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

by Stewart Giles

  Whitton was waiting outside the taxi depot as Smith drove up.

  “Nice work Whitton,” he said as they walked in together.

  “There’s something else sir,” she said, “The baby sitter drank two bottles of expensive wine the night she died. I managed to get my hands on the empty bottles so we can have them tested.”

  “Tested for what?” Smith asked.

  “The drug we found in hers and the Willow’s systems. If we can find out where the bottles came from we might get closer to catching whoever did this.”

  Her green eyes were sparkling.

  “Jane Brown, Lauren’s house mate said the wine belonged to Susan Jenkins, the woman who conveniently did a runner yesterday.”

  “Go on Whitton,” Smith was intrigued.

  “If we can get the taxi driver to identify Susan from the photo, I have another theory I’d like you to consider.”

  “What theory?”

  “Let’s see what our friend Dave has to say first.”

  As luck would have it, Dave was still there when Smith and Whitton entered the staff room.

  “Mr Smith,” he said with a grin, “we’re becoming good friends. Twice in one day and you’ve brought a friend this time.” He beamed at Whitton.

  “We’ve come back to test that amazing memory of yours,” Smith said. “The woman and man you took on separate fares on Christmas Eve, do you think you would recognise them?”

  “Of course,” Dave replied.

  Whitton showed him the photograph of Susan Jenkins and Mick Hogg.

  “That’s the man,” Dave said immediately, “and the woman has the same face but her hair was different; it was blonde.”

  “Are you absolutely sure?” Smith asked.

  “Positive. I could be a police man like you Mr Smith.”

  Smith’s heart began to beat faster. They were finally getting somewhere.

  “Thank you Dave,” Smith said, “you’ve helped us a lot.”

  “Any time Mr Smith,” Dave replied.

  TWENTY

  BLOOD MONEY

  “What’s this theory of yours Whitton?” Smith asked as they walked through the Police Station reception.

  “I don’t think this Susan woman and her boyfriend have anything to do with the murders,” Whitton replied.

  “You reckon? So where does that leave us?”

  “Its something one of Susan’s housemates said sir; it got me thinking.”

  “I’m all ears Whitton.”

  “Susan Jenkins was broke and that boyfriend of hers was even worse off. What if someone paid them just to take a taxi ride in the early hours of the morning?”

  “Easy money,” Smith admitted, “but why?”

  “To move the suspicion away from Frank and Roxy. They’re involved in this, I know it. Susan Jenkins booked her holiday online. She must have paid for it over the internet.”

  “How does that help us?”

  “I think you need more sleep Sir, the money I think she received from Frank and Roxy must then have been transferred into her account.”

  Smith caught on. “So all we need to do,” he said, “is check Susan Jenkins’ bank records and then we’ll know for sure.”

  “Exactly sir,” Whitton smiled, “it’s just a theory but its worth checking out.”

  Smith yawned. “Sorry,” he said, “the search warrant, the wine, the bank records and the doctor who prescribed the Benzodiazepine can wait until tomorrow. Go home Whitton, get some sleep. I think we’re going to need it.”

  TWENTY ONE

  CUCKOO

  Smith unlocked the door to his house and went inside. He put Theakston down and the puppy headed straight for the litter tray. Smith made a mental note to do some shopping for the puppy when the shops opened again. He suddenly felt faint. He had not eaten anything since the pie at the Hog’s Head. He took a frozen pizza out of the deep freeze and switched on the oven. While the oven was warming up he picked up his guitar, plugged it into the amp and started to play. He played a few blues songs then switched the amp off. I need some new strings, he thought. He had not changed the strings since he bought the guitar ten years ago. He was scared to change them as the sound they made gave character to the guitar. The alarm on the oven announced that the temperature was right to cook the pizza. His cell phone started to ring in harmony with the shrill oven alarm.

  “Shit, shit, shit!” he said out loud, “what now?” he did not recognise the number.

  “Smith,” he answered gruffly.

  “DS Smith?” a vaguely familiar voice said, “sorry to bother you so late on a Sunday but I thought you would like to know that Martin Willow has come back to the land of the living.”

  “Who is this?” Smith asked.

  “Its Doctor Simmons,” he replied, “I met you at the hospital. You asked me to let you know when Willow was well enough to talk to.”

  Smith looked at his watch. 17.45.

  “I’ll be there in an hour,” he said, “Thank you Doctor Simmons.”

  “No problem Detective,” Simmons said, “and I’ve advised Miss Lamb to let you see him without any drama this time; she’s still quite disturbed about the last time.”

  “I’ll see you in an hour then.” He hung up.

  Smith put the pizza back in the freezer and turned off the oven. He switched the kettle on and made some coffee instead. He switched the television on. The weather forecast promised nothing more than rain and the prospect of more rain for the week ahead. He finished the coffee, picked up Theakston and headed out again.

  It had stopped raining as he drove to the hospital. There were even a couple of stars in the sky. So much for the weather report, he thought. Theakston assumed his position on the passenger seat. Smith wrapped him in a blanket.

  “You stay here boy,” Smith said as he parked the car, “I’ll try to be as quick as possible.”

  The woman behind the reception desk smiled falsely as Smith approached.

  “Good evening Detective,” she said, “Doctor Simmons is expecting you, his office is just through there on the right.”

  She gestured to a long corridor.

  “Thank you Miss Lamb,” Smith said with a smile.

  The brass plaque on Doctor Simmons’ door was only just big enough to accommodate all of the letters behind his name. Smith knocked on the door.

  “Come in Detective,” a voice came from within.

  Smith opened the door.

  “How did you know it was me?” Smith asked.

  Doctor Simmons laughed.

  “I told you,” he said, “Miss Lamb guards me very well.”

  The room was elaborately decorated. There was a book shelf that took up the whole of one wall from floor to ceiling. On the shelves were various medical journals and reference books but there were also numerous travel volumes. Photographs of exotic golf courses took up much of the other space on the walls. Smith recognised one of them.

  “Western Australia,” Doctor Simmons said, noticing Smith’s interest in the particular photograph.

  “That’s where I’m off when I’ve hung up my boots here,” he said, “good golf, food and plenty of sunshine. A far cry from the dreary weather and football hooligans we have to deal with here.”

  “Can I see Mr Willow now?” Smith came straight to the point.

  “Of course. I’ll lead the way.”

  In the furthest corner of the hospital was what locals referred to as the ‘cuckoo coop’. The psychiatric wing was the oldest part of the hospital building and the rumours about the place were a feature of many a school yard tale. Even when Smith was in his final year of school the place was the stuff of legends. It was said that a few years earlier a pupil from the same school had taken part in a certain initiation ceremony in a bid to be accepted by the ‘cool’ kids at school. He had been dared to break into the ‘cuckoo coop’ one night and bring back a souvenir of his exploits. The boy managed to get past the minimal security they had in those days but he got more than he barga
ined for in terms of a souvenirs. The story goes that as he was about to leave, one of the mental patients, a giant of a man who was known as TackMan because of his obsession with hammering nails into just about anything, was reading in his room when he heard the boy creep by. He opened the door, dragged the boy inside and before the wardens came to find out what all the screaming was about, TackMan had managed to hammer nearly a hundred nails into the terrified school boy. Nobody was quite sure if the boy died but he never returned to school.

  As Smith and Doctor Simmons reached the entrance to the Psych wing, Smith could not believe the security they now had in place. Must be since the TackMan incident, he thought. There were two check points to get through before they were even inside the ward and there were CCTV cameras everywhere. There were more guards than they had in the cells at the Police Station.

  “Can’t be too careful,” Simmons said, noting the look on Smith’s face, “Some of the patients in here are a danger, mostly to themselves. It’s for their protection really. Mr Willow is just a bit further up here.”

  They walked along a wide corridor. A man was singing in a high falsetto voice about Jesus in one of the locked rooms. They reached another security desk. Smith shook his head in disbelief.

  “Martin Willow,” the doctor began, “he’s still the number one suspect in a brutal murder isn’t he?”

  “He is,” Smith admitted, “but I have my doubts.”

  “Be that as it may, I’ve had my orders; he’s to be kept in here, in the highest security ward. If he was well, he would have been locked up anyway wouldn’t he?”

  “I guess you’re right,” Smith conceded.

  “This is his room here,” the Doctor said as they reached the end of the corridor.

  Martin Willow was sitting up on the bed as Smith and Doctor Simmons entered the room. Apart from the bed, the only other item in the room was a small sink in the corner. Two straps bolted to the floor prevented Willow from leaving the bed.

  “Is that really necessary?” Smith pointed to the straps. “It seems a bit barbaric.”

  “Detective Smith,” Doctor Simmons said, “unfortunately when a patient such as Mr Willow is brought in, ranting and wild eyed, we need to take the necessary precautions. He was in no fit state to be incarcerated in a prison. He’s a murder suspect. We did what we had to do.”

  “Can I talk to him?” Smith asked.

  “Be my guest, he’s been evaluated and I can tell you, he’s no more a loony than you or I for what that’s worth. In fact, I believe he’s ready to be discharged. He’s your problem after that.”

  “Thank you Doctor. Would you mind organising a chair, I see there’s not much furniture in here.”

  “Certainly,” the Doctor said, “I’ll have one brought in; I must get back to the patients who actually need my help.”

  Smith believed this to be rather callous but he kept quiet.

  “Mr Willow,” he said, “my name is Detective Sergeant Smith, how are you feeling?”

  Willow sat up straighter and looked Smith in the eyes. His eyes were not as wild as they had been on Christmas Day; there was merely a blank look of despair in them.

  “My head is still floating in a white mist,” Willow said, “I don’t know what they’ve been pumping into me for the last few days but I can’t seem to think straight.”

  An orderly arrived and placed a plastic chair on the floor next to the bed.

  Smith decided to get to the point.

  “Can you remember anything about when you returned from your friends’ house?” he asked.

  “Frank and Roxy’s?” Willow said. “That’s the strange thing; I remember everything leading up to arriving home; what we talked about, what we ate everything up to the dessert and the photos Roxy took. After that I can recall nothing, I seem to have lost a whole day. I woke up in this place to be told that I am suspected of killing Wendy and trying to kill Penny.”

  Willow’s face distorted in such a way that Smith feared a sobbing fit was on the way but he quickly controlled himself.

  “Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt your family Mr Willow?” Smith asked.

  “Are you saying you don’t think I did it?” Willow almost smiled.

  “It’s my job not to form any opinion until I have the facts,” Smith replied, “But, and don’t repeat this to anyone, no, I don’t think you did this. Unfortunately though, with the evidence we do have, this one is a case of you being guilty until proven innocent.”

  “So what you’re saying is I just have to hope you find out who really did this?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Smith said, “and that’s why it’s vital you try to remember anything. You said you can remember what you talked about and what you ate. Let’s start with that.”

  “With what?”

  “What did you eat?”

  Willow scratched his head.

  “We had some nibbles,” he began, “Prawn crackers, I think.”

  “And then?” Smith urged.

  “Frank had made a sublime Beef Wellington. There wasn’t much left, even Penny tucked in.”

  The tears now came.

  “How is Penny?” Willow asked hoarsely, “nobody can tell me a damn thing; I’m not even allowed to bury my own bloody wife.”

  “Penny is still in a coma,” Smith said, “I’ll make sure you hear if anything changes but now can we please concentrate on the night of Christmas Eve. After the Beef Wellington.”

  “We had a Pavlova.”

  “Who made the Pavlova?”

  “Roxy bought it,” Willow said, “Wendy still joked about it.”

  “What did she joke about?”

  “About how delicious it was.”

  “Did everyone eat it?”

  “I think so.”

  Willow thought hard.

  “I had some,” he said, “Wendy did, and Penny but she left half of hers, she always does.”

  “What about Frank and Roxy?”

  “I don’t know, I can’t remember. Why all these questions about a bloody Pavlova?”

  Smith used this as an excuse to take a break.

  “Mr Willow,” he said, “I know this is unpleasant. Let’s have a rest for a few minutes; I need to make a quick phone call. He left the room, took out his phone and dialled Frank Paxton’s number.

  “Paxton,” an irritated voice answered.

  “Mr Paxton,” Smith said, “sorry to bother you but I just need to ask you something about what you ate on Christmas Eve.”

  “Nothing surprises me anymore about you,” Paxton joked, “Shoot.”

  “After your Beef Wellington you had a Pavlova,”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did everyone eat it?”

  “I think so. I didn’t but I don’t like desserts. Martin, Roxy, little Penny, they all had some. Hold on.”

  “What is it Mr Paxton.”

  “Its Roxy, she didn’t eat any.”

  “Is that strange?”

  “She normally scoffs down more than anybody but she said she was full that evening. Is this relevant?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Smith said, “thank you Mr Paxton, we’ll be in touch.”

  He rang off and dialled another number.

  “Whitton,” he said, “you’re not asleep yet are you?”

  “Not yet sir,” she laughed.

  “Whitton, when we get a warrant to search Frank Paxton’s place tomorrow, remind me about a Pavlova will you?”

  “I won’t ask sir,” Whitton said, “ok, I’ll remind you about a Pavlova.”

  “Thanks Whitton. Get some sleep.”

  He hung up.

  As Smith was about to return to Willow’s room, he felt an arm on his shoulder. “Detective,” it was Doctor Simmons, “we’re discharging Willow tomorrow morning, he’ll be your problem from then on.”

  “You’re being discharged tomorrow,” Smith said as he sat back on the chair next to the bed, “after that I’m afraid we’re going to have to arrest y
ou.”

  “What will happen then?” Willow asked.

  “If I were you, I’d get myself a damn good lawyer. You’re going to be locked up though until this thing goes to trial. If you remember anything at all, give me a call, any time.” He handed Willow his card and got up to leave.

  “Thank you Detective,” Willow added as Smith opened the door.

  “For what?” Smith asked.

  “For being half decent about all of this, it’s quite refreshing.”

  “Good evening Mr Willow.”

  TWENTY TWO

  Monday 28 December 2008

  BIN DIVING

  “Where’s Thompson?” Smith asked DI Chalmers as the team gathered in the small conference room of the Police Station. The three Detective Constables, Whitton, Palmer and Bridge were already seated.

  “Glory hunting,” Chalmers replied gruffly, “he thinks he’s singlehandedly caught a mass murderer. He’s at the hospital arresting this Willow bloke.”

  “You’re bloody kidding me?” Smith said.

  “You’re bloody kidding me sir, if you don’t mind. Anyway, someone had to do it. What’s your problem?”

  “Sorry sir, you’re right.” Smith needed the DI on his side. “I need a search warrant for Frank Paxton’s house sir,” he added.

  “What the hell for?” Chalmers barked.

  “Can I have a word in private sir?”

  “You’ve got two minutes.”

  They left the conference room and Chalmers beckoned Smith to follow him outside.

  “So why the secrecy?” Chalmers asked Smith outside. He took out a packet of cigarettes and offered one to Smith.

  “No thanks sir,” Smith said, “I thought you’d given up?”

  Chalmers lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and coughed.

  “That’s better,” he said, “I did give up but I think better with a bit of nicotine running round my veins. I always seem to start up again when we land a tricky case. What’s on your mind Smith?”

  “I found some medicine in the cabinet in Frank Paxton’s bathroom sir,” Smith said.