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

by Ed James

  ‘I feel enough like Tony Soprano as it is . . .’

  ‘You know I didn’t watch that shit.’

  ‘It’s not shit, love. Come on . . .’

  She touched her forehead against his. ‘Have you spoken to him?’

  ‘I’ll speak to him, okay?’ Fenchurch adjusted her on his lap, so she didn’t fall off. ‘I need to talk about it. I don’t like to be constantly dreaming about it, you know?’

  ‘Welcome to my life, Simon.’

  Day 3

  Day Shift

  Saturday, 11th June 2016

  Chapter Twenty

  Fenchurch rolled over again, but that didn’t empty his bladder. A flicker of sunlight caught between the curtains, glowing in the early-morning air.

  Buggeration.

  He heaved himself up. The other side of the bed was empty.

  Where was she?

  He got up and padded through the flat, his bladder burning.

  Abi sat by the living-room window, a cup of tea resting in her hands, the steam billowing up into her face. A shiver pushed her shoulders up.

  Dancing was the only thing stopping him peeing there and then. ‘Hey, you okay, love?’

  She shrugged and sipped at her tea.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Fenchurch huffed out a breath. ‘I really need to go to the toilet.’

  Another shrug. ‘Have your pee, Simon.’

  Fenchurch dashed to the toilet, grabbing his phone on the way. He sat down and let go, checking his messages.

  Bliss.

  Still nothing from his old man.

  Fenchurch got up and flushed. He washed his hands, the acrid stink of that natural soap hitting his nostrils, and headed back through, dumping his mobile by the key bowl. ‘Hey.’ He stood behind Abi and rubbed her shoulder, cold as ice.

  ‘Your hands are wet.’

  ‘Sorry.’ Fenchurch dried his hands on his thighs. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Just thinking about that call.’ She wiped a hand across her cheek, smearing a tear. ‘Is that the first one you’ve had?’

  ‘It’s not the first idiot trying to wind me up, but it’s the first one with that robot voice.’ He rubbed her shoulders again. The red bricks opposite glowed, a shiver of wind hitting the trees. ‘There’s nobody out there, love. Those calls are probably nothing, Ab.’

  ‘“Probably” isn’t good enough for me.’ She reached over to the side table for a hanky and dabbed at her cheek. ‘Someone saw you on the telly, right? All those questions the journalists were asking . . .’ She blew her nose and balled up the tissue. ‘Could it be about Chloe?’

  ‘I don’t see how.’ Fenchurch put an arm around her and tried to hug her tight. ‘It’s probably this case I’m working, love.’

  She pushed away from his hug. ‘I’m fed up with being collateral damage.’

  ‘Nobody’s going to harm you. Not while I’ve got any say in it.’

  Abi finished her tea and put the cup down on the coffee table. ‘You’re working today, though, aren’t you?’

  ‘Got to make up time for last night.’

  She nodded slowly, hiding some intricate calculus behind her eyes. ‘Right, you can squeeze in a workout if you head off now.’

  Fenchurch frowned. ‘I’m not going anywhere while you’re like this . . .’

  ‘I’m fine, Simon. Thought I could go shopping, get some maternity clothes.’

  Fenchurch picked up his cup from the desk at the front of the Incident Room and had another look at the whiteboard, trying to stretch out his shoulders. Really overdone it with the weights this morning . . .

  ‘So this cyclist still hasn’t come forward. Great.’ Thirty-two officers in attendance. Fenchurch settled on Reed. ‘Kay, can you take a lead in sifting through the calls?’

  ‘Already on it, guv. Got half the uniforms in the station working it. One hundred and fifty-seven calls in overnight, three hundred emails and the Met’s Facebook wall is toppling over.’

  Fenchurch let her have her moment of laughter. ‘And anything in the rubble?’

  ‘Just the usual nutters. We’re bringing a few in, just in case.’

  Fenchurch stabbed a finger on the stills on the whiteboard. ‘That footage showed an assassination. By all means speak to them, but it’s probably more a case of verifying if they’ve seen anything on their way between braziers.’

  ‘Guv.’

  Fenchurch looked around for Clooney. A female officer was almost sitting on Nelson’s lap over on the far side of the room. Clooney wasn’t here. ‘Does anyone know if Clooney got anything on the weapon yet?’

  ‘Sorry, guv.’ Nelson focused on his Pronto. ‘Uniform are looking for the weapon, but usual rules apply. That gun’s probably dumped down a drain or in the Thames.’

  Like that phone . . .

  ‘Well, let’s not give up yet. Someone might’ve been stupid.’ Fenchurch left a few seconds’ space, hoping the message got into the skulls. ‘Jon, the post-mortem on Cassie McBride starts at eight. Can you take that for me?’

  Nelson covered his disappointment with a glug from his posey coffee cup. ‘But, guv, I’ve—’ He scowled through the forest of uniforms. ‘Fine.’

  ‘Okay, then.’ Another sip of tea, scalding Fenchurch’s tongue. At least one officer needed a wash with Dettol. ‘I know you’ve got a heavy caseload already, but you’ll have seen the press conference last night. DCI Docherty is giving the Commissioner hourly updates. Our priority remains finding this shooter.’

  Naismith raised his hand, an impish grin on his face. ‘Sir, what about the Victoria Brocklehurst case?’

  ‘As you all should be aware, the IPCC are running the Victoria Brocklehurst case. DI Mulholland’s team are supporting.’

  Naismith jotted something on his Pronto. ‘So we think Steve Shelvey killed her?’

  ‘That’s with DI Mulholland and the IPCC investigators.’ Fenchurch gave the room another sweep. ‘Okay, guys. We will catch this killer. Our duty is to take him off the streets before he can do it again. Go to it.’

  The room exploded into a wall of noise, ripping across him like a wave. Fenchurch caught a glare from Nelson as he approached, quickly shifting to a grin.

  Nelson smacked Fenchurch on the shoulder, his free hand clutching a poser’s coffee. ‘Your lad Payet did well for France last night. Be lucky to keep him next season.’

  ‘Like I’ve had the chance to watch the bloody football.’

  ‘Right.’ Another sip of coffee. ‘Well, I’d better get out to Lewisham.’

  ‘I take it you’re not happy going to the PM?’

  ‘Not my place to say, guv.’

  ‘It’ll be good for your CV, Jon.’

  ‘Yeah, the fiftieth autopsy I’ve attended . . .’ Nelson wandered off, reaching into his pocket for that infernal vape stick.

  Reed approached the desk and sat next to Fenchurch. ‘Congrats, guv.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Your baby.’

  Fenchurch almost spat tea across the floor.

  ‘Well, yours and Abi’s.’ Reed gripped his arm tight. ‘You really expect Paul Temple to be able to keep a secret like that?’

  ‘That little . . .’

  ‘How are you feeling about it, guv?’

  ‘It’s the one good thing in my life, Kay.’ Fenchurch finished the tea and set the cup down. Could do with another five. ‘What time did you knock off last night?’

  ‘Back of three.’ Reed yawned into her fist. ‘Why?’

  ‘Anything happen while I was away?’

  ‘Precious little. Just the fallout from your press conference.’ She flicked her hair behind her ear. ‘Nothing new about Chloe?’

  ‘Nothing, no.’ Fenchurch got up and took in the whiteboard. Bloody thing was a desert. Just a victim, a missing witness and a connection to a case they weren’t allowed to know anything about.

  Reed joined him. ‘I saw Savage before I left. Said he’s still running with it.’

  ‘Bollocks to that.’ Fench
urch jotted “DCI SAVAGE” in giant letters in the top-left corner of the whiteboard. ‘We’re burning a lot of money on this, so I’m not waiting for Savage to finish playing with himself before I act.’ He blew air up his face. Separate lines joined Cassie McBride’s photo to Travis and Savage. ‘What’s he keeping from us?’

  ‘I don’t know, guv. You think it’s connected to those girls we found at Christmas?’

  ‘I hope not. But I wouldn’t put anything past Savage.’ Fenchurch picked up his cup and sifted the dregs around the bottom, as if he’d get a view of the future from it. ‘The other possibility—’

  Fenchurch’s Airwave blasted out. Steve on the front desk. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Got somebody here to see you. Something Ogden?’

  Fenchurch opened his office door and checked it was empty. He smiled at Ogden. ‘In here, sir.’

  Ogden powered past and took one of the chairs in front of Fenchurch’s desk. His blond hair was damp and a muddy brown, though it hadn’t been raining. He folded his arms. ‘Thank you for making time to see me.’

  Fenchurch lowered himself into his office chair, his knee cracking as he sat. ‘That’s not a problem, sir, though—’

  ‘I’ve been trying to find someone to give me an update on Victoria’s case, but I can’t get anyone to answer the phone.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, I can only—’

  ‘It’s not your fault, Fenchurch. I just need to get Victoria’s body. Put her to rest.’

  ‘I’m afraid that won’t happen for a long time, sir.’ Fenchurch propped himself up against the back of his seat. ‘As much as I’d like to help, we can’t release it until the investigation into her death is closed.’ Cover the lies with process. ‘When we get a suspect, his defence team will—’

  ‘I thought you had a suspect?’

  Fenchurch swallowed hard. Careful . . . ‘The suspect’s defence team will want to perform their own autopsy, usually months from now. As part of that process, the body can’t be released until after any appeals.’

  Ogden tilted his head to the side. ‘Are you winding me up?’

  ‘Put yourself in their position, sir. If you’d been accused of murder, wouldn’t you want to perform your own autopsy?’

  ‘Yes, yes. But . . .’ Ogden made claws out of his hands, bear-like. ‘I thought—’

  The door opened behind Ogden, and Zenna Abercrombie appeared, clutching a folder in front of her like she was guarding it with her life. A young man in a suit waited behind her. ‘Inspector?’

  ‘Ah, Ms Abercrombie. Allow me to introduce Gerald Ogden.’

  She flashed a frown at Fenchurch. ‘What’s . . . ?’

  ‘Mr Ogden is Victoria Brocklehurst’s next of kin.’

  ‘Oh. Oh, I see.’ She smiled at Ogden as he stood, hand in his jacket pocket. ‘Zenna Abercrombie.’ She put the folder on Fenchurch’s desk and held out her hand. ‘I’m leading the investigation into your daughter’s death.’

  ‘Goddaughter.’

  ‘Of course.’ She peeled off a business card from her wallet and handed him one. ‘You can give me a call any—’

  ‘I just want to know when I’ll get her body back.’ Ogden jabbed a thumb at Fenchurch. ‘This one’s telling me it’ll be months.’

  ‘That’s correct, sir. Most likely eighteen months.’ Zenna patted the colleague behind her on the shoulder. ‘Lenny here is leading that part of the case for me. Can I ask you to accompany him? He’ll be able to answer all of your questions and put a timetable in place.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Ogden’s quick glower hit Fenchurch. ‘I’m glad someone’s taking this seriously.’

  ‘If you’ll just follow me?’ Lenny held out a hand and waited for Ogden. He flashed his eyebrows at Zenna and shut the door.

  Fenchurch let out a deep breath. ‘Well, that’s saved me a load of grief.’

  Zenna smiled. ‘Grief’s what he should be going through now.’

  ‘I take it you’re not here just to save my bacon?’

  Zenna slapped a hand on her paperwork. ‘I need some of your support.’

  Fenchurch reached into his desk. ‘If it’s about that Terms of Reference . . .’

  ‘No, it’s not.’ She hefted up her stack of papers. ‘I need you to accompany me out to Lewisham for your formal interview.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Fenchurch walked along the narrow walkway, overgrown by weeds on either side, nettles and thistles where they should’ve grown bushes. A lone honeysuckle spewed out its sweet scent, reminding him of summer nights when he was at school, hanging out in the park.

  The Lewisham Police Support Centre loomed above him, gleaming in the sun. A pair of jet streams crossed over each other in the blue sky. He charged up towards the front door.

  Zenna was already inside, handing off her evidence pile to an underling.

  How the hell did she get here so fast?

  ‘Simon?’

  Fenchurch swung round.

  Liam Sharpe stood behind him, wearing a grin and a brown leather jacket. ‘Knew I’d bump into you.’

  ‘Liam.’ Fenchurch tapped at his watch. ‘Bit early for you, isn’t it?’

  ‘Late, more like.’ Liam’s hand was lost under his hipster beard. ‘Still up from yesterday.’

  ‘You here to see me?’ Something pierced Fenchurch in the heart. Drums skittered in his ears. ‘Is this about Chloe?’

  ‘Shit, sorry. I didn’t think.’ Liam raised his hands. ‘No, I’ve not had anything yet.’

  ‘So you’re here to see my old man?’

  He looked away. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I told you to keep away from him.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here, okay? I’m going to stop him calling me.’ Liam grinned. ‘Some big cop warned me off.’

  ‘Well, when you speak to him, get him to call me.’ Fenchurch marched up the steps into the building.

  Clooney was just hurrying inside, his tablet covered with as many stickers as his arm had tattoos. He tried to duck away from Fenchurch.

  ‘Thanks for coming to the briefing, Mick.’

  ‘What?’ Clooney’s forehead twisted into a satanic ridge. Then it slackened off and he laughed, his eyes shut. ‘Right. Look, mate, I’ve been in since five. And I was in till midnight.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘A million and one things.’ Clooney hugged his tablet tight to his chest. ‘That girl driving the Travis car. Cassie McThingy.’

  ‘McBride.’

  ‘Right.’ Clooney unlocked his tablet and rolled his finger down the screen. ‘Her PM’s just about to start, so I had to do a lot of work for his nibs. Pratt.’ He jabbed at the tablet. ‘Anyway . . . It’s a straight shooting, no messing about. Two bullets: pop, pop.’ He tapped Fenchurch on the neck and the chest. Then he flashed the tablet, the display filled with a shot of the crime scene. Still turned Fenchurch’s stomach. ‘The casings your team got are with my ballistics expert now, but we’re still missing the weapon.’

  ‘That’s all you’ve got?’

  Clooney stepped away. ‘It’s always the same with you.’ He glanced up at Fenchurch, then back at the tablet. ‘My guy checked the shells. From the dent marks on the casing, he reckons it’s a Baikal.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Baikals are Russian self-defence pistols, Simon. Supposed to fire CS gas. Eight mil chamber. You can buy them in Germany, but you can take the . . .’ Clooney squinted at his tablet, then pinched and zoomed. ‘You can take the partially blocked barrel, whatever that is, and swap it out for a rifled barrel. A few other little tweaks and it can fire nine-mil bullets. Also takes a silencer.’

  ‘Our guy didn’t use one.’ Fenchurch sniffed the morning air, getting a whiff of cigarette smoke. He pushed open the front door and entered. ‘How come I’ve never heard of them?’

  ‘No idea, Si. Must be losing your touch. Streets are flooded with them. Firearms call them a “hitman kit”. Some little punk running a street corner fancies some steel, all he needs
is a grand. Grand and a half, if he’s a bit cheeky.’ Clooney walked over to the lifts. ‘You coming to the PM?’

  ‘Nelson’s attending.’

  ‘Right.’ Clooney hit the down button. ‘You cast your beady little eyes over the report I sent on Shelvey?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘PM’s after this McThingy girl’s. We’re just going through the motions, right? Open.’ Clooney snapped his tablet’s lid. ‘Shut.’

  ‘What happened?’

  The lift dinged open, but Clooney didn’t seem in a hurry to enter. ‘You really want to know?’

  ‘It’s important to me.’

  ‘Right. Well.’ Clooney opened his tablet again and prodded the screen a few times. The lift doors shut again. ‘Pratt had a sneaky peek inside the lad first thing.’ He flashed up a photo that belonged in an abattoir. ‘Judging from the severe damage to his stomach lining and the fatty deposits in the liver, kidneys and heart, he reckons Shelvey died from acute arsenic poisoning.’

  ‘Arsenic?’ Fenchurch waited for Clooney to burst out laughing. Instead, he got a shrug. ‘Jesus. Thought that went out with the horse and cart.’

  ‘Happens more often than you’d think. Pratt’s seen a lot of accidental or natural water contamination cases. And I’m running some jobs just now to confirm. Hang on . . .’ Clooney fondled the tablet’s screen. ‘Nah, still not finished. Anyway, that investigator girl, Zara?’

  ‘Zenna.’

  ‘Right. Well, she’s been chasing me up to tell her when the poison was administered.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Hard to tell. The damage is severe. Really severe. Most of the stuff I’ve found is, like I say, contamination, so I had to dig to find the useful stuff about homicidal poisoning.’ Clooney tilted his head from side to side. ‘I’d say it’s possibly prior to arrest. With the dose I’m thinking he’s had, the symptoms start kicking in about thirty minutes after the poison is administered.’

  Fenchurch twisted his brain around the intricate algebra of the timeline. ‘Garlic breath?’

  ‘Wait, what? How do you know that?’