DCI James Hardy Series Boxset

by Jay Gill

  “Oh, Simon. You naughty boy. You had me going again. You are so naughty, teasing me all the time. Thank you, sweetheart.”

  Beckham rolled his fat body off her lap as the old lady rose to her feet. She walked over to the drinks cabinet and poured herself a large sherry. Beckham stood guard beside her and stared at Baker.

  Baker glared back and showed his teeth. Beckham’s flat face looked more wrinkled than usual as he growled, panted and growled some more.

  “Stop it, Beckham. It’s Simon.”

  The old lady, sherry in hand, walked to her favourite chair, which was close to the window. Baker opened the window as his mother eased herself down into the cushions. She took a quick sip of sherry and then, picking up a lighter from the window ledge, lit her cigarette. Baker watched as his mother closed her eyes, sank back in her chair and slowly exhaled a large cloud.

  “Thank you, Simon. You know, when you get to my age, it’s the small things that give a lot of pleasure. You’re a good boy. I know moving in with me is hard at your time of life. But you’ll get back on track. You’ll put the lies and betrayal behind you and move on. Isn’t that right, Becky-Boo-Boo?” She stroked and patted the dog fondly.

  “I know. It’s you I worry about, though, Mother. You know you shouldn’t be smoking at all. Your chest. Your breathing. It’s getting worse. Are you using the oxygen?” The old lady put out her hand and Baker sat down next to her. He took her frail hand and looked at it.

  “I know, sweetheart. You’re a good boy. I do use the oxygen, but the mask, it frightens Beckham. He gets upset and doesn’t stop barking until I take it off. I don’t like to worry him.” She looked down adoringly at the pug, who was using his big glossy eyes to encourage more stroking and tickling.

  “I know you love the dog, Mother, but for Christ’s sake, you need to use the mask. I don’t know – perhaps lock the fat hamster in the kitchen while you use the mask.” Beckham growled and barked at Baker.

  “Please don’t raise your voice, sweetheart. Beckham isn’t himself today.” The old woman gave Beckham a few kisses. “He’s very sensitive to change. You know he never used to bark and growl at you.” Beckham circled a few times on her lap and then settled, his eyes fastened on Baker. The old lady began stroking him again then lit a second slim.

  “Okay, if you’re not going to listen to me, then I have things to do. Now, before I start, can I get you anything? Some dinner, perhaps?”

  “But you’ve only just got in. You’ll make yourself ill if you don’t take some time to relax. I know you’re in a hurry to get your life back in order after what happened, but don’t hurry on my account. I enjoy having you around. This big old house can get very lonely.”

  Baker ignored her and repeated his question. “Dinner? Would you like some? I think we have some nice cheese, but if you’d like something hot, we have some ping food in the freezer. I can microwave something for you when I do mine if you want?”

  The old woman looked out of the window at the darkness.

  “Mother? Some food? I think there is a shepherd’s pie, a lasagne and maybe a biryani. I’ll do some peas as well.”

  “Thank you, darling, but Mrs Benson visited earlier with a chicken casserole. We ate together. Poor woman is beside herself with worry. You remember her eldest boy, Gareth? Well, he’s been posted to Afghanistan. I always thought he was gay, but it turns out he’s doing well in the army. They probably drummed that nonsense out of him. Mind you, in my day plenty of officers were gay. If the army found out, they just sent you off to Africa or some remote post. Out of sight, out of mind. I suppose things just move on.

  “Everyone is so very liberal-minded these days. Every time I turn on the television, it’s men kissing men and girls kissing girls. If it is a man and woman, well, they’re all about safe words and tying each other up all over the place. God help the next generation; they’ll end up having to take a degree course before knowing what they want to do in the bedroom.”

  “Thank you, Mother. Glad to hear you and Mrs Benson had a nice time. I’ll grab some dinner and help you to your room around ten. But I want you to start taking better care of yourself. I might not be around forever.”

  He instantly regretted saying the last part. Baker got up to make a hasty retreat before his mother began worrying or had time to move on to her next favourite subject: illegal immigrants.

  “What do you mean? Are you leaving? I hope you haven’t gotten yourself mixed up with another tart already. For Christ’s sake, Simon, don’t you ever learn? Your life is in tatters, your reputation in pieces, every penny you worked so hard for taken by that woman or spent on lawyers, and you’re gallivanting about. Ready to jump in bed with the next floozy looking to take you for every penny you have. Which, if I might add, is most likely to be your inheritance – the way my health is deteriorating. Six months they give me. Six months. And here I am worrying about the reputation of this family. A family name with a proud history. You should be spending every second of the day restoring our family name. Not running around with your trousers around your ankles. I thought I brought you up to have more sense than that.

  “Your father, God rest his soul, and I spent a fortune on your education. We were too soft on you. We should have made you go into law or become a doctor. Instead we indulged you and tried to accept that you were an artistic boy and not so academic. Perhaps your father was right. Perhaps I did spoil you. Perhaps I should have made you follow him into law. That law firm would be yours now. You’d want for nothing. Where do you go all day, anyway? Not that we need it, but I don’t see any money coming in. So, you’re not working.”

  Mother began gasping for air. Beckham jumped from her lap and looked on with a mixture of curiosity and concern. Baker collected the oxygen from beside the drinks cabinet and gently slid the mask over his mother’s face. She looked at him wide-eyed.

  “Breathe. Slowly. Calmly. Breathe,” said Baker reassuringly.

  A tear rolled down the old woman’s face, and Baker stroked her back and kissed her.

  “Mother, listen. We’ve been over this. I am not going anywhere. I am here for you. And same as before when you’ve questioned me: I am not about to run off with a tart. Nor have I suddenly become gay like Gareth. I haven’t become a religious nut, or a terrorist, or a paedophile. I also haven’t joined the Labour Party. And I did vote Yes to Brexit, just like you asked.”

  His mother smiled and laughed through the mask. Baker continued while the old woman couldn’t talk back.

  “I will restore the family reputation. As it happens, I am working on ensuring my name is remembered for a very long time; you must trust me on that. And just as you and Father taught me, I will also ensure those who betrayed me pay a heavy price, and that they are made aware that we Bakers have long memories and an even longer reach. I have been too trusting in the past and too forgiving. Now I am looking out for me and for you and for family. And even for Beckham here.” Baker reached out and stroked Beckham. Mother lifted the mask.

  “Good boy. Remember, you have Baker blood in your veins. I know you’re tired of me telling you and it sounds far too overdramatic, but our particular Baker bloodline can be traced back beyond the Crusades. We didn’t survive all those centuries by being weak. You understand me? I know you’re a sensitive soul, but you can no longer afford to be sentimental. You’ll be on your own soon. There will be time enough to continue the bloodline. Right now, you need to restore and repair. So go continue your work. Go and do whatever it is you need to do. As for me, I am going to finish my sherry and watch Newsnight. Hopefully I’ll see some liberal politician squirm a little. That always cheers me up.”

  Baker closed the window a little, replenished his mother’s sherry glass and retreated upstairs.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Alberto and Vlad had known each other since boyhood. They had grown up in the same village. Their fathers regularly did business together and, like his father, Alberto was a man of integrity and unquestioning loy
alty.

  As boys, Alberto and Vlad had worked out that in some distant way they were cousins, and that had sealed their brotherhood. They had become blood brothers and dreamed together of becoming rich in America, powerful and fearless like Al Capone. They had childishly vowed that together they would take on the world and probably die side by side in a blaze of glory.

  Alberto’s wasn’t the sort of loyalty driven into men by military service. His was the family loyalty that you cannot explain, the ancient, instinctive kind that binds us unquestioningly to those we love. It ran through his veins and was DNA deep. He truly would protect and, if necessary, die for those he considered family.

  Today his loyalty to Vlad meant he was presenting him with an innocent young woman. A young woman who had done nothing more than suspect her friend’s murder was linked to rumours about a man called the Wolf, an Albanian mafia millionaire who was said to be killing young women for kicks. So, when she had suspected her friend had been murdered by him, she’d decided she didn’t want to stick around and made a run for it. Unfortunately for her, in Vlad’s eyes that made her a problem; it made her look like she knew something. Why run if you know nothing?

  Alberto watched the girl as he sipped his Pepsi. She had spoken only to tell him her name, Anya. He liked her spirit; she was a real fighter. In a very traditional way she was also incredibly beautiful. Looking at her made him remember home and his first girlfriend, a local girl whom he’d promised he’d return for after a few months when he’d first left for London with Vlad. That was nearly twenty-five years ago. He’d changed a lot in that time; he’d gone from a teenager full of excitement and ambition to a man hardened through tough choices and blood-soaked hands.

  Alberto looked at his watch and drained the last of his Pepsi. He got to his feet and put out a hand to show Anya the way. It was time to take her to Vlad. Another tough choice and very likely more blood on his hands.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Vlad picked up the remote control and turned off the latest episode of Narcos. He felt an affinity with the Columbian drug lord Pablo Escobar as he was portrayed in the series and was watching the first season for a third time. Escobar had been a smart man, and a lot could be learned from his successes as well as his failures.

  Vlad was in a good mood and smiled graciously as Alberto brought in the girl, Anya. He studied her as she stepped hesitantly into the room.

  “Come in, come in. I won’t bite, I promise,” he said. “Thank you, Alberto. Anya and I will be fine now. I will call you if we need anything.”

  He smiled and gestured for Alberto to leave. Alberto gave Anya a firm prod to encourage her into the room and then departed, closing the large carved oak doors behind him.

  “Please sit down,” said Vlad, gesturing to a chair. “I am sorry about Alberto. He can be a little rude in his manner and a little rough. He forgets that you are a young woman and so should be treated with tenderness and with care.”

  He smiled warmly and poured Anya and himself each a glass of red wine. As he poured, he watched as her eyes darted around the room. Her vulnerability sent a charge of adrenaline through him. He passed her a glass and sat down in his favourite leather armchair. He drank and watched her. She really is as beautiful as I was told, he thought. Her rich brown eyes. Those lips. Those long, slim legs.

  “Anya, I understand you come from a small village not far from my own hometown,” said Vlad. “Do you have family there?”

  He saw her hesitate for a moment, no doubt wondering how he might know that about her, and tremble as she struggled to get herself back under control.

  “Yes,” she said. “My parents are still there.”

  “A little brother too, I understand.” Vlad smiled reassuringly.

  “Yes, I have a brother.”

  “I am sure he misses you a great deal. I should imagine they are reliant on your sending them a little money from time to time? Things are tough in the world at the moment; financially, I mean. I am sure they appreciate and perhaps even rely on your support. A little money goes a long way back home.”

  She was watching him closely. Good, he thought. Now he had her attention, he wanted her to focus and understand what he was implying – and also what he was offering.

  “I’ll be straight with you. I feel responsible for what happened to your friend Delina. I feel an obligation to look after, or at least look in on, those who arrive here in London from Albania. I feel I let you both down. Especially Delina. I want you to know I have taken steps to reach out to her family.

  “When you arrive here you are vulnerable. Back home, you are sheltered and protected by family. I recall how things were when I first arrived here. I would not have survived long and would very likely have ended up in jail had I not been taken under the wing of a successful businessman. This was a man my father had arranged for me to work for. Since then, I have made my fortune and send what I can back home to help the poor and sick.”

  Anya was still watching him uneasily. Concerned he might have overdone his performance, he decided to rein it in a little and get back to the point.

  “I know things can be hard at first. I too worked my way up. You’re a smart, strong and intelligent woman, which means there are opportunities. Because of what happened to your friend I feel it is important I keep you close. I would not want you to meet a similar fate. Do you understand?”

  Anya nodded uncertainly; Vlad was sure she understood the meaning behind his words. She picked up her wine with a shaking hand and drank it down in one.

  Vlad took the glass from her and filled it again. Before handing it back he spoke softly.

  “I am sorry my men were heavy-handed with you when they picked you up. Your friend Monica is fine. I have checked, and even though she was in hospital she was there only as a precaution and was quickly back home. I was shocked when I heard what happened. I have reprimanded the men who picked you up. They were under strict instructions only to find you and ensure your safety by bringing you to me so we could talk.”

  Anya took a cigarette from her purse, lit it and exhaled heavily before she began to speak, choosing her words carefully.

  “I know who you are and I know what you are, so save it for someone else. As I see it you have already decided whether or not you should kill me. I assume because I am sitting here and not dead already you don’t consider me a risk and so are not going to kill me. You also know if I was going to talk to the police I would have already. You also know that, as an Albanian in London, I would not talk to the police because of our distrust of them. I assume, then, when you say you want to keep me close you mean you want me to work for you. I also assume you’re not planning on paying me for my typing skills.”

  Vlad laughed and passed her the glass of wine. “You’re right. I don’t have much need for typists. I will get straight to the point. I can put you in touch with some very wealthy friends of mine who would love to meet you. Instead of being an escort to average businessmen, come work for me. I will protect you, watch over you and introduce you to the wealthy associates I know. I assure you, you will very quickly become a very rich woman.”

  Anya finished her cigarette and slowly drank her wine. She then stood and walked over to Vlad.

  “I guess if you’re going to be recommending me, then you had better make sure your friends will be satisfied.” She ran her fingers through his hair.

  “Perhaps you are right,” said Vlad. “Though the longer I am around you, the less I want to share you with anyone else.”

  Anya wasn’t sure whether Vlad had bought her sudden change of heart but she thought if she could keep him satisfied for now, he would be less likely to want her dead. Men were so weak that way. She had to do this, she told herself, if for no other reason than to give herself time to consider her options.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I was in Harrow, at the first-floor apartment of Toby Fielding. A constable was stationed outside the door. She assured me someone was home and that she had spok
en to no one. She was sure no one had been in or out of the upstairs apartment since she’d arrived, which had been around forty-five minutes earlier.

  After knocking and waiting a few seconds I was met at the door by Stuart Walsh. He looked on edge and his lean figure immediately became tense when I introduced myself. He motioned me inside. The apartment was expensively furnished, and large art pieces were tastefully displayed. Dotted around I noted pictures of Toby and Stuart.

  “What’s your relationship with Toby Fielding?” I asked. I was pretty sure I knew the answer.

  “We’re married. We’ve been married just over two years; we kept our own names. Why are you are asking me that? Tell me what’s happened. Has something happened to him? Is he hurt? Where is he?” Stuart began pacing.

  “Please take a seat, Mr. Walsh. I have some bad news.”

  “I’m fine. Is he hurt? He’s dead, isn’t he? I knew something was wrong when he didn’t come home last night. I went to the gallery but it was locked up. I called our friends. Nothing. It was just so unlike him not to call me if he was going to be late.”

  “We discovered his body at his gallery. We’re treating his death as suspicious,” I said, not wanting to go into detail. “I know this is difficult, but can you think of any reason anyone would want to harm him?”

  This was part of the job no police officer liked. I’d visited loved ones with bad news more times than I ought to have, and I could recall every single one of the families and all the reactions. People responded in different ways and at different times, but they all experienced similar emotions: shock and denial, incomprehension, distress, despair, anger, helplessness, acceptance.

  Walsh dabbed away the tears rolling down his face. “Toby was a gentle man,” he said hoarsely. “Kind. Loving. Compassionate.”

  “It’s possible he knew his killer,” I said. “There was no forced entry into the gallery, so perhaps his killer was a client or a friend.”