Worth Killing For (A DI Fenchurch Novel Book 2)

by Ed James

  ‘Wowee.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I said, wowee. You found an old train station you knew was there, man.’

  Fenchurch held his gaze. ‘We found six men in those tunnels. Three of them were people we’ve been searching high and low for. People we’ve asked you to help us with.’ He started counting out on his fingers. ‘Qasid Williams. Lewis Cole, also known as Roofie. And, well. We still don’t have a surname, but you know him as Kamal.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Kamal pushed one of my officers in front of a train.’

  Jackson gasped, running his fingers against his palms like he was wiping something off. ‘What?’ He glanced at his lawyer, getting nothing in response. ‘Look, man, I didn’t know they were there.’

  ‘That’s bollocks. You spoke to Qasid Williams when he entered your bar at quarter past twelve this afternoon.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘I bloody saw you.’

  Jackson let out a deep breath. ‘He told me he was going to the toilet. I wasn’t happy about it.’

  ‘Right, let’s just stop this nonsense now, shall we?’ Fenchurch crunched back in his chair. ‘Mr Jackson, here’s how I see it. You knew those kids were there and you knew precisely what they were up to. Stealing phones and killing people. And you just let them get away with it.’ He leaned forward, closer to the mic. ‘And for that reason, you’ll lose your business.’

  Jackson hammered a fist down on the table, his happy Rasta face twisting into rage. Teeth clenched, nostrils flared. ‘You can’t take my bar away from me!’

  ‘We can and we will.’ Fenchurch locked eyes with the lawyer, daring him to barge in. Then back at Jackson. ‘Not only will you lose your business, but you’ll probably go to prison. Maybe not as long as Kamal or his underlings.’ He left a gap. ‘Maybe.’

  Jackson ran a hand through his dreads. ‘I didn’t know they were there!’

  ‘Come on, you expect me to believe that bollocks?’

  The lawyer raised a hand, blocking Jackson. ‘Inspector, my client has given you the good grace of listening to your supposition and theorising. My problem is, we’re struggling to see a shred of evidence.’

  ‘Kamal and his gang were living underneath his bar, what more do you need?’

  ‘Inspector, this is highly irregular. You’ve no proof my client knew of their presence.’

  Fenchurch kept his gaze away from the lawyer. ‘Mr Jackson, you were keeping a gang hidden below your bar. You’ve been aiding and abetting their activities. That’ll mean a good five years inside, maybe longer. And I’m talking time served, not sentence.’

  Jackson glanced round at his lawyer. ‘That true?’

  He didn’t get anything in return.

  ‘I can’t go to prison, man.’

  ‘So help us.’

  Jackson stared at the desk and swallowed. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Tell us everything. If it’s enough to convict Kamal, we’ll be able to use your evidence against him.’

  ‘I’ll still lose my bar?’

  ‘Not necessarily. Depending on what you give us, you may be able to sell it. If it’s particularly juicy, we might be able to give you a new identity.’ Fenchurch waved his hand around the room, hoping he ignored the might-be-ables and the maybes. ‘Means you can get out of this Godforsaken city. Maybe move back to the heat with your cash, buy a bar near the beach.’

  Jackson looked at his lawyer, waiting for the eventual nod. Then a shut-eyed nod to Fenchurch. ‘Want me to start at the beginning?’

  Fenchurch smiled at Jackson. ‘Sounds like a good place.’

  ‘I opened my bar ten year ago. Place was a wreck. Old underground station, man. Been like that for like a hundred years. Few businesses over the years had it, let it go to ruin. I took on a thirty-year lease and my friends helped me fix it up. Used to be different round there, man, full of my sort of people. They been moved on, though.’

  ‘When did you find the tunnel?’

  ‘Few years ago, man.’ Jackson smoothed a hand over the stubble next to his dreads. ‘Had builders in sorting out the back room. They found steps down. Found the tunnel and the old underground station. Builder told me they used it as an emergency exit, but not any more.’

  ‘So you took the rooms?’

  ‘Course I did. Used to be the ticket halls. I started my club down there and I started brewing and distilling. Best times, man. Massive Attack did their sound system in there. Mad Professor, too. It was skanking, man.’

  ‘Then Kamal came on the scene?’

  ‘Then Kamal came on the scene . . .’ Jackson shut his eyes and exhaled through his nostrils. ‘Kamal came up to me. Heard about my discovery. Don’t know how, man. Cat was big on urban exploring, said he wanted to dig further down.’

  ‘And you just let him?’

  ‘Didn’t see any problem with it, man. Cat goes down there and finds all the tunnels. Said the old platform’s gone, new line still there.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘I don’t know, man.’

  ‘You went from not knowing this guy to letting him camp out in your basement. Doesn’t ring true, does it?’

  Jackson chewed on his bottom lip.

  ‘Okay.’ Fenchurch got up, scraping the seat across the lino. ‘If there’s this big a gap in your tale, we’re done here.’

  ‘Sit down, man.’ Jackson let his head dip and waited until Fenchurch was seated again. ‘Kamal threatened me. Cat knew stuff about me.’

  ‘What sort of stuff?’

  ‘He knew about how I got my money to start me bar.’ Jackson sighed, eyes closed. ‘I used to sell ganja up in Hackney. I had enough Cheddar stuffed in my mattress to stop the dealing. Went cap in hand to a local gang and let them take my old patch. Bought the Central and everything’s skanking.’

  ‘Was Kamal your supplier?’

  Jackson shook his head. ‘He wasn’t, no. That relationship turned . . . messy, but I got out of there.’

  ‘Define messy.’

  ‘I turned up at his house to get some more product. Brother was dead.’

  ‘Did you kill him?’

  ‘No, man. I didn’t. Swear on my bar, man.’ Jackson grimaced. ‘But I checked he wasn’t dead, man. I touched him.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Honest John. All I knew him by.’

  Fenchurch frowned. Where did he know that from?

  ‘Honest John, man. What a guy.’ Jackson shrugged and gave a slight chuckle, lost to some romantic reminiscence. ‘Had his hydroponics, grew his ganja all over the place. Roundabouts, man.’

  ‘And Kamal knew about you finding his body?’

  ‘Months later, man. Kamal said the police were looking for me. Said my prints were everywhere. He’d go to the cops and say I killed him. Said that wouldn’t just be his word against mine. They had evidence. Cat’s very persuasive, man.’

  ‘So you just folded?’

  ‘I folded, man.’ Jackson swallowed back the tears. ‘Running the bar was my big hope. I had the dream for two years then Kamal took it away from me, exploited me.’

  ‘He moved in there two years ago?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘Did you ever go down there?’

  ‘No, man, I never went down. More than my life’s worth.’

  ‘And you just let his kids come and go through your bar?’

  ‘What choice did I have, man?’

  Fenchurch glanced at Reed. Didn’t see what else they could ask. ‘Will you testify in court?’

  ‘Kamal will say I killed Honest John, man. He’ll say I did it.’

  ‘We need to look into that.’ Fenchurch made a note on his Pronto. ‘If it does go away, will you testify?’

  ‘Even if it doesn’t go away, man.’

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Fenchurch stuck his phone to his ear and looked down the long corridor. Empty. Felt like he needed a new body. ‘Abi, that you?’

&nb
sp; The rumbling of a train. People chatting. The ping of an announcer.

  Fenchurch sighed into the mouthpiece. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Simon?’

  ‘Abi. Finally.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘You called me.’

  ‘Did I?’ A pause. ‘Shit, I bloody pocket-dialled again.’

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Just coming into Sevenoaks. Got stung for a whole seventeen quid return.’

  ‘That’s off-peak, love.’

  ‘It’s twenty-two peak.’

  ‘Right. You heading to see Pamela?’

  ‘Thought I might as well. You okay?’

  Fenchurch leaned against the wall and felt his lungs deflate. ‘We’re getting somewhere, love. That kid, he’s in custody.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. You fancy coming out once you’re finished?’

  ‘Let me see, okay?’ Fenchurch clocked Reed leaving the interview room. ‘Look, I’d better go, okay?’

  ‘Call me when you’re done.’

  ‘Be about half three next Tuesday.’

  ‘This is unreal, guv.’ Reed joined him leaning against the wall. ‘Can you believe what he was up to?’

  Fenchurch pocketed his mobile. ‘I can believe anything, Kay.’

  ‘We’re getting nowhere, guv.’

  ‘We’ve moved a little bit further forward, that’s progress.’ Fenchurch got out his Pronto and scanned through it. ‘That dealer he mentioned, the name’s bothering me. Can’t find it anywhere.’

  ‘What, Honest John?’

  ‘Do you recognise it?’

  ‘It was something Waheed was working on.’ She shut her eyes with a sigh. ‘Jesus.’

  Fenchurch reached over and took her hand. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Not really, guv.’ She brushed a tear away. ‘Still no word about him.’

  ‘You want to head to the hospital?’

  She shook her head. ‘I want to get to the bottom of this.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I’ll get Lisa checking into that Honest John thing, guv.’

  ‘Good idea.’ Fenchurch pointed at the three interview room doors. ‘Behind each of these doors is a young, murdering punk. Who should we tackle first?’

  ‘Kamal?’

  ‘Not so sure we should. Let him stew for a bit first.’

  ‘So Qasid?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘You killed someone, Lewis.’ Fenchurch cleared his throat and glared at Roofie. ‘Saskia Barnett. I was there, I saw it. You’re going to prison for that.’

  ‘No comment.’

  Same as it ever was. ‘That’s how you’re dealing with this?’

  ‘No comment.’

  Fenchurch got up and stormed over to the door. Legs on fire. ‘I’m going next door, Kay. See if Qasid’s interested in the deal.’

  Roofie just sniffed.

  Reed leaned over to the machine. ‘Interview terminated at—’

  Qasid was alone apart from the Custody Officer. He was slumped in the chair, playing with the toggles on his hoodie, staring into space and running a hand over his crow lines. He looked up at Fenchurch then down again. ‘Bitch.’

  Fenchurch sat opposite him. ‘Qasid, I need to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘Lawyer.’

  ‘You were found under the Central—’

  ‘Lawyer.’

  ‘I see.’ Fenchurch grunted as he got to his feet. ‘And who is your lawyer?’

  ‘You know his name, bitch. Dalton Unwin.’

  Fenchurch stopped in the corridor, trying to ignore the burning in his gut, and stopped a passing Custody Officer. ‘Is Unwin about?’

  The lump of pecs and gristle thumbed behind him, back down the corridor. ‘Getting a drink from the kitchen.’

  The bitter tang of machine coffee came from the end of the corridor, accompanied by a hissing and a booming voice resonating. Unwin’s, sounded like he was talking on a mobile.

  Fenchurch turned into the little nook. The machine dribbled out the last of its facsimile latte.

  Unwin looked up and pointed at the phone. He still wore his mod gear, the collar on his Fred Perry now upturned. ‘Yeah, we’ll have to pick up again tomorrow, Dave. The fascist empire are calling on my services.’ He stabbed at the screen and glared at Fenchurch. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Grab your coffee, you’ve got your first interview.’ He set off the way he’d come.

  From behind: ‘Whose human rights are you abusing this time?’

  Fenchurch stopped in the corridor and jabbed a finger at the Fred Perry wreath on Unwin’s shirt. ‘How many people are you repping, Dalton?’

  ‘I’ve got six here.’

  ‘How do you sleep at night?’

  Unwin sipped at his coffee, smirking over the rim. ‘Vodka, painkillers and a lot of tears.’

  ‘Well, we’ve magicked up Qasid Williams, no thanks to you, and we need him to cooperate. Can I trust you to help me out here?’

  ‘Not my business to help you.’

  ‘You know precisely what he’s been up to. And he’s guilty as hell, Dalton.’

  ‘They’re allegations, Inspector. Nothing’s been proven yet.’

  ‘Do I need to get a Legal Aid lawyer in here to replace you?’ Fenchurch left a long pause. Unwin didn’t fill it. ‘Because I will. When one of those kids starts spilling, and they will, how’s that going to look for you?’

  ‘So do it. See if I care.’

  Fenchurch held up his mobile. ‘I’ll just get the ball rolling, shall I?’

  ‘Let’s leave it as is.’ Unwin set off down the corridor and followed Reed into interview room four.

  Fenchurch joined them, pushing the door shut behind him.

  Qasid looked round at Unwin and held his hand up high, ready for a fist bump. ‘Dalton, my man.’

  Unwin bumped it and dropped his briefcase on the table. He started unpacking half of Ryman’s stock. ‘Have they been kind to you?’

  ‘Can’t complain, man.’

  Unwin’s pen scratching across the paper was the only sound in the room. He looked shell-shocked. Blinking a lot. His left arm propped up his head.

  Qasid slumped against the desk, forehead against the wood. Tears flowed down his cheeks, made him look like a little boy in the rain, lost and alone. ‘I ain’t done nothing, man.’

  ‘It’s not just my word against yours. We’ve got statements from other people in the park. There was a couple there. They had twin boys, aged five. Those kids saw what you did. That’ll be with them the rest of their lives.’

  Grown-up Qasid returned, steel covering his eyes and supporting his quivering jaw. ‘Not me, man.’

  ‘I saw you.’

  ‘Yeah, but you tol’ me you saw me kill that girl the other night, bruv. Wasn’t me, was it?’

  ‘We know who it was. Lewis Cole. You call him Roofie.’ Fenchurch leaned across the table. ‘You swapped places with him and tricked me. Tried to save him from prison. He’s in custody now, though. Your little plan didn’t work, did it?’

  Qasid smirked. ‘Think we all look alike, bruv?’

  ‘You look alike when you choose to, Qasid. You dressed the same and you pulled up your hood to hide your face. You and Lewis have the same physique, exact same skin colour. And I don’t mean you’re both black.’ Fenchurch waved a hand over at Unwin. ‘Your pigmentation is the same as your lawyer’s. Very different to Kamal’s, his is a lot lighter. Same with Clinton Jackson.’

  ‘Bored.’

  Cheeky little shit.

  ‘Here’s how I see it.’ Fenchurch sat back in his chair and folded his arms. ‘Kamal ordered Lewis to kill Saskia. He got you to support him in case anyone saw it. Problem is, he didn’t factor on a serving officer being there, did he?’

  ‘You got it all figured out, right? What help do you need from me?’

  ‘We can reunite you with your family, Qasid.’

  The little boy face returned. ‘What?’

  ‘We spoke to Lewis Cole’s father
yesterday morning. His parents are on their way in now.’ Fenchurch let every word hang there. Let Unwin intervene. Didn’t seem to want to. ‘We knew who he was from the prints on the knife. We can’t find you, though, Qasid. I assume you’ve got a family out there, though?’

  He just shrugged. ‘Like I care.’

  ‘I think you do care. You murdered Victor Morgan. Then you assaulted me. You’re going to prison, Qasid, for a long time.’

  ‘If you’re expecting me to help, bruv, this ain’t the right way to go about it.’

  Fenchurch drummed his thumbs on the table. ‘You live in an old underground station. You wear cheap trackie bottoms from Sports Direct. What are they, five quid a pair?’ He waited for a shrug. ‘Trouble is, you’re getting loads of cash for the killings. Why does Kamal live like that?’

  ‘Only just started that.’

  Unwin looked up from his note taking. ‘Please strike that from the record. My client means he’s only started on his answer.’

  ‘No, bruv. Cut it out.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Kamal’s branching out. Those were the first hits.’

  Unwin raised his hands. ‘You can’t say this, Qasid.’

  ‘Say what I like, bruv. Free country, innit?’

  ‘You won’t be free for much longer, though.’

  ‘Like I care. Cop here says I’m going on death row, man, what do I care?’

  ‘You’re not going on death row.’ Unwin sighed and shut his eyes. He dropped the pen onto the table. ‘Look, I advise you to keep your counsel.’

  ‘Keep my what?’

  ‘Never mind. Just don’t speak.’

  Qasid nodded at Fenchurch. ‘Sorry, man. We was just starting, eh?’

  ‘What’s your story, Qasid?’

  ‘Not an interesting one, man.’

  ‘Here’s a thing. When I spoke to Lewis’s father, he said someone abducted him from Walthamstow. This was two years ago. The day before, two kids were playing football with Lewis. I’m thinking one of them was Kamal and he took Lewis. It all ties together.’

  Qasid just shrugged.

  ‘Were you the other kid?’

  ‘Not me, man.’

  ‘How do I know that?’

  Snot bubbled in Qasid’s nose. He rubbed it away, smearing up his arm. ‘Because Roofie was already there when Kamal took me.’