Worth Killing For (A DI Fenchurch Novel Book 2)

by Ed James

  Yana Ikonnikova reclined on the left one, flicking through a magazine. Her black dress shimmered in the spotlights, a toned thigh crossed over the other leg. She sipped at an iced vodka. ‘Yevgeni, what is all this noise?’

  ‘Ms Ikonnikova, I need to have a word with you.’

  She looked up at Fenchurch, eyes wide. ‘You?’

  ‘Come on, ma’am. We’ll do this somewhere a bit less comfortable.’

  Fenchurch nodded at Reed, holding the station’s front door open for them, and pushed Yana inside. ‘Steve? Here’s another one for you.’

  The desk sergeant looked up from his computer terminal. He left the counter and limped over.

  ‘What’s up with you?’

  ‘Started a Metafit class at the gym last night. Absolutely broken myself.’

  ‘Better late than never, I suppose.’ Fenchurch let go of Yana’s wrist and let Steve take her. ‘Get her upstairs and get her lawyer in here, okay?’

  Steve nodded at one of the uniforms then followed Reed over to the counter. He tapped at his computer and snorted at the screen, running a finger along a line. ‘There’s a Giles Langerman upstairs for you, guv.’

  ‘Who’s he when he’s at home?’

  ‘Looking after some Russian. Yana something.’

  Fenchurch shook his head. ‘That was bloody quick.’ He nodded at Reed, then started up the staircase. ‘I’m fed up of psychic lawyers, Kay.’

  ‘Must’ve been what those muscle boys were up to when you were making sure Yevgeni couldn’t breed.’

  Giles Langerman looked like he’d been built at the same factory as Yana’s security guards. Tall, shaven head, dark suit, red tie and he worked out, big time. He just failed on the accent — lisping Oxbridge RP instead of pinched Slavic. ‘I ask you to respect my client’s wishes and accept her statement. She has no knowledge of the crimes and misdemeanours these allegations pertain to.’

  Fenchurch switched his gaze to Yana, picking at something stuck between her teeth. ‘During her work, Saskia Barnett discovered a few items I’d like to discuss with your client. Let’s start with your charitable foundation, shall we?’

  ‘My father, God rest his soul, said we can’t exist in isolation. No man is an island, yes?’ Yana dabbed at her eyes. ‘He set up the foundation to help improve this city in the right way. To help communities come to terms with progress.’

  ‘I think I know how you’re doing it.’ Reed pulled out a sheet of paper, the product of Nelson’s activities with the City cops that evening, and pushed the page across the table. ‘We’ve found a series of payments made to councillors in the borough of Islington from a company called Purple Heron.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘You denying knowledge of it?’

  ‘I just can’t understand your accent. Is it Australian?’

  ‘Essex.’

  ‘Let’s try it differently, then, shall we? Purple Heron is co-owned by your charitable foundation.’

  Yana gave a loose-shouldered shrug, eyes staring into space. Like she had a million and one better places to be, that this was a mere hindrance.

  ‘My client’s position as CEO means she’s not party to the deepest workings of the business.’ Langerman smoothed down the lapel of his suit jacket. ‘She can’t be expected to have knowledge of all the activities undertaken by the myriad businesses under her purview.’

  ‘Ms Ikonnikova, how close are you with Guy Eustace?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know who he is.’

  Yana flicked her hair again. She fluttered her eyelashes, puckered her lips. ‘Guy’s a businessman. Made a lot of money in property, like I have. We want to give back to the community so we work together with our charities, yes?’

  ‘That’s very noble of you.’ Fenchurch fetched another sheet of paper from the pile on his leather document pouch. ‘You co-own Purple Heron with him. It looks like a holding company for the flats on City Road? Buxton Court?’

  She glanced over at Langerman. Even he didn’t have anything to add.

  ‘Our understanding is the pair of you plan to tear the whole lot down and rebuild them.’ Fenchurch gave a thin-lipped smile, showing his teeth. ‘The only fly in the ointment is a left-wing council who want to build more social housing, maybe even buy back ex-council stock. Their problem is they’re deadlocked with their more monetarist colleagues. So you and Eustace hatched a plan. Pay them off and you swing the vote in your favour.’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Are you sure you just want to leave it like that? It’s a fairly strong accusation. If it was me, I’d be denying the hell out of that one.’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘That your final answer?’

  ‘Inspector.’ Langerman steepled his fingers on the desk. ‘My client wishes to remain silent, as is her right.’

  Fenchurch nodded slowly, casually dragging his gaze from Langerman back to Yana. ‘Ms Ikonnikova, why are you killing people?’

  She spluttered. ‘Excuse me?’

  Reed drilled her eyes into Yana, practically head butting her. ‘Come on, we know you had Saskia Barnett and Victor Morgan killed.’

  Langerman waved a hand at the pile next to Fenchurch, eyes open wide. ‘Can I see the evidence, please?’

  Fenchurch ignored him. ‘The way I see it, if anyone gets in your way, Ms Ikonnikova, you smite them down. Saskia Barnett on Thursday night. Victor Morgan this morning.’

  ‘Evidence, please.’

  ‘You use a gang of black youths to do it. That about right?’

  ‘Can I see this evidence, Inspector?’

  Yana hung her head low. ‘No comment.’

  ‘How do you get in touch with Kamal?’

  Her head jerked up. ‘Who?’

  ‘You know who he is. He’s the leader of this little gang you pay to bump people off. Nasty piece of work by all accounts.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Langerman put a hand in front of Yana, trying to shush her. ‘I really need to see your evidence.’

  Fenchurch leaned forward. ‘Just shut up and let your client speak. Okay?’ He glared at Yana. ‘Saskia and Victor were both murdered. Why? Just so you can make another few quid from throwing up some dodgy flats?’

  ‘Inspector, you’ve got nothing on my client.’ Langerman was getting to his feet, fingers splayed on the desk. ‘I suggest you stop this charade now.’ He fiddled with a cufflink. ‘I have to return to my offices and arrange for a formal complaint to go to the Met Commissioner this evening. I’d appreciate it if you could wrap this up tout de suite.’

  Fenchurch stood up and did up his jacket. Looked straight into Langerman’s eyes. ‘She’s going to remain in custody until I get to the bottom of this, okay?’

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Fenchurch dumped his jacket on his office desk and collapsed into his chair. It swung back and his stomach lurched. Some bastard had flipped the catch off. He sighed and reached down to adjust it. ‘Where does that leave us, Kay?’

  Reed was shutting the door, pissing herself laughing. ‘Want me to get her for knackering your seat, as well?’

  ‘Fiver says it’s bloody Clooney.’ Fenchurch tried it again — still not quite right. Another notch. There we go. ‘Here’s what I still don’t get, Kay. Why did she kill Victor now?’

  Reed sat opposite the desk and crossed her legs. ‘This newspaper story, maybe.’ She picked the supplement up and flicked through it. ‘Victor Morgan published a story about Eustace kicking this Muslim girl in Dubai. Maybe he arranged it, not her.’

  Fenchurch started scanning through to the story about Eustace. ‘That’s out there already, Kay. Killing him now means it’s the stuff still to come.’

  ‘Liam Sharpe didn’t have anything, did he?’

  ‘No, he didn’t.’ Fenchurch stared at the window, like it could show what they needed to do next. ‘You think it’s this property on City Road and those bungs?’

  ‘Must be millions l
ocked up in that deal.’

  Fenchurch perched on the edge of the desk and pinched his nose. ‘Assuming she’s behind all this, we’ve got this big gap between her and the killers. It’s like money laundering.’

  Reed nodded. ‘Murder laundering.’

  ‘There’s absolutely no evidence linking her to this, other than the circumstantial shit we’ve got.’ Fenchurch shook his head. ‘It’s a bloody mess in a monkey shop.’

  ‘A what?’

  A knock on the door. Bridge stood there with Liam, the pair of them looking like an advert for a unisex hipster hairdresser. ‘Sarge?’

  Reed couldn’t rouse herself. ‘What’s up, Lisa?’

  ‘Been going through the call records, like you asked.’ Bridge dumped her laptop and phone on the desk then handed her a sheet of paper. ‘Yana’s calls are clean, same with her guys.’

  ‘Figures.’ Reed put the page down again. ‘And Eustace?’

  ‘Doesn’t even have a phone.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I didn’t believe it either, so we asked him.’

  Liam bunched his face up. ‘He says the EU surveillance state is monitoring important men like him.’

  ‘Where does he get off?’

  ‘Saturn, I think.’ Liam held up a document. ‘I found this among Sas’s stuff. She got a freedom of information request from Eustace’s office. His appointment book. We’ve been going through it and one thing jumped out at us. 12/11/2014, Hayden.’

  ‘What do you bloody mean I can’t see him?’ Fenchurch shook his head, hands on hips. ‘Do you know what’s at stake here?’

  The matron gave an unblinking stare. Five seconds, ten. ‘I remember what you did the other day.’ She thumbed behind her at the closed door. ‘We’ve just got poor Hayden’s blood pressure back under control.’

  ‘You know what he’s done? Who he’s working for?’

  ‘Not my concern, officer.’

  ‘He’s been murdering people. I need to see him.’

  ‘Look, if you want to speak to the lad, you need to clear it with the doctor.’ She checked her watch, sighing. ‘He’ll be on duty in half an hour.’

  ‘Fine. Where’s his office?’

  ‘Not so fast.’ She raised a finger. ‘It has to come through DI Bell.’

  ‘Simon, you know the score, don’t you?’ Bell’s voice sounded even worse down the phone line. ‘Besides, it’s bath night.’

  Fenchurch pushed his free hand on the barrier and stared out of the window. London lay in darkness, disconnected lights glowing in the evening sky. ‘String, I need your help here. We’re onto something big.’

  ‘You always are, Si. Still can’t help.’

  ‘Jason, I need your help here.’

  ‘Not often you call me by my real name.’

  ‘Shows how desperate I am.’

  A sigh distorted the phone line. ‘Right. I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Cheers.’ The line was already dead.

  Reed was checking her Airwave, sipping on a tea. He caught her eye. ‘Guv?’

  ‘He’s on his way in.’ Fenchurch wandered over and picked up his cup from the table. ‘How’s Waheed?’

  ‘Not good, guv.’ She took a sip and grimaced. ‘Doc says we should be able to get in there in five minutes.’

  ‘Right.’ Fenchurch had a glug of tea. Tasted like chicken soup. Wouldn’t be having another one.

  Reed finished her drink and dumped the plastic cup in the bin. ‘That stuff with Kamal taking kids, you okay with it?’

  ‘Why do you think that, Kay?’

  ‘It’s close to what happened to—’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with Chloe, Kay. She’s gone. Whatever happened to her, it just happened. It’s horrible and it’s wrecked our lives, but we’ve got to move on.’

  ‘Sorry to bring it up.’

  ‘It’s fine, Kay. Glad someone’s looking out for me.’

  A doctor appeared, clutching a tablet computer tight to his white coat. He smiled at Reed. ‘Inspector?’

  ‘That’s him.’ She thumbed at Fenchurch. ‘I’m just a Sergeant.’

  ‘Right, of course.’ The doctor tapped at his tablet, frowning. ‘Blasted things. Prefer clipboards. Anyway, Mr Lad is out of surgery and is awake.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘He’s recovering from a general anaesthetic, Inspector. But he’s survived a potentially fatal accident.’ He waved at the door. ‘You can see him just now, if you wish.’ He held the door open for them.

  ‘Thanks.’ Fenchurch followed Reed into the room.

  Waheed lay on the bed, covers pulled up to his chin. His eyes were shut and his mouth was obscured by a mask. A tube stretched over to a ventilator.

  Reed sat on the chair next to the bed. Her smile inverted to a frown. ‘Shit.’

  Fenchurch clocked it. His stomach lurched.

  Waheed’s right arm was just a stump, severed halfway up the bicep and covered in thick bandaging.

  Jesus Christ. Fenchurch struggled to get his breathing under control, panting like a clapped-out lab. He glared at the doctor. ‘Why didn’t you say?’

  ‘Sorry, I thought you knew.’ The doctor frowned at Reed. ‘I thought DI Mulholland here would’ve told you?’

  ‘I’m DS Reed.’ She brushed a hand across her forehead.

  ‘Right, yes, of course. DI Mulholland took Mrs Lad to the canteen for a break.’

  ‘How is he?’ Fenchurch’s throat felt raw, even rawer than chasing a gang leader down a train tunnel.

  The doctor peered at his tablet. ‘Mr Lad has broken six ribs, his femur, and we had to perform a trans-humeral amputation on his arm. And that’s getting off lightly, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘He’ll be in here a while.’

  The door slid open. An Indian woman in her late twenties stood there, frowning. Her eyes were ringed with deep pools of black. ‘Who the hell are you?’

  Fenchurch tried for a benevolent smile, his forehead creasing in a painful way. ‘Mrs Lad?’

  ‘That’s right. I asked who you were?’ Cut-glass accent, voice full of steel.

  ‘Noopoor, this is DI Fenchurch.’ Mulholland breezed into the room, scarf-less for once. ‘He is your husband’s line manager.’

  ‘You.’ Noopoor lashed out with a hand, slapping Fenchurch’s cheek. Sounded like a drumstick on a snare. Felt like she’d tore open the skin. ‘You did this to him!’

  Fenchurch dabbed at his face. ‘Your husband acted heroically, Mrs Lad. He caught a multiple murderer.’

  ‘You see what you’ve done to him! You’ve made him like this! He won’t be able to work!’

  ‘He’ll be taken care of.’ Fenchurch hovered his hand in the air, unsure whether to try and stroke her arm. ‘I’m truly, truly sorry for what’s—’

  ‘Get out.’ Noopoor pointed at the door, her hand shaking. ‘Get out!’

  Mulholland gripped Fenchurch’s bicep, her talons tightening around a patch of bruises. ‘Simon, you should leave her in peace.’

  ‘Mrs Lad, I’m sorry.’ Fenchurch bowed his head and left the room. He powered off down the corridor, wishing the lino could swallow him whole. He brushed past a nurse and stopped by the lifts. Hammered the button for the ground floor.

  ‘Guv, you okay?’ Reed caught up with Fenchurch and started massaging his arm.

  ‘I’m pretty bloody far from okay. This is my fault.’

  ‘You said he ran off, guv. That’s not your fault.’

  ‘It’s the sort of shit I’d do, though, right? Cowboy shit.’

  ‘You’re not a cowboy, guv, you just care.’

  ‘He’s lost his bloody arm because of me.’

  ‘And he knew the risks. It’s not your fault. If it’s anyone’s, it’s his.’

  Fenchurch rubbed his forehead, felt like he was growing scales over the skin. ‘Doesn’t make it any easier.’

  His Airwave chimed out. He scanned the display. Bell. ‘I better take this, Kay.’ He wandered over to
the window, the first spots of rain starting to appear. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Simon, it’s Jason Bell. I’m on my way. I’ve got the doctor’s approval to speak to Hayden.’

  Hayden had bunched up the bedsheets between his fingers, almost tugging them off the bed. ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about, man.’

  ‘Bollocks you don’t.’ Fenchurch got up and put a knee on the bed. ‘You were Kamal’s lieutenant, weren’t you? Helped him abduct kids off the street, assimilate them into your gang.’

  ‘Who tol’ you that?’

  ‘I’m not going to tell you.’ Fenchurch looked behind him. Reed was guarding the door, stopping anyone getting in with them. ‘Kamal is finished, okay? He’s being done for murder.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This whole gig is over. We’re onto you. If I were you, I’d give it up now. I need you to help us here.’ Fenchurch leaned over the boy. ‘One of my officers has lost an arm because of Kamal.’

  ‘So? Why should I care.’ He lifted a shoulder. ‘So glad I’m not you. You’s nowhere.’

  ‘You’re the one who’s got nowhere to go, other than prison. It’s all over. We’re charging you with phone theft, you know about that. But now we’ve got evidence linking you to murder, kidnapping, entrapment and a whole host of other crimes. Twenty years is what you’re looking at. Add conspiracy on and it’ll be double that. Wave goodbye to good behaviour, not that I expect it from you.’

  Hayden swallowed. ‘You offering me something, pig?’

  ‘Give me Kamal and we’ll see what we can do.’

  ‘No, man.’

  ‘Kamal can’t protect you any more. You need to give him up.’

  Hayden dug his heels into his eye sockets. He coughed. Hard, like his lungs were going to come up. Then nodded. ‘What you want to know?’

  ‘Guy Eustace called you up just over a year ago.’

  ‘Right. Coke.’

  ‘Cocaine?’

  ‘Give the man a hand.’ Hayden rolled his eyes. ‘He call me up about some coke. He was having a party or something. Needed forty grams in a hurry, heard I could get it. This was what me and Kamal were doing at the time. Gave it all up.’