by Jay Gill
The bearded man left and went back to the kitchen. A few seconds later he reappeared and grabbed a briefcase from a chair just inside the bedroom door. It made a clanking sound, and Matthew’s eyes widened as he stared at it.
“This?” said the bearded man, raising the case slightly. “Just a few tools for our little adventure together. Don’t worry; I cleaned off the blood and muscle tissue from last time. We don’t want germs, do we? Right. Won’t be long. Just going to drink my tea. Then we can get on with organising the horror show for when your darling Patsy returns from her conference on Monday night.”
The bearded man left and shut the bedroom door behind him.
Swift closed his eyes. He focused on staying calm. Don’t panic. He tensed his muscles and began to pull on the ropes. He pulled on all of them together and then each one in turn and then finally focused on just one. He wrapped his hand around the rope tied to his right wrist and pulled with everything he had. The post began to move. He pulled again and again in short bursts.
Beside the bed the phone rang and startled him. He froze and listened to the message being left on the answerphone.
“Matty, where are you, man? We’re all at the bar. Footy is starting. You’d better not be hung over. The Jackster is coming over. He’ll pick you up in about ten minutes. You really are a muppet. See you in a bit, mate.”
Swift stared at the door, which he expected to burst open at any second. He frantically began pulling at the rope with renewed energy. The bedpost creaked some more and then cracked. The bed jolted as the leg slid out. Matt began to scream and shout for help. He could hear movement outside the door. A chair fell over. A cupboard closed. Then the front door opened and slammed shut. Silence.
Matt stopped pulling for a moment and held his breath. Has he gone? he thought. Is it over?
Chapter Forty
Matt Swift was treated for shock then quickly given the all-clear. He was a lucky man, if luck was the right word to use after his ordeal.
His brush with death, because he was a journalist, didn’t appear to dampen his enthusiasm to dish up his own story now to his fellow journalists. He relished the limelight and knew the score; there was only going to be a small window of opportunity for him to cash in.
So he was happy to talk to us, and even happier to be part of his own media circus. Not that I wished it on him, of course, but I wondered whether his revelations might in the end come back to bite him.
My other concern was that the forthcoming front-page stories would give his attempted killer yet more attention.
“He had glasses and a beard, but it was him,” insisted Swift as he slid the photo back across the table to me.
“The man in your apartment was this man, Simon Baker?” I repeated.
“Yes, definitely. I recognised him. And he told me as much himself. And it makes sense. I wrote front-page stories on him when he was arrested for keeping his wife as a slave in an underground dungeon.” I raised my eyebrows at that, but said nothing. “He now wants payback; he told me that, too. You need to arrest him now.” Suddenly the gravity of the situation seemed to dawn on him, and his voice rose. “Why isn’t he already locked up? I need to speak to Patsy again – I need to make sure she’s safe.”
“Officers are with her. She’s fine. It’s unfortunate you can’t remember how you came to be tied to the bed by Simon Baker – if indeed it was Simon Baker.”
“I told you, I went to sleep around midnight – alone. There was no outrageous party, no drugs, no alcohol bingeing, Inspector Hardy. I woke up tied to the bed. He must have drugged me somehow. Otherwise, I would have woken up, right?”
Traces of a sedative had been found in Swift’s blood, but I didn’t need to mention that to him at this point; best to keep some information back. I sensed he was holding back some facts of his own for journalistic and financial gain, so this interview had become more like a game of chess. Difficult to help someone who doesn’t want to help themselves. Swift looked restless.
“We’re nearly done for now, Mr Swift. So how do you suppose he got into your apartment?”
“Look, I know where you’re going with this, and for the last time, I don’t know. Maybe he came through a window? It’s kind of your job to figure that stuff out, not mine. This sicko would have cut me into tiny pieces if I hadn’t escaped, and you’re sitting here quizzing me! Question him, not me.”
“I’m having a hard time figuring out fact from fiction. You see, your story of the events keeps changing. Originally your friend Jackson Jamil arrived and, with the help of a neighbour, released you. Now you say you ‘escaped.’”
“When I say I escaped, what I mean is I got away or was saved. What does it matter?”
“To me it makes a great deal of difference.”
Swift looked at me scornfully. “All I am saying is that I was nearly another Scotland Yard statistic. Most likely another unsolved crime. And right now, I’ve had enough. I want to leave. I want to see my wife.”
“Just a few more questions. Trust me, it’s best we do this now. And believe me, Mr Swift, all I want is to understand the truth. The better I understand what happened, the easier it will be to make an arrest. If you can stick to the unvarnished truth, that would be helpful.”
“Well, perhaps you’ll wish you had arrested him when he comes after you,” Swift said, narrowing his eyes. “From what I remember, you were the arresting officer. It was you and Inspector Rayner who rescued Mrs Baker from the rat-infested dungeon.”
I ignored the dungeon remark again, but the rest of Swift’s remark had hit home. The fact I had been the arresting officer had crossed my mind. It was likely part of the reason Baker was taunting us and playing his games.
In his mind, he was reaching out to me and sending me a message.
Chapter Forty-One
Not long after my interview with Matthew Swift, I got one of those calls that change the course of your day.
I called Hamilton in Forensics and told her I needed to reschedule our meeting, then headed to the Carrington Grande Hotel just off Bayswater Road, where multiple murders had taken place sometime in the early hours of the morning. I was met in the corridor by a young detective sergeant called Sarah Dark.
“What can you tell me?” I asked.
“There are three in the room and one outside,” she said. “All shot. Each one has at least one body and one head shot. So, it looks professional, at least . . .”
“I know what you mean. The deaths don’t look to be spontaneous or a random act.”
She smiled.
“You’re doing great,” I said. I could remember being in her shoes, and I could remember how it felt when, in an effort to not say the wrong thing, you could end up not finding the right thing to say.
“I was just on my way to begin questioning guests,” said Dark. “I’ve had the hotel manager giving me hell, but I think we see eye to eye now. I explained this was a murder investigation and that I would be discreet, but if he didn’t allow me to do my job, I’d have no choice but to close the hotel indefinitely.”
That brought a smile to my face. I guessed she’d let him have it. “Good. Also make sure he gives you all CCTV footage, both inside and out.”
Rayner was already in the room, gloved up and looking for anything that might lead us to the identities of the victims and their killer.
“Well, this party could have gone better,” said Rayner. He pointed to a young woman who’d been laid out on the floor and a skinny young man half hanging off the bed. I walked to the bed and looked at him. Shot in the middle of his back and in the side of his head.
“I went through his stuff,” said Rayner. “He’s French, here in London studying medicine. Perhaps this was a sideline to make some quick cash?”
“According to the hotel receptionist, the woman is a prostitute,” said Dark. “She’s a regular, very popular. Check out her tattoo. Not sure what it means right now. Maybe it’s a coincidence.”
We looked at each o
ther. Rayner knows my feelings on things being a coincidence or an accident. I knelt down and looked more closely at the girl. On her shoulder was a wolf tattoo, the same as Delina’s.
Then Rayner turned his attention to the third victim, a large man.
“This one is a long-term guest of the hotel. His name is Klaus Seidel. Stays here every six months or so; has the same room every visit. The body outside the door, another male, is Hans Vogt, and we’re told, by the receptionist again, that he was Mr Seidel’s driver and personal aide. His room is next door.”
I nodded and Rayner continued.
“They are both German citizens. They always arrive together and leave together. Same routine for at least the last five years. That’s how long the receptionist has worked here, and she remembers them as guests that whole time.”
Rayner and I spent the rest of the day at the hotel. I examined both rooms and talked to hotel staff. The CCTV had been shut off during the incident and the hotel manager promised a full investigation into why that had happened.
I told him Detective Sergeant Dark would assist, but I didn’t hold out much hope of any great revelation. Whoever had turned off the CCTV was either a member of staff or the shooter, or both. Pursuing that line of enquiry would have meant a lot of work for me, with very little likelihood of a result. Better to look into Klaus Seidel and Hans Vogt.
Chapter Forty-Two
Monica, Alice and Faith were still staying with my parents, so I decided to make an early start at Scotland Yard.
Klaus Seidel and Hans Vogt were German citizens, so the first thing I did was to check INTERPOL. Both were on the database, and both files had been edited in the last twenty hours. Both files read DECEASED, and neither offered more than basic information. No personal information, no known associates. I was surprised at the lack of detail but put it to the back of my mind.
I put in some calls around Scotland Yard and it was suggested I speak to Perry Wales at the Organised Crime unit. I knew Perry, so I called and left a message.
Robert Olsen was also on my list, and for him I had only a private number. Olsen was MI5, and our paths had crossed on a case a couple of years back when a Member of Parliament and his family were brutally murdered at their country home. I also got Olsen’s voice mail, but to my surprise he called me straight back, I think more out of courtesy than out of any sense of duty – and presumably on a more secure line. I gave him the details, and he said he’d look into it. Which meant either he’d look into it or what he knew he couldn’t share. I knew it was a long shot; after all, MI5 aren’t big on sharing.
I poured some coffee and grabbed a toffee and pecan muffin, then stared at them for a while. My mind began processing the investigations, leads, dead ends, lies, threats, victims, names and priorities in an effort to make sense of everything I was juggling.
The phone rang, making me jump. I grabbed it. It was Perry Wales.
“James Hardy, you handsome bastard,” he boomed. “How the devil are you? Still fighting the good fight? When are you going to get a proper job over here with us catching real criminals?” Perry was a joker, as well as an excellent detective.
“I’m doing my best. How’s Elaine?” I asked. “You know, Elaine’s an angel to have put up with you all these years. Please send her my regards.”
Perry went quiet. I could hear him clearing his throat and sniffing. “She left me,” he said finally.
“Oh, Perry, I—’
“Didn’t you hear? It was about six months ago. She said she couldn’t be married to a real detective a moment longer. I hear she’s with someone in your department now.”
Perry began laughing so loud at his own joke that I had to hold the phone away from my ear until he calmed down.
“Very good. Very funny,” I said. “Everyone knows she married you for your sense of humour, and if that’s true she’s not going anywhere.” Perry laughed despite my poor attempt at a comeback.
“I had you, my friend. Hook, line and sinker,” he said. “Now, what do you need?”
I told him about the four bodies at the Carrington Grande Hotel and that I believed the murders were a professional hit. That I was interested in the two German nationals and their known associates. I held back on giving him too much detail about the rest of the investigation, as I specifically wanted him to focus on Klaus and Hans. Perry listened carefully and asked for forty-eight hours as he was already working on something big for the Flying Squad.
I was drumming my fingers on the desk, considering my next move, when I got a call from Hamilton. She told me she might have some news for me.
Chapter Forty-Three
I loved how excited Hamilton sounded; it was like she’d just won the lottery.
“The bullets went off for analysis and we got a hit on the NABIS database,” she explained. “I still have lots to do on my side of things, but I knew you’d want to hear what was found on the ballistics side right away.”
“Definitely. Anything you’ve got, I’d love to hear it,” I said.
The National Ballistics Intelligence Services database was a really big deal, and this was just one more great example of how their work helped investigations move forward and could ultimately lead to convictions. The NABIS team gathers firearms information. They collect, analyse and compare guns, shells and bullets from crime scenes or from seizures. If it’s weapon related, it all goes into the database, where UK police forces can run comparisons. It’s a bit like the fingerprint database, but for anything firearms related.
“The NABIS team confirmed the handgun used at the Carrington Grande Hotel killings was a twenty-two, almost definitely a Walther twenty-two with a silencer. The same weapon was used to kill a man called Tyrone West eight months ago,” said Hamilton.
“That is fantastic news. I owe you big time,” I said.
“I won’t hold my breath. You say that every time, James Hardy.”
“I know. Look, as soon as this is over, I’ll buy you a drink, I promise.”
“Dinner?”
“Well, okay, dinner and a nice bottle of wine.” I laughed.
“It’s a date.”
“Well, let’s just call it dinner and a nice bottle of wine.”
“You call it that. I’m calling it a date with James Hardy.”
“You never cease to surprise me. You’re a very complex woman, Heidi Hamilton.”
“You have no idea, Mr Hardy, but I can assure you you’d enjoy finding out how complex I am. Now get back to work, Hardy. The sooner you solve this investigation the sooner you can start paying off some of your debt to me with dinner and wine.”
Chapter Forty-Four
It felt like I might be getting somewhere at last on Delina’s investigation.
I read through the files on the Tyrone West murder and decided to contact the lead detective on the case, a Fraud Squad detective called Laura Chambers. I got put through to her boss, who told me he’d get her to call me. Right now, he told me, she was working surveillance and couldn’t be contacted.
It was around nine that night when she called. We arranged to meet at an Indian restaurant called the Old Bengal in Beaconsfield Old Town at ten thirty. She told me I was buying.
The Old Bengal was a modern-looking restaurant inside what had once been a traditional English house. The front steps were lit using pale blue spotlights; inside, the glass and lighting gave the place a contemporary feel. Smartly dressed, attentive waiters ensured I was quickly seated and offered a Cobra beer. A few minutes later the same attention was given to Chambers when she arrived and was shown to our table.
She ordered a glass of red wine and leaned her elbows on the table. Chambers was dressed in a tight-fitting t-shirt, jeans and casual shoes. Her sandy-coloured hair was tied back, and she looked tired.
“James Hardy, I’ve heard a lot of good things about you. First-class murder detective. The go-to man when it comes to serial killers. Smart, tenacious, tall and good-looking,” she finished.
“Not s
ure about that,” I said.
“Don’t be modest. I hate that. It’s what I heard; some of it must be true,” she retorted with a wry smile. Her glass of wine arrived and she took a grateful sip. “I could not do what you do. Psychopaths day after day. Listening to their excuses and witnessing what’s going on in their sick and twisted heads. Mutilated bodies. Missing persons. Tortured kids. I don’t know how you do it.”
Well, she certainly knows how to speak her mind.
“The victims and potential victims,” I said. “I do it for them and their families. It’s how I am able to do it. It’s the only real reason there is to do it. Someone needs to stop the killer. It takes its toll, though, and this work was never my first choice when I joined the Met. But then when does life ever turn out the way we thought it would?”
Chambers looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry. Ignore my mouth. I’m just letting off. I’ve been stuck in a box doing a surveillance double shift. I’m tired and not thinking. All I really want is a shower and sleep. Can we start over? The chief said I should speak to you. He said it was important.”
“Nothing to start over,” I said. “I appreciate you giving up your time.” I went over the case as quickly as I could. Chambers ate her curry and listened attentively. Eventually I got to Tyrone West and the ballistic evidence linking him to the murders at the Carrington Grande.
“I remember Tyrone West,” she said, putting down her fork. “His friends called him Irish. Never sure why; I always assumed it was an in-joke and something to do with County Tyrone. He certainly wasn’t Irish. My feeling was Tyrone got offered an opportunity to make some quick money and soon found himself out of his depth.”
“Out of his depth how? And with whom?” It was her turn to talk now, and I was all ears.
