Worth Killing For (A DI Fenchurch Novel Book 2)

by Ed James

  ‘Please.’

  The bike bumped onto the pavement and sped towards the victim, almost obscuring her from the camera, just leaving a thin sliver visible. He plunged the knife into her neck and tried to remove it, pushing back against her shoulder. She tumbled onto her back, her phone and bag gone.

  Then he fled, standing up on the pedals, and disappeared off the edge of the display.

  Fenchurch prodded the screen as Bridge paused it. ‘The little shit’s definitely taken her bloody phone.’

  Nelson raised his collection of retrieved mobiles. ‘So it’s one of the seven?’

  ‘Hang on a sec.’ Bridge wound the footage back to before the attack. The girl was staring at her phone, frozen in mid-stride. Just a white rectangle, indistinguishable from any others in the bag, save the black Sony.

  Fenchurch squinted at the flat panel. ‘Could it be the iPhone?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Nelson sifted through the little collection and held it up. ‘It’s that sort of size. Could be anything, though, guv. A Samsung, an Apple, an HTC. Even one of those Chinese makes.’

  ‘Great.’ Fenchurch put his hands on his hips and scowled at Bridge. ‘Is there any more?’

  ‘Waiting on it, sir. This is what Control prioritised.’

  ‘Play it again.’

  Fenchurch took it in again. Stab, steal, flee. ‘It all happened so fast.’

  Bridge stopped the footage as Abi crouched down by the victim, Fenchurch jogging over to his car. She got up and wandered over to the door. ‘I’ll chase up the other stuff.’

  ‘Thanks, Lisa.’ Nelson shuffled over to her seat and took out his vape stick. ‘What now, guv?’

  ‘I need more painkillers.’ Fenchurch sat down and prodded at his foot through his shoe. Stung like a bastard. ‘Little sod really got me.’ He massaged it until the throbbing went from ten to maybe a seven. ‘How are you feeling about that interview with our suspect?’

  Nelson stayed focused on the display. Didn’t even take a puff. ‘What about it?’

  ‘The race stuff.’

  ‘There’s nothing to feel about it, guv. Had that every day of my life since I was seven. Kids like that deserve everything they get.’ Nelson returned the video back to the start and took a deep suck on his vape stick. ‘I grew up on an estate. A really rough one. Strong motivation for me to work hard. I pushed through it, got into uni, then got a good job.’ He chuckled. ‘Then I went mad and joined the police.’

  ‘He got to you, though.’

  ‘They tug every lever they can. You know that. The little . . . punk is only eighteen, but he’s been schooled. Knows how to play the system. How to game us.’

  ‘Even so, you kept your cool. That was impressive.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Nelson stared at the monitor, chest heaving, then tapped a finger at the figure on the screen. ‘You’re absolutely sure it’s him, guv?’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘I mean, really?’ Nelson wound it back to the attack and circled Fenchurch on the display, just watching. ‘You got a good look at what happened, but did you get a good look at him.’

  ‘You’re like one of those plonkers with their giant iPads on Monday Night Football, Jon. Did the ref see the incident?’ Fenchurch looked away, eyes narrowing. ‘I know what I saw. He’s through there.’

  ‘Simon.’

  Fenchurch swung round.

  DCI Alan Docherty lurked in the doorway, cast in hard shadow. Bony arms folded across his chest, sleeves rolled up. His checked shirt hung as loose from his trousers as his tie from his neck. A thin island of hair at the front pretended to be a full head of hair, convincing nobody. ‘A word, Inspector.’ His accent was trudging around the more guttural Scots. Bad news.

  Fenchurch patted Nelson’s shoulder. ‘Chase up a lawyer, would you?’

  ‘Guv.’

  Fenchurch limped down the corridor and joined Docherty outside a store cupboard halfway along. ‘Thought you’d left for the night, boss?’

  ‘I had. Turns out one of my DIs is involved in a stabbing so I’ve just driven back in.’ Docherty shoved his hands deep into his pockets. Might get the bends if he brought them up too quickly. ‘What the bloody hell’s going on here?’

  ‘How much do you know?’

  ‘Enough.’

  Fenchurch leaned against the doorjamb, trying for casual indifference. Probably failing. ‘I want this case, sir.’

  ‘This isn’t our patch, Simon. North London are—’

  ‘We can argue jurisdiction over them. That little bastard ran to a block of flats in our gaff.’

  ‘Why do you want it, though?’

  Fenchurch waved a hand back in the vague direction of the interview room. ‘Because he killed a young woman in front of me. Stone dead. In front of Abi.’

  ‘You’re a witness, Simon. That’s where your involvement ends. Am I making myself clear?’

  ‘I’m not the only witness, boss. Kay Reed’s got three over and above me and Abi. We’ll get enough from them, you won’t need me in that capacity.’

  Docherty looked Fenchurch up and down. Then sighed, deep and full of disappointment, like his son had failed yet another exam. ‘How old is this victim?’

  ‘Twenties.’ Fenchurch pressed his lips together. So tight it felt like he could make diamonds. ‘I don’t like what you’re suggesting here, sir.’

  ‘Simon, you saw a girl in her early twenties get murdered.’ Docherty raised his eyebrows. ‘She’s not Chloe.’

  ‘Chloe?’ Fenchurch clenched a fist and tensed his arm. Stuffed it in his pocket. For now. ‘Of course it’s not Chloe. I’m dealing with that. Meditating and talking to a counsellor and—’

  ‘That’s all very well, but you and your buddies in the CPS are still processing those animals for that crap at Christmas. I still remember what happened, what you got up to.’

  ‘I’m over all that.’ Fenchurch took his hand out of his pockets and flexed out his fingers. ‘You know I am.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Listen, Abi saw it as well. She was there while this girl died. This is going to mess her up.’

  ‘So go and bloody help your wife, you idiot.’

  ‘I have to solve this case.’ Fenchurch held Docherty’s gaze. No chance he was going to give anything up. He looked away and sighed. Let’s play this a different way . . .

  He thumbed back at the interview room. ‘Look. That kid did it, all right. This is open and shut. A nice tick in the box. An easy stat. We just need some more evidence to back up my statement and we’ll be palming him off to the CPS.’

  ‘Why do you keep doing this to me?’ Docherty shook his head for a few seconds. A final shake, then: ‘Right, Si, just leave it with me. I’ll get over to the Yard just now and put us on the docket for it, all right?’

  ‘Cheers, boss.’

  Docherty gripped Fenchurch’s shoulder. ‘Just get me a result, okay?’ He trotted down the corridor, sticking his Airwave to his ear.

  ‘Always do.’ Fenchurch slumped against the wall. His foot was still throbbing like a bastard but the shoe was barely dimpled. How could it hurt so bloody much?

  ‘Guv.’ Nelson was standing in the CCTV room doorway, vapour hazing the air. ‘The lawyer’s just arrived.’

  A black man in his thirties sat next to the kid Fenchurch chased. He chewed on a grey Pilot pen lid as he scribbled a note in his square-boxed Moleskine. Overweight and wearing an expensive-looking suit, no tie but a purple handkerchief in his breast pocket.

  Fenchurch stood in the doorway, waiting for him to look up. ‘Are you the lawyer?’

  ‘Dalton Unwin.’ He took his time making another note and got up. He was shorter than his wide frame otherwise looked. ‘Let’s have us a nice little chat in private, shall we?’ Spoke like he knew all the colleges in Oxford and Cambridge.

  ‘Jon, get this started, will you?’ Fenchurch waited for the door to thunk shut behind him. ‘Your client’s not giving us his name. I’m assuming you know it.’

&nbs
p; ‘If I do, it’s not a requisite that I divulge it.’

  ‘That’s stretching lawyer-client privilege a bit much for my liking.’

  ‘All the same. I’m here to make sure you lot don’t infringe his human rights. Which I gather you’ve been doing already.’

  ‘We taped that interview.’

  ‘And it’ll be inadmissible in court given your failure to obtain legal representation.’

  ‘Just as well all he did was racially abuse my colleague.’ Fenchurch stared into his eyes. A jewelled stud glinted under the strip light. ‘Nice earring. Must take a few Legal Aid cases like this to afford that.’

  A hand covered over the glimmering earpiece. ‘Let’s get on with it. I have to get back home.’ Unwin held the door open.

  Fenchurch folded his arms and stood his ground. ‘How did you get here so quickly?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Your friend in there didn’t get a chance to use his call.’

  Unwin barged past and plumped alongside his client.

  ‘—Unwin of Liberal Justice.’ Nelson couldn’t keep a straight face.

  Fenchurch took his seat next to him and focused on the digital recorder’s flashing light. Then he stared at the kid for a few seconds, taking in his eyes, his cheekbones.

  Was it their killer? Definitely?

  He cleared his throat. ‘You said earlier you didn’t murder that woman on Upper Street.’

  ‘That’s right, bitch.’

  Unwin gripped his client’s wrist and whispered into his ear.

  Fenchurch tilted his head to the side. ‘I hope the suspect’s lawyer is advising him to give less offensive answers.’

  ‘My client agrees with your statement. He didn’t kill this woman.’

  ‘So help me out here.’ Fenchurch gave the kid a frown. ‘If you didn’t, who did?’

  ‘Not me, bruv.’

  ‘Where were you, then?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I assume you didn’t just spring into existence when you ran into my car, so you must’ve been somewhere.’

  ‘I ain’t telling you nothing. You stopped me going about my business, man.’

  ‘You saying you had business in those flats?’

  ‘I ain’t saying nothing.’

  ‘We’ve got you on CCTV cycling away from the murder scene.’

  ‘Not me. Move on.’

  Fenchurch puckered his lips and let go, letting his shoulders slump. ‘Who’s Kamal?’

  The kid swallowed hard. ‘What?’

  Fenchurch nodded. Not camel, then. ‘You just shat a brick when I said it. Who is Kamal?’

  ‘Nobody.’

  ‘Are you Kamal?’

  ‘No, bruv, I ain’t.’

  ‘What is your name, then?’

  The kid twisted round, eyes pleading with Unwin. He got a nod from the lawyer. ‘I’m called Qasid.’

  ‘Qasid, right. That’s a new one on me.’

  ‘It’s Muslim. Means messenger.’

  ‘Are you telling me you bow down to Mecca five times a day?’

  ‘Hardly. Old man was. Didn’t stop him leaving me and my brothers, did it? Ended up dying in prison, what they tell me. Good riddance, man.’

  ‘You got a surname, Qasid?’

  ‘Williams.’

  ‘And where do you live?’

  ‘London.’

  ‘Which bit?’

  ‘I’m English, if that’s what you’re getting at.’

  ‘Not with that accent.’

  ‘My mum’s Jamaican.’ Qasid ran his tongue over his teeth. ‘Ayii?’

  Fenchurch let him bask in his laughter for a few seconds. ‘So. Who’s Kamal?’

  ‘Nobody, bruv. Forget him. If I was you, I’d be looking for who killed the girl, yeah?’ Qasid smirked at Unwin. ‘Probably did it for her phone, know what I’m saying?’

  ‘It was you. I saw you do it.’

  ‘Did you, bruv?’ Qasid pinched his lips together. ‘Did you really?’

  ‘Where did you dump her mobile?’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘You stole it and her bag as you were murdering her. We haven’t found either of them yet. Or the knife you stabbed her with.’

  ‘You must think I’m well skill, innit?’ Qasid gave a belly laugh. Then shook his head, his face straight again. ‘It ain’t me, bruv. I ain’t killed nobody.’

  ‘Qasid, I’d like you to confess here. Is that going to happen?’

  ‘Nothing to confess to, bitch. I ain’t done nothing. Which is what you’ve got on me, bruv. Zilch. Nada. Zip.’

  ‘Okay, that’s enough.’ Unwin dropped his pen onto the table and patted Qasid on the shoulder. ‘We’re done here, officers. I want my client released. Now.’

  ‘He’s been arrested under suspicion of a murder charge.’

  ‘You’re one hundred per cent certain you saw my client, are you?’ Smug prick was grinning like he knew the secret to life, the universe and everything.

  Fenchurch held his gaze. ‘I saw Mr Williams kill that girl.’

  ‘When you chased him, he didn’t leave your sight at any point?’ A wink twitched in Unwin’s eye.

  Fenchurch looked away and rubbed at his neck. The ache in his foot went back up to ten. ‘We’re holding him overnight.’

  ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘Interview terminated at two minutes past eight p.m.’ Fenchurch smacked the recorder’s stop button. ‘Just you watch me.’

  Chapter Five

  Reed looked up from her burrito, chewing slowly, a hand covering her mouth. She nodded at Nelson then Fenchurch. ‘Sorry, guv, I was starving.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Fenchurch glanced at Chilangos behind the crime scene tape, shuttered and dark inside. His gut growled. ‘Suspect they had a lot of food going off.’

  ‘Abi went home after she gave me her statement. She seemed, I don’t know.’ A shrug. ‘Like you’d expect?’

  ‘Right.’ Fenchurch took out his mobile and dialled. Thing wasn’t new enough for Qasid to steal. ‘Back in a sec.’ He stopped and waved at Reed, already deep in conversation with Nelson. ‘See if you can get me a burrito, Kay? Anything but—’

  ‘Simon?’

  Fenchurch smiled at Abi’s voice and clutched the phone tighter as he leaned against a street light. ‘You okay, love?’

  She paused on the line. The soft cooing of Dido filled the room she was in. Never a good sign. ‘I’ve got work to do, I’m starving and I’ve just put some beans in the microwave. Toaster’s on as well.’

  ‘Dinner of champions.’

  ‘Better than Mexican.’

  ‘You don’t really mean that.’ Fenchurch grimaced through his smile. It was just coming off as fake. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  ‘I’m trying to process . . . what happened. And I’m . . . struggling.’

  ‘You and me both, babe. Want me to come home?’

  A pause. ‘Have you charged him?’

  ‘Lawyer’s with him now. We’ll get him for it, don’t you worry.’

  ‘I’m not worrying. It’s just . . . Make sure he doesn’t get off with this. That poor girl . . .’ The music in the background faded to silence. ‘I’ll see you when you get in, love.’ Click.

  Fenchurch sucked in the cool air. The almost-summer weather hadn’t lingered much past sundown. He wandered back over to Reed, his foot feeling slightly better — thank God for generic ibuprofen.

  She waved a silver tube at him.

  He snatched the burrito out of her hands, even colder than the air. ‘Lifesaver.’ He tore at the foil and bit into it. Prawn. Great. He swallowed it down regardless and focused on the spot where the victim had lain. Just a smear of blood, the question mark still visible. Nobody’d scrubbed the pavement, despite the pair of SOCOs folding away their tent. ‘I take it Clooney’s finished here?’

  ‘Done and dusted.’ Reed brushed a fleck of rice from her lip. ‘Pardon the pun. Not got anything on her, either. Still missing her personal possessions
.’

  ‘He definitely took a bag and her phone.’ Fenchurch sighed before taking another bite. ‘What about the killer? You backed up my statement yet?’

  ‘I’ve taken six now, guv. Arranging an ID parade at the station just now. I’ll warn you now, guv, it’s very difficult to confirm. People weren’t watching for someone getting stabbed. You know how it is.’

  ‘Don’t I just.’ Fenchurch indicated the area behind the Victorian buildings lining Upper Street. ‘What about along the route he led me down?’

  ‘Got uniform knocking on doors, guv. Nothing yet. We need to get a press release out soon.’

  Nelson appeared. ‘How much can you remember, guv?’

  Fenchurch chewed down another mouthful and stared back in the direction of the tube station, trying to recreate the image in his mind. Don’t let the CCTV footage colour it.

  The young woman walking towards him, eyes switching between her phone and behind her. Her body language sent a fresh wave of goosebumps crawling up his arms.

  Was it just her body language, the fear in her behaviour?

  Or was Docherty right? Was it something else in her? The way she looked, who she reminded him of? Or who she should’ve reminded him of, who should’ve been about that age by now. Who might still be.

  Then just a blur of motion. A bike bumping onto the pavement. The blade caught in the light and the wheels powering away, silent.

  He swallowed down the last of the burrito. ‘I can’t see it any more, Jon.’

  ‘Let’s retrace your steps, guv.’ Nelson clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Start at the end and work our way back.’

  ‘Constable.’ Fenchurch nodded at the uniformed guard then leaned against the side wall of the lock-ups, looking up at the block of flats. Buxton Court, six floors of red brick, balconies jutting out on the right-hand side, all covered in washing. Faces peered down at them, ghosted by twitching net curtains. ‘How are we doing here?’

  The uniform cleared his throat. Kid looked like he needed a few more weeks at Hendon Training College. Acne scars and a wispy moustache, wanting to be one of the big boys now. And failing. ‘We’ve been going door-to-door since seven, sir.’ Even his voice was trying too hard, almost cracking at the depth he was pushing it to. ‘We’ve obtained three statements at the last count.’