Knife & Death, page 1
KNIFE & DEATH
A DCI James Hardy Thriller
Jay Gill
Copyright © Jay Gill 2019
Hardy Thrillers Edition, Published 04 2019
The right of Jay Gill to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or transmitted into any retrieval system, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover design copyright © Jay Gill
BOOKS BY JAY GILL
Knife & Death
Walk in the Park
Angels
Hard Truth
A free bonus chapter is available for each book. For more information visit, www.jaygill.net
Contents
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
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Angels
Free Novella
Spread the Word
About the Author
Also by Jay Gill
Chapter One
River Thames, London, England
From their manner you’d never guess the two men were driving to the river with the Albanian’s dead girl in the back of their Mercedes C-Class.
‘I told her that’s how I’ve always made tea. Milk and tea bag in a mug, then pour on the bloody boiling water,’ said Jimmy Kane. ‘You know what Aggie said?’
Chris Perkins shook his head. He couldn’t speak; he was laughing too hard. ‘Nah, go on, tell me.’
‘She said I was “uncouth”. So I asked her, “What does uncouth have to do with making a cup of bloody tea? Do you want a cup or not?”’ The two men were laughing so hard they had tears in their eyes, and Jimmy had to concentrate to drive in a straight line.
‘You know what?’ said Jimmy. ‘She then got all upset with me – yeah, with me. You know how she gets all huffy and puffs out her lips. Saying I was spoiling her Downton Abbey time.’
‘You better watch it, Jimmy. I reckon’ she’ll have you dressed as one those Downton butlers the way she’s going. Sounds like your Aggie is getting herself sophisticated. I hear they call it Downtonitis.’ The two men cracked up again.
Jimmy flicked on the indicator and parked up alongside the river. The two men put on their caps, lifted their collars and got out. Chris looked over the side of the bridge to the cold, black water of the Thames below.
‘High tide. Just like I told you,’ he said proudly.
Jimmy opened the boot of the car and the two men grabbed either end of the plastic sheeting the girl was wrapped in, then carried her to the wall, where they rested for a moment.
Chris checked the time on his phone: 3.25 a.m. ‘It’s my birthday today.’
‘Really? Well, in that case you’re buying breakfast, mate,’ said Jimmy.
The two men rolled the body back and forth and started to sing. ‘Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, dear whoever you are...’
They rolled the body off the bridge and waited for the splash. ‘...Happy birthday to you!’
That done, they jumped back in the Mercedes and headed off through the early morning streets.
‘So did your Aggie want a cup of tea in the end?’
‘No. In the end she decides she wants coffee. And get this – I got that wrong as well. I made regular coffee but she now drinks decaf. I tell you, things are getting very complicated in my house. I love her to bits; don’t get me wrong. But things are complicated.’
‘Sounds it,’ said Chris sympathetically.
‘Just you wait. Your girl will have you running round in circles soon enough. You mark my words.’
Chapter Two
Strictly speaking, this wasn’t my case, and I was only there because Detective Inspector Rayner had called in a favour. He needed backup and I owed him.
We arrived at the home of Simon Baker just after 7 p.m. It was a warm summer’s evening and I was meant to be home. I definitely wasn’t in the mood for the bluster coming out of Baker’s mouth. Another team were meant to be handling this search but it had been dropped in my lap at the last minute.
Baker stood in his doorway, his hands pressed deep in his pockets and his face like thunder.
‘What the hell is this all about? I’m just off out for a dinner engagement, an awards ceremony. Whatever it is it’ll have to wait, so if you’ll excuse me, officers,’ he boomed.
‘Could we speak with your wife, please, Mr Baker?’ asked Rayner.
‘She’s not well; she’s sleeping. I really am in a hurry, officers. I’m already running late, so if you can call back at a more convenient time and perhaps phone ahead next time—’
‘It’s Detective Inspector Rayner and Detective Chief Inspector Hardy. And this won’t wait,’ barked Rayner.
‘You could be the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge for all I care,’ Baker shot back. ‘Turning up out of the blue is very inconvenient. We can’t all work to a police timetable; most of us plan our days. So, as I have already said, I’m afraid whatever it is, it’s simply going to have to wait. I have to be at this ceremony and you’re making me late.’
‘We have a warrant to search the premises,’ said Rayner, passing him a sheet of paper.
‘What are you talking about?’ said Baker. ‘Why would you need a warrant?’
Rayner had now had enough of standing on the doorstep trying to ask politely. I suspected he wouldn’t be applying for a position as hostage negotiator anytime soon, and he definitely didn’t have the temperament today. He’d had enough of Baker’s waffling, and so pushed the front door open. He breezed past Baker, who was now incandescent. And to my mind, Baker was showing signs of a man who was more than just furious at being made late for a party.
‘How about you take a seat, Mr Baker?’ I insisted. ‘Detective Inspector Rayner is going to take a look around. If you have any questions about the warrant feel free to ask. Otherwise, we’ll take a look around and be out of your way quicker than you can say “Vincent van Gogh.”’
Baker looked unimpressed. He watched and listened as Rayner began moving from room to room.
‘Which room is your wife in?’ I asked. Baker looked at me but didn’t answer; his attention was on Rayner. ‘Your wife,’ I repeated. ‘Which room?’ Baker sat in dumb silence.
Rayner moved upstairs. I could hear drawers and doors opening and closing. After a while Rayner came back down and stood at the foot of the stairs. He peered around as though looking for something or trying to find his bearings. He glanced at me and then turned and hurried along the hall to the kitchen. A few moments later he came back and stood in the doorway.
‘The door in the kitchen,’ he said to Baker. ‘The one on the right. It’s padlocked. Where do you keep the key?’
Baker looked at Rayner, then at me, then back at Rayner.
‘The key?’ repeated Rayner. ‘Either that or I crowbar it off. It makes no difference to me. In fact, I’d enjoy using a crowbar.’
Baker got to his feet, felt around and, without a word, passed me the key from his shirt pocket. I handed it to Rayner, who then disappeared back into the kitchen. Baker was leaning forward in his chair as though he was just as
‘Hardy, I’ve found Mrs Baker,’ called Rayner. ‘You ought to take a look at this. Cuff him first. We’re going to want to take him with us for questioning.’
Baker jumped to his feet and ran for the door. I moved quickly and, with a forceful push, redirected him so he missed the door and instead hit the door frame face first. He fell backwards and landed on his backside. I turned him over onto his stomach, and with my knee pressed firmly into his back, cuffed his hands behind him.
‘I don’t think you’ll be making it to your party tonight, Mr Baker. Still, I’m sure back at Scotland Yard they’ll rustle up some canapés for you, if you ask nicely. Though I think we’re all out of champagne.’ As much as I dislike sarcasm, I couldn’t help myself. I hauled Baker to his feet and then dragged him to the kitchen and sat him in a chair.
‘Through here,’ called Rayner.
I went through the unlocked door and found Rayner comforting a woman who I guessed to be Mrs Baker. I looked around the room, which was full of art; there were canvasses everywhere. There was also a bed and a small table. An area had been partitioned off, and this contained a sink, shower and toilet. Mrs Baker looked pale, and though she was trembling, she’d stopped crying. Instead, she was sitting upright and was trying to be strong.
‘I won’t let that man see me crying. You know it was my art that kept me going. My art, not his. Mine. I prayed every day and had faith that eventually the truth would come out,’ said Mrs Baker.
‘What are you telling us?’ asked Rayner.
‘I’m telling you my husband has kept me here,’ she gestured around the room. ‘He kept me a prisoner in my own home. If I didn’t produce art for him, he would stop feeding me. He sometimes turned off the water for days so I couldn’t drink. He beat me and threatened me. Said he would kill me and no one would ever know.’
‘You’re safe now,’ I said. ‘When you’re ready we’re going to get you out of here. You need never worry about your husband again, I assure you.’
‘Where is he?’ said Mrs Baker.
‘He’s just outside in the kitchen. He’s handcuffed. But don’t worry – I’ll take him away and you won’t need to see him. Just give me a few...’
Mrs Baker interrupted me. ‘No. I want him to see me as I walk out of here. I want that talentless coward to see me. I want to look him in the eye.’
Rayner and I looked at each other. Rayner nodded in agreement. I went ahead and stood next to Mr Baker. Rayner brought Mrs Baker out through the door and into the kitchen. Mr Baker kept his head down and said nothing. Mrs Baker glared at him as she walked past. Before leaving the kitchen, she turned and spat at him.
‘You’re finished. The world is going to know the truth – that you took my art and passed it off as your own. You talentless, worthless nobody. I hope you rot in hell.’
Mr Baker said nothing. He sat a little straighter in his seat, lifting his eyes only slightly to watch his wife attempting to leave the house with pride and dignity.
‘You know none of this is what it seems, Chief Inspector,’ he said once his wife had left.
‘Really?’ I said in disbelief. I was curious, almost despite myself, about what he could say that would change what was clear for all to see.
‘She asked to be locked in there. So she could work. So she wouldn’t be distracted. It was her idea. The sad thing is, I think she has been in there too long and become delusional. You see, she lived for the art. I begged her to come out and to enjoy life, to take some time off. But she’s obsessed. It breaks my heart to see her like this. The woman I married is still in there somewhere, I know it, but she’s buried deep inside a woman who has become obsessed with creating another and another and another piece of art.’
‘While you profited?’
‘I suppose that is how it could be perceived by the casual observer.’
‘To the casual observer it appears that you as good as locked your wife in the basement for years. That you told the world your wife was dead. That you passed off her work as your own. That her talent made you rich. That her talent made you a celebrated artist the world over. To the casual observer I would say you look a fraud.’
‘What do you know of the art world?’ Baker demanded huffily.
‘Not a lot, I suppose. But I do know if what you say is true and your wife is ill, then most husbands would have sought treatment – not a padlock.’ I’d heard enough from Mr Baker for the time being. I lifted him out of the chair and led him to a waiting squad car.
Chapter Three
I was feeling proud and at the same time felt butterflies in my stomach. Like the rest of her orchestra group, my little Alice was on stage clutching her violin. Her music teacher was at the piano and the performances were about to commence.
Faith was sat on my lap, her eyes wide open, taking it all in. She adored her big sister and couldn’t wait to see what was going to happen. Faith’s little arm was up behind my neck and her fingers were making circles in my hair. In her other hand she was clutching Mr Puppy, her comfort toy, who smelled ready for another trip to the land of soap and water. Mr Puppy went with her everywhere and was looking pretty battered these days, but Faith didn’t care. She was probably a little too old to still have him, but Mr Puppy had comforted her through a lot of tough times and wasn’t going anywhere for the foreseeable future; he was a part of the family. Faith squeezed Mr Puppy and made sure he could see Alice up on the stage.
Alice caught my eye from the stage and we exchanged excited smiles. I gave her a wink and Alice sat a little taller in her seat. She was a confident and pretty girl, and was looking more like her mother every day. I looked up and prayed their mother was with us tonight and could see her two little angels. I miss you, honey. I looked at Monica and she put her hand on mine. We both had tears in our eyes and she knew what I was thinking: I missed my beautiful wife Helena, who had been Monica’s best friend.
‘Thank you,’ I mouthed silently. Before I could continue, Faith began bouncing up and down excitedly and tugging at my hair with her little fingers. ‘Daddy, it’s starting. Daddy, look at Alice.’
The three rows of children got to their feet and, tentatively, the first piece of music began. Alice was in the back row and one of the tallest. I remembered when she was one of the little ones in the front row; even then she seemed to have a confidence beyond her years. The confidence of all these children always surprises me; they show no nerves and take in their stride the fact they’re playing to a hall full of parents, grandparents, siblings, friends and teachers.
Throughout the performance the children took it in turns to play a solo or duet. Faith watched in wonderment as her big sister Alice’s turn came and she walked to the front and played her solo. She played the grade two piece that she’d been practising for weeks. It sounded perfect to me, and I was ready to burst with pride and admiration. I felt like shouting out to the room: Do you truly appreciate what she just did? Do you know what she’s been through? Can you comprehend at all what she just did? Instead, I filled up and gave Faith an extra big squeeze and perhaps clapped a little louder than I should have. I didn’t care.
