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

by Ed James

  Fenchurch couldn’t look at the body. Just over twenty-four hours earlier, Hannah Nunn had been alive. Living, breathing, shouting at her boyfriend. Thinking of going to Birmingham or Warwick or . . .

  Thinking.

  Doing.

  Being.

  The wall opposite was painted white, stained with coffee and faint specks of blood.

  Should really head to the Royal London, see Docherty myself. Get a handle on what he’s going through. If he’s awake. Give him support.

  ‘Simon, am I boring you?’ Pratt looked up from the incision on Hannah’s belly. ‘Mm?’

  ‘It’s fine, William. Just finding this one a little close to home.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Pratt restarted his probing. ‘And, of course, we’ve all heard about what happened to DCI Docherty.’

  ‘The jungle drums are still up to speed.’

  ‘Of course.’ Pratt squinted at his scales, then made a quiet note into his microphone. Then back to focusing on Fenchurch. ‘I heard cancer.’

  ‘That’s what Loftus told me. Doesn’t sound good.’

  ‘Good lord. I’ve a lot of time for Alan. He knows his onions, as they say.’

  The door juddered open and Clooney staggered through, clutching his tablet. ‘That’s your plan pulled together, Si. Please don’t tell me Docherty’s got three hundred grand squirrelled down the back of the sofa for this.’

  Fenchurch kept staring at the wall.

  ‘What’s up?’

  Pratt’s forehead started twitching. ‘Michael, you have heard, haven’t you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘About the aforementioned DCI?’

  ‘Ah.’ Clooney leaned back against the counter and set his tablet down. ‘I didn’t think. Sorry.’

  Fenchurch caught himself grinding his teeth together. ‘Accepted.’

  ‘So who’s going to replace Docherty?’ Mischief twinkled in Clooney’s eyes. ‘Fenchurch or Mulholland, eh?’

  ‘Mick.’

  ‘DCI Simon Fenchurch doesn’t have a ring to it?’

  ‘I’m getting on with the case. Like you should be.’

  ‘You know she won’t.’

  ‘Mick, grow up.’ Fenchurch glared at him for a few seconds. Then he shifted his focus to Pratt. ‘William, do you want to summarise where you’ve got to for the boy wonder’s benefit?’

  Clooney held up his tablet. ‘It’s okay, I’ve been watching it on here while I was doing your urgent report.’

  ‘Fine.’ Fenchurch glanced at Pratt. ‘Okay, summarise where we are for my benefit, then.’

  ‘Dear lord . . .’ Pratt stood up tall and snapped off his mask. ‘Well, I can confirm that young Hannah was very definitely strangled to death. Manually, judging by the contusions on her throat. Once I’ve opened her lungs, I’ll perform some additional tests and confirm. I’ll do that in the next five minutes or so.’

  Clooney frowned at his tablet. ‘So have you worked out if the sex was post-mortem or what?’

  Fenchurch scowled at Pratt. ‘What sex?’

  ‘My good sir, you really haven’t been paying attention.’

  Fenchurch huffed out a sigh. ‘I’ve been listening; you just didn’t say.’

  ‘Oh. Well.’ Pratt caressed Hannah’s cold abdomen. ‘It would appear that someone raped Ms Nunn. After she died.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Fenchurch couldn’t wrap his head around it. Turning a murder into a murder-rape . . . Made his blood boil. ‘She was definitely raped?’

  ‘If the girl’s dead, she can’t consent.’ Clooney shrugged, then sniffed in Pratt’s direction. ‘Correct?’

  ‘That would logically follow, yes.’

  Fenchurch gripped the edge of the table he was leaning against. The pair of pricks just stood there, grinning and humming, like they weren’t standing over a dead girl who’d been raped after death. He stood up tall, fists clenched, and stared at them, Clooney then Pratt. ‘You’re sure it was post-mortem?’

  ‘At least ninety per cent.’ Pratt’s tongue wiggled around in his mouth, a pink splodge in his thick beard. Added an om-pom-pom. ‘But how sure is “Good Ol’ Pratty” that the intercourse was post-mortem?’ He stuck his tongue out so far he was risking it if the wind changed. ‘Very. Some perimortem bruising could have delayed presentation, of course, but it’s definitely over ninety per cent certain that this is post. There are traces of latex and spermicide. Whoever it was had the presence of mind to rape a corpse wearing a condom. Now, that is cold.’

  ‘Didn’t want to get her pregnant.’ Clooney was staring at the tablet, but smirked like he was pleased with himself. Like his brain was made of the same silicon as the tablet. Like Fenchurch wasn’t going to make him swallow the bloody thing straight down in one go. Clooney looked up like he could Fenchurch’s mind. ‘But whoever’s raped her has replaced her clothes. Trouble is, I’ve got sweet Fanny Adams from her body on which to run a DNA test.’

  ‘William, that can’t be right?’

  ‘Afraid so. Whoever forced himself on young Hannah was careful to cover his tracks.’ Pratt shook his head violently. ‘This is a sickening, sickening act. This doesn’t appear to be a crime of passion. You don’t tend to strangle someone when you’re wearing a condom.’

  Clooney wrapped his fingers around his own neck. ‘Unless you’re into edge play and don’t want to take the pill.’

  Fenchurch thumped his fists against the table and rounded on Clooney, someone to focus his anger on. ‘Edge play?’

  ‘S&M. Strangling. That guy from INXS. That Tory MP.’

  ‘Any evidence of that, William?’

  ‘Well.’ Pratt frowned, the flesh on his forehead buckling. ‘Not really. If she was a seasoned practitioner of bondage, or even if she’d done it a few times, you’d expect . . . rough skin and chafing and bruising and whatnot. Marks somewhere, wrists or ankles. But there’s nothing that I can see. And I’m the best there is.’

  ‘Okay . . .’ Fenchurch dared to look at Hannah again. Her dead eyes focused on the ceiling. Sent another shiver down his spine, meeting a jolt of pain from his knee halfway. The same age as Chloe. This could happen to her. After all they’d been through, to find her and lose her in something like this. Hannah was someone else’s daughter, someone who felt the same way about her as he did about Chloe, the same as Abi did. ‘Mick, can you process your forensics based on proximity to the body?’

  ‘Even that’s more than you’ve got, Si.’ Clooney tilted his head, a sly grin crawling over his face. ‘You want to stick your mortgage on the three thirty at Chepstow?’

  ‘I don’t care, Mick. We’re going to find her killer. Start processing the DNA and I’ll get your money.’

  Clooney typed into his tablet. ‘You’re the boss.’

  ‘I am.’ Fenchurch kept his gaze on him, in case he sneaked off. ‘What else have you got on her?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Didn’t even look up.

  ‘Nothing? You’ve been at this twenty-four hours, Mick.’

  ‘Not my fault, Si.’ Clooney locked his machine and tucked it under his left arm. ‘Oh, before you start chasing me, I passed the laptop logistics to DC Bridge.’

  ‘That’s your job, Mick.’

  ‘Well, she offered. She’s forensics trained, said she could complete it.’

  ‘Good. At least she does something when I ask her.’

  The mobile Incident Room filled four spaces in the car park behind Jaines Tower. Fenchurch hauled open the door and stuck his head in. Got a wall of stale farts for his trouble.

  Two male officers in there, hammering keyboards, burping, laughing and joking about Arsenal. The nearest looked over and did a double take. Shot to his feet, almost saluting. ‘Sir.’

  ‘Either of you two seen DC Bridge?’

  ‘Gone for coffee.’ A nod over towards the university. ‘There’s a Starbucks in the main courtyard.’

  The Starbucks lurked in the corner nearest the lecture theatre, the queue winding towards the door. For all th
e moaning about student loans and tuition fees, they could afford a few quid for a latte to drag them through the day. Inside, students stared at laptops, giant headphones clamped to their skulls. The nearest girl was a dead ringer for Chloe, just the wrong hair colour.

  Fenchurch scanned around for Bridge, but couldn’t see her in there. She was dressing down like a mature student, contrasting with Fenchurch’s business suit. Fine if you’re investigating a City bank rather than a university. Not that Loftus gave them any choice. Wanker.

  The door clattered open and Sam Edwards wandered out, clutching a coffee. He clocked Fenchurch and made to head off in the opposite direction.

  Fenchurch grabbed hold of him. ‘Sam, I need a word.’

  ‘I’m late for a lecture.’ Couldn’t look at Fenchurch.

  Fenchurch checked his watch. ‘They start at ten twenty-five, do they?’

  Sam’s shoulders slumped. ‘What?’

  Fenchurch led him to the far end of the concourse and pulled over two metal chairs. ‘Have a seat.’

  Sam was too big to fit in his. He opened the lid of his coffee and sprinkled on sweetener, just like Fenchurch’s old man for the two weeks after his doctor told him to watch his sugar. ‘You getting anywhere with Hannah’s murder?’

  ‘We might be.’ Fenchurch stretched out his knee, took the dull pain down a couple of notches. ‘This isn’t easy to ask, but . . . did you have sex with Hannah on Sunday night?’

  Sam almost dropped his coffee. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Did you not hear me?’

  ‘No, I did, it’s just . . . it’s a bit—’ His frown became a scowl. ‘Wait a sec. Have you found something?’

  ‘Did you and Hannah have sex?’

  Sam slumped back in his chair. ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Did she?’

  ‘I . . . helped her out.’ Sam took a gulp of coffee and wiped foam off his nose. He got a card out of his wallet and slid it across the table. ‘I’m a sperm donor. It helps pay through uni. I abstain for a couple of days before, so I . . . We didn’t. I went down on her, if you must know.’

  The card looked official, genuine.

  ‘Do you mind me asking when the last time was?’

  ‘Of course I don’t.’ A bittersweet smile fluttered on his lips. ‘Friday night. We were out at a club. She stayed at my flat. Had a nice time.’

  That tallied with the missing drugs. A pair of MDMA pills, taken with her lover at a club on Friday. Something finally making sense amongst all the bullshit. Still, she’d swapped a half-decent laptop for some drugs. Fenchurch wondered what Sam brought to the table.

  Sam looked up, tears filling his eyes. ‘Why are you asking?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘Shut up, of course you can.’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘After all that? Won’t even give me the common decency.’ Sam jerked to his feet and stormed off. ‘Prick.’

  Fenchurch could’ve chased him, dodgy knee or not, but he’d got enough out of the kid. He looked around the café. No sign of DC Bridge. He pulled himself up and set off.

  In the mobile Incident Room, the two amigos were sipping coffees, locked in a discussion on whether Chelsea would stay top of the league all season.

  Bridge sat on the other side, fingers locked around her cup. She glanced over at Fenchurch. ‘Sir.’

  ‘Lisa.’ Fenchurch sat next to her and clicked his tongue a few times. ‘Mick Clooney said you’d taken over the logistical analysis of the laptops?’

  ‘DS Reed asked me to, sir. Highest priority.’

  ‘And yet you were off getting coffee?’

  ‘I’d just finished it, sir. I phoned DS Reed while I was in the queue, but she bounced it. Interview, according to her text.’ Bridge opened up her own laptop and tapped the keyboard. ‘I might have something, though.’

  ‘On the HP?’

  ‘No, Clooney’s still got that.’

  ‘Do me a favour and chase him, please?’

  ‘Sir.’ Bridge swivelled her screen round to show a scanned document. ‘I’ve spoken to Apple. That MacBook was part of a batch sold to a preferred supplier who sold it to a limited company registered in Mile End.’

  Fenchurch squinted at the paperwork. ‘What the hell is Manor House?’

  ‘I imagine it’s a knocking shop, sir.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Fenchurch pulled up the pool car outside a squat office in the arse end of Mile End. Low-rise post-war houses surrounded it, half of them with builders working, the constant drone of TalkSport accompanying the thumps and bangs. The area was slowly gentrifying, DLR trains trundling in both directions, into central London and out to the eastern badlands. ‘What do you make of Lisa Bridge, Kay?’

  Reed looked over at him. ‘She’s okay. Solid, but nothing flash.’ She frowned. ‘You do remember that Jon’s managing her now, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course I do.’ Fenchurch felt himself blush. Have to dig out that email again.

  ‘Why are you asking, guv?’

  ‘Keeping tabs on my team, that’s all.’ Fenchurch killed the engine and let his seat belt flop down. He got out and started off towards the office. ‘This is solid work. Usually takes Clooney an age of man to finish logistics analysis. She’s been pretty quick.’

  ‘Still hasn’t found the computer, though, has she?’

  ‘True. But this place . . .’ Fenchurch couldn’t see any office workers on smoke breaks, which raised the threat level a bit higher. ‘She thought it was a knocking shop. Manor House sure sounds like one.’

  ‘Classy sort of place, if you know what I mean.’ Reed pointed over at the office, gnawing at her top lip. ‘It’s not on anyone’s radar, is it?’

  ‘Nobody we need to speak to before we’re allowed to visit, anyway.’

  Reed pressed a button, then patted her quiff.

  The security door buzzed and a small screen flashed on. A tall man stood in an office, grinning at them. ‘What can I do you for?’

  Fenchurch recognised the face from intelligence briefings. The sharp snarling mouth, a row of rings above eyes full of glee and menace. Dimitri Younis. The new ganglord running East London. ‘Wouldn’t mind a word with you, sir.’

  ‘Well, I’m pretty busy.’ Younis didn’t just wear the clothes of a preppy Chelsea twat, he spoke like one too. ‘How about you come back later, yeah?’

  ‘The word I need concerns one of your laptops, sir. A MacBook Pro. Decent spec on it, too.’

  ‘This is what the great Simon Fenchurch is reduced to, is it?’

  So the new broom recognised the local cops. Interesting.

  Fenchurch shared a brief look with Reed. ‘It belonged to a Hannah Nunn.’

  Younis clicked his tongue for a few seconds. ‘Okay, I’ll bite. In you come.’

  The door clunked open, like a bolt into wood.

  Fenchurch led Reed inside. Looked like a waiting room at a posh hairdressers’ on a Saturday afternoon, loads of girls sitting around in skimpy clothes. A few English accents, but more than a few Eastern Europeans. Two local girls stood near the back, tanned with hair in long ponytails, comparing their bums in the full-length mirrors, settling into deep squats, hands clasped tight.

  ‘Strippers, guv.’ Reed’s gaze prowled the room. ‘Remember that case at Christmas?’

  ‘Never forget it. Young girls taking their kit off for fat wankers in back rooms. You think Hannah’s been stripping?’

  ‘Let’s find out.’

  A muscle-bound man joined the squatters, getting down so low that his arse touched his basketball shoes.

  Younis stood leaning against the door frame admiring them, licking his lips. ‘If you’ll follow me?’ He led them along a corridor, then held open a glass door marked CEO. He winked at Reed as she waltzed in. ‘Call me Dimitri.’ He held out an arm, his snakeskin suit frayed round the edges where it’d been cut to fit him.

  ‘I know where you got this.’ Fenchurch ran a hand down the sleeve of Younis’s
jacket. The material was a lot smoother than he expected. ‘The slimy prick whose illegal businesses you’re now running, I suspect.’

  ‘Illegal businesses? Get real.’ Younis waved into the room. ‘Get your arse down on my couch and we’re talking, otherwise you can piss off, the pair of you.’ The Chelsea accent was straight out of Mile End now. ‘Well, you can stay, Ms Reed.’

  ‘Mrs, and I’ll knock you into—’

  ‘Kay.’ Fenchurch took a seat by the desk. He patted the one next to it and waited for Reed to sit. Then he trained his glare on Younis. ‘Can you explain why one of your laptops was in Hannah’s room when she was murdered?’

  Younis stopped by his desk. ‘She’s dead?’

  ‘Haven’t you heard?’

  ‘No.’ Younis collapsed into his office chair and spun around. ‘Shit.’

  ‘You run Manor House, correct?’ Fenchurch passed him the scanned delivery note. ‘That’s your signature, isn’t it?’

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

  ‘This place is either a brothel or you’ve got a lap-dancing club somewhere down the back here.’ Fenchurch thumbed back out at the corridor. ‘Either way, I doubt much of it is legal.’

  ‘Should kill the pair of you, then, shouldn’t I? Dump your bodies in the Thames, yeah?’

  ‘Cut the shit. Why did she have your laptop?’

  ‘Must’ve bought it after I’d sold it on.’

  Fenchurch nudged the delivery note a little further over the desk. ‘This computer was almost three grand. Bought in August. You really sold it that quickly?’

  ‘Happens.’

  ‘But you recognised her name when we came in.’ Fenchurch let him suffer for a few seconds, caught out in the lie. ‘I’m thinking there’s some connection between you and Hannah. Something more than you giving her a laptop to help with her studies.’

  Younis crunched back in his office chair and nodded slowly, assessing the odds. ‘Fine.’ He picked up the paper and folded it, slitting it down the middle and tearing it in half. ‘I’m running a business here. Manor House. Classy. All legal. Punter consent is needed.’

  ‘Consent for what?’

  ‘What do you think?’ Younis held up the two half-pages. ‘Are you stupid or something? So they can access my girls and boys.’