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

by Ed James

  ‘And he wanted more, didn’t he?’

  ‘A lot more. So he threatened her, told her he’d stop paying her.’

  ‘What about when you spoke to him?’

  ‘Guy’s a dweeb.’ Sam rocked his chair to the side. ‘Too busy shitting himself to be smart.’

  ‘Did he ever threaten Hannah?’

  Sam stopped messing about with his chair and settled back on all four legs. ‘You think Keane killed Hannah, don’t you?’

  ‘I can’t comment on that, sir.’ Reed held his gaze. ‘Did he, to your knowledge, ever threaten Hannah?’

  Sam focused on the desk. Seemed to think through a decision. ‘Sunday night. We had that argument. The . . . the last time I ever saw her. It was about him. Oliver Keane. Hannah was getting worried about him killing her.’

  Fenchurch stood up tall. Come on, Kay . . .

  Reed was frowning at her laptop. ‘You didn’t think to mention it earlier?’

  ‘There’s nothing to mention. She was overreacting. From what I saw, he was getting weird in those messages he was sending her.’

  ‘By messages, you mean emails, right?’

  ‘No. Manor House has a private message server. We sometimes use it with clients. Keane talked to Hannah on it. Like, a lot. I think he knew how secure it was.’

  ‘How did that make you feel? Her messaging this man for sex? Did it make you angry?’

  ‘They never met. It was all part of the game. The thrill of the chase.’

  ‘Then your argument was partly about Keane. You looked very angry in the CCTV footage. So did Hannah.’

  Sam sighed. ‘I wanted to kill him.’

  Reed’s forehead couldn’t stay straight. ‘Oliver Keane died yesterday.’

  Sam gripped the table edge. ‘Shit, I didn’t mean it. I didn’t know.’

  ‘You’re not a suspect for his death.’ Reed waited until his shoulders slouched. ‘Mr Keane sent Hannah emails, though.’

  ‘Guy wasn’t the type to stick to one method of communication.’

  ‘He sent them to her real name.’

  Sam jolted upright. ‘What?’

  ‘Mr Keane had found out that Hannah wasn’t born as Natasha Sparks. Got her real email address somehow.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Would she have given him it?’

  ‘Must’ve done. Don’t see how he’d get it otherwise.’

  ‘Mr Edwards, we’re currently struggling to access these Manor House messages between Hannah and Mr Keane. Can you help?’

  ‘Wish I could.’

  Mulholland muted the display. ‘When we get those messages, that’ll be it. Definitive evidence against Keane, at last.’

  No reaction from Loftus, just stony silence, the threads on his forehead twisting. ‘We need those messages, Dawn. Until then, this still isn’t stacking up.’ He scowled at Mulholland. ‘We need to drill down here.’

  ‘I intend to, sir.’ Mulholland rubbed her hands together. ‘We’ve got Hannah’s laptop and IT are tearing it apart for me. And I’ll pull together a warrant to access these messages on this Manor House site.’

  ‘Dawn, weren’t you listening?’ Fenchurch couldn’t even look at her. ‘It doesn’t matter if you get access to the platform — if it’s encrypted, all you’ll get is gibberish.’

  Mulholland gave him a withering look then smiled at Loftus. ‘Do you know of any judges who can approve it immediately, sir?’

  ‘I know a few. Okay, you’ve got my full support, Dawn.’ Loftus stood up and buttoned up his uniform jacket. ‘This is a good start. Excellent work, Dawn.’

  Fenchurch got out of there before Mulholland could speak. Not that she’d bloody listen.

  Bridge and Nelson were sitting at the back of the Incident Room, locked in a deep conversation. They broke off when they saw Fenchurch. Nelson got to his feet first. ‘Coffee, guv?’

  Fenchurch couldn’t even be bothered to be angry with him any more. ‘Americano with milk, please.’ He stuffed a tenner in Nelson’s hand. ‘Get one for Lisa as well.’

  ‘Guv.’ Nelson charged off out of the room.

  Fenchurch sat in his space and logged into the machine.

  Bridge leaned over and spoke in an undertone. ‘Sir, I’m sorry about last night.’

  ‘It’s fine, Lisa. Your private business. One of you should’ve told me by now, though.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

  ‘Listen, can you do me a favour?’ Fenchurch waited for her to nod. ‘Sam Edwards lost his laptop. Another MacBook Pro. Can you dig into it for me?’

  She made a note. ‘Sir.’

  Fenchurch settled into the chair next to Bridge and checked his email. He stared at the screen, letting the pixels blur.

  Five messages from Loftus, all requesting progress updates. Prick could ask. An email from Reed about the Christmas night out, not that he’d be able to attend for longer than an hour at most. Mulholland had sent out three emails in the last ten minutes, all marked Urgent. Fenchurch deleted them. Nelson actioning the transfer of Bridge back to Reed had generated six emails Fenchurch needed to approve. Fenchurch logged into the HR system and clicked through the forms. They didn’t make it any easier than the old paper stuff.

  His machine pinged. A new message. The sender was listed as ‘A friend’, same as the message with the Chloe video. The subject was ‘Open this now!’ The preview popped up, another link to a video.

  His mouth was dry. If this is more goading, if this is Chloe . . .

  He clicked on it, out of breath. The video opened up and started playing. Sam Edwards having sex with a woman from behind, her blonde hair fanning out as she tossed it around. The sound was muted, but she was shouting something.

  Fenchurch grabbed Bridge’s headphones, plugged them in and unmuted it.

  ‘Sam! Oh, fuck me, Sam!’ Harsh, sibilant like she was lisping. ‘Fuck me like you fuck your girlfriend! Fuck me hard! Fuck me like I’m Hannah!’

  ‘Cheers, Martin.’ Fenchurch left the burly Custody Sergeant and charged towards the rear entrance, his knee a constant sting. He hauled open the door.

  Sam Edwards was waiting by the security door. ‘You’ve missed your chance. I’ve got a lecture.’

  ‘This is important, Sam.’

  Sam smacked the door and got a clang.

  ‘I can give you a lift.’

  Sam’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you want?’

  Fenchurch held out a screen grab from the video, Sam thrusting at the mystery woman. ‘Recognise this?’

  Sam seemed to shrink back. ‘I made it.’

  ‘Someone sent me this. It isn’t Joanne Galbraith. It’s not Hannah. So who is she?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Sam, quit it.’ Fenchurch pointed behind him. ‘We can take this into an interview room, if you’d prefer.’ He tapped the page. ‘This woman asked you to “Fuck me like I’m Hannah”.’

  Sam’s tongue poked out between his lips.

  ‘Earlier, you said Hannah was cool with you sleeping with other people. Did she know about this woman?’ Fenchurch caught himself before he did the air quotes. ‘Did it make her angry? Is that what she was angry about on Sunday?’

  ‘How the hell did you get hold of this?’

  ‘You’re playing that trick, are you?’ Fenchurch pocketed his phone. ‘You sent me it, didn’t you? That and the video with— You sent it, didn’t you?’

  ‘I genuinely didn’t. This is me and a . . . client. I record the sessions to show there’s consent. I don’t want to get done with rape.’

  Jesus.

  Fenchurch got up. ‘Was Hannah angry with you for turning tricks?’

  Sam blinked away tears. ‘I have to do this. I don’t make anywhere near as much from cam work as she did.’

  ‘Remember that you’re speaking to a police officer.’

  ‘You would’ve charged me if you were going to.’

  Fenchurch was tempted. Dirty little bastard, renting himself out. Tricks. Games, while his girlfr
iend rotted in the morgue. ‘What’s her name?’

  Sam held up his hands. ‘Zoe. I don’t know her surname.’

  ‘Was that the first time?’

  ‘No. She was a regular. Every week. Sometimes twice. But it’d been a while since the last one. Then she asked me again.’

  ‘I need to speak to her, Sam. Give me her address.’

  He sighed. ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘Can’t or won’t?’

  ‘We met in a hotel. Always the same one. Place on the Minories. Hotel Bennaceur.’

  ‘Did she contact you through Manor House?’

  ‘This was private.’

  Fenchurch stepped forward, blocking Sam’s exit. ‘You’re telling me this has nothing to do with Younis?’

  ‘No, I mean, she got in touch through Manor House originally.’ Sam tried to get past but Fenchurch had him trapped. ‘But I gave her my burner number. She texted me on that.’

  ‘Younis has home addresses for all of the punters. Verified ones. Right?’

  ‘IP addresses, maybe. Not physical ones. You’re barking up the wrong tree there.’ Sam nudged him away. ‘Now, unless you’ve found my laptop, you can piss off.’

  ‘Sure your flatmates haven’t got it? Played a joke?’

  ‘I’m telling you, someone’s nicked it.’

  ‘Who? Why?’ Fenchurch waited until Sam looked away. ‘What’s on there that someone would want to nick?’

  ‘It’s an expensive machine. Still get at least fifteen hundred for it, second-hand.’

  Fenchurch narrowed his eyes at Sam. ‘You seem to know a lot about selling them. You didn’t sell it for drugs like Hannah did with that HP?’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘We know what happened. Swapped it for some dope and ecstasy with her friendly neighbourhood drug-dealing cleaner. Turned up in a shop in Southwark. Danton had a mate there. Connected to Hannah.’

  Sam scowled at him. ‘Graham?’

  ‘Pickersgill. You know him?’

  ‘Not really. Guy was at school with Hannah, bit of a creep. He freaked her out. I checked him out for her. He wasn’t a threat.’

  ‘What did she say about him?’

  ‘She beat the shit out of him. She got worried he’d come back and . . . you know.’

  ‘When did you check him out?’

  ‘Sunday. Guy had just moved flat. Had to threaten his boss at that shop.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  In five years, guv, this’ll all be expensive flats.’ Nelson scanned the block again. ‘Can’t believe that Shadwell is on the rise.’

  Five storeys of painted brick, with corridors outside of the building. Washing hung off the metal barriers acting as banisters. Christ knows what they would’ve been like when they were built, probably a drop down to the car park. Some construction work was underway, but council repairs as opposed to the gentrification machine.

  ‘Some areas will stay stuck like this, Jon.’ Fenchurch leaned back against the car park’s metal fence. ‘This block will be full of Poles and Bulgarians, ten to a room, poor buggers. Some racist bastard coining it in off them. Only way anyone can live in London and still send money back home.’

  ‘Even the worst shithole in there would be worth the best part of half a million quid.’ Nelson nodded slowly as he sucked on his vape stick. Then another check of his watch. He grunted, then took another suck. ‘Guv, about last night . . .’

  ‘I think I made myself clear, Jon.’ Fenchurch gave him a sideways glare. ‘You get up to that sort of shit, that’s your business. You deal with the day-to-day ramifications of your behaviour, fine. Just don’t expect me to trust you, okay?’

  ‘Come on, guv.’

  ‘Jon, you’re out of line.’

  Nelson let out a sigh. ‘Guv—’ His mobile rang and he checked the display. ‘That’s Mulholland.’

  A squad car rattled in from the main road and pulled across Twine Court, almost blocking the exit. Four lumps got out, one of them packing an Enforcer over his shoulder.

  ‘She can wait. Bounce it.’ Fenchurch set off towards them. ‘You’re leading here, Jon. Chance to prove yourself.’

  Nelson pocketed his phone and met the squad halfway. ‘Let’s take this easy, gents, okay? We don’t want a repeat of the incident on Mansell Street yesterday. Bring him in for questioning.’

  He got a wall of nods. One of them spat a toothpick on the concrete.

  ‘Come on.’ Nelson led over to the building.

  Fenchurch followed him. No outside door, no security system. The flight of stairs stank of piss and the marshmallow tang of smoked heroin.

  Nelson took the first floor and headed back out into the long external corridor, the red-painted brick flaking off. November sunshine beat down, drying some Arsenal bed sheets. Nelson stopped outside a brown door — brass letterbox and knocker, almost dignified — and waited for the uniforms. Then he thudded on the door.

  It slid open and a little man squinted out. ‘Yes?’ Sounded Polish, maybe Slovenian.

  Nelson held up his warrant card. ‘Graham Pickersgill in?’

  ‘Nothing to do with me!’ His arms shot up, palms splayed. ‘Room at the back! Nothing to do with me!’

  Nelson barged past him and Fenchurch followed. Dark-green carpet in the hall, big clumps eaten by moths. Magnolia walls, the glossy paint chipped and cracked. The door at the back was ajar. An absolute racket of electronic music blared out, the sort of dance that was more metal than house.

  Fenchurch snapped out his baton and let Nelson go first.

  Pickersgill stood in the middle of the room by a pile of boxes, hands stuffed inside the top one. Tall and skinny, but he was dressed like he was in a hip-hop video, layers of American sports tops thickening his torso. ‘What the hell?’

  ‘Police.’ Fenchurch had his warrant card out. ‘Graham Pickersgill?’

  ‘Er, yeah?’

  ‘I need you to get your hands out of that box for me, sir.’

  ‘What have I done?’

  ‘Get your hands out of the box!’ Nelson raised his baton to strike.

  ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘Hannah Nunn. You—’

  ‘Shit, okay!’ Pickersgill sank to his knees and interlinked his fingers. ‘Please, you’ve got to lock me up for what I did. Hannah didn’t deserve it. I couldn’t help myself.’

  Fenchurch frowned at Nelson. What on earth?

  One of the uniforms tore at the stereo system, killing the racket.

  ‘I’ve been watching her. Following her. Waiting outside her room. I’m a filthy pervert. You need to get me help!’

  ‘You killed her?’

  Pickersgill frowned at Fenchurch. ‘What?’

  ‘She’s dead.’

  ‘Shit.’ Pickersgill shot to his feet and shoved the boxes over. The pile landed on Nelson’s foot and he screamed. He tumbled back, grabbing hold of Fenchurch and pulling him over as well.

  Pickersgill made a run for it, vaulting the pair of them in one stride.

  Fenchurch lashed out with his baton and clattered Pickersgill on the back on the knee. He yelped as he fell. Then Fenchurch grabbed his arm and twisted it hard. ‘You’re going nowhere, sunshine.’

  Fenchurch sat opposite Pickersgill in the interview room. No lawyer. Just the way he wanted it.

  Pickersgill rested his head on the brand-new table’s unblemished wood. Only a matter of time before someone defaced it. Buddhists would say it was already carved and graffitied and burnt and pissed on. ‘She can’t be dead.’

  ‘She is.’ Nelson was leaning against the wall by the door. ‘Do you want me to show you the autopsy photographs? They might upset you.’

  ‘You’re not kidding, are you?’ Pickersgill ran a hand down his face. First some tears swelling, then flooding down his cheeks. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’

  ‘How did you know Hannah?’

  ‘We were at school together. Sat next to her in chemistry and maths.’ Pickersgill brushed his tears away. ‘I liked h
er. A lot. I followed her to London. We were both at Southwark. Only two from our town.’ He scratched at the pristine wood with his thumbnail. ‘I dropped out in first year. Doing Computer Science, but I hated it. Competing against all these nerds on the course who’d been coding since they were five. I could never catch up, not in a billion years.’

  ‘And now you’re fixing laptops in a shop in Southwark.’

  Pickersgill looked up from his scratching. ‘Pays my rent and that’s about it.’

  ‘Enough for some dope, though?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We know.’ Fenchurch smiled. ‘Troy Danton, right? Met him when you were a student?’

  Pickersgill looked away. ‘Shit.’

  ‘I don’t want to do you for that, son, but a squad is going through your room just now.’ Fenchurch grinned. ‘Having all your stuff packed in boxes makes our work so much easier.’

  ‘There’s nothing in there.’

  ‘That the truth?’ Nelson kicked off from the wall and sat next to Fenchurch. ‘When we arrested you, you said we should lock you up for what you did to Hannah.’

  ‘I didn’t kill her.’

  ‘Okay. So what did you do?’

  ‘I was in love with her at school.’ Pickersgill went back to the scratching, picking out a thin line in the wood grain. ‘I might’ve . . . become obsessed. I didn’t know how to control myself. Didn’t know what I was doing.’

  ‘So she told you where to go and you killed her, yeah?’

  ‘No!’ Pickersgill thumped the desk. ‘I never did anything to her!’

  ‘Really?’ Nelson got a page from his pocket and slid it across the desk. ‘She didn’t kick the shit out of you?’

  Pickersgill stared at the photo, slack-jawed. ‘I was in a bar in Shoreditch and I saw her. Tried to speak to her, tried to apologise. She said I made her life hell. That I was bullying her. Then she left. So I followed her, really wanted to make it up to her. She spotted me on the street and . . . beat me up. Think she’d trained in a martial art. I hadn’t.’