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

by Stewart Giles

  “Thanks Bob,” Smith said and rang off.

  “Cheeky bastard,” Chalmers smiled but Smith could no longer hear him.

  FIFTY SIX

  AIR RAGE

  “Don’t worry sir,” the man in the flight attendants uniform said to the passenger sitting in seat 17D on Estonian Air flight ES21, “I assure you that flying is much safer than driving.”

  Jason Smith sighed and looked around the aeroplane; it was almost empty.

  “Is there anyone else expected on this flight today?” he asked.

  “No,” the attendant replied with a smile, “this is it.”

  “Then would it be possible for me to change seats?”

  He cast a glance at the grossly obese man sitting next to him in seat 17D. He was sweating profusely.

  “I’m afraid that’s against our policy,” the man said, “We have regulations.”

  “Regulations?” Smith repeated.

  “Listen to me sir,” the man was getting angry, “you were booked in seat 17E. If something were to happen we might have difficulty locating you should we have an accident say.”

  “You listen to me,” Smith said, “if we do have an accident the chances are I’ll be crushed to death by this mountain of lard sitting next to me before a rescue party can reach me.”

  “Have you been drinking Sir?” the flight attendant asked. He sounded nervous.

  “Not yet,” Smith replied, “it’s only ten in the morning, but if you insist, I’ll have a beer please. I am on holiday.”

  “Sir, if you carry on like this I’m going to have to ask you to leave the aeroplane.”

  Smith reached into his pocket and produced his badge.

  “Detective Sergeant Smith,” he said, “I’m on my way to Tallinn to pick up a prisoner. Double murderer, very nasty piece of work; if you don’t let me change seats now, I’ll make sure we’re on your flight on the way back.”

  The flight attendant was very pale.

  “I suppose I could turn a blind eye just this once,” he said.

  “Thank you,” Smith said, “and could you please ask this tower of Russian blubber to kindly get out of the bloody way. I’ll have that beer now; I’ll be sitting somewhere back there.”

  He pointed to the back of the aeroplane.

  I’m getting just like my father, Smith thought as he fastened the seat belt in his new seat. Once, when Smith was ten and Laura was still a baby they had taken a road trip in his father’s camper van. They had travelled east into the Gibson Desert. His mother was still quite normal then. They were a hundred miles or so into their journey when an oncoming car nearly forced them off the road. Smith can remember his father swearing like he had never sworn before. He turned his head as the car screamed past and would have given chase had his wife not calmed him down. Later that evening as they stopped for the night at a hotel just off the road, Smith saw the car again. He made the mistake of telling his father. The next day as they carried on their journey, Smith saw the car again. It seemed closer to the ground; all four tyres had been slashed and there was a note on the windscreen that read ‘learn to drive you morons’. Smith knew that his father was responsible but he said nothing.

  He gazed out of the window next to him and realised they were taxiing along the runway. He checked his watch; in just under four hours he would be in Tallinn, a city roughly the same size as York. How could he expect to find one person in such a large place? The aeroplane stopped and the engines roared in preparation for take off. The plane gathered speed and Smith felt the sudden upward thrust as the wheels left the tarmac of East Midlands Airport behind. Moments later, the seat belt signs were switched off and he saw the flight attendant approach with a beer. He sheepishly placed it on the table next to Smith’s seat.

  “Will there be anything else?” he asked.

  From his name tag, Smith saw that his name was Stepan.

  “No thanks,” Smith said, “and I’m sorry about my little outburst earlier; I just couldn’t bear four hours with an obese giant gluing me to my seat.”

  “No problem,” Stepan said, “I understand?”

  “Do you stay in Tallinn Stepan?”

  Stepan seemed to relax.

  “I have an apartment there,” he said, “not that I use it much; I seem to spend most of my time in the air.”

  He looked at his watch.

  “But as of five this afternoon I have three days off.”

  Smith’s Detective brain began to formulate a plan.

  “How well do you know Tallinn Stepan?” he asked.

  “Very well; I was born there, I went to school there and I’ll no doubt die there. Why do you ask?”

  “I need your help,” Smith came straight out with it.

  “What do you mean? I thought you were going there to bring back a murderer.”

  “That wasn’t quite true,” Smith admitted.

  “So you’re not really a Policeman?”

  “No, unfortunately that part is true; I’m going to Tallinn to look for somebody.”

  “A criminal?”

  “No.”

  Smith thought carefully about what he was going to say next but looking at the face of Stephan, the Estonian flight attendant, with the warm brown eyes and slightly crooked nose, he decided to tell him the truth.

  “I’m looking for my sister,” Smith said, “she disappeared from a beach in Australia ten years ago and now I have reason to believe she is alive and staying in Tallinn.”

  Stepan’s eyes widened and Smith could tell he did not quite believe what he was hearing. After a brief silence, Stepan smiled.

  “I can see my three days off are, as you say, buggered up,” he said, “meet me at the Café Zeppelin just past the arrivals gate at half past five. I will show you Tallinn. I know some people in Tallinn; if your sister is there they will find her. Now I must get back to work.” He walked back down the aisle, shaking his head.

  FIFTY SEVEN

  THE VERDICT

  Monday 11 January 2009

  “Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury,” Judge Anderson began, “before you reach a verdict, I want to make it very clear that you are to concentrate only on the facts that have been given to you today.”

  Judge Sylvia Anderson was the youngest female judge in British history. This was the first murder case she had presided over; it was in fact only the third case of any description in which the thirty two year old was in charge and she knew very well that she was under the microscope. Any blunder this early in her career would be fatal.

  “Our fickle friends in the press,” she continued, “are prone to cast judgement long before the law has run its course. I want you to base your decision today, not on what you may have read in the papers but on what you heard today in this courtroom. Is that clear?”

  It had been one of the shortest murder trials in history. There were no material witnesses and the only character witnesses were Frank Paxton and Roxy Jones. Jones had already confessed to two murders and Paxton had been romantically involved with one of Jones’ victims. Martin Willow’s defence council had prudently decided they would not make very good witnesses. All the evidence was limited to the scene of the crime; Willow was found at the murder scene, unharmed and covered in blood. Willow’s daughter was still in a coma and his amnesia plea was weak.

  It took a jury of respected members of the community approximately thirty minutes to return to the courtroom with a guilty verdict. Judge Anderson sighed. The defence council did not even decide to lodge an appeal.

  “You have been found guilty of one count of murder,” Judge Anderson said to Martin Willow, “and one count of attempted murder. Because of the despicable nature of these crimes I have no alternative but to sentence you to life imprisonment.”

  Martin Willow sank to his knees.

  “I didn’t do it,” he sobbed.

  The volume of noise in the courtroom rose.

  “Order!” Judge Anderson shouted but she was ignored.

  “Take him away,�
�� she said, “quickly.”

  Outside the Court House, Detective Constable Bridge could tell from the journalists shuffling around that the trial was over. They were quickly forming a barrier in front of the main entrance. The prosecutor emerged and was instantly engulfed by microphones. Camera flashes lit up the grey winter half light. People began to leave the Court House and descend the stairs. One of them, a man in his forties wearing a duffel coat, quickly walked down the steps and carried on walking down the road. He was wearing a beanie and dark sunglasses. Bridge watched as he opened the driver’s door of a taxi cab, closed the door and drove away. What Bridge did not see was the smile on Dave Lin’s face as he looked in the rear view mirror. It was a smile he would be wearing for a very long time.

  FIFTY EIGHT

  CRIME STATS

  Tuesday 12 January 2009

  Superintendant Jeremy Smyth was in a very good mood. From August onwards he looked forward to the second Tuesday in January with relish. It was his annual Crime Stats presentation and this year it looked like he was in the running to have some of the most impressive statistics in the country. Henry Bullington, an old school friend and rival was the Superintendant at Carlisle City Police and he was leading Smyth five to four. This year, Smyth would definitely equal the score. The conviction of Martin Willow the day before had just tipped the scores in Smyth’s favour. Smyth checked his paperwork again. He had come in two hours earlier than his usual ten o clock start to ensure that the presentation went smoothly. He made sure the projector was working properly and that all the files were stored on the computer in the correct order.

  “Everything set sir?” Chalmers said.

  “Oh yes Bob,” Smyth replied, “its going to be a good one; has everybody been informed?”

  “Of course sir, Smith won’t be here but that can’t be helped.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s on leave sir.”

  “Well that’s a damn shame,” Smyth said, “he is mainly responsible for me having such corking good statistics this year.”

  “I’ll get someone to video tape it sir,” Chalmers said, “I’m sure Smith wouldn’t want to miss it for the world.”

  “Why that’s a splendid idea Bob. Well, better get cracking. Round them all up will you. I’ve got a surprise for you all this year; a bit of a reward for all your efforts but you’ll have to wait and see what that is.”

  “If I were a criminal,” Thompson said, “I’d wait for the second Tuesday in January and I’d rob as many houses and banks as I could. Do you know why? Because there are no bloody coppers on the streets; they’re all forced to watch the Super brag about his vital statistics.”

  “Vital statistics sir?” Whitton laughed.

  “Whatever he brags about,” Thompson said, “bloody college boy thinks he’s a Policeman. Well he’s not a Policeman’s arse if you ask me.”

  “You’re in a good mood today sir,” Whitton said.

  “The wife’s kicked me out and I’m stuck looking after a bloody dog; things are just bloody great. I suppose we’d better get this over with. That lucky bastard Smith has got away with it again and do me a favour Whitton, when the Super asks if there are any questions at the end, do not under any circumstances ask any ok? One year we were stuck in there for three hours because some bright spark wanted to know how the stats are calculated.”

  “Ladies and Gentlemen,” Smyth began, “it’s that time of year again when we look back at the results of our hard work from the past year.”

  Smyth could not help but notice that the turnout was down from last year.

  “Is everybody here?” he asked.

  “All here,” Chalmers assured him.

  “Then I won’t keep you in suspense any longer. Does anybody have any questions before I start?”

  Thompson held his breath but nobody said a word.

  “Ok then, let’s get this show on the road. Firstly I want to briefly run through last years figures so we can compare.”

  What followed was two hours of bar charts, graphs, comparisons and more graphs. After that came thirty minutes for an explanation of Smyth’s complicated points system where he explained that a statistical points system had been developed that allocated certain points to certain crimes. Murder, for example carried the highest points and parking offences the least. Smyth finally came to the final result.

  “We should have a drum roll for this part,” he said.

  Nobody laughed.

  “Final results for York Police Department for the year 2008 are eleven thousand five hundred. A nice round number and seventy points down from last year. The icing on the cake though is I heard from Carlisle that they were over twelve thousand so that’s one in the eye for old Bullington. As a result of this, I have a surprise for you all but before I reveal what this is; does anybody have any questions about the results?”

  Thompson looked at Whitton and shook his head. She kept quiet.

  “I know you’re going to love this,” Smyth said.

  He picked up a box from the floor.

  “I took the liberty of having these made.”

  He picked up one of the plaques. It was brass with a dark wooden back. On the plaque it said, ‘York Police Department. Top of the League 2008’.

  “If you could form an orderly line,” Smyth said, “and collect one each from me, that would be great.”

  Whitton sniggered. Thompson smiled at her.

  “Top of the league hey?” he said.

  “That’s if for another year,” Smyth announced, “let’s make it even better for next year.”

  Very few people could keep a straight face as they received their award from Smyth but he did not seem to notice.

  “Thank God that’s over for another year,” Thompson said as he sat in his office.

  He turned round and with amazing accuracy, managed to throw the plaque in the bin in the far corner.

  FIFTY NINE

  TALLINN

  Stepan and Smith took a taxi from the airport to Stepan’s flat on Sadama just before the passenger ferry port east of the old Tallinn town square. As they drove Smith was amazed at the driver of the taxi.

  “If this much snow had fallen in York,” he said to Stepan, “they’d close all the roads.”

  Stepan laughed.

  “Life must go on,” he said, “It snows here for much of the year so we learn to live with it; I hope you’ve got some warm clothes with you, it’s going to be well below freezing tonight.”

  It was dark as they parked outside Stepan’s flat. Smith could see the lights of the ferries carrying people into the Gulf of Finland and on to Helsinki, Stockholm and St Petersburg. He had never felt so out of his depth. This was another world altogether. He had heard how the Russian Mafia still had their roots here and hoped that the Brain of Wolfie was not allied to them.

  As the door of the taxi opened, a wave of freezing air gushed in. Smith shivered; he would wear more clothes next time he went out, he thought. Stepan paid the driver and led Smith up the stairs of his flat. He opened the door and gestured for Smith to go inside. Thankfully, it was much warmer inside; a log fire was burning and Smith noticed that the glass in the windows was unusually thick. He heard water running from a room that must have been the bathroom. A tall man with black hair appeared in the doorway. He looked at Smith and scowled. Stepan walked towards him and greeted him with a bit too much affection for male friends, Smith thought. Stepan and the man embraced and kissed each other warmly.

  “Forgive me,” Stepan broke the embrace. “This is Lucas,” he said, “Lucas, this Jason Smith, he’s from England and he’s come to look for his sister.”

  Lucas said something to Stepan in a language Smith could not understand anything of. It was not Russian as he had expected but a strange language he could not place. Lucas smiled, walked over and shook Smith’s hand.

  “We will help you,” he said, “I know just the man, if your sister is here in Tallinn; he will know where she is.”

&
nbsp; “I told you,” Stepan said, “Lucas is a journalist and knows everyone. Would you like a beer?”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” Smith laughed.

  “How much do you know of this Cult?” Lucas asked, “This Brain of Wolfie?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid,” Smith replied, “I’ve just heard they are very powerful.”

  “I’m afraid this is going to be difficult,” Lucas said, “not to mention dangerous. If what I hear is true, these people are above the law.”

  “Like the Mafia?” Smith suggested.

  “Worse, I’m afraid but I know where to start.”

  Lucas took out his phone and dialled a number.

  “Would you like to shower?” Stepan asked Smith as Lucas was talking on the phone.

  “That would be great,” Smith said, “flying always makes me sweat; I don’t know how you do it for a living.”

  “You get used to it after a while,” Stepan said, “the showers through there.” He pointed to a room to the right.

  As Smith had his shower he heard noises coming from the room next door. Stepan and Lucas were speaking in their strange language but Smith could hear from the volume of their voices that something was not right. Although the water pressure was strong, Smith was sure he heard the phrase Brain of Wolfie a few times. Had he bitten off more than he could chew? He thought as he turned off the tap and dried his hair. He got dressed and opened the door again. The atmosphere seemed calmer but he could still sense that everything was not right.

  “Feel better?” Stepan asked.

  “Much better,” Smith replied.

  He decided to come straight out with it.

  “If I’m causing you any trouble,” he said, “then I’ll try and do this on my own; I don’t want to put you in any danger.”

  Stepan laughed and Lucas quickly joined in. He had a hearty laugh. Smith was confused.