Worth Killing For (A DI Fenchurch Novel Book 2)

by Ed James

  A loud crackle. ‘Receiving, over.’

  ‘Send as many units as you can. I want them covering the area surrounding the park. Get them on the lookout for a young IC3 male in grey hooded top and black tracksuit bottoms on a bike.’

  ‘Be about five minutes, sir.’

  ‘And send for DS Jon Nelson and DS Kay Reed.’ Fenchurch ended the call on his Airwave and stared at the body.

  Victor’s dead eyes drilled into his skull. Like he knew what was going on but he just didn’t have enough time to tell anyone.

  Fenchurch collapsed onto the bench, tears burning at his sinuses. He swallowed in air, gulping at it, trying to stop himself from crying. Just couldn’t. He rested on his hands, elbows spearing his thighs. And just let it all out.

  Saskia. Victor. Chloe.

  He couldn’t save all of them. Couldn’t save any of them. He sucked in more air, almost choking on it.

  ‘Sir?’ A hand on his back.

  He swung round, wiping at his cheeks.

  A pair of uniforms stood behind him. He recognised the older one from West Ham, sat a few rows in front. ‘You okay, sir?’ He clocked Victor Morgan next to him. ‘Jesus Christ.’

  Fenchurch pointed across the park at the couple. ‘Keep them here. They saw it.’

  The younger one dashed over towards them, arms out wide.

  ‘What a mess. What a bloody mess.’ Fenchurch shook his head at Victor then got up, bleary eyes locked on the fellow Hammer. ‘I need you to stay here, okay? There’s going to be a big squad turning up soon. DS Nelson or DS Reed will manage.’ He started off towards his car. ‘Keep a tight lid on this.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To see a man about a murderous little bastard.’

  ‘Guv, we’ve just got to the park. Where the hell are you?’

  ‘I waited until the uniform turned up, Kay.’ Fenchurch gripped the Airwave tight. ‘Get them out canvassing. I’ve got to go. Bye.’ He dumped the radio on the passenger seat and pulled in on Shoreditch High Street across the road from a boutique hotel. Used to be some chain, but was now full of small businesses, record shops and book stores. Hipster paradise.

  He got out and sucked in diesel fumes and coffee tang. Liberal Justice’s office was sandwiched between a corner shop covered in Coca-Cola signage and the sort of café that kept the sixties decor they found underneath a mid-eighties refit. There was a light on inside, even though the security gate was down.

  Fenchurch rapped on the steel and took a step back, trying to peer in.

  He caught a flash of metal to the side. Spotted a hoodie. A cyclist bumped the kerb and powered towards him.

  Fenchurch jumped and spun round, jammed his back against the shutters.

  The Asian girl cycled past, her frown cut off by her black helmet. ‘Jeez. Got your period or something?’ American accent, west coast.

  Fenchurch let out a deep breath. Focus, Simon, focus. He wiped the pool of sweat from his forehead, soaking the bloodstains on his hand.

  Christ.

  His phone chirped — Docherty. He let it pile up on top of the six other missed calls. No time. No time. No time.

  Metal rumbled behind him. ‘Inspector?’

  Fenchurch swung round and stepped back.

  Unwin stood in the shop doorway, dressed like he was going fighting on the seafront at Brighton. And not on the Rockers’ side. Maroon Fred Perry, grey slacks and white bowling shoes, all looking like they used to fit. ‘This is a Sunday, you know?’

  Fenchurch gave him the up and down. ‘Is Tommy in?’

  ‘He’s somewhere between Soho and Brighton.’ Unwin folded his arms. A pink slash was dug out of his dark skin just above his left wrist. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘Need a word. Just as well you’re at work on a Sunday.’

  ‘Never stops, Inspector. Never stops.’ Unwin frowned, eyes scanning his head. ‘Are you bleeding?’

  Fenchurch rubbed at it. ‘It’s not mine.’

  ‘Come in, man. You can’t go wandering around like that.’ Unwin ushered him into the office.

  It was more like a computer start-up than a law firm. Beanbags in front of a PlayStation and late-period Paul Weller played through Sonos speakers, jarring rhythms and twiddly lead guitar.

  Fenchurch propped himself against the Addams Family pinball table, flashing through its attract sequence. ‘See, I knew Tommy was going to be here. The pinball wizard.’

  ‘Despite playing a mean pinball, that deaf, dumb and blind kid sure helps with our disability grants.’ Unwin wet a pink paper towel from a ceiling-height water cooler. ‘Here you go.’

  Fenchurch took it and mopped at his brow. He scrunched the tissue up, now a deep shade of red. His throat was shrivelled up, tight. He tried to clear it. ‘Where’s Qasid?’ Almost sounded human.

  ‘Not seen Mr Williams since yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘He’s just murdered someone.’

  Unwin swallowed. ‘What?’

  ‘I saw it happen. Just past Hoxton Square.’

  ‘You’re sure it was him this time?’

  Fenchurch glared at him for a few seconds. ‘It was him. I’ve stared into those dead eyes often enough. Call him.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Unwin got out his phone, more of a tablet than a mobile. ‘I can’t . . . I can’t believe this . . .’

  ‘Just bloody call him and get him here.’

  ‘Fine.’ Unwin nodded and stabbed the screen with a podgy finger. He flicked it onto speaker. Just a ringing tone.

  ‘I’m sorry but the caller is either unavailable or on another call . . .’

  Unwin killed it. He gave it another go, same result, cut dead at the second word. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘I don’t know. Just got that mobile number.’

  ‘Jesus H. Christ. You’ve got no idea what you’re doing. It’s a bloody burner. He could be anywhere.’

  ‘I thought it’d—’

  ‘You’re responsible for him, you dickhead!’ Fenchurch jabbed a finger in his chest, dimpling the flab. ‘We released him on the understanding you knew where the bleeding hell he was!’

  ‘Look, I’m really sorry. I’ll see if I can get in touch with him another way.’

  ‘You’re a bloody clown.’ Fenchurch tossed the paper towel on the floor and stormed out of the office. He leaned against his car and took in the street, huffing in stale city air.

  The day was starting to warm up. A few cyclists whizzed past, one doing a deadly dance with a bus. Only going to be one winner there.

  Fenchurch reached inside the car and got out his Airwave. He dialled Reed’s badge number. ‘Kay, have you got Qasid in custody yet?’

  ‘Hold your bloody horses, guv. No. There’s a negative on the sightings, so far.’

  ‘Shit.’ Fenchurch looked up and down the street, feeling completely lost, his gut burning. ‘Is there anything positive to report?’

  ‘Well, Mulholland’s just turned up. Docherty’s looking for you, as well. Just firing up his nut toaster by the looks of things.’

  Fenchurch clocked Docherty before he’d even parked. The DCI was sitting in his Audi, barking at someone on his mobile. Hopefully Mulholland.

  Fenchurch stopped in the middle of the road, just by the SOCO van blocking the passage. Could just run away, go back home.

  Too late — Docherty made eye contact and stabbed a finger in his direction. He switched his finger to indicate a minute.

  Still time to run away, though.

  Fenchurch got out and checked the crime scene.

  Reed was in plain clothes, locked in conversation with a uniform. She nodded at him. Then her eyes widened. ‘Guv, you’re covered in blood.’

  ‘Kay, just tell me what you’ve got.’

  ‘What, in the last five minutes?’ She couldn’t take her eyes off his shirt. ‘Feels like half the Met’s out canvassing the area, looking for witnesses and kids on bikes.’

  ‘Anything?’

  �
��Nothing. Sorry, guv.’

  ‘It’s not your fault, Kay. How many units have you got out?’

  ‘Sixty-two out and about.’ She grimaced, heel tapping off the tarmac. ‘The uniform Sergeant is already busting my ovaries. They’re needed at the football up at White Hart Lane from eleven.’

  ‘We’ll hopefully have the little bastard back in custody by then.’

  She held up a bagged knife. ‘Found this, though. Not too far from the bench, guv.’

  Fenchurch stared at the gunmetal weapon shining in the sunlight, sending dots of light over the grass and tarmac. Sharp point. Clean handle. ‘It’s the same blade they used on Saskia, right?’

  ‘Clooney thinks so.’ She waved across the park at the clump of officers surrounding the body. ‘He’s over there somewhere.’

  Clooney and a few others milled around, all suited up. A brief gap in the crowd showed Victor Morgan, still on the seat, a puddle of milky coffee at his feet, mixing with his blood. Take away the blood and it was like he’d just fallen asleep.

  Fenchurch hadn’t been able to do anything. Useless. Completely useless.

  ‘That’s two dead now.’ He handed the knife back, the bag crinkling in the gentle breeze. ‘We need to check for bulk purchases of this across the whole Southeast.’

  ‘Already got Lisa Bridge on it.’

  ‘Good. Focus on London but don’t exclude Essex, Kent, Berkshire—’

  ‘—Hertfordshire, East Anglia. I know the drill, guv. Probably won’t amount to anything but you never know.’

  ‘I know.’

  She frowned at him. ‘Thought you were off the case? That stuff at the briefing.’

  ‘Docherty’s let me keep my ball for now. Well, we’ll see how this plays.’ Fenchurch nodded over at the Audi as the door tore open, clattering into a Fiesta next to it. ‘Better get my nuts toasted.’ He took a moment to breathe, watching Reed stomp towards the chaos of SOCOs.

  ‘Oh, there you are, Simon. Nice of you to join us.’ Docherty was on him like a terrier, nostrils flared, jaw clenched. ‘What the hell are you playing at?’

  ‘It was Qasid.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This.’ Fenchurch pointed back at the bench. ‘He killed him. Qasid bloody Williams.’

  Docherty joined him leaning against the side of the car, shaking his head. ‘I’ve heard that before from you.’

  ‘It was definitely him this time. I got the little shit’s hood off. Stared him in the bloody eyes. He kicked me in the balls and got on his bike.’ Fenchurch felt a twinge in his groin just then. Made his eyes water afresh.

  ‘Simon, why the hell are you running around like an idiot? You don’t flee—’

  ‘I was chasing down a—’

  ‘I’m not bloody finished!’ Docherty leaned close, sickly brown-sauce breath getting in Fenchurch’s nose. ‘You don’t flee a bloody crime scene. You saw a man get killed and you buggered off, like that was okay. Our evidence trail is up the bloody spout.’

  ‘I waited until those two appeared.’ Fenchurch waved at the pair of uniforms guarding the outer locus. Looked more like they were at the football rather than a murder scene. ‘I went to see the lawyer.’

  ‘Looking like that?’ Docherty gave him the up and down then shook his head. ‘So I can expect another bloody lawsuit from Dalton Unwin, can I?’

  ‘I spoke to him, boss. He doesn’t know where Qasid is.’

  ‘He’s not still in custody?’

  ‘The Mobile Theft Unit let him go yesterday.’ Fenchurch let a frown take control of his forehead. ‘Didn’t DI Mulholland let you know?’

  ‘She didn’t. Not that it gets you off anything. You should’ve let me know a lot of bloody things over the last few days, you prize pillock.’ Docherty jabbed a bony finger into Fenchurch’s chest. ‘We let him go because you mistook him for another black kid.’

  ‘They planned it, sir. Plain as day.’ Fenchurch wrapped his arms tight round his body. ‘We still need to find Kamal.’

  ‘Him.’ Docherty thumped back against the car, the chassis barely rocking. ‘That shite yesterday afternoon with the undercover squatter didn’t exactly get us anywhere, did it? We lost over a hundred man hours trying to make it look legit enough that your pal didn’t lose his cover.’

  ‘Boss, that was a solid lead. Our only lead.’

  ‘Si, whatever.’ Docherty gave a shrug and let out a sigh. ‘Look, have you any ideas here, cos I’m on empty?’

  ‘Thought Dawn was running the case?’

  Docherty chuckled, bitter and devoid of humour. ‘You know she’s an admin monkey, Si. I need inspiration here.’

  ‘If you make me Deputy again.’

  ‘I can’t take it off her, you know that. You shouldn’t even ask.’

  Fenchurch tried to look at Victor. His dead eyes followed him everywhere. ‘He’s got a husband.’

  ‘Victor? He’s gay?’

  Fenchurch gave a nod. ‘This isn’t a hate crime, boss.’

  ‘No, it probably isn’t.’

  ‘His husband might know why Victor was killed, though.’

  ‘Worth a shot, Si.’

  Fenchurch unlocked his central locking. ‘Right, I’ll have a word with him, then.’

  ‘Not on your own, Si. Not after last time.’ Docherty gave him another frosty look. ‘And not covered in his husband’s blood.’

  Hot water blasted Fenchurch’s scalp, steam misting the window and the cubicle. He stared down, lathering shower gel on his body, up his arms, as far up his back as he could manage. A wave of mint hooked his nostrils, made his eyes water. Dark-brown water swirled around the plughole, followed by soap suds, bubbling up and popping.

  He shut his eyes again and let the water wash it all off.

  Victor Morgan sitting next to him. The knife digging into his throat. Twisting. Qasid laughing out loud, really bellowing. Kicking Fenchurch in the balls. And again. And again. Then skipping off across the park, holding hands with the kids, spinning them round. Ring a Ring o’ Roses.

  Chloe loved that song when she was little.

  ‘Simon?’

  Fenchurch opened his eyes and rubbed out a clear patch in the glass. ‘Abi?’

  She had returned from her long jog.

  ‘You’ve left the bloody extractor off again.’ She tugged at the cord. Her grey T-shirt was soaked in a V-shape running from her neck. She slipped it off, showing her black sports bra and milky skin. ‘Got room for me in there?’

  He started lathering up his hair. ‘How was your jog?’

  ‘Fine. You’re just going to ignore that, are you?’

  ‘Look, I’m having a shit day.’

  ‘And I was thinking we could go down to Sevenoaks and see Pamela. What do you think?’

  He held her gaze through the glass. ‘I need to get back out to work.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ She stopped unhooking her bra. ‘You’re off today.’

  ‘I’m working, Abi. Heading back out soon.’

  She picked up his shirt, scowling. ‘Is that blood?’

  Water spilled over his face. Drained away more blood, as if there was any left.

  ‘Simon, is this blood on your shirt?’

  ‘It’s not mine.’

  ‘Then whose is it?’

  ‘Victor Morgan’s. Qasid killed Saskia’s boss.’

  She tugged at her hair. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘No. I just can’t . . . He was right there. That little shit on a bike stabbed him and then cycled off.’ Fenchurch switched the shower off and let the water cascade to the floor, like a trail of machine gun bullets. ‘The little rat boy we had in custody for a few days. Had to let him go yesterday. Victor would still be alive if it wasn’t for that.’

  ‘Sure someone else wouldn’t have done it?’

  ‘Maybe.’ His eyes welled up. ‘I just wanted to see you but you were out.’

  ‘You knew I was out jogging.’ She handed him a towel and stared at him, lightly shaking her head. ‘I’l
l get you another shirt.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Fenchurch rubbed away the tears then started on his hair. ‘I really can’t deal with this.’

  ‘You’ll catch him, Simon.’

  ‘You really think that?’

  ‘I know it.’

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Eric Taylor sat on the edge of a velvet chaise longue, quietly weeping into his hands. A shaft of sunlight crawled over the stripped flooring of their apartment, the cavernous space of an old church. He was so Scottish it looked like it hurt, at least on warm days. Bright red hair and the sort of skin that would turn to melanoma as soon as the temperature hit eighteen degrees. He looked up, eyes as red as his hair. ‘I just don’t get it. Why Vic?’

  Fenchurch clocked Docherty’s nod and reached over to pat Eric on the arm. ‘Mr Taylor, are you able to answer a few questions about your husband?’

  ‘Can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it.’ Eric shot a glare at Fenchurch. ‘How could you let it happen?’

  ‘Believe me, sir, I wish I’d stopped it from happening.’ He sucked in minty musk. ‘But I couldn’t.’

  ‘You need to catch who did this. Who killed him.’

  ‘We’re trying our hardest.’

  ‘That’s not very reassuring. Looks very much like you can’t protect London.’

  ‘I’m saying we’re doing everything we can.’

  Eric stared at the patio doors, pale decking stacked up into a sun porch. An overbred cat bleated at the door in silence, its dancing tail looking like it had tassels. He got up and slid it open. ‘Come here, Patience.’ He picked up the cat and hugged it tight. ‘Your daddy’s not coming home.’ He closed his eyes again, screwed them shut. ‘She’s Vic’s cat. I don’t even like them. Now it’s all I’ve got left of him.’

  Fenchurch glanced over at Docherty. ‘Can you think of anyone who had an axe to grind with Mr Morgan?’

  ‘The usual bigots round here.’ Eric sat on the settee again, flattening down the cat’s fluff. ‘When it became legal, we were one of the first couples to marry. It was all over the papers.’

  ‘You think he was killed because he was gay?’

  ‘Maybe. We didn’t get a civil partnership because Vic thought it was discriminatory. We either marry or wait until straight couples can get a civil partnership. This is still a rough area, you know? Full of homophobes and religious zealots, even with all the designer coffee bars.’ Eric hugged the animal tighter. ‘I was worried about Vic publishing those bloody stories, you know. Especially given what happened to Sas.’