The York Trilogy: The First 3 DS Jason Smith Detective novels

by Stewart Giles

  “What a little darling,” Marge said, “naughty little tyke too, I can see. What’s his name?”

  “I don’t know yet Marge, I’m waiting for something to come to me.”

  Marge poured the beer.

  “It’s very quiet in here today Marge,” Smith said.

  “Nobody seems to want this kind of thing any more,” Marge sighed, “apart from the tourists of course but they won’t come this time of the year. Breweries are killing us too. People would rather buy from the supermarkets and drink at home. Times are hard. I don’t know how much longer we can survive. Look at old Stan over there.” She pointed to the old man reading the paper. “God bless him, he comes in every day but I’m not going to get rich from old buggers who nurse half a pint for three hours.”

  She placed Smiths beer on the counter.

  “I’ll just go and see to your pie,” she said, “mash and gravy too?”

  “Thanks Marge,” Smith replied, “we’ll be sitting by the fire.”

  “I think I’ll find you,” she said and went through to the kitchen.

  Smith picked up his beer and walked over to the table. He removed his coat and put it on the back of his chair to dry off. The fire warmed him immediately.

  The puppy started to investigate. It approached the fire wearily. It could discern that the orange thing with its snaky flames was inviting but it did not dare to get too close. Smith took a large swig of his beer. It had taken him quite a while to get used to the taste of English beer but in the cold it made sense. Marge approached the table with a saucer of water and a side plate.

  “Pie will be about twenty minutes,” she said.

  “Thanks Marge,” he said.

  He put the saucer on the floor for the puppy, walked over to where it was trying to climb up the old mans chair and picked it up. He placed it in front of the saucer. The puppy was not interested. Smith sighed and took a swig of his beer. He bent down and picked the puppy up. Its nose twitched and it looked up at Smith’s face. Smith gave it a kiss on the nose. That was when it went bezerk. Its tongue licked Smith’s face with gusto. It lingered over his lips and Smith had to pull it away. He had an idea. He emptied the saucer of water into a plant pot in the corner and poured a tiny drop of beer in it. He put the saucer in front of the puppy and within seconds it was empty. Smith poured some more. He could not pour it quickly enough. Smith was amazed. Marge walked over with a place mat and some cutlery. Smith picked up the puppy.

  “Marge,” he said, “meet Theakston.”

  At that moment, the puppy let out such a resounding belch that both Smith and Marge could not believe it could have come from such a small creature.

  “You watch your manners in here,” Marge said and patted him on the head.

  “Could I get another pint please Marge,” Smith asked, “this guy has just knocked back the best part of half a pint.”

  “Coming up, but no more for the dog. He’s still a baby remember.”

  Smith laughed. This was a dog after his own heart.

  Marge returned with another beer and the steak and ale pie.

  “Thanks Marge,” Smith said, “looks great.”

  Smith cut off a small piece for Theakston and let it cool on the side of the table. He tucked in with gusto. Marge’s steak and ale pies were the closest thing Smith had come to his Gran’s cooking. His phone rang in his pocket. He sighed; when his phone rang it was never good news. He considered ignoring it but that thought lasted precisely two rings. He took out the phone and answered it before the answering service kicked in.

  “Smith,” he said.

  “Sorry to bother you sir.” It was DC Palmer. “Something unusual has come up in the Lauren Cowley case.”

  “Unusual?” Smith asked. “Would you care to elaborate?”

  He took another mouthful of the pie. This phone call would almost certainly mean his Christmas Day plans were shot.

  “If it’s ok with you sir,” Palmer said, “I’d rather not discuss it over the phone.”

  Theakston was trying to reach the pie on the table. Smith put the plate on the floor.

  “Palmer,” Smith said with a mouth full of pie, “where are you?”

  “I’m at the mortuary sir. I think it would be best if you got over here.”

  “Perfect,” Smith moaned, “who the hell doesn’t want to spend what’s left of Christmas Day in the morgue?”

  “Sir?”

  “Give me an hour,” Smith said, “I’m just finishing one of Marge’s world famous steak and ale pies. The girl will still be dead when I get there.”

  He hung up. He regretted saying that immediately. Theakston was begging for more pie.

  “Jeez boy,” Smith said to the puppy, “I’ve never met such a pig.”

  Smith and Theakston finished the pie between them. Smith could not help wondering what was waiting for him at the morgue. He still had a full pint of beer in front of him. He picked it up and put it in front of the old man who was still reading his paper.

  “Thanks Pal,” the old man said, “That’s quite a dog you’ve got there; although I wouldn’t want to be you when the flatulence kicks in later.”

  He took a big swig of his free beer. Smith put on his coat, put Theakston inside it and went to pay.

  “Thanks Marge,” he said, “I’ve been called away.”

  He paid the bill.

  “Merry Christmas young man,” Marge said.

  “You too Marge. I hope things get a bit busier.”

  It was still raining as Smith left the warmth of the Hog’s Head and walked outside. Theakston had overindulged in the pub and could barely keep his eyes open so Smith put him on the passenger seat and covered him with his coat. The mortuary was roughly a fifteen minute drive from the Hog’s Head. As he drove, Smith recollected his first impressions of the scene where Lauren Cowley had been found dead. University student found dead. Straight A student. Apparent suicide. Suicide letter: ‘I AM SO SORRY MARTIN.’ No sign of a struggle. What was he missing?

  Smith parked the car in the hospital car park. Theakston was still sleeping so he wrapped him up warmly and left him in the car. DC Palmer was waiting for him outside the mortuary.

  “What’s the situation?” Smith asked.

  “Its not a suicide sir,” Palmer began, “looks like we’re looking at a double murder.”

  Smith was confused.

  “What do you mean double murder?” he said.

  “A heavy sedative was found in her bloodstream sir,” Palmer took out his notebook. “It’s a Benzodiazepine.”

  Smith shrugged his shoulders.

  “What the hell’s that?” he asked

  “Like Rohypnol,” Palmer said.

  “The date rape drug?”

  “That’s right sir, but that’s not how she died; she was suffocated. Probably smothered with a pillow while she was out of it. The sedative numbed her muscles so there was no obvious sign of a struggle but there were traces of fibre that could have come from the pillow in her mouth, nose and throat.”

  “You said it was a double murder,” Smith said.

  “She was pregnant,” Palmer replied, “six to eight weeks. I know that legally, a foetus in that stage of development does not have the same legal rights but in my book it’s still two deaths.”

  “Palmer,” Smith said, “we have one murder. Let’s concentrate on the one we can nail the bastard for.”

  “Ok sir,” Palmer agreed.

  “What about the note,” Smith asked, “Who wrote that?”

  “The only prints we found on it were Lauren Cowley’s.”

  “Where is the note?”

  “It’s still down at the station.”

  “How long have you been at it today Palmer?”

  “Since six this morning sir.”

  Smith checked his watch: 19.30. “I still need to talk to the pathologist,” Smith said, “and then I want to check in at the station but you can get going. I’m sure you have someone who’s missing you at home.”


  “Just Lady Whiskers sir,” Palmer replied.

  “Who?”

  “My cat sir.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow. Eight sharp.”

  “Thanks sir,”

  “Lady Whiskers,” Smith said out loud when Palmer had left, “for Pete’s sake. Shit. Theakston.”

  The puppy was still in his car.

  The rain had decided to give up for the night as Smith went back to his car. A thin mist now cloaked the car park in an eerie haze. He opened the passenger side and looked in. Theakston peered up at him. Smith moved the puppy off his coat and put it on. Something was vibrating in the pocket of the coat; his cell phone. Theakston had somehow managed to switch the ring tone to vibrate only as he slept on it. Smith took the phone out of the pocket. He had missed three calls.

  “Smith,” he answered the phone.

  “Where are you?” It was Detective Sergeant Alan Thompson, a fossil of a man whom Smith was not particularly fond of.

  “I’m at the hospital,” Smith replied curtly, “at the morgue. Remember the dead girl found this morning while you were probably still asleep?”

  “We’ve got a body,” Thompson said gravely, “three actually; one dead, one just about dead and one gibbering wreck we can’t get any sense out of.”

  SEVEN

  ABANDONED

  Friday 25 December 1998.

  “I’m glad you came,” Jason Smith said, “after what I said earlier, I wouldn’t blame you if you never wanted to see me again.”

  Lucy McLean smiled.

  “You’ve been through such a lot Jason,” she said, “and you’re about to go through so much more. Where’s your mother?”

  “She got one of her friends to drop me off,” he said, “she was so drunk, she could hardly stand up when she said goodbye. This is pretty much all that’s left of my father’s money.” He took out the four hundred pounds he had changed at the foreign exchange. This is it; I’m a sixteen year old abandoned child,” He laughed nervously.

  “I want you to have this.” Lucy gave him an envelope. Jason started to open it.

  “Not now, “she said, “wait at least until you’re on the plane.”

  “Laura would have been nine tomorrow,” Jason said, “I’m going to be on a stupid aeroplane for pretty much all of her birthday. Maybe it’s for the best.”

  “How long is the flight?”

  “It’s bloody confusing,” he said, “but I think I’ve figured it out. The UK is eight hours behind so even though the flying time is set, I need to take eight hours off. One good thing though, Laura’s birthday will be eight hours longer this year. Am I babbling a bit?”

  Lucy smiled, “you’re talking perfect sense,” she lied.

  “I’m just a bit apprehensive, that’s all.” He looked at the monitor above his head. “I have to go through. Boarding will be starting soon.”

  “Have you got any warm clothes with you?” Lucy asked, “You’re dressed like a surfer bum.”

  Jason was wearing his favourite board shorts and a light T-Shirt.

  “Dubai is still warm,” he reassured her, “I have a change of clothes in my hand luggage. I’ll change in Dubai.”

  “You look after yourself Jason Smith.” Lucy looked away. She wiped away a tear from her eye. “Write to me, you promise?”

  “Ok.” He kissed her on the cheek and walked through to where the X rays were being taken.

  EIGHT

  BODY BAG

  Friday 25 December 2008

  “I’ve got to warn you,” DS Thompson said as Smith got out of his car, “it’s a bit of a mess in there; the mothers dead, the daughter is pretty badly banged up and the father is just sitting in the corner of the room not making any sense at all.”

  Smith walked straight past him, took a deep breath and opened the front door. His first impression when he went inside was that the scene did not seem real. There was blood on the walls, a lot of blood. Smith thought that if Picasso and Dali were to have a competition to see who could come up with the most macabre art, this would be the winner. There was a body bag on the floor. The paramedics had just zipped it up and were about to carry it out to the ambulance. Must be the mother, Smith thought. More paramedics were attending to a smaller figure on the other side of the room. The child could not have been more than eight years old. Smith walked over. She had bruises on her face and neck and her hair was matted with blood. One of her arms stuck out at an unnatural angle and an IV drip was attached to the other arm.

  In the corner of the room sat two men. One of them was covered in blood but there were no real signs of injury. He rocked back and forth on his haunches. He had the look of a wild animal in his eyes; a wild animal that needed to be put out of its misery. The other man was obviously trying to calm him down.

  “Not a pretty sight,” DS Thompson interrupted Smith’s thoughts.

  “Who are they?” Smith asked.

  “The Willow family,” Thompson replied, “sounds like a reality TV family doesn’t it?”

  “No it doesn’t Thompson. Names?”

  “The mother is Wendy, Pennys the daughter and that quivering piece of jelly in the corner over there is the father, Martin. Looks like he killed his wife and just about did in his daughter too.”

  Smith looked him in the eye.

  “I can see why you’ve been a DS for fifteen years,” he said, “Martin Willow. He’s a lecturer at the University.”

  “How do you know that?” Thompson asked.

  “Try to keep up Thompson. The dead student on Hull Road. Found this morning. She was their babysitter. Who’s the other guy?”

  “Frank Paxton,” Thompson said, “friend of theirs and I know nothing about a dead girl on Hull Road.”

  “Has anybody spoken to him? The father, I mean.”

  “Not much point,” Thompson said, “he seems to have retreated into his own world and he’s not coming out any time soon. He keeps mumbling Penny, Penny.”

  Wendy Willow was being taken out the door on a stretcher. Martin Willow did not even look over.

  Smith walked over to him and crouched down.

  “Mr Willow,” he began, “do you know what happened here?”

  There was no response. Martin Willow continued to rock back and forth. Smith found the look in his eyes quite disturbing.

  “Excuse me,” Smith said to the other man, “my name is Detective Sergeant Jason Smith. Are you the man who found them?”

  “Frank Paxton,” the man answered, “yes, I came here about seven this evening. Penny, Martin’s daughter left a book at our house last night. I knew she would want it back; she only had a few pages left to read.”

  “I know this is unpleasant Mr Paxton,” Smith said, “but could you tell us exactly how you found the place when you walked in.”

  “How I found the place?”

  “Yes, our friends in the paramedics do a bloody good job but their main priority is to save lives, not preserve crime scenes. What did the place look like when you walked in? First impressions.” Smith took out his note book.

  “I parked the car outside,” Paxton said.

  “Were the lights on or off?” Smith asked.

  “They were on. As they are now. All of them; the upstairs ones too. Martin and Wendy weren’t short of a few bob; they didn’t exactly worry about the electricity bill.”

  “What then Mr Paxton?” Smith urged.

  “I knocked on the front door and waited. There was no answer. I knocked again but still nothing.”

  “Then what?”

  “I took out my phone and dialled Martin’s number. He always had his phone nearby; he takes calls at all hours from his students. That’s why he’s so popular I suppose. Anyway, I heard the phone ringing inside the house. He has this cheesy 80’s ring tone. When I heard the phone, I tried the door handle. The door was open. That’s when I found…” Frank Paxton’s lower lip started to quiver.

  “That’s when I found this.” He gestured with his hands to sho
w the whole room.

  “Nearly finished,” Smith assured him, “did you come inside?”

  “It took me a moment to take it all in. I saw Wendy lying on the floor. There was blood everywhere. I was still holding the book but I dropped it when I saw Penny on the other side of the room.”

  He was about to say something further but hesitated.

  “Go on,” Smith said.

  “That’s when I heard the noise.”

  “What sort of noise?”

  “At first I thought it was a wild animal and I became scared. I thought maybe a lion or a tiger had escaped and was still here. I thought that Wendy and Penny had been attacked by an animal. There was a low growling noise. That’s when I saw Martin in the corner, as he is now; rocking backwards and forwards. He had a look in his eyes. It was like he was.”

  Paxton hesitated again.

  “Like he was what Mr Paxton?”

  “Like he wasn’t Martin anymore; he was almost feral.”

  Smith heard sirens outside. A second ambulance had arrived to take the daughter away.

  “Where’s the book?” he asked.

  “Where I dropped it,” Paxton replied.

  He pointed to a brightly coloured paperback on the carpet. Smith put on a pair of rubber gloves and picked the book up.

  “The Folk of the Faraway Tree,” Smith said, “I remember it well. Thank you Mr Paxton. That will be all for now. We’ll need to ask you a few more questions but that can wait.”

  “I understand,” Paxton said.

  He handed Smith his business card.

  “We must find out what happened here,” he added.

  Smith took the card. It read ‘Frank Paxton. Chartered Accountant’ Smith thought for a moment. Chartered Accountant. Methodical, thorough. Paxton seemed a bit too calm in this situation.

  “Mr Paxton,” Smith said, “One more thing. How did you know that Penny only had a few more pages to read?”

  Paxton’s face reddened.

  “Excuse me,” he said.

  “You said earlier that you brought the book back because Penny only had a few more pages to read. How did you know? I don’t see a book marker in the book.”