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

by Ed James

  Fenchurch sniffed. ‘This isn’t paying off, Sergeant.’

  Nelson let out a sigh and sped it up to thirty times. A car pulled in outside the flats and reverse-parked. He wound the footage back and played it back slowly.

  It was a silver BMW 3-series.

  Bruco’s car.

  ‘There we go.’ Nelson tapped at the time code on the screen. 21.15. ‘It took him twenty minutes to get round there. It’s a five-minute drive at that time of night. Ten, tops.’

  ‘So, what, he picked someone up on the way?’ Reed was trying to wrestle back control of the console. ‘I hope it’s not just stopping for cigarettes.’

  Bruco stepped out of the car and crossed the road. Another figure got out of the passenger side, barely visible.

  Nelson pointed at the screen. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Reed paused the video. The street lights just missed whoever it was. Definitely a man. Hood tugged over his head.

  Fenchurch sat back again, hands in pockets. ‘Can you do that fancy CCTV thing you did earlier?’

  Reed shook her head. ‘Not on that street, guv. Sorry.’ She let it play again. ‘What now, guv?’

  ‘DS Nelson and I are going to pay him a visit.’

  ‘Let’s get in and out, sharpish. I’ve got something on later.’ Fenchurch strolled up to the entrance. A gust of wind blew down the street, rattling the trees. ‘I’ll lead here, Jon.’

  ‘Guv.’

  The bouncer came over. He’d added a purple cummerbund to his formal get up. ‘Evening, gents. Becoming a habit.’

  Fenchurch stood a bit too close to him. Let him smell the booze. ‘Nice to see our colleagues let you out this afternoon.’

  ‘I didn’t say nothing.’

  ‘But I bet you know something.’

  ‘If this is a pleasure trip, gents, it’s ten quid each.’

  ‘Business.’ Fenchurch held out his warrant card. ‘Is Bruco on tonight?’

  The bouncer swallowed. ‘Mr Vrykolakas hasn’t been here all week.’

  Nice to know . . . Fenchurch nodded at Nelson. ‘Is that the truth?’

  ‘You think I’m lying?’

  ‘Mr Gooch, isn’t it?’ Fenchurch took a step forward. The tips of his shoes connected with the bouncer’s. ‘Mind if I call you Winston?’

  ‘You can call me Mr Gooch.’

  ‘Mr Gooch, we still haven’t spoken to Mr Vrykolakas yet. Feels like he’s avoiding me.’

  ‘He’s not in.’

  ‘Then you won’t have a problem with letting us in, then, will you?’

  Gooch stepped to the side and ushered them inside. His attention was already on a pair of approaching suits. ‘I’ve still got my eye on you boys.’

  Fenchurch entered the club. Dirty disco hissed out of speakers, all whoops, wah-wah and hi-hat. The place was quieter than the previous night, but the clientele looked like they had more money to spend.

  Five girls and a man sat round a circular booth halfway across the club. One of the girls was the brunette who’d tried it on with Nelson. No sign of Erica.

  The man was dark-haired and tall. His beard was a chisel line tracing out his jawline. Bruco.

  Fenchurch glared back at the door. ‘Lying bastard.’ He plastered a smile on his face and marched up to the table. ‘Hey, Bruco!’

  ‘Hey!’ His grin faded to a frown. ‘Do I know you, man?’

  ‘DI Fenchurch.’ He took out his warrant card. ‘Need a quick word with you, Mr Vrykolakas.’

  ‘Girls, go make me some money.’ Bruco leaned forward and stroked a finger down his moustache as the girls got up. ‘Please, have a seat.’

  Fenchurch sat opposite Nelson, making sure they blocked Bruco’s exit. He glanced behind to check it was clear. His internal drums drowned out the club’s music. ‘We were here last night. Must’ve just missed you.’

  ‘So I hear.’ Bruco stuck a hand to his heart. ‘I hope my staff were helpful.’

  ‘Nobody seemed to know who ran the place. Funny that. What’s funnier is one of them was just sitting on your lap.’

  Bruco snarled at Fenchurch and flicked his tongue between his teeth. ‘How can I help you?’

  Fenchurch unfolded a sheet of photos, Robert Hall and the two Jane Does. He dropped it on the table, far enough that Bruco had to stretch over to collect it. ‘Do you recognise any of these people?’

  Bruco stared at it then pushed it back. ‘I’ve never seen them in my life.’

  ‘You sure about that?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘Well, the two girls worked here.’ Fenchurch pointed to the one on the left, the first Jane Doe. ‘She was only here for a couple of nights, way I hear it.’

  Bruco held up the page and scowled at it. ‘Now you mention it—’

  ‘Why did you say you never saw her?’

  Bruco waved around the room. The volume of the music turned up. ‘You see how many girls I have in here? That’s a lot of faces to remember. This piece here.’ He tapped the sheet again. ‘She didn’t make the grade. Told a client where to go when he touched her a few too many times. I can’t tolerate that. It’s all part of the fun here.’

  ‘She was murdered on Tuesday night.’

  Bruco held his gaze, no emotion in his eyes. ‘I don’t know anything about that.’

  ‘You didn’t put her on the game, did you?’

  ‘Girls who don’t make it in here have two choices. McDonald’s or walk the streets.’ Bruco traced the line of his beard. ‘If she doesn’t serve me my organic cappuccino in the morning, well. That’s her choice.’

  ‘You don’t take a cut of the money she earns out on the streets?’

  ‘That’s not the business I’m in.’ Bruco adjusted his collar and grimaced. ‘That geezer, though. Think he was in here last night.’

  ‘And I didn’t even have to ask.’

  ‘Did he kill her?’

  ‘We believe that’s the case. What happened?’

  ‘He was asked to leave. Politely. We get a lot of drunk men in here and it’s usually fine. He was too drunk.’

  ‘He’s dead, too.’

  Bruco swallowed. ‘If you want any more out of me then I need my lawyer to see a warrant.’

  Fenchurch checked his watch. Supposed to be at Abi’s in half an hour. And this prick wasn’t playing ball. ‘Have you got any police officers on the books?’

  ‘I know where I recognised your face from.’ Bruco wagged a finger at Fenchurch. ‘You were talking with one of my girls near the police station last night, weren’t you?’

  Fenchurch pushed himself up out of the booth. ‘I need you to come with me, sir, to answer some questions about why you were in Prescot Street at quarter past nine yesterday evening.’

  ‘Prescot Street?’ Bruco gave a shrug then stood up, grinning. ‘Very well.’

  Fenchurch gripped his wrist and led him across the bar.

  Nelson held the front door open for them. Raindrops spattered off the tiles outside. ‘After you.’

  Bruco held up his hands, wrists first. ‘No handcuffs, gents?’

  ‘Not unless you—’

  Bruco elbowed Fenchurch in the face. His cheek exploded in a burst of pain. He stumbled to his knees. A kick tore into his side. Then another.

  Something landed on him and pushed him flat down, squeezing the air from his lungs. Black skin, pinstripe suit. Nelson. A blow on the other side. Felt like it’d cracked a rib.

  Fenchurch wrestled Nelson off and looked up.

  Bruco was sprinting off down the street.

  A boot on the arse knocked him forward, knees crunching off the paving slabs. His chin clattered off the pavement. He tried to roll over.

  The bouncer stopped him. Pressed his knee into his spine.

  Fenchurch grabbed Gooch’s leg and pulled. Managed to jerk him over onto his side. He reached down and twisted an arm behind the bouncer’s back. ‘Will you bloody stay down?’

  Nelson was on all fours, blinking hard.

&n
bsp; ‘You okay, Jon?’

  He did a slow blink. ‘Did you get him?’

  ‘No.’ Fenchurch got up and started to run. ‘Keep a hold of this punk.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Fenchurch sprinted underneath a canopy of trees, his chest aching with each step. A dribble of rain hit the top of his head as he ran through an empty bus shelter.

  Ahead, Bruco spun round the corner leading onto the high street. Still a few hundred yards away.

  Fenchurch put the Airwave back up to his mouth. ‘Repeat, I am in pursuit of a suspect on Shoreditch High Street. Request immediate backup!’

  He sucked in air and tried to push himself harder. Tried to ignore the screaming from his knees and the cracked rib. Not being able to breathe.

  He skidded across a pedestrian crossing slicked with rain. A taxi screeched to a halt just by him. His Airwave crackled static. The honking horn drowned out the message. The driver was leaning out of his window, shaking a fist at him. ‘You stupid bastard!’

  ‘I’m a police officer!’ Fenchurch powered on and stepped around the Friday night drinkers as they hurried to the next bar, sheltering fresh haircuts from the rain. He bumped into a young man in a greatcoat and leather trousers.

  Where the hell—

  There.

  Bruco shot across Old Street in front of a bus. He was heading into Hoxton Square. The narrow side road was choked with idling cars and smokers outside the pubs and restaurants. Another glance behind and he locked eyes with Fenchurch. Then collided with a small table outside a noodle bar. He tumbled over, sending plates flying over two smoking diners. The fourth leg of the canopy collapsed in.

  Fenchurch pushed his legs harder. His lungs were burning.

  Behind the chaos at the table, Bruco stood up. Eyes widened. He picked up the fallen table and hurled it.

  Fenchurch twisted himself side on. Too late. His shoulder took the brunt of the blow, the table hitting him square on. He collapsed to his knees and toppled backwards. The rim landed on his thighs. He clutched his side, eyes shut. His rib screamed out again.

  He sucked in breath and got up on one knee, hand still on his shoulder. No sign of Bruco. He started to jog, eyes darting around. Bruises were stinging up and down his legs like nettles.

  Footsteps cannoned out from a side street. Bruco was hobbling, almost back onto the main road.

  Fenchurch sploshed through a puddle and lifted the Airwave to his ear. ‘Control, I need an update on the backup.’ He weaved onto the tarmac, skipping around a fight starting in a bus shelter. Almost ran into a streetlight.

  ‘Alpha one-niner are in pursuit, sir. Need a description of the suspect. Over.’

  Fenchurch crossed the side street towards a Sainsbury’s gleaming beneath a tower block. Bruco had started running again. ‘Suspect is an IC1 male, wearing a black leather jacket. Dark hair. Beard. Just passing the Sainsbury’s on Old Street.’

  Fenchurch stretched his legs as the pavement widened out. He passed the fire station, two of the doors wide open. Round another bus shelter and past a row of old shops. The stench of kebab and frying chicken hit his nose, sucked into his lungs.

  Where the hell was Bruco?

  There — descending the ramp down to the tube station.

  Fenchurch lifted his knees, trying to get more power, more speed. The bruises bit into his flesh, his rib feeling like it was gnawing into his chest. He slid on the sodden ramp and skidded down. Grabbed the handrail for support. Just about righted himself. Then tore off down, slower this time.

  ‘Control, I need an update.’

  ‘Still a couple of minutes away, sir.’

  He pulled into the underground station and bombed past the small shops. A crowd of commuters ploughed towards him.

  ‘Suspect has entered Old Street Tube.’

  ‘Which service is he on?’

  Bruco jumped over the ticket barrier and raced towards the down escalator.

  Fenchurch barged people out of the way. Sent a large man in a navy suit flying backwards. ‘Northern Line.’

  ‘I’ll get the units to Angel and Moorgate as a priority.’

  Fenchurch shoved his warrant card out at the ticket guard. The guy was distracted by the security officers tearing off after Bruco.

  Fenchurch took the decision out of his hands and pushed through the barrier. He stormed across the tiles towards the leftmost escalator. Slick shoes still in danger of slipping. He started down the escalator, bumping into passengers too stupid to stand on the right.

  Bruco raced off into the tunnel. A security guard lay prone at the bottom of the escalator.

  Fenchurch rushed on, taking the steps two at a time. He jostled an Asian family out of the way and lurched off through the tunnel and the second set of escalators, now swelling with the tide of passengers.

  No sign of Bruco, just a security guard lying on the floor. It did give some clearance in the crowd, though. He vaulted over and tore off down the tunnel, watching for the north/south split.

  Where was he?

  Sweet, stale air blew in from the left side. Southbound, had to be. The queue was barely one passenger deep. Bruco was halfway down, wrestling his way onto the stationary train. Fenchurch raced along the tiles. The door alarm sounded and he threw himself through the doors. Two Chinese students staggered back onto the platform.

  He put the Airwave to his head, chest heaving. ‘This is Fenchurch.’ Gasp. Breath. ‘Suspect is on a train going south towards Moorgate.’

  ‘Buggery.’

  The train rumbled as it set off.

  Fenchurch marched over and crouched down to peer into the next carriage. No sign of Bruco. ‘Have you got anyone at Moorgate?’

  ‘Not yet, sir.’

  Fenchurch reached the end, disconnected from the other carriage, not even a door.

  Bruco was only a few metres away.

  His whole body rocked with each breath. Sweat flooded his forehead, soaked his hair.

  The train flashed into a station and juddered to a halt.

  Fenchurch barged over to the door and jumped onto the platform. He jostled a gang of hipsters out of the way and made for Bruco’s door.

  The alarm sounded again.

  Bruco jumped off the train. His shoulder smashed into Fenchurch’s chest. Knocked him flying across the dirty tiles. A boot cracked into the same rib. His Airwave clattered somewhere. A breeze whistled as the train trundled off. Footsteps rattled away from him.

  Fenchurch hauled himself up again, clutching his side. Bruco was nowhere. He picked up his Airwave and ran down the platform. ‘Suspect got off at Moorgate. Request urgent support in the tube station.’

  ‘Message received—’

  A blow smacked Fenchurch’s skull from behind. He tumbled over the tiles, landing face down in a pile of used Evening Standards.

  ‘You’re persistent, I’ll give you that.’ Bruco stepped forward, swinging out to kick him.

  Fenchurch rolled over and grabbed Bruco’s foot mid-stride. He pushed it upwards and tipped him over.

  Bruco fell backwards. His skull crunched off the tiles.

  Fenchurch locked Bruco’s arm behind his back. Could barely breathe. Everything hurt. ‘Mr Vrykolakas, I’m arresting you for the murder of Robert Hall. You don’t have to say anything—’

  ‘My client refuses to answer that question.’ Gordon Edgar rubbed his thick beard, the mass of dark hair adding serious volume to the lawyer’s chin. He took off his navy pinstripe jacket and dumped it on the back of his seat. Underneath, he wore a plain black T-shirt. Rainbow braces held up skinny-fit jeans. ‘Next question, please.’

  Fenchurch eased himself back. Still wincing at the sting from his ribs. If this wasn’t cracked, then what would that feel like? His legs felt like one big bruise. ‘We’re asking Mr Vrykolakas to confirm he understands the fact he was arrested.’

  ‘He has a right to remain silent.’ Edgar grinned, the hand back on the beard. ‘He intends to use it.’

  ‘Mr Vryk
olakas, please can you confirm your full name?’

  Bruco glanced at his lawyer and got a shrug in response. ‘My name is Sotiris Georgios Vrykolakas. My friends call me Bruco. I ask you to call me Mr Vrykolakas.’

  ‘Where were you on the night of Thursday the seventeenth of December 2015?’

  ‘I was at my place of work, Mr Fenchurch.’

  ‘So your silence is only selective?’

  Edgar leaned over, his beard almost touching the microphone. ‘I’d like it noted for the record that, on the date in question, Detective Inspector Simon Fenchurch made a visit to The Alicorn, my client’s place of business.’

  ‘It’s noted in the case file, which will be made available to you in due course. The visit was to gain intelligence to support a raid, which took place ten minutes later.’ Fenchurch held the lawyer’s gaze. ‘We’ve so far established that Mr Vrykolakas was at his lap-dancing bar.’ He waved his hand between him and Nelson. ‘Neither DS Nelson nor I can validate that version of events. It should also be noted that his absence meant he wasn’t brought in for questioning like his employees.’

  Edgar itched the short stubble on his head. ‘I’ve yet to see any evidence supporting my client’s involvement in any murder.’

  ‘We need to know his whereabouts from eight o’clock that evening.’ Fenchurch focused on Bruco. ‘Did you leave the club, Mr Vrykolakas?’

  ‘No comment.’

  Fenchurch tossed a screen grab onto the desk, showing Bruco getting into his car. ‘We’ve got video evidence of you leaving the club at eight fifty-five.’

  Bruco shrugged. ‘I went to a garage to get some cigarettes.’

  Fenchurch raised an eyebrow. ‘There’s a Tesco Express across the road. Open till midnight, too.’

  ‘I needed cash.’

  ‘The Tesco has an ATM. I suspect a lot of your punters get money out of there for just one more dance. So why go to the garage?’

  ‘I like a drive. I’ve got a very nice motor.’

  ‘Do you have a receipt for these cigarettes?’

  ‘I never keep receipts. And I paid cash.’