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

by Ed James

  ‘Was it Thwaite?’

  ‘Could’ve been. So much happening and I was focusing on Keane.’

  ‘The IPCC will be in before we can blink.’

  ‘Don’t doubt it.’ Grove’s mobile chimed. She checked it and upgraded her sigh-contest entry. ‘Okay, that’s the boss. Back in a sec.’ She got up and wandered off, phone to her head.

  Fenchurch caught a glare off a CSI. Clooney, if he had to bet on it. ‘You getting anything, Mick?’

  ‘Sweet Fanny Adams, Si, but then we’ve only been at this five minutes.’

  ‘We thought he was making a bomb.’

  Clooney surveyed the room, frowning at his team. ‘Are you winding me up?’

  ‘I was here earlier, smelled dead fish. Grove thought it was something.’

  Clooney shot off across the room. ‘Everyone out!’

  ‘I need to speak to Superintendent Loftus.’ Fenchurch clutched the phone. His hands were still shaking. Either too much caffeine or . . .

  Or someone getting shot inches from him.

  ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, but Julian is in a session with DI Mulholland.’ Loftus’s assistant’s voice could’ve been some AI home assistant thing, so cold and unemotional. ‘I’ll get him to—’

  ‘I need you to get him out. It’s urgent.’

  ‘It’s always urgent, Inspector.’

  ‘Tell him there’s been a police shooting.’

  The assistant growled down the phone line, finally showing some emotion. ‘I shall pass on the message.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Fenchurch hung up and took another look around Keane’s front garden.

  Still no sounds of bombs going off, just Clooney stepping in a deep puddle. ‘Crap!’ He glowered at Fenchurch. ‘False alarm.’

  ‘No bomb?’

  ‘Oh no, we found some HMTD, but it’s in a gel container.’ Clooney showed Fenchurch his tablet, an image of a fish tank, some small orbs floating in yellow liquid. ‘It’s not going off this side of a sizeable earthquake.’ He snorted. ‘Nasty stuff, though. Some al-Qaeda types tried using it in New York and New Jersey back in September. This could’ve been a disaster if it’d got into the wrong hands.’

  ‘Keane is the wrong hands.’ Fenchurch frowned at Clooney as he pointed over the road. ‘One of those New World Order, white-supremacist types.’

  ‘Oh, Christ.’ Clooney exhaled slowly. ‘That kind of changes things a bit. Why does this shit always happen to you, Si?’

  Fenchurch took a sip of tea. ‘Wish I knew, Mick.’

  Clooney charged off, shaking his head. Poor bastard.

  ‘Simon.’ Grove was lurking beside him, pocketing her phone. ‘My boss just told me that the IPCC are here already. The second there’s a police shooting . . .’

  ‘Who are they sending? Abercrombie?’

  Grove focused on him again. ‘You know her?’

  ‘Not intimately.’ Fenchurch looked around conspiratorially then gave her a flash of his eyebrows. ‘I really need to interview Thwaite.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Trouble has a habit of following me around. I want to satisfy myself that it’s just a police shooting. Nothing more. This doesn’t quite sit right with me. We wanted Keane for a murder. You lot wanted him for all sorts of terror malarkey. I can accept it if this shooting was just an accident, but I want to know it’s just an accident.’

  Grove stared off into the middle distance, in the vague direction of Leman Street. ‘We can’t just blunder in there and grab hold of him. More than our careers are worth.’

  ‘Well, how about you and me have a little chat with Abercrombie, see if we can get some time with Thwaite before all the stupidity starts?’

  Grove ran a hand through her hair. ‘There’s no persuading you otherwise, is there?’

  They found Zenna Abercrombie in a meeting space near the interview rooms, huddled with a six-strong team. Amazing how fast the IPCC can mobilise. She was hammering a laptop, only pausing when Grove knocked the door jamb. ‘One second.’ Every inch the Greek princess living on her daddy’s yacht, just with the voice of a Wapping docker. She shut the lid and looked up, then let out a groan. Very professional. ‘Fenchurch. Had to be you, didn’t it?’

  ‘That’s no way to greet me, Zenna.’

  She passed off her laptop to a colleague. ‘Sarah, can you complete sections four to eleven, please?’ Her underling took it without any more than a nod. Zenna focused on Fenchurch, her dark eyes narrowing at him. ‘Now, you do understand that the Independent Police Complaints Commission is independent, right? We’re here to make sure you’re accountable for your actions.’

  ‘And here was me wondering if we could scratch each other’s backs.’ Fenchurch rested against the door frame. ‘Richard Thwaite killed a murder suspect.’ He thumbed at Grove. ‘Michelle here wanted that suspect in connection to a domestic terror case. Possibly international links.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And we’ve got evidence against the victim here. He might be a murderer. Might be working with people who want to do some very nasty things to a lot of people. I want to find out if the reason he’s dead is anything to do with my investigation into a young student’s murder. Michelle wants to stop people blowing each other up. This might be related.’

  ‘And operational policing butts up against my agenda yet again.’ Zenna let out a well-worn sigh and puckered her lips. ‘Just so we’re clear, this is my investigation. I’m only interested in finding out the truth here. Who did what. Who is culpable for what.’

  ‘And we can help. Let us in the room with Thwaite. Let me satisfy my curiosity.’

  ‘You’re not letting this one go without a fight, are you?’

  ‘You know me. I can escalate if I need to.’

  ‘Right.’ Zenna picked up a bulging document holder and hugged it tight. ‘I’m going to start interviewing him while he’s still fresh and traumatised, see what he spills. If I can guarantee full co-operation from both of you, then we can clear your queries first. Okay?’

  ‘Fine with me.’ Fenchurch gave his best grin. Seemed to dent her armour a little.

  ‘And me.’ Grove nibbled at her lip. ‘Only thing is, he was off with stress for six months, beginning of last year.’

  ‘That’s all I need . . .’ Zenna barged between them, heading to the interview room.

  PC Richard Thwaite sat playing with his St Christopher. Bastard thing kept catching the light as he twisted it round. Someone should take it off him. If he opens a vein . . .

  ‘Richard, you shot him, didn’t you?’ Grove was drumming her fingers on the table. Kept glancing at Zenna next to her, as if she was seeking approval. ‘You shot my operational target. We were supposed to bring him in.’

  More fiddling.

  Fenchurch was leaning against the door, arms folded. ‘Why did you do it, Richard?’

  A sharp tug, not quite enough to yank the chain apart. Thwaite didn’t look at him, didn’t look at either Grove or Zenna. Just stared at the desk, twisting the cross.

  ‘Why did you murder him, Richard?’

  ‘It was an itchy trigger finger. I swear. I was saving you.’ Thwaite dug one of the corners of the cross into his thumbnail. ‘Keane reached for the knife. You were closest. Then DI Grove.’

  ‘So you shot him?’

  ‘I reacted. Aimed for centre mass.’

  ‘Centre mass isn’t his heart, Richard.’

  Thwaite let go of the St Christopher. ‘He moved. Fast. Like a greyhound out of the traps.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’ Grove leaned forward on the table, elbows thunking against the wood. Thwaite picked up the St Christopher. ‘He looked at you for a good few seconds. Did you know him?’

  ‘Course I didn’t.’ Thwaite pushed himself from the table. ‘Course I didn’t. You must think I know half of London, or something.’

  ‘No, just Oliver Keane.’

  ‘You’re full of shit.’ Thwaite ran his tongue over his lips. ‘How could I know him?’

&nbs
p; ‘Happens more often than you’d think.’ Fenchurch folded his arms. ‘Someone muttered “gimp” in there. It was you, wasn’t it?’

  Thwaite clutched his St Christopher like it would ward off the devil. Or at least Fenchurch. ‘He went for a knife.’ He rocked back and forth, twisting to the side. ‘Went for a knife.’ Then he retched, spraying vomit on the floor and up the wall. He wiped his lips, swallowing with some pain.

  Fenchurch got up and snatched the St Christopher off Thwaite’s neck, snapping the links in the chain. Then he got in Thwaite’s face, getting a lungful of vinegary sick. ‘Why did you shoot him?’

  Twitching fingers searched for the St Christopher. ‘I want a lawyer. Now.’

  ‘That’s about the bloody limit.’ Loftus thumped a fist on Docherty’s desk. Made the Rangers mug jump in the air. Landed perfectly, but spilled coffee over the varnished wood. ‘Another death on your conscience, eh? It should go without saying that I will not be covering for you.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to, sir.’ Fenchurch wanted to look away, but didn’t. Kept up the eye contact, wanting Loftus to look away. ‘This was a joint operation with SO15. They ran it, given their skillset and the likely terror angle. DS Reed and I were only there in a support capacity. The shooter, Richard Thwaite, is one of their officers.’

  ‘Trying to wriggle out of it, eh?’ Loftus sneered at him. ‘You’ve beaten the snot out of suspects like it’s still the seventies. You’ve had an officer lose an arm in an ill-advised chase. Five months ago, a suspect died in custody. Then there’s all that stuff with your father and . . .’ He squeezed his thumb and forefinger tight together. ‘Inspector, you’re this close to triggering an internal investigation.’

  ‘Why don’t you? Could it be because none of those were my fault?’

  ‘Always back to blame with you. You’re made of Teflon. Nothing sticks to you, does it?’

  ‘I’ve been a DI for over ten years, sir. I’d say that stuff does stick to me, otherwise I’d be in your chair by now.’

  Loftus bellowed out a laugh. ‘Dear God, I haven’t heard anything that funny in a long time.’

  ‘I’m serious, sir.’ Fenchurch grabbed the arms of the chair tight, in case he lurched across and smacked Loftus in the chops. ‘You can distrust me all you want, but I’m clean.’

  ‘Really.’ Loftus picked up the Rangers mug, his nostrils twitching as he gulped. He set it down with a thump. ‘So, where does this death leave us?’

  ‘We’ve lost a suspect, sir. That’s not good in anyone’s book.’

  ‘No. No, it’s not. And how likely was he?’

  Fenchurch shrugged. ‘Probably a Champions League spot.’

  ‘Do you have anything that might set into concrete?’

  ‘All our evidence is vague and indicative at best. We needed to get Keane on the record.’

  ‘And what did SO12 have on him?’

  ‘SO15, sir.’

  ‘I don’t like a smart-arse.’ Loftus took another sip from Docherty’s Rangers mug. ‘What did they have on you?’ He growled. ‘I mean on him. Keane.’

  ‘Terror suspect on watch, sir. Links to the far right, both here and in the States. We suspected he was making a bomb. Mick Clooney found one, safe enough, but a bomb.’

  ‘When you say “we”, did this suspicion come from you?’

  ‘It did, sir. DS Reed and I visited his property this afternoon and smelled dead fish.’

  ‘Dead fish?’

  ‘Sir. Like he was smoking kippers or something. Really strong. We raised it with DI Grove and she told us that it’s indicative of a certain type of home-made explosive. HMTD. Can’t rememb—’

  ‘I know what it stands for.’ Loftus stared deep into the mug, licking his lips slowly, then back at Fenchurch. ‘If I find out that you fabricated this evidence, the hot coals I haul you over will be the least of your worries.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘I need you to report this to DI Mulholland. Immediately.’

  Fenchurch froze. So this was how it was going to play out, was it? Reporting to Mulholland. Bugger that. ‘Sir, there’s something you should know about DI Mulholland.’

  ‘I’m all ears.’

  Someone knocked at the door. Mulholland stood there, grinning like she’d got a new cauldron. Speak of the devil, and she will appear. ‘Sir, we’ve got something you might want to see.’ DC Bridge was next to her, clutching a silver laptop in an evidence bag.

  ‘Come on in, Dawn. Make yourself at home. DI Fenchurch was just about to enlighten me as to something critical.’ Loftus held out a hand to Bridge. ‘Don’t think we’ve had the pleasure?’

  ‘DC Bridge, sir.’ She shook it. ‘Lisa.’

  ‘Good, good. Well, Fenchurch, out with it.’

  Fenchurch locked eyes with Mulholland. He could tell she knew what he was about to say. He cleared his throat and shifted his gaze to Bridge. ‘Lisa, what have you got?’

  ‘Forensics are in Keane’s house just now.’ Bridge put the bagged laptop on the table, the white Apple logo cut out of the silver metal. ‘They’ve found two MacBook Pros.’

  ‘Two?’ Fenchurch frowned at her. ‘Are either—’

  ‘One of them matches Hannah’s serial number. The other’s from the same batch.’

  ‘Can you get into either?’

  ‘IT are cloning Hannah’s just now, sir.’ Bridge produced her own laptop from somewhere and showed a clone window, a copy of the computer accessible on hers for evidentiary reasons. ‘I’ve been looking at the other one. Thing is, we don’t know who owned it. The account says “Administrator”.’

  ‘It’s probably Mr Keane’s own.’ Mulholland was practically purring. ‘But the fact we’ve found Hannah’s missing laptop in his house, well. I’d say that this means we’ve got a prime suspect for her murder.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Loftus nodded slowly, a smile flashing over his lips. ‘But one who’s unfortunately dead.’

  ‘Better a dead murderer than a live one.’ Mulholland shut her eyes, as though she regretted it before she said it.

  Loftus ignored it and got to his feet. ‘Okay, please get this logged, Louise.’ Bridge stood there, nodding. Didn’t correct him. ‘Dawn, you and I shall have a word with the CPS.’

  Fenchurch frowned. ‘What about me, sir? It’s my—’

  ‘It’s late, Inspector. Time you got home.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Fenchurch squeaked down the hospital corridor, unsure whether his shoes or his knee needed oiling more. No sign of Nelson outside Sam’s room, just the same pimply uniform as earlier. ‘Have you seen DS Nelson?’

  ‘Eh, no, sir. Not for an hour, sir.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Fenchurch entered the room.

  Sam was lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling. He glanced over, then went back to counting cobwebs.

  Fenchurch pulled up a seat and perched on it. ‘How you doing?’

  ‘What do you care?’

  ‘I do worry about people, you know.’ Fenchurch settled back into the chair and folded his arms. ‘I stopped that bloke killing you, for example. All part of the job.’

  ‘I can handle myself.’

  ‘Yeah? That why he put you in here?’

  Sam didn’t reply.

  ‘What’s the prognosis?’

  ‘No bones broken. Slight tear to a ligament in my ankle. The bite will heal. Just leave a small scar.’

  ‘Why are you still here, then? You’re frightened of Galbraith, aren’t you?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you be?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be giving his wife a portion.’ Fenchurch spotted the smirk on Sam’s face. ‘Then again, I’ve not got the equipment for that line of work.’

  ‘Neither have I.’ Sam looked down at his crotch. ‘Believe me, mine’s normal-sized.’ He scratched at his neck. ‘According to his wife, Galbraith’s isn’t.’ He put his thumb and forefinger together. Reminded Fenchurch of how close Loftus thought he was to getting the boot. ‘As small as Hitler’s, if you belie
ve the stories.’

  ‘You should register as a charity, or something.’

  Sam chuckled, then sat up in his bed. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Does the name Oliver Keane ring any bells?’

  ‘A couple.’

  ‘Any idea why he’d have Hannah’s laptop?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We just raided his house. He was working on it at the time.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘When did you last see that machine?’

  Sam frowned, like he could see back into the past. ‘I mean, I don’t make a habit of keeping an inventory of her stuff, but I think we watched some Netflix on Sunday night. Before the . . . you know. Argument.’

  ‘Remember what?’

  ‘Think it was It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. Our third time through it.’ Sam adjusted his position in his bed. ‘Do you think this Keane guy killed her?’

  ‘We’ve put him at the top of the suspects board. Moves you down a bit.’

  Sam’s mouth hung open. ‘You honestly think I killed her?’

  ‘You had a big argument with her.’

  ‘Piss off, you prick.’

  ‘You could help me.’

  ‘What? How?’

  ‘Hannah’s laptop password would be a start.’

  ‘Does Mrs Fenchurch know yours?’

  ‘Of course. She had to set it up for me.’

  ‘Well, Hannah didn’t share it with me. She wasn’t an idiot.’

  ‘Any ideas what it could be?’

  ‘Passwords are supposed to be secret. If I could guess, it wouldn’t be secret, would it?’

  ‘We found another MacBook with hers. Any idea whose it was?’

  ‘How should I know?’ Sam pulled himself up to sitting. The bed sheet dropped to the floor. His ankle was strapped, the pyjama bottoms rolled up. ‘I’m getting out of here.’

  ‘Sam. Whose laptop is it?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ Sam reached down for a shoe and tugged out the laces. ‘Now, if you want anything more out of me, I’ll need a lawyer.’

  Kid wasn’t messing about. ‘This because you know Oliver Keane?’