Worth Killing For (A DI Fenchurch Novel Book 2)

by Ed James

  ‘Surname? First name? Is it even his name?’

  ‘Drop. It.’

  ‘When I bring him in here — and I will, don’t you worry — I have your word you won’t be representing him?’

  Unwin smiled at Fenchurch, seemingly unaware of the spasms on his forehead. ‘My office deals with client initiation. I deal with fascists like you.’

  ‘Fascists, right.’ Fenchurch looked him up and down. He’d schooled Qasid. They weren’t getting anything out of the kid tonight. He knocked on the door and nudged it open a crack. ‘Jon, wrap it up.’

  ‘Interview terminated at—’

  Fenchurch leaned back against the door. ‘You’re bent, Unwin.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘The way I see it, Kamal or whoever he is, pays you a fortune to keep him and his lads out of jail.’

  ‘You should take up writing fiction, Inspector. I hear self-publishing can be very lucrative these days.’ Unwin reached past Fenchurch to grab the handle. ‘Now, do you really want to prevent me from speaking to my client?’

  Fenchurch got out of the way with a sigh and let Nelson and Unwin swap places. He nodded at the security officer in the room. ‘Clive, take him back to his cell.’

  ‘—as a thirty-seven bob note, Jon.’ Fenchurch held open the Incident Room door and looked around. A bit too quiet for his liking. Then again, he’d been the one to piss off home early. ‘What do we know about him?’

  Nelson leaned against the door frame. ‘Who, Unwin?’

  ‘Of course, I mean Unwin.’

  ‘Like you say, guv, he’s bent.’

  ‘But what do we know about him? What do we know about his firm?

  ‘Liberal Justice?’ Nelson scratched at the thin stubble on his chin. ‘Just a two-bit operation on Shoreditch High Street, guv. I can get someone going over their history, if you want?’

  ‘We really need to dig deep, Sergeant. Don’t throw a hundred bodies at it, but get me something I can use.’

  ‘Guv.’

  ‘I want a nuclear weapon in my pocket next time we go toe-to-toe with him.’ Fenchurch entered the room and looked round the corner into the little nook. A hand ran through black hair above a desktop computer. ‘There you bloody are.’

  Lad looked up. ‘Guv, thought you’d gone home for the night?’

  ‘Well, I’m back.’ Fenchurch perched on the edge of his desk. ‘Which room’s Kamal in?’

  ‘Guv?’

  ‘I said, which room’s Kamal in?’

  Lad’s eyes darted over to the approaching Nelson. He swallowed. ‘He’s not in any room, guv.’

  ‘I know that. He’s just sliced someone up on City Road.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘You were supposed to get him in here.’

  Lad couldn’t maintain eye contact. Kept looking at the floor, the wall, the clock, anything. ‘And I’ve been trying, guv.’

  ‘Where are you with this undercover source?’

  Lad looked away, over at the dark window. ‘Still haven’t spoken to him.’

  ‘Come on, Constable, this isn’t what I asked for.’

  ‘Guv, I’ve been busy, you know? That’s why I’m here at nine at night. It’s just—’

  ‘Where have you got to?’

  ‘Look, there was a raid on a phone shop this morning. This source was involved.’

  Fenchurch twisted his head to the side, scowling. ‘Your source was there?’

  ‘Who else are we talking about?’

  ‘Christ on the bloody cross.’ Fenchurch pinched his nose. ‘I was there with DS Reed. We really need to speak to this guy.’

  ‘His handler told me to turn the heat down until that whole thing cooled off.’

  Fenchurch got up again. ‘Well, we’re turning the thermostat right back up.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ‘Nice of you to make your way over.’ DI Paul Oscar in person was different to how Fenchurch had imagined from their phone call that morning. He looked like he had trouble tearing himself away from the mirror in the morning. Thick stubble looked a good few days after a five o’clock shadow, even at quarter past nine at night. His dark hair clearly enjoyed a close relationship with a high-end barber, shaved at the sides and artfully messy on top. He had a runner’s physique, wiry and thin, with longer arms than his tailor allowed for. ‘So you decided on the personal touch, then?’

  ‘Feels like the only option left.’ Fenchurch got up from his seat next to Lad and walked behind Oscar, trying to intimidate him.

  London twinkled through the window, a sea of street lights leading from the office in the Empress State Building towards the glowing towers in the City. Canary Wharf sprouted up on the right, a bulge of tall columns of brilliance. A couple of planes were just dots in the sky, heading to City airport in the east.

  Fenchurch turned around and perched on a filing cabinet. ‘Surprised you’re still in. Didn’t think SC&O8 needed a night shift.’

  ‘Charming.’ Oscar folded his laptop shut and swivelled his chair to look at both Fenchurch and Lad. ‘I manage a budget, same as you, I imagine?’ He rolled his tongue across his lips. ‘We do a lot with that, but it seems to shrink every year.’ He gave a slight shake of the head. ‘Anyway, what can I do for you? Part the Red Sea? Turn water into wine?’

  Fenchurch couldn’t bring himself to even look at Lad. ‘My Constable here was hoping he’d get some time with one of your undercover lads.’

  ‘I’m sure you of all people know how controversial that kind of work is these days, right?’ Oscar folded his arms, his solid-gold cufflinks dancing in the air. ‘I mean, you do read the news, right?’

  ‘Don’t get cute with me, Inspector. I made a simple request. Do you need me to repeat it?’

  ‘I can’t just give up my undercover operatives. It’s one of the few areas we do still get to work in. Ever since you guys took over black-on-black crime, it’s been slim pickings for us. You remember that, right? Means it’s your responsibility. Not mine.’

  ‘I remember. Investigated a few myself over the years.’

  ‘And yet here you are, cap in hand, asking for my help. You know how much of my funds that eats up?’

  ‘I hope you get value for money.’ Fenchurch got up from the cabinet, the sharp corner digging into a buttock. ‘Look, we’re murder squad and this is linked to—’

  ‘I don’t care if you’re High Command, this is a sensitive operation. A man’s life is at stake here. If you jeopardise his security in any way, you know what the repercussions would be, yes?’

  ‘More black-on-black crimes for me to investigate?’

  ‘Now who’s being cute?’ Oscar shook his head, grinning wide. ‘DC Lad told my boys he’s looking at a journalist’s murder, right?’ He waited for a nod — Lad gave it. ‘Our remit is prevention. That’s it. All of our intelligence is to stop these kids killing each other. We’ve got a whole heap of stuff, but I doubt any of it’ll be useful to you.’

  ‘Enlighten me.’

  ‘Hits organised on other gangs. New gangs muscling in on other gangs. How can that possibly relate to your case?’

  ‘Feels like we’ve got off on the wrong foot here and I can only apologise.’ Fenchurch tossed a photo onto the desk. ‘We think it was ordered by this guy.’

  Oscar left it sitting there. ‘You think this is Kamal?’

  Fenchurch gestured at the shot. ‘Have a look at it.’

  Oscar scanned the image for a few seconds and passed it back to Fenchurch. ‘Don’t know him. Sorry.’

  ‘Your subordinates do.’

  Oscar glowered at Lad. ‘This is what your office junior here’s looking for, right?’

  ‘Have you got anything on him or not?’

  ‘If I did, you’d have it. I’m not a complete arsehole.’ Oscar opened his laptop, the weight of his budget drawing him back. ‘Now clear off. Please. I need to get this finished before I piss off home.’

  Fenchurch slammed the lid, just missing Oscar’s fingertips. ‘I
’m not pissing off until you start helping us.’

  He looked like he was going to throttle Fenchurch. ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘Listen, we’ve got a murder case. The girl was killed in front of my eyes. Give me access to this geezer or I will escalate this through channels, okay?’

  ‘Do you expect people to respond well to threats?’

  ‘I’ve driven across central London at night. Two of my officers have spent a day over here. You need to start playing ball.’

  Oscar opened his laptop again. ‘Right, I’ll get something arranged.’

  Fenchurch trotted down the stairs running down the side of Empress State Building, the opposite windows looking across the roof of Earl’s Court. ‘Well, I can see why you’ve found it so difficult to get anything out of them.’

  ‘It’s been like that all day, guv. They’re playing politics.’ Lad’s tap-dancing brogues clicked off the strips on the steps. ‘Not what I signed up for.’

  ‘Not what any of us signed up for. Just keep close to them, okay?’ At the bottom, Fenchurch pushed into the underground car park and scanned the subterranean tunnel for their car. Where was it? He frowned at a figure approaching a ten-year-old Jag, maybe ten feet from their pool car, and cupped his hands around his mouth: ‘Howard!’ The sound echoed around the concrete space.

  DCI Howard Savage swung round, his forehead creased. A tweed sporting jacket draped over his arm, the other hand in the pocket of his black trousers. His thin comb-over looked like it’d lost another couple of precious strands, the remaining few shimmering in the harsh light. ‘Simon? Good Lord.’ He met them halfway, clamping a hand around Fenchurch’s. ‘How the devil are you?’

  ‘Not bad, not bad. In the thick of it, as per.’ Fenchurch snorted. The place reeked of second-hand diesel and cigarette smoke. He thumbed at Lad. ‘You remember DC Lad, don’t you?’

  ‘Not sure we had the pleasure. Oh, now I remember.’ His expression darkened, his eyes slipping under the surface of the eye sockets’ deep pools. ‘Yes, you interviewed the bouncer, didn’t you?’

  ‘With one of your guys.’ Lad pointed past Savage at his car. ‘Nice motor. Looks expensive.’

  ‘My brother-in-law owns a dealership in Billericay. Got me a great deal on that monster.’

  ‘Makes it look like you’re on a banker’s salary, though.’ Lad shot him a wink. ‘Bet that has its problems.’

  Savage grimaced, his jaw tightening under the loose folds of skin. ‘What brings you out here, gents?’

  Fenchurch waved Lad back. ‘Murder on Upper Street last night.’

  ‘I heard about that.’

  Lad got out his key fob and clicked it. ‘Got some calls to make, guv.’ He walked off towards the pool car.

  The overhead lighting glinted in Savage’s eyes as he switched focus to Fenchurch. ‘I thought you’d got rid—’

  ‘He’s a bloody yo-yo, that kid.’

  ‘I see.’ Savage bared his teeth as the car door slammed. Then he lightened it to a grin. ‘Well, Simon, as it happens, I’ve been meaning to call you.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound good.’

  ‘I spoke to your father this afternoon. He mentioned something about you investigating a gang?’

  Christ . . . Fenchurch let out a deep breath. ‘He did say you guys had kept in touch. I’d rather you stayed out of it, if it’s all the same.’

  ‘Your father’s a good man.’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘Anyway, I thought you’d given up on this hunt of yours.’

  ‘I have. Dad hasn’t.’ Fenchurch turned in the direction of a squealing car. A BMW doing some Hollywood driving up the exit ramp. Looked like Oscar behind the wheel, mobile clamped to his head.

  Don’t report it . . . No matter how much fun it’d be . . .

  He grimaced at Savage. ‘Have you been helping him?’

  ‘Both formally and . . . informally.’ Savage clutched his briefcase tight to his chest. ‘This thing he’s working on. Someone’s taking black kids off the street. North, East, Southeast. Far south as Beckenham and as far north as Romford.’

  ‘Why are you involved?’

  ‘One possibility is it’s for the sex trade.’

  ‘So, it’s just black girls?’

  ‘And boys. There’s a bit of a gap in the market now, given what we got up to before Christmas.’ Savage nodded over at the car. ‘Despite your officer’s best efforts. Nature abhors a vacuum and all that.’

  ‘Just black kids?’

  ‘Like I said.’ Savage rested a hand on Fenchurch’s arm. ‘This isn’t related to what happened to your daughter. I told your father that.’

  Nice to have someone on your side for once. ‘Cheers, Howard. Doesn’t mean he listened, though.’

  ‘Persistence must be a genetic trait.’

  ‘Tell me about it. What are the other possibilities, then?’

  ‘Well. That’s where I have my people-trafficking hat on.’

  ‘What? It doesn’t make sense to take people from London, though.’

  ‘You’d think that. Not sure sense comes into people’s heads sometimes.’ Savage shrugged then dumped his briefcase on the car’s roof. ‘But it seems like it’s happening.’

  Fenchurch scowled again. ‘Does the name Kamal mean anything to you?’

  ‘Christ.’ Savage swallowed and shut his eyes. ‘Why bring him up?’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Let’s say I’m aware of his work. What’s your interest?’

  ‘Reason we’re out in this Godforsaken building. This case I’m working. We reckon one of Kamal’s people killed this girl last night. Got the little bastard in custody but he’s not speaking.’

  ‘They never do. Well, I’ll kick some tyres and see what’s what.’ Savage took his briefcase from the roof and opened the door. ‘Keep me updated from your end, Simon.’

  ‘Will do. Tell Chris Owen I said “hi”.’ Fenchurch gave him a cheeky salute and trotted over to the pool car.

  Lad was behind the wheel, twirling his finger in the air — just wrapping up. ‘Yeah, cheers. I’ll call you first thing tomorrow, okay?’ He killed it and pocketed the phone. ‘Get anything, guv?’

  ‘Not really. You?’

  ‘Nada. Back to base?’

  ‘Howard bloody Savage . . .’ Docherty sipped from his Rangers mug, eyes closing. Pleasure or pain, Fenchurch wasn’t sure. He swallowed the coffee and sucked air across his teeth. ‘Anyway, I hear you went home early, Simon.’

  ‘Look, sir, Abi’s not coping well with this. I needed to help her.’ Fenchurch clenched his fists under the table. ‘She’s not used to seeing people stabbed in front of her.’

  Docherty winked as he swallowed another mouthful. ‘I thought she was a teacher?’

  ‘Very good, boss. Look, I needed to make sure she’s okay. I’ve got a good team here. I trust them.’

  ‘I get that, believe me I do, but you made me take this case, remember?’ Docherty nudged his mug over the desk, scraping against the scarred wood. ‘If you don’t bring this home, we’ll look like a pair of fannies.’

  ‘I will solve this, sir.’

  ‘There’s a lot of clutching at straws going on here. You giving me the short one?’

  Fenchurch tapped a finger off his trouser legs in time with the thudding drums in his ears. ‘We’re getting somewhere, boss.’

  ‘Really? Last night we had a kid in custody who, quote unquote, definitely did it. Now we’re, what, eighty per cent certain he did it?’

  ‘I’d say that’s fair.’

  ‘Is it going to be sixty per cent tomorrow?’

  ‘We’ll get a result tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ve heard this before from you.’

  Fenchurch wanted to smack his saggy face, send him flying backwards. Not the smartest move. What was, though?

  The door flew open and Mulholland entered, her scarf billowing behind her. ‘Sorry I’m late.’ She sat next to Fenchurch, grinning at him like a mongoose about to eat
a snake, then scowled at the DCI. ‘This case is going nowhere, I swear.’

  Docherty sighed, eyes narrowing as they locked onto Fenchurch. ‘That’s not what I want to hear, Dawn.’

  She pouted as she glanced round at Fenchurch. ‘Isn’t that what Simon’s been telling you?’

  ‘No, it’s not.’

  Fenchurch tried to ignore Mulholland, just getting another glimpse of her impish pout. Looked like she’d been building a gingerbread house in the woods somewhere. ‘Look, sir. There’s a gang in that area causing absolute mischief. We’re onto the leader.’

  ‘This Kamal kid, right?’

  ‘Right. I’m just trying to get people to take this seriously.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘SC&O8 for starters.’

  ‘Trident? Christ, Si, I told you to be careful with them.’ Docherty slumped back in his seat with a deep moan. ‘Those cages you’re rattling have big dragons in them, you know that.’

  ‘They seem to know something about this guy but they won’t share it.’

  ‘I wonder why.’ Docherty tossed his stress ball up in the air and caught it. ‘We took their remit from them, remember? They’re handing out bloody pamphlets while we investigate the murders they’re failing to prevent. They don’t want us over there sticking our oar in.’

  ‘Is this you telling me to stop?’

  ‘I’m saying be careful.’

  ‘I agree.’ Mulholland reset her scarf around her neck. So easy just to choke her with it. ‘This is growing so many arms and legs it’s looking like a millipede.’ She finished retying the knot. ‘As far as I can tell, we’ve got nothing tying this Kamal chap to our case.’

  Fenchurch glowered at her, almost added a growl. ‘We’ve got the CCTV images. Trident tied the name to the photo.’

  ‘It’s all just circumstantial.’ She splayed a sheaf of papers across the desk. ‘I’ve been through the witness statements your team has collated today. There’s very little about him in here.’ She ran a crooked finger over the documents.

  ‘That’s because he’s smart, Dawn.’ Fenchurch stayed focused on the paperwork. ‘Qasid was working for him. Kamal ordered him to kill Saskia.’

  ‘Look, Simon, there’s very little backing up this theory.’ Mulholland smiled at him like a nun to a small child, deformed and ugly. ‘This is more likely to be a coincidence, you know that. I bet you could pick up any number of faces from the crowd behind her on that journey.’