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

by Ed James

  Fenchurch hated himself for admitting it, but Mulholland was right.

  Or was she? Something nagged at the back of his skull, growing like a tumour. He snatched her Pronto and scanned through the photos.

  Got it.

  ‘Have you got him arriving the first time?’

  Mulholland frowned at him, then at Loftus. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘This shadowy ghost figure entering Hannah’s room. They left at four twenty-one, if my memory serves.’ Fenchurch flicked to the other set of screen grabs. ‘But you’ve only proved that Keane was there on the second visit at five oh six.’

  Mulholland took hold of the laptop and frowned at it for a few seconds. Then she nodded slowly and marched off towards the whiteboard. ‘Gather round! Okay, I need all hands focusing on validating this hypothesis.’ She uncapped her pen. ‘DS Nelson, your team are to validate his movements prior to the camera picking up his car on Mansell Street.’

  Bridge took back her laptop, glaring at Mulholland.

  Fenchurch leaned in to whisper. ‘Everything okay, Lisa?’

  ‘Sir.’ Bridge let out a sigh. ‘Mick Clooney said he found three MacBooks in Keane’s house.’

  ‘Three? I know about Hannah’s and this mystery one. Is it Sam’s?’

  She sighed. ‘Could be.’

  ‘So Keane broke into Sam’s flat now and nicked his laptop? What the hell was he covering up?’

  ‘Lisa?’ Mulholland was shouting over from the whiteboard, her gaze drilling into Fenchurch. ‘If you’ve got a minute to spare?’

  Bridge got up with a smile.

  Fenchurch caught her eye. ‘Get hold of the laptop’s image and give it the once-over.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Winter was fiddling with his cigarettes. ‘Anyway. You don’t think she’s going to be your boss?’

  ‘If she is, I’ll hand in my notice.’ Fenchurch ran a hand across his face. ‘I can see the writing on the wall, Rod. People like her are taking over from people like us.’

  ‘Here, don’t tar me with your brush, mate. I’ve got smart lightbulbs to pay for.’

  ‘Inspector Fenchurch?’ Zenna Abercrombie was by the door. ‘Time for us to have a word, if you’ve got a minute?’

  ‘You said it was going to be later this week?’

  ‘And plans change. Life’s shit, Fenchurch.’

  ‘Rod, can you make sure Lisa checks that laptop?’ Fenchurch got up, clocking Winter’s nod, and met Zenna halfway, out of earshot of the rest of the room. ‘We meet again.’

  ‘Okay, well, I suppose that’s consistent.’ Zenna yawned into her fist. Even she was bored. Two hours of this shit while the case trundled on down Mulholland’s road. Zenna peered up from her notepad. ‘Were you aware of Richard Thwaite’s depression?’

  Depressed cop shoots suspect during terror raid. The papers would go ballistic. Not that many read them these days.

  ‘Just when DI Grove mentioned it.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Zenna passed him a sheet of paper. A printout from the HR system. ‘Mr Thwaite was off work for three months, returned two weeks ago.’

  Fenchurch didn’t even pick it up. ‘From all the statements you’ve taken, you’ll know that I wasn’t the one who enlisted the Firearms Squad.’

  ‘No, but Mr Thwaite is based in this building.’ She pointed at the ceiling. ‘As are the rest of the Firearms Squad for this side of the city.’

  ‘And I don’t know the janitor or the tea lady or half of the uniform squad. Does his depression have an impact on the shooting?’

  ‘Well, it’s fair to say that Mr Thwaite is struggling with his position. Being expected to kill someone, if needs be.’

  ‘So why did he get firearms training?’

  Zenna let out groan. ‘Quite.’

  ‘You think he shot the guy deliberately?’ Fenchurch scowled at her. ‘To get off active duty?’

  ‘He’s not said as much, but . . .’

  Fenchurch scraped his chair back across the lino. ‘Okay, so are we done here?’

  Zenna ran a finger across a list on her notepad, then peered over her glasses. ‘We are. For now.’

  Fenchurch got up and walked to the door. ‘Where is he? Thwaite, I mean.’

  ‘He’s at home, suspended on full pay while we investigate.’

  ‘Thought you’d have locked him up.’

  ‘The man is suffering from severe depression, Inspector. He doesn’t represent a danger without a gun.’

  ‘Why not have him in a hospital?’

  ‘We’re considering it.’

  ‘Well. Keep me posted, please.’ Fenchurch left the room.

  Thank God that’s over.

  ‘Inspector.’ Loftus was standing in the corridor, tugging at his cap. He entered the room without a further word.

  Fenchurch set off, trying to get as far away as possible.

  ‘Si, coffee?’ Winter was by the Incident Room door, fingers twitching like he needed his eightieth cigarette of the day.

  ‘Tea, if you’re going.’ Fenchurch let him past and set off. Bridge was still in the corner, her forehead denting as she worked at the machine. Mulholland still led a huddle by the whiteboard, facing away from the door. Fenchurch snuck over and sat next to Bridge. ‘You getting anywhere?’

  She jumped. ‘Christ, sir. Didn’t see you there.’

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Bridge’s nostrils flared. ‘Where were you, sir?’

  ‘IPCC interview. Two hours of my life I won’t get back. You get hold of that laptop image?’

  ‘I’ve been digging into it.’ She chanced a look over at the whiteboard, then tapped her laptop’s screen. ‘I think this one belonged to Sharon Reynolds. Well, she’s definitely been using it. And I can get into her messages.’ Her fingers rattled the keyboard. Her screen mirrored the MacBook, could easily pass for it. The Manor House logo appeared in the web browser and Bridge tapped the top-right corner of the screen. ‘The username and password fields were pre-populated, sir.’ She clicked the button below. ‘This is the back-end platform, where the users send emails to the girls. And boys. This is Sharon’s account. Elektra De’Ath.’

  Sharon’s photo on the site was a strange mix of a Cure video and a burlesque show. Below was a chain of messages from Christian Greenwood, every other line a reply from Elektra.

  ‘Have you read these?’

  ‘Every last one.’ Lisa clicked on the first one. ‘The guy was obsessed with her. She was keeping him at a distance, but still, he wouldn’t let go. Kept on suggesting they meet, but she palmed him off.’

  ‘Here you go, Lisa.’ Winter brought in Bridge’s coffee and Fenchurch’s tea on the cardboard tray. ‘She’s good, this one.’

  ‘Hands off.’ Fenchurch ripped off the lid and let the steam out.

  Bridge was frowning. ‘Sir.’ She pressed a button and other messages filled in between the rows. ‘I’ve found something.’ She tapped the screen. ‘Oliver Keane sent her a message yesterday morning.’ She clicked on it.

  Sharon. We’ve warned you. Keep quiet or we will kill you.

  Chapter Thirty

  Fenchurch sat back and took a sip of scalding tea. Irritation scratched at his back.

  Oliver Keane, the uber-suspect who was intending to kill half of London before being shot himself, now threatening a camgirl. The case was building itself.

  Was he irritated because it played into Mulholland’s narrative? Or because it disrupted his?

  ‘Greenwood attacked Sharon months ago, right?’ Fenchurch blew on his tea, sending ripples across the surface. ‘So why’s she sending messages on there now?’

  ‘That’s the thing.’ Bridge flicked to another view. ‘The attack was in July, but she’s logged in every day since she got out of hospital. Chatting to her punters. Stayed on for over eight hours at least twice a week. Still earns more than me and she’s not even dancing. Just feeding their fantasies. Telling them stories. Keeping them interested.’

  Fenchurch took a long
glug of tea and swilled it round his mouth. ‘Okay, so Greenwood abducted her, but Keane threatened her. Used her real name, too.’ He stared at Winter. ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s in league with Greenwood.’ Winter nibbled at a fingernail. ‘You told me that Keane’s paying for his defence. We think someone else was in on it.’

  ‘Keane?’

  ‘Makes sense to me. Sure the Coroner at the inquest will buy it, too.’

  ‘Okay, I get killing her to shut her up. But stealing her machine?’ A tiny avenue opened up in Fenchurch’s brain, letting the troops file through. ‘And why warn her?’

  ‘Who knows?’ Winter shrugged, then he frowned at the screen. ‘Before the raid, you and DS Reed visited Keane’s house and he didn’t let you in.’

  Fenchurch spilled some tea on his lap. ‘Shit.’

  ‘And, because he’d already warned her, he thought that Sharon had spoken to us about him.’ Winter waved at the screen. ‘So he killed her. Probably took her laptop in case we found these messages.’

  Fenchurch dabbed at his trousers, frowning. ‘Where does this leave us?’

  ‘Us? This is my case, Si. And you’ve solved it.’ Winter seemed surprised at the logic and its simplicity. ‘Anyway, I’ll brief Loftus and my gaffer. Please keep a distance from this, okay?’

  ‘If that’s how you want to play it, Rod.’

  ‘It is, Si. And you’d do the same to me.’ Winter put the lid back on his coffee and stood up tall. ‘But this is brilliant work. Thanks, Si. Lisa.’ He clapped Fenchurch’s shoulder and charged off.

  ‘Don’t mention it.’ Fenchurch pushed himself up to standing. ‘But he’s right, Lisa, this is good work.’

  ‘Thanks, sir.’ Bridge nibbled at her lip. ‘You’re annoyed with him, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’ve seen it all, Lisa.’ Fenchurch logged into a machine and scanned down his inbox. ‘It’s important to know when to push and when to sit back, munching popcorn.’

  ‘Which one’s this?’

  Fenchurch found his most recent emails. The HR system had kicked out his approval of Bridge’s transfer. Bastard thing. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I said, which one is this? Popcorn?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Fenchurch clicked on the link and re-approved the form. He finished his tea. Needed another one already. ‘Do you know if Mulholland got the warrant for Manor House?’

  ‘She emailed about it half an hour ago.’ Bridge glanced around the room. ‘It’s where everyone’s gone. It’s what I’m supposed to be working on.’

  ‘You can go back to it.’

  ‘Sir, I appreciate the coaching.’

  ‘Lisa, I’m the last person you need coaching from.’

  ‘Well, it’s interesting working with you and DI Winter.’

  ‘I’ll try and take that as a compliment.’ Fenchurch checked her screen. Filled with messages he couldn’t quite read. ‘So you’ve got access to Manor House?’

  ‘Got access to the system, but not the messages.’

  ‘Explain?’

  ‘They’re encrypted. The only way to see the messages is if you’re a user. Like that message Sharon got from Keane. Once a message is sent, it stays sent. I was in her account, so I could see it. But Keane couldn’t delete it. Might be why he stole her laptop.’

  ‘There’s no back door?’

  ‘Not that I’ve found. Younis is genuinely covering his arse, sir.’ Bridge hit the trackpad. ‘Out of sight, out of mind.’

  Fenchurch tapped at the glass, yet another computer mirrored on her laptop. ‘And what’s this?’

  ‘We think it’s Keane’s personal machine, sir.’ She bit her lip again. ‘DI Winter asked me to search for messages from Greenwood.’ The screen filled with messages. ‘He was talking to Oliver Keane. Seems to be in code. I think they’ve got nicknames for the girls they’re watching, but I can’t pin them to any faces.’

  ‘Any likely suspects for Sharon Reynolds?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Fenchurch swallowed hard. ‘Sam Edwards?’

  ‘DI Winter thinks so, but I don’t buy it.’ Bridge flashed a grin, then clicked her fingers. ‘That reminds me. Mick sent over a photo of that other laptop. Found it down the back of Keane’s sofa.’ She showed him the forensic photos of a MacBook Pro, the silver skin covered in patches where stickers would’ve been, just one remaining. CUCK OFF!

  Fenchurch rubbed his hands together. ‘Can you get in?’

  ‘Need his passcode.’

  ‘One sec.’ Fenchurch got out his phone and dialled the number he had for Sam. He started walking away.

  ‘Who is this?’ Sounded like Sam was at a rave.

  ‘Sam, it’s DI Fench—’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘We found your laptop.’

  Sam paused. ‘I need that back.’

  ‘See, that’s the thing. I need to ask you a few questions about it. Starting with the passcode.’

  ‘I don’t have to give you that.’

  ‘We found it at Oliver Keane’s.’

  ‘Whatever. It’s private. And I know you can’t brute-force it.’

  ‘You seem to know all the lingo.’

  ‘I did a course in Information Security in first year. I don’t have to give it up.’

  ‘So you’re hiding something?’

  Sam sighed. ‘It’s private and I’d rather it was kept that way.’ Click.

  Cheeky bastard.

  Bridge frowned at him. ‘Did you get it?’

  Fenchurch grimaced. ‘No.’

  ‘Typical.’

  ‘Anything else we can do?’

  ‘Not on that.’

  ‘Meaning you’ve got something else?’

  ‘Possibly.’ Bridge opened another window. ‘This is the MacBook Sharon Reynolds used. I’ve found an interesting message.’ She clicked on the Manor House link and a message appeared:

  Elektra—

  Just wanted to say that I loved your little show. I really like your style.

  Tom

  ‘Sent a month ago.’ Bridge highlighted a chunk of numbers. ‘Sir, this is the IP address the message came from. It’s from the machine in Thomas Zachary’s office.’

  ‘It’s definitely him?’

  ‘Takes a lot more to prove that, but it’s up to him to prove it wasn’t now.’

  ‘Right.’ Fenchurch scowled at the text again, trying to wring some meaning out of it. Trying to figure out if he definitely sent it. ‘Assuming it’s him, what does that message mean?’

  ‘He wanted to have sex with her?’

  Fenchurch didn’t buy it. Too vague. ‘Did she reply?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘That’s it.’ Bridge was flicking between windows, far too fast for Fenchurch to process. ‘Do you think we should speak to him about it?’

  Fenchurch grabbed the machine and squinted at the screen. Took his time thinking through the next move. ‘Maybe. Maybe not. He watched her on video, then sent her a message. That’s not a lot, is it?’ He pointed at the time stamp. ‘And this is six months old, too. He’s not exactly stalking her. It’s not like he’s tried to meet or anything.’

  ‘Do you think I should mention it to DI Mulholland?’

  ‘Keep digging for now. It’s got my spidey-sense tingling.’

  And it had. Zachary kept popping up. What irritated Fenchurch more? The man’s politics or the fact he had dated Chloe?

  Fenchurch leaned in close. ‘Lisa, I need to tread carefully here. Can you see his messages on there?’

  ‘I can see the metadata. I mean, I can see who’s messaging who. And we can’t break the encryption.’ Bridge patted her hair. ‘But, I found a lot of messages between Sam and Zoe.’

  ‘Can you get in?’

  ‘I’ve been trying. But I won’t see them until I unlock Sam’s machine.’ She nibbled her lip. ‘The other thing is, I’ve found some messages between Zoe and Thomas Zachary.’

  Fenchurch scowled at the screen. A constant back
and forth between them, maybe thirty or forty a day. Whatever they were sending was hidden from the police.

  Fenchurch tapped on Zoe’s profile picture, a manga woman with blonde hair and giant eyes. ‘Can you get anything on her? Phone number, email address?’

  ‘That’s the thing. I thought I had an address, sir, but it’s a PO Box in Clapham. I mean, I could find out who owns it?’

  Fenchurch leaned back in his seat and folded his arms. ‘Do we know anything about her?’

  ‘Just that she was paying to sleep with Sam Edwards.’ Bridge shrugged. ‘That’s it.’

  ‘So why is Zachary involved with her?’

  ‘No idea.’

  Fenchurch stared back across the Incident Room. ‘We should speak to Zachary.’

  ‘You’re still alive, then?’ Reed was leaning against her car, shivering in the cold.

  ‘Doesn’t feel like it.’ Fenchurch locked his own car. ‘What have you been up to?’

  ‘Under Mulholland’s iron thumb, guv. She’s getting worse.’ Reed got up and rubbed her arms through her jacket. ‘You got—’

  Fenchurch’s phone rang. Loftus. ‘Sir, I’m outside.’

  ‘Well, I’m upstairs with the Chancellor. We’re waiting for you.’

  ‘Five minutes, sir. Is Zachary with you?’

  ‘He’s on his way. And I’d take the lift if I was you, mm?’

  ‘Sir.’ Fenchurch got out. Bedlam. A woman shouting through a megaphone. ‘What do we want? Zachary out!’ The crowd chanted along with her. ‘Zachary out! Zachary out! Zachary out!’

  ‘Shit, that doesn’t sound good.’ Fenchurch set off towards the quad, Jaines Tower looming above, the lights twinkling in the frost. Could just about work out which room was Uttley’s. He squeezed past a woman halfway down the path. ‘Excuse me.’

  Someone grabbed his arm. ‘Fenchurch?’ Gordon McLaren, hands on hips. Black leggings and a lilac blouse. ‘Thought you were going to come to the vigil last night?’

  ‘I came but I couldn’t stay. Got called away when we arrived. I’m sorry.’

  McLaren folded his arms. ‘Why don’t I believe you?’

  ‘It’s the truth. My boss is in hospital. Cancer.’

  ‘Oh.’ McLaren’s eyebrows shot up. ‘I’m . . . I’m really sorry.’