“He still insists he can’t remember anything about that night.”
“Do you think he did it?”
“That’s not my job dear. I’m here to make sure this little girl is as comfortable as possible.”
“She looks so peaceful. Not a scratch on her. She was in a right state when they brought her in.”
“You’ve got a day off tomorrow haven’t you?”
“First Sunday off in a month. I think I’ll come in anyway. I want to be here in case she wakes up.”
“Don’t make that mistake,” Sister Bennett warned, “you’re young, you should be out having fun.”
“I’d rather be here. I’d hate for anything to happen when I’m not here.”
FOUR
DREAM
Friday 25 December 2008
Detective Sergeant Jason Smith was having the dream again; it was always the same dream. He was under the water and the waves were crashing violently above his head. He could see Laura, his sister, far away under the water. She held out her hand. She had the same look on her face as always. Her eyes were pleading him to help her. Then she drifted down, further down and she was gone. Smith swam down after her as he always did in the dream. He swam so far down that he felt his ears were about to burst. His ears started to ring, an incessant ring that got louder and louder. He woke with a start. “Holy Shit,” he said. He was drenched in sweat. His cell phone was ringing. He cursed himself for agreeing to be on call on Christmas Day. Nobody would be calling to wish him ‘Happy Christmas’. He picked up the phone. “Smith,” he said gruffly.
It was DC Palmer. Another loser with no family or friends, Smith thought.
“We’ve got a body sir,” Palmer said.
“On Christmas Day?” Smith replied, “Where are you?”
“I’m at the scene sir. It looks like a suicide.”
“Address?” Smith grabbed a pen and the latest issue of Guitar Monthly that lay by the side of his bed.
“Seven Hull Road,” Palmer said, “it’s a shared student house. The dead girl was a student at the University.”
“Give me twenty minutes,” Smith said and hung up.
Hull road was only a couple of miles away. Smith checked the clock on his bedside table. 07.30. “Bloody Hell,” he said out loud. He had had approximately three hours sleep. He had been at The Deep Blues Club until three and could not sleep when he came home.
He went to the bathroom and dared to look in the mirror. He looked like he had had approximately three hours sleep; his eyes were more bloodshot than usual and he desperately needed a shave. He quickly threw some water on his face, brushed his teeth and took two aspirins from the bathroom cabinet. Robert Johnson’s ‘Crossroads Blues’ was playing in his head. I must have made a deal with the devil while I was drunk, he thought. He quickly made some coffee, poured it in a flask, picked up his badge and car keys and left the house.
It was raining heavily outside. Smith raced to his car. The roads were deserted. He drove quickly up Fulford road, past the cemetery and took a right onto Lawrence which soon became Hull Road. There were two police cars outside number seven. As he opened the car door, DC Palmer walked up. “Morning Sir,” he said, “Merry Christmas. You look like shit.”
“Where’s the body?” Smith said.
“Upstairs. We’ve got uniform manning the door.”
Smith entered the house with Palmer close behind him.
“I thought you said this was a student pad,” Smith said.
The place was immaculate.
“It’s shared by four women sir,” Palmer replied, “they’re obviously house proud.”
Two women in their early twenties were sitting in the lounge downstairs, drinking coffee. One of them had obviously been crying and was being consoled by the other one. The two detectives walked past them and up the stairs.
“Second door on the right,” Palmer directed.
Smith took out his badge and showed it to the uniformed officer guarding the door. He did not recognise her. She must be new, he thought.
The dead girl was lying on the bed. Her eyes were closed and she merely looked asleep.
“Pretty girl Sarge?” Palmer said.
“Where’s the note?” Smith asked.
“Bedside table. It was apparently in her hand but the girl that found her moved it after she had read it.”
Smith took out his pen and opened the folded piece of paper with it. The suicide note consisted of just five words: ‘I AM SO SORRY MARTIN’.
“What’s the girl’s name?” Smith asked.
“According to the house mate, it’s Lauren Cowley, second year sociology student at the University. Straight A student all the way as far as I can tell.”
“Who found her?”
“The girl who was downstairs crying.”
“Name?”
“What Sarge?”
“What’s the name of the girl who found her?” Smith’s headache was returning. He rubbed his temples gently.
“Jane Brown, also a Sociology student.”
“Let’s go and have a chat with Miss Brown then.”
Palmer looked at his watch.
“That is unless you have something better to do.”
“No sir,” Palmer said quickly.
Miss Brown,” Smith said to the woman.
She still looked distraught.
“My name is DS Smith and you already know my colleague DC Palmer. I know it’s been a bit rough but we need to ask you a few questions. It won’t take long. I’m sure you could use a cup of coffee. I certainly could.” He addressed the other woman on the couch. “Two sugars, no milk.”
She stood up, smiled at Smith and went to the kitchen.
“Miss Brown,” Smith continued, “you found Lauren lying on the bed. Is that right?”
“Yes.” She started to cry again.
“Take your time,” Palmer said, “it’s going to be alright.”
Smith glared at him. “What time did you find her?”
“We’d agreed to get up at six to open presents, we all love Christmas. When Lauren didn’t get up I went upstairs to wake her. I thought she was asleep so I shook her.”
“You shook her?”
“She didn’t wake up. That’s when I found the note.”
“Ah yes,” Smith mused, “the note. ‘I AM SO SORRY MARTIN’. Who is this Martin, a boyfriend?”
“No. Lauren didn’t have a boyfriend. She was too busy with her studies. The only Martin I know of is Mr Willow. He lectures in Sociology occasionally at the University. He prefers it if we call him Martin.”
Smith rubbed his temples again.
“Does he now?” he said.
“Lauren did some babysitting for Martin and his wife sometimes. She was supposed to be there last night but she wasn’t feeling well. She felt really bad about letting them down.”
“That’s still no reason for killing herself.” Smith recalled the note – ‘I AM SO SORRY MARTIN’. “Was there anything going on between Lauren and this Martin Willow character?” he asked.
“No, no way,” Jane Brown said, “Lauren wasn’t like that.”
Smith’s phone rang.
“Sorry Miss Brown.” He said.
It was forensics.
“That was quick for you guys,” he said, “Number seven. You can’t miss it.” He hung up.
“You’re not from around here are you,” Jane Brown asked.
“I live a few miles from here,” Smith replied.
“I mean originally. That accent, its Australian isn’t it. I’m quite good at spotting accents. You play guitar don’t you; I saw you last night. You were very good.”
“We may need to ask you a few more questions Miss Brown.” He ignored her questions. “And if you think of anything else please give me a call.”
He handed her his card.
“Palmer,” Smith said, “you’re finally free to go. Forensics can have a poke around but, to me it looks like a standard suicide, if there is such
a thing. Young woman gets the Christmas blues and takes a few pills. We’ll see what the slimy bastards in forensics have to say and then hopefully sign off on the whole thing. I’m off to buy myself a Christmas present.”
It was still raining as Smith drove away from the house. Why did I end up here? He thought as the rain came down harder. The clock on the dashboard said 10.00. He drove back the way he had come, turned left and followed the road round until he reached the bridge that spanned the River Ouse. The river was grey and it seemed to be flowing more quickly than usual today. He crossed the bridge and carried on for a further two miles. He turned into a small side street and stopped the car outside a small house with a green roof. He took out the piece of paper with the address on it from his jacket pocket but when he heard dogs barking he put the paper back.
Smith knocked on the door of the house. The door was opened by an elderly woman and immediately Smith was overwhelmed by four or five puppies. He smiled. He had always loved dogs. There was nothing sinister about them.
“You lot,” the elderly lady said, “get off him. I’m sorry about that. Mr Smith isn’t it?”
“That’s right,” Smith said, “I phoned you yesterday. Mrs Coates?”
“That’s me dear. Would you like some tea?”
“That would be great.” Old people were also on his favourites list.
“Come through to the lounge,” Mrs Coates said, “and please excuse the mess. These little buggers will chew anything you leave around.”
In the lounge was a small basket. The puppies had indeed made a bit of a mess. Chewed socks were strewn all over the room.
“Take your pick,” Mrs Coates said, “apart from that white one there. She’s been promised to my daughter. I’ll go and pour the tea.”
Smith knew immediately which dog he wanted. It was a black male; all black with a white ring around its neck and one white paw. It sat and looked Smith directly in the eye. The puppy approached him. Mrs Coates returned with the tea.
“I see you’ve been chosen,” she chuckled, “I’ve had Bull Terriers for forty years and they’re all different, I can tell you that. That one there is quite a character.”
Smith took a sip of his tea. “I’ve wanted a dog for quite some time,” he said, “This one is definitely the one.” The puppy was resting its nose on Smith’s feet.
“Two hundred pounds you advertised?” he said.
“That’s right,” Mrs Coates replied, “and worth every penny.”
Smith paid her, finished his tea and got up to leave.
“Thank you Mrs Coates,” he said.
The puppy followed him Mrs Coates smiled. The dog had found a good home.
Smith put the puppy on the passenger seat of the car and drove home. His Christmas Day plans were simple: he would go back to bed, wake up around 4 pm, have something to eat and spend the rest of the day with his puppy, watching the usual rubbish they show on television at Christmas. The puppy had other ideas however. It just wanted to play. Smith was prepared. He had bought a small dog bed and placed a warm blanket inside. He had put a box down and filled it with newspaper. He fed the puppy, gave it some water, placed it in the dog bed and went upstairs for a much needed sleep.
After only two minutes Smith heard a mournful cry from downstairs. The puppy was sobbing. He covered his ears with a pillow but he could still hear it. Finally, Smith gave in, went downstairs and picked the puppy up. Immediately it stopped crying. He carried it upstairs and placed it on the bed. Smith climbed back into bed.
“No more crying,” he said to the puppy.
It began to explore the bed. The clock on the bedside table said 12.00. Smith closed his eyes and within a minute he was asleep. The puppy moved closer to Smith and curled up on his stomach. It too, was soon sound asleep.
FIVE
EXILED
Friday 25 December 1998.
Jason woke early. The sun was barely up and only thin slivers shone through the gap in the curtains. He quietly put on shorts and a T Shirt, washed his face and brushed his teeth. He listened carefully for any sounds in the house. There were none. He tiptoed down the hall, across the kitchen and opened the back door slowly. The weather forecast had promised a very hot day. He closed the door behind him, unlocked his bicycle and wheeled it to the back gate. As he closed the back gate behind him he checked to see if he still had the envelope in his back pocket. It was still there; it had not been a dream. He got on the bicycle, made a sharp right turn and free-wheeled down the hill. Lucy McLean’s house was not far from his. Since the morning when his sister had disappeared, Jason and Lucy had become quite close friends. He locked the bicycle in front of Lucy’s house, went round the back and tapped lightly on the window. There was no response. He tapped again, harder this time. There was a noise from inside. The curtains opened and Lucy peered out. She looked tired.
“Jason,” she said, “what are you doing here? It’s six in the morning and its Christmas Day. My folks will kill me.”
“I need to talk to you,” Jason said.
He handed her the envelope.
“I’ve come to say goodbye.”
Lucy rubbed her eyes. “What are you talking about?” she said, “You’re not making any sense.”
“Open it,” Jason ordered. He pointed to the envelope.
She opened the envelope.
“It’s a ticket,” she said, “I don’t understand.”
He told her what had happened the previous night.
“Because of the incident with Laura,” he began, “the atmosphere at home has been unbearable. My mother blamed me at first because it was me who took Laura to the beach but after a while the whole vibe at home got worse. The woman barely acknowledged me. She just drank more and more and her free-loading friends treated me like shit. Anyway, last night when I got back from your place my mother was waiting for me at the kitchen table.”
“What does want you to do?” Lucy was quite concerned.
“She started with that Jason, sit down, I want to talk to you thing. She then moaned about my behaviour since the thing with Laura and my grades at school. I mean, what sort of example does she set? She said I had become rude and there was only one thing for it.”
“But this is a ticket to London,” Lucy said.
“And it leaves tonight. Can you believe it? My loving mother has decided I need to spend a year in England to work on my attitude. I have a Grandmother there.”
“What about school?” Lucy asked, “And your friends? What about what you want?”
“She doesn’t care. She said I can go to school there for a year. Or longer if I have to. That way, she might get rid of me forever.”
“I can’t believe it. After what you’ve been through. What time is the flight?”
“I need to be in Perth by seven thirty tonight, and then it’s a whole day to London with a long wait in Dubai of all places.”
“Isn’t it cold in London at this time of the year?”
“Bloody freezing and worse still, my Grandmother lives in York which is another couple of hours away.”
“We haven’t got much time have we?” Lucy said.
“What time do your folks get up?” Jason asked.
“Around nine but maybe later today as its Christmas.”
“Let’s get out of here. Lets go somewhere for a couple of hours.”
“What about the beach?”
Jason glared at her. He had not been near the beach since the day Laura disappeared. “That’s a dumb stupid idea,” he snarled.
“It was only a suggestion.”
“Well, it was a dumb one. I’ll send you a postcard when I get there, maybe.”
He walked away, unlocked his bicycle and rode off.
“Jason!” Lucy called after him.
That was clever, he thought as he struggled back up the hill. He had possibly estranged himself from the only friend he had left in the world
SIX
THEAKSTON
Friday 25 December 20
08
Smith woke with a start. He looked at the clock: 17.30. He had slept for over five hours and he felt refreshed. The puppy was still by his side. Smith smiled. He could not figure out what had woken him. He had not had the dream. This little fella is good for me, he thought. He was incredibly hungry and what he felt like more than anything in the world was one of Marge’s Steak and Ale pies with mash and gravy from the Hog’s Head pub down the road. He reached for his phone. He had the number of the Hog’s Head on speed dial.
“Marge,” he said, “it’s Jason, Merry Christmas. Are you still serving food?”
“Steak and Ale pie is it?” she replied, “I’m sure I can whip one up for a good looking police detective.”
Marge was over seventy.
The puppy began to stir.
“Oh and Marge,” Smith said, “I’ve got myself a cute puppy. I don’t want to leave him at home by himself.”
“If you take care of him, make sure he’s no nuisance then he’s welcome.”
“Thanks Marge. You’re a darling.” He hung up.
“Come on you,” he said to the puppy, “we’re off to the pub. I’m sure you’re also hungry.”
The Hog’s Head was one of the few traditionally English pubs left in York. It was a free-standing building with a rustic air about it. Smith opened one of the wooden doors and went inside. He shook the rain off his coat. There was a log fire burning on one side of the bar. Apart from an old man reading a newspaper at one of the tables, the place was empty. Smith smiled. He did not feel like bumping into anyone he knew. He approached the bar. Marge was sitting behind it knitting what looked like a very intricate pattern. “Hello handsome,” she said with a smile.
She reminded Smith very much of his Grandmother.
“Steak and Ale Pie and a Pint of Theakstons?” she asked.
“Perfect Marge,” Smith replied, “and could you please get me a saucer of water for this little bugger?”
The puppy was poking his nose out of Smith’s jacket.
The York Trilogy: The First 3 DS Jason Smith Detective novels Page 3
