DCI James Hardy Series Boxset

by Jay Gill

  “Her carotid artery was cut,” said Hamilton. “The lacerations caused her to bleed out.”

  I could see her neck had several deep lacerations. I tried to figure out how this had been done to her without her struggling. Had she been drugged? Had she been restrained or otherwise held down? Hamilton was watching me. I wondered whether Stephanie had been aware of what was happening and whether she’d been able to fight back. I leaned in closer and my heart sank; I could see tear stains on her cheeks. She had been crying.

  I’m sorry this happened to you, sweetheart. So sorry.

  Methodically, I examined Stephanie from head to toe then turned my attention to the bed itself and the surrounding area.

  “Her wrists and ankles,” I said, turning to Hamilton. “They’re red and bruised. He restrained her – tied her down, tied her to the bed.”

  Hamilton nodded grimly and pointed to the bed’s headboard, which was scratched.

  “He cuffed her wrists and tied her legs,” I said flatly. “He came prepared. That would suggest premeditation. Meaning he’s mature. Nothing here suggests an impulsive young male.”

  “No sign of anything sexual,” said Hamilton. “Thank God for small mercies.”

  I crouched down beside the bed. What have you left for me? You can’t help yourself, can you? The carpet here had four square impressions, left by the legs of a piece of furniture, probably a chair. There were no chairs in the bedroom, so I left the room and came back with a dining chair. I held it over the four impressions while Hamilton looked on.

  “He sat and watched her die,” I said. “He tied her up. He cut her throat on that side” – I pointed to the far side of the bed – “so he didn’t have to see her bleed, and then sat right here and watched her slowly die. She would have cried and struggled and begged and pleaded for his help. He ignored her pleading. He just let her die, and when she was close to death or dead, he made her look presentable. Even going so far as to brush her hair.”

  “Why would he do that? What’s going on in his head?” Hamilton said, almost to herself. She wasn’t looking for an answer, and I knew better than to give one – even if I could have. We’d both worked enough cases to know better than to try to fathom the mind of a person who could unleash this kind of evil. More often than not, the perpetrators themselves didn’t have a full understanding of what drove them.

  “A lot of care has been taken to make her look beautiful, peaceful, angel-like,” I said. “This isn’t someone full of rage. He’s in control. This was also planned, not a spontaneous act. He brought what he needed with him. The blade, the handcuffs, the rope. Did you find the hair brush?”

  Hamilton pointed outside the room. “It’s been bagged with some other items of evidence.”

  “Good. This is a very personal kind of murder. This person, whoever it is, is perhaps reliving something or has pictured this scene. In all likelihood, he’s done something similar before. And what I know for sure is, he’ll have to do it again. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not next week, but eventually his urges will come to dominate his mind and he’ll have no choice but to act on them, to do it again.”

  “So, are we talking six months, a year, ten years?”

  “That’s the million-dollar question. Right now, I just don’t know.”

  But I thought I did know. I just wasn’t willing to admit it. Not yet.

  Chapter Five

  It was nearly four-thirty in the morning, and, unable to sleep, I was walking through St. James’s Park in the direction of Buckingham Palace. The coldness of Stephanie Walker’s murder had left me reeling, and I was finding it difficult to escape the images that had been seared into my mind. Walking helped me think, and St. James’s Park was one of my favourite walks in London. Time and again, when I’d been working on a tough case or just needed time and space, I’d found myself here, walking and thinking and revisiting places that held fond memories for me.

  Live in any city long enough and there will be moments when you feel completely attuned to the city itself. It’s as though everything and everyone around you fades into the background and you feel an overwhelming sense of calm. But any city dweller will also tell you that that peace is usually short-lived, and when my mobile phone buzzed in my pocket, I knew my brief escape was already over.

  With a sigh, I pressed Accept. “Hardy,” I said.

  “Time the UK got a wake-up call,” said a muffled voice. “You have two hours to evacuate the Hilton on Park Lane. Then the killing starts. Today is the first target on the list. We’ll speak again soon.”

  “Who is this?” I said, keeping my voice level. “Is there a bomb?” But the caller had already hung up.

  I stared at the phone, my stomach clenching. The first target on the list.

  I turned and began running towards Green Park and the Hilton. Seeing a black cab, I stepped out into the road and waved my arms to flag it down. The cab pulled up in front of me.

  “What the hell’s your problem, mate?” said the cabby when I opened the door.

  “Police,” I said. I waved my warrant card. “It’s an emergency. I need to get to the Hilton on Park Lane. Quick as you can.”

  “You betcha. Jump in. I’ll ’ave you there in no time.”

  In the back of the cab I called Chief Webster at home. “There’s been a threat to life,” I told him when he picked up. “I need the Hilton on Park Lane evacuated, immediately. We have less than two hours. It’s a possible terror attack. It could be a bomb, a hostage situation or it could be a hoax. Right now, I don’t know. I’m on my way there now. It’ll take me ten minutes max. We’ve got to get those people out of there.”

  “Get yourself over there and leave the rest to me,” said the chief. “Bomb squad and the counter-terror unit know the drill. I’ll speak to the hotel and tell them we’re on our way. We can’t have panic.”

  The speed of response was impressive. The evacuation had already begun as I arrived. Bewildered guests and staff were being led to designated safe areas by a police rapid-response team, and onlookers had started to gather on the green opposite the hotel.

  Thirty minutes later, bomb squad officers were on scene and specialists with sniffer dogs were sweeping the hotel floor by floor. Counter-terror officers patrolled the surrounding streets. Metropolitan police officers questioned guests and hotel staff. The command vehicle had been stationed just outside what was considered the safe zone. I headed over, stepped inside and introduced myself.

  “Are you the one who called it in?” asked Boyd Wilson, who was in charge of the scene. “We’ve found nothing yet. Still a few floors to go. If there’s a bomb, we’ll find it.” Wilson was fully focused on coordinating with his team and barely looked at me. I had no intention of interrupting him and simply nodded and stepped back to give him space.

  I checked my watch. I wondered how much longer until Wilson would pull out his team.

  He must have read my thoughts. “They’re almost done. As you probably know, the dogs don’t need to enter each room; they can just sweep each hallway. If there’s anything of interest they’ll let their handler know, and that’ll warrant investigating the room.” Wilson was calm and completely in control. You’d have thought he did bomb searches in the heart of London’s Mayfair every day.

  I looked up at the 28-storey building and wondered how long it would take officers without dogs to search and clear a hotel this size. I guessed at least a couple of days.

  A few moments later, Wilson became animated and looked relieved. “They’re done. They’re coming out. There’s no bomb. They found nothing. Probably just a hoax.”

  I congratulated him, shook hands with everyone and joined in the small celebration, but inside I felt an odd mixture of relief and frustration. I stepped outside the command vehicle into the sea of flashing lights, uniforms and haphazardly parked emergency vehicles, fighting back the urge to ask Wilson whether he was sure. I had an uneasy feeling that they should search again.

  Hands in pockets, I scanned th
e expectant faces in the crowd of onlookers. Odds were our prankster was mixed in among them, watching and laughing at all the chaos he’d caused.

  I heard Webster call my name and turned back to the business at hand.

  Chapter Six

  It had been decided to keep the Hilton hotel closed for at least another twenty-four hours while investigations continued. It was now nearly six in the morning and the sun was rising.

  I groaned inwardly as Chief Superintendent Webster hurried over to me. The hotel doors were only a few feet away, and I wished I could disappear inside them.

  “Good news,” said Webster. “No bomb and no loss of life. In my book that’s a win-win.” The chief looked around at the scale of the response. “As for all this, let’s consider it a training exercise.”

  Webster wasn’t alone; he was accompanied by Mark McPherson, the MI5 director. With the UK’s threat level at Severe, MI5 would take a keen interest in what happened here today.

  “It’s good to see you again, Hardy,” said McPherson. “Looks like someone was keen to make us all look stupid. From what I can make out, though, the response has been first-class. We should all be proud.”

  As ever, he was being generous, which was only part of why he had been a popular choice for the top job at MI5. Well-liked by his people, he had the rare gift of being able to balance authority and strong leadership with humility. MI5 were facing some of the toughest challenges of their existence, and although McPherson was under impossible pressure over the country’s security, he exuded nothing but warmth and understanding in the face of my cock-up.

  “You made the right call, Hardy,” he continued. “Don’t doubt that for one second. We’ve all been there. Everyone here understands that, and I hope everyone here would have dealt with it the way you did.”

  I tried to smile but could feel I was failing. It seemed clear to me now that despite what I might otherwise believe, the call had been nothing more than a hoax. “Doesn’t stop me feeling like a fool. Right now, none of this makes any sense. The call sounded genuine; there was so much anger in the voice. I’ve got it going over and over in my head. If it’s okay, I’ll stick around for a while. There are a few things I want to check out.”

  “Spend a few hours going over the details,” said Webster. “Write your report, then head home. I can handle things from here. Spend time with your family. Get some rest. You look like you need it.”

  I must have looked impatient at that, because McPherson raised his eyebrows and then laughed and clapped me on the shoulder.

  “If you don’t like taking time off,” he said jokingly, “perhaps you might consider a job in MI5. Right now, we need all the good people we can get.”

  I knew McPherson was pulling my leg, but I could also tell that behind the humour, he was more than a little serious.

  Suddenly there was a sharp cracking sound like an enormous piece of wood snapping. Gunfire. Instinctively, I crouched and looked around for shelter. Like sitting ducks, we were all out in the open, ready to be picked off one by one. McPherson crumpled to his knees and collapsed to the ground beside me. It had happened so fast, it was as if he’d fallen through a trap door in the pavement. I stared in disbelief as blood pumped from a huge hole in his head.

  “Everybody! Take cover!” I yelled. “There’s a sniper.” I grabbed Chief Webster and pulled him behind a squad car. Staying low to the ground, I peered around the front of the vehicle, looking for signs of the shooter.

  “Are you okay, sir?” I asked over my shoulder.

  “I’m fine. Can you see anything? Which direction did the shot come from?”

  “No idea. It could have come from anywhere. If I had to guess, I’d say it came from that direction.” Still crouching, I pointed towards the sun. “He’d want the sun on his back and not in his eyes.” I felt my phone start to vibrate in my jacket pocket and reached for it. I stared at the screen in disbelief. “It’s him,” I said to Webster. “It’s the shooter.”

  Webster’s eyes widened and he nodded at me to press Accept.

  The same muffled voice spoke. “It’s been a real joy playing with you today. I needed to get to McPherson. I’m so glad he could make it. Everything went like clockwork. Your performance was textbook, and for now the show’s over. Good bye, Inspector Hardy.”

  “What do you want?” I yelled. Too late; the shooter was gone. “Fuck!”

  “What did he say?” demanded Webster.

  “He said…” I could barely get the words out as I looked over at McPherson lying motionless in a pool of blood and brains. I took a breath and collected myself, then repeated the killer’s words to the chief.

  Dazed, I sat on the ground with my back against the door of the squad car and put my head in my hands. McPherson had been one of the most decent men I’d ever known. He’d dedicated his life to the service of the country. I knew he had family – a wife and two grown boys. Even though every officer’s family lived with the knowledge that their loved one might one day die in the line of duty, the impact on them would be unimaginable.

  As was the knowledge that I was in many ways responsible. I’d blindly played my part in the killer’s game.

  Chapter Seven

  The conference room was eerily quiet as members of the government’s emergency-response committee stood for a minute’s silence to remember McPherson. It was a moment I’d never forget.

  When it was over we sat down, and I looked up and down the long table. With the exception of a couple of faces, I recognised everyone in the room. I have a rule of avoiding meetings whenever possible, but this one was an exception. This was a COBR meeting – “COBR” was short for its location at the Cabinet Office Briefing Rooms at 70 Whitehall – and besides the prime minister, Angela Lafferty, there were senior ministers and key figures from security, intelligence and policing.

  George Norton, the home secretary, remained on his feet. “We’re here to establish five things: What happened. How we let it happen. Who’s responsible and why. And finally, what we’re going to bloody well do about it. The world’s press are going to be on my back, day and night, until we give them answers. Our own head of UK security, the very person who is supposed to protect the people of this country from attack, is himself killed in broad daylight. This is bloody embarrassing. Somebody in this room had better know something, and I want to hear it.”

  The room fell silent. It was apparent nobody had anything to go on. Or if they did, it was too tenuous or too risky to share. At this stage nobody was willing to stick their neck out on what might turn around and bite them later.

  Further enraged by the silence, Norton pressed for answers. “Do we think it’s ISIS? Is it an ex-employee? Is it Russia or China or North Korea? This bastard must be a professional, because from what I can see he has outsmarted our entire UK intelligence service.” Norton’s tone was spiteful and was making everyone in the room uncomfortable.

  Finally, Ken Derbridge, an ex-MI6 agent, spoke up. “It’s not going to be the Russians or China,” he said. “North Korea? Extremely unlikely; they’re working full-time on pursuing their missile capabilities and are in a propaganda war. They simply aren’t going to be looking to start anything like this.”

  Derbridge spoke clearly and calmly, but his tone indicated resentment at having to put up with Norton’s foot-stamping. I suspected Derbridge had, in his younger days as an MI6 agent, spent a lot of time in the field and met a lot of unsavoury characters. He wouldn’t be intimidated by the blustering of a trumped-up civil servant like Norton.

  “What about a lone-wolf terrorist?” asked Norton.

  “A home-grown ISIS sympathiser is a possibility. Whoever it is, they will have had extensive weapons training to achieve a shot like that,” said Derbridge.

  “What about someone McPherson pissed off? An agent he sacked or reassigned?” Clearly reluctant to stand down, Norton eyeballed the room testily. “It feels a little like I’m doing all the work here, people.”

  “An ex-emplo
yee I would consider unlikely,” said Derbridge, refusing to take the bait, “but it should stay on the table for obvious reasons.”

  “I cannot believe I’m asking the head of MI6 to guess, but if you had to make a guess,” asked Norton, “who would you suggest is most likely responsible? And is this likely to be just the start?”

  I watched the two men eyeballing each other. Either these two men had history, or Norton had cast-iron balls the size of watermelons. As a general rule, it just isn’t a good idea to piss off the head of MI6.

  Derbridge leaned back in his chair and studied his thumbnails. He paused before speaking again in a measured manner. “Give me twenty-four hours, and I’ll have something better than speculation.”

  I couldn’t help a fleeting smile, and Norton must have sensed it. “For those who don’t know him, which is probably most of you, this—” he gestured towards me “—is Detective Chief Inspector James Hardy. He was in command during the incident.” All eyes turned my way. “I understand it was you who received the call that led to the evacuation.”

  I had a pretty good idea where this conversation was going, and I nodded, keeping my expression carefully neutral. I was prepared to tolerate a public battering in the hope it shone some light on what had happened to the friend we had all lost.

  “I took the call from the shooter,” I said. “We now know that the evacuation was nothing more than a ploy to bring about the opportunity to murder McPherson.”

  Norton glared up and down the long table. “How did the shooter know McPherson would be there? And how can we be sure McPherson was the intended target?”

  I shared everything that had happened and the details of the calls from the shooter. After another hour of nothing but theories from the room and a feeling of getting nowhere, Norton conceded defeat and suggested everyone reconvene in twenty-four hours, by which time at least some of those present should have answers for him.