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

by Stewart Giles

  Webber and Carrick were waiting for them in reception.

  “All done?” Smith said.

  “Anything that could be dusted was dusted,” Webber said, “we got some real beauties too. If this was a murder, the killer wasn’t too careful; there were prints everywhere.”

  “Thanks Webber,” Smith said, “give me a shout if anything turns up. I assume you’ve brought along the glasses with you for testing?”

  “I’ve been doing this job since you were in short pants chasing kangaroos around,” Webber snarled and walked off.

  “Arsehole,” Smith muttered to himself.

  The man with the American accent was behind reception again as Smith and Whitton approached.

  “Morning,” Smith said, “the man who was smoking in his room, the one that set the alarms off. What room is he in?”

  “The alarms are monitored,” the receptionist said, “that was room eighty nine.”

  “Is he in his room now?” Smith asked.

  “I’m afraid he checked out first thing yesterday morning. We had to fine him for breaking the rules.”

  “Shit,” Smith said, “sorry. Do you have any idea where he went?”

  “I’m sorry sir but that really isn’t any of our business.”

  NINE

  SEATTLE

  Thursday 4 March 2010

  Jackie Bulmer was on her nineteenth lap of the twenty five metre swimming pool in the York Hilton. It was one of the few perks that working as a waitress in the hotel offered her. She could use the pool whenever it was quiet. She reached the end of the pool, turned and set off on lap twenty. Swimming cleared her head and helped her to think. It helped her to think about the dead end relationship she was currently in; it helped her to think about the University degree that she was almost certainly going to fail but most of all it helped her to think about the trip to Seattle in two weeks time that would make everything else seem insignificant. Seattle, the home of grunge and impressive rainfall figures. It had been her dream since she was a teenager. The swimming pool was also the only good thing about working at the York Hilton. The feeling of the water as she glided along made her forget all about the obnoxious guests and the even more obnoxious staff at the hotel. She touched the end of the pool and took off her goggles. A ten minute break and then she would swim twenty more laps before she had to get ready for work.

  Jackie Bulmer sighed as she saw the blonde man at the edge of the pool. He dipped his hand in the water as if to test the temperature. She usually had the pool to herself at this time in the morning and she preferred it that way. Who the hell swims at six in the morning? She thought. She watched as the man put down his bag, removed his T shirt and walked towards the steps leading to the deep end. She could not help but notice that the man seemed to be in exceptionally good physical shape for his age which she guessed to be around forty. He walked down the steps, ducked his head under the water and pushed himself off the wall of the pool. Jackie Bulmer watched in amazement as he swam a whole lap under the water. She was even more amazed when he surfaced and did not seem at all out of breath.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” the man said.

  He had a slight Australian accent.

  Jackie was taken back.

  “Not at all,” she quickly lied, “it’s a big pool anyway.”

  “This won’t take long,” the man said.

  Jackie thought it was quite an odd thing to say but she shrugged it off.

  “You’re Australian aren’t you?” she said, “are you here on holiday?”

  “Business,” the man replied, “unfinished business.”

  He smiled and his green eyes gleamed.

  “I must get back to my laps,” she said, “twenty more before work.”

  The man looked up at the roof of the building and noticed a security camera on a bracket in the corner. He wondered if it was working. He smiled at it. He swam a few lengths using the backstroke, making sure to keep out of the young woman’s way. All the time, he looked up at the security camera as if he were taunting it. He got closer and closer to Jackie Bulmer one lap at a time. When she was on her fifteenth or sixteenth lap he was only one lane apart from her. She did not seem to notice. Next lap, the man thought. As she swam past him, he caught her mid stroke and pushed her head under the water. She was not expecting it and she swallowed a mouthful of water. He kept her head under the water. She was weak from the laps but she still managed to put up a fight. She was stronger than she looked but he was stronger. He had always looked after his body. She managed to surface and took a mouthful of air but she only succeeded in letting the man get a better grip on her head and push her back under. Using all his body weight, the man pushed her to the bottom of the pool and stood on her head. She was not fighting back any more. Suddenly, she stopped moving altogether. To be certain, he kept her under for another two minutes. It was a pointless exercise though as Jackie Bulmer was already dead.

  The man looked up at the camera and smiled. He hoped it was working properly. He reached down and grabbed hold of Jackie Bulmer. He slung her over his shoulder and put her down gently on the edge of the pool. She looked so peaceful. He got out the pool and picked up his bag. He took out his towel and dried her feet. He picked up the black marker pen and wrote the date on both of her feet. He held the pen up to the camera, smiled and said, “Can you see what it is yet?”

  He dried himself off and put his T shirt back on. His wig had become loose in the struggle so he straightened it, picked up his bag and headed back to his hotel room. Within ten minutes he had dressed, made a quick phone call, walked down to reception and checked out.

  In the hired car, the man took off his wig and put on the dark brown one. He changed contact lenses to the bright blue ones, applied some fake tan to his face and set off for the York Marriot Hotel.

  TEN

  SERIAL KILLER

  “We’ve got fingerprints on the chair,” Chalmers barked, “fingerprints on the glasses, fingerprints on the cable the poor bastard was hung up with and we’ve got witnesses who saw the victim with an old man. The man conveniently set off the alarm the same night. That’s our man. Why the hell isn’t he here now being charged with murder?”

  “He checked out sir,” Smith said.

  “He checked out,” Chalmers said, “he checked out. And the great detective Smith can’t find him. I find that pretty hard to believe.”

  “Have you stopped smoking again sir?” Smith asked.

  “Bloody right I have and it’s not going too well, I can tell you. What about the numbers on the man’s feet? Do we at least know what they mean?”

  “Not yet sir,” Smith lied.

  “Get on to it then,” Chalmers said, “I hate murders; they always leave a bad taste in the mouth and I’ve got a feeling that this is not your average murderer.”

  “What do you mean sir?”

  “I don’t know, it’s just a bad feeling I have. Now piss off and don’t come back until you’ve caught this bastard.”

  Smith did not know where to begin. Chalmers was right. They had more evidence than they could hope for but none of it was leading them anywhere. The fingerprints were not on any database which either meant the killer was either a foreigner or he had no criminal record. Smith took out his phone to call Whitton. He had a missed call. It was a local number. He played the message. It was the same voice as before. The man with the Rolf Harris accent.

  “Can you see what it is yet Smith?” He used Smith’s name this time.

  Smith wrote down the number. He looked back in his call history; it was the same number as yesterday. He dialled the number. No reply. He tried again. Still no answer. He was about to dial Whitton’s number when the phone rang. It was Palmer.

  “Sir,” he said, “you’d better get down to the York Hilton, we’ve got another one.”

  “Another what Palmer?”

  “Murder sir. A girl drowned in the swimming pool.”

  “How do we know its murder?”
/>   “Her feet sir,” Palmer hesitated for a moment, “somebody wrote on her feet.”

  “Shit,” Smith said, “give me ten minutes.”

  Smith drove over the speed limit the whole way to the York Hilton. He parked his car in a parking spot reserved for the hotel manager directly outside the hotel entrance.

  “Where’s the pool?” he asked a porter in a peculiar green uniform.

  “It’s through that door there,” the porter pointed to a door off to the left, “but you can’t go in. There’s been an accident.”

  “Thanks,” Smith said.

  He ignored him and headed for the door.

  The woman was still lying by the side of the pool as Smith walked in. Palmer was talking to one of the paramedics. The girl’s feet were the first things Smith noticed.

  “Pretty girl,” Palmer said, “obviously kept herself in shape. Such a shame.”

  “Shut up Palmer,” Smith said, “do we know who she is?”

  “Jackie Bulmer sir. Receptionist here in the hotel. Apparently she swims laps here every morning.”

  “What time did this happen?”

  “She normally swims at six and a guest found her lying here at ten past eight. She hasn’t been dead long.”

  Smith bent down and looked at the numbers on her feet. Two, nine, one, one, nine, eight.

  “Oh crap,” he said.

  “Do you know what it means sir?” Palmer asked.

  “Yes I bloody know what it means,” Smith replied, “it means we’re looking at one seriously depraved individual and I think he knows me.”

  “Sir?” Palmer was baffled.

  Smith took out his phone.

  “Whitton,” he said, “where are you?”

  “At the station sir,” she replied, “I’ve just had to sit through an hour of the Super telling us women should be more assertive in the force. Chauvinist pig.”

  “I need you to get to the York Hilton right away. I’ve got a horrible feeling we’re looking at York’s first serial killer.”

  He rang off.

  Smith looked around the pool area. He spotted the security camera straight away.

  “Palmer,” he said, “find out if that thing is switched on.” He pointed to the camera, “and if it is I need to see the footage immediately.”

  “Will do sir,” Palmer said.

  Smith followed him through to reception. Whitton had just arrived.

  “What’s the story sir?” she asked.

  “Somebody is really trying to mess with my head Whitton,” he said, “that’s the story. Let’s go somewhere private.”

  Smith saw a sign for the hotel library and walked towards it. Whitton followed him. The library was empty apart from an old man reading by the fire.

  “Could you give us some privacy please?” Smith said.

  “Bugger off,” the man said without even looking up from his book.

  It was a book about beekeeping.

  “Police business,” Smith said, “we’re investigating the theft of a dictionary. I really do insist.”

  Whitton found it hard not to laugh. The old man stood up, said something about there being no respect left in the world and left the room.

  “What do the numbers mean this time?” Whitton asked when they were alone.

  “It’s the date my sister disappeared,” Smith said, “Twenty Ninth of November, Nineteen Ninety Eight. We thought she’d drowned.”

  “But she was kidnapped wasn’t she?”

  “I don’t think the murderer knows that Whitton. Only a few people know what really happened. That Laura is still alive.”

  “What are you getting at sir?”

  “I’m saying that someone is re-enacting the deaths of people connected to me. My father’s hanging. My sister’s apparent drowning.”

  “Who would do that sir?”

  “That’s the worst part Whitton,” Smith sighed, “I don’t have a clue who would want to do this to me.”

  “Did anybody see anything?” Whitton asked.

  “There’s a security camera in the pool building. I’m hoping it was switched on and maybe then I’ll recognise somebody from it.”

  ELEVEN

  SHORT MAN SYNDROME

  The security camera in the pool building had been switched on and was working perfectly. Smith sat in the small surveillance room with Whitton and a young man who was showing them how to use the equipment. Smith thought he could not be older than eighteen.

  “Show us the tape between six and eight this morning,” Smith said.

  “They’re not exactly tapes,” the young man squeaked, “its all on computers these days.” He smiled at Whitton. He had terrible acne and a peculiar smell seemed to follow him around.

  Whitton smiled back and the young man blushed.

  “You can leave us now,” she said, “if we have any problems we’ll give you a shout.”

  “I’m not supposed to let anyone touch the equipment without me being here,” he protested.

  “Leave,” Smith said, “now.”

  The teenager looked at Smith and left the room. Smith clicked play on the screen.

  “There,” he said, “there’s the woman swimming laps. Nice stroke; she’s obviously a good swimmer.”

  “There he is,” Whitton said.

  They watched the screen as the man walked the length of the pool, took off his T shirt and got in at the deep end. He swam a length under the water.

  “How the hell did he do that?” Whitton exclaimed, “He must be extremely fit.”

  “Wait,” Smith said, “he’s saying something to the woman. They’re having a full on bloody conversation.”

  “Maybe they know each other,” Whitton suggested.

  “I doubt it. Look, he’s looking straight at us. At the camera I mean. He knows there’s a camera there and he doesn’t seem bothered at all. We need a copy of this Whitton.”

  “Do you recognise him sir?”

  “Not at all,” Smith replied, “I’ve never seen him before.”

  The man continued to swim backstroke, all the time looking at the camera.

  “I don’t get it Whitton,” Smith said, “at the first murder scene he left prints everywhere and now he’s letting us see his face. What’s he playing at?”

  “He’s taunting us sir,” Whitton said, “I thought this sort of thing only happened in the movies.”

  “Do you see what he’s doing now Whitton?”

  “He’s getting closer and closer to the woman with each lap.”

  The man was almost next to the woman now. Smith and Whitton watched in dismay as the man grabbed the woman’s head and pushed it under the water. She managed to surface but the man grabbed her and pushed her back under.

  “He kept her under long after she was dead,” Whitton said.

  “He wanted to make absolutely sure,” Smith sighed.

  “He’s strong sir.”

  “I can see that. He’s looking at the camera again. Look at that smile. It’s as if he knows we’re watching him.”

  “He’s drying her feet now,” Whitton said, “he’s going to write on them.”

  “Shit,” Smith said.

  He watched as the man held up the pen in front of the camera.

  “What did he say?” Whitton asked.

  “Unfortunately, I can’t lip read,” Smith said.

  “Then let’s find somebody who can.”

  Smith was completely drained as they stood in reception. He had a sinking feeling that this was only the beginning. He had a copy of the video footage from the spotty youth in his pocket.

  “Let’s get back to the station,” Smith said, “we need a lip reader and somebody who can help us go through this footage frame by frame.”

  “DC Bridge is pretty good with that sort of thing,” Whitton suggested.

  A man burst through the doors into the hotel. He looked furious.

  “I need you to get a car clamped and towed away,” the man said to the woman behind the reception des
k. “Red Ford Sierra. Bloody idiot’s parked in my spot.”

  “Who might you be?” Smith said to the man.

  “I’m the hotel manager,” he replied, “Who the hell are you?”

  “Owner of the red Sierra,” Smith smiled.

  “Can’t you read?” the manager said, “Are you a moron?”

  Smith was in no mood to argue.

  “As the manager,” Smith began, “I’m sure you’re aware that a member of your staff was murdered in your hotel this morning?”

  He took out his badge.

  “I was planning on going back to the station to try and get to the bottom of what happened here this morning,” Smith said, “but given your terrible attitude, I’ve suddenly changed my mind. Whitton, get hold of forensics. All of them. I want them to examine, not just the pool room, but the room where this man was staying and, seeing as though we’re here anyway, we may as well do a background check on everyone from the porters to the managers. Especially the managers.”

  Whitton stared at him in disbelief.

  “In the meantime,” Smith glared at the manager, “you will have to close down the hotel. It shouldn’t take more than a week.”

  The manager looked as if he was about to cry.

  “I’m sure there must be another way to do things,” he begged.

  “There was,” Smith looked him directly in the eye.

  He was a good foot shorter than Smith.

  “But when you ran in and started crying about a stupid parking spot you upset me.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “It’s only a parking spot.”

  “Let’s go Whitton,” Smith said, “we’ll be back though,” he said to the manager, “I will need to talk to you personally.”

  “What the hell was that all about?” Whitton asked as Smith opened his car door.

  “Short man syndrome,” Smith replied.

  “What?”

  “Short man syndrome; I’ve seen it loads of times.”

  TWELVE

  PHOTOGRAPH

  The man in room seven of the York Marriot hotel sat on the freshly made bed and smiled. His bright blue eyes shone wildly. Let’s see what Smith gets out of the camera footage, he thought, if he’s not crazy yet, he’s going to be soon. He took the photograph out of his wallet. It was crumpled after all these years but he could still make out the features of the man in the army uniform. They were his features with slight differences that only a mother could make out.