In for the Kill (A DI Fenchurch novel Book 4) Read online

  ALSO BY ED JAMES

  DI FENCHURCH SERIES

  The Hope that Kills

  Worth Killing For

  What Doesn’t Kill You

  DC SCOTT CULLEN CRIME SERIES

  Ghost in the Machine

  Devil in the Detail

  Fire in the Blood

  Dyed in the Wool

  Bottleneck

  Windchill

  Cowboys and Indians

  DS DODDS CRIME SERIES

  Snared

  CRAIG HUNTER CRIME SERIES

  Missing

  Hunted

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2018 by Ed James

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503947962

  ISBN-10: 1503947963

  Cover design by @blacksheep-uk.com

  For Helen Cadbury, a great writer and a great friend, and Pooky, the gentlest cat I’ll ever know. Both taken from us far too soon. Fuck cancer.

  Contents

  Day 1 Monday, 14th November 2016

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Day 2 Tuesday, 15th November 2016

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Day 3 Wednesday, 16th November 2016

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  About the Author

  Day 1

  Monday, 14th November 2016

  Chapter One

  DI Simon Fenchurch pulled up at the side of the road, the November rain battering his windscreen. He killed the engine, the dead wipers leaving a blood-spatter pattern on the glass. Then a wall of water cleared it away. He glanced over at the passenger seat. ‘You okay?’

  Abi Fenchurch sat there, cradling her belly like the baby was already in her arms and she never wanted to let it go. Her right hand shot down and jabbed the seat belt release, sending the clasp whizzing up. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

  ‘Get it over with?’ Fenchurch caught her hand before it went back to the bump. The baby protruded in a way their first child hadn’t. The little sod was trying to batter his way out already. His son. Definitely not to be called Simon. ‘She needs space to come to terms with it.’

  Abi’s glare sliced straight to the back of his skull. ‘It’s been five months, Simon. Isn’t that enough time?’

  ‘They said it could take years.’

  ‘Years.’ She smoothed her top down, stretched like the skin underneath. ‘Years.’

  ‘I’ve seen ten-year-old kids who’ve had lifetimes of abuse. Chloe . . . Well, she didn’t have that. We were lucky in that sense, but . . .’

  ‘I don’t feel lucky.’

  ‘If it’s going to take years, then the sooner we get going, the sooner she’ll be back with us.’

  Abi’s sigh spoke a million words.

  Everything they’d talked about since someone kidnapped their daughter. Eleven and a half years. On and off. Mostly off. All that time since their daughter had been taken from them. The pain of separation, but never divorce. Not knowing what had happened. Until they found her, living under their noses in South London. Kept alive by someone who had betrayed their trust. Some savages had scooped out part of her brain, bringing her up as their own.

  A smile flickered across Abi’s lips as she leaned over and pecked him on the cheek, her citrusy perfume cloaking him. He let go of her hand and she belted up her coat.

  Fenchurch watched the busy road in his side mirror, waiting for a gap. There. He opened his door and stepped out. A puddle splashed up his trouser leg and soaked his shoe. Felt like his sock was still in the washing machine. He shook his foot off and raced round the front of the car to winch Abi out.

  She tried to stand up, bracing her back with both hands. ‘Christ, this isn’t fun.’ She snapped out her brolly and started waddling off.

  Fenchurch zapped the car and followed, the University of Southwark sprawled around them. Some of its ancient buildings predated the Fire of London. Others didn’t. The giant tower spiralled up into the sky, a grey box of sixties concrete darkened by the downpour. Jaines Tower, or something, the sort of name that looked French but sounded English when you read it out. A mile or so east the Shard pierced the rainclouds.

  Fenchurch jogged ahead and held the door for Abi, his suit jacket already soaked through to his skin. ‘I hate this bloody city.’

  Abi huffed past him, all elbows and knees. A long way from jogging. ‘We really should move.’

  This again . . .

  Fenchurch followed, clutching her hand, his shoes squeaking on the lino. ‘It’s not easy to get into Kent or Essex forces.’

  Abi grinned at him. ‘Even for a hero cop?’

  ‘With my record, love, I’d be lucky to be on traffic.’ Fenchurch scanned around the concourse. The Psychology Department was straight ahead. ‘We might not be able to move, anyway, if I can’t shift my old flat. London’s turned to shit when we need gold.’

  ‘Bloody Brexit.’ Abi was already out of breath. ‘Simon, if this is going to take years then let’s take our time, sell your flat first, before we think about what to do with ours. We need to focus on making sure Chloe’s okay.’

  Fenchurch nodded slowly. ‘Now that’s a plan.’ He led her down the corridor, the whole place stinking of bitter coffee and whiteboard pens. The signs for Psychology pointed to the right.

  Abi’s grip tightened.

  Chloe stood at the far end of the hallway, her thumbs tapping on her mobile. She had her mother’s figure, tall and muscular like a swimmer, and her father’s blue eyes and blond hair, though hers hadn’t gone to silver and still had traces of red dye at the tips. Chloe pocketed her phone and glowered at Fenchurch. Her father, the man who’d spent years of his life searching for her, who’d finally found her.

  She broke off eye contact and pushed open the door.

  Fenchurch had the worst seat in the room, sitting directly opposite the counsellor, Paddy
Mackintosh, a gnome in green and beige corduroy. Looked like he belonged back on the Emerald Isle but spoke as if he was doing continuity on Radio Four. Kept pushing his glasses up his nose.

  Behind his desk, the downpour sprayed the window, lashing it with each new gust. Students lurked outside, sucking on vape sticks and roll-ups as they cowered under the rain cover. A pair of police officers milled around in the distance, their acid-yellow vests bursting through the dull grey day.

  Paddy leaned forward, clasping his knees, his tongue digging into his cheek, stretching the skin like Abi’s belly. ‘I think we’re making progress here. Good progress.’ He nudged his specs until they dimpled his skin. ‘Jennifer, you say you’re—’

  ‘Her name is Chloe.’ Abi was sitting next to Fenchurch, squeezing the life out of his hand. ‘Chloe Geraldine Fenchurch.’

  ‘My name is Jennifer.’ Chloe kept looking at the floor. The West Country burr was softening, replaced by hard London. ‘This fiction you’ve created about me somehow being your daughter . . .’ Her gaze locked on to Fenchurch and Abi in turn, breaking off quickly. ‘You need to stop it.’

  ‘We’re not going to.’ Abi’s nails dug into Fenchurch’s skin. ‘Never.’

  ‘Haven’t you done enough damage?’ Chloe brushed her hair up at the side of her head, her fingers hovering in the spot where . . . where they’d . . . operated on her. Tearing out chunks of her brain, tearing out memories, leaving a blank page on which to build a lie. Fenchurch could barely breathe. ‘My parents are locked up because of you. I get to see them once a week. For half an hour.’

  ‘They’re not your parents.’ Fenchurch’s throat felt like it’d been sandblasted. ‘The tests were conclusive. You’re our daughter, not theirs.’

  ‘They raised me. You took them from me!’

  ‘Guys, can we simmer—’

  ‘Chloe, they’re crim—’

  ‘My. Name. Isn’t. CHLOE!’

  Fenchurch let go of Abi’s hand and rocked forward on his chair, the wood creaking beneath him. ‘You need to accept the truth. The sooner you do, the sooner we can all move on.’

  Chloe pressed a finger through her hair, deep into her scar. ‘I want nothing to do with you.’

  ‘Guys!’ Paddy made a T-shape with his hands. ‘Guys, I need you all to take a time out, okay? We seem to be getting to this point a lot earlier in each session.’

  ‘Twenty years ago, you were in your mother’s belly.’ Fenchurch stared at Abi’s tummy again, focusing on the new life growing in there, then back at Chloe. ‘You were born two months premature.’ He caught himself before a tear formed. ‘I didn’t sleep a wink while you were in that incubator. I kept pestering the doctors, seeing if there was anything I could do. Anything. I’d never been so worried in my life.’ His throat itched like he’d swallowed steel wool. ‘Until you were stolen from us.’

  Abi smiled at Chloe. ‘Look at you now. Just look—’ She broke off. Then whispered, ‘Just look at you.’

  ‘My mother’s name is Cheryl. She’s in prison.’

  ‘Abi’s your mother, not that animal.’ Sandpaper rubbed Fenchurch’s voice box. ‘Abi was a student when she fell pregnant. She dropped out of university to have you.’

  Tension knotted Chloe’s forehead. She sat there for a few seconds, her mouth hanging open, her finger pressing her temple. ‘Because of this weird obsession you’ve got with me, my mother is in prison. Are you a pervert or something?’

  Fenchurch gasped, his voice catching in his throat. ‘You—’ His fists clenched. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Forget it.’ Chloe rubbed at her nose and shifted her focus to the counsellor. ‘We’ve been doing this for, what, four months now?’

  Paddy nodded. ‘Do you feel uncomfortable?’

  ‘Bit of an understatement.’ Chloe ran her bottom lip against her teeth. ‘I don’t have to do this, do I?’

  ‘Now wait a—’

  Paddy’s raised finger cut Fenchurch off. ‘These sessions are voluntary, that’s correct. I would stress that—’

  Chloe got to her feet, her chair scraping back across the laminate flooring. She zipped up her jacket and hauled a laptop bag over her shoulder. ‘I’m not coming to any more of these.’ She stormed out of the room and slammed the door behind her. The thud echoed around the room.

  Fenchurch glared at Paddy. ‘She can’t do this, can she?’

  ‘This therapy is voluntary. I have to say, I—’

  Fenchurch marched over to the door and flew out into the corridor. ‘Come here!’

  Chloe was halfway along the hall. She turned to face him, frowning, then set off again, arms folded like her mother in one of their worst arguments.

  Fenchurch jogged after her and grabbed hold of her bag. ‘You need to come back!’

  ‘I don’t need to do anything, you arsehole.’ Chloe gave him all the eye contact she could muster, her father’s rage burning in her eyes. ‘You can stick that counselling up your arse!’

  He tugged at her bag. ‘Get back in there.’

  She slapped him. His cheek rasped, feeling like the sort of sunburn that turns your skin to crackling. She pushed his chest and he slammed into the wall and slid down, landing on his backside.

  Chloe stood over him, jabbing a finger in his face. ‘LEAVE. ME. ALONE!’

  All he could do was watch her charge off down the corridor, fists clenched, angled forward.

  No doubting who her parents were.

  Someone gripped his shoulder. ‘Come on, love.’ Abi, her purr bringing him back from DEFCON 1.

  Paddy was standing in the doorway, arms folded. He reached up and pressed his glasses to his forehead. ‘Well, now.’

  Fenchurch brushed Abi off and hauled himself up.

  ‘I know you’re having solo sessions with her.’ Abi smiled at Paddy. ‘Please, please, please, try and make sure she doesn’t give up on us.’

  Paddy’s glasses had already slid halfway down his nose. ‘After what I saw today, I’d say the counselling you two have been on for the last few months hasn’t quite cut the mustard.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Abi’s head hung low. ‘I shouldn’t have called her Chloe. It’s too soon.’

  ‘She needs to come to terms with this in her own time. Okay? We’ve got more time next Monday. Let’s focus on you two, okay?’

  Fenchurch sat in his office, fingers thundering on the keyboard, trying to batter the report into submission. Or something vaguely readable. The glow from the screen made his eyes sting. His stomach rumbled. Still too early for a burrito, even if it would beat the queues. Maybe not too early, then.

  He looked around the office, almost comfortable for one, but for two people, forget it. Mulholland’s desk was overflowing with paperwork. Her handbag sat on top of the biggest pile, next to a book.

  Fenchurch walked over and picked up the paperback. The Right Facts by Thomas K. Zachary. A man posed on the front. Young face, silver hair, sharp suit, sitting next to the Stars and Stripes.

  Fenchurch remembered — that guy from the election coverage that Abi had been so angry about. A far-right blogger from the States who’d got a gig at Southwark University and a column for the London Post.

  Fenchurch flicked through the pages. The text focused on the sort of shit that you would’ve seen in Germany in the thirties. Anti-everything — gay, trans, black, women. Especially gay, trans, black women. And members of the Jewish faith. And Muslims. And . . .

  And Mulholland was reading this shit.

  The door opened and Mulholland sashayed in, tucking her scarf around her scrawny neck. Turkey-skin flesh. No sign of her familiar or her broomstick. ‘Oh, Simon, I thought you’d still be out?’ Her public-school accent sliced through him.

  ‘Finished early, Dawn.’ Fenchurch dropped the book and returned to his seat. He tried to focus on the monitor while he typed.

  Mulholland sat in the chair in front of his desk, perched forward, forehead creased. ‘Are you okay, Simon?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ More
typing, putting anything down on the page.

  ‘You had a session with Chloe, didn’t you?’

  Fenchurch barely grunted. Had a look at what he was writing. Only so many words you can use to describe a stabbing.

  ‘Alan asked me to cover until lunchtime.’

  He reached down for a sip of tea. Cold. Tasted like second-hand sick. ‘Finished early, so I’m trying to get on with work. If you don’t mind?’

  She smirked at him. ‘Sure you don’t want to thank me for covering your shift while you were out?’

  Fenchurch sat back and folded his arms. ‘What, have you been called out to a murder scene?’

  ‘No. But—’

  ‘Then you’ve not really covered for me, have you?’ Fenchurch nodded at his monitor. ‘Cos this report’s still sitting here, barely written.’

  ‘Simon.’ Mulholland got to her feet, hands on hips. ‘You know you can talk to me about your daughter. I worked the original case, if you remember.’

  Oh, I remember.

  The memory jolted at the back of his head. Her secret, the piece of incompetence only he knew about. Not that anybody would believe him. But it still stung.

  ‘Going through this all over again must be horrendous.’

  Fenchurch rested his fingers on the keyboard. ‘I need to get this off to Docherty, so if you don’t mind?’

  ‘Very well.’ She flounced over to her desk and sat, pouting at her Airwave Pronto. She put it to her ear and started talking. Loud, looking right at Fenchurch. ‘Tom, thanks for the update. If you can drill down to a finer level of granularity before we push it upstairs, okay?’

  Fenchurch sat forward, his screen blocking her out. He read the last paragraph. Absolute gibberish. He deleted it.

  ‘Tom, if you’re asking me to escalate, then I need a deep dive on the issue. I can’t just run this up the flagpole and see who salutes, can I?’

  The door cracked open and DCI Alan Docherty slouched in, wincing. Skinny as a rake. In fact, skinnier than ever, his dark suit hanging off him like the Grim Reaper’s cloak. He nodded at Fenchurch, then sat with a groan. Yawned into his fist. ‘Thought you weren’t back until after you’d destroyed a burrito, Si?’

  ‘Finished early.’