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

by Ed James

  ‘Hang on, hang on.’ Fenchurch scowled at Savage. ‘We can bring charges against him and Vrykolakas.’

  ‘They’re both small fry. There are bigger fish here.’

  ‘Like who?’ Fenchurch narrowed his eyes at Savage. ‘You’ve been doing this even longer than laughing boy here and you’ve not got a bloody clue who you’re up against.’

  He pointed his finger at Fenchurch. ‘Now just you listen to me—’

  ‘Is this anything to do with what my dad’s been looking into?’

  Savage was staring at the floor. ‘Your father?’

  ‘When I came over to ESB the other day, you knew my name from your dealings with him.’

  ‘Right.’ Savage stroked his chin, staring into space. He came to with a sigh. ‘Well, I suppose there’s a chance it could be linked.’

  Fenchurch got in the lift and stabbed the button for B2. He wedged a foot in the door until Savage entered. His stomach lurched as they rumbled down. ‘Why didn’t you follow up on my dad’s email?’

  ‘It wasn’t just one email.’ Savage let out a breath and leaned against the wall. ‘Four emails, eighteen phone calls and two paper memos. Usually means a particular brand of crazy.’

  Fenchurch snarled and got closer to him. Tried to make the small lift even smaller. ‘Watch your mouth.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry. This isn’t easy for me.’ Savage looked like he had something to hide, like a cat covering over its litter tray when everyone in the house had already smelled it. ‘We simply don’t have the budget to respond to every lead like that we receive.’

  The lift thunked to a halt and the doors creaked apart.

  Fenchurch left him and strode across the wide concourse. He knocked on the door.

  It swung open and Dad squinted out into the corridor. ‘Simon? You’re early. I’ve left my Hammers scarf—’

  ‘We won’t be going to the match today, Dad.’ Fenchurch barged past him into the room that felt even smaller than the lift. Case file boxes filled the shelves. The ceiling didn’t give much clearance. ‘Why aren’t you answering your phone?’

  Dad fished out his mobile. ‘Bloody thing’s on mute again. Sorry.’

  Same as it ever was.

  Fenchurch waved a hand at the door. ‘I’ve brought a visitor.’

  ‘DCI Howard Savage.’ He stepped into the room, acting like he owned the place. ‘Nice to finally meet you, Ian.’

  ‘And you, sir.’ Dad beamed at him as though he was meeting the Queen. ‘Is this about my emails?’

  ‘And your phone calls and memos.’ Savage perched on a desk cluttered with paperwork and glanced at Fenchurch. ‘Take us through your theory, from the start.’ He raised a finger in warning. ‘I want facts and no frippery. Am I clear?’

  Dad’s awe and wonder switched to bitter disappointment. ‘So you haven’t read them, then?’

  ‘Let’s pretend I didn’t.’

  Dad picked up a ring binder and chucked it to Savage with a bit more force than was necessary. ‘That’s my master file there. It’s all indexed.’

  Savage inspected the first page. ‘I’m listening.’

  Dad snatched the file back. ‘You know the general gist of it, right?’

  ‘Assume I know nothing.’

  ‘Where the bloody hell do I start?’ Dad stared up at the ceiling. ‘Right, I was working cold cases here with a few old mates. We came across one which just nagged at me. Looked similar to one I worked back in the eighties when I was a DS.’ He pulled out another case file. ‘We’d found a girl in Canary Wharf when they were building the first tower. They call it One Canada Square now.’ He tossed the file over to Savage. ‘She was a sex worker. Couldn’t identify her.’

  Savage thumbed at the file. ‘But you got someone for it?’

  ‘Caught this geezer. Not quite red-handed, but he was guilty. Worked at Billingsgate Market, gutting fish. Ten months later, he got off. The jury didn’t like our evidence trail, though. My DI got busted to traffic for it.’

  Savage was flicking through the file at speed. ‘How does this connect to your son’s case?’

  ‘Well, we’ve found another four girls. All sex workers with no identification. All shuffled off to the Cold Case Unit.’

  ‘But you think they’re linked?’

  ‘Well, it’s still early days, but yes.’

  ‘So, you’re saying this fish gutter is a serial killer?’

  ‘I wish. That’d be easy.’ Dad snorted. ‘Geezer died three weeks after the verdict. And these others are all after that. Hanged himself. Official verdict was suicide.’

  ‘And I take it you think it wasn’t?’

  ‘He was suing the force. The commissioner at the time wanted a lid put on it, so he settled out of court just after the verdict. The sort of payout that’d make your eyes water. That geezer had a lot of cash, no real reason for him to do himself in.’

  Savage took a few seconds to digest it. ‘Tell me about the other four.’

  ‘Here’s the thing.’ Dad leaned against the shelves. ‘Like our fish gutter, anyone fingered in these murders usually came to a sticky end not long after. Accidents or suicides.’

  ‘And you’re saying they’re something else?’

  ‘They were murdered. Maybe not clear as day but someone’s killed them. They’re clearing their tracks. There were no missing persons reports for any of these cases, no ID. Nobody’s missed them. Just like they were ghosts.’

  Savage nodded at Fenchurch. Looked like he was holding something back. ‘It’s fitting your pattern, Inspector.’

  ‘Tell us what you know.’

  ‘I’m not finished listening.’ Savage took a step towards Dad. ‘Let me get this straight. In your first case at Canary Wharf, a man murdered a prostitute. You’ve charged him and the case fell apart. Then this fish worker was killed.’

  ‘Glad you’ve been listening, sir.’ Dad rolled his eyes. ‘But the bodies turn up earlier with the other cases. Most don’t even go to court. This fish gutter was guilty as sin. He tore out her guts, left them all over that building. He did it.’

  ‘So someone on the case leaked information?’

  ‘Way I see it, whoever’s behind this sees these girls as their property. Someone harms them or kills them, they enact Old Testament vengeance on them.’ Dad slumped back against the shelves. Looked like the whole lot might topple in on him.

  Fenchurch walked over and patted his dad’s arm. Felt like he was the only thing stopping him from falling apart. He focused on Savage. ‘Do you know anything about this?’

  Savage put the binder down on the desk and stared at the wall for a few long seconds.

  Fenchurch went over and picked up the ring binder. ‘Tell me what you know. If there’s something in all this, something related to our case, I need to know.’

  Savage glanced at Dad. ‘Ian, who do you think is doing this?’

  ‘The sixty-four-million-dollar question.’

  ‘What names have you got?’

  ‘Me and Bert call them the Machine. Someone damages their property and they kill them, make it look like suicide. Effortless, like a machine.’

  ‘Very droll. I meant suspects.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Dad stared at the floor, looked like a little puppy who’d shat his bedding. ‘We’ve got nobody, I’m afraid.’

  Fenchurch shuffled through the ring binder. ‘How does Robert Hall fit in this? He was just another rowdy customer at The Alicorn. Pissed out of his skull, pushing it too far with the girls.’

  ‘Both of your victims had worked there.’ Savage sat on a chair, the metal clicking with his weight. ‘And unfortunately for Mr Hall, you identified him as the killer of their girls. Well, you got some footage of him fairly early on.’

  ‘So you think Kershaw’s leaked it?’

  Savage nodded. ‘Not only that, but they clearly knew who Hall was. And far earlier than you.’

  ‘Shit.’ Fenchurch’s back stiffened. Drums thumped in a deep tribal rhythm. ‘Hang on, are
we at risk here?’

  Savage snorted. ‘It’s a distinct possibility. Loved ones, especially.’

  The drums clattered louder.

  ‘Dad, I need you to stay here, okay?’

  He shrugged. ‘I was quite looking forward to going to the Boleyn.’

  ‘It’s not happening, okay?’ Fenchurch went out into the corridor and fished out his phone. He called Abi’s mobile. No answer, just straight to voicemail. Another call and the same. The drums beat out of time, cannoning off hard walls. ‘Abi, it’s Simon. Something’s come up and I need to speak to you.’

  He ended the call and hammered out a text. ‘Abi, give me a call. It’s urgent. S’

  He stomped back into the room.

  Dad was holding the master file again, looking like he wanted to stick one on Savage. ‘What I was trying to tell you in that email is there’s something else at play here. Something going back years. Where women have disappeared and MisPers were filed.’

  ‘I’m not following you.’

  ‘These girls, their bodies turned up years later. Only nobody recognised them.’

  Savage tossed a file over to Fenchurch. ‘Have you seen this?’

  He caught it and checked the cover.

  01-AT-01087-03

  Michaela Carr (DOB 07-May-66)

  Missing Person

  01/09/1982

  Michaela Carr looked like a typical teenager, only the eighties camera blur and haircut dating it.

  Fenchurch gave a shrug. ‘Never heard of her.’

  Dad took the file off his son and flicked through it. ‘Michaela went missing in Canning Town. September 1982. She was just sixteen. Parents had no idea where she’d gone.’ He passed the file back, open at a Crime Scene Report.

  The skeletal body was naked, sprawled across a Paisley patterned bedspread.

  ‘Eleven years later, a maid found a body in a hotel in Hammersmith. Overdosed on pills. They put it down as a suicide. Didn’t even bother to look.’

  Fenchurch handed it back, acid burning his gut. ‘But you don’t think she was killed?’

  ‘They thought she was homeless. Do homeless people kill themselves in hotel rooms?’ Dad waved the file around. ‘They didn’t ID the body. She was . . . just a girl when she was taken. When she died, she was a woman. Nobody bloody cared.’

  Savage scowled and grabbed hold of Dad’s shoulder. ‘How does this have anything to do with the Billingsgate case?’

  ‘We noticed this one when we were looking at the other cases.’ Dad shrugged him off. ‘They had a lead on some geezer who paid for that room with a credit card. Looks like he’d been at it with her. Geezer hanged himself three days later. Left a suicide note and everything.’

  ‘But, of course, you think it’s murder.’ Savage snapped the binder shut. ‘That’s not exactly evidence.’

  ‘Me and Bert have paired three definite bodies with MisPer reports from around that time. Most of them died at least ten years later. They’ve all had kids as well.’

  Savage frowned. ‘What?’

  Dad sifted through the master file and held up a typed list. ‘There’s another eight we think are likely.’

  Savage stared at the floor, massaging his thighs. Skin as white as his shirt. ‘Well, I’ve listened to your theory, Mr Fenchurch, but I’m struggling to see any evidence.’

  ‘Evidence? I’ll bloody give you evidence.’ Dad stabbed a finger at the door. ‘We’ve got the clothes and DNA for these old cases in the Archive. They didn’t start doing all that testing jiggery-pokery till the late nineties.’

  Fenchurch folded his arms. ‘Why haven’t you done it now?’

  ‘Believe me, I’ve asked.’ Dad shook his head, his mouth twitching. ‘Nobody’s bloody letting me do it. When did policing become about budget? These samples are just sitting in this geezer’s office.’

  ‘Whose?’

  ‘Some bloody muppet.’ Dad looked, smacking his lips together. Then he clicked his fingers. ‘Clooney, I think.’

  Fenchurch stood in the corridor in Lewisham, waiting for a squad of laughing SOCOs to wander past before getting out his Airwave. ‘Control, this is DI Fenchurch.’

  ‘Receiving.’

  ‘Can you check on the whereabouts of one Abigail Ormonde, please? Lives on Barford Street in Islington. Number two, flat six.’

  ‘Is this urgent? We’re stretched to breaking with the West Ham game just now.’

  ‘It’s urgent.’

  ‘Noted. I’m sending a car round now. Over.’

  Fenchurch put his Airwave away and sucked in a breath. He entered the room. The place was roughly twenty metres by thirty and filled with contraptions of varying sizes.

  Clooney was sitting behind his desk opposite Dad and Savage. He wandered over, fiddling with his piercings, and grimaced. ‘Any danger you could call off Kay Reed, Si? She’s busting my balls about this Tinder stuff.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I want her to be doing.’ Fenchurch patted his old man’s arm. ‘Now, I understand you’ve got some DNA my dad’s asked you to look at?’

  Clooney wouldn’t even look at Fenchurch. ‘This isn’t part of your case, Simon.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that. Where are you with them?’

  ‘Awaiting budget.’

  ‘Can you process them under Docherty’s cost code?’

  ‘Is he authorising this?’

  ‘I think they’re linked to our Jane Does.’

  ‘Here we bloody go again.’ Clooney let go of his earring. ‘Fine, if it gets you off my back.’

  ‘This could seriously help.’ Fenchurch grinned at his father. ‘See, Dad, you just need to ask nicely.’

  ‘And give me a bloody nickname.’ Clooney marched over to a floor-to-ceiling machine and started pressing buttons on the front. ‘Once I’ve done the magic with the dropper, this’ll take about an hour or so.’

  ‘I appreciate it.’ Fenchurch made to leave. Then stopped, frowning. ‘Has that DNA profiling finished yet?’

  Clooney had a fiddle with the adjacent machine and stuck his hands into his trouser pockets. ‘Not had a chance to look since Kay nailed my balls to the wall.’

  ‘Well, get on with it.’ Fenchurch went back out into the corridor and dialled Abi’s mobile number. Straight to voicemail again. ‘Abi, please call me. Bye.’ He let out a sigh and stared up at the ceiling. The raw ductwork snaked deeper into the building. Drums battered his head.

  Where the hell was she?

  He got out his Airwave. ‘Control—’

  ‘Still no confirmed location of Ms Ormonde, guv. Serial bravo just left her flat, sir. No sign of her.’

  ‘Shit.’ Fenchurch ended the call and clutched the phone tight. He stabbed another number.

  ‘Guv?’

  ‘Kay, have you heard from Abi today?’

  ‘I was going to meet her for a coffee after work to talk about you.’

  ‘When did you last speak to her?’

  ‘I got a text at about half ten this morning.’

  ‘Nothing since?’

  ‘Has something happened?’

  Fenchurch leaned his forehead against the wall. ‘I hope not.’

  ‘Guv, are you being paranoid again?’

  ‘Just because you’re . . .’ He caught himself. ‘Look, give me a ring if she gets in touch, okay?’

  ‘Sure thing, guv. Look, do you—’

  He killed the call. Got his car key out of his pocket and jogged down the corridor.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Still nothing, sir.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Fenchurch dumped the Airwave onto the passenger seat and pulled off City Road onto Upper Street. He bombed past the Angel tube on his right and battered through the changing light, tearing off down Liverpool Road. The giant cinema complex skulked over to the right, the Angelic on the left, an old haunt now turned into a gastropub. He swung a right into Barford Street and double-parked by a Subaru.

  Fenchurch got out and sprinted across the pavement, wincing at t
he pain in his legs. He bounced up the steps and hammered on the entrycom, his heart thumping.

  No answer.

  Where the bloody hell was she?

  He checked through the listing. There we go. He stabbed another button.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘This is DI Fenchurch. I need access to the property.’

  ‘Simon?’

  ‘Yes, Quentin, it’s Simon.’

  ‘Why didn’t you just say?’

  ‘Can you let me in?’

  The door thunked open. Fenchurch raced inside and took the stairs two at a time.

  On her floor, Quentin was still in his dressing gown. At this time. He tilted his shaved head to the side, his intense eyebrows now flecked with grey. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Have you seen Abi today?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘Morning or evening?’

  ‘Evening. She’d run out of milk and I’d just got some in. Had a nice little natter. About you, as it happens. Strange how I bumped into you on the stairs last night.’

  ‘You’ve not seen her today?’

  ‘Sorry, I’ve been dead to the world. I flew back from Munich yesterday afternoon. Been away all week on busi—’

  ‘Did you hear anything?’

  Quentin fiddled with the gown’s belt. ‘There were raised voices last night.’

  No guessing who that was.

  Fenchurch hammered the door. ‘Abi?’

  ‘Doesn’t look like she’s in, Simon.’ Quentin tied up his belt again. ‘How are you keeping, anyway?’

  ‘How do you think?’ Fenchurch hit the pale-blue wood again. ‘Abi!’ He crouched down and peered through the letterbox. ‘Abi!’

  Quentin grabbed his wrist. ‘Simon, what the hell’s going on?’

  Fenchurch stared at him. Saying it out loud might make it real. ‘She might’ve been abducted.’

  ‘Oh my God.’ Quentin put a hand to his mouth. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think. This case I’m working . . . Let’s just say the people I’m investigating don’t play fair.’

  ‘Well, I’ve not seen her today.’

  ‘Watch out.’ Fenchurch got up and took a step back. He launched himself shoulder first. The door crashed open and he tumbled across the carpet. He picked himself up and looked around. ‘Abi!’