The Hope That Kills (A DI Fenchurch Novel Book 1)

by Ed James

  ‘I’ve never stopped.’

  ‘You’ve never started, Simon. That’s the problem.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Obsessing isn’t thinking about it. It’s not processing it. It’s not dealing with it.’

  ‘How do you process your daughter getting kidnapped?’

  ‘She was my daughter too, Simon. I’ve been in counselling for ten years and I speak to my friends. You pushed me and your parents away. Just threw yourself into your bloody job.’

  ‘Fat lot of good that did me.’

  The line buzzed. ‘You called, Simon. Ten years too late is still better than never.’

  Drums clattered, like someone had chucked them down a flight of stairs. ‘I don’t know what to do, Abi.’

  ‘Speak to someone.’

  ‘I’ve tried that.’

  ‘No, you haven’t. You sat in a counsellor’s office and didn’t open your mouth the whole time. Just sat there, angry with the world. That’s not talking.’

  ‘Going there’s half the battle. That’s what you said.’

  ‘Only half, though. You need to do the rest, Simon. You can’t go on acting like nothing’s happened.’

  ‘I know something’s happened. Believe me, I know.’ Fenchurch brushed tears from his cheek. His hand was soaked. ‘I saw Dad at lunchtime. He just called me. Said you spoke to him.’

  ‘He’s worried about you. You won’t talk to him about Chloe.’

  ‘Well, I’m worried about him.’

  A tut and more buzzing. ‘What a pair you are.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘He said you’re still looking at it on the . . . thingy. Police Computer.’

  ‘PNC.’

  ‘You’re your father’s son.’

  Wasn’t that the truth . . . ‘I should’ve spoken to you years ago, Ab.’

  ‘Well, you didn’t. Things are different now.’

  He swallowed more tears.

  ‘Simon, I’ve got work in the morning. And a ton of marking to do.’

  ‘How do you cope?’

  ‘I didn’t. I don’t.’ She gasped. ‘Every morning I think of her. Skipping out to play on the road outside here. I look out, hoping she’ll come back. Every morning, all I can think about is how I wanted to run and stop her.’

  ‘Hey. That’s the stick I beat myself up with. I want it back.’

  She laughed. ‘We couldn’t have done anything.’

  ‘I could’ve. Still can.’ Fenchurch stared at the wall. The black-and-white shot of The Clash blown up to distortion.

  ‘Talk to me, Simon.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say. No, that’s not right. I don’t know how to say it. How do you cope with it, knowing she’s maybe out there somewhere?’

  Her voice was thick and deep, sounded like she was crying too. ‘Counselling makes it easier. Most days, the sting is like a ninety-nine instead of the full hundred. On good days, it’s only a ninety.’

  ‘I’m at two hundred all the time. Minimum.’

  ‘You’re always at two hundred, Simon. Three hundred. A thousand. I just wish you’d spoken ten years ago.’

  Fenchurch clenched his teeth together. ‘Me too.’

  ‘I’ve got to go. I’ve still not wrapped my nephew’s Christmas present.’

  ‘You’ve got a nephew?’

  ‘Jake’s boy.’

  Thought he was gay. Fenchurch clutched the handset tighter. ‘Why did you call me back?’

  The buzzing hung in the air between them. ‘To give you another chance.’

  The music changed to the track in the club. Tears welled in his eyes, drums sped up. ‘This case, Abi. There’s . . .’

  ‘What?’

  He brushed away fresh tears. ‘Can we meet up?’

  A long pause, Abi’s breathing hard and fast over the buzz. ‘What about coming round for dinner tomorrow? Say eight o’clock?’

  ‘I’d love to. It’s just . . . This case . . .’

  ‘Is that you letting me down gently?’

  ‘No, no. I want to. It’s just . . . I might be late.’

  ‘I can wait, Simon. Kind of got used to your unique approach to timekeeping. It’s been eight years. Twenty minutes isn’t going to kill us.’

  He smiled. His muscles ached from it. ‘Thanks for listening.’

  ‘Thanks for talking. Goodnight.’

  ‘Night.’

  Day 3

  Friday, 18th December 2015

  Chapter Sixteen

  Fenchurch sped up as he neared the end. Lungs burning, feet clattering off the treadmill, loud even through his earbuds. The Cure’s ‘Pictures of You’ blasted his ears, drowning out the drums for once. He skipped up onto the sides of the machine and killed the program. Four miles, that’d do.

  The song stung his heart as it always did. A song to beat yourself up to. He stabbed his phone to stop the music. The background was now a photo of Abi and Chloe sitting in a sunny park.

  Weights.

  He stomped across the empty room towards the row of Nautilus equipment. Sucked down some water as he set the weights high. He pulled down, the bar rough against his hands. Felt the burn in his shoulders almost immediately. Punished himself. Six reps, seven, eight. Nine. The tenth felt like it tore something. He let go and the weights clanked against the barrel. The bar shot up and rattled around the metal support.

  He sucked in breath, almost doubling over. Sweat dripped off his forehead, pooling on the floor like the roof had a leak.

  ‘Still got the old magic?’ Docherty.

  Fenchurch twisted round and tugged his vest. Thing was like a sponge. ‘It’s hardly magic.’

  Docherty leaned against the adjacent machine. In full uniform again. ‘Got a meeting with your pal from the TPU.’

  Fenchurch pulled the bar again. One. Two. ‘That explains the uniform.’

  ‘Got him coming here, though. No way I’m heading out to bloody West London at this time. Hard enough getting in as it is.’

  The burn started at the sixth rep. ‘Didn’t you get enough flirting from him last night?’

  ‘Aye, very good. Just want to make sure we’re tight, that’s all. That pair are costing me an arm and a leg. Do we still need them?’

  ‘We’re not home and dry, sir.’ Ten. Fenchurch let the bar up slowly and took another drink of water. ‘Anything happen overnight?’

  ‘Mulholland’s made a nuisance of herself with the SOCOs. The Crime Scene Report’s on your desk.’

  ‘Could’ve read it on the treadmill.’

  ‘You needed to focus on sweating.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Finished the interviews with the girls. Nothing salient came out of it. A few of them were a bit pissed off Dawn kept them till last.’

  ‘They shouldn’t have been there. Have they typed up the transcripts?’

  ‘Most of them.’

  ‘I’ll get someone going through them.’

  ‘That’s my boy.’ Docherty smoothed down his uniform. ‘I’m not having a go but get them doing something, okay?’

  ‘Fine. Savage likes to talk, by the way.’

  ‘As if I couldn’t be more excited.’

  Fenchurch reached up for the bar. One last set. ‘You’ll get on like a house on fire.’

  Fenchurch dropped the Crime Scene Report on his desk. Waste of bloody time. He ran a hand through his hair, still wet from his shower. The heating was at full blast again. Mulholland’s doing, no doubt. He opened the window a crack and a cold breeze burst in. Still pitch-black outside.

  A knock at the door.

  ‘Morning, guv.’ Nelson. He made a face at the gym kit on the radiator. ‘You been working out?’

  Fenchurch crossed his arms. His triceps felt tight. Overdone it again, you old sod. ‘Keeps me out of mischief.’

  ‘Tell you, you should come for a run with me.’ Nelson held up the report. ‘Don’t tell me Clooney’s pulled his finger out for once?’
r />   ‘Not so’s you’d notice. They’ve spent a day and a half combing that building and the surrounding area. All they’ve done is prove the knife was used to kill her. Blood types match.’ Fenchurch sighed. ‘The prints are a dead rubber, too. Doesn’t match anyone on the database.’

  ‘And you were thinking the DNA was going to solve this for you.’

  ‘I’m ever the optimist.’ Fenchurch scowled at the report. ‘This is just a first draft. Still waiting on the DNA analysis.’

  ‘Mind if I have a read?’

  ‘Fill your boots. I need someone going through the interview transcripts from last night.’

  ‘Already got DC Lad on it. How do you think it’s going, guv?’

  Fenchurch tapped the page of briefing notes. ‘This link to The Alicorn has given us something on our guy. That’s progress. Still a mile away, though.’ He indulged in another sigh. ‘So why the visit, Jon?’

  ‘I know that TPU pair of old. Keep an eye on them.’ Nelson sat on the edge of the desk and scratched his chin. ‘Had a few run-ins with Owen back in my uniform days. He was a DC in the North MIT.’

  ‘Anything dodgy?’

  ‘Nah, he’s just a little wanker.’ Nelson fanned himself with the report. ‘It’s always bloody roasting in here.’

  Fenchurch pulled his shirt away from his armpits. ‘You’re not sweating as bad as me.’

  ‘Anyway, watch what you tell Owen. Worked a murder with him up Highbury way. Sneaky little git sent everything up the line to his boss. Got my Sergeant into hot water.’

  ‘And Kershaw?’

  ‘He was in my cohort at Hendon.’

  ‘Another late starter.’

  ‘Think he was a lawyer for a few years before he got the calling. He’d been a City of London hobby bobby since he was a student.’ Nelson snorted. ‘He’s a flash git.’

  ‘So are you.’

  Nelson bellowed with laughter. ‘It’s Kate who brings home the bacon in our house. Owen’s a single man. Spends a lot of cash for a police officer. Drives a Beemer. Posh flat up the back of Shoreditch. Splashing the cash always makes me suspicious.’

  ‘Ergo he’s dodgy. Noted. Just need to keep ourselves squeaky clean.’ Fenchurch checked his watch again. ‘Right. Time for—’

  His Airwave pinged. ‘Control to DI Fenchurch.’

  ‘Safe to talk, Steve.’

  ‘DCI Docherty’s instructed you to attend a crime scene. There’s another body.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Fenchurch turned onto Hanbury Street. Parked cars had already rammed it, obscuring the pub and chip shop on the corner. ‘Decent chips in that place.’

  Nelson grinned. ‘Mexican spices on them?’

  ‘I can eat food without chilli, you know.’ Fenchurch trundled past the brick monstrosity of the old Truman brewery, now subdivided into hipster boutiques. He pulled in behind a squad car, lights still flashing, dyeing the puddles blue. The tenements had been acid-cleaned, stopping at a seventies block with a row of scooters outside. ‘Boris’s gentrification machine’s been down here.’

  ‘Can’t see a Pizza Express, guv, and there’s only two Prets.’

  Fenchurch grinned as he got out. Then put his straight face on. ‘Here we go.’ He strolled through the car park entrance, passing a silver mural of a lion someone thought was a good idea. The place was half-filled with market traders sitting around, none of them setting up any stalls or selling anything. Smelled like posh burgers and gourmet hot dogs.

  He made his way to the male uniformed officer managing the cordon. Tall and thin with bright red hair. Just beside him was a van with Mandy’s Nuts stencilled on the side. The windscreen was a cloud of blue SOCO suits. Looked like they were trying for a Guinness Book of Records attempt inside. That or they were dogging.

  ‘DI Fenchurch.’ He waved his warrant card at the uniform. ‘This is DS Nelson.’ He grabbed the clipboard and signed them in. ‘What have we got?’

  ‘A trader found a body first thing this morning.’

  Fenchurch frowned. ‘Thought they’d moved them all down to Petticoat Lane?’

  ‘One of them pop-up things, sir. Paella, fajitas and lots of other foreign muck.’

  Fenchurch clenched his teeth. ‘Man or a woman?’

  ‘The trader was a geezer, sir.’

  ‘I meant the body.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ The uniform lifted his shoulders, his brows knitted together. ‘A girl. Sixteen or seventeen?’

  Drums started clattering in his ears. Fenchurch looked around the car park. The SOCO’s tent peered over a brick wall at the far side. ‘Is she over there?’

  ‘Just follow the tent, sir.’

  ‘Don’t get cheeky with me, son.’ Fenchurch marched off and covered the distance in seconds.

  A female plainclothes officer guarded the entrance to the inner locus, clipboard out. Took one look at his warrant card. ‘DS Alison O’Neill, sir. Thanks for attending.’

  ‘Not like I had a choice.’ He snatched the clipboard off her and scribbled their names down. ‘I’d say it’s a pleasure, but . . .’ He grabbed a SOCO suit and started putting it on. ‘Got an ID on this girl?’

  O’Neill shook her head, her bobbed haircut dancing. ‘Nothing we can find.’

  Fenchurch’s stomach fizzed as he hauled on the romper suit. ‘Was there a bag, anything like that?’

  ‘Found a handbag.’ O’Neill held up a leather purse encased in a plastic evidence bag. ‘Not sure it’s hers. Either way, it’s empty.’

  Fenchurch yanked up the zip. A few cameras overlooked the car park. ‘Can you get the CCTV footage sent down to Leman Street?’

  O’Neill nodded. ‘Will do, guv.’

  He tugged the hood over his head. ‘Jon, let’s have a look.’ He crouched down and entered the tent.

  Three SOCOs were squeezed into the tiny space. The nearest one was dusting the cracked tarmac, another taking photographs. A figure looking very much like Dr Pratt was kneeling at the far corner.

  ‘William, that you?’

  He looked up, blinking rapidly through the steamed-up goggles. The throat of his suit was stuffed like an old sofa. ‘So they’ve sent a grown-up.’

  ‘Wouldn’t go that far.’ Nelson barged into the tent and hovered by the SOCOs.

  Pratt’s knees popped in a series of clicks as he stood up. ‘Must be a world record in attending a request.’ He put a medieval-looking thermometer back in his bag and took out a scalpel. ‘The Brick Lane lot were first attending. I took one look at the body and thought I’d call you in.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s reasonably similar to our other Jane Doe.’

  Fenchurch focused on the girl’s body, a SOCO dusting beside her. Nirvana drums thumped.

  A young woman lay on her back. Her face pale, eyes staring up at the heavens. Bruising covered her throat in a deep-purple Rorschach pattern. Her dark hair had the thickness of being natural and not dyed.

  He let out a held breath and unclenched his jaw. The drums faded out to silence, just his breath rasping against the mask. ‘Tell me you’ve got an ID for her?’

  ‘Afraid not. And there’s no distinguishing features either.’

  Fenchurch grimaced. ‘And here was me thinking all teenagers these days had tattoos and piercings.’

  ‘Not all of them.’ Pratt knelt down to zip up his medicine bag. ‘Cause of death looks to be manual strangulation. I’ve been wrong before so I’ll need a full post-mortem to confirm the matter.’

  ‘Today, I hope.’

  ‘Won’t be until tomorrow, I’m afraid. You’re lucky I’m here, as it is.’

  ‘Can you at least tell me the time of death?’

  ‘Based on my initial assessment, I’d wager seven o’clock last night.’

  Fenchurch scowled back at the tent entrance. ‘When was she found?’

  ‘Seven o’clock this morning. I’ve been—’

  ‘How did nobody see her body in twelve hours?’

  Pratt waved at the
far side of the tent. ‘This section of the car park’s hidden behind a wall. Very easy spot for a quick knee-trembler.’

  ‘Classy, William.’ Fenchurch grimaced at him, like he’d see it through the mask. ‘This doesn’t look related to the other one to me.’

  Pratt adjusted his beard through the suit. ‘I’m not absolutely sure, Simon. I’m saying it’s worth assuming so for now.’

  ‘Then I’ll see you at the PM whenever you bother to have it.’ Fenchurch left the tent and tugged off his mask. ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘This can’t be connected, guv.’

  Fenchurch frowned at Nelson. ‘Is that hope or belief?’

  ‘Hope, I suppose.’

  At the outer locus, DS O’Neill was stabbing her finger at a uniformed officer. Male and leering like he was after something. She motioned for him to leave and smiled at Fenchurch. ‘Get anything?’

  ‘Not yet.’ He pulled down his zip and let the cold air attack his shirt. ‘Your mate over there said some pop-up café owner found her?’

  Fenchurch leaned back in the chair. The standard of furniture in Brick Lane interview rooms seemed much higher than in Leman Street, though it stank like someone hadn’t found a dead rat in the corner of the room. ‘Mr Mantilas, I need you to go through your statement again.’

  Stef Mantilas shut his eyes and groaned. ‘I’ve already been through it with your colleagues.’ His voice was deep and rich. Complete contrast to his tiny frame, almost skin and bone.

  ‘We need to establish the chain of events. Like it or not, you’re central to that.’ Fenchurch cleared his throat. ‘Besides, we believe this may be related to another inquiry.’

  Mantilas swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple like it was white-water rafting. ‘That girl in the building?’

  Fenchurch gave a tight nod. ‘Please take us through the events surrounding your discovery of the body.’

  ‘I run a van with my brother, Andrew. We sell gourmet Greek Cypriot doughnuts at these foodie fairs.’

  ‘This is Mandy’s Nuts, right?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘So who’s Mandy?’

  ‘That’s a nickname Andrew got at work.’ Mantilas scratched at his long neck. ‘It’s kind of stuck.’