Chalmers spat the cigarette out.
“You did what?” he boomed as he bent down to pick up the cigarette.
“I searched his bathroom. I had a suspicion I’d find something.”
“You idiot. Any half-cut lawyer would have you on that one. What were you thinking of?”
“That’s why I’m talking to you sir, Paxton doesn’t know I did it. If I get the warrant I can search it again legally.”
“We still don’t have grounds to search the place.”
“The Willows all had the same drug in their systems that I found in that cabinet, including Martin.” Smith emphasised the word Martin. “All three of them ate Pavlova that night; I’m sure that’s where the drug was placed. Besides sir, isn’t your brother in law some big shot judge? Ask him for a favour.”
“I don’t need any favours from that prick,” Chalmers said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
He flicked his cigarette under a nearby car.
“We’d better get back in,” he ordered, “people are going to start talking.”
“Listen up,” Smith shouted as he and Chalmers walked back into the conference room, “this is what we have. As you know, Martin Willow is being arrested as we speak. I have spoken to Willow and unfortunately this case is far from over. Martin Willow is no murderer.”
“But Thompson is certain,” Bridge said, “and he’s been on the force a lot longer than you.”
“Bridge,” Smith glared at the DC, “let me finish and when I was a DC, I addressed anyone with a higher rank than me as sir. Have you got that?”
“Sorry sir,” Bridge said.
“Where was I? Whitton, you’re coming with me. The DI is trying to see if he can get us a warrant to search Paxton’s place. Bridge, what do you know about Internet Banking?”
“It’s the only way to bank sir,” Bridge replied.
“Good, I want you to find out if someone has deposited money into Susan Jenkins’ bank account recently.”
“What bank is she with?” Bridge asked and regretted it immediately.
“Find out,” Smith barked.
Chalmers entered the room again; he looked very angry.
“You’ve got your warrant Smith,” he said, “but this had better produce something or my balls are on the block.”
“Thanks sir,” Smith said, “your balls are safe. Come on Whitton, we’ve got a lot to do.”
DS Thompson swaggered in with a smug look on his face.
“Late again Thompson?” Smith said
“I’ve been busy arresting a murderer,” Thompson said, “Maybe a double murderer. I’m sure the Super will want to see me at once.”
“Sorry to burst your little bubble,” Chalmers said, “but we’re still far from clearing up these murders and the Super only likes to see people who can make his precious crime statistics look good for the Chief Constable. I’m sure Smith has got something to keep you amused with.”
“Premature again Thompson?” Smith joked.
“You can get pills for that these days,” Whitton added.
Thompson glared at her.
“I want you to find Susan Jenkins and her boyfriend, Mick Hogg,” Smith continued, “they left the country the day after the murders. They went to Tenerife.”
“You want me to go to Tenerife?” Thompson seemed excited.
“Find out where they are staying you moron,” Smith was becoming irritated, “make them understand that it is in their very best interests to get on the first flight back here. Understood?”
“Can I say something sir?” Bridge said meekly.
“Make it quick Bridge.”
“I know a fair bit about computers, misspent youth or something. If we can get hold of this Susan Jenkins’ computer, I reckon I can get into her history and find out exactly where they are. I can also look for other correspondence to implicate her.”
“Good,” Smith said, “now you sound like a detective. Take Palmer with you, his pretty boy looks can distract the two young women in the house while you hack into the computer.”
DC Palmer beamed.
“What about me?” Thompson said.
“You’re our hero,” Smith said, “and seeing as though Bridge can find Susan Jenkins and her boyfriend without you, you can babysit the murderer you’ve just arrested. Maybe you’ll get a full confession out of him.”
Thompson was furious. He approached Chalmers. “Can I have a word sir?” he said, “I’m not happy at all about the way Smith talks to me.”
“Not now,” Chalmers said, “grow a pair of testicles, we have work to do.”
“Detective,” Frank Paxton said warmly as he answered the door, “come in. It’s nice to see you again. Any news on the case?”
“We’re getting closer, I think,” Smith said, “but I’m afraid we’re going to have to search your house.” He closed the door behind them
Frank Paxton’s demeanour changed at once.
“What the hell are you talking about?” he said, “Why do you need to search my house? You don’t think I have anything to do with this do you?”
“I don’t know yet,” Smith said, “Whitton, let’s start upstairs.”
“I assume you have a warrant?” Paxton seemed anxious.
“Whitton,” Smith said.
Whitton produced the search warrant and handed it to Paxton. He gave it a cursory glance and handed it back.
“Would you come with us please?” Whitton asked, “We don’t want to be accused of anything untoward.”
“If you insist,” Paxton replied, “I’ve got nothing to hide anyway.”
“Where’s your wife?” Smith asked in the bathroom.
“Roxy’s not my wife; remember,” Paxton said bluntly, “she’s away.”
“She has this convenient habit of never being here when we need to talk to her,” Smith observed.
“She’s away on business, she goes away quite often.”
“What does she do?” Whitton asked.
“Computers,” Paxton said, “She sets up systems for huge multi-nationals. She travels all over the world.”
Smith had put on a pair of rubber gloves and was trying to open the bathroom cabinet it was locked.
“Where is she now?” he asked.
“North Africa somewhere,” Paxton replies, “Morocco or somewhere like that; I don’t really have much interest in what she does, computers bore the hell out of me to be honest.”
“Do you have a key for this thing?” Smith pointed to the cabinet.
Paxton seemed surprised.
“I didn’t know it had a lock,” he said.
Whitton eyed him suspiciously.
“You’ve never locked it before?” she said.
“Why should we,” Paxton replied, “we don’t have any kids and I don’t think there’s anything other than over the counter stuff in there anyway.”
“Do you have a flat screwdriver?” Smith asked.
“Are you going to break it open?”
“Unless you find a key.”
“I’ll get you a screwdriver. Roxy is going to kill me.”
“This thing wasn’t locked two days ago,” Smith said to Whitton as Paxton went downstairs to look for a screwdriver, “Someone must have locked it since then.”
Paxton returned with a screwdriver, a solid heavy duty one.
“Please try not to make too much of a mess of it,” Paxton said. He handed the screwdriver to Smith.
Smith inserted the screwdriver in between the doors of the cabinet just above the lock, tapped it in further with the back of his hand and pulled the handle to one side. There was a slight crunch and the lock gave without too much resistance. The doors swung open.
“There you are Mr Paxton,” Smith handed him the screwdriver, “not too much damage, Roxy won’t even notice.”
“She notices everything,” Paxton said, “what are you looking for here anyway?”
“Just a routine check,” Smith lied, “you’d be surprised how many people
hide things in their bathrooms.”
Smith pretended to casually check the pill boxes but when he realised Paxton was not watching anymore he looked to the back of the cabinet where he had found the Benzodiazepine two days ago. He checked again. His heart sank. The drugs were gone.
“Ok Whitton,” he said, “nothing here, let’s check downstairs.”
Whitton was confused. Smith took her to one side.
“They’re gone,” he said, “Someone must have taken them out.”
“What about the Pavlova?” Whitton suddenly remembered.
“Thanks Whitton,” Smith smiled, “that might give us something at least.”
“Would you two like something to drink?” Paxton asked as they walked downstairs.
“Coffee would be nice,” Smith replied, “what day do they collect the rubbish around here?”
“Tuesdays and Fridays,” Paxton said.
“Whitton,” Smith smiled, “put these on.”
He handed her a fresh pair of gloves.
“Thanks a lot sir,” Whitton sighed, “where are your bins Mr Paxton?”
“There are two wheelie bins in the yard,” Paxton replied, “We keep them in there until collection day. What are you looking for now?”
“DC Whitton is a bit of a bin diver,” Smith joked.
“Be my guest,” Paxton said and went to make the coffee.
Outside in the yard, Whitton carefully turned over one of the wheelie bins and emptied the contents piece by piece. She removed empty whisky bottles, wine bottles and beer cans.
“This is exactly why I joined the force,” she said to Smith, “to rummage through the garbage of alcoholics none too bloody anonymous. There’s nothing here sir.”
“Try the other one,” Smith said, “I’ll fill this one up again. Don’t ever say I’m opposed to getting my hands dirty.”
Whitton repeated the procedure with the second bin. It was not as full as the first. She removed more empty bottles, a bag full of newspapers and then, right at the bottom was a white cardboard box. It had been crumpled under the weight of the other rubbish. She took it out and placed it on the floor. There was a Marks and Spencer label on the front. Carefully, she opened the lid of the box. Inside was an almost perfect quarter of a Pavlova.
“Bingo,” she exclaimed, “We’ve found our Pavlova.”
Smith handed her one of the larger evidence bags and she closed the lid of the box and placed the whole thing inside.
“You smell like a brewery Whitton,” Smith observed as they drank their coffee at Paxton’s dinner table.
“Thanks,” Whitton smiled, “those bins were brimming with Christmas spirit.”
Paxton laughed.
“You’re right of course,” he said, “we all tend to overdo it at this time of year. Did you find anything?”
He did not seem the least bit concerned.
“We don’t know yet,” Smith said, “when is Roxy due back?”
“In three days,” Paxton replied, “just in time for New Year. Will there be anything else?”
“Not for the moment,” Smith replied, “We’ll let you know if anything comes up.”
TWENTY THREE
HACKERS
“Where’s this place again?” Bridge asked DC Palmer as he turned the ignition.
“Hull Road,” Palmer replied, “Number seven, I was there the day the girl was found dead. Damn shame, she was definitely the prettiest of the lot of them living there.”
“You’re still single aren’t you?” Bridge asked.
“For now, yes,” Bridge said, “but I have my eye on someone.”
“Number seven you said. This is the place here.” Bridge stopped the car outside the house.
“Before we go in, “Bridge began, “this is the plan. You just flutter your eyelids at the women in there; get them in conversation about something while I try and hack into this Susan Jenkins’ computer.”
“Isn’t that a bit on the illegal side?” Palmer asked.
“Just a bit,” Bridge replied, “but I’m bloody good, nobody will even know I’ve been there.” He knocked on the door.
Jane Brown answered almost immediately.
“Good Day Miss,” Palmer smiled his famous winning Smile. “Police,” he said, “may we come in? We need to ask you a few more questions.”
The smile did not work; Jane Brown eyed both Palmer and Bridge with suspicion.
“We’ve already answered a million questions,” she said. “We just want to try to forget about the whole thing.”
“I know Miss,” Bridge said, “I understand this is extremely hard but we think we may be on to something and it won’t take long.”
“You’d better come in then.” Jane Brown conceded.
“DC Bridge here would like to have a look at Susan Jenkins’ room if that’s ok,” Palmer said.
“Susan?” Jane Brown looked confused, “do you think she had something to do with this?”
“Not at all,” Bridge said, “I just need to check a few things on her computer, there may be some information on there that can help. Would you mind showing us her room?”
“It’s upstairs. The only room on the right hand side, her name’s on the door. It’ll be locked but I’ll get you a spare key.”
Susan Jenkins’ room was immaculate. The bed was made in military fashion. Bridge was almost tempted to bounce a coin on it. There was a small bookshelf against one of the walls; the books were arranged in alphabetical order. Most of the volumes were medical but there was a whole row at the bottom of the shelf dedicated to what looked like the complete works of Jack Kerouac.
“Odd collection of books,” Bridge noted. “What is Susan studying?” he asked, “medicine by the look of it.”
“Pharmacy,” Jane Brown corrected him, “she has that kind of brain, no common sense though and even worse taste in men.”
“You can leave us to it,” Palmer smiled again. This time Jane Brown responded with a shy grin.
“Ok,” she said, “let me know when you’re finished so I can lock her room again.”
Bridge sat on the desk and turned the computer on.
“So far so good,” he said, “no password needed.”
He tapped away on a few keys.
“I’m just going through her browsing history. Here we go Wilson’s travel. Late deal for two weeks in Tenerife. Total six hundred and ninety pounds. Payment method, electric funds transfer. An e mail was sent to confirm booking and provide banking details. Let’s check her e mails.”
Bridge opened up the e mail program
“Here it is,” he said, “and here’s one from the bank verifying the internet banking transaction, Halifax, same bank as me. This part is going to be a bit harder.”
“What are you going to do now?” Palmer asked, “My ten year old sister knows more about computers than me.”
“I’m going to try and get into her internet banking account,” Bridge said, “very serious fraud.”
He opened up the Halifax web site and was prompted to enter the user name and password. He thought of his own user name for the same site
“Susan Jenkins,” he said, “SJenkins01.”
He typed it in.
“Now for the password.”
“What’s her password?” Palmer asked.
“Let me think.” Bridge looked around the room. His eyes fell on the book shelf against the wall.
“Worth a try,” he said. Palmer looked at him in bewilderment.
Bridge typed in ‘Kerouac’ and was about to press the Enter key when he realised the password had to be at least eight characters long. He added a ‘1’ to the end, took a deep breath and pressed Enter. He closed his eyes. After what seemed like an eternity he opened them again and looked at the computer screen. At the top of the screen it read, ‘you are logged in as Susan Jenkins’.
“I’m in!” he exclaimed, “I’m bloody well in.”
Bridge quickly selected the ‘accounts’ icon and clicked on ‘transacti
on history’
“There’s the payment to the travel agent,” he said, “and here, on the 23rd of December, there’s a sum of one thousand five hundred pounds paid into her account. Have you got your notebook there?” he asked Palmer.
“Of course,” Palmer replied.
“Write this down. Reference number MW001.”
He clicked on the ‘detailed transaction’ icon and read out the account number where the money had come from. They heard a noise from downstairs, Jane Brown was coming up the stairs. Bridge quickly logged off, closed the internet banking window and opened up the e mail program. An e mail immediately came through informing Susan Jenkins that she had logged on to her internet banking. Bridge deleted it, opened the deleted items page and deleted it again, this time permanently. He stood up from the desk just as Jane Brown entered the room.
“Thank you Miss,” he said, “we’re just about done here.”
“Did you find anything useful?” she asked.
“Not really, mostly junk e mails and spam.”
TWENTY FOUR
BARE FACTS
“Bingo!” the Ghoul cried out so loud that Whitton flinched, “what we have here is what us wretched bastards in the medical profession call a direct frigging hit, a bloody bulls-eye if you want.”
He stood up and did a version of a victory dance that would embarrass any teenager.
“And the bottles of wine?” Whitton asked.
“Are you not listening?” he said, “I said Bulls-eye, the Pavlova and the wine have traces of the same drug in them.”
“The same drug found in the babysitter and the Willows?” Smith added.
“You’re usually much sharper than this my friend,” the Ghoul said, “Must I draw you a frigging picture?”
“Sorry,” Smith said, “its just that we’ve been banging our heads against so many brick walls that we need to be one hundred per cent sure.”
“I assume you want a report?” the Ghoul asked.
“Please,” Smith replied, “but do me a favour, keep it simple. We need bare facts if you know what I mean.”
The Ghoul shook his head.
“How boring,” he said, “Did Coleridge keep it simple? Sailor bags a frigging great sea bird, the end. Did Shakespeare keep it simple? Moody bloody Dane, shit friends…”
The York Trilogy: The First 3 DS Jason Smith Detective novels Page 11
