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

by Ed James

  Fenchurch leaned forward. ‘Did you confront her on Sunday?’

  Galbraith grabbed his knees. ‘Could hear her screaming from the bloody street. I came back here yesterday after work, but that punk was out. His flatmate said something about someone dying. So I took a long lunch today and came back.’ He shrugged. ‘Lucked out, I suppose.’

  ‘And what happened?’

  ‘Confronted him. She paid him three hundred quid for that. More than I paid for the hotel thing!’

  ‘So you kicked the shit out of him?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’

  Before Fenchurch could pretend to answer, a pair of burly uniforms filed into the flat. He got up and waved at Galbraith. ‘Take him to Leman Street.’

  The Royal London didn’t have that hospital smell. The air tasted of airport duty-free, all aquatic aftershaves and smoky whiskies. Fenchurch stopped at the junction between ACCIDENT & EMERGENCY and URGENT CARE.

  Sam Edwards or Alan Docherty.

  Should really go and see Docherty.

  After Edwards.

  He took the left and spotted the uniform presence outside a sheeted-off area. A big lump of muscle stepped forward as he approached. Early twenties, but seasoned enough. He clocked Fenchurch’s limp. ‘I’m sorry, sir, Accident and Emergency is—’

  ‘DI Fenchurch.’ He showed his warrant card. ‘Sam Edwards, yeah?’

  ‘Sir.’ His badge read Kirkpatrick. Scottish or Irish name, but his accent was Billericay. ‘Sorry, I’m so sorry, I—’

  ‘Don’t sweat it, son. I make much bigger blunders than that every week. Is Sam in here?’

  Kirkpatrick stepped aside. ‘Yes, sir, he’s being seen to, sir.’

  ‘Cut it with the sirs, okay?’ Fenchurch smiled and tore back the curtain.

  Sam Edwards sat on the bed, hunched over and topless. He winced as a nurse dragged a needle through a deep gash on his arm, threading stitches, knitting the flesh back together.

  Fenchurch’s gut clenched. Ian Galbraith had done that. Maybe tackling him hadn’t been such a good move, after all . . .

  The nurse gave him a hard glare. ‘Sir, this is a—’

  ‘I’m police.’ Another flash of his warrant card. ‘Need a word with Mr Edwards here.’

  ‘Two seconds, then.’ He ploughed on with the stitching, getting a couple of sharp gasps from Sam.

  Fenchurch took a seat next to the bed and tried to get Sam’s attention. Nothing. He waited.

  Should’ve gone to see Docherty. Daft sod.

  ‘And that’s us.’ The nurse passed Sam a green hospital top, matching his bottoms. ‘We need to X-ray your leg, so I’ll be back in about half an hour, okay? But that wound on your arm will heal up nicely in a few days. Be right as rain.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Sam stayed focused on the floor while he left. Then his gaze shot up to Fenchurch. ‘He bit me. Can you believe it? Actually bit me. Then kicked my leg . . .’

  ‘Think you maybe deserve it?’

  Sam looked up at Fenchurch for a few seconds. ‘I’m not saying anything.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’ Fenchurch got up and started walking around. The buggered knee wasn’t helping him act the tough guy. ‘Trouble is, Mr Galbraith has been saying something. And not only saying . . .’ He reached into his pocket for his Pronto and played the video, holding it in front of Sam’s face.

  Sam couldn’t watch. ‘I’m not going to deny it.’

  ‘That’s good.’ Fenchurch pocketed the phone again. ‘Mr Galbraith says you had sex with Joanne Galbraith on Sunday. That right?’

  Sam shrugged.

  ‘Cos you told me you had to “save yourself” for your sperm donation.’

  ‘Listen, mate, Hannah was cool with it.’

  ‘She was happy that you were having sex with other men’s wives?’

  Another shrug. ‘Need to earn a crust.’

  ‘Sam, it’s prostitution.’

  ‘It’s not a crime. I know the law. Nobody else was involved in me selling myself. You can’t touch me.’

  Fenchurch stared hard at him. The kid had done his homework. ‘The second I find that Younis was involved, son, I will charge you.’ He’d lost Sam. Time for a different tack. ‘You know, when I saved you from worse than getting bitten like this, we wanted to speak to you. Someone told us you were involved in Younis’s business. I thought you were pimping out the girls. But it’s not like that, is it?’

  Sam bunched up his fists. ‘Who told you?’

  ‘What, that you got Hannah into stripping on her computer?’

  ‘Victoria, yeah?’

  ‘Can’t say. You should appreciate that with your knowledge of the criminal justice system.’ Fenchurch leaned in close to Sam’s face, trying to force him to look at him. ‘Let’s cut the crap. Did Younis know Hannah?’

  Sam flinched. ‘She auditioned for him.’ He prodded the cut the nurse had sewn up. ‘Filled out a form, same as the rest of us. Had some questions on the background checks, but that’s Younis messing with us.’

  ‘She ever do anything to annoy Younis?’

  ‘Made a lot of money for him.’

  ‘What about you?’

  Sam nibbled at his thumbnail. He kept twitching. ‘What about me?’

  ‘You do shows, don’t you?’

  ‘I do, but I don’t make enough.’ Sam’s baby-blue eyes twinkled. Fenchurch could see why all the girls went for him. ‘Mate. My parents are poor. Very poor.’ He huffed out air, like he’d confessed to the world’s biggest crime. ‘I’m the first in my family to ever go to university. When you were young, that might’ve been quite common. Now, everyone goes. But I had a shit upbringing. Really shit. Dad’s not worked since the nineties and I was born in 1997.’

  ‘Getting into Southwark’s a big achievement.’

  ‘I know.’ Pride fought with shame on Sam’s face. ‘But it’s nine grand a year. And that’s just fees. It doesn’t cover how much it costs to stay in London. Food, coffee. Might even want to go out once in a while.’

  ‘And this is how you pay your way?’

  ‘Not that I’ve got a choice.’ Sam rubbed his hands together slowly. ‘It started with cam shows. The audience was mostly fellas to begin with, but then a few women joined. I get a hell of a lot of couples watching me. Then these messages came through on the website, asking to meet up.’

  ‘Was Younis aware of them?’

  Sam nodded slowly. ‘There’s a messaging system on Manor House. I think it’s so he knows who’s turning tricks.’

  ‘Does he take a cut?’

  ‘You don’t get it, do you? You lot are interested in what he does, so he screens the users to keep an eye on which girls and boys are meeting people on the side.’

  ‘People like you?’

  ‘He doesn’t mind about the boys. It’s the girls you lot have a problem with.’

  ‘You’re close?’

  Sam started inspecting his nails. ‘I’m one of his favourites.’

  ‘How favourite?’

  ‘He watches my shows. That’s it.’

  ‘Was Hannah turning tricks?’

  ‘She didn’t. Wouldn’t. There’s money to be made, but she made a killing out of the shows.’ He twitched again. ‘She was fine with my sidelines, so long as I was careful.’

  ‘Getting the shit kicked out of you is careful, is it?’

  Sam raised his shoulders. ‘It’s dangerous.’ He touched the bandage over his cut. ‘As I’m finding out now.’

  ‘Did you meet Hannah through this?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And Younis?’

  ‘Just after I came to London, I was . . . He . . . saw me dance a couple of times at this club in Soho. One of the last ones. Very hands-on.’

  ‘He’s gay?’

  Sam barked out a laugh. ‘Omnisexual is how he sees it.’

  ‘I need to get this on the record.’

  ‘Yeah, fat chance.’

  Fenchurch hauled himself up the stairs at Leman Street, his knee lo
cking every couple of steps. Too proud to take the lift.

  Sam Edwards. Bloody hell. Usually, Fenchurch would rely on instinct, batter into Younis, accuse him of everything under the sun. Get nowhere, except into a fight.

  But this time . . . This needed strategy. Deep thought. Time. And Hannah wasn’t getting any less dead.

  Younis was an unknown quantity. Rising up to take over the East End. Not exactly a Kray, but still formidable. Still a lucrative place if you knew what you were doing. Trouble with the younger generation, though, is they’d just rip the snakeskin suit off your back.

  Fenchurch opened his office door and limped through.

  Mulholland was behind her desk, smiling at him. ‘Afternoon.’

  ‘Is it?’ Fenchurch glanced at his watch. How did it get to one o’clock? He slumped behind his desk and unlocked his computer. Whirring and grinding as it opened his emails.

  ‘I visited Alan this morning.’

  Shit.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Forgot to bloody go.

  ‘How was he?’

  ‘Awake.’ Mulholland got up and paced across the office, resting to the side of his monitor. ‘I heard you were at the hospital. How was he?’

  ‘Dawn, I’m running a murder case.’ Fenchurch stared at her long and hard. ‘Do you mind getting out of my hair?’

  She left their office with a huff, her scarf dragging behind her.

  Save me from this bullshit . . .

  Fenchurch logged into the PNC and searched for Dimitri Younis. Just took him to the same intelligence file he’d seen a few weeks back. They had so little on him, it was like the guy didn’t exist.

  Who’d know about him? Howard Savage, maybe?

  He flicked into his inbox and scanned down the list of emails, hundreds of unread, unactioned messages.

  Reed’s holiday requests, Nelson asking for a ‘chat’. Five from Docherty yesterday. Enough to pump up the lump in his throat. And one from ‘A friend’. No doubt the sort of penis-enlargement drugs that the spam filter was supposed to kill.

  But the subject was ‘Your daughter’. Another nutter who’d read the articles in the Post. Against his better judgment, he opened it.

  See her in action.

  — Your friend

  And a link to a video site.

  Sweat trickled down Fenchurch’s back.

  Don’t click on it. It’s just some sick bastard messing with you.

  The pixels on the screen resolved to tiny dots.

  Thinking it through, planning what the hell to do with it.

  Can’t watch it.

  Can’t not watch it.

  See her in action. What the hell did that even mean?

  He clicked.

  A video opened and started playing, the sound muted. Chloe sat on a couch, short skirt, bare legs crossed. Tight black top, hair scraped back from her face. Well-lit room, very much like Younis’s office in Manor House.

  Fenchurch’s mouth was dry, his fists clenched.

  She said something, but the sound was off. Fenchurch unmuted it.

  A male voice droned out, ‘Are you going to dance for me?’ London, but indistinct.

  Chloe gave a nervous nod to whoever was behind the camera. Then music, tinny and thin. Robert Palmer, ‘Addicted to Love’. She got up and started strutting around, swaying her hips and shoulders.

  Fenchurch couldn’t watch. Couldn’t tear his eyes off it.

  She nibbled her bottom lip as she played with her top, lifting it up to show bare flesh.

  Fenchurch tried turning it off without looking at it again.

  On the screen, Chloe stormed off out of the room. ‘I can’t do this.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Fenchurch stood in the corridor, clutching his phone. His finger hovered over Abi’s number. He tried to press it but . . . couldn’t.

  How do you tell your wife that her estranged daughter is . . .

  Is . . .

  He hauled open the Incident Room door and scanned around, stuffing his phone in his pocket. DC Bridge was in the corner, working on a laptop, headphones in. He wandered over, smiling at the two DCs he passed, trying to act calm and rational. ‘Lisa, did you get that email?’

  She pulled out her earbuds. The audition video was on her screen. Up to three views now. Shit. Someone else had it. ‘Who is this girl?’

  Fenchurch pulled up the chair next to her, sweat trickling down his back. He looked her in the eye. ‘I think it’s connected to the Hannah Nunn case.’ As big a smile as he could manage. ‘Can you trace who sent it?’

  ‘That’s really Mick Clooney’s department, sir.’

  ‘But you can do it?’

  ‘Well. I can try.’ She hit a few keys and typed into a little black window, tiny white text. A bar stretched across the screen. ‘Balls, that IP address is masked.’

  ‘Dead end, then?’

  ‘Dead end.’ She tapped at the video screen. ‘But . . . Nah, it’s nothing.’

  ‘No, go on.’

  She pointed at the monitor again, circling the sofa and the pot plant. Her face twisted up. ‘She’s familiar, though.’ Her hand shot to her mouth. ‘Is this another victim?’

  ‘God, no.’ Fenchurch got to his feet. ‘Thanks for this, Lisa. I’d appreciate it if you kept this to yourself for now.’

  ‘No problem. Do you want me to dig into it?’

  ‘No, I know who to speak to about it.’ Fenchurch jabbed a finger at the laptop. ‘But see if you can get that site to take it down for me.’

  Fenchurch locked his car and sucked in a deep breath.

  Why the hell is that prick sending videos of Chloe . . .

  Stripping.

  Jesus. Is she being forced to strip to pay her way through university? Taking her kit off so some obese pervert can masturbate.

  But she pulled out, didn’t she? That’s what it looked like.

  He pocketed his keys and sucked in another deep gulp of air. Time to—

  ‘Can’t get enough of this place, can you?’ Younis was standing by a blue BMW X5, the SUV sparkling with glitter. The male squatter from earlier was waiting next to him, about to do something he’d regret. ‘It’s much easier if you do it on your computer. Now, boy or girl?’

  Fenchurch took his time walking over, trying to keep a smile on his face, trying to stop his knee from locking. ‘Here to ask you about a girl, as it happens.’ He grinned at the beefcake. ‘Though I hear your tastes are a little more male?’

  Younis patted his friend on the arm. ‘You get in the car, Leon, okay?’ He waited until the door slammed. ‘Who I ride isn’t your concern, Fenchurch. And, anyway, I’d shag anything. Anyone. Your DS earlier.’ He leered at him, adding a wink to make it that little bit seedier. Then Fenchurch got the up and down. ‘Even you.’

  Fenchurch flushed. ‘Did you send the video?’

  ‘There’s a video of you?’ Younis folded his arms, nodding, giving Fenchurch another detailed inspection. ‘Solo, is it? Male-on-male? You going down on Mrs Fenchurch?’

  Fenchurch’s mouth was dry. ‘Chloe.’ It was all he could manage to say. Stop this prick getting at you.

  Younis reached out and touched Fenchurch’s arm. ‘My, you are a big one.’

  ‘The girl in the video, her name is Chloe.’

  ‘Don’t know her.’ Younis thumbed into the car. ‘Sure you don’t want to have some fun with me and Leon?’

  ‘What about Jennifer Simon?’ Fenchurch hated saying it, felt his gut recoil.

  ‘Sorry, mate.’ Younis squeezed Fenchurch’s arm. ‘Offer still stands. We can have a lot of fun.’

  ‘I’ll get myself all lubed up, shall I?’

  ‘Fenchurch, Fenchurch, Fenchurch.’ Younis exhaled slowly. ‘If only you were interested.’

  ‘Just in who sent me the video.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know anything about it.’

  ‘That mean you didn’t send it?’

  ‘You got evidence that I’m involved, eh?’ Younis hel
d his gaze until Fenchurch looked away. ‘Thought as much.’ He sniffed. ‘Now, I’ve no idea who or what you’re talking about.’

  Fenchurch pulled out his Airwave Pronto. The video was ready to play. Chloe in that office, looking alone and ashamed for what she was about to do. ‘Do you recognise her?’

  Younis nodded slowly, staring hard at the screen. ‘What did you say her name was?’

  ‘Stop messing with me.’

  ‘Chloe, wasn’t it? Or Jennifer.’ Younis smirked. ‘I remember her. Very sexy, but shy. That makes it even sexier. She came in, filled out all the paperwork, then we filmed her. But she changed her mind halfway through the audition, didn’t she?’ He ran his tongue over his lips. ‘A lot of girls can’t cope with knowing that they’re dancing for thousands of seedy degenerates. Finding a man who can is even harder. Like hen’s teeth.’ He laughed. ‘Weird thing is, some hens do have teeth. A genetic throwback. Vestigial, they call it. Like a snake with a leg.’

  Fenchurch nudged Younis back against his car. ‘Why did you send it?’

  ‘I’m getting all hot and bothered here, Inspector.’ Younis licked his lips again, his eyelids quivering. ‘But I’m afraid that I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. I haven’t sent anything to anyone. Call me a tinfoil-hat nutter all you want, but I don’t trust computers. Someone’s always watching.’ His gaze shot down to Fenchurch’s crotch. ‘Though I’d love to watch you.’

  ‘Did you send that video?’

  ‘We’ve discussed that, sweetie. No.’ Younis winked and patted the car window behind him. ‘And if you want any more, then how about you come back to mine with Leon here. My pillow talk can be quite open.’

  Fenchurch thought about threatening him. Don’t want the prick to think he’s won. ‘I’ll be seeing you.’ He walked off towards his car.

  ‘Cooee!’ Younis was pouting at Fenchurch, a business card between two fingers. ‘Take this. You never know when you might need to phone me.’ He shot a wink. ‘Or want to.’

  A plastic bag soared past Fenchurch, blowing across the university quad, now thronging with bodies. Students coming out of lectures, others going back in.

  ‘Inspector.’ Gordon McLaren nodded at Fenchurch. A touch too much eye shadow today. His lilac cravat matched his pink blouse and dark-brown skirt. ‘Have you got anywhere with finding Hannah’s killer?’