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

by Ed James

  Howell picked at the ring pull. The can hissed and brown foam filled the lid. He bent forward and supped it up. ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘And, if you talk to us, they’ll harm people close to you.’

  Howell glugged down the drink, must’ve cleared half the can in one go. ‘My mother and my two sisters.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘But you do know?’

  Another drink. ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Mr Howell, you were caught engaging in illegal sexual activity. That club is an unlicensed brothel. Leaves you in serious trouble here. Name or no name, you’re going to prison.’

  ‘I want to help but I can’t.’

  Fenchurch huffed and got to his feet. ‘Come on, Kay, let’s see if the next one’s willing to speak.’

  ‘Wait.’ Howell held up his hand. ‘I can’t speak to you directly but there’s something that might help.’ He scratched his soul patch. ‘There was an event a few weeks ago, round the corner from . . .’ A sharp tug at the V of stubble. ‘From where you found me. Where I work.’

  Owen snuck into the room, holding up his hands.

  Fenchurch settled back in his chair. ‘Go on.’

  ‘We got taken to this hotel. Some sort of business was laying on a treat for their employees. There were men and women there, dressed up all fancy.’ Howell swallowed. ‘A South African woman took me to a room upstairs.’ His palms dug into his eye sockets. He let go, blinking hard. ‘She had a wedding ring on. She put it on the bedside table before she made me screw her. After I finished with her, they made me go back downstairs. Ding ding, round two.’ He hugged his arms tight. ‘A man claimed me as soon as I sat down. We went up to the same room upstairs. They’d already changed the sheets.’

  ‘I take it this was for more sex?’

  Another yank at the soul patch. ‘I was supposed to . . . take it from him.’ Howell let go of the mini beard. ‘I lay on my back. Before he got his pants off, he apologised for the size of his thing. And I don’t mean like it was going to hurt.’

  Fenchurch tilted his head and lifted his eyebrows just enough. ‘What did this man look like?’

  ‘He was a big guy. I think he was from Northern Ireland?’ He nodded at Fenchurch. ‘He had hair like yours, though.’ His cheeks rose as his forehead creased. ‘He had his way with me and then . . . tried to strangle me.’

  Fenchurch leaned forward. ‘Did you fight him off?’

  ‘I couldn’t. He was twice the size of me. Two men in suits burst in. They dragged him off me and just took him down. It was well brutal, man.’ Howell was stroking his soul patch like it was a pet. ‘These guys started kicking at him. Just kicked and kicked and kicked. Split his face open. It was just blood, man. Then they carried him away somewhere. I don’t know where, before you ask.’

  Fenchurch looked round at Owen. ‘This sounds like the Machine.’

  His skin had turned paler than snow. Looked like he’d found fairies at the bottom of his garden. ‘How did they know what he was doing to you?’

  ‘They were filming us at it. This company wanted to blackmail their employees.’

  So many rabbit holes this case could go down. ‘What did these men look like?’

  ‘They had beards like this.’ Howell drew a line with both fingers from ear to chin, where they met. Went back to fiddling the soul patch. ‘Pencil thin, you know?’

  Fenchurch shut his eyes. ‘Kershaw.’

  Owen pulled the door open. ‘I’ll make sure his lawyer hasn’t left the building.’

  Fenchurch watched him go. ‘Where was this hotel, Mr Howell?’

  ‘They didn’t tell us.’

  Reed scowled at him. ‘Did they stick a blanket over your head on the way there or something?’

  ‘They drove us there in a coach. The windows were blacked out.’

  ‘Do you remember anything about it, at all?’

  ‘No, man, we couldn’t see shit.’

  ‘What about at the other end?’

  ‘I remember a tall building.’ Howell waved his hands in the air, making a shape like a vase. Bulbous in the middle, tapering to a point.

  Fenchurch got up and grabbed his jacket. ‘The bloody Gherkin.’

  ‘I don’t care, I’m seeing him anyway.’ Fenchurch shrugged off the secretary and pushed open the office door. ‘I need a word.’

  DCI Thompson looked up from his glass desk. It took a few seconds for his jowls to stop wobbling. ‘My, we are blessed today.’ He swept a hand around his office, indicating a cream leather settee opposite. ‘Please, gentlemen, have a seat. Would you like a coffee and a Danish?’ He narrowed his eyes at his PA. ‘That’ll be all, Debs. Thanks.’

  ‘This place really does remind me of a bank.’ Fenchurch collapsed into one of the armchairs. ‘Or a gentlemen’s club.’ He waved for Reed to take the other chair. ‘You’re making this place look crowded. The Chief Inspector likes his minimalism. This is DS Reed.’

  Reed nodded at Thompson and perched on the front of the seat. ‘Have you got my work request?’

  ‘Work request?’ Thompson spread himself out on his settee. His tie dangled down to his gleaming brogues. ‘Care to refresh my memory?’

  ‘There’s got to be a reason you’re in on a Saturday.’

  ‘The City sleeps on a Saturday, Sergeant. It’s my time to catch up.’

  ‘Thought you’d be on the golf course?’

  ‘I’m more of a rugby man, as I’m sure you can tell.’ Thompson flashed a grin at her. ‘Now, what does this work request pertain to?’

  Reed handed him a sheet. ‘We got this off the PNC. Took us a while to find it.’

  As Thompson checked it, his smile twisted into a frown. ‘This is a suicide. What the hell’s this got to do with you lot?’

  ‘We know it’s suicide. This guy hung himself in a luxury hotel just by Liverpool Street station.’ Fenchurch snatched the page back and thwacked a fingernail off the paper. ‘We got a description of this man from a rent boy way out west. This guy tried to kill him after they had sex.’

  ‘I fail to see how this relates to that girl in the Minories?’

  ‘It’s a very long story, but there’s a pattern.’ Fenchurch passed the sheet back. ‘This guy fits it.’

  ‘So what do you want from me?’

  ‘DI Steve Clarke was the Senior Investigating Officer.’

  Thompson picked up an Airwave and stabbed at the screen with his trotter. ‘DCI Thompson to DI Clarke. Over.’ He held it up until it crackled.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘My office, now.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Thompson put the device back on the table. ‘We’re in on a Saturday doing work for a load of Scottish cops. Lost a few hundred million in the Caymans. Don’t know their arses from their elbows, that lot.’

  The door swooshed open behind them.

  ‘Ah, DI Clarke.’ Thompson smiled.

  Clarke joined him on the sofa, his beady eyes darting about the room. He raised an eyebrow at Reed. ‘You want me to arrest her, sir?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Thompson rested the print on the leather. ‘Have a look at this, Inspector.’

  Clarke picked up the page and cleared his throat. ‘Oh, I remember this one. Edmund Watson. Died a couple of months ago, right? Suicide.’

  Reed raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that your final answer?’

  Clarke let the sheet float to the floor. ‘What, you’re auditing my work now?’

  ‘Not as such. You said this was a suicide?’

  ‘That’s right. Standard protocol is to investigate as if it was a murder. The pathologist ruled that out. We had a suicide note about his secret gay life. Guy hung himself. End of.’ Clarke shrugged and got to his feet. ‘It’s a dead end.’

  ‘Not so fast.’ Fenchurch leaned forward in the chair. ‘We’ve found a string of cases like this. Suicides that are really murders. It’s a gang covering over its tracks.’

  ‘Tastes like shit,
Fenchurch, but sometimes a suicide is just a suicide.’

  Fenchurch stood up and paced over to the window. Bishopsgate below was darkening and weekend quiet. ‘Who did you speak to in Northern Ireland?’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘The victim was from there. I assume you spoke to the Police Service of Northern Ireland?’

  ‘Why would we?’ Clarke’s frown deepened. ‘The guy lived in Wembley. We had a Met liaison. Lot friendlier than you lot, too.’

  ‘What was the officer’s name?’

  ‘Kershaw, I think.’

  Kershaw rasped his hand across the stubble on his chin. ‘Look, I’m not speaking to you without a deal. Sorry.’

  Fenchurch was sitting next to Owen, like a coiled-up spring. Fizzing with energy. ‘We might have some progress on that front.’

  Kershaw smirked at his lawyer. Edgar, the same arse-faced gimp as before. ‘Bit late for that, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not sure, Paul.’ Fenchurch tossed his head from side to side. ‘You’re complicit in two murders.’

  ‘Two?’

  Fenchurch slid the print across the table, leaving it between lawyer and client. Neither went for it. ‘Edmund Watson. Grew up in the town of Lisburn in County Antrim. Lived in London since he was eighteen.’

  ‘That supposed to mean something to me?’

  ‘Cast your mind back a few weeks. The Legionnaire’s Hotel by Liverpool Street. Lovely place. You and a friend, I’m assuming it’s Bruco, hauled him off a rent boy.’ Fenchurch tapped the sheet. ‘This guy was strangling said rent boy. What did you do to him?’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘I want you to tell us everything.’ Fenchurch folded the sheet in half. ‘The only way you’re getting out of this heap of shit you’re in is by dropping other people in it.’

  ‘So the deal’s back on?’

  ‘It depends on what you know and what you tell us.’

  ‘Right.’ Kershaw stared at Edgar. ‘Get out.’

  Arse face started twitching. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I told you to leave.’ Kershaw put his mouth up to the mic. ‘I am terminating the employment of Gordon Edgar with immediate effect. He no longer represents me.’

  The lawyer was on his feet, grabbing hold of Kershaw’s shoulder. ‘You can’t do this to me!’

  ‘Get out!’

  ‘No!’

  The hulking custody officer picked Edgar off his feet, like he was a small child. He wrestled the scrambling lawyer out of the room.

  Kershaw let out a deep breath. ‘He works for them.’

  ‘The Machine?’

  ‘That’s very cute.’ Kershaw shrugged. ‘Works, though.’ He smoothed down his hair, making him look like a choirboy. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Names. Faces. Places. Audit trail. Everything.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  Fenchurch pointed at him. ‘Paul, you’re involved in the cover-up of at least two murders. This stuff at the hotel, how did you even get involved?’

  ‘I know people. A few quid here or there is enough to change a form.’

  ‘Were these people going to pick you up from that house?’

  ‘The heat was getting too much.’

  Fenchurch glared at Owen. His man-marking job wasn’t Premier League standard. ‘We know you killed this fella, then disposed of his body.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything! It was all Bruco!’

  ‘Who do you work for?’

  ‘I can’t . . .’

  ‘You’re as bad as your paymasters. Worse, maybe. You betrayed the trust people placed in you.’

  Kershaw nibbled at his lip. He’d cut it, blood staining his teeth. ‘I need a deal.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like you’ve got much to give us, then.’ Fenchurch folded his arms. ‘DCI Owen, what do you think?’

  A shrug. ‘I’ve got authority to offer a deal. It just depends on what we get in return.’

  Fenchurch stared at Kershaw, waiting until he got eye contact. ‘Well, what’s it to be?’

  ‘Other than Bruco, the only other person I’ve met is my handler.’ Kershaw crumbled in his chair, defeated and alone. He slumped back and covered his eyes. ‘His name is Alistair Barraclough.’

  ‘And who’s he?’

  ‘Don’t know. Just met him the once. Most of the time he sends me iMessages on my iPhone. They’re encrypted, so nobody can intercept them.’

  ‘And this is the guy who pays you?’

  ‘Not that you’re getting hold of any of that money.’

  ‘That’ll have to be part of any deal.’

  Kershaw lurched forward, like he was going for Fenchurch. ‘Come on, you can’t—’

  Owen grabbed his wrist and forced him down, face against the table. ‘That’s enough of that.’

  Fenchurch picked up his Airwave. ‘Kay, it’s Simon. Are you at a computer?’

  ‘Just sat down with a coffee, guv.’

  ‘Give me a PNC check on an Alistair Barraclough. Two Rs.’

  ‘Got it. One minute.’

  Kershaw smirked at Fenchurch, his cheek rubbing against the wood. ‘You know, you could check the PNC yourself.’

  The line crackled. ‘Here we go, sir. No priors against him.’

  ‘Got an address?’

  ‘One second.’ A pause filled with the clattering of a keyboard. ‘Place near Sudbury, on the Suffolk-Essex border.’ Another pause. ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve got an AKA for him. It’s Aleister Vaughn.’

  ‘What?’ Fenchurch’s stomach lurched. ‘The geezer from Darke Matter Capital?’

  ‘Just a sec.’ Seemed to take weeks. ‘Same guy, guv.’

  ‘Get units round to Canary Wharf. Now!’

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Still nobody at Canary Wharf.’ Fenchurch dumped the Airwave in the footwell and glanced over at Owen in the driver’s seat.

  The car rocked back and forth across the uneven road, Biblical rain hammering against the windscreen. Bare horse chestnut and oak lined both sides of the lane, smaller trees plugging the gaps. A small sign pointed back to Sudbury.

  Fenchurch waved to the right. ‘Think it’s down that lane.’

  The road forked by a sprawling thatched cottage, bright pink walls beneath the golden canopy.

  ‘You think?’ Owen swung right and turned the wipers up full. ‘We’re bloody lost, aren’t we?’

  ‘The map says it’s this way.’ Fenchurch tutted, eyes on the rear view for the convoy of other vehicles. A meat wagon trundled behind them, its indicator matching theirs. The rain obscured the other two lorries.

  Owen waved at a copse of modern houses sat back from the road, trampolines filling the front gardens. A church spire speared the clouds in the middle distance. ‘Rural England as I live and breathe. Sure beats my flat in Clapton.’

  ‘A DCI living in a flat?’

  ‘It’s cover. Got a massive house back home in Swansea. That’s my place during the week.’

  ‘And the Met pick up the bill?’

  ‘All part of the service.’ Owen steered down an even narrower lane, signposted for Griffin Farm. ‘He certainly likes his Greek mythology.’

  They passed the lane for the farm and pulled in. In the rear view, the two vans blocked it.

  Owen turned off the engine. He reached into his pocket for his Glock semi-automatic pistol and chambered a round. ‘I love these things.’

  Fenchurch couldn’t stop looking at it. ‘You ever killed anyone?’

  ‘Never fired in anger. You?’

  ‘Not even firearms trained. Never saw the point. Until Paris.’ Fenchurch looked out of the window, breathing hard. ‘Got my training next month.’ He motioned for the four squads to wait. Thirty officers, most of them carrying. Reed and Nelson hopped down from the last van.

  The farmhouse had clearly received a recent facelift. A latticework of steel mesh encased the crumbling stone. Painted girders and wooden panels jutted out. The origina
l building wasn’t even a quarter of the new monstrosity.

  Owen led up the drive past a Maserati and two Range Rovers. ‘Lot of money in hedge funds.’

  ‘Lot more in sex farms.’ Fenchurch stopped at the front door. He held out a palm to keep the black-clad officers at a distance.

  Owen knocked on the door and waited, gun ready.

  Through the window to the right was a colossal lounge, a grand piano sitting in the corner.

  A bolt unclicked, followed by another three. The door swept open. Aleister Vaughn peered out of the doorway. Green Barbour jacket and red trousers, navy hiking boots. He frowned, head tilted to the side. ‘Yes?’

  Fenchurch nodded. ‘Do you recognise me, Mr Vaughn?’

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘We met at your office on Thursday morning.’ Fenchurch took out his warrant card. ‘Aleister Vaughn, I’m arresting you under suspicion of human trafficking for the purposes of commercial sexual—’

  The door bounced off Fenchurch’s toes. ‘Bastard!’ He pushed forward, opening it.

  Inside, Vaughn was running down a hall, cutting left across a red carpet. He disappeared round the corner.

  ‘Not again.’ Fenchurch set off and twisted round the tight bend in the hall. An oak door slowly swung open on the rebound. He stopped, waiting for Owen to raise his weapon, and entered.

  It was a snooker room, the giant table covered in balls mid-game, two cues rested on the baize. It overlooked a sprawling lawn, the mesh fence of a tennis court just behind.

  The left-hand patio door hung open, curtains flapping in the breeze.

  Fenchurch shot off again. He cut round the table and raced through the door. No sign of Vaughn in the garden. Tall walls surrounded the lawn on both sides, edged with mature bushes, creepers covering most of the stone.

  Owen shouted into his earpiece: ‘I need a report from officers behind the property now!’

  Fenchurch ran into the middle of the lawn, spinning around to get a better view.

  A metal gate at the far side rattled as it bounced back. Behind it, Vaughn was jogging down a narrow lane between brick buildings.

  Fenchurch raced over and wrestled with the sharp edges of the metal. He tugged the gate open and stomped towards a wall. Another lane, leading in both directions, covered by a corrugated iron roof. Farm buildings at one end, a courtyard at the other. ‘Which way?’