by Ed James
‘Defending himself.’
‘—basement under your house.’
‘No comment.’
On-screen, Docherty got up and paced the room, one hand in his pockets, the jangling keys distorting the microphone. ‘I asked why the wife of one of my officers was in a basement under your house.’
‘No comment.’
‘Mr Ingham, the constant no—’
‘Lord Ingham. I am a peer of the realm and I deserve to be treated as such.’
‘You know they’ll strip you of your title.’ Docherty stopped jangling, a smirk on his face. ‘This isn’t Jeffrey Archer perjuring himself. This is worse than Fred Goodwin, and look what happened to him.’
Ingham ran his tongue along his top lip. ‘No comment.’
‘The constant no commenting isn’t helping your case, especially with the wealth of evidence against you.’
‘Listen, you Scottish fool.’ Ingham brushed his hands across his face, the monitor rendering it dark grey rather than purple. ‘That officer beat me black and blue in my own home. Are you condoning that sort of behaviour?’
‘This wasn’t during a dinner party.’ Docherty sat down again and folded his arms, head tilted to the side. ‘This was part of an official police action, sanctioned by the courts and the Crown Prosecution Service. You had kidnapped that officer’s wife and were holding her against her will.’
‘I will get out of here.’ Ingham rapped his fingers on the table. ‘Mark my words.’
‘We’ve got strong evidence against you.’
‘And good luck getting that admissible in court.’ Ingham’s turn to grin. ‘You’re struggling for witnesses, aren’t you?’
Yeah, because you’ve bloody killed them all . . .
Ingham turned his smile to the camera, his lips split in at least four different places.
Smug prick. Sitting there, laughing this off like it’s nothing. Catch him red-handed, threatens me with a gun . . . Kidnapped Abi . . .
Right, sod it.
Fenchurch marched over to the door.
‘Where are you going?’ Mulholland grabbed hold of his jacket.
‘I’m going to sort this out.’ Fenchurch pushed her hand away and stormed down the corridor. He tore open the door.
Docherty and Savage wore frowns on their foreheads.
Ingham puckered his lips. ‘Here he is.’ He smoothed a hand over his bruised face. Looked ten times worse in the flesh, like he was a prime cut in the butcher’s. ‘Have you come to finish the job, eh?’
Fenchurch walked over to him and shrugged off Docherty’s grip. He whispered into Ingham’s ear, ‘You took my daughter, all those years ago.’
Ingham glanced round at him. ‘If you say so.’
Fenchurch pointed at his own heart. ‘You took my daughter and you killed her.’
‘If you say so.’ Ingham laughed, braying, guffawing. Hwa, hwa, hwa. ‘Who are we talking about?’
‘Chloe Fenchurch. That might be where you knew my name from when I saved your life a few days ago.’ Fenchurch rocked forward, so their foreheads almost touched. ‘Your people kidnapped my daughter off the street, took her somewhere, then gave her to new parents. She died not long after.’
‘I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Ingham tried to pull away from Fenchurch, folding his arms. ‘I swear I know nothing about what happened to your daughter.’
‘I’ve seen what you do to kids.’ Fenchurch snatched up a sheet of paper and held it in front of Ingham’s face. ‘You might know her as Chloe Holland.’
Ingham’s nonce eyes bulged, even bigger than a toad’s for once. He swallowed. ‘The name means nothing to—’
‘What did you do to her?’
‘That’s . . . that’s . . .’ Ingham gasped for air. ‘That’s . . . that’s not me!’
‘We know it is!’ Fenchurch grabbed Ingham’s throat and squeezed. ‘What did you do with her?’
‘Enough!’ Docherty slammed his finger on the recorder and switched off the camera.
Fenchurch tightened his grip. ‘What. Did. You. Do?’
‘I don’t—’
‘I will kill you right now.’ Fenchurch dug into the blubber with his other hand. ‘I’ll finish the job!’
Ingham coughed as Fenchurch let the pressure go. ‘I remember her now. Young Chloe.’ He laughed as his face turned purple. ‘She was a porcelain goddess.’ He flashed a smile at him, then licked his lips. ‘We all took turns with her. It was exquisite.’
Fenchurch punched Ingham, cracking his knuckles off his jaw. He clutched the thin hair at the back of his head and launched Ingham’s face into the desk. He toppled over onto his side, landing on the floor, prone.
Docherty tore Fenchurch off from behind. ‘Easy, easy.’ He pulled him into the corridor and jabbed a finger into his ribs. ‘That’s enough, okay? You see the state of him? Looks like he’s gone twelve rounds with Muhammad Ali, God rest his soul.’ He stepped back. ‘You should be with Abi.’
A nurse was just emerging from a room, muttering to herself. She looked up at Fenchurch, eyes wide. ‘Can I help?’
‘Where’s Abi Fenchurch?’
‘Right.’ The nurse pointed at an open door. ‘She’s in there.’
‘How is she?’
‘Your wife’s fine.’
Butterflies fluttered in Fenchurch’s gut. ‘And the baby?’
‘Mr Stephenson has just seen her.’ The nurse waved into the room. ‘There’s no visible injury to her or baby. And he’s happy with the progress.’
‘So she’s ready to go home?’
‘Mr Stephenson is awaiting some final blood tests.’
‘Can I go in?’
She stepped out of the way.
‘Thanks.’ Fenchurch gave her the best smile he could muster and entered the room.
Abi was lying back, cradling a paper cup. She looked over at Fenchurch, woozy and struggling to focus. ‘Simon. Have you got them yet?’
‘Almost.’ Fenchurch perched on the edge of the bed, gripping her hand. ‘You okay, love?’
She shut her eyes, her breath coming in fits and starts. ‘I’ll live.’
‘The nurse said the baby’s fine.’
Abi’s eyes were still locked shut. ‘She told me.’
Fenchurch let his breath calm down. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘I don’t know, Simon.’ She sipped from the coffee cup. ‘The way you attacked him . . .’
‘I’ll pay for that, don’t worry.’
‘I didn’t like what I saw.’
‘I didn’t like what you saw, either.’ Fenchurch scratched at his stubble. ‘I lost it. All this shit, years of it. Face to face with . . . with the man who took Chloe. That’s all I could do.’
‘You almost killed him.’
‘I wanted to.’ Fenchurch ran a guilty hand across his forehead. The hand that could’ve strangled Ingham. That should’ve . . . ‘You stopped me.’
‘You’d have stopped yourself.’
Fenchurch bunched up the bedsheets in his hands and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Maybe.’
‘Simon.’
The door opened, a wall of air brushing through Fenchurch’s hair.
‘Abi, they’ve not got any copies of—’ Paul Temple stopped in the doorway. ‘Sorry. I’ll leave you guys to it.’
‘No, it’s fine.’ Abi took another sip and smiled at Fenchurch. ‘Paul got here as soon as he heard. Got me a coffee.’
‘Least I could do.’ Tears welled up in Temple’s eyes. ‘Sure you don’t want me to leave?’
Fenchurch frowned at him. ‘Are you okay, mate?’
‘It’s this hay fever.’ Temple blinked away tears and rubbed his eyes again. ‘Haven’t had my spray today.’
‘I’ve just come from Leman Street.’ Fenchurch sat forward, the edge of the bed digging into his thighs. ‘Thought you’d be leading the prosecution of those scumbags.’
‘Docherty told me.’ Temple held his hand out for a fist bu
mp, like he could barely put any effort into it. ‘I want to make sure Abi’s okay.’
‘Right.’ Fenchurch bumped knuckles. ‘They will go away for it, won’t they?’
Temple scratched the skin on his hand. ‘You know, maybe you shouldn’t have gone industrial on Ingham.’
And then some.
‘You try being in my shoes, Paul.’ Fenchurch bunched up more of the sheet. ‘But they won’t get off, right?’
‘Depends.’
Abi crushed her cup and dumped it beside the bed. ‘That was good coffee, Paul. Better than the muck they’ve got in here.’
‘Glad to be of service.’ Temple hefted up his document holder. ‘I’ll best head back, see if I can be of use there.’
‘You’ve been a great help here.’ Abi lay back and yawned as Temple left them. ‘These tests are taking forever.’
‘You’ve only been here a couple of hours.’
‘I want to go home and sleep, Simon.’
Fenchurch’s fingers twitched. ‘I’m going to go and chase this Dr Stephenson, okay?’
‘Mister. He’s a consultant. And one of the types who don’t like to be called Doctor.’
‘Right.’ Fenchurch kissed her on the lips. She stank of garlic. He sniffed her breath. Really strong. ‘What did you have to—’
‘Simon!’ She squirmed away from him. ‘What’s going—’
Fenchurch grabbed her by the shoulders. ‘Abi, have you had any garlic today?’
‘Simon? What are you talking about?’
‘I said, have you eaten any garlic?’
‘All I’ve had today is some bloody toast and that coffee.’
‘Shit!’ Fenchurch yanked the emergency cord and stormed into the ward. ‘Doctor! Nurse! Help!’
‘Simon! What’s going—?’
The nurse’s station was empty, just a ringing telephone.
Temple was over by the lifts, tapping a message into his phone. He locked eyes with Fenchurch and they bulged.
Fenchurch stopped dead.
Shit.
No . . .
No, no, no.
First Shelvey, now Abi?
Temple ran off, heading for the stairs.
Fenchurch sprinted after him, his legs groaning with the effort, and swung through the door into the stairwell. ‘Paul! Stop!’
Temple was halfway down, feet clacking off the steps.
Fenchurch vaulted the handrail and leapt over. He landed on Temple, pushing him against the stairs. ‘Stop!’ He yanked Temple’s arm behind his back, making him squeal. His document holder rolled down. Fenchurch tipped it up and poured the contents out onto the stairs.
Wallet. ID. Notebook. Documents. More documents. And a bag of white powder.
Fenchurch collapsed back on his heels. ‘Paul . . . Why?’
Temple couldn’t even look at him.
Fenchurch yanked Temple’s arm back until it cracked. ‘You stupid bastard!’
Chapter Forty-Two
Fenchurch pushed Temple into a chair and jabbed a finger at the lumbering security guard. ‘Keep him here!’ He darted over to Abi’s room and raced up to the bed.
‘What’s happened to her?’ Mr Stephenson was hovering over Abi, confusion twisting his grey face. ‘She’s—’
‘She’s been poisoned.’ Fenchurch tossed the bag at him. ‘If I’m right, it’s arsenic.’
‘Arsenic?’ Stephenson stood, huffing out a breath. ‘What?’
‘You need to get Dr Gold in here, right now.’ Fenchurch gritted his teeth, his eyes stinging. ‘We had a death in custody two days ago. I think this is the same killer, the same MO. Abi’s got garlic breath.’ The coffee cup was on its side. His gut twisted into a knot. ‘It’s kicked in a lot faster than last time. It must be a higher dose . . .’ He grabbed the coffee cup. ‘This is how it was administered.’
‘Okay.’ Stephenson held up the cup. ‘Can you get this tested? I’ll work on this basis, but it needs to be confirmed, okay?’
‘I’ll do that.’ Fenchurch bagged it up. A pair of nurses hung round Abi, delirious on the bed, but they didn’t seem to know what to do. ‘Is she going to be okay?’
‘Let’s hope so.’ Stephenson glanced over at Abi. ‘Right now, the best thing you can do is get out of my way and confirm that’s arsenic. While I await the sainted Dr Gold, I shall administer MiADMSA and monitor your wife’s condition.’
‘Miasma?’
‘MiADMSA.’ Stephenson ran a tongue over his lips, focusing on Abi again. ‘We use it to flush arsenic out of a subject’s system.’
A subject . . .
‘Right.’ Fenchurch stepped away.
Paul Temple! How could he do this to Abi?
How could I let this happen?
‘Guv?’ Reed was out in the corridor. ‘Your message didn’t make any sense. What the hell’s going on?’
‘Him.’ Fenchurch grabbed Temple’s collar and hauled him to his feet. ‘He poisoned her.’ Couldn’t even bring himself to look at Temple. ‘Gave her arsenic in a coffee.’
Reed frowned at her old friend, her eyes widening. ‘He . . . What?’
‘It’s him, Kay.’ Fenchurch tightened his grip on Temple’s arm. ‘He killed Shelvey. He’s the one who’s been phoning me . . . Leaking all this shit . . .’ He pushed the bagged cup into Temple’s face. ‘This is how you did it, isn’t it? Eh?’
The lawyer looked away. ‘You need to get someone to fix my arm. I think it’s broken.’
‘The duty doctor will do that down the station.’ Fenchurch stepped away and placed his hands on Reed’s shoulders. ‘Kay, you’re the only person I can trust. Can you stay with her?’
Fenchurch barrelled along Commercial Street, just waking up late into its Sunday lunchtime, the hipster boutiques and bars starting to get some custom. He pulled up at the lights. In the rear-view, the squad car was close behind, keeping a good eye on him.
Fenchurch listened hard for a motorbike. Scanned around for people with guns, ready to jump out. Watched for any cars ready to ram into him and pull Temple out of the wreckage. He twisted the mirror to focus on Temple. ‘Why aren’t you talking to me?’
Temple folded his arms, the handcuffs clinking and rattling. ‘No comment.’
‘You can talk to me, Paul.’ Fenchurch set off and hammered down the street, weaving out to overtake a trundling bus. ‘I’m your guardian angel.’
Temple’s face screwed up as he clutched his side. ‘Simon, my shoulder is killing me.’
‘You’re lucky I haven’t killed you.’
‘You honestly think this is a good idea?’ Temple’s chin rested against the side window, his breath misting on the glass. ‘Accusing me of trying to kill Abi and then taking me to the police station yourself?’
‘I saw what happened the last time I didn’t drive someone myself.’ Fenchurch pulled up at the lights. Leman Street was just ahead, Aldgate Tower and its sister blocking out the sun.
His Airwave blasted out. ‘Guv, it’s Martin. I’m in reception and you’re not here.’
‘Two minutes.’ Fenchurch dumped the Airwave on the seat next to the coffee cup and the white powder. ‘Why did you try and kill Abi?’
‘My arm’s agony. I should be back at the hospital. I think my shoulder’s broken.’
‘Abi’s your friend. You, her and Kay. Been mates for a long time. How can you do that?’
‘You’re stitching me up. You’ll never get a conviction.’
‘You’re lucky I don’t take you to some waste ground somewhere, a building site, and just smash your brains in.’ Whitechapel High Street coiled off to the left. ‘Could just drive off, get out to Essex, throw you in the North Sea. See how you like that.’
Temple held his gaze in the rear-view before looking away.
A car horn sounded from behind. The squad car flashed its lights. Fenchurch drove off, heading straight ahead, Aldgate tube spewing out a fresh wave of passengers. He pulled up in front of Leman Street station. The squad car behind opened up
and two uniforms got out.
Could just put my foot to the floor and sail off. Take him to Southwark and dunk him in the Thames. See if he floats or sinks.
‘I really need to see a doctor.’
Fenchurch opened his door, grabbed the evidence from the passenger seat and got out. He gestured at the uniforms to take Temple.
‘There you are.’ Martin stood on the top step, squinting into the light. ‘We’re full up in here.’
‘Dump anyone not related to this investigation at Brick Lane. Use Wapping if you have to.’ Fenchurch held the mirror door open to let them haul Temple inside, head bowed and wincing. ‘Get the duty doctor to check his shoulder and his arm.’ He followed them in.
Clooney was waiting by the security door, tapping his foot on the ground. ‘Got that thing for me?’
Fenchurch passed him the evidence bags. ‘Things.’
‘Right. I’ll give you a call when I’m done.’ Clooney darted out of the door.
Fenchurch followed the uniforms and Temple through to the Custody Suite.
Ingham was hugging the desk. Looked like someone had done a real number on him. Wonder who that someone was?
‘—you do say may be given in evidence.’ Nelson stood in front of him. ‘Do you understand?’
Ingham settled his focus on Temple. He gave him a slight nod, then back at Nelson. ‘I understand.’ Nelson pushed him towards the back of the Custody Suite.
Temple muttered something.
Fenchurch grabbed his arm. ‘What was that?’
‘You’re hurting my arm!’
Fenchurch bent Temple over the desk. ‘That’s your boss, isn’t it? Lord Ingham?’
‘You’re hurting my arm!’
Fenchurch let him go. ‘Well, you’ll be sharing photos in prison soon enough.’
Martin pushed Fenchurch away. ‘Get yourself upstairs, Si. I’ll make sure this didn’t happen.’
Fenchurch met Docherty in the corridor. ‘Take it you’ve heard?’
‘Aye. Nasty piece of work.’ Docherty screwed up his face. ‘All that time and he’s . . .’ He blew air up his face. ‘How do you begin to . . .’
‘I want to speak to him, boss.’
‘After what you did to Ingham?’ Docherty shook his head. ‘He says he’s suing us. If this costs us the conviction . . .’