“Apart from the police paying me regular visits, not much. Oh, and I went to see Martin.”
Roxy looked furious.
“What the hell did you do that for?” she screamed, “he’s a bloody murderer.”
“He’s my friend. He’s our friend and he still can’t remember anything about that night.”
“What did the police want, apart from breaking our bathroom cabinet?”
“That’s the strangest thing,” Frank said, “They searched our bins and took away what was left of the Pavlova we had.”
Roxy finished her glass of wine in one go.
“They did what?” she exclaimed.
“They seemed very interested in the Pavlova.”
“Shit, I laced it.”
“You did what?”
“When I saw they’d brought Penny, I crushed some of my sleeping tablets into the cream inside.”
“What the hell did you do that for?”
“To get them to leave early, I obviously didn’t put enough in. What if they find it?”
“They will find it; I can’t believe you could be so stupid.”
“I’m not the one who’s made friends with most of the bloody York police department.”
“You’ll have to tell them what you did.”
“Oh that’ll sound just perfect won’t it? I’m sorry officers but I accidentally drugged three people who just happened to end up in a vicious attack later.”
“They will find traces of the drug,” Paxton insisted, “they’re not stupid. It’ll be better for you if you approach them first; you need to put yourself in the clear. I gave them a DNA sample yesterday too.”
“This just gets better and better, what did you do that for?”
“I’m not sure; I think they need it to rule me out of any involvement.”
“You idiot, I think you’ve just ruled yourself very much in.”
“You’re not making any sense.”
“The babysitter who died.”
“Lauren something or other?”
“She was pregnant.”
It was now Frank Paxton’s turn to finish the rest of his wine.
“Oh my god,” he said, “they think I’m the father of the baby.”
“You are the bloody father,” Roxy poured more wine, “Do you think I’m stupid?”
“How long have you known?” Frank asked.
“I saw you,” Roxy began, “If you’re going to conduct a proper affair, at least have the brains to be discreet about it. I saw you with her in the town centre.”
“Oh Jesus,” Frank said and topped up his own wine.
“I spoke to one of her friends,” Roxy said, “and she confirmed what I thought. How long had you been sleeping with her?”
“Only once or twice,” Frank replied, “I realised that being unfaithful was not for me. I’d actually ended it. What are we going to do?”
“We’re not going to do anything; the police are going to find out that this woman was carrying your baby, I’m going to play the part of the wronged girlfriend and we’re going to wait it out.”
“What about the evidence?”
“What evidence? Just because you couldn’t keep your dick in your pants it doesn’t make you a murderer and lacing a bloody Pavlova with sleeping pills doesn’t make me one either. Now pour me some more wine. This is going to be a bloody marvellous New Year.”
TWENTY NINE
1999
The Hog’s Head was busy. Marge had hired two extra bar staff for the night. Whitton was already sitting at the bar when Smith walked in at fifteen minutes past eight.
“Am I late?” he asked her.
“Only just,” she smiled, “I’ve got you a drink.”
“I’m supposed to buy the drinks aren’t I?”
“Good old Australian chauvinism?”
“We call it chivalry,” he said, “thanks anyway. Have you seen Theakston?”
“He’s upstairs asleep; Marge said he’s better off up there away from the crowds.”
“I’ll just go and check on him anyway. Keep my seat will you.”
“Ok. Unless someone much better looking comes along.”
Theakston was curled up on a blanket next to the radiator in the kitchen. Smith stroked his belly. The puppy smiled and stretched out but did not wake up.
“I’ve got the day off tomorrow boy,” he said softly, “we’ll do something fun.” He left the puppy to his dreams.
“Are you going to play tonight?” Whitton asked as Smith sat down.
“I think so,” he replied, “I dropped my guitar off at the club earlier. I know the owner, it’ll be quite safe. He’s expecting quite a crowd tonight. You look very nice Whitton by the way.”
Whitton was wearing make up for a change and her hair was not tied up in its usual pony tail.
“Thanks.” Whitton blushed.
“Another drink?” Smith asked
“Ok,” she replied.
“I’ve organised our friend Dave to pick us up at half nine,” Smith said when he returned with the drinks.
“I like him,” Whitton said.
“He is quite a character,” Smith agreed, “He has a friendly face, smiling eyes. You can tell a lot about a person from their eyes.”
“Is that so?” Whitton laughed. “What can you tell about me?” She moved closer and looked him directly in the eyes. The make up highlighted the unusual green colour and for the first time, Smith noticed the light blue circles around the pupils.
“Well,” he said and studied her for a while, “your eyes are telling me that they belong to someone who shouldn’t really be buying drinks for her boss on New Years Eve.”
Whitton slapped him playfully on the shoulder and looked away.
“Seriously,” he said, “the rest of the night’s on me ok? That’s an order.”
“Yes sir!” she replied and raised her arm in a mock salute.
“Dave will be here soon,” Smith said, “drink up; you’re lagging behind.”
“I was trying to pace myself.” She finished her beer in one go. “There are still a few hours left of this year,” she added.
“How’s the case going Mr Smith?” Dave asked as he left the Hog’s Head car park.
“Getting closer every day Dave,” Smith lied, “you helped us a lot.”
He noticed that Dave was playing that corny Beatles song again, the one with the nonsensical name.
“I’ve remembered something else about Christmas Eve,” Dave added.
“Dave,” Smith said, “I’m actually enjoying a night off.”
“Sorry Mr Smith but I thought you might want to know that that man was very angry that night.”
“What man Dave?” Smith sighed.
“That man with the kid.”
“Martin Willow?” Smith was suddenly interested.
“That’s him,” Dave said, “The one the papers say killed his wife.”
“What do you mean angry?”
“He was in a very bad mood. Nasty man. He spoke to his wife like she was a pig. I got quite scared of what he would do. I was so glad when he got out, no tip too.”
“Ok Dave,” Smith stopped him, “that’s enough for now. Are you on duty all night?”
“All night,” Dave replied, “and all of the morning; there’s good tips to be made at this time of the year.”
“I’ll give you a ring when we need picking up again. This is the place here, how much do I owe you?”
“No charge for you Mr Smith.” Dave smiled at Whitton, “have a nice evening, I’ll see you later.”
The Deep Blues Club was situated between two shops on the outskirts of the city centre. During the day it was possible to walk past it without even realising it was there.
“There was something strange about that taxi driver tonight sir,” Whitton said as they were about to go in.
“What do you mean?” Smith asked, “And please don’t call me sir tonight.”
“I don’t know. I just can’
t put my finger on it.”
“He seemed fine to me,” Smith said, “let’s grab a good seat before this place starts to fill up.”
Smith led Whitton to his usual seat; a double padded chair with a small table in front. “Not too far from the stage,” he said, “but not too close that we won’t be able to talk over the noise.”
A middle aged man with thinning long hair in a ponytail approached them.
“Jason Smith,” the man said and stretched out his hand. “The Wizard of Oz, are you in the mood for jamming tonight?”
“Mad Dog Malone,” Smith shook his hand. “I am in the mood, yes,” he added.
“Then your drinks are on the house. Aren’t you going to introduce me?” He looked at Whitton.
“Erica,” Smith used her first name, “Meet Billy ‘Mad Dog’ Malone. He owns this dump and he plays the drums quite well too.”
“Nice to meet you Mr Malone,” Whitton said.
“Billy, please,” Mad Dog insisted, “I’ll have a waiter come and take your order. You two have a good evening.”
“I think you’re charmed Jason Smith,” Whitton said when they were alone, “do you ever have to pay for anything?”
“Charmed or cursed,” Smith mused, “what are we drinking tonight?”
The Deep Blues Club was slowly filling up. The lights over the small stage were switched on and Mad Dog assumed his usual position behind the simple four piece drum kit. He was joined on stage by a bass player and a guitarist.
“Are you going up?” Whitton asked.
“Not yet,” Smith said, “we’ve just got here, let’s just listen for a while.”
The shrill tones of a blues harmonica filled the room. Mad Dog tapped out an intro on the high hat; the bass joined in with a slow, ambling bass line. The guitarist played a single A chord and held it; there was a crash of a cymbal, a drum roll and then silence. Whitton looked at Smith with bewilderment in her eyes.
“Just wait,” he reassured her, “they always do that.”
The guitarist played the opening riff from Crossroads and the audience erupted.
“These guys are good,” Whitton said after a while, “either that or I don’t get out enough.”
Smith smiled at her. He was starting to forget about work; the music was soothing his soul and he happened to be in the company of a very attractive woman.
“So, Jason Smith,” Whitton said, “I know nothing about you. Tell me something.”
She was becoming quite merry.
“What do you want to know?” he replied, “Twenty six years old, Aquarius, Police Sergeant, no friends, no life, can’t even look after a dog. Anything else?”
Whitton laughed so loud that she could be heard over the music.
“Here’s to being a pair of complete losers.” She raised her glass.
“Let’s order some Bourbon,” Smith suggested, “real Blues drink. Jack Daniels,” he gestured to the waiter, “bring a bottle and two glasses.”
“This is going to be a night to remember,” Whitton said. “Or forget.”
“A few of these,” Smith said as the waiter put the bottle and glasses on the table, “the Mojo will be loose and I’m going to play.”
THIRTY
HOPE
“Ladies and Gentlemen of the audience,” The gravelly voice announced over the microphone. It was Mad Dog Malone. “We have one hour left of two thousand and eight and if the world goes boom at the stroke of midnight none of you will die with any regrets. For this final hour, we have a very special treat for you. A very good friend of mine is going to blow you away with his Blues Guitar. Let the man towards the stage. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you the Wizard of Oz himself, the one and only, Jason Smith.”
“No pressure then?” Whitton smiled as Smith rose to his feet.
Smith laughed.
“I might need this though,” he said and poured a full glass of Jack Daniels and took it with him to the stage.
He picked his Fender off the stand and plugged it into the amp.
“I’ve figured out a new one,” he said to the bass player, “Tea for One, the Joe Bonamassa version. Do you know it?”
The bass player nodded. His name was Jim and Smith reckoned he had emerged from the womb playing the bass, he could play anything.
Smith turned up the volume control and sat in the chair that had been provided for him. He always preferred to play sitting down.
The crowd was eerily quiet as Smith got comfortable. He then launched into the first chords of Tea for One. The music slowed and the deep voice of Jim, the bass player sang the first few words. ‘How come twenty four hours, seem to slip into days?’ The crowd went wild. Whitton was transfixed. She could not take her eyes off Smith. He began the guitar solo and closed his eyes as his fingers ran up and down the frets as though they were possessed. It was only when the song drew to a close that he opened his eyes again and stared at something in the distance like a man bewitched.
“Anybody in the mood for a bit of Hendrix?” Smith screamed into the mike. The audience cheered. “A bit of Voodoo?” he added.
He played the wah wah intro and the cheering got louder. There were people filling the dance area. Smith looked over to where Whitton was sitting. She was not alone anymore; someone was sitting in Smith’s seat. It was a man who looked older than Smith but he seemed very familiar. The man and Whitton were talking but Whitton seemed very uncomfortable. The song was about to end but Smith nodded to Jim to tell him to carry on playing, Smith felt like jamming. The harmonica player joined in and Smith slowed things down a bit. He played slow, gritty blues, no fancy scales, just haunting soul wrenching sounds. The crowd were mesmerised. Smith was not sure how long he had been playing but the sudden increase in tempo from Mad Dog on the drums told him it was time to wrap it up. Smith stood up, nodded to Mad Dog and played his signature finale, a slow minor run down the frets that ended in a continuous chord with an accompanying drum roll and crash of the cymbals. Smith turned off the amp, unplugged his guitar and replaced it on its stand.
The audience cheered as he walked back to his seat. A few of them patted him on the back.
“Wow,” Whitton said as he sat down, “you’re in the wrong job.”
“The force pay better,” he said and finished his drink, “besides, being in the Police is much better for your health.”
Whitton laughed.
“If you say so,” she said.
“Who was that guy who was sitting here while I was up there?” Smith asked.
“Getting jealous were you?”
“It’s not like that.” Smith had a serious expression on his face.
“I was joking,” Whitton said, “he just came and sat down, he said he saw us come in. He was very unnerving actually.”
“What did he want?”
“He says he knows you, or he used to. He needs to talk to you.”
“Where is he now?”
“He had to go; he wanted to see the New Year in somewhere else.”
“What time is it now?”
Whitton checked her watch. “Ten to twelve,” she said, “he left a business card.” She handed the card to Smith.
“White and White exporting,” Smith read from the card, “David and Lucy White. Perth Australia.”
“Do you know him?”
“David White,” Smith thought out loud, “Jesus Christ, Whitey.”
“So you do know him?”
“A long time ago. He was a real arsehole.”
“He said something else,” Whitton added, “something strange. That’s why he needs to talk to you.”
“What was that Whitton?”
“He told me to tell you that your sister is still alive.”
THIRTY ONE
ROOM SERVICE
Friday 1 January 2009
“Room Service,” Janet De Vos called as she knocked on the door for the second time. She looked at her watch. It was almost lunch time, time for her break and she was told she had to finish this r
oom before she could take it. She put her ear to the door. There was no sound from room 262 in the Casablanca Hotel.
“Room service!” she repeated, much louder this time, “I need to clean your room, it’s nearly two in the afternoon.”
There was still no answer. She tried the door. It was locked. She was becoming impatient. Using her master key, she unlocked the door and opened it slowly. She was instantly aware of an unpleasant odour; a mixture of stale alcohol and something she could not quite place. She opened the door further and peered inside. It looked like a bomb had gone off inside. The television was smashed to smithereens and was lying on the floor; the fridge had had its doors pulled off the hinges; there were broken bottles lying all over the floor and one of the windows had a huge crack in it.
Janet De Vos frowned. There goes my lunch hour, she thought. These English tourists always seemed to go wild when they were on holiday. The room seemed empty. They must have run off after causing all this damage. De Vos decided to phone down to reception to get the manager to come and take a look at the mess. She walked over to the telephone on the bed side table and that is when she found Susan Jenkins lying on her back by the side of the bed. Her eyes were open but she was definitely not awake. The screams of Janet De Vos’ could be heard in reception.
THIRTY TWO
HANGOVER
Jason Smith was having the dream again. It had been a few days since the last one. This time it was slightly different; he was underwater and he could just make out his sister a short distance away. He called out to her but the sound was muted by the water. He swam over and took her hand. She smiled at him and they swam to the surface together. As they broke the surface, Laura had disappeared again.
He woke up with sweat covering his whole body. He sat up in bed and took a deep breath. There was a woman lying next to him.
“Shit!” he said much louder than he intended to.
Erica Whitton woke up with a start.
“Are you alright?” she said. She rubbed her eyes, “you’re covered in sweat.”
“Whitton,” Smith said sheepishly, “what are you doing here? We didn’t…”
The York Trilogy: The First 3 DS Jason Smith Detective novels Page 13
