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

by Ed James

  Owen pointed at the ground. ‘There we go.’

  A trail of damp footprints led left.

  Fenchurch sprinted off. Footsteps thrummed somewhere ahead of them. He stopped at another T-junction. A squad of police ninjas were bombing in from the left. He darted off to the right, leading Owen deeper into the farm, and broke into another wide-open space.

  Vaughn was crunching over the pebbles towards an Infiniti sports car. Water dripped from the silver metal.

  Owen knelt down, raised his gun and aimed. ‘Freeze!’

  Vaughn twisted round and stumbled. He fell face first onto the ground. ‘Don’t shoot!’

  Fenchurch slid to a halt beside him. Stones kicked across the drive, chipping the car. ‘You’re under arrest, Mr Vaughn.’

  ‘I’ve done nothing!’

  ‘So why are you running from us?’ Fenchurch took a look around. They were surrounded by brick farm buildings on three sides. Large doors in each one, all shut. They looked industrial. Another small lane led further on, just wide enough to get the car through. ‘What’s down there?’

  Vaughn closed his eyes, pain etched on his face. ‘You can’t just—’

  ‘Shut up.’ Owen aimed his Glock at Vaughn’s head. ‘You’re going to pay for what you’ve done.’ He cocked the hammer. ‘Now, get up.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’ Vaughn had his hands in the air, behind his head. He pushed himself to his feet, eyes on the gun. Then ducked low and rabbit-punched Owen in the chest. Vaughn grabbed the gun as Owen toppled backwards, sprawling all over the car’s bonnet.

  Vaughn pistol-whipped Fenchurch, the barrel of the gun cracking off his temple. He collapsed face down, groggy as hell but still awake.

  A gunshot. Then another. An armed officer flew backwards, a red snail-trail behind him.

  Vaughn sprinted off down the lane.

  Fenchurch got up, dizzy as a boxer after twelve rounds. He pointed at Owen then the fallen officer. ‘Stay with him!’ Then he waved for two of the armed officers to follow. He raced over to the lane. The tight space broke into another open courtyard, footsteps cannoning off the walls. Fenchurch followed them. A chain-link fence towered over one side, blocking the way. Razor wire coiled over the top.

  Vaughn was on the other side, sprinting away. He dodged into a row of chalets before anyone could get a shot off. There were at least forty or fifty of them. All stone-blue paint and white woodwork. Like a retirement village.

  Fenchurch scanned the fence for an entrance. A gate was cut in halfway across. The padlock hadn’t quite shut. He kicked it and the gate tottered open. He crunched over more pebbles.

  A shot rang out, scorching the ground at his feet. He dived full length, rolling to hide behind the first chalet.

  One of the ninjas lay prone, face down on the ground. Blood spattered his black vest.

  ‘Officer down!’

  Another shot hit nearer, the report echoing around the space. A head popped up over the lip of one of the farm buildings. It wasn’t Vaughn.

  Fenchurch pointed up, Airwave in his hand. ‘On top of that building!’

  A third officer knelt down by the discarded gate and took aim. A shot came from above and he dropped to the ground.

  ‘Another man down! Repeat, man down!’ Fenchurch lowered his Airwave and scanned around for other shooters. Looked like just the one.

  There was only one entrance to the chalet Vaughn was inside, the curtains drawn.

  ‘Cover me!’ Fenchurch got a nod and sprinted over to the chalet. A bullet hit the side of the building, ricocheting away from him. He dived low and crawled backwards, right back to where he started. ‘I’m going again.’ He waited for the officer to reload his magazine. Then shot off towards the building.

  A bullet clipped his jacket.

  He screamed out and tumbled over. Shit. He scrambled to safety, hiding under another chalet’s windows, clutching his shoulder. He looked at his fingers. No blood but it stung like buggery.

  He got up and vaulted up the steps to the front door.

  A shot splintered the wood halfway down.

  He spun around. A man fell from the roof, tumbling into a heap on the ground just by the chalet.

  Fenchurch took a deep breath. He snuck a look at the back of the brick building then at the armed officer. ‘Any more of them?’

  The police marksman shook his head. ‘Looks clear, guv.’

  ‘Get someone to check your mates.’ Fenchurch turned his attention to the chalet Vaughn had gone in. Another large padlock, this time actually securing the door. He rattled it. No chance he was—

  Something battered into Fenchurch’s shoulder. He clattered into the door, screaming, and caught his eye socket on the padlock. He rolled over, his shoulder blade burning.

  The armed officer was sprawled over the pebbles, face down. His Glock lay a few metres away.

  Another blow hit Fenchurch in the shoulder. A deep thud. Felt like it reopened something. He tried to get up but couldn’t.

  A boot pressed down, choking him. Fenchurch clawed at the leather and twisted round, gasping. A man stood over him, clutching a baseball bat. Black, heavy. He put more weight on his foot, digging down on Fenchurch’s windpipe.

  Fenchurch gargled as he pushed against the shoe. Raked at the purple laces.

  The man pushed the other foot on.

  Fenchurch felt like he was going to collapse. He swung up with a leg. Missed.

  His attacker’s eyes bulged as he toppled forward, trying to brace himself against the house.

  Now. Fenchurch lashed out with his left foot and cracked his opponent in the balls.

  He squealed like a pig and landed on Fenchurch, squeezed the air from his lungs.

  Fenchurch lay there, sucking breath in short gasps. He scrabbled around, trying to nudge the man off. A dead weight. He dipped to the side and managed to roll him off. He sat up. His back and shoulders were on fire. Rain battered against his face. He clambered up to his feet. His throat was so tight it felt like he had the flu.

  The fallen officer sat up next to him, groaning. ‘What the hell just happened?’

  Fenchurch helped him to his feet. ‘Did you see him coming?’

  The officer pointed to the farm building. ‘Think he came from in there.’

  Another squad of officers arrived, Reed leading. She got them to stand firm, while a medic started inspecting their fallen comrades.

  Fenchurch cupped his hands around his mouth. ‘Over here!’ His throat hurt like a bastard.

  Reed gave a wave and sent a couple of officers jogging towards them.

  Fenchurch directed them round the back. ‘Secure it!’ He raced up the steps and rattled the padlock again. Then reached over to the nearest officer and snatched his rifle. ‘Give me that.’ Barely sounded like a human had spoken.

  The ninja’s eyes bulged at the padlock. ‘Don’t shoot it!’

  ‘I’m not stupid.’ Fenchurch clattered the butt of the gun into the padlock. It snapped open. ‘Follow me.’ He nudged the door open and crept inside. His boots hit plush carpet. Beige. Blue and orange artwork lined cream walls. Three doors led off the hall, all shut. The smell of fresh coffee and scones. A childish sing-song came from behind the furthest away door.

  Vaughn came through a door to the left and fired the Glock. The bullet fizzed past Fenchurch’s head. He dived at Vaughn and pushed him against the wall. Vaughn grabbed his hair and smacked his head off the floor. Bone crunched off wood. The rifle tumbled towards the door. No chance of reaching it with Vaughn pummelling him.

  Fenchurch lashed out with his feet, trying to connect with something. Anything. He missed.

  ‘Freeze.’ Vaughn was standing in the doorway, aiming Owen’s Glock at him. ‘You’re my ticket out of here. On your feet.’

  Fenchurch got up, wincing with the crack in his ribs. He leaned against the door. The sing-song voices were louder now. Definitely not in his head. ‘That’s not going to happen. You’re going down.’

  Vaughn shrugged.
‘If that’s the way it has to be.’ He cocked the hammer and aimed the Glock at Fenchurch’s chest.

  Then he slumped forward, clutching his head. The gun tumbled to the floor.

  Reed stood in the entrance, shrouded by misting rain. She was holding the rifle, butt pointing out the way. ‘Take that you bastard.’

  Fenchurch dropped to his knees, chest heaving. ‘Thanks for the save, Kay.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’

  Fenchurch stood up tall and motioned for two of Reed’s officers to guard the other doors. He got Reed to follow him towards the singing voices. He twisted the handle and eased the door open.

  A woman and three girls sat on two sofas. A cartoon flickered on a large TV set, all primary colours. The music was deafening.

  The woman was late thirties, dressed in black trousers and a cream blouse, the short sleeves designed to show off toned arms. She got between Fenchurch and the girls. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘It’s okay.’ Fenchurch fumbled to open his warrant card, his breath seeping out. ‘It’s okay. I’m a police officer.’ He tried to smile at them. ‘You’re safe now.’

  She scowled at him. ‘What do you mean we’re safe?’

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  What the hell? Fenchurch frowned at the woman, guarding her kittens like a mother cat. ‘You’re safe. They’ve been exploiting you.’

  ‘Exploiting us?’ She reached down to pick up the nearest child and cuddled her tight. The girl was pretty and dressed like she was in a beauty pageant. ‘We’re not being exploited.’ The other two girls scampered over. She crouched down and put her arms around them. ‘I want you to get out of here.’

  Fenchurch stared at the kids. They didn’t even look like teenagers but wore skimpy outfits. Skin-tight tops, lycra leggings barely containing overdeveloped buttocks. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Karen.’

  ‘Okay, Karen. I need you to—’

  She pushed the kids back towards the sofa and took a step closer. Fists clenched, nostrils flared. ‘Do we look exploited to you?’

  Fenchurch tried to blink away the fatigue and pain. This was too much. ‘We believe you’ve been the victim of sexual exploitation under the Policing and Crime Act 2009.’ He let it settle. All it did was reinforce her steely glare. ‘I need you to come with me.’

  ‘I’ll do no such thing.’

  ‘It’s not safe for you here.’

  ‘And police officers firing guns in private homes is safe, I suppose?’

  ‘You need to—’

  She slapped his face. Felt like she’d pressed an iron to it. ‘Get out!’

  He grabbed her wrist and held a hand up to the ninja in the doorway. ‘That’s enough of that.’ He nodded at the three girls. ‘Are they yours?’

  She wriggled against his grip. ‘Of course they are.’

  ‘How old are they?’

  ‘Fourteen, twelve and nine.’ Karen patted the oldest child on the head, hugging her hip again. ‘I had Emilie here when I was seventeen and she’s my little darling.’

  No age at all . . . Fenchurch grimaced. ‘Can I speak to their father?’

  She looked away and kept quiet.

  ‘What’s going to happen to Emilie when she turns sixteen?’

  Karen shut her eyes. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Sure about that? They’re not going to take her away?’

  She glared at him, eyes full of fire. ‘Nothing is going to happen to my babies!’

  ‘Have you lived here all your life?’

  ‘Of course I have.’

  ‘You weren’t abducted as a child?’

  ‘Get out!’

  Fenchurch sucked in breath. He waved at the officer behind Reed. ‘Stay with them. Get IDs and don’t let them leave.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Fenchurch left the room and led Reed through the chalet. He let the rain soak him and reached a finger into his shirt. It came out red. The bullet hadn’t broken the flesh but the baseball bat had.

  Pretty much all of the other chalets’ doors were now open, the verandas filled with police officers and women. No men. The oldest woman looked mid-thirties at most.

  ‘What a bloody place, Kay.’

  She didn’t say anything, just stared at the rain battering the nearest chalet’s felt roof.

  ‘They’ve got her!’

  Next door, a twenty-something woman was hammering a finger at Owen’s chest. It bounced off him like bullets off Superman.

  Fenchurch trotted across the pebbles, trying to ignore the pain in his shoulder and rib, and clambered up the steps onto the veranda, Reed following him. ‘What’s going on?’

  Owen took a step back. ‘She says her mother’s been taken.’

  ‘You’ve got to hurry!’ The woman was medium height with striking cheekbones. Desperate eyes blinking furiously, her gaze darting between Fenchurch and Owen. ‘They take them as soon as . . .’ She burst into tears.

  Reed made eye contact with her, brow furrowed with concern. ‘As soon as what? What do they do?’

  ‘As soon as they get old, they take them away.’ She waved a painted nail across the stones to the tall building. ‘They go into the forum there, then we don’t see them again.’ A tear slicked her cheek, quickly lost to the rain. ‘Please, you need to hurry!’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Alison.’

  ‘DS Reed and I are going in.’ Fenchurch muted his Airwave and stepped out in front of the brick building. One of the great barn doors lay open. ‘Be careful, Kay. This is where that bastard with the bat came from.’ He put a finger to his lips and waved for the uniforms to follow.

  Grey lino led inside. A partition was cut into the cold white walls with a small security-glass window.

  Fenchurch crept up and swung his head up and down again. An office with computers and desks. Baseball bats filled a case behind. The place looked empty.

  He whispered into his Airwave: ‘Fenchurch to Control. I need a Forensics unit to report to what looks like an office. About ten yards inside the building.’

  ‘On it, sir.’

  Fenchurch swirled the air around his head, getting the support unit to stay put. He snapped out his baton and started off down the corridor, Reed following. He came to a wooden door hanging open and he let her go through first.

  Inside, the walls were bare brick instead of whitewashed breeze blocks. He stepped down the corridor. Reed got on the other side of the door off to the right, back to the wall.

  The door opened and two men strolled out, wearing black guard uniforms. ‘I still think Reservoir—’ The nearest guard’s eyes bulged. ‘Holy fu—’

  Fenchurch lashed out with his baton. The man fell backwards. The other guard swung at Reed, his fist cracking into her jaw and sending her flying.

  Fenchurch swung the baton again, missing his guard by tiny fractions of an inch. The guard elbowed Fenchurch. He tumbled onto the ground. Two kicks into his still-aching ribs. He rolled away and tucked himself into a ball.

  The guard screamed and collapsed forward. Reed knelt behind him, brandishing her baton, chest heaving. Trying to click her jaw. ‘Making a habit of saving you, guv.’

  ‘Thanks for that. Again.’ Fenchurch got up and braced himself against the wall. ‘Bastard got me in the ribs again.’ He got out his Airwave. ‘Control, I need more support. Armed.’

  ‘Two units on their way, sir.’

  Reed rested on her baton. ‘Shall we wait for them, guv?’

  Fenchurch took a look at the two guards, both unconscious. He prodded them with his baton. Neither stirred. Footsteps and equipment rattled down the corridor. ‘Come on.’ He used his baton to open the door.

  No other guards lurked inside, just computers and paperwork. A CCTV station hung on the far wall, looked like it was showing other rooms in the building. Only three people on the screen — a guard patrolling a corridor and a doctor inspecting a young woman.

  ‘Come on.’ Reed raced down the corridor and turned hard ri
ght. It stretched into the bowels of the building, twisting to the right again twenty or so yards away. She waited at the corner and motioned past it. ‘Should be a guard round here somewhere.’

  Fenchurch listened closely. ‘Can’t hear anything, Kay.’ He set off round the bend.

  Nothing, just more corridor, darker.

  Wait.

  A varnished pine door on the right, almost at the end before the next turn. And a window.

  Fenchurch tiptoed down the lino. Vertical steel blinds obscured the glass. He put a hand on the door. ‘What’s the play here, Kay? Wait for backup?’

  A woman screamed inside the room. ‘No!’

  Shit. Fenchurch looked back, still no sign of support. He twisted the handle. Bloody thing was locked. ‘On three.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘We’ve not got a choice, have we?’ Fenchurch sucked in a breath. ‘One, two, three.’ He kicked the door handle and went inside.

  High-end medical equipment lined two of the walls. A treadmill filled another, next to an open door.

  ‘Freeze.’ A pistol appeared to the right, followed by its owner. A black guard, the spitting image of The Alicorn’s bouncer.

  Fenchurch lowered his baton, trying to crunch the probabilities in his head.

  ‘No!’

  Through the open door, the man in a doctor’s coat held a syringe over a woman’s neck.

  Eyes back on the guard. ‘Police. This place is surrounded.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’ The guard crunched his thumb down on the hammer. The chamber clicked round. ‘I’m going nowhere.’

  ‘You’re going to prison. Drop the gun.’

  ‘Help!’ The woman tugged against her restraints.

  The guard glanced round.

  Fenchurch slashed forward. His baton smacked the gun out of the guard’s hands. He followed through with a second strike. The guard collapsed to his knees, one hand cradling the other.

  Reed got him in an armlock and pushed him face first to the ground.

  Fenchurch raced over to the doctor. He still had the syringe against the woman’s throat as she squirmed on the bed. ‘Whatever you’re doing in here, it’s over.’