Dead Man's Shoes (DI Fenchurch Book 7)

by Ed James

  ‘Big chunk of our national economy. Got to be proud of the free market, letting me claw in all that dosh out of the pockets of daft bastards.’

  ‘But it’s the manner in which you reclaim that debt that’s the issue.’

  ‘And how might that be?’

  ‘Well, if the gambler in question got in the hole to the tune of, say, two hundred quid, then you’d assess whether he could repay that, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘In business, my love, someone who can’t repay you is known as a bad debt.’

  ‘But if that two hundred quid became two hundred grand, well, you’d have a problem.’

  ‘Would I?’

  ‘That two hundred grand would break a lot of businesses. But to you, it’s an opportunity. Two hundred grand is a big sum. I mean, with the interest rates being what they are, it’ll stay roughly that way for you. Unless, of course, you charge a bit more, yeah?’

  ‘Heard it happens. Payday loans are a blight on society, my love.’

  ‘How much did you charge him?’

  ‘Charge who?’

  ‘Heard he was desperate. Could maybe get hold of a hundred grand in a pinch. His problem is that wouldn’t clear the capital, would it? Just a chunk of the interest. What would pay the whole thing off would be a couple of million, yeah?’

  ‘I’m not that sort of businessman, Fenchy.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘While I’m in here for a load of bollocks, I still own a few businesses. Legitimate ones.’

  ‘I know. DCI Bell here was telling me about your portfolio. Interesting investments. Travis Cars for starters.’

  ‘Travis who?’

  ‘You know who I’m talking about. Firm up in Aldgate Tower. American, but their cars have been driving around here since 2010. You seem to have got yourself involved with a member of staff there.’

  ‘Have I now?’

  ‘Strangely enough, the guy who was in debt to you worked for Travis. Way I hear it, he was going to flog his founder shares to you, and at a cut-price rate, say two million quid, before they became worth a packet.’

  ‘You talk to some strange people if that’s what you’re hearing.’

  ‘But it’s not a financial thing. No, it’s about getting more power at that company. Now, half a percent doesn’t seem like much. But it’s leverage, a chance for you to speak to the management there, maybe get a few other opportunities to buy a bigger stake. Or to get them to do a few things for you. Either way, it’s a win-win for you. And all it took was you accepting a few too many bets from an idiot.’

  Younis shrugged. Could be a good sign, but maybe not.

  ‘After all the shit you’re involved with, Younis, I’m surprised it hasn’t come up.’

  ‘What hasn’t?’

  ‘We found Damon’s body this morning.’

  ‘Who’s he?’ Younis sniffed a couple of times. The eyebrow rings clinked together.

  ‘Damon won’t get that stake in the firm now he’s dead. It’ll pass on to his next of kin. And his gambling debts are worthless too. So you’ve lost a couple of hundred grand outright, and the best part of a million in interest. But what will be hurting you a lot right now, is that you’ve lost the chance to own that little bit more of Travis, haven’t you?’

  Younis shifted his gaze between Fenchurch and Bell, much slower than before. ‘You think you’ve beaten me, yeah? Well, you haven’t.’

  ‘No, I’m not on the right track here.’

  ‘No, you’re not. Completely the wrong one. That business is corrupt. I own a couple of honest cab firms in the East End. Good businesses, with technical backbone that can compete with these bleeding arseholes… Oh, how I’d love to make your arsehole bleed, Fenchy.’

  Fenchurch gave that same grin. ‘You’re right, I know all about that business.’

  ‘Right. So why would I help a competitor?’

  ‘You’re a man with his fingers in many pies.’

  ‘You been spying on me in the showers here, have you?’

  ‘Can be arranged, yeah. Sure you’d put on a bit of a show if you knew I was watching.’

  ‘Just like when we were in that van a couple of years ago.’

  ‘Thought you were denying that?’

  ‘I can’t deny my feelings for you, Fenchy.’ Younis sat back, hands behind his head, licking his lips. ‘Look, seeing as it’s you and you’re giving me a bit of sport, the kind of fun this pillock won’t,’ he jutted his chin out at Bell, ‘then I’ll play ball. I was getting standard repayments from young Damon. He wasn’t on the hook for big interest, nothing like that. But I did use him to try and take down Travis.’

  ‘Take down how?’

  ‘Company like that makes a lot of omelettes every day, means they crack a lot of eggs. Damon knew where the bodies were buried. Even had a friendly journo who was building a story on them for me.’

  Fenchurch felt that tingle in the back of his neck. Didn’t take a genius to figure out who that friendly reporter might be. ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Yeah, this little hipster, he came in here, and presented all this information to me, stuff he’d found on the grapevine. Tut tut, they really are naughty boys and girls at Travis. But I ain’t the type to kiss and tell, Fenchy. Even with you.’ Younis clicked his fingers and looked over at the guard. ‘I want to go back to my cell.’

  The guard didn’t even look at Fenchurch or Bell to check if that was okay. Just opened the door for Younis. Either on the payroll or would do anything for a quiet life.

  ‘I’ll be thinking of you, Fenchy. Tara.’ Younis charged out of the room, hands in pockets.

  Fenchurch felt every part of his body unclench. He needed another shower, but he still wouldn’t feel clean.

  ‘Simon, you sure you want to have that kind of rapport with someone like him?’

  Fenchurch looked over at Bell, and locked eyes with him. ‘It’s a means to an end with him. Besides, what he said about omelettes and eggs applies to debasing myself for information from him.’

  ‘Well, it’s certainly an interesting tactic.’ Bell pushed himself up to standing. ‘Now, I’ll just have a little look-see at the visitor log…’

  ‘Liam’s keeping stuff from me. I don’t like it one bit.’ Fenchurch got out his phone. Six missed calls, all from Loftus. He sighed and hit dial. ‘I’ll own this okay?’

  But Bell was already out of the room.

  Fenchurch got up himself and followed Bell into the dim corridor, listening to the phone ringing.

  ‘Simon, you’ve deigned to answer, then?’ Loftus sounded pissed off, big time. Forget messing up a conviction, what got to him was both missing a “Diversity Alignment” meeting and dragging another cop out of it too. ‘Where the hell have you gone?’

  ‘Belmarsh, sir, we—’

  ‘I had to cancel the meeting, Simon, you and DCI Bell buggered off.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that, sir. I spoke to Millie and—’

  ‘You should’ve spoken to me! Not my bloody secretary!’

  Fenchurch stopped at the end of the corridor, waiting for the guard to let him through to the admin block. ‘Sir, it’s case-related.’

  ‘Well, what isn’t with you? And that’s the very reason you’ve got three DIs, Simon. We’ve talked about delegation.’

  ‘We have, sir. I’ve delegated, but—’

  ‘And speaking of which, there’s another failure in your ability to delegate. The Lombardi PM is starting right now at Lewisham.’

  ‘I’d asked DI Ashkani to cover it.’

  ‘You had, but Uzma’s just called me to say that she’s with Damon Lombardi’s parents in Ramsgate.’

  Shit.

  ‘Now, are you telling me that either DI Winter or DI Nelson will attend?’

  ‘No, sir. Jon’s off sick and Rod’s running the show at the brewery. Look, I’m not far away just now, so I’ll take it.’

  Loftus gave a hollow laugh. ‘Simon, have you been listening to a word I’ve said?’

  ‘I know, sir,
but just let me do it this once. Promise I’ll be better the next time.’

  ‘You’re assuming there’ll be a next time.’ Click, and Loftus was gone.

  Leaving Fenchurch in the middle of the admin block. A wide room filled with desks and secretarial staff. So many doors, and he couldn’t see which one Bell had entered.

  Loftus had a point. He was a DCI now. A Senior Investigating Officer. He was supposed to be setting strategy, assessing the summarised evidence, guiding his team towards a conviction. But he couldn’t help himself interviewing sex pests who happened to be involved in a case adjacent to him. Yeah, that psychologist would have a field day with Fenchurch.

  He spotted Bell in the second room on the right. ‘Jason.’

  ‘Simon.’ But Bell wasn’t looking up, instead staring at a laptop screen.

  ‘You getting anywhere?’

  Bell stood up straight and cracked his knuckles, eight loud pops in quick succession. ‘I’ve found Liam Sharpe in the visitor logs. Three visits to see Mr Younis. Wonder if he had to flirt with him.’

  ‘We should ask him.’

  ‘No, Simon. I’ll interview him.’

  ‘But I know Liam.’

  ‘And I’ve just had a text from Julian Loftus to make sure you don’t.’

  ‘Look, Liam can be an idiot.’

  ‘And I can deal with idiots.’ Bell rested a hand on his arm. ‘I know you’re worried. He’s a friend. It’s fine. Understandable, even. I’ll look after him.’

  9

  It had been a few months since Fenchurch had been at a post-mortem. Maybe half a year even.

  Instead, he’d had to rely on reports and summaries from Ashkani, Nelson and Winter.

  But this room never changed. Aside from the constant background fruity stink of bleach, the tang of blood and reek of faeces. God knows what Damon Lombardi’s last few meals had been, probably not that different from Fenchurch’s, but it was ripe.

  ‘Om pom tiddly om pom.’ Pratt was cutting away at the kidneys like he was carving a Christmas turkey, then weighing them on the scales. God knows how his many assistants coped with the constant humming as they transcribed the recordings for the reports, but they always turned out surprisingly fine. A machine beeped behind Pratt and he swung around to inspect it. ‘Ah yes, excellent.’ He walked over and started pressing buttons on it.

  Fenchurch joined him by the machine, glad to be away from the sight of another murder victim. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Blood typing machine, my good fellow.’ Pratt squinted at the display. The thing looked like it could mix any colour of paint for you. ‘Well, there’s definitely a second blood type here.’

  ‘You’re certain?’

  ‘Absolutely. The victim’s O-positive, but there’s an A-negative present.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘As we speak, Tammy’s assessing it, along with the DNA testing, but she believes at least three litres. Roughly six pints in old money.’

  ‘Any DNA?’

  ‘Flesh and skin. Throat or neck, I’d wager.’

  Fenchurch could picture it in his head. In that dark basement, a sharp knife slicing a throat, severing the carotid artery and the jugular vein. Then cutting at another victim, but not badly enough to kill. ‘So, another victim?’

  ‘Yes. There’s also the fact that the shoes are much smaller than the victim’s, which backs it all up.’

  Fenchurch shut his eyes. So it wasn’t just Damon Lombardi’s death. Someone else was killed there. He realised he’d been clinging to the possibility that the second pair of shoes was the killer’s, that he’d returned to the kill site after chasing the victim. But it felt like a forlorn hope back then, and now it was gone entirely.

  ‘Another thing to note, Simon.’ Pratt raised his eyebrows. ‘One of Tammy’s team noticed a different blood spatter pattern…’ He held up a finger. ‘In addition to the arterial spray from the carotid, there are gravity droplets with directional tails.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  Pratt cleared his throat. ‘Meaning that, while the victim decorated the room in interesting patterns, it’s entirely possible that the other victim walked or ran away.’

  Fenchurch’s mind’s eye snapped back to the basement, to the handprint on the door, the trail of footprints leading away from the kill site. So many possibilities opened up. ‘Victim one was killed in front of victim two, who made it to the door, then beyond to the next room?’

  ‘Correct. The trail dies at the stairwell.’

  ‘So there’s a possibility that the second victim escaped?’

  ‘Certainly possible, yes, but the sheer volume of blood lost here and the type of injury means it’s unlikely that the victim remains this side of the river Styx. Left unrepaired, a significant wound could prove fatal. Direct pressure will only get one so far before medical intervention is needed.’

  ‘Still alive, you mean?’

  ‘Correct.’

  Fenchurch looked back at Damon Lombardi’s corpse.

  Who was he meeting?

  Why?

  Was he meeting his killer?

  And again, why?

  His debts? Or the assets?

  The whole thing felt even murkier.

  His phone jolted in his pocket. He got it.

  Bridge calling…

  He put the phone to his ear. ‘Sergeant, I’m tied up just now, so make it quick.’

  ‘Trying to get hold of Kay and Uzma, but they’re not answering.’

  ‘Okay. Isn’t Rod there?’

  ‘He’s supposed to be but he’s not answering either, so I thought I’d call you.

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘There’s no dice on Lombardi’s laptop.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve been through it. No emails pertaining to anything personal. And I’ve got his calls and SMS messages from the network. Again, nothing of a personal nature.’

  ‘Okay, Lisa, thanks.’

  ‘Sorry, sir, I had hoped we’d be able to find out why Damon was there or who he was meeting.’

  ‘Never apologise for trying, Sergeant.’

  ‘Thanks, sir. Oh, and I’ve drafted that warrant for his Travis emails and messages.’

  ‘If you can’t find DI Winter, I’ll approve it when I’m back at base.’

  ‘Thanks, sir.’ And she was gone.

  Fenchurch looked at Lombardi’s body again, still none the wiser. A secretive man, who hadn’t left a trail. They didn’t even have his phone, just texts and calls from the network, which would be really incomplete these days.

  But he had big debts, and with bad people.

  Fenchurch looked over at Pratt, now recording the weight of Lombardi’s liver. ‘Can you tie that MO to any known gangland killings?’

  ‘Would that I could, Simon. This is unlike anything I’ve seen. It doesn’t appear to be a hit, as there’s too much risk. The site is poorly accessed and not a public place, certainly not down there. Feels like the work of a desperate man or woman, who just slit a throat and left the victim to bleed out.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Always the biggest question, isn’t it? What, who, when and where are easy. How, well I have hopefully covered that. But why, Simon, why do this to another human being? Another two?’

  Fenchurch could ask his grandmother to suck eggs too. ‘I’ll get to the bottom of it.’

  The door beeped then clunked open and Tammy stepped into the mortuary. ‘I hope you’ve saved me a slice.’

  Pratt laughed. ‘Leg or breast?’

  ‘Rump?’

  Pratt giggled like a schoolboy being tickled. ‘Nice to see you, Thomasina.’

  ‘Please don’t.’ Tammy folded her arms. There was a story there, but Fenchurch didn’t want to dip in. ‘Simon, you’re just the man I need to speak to.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘My guys are finished at the brewery, but Harrison and Maynard are pressuring us to reopen.’

  ‘Bar or the brewery stuff downstairs?’
/>
  Tammy smiled. ‘Upstairs. The bar.’

  ‘They’ve got a hard business, so I sympathise with them.’ Fenchurch nodded. ‘Let’s use it as leverage to get what we want, assuming they’re holding something back. Downstairs is still off limits, but they can open the tap room tonight.’

  ‘Coolio.’ She set off, but stopped. ‘Oh, I’ve finished the first pass DNA test. That new machine is a godsend, especially when you come a-knocking.’

  ‘Don’t leave me in suspense, Tammy.’

  ‘Okay, well there’s enough to give us two DNA traces. First, Mr Lombardi, based on the samples we’ve obtained from his apartment.’

  Given it was first pass, that could actually be anyone who had visited Lombardi’s flat. Liam? Maynard? Neil? One of Younis’s goons?

  ‘Well, I hope you’ve got a magic rabbit to pull out of your sleeve, Tammy.’

  ‘Not sure that’s how I would describe it.’ She frowned. ‘The second DNA trace marries up with a criminal record.’

  Pushing them closer to Younis’s world. ‘Go on?’

  ‘Not going to believe who it is.’

  ‘Enlighten me.’

  ‘Tom Wiley.’

  Which meant the square root of bugger all to Fenchurch. ‘Care to actually enlighten me?’

  ‘Are you kidding me?’ She shook her head. ‘He’s the father of Micah Wiley, that schoolboy who was murdered five years ago.’

  10

  One thing about London rain was it sent people back inside, and kept them there, so it made driving from Lewisham to Victoria Embankment almost rapid, even mid-morning.

  But Fenchurch managed to ease through that first bottleneck, the one he knew so well, the New Kent Road between two roundabouts in Elephant and Castle. Would usually take a good ten minutes to navigate. This morning it was less than five.

  That stroke of good fortune could only last so long, though.

  His phone rang in the cradle mounted to the dashboard.

  Reed calling…

  Fenchurch thumbed the answer button. ‘Kay, you found Wiley?’

  ‘No, guv.’ The downpour hissed out of the car’s speakers, sounding worse at her end of the line. Then her sigh drowned it out. ‘Where are you?’