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

by Ed James

  ‘I noticed it. And Shelvey became delirious as we went on.’

  ‘Shit . . . When was this?’

  ‘During the interview, Mick. You should watch it.’

  ‘Right, right.’ Clooney locked his tablet again and thumped the down button again. ‘That secures it, then.’ He winked. ‘And we didn’t have this chat.’

  ‘What chat?’

  ‘Let me think.’ Fenchurch balled up the tinfoil from his breakfast burrito, the leftover liquid from the salsa raining down, pitter-pattering onto the polystyrene takeaway box.

  Arsenic.

  Thirty minutes to kick in.

  Piecing it together hurt. Fenchurch got out his Pronto and flipped back a few pages.

  Thirty minutes before the time of death was—

  No. The symptoms only started thirty minutes after. So . . . The interview started at 02.08 on Friday morning. Got a waft of garlic from Shelvey then.

  Okay, so 01.38.

  Picked him up just before half one. Took him straight to Leman Street.

  Bollocks. Could’ve been poisoned before, during or after his arrest.

  He put his Pronto down and cleared his throat. ‘Mr Shelvey wasn’t very well in the interview we had with him. It was late, ten past two. Towards the end, he was acting all woozy. At the time, I thought it was a ploy or maybe just exhaustion. I sniffed his breath and got a whiff of garlic. Maybe a dodgy pizza or maybe he was on something.’

  Zenna looked up from her notebook. ‘Are you suggesting he was drunk?’

  ‘I’d have smelled it.’ Fenchurch shut the container. ‘It’s possible that, in hindsight, he could’ve been under the influence of any of the drugs we found in his house, though that’s not my department. The blood toxicology should show it one way or another.’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t try to infer cause.’ Zenna finished scribbling it all down. ‘But we’ll take it from here.’

  ‘We’re done?’

  ‘That’s correct.’ Zenna gathered up her notes and zipped up her document holder. ‘Well, for now. We’ve still to identify the cause of death and will indubitably have additional questions.’

  Fenchurch raised his hands. ‘Whenever you need me.’

  ‘Don’t forget that I’m still waiting on your review of my Terms of Reference. Until then.’ She sashayed out of the room.

  Fenchurch tossed his breakfast into the recycling and wedged the container into the top.

  Treating me like a criminal. That kid probably raped and almost certainly killed that girl. A watertight case, but someone decided frontier justice was the way to go . . .

  Fenchurch huffed to his feet, feeling like an old man. Christ knows what it’ll feel like chasing after a three-year-old in the park.

  ‘Inspector.’ Zenna was back by the door. ‘I’m a man short. Lenny’s had to dash off home. Is there any chance I could borrow you for an interview?’

  ‘Depends on who it is.’

  ‘What?’ Chris Johnson sat back in the chair, stale BO wafting off him. His sleeves were rolled up, a long Celtic tattoo running down his left arm, the right covered in thick hair. ‘I can’t tell you it again, sweetheart. I had nothing to do with that geezer’s death. Okay?’ He ran a hand through his hair, soaked with sweat, and groaned. ‘Wasn’t even here when he was killed.’

  Fenchurch was opposite, still unsure why the bloody hell he was there.

  Temple was loitering by the door, giving him a wink. Just play along and look threatening.

  Zenna stared hard at Johnson, then down at her notebook. ‘But you can’t provide a solid alibi.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have to tell you where I was.’ Johnson massaged his arm. ‘I’m a serving officer, darling. You should trust me.’

  ‘If only it was all based on trust.’ Zenna gave a warm smile, letting Johnson fill the space. He didn’t.

  Temple walked over and leaned against the table, his head a good few inches shorter than Johnson sitting down. ‘Constable, in your interviews you stated that you were in this very station visiting firearms officers at the time in question. We’ve checked and they confirm that chain of events.’ He smiled wide, like a snake about to devour its prey. ‘That places you inside this station when Mr Shelvey was murdered.’

  ‘Look, mate, I didn’t do nothing.’

  Temple nodded at him, like he was thinking it over. ‘Okay. I’m satisfied.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Zenna got to her feet and smoothed down her suit jacket. She adjusted the order of her files, sticking the thickest document on the top, and cradled the pile in her arms like it was a baby. ‘This paperwork is for the murder of one William Picard.’ She leaned forward. ‘Christopher Johnson, I’m arresting you for the murder of Steven Robert Shelvey.’

  ‘What? You’ve got nothing on me!’ Johnson pleaded with Fenchurch. ‘This . . . this is bullshit!’

  ‘You and DC Clive Naismith were lead investigators on that case. Mr Picard was poisoned by his son-in-law.’ Zenna licked a finger and started rifling through the pages. ‘Arsenic, as it happens.’

  Johnson thudded his fist off the table. ‘I’ve not done—’

  Zenna smiled at him. ‘Mr Johnson, while the conviction was successful, you do remember the matter of a small amount of evidence going missing in that case?’

  ‘What?’ Johnson rubbed at his untattooed arm, smoothing down the hair like he was grooming a horse. ‘That was nothing—’

  ‘You stole a sample of arsenic from the suspect’s home, which you used to poison Steven Shelvey.’ Zenna waved her hand at the Custody Officer. ‘Constable, can you escort Mr Johnson downstairs and charge him, please?’

  ‘Ma’am.’ The lump of gristle and standard-issue jumper hauled Johnson to his feet. ‘Come on, sir.’

  Johnson tried to wriggle free, just managing to secure getting his face mashed into the table. ‘This is a mistake!’

  Zenna and Temple both stepped away from the table, letting the CO drag Johnson out of the room. He left the door open.

  Fenchurch crunched back in the chair. ‘How did you find that other case?’

  ‘DC Clive Naismith.’ Zenna patted her evidence pile. ‘We’ve got enough here. It’s solid.’

  ‘And then some.’ Temple sat in Johnson’s vacant chair and tossed his phone in the air. ‘Well, I’ve got us a slot at Westminster Magistrates Court at eleven. He’ll be in Belmarsh by lunchtime.’

  Zenna beamed at him. ‘Thanks, Paul.’

  Good luck getting any of that past a judge. Fenchurch stretched out his spine. ‘Got time for a coffee, Paul?’

  Fenchurch’s phone blasted out ‘Kashmir’ again. Getting fed up with it. Reed. He held it up to Temple. ‘Better take this, Paul.’

  Temple shot him a wink. ‘Say hi to Kayleigh.’ He trotted off out of the room.

  Fenchurch slumped forward in his chair. ‘What’s up, Kay?’

  ‘That cyclist has come forward.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Fenchurch stopped outside the interview-room door and sucked in air, trying to calm his breathing. He tugged at his shirt, separating the soaked cotton from his damp skin with a shlup. ‘Is he definitely our guy?’

  ‘Tom Lynch.’ Reed held up her Pronto. ‘I’ve asked him a few questions and he seems legit. Wanted to wait till you got here, guv. I know how much you like to blunder in, regardless.’

  ‘Charming.’ Fenchurch grinned at her, then pushed at the door. He sat next to Reed, across from Tom Lynch. ‘My name is DI Simon Fenchurch and I’m the Deputy Senior Investigating Officer on this case. Thanks for coming forward, sir.’

  ‘Right.’ Lynch peered up from a sheet of paper, his eyes darting around the room, like he wasn’t in a safe place. Skinny, like a sixty-mile ride was a warm-up. While he was clearly on a day off, he still dressed like a cyclist. Acid-yellow chevrons dug into the black of his tight-fitting jacket, a navy cycling shirt poking through the gap. A tiny bag sat at his feet, his trainers looking like they’d attach to pedals. ‘Doesn’t that ju
st make you an Investigating Officer?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You know, the Deputy cancels out the Senior?’

  Just put it down to nerves.

  Fenchurch covered the car in the photo in front of Lynch with his finger. ‘What kind of car is it?’

  ‘A Nissan.’

  ‘Definitely?’

  ‘I saw the badge. Think it was one of those electric ones.’

  Fenchurch ringed the shooter in the photo. ‘You saw this guy, yes?’

  Lynch tugged at the zip on his jacket. He prodded a finger at the A3 blow-up of the CCTV footage in front of Reed. ‘This guy you’re looking for. The one on Sky News.’ It was like his eyes were stuck to the page. ‘He got into a car and tried to run me off the road.’

  Fenchurch snatched the sheet back and drew the shooter’s eyeline with his finger, like he was analysing football on Sky Sports on those stupid big iPads. ‘Did you get a good look at him?’

  ‘Very good. That’s why he came after me.’ Lynch wasn’t taking his eyes off the page, no matter how much Fenchurch moved it around.

  ‘But he didn’t try to shoot you?’

  ‘Would I be here if he did?’ Lynch hugged his arms around his shoulders. ‘He shouted after me. “Get back here!” — that sort of thing.’

  ‘What accent did he have?’

  ‘London, maybe.’ Lynch was transfixed by the photo. ‘Wasn’t foreign.’

  Fenchurch glanced over at Reed, then back at Lynch. ‘Okay, so take us through what you think you saw. Wind back to the start of your journey.’

  Lynch steepled his fingers on the sheet of A3 and shut his eyes. ‘I work in the City and live in Woolwich. If I can get on the DLR at Tower Gateway by four, they let me take my bike on.’

  Fenchurch tilted his head. ‘Hang on, you work in the City and you left the office at four o’clock?’

  ‘I get in early. Usually at my desk before seven, washed and changed.’ Lynch pushed the page away, like he was now disgusted by the image. ‘My wife gave birth to our daughter four weeks ago, and my boss is happy with that arrangement until Beth’s back at work. I mean, I log in at night to go through emails and I’ve got a BlackBerry . . .’

  ‘Okay, so I buy your story for now. Continue.’

  ‘What can I say?’ Lynch seemed to shiver all over his body. He tapped at the picture again. ‘This guy just walked up to that car. The driver wound the window down and they had a little chat. I don’t know what it was about.’ Cough. ‘Anyway, he shot the driver.’

  ‘This took a while to unfold.’ Fenchurch held up the image of Lynch standing on his bike pedals, holding himself steady. ‘You didn’t think to cycle off when you saw someone with a gun?’

  ‘I was stopped at the lights.’ Lynch gulped, his blinking turning frantic. ‘When I spotted the gun, I just froze. This is London, you know?’

  Don’t I just?

  ‘So what happened next?’

  ‘I shot off. The lights weren’t green, but I just pedalled like the devil was after me.’ Lynch ran his nail along the far left of the image, the blue of the Caravanserai’s boards just visible in the grey. ‘I usually take the path up the back of those flats to get home. But I obviously couldn’t today, so I kept on the main road and powered on. I heard the car coming up behind me and I panicked. There’s a turning on the left, so I hid in this yard. It was a carwash, I think. You know, one of the manual ones?’

  Fenchurch pulled up a map on his Pronto. Looked like a carwash just off the road. ‘Did the car follow you in?’

  ‘I heard it drive off.’

  ‘But you didn’t see it?’

  ‘No. That’s when I called you guys.’

  ‘Anonymously.’

  ‘I . . .’ Lynch sighed. ‘I watch a lot of American TV. Corrupt cops everywhere. How was I to know I’d not get, you know . . .?’ He put a gun to his head.

  ‘So you did half of your civic duty.’

  ‘“Half”? What?’ Lynch looked away, scratching his neck. ‘I’m here, right?’ He tapped at the figure on the page. ‘That image is better than I can remember.’ He squinted at it. ‘His car’s not on here.’

  ‘What kind was it?’

  ‘Dark grey. German, I think.’ Lynch’s face pinched tight. ‘I’m not a car guy.’

  Drums thundered in Fenchurch’s ears, hard but out of time, out of control. We’re losing this . . .

  He tapped Cassie’s car. ‘But you recognised the Nissan?’

  ‘We’ve got a Nissan at home. Big enough for a football team . . .’ Lynch reached down and hefted up his bag. ‘Hang on a sec . . .’ He rummaged around and pulled out a little black box, rounded corners and a glassy front. ‘This might help. This is my GoPro. I mount it on my handlebars. Records everything that happens.’

  Reed grabbed it off him. ‘One of those camera things?’

  Lynch bared his teeth. ‘Too many cyclists getting run over these days.’

  Fenchurch paced around Leman Street’s CCTV room, trying to stop his muscles seizing up. Place was bitterly cold despite the roaring heat outside. Stank of polystyrene and brown sauce. Not so much as a crack of light around the door, let alone a window. ‘How you getting on?’

  ‘He must’ve dropped it, sir.’ Reed was wrestling with the GoPro, trying to get the cable in. ‘Bloody lead doesn’t fit.’

  Fenchurch marched over. ‘You’re saying it’s broken?’

  ‘Sorry.’ Reed waggled the lead but it wasn’t going in. ‘Bollocks.’

  Fenchurch picked it up. Thing could’ve dropped off an alien spaceship or something. He turned it over and checked the back, completely lost. Even worse than that infernal Blu-Ray thing Abi had bought. ‘What else can we try?’

  Reed’s lips twitched.

  ‘Want me to get Clooney in here?’

  ‘No. I can do this. I just . . .’ Reed grabbed the box from him and spun it round a few times. She squinted at it, her tongue sticking out of the side of her mouth, then burst into a grin. ‘Here we bloody go . . .’ She unclipped a catch. A little memory card nestled in there, white and grey plastic with red lettering. ‘Got you, you little bugger.’ She wiggled it out and slid it into a device hanging out of the side of the laptop. ‘Give me a sec, guv.’ She winked at Fenchurch. ‘Better hope he’s only been using this for cycling . . .’

  ‘What’s that supposed to— Oh. Right.’

  The big screen filled with the display from Reed’s laptop, lighting up the whole room. Reed double-clicked something and it spun to life.

  The point-of-view footage was at handlebar height and slightly disconcerting.

  Reed smirked. ‘Must be how Paul Temple sees the world.’

  Lynch’s gloved hands lugged the bike down from Canning Town station, his feet clacking off the steps, then onto the lower concourse for the Jubilee line.

  ‘Wind it on, Kay.’

  ‘Sure thing.’

  The footage skipped forward to the road, Lynch resting his bike on the edge of the pavement as the cars droned around him.

  ‘Bloody hell . . . Sorry, guv, but it’s facing forward. We’re not going to see— Oh here we go . . .’

  The handlebars swivelled to the left, taking the camera with it, the view panning from the main road to the side street. The shooter fired, then again, echoing the other footage they had.

  ‘Shit!’ Lynch lurched the handlebars round and pedalled through the traffic, sprinting fast. Someone was shouting after him, but it was muffled. Lynch passed the Canning Town Caravanserai and took the first left. Then he cut into the carwash, pulling in behind a grimy white van, the camera focusing on penises drawn in the stuck-on dirt. The bike poked out the side, pointing back at the road. A German car whizzed past.

  ‘Wind it back!’

  ‘Guv.’

  The video rattled back to the knob-joke van.

  ‘Now, forward slowly . . .’

  The footage jerked a few frames at a time, like a football action replay from the seventies, clicking for
ward as the bike sneaked round the side of the van. The grey car juddered past the entrance to the carwash.

  ‘Looks like a Merc to me, guv.’

  ‘Great.’ Fenchurch slumped into a chair. ‘We’ve got nothing.’

  ‘No, that’s a shitload.’ Reed hammered at the laptop’s trackpad and pulled up the street CCTV. ‘Now we’ve got that, we can use this a bit better.’ She pointed at the screen, filled with CCTV footage from further down, nearer to Cassie McBride’s house. ‘See all those cars? I gave a list of these to uniform to hunt down.’

  Fenchurch counted about fifteen with legible licence plates. ‘Have they got anywhere?’

  ‘DI Mulholland put that to the bottom of the priority list last night.’

  Fenchurch thumped a fist off the table. ‘Did she?’

  ‘Said anyone who saw anything should’ve called in.’

  ‘Sometimes they need their bloody memory jogged.’ Fenchurch stood and cracked his spine. ‘So is it on there or not?’

  Reed got up and tapped the giant screen. ‘That’s it there, I think.’ Hard to make out, just a fuzzy grey blob. ‘I’ve got a licence plate, though.’

  ‘From that?’

  ‘Hardly.’ Reed laughed at him as she sat down again. ‘One of those ones that take a high-resolution shot every ten frames or so.’ She hit play and three of the cars disappeared, leaving a Smart car and a Ford. ‘Now we know which one the shooter got in . . .’ She tapped at the keyboard and groaned. The screen filled with the image of a Mercedes. ‘That car belongs to Frank Blunden.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Fenchurch stomped down the corridor, carrying a wad of paper evidence. His phone blasted out ‘Kashmir’. He answered it and kept walking. ‘Dad, I’m kind of—’

  ‘S-s-s-shit.’

  Fenchurch stopped dead, his fingers tightening around the handset. ‘Dad, what’s going on?’

  Loud music played in the background, sounded like bloody Weather Report. Must be at his flat. ‘S-s-sex. Se-se-sex.’

  Fenchurch checked his watch. Quarter to eleven and he was out of the box.

  ‘Look, I’ve been trying to call you about what happened last night. I need that whisky—’