Worth Killing For (A DI Fenchurch Novel Book 2)

by Ed James

  ‘I just want to help.’

  ‘Do you want a lawyer?’

  ‘You want to hear or what?’

  Fenchurch let out a breath. ‘Please.’

  ‘Then start that tape, man.’

  Reed hit the recorder’s button and leaned forward. ‘Interview recommenced at sixteen thirty-six. Dalton Unwin has left the room.’

  ‘This is just shit I hear, man. Might not be true.’ Lewis patted down his cornrows, a mirror image of Qasid’s except for the seashell spiral by the ear. ‘Kamal used to be Mandem up in Tottenham. Big guys. Got into some shit, though. They after him, say he a dead man. This is his stab at freedom. Building up a gang of us so we’d take them out. Trained us with knives.’ His face was as red as his skin colour would let it. ‘He’s brutal, man. Nobody could beat him. Always armed. Seen him kill six brothers.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Fenchurch gave him a nod. ‘Andrew Smith, right.’

  ‘Right.’ Lewis leaned forward. ‘That’s his name. Andrew Smith. Grew up in Harlow.’

  ‘In Essex?’

  ‘You know another one, man?’

  ‘Why Kamal?’

  ‘Andrew Smith sound gangster to you?’

  ‘When did this falling out happen?’

  ‘Five years ago, maybe more. He been on the run so long, man. So long.’

  ‘Tell me about when he abducted you.’

  ‘This was two years ago. May, I think. We were playing football. Arsenal versus Chelsea, you know?’

  Fenchurch shrugged. ‘I’m West Ham.’

  ‘Man, I love West Ham.’ Lewis smacked his right hand’s fingers off his left palm. ‘So we was playing in the street. Then Kamal and this kid turned up. Hayden.’

  Fenchurch frowned. ‘Did you say Hayden?’

  ‘Sure. He was Kamal’s right-hand man. When you ask me about who’s his lieutenant, Hayden was one of them. Nasty man. Ain’t seen the brother in a few weeks, know what I’m saying? Kamal must’ve got him.’

  ‘No, I know precisely where he is. I’ll need you to identify him.’

  ‘I can do that.’

  ‘So what did Kamal say when you were playing football?’

  ‘He say he’d get me an iPhone 5S, man. That’s like eight hundred quid.’

  ‘So you joined his gang for a mobile?’

  ‘I said no.’ Lewis nibbled at his bottom lip. ‘But he took me, anyway.’

  ‘Kidnapped you?’

  ‘Said I couldn’t go back. Said he’d kill my mum and my dad if I didn’t steal a phone for him. Took it from some chump by Leather Lane, this big ponce in a suit just coming out of an office.’ Lewis rubbed at his eye. ‘Kamal, he videoed it man. Had my hood down. Said if I ever ran my mouth, he’d send the video to the police.’

  ‘You’ve done a lot worse now.’

  Lewis rolled his shoulders. ‘Didn’t got no choice, man.’

  ‘Everyone’s got a choice. You could’ve just run away.’

  ‘You don’t understand, man. Two days ago, Kamal killed a kid who just spoke to his folks to let them know he was okay. Stabbed him right there. Twenty times, man. Said if anyone did the same, we’d be dead men. And our families be dead, too.’

  ‘Where’s the body?’

  Lewis sniffed. ‘Under the tarp in the tunnel.’

  Reed got up and left the room, slamming the door behind her.

  ‘How many kids are in this gang, Lewis?’

  ‘Twenty. Twenty-five. Kamal brings new ones in all the time.’

  ‘We only found five of you, six including Kamal. Where are the rest of them?’

  ‘I don’t know, man. He kept it a secret from us. We worked in teams, five or six. I never went anywhere else, man.’

  ‘But Hayden was one of the leaders?’

  ‘Damn straight, man.’

  Reed came back into the room and whispered in his ear: ‘The uniform at the Central found that body, guv. Dead a couple of days, by the looks of things.’

  Fenchurch focused on Lewis, rubbing a finger across his eyebrows. Poor kid never had a chance. The odds were stacked so hard against him from the moment he was born until he stabbed Saskia Barnett. A chain of events he had little or no control over. Taken from his home and forced to do what he was doing now.

  Fenchurch felt tears form behind his sinuses, sting at his nostrils. Not now.

  Not. Now.

  ‘Did Kamal order you to murder Saskia?’

  ‘He did, man.’ Lewis splayed his hands on the table, pale palms facing up. ‘Said just kill the bitch. I didn’t ask who she was. Tol’ me to grab her phone and bag.’ He nodded at Fenchurch. ‘Then you chased after me. Hit me with your car, man.’ He rubbed at his leg. ‘Still sore. Feels like . . .’ He grinned. ‘Like you ran a car into it.’

  ‘How did you give me the slip?’

  ‘You a lot older than me, man. It was easy. Qasid met me at the end of the street. You followed him. I got away.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I jumped into the canal. People say black kids can’t swim. I was a champion in my school, man. Love swimming. Love it.’

  ‘You tossed her bag, didn’t you?’

  ‘Sure, man. Threw it into the canal.’

  ‘You missed.’

  ‘Damn.’

  ‘What did you do with her phone?’

  ‘Took it to Kamal. Same as the little thing.’ Lewis held his fingers a few centimetres apart. ‘Little thing for computers.’

  ‘A thumb drive?’ Fenchurch reached into his pocket for his keys and held it up by the USB flash drive. ‘Like this?’

  ‘Sure. One of them.’

  ‘What did Kamal do with the phone?’

  ‘He got it unlocked. Don’t know how. Next thing I know, man, he asks me to break into this kid’s flat.’

  ‘Liam Sharpe?’

  ‘Never got his name. Hipster. Looked like he run a coffee shop.’

  ‘Did Kamal say why?’

  ‘You never asks why.’

  ‘But it was after he saw what was on her phone?’

  ‘Said something about some texts this girl sent to him. Didn’t ask, he didn’t tell.’

  ‘What happened to the flash drive?’

  ‘Burned it when I destroyed the laptop in the park. Hit it with a hammer.’

  Fenchurch stood up and stretched out. Seemed like everything. ‘Thanks for that.’

  ‘What do I get for that?’

  ‘You’re going to go to prison for murder, Lewis. There’s no way round it, I’m afraid. I can put in a good word with people I know and see what we can do. It might mean a reduced sentence, you never know.’

  ‘Appreciate it, man.’

  Fenchurch leaned over to the mic. ‘Interview terminated at sixteen thirty-seven.’

  Fenchurch poured hot water on the teabags and let them sit. ‘When we were up in Scotland just after Christmas, you had to mash the teabag against the side of the mug for bloody ages.’

  ‘Weird.’ Reed plonked the milk on the counter in the canteen area. ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Soft water or something. No lime in it.’ Fenchurch took the bags out and dumped them in the bin. Then poured in some milk, just a spit in Reed’s. ‘There you go.’

  ‘Cheers.’ She held it up to her nose and let the steam waft up. ‘You okay, guv?’

  ‘Things are starting to come together, Kay. We know Kamal ordered her death.’

  ‘Still missing the why, though.’

  ‘This USB stick, though.’ Fenchurch shut his eyes, practically pulled his forehead down to his cheeks. ‘That can’t be why she was killed, can it?’

  ‘Kamal told Lewis to take it and it ended up burnt next to her laptop. It’s got to be connected.’

  Fenchurch got out his mobile and hit a button. He got in before it was answered. ‘Liam, it’s Fenchurch.’

  ‘Right. Was that stuff any use?’

  ‘Very useful. Thanks.’ Fenchurch wrapped a hand around his mug, almost searing the skin. ‘Do you know anything about a USB drive
Saskia was carrying?’

  ‘You asked me about this when you accused me of lying about the laptop.’

  ‘We think it might be why she was killed.’

  ‘Shit.’ A pause. ‘Oh, shitty bollocks. Bugger.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Meet me at her old man’s house.’

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Fenchurch knocked on the door and took a step back. A light glowed in the townhouse’s upstairs. ‘This better bloody lead to something.’

  The door opened and Hugo Barnett peered out. His musketeer facial hair was drowning in a sea of stubble. His dapper attire had given way to the sort of red tracksuit a seventies Liverpool manager would’ve worn. He gave a curt nod and spun on his heel. ‘In you come.’

  Fenchurch let Reed enter first. In the wide hall, the table was covered in pizza boxes. A couple of half-drunk whisky bottles lay on the parquet. ‘How are you coping, sir?’

  ‘How do you think I’m coping? My daughter’s been killed by some black scumbag. How the hell am I supposed to cope with that?’ Hugo had to rest a hand against the sitting room door. Alcohol fumes wafted off him. ‘What’s going on? Why are you here?’

  ‘Liam said he’d meet us here, sir.’

  Hugo bellowed up the stairs: ‘Liam? It’s the police.’ He shrugged at them.

  ‘Do you mind if we go up?’

  Hugo frowned at a bottle, then smiled at it as if he’d just met an old friend. ‘Be my guest.’ He picked up the bottle and went into the living room.

  Reed started up the staircase, the boards crunching under her feet. The cream paintwork was glowing in the late afternoon sun. ‘Poor guy. Can’t even begin to . . .’ She stopped halfway and screwed up her face. ‘Shit, sorry.’

  ‘You don’t have to tread on eggshells all the time, Kay.’

  ‘Just most of the time, right?’ Reed marched up to the first-floor landing. A clatter came from a room at the end of a long hall. She stomped off towards it. ‘Liam?’

  A small girl’s bedroom, the pink walls filled with Hannah Montana and Justin Bieber posters. In the middle was a double bed with plain white sheets, dimpling around a silver laptop. At the far side, a dresser was groaning under the weight of makeup and piles of paperwork.

  Someone was rooting around under the bed. Tight jeans giving the Billericay smile.

  ‘Liam?’

  He crawled out and nodded. ‘There you are.’ He was carrying a treasure chest, the sort of thing a pirate would have stuffed with gold. ‘This is a long shot, but . . .’ He reached into his pocket for a key. ‘Sas used to stick important stuff in here. Completely forgot about it until you mentioned that thumb drive.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Let’s see.’ Liam twisted the key in the lock and opened it, like that elf kid in that game Chloe used to play. Zelda or something. He picked out her passport and some paperwork. Then froze. ‘Shit.’ He held something up. ‘This look like it?’

  Fenchurch squinted at it. Another USB stick. ‘The one we found was burned to a crisp.’

  ‘Right, right.’ Liam sprang to his feet and grabbed the silver MacBook, stuffing the drive in the side. ‘Let’s have a look at this, shall we?’

  Fenchurch wasn’t going to stop him — he’d know what he was looking for. ‘What’s it got on it?’

  ‘A spreadsheet.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  Liam tapped the trackpad then his eyes darted around the screen. ‘Holy crap.’ He swivelled the computer around.

  Didn’t mean anything to Fenchurch. ‘What is it?’

  Reed picked it up and stared at the data. ‘These names . . . They’re all councillors.’ She handed the laptop to Fenchurch. ‘Look, they’re all in Islington.’

  ‘Shit.’ Fenchurch scanned through the list as best his eyes would let him. The last column read: ‘Ms Hughes made no comment as to the source of the donation. [NOTE — Forensic accountant might be useful here]’

  ‘I don’t get it.’ Fenchurch dumped the laptop on the bed. ‘She found evidence of corruption. Why not publish it?’

  Liam sat next to the computer, roughing up the pristine sheet. ‘Sas went to a few Islington council meetings. She said they were tied on a big issue at the moment. There’s a proposal to shift people out of the flats on Buxton Court.’

  Fenchurch frowned — where he’d collared Qasid the first time. ‘On City Road, right?’

  ‘That’s the badger. They want to move them all over the borough. Up to Highbury, a few houses over this way.’ Liam flicked through to the last page. ‘Sas had spoken to some of the councillors who were against it. They reckoned some business had bought it up.’

  ‘And you think this is who paid them?’

  Liam tapped the screen. ‘Look at the size of those bungs. That’s over two hundred grand. Each.’

  Fenchurch nodded. ‘I take it this is from the developers?’

  ‘Got to be.’ Liam scowled at the display, fingers doing double time on the trackpad. ‘The name Purple Heron is all over this.’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Something I spotted in her documents.’ Liam collapsed back onto the bed, knees bent together. ‘If I remember right, Sas checked it out but it’s one of those businesses hidden behind loads of shell companies.’

  ‘And she never found out who owned it?’

  Liam shut the laptop’s lid and tapped it. ‘Victor never got funding for the forensic accountant.’

  Fenchurch dialled Nelson’s number. ‘Jon, can you look into something for me?’

  The Incident Room was empty. Most of them must still be up at the park. Nelson was prowling around the area near the whiteboard, chatting to two DCs.

  ‘Jon.’

  Nelson waved off his colleagues and wandered over, a laptop under his arm. ‘Mulholland’s doing my bloody head in, guv.’

  Fenchurch rolled his eyes and leaned against a desk. ‘You getting anywhere?’

  ‘Sort of.’ Nelson opened the laptop and held it up, just far enough that Fenchurch could make out some of the text. ‘Here you go, guv. Had to pull a few strings with the City police but we traced those bribes to a UK limited company.’

  Fenchurch scanned down the screen. ‘This is all very impressive but we need to know who bloody owns it.’

  ‘That’s going to be a bit harder. Steve’s checking for me.’ Nelson switched to another tab. ‘Good news, though, is their registered office is in Canary Wharf.’

  Canary Wharf was deadly quiet, Sunday evening pretty much the quietest it would ever get.

  Reed followed two uniformed officers inside, one of them lugging an Enforcer. ‘Thought this place turned into a pumpkin on a Friday night, guv.’

  Fenchurch pushed the door shut behind him. ‘Place is a bloody disaster, Kay.’

  A series of business logos were etched onto the wall above a glass reception desk. Look at one from the right angle and it was a purple heron.

  Space for only one receptionist. Two leather couches against the walls, coffee tables filled with Finance-y magazines and Friday’s FT. The window at the end overlooked the Thames, a thin slice of the Isle of Dogs just visible. His old flat was just below, a couple of city playboys no doubt smashing the place up, doing coke and God knows what else. The O2 sat in the distance, like someone had planted an alien jellyfish on Greenwich. It’d been years since he’d seen what was left of Led Zep play there.

  ‘Guv!’ Reed was by the reception area, footsteps echoing around the vast space, waving the warrant around.

  Fenchurch charged over.

  A security guard tugged at his bulbous nose, the skin red and cracked. Looked like it was fighting a losing battle against its owner’s whisky habit. ‘What are you lot after?’

  Fenchurch gave a flash of his warrant card. ‘Looking to speak to someone in Purple Heron?’

  The guard thumbed behind him. ‘Right. Nobody’s in, not that there ever is, mind.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It
’s a front address. Most of them in here are the same. Lucrative business, not that I get a cut of it.’ He did a big tug at his nose. ‘One of the banks owns it, I think. Purple Heron rents a unit from them.’

  ‘Whose name’s on the lease?’

  The guard sniffed. ‘I’d need to check on that, sir.’

  ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘Right you are.’ The guard unlocked a computer and dragged the mouse around half of the desk. Another sniff. Then some single-finger typing, his left hand scanning around the keyboard for the correct letter, his right not shifting. He hit return and squinted at the monitor, moving closer to it. ‘Something called “Purple Heron 2015 Ltd” owns that suite, sir.’

  ‘I asked for the name.’

  ‘That’s all I’ve got on them, sir. Other than some number. Code for something, God knows what.’

  ‘Let me see that.’ Fenchurch swivelled the screen round and jotted the number down. ‘Back in a sec, Kay.’ He grabbed his Airwave and trotted away from the desk. He dialled Nelson.

  ‘Jon, it’s a dead letter drop.’

  ‘Guv, can I call you back?’

  ‘Are you with your mate in the City police yet?’

  ‘That’s why I need to call you back. DI Clarke’s come in especially and we’re busy with— Just a sec, guv.’ The line went dead for a few seconds then Nelson cleared his throat. ‘There are two owners, guv. Both companies. One is “Dubai Investments (UK) Ltd”. Just checking into them now.’

  ‘I’ve not got all day, Jon.’

  ‘Nothing I can do here, guv.’ Seconds that seemed to last for hours. ‘Here we go. The owner is one Guy Eustace.’

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Fenchurch hammered the horn again and wound down the window to get a better view. A voice boomed out further down Upper Street, cannoning off the buildings. Either through a megaphone or a PA, Fenchurch couldn’t tell. He checked his phone — still nothing from Nelson. ‘Bollocks to this.’ He pulled in and mounted the pavement. Then got out, leaving his Mondeo in among the stalled traffic, and stormed off.

  Reed jogged after him, struggling to keep pace. ‘Guv, wait!’