DCI James Hardy Series Boxset

by Jay Gill

  “I am asking you to be smart. The women will have justice, and so will Klaus. These matters need to be dealt with internally.”

  “Are you admitting your involvement?”

  Papa looked at me as though I was becoming tiresome. “I am merely suggesting that, through a little mutual understanding, the perpetrator of these crimes will be punished. They will not be punished by Scotland Yard or sentenced at the Old Bailey, but nevertheless they will be punished.”

  I jumped to my feet and leaned over Papa. “There is only one rule of law in this country. I think it’s time I left,” I said furiously.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to see Orel standing beside me, and then I looked down as I felt a small blade pressed against my ribs.

  “Please, sit down. Papa hasn’t finished.” said Orel.

  “It is time I was going,” I said. “This meeting is over.”

  Papa nodded to Orel. “Life is harder than it needs to be for the stubborn man,” he said as a parting blow.

  I walked out of Papa’s restaurant without looking back. Mr Bad Teeth was back outside waiting for me. He drove me to my car, which was parked in the street outside Rosie’s Tea Shop. Lunch at Rosie’s seemed like an age away. Mr Bad Teeth was all smiles when we reached my car. He reached out, grabbed my hand and shook it vigorously.

  “No hard feelings. Sorry for any inconvenience. Enjoy the rest of your day,” he said repeatedly. “No hard feelings. Goodbye for now.”

  I climbed into my car and dialled Rayner’s number. As Rayner answered I noticed a bright yellow plastic supermarket bag on my front passenger seat.

  “Rayner, it’s me. I’m okay. I’m going to call you back in a few minutes,” I said absent-mindedly. I leaned over and grabbed the bag. It was heavy, and I lifted it onto my lap. I opened it and looked inside. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I pulled out bundles of fifty-pound notes. The bag contained cash, thousands of pounds. I picked up my phone and called Rayner back.

  “You had me worried there for a minute, mate,” said Rayner.

  “No, I’m okay. I have a problem, though,” I said.

  “What sort of problem?”

  Across the street, a young freelance photographer was capturing the images that he had been assured would fast-track his career.

  Chapter Fifty

  I’d stayed at my parents’ home to see Monica and the girls. Although Monica was feeling stronger, she was having trouble sleeping due to repeated nightmares.

  It was six forty-five and we were sitting at the breakfast bar drinking hot tea and talking. I had the feeling Monica was needing to talk as part of her recovery, so I sat quietly and listened. Her injuries, though minor on the outside, went far deeper psychologically, and I knew from experience they shouldn’t be underestimated. I decided I’d speak to my psychologist at Scotland Yard and get some advice, perhaps try to get a referral for her. We talked for a couple of hours before Monica took a shower.

  I was washing cups in the kitchen when I got a call. A report had come in that a homeless man, Tom Ryan, had seen two men throwing something bulky into the Thames river. He’d told the attending officer he might be homeless but he wasn’t stupid. He’d served in Iraq and Afghanistan and knew what a body looked like and how you handle that sort of weight. He’d heard about the murdered women found in the river and was sure these guys were disposing of a body. He was also able to give a description of the car, a dark-blue Mercedes, most likely C-Class or E-Class, probably C-Class. The two men were white. It had been dark and he’d been quite some distance away, but he was certain of what he’d seen. He was apologetic he couldn’t give us more, but by the time he’d got to the bridge the men were gone.

  A team with divers from Thames River Police were called and they did sweeps along the river. It didn’t take them long to find the body. It was a woman. Like the others, she was wrapped in plastic sheeting and had been strangled and stabbed multiple times.

  Rayner came straight over when I arrived at the scene. “How’s Monica?”

  “Getting there,” I said. “The swelling is going down, a few minor bruises and cuts, but physically she’s fine.”

  “That can only be good news. Send her my love. I’ll pop ’round and see her before starting my surveillance shift,” said Rayner.

  “She’d like that. So, what have we got here? Are we certain this is related?”

  Hamilton looked up from the body. “Definitely. Same MO. Same knife. Same plastic sheeting. The only difference is this girl has no wolf tattoo. Another thing I can tell you is this girl hasn’t been dead long; perhaps six hours. I need to test it, but I wonder also whether her makeup is theatre makeup. Perhaps our girl here was an actress or worked on the stage.”

  The woman had been pretty just like the others, although she was perhaps a little older. I looked at her and wondered what her story was. How had she ended up in the hands of the monster that had done this to her? I got to my feet and grabbed Rayner’s arm.

  “I’ve been considering going to see Vladimir Kastrati. I got a tip, although it might be nothing. If I do it, I could do with some backup if you’re up for it.”

  Rayner looked at me doubtfully. “What have you got on him? What have you got that ties him to any of these women?”

  “Nothing concrete. His name has come up. I’m just curious. Let’s pay him a visit. Let’s shake him up and see if anything falls. Who knows – we might get lucky.”

  “So, you think he might be so racked with guilt he’ll confess?”

  “I am not sure we’ll get that lucky. If I get nothing better in the next few days, do you want in?”

  “I definitely want in. Don’t think I’m letting you go see that scumbag without me.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  I arrived at my desk around ten after walking Alice and Faith to school. Walking gave the three of us time to talk, and the girls would open up and tell me what was on their mind. Those were precious moments.

  I could sense something was going on the moment I arrived at Scotland Yard. Before I even reached my seat the phone on my desk was ringing. I had been informed Chief Superintendent Webster would like to see me. I was pretty sure I knew what it was about.

  “Come in, Hardy. Take a seat,” said Webster.

  “Good morning, sir,” I said while trying to gauge his tone.

  Webster looked miserable. He pushed a newspaper article across his desk. It showed pictures of me with the money and of me shaking hands with Mr Bad Teeth; the pictures looked as damning as they were meant to. I started reading.

  Scotland Yard Super Cop Shock

  Scotland Yard appear to have distanced themselves from one of their most talented lead murder detectives after a series of sensational revelations. After weeks of painstaking investigation by photojournalist Kevin Charles, we reveal exclusive evidence that the Met’s most high-profile and celebrated serving officer, Detective Chief Inspector James Hardy, has been photographed accepting money from London’s notorious criminal underworld.

  This newspaper’s undercover work brings into question the integrity of the so-called “Super Detective,” who ended the reign of terror by several of Britain’s most terrifying serial killers. Initial photographs appear to expose DCI James Hardy holding private alcohol-fuelled meetings in a top London restaurant with suspected members of London’s mafia underworld.

  Later photos then show the once-trusted London detective agreeing to deals and shamelessly shaking hands with gangsters in broad daylight on the very streets he swore to protect. Further pictures show him brazenly counting bags of cash in his forty-thousand-pound BMW 5 Series.

  Highly decorated DCI Hardy famously lost his wife when she bled to death in the street close to the family home after a knife attack by Tony Horn.

  Horn was found guilty and sentenced at the Old Bailey to 27 years for the murder of Helena Hardy. Numerous reports suggest DCI Hardy blames himself for his wife’s untimely death and has been unable to cope with the loss.<
br />
  At the time of the attack, the workaholic detective was investigating a series of brutal attacks by serial killer Edward Richter, who is currently serving five life sentences.

  The slaying of DCI Hardy’s wife left the widower to care for their two young daughters alone. Now in a torrid relationship with a married woman, there are many stories suggesting that, in his grief-stricken state, DCI Hardy went on gambling and drinking binges which sources tell us left him close to financial and personal ruin.

  So far, the Metropolitan Police Service have declined to comment, leaving us to wonder what other nefarious activities are yet to be uncovered.

  “The newspaper editor wants to know whether we have any response before they go to print,” said Webster. “Well, anything you want to add?”

  “I drive a Toyota, sir.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Hardy, this is serious. I give you space to do what you do because – well, because you do what you do better without interference from me.”

  “It’s all fabricated; you know it is. As for the money, well, it was handed into evidence last night. I was about to write it all up this morning when you requested a meeting. I knew I’d been set up, and I expected we’d be having this conversation. I perhaps should have called you at home last night and given you the heads-up. Sorry.”

  “Legal are looking at getting an injunction to get the article suppressed while we investigate. I am not going to ask what happened yesterday; that will come later. It will mean a formal investigation, of course, which means more time and more bloody paperwork for both of us. I just want to know how you could have been so stupid.”

  “I guess I just had a bad day,” I said.

  “Well, today isn’t going to be much better. You’re going to have speak to Legal Services, the IPCC and the Director of Media Communications, and that’s just for starters.” Webster was lifting papers on his desk, presumably looking for a list of whom he wanted me to talk to. I got up to leave before he found it.

  “Sit down. There is something else,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Rayner told me what happened yesterday. How you got picked up. Are you okay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And your daughters?”

  “They’re fine, sir. Thank you.”

  “How’s Monica?”

  “Better, sir.”

  “And what about your workload? Are you coping?”

  “I’m on top of it, sir.”

  “You look like hell.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Webster sighed and sat back in his black leather chair. I could see he had something on his mind. I hoped he didn’t give me his 5P talk about how we deliver a Product and about Public Perception and how so much of Policing is about Performance both in the sense of results and in the sense of visibility. How the show of blue lights, uniform, stripes, medals, visibility, bravery and awards are all a part of the performance. How, as serving police officers, we should accept so much of what we do is unrecognised work, work that happens in the background, away from the public eye, and how it is vital we are also seen to be serving. I’d heard his speech many times before and really didn’t need to hear it again this morning.

  Instead, Webster opened a desk drawer and pulled out a form. He looked at the form and then at me and then at the form. He picked up a pen, signed it, then handed it to me.

  “You have been chosen to be part of a trial. You and a few select detectives. You are one of those who meet certain criteria, one of which is your service record and another of which is the type of cases you appear to specialise in. That, and London’s very real threat from terrorism and an overall rise in gun crime year on year. It has been decided certain senior detectives are to carry firearms.”

  “This isn’t for me,” I said without hesitation. “There are plenty of detectives this is more suited to, but not me.”

  “Just yesterday, in broad daylight, you were taken off the street by the Albanian mafia. During your last investigation, you got thrown out of a second-floor window. You have been stabbed and shot more times than I care to remember. Your job investigating serial killers, kidnappers and rapists makes you and those you love a target every time you walk out the front door. Your girlfriend – or female friend, as you like to refer to her – was beaten during an abduction, which I would strongly suggest is likely to be related to a case you’re working. Most of this occurred in just the past few months – shall I go on? I’d say you more than qualify, and if carrying a firearm as a precautionary measure isn’t for you, then who in God’s name is it for?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Yes, you have a choice. Nothing’s changed. All British police officers have to volunteer to carry a firearm, and you are volunteering.”

  “I see.”

  “For pity’s sake, carry the bloody gun. Set an example for younger detectives. They look up to you; you’re a bloody legend in your own lifetime. You know better than anyone the streets have become more dangerous. We both knew this day would come. I guess we both just hoped we’d be long retired before it got to this point. Ultimately, this comes from Downing Street. It’s political. So do me a favour and sign the paperwork, then pick up your firearm.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Look, the way things are going you may just be grateful for it. You can get lucky only so many times. Protect yourself; protect your family.”

  I got up to leave and felt like an entirely different detective to the one who had walked in. I had never anticipated becoming an armed officer. The British police force I’d joined didn’t routinely carry firearms; those officers who did were trained specialists. I was qualified, but I had very mixed feelings about carrying a weapon day to day.

  “Hardy,” said Webster, “send in Rayner. He’s also been selected, so I may as well get it over and done with. I am sure he’ll be as reluctant as you. He’s going to give me hell I suppose – what a bloody day.”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Vlad watched the parade of small vessels pass through the narrow stretch of sea between his new beach-fronted house and the small island of Brownsea. His newly built home was on one of the most sought-after stretches of coastline in Great Britain. He was pleased with his investment. It was the perfect place to hold a meeting with his new European contact. Klaus’s departure from this world had left a vacancy, but his loss was someone else’s gain. That someone was an Englishman living in Geneva.

  Anya came across the balcony and stood beside Vlad. Her hair had grown long and was up. She wore an Indian-inspired summer dress from her new designer wardrobe. The cut was perfect, and so was she.

  “Can I get you anything?” asked Anya with a smile.

  “A coffee would be good, but no rush. With this view across the bay and you beside me, I have all I need. I feel so different these days – calm.” Vlad looked at her. “You look stunning. You have changed me, Anya. With you next to me I feel like a man who can build something, something substantial, a legacy. You have done that. Building this new home and finding you – that is not coincidence. That’s fate. It’s destiny.”

  Anya smiled reticently. She put out her hand and touched Vlad’s face. Vlad pulled her to him and kissed her. “You’re so beautiful, Anya. If we had time . . .” he said, running his hands down her back and over her hips.

  “But we don’t,” said Anya, pushing away his hands playfully. “Your guest has arrived and he’s a part of the new future. Our future,” she said.

  Shaun Foster was tall, slim, tanned and handsome. He wore a pale-blue suit with matching waistcoat. His white shirt was open at the collar, and he wore navy crocodile-skin shoes. He looked relaxed as he walked onto the balcony with an outstretched hand.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Mr Kastrati.”

  The two men shook hands and Shaun looked at Anya. He saw no ring and was unsure how to address her, so he waited for an introduction.

  “This is Anya, who I hope one day soon will become my w
ife.”

  “Call me Annie,” said Anya. “How was your journey? Was your flight from Geneva comfortable? I trust our driver collected you at the airport without incident and made you welcome?”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Annie,” said Shaun. “And thank you. It was a short, comfortable flight and a mercifully short drive. A two-hour flight from Geneva is a welcome change to the many long-haul flights of recent weeks. I wake up some mornings trying to recall which country I am in.”

  Anya smiled. “You’re clearly a man in demand. Would you like a drink, Mr Foster? I was just about to make coffee for Vlad and green tea for myself.”

  “Call me Shaun. Yes, a green tea would be wonderful. Thank you.”

  Vlad watched as Anya headed back across the balcony and into the house. He admired how quickly she had transformed herself from a frightened young girl to an elegant and sophisticated woman who commanded the room. He had nurtured that. He had seen the potential in her and taken her as a rough diamond and made her sparkle. Now every man who met her wanted her, but she belonged to him.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  She watched Simon Baker from the far side of the busy Costa Coffee shop. It felt exhilarating, the two of them in the same room. Two wolves in a room full of lambs. The coffee shop was crammed with mothers, their dribbling infants either asleep in a designer buggy or being comforted or fed.

  The mothers spoke a language she could neither understand nor comprehend. To her they were aliens, much like every other person she came into contact with. The only person in the room of any significance was Baker. He was someone she understood. Like her, he was an apex predator. Intellectually he might be of interest, although looking at his thin, wiry frame she was not sure he could be her type in any physical way. What was her type?