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

by Stewart Giles

  “Please,” Smith interrupted him, “remember the Marshall murder? You confused the hell out of everyone with a twenty page report about a meat cleaver.”

  “That was a work of art,” the Ghoul insisted, “but if you insist, I’ll stick to the facts.”

  “Thank you,” Smith said “and I need your help with something else, off the record.”

  “I like the sound of this one.” The Ghoul licked his lips.

  “I want you to have a look at these.” Smith took out his phone and brought up the photographs he had taken of the drugs in Frank Paxton’s bathroom cabinet.

  The Ghoul took the phone, pressed a few keys, gave the phone back and sat back down in front of the computer. Smith looked confused.

  “That’s better,” the Ghoul said as he opened up his e mails. The photographs appeared on his computer screen.

  “Benzodiazepine,” he said, “no doubt. This is the same drug we found in the Pavlova and the wine. The label has been torn at the top though. Let me see if I can zoom in a bit.”

  He made a few clicks with the mouse and the writing at the top became larger

  “Oh dear,” he said, “Oh deary frigging me.”

  “What’s wrong?” Smith asked.

  “These pills were prescribed by Beelzebub himself. Doctor Peter Carroll.”

  “What does that mean?” Whitton asked.

  “Peter Carroll is what’s known in medical circles as, how can I put this, a first class wanker, if you’ll pardon my Swahili Miss Whitton. You said this is off the record?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Smith said, “I found these pills without a warrant and when I went back with one they were gone.”

  The ghoul looked at the photographs again.

  “They were prescribed on the twenty third of December,” He said, “and see those numbers on the side. This is not a repeat prescription. If I were to hazard a guess, I’d say that whoever these drugs belong to got them for the sole purpose of rendering someone incapacitated.”

  “Can you see who they were prescribed to?” Whitton asked.

  “The name has been almost scratched out,” the Ghoul said, “but I can make out a couple of the letters. R, N, E and S.”

  “Roxanne Jones,” Smith exclaimed.

  “You’ve suddenly woken up,” the Ghoul joked, “I assume she’s the one you’ve been looking at?”

  “She is. There’s just one thing I don’t understand, why would someone be prescribed these pills?”

  “Sleeping pills,” the Ghoul replied, “real kick arse ones but if taken properly all you’ll get is a good nights sleep.”

  “You say this Doctor Carroll is a bit of a bastard?” Smith asked.

  “Biggest bastard in the profession. He has this fancy practice by the river, you need to be stinking rich for him to even consider taking you on.”

  “And I suppose he also has an equally fancy legal team behind him?” Whitton added.

  The Ghoul smiled. His perfect teeth gleamed.

  “You’re good Constable,” he said, “you won’t get anywhere near him.”

  Smith’s phone started to ring. It was Thompson. Smith sighed

  “What do you want Thompson,” he said, “We’re busy.”

  “Smith,” Thompson said smugly, “it looks like I was right, you owe me a few beers.”

  “What are you talking about Thompson?” Smith said, “Spit it out.”

  “Bridge got into Susan Jenkins computer banking. There was a deposit of fifteen hundred pounds paid into her account on the twenty third of December.”

  “Go on Thompson.”

  “We’re at the bank now. It took a bit of persuading; these banks are a bit reluctant to give out details of bank accounts but guess where the money came from?”

  “The suspense is killing me,” Smith said.

  “Give me a drum roll,” Thompson began, “Fifteen hundred quid paid to Susan Jenkins from the account of……. Martin Willow. I’ll see you back at the station.”

  He rang off.

  “Shit,” Smith said.

  “Problem?” the Ghoul asked.

  “We’re back to square one.”

  “Can I give you a piece of advice?” the Ghoul said.

  “I’m sure you’re going to anyway.”

  “You are concentrating all of your energy on the flotsam and jetsam of this frigging shipwreck.”

  “In plain English?” Smith said.

  “I think I know what he means,” Whitton said, “he thinks we’re spending too much time going through the wreckage.”

  “Very good,” the Ghoul was beaming. “You even elaborated on my simple metaphor. I’m impressed.”

  “I’ll try to keep up,” Smith added.

  “Go back to the very beginning,” the Ghoul suggested, “how did all of this shit start?”

  “The babysitter,” Smith said.

  “And?”

  “The brutal attacks on Wendy and Penny Willow.”

  “What do we know about the babysitter?”

  “Shit,” Smith said, “the babysitter was pregnant. I’m sure the two murders are connected. We need to find the father of the baby.”

  “Good man,” the Ghoul said, “you already know the how and the when but you’re missing the deciding factor.”

  “The why,” Whitton added.

  “Exactly. Find out why and you’ll be much closer to the whom. Do you like cryptic crosswords Miss Whitton?”

  “Love them,” she replied.

  “Thought so. Don’t you find that after the first clue is solved and put on the grid, the rest get progressively easier?”

  “You’re right,” she exclaimed, “and what we need to do now is get the DNA of every male in this puzzle; Martin Willow, Frank Paxton and Mick…”

  “Hogg,” Smith said.

  “And now,” the Ghoul said, “now that I’ve given you a nudge in the right direction, would you kindly piss off and let me get back to the fruitful world of stocks and shares. You’ll have your simple report in the morning.” He emphasised the word, “simple”.

  TWENTY FIVE

  TENERIFE

  “That’s quite a brain he has sir,” Whitton said as they were driving back to the station.

  “One in a million,” Smith added.

  “I’ve thought of something else too.”

  “What’s that Whitton?”

  “Something Frank Paxton said about his wife being away on business.”

  “Girlfriend Whitton, Roxy is not his wife.”

  “Anyway sir, Roxy Jones is in Morocco and what is just a stones throw across the Atlantic from Morocco?”

  “Australians are as bad as Yanks when it comes to Geography Whitton. Where are you going with this?”

  “Tenerife sir. Tenerife is just across the water from Morocco. That’s quite a coincidence if you ask me. It seems strange that’s all.”

  “But we now know that the money came from Martin Willow. Maybe I was wrong about him after all.”

  “But the drugs belonged to Roxy Jones and the wine that Lauren Cowley drank was Susan Jenkins’”

  “What’s Tenerife like at this time of the year?” Smith asked.

  “Warmer than York sir,” Whitton replied, “much warmer.”

  TWENTY SIX

  SUNSHINE

  Tuesday 29 December 2008 Santa Cruz, Tenerife

  The three star Casablanca Hotel stood on a hill in the tourist town of Santa Cruz. From room 262, if you looked between two other similar hotels, you could just make out the blue of the Atlantic Ocean. Susan Jenkins lay on the bed reading a magazine article about twins who claimed they could read one another’s thoughts. The telephone on the table by the bed rang. Susan hesitated but on the fourth or fifth ring, she gingerly picked up the receiver.

  “Hello,” she said nervously. She was still scared to death that the police might find out what she and Mick had done in York.

  “Miss Jenkins,” a woman’s voice with a broad Spanish accent said, “this is the r
eception. There is someone down here looking for you.”

  Susan’s heart stopped beating for a few seconds.

  “Who is it?” she asked finally. “I don’t know anybody in Tenerife. Did they say who it was?”

  “No. She just said it was important that she sees you.”

  “She?” Susan asked.

  “Yes, she. It’s a woman, she looks about forty.”

  “Ok,” Susan said, “Tell her I’ll be there in a minute.” She put down the phone.

  Roxy Jones was sitting in the bar next to reception, drinking a glass of wine when Susan arrived. Susan sat down opposite her.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Susan snapped, “We did everything you wanted; I thought the plan was to lay low for a while until the suspicion falls away from us.”

  “Relax Susan,” Roxy said calmly, “do you want a drink?”

  “No thanks. What do you want?”

  “Nobody knows I’m here dear, I’m supposed to be in Morocco on business. I paid a guy to fly me here this morning. Dreadful flight, those small aeroplanes are so uncomfortable.”

  “What do you want?” Susan repeated.

  “Where’s Mick?”

  “Where he’s been since we arrived here, drinking bloody San Miguel and watching Spanish football.”

  “We have a slight problem,” Roxy took a large sip of her wine.

  “What sort of problem?” Roxy fidgeted nervously with the rings in her ear.

  “A problem by the name of Jason Smith. He’s a police detective and he’s getting close to figuring out what we did.”

  “What we did,” Susan emphasised the word we, “I didn’t do anything.”

  “You gave Lauren the wine; you knew I’d drugged it.”

  “I didn’t know it would kill her.”

  “It doesn’t matter. That Smith guy found the drugs in our bathroom cabinet. I could tell, he put them back in the wrong place. Men are useless.”

  “So he didn’t take them?”

  “I assume he didn’t have a warrant but he came back with one, I spoke to Frank. The bloody prick broke the lock off.”

  “So he has the drugs?”

  “I told you not to worry, I threw the bloody things away after I realised this Smith character was on to something.”

  “If he hasn’t got any evidence then what are you worrying about. I will have that drink now if it’s ok with you.”

  Roxy ordered two glasses of wine from the surly waiter sitting at the bar.

  “He knows, Susan,” Roxy said, “that pig knows and he’s only going to keep digging until he finds out everything.”

  “What’s he going to find?” Susan took a sip of the wine.

  “Oh Shit,” she said, “They can check my bank records can’t they? They can see that you paid money into my account.”

  Roxy Jones smiled.

  “We don’t have to worry about that,” she said, “what do you think I do for a living? I set up systems for huge corporations, getting into Martin Willows internet banking was child’s play.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The money you were paid came from Martin Willow according to anything they’ll find on the system. To the cops it’ll look just like a case of good old blackmail.”

  “But why would I be blackmailing Martin Willow?”

  “Use your head Susan. College Professor knocks up one of his students, house mate finds out. Perfect.”

  “You’re forgetting one thing thought aren’t you?”

  “What?”

  “We both know that Martin Willow was not the father of Lauren’s child don’t we?”

  Roxy’s face reddened.

  “Let’s just keep to this version of events,” she barked, “for all our sakes. Martin Willow gets one of his students pregnant and you were blackmailing him. He’s not exactly in any position to defend himself now is he? It looks like he’s already going down for the murder of his wife.”

  “I’m scared,” Susan said, “What if they find out?”

  “They won’t if we stick to the story ok?” Roxy insisted.

  Susan looked at her watch.

  “Where’s that boyfriend of mine?” she said, “He was supposed to be back over an hour ago.”

  “I’d better go anyway,” Roxy said, “I’m flying back to Morocco this evening. I’m not looking forward to it. Remember what I said ok? I don’t see any reason why we need to speak again.”

  Mick Hogg was slumped in the chair in the Los Paradiso Sports Bar. He had just finished his seventh beer.

  “Can I buy you another one handsome?” Roxy Jones asked.

  “I wouldn’t say no,” he slurred, “what are you doing here anyway?”

  “Two beers,” she said to the waiter, “I’ve come to tie up a few loose ends.”

  “What loose ends,” Mick asked, “I thought everything was fine, we just need to hide out here for a couple of weeks and everything will be cool when we get back.”

  “It was perfect until Martin Willow went and killed his wife; now the cops are digging into everything. They know Lauren’s death wasn’t a suicide.”

  “How,” Mick said, “I did everything you said, I waited until she had finished the wine and then smothered her with a pillow. She didn’t even struggle; she was so out of it. I even put the note on the pillow afterwards like you said.”

  The waiter arrived with the beers.

  “You were paid very well to do what I said,” Roxy said, “you should really be getting back to Susan, she’s waiting for you.”

  “She can wait,” Mick grunted, “I’m getting tired of her anyway; she’s always moaning.”

  “She’s getting nervous Mick,” Roxy said.

  “I know,” he added.

  “I’m worried that when you get back, she’s going to completely flip and go to the police or something. I’ve seen it in her face. She’s going to take us down with her.”

  “I’m worried too, but what can we do about it?”

  Roxy Jones unzipped her handbag and took out the bag of pills. She handed them to Mick. He looked at them and shook his head.

  “I can’t,” he said, “She’s my girlfriend.”

  “Do you think she’ll visit you in jail?” Roxy said sternly.

  “She won’t talk; she’ll go to jail too.”

  “They’ll get her to make a deal, I’ve seen it happen before and besides, I have this for you.”

  She took out an envelope and placed it on the table. Mick opened it and carefully counted the money inside. There was more than three thousand pounds. Roxy took the pills and placed them in the envelope with the money.

  “This is a lot of money Mick,” she said and placed her hand over his. “It’s all yours. As long as you do one more thing and say nothing of this ever again.”

  Mick looked at the envelope then at Roxy. He finished the bottle of beer and stood up. He picked up the envelope.

  “Deal,” he said and staggered out of the bar.

  TWENTY SEVEN

  FIRST FIGHT

  Thursday 31 December 2008

  “Almost the end of another year Whitton,” Smith said, “any plans for tonight?”

  “Not yet sir,” she replied, “what about you?”

  “Anywhere far away from this place. I worked Christmas so some other sucker can deal with the drunks and hooligans tonight. I need a day or two away from the case. To clear my head. I think I’ll see the New Year in at the Deep Blues Club, I may even get up and play for a bit if I’m in the mood.”

  “Do you mind if I join you?” Whitton asked.

  “What, like a date?”

  “No,” Whitton blushed, “it would be nice to hear you play that’s all. How’s Theakston?”

  “Full time resident at the Hog’s Head at the moment. Marge doesn’t mind though, she says it’s a bit of company for her. I was thinking of having a few beers there first tonight; the Deep Blues Club doesn’t really get going until after ten.”

  “I�
��ll meet you there at around eight then,” Whitton suggested.

  “It’s a date,” Smith joked, “or not.”

  “Anything new on the horizon?” DI Chalmers poked his head round the door.

  “Nothing as yet sir,” Smith said, “We’re waiting for some DNA results. We need to find out who was the father of Lauren Cowley’s baby.”

  “Who’s in the running?”

  “Martin Willow of course, Frank Paxton and Susan Jenkins’ boyfriend, Mick Hogg.”

  “Odds on favourite?”

  “Martin Willow I suppose, we’ll have to wait and see.”

  “I believe your evidence did a runner,” Chalmers said with a wry smile.

  “Sir?” Smith asked.

  “The drugs,” Chalmers added, “I believe they had disappeared when you returned with the warrant.”

  “How did you know sir?” Smith looked at Whitton.

  “Don’t worry Smith, Whitton didn’t say a word, I play poker with Paul on Wednesday nights.”

  “Paul?” Smith was confused.

  “I think you know him as the Ghoul. Real bugger to play poker against. He brought me up to scratch and he speaks very highly of you Whitton. Paul’s very rarely impressed with anyone.”

  Smith looked at his watch.

  “That’s enough for today,” he said, “See you next year Sir.”

  “All the best Smith,” Chalmers said, “you too Whitton.”

  “Sorry Whitton,” Smith said when Chalmers had left.

  “So you bloody should be,” she glared at him, “I’ve got your back sir.”

  “Our first fight,” Smith smiled at her. She reluctantly smiled back.

  “See you at eight,” she said.

  TWENTY EIGHT

  UNFAITHFUL

  “Do you want another glass of wine?” Frank Paxton asked.

  “Go on then,” Roxy Jones replied, “I’ll be asleep before the clock strikes twelve though.”

  “How was Morocco or wherever it was you went?”

  “Same old shit. It doesn’t matter where you are in the world; a computer screen is a computer screen. Did I miss much while I was away?”