What Doesn't Kill You (A DI Fenchurch novel Book 3) Read online

  ‘What did you do that for?’ The protestor stared after his fallen weapon. ‘That prick killed this country!’ He shot off, his Adidas Sambas squeaking against the floor.

  ‘Oh, bollocks.’ Fenchurch pointed at Reed. ‘Kay, get Ingham out of here!’

  Reed put her Airwave to her lips. ‘All units, we need to get Lord Ingham out of Exit B. Delivery vehicle to Exit B!’

  Four of the riot squad surrounded Ingham, each one grabbing a limb and lifting him clean off the floor.

  Fenchurch jogged off, waving at Clarke as he burst through the side door. ‘He’s getting away!’

  The protestor dropped his shoulder like an old-time winger and swung round a kink in the hallway, disappearing out of sight.

  Fenchurch raced after him, his old man’s knees grinding with each step. He screeched to a stop in the empty foyer.

  The front door burst open and two armed officers stormed in from Bishopsgate.

  Fenchurch paced over to them. ‘Have you seen a man in a grey shirt?’

  ‘Nobody’s come out here, sir.’

  ‘Shit.’ The auditorium entrance was blocked off, but there was another door just past it. ‘Oh, bollocks.’ Fenchurch raced down the hallway and yanked the door open. A marble stairwell, footsteps ricocheting down from above. ‘Follow me!’ He clambered up, taking the stairs two at a time. Round the corner, then up again, panting hard. Another door at the top. He opened it slowly, sucking in traffic fumes. The building’s roof, a wide, flat expanse, like an American prairie. Some big sheds lay at the far side like they were about to topple over.

  Fenchurch raised his baton and stepped out, evening light bouncing off the nearby skyscrapers.

  Where had the stupid bastard gone? Not like he had a chopper on the roof . . .

  Something hit Fenchurch’s shoulders from behind and he stumbled forward, sliding in the loose gravel. A dead weight crushed his knees against the concrete, the stones digging into his cheeks.

  Bastard!

  The protestor rolled off and got to his feet. He stabbed a finger at Fenchurch. ‘You’ve no idea what he’s done to people!’

  Fenchurch stuck out a leg and tried to lever himself up. ‘Try me.’

  ‘No chance.’ The protestor spun round and ran away again. DI Clarke burst out of the door, making their target veer away.

  Fenchurch got up and sprinted towards the protestor, his limp easing off after a few strides. The protestor’s eyes were on Clarke as he sped up, his shoes slapping off the concrete. He caught sight of Fenchurch and skidded as he tried to turn. Pebbles bounced across the roof. He rolled forward, tumbling towards the sheds. He thumped into one, crunching through the wooden slats.

  A whine came from the shed, like a million tiny klaxons going off at the same time. High-pitched vuvuzelas. Small dots formed around the protestor, darting through the air at him.

  ‘Ah! Ah!’ He tucked himself into a ball. ‘Get them off me! Ah!’

  Fenchurch stepped forward, squinting.

  A bloody beehive.

  Chapter Two

  Fenchurch clutched his paper cup, his other hand resting on the warm metal barrier. He basked in a little sliver of sun, Bishopsgate now mostly in the shadow of the towers. He took a scalding sip of tea. Not exactly the best drink for the weather. ‘Reckon they’re ready for us yet?’

  Reed caught a coffee dribble on her chin. ‘Probably.’

  ‘Shame to leave this.’ Fenchurch’s personal mobile rang. He checked the display and answered the call, facing away from Reed. ‘Liam.’

  ‘Evening.’ Liam Sharpe’s voice sounded a flat cap and whippet more northern on the phone. ‘Just a quick one to say I’ve just spoken with Yvette Farley.’

  The Bishopsgate Institute was just round the bend. She was probably still in there, schmoozing Gomez into an interview. Or bed.

  ‘What’s this about, Liam?’

  ‘She’s running the story.’

  Fenchurch’s shoulders slackened off a notch.

  ‘You’ve bagged the front page, mate.’ Liam laughed down the line. ‘Saving that Tory gimp helped.’

  Fenchurch locked eyes with Reed and looked away. ‘It wasn’t a rally, Liam.’

  ‘Well, whatever, you’re a hero in her eyes. The magazine is all about Chloe.’

  Fenchurch’s stomach lurched. Over the road, a tall man marched past, bulging out of his navy suit, a black suitcase trundling behind him. Fenchurch cleared his throat with a thick cough. ‘I take it my father’s happy.’

  ‘Over the moon. Just hope it helps.’

  ‘Look, I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Can we meet for breakfast tomorrow?’

  ‘Text me where you want to meet.’ Fenchurch switched his phone off.

  ‘Liam Sharpe?’ Reed took another sip of coffee. ‘You’re playing with fire, guv.’

  ‘It’s Dad that’s doing it.’ Fenchurch covered over a yawn and finished his tea, dumping the carton in the recycling point next to them. ‘The boss is fine with it.’

  ‘Is your wife?’

  Fenchurch let the air seep out through his nostrils. ‘Abi’s not speaking to him.’

  The station’s front door opened and Clarke stepped out. ‘The duty doc’s just finished with him. Other than a few bee stings, he’s ready for us.’

  Fenchurch cracked his knuckles. ‘We really need to get off, Steve.’

  ‘Not my call, Simon.’ Clarke led them back inside. He opened the door and let Reed go up first. ‘We’ve assisted you lot a few times over the last six months or so. This is a bit of the old quid pro quo.’

  ‘And we’ve returned the favour.’ Reed stomped up the stairs, her flat shoes thwapping off the steps. ‘Just don’t get why you need us babysitting you on your own patch.’

  ‘Charming as ever, Kay.’ Clarke followed her up, the dirty sod staring at her arse. ‘Did you enjoy the show?’

  Reed spun round at the top, frowning. ‘What, Ingham throwing his toys out of the pram?’

  ‘Yeah. What do you make of him?’

  Fenchurch shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t vote for him.’

  ‘We’re keeping an eye on this Travis lot. New kid on the block and all that.’ Clarke stopped at the start of the short corridor. ‘Anyway, like I said, the good news is our friend doesn’t have an allergy to honeybees.’

  Fenchurch pointed at the ceiling. ‘Was that some sort of environmental thing on the roof?’

  ‘Nothing to do with me. I just police the City.’ Clarke raised up his hands, his palms almost white for once. Definitely a natural tan, then. ‘Anyway, DS Reed, can you take Lord Ingham’s statement?’ He waited for the most grudging of nods, then grinned at Fenchurch. ‘Now, let’s you and me get in with Mr Nutwell.’

  ‘Nutter?’

  ‘Wayne Nutwell.’ Clarke rolled his eyes. ‘I’ll get things started.’ He entered the interview room.

  Reed crumpled her cup into a ball and chucked it in a bin. ‘This is going beyond the scope of our job, isn’t it?’

  ‘Just a bit.’ Fenchurch’s turn to roll his eyes. ‘Hurry up Ingham’s statement, yeah?’

  ‘Guv.’

  ‘Cheers, Kay.’ Fenchurch pushed into the interview room.

  Inside, Clarke was resting on the table, blocking Fenchurch’s view of the protestor. The digital recorder was already flashing away and the room smelled as if someone had blasted it with cheap deodorant, like some kid covering his dope smoke. ‘DI Fenchurch has entered the room.’ He stood and got out of the way.

  Nutwell’s left eyebrow was covered by a huge swelling, like the worst attack of acne ever. The skin was redder than his sunburn. He prodded it, then winced. ‘This is agony.’

  ‘The duty doctor has cleared you for interview, sir.’ Fenchurch plonked himself down, like they were just chatting over coffee. ‘We’d like to go over the events of this evening, if that’s all right. Do you want a lawyer?’

  ‘I don’t believe in them.’ Nutwell snarled at him. ‘Like vampires, they just suck money inst
ead of blood. They’re scum, the lot of them.’

  Fenchurch closed his eyes. We’ve got a live one here. ‘Are you a taxi driver, sir?’

  ‘What?’ Nutwell pulled a face, patting at his welt. ‘Just because I drive a cab doesn’t mean I’m a mug. No. I’m an intellectual. I read a lot. Political science, economics. None of that neoliberal shit, either.’

  Bet you don’t . . .

  Fenchurch got out his Airwave Pronto and stabbed the stylus on the screen to wake the device. ‘Take us through what happened at the Bishopsgate Institute this evening.’

  Nutwell leaned across the table and kept his voice low. ‘You know who that scumbag is?’

  Fenchurch smiled at him. ‘Why don’t you tell us?’

  ‘Lord Ingham. Tory bastard, lining his own pockets.’ Nutwell rubbed at his eyebrow, like he was squeezing the sting. ‘Old money, but he’s owned by the banks. Where there’s money, there’s corruption.’ He sniffed. ‘His sort have ruined this country. Ruined it. People like him want to tear us from the EU just to line their own pockets and rip up the human rights legislation. It’s not perfect, but it’s fixable. Meanwhile, they’re spreading all these lies about immigration. What’ll they replace the EU with? Do they even have a plan?’

  Heard it all before so many times. Another idiot with a mouth but no idea how to fix anything.

  Fenchurch tapped some notes into the Pronto, letting Nutwell’s words echo round the room. ‘Why were you at the talk this evening?’

  ‘I’m actually a big believer in this Travis company.’ Nutwell ran a hand across his chin. ‘They’re doing things the right way, you know? I get a few fares from them. Very nice earner.’ He sniffed again. ‘Lord Ingham’s sort, they’re stopping people taking control of their own destiny. He’d rather this city had automatic cars, I bet. So the taxi firms don’t have to pay drivers. That’s coming, by the way. You mark my words, all the cars on the road will be driverless by 2025.’ His eyes narrowed, the left one disappearing behind the sting. ‘That’s what the Jews want.’

  Oh, shit.

  Fenchurch glanced at Clarke, his wince reflected.

  ‘You listening to me?’ Nutwell’s gaze shot between the pair of them. ‘Ingham’s in their pockets. The Jews are in charge of all this. They did 9/11, you know? They want to steal our money and instigate the New World Order, just you watch.’

  Fenchurch glanced at Clarke and clocked his eye roll. Here we bloody go . . .

  ‘Well done for keeping a straight face, Inspector.’ Fenchurch blew air up his face as he leaned back against the door. ‘So he is a nutter, after all.’

  ‘He had me going for a bit.’ Clarke smoothed down a cactus of hair sticking up. ‘Then, boom, it’s all this anti-Semitic shit.’

  ‘We get more than our fair share of conspiracy freaks on my patch. I’ll send up some tinfoil hats, if you want?’

  Clarke stopped fiddling with his hair, his hand floating in the air. ‘Why would you wear a tinfoil hat?’

  ‘Tinfoil’s the only way to block the CIA’s mind-control rays.’

  Fenchurch trundled the Mondeo along the road, keeping pace with Ingham’s dark-grey Bentley. The long street had a gentle curve, so you never saw the horizon, just the tall walls lining both sides, shrouded with taller trees.

  The Bentley stopped outside an entrance bookended by oaks, their leaves dappling the sunlight. The gates slid open automatically and the car crawled through the gap in the brick, parking next to a sunbathing Range Rover on a paved drive bigger than most streets. A grey house loomed behind, offering size more than class or beauty.

  Fenchurch pulled his car forward and blocked the entrance.

  Reed slumped back in the passenger seat and folded her arms. ‘It doesn’t look like much, does it, guv?’

  ‘Bet there’s a swimming pool and cinema in there.’ Fenchurch switched off the engine. ‘Paid fifty million for it, according to Clarke.’

  Another look from Reed. ‘Shut up.’

  ‘I’m serious. Must be worth double that now.’

  Reed’s expression darkened further. She jolted forward and wound down her window. ‘Here we go.’

  The house’s front door flew open and two hulking giants in black suits emerged, eyes darting around. Ingham got out of the back of the Bentley, his toad face bunched up tight. ‘You have my permission to leave!’ He gave a flourishing wave in Fenchurch’s general direction and marched off into the house.

  ‘What a charming wanker.’ Reed let her window grind up as she yawned. ‘Didn’t even bother to thank us.’

  ‘Him noticing us ants is enough thanks, Kay. We should be grateful.’ Fenchurch caught her yawn as he stuck the car in gear and twisted the key in the ignition. ‘I suppose we’d better head back to the station.’

  ‘If you insist, guv.’

  Fenchurch pulled off. His phone started flashing. Docherty. ‘What does he want?’ He parked a few metres down the road and put the car in neutral. ‘Evening, boss.’

  ‘There you are.’ Docherty’s Scottish accent sounded like it could stab you over the phone. ‘Been trying to call you all night.’

  ‘Sorry. Phone’s been off. Kay and I were doing that favour for DI Clarke.’

  ‘That all done, aye?’

  ‘For now.’

  ‘Right, well, I’ve got no time for a handover tonight. I’m heading home, but a case has just spilled all over my lap.’

  Fenchurch tightened his grip on the wheel. ‘And you want us on it.’

  ‘Aye. Body at a building site out at Bromley-by-Bow. Have fun.’

  Chapter Three

  And I’ve got stacks of novels still to read. I’ll fill my suitcase with paperbacks.’ Fenchurch got out of the car into the balmy night, the air feeling heavy as a suit of armour. ‘But it’s the heat I can’t stand.’

  ‘Abi loves it.’ Reed led down the pavement. ‘Just another sacrifice you’ll have to make, guv.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  The A10 rumbled behind them, three lanes of night-time traffic heading to the Blackwall Tunnel and south London. The developers had been working the other side of the road for years, turning the industrial land all the way to the City into new vacant towers. Now it was this side’s turn.

  A narrow row of boards advertised the ‘BbB’, like that meant anything to anyone. Artists’ impressions rested under a dusting of harmless graffiti, glass-and-chrome penthouses overlooking the Thames. Just a splodge of waste ground between Bow School’s Waterside Theatre and an older site, stuck next to the motorway but miles from the on-ramp. The nearest tube or DLR must be a mile or so. The next-door plot was a twenty-or-so-storey building, paired with a block half its height, both draped in scaffolding and not far off completion.

  Fenchurch started down the thin pavement. ‘Fished here with my old man.’ He waved behind the building. ‘Bow Creek and the Lea River join up here. Perfect spot for catching an old football boot or a used condom.’

  A uniformed officer guarded a tall metal gate, wide open. She held a clipboard in front of her like it was the Ark of the Covenant. ‘Sir.’ She handed it to Fenchurch.

  Fenchurch waved his warrant card and signed the form for both of them. He led Reed through the heavy-duty gates.

  Rows and rows of bricks and blocks covered the rough ground. Further over, the earthworks dug deep, the dark-grey concrete foundations like dinosaur fossils. A streamer of police tape flapped in the gentle breeze that was sucking all heat down to the Thames.

  A silhouetted figure eased himself out of a SOCO suit by tearing it into strips. His full beard flopped down over his dickie bow. Dr William Pratt.

  Fenchurch sped up and stopped at the perimeter. ‘What’s up, William?’

  ‘Simon . . .’ Pratt waved a hand over at a huddle of Scenes of Crime Officers. ‘Got ourselves a female victim. IC1. Twenties.’

  Fenchurch stepped to the side to get a decent view through the huddle.

  A young woman lay on the dry earth, the embodiment
of IC1’s cold classification of white northern European. Her raven hair spilled all over the sandy mud. Her blouse was blood red, the same colour as the cuts on her cheeks. Her knee-length skirt was pulled up, her sheer stockings torn down to her knees. Her suit jacket was half on, the other side draped on a bag of cement.

  Every case felt worse than the last one. A descent into the pits of hell.

  Fenchurch huffed out a breath. ‘What do we know?’

  ‘Nothing much at this juncture.’ Pratt switched his pointing to one of the SOCOs. ‘I’ve asked some of your chaps to find an ID. She had nothing on her.’ He stepped his left toe on the right side of his leggings, mud caking the bottoms and his blue shoe covers, and kicked them off. ‘I have inspected the body and I’m pretty sure the cause of death is manual strangulation.’

  Fenchurch shifted round until the victim’s dead eyes pierced his skull, nibbling at his soul. He flashed a smile at Pratt. ‘Just pretty sure?’

  ‘Usual drill, Simon. I shall confirm it during the post-mortem.’ Pratt dropped the ex-suit into a pile and rested a stone on top. ‘I’d say she was murdered elsewhere and dumped here, given the early signs of livor mortis on the girl’s side.’ He waved at the body. ‘And she’s lying on her back there.’

  Dumped like a bag of rubbish. Fenchurch looked at the girl again. Those cuts . . . Must’ve been done at knifepoint. Meaning only one thing . . . ‘Any signs of sexual assault?’

  ‘The way her clothes are arranged would indicate that.’ Pratt swallowed hard, not looking back at the body. ‘There are marks around her wrists and knees, too.’

  ‘Before or after death?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know yet.’

  ‘Done in situ?’

  Pratt looked down at his beige medical bag. No idea what was so fascinating about it. He huffed out and finally shut the bloody thing, the clasps clicking. ‘I don’t think so. There’s nowhere near enough mud on her for a start.’

  A fresh battalion of white-suited SOCOs emerged from the road. ‘Have you any idea who called it in?’

  Pratt waved over at a pair of Portakabins stacked on top of each other. ‘The project manager.’