Worth Killing For (A DI Fenchurch Novel Book 2)

by Ed James

  Up ahead, sheeting was piled on top of long metal poles at the bottom of a ramp. The light hit black fabric. Tracksuit bottoms, lime-green Everlast logo. He shifted the beam up and right. Six or seven men stood next to the heap of sheeting, grey hoodies hiding their faces.

  ‘Police! Stay where you are!’ Fenchurch started towards them. His ears were stinging from the train, listening for another one.

  The nearest man lowered his hoodie and blinked against the light in his face. Qasid. He raised his hands in surrender. The other hoods looked around at each other, unsure what to do.

  ‘Come with me, gentlemen. It’s all over. Whatever it is, it’s over.’

  Fenchurch’s Airwave crackled out, echoing in the tight space. ‘That line will be off in a minute, sir.’

  A figure behind pushed Qasid forward. He stumbled over and got a kick in the back of the head. The attacker broke ranks and sprinted off along the side of the tracks, pebbles skittering out across the planks.

  Lad skipped down and bombed after him.

  ‘Get back!’ Fenchurch couldn’t keep his eyes off the trail of Lad’s feet on the stones, the right shoe just a bit too close to the tracks. He grabbed his Airwave. ‘Get that electricity off now!’

  ‘Still waiting on it, sir.’

  Fenchurch swung around. What to bloody do . . .

  The other kids huddled together like little boys on their first day at school.

  Fenchurch reached down and helped Qasid to his feet. ‘Got you at last.’

  He was crying, dirty tears down his face, cut and bloody. ‘That was Kamal, man. Can’t believe he did that.’

  Shit.

  The second of the two figures rounded the bend, Lad’s torchlight disappearing.

  Two metres either side of the track to the wall. Should be enough . . .

  Fenchurch twisted round and waved at Nelson. ‘Keep this lot here!’ He started off along the stones next to the tracks, heading round the corner. The area narrowed into a thin circle, climbing down away from them.

  Fenchurch sprinted on, his legs and lungs burning. He trained his torch further down the tunnel, catching Lad and his quarry, both of them taking much longer strides than he could manage. Felt like he was pushing against the air as he ran.

  Train!

  He pressed himself flush to the side wall, slimy as a bath full of slugs. The torch was still pointing towards his prey. A hundred years of oil and soot stung his nostrils. Blown away by a gust of wind.

  The train flashed past on the opposite track, the noise tearing at his hearing. Then it was gone.

  The air pushed at him from behind, pushing him away from the wall. He stumbled forward and fell, stones digging into his knees. The live rails rose up and he pushed his hands out, aiming for the wooden boards. Caught it just right. Close call.

  Stupid old bastard . . .

  Fenchurch pushed up to a plank, taking his time. Then up to standing.

  Up ahead, Lad was almost on Kamal, like a lion hunting a gazelle.

  Fenchurch set off again, eyes on the track, making sure his feet landed at least a foot away from the rails. The ground levelled out. He’d lost them. Shit. He stopped and waved the torch around.

  There, twenty metres away. Lad had the hoodie in his grasp, arm wrapped around his throat. Looked like he was trying to push him over, stones scattering around and echoing off the walls.

  The wind started up again as Fenchurch set off, hissing against him. ‘Waheed!’ His shout was lost in the din.

  Kamal swung out with an elbow, catching Lad in the gut. He staggered back, then reeled from a punch to the jaw. Right in the middle of the track.

  The attacker pushed himself back against the walls. Light glowed ahead, illuminating Lad.

  The train thundered down the tunnel, pushing Lad away like he was an ant.

  Chapter Forty

  The train’s lights bled away down the tunnel. Kamal set off early, like he knew the drill. Done this too many times.

  Fenchurch sprinted hard, landing his stride so he hit the slats between the rails. He crouched down by Lad.

  Out cold, though still breathing. His arm was a mess, like something you’d see in the butcher’s. Fenchurch pulled him off to the side and rested him away from the tracks. Up ahead, Kamal kept looking back, slowing him down.

  What to do, what to do . . .

  Fenchurch got up and sprinted off, following him. He reached into his pocket and fumbled his Airwave. Managed to catch it before it clattered to the ground. ‘Officer down! Repeat, officer down! Get a medical unit into the tunnel now!’ He stuffed it back in his pocket and tried to lengthen his stride.

  Wind picked up again, blowing from behind this time. The opposite track. Why the bloody hell were the lines still live? Fenchurch kept on running, his feet rattling off the stones, keeping well away from the rails.

  The light spread down the tunnel as the train whistled towards him. He struggled to keep his eyes open as it passed.

  Kamal was leaning against the side of the tunnel. He clocked Fenchurch’s approach and darted off, pounding away.

  Fenchurch raised his baton and swung it forward. He snapped his wrist and sent it flying through the air, a cyclone glinting in the bobbing torchlight.

  It clattered off Kamal’s head. He tumbled over the stones and collapsed in a heap.

  Fenchurch jumped on him. He grabbed his wrists and pinned him down. Then yanked his hood back and shone the torch at the face.

  Black skin. Dark beard threaded with silver. Footballer hair.

  ‘Your name is Kamal, right?’

  He tried to struggle. Fenchurch kept him down.

  ‘Get off me, man! Let me go!’

  ‘You’re going nowhere. Is your name Kamal?’

  ‘That’s me. You pleased with yourself?’ Kamal spoke like a rap record.

  Fenchurch sucked in stale air. Got him at last. The bastard on the escalator. The bastard who’d kept himself hidden for so long. The bastard—

  A kick against Fenchurch’s knee. Bent it back the wrong way. He staggered, struggled to stay upright. Managed to steady himself against the grimy wall. Then he swung a fist at Kamal’s head.

  Kamal dodged the blow, pushing up to parry. He swept his legs out and knocked Fenchurch’s feet away from under him. His shins crashed on the tracks, metal cracking off bone, his chin clattering against the wooden slats, pain searing through his whole body.

  No electricity, though. Small merc—

  Boot. Boot. Crack. Kamal got on top of him, knees digging into his thighs. Fists pummelled Fenchurch’s head, his chest, his hands. Longer punches, more force. Kamal dropped his knee onto Fenchurch’s stomach.

  Light flashed in his eyes, pain lancing his gut. Vomit caught in his throat. Fenchurch lashed out like a cat, quick and aimless, scratching Kamal’s cheek.

  More blows hit him — arms, chest, jaw, nose.

  Kamal got up again, breathing heavily. ‘You going to die!’

  Fenchurch spotted a flash of light to the side, just the merest twinkle. A torch beam caught Kamal’s face as he leaned over Fenchurch, fists clenched, ready for more. He punched again, blows pounding Fenchurch’s chest.

  He balled himself up. Bruises all over his torso and arms. Drums thudding in his ears, punk rock thunder. He tasted blood. Kamal gave him a final kick then shot off down the tracks, a shadow in the thin light from his discarded torch.

  Fenchurch tried to get up, just stumbling to his knees. He pushed against the side wall and levered himself to his feet. Airwave out: ‘I need units at Angel tube station, suspect approaching from the tracks. Repeat, suspect approaching from the tracks.’

  He sucked in breath, trying to spot Kamal in the darkness.

  Something glittered in the light nearby. He staggered over to it and bent over.

  His baton.

  Fenchurch gripped the handle and looked down the tunnel, Kamal striding away from him.

  Bastard wasn’t getting away.

  He set off
, his old man’s legs crunching and grinding as he ran, and he started to close the gap. Then Kamal was gone.

  What?

  More Batman shit?

  Fenchurch scanned through the pitch darkness. What was tha—

  Kamal pounced from a small door cut into the tunnel and caught Fenchurch in the face, his forearm grinding up his nose. They fell backwards onto the hard ground by the tracks. Fenchurch kept a tight grip on his baton as lumps of stone dug into his spine.

  Kamal bounded to his feet again, like a puma, and loomed over him, a blade glinting in the pale light.

  Fenchurch brought up the baton and smacked it into Kamal’s hand. He screamed as the knife flew away.

  Another swipe, cracking the baton off Kamal’s skull.

  He toppled over and clattered over the tracks.

  Fenchurch prodded Kamal with the baton. No reaction. His chest was rising, ever so slowly. Still alive, just out cold.

  Fenchurch hauled Kamal up, a dead weight not making it easy. He pushed him back against the wall and got out his Airwave. ‘Control, this is Fenchurch. I have the suspect in custody. Repeat, suspect is in custody.’

  ‘Guv?’

  Fenchurch clamped his eyes shut, not that it made much difference. A light seared through them. He tried to wave it away. ‘Get that away from me.’

  ‘Guv, it’s me.’ Nelson pointed the torch at his own face. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I got him, Jon.’ Fenchurch doubled over. Felt like Kamal’d taken his guts with him. ‘Grab him, would you?’

  Nelson unsnapped his cuffs and shone the beam on the figure leaning against the side of the tunnel. ‘He’s hardly got a scratch on him.’

  ‘Whereas I look like I’ve been twenty rounds with both Klitschko brothers.’ Fenchurch touched a finger to his face. Stung like a bee.

  Lights danced around the tunnel, heavy footsteps cannoning off the sides. Four uniforms appeared in an explosion of torchlight, smudging the inky darkness.

  Nelson hauled Kamal to his feet, a dead weight. He pushed him towards the nearest uniform. ‘Take him down to Leman Street and arrange for a lawyer. This is urgent.’

  ‘Sarge.’ It took two of them to lug Kamal down the tracks, like a drunk on a Saturday night in Romford.

  ‘What about the trains, Jon? We need—’

  ‘It’s cool.’ A hand pressed Fenchurch’s jacket. ‘Won’t be any trains through here for a while. The Northern Line’s terminating at Old Street and Angel.’

  ‘That’s a bloody relief.’ Fenchurch gasped at a wave of pain in his chest. Felt like someone was chiselling at his lungs. Hatred flashed up from the pit of his stomach. ‘What about Waheed?’

  ‘We’ve got him, guv. Ambulance is on its way.’

  ‘Jesus. How’s he looking?’

  ‘Worse than you, but that’s not saying much.’

  ‘Through there, guv.’ Nelson helped Fenchurch through the doorway into the Central’s basement.

  ‘Get out of my way!’ A Northern Irish accent bellowed out. The same paramedic as on Upper Street on Thursday. Platt, wasn’t it? He was pushing a gurney towards the stairs.

  Fenchurch limped off after him and grabbed hold of his uniform. ‘Is that Waheed?’

  Platt stopped and looked him up and down. He pressed his glasses up his nose. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Don’t you recognise me?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, pal. Care to enlighten me?’

  ‘What?’ Fenchurch’s suit was covered in soot and oil, torn in at least three places. Looked like a tramp. ‘It’s DI Fenchurch.’

  ‘Right, and here’s me thinking you’re going to ask me for any old iron.’

  Waheed lay on the stretcher, eyes shut, mouth hanging loose. Still breathing, but only just. His arm was like the before picture of a black pudding.

  Fenchurch’s gut ratcheted up a couple of notches. ‘How is he?’

  ‘Look, pal, I need to get him away to A&E and you’re stopping me.’ Platt adjusted his glasses and frowned at Fenchurch. ‘You look like you need help yourself?’

  ‘I’ll live. Where are you taking him?’

  ‘University College. I need to get your man here up the stairs, so if you don’t mind.’ Platt shook his hand through the air.

  ‘Go.’ Fenchurch let the paramedics take Waheed off and slumped against the clammy wall by the bookcase. ‘Jesus, Jon. Did you see him?’

  ‘I did, guv. We need to focus on other things now.’

  Fenchurch stroked his throat in slow passes. His gut roared, most likely from Kamal’s knee drop. He nodded at Nelson. ‘You’re right, of course.’

  Reed had taken over the basement. The five men from the platform now slumped on the sofas, their hoods down. Black kids, all looking eighteen, if a day. The furthest away one was being tended to by a medic.

  Reed came over and joined Fenchurch leaning against the wall. ‘Was that Kamal?’

  ‘As far as I know.’ Fenchurch eased out his shoulder until it clicked. ‘He’s in custody now, thank God. Still doesn’t feel over, though. Never does.’

  Reed frowned at Fenchurch’s clothes. ‘Your suit’s ruined.’

  ‘Least of my worries, Kay. I’ll head to Slaters bloody menswear when I get a minute.’

  ‘Try the one up Golders Green Road.’ Nelson held up his phone and snapped a photo, the flash stinging Fenchurch’s eyes. He swivelled it round — Fenchurch looked like he’d just done a particularly gruelling shift down the pit. ‘Might need a very long bath.’

  ‘There’s a shower in the station.’ Fenchurch leaned against the brick wall and waved over at the men on the sofas. They looked even younger in the harsh light. ‘What’s the story here, Kay?’

  ‘We’ve started processing them, guv. None of them are speaking, as you’d expect.’

  ‘He’s been doing this for years, Kay, but there’s only five of them here. Where are they all?’

  Reed didn’t answer. Nelson just took another hit of nicotine, staring at his shoes.

  ‘Tell me we’ve at least got our two suspects? Qasid and Lewis Cole.’

  Reed pointed into the room at the two nearest kids, veiled by their hoods. ‘That’s Qasid and that’s Lewis. He’s only answering to Roofie, though.’

  The kids looked like they were waiting to get their hair cut. Qasid and Roofie were just like brothers. Twin brothers. No wonder they’d managed to get one over on him so well. Little shits.

  Fenchurch marched across the floor, just above a fast hobble, and grabbed Qasid’s arm and yanked him to his feet. ‘You.’

  His mouth hung open as his hood fell backwards. He kept his eyes on the floor and hugged his arms around himself. Kid looked about six years old, waiting to be picked for a football team at break. He started speaking, just mumbling. Nothing made any sense.

  Fenchurch tugged at the hood. ‘What did you say?’

  The same inaudible gibberish.

  Fenchurch grabbed Qasid’s chin and raised it, getting a good look at his eyes. ‘Louder.’

  Qasid sniffed and wiped at his cheek. ‘Said, I ain’t saying nothing, man.’

  Fenchurch looked around at the other kids splayed around the sofas, trying to mask their fear with hip-hop nodding to an invisible beat. Then he focused on Qasid. ‘You killed Victor Morgan. I saw it.’

  ‘Wasn’t me, man.’

  ‘It bloody was you.’ Fenchurch tightened his grip. Made his fingers ache. Felt so bloody weak. ‘Did Kamal tell you to do it?’

  Qasid looked over at the other kids. Lewis Cole glanced his way, eyes narrow as he made eye contact and got a nod back. ‘Ain’t saying nothing, man.’

  ‘You’re going to go to prison, son. Your prints are all over that knife.’

  ‘Used gloves, bruv.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have bloody said that.’ Fenchurch twisted his neck round and pointed him at Lewis. ‘Have another look at your mate there. Lewis, right? Roofie? You’ll soon be cellmates in Belmarsh.’

  ‘Ain’t done nothing, man.�
�� Qasid was blinking hard and fast, like he didn’t believe it any more.

  Fenchurch beckoned Reed over. ‘Get him processed, Kay. I want a full statement and a full confession from him by the time I’m back in Leman Street.’

  She got a uniform to take Qasid. ‘I suspect our chum Unwin will already be at the station, guv.’

  Nelson took a suck of his e-cigarette, his expression showing he didn’t care who saw. ‘Surprised he’s not here now.’

  Chapter Forty-One

  Fenchurch pushed open the interview room door and let Reed enter first. Clinton Jackson was staring at the table, his harlequin hair all out of whack, dreads laying across his shaved scalp. ‘We need to ask you a few questions.’

  Jackson glanced at his lawyer, some Legal Aid empty suit, then shrugged. ‘Whatever, man.’

  Reed sat opposite and leaned over to the microphone. ‘Interview commenced at—’

  Fenchurch stayed by the door and smoothed down the baggy shirt he’d borrowed from Nelson. Still had a layer of crap on his hand in among all the bruises. Felt like he’d been in a car crash.

  Jackson reset the dreads on top of his head. Almost back to the two-way split. He craned his neck round to Fenchurch and spoke in a whisper: ‘I need to get this over with, brother. I’ve got a bar to run.’

  ‘That place is going to be shut for the foreseeable future.’ Fenchurch waited for Reed to conclude the preamble, figuring out a plan of attack.

  ‘—his lawyer.’ Reed nodded at Fenchurch. ‘Guv.’

  Fenchurch sat next to Reed and cleared his throat. Felt like half a colliery was stuck in his lungs. ‘Mr Jackson, thanks for joining us here. I’d like to start by asking you to describe to us what we found underneath your bar.’

  ‘Maybe better start by telling me what you found, man?’

  ‘So that’s how you want to play this, is it?’ Fenchurch cracked his knuckles. A spear of pain seared his left arm. He tried to shake it off without anyone seeing. Just about got away with it. ‘Okay. There’s a bookcase down there, stuffed with political paperbacks. Turns out said bookcase is movable and there’s a series of tunnels behind it, which led to the Northern Line.’