by Ed James
Kill the Messenger
A DI Fenchurch novel 6
Ed James
Contents
Copyright
Other Books By Ed James
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Part II
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Day 2
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Next book
Other Books By Ed James
Afterword
Acknowledgments
Copyright © 2019 Ed James
All rights reserved.
Other Books By Ed James
SCOTT CULLEN SERIES
GHOST IN THE MACHINE
DEVIL IN THE DETAIL
FIRE IN THE BLOOD
STAB IN THE DARK
COPS & ROBBERS
LIARS & THIEVES
COWBOYS & INDIANS
HEROES & VILLAINS
CRAIG HUNTER SERIES
MISSING
HUNTED
DS VICKY DODDS SERIES
TOOTH & CLAW
DI SIMON FENCHURCH SERIES
THE HOPE THAT KILLS
WORTH KILLING FOR
WHAT DOESN’T KILL YOU
IN FOR THE KILL
KILL WITH KINDNESS
KILL THE MESSENGER
Part I
Sunday, 17th July
Fifteen months ago
Author’s note:
This section takes place between books three and four.
1
‘Where the hell are they?’ Abi Fenchurch sipped her fruit tea as she caressed her swollen belly. Another impatient check of her watch, then she took another slow sip.
Maroon umbrellas shielded the bright sun. Glass and chrome buildings towered over them. Crowds milled around the revamped markets at Spitalfields, even on a Sunday in the City. A teenage couple snogged each other’s faces off over by the small pond, lost in their own little world. A waiter waltzed out of the next-door restaurant, holding two wide plates on his left forearm.
‘They’ll be here.’ Detective Inspector Simon Fenchurch drank tea from a paper cup, barely tasting it. Metallic and nowhere near enough milk. He rasped the fresh stubble on his head. ‘Just have a bit of patience.’
‘I ran out of patience a long time ago.’ Abi took his hand, her skin smooth but cold, even in the summer heat. ‘We found her, Simon. Chloe. And now she’s…’ She tightened her grip, almost hurting him. ‘This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.’
‘Sure about that?’
She let go of his hand and went back to stroking her belly, to reassuring the new life growing in there. ‘Simon, shut—’
‘What a glorious afternoon.’ Jeff I’Anson slumped into a seat, the sun catching his glasses, the lenses darkened so they looked like shades. The social worker didn’t seem to take any time off — even wore his fraying cream suit today. ‘A real pleasure to see you both.’
Fenchurch finished his tea and crumpled the cup.
DCI Howard Savage leaned in behind I’Anson, every inch the Brit abroad, despite being in London — white granddad shirt tucked into belted beige shorts, spider legs of hair crawling all over his pale flesh. Just needed a handkerchief on his head to cover the thin strands combed over. ‘Can I get you anything?’
‘We’re fine.’ Abi drummed her painted fingernails on her cup. ‘I just want to get on with this.’
‘Of course.’ I’Anson tucked his briefcase under his chin and pulled out a notebook, then a silver mechanical pencil, clicking it a few times before he set it down. ‘Just a coffee, Howard, thanks.’
Savage shoved his hands deep in his pockets. ‘I hadn’t asked you.’
‘Black with one.’ I’Anson dropped his briefcase and smiled at Savage. ‘I just need a moment.’
‘Very well.’ Savage poked his tongue in his cheek, then sauntered inside the Pret.
‘Now.’ I’Anson opened his notebook and trailed the bookmark over the messy table. He scribbled a note to himself. ‘Okay, so I’ll be brief. I met with Jennifer…’ He dropped his pencil on the page. ‘I mean, I met with Chloe yesterday. Your daughter.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Well, I won’t sugarcoat it. I’m afraid this is going to be a long slog. She’s not in a good place, as I’m sure you can imagine. The—’
‘I just want to speak to her.’ Abi snatched Fenchurch’s hand, twisting his fingers into a claw. ‘Please.’
‘Mrs Fenchurch, I fully understand everything you’re going through. Believe me.’ I’Anson switched his laser focus to Fenchurch, his grey eyes staring hard, then back to Abi. ‘But your daughter is going through the other side of your coin. She doesn’t remember you or your husband. Doesn’t remember living with you, doesn’t remember any of her time with you, before she was… Before she was taken.’
‘Before she was abducted.’ Fenchurch meshed his fingers round Abi’s, as tight as she’d been with him. ‘Someone abducted her from outside our home and those scumbags, they—’
‘Yes, yes.’ I’Anson held up his palms, his fingers and thumbs spread wide like he was deflecting a goal-bound shot. ‘I’m not the one you should be angry with, Inspector.’
‘The scar…’ Fenchurch let go of Abi’s fingers and got up from the table, breathing slowly, vaguely aware of people at the other tables staring at him. But he didn’t care. He pointed at his temple. ‘She has a scar on her head. Right there.’ He waved into the café. ‘Savage’s doctor thought she’d been operated on?’
‘That’s correct.’ I’Anson reached down to get something from his briefcase, but didn’t put whatever it was on the table. ‘We’ve had two experts back up that assessment. It’s a very experimental procedure, which appears to have wiped your daughter’s memories, like she was an old computer you’d left bank details on and—’
‘She’s not a computer.’ Fenchurch stuffed his fists in his pockets. Getting angry isn’t going to fix anything. Isn’t going to change anything. He felt his forehead crease. ‘You’ve done the DNA tests, right? She’s my daughter.’ He sat again and stroked Abi’s palm with his thumb. ‘Our daughter. Right?’
‘Correct.’
‘We just want to speak to her. Surely that’s not too much to ask?’
‘Well, I’m afraid it is.’ I’Anson rubbed his palms together slowly. ‘For Chloe — at this moment in time — it’s too much.’ His gaze crept to their hands. ‘I completely understand how you feel. But you’re not alone. Okay? You’re never alone. I’m here for you. We’re going on this journey together.’ Steel glinted in his eyes. ‘But it’s important to prepare ourselves. If we jump in before Chloe’s ready, it’ll do a lot more harm than good.’
Fenchurch saw his fear reflected in Abi’s deep frown, in her pursed lips.
‘I’m not doing this to be obstructive, okay?’ I’Anson g
lanced over at the café. ‘This is standard procedure and—’
‘There’s nothing standard about this.’ Savage rested the silvery tray on the table and reached over for one of the coffee cups as he took his seat. ‘Nothing at all.’ He gave a warm smile. ‘Simon, Abi, what’s happened to your daughter, it’d be barbaric if it wasn’t so frighteningly Dr Moreau. I wish I could click a switch and she’d remember everything. But she can’t.’ He tore the lid off his coffee and blew on the surface. ‘Jeff here isn’t some run-of-the-mill social worker you can just bully, okay? He’s a specialist in healing severe trauma in recovered victims of human trafficking. The stories we could tell of the boys and girls we rescued… I’m asking you to place your trust in him, okay?’
The teenage couple left the water feature and strolled past, their hands down the back of each other’s baggy jeans.
Fenchurch shifted his focus back to Savage. ‘I hear you, Howard. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.’
‘I don’t expect you to like anything.’ Savage gave a cheeky wink. ‘I wouldn’t put anyone in your position. Anyone at all. Not even my worst enemy and, believe me, I have many. What’s happened to—’
‘Howard.’ Fenchurch leaned forward, resting his elbows on the metal table. ‘It’s the seventeenth of July. Eleven years ago to the day. I was washing the bloody dishes upstairs in our flat. One second I saw Chloe playing with a friend. Then Abi and I talked about a bloody garage bill. And then she was gone.’ He clenched his jaw, tasting bile. ‘Eleven years ago, Howard. And it’s one month since we rescued her. We’ve got her back, but she won’t see us.’ He swallowed it down along with his anger. ‘Do you know what that’s like?’ His voice was a croak.
‘Of course I don’t know what it’s like. I can’t.’ Savage gestured at I’Anson. ‘But Jeff is an expert in this process and we will both help you reconnect with Chloe. I understand that it’s going to take a lot longer than you expected, but it’s a proven process. We just have to have patience. Okay?’
Like we have any choice in the matter.
Like I can just go and see my own bloody daughter and make her see sense.
Like I can just—
Abi gasped, then covered her mouth, her teal nails catching the sun.
Fenchurch glared at I’Anson. ‘How long until we can speak to her?’
‘Well, it depends on what you mean by speak to her.’ I’Anson took a slurp of coffee. ‘This week, I plan to broach the subject of reconnection therapy with her.’
Fenchurch looked at his wife, saw some flicker of hope in her eyes, then back at I’Anson. ‘That’s good, isn’t it?’
‘Well. Depending on her reaction, it could be six months, could be a year.’
‘Six months?’
‘But it could also be weeks.’
Abi dabbed at her eyes. ‘Seems like we don’t have any choice but to go along with this. Simon?’
‘Agreed.’ Fenchurch folded his arms. ‘The sooner we get started…’
‘Excellent.’ I’Anson finished his coffee in one long drink, then dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. ‘Like I say, I’ll broach the subject of reconnection therapy with… With your daughter.’ He closed his briefcase and got up. ‘Now. I’ll meet with her this evening, so I’m happy to convey any messages to her.’
Abi looked away with a deep sigh. ‘Just tell her we love her and we’ll wait for her.’
Fenchurch brushed away tears, then nodded.
I’Anson beamed at them. ‘Well, I’ll be in touch.’ He traipsed off, swinging his briefcase.
Savage cradled his coffee in liver-spotted fingers. ‘You guys okay with that?’
‘I’m very far from okay, Howard.’ Fenchurch reached over for Abi’s hand again. ‘I just wish this was easier. I wish none of this had happened.’
‘We all do.’ Savage grimaced. ‘This is the hardest part of my job. We’re unpicking Chloe’s entire psychology and rebuilding her from scratch. It’s going to be a long haul, but I know you can last the course. Both of you.’ He stood up and sank his coffee. ‘Give me a call if you need anything. Both of you.’
Abi was smiling through the pain. ‘Okay.’
‘Catch you later, Howard.’ Fenchurch gave Savage a curt nod, then watched him leave. ‘You okay with that?’
‘Maybe…’ Abi tightened her hands to fists in his grip. ‘It just feels like they’re dangling hope in front of our faces.’ Moisture pooled on her cheeks. ‘I can live with hope, but I can’t live with what they did to our girl. What she’s been through.’ She choked up.
Fenchurch smoothed her back. ‘It’s okay, love.’
‘It’s not okay!’
She’s right.
I want to kill them. The people who pretended to be Chloe’s parents, the people who raised her. I want to kill them. The vermin who took her. The vermin who covered it up…
All of them. Until they can’t do it again. Until they can’t do anything again.
‘The number of times I’ve wanted to bounce their heads off a wall…’ Fenchurch took a deep breath. ‘But we need to let I’Anson do his job. Then, just maybe, this’ll all be fine.’
Abi sipped at her tea, absently staring across the square. ‘Why did this happen to us?’
‘Blind luck, love. Can’t help but—’
Fenchurch’s phone blared out The Who’s Won’t Get Fooled Again: a blast of guitar, bass and drums.
‘Sorry, I thought this was turned off.’ Fenchurch checked the screen.
AL DOCHERTY
He let out a groan. ‘It’s never good when the boss is ringing me on a Sunday.’ He glanced at Abi. ‘You mind?’
Abi locked eyes with him. ‘It’s fine, Simon. Do what needs to be done, okay?’
‘I’d rather not.’ Fenchurch put the mobile to his ear. ‘Boss, what’s up?’
‘I know what today means, Si, but…’ Docherty’s Scottish accent hit him like a knife in the back. Wind rattled the microphone at the other end. ‘Need you to attend a crime scene.’
2
Fenchurch waited in the right-turn lane for the lights to change. Up ahead, Whitechapel High Street was snarled up, buses and taxis churning out diesel as the nearest cabbie hammered his horn. Like that would achieve anything.
A uniform was positioned in the middle of the street, ignoring the irate driver as he directed traffic.
Fenchurch flashed his lights and waved his warrant card. He got a thumbs up from the uniform and was beckoned through. The cabbie tried to follow but the uniform blocked him, so he got out and started shouting the odds, his words masked by the windscreen glass and the low rumble of the new Mogwai album playing on Fenchurch’s car stereo. He pulled up outside the giant Whitechapel sign on the old RBS office building.
A crime scene tent blocked the way through to the City, a number 25 bus parked up alongside. A driver in Transport for London livery slumped on the pavement, talking to a plainclothes DC.
Fenchurch got out and walked over to the tent.
Another car parked behind his, wedging him in. DI Dawn Mulholland flounced onto the pavement like she was getting out of a pumpkin carriage. She dragged her scarf around her neck, her smile turning into a sneer when she saw Fenchurch. ‘Simon. Surprised to see you here.’
‘Not as surprised as I am to see you.’
‘I thought you had a meeting about Chloe?’
Fenchurch swallowed hard. ‘One of us could’ve dealt with this.’
‘Well, I have an appointment I can’t get out of later on, so—’
‘And I don’t?’ Fenchurch barked out a laugh. ‘If you knew—’
‘Si, come here.’ DCI Alan Docherty grabbed Fenchurch by the coat and led him away. ‘Dawn, can you make sure the statements we’re taking are tip top? Cheers.’ He smiled as he led Fenchurch away, stopping by the almost-derelict jellied eels stand on the corner next to the tent, his skinny arms poking out of a plain black polo shirt, his face even greyer than usual, a few more lines than when he’d left the office on
Friday night. ‘What’s all that about?’
Fenchurch looked back. Mulholland was lost in conversation with a couple of her team. ‘Just wondering why we’re both here, that’s all.’
‘Because when I called Dawn, she gave me an earful about her niece’s cello recital and—’
‘Her niece? A cello recital? Jesus Christ. You know where I was. Dawn knows.’
‘Howard told me.’ Docherty grunted out a cough. ‘Look, you know I don’t trust her, and while Jon Nelson’s a good cop, he’s still a bit green. I need my best guy on this one, okay?’ He clapped Fenchurch’s arm. ‘Go on, get suited up. You’ve got a dead body to take in.’
Fenchurch snapped on his goggles and took a moment to centre himself. The summer breeze rushed down the street, licking at the crime scene tent.
Docherty tucked his mask and goggles in place, the crime scene suit hanging off him. ‘You good?’
‘I’m barely adequate.’ Fenchurch stabbed the pen at the clipboard and passed it back to the Crime Scene Manager. ‘Come on.’ He opened the tent and entered the crime scene.
A tall SOCO stood over by the pavement, cataloguing and photographing. Tammy Saunders, judging by the height. ‘Mick Clooney’s hillwalking in Bosnia, so you’ve got to contend with me. Sorry.’