Greed: A DI Scott Baker Novel

by Jay Nadal

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Next in the Series

  Mailing List and Where to Find Me

  Acknowledgements

  About the author

  Glossary of terms used in the DI Scott Baker series for US readers

  Greed

  A Detective Thriller

  (DI Scott Baker Book 1)

  Jay Nadal

  Copyright

  Published by Jay Nadal @ 282publishing.com

  Copyright @ Jay Nadal 2016

  All rights reserved.

  Jay Nadal has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction, Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination or a used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Prologue

  The killer glanced around to make sure that no one was watching. He’d taken every precaution to ensure that he blended into the darkness by wearing black jeans, a black hoodie and black Nike air force ones. He’d been travelling light, his wardrobe limited, his possessions few and far between, which helped to ensure that he could move around stealthily without being noticed.

  The town took on a different identity in the early hours of the morning. The streets were empty, a hazy mist drifted, leaving a sinister and unwelcoming chill in the air that wrapped itself around everything it touched.

  It was once referred to as restaurant street by the locals. A succession of countrywide recessions putting an end to the vibrancy the street once boasted. Soaring rents coupled with fewer people enjoying the luxury of a meal out, had claimed many victims. Now all that was left were dubious looking low end pizza and kebab shops, chinese supermarkets and a dozen or so boarded up shops adding to the desolate atmosphere.

  The road climbed up a shallow gradient from the seafront before reaching the main High Road 300 yards further up. During the day it was a busy road packed with holidaymakers and locals using it as a cut through between the seafront and main road. The street now abandoned to the ghostly shadows and emptiness of the night. His only company a solitary fox wandering from one side of the road to the other in search of discarded scraps of food left behind by hungry visitors.

  In just a matter of a few weeks his whole world had come tumbling down around him, and now it was payback time. He’d been following the man for a few days, working out his routine both day and night, and spending incalculable hours moving from location to location.

  This was supposed to be the easy bit, but spending countless hours arguing with the voice inside his head about why this couldn’t be done sooner, had only added to the frustration and rage inside his mind.

  Despite convincing himself that this was the finale, the culmination, if he was truthful to himself, he was scared. It needed to be done, but it was one thing standing in the shadows, but another to kill in such a brutal way. He had recited over and over again that a killer needed nerves of steel, an unforgiving nature and a cold blooded determination to separate intention from emotion.

  He found much of it hard to accept, he was just a boy after all. I might be a man, but I’m just a boy really he’d told himself.

  It appeared as if the town never slept. There always seemed to be a constant stream of traffic, and a mass of inebriated revellers spilling out of the bars and restaurants into the early hours of the morning. To his right, the stillness of the night was punctuated by the occasional drunken outburst of revellers further up the street, queuing to grab a kebab or pizza before heading home. To his left he could smell the salty sea air, and hear the crackling sound of the odd wave lapping the pebble beach.

  Sirens wailed in the distance. They weren’t coming for him, he was sure of that. They were no doubt attending to a group of drunken men fighting in the street, or coming to the assistance of an intoxicated female collapsed in a heap. The victim of far too many shots and offers of two drinks for the price of one.

  He was in no hurry; justice would be served. It was just a matter of waiting for the right opportunity, the right moment to strike, without getting caught. He knew the movement of these people inside out, he was certain that he had worked out when would be the right time and place, and that each one would get their journey to hell expedited.

  He’d been rewarded for the many hours waiting in the deep darkness of a doorway opposite the club. The man he had been waiting for stepped out into the street accompanied by several other associates. They were in the final throes of saying goodbye and talking in hushed conversations. There was plenty of illumination from a nearby street light to make out without doubt who he needed to exact revenge on.

  A few final handshakes and he could see the man throwing his cigarette to the floor and extinguishing it with a short sharp twist of the sole of his shoe.

  The killer smiled to himself knowing full well that in a matter of moments, the man would meet a similar swift demise.

  A final farewell and the target began walking down the street passing one doorway after another seemingly oblivious to the fate awaiting him. The smell of stale cigarette smoke carried in the light breeze as he walked past. It was a nauseating smell, a smell that turned his stomach, he hated the smell.

  He stepped out from the darkness of the shadows and began to trail his victim. He needed to do this and he needed to do it now. It was the furthest point from the nearest streetlight and gave him the maximum cover.

  He’d practised his approach many times; he’d mastered the art of walking silently and was pretty sure he could give a ninja a run for their money. He quickened his pace, his heart thumping inside his chest. His breath shallow and rapid; his eyes wide with fright, the first few beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

  He reached into the back of his jeans and felt his knife, the cold steel pressing against his back. He pulled it out, the steel edge glinting brightly in the darkness of the night offset only by the black serrated top edge.

  He’d chosen his weapon with considerably thought; it needed to inflict maximum carnage. There was no margin for error; there was no turning back, the weeks of planning coming to fruition in this moment.

  The target must have sensed him, but he wasn’t quick enough. His shoulders hunched and he started to turn. The last thing he saw, the terror screaming from his eyes from what greeted him, was the glint of the knife as it came crashing down into his neck, slicing into the skin like a hot knife in butter. It was met with no resistance.

  The killer knew that with enough force applied in a downward motion, it would render the victim in shock, unable to make a sound, his life exti
nguished in a matter of moments.

  The victim raised his arms in a fruitless act of self-defence; the life was already draining out of him. Too weak to defend himself, he collapsed to his knees and fell face down, his head hitting the cold stone of the pavement with a sickening loud thud and crack.

  The killer leant over him and withdrew his knife, remnants of flesh entangled in the serrated teeth of the blade. The wet skin tearing, and causing blood to pulse out in small jets. They formed a dark shiny pool around the victim’s head. It was only accompanied by faint gurgling as the blood began to collect in the victim’s throat, his body reacting with a few coughs of blood.

  One final act needed to be completed; he pulled open the victim’s mouth and did what he had to do.

  His job was done, it worked out just the way he’d planned it in his mind. He’d been clever, been careful to cover his tracks and leave no clues. No one would find the victim immediately as he used all his strength to drag the lifeless body.

  He hadn’t considered how hard it would be to lift a dead corpse up into a large industrial waste bin. It didn’t help that his hands slipped as he tried to grab hold of blood soaked clothing, his grip failing him on several occasions much to his frustration. “Fucker” he cursed.

  With the victim finally stowed away, he knew he would be safely tucked up in bed by the time morning came and the bastard was found.

  The anger still coursed through his veins, his pulse throbbing in his neck, his heart bursting through his chest.

  Even though the deed was done, deep within the pit of his stomach sadness still reigned, washing over him, shrouding him like a dark menacing mist. His eyes narrowed, his jaw tightened and his brow furrowed like a child being chastised.

  Since he was a young child, his frequent bouts of sadness always went hand in hand with humiliation. He was often made an example of to the other kids; his body repeatedly used for the sexual gratification of those who were supposed to be protecting him.

  As he stood there now, history was repeating itself once again, his underwear and jeans becoming warm with urine, tears erupting from the corners of his eyes, blurring his vision.

  A taking of a life still couldn’t replace what’s missing now, but somewhere inside the feeling of retribution was satisfying.

  Chapter 1

  Somewhere in the hazy distance Scott could just about make out that his phone was ringing. The sound of House of Pain was way too upbeat for this time of the morning. Even though he loved ‘jump around,’ it had on more than one occasion been the butt of jokes in the office. The piss taking was met on just as many occasions with an appropriate choice of words you wouldn’t hear a vicar mutter.

  He didn’t care; it was a nostalgic track that got him up and jumping around like a lunatic in his university days, at the Gloucester night club near the seafront.

  The sun was creeping in through the slats in his bedroom blinds, casting strips of light and darkness across his room that played out abstract shapes on the opposing wall. He’d been meaning to get some proper curtains to darken his room for some time and was starting to regret not acting sooner to get them sorted.

  He closed his eyes in the vain hope that both the sun would just go away and the ringing would stop in his ears. Then there was silence ah peace at last, he thought.

  The peace lasted just a few moments before his phone sprang into action again, doing its damned hardest to rob him of any chance of a few extra minutes in bed. This time he knew that it was either a persistent sales call or an official call. As he glanced at his alarm clock on his bedside table, the red digits glowed a bright 6.42 a.m.

  This was the last thing he needed on his day off having done seven straight days on, his last shift only finishing at 2.30 a.m. that day after his team had finished processing prisoners from an earlier operation.

  He had realised very early on in his CID roles that shift work had it advantages; being woken on a day off wasn’t one of them. Eight-hour shifts were nothing more than a luxury and a distant dream these days. As a Sergeant, his DI had often reminded him that criminals never did a thirty five hour week, nor did they only work weekdays.

  It was a mindset he’d grown into, as modern day policing was being squeezed from every angle. Political pressures to increase crime detection rates, whilst introducing greater efficiency, were matched with smaller budgets and fewer officers to do the same amount of work. Budgetary cuts across the force had led to his team being reduced.

  Once he had the luxury of two Detective Sergeants and five Detective Constables. He was now down less than half that number, but the case load still remained the same. As a consequence, his whole team including himself had the unenvied task of juggling every precious moment of their shifts. That’s not to forget that more than half of the team’s time was tied up with filling out forms - there were forms for everything and Scott hated the sight of them.

  He wanted to get on with what he signed up to do, catch criminals. However, in recent years he felt that he was being asked to achieve the impossible, whilst having his hands tied in bureaucratic handcuffs. There was no way of getting around that, this shit has to be done for the sake of paper trails and keeping his political masters happy.

  He stumbled out of bed trying to get his bearings, knocking over a half empty glass of Jack Daniels that sat on the floor. It served as a poignant reminder of the night before, and his fruitless attempts to escape into a subconscious slumber and stop a whirring mind.

  He swayed as his sleepy semi-conscious eyes sought frantically to focus and locate the source of his annoyance. He felt like crap, his stomach burnt from the emptiness and punishment he’d given it last night. His back refused to straighten up, his knees creaked as he moved and his eyes were sticky with sleep gunk.

  Scott reached for the phone on his dresser and looked at the screen for a moment desperate for it to come into focus. He moved the phone back and forth away until his eyes finally caught up. DC Wilson flashed up as the caller ID.

  “Baker, this better be good, what’s up? he said with a hoarse and gravelly voice. A result of a very dry throat.

  Slight hesitance on DC Wilson’s part of not knowing what mood Scott would be in led to an awkward pause. “Erm Guv, we’ve got a body, it seems like a pretty gruesome one. I know you’ve got the day off, but DCI Harvey said you need to head down because she’s away for the weekend. She’s coming home early but won’t be back until this evening.”

  Scott groaned, knowing full well that the DCI was away on a boozy weekend with chums and nothing short of a natural disaster would bring her back to the office. Jeepers that woman loved her drink.

  “Ok Mike, give me thirty minutes and I’ll be there, where is it?”

  “It’s in Preston Street, the Kings Road end Guv, SOCO are already onsite.”

  “Blimey, they’re quick off the mark. Do I need to skip breakkie?”

  “Probably wise Guv unless you want to see it again,” Mike fired back lightly heartedly.

  “This is a right pain in my neck Mike.”

  “That’s what the victim probably thought,” Mike quipped.

  “You’re talking in fucking riddles as usual Mike”.

  “You’ll see what I mean when you get here Guv.”

  Joking or seeing the funny side of a crime might appear insensitive or heartless to those on the outside. Any death was a serious case no matter what the circumstances were. Scott had seen several colleagues face emotional turmoil, and extreme bouts of stress dealing with deceased victims, especially if they were children. As police officers they saw the tragic, disturbing and often brutal consequences of society that many of us never witness.

  ***

  Within ten minutes Scott had hastily thrown on a pair of dark grey trousers, a white shirt and black brogues, before heading off in his black Audi A3. It was his pride and joy, and often preferred to use his own car over the choice of one of the CID pool cars when out on police business.

  Scott lived in Hove
about three miles from the city centre of Brighton on the South Coast. Hove was a much quieter residential area than its bigger more bustling neighbour. Brighton, a popular seaside resort was often referred to as London by the sea. With a short fifty minute train journey into London, many workers sought Brighton as a place to escape back to after a long hard day in London.

  Consequently, house prices were comparable to London spawning a rich and vibrant mix of inhabitants between city professionals, locals and students.

  Scott had always loved Brighton from the minute he arrived to start his university course. He’d love the buzz of the town both day and night.

  Having graduated, he’d returned to his home town in Brentwood Essex soon joining Essex police at the age of twenty three. He’d steadily fast tracked through to join CID sometimes to the annoyance of time served officers. They felt that graduates never developed the depth and breadth of experience, as well as the knowledge that comes with the traditional and well-worn path of joining as an eighteen year old rookie.

  The draw of Brighton was never far away for Scott, finally transferring to the Sussex force to join CID at the age of thirty two as a Detective Sergeant. A move that proved a resounding success as it’s where he met his future wife Tina.

  They were both sporty types and a chance encounter on the London to Brighton cycle run cemented the start of a wonderful relationship. Sunny weekends were spent sitting on the beach relaxing and chatting, or playing air hockey in the arcades on Palace Pier, the competitive streak coming out in both of them.

  Scott loved nothing more than wandering hand in hand around the Lanes enjoying the culture, discovering small bistros and boutique shops…all wonderful memories that gave him both happiness and sadness in equal measures.

  He turned left onto Kingsway and headed along the coast road. He used every opportunity to drive along this stretch of road as often as he could. There was something very serene and relaxing about driving with the openness of the sea view, the smell of salt air and the constant chatter from the many seagulls that floated on the thermals whilst scavenging for discarded chips and other take away delicacies.