THREE
WINGS
“Don’t you think you were a bit hard on him sir?” Whitton whispered as they followed Mike back inside the hotel.
“Whitton,” Smith said, “I’m tired and I’m sick and tired of the namby pamby attitude of people these days.”
“You’re starting to sound like a Yorkshireman,” Whitton smiled.
“This is the room here,” Mike said nervously, “room one two three.”
He inserted his master key in the lock and opened the door. Smith went in first. His cell phone rang in his pocket. It was PC Baldwin.
“I’ve managed to find out the fire station that took the call last night sir.”
“Do you know which of them cut the man down?” Smith asked.
“Yes sir, but they’re not at work now. They’re only due back on duty this evening.”
“Get hold of them and tell them to meet me at the Royal York as soon as possible.”
“But sir,” Baldwin protested.
“Just do it Baldwin,” Smith said. He rang off.
“I think you need some sleep sir,” Whitton said. She followed him into the room.
“Where was the man hanging?” Smith asked Mike, “up here?”
He pointed to a light fitting on the ceiling.
“That’s right,” Mike said, “he was just hanging there like I said.”
Smith walked around the room. There was a double bed on one side of the room and a table with two chairs around it on the other. There was no other furniture in the room. He stood on his tiptoes and tried to touch the ceiling. At six foot one and with his arm outstretched he was still over three feet short. His phone rang. It was Baldwin again.
“The two fire fighters will be there in five minutes sir,” she said.
“Good work Baldwin,” Smith said,
“They’re not too pleased about it.”
“Life’s a bitch.” Smith rang off.
“Something’s not right here Whitton,” he said.
“It never is with you sir,” she sighed.
There was a knock at the door and two men walked in. They looked exhausted.
“Firemen I presume,” Smith said.
“You lot think you’re superior to us for some reason don’t you?” one of the men snarled.
“Not at all,” Smith said, “I have tremendous respect for what you guys do. Detective Jason Smith.” He held out his hand. “And this is Detective Whitton.” He purposefully omitted their ranks.
“Jimmy Neill,” the man said. He shook Smith’s hand. “And this is my colleague John Scorcher. Don’t even start. He’s heard all the jokes before.”
“You were called upstairs to cut down the man who hanged himself,” Smith said.
“That’s right,” Neill replied
“And did you put the chair back around the table after you’d cut him down?”
“What chair?” Scorcher said.
“I assumed you stood on the chair to cut him down.”
“There was no chair,” Neill said, “we are the fire department, we have things called ladders.”
“Did you put the chair back?” Smith addressed Mike.
“The chairs were both where they are now,” Mike replied.
“So when you entered the room, the man was just hanging there? There was no chair underneath him?”
“The chairs were where they are now,” Mike repeated, “what is this all about?”
“Think Mike. A man hangs himself in one of your hotel rooms. The ceiling light has to be at least ten feet off the ground. How the hell do you think he got up there? Did he suddenly sprout wings and fly?”
“Shit,” Whitton said. “Sorry,” she said immediately.
“Shit is what it is Whitton,” Smith said.
He looked at Neill.
“What did you do with the cord that was around the man’s neck?”
“It was still around his neck when the paramedics took him away,” Neill replied.
“Whitton,” Smith said, “looks like we’re off to the morgue again. Mike, make sure nobody comes into this room until I say so. You’ve just had a murder in your hotel.”
FOUR
FEET
“Well if it isn’t my old mate Smithy,” the man in the white lab coat said, “and you’ve brought the lovely Miss Whitton with you too. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Smith was taken aback.
“My friend The Ghoul,” he said, “do you realise you’ve just strung over twenty words together and not one of them was an expletive. What’s wrong? Are you sick?”
“I’ve got myself a girlfriend,” the man said, “She reckons I swear a bit too much.”
Paul ‘The Ghoul’ Johnson was a brilliant pathologist whose personal mannerisms left a lot to be desired. He always put it down to the fact that he spent more time with the dead than the living. “The dead couldn’t give a rat’s arse if you frigging swear,” he always said.
“Lucky girl,” Whitton said, “has she stopped you playing the stock exchange as well?”
“Not bloody likely,” he replied, “what can I do for you? We’ve had no dead ones you could be interested in.”
“The suicide that was brought in yesterday,” Smith said, “have you had a chance to look at him yet?”
“Why would I? Businessman tops himself, it happens all the time.”
“I don’t think it was a suicide,” Smith said.
“Crap.” The Ghoul rolled his eyes. “What does the great detective Smith have on his mind this time? You can tell The Ghoul. Take a seat.”
Smith and Whitton sat on the chairs next to The Ghoul’s desk.
“There’s something not quite right about it,” Smith began, “he hung himself from a light fitting ten feet above the ground.”
“I believe the correct word is hanged,” The Ghoul said, “but please go on.”
“There was no way he could have done it by himself. There was nothing for him to stand on and the only people that were in the room afterwards were the manager of the hotel and two firemen and they claim there was nothing underneath him when he was found.”
“Are you saying he had some help?”
“I have a feeling he was helped against his will.”
The Ghoul smiled and licked his lips.
“Murder, you mean?” he said.
“Looks like it,” Smith replied.
“I suppose we’d better go and have a look at this corpse then.”
The Ghoul shot up in his chair and darted out of the room. Smith and Whitton followed closely behind.
The part of the mortuary where the corpses were stored always gave Smith the creeps. It was always cold and there was a smell about it that made his stomach turn.
“Here he is,” The Ghoul pointed to a bag lying on a table. “Steven Harcourt, forty nine years old. Let’s have a look at the wretched fellow shall we?”
He unzipped the bag and Whitton gasped when she saw his face.
“Look at his eyes,” she exclaimed.
“Unfortunate side effect of asphyxiation,” The Ghoul said.
He unzipped the bag fully and spread the sides of the bag over the table.
“I’m sorry about this,” he said, “but this is far too good an opportunity to pass up. Look at the size of that. If you’ll excuse the pun, this man was extremely well hung.”
Smith laughed.
“You’re sick,” Whitton said, “both of you.”
“Morgue humour,” Smith said defended The Ghoul, “you’d probably go crazy in this place without it.”
“What exactly are you looking for?” The Ghoul asked.
“Anything unusual,” Smith replied, “signs of a struggle, defence wounds. Someone killed this man, I’m sure of it.”
“If you’d care to step back a bit, I’ll do what they pay me pittance to do. Of course, this is just a preliminary examination. Because of your frigging gut feeling, we’ll have to do a full autopsy.”
“Language,” Smith smiled.
Smith and Whitton watched in silence as The Ghoul went through the motions. Starting at the head and finishing with the feet, he scrutinised every inch of Steven Harcourt.
“Nothing out of the ordinary yet,” he said, “help me turn him over will you Smithy.”
Smith grabbed the feet. They were colder than he had expected.
“On three we’ll turn him to the left,” The Ghoul ordered, “one, two, three.”
“Hold on,” Whitton said suddenly, “when the bodies are brought in do you give them numbers to identify them?”
“Of course,” The Ghoul replied, “a lot of people believe that the less we personalise them, the easier it is for us to sleep at night. To be honest, I couldn’t give a monkey’s bollocks.”
“How do you assign the numbers to the bodies?” Whitton asked.
“Date of death. Code for male or female. It depends. Why do you ask?”
“You don’t write on the soles of their feet then?”
“Of course not. This isn’t the bloody Middle Ages; we don’t brand the poor bastards.”
“There’s something written on the soles of both of his feet.”
The Ghoul walked to the end of the table and picked up one of the feet.
“My God, you’re quite right,” he said, “what the hell does this mean?”
“What does it say?” Smith asked.
“Nothing at all, it’s just a series of numbers. Two, Five, One, Two, Nine, One. Hold on, it’s not a one it’s a seven. The same sequence is on the other foot. You’re the detectives. What do you think it is? A phone number?”
“Too short,” Smith said, “maybe it’s some kind of password.”
“I think it’s a date,” Whitton suggested, “Two, Five, One, Two, Nine, and Seven. The Twenty Fifth of December Nineteen Ninety Seven. That’s Christmas Day. It’s certainly not his birth date; he’s too old.”
Smith’s face suddenly turned a strange colour. It was somewhere between grey and off white.
“Say that again Whitton,” he said quietly.
He was shaking.
“It’s not his birth date…”
“Not that part for God’s sake,” Smith screamed, “what’s the date?”
“Christmas Day Nineteen Ninety Seven,” she repeated, “what’s wrong? You don’t look well.”
Smith ran to the door, opened it and darted off down the corridor.
FIVE
SOPHIE
28 August 1966. US Field Hospital Phuoc Hai. Vietnam.
John Fulton lay on the bed in the tented ward in the US Army field hospital north of Phuoc Hai. He lay as he had done since he had been brought in two days earlier. He did not move and his eyes were staring at the roof of the tent. He had not said a word since the attack. He had watched as his school friend Max Brown had tried to help him and had received a bullet in the chest. Fulton was not aware of what had become of his friend but the image of that bullet slicing cleanly through Max’s chest was firmly tattooed on the back of his eyelids.
John Fulton had been diagnosed with what the Americans called post traumatic stress disorder, a loose term that was used to describe what any normal human being would go through after a traumatic event in their lives. Treatment varied from place to place but in times of war, the general consensus was the victim just needed to ‘snap out of it’ on their own and get back to what caused the disorder in the first place.
“How are you today?” a nurse in a green uniform said.
John Fulton did not stir.
“Your friend is doing fine John,” the nurse said.
Her name was Sophie. She was twenty four years old and she had been in Vietnam for two years.
“His lung is fine,” she continued, “he’s awake and he should be up and about in a week or two. That’s good news isn’t it John?”
Fulton stared at the roof of the tent.
“Don’t get too attached,” a voice came from behind.
It was Nurse Barbara Atlee.
“You know they’re just going to ship him back out there when he gets better.”
“I don’t know if this one will ever get better,” Sophie sighed.
“He’ll be alright,” Barbara assured her, “it’s only been two days.”
“They see such awful things.” Sophie stroked Fulton’s cheek.
“No worse than we do dear,” Barbara said, “men are just not as strong as women, that’s all.”
“We need help in theatre!” a man burst through the flaps in the tent. “We’ve got carnage through there.”
It was Doctor Reinburg. He ran out of the tent. Sophie looked at Fulton, sighed and ran after him.
The operating theatre was in another tent about fifty metres from where John Fulton lay. He could hear the sounds of screaming from his bed. Sophie entered the tent and was given gloves and a mask to put over her face. Inside, it was chaos. Stretchers were lined up along the edge of the tent. Two of the men were already dead.
“Somebody get them out,” Doctor Reinburg shouted, “there’s nothing we can do for them. Nurse,” he addressed Sophie, “help me get this one on the bed.”
A man was lying on a stretcher. He had a look of pure agony on his face. One of his arms was gone and the other one was beyond saving; it was attached by a thin string of flesh. His face was a disturbing grey colour; he had obviously lost a lot of blood. Sophie helped the Doctor roll the man onto the bed. As they did so, the strands that held his arm to his body got caught between the bed and the edge of the stretcher. There was a quiet thud as the arm fell to the floor. Sophie stared at it lying under the stretcher.
“He would have lost it anyway,” Doctor Reinburg assured her, “let’s get those stumps cleaned up and bandaged.”
Six hours later, Sophie stood outside the tent and lit a cigarette.
“Those things are going to kill you,” Barbara said, “give me one.”
Sophie handed her the packet. She inhaled and blew a smoke ring into the air. She watched as it grew bigger and disappeared.
“I don’t know how much more of this I can take,” she said, “we lost five of them in there today.”
“But we saved thirteen of them,” Barbara said.
She threw her cigarette on the ground.
“These things taste like crap,” she said.
“I’m going to check on John,” Sophie said, “maybe he’s a bit better.”
“You’re playing with fire my girl,” Barbara warned.
“We’re surrounded by fire,” Sophie sighed and walked off.
She sat down in the chair next to Fulton’s bed. He was still the same although Sophie was sure he had moved slightly since the last time she saw him. His face had more colour in it too. Beads of sweat had formed on his brow. Sophie wiped them away with her sleeve.
“What’s your name?” Fulton said quietly.
Sophie stood up in shock.
“Welcome back,” she smiled.
She sat back down.
“Funny name,” he said and smiled back at her.
He sat up further in the bed.
“My name’s Sophie.”
“That’s a pretty name,” he said, “It suits you. I’m John.”
“I know,” she laughed, “it’s written on a board at the end of your bed. John Fulton. Twenty One years old from Perth, Australia. You were out of it for a while there.”
“Where’s Max?”
“In another tent. It was touch and go for a bit but he’s going to be fine.”
“Maybe I’ll pop in and see him later,” Fulton said.
“Can you remember what happened?” She put her hand on his cheek.
“Could I get something to drink please Sophie? My mouth feels like a lizard has been living in it for two weeks.”
“Of course,” Sophie laughed.
“You have a beautiful laugh Sophie. I could listen to that laugh all day.”
She poured him a glass of water from a jug on the table next to the bed. He sat up further in the bed, pu
t the glass to his lips and emptied it in one go.
“Thanks Sophie,” he said, “can you leave me now. I need to sleep.”
SIX
NIGHTMARES
Tuesday 2 March 2010. York.
Smith emerged from the bathroom next to The Ghoul’s office. His face was dripping with water and there were spots of vomit on his shirt. The Ghoul and Whitton were waiting outside for him.
“I need a drink Whitton,” he wiped the side of his mouth with his sleeve.
“You need some sleep more like it sir,” Whitton said.
“What’s the story Smithy?” The Ghoul asked, “You’ve seen dead bodies before.”
“Where can I get a drink around here?” he said.
“There’s a cheap and cheerful pub across the road from the hospital,” the Ghoul replied, “its where all the student nurses go but it should be pretty quiet at this time of the day.”
“Come on Whitton,” Smith said, “I’m buying.”
The originally named Hospital Arms was exactly as its name suggested. The general décor was medically themed. There was a list of cocktails on a board with names like Test Tube and Penicillin. Smith and Whitton approached the bar.
“Jack Daniels,” Smith said to the man behind the bar, “triple. What are you having Whitton?”
“We’re on duty sir,” she protested.
“Medicinal Whitton,” he insisted, “look at this place. You can’t get more medicinal than this.”
“I’ll have a coke then; one of us has to stay sober.”
The bar man put Smith’s drink in front of him. He raised it to his lips, took a small sip then emptied the rest down his throat.
“Give me another one,” Smith said.
Whitton shook her head.
“Find us a table as far away as possible,” Smith said, “I’ll bring the drinks over.”
He paid for the drinks and walked over to where Whitton was sitting.
“Are you going to explain what happened back there sir?” she said when he had sat down. “I’m used to your outbursts but that was freaky.”
“I think somebody is trying to fuck with my brain Whitton,” Smith said.
He took a swig of his drink.
The York Trilogy: The First 3 DS Jason Smith Detective novels Page 32
