“How’s your head Whitton?” he asked as he reached the bottom of the stairs and saw her standing there with a cup of coffee in her hand, “mine feels like someone is learning to play the bongos in it.”
“I don’t get hangovers,” she replied, “drink this, it’ll help.” She handed him the cup of coffee.
“I need to fetch my car from the pub,” he said, “Do you have the keys?”
“Right here.” She handed him the keys.
He looked out the window; it had stopped raining.
“I think I’ll walk,” he said, “I need to clear my head. Do you want to stay here? It’s about a mile I think.”
“I reckon I can manage it,” she smiled. She looked pale.
Smith picked up Theakston.
“Marge said she would look after him again,” he sighed, “but I think I’m going to have to make other arrangements for the little bugger in the future. Do you think the DI would deputise him? He’d make a bloody good police dog.”
“In your dreams,” Whitton laughed.
“Whitton,” Smith said as he opened the front door, “I had a good time last night.”
“Me too,” she agreed, “I’ll drive when we get there, it’ll be safer.”
The station was eerily quiet as they walked through reception. Smith was glad; he knew how tongues wagged in this place, it was worse than being back at school.
“Come through to my office,” he said to Whitton, “Its Sunday today, we’ve got no chance in hell of getting a search warrant for Paxton’s place and I doubt we’ll get anything on the drugs either.”
“So that leaves the taxi firm then,” she replied.
“Yes, we need photographs of Roxy Jones and Frank Paxton.”
“I reckon they’re on here somewhere,” Whitton tapped a few keys on Smith’s PC keyboard and within minutes had the photographs they needed.
“Let’s hope our friend Dave is on duty today,” Smith said, “Although, I’m pretty sure he will be.”
“Ready when you are sir,” Whitton said.
“Whitton, it doesn’t take two of us to check the taxi routes.”
“Am I being dumped?”
“No, you can go home and get some sleep if you want.”
“I’m not tired sir and something else is bothering me.”
“You’re beginning to sound like a detective. What is it?”
“The baby sitter sir.”
“Lauren Cowley?”
“Someone killed her in her room. We need to find out how she was drugged and how someone got in her room and smothered her.”
“What are you thinking Whitton?”
“That we can kill two birds with one stone. You check the taxi records and I’ll pay a visit to Lauren’s house mates. They must have heard something. As a woman I may be able to get a bit more out of them.”
“A woman in a boy job?” Smith smiled.
Whitton laughed. “Exactly. Could you give me a lift home first though, I need a shower and a change of clothes. I smell a bit like dog.”
Dark clouds were gathering in the sky as Smith drove to the taxi depot. Smith sighed. Does it ever stop raining here? he thought. He longed for sunshine; in Fremantle the sun shone for most of the year. The taxi depot was quiet on a Sunday morning. He parked his car outside and went inside the office. The room was small and there was just one woman behind the counter.
“Can I help you sir?” she asked as she minimized the card game she was playing on the computer.
Smith was impressed; he could not fault this taxi firm.
“Good morning,” he said, “my name’s DC Jason Smith, I need to look through some of your records if that’s ok.”
Smith had learned a long time ago that a friendly approach always worked better than some of his colleagues’ bullying tactics.
“Date and time?” the woman asked. She closed down her game of Solitaire and brought up the company route program.
“Let’s look at Christmas Eve first shall we.”
“Come round here so you can see better,” she said, “use that door on the left there.”
Smith sat beside her in front of the computer.
“Ok,” he began, “midnight, Christmas Eve, driver named Dave.”
The woman quickly tapped in the information and brought up the exact route from Paxton’s house to the Willow’s place
“12.01,” she said, “route 4.8 miles. It took eleven minutes and thirteen seconds. Dave dropped the fare off at 12.12.”
Smith was impressed.
“This is some system you have here,” he said.
“It cost a bit,” the woman said, “but it’s paid for itself ten times over; we probably have the most efficient taxi service in York.”
“Where did Dave go after this fare?” Smith asked.
“Hold on,” the woman said, “this is odd, he went straight back to the house he had come from.”
“Do you have any records of who booked the taxi?”
“Of course,” she replied, “we always take a name and a phone number, we get a lot of the rival taxi firms wasting our time by pretending to be customers. It says here the call came in at 12.10. Funny name, Wendy Willow.”
“Are you sure?” Smith asked.
“Look for yourself.” She pointed at the screen.
“And where did Dave take this woman?”
“Hold on,” the woman clicked on the route finder icon. “Hull Road,” she said, “Arrived at 12.35.”
Smith was becoming excited.
“Let me guess,” he said, “the next fare was back to the place where he picked up the woman on her own.”
“You’re dead right. How did you know?”
“And I bet Dave then went back to the house where he dropped off the two adults and the kid?”
“Right again. Do you need the name of the person who booked?”
“Was it Martin Willow by any chance?”
“It was. What’s going on?”
“I don’t know but I’m going to find out, can you give me a print out of these records please?”
“No problem,” she said.
“Where’s Dave now?” Smith asked.
“In the staff room. Things are always quiet on a Sunday morning.”
She handed him the print outs.
“The door is just through there.” She pointed to a door by the entrance.
“Thanks for all your help,” Smith said.
“It’s a pleasure,” she replied, “always nice to help the police. Do you have a badge by the way, I forgot to ask.”
“Of course.” He took out his ID.
“Sorry,” she said, “but I’d get into trouble if I showed this information to just anyone.”
Dave was sitting on a plastic chair watching television as Smith walked in. It was a broadcast of a church service.
“Mr Smith,” Dave said cheerily, “Hello again. Would you like some coffee? We have a kettle and its proper coffee.”
Smith’s head was starting to pound again.
“That would be perfect,” he said.
While Dave poured the coffee, Smith looked over the taxi records again.
“I’m sorry to bother you on your break,” he said, “I just need you to look at a few photographs.”
“No problem,” Dave replied, “I have a very good memory for faces. Some people get very surprised when I recognise them from driving them in my cab two or three years later.”
He smiled a proud smile.
“Great,” Smith said, “that will be a big help. The woman you took to Hull road on Christmas Eve.”
“The one who waited outside for me?”
“That’s the one, is this her?” He showed Dave the photograph of Roxy Jones.
“That’s not her,” Dave said immediately, “she’s too old. I mean, the woman I picked up was much younger and she had blonde hair.”
Smith tried to hide his disappointment.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“
This has never failed me.” Dave tapped his head.
“And the man on his own?” Smith took out the photograph of Frank Paxton.
“Sorry, Mr Smith,” Dave said, “not him either. Also much younger.”
“That’s fine Dave. Give me a call if you remember anything else.”
He handed Dave his card.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” the woman behind the desk asked as Smith walked back through.
“Not quite,” he replied, “but thanks for your time anyway.”
It was threatening to rain as Smith got outside. He took out his cell phone.
“Whitton,” he said, “we’ve got a bit of a problem. It looks like Frank Paxton and Roxy Jones didn’t go anywhere in the early hours of Christmas Day.”
“So who were the two people the driver took to the babysitter’s and the Willow’s?” Whitton asked.
“I’ve got no idea. Where are you now?”
“The babysitter’s house. I’ve just got here.”
“Dave, the driver said the woman he dropped off had blonde hair. See if any of Lauren Cowley’s house mates match that description.”
“Ok sir. What next?”
“I’m going to take Theakston for a walk and try to clear my head a bit. Call me if you find anything.”
EIGHTEEN
HAUNTED
Whitton Knocked on the door of number seven Hull Road. Almost immediately the door was opened by a short woman with red hair.
“Can I help you?” she said nervously.
“DC Whitton, police,” Whitton said, “I need to ask you a few questions. Can I come in?”
“Is this about Lauren?” the woman said.
“Yes it is, please can I come in; it looks like rain.”
“Of course, come through to the living room.”
Whitton took out her notebook.
“Could I have your name please?” she asked
“Jane Brown,” the woman replied, “I was the one who found Lauren in her room, I still can’t stop thinking about it.”
“How many of you live here?”
“Now that Laurens gone, it’s just the three of us, me Susan and Pauline.”
“Where are Susan and Pauline now?”
“Pauline is in her room and Susan flew to Tenerife yesterday morning.”
“Tenerife?”
“She said she needed to get away after what happened. She booked online.”
“Could you ask Pauline to come down please,” Whitton said, “I need to talk to both of you.”
While Jane was away, Whitton took a look around the room. On one wall was a large collage of photographs; most of the pictures were of student parties where, it seemed, huge amounts of alcohol were involved. Jane returned with another woman. She was quite plump and she looked very pale.
“My name is DC Whitton,” Whitton introduced herself.
“I’m Pauline Grimes,” the woman said, “we’re still in shock about Lauren.”
“I know it’s hard,” Whitton began, “but I need to ask you a few things about that night. Where were you on Christmas Eve?”
“Me and Jane went out,” Pauline said, “we went to that blues club just off the Foss Road, The Deep Blues Club.”
“I’ve heard of it,” Whitton said, “what time did you get home?”
“About two in the morning. We were planning an early night but they had this guy playing the guitar, he was amazing. Jane fancied the pants off him.”
“I did not,” Jane said.
She was blushing.
“I just liked the way he played, that’s all; it was like he was haunted or something. Anyway, he’s a Policeman.”
“And Susan,” Whitton interrupted, “where was she?”
“Where she is most of the time,” Jane sneered, “with that low life boyfriend of hers.”
“So Lauren was here by herself?” Whitton asked.
“She wasn’t well,” Pauline said, “she said she wasn’t anyway; she still managed to drink two bottles of wine by herself.”
“It was Susan’s wine too,” Jane added.
“Do you still have the empty bottles?” Whitton asked.
“They’re in the bin I think.”
Jane looked confused.
“The rubbish hasn’t been collected yet,” she said, “because of the holidays.”
“Show me,” Whitton ordered.
The two women watched as Whitton donned a pair of strange yellow rubber gloves and rummaged in the dustbin.
“Are these the ones?” Whitton asked.
She held up two bottles. On the labels it read Chateau neuf du Pape.
“That’s them,” Jane said.
“Expensive wine for a student,” Whitton remarked, “in my day we used to drink wine from a box. Do you have a plastic bag?”
Pauline fetched one from the kitchen cupboard and held it open so Whitton could place the bottles inside.
“When is Susan due back from Tenerife?” Whitton asked.
“Two weeks,” Jane replied, “we didn’t even know she was going until that scum bag of hers came to fetch her.”
“So they went together,” Whitton said, “Susan and her boyfriend?”
“Yes,” Pauline said, “I don’t know where they got the money from. Susan was moaning that she wouldn’t be able to afford the rent for January.”
“Maybe her boyfriend paid?” Whitton suggested.
“That layabout. That’s why Susan is always broke; he doesn’t even work, just sits in the pub all day bumming drinks.”
“Do you have a photo of her?” Whitton asked.
“On the photo board,” Jane said, “there’s a couple of her on there.”
She turned round and pointed out a pretty, dark haired girl standing at a bar with a drink in her hand.
“And that’s the scumbag next to her,” she added.
“Do you mind if I borrow this for a while?” Whitton asked.
“Keep it,” Jane replied, “I’m sick of looking at his ugly mug anyway.”
“What’s the boyfriend’s name?”
“Mick something or other.”
“Hogg,” Pauline said, “pretty appropriate if you ask me. Mick Hogg.”
“And Susan, what’s her surname?”
“Jenkins,” Jane replied.
She paused for a second.
“And she has blonde hair now.”
NINETEEN
YORKSHIRE
Smith parked his car in the car park of the Danby Moors centre. He had planned on only going as far as Pickering but as the rain came down harder and harder he had just kept on driving. A rare patch of blue sky the size of a football field had appeared to his left so he had driven towards it and ended up in Danby in the northern section of the North York Moors National Park. He had been here once before with his Gran; she had always said that Yorkshire was the most beautiful place on earth and the moors around Danby were some of the bleakest. The car park was empty and the sign told Smith that the Moors Centre was closed. He opened the car door and before he could stop him, Theakston fell out onto the dirt and rolled on his back. Smith laughed, put the puppy on his feet and locked the car door. It was a strange habit he had developed the moment he came to England; nobody ever locked their car doors in Fremantle.
Theakston spotted a magpie on a fence about twenty metres away and set off to give chase. Smith watched as the puppy reached full speed and tried to jump at the indifferent bird. He walked up to the fence where the magpie still stood, climbed over a wooden stile and headed off towards the river. The air felt fresh in his lungs. Theakston quickly caught him up and decided it was time to explore his new surroundings, stopping every minute or two to make sure Smith was still in view. Smith reached the River Esk and sat on a dead tree stump overlooking the river bank. With the river slowly running, he could finally think. He thought about the case. Wendy Willow, dead. Lauren Cowley dead. Penny Willow in a coma. Martin Willow did not do this, he thought. He needed to look more cl
osely at Frank Paxton and Roxy Jones. His cell phone rang in his pocket. He took it out. It was Whitton.
“Tell me you’ve cracked the case and we can all go on holiday,” he said.
“Not quite,” she replied, “but I think I’ve got something. Where are you?”
“I’m sitting on a log next to the River Esk in Danby.”
“In Danby? How did you end up there?”
“Something brought me here. Theakstons loving it. What have you got?”
“The babysitter’s house mate, Susan Jenkins flew off to Tenerife yesterday with her boyfriend.”
“Are you telling me this to make me jealous?” Smith said.
“She was flat broke sir,” Whitton ignored his sarcasm, “I have a photograph of her and her boyfriend. Maybe Dave can identify them. She has blonde hair sir.”
“Good work Whitton,” Smith said, “does this mean you need me back in reality?”
“Sorry sir, shall we meet at the taxi depot in forty five minutes?”
“Give me an hour. These roads are pretty narrow.”
“There’s something else sir,” Whitton added.
“What’s that?” Smith asked.
“You have a bit of a fan club at the Deep Blues Club.”
“I’ll see you in an hour.”
He hung up.
As Smith drove back to York he made a mental to do list. They had overlooked a number of factors that may be important. First they had to find out who was the father of Lauren Cowley’s baby. He remembered the message she had left on Martin Willow’s phone. ‘I’m sure she knows’. Who was she talking about? How did the Benzodiazepine find its way into Lauren Cowley and all of the Willows? There were huge pieces of the puzzle missing.
The York Trilogy: The First 3 DS Jason Smith Detective novels Page 9
