Knife and Death: A killer seeks revenge. A friend brutally murdered. A woman runs for her life. (DCI James Hardy Book 1)

by J. A. Gill

  The woman had been pretty just like the others, she was perhaps a little older than the others. I looked at her and wondered what her story was. How had she ended up in the hands of the monster that did this to her? I got to my feet and grabbed Rayner's arm. 'I've been considering going to see Vladimir Kastrati. I got a tip, it might be nothing. If I do it I could do with some backup if you're up for it.'

  Rayner looked at me doubtfully. 'What have you got on him? What have you got that ties him to any of these women?'

  'Nothing concrete, his name has come up, I'm just curious. Let's pay him a visit, let's shake him up and see if anything falls, who knows we might get lucky.'

  'So you think he might be so racked with guilt he'll confess?'

  'I am not sure we'll get that lucky. If I get nothing better in the next few days do you want in?'

  'I definitely want in. You don't think I'm letting you go see that scumbag without me.'

  Fifty-One

  I arrived at my desk around ten after walking Alice and Faith to school. Walking gives the three of us time to talk and the girls open up and tell me what's on their mind, those are precious moments.

  I could sense something was going on the moment I arrived at Scotland Yard. Before I even reached my seat the phone on my desk was ringing. I was informed Chief Superintendent Webster would like to see me, I was pretty sure I knew what it was about.

  'Come in Hardy, take a seat,' said Webster.

  'Good morning, sir,' I said, whilst trying to gauge his tone.

  Webster looked miserable. He pushed a newspaper article across his desk. The article showed pictures of me with the money and of me shaking hands with Mr Bad Teeth; the pictures looked as damning as they were meant to. I started reading the article:

  Scotland Yard Super Cop Shock

  Scotland Yard appear to have distanced themselves from one of their most talented lead homicide detectives after a series of sensational revelations. After weeks of painstaking investigation by photo-journalist Kevin Charles we reveal exclusive evidence that the Met's most high profile and celebrated serving officer, Detective Chief Inspector James Hardy, has been photographed accepting money from London's notorious criminal underworld. This newspaper's undercover work brings into question the integrity of the so called 'Super Detective' who ended the reign of terror by several of Britain's most terrifying serial killers. Photograph's appear to expose DCI James Hardy first holding private alcohol fuelled meetings in a top London restaurant with suspected members of London's mafia underworld. Pictures then show the once trusted London detective agreeing deals and shamelessly shaking hands with gangsters in broad daylight on the very streets he swore to protect. Further pictures show him brazenly counting bags of cash in his forty thousand pound BMW 5 series. Highly decorated DCI Hardy famously lost his wife when she bled to death in the street close to the family home after a knife attack by Tony Horn. Tony Horn was found guilty and sentenced at the Old Bailey to twenty seven years for the murder of Helena Hardy. Numerous reports suggest DCI James Hardy blames himself for his wife's untimely death and has been unable to cope with the loss. At the time of the attack the workaholic detective was investigating a series of brutal attacks by serial killer George Melvin Richter who is currently serving five life sentences. The slaying of DCI Hardy's wife left the widower to care for their two young daughters alone. Now in a torrid relationship with a married woman there are many stories that suggest in his grief stricken state DCI Hardy went on gambling and drinking binges which sources tell us left him close to financial and personal ruin. So far the Metropolitan Police Service have declined to comment, leaving us to wonder what other nefarious activities are yet to be uncovered.

  'The newspaper editor wants to know whether we have any response before they go to print,' said Webster. 'Well, anything you want to add?'

  'I drive a Toyota, sir'

  'For Christ's sake Hardy this is serious, I give you space to do what you do because - well because you do what you do better without interference from me.'

  'It's all fabricated, you know it is. As for the money, well, it was handed into evidence last night. I was about to write it all up this morning when you requested a meeting. I knew I'd been set up, I expected we'd be having this conversation. I perhaps should have called you at home last night and given you the heads up, sorry.'

  'Legal are looking at getting an injunction to get the article suppressed while we investigate. I am not going to ask what happened yesterday that will come later. It will mean a formal investigation of course, which means more time and more bloody paperwork for both of us. I just want to know how you could have been so stupid.'

  'I guess I just had a bad day,' I said.

  'Well today isn't going to be much better, you're going to have speak to Legal Services, the IPCC and the Director of Media Communications and that's just for starters.' Webster was lifting papers on his desk presumably looking for a list of who he wanted me to talk to. I got up to leave before he found it.

  'Sit down there is something else,' he said.

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Rayner told me what happened yesterday. How you got picked up. Are you okay?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'And your daughters?'

  'They're fine, sir. Thank you.'

  'How's Monica?'

  'Better, sir.'

  'And what about your workload? Are you coping?'

  'I'm on top of it, sir.'

  'You look like hell.'

  'Thank you, sir.'

  Webster sighed and sat back in his black leather chair. I could see he had something on his mind. I hoped he didn't give me his 5P talk about how we deliver a Product and about Public Perception and how so much of Policing is about Performance both in the sense of results and in the sense of visibility. The show of blue lights, uniform, stripes, medals, visibility, bravery and awards are all a part of the performance. As serving police officers we should accept so much of what we do is unrecognised work, work that happens in the background, away from the public eye and it is vital we are also seen to be serving. I'd heard his speech many times before and really didn't need to hear it again this morning.

  Instead Webster opened a desk drawer and pulled out a form. He looked at the form and then at me and then at the form. He picked up a pen and signed it, then he handed it to me. 'You have been chosen to be part of a trial. You and a few select detectives. You are one of those who meet certain criteria. One which being your service record. Another being the type of cases you appear to specialise in. That and London's very real threat from terrorism and an overall rise in gun crime year on year. It has been decided certain senior detectives are to carry firearms.'

  'This isn't for me,' I said without hesitation. 'There are plenty of detectives this is more suited to but not me.'

  'Just yesterday, in broad daylight, you were taken off the street by the Albanian mafia. During your last investigation, you got thrown out of a second floor window. You have been stabbed and shot more times that I care to remember. Your job investigating serial killers, kidnappers and rapists makes you and those you love a target every time you walk out the front door. Your girlfriend - or female friend as you like to refer to her - was beaten and left for dead during an abduction which I would strongly suggest is likely to be related to a case you're working. Most of this occurred in just the past few months - shall I go on? I'd say you more than qualify and if carrying a firearm as a precautionary measure isn't for you then who in God's name is it for?'

  'Do I have a choice?'

  'Yes, you have a choice. Nothing's changed, all British police officers have to volunteer to carry a firearm and you are volunteering.'

  'I see.'

  'For pity's sake carry the bloody gun, set an example for younger detectives, they look up to you, you're a bloody legend in your own lifetime. You know better than anyone the streets have become more dangerous, we both knew this day would come, I guess we both just hoped we'd be long retired before it got to this poi
nt. Ultimately this comes from the Downing Street, it's political so do me a favour and sign the paperwork then pick up your firearm.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Look, the way things are going you may just be grateful for it, you can only get lucky so many times. Protect yourself, protect your family.'

  I got up to leave and felt like an entirely different detective to the one who walked in, I had never anticipated becoming an armed officer. The British police force I joined didn't routinely carry firearms, those that did were trained specialists. I was qualified but I had very mixed feelings about carrying a weapon day to day.

  'Hardy,' said Webster. 'Send in Rayner, he's also been selected so I may as well get it over and done with. I am sure he'll be as reluctant as you. He's going to give me hell I suppose - what a bloody day.'

  Fifty-Two

  Vlad watched the parade of small vessels pass through the narrow stretch of sea between his new beach fronted house and the small Island of Brownsea. His newly built home, was on one of the most sort after stretches of coastline in Great Britain. He was pleased with his investment. It was the perfect place to hold a meeting with his new European contact. Klaus's departure from this world left a vacancy. Klaus's loss was someone else's gain. That someone was an Englishman living in Geneva.

  Anya came across the balcony and stood beside Vlad. Her hair had grown long and was up, she wore an Indian inspired summer dress from her new designer wardrobe. The cut was perfect, so was she. 'Can I get you anything?' asked Anya with a smile.

  'A coffee would be good, but no rush. With this view across the bay and you beside me I have all I need. I feel so different these days – calm.' Vlad looked at her. 'You look stunning. You have changed me, Anya. With you next to me I feel like a man who can build something, something substantial, a legacy. You have done that. Building this new home and finding you, that is not coincidence. That's fate. It's destiny.'

  Anya smiled reticently. She put out her hand and touched Vlad's face. Vlad pulled Anya to him and kissed her. 'You're so beautiful Anya. If we had time...' said Vlad running his hands down her back and over her hips.

  'But we don't,' said Anya pushing away his hands playfully. 'Your guest has arrived and he's a part of the new future, our future,' she said.

  Shaun Foster was tall, slim, tanned and handsome. He wore a pale blue suit with matching waist coat. His white shirt was open at the collar and he wore navy crocodile skin shoes. He looked relaxed as he walked onto the balcony with an outstretched hand. 'Pleasure to meet you, Mr Kastrati.' The two men shook hands and Shaun looked at Anya, he saw no ring and was unsure how to address her so waited for an introduction.

  'This is Anya. Who I hope one day soon will become my wife.'

  'Call me Annie,' said Anya. 'How was your journey? Was your flight from Geneva comfortable? I trust our driver collected you at the airport without incident and made you welcome?'

  'A pleasure to meet you, Annie,' said Shaun. 'And thank you, it was a short comfortable flight and a mercifully short drive. A two hour flight from Geneva is a welcome change to the many long haul flights of recent weeks. I wake up some mornings trying to recall which country I am in.'

  Anya smiled. 'You're clearly a man in demand. Would you like a drink, Mr Foster? I was just about to make coffee for Vlad and green tea myself.'

  'Call me Shaun. Yes, a green tea would be wonderful, thank you.'

  Vlad watched as Anya headed back across the balcony and into the house. He admired how quickly she had transformed herself from a frightened young girl to an elegant and sophisticated woman who commanded the room. He had nurtured that. He had seen the potential in her and taken her as a rough diamond and made her sparkle. Now every man who met her wanted her but she belonged to him.

  Fifty-Three

  She watched Simon Baker from the far side of the busy Costa Coffee shop. It felt exhilarating, the two of them in the same room. Two wolves in a room full of lambs. The coffee shop was crammed with mothers; their dribbling infants either asleep in a designer buggy or being comforted or fed. The mothers spoke a language she could neither understand or comprehend. To her they were aliens, much like every other person she came into contact with. The only person in the room of any significance was Baker. He was someone she understood. Like her he was an apex predator. Intellectually he might be of interest, though looking at his thin, wiry frame she was not sure he could be her type in any physical way. What was her type?

  Baker wouldn't be the life companion she sought but he could be a welcome distraction for a while. She'd observe him, study him and follow his accomplishments.

  A drooling baby stared at her from the table next to her. Its eyes transfixed on her face. A gummy smile crept across its pudgy face. The mother looked at the baby and then at her. 'He likes you? He's such a good judge of character. You like the ladies, don't you? Don't you? My little baby boy. Buh, buh, buh, buh,' said the mother. She began lifting the baby in the air to the delight of the other mothers and that of the drooling infant.

  The Mentor didn't smile and said nothing. Instead she thought. 'With any luck, he'll grow up to murder you in your bed, you stupid bitch. Invade my space again and I'll do it for him, today.'

  Today she was a red head, a homeless woman carrying a plastic bag full of scrunched up clothes. She loved her transformations. Quality wigs and make up and hours spent mastering the skill of makeup artistry meant she could be unrecognisable from one day to the next. She'd even invested in a accent and dialect coach for a while. He claimed to have worked with Nicole Kidman, Jeremy Irons, Kate Winslet and Guy Pearce amongst others. He was very good. Naturally, he was gone now. She remembered his gold ring, encrusted with a ruby. She'd kept it as a souvenir.

  She wondered what Simon Baker was thinking. He looked so ordinary, she saw no concern at all on his thin bearded face. Unlike her he wasn't born with what they had. At least she didn't think he had been born with that thing that set them apart from the rest of society. A predator with the desire, a need, to kill for no reason other than the satisfaction it brought. No, she felt sure Simon Baker was created by society and yet, he wore it comfortably. No angst, no troubled eyes or furrowed brow. Simon Baker looked at ease as he read the newspaper and sipped a cappuccino. His only concern appeared to be the flakes of almond croissant on his tweed blazer.

  'Time to play a little game,' she thought. The Mentor put on her thread bare and stained coat and weaved her way unsteadily through the mothers and buggies toward Simon Baker. She was close now. She could hear him breath, see the pores on his face, the hairs on the back of hand. She bent down beside him and pretended to pick up an envelope from beneath his table. She passed it to him with a shaky hand.

  'I think you must have dropped this, my love. Here you go,' said The Mentor. She gave a big yellow toothed smile then wiped her nose on her coat sleeve and held out a gloved hand. She watched as Simon Baker looked at the envelope and recognised his name on it. She smiled inwardly. Baker then looked at her and then looked at her stained red gloved hand.

  'That was very kind of you,' said Baker, as he looked around the room for who might have left the mysterious envelope. He reached into his jacket pocket and handed her a five pound note from his wallet.

  'Thank ya love. You're a very 'ansum young man. You kinda remind me of me late husband, he was tall and fit too. You've got 'is eyes, warm and tender.' She could see the discomfort in his eyes as she leaned in closer and then closer still. She gave him a good smell of her dirty clothes and watched how he leaned back, repelled. What a rush.

  Out of the corner of her eye she could see a young male barista eyeing her. He was weighing up whether he needed to intervene and move her along. They only tolerate someone of her sort for so long. Homeless coffee drinkers are bad for business. They make other patrons feel uncomfortable and that just won't do, won't do at all. Well tough luck, I haven't finished yet. You come near me barista boy and I'll butcher your pretty face.

  In her own time, The Mentor pic
ked up her bags and headed out the door onto the street, first heading one way and then heading back the other. Quietly muttering and humming to herself for effect.

  She pictured Simon Baker opening the envelope. A note, a genuine note, hand written on a fine cream wove paper from The Mentor. A message direct from the very person who only moments before he'd been unaware had stood right beside him. Within touching distance. She couldn't hold that against him, nobody would have suspected. Nobody actually knew what The Mentor looked like, that was all part of her game. That was why she is The Mentor and he the student. She pictured his hand trembling in excitement as he read and savoured every word:

  Congratulations on achieving, so much so soon,

  With preparation and purpose you've left not a clue.

  Keep your distance, (this is your party),

  From Scotland Yard's finest, an inspector named Hardy.

  Take careful steps, we're enjoying the show,

  Keep us informed, we would hate you to go,

  Stay sure footed, and one step ahead for me,

  And do what you can to fool Hardy.

  - Carpe Diem, The Mentor.

  She continued her bag-lady performance until she reached her car which was in a quiet car-park some distance from the town centre. She removed her coat and wig and threw the bags in the trunk. 'Quite a performance,' she said to herself. With her gloved hand she dropped Baker's teaspoon into a clear plastic evidence bag, then carefully put away the evidence bag. 'You can never have enough fingerprint evidence or insurance. It could even be a wonderful device to send Police Inspectors in the wrong direction for one of my students. For a price of course. There's always a price.'

  The Mentor started the car and the next song was introduced: Time Is Running Out by Muse. She hadn't heard before and certainly not her usual choice but on this occasion it's regimented rhythm and the lyrics caught her ear. She hummed along and felt wonderfully uplifted.