Kill With Kindness

by Ed James

  The first officer lugged an Enforcer over to the door. He primed it, then it swung, breaking the door in half. The uniform got out of the way and four of his mates piled in.

  Fenchurch followed Nelson in, leaving two uniforms out front. Tiny little box, freezing inside. A battered old table near the front door, still had a rotary telephone on it. Mrs Cutler probably sat there every Sunday, speaking to her friends and family, getting all the gossip.

  Four other doors, torchlight flashing in each. Looked like a burglary until an officer stepped out of the first one. ‘Bathroom clear.’

  ‘Kitchen clear.’

  ‘Bedroom clear.’

  ‘Got something in the living room.’ Three officers piled through towards the voice. ‘No, it’s just a cat.’ The uniform held up a ratty-looking tabby, then set it down outside the window. ‘Stinks like a tramp’s pants.’

  Nelson slumped on to the chair by the phone table, looking destroyed as his golden thread had turned to shit.

  ‘Come on, lads.’ Fenchurch went over to the living room. ‘Swap rooms, okay? Double-check each other’s work. This isn’t personal. We’re just looking for evidence.’

  They clattered about, torches flashing everywhere. Fenchurch clamped a hand on Nelson’s shoulder. ‘Jon, this isn’t the end, okay?’

  ‘I thought it was solid.’ Nelson rocked back on the chair. Then the chair collapsed under him and he thudded to the floor. For a second he looked like he was going to murder someone, then he lay down and started laughing. ‘And I thought it couldn’t get any worse.’

  Fenchurch grabbed his wrist and winched him up. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Just my pride injured.’ Nelson stood up, dusting off his trousers. ‘Really thought we—’

  ‘Sir?’ A uniform was in the bathroom doorway. ‘This bath panel’s wonky.’

  In the room, another uniform was on his knees, his fingernails digging in behind the edges of a panel. It toppled back and he pulled it out. ‘Holy shit.’ He reached in and pulled out some pills. ‘Blockchain, guv. Tons of it.’

  Fenchurch clapped Nelson on the back. ‘There’s your result, Jon.’

  His Airwave chimed. Reed. ‘Guv, we’ve got movement in the garden!’

  Fenchurch ran back into the hall, then into the kitchen. Empty, the back door swinging open. Whichever muppet did this room failed to notice there was someone in here.

  Outside, a figure in a hooded top and dark trousers sprinted away from the house. Reed appeared at the end of the lane and Hoodie jerked back towards Fenchurch. He snapped his baton and lashed out. Missed by fractions of an inch. Hoodie darted across the grass, each stride long, and jumped over the hedge into the next-door garden.

  ‘Get after them!’ Fenchurch bombed over. The hedge was too tall. He jogged over to the gate and out into the back lane, then through the gate and into the garden.

  Just in time to see Reed catch a whack and tumble over, landing on her back with a sickening thud.

  Hoodie ran into Fenchurch, sending him flying. Managed to grab hold of a sleeve as he went down and pulled Hoodie to the deck too. Prick landed face first. Fenchurch squirmed over and yanked his wrist behind his back, putting all of his weight on, pinning him down. Caught a glimpse of dark skin. Hoodie twisted away from him. Then Fenchurch caught an elbow in the jaw. Hoodie shook off Fenchurch’s grip and rolled on to his back. Two feet planted in Fenchurch’s gut, pushing him back over.

  Hoodie was standing over him, breathing hard, features hidden. He reached out a fist, ready to smack Fenchurch.

  A uniform piled in from the lane, distracting Hoodie. A ninja kick to the face, full of grace and poise, and the cop tumbled over. Then Hoodie was on him, kicking and punching.

  Fenchurch reached for his baton and swung out, catching Hoodie on the arse. He yelped, then was off, vaulting the fence. Fenchurch got up and tried to give chase.

  By the time he was at the lane, Hoodie was long gone.

  Chapter Thirty

  Fenchurch leaned against the wall, wrestling with his knee until it popped. He let out a sharp breath. ‘Oh, you bugger.’

  Nelson swallowed hard. ‘Is that supposed to happen?’

  ‘It helps.’ Fenchurch pulled himself up tall and tried to support his weight without the help of a building. His knee still ached, but he set off towards the lane. ‘That wasn’t Coldcut, Jon.’

  Fenchurch had to rest against the gate. First my balls, now my knee. What next? ‘The guy I chased off was’ — he glanced at Nelson — ‘African.’

  ‘You can just say he was black, you know.’ Nelson flared his nostrils as he started off down the back lane. ‘Let me get this straight. We pitched up at Dodoo’s flat, asking about Steve Fisher. Coldcut’s there and he panics. Gets Dodoo to clear out this place, but didn’t expect us to connect the dots so quickly. We’ve found his supply of Blockchain.’ His nodding switched to a grimace. ‘Only trouble is, it probably means Coldcut’s gone to ground now.’ He stuck his Airwave to his head and sped up. ‘Sasha, I need you to bring Daniel Dodoo in for questioning.’ He paused to open the squeaking gate for Fenchurch. ‘Leman Street’s fine.’ He put his radio away and started off across Coldcut’s grandmother’s back garden, the weeds at waist height in places. ‘I wish we had Coldcut in an interview room.’

  ‘Cheer up, mate.’ Fenchurch clapped his back. ‘You know Coldcut’s name now. This is just the start. You’ll find other links. You’ll get him.’

  ‘We know who he is now and we’ve linked him to a stash.’ Nelson stomped through the house, his boots cracking off the bare floorboards, then out the front door.

  Fenchurch scanned the street, barely covered by street lights, let alone cameras. Didn’t want to bring it up. He smiled at Nelson instead. ‘Nobody else will die from taking Blockchain.’

  ‘Very true.’ Nelson stopped by his pool car. He rubbed his face, rasping the stubble on his chin. ‘I’ll keep you updated, okay?’

  ‘Cheers, Jon.’ Fenchurch walked off towards his own pool car, shoulders slumping.

  ‘Guv.’ Reed joined Fenchurch leaning against the car, dabbing at her lip. ‘Bastard caught me right in the mouth.’

  Fenchurch had a look. ‘I get worse cuts shaving.’

  ‘He got away.’ Reed gritted her teeth, her gaze sweeping to the neighbouring house.

  A silver Audi pulled up next to them.

  Reed’s eyes rolled. ‘See you round, guv.’ She wandered off towards Nelson and his squad of uniforms.

  Mulholland got out of the car, her face pinched tight. ‘Inspector.’

  ‘Dawn.’

  ‘I’m surprised that you’re not in the Observation Suite watching DS Ashkani interview our chief suspect.’ Mulholland pointed at the houses, torches flashing inside. ‘What doesn’t surprise me is finding you out here on a complete tangent to our case.’

  ‘It’s not a tangent, Dawn.’ Fenchurch could barely look at her. ‘Steve gave us an alibi, DI Nelson and I chased it down.’

  ‘Chasing isn’t your strong point any more.’ Mulholland glanced down at his knee, then flashed her eyebrows. ‘I take it you didn’t find this Coldcut?’

  ‘Not even close.’ Fenchurch looked away. ‘We’ve got hundreds of Blockchain pills, but—’

  ‘Meanwhile, Steve Fisher needs to be interviewed. We still haven’t charged him.’

  ‘We’re working on it.’ Fenchurch folded his arms. ‘He told us that he was at the hotel when Gayle was tied down and given the drugs. He had a personal supply of Blockchain, more than enough to kill his wife. And his alibi is a drug dealer who said Steve wasn’t with him at the time in question.’

  ‘We need evidence, Simon.’ She waved a hand at the house. ‘And upsetting drug suppliers isn’t achieving that goal, is it?’

  ‘Dawn.’ Fenchurch stood up tall and squared his shoulders. ‘Jon Nelson is your officer. I was happy to take responsibility for him, but you insisted.’

  Mulholland looked hard at him for a few seconds. ‘You’ve been going aga
inst my explicit orders all day. Raiding half of East London, running drug searches. You’re not the one who has to field angry calls from newspapers. And from Ben Maxfield and Elliot Lynch’s parents!’

  No, but I’m the one who has to work for you.

  Fenchurch didn’t say anything.

  ‘Simon, you’re lucky I’ve not got you on an insubordination charge.’

  ‘Try it, Dawn.’ Fenchurch couldn’t help but laugh. ‘See where it gets you.’

  ‘You’re still angry about my dirty little secret, aren’t you?’ She licked her lip slowly, her thin tongue like a snake’s. ‘That happened a long time ago. There was nothing that linked him to your daughter’s disappearance.’

  Fenchurch stared at her for a few seconds then shook his head. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’ He marched off towards his car, leaving the case behind for another night. Leaving her to run it. Of all people. He stopped by the car and opened the door, looking back at Mulholland. Let it go. Let her have her minute in the sun. It’ll soon be over.

  ‘You okay?’ Nelson’s car pulled up next to him. He sucked on his vape stick. ‘You should’ve told Mulholland.’

  ‘You’re not wrong.’ Fenchurch got in his car and wound down the window, face-to-face with Nelson. ‘Can you get in a room with Steve Fisher and get him to confess?’

  ‘Si, that’s Mulholland’s remit.’

  ‘I just want you in there with him. Get him to talk. We’ve got this place to press him with. At least destroy his alibi.’

  ‘Fine.’ Nelson started his car. ‘I’ll keep you posted.’

  Fenchurch watched the motor trundle down the lane. Just hope he keeps me in the loop.

  ‘You know your daddy, don’t you?’ Fenchurch held Baby Al high up in the air, got him to giggle. And gurgle. ‘Yes, you do!’ He pulled him close and hugged him tight. ‘Oh, you do.’ A lump caught in his throat. His nose prickled. His eyes watered. ‘You do.’

  ‘He’s been a lot better today.’ Abi stood next to Fenchurch, grinning as much as their son. ‘Smiling and playing.’

  Chloe was on the chair next to the cot, elbows on her knees. Didn’t look so sure.

  Fenchurch hugged Baby Al again, smiling at Chloe. ‘You okay, love?’

  She just shrugged.

  Fenchurch handed the baby to Abi, then put his arms round Chloe’s shoulders. ‘You get back to work in time?’

  She didn’t even look up. ‘Course I did.’

  ‘So what’s up?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  He saw right through her thin smile. ‘Come on, what’s up?’

  Chloe looked up, brushing her hair out of her eyes, then over at her mother.

  ‘There you all are.’ Dr Oates marched into the room, his heels clicking on the floor, Stephenson following. ‘How are we all today?’

  Fenchurch rested against the cot. ‘Getting there.’

  Abi tickled Baby Al under his chin, got him to laugh. ‘He’s been happier today.’

  ‘I spent a while with him this morning.’ Oates took him off Abi. He focused on the baby, puckering his lips like a fish. ‘He’s a great kid. Vibrant personality.’

  Abi chanced a cheeky smile at her husband. ‘He gets that from his father.’

  ‘Sure he does.’ Oates gave Al back to her. ‘Have you decided on whether you want to give these fine hands a shot?’ He fanned out his fingers in the time-honoured ‘jazz hands’ tradition.

  ‘I thought we’d agreed?’ Abi was frowning, first at Fenchurch then at Oates.

  ‘You need to sign paperwork, I’m afraid.’ Oates clicked his fingers for Stephenson. ‘Luckily I have it right here.’

  ‘Okay.’ Abi put Al on Chloe’s lap and grabbed the paper from Stephenson. She barely looked at it before signing it, then passed it over.

  Fenchurch took the form and started reading the small print. Nothing particularly untoward in there. But . . . Jesus, it’s all the reasons my son can die during surgery. He put the page on the table next to the cot, unsigned. ‘Before I sign that, I need you to take me through the risks.’

  Oates couldn’t look him in the eyes. ‘It’s going to be fine.’

  Fenchurch snorted. ‘It’s not your son’s life in the balance here. I just want to know what could go wrong.’

  ‘Well.’ Oates sighed, then locked eyes with Fenchurch. ‘Like any surgery, we may lose the patient. There’s also risk of infection and—’

  ‘You may lose him?’

  ‘It’s an incredibly small risk, but things may not go how we plan during the operation.’

  ‘And he’ll just die?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Oates reached over and tickled Al’s cheek. ‘It won’t happen, though. Will it, my little soldier? No, it won’t.’

  ‘I’ve a very hard time trusting people.’ Fenchurch wanted to grab the baby and run away, far away, somewhere this shit wasn’t happening. ‘I need more than you saying it’s not a problem for me to give my son’s life. I need more than jazz hands.’

  ‘The truth is you don’t have a choice.’ Oates sucked in a deep breath through his nostrils. ‘Usually, we have three options. Do this, do that, do nothing. Doing nothing usually means staying where you are. Maybe it’s move to another part of London, move out of London or stay in your current home. We don’t have that with your son. Doing nothing means he won’t get to blow out that first candle.’

  Felt like Fenchurch had been kicked in the balls again. Felt like they’d been torn off.

  Oates grabbed the form from the table. ‘If you sign this, I’ll operate on him tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘That soon?’

  ‘That soon.’ Oates nodded as he held out the page. ‘We don’t have the luxury of time. I’m due back in Cleveland Wednesday.’ He grinned. ‘Sorry, force of habit. I’m due back on Wednesday.’

  Fenchurch didn’t take the form. Folded his arms instead. ‘And there’s no chance he’ll get better on his own?’

  ‘I’ve studied thousands and thousands of cases, operated on hundreds myself. If a patient doesn’t respond to the closure device, we’re fiddling in the margins. And the only way to get them back over the line on to the main page is through this surgery.’ Oates picked up the form and waved it in Fenchurch’s face. ‘Now, you’ve got the option of having one of the best surgeons in the world operating on your son.’

  Fenchurch could barely breathe. His head felt like it was trapped in a car door and someone kept slamming it. ‘What does the operation involve?’

  ‘I’ll cut some tissue from his right atria.’ Oates held up a hand. ‘Perfectly safely. It’ll regrow.’ He smiled. ‘In fact, part of the problem is how good Baby Al is at growing tissue on that side of his heart. Then I’ll make a series of incisions in his left atria and stitch in this tissue and it’ll—’ He grinned. ‘I’ll use layman’s terms here. It’ll plug the hole and, once he’s out the other side, the tissue will knit together and he’ll be healthy again.’

  ‘Isn’t that what the closure device was supposed to do?’

  ‘His tissue was supposed to grow over it.’ Oates sighed. ‘It didn’t.’

  ‘And how is this any different?’

  ‘Because this will be his own tissue growing over his own tissue, not trying to crawl over a foreign object.’ Oates let out another sigh, losing patience. ‘Listen, you’ve got an A-B choice here. Let him die or give him a chance. What is it?’

  Fenchurch stared at the form in his hands. ‘It’s no choice, is it?’

  ‘No. But now you know all those risks? You’re giving yourself a whole world of worry.’

  Abi was pleading with her eyes.

  ‘Welcome to my world . . .’ Fenchurch took the form and signed it.

  Feels good to make the decision. Not that choosing between my son’s death and giving him a chance at life is a decision. Usually life isn’t an option, just someone’s death and how I investigate it.

  He handed the form back and held it as Oates took it. ‘Please, save my son’s life.’
<
br />   Chapter Thirty-One

  I just want to focus on what could go right, Simon.’ Abi was in the passenger seat, staring out of the window. Chloe was in the back, holding her mother’s hands over the seat rest. ‘Why do you always focus on the negatives?’

  ‘It’s either my training’ — Fenchurch pulled up in front of their house — ‘or it’s who I am.’

  ‘You weren’t always like this.’

  ‘There’s your answer, then.’ Fenchurch killed the engine and got out.

  ‘Simon?’ Katerina was shivering beneath a streetlight.

  What the hell is she doing here?

  Katerina walked towards him. ‘Was that helpful?’

  ‘Was what?’

  ‘The information I gave you on Steve.’

  ‘I appreciate it. I need you to give a formal statement on the matter, so expect some police officers around your—’

  ‘Can’t I give it to you?’

  ‘I’m too busy and it’s not really my job.’

  ‘Right. Can I come to the station?’

  ‘That works, too.’

  Katerina nodded slowly. Then started looking around. She frowned at the car. ‘Is that Chloe? Can I speak to her?’

  ‘I told you that’s not appropriate.’ Fenchurch stepped closer to her. Saw that she was resting against a bicycle. ‘How did you know where I lived?’

  ‘The photos in all of the papers . . . I just thought . . .’ Her lips pursed together. ‘I thought that Chloe might know what I’m going through.’

  ‘She’s got her own problems.’ Fenchurch gave her a smile. ‘Look, I appreciate the lead. It’s been useful. Can I give you a lift home?’

  ‘I’ve got my bike.’ She started off, her chain rattling. ‘Goodnight.’

  Fenchurch watched her go. Couldn’t stop himself from shaking his head.

  Weird.

  And worrying. All the shit Liam plastered over the papers has left me exposed. People know my life like I’m in a book. Know where I live, where I work. Shit, they probably know my favourite burrito places.