“It’s been very quiet today,” the woman said, “I think there was a woman in here earlier.”
Smith realised he had a photograph of Whitton on his phone. He showed it to the woman.
“That’s her,” she said, “she was all dressed up. I didn’t see a man though, although he could have been waiting in the car.”
“What time was this?” Smith asked.
“About an hour ago,” she replied.
“Thanks,” Smith said and paid for the petrol. “How far is Whitby from here?”
“About twenty miles on the A171,” she said.
Smith ran out of the shop. The woman watched in amazement.
The A171 to Whitby was a beautiful stretch of coastal road. Smith could not drive more than sixty mile per hour as there were some dangerous bends. After two miles or so, something caught his eye on the side of the road. He stopped the car and reversed back to the side road. He parked the car where he thought he had seen something. There was a wheel lying in the middle of the road with a spanner on the top. The tyre was deflated. A few metres away Smith found what had caught his eye. It was a cell phone. He picked it up and saw that the screen was cracked but it still seemed to be working. He recognised the phone immediately; it was Whitton’s. He put the phone in his pocket, took out his own phone and dialled Thompson’s number.
“Thompson,” he said, “I need you to get to Whitby as soon as possible.”
“We’re half way there,” Thompson said.
Smith was amazed.
“Who’s with you?” he asked.
“Bridge. Chalmers told us to follow you. What’s going on?”
“I think our friend Dave killed Wendy Willow and I’m almost certain he’s kidnapped Whitton.”
“Wait for us to catch up,” Thompson ordered.
“There’s no time,” Smith said. He rang off, got back in the car and sped off in the direction of Whitby.
As he drove, Smith tried to figure out what he would do when he got there. He had never been to Whitby before. He gazed out across the North Sea on his right hand side. “Focus,” he said to himself and concentrated on the road instead.
The wedding was on a boat in the middle of February. Whitton must know some crazy people, he thought, why did it have to be on a boat? He saw Whitby in the distance ahead of him. He turned right on to Church Street and then left onto Bridge Street. The River Esk emptied into the sea just ahead. He started to panic as he drove down Pier Street and saw the North Sea in front of him. He stopped the car, took a few deep breaths and patted Theakston on the head. He parked the car in a car park at the top of the town.
“Wait here boy,” he said to Theakston. He locked the car and looked around. He could see plenty of boats in the harbour but none of them looked like they were about to take a wedding party out. Who the hell would want to start their wedded bliss like this? Smith thought. He could picture Thompson and his wife. I bet they didn’t get married on a bloody boat, he thought. He took out his phone and rang Thompson’s number.
“Where are you?” Thompson asked.
“I’m running down to the harbour,” Smith replied.
“Wait for us there. Don’t do anything stupid.”
Whitton’s phone started to ring in his pocket. He took it out and answered it.
“Where are you,” a woman’s asked, “you were supposed to meet us an hour ago.”
“Who is this?” Smith asked.
“Who is this?” the woman repeated.
“I’m a friend of Erica’s,” Smith said, “what’s the name of the boat you’re going out on? And where is it?”
“It’s called the James Cook II, “she said, “It’s moored at the main harbour. You can’t miss it; it has decorations all over it.”
“Thank you,” Smith said, “if you see her will you please let me know on this number.”
“She’s here,” the woman said, “its ok. “
The phone reception was very bad.
“What was that?” Smith shouted.
“She’s here,” the woman repeated, “she didn’t mention anything about bringing a guest though.”
“Wait,” Smith said.
The phone went dead. Smith looked at the broken screen. The battery was dead.
SEVENTY SEVEN
AUTO PILOT
“Do exactly as I say,” Dave said as they approached the wedding party, “the gun is still pointing at you.”
“What am I supposed to tell them?” Whitton said.
“You tell them I’m a friend of yours and I am accompanying you to the wedding. Do anything stupid and I’ll shoot you. Do you understand?”
“There’s still time Dave,” Whitton insisted, “you don’t have to do this; you need help.”
“We’re going on a boat ride Miss Whitton,” Dave smiled.
His smile was quite disturbing.
“We’ll have fish and chips later,” he added.
Whitton walked towards the crowd of people assembled at the jetty. Dave walked behind her. She knew he had the gun pointed at her in his pocket.
“We thought you weren’t coming,” a woman said to Whitton.
It was the woman Smith had spoken too earlier.
“Who’s your friend?” she asked.
“This is Dave.” Whitton tried to remain calm.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said.
“We’re just about to leave,” the woman said, “we’ve got a beautiful day for it.”
The engines of the boat started with a low hum. There was a loud chattering in the air as the people waited to board the boat. Dave stood close to Whitton the whole time. He still had the strange smile on his face and people were giving him a wide berth.
Smith spotted the boat immediately. It was decorated with white frills around the edges and silver and red balloons were hung from the safety rails.
“Whitton!” he shouted but the noise from the jetty drowned him out.
“Whitton!” he screamed again, much louder this time.
Dave was the first to turn round. He saw Smith running towards them. He took out the gun and fired a shot in the air. People screamed and started to run. Dave pointed the gun at Whitton again. Smith reached the jetty and stopped when he saw Dave with the gun pointed at Whitton.
“Dave,” he said calmly, “I think it would be best if you put the gun down; we can talk.”
“The boat’s ready to go,” Dave smiled.
His eyes were shining.
“We’re going for a ride on a boat.”
“Put the gun down Dave,” Smith repeated, “let Whitton go.”
“We’ll have fish and chips later,” Dave said, “out of a newspaper; Vera Mae used to love fish and chips.”
The Captain of the boat had heard the gun shot and had radioed the Police from the cockpit. He approached them cautiously.
“Get this thing ready to leave,” Dave ordered, “I want to go out to sea.”
He fired another shot in the air.
“Mr Smith,” he said, “untie the ropes and get on the boat.”
Smith hesitated. His legs were shaking. Where are Thompson and Bridge? he thought. He unclipped the hooks from the mooring cleats on the jetty and jumped onboard.
“Get on,” Dave urged Whitton with the gun in her back.
She did as she was told. Dave jumped on behind her.
“Take us out to sea,” Dave told the Captain. “You two sit down and keep still.”
He pointed the gun at Smith and Whitton.
The engine clicked into gear and the captain turned the wheel. The boat edged slowly away from the jetty and headed for the mouth of the harbour.
“What are you going to do now Dave?” Smith asked, “there’s nowhere for you to go. Why did you have to come to a wedding on a bloody boat?” he whispered to Whitton.
They reached the open sea and the captain increased the speed.
“Relax,” Dave said, “we’re just friends enjoying a ride on a boat. We are friends aren’t we?”
/> “Of course we’re friends Dave,” Whitton said, “that’s why you don’t need the gun. Why don’t you give it to Smith? We’re not going to hurt you.”
The sea had become quite rough and the boat was rocking from side to side.
“Can you drive a boat?” Dave asked Smith.
“Probably,” he said, “but the Captain knows what he’s doing.”
“Stay here,” Dave ordered, “this man can’t drive properly.”
Smith and Whitton stared at each other as Dave made his way forward to the cockpit. He opened the door and closed it behind him. There was a loud bang and the boat lunged forward. Whitton screamed; it was the first time Smith had heard her scream. Dave emerged from the cockpit.
“If I drove my taxi like that I’d be fired,” he said.
He laughed.
“I fired the Captain, we’re on auto pilot now.” he smiled.
He held up the gun.
The boat had started to go round in circles.
“You need to go forward and drive,” Dave said to Smith. “Take us right out. I want to go out as far as possible”
Smith stood up slowly.
“Get close to him,” he whispered to Whitton, “I’m going to try and flip the boat.”
“Quickly Mr Smith,” Dave said, “and don’t try anything. I’ll shoot you both, friends or no friends.”
Smith opened the door to the cockpit. The captain was slumped in his chair; Dave had shot him through the head. Smith picked him up and put him on the floor. He sat behind the wheel and stared out into the open sea. He could feel the panic approaching and he was breathing quickly so he closed his eyes and thought about Theakston who was still locked in his car. His breathing became calmer. He steadied the boat and headed directly out to sea. He checked the instruments and the controls. Years ago, he had been on plenty of boats in Fremantle and this one did not seem too complicated. He pushed the throttle forward and they picked up speed. This thing must have a powerful engine, he thought. The door opened and Whitton appeared with Dave behind her.
“Help me get rid of him,” Dave said to Whitton. They picked up the dead Captain and dragged him out of the cockpit.
“What are you going to do with him?” Smith asked.
“He’s in the way,” Dave said, “We’ll throw him over the side.”
Smith’s eyes closed slightly and he began to formulate a plan. Through the open door he saw Dave and Whitton drag the Captain to the side of the boat and dump him on one of the long seats. Dave took him by the arms.
“Take his feet,” he said to Whitton, “and on the count of three we’ll throw him over.”
Dave did not see Smith wink at Whitton.
She picked up the man by his feet.”
“One,” Dave said.
Smith was ready.
“Two…”
Smith had one hand on the throttle and the other on the wheel. He waited for what seemed like forever.
“Three.”
Dave and Whitton started to throw the Captain over the side. At the same time, Smith pushed the throttle as far forward as it would go and turned the wheel to the left with all his strength. The boat lunged forward and sideways at the same time. It went over on its side. Whitton screamed as she and Dave followed the Captain over the side of the boat. Smith pulled back on the throttle and turned the wheel. He steered the boat to where Whitton and Dave had fallen in. He hoped the Captain had not dragged Whitton down. He brought the boat to a stop where they were bobbing in the water. Dave had his arm round Whitton’s neck and she was struggling to stay above the water. Smith ran back to the cock pit and released the anchor. He stood looking into the water.
“Not now,” he said to himself, “please not now.”
The panic did not come. He looked around the boat for something to use as a weapon. There were bottles of champagne on the table. Most of them had been smashed when the boat rolled over but he found one that was intact. He picked up the bottle, closed his eyes and jumped into the water. The cold almost knocked him out. It was the coldest water he had ever experienced. His head felt like something was sticking icicles into it. He broke the surface and looked around. Dave had pushed Whitton’s head under the water and she was struggling to take in air. He swam over and grabbed Dave’s arm. He twisted it so it released its grip on Whitton. Smith raised the bottle above his head and, as he brought it down on Dave’s head he felt a stinging pain in his arm. The bottle smashed to pieces. Dave looked at Smith and smiled. Blood started to flow from the top of his head, down past his nose and into his mouth. Dave smiled all the way to the bottom of the sea.
Smith looked around him. Whitton was nowhere to be seen. He took a deep breath and looked under the water; he could not see anything. He surfaced again, took another breath and swam down. He groped with his hands while he swam but he still could not find her. His arm was now in agony and he could see the blood in the water. His lungs were about to burst and then he saw something. Whitton was drifting down slowly. Smith swam down, grabbed her under her arms and swam back to the surface. She was not breathing. Smith panicked. She’s been under too long, he thought. He tried to remember the first aid they had taught him when he joined the Police. He tried a crude mouth to mouth exercise but it did not seem to help. He swam with her back to the boat and with all his strength, managed to carry her up the boarding ladder at the stern. He grabbed some of the white sheets that had been used for decorating the boat and laid her down. Her face was blue and she was still not breathing.
“Think,” he said.
He tilted her head back, held her nose and breathed into her mouth. Her lips were freezing. He tried to remember the CPR procedure. He had not used it once since he had joined the Police. He pressed his hands into her chest and pushed for a minute. His arm was covered in blood; it had stained the white sheets red. He repeated the procedure. Whitton was still not breathing.
“Wake up!” he shouted.
He pumped her chest again. He was exhausted. He slumped to the ground next to her and stared up at the top of the boat. There was a banner attached to the flag pole. It read ‘Just Married’.
Whitton coughed; the water that had been in her lungs shot out. She coughed again. Smith looked at her. Her eyes opened; they were bloodshot and the makeup had washed off in the sea but Smith thought they were still the most amazing shade of green he had ever seen. They lay in silence for a while looking up at the flagpole.
“Fuck!” Whitton said eventually, “We didn’t get married did we?”
Smith looked again at the ‘Just Married’ banner.
“Do you want to get married?” he said.
“No,” she said immediately.
“Good,” Smith said, “neither do I.”
BOOMERANG [BOO-MUH-RANG]
A BENT OR CURVED PIECE OF TOUGH WOOD USED BY THE AUSTRALIAN ABORIGINES AS A THROWING CLUB.
SOMETHING, AS A SCHEME OR ARGUMENT THAT DOES INJURY TO THE ORIGINATOR.
TO CAUSE HARM TO THE ORIGINATOR; TO BACKFIRE.
PREFACE
26 August 1966
Phuoc Hai. Vietnam
The four men huddled close together under a makeshift plastic shelter. The monsoon rains were not showing any signs of abating. It had rained solidly for six days now. These four men had become very close friends in the short time they had known each other. As part of the First Battalion Royal Australian regiment, they shared one thing in common: They had joined the war voluntarily. The rain was falling heavier now and a substantial pool had formed at the top of the shelter.
“Why don’t you just paint a bloody target on that thing to make it easier for the gooks to shoot at you?” Sergeant Norbert ‘Nobber’ Hastings said. Nobber Hastings had been in Vietnam for over a year.
He lifted the sheet and got underneath.
“Bit of rain never hurt anyone,” he said, “you should have seen the typhoons we got last year.”
Nobber took out a crumpled packet of American cigarettes and offered them round
even though he knew that none of these men smoked. He put a cigarette in his mouth, straightened it and lit the end. A cloud of smoke filled the shelter. The gunfire in the distance seemed to be getting closer.
“Would you mind smoking somewhere else?” One of the men said.
His name was Mark Doyle but everyone called him Abo because of his unusually dark skin. Nobber took a long drag of the cigarette, exhaled and smiled.
“Would you mind smoking somewhere else Sergeant,” he said, “relax Abo, a bit of smoke isn’t going to kill you. It’s those bastards out there that will do you in. Sounds like they’re getting closer. The yanks have reported heavy losses. Since Long Tan, those gooks seem to be wising up to our operations.”
“What’s the plan Sarge?” A tall blonde man asked.
His name was Brian but he was known as Brain because of his exceptionally high IQ.
“We wait for further orders,” Nobber replied, “you volunteered didn’t you?”
“We all did sir,” Brain said.
“Bunch of bloody idiots, you should be back home surfing and chasing girls.”
A bullet flew over the shelter and bored into a nearby tree.
“You better take this thing down,” Nobber ordered.
He nodded at the plastic sheet. They climbed out of the shelter and were immediately drenched by the rain. Nobber spat out his cigarette in disgust.
“We’d better get back behind those trees over there,” he said, “We’re sitting ducks out here.”
He picked up his rifle and fired three shots into the distance. Brain looked at him in amazement.
“These American rifles go rusty in the rain if you don’t use them regularly,” Nobber smiled. Three of his top teeth were missing.
“How come you managed to get hold of an M16?” Brain asked, “They’re much more reliable than these bloody Fals.”
“I pulled rank,” Nobber replied, “besides, there’s nothing wrong with a Fal. A rifle is only as good as the fella on the trigger. Let’s get the hell out of here. Brain, you and Abo make a line with those blokes back there behind that row of trees.”
He pointed to a clump of small trees behind them to the left.
The York Trilogy: The First 3 DS Jason Smith Detective novels Page 30
