DCI James Hardy Series Boxset

by Jay Gill

  “Klaus said he hopes that you and he will catch up the next time he is in London. He says it has been far too long. He would like to thank you in person. He suggests dinner.”

  “I hope you politely made my excuses?”

  “Yes. I thanked him and explained you have handed all business affairs to Vlad. That you are retired and that I would pass on his kind offer.”

  “Good. Thank you,” said Papa. He sat silently for a few minutes enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face. Finally, his eyes still closed, he asked, “What else?”

  Orel sighed and paused before finally answering. “Another girl.” He watched the old man’s hands flinch imperceptibly. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Are you positive it was him?” asked Papa.

  “Yes. It happened the same way as the others.” Orel squeezed the old man’s arm fondly. “I’m sorry, Papa, truly.”

  He gave Papa’s arm a final squeeze, then got to his feet and left the old man alone.

  Only Papa could instigate what had to be done, and so he could now only wait for Papa’s word. In reality, there was no decision left to be made. It was now just a matter of when and how it should be done.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Vlad parked a few streets away and walked the short distance to the Carrington Grande Hotel. He sang softly to himself as he smoked and walked. He felt good. Anya made him happy, and finally he was going to do something about Klaus the fat German. He’d heard some music on the radio in the car on the way to the hotel and he hummed the tune that was still swimming in his head. He wasn’t sure what the words were, but he liked the melody.

  He went around the back of the Carrington Grande, where he’d arranged to be let in by a waiter who knew who Vlad was and knew not to refuse. As he rounded the corner, the waiter was standing by the door smoking. He was talking to a big man who was also smoking.

  Vlad instantly recognised the big man as Hans Vogt, Klaus’s bodyguard. Vogt turned as he approached, and at first he looked confused, as though he was seeing a face that was out of context.

  By the time Vogt registered whose face it was, then answered the question of why Vlad might be at the rear of the Carrington Grande Hotel at such an hour, it was too late. Vogt hadn’t even the time to reach into his jacket for his weapon before a bullet struck his chest, followed by another to his head. Boom. Boom. Down you go.

  Vlad winked at the young waiter, put a finger to his lips and then ran it across his throat. The young, wide-eyed waiter nodded emphatically and held out a key card.

  Vlad breezed past him and moved quickly through the hotel. He was excited; he was buzzing now. He took the stairs two at a time and hurried along the corridor looking for the room. Seeing the room number on the door, he paused to savour the moment before slipping in the key card. Click, click – Vlad was in, and what he saw was better than he’d hoped for.

  To his left a woman sat at a table bent over a line of cocaine. She laughed excitedly, clearly off her head and thinking this was part of the evening’s entertainment. Vlad closed the door behind him and shot the woman once in the back and then once in the head. She slumped forward onto the table.

  A skinny young black man and Klaus were on the bed. The skinny black man was straddling Klaus with his back to the door. He turned his head to look over his shoulder. Vlad put two bullets in the young man and watched as he collapsed face first onto Klaus’s chest.

  Vlad walked over to the bed with a wide smile on his face. The fat man’s arrogance had evaporated. He struggled to a sitting position, shoving the black man’s body off him with difficulty.

  “Guten Abend, Klaus,” said Vlad in a low voice. “I’m here to formally end our business association.”

  Klaus gave him a look of utter contempt. “Are you crazy? Who do you think you are? My agreement is with Papa. Only Papa can do that. Now get out of here.” Klaus grunted and swung his feet over the side of the bed. “Our arrangement is extremely profitable for all of us. So what is your problem?”

  Vlad fired once at the fat man’s huge stomach. “Whoops,” said Vlad.

  Klaus looked at Vlad in total disbelief.

  “Are you mad? You shot me,” he screamed. He clamped a meaty paw over the hole. “Do you know what my people will do to you? To all of you? Let’s be reasonable before this gets out of hand. Call me an ambulance immediately and perhaps we can consider this a misunderstanding. Then at some point we can all sit around a table and renegotiate our business arrangements, if that’s your problem.”

  Vlad fired two more shots. Once in the chest and once in the head. He walked over to a lifeless Klaus and put his ear to the dead man’s mouth.

  “Oops, sorry. Were you saying something? I may have missed the last part; would you like to repeat it? I’m all ears, so when you’re ready . . . What? You can’t? Oh, I see – because you’re dead. Well, that’s rather rude of you. Now I’ll never know what you were mumbling about and I’ll be left wondering for at least a nanosecond, you grotesque piece of filth.”

  Vlad felt a little disappointed it was all over so quickly. He would have liked to spend some time on Klaus, but he was consoled by the fact he had important plans that needed his focus. By the time he was back in his car heading home through the late-night traffic, he was singing again and thinking about Anya and how life hadn’t felt this good for a very long time.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Baker stroked his beard; he was proud of his beard. Mother hated it, of course. Despite the beard and his fake press badge, he was still reluctant to get too close. These days he hardly recognised himself when he looked in the mirror, so it was unlikely the dear inspector would remember him – that was, if he had any recollection of him at all.

  He hoped Hardy would remember him, though, and that in time it would all mean something significant. He’d hate to think his was just another case that had now been locked away in a dusty filing cabinet. That could not be allowed to happen.

  How their lives were interconnected was important. The chief inspector had been busy during the preceding years, undoubtedly dealing with a lot of cases, so, if need be, Baker would generously remind him of their first encounter. A lot of time had passed, and a lot had changed for the both of them.

  Back when they’d first met, Baker had been unprepared and unaware the police were observing him; in retrospect that had been sloppy and foolish. Today, though, he would reacquaint himself with the man trying to catch him. “Know Thine Enemy,” he thought to himself.

  Observing his adversary was something he should have done at the outset. After all, this was all new territory. All of this was constantly evolving. He’d decided that understanding Hardy would be a big part of his own success.

  And if he ever came to write a book explaining his side of the story and why he had embarked on his reign of vengeance, then knowing as much as he could about the lead detective in the investigation would definitely offer his audience a more rounded and satisfying account.

  Of course, understanding how Hardy’s mind worked would make it easier to impress him – and hopefully even surprise him. That would be fun.

  He stroked his beard again and turned his attention back to the activity unfolding in front of him. Watching the inspector in the dark on a busy street or with a telephoto lens from a safe distance was one thing, but watching him just metres away and in broad daylight was very much another. Thus, Baker had decided that today it was safer to follow Hardy to a crime scene not of his own making.

  A man standing next to him told him that the victim was a young woman, probably a prostitute. Probably one of those Eastern European girls, he’d murmured, tutting.

  The man went on to say, in some detail, how he’d heard the girl had been left semi-naked and dumped behind the supermarket. Apparently stabbed repeatedly by a maniac. More than likely abused sexually – the man lowered his voice conspiratorially at the word – for hours as well.

  Baker was intrigued by how well informed the man was and was
tempted to ask how he knew all he did. He thought better of it, however. Instead, he nodded, thanked the man for his insights and slowly moved away. Interesting as it all was, Baker’s priority was to learn about Inspector Hardy and not the dead girl. He took up a post on the other side of the crime scene, at a discreet distance, and turned his attention back to Hardy. He found it fascinating to see how Hardy behaved – his mannerisms, the way he held himself with such an easy air of authority.

  He’s tall and athletic, Baker noted. He looks young, possibly early forties. Certainly well respected – I can see that by the way he interacts with fellow officers and the forensic team.

  He mentally noted how Hardy approached the victim and familiarised himself with the crime scene. How the inspector pointed, made notes, and exchanged observations with the other scene-of-crime officers.

  Fascinating, Baker thought, nearly hugging himself.

  Baker laughed out loud as he watched Hardy take a photo of the victim on his phone. This is so beautiful, he thought. If he’s taking so much care over some dead nobody, just imagine how relieved he must feel to work on something extraordinary like my case. What a privilege it must be for him to work on an investigation that is so far from mundane.

  As he watched Hardy working, Baker felt almost part of the scene, a member of the team, as it were. Certainly, he was justified in his research here, in the care he was taking to observe Hardy closely: this would ensure the inspector was portrayed as accurately as possible when he began to write. Seeing the inspector at work today, he knew that Hardy’s investigation would give his case some real gravitas when the truth finally came out. They would both certainly be remembered, both Hardy and himself. Baker knew what he was doing would be considered historic. He himself might divide public opinion, of course – that was inevitable in the case of any historic figure – but a large number would understand and know what he had done was understandable under the circumstances.

  Perhaps in time Hardy, too, would realise that the investigation into the Gallery Killer was a gift, and that both he and Baker were forever bound by it, not unlike Inspector Reid and Jack the Ripper, Ted Bundy and Detective Keppel. Those killers were different from him, of course; their murders had served no obvious purpose and had clearly been the products of diseased minds. He, Baker, on the other hand, had clear motivation. Wrongly convicted men deserved justice.

  He was startled out of his reverie when a shiny black 4x4 pulled up in front of him, completely blocking his view. Some rich bitch, probably. Annoyed, Baker tapped on the window and waved his arms angrily to indicate the driver should move along.

  A tinted window slowly lowered to reveal the driver. Baker immediately regretted his decision. This wasn’t some rich bitch; instead, a nasty-looking man stared unblinkingly at him. Tattoos on his hands and up his neck. The man smiled and revealed his bad teeth.

  A second window lowered at the back of the vehicle. This man had similar tattoos and his eyes looked black, black like a shark’s eyes. Baker could see the man was going to say something. Please don’t speak, please don’t speak, he thought uneasily. Just move along.

  “Hey, little man, what are you looking at?” said Shark Eyes.

  Baker hesitated. He sounded and looked like Russian mafia. Trust me to tap on the wrong window. “Nothing,” said Baker apologetically. “I think someone has been killed. A woman.”

  “That is so sad.” Shark Eyes rubbed his cheek with a gun. “Perhaps that dead person tapped on the wrong window. When you don’t know who’s inside, it is a very dangerous thing to do. Inside, it could be a lamb, or it could be a wolf who will gobble you up. You just never know until it is too late. Run along, little man, or you might get eaten alive.”

  Baker turned and started walking. Behind him he could hear the men laughing as the vehicle accelerated away. He felt sick. Now his day was spoiled. He could feel anger rising up inside him. His chest felt like it might explode. It needed release. Damn it, he fumed, and damn them. His anger had been simmering, and now this confrontation had caused it to boil over.

  He thrust his hands into his pockets and clenched his fists. Someone needed to pay. Now, immediately. He ran down the list in his mind. He picked a name at random and at once felt the anger simmer down, only slightly, as though someone had adjusted a flame. He looked back across the street at the inspector and saw he was on his phone.

  Baker pressed on through the busy London streets. There was work to be done.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  I arrived at the autopsy of Toby Fielding more than a little late; Heidi Hamilton had finished with the body, and to some degree I was relieved. She was engrossed in writing her final reports for the day.

  I liked Hamilton and had worked with her for years. I remembered her as a student, and now she was one of Scotland Yard’s finest forensic pathologists. She’d been given the nickname Death Detective, which I know annoyed her; it struck her as being ghoulish. She was all about the science, the care for the deceased and uncovering the truth of why they had ended up in front of her. In that way, we had something in common.

  As I approached, I apologised for missing the appointment. If she was bothered, she didn’t say anything. We were all under pressure and priorities could change in an instant, so we knew when to give one another some slack.

  “I ran the toxicology first thing to get a head start,” said Hamilton without looking up. “It came back clean. Toby Fielding wasn’t drugged. If he had been, it might have been a blessing in some ways. Poor boy.”

  I knew Hamilton well enough to know that was a starter and she was about to deliver the main course. She turned my way. “You look like hell,” she said. “When did you last sleep?”

  I shrugged and for some reason felt the need to straighten my tie.

  “Toby Fielding was tortured at length and died from blood loss. Whoever did this to him wanted to inflict maximum suffering.” Hamilton opened some pictures on her monitor. She pointed to areas of his body on the screen as she spoke. Marks on the wrists and ankles and multiple marks on the torso.

  “Toby Fielding was tasered. He had his feet bound with a cable tie and his hands bound behind his back, again with cable ties. Then your murderer used a varied selection of instruments to inflict suffering and pain by burning, cutting, puncturing, stabbing and drilling. So far, I’ve counted at least thirteen different instruments used, which include different-sized screwdrivers, a scalpel, three different knives, including a kitchen knife and a serrated-edged knife, and an electrical drill.

  “He also has multiple rib fractures and broken bones, which were most likely sustained from repeated hammer blows. You get the idea. I’ll list them in the report when I finish analysing them. In short, it looks like you’ve found yourself another hardcore stone-cold killer. I really don’t know how you manage it.”

  “I’m just lucky that way, I guess.” Neither of us smiled. “Cause of death?”

  “At this point I would say traumatic pneumothorax – his lung collapsed – from one of the puncture wounds. But there was so much trauma and blood loss that any number of factors contributed.”

  This guy really went to town, I thought. He must feel a lot of anger to have done all this. Perhaps the murderer was after answers? Or simply enjoyed torturing for kicks. Or maybe this was staged to look like a maniac had gone to town on the victim; perhaps it was a red herring.

  Working back-to-back murder cases now, I had my work cut out. I had already had more than my share of moments where I felt at breaking point, and I knew there were more to come. No matter how much I tried to distance myself from a given case, I eventually came back to doubting my ability to deliver answers. When investigations were so high-profile and under such scrutiny, there was intense pressure to give everyone answers, or to at least make it look like an investigation has progressed.

  I thanked Hamilton for her time and went to my own office.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Matt Swift woke with a jolt. His head w
as swimming. He looked around, trying to piece together where he was and what was going on.

  Adrenaline flooded his body as an intense fear came over him, which quickly cleared his head. He was in his bedroom. He had been stripped of his clothes and tied to the bed. He could hear someone moving in one of the other rooms.

  Maybe it’s Patsy, he thought desperately.

  He looked at the clock on the side table. Sunday. No, she’s still away. He could hear humming. It’s a man?

  The kettle clicked on and Swift heard the tinkle as a spoon went into a cup. He pulled at the ropes. The bed creaked. The humming stopped. He heard footsteps. A bearded man in glasses appeared at the door.

  “What’s going on? Who are you?” yelled Swift.

  “Hello, sleeping beauty. We’ll get to why I am here in good time, Matthew. Now, I’m making tea. I would offer you a cup, but I see you’re a bit tied up at the moment.” The bearded man laughed at his little joke. Then, unable to hide his unease, he said, “Oh, dear, let me cover that.” He took a shirt from the wardrobe and threw it over Swift’s private parts. “There, that’s better. I don’t want to see all that right before I drink my tea. Now, you were saying?”

  “What is this? Who are you?”

  “Me? Oh, I’m one of your sensational tabloid stories come back to haunt you. I’m here to tell you that you do have a responsibility to get your facts right. A front-page scoop destroyed my life. No amount of apologising can alter that.

  “I’ve been visiting some of those responsible. You may have read about some of them in your newspapers. Now, I don’t want to go over the details of what happened during my encounters, but between you and me let’s just say by the end they were pretty cut up about it all.”

  He smiled again. “Gosh, another pun. Sorry, one moment – it sounds like the kettle has finished boiling. Excuse me while I see to it; I always like to use boiling water on the tea bag.”