“Oh,” Paxton’s face reddened further, “I just thought she must have nearly finished; she was reading for most of the night at our place.”
“Thank you Mr Paxton. We will be in touch.”
Martin Willow was being wheeled out on a stretcher. He was strapped down and the paramedics had sedated him.
“Where are you taking him?” Smith asked.
“Same place as his wife and daughter,” the paramedic replied, “he needs to be checked over.”
“I need to talk to him.”
“He’ll be at the hospital but I doubt he’ll be saying much for a while. I’ve never seen such a reaction to shock.”
“Shock?” Smith said.
“He’s in deep shock. His body has shut down for a while to adapt. If you don’t mind, I have to go.”
Smith was left in the house with DS Thompson.
“What do you think happened here Thompson?” Smith asked.
He was not expecting anything much from Thompson.
“Simple case,” Thompson said, “Husband gets drunk and kills his wife and daughter. I could smell booze on him.”
Smith was not disappointed.
“First thing Thompson,” Smith was becoming angry, “the daughter is not dead. Secondly, and I want you to pay particular attention to this one ok? We don’t yet know how the mother and daughter were attacked do we? Did you find the murder weapon?”
“No, but...”
“Listen Thompson, let me put it in a way that your dumb Yorkshire brain may be able to understand: If you had killed your wife and almost killed your daughter; would you dispose of the murder weapon and then wait to be found with the door unlocked?”
“I don’t like the way you talk to me Smith. If you haven’t noticed, I’ve been a DS for a lot longer than you. Have a bit of respect or don’t they teach that down under?”
Smith wanted to punch him squarely in the face but he was tired. He quickly regained his composure.
“Thompson,” he said, “it’s late and we’re in for a very long day tomorrow. I assume you’ll be showing your face at the station?”
Thompson did not reply; he snorted and left.
Smith was left alone in the house. Something was not quite right. The babysitter is murdered and it is made to look like suicide. A note is left. ‘I AM SO SORRY MARTIN’. The babysitter is pregnant. Now he had another murder, almost a double murder. He looked at his watch: 22.30.
“Shit,” he said out loud.
He went outside.
“Make sure the place is secure for the night,” he said to a uniformed officer, “forensics will only be here tomorrow.”
He took out his phone and pressed one of his speed dial numbers.
“Marge,” he said “I’m so sorry; I’ll be there in twenty minutes. I hope he’s been no trouble.”
He had left Theakston with Marge at the Hog’s Head. Why does this sort of thing have to happen when I should be enjoying my new puppy? he thought as he drove. He stopped at an all night garage where he bought a box of chocolates. It had started raining again when he parked outside the pub. There were no other cars in the car park. He ran in. Marge was by the fire with her knitting and a cup of tea. Theakston was curled up on a blanket by her feet.
“Thanks so much Marge,” he said, “the DI would spew if I took a dog to a crime scene.” He gave her the box of chocolates.
“You shouldn’t have dear,” she said, “this little bloke has been very good company. I had to throw a couple of drunks out earlier and Theakston wouldn’t leave my side until they had gone; he barked at them the whole time. Will you stay for a cup of tea and a few chocolates?”
“I’d love to Marge, but I’ve got a feeling I’m in for a very long day tomorrow. Thanks again.”
He picked Theakston up and put him inside his jacket.
“Any time for you.” She kissed him on the cheek.
Smith was exhausted. As he drove home, he tried to process what had happened in the past twenty four hours. He put the car radio on and turned it off immediately as some offensive Boom Boom Boom music blasted out of the speakers and Theakston became agitated. He pushed a tape into the machine. Joe Bonamassa was playing India Mountain Time live. Theakston became calmer. Smith decided that when this case was over, he would buy himself a Gibson Les Paul guitar; a Black Beauty Custom with the three pick-ups. He had a feeling that that would not be any time soon.
NINE
ANOTHER PLANET
Saturday 26 December 1998
Jason Smith felt like he had been hit in the face with a wave of ice. The doors of the aeroplane had opened and the passengers were fumbling with their belongings. He had changed into warmer clothes in Dubai but he was not prepared for what hit him as the first door opened. He shivered. What have I come to? He thought. He checked his watch: 13.00. He had changed it to British time as soon as the wheels of the plane had left the tarmac of Perth behind. After clearing customs and collecting his baggage, he walked through Arrivals and into another world. The people looked different, they were dressed differently; they were different. He looked around for a pay phone. He found a row of them just in front of the exit doors. He took out the envelope that Lucy McLean had given him. He had opened it already on the plane; as soon as it had taken off in fact. There was a passport size photograph of Lucy which he had put in his wallet next to the one of Laura. There was also a letter. He read it again.
‘Jason,
Sorry this is short but you didn’t exactly give me much warning. After what has happened over the past month or so, I’m surprised you’re not a nervous wreck but you’re not; you’re a strong guy, Jason Smith and I know you’ll do just fine. You will always be very special and I will never forget you.
My brother is in London, as you know. He is backpacking around Europe but now he has a job in London for a while. He said he would be more than happy to put you up for a few days when you get there. I’ve put his number on the back.
Take care Jason Smith.
Your good friend,
Lucy.’
Jason rang the number.
“Matt McLean,” a voice said in a familiar accent.
“Matt,” Jason said, “my name’s Jason. Jason Smith, I’m a friend of Lucy’s.”
“Jason. Where are you?”
“I’ve just landed at Heathrow. Lucy said that maybe I could stay with you for a few days.”
“Course you can mate. You’re lucky; I’m off today and tomorrow. I stay in Earls Court. Get on the Underground there at the airport. It’s about half an hour on the Piccadilly line. I’ll wait for you at the station. I’m just down the road.”
He hung up.
Jason took a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it and rang the number on it.
“Hello,” an old lady answered.
“Gran,” Jason said, “I’ve landed in London.”
“My dear,” she said, “its going to be so nice to see you again. Is everything alright?”
“Apart from the freezing cold you mean? Everything’s fine. I’m only going to come to you on Monday though; some friends have offered to show me around London for the weekend.”
“What friends? You didn’t meet any strange people on the plane did you?”
Jason laughed. “No Gran,” he said, “it’s the brother of a friend of mine back in Fremantle. I’ll be quite safe. I’ll be in York around lunchtime on Monday.”
“Ok dear, you take care now.”
This isn’t too bad, Jason thought as he put down the phone. He found the tube station, bought a ticket and waited for the train. Thirty minutes later he was in Earls Court.
“Welcome to sunny London,” a voice called out from behind him.
He looked around.
“Matt?” he said.
He had never met Lucy’s brother.
“That’s me,” Matt said, “You must be Jason.”
“How did you know?”
“Look at you. You’ve still got that Fremantle look; t
he surfer’s hair and the tan. Unmistakable. It’ll be gone after a few months here though.”
They shook hands. “Give me one of those bags,” Matt said, “it’s only a short walk from here.”
As they walked, Jason was in awe. He felt like he was on another planet. London was not quite what he had expected. He felt like he was walking through a movie set.
“This is my place here,” Matt said, “we’re lucky; two of the guys I live with are in Austria getting ready for the skiing season so there’s a couple of spare rooms.”
He opened the door and went inside. The house was smaller than Jason was used to. In the living room there seemed to be some kind of war going on between the antipodeans. Various Australian and New Zealand souvenirs adorned the walls.
“Cool place,” Jason said, “how many people live here?”
“Right now it’s just me and Dylan; he’s from Sydney but he’s alright for an east coaster.”
A man walked through from the kitchen. “Dylan,” Matt said, “meet Jason. His folks have sent him to the UK for a while.”
“Pleased to meet you mate.” Dylan shook Jason’s hand. “Are you also from the West?”
“Fremantle,” Jason replied, “best place on earth.”
Dylan laughed. “If you say so,” He said.
“How’s the fundraising going Dylan,” Matt asked, “Dylan’s trying to save up for New Year in Brazil.”
“Not good,” Dylan replied, “I’m about three hundred short and time’s running out. I think I’m going to have to sell the Strat; I need to go to Brazil.”
“You’ve got a Strat?” Jason said. He was very keen on guitars.
“I’ll show you,” Matt said, “it’s in my room.” He left and returned with the guitar.
“Wow,” Jason said, “can I have a go?”
“You can have it if you’ve got three hundred quid,” Matt said.
Jason had the four hundred pounds from his parents. He needed money for the train ticket to York but that was all.
“Deal,” he said, “it’s a genuine American one I see.”
He took the money out of his wallet and gave it to Dylan.
“Enjoy Brazil,” he said.
TEN
THE GHOUL
Saturday 26 December 2008.
“Where the hell do we begin with this mess?” Detective Inspector Bob Chalmers growled.
He was chewing on a stick of celery. It was one of his many attempts to eat more healthily; it never lasted and it always made him grumpy.
“Smith,” he said, “you seem to be in charge of this investigation; what have we got so far?”
Smith looked confused.
“Sir?” he said.
“Let me put it another way,” Chalmers said, “You are now in charge of this investigation. What have we got?”
Smith opened his notebook and closed it again; he was not a PC anymore.
“Dead student,” he began, “made to look like suicide but now it seems like murder. Straight A student. Pregnant.”
“Ok,” Chalmers said, “and the other one.”
“Blood bath sir. Worst one I’ve ever seen. Mother dead, daughter critical and the father seems ok physically but otherwise he’s a complete wreck.”
“Two murders in York in twenty four hours”, Chalmers said, “I don’t like it one little bit. Do you think they’re connected?”
“I’d stake Thompson’s career on it sir.”
The whole room erupted. Thompson glared at Smith.
“The dead student was the Willow’s babysitter,” Smith quickly said, “She was supposed to work for them on Christmas Eve but she called in sick. Also, she was a student of Martin Willow’s at the University. The most baffling part though is the note.”
“What note?” Chalmers asked.
“Suicide note sir. It read: ‘I AM SO SORRY MARTIN’. It doesn’t feel quite right somehow; I don’t think Lauren, the student, wrote it.”
“Enlighten us Smith.”
“Just a gut feeling sir.”
“I’m not basing a case on your hunch Smith. Get it checked out against anything else she may have written. Do students actually write stuff down anymore? So, where are we going to start then?”
DS Thompson stood up. He looked very tired.
“Sir,” he said, “I think it’s pretty obvious that the father,” he opened his notebook, “Martin Willow. I think it’s clear he killed his wife and tried to kill his daughter.”
“But why?” Smith interrupted, “and what about the babysitter?”
“That I don’t know yet.”
“Very helpful Thompson.” Smith cleared his throat. “As I’m in charge here, I want you and Bridge to go and have a chat to the man who found the carnage at the Willow’s place yesterday evening, Frank Paxton.”
He handed Thompson Paxton’s business card.
“Is he a suspect sir?” DC Bridge asked.
He was new to the team.
“At this moment,” Smith said, “you’re a bloody suspect. Watch and learn from DS Thompson; you’re in for a real treat. Whitton, you’re coming with me to the hospital.”
Detective Constable Erica Whitton stood up. Smith had worked with her for over a year and she had proven herself to be a very competent police officer.
“Thompson,” Smith said as Thompson was about to leave, “be very wary of this Paxton character; there’s something odd about him.”
“Your woman’s intuition again,” Thompson joked.
He looked around but nobody was laughing.
“Just be careful,” Smith said, “and get him to write something down; preferably something including the word ‘Martin’.”
“How am I supposed to do that?” Thompson asked.
“You’ll think of something. Come on Whitton, we’ll go in my car.”
“Your car smells funny sir,” DC Whitton remarked as they drove to the hospital.
“Thanks Whitton,” Smith replied, “I’ve just got myself a puppy.”
“Where is it? You can’t just leave a puppy on its own; it’ll chew anything.”
“He’s staying at a pub at the moment. I got him just as this shit started.”
“What’s his name?”
“Theakston.”
Whitton laughed. “Like the beer?” she said.
“It’s a long story. We’re here. Now listen, let me do the talking. If you have anything to say, tell me in private ok?”
“Fair Dinkum sir.”
“Not funny Whitton.”
Smith hated this hospital; he had watched as it had drawn the last breath out of the only member of his family he had left that he cared about. It had been six years since his Gran had died here. She had broken a hip and developed pneumonia. Her lungs had just given up.
The woman in reception at the hospital was a dour, frump of a woman in her mid-forties. Smith had dealt with her before; this was not going to be easy. He approached her and flashed his warmest antipodean smile. It did not work. The woman glared at him.
“Could you please tell us where they took the Willow family,” he said.
“You can’t see them,” she scowled.
Smith took out his ID badge.
“I know who you are,” she said, “you still can’t see them; the daughter is still unconscious, the father is very heavily sedated and you know the mother is dead don’t you?”
Smith tried to keep his composure.
“I am well aware of that,” he said, “who’s the doctor in charge?”
“Doctor Simmons. He’s not due in for another two hours.”
“We’ll come back in two hours then,” Smith said.
The woman shrugged her shoulders and returned to her filing.
Whitton looked confused.
“Don’t worry,” Smith assured her, “we’re not going to wait around for two hours when there are a couple of murders to figure out. Have you ever been to the morgue?”
“We call it a mortuary sir,” she replied, “
and no I haven’t. This is my first murder too.”
“It’s not that bad really, the pathologists are a bit weird at first but you soon get used to them.”
The mortuary was on the other side of the hospital. Smith showed his badge to the girl on the front desk.
“Is the ghoul in?” he asked her.
“The ghoul is always in,” she replied, “go through.”
“Whitton,” Smith said, “you’re about to meet a full blown creature of the night. Everybody knows him as The Ghoul. I’m sure even his mother calls him that. He’s a bit repulsive and he has a bit of a foul mouth but he’s a brilliant pathologist and he can drink more beer than anyone I’ve ever met.”
Smith led her down a corridor. He stopped and knocked on a door.
“If you’re alive, you’ve got no frigging business here!” a booming voice could be heard from within.
Whitton’s eyes widened.
“Morgue humour,” Smith said, “its DS Smith,” he said.
“Mr Smith”, The Ghoul said, “Come in. I’ve been expecting you.”
Smith opened the door and gestured for Whitton to go in first. She hesitated then slowly went inside. She could see the back of a man sitting at a desk. He was wearing a stained lab coat. There was a peculiar smell in the room; Whitton could not quite place it. The man in the lab coat was typing frantically on a computer keyboard. Whitton looked at Smith. He smiled at her.
“Just wait,” he whispered.
The man raised an abnormally long index finger in the air and, with as much theatrics as humanly possible, slammed it down onto the ‘Enter’ key.
“You frigging beauty!” he bellowed.
“How much this time?” Smith said.
The man swivelled round in his chair and faced them. Whitton gasped; not because the man was repulsive as Smith had warned but because what she saw was not what she had anticipated. The Ghoul could not have been more than thirty, he was quite chubby but he had the kind of photogenic good looks that could land him a role in any B-Grade movie. The Ghoul noticed Whitton’s surprise and smiled. He had perfect teeth. Nobody in York has perfect teeth, Whitton thought.
“Eight big ones,” the Ghoul replied in that booming voice of his.
The York Trilogy: The First 3 DS Jason Smith Detective novels Page 5
