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

by Ed James

  Fenchurch nodded down the path. ‘Another protest against Zachary?’

  ‘I thought they’d cancel it, given what’s . . . happened.’ McLaren snorted. ‘Someone grabbed me in the common room, said it was peaceful. We came out here and someone threw a bottle.’ He looked Fenchurch up and down. ‘Glad the police are here.’

  ‘We’re here for another matter, sir. I suggest you leave.’

  ‘I’m going, don’t you worry.’ McLaren sidled off as the crowd noise swelled up.

  ‘Hey ho! Fascists go!’

  Fenchurch walked towards the end of the path. At the end, the quad was blocked with students. Placards reading ZACHARY = SHITLER, GET BACK TO TRUMPTON and RIGHTFACTS IS FAKE NEWS!!!.

  Zachary was halfway up the ramp, arms folded, no sign of his security muscle.

  The woman with the megaphone was in his face, shouting, ‘Hey ho! Fascists go!’

  Zachary pointed past her and said something.

  ‘Hey ho! Fascists go!’ She pulled the megaphone away from her mouth and waved her arms, conducting the chanting.

  Shit.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  It was Chloe.

  Fenchurch barged through the crowd. ‘Police!’

  ‘Hey ho! Fascists go!’

  Zachary was screaming at her, gripping her shoulders tight.

  Fenchurch pushed between a couple. Then another. Ten bodies away from her. He pushed and pushed. Sam Edwards stood next to Chloe, hands cupped round his mouth.

  Then Fenchurch was through. Chloe clocked him and she froze.

  Fenchurch snatched the megaphone from her and stuck it to his mouth, holding down the button. ‘This is the police! This protest is over! Please disperse and return to your rooms! Thank you!’

  Boos rang out. A bottle flew past Fenchurch’s ear, thunking on the ground and skidding.

  ‘I’m serious! Go home or you will be arrested!’

  Zachary got close to Fenchurch. ‘You need to—’

  Zachary’s muscle bundled into Fenchurch, pushing him back. Not Brad. Some other ex-forces type. He made a one-man human shield around Zachary.

  The crowd was thinning out, the students clearly not fancying an arrest on their records.

  Not Chloe, though. She stood next to Fenchurch, jabbing a finger in the air at Zachary. ‘Hey ho! Fascists go!’

  So much like her bloody mother . . .

  Fenchurch grabbed Zachary’s arm. ‘Sir, I need you to come with me.’

  The bodyguard tore his hand free. Felt like he’d snapped the tendons.

  Fenchurch flashed his warrant card. ‘You’re coming with me. Now!’

  Zachary pointed at Chloe. ‘She’s the one you should be arresting! She started this!’

  Chloe grabbed the megaphone from Fenchurch and swung it at Zachary. His bodyguard lurched forward, head-butting it out of the way, taking the blow himself.

  Chloe almost toppled over. She grabbed the rail and held herself in place.

  The megaphone clattered to the ground and rolled off into the quad. Chloe watched it go. Then her eyes bulged. She jolted forward and pushed Fenchurch.

  He tumbled into Sam Edwards, the pair of them collapsing into a group of men.

  A loud bang, then an echo round the quad.

  A girl near Fenchurch screamed.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The sound was so close to Fenchurch that his ears burned. Everything sounded underwater. Muffled, thick.

  Fenchurch tried to push up, but Sam Edwards lay on him, pressing him down to the flagstones. He wriggled about, trying to get Sam to budge.

  Chloe!

  No . . .

  No, no, no . . .

  Eventually, he shook Sam off.

  Then another scream.

  Fenchurch rolled over.

  A female student lay on the ground, a few feet away, clutching her leg. Her back arched as she let out another roar.

  Chloe stood above her, mouth hanging open.

  Fenchurch pushed himself up to standing. Students scattered around them, screaming and panicking. ‘Get inside! Now!’

  Chloe reached down for the megaphone and pressed it to her mouth. ‘Get inside the university buildings! Now!’

  Fenchurch stood and watched her. Impressed, but he couldn’t push an image of her getting shot out of his mind. He pawed at her arm. ‘Did you see something?’

  ‘A flash of light.’ Chloe pointed up at Jaines Tower. ‘Something was sticking out of a window. A gun.’

  Fenchurch pointed across the quad, away from the tower. ‘Get inside!’

  Sam vaulted the banister to get to the girl who’d been shot.

  Fenchurch shuffled over to the stricken woman. ‘Sam, can you get her inside? The shooter’s still here.’

  Sam nodded as he helped the girl to her feet, then started carrying her towards a door opposite the tower.

  Chloe stopped near Fenchurch, following three Chinese students. ‘You okay?’

  Fenchurch couldn’t focus on her. He checked the surrounding buildings, tried to figure out the trajectory of the bullet. He caught a glint of light from a window above the tower’s entrance. ‘Get down!’

  Chloe dived to the ground.

  The shot rattled around, a second blast coming seconds later.

  The flagstones behind Chloe puffed up, dust pluming. She frowned at Fenchurch. ‘You saved me?’

  ‘Come on.’ Fenchurch pulled her to her feet, his gaze shooting back to the first-floor window, just above the entrance. No guns, but movement. Maybe. ‘Get them all inside, now!’

  ‘Okay.’ Chloe started herding the students.

  Fenchurch powered up the ramp as fast as his gammy knee would let him. Inside Jaines Tower, students cowered and hid all over the foyer. The quad was empty now, the discarded megaphone lying in the middle.

  Loftus sprinted down the staircase, followed by Mulholland. Neither noticed Fenchurch as they headed towards the entrance.

  Fenchurch climbed the staircase, trying to ignore the pain in his knee, and emerged into a wide concourse with only four doors. Lecture theatres, probably. He tried to superimpose the downstairs layout up here. A janitor’s store was over the far side. Pray that the shooter’s still in there.

  He inched across the giant rubber tiles. Movement blurred the door’s security glass.

  Was it his reflection?

  More movement, light deflecting around it.

  Definitely someone in there.

  Something clunked, metal on metal.

  Shit, the shooter was reloading.

  Fenchurch snapped out his baton with a crack, loud like thunder. He crept forward and put his ear to the door. The window rattled, as if something was pressed against the frame. A man was speaking to himself, muttering. Hissing.

  Fenchurch reached up and eased down the door handle, then nudged it open. He snuck into the office, taking it slowly.

  The room was small, filled with chemicals and buckets. A rifle was mounted by the open window, pointing to the quad. The shooter stood next to it, silhouetted, the blinds flapping around him. Talking to himself. Muttering. Swearing. He spun round to face Fenchurch.

  Richard Thwaite.

  The Firearms Officer who killed Oliver Keane.

  Trying to kill Fenchurch. Or his daughter.

  ‘Richard, step away from the gun.’

  Thwaite took one look at it. ‘No!’

  Fenchurch raised his baton, hoisting it up. ‘Step away from the gun, Richard!’

  Thwaite was practically hyperventilating. His head twitched, eyes bulging like he was having a stroke. ‘No . . .’

  ‘It’s over, Richard.’ Fenchurch stepped forward. And again. ‘I need you to get down on your knees and put your hands behind your head.’

  ‘No!’

  Fenchurch took another step forward. Not far now. Inches from being able to strike. ‘Come on, Richard. It’s over. You’re not going to kill again.’

  Thwaite stomped towards Fenchurch, fists clenched.
<
br />   Fenchurch swiped with his baton, lashing at Thwaite’s knees. A scream and Thwaite stumbled backwards towards the window. Fenchurch lurched forward, pain spearing his knee, swiping at Thwaite’s legs until he hit the floor arse-first, screaming.

  Fenchurch grabbed his arm and got on top of him, shifting his weight, pushing Thwaite’s arm up his spine. He wasn’t going anywhere.

  Fenchurch’s knee was ready to pop. ‘Why did you do it?’

  Thwaite shook his head. As much as he could, cheek on the ground.

  Something grabbed his arm and Fenchurch flinched. ‘Easy.’ Loftus.

  Two uniforms powered into the room and grabbed Thwaite.

  Fenchurch let his grip go and got up slowly. ‘He should’ve been in custody!’

  ‘I know, Simon.’ Loftus’s nostrils flared. ‘I know.’

  Fenchurch stepped aside to let the uniforms take Thwaite. ‘Make sure he gets to Leman Street in one piece.’

  ‘Sir.’ Cuffs clicked and they lifted Thwaite but he was a dead weight. Another took his legs and carried him out. Didn’t even move.

  Loftus wiped his forehead. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Someone almost shot me, sir.’

  ‘This could’ve been a hell of a lot worse.’

  Fenchurch hobbled over to the window, moving like his old man after a bottle of whisky. The cold breeze slapped him in the face. The quad’s flagstones were dented in two places, only one of them surrounded by blood.

  No fatalities thanks to Chloe pushing me. Pushing me away. Or pushing me out of the way?

  Christ, she saved me.

  Fenchurch checked the matching windows at this height. The blinds rattled or hung open, a cop inside each one. The place was locked down. His shoulders slumped. ‘Are you assuming that Thwaite’s the only shooter?’

  ‘We’re not. Come on.’ Loftus led him back out into the foyer. ‘Being shot at is a traumatic experience, Inspector. I know you caught him, and well done and everything, but—’

  ‘How is the girl who got shot?’

  Loftus rested against the stairwell and pointed down at the foyer. Two paramedics were working at the gunshot wound, another two arriving with a gurney. ‘Because of you, Inspector, we’re dealing with an injury. A wound that can heal.’

  Chloe stood next to a uniform, giving her statement. She made eye contact with Fenchurch. She held it, for once. Even added a slight grin.

  Fenchurch mouthed ‘Thanks.’

  She shrugged, the smile on her lips flickering, almost daring to burst into flame. Then she turned back to the uniform. Her mature-student boyfriend was lurking around, hands in pockets, forehead creased.

  Fenchurch pointed at Chloe, couldn’t help but grin. ‘She saved that woman, sir.’

  ‘She did well out there.’ Loftus nodded at Chloe. ‘Your girl, eh?’

  ‘She shouldn’t have had to.’

  ‘Simon, this probably isn’t the time . . .’ Loftus bared his teeth. ‘But she organised a protest where someone got shot. A bloody flash mob.’

  ‘She couldn’t have known that would happen.’

  ‘If she’d gone through the appropriate channels, we would’ve had officers in place. This would’ve been managed.’

  ‘Sir, I . . .’ Fenchurch threw up his hands. ‘You honestly think that this is her fault?’

  ‘Inspector, I suggest you don’t take that tone with me.’

  Fenchurch still held his baton. So tempting to lash out and batter Loftus with it. Knock a few teeth out. Throw him over the side of the barrier, watch him tumble down the stairs.

  Loftus gave him a withering look then focused on the foyer instead. ‘Oh, here we go.’

  Zenna Abercrombie marched in through the side entrance, rubbing her forehead as she passed out orders to her suited ducklings.

  ‘Inspector, our line here is that this isn’t our mess, okay?’

  Fenchurch tightened his grip on the baton.

  ‘Thwaite is under the IPCC’s care.’ Loftus was still glaring at the door. Talking politics when Fenchurch’s daughter almost got shot. Full-on Game of Thrones paranoia. ‘Why on God’s green earth did Abercrombie let him out of her sight?’

  And why the hell can’t you give up the golf-club bullshit for one minute?

  ‘Not sure, sir.’ Fenchurch pushed his baton back into the starting position and stuffed it in his holder. ‘You want me out of here, sir?’

  Loftus frowned at him. ‘Why are you here, anyway?’

  Fenchurch’s turn to frown. Why was he here? Felt like they’d turned up a million years ago. Then it hit him. ‘Zachary. Remember?’

  ‘Of course. It was somewhat embarrassing to be sitting up there with Uttley, waiting.’

  ‘I got held up by that protest.’ Fenchurch pointed over to the foyer window where Zachary was being interviewed by a female DC. ‘Same with him. How come you were already here?’

  Loftus held Fenchurch’s gaze for a few seconds. ‘I was speaking to Rupert on a related matter.’

  ‘We still need to speak to Zachary, sir.’

  Loftus stared out of the window, huffing and puffing.

  Zenna Abercrombie walked over towards them. ‘Gentlemen, I need you to clear the area for forensics.’

  Loftus led over to the stairwell. ‘Oh, we’re fine, Zenna. Thanks for asking.’

  She shot him a glare. ‘This isn’t my fault.’

  ‘Oh, it very much is.’ Loftus licked his lips slowly. ‘This is your murder suspect.’

  ‘That’s bullshit, Julian.’

  ‘Let’s see how the Director of Public Prosecutions feels about this, shall we? You may—’

  ‘Julian, this isn’t—’

  ‘Zenna, Zenna, Zenna.’ Loftus smiled at her, his tongue running round his lips. ‘How about you and I grab a cup of tea while DI Fenchurch here does his job, mm?’ He trained his smile on Fenchurch. ‘Inspector, how about you go and have that word with our friend?’

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Through here, Inspector.’ Zachary led Fenchurch into his office.

  Brad was standing by the window, fiddling with his phone. Snap, and he was in Fenchurch’s face.

  ‘Brad, it’s cool.’ Zachary raised his palms. ‘We’re having a friendly chat. Go get me a coffee, yeah?’

  ‘Boss.’ Brad stepped back and adjusted his shades. He brushed against Fenchurch as he barged past.

  Zachary collapsed into his chair and shrugged off his suit jacket. He picked up his fountain pen and ran his finger down it. ‘This country . . . I swear . . .’

  ‘Someone shot at me.’ Fenchurch leaned against the window. ‘That’s the kind of—’

  ‘You?’ Zachary dropped his pen on the desk. ‘I was the target, Inspector. Don’t get me wrong, the bullet was much nearer you, but . . .’ He brushed at his black eye, hidden behind make-up, the yellow and purple still clear. ‘I’m no stranger to hate. The price of standing up for your beliefs. Not being a coward.’

  Fenchurch focused on the view down to the quad. Forensics officers milled around the two gunshot sites, tiny ants dusting and measuring. A real drop from here. Be a shame for Zachary to fall out.

  ‘So, Inspector, what’s this about?’

  Fenchurch left the window and took the chair in front of the desk. ‘Let’s start with Richard Thwaite.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The name doesn’t mean anything to you?’

  ‘Should it?’ Zachary licked his lips. ‘This is the man who tried to shoot me, is it?’ He picked up his fountain pen again and twirled it round like a majorette with a baton. ‘That poor girl. The one who got shot. Is she okay?’

  ‘She’ll live, but I suspect she’ll be in physio for a while. But going back to Richard Thwaite.’

  Zachary raised his right leg up and tapped the knee. ‘I got shot in the knee when I was a boy. Out on a hunting trip with my pappy. Didn’t your daughter save you?’

  Fenchurch glared at him.

  ‘Could Jen have been the target?’ Zachary tossed
his pen in the air and caught it. ‘Sorry, Chloe.’

  Fenchurch felt a stab in his heart. He brushed away his tear before it formed. He gripped his baton tight, still stowed in his jacket. One snap and he could bash the prick’s teeth out. Haul him out of that window.

  ‘Though I can see why you’re worried. All those stories in the summer about you and Jen. You must be on edge all the time.’

  ‘Earlier, when we spoke to you about her, you knew she was my daughter?’

  Zachary tossed the pen on the desk again. ‘It’s a heartbreaking story. You have my deepest, deepest sympathies.’ Looked like he meant it too.

  Still, Fenchurch wanted to jam the pen in one of Zachary’s eyes. Then the other.

  ‘Girl’s got daddy issues, though.’ Zachary gave Fenchurch the up and down. ‘And I can see why. Given what’s happened to her, the memories she’s got. You’re a lot to live up to, aren’t you? Real alpha-male type. Bet you play rugby.’

  ‘Can’t stand egg-chasing.’ Fenchurch clasped his knees. ‘You think someone targeted her?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know, and that’s the truth, my friend. She’s a great kid, bit messed up, but she’s got hope.’

  ‘That’s the bugger that kills you.’ Fenchurch reached over but Zachary picked up the fountain pen before he could grab it. ‘I need to ask you a few other questions.’

  ‘Can’t this wait?’

  ‘Sharon Reynolds.’ Fenchurch left a pause, but Zachary just scowled. ‘You might know her as Elektra De’Ath.’

  Zachary’s tongue flicked over his lips. ‘Right.’

  ‘We know about you and her.’ Keep it vague.

  Zachary tapped the pen on the desk. ‘You’ll have to enlighten me, my friend.’

  ‘I thought the whole thing with these camgirls was that you’d watch exotic girls from America or Thailand or Australia, not from down the road.’

  ‘This place is exotic to me.’ Zachary pointed at the window. ‘Okay, I’ll bite. I started watching her before I came over here. Became fascinated by her. She’s got great style, way better than most of the skanks on there. I was a bit of a goth in college, though that phase passed quickly.’ He scratched out a line on the paper in front of him, the ink bubbling in the nib’s trail. ‘But I genuinely didn’t know Elektra lived in this part of the city. And I sure as shit can’t believe her name is Sharon.’