“Our friend, the Ghoul here likes to play the stock exchange,” Smith said, “He’s getting to be quite good at it.”
The Ghoul picked up the telephone on his desk.
“Cindy,” he said. Cindy was the woman on the front desk. “I seem to have broken another keyboard, could you bring me another one please – the strongest one you can find.” He sighed, “They don’t make anything to last these days.”
He stood up; he was almost as tall as Smith’s six feet.
“Please tell us you have something interesting for us,” Smith said with anticipation.
“That depends,” the Ghoul replied, “on what you consider interesting. For instance, I find the existence of certain fungal bacteria absolutely fascinating whereas the mere mention of our parasitical so-called frigging Royal family sends me into an instant semi-coma. If I were a detective such as you, the first thing out of the ordinary would be these.”
He picked up a pile of papers from the top of a filing cabinet, quickly leafed through them and passed two to Smith.
“What do you make of that?” he gestured dramatically as if he had pulled a rabbit out of a hat.
Smith looked confused. “I completed two years of a law degree,” he said, “science was never my forte.”
The Ghoul paused for effect. He then produced his impressive index finger and pointed to something on one of the papers.
“Benzodiazepine,” Smith gasped.
“Give that man a fat frigging cigar,” the Ghoul said, “We found traces of it in both Wendy Willow and her daughter and, just for the hell of it and because I could, I tested some of Martin Willow’s blood. Guess what? He had traces in his system too. What were they doing? Sprinkling it on their frigging cornflakes in the mornings?”
“This complicates things,” Smith said.
“You bet it does. That poor man in the hospital had a very impressive blood alcohol count even by my very high standards. The combined effects of the alcohol and the benzodiazepine would have paralysed him. That man would have barely been able to move. There’s no way he could have attacked anyone. Your killer is still on the loose, as they say in the movies.”
“Can I say something,” Whitton said.
“It talks,” the Ghoul chuckled.
“Go ahead Whitton,” Smith urged.
“We had a case a few months back,” Whitton began, “a so-called date rape. The drug Rohypnol was used. Isn’t that the same thing?”
“Rohypnol is a commercial name for a derivative of Benzodiazepine,” the Ghoul replied, “I’m impressed but what’s your point?”
“Nothing could be proven because the woman who claimed she had been raped had no memory at all of the assault. Martin Willow could be the only witness we have to this murder, what if he can’t remember anything either?”
Smith checked his watch.
“That’s what we are going to find out,” he said. “Thanks doc, I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again soon.”
“Good luck Smith,” the Ghoul said, “and Miss Whitton, you’ll go far.”
“It’s DC Whitton,” she said and led Smith out the door.
“Why do they call him the Ghoul?” Whitton asked as they walked towards the main wing of the hospital, “He’s not that scary at all, a bit on the eccentric side but that must come with working with dead people all the time.”
“Another time,” Smith insisted, “we need to get moving on this one.”
The dour woman on reception at the hospital sighed as Smith and Whitton approached her.
“Doctor Simmons has just arrived,” she said, “He’s busy organising his appointments for the day, you can’t see him.”
“Could you phone him and tell him we’re here?” Smith asked.
“He’s too busy. I told you.”
Smith was becoming irritated.
“Listen, “he said calmly, “we all have our jobs to do. You have your particular, anally-retentive way of doing things and I am normally very patient when I carry out my duties. From time to time, however, especially when I am hindered in my work, another side of me emerges. You don’t want to see the Mr Hyde side of me.”
“The woman looked terrified.
“Are you threatening me?” she said. Her voice was trembling.
“Yes I am,” Smith said matter-of-factly, “technically, you are interfering with the course of justice. Now please get Doctor Simmons on the phone and tell him we need to speak to him. Do you understand?”
She picked up the phone and did as she was told.
“Doctor Simmons will be right out,” she said as she replaced the hand set.
“Thank you,” Smith said.
He smiled at her. She looked at him as if he were a serial-killer.
“Detectives, detectives,” a friendly voice announced the presence of Doctor Pete Simmons. “I’ve been expecting you. Come with me to the canteen, the coffee is very good; just stay away from the tea.”
“You must excuse Miss Lamb,” Doctor Simmons said in the hospital canteen, “she guards me like the hounds of hell protect the devil himself.”
The canteen was empty as they sat at a table next to a window. It was still raining outside.
“They reckon we’re in for the wettest winter on record,” Simmons said, “I can’t wait to retire to somewhere warmer.”
“Doctor Simmons,” Smith said. “My name is DS Smith and this is DC Whitton. Thank you for your time.”
“Terrible business all of this,” Simmons said, “in York of all places.”
“How’s the little girl doing?” Smith asked.
“Difficult to say, she’s still unconscious. She had a few very nasty blows to the head and there’s swelling on the brain. Her left arm is also broken; to me it looks like she tried to defend herself. Poor thing, she must have been terrified when her father attacked her.”
“We’re still not sure it was Martin Willow who did it, “Whitton said.
“Do you have any idea what they were attacked with?” Smith asked.
“Yes I do,” Simmons answered immediately, “a claw hammer, without doubt. “Both ends of the hammer were used. This was a very brutal attack. The same weapon was used on the mother too although the mother had no defensive wounds.”
“She was already unconscious when she was attacked?” Whitton suggested.
“Looks like it,” Simmons agreed, “whoever did do this acted with a fury. Some of the wounds were inflicted after the heart had stopped. I’m not trying to do your job but we’re looking at a complete maniac here.”
“And the father,” Smith said, “Martin Willow, was he hurt at all?”
“That’s the odd thing, with the amount of blood he had on him when he was brought in, we feared the worst but he didn’t have a scratch on him. The blood was not his.”
“We need to talk to him,” Smith said.
“I know, but not for a while. His mental state is quite disturbing; he’s still heavily sedated and he has that wild look in his eyes. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until his condition improves.”
“But you’ll let us know as soon as it does,” Smith said, “we have a maniac out there.”
“Of course, will that be all?”
“For now,” Smith replied, “we’ll be in touch. Thank you again for your time.”
“Not at all detective, and please be gentle with Miss Lamb next time.”
They stood up and shook hands.
“By the way,” Simmons added as Smith was about to leave, “where’s that accent from?”
“Same place as me,” Smith replied and walked out of the canteen.
ELEVEN
MONEY
Detective Sergeant Alan Thompson was not in the best of moods. Smith had ridiculed him again in front of the whole team. Even though Thompson and Smith held the same rank, Thompson believed his twenty year head start in the Police force should offer him some semblance of superiority over the Aussie upstart.
“Red light sir!” Bridge cried.
“What?” Thompson said.
He glared at Bridge and slammed on the brakes.
“Are you trying to tell me how to drive now?”
“No sir,” Bridge said, “I just didn’t think you’d seen it.”
“You just thought you’d piss me off even more did you?”
Bridge did not say another word until they had reached Frank Paxton’s house.
“Nice place,” Bridge said as Thompson parked the car badly outside. “Accountants obviously do very well for themselves.”
“They get paid well to defraud the government of taxes,” Thompson said bitterly. “You knock on the door and see it Paxton is home. This rain is really getting on my nerves.”
Bridge opened the door and ran up the driveway. He knocked on the door. It was opened by a woman in her thirties or forties, Bridge was not sure.
“Good Morning Ma’am,” he said, “my name is DC Bridge.”
He showed her his badge.
“And that’s DS Thompson in the car. His wife has just bought him a new suit and he doesn’t want to get it too wet.”
Thompson locked the car and rushed towards the house.
“DS Thompson,” he said, “can we come in please? We need to have a word with your husband.”
“Frank is not my husband,” the woman said. She rolled her eyes.
“Sorry Ma’am,” Thompson said, “I just assumed.”
“This is the twenty first century officer, things have changed. Come in, we wouldn’t want you to ruin that beautiful suit would we?”
Thompson beamed and followed her into the house.
“Would you like some coffee?” the woman said.
“Love some,” Thompson replied, “black, one sugar. The wife thinks I should lose a bit of weight.”
“You look fine to me. Anything for you?” She looked at Bridge.
“Milk, three sugars please, “Bridge said.
“Frank is in his study,” she said, “I’ll tell him you’re here. We’re still in shock, Wendy was my best friend. I can’t believe Martin could do such a thing.”
She left the room.
Everything in the house literally reeked of money.
“Doesn’t look like they have any kids,” Bridge remarked as he scanned the living room, “everything seems to be in its place. Look at that lounge suite. That alone would cost me a year’s salary; genuine leather, variable reclining settings, movable foot rests.”
Thompson glared at him.
“Would you stop with the furniture salesman shit,” he said, “and try and act like a police detective.”
Thompson’s mood had not improved.
Frank Paxton appeared in the doorway.
“Try it out,” he said to Bridge who was still admiring the lounge seat. “Have a seat.”
“Mr Paxton,” Thompson said, “we need to ask you a few questions about the Willow family.”
“Terrible state of affairs,” Paxton said.
Bridge could not help but think what a peculiar way this was to describe it.
“We’d had them round for supper, “Paxton continued, “It’s a Christmas Eve tradition. Penny was there too, their babysitter couldn’t make it. I believe she killed herself that same night.”
Paxton’s bottom lip began to quiver.
“It now seems…” Bridge said. Thompson glared at him. That murder was not yet public knowledge.
“Yes,” Thompson said, “but that’s not what we want to talk about. “Were Martin and Wendy fighting that night?”
“No more than usual,” Paxton replied.
“What do you mean by that?” Thompson said. “Did they often fight?” He wrote something in his notebook.
“It was more like playful banter,” Paxton said, “they didn’t seem to like each other most of the time. Martin was a college professor and he didn’t really consider Wendy his intellectual equal.”
“You said was,” Bridge said, “you said he was a college professor. He still is as far as I can see.”
Paxton was clearly annoyed.
“What I’m trying to say is Martin and Wendy were just worlds apart intellectually and sometimes that made them fight.”
The woman put the coffee on the table.
“Thanks Rox,” Paxton said.
“Rox?” Thompson asked.
“Yes,” she said, “Rox. Roxy Jones, you didn’t seem interested in my name when I answered the door to you.”
“Sorry Miss Jones,”
Thompson wrote her name in his notebook, he was on his last page.
Roxy Jones sat on one of the single seaters facing the window. Bridge had made himself comfortable in her usual seat.
“You had supper with the Willows,” Thompson said, “was there anything unusual about Martin that evening?”
“He was his usual self,” Paxton replied, “We talked, ate supper, drank rather too much and smoked a couple of good cigars. All in all it was a most pleasant evening.”
“What time did they leave?”
“The taxi arrived dead on midnight. I remember because the driver actually bothered to knock on the door instead of hooting. I think he even phoned a couple of minutes before that too.”
“The taxi driver phoned you,” Bridge said, “that’s unusual.”
“Not me,” Paxton said, “he phoned Martin. His phone has this annoying ring tone. Martin missed the call. He thought it must have been the driver.”
Bridge suddenly remembered something.
“Do you have Martin Willow’s number?” he asked Paxton.
“Of course I do,” Paxton said. He took out his phone. Its 0799…”
“Hold on,” Bridge said. He took out a piece of paper from his coat pocket. “Could you please write it down for me? My handwriting is terrible.”
Paxton wrote down the number and handed the paper back to Bridge.
“Sorry,” Bridge said, “one more thing, could you write Martin Willow on the top? I’ll only forget whose number it is.”
Paxton, Roxy and Thompson all looked at Bridge as if he had lost his mind. Nevertheless, Paxton did as he was asked and handed the paper back to Bridge.
“Thank you,” Bridge said, “we just need to double check it was the taxi company that phoned. It just seems strange to get a phone call so late.”
“Can we please carry on Bridge?” Thompson said. “We still have a lot of ground to cover.”
He was clearly annoyed.
“Mr Paxton,” Thompson continued, “Can you remember anything unusual about Martin that night? Think carefully.”
“There is one thing, “Roxy Jones interrupted, “it was meant as a joke but after what has happened it may have some relevance.”
She looked agitated.
“Go on.” Thompson urged.
“We were talking about what Martin does, what he lectures in. He has degrees in Psychology and Criminology or something and Frank joked about it. He put on this stupid phoney German accent and said that Martin had the qualifications to commit the perfect murder.”
“That was a joke,” Paxton insisted, “Wendy still defended him. She said he couldn’t harm a fly.”
Thompson had filled up the last page of his notebook. He sighed, it was a public holiday and there would be no shops open.
“I think we have enough for now,” he said, “but we may need to talk to you again. Thanks for the coffee; it’s much better than the swill we get at the station. Bridge, get up off that fancy couch, we have a lot to do.”
The rain had died down when they stepped outside. Thompson was not happy.
“What the hell was that all about?” he said to Bridge as they drove off.
“What was what about sir?” Bridge asked.
“That nonsense about you not being able to write, the force has a bad enough name as it is without you painting us as illiterate imbeciles.”
“It was something DS Smith said sir.”
“That Australian know it all, he still thinks Martin Willow is in
nocent. It’s pretty bloody obvious that he did it, lock him up and throw away the key. Case closed.”
He looked at the clock on the dashboard. They had half an hour to get back to the station for a scheduled case meeting.
TWELVE
LIES.
“So, what you’re telling me is we’re no closer to cracking this thing,” DI Chalmers announced gruffly.
“It’s obviously the father,” Thompson insisted, “Martin Willow.”
“No note book Thompson?” Smith said sarcastically.
“It’s full,” Thompson replied, “I don’t need it for everything.”
“You two, enough,” Chalmers said. “Let’s go over what we do have. Thompson, you first.”
“It’s quite clear that Martin Willow did it,” Thompson began. “He was there at the scene, covered in blood. Not a scratch on him and he has a degree in criminals.”
“Criminology,” Bridge corrected him.
“Criminology, whatever. Even his best friend said he could commit the perfect murder; its him, we need to arrest him and put him away.”
“I’m afraid I have a bit of disappointing news for you Thompson,” Smith interrupted, “Martin Willow was incapable of moving, let alone killing his family. We’re looking at the wrong man and the sooner we realise that, the sooner we may get somewhere.”
“Do we have anything else?” Chalmers was becoming frustrated.
“Did you get Paxton to write Martin’s name down?” Smith asked Thompson.
“I did sir,” Bridge said, “I pretended I needed his phone number to trace a call from a taxi company. I said I had trouble reading my own writing sometimes so I asked Paxton to write it down for me.”
He handed Smith the piece of paper.
“Brilliant,” Smith said, “nice work. We need to get this compared to the suicide note as soon as possible. What has the taxi company got to do with this?”
“Willow had a call sir,” Bridge said, “just before midnight. Paxton assumed it was from the taxi firm.”
“And did you check this out?”
“No, we came straight here from Paxton’s house.”
“Which taxi firm was it?”
“We don’t know sir.”
“Thompson,” Smith said, “did you get your sergeant stripes out of a Christmas cracker?”
The York Trilogy: The First 3 DS Jason Smith Detective novels Page 6
