by Ed James
‘Who?’
‘Ogden?’
Holliday looked away. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Might want to lose that key, Martin.’ Docherty winked at Martin as he led Holliday into the cells.
Fenchurch stood in the Custody Suite, heart pounding. ‘I don’t know who’s the worst. Him or the scumbags who . . .’
‘Aye, you do.’ Docherty rested his arms on the partition. ‘He’s just a cog in the wheel. We’ve got the whole car now.’
‘I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop, boss.’ Fenchurch snarled, his nostrils feeling like they’d tear. ‘Waiting for Ingham to pretend he’s too senile to face a trial.’
‘No way that’s happening.’ Docherty thumped his thumbs on the counter. ‘We can get quite creative about which brutal rapists we house with which child rapists. He’s sharing a cell with Big Barry, don’t you worry.’
Fenchurch stared at the door Holliday was behind, down the long corridor, two down from where Steven Shelvey died. ‘All that paperwork, covering over their tracks. No wonder I never found her.’
Martin clanked along the corridor with his keys, leading Dad out into the Custody Suite and patting him on the shoulder. ‘Right, Ian, you’re free to go.’
Dad frowned at him. ‘What?’
‘I’ll get your possessions as soon as we’ve signed all the paperwork.’
‘What?’ Dad squinted at him. ‘What’s happened?’
Fenchurch wrapped his arm round Dad’s shoulder. ‘There’s been a bit of a development—’ His Airwave blasted out. Clooney.
‘Sorry, Dad.’ Fenchurch took a deep breath as he answered it. ‘Mick.’
‘Si . . .’ Clooney exhaled down the line. ‘Okay, two things. First, Mulholland got someone to do a quick examination. That scar is consistent with the injuries she’d received in the bus crash.’
Fenchurch sighed. All memories of him and Abi gone, deleted like a computer disk. ‘What’s the other news?’
‘The old DNA test’s come back. We’re trialling one of those new American machines, quick as fu—’
‘Mick.’ Hope burning a hole in Fenchurch’s gut. ‘What’s the result?’
‘Here we go.’ Clooney tapped at a keyboard. ‘Oh, that poor girl.’
‘Mick . . .’
Chapter Forty-Five
Fenchurch stood on Leman Street, looking up and down the thoroughfare. Where the bloody hell were they?
The rain was finally heading their way. He got out his phone and checked for messages. Still nothing.
A red Fiat 500 bundled down the street, rattling over the tarmac, and pulled in across from the bus stop. Reed got out of the driver’s seat. ‘Guv, you okay?’
Am I? I’ve no idea.
Fenchurch put his phone away and jogged across the road. He reached in to help Abi out. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I wish people would stop treating me like I’m a bloody invalid.’
Fenchurch let her take his hand and winch herself to her feet. ‘Has the doctor cleared you?’
‘Not yet. Says I’m out of the woods.’ She rested against the car, wincing. ‘But my system’s going to be a mess for a few days. The arsenic didn’t get much of a chance to get into it. They’ve flushed it out. The pain I’ve got is the medicine, all the side effects.’
Fenchurch tried to speak but nothing came out.
‘Kay, why have you dragged me here?’ Abi winced as she breathed out. ‘This is supposed to be important, right?’
Reed scuttled round the front of the car. ‘Guv, do you want to tell her?’
‘Is this about Paul?’ Abi crossed her arms. ‘Because I know he poisoned me.’
‘It’s not that, love.’ Fenchurch nodded at Reed. ‘Can you give us a minute?’
‘Sure.’ Reed walked off, crossing the road.
Abi put her hands on her hips. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Paul’s involved in this whole sex ring. The ones who took Chloe.’
She stared into space. ‘Did he know?’
‘I think so. But we got a lead on what happened to Chloe.’
She frowned. ‘You found who took her?’
‘Better.’ Fenchurch gave her a smile, not sure even he could believe it. ‘We’ve found her.’
‘What?’
‘I had a DNA test done. The Simons’ daughter, Jennifer . . . She’s my daughter. She’s your daughter. It’s Chloe.’
‘Can I see her?’
‘Not yet, love.’ Fenchurch stuffed his hands in his pockets. ‘They haven’t told her yet.’
Abi fiddled with her wedding ring, the other hand patting her stomach.
Reed stared at Fenchurch, her eyes almost hidden in their sockets. ‘Is Paul Temple here?’
On the screen, Reed sat opposite Temple, neither of them managing to speak. Jon Nelson sat next to Reed, keeping quiet.
Fenchurch sat next to Abi in the Obs. Suite, silent, letting her come to terms with what Temple had done. Not that you could.
She glanced round at Fenchurch, arms hugged tight. ‘I want to speak to him.’
‘That can’t happen, love. We just have to watch.’
Abi shook her head. ‘This place.’
‘We’ll get him, don’t worry. He’ll go away for a long time.’
‘I do worry.’
On the screen, Temple reached his hands across the table. ‘Kay, you’ve got to believe me, I had nothing to do with it!’
‘He caught you red-handed.’ Reed held up the evidence. The bag with the empty coffee cup, the clear plastic smeared brown. The sachet of white powder. ‘That’s arsenic.’
Nothing from Temple.
Reed rattled the evidence bag. ‘That’s what you gave Shelvey, isn’t it?’
Temple just shook his head.
‘Simon found that arsenic on you.’ Reed held up the second evidence bag, containing the white powder. ‘This is open and shut. You tried to kill her just like you killed Shelvey.’
‘I was trying to cut a deal with him.’ Temple shuffled forward on the seat. ‘I was trying to get him to confess, to save us all some time.’
‘You weren’t on the visitors’ log, but I bet you were in there. Feeding him poison.’ Reed twisted her head to the side. ‘Why did you delete the CCTV?’
‘Why do you think?’ Temple sat back and folded his arms.
Reed broke the silence. ‘You know what the worst part is? Aside from the betrayal and . . . and what you let happen to Abi. What really hurts is we’re your friends. Why didn’t you speak to us about this?’
Temple chanced a glance at her, then laughed. ‘What could you have done?’
‘We could’ve helped. It’s what we’re here for, Pau—’ Kay broke off, her teeth bared. ‘I can’t even use your bloody name.’ She shut her eyes. ‘It’s what we were here for. When did it start? Uni?’
Temple gasped out a breath. ‘You wouldn’t have understood.’
‘You could’ve tried. We were your friends, Paul. We’d have made sure you got the help you needed. There’s something wrong with you, and it’s not criminal until you make it.’
‘You wouldn’t—’
Reed smashed her fist into the desk. ‘We would, Paul. You were the one who helped me through all the shit I went through. Getting a third, not getting into that law firm. You were there for me. I could’ve helped you.’
‘Kay . . . I’m so, so sorry.’ Temple tugged at his hair again. ‘You don’t know what’s happened to me . . .’
‘What? What happened to you?’ Reed spat the words at him. ‘You’re a paedophile, Paul. You make me sick.’
‘I couldn’t—’
‘You could. Of course you could. Every day you didn’t own up, more evil happened because of you.’
‘It’s not like—’
‘Of course it is.’ Reed cleared her throat. ‘Every time you saw Abi or you worked with Simon or me on a case, you knew what you’d done.’ Her voice wasn’t hanging together, j
ust a fragmented whisper. ‘You’re scum.’ She thumped the table, sending ripples across the cup of water. ‘Worse than any drug dealer or wife beater I’ve picked up. You’re the cause of that shit. Your type, thinking you’re better than all of us.’
Temple collapsed into his seat, digging his palms into his eye sockets. ‘When Ingham told me to kill Abi . . . It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.’
‘You still tried to do it.’
Temple jabbed a finger at the door. ‘But I told Simon what happened to Chloe!’
Like that could make up for any of it.
Reed leaned across the table. ‘Did you kill Shelvey?’
‘You know I did.’ Temple shrugged. ‘What’s the point in even asking?’
‘Who gave the order?’
‘Ogden.’ Temple ran a finger across the palm of his other hand. ‘You let out the suspect’s name. The person who’d raped and killed his precious goddaughter.’ He looked up at her. ‘Well done, Kayleigh. His death’s on you.’
‘That’s not mine, Paul.’ Reed was on her feet, looking ready to throw him through a wall. ‘And stop bloody calling me that.’
Temple sniffed.
‘Did you tell Connolly to kill Cassie McBride?’
He gave a nod.
‘How did you know about her?’
‘For a man in his position, Howard Savage is a bit loose with his lips.’
Fenchurch stormed down the corridor, Abi at the other end, speaking on her mobile.
‘Wait up, son!’ Dad was jogging behind him, panting hard.
Fenchurch stopped by Abi as she put her phone away. ‘Dad, come on.’ He tore open the door and entered.
Chloe was sitting on her own, the Custody Officer standing behind her, arms behind his back like he was on parade.
That social worker stood between them, Robert or something. Could be Jeremy Corbyn’s brother — tweeds and tie. He smiled at Fenchurch, the usual one full of bitterness at thirty-odd years of dealing with the worst London had to offer.
Chloe got up and charged over to the door. ‘When are you letting me out of here?’
‘I’m afraid we’ve got some news for you.’ Fenchurch blocked her exit and swallowed hard. ‘You should take a seat.’
She folded her arms. ‘Out with it.’
Robert walked over and smiled at Chloe. ‘Jennifer, I suggest you come sit next to me.’
‘I want to hear it. Now.’
Robert shrugged at Fenchurch.
‘We’ve processed your DNA.’ Fenchurch tried to pass her the report summary. She didn’t take it. Just like her mother . . . ‘You’re our daughter.’
Confusion twisted her forehead into knots. ‘What?’
‘Your name is Chloe Fenchurch.’
She screwed up her lips, like a punk singer. ‘My name is Jennifer Simon.’
Fenchurch swallowed down stomach bile. ‘Abi is your mother and I’m your father.’
She waved him away. ‘Quit it with the Star Wars shit.’
‘Chloe, you were taken from outside our house.’ He reached out to touch her hair. ‘You’re my daughter.’
She slapped his hand away. ‘Get away from me, you pervert!’
‘You’re Chloe Fenchurch.’
‘Stop calling me that!’
Fenchurch’s gut plunged through the floor, like a lift with a snapped cable. ‘Chloe, I know this is hard to—’
‘You’re not my parents!’ Chloe pushed at Fenchurch’s chest, almost toppling him over. ‘Get away from me!’
Fenchurch bounced back into the door. ‘Chloe, it’s all true. You—’
‘No!’
Fenchurch gripped her shoulders. ‘I’ve been searching for you for eleven years. And now I’ve found you.’
‘No!’ She screamed and covered her ears. ‘No, no, no, no!’ She slapped his chest, stinging like a bee. ‘Get away from me!’
‘Chloe, come—’
Another slap, felt like it’d taken the skin off. ‘My name is Jennifer!’ She glared at him, shaking her head slowly. ‘I want nothing to do with you.’
The elevator hit the bottom and the acid bubbled away. ‘Come on . . .’
Chloe stabbed a finger at the door. ‘They’re my parents. They raised me. Loved me. They’ve done everything for me. You didn’t! You’re nobody.’
Abi stepped forward, tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘Chloe . . . I’m your mum.’
Chloe screamed again. ‘Get away from me!’
Robert stepped between them. ‘Simon, you need to—’
‘No!’ Fenchurch reached past and grabbed her by the shoulders. ‘Listen to me! Your name is Chloe Geraldine Fenchurch!’
‘GET AWAY FROM ME!’
The Custody Officer grabbed Fenchurch’s arm. ‘Sir, I need you to get away.’
‘I’m not—’
‘Sir.’ The grip tightened like a vice, chewing into his arm. ‘Now.’
Chloe was led from the room. His daughter. Red-headed and scowling, ferocious temper like her father, stubborn like her mother. She slammed the door, cutting the cord between them.
Fenchurch entered his office, helping Abi in. Tears streamed down his face, burnt his sinuses and nostrils.
Abi stood there, shivering, arms tight around her torso. She couldn’t seem to focus on anything. ‘This is the first time I’ve been in here.’
Fenchurch perched on his desk and brushed at his cheeks. ‘I’ve dreamed about this day. Bringing you and Chloe in here, reuniting us.’ He walked over and grabbed a tissue from Mulholland’s desk. ‘What just happened?’
‘She’s . . .’ Abi slumped into a seat, tearing up, rubbing her knuckles into her eyes. ‘What have they done to her?’ She blew her nose into a tissue. ‘I don’t know what to do, Simon. I don’t want to leave her side. I don’t want anyone to take her away from me again.’
‘Hey, hey, hey.’ Fenchurch wrapped his arms around her and pulled her tight. ‘We’ve got to give her time and space.’ Tighter still. ‘We’ve got time, love.’
‘Have we?’ Abi deflated, and he practically had to hold her up. ‘She doesn’t want to speak to us!’
‘She’s had a shock.’ Fenchurch kissed her forehead and let her go. ‘How you feeling?’
‘How do you think?’ She wrapped herself into his embrace. ‘That’s our daughter and . . . she doesn’t want anything to do with us.’
‘She’s got to come to terms with the new world.’
‘How long, though?’
‘As long as she needs.’ Fenchurch clasped her hands between his. ‘There’s a lot going on in her head. A lot still to process. But it’s Chloe and we’ve got her back. It’s just . . . I don’t know how long . . . My baby girl . . .’
‘Simon, that’s our daughter! That’s Chloe! They’ve . . . they’ve taken her from me!’
‘Shh, it’s okay.’ Another kiss, pulling her tighter. ‘We’ve got all the time in the world.’
‘How could they do this to people?’
‘There are a lot of evil people out there, love. These ones are paying for what they did to us. What they’ve done to everyone else.’ Fenchurch let out a deep breath. ‘And we’ve got a new baby on the way, Abi.’
‘Christ, I almost forgot.’ She put a hand to her forehead. ‘The doctor. Stephenson . . . He’s got the test results back. The Down’s and . . . and the others.’ Abi smiled. ‘He’s fine.’
Fenchurch’s gut lurched. ‘He?’
Acknowledgments
Thanks as ever to my agent and partner in crime, Allan Guthrie.
Big, big thanks to James McKay for unpicking my police procedural blunders. Click.
To Kitty, for everything.
Thanks to everyone at Thomas & Mercer (Sana, Jane, Eoin, Hatty, Emilie and team) for all the support both ongoing and through this book, especially Jenny Parrott for the ninja editing and Emilie Marneur for, amongst all the million other things she does, tearing the initial outline apart and letting the story breathe.
&nbs
p; And thanks to all the crime-scene writers who have kept me the right side of insane, especially Mason Cross for the name of Travis Cars.
About the Author
Photo © 2014 Kitty Harrison
Ed James writes crime-fiction novels. What Doesn’t Kill You is the third novel in his latest series, set on the gritty streets of east London and featuring DI Simon Fenchurch. His Scott Cullen series features a young Edinburgh detective constable investigating crimes from the bottom rung of the career ladder he’s desperate to climb. Formerly an IT manager, Ed began writing on planes, trains and automobiles to fill his weekly commute to London. He now writes full-time and lives in East Lothian, Scotland, with his girlfriend and a menagerie of rescued animals.