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

by Ed James

  Clarke was jogging down the street, flanked by two uniformed officers.

  Fenchurch trotted down the steps to meet them. ‘We need a warrant to get in.’

  ‘It’s not my patch.’ Clarke wheezed out. ‘I’m here to check you don’t stray too far.’

  Fenchurch stared at Reed. ‘We need to get the Big Key round from Brick Lane.’

  ‘Guv.’

  Clarke frowned at him. ‘You tried the old Criminal Evidence Act trick?’

  ‘Good shout.’ Fenchurch jogged up the steps and stabbed the intercom again. ‘We require urgent access to the property.’

  ‘And I said you need a warrant.’

  ‘No, I don’t. Under section seventeen, subsection 1b of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, I may enter the premises to arrest a person for an indictable offence.’

  ‘That sounds very American to me.’

  ‘Trust me, sir, it’s not. Murder is an indictable offence under English law.’

  A gust of wind clattered into Fenchurch. More grit and a fug of cigarette smoke.

  Still nothing from the concierge.

  ‘We’ve reason to believe the tenant has committed murder.’ Fenchurch pinched his nose. ‘Listen to me. I’m justified in getting a squad of constables round here with an Enforcer battering ram. Should be two minutes at the most. We’ll knock this door down first. Then we’ll knock down Mr Hall’s flat door. That’s a lot of repair work to manage.’

  A pause then the front door clicked open.

  Fenchurch let out a breath. ‘After you.’

  Reed led inside the building. The foyer was dark and musty, the lights barely illuminating the space.

  A jangle of keys came from the right. The concierge stood there, his belly hanging out of the bottom of a grey tank top. His greying hair was gelled into a Teddy-boy style. ‘Are you Fenchurch?’

  ‘I am.’

  The concierge grunted. ‘I’m not happy with you threatening me.’

  ‘There’s a murder suspect in one of your flats.’

  ‘Still don’t like it.’ He started off down the corridor. ‘Follow me.’

  Fenchurch jogged across the maroon tiles, locking step with him. ‘Do you know Mr Hall?’

  ‘Just the usual crap. When his heating breaks or he’s got a delivery from Amazon.’

  ‘Not many buildings have a concierge.’

  ‘The new ones do. Bloody city’s turning into New York.’ The guard stopped outside a door marked with six and slid a key into the lock. Turned it twice to unlock it. ‘Here you go.’

  Fenchurch stepped inside. The place smelled of burnt marshmallows. A tiny hallway, just a dark wooden staircase leading down. No other doors. He crept down, extending his baton as he descended. ‘Mr Hall?’

  There was a small lounge at the bottom of the stairs. Pale laminate flooring was coming apart in the middle. A chocolate-brown L-shaped leather sofa sat in the corner by the dark window. A children’s book sat on top, a grinning cartoon seahorse carrying a pebble under the waves.

  ‘Who the bloody hell is Charlie the Seahorse?’

  Reed walked over and flicked it with her baton. ‘My kids love it.’

  ‘Things have changed since . . .’ Fenchurch swallowed. He spun round and took in the rest of the room, his throat thick.

  A small desk with a closed laptop sat next to a wall-mounted flat screen.

  There was another door. He opened it. A bedroom. An unmade bed with stained white sheets, almost grey, the duvet hanging half off.

  A man lay on the floor, a needle dug into his wrist. Arms by his sides, one tied off with a leather belt. Dead eyes stared out at them.

  Robert Hall.

  Chapter Twenty

  Another suited figure clomped through the tiny flat, the SOCO suit hanging off a skinny frame. Docherty.

  The crinkling of Fenchurch’s own suit drowned out his knees creaking as he got up. ‘Boss.’

  ‘Simon.’ Docherty looked around the place. ‘How’re you doing?’

  ‘Seen a few dead bodies in my time. Never gets any easier.’

  ‘Anything to report here?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Fenchurch thumbed through to the bedroom. ‘Pratt’s still checking him over.’

  ‘This doesn’t look good. Guy turns up a day after he’s bumped off your first Jane Doe and a few hours after number two.’ Docherty’s sigh was muffled by his mask. ‘What do we know about him?’

  ‘Bugger all, really. DC Bridge’s gone to the other address. Might be his parents or something.’

  ‘Good girl.’ Docherty scratched at his mask. ‘Bloody thing.’ He got it to settle. ‘Thought you said he was a banker. Why’s he shooting up?’

  ‘People who kill prostitutes don’t tend to be rational, boss.’

  ‘Think he’s a serial killer?’

  ‘In my experience, serial killers who focus on prostitutes are the mission-oriented type. In their eyes, they’re ridding the world of a scourge.’ Fenchurch grimaced, his eye caught on the Charlie the Seahorse book. ‘I don’t get that impression here. There’s no message, no religious iconography.’

  ‘Don’t they say bankers and CEOs are all psychopaths?’

  ‘Definitely CEOs.’ Fenchurch loosened off his suit. The plastic was sticking to his sweating skin, the scratch still raw. ‘What’s happened to our Jane Does looks like rage attacks to me, not some logical slaying.’

  ‘He could’ve killed them because they laughed at the size of his knob.’

  ‘Maybe. The second one was more focused. Just squeezed the life out of her.’

  ‘I don’t like this.’

  ‘Me neither. Come on, let’s chase him up.’ Fenchurch walked through to the bedroom and crouched down beside Dr Pratt again. ‘So what do you reckon, William?’

  Pratt brushed his wrist against his mask and nodded at Docherty. ‘I’m still nowhere near anything useful. My initial assessment is he’s died of an overdose. It’s heroin in the syringe.’ He waved a hand around the needle on the floor next to him. ‘I’ll confirm it when I open up his lungs back at Lewisham.’

  Fenchurch breathed in stale air through the mask. ‘Could it be deliberate?’

  ‘You mean suicide?’

  ‘No. Could someone have killed him?’

  ‘Now that’s something I just don’t know.’ Pratt stood up and clicked his back. ‘Some good fortune, though. Unlike your Jane Doe this morning, there appears to be some skin under his nails.’

  Fenchurch frowned. ‘So he was attacked?’

  ‘It could be he was the attacker. But I’ve asked Mr Clooney to check it against the victim from this morning.’ Pratt waved over at a SOCO arguing with a colleague. ‘He found an HTC thingumajig in the lounge.’

  ‘Make sure he processes that ASAP. Get the skin stuff done first, though.’

  ‘Thank God we’re blessed with your insightful leadership, Inspector.’ Pratt winked at Docherty through his goggles. ‘Now, for time of death, I’ve had my magic thermometer out again.’ He waved his arms around the room. ‘It’s a lot more temperate in here, thankfully, so I can say with a great degree of certainty that he died at ten p.m. last night. Give or take fifteen minutes either side.’

  Docherty’s goggles were still pointing at the body. ‘So Mr Hall here’s died three hours after he potentially killed victim number two?’

  Pratt’s suit squeaked as his head twisted between them. ‘You know his name?’

  Fenchurch held up the photograph Katrina Hardington had given them. ‘Robert Hall. We suspect he’s responsible for killing both of our mystery prostitutes.’

  ‘Good Lord.’

  ‘Can you dig out his medical records? We want to check if he’s got a history of mental illness.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll need you to furnish me with someone to do a formal ID.’

  ‘We’ll try.’ Fenchurch tilted his head at Pratt. ‘I’ll see you later, no doubt.’

  ‘Look forward to it.’

  Docherty beckoned Fenchurch awa
y. ‘Right, my reading of it is we’re stuffed until Pratt and Clooney pull their fingers out. Correct?’

  ‘Well, we can dig into his background, boss. See if anyone knew about the heroin, for starters. I’ll start with the office.’

  Docherty stared over at Clarke in the corner, facing away and speaking into his phone. ‘Might have found a use for your shadow, after all.’

  The old Truman brewery’s chimney loomed in the middle distance, dirty brick climbing above the second victim’s crime scene. Some blokes in Hackney had restarted the old brewery, a victim of some eighties corporate skulduggery.

  Fenchurch checked his watch and sat down again in front of Katrina Hardington’s desk. ‘They’re stalling.’

  Clarke looked up from his mobile. ‘Kat’ll be in a meeting room somewhere talking through what they can and can’t tell us.’

  ‘Kat?’

  ‘I golf with her husband.’

  The door opened, sticking halfway. Hardington gave it a shove and swept into the room. ‘Sorry for keeping you, gents. I’ve brought Mr Hall’s line manager with me. He was in a meeting. I had to check a few rooms before I found him.’

  A man strolled in like he was between classes at Eton. Navy three-piece suit with a beige shirt and grey tie. Hair shaved at the side, the top tapering into a Hoxton fin. He held out a hand. ‘Christian Weston. Pleased to meet you.’ A rich baritone. West London accent, Richmond or further out.

  ‘DI Fenchurch.’ He didn’t shake his hand. ‘This is DI Steve Clarke.’

  ‘I’d say it’s a pleasure, but, well.’ Weston sat next to Hardington and rested his hands behind his head. ‘Kat said you found Rob’s body?’

  ‘We believe so but we’re in the process of confirming it now.’ Fenchurch twiddled the Pronto’s stylus between his fingers. ‘We understand Mr Hall worked for you?’

  ‘That’s right. Rob started here in November last year.’ Weston slackened off his tie. A sliver of tanned skin poked through the gap. ‘Best guy on my team. I’m devastated to lose him.’ He was struggling to control his bottom lip.

  Fenchurch tapped the stylus off the screen. ‘How’s he seemed recently?’

  West shrugged. Glassy-eyed, staring into space. ‘Fine, I guess.’

  ‘Nothing strange in his personality? No sudden mood swings?’

  ‘He’s been fine, like I said.’ Weston crossed his arms. The light caught his wedding ring. ‘We used to get a paella at lunchtime. Sometimes go for a couple of pints of Doom after work. Rob liked a beer, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Were you with him on Tuesday night?’

  ‘We had a session with some key clients in Dirty Dick’s on Bishopsgate. Finished up about nine, I think.’

  ‘Did you leave with Mr Hall?’

  ‘No, he stayed around. Said he wanted another drink. I’ve no idea what happened after he left. He was off ill yesterday.’ Weston grimaced. ‘There were a few jokes about his hangover.’

  Fenchurch accessed the case files on his Pronto and pulled up the master timeline. ‘And did you pay?’

  ‘I did. Client entertainment.’ Weston leaned forward in the chair. ‘This is pretty tough to take.’

  ‘We’re almost done.’ Fenchurch stabbed a few additional entries into the timeline. ‘We found Mr Hall in a flat just down the road from here, but he’s got another address in West Sussex. Is that right?’

  ‘He lives in London during the week. Goes back to his family home at the weekend. Nice place in Three Bridges.’

  Fenchurch tapped out a message to Bridge: House you’re heading for is family home. ‘That’s commutable.’

  ‘Not really. It’s at least two hours each way, door-to-door. We work long hours here. We did put him up in a hotel for the first few months, but he moved into that flat in March.’ Weston pinched his nose. ‘Look, when you asked about how he’d been, well there was an incident a few weeks ago.’ A quick glance over at Hardington before he continued. ‘He didn’t come back to the office after a client lunch. These things can get pretty boozy, but that’s beyond the pale.’

  ‘And out of character?’

  ‘Quite. Rob’d been the model employee, but . . . I don’t know. He’s not been himself since then, now you mention it.’

  Clarke caught Hardington’s glare. ‘Kat, did you know about this?’

  ‘Well, we’ve been in discussions about this. Matters of employee discipline are—’

  ‘Kat, come on.’ Clarke had narrowed his eyes. ‘What was going on?’

  ‘We were investigating his conduct. I had scheduled a drugs test for him this Friday, masquerading as another appointment.’ She raised a hand, fending off questions. ‘All part of the standard contract.’

  Fenchurch coughed, dragging Weston’s attention up from the floor. ‘So you thought he’d been using drugs?’

  ‘It’s not uncommon in this business. Coke, especially.’

  ‘What about heroin?’

  ‘God, no. Why would you think that?’

  Fenchurch held his gaze until he believed Weston’s shock was genuine. ‘And you’ve been covering this up, have you?’

  ‘Listen.’ Hardington cracked her knuckles, practically pulling them out of the sockets. ‘This is in the utmost confidence, okay? We’ve had to discipline more than one employee regarding this sort of behaviour. Steve, you said you found Mr Hall through his stay at The Note hotel?’ She left a long enough pause for Clarke to nod. ‘Well, back in April, we terminated the contract of a colleague of Mr Hall’s who was also staying there.’

  Why did it always come down to bloody threats with these people? Fenchurch decided to fill her next pause. ‘For what reason?’

  ‘Aside from his coke habit, he was using the hotel’s front desk to book him an escort for the night.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Fenchurch followed Clarke up the backstairs in Bishopsgate police station. The walls were lined with portraits of senior officers going back to the nineteenth century, facial hair becoming less prominent as the years progressed. He checked his Airwave, still nothing from Bridge down in West Sussex. ‘Thanks for letting us into the corridors of power.’

  Clarke stopped at the landing and held a door open for him. ‘Only way I can keep a proper eye on you, Fenchurch.’

  ‘I’ve apologised for my earlier oversight.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean I trust a thing that comes out of your mouth.’ Clarke powered down the corridor and paused outside an interview room. ‘I’ll be next door, making sure I record this for a training course. Show how the Met experts do it.’

  Wanker. Fenchurch opened the door and plodded in.

  Owen got up and screwed up his tie. He whispered in Fenchurch’s ear: ‘The hotel owner’s in Dubai. He’s the best we can do. Name’s Derek Hateley, managed the place at the time.’

  ‘Right, thanks for that.’ Fenchurch sat in the vacant seat.

  Opposite, Hateley played with a bum-fluff beard covering a sea of acne. He wore camouflage trousers and a plain black T-shirt. Arms like toothpicks.

  Owen leaned over to the microphone. ‘DI Fenchurch has entered the room at sixteen twenty.’

  Fenchurch tried to attract Hateley’s attention. He was looking around, an eyebrow arched. Didn’t seem fazed by being in a police interview room. ‘Thanks for joining us here, sir. We understand you worked at The Note hotel on Folgate Street. Do you recognise the name Robert Hall?’

  ‘Sorry. It’s not a first-name basis sort of place.’

  ‘Well, Mr Hall stayed there for a few months. Up to March of this year, in fact. We believe your hotel had been arranging prostitutes for him.’

  ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’ Hateley slumped against the back of his chair, the wood creaking. The overhead light caught on a gold tooth as he sneered. ‘I’ve not worked there since August. I never met the geezer.’

  ‘Listen, sunshine. Mr Hall was getting a home delivery of hookers. You were aiding and abetting, weren’t you?’

  ‘This i
s being recorded, right?’

  Fenchurch tapped the machine. ‘That’s what this is doing, yes.’

  ‘So anything I say could get me into trouble.’

  Fenchurch whispered at Owen: ‘Anything you can offer him?’

  Owen cleared his throat. ‘Mr Hateley, I work for the Met’s Trafficking and Prostitution Unit. If you help us, I can put you on the books as a Covert Human Intelligence Source. You’ll get immunity from prosecution.’

  Hateley scratched at the wispy beard, eyes darting between them. ‘This is on the level?’

  ‘So long as you give us something.’ Owen grinned. ‘And that something turns out to be true, of course.’

  Hateley let out a deep sigh. ‘I was only following orders.’

  ‘That old chestnut.’ Fenchurch rolled his eyes. ‘Whose orders? The hotel management?’

  A slight nod. ‘They wanted us to procure girls and boys, if asked.’

  ‘Boys?’

  ‘Rent boys.’ Hateley grimaced, his lips parting to show yellowing teeth. ‘I’m sure you’ve come across a few in your time.’ He added a little laugh to the horror show in his mouth. ‘We get all sorts of punters staying there. They’re away from home. Lonely. Some of them want a bit of company. They’d get dropped off in a taxi, service their client, then leave. Some would stay the night.’ He shrugged. ‘I suppose some were only after the company.’

  Fenchurch scowled at him. ‘Do you have any idea whose taxis dropped them off?’

  ‘No idea, sorry.’ Hateley scratched at his neck. Skin flakes flew around the room, catching in the light. ‘Listen, we had a problem when they installed the new Procurement system. We usually put them through as “Additional Cleaning” or “Flowers”.’

  ‘Flowers?’

  ‘It’s a luxury hotel. People want their rooms to look and smell nice.’ He placed a hand over his thin beard. ‘One of my team invoiced them as “Prostitutes (Male)” and “Prostitutes (Female)”. Her name’s Cindy.’

  ‘Cindy.’ Fenchurch noted it on his Pronto. ‘And did she come in a box?’

  ‘Hardly. Bloody dyke, if you ask me. Shaved head, piercings and tattoos. You know the sort. I had to have a word with her a few times after she confronted one too many of our guests about this . . . service.’