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

by Ed James

  ‘Enlighten me.’

  ‘A shitload.’

  ‘Is that a metric or imperial shitload?’

  ‘Aztec.’

  Funny bastard. Fenchurch shifted forward. ‘Look, when can I get my results back?’

  ‘I’ll try and get them to you this afternoon.’

  Fenchurch glanced up at the clock. ‘It’s half seven. You’ve got till lunchtime.’

  ‘What did your last slave die of? Remember it’s a bloody Saturday. I’m not even being paid double time for this. And don’t bother chasing me up again. It’s getting in the bloody way.’

  ‘Cheers.’ Fenchurch slammed the phone down and started easing the sleep out of the bags under his eyes, not that he’d got much. Legs felt weighed down in concrete like some Mafioso was ready to chuck him off a bridge.

  Abi looking down at him, giving him a wave.

  Not the best move he’d ever made. Second best use for a time machine, though. Just get back up the bloody stairs.

  He typed out a text. ‘Ab, sorry for being an arsehole last night. Give me a bell. Simon’. He sent it and put his mobile down. The previous day’s files sat underneath Chloe’s. He leafed through it again. Nothing new sprang to mind, even with the information they’d got on the case, even with unburdening himself to whoever would listen.

  Still just a bloody dead end. A cold case he should’ve handed off years ago.

  He checked his mobile again. Nothing. Then went into the call log and found Erica’s mobile number.

  ‘So this is how the master operates, is it?’ A Welsh voice boomed from the corridor.

  Fenchurch dropped his phone and fumbled Chloe’s file shut, spilling a drop of tea on it. ‘You’re in early, Sergeant.’

  ‘Wanted to get a head start.’ Owen had propped himself against the doorjamb, arms folded. ‘I found a couple of interesting things at ESB last night.’

  Fenchurch adjusted himself in his seat. ‘About Robert Hall?’

  ‘Not as interesting as your evening, I gather.’

  ‘I got Bruco, that’s all that matters.’ Fenchurch took another glug of tea. ‘What did you get?’

  Owen counted one on his thumb. ‘First, on the intel. We’ve got nothing on a Robert Hall. I checked our surveillance log for the other brothels we’re monitoring. Nobody even remotely matching his description.’

  ‘So he’s just dropped off the radar between March and now?’

  ‘He’s either been a very good boy or he’s getting girls off the street.’ Owen shifted over to sit in front of Fenchurch. He counted two on his forefinger. ‘Second, I’ve got a DC going through our CCTV log. Might find him kerb-crawling in October or something.’ He counted three on his middle finger. ‘Third thing we found was something very interesting indeed.’ He leaned across the desk, his face inches from Fenchurch. His breath stank of stale milk. ‘I know what you did last night.’

  Fenchurch mopped up tea with leftover lunch serviettes, dabbing at Chloe’s file. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘A nocturnal visit.’ Owen wagged his finger at Fenchurch. ‘Naughty, naughty.’

  Is he stalking Abi? Am I being followed?

  Fenchurch dumped his serviettes in the bin. ‘I had dinner with my ex-wife. That’s hardly the sort of thing you should be concerning yourself with.’

  ‘Not what I’m talking about.’

  ‘Then what the hell are you on about?’

  Owen tossed a pair of photos onto the table. ‘You visited a monitored site, you stupid wanker.’

  Fenchurch picked up the first still. He looked shifty as he spoke into the intercom outside Erica’s flat. Even shiftier in the second one as he left, mobile clamped to his ear. ‘What the hell is this?’

  ‘That flat’s under surveillance as part of our East London operations. Five sex workers live in that flat. Which one of them were you screwing?’

  ‘I was speaking to Erica McArthur.’

  Owen clicked his tongue a few times. ‘One of the lap dancers at The Alicorn, right? Were you passing on information to her?’

  Fenchurch was inches away from swinging for the little shit. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Intelligence on the raid. Giving her a warning, maybe. I notice she wasn’t there.’

  ‘She gave me the intel that put us on to Bruco. You might’ve heard that we got him for Hall’s murder.’

  Owen folded his arms. ‘Have you logged your visit?’

  ‘This is beyond a bloody joke.’ Fenchurch tightened his tie. ‘It’s in the case file as part of my report into Bruco’s arrest. It’s all been filed and I’ve got nothing to hide.’

  ‘On the back page of some sub-report, no doubt.’ Owen tucked his shirt into his trousers as he stood. ‘Docherty needs to know.’

  ‘Are you threatening me, you little shit?’

  ‘You’re sticking to your story, are you?’ Owen shook his head slowly. ‘Either you tell him or I do. I don’t like dodgy cops on my investigations.’

  Fenchurch got up and grabbed his suit jacket. ‘You’re one to bloody talk.’

  Owen sniffed. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You heard.’

  Fenchurch pulled the door shut behind him. ‘I need a word, boss.’

  ‘Good morning, sunshine.’ Docherty looked up from his desk, covered with sheets of A3 criss-crossed with a spreadsheet. He checked his watch. ‘You’re not supposed to be here for another couple of hours.’

  ‘Couldn’t sleep, boss.’ Fenchurch sat opposite, fists balled tight. ‘There’s something I need to make you aware of.’

  ‘This sounds a bit formal for you.’ Docherty pushed his paperwork to the side. A stapler fell to the floor. ‘Spit it out.’

  Fenchurch picked up the stapler and put it back on the desk. A staple hung loose. ‘I spoke to Erica McArthur yesterday evening.’

  ‘The girl who gave you the lead on the club?’

  ‘Yeah, her. It was at her flat.’

  Docherty sighed. ‘You better not have been shagging her.’

  ‘I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.’

  ‘Is she on your CHIS log?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘She bloody should be. So, if you weren’t spooning and listening to Marvin Gaye records, what were you doing?’

  ‘There’s nothing dodgy here, boss.’ Fenchurch frowned. ‘Like I said, she told me our Jane Does had worked for this Bruco character. That led to us discovering the CCTV footage.’

  ‘This isn’t like you. What’s really going on?’

  Fenchurch got up and circled round the room. Felt like a caged tiger. ‘Because DS Owen accosted me about it. TPU are monitoring that flat. I was flagged up.’

  Docherty swallowed hard. Difficult to tell who he was more annoyed with — Fenchurch or Owen. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He got me to tell you.’

  ‘Were you going to anyway?’

  ‘It’s all in the case file.’

  Docherty drummed his fingers on the table. ‘What the hell are you up to?’

  ‘Nothing, I swear.’

  ‘So why do I feel like you’re bloody lying to me?’

  ‘Listen, DS Nelson thinks the TPU guys are dodgy.’

  ‘What did they do? Steal some Jammie Dodgers from the Incident Room’s biscuit tin?’

  Fenchurch smothered a laugh. ‘Nelson heard something back in the day about both of them.’

  ‘Oh, for crying out loud.’ Docherty rested his head in his hands. ‘This is all just he said, she said. Is there anything concrete here?’

  ‘When I was at that flat, Erica said there’s talk at The Alicorn of some dodgy officers. Sounds like cops on the take.’

  ‘You got any of this on the record?’

  ‘She won’t come in.’ Fenchurch cracked his knuckles. Pretty much the only part of him not bruised. ‘I’m only telling you this because he’s trying to blackmail me.’

  ‘How can he . . .’ Docherty covered his eyes with his hands. ‘Has he got p
hotos of you shagging her?’

  ‘I said I wasn’t going to answer that.’

  ‘People use that line when they’ve done something and don’t want to incriminate themselves.’

  ‘I. Never. Shagged. Her.’ Fenchurch was on his feet again, fists clenched, ready to swing. ‘Are you happy now?’

  Docherty looked him up and down. ‘Sit.’

  Fenchurch stayed standing. ‘Whatever Owen says, I didn’t shag her and there’s no evidence to say I did.’

  ‘You’re acting like you have.’

  ‘He’s just got me going inside the flat then leaving. That’s it. I’ve done nothing.’

  ‘There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?’

  Fenchurch leaned against the wall. Felt like he might slump down it. ‘She might know what happened to Chloe.’

  ‘Oh God, Simon. Why the hell do you think that?’

  ‘There’s something not adding up about her. Keeps teasing me about it.’

  ‘Right. You want to talk about it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Same as bloody ever.’ Docherty picked up his spreadsheets and started putting them back in order. ‘Why are TPU monitoring that flat?’

  ‘The girls who stay there work at The Alicorn.’ Fenchurch stood up tall. ‘Boss, I think Owen might be bent.’

  ‘Any evidence?’

  ‘Not as such. Geezer’s sniffing all the time, like he’s got a bloody coke habit.’

  ‘Superb. Another bloody hunch. Have you got anything to support this?’

  ‘Not yet, boss. I’ve not started—’

  ‘Simon, you’re acting like a bloody idiot here. You want me to put Mulholland back on days?’

  ‘I’m deadly serious, boss. Something funny’s going on with this case. You think it’s a coincidence that this geezer turns up dead?’

  ‘If it’s murder.’

  ‘Oh, it’s murder, all right.’

  ‘You’re so sure about that and you’ve not even been to the post-mortem.’ Docherty shook his head. ‘Bloody hell.’ He lined up the edges of his spreadsheet stack. A tower of bullshit. ‘Leave it with me. And shut the door on your way out.’

  ‘I’ll end by thanking you for all coming in on a Saturday.’ Docherty beamed at the officers in the Incident Room. ‘I know you’re getting paid overtime for it, but I appreciate you not excusing yourselves. It shows commitment.’ He smiled at Fenchurch. ‘Simon?’

  ‘Boss.’ Fenchurch took a drink of tea as he scanned the faces. Looked like a full house, even Clooney had bothered to show. ‘After we conclude here, I’ll be attending Robert Hall’s post-mortem. This will prove whether it was suicide, death by misadventure or murder. As it stands, we think it’s murder and we have a suspect under arrest. Still a lot of open questions, though.’

  A long stream of paper covered one wall, filled with the timelines for the three murders.

  ‘I want us to tighten up our understanding of the events of Thursday night. The death of Jane Doe number two.’ Fenchurch tapped the autopsy photos of the girl. Dead eyes that followed you round the room. ‘Mr Hall’s activities after he murdered the second victim are still shrouded in mystery. The Alicorn’s manager, Sotiris Vrykolakas, left the club twenty-five minutes after Hall was kicked out. Twenty minutes later, he turned up at Mr Hall’s apartment. Just before his time of death. He either killed him or knows what happened in that flat.’

  He held up a photo of the blurry figure next to Bruco. ‘He wasn’t alone, either. While we’ve got Mr Vrykolakas in custody, we’re still hunting for his accomplice. Our highest priority today is identifying him.’

  He looked around the room. Yawns and slurps of coffee. Same as it ever was. ‘Anything else? No? Right—’

  ‘Si.’ Clooney raised a hand. ‘We’re getting nowhere with this Hall bloke’s mobile. The HTC job.’

  Fenchurch frowned. ‘But his wife gave us the code yesterday.’

  Clooney glanced at his own mobile. ‘Is that what you sent me?’

  ‘What did you think it was?’

  ‘Two eight six eight. I thought you were calling me a cun—’

  ‘Just get the bloody thing unlocked, okay?’

  Clooney shrugged. ‘What’s the point? We’ve got the messages and calls from the network.’

  ‘Then there’s nothing for you to do but polish your halo.’ Fenchurch held his gaze. ‘That’s all for now. Dismissed.’ He stared at the whiteboard for a few seconds. Bastard thing was in desperate need of reorganisation. More tea first, though.

  ‘Simon.’ Mulholland encroached on him, tightening her scarf as she walked. Dark rings shrouded her eyes. Thank God this case was eating into someone else’s soul as well. ‘I need a word.’

  ‘And I need to get out to Lewisham, Dawn.’

  Mulholland arced her arm around to make him stop. ‘I’ve got a lead for you.’

  Fenchurch stepped to the side. ‘What?’

  ‘You two need to hear this, as well.’ Mulholland grabbed Reed’s jacket as she and Owen passed, both clutching coffee cups. ‘I’d follow this up myself but I’ve got to collect my daughter from my darling mother-in-law. Then try and get some sleep.’ She yawned into her hand. ‘My guys have been speaking to prostitutes in the area. One of them made a house call to Hall’s flat at about nine p.m. on Thursday night.’

  Owen took a slurp of coffee through the lid. ‘A street girl?’

  ‘She was wearing suspenders and a purple miniskirt in mid-December, so I’ll let you be the judge. She’s one of the unidentified people on the CCTV.’

  ‘Hang on.’ Reed sucked at her coffee. ‘Did you say she got there at nine?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘That doesn’t fit the timeline, does it? He was thrown out of The Alicorn at half past eight.’

  Mulholland tied her scarf as tight as her pout. ‘She says he picked her up in a taxi on the way to his flat.’

  ‘We’ll speak to her.’ Fenchurch nodded at Reed. ‘Kay, can you get someone to find the driver who took them there?’

  ‘Why do I get the feeling this is going to piss all over my day?’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The prostitute and her lawyer were still deep in conversation. Difficult to work out which was the lady of the night. Both wore short skirts, their chunky thighs crossed and arms folded. Thick designer glasses. One wore a blouse, the other a tight top. Only one of them was chewing gum.

  Fenchurch shut the door again and leaned against it, still in the corridor. ‘Looks like they need a minute or two.’

  Owen finished his coffee with a grimace. ‘They’re still not ready for us?’

  ‘I need you to act like a professional in there.’

  ‘Me, act professional?’ Owen pointed at his chest. He crumpled his cup and laughed, loud as hell. ‘You’re not exactly behaving like an innocent, are you?’

  Fenchurch snorted. ‘I’m leading this.’ He opened the door and sat in the nearest chair. ‘Playtime’s over, ladies.’

  The woman on the right ran a pudgy hand through her hair, mid-brown streaked with blonde. She stopped chewing her gum. ‘We’re not finished. You’re abusing my client’s human rights here.’

  Fenchurch checked his notes. Kerry Hopkins was the lawyer, Norma Barclay the prostitute. Alleged prostitute. ‘You’ve had your chance. Besides, this is just intelligence gathering, okay?’

  ‘Look, Fenchurch. I need a word before we get started.’

  Fenchurch whispered into Owen’s ear: ‘Start the tape for me.’

  Owen stretched over to the microphone. ‘Interview commenced at eight thirty-three—’

  Fenchurch walked over to the open doorway and smiled at Hopkins. ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘My client’s here to provide information. I don’t want this resulting in a prosecution.’

  ‘All we want is a witness statement to back up Mr Hall’s movements. Besides, we’ve no evidence of her soliciting. She’s here because she offered to help our murder inquiry. End of.
’

  Hopkins stared back inside the room. ‘Fine.’

  ‘We should be more than fine.’ Fenchurch went back into the room and sat as Owen finished the interview spiel. He cracked his knuckles, grimacing as the tendons clicked, then pushed the usual sheet across the table. Robert Hall on CCTV. ‘We understand you recognise this man?’

  Norma had a long scar down her cheek. Looked like a knife wound. ‘That’s right. He’s called Rob.’

  ‘And how do you know him?’

  Norma cleared her throat again, rubbing at her lymph glands. ‘I was walking home from work on Thursday night. He started chatting to me on Commercial Street. Just by Spitalfields Market.’

  ‘And what’s your profession?’

  Norma glared at him. ‘I’m a cleaner at a chemist.’

  ‘So you don’t solicit sexual favours in exchange for money?’

  Norma glanced at Hopkins, who gave a slight nod. She cleared her throat but kept quiet.

  ‘That’s how you’re playing it, is it?’ Fenchurch held up the sheet. ‘Tell us more about your encounter with Mr Hall?’

  ‘His taxi pulled over and he got out. Asked me to join him.’

  ‘What was he talking about?’

  ‘The price of potatoes in China.’

  ‘I take it you joined him?’

  She raised a shoulder. ‘I got in the cab.’

  ‘What kind was it? A Hackney carriage?’

  ‘You mean a black cab?’

  Fenchurch gave her a nod.

  ‘It was a silver thing. Posh car. German, maybe.’

  Fenchurch sent an Action to Reed to check it out. ‘What happened next?’

  ‘We went to his flat. Place down by the Tower. Can’t remember the street. It was by the railway bridges, though.’

  Fenchurch passed her a still from the CCTV, just showing the building and parked cars. ‘Was it this street?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘For the benefit of the tape, this is Prescot Street. What time was this?’

  ‘Be about quarter to nine?’ Norma exhaled. ‘We went inside and we had sex. Then I left.’

  ‘How long did this coupling take?’

  ‘About fifteen minutes. I asked if he wanted me to stay but he didn’t.’