The York Trilogy: The First 3 DS Jason Smith Detective novels
Page 16
“Do you want us to wait for her and bring her in too sir?” Thompson asked.
“Not yet Thompson,” Chalmers said. “We’ll bring her in a bit later when we’ve heard what this Paxton has to say. Get him to write a note to say he’s been taken down to the station. Arrest him if you have to.”
“Sir?” Thompson was confused.
“I want her to start shitting her pants,” Chalmers sounded angry. “Just tell him to write a note to her saying he’s been taken in for questioning,” he said, “I’m sure you can manage that.”
He rang off.
“Something wrong?” Paxton asked.
“Just the opposite,” Thompson replied, “it looks like we might be getting somewhere. Would you mind leaving Roxy a note to let her know where you are?”
“What for?” Paxton said.
“Just do it please. Nothing fancy just tell her you’ve been taken in for questioning.”
Paxton shrugged, took the notebook from beside the telephone and wrote the note.
“I’ll drive Bridge,” Thompson said as they were ready to go, “I suddenly feel like driving.”
The sun was visible in the sky for the first time in weeks.
“Looks like the weathers changing Sir,” Bridge said as they drove, “I was starting to get depressed with all that rain. Did you know that the weather definitely has an affect on human behaviour?”
“No I didn’t,” Thompson humoured him. His mood was definitely lighter.
“It’s been proven sir. In parts of Scandinavia, they spend half the year in darkness. People top themselves like its going out of fashion in the winter there.”
“Very interesting Bridge,” Thompson sighed, “lovely topic of conversation.”
“And I reckon,” Bridge carried on undeterred.
“I reckon,” he repeated, “if you were to look at the statistics, you would find that most of the murders too, were carried out when the weather was shit.”
“Bridge!” Thompson said, “that’s enough ok?”
“Sorry sir,” Bridge said, “I just think it’s interesting, that’s all.”
At the station, Frank Paxton was asked to take a seat in reception. Thompson and Bridge made a beeline for Chalmers’ office.
“Shut the door,” Chalmers ordered, “where’s Paxton?”
“In reception sir,” Thompson said, “what did Smith find in Tenerife?”
“Smith found Mick Hogg,” Chalmers replied, “at least Whitton did. It also seems that Paxton’s girlfriend paid a visit to Hogg and Susan Jenkins a few days ago. Smith and Whitton will be back tomorrow with Mick Hogg in tow. Seems he put up quite a struggle, tried to make a swim for it.”
“Swim for it?” Bridge asked.
“I’ll spare you the details Bridge but it seems as though Whitton is quite the hero.”
“Heroine Sir,” Thompson corrected him.
Chalmers just glared at him.
“Anyway,” he said, “The Jenkins woman seems to have been killed in the same way as the other one, the babysitter.”
“Lauren Cowley,” Bridge said.
“She was drugged and smothered with a pillow. This Hogg character sang like a bird, admitted to killing them both.”
“I must be missing something sir,” Thompson said meekly, “but what’s Roxy Jones got to do with all of this then?”
“Apparently, she’s the one who paid Jenkins to kill the babysitter with Hogg’s help. Jenkins developed a conscience and wanted to come clean so Roxy Jones paid Hogg even more money to shut her up for good.”
“What about Paxton?” Bridge asked, “Where does he fit into all of this?”
“Apart from knocking up the babysitter, it seems Frank Paxton is guilty of nothing but having dangerous taste in women.”
“What do you want us to do with him?” Thompson asked.
“Get him to make a statement. He obviously wants to get something off his chest.”
“When are Smith and Whitton due back sir?” Bridge said.
“Tomorrow afternoon,” Chalmers replied, “go and get Paxton’s statement before he changes his mind. Thompson, can I have a word?”
“I’ll go and prepare the statement,” Bridge said.
“What’s wrong sir?” Thompson said.
“About that piece of paper from earlier,” Chalmers said.
“Tear it up sir. I’ve changed my mind.”
Frank Paxton was talking on his phone when Bridge walked back through to the Police reception. He ended the call as soon as he saw Bridge.
“Could you come this way please,” Bridge said, “I’ll show you through to one of the interview rooms. Would you like something to drink?”
“No thanks,” Paxton replied, “Let’s get this over with shall we?”
“Is anything the matter Mr Paxton?” Bridge said. Paxton looked very pale.
“My girlfriend just phoned. She saw the note I left her. She’s on her way here with her lawyer and I have to warn you, she is fuming.”
“Let’s get this thing started then,” Bridge said.
Thompson emerged from Chalmers’ office with a smile on his face. He followed Bridge and Paxton into the interview room and closed the door behind him.
“Mr Paxton,” Thompson began, “you left a message on Detective Sergeant Smith’s phone in the early hours of New Years Day. Is that correct?”
“I did yes,” Paxton said, “I was pretty drunk but I needed to talk to someone.”
“You said you were the father of Lauren Cowley’s baby and you mentioned there was something else.”
Frank Paxton took a deep breath.
“What the hell,” he said, “on Christmas Eve, we had the Willows over for supper. We had Pavlova.”
“Go on Mr Paxton.”
“Roxy spiked it.”
“Spiked it?” Thompson said, “With what?”
“With some of her sleeping pills. Benzo something or other. They’re very strong tranquilisers.”
“Why did she want to drug the Willows?” Bridge asked.
“It sounds crazy,” Paxton said, “but when they arrived and they had their daughter, Penny with them, Rox thought if they ate the Pavlova laced with the drugs, it would make them sleepy and they would leave early. Roxy hates kids.”
“And why are you only telling us this now, Mr Paxton?” Thompson asked.
Paxton rubbed his temples.
“It’s such a mess,” he sighed, “after what happened to Wendy and little Penny and with Martin being arrested, I feel responsible somehow.”
Paxton’s phone started to ring. It was Roxy. The ringing stopped and the door was swung open. Roxy Jones stood there in the doorway with an elderly man standing behind her.
“This interrogation is over!” Roxy screamed.
“You can’t just barge in here,” Thompson said, “we have an official interview in progress.”
“What are you holding him for?” the elderly man demanded.
“Nothing,” Thompson replied, “Mr Paxton came here of his own free will. He is free to leave at any time.”
“Come on Frank,” Roxy ordered, “let’s get out of here before you do any more damage.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible Miss Jones,” Bridge said.
“Why the hell not?” Roxy was getting angry. “You said he was free to leave.”
“He is.” Bridge emphasised the word ‘He’, “but I’m afraid we’re going to have to place you under arrest as an accessory to the murders of Lauren Cowley and Susan Jenkins.”
THIRTY SEVEN
OLD CLOTHES
“Your colleague is a tough one Sergeant Smith,” Oficial Santos said as Whitton was drying herself with a towel.
“She caught him by herself, you say,” he added, “very impressive. I suppose you would like to get back to your hotel to change? I’ll have one of my men drive you back. Be ready at six thirty and I’ll pick you up for supper. Are you alright Sergeant? You are very quiet and your face is pale.”
Smith and Whitton sat in silence on the way back to the hotel. Whitton was cold and was looking forward to a hot shower and Smith was still shaken up about the way he had frozen on the shore.
“There are two messages for you Mr Smith,” the receptionist said as she handed him his room key.
“Thank you,” he said and followed Whitton up the stairs.
“I’m sorry Whitton,” Smith said as he opened the door.
“I’m cold,” Whitton said, “I need a shower, we’ll talk later.”
“We’ve got just over an hour,” he said, “Santos is picking us up at six thirty.”
Whitton could not hear him. She had already turned on the shower and was feeling the high pressure jets ease her muscles after the battle on the beach.
Smith opened the mini bar, took out a beer, opened it and finished it in one go. He took out another and placed it on the table while he read his messages. One was from DI Chalmers. It read – ‘Roxy Jones arrested in connection with the murders of Lauren Cowley and Susan Jenkins’. Smith sighed. At least their trip here had been worthwhile. The other message was merely a confirmation of their return flight details. Ten, tomorrow morning. Three tickets; Mick Hogg would be going with them. Whitton emerged from the bathroom with a towel around her.
“That’s better,” she said, “I can feel my legs again. Have you got one of those for me?” She pointed at the beer on the table.
Smith smiled.
“Of course,” he said. He took another beer out of the mini bar, opened it and passed it to her.
“We’re booked on a flight back to Manchester tomorrow morning,” he said, “we’re taking that scum bag back with us.”
Whitton frowned and took a sip of beer.
“I’m not sitting next to him,” she said, “I rescued the bastard; you can babysit him on the plane.”
“I think I can manage that.”
Whitton sat down on one of the two chairs in the room.
“When was the last time you went anywhere near the sea?” she asked.
Smith looked over at her. Her hair was wet and a few loose strands were hanging over her green eyes.
“Twenty Ninth November nineteen ninety eight,” He replied.
“The day your sister disappeared?”
“That’s right. How much did I tell you at New Year?”
“Just about how you were surfing and you looked over and your sister was gone. You said it was your fault and you cried.”
“I told you, I did not cry.”
He looked at his watch.
“We have half an hour,” he said, “is it possible for a woman to get ready in half an hour?”
“Watch me,”
“If you insist.”
“One second thoughts,” Whitton laughed, “I’ll get changed in the bathroom.”
Oficial Santos’ house was a twenty minute drive into the interior of the island. Santos drove very carefully.
“I believe you’re leaving us tomorrow?” he said, “and you’re taking the drowning man with you.”
Whitton laughed. She remembered a song of the same name, ‘The Drowning Man’ The Cure if she was not mistaken.
“The drowning man,” she repeated, “I’m not going to be allowed to forget that one am I?”
“You were very brave Constable,” Santos said, “this is my house here; it’s not exactly a mansion but I call it home.”
They drove up a drive way that seemed to go on for ever. It is a bloody mansion, Whitton thought as they finally reached the front of the house. Two impressive palm trees rose on either side of the building. The house was painted entirely in white with green window frames and trimmings. Santos parked the car and they got out. He led them to the most elaborate door Smith had ever seen.
“My brother makes doors,” Santos said noting Smith’s surprise, “very good ones. This one, he gave me as a birthday present. I had to knock out quite a bit of the frame to make it fit. He opened the door and gestured for them to go inside. The interior of the house was just as grand as the exterior; the floors were marble and a huge wooden staircase dominated the reception room.
“It’s rather cold this evening,” Santos said, “so we will eat inside. Come on through to the dining room. My wife is preparing food in the kitchen. What would you like to drink?”
“Beer please,” Smith said.
“Me too thanks,” Whitton added.
Santos led them through to an enormous dining room. In the centre of the room stood a twelve seater table exquisitely carved from different pieces of wood.
“Your brother?” Smith guessed.
“You’re a smart Policeman Smith,” Santos remarked, “Made from wood left over from the doors. It’s so big that he had to finish it off in here. We’ll never get it out again. I’ll get your beers, sit down and make yourself comfortable.”
A small girl of maybe four or five years old approached the table. She was holding an old doll.
“Good evening,” she said, “how do you do.”
Whitton smiled at her.
“Good evening,” she replied, “Como Te Llamas?”
The little girl’s brown eyes opened wide and she smiled.
“Mi Llamo Nita,” she said.
“Mi Llamo Erica.” Whitton held out her hand and the little girl took it tentatively.
“When did you learn Spanish Whitton?” Smith was amazed.
“About two days ago,” Whitton laughed, “that’s my whole vocabulary exhausted now.”
Santos returned with the beers.
“I see you’ve met my little Nita,” he said. He put his hand on the back of her neck. “She’s my Princess,” he said,” She’s been practicing her English all day.”
“We heard,” Whitton said, “She’s very good.”
A woman entered the room. She was in her mid thirties and she had blonde hair and pale blue eyes. She placed a large plate of unusual snacks on the table.
“My wife Shona,” Santos said.
Smith and Whitton stood up.
“Oh don’t be daft,” Shona said in a broad Dublin accent, “sit down, eat something; I’ll just be finishing off the supper.”
“You have an Irish wife?” Whitton said.
“I told you,” Santos smiled, “I spent a good few years there when I was young. I brought back a souvenir, but that’s a long story.”
“It’s such a shame we have to leave tomorrow,” Whitton said, “everyone is so friendly here.”
“The sunshine lifts the spirits,” Santos remarked, “when its dark and dreary it’s only natural for the soul to follow suit.”
“Very philosophical,” Smith mused.
“But you come from sunshine don’t you?” Santos said, “You’re Australian aren’t you?”
“A long time ago,” Smith sighed.
“And you’ve never returned?”
“Never felt the urge, I’ve been away for ten years.”
“Then you must have your reasons.”
Shona appeared with a dish that looked and smelled delicious.
“Food is served people,” Santos said, “this is my favourite; I’m sure you’ll like it.”
Shona placed the tray on the table. It looked like an elaborate stew.
“Looks delicious,” Whitton remarked, “I’m starving, it’s amazing what a dip in the sea can do for your appetite.”
Everyone laughed.
“Rosa Vieja,” Santos said, “roughly translated it means Old Clothes but don’t let that put you off. Dig in, as you say and help yourself to bread.”
The dish was a mixture of chicken, beef and pork. There were potatoes and a kind of bean Smith had never seen before.
“Garbanzo Beans,” Shona said, “it’s a traditional Canary peasant dish but I’ve added a bit of home; I cook it the Irish way.”
“Tastes delicious,” Whitton said, “where�
�s little Nita?”
“It’s past her bed time,” Santos said, “she ate earlier.”
Smiths phone rand in his pocket. Smith took it out. It was Chalmers.
“Sorry,” he said, “it’s my boss, it might be important.”
“Of course,” Santos agreed, “we’re Policemen twenty four hours a day.”
“Sir,” Smith answered the phone.
“Sorry to bother you Smith,” Chalmers began, “where are you?”
“Having supper with a Policeman friend,” Smith replied.
“I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news,” Chalmers said gravely.
Smith’s heart jumped.
“Go on sir,” he urged.
“Your house has been broken into. Your neighbour phoned. He noticed the broken window at the back when he let his cat out.”
“Shit,” Smith said under his breath, “was much taken?”
“We can’t tell yet. We’ve boarded up the window and Thompson has agreed to stay the night in case they decide to have another go.”
“Thompson?” Smith could not believe it.
“Yes,” Chalmers said, “apparently he’d had a huge fight with his wife and he was more than happy to help. It’s a long story; I’ll fill you in when you get back.”
“Thanks sir,” Smith said, “thanks for letting me know, I’ll see you when I get back.”
“Problems?” Santos could see the concern on Smith’s face.”
“Somebody broke into my house,” Smith replied.
“You’re kidding?” Whitton said. “Did they take much?”
“I’ll find out tomorrow,” he said, “it just riles me that someone robs me while I’m away trying to make the world a safer place.”
“My friend,” Santos said, “Manana, Manana. Tomorrow is another day. What you cannot rectify today is not worth worrying about until tomorrow. Eat up.”
“Ever the Philosopher,” Smith smiled, “you’re right. I think you and me are going to become good friends.”
THIRTY EIGHT
INTRUDER
Sunday 3 January 2009
“Did he give you any trouble?” Bridge asked as Smith, Whitton and Mick Hogg emerged through the Arrivals door at Manchester Airport.