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

by Ed James

  Her bedroom door lay open. The bed was made, her side upturned. Typical Abi. No signs of a struggle.

  He raced through to the kitchen. The kettle was cold. Same with the hob.

  Where the hell was she?

  Sunlight poured into the living room. A copy of that morning’s Times sprawled over the sofa.

  Quentin stood a good distance back, still in the flat’s entrance, staring into space.

  Fenchurch walked over and slipped him a card. ‘Give me a call the second she comes back, okay?’

  ‘Will do.’ Quentin inspected it. ‘It’s nice seeing you, Simon. We should catch up for a beer sometime.’

  ‘We should.’ Fenchurch tilted his head at the fallen door. ‘Tell Abi I’ll get that fixed for her.’

  A clatter in the hall. ‘Simon?’

  Fenchurch frowned at the flat entrance — Abi stood there, two Waitrose bags at her feet. ‘Where the bloody hell have you been?’

  She blinked in the light. ‘My door!’

  ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘What does it look like? Shopping, you idiot.’ Her look could melt steel. ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘I sent squad cars round here to check where you were.’ Fenchurch pinched his nose. ‘I’ve been calling you!’

  ‘You can’t have been. My phone’s been on.’

  ‘What? I’ve been texting you all morning. Left you voicemails.’

  ‘Simon, I’ve had nothing from you since you . . .’ She glanced over at Quentin. ‘Nice to see you.’

  He waved at them. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

  Abi watched him go. Then forced her scowl back at Fenchurch. ‘Right, what the hell are you playing at?’

  ‘I’ve been phoning you all day. I swear.’ He let out a sigh. ‘Someone threatened me. I thought they’d taken you.’

  ‘I was shopping. What number have you been calling?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I got a new phone two years ago.’

  Fenchurch shut his eyes. ‘Shit.’

  ‘You’re a bloody idiot, Simon.’

  Fenchurch picked up the door and swallowed hard. The hinges were bent backwards but the wood looked intact. ‘I’ll get this fixed.’

  ‘Too bloody right you will.’ She gripped his arm. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘This case. It’s . . .’

  ‘It’s always a case. I know you, Simon. It’s okay. I’m fine. Nobody’s kidnapped me.’

  ‘I thought . . .’ He rested the door against the wall. ‘Jesus.’

  ‘You’re not paranoid much, are you?’

  ‘Look, I’m going to get some uniforms to come round here, make sure nothing happens.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s not safe, Ab. It’s that or you go to the station.’

  ‘I’ll take my chances here.’

  ‘Good. And I’m sorry about the door.’ He reached into his wallet. Fifty quid. He held it out. ‘Call me if it’s more than this.’

  She winked at him. ‘I’ll make sure I call the right number.’

  Fenchurch returned to his father’s office, carrying two teas in paper cups. He took a drink through the lid. Bitter and sharp, nowhere near enough milk. ‘Here you go.’

  Dad was flicking through a file in his little room, like a hobbit in his hole. Stupid old goat bringing all this shit back up. He picked up the other cup, the steam billowing through the hole, and took a glug. ‘Lovely cup of tea.’ He gasped and smacked his lips together. ‘Where did you run off to, son?’

  ‘Long story.’

  ‘Isn’t it always that way with you?’

  Fenchurch tapped the file on the desk. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Just been doing some thinking. Your geezer killed two girls then they faked his suicide. It’s got the Machine written all over it.’

  ‘Not sure Savage agrees with you.’ Fenchurch took another drink. ‘How could they do this to other human beings?’

  ‘People do lots of horrible things to people every day.’

  ‘Where’s Savage?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Think he buys your theory?’

  ‘No idea, son. Maybe.’ Dad blew on his tea, staring into space. His gaze resolved on Fenchurch. ‘They could’ve taken Chloe, son.’

  Fenchurch tightened his grip around the cup. ‘What?’

  ‘This is why I started looking. It fits.’ Dad placed his cup on top of a report near the edge of the desk. Looked like an accident waiting to happen.

  ‘You said this Michaela Carr went missing in 1982.’ Fenchurch swapped his cup for the case file. ‘Chloe . . . She went missing ten years ago, not thirty.’

  ‘What if they’d lost so many over the years that they needed to replenish their stocks?’

  ‘We don’t know that.’ Fenchurch flared his nostrils and narrowed his eyes. ‘We don’t bloody know anything, Dad.’

  Dad reached out a hand. ‘I’m sorry, son.’

  Fenchurch slapped it away. ‘You don’t have anything solid, do you?’

  ‘Not on Chloe, no. I don’t know what to say, Simon.’

  Fenchurch took a drink of tea. ‘You did what you thought you had to, Dad. You need closure as much as me and Abi.’

  Dad picked up a file and shifted it to the other side of his desk. ‘You still think we’ll find her, don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ A shiver crawled up Fenchurch’s spine. ‘This stuff . . . I can’t think what kind of life she’s had.’

  ‘You’ve been to hell and back, son.’

  Fenchurch gave a laugh. ‘Who says I came back?’

  ‘You’re all right, son.’

  What if Dad was right? What if Chloe had spent ten years working the streets. How could he have failed her so badly? Fenchurch wiped at the tears burning his cheeks.

  ‘Do you still love her, son?’

  ‘Of course I still love Chloe.’

  ‘I meant Abi.’

  Fenchurch finished his tea. Burnt his throat. ‘I never stopped.’

  ‘Do you want to give it another go with her?’

  Fenchurch stood up, clutching his mobile. ‘I’d give anything. Anything.’

  ‘Simon, need a— Oh.’ Clooney came to a halt in the doorway. His eyes bulged. ‘Sorry, I’ll come back.’

  Fenchurch wiped his moist cheeks. ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘Right. Well, the results have come back.’ Clooney handed them both a sheet of paper, dense with tables and data in a small font. ‘Good news, Simon. As you can see, your old man’s cases match the victims.’

  Fenchurch tried to resolve the data into some sort of clear picture. ‘What do you mean, they match?’

  Clooney pointed at a table. ‘Across the five original cases, there are two mothers. All of them share a father.’ He grimaced. ‘Your two victims share one of those mothers.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve checked and checked again.’ Clooney leaned back against the wall, looking like he wanted to collapse. ‘They’re half-sisters, Si.’

  Fenchurch held the paper away from him, struggling to focus on the print. He folded the sheet. ‘So we’ve got seven dead women with no ID, most of them related. What the bloody hell does that mean?’

  Neither of them seemed to know.

  Fenchurch rolled his shoulders back. ‘Suppose I’d better go and break this to the big boys.’

  ‘Savage and your boss were going at it hammer and tongs in the canteen. No way I’d be getting between them.’ Clooney took a step back towards the door. ‘Now, I’ll get back to preventing Kay Reed battering my nuts.’

  ‘That’ll save you a fortune in some Soho back alley.’ Fenchurch’s phone rang. He checked the display. DS Reed. ‘Speak of the devil.’ He put it to his ear. ‘I’m kind of in the middle of something here, Kay. Is it important?’

  ‘Guv, I’ve got something for you. While I’m waiting on Clooney to do his bloody job, I’ve been doing PNC checks on the women from The Alicorn. You know, the ones we brought in t
he other night.’

  ‘Can’t this wait?’

  ‘There’s a problem, guv. We started with Erica McArthur because of what she told you last night. Trouble is, we can’t find her records.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘According to General Register House, she doesn’t exist.’

  Dance music thudded out of the brick building. Almost drowned out the drumming in Fenchurch’s ears. He hammered the buzzer and shivered. Bloody freezing despite the winter sunshine. ‘Come on, come on, come on.’

  Reed still had her phone clamped to her ear.

  A bearded man dumped a chalkboard on the pavement outside the café next door. He flashed a frown at them before he went back inside.

  Fenchurch tried the buzzer again, giving it a few seconds. ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘I’ll call you back.’ Reed pocketed her phone. ‘DC Lad’s been up at The Alicorn. Place is empty, guv.’

  ‘So where the hell is she?’

  Reed’s nostrils twitched. ‘Can you smell hash?’

  Just bacon and coffee from the café. Hang on . . . Gotcha.

  ‘Yeah, can definitely smell something.’

  ‘Come on, then.’ Reed got out her wallet and pulled out a Nectar card. She slid it behind the edge of the door and it clicked open. ‘There we go, guv.’

  ‘Good luck using that next time you’re in Sainsbury’s.’ Fenchurch followed her inside. He took the stairs two at a time and marched across the tiles. Then banged on the flat door. ‘This is the police! We have reason to believe you are in possession of a controlled substance!’

  ‘We’ve got nothing!’

  ‘I need you to open this door!’

  ‘You can’t do this!’

  ‘This is your last chance! Open up!’

  The door down the hall opened. An old man squinted out, looked like a hedgehog emerging early from hibernation. ‘What’s going on?’

  Fenchurch hammered the door again.

  ‘This is a police matter, sir.’ Reed held out her warrant card and took a step towards him. ‘Please go back inside your home.’

  The door shut. Back to hibernation.

  ‘What do you think, guv?’

  ‘Try that card again.’

  She shook her head. ‘There isn’t a Yale, guv.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘You could do what you did to Abi’s door.’

  Fenchurch’s cheeks started burning. ‘She told you?’

  ‘You really do need to talk to someone, guv.’

  ‘We’re coming in!’ Fenchurch kicked at the spot just below the handle. The wood splintered but it stayed solid. Another kick. There we go. It toppled in.

  Fenchurch burst into the flat.

  A green-and-white-striped dressing gown flashed into the room on the left. The door slammed.

  A crash from the closed door to his right.

  ‘We’re looking for Erica McArthur!’ Fenchurch motioned for Reed to guard the front door then tugged the right-hand door open.

  A bedroom with three single beds. One against each of the bare walls. Justin Bieber, One Direction and that actor who crashed his car. Stupid haircuts and rippling abs.

  A girl cowered behind her hands on the bed furthest from him. ‘Get out!’

  ‘I need to speak to Erica.’

  ‘I don’t know her.’

  ‘She lives here.’

  The girl pushed herself further away, crumpling the pillow against the wooden headboard. Didn’t speak.

  ‘Does she sleep in this room?’

  ‘I haven’t seen her since last night.’ She sat up and hugged her legs tight. Her tracksuit bottoms rode up, showing tanned ankles. ‘I swear I haven’t.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘All I know is a man came here. I heard them talking.’

  Fenchurch swallowed. ‘Was this last night?’

  ‘No, this morning. Just after ten.’ She drew a line down her chin. ‘He had a beard like that, just like Bruco?’

  Kershaw. Bloody hell.

  ‘I’ll need a statement from you.’ Fenchurch went back into the hall.

  Reed was leaning against the closed bathroom door. ‘And you swear you haven’t seen her since then?’

  ‘I swear.’ The voice was muffled through the door.

  ‘She’s not here.’ Fenchurch thumbed at the bedroom door. ‘Sounds like Kershaw has her.’

  ‘What’s the play, guv?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Fenchurch stared at the bare wall. Just a watercolour of flowers in a vase, the kind you’d get in a pound shop.

  CCTV.

  He clicked his fingers. ‘I got caught on a TPU surveillance obbo outside here last night.’ He dialled a badge number on his Airwave. ‘Fenchurch to DS Chris Owen.’ Had to swallow down the DCI.

  ‘Safe to talk.’ Sounded like he was driving.

  ‘We’re at Erica McArthur’s flat. She’s gone missing. Looks like our friend’s taken her.’

  ‘I’m just off with our surveillance team. Kershaw was at that flat this morning.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘I’m en route to a possible sighting.’

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The Arsenal logo on the Emirates Stadium was bigger than Fenchurch’s flat. Across the road, a squad of armed officers prowled behind a brick building. Blue sky above, though dark clouds hung south of the river, looking like they’d send their rain back north at any point.

  ‘Guv, we’re still waiting on Owen.’ Nelson, out of breath.

  A purple Jag pulled in down the street, just outside a town house plastered with fresh stucco. Savage got out of the driver’s side and Owen the passenger’s.

  Fenchurch jogged across the road. ‘Been calling you.’

  ‘Well, we’re here now.’ Owen met them halfway. ‘Right, your team is providing operational support, that’s it.’

  ‘You’re the DCI. Which house is he in?’

  ‘That one there.’ Owen waved at the town house behind Savage. Three storeys of bare Victorian brick. ‘It’s a buy-to-let rental job as far as we can tell. Owned by a shell company, by the looks of things. CCTV flagged his car. Street cameras showed him going inside.’

  ‘Was he alone?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve not seen it.’

  ‘What’s he doing here?’

  ‘Laying low, maybe? Until I haul the wanker over hot coals, we don’t know.’ Owen clapped Fenchurch on the shoulder. ‘Come on, if you’re coming.’ He trotted down the street and stopped outside the building. Then held a hand out behind him to stop the black-clad officers inching towards the house. He pointed at Fenchurch then walked down the path. Drew three sides of a square in the air. Door.

  Fenchurch tried it. Thing just slid open. He raised an eyebrow.

  Owen swivelled round and pulled back his raised hand. Come. The armed officers followed. Then he made Bugs Bunny fingers at Fenchurch. Approach in column formation.

  Fenchurch entered the building first. Carpeted stairs, a hall just to the right. A door looked like it led to the back. Three others led off into the house. He spun around.

  Owen was circling a raised finger above his head. Rally point. He motioned for Fenchurch and Nelson to take the other two internal doors.

  Fenchurch took a breath and entered his room.

  An L-shaped lounge which widened out towards the windows. A black leather sofa sat below a giant TV mounted on the opposite wall. On screen, Xherdan Shaqiri did some step overs, trying to outsmart Winston Reid, his claret-and-blue West Ham shirt rippling in the wind. Just like the vertical blinds — a patio door hung open. The room was ice cold.

  Fenchurch crept along the line of the boxout, two black-clad officers following. He adjusted his stab-proof vest and stepped around the corner to check in the cubbyhole.

  Kershaw was sitting on a cream armchair, fiddling with a mobile. He glanced up and did a double take. ‘What the hell?’

  ‘DS Kershaw, we have a warrant for your arrest.’ Fenchurch held up a clo
sed fist, stopping the supporting officers. ‘I’m asking for you to come quietly.’

  Kershaw lurched forwards and jumped at the open patio door. He tumbled through and slammed it behind him.

  ‘He’s gone out the back!’ Fenchurch pocketed his Airwave and followed. He tried the handle. Bastard thing wouldn’t budge.

  Kershaw was climbing a fence at the far end, fingers clawing the horizontal slats.

  Fenchurch thudded his fist off the handle and got it to move. He stormed across the grass and leapt through the air, aiming for Kershaw’s left foot. Just missed. He toppled onto the grass, landing on his rib.

  Kershaw cleared the top and disappeared over. A crash boomed out from the other side.

  Fenchurch got up and started climbing the fence. He stopped at the top, above a back lane. University buildings towered over them. No sign of Kershaw.

  No, there — haring off to the right.

  Fenchurch bumped down onto a compressed bin and set off. His lungs started to burn as he turned the corner into an open courtyard. ‘Stop!’

  Kershaw made eye contact. Then ducked his head and sped up, arms like pistons.

  A pair of officers appeared at the end of the lane. They both drew their Glocks.

  Kershaw barged into the one on the left, pushing him against the brick wall. A gunshot cannoned out. The other officer collapsed to the ground, clutching his chest. Kershaw grabbed a gun and set off.

  ‘Man down! Man down!’ Fenchurch held up his Airwave as he sprinted after Kershaw. ‘Get a medic into the lane behind the house! Suspect is armed! Repeat, suspect is armed!’

  He burst out onto the main road, feet pounding over the tarmac.

  Kershaw was scurrying across the road, weaving between two cars queuing at the roundabout. Horns blared out. He slipped on the brick roundabout and tumbled over. The gun slid over to the road. Kershaw righted himself and darted over the carriageway towards the football stadium.

  Fenchurch held out his warrant card as he crossed the road. The honking got louder, faster.

  Owen was racing over from the front of the house, flanked by two armed officers.

  Fenchurch passed the two cannons. He was losing Kershaw. Wait. He arced his run, trying to catch Kershaw by the stairs leading into the stadium.