by Ed James
ALSO BY ED JAMES
DI FENCHURCH SERIES
The Hope That Kills
Worth Killing For
What Doesn’t Kill You
In for the Kill
DC SCOTT CULLEN CRIME SERIES
Ghost in the Machine
Devil in the Detail
Fire in the Blood
Dyed in the Wool
Bottleneck
Windchill
Cowboys and Indians
DS DODDS CRIME SERIES
Snared
CRAIG HUNTER CRIME SERIES
Missing
Hunted
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2018 by Ed James
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503948013
ISBN-10: 1503948013
Cover design by @blacksheep-uk.com
Contents
Day 1
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Day 2
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Day 3
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Monday
Chapter Fifty
About the Author
Day 1
Saturday, 9th September 2017
Chapter One
There, there, there.’ DI Simon Fenchurch picked his son up from the cot, stuffed with too many cuddly toys, and hugged him tight. ‘Hey, my little man.’
Baby Al. The name hurt now his namesake was dead. Eight months old, two of them premature. Did that mean they didn’t count? Was that the root of the problem?
He kissed the boy’s perfect head and breathed his smell deep into his lungs.
Baby Al coughed hard, like he was tearing his lungs apart. Then again, and again. The antiseptic reek of the hospital came back.
Fenchurch felt his stomach roll and he held Baby Al out. ‘Can you take him, love?’
‘He might need a feed.’ Abi took him, cradling him in her arms as he coughed yet again. She didn’t say anything, just whispered sweet nothings to her son, still coughing. Her cheeks were still puffed up, her dark hair cut short, just the right side of severe. Made her look elfin, maybe. She started undoing the buttons on her black blouse then unhooked the left side of her bra.
Fenchurch reached out and stroked the baby’s soft cheek. Even got a tiny smile for his trouble. ‘I just want him to have a night at home.’
‘I know.’ Abi flared her nostrils as she let Baby Al latch on to her nipple, supporting his body with one arm, his head with the other. ‘I want to raise him after everything that happened with Chloe. I want him home with us until he sods off to university.’
‘That’s a long time away.’
Abi grinned wide. ‘You’ll be an old man by then.’
‘And you’ll be—’
The door swept open and Stephenson, Baby Al’s doctor, charged in, his forehead knotted like someone had tightened it too hard with a wrench. Everything about the man was grey, from his suit and shirt to the complexion of his skin, just his white coat deviating from the party line. He stopped and seemed to realise where he was. His forehead slackened off as he caught sight of Baby Al sucking away. ‘Ah, that’s a good sign.’
‘He tires so quickly, though.’ Whoever was doing the tightening now went to work on Abi’s forehead, dragging her eyebrows down in the middle. She pulled Baby Al away and tucked her breast back in her bra. ‘See? That’s him done now and he only just started.’
‘Well.’ Stephenson let his shoulders go, his arms hanging lank at his sides. ‘We’ve got the results back and . . . I’m afraid that the news isn’t positive.’
Fenchurch clenched his fists. ‘You told us he was getting better.’
‘I told you I thought that there was a chance that he might be getting better. That’s not the same as getting better. And him tiring while—’
‘You need to find out what’s—’
‘Simon.’ Abi flared her nostrils again, then gave a professional smile as she handed Baby Al to Stephenson. ‘What’s happened?’
‘To put it bluntly, the catheter procedure didn’t take.’ Stephenson sat on the chair and rested Al on his chest. ‘The tissue is supposed to grow over the closure device and, well, it hasn’t. Baby Al still has a hole in his heart.’
Fenchurch felt his skin tingle. Wanted to grab the baby and run off, far away to somewhere this shit wasn’t happening, where everything was okay and he was teaching Al to kick a football and drink his first beer, and meeting his future wife and . . .
Abi’s face was curled up, tears welling in her eyes.
Fenchurch went over and held her, shielding her from Stephenson and his bad news. ‘What options do we have?’
‘The good news is there are still some.’ Stephenson stared deep into Baby Al’s eyes and grinned. ‘As it stands, the hole in his heart isn’t shrinking like we’d hoped.’
‘It’s getting bigger?’
‘Potentially. The mere presence of the closure device makes it somewhat challenging to identify just how large the, ah, hole is.’
‘Is there any other surgery we can try?’
‘The, ah, particular way in which his heart hasn’t regrown makes surgery somewhat more challenging.’
Fenchurch’s skin tingled again, like ants were crawling up his spine. ‘He’s going to die?’
Stephenson was jiggling Baby Al up and down, sticking out his bottom lip. Then his face set into granite as he focused on Fenchurch. ‘We’re not quite at that stage yet.’
‘When people say “not quite” it usually means they’re way past i
t.’
‘In most cases, this would be a death sentence.’ Stephenson hugged Baby Al close, his eyes turning to steel. ‘But I’m not giving up on your son.’
‘I just want to take him home.’ Abi broke free of Fenchurch and started pacing the room. ‘Just one night in his short life.’
‘I understand.’ Stephenson handed Baby Al back to Fenchurch, but couldn’t take his eyes off the kid. ‘There’s nothing we can do at this stage other than to assess the options and say our prayers.’ He rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Now, you can spend as much time with your son as you need, okay?’
‘We’ve got an appointment, unfortunately.’ Fenchurch hugged Baby Al tight and kissed his forehead. ‘But we’ll be back later. I hope you’ve got some positive news by then.’
‘We need to keep talking.’
Fenchurch parked in the shade of one of the giant oaks overlooking the crematorium entrance. ‘You’re right.’ He glanced at Abi in the passenger seat. ‘That’s what all that counselling is for.’ He got out of the car into the burning hot sun. His London Post from the previous day flopped out of the door pocket, TEACHER-PUPIL SEX SHAME on the cover. Waste of bloody money. He dumped it on the back seat and waited for his wife. ‘All throughout this shit we need to—’
Abi slammed the door and leaned against the car, arms folded, head bowed. ‘Nothing is making the hole in his heart regrow.’
Fenchurch hurried round to her side and tried to take her in his arms, but she wasn’t making it easy. ‘This is the hardest thing.’
Abi bared her teeth. ‘As bad as this feels right now, losing our daughter was worse.’
‘I know.’ Fenchurch managed to get her away from the car and started brushing dust off her black skirt. ‘But with Chloe it felt like there was always something I could do. Someone I’d not dangled out of a window or—’ He sighed. ‘Someone kidnapped her, scooped out bits of her brain, brought her up and . . . they robbed us of the chance. We should’ve been taking her swimming and dropping her at school and . . . It’s still burning away at me that there was something, that someone knew something that could’ve . . . Who am I kidding?’
‘Simon, I get it; believe me, I do. You should’ve talked to me. You should be doing it now.’
‘I know.’ The regret weighed Fenchurch down like someone had doubled gravity. ‘I wish I had, every single day. But I’m trying now. Our boy’s fighting for his life and it’s just killing me that there’s nothing I can do to save him.’ He grabbed her hand. ‘But I want to go through this with you, okay?’
Abi gave the faintest squeeze. ‘Being born just to . . . Sometimes I . . .’ She let go. ‘Sometimes I wish we hadn’t had him.’
‘It’s okay to think that . . .’ Fenchurch hugged her tight again. ‘But we chose to have him. For as long as he’s alive and we’re capable, we’ve got to look after him. He still needs us and I still need you.’
‘Okay.’ She brushed her tears away. ‘Come on. We’ve got a funeral to get through.’
Fenchurch felt Abi’s hand tighten as they approached the crematorium. A crowd of people stood outside the low building, some crying, some laughing, others either staring into their phones or sharing the displays with people around them.
Mary Docherty stood firm, her jaw tight. Dressed in black, though her coat was a few sizes too big and far too warm for September. She got a hug from an obvious ex-copper, all scar tissue and big shoulders.
Fenchurch stopped. Couldn’t walk another step. ‘This is too hard.’
Mary spotted Fenchurch. ‘Oh, Simon.’ She dashed across and embraced him, her sweet perfume cloaking him. ‘I miss him.’
‘Me too, Mary.’ Fenchurch wrapped his arms around her frail body. ‘Me too.’ He blinked away tears.
‘He had longer than we were first told, Simon.’ Mary gripped Fenchurch with a strength he didn’t think she had. ‘I got to treasure that time with him. Almost ten months.’
Fenchurch briefly felt gravity switch back to normal, then Baby Al’s face flashed in front of his eyes and the weight started crushing him again. He let Mary go and stepped aside to let Abi console her.
‘Thank you for naming your son after Alan.’
Abi didn’t say anything.
‘It’s the least we could do.’ Fenchurch chanced a glance into the bright-blue sky. ‘I’m sure the old bugger’s looking down at me from wherever he is and tearing lumps out of my work.’
‘Sure he is, Simon.’ Mary smiled for a brief moment. ‘Oh, I met your daughter. She’s a lovely girl. What happened to her . . . It . . . Alan tried to . . .’ She broke off, tears flooding her cheeks.
‘Oh, Mary.’ The ex-copper stepped back in, wrapping her in his arms. He mouthed, ‘I’m her brother.’
Abi gave him a smile then led Fenchurch towards the crematorium. ‘Well played, Rambo.’
‘Sorry, I’m just saying how I feel.’
‘When it’s appropriate.’ Abi led him through the thick crowd towards the loudest laughter. ‘Speaking of inappropriate . . .’
Fenchurch’s father stood with a gang of grizzled old men, red faces and silver hair, all laughing and joking. ‘Simon, Abi.’
Behind them, Chloe was checking her phone, lips pressed together, eyes narrow. Her dark hair hung low, shrouding her face. Then she spotted Fenchurch and her face glowed. ‘Dad!’ She kissed him on the cheek, then did the same to her mother. ‘How’s Al?’
‘How’s Al . . .?’ Abi frowned. ‘We’re seeing him later. You’ll come with us, won’t you?’
‘Only if you want me to?’
‘Chloe, of course we do. We’ve missed so much of your life . . . You and him should be inseparable.’
‘Okay.’ Chloe grinned, then a wave of laughter from Dad’s cronies made her grimace. ‘Is that normal for a cop’s funeral?’
‘Is what normal?’ Dad squeezed Chloe’s nose like she was three again, not twenty. ‘We were just remembering a few of Docherty’s finer moments. Not just your old man who worked with him, is it?’
Chloe rolled her eyes. ‘And they say nepotism’s dead . . .’
‘Alive and kicking in the Met, my little princess.’ Dad had to look up at Chloe, at least four inches taller than him. Didn’t stop him pinching her cheek. His eyes twinkled with the usual mischief as he focused on Fenchurch. ‘Don’t know if I told you this, Simon, but one day we were raiding this squat in Limehouse . . .’
At least eighteen times. Fenchurch gave a tight smile. ‘Yeah, I’ve—’
‘Docherty was a DC back then. Tall as you like, and skinny as a rake. Even though he was on the old fast track, his Scotch accent made even the Krays quake in fear.’
‘Dad, you’re not old enough to—’
‘Fastest runner outside the Olympics. Anyway, we pitched up at this flat and Doc was first up. Flipped up the letterbox to peer inside, only someone had covered it with dog mess. Docherty got it all over his nose and fingers.’
Chloe’s polite laugh didn’t quite stretch to her eyes. She turned away from Dad and spoke low to Fenchurch. ‘This is what they’ve been like. Telling all these stories at the guy’s funeral.’
‘It’s a copper thing.’
‘Finding humour in a friend’s death . . .?’
‘Gallows humour. Otherwise we’d all be locked up in rooms with walls you can bounce off.’ Fenchurch squeezed her shoulders. ‘They’re celebrating his life.’ He pointed at the other cops in Dad’s gang. ‘When we’re inside, just you watch. They’ll be bawling like your brother. This is their way of showing how much they loved Docherty.’
Chloe looked like she was processing the gallows humour but not quite understanding.
‘What do I always say, Simon?’ Dad slapped Fenchurch on the back. Hard. ‘You shouldn’t be angry that it’s over—’
‘—be glad that it happened.’ Fenchurch nodded, trying to bat him away.
‘Doc was a great man and a great cop.’ A dark look settled on Dad’s face. ‘Nobody wants to remember a bag of
bones, do they?’
The door opened and the crowd started slipping into the chapel.
Dad wrapped his arms around his son and granddaughter as he led them inside. ‘Simon, do you mind if I have the aisle seat? Had a few pints with the boys and you know what my bladder’s like these days.’
Fenchurch blinked hard, his eyes struggling to adjust to the sunshine, his tears dried to crystals. He stood aside from everyone and took a moment to think about Docherty.
All the support, all the help, all the . . . everything. Gone. Ripped away by the cancer that ate him up. Stupid bastard could’ve got treatment if he’d been quick enough, but he hadn’t. Gone far too soon.
‘Simon?’ Dad was standing with Chloe, who looked like she was going to throttle him. ‘Your daughter won’t admit that she loved seeing West Ham with us.’
‘Grandpa, is this the place . . .?’
‘Supporting West Ham’s like attending a funeral every Saturday, love.’ Dad gave his son a knowing wink. ‘Anyway, I’m glad you’re not going to that camp in America this year. A London summer is something to savour and enjoy.’
Fenchurch spotted Detective Superintendent Julian Loftus leaving the crematorium, the sunlight catching his bald head. Then he put his cap on. Never seemed to be out of his uniform. Probably slept in it.
‘Back in a sec.’ Fenchurch walked over to meet Loftus. ‘Thanks for attending, sir.’
‘Couldn’t miss this.’ Loftus grimaced, his wide jaw pulsing, like he was grinding his teeth to sharp points. ‘Hell of a business. Taken from us so young.’
‘I saw him a week ago, just before—’ Fenchurch hadn’t spotted his new boss standing behind Loftus.
‘I did, too.’ Acting DCI Dawn Mulholland. Black trouser suit, black scarf. Pale skin, lined around the eyes, her face an unreadable mask. ‘He thought he’d get longer.’
When he looked at her, Fenchurch still got the same pang of . . . what? Anger? Hate? Fear?
It burned away at his gut.
You sat on information that could’ve found Chloe earlier, even interviewed one of the men who’d abducted her, but treated him like a witness instead of a suspect.
Fenchurch was kidding himself. He’d raised it but nobody cared. Just him. Hard to feel anything other than a stab in the heart when he thought about it.