No Place to Hide, page 28
‘She hasn’t got a clue,’ Frank said dully. ‘Never has had. She thought we bought the place on an advance pension payout.’
Pete nodded. ‘I thought as much. Only thing I could never figure out is what she saw in you. But, that’s by the by. The reason I’m here is the Armenian.’
A frown flashed across Frank’s face and was gone almost instantly.
‘After all you’ve done for him over the years, he might be your ticket to a lighter sentence.’
‘He won’t do me any favours. Not now I’m no use to him any more.’
‘No, but we can if you tell us all about him.’
‘I do that, I won’t be in prison long enough to have a shave. I’d be dead meat and so would Sylvia.’
‘I don’t get why everybody’s so damn scared of the bugger. He’s not even that big. And a few years’ solitary followed by deportation will keep him nicely out of harm’s way anyway.’
Frank was shaking his head. ‘You’ve got no idea, mate. He’s got connections all over the place. He wants something done, it gets done before he even asks for it. Otherwise, the bloke who should have pays the price.’
‘Well, if that’s the case, do you reckon Sylvia’s safe now you’ve been arrested, anyway? I mean, if he wants to make sure you stay schtum, surely he’ll have his eyes on her already.’
Frank shifted in the bed, handcuffs rattling against the metal bed frame as he tried to sit up. ‘Then you need to make sure she’s safe. Now.’
‘No, you need to tell us what we need to know. Then we’ll see about Sylvia.’ Pete leaned on the end of the bed with both hands, staring at his panicked former colleague.
‘Get her safe or you’ll get nothing from me,’ Frank shouted.
A nurse appeared to Pete’s right. ‘I’m sorry. I’m going to have to ask you to leave, Mr . . .’
Pete pushed himself upright. ‘Last chance, Frank. I get Petrosyan or you and Sylv are on your own.’
‘Detective,’ the nurse snapped.
Frank went to raise a hand to her, but couldn’t. He raised the other one. ‘It’s OK, nurse. All right,’ he said to Pete. ‘What do you need?’
‘I don’t expect you can help on the drugs side of it, but you can give us him for corrupting a police officer. That’s enough to get him put away and we can go from there.’
‘OK, but you’ve got to make sure Sylvia’s safe first.’
Pete smiled. ‘I knew you’d see things my way in the end.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
‘In position.’
The two words came clearly over the radio despite being muttered softly so as not to alert anyone inside the house.
All traces of the fatigue that, under any other circumstances, would have seen him asleep at this hour were gone as his concentration peaked. This was it. Redemption, if it were needed. As SIO on the case, it was his call. He keyed the mike. ‘Go, go, go.’
Subtlety vanished. The big guy at the front of the group of helmeted and body-armoured officers slammed the Big Red Key into the front door with all the force he could muster. Once. Twice. Three times. The frame splintered, the door swung free and they charged in, yelling.
‘Police! Stay where you are. Don’t move.’
The whole team was shouting at once, a cacophony of voices, the same thing happening out of Pete’s sight at the back of the house, adding further to the shock effect. The words lost all meaning, became just a jumbled mass of sound, but would instil instant terror in all but the most hardened soul as the Special Operations squad spread quickly through the property, searching out and securing its occupants while Pete waited on the doorstep.
Special Ops had been only too keen to redeem themselves after the debacle at the Italian restaurant earlier that night. Pete had contacted them as soon as the warrant was issued. A meeting had been organised within the hour, a standard plan of attack agreed and the decision made to go ahead immediately, rather than wait until the early hours of next morning, as they often did.
Not that it was far off the early hours anyway, by the time everything had been organised and they’d got into position. He checked his watch as the shouted reports started.
‘Secure.’
‘Secure.’
Correction, he thought. It was the early hours. Just earlier than usual at 1.10 a.m.
‘All secure,’ the final report came over the radio.
That was his cue. He pushed his shoulder off the door jamb and walked in. ‘Subject location?’
‘Front bedroom.’
Pete started up the stairs of the 1930s semi. Eight men in heavy black uniforms made the place feel claustrophobically crowded even to him. At the top of the stairs, he turned along the landing and crossed to where two of the team were standing oppressively in a doorway. He stepped between them.
Gagik Petrosyan was sitting up in the single bed. He was naked from the waist up, his lower body covered by a sheet.
‘Knock, knock, Gagik. Lovely evening,’ Pete said. ‘Sorry: morning. Get your pants on, you’re under arrest.’
The Armenian’s top lip twitched. ‘What for?’
‘Blackmail. Corrupting a police officer. We’ll see what we can do about adding to that by the time your solicitor gets out of his bed and down to the station.’ He paused. ‘I take it you’re going to want your solicitor?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I think you’re mine for the foreseeable, Gagik.’ Pete read him his rights then keyed the mike on his radio. ‘Dave, Dick. Come on in. Let’s turn this place inside out, see what we can find.’
*
‘No comment.’
Pete had no idea of the number of times he’d heard those words out of Gagik Petrosyan’s mouth since he’d started this interview, forty-five minutes ago. He pressed on regardless.
‘No problem. Because we’ve got the evidence we need without your comments. The only difference they’d make is to the length of your sentence. We’ve found your books, Mr Petrosyan. And you can’t deny that they’re yours because we’ve also got your DNA and an exemplar of your writing from when you were booked in here. You didn’t imagine it was standard procedure to have a prisoner fill in a form, did you? Giving someone in your position a sharp object – a pen?’ He shook his head. ‘Far from it, Gagik. But it worked out nicely. And the fact that the books are in Armenian or whatever isn’t going to be a problem either. You can get some brilliant translation programs, these days.’
He could see the rage and frustration building in Petrosyan’s face. Any moment, he would come surging up out of his chair, wanting – needing – to wrap his hands around Pete’s throat. Not that he would get anywhere near, handcuffed to the table as he was, but it would demonstrate his violent temper and lack of control nicely when it was played back in court.
As long as Pete could avoid the accusation of goading him . . .
He changed the subject. ‘Are you familiar with the name Frank Benton, Mr Petrosyan?’
The Armenian stared at him, eyes blazing, but said nothing.
‘Frank Benton is a former police officer. But, of course, you know that, don’t you?’
Still, Petrosyan maintained his silence.
‘We have evidence that you’ve had extensive contact with him. Calls and emails made both from him to you and from you to him. Can you tell me what those calls and emails concerned, Mr Petrosyan?’
The Armenian sucked air in through flared nostrils.
His solicitor, a tall, stooping hawk-like figure in a grey suit similar to what Dick Feeney was wearing on Pete’s side of the table, only a lot more expensive, cocked his head on one side and peered down his nose at Pete. ‘I believe my client has made it perfectly clear that he has no wish to talk to you, Detective Sergeant. Is it not time we concluded this charade and acted like gentlemen?’
‘Went for breakfast, you mean, Mr Savage?’
There was a knock on the door and Dave stuck his head in. ‘Boss?’
‘DC David Miles has entered the room,’ Pete said for the recording. ‘What’s up, Dave?’
‘Can I speak to you outside for a sec?’
‘Sure. Mr Savage, here, is pining for a bacon butty, anyway, so I was just going to wind it up for a bit. Interview suspended at—’ he checked his watch ‘—8.35 a.m.’ He stopped the digital recorder and stepped out into the corridor. ‘Back already?’
Dave and Jane had been to Topsham, to the Hardy residence, with a search warrant.
‘Yeah, and bearing gifts. Dom’s laptop.’ He paused.
‘And?’
‘There’s a file on it called “Clean-up” that consists of downloaded articles from the Express & Echo, the Western News and the Exeter Daily. Articles about the deaths of Andrew Michaels, Brigit Mostova, Donald Tennyson, etc., etc., etc. Starting with an alcoholic who was found dead on a bench down on Bartholomew Street eighteen months ago and ending with Alfie Bowens.’
Pete felt the grin spreading across his face. ‘Marvellous.’ He slapped Dave on the back. ‘Bloody perfect in fact. We’ve got him good and proper with that.’
‘With what, Detective Sergeant?’ The imperious, nasal voice came from behind him.
He turned. ‘Not your concern, Mr Savage. A different case. Although, with what we’ve got on your client, I think the same applies.’
The lawyer’s thin lips twitched and he turned away to walk down the corridor towards the custody desk.
‘Looks like today might be a good day, despite the early start,’ Dave said with a grin.
‘Doesn’t it?’
*
‘Solicitor,’ Hardy said flatly.
‘He’s on the way, Mr Hardy. I could just fill you in, in the meantime, though. Save us all some time. If you don’t object?’ He raised an eyebrow, but got no response from Hardy so carried on. ‘My colleagues tell me you don’t have a password on your laptop. I’d have thought, these days, with all the dodgy things which go on around computers that would have been essential. Or, don’t you believe things like that can happen to you?’
Hardy stared at him coldly.
‘No matter.’ Pete shrugged. ‘It wouldn’t have made a difference. We’ve got some top-notch experts in that field, up at Headquarters. But, with what you’ve got on yours, I’d have expected you to at least try to keep it secure.’ He shook his head as if disappointed in the younger man, then fixed him with a calm stare. ‘We found the “Clean-up” file, Mr Hardy. All your handiwork nicely filed and recorded for us. Even a couple we didn’t know about.’ He leaned back and sighed. ‘Thirteen deaths. Fourteen, counting Josh. What happened there, eh? Going to spill the beans, was he? We found where he’d spilled his guts on the grass up on Colleton Crescent after you send Alfie Bowens off there. Grew a conscience, did he?’
Still Hardy said nothing.
‘Did he actually threaten to come and talk to us or did you just suspect he would?’
He paused again, staring closely at Hardy.
‘I think you just suspected it. Couldn’t afford to take the chance. Didn’t want to end up here. Where you are. And, you know, it was that killing that got you here. Without it, yes, we had some clues. We were making progress. But there was no guarantee we’d have ever got enough evidence to charge anyone. Maybe not even to identify you. But, with it . . .’ He shook his head. ‘With it, we identified Josh, then you and . . .’ He spread his arms. ‘Here we are.’
He pushed his chair back. ‘Still. I’ll leave you to ponder that while we wait for your brief, shall I?’ He stood up and left the interview room, leaving Hardy alone with a uniformed custody officer and his thoughts. Heading along to the high-fronted booking desk, he leaned an elbow on it.
The sergeant looked across at him from his seat behind a computer screen. ‘You must be about knackered, aren’t you?’
Pete felt a wave of fatigue wash over him. He’d been on the go since seven the previous morning. It was now nearly nine-thirty. ‘Yeah. Just finish this off and I’ll be off home for some kip.’
‘Still, productive night’s work, eh?’
He grinned. ‘We like to keep you occupied, down here in the bowels.’
Bob grunted. ‘Bowels is right. The amount of shit that comes through here . . .’
The door opened behind Pete. Bob glanced across. ‘Talking of which . . . Hello again, Mr Merriman. What can we do for you?’
He ignored Bob, fixing his attention on Pete. ‘I understand you wish to continue interviewing my client, Mr Hardy, Detective Sergeant.’
Pete nodded. ‘He’s in room two. After you.’ He extended a hand in invitation. ‘It won’t take long.’
‘I’ll have a minute with my client before we commence, Detective.’
‘Be my guest.’
There was only one thing Pete really wanted to ask Hardy about anyway: how and where they had acquired the drugs they’d used on their victims. And even that wasn’t essential to the case. Whether or not they could charge him with every one of the killings, they had enough to put him away for life. Or, at least, a life sentence.
And this was one of those cases where Pete fervently believed that life ought to mean life. There were no extenuating circumstances here. No excuses. Hardy was a cold-blooded killer who planned his kills carefully and meticulously and had no more motive for them than a hit man would. Not even as much, as he wasn’t getting paid for them.
He did it because he enjoyed it. And because he could. No more and no less. Anything else was just excuses.
The door to interview room two opened and Merriman peered out. ‘My client is ready for you, Detective Sergeant.’
Pete stepped forward with a smile. That’s what he thinks.
If you missed the first DS Peter Gayle novel, turn the page for the gripping story:
NOWHERE TO RUN
CHAPTER 1
Lauren strained with aching fingers to get purchase on the knot, but all she managed to do was force it tighter around her already sore wrists.
She was breathing hard, heart fluttering in her chest as she struggled to escape. She closed her eyes in concentration. She could feel every strand of the tough braided nylon. It was rubbing her skin raw, but she had to keep trying. Had to get loose. Had to get away before he came back.
In her ten troubled years she had dealt with all sorts of men, but none like this one. She had heard stories of perverts and child-molesters, had even met a couple, not that she’d known at the time, but this guy – he was more than that. He’d kill her. It was there in his eyes when he looked at her. He’d do what he wanted with her, then . . .
A sob escaped through the gag that was tied across her mouth as her fingers slipped off the rope yet again. She didn’t have the strength for this.
*
Pete Gayle stepped into the Exeter CID squad room and a hearty cheer went up. He paused in the doorway, grinning. Glancing around the big, open-plan office, he saw that the noise was being made by a pitifully sparse crew. The place was almost empty, just his own team there, but they were certainly making up in volume what they lacked in numbers.
A bunch of helium balloons shot up over his desk, bright and multicoloured, on strings that held them about halfway to the ceiling. Two of his three DCs stood up, stretching a ‘Welcome Back’ banner between them.
He stepped forward and took a bow to enthusiastic applause.
‘Welcome back, boss.’
‘Good to see you, Sarge.’ Grey-suited and grey-haired Dick Feeney threw him a salute with his free hand, the bright colours around him emphasising his colourless appearance.
‘About time, too.’ That was Dave Miles, at the other end of the banner from Dick.
Pete raised his arms. ‘Thank you, fans. Thank you very much.’ He headed towards them.
Clustered in the far front corner of the big office, his team consisted of Detective Constables Dave Miles, Dick Feeney and Jane Bennett and PCs Ben Myers and Jill Evans.
Dick and Dave pushed the banner onto a couple of pieces of Blu-tack on the wall behind them.
‘Nice to be back, boss?’ Dave gave him a lopsided grin. Long and lanky, he was dressed in dark trousers and an open-necked white shirt with a waistcoat over it, his dark hair neatly combed.
‘I wouldn’t know. I haven’t even got to my desk yet.’
‘It’s good to see you, Sarge,’ Jill said. Small, slender, dark and immaculate as always, Jill had been a caring but firm PC on the beat and had joined his team two and a half years ago, after impressing him on a case involving a homeless guy whose girlfriend had been raped and murdered. He had looked good for it, with no alibi and a history of drug abuse, but Jill had finally proved that he couldn’t have done it and supported him through the process of finding out who had.
He was now off the streets and the gear, and working in a betting shop. Or, he had been, last Pete had heard.
‘That’s right,’ added Ben, the spiky-haired and baby-faced newbie of the team, having moved into the office just over a year ago.
‘What did Louise think of the idea?’ asked Jane. Shockingly, her red hair, which she had always worn long, had been cut into a stylish bob, parted and swept back at the sides since he last saw her. It was a drastic change, but it suited her.
‘She hardly noticed, to be honest,’ he admitted. ‘She doesn’t take much interest in anything, lately.’
Jane’s face fell. ‘I’m sorry, boss.’
Pete shrugged as he reached his desk and sat down opposite her. ‘So, what’s the news? What’s been happening?’
They sat, the celebratory mood broken.
‘Well, today’s all about Operation Natterjack,’ Dave said. ‘Bloody stupid name. Everybody’s out, dragging drug dealers, distributors and manufacturers out of their beds and off the streets.’
‘Which is why Colin wanted me back in today, to keep you lot under control. Yeah, I know about that,’ Pete said. ‘What else?’
There was a pause. Then Jane shrugged. ‘Not a lot, really, boss. We’re just hoping for a nice, quiet day. Share a pizza for lunch. Keep the phones manned and wait for the glory boys to trickle back in with all their arrests, which they’re going to have to do the paperwork on while we sit back and take the piss.’
