by Jay Gill
“You don’t need a gun,” I assured her. “We have officers outside and a state-of-the-art security system. You have all that so that you don’t need a gun. I or Rayner or a fellow officer will be around to do the school run.”
I was concerned Monica’s life was becoming overly complicated, so I took the opportunity to say a few things that had been on my mind for a while. “To a certain degree, Helena knew what she was getting when she married me. She knew the type of work I do. I was very clear about that.”
“What are you saying, James? I don’t understand.”
“You’ve found yourself mixed up in my life, in part because you needed a refuge from Scott, which was fine; just like Helena was, I’m here to support you one hundred percent. But now it seems that refuge might not look so safe.
“You’re mixed up in all my problems, and it wasn’t what you bargained for. We love having you with us. The children adore you and love you, and I honestly wonder how I would have coped without you. You’ve been so generous and kind. You’ve done more than you ever needed to or should have. Since losing Helena, it has worked well for us both. It’s just . . . I don’t want you feeling you have to stay. I also don’t want you to feel that I’m taking advantage of your kindness.”
Monica sat looking at me, an inscrutable expression on her face, but said nothing. I pressed on.
“What I am saying is I’d understand if you wanted to get as far away from all this as you can. I’d figure something out. I know my parents would help out with the girls. Maybe you’d feel happier staying with one of your girlfriends or even back with your parents? Somewhere less complicated.”
My voice trailed off, and I waited to see what she would say.
“Are you asking me to leave?” Monica looked heartbroken and her eyes filled with tears.
“No, no, no!” I said, putting a hand on her arm. “Stop – don’t cry. Oh please, I’m sorry. I just wonder whether you’ll ever be able to move on with your life when you’re mixed up in all the dramas of mine. I’m not asking you to leave – you must understand that. I’m just saying you don’t need to be mixed up in all this. You’re free to leave anytime you feel less than safe. Please don’t feel you have a responsibility to us; we’ll cope without you somehow.” I paused, searching for words and feeling a complete idiot. “I mean, all the time you’re here I feel responsible for you as well as Alice and Faith.”
I knew immediately I’d said it all wrong. This was one of those moments I wanted to rewind and start over, but in real life that just didn’t happen.
Monica pushed past me and went to her room. The slammed door sent a clear message. I buried my face in my hands, cursing my idiocy. Damn it. As I came out of the bathroom, I met Mum, Alice and Faith at the top of the stairs.
“I suppose you heard all that?” I said. From their expressions I had little doubt they had.
My daughters looked at me stony-faced, and Mum looked ready to strangle me.
“Sometimes, James Hardy, you’re a bloody fool, a bloody fool who cannot see a good thing even when it’s right under his nose. Get yourself downstairs. I’ll speak to Monica.”
Alice crossed her arms and little Faith rolled her eyes at me and tutted.
Chapter Thirty-Three
“He’s not in any sort of trouble, is he? He’s a good boy. Very bright. Extremely bright. Always has been. He’s always on his computer. He tells me he’s being good, but I don’t know. I mean, I trust him. We both do. But you know how fifteen-year-old boys can be. All that . . . you know, testosterone,” said Mrs Rose, looking at her husband for reassurance.
“Oh, yes,” said Mr Rose. “I’m pretty sure we’d know if he was up to no good. Not that I know one end of a computer from another. Never used that Facebook or the other one, Twitter. Obviously, I’ve heard about them but I haven’t used them myself. Don’t see the point. But Joshy, well, he’s an expert at all that stuff. Isn’t he, love?”
Before Mrs Rose could continue, I interjected. “He contacted us. I gather he has some information, and so, as far as I am aware, he isn’t in any trouble. I shouldn’t worry too much, for now.”
Mr and Mrs Rose shifted uneasily.
“I see,” said Mr Rose. “Well, best you just ignore us. Bit out of touch.”
“Joshy, love,” called out Mrs Rose. “Joshy, love, are you there? There’s an Inspector Hardy here to see you.”
“He’s a detective chief inspector, love,” corrected Mr Rose.
Mrs Rose looked at me apologetically. “Detective Chief Inspector Hardy,” called Mrs Rose again, this time with anger and frustration in her voice.
“Okay, okay, keep your hair on. Just give me two minutes, all right?” Josh called back. Mr and Mrs Rose looked awkwardly at each other and then at me.
“Tea, Inspector? I’ve got some fruitcake as well, if you’d like some?”
“That would be lovely, thank you. Tea, milk, no sugar,” I said, more to ease the awkwardness than anything.
Josh appeared at the top of the stairs in black socks, grey jogging trousers and a ‘Muse’ t-shirt. “Come up, then,” he said, disappearing back into his room as quickly as he had appeared.
Mr Rose smiled apologetically. “First on right.”
“Perhaps you’d accompany me? Josh is a minor, so it would be best if one of his parents is with him.”
I was expecting Josh Rose’s bedroom to be a complete mess, but I was pleasantly surprised. The room was neat and tidy, and I didn’t get the feeling his mother had just tidied it. Instead, it seemed Josh liked order. Mr Rose sat on the bed behind us. A chair was waiting for me, so I introduced myself and sat beside Josh in front of his computer and three display monitors. On the desk were other devices, all of which were neatly arranged.
“I got your message, Josh,” I said. “I am assuming you have something you want to share with me.”
Josh stopped typing. Closed all the windows on his screens and leaned back in his chair. He was appraising me. Satisfied, he looked at his father and then back at me.
“So, like, I know what I’m doing isn’t strictly legal. I’m, like, also aware that Scotland Yard can’t trace what I’m doing or where I’ve been,” he started.
“For the love of God,” said Mr Rose. “You told your mother and me that you weren’t doing anything illegal. You haven’t hacked into the Pentagon or the FBI, have you? You haven’t joined that Nigel Farage at WikiLeaks, have you?”
“Shut up, Dad. You sound like an idiot. Farage is nothing to do with WikiLeaks.”
Mr Rose grumbled, folded his arms and crossed his legs, then uncrossed his legs and sat there with a worried expression on his face, probably fretting about what was going to come out of his son’s mouth next.
“Ignore him,” Josh told me. “He’s just worried how Mum will take the news if their son is wanted by the US government. I mean,” he added sarcastically, “who would feed the cat if they had to spend time visiting their son in a high-security prison in the United States? And imagine the pointing and behind-the-hand whispering at church.”
Mr Rose bit his tongue and shifted uneasily.
Josh turned to me and continued. “Before I tell you anything, I want you to listen and understand.”
“Okay, that sounds fair. The least I can do is listen,” I said. Josh appraised me again, perhaps feeling that was a little too easy. “I’m under the impression you can help me,” I offered with a friendly smile. “I’m all ears.”
“Right. So, like, I belong to a small, elite community that specialises in policing the internet. We go after serious crime. There is too much regular crime, so we pinpoint the top one percent of potential cyber criminals or other criminal activity we can access online. We visit places that are supposed to be impenetrable and take a look. We’re like the online equivalent of the SAS. We go in, gather intel and get out fast. Sometimes there’s a bit of a firefight while we cover our tracks. Usually, though, it’s boring and nobody knows we were ever there. When we find somet
hing of significance, we pass it on. You following so far?” asked Josh.
Mr Rose mumbled something inaudible about privacy laws. I nodded and made a mental note to ask Josh later who he passed his information on to.
“Anyway, I’m checking out this one guy in New Zealand. No reason to go into why exactly. I’m running some data through this software I’ve written that saves me, like, hours. So, I’m waiting for it to do its thing and I’m, like, looking at a few large cash deposits, and that leads me to this dude’s browsing habits. And I come across this secure site this guy’s a member of. Right? Got it?”
“Yes,” I said. Though in reality I was not sure why Josh had asked for me or where this was going. “Please carry on.”
Josh turned to his monitors and began typing. In a few seconds he had a website up and continued talking, some of which I actually understood. “Look, Inspector Hardy, I see all sorts of crazy stuff online. Most of it I’m not interested in, even though those involved definitely need locking up. Online, right now, it’s like the Wild West. The Wild West but without any lawmen to stand up and fight. Mainly because governments don’t know what’s going on, or don’t have the skill set or resources to fight back, and also because just like the Wild West, the internet is one vast, untamed wilderness. Instead they fight fires and make noise about doing something. In my opinion, they need a tactical approach and need to grasp the magnitude of what is going on and do something before cybercrime is too unwieldy to tackle.
“Anyway, my team and I are just getting on with doing what we can ourselves. We usually expose mega stuff, nothing on a personal level. By that I mean we’re not interested in low-level scams. We’re exposing high-profile stuff; best I don’t go into detail. Anyway, this time I wanted to tell someone about a low-level thing I saw. When I show you, you’ll understand. I know you will.”
Josh was now trying to get into a secure page. He began tutting and sucking his teeth. “Updated the security a little. Pathetic. That all you got? Okay, so I’ll just . . . Here we go.” I watched as Josh’s fingers flew across the keys. On the screen, windows opened and closed. At last, he allowed himself a small smile and turned to me. “Right, so, check this out. Boom! Here we go, Inspector.”
I looked at one of the three screens in front of me and began reading. Josh was all smiles and really animated, rocking back and forth in his chair while sipping from a can of Dr Pepper.
“What you have here, Inspector Hardy, is what I believe is an online community of stone-cold killers. Look here.” Josh pointed to a line of text on the screen. “This dude is bragging. All looks genuine to me. Well, I wouldn’t be wasting your time if it didn’t.”
There were pictures, videos, posts, comments and even reviews all apparently related to murders. Whether these were old cases or even genuine I couldn’t tell. Then Josh opened up a window that changed everything. He slid the window over to the screen nearest me.
“And this is why I asked for you,” he said.
In front of me was a series of pictures of Toby Fielding, a montage showing him first tied to a chair and then a sequence of images showing the gradual progress of his being tortured, until finally his lifeless body lay contorted and bloodied. Josh pointed to a final image and looked at me with a huge grin.
I groaned audibly as I realised the very last picture was of me talking to Rayner right before he and I entered the gallery on Old Potter Street.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Vlad eyed the fat man. He’d always disliked him but tolerated him because it was good for business. Now, despite the benefits, he could no longer do even that.
His demands, his negotiations, the way he filled a chair, the way he stuffed his fat face, his constant sweating, his stupid German accent. Most of all he despised the way the fat man demanded Albanian women.
Vlad realised this was nothing to do with the fat man’s taste in women. He doubted he really had a preference at all. No, Vlad had come to realise it was purely the fat man’s way of disrespecting him. Demanding and using girls from Vlad’s own birthplace was purely symbolic. It was the fat man’s way of saying, “I’ll take what I like and there is nothing you can do about it.”
Vlad felt himself blaze with fury, but he kept it in check. He’d often imagined gutting the fat man. The way he’d seen his father gut a pig when he was boy. Hung from the ceiling by his ankles, throat and belly sliced open with the intestines removed. Blood gushing and then draining into a bucket. That day couldn’t come soon enough.
With an effort, Vlad pulled his mind back to the room. Behind the glass wall, the doors opened and the women filed in one by one and began to line up in front of them. With today’s more serious business out of the way, it was now time for the final part of the transaction. The metaphorical cherry on the fat man’s enormous cake.
Vlad watched the fat man ease his huge bulk forward to get a closer look. He watched him moisten his thin red lips and narrow his piggy eyes. Each girl carried a number. The fat man read some stapled pages, which contained a brief description of each girl. Height, weight, age, colouring, nationality, fictitious history and sexual preferences. One of Vlad’s managers had filled out the descriptions, which were full of creative writing to make the women seem a little more exotic.
The fat man compared each woman with the notes. His breathing became louder, and Vlad watched him as he dabbed his bloated face with an embroidered handkerchief.
After some consideration, the fat man circled the numbers of the girls he wanted and passed the sheet to Vlad. He thanked Vlad for his hospitality and repeated how much he enjoyed their working together.
Without another word, the fat man heaved himself out of his chair and, leaning heavily on a cane, left the room. Once outside the room the fat man was greeted by his aide and bodyguard, Hans Vogt.
Vlad tossed the papers across the room and poured himself a large whiskey. Alberto entered the room and stood beside his boss.
“Everything okay with the German?” he asked.
“I never want to do business with that—” Vlad stopped speaking, walked over to the glass and began watching girl number eight. He picked up the papers he’d thrown across the room and looked at the numbers the fat man had circled.
“We’re not sending the German any more girls. It’s over,” instructed Vlad.
“Are you sure?” asked Alberto. “You know what it will mean.”
Vlad walked over to Alberto and stood directly in front of him. Alberto didn’t flinch but looked his boss squarely in the eye. “I am sure, my friend. It’s time to make the fat German pig squeal for the last time.”
“Okay. When do you want me to do it?” asked Alberto
Vlad walked back to the glass and looked at girl number eight. She had removed the heavy earrings and dropped her number on the floor and was now unfastening her uncomfortable high heels. The girls either side of her had stepped away to distance themselves. Vlad smiled as he watched. “I’m going to do it. You can sit this one out.”
They stood together in silence for a few moments watching girl number eight.
“Alberto, my friend,” said Vlad at length, “I am going to shake things up. Make sure the men – you know. Just keep them on their toes.”
“What about Papa?” said Alberto.
“I will talk to Papa. It’s time we found a new route through Europe. He’ll understand.”
Alberto wasn’t so sure. “The German’s demands are eating into our profits, and, on top of that, German border security is so high these days it’s almost impossible to move anything of any size, so now would definitely be a good time to make alternative arrangements.”
“My thoughts exactly, brother,” said Vlad. He squeezed Alberto’s shoulder. “My thoughts exactly.”
“That’s Anya?” said Alberto, turning his attention back to girl number eight. “I’m not sure how she ended up in the room.” The two men laughed as they watched her. She was now sitting on the floor rubbing her feet.
“Hav
e you found out anything more about her?”
“Not really. Nothing more than we already knew. I’ll keep digging.” Alberto went to leave the room. As he opened the door Vlad spoke to him over his shoulder.
“Leave Anya in the room. Ask all the other girls to come out and just leave Anya in there. I want to watch her for a while. She makes me laugh.”
Vlad poured himself a drink and pulled his chair closer to the glass. He smiled as the girls were pulled out of the room and Anya was forced to remain behind. She began protesting, swearing and hitting and kicking the door, and then she turned her attention to the one-way mirror wall and whacked it over and over with the heel of her shoe.
“Let me out,” she yelled at the mirror. “I know you’re there. Let me out of here – now!”
Fearless when she wants to be, thought Vlad. He sipped his whiskey and wondered what to do with her.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Orel watched Papa sitting on his favourite bench near the small patch of green opposite the restaurant. The old man was doing nothing more than people watching and enjoying a warm summer day. In a month or two, a bitter north wind would arrive and the warmth of summer would be gone.
Papa threw a few pieces of bread for the squirrel he’d named Boris. Somehow Boris seemed a fitting name for the little chap.
Orel sat down next to the old man and watched as he talked to the squirrel and threw bread.
“He recognises you. I think you have a friend,” said Orel.
“No. He only recognises that I offer free food. He’s an opportunist.”
Papa threw the last of the bread and the squirrel took it. Then, as quickly as he had arrived, he was gone.
“What news?” asked Papa.
Orel looked around the park before speaking. “I heard the meeting went well. Our German friend is happy. A shipment will arrive as usual in a few weeks.”
“Good. That’s good.”
