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

by Ed James

  ‘That’ll be me.’ Peter glared at Fenchurch, like the lord of the manor to one of his lowest servants. ‘Now, it’s time for your baths. Who’s first?’

  Abi watched Peter lead the kids inside. ‘They’ve grown.’

  ‘What?’ Fenchurch’s brows twitched. ‘How have you seen them?’

  ‘Simon, when you and I were separated, Rosie and I met up. A few times.’

  Fenchurch scowled at his sister. ‘Nobody told me.’

  ‘No.’ Abi thumbed the way the Škoda had gone. ‘You see what happens to people who annoy you?’

  The blue sky above was burnt white with vapour trails.

  Rosie pecked Fenchurch on the cheek. ‘Come on inside, love. I’ve got some bacon under the gri— Shit!’ She ran across the road towards the house.

  Abi gripped his shoulder and hugged him tight, cloaking him in her perfume. ‘Simon, you need to chill out, okay?’

  ‘I need to get out there, Ab.’ Eyes darting around the quiet street, seeking out new threats. ‘I need to sort this shit out.’

  ‘No.’ Abi prodded him in the chest. ‘You’re taking a break.’ She grabbed his hand and led him over the road.

  ‘I need to go to the little girl’s room.’ Abi got up and walked off, leaving Fenchurch with Rosie. The extractor still whirred away on a high setting. As the door opened, Peter’s voice boomed down from upstairs, something about baths and whose turn it was . . . The sickly-sweet bubble-bath smell fought a brief battle with the burnt bacon.

  Fenchurch sipped some tea and wobbled about on the stool, elbows almost scoring the breakfast bar’s granite. ‘You still make a good cup of tea, sis.’

  ‘Well I never.’ Rosie stuffed the grill pan in the Miele dishwasher and hit the button, starting it hissing. ‘A compliment from my big brother.’

  ‘I’m not that bad, am I?’

  ‘I’ll let you think on that one.’ Rosie picked up her mug and blew on it, even though it must have been stone cold by now. ‘What’s going to happen to Dad?’

  ‘I think they’re going to prosecute.’ Fenchurch dabbed at some crumbs covered in brown sauce. ‘I need to know what happened, even if it means finding out that he’s guilty.’

  Rosie slurped at her tea, grimacing. She ran a hand across her forehead.

  ‘I spoke to Dad’s mate Bert.’ Fenchurch wrapped his fingers around the warm mug. ‘Dad’s been doing all this secret shit. I was just keeping an eye on what was happening to Chloe’s file . . . Him . . . He was . . . running down these back channels, trying to find these little angles.’ Another sip. ‘Couple of months ago, I caught him speaking to some cops up in Walthamstow about missing black kids. It’s gone way beyond obsession.’

  ‘And you never fed it, I suppose?’

  ‘I told him to stop, Rosie. These are people you keep away from.’ Fenchurch finished his tea. ‘Not that he listened to me.’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me what Dad’s like, Simon. I had to put up with him as well.’

  ‘He’s not that bad.’

  ‘No, but he’s not that good.’ The cut-glass ripped through her East End accent. ‘Do you honestly think he’s killed this man?’

  ‘I’m eighty per cent sure he didn’t.’

  ‘Just eighty?’

  The remaining twenty ate at his guts. Fenchurch pushed his mug away. ‘Look, sis, I’m sorry I’ve been distant.’

  ‘Distant. Right. That’s how you describe not seeing me for years despite living in the same city?’

  ‘It’s not like that. I’ve been busy.’

  ‘I know. Looking for your daughter.’ She gripped his wrist. ‘Simon, I wish you’d let me help.’

  ‘The time you could’ve helped was when she went missing.’

  She let go of his wrist and backed off, running a cloth along the edge of the worktop. ‘Simon, I had a lot going on.’

  ‘Come on, Rosie.’ Fenchurch left her a gap. The dishwasher hissed and the extractor groaned. ‘I needed you and it felt like you just abandoned us.’

  She collected up a sweep of crumbs in her hand and kicked the bin out. ‘Keep telling yourself that.’

  ‘What was going on that was so important?’

  Rosie tossed the cloth in the sink and leaned forward onto the counter, sucking in breath. ‘I got raped.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A week before Chloe disappeared.’ She twisted round and shut her eyes. ‘I was out with some girls from work. Someone stuck a Mickey Finn in my wine glass, and the next thing I know I wake up beside these bins at the back of a nightclub. Felt like someone had scooped out my insides.’

  ‘Rosie . . .’ Fenchurch walked over and pulled her close. He held her there for a few seconds. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Because I felt so ashamed.’

  He hugged her tighter. ‘I could’ve helped.’

  She cried into his chest, quivering with each sob. ‘Simon, I wish I’d been there, but I couldn’t help anyone. I couldn’t even speak to Mum or Dad.’

  Fenchurch pulled her tight again, resting her head on his shoulder. Just like when they were kids. Before all this shit, when the world made sense. ‘I’m so sorry, love. I can’t believe it.’

  ‘Peter helped me get over it. He’s a rock.’ She broke off from his hug. ‘Do you want any more tea?’

  Fenchurch ran a hand down his face. ‘I’m sorry, okay? What can I—’

  His phone blasted out ‘Kashmir’ again. He checked the display. Reed. He answered it, smiling at Rosie. ‘Kay, it’s cool. I’ve found Abi.’

  ‘Good news, then.’ Sounded like Reed was in a bathroom somewhere, her voice echoing round a small space. ‘That’s not why I’m calling, though. We’ve just got a sighting on Daniel Connolly.’

  Fenchurch got out of the car and walked over. Back at the glorious Golden Lane Estate, the three tower blocks backlit by the evening sun. The block Connolly lived in was quiet, the locals probably building up to England’s first match in the Euros, against Russia. If it wasn’t a walkover, this place would explode with drunken violence. Probably would anyway.

  Not that he’d get time to even hear the score . . .

  Reed was resting against a van, talking into her Airwave, accompanied by two plainclothes officers he didn’t recognise. She whispered into her handset, ‘Serial Bravo, that’s us all in place. Good to go in sixty seconds.’ She waved the handset over towards the ramshackle terrace. ‘Got a unit on the far side of the concourse, guv. Still no movement from Connolly’s flat.’

  Fenchurch scanned the front of the building, not quite sure which one was Connolly’s. ‘You’re sure it’s him?’

  ‘Bell sent his file, guv. It’s him.’ Reed put the Airwave to her lips again. ‘That’s us heading in now.’

  Fenchurch followed her across the road. The foyer stank even worse than at lunchtime, like someone had freshly pissed against a wall. He motioned for the two DCs to wait and trotted up the staircase behind Reed. Two other officers stood on the concrete quad, guarding that exit.

  Reed opened the door at the top of the first flight of stairs and walked through. She stopped dead.

  A man loomed over her. Lad must’ve cleared six foot six. Had the bulk to back up any threat as well. A long scar rose from his left eyebrow, disappearing into the thin fingers of hair crawling down his forehead. ‘Excuse me, love, I need to get past.’

  ‘Are you Daniel Connolly?’

  He gave her a cheeky wink. ‘Depends who’s asking.’

  Reed reached into her pocket for her warrant card. ‘Police.’

  Connolly pushed her shoulders, sending her toppling into Fenchurch. He stumbled backwards and landed on the top stair. Then started rolling down.

  Connolly vaulted over them and disappeared down the stairwell.

  ‘Get up!’ Reed hauled herself to her feet and grabbed Fenchurch by the wrist, wrenching him up. ‘Come on!’ She bombed down the stairs, snapping out her baton as she went.

  The two DCs lay on their backs in the
foyer, one cupping his balls, the other face down, out cold.

  Reed grabbed her Airwave as she ran onto the road. ‘Serial Bravo, requesting urgent assistance out front!’

  ‘We’re in pursuit, Sarge. He took a left outside the—’

  ‘Shit.’ Reed raced off, still clutching her Airwave.

  Fenchurch outpaced her and sprinted down the street, heading towards a ragtag bunch of brick buildings. Just beyond, a man lay on the ground. Another of Reed’s DCs, blood seeping out of his forehead. Still breathing, just unconscious.

  A less feral tower block loomed to the right, a row of hipster scooters in front partially obscuring Connolly as he approached a grey Mercedes.

  The car Cassie McBride’s killer got into.

  Reed sprinted across the cobbles into a private parking area, making a beeline for the Merc.

  ‘Kay! Stop!’ Fenchurch darted after her, but he was too slow.

  Connolly spotted Reed’s approach and squatted down, reaching inside the car. He reappeared seconds later, holding out a gun.

  Reed dived sideways, putting the car between her and Connolly.

  BANG.

  A bullet fizzed into the Merc.

  Fenchurch curved his run through the car park and swung past a row of lock-ups, trying to keep Connolly ignorant of his approach. He crouched behind a green Renault.

  Connolly was rounding the back of the car, the gun trained on Reed’s location. ‘Come on, darling, out you come.’

  Fenchurch set off across the tarmac, waiting to time the jump to—

  Connolly swung round and aimed the pistol at him. ‘Slow down, chief.’

  Fenchurch skidded to a halt. ‘Daniel Connolly, my name is DI Simon Fenchurch.’ No sign of Reed. ‘I need to speak to you in connection—’

  ‘Shut up!’ Connolly stepped forward, pushing the gun into Fenchurch’s chest. ‘Now, you’re getting in the motor with me and we’re going for a little drive.’

  ‘Please. We need to speak to you about—’

  Connolly pulled the weapon back, the barrel pointing at Fenchurch’s thudding heart. ‘We’ll do all the—’

  CRACK.

  Connolly tumbled to the ground, the back half of Reed’s Airwave landing at his feet.

  Reed kicked the gun away, then held up her cracked radio, the screen splintering into shards. ‘Think you’d better call this in, guv.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Fenchurch unlocked the back door and pushed Connolly into the station. He weighed a ton. ‘Get through there!’

  Connolly stopped dead, pushing his giant frame against Fenchurch’s hands. ‘This is harassment!’

  ‘You pointed a gun at me!’ Fenchurch twisted Connolly’s arm round behind his back. ‘Now, if you want my advice, the sensible move here is to keep your mouth shut and get charged.’

  ‘But I’ve not done anything!’

  Fenchurch nudged him forward, keeping the grip on his sweaty wrist. ‘Back to that, is it?’

  ‘This is police brutality!’

  ‘Shut up.’ Fenchurch flagged down a passing Custody Officer, the same hulking brute in charge of Johnson that morning. Probably the only one big enough to handle Connolly. ‘Can you process this guy and put him in an interview room?’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ The CO gripped a giant fist around Connolly’s upper arm and led him into the Custody Suite.

  The back door rattled open and Reed entered. ‘Fancy a cup of tea before we haul him over the coals, guv?’

  ‘Why not?’

  Reed led through to the front foyer, brushing her fingers through her hair, looking like it had turned itself inside out. ‘Hate this cut.’

  ‘It suits you.’

  ‘Yeah, you try wearing it when someone’s pointing a gun at you and it’s bloody dancing everywhere.’ She held the door for him. ‘How’s Abi?’

  ‘Looking after my sister.’ Fenchurch ran his fingers across his palms. ‘I can’t sit still. God knows how they can.’

  Reed set off towards the front door. ‘It’s called not being an idiot, guv.’

  Fenchurch laughed. He pulled off his lanyard and stuffed it in his pocket. ‘So you happy to lead the—’

  ‘Simon!’ Steve was over by his desk. ‘You not answering your phone?’

  ‘I’ve been a bit busy. Sorry.’

  ‘Got a fella here for you.’ Steve thumbed to the side.

  Lord Ingham sat on a chair, his toad face lit up by the screen of his tablet. His tongue swept from side to side as his frown deepened.

  Fenchurch smiled at Reed as he handed her a fiver. ‘I’ll pay if you fetch.’

  ‘Guv.’ She scowled as she snatched the money and pushed through the front door.

  Fenchurch waited until Ingham looked up, his piggy little eyes focusing on him. ‘I gather you wanted to see me, sir.’

  Ingham locked his tablet and stuffed it inside a purple sleeve. ‘Is there somewhere private we could . . . ?’

  ‘Here’s fine.’ Fenchurch stood over him, his arms folded. ‘What can I help with?’

  ‘Just, eh, wondering if you’d sampled the whisky?’ Ingham’s tongue rolled around his lips again, like he was going to catch a fly. ‘It’s a delightful wee dram.’ Pathetic Scottish accent.

  A stab of pain shot through Fenchurch’s gut. ‘I’ve, eh, not had the chance, but thanks for the kind gift.’

  ‘I saw the press conference on the television last night.’ Ingham reached out a shaking hand and rested it on Fenchurch’s shoulder. ‘I’d no idea what you’d been through. Your daughter . . . It must be . . .’ He blew out a puff of air, smelling of mints and cigars. ‘Well.’

  Fenchurch looked away. ‘Thanks for the sympathy, sir.’

  Ingham inched closer and whispered, ‘I heard about your father’s situation.’ Another lick of the lips, his eyes checking out Steve. ‘I have contacts in the judiciary, you know.’

  Fenchurch stepped back and brushed his hand off. ‘Listen, if my father killed that man, then he deserves to face the full force of the law, okay?’

  Ingham gave a warm smile, his lips puckering. ‘Well, I am still grateful for you saving me the other day.’ He stuffed the tablet under his arm. ‘Did you hear they’ve charged the man who attacked me? Some filthy vagrant.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it, sir.’ Fenchurch smiled and swiped his card through the security system, only exhaling when he was through.

  Bloody hell. A corrupt judge is the last thing I need.

  Someone was thundering down the stairs. ‘Heard you were in the station again.’ Docherty appeared at the bottom, his eyebrows raised. ‘My office, now.’

  ‘Simon, I swear I’m going to wring your neck!’ Docherty held his new Scotland mug out like he was going to smash it off another wall in his office. ‘What the hell are you up to?’

  Fenchurch dipped his chin, avoided any and all eye contact. ‘Boss, I’m just doing my job.’

  ‘Your job?’ Docherty’s head was shaking with rage. ‘You want me to stick you on suspension, is that it?’ He glugged his coffee and slammed the mug on the desk. ‘You are a cheeky, cheeky bastard.’

  ‘Boss, we need to get to the bottom of this. I’ve got a lead, and—’

  ‘Let me tell you what’s going on here.’ Docherty slurped from his mug. ‘First, I’ve got a rogue officer who keeps getting stuck into things I’ve explicitly told him not to. Second, said rogue officer’s old man has killed someone. Third, said rogue officer is trying to clear said old man’s name with a load of cowboy antics.’

  Fenchurch gripped his thighs, tight enough to clot the blood. ‘It’s hardly “cowboy antics”, Al. I’m—’

  ‘Don’t you “Al” me, okay? You’ve stepped way over the line on this, you stupid bastard.’

  ‘I could’ve taken Connolly elsewhere.’ Fenchurch let his thighs go again. ‘I brought him here, put it on the books.’ He flicked through his Pronto. ‘This is a timeline of my father’s movements from leaving his house through to allegedly killing
Frank Blunden.’

  ‘He killed him, Simon. You were there!’

  ‘Boss, whatever.’ Fenchurch tossed his Pronto on the desk. ‘With the amount of booze in his system, my father was in no fit state to get from his house up to Mile End and then kill Blunden.’ He held up his Pronto. ‘There’s a gap of two hours from Dad leaving Lewisham to me turning up at Frank’s Cabs. Liam Sharpe left him at nine, after Connolly told Dad Flick Knife had abducted Chloe.’

  Docherty slurped his coffee. ‘Well, that explains why he’s slotted Blunden, then.’

  ‘But that’s the thing, boss. Connolly shot Cassie McBride, yeah? We’ve got his motor there. What I’m thinking is he killed Flick Knife and made it appear like Dad did it. Stole the knife from his flat.’

  ‘Why, though?’

  Fenchurch huffed and tried to force his logic through closed synapses. ‘I want to speak to Connolly.’

  Docherty clunked his mug on the table and got up. ‘You’re not speaking to anyone but your wife and your sister.’

  ‘Al, I just need five minutes with him. Please.’

  ‘No comment.’

  Docherty tapped at his watch and raised his eyebrows.

  Just a few more minutes . . . Fenchurch held up five fingers, pleading with Docherty until he looked away, nodding. He scowled at Connolly, the giant looking like he was sitting in a schoolkid’s chair, squashed in there. ‘You shot at a car, then shot at me.’

  Connolly just shrugged, still wearing a blank expression. Bloodshot eyes, thin stubble around his mouth, but patchy like he’d had a few too many flaming sambucas. The interview-room recorder thrummed next to him, giving off that new computer smell. ‘Did nothing of the sort.’

  Finally getting a reaction . . .

  Fenchurch held up the bagged handgun, keeping up the eye contact. ‘This is the weapon you pointed at me, loaded. After you shot the car.’ He prodded at the barrel through the plastic. ‘We call it a Hitman Kit. Someone’s had a little fiddle with it, so it now fires bullets.’

  Connolly nibbled at his bottom lip, pulling the flesh up. He couldn’t take his eyes off the gun.

  Fenchurch picked up another bag, containing two casings. ‘These were found in the street where one Cassie McBride was shot yesterday evening.’ Another bag, this one with a spent slug. ‘This was in her car’s driver-side door. It slowed down a lot when it passed through her neck.’ He ran a hand across his own neck, then raised a final bag, another slug rattling around inside. ‘This was retrieved from Miss McBride’s ribcage.’ He left a pause.