Worth Killing For (A DI Fenchurch Novel Book 2)

by Ed James

  ‘You knew her?’

  ‘We were like her favourite uncles. I loved that girl. Vic did too. Reminded him of his own daughter.’

  Fenchurch caught a raised eyebrow from Docherty. ‘I wasn’t aware he’d been married before.’

  ‘Like many of us, Victor lived a lie in the eighties. I’m sure you don’t have to wonder why?’

  ‘No, I can fully understand why. Was there a specific reason for your worry?’

  ‘Well, Sas had been killed. It also felt very crass, you know? Running those articles so soon. I suppose if it hadn’t been them, the competition would’ve done it. Doesn’t stop it feeling so mawkish, though.’

  Fenchurch checked Docherty in the corner of the kitchen. Got a shrug. He gave Eric a smile. ‘Do you need anyone here to sit with you?’

  ‘My sister’s on her way, thanks.’ He grabbed Fenchurch’s arm as he got up. ‘Just find who killed Vic. That’s all I ask.’ Eric hugged the cat, both staring into space.

  ‘I’m trying my hardest, sir. I promise.’

  Fenchurch shut Eric’s front door and followed Docherty into the warm sunshine of an April Sunday.

  Docherty stopped by his Audi and stared back at the house. ‘Got to be something here, Si. Victor published those stories and now he’s dead.’

  ‘They’ve published and been damned.’ Fenchurch walked over to his car and plipped the locks. ‘They’re not done with Saskia’s work, you know? Victor said they’ve got another three days’ worth of stories.’

  ‘You’re thinking they’ve been killed for what’s not come out?’

  ‘Best way to hush him up.’

  ‘Sure it wasn’t one of the stories he’s just published?’

  ‘There’s no point closing the gate after the horse’s bolted, right? The damage is already done.’

  Docherty folded his arms, the suit flapping around him. ‘Christ.’

  ‘Could be any of them.’ Fenchurch bit his lip. ‘Could be none.’

  ‘So, we speak to everyone all over again?’

  ‘We’ve done that already, boss.’

  ‘And, who killed them?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Smashing. You don’t know.’ Docherty stood up tall and dusted off the back of his jacket. ‘Let’s all pack up and head home, eh?’

  ‘I’m not giving up on this.’ Fenchurch tapped the roof of his car. ‘I’m heading back to the Post.’

  ‘Look, you can’t just waltz in here.’ Yvette Farley’s PA was trying to get in the way of Fenchurch and Docherty. The paper was busy for a Sunday, reporters crammed in tight across the office floor. ‘She’s with someone.’

  Fenchurch nudged her hand away. ‘She needs to make some time for this.’

  ‘You can’t—’

  The office door exploded open, clattering off a coat rack and sending it toppling over. Two hulking brutes in business suits stormed out, flanking a blonde woman. Yana Ikonnikova. She squinted at Fenchurch then gave a curt nod. ‘Inspector.’ She marched past towards the lifts, another guard following.

  Fenchurch thumbed at the room and flicked his eyebrows up at the PA. ‘Looks like she’s free.’

  ‘Fine, suit yourselves.’ She knelt down to pick up the coat rack. A bag rolled over, spilling a purse and phone. ‘Crap.’

  Fenchurch went into the office before he was asked to help.

  Yvette Farley simmered behind her desk, wearing horn-rimmed spectacles and a pink T-shirt supporting Moon Walk. Short hair, dyed pink to match the shirt. Mid-fifties, if a day. She glanced over, frowning. ‘Yes?’

  ‘DI Fenchurch.’ A flash of his warrant card as he sat. ‘This is DCI Docherty.’

  ‘This is about Victor, then?’ She adjusted her glasses to reach behind and rub her eye. ‘Well, I’m afraid I heard what happened.’ Her cough racked out, sounding like she smoked a thousand a day. Certainly smelled like it, even under her cloak of perfume. ‘Terrible, terrible business.’

  Docherty was standing by the window and its breeze, letting Fenchurch take centre stage for once. Her office was four floors above the smoking zone and looked along Fleet Street towards Temple and the LSE. ‘I gather you’re the Managing Editor here?’

  ‘For my sins.’ Yvette dabbed at her eyes with a hanky and nodded. ‘God, I can’t believe this. Two of our staff taken from us in a matter of days.’

  Fenchurch pointed back into the corridor. ‘What was Yana Ikonnikova doing here?’

  ‘Threatening law suits left, right and centre.’ Yvette tossed a copy of that morning’s supplement. ‘She wasn’t too happy about this. I’ve had Guy bloody Eustace on, threatening to get me on Andrew Marr to defend our stance on press intrusion.’

  ‘That was all?’

  ‘I broke the news about Victor to them. Both seemed shell-shocked.’ She focused on Fenchurch. ‘Tell me honestly, Inspector, do you think this is connected to their work here?’

  ‘We’re investigating that as a distinct possibility, ma’am. Are you aware of any threats made to Mr Morgan over the last few days?’

  ‘We get about ten weird letters every day, Inspector. A hundred emails. And that’s just the central mailbox.’

  ‘Can we have a look them?’

  ‘Are you sure you want them? They’re highly deviant and I doubt they’ll lead you anywhere.’

  ‘Sometimes criminals have a need to share. If it’s connected to your paper, they might’ve decided to write to you. Do you ever read them?’

  ‘Like I get time for that. My assistant sorts them into a pile of junk and a pile of anything useful. We’re lucky to get one useful email a month. If you really want them, you can speak to Cassie on your way out.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Fenchurch nodded at Docherty — one for Mulholland to get her fingers into. Then he smiled at Yvette. ‘Did Mr Morgan say anything recently that seemed off colour?’

  ‘You tell me, Inspector, you were with him when he died.’

  Touché. Fenchurch folded his arms, waiting for the drumbeats in his ears to settle down. Frenetic jungle became hip-hop became chilled jazz. ‘Any odd behaviour at all over the last week?’

  ‘One of his protégés got killed, of course he’s been odd.’

  ‘But nothing else sticks out?’

  ‘Victor was Victor, you know? Kept a tight counsel. He wasn’t happy about how we treated Saskia’s death. He expressed some grave concerns about it.’ She adjusted her glasses, letting a red mark on the bridge of her nose peek out. ‘That was out of my hands, though. We’d have a shareholders’ mutiny if we didn’t exploit it somehow.’

  ‘Must’ve been a very difficult decision to make.’

  ‘Mm.’ Yvette folded her own arms. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got to tear apart tomorrow’s front page. And find someone to take on Victor’s responsibilities for the short term.’

  ‘Are these the stories you plan to publish this week?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Well, one avenue we’re investigating is the possibility that Ms Barnett and Mr Morgan were murdered for the stories she was working on but which haven’t been published yet.’

  ‘I don’t see why?’

  ‘Let me be the judge of that, okay? Who’s looking after Saskia’s work in Mr Morgan’s . . . absence?’

  ‘As I said, I’ve not decided on a strategic appointment yet. But, given his . . . interest in what’s happened, I thought it appropriate to ask Liam Sharpe to help.’

  Fenchurch rapped the door again. Little bastard wasn’t in. He put the Airwave to his mouth. ‘Boss, he’s not here.’

  ‘So where the bloody hell is he, Simon?’ Wind battered the mic on Docherty’s phone. Sounded like he’d gone back to the crime scene after all. ‘You find—’

  The door opened to a crack, the security chain rattling as it pulled tight. An eye stared out, a thin sliver of beard just below. The door shut again.

  ‘Boss, he’s here. Repeat, Liam is here. Better go.’ Fenchurch pocketed the Airwave and knocked on the door. ‘Liam.�
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  ‘Go away.’

  ‘I need to speak to you.’

  ‘I’m not up to that.’

  Fenchurch pressed his head against the door. Tried it but it wasn’t budging. ‘Liam, Victor Morgan’s been murdered.’

  Silence.

  ‘Did you hear me?’

  A pause. Followed by a sniff. ‘Yvette told me.’

  ‘I need to ask you a few questions about his death, Liam. Can you let me in? Please?’

  The chain clanked and the door opened wide. ‘I suppose you better come in.’

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Not really.’ Liam shut the door behind Fenchurch. ‘I’m a bit paranoid, you know?’

  ‘Paranoia’s a very specific condition, Mr Sharpe.’

  Liam shot him a glare. ‘Do you want to leave?’

  ‘Sorry.’ Fenchurch raised his hands in apology. ‘I’m thrown by what’s happened, as well.’

  ‘You’re right. I’m just anxious, I suppose.’ Liam leaned back against the front door. ‘Victor’s really dead?’

  ‘Happened right in front of me.’

  ‘You’re making a habit of that.’ Liam rubbed a hand across his forehead and pinched his nose. ‘Jesus. I can’t help myself. Sorry.’

  ‘It’s okay.’ Fenchurch gave him a few seconds to pull himself together. ‘Yvette Farley said you’ve got access to Saskia’s stories again.’

  ‘Well, I’ve been going through what Victor had. Trying to see if I could add anything.’

  ‘And can you?’

  Liam pushed away from the door. ‘There’s maybe something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Come through.’ Liam led him into his bedroom, bare feet thwacking off the floor. The far wall was filled with a large IKEA desk, covered in computer equipment and stacks of books. His cat lay in an Amazon delivery box, deigning to look round at them. He sat down and patted the cat. ‘Hey, Pumpkin.’ He got a whirr as the cat curled up again. ‘The box is a diversion. Otherwise, she’s rolling all over the keyboard.’

  Fenchurch perched on the edge of the double bed. ‘What’s all that?’

  Liam started fiddling with four piles of paper. ‘Victor’s work. Yvette had it couriered over.’

  ‘After you got her laptop nicked?’

  ‘I’m a bit more security-conscious these days.’ Liam stopped and gave a shrug. ‘I’m just sorting through it now.’ He tapped the first of the piles, the tallest. Stapled sheets in a loose heap. ‘Here’s what I sent Victor. The raw ideas. It’s a hell of a lot.’ He patted a second pile. ‘He’s edited the notes down to this lot. They’re just working drafts really. He’s thrown them around in an order, but it’s still just Sas’s work.’ Then a third pile, the smallest of the three. ‘And this is what he published in this morning’s paper. You saw it, right?’

  ‘I did. And the last pile?’

  ‘This is what he was working on.’ Liam rested his hand on it, three times the size of the already-published pile. A thin sliver at the top was at right angles. ‘This is stuff he was doing all night.’

  ‘For tomorrow’s paper?’

  ‘Front cover. He was up all night, turning them from notes into stories. Vic had a knack of being able to just churn out great copy. Comes with experience, I suppose.’

  ‘So what have you found?’

  Liam went back to the first pile and skimmed through the documents. He tore out a sheet halfway down. ‘Have a look at this.’

  Fenchurch scanned through the page. It was a load of disconnected notes, all tied to an ‘Andrew Smith’. ‘Do you know who he is?’

  ‘No, but look at that.’ Liam tapped on a mobile number near the top. ‘There’s a K after it.’

  ‘You think this is for Kamal?’

  ‘That’s what I’m thinking, yes.’

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  ‘Here you go, sir.’ Lisa Bridge ran her finger along the screen and pressed down on the last column. ‘Holy shit.’ She drew a circle around the six rows below. ‘Do you see that?’

  Fenchurch leaned forward, really struggling to make out any of it. ‘Not without my glasses.’

  ‘Okay, sir.’ Bridge tapped at the screen again. ‘That number you gave me? Well, Saskia’s called it a few times. Six.’

  ‘Was it ever answered?’

  ‘Three times.’

  ‘Do you know anything about it?

  ‘Clooney was doing all the usual “I can’t do this because I’m so busy” so I just cut him out of the process.’ She pulled up another screen. ‘Here you go, guv. It looks like a burner to me.’

  ‘A dead end.’ Fenchurch collapsed back against the desk behind them. ‘Can you trace anything on it?’

  ‘Wish I could.’ A frown flashed across her forehead and she surged into action. ‘It’s still live, though. Connected to the network an hour ago.’

  ‘Can you get a location?’

  ‘Not from this thing. I’d need to get Clooney.’

  ‘Can you speak to him?’

  ‘Already have. Said he’s out at the crime scene till at least two. Won’t get round to it until this evening at the earliest.’

  ‘Thanks, Lisa. This is good work. I’ll see what buttons I can press.’ Fenchurch used her seat back to haul himself up and scanned around the Incident Room. There they are . . . He marched across the room and got between Docherty and Mulholland. ‘Boss, I need to—’

  ‘Simon, I was briefing the SIO.’ Mulholland folded her arms, sending her scarf flying. ‘Do you want to take a ticket and I’ll call your number when it’s ready?’

  Fenchurch ignored her, instead locking eyes with Docherty. ‘Boss, I’ve got a lead on Kamal.’

  Mulholland scowled at Fenchurch. ‘Sir, as I was saying, we’re struggling to progress the grid search around the park with—’

  Docherty held up a finger, cutting her dead. ‘Just a sec, Dawn. What is it?’

  ‘A burner number for Kamal.’

  ‘The medal’s in the post, Si. This bloody better be something.’

  Fenchurch passed him the page from Liam’s stash. ‘This is how Saskia knew Kamal.’

  ‘It says Andrew Smith here, though.’

  ‘And the K means Kamal. Look, it all fits. She knew who he was.’

  ‘Has Clooney traced it?’

  ‘Lisa Bridge is doing it.’

  Mulholland jumped in, getting over her disappointment quickly. ‘Simon, there’s a procedure in place for this. It has to go through Scenes of Crime.’

  ‘Yeah, and there’s two dead people because of this guy. We need to do something.’

  Docherty raised a hand to Mulholland. ‘Si, have you called it?’

  ‘Are you suggesting I should?’

  ‘Sir.’ Mulholland snapped her pen lid back on. ‘I don’t think we should.’

  Docherty held her gaze, daring her to look away first. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it’s breaking with procedure. We can’t just call up suspicious numbers.’

  ‘This guy’s organised two killings, we think. And counting. We can’t sit on this.’ Docherty handed the sheet of paper back to Fenchurch. ‘Call him.’

  Mulholland cleared her throat. Sounded like someone was trying to strangle her with the infernal scarf. ‘Sir, are you sure?’

  ‘I’m sure, Dawn.’

  ‘I want no part in this.’

  Fenchurch got out his mobile and tapped the number in.

  Mulholland snatched it from his hands. ‘Simon, you can’t use your own phone.’

  ‘Thought you didn’t want any part of this?’

  ‘All the same, you just can’t do that.’

  ‘He’s not going to know it’s a Met number, is he?’ Fenchurch stormed out into the corridor and hit dial. He put it to his ear and listened to the ringtone.

  ‘Yo.’ A male voice, shrill, like he was at the bottom of a well.

  ‘Kamal?’

  ‘Yo.’

  ‘A friend said you might be able to help.’

 
‘What sort of help?’ Had a weird accent, a ripe mixture of east coast American and street London, like he’d got lost halfway across the Atlantic.

  ‘Like that thing on Upper Street. Our mutual friend said I could use your services.’

  ‘How I know this is for real?’

  ‘I’m impressed with your work so far and I can make it worth your while.’

  ‘Need hard currency.’

  ‘I’m flush. Believe me.’ Fenchurch shrugged at Docherty, standing in the doorway. ‘Can we meet?’

  A long pause, sounded like booming hip-hop echoing in the background. ‘Yo, one hour. Boundary Park. No funny business or there be trouble.’

  Boundary Gardens was a circular pile in the middle of Arnold Circus. Six giant buildings surrounded it, each one six storeys of Victorian architecture, heavy bay windows carved out of red brick. Ancient trees towered over their heads, ivy climbing as high as it dared. There was a bandstand at the top of the mound, dating back to when they used such things. The railings below were clear except for two bikes at either side.

  ‘Abi made me watch a documentary about this place a few weeks ago.’ Fenchurch adjusted himself on the cold bench and sprawled out, still no sign of Kamal. ‘Pretty interesting, as it happens. First proper social housing development in the world. Opened up in, I don’t know, 1900 or something. Supposed to be for the poor but only the rich could afford it.’

  ‘Sounds very London to me.’ Nelson took a suck on his vape stick. ‘Wouldn’t know it was here, guv. Just a minute’s walk from Shoreditch.’ He leaned forward and pointed ahead of them. ‘Here we go.’

  A kid wearing a hoodie was cycling down the street facing them, long legs striding on a black bike. Big silver wheels. Taking it slowly, looking around. Cautious. He crossed the road and dumped the bike against the railings, too cool to bother with a lock. He sniffed as he started climbing the steps. His hoodie fell back.