In for the Kill (A DI Fenchurch novel Book 4)

by Ed James

  ‘Well spotted, Dad. And they say a detective never loses his instincts.’

  ‘I’m not on the force any more, son.’ Dad grabbed the corkscrew and pried off the cap. ‘Anyway, cheers.’ He sucked at the beer and gasped. ‘Lovely stuff, son. Lovely.’

  ‘I was saying I don’t—’

  ‘Simon, what do you think you should name your boy?’ Dad started peeling the label off the beer.

  Fenchurch frowned at Abi. Her grimace told him this had been chewed over for at least an hour. ‘We’ve not really settled on a name yet.’

  ‘I think it should be James.’ Jim was nearing the end of his glass, checking out Fenchurch’s fresh bottle. ‘Been in our family for years. I’m the fifth.’ His eyes misted over. ‘Shame we didn’t have a son.’

  ‘Jesus, Jim.’ Fenchurch saw his shock reflected in Abi’s eyes as disgust and anger. ‘You ever thought about being sensitive?’

  Jim took another sip of wine. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. We love Abi. It’s just, well. Tradition is important.’

  ‘Tradition is an arsehole.’ Dad had torn off most of the label, picking at the edge with a nail. ‘I’ve seen so much stupid bollocks in my career all done because of tradition.’

  Fenchurch smiled at him. ‘And what do you think it should be?’

  ‘Don’t care, so long as it’s not James.’ Dad took another swig of beer. ‘So, anyway, are you actually going to do this intervention wotsit?’

  Fenchurch waited for Abi to say something. She didn’t, not to her parents. Same as it ever was. ‘I think if anyone’s going to speak to Chloe, it’s got to be us. We’re her parents.’

  ‘Simon, you need to let us in.’ Evelyn couldn’t bring herself to look at him, staying focused on her daughter. ‘We can help.’

  ‘I don’t want anyone hatching plans and conniving, okay?’ Fenchurch dumped the corkscrew back in the drawer and took a small glass from the bottle. ‘You need to leave it to me and Abi.’

  ‘But this is important!’

  ‘Mum.’ Abi swallowed hard, caressing her swollen belly. ‘Simon’s right. We should be the ones who do it.’

  ‘But we’ve driven up from Newquay!’

  ‘And I’m happy to see you, it’s just . . .’

  ‘Evelyn, Jim.’ Fenchurch shot his gaze between them. ‘If either of you so much as visits Southwark without speaking to me or Abi first, there’ll be trouble.’

  Jim barked out a laugh. ‘Are you threatening us?’

  ‘I’m just saying.’ Fenchurch settled his gaze on his father. ‘Dad’s kept his distance. I expect you to do the same.’

  ‘Simon, this isn’t—’

  ‘Jim, I know you’ve got a vested interest, but we need you to back off, okay?’ Fenchurch put his glass down. ‘Back in a sec.’ He set off out of the room and went into the toilet.

  Little yellow droplets covered the seat, down the side and on the floor.

  Jesus, Dad . . .

  Fenchurch tore off some toilet paper and started wiping up. This is what having a young boy will be like . . .

  ‘Night!’ Dad’s voice. The flat door slammed.

  Shit, I didn’t tell him about Docherty.

  Fenchurch flushed the toilet and chased after him as fast as his gammy knee would allow. Had to take the stairs one at a time, right foot then left on the same step, shuffling down. Out onto the street and the cold air. A taxi droned off round the corner.

  Shit, just missed him.

  Fenchurch’s gut rumbled. Still time for a burrito. He patted down his pockets. Phone and wallet stretching the fabric, as ever. He set off for Upper Street.

  Fenchurch unlocked the door, his knee throbbing from the walk, the Chilango’s bag swinging at his side. Could almost taste it. He found Abi in the kitchen on her own. Jim had finished the bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape in the twenty minutes he’d been away. ‘Have they gone?’

  ‘In the spare room.’ She sipped some chamomile, one hand on her belly. ‘Dad shifted those typewriters into the corner.’

  The pile of broken machines she’d taken to fixing, trying to make some sense of what the hell was happening in her life . . .

  ‘Told you to send them back.’ Fenchurch sat opposite her and unwrapped his burrito. ‘Watch what you tell them in future.’

  ‘I’ve learned my lesson yet again.’ Another sip, then a smile. ‘How was your day?’

  ‘You know when someone says “bad to worse”? I’d kill for that.’ Fenchurch took a bite of burrito and chewed and chewed and chewed until it was mush. ‘Caught a case at Southwark Uni.’

  Abi’s frown dragged him back to his reaction that morning. ‘Chloe?’

  ‘Trust me, if it was her, I’d have told you a lot earlier than now.’ Fenchurch took another bite. ‘Got into a scrap with a little shitbag and I’ve really hurt my knee.’

  ‘Thought it was nothing?’

  ‘It’s something, all right.’ Fenchurch picked up his wine glass and sipped some down. Least, he thought it was his. ‘Not enough to get compensation, and besides it was my own stupid fault.’ He checked his phone. Still nothing from Loftus. ‘Then Alan Docherty collapsed on me. He was having a right old go at me, then he fell back into his chair. Out cold. Drove him to the Royal London.’

  ‘Jesus Christ. You didn’t punch him, did you?’

  ‘No!’ Fenchurch finished chewing. ‘No. It’s serious, though. Not his heart, but . . . it didn’t look good.’

  ‘Poor guy.’ She took another sip of tea. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Not really. The guy’s my mentor. Looked after me since I got my stripes, got me this gig, kept me in when I’ve been a naughty boy. I hope the big Scottish wanker pulls through.’

  ‘That’s more like it.’ Abi rested her tea on the table. ‘That stuff Dad was saying. Calling our son James. Over my dead body.’

  ‘Don’t joke about that.’ Fenchurch’s gut clenched. ‘I can’t bring up a son on my own. Wouldn’t know where to start. At least with a daughter, I’ve done the first eight years.’

  She reached over and grabbed his hand. ‘I’m not going anywhere, okay?’

  ‘It’s fine, it’s just . . .’ Fenchurch dropped his burrito onto the table. ‘This case . . . The girl’s the same age as Chloe. Someone snuck into her room in the middle of the night and killed her. We’ve got guards on but . . . that could happen to Chloe and . . . and . . .’ He wiped at his cheek. ‘And there’s nothing we could do to save her.’

  ‘She’s a grown woman, Simon.’ She pointed at the window to the street where Chloe had been taken from. ‘She’s not the little girl we lost out there. That’s not who she is any more. She’s an adult now. And someone messed with her brain to stop her remembering us. And . . .’

  Fenchurch could only nod.

  ‘Sometimes I wonder if this is the world we want our child to grow up in.’

  Fenchurch grimaced. ‘It’s more like “do we want to bring a child into this world”?’

  Abi patted her belly. ‘Bit too late for that.’

  ‘I don’t mean anything by it.’ Fenchurch reached over to stroke her bump. ‘But the shit I see, the . . . I can’t do everything to protect young James.’

  Abi’s lips curled up. ‘Not James.’

  Day 2

  Tuesday, 15th November 2016

  Chapter Twelve

  Daddy!’ Chloe shouted at him, baby-blue eyes, blonde pigtails, England shirt with ROONEY almost readable over her shoulder. ‘Daddy, you can’t save me! You need to save yourself !’

  ‘I’m going to find you, Chloe.’ Fenchurch looked around the street, in the shifting shadows of their flat. Monsters lurked on the corner, cars with giant teeth sat there, engines roaring like lions. A police car full of vampires pulled up, all claws and teeth and snarls. ‘I’m going to—’

  And the biggest vampire policeman snatched her up and ran off. He threw her in the back of the car and bellowed with laughter. ‘Even though I’m dead, you can’t kill me! You can’t save her!’
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br />   A witch with her cauldron helped him take Chloe, her scarf trailing until it was infinitely long.

  Fenchurch jolted awake, panting. Sweat soaked his pillow, his chest. His knee locked, trapped in a vice. He reached over and flicked on the light. No Abi. Up already. He settled back into his soggy pillow and tried to get his breathing under control.

  Going to have a heart attack at this rate.

  Become Docherty, a sack of bones lying across his back seat. Going from berating an idiot officer to . . . what? The doctor said it wasn’t a heart attack. What else could it be?

  And the dreams were never ending. They kept reappearing, tearing and biting and clawing. The giant vampire cop who told the truth, after all the mortal sins he’d committed. Who led them on the path to finding Chloe as he died in a pool of his own blood.

  For what that was worth.

  It was worth everything. Fenchurch would’ve given his life for her to be free. Just wished she’d speak to him now that she was.

  Mouth dry, bladder full. Fenchurch got up and rubbed at his knee. Might, just might, not fall off anytime soon. Still hurt like a bastard. He padded through to the hall. The bathroom door was locked. Whistling reverberated inside, that infernal Weather Report tune.

  Fenchurch knocked on the door.

  ‘Sorry, I’m in the bath!’ Jim’s voice, deep like he was hung over. No surprise given how much expensive wine he’d destroyed last night.

  Fenchurch huffed out a sigh. He trudged through to the kitchen and found Abi staring out of the window, same as most days. He tried walking over but his knee locked.

  She swung round, frowning at him. ‘Simon. Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m bursting for a piss and your bloody father’s in the bath.’

  ‘I’m just as annoyed, by the way. They just turned up.’

  Fenchurch groaned. ‘Like vampires.’

  Abi frowned at him. ‘You had that nightmare again, didn’t you?’

  Fenchurch felt for the back of his knee and started rubbing at the tendons and muscles. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Lying next to someone muttering about their daughter and vampire policemen isn’t exactly restful.’ She sat down at the table. The dishes from last night were still out. ‘You’re not supposed to wake someone up from a nightmare, according to Mum.’

  ‘What, in case I get trapped in there? Those big vampire cops are all dead, but I keep thinking they’ll come back to life and take her again. I’ve been living this nightmare for the last eleven years, love.’

  ‘It’s not that bad now, is it?’

  A big clunk in his knee. Then a wave of pain rattled up his thigh, got stuck around his belly. ‘I can’t control her. Couldn’t save her then, can’t save her now. This case at her university, there was sod all anyone could do to stop whoever killed Hannah getting into her room. What’s the point in anything?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be much different if we’d had her all this time, you know? You’ll never stop worrying about her and that’s natural. Chloe’s twenty next year, she’ll graduate the following year. It’s only been five months since we found her. We need to give her time.’

  Fenchurch tried to focus on what she was saying. She was correct, but . . . it didn’t feel right. None of it did. ‘I’ll get into work early, get a gym session in before my shift.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but . . .’ Abi patted her belly. ‘Listen. The most important thing is that we need to take care of young Ian in here.’

  ‘Ian? No way.’

  Her straight face cracked. ‘Jim it is, then.’

  Fenchurch stopped outside the Incident Room, his forehead still damp. Like he’d just had a shower. Oh, he had. Didn’t stop him sweating, mind. Someone had the heating on full blast. Probably Mulholland.

  The Incident Room was swarming with cops. His officers, none of them vampires. Probably. Only one witch, but he couldn’t spot her. Nelson and Reed were at the front, deep in a chat. Hopefully a lead that’ll blow the case open. Probably Nelson’s pending divorce.

  Fenchurch grabbed the door handle.

  ‘Inspector?’ Loftus was marching down the corridor, arms swinging like he was on the parade ground. ‘A word?’

  Fenchurch stepped away from the Incident Room. ‘Is Alan okay?’

  Loftus grimaced. Shit, the news was going to be bad.

  Mulholland was behind him, cast in his slipstream, small enough that she was blotted out. She shared Fenchurch’s frown. She didn’t know either.

  Loftus took a sip from a coffee beaker. Must be bitter, because his grimace deepened, sucking his forehead in. ‘It’s not good, I’m afraid.’ Another sip. ‘I stayed at the hospital until after midnight. Margaret’s not taking it well and . . . I’ll be brief. I’m rambling.’ His lips twitched. ‘Alan has cancer.’

  Fenchurch’s gut sank to the floor, taking his buggered knee with it.

  Cancer? Shit . . .

  And it couldn’t be good. Collapsing and staying unconscious as Fenchurch sped through East London.

  Loftus tried a smile on for size. Probably be going back on the rack. ‘No prognosis at present, but it’s not looking rosy, given . . . well . . .’

  Mulholland tightened her scarf. ‘It’s definitely cancer?’

  ‘They’ve found a series of, uh, lumps on his, uh . . . You get the picture.’

  Fenchurch’s hand shot to his groin. His balls were almost in his stomach. ‘Does the doctor think it’s late-stage?’

  ‘I’m no expert, but I’ve got my eye out for a black tie. He said it’s spread to the liver and the lungs, hence all that coughing.’

  ‘Sounds like stage three or four.’ For once, emotion in Mulholland’s face. Tears. Clenched jaw.

  Loftus gripped both of their shoulders at the same time, tight. ‘You guys okay to work today?’

  Fenchurch gave a slight nod. ‘Keep me updated.’

  ‘The very second I hear anything.’

  Nelson shrugged, then looked around the assembled officers like he was doing stand-up. ‘Unless you’ve got a flux capacitor and enough road to get up to eighty-eight.’ He soaked up the laughs for a few more seconds. ‘What I’m saying is we need more time, okay?’

  ‘Use it wisely.’ Fenchurch picked up his tea mug and took a deep gulp. He couldn’t taste anything. Lumps growing on his balls, evil cells swimming around his body. His gaze settled on Clooney. ‘Mick, have you got any good news?’

  Clooney hid behind his tablet. Seemed bigger than yesterday. ‘Okay, so Hannah’s room is clean as far as we’re concerned. Same with the corridor.’

  ‘Wait.’ Fenchurch frowned. ‘There’s no DNA in either place?’

  ‘There’s too much. We’ve got about ten thousand pieces we could process. None of which will likely give you any evidence pointing to the killer.’

  ‘You’re saying it’s someone she knew?’

  ‘I’m saying nothing.’

  Fenchurch waited until Clooney looked round his tablet. ‘Mick, I want an action plan by the end of the post-mortem. No later.’

  ‘There’s no budget.’

  ‘I’ll worry about that. You give me a plan, I’ll get the budget, okay?’

  ‘Fine.’ Clooney snorted as he stabbed something into his tablet. ‘Fine, fine, fine.’

  Nelson didn’t look away fast enough. Fenchurch caught him, spotted something he wasn’t telling him. ‘What is it, Jon?’

  ‘I got an email from the drugs squad.’ Nelson cleared his throat. ‘They’ve charged Troy Danton and he’s appearing in court later this morning. No chance he’ll be getting bail.’

  ‘Have they got anything that might help us pin her murder on him?’

  ‘Don’t know, guv. Well, other than he couldn’t offer a plea.’

  ‘Typical. Keep on it. I want his statement closed down, okay?’

  ‘Guv.’ Nelson’s voice had dropped an octave, like he’d stopped vaping and had gone back to the hard stuff. ‘And, in other news, we’re still searching for Pickersgill.’


  ‘I want him found. Today.’

  Reed was glaring at Fenchurch. Bridge looked as though she wanted to run off.

  ‘Guv.’ Nelson wrote something on his Pronto.

  ‘Thanks.’ Fenchurch swallowed his tea, scalding the lump in his throat. ‘I suspect some of you will have heard. DCI Docherty was taken to hospital last night. I don’t know precisely what’s wrong with him yet, but I will keep you all updated as things progress. Everyone okay?’

  Bridge raised her hand. ‘How serious is it, sir?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know.’ Fenchurch’s mouth was dry, his voice thin and shrill. ‘But, it’s not looking good.’ Sounded better. ‘I’ll visit him at some point today and update you tomorrow.’

  Looking round the room, it was clear most hadn’t heard about Docherty. Hope it doesn’t affect morale too much.

  Fenchurch tried a smile. ‘We’ve got a case to solve here. I know everyone will still give this one hundred per cent. We’ve got a young woman lying in the morgue, dead long before her time. We will find who killed her.’ More of a threat than encouragement. ‘Let’s get down to it.’

  The crowd dispersed with a puff of chatter.

  Fenchurch finished his tea and stood up tall, trying to take control of his emotions. He set off towards the exit, doing up his top button.

  Reed blocked his path. ‘Guv.’

  ‘Kay, I’m going to the PM.’

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You don’t look it.’ She kept her voice low. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong, Kay, other than Abi’s bloody parents setting up camp in my bathroom this morning. Almost got a ticket driving in, I needed to—’

  ‘It’s not that, is it?’ She held his gaze for a few seconds. ‘Come on, talk to Dr Kay . . .’

  He leaned in and whispered, ‘Docherty’s got cancer, okay? It’s bad.’

  ‘Shit. Do you want to—’

  ‘I’m fine, Kay.’

  ‘Guv. Simon. You can talk to me.’

  ‘I know.’ Fenchurch smiled. ‘And I appreciate it.’

  Reed stared at him. Looked like she didn’t believe any of it.