“You two come with me.”
The other two men had barely spoken to anyone since the battle of Long Tan. Fifteen Australian soldiers had been killed and many others wounded. It was deemed a resounding victory for the Australian army but what happened there had left a permanent mark on many of them. John Fulton and Max Brown had been friends since school. They had joined up together, undergone basic training together and now they were fighting a war together.
“Are you still with us?” Nobber asked when neither of the men moved. “Come on, there’s a small ditch back there where we can pick them off as they approach. Move it soldiers.”
Fulton and Brown stood up and followed Nobber to the ditch. The gunshots were becoming more frequent now. The ditch was barely big enough for two men but it provided protection from the incoming fire. Bullets flew over their heads in quick succession. Nobber took out his radio.
“We need help here,” he screamed, “These bastards are everywhere. Give us some cover fire.” He shouted to Fulton and Brown.
Fulton did not move.
“Get your bloody rifle out and shoot some of those mothers,” Brown shouted at him.
Fulton had a vacant look in his eyes that Nobber had seen many times before.
“He’s out of it,” Nobber said.
A bullet hit him in the left shoulder and he fell backwards.
“Shit,” he cried, “that was my good shoulder. We need help now,” he screamed into the radio again. “Where the hell are those Yanks?”
Fulton stood up, looked at Brown and then at Nobber. He smiled, put his hands on the edge of the ditch and pulled himself up. Brown stared in disbelief as he walked towards the enemy fire.
“Get back here, you dumb moron,” Nobber screamed.
Blood was pouring down his arm.
“I’ll go after him,” Brown said.
“You’ll do no such thing,” Nobber ordered, “you’ll be shot to pieces.”
“He’s my friend.”
Brown crawled out of the ditch and, with his head down he ran after Fulton. The hum of helicopter blades could be heard in the distance. About bloody time, Brown thought. He spotted Fulton up ahead. He was sitting under a tree staring into the distance.
“Stay there,” Brown shouted, “I’m coming to get you.”
Everything suddenly went quiet. All Brown could hear was the rain on the trees and his rapid heartbeat pulsing in his ears.
The bullet entered the right side of his chest, pierced a lung and exited through his back. Very soon his lung would fill with blood, his blood pressure would decrease rapidly and unless he received urgent treatment he would die. Fulton watched the whole thing as if it were in slow motion. He saw the bullet hit Brown and watched as he put his hand to his chest and fell to the ground. He still had the vacant look in his eyes. Brown lay face down on the ground and blood was pouring out of his mouth. The gunfire seemed to have stopped.
“Fulton!” a voice screamed. It was Nobber. “Help him in the name of the Lord.”
Fulton did not move.
“Medics,” Nobber bellowed into his radio, “we’ve got one man in serious shit out here and another who doesn’t even know where he is. We need assistance now and while you’re at it you might as well have a look at this bloody shoulder of mine.”
ONE
LIGHT MY FIRE
Monday 1 March 2010. York
The man walked into York City police station and stood at the counter. He was one of those men whose age was not instantly apparent. He could have been anywhere between forty and sixty. His face was tanned, his hair thick and when he looked directly at PC Baldwin, who was manning the desk, she could not help but stare at his eyes for a little longer than was appropriate. His eyes were too blue; she had never seen eyes like them.
“Can I help you sir?” she asked him eventually.
“I hope so,” the man replied in an accent Baldwin could not place, “I’m looking for someone.”
“Who would that be sir?” Baldwin sighed. Another time waster, she thought.
“I believe you have a detective Jason Smith working here,” the man said, “Can I speak to him?”
“I’ll just see if he’s in,”
Baldwin picked up the internal telephone, pressed a button and waited. She smiled at the man nervously while she waited for an answer. The man smiled back and his eyes seemed to become brighter.
“I’m sorry sir,” PC Baldwin put down the phone, “there seems to be nobody there. Those guys in CID seem to think they can do as they please.”
“I’ll wait,” the man said, “try again.”
“But sir,”
“Try again,” the man repeated.
He sounded angry.
“Hold on,” Baldwin said, “sir.”
A man was just about to go through the doors of the station. Detective Sergeant Thompson turned around. He had just finished a night shift and was about to leave.
“What is it Baldwin?” Thompson asked.
“Is Smith in sir?” she said.
“He’ll be back tomorrow,” Thompson replied, “he’s at a funeral in Leicester. Old friend of his. The rich one; probably left Smith a fortune.”
The man seemed to listen with interest.
“This gentleman is looking for him,” Baldwin said.
Thompson looked at the man suspiciously. Nearly thirty years in the force had made him distrust everybody.
“I’ll come back tomorrow then, “the man said.
“What’s this all about?” Thompson asked.
“It’s a personal matter,” the man replied.
“Then I suggest you try and contact him in a more personal capacity. This is his place of work.”
The man nodded and looked Thompson directly in the eyes. They stared at each other for a few seconds until Thompson broke eye contact.
“Do you know of a good hotel in the area?”
The man’s demeanour had changed completely. He addressed the question to Thompson.
Thompson thought for a while.
“The York Pavilion is very good,” he said.
“Very well,” the man smiled, “York Pavilion it is then. Thank you for your help.”
“Who shall I say is looking for him should Smith ask?” Thompson said.
The man smiled.
“Why should he ask?” he said, “And as you quite rightly pointed out, this is no place to discuss a personal matter. Good Day.”
The man smiled at Baldwin and walked out of the station.
It was raining as the man walked from the station to where he had parked the hired car. He shook the rain off his coat and got in the car. He looked around to see if anybody was around but the rain seemed to have kept the people off the streets. He took the briefcase off the back seat, placed it on the passenger seat and entered the code on the lock. He smiled as he thought about what the code stood for. It was the date that had changed his life. Maybe Smith is going to use today’s date on a lock one day, he thought and a shudder went through his whole body. His life is certainly going to change from today onwards. The man took out a mirror, carefully removed his contact lenses and put them in their case. He looked at his eyes in the mirror. They were such a dark brown colour they were almost black. He took off the wig and put it in the briefcase. He had shaved his head two weeks before and patches of grey hair had now sprouted randomly. He took the flat cap out, put it on his head and closed the briefcase. He turned the key in the ignition, switched on the GPS and typed in the address for the Royal York Hotel. The Pavilion was his first choice but since the Detective Sergeant had suggested that, he could no longer stay there. The address came up on the screen. Station Street. The man smiled; he had always liked the area around train stations. With all the people coming and going, it was easy to get lost in the crowds.
As he drove the man thought about what he was about to do. He had read everything he could find about Detective Sergeant Jason Smith. He was far from stupid. He put a CD in the player and
turned up the volume. The haunting introduction to the Doors’ ‘Light my fire’ filled the car. He looked at the ‘No Smoking’ sign on the glove compartment and smiled. He took a cigarette from a silver case and lit it. The car slowly filled up with smoke.
“The first one is going to be tonight,” he said out loud.
The smoke had completely filled the car now.
“And I know exactly how it’s going to happen,” he added.
TWO
DOORS
Tuesday 2 March 2010
“How was the funeral Smith?” Thompson asked.
Smith had barely got through the door.
“How the hell do you think it was Thompson?” Smith snarled.
He was exhausted; he had hardly slept in three days. His friend David White had been given six months to live in two years ago but managed to fight the lung cancer for longer than anyone expected.
“How much did he leave you?” Thompson was not letting up.
“He left everything to his wife you ignorant Yorkshire fossil,” Smith said, “How’s your wife by the way?”
Thompson had been leaving his wife on and off for the past three years. He glared at Smith.
“Chalmers wants us in the conference room in ten minutes,” he said and quickly walked through to his office.
“Any messages?” Smith asked the woman behind the reception desk. She was new.
“Nothing sir,” she said, “Although PC Baldwin left a note that someone was looking for you yesterday.”
“Where is she now?”
“In the canteen sir.”
Smith walked through the doors of the canteen or at least where the doors used to be. Someone had removed them. PC Baldwin was sitting on her own next to the window.
“Morning Baldwin,” Smith said,” what happened to the doors?”
“Morning sir,” Baldwin said, “bright idea of the Super’s. Old Smyth thinks it will benefit us if the place is more open. He’s planning on removing all the doors so we’re not shut away from each other. We were forced to endure a two hour meeting yesterday. He calls it the dawn of a new era in policing. He reckons it will cut down on communication problems.”
“You can’t be serious?” Smith said.
“Afraid so sir.”
“I believe someone was looking for me yesterday?”
“A man.”
“Did he leave a name?”
“Thompson pretty much told him to bugger off sir. He said this wasn’t the place for personal matters.”
“That old fart would,” Smith said, “I’ll have a quiet word with him. Thanks Baldwin.”
Smith walked down the corridor to the conference room where, thankfully the doors were still on their hinges. Detective Constable Erica Whitton was sitting next to Thompson. Smith took the seat on the other side of her.
“How are you doing sir?” she asked.
“Bloody knackered Whitton,” he replied, “I hate funerals.”
“What was the turnout like?”
“Terrible. Me, Lucy and a few nosy bastards only there for the free food and booze. Old Whitey wasn’t exactly popular.”
“Sorry to hear that sir,” Whitton said, “I actually got to like him in the end.”
“Thanks Whitton. Thompson,” Smith leaned back in his chair. “You didn’t tell me someone was looking for me yesterday,” he said, “who was it?”
“Didn’t give a name,” Thompson said, “and I didn’t ask for one.”
“Thanks Thompson. Can you at least tell me what he looked like?”
“I don’t know. About fifty, nice tan. Thick black hair.”
“Anything else?” Smith sighed.
“His eyes,” Thompson said, “they were a weird bright blue colour; they didn’t look real.”
“And he didn’t say what he wanted?”
“No and I’m not your bloody secretary. He said he’d come back tomorrow. Today I mean.”
Detective Inspector Bob Chalmers barged through the doors into the room. He was obviously in a foul mood. He sat down in his usual seat at the top of the table. He was chewing on a large carrot.
“First things first,” he growled, “That’s the last time I’m going to be able to barge through those doors if the Super has anything to do with it. That dumb public school amoeba is determined that this station is going to be doorless if there is such a bloody word. Does anyone have anything to report?”
The room was silent.
“Good,” Chalmers grinned, “that’s how I like it. At this moment, we have what us sad gits in the force call a bit of a crime lull.”
“A what sir?” Thompson said.
“Exactly what I said Thompson. Crime is so low at the moment that I’m thinking of getting a few of you to get out there and rob a few banks. At least then we’ll have something to occupy our time and the pay is much better.”
He picked a piece of carrot from between his teeth.
“Are you telling us that there’s nothing going on?” Smith said, “Nothing at all?”
“There’s the usual petty stuff,” Chalmers said, “minor house breakings, students beating the crap out of each other, a suicide at the Royal York Hotel but not much to really test these brains of ours.”
“A suicide?” Smith’s ears pricked up.
“That’s right Smith. A businessman hung himself in his room.”
“Hanged sir,” Thompson said.
“What?” Chalmers looked annoyed.
“The correct word is hanged,” Thompson said, “it’s a common mistake.”
“Hung, hanged. What the hell does it matter, the poor bastard topped himself.”
“Are you sure it was suicide sir?” Smith asked, “Remember a few years ago? Lauren Cowley. The babysitter. She was drugged first and it was made to look like suicide.”
“He was found hanging by a length of cable,” Chalmers said, “suicide if you ask me.”
“Do you mind if I check it out anyway?” Smith asked, “It’s not like we have much else to work on.”
“Be my guest Smith,” Chalmers said, “you’re wasting your time though. I can tell you that right now.”
“Come on Whitton,” Smith said, “let’s get out of here before the Super has us removing doors.”
The Royal York Hotel stood in huge grounds on Station Parade right in the heart of the city. Smith parked his car in the car park at the front of the hotel.
“I’ve always wanted to stay here,” Whitton said as they walked through the entrance into reception.
“Hotels are depressing places Whitton,” Smith said, “look at these people. They’re all miserable.”
They approached the reception desk.
“Good morning,” the man behind the desk said, “welcome to York.” He had an American accent.
“Detective Sergeant Smith,” Smith said, “this is Detective Constable Whitton. We need to ask you a few questions about the suicide here.”
“Horrible thing to happen,” the receptionist said, “Poor man. What could be so bad that you have to end it all like that?”
“Who found him?” Smith asked.
“Mike, the general manager. Some old fart was smoking in his room and set off the alarm. Standard procedure is to evacuate the whole hotel. Mike had to check the rooms to see that everybody was out.”
“Where’s Mike now?”
“He’s on a break. You’ll probably find him in the hotel gardens. It’s the only place we’re allowed to smoke.”
“What does he look like?”
“Tall, blonde. A bit like you actually.” The receptionist smiled, “you Australians all look alike to me.”
“How do we get to the gardens?” Smith asked.
“Go past reception and carry on straight. It’s well signed.”
“Come on Whitton,” Smith said.
“I think he liked you,” Whitton said as they walked outside.
“Rubbish Whitton,” Smith said, “that could be our man Mike over there.”
&
nbsp; A tall blonde man was sitting under what looked like a covered bandstand. He had his head in his hands and as they got nearer, Smith was sure he had been crying.
“Are you the manager here?” Smith asked him.
The man jumped and stood up abruptly.
“Who are you?” he asked. His face was dirty and his eyes were red.
“Police,” Smith replied, “I need to ask you a few questions about the man you found hanging in his room.”
“It was awful,” Mike said. His accent was a mixture of Australian and Yorkshire.
“He was just hanging there. His eyes were bulging and his tongue was sticking out. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget about it.”
“You will,” Smith said, “what did you do after you found him?”
“It was chaos.” Mike started to cry again.
“Take it easy,” Smith said. He could not bear it when men cried. “From the beginning. You found a man hanging in his room. What did you do next?”
“The fire alarm was going off. Some idiot had been smoking in his room. Pretty soon the fire brigade arrived.”
“Did you call the police?” Whitton asked.
“No,” Mike replied at once, “I phoned down to reception and got them to send a couple of fire fighters up.”
“Why did you do that?” Smith said.
“I thought they would be able to cut the man down.”
“For Christ’s sake.” Smith was becoming frustrated. “Please don’t tell me they cut him down without letting us lot have a look first? Don’t answer that.”
Smith took out his phone.
“Baldwin,” he said, “find out which fire brigade attended to the alarm at the Royal York last night and who cut down the man who was hanging in his room. Phone me back immediately.”
He rang off. Whitton and Mike looked at him in disbelief.
“Mike,” Smith said, “I need you to show me the room where the man died.
“Please,” Mike sobbed, “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to go inside that room ever again.”
“Get a grip Mike,” Smith said, “you’re giving Australians a bad name.”
The York Trilogy: The First 3 DS Jason Smith Detective novels Page 31
