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

by Ed James

  Savage held out a hand, palm splayed. ‘Not you, Fenchurch.’

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  ‘—and here I am watching bloody TV.’ Fenchurch was standing, hands in pockets, staring at the screen.

  Kershaw was focusing on the grain of the interview room table, squashed between the Force Rep in full uniform and his lawyer. Gordon Edgar, same one as Bruco. He’d lost the beard, which now made him look like a walking buttock. Huge rounded cheeks squeezed his features into a tiny space.

  Savage sat opposite, grimacing as though the chair was inducing piles. Owen was against the wall, playing to the camera like a matinee star.

  ‘They’re getting nowhere with him, boss.’

  ‘Didn’t think they would.’ Docherty looked up from his BlackBerry. ‘Lad like that knows when to keep quiet. Probably got a nice tidy sum waiting for him somewhere tropical.’

  ‘Think we’ve got enough to convict?’

  ‘He’s either murdered this boy or he’s accessory to it. An ex-cop, too. He’ll be going away for a long time.’

  On screen, Kershaw winked at Owen. ‘I knew you were in the Complaints.’

  ‘You can’t have.’ Owen started drumming a finger against the wall behind him. The sound rattled through the speakers. ‘You wouldn’t have been such a careless bastard if you knew.’

  ‘Who says I’ve done anything?’

  ‘Quit it, Paul.’ Owen smiled as he raised his shoulders. ‘We know you’re bent. You’re up to your bollocks in shit. Only hope for you is telling us everything.’

  Kershaw leaned back in the chair and stretched. ‘There’s nothing to tell.’

  ‘You’re a lying shit, Paul. You sold our secrets to the highest bidder. You think that’s on? You think you can get away with talking out of school?’

  ‘No idea what you’re on about.’

  ‘This isn’t selling stories to the papers, you hear. This is much, much worse. You’re working for some evil, evil people.’

  Fenchurch glowered at the screen. ‘He’s more likely to twat him one than get him talking.’

  Docherty frowned at him. ‘So what do we do about it?’

  ‘This.’ Fenchurch hauled the Obs Suite door open.

  ‘Simon, wait.’

  ‘Boss, they’re making a mess in a monkey shop here.’

  ‘You keep saying that. What the hell does it mean?’

  ‘Look, boss, I can get him talking.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Just let me show you.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Cheers, boss.’ Fenchurch sprinted down the corridor and crept into the interview room. He stood near the back behind Savage.

  ‘I’m saying nothing because there is nothing.’ Kershaw made a zip motion across his lips. ‘Nothing.’

  Owen bent over, hands behind his back, his mouth right by Kershaw’s ear. ‘You know that house you were in beside the Emirates? Well, we found a woman in the attic.’

  ‘I was looking after that place for a mate.’

  ‘Why did you kidnap her?’

  ‘No comment.’

  Fenchurch cleared his throat. ‘We’ve got a statement placing you at her flat this morning.’

  Kershaw didn’t even dignify it with a response.

  Savage darted a glare at Fenchurch and twisted back round. ‘Paul, we know you killed Robert Hall.’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘We’ve got you on CCTV turning up with Sotiris Vrykolakas.’ Owen folded his arms, grinning. ‘Two witness statements confirm your presence. In about half an hour, you’re going into a line-up with a load of other guys with stupid beards like that. You’ll be on a murder charge by the time Swansea beat Liverpool at quarter to five today.’

  ‘No comment.’

  Owen stood up and reclaimed his spot against the wall.

  Fenchurch took the chair. ‘You know what the Machine is?’

  Kershaw sniffed. ‘Rage against or Florence and?’

  ‘Comedian.’ Fenchurch cracked his knuckles. ‘They have a farm where they breed people, much like you would pigs or cows. They employ them in the sex trade in London.’

  Kershaw went grey, his face losing all colour. ‘What?’

  ‘Did you think you were getting kickbacks from a couple of pimps? You stupid bastard.’

  ‘I didn’t know anything about that.’

  ‘Just following orders, were you?’

  Kershaw stared at his lawyer. A bead of sweat dripped down his forehead. ‘Is there a deal on the table here?’

  ‘Thought you didn’t know anything?’

  Edgar whispered in his client’s ear. Kershaw shook his head. ‘I don’t care. You heard what he said.’

  ‘Paul.’

  ‘I said I don’t care.’ Kershaw nodded at Owen. ‘Is there a deal?’

  Savage clicked his tongue a few times. ‘Paul, you know full well it depends on what you tell us.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got the what, a bit of the where, a lot of the why and all of the how and when. All you’re missing is the who and the rest of the where.’

  Edgar crunched back in his chair and folded his arms. Looked like he was going to go running to teacher as soon as he got out of there. ‘Paul, Paul, Paul.’

  Savage ignored him. ‘You’re saying you can give us the ringleaders?’

  ‘I can give up who I know.’

  Savage ran his tongue around his gums. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I want immunity from prosecution and a new identity.’

  ‘That’s quite a lot.’ Savage leaned forward, his teeth bared. ‘I’m not going to make this easy for you, Paul. You’re dirty and you’re ignorant. I’m not sure what’s worse. Names. Now.’

  Kershaw fiddled with his beard.

  Savage got up. ‘Come on, gents, this is getting us nowhere.’

  ‘Wait.’ Kershaw tugged his stubble. ‘Sotiris Vrykolakas.’

  ‘Nice try. We’ve already got him in custody.’

  ‘He killed Robert Hall. A lethal injection of heroin. Some uncut stuff he’d just got from Holland.’

  Fenchurch rested against the desk. ‘And how do you know this? You’re denying you were even there.’

  ‘When we got to his flat, the guy was lying on his settee, smoking smack off tinfoil. A very distinct smell, you know? Like marshmallows.’ Kershaw grimaced. ‘Bruco smacked him in the chops with a baseball bat. Knocked him out. He tied him up and stuck the smack in his veins. Made it appear that he’d injected it.’

  ‘And you just stood there watching, right?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘It’s your word against Bruco’s.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You’re accessory to murder.’

  ‘And I want immunity from that.’

  ‘Well, let’s see who else you give us.’ Savage’s tongue flicked across his crooked teeth. ‘More names.’

  Kershaw let out a breath. ‘Not until there’s a proper deal on the table.’

  Fenchurch shut the Observation Suite door. ‘Were you watching that, boss?’

  ‘Not quite a masterclass.’ Docherty looked up from his BlackBerry. ‘Take it you’re not giving him a deal, Howard?’

  Savage sat opposite Docherty. ‘Not if I can avoid it.’ His nostrils flared. ‘I want him inside for what he’s done.’

  ‘Where does that leave us?’

  Savage shrugged. ‘Well, we know they’ve got a farm and that’s it.’

  Fenchurch perched on the edge of a desk. ‘You said they’ve got a few other clubs. Where are they?’

  ‘There’s two in London. A club in Mayfair and a bar round the corner from here.’

  Docherty scowled. ‘Near Leman Street?’

  ‘Right under your very nose, Chief Inspector.’ Savage nibbled his lips. ‘There are others in Nottingham, Ipswich and Leeds.’

  ‘We should shut the whole thing down. Cut off their money.’ Fenchurch adjusted himself on the desk. ‘What about a coordinated raid on all five places. You reckoned there’s a
few hundred people working for them, right?’

  ‘At least a hundred and fifty. Could be as many as two hundred.’

  ‘Well, then. The odds are stacked in our favour. One of them might break.’

  ‘They won’t talk, Simon.’ Owen grimaced. ‘All the girls are under the same threat.’

  ‘I remain to be convinced of this plan.’ Savage narrowed his eyes at Fenchurch. ‘I can’t sanction it and I doubt a judge will.’

  ‘Boss?’

  Docherty cleared his throat. ‘Howard, I’m afraid I’m with Simon here. You’ve had your turn with this lot. We should just fire in there.’

  ‘This isn’t the end game, Alan.’

  ‘Then what is?’

  ‘Bringing down the ringleaders.’

  ‘If we raid these clubs, we can liberate hundreds of people.’

  ‘They live in constant fear of their loved ones’ lives.’ Spit hung from Savage’s mouth. ‘They will not talk.’

  ‘All the more reason to get in there.’

  ‘Believe me, I know a thing or two about this.’ Fenchurch folded his arms. ‘I think they’re better being free than imprisoned there.’

  ‘Okay, fine.’ Savage let out a breath. ‘I’ll get onto the other forces, see what we can rustle up.’

  The unmarked van felt like a coffin. Reed’s face was hidden in the gloom. Her Airwave chirruped and she stuck it to her ear. Waited a beat. ‘That’s them ready to go, guv.’

  Fenchurch held his fist in the air. ‘Go! Go! Go!’

  The armed officers clambered out of the meat wagon and made their way through Berkeley Square. Mayfair opulence, a row of stone town houses with flower boxes in unnatural midwinter bloom.

  Fenchurch stopped outside the Dragon & George and waited. Drums skittered in his ears. Deep thudding bled through the doors.

  Three of the black-clad ninjas secured a perimeter on the tarmac, rifles raised in the direction of the club. Two squad cars pulled in at either end of the street and blocked the exits. Six armed officers took position in the park.

  Fenchurch gestured for Nelson to follow. ‘Let’s go!’ He trotted across the road and followed the officers inside the club.

  The place was a riot of noise. Girls screaming, feedback squealing from the PA, music turned up full blast.

  Fenchurch had to cover his ears. He spun around, looking for anyone of note.

  Girls were crowding round the bar at the far end, like a surge at a metal concert. A topless dancer cowered in the corner of the stage, eyes screwed tight. Corseted girls snuggled up to men in jackets, shirts and jeans in the circular booths. One of the men nearby started tapping on his BlackBerry until an officer grabbed it off him.

  A bouncer was spreadeagled on the floor, wearing the same get-up as Winston Gooch in The Alicorn. One officer pointed a rifle at his skull, another twisting his arm behind his back.

  Fenchurch nodded at a uniform. ‘Start processing everyone. Dancers and punters.’

  ‘Will do, sir.’

  Fenchurch stormed up to the bar, warrant card out. DC Bridge was blocking the barmaid’s escape. ‘We need to speak to the manager.’

  ‘Well, he ain’t here.’ The barmaid looked him up and down. ‘He was earlier. Don’t know where he went.’

  Fenchurch gripped the edge of the bar. ‘Is there an office here?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge.’

  ‘Where do you put your handbag when you clock in, then?’

  ‘I don’t have one.’

  ‘Your jacket?’

  The barmaid leaned back against the counter. ‘Through the back. The girls have a changing area. There’s a room off that.’

  ‘Show me.’ Fenchurch waved for her to lead, beckoning for Reed to follow.

  The throng of girls trying to escape was under control now. A group of uniforms had kettled them into the corner.

  The barmaid pushed through, leading them deeper into the club. The Gents was on the left — no sign of a Ladies. Five doors on the right, all hanging open. In the nearest, an officer stood over a man on his knees. Hands behind his head, trousers round his ankles, a girl kneeling in front of him.

  Reed pointed at the room. ‘At least we’ll get some arrests out of this, guv.’

  The barmaid opened the final door on the right. ‘In here.’ Inside, another ten girls stood around. Most of them looked late teens or early twenties.

  Fenchurch followed the barmaid across the room and waited by the door. ‘What’s the hold-up?’

  The barmaid raised her hands. ‘The door’s locked.’

  ‘So the manager is in there?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You said he wasn’t here.’

  ‘I don’t know anything. I swear.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Matthew.’

  ‘Does he have a surname?’

  ‘If he does, I don’t know it.’

  ‘Well, you’d better learn it pretty quickly.’ Fenchurch turned away, scowling at the girls as he spoke into his Airwave. ‘Control, get the Big Key round here.’ He hammered a gloved hand on the door. ‘Matthew, this is DI Fenchurch of the Metropolitan Police Service. We need to speak to you.’

  Nothing.

  He focused on the barmaid staring at the carpet. ‘Is there a back entrance or a window?’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s a twenty-foot drop down to the yard.’

  Fenchurch gritted his teeth as he held up the Airwave again. ‘How are we getting on with securing the rear perimeter?’

  ‘Officers are still in place, sir. No movement.’

  Fenchurch gestured around the room. ‘Might be worth getting the birth certificates of these girls. Not sure all of them are legal.’

  ‘Nice turn of phrase, guv.’ Reed spun round and got out of the way of the pair of officers lugging the Enforcer. She pointed at the office door. ‘That one there.’

  The lead uniform got in position, securing the Big Key against the lock. He swung it and the door collapsed, the wood splintering. It took its time tumbling over.

  Behind the door was a small room. A large CCTV display almost filled one wall, the rest of it crowded by huge storage cupboards.

  ‘Glamorous.’ Fenchurch grabbed the barmaid by the arm. ‘Where’s the manager, then?’

  ‘I told you he’s not here. Why don’t you believe me?’

  ‘Let’s have a look at this, shall we?’ Reed bolted over to the CCTV console. She jockeyed the footage back.

  On the screen, a man entered the room and locked it behind him. He opened one of the cupboards and stepped inside. It clattered shut.

  Fenchurch spun round. That one there. He tried the handle. Locked. He rattled the metal frame, nothing. ‘What the hell?’

  Reed clicked a finger at the uniform holding the Big Key. ‘Get that open.’

  ‘Stand back.’ The officer hefted it up to lock it in place. Then swung it.

  The navy steel buckled inwards with a deafening thud.

  Fenchurch pushed him aside and opened the door. A staircase led down, a dim light shining. ‘Kay, you’re with me. The rest of you, keep this secure.’

  The top step creaked as he put his weight on it. He took it slow, descending to an L-shaped bend, and raised a clenched fist. The stairs were empty, just flickering light. He crouched to look and listen. Nothing. He opened the fist and continued down. At the bottom, a steel door blocked the way. A light hung from the ceiling. He closed the fist again and tried the door. It swung open.

  A deep and wide room with a vaulted ceiling, dim in flickering candlelight. The floor was filled with mattresses. Looked like an orgy. Nearby, an overweight man thrust away at a woman on all fours. White hair drenched with sweat, her eyes dead. Next to them, a middle-aged woman knelt in front of a young man, running her tongue down the length of his penis, while he checked his watch.

  Fenchurch gulped in air. ‘Christ.’

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  We’re getting nowhere.’ Fenchurch scowled at his wa
tch. 17.34. Then at Reed, eyes trained on the Charing Cross station’s Obs Suite. A bank of ten monitors flickered in front of him, interviews in progress on all of them. ‘How many have we done now?’

  Reed looked up at the ceiling. ‘Seventeen on our side, guv. Leman Street have processed twenty-two, last I heard.’

  ‘And still nobody’s biting.’ Fenchurch fiddled with a cufflink and scanned through the screens.

  There, in room six.

  A young man, twenty-one at most, sat alone in a room. His body language was at odds with the trained refusal on display in the others. His right hand cradled his left shoulder, flexing his meaty bicep for an unseen audience.

  ‘We’ve found our weakest link, Kay. Come on, let’s have a word with him.’ Fenchurch picked up his unopened can and paced out into the corridor. Had to stop to let another column of interviewees past. He rapped on the door and got the Custody Officer to come out. ‘Is he ready?’

  ‘If by ready, you mean not even giving a name, then yeah.’ Looked like he’d shaved the patchy stubble on his head himself. Without a mirror. ‘You mind if I take ten minutes, guv?’

  ‘Be my guest.’ Fenchurch led Reed into the room and took his time getting settled. He put his suit jacket on the back of the chair. Undid his tie. Adjusted his cufflinks again.

  The kid was staring at his lap, stroking a thin soul patch below his bottom lip. Hair shaved at the sides, his long fringe tugged over. His ear had enough studs to rivet a battleship. He looked up, grey eyes tapering into a frown.

  Fenchurch locked eyes and didn’t let go. He sat opposite and handed the kid a can of Coke. ‘You got a name?’

  He curled his hands round the drink and flicked the ring pull with his thumb. ‘You can call me Mr Howell.’

  ‘What sort of name is that?’

  ‘Mine.’

  ‘Well, thanks for speaking to us, Mr Howell.’ Fenchurch rested his Pronto on the table. ‘It’s difficult for us to get this interview on the record.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you don’t exist, Mr Howell.’

  He let his arm go. His T-shirt rippled as it dropped. ‘None of us do.’

  Finally . . . ‘The way I understand it is you were born on a farm.’