‘Going to take a lot of healing.’
‘It never heals. You never stop thinking about it all the time. When I saw Erica, I—’ Fenchurch clenched his jaw. ‘Seeing Ursula lying there in Little Somerset House it just . . . It set something off in me.’ He sucked in air. ‘Erica was looking for a father figure. It’s not me. Even if Chloe’s been a lap dancer and lived in that kind of hellhole for ten years, I want her to be alive. Someone’s got to know something about what happened to her.’
Reed sighed. ‘You really need to speak to Abi.’
Chapter Forty
Fenchurch knocked on the pale-blue door. The stairwell stank of fresh wood shavings and the bitter tang of glue. Looked like it’d never been battered down by an idiot.
It swung open. Dad stood there, smiling. ‘Hello, Simon.’
Fenchurch glared at him. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Abi asked me to come round.’ Dad frowned. ‘She said you smashed her door in.’
‘Did she?’ Fenchurch took a step back and stared up at the dark skylight, all mossed over. ‘Dad, I was shit scared she’d been taken by the Machine.’
‘Calm down, son.’ Dad raised his hands. ‘She told me what happened, I’m just winding you up.’ He laughed, magic sparking in his eyes. ‘Like I say, I’m helping Abi. She’s a bit upset.’
‘Is she—’
‘Simon?’ Abi appeared in the doorway. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I wanted to talk.’
Dad reached inside the door and collected his jacket. ‘I’ll leave you both to it.’ He pecked Abi on the cheek. ‘See you later, love.’ He grabbed Fenchurch as he passed. ‘Oh, Doc called me. Said something about a commendation. What’s that for?’
‘We took down the Machine today.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘Maybe not the whole thing, but a huge chunk of it.’
‘That’s my boy.’ Dad hugged him tight, putting a bit too much pressure on Fenchurch’s aching ribs. ‘I’ll see you later, son.’
‘Maybe tomorrow. I taped the Hammers match. Still don’t know the score.’ Fenchurch watched him trudge down the stairs. He turned round, his heart thumping. Drums pounded in his ears as he tried to make eye contact with Abi. ‘Hey.’
Abi bit her lip, hands on hips. ‘The bill for the door repair’s inside.’
‘How much do I owe you?’
‘It’s fine.’
‘Abi, I’m really sorry. I just—’ He clenched his jaw and shut his eyes. ‘I thought they’d taken you.’
‘I know.’ She smiled, her cheek indenting. ‘It’s really sweet.’
‘Sweet?’ Fenchurch tried to swallow down the lump in his throat. ‘This case has brought a lot of stuff home to roost.’
‘I can see that.’ Her nostrils flared as she loosened her shoulders. ‘Chloe’s not coming back, Simon. You need to let go.’
‘I can’t.’ Fenchurch rubbed at his eyes. ‘Even if she’s not out there, someone knows what happened to her. I need to find them. I’ve got to have some hope.’
‘I gave up on hope a long time ago. Simon, you need to channel your anger into something constructive.’
‘Finding our daughter isn’t constructive? Getting closure?’
‘It’s destroying you. Your own hope is crushing you.’
His face crumpled up. All he could do was shake his head. ‘It’s all I’ve got.’
‘You used to have so much more.’
‘I used to have Chloe. I used to have you, but you chucked me out.’ The crack on the hall ceiling still hadn’t been fixed after ten years. ‘I should go.’ He took a step back. ‘Listen, Abi. I . . .’
‘Simon, you can’t have me back.’
‘But I thought . . . After this week . . . That maybe.’
‘Simon, you’re still hunting for her. I can’t have that back in my life. If someone could tell me right now that she’s dead, I’d take that. It’s closure.’
‘I’ve got to hope.’
‘And the hope’s killing you.’ She stepped forward and placed her hand on his cheek. ‘You’re clinging to the past, Simon. You need to let it go.’
Fenchurch let her stroke his face. Felt like he was thirty-two again. He expected Chloe to run out and charge into his thigh. Wrap her arms around his waist.
But she wasn’t there.
‘We found this . . . this farm today. A gang had been kidnapping people. They took them there and raised them. Bred them, used them as prostitutes and dancers. I thought Chloe might be there. She wasn’t. Nobody knew her.’
‘Simon . . .’ Tears slicked Abi’s face. ‘Simon, why are you here?’
‘Because I want you back, Ab. I feel like I died ten years ago.’
Abi put her other hand on his cheek. ‘You need to start living again.’
‘You’re right. I’ll—’
‘Simon.’ She bit her lip. ‘Okay.’
‘What?’
‘I want to help you get over this.’ She reached over and pecked him on the cheek. ‘Simon, you’ve got to let go.’
Fenchurch put his arms around her and pulled her tight. ‘I know I do.’ He sucked in the smell of her hair. Wildflowers and fresh water. His tears soaked into it. ‘I just don’t want to let her down.’
‘Hey, hey.’ She stroked a hand over his back. ‘You’re not letting anyone down if you get on with your life.’
‘You really think that?’
‘I do.’ She wriggled free and took a step back. ‘So?’
‘So what?’
‘Are you going to stop looking for her?’
He nodded. Slowly. Then faster, putting more into it. The drums stopped beating, just a cymbal crash dying away to nothing. ‘I’m going to stop.’
She looked him up and down. ‘I believe you.’ She rested a hand on the doorjamb. ‘There’s still pasta in the fridge from last night. You can come in, if you want.’
Acknowledgements
Thanks to Rhona for the beta reading, pointing out the rather obvious flaws in the first drafts.
Infinite thanks as ever to Al Guthrie for being both a brilliant agent and the most aggressive editor a guy could ask for — you not only saved this book but showed me how to turn it into what it became.
Special thanks to Jenny Parrott for all the brutal editing and encouragement as I tore my hair out during December 2015.
Huge thanks to Emilie, Sana, Eoin and all at Thomas & Mercer for taking another punt on me with this book, but also being a brilliant publishing team over the last eighteen months.
About the Author
Photo © 2014 Kitty Harrison
Ed James writes crime fiction novels. His Scott Cullen series features a young Edinburgh detective constable investigating crimes from the bottom rung of the career ladder he’s desperate to climb. The Hope That Kills is the first in a new series featuring DI Simon Fenchurch, set on the gritty streets of East London. Formerly an IT manager, Ed began writing on planes, trains and automobiles to fill his weekly commute to London. He now writes full-time and lives in East Lothian, Scotland, with his girlfriend and a menagerie of rescued animals.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Contents
Day 1
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Day 2
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Day 3
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Day 4
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
Acknowledgements
About the Author