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

by Stewart Giles

  “Thanks Thompson,” Smith said, “thanks for looking after Theakston too.”

  He picked up the coffee and took it back upstairs with him. I need some more sleep; he thought but instantly changed his mind when he thought about the dream. He walked back down and put the television on. A programme discussing the reasons why people are gay was on and he turned it off immediately. It suddenly struck him that Thompson must have bought a television while he was away. He picked up his phone. There was a missed call from Whitton and the Face Book icon on the screen. He opened the Face Book message first. It was his sister. He read the message three times and decided he would start the day where he left off last night, with a Jack Daniels. ‘Jason,’ the message began, ‘Wolfie has me under 24 hour surveillance. You must never try to contact me again. Laura’. He picked up the bottle of Jack Daniels from the table; there was only a quarter of the bottle left. He took a sip of coffee and poured a large measure into it. He would need some more if he was going to forget. Theakston waddled in from the kitchen licking his lips; he had just finished off the remains of the pizza from the night before. “How did you and old Thompson get on boy?” Smith asked, “I bet he drove you mad.” He picked up the puppy and kissed him on the head.

  “Do you feel like a walk? I need some more to drink.”

  He looked at the clock. It was only ten in the morning but it felt much later. He finished the rest of the coffee, put on his coat and put the lead on Theakston. Theakston led the way to the shop. It was the first time he had been for a walk on the lead and he got used to it very quickly.

  “Bottle of Jack Daniels,” he said to the man behind the counter.

  “No dogs allowed,” the man said.

  “I promise I won’t let him touch a drop,” Smith said sarcastically, “just give me the whisky please.”

  He handed the man his credit card and made a mental note to draw some money sometime.

  The man handed Smith the Jack Daniels and the credit card receipt.

  “Remember,” He said, “no dogs next time.”

  “There won’t be a next time,” Smith said, “if he’s not welcome then neither am I.”

  I’m buying whisky at ten thirty in the morning; Smith thought as he walked home, I’ve turned into my mother. He stopped at the cash machine and took out fifty pounds. His next stop was the pizza shop round the corner. They were closed so he decided they could wait for the money.

  When they got home, Theakston barged past and ran straight to his water bowl. Smith decided he would be a more civilised drunk today. He would use a glass and try not to upset anybody. He poured a large measure of Jack Daniels and took a long drink. The whisky tasted good. He turned on his amp, picked up the guitar Whitton had given him and sat down to play. The strings were too new and the tone of the guitar was not right for his mood. He picked up the Fender instead and the rusty old strings gave him the deep blues sound he was looking for. He closed his eyes and played whatever his mind told his fingers to play. Theakston jumped on the couch and curled up. Smith played for an hour or so and suddenly stopped. He picked up his phone and listened to Whitton’s message. “I’m worried about you Sir,” she said, “please give me a call.”

  Smith dialled her number but changed his mind. He finished the whisky in the glass and went to get some more. He was starting to feel better again but he knew it would only last while he was drunk.

  “Cheers,” Smith said to Theakston and set off on a journey into oblivion.

  SEVENTY ONE

  FROM THE MOUTHS OF BABES

  Friday 13 February 2009

  Penny Willow lay as she had done for a month and a half; completely still with that serene expression on her face. It seemed that this eight year old girl had accepted her fate. In three hours time, the machines that had kept her alive would be turned off. These machines that had helped pump the blood around her body and made sure enough oxygen was reaching her brain would stop at the flick of a switch.

  “Are you superstitious?” Nurse Sarah Marshall asked.

  “Not at all,” Sister Bennett replied, “I think it’s a load of hogwash.”

  “I know people who won’t even leave the house on Friday the Thirteenth.”

  “That’s just stupid. Did you know that over half of fatal accidents happen in the house?”

  “She’s got three hours left,” Nurse Marshall sighed and looked at her watch, “do you think there’s still a chance?”

  “I’m afraid not dear. I know it sounds terrible but it’s probably for the best. I mean, what has she got left? Her mother’s dead and her father will be in jail for the rest of his life.”

  “I’m sure I saw her move yesterday.”

  “Wishful thinking I’m afraid; the mind sometimes makes you see what you want to see.”

  “Look at her,” Nurse Marshall said, “she still looks so peaceful. I think she’s put on a bit of weight too. Do you mind if I sit with her for a while longer?”

  “”Not for too long,” Sister Bennett said, “I’ve got rounds to do. I’ll be back in half an hour.”

  When Sister Bennett had gone, Nurse Marshall sat where she had sat every day since Penny Willow was brought in on Christmas Day, on a chair by the side of the bed. She carefully picked up the little girl’s arm and held her tiny hand.

  “Listen to me sweetheart,” she said. Her voice was shaking. “You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. Your Daddy needs you; we all need you to wake up.”

  A tear rolled down Nurse Marshall’s cheek. She wiped it away. She looked at her watch again; two and a half hours. At noon today whatever authorities that ruled on these matters had decided that this little girl’s life would end. This is so unfair; Nurse Marshall thought as she placed Penny’s hand back on the bed and stood up. Penny’s book still lay on the table next to the bed. Nurse Marshall had read it to her many times but whether Penny had heard her was another matter.

  Nurse Marshall wiped another tear from the side of her face, looked at Penny once more and walked towards the door. Friday the Thirteenth would have a new meaning to Sarah Marshall for the rest of her life from this moment on; it would be the luckiest day of the year. For some peculiar reason and she will never remember why, Nurse Marshall paused in the doorway. Something made her stop. She had a feeling she could not describe. Seconds later a sound came from the bed that Sarah Marshall would remember for the rest of her life.

  “Daddy,” the little voice croaked.

  Sarah Marshall turned round slowly.

  “Daddy,” Penny repeated.

  Sarah ran to the bed and pressed the emergency button on the wall. Within seconds the room was full of people. Doctor Pete Simmons looked at Nurse Marshall.

  “She spoke,” she cried, “she said Daddy.”

  “Well bugger me,” Doctor Simmons exclaimed, “and I’ll be damned if her eyes aren’t open too.”

  Penny started to cough. Doctor Simmons carefully removed the tubes from her nose that had provided her with oxygen.

  “This is bloody amazing,” he said, “who said miracles can’t happen?”

  Penny’s eyes scanned the room. Nurse Marshall picked up her hand and held it.

  “Its ok sweetheart,” she said, “you’re going to be just fine.”

  The little hand squeezed her gently and Penny seemed to recognise Nurse Marshall’s voice.

  “Ok everyone,” Doctor Simmons said, “Nurse Marshall and I have got this under control; you can all get back to what you were doing.”

  “The man,” Penny said softly, “the man.”

  “What man sweetheart?” Nurse Marshall asked.

  “The man with the song,” Penny said.

  “Calm down baby, you need to get some rest.”

  Doctor Simmons looked at the machines next to the bed.

  “This is amazing,” he said, “according to these, this little girl has almost fully recovered. Her heart beat is a bit fast but that will be from all the excitement in here.”

  “What do we do
now Doctor?” Nurse Marshall asked.

  “What we’re trained to do,” he replied, “we help this little girl to get on her feet again.”

  SEVENTY TWO

  SOBER

  Smith woke for the first time in weeks without a hangover. Yesterday was his first official day back at work. After his leave had finished he had gone into the Station drunk as a skunk. Fortunately Chalmers had pulled him aside before he could do any damage and put him on sick leave for three weeks. In those three weeks, Smith had managed to alienate himself from just about everybody he knew. Ironically, it was his old enemy Thompson who had stood by him the whole time. Whether it was out of genuine concern for Smith or the fact that he needed a place to stay, Smith did not really know. All he knew was it was time to put what was left of his life back together.

  “You finished the bloody milk again Thompson,” Smith said as he closed the fridge door, “I don’t mind you helping yourself but have the decency to replace it. No wonder your wife kicked you out.”

  “I’ll get some more,” Thompson said, “Can I borrow your car later?”

  “Again,” Smith was irritated, “what for?”

  “I have a doctor’s appointment. Blood pressure; I don’t think all the drinking I’ve been doing recently has helped.”

  “Why don’t you go back to your wife Thompson? You can’t stay here forever.”

  “I’ve looked at a few flats in town,” Thompson said, “I don’t think my wife will take me back. I’m not sure I actually want to go back. I’ll go and get the milk. Do we need anything else?”

  “You might as well replace the beers you drank last night too.”

  He handed Thompson his car keys.

  While Thompson was out, Smith tidied up a bit; Thompson was a bit of a slob.

  “I’m going to phone his wife,” Smith said to Theakston as he picked up empty beer cans from around the house.

  Theakston followed him around.

  “Soon be spring boy,” Smith said, “then we can get out more.”

  Luckily, during Smith’s forced absence from work it had been very quiet down at the station since Martin Willow had been convicted. That case was closed and they had been told by the Superintendant in no uncertain terms to keep it closed. Dave, the taxi driver had been ruled out; the events in his past were mere coincidences.

  “There’s been too many coincidences lately,” Smith said to Theakston, “I hate coincidences.”

  Thompson returned with the milk and beers.

  “The Doctor’s office phoned me,” He said, “they can fit me in an earlier spot. You don’t need your car do you?”

  “Thompson,” Smith was annoyed, “you need to sort your life out; you’re a grown man. Buy yourself a car, apologise to your wife just leave me out of it ok?”

  Smith instantly regretted saying it. After all, Thompson had spent the past few weeks sorting Smith’s life out.

  “I’ll be a couple of hours,” Thompson said, “I need to do a bit of shopping afterwards; I seem to have run out of notebooks.”

  Smith sighed,

  “People are a pain in the arse sometimes boy,” he said to Theakston, “that’s why I’ve just got a dog. Are you hungry boy?”

  It was a stupid question; Theakston was always hungry. Smith put three cups of food in Theakston’s bowl; the puppy nudged him out of the way and ate greedily. Smith heard his phone ring in the living room.

  “Smith,” he answered it.

  “Detective,” the voice said, “this is Doctor Simmons at the hospital. You gave me your card a while ago.”

  Smith was curious.

  “That’s right,” he said, “is anything wrong?”

  “On the contrary,” Simmons replied, “I need you to come to the hospital right away. Penny Willow has woken up and she keeps mumbling about a man and a song.”

  “A man and a song?” Smith repeated.

  “I think it might be important,” Simmons insisted, “I think she may know something about the night she and her mother were attacked.”

  “I’ll be there right away,” Smith said. He rang off.

  “Shit,” he said out loud.

  Thompson had his car. He dialled the taxi firm number. They told him that Dave would be there in ten minutes. Smith quickly made a cup of coffee, topped it up with cold water and drank it in two or three gulps. He checked to see if Theakston had enough water, picked up his phone and put his coat on. He left Thompson a note on the table in the hallway. We’re like an old married couple, he thought as he wrote it out. There was a knock on the door. It was Dave.

  “Hospital please Dave,” Smith said.

  “Nothing wrong I hope Mr Smith?” Dave said.

  “No, remember that little girl who was attacked on Christmas Eve?”

  Dave remembered all too well.

  “I remember,” he said, “it was in all the papers.”

  “She’s woken up and she’s talking,” Smith said.

  “That’s great,” Dave said.

  Smith did not notice the expression on Dave’s face; he looked terrified.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way Dave,” Smith said, “but your taste in music is dreadful.”

  Dave was playing the corny Beatles song again; the one about getting older.

  “The Beatles did much better stuff than this drivel,” Smith added.

  Dave turned the music off.

  “Thanks Dave,” Smith said as they parked outside the hospital, “how much do I owe you?”

  “Come on Mr Smith,” Dave said, “no charge, I’m always happy to help the police. Do you need a lift back?”

  “That’s fine Dave, I’ll get Thompson to pick me up. He’s borrowed my car. Thanks a lot.”

  “I hope the little girl can help you,” Dave said.

  Smith could still not see the terror in Dave’s eyes.

  Smith ran rather than walked to the room where Penny was being cared for. Doctor Simmons was waiting for him.

  “Detective,” Simmons said, “good to see you again.”

  “How’s she doing?” Smith asked.

  “Remarkably well considering the circumstances. The swelling on her brain has gone and she’s taking water by herself for the first time in seven weeks.”

  “What has she been saying?”

  “She keeps mumbling about a man and a song; I can’t figure out what she’s talking about.”

  “Can I speak to her?”

  “Of course, that’s why I phoned you.”

  Penny Willow was now sitting up in her bed. Her face had regained some of its colour and most of the bruises and cuts from the attack had disappeared. All that was left was a small scar on the left hand side of her nose. Smith sat beside the bed.

  “Penny,” he said, “How are you feeling?”

  She said nothing; she just stared at him. She reminded Smith very much of his sister. “You’ve got good taste in books anyway,” Smith said, “this was my sister’s favourite. Do you think Moonface and the Angry Pixie like each other?”

  There was a sudden spark in her eyes.

  “Moonface can also be a bit grumpy at times,” she said.

  “My name’s Jason” Smith said, “You’re an amazing little girl. The Doctor said you must be very strong. Can you remember what happened to you?”

  “Not really,” she replied.

  “The Doctor said something about a man and a song. He said you were talking about it earlier.”

  “I remember a man,” she said, “I think he hurt my mummy.”

  “Do you remember his face?”

  “No, but there was a song. The man played a song.”

  “What kind of song?”

  “It was a nice song about going on holiday and birthdays.”

  “And this man played it to you?”

  “I think so.”

  Doctor Simmons approached.

  “Can I have a word detective?” he said.

  “Of course,” Smith said, “I’ll be back soon Penny. See if you
can remember anything more about that song.”

  “You must realise detective,” Simmons began, “there were traces of Benzodiazepine in her system when she was brought it. Her memory of that night will be very vague.”

  “But she remembers a man and a song,” Smith insisted.

  “She will remember bits and pieces but it will be a while before everything slots into place.”

  “Can I ask her one more thing Doctor?”

  “Of course but keep it short, she needs to rest.”

  “Penny,” Smith said as he sat down by the bed again, “the man and the song. Can you remember this from the start of that night or at the end?”

  “I think it was at the end,” she said, “I just remember this man and a song he played.”

  Smith sighed. He was no closer to understanding what Penny was talking about.

  “Can you remember anything else about the song?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, “I’ve told you. It was about digging in the garden and locking the door. I don’t remember anything else.”

  Smith could see she was getting upset.

  “It’s ok Penny,” he said, “You get some rest. I’ll come and see you again ok?”

  “Can you read my book to me next time?” she asked.

  “Of course,” Smith said.

  He took out his phone and rang Thompson’s number.

  “Where are you Thompson?” he said.

  “At your place,” Thompson replied, “I’m busy packing.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “My wife said I can come back.”

  “That’s good news,” Smith was relieved, “good news for me anyway,” he added.

  Thompson sighed.

  “She’s agreed to take me back as long as I change just about everything about myself,” he said.

  “At least it’s a start. Can you pick me up from the hospital?”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” Thompson said.

  SEVENTY THREE

  MARRIED BLISS

  “Do you know what most successful marriages are based on?” Thompson said as he drove Smith back to his house.