by Jay Gill
That sounded both good and bad. Alice and Faith must have been discussing what was going on with Monica and Mum. From what they’d heard and what they’d seen, they’d drawn their conclusions. They truly were the daughters of a detective.
I stopped off and gave my girls a hug. “Can I stay here with you?” I tried to sit down between them.
“No, you can’t. Go face it like a man,” said Faith, and the two girls began pushing me away. I gave them both a kiss then headed to the kitchen to discover what fate was in store for me this evening.
Mum and Monica were at the kitchen table studying a letter. I liked that Monica felt she could turn to Mum for advice. For a moment they were silent, and then finally Mum spoke.
“Monica’s had a letter from Scott’s solicitor,” said Mum. “It’s about the divorce.”
I looked from Mum to Monica and back to Mum. I had assumed this would be a good thing; I’d assumed wrong. I must be missing something. Neither said anything, so I stuck my neck out.
“That’s good news, right?” I felt like I was being forcibly blindfolded and pushed into oncoming traffic.
“He’s changing the agreement we had. He’s filing on grounds of adultery. He’s claiming it was all my fault and that I had an affair,” said Monica.
I opened the fridge and took out a beer. I took a long sip while I waited for the punchline. None came.
“That’s ridiculous,” I agreed. “But so long as you get shot of him, and the sooner the better. He’s bad news, and the more distance you can put between you and him the better.”
They looked at me silently.
“Have a seat, sweetheart,” said Mum. I stayed standing; I looked at Mum and then at Monica. What was I missing? Then the penny dropped. I didn’t need to ask, but I played along.
“Who is the affair with?”
I could see in their eyes what was coming next. I knew Scott and the way a mind like his worked. He’d turned bitter and spiteful and wanted to lash out and hurt as many people as possible, my family included.
Monica was visibly shaken. “I’m so sorry, James . . .”
Mum put her arm around Monica. “Don’t you apologise for that rat of a man,” she said. She gave me one of her looks that got me to stand taller and focus on what was being said.
“Scott is claiming you had an affair with Monica. Scott is also claiming that it started just before Helena’s funeral. That you were having an affair with Monica while your wife lay dying. We all know this is . . .” She bit back a word. “I won’t swear, not even under these circumstances. But you know what I’m saying.” She gave me a look that said, “You idiot. Say something to show you understand it’s not Monica’s fault.”
Inside I was reeling. I knew Scott was angry about losing Monica, but I really had had no idea he could sink this low. He knew what he was doing. He knew how this would strike a blow.
This felt like a knife to the heart, which was just what Scott had intended. I left the bottle of beer on the worktop and sat down next to Mum. She put one hand on mine and the other on Monica’s. I was feeling torn between what was best and what was easy. Should we simply accept the grounds for the divorce so we could be rid of Scott and all move on? I was worried what effect accepting this might have on Alice and Faith if they ever found out. Never mind the fact that I was willing to allow Scott to denigrate the memory of my marriage and their mother for the sake of ease and less conflict. Monica could protest; there were no children involved. She and Scott had no children.
The only real winners in prolonging the divorce would be Scott and the solicitors. How could I do this to Helena? Would she want me to accept the lies and rise above them for the sake of the girls? Or would she want me to fight for the truth, again for the sake of our daughters and for the memory of our marriage? I could see we were all angry and upset, and of course that was just what Scott wanted. If he couldn’t be happy, then why should anyone else?
It was Mum who spoke. “This family,” she said as she squeezed our hands, “has had more pain than it should, but what that pain has done is bring us closer. It’s made us stronger in a way many families will never understand. Now you two need to talk, and together you need to decide what should be done. And I want you to know that whatever you decide, we in this family – well, we know the truth, and that is all that matters. We around this table know the truth. Those girls in there are what matter, and so long as I have breath in my body, I will do all I can to protect them and all those I call family. Now what that – please excuse my language – shit of a husband of yours is doing is not right and is not decent, but you both need to look to the future and not to the past.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but Mum stopped me with one of her looks. She was going to speak her mind, and I knew better than to interrupt her, especially in her own home.
“Now, I am not going to try to figure you two out and it’s not my place, and even if it was this isn’t the time. But what I do know is that Scott has a temper, and, unfortunately, he’s been poisoned with hatred. We’ve all seen it,” continued Mum as she pressed a finger on the letter in front of us all.
“This is one of those times when the Hardy family unites, and Monica, you know in my eyes you’re family. I’ve known you your whole life. And don’t you ever, ever apologise for what that obnoxious man has done. We know the truth. Helena, God rest her beautiful soul, knows the truth. We all know there are battles worth fighting and battles that are not. That man is poison. He was poison when you left him and he’s poison today. What is important right now is that we permanently extract his poison from our family and we do it quick.” Mum stood up and squeezed us and kissed each of us in turn.
“Now I’m going to see my granddaughters and you two are going to think about what I said. And Jamie, this is one of those times you put aside that stubborn streak of yours and you listen to your mother.”
I knew she was right. I hadn’t given Scott’s frame of mind much thought with everything going on, but he was hurting, and people have a strange way of behaving when they are in pain. I had no idea what he might do if we put up resistance, and I for one didn’t want to risk finding out.
I could also see Monica was hurting. She was staring glumly at her hands, blinking back tears. Inside I was hurting too, but, largely due to my anger at the false accusation, my male pride was smarting even more. I always like to win, and that was pretty pathetic under the circumstances.
Mum could see this from the expression on my face and gave me another of her looks as she left the room. Do what’s right for your family. They come first.
“You know what, Monica?” I said brightly. “This calls for a celebration. You’re getting a divorce. A year from now you won’t care about what the bloody grounds for it were.”
I got to my feet and began to sing and did one of my crazy Irish jigs on the spot. Alice and Faith, hearing the commotion, came running into the room, followed by Mum. When the girls saw me dancing, they grabbed hold of me and I danced them around the kitchen. I grabbed Monica and Mum by the hand and pulled them up onto their feet, and we all went a bit crazy for a while with dancing and laughing and singing. Alice and Faith squealed with delight, and the whole atmosphere quickly turned into a celebration. Dad appeared from wherever he’d been hiding and looked on in amusement.
“Who’s hungry?” I said at last, putting my hands on my knees and panting. “Time for a celebratory meal. Who wants to eat out?”
“Me, me, me!” Alice and Faith ran to the front door to put on their shoes and Mum went to help them.
I took Monica to one side and hugged her and kissed her on the forehead.
“Thank you, James,” she said softly. “You don’t deserve this. The last thing you need is me adding my problems to your life. If I had known . . .”
“Together, we’ll get past this. We’ve been through worse over the last couple of years. You and I make a good team. Let’s just take each day as it comes. Together we’ll get our lives back on
track. All that happened today was we got knocked sideways, so now we need to work to get back on track. And one way to do that is with pepperoni pizza and a good bottle of red wine.”
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Orel sat on his bed reading. Beside him sat the case. He glanced at it from time to time. It had been several years since he’d been asked to open it. It called to him occasionally, but he’d ignored it. He’d hoped those days were behind him. Perhaps after his next job he could retire for good.
Orel poured another single malt, sipped it and continued to read for a while. The Old Man and the Sea, his favourite Hemingway. After a time, he put down the book and carried the case to a small white coffee table, where he sat for a moment and stared at it. Finally, he opened it.
Seeing the gun in its foam surround, he first felt a flicker of excitement and then sadness and finally grief. He knew he would do what needed to be done, and he would do it with ease. Without a second thought. That was what filled him with sadness. Then, when he saw what he had done, again, he would be filled with grief. Not grief for the dead but grief that he had become again the man he thought he’d left behind. The man who could so easily take a life.
Orel closed the case. He sat on the bed again and drank the remains of the whisky in his glass. He looked at his books on the shelf beside the window. He knew he could have been a better man. The older he got, the more he resented his life and the choices he’d made. No matter how hard he tried he somehow seemed unable to shake off who he had become and escape his past.
Reluctantly, Orel returned to the chair and opened the case once more. This time he took the gun out and began cleaning it and checking it. He couldn’t bring himself to look at his books as he cleaned the gun. Dickens, Steinbeck, Hemingway, Twain, Faulkner, Fitzgerald and Shakespeare all stared down at him. This would be the last time; he would make sure of it. He loved Papa, and so he had to leave. To find peace, he would need to disappear. It would be easy to suggest to Papa it was a good idea to leave after this, to lie low somewhere for a while. He knew how to do that; he’d done it before. It would then just be a case of not returning. He hoped in time Papa would understand.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
The helicopter touched down at Bournemouth Airport. The Flying Squad had received a tip that a man by the name of Shaun Foster had arrived in the UK, and they really wanted to grab him while he was there.
I was met at the airport by Flying Squad officer Aiden Osborne. Osborne looked more like a surfer dude than a Scotland Yard FS detective. Tanned skin, shoulder-length sun-bleached hair, piercing blue eyes, loud open-necked short-sleeved shirt, cargo shorts and flip-flops.
Osborne was wired and talkative as we drove from the airport to the reconnaissance location. He thrust a file into my hand. “I’ve been tracking Foster for nine years on and off.”
I began reading the file as Osborne gave me a potted history.
“Shaun Peter Foster is wanted in at least five countries for offences ranging from tax evasion to murder. Foster is a man for hire, and although he dabbles in arms dealing and contract killing, his true expertise is the movement of goods. He has a reputation for being able to move anything; if it’s illegal to move it and you have the money, he’ll make it happen.”
“How do you know this is your man? It says here he uses disguises and false identities.”
Osborne stared at me like I was the worst kind of idiot. “Intelligence,” he spat. He was on edge and under pressure. My guess was he’d been undercover a long time and was finally hoping for some payoff. Under normal circumstances he was probably a pretty decent man, but today he was like a pressure cooker.
“In your arena you’re some sort of success,” he said. “I get that. I respect that. Right now, you’re in my back garden. I don’t want you here but I was overruled, which is fine. It happens. You obviously have friends up top and your own agenda. Just don’t get in my way and don’t screw this up for me or my team. If you understand that, we’ll be firm friends. Right now, we have zero time before Foster vanishes again. I don’t want to be babysitting some paint-by-numbers murder detective, but we’re going to make the best of it. Keep your mouth shut and your eyes open, and don’t get yourself killed – I hate the paperwork.”
“I won’t get in your way. I’m here only because Foster is meeting Vlad Kastrati,” I said.
“Right,” said Osborne. “I read your case reports, as I like to know who I’m working with. I’m sorry about your murdered friend. And your girlfriend – she okay?”
“She’s good, thanks. Still shaken but getting better.”
After thirty minutes or so we pulled up outside a small bungalow in a quiet suburb. Inside was hot, stuffy and a hive of activity. Tables had been pulled together and maps and paperwork and photos were laid out. A female officer sat in the hallway talking on her phone. She looked up momentarily, nodded, and carried on talking. Two men were preparing to leave and putting on Kevlar vests and checking weapons. I automatically placed a hand on my own brand-new Glock.
“Listen up,” said Osborne to the room. “This is DCI James Hardy. Some of you may know him. Most of you will have heard about him or read about him. If you don’t know him, then all you need to know is he’s one of our very own Scotland Yard murder detectives. Extend to him our kind of professional courtesy.”
A joker in the hallway called out, “I hear you’re tight with the Albanians. Any chance of a loan? I’m a bit short this month.”
Everyone laughed, and another officer high-fived the joker. Osborne patted me on the back. “I guess news travels fast, and bad news fastest of all.” He walked over to a table full of printouts where four men stood. “How are we doing?” asked Osborne.
“We’re ready to go,” said one of the men who was chewing gum at a hundred miles an hour. “We’ve got two boats, another on standby. Coast Guard’s ready. Plus a helicopter if we want it. Local police are briefed as much as they can be. They seem switched on and pumped up, ready for action if they’re needed. We’re about ready to head out and get this done.”
“Well done, guys. Don’t forget – Foster is international, so if we screw this up, we look like dicks not only back at the Yard but also in France, Germany, Russia, China and stateside – you get my meaning?”
“We’ve got this. Foster’s not going anywhere.”
“Stay safe,” said Osborne.
Two men grabbed bags and headed out the door. The woman from the hallway got up and left with them. Osborne blew her a kiss and winked. She mouthed back an expletive and gave him the finger.
“So, what have we heard from our contact?” asked a short, stocky man.
I looked at the photos on the desk. Aerial photos of the house and gardens. Roads in and out. The stretch of beach behind the house. There were faces. I recognised Foster from the file. Vlad was there. Mr Bad Teeth was there and a couple of his friends. A few faces I didn’t recognise.
Then I saw Anya’s face. She looked different, but it was definitely her. I picked up the photo. Osborne looked at me then at the men around the table.
“Hardy, let’s talk,” he said.
We headed through to a kitchen area and Osborne shut the door. He opened the fridge and pulled out two cold cans of Coke. He handed me one and paused before filling me in on a little extra-operational detail.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Osborne sipped his Coke while he considered how much to tell me and where to start. I decided to help him out.
“How long have you known? I’d assumed she was dead.” I was angry and I was loud and I didn’t care who knew it.
“Listen, it’s complicated. Anya isn’t dead. She’s alive and kicking and has been helping the Drug Squad. They’ve been trying to get evidence on Vlad for years. She agreed to assist them.
“A few days ago, the Drug Squad passed along intel about a possible meeting between Foster and Vlad. That was when Flying Squad got involved, and I flew in from Miami. Anya’s been a real asset. She’s pass
ed along times and dates, and today, thanks to her, we’re going to nail Foster and your man Vlad the Wolf.”
“And that sounds okay with you?” I said.
“It’s not ideal, but yeah. It works for me.”
“Anya should be in protective custody. She’s not trained for any of this; she should be receiving counselling. She’s a victim; she’s vulnerable; she’s a possible witness to murder. You have deliberately put her in harm’s way. Vlad is an animal – he will not think twice about killing her.”
“She’s not a child,” said Osborne. He sipped his Coke and watched me.
“What?”
“She volunteered. Seriously, man, she volunteered. Remember the woman detective in the hallway? The one we nearly tripped over when we arrived? The sexy one who gave me the finger as she left? Well, she’s Drug Squad. Her name is Kerry Barnes. She tried to pull Anya out, and your Anya wouldn’t hear of it. I think Anya’s exact words were ‘I am staying. I am close to Vlad. I’m going to cut his balls off and shove them down his throat while he sleeps. I’ll do it for Delina and the other girls.’”
I was angry and confused.
“Yeah. Your little princess Anya is one tough cookie. I guess in the end Drug Squad and Anya came up with a better plan than simply cutting off his balls. Though that would have worked for the Drug Squad, I’m sure. For them that would still be a result, but laws being the way they are these days . . .” Osborne laughed at his own joke.
“That’s unacceptable. You’ve put an innocent woman in harm’s way. If anything happens to her it’s on your head, and I will make sure you answer for it.”
“Perhaps in your world everything is neat and tidy. You simply follow the breadcrumbs left by some psycho. Out here, things are dirty. Neat and tidy doesn’t exist. Every choice is a bad choice. But we are still expected to get results. If you really can’t stomach that, then catch a train back to London. Sounds to me like your girl Anya has more balls than you.”