DCI James Hardy Series Boxset

by Jay Gill

  Baker wouldn’t be the life companion she sought, but he could be a welcome distraction for a while. She’d observe him, study him and follow his accomplishments.

  A drooling baby stared at her from the table next to her, its eyes fixed on her face. A gummy smile crept across its pudgy cheeks. The mother looked at the baby and then at her.

  “He likes you. He’s such a good judge of character. You like the ladies, don’t you? Don’t you? My little baby boy. Buh, buh, buh, buh,” said the mother.

  She began lifting the baby in the air, to the delight of the other mothers and the drooling infant.

  The Mentor didn’t smile and said nothing. Instead she thought, “With any luck, he’ll grow up to murder you in your bed, you stupid bitch. Invade my space again and I’ll do it for him, today.”

  Today she was a redhead, a homeless woman carrying a plastic bag full of scrunched-up clothes. She loved her transformations. Quality wigs and hours spent mastering the skill of makeup artistry meant she could be unrecognisable from one day to the next. She’d even invested in an accent and dialect coach for a while. He claimed to have worked with Nicole Kidman, Jeremy Irons, Kate Winslet and Guy Pearce, amongst others. He had been very good. Naturally, he was gone now. She remembered his gold ring, encrusted with a ruby. She’d kept it as a souvenir.

  She wondered what Baker was thinking. He looked so ordinary; she saw no concern at all on his thin bearded face. Unlike her, he hadn’t been born with what they had in common. At least she didn’t think he had been born with that thing that set them apart from the rest of society. A predator with the desire, the need, to kill for no reason other than the satisfaction it brought. No, she felt sure he had been created by society, and yet he wore it comfortably. No angst, no troubled eyes or furrowed brow. Baker looked at ease as he read the newspaper and sipped a cappuccino. His only concern appeared to be the flakes of almond croissant on his tweed blazer.

  Time to play a little game, she thought. The Mentor put on her threadbare, stained coat and weaved her way unsteadily through the mothers and buggies towards Baker. She was close now. She could hear him breathe, see the pores on his face, the hairs on the back of his hands. She bent down beside him and pretended to pick up an envelope from beneath his table. She passed it to him with a shaky hand.

  “I think you must have dropped this, my love. Here you go.” The Mentor gave a big yellow-toothed smile then wiped her nose on her coat sleeve and held out a gloved hand. She watched as Baker looked at the envelope and recognised his name on it. She smiled inwardly. He looked at her and then at her stained red-gloved hand.

  “That was very kind of you,” he said as he looked around the room for who might have left the mysterious envelope. He reached into his jacket pocket and handed her a five-pound note from his wallet.

  “Thank ya, love. You’re a very ’andsome young man. You kinda remind me of me late husband. He was tall and fit too. You’ve got ’is eyes – warm and tender.” She could see the discomfort in his eyes as she leaned in closer and then closer still. She gave him a good smell of her dirty clothes and watched how he leaned back, repelled. What a rush.

  Out of the corner of her eye she could see a young barista eyeing her. He was weighing up whether he needed to intervene and move her along. They only tolerated someone of her sort for so long, she knew. Homeless coffee drinkers were bad for business. They made other patrons feel uncomfortable and that just wouldn’t do, wouldn’t do at all. Well, tough luck. I haven’t finished yet. You come near me, barista boy, and I’ll butcher your pretty face.

  In her own time, The Mentor picked up her bags and headed out the door onto the street, first heading one way and then heading back the other, quietly muttering and humming to herself for effect.

  She pictured Simon Baker opening the envelope. A note, a genuine note, handwritten on a fine cream wove paper, from The Mentor. A message direct from the very person who, only moments before, he’d been unaware had stood right beside him. Within touching distance. She couldn’t hold that against him; nobody would have suspected. Nobody actually knew what The Mentor looked like; that was all part of her game. That was why she was The Mentor and he the student. She pictured his hand trembling in excitement as he read and savoured every word:

  Congratulations on achieving so much so soon,

  With preparation and purpose, you’ve left not a clue.

  Keep your distance (this is your party),

  From Scotland Yard’s finest, an inspector named Hardy.

  Take careful steps. We’re enjoying the show.

  Keep us informed; we would hate you to go.

  Stay sure-footed and one step ahead for me,

  And do what you can to fool Hardy.

  – Carpe Diem, The Mentor

  She continued her bag-lady performance until she reached her car, which was in a quiet car park some distance from the town centre. She removed her coat and wig and threw the bags in the trunk.

  “Quite a performance,” she said to herself. With her gloved hand she dropped Baker’s teaspoon into a clear plastic evidence bag then carefully put the bag away. “You can never have enough fingerprint evidence or insurance. It could even be a wonderful device to send police inspectors in the wrong direction for one of my students. For a price, of course. There’s always a price.”

  The Mentor started the car. The radio came on and the next song was introduced: “Time Is Running Out” by Muse. She hadn’t heard it before. It was certainly not her usual choice, but on this occasion its regimented rhythm and lyrics caught her ear. She hummed along and felt wonderfully uplifted.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Guy Lyons pushed against the wall and stretched out his hamstrings. At fifty-eight he could feel he wasn’t getting any younger, and stretching was now vital before a run.

  He’d just recovered from a painful calf-strain injury, and where in the past he’d felt invincible, today it was a case of prevention being better than cure. He swapped legs and stretched again.

  He pictured his route in his head and then headed off at a slow warm-up pace. Summer was his favourite time of year for his morning run, and the earlier the better. He pretty much had the route to himself. Little pausing for traffic, few cyclists and rarely other runners. It sometimes felt he was all alone in the world. The still and quiet were what he cherished most and a real incentive for getting up at such an ungodly hour.

  Passing through town, he shifted gear as he reached the bridleway. It had rained a little in the night and the path was nice and soft underfoot. The air felt fresh, and he looked out across the fields to where he often saw hares sitting like boulders. He settled into a comfortable pace and let his mind drift off. The run became a meditation as his breathing fell into a steady, regular rhythm.

  Not a soul in sight. All he could see ahead was the bridge that led to the small beech wood, which, in turn, led on to the open wetland and the nature reserve. The estuary was the noisy part of his run. Birds would be making all sorts of calls, but that sort of noise was welcome. He picked up the pace a little as he crossed the wooden bridge and passed his favourite oak tree. How old must a tree like that tree be? Two hundred, three hundred years? It must have seen so much. So many people must have passed by, so many generations come and gone.

  The path curved left, and now the sun was on his back. He could feel its warmth. He felt good, he felt strong, so he lengthened his stride. He passed tall, willowy reeds and headed along the narrow path that would take him back to the bridle path. Here the path curved right. He rounded the bend and almost tripped over the back wheel of a bike. Sitting up and leaning against a tree was the cyclist. His helmet was cast aside, and he was holding his head. His legs looked bloodied, and there was blood pouring from an apparent head wound. He looked up as Lyons approached.

  “Good morning,” he said. He raised his eyebrows in a way that said, “This is a great start to the day!”

  Lyons stopped. “What happened? Are you okay?”

 
“I’m not sure. I think the front wheel caught a root or a rock or something. I went straight over the handlebars. I must have blacked out for a while, but I’ll be fine. A little dizzy, a little nauseous, but I’m sure it’s nothing. I just wish I could get this bleeding to stop.”

  “I can’t leave you like this. Let me call an ambulance.”

  “I don’t want to be any trouble. Besides, they’d never get an ambulance way out here.” The cyclist closed his eyes and began retching as though he were going to throw up.

  “You might have a serious head injury. I need to call an ambulance.”

  “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps it’s more serious than I first thought. I keep dabbing it but the blood just won’t stop. Damn, I feel such a fool.” The cyclist lifted his hand and looked at the blood-soaked tissues. “If it’s not too much trouble, perhaps you could call my wife. My phone is here in this pocket.” He indicated the right side of his jacket.

  Lyons knelt beside the cyclist and unzipped the pocket. He reached inside but felt no phone. At the same time, he felt a sharp stabbing pain in his stomach. Confused, he looked at the cyclist, whose face was now covered with a wide and knowing smile.

  “Hello, Guy. It’s me, Simon Baker.”

  Lyons stared at the cyclist, first in surprise, then recognition, then disbelief. Another sharp stabbing pain. Another. Another. Lyons stumbled and slumped to the ground. He watched helplessly as the cyclist got to his feet and towered over him. Guy saw a knife in his hand.

  “Guy, you’re going to bleed to death now. You were part of the conspiracy to bring me down. The lies you printed bled me of the life I should have had, so I think it’s only fitting I return the favour. I picked a beautiful spot for your death, and what a glorious morning for it. What did you think of my acting skills? I even rehearsed it, you know, just for you. I wanted to make sure I got everything just right for when you and I finally met. And here we are. Perfect. Please don’t try to get up. You’ll simply bleed out faster. Gosh, lots of blood, isn’t there?”

  Lyons could only watch as the cyclist bent over and stabbed him again several more times. He felt no pain, only a thump, thump, thump as the knife was thrust again and again and again.

  Behind him, Lyons could hear a bird singing. He wished he had the strength to turn and look at it. He thought of his family and wished he’d stayed in bed this morning, stayed at home with them.

  Lyons turned his head towards the path he’d come along, hoping for a saviour to rescue him. Instead, he caught sight of his beautiful oak tree. He felt an overwhelming urge to touch it but no longer had strength to move. He lifted his eyes and could see the very top of the great oak pointing up to the heavens, its ancient canopy rising high above everything around it. Magnificent.

  If that great oak could speak, how would she judge us? he wondered. What would she say of what she saw here today?

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  As soon as the murders of Toby Fielding and Katharine Wells and the attempted murder of Matt Swift had been confirmed as the work of one man, a milestone had been reached. Interest in the investigation escalated, and the story was now hot news not only in the UK but around the world.

  The press conference was the busiest I’d attended in a long time. Serial-killer cases have a way of capturing the public imagination, and the news networks know that. As sad as it sounds, a serial-killer story sells. All the networks were poised to latch on to any new angle they could get hold of. I peered out from backstage and recognised faces from the BBC, Channels 4 and 5, Sky News, CNN, ABC and Fox. Journalists from the broadsheets and the tabloids were either talking, typing or making calls. The place was packed, and I wasn’t looking forward to this one bit.

  I’d been under pressure for several days to make a statement, and with Matt Swift’s close shave I was unable to delay it any longer. I’d received my orders from above.

  I always felt press conferences were like walking a tightrope. I didn’t want to release certain facts, yet I needed to use the press to my advantage. At times like this I remembered advice given to me by a senior detective, now long retired, when I was preparing for my first press conference: “They don’t expect you to have all the answers. They’ve got a job to do, just like you. Plan what you want to tell them and tell them no more. They need words on a page and you need answers. Go out there and give a little to get a little.”

  I knew the victims’ families would likely be watching, and there was also a very good chance the killer himself would be interested. The aim of the press conference was to make a public appeal for witnesses and information leading to an arrest; it had to be more than just answering the news media’s questions and dismissing rumours and speculation. What I didn’t want to do was in any way boost the killer’s ego by implying we had no leads or lines of investigation, as that might embolden him and put others at risk. While detectives tracked down Simon Baker, I also didn’t want it going public that Matt Swift had identified who he believed the killer to be.

  I reluctantly walked to my seat, accompanied by the chief superintendent, a lawyer, a public relations officer and a couple of other suits. We’d gone over what we would and would not disclose, and I felt well prepared. Although I’d still rather have been doing almost anything else.

  I started by introducing myself and confirming a few details about the case we had decided to release and one or two I hoped would benefit the investigation. After what felt like thirty to forty minutes, I opened the floor to questions. I answered a few from faces I recognised and whom I knew to be professional and reliable.

  At the back of the room I could hear rumblings, which I ignored. Then an inaudible question from a journalist I didn’t recognise came from the back. I could see the face of the journalist calling out, but I didn’t recognise it. I assumed he was a big mouth, a new guy, trying to make a name for himself.

  There are plenty out there like that; often they’re on the fringe, and sometimes they’re after nothing more than a conspiracy theory. The discontent grew louder, and I watched as an officer moved to the back to help contain whatever was happening. Then the journalist broke through and moved forward so I could see him. I was sure I didn’t recognise him. He had a shock of red hair and a goatee beard. I caught an accent, perhaps Australian, perhaps South African or Irish or Scottish; over the disquiet I couldn’t make it out.

  Then a hush came over the room and the man repeated his question. Australian accent. His voice suddenly became clear, and in an instant all eyes were on me for the answer to an impossible question.

  “Paddy Coben, Coben’s News Desk. What hope is there of catching this ‘Gallery Killer’ before he kills again, when Inspector Hardy, one of Scotland Yard’s leading murder squad investigators, has no clue whatsoever to the killer’s identity? How safe are the streets of London right now, Inspector?”

  I said nothing. My press officer was shaking her head at me in a way that said, “Don’t you say a bloody word. Not one bloody word.”

  Coben started pushing his way to the front. Cameras and microphones were swinging from him to me, back and forth, to and fro, as he launched question after question.

  “Okay, try answering this one. This one’s a bit easier: What would you like to say right now to the family of the next Gallery Killer victim, Inspector, the next victim who will be tortured and then murdered because you’re not as smart as the Gallery Killer? I think, mate, that everyone here and everyone watching would like an answer to that one.”

  I was on my feet in an instant, which I knew looked bad. The chief superintendent grabbed my arm, which made the situation look worse still. It looked like I was ready to go toe to toe with this idiot, which under different circumstances I might well have done. The room erupted. Cameras and microphones turned from me to him and back again. He was taunting me. I knew it. Baiting me for a response. Here was someone out to create headlines of his own, out to make a name for himself at the expense of the victims and the progress of the investigation. This gu
y was more interested in creating a story where there wasn’t one.

  “That’s all for today,” I said. “As soon as we have more, we’ll let you know. Thank you for your time today and for the professionalism from the rest of the room.”

  I turned and left the meeting. Behind me I could hear general protestations as Paddy Coben was escorted out of the building. I, too, felt the frustration of the journalists at having the press conference cut short. I was angry; at this point I couldn’t work out how much of a disaster the press conference had been or how it was going to look in the morning. I assumed I’d find out soon enough. Nothing I could say now would change tomorrow’s news and how it would be perceived. The press conference had been hijacked by an egotistical idiot.

  I took off my tie and thrust it into my jacket pocket. I’d made Scotland Yard look bad, which hurt, and I was worried that the perception of the families might be that the whole investigation had become a circus. What hurt more was that they might feel we were no closer to bringing anyone to justice.

  I had to put this behind me and focus. My overwhelming desire now was to get out of the building as quickly as possible and get on with the job – go visit a crime scene again or interview a witness or speak to some neighbours. Anything that meant solid progress.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  I needed space to calm my overloaded brain, and so I drove to Mum and Dad’s to see everyone and soak up some love. It was time to recharge my soul by getting some family time. Alice and Faith were sitting cross-legged on the living room floor watching Hetty Feather on TV. They both looked up and waved.

  “Hi Daddy. Nana’s in the kitchen with Monica. I think they’ve been waiting for you. We don’t think it’s anything you’ve done, this time.”