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

by Ed James

‘Did he pay you?’

  ‘I’m not answering that.’ She scowled at her lawyer. ‘After that, I walked back up Leman Street.’ She looked around the interview room’s ceiling. ‘Past this building, actually. Then onto Commercial Street, where I’d been earlier.’

  ‘Did you happen upon any more men on your travels?’

  Hopkins dropped her glasses onto the tabletop. ‘My client doesn’t need to answer any questions relating to anything other than her liaisons with Mr Hall.’

  ‘Mr Hall was murdered on Thursday night.’

  Norma’s eyes bulged. ‘What?’

  ‘Around the time you were enjoying his company, as it happens. You see why we need to know your client’s whereabouts, Ms Hopkins?’ Fenchurch stared at Norma. ‘Did you kill him?’

  ‘My client refuses to answer that.’

  Norma held out a hand in front of her lawyer. ‘I told you, I left his flat and walked past here. That’s it.’

  ‘But you can’t confirm it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re in more than a little spot of bother here.’

  ‘Listen to me. I’m here because I told one of you lot I recognised this geezer. I’ve done nothing.’

  ‘But you can’t prove it.’

  ‘How did he die?’

  ‘A heroin overdose.’

  ‘What? You think I gave him the drugs?’ She shook her head. ‘Christ. Look, Rob offered me some heroin.’

  ‘And did you accept?’

  ‘Christ, of course I didn’t. Listen, the buzzer went as I was leaving his flat.’

  Fenchurch frowned. ‘When was this?’

  ‘Be about five past nine, something like that. Someone entered the building as I left. I didn’t see where they were going, so don’t ask.’

  ‘How many were there?’

  ‘Think there were two of them, but I only got a good look at the first one.’

  Fenchurch sat forward. Drums firing double speed. ‘Can you describe him?’

  ‘Not really.’ She traced a finger down her scar. ‘He had a beard like that singer. You know, the one who did that song about days of the week?’

  ‘Craig David?’

  ‘That’s him.’

  Owen reached into a folder and produced a photo of Bruco. ‘Was this him?’

  She nodded. ‘Definitely.’

  Owen spoke into the microphone: ‘I’ve shown the interviewee photograph P dash zero one four. Interview terminated at eight thirty-seven a.m.’

  ‘You’re free to go.’ Fenchurch smiled at Norma. ‘We can arrange transport to this chemist, should you wish.’

  Fenchurch stared at the timeline on the Incident Room wall as he finished chewing. Norma’s account added only a sliver of information. ‘Still full of bloody gaps, Jon. Bruco’s appearance at the flat is still circumstantial. We need to back up him going inside. That Teddy-boy concierge was asleep at the wheel and all. Bloody hell.’ He scrunched up the foil into a ball and chucked it into his bag. ‘And what’s worse is that was a shit breakfast burrito.’

  Nelson stayed focused on his mobile. ‘Where does it rank, guv?’

  ‘It’s just rank.’ Fenchurch dropped the bag into the recycling bin. ‘We’re getting nowhere here. Can drive a bloody bus through that timeline.’ He scanned across the busy Incident Room. Reed and Bridge were sitting at a laptop. ‘Kay, you got a minute?’

  She got up and strolled over. ‘Guv?’

  ‘Kay, tell me you’ve found Hall’s taxi driver.’

  ‘Wish I could, guv, but I’d be lying.’ She sighed at the list on the whiteboard. ‘We’ve done just about all the cab firms in East London.’

  ‘Bollocks.’ Fenchurch avoided Nelson’s gaze. ‘Did you get my note?’

  ‘I did, not that it helped.’

  ‘You didn’t find it?’

  ‘No, we did. Lisa’s got it on the CCTV now. It’s a Volkswagen Passat. She—’

  Bridge appeared, out of breath, holding a print. ‘Sarge, I’ve found it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Have a look.’ Bridge handed the sheet to Reed. ‘That Passat, it’s registered to Frank’s Cabs.’

  Fenchurch used his tongue to pick at some bacon stuck between his teeth. ‘Bloody Flick Knife.’

  ‘Good work, Lisa.’ Reed folded the page in half. ‘What’s the plan, guv?’

  ‘We go in there and speak to him. Cheeky bastard’s lying to us.’

  ‘Thought we weren’t to go there without Owen or Kershaw?’

  Fenchurch looked around the room. Neither were about. ‘I don’t trust them.’

  ‘We’ve got two dead prostitutes and a dead banker, guv.’ Reed shook her head. ‘This isn’t the time to be playing office politics, is it?’

  ‘Maybe not, but I’m not waiting for them.’

  A light switched on inside the wooden hut. A beat later, the door opened. Blunden beamed at Fenchurch. ‘Second time in a week, Inspector. Heathrow transfer, is it?’

  ‘Mind if we have a word?’

  Blunden looked Reed up and down. ‘This your missus, is it?’

  ‘She’s a colleague, Frank. Cut the bollocks, will you?’

  ‘In you come.’ Blunden ambled through reception to his office. Bandy legs like he had rickets. He sat at his desk and narrowed his eyes at Reed. The ashtray was empty this time. ‘I much prefer your company today, Inspector.’

  ‘DS Owen is otherwise engaged.’ The metal groaned as Reed sat on the seat opposite Blunden and crossed her legs. ‘That okay with you?’

  ‘Let’s get this over with.’ Blunden couldn’t take his eyes off Reed. ‘I assume you’re after something?’

  Fenchurch leaned against the pillar between the two windows, Pronto out. ‘Just a few questions for you, if—’

  ‘You better not be recording me on that thing.’

  ‘It’s how we take notes these days.’

  ‘That supposed to reassure me?’

  ‘If I was recording this, it wouldn’t be admissible in court without your permission.’

  Blunden gave a scowl. ‘Fine, I believe you.’

  ‘We think one of your cabs had a pick-up in Shoreditch on Thursday night, near The Alicorn.’

  ‘You’ve got a lot of interest in that place all of a sudden. Why are you asking?’

  ‘It’s part of this case.’

  ‘Be helpful to get a bit more context around the question.’

  ‘It’s a fairly simple request, Mr Blunden.’

  ‘What time we talking?’

  ‘Be about half past eight.’

  ‘This is to do with those girls, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  Blunden stared at his computer monitor, eyebrows raised. The white glow lit up his face as he tapped his keyboard. He scratched his jawline, an angry rash crawling from behind his ears. ‘Who was in the taxi?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that, Frank.’

  Blunden unfolded a crumpled sheet. The photos of Robert Hall and the first Jane Doe. ‘Was it either of these two?’

  ‘It might’ve been.’

  ‘If you pair are fishing to see what you can get on my innocent operation here, well . . .’ Blunden clawed at the rash. ‘Let’s say I’ll not be best pleased.’

  Fenchurch walked over to the desk, forcing Reed to the side. ‘A car picked this guy up at about half eight on Thursday night. Somewhere near The Alicorn. We know it was one of yours, so quit with the bullshit.’

  More scratching at the rash. ‘Why should I help?’

  ‘Because you’re a pillar of the community?’

  Blunden waved at the door. ‘Get out of here.’

  ‘There’s no need to take this tone with us.’

  ‘Like I said, you’re fishing. I’ve got no time for that. I’m running an honest business here. Until you’ve got something on me, piss off out of it.’

  Fenchurch held his gaze. Neither looked away. He rested his left ankle on his right thigh. ‘I’m not going anywhere, Frank.’

&n
bsp; ‘Get out, you scumbag.’

  ‘The Note hotel.’

  Blunden frowned. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Nice little place just off Bishopsgate. Very expensive. Does a lot of corporate travel, you know? Lonely businessmen staying away from home.’

  ‘This going somewhere, Fenchurch?’

  ‘They had a little back-books deal. They’d arrange for hookers to come round. Taxis would drop them off.’ Fenchurch smacked his lips together. ‘Wouldn’t be your firm, would it?’

  ‘You’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Be thankful I brought Kay here with me this time. If it was DS Owen, well, it might be going high up in Vice.’

  Blunden tapped his computer again. ‘Looks like you’re right, Inspector. One of my boys did get a pick-up near that place at eight thirty-two.’

  ‘Did it come through your switchboard?’

  ‘Street pick-up. But I make sure they put them all through the desk here. I don’t want any double dippers.’

  ‘So, who—’

  ‘I’ll send him down to Leman Street, okay?’

  ‘Make it soon.’ Fenchurch stood up tall and raised an eyebrow. ‘You should get some cream for that rash. Looks nasty.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Fenchurch prowled along the timeline on the Incident Room wall. Still so many bloody gaps. The thrum of the officers working behind him didn’t quieten the drums.

  ‘There you are.’

  Fenchurch swung round.

  Clooney was marching across the Incident Room, arms full of evidence bags. ‘Got something for you, Si.’ He dumped the bags on the nearest desk. At least four mobile phones in there. ‘Managed to have a look at Hall’s phone.’

  ‘Two eight six eight.’

  Clooney looked around. ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Take it you’ve found something?’

  ‘Well, yes. The texts and emails all checked out.’ He shifted his hand to jangle his rings. ‘Thing is, he’d been using Tinder. The app for no-strings sex.’

  ‘I know what it bloody well is.’ Fenchurch glowered at him. ‘Log in, find a girl, find a boy. Meet up for a bit of how’s your father.’

  ‘How’s your father . . .’ Clooney laughed at him. ‘Sometimes I think you’ve just beamed in from the Victorian era.’ He held up the bagged HTC. Black and silver metal. ‘Your Hall geezer has been liking three hundred girls a day on this, by the looks of things.’

  ‘Anyone liking him back?’

  ‘This girl here did.’ Clooney passed him the mobile.

  A woman’s face filled the screen. Beth, Twenty-six. Not bad looking, though she didn’t look mid-twenties. Four miles away. Active twenty-six months ago. ‘My interests are stamp-collecting and trainspotting. Not looking for sex. Yeah, right. ;-)’

  ‘These are their messages.’ Clooney gave him a wad of papers, just like a load of text messages, and flicked through to halfway. ‘Notice how quickly they get dirty? “I’m wet for you, big boy.” “My P in your V.” Unbelievable.’

  Fenchurch felt sick to the stomach.

  ‘Different from our day, Si. Don’t even need to buy her a glass of white wine these days.’ Clooney turned to the next page and held it up. ‘This is the first message after they did meet.’

  Fenchurch squinted at it. ‘Had fun, but let’s agree no more, yeah?’ He gave a shrug. ‘What, she’s letting him down gently?’

  ‘Problem is, your Hall fella didn’t like that.’ Clooney held up another sheet, no danger Fenchurch could read any of it. ‘Because she didn’t have sex with him, he asked for the money for the meal back. And it went downhill from there.’ Through some more pages. ‘By the sixth message, he’s threatened to kill her.’

  ‘Have you tracked her down?’

  ‘We’re trying to.’

  ‘How many of these hook-ups did he have?’

  ‘Fifty? Sixty? Trying to figure it out is going to take a long time.’

  Fenchurch stared at the timeline on the wall. ‘So, between February and this week, he’s stopped using hookers and started using that app?’

  ‘That’s right. Have a look at this, though.’ Clooney went to the last page. A set of messages with another user. Trina, twenty-nine. She liked pizza and craft beer. ‘She was supposed to be meeting up with him last week. No account activity since, though. Not even a follow-up message from either of them.’

  Fenchurch’s mouth had gone dry all of a sudden. ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve got an address for you, though.’

  Fenchurch got out of his Mondeo and did a three-sixty. A modern primary school behind him, the playground empty. The dark sky was brooding with the menace of a ton of hailstones.

  He pointed a finger at Reed and the pair of uniforms. Then swung it in an arc towards the third house on their left. A row of brick boxes blessed with gardens, dwarfed by a towering sixties council block.

  Fenchurch put the Airwave to his mouth. ‘Jon, you ready?’

  Nelson waved from the road over the other side, flanked by three uniforms. It crackled. ‘Affirmative, guv.’

  ‘Then we’re go.’ Fenchurch started off across the tarmac. His legs wouldn’t let him go faster than walking. The house looked empty. Curtains drawn, lights off.

  He motioned for Reed to lead.

  She rang the bell and waited a beat. ‘This is the police! We’re looking for a Trina Gordon!’ Eyes on Fenchurch. Narrowing as the seconds passed by. Then another thump. ‘Ms Gordon? It’s the police.’

  Fenchurch held up two fingers and waved forward.

  The first uniform lumbered up to the door. Bulky muscles, just in a standard-issue black T-shirt despite the bitter wind cutting in from the Thames. He took his sights and lurched forward with a size twelve.

  The door snapped open. It bounced back off the inside walls.

  Fenchurch barged past into the house. The place was dark and stank of burnt toast and beans. He followed the scents into a small kitchen. Glossy units and worktops wedged into a tiny space. A navy pot of congealed baked beans sat on the hob, an open tub of Flora on the counter. On the right side of the room was a lime-green melamine table. A plate with two pieces of toast covered in beans, one slice half-eaten.

  Fenchurch swung back into the hall and locked eyes with Reed. ‘Nobody here.’

  Wait. Steam was rising up from the beans. He put his hand to the pot. Had to jerk it away. Still boiling hot.

  Below the table. There. A pink slipper. Attached to a leg.

  Drums picked up the tempo and volume. Smashing away. Fenchurch crouched to get a better view. His legs stung as he went down.

  A woman balled herself up on the floor, her head wedged against the underside of the table. Gripping her knees tight. Deep-ringed eyes. Lank hair. Breathing heavily.

  He raised his hands. ‘I’m a police officer. It’s okay.’

  She twisted her head to the side and swallowed.

  ‘Are you Trina Gordon?’

  ‘Who are you?’ Scottish accent, barely audible above the racket from the hall. Clumping feet and bellowing voices.

  He spun round. ‘Shhh.’ Then back at her. He slowly unfolded his warrant card and let her inspect it. ‘My name’s DI Simon Fenchurch. I’m looking for Trina Gordon.’

  ‘You think you can break down my door, do you?’

  ‘We thought your life was at risk.’

  ‘Well, you weren’t interested last week, were you?’ She pulled her legs tighter. Shut her eyes and gritted her teeth.

  ‘Do you want to come out of there, Ms Gordon?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s safe.’

  She paused, clenching and unclenching her fists. ‘He’ll be back.’

  ‘Who will?’

  ‘Robert.’

  Fenchurch glanced over at Reed. ‘Robert Hall?’

  ‘I never knew his last name.’

  Fenchurch held out his hand.

  She stared at it for a few seconds. Then gripped it tight and used it to pull herself
to her feet. She was almost as tall as Fenchurch. Pretty, but there was a darkness in her eyes. Like she wasn’t in the room with them. Didn’t look anything like the profile picture Clooney had shown him.

  She collapsed onto a chair. ‘What happened to Robert?’

  ‘He’s not going to hurt you.’

  ‘Is he in prison?’

  Fenchurch shook his head. ‘We found his body yesterday. Are you hiding from him?’

  She spread her feet wide, like she was ready to pounce at any second. ‘How do I know you’re not working with him?’

  ‘We’re investigating him.’

  A frown knitted her forehead. ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘He’s killed two women.’

  ‘Christ.’ She lowered her dressing gown and tugged down her pink T-shirt. A line bit into her flesh, an inch deep. Dark brown. ‘He tried to strangle me.’

  ‘You met him on Tinder, didn’t you?’

  Eyes shut, tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘He seemed nice. Friendly. Had a nice smile.’ She shook her head slowly, gasping for air. ‘We went for a drink in Covent Garden then went for something to eat. I invited him back here.’

  ‘You make a habit of doing that?’

  ‘That was the first time I’d used that bloody app.’ She sniffed. ‘One of my friends swears by it. I added lots of men but he was the only one who liked me back.’

  ‘What happened when you got back here?’

  ‘He attacked me. Tried to have sex with me.’ She scratched at her face, unpainted nails chewing at the flesh. ‘I pushed him away. But he punched me. Again and again. Just kept doing it.’ She leaned forward in the chair. ‘He said I was a whore. Said all women are prostitutes. Then he said something like he should go back to prostitutes. They never said no.’ Her hands went to her neck. ‘Then he got the cable from my computer and he strangled me with it.’

  ‘But you got away?’

  ‘I lashed out. My elbow hit him in the balls. He fell over and I just ran. Went to the police station on Brick Lane. They came round here, but he’d gone. They couldn’t find him.’

  Fenchurch shut his eyes. ‘This was last week?’

  ‘I’ve not left this bloody house since. My parents are dead. I’ve got nobody.’

  ‘You haven’t seen or heard from him since?’