DCI James Hardy Series Boxset

by Jay Gill

  An alarm sounded then stopped. What now? On his knees, he looked towards the sound. Next to the sink he could see a timer. He strained his eyes to see it clearly. The digital numbers were counting down. Counting down to what? Wires ran from the timer to a gas torch. He was in one of Kelly Lyle’s perverse games. His imagination told him that when the timer reached zero, a switch would ignite the gas torch and... boom!

  This couldn’t be happening.

  Panic set in. What could he do? Stay calm and think. The saw. He grabbed it and started sawing frantically at the heavy chain. The alarm beeped again. He stayed focused on the chain. Sawing like a madman. Keep going! Keep going! He stopped and examined the chain. Barely a scratch. The saw was no good for cutting metal. He threw it down. It was a surgical saw. Lyle knew it wouldn’t cut through metal. It was merely meant to taunt him.

  He sat back. Think. It was no good. He would die. How long did he have? Minutes? Seconds? He tried desperately to see the timer, but his eyes were failing. He was starting to lose consciousness. He didn’t want to die this way. He didn’t want to die.

  He found himself staring at the saw. It was medical. The sort used for cutting bone. He laughed hysterically. He understood now. Lyle had left the saw for him. The saw was his only means of escape. He started to sob as he reached for it.

  Saw in hand, he looked down at his foot. Should he cut above or below the shackle? Could he do it before passing out and before the timer finished? Was he really considering this?

  Yes. He needed a tourniquet. Etheridge took off his shirt and wrapped it around his leg as far down as he could. It was nowhere near good enough, but it was the best he could do.

  He pressed the blade just above his ankle. He winced and sobbed and yelled and screamed. He couldn’t do it.

  He had to do it. A rat would gnaw off a trapped leg to survive. He had to decide how badly he wanted to live.

  The timer sounded. He heard a click. Then the crack, crack, crack before the flame was lit.

  Etheridge panicked and started sawing at his leg. Screaming and sawing. Sobbing and sawing. Blood poured. He kept sawing.

  The blast was heard for several miles.

  From her car Lyle watched the smoke rise high above the trees.

  Chapter Ten

  Emma stared at photos of Scrabble letters as if staring at them hard enough would magically reveal their meaning. A Scrabble piece had been left at the scene of each murder. T, C, H, I. She moved them around. HICT, CHTI, then CHIT. Perhaps, the word was CHRIST and the letters R and S were missing. Maybe there are two more bodies, and they haven’t been found yet. And if the word was CHRIST, what did it signify? Was the killer some religious nut? She was clutching at straws, and she knew it. She squeezed her shoulder muscles and twisted her neck until it clicked. She sighed long and hard.

  The time was 9.34 a.m. Etheridge was late. She sipped her coffee and pulled out the photos of the five victims. It was nearly a year since the first body had been revealed by the retreating tide under Boscombe Pier. A few weeks later a second body was discovered beneath Bournemouth Pier. Back then she had been a detective sergeant, and she’d had no idea it was the beginning of a serial murder investigation.

  About six months back, she’d taken the decision to call retired DCI James Hardy on the off chance he’d take a look at the case. It seemed the right thing to do considering the way the victims had been mutilated and the bodies left. She’d read about the type of cases he investigated and of him leaving New Scotland Yard to live in Dorset.

  Looking back, she’d been naive to call him. She’d acted out of emotion. Secretly perhaps, she’d hoped she’d get to work on the case with him. She was lucky Etheridge was a decent boss and hadn’t been offended. Etheridge, too, was more interested in bringing the perpetrator to justice than worrying about anyone’s ego or an outsider coming in and stepping on his toes. She liked him for that. At the time, he had seemed distracted by stuff in his personal life and had said very little about her going over his head. She got nothing more than a word of warning to never do it again.

  The day Martin Burke was discovered mutilated and tied to a pillar under Bournemouth Pier was the day she’d first met Hardy. Before that, she’d spoken to him briefly on the phone, but meeting him at the crime scene had left quite an impression.

  He was confident without being an arrogant prick like some senior detectives she’d met. He’d spent a lot of time listening to others and offering his perspective. Hardy looked relatively young, and she wanted to understand more about why he’d retired so early. She also recalled, with embarrassment, thinking he was handsome in the way older men who stay in shape and look after their appearance sometimes are.

  She’d watched out of the corner of her eye as he spoke at length to Etheridge about both murders. Later, she’d heard he and Etheridge had visited the scene of the first murder at Boscombe Pier. Later, Dylan Durrant, too, had been mutilated and tied to a pillar under the pier. He’d been there a while before being discovered, and it was hard to stomach. Every fish and crab for miles had taken a nibble at his corpse.

  Etheridge had obviously hoped he’d be able to convince Hardy to work with him – everyone had – but it hadn’t panned out that way. She’d never learned why. All she knew was that one morning Etheridge had come into the office in a foul mood. He’d assembled the team and informed everyone that, despite the rumour, Hardy was unavailable for the foreseeable future. When she’d pressed him, he told her Hardy had insisted “it was better he wasn’t involved.” Whatever the hell that meant.

  What they did get from Hardy was a name, a suspect they needed to consider. That was the first time she’d heard of Kelly Lyle.

  Lyle was known to Hardy, the London Metropolitan Police and Interpol. Although she worked alone, Lyle was nicknamed “The Mentor” for the way she coerced others to kill on her behalf. She was known to assist other killers by offering them advice and support in an exclusive online website community she controlled. It had never occurred to Emma the killer might be a woman.

  She leaned back in her chair and looked out into the main office. As she chewed her pen, Detective Phil Gross walked past. She smiled and held up a hand. Gross opened the door and stuck his head into the office.

  “Morning. You okay?” said Gross. He had a mouth full of breakfast roll. She could smell the greasy bacon. Her stomach rumbled.

  “Have you seen Etheridge?” she asked him.

  Gross wiped tomato sauce off his mouth with his wrist then licked at it. “Now what have you done?” He took another bite, careful not to lose any of the dripping egg.

  “Sod off. He wanted to see me first thing. Probably another promotion.”

  “Yeah, right, and I’m dating Jennifer Lawrence.”

  “Who?”

  “If I see Etheridge, I’ll let you know. And, Cotton, you really need to get out more.”

  “You might be right.”

  “How are the wedding plans coming along? I haven’t had my invite yet.”

  “Thanks for reminding me.” The knot in her stomach tightened at the mention of it. She still hadn’t called her mum to tell her it was off.

  “That bad?”

  “Worse.”

  “Sorry to hear that. Look, I’ve got to go. Something is going on. I’m getting waved at. Catch up later, yeah?”

  Emma watched Gross push the last of his sandwich into his mouth and disappear along the hallway to his office. She got to her feet to see if she could see what was happening.

  She stepped out of her office and looked around. There was a lot of commotion. Something felt wrong. She watched as people ran this way and that.

  Gross came running back towards her. He was struggling to get his arm in the sleeve of his jacket.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “We just heard. It’s Etheridge. He’s been killed. Some sort of gas explosion at his home.”

  “Oh, my God.”Her mind skipped back to the last time she’d spoken to him.<
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  Gross leaned close and spoke quietly. “That’s not all. First indications are it wasn’t an accident. They’re saying some sort of incendiary device was used. He was murdered.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Tears and hushed conversations were everywhere. As soon as the fire brigade and forensics teams established Etheridge’s death was no accident, a wave of shock had passed through the station.

  Rumours spread like wildfire. Whispers and theories permeated every office and every corner.

  I heard the killer kept him alive while cutting off all his limbs.

  I heard it was Lyle. If she can kill Etheridge, then she could pick off any one of us.

  She tortured him for hours.

  They say she wears disguises. You don’t know it’s her until it’s too late.

  She’s only here because of that ex–Scotland Yard detective. How come she killed Etheridge and not him? Surely that’s a bit weird?

  Emma heard it all but said nothing. She hated herself for not intervening. She looked around the office and felt ashamed. If it had been one of them who’d died, Etheridge would put a stop to the rumour mill. He’d also know what to do next. The feeling of being in limbo pissed her off. When she could stand it no longer, she grabbed her coat and walked out.

  She needed to see Hardy. Bring him up to date and let him know how out of control this case had become.

  She crossed the station car park. The only thing darker than her mood was the dark clouds overhead. Fumbling for her car keys, she noticed an envelope tucked under the windscreen wiper. It was addressed to her. It felt lumpy.

  Without thinking, she ripped it open. She got into the car and poured the contents onto the front passenger seat. There was another Scrabble piece. This time the letter E. There were photos too. They were of Etheridge. He was asleep or unconscious on the floor of his caravan. A close-up of the chain around his ankle. A close-up of his face. She flicked through the images. Why was Lyle communicating with her? Did she want something from her? Had she killed Etheridge to slow down the investigation? Or had she done it just to show she could, to tell them she could reach anyone?

  She pulled a forensics bag from the glovebox and dropped the Scrabble piece and photos and envelope inside. It was definitely time to talk to Hardy again.

  Chapter Twelve

  I felt like the luckiest man alive as I walked along the Sandbanks promenade with Monica beside me. We talked and watched Alice and Faith down on the beach as they played beside the ocean. They followed the withdrawing waves then turned and ran as the returning waves chased them back up the shore. Sandy barked and bounced around with excitement, occasionally veering off to chase another passing dog.

  Monica leaned into me and tilted her head. “Are you happy?”

  I lifted her hand and kissed it. “Completely. Moving here was the right thing. I love it. Alice and Faith have settled in and are happy. I don’t remember the last time I was this relaxed, and the icing on the cake is I’m completely in love with a loving, sexy, smart, patient and caring woman who seems able to tolerate me.”

  “She sounds like she must be a saint; I’d like to meet her.”

  “Next time I see her I’ll mention it.”

  Monica gave me a playful prod before wrapping her arms around my shoulders and kissing me. Down on the beach, we could both see Alice and Faith looking mortified at what they’d consider our gross display of affection. It made us laugh, so we played it up. Holding her in my arms, I tilted Monica backwards and kissed her passionately. Looking up at me with smiling eyes, she lifted a leg for extra effect. Although we couldn’t hear it, we could see Alice and Faith’s embarrassment as they gasped and screamed in horror. They ran along the beach to put as much distance as they could between themselves and us. Laughing and kissing, we held the pose for as long as we could before laughter got the better of us and we had to stop.

  Joking over, we continued the walk, and Monica asked, “Do you miss it? Being a homicide detective?”

  “Not one bit,” I answered without hesitation.

  Monica said nothing. Instead, she looked at me in the way she does when she needs convincing. “I’ve found it more difficult than I was expecting, that’s all,” I added. “I don’t mean stepping away from active duty. I mean emotionally. The darkness of the cases must have got to me more than I realised.”

  She looked down at the ground. “How do you feel now?”

  “It’s as if I’m punching through the darkness and seeing the light and feeling the warmth of it for the first time in a long time.”

  Monica lifted her head and looked at me. “You never told me that.”

  “I wasn’t sure how to put it into words until now.”

  “Do you think the lecturing and consulting work will be enough?”

  “Enough? Yes, it’s good money. And the advance on my book was a nice surprise.”

  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

  “I know.”

  This conversation had been brewing for a while, and Monica wasn’t going to let me off the hook that easily.

  “You’re a detective,” she said. “We both know you’re one of the best in the country. I know it’s sometimes dangerous. I know you’ve almost died on more than one occasion. I also know you’ve given it all up for us, Alice and Faith especially. I understand all that. And going back to pursuing psychopaths is the last thing I want you to do. I want you here, with me, safe. You know I do. But I’m also worried about what it’ll do to you. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but over the years to come. I’m worried some regret will eat away at you. I just don’t see how you can simply stop being what you were clearly meant to be.”

  “I didn’t know you felt that way,” I said.

  “I’m not sure how I feel. I don’t want you dying at the hands of some crackpot killer, but I also know what you’ve given up for me is a part of who you are. I suppose I want to make sure you’re content.”

  “Every day people have a change of lifestyle. That’s all this is. The way I see it is that I’m still catching the bad guys. The only difference is that I’m doing it by educating other detectives. I’m teaching them what I’ve learned so that I don’t have to be out there.”

  “What about these local murders? That young detective, Cotton, implied you know the killer. Is that why she leaves the files?”

  “She’s young and ambitious. I’ve spoken to her boss again. She won’t be doing that anymore.”

  A mobile phone started to ring, and instinctively I reached into my pocket. Monica waved her phone at me. The call was for her. Old habits die hard, and receiving emergency calls was something I still expected.

  I left Monica chatting to a girlfriend. I ran down on to the beach to search for shells with Alice and Faith.

  “Daddy! We’re looking for treasure,” said Faith. “These shells, the pearly ones, are what we need.”

  “We’re going to make a mosaic with them for Nana Hardy.”

  “She’ll love that. Let’s see how many we can find.”

  Monica’s words buzzed around my brain, and I swiped them away. Looking back, I could see how far down the rabbit hole I’d fallen and the mistakes I’d made. I was a different person now. I had to be.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The driveway was empty. Emma parked the car across the street and watched the house for any sign of someone being home. It was a hot and humid day, and all the windows were closed. If Hardy or Monica were home, then at least one window would be open.

  She checked her watch. Three-fifty p.m. She’d sat there forty minutes. “Christ’s sake. Go get a sandwich and come back in an hour,” she told herself out loud.

  The bakery had a small seating area, and she sat alone and sipped her coffee. She wetted her finger and picked up the last few crumbs of chocolate cake. She sucked her finger. She was tempted to get another slice.

  Two teenage girls came in and ordered caramel choux buns. Their uniforms told her they were from
the local grammar school. It got her thinking about the choices she’d made since leaving school. She’d always wanted to be a police officer, in particular a detective. Her parents had tried to persuade her to go into medicine, but it held no appeal. All those years ago this wasn’t how she had pictured her life: working every hour, jilted just weeks before her wedding day, avoiding her mother and only a cat for company.

  What was she doing here? Did she really think she could persuade a man like James Hardy to do anything? To him, she must look like a woman obsessed. Leave the poor man alone, she told herself. Did she really think she could ask him to get involved in the Lyle investigation? The man had decided to leave active policing for good reason. Who did she think she was even to try to change that? Was she doing it for the sake of the victims or for her own benefit? There was no denying she wanted to work with him. If he wouldn’t help now, he never would. This was her final attempt. How should she approach it? If she came at him head-on, he’d back off again for sure.

  It was just after 5.30 p.m. when she parked outside the Hardy house for a second time that day. This time the family car was in the driveway, and the doors and boot were open. She watched for a moment. They’d been to the beach. Monica was the first to spot her. She watched as Monica spoke to Hardy. Emma realised she didn’t feel guilt at being there; she felt determination.

  Monica looked over again, and Emma offered a smile and lifted a tentative hand to wave. Lifting a cool-box out of the boot, Monica called the girls to her and ushered them inside. Alice looked back over her shoulder at her dad and then at the stranger in the car, and the younger one was clearly asking Monica lots of questions. Monica kept them moving.

  Hardy didn’t look over as Emma approached. Instead, he shook and beat the car mats to get the sand off. He then started pulling together the last few items left in the car.

  She stood beside the car and watched Hardy’s hands as he reached for two small brightly coloured buckets full of shells. She wondered if she should speak first, perhaps offer to help. She didn’t know the right words or even where to start. Instead, she stared at the sand, which would be impossible to remove from the inside of the car completely.