What Doesn't Kill You (A DI Fenchurch novel Book 3)

by Ed James

  ‘Where is it again?’

  She sighed. ‘The Broken Bridge, just off Shoreditch High Street.’

  ‘Got you. See you soon.’ Fenchurch ended the call, his gut aching.

  Temple squeezed past Fenchurch into Docherty’s office. ‘Is this because of the TV?’

  Fenchurch came back into the room, willing his phone to ring again. ‘Sky and the BBC both broadcast it.’

  Temple crossed his legs. ‘That article was a stupid idea.’

  The coffee stain still dribbled down the wall, but most of the royal-blue crockery had been tidied away, just a few shards on the carpet.

  ‘It’s just unfortunate timing.’ Fenchurch’s phone rang again. His heart just about exploded. Clooney. His fingers slicked off the case as he answered it. ‘Mick, are you getting anywhere with that call?’

  ‘Hold your horses, Simon. You know how many cases you’ve got me working just now?’

  ‘This is the priority.’

  ‘Just as well I’ve done it then, isn’t it?’ Clooney left a pause which Fenchurch wasn’t going to fill. ‘It’s a burner, Si. Call was made out in Greenwich.’

  ‘A burner? Shit. Any chance—’

  ‘I suspect the phone’s at the bottom of the Thames now. Switched it off after the call.’

  ‘Right, cheers. Let me know if it goes back on.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Fenchurch pocketed his phone. ‘Take it you got the gist of that?’

  ‘Some prick pranking you, no doubt, Si.’ Docherty picked up a chunk of his coffee mug and dumped it in his bin. ‘Happens to the best of us.’

  ‘Boss, I need to get home.’

  ‘Right, aye.’ Docherty pinched his nose, his head low. ‘Back in for day shift tomorrow, okay?’ He grabbed Fenchurch’s arm as he set off. ‘And don’t get too blootered tonight.’

  Fenchurch traipsed off. ‘Like that’s on the cards.’

  Temple got up and hauled his coat on. ‘Any chance I could get a lift off you, Simon?’

  ‘What’s up with your beautiful Audi?’

  ‘She’s in the garage.’

  ‘“She”?’ Fenchurch winked at him. ‘Well, as it happens, I’m heading to Shoreditch.’

  Fenchurch pulled up on Shoreditch High Street, the street buzzing with Friday-night action. The restaurant was just down a side street. Charring steak seeped in through the air conditioning. ‘You sure this is fine?’

  ‘I’m sure.’ Temple let his seat belt whizz up. ‘The walk’ll help me clear my head.’

  ‘But on a Friday night?’

  ‘I’m just short.’ Temple grinned at him. ‘I’m not a dwarf, okay? And I’m a black belt. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Well, if you insist.’ Fenchurch killed the engine. Chased a kid on a bike down there a couple of months back. Little shit.

  ‘—that phone call.’

  Fenchurch glanced over at him. ‘Sorry, I was miles away.’

  ‘I said, I’m here if you want to talk about that phone call.’

  ‘It’s not the first time some little scrotum has called me like that.’

  ‘They went to some effort to disguise their voice, though.’ Temple had his hand on the door handle. ‘That’s got to count for something.’

  ‘You trying to frighten me or something? I’m not a black belt.’

  Temple shook his head. ‘Simon, I’m just watching out for you, mate. Okay?’

  ‘Didn’t know I needed a guardian angel.’

  ‘Everyone does. Trust me.’ Temple pointed out of the windscreen at a cab. Abi was leaning into the front, handing over some cash. ‘There’s your date.’ He got out onto the pavement and marched over to Abi, who was still glowering at her phone.

  Looks a million dollars, dressed to kill. Her frosty expression looks like she’s ready to . . .

  Fenchurch reached into the glovebox and checked the box was still intact inside. He got out and locked the car.

  Temple pulled Abi into a hug and stepped back, staring at her midriff. ‘You’re starting to show, princess.’

  Abi covered her tummy with her hands. ‘Shit, am I?’

  ‘Not at all.’ Temple winked at her. ‘You are pregnant, though, right?’

  ‘Oh, crap.’ Abi shut her eyes and gritted her teeth. ‘Keep this a secret, Paul. Okay?’

  ‘You aren’t showing, by the way. I was just chancing my arm.’ Temple grinned at Fenchurch. ‘Good to see Simon’s still got lead in his pencil.’

  ‘This is a secret, Paul. Okay?’

  ‘Safe with me.’ Temple zipped up his coat. ‘How far gone are you?’

  ‘Eight weeks, so keep it quiet. We had our ultrasound this morning and everything’s looking good.’

  Fenchurch’s gut jolted at the thought of those tests.

  Temple clapped Fenchurch on the arm. ‘There’s no hanging around with you two. Some couples take months to conceive. Years, even.’

  ‘It was a lot harder the first time.’ Abi shot Fenchurch a frosty glare. Definitely not in her good books. ‘Come on, Simon, we’re late.’

  ‘I’ll just show you to your table now, sir. Madam.’ The maître d’ sashayed over to the far end of the restaurant, a world away from the bright soft-play café it used to be. Candlelight flickered in the gloom, the dark-red paint now stripped back to brick and stone. The steak smell was stronger inside, merging with garlic and butter. He stopped and waved them into a long table in the corner.

  Fenchurch’s dad cackled as he got to his feet, holding out his liver-spotted hands. He winked at Fenchurch and rubbed at his thick moustache, in bad need of a trim. ‘Abi, you look fabulous.’ He grabbed his son in a bear hug. ‘Simon!’

  Fenchurch took the seat opposite his father. Three empty beer bottles sat in front of him. At least they weren’t pints, but they were Italian. And bloody strong. He passed the bag over the table. ‘Have a look at this.’

  Dad peered inside and his eyes bulged. ‘Did you buy this?’

  ‘I got given it.’

  ‘This is good stuff, son.’ Dad took another look, like he feared it might change into supermarket own-brand. Schrödinger’s whisky. ‘Did you get a bung from those lads who did Hatton Garden, or something?’

  ‘I did someone a favour.’

  Abi held up the box, the black sucking in what little light there was. ‘You’re not drinking this now, are you?’

  ‘Hardly.’ Fenchurch shrugged. ‘It’s not for drinking, Ab. I’m saving it as an investment.’

  Dad winked at him. ‘What sort of whisky isn’t for drinking?’

  ‘The sort that’s worth a fortune.’

  Abi handed the box back to Dad and folded her arms. ‘Who gave you that?’

  ‘That toff I was guarding yesterday.’ Fenchurch frowned. ‘Was it yesterday?’

  ‘I used to get that fog when I was switching shifts.’ Dad cackled again. ‘Never stops, does it?’

  ‘Wish it did, Dad. Wish it bloody did.’ Fenchurch grabbed a menu from the stack. Burgers, burgers and more burgers. Not a burrito in sight. The Chilli Destroyer, though . . .

  ‘How’s it going, son?’

  ‘Same as it ever is, Dad.’ Maybe the You’re Habanero Laugh . . . ‘Murders happen too often in the summer, if you ask me.’

  ‘Happen too often, full stop.’

  ‘Well, there is that.’ Fenchurch put the menu back, still undecided, and smiled at his father. ‘What’ve you been up to?’

  ‘Oh, you know. Car chases, sex with dangerous women, locking dwarves in suitcases.’

  ‘The usual, then?’

  ‘I do get bored, son.’ Dad drank some beer and smacked his lips. Foam covered his moustache. ‘Nice place, this.’

  ‘It’s not bad.’ Abi stifled a yawn, her nostrils curling up. ‘Sorry, been a hell of a week.’ Her gaze drifted around the place. ‘It’s quite a change.’

  ‘Bet they make a lot more dough out of this.’ Dad clicked his fingers at a passing waiter. Got ignored. ‘Bloody hell.’ He grunted. ‘Anyway, wh
at’s your news, Ab?’

  ‘My news?’ Her eyes went wide, shooting across the whole room. ‘What news?’

  Dad raised his shoulders, cupping hands like a footballer pleading innocence. ‘Anything new with you, I think that’s what it means?’

  ‘Oh, right.’ She tried to swallow down her blush. ‘You know me, Ian, I’m just gearing up for summer. Not long now.’ She grabbed a menu from the middle of the table. ‘Seven weeks of nothing . . .’

  Fenchurch waited until Abi started inspecting the menu. ‘Dad, has anyone funny been hanging around you, anything like that?’

  ‘That James Corden was out at Lewisham doing his karaoke.’

  ‘I said funny.’

  ‘Right, son.’ Dad cackled again. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m being serious. Anyone, you know . . .’

  ‘Not that I’ve noticed, son, and I’m a copper: it’s the sort of thing I notice.’ Dad sipped at his beer, soaking his moustache. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘No reason.’

  ‘Bollocks there isn’t.’

  Fenchurch snorted. ‘I had a call from someone. Warning me.’

  ‘Used to get five of them a week back in the day. Much easier to hide it then, mind.’ Dad’s eyes moistened around the edges. ‘Some nutcase who’d just got out calling from a call box in Soho after a skinful. Your mother used to go bloody potty.’

  Fenchurch waited until Dad looked at him. ‘This was a burner in Greenwich.’

  ‘Just a 2016 version of my Soho nutter.’

  The maître d’ appeared with a wide smile, arms splayed to point at their table.

  Abi grinned at him. ‘Sorry, I’ve not finished with the menu yet.’

  ‘Oh, I won’t be taking your order, madam.’ He pointed at the other two chairs. ‘Sir, madam?’

  Rosie emerged from behind him, pearl necklace and twinset like she was off to the Tory party conference in Harrogate or wherever. Blonde hair, straight as when Princess Di wore it.

  What was the sharp-elbowed cow doing here?

  ‘Simon!’ She reached over and pecked Fenchurch on the cheek, a blast of perfume and champagne hitting his nose. ‘How’s my big brother?’

  Peter Barnes appeared next to her, still had the smell of the farm about him. Hadn’t aged well, looked about twenty years older than Rosie. He clasped a meaty hand on Abi’s shoulder. ‘Been too long, Abs.’ The smooth git held out a hand to Dad. ‘Ian, thanks for inviting us along.’

  Fenchurch whisper-shouted at his old man, ‘You could’ve warned us.’

  Rosie drained her wine glass and got to her feet. ‘I need to go to the toilet.’ She raised her eyebrows at Abi and set off.

  ‘Okay.’ Abi touched her glass to her lips, but it still looked full. She followed Rosie, head bowed.

  ‘I don’t get why women have to go to the toilet in packs.’ Peter let out a roar of braying laughter. Hwa, hwa, hwa. He drained his glass of sparkling white and scowled around the place. ‘The service in here is shocking. I’ll go and chivvy up garçon and get him to do his ruddy job.’ He dumped his napkin on the table and marched off, the bottom of his sports jacket folded up.

  Fenchurch drank some beer, the pint tasting exactly like he’d stretched it out over an hour. ‘Why the hell did you have to invite him?’

  ‘Sorry, son. I thought it’d be fun to have us all together for once.’

  Fenchurch downed the rest of his beer. ‘Well, I’d hate to see your idea of torture.’

  ‘He’s not that bad, is he?’

  ‘Maybe not, but the pair of them are.’ Beer suds slid down the side of Fenchurch’s glass. ‘There’s a reason I haven’t seen her in two years. She’s a complete arsehole.’

  Dad took a big drink of his seventh beer. ‘That’s your sister you’re talking about.’

  ‘My sister who didn’t bother helping me when Chloe went missing. Just one afternoon of talking would’ve done the world of good to me. Instead, she’s chatting up that boorish twat.’ Fenchurch almost jabbed his finger at Peter, resting on the bar as he tried to attract someone’s attention, ever more disgusted with the world’s lack of recognition of his majesty.

  Fenchurch reached over the table for Abi’s wine glass, completely untouched except for a few lipstick marks. Dad didn’t seem to notice. She can drive us home. He had a sip of the red. Spoiled a bit, but decent. ‘Dad, that voice said something about my loved ones.’

  ‘And?’ Dad looked into Fenchurch’s glass, like he was about to pick it up and drink it himself. ‘Simon, I’ve not lost it.’

  Fenchurch grabbed his arm, trying to make him just see sense. ‘I’m worried about you.’

  ‘You bloody shouldn’t be.’ Dad downed his drink. ‘You should be worried about yourself, the number of stupid things you do on the job. Putting yourself on the line like that. Never seen a DI do what you do. Chasing people on train tracks.’

  ‘The Met would be a better place if they all did.’ More wine, burning his throat. ‘Just promise me you’ll take care of yourself.’

  ‘I’ve been kicking the shit out of punks since long before you were born.’ Dad got to his feet with a moan and shook off his son’s grip. ‘If you think I’m incapable of looking after myself, then you can piss off, okay?’

  ‘Dad, you’re digging around places you shouldn’t.’

  ‘So you want me to piss off? Fine.’ Dad grabbed the whisky bag and stormed off through the restaurant, almost bumping into Abi and Rosie as they left the ladies.

  ‘Dad? What’s going on?’ Rosie tottered off across the tiles towards him. ‘Dad!’

  ‘Oh, Gordon Bennett.’ Peter abandoned his quest at the bar and left the restaurant, following them out into the Shoreditch evening.

  Abi sat down again. ‘Something you said?’

  Fenchurch slouched in his chair and finished the glass, his fingers coiled round it. ‘I’m just watching out for him.’

  ‘He knows that, Simon.’

  ‘Got a funny way of showing it.’

  A sigh escaped through her nostrils. ‘Think they’ll be back?’

  ‘Doubt it. More Fenchurch family melodrama, I swear. What the hell was he doing inviting them?’

  ‘Simon, that’s your bloody sister. Maybe he’s trying to do the right thing?’

  Fenchurch nudged the glass back over to her side of the table. ‘What, pissing me off so much that I piss him off enough for him to piss off?’

  She groaned. ‘I can’t follow that.’

  Fenchurch reached over for the bottle of red and splashed some into his glass. ‘You okay to drive?’

  ‘I’m a bit tired, but it’s not exactly far, is it?’

  ‘Thanks, love.’ Another sip. Much better. Fenchurch fished out his mobile and dialled Dad’s number. Bloody thing ran through to voicemail. ‘He’s not answering his phone now.’

  Abi waved hers in the air. ‘Rosie’s just texted me. They’re taking him home. Said we’ll have to rearrange.’ She put it down and reached over for the water jug, the ice all melted. ‘Let’s have our meal and see how the night plays out, shall we?’

  Fenchurch looked around at the empty place settings. ‘Going to need a doggy bag for all this food . . .’

  Abi frowned. ‘Where’s your whisky bottle?’

  ‘Ah, shit.’ Fenchurch slapped his forehead. ‘He better not bloody drink that.’ He glanced at Abi’s stomach. ‘I was saving it for junior.’

  The waiter appeared, a plate in each hand, another one nestling in his elbow. ‘I’ve got a Chilli Destroyer?’

  Abi stirred her peppermint tea, the steam billowing up between them. The kitchen lights blazed away, the rest of the flat in darkness. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

  ‘The stupid old goat will be fine, Ab.’ Fenchurch blew on the top of his tea, waves rippling across the murky surface like an uncharted sea. ‘You know what he’s like.’

  ‘You still think he’s looking for Chloe?’

  ‘Of course he bloody is. Probably the only thin
g keeping him going.’ Fenchurch drank some tea. Felt like he’d swallowed a lump of burning coal. He let it burn his tongue, trying to feel something. Tastes like gnat’s piss. Should’ve used a fresh kettle of water . . .

  ‘You okay, love?’

  ‘Usual shit. Bloody night shift drives me crazy. Nothing happens. My in-tray and email are close to zero. Then it blows up.’ Fenchurch wrapped his fingers around the teacup. ‘Maybe you’re right. We should move out of this city.’

  ‘You change like the weather, Simon.’

  ‘Sorry. I’m just . . .’ Fenchurch lifted his shoulders. A burp forced itself up, acid wine burning at his throat. Another sip of tea swallowed it back down. ‘How was your day?’

  ‘Work was the usual shit. Can’t wait for the summer break.’

  ‘You sitting around moping all day? Great . . .’ Fenchurch set his cup down again. ‘Speaking of which, another typewriter turned up. It’s in Chloe’s room.’

  ‘Thanks, love.’ She sat on his lap, running a hand through his hair, catching a kink.

  He brushed a loose frond away. ‘You talk to your shrink about them?’

  ‘No.’ She tucked the hair back into her ponytail. ‘They help. You know that. Repairing something. Putting it all back together, refurbishing it. Letting someone use something that’s been broken.’

  ‘Nobody uses typewriters these days, do they?’

  ‘Enough people do, Simon.’ Her whole body tensed up. Felt like she was floating above him. ‘I wish you’d stop enabling this shit with your father.’

  Another sip of burning tea. ‘What if he finds something? There’s people out there who might know more.’ Fenchurch hugged her tight, wrapping his arms around her light frame. ‘She might be out there.’

  Abi gazed off into the middle distance.

  ‘This morning, I dreamed about her again. The same one. The usual one. Her outside. Everything’s so crystal clear, like it’s a memory. You complaining about the garage bill.’

  ‘And yet being in your memory palace can’t piece it all together.’ She pecked him on the forehead.

  He pulled away. ‘I’m being serious here.’

  ‘And so am I.’ She got her kiss in. ‘There’s no way you can piece it all together. It was eleven years ago.’ She wrapped her arms around him. ‘Have you spoken to your shrink about it, Simon?’