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

by Ed James

  ‘So you took the blame?’

  ‘I didn’t speak, which is the same thing. Kept quiet, all through the interview. Made me seem guilty.’

  ‘But you are guilty. You murdered Oliver Keane.’

  ‘But I didn’t . . . shoot at you.’

  Fenchurch waited until Thwaite looked up again. ‘Because of this shit, you’ve . . .’ He trailed off. Just didn’t have the words any more.

  Someone knocked on the door.

  Mulholland. She’d found them. That was it, his career over.

  Fenchurch walked over to the door and opened it, heart in his mouth.

  Big Martin, frowning, twitching. ‘Si, Mulholland’s on her way down.’

  Fenchurch kept checking the corridor, in case Mulholland or any of her team found out he was even in the building. Expecting Nelson to have grassed. Reed seemed to read his mind and walked out of the room, giving them a barrier.

  ‘Sir, I keep telling you.’ Bridge slumped back in her chair and tucked her arms tight around her torso. ‘I can’t find Zoe, not in real life. People like her need to want to be found.’

  Fenchurch was leaning against the desk, rubbing the cartilage in his knee until it clicked. ‘I’m fed up of ghosts.’ He sighed. ‘So, all we know about Zoe is that she’s had sex with Richard Thwaite on multiple occasions, paid for it with Sam Edwards, again on multiple occasions, and that she’s spoken to Thomas Zachary on the Manor House website.’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  Fenchurch stared at her screen, the image of Thwaite and Zoe. ‘Why was Zachary messaging her?’

  Bridge lifted a shoulder. ‘Maybe he’s into trannies?’

  ‘Have you read his stuff? He’s much more likely . . .’ Fenchurch swallowed, his thoughts catching in his throat. ‘He’s much more likely to be identifying her as a target.’

  ‘True enough.’ Bridge stifled a yawn. ‘Do you mind if I get home, sir?’

  ‘In a minute.’ Fenchurch jabbed at her screen, pointing at the window into the MacBook’s clone. ‘Where did you get to with the Keane search?’

  Bridge leaned forward, her fingers dancing across the keyboard. ‘I was continuing the search, trying to figure out what Keane would’ve looked at next.’

  ‘But didn’t.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘Did you do it?’

  ‘DI Mulholland stopped me, sir.’

  ‘Can you do it now?’

  Bridge glanced at the FitBit on her wrist and nodded. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ As she typed, the magic started happening in the window, searches running and folders opening. She clicked her tongue. ‘Bingo.’

  Reed came into the room and leaned against the back of her chair. ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve just found an email Hannah received with that attachment.’

  ‘Can we see it?’

  ‘That’s the thing. The email’s long deleted, and the file’s missing. But I can see who she got it from.’

  Fenchurch knocked on the door again. The flat seemed empty. No sounds or smells. No movement. ‘Kid could be anywhere.’

  ‘Studying in the library, out on the piss, having sex with someone’s wife while they record it.’ Reed was trying to peer in through the window. ‘Anyway. What do you think is in this file?’

  ‘A video. All we know is he sent it to Hannah and . . .’

  And what?

  Sending a file to your girlfriend isn’t a crime. But if someone potentially kills her to get it. If they spent hours on that file on her laptop, tracing where it went afterwards, then . . . Then there’s something to at least investigate. To delve into. If it’s worth killing for, then it’s of interest.

  He thumped the door again. ‘We can’t burst in here. I’ve already done that. I’m off this case so I can’t authorise a warrant.’

  ‘So, we just give up?’

  ‘Might have to, Kay.’ Fenchurch pushed his hands deep into his pockets. ‘I should be at the hospital with Abi. With Chloe.’ His hands tightened to fists. ‘Can’t believe she’s been seeing my old man behind my back. That lying bastard.’

  Reed walked back towards her car. ‘He’s doing what he feels is right, though, isn’t he?’

  Fenchurch tried to trace it through. Any melting in Chloe had to be due to Dad’s blowtorch. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Guv.’ Reed got out her phone. ‘I’ll call this in, see if I can get a location on Sam, okay?’

  Keys jangled at the end of the path behind them. A skinny student stood there, hunched over and frowning. A record bag hung from a long strap. ‘Can I help you?’ West coast Scottish accent.

  ‘Looking for Sam Edwards.’ Fenchurch walked over and flashed his warrant card. ‘He in?’

  ‘How the hell am I supposed to know? I’ve just got back.’ He squeezed between them and stuck his key in the lock.

  ‘We need to speak to him as a matter of urgency.’ Fenchurch stuffed his warrant card in his pocket and swapped it for a business card. ‘If you could get him to give me a bell?’

  ‘Aye, aye.’ The student took the card and opened the door.

  Fenchurch left him to it, though he walked away slowly, just in case Sam was lurking in there, hiding out from the cops.

  ‘Here, pal?’ The student was thumbing behind him. ‘He’s in his room.’

  Fenchurch raced up the path, his knee wobbling underneath him, and stomped in the front door. ‘Police!’ He thumped on Sam Edwards’s door. ‘Open up!’

  The door opened a crack and Sam peeked out.

  Fenchurch pushed the door. It bounced off Sam’s forehead, sending him backwards into the room. ‘You!’ He grabbed Sam’s T-shirt. ‘You were hiding, weren’t you?’

  ‘What? No!’

  Fenchurch pulled him close. Stale aftershave wafted off the kid, mixed with sweat. ‘You filmed Chloe’s audition, didn’t you?’ He pushed his face into Sam’s, their noses almost touching. ‘Filmed her taking her clothes off, didn’t you? Told her you’d deleted it, but you hadn’t, had you? Eh?’

  ‘I swear I deleted it.’ Sam looked like he believed it, too. Then again, that’s how the best liars work. He stopped struggling, resigned himself to whatever was coming. ‘Jen’s a mate. I was only trying to help.’

  ‘By encouraging her to debase herself?’ Fenchurch pushed down with his foot. ‘You filthy pervert.’

  ‘She needed money. A girl like Jen can earn—’

  ‘Her. Name. Is. Chloe.’ Fenchurch crouched over him, gripping his T-shirt, hissed at him. ‘I’ll kill you, you pervert.’

  ‘I get that you’re angry but—’

  ‘No.’ Fenchurch grabbed Sam’s T-shirt, the fabric twisting round his fingers, and hauled him to his feet. ‘Sam, I’ll kill you and nobody will find your body.’

  ‘Go ahead.’ Sam hung there, a dead weight tearing the tendons in Fenchurch’s fingers. ‘I don’t care.’

  Reed stood in the doorway. ‘Guv, what the hell?’

  ‘Hannah’s gone.’ Sam sat on the edge of the bed, head in his hands. ‘What else have I got to live for?’

  Fenchurch stood over him, scanning his face, trying to spot the truth. ‘You sent her a file, didn’t you?’

  Sam stared up at him. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘It was a video. You and Zoe. We know she’s a transgender woman.’

  ‘So?’ Sam scowled at him. ‘You transphobic prick.’

  ‘I heard what Zoe shouted at you. “Fuck me like I’m your girlfriend.” Did you? Did you fuck her like you fucked Hannah? She knew Hannah, didn’t she?’

  ‘Shut up. If you’d listened, I told you that Hannah knew about it. All of it.’

  ‘That’s why you killed Hannah, isn’t it?’ Fenchurch nodded slowly. ‘She saw the video of you with Zoe. Made her jealous, didn’t it? That’s what you argued about on Sunday.’

  ‘We argued about what we were doing after university. It started as that, then . . .’

  ‘Han
nah wanted to leave you, but you didn’t want her to go. So you killed her.’

  Sam lashed out with his foot, stamping on Fenchurch’s toes. Fenchurch swung round and caught a fist. Then wrapped his hand round Sam’s, pulling his arm above Sam’s head, arching his back.

  ‘Guv! Stop it!’

  Fenchurch let go of his arm, then grabbed hold of Sam’s T-shirt, pulling him close. ‘What was the video?’

  Sam twisted to the side, gasping for breath. ‘I don’t know. It’s probably me and Zoe, but I never shared it with Hannah. I swear.’

  Fenchurch slackened off his grip. He let go, then stormed out of the room, out of the flat, into the cold night. Rain hit his head, small droplets.

  Dirty little bastard. Surely it’s easier to pull pints in a bar, or stack shelves in a Tesco. Like Chloe. All the shit she’d gone through and she was doing that. A fighter, never giving up. And Sam was debasing himself to anyone with a fiver in their hands.

  ‘Guv?’ Reed was following him, arms wide. ‘Just because you’re going through hell doesn’t mean you can do that.’

  ‘Kay, I’m sorry, but . . . He’s lying to us.’

  ‘Maybe, but he’s also grieving.’ She pushed him in the chest, looked dangerously close to going the full Essex. ‘We need to give him space. Sound familiar?’

  Fenchurch set off towards the car, fists clenched so tight his nails bit into his flesh.

  Perfect time for his phone to ring. Least he heard it this time. It snapped him out of his stupidity. Abi, shit. He checked the display. Just Jon Nelson. He bounced the call and tapped out a text. ‘Jon, just get a plumber in yourself.’

  He looked over at Reed, looking like she’d gone way past Colchester, right out to Southend. Ready to batter the living shit out of any DIs who crossed her path.

  His phone thrummed again. Nelson, calling back. He answered with a sigh. ‘Jon, I told you, get—’

  ‘Guv, I’m not calling about that. My mates in the drugs squad are pulling an all-nighter. Mulholland’s trying to grab hold of their collar.’

  ‘For Troy Danton?’

  ‘No, Graham Pickersgill. Turns out Hannah’s stalker was using that Go Fix Yourself shop as a front for dealing. Turns out he got his gear from Danton. Busted a drug ring. Maybe.’

  ‘So why are you calling me?’

  ‘We need your statement from Danton’s arrest. His lawyer’s trying to get it thrown out.’

  ‘That’s bollocks, Jon.’

  ‘Yeah, well, nothing I can do about that, guv, other than to suggest you write it down.’

  ‘I’ll try and get some time this century, Jon.’

  ‘Guv, look, I get it that you’re pissed off. Sorry. If it’s any help, Loftus got some clowns over from Cyber Crime to help us interview Pickersgill. They’re going to convict him of stalking Hannah. We’ve got emails and text messages. Got his GPS from his phone. He was using his old university card so often that the guards just assumed he was a student.’

  ‘Jon, if it’s any use, he said he was in Hannah’s corridor on Sunday night. See if you can press him for anything useful.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Save up enough of those brownie points and you can buy yourself a promotion.’ Fenchurch killed the call.

  Reed was behind the wheel of the pool car, scowling at him. ‘You done?’

  ‘Feels like it.’

  ‘Not quite. Get in, you weasel.’ Reed opened her door with a sigh. ‘While you were being a prick to Jon, Lisa phoned. Turns out Hannah sent the file to someone we know.’

  Fenchurch hammered on the door. Nice place in the arse end of Shoreditch, almost Hackney.

  ‘How do you want to play this, guv?’ Reed folded her arms and leaned against the wall. ‘Go in gangbusters and tear him apart? Or just see what he says?’

  Fenchurch hit the door again and checked the downstairs window.

  A light pinged on.

  The door rattled open and Younis stood there, arms crossed, dressing gown open to the waist, scrawny white flesh speckled with the occasional hair. He looked Fenchurch up and down, then repeated it with Reed. ‘Well, well, well.’ He opened his door wide. ‘Two for the price of one.’ The deep throb of that Lana Del Rey song boomed out from inside. ‘What a pleasant surprise.’

  ‘This isn’t a social call.’ Fenchurch stepped inside the flat onto engineered wood flooring, almost perfect. Black-and-white nudes lined the walls, a tasteful grey. ‘Need to ask you about a video file.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Hannah Nunn sent you it.’

  ‘She what, now?’ Younis tugged his gown tight. ‘Sam Edwards tell you? Oh, Fenchurch, you’re such a bitter disappointment. You’ve got to take what that punk says with a whole salt mine, lover. He does so much off the books, I tell you, it’s hard to get him on screen sometimes. Don’t see what all the fuss is about.’ He leered at Reed. ‘He’s not that big, either. Girthy, yes, but I’ve seen much longer.’

  Reed laughed. ‘You’re a breath of fresh air, I swear.’

  ‘Sure you pair don’t want a little cuddle?’

  ‘Quite sure.’ Fenchurch stepped closer to Younis. ‘I want to see that video file. Okay?’

  ‘As much as I love you turning up at my doorstop, I’d rather it was after you’d popped a Viagra or two.’

  Fenchurch wanted to grab him and throw him around the room. ‘You think you’re clever, don’t you? That you’ll get away with this forever. It catches up with you. Your type don’t get to retire.’

  ‘You’re wrong, mate. I’m going to buy a Greek island. Piss off out of this by the time I’m forty. I won’t be working the streets at your age.’

  ‘And nobody will come to your island and hunt you down, eh?’ Fenchurch looked Younis up and down. ‘Besides, the second I prove it was you who sent those videos, I’ll charge you with all these lovely new revenge porn crimes.’ He pointed at the tasteful grey walls, the engineered flooring. ‘You can kiss all this goodbye.’

  ‘Why do you think it was me, eh?’

  ‘Because you had access to those laptops, didn’t you?’

  ‘I did, did I?’ Younis chuckled. ‘Some crafty backdoor, yeah?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Much as I hate to admit it, you sexy beast, I’m not that good. Or clever. The kids I give these things to wipe them clean. Computer malware isn’t like HIV, it doesn’t hide around in your bones waiting for you to stop taking your meds.’ Younis licked his lips. ‘But, seeing as it’s you, I’ll do some digging for you. That video of your daughter has clearly got to you.’ He held up a finger. ‘I’m a man of my word. I’ll root out whoever sent you it. Give you a name. Or a body. Your choice.’

  ‘Just a name and evidence.’ Fenchurch folded his arms. He was blushing. Caught Reed noticing it. ‘Hannah sent you an email, didn’t she?’

  ‘Back to this, eh? We’ve been over this, Fenchurch. She sent me lots of emails. Girl was needy.’

  ‘This was on Sunday night at 11.05.’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘That’s bullshit. I want the truth. I want to see the email.’

  ‘I can’t show you.’

  ‘So you do have it, then?’ Fenchurch walked up to him. ‘This is withholding evidence. I can do you—’

  ‘Mate, there was nothing in it.’

  ‘Then you won’t mind me seeing a blank email, then, will you?’

  ‘You’re not leaving, are you?’

  Fenchurch nodded. ‘You’re catching on.’

  ‘Fine.’ Younis led them through his flat into the living room. On a giant TV screen, Victoria Summerton was dancing, grinding her hips, her red corset barely containing her. Younis hit a key on his laptop. Lana Del Rey stopped and Victoria disappeared. Younis sat on his sofa, biting his lips, forehead creased. ‘Okay.’ He tapped at the laptop.

  The screen filled with a video of a bedroom, Sam Edwards thrusting at Zoe, bent over on a bed. ‘Fuck me like I’m your little bitch! Ha
rder!’ A different chunk of the video to the one Fenchurch had been sent. The lighting and bedding were from the same recording by the looks of things.

  ‘This is what she sent you? I’ve seen this.’

  ‘This is the original. I suspect you’ve seen a little edit of it.’ Younis grinned. ‘Keep watching.’ He skipped the video on fifteen minutes.

  Zoe lay on the bed, alone, wearing a gown, panting. Sam was nowhere to be seen. Zoe got up and sat in front of a dressing table, wiping at her make-up, her face visible in the mirror. She kissed the lipstick into a tissue. Then she adjusted the wig, long blonde locks, before yanking it off, silver hair tied down with a net.

  Younis hit pause.

  ‘Shit.’ Fenchurch walked over to the screen and squinted. Look close enough at the features and you could see Thomas Zachary’s face.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Fenchurch glowered at Younis. ‘I don’t believe this.’

  ‘Really?’ Younis held his gaze for a few seconds, his forehead scored with deep frown lines, then shrugged. ‘You’ve just watched that and you don’t believe it?’

  ‘But Zachary’s alt right.’ Fenchurch checked the face on the screen again. ‘He said transsexuals should be drowned at birth.’

  ‘There’s that phrase “Methinks the lady doth protest too much”?’ Younis leaned back on his sofa and crossed his legs. ‘And you know about Ray Cohn?’

  ‘Who?’

  Younis rolled his eyes at Fenchurch. ‘The next American President’s first-ever lawyer. Heavily involved in McCarthyism, outing communists, real homophobe. Nasty, nasty bastard. Died of AIDS, telling everyone it was liver cancer. Turns out he was gay as a window.’

  ‘Gay as a what?’

  ‘Never mind.’ Younis shut his laptop and put it down on the sofa next to him. ‘I’m saying that if you think none of the alt right are lying about who they really are, then . . . They backed Milo Yiannopoulos until he slipped up.’

  ‘He was out of the closet, though.’

  ‘Good for their image. Fulfilling a quota, like one of those second-generation Indian guys who join UKIP.’ Younis went back to his laptop and tapped at the keyboard. ‘I’ve followed Zachary for a long time. Watched his videos, read his columns. You’re right to say that Zachary wanted “gays and trannies”’ — he added air quotes — ‘to be shot at birth. Ironic, given that he’s both.’