’ Fenchurch finally focused on Owen. ‘What about the management of the club?’

  ‘We’ve got nothing.’

  ‘Then you better have a fantastic strategy for getting them in here so we can identify those bloody dead girls out in Lewisham!’

  Owen took a few seconds of sniffing before speaking. ‘We’ve got that place under surveillance.’

  Fenchurch straightened his tie. ‘So this whole bloody case rests on the management paying a visit at some point today?’

  ‘I’ve got some lads going through the footage for the last twenty-four hours.’ Owen raised an eyebrow. ‘Anyway, you’ve been gone a few hours and all you’ve come back with is tinfoil.’

  Cheeky bastard. Needed taking down about seven or eight pegs.

  ‘We’ve got another victim. Same killer.’ Fenchurch tossed the CCTV photo across the desk. ‘Picked up a girl on Brick Lane then killed her behind a wall in a bloody car park.’

  ‘Christ.’ Owen ran a finger across the page, jaw clenched. ‘Why on Earth is he doing this?’

  ‘I wish I knew, Sergeant.’

  The Airwave on his desk blasted out. ‘DS Reed to DS Fenchurch. Over.’

  Fenchurch grabbed the device. ‘Safe to speak.’

  ‘Guv, it’s Kay. Need you up at the River Poet pub on Folgate Street. Might have a sighting of this Robert guy.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Only problem is, City of London police are threatening to arrest me.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Fenchurch pulled onto Folgate Street, the car rocking as it trundled over the cobbles. Reed was outside the River Poet, a sprawling ground-floor bar taking up a few corner units. He parked opposite, next to a town house with Union Jacks stuffed into the windows, and got out. ‘Where are they?’

  Reed pointed at a silver Vauxhall just down the street. ‘They’re in there, guv. Thompson and Clarke. You told me it’d been cleared.’

  ‘This is my fault.’ Fenchurch stared at the car. ‘I should’ve called him.’ He set off across the side lane and hammered on the Vauxhall’s roof.

  The door opened and Thompson clambered out, sending the suspension rocking. He stretched out to his full height as he did up the buttons on his straining suit jacket. ‘Good afternoon, Inspector.’

  ‘No uniform today?’ Fenchurch gave a broad smile, his brow creasing. ‘What brings you out of Castle Greyskull?’

  Thompson leaned against the pub’s brick wall, seemingly unable to keep his hungry eyes off Reed as she joined them. ‘The Met sending officers out on my manor, sunshine.’

  ‘I hope you’re joking.’

  Thompson thumbed behind him. ‘See that back there?’

  ‘The boozer?’

  ‘No, Bishopsgate. That’s my jurisdiction.’

  ‘Yeah, and it ends at Brushfield Street. This is Met territory. Nothing else to say.’

  ‘Except for the fact you’ve got a squad crawling around the City. RBS, Santander, BES, HSBC. You name it you’ve been in there today. We’ve had a few calls from concerned businesses.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So we had an agreement, or at least I thought we did. Any time you lot visit the City, you take my officers with you.’

  ‘This is on me.’ Fenchurch glanced at Reed and nodded. ‘I’ll ensure it doesn’t happen again.’

  ‘You’re damn right it won’t.’ Thompson tapped the roof of the car. ‘Give me a minute.’ He got in and slammed the door.

  Fenchurch looked down the street. ‘When I started, all the prostitutes used to mingle here.’

  ‘Shame they still don’t.’ Reed looked at the ground. ‘Those girls might still be alive.’

  Through the tinted windows, Thompson was stabbing his hand in the air to punctuate a point.

  ‘Did that bouncer speak, Kay?’

  ‘Still shtum.’

  ‘We’d better let him go, then.’

  ‘Will do. Still nothing from the street team, guv.’ She loosened her jacket collar. ‘Nothing from any of the businesses. Reckon that’s us up to about sixty per cent on the second pass now.’

  ‘So this is another bloody dead end?’

  The window wound down and Thompson peered out. ‘DI Clarke’s going to shadow you.’

  The car’s street-side door opened and Clarke propped himself up on the vehicle’s roof. ‘Inspector.’

  Fenchurch scowled at Thompson. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘It’s that or your subordinate’s going into custody. Besides, I’ve cleared this with DCI Docherty.’

  ‘You went over my head?’

  Thompson
sneered at him. ‘And you shouldn’t have let your officers swan around my patch without my express approval.’ The window started winding up and the car roared off down the cobbled street, cutting left at the junction.

  Fenchurch glared at Clarke. ‘You’re working with me, okay?’

  ‘That was the idea before you bloody bulldozed your way in.’ Clarke winked at Reed. ‘Looks like we’ll delay your detention for a while, sweetheart.’

  ‘Don’t you bloody call me sweetheart.’

  Clarke held her gaze and grinned at Fenchurch. ‘So, what’s happening?’

  Fenchurch focused on the pub then on Reed. ‘I take it you’ve got something?’

  ‘My team have been in the pub before with the photo, but I got them to come back here with the name. Jogged the barman’s memory. Reckoned he’d been in for a pint in the evening a few times. Thinks he might’ve stayed next door.’

  Fenchurch checked the adjacent brick building. The Note. Yet another central London hotel. Looked expensive, designer paintwork and pot plants on the pavement. ‘And did he?’

  ‘Let’s find out.’

  The manager’s office was a tiny space rammed with catering boxes and paper files. DC Bridge was sitting at a small desk, typing into her Pronto. A tall man with dark hair squeezed in next to her, wearing an unflattering grey polo shirt. His fingers danced across a computer keyboard.

  Bridge wheeled her chair back and frowned at Clarke. Then at Reed. ‘Think we’re finally getting somewhere, Sarge. This is Mr Cartwright. One of his staff has recognised our man. He’s giving a statement over at Brick Lane.’

  Fenchurch took a deep breath. ‘So let’s go speak to him.’

  ‘Wait a second.’ Cartwright tapped the screen of the computer. ‘I think I’ve got him.’

  Fenchurch squinted at it. Just grey windows and blurry text.

  Cartwright reached down to a printer at his feet and collected a page. ‘Corporate gig earlier in the year. His name’s Robert Hall.’

  Thank God that checked out. A few grand down the right plughole for once. Fenchurch sifted through the sheet. Meant nothing much to him. ‘Has he stayed here recently?’

  ‘No. That’s why it took Khaled a while to remember his face. Sorry.’

  Fenchurch nodded. ‘When did this arrangement finish?’

  ‘March, according to the system.’

  ‘Any idea why?’

  ‘Got a flat? Stopped coming to London?’ Cartwright raised his shoulders. ‘Happens all the time in this trade. Sorry, but I’ve no idea.’

  ‘You been here long?’

  ‘Since August. Not while he was staying here, though.’

  Fenchurch folded the sheet in half. ‘You say this was a corporate stay?’

  ‘Paid for by his business, I think. Certainly booked it.’

  ‘Who were they?’

  Cartwright snatched the page back and unfolded it. ‘Give me a sec.’

  Fenchurch locked eyes with Reed, her baby blues turning to stone. ‘He clearly didn’t intend to kill. At least not initially.’

  ‘Why, because he’s using his real name?’

  ‘Got it in one.’

  Cartwright jabbed a finger at the bottom of his screen. ‘6DA45B is the client code for BES.’

  ‘Snappy.’ Fenchurch rolled his tongue across his teeth. ‘That’s a bank on Bishopsgate, isn’t it?’

  Clarke beamed at him. ‘I know a few people in there.’

  Fenchurch stormed across the atrium, drums clattering in his ears. Steel support columns cast long shadows across the flagstones, burnt coffee stung his nostrils. He flashed his warrant card at the receptionist, a young Asian man. ‘DI Fenchurch. I need to speak to a Robert Hall.’

  His name badge read Deepak. ‘Is Mr Hall a BES employee?’ Barrow-boy accent.

  ‘I believe so. Can we have a word with him?’

  ‘Just a second.’ Deepak tapped the keyboard. ‘Here we go.’ He put a phone to his ear and looked away. ‘Is Mr Hall there? Oh? Right. Okay. Is there anyone— When does the meeting get out? Okay. Thanks.’ He gave a grimace. ‘Unfortunately, Mr Hall’s not in today.’

  ‘Shit.’ Fenchurch shut his eyes and let his shoulders drop. Reed and Clarke appeared, both of their faces flushed. ‘What about his line manager?’

  ‘He’s in a meeting and I don’t have the authority to drag him out of it, I’m afraid.’ Deepak gestured at a row of black leather sofas to the side. ‘If you could take a seat, please?’

  ‘I told you, I need to speak to someone.’

  ‘And I’m trying my best here.’

  ‘This is a murder case.’

  Deepak raised his hands in the air.

  Clarke flicked up his eyebrows, a shit-eating grin on his face. ‘Not going too well, is it?’

  Fenchurch held his gaze for a few seconds, his stomach stinging. ‘One step forward, two back.’

  Clarke switched the smile to Deepak. ‘Can you call Katrina Hardington for me?’

  The receptionist nodded. ‘Who shall I say is calling?’

  ‘Tell her it’s Steve Clarke.’

  Fenchurch walked off, scowling. ‘Bloody City wanker.’

  Reed shrugged as she caught up with him. ‘He seems to know people, though, guv.’

  ‘Which is my main concern.’ Fenchurch leaned over to whisper: ‘Jon said something about Owen and Kershaw being bent.’

  ‘Gay?’

  ‘Corrupt.’

  ‘Well, they’re Vice.’ Reed shot him a wink. ‘Being bent’s par for the course, right?’

  ‘We just need to keep our eyes and ears open.’

  ‘Paranoid much?’

  ‘The way he keeps sniffing, it’s like—’

  A dog whistle squalled across the reception. Clarke was winking at them, like he was in a bloody Carry On film. A tall woman in a trouser suit was standing next to him. Maybe a bit too close. Her dark hair was scraped back into a ponytail, a couple of notches tighter than Reed’s had been that morning. She held out a hand as he approached. ‘DI Fenchurch?’

  He shook it. ‘This is DS Reed.’

  ‘Katrina Hardington.’ She smiled at Reed, but didn’t offer a hand. ‘I’m the UK HR director. If you’ll just follow me?’

  Hardington’s office was at least double the size of Fenchurch’s own shared space. Two floor-to-ceiling windows looked onto the opposite building’s roof garden. A huge chrome and steel thing, growing out of Spitalfields Market. The church spires lurked behind.

  Fenchurch glanced over at Clarke sitting next to him. ‘I take it you two know each other?’

  Clarke narrowed his eyes. ‘We’ve had dealings on a number of cases.’

  ‘Come on, Steve.’ Hardington giggled. ‘We go back further than that.’

  Clarke let out a sigh. ‘We’re here to discuss one of your employees. Name of Robert Hall.’

  ‘Is Mr Hall in some kind of trouble?’

  Fenchurch jumped in before Clarke. ‘We need to speak to him regarding an ongoing inquiry.’

  ‘Before we get too far, I should point out we’ll need a warrant for any information.’

  ‘You should’ve told us you weren’t going to play ball downstairs.’

  Clarke leaned back in his chair. ‘Katrina, my Met colleagues are working a murder.’

  Hardington’s eyes darted over to Fenchurch. ‘What do you need to discuss with him?’

  Fenchurch unlocked his Pronto. ‘He’s our main suspect in the murders of two prostitutes. One on Tuesday night, one yesterday evening. We’ve only just identified his full name.’

  She fixed a gaze on Clarke. ‘We need to keep the BES involvement out of the press.’

  Clarke bounced her steely glare back. ‘Kat, just give us what we want and we’ll clear off.’

  ‘Very well.’ Hardington licked her lips as she typed, jaw clenched. ‘It would appear he’s not in work today.’ She ran a finger across the screen. ‘His pass hasn’t accessed any of our London sites.’

  ‘What about elsewhere
in the UK?’

  ‘We’re only present in the City and Canary Wharf, Inspector.’ Hardington tapped her monitor. ‘Mr Hall appears to have called in sick yesterday morning, in accordance with policy.’

  ‘What was wrong with him?’

  ‘Stress is the code logged.’ She tilted her head to the side. ‘That can be unreliable, though.’

  ‘Is he absent often?’

  ‘That was the first day Mr Hall’s missed since he started.’

  ‘Have you got an address for him?’

  ‘We have one in West Sussex and one in London.’

  One Prescot Street was a giant art-deco building. Green balls of box climbed out of the pot on the top step. Etched stone surrounded the doorway. Red brick columns reaching up into the sky separated a grid work of windows. The upper floors had ornate beige stonework like something in Manhattan.

  Fenchurch hammered the intercom and took a step back. ‘Come on, come on, come on.’ He jabbed the buzzer again and looked down the narrow tunnel of Prescot Street towards Mansell Street. The ancient church halfway down on the left sat among a cacophony of modern buildings. A gust of wind blew grit into his eyes. ‘Shit.’

  Reed hit the intercom again and waited. ‘Doesn’t look like he’s in, guv.’

  Fenchurch pressed the button marked Concierge. ‘This bugger better answer.’

  ‘Good afternoon. Number one Prescot Street. How can I help?’ Sounded like a butler from a forties farce.

  ‘Is that the building manager?’

  ‘It is. To whom am I speaking?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Simon Fenchurch of the Metropolitan police service. We need access to one of your flats.’

  ‘Which apartment do you seek?’

  ‘Number six. The occupant’s name is Robert Hall.’

  ‘Are you certain Mr Hall is in?’

  ‘Well, he’s not at work.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ll need a warrant to provide access to his apartment.’ His accent broke, fragments of gruff Cockney appearing at the edges.

  ‘Come on, sir, this is important.’

  Nothing.

  Fenchurch hit a few other buttons. No response. He turned round.