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

by Ed James

  ‘You try anything and I’ll inject her.’ The doctor sneered at him, his bulbous nose flaring. He pressed his thumb on the plunger. ‘This’ll kill her quicker than you can take me down.’

  Fenchurch lowered the baton and held out his hand. He smiled at the woman, his heart thudding. ‘It’s Alison, right?’

  She nodded furiously. Eyes red, streaked with tears.

  ‘Alison, we’re going to get you out of here, okay?’

  She blinked a few times. Looked worn out, worse than Fenchurch felt.

  Fenchurch focused on the doctor again and took a step forward. ‘Let her go and we’ll see what we can do about not prosecuting you.’

  The doctor swallowed. ‘I’m a smart man, I know it’s over. I just want to get out of here.’

  ‘So why not let her go?’

  The doctor pressed the needle into her throat. ‘There’s nothing you can—’

  A shot tore at the doctor’s arm. The report cannoned off the wall, screaming in Fenchurch’s ears like a drill.

  The doctor staggered backwards, clutching his wrist and screeching.

  The syringe dropped from the woman’s neck and tumbled onto the floor. Fenchurch spun round.

  Reed was staring at a gun, smoke curling up from the end of the barrel. She said something Fenchurch couldn’t hear.

  ‘What?’

  Reed swallowed hard. ‘I said, I’ve never done that before.’

  ‘First time for everything.’ Fenchurch grabbed the screaming doctor and forced him to the ground. Blood was pooling on the floor. He snapped a cuff on his right wrist, still intact, and stuck the other one on the radiator. He got out his Airwave. ‘I need urgent medical attention in the main building. Location is secure, repeat, location is secure. Send a medic now!’ The ringing in his ears blocked out the response. Someone was screaming. Alison. He stood up, loosened her restraints and hugged her tight. ‘It’s okay, you’re safe now.’

  She gripped him so hard he might turn to diamond. ‘Thank you.’ He felt it through her body more than heard it.

  Moaning came from somewhere. There was another door behind her.

  Fenchurch frowned at it. ‘What’s through there?’

  Alison pulled away and stroked her throat where the doctor’s needle had been. Her lips twitched.

  ‘Wait here.’ Fenchurch walked across the room, heart beating double time, and nudged the door open with his baton.

  The room was dim, just a shaft of light crawling across the shiny floor. The moaning grew louder.

  He reached around for a switch and clicked it on. Overhead strip lights flickered into life, each flash showing wheelchairs in all directions. Must be twenty or thirty of them. It stayed on. The walls were filled with men in wheelchairs, eyes wide, looking at him.

  A hand grabbed his arm, gripped it tight. He swung round.

  It was a man in a wheelchair, eyes pleading with him.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The black-clad ninja helped the groaning guard to his feet and led him off down the corridor.

  Fenchurch glanced over at Reed then crouched down to look the doctor in the eye, almost touching foreheads. ‘You’re going to talk to me.’

  ‘I don’t know anything.’ The doctor spat on the floor. Bloody spittle spattered on the lino next to the pool of blood. The handcuffs rattled as he reached around to ease his shoulder. ‘You’re wasting your time with me.’

  Fenchurch stood up tall, his ribs aching worse than ever. Drums thumped four-four time. ‘Looks like there’s a couple of hundred people here. We need to identify them.’

  ‘You’re getting nothing out of me.’ The doctor sneered. ‘I can help if you’ll spare me from prosecution.’

  ‘If you help, I’ll get a doctor to look at that bullet wound. That’s it. Someone needs to be prosecuted for this.’

  The doctor stared at his hand, swabbed in bandages already soaked through, and grimaced.

  Fenchurch was tempted to stick a pen into his wound. ‘Is there anything like a register here?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘Who might?’

  The doctor narrowed his eyes. ‘Who are you looking for?’

  Fenchurch spoke in an undertone. ‘Ten years ago, a little girl was taken from outside a flat in Islington. Her name was Chloe. She’d be eighteen by now.’

  A frown danced across the doctor’s face. He didn’t say anything.

  Fenchurch growled at him. ‘I could stick something in that wound to make it a lot worse. Chilli powder for starters. Do you rename the girls you bring in?’

  ‘What would be the point in that?’

  Fenchurch swallowed. ‘So you’re still taking kids off the street?’

  ‘Shit.’ The doctor screwed his eyes tight. ‘Yes, we are.’

  ‘And what happens to them?’

  ‘I want a deal.’

  ‘Talk first.’

  ‘Okay.’ He spat out a laugh. ‘The guys who take the kids do it indiscriminately. They’re like bike thieves, just grabbing whatever they can get their hands on. Some pretty, some . . . not so.’

  ‘What happens when they come here?’

  ‘We inspect the merchandise. Grade them. Prize-winning cattle or substandard dairy herd.’ The doctor grimaced. ‘Pretty boys and pretty girls make pretty babies. The girls get treated like little princesses.’

  ‘I’ve seen. And the others?’

  He ran a tongue over his thin lips. ‘They’ve never had a problem selling a small child.’

  Fenchurch grabbed his arm and twisted it. ‘Who do you sell them to?’

  ‘I don’t get involved in that.’

  ‘But you know who does?’

  ‘You’re hurting me.’

  ‘Good.’ Fenchurch loosened his grip. ‘Who knows?’

  ‘It’s only something I’ve heard about. There are groups who meet to buy and sell small kids. Do what they want with them and then dispose of the bodies.’

  ‘This doesn’t disgust you?’

  ‘It’s a tough world out there. Got to earn a crust somehow.’

  ‘I’m going to ask again. Do you know a Chloe?’

  ‘The only Chloe I’ve seen came in two years ago. She was ten.’ The doctor groaned. ‘I really need someone to look at this bullet wound.’

  A queue snaked around the sodden yard, converging on Bridge and Lad as they led the groups of women to the waiting coaches. Teams of officers were processing their identification, umbrellas up and clipboards out.

  Reed walked out of the first chalet and held up her Airwave. ‘Aleister Vaughn’s just arrived back at Leman Street.’

  Fenchurch couldn’t clench his fists any tighter. ‘How much would it cost to have five minutes alone with him?’

  ‘Already asked, guv. Owen said we had to join the queue. Same with Kershaw.’

  ‘Get the duty doctor to check his head. You cracked him a good one there.’

  ‘Cheers, guv. My jaw’s fine, by the way.’ She snorted and folded her arms. ‘Story here’s the same as The Alicorn and the George. Nobody showing up on any database. Nobody speaking.’

  ‘Christ. This bloody place . . .’

  Reed clapped him on the shoulder. ‘We’ve done a good thing today.’

  ‘It’s not over yet. Those women in the chalets . . . I was expecting mud and pig huts. They’re like pedigree dogs at Crufts.’

  Reed flicked damp hair out of her eyes. ‘There’s a couple of women who we haven’t processed yet. Won’t leave their rooms.’

  ‘Let me know how it goes.’ Fenchurch paced off, fists clenched. He hauled the mobile crime unit’s door open.

  Nelson stood over the guard from the office, Owen lurking behind. ‘Again, what’s your story?’

  ‘Again, I’m not telling you nothing.’

  Fenchurch crouched down. ‘It’s Orson, isn’t it?’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘We’ve met your brother. Winston, right?’ Nelson glanced over at Fenchurch. ‘I’m guessing you
were both taken years ago. Why didn’t they break your legs, though?’

  Orson looked away, rubbing at his neck.

  ‘You can see your brother if you help us.’

  ‘Sod it.’ Orson gave a slight shake of the head. ‘They spared us because Winston made one of them laugh. That’s it. They let us help out. We’re pretty high up now.’

  ‘Who was it spared you?’

  He looked at the ground. ‘There’s a good reason you’ve not found this place or the others until now. We don’t speak.’

  Fenchurch grabbed him by the throat. ‘Where are the other places?’

  ‘Easy, easy!’ Owen nudged him away.

  Fenchurch glared at him, tempted to swing for him and get Orson to open up. He pointed at Nelson then stormed outside.

  Two paramedics wheeled moaning men out of the building while Clooney led a team through the mud, taking care as they crossed the puddles.

  Nelson let out a deep breath and pointed at the brick building. ‘The paramedics reckon they’ve got better gear here than most hospitals. Important to keep your cattle in good nick, right?’

  ‘It’s beyond barbaric, Jon. Beyond—’

  ‘Guv!’ Reed was jogging across the yard towards them. One arm waving at them, the other cradling an umbrella. ‘We’ve got one.’

  ‘One what?’

  Reed came to a halt. Rain slicked off the brolly in a wide arc. ‘We’ve got a woman with a name on the system.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Susan Frost. I checked it with General Register House. She exists.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She said she was abducted a few years ago and brought here.’ Reed held up her Pronto. ‘Just did a PNC check, guv. There’s a MisPer report matching her name. She was taken from Nottingham in 1998.’

  ‘Bring her out here.’

  ‘That’s the thing, guv, she’s one of the ones not coming out of her room. Come on.’ Reed jogged across the pebbles and entered a chalet. She led them through to a bedroom. ‘It’s okay, Susan, it’s DS Reed. My boss wants a word.’

  A woman sat on the bed, right up against the wall. Early thirties, blonde hair tied in a ponytail. A single-strap black cocktail dress fanned out around her legs.

  Fenchurch crouched in front of her, struggling to control his breathing. ‘You’re safe now, Susan. Okay?’

  Didn’t look like she thought she would be. ‘They’ll hurt them.’

  ‘Nobody’s going to hurt anyone. Okay?’

  She sniffed and adjusted the strap on her dress.

  ‘Susan, what happened when they took you?’

  ‘I was sixteen, working in a clothes shop. I’d left school, thought I was it, you know?’ Her accent still had tinges of the Nottingham grit. ‘I was shutting down for the night and this noise came from behind me. Bang. I turned round and a bloke grabbed me. Stuck me in a van and drugged me. Next thing I know, I woke up here.’ She nibbled at her lip. ‘A doctor had a look at me. Did some tests and injected me with stuff.’ She looked away. ‘Then they made me have sex.’

  ‘With the men who kidnapped you?’

  She shook her head, her hair dancing around. ‘With a boy. Thomas. He was pretty.’ She bunched up a handful of her tights. ‘He was in a wheelchair.’

  Fenchurch clenched his jaw. ‘What happened next?’

  ‘I had a girl called Margaret.’ She scowled. ‘And another one, Tabatha. Then Diana. Then a boy called David.’ She let go of her tights. Her fingers twitched in the air. ‘They took David away from me when he was a baby. Diana’s the only one who stayed. She’s got three girls now.’ She bit her painted lip. ‘They already took two of them.’

  ‘What about your other two children?’

  ‘They took Margaret and Tabatha years ago. Margaret was seventeen. Tabby was only fifteen.’

  ‘Where did they go?’

  ‘I don’t know. Someone said London.’

  ‘Where are the men who did this to you?’

  ‘They never speak to us.’

  ‘I need you to help me.’ Fenchurch waved Reed back and leaned forward. ‘Does the name Chloe mean anything to you?’

  ‘Should it?’

  Fenchurch exhaled slowly. ‘What about Erica?’

  Susan looked up, eyes wide. ‘Erica?’ She swallowed. ‘Diana had a daughter called Erica. They took her away. Do you know where she is?’

  Fenchurch got out his Pronto and showed her a photo of Erica. ‘Is this her?’

  ‘Oh my God.’ Her face collapsed in on itself. ‘My baby. What’s happened to her?’

  ‘She’s safe. We’ve got her in protective custody.’

  Susan let her head fall. Tears streamed down her cheeks. ‘When can I see her?’

  ‘Soon.’ Fenchurch found the case photos on his Pronto. He’d cracked the screen somehow. Both Jane Does, one grainy CCTV, the other a crystal-clear morgue shot. ‘These girls are connected to a case in London.’ He held it out to her. ‘Do you know them?’

  She looked away. ‘You need to speak to Alison.’

  Alison was inside the medical facility. A male paramedic was checking her out, listening to a stethoscope against her chest. She smiled when Fenchurch entered the room.

  ‘Finally getting some reaction from you, eh?’ The paramedic glanced at Fenchurch. Then did a double take. ‘Oh, didn’t see you there.’

  Fenchurch nodded at the door. ‘Could you give us a second?’

  The paramedic tore off his gloves and let the stethoscope dangle free. ‘Be back soon.’

  Fenchurch perched on a metal chair next to the bed. ‘How are you doing, Alison?’

  She pulled her cardigan tight. ‘He was going to . . . euthanise me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m too old.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Thirty-two.’

  ‘You’re ten years younger than me.’

  She clenched her jaw and gasped. ‘I can’t have any more children. Lord knows they try to make me. My girls are all gone. They say I’m useless now.’

  Fenchurch swallowed hard and got out his Pronto. He found the CCTV image of their first Jane Doe and held it out. ‘Do you recognise this woman?’

  ‘Oh, my little girl.’ Alison put a hand to her mouth, eyes wide. ‘That’s Ursula. My oldest daughter. Where was she?’

  ‘London.’ He held out his Pronto again. No CCTV screen grab this time, just the morgue photo. ‘What about her?’

  Her eyes filled with tears. ‘That’s Yasmin. Her sister.’ She couldn’t control her forehead. Great twitches flashed across it. ‘What’s happened to them?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve got some very bad news for you.’

  She lashed out and threw the Airwave against the wall. It clattered and the back fell off. ‘My babies!’ Her head collapsed, like it weighed a ton. Her whole body shook. She looked up, eyes full of fury. ‘Who did this to them?’

  ‘He’s dead now.’ Fenchurch bent over to pick up his Pronto. The back didn’t quite fit any more. The paramedic was tapping his watch by the door. ‘We’ll get you back to London and start from there, okay?’

  The paramedic came in and beamed at Alison. The metal chair groaned as he sat. ‘Now, Ms Carr, let’s get you sorted, shall we?’

  Carr?

  Fenchurch frowned. Shit. He spun back round. ‘Did you say Carr?’ He barged the paramedic out of the way. ‘Alison, what was your mother’s name?’

  ‘Michaela.’ She smiled, bittersweet and wistful. More twitching on her forehead. ‘She’s not here any more.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She tried to escape. A long time ago.’ Alison put her hand to her face and let out a breath. ‘She tried to take me with her. They caught me, but she got away. She left me behind. I thought she’d come back for me.’ She covered her eyes. ‘That’s the last time I saw her. I was ten. Do you know what happened to her?’

  ‘My father’s investigating something . . .’ Fenchurch grimaced as he reached back into his pocket
for his Pronto. He pulled up the PNC report. ‘Her body was found in 1993. Her parents reported her missing in 1982, aged sixteen.’

  ‘I was born the next year. Oh my God.’ Her panting breath sounded like laughter but her face gave lie to it. She put a hand to her mouth, eyes watering. ‘Are they still alive?’

  ‘I don’t know. We’ll find out.’ Fenchurch put the Pronto away. ‘Did anyone else try to escape?’

  ‘A few years ago, Pauline and Joan tried. They were my friends. They killed them and punished the rest of us for it. They did this to me.’

  She held out her arm. There was a deep gouge just below her wrist.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Mr Vaughn, I’m asking you a question here.’ Fenchurch stared at the blotchy white wall of the interview room. A fresh weal of graffiti was near the bottom, no sign of its creator.

  Docherty let out a deep sigh and motioned to Fenchurch to continue.

  ‘At least you could do me the courtesy of answering.’

  Vaughn ran a hand through his hair and revealed a bald spot. Like lifting a car’s bonnet to find the engine gone. He reset the elaborate comb-forward and restored the parting. ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘A full and frank confession.’

  ‘That’s not going to happen.’

  Fenchurch leaned over, scowling at him. ‘Before you shot one of my colleagues, you ran away from us at your farm. Why?’

  Vaughn gave a thin-lipped smile. ‘Because I feared for my life.’

  ‘Right. You ran into a chalet. There’s a whole lot of them. We found over a hundred people living in them. What were they doing there?’

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

  ‘These people either don’t officially exist or they’ve been missing for a very long time.’ Fenchurch gave a mock frown. ‘Here’s a funny coincidence. A lot of the girls who worked at The Alicorn grew up on your farm. Can you believe it?’

  ‘The where?’

  ‘The Alicorn. It’s a lap-dancing bar. Owned by a business called Dragon Entertainment Holdings. Problem is, it’s all offshored. Needs someone with a lot of knowledge of high finance to do that. Now, what does a hedge fund do? Offshoring’s certainly part of it.’