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

  The office stank of caked-on mud and instant coffee. Maybe the whiff of Cup-a-Soup and rotting oranges, too.

  Arthur Hillier blinked hard as he supped from a ‘World’s Best Project Manager’ mug, like he was just that one cup away from absolute focus. Checked shirtsleeves rolled up, wiry hair almost covering his Apple Watch like a forest surrounding a stone monument. Red tie undone and hanging loose. Grey hair, with a pen stuck behind his ear. ‘I need to get my guys working first thing.’

  ‘That’s not going to happen, sir.’ Fenchurch was standing by the open window overlooking the site from the second storey. Felt like the safest place in the rickety structure. At least he could jump out, if need be. ‘My Scene of Crime team will be here tomorrow as well.’

  Hillier raised his fist, like he was going to slam it on the desk. ‘That’s unaccept—’

  ‘You might be in luck, Mr Hillier.’

  ‘What? How can you—’

  ‘It’s likely that poor girl’s just been dumped here.’ A flash from a SOCO’s camera bounced off the victim’s body. Fenchurch waited for Hillier to take another slug of coffee. ‘If that’s the case, we won’t have to raise up your foundations.’

  Hillier sprayed coffee across the desk, coating both project and building plans. ‘Tell me you’re joking!’

  ‘I can’t promise anything.’ Fenchurch tapped the window, pointing at the adjacent site. ‘If that’s your lot working next door, your boys might find gainful employment there.’

  ‘Listen to me.’ Hillier fished out the pen from behind his ear and tossed it on the desk. ‘Do you understand the amount of pressure I’m under here?’

  Fenchurch let a smile creep over his face. ‘Try me.’

  ‘I’ve been in here till midnight all week.’ Hillier unrolled blue tissue and dabbed at his paperwork. ‘We’re owned by a hedge fund, and they just love their data and they love changing their reporting basis every single month.’ He wiped the building plan clean and dumped the tissue in an overflowing bin. ‘First time I’ve worked for one. Never again, I swear.’

  Fenchurch gave him a sympathetic smile, letting him feel the shared pain across two industries. ‘You got any CCTV here? Never had any scaffolding poles going walkabout of an evening?’

  ‘Of course.’ Hillier balled up some more tissue and chucked it in the bin. ‘Hadn’t turned it on yet.’

  And none of that sounds at all fishy . . .

  Down at the site, Reed was briefing a squad of uniforms and a few plainclothes. The SOCOs were erecting a tent near the victim, ready to drape over her and protect the scene from the elements.

  Fenchurch folded his arms and fixed a glare on Hillier. ‘Sir, a young girl’s turned up dead on your building site. I need to ask if you have anything to do with it?’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Hillier dumped his tissue roll on the desk and walked up to Fenchurch. ‘Listen, mate. The first time I saw . . . her was when I went outside for a cigarette. Okay?’

  Fenchurch stepped forward, clacking the toes of his shoes against Hillier’s. ‘Persuade me.’

  ‘I’d been in here all night, hammering away at spreadsheets and PowerPoints, gasping for a smoke, promising I’d treat myself when I finished.’ Hillier stepped back and took a Zippo out of his pocket, then started playing with the lighter, flicking the lid back and forth. ‘I was just sparking up when I saw a car shooting off.’

  ‘You saw it?’ Fenchurch tilted his head to the side. ‘You hadn’t heard it?’

  ‘It must’ve been one of those electric thingies.’

  Across the building site, the gate was hidden by a row of JCBs.

  ‘So you just missed seeing this girl’s killer?’

  ‘I’m telling you I saw a car. If it was her killer, then . . .’ Hillier shrugged and held up his cigarettes. ‘Do you mind if I . . . ?’

  ‘I do, as it happens. Wait until we’re done.’

  Hillier tossed the pack onto the desk. They skittered to the floor. ‘Right.’

  ‘Did you see the car’s plate?’

  Hillier bent down to pick up his cigarettes. ‘It was all a blur, sorry.’

  ‘A blur? It can’t have been travelling very fast.’

  Hillier dug his knuckles into his eye sockets. ‘My eyes aren’t very useful after twelve hours’ straight laptop work.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘Just before eight.’

  Fenchurch went over to the door. You can see the site entrance from here. ‘So you were here?’

  Hillier joined him outside, putting a cigarette between his lips. ‘This exact spot.’ He pointed with his right hand, wrapped around his lighter. ‘It shot off.’

  ‘And what, merged with the traffic heading south?’

  Hillier waved past the JCBs and the gate. ‘Gillender Street’s one-way. Then it joins the A12 at the roundabout.’ He sparked the lighter and lit the cigarette. ‘From there, you’re either going into the tunnel or . . . Could’ve gone anywhere from there, really.’

  Fenchurch gave him a long, hard look. ‘When did you see the body?’

  ‘Right after.’ Hillier took a deep suck on his cigarette, careful to exhale away from Fenchurch. ‘I saw her down there.’ His shaking hand pointed down to the crime scene. ‘Just lying there. I ran down and saw she was dead.’ Another long drag. ‘I mean, I checked for a pulse to confirm. Then I called it in.’

  Was he telling the truth? Hard to figure it out. Makes sense, but don’t they all?

  ‘I’m going to need a full statement from you, sir.’ Fenchurch beckoned to the nearest DC, some new start pissing about with his phone whose name he couldn’t remember. ‘And anything that can back up your movements over the last few hours.’

  ‘I’ve been here all that time.’

  ‘And I need you to prove it to me.’

  Hillier stamped over to his desk and picked up a black laptop, half a dozen cables hanging out of the back. ‘I can show you my save log into Dropbox.’

  ‘How does that prove anything?’

  ‘I’m an obsessive saver. I hit CTRL-S every two seconds. I’ve lost a shitload of documents over the years.’

  Fenchurch tramped away from the Portakabin, careful to avoid the puddles.

  Reed was speaking to a SOCO, not far from the body but just outside the inner locus. She broke off and marched over, arms folded tight. ‘You get anything, guv?’

  ‘Square root, Kay.’ The tower of Portakabins was draped in the shadow of the nearby buildings. Hillier stood at the door, sucking on a cigarette as he talked to the DC. ‘Don’t trust him, but there’s nothing concrete so far. Can you dig into the statement?’

  ‘Guv.’

  Fenchurch tried to spot anything close to evidence or a lead. ‘We getting anywhere? Found a handbag? Phone? Work pass?’

  ‘Nothing yet, Si.’ The SOCO unzipped his suit and pulled it down. Mick Clooney, the lead. The front of his white T-shirt was filled with the old Adidas logo, three stripes slicing through three rugby balls. Footballers’ tattoos butched up his skinny arms, a mishmash of women and Celtic knots and . . . stuff. ‘No dice just yet.’

  ‘So we’ve got a dead body and no ID?’

  Reed placed her hand on his arm, gripping tight. ‘I’ve got people going through the MisPers from the last day or two. She might be in there.’

  ‘And she might not.’ Worry gnawed away at Fenchurch’s oesophagus, the acid reflux bubbling up. ‘Shit, this can’t be another—’

  ‘Whoa, calm down.’ Clooney arched an eyebrow. ‘Jumping to conclusions much?’

  ‘Paid to do it, George.’

  ‘Yeah, and annoy me with that nickname.’ Clooney held up an evidence bag and let it hang in the breeze. ‘I did find this.’ The sort of Samsung you’d see political fixers using on TV shows these days. He ran his finger across the fractured screen, covered in a spiderweb of cracks. ‘That’s not just a drop. I’d say a hammer did that.’ He flipped it over to show the open back panel. ‘The SIM’s gone, too.’


  ‘So we’re bollocksed?’

  ‘Might not even be hers.’ Clooney popped it back into the evidence bag. ‘Either way, we might be able to get something off this.’

  Fenchurch wrapped his fingers together and held them in front of Clooney’s face. ‘Then I’ll get the whole team to cross their fingers and toes.’

  ‘You do that.’

  Another SOCO sprinted over towards them, muffled speech coming through their mask.

  Clooney waved a circle around his mouth. ‘Mandy, I can’t hear you.’

  Mandy tore at her mask. ‘We found a handbag over by the bricks.’ She held up a large evidence container, a leather bag inside. ‘Gucci, by the look of things.’

  Clooney gave it a once-over before handing it to Fenchurch. ‘Put your gloves on when you rifle through it.’

  Fenchurch reached into his jacket pocket for his nitrile gloves, Viagra blue. He pulled the ziplock apart. The handbag was full of crap. Painkillers, tampons, mints, a black brolly. A lint-covered iPod Nano with a cracked screen. ‘No purse, no work ID. Nothing.’

  ‘Give it here.’ Reed snatched it off him and stared inside. ‘Honestly . . .’

  The girl’s body was now exposed, the area surrounding her clear of SOCOs. Someone had dumped her here like an old telly. Smashed her phone. Taken any identification and tossed her bag.

  The main road droned behind the boards, just the tops of buses and lorries hurtling past.

  Assuming her killer had raped her, he’d take her someplace quiet. So he knew this place’d be empty. Close enough to the trunk road to act as a dumping ground with a quick getaway. Probably saw the gate open as Hillier worked at his spreadsheets, itching for a fag. The project manager was still puffing on the Portakabin’s steps, the DC still writing away.

  Assuming it wasn’t him. Assuming he was telling the truth.

  The electric car, though. The lack of an engine would keep it quiet.

  Feels like a hell of a lot of premeditation . . .

  And it’d be the longest day in, what, two weeks? Less? Dumping her at that time, not even dark. Not even dark now. Pushing the assumption nobody’d be at the site right up to danger levels. Add arrogance to premeditation.

  ‘Got something, guv.’ Reed held up the handbag, a business card sucking up to the ziplock. Dirty white text on bright blue. ‘Victoria Brocklehurst. Works for some firm called Ogden & Makepeace.’

  The victim’s pale, dead skin was exposed to the evening air.

  ‘Think that’s her?’

  ‘I assume she’s either our vic or she’s had some contact with her.’ Reed stabbed a number into her phone.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘What do you think?’ Reed held her phone to her ear.

  A mobile ringtone blasted out, over by the Portakabins.

  Nah nah nah, nah nah na-nah nah.

  Fenchurch raced over, listening hard for the direction. That Kylie Minogue song. What was it called? ‘Can’t Get You Out of My Head’?

  Nah nah nah, nah nah na-nah nah.

  Where the—?

  There. A faint glow beneath the steps leading up to Hillier’s office.

  Fenchurch crouched down and reached forward with his still-gloved hand. The light died, the sound still echoing around. He spun round to Reed. ‘Call it again!’

  She hit a couple of buttons and the music blared out again, louder.

  Nah nah nah, nah nah na-nah nah.

  Fenchurch grabbed the glowing phone. A BlackBerry, the screen fractured but otherwise still intact. ‘Bloody thing’s locked.’

  Clooney held out an evidence bag. ‘Thought we had her mobile? The Samsung?’

  ‘That’s probably her personal one.’ Fenchurch grumbled to his feet and dropped it into Clooney’s bag.

  Reed grabbed the bag from Clooney. ‘So it looks like our victim could be Victoria Brocklehurst?’

  ‘Could be.’ Fenchurch’s gut churned. ‘Want to call that company?’

  Chapter Four

  Fenchurch drove down the tight streets of the ancient City, the grand Georgian buildings screaming out, ‘Money!’ The road was a Y shape, splitting at a modern block with the thousandth Pret A Manger in the square mile. Roadworks hissed behind them, blocking off the street. He could almost taste the deep tang of the bitumen. He parked on the double yellows and stuffed his ON POLICE BUSINESS sign onto the dashboard. ‘Still ringing out?’

  ‘Afraid so, guv.’ Reed put her Airwave away. ‘Still nothing from Clarke?’

  Fenchurch checked his own handset. ‘Shit.’ Two missed calls from him. He hit dial and waited. ‘Steve, sorry. We were driving.’

  ‘I know.’

  Something clapped on Fenchurch’s window. Clarke was waving in, his tan darkened by the street lighting. ‘You two coming out to play?’

  ‘Only if we use my ball.’ Fenchurch ended the call and got out to stretch. Another yawn. ‘So where is it?’

  Clarke nodded behind Fenchurch. ‘Diagon Alley is just through there.’

  ‘Austin Friars’ was etched into the stone of an arch over an innocent-looking lane. It curved almost immediately, as if to hide the top law firms’ billions from prying eyes. Two artificial torches lit up tall box plants outside the only building. Could be a gentleman’s club.

  Fenchurch flashed him a grin. ‘So where do I go for my broomstick and my owl?’

  ‘Follow me, Master Potter.’ Clarke put his hands in his pockets and led them onwards. ‘Forgot to say, we tore up that Nutwell geezer’s flat and found a load of nasty shit there. Anti-Zionist books. Nine-eleven truther stuff.’

  ‘There’s still a lot of stupid people out there.’ Fenchurch followed him down the tunnel. Really did feel like they were entering a magical world. The lane only revealed another block before it kinked to the right again. Across the way, a statue of a monk holding a Bible was inset into the wall. Not the darkest magic around these parts.

  ‘Here we go.’ Clarke stood by a door just beyond the statue, an innocuous-looking oak entrance to an ornate Victorian building. ‘Ogden & Makepeace. Leave your cauldron at the door.’

  Fenchurch winced, something stabbing at his gut. ‘Aren’t those the ambulance-chasers who are always in Private Eye? Super-injunctions and all that shit?’

  ‘Slowdown & Makecash, I think they call them. One of their sins, yeah. Only a small part of what they do, mind.’ Clarke rapped on the door and stood back, fidgeting with his jacket buttons.

  The door shuddered open with a groan and a man blinked out into the summer night, blond hair framing his Anglo-Saxon face, almost a perfect rectangle. His face was lined with anger as well as laughter. Shifty little eyes and a long, bulbous nose. His thin lips slid into a grin as the door opened wide. ‘Steve.’ He clapped Clarke on the shoulder. ‘Good to see you, my man.’ His accent sounded like it cost a small fortune in school fees.

  ‘Gerald.’ Clarke coughed. ‘Sorry, Mr Ogden.’

  Ogden beamed, a frown glancing onto his forehead. ‘What’s the matter?’

  Clarke waved at Fenchurch and Reed. ‘I’ve got some Met officers who want a word with you, if that’s okay?’

  Ogden tilted his head up to inspect him. He stepped back inside the building. ‘Very well.’

  ‘In here.’ Gerald Ogden led them through a door heavy enough to guard against an army of orcs. Inside, the office was like an Oxford college’s dining hall, all ancient flagstones and dark-oak panelling. He sat down behind a marble desk and folded up some paperwork, setting it off to the side. ‘Please, have a seat.’

  Fenchurch let Reed sit first, then took the chair on the left. As expensive as it was uncomfortable, no doubt.

  Ogden shrugged off his suit jacket, a navy affair with a thick yellow chalk-stripe and crimson lining. His giant iMac was the only allusion to the modern world, though he’d stopped short of writing with a quill on parchment, his black fountain pen resting on a silver stand.

  Clarke stood next to a heavy bookcase, the sort that wanted to hold
hunting trophies but had to settle for a few hundred law books instead. ‘You alone, Gerald?’

  ‘You know I’m married to the business. I’ll be here for another few hours.’ Ogden glanced at the grandfather clock in his office as it chimed ten. ‘Be lucky to get away at midnight.’ Another look at the clock. His impatience was growing. Clearly a man not used to listening to shaggy-dog stories. ‘Now, what’s this all about?’

  ‘DS Reed and I work for the Met’s Major Investigation Team, sir. Our remit is east London.’ Fenchurch stabbed the stylus on his Pronto’s screen, waking it up. ‘Earlier this evening, we were alerted to a body at a building site, not far from the Olympic Park.’ He dragged up a few crime-scene photos onto the machine, careful to conceal them from Ogden. ‘While we’ve not formally identified the body yet, the victim was carrying a business card for one Victoria Brocklehurst. When we called the number, a BlackBerry rang at the crime scene.’

  ‘Good heavens.’ Ogden crunched back on his office chair, the mechanism giving an odd squeak. ‘Is it her?’

  ‘What was Ms Brocklehurst wearing today, sir?’

  Ogden switched his gaze to his desk, like that stored the memory of his employees’ attire. ‘A grey suit, I think. Pin-stripe. Skirt, of course. Always a skirt with Victoria. Stockings, regardless of how hot it was. And a red blouse.’ He looked up and his shoulders slumped. ‘It’s her, isn’t it?’ He wheeled over to the far side of his desk and rummaged around in the drawer, pulling out a photo frame. ‘Here you go.’

  Fenchurch took it and examined it closely. Gilt-edged, weighed more than it looked. Pretty much definitely the girl from the building site, though, give or take a few slashes and a strangled neck. And a whole lot of life. He handed it to Reed, trying to keep his expression Switzerland-neutral.

  Ogden reached over and seized the photograph back from Reed. ‘Is it her?’

  Fenchurch settled back in the chair. Still uncomfortable. ‘My initial assessment is the photo could match the victim’s body. We’ll need her next of kin to give a formal identification.’

  ‘Sweet Lord.’ Ogden pinched his nose and shut his eyes. ‘That’ll be me. I’m Victoria’s godfather. The only family she’s got left. She was an only child and her parents sadly passed away last year.’ He stared deep into the photo and caressed the glass with a wavering finger, his head shaking in absolute denial. ‘What happened?’