“That’s what happened back there.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I haven’t told anyone this.” Smith was starting to slur his words, “and you must never repeat this to anybody ok?”
“Ok,” Whitton said.
“I’m serious Whitton.” He slammed his glass on the table.
The bar man looked over and cast him a disapproving glare.
“I said ok.”
“My father died when I was fifteen,” Smith began.
“I’m sorry about that sir,” Whitton said, “but I still don’t understand.”
“He’d been ill for quite some time. Not physically but he’d started to have nightmares. He’d wake up in the middle of the night and he would be screaming. He refused to see anyone about it. He wasn’t the type to ask for help.”
“Sounds like someone I know,” Whitton said.
Smith drained his glass.
“Get me another one will you please.”
Smith fumbled in his pockets and put a twenty pound note on the table. Whitton could see it was no use arguing so she did as she was asked.
“Eventually,” Smith said when she returned with his drink, “eventually things got so bad that my mother threatened to leave him unless he got some help. After three months of seeing a specialist they deduced that the cause of these nightmares and his whole illness was the time he spent in the war.”
“War?” Whitton was confused.
“Vietnam,” Smith slurred, “Dad was just the right age to go. Silly bastard joined up too; he didn’t have to be drafted.”
“Sorry sir,” Whitton said, “But where are you going with this?”
“I’m getting to that now.”
His eyes were half closed. He took another sip of his drink.
“He was put on heavy medication and pretty soon the nightmares became more and more infrequent until finally they stopped altogether. We all thought he was getting better but one day after taking me and my sister to the beach he said he needed to go for a walk. He didn’t come back. He killed himself.”
“Oh my God,” Whitton said, “I didn’t know. I am so sorry.”
She put her arm on his shoulder but he shrugged it off.
“That’s not all of it Whitton,” Smith said, “I was the one who found him. He was hanging from a tree in our back garden. It was Christmas Day Nineteen Ninety Seven.”
SEVEN
SMOKE ALARM
The man looked at himself in the bathroom mirror in room sixty five of the York Hilton. He had checked out of the Royal York Hotel early that morning. He had been fined one hundred and fifty pounds for violating the no smoking rules. He had protested at first but, almost immediately he had decided it was worth it and had paid the fine there and then. He had even left the man behind the reception desk a generous tip. He had changed his appearance yet again. For the next couple of days he would be blonde with green eyes. He adjusted his wig slightly so it was even on both sides of his face. His plan was simple. He would merely wait and see what happened. He was sure that Smith had already figured out that the man in room one two three had not killed himself. He wondered if he had noticed the numbers on the man’s feet yet.
Killing the man had been easier than he had thought it would be. He had spotted the man dining alone and simply approached him and suggested that it was ridiculous for two people to be eating alone on separate tables. Although it had been slightly painful; he had had to suffer the man’s whole life story, he managed to gain his trust and when last orders were called the man had suggested a drink in his room. He had crushed sleeping pills into the man’s cognac when he went to the bathroom and the man was unconscious in no time at all.
A wave of complete joy passed through his body when he thought about how simple it had been. He had stood on a chair, put a loop of cord around the light fitting and passed the rest of the cord through a four to one purchase pulley he had brought with him. The hardest part had been when he had to lift the man up onto the chair. Once that was done, all he had to do was tie a noose around the man’s neck and hoist him up. He had watched as the man’s eyes had popped out. He then stood on the chair and made sure the other end of the cord was securely around the light fitting. Writing on the man’s feet was an afterthought. He would mess with Smith’s mind for a while. He smiled at how brilliant it all was.
He had returned to his room and lit a cigarette directly underneath the smoke alarm. Within ten seconds the alarm in the room sounded followed shortly by the main hotel alarm. He knew the general procedure would be to evacuate the whole hotel. There had been a knock on his door and a man had told him to leave the hotel as quickly as possible and not to use the lifts. The York Hilton was more upmarket than the Royal York Hotel. It also had a swimming pool. The man had already decided which slice of Smith’s troubled past he was going to haunt him with next.
EIGHT
CAN YOU SEE WHAT IT IS YET?
Wednesday 3 March 2010.
Smith woke with a start. A dog was barking at him at the bottom of his bed. It was Theakston, his two year old Bull Terrier. Smith had bought him as a Christmas present to himself. He looked at the clock on the side table. It was four in the morning.
“Sorry boy,” he said to the dog, “I was having a bad dream.”
Theakston lay on the pillow next to him and started to lick his ears. Smith had been dreaming about his father. The dream was till very clear in his head. His father was hanging from the tree that Smith and Laura, his sister used to climb quite regularly. His father must have climbed the tree and jumped because his neck was broken in many places. Smith remembered his sister shouting for Daddy and having to run up to her before she came into the garden. He did not want her to see her father hanging from a tree; that should not be a little girl’s last memory of her Daddy. He remembered telling her to stay in her room. She did not even argue; she must have seen the look on his face.
Smith felt wide awake but his mouth was incredibly dry. He got up from the bed, kissed Theakston on the head and headed downstairs to make some coffee. His cell phone was lying on the kitchen table. He saw that he had two missed calls. One was from Whitton and the other was from a number he did not recognise. It was a local number. He took his coffee to the living room and listened to the messages. The first one from Whitton said, “Hi, it’s Whitton. I just want to see if you’re alright and let you know that I covered for you again. You owe me one. Again.”
Smith smiled as the other message started. He had to listen to it twice as it was so short. It was a man with an Australian accent. He merely said, “Can you see what it is yet?”
Smith realised what it was. It was a prank call from someone pretending to be the Australian artist and television presenter Rolf Harris. He shrugged his shoulders and put down the phone. He looked out the window; he had forgotten to close the curtains when he came home yesterday. It was still dark outside. He finished his coffee, went back upstairs and got dressed.
“Get up you lazy dog,” he said to Theakston who was spread out on the bed, “we’re going for a walk.”
Theakston was off the bed and at the bottom of the stairs in a flash. Middle of the night or not, he was not going to pass up the opportunity of a walk.
Theakston ran ahead to the park. Smith walked quickly behind him and went through everything that had happened in his head. There’s no such thing as coincidence, he thought, who the hell is trying to play games with me? In the park, he sat on a bench and watched as Theakston raced to the edge of the lake hoping to torment the ducks. Unfortunately for him, they were still asleep. Someone must have seen something, Smith thought. It was starting to get light so he stood up, called Theakston and headed back home. On the way, he bought a local newspaper from the corner shop. ‘Suicide in the Royal York’ read the headline on the front page.
“They’ve got it all wrong boy,” he said to Theakston, “they don’t know how wrong they’ve got it.”
Smith made himself another
cup of coffee at home. I really must start eating breakfast, he thought as he quickly read through the newspaper article. They did not give out too much information. Only that a forty nine year old businessman had hanged himself in his room. There was no indication of why he would do such a thing. Knowing you lot, Smith thought, you’ll do a bit of digging and find out he was running from something. He put the newspaper down and looked at the guitars in the corner of the room. There was a Fender Stratocaster he had bought from a broke Kiwi when he first came to England, a Rickenbacker that Whitton had given him and a Gibson Les Paul he had bought himself after a particularly draining murder investigation. He picked up the Gibson, plugged it in and played the opening riff to ‘Purple Haze’. It did not sound right so he turned the amplifier off and put the guitar back on its stand.
Smith made a mental list of things to do. The autopsy results would be back that afternoon. He would need to go back to the hotel with forensics and go over the room with a fine toothcomb. That would be the easy part, the routine part. What was most disturbing was the connection between his father’s suicide and this murder. Smith shuddered at the mere thought of it. He looked at his watch. Half past six. He picked up his phone and keys and left the house.
Whitton was waiting in his office when he got to the station.
“Bit early for you isn’t it Whitton?” Smith said.
He was not surprised though.
“I know how your brain works sir,” she said, “how’s the head?”
“Surprisingly clear considering how much of Mr Daniels’ best was consumed yesterday. We need to get forensics to the Royal York as soon as possible.”
“I’m way ahead of you sir,” she said with a wry smile, “they’re meeting us there at half past seven.”
“Thanks Whitton. How did you explain my absence yesterday?”
“I told Chalmers you were doing a bit of research at the library.”
“And he bought it?”
“Not really but what could he do?”
“You’re a star Whitton, I owe you.”
“I’ve heard that one a few times before. Shall we go? I’ll drive; your driving is terrible at the best of times.”
Mike, the hotel manager’s face dropped as he watched Smith and Whitton walk towards him in Reception.
“Morning Mike,” Smith said cheerily, “we need to have a good look at room one two three again. How did you sleep?”
“I didn’t,” Mike replied, “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to sleep again. I’ll organise the key from reception. The room hasn’t been touched since you were last there as you requested.”
“Good work Mike,” Smith smiled, “let’s go Whitton. Those idiots in forensics are late.”
Room 123 was exactly as Smith remembered it. He took a long look around the room. The mini bar was slightly ajar. Smith took out a paper towel and opened it further. It was empty.
“I wonder whose going to pay for all the stuff he drank,” Smith said, “these hotels really know how to rip you off on booze from the room.”
“There’s two glasses here sir,” Whitton said, “it looks like our guy had company.”
Two brandy glasses stood on the table.
“Where are those useless bastards from forensics?” Smith said, “We need to get moving on this.”
“We’re doing you a bloody favour Smith,” a gruff voice was heard from the door.
Grant Webber walked in the room. He was closely followed by his colleague Tony Carrick. They were both veterans of the forensics department and Smith did not like either of them.
“You can start with these glasses over here,” Smith had no time for pleasantries, “and dust the arms of both of those chairs. They’re the only things that could have been used to get the poor man up there.”
He pointed to the ceiling light.
“Good morning to you too Smith,” Webber said.
“And when you’ve finished that,” Smith continued, “I need you to check the light fitting.”
Smith’s phone rang. It was The Ghoul.
“Tell me you have good news,” Smith said.
“That depends,” The Ghoul said, “you owe me a beer; I pulled an all nighter on this one. Cause of death is the usual one. Lack of oxygen to the brain, in this case caused by dangling from a frigging cord around the neck but you probably knew that already didn’t you?”
“Please,” Smith was getting irritated, “what else?”
“This is the interesting part,” The Ghoul continued, “blood alcohol level very impressive, I must say but this man was spared any pain whatsoever.”
“He was dead before he was hung up?” Smith said.
“No but I found huge quantities of Ambien in his system.”
“Ambien?” Smith was puzzled.
“It’s a kick arse sleeping pill. Highly addictive. This poor bastard wouldn’t have even known what was going on.”
“So he was definitely drugged?” Smith asked.
“The thing that gets me though is this. The combined effects of the Ambien and alcohol would almost certainly have killed him soon enough anyway. Why go to all the trouble of hanging him?”
“I think it’s symbolic,” Smith said.
“Oh Crap Smith, you’re going all Hollywood on us now.”
“I’ll explain later. Thanks mate.”
He rang off.
“We’ve definitely got a murder here Whitton,” Smith said, “let’s see if we can figure out his last movements. We need to find out who was with him the night he died.”
“How do we do that sir?” Whitton asked.
“We do what we do best. We ask enough questions until we find the right answers.”
“Finished already?” Mike said as Smith and Whitton came down the stairs.
“Only just started,” Smith replied, “the man that died. Do you know anything about him?”
“Only from the information on the booking form,” Mike said, “I’ll get it for you.”
He moved to one of the computers behind the desk.
“Forty nine years old. He designed golf courses. He was in York to help with the plans for a new golf course here.”
“Was he alone?” Whitton asked.
“Yes.”
“Did you see him at all last night?”
“Not at all,” Mike said, “he had dinner in the restaurant. I can see that. He booked it earlier. Some of our guests like to eat at one of the other restaurants in the city for a change but I even have a record of what he ate and drank. Quite a lot as it happens. I mean he got through three bottles of wine. It says so here.”
He showed Smith an itemised restaurant bill.
“That won’t be necessary,” Smith said, “where’s the restaurant?”
“Just through there.”
Mike pointed to a door on the left.
“Thanks Mike,” Smith said, “don’t leave the country, we may need to talk to you again.”
Mike looked like he was about to cry again. Smith shook his head and headed toward the restaurant.
“Since when did men become such wimps?” he said.
“They can’t all be like you sir,” Whitton smiled, “I mean, you’ve never cried before have you?”
“Remember what I said would happen if you ever mentioned that again Whitton?”
“I know nothing,” Whitton said in a false Mexican accent.
The restaurant was full of people eating breakfast. A waitress was pouring coffee on a big table.
“Excuse me,” Smith said, “were you on duty last night?”
“Who are you?” the woman asked.
“Police.” He showed her his badge.”
“Unfortunately yes,” she said, “we have to do spilt shifts. Half six until twelve and then seven until the last guest leaves. It’s really crap for your social life.”
“Did you see the man that died in his room?”
“The one that hung himself?”
“That’s him. Can you remember him? H
e was eating alone.”
“I remember him,” she said, “I know you’re not supposed to talk ill of the dead and all that but he was a bit of a perv. I mean, he was old enough to be my dad.”
“What time did he eat?”
“Around nine. I always remember the annoying ones who come in just before the kitchen closes and then have us waiting around for them to leave.”
“Did you notice anything odd about him?” Whitton asked.
“Apart from an old man thinking he’s God’s gift to women you mean?”
“What time did he leave the restaurant?” Smith asked.
“Just after ten I think. He left with another bloke.”
“Another bloke?” Smith had a feeling they were finally getting somewhere.
“Another pain in the arse,” the waitress said, “he asked if he could eat with the man that died. It buggers up the orders with the table numbers and everything. It really annoys the chef but then again, it doesn’t take much to annoy that miserable git.”
“So they ate together?” Whitton asked.
“That’s right.”
“And they left together just after ten?”
“I asked them to leave,” the waitress said, “they’d finished eating and they were quite drunk. Three bottles of wine between them. When they ordered a fourth I said they could carry on drinking in the bar if they wanted. I have to get back to work.”
“Just one more question,” Smith said, “what did the other man look like?”
“Old,” she replied immediately, “like a Granddad. He even had a flat cap on his head and he had the darkest eyes I have ever seen.”
“Thank you,” Smith said, “if you remember anything else give me a call.”
He handed her a card.
“Sorry if I sound a bit rude,” the waitress said, “I’m not normally like this but I’m a bit tired today. That bloke in the flat cap was the idiot that set off the smoke alarm. He woke the whole hotel up. A lot of the staff stay here in the hotel. I’m one of them, unfortunately.”
“Let’s see if we can find this phantom smoker then Whitton,” Smith said.
The York Trilogy: The First 3 DS Jason Smith Detective novels Page 33
