A Hill To Die On (DI Fenchurch Crime Thrillers Book 8) Read online

  ‘Simon, there’s been a body discovered near Tower Hill tube station. Potential murder.’

  ‘Can’t you run the—’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s a bit more involved than that.’ Ashkani sighed. ‘Simon, the victim is an ex-cop.’

  2

  If there was a street name in London more suited to how Fenchurch felt right then, he was buggered if he could name it.

  Seething Lane.

  Perfect.

  Place was rammed full of squad cars, so many it was hard to count, let alone remember all the plates. Dr Pratt’s purple Jaguar gleamed like it’d just been polished. Two CSIs were unloading their van, already suited up. Their flats and homes must be immaculate. Not a stray hair anywhere.

  Okay, so maybe Bleeding Heart Yard or Savage Gardens would suffice, both not far from here, but Fenchurch was seething. He’d agreed to those couples counselling sessions with a view to getting out of his marriage. And now…

  Yeah, that bastard called “hope” was back. Prodding him in the guts and stabbing him in the heart, bleeding or not.

  Somehow he’d lost his objectivity, his determination and… And he had hope flickering in his guts again. Little butterflies, maybe, but there they were.

  Him and Abi, back together again. Them and Chloe and Baby Al. Alan, as they called him now.

  Waugh had gloated like he’d been the one to achieve anything.

  However many sessions he’d presided over, all Waugh had achieved was make Fenchurch more determined to draw a line under his marriage.

  It still got to him. That bitterness in the pit of his stomach. That anger. That rage. That—

  Why?

  Why did she have to have an affair?

  Was it really his fault? His promotion from DI to DCI had meant more time at the office, more stress, more responsibility. Less trudging around, interviewing suspects, and more admin.

  Maybe he had been a bear with a sore head, but she hadn’t talked to him about it. No, she’d fallen back into the arms of Brendan Holding.

  Fenchurch shut his eyes and counted to ten.

  He’d get over it. He always did.

  He opened the door and stepped out onto Seething Lane. Cold air and the smell of roasting meat from a nearby snack van. Commuters trudging from tube to tube, station to office. Poor bastards.

  Yeah, he was still angry, but it was more a vague pissed off than anything else.

  He set off down the street towards the memorial on Tower Hill and got that jab in his guts.

  No serving cop wanted to investigate the murder of one of their own. Well, not all, but virtually all. It made them think of colleagues, past and present. Of themselves. It asked so many questions.

  Fenchurch put on his game face as he neared the crime scene. He didn’t recognise the kid manning the outer locus, but then he didn’t recognise half of Leman Street these days. Without speaking, he jotted down his name, badge number and time of entry, then handed it back and stepped into the belly of the beast.

  The biggest monument was a haunting memorial lining the road that ran around the Tower of London. Greek or Roman columns and empty windows, to serve in place of a grave for merchant seamen and fishermen lost at sea during the First World War. At least, that’s what his old man told him when he was a nipper.

  The other two were somewhere in the gardens at the back of the space, shrouded by the thirty-or-so officers milling around, none of them achieving much except draining East London of tea.

  A few of his team were there, facing away, though, talking to people. Making themselves useful.

  A tent was erected over the inscription stone for the Second World War memorial, a massive chunk of wall. It didn’t look like a day for rain and there wasn’t a lick of wind.

  Off to the side, the bulky figure of PC Adam Burridge stood there like a sentry, guarding Chloe.

  What the hell was she doing here?

  She didn’t look upset, but that posture… He’d seen it before, when she was little and more recently. Like she was going to explode.

  Fenchurch felt that fist tighten around his stomach as he walked over. He took it slow, giving them space and himself time to read their body language a bit more clearly. ‘What’s up?’

  Despite only being a probationer, Chloe looked every inch the copper. Hair scraped back and tied away in a bun. Immaculate uniform, even at the end of a shift. She was staring into space, though, and that made the fist squeeze that little bit tighter.

  Burridge stepped between them. ‘Chloe was FAO, sir.’

  First Attending Officer.

  First person to see the body.

  Of someone she knew.

  Christ.

  Fenchurch had been six months as a full officer before he’d seen his first dead body. And that was a very different London, much rougher and more violent. Some officers had scraped heroin addicts off train tracks on day one.

  This was different, though. His own daughter.

  And maybe that was it. Abi was right to point out how wrapped up in his own internal machinations he’d been. Here he was, where his daughter needed him, and he was thinking furious thoughts about a counselling session that was supposed to save his marriage, or at least let them move on without wanting to kill each other. What was best for the children.

  Yeah. Get over yourself, dickhead.

  Chloe saw him and stood ramrod straight, just like her grandfather had told her to. Not that the Fenchurch back was up to much. ‘Dad.’

  ‘That’s DCI Fenchurch to you.’ He smiled at Burridge then at his daughter. ‘Chloe, can I have a word?’

  Burridge raised a hand. ‘Sir, could you give us a minute?’

  Fenchurch stepped away and beckoned him to follow. ‘She’s my daughter. It’s up to me to make sure she’s okay.’

  ‘With all due respect, sir, she—’ He laughed. ‘Actually, I take that back and I’m just giving it straight. You can’t pull rank on me then try to take her away. It’s not on.’

  He had a point.

  Adam leaned in. ‘Listen, she’s down in the dumps about two mistakes in a row, okay? Happens to everyone, so I’m giving her the usual advice. She’s new, so she’s going to screw up, so she needs to make sure she screws up in different ways and not the same ones.’ He looked to the side. ‘And I know who the little toe rag is, so we’ll get the day shift to head around to his flat and pick him up.’

  Burridge was clearly a good cop and a better training officer. That was policing. Fix the young, don’t eat them. And his experience meant that, even if you don’t catch them in a chase, you know where they’re going. ‘Listen, just give us a minute. Okay? I don’t want to tread on your toes, you’re clearly one of the best and, if it was any other officer, you as TO would get priority. But after what she’s been through?’

  Burridge frowned. ‘I know what she’s been through, sir. If it was an issue, she wouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Trust me, I just need a minute.’

  ‘By all means.’ Burridge nodded at him, then at Chloe, but the twitching on his forehead maybe betrayed his anger or frustration. ‘I’ll give you some space, kidder.’

  ‘Sure thing.’ Chloe gave him an empty look and her gaze followed his path.

  Fenchurch saw the emptiness in her actions and certainly recognised it. Weird how much of a person’s behaviour seemed to be genetic or heritable. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Depends. Am I talking to Dad or DCI Fenchurch?’

  ‘Either. Both.’

  She sighed again. That coping mechanism. Get it out of your system. Be in touch with your body and your feelings. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘What, you think I’ll go to pieces over seeing a corpse?’ She looked around at him and locked eyes with him. He let go, let her win that round. ‘Dad, I’m fine. You don’t need to patronise me.’

  ‘It’s a big thing seeing a—’

  ‘Dad.’

  He held up his hands. ‘Okay. Just trying to help.’

  She smiled now, her lips thin but with some warmth. ‘Right. Sorry. Look, I appreciate your concern, but I’m made of tough stuff. Okay?’

  ‘Got it.’ Fenchurch gave her the smile back. ‘It’s the end of your shift now.’

  ‘Right. And?’

  ‘Time to get home.’

  She hefted up her stab-proof from the floor. ‘Adam’s told me to bugger off, but I want to type it all up while it’s fresh.’

  ‘I think he’s right. Just make sure your notebook’s tip top and get home.’

  ‘That an order?’

  He laughed. ‘You don’t report to me.’

  ‘Thank God.’ She got out her notebook and opened it at the last page. ‘Dad, the thing is, I know the victim.’

  Fenchurch frowned at her. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘I think it’s Grandad’s friend. Bert Matthews.’

  3

  Fenchurch felt that weird claustrophobia from the crime scene suit. The chemical smell, the stale taste. No matter how many times he’d worn one, or how many times he’d told an officer about the importance of preserving crime scenes, the way his breath misted in the goggles…

  But it maybe helped a small amount. The transparent plastic distorted and twisted things so they didn’t seem so real. Like he wasn’t seeing the body of Bert Matthews.

  Just lying there on the granite slab, eyes and mouth open. Skin as pale as his ruddy complexion would get. His thick combover dangling down to his neck. Bare feet, but clean and smooth. Otherwise, he could be a homeless man who’d got caught out, but here he was, a friend of his old man’s. Pair of them were thick as thieves and just as unreliable at times.

  Maybe that was unfair, but Bert and his father went back a long way.

  A suited figure tu
rned to look at him. ‘Ah, Simon.’ Detective Superintendent Julian Loftus, just his baby blue eyes visible through the goggles. ‘Thanks for… Well… Thanks for coming.’

  ‘It’s my job, boss.’ Fenchurch inspected the body again.

  Casually dressed and relaxed. Almost looked like a death at home. A heart attack during the night.

  But leaving the body here? That pointed to murder.

  And Fenchurch had no idea why.

  He looked at Loftus. ‘Sir, I need to point out the potential conflict of interest here. I’m acquainted with the victim. I understand if—’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes.’ Loftus clapped his arm. ‘Thing is, everyone who’s been on the force longer than five minutes knows Bert Matthews. One of those who’d stick his oar in anywhere it wasn’t wanted. A good egg, though. I’d have to go to Manchester or Newcastle to find an investigator worth his, her or their salt who hasn’t had their ear bent by one of his many, many stories.’ His breath misted his goggles. ‘So I need you to get to work. Okay?’

  ‘Understood, sir.’

  ‘Now, I need to bugger off to brief Command, but when it’s one of our own, we go the extra mile.’ Loftus locked eyes with him. ‘Find his killer, Simon.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Another pat and Loftus strode off.

  Leaving Fenchurch with the corpse.

  The morning sunlight had crawled around to catch Bert staring up at the blue sky.

  Fenchurch spotted three suited figures just behind the monument. One was comforting another, while the third seemed a bit confused. He made his way over. ‘Everything okay?’

  ‘Guv.’ The hugger broke free, letting Fenchurch see it was DS Kay Reed. ‘It’s Lisa, she…’

  DS Lisa Bridge was cradling herself in Reed’s arms, tears rolling down her cheeks.

  ‘I’ll just get back to the victim, then…’ The lone figure was Dr Pratt, his bushy eyebrows filling a good chunk of his goggles. He bundled past Fenchurch on his way to Bert’s body.

  Fenchurch tried to make eye contact with Bridge, but couldn’t. ‘Are you okay?’

  Reed shot him a glare, like she was saying ‘does she look okay?’ but didn’t have the courage to say it. ‘Lisa is Be— the victim’s niece.’

  ‘Right.’ Fenchurch felt a trickle of sweat running down his back. He’d clean forgotten, assuming he ever knew. ‘Kay, can you take her away, please?’

  ‘Of course.’ Reed led Bridge back the way he’d come, away from her uncle’s body.

  Seeing your own flesh and blood dead was one of the hardest things, especially when it was a shock like that… Yeah, that’d break even the strongest of officers. And Bridge was.

  Fenchurch set off back to the body.

  Dr Pratt was working away at the body, prodding and pressing. ‘Om pom tiddly om pom.’

  ‘William, do you mind not doing that for once?’

  Pratt looked up with a frown. ‘Doing what?’

  ‘The old “Om pom tiddly om pom” stuff.’ Fenchurch waved a hand around the area. ‘A lot of people worked with or knew the victim.’

  ‘Right, well, of course, but I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’ He reached into his bag for a massive thermometer. ‘Om pom pom-pom-pom pom pom.’

  Didn’t even know he was doing it. Fantastic.

  ‘You got anything for me yet?’

  Pratt glanced up at him. ‘Well, it’s fairly clearly death by drowning.’

  ‘Drowning?’

  ‘Indeed. Happened last night too, unless I’m very much mistaken.’ Pratt looked around the place. ‘But there’s no obvious water source here.’

  Fenchurch looked over to the river, but it was hidden by the Tower and its surrounding office blocks. The peaks of Tower Bridge climbed above, but looked about half a mile away. Hard to get a body over from there without being spotted and Bert didn’t exactly have the tell-tale signs of being in that infernal river.

  Back up towards the tube station, there were a few fancy hotels. They’d probably have hot tubs in each room, rather than a bog-standard bathtub.

  ‘So you’re saying he was transported here?’

  ‘Logically, yes.’ Pratt pointed back to the larger monument, which had a lot of the CSI attention. ‘I believe Tammy and her team have found some water splash patterns, which would indicate his transferral, but said water is long since evaporated.’

  ‘Right, right.’

  ‘And there’s obviously no way to identify where the water in his lungs came from.’

  ‘But he was definitely drowned?’

  Pratt looked up. ‘Definitely. One hundred percent. I don’t even need to get him back to Lewisham to know.’

  Fenchurch looked around the place. A monument to the maritime war dead. And a drowned victim. It had to be connected.

  But why?

  He never understood that psychological need to move a dead body to a public place, where it would be discovered. Surely it reduced the chances of avoiding conviction?

  Better to leave the body in the bath or body of water you killed the victim in.

  Isn’t it?

  The police would know about it, for starters, and CCTV was everywhere in a city like London, especially these days. Only a matter of time before you’re caught.

  Of course, if you wanted the police to know and you were confident enough to be able to evade detection… Why would anyone want them to know that Bert was dead? And why here?

  ‘Can’t detect much through these masks—’ Pratt tapped his nose. ‘—but there’s an almighty stench of bleach coming from the body.’

  ‘Someone covering their tracks?’

  ‘Right. I suspect immersion in a volume of bleach, so it’s incredibly unlikely any DNA could’ve survived.’

  That little tingle at the back of his neck started up again. Pointed to someone who knew their onions. ‘Okay, William, let me know when the post-mortem will be.’

  ‘Oh, it’ll be this afternoon. I’ve got as clean a slate as I can get these days. Not a lot of deaths at the moment.’

  ‘Excellent, thank you.’ Fenchurch took one last look at the body. Dying like that, being dragged here and being left to rest in public. Poor old sod. ‘See you there.’ He walked back to the inner locus crime scene manager and tugged off his mask and goggles, then started taking off his jacket.

  DI Uzma Ashkani stood outside the perimeter, hands on hips. Belly swollen with barely two months to go, just weeks until her maternity leave. ‘Sir.’

  ‘Uzma, you’re a sight for sore eyes.’ Fenchurch kicked off his crime scene suit trousers into the discard pile. ‘How was the check up?’

  ‘All good.’ She rested a hand on her tummy. ‘Doctor wants me to take it easy, but you know me. I just can’t.’

  Fenchurch hoped she didn’t live to regret that. ‘Okay, so we’ve got a puzzle and a half here. Victim appears to have been killed elsewhere, so your highest priority is finding out how he got here. Who transported him? Why?’

  ‘On it.’ But she had the narrow-eyed glare of someone who was sick of desk duties. Her eagle eyes swept around the park. ‘I guess they brought him here by the Tower Hill tube entrance.’

  Fenchurch looked over at the main road. ‘Probably, but don’t discount it.’

  ‘Fenchurch Street station’s up there too. Open till, what, one? Last trains to deepest, darkest Essex. A few hotels too. Will get people going around there.’

  The exact same thoughts he’d had. Might not have got off on the right foot, but they were settling into a groove. He was going to miss her when she was off on maternity. But something made him frown. ‘You said they brought him here?’

  Ashkani frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, either you’re using a gender-neutral pronoun or you think more than one person did this?’

  ‘Bert’s a big guy. Unless we’re hunting a serious weightlifter, I’d assume it’s two people. And weightlifters don’t necessarily have the cardiovascular stamina to carry him all that way.’ She walked her fingers from the entrance to the monument. ‘Also, why was he put here?’ She scanned the place. ‘You think he could’ve been in the navy?’

  ‘Merchant or Royal, yeah. That’s my thinking.’

  ‘Which would mean there’s something symbolic about this?’

  He nodded. ‘And if there is, we need to know very quickly. I don’t want a serial killer or a bloody terrorist running around London trying to send messages. Or bumping off ex-sailors.’