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

by Stewart Giles

  “No we didn’t,” she interrupted him. “We didn’t,” she repeated, “you were just in a bit of a state last night that’s all.”

  “I can’t remember coming home.” He held his head in his hands, “I feel like crap, did I embarrass myself at the club?”

  “You played beautifully but just after midnight you became slightly, what’s the word? Pissed, that’s it. You insisted we go to another club.”

  “Oh Christ,” he said, “My head hurts like hell. I didn’t cause any trouble did I?”

  “You picked a fight with a bouncer.”

  “I hate bouncers; they think they’re a law unto themselves.”

  “Well this one was quite well behaved. He threatened to call the Police if you didn’t leave.”

  “What did I do?”

  “When you told him you were the Police and you were going to arrest him for being in possession of an offensive face, I pulled you out of there and called a taxi.”

  “Thanks Whitton,” Smith said, “why are you in my bed?”

  “When we got back here you got all sentimental and said you wanted to talk. You told me about your sister and how she disappeared. I think that guy last night brought up some pretty nasty memories. You asked me to stay with you; you didn’t want to be alone. Oh, and you cried.”

  “I did not bloody cry.”

  “You did, you cried. You told me to never leave you and you cried.”

  “Do you want some coffee?” Smith changed the subject, “I need some and if you tell anybody I cried your life won’t be worth living ok?”

  “Understood sir,” Whitton smiled, “coffee would be great.”

  As Smith made coffee, he thought about the dream. Why was it different?

  “Whitton,” he called up the stairs.

  “I’m in the bathroom,” she replied, “I’ll be down in a minute.”

  Smith put the two cups of coffee on the table in the kitchen. Whitton came in and sat down.

  “Whitton,” Smith said, “that guy who sat by you in the Blues club last night.”

  “Mister White,” she replied, “I see your memory is coming back.”

  “What did he say about my sister?”

  “That she is still alive.”

  “What did he mean by that?”

  “That’s all he said. Tell Jason his sister is not dead. I gave you his card; he seemed keen to talk to you.”

  “What did I do with the card?”

  “You put it in your pocket I think.”

  Smith checked his pockets.

  “It’s not here,” he said, “Damn. I wonder what he wanted to talk about. This doesn’t make sense.”

  “Maybe you left it at the Blues Club.”

  “Good thinking, I need to collect my guitar later. I’ll see if I dropped it. Good God, my head hurts, I need to go and fetch Theakston too. Happy New year by the way Whitton, I don’t know if I wished you last night.”

  “Many times,” Whitton laughed, “I’ll tell you what, I’ll drive you to the Blues Club and then we’ll go to the Hog’s Head. A Steak and Ale pie will sort you out.”

  “Smith smiled. “Thanks Whitton,” he said, “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  The Deep Blues Club was locked up when Smith and Whitton got there. Smith took out his phone and dialled Mad Dog’s number. He noticed he had had a missed call at one that morning. On the third or fourth ring the door of the club opened and Mad Dog stood there, phone in hand. He was dressed in just his underpants and a T shirt.

  “Jason,” Mad Dog said, “It’s always nice to see you but it’s a bit bloody early isn’t it?”

  “Its lunch time mate,” Smith said, “I need to fetch the Fender and I think I might have dropped something in here last night.”

  “You were unbelievable last night,” Mad Dog said, “you were really in the vibe. Come in.

  He smiled at Whitton.

  Inside the club, Smith went straight to where he was sitting the night before.

  “Did anyone sit here after we left?”

  “Of course,” Mad Dog replied, “this place was pumping until after five.” He looked at the clock on the wall. “That was approximately seven hours ago.”

  Smith spotted something under one of the table legs. He bent down and picked the card up; it had been used to stop the table from wobbling. He unfolded the card.

  “Got it Whitton,” he said, “White and White exporting. Let’s go, my stomach is making strange noises.”

  Smith picked up his guitar, put it in the case and locked it.

  “Thanks Mad Dog,” he said, “get some sleep; you look worse than I feel.”

  As they drove to the Hog’s Head Smith took out his phone to see who had phoned him early that morning.

  “This is interesting Whitton,” he said, “Frank Paxton phoned me at one this morning.”

  “That was about the time you asked that bouncer for a dance,” Whitton smiled, “did he leave a message.”

  “Just checking,” Smith opened up his messages, “yes he did.”

  Smith dialled the voice mail retrieval number, put the phone on speaker phone and played the message. Frank Paxton sounded very drunk, his voice was barely audible. Smith played the message twice but there were still parts he could not understand.

  “Pull over,” he said, “this sounds intriguing.”

  “Sergeant Smith,” Paxton said, “This is Paxton, Frank Paxton. Sorry about the hour but I have a feeling that you never sleep anyway. I need to get something off my chest. You will no doubt find all this out anyway. I am the father of Lauren’s baby. I had a very brief fling with her a while ago. I just want to make it clear that I had nothing to do with the murders and neither did Rox. It might look like it but Rox just did something very stupid…”

  He stopped there.

  “Play that again,” Whitton said. She sounded excited. “I heard something in the background,” she added, “right at the end. It sounded like a woman’s voice. Maybe Roxy Jones.”

  Smith played the message again.

  “There!” Whitton said, “Did you hear that? The woman’s voice, what the hell are you doing you idiot?”

  “So,” Smith smiled, “Frank Paxton is a real dark horse. The father of Lauren Cowley’s baby. That changes everything but it can wait until I’ve fed this hangover of mine.”

  The Hog’s Head was quiet when Smith and Whitton walked in. Marge was sitting by the fire with Theakston on her lap.

  “Hi Marge,” Smith said, “I need a large coke and a pie or I think I’m going to pass out. How’s Theakston been?”

  “He’s been as good as gold,” Marge smiled, “he’s buggered though, real party animal this one. He stayed up until the last customer had left. I’ll get your order. Can I get you anything love?” She smiled at Whitton. “This Australian suffers from a lack of manners sometimes.”

  “Just a glass of water please Marge,” Whitton replied, “I need to get home; I’m still in the same clothes I wore last night.”

  Marge had a naughty twinkle in her eyes.

  “It’s about time you two got serious,” she said.

  “Marge,” Smith said, “my stomach is busy digesting organs one by one.”

  “Ok, ok, it’s on its way.”

  “That puppy of yours is getting fat,” Whitton said

  She patted Theakston on the head.

  Smith laughed.

  “I think he’s enjoying the good life in the pub too much,” he said, “When we put this case behind us, I’m going to look after him properly.”

  Whitton cast him a doubting look.

  “I will,” he insisted

  His phone buzzed inside his jacket. He took it out and looked at the screen.

  “Crap,” he said, “Work. Shall I ignore it?”

  “You never ignore your phone,” Whitton said, “that’s one thing about you.”

  Smith answered the phone. From his expression as he listened, Whitton could tell that it was not good news.
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  “First thing in the morning,” he said and rang off.

  “Bad news sir?” Whitton asked.

  “How’s your Spanish Whitton?” he said.

  “Sir?”

  “How’s your Spanish? Pack a bag. I know it’s a bit soon but we’re off on our first holiday together; we’re going to Tenerife.”

  THIRTY THREE

  MR AND MRS SMITH

  Saturday 2 January 2009

  “Detective Sergeant. I am Oficial Santos,” the officer shook Smith’s hand, “and this is my colleague, Agente Carlos. We are with the CNP, the Cuerpo Nacional de Policia.”

  “Jason Smith,” he replied,” and this is Detective Constable Erica Whitton.”

  Whitton stared at Smith, this was the first time Smith had used her first name at work.

  “Oficial Santos,” Smith continued, “I must say that we appreciate you calling us.”

  “You have my man here to thank for that Detective,” Santos said, “he is very diligent. We know the dead woman is Miss Susan Jenkins, we could find that out from her passport but Agente Carlos here found a student union card in her purse. It was from York University.”

  “You contacted us very quickly,” Smith said, “I’m impressed. I believe the woman was only found yesterday.”

  “Common courtesy Detective,” Santos smiled, “and I would hope that you would reciprocate should the shoe be on the other foot as it were.”

  “Your English is impeccable,” Whitton said, “there are a few people in York who could learn a thing or two from you.”

  Santos beamed.

  “Thank you,” he said, “I spent a good many years in Ireland when I was younger.”

  His chest seemed to have swelled up with pride.

  “What do we know so far?” Smith asked.

  Agente Carlos produced his notebook. He nervously turned a few pages.

  “I’m sorry my English is not good like my Oficial,” he began, “but I get by. Girl found by cleaner tomorrow afternoon at two.”

  “Yesterday,” Santos corrected him.

  “Yesterday,” Carlos repeated, “at two.”

  “We believe this woman is involved in a murder investigation,” Santos said.

  “She could be,” Smith replied, “how do you know that?”

  “Your friends in York seem very open with their information. I once had to liaise with some of your fellow Police in London. Those guys are so bloody secretive.”

  Whitton laughed.

  “We’re a bit more rough and ready up north, Oficial,” she said.

  “Yes,” Smith added

  He looked at Whitton.

  “Yorkshire folk are very forward,” he said, “they have a saying in Yorkshire – I say what I like and I like what I bloody well say.”

  “That’s funny,” Santos said.

  “Can we see the room where the woman died?” Smith asked.

  “Of course,” Santos replied, “we’ll drive there now and this evening you will both have supper with me and my family. Where are you staying?”

  “My inspector thought it would be a good idea to stay at the hotel where the woman was found.”

  “Very clever. You can get a feel about what happened. We’ll go in my car. Carlos will drive; he drives like a lunatic but I assure you he’s quite safe.”

  “Tenerife is very beautiful,” Whitton said as they drove to the hotel, “It must be very nice to live here, it’s warm, even in January.”

  “We get five million tourists here each year,” Santos said, “they are good for business but it gets too crowded. January is a very nice time, very quiet and this, Miss Whitton is what we call cold weather.”

  “What happened to the dead woman’s boyfriend?” Smith interrupted.

  “I can see you’re a very good Detective,” Santos said, “but we know nothing of any boyfriend.”

  “Susan Jenkins was here with her boyfriend, Mick Hogg.”

  “No boyfriend, just the woman. This is the hotel here. I’m afraid the body had to be taken away; a dead body in one of the rooms is not good for business but we informed the staff to leave the room exactly as it was until you got here.”

  “Thank you Official,” Smith said, “I appreciate it.”

  “Oficial,” Santos corrected him, “it’s the CNP equivalent of Sergeant.”

  “Sorry Oficial. We’re going to check in first and then we’ll take a look at the woman’s room.”

  “Will you be requiring anything else from us Detective?” Santos asked.

  “Not for the moment,” Smith replied, “thank you again for all your help.”

  Santos handed Smith his card.

  “This is my number,” he said, “I’ve written my address on the back. You’ll come at seven and my wife will cook for you.”

  “Thank you Oficial, see you then.”

  The hotel lobby was deserted as Smith and Whitton walked up to the Reception desk.

  “Good Morning,” Smith said, “we have reservations, the name’s Smith.”

  “Mr and Mrs Smith,” the receptionist smiled, “yes, here it is. Room 260, I just need your passports please.”

  “Mr and Mrs Smith?” Whitton whispered to Smith, “How corny is that?”

  “You are the English Police aren’t you?” the receptionist said.

  “That’s right,” Smith said

  He noticed the look on Whitton’s face.

  “Excuse me,” he said, “you don’t perhaps have another room? We’re not actually Mr and Mrs Smith. Detective Whitton is actually my colleague.”

  “I’m sorry Sir,” the receptionist said, “there was only one room reserved and, even though it’s our quiet time the hotel was fully booked up a while ago by the London Philatelist society.”

  “The what?” Smith asked.

  “Stamp collectors sir,” Whitton said.

  “Breakfast is served from seven until nine,” the receptionist added, “Here’s your key, number 260, second floor.”

  “Can we see the room where the woman was found?” Smith asked.

  “The room next to yours I’m afraid. I’ll give you a while to settle in and then I’ll ask the manager to come up and see you.”

  “Thank you,” Smith said. He looked over at Whitton. “Come on Mrs Smith,” he said, “smile, we’re on holiday.”

  THIRTY FOUR

  RESIGNATION

  “What the hell is this piece of shit Thompson?” Chalmers was not in the best of moods; he had not had a cigarette for two days.

  “It’s what it says sir,” Thompson backed off a couple of steps, “my resignation.”

  Chalmers took two steps forward. Thompson could smell the chewing gum in Chalmers’ mouth.

  “We’re deep in the middle of a bloody murder investigation Thompson,” Chalmers boomed.

  “But sir,”

  “But sir nothing. Clear this case up and we’ll talk, I might even accept this piece of drivel.” He pointed to the letter. “Then you can go off and play bowls or whatever. What’s brought this on all of a sudden anyway?”

  “It’s not sudden sir. I’ve been thinking about it for a while, I just don’t feel appreciated.”

  “Appreciated!” Chalmers voice was getting louder. “Appreciated,” he repeated, “grow a pair of balls for god’s sake Thompson. How long have you been on the force? Twenty, thirty years?”

  “Twenty seven years sir and I’m still a Sergeant.”

  “You’re still a Sergeant because, and don’t repeat this, you’re a bloody good Sergeant and, to be brutally honest, you’d make a crap Inspector.”

  “I just don’t think it’s fair that…”

  “This is about Smith isn’t it?” Chalmers interrupted him.

  “How does he get to jet off to some sunshine island with his mistress while I’m stuck with the shit here?”

  “Smith’s the right man for the job Thompson. He’s, how can I put this without you pissing your pants, he’s more worldly wise than you and Whitton is a bloody goo
d officer.”

  “But sir.”

  “Enough of this but sir crap. Instead of bawling like a baby, why don’t you use Smith’s absence as an opportunity to show all of us what you’re made of? Before Smith and Whitton left, Smith gave me a recording of a message left on his phone in the early hours of New Years Day.”

  He handed Thompson the tape.

  “Listen to it,” he said, “and then pay this Paxton character a visit. I’ve got a feeling that him and his girlfriend are in this shit deeper than we think. Take Bridge with you and use that wasted talent of yours to get to the bottom of this.”

  “Talent sir?”

  “You’re a mean miserable old bastard Thompson. Use that to your advantage and you may just get one over on your friend Smith. Now piss off.”

  Chalmers spat out his chewing gum.

  “This nicotine gum doesn’t work,” he moaned, “I’m going out for a smoke.”

  Thompson stormed out of Chalmers’ office. He found Bridge in the canteen eating a sandwich.

  “Eat up Bridge,” he ordered, “we’ve got a murder to solve.”

  “What was on the tape sir,” Bridge asked as they drove.

  “Frank Paxton got Lauren Cowley pregnant,” Thompson replied, “he confessed to Smith on New Years Day. He also wanted to say something else but he was stopped.”

  “What do you think it was sir?”

  “That’s what we’re going to find out. That girl who’s computer you broke into.”

  “Hacked sir,” Bridge corrected him.

  “Susan Jenkins,” Thompson ignored him, “she was found dead in Tenerife. Her boyfriend has disappeared.”

  “The one who Martin Willow paid?”

  “That’s her. Smith and Whitton are there now.”

  “Tenerife?” Bridge exclaimed, “They get all the luck.”

  “Just drive Bridge,” Thompson said, “let me think.”

  They drove in silence for a couple of miles.

  “Sir,” Bridge broke the silence, “there’s something that doesn’t make sense.”

  “There are a lot of things that don’t make sense Bridge,” Thompson sighed, “go on.”

  “If Frank Paxton is the father of Lauren Cowley’s baby, why is it that Martin Willow paid Susan Jenkins fifteen hundred quid?”