Dead Man's Shoes (DI Fenchurch Book 7)

by Ed James

  ‘Driving to Loftus’s meeting, Kay. I’m in the bad books.’ Fenchurch pulled up at the roundabout and, wonder of wonders, it was clear, so he powered over. ‘Look, what’s going on?’

  ‘We’re having difficulty gaining access, guv.’

  ‘So he’s there?’

  ‘No, it’s his wife. We know that much. Francine Wiley. But she won’t open the door to us.’

  Honestly, the one time Fenchurch had delegated something and, through no fault of Reed’s, it had blown up in his face.

  Fenchurch took the exit from the roundabout, his right hand gripping the wheel a bit too tightly. ‘Kay, you of all people should be able to get inside that house and get her speaking.’

  ‘That’s the thing, guv. She’s asking who I work for.’

  ‘Did you—?’

  ‘I mentioned Uzma. No dice. But when I mentioned your name? Bingo. She’ll speak to you, and only you.’

  Fenchurch trundled along the back road, squeezed like an old man’s arteries by cars on both sides, just the occasional opportunity to pass by oncoming traffic. Post-war houses lined both sides of the road, probably thrown up in old bomb sites from the Blitz.

  He grew up two streets away, in old slum housing that had been altered and adjusted until it could just about cope with modern life, and he wasn’t quite old enough to remember playing in empty sites unlike his aunt’s kids.

  It was impossible to miss the Wiley’s house. Two pool cars perched on the pavement, next to a squad car. Two of Reed’s DCs were giving a poor old soul of a uniform constable a right going over about something.

  The house itself could’ve been anywhere in London. A semi with two floors, and a big paved drive out front. No cars, though.

  Fenchurch got out into the rain to discover this was one of those streets that aligned perfectly with the path of the rainclouds down to the Thames, the wind slicing through him like a bread knife.

  And somehow Reed was already on him. ‘Thanks for coming, guv.’

  Fenchurch took in the house. The front room was blocked out by a pair of net curtains. Twitching. Whether that was the occupant or the weather, he couldn’t tell. ‘Any progress?’

  ‘Well, there’s been a bit of hassle about why uniform aren’t helping her.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘She reported her husband missing.’

  ‘Come on.’ Fenchurch charged off up the path and knocked on the front door. No further signs of movement inside, so he stepped back.

  The door opened to the safety chain, one of those heavy-duty ones that could resist sixteen stone of idiot shoulder charging the wood. Dark skin, with a dark eye peering out the thin crack. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello, I’m Detective Chief Inspector Simon Fenchurch and I—’

  The door slammed. The chain rattled. The door reopened, and a bundle of rage and fury stepped out onto the drive, curly hair dancing as it struggled to keep up with her movement. She lashed out and slapped Fenchurch on the cheek. ‘You!’

  Instinct kicked in. Fenchurch grabbed her wrist, and held it down despite her struggles. While the street was quiet, he knew people would be watching what was going on. Raised voices and a bevy of police cars in a residential area had a habit of doing that. So he nudged her inside the house.

  Not an easy task, given her wriggling and shouting. ‘Get off me!’

  But Fenchurch at last got her over the threshold. ‘Madam, I need you to calm down.’

  The taller they were, the harder they fell, but Francine Wiley was barely five foot and she was powerful. So powerful that she escaped Fenchurch’s grip. Standing in her porch, clenched fists and bare feet locked in a fighting stance, though nothing you’d learn in any dojo. ‘Get out!’

  ‘Madam, I really need you to—’

  Not only was she powerful but quick with it. Her second slap cracked off Fenchurch’s cheek again. ‘Get out of my home!’

  Fenchurch grabbed her wrist again, tight enough to make her yelp. ‘Madam, if you don’t stop slapping me, I’m going to take you down to the station and charge you. Okay?’

  She nodded, and all the fight slipped out of her, replaced by a stream of tears. ‘Okay.’

  Fenchurch glanced over at Reed. She certainly had the weary look of a woman who just didn’t want to be slapped. His cheek felt like it was glowing. ‘So why are you slapping me? You called me here!’

  ‘You didn’t catch him.’

  Fenchurch focused on Francine. ‘Catch who?’

  ‘My son’s killer.’

  Fenchurch took a deep breath. The case details ran through his head again. Micah Thomas Wiley. Reported missing seventh August 2014. Found by a schoolboy that evening down the Limehouse Basin, another aspect of Fenchurch’s youth. Plenty of suspects, but as many alibis, so no conviction, not even an arrest. No wonder the poor woman was angry with the police. But why the hell was she angry with him? ‘Do you mind if I call you Francine?’

  ‘Of course I mind. You’ve got no right to be here.’

  And she’d asked for him. ‘Madam, I’m sorry for your loss. I know what—’

  ‘No you don’t! Nobody does!’ She shook her head so hard that her hair swept around. ‘You didn’t catch him, did you? You didn’t bother! If my Micah was white, you would’ve found my son’s killer.’

  Fenchurch gave her a nod. ‘Madam, look, I wasn’t on that case, but I can understand why you might think all those things. Believe me.’

  ‘Do you? You’re as white as a loaf of Hovis. Never had to suffer.’

  Blood was starting to boil in Fenchurch’s ears. He knew the woman was suffering and had suffered for a long, long time, but she was picking the right fight with the wrong man. ‘Part of my remit is to ensure that my team reflects the diverse community we serve. For my part, two of my lead detectives come from what you’d call a minority background. DI Uzma Ashkani and DI Jon Nelson. Like myself, Uzma grew up in Limehouse. This neck of the woods.’

  Francine gave him the slightest smile, betraying the thawing of her icy mask. ‘Your kid went missing. I saw it in the paper.’

  And there it was. As good a reason as any, he supposed, but still, Fenchurch felt his blood shift from red hot to ice cold. Felt that lump in his throat. That acid burn in his gut. ‘That’s right. Myself and my wife were the lucky ones, though. We managed to recover Chloe, though it hasn’t been easy.’

  Francine put a hand to her mouth and the tears flowed again. ‘I’m scared.’ She reached over and hugged him, pressing tight against him.

  Fenchurch held her until she let go. ‘I gather you reported your husband missing?’

  ‘Tom… Tom’s…’

  ‘When did you last see or hear from him?’

  ‘We had dinner last night, then he went out.’ Her nostrils flared. ‘I’ve lost my son, and now my husband? It’s … it’s way too much to take.’

  ‘I completely understand, madam. It’s why we’re here.’

  She looked at him. ‘You’ve found him?’

  Now Fenchurch could get a word in edgeways, now the adrenaline was all spent, he took a breath to consider the plan of attack. ‘We believe your husband has been attacked.’

  ‘He’s dead?’

  ‘Not that we know, but—’

  ‘But you suspect it?’

  Fenchurch gave her an honest nod. ‘We discovered a significant quantity of his blood at a crime scene.’

  ‘The brewery?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘It was on the news. I didn’t think it could… Look, I got up and he wasn’t there, and I’m just panicking. I can’t go to work, all I can do is sit in front of the TV, waiting for the news that you’ve found his body.’

  It made complete sense to Fenchurch. Francine had been through the absolute hell of losing her son, and now her husband was missing, she just didn’t have any more coping left. No hoe, no fight, no fire, just waiting, doomscrolling and doomwatching.

  ‘Well, we haven’t found your husband yet. Why do you th
ink he was there?’

  ‘He said he was meeting someone last night. Damon. A friend of his.’

  ‘Just him?’

  ‘That’s what he told me.’ She frowned. ‘Tom kept detailed notes and photos about this whole thing.’

  ‘Can we look at them?’

  ‘Two cups of tea, coming right up.’ Her anger had abated, Francine Wiley seemed to seek solace in activity. The dishwasher hummed and spat as the stovetop kettle started a slow boil.

  Two male DCs sat in a study under the stairs, bumper to bumper as they combed through Tom Wiley’s copious documentation.

  Fenchurch stayed by the door, keeping an eye on Francine. It wasn’t outside the realms of possibility that she had killed her husband or was complicit in the murder. He watched her for any stray phone calls or text messages or waves out of the back window, but all she did was stare into space as the kettle rumbled.

  Reed joined Fenchurch. ‘Nothing. So far.’

  ‘Typical.’ Fenchurch glanced back into the room and the shuffling of papers. ‘Body missing, ton of blood lost, doesn’t look good for her husband.’

  ‘Agreed. I still don’t understand why she asked for you by name.’ Reed followed Fenchurch’s gaze into the kitchen. The kettle had boiled, but Francine hadn’t poured any of the water out. ‘I’m glad she’s opening up, though. That poor woman.’

  Fenchurch waited for eye contact from Reed. ‘Kind of drives home that diversity stuff Loftus is always banging on about, doesn’t it? I mean, it’s not like him or me are particularly diverse, but having all that work we’ve put in helped here. And I don’t mean in an “oh, it came in handy” way, and it’s not about political correctness, it’s just completely the right thing to do. We do need to reflect our communities. And we’re not a police force any more, but a police service. It’s about serving that community.’

  ‘Loftus couldn’t have put it better himself. Maybe he’ll get you to chair those meetings.’

  Fenchurch winced. ‘Maybe I should. I do mean every single word of it.’

  Part of him wondered what the hell he was becoming, but being able to put some meat on the bones of an abstract concept was the most important thing in the world. The only way to win hearts and minds. The only way to change years of compounded misery.

  ‘Kay, I need you to lead the search here. Take this over from uniform. Speak to neighbours, all that jazz.’

  ‘Will do, guv.’

  ‘I’ll update DI Ashkani, don’t worry on that score.’

  ‘Guv.’ She took a last look at Francine, then headed out front.

  Fenchurch walked through to the kitchen. ‘You need any help with the tea?’

  Francine was still lost to her thoughts.

  Fenchurch eased past her. ‘How do you take your tea?’

  She looked round at him. ‘Oh, just a splash of milk.’

  ‘Is that a splash or a little bit?’

  ‘Definitely a splash.’

  Fenchurch smiled at her, then poured the hot water into the cups. ‘There’s a lot of material for my team to sift through.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No, don’t be. It’s good for us to have that much to go on.’

  ‘Will you find him?’

  Fenchurch fished out a teabag, kicked open the bin and tossed the bag inside. ‘I promise we’ll do all we can. I’m truly sorry we still haven’t found your son’s killer. That’s on me now. I wasn’t involved back then, but I am now. I run the team that was supposed to solve it. I’ll try to make sure it’s not a cold case for much longer.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She reached into the small fridge for a pint of milk in a glass bottle. Fenchurch hadn’t seen one of those in years. ‘Here.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He gave her cup the merest of splashes, then handed it over. ‘If my memory serves, your husband is a schoolteacher?’

  ‘Shadwell High. But it’s been tough for him. He’s been a Travis driver for a few years now to make ends meet.’

  Something spiked in Fenchurch’s head. A schoolteacher, sure, but a Travis driver? The Damon Lombardi side of the case already had that link to the business. ‘That must’ve been tough for him.’

  ‘He was out most evenings until late, long after I’d gone to bed with a book. It’s why I didn’t report him missing until this morning.’

  Fenchurch nodded.

  ‘We were so strapped for cash. My job and his salary barely pay for this place and… We need to know what happened to our son. We’ve been paying private investigators, but that costs a fortune. I don’t know if you’ve ever had any dealings with them?’

  ‘More than my fair share, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Then you’ll know how they work. They charge you a fortune for bugger all, but give you a sliver of hope to make you pay more. I was done with it, but Tom wasn’t. And part of him thought that driving Travis cars round here, that he could maybe find a lead on Micah’s murder, maybe overhear something in the back seat. Saying it out loud, it seems daft, but… It’s what he thought.’

  Fenchurch knew that logic all too well, so gave her another nod. The nights he’d spent sat in freezing cars in the middle of winter, or in roasting summer days, and not during the day, either. Before or after work, just hoping that the scumbags he was trailing were the ones who knew what happened to his daughter. ‘He talk about that side of his life much?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Never got any leads? Never met anyone through it?’

  ‘Well, it’s how he met Damon.’

  Bingo.

  Don’t give them the ammo, but lead them to the answer you want them to give, assuming it’s the truth. ‘You know his surname?’

  ‘I don’t, no.’

  ‘And this was the man your husband was meeting last night?’

  ‘One of them. Damon had put him in touch with a journalist who might be able to do better than the cops have so far.’

  Fenchurch smiled at her. His heart was racing again. ‘Back in a sec.’ He left the kitchen and his cup of tea, and went into the study, a box room with no windows, now stinking of cops. ‘You guys found anything pertaining to a journalist?’

  The uglier of the two held up a paper file in his stubby fist. ‘Some lad called Liam Sharpe?’

  11

  Fenchurch didn’t know why Bell had chosen to interview Liam in Leman Street, but well, there they were. Maybe it was because it afforded the absolutely worst interview room the Met had to offer, certainly this side of the river. It wasn’t through decision or malice, but more just somebody not signing the right forms at the right time to get the work done. Every year. And it just got worse.

  Still, it had its uses.

  The door opened and Bell stepped out into the corridor. ‘I got your message, Simon.’

  ‘I need a few minutes with him.’

  ‘And I’d rather you kept out of my interview.’

  ‘How much is he telling you?’

  Bell scratched at his neck.

  ‘Right, Jason, I know him. I’ll get him speaking, okay?’

  ‘Fine.’

  Though opening the door handle without it coming off in his hand was a hurdle Fenchurch almost didn’t overcome. He let Bell go first, then followed, but left the door open a crack just in case.

  Liam craned his neck round to look at Fenchurch. Not the first time he’d been in this room, so not the first time he’d had that trick pulled. Make them uncomfortable and see what happens. And it didn’t look like it was working.

  Bell sat facing him, his suit jacket all buttoned up and his shirt collar squeezing the flab on his neck. ‘DCI Fenchurch has entered the room.’

  The female officer next to him was someone Fenchurch had been in a room with before, but Bell still didn’t introduce her.

  Fenchurch was fuming with the little sod. He stayed where he was and folded his arms, but didn’t lean back against the door, just in case. ‘Is Mr Sharpe telling you the truth yet or still lying?’

  Liam shook his head
, his tongue planted in his cheek. ‘Nice to see you too, mate.’ He turned back around and slumped his shoulders over the table.

  ‘Where have you got to with him, Jason?’

  ‘Well, Kate and I have been asking him about Younis’s involvement in Travis Cars and how Liam here knew all about it.’

  ‘And what’s he saying to that?’

  ‘Liam says he didn’t talk to me because he didn’t want the heat on him.’

  ‘You believe him?’

  Bell laughed. ‘Not for a second.’

  Liam’s shoulders slumped that bit more.

  ‘Personally, Simon, I think he didn’t want to ruin his story by us prosecuting someone for their crimes.’

  ‘That’d be my take too.’ Fenchurch ambled over, hands in pockets, and stood at the end of the table. ‘Liam, the good news is you don’t need to worry about that anymore. The bad news is the heat’s found you.’

  ‘You know I won’t name my sources.’

  ‘There’s nobody you’re protecting, is there? Liam, your flatmate’s body is in the morgue. I was at his post-mortem this morning. If it’s not him, then who are you protecting?’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe me.’

  ‘How about Tom Wiley?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard. He’s a source, right?’

  Liam let the longest sigh go. ‘Might be.’

  ‘And he might have been one of the two victims attacked in your brewery’s basement, Liam.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘And he might be another person you were talking to about Younis’s involvement in Travis, Liam. He also might be dead too.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We haven’t found his body, so it’s possible he escaped.’ Fenchurch leaned that closer to Liam. ‘Now, if you tell the bloody truth for once, then we can maybe find Mr Wiley before it’s too late. Or we can find his killer. Either way, his wife will be grateful. Poor woman has suffered horrendously.’

  Liam sat back so he was almost horizontal. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Start with Damon.’

  ‘Well, I know that you know that Damon had big gambling debts. I’ve seen it ruin many lives. And I watched it ruin his. And there was nothing I could do to stop him. He lost three grand on a roulette game on his phone one morning. I mean, Damon got to that point, not quite the moment of clarity, but where his debts weren’t so big that he couldn’t still wriggle out of them.’