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

by Ed James

  ‘Guv.’ Reed nudged his arm. ‘He’s running a cam site.’

  Younis winked at her. ‘She’s smart, this one.’ He looked her up and down. ‘Could definitely get a few punters paying for your time, love. Lot of interest in MILFs right now. And you are a mother, I can tell. Got that House of Cards thing going on, too. Very popular.’

  ‘Okay, son.’ Reed smiled at him. ‘When you’re man enough, you give me a ring, yeah?’

  ‘I’m serious.’ Younis blew her a kiss, then switched his gaze to Fenchurch. ‘So your smart cookie here’s bang on the money. I run a website, a very legitimate business between consenting adults. All the girls and boys give theirs before I let them through the door. You probably saw a few on the way in, yeah?’ He reached down and plonked a huge folder on the desk. Hundreds, maybe thousands in there. He started flicking through. ‘And all they do is take their clothes off and dance. Think of Stringfellows or the Chippendales but from the comfort of your own sordid one-bedroom flat. They just take their kit off. Harmless fun. Nothing illegal. No real porn, certainly nothing you could even suggest as extreme.’

  Reed barked out a laugh. ‘And what would be extreme to you?’

  Younis settled back in his chair. He picked up a little cube from his desk and clicked it. Really loud, really annoying. ‘Anything violent. Child, corpse, animal, that kind of thing.’ He tossed the cube in the air and caught it. ‘There’s no penetration here. Just girls slipping out of their lingerie. Boys getting their old fellas out, waving them about a bit.’

  ‘Boys?’

  ‘Got twenty-five of the buggers at the last count.’ Younis stuck his finger to his chin. ‘Quite fancy the look of that lummox in reception. They’re all over-age and they don’t even get a hard-on while the customers rub one out.’

  ‘You said lingerie.’ Fenchurch flashed up his eyebrows. ‘Are we talking expensive stuff?’

  ‘The best. Unless the punters want dirty little scrubbers. Why?’

  ‘We found at least three grand’s worth of lingerie in Hannah’s room.’

  ‘Nothing to do with me, mate.’ Younis held up his hands. ‘Standard practice is to wear a corset or a frilly bra. If she wants to waste her money on all that shit, fair play to her.’

  Fenchurch tapped on the folder. ‘Can I see Hannah Nunn’s form?’

  ‘Piss off.’

  ‘You gave her that laptop so she could strip for you, didn’t you?’

  ‘I said, piss off.’ Younis stuffed the folder back where it came from. ‘Now, I need to get on with my work.’

  ‘The laptop isn’t here, is it?’

  ‘No, and it’s time for you to clear off. Now. You ain’t got a warrant so get out. This is bordering on threatening behaviour.’

  Reed stopped outside the mobile Incident Room and grabbed the door handle. ‘What do you mean, cut down on the flirting?’

  ‘He was all over you, Kay.’

  ‘If he’d kept it up, I would’ve snapped his cock off, guv. Dirty little pervert.’

  Fenchurch took a step back, far enough that she couldn’t smack him. ‘He was playing you.’

  ‘Oh yeah? The number of times I’ve seen you thrusting yourself at a young witness? Think Abi wants to hear about that?’

  Fenchurch blushed, even though it was utter bullshit. ‘Hardly.’

  ‘You don’t think I’d cut it as a camgirl, do you?’

  ‘Kay, you’re fine, okay?’ Fenchurch opened the door. ‘Drop it, please.’

  One last glare then she entered the van.

  Bloody Younis. Flattery will get you everywhere. Need to take that little shit down a peg or two.

  He followed her inside. Bridge’s pals had cleared out, taking their farts and football chat with them. Left a pile of empty coffee cups by their laptops.

  Bridge was pointing at her screen. Reed squatted next to her, scowling. Then she looked up, still frowning. ‘Guv, you want to see this.’

  Bridge smiled at him. ‘I’ve been looking into this Manor House, sir. It’s a camgirl site.’

  ‘Yeah, we know. If DS Reed plays her—’ Her glare shut Fenchurch up. ‘What have you got?’

  ‘Well, I can explain the lingerie and the high-end laptop.’ She sat back and hit the space bar on the keyboard.

  The screen filled with a video. That Lana Del Rey song played, the one Abi loved. A face was up close to the camera, all blurry. Then she stepped back and started dancing. Hannah Nunn in her college room, wearing a tight red corset, swaying her hips in time to the thumping beat.

  Bridge paused it. ‘She goes by Natasha Sparks, but it’s definitely Hannah Nunn. Was. Probably paying her way through university by working as a camgirl.’

  ‘Thanks for doing that, Lisa.’ Fenchurch smiled at her. ‘Sorry that you had to watch all that shit.’

  ‘It’s not the worst thing I’ve seen, sir.’ Bridge ran a hand through her hair. ‘Had a case a few years ago where our whole team had to look through a pervert’s laptop. The weirdest was people having sex with an octopus.’

  Reed grimaced. ‘That’s a thing?’

  ‘If you’re so inclined.’ Bridge stuck her tongue in her cheek. ‘But this has been a lot more interesting. The psychology of the punters . . . I’ve seen so many videos where the girls just talk about their days, buying shoes and bras and tins of beans. They’re at least as popular as when they’re shaking their moneymakers.’

  Reed barked out a laugh. ‘The guys fall in love with them, don’t they?’

  ‘These sad, lonely men. They think they’re their girlfriends or something.’ Bridge tapped her laptop’s keys. ‘Anyway, I’ve looked into this Dimitri Younis character. Been running East London for four months. There’s a squad in Scotland Yard digging into his background. All of his other businesses are based out of the Caymans or the British Virgin Isles. We were lucky that he was sloppy with Manor House.’

  ‘Sloppy just about covers it.’ Fenchurch stood up tall.

  Something pinged on Bridge’s laptop. She frowned when she looked at it. ‘Just a sec.’ She hit a few keys then set another video playing. Similar to the last one, the camera focusing on Hannah’s blurry face. But the title read ‘Natasha Sparks and Keira Lovelace’.

  Music began playing and Hannah started dancing. The posters were different and . . . and the room was left-handed instead of right, the doors on the wrong side.

  Another girl appeared in the shot, dancing too. Really slutty stuff.

  Victoria Summerton.

  Chapter Fifteen

  A hairdryer droned inside Victoria’s room. A couple stood down the corridor, arguing silently. Probably breaking up.

  Fenchurch knocked on the door and waited. ‘Can’t believe what these girls do to pay their way through uni, Kay.’

  Reed looked away, her neck red. ‘I did it.’

  ‘What, stripping? You?’

  Her fury burnt into Fenchurch. ‘Jesus, Simon, two kids down, and you can’t believe I used to strip?’

  ‘So Younis was on to something.’ Fenchurch stifled a laugh. ‘Kay, you can’t let him get to you.’

  ‘I’m not letting anyone get to me. Other than you, you twat.’ Her glare hardened as she thumped on the door, much louder than Fenchurch had. ‘Bar in Shoreditch, club in Mayfair, which was a lot better, trust me.’

  ‘You didn’t mention this when we had that case at Christmas.’

  ‘You were in your own world back then, guv.’ Reed thumped the door again. ‘I wish I hadn’t done it. Ended up with a shit degree and a drink problem. Then working in the police for a boss who’s a complete arsehole.’ She flashed a smile as she stuck her ear to the door. ‘She’s definitely in, by the way. I can hear music. Lana Del Rey, if I’m not mistaken. Same song that Hannah was dancing to in the video.’

  Fenchurch booted the door. ‘Police!’ He battered the door so hard it hurt. ‘Ms Summerton?’

  The arguing couple sloped off, nervously checking behind them.

  Victoria opened the door, weari
ng a robe pulled around her. A fresh coat of spray tan covered her face. Her orange palms confirmed it. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Been working, have you?’ Reed was smiling.

  ‘What?’ Victoria’s gaze switched between them. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘We know how you pay your fees.’

  ‘Shit.’ Victoria focused on the floor. ‘It’s not illegal.’ She pulled her gown even tighter. ‘It’s stripping, but I make much more money and I don’t have to work in shitty bars with dirty old men running their fingers all over me.’

  ‘I know.’ Reed’s smiled widened.

  Victoria swung the door fully open, pushing a draft across their faces. ‘I’m not the only one round here who does it.’

  ‘Hannah did, right?’

  Victoria gave a slight nod. ‘If you want me to talk, you’ll have to arrest me.’

  ‘That’s not going to happen, Victoria.’ Reed blocked Fenchurch’s view of her face. ‘You work for Younis, don’t you?’

  ‘Sorry. I can’t tell you anything about it.’

  ‘We found a video of you and Hannah.’

  ‘Just us?’

  Fenchurch caught Reed’s look and threw it back at Victoria. ‘There are others?’

  ‘I can’t tell you!’

  Fenchurch got in her face, his nose inches from hers. ‘Listen, you tell us who got you into this and we’ll be on our way.’

  Victoria slumped against her door frame, her head dipping. ‘Sam.’

  Sam Edwards lived in a flat on Page’s Walk, almost on the corner with Willow Walk. Bermondsey, half an hour’s walk from the university. Old factory buildings lined one side of the road, the brick flats on the far side sandblasted new, pricing them out of student tenancy. Sam’s address was a ground-floor flat in the rougher half.

  Fenchurch walked up the drive and clattered his fist off the door. He crouched down and peered in through the letterbox, gloved fingers carefully prying it open. A wide hall, three doors. One had a sign up: DON’T BANG IF I’M BANGING, next to a poster of Yosemite Sam.

  Something crashed inside. Glass, maybe. The bedroom door splintered open, bouncing across the hall. ‘YOU COMPLETE BASTARD! COME HERE!’

  Didn’t sound like Sam Edwards.

  ‘COME HERE!’

  ‘AAAAH! THAT HURT!’ Sam Edwards tumbled through the doorway, blood slicking his arm.

  Fenchurch thudded the door. ‘Sam?’

  ‘YOU ARE A FU—’ Another smash, deeper. A dull thud. ‘YOU SHIT!’ A tall man stuck the boot into a prone Sam.

  Fenchurch gave the door some shoulder. The wood creaked and bent. Another push and he was in.

  Sam lay on the floor. A man stood over him, kicking his stomach. ‘YOU SLAG!’ Black tracksuit bottoms and a green T-shirt, a beer gut twisting the slogan. Another boot. ‘YOU’RE WORSE THAN HER! YOU SLAG!’ His boot slapped off Sam’s hands.

  ‘Police!’ Fenchurch launched himself across the hall and tackled Sam’s assailant, hauling him off. They landed on the carpet, the attacker crunching into Fenchurch’s left knee. He screamed out, pain roaring up his thigh and hip. Then he got a faceful of fist and a different flavour of pain. ‘Get off me!’

  A boot cracked Fenchurch’s side. ‘YOU’RE AS BAD AS HIM!’

  Fenchurch lashed out with his right boot, the sole bouncing off the attacker’s chin. The attacker pulled back his fist, ready to strike again.

  Reed lashed out with her baton and cracked the man’s wrist. He spun round, looking ready to punch her.

  Fenchurch grabbed his wrist from behind and locked his arm, pushing him face first to the ground. ‘Stay!’ He wriggled, so Fenchurch tightened the lock. ‘Stay still!’

  Sam was prone on the floor, tucked up in a ball, groaning. Clutching his arm, his hand caked in blood.

  Fenchurch waited a few seconds, then loosened his hold. The attacker tried to elbow him, so he tightened his grip again. ‘Kay, for God’s sake, call in backup!’

  Chapter Sixteen

  That prick bit me!’ Sam let the paramedics help him to his feet. ‘Bit me! Guy’s an animal!’

  They led him limping out of the door, dark blood caking his arm. ‘We’ll take him to the Royal London, sir.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Still no bloody uniform. Medics had now been and gone and his lot couldn’t be bothered showing up.

  Useless.

  But the Royal London . . .

  Docherty’s there, lying in a bed. God knows what’s happening to him. Maybe if I don’t go, he’ll . . .

  Of course he won’t, you stupid bastard. Stop thinking about fairy tales.

  Fenchurch tried to straighten his knee, but struggled. Beyond pain now. He stretched it off by walking into Sam’s room.

  Bare walls, a MacBook on an IKEA desk, unlocked, covered in stickers. SAM IS THE MAN! and CUCK OFF!

  The attacker sat on the bed, head between his knees. Handcuffs rattling as he rocked back and forth. Moaning. Muttering. Mid-forties. A wallet lay at his feet.

  Fenchurch reached down and picked it up, started flicking through. Driving licence said Ian Galbraith. A passport-sized photo of the man on the bed and a blonde-haired woman gurning. On the back someone had printed ‘Ian & Jo, 04.09.16’.

  Fenchurch tried to make eye contact with Reed. She wasn’t having it.

  Galbraith let out the mother of all sighs. ‘Should never have . . .’

  Fenchurch waited but he’d clammed up. ‘Never have what?’

  ‘You can piss off.’ Galbraith lay on the bed. Looked like he hated himself as much as Sam. ‘I’m saying nothing until my lawyer turns up.’

  ‘Is your wife sleeping with Sam?’

  Nothing. Not even a glance. Then: ‘Bitch.’

  ‘Did you catch them at it?’

  Galbraith shook his head.

  Something sparkled at his feet. A sheer black box. A smartphone, facing down, light haloing on the carpet.

  Fenchurch slipped a glove on and knelt in front of Galbraith, his knee grinding like a chainsaw. He picked up the phone. Hadn’t locked itself. Playing a video, full of blurring. Shouting, screaming, then it focused on Sam Edwards.

  Fenchurch held it up. ‘Sir, I need your consent to search this phone.’

  ‘Do what you like.’

  ‘Take that as a yes.’ Fenchurch stood up tall and wound the video back to the start, turning up the volume.

  The screen filled with a hotel corridor, shaking as the holder walked. ‘This is what we both want, not just her.’ Galbraith held up the camera, selfie-style. He raised a bag up, clinking with glass bottles. ‘Hope they’re getting acquainted.’ He swiped his key card, the phone focusing on the floor.

  The camera swivelled round. A woman was on her knees, in front of Sam, her head bobbing back and forth, her hands working in front of her. Sam was yawning, then nodded at Galbraith.

  ‘JO, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?’

  The video focused on Joanne, peering round Sam’s buttocks, grinning. ‘I couldn’t help myself.’

  ‘You were supposed to wait for me . . .’ His voice was close to a whisper.

  Fenchurch paused it before it got to the shouting. ‘Care to explain this, sir?’

  Galbraith took a glance at it and let out a deep, deep sigh. ‘You don’t want to know.’

  ‘Trust me, I do.’

  Shame twisted Galbraith’s face, all puffy and red.

  Fenchurch sat next to him, getting the weight off his knee. ‘What is this? Some kind of threesome?’ He waited, but Galbraith wasn’t speaking. ‘You walked in on them starting without you, so you beat the shit out of him. That about the size of it?’

  Galbraith clicked his tongue a few times. ‘Sod it, I’m in enough shit as it is.’ An intense grin crawled onto his face. ‘It’s not what you think.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘That Edwards fella is working as a cuck.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A cuck. Cuckold.’ Galbraith’s lips twitched. ‘The kid rents himse
lf out to couples to . . . satisfy certain fantasies.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Jo’s my second wife, fifteen years younger than me. Lovely girl, but . . . Jo’s . . . disappointed with . . . something about me.’

  ‘And she’s not disappointed with Sam?’

  ‘Sam’s got a . . . He’s well hung.’ Galbraith rubbed at his neck. ‘I mean, I’ve never had any complaints before but . . . Jo, man. Anyway, I . . . hired him for her birthday. I was going to record the whole thing so we could watch it together and . . . I told them to wait for me . . .’

  ‘You wanted to watch them?’

  ‘That’s not a crime.’ Galbraith frowned. ‘Is it?’

  ‘Need to look that one up. Go on.’

  ‘Sam turned up and I thought I’d let them have a chat, get acquainted. Went to the Tesco next to the hotel, got in some beer and wine. But she couldn’t get enough of him, could she? I tell you, mate, I don’t get women. At all.’

  And I don’t get perverts who want their wives to sleep with other men.

  ‘Anyway, they didn’t stop. She just kept on sucking his cock. Didn’t stop. I sat and watched. They . . . they made love. Didn’t take too long, either. Jo enjoyed it. I think.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Saturday. Lunchtime. We’ve got season tickets at Selhurst Park. Watched Liverpool battering us later.’

  Watching Crystal Palace after your wife had sex with a stranger . . .

  That didn’t quite tally with Sam’s poor sperm donor story.

  ‘Mr Galbraith, I’m still struggling to understand why you decided to kick the living shit out of him three days later?’

  ‘Because . . .’ Galbraith slumped back on the bed. ‘I play Sunday League for our local down in Sutton. The Old Post Office. I got there, but it was pissing it down. Waterlogged pitch so the game got cancelled. Instead of going for a few jars with the lads, I came home to spend time with Jo. Only, I get there and her car’s leaving the drive, going the other way. Hello. So I followed her. She came here.’ He stabbed a finger at Fenchurch. ‘I waited outside. Heard her getting smashed by that prick. Can you believe it?’