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

by Stewart Giles

  “Quiet as a lamb,” Whitton said, “he seems more afraid of Roxy Jones than anything else.”

  “I don’t blame him,” Bridge said, “she is quite vicious. I believe you had a nice dip in the sea whiled you were away?”

  “Very funny,” Whitton said, “word travels fast. I’m sitting in the front on the way back to York; I’ve been as close as I ever want to get to this thug.”

  Smith opened the back door of Bridge’s car, pushed Hogg inside and sat next to him. He still had the handcuffs attached.”

  “Sorry about the break in at your place,” Bridge said as they left the airport car park.

  “Thanks Bridge,” Smith sighed, “I need to get there as soon as we get back. I believe Thompson looked after the place while I was away? I must thank him for the favour.”

  Bridge laughed.

  “His wife kicked him out sir,” he said, “You actually did him a favour.”

  “Why did she kick him out?”

  “They’d had a big fight. She wanted him to leave the force. She’d been nagging him for ages it seems. He was making himself comfortable in one of the empty cells when the call came through about your place. You did him a favour, he jumped at the chance.”

  “I must thank him anyway,” Smith insisted, “poor bastard.”

  “It looks as if Martin Willow is still going to go down for killing his wife sir,” Bridge said.

  The sign on the road indicated that York was fifty miles away.

  “What about Roxy Jones?” Smith asked.

  “We can only tie her to the murders of Lauren Cowley and Susan Jenkins. It seems the attacks on the Willows were mere coincidence.”

  “There’s no such thing as coincidence,” Smith said, “You should know that by now.”

  “I thought so too sir,” Bridge admitted, “but there is nothing to suggest that Roxy Jones had anything to do with it.”

  “Has she confessed to the other murders?” Smith asked.

  “Not yet sir, but the DI has an idea. She doesn’t know that we have him.”

  Bridge pointed to Mick Hogg who was silent in the back.

  “We’re going to let them accidentally bump into each other at the station.”

  Hogg’s face turned ashen.

  “Classic Police technique,” Whitton said.

  “Straight out of the movies,” Smith added, “let them both know the other is being questioned and see which one rats out the other first.”

  “But that’s not fair,” Hogg interrupted, “Roxy said she’d kill me if I didn’t keep my mouth shut.”

  Smith winked at Whitton.

  “Shut up you,” he said to Hogg, “you’re opinion ceased to count when you nearly drowned my colleague. Bridge, would you mind dropping me off at my house first, I’ll get to the station as soon as I can. I wouldn’t want to miss this for the world.”

  Smith’s house was in a bit of a state. There was fingerprint powder everywhere; empty beer cans covered the floor and his entire CD collection was spread across the living room floor. Some of the cases had been smashed. He heard the sound of the toilet being flushed upstairs, the adrenalin began to pump and he was instantly alert. He hid behind the door and waited as he heard the intruder start to walk down the stairs. He looked around the room for something he could use as a weapon. That was when he realised his guitar was gone. His precious Fender had been stolen. The anger boiled up inside him. He picked up an empty Jack Daniels bottle and held it ready, above his head. The intruder had reached the bottom of the stairs and was coming straight towards him. Smith was ready. As the intruder entered the room, Smith grabbed him around the neck with one hand and brought the bottle down with the other. The man was too quick. He countered the attack, stuck an elbow in Smith’s midriff and neatly flipped him over on to one of the couches.

  “How was the holiday Smith?” the man said.

  “Thompson!” Smith croaked, “Where the hell did you learn to do that?”

  “You pick up a few moves after twenty seven years in the force,” Thompson laughed.

  “Sorry if I scared you,” Smith said, “or not.”

  He stood up.

  “I didn’t know you were still here.”

  “So it seems,” Thompson said, “they had a real good go in here. Is there much missing?”

  “I’ll have to check but they’ve definitely taken my bloody guitar; I’ve had that for ten years.”

  “The fingerprint guys got loads of good prints.”

  “So I see,” Smith surveyed the room, “they’ve been unusually thorough.”

  “They get quite upset when its one of their own,” Thompson said, “you’ll need to make a list of what’s been taken and you’ll have to make a statement but I suppose you already know that.”

  “That can wait,” Smith said, “we need to get to the station. We’ve got Roxy Jones and Mick Hogg there; I reckon its going to be quite explosive.”

  “We’ll have to go in your car,” Thompson said, “my wife has taken mine; she’s gone to stay with her brother for a few days.”

  “No problem,” Smith said, “Oh and one more thing Thompson…”

  “What’s that?”

  “Thanks. Thanks for keeping an eye on the place; you didn’t have to.”

  “Does that mean we’re friends?” Thompson asked.

  “No,” Smith replied immediately.

  “Good,” Thompson said with a smile, “Let’s go.”

  THIRTY NINE

  CASE CLOSED?

  Smith and Thompson could hear the screams from the car park.

  “Sounds like my wife is in there,” Thompson joked.

  He opened the door to the Police station.

  “After you,” he said to Smith.

  Inside, Chalmers’ plan seemed to be working better than he had expected. Roxy Jones was being restrained by Bridge and two officers in uniform. Mick Hogg was cowering in one of the chairs in reception. Chalmers and Whitton were standing between the two suspects.

  “Which one shall we do first sir,” Smith said to Chalmers.

  “Our friend Hogg seems anxious to get away from her,” Chalmers pointed to Roxy Jones, “let’s see what he can tell us first. Thompson, you and Smith seem to have kissed and made up for the time being. You can sit in too.”

  Thompson smiled.

  “Yes sir,” he said.

  The elderly man who was with Roxy Jones earlier emerged from the bathroom.

  “Mr Atkins,” Chalmers addressed him, “I suggest you advise your client that this kind of behaviour will not work to her advantage.”

  “Are you threatening my client Inspector?” Atkins said.

  “Detective Inspector,” Chalmers replied, “and no, I’m not threatening her, I’m giving her a piece of advice that won’t cost her three hundred quid an hour. Would you like to sit in while we interview Hogg? He’s entitled to have a lawyer present.”

  “No bloody way,” Roxy Jones cried, “that moron is on his own now.”

  “Come through Mr Hogg,” Smith said, “we’ll use room number three; it’s my favourite.” He looked at Roxy Jones.

  “That’s where we interviewed your husband,” he added.

  “How many time do I have to tell you lot,” Roxy Jones screamed, “he’s not my husband, he’s nothing.”

  “Thompson,” Smith said, “are you joining us?”

  Thompson followed them down the corridor.

  “Interview with Mr Michael Hogg”, Thompson began, “Sunday 3 January 2009. Time 15.30. Present DS Thompson and DS Smith. Mr Hogg has declined the offer to have a lawyer present on the grounds that they are all, and I quote, crap. Where shall we start Mr Hogg? “

  “How long have you known Miss Jones?” Smith began

  “I hardly know her,” Hogg replied.

  “How can someone you hardly know get you to kill two people in just over a week? I’d hate to see what she could accomplish if she knew you well.”

  “She threatened me,” Hogg insisted.
>
  “So you said. What did she threaten you with?”

  “She said she’d kill me if I told anyone.”

  “Can I say something?” Thompson said.

  “Please do,” Smith replied.

  “Mr Hogg,” Thompson began, “you don’t seem to me the kind of person who would be scared easily. Why are you so frightened of this woman?”

  “Can I have something to drink?” Hogg asked.

  “In a minute Hogg, answer the question.”

  “Roxy is clever,” Hogg said, “and she has money. Do you know how much it costs to have someone killed these days?”

  “Enlighten us,” Smith sighed.

  “About five grand. That’s small change for someone like her.”

  “Ok,” Smith said, “so the recession is hitting the hit men too but you could let us help you.”

  “How can you help me?”

  “Listen Hogg,” Smith was becoming impatient, “Roxy Jones has a lawyer who earns more in a week than you’ve ever earned in a year. We know you killed Susan Jenkins and we’re pretty convinced you killed Lauren Cowley too. You’re going to jail; it’s up to you for how long.”

  “What do you mean?” Hogg asked.

  “Listen carefully, we have nothing on Roxy Jones except for your word and to be honest, your word doesn’t really count for much. Unless you help us, she’s going to get away with it.”

  “But she paid me,” Hogg said, “Twice. You can prove that.”

  “That’s going to be a bit of a problem. None of the money can be traced back to her. The first payment came from someone else’s bank account and the second payment was in cash and I doubt you have any of it left anyway.”

  “Can I have that drink now?” Hogg said.

  “I’ll get you some water,” Smith replied.

  “Interview paused,” Thompson said, “DI Smith is leaving the room.”

  He paused the machine.

  Smith walked back through reception and bought three bottles of water from the machine in the corner.

  “How are things going in there?” Chalmers asked.

  Smith looked over to where Roxy Jones was sitting with her lawyer.

  “Almost done Sir,” he said it loud enough for her to hear. “Hogg is thirsty; singing like a bird really dries out the mouth. He’s told us everything.”

  “Interview recommenced,” Thompson spoke into the microphone, “Time, 15.45. Present, DS Thompson and DS Smith.”

  Smith handed Hogg a bottle of water. He opened it and drank greedily.

  “Where were we?” Smith asked, “Oh yes, the money that Roxy Jones gave you.”

  “The first payment went straight into Susan’s bank account,” Hogg said, “but Roxy told me later she’d hacked into someone else’s account and sent the money from there.”

  “Who’s account?” Smith said.

  “That bloke who killed his wife,” Hogg said, “the one from the University.”

  “And the second payment?”

  “Roxy gave me three and a half grand in cash in Tenerife.”

  “And that can’t be traced to her either, so where does that leave us?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It means that you’re in deep shit Mr Hogg and Roxy Jones is going to get away with it. She’s going to sit back and watch you go down for this. How old are you Hogg?”

  “Twenty two,” Hogg replied.

  “Then you should get out just before you start to draw a pension,” Smith said, “if there is such a thing in forty years time.”

  “Forty years?” Hogg was sweating.

  “Forty years,” Smith repeated, “unless…”

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless you help us,” Thompson interrupted, “my colleague here is what you would call a by the book Policeman; he even studied the law for a few years. We know you killed those two women but you could argue, what’s the exact term DS Smith?”

  “Criminal duress,” Smith said, “if you argue that you killed them under duress or admit only partial liability then you can expect a much lighter sentence.”

  “And Roxy?” Hogg suddenly seemed very interested. “What will happen to her?”

  “Conspiracy to commit murder,” Smith said, “It carries the same sentence as murder.”

  “So she’ll be done for the murders, is that what you’re saying?”

  “If she’s found guilty, yes,” Smith said, “but that depends entirely on you. We need to know everything; times, dates, the whole lot.”

  “There’s one thing I still don’t understand,” Thompson said, “I can see why you killed Lauren Cowley; Roxy was the jealous girlfriend, but why Susan?”

  “She was getting scared,” Hogg said, “Roxy told me to kill her to keep her quiet. Susan was terrified that the cops were on to us and she’s a terrible liar.”

  “Didn’t that bother you,” Smith said, “killing your girlfriend?”

  “Like I said,” Hogg sighed, “Roxy could be very persuasive.”

  “Interview finished,” Smith announced suddenly, “Time 16.15.” He turned the machine off.

  “Are we done?” Thompson looked surprised.

  “Officially, yes we are,” Smith replied with a wry smile.

  He leaned over the table so he was closer to Mick Hogg.

  “I don’t like you Hogg,” he said, “but what I like even less are rich murderers with fancy lawyers getting away with it. You are going to make a statement that implicates Miss Jones in both of these murders. Do you hear me?”

  “Loud and clear,” Hogg said nervously.

  “How are your creative writing skills Thompson?” Smith asked.

  “I don’t like the sound of this,” Thompson replied.

  “Would you rather see Roxy Jones’ smug face as the judge pronounces her not guilty?”

  “No, but…”

  “I’m not asking you to do anything illegal Thompson; I just happen to know a bit about the other side of the law. All you need to do is jazz up the statement a bit with a few poignant phrases like terrified of Roxy Jones and fearful for my life. Otherwise, just keep to the facts.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Thompson sighed.

  “Good,” Smith said, “and I’m going to see how that lawyer of Roxy Jones’ can justify the fees he charges.”

  FORTY

  CONFESSION

  “Done and dusted,” Smith said triumphantly as he swaggered through the reception area, “We should be able to put this one behind us soon. The Super will be happy.”

  He smiled at Roxy Jones.

  “Miss Jones, would you follow me please.”

  Roxy Jones stood up.

  “Whitton,” Smith said, “can I have a quick word.”

  “Of course sir,” she replied.

  “Whitton,” Smith said when they were out of earshot, “I want you to help me with this one.”

  “What have you got up your sleeve sir,” she asked.

  “I’m going for the jugular,” he replied, “I’m not going to stand and watch this woman get away with it. I’m going to hit her where it hurts; I just want to warn you beforehand ok?”

  “I’ll be ready sir.”

  “Where’s Bridge?” Smith asked as they made their way to the interview room.

  “Called out sir,” Whitton said, “domestic.”

  “Get hold of him. I need him to bring in Miss Jones’ computer. Come through,” he said to Roxy Jones, “we’ll use room two; Hogg has left behind a particularly unpleasant smell in room three.”

  He closed the door behind them.

  “Have a seat please,” Smith said.

  He pulled another chair out for Roxy Jones’ lawyer. Atkins looked at his watch.

  “You can start the meter now Mr Atkins,” Smith joked, “or has it been running since Miss Jones called you?”

  “Enough of the sarcasm Sergeant,” Atkins said, “can we get on with this; I’m a very busy man.”

  “Me too,” Smith smiled, “you’re r
ight of course, this shouldn’t take too long. Miss Jones, what can you tell us?”

  Roxy Jones looked at her lawyer.

  “Don’t say anything,” he advised her.

  “Very well then,” Smith said, “looks like it’s up to me to begin.”

  There was a knock at the door and Whitton entered the room.

  “Mr Hogg,” Smith continued, “has told us everything and is busy putting it down on paper.”

  He turned on the recording device.

  “He’s lying!” Roxy Jones screamed, “I don’t know what he’s told you but he’s a liar.”

  “Miss Jones,” Atkins said, “don’t say anything.”

  “I don’t think this thing was turned on in time anyway.”

  Smith pointed to the tape machine.

  “Would you mind screaming that again,” he smiled.

  “Sergeant,” Atkins said gravely, “I’m warning you, if you can’t take this seriously then I’m afraid I’ll have to take this up with your superiors.”

  “Fair point,” Smith said, “as I said, Hogg has put us in the picture about Lauren Cowley, the baby.”

  Smith looked directly at Roxy Jones.

  “Or should I say Frank’s baby?” he added.

  The room went silent but Roxy Jones’ face reddened.

  “Where was I?” Smith said, “Oh yes, we know about Martin Willow’s bank account, Tenerife, pretty much everything. Why did you go to Tenerife Miss Jones?”

  “I didn’t go to Tenerife,” Roxy Jones replied.

  “First lie of the day,” Smith said, “we’ve got at least three people who saw you there.”

  “They’re mistaken,” Roxy Jones insisted, “you can’t prove I was on any plane to Tenerife”

  Smith looked at Whitton and gave her a nod. He had decided to take another approach. “Let’s start at the very beginning shall we?” he said, “Miss Jones, when did you find out about Frank and Lauren Cowley?”

  “That Bitch,” she replied, “Frank was old enough to be her father. Frank used to go for drinks with Martin sometimes after work.”

  “Martin Willow?” Smith asked.

  “Yes. Martin always seemed to have a stream of groupies running after him; this Lauren bitch was one of them.”

  “Is this really relevant Sergeant?” Atkins asked.