“Smith,” he said, “it’s been a long time. Where are you?”
“In Leicester,” Smith replied, “this place is a nightmare to get around.”
“You get used to it,” Whitey said, “what road are you on?”
“Aylestone Road,” Smith said, “No, now it’s bloody changed. It’s now Oxford Road.”
“Ok,” Whitey said, “keep left, turn onto Saint Nicholas and follow it round to High Street. There’s parking at the Shires shopping centre. I’m just round the corner on Silver Street. Look for the Magic Balti restaurant; there’s a plaque with my name on it. Just ring the bell and I’ll let you in.”
He hung up.
Whitey’s directions were perfect. Smith found the shopping centre and parked his car in the multi storey car park. It was raining as he walked outside but it seemed a few degrees warmer than in York. As he walked he was overcome by a feeling of dreadful expectation. If what Whitey had said was true and his sister was still alive, what had become of her? What happened on that beach over ten years ago had determined the direction of his life. Laura would be nineteen now.
The Magic Balti restaurant was one of those typical tacky Indian restaurants that had sprung up all over England in the past twenty years. The windows were dark and over them hung an awning in the shape of the Taj Mahal. To the left of the restaurant there was a plaque. It read ‘White and White exporting. Perth, Leicester, Hong Kong, Bejing’. Smith noticed that room had been left on the plaque for additional information. Whitey’s done alright for himself, Smith thought as he rang the bell. The door clicked open almost immediately. Smith went inside and closed the door behind him. As he climbed the stairs he suddenly had feelings of doubt. Should he be here? What did Whitey have in store for him? Smith had despised Whitey when he was growing up and he was sure that the feeling was mutual. The door at the top of the stairs was open but Smith knocked anyway.
“Come in Jason Smith,” Whitey shouted from inside. He still had the annoying nasal drawl. Smith walked in to find Whitey sitting behind a desk next to the window.
“David White?” Smith said.
Whitey had changed almost beyond recognition. His once blonde hair was darker with grey stripes on the side; his face was ashen and puffy. Whitey stood up; he seemed shorter and he was definitely a good few pounds heavier.
“Ten years can change a person dramatically,” he said noting Smith’s surprise, “You haven’t changed a bit though.”
“I’m very different inside,” Smith said but regretted it instantly, “do you usually open the door for just anybody? You should be more careful.”
“Like I said,” Whitey said, “you haven’t changed a bit, I saw you from the window. What’s Jason Smith up to these days?”
“No Smith shit then?” Smith joked.
Whitey smiled.
“I was a bit of a prick back then wasn’t I?” he said.
“Just a bit,” Smith agreed, “you seem to be doing alright for yourself now. Leicester, Perth, Hong Kong, Bejing. Very impressive.”
“We’re just about to crack Canada too,” Whitey said, “we tried to get into America but those sepos are so full of shit.”
“Sepos?” Smith asked.
“Septic Tanks, Yanks. You’ve been away from home too long.”
“York’s my home now.” Smith corrected him.
“So what does Jason Smith do in York? I believe the surfing’s not too hot there.”
“I’m a Policeman,” Smith said, “Detective Sergeant and I love York.”
“A Policeman?” Whitey was amused. “I never would’ve had you pegged for a cop,” he said.
“I studied law for a while but that’s another story,” Smith said, “why did you come looking for me and how did you find me?”
“I thought you were the detective,” Whitey joked, “come over here, I want to show you something.” He pointed to his computer.
“Unfortunately you have a real pain of a name,” he began, “You can’t just punch in Jason Smith on the Google search engine; you’ll get a million hits but you can narrow it down.”
Smith was confused.
“I don’t get it,” he said.
“Ok,” Whitey said, “what do we have? Jason Smith, Australian, York, Guitarist.”
He pressed the enter key and a familiar sight appeared on the screen.
“The Deep Blues Club,” Smith was amazed, “they’ve got reviews on here.”
“Yes my friend,” Whitey smiled, “you’re famous.”
“But how did you know I’d be there on New Years Eve?” Smith asked.
“For a copper, you’re pretty naïve,” Whitey said, “I’m a business man which means I basically bullshit for a living. I phoned the club, pretended I liked your style and asked them when you’d be playing next.”
“As simple as that?”
“As simple as that.”
“But why?” Smith asked, “It’s been ten years.”
Whitey took out a packet of cigarettes.
“Smoke?” he said.
“No thanks,” Smith replied.
“Probably for the best.”
Whitey lit a cigarette, inhaled and coughed loudly.
“Listen Smith,” he said, “are you sure you want to know what became of your sister?”
“I came all this way didn’t I?” Smith replied, “Why are you telling me this now?”
“Mortality,” Whitey sighed.
“Mortality?” Smith repeated.
“When you realise the extent of your own mortality you do strange things. Your brain triggers off emotions you never thought existed.”
“You’re not making much sense Whitey,” Smith said.
“A conscience is a very destructive thing Smith. I’m a very rich man. I have land in China and Hong Kong that is worth more than most people earn in twenty lifetimes. It hasn’t been handed to me on a plate though; I’ve built up an exporting empire through lying, cheating, scheming and crushing anyone who got in my way. But at what cost? What cost Smith?”
“You’re dying aren’t you?”
“Now the Detective is showing his face, well done. I have lung cancer; I’ve known for some time but now it’s too late.”
Smith did not know what to say.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “You can get treatment for it.”
“It’s too late for that,” Whitey said, “and besides, I don’t want to be treated. You sound like my doctor. I’ve accepted my fate but this new found conscience is eating away at me more than the cancer. My affairs are in order; Lucy will be a very rich woman when I go.”
“Lucy?” Smith exclaimed, “You married Lucy McClean?”
“Lucy left me five years ago,” Whitey sighed, “we never quite got around to getting a divorce. I was trying to make enough money so we could have a nice life together. It’s the cruellest of ironies, the more money I made, the more she despised me. Lucy was the one who told me I was going to work myself into an early grave; clever woman that one.”
“I’m sorry to hear all this,” Smith said, “but what about my sister? What really happened to Laura?”
“Listen to me,” Whitey said, “I used to see self pity as a weakness. I hope you’re ready. You’re going to find this hard to take in but let’s go back to that day on the beach in ninety eight.”
FIFTY ONE
CHARMED
“They’ve set a date for the trial,” Thompson said smugly.
“What trial?” Whitton asked.
“Martin Willow’s of course.”
“That was quick; I wonder what will happen to him.”
“Not you as well Whitton?”
“What do you mean sir?”
“You and Smith still think he’s innocent don’t you?”
“There’s something missing,” Whitton said, “something important. There was no murder weapon found and there’s still no motive.”
Thompson shrugged his shoulders.
“Any jury will find him guilty,
” he said, “I say we put the whole thing behind us.”
“When Smith gets back,” Whitton said, “he’s going to do a bit more digging.”
“He’ll be wasting his time,” Thompson insisted, “he’s not going to find anything; there’s nothing to find. Haven’t you got something to do?”
“I’m actually supposed to have a few days off sir,” she said, “but with Smith’s little outburst, we’re a bit short staffed. The DI wants to see me about something.”
“Where is Smith anyway?”
“Off on his own mission; something important he had to do.”
“That idiot can get away with anything,” Thompson scoffed.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s a loose cannon,” Thompson replied, “only he could get away with knocking the living shit out of someone and be rewarded with a bloody holiday.”
“He must be charmed sir.” Whitton’s face reddened slightly.
“In league with the devil more like.”
“Anyway sir,” Whitton said, “much as I like to spend time with you, I’d better not keep the DI waiting.”
“Whitton,” Chalmers said in an uncharacteristically soft tone, “I’ve been thinking.”
“What about sir?” Whitton was intrigued.
“I’ve been in this job for thirty years,” he began, “I’ve seen murderers put away; I’ve seen murderers get away with it and I’ve seen people put away for murders they didn’t commit. I’ve got a feeling that this Martin Willow falls into the last category.”
“I agree sir,” Whitton said, “he just doesn’t fit the profile, if you’ll excuse the cliché.”
“I think he’s being set up.”
“Set up sir?”
“Someone has gone to great lengths to make it look like Martin Willow killed his wife.”
“What do you want me to do sir?”
“Something completely unorthodox. Something that’s not completely by the book. Martin Willow is an expert in Psychology isn’t he?”
“He’s a Professor at the University.”
“Now Whitton, this could blow up in our faces, especially if the press get hold of it but I want you to ask our chief murder suspect to help us find the perpetrator of the crime he’s being accused of.”
FIFTY TWO
REVELATIONS
“The surf was good that day wasn’t it?” Whitey began, “a bit tame by the beach but round the point, the swells were perfect.”
“Get to the point please,” Smith insisted.
“It’s been ten years,” Whitey said, “indulge a dying man. Would you like something to drink? There’s a few beers in the fridge; I’ve a feeling you might need one.”
“Later,” Smith said, “go on.”
“What can you remember as we were paddling out?” Whitey asked.
Smith thought back. The events of that day were still clear in his mind.
“Laura was bobbing around in the surf near the beach,” he said, “then she was a bit further out and I saw a shark.”
Whitey laughed and a mild coughing fit ensued.
“What’s so bloody funny?” Smith said, “This is my sister we’re talking about.”
“There was no shark Jason,” Whitey said, “hundreds of people have reported seeing sharks but what they actually saw was the crests of the waves; the light plays tricks with the eyes.”
“But Laura was there one minute and the next minute she was gone.”
“These people are very clever,” Whitey said.”
“What people?” Smith was baffled.
“The people who took your sister. Can you remember seeing anybody unusual on the beach that day?”
“Apart from you, Lucy and that other boy, the place was deserted.”
“And in the car park?”
“There was just us.”
“Are you sure? Think.”
Smith cast his mind back. He had parked the pick up close to the path leading down to the beach.
“There was a white van on the other side of the car park,” he said.
“That was them.”
“Who?”
“The people who took Laura; they were watching you the whole time.”
“Who are these people?” Smith asked, “I don’t understand any of this.”
“I’m getting to that now. Are you sure you don’t want that beer now? Get one for me too, will you. I’m a bit of an alcoholic but one beer won’t kill me.”
Whitey laughed and the coughing started again.
Smith put the beers on the desk.
“Have you ever heard of The Rainbow of Life?” Whitey asked.
“The Cult?” Smith said, “I thought they had been wiped out.”
“They were, but a very small sub section of them survived. They are very similar in their views but they approach things in a different manner.”
“What do you mean”?
“Whereas the old Rainbow of Life was basically a bunch of rabid fanatics, this new faction is much more businesslike in their approach. They have committees, sub committees and so on. Do you know who some of the richest companies in the world are?”
“Go on,” Smith urged.
“Religious institutions. The Catholic Church, The Salvation Army; they make money out of fear and conscience.”
“Are you telling me that these people kidnapped Laura?”
“They call it recruitment,” Whitey corrected him. He took a long sip of beer.
“How did they take her,” Smith asked, “I saw her on the board the whole time.”
“She was gone before we’d even reached the point,” Whitey said, “These people are professionals.”
“But how did they do it and how the hell do you know all this?”
“I’m coming to that. Drink your beer.”
Whitey lit another cigarette.
Smith opened his beer and took a drink.
“This is what happened,” Whitey began, “they saw us paddling out towards the point. They ran down and grabbed your sister. They were driving away by the time you looked over for the first time.”
“But I saw her on the board,” Smith said.
“From that distance you cannot be sure what you saw. You saw what looked like Laura. They placed a sack full of sand on the board. The sack was specially designed to dissolve. That’s why when you got back to the beach, there was nothing there.”
“But the board had teeth marks in it.”
“Bolt cutters,” Whitey said, “they made it look like a shark had bitten the board.”
“This is all a bit far fetched,” Smith said, “and I’ll ask you again, how come you know all of this?”
“I only found out recently,” Whitey said, “As I said, these people are businessmen and I’m a businessman. I had a number of dealings with them; they were very interested in some land I had acquired in Taiwan. My beer seems to be empty, would you mind getting me another one?”
Smith opened the fridge. He was finding it difficult to swallow what Whitey was telling him. He slammed Whitey’s beer on the desk in front of him.
“If you’re lying to me,” he shouted, “I’ll make you pay.”
Whitey smiled.
“Calm down Jason,” he said, “are you not familiar with the old saying ‘a dying man never lies’? I’m nearly done and then it’s up to you. Can I continue?”
“Go on,” Smith said.
“I had a business lunch with a member of this company if you can call it that. It turns out that he had become disillusioned with the whole thing. One single malt led to another and he spilled out his heart to me. It turns out that Laura wasn’t the only one who was recruited in this manner; their membership had grown quite substantially using this method. I have to warn you though before I carry on, these people are dangerous. This particular man had his membership subsequently terminated if you know what I mean.”
“How did they get the people to stay?” Smith asked.
“By literally putting the f
ear of god into them,” Whitey replied, “somebody of Laura’s age is very easily manipulated. They are terrified at first of course but after the initial fear they feel wanted; part of a big family unit. It’s quite easy to brainwash people under certain circumstances.”
“But Laura was a tough kid,” Smith argued, “she would have fought like hell.”
“At first she would,” Whitey said, “but an eight year old girl would have been no match for these people.”
“Do you know where she is?”
“I’m afraid not. Even if I did I don’t think you’ll be able to get her back.”
“So why the hell did you contact me?”
“Because losing a sister must me terrible; knowing she’s still alive makes it more bearable somehow.”
“I’m going to find her,” Smith said.
“I thought you might say that,” Whitey said, “you always were a stubborn bastard.”
He finished his second beer.
“And I’m going to help you,” he said, “it might take some time though.”
“I’ve got two weeks,” Smith said.
“I don’t think that will be long enough but it’s a start. Like I said, I’m a very wealthy man and that will help us. This is what we are going to do.”
FIFTY THREE
PROFILE
“Mr Willow,” Whitton said, “My name is DC Whitton and this is DC Bridge. We need to ask you a few questions.”
Martin Willow looked utterly dejected. It had been almost two weeks since his life had been turned upside down and with the pending trial it looked like the nightmare was only beginning.
“I’ve told you everything I know,” he said, “over and over again. I could never harm my family.”
“I know,” Whitton said, “I believe you; that’s not why we’re here.”
“Why then?” Willow said, “Have you caught whoever did this?”
“No, not yet. We need your help.”
“You need my help?”
The York Trilogy: The First 3 DS Jason Smith Detective novels Page 21
