Worth Killing For (A DI Fenchurch Novel Book 2)

by Ed James

  ‘Never seen them in my life.’

  ‘That the same answer you’d give down the station?’

  ‘It’s the truth, I swear.’

  Fenchurch slid the sheets back and stabbed a finger on the shot of Qasid. ‘This kid murdered a girl last night in Islington. I was there, I saw it. This other guy was tailing her. You want to help me or not?’

  ‘But I don’t know them!’

  Another customer entered the shop, tall and dark-skinned, wearing camouflage gear. Cheap army surplus stuff, if that was still a thing. His long dreadlocks were almost caught in the hood of a brown and cream jacket. ‘Hey, Vikram, you okay?’

  Fenchurch flashed his warrant card. ‘Police.’

  ‘Fascist pig bastard.’

  Fenchurch got in the guy’s face, forehead to forehead. And regretted it. He was ripe, three or four days past desperately needing a bath. The stink of infection, maybe. ‘I’ll deal with you later.’

  The Rasta’s forehead nudged forward a touch. Not quite a head butt, but enough for a six-match ban if he’d done it on a football pitch. The door tinkled open. ‘Maybe I’ll deal with you now.’

  Fenchurch was close to losing his breakfast. ‘Get out of my hair unless you want to join your friend here in custody.’

  ‘He ain’t done nothing, man. You fascist bas—’

  ‘Easy, easy, easy.’ The Rasta was pulled away by someone. Reed, handcuffs in the air, clanking off each other. ‘Do you want me to put these on him, guv?’

  The man took a step back and held up his hands. ‘Leave me out of this, right?’

  ‘Leave him be.’ Fenchurch took another step away and looked around the place. He gestured at the displays of smart watches beneath the glass counter and smiled at Vikram. ‘Want me to get trading standards in here? Reckon there’s a ton of stolen goods in here.’

  ‘It’s all legitimate, officer. I have receipts for everything.’ Vikram had gone back to his slow blinking. ‘More than my life’s worth to fence stolen items, sir. We only buy from members of our club.’

  ‘Better hope you’ve got names and addresses for everyone.’ Fenchurch put the photos away, then tossed a business card on the counter. ‘Call me if anything jogs your memory, okay?’

  ‘Certainly, officer.’

  Fenchurch followed Reed back outside. ‘The cavalry showed up yet again.’

  ‘Easy, guv.’ She shot him a wink. ‘You looked like you’d lost it back there.’

  Two squad cars sat either side, blocking the road. Bell was leaning against his car, shaking his head, eyes narrowed. ‘You really shouldn’t have done that, Simon.’

  ‘What, forcing you to actually do something for once?’ Fenchurch tilted his head to the side and raised his eyebrows as he waved at the cars. ‘Best get your lads in there now before they dump the evidence.’

  Bell shook his head then made a circling motion in the air. ‘On you go, gentlemen.’

  Fenchurch joined him leaning against the car. Reed didn’t seem to know where to stand or look. ‘They’ve got a phone recycler in there.’

  ‘What?’

  Fenchurch slumped back against the cold metal. ‘Tell me you’ve been in there, String.’

  ‘This would’ve been the first time.’

  ‘Boris’ll be disappointed with you.’ Fenchurch pointed through the window. As the officers entered, the dreadlocked guy sloped out of the front door, hands in the air. Near the back, the owner was standing by the recycling machine, fiddling with it. ‘I’d get that torn apart pronto.’

  ‘Right.’ Another squad car pulled up and Bell jabbed a finger towards the shop.

  Fenchurch’s phone blasted out. Bloody thing was still far too loud.

  ‘Simon, I need you to stick around. This is your mess, after all.’

  Fenchurch held him back with a wave then took a few steps over to the pavement. Unknown caller. He answered it, walking away. ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s Liam. Saskia’s boyfriend?’

  He frowned at Reed. What did he want? ‘How can I help?’

  ‘I need to speak to you. Someone’s stolen her laptop.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Fenchurch looked round as the lift thundered up the inside of the Post building. ‘He didn’t say anything else, no.’

  ‘Just meet him here?’ Reed leaned back against the shaking wall of the lift. ‘Did they mean to take it or was it just a chance thing?’

  ‘That’s what we need to find out.’ The lift clattered to a stop and Fenchurch waited as the doors took their time juddering open. The reception area looked different during the day — bright and luxurious rather than damp and cheap. He strode over and flashed his warrant card at the woman behind it. She looked like a clone of the girl downstairs, just blonde hair instead of dark brown. ‘We’re here to see Liam Sharpe.’

  ‘Mr Sharpe’s in here.’ She got up and sashayed across the wide hall. She pulled open a glass door and stood to the side.

  Liam was standing near the window, just an outline in front of the blinding glare from Fleet Street.

  ‘Thanks.’ Fenchurch nodded at the receptionist as he entered and waved for Reed to sit first. He took the seat at the head of the table and blinked at the sunlight. ‘Mr Sharpe, this is DS Reed.’

  Liam nodded at her and sat down. The overhead light hit his face and revealed a black eye, with a short cut just below.

  ‘Jesus.’ Fenchurch swallowed hard, his gut rumbling. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Someone attacked me.’

  ‘Here?’

  Liam shook his head. ‘At my flat.’

  ‘So why are you here?’

  ‘I didn’t know where else to go. I didn’t feel safe there.’

  ‘So you came to work instead of phoning the police?’

  ‘I called you. Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘Where you live, you’re not far from Stoke Newington or Bethnal Green. Would’ve been easier to just pop in there.’

  ‘I thought it was best to come here. I just got in an Uber.’

  Bloody Uber . . . Fenchurch took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘Go from the start, please.’

  Liam ran a hand through his hair, making what was left of it stick up. ‘I was going through Saskia’s laptop in the flat. The buzzer went and the guy said it was a delivery for next door. I let them in and waited as he climbed the stairs. When I was signing for it, he punched me. Knocked me out.’

  ‘Did you sign one of those machines?’

  ‘A clipboard. Should’ve smelled a rat. Just saw a grey uniform, that’s it. Didn’t even show any ID. Nothing.’ Liam dabbed at his eye. ‘I feel like such an idiot.’

  Fenchurch wasn’t going to disagree with him. ‘Was your attacker black or white?’

  ‘Black, definitely. Saw his hands when he gave me the clipboard.’

  ‘Okay, you might be able to help me here.’ Fenchurch tossed the photo of the man on the escalator onto the table. ‘Do you recognise him?’

  Liam scanned it for a few seconds. His free hand mercilessly combed his hair back into place. ‘Never seen him in my life.’

  ‘So it wasn’t him?’

  ‘Skin was a lot darker. Sorry.’ Liam’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he handed the sheet back. ‘Who is this?’

  Fenchurch glanced at Reed. Liam probably deserved the truth. ‘We’ve identified some evidence which potentially shows someone following Saskia.’

  ‘What? Are you serious?’ Liam took another look. ‘Jesus.’

  Fenchurch tossed the shot of Qasid onto the desk. ‘What about him?’

  ‘Now that’s the same skin colour as the guy who took the laptop.’

  ‘Was it him?’

  ‘Could be. Didn’t get that good a look.’ Liam focused on the photo, as if he could burn it into his memory. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘We think this is Saskia’s killer.’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘He’s in custody.’ Fenchurch took the shots back. ‘What happened next? Wer
e you out cold?’

  Liam gave a nod. ‘I woke up. Took me a while to get up. I went back through to the bedroom and saw they’d taken her laptop.’ He grimaced, looking like a shiver went down his spine. ‘And my mobile. Had to use my landline to call you.’

  Fenchurch jotted a few notes on his Pronto. He whispered to Reed: ‘Can you chase up her phone records for me?’

  ‘I’ll get his too, guv.’ She got up and left the room.

  Fenchurch settled his gaze back on Liam. ‘What kind of laptop was it?’

  ‘A crappy Dell thing. No, a Lenovo. You know, the CTRL key is in the wrong place?’

  ‘But it’s an old machine, right?’

  ‘That’s right. It’s not a corporate job, if that’s what you’re getting at. We’ve got BYOD here.’

  Fenchurch gave him a blank look.

  ‘Bring your own device. Saves on IT costs, I guess. Take in our own machines. They give us email addresses and we log into the production system to post stories.’

  Fenchurch leaned back in his seat. ‘Why did you have her laptop?’

  ‘She got me to take it home last night. She was going to stay over at mine and wanted to get a head start this morning.’ Liam ran a hand through his hair, upsetting the comb-over. He shot a grin at Fenchurch. ‘I know that look on your face. There’s nothing sinister going on here, I swear.’

  ‘I prefer to be shown things rather than just be told.’ Fenchurch put the Pronto on the table. ‘Mr Sharpe, who knew her laptop was at your flat?’

  ‘No idea. Just Sas and Victor. I told him I had it, and he asked me to go through it looking for stories she was working on.’

  ‘That should’ve been put into evidence.’

  ‘Sorry. I was going to.’ Liam pinched his nose, eyes locked tight. ‘I looked at anything she’d had open in the last fortnight. There were tons of documents. Most of it looked like rough drafts, notes, that kind of thing.’

  ‘So the laptop had the only copies of these stories?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘She didn’t use Dropbox, anything like that?’

  Liam pursed his lips tight, turning the flesh almost white for a moment. ‘I kept telling her to, but it wasn’t installed.’

  Reed appeared in the doorway, looking as pissed off as he was at losing a load of evidence to rank stupidity. She locked her Airwave and stayed standing.

  Fenchurch focused on Liam. ‘So there’s no way we can get the documents back?’

  Liam prodded a finger into his eye. ‘Well, I’d sent some of the stories off to Victor.’

  Fenchurch caught Victor Morgan outside his office. Guy looked ready to kill someone himself. ‘Need a word with you, sir.’

  ‘Not going to happen, Inspector. I’m up to here.’ Victor held his hand about a foot above the top of his head.

  ‘I understand you’re up against it, sir, but I really need to speak to you.’

  ‘Can’t it wait?’

  ‘Her laptop’s just been stolen from Liam Sharpe’s apartment.’

  Victor focused on Fenchurch. Menace flickered in his eyes, propped up on rings a few shades darker than the surrounding skin. Then he smiled, nodding his head. ‘Two minutes.’ He pushed through his office door and collapsed by the tower of junk on his desk. ‘Shoot.’

  Fenchurch stayed by the door. ‘Liam sent you the stories, right?’

  ‘Stories is stretching it.’ Victor tapped a pile of paper. ‘One of the million things I’m juggling today is trying to turn this into something coherent. Saskia had a great interview technique but her writing style left a lot to be desired.’

  Reed appeared in the doorway. Her nod indicated she’d got a signed statement from Liam. She leaned against the wall near the door.

  Fenchurch settled his gaze back on Victor. ‘Have you found anything I should know about?’

  ‘We went through this last night, didn’t we?’

  ‘I know we did, sir, but I would’ve expected you to have done some more digging into her work since then.’

  Victor looked at him long and hard, eyes flickering. ‘I’ve not been through all of the files, just some stuff for tomorrow’s paper.’

  Fenchurch opened the notes app on his Airwave Pronto. ‘We’re listening.’

  Victor let out a momentous sigh, the sort that could achieve escape velocity and get a good way to the moon. He flicked through a pile of junk on his desk. ‘We went through most of it last night.’

  ‘Guy Eustace?’

  ‘Him. And I think there was something on the property developer, Iconic. You know, her last appointment?’

  ‘I met Yana Ikonnikova last night. Was it about her charitable foundation?’

  ‘More or less.’

  Fenchurch grinned. ‘Tell me about the less.’

  ‘Saskia was criticising Ms Ikonnikova for not doing enough to help the poor, that kind of thing. She’s taken millions out of London over the last five years. Meanwhile, there’s a sixty per cent increase in homelessness year-on-year, rents are going through the roof and people are getting pushed out of the city.’ Victor leaned back in his recliner, running his hands through his wiry hair. ‘I’m sure you have some sympathy. Must be difficult to stay in London on a police officer’s salary.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me, Mr Morgan. I got in at the right time. It’s a lot harder for younger cops.’ Fenchurch finished typing the note. He felt the thrum of his mobile vibrating in his pocket and let it ring out. ‘You said something about using the stories tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What are you going to do with them?’

  ‘Publish them.’ Victor held his glare, giving at least as much as he was taking. ‘Saskia was a great journalist. We’re working on a commemorative edition.’

  ‘I suggest you don’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because, like I told you, we think Saskia was deliberately targeted. Looks like they broke into Liam’s flat and stole the laptop to order.’

  ‘Are you suggesting there’s a threat against me?’

  ‘It’s possible. Until we know why she was killed, we don’t know who’s safe and who’s not.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Victor tugged at the tight locks on the top of his head. ‘Look, the cat’s already out of the bag here, okay? I let my boss know as soon as Liam sent the files through. They’re not going to pass up this opportunity.’

  Fenchurch raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m sure the opportunity relates to furthering Saskia’s causes, of course.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure.’

  ‘This should’ve been evidence. Now it’s lost.’

  ‘I can only apologise. Do you think you’ll catch who took it?’

  ‘I doubt it.’ Fenchurch passed him the shot of the man on the escalator. ‘Do you recognise this man?’

  Victor screwed his eyes shut. ‘Never seen him, sorry.’ He handed the photo back. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘We believe this man followed Saskia from her last meeting to Angel tube station.’

  ‘Near where she was killed, right. I get it.’

  ‘Mr Morgan, given what we’ve just talked about, do you have any idea who could’ve been targeting her?’

  ‘Could be anyone. Nature of the beast, you know?’

  ‘Nobody springs to mind?’

  ‘Afraid not.’

  Fenchurch nodded slowly and gave him a few seconds to think it through further. ‘How did they know Liam had her laptop?’

  ‘Are you implying something?’

  ‘Other than Liam and Saskia, you were the only one who knew it was there.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t told anyone. Good God, this is outrageous.’

  Fenchurch waited for a nod from Reed then got up. ‘Okay, thanks for your time. We’ll show ourselves out.’ He followed Reed out and marched down the corridor towards the lifts. ‘What do you make of this, Kay?’

  ‘Buggered if I know, guv.’ Reed hammered the lift’s down button. ‘Feels like someone’s covering their tra
cks.’

  ‘But who?’

  ‘Could be anyone.’ She held up her Pronto. ‘I’ll see if I can get some time with this Eustace geezer.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Fenchurch checked his mobile. The two missed calls he’d ignored were both from Nelson. He dialled him as the lift door ground open. ‘Jon, what’s up?’

  ‘Guv, I can’t make the PM.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m still out in ESB with Trident. Early doors but I think we’re getting somewhere with this photograph of the guy on the tube.’

  ‘Do they think it’s Kamal?’

  ‘Not in so many words. They’re setting up some meetings with some undercover cops and a CHIS.’

  ‘Can’t we get their Covert Human Intelligence Source log?’

  ‘Not shareable, guv. Doubt even Docherty’s got clearance.’

  ‘Right, Jon, I’ll cover the bloody PM. Call Pratt and make sure he knows you’re not coming.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Fenchurch glanced up from the Pronto he’d been staring at for the last hour or so. ‘You done yet?’

  Dr Pratt hovered over the body, eyes closed as he muttered into a digital recorder. He rubbed the back of his glove across his bushy beard, the sort even a hipster wouldn’t go near except on an ironic pub crawl. He locked eyes with Fenchurch. ‘Well, I don’t know how much you’ve got out of this jamboree, Inspector, but that’s it nailed down now.’

  Fenchurch yawned and pocketed the Airwave. ‘Sorry, what’s nailed down?’

  ‘I’m absolutely certain the cause of death was that knife.’ Pratt held up Clooney’s exhibit, bagged and tagged but still covered in blood and twigs. ‘One hundred per cent.’

  Fenchurch glared at him. ‘Are you winding me up? I saw her get stabbed.’

  ‘Well, it pays to be cautious, Inspector.’ Pratt dropped the weapon on a table next to the body. ‘The blow severed both carotid arteries and the blood loss led to brain death within four minutes. My almost namesake, young Jonathan Platt, tried to save her at the crime scene, but the damage had been done.’

  ‘So we couldn’t have saved her?’

  ‘It should be some consolation. She’d have died within twelve if you’d laid her on the ground. Maybe. As it was, the ambulance took twenty-two minutes to arrive. So no, there’s nothing you nor Mrs Fenchurch could’ve done.’