DCI James Hardy Series Boxset

by Jay Gill

  “The thing is,” began Rayner, “she had a silver case in her purse with a few of these cards in it.” Rayner handed me a business card that had the usual lines about offering “discreet and professional” services.

  Hamilton took over. “The thing is, your friend was very likely offering escort services. Maybe one of her clients turned out to be a psychopath.”

  I was stunned. My mind ran through the brief conversations we’d had. I was searching for clues. How had I missed something like that? Then again, being a prostitute isn’t necessarily one of the things she’d want coming up in conversation with a police inspector.

  I turned to Rayner. “Well, I guess we’d better get started.”

  Chapter Six

  Rayner and I were met at the door to the flats by Delina’s landlord.

  Leonard Kingsbury was a sprightly, elderly man who looked as though he was dressed for a day at the office. Even though the heat outside was in the mid-seventies, he wore a navy tie and jacket. His shoes had a high gloss, and I guessed he had at one time or other served in the military. He held himself very upright and had an air of confidence about him. He scrutinised our badges before leading us up the two flights of stairs to the room on the top floor.

  “My flat is on the bottom floor, and I rent out the top floor. Here we are, detectives. And please call me Leonard,” he said as he opened the door. “If I get my hands on the coward who did that to her, I’ll gut him. The things I learned how to do to a man I’ll never forget. I was a paratrooper, you know. Served all around the world.

  “Pretty little thing she was,” he said sadly. “Always happy, always smiling and very polite and friendly. Foreign, of course, but I don’t mind that. I’ve met all sorts, all around the world. Anyway, nowadays the foreigners are more polite than those born and bred around here; lazy, foul-mouthed little sods most of them.”

  I put on my gloves and began looking in each room. I wasn’t sure what exactly I was looking for; often I don’t know until it jumps out at me. Looking around, I realised I knew precious little about Delina’s private life, her background and her day-to-day challenges since her arrival in the UK. I’d only known a young woman who missed her family and had talked of being excited about having moved to London. A young woman who was full of dreams and the possibilities for her new life here.

  At the back of a bottom drawer I found more cards. I looked through her wardrobe, checking pockets of coats and jackets. I noticed the shoes. Half had been placed on one side of the wardrobe and half on the other. I looked back at the clothes hanging there, and then I looked back at the shoes. I looked around the room. Two single beds. I grabbed a photo off a chest of drawers and showed it to Leonard, who was still chatting to Rayner.

  “Back in my day we used to call them ‘Ladies of the night,’” he was saying. “I don’t know if it’s true, of course. I heard it from—”

  “Who is the other girl?” I asked, pointing to the photo.

  “Anya. Her name is Anya Tanush,” said Leonard with surprise.

  “Why didn’t you tell us two girls lived here?”

  “I assumed you knew. I assumed that was why you were here. To ask her questions and to ask me questions,” said Leonard. “Mind you, I haven’t seen her for a few days. Not since Delina disappeared. I try to not come across as a nosey landlord, so I don’t ask too many questions.”

  The gravity of the situation suddenly dawned on Leonard. He straightened his perfect tie nervously. His hands were trembling as he slumped into one of the armchairs. He began mumbling and scolding himself. “Useless, silly old sod. Should have been looking out for those young women. One dead, one missing, and where were you? You let them get taken from right under your nose. There was a time nobody would have dared cross you. Now you’re nothing, just a frail old man.”

  Rayner, who was now at my side, called it in. He photographed the picture of Anya with his phone and sent it over to Scotland Yard’s missing persons department. He then opened the back of the frame and took out the photo, which he slid into a pocket. We would put it up on our evidence board.

  As we walked back out to the car, my mind began to tick over. Where was Anya? Did she know who had murdered Delina? Was she dead, too, and resting at the bottom of the Thames? Or was she hiding from the killer, or from the police – or both?

  Chapter Seven

  Finding Anya was now my top priority. A description and photo were already in circulation. If she was alive and in the Greater London area, then there was still a good chance we’d find her.

  If she was in fact in danger, our best chance of protecting her was if she came forward. Failing that, our next best hope was to find someone who had recently seen her.

  I decided to head home and break the news to Monica. There was a slim chance she would know where Anya might go. Perhaps she knew some of Anya and Delina’s friends or hangouts. In any event, I wanted to speak to Monica before Alice and Faith got home from school. I knew it wouldn’t be long before Delina’s name hit the news channels, and I didn’t want her finding out that way. We were holding the name back for now, but eventually it would come out. I wasn’t looking forward to the conversation but felt Monica deserved to hear the news from me first.

  Monica was marking test papers for her class, and she could see from my face I was the bearer of bad news. I told her what I could, then we talked and she cried and I comforted her. It was a rough few hours.

  Monica told me she and Delina had talked a lot, and that on occasion she had mentioned a friend named Anya.

  “She talked about the usual things; nothing out of the ordinary. I never got the feeling she was scared of anyone. We talked about food, family, friends, men, money and her homesickness,” said Monica.

  “Delina was a bright young woman, quietly confident with a positive attitude. She came alone to the UK. She knew no one to begin with. She left her family and everything she knew to start a new life. That takes such courage. Then some monster does this to her and she’s gone. Just like that – gone.”

  Monica and I drove to Spring Castle School together to pick up Alice and Faith. We watched as they came running across the playground, and I felt my heart lighten as they came crashing into me for a hug. It’s incredible how children can instantly change your mood with their love, energy and excitement. I picked them up from school as often as I could. It was as much a treat for me as it was for them when I was at the school gates when they came out.

  “Who wants to go and get an ice cream sundae?” I suggested.

  “Really?” Alice and Faith began jumping up and down excitedly and calling out the flavours and toppings they’d like. Monica hugged and kissed the girls and smiled for the first time in hours.

  Chapter Eight

  I was the only one still up when Rayner arrived just after eleven. He put his files on the desk while I grabbed us both a cold beer from the fridge.

  We were in my home office, which was a converted garage adjoined to the house. Rayner and I needed to talk. There had been a development in Delina’s case, the worst kind of development. A second body had been found. This time a Thames River Police patrol boat had pulled the body out of the river. It was another young woman, wrapped in plastic sheeting, the same way Delina had been found. Rayner knew what I was waiting to hear.

  “It’s not her,” he said. “It’s not Anya.”

  I’m not sure “relieved” is the right word, but I felt something similar. Anya might be our only link to the killer, and we needed her alive. Just the same, though, the body was still that of a young woman, still a daughter, still a sister, still somebody’s loved one. A young woman whose life had been cut brutally short. She most likely had family who were worried about her. A mother and father who were desperate to hear her voice and hear she was okay. Instead, the next news of their sweet daughter would be contact from one of my police officers, and it would be the worst kind of news a parent could receive.

  Rayner opened a case file and spread out a series
of photos. They were hard to look at. Another young woman, too young to end this way. I could see the same bruise marks around the throat and the same abdominal stab wounds, this time many more stab wounds. Rayner sat back in his armchair and stared at his notes. He looked exhausted. He took a sip of his beer.

  “Forensics will know more tomorrow, but what they can tell us right now is she’s been dead a while, certainly a while longer than Delina. It seems she may have been dead a few days and then her body was moved and put in the Thames.”

  “Do we have a name?”

  “No name. We have nothing. Unlike Delina, this young woman has nothing to indicate who she is. We’ve got to hope fingerprints or missing persons turn up something. Or maybe her family will come forward.”

  I could see from the photos in front of me that this young woman had a tattoo on her shoulder, a simple wolf design. We both looked at each other. The same thought process had gone through our heads at the same time: identifying marks.

  I grabbed my phone and called Hamilton. “Pick up, pick up,” I muttered.

  “Delina definitely had a tattoo,” said Rayner.

  I nodded in agreement.

  Hamilton answered. “It’s a good job I’m a workaholic with no social life who enjoys being called late at night by tall, dark, single men. How can I help you, James?”

  “Sorry to call so late. Delina, the young woman—”

  “Yes. I know the one.”

  “Did she have a tattoo? I mean, I remember she had a tattoo – what did it look like?”

  The line went quiet. Presumably Hamilton was referring to her files.

  “Yes. She had a tattoo. Black and white. About five centimetres by eight centimetres. On the back of her upper left shoulder. A tattoo of a wolf.”

  This was either a hell of a coincidence or Delina and this young woman knew each other. At the very least they were connected, but exactly how was unclear at the moment. We had our first development, and that felt good.

  “I assume Rayner is with you,” said Hamilton.

  I put my mobile on loudspeaker so Rayner could hear.

  “As you’re both there, I will tell you now. The murder weapon used on the victim pulled from the Thames today is the same as the one used on your friend Delina. She had multiple stab wounds that were made with the same weapon, and she was also strangled in the same way. In fact, her throat was virtually crushed. In my opinion, whoever did this held the victim by the throat and at the same time stabbed her. He was over his victim; he was up close and personal when he did this. Whoever this man is, he is strong, and I’m sure I don’t need to explain to you the sort of person you’re dealing with here.”

  I rang off and sat back in my chair feeling drained. Reading between the lines, it was clear these two murders were related. Already we had a lot of evidence, but as yet I couldn’t see the big picture. I felt sure that unless this killer was caught, he would do it again and again. Anyone capable of this kind of brutality enjoyed it, or at the very least felt compelled to do it. This man needed to feel power over his victims, and that kind of power is considered to be addictive.

  Rayner drained his bottle of beer and headed for the door. “We’ll start again in the morning. Stay where you are. I can show myself out. And get some sleep. You’ll think more clearly in the morning if you do.”

  I looked at the clock. It was after 1 a.m. I made some coffee and began to read through the files again.

  Chapter Nine

  Papa sat at the back of his restaurant. Six a.m. was his favourite time of day. Caesar’s would open in a few hours, but right now it was closed and quiet. He could read his paper, smoke his cigar and think. The opportunity to think and reflect was something he cherished.

  Papa remembered that when he was a boy, he would often sit with his father at their kitchen table and talk. Papa knew only that his father had many visitors and was said to be a man of his word. He was also aware that his father was respected by other townsfolk, and that his family was wealthier than anyone he knew. This made the immature boy both proud and at times boastful. He later learned his father was also feared and respected in equal measure not only by his townsfolk but also by many in neighbouring towns.

  Papa often got into fights with other boys, some his own age and some older and bigger. Tired of using his belt on his son for fighting, his father one day sat him down to talk.

  “I hear you’ve been fighting again,” he said. Without waiting to hear his son’s side of the story, he continued. “Your strength as a man comes from respect. Without respect you are nothing. True respect can never come from a fist, a knife or a gun – only fear.”

  With surprising speed and strength his father grabbed his hand and looked his son in the eye. He then pressed a finger hard into the boy’s chest.

  “Listen to me. True respect comes from power. True power comes from respect. Stop thinking with your heart and think with your head. Your heart makes you act from passion: fear, anger, lust – all come from your heart. These feelings will make you act on an emotional level and your decisions will be irrational. Irrational decisions will land you in trouble.”

  His father then pressed the same finger to the boy’s forehead. “Better to use your head; learn to think first. Give yourself time before reacting or making a decision. Just think for a moment of all the truly powerful men in history. First and foremost, they were thinkers, strategists. If you can think for others and can deliver for them the result they desire, you will be a respected and powerful man. But first you must learn to think for yourself.”

  His father took out his knife and stabbed it into the table in front of the boy. “I am not saying you will never need to fight. On the contrary, there are times when it is unavoidable. You will learn when those times are, and then when you do fight you will be sure it is the right and only course of action and that it is the last resort. Be sure also that, at all costs, you win that fight. Strike hard, strike fast, and strike with ruthlessness and finality.”

  His father then removed his belt and punished the young Papa that way for the last time.

  Chapter Ten

  Orel placed a strong black coffee on Papa’s table and went back behind the bar, where he continued cleaning glasses. He held up each glass to the light, polished it, inspected it and placed it neatly on the shelf.

  A loud rat-a-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat cut through the silence in the restaurant. Orel walked over to the glass door, took a deep breath and opened it.

  Vlad erupted into the room, looking out of place in the traditional surroundings. With his shoulder-length hair, dark glasses and expensive suit he looked like a rich city banker who’d gotten lost and stumbled into the wrong bar.

  Vlad patted Orel on the shoulder and pressed a wad of cash into his top pocket. He headed to the back of the restaurant and sat down opposite Papa.

  Orel nodded politely to the driver outside, closed the door and locked it.

  “What?” asked Vlad.

  Papa said nothing. He continued to read his newspaper.

  “What?” Vlad repeated. He raised his hand, winked at Orel, nodded and pointed to Papa’s coffee. Lighting a cigarette, he sucked hard and blew a large cloud of smoke into the air. Orel put a coffee down in front of Vlad and returned to polishing his glasses.

  Papa put down his newspaper and sipped his coffee. “Why would you do that?” he asked Vlad in a low voice.

  Vlad shrugged and shook his head. “Why would I do what?”

  “Every week you come in here and every week you give Orel money. Why would you disrespect him like that?”

  “I don’t mean any disrespect. I’m sure you don’t pay him enough, and, anyway, I see it as insurance.”

  “Insurance?” said Papa. “Really? Explain that to me.”

  “You know what? Let’s not do this again. Let’s enjoy our coffee. Orel’s coffee is the finest in London.” Vlad raised his cup, saluted Orel and drank the strong, rich coffee.

  Papa ran his hand over his bal
ding head and stared at Vlad. The two men sat in silence for a while.

  “You know this isn’t the way I had intended to run things after we returned to London. I thought that after a few years I would retire and you could sit where I am sitting. I see now that you enjoy getting your hands dirty,” said the old man.

  “I am ready to sit where you are. I just need a little more time putting the right people in the right seats. To do that, I need to be out there. I need to be seen.”

  Papa looked dissatisfied. “The longer you are out there the more exposed you are. In here, you distance yourself. With distance you gain perspective.”

  Orel returned to top up the coffees then respectfully returned to the bar.

  The old man’s face turned hard; his eyes darkened and narrowed. He laid both his hands flat on the table. “I want the truth. The young woman. Was that you?”

  How did the old man know about that? Vlad turned and looked at Orel behind the bar and then back at the old man. Of course he knew. The old man knew everything.

  Papa asked again. “Who was she?”

  “She was no one, a whore. I had information she was talking to the police. I felt sure the information was good, and so I acted in the interest of the business. Sad, yes, but necessary. These girls like to talk when they think they can get citizenship in return.”

  Papa knew he was being lied to again. My God, his arrogance. He doesn’t even try to hide his lies any more. “Did you know she was Albanian?”

  “No. I didn’t know she was from home.”

  Another lie. “It’s your job to know those things,” said the old man angrily. “The girl was from your uncle’s town.” Papa put up his hand to stop Vlad speaking. “She was not just some whore. Her name was Delina. Her family are asking me to find her. We are the very people expected to protect our country’s sons and daughters when they come to London. Tell me, what should I tell them?”