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

by Ed James

  ‘No, Simon, it’s not. Don’t even . . . Don’t even—’

  ‘She’s been . . . sleeping with the Rector. That hipster Nazi.’

  ‘Zachary?’

  ‘Him.’

  ‘Of all the bloody people . . .’ Abi paused. ‘She’s obviously got her mother’s lousy taste in men.’

  ‘I want to throttle him, Abi.’

  ‘I think there’s a long queue.’ Abi’s breath rasped against the speaker. ‘Just because it’s all apps nowadays, doesn’t mean it’s any more dangerous.’

  ‘I don’t like it.’

  ‘This is what you committed to twenty years ago, whatever happened. You knew she’d grow up, become a woman and, as much as you hate it, she’d have sex with someone. Man, woman. Doesn’t matter. Someone would take your little girl from you.’

  Fenchurch leaned back, resting on the wall. Tried to shake out his leg.

  She’s right. God, is she right.

  Why’s everything so broken? Why can’t it just stay fixed? Even just for an hour. A minute, even.

  He let out a deep, deep breath. Still no sign of anyone leaving Uttley’s office. ‘How are you doing, love?’

  ‘I’m with your old man and my parents again.’ Her sigh made the speaker click in his ear. ‘Mum keeps saying that we’re not doing enough. They’re talking about an intervention. I’m sick of this, Simon. It keeps reminding me of when Chloe was young. Nothing I did was ever good enough for your mum or mine.’

  ‘We’re doing all we can, love. It’s up to Chloe now.’

  The Chancellor’s door opened and Loftus stomped out, fists in his pockets.

  ‘Got to go. Love you.’

  Loftus nodded at the phone. ‘Mrs Fenchurch?’

  Fenchurch put it away with a grunt. ‘Did you get anything useful?’

  ‘Precious little.’ Loftus grabbed his shoulder like a vice on a chunk of wood, branding his fingerprints into Fenchurch’s flesh. ‘I can’t imagine how difficult this whole thing must be for you and Mrs Fenchurch.’

  ‘Thanks, sir. I keep worrying about her. What if she’s next?’

  ‘I’ve got two daughters, you know. Three and five. I worry about them every second of every day.’ Another pulse of Fenchurch’s shoulder. ‘I can’t begin to understand how you’ve coped with what’s happened.’

  ‘Thanks, sir.’

  ‘Am I correct in thinking that she refuses any contact with you?’

  Fenchurch leaned against the wall, his sweat leaving an imprint on the paint. ‘We were getting counselling and she . . . said we were getting nowhere. She resents us for freeing her. Well, for imprisoning who she thought were her parents. She won’t accept the truth.’

  ‘You think she hates you? Really?’

  ‘After all I did. Eleven years, searching for my little girl. Finding a young woman. Yes. She hates me.’

  ‘I’m no expert, but . . .’ Loftus waved him away. ‘Forget it.’

  ‘But what?’

  Loftus poked his tongue into his cheek then nodded. ‘I’d suggest that she’s got . . . “daddy issues”.’

  Fenchurch wanted to grab his stupid stubby fingers and break them. ‘What?’

  ‘Zachary doesn’t remind you of anyone?’

  ‘You don’t think she’s—’

  ‘Simon, she was separated from you and Mrs Fenchurch at an early age. Those who took her spent time and effort blotting it out, even resorting to surgery. Her current boyfriend is the same age as you, isn’t he?’

  The guy with her by the halls? The mature student? That’s . . . that’s her boyfriend?

  ‘You’re off the case, Simon. Okay?’

  Fenchurch held his gaze. Tempted to fight it. But . . . Off the case. He felt a few stone lighter. The worry was on someone else’s shoulders. He could put his focus into getting Chloe back into their life, not pointless worry about what-ifs. ‘Fine.’

  Loftus marched over to the lift and pressed the button. ‘I appreciate you being so gracious, Inspector. I’m going to need you to keep your distance from this case. And from the staff working it.’

  ‘Just find Hannah’s killer.’ The lift pinged and Fenchurch guarded the door with his hand. ‘The most important thing is securing a conviction, sir. If it’s Keane, I want to know.’

  ‘Understood.’ Fenchurch’s phone blasted out. He checked the display. ‘It’s DS Nelson, sir.’

  ‘Stick it on speaker, please.’

  Fenchurch answered and tried to find the right setting. Took a few goes. ‘Jon, you’re on with DSI Loftus.’

  ‘Guv. Sir. I’ve been digging into Keane’s background for DI Mulholland and we’ve—’

  Loftus hit the screen and muted Nelson, then walked off, phone to his ear. ‘You’re just on with me, Sergeant. Go on.’

  Fenchurch dug the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. Out of the loop already. The lift rattled and the door tried to shut. He pressed the hold button.

  Loftus’s free arm windmilled as he spoke.

  Daddy issues . . .

  The weight pressed down again with new worries. My little girl is on Tinder, dating a man my age.

  ‘Okay, Sergeant.’ Loftus marched over and tossed Fenchurch’s phone back to him. ‘Let’s—’ He paused, frowning, clicking his tongue. ‘You know what? I may have a use for you.’

  ‘Go on?’

  ‘DS Nelson has discovered that Oliver Keane was using his fortune to fund a law firm specialising in defending rape suspects. It all goes back to his manifesto. He’s convinced there’s a conspiracy against white men.’

  ‘Give me strength . . .’

  ‘And it gets worse.’ Loftus paused. ‘Sergeant Nelson connected this legal fund to a case the South London MIT are running. One Christian Greenwood is the suspect in a rape-abduction. I don’t imagine the case has anything to do with Keane . . .’

  ‘You want me to check into it?’

  ‘Dig deep, okay? But the very second Keane’s name pops up, you’re off this. Am I clear?’

  ‘Crystal, sir.’

  ‘And keep away from your daughter. There’s been a murky grey area all along, but now it’s become very black and white.’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Fenchurch pulled up in the car park outside Sutton police station and got out into a howling gale. Must be closer to Brighton than Leman Street and they’d have their work cut out for them down here. For every Beckenham that had gentrified, there was a Croydon, ten times the size, fifty times the crime rate. He trudged over to the entrance, his aching knee the least of his worries.

  A pathetic figure was huddled in the doorway, sucking on a cigarette, lucky to get any of the smoke before the wind ripped it from his lungs. ‘There you are, you old bastard.’ DI Rod Winter, his contact, grinning away. His dirty black hair flopped forward, greasy and lank. Needed a good wash. Grey stubble dusted his jawline. He snapped off the ciggie and popped it back in a crumpled box, then stuffed it in his coat pocket. ‘Thought you’d be hours getting here.’

  ‘Couldn’t escape fast enough, Rod.’ Fenchurch slapped his hand into Winter’s. ‘How’s tricks?’

  ‘You know how it is, Si.’ Winter swiped his ID through the reader. ‘Win some, lose some.’

  Fenchurch followed him into the station, limping like he’d been shot in the leg. ‘Losing more than you win?’

  ‘Working for the Met, eh?’ Winter unlocked an office door and waved until the lights flashed on. He sat behind a big desk, rammed with paperwork. The computer was perched on the edge, not far from toppling off. ‘Could do with Alexa in here.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve got one?’

  ‘Wife got me one at Christmas, now I’ve got one in every room in the house. Spent more than a grand on lightbulbs, IR blasters, you name it.’ Winter put his feet on the desk and picked up a coffee mug. He sniffed it then took a swig, snarling like it was whisky. ‘Anyway. Anyway, anyway, anyway. Little bird tells me you’re interested in Christian Greenwood, yeah?’

 
‘Loftus’s orders.’

  ‘Lord Julian. What a prick.’ Winter flipped open his cigarette box and peeked inside. ‘You’re flying high if you’re dealing with him.’

  ‘Docherty’s dying of cancer.’

  ‘Bullshit.’ Winter snapped the pack shut. ‘I spoke to him on Monday.’

  ‘He collapsed in front of me on Monday night. They’re giving him weeks to live.’

  ‘Shit.’ Winter collapsed back in his chair. Seemed to hit him harder than most. ‘Shitting hell.’

  ‘You need a minute?’

  ‘Nah, it’s cool, Si. Just . . . Shitting hell.’

  ‘Sorry, I thought you’d know.’

  ‘The jungle drums don’t beat down here. Out of sight, out of mind. Have to rely on smoke signals.’ Winter stuffed the cigarettes in his desk drawer. ‘Anyway, this case. It’s a doozer, mate. One of those ones that’s a toss-up between East, South and Central. You know Central, those shitheads always try and shirk out of any hard graft. And you were still up to your nuts in that stuff in the summer. Anyway. Why did Loftus send you of all people? And why now?’

  ‘This Christian Greenwood geezer. The guy who’s bankrolling his defence died in a police shooting. IPCC are all over it.’

  ‘And I know how much you love those guys, Si.’ Winter shrugged off his jacket and started rolling up his left sleeve, each twist revealing another inch of his caveman arms. ‘Bloody stifling in here.’ He switched to the right sleeve. ‘Anyway, stop me if you’ve heard this one before, but Greenwood’s the suspect in a brutal rape. Abduction too, hence us picking it up and not the sex crimes lot.’ He leaned forward. He’d got worse, could never sit still, always fidgeting with something. ‘Anyway. Christian Greenwood is a white, upper-middle-class student. He “allegedly”’ — the rabbit ears were catching — ‘kidnapped a young woman from outside her house in Bermondsey. Then tied her to a radiator and brutally raped her over three days. We’re in court next month. Supposedly.’

  ‘Who’s his defence?’

  ‘The law firm is Dickson, Pitt and Owenson. Lawyer is Anna Xiang.’

  Fenchurch groaned. ‘Dealt with her a few times.’

  ‘Yeah, me and all.’ Winter frowned at Fenchurch. ‘Anyway. Heard you found your daughter?’

  ‘Sort of.’ Fenchurch rubbed at his knee. ‘Loftus asked me to dig into this for him and see if there’s a connection to our case. Think it’d be worth my while speaking to this Greenwood geezer?’

  Winter hauled on his jacket. ‘If it’s for Loftus, mate, you ain’t got a choice.’

  Wandsworth still smelled like Wandsworth. Had a particular aroma, you could almost taste it. Probably the worst prison in London. Scratch that; definitely the worst. Everything about it was wrong. But especially the smell, like the evils of every single prisoner had turned into a stench and it had seeped into the bones of the building. They never cleaned it well enough. Even when this place was inevitably shut and converted into flats, you’d still smell it then.

  The interview room door clanked open and Christian Greenwood slumped in, led by a guard. Every inch the upper-crust buffoon, lank blond hair, weak chin, Roman nose. But he looked broken, remand in Wandsworth enough to destroy his spirit. If he was guilty, there was no chance he’d get through a twenty stretch.

  His lawyer followed him in, her leather document case strapped to her chest, matching her hair colour almost perfectly. Anna Xiang, no sign of any Chinese ancestry. Making a bad habit of representing dirty criminal bastards. ‘Inspectors.’

  The guard helped Greenwood into his chair then stepped back to the door, clutching his baton. Meatier than standard police issue.

  Fenchurch waited until they’d settled down. ‘Mr Greenwood, I need to ask you a few questions.’

  Xiang got a notepad out of her document holder and dated the top page. ‘Inspector, my client is maintaining his silence, so I ask you to respect that.’

  ‘Well, that’s disappointing.’ Fenchurch focused on Greenwood. ‘Does the name Oliver Keane ring any bells?’

  Didn’t seem to. Greenwood glanced over at his lawyer.

  ‘This is a pending case, Inspector.’ Xiang jabbed a finger into her notepad. ‘You can’t expect him to influence his defence.’

  ‘You might be able to help us out more than your client, then. I understand that Mr Keane has given financial—’

  ‘Okay.’ Xiang gritted her teeth. She smiled at Greenwood. ‘Christian, I’ll take this.’ She beckoned over the guard. ‘Thanks for your time.’ She waited until the guard led Greenwood out of the room, then snarled at Fenchurch. ‘You could’ve visited my office instead of dragging him in here.’

  ‘The palace paid for by Mr Keane?’

  ‘A baseless accusation.’

  Fenchurch waved at the door. ‘I don’t understand how you can bring yourself to defend that monster. He kidnapped someone and raped her repeatedly.’

  ‘Allegedly.’ Xiang gave him a warm smile. ‘I understand this might be pushing certain buttons, Inspector, but I request that we end this here.’

  ‘You’ve defended fifteen rapists. White men, upper class. I don’t get it.’

  ‘You want to know why?’ Xiang slapped her document holder shut. ‘Because my brother was imprisoned for false rape allegations. Five years he was inside, until new DNA evidence countered the testimony. The alleged victim had a vendetta against him. He’d spurned her at school. That’s it. And that’s why I do it. My work stops people lying, makes sure the law is about the truth, stops innocent people going to prison.’

  ‘And Keane pays for it?’

  ‘I think he’s formally a partner in the firm. A silent one, of course. He doesn’t have a law degree.’

  ‘You know Keane died, don’t you?’

  ‘I . . .’ Xiang’s gaze shifted to Winter, then back to Fenchurch. ‘I hadn’t heard.’

  ‘He was a murder suspect and, wonder of wonders, rape is involved in that case, too.’ Fenchurch sat back. He had her exactly where he wanted her now. Panicking, edgy, her shields down. ‘Did Mr Keane know Mr Greenwood?’

  ‘My client is innocent, gentlemen.’ Xiang got to her feet and marched over to the door. ‘I’d rather you kept these baseless accusations to yourselves.’ She left them to it, her footsteps clicking out in the corridor.

  Winter got up and started pacing around. ‘That went well.’

  ‘Smelling smoke, Rod, and it’s not your cheap cigarettes.’

  Winter laughed. ‘Who is this Keane fella, anyway?’

  ‘Our main suspect in a murder.’ Fenchurch frowned at Winter. ‘Any chance I can speak to the victim?’

  Fenchurch got out of the car onto Emba Street, a nothing road in Bermondsey, a nothing part of London. Could almost taste the Thames. Could definitely hear the waves splashing at high tide, hissing like the wind rippling through trees.

  Winter opened a gate and walked up the path to a tiny flat, a row of windows about ten metres across, lurking in the bottom-left of a giant box. He knocked on the door, gentle and soft. ‘You’re on your best behaviour here, okay?’

  ‘Me?’ Fenchurch held out his hands like an Italian centre-half who’d just kicked a striker into the middle of next week. ‘I’m here for intel, Rod. She’s your witness.’

  ‘My victim. And her name is Sharon Reynolds.’ Winter knocked again. ‘The girl was given the full Terry Waite treatment.’

  ‘Terry Waite wasn’t raped, was he?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’ Winter hit the door harder this time.

  Fenchurch tried to peer through the window but the shutters were drawn too tight. ‘Rod, aren’t you—’

  ‘You’re such an old woman.’ Winter got out his phone. ‘Used to be an outgoing girl, but after what happened, well, she became a recluse. Stopped going out, stopped answering the door.’ He fiddled with his phone and stuck it to his ear. ‘Sharon, it’s DI Winter. Give me a bell, yeah?’

  ‘Still unconcerned?’

  Winter walked over the gravel to a
feral rose bush and rooted around. He held up a key. ‘She’s a bit funny about speaking to people, that’s all.’ He unlocked the door and opened it. ‘Sharon! Where— Shit.’

  Sharon Reynolds lay on the hall lino, her face pale, dead eyes bulging. Thick red marks around her throat.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  This is a bloody disaster, mate.’ Winter tipped off a big pile of ash from his fifth cigarette in half an hour. ‘Supposed to be in court next month.’

  ‘Open and shut, though.’ Fenchurch couldn’t get out of the way of his smoke. Everywhere seemed to be downwind of it, the thin wisps coiling towards him. ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘Hardly. You saw Greenwood, mate. He’s denying everything.’ Winter took another deep suck. ‘The case is “he said, she said”. I told you, mate. He grabbed her off the street, took her to a warehouse, cuffed her to a radiator and raped her, again and again. Anyway, he was smart. Wore a condom, washed her with bleach afterwards. When we found her, her skin was burnt. Permanent pigment damage.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Anyway, Greenwood’s doing Criminology as part of his degree. Knows a thing or two, or so he thinks—’

  A tall figure strolled towards them. Om-pum-pum. ‘Simon.’ Dr Pratt nodded at Fenchurch then at Winter. ‘Rodney.’ Then he entered the crime scene and disappeared inside the house.

  ‘Rodney?’ Fenchurch frowned at Winter. ‘Had you pegged as a Roderick.’

  ‘Don’t start, mate.’ Winter sucked on his cigarette. ‘I was born not long before Only Fools and Horses. School was hell. Only so many times you can call someone a plonker before they snap.’

  ‘And become a cop?’

  ‘That.’ Winter finished the cigarette and stamped it out on the ground. ‘Anyway, the last time Greenwood raped her, as he was cleaning her in the bath, she scratched his face and ran off. Unfortunately, she didn’t remember where the warehouse was.’

  ‘How did you find Greenwood?’

  ‘She identified him, described him down to a tee. His flat’s near the street she was found in, couple of blocks over from the warehouse. When we arrested him, his face was covered in scratch marks. Faded, but we’ve got the photos. Anyway, it was a simple matter of matching Greenwood’s DNA to the skin under her nails from the scratch.’