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

by Stewart Giles

  “I won’t let you down,” he said and put the photograph away again.

  The man took out the cell phone he had bought that morning, inserted the sim card and waited. The activation message came on the screen. He entered the number.

  “Smith,” a weary voice was heard.

  The man waited.

  “Who is this?”

  “Can you see what it is yet?” The man said. He emphasised the word “yet.”

  He rang off. The cell phone rang almost immediately. The man cancelled the call, opened the phone and took out the sim card. He walked to the bathroom, wrapped the sim card in toilet paper and flushed it down the toilet. He looked at his face in the bathroom mirror. The fake tan looked real and the blue contact lenses made his face look much younger.

  “I’m going to look like this for the last one,” he said out loud.

  He walked back to the bedroom, lay on top of the bed fully clothed and within seconds he was fast asleep.

  THIRTEEN

  ROLF HARRIS

  Friday 5 March 2010

  “He left the same message twice on my phone,” Smith said, “and yesterday I actually spoke to him.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Can you see what it is yet? He hung up and when I tried to call back it said the number didn’t exist.”

  “He dumped the sim sir.”

  “Once again in English Whitton.”

  “He took the sim card out; probably threw it away.”

  “That’s what the lip reader said he said into the camera too,” Smith said, “what the hell does it mean?”

  “I have a theory sir,” Whitton said.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Do you remember Rolf Harris?”

  “Of course. Annoying bastard. He gave Australia a bad name.”

  “I’m not quite old enough to remember him when he first came on TV,” Whitton said, “but I’ve seen a few re-runs.”

  “Go on Whitton.”

  “He used to draw clever pictures. He would start at the edge or the middle so nobody was quite sure what he was drawing until very near the end. He used to say can you see what it is yet because the picture only became apparent much later. That was his catchphrase I suppose. Can you see what it is yet?”

  “So you’re saying we have a Rolf Harris copycat here?”

  “Don’t be so pedantic sir,” Whitton sighed.

  “Sorry Whitton,” Smith said, “I’m dog tired, I haven’t slept for a while.”

  “I think this guy is painting a picture for you and he’s testing you to see if you can find a pattern.”

  “A picture?”

  “It’s metaphorical sir. Like you said, he’s playing a game with you. These killings are all part of one big picture.”

  “So you think he’s going to keep on killing?” Smith asked.

  “You already know the answer to that one sir.”

  “How do we stop him?”

  “I’m afraid only you can stop him. You’re the one he’s putting all the effort in for.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Its personal sir,” Whitton replied, “you need to look back in the past to find clues as to what’s going to happen in the future.”

  “What did you study at University again Whitton?”

  “Philosophy sir. What we need to do first is the routine stuff. We need to trace all the phone calls he’s made to you. We know he’s not on the system and I have a good idea why that is. I think he’s Australian like you. I also think he uses a disguise each time. He’s so brazen. It’s like he doesn’t care if he gets caught.”

  “Anything else?” Smith asked.

  He yawned a huge yawn.

  “I think you need to get some sleep sir.”

  “Later,” Smith said, “you and Bridge get down to the Hilton and speak to that short arse manager there. I think I’ll end up punching the anally retentive midget if I have to speak to him again.”

  “What are you going to do sir?”

  “Two hotels in a matter of days. Both of them upmarket. I’m going to do a bit of hotel hopping. I’ve got a feeling this maniac is still in York and already planning his next move.”

  Three hours and four hotels later, Smith parked outside the York Marriot on Tadcaster Road. He was exhausted now and ready to drop. He had checked all recent check ins and departures at four hotels but it had led him nowhere. His cell phone rang. It was Whitton.

  “Sir,” she said, “your vertically challenged friend at the Hilton remembered the guy. Blonde hair, green eyes. We also went back to the Royal York. The man was bald with dark brown eyes. He’s definitely using a disguise each time.”

  “Thanks Whitton,” Smith said, “I’m at the Marriot. This is the last one for today and then I’ll get some sleep. I need it.”

  “I told you that sir,”

  Smith approached the reception. He was starting to think that all hotel receptions looked the same. They had the same front desks covered in brochures and they had the same bland people behind the desks with their fake smiles and well rehearsed spiel.

  “Good day sir,” the man said cheerfully, “welcome to York. Can I help you?”

  Smith yawned. It was of those long drawn out yawns that started deep in the lungs and worked its way up to the mouth. He felt his jaw click.

  “Sorry,” Smith said, “long day. I need a list of everyone who has checked in over the last twenty four hours.”

  He took out his badge.

  “What’s this all about?” the man asked.

  Smith was about to give his usual reply that it was just a routine check but he was tired of saying the same thing over and over so he changed his mind.

  “We’ve had two murders in two different hotels this week,” he began, “I get paid bugger all to try and ensure that there isn’t a third or a fourth or, what the hell, tenth. We have a bloody serial killer out there and he’s killing people in hotels.”

  The man looked at him with terror in his eyes.

  “Do you have that list for me?” Smith asked calmly.

  “Only two people have checked in in that time,” the man said nervously, “A Mrs Gertrude Stein and a Mr Gerard Graaf.”

  “Mr Graaf,” Smith said, “What room is he in?”

  “Room seven sir.”

  He looked behind him at the elaborate key rack.

  “His key’s not here,” he said, “so I can assume he’s still in his room.”

  “You can assume?” Smith was getting irritated again.

  “Sorry sir but guests are encouraged to leave their keys at reception when they leave the hotel. Unfortunately, not all of them adhere to this. You wouldn’t believe how many keys we’ve lost.”

  “I bloody hate hotels,” Smith said and walked off.

  Room seven was at the end of a long corridor. Smith thought about phoning for back up but decided against it. This had been a complete waste of time. He decided he would finish off here and take the rest of the day off. A quick shower and he would jump into bed and sleep for at least sixteen hours. He knocked on the door.

  From the window of room seven the man had a beautiful view of the hotel’s landscaped gardens. He also had a perfect view of the car park. When he saw the red Ford Sierra stop he realised he did not have much time. He quickly packed up his belongings. His briefcase was still in the car. He looked at himself in the mirror and smiled. Thick black hair, tanned face and sparkling blue eyes. He removed the vial and syringe from the toiletry bag and filled the syringe with the clear liquid. He threw the vial in the waste bin in the bathroom and put the syringe carefully in his jacket pocket. There was a knock on the door.

  Smith waited. There was no answer. He knocked again. As the door opened, a strange odour entered his nostrils; it was a combination of something sweet like fresh flowers and a smell that reminded him of the time he took Theakston to the vet.

  My senses are playing tricks on me, he thought.

  The man in the doorway was powerfully bu
ilt with thick black hair and the bluest eyes Smith had ever seen. He stood there without saying a word.

  “Good afternoon sir,” Smith said, “do you mind if I come in. My name is detective Smith. I need to ask you a few routine questions.”

  “Gerard Graaf,” the man said. He held out his hand.

  The two seconds it took for Smith to recognise the voice were not enough. The man took Smith’s hand and Smith felt a sharp pain in his leg. He looked down at the syringe still sticking out of his thigh. The man pulled him inside the room and closed the door behind him. Smith’s first reaction was to lash out but his muscles would not obey him. He felt himself being dragged on to the bed.

  “Ketamine,” the man smiled, “amazing stuff, “very soon, all your muscles will be paralysed and you wouldn’t even feel it if I stuck a knife in you. After that, you’ll develop what is known as the thousand yard stare and then you’ll sleep like you’ve never slept before.”

  Smith tried to talk but the words would not surface. He was vaguely aware of the man walking over to the window and drawing the curtains. He watched as the man picked up his bag and walked to the door. He opened the door and stood in the doorway. The man turned round. Smith was drifting in and out of consciousness and as the man spoke, he could barely make out the words but he was sure the man said, “Can you see what it is yet?”

  The door closed and Smith slept for the first time in days.

  FOURTEEN

  ONE NIGHT STANDS

  Saturday 6 March 2010.

  Smith was woken by a knock on the door. The knocking seemed to get louder until it filled his eardrums. The noise drowned out the sound of his cell phone ringing in his pocket and then everything went quiet. He closed his eyes but the bright lights flashing behind his eyelids made him feel sick so he opened them again. His mouth felt dry and his head throbbed. It was worse than any hangover. He tried to sit up in the strange bed but his body felt heavy and he sank back down again. He stared up at the ceiling and tried to remember what had happened. The curtains in the room were drawn but he could tell it was daytime as slivers of light were shining through the gaps. A vacuum cleaner could be heard nearby. He took out his phone and dialled Whitton’s number.

  “Where are you sir?” she asked before he had a chance to talk.

  She sounded concerned.

  “I’ve been trying to reach you.”

  “Whitton,” Smith said.

  His voice was weak and raspy.

  “What’s wrong sir?” she said, “you sound terrible. When you didn’t show up for work, I got worried.”

  “Whitton,” Smith croaked again, “I don’t know where I am. What happened yesterday?”

  “I’m coming over sir,” she said, “stay there.”

  “I’m not at home Whitton. I don’t know where I am. I think he drugged me.”

  “Who drugged you?”

  “Him and I can’t seem to get out of bed.”

  “Describe to me where you are.”

  Smith looked around the room. His neck hurt as he turned it to the side.

  “It looks like a hotel room,” he said, “There’s…”

  “I’m on my way sir,” Whitton said. She rang off.

  Smith closed his eyes and his phone dropped to the floor. The flashes of light had faded but they were replaced by an image of a man with a bright smile. His blue eyes seemed to bore straight through Smith’s soul. Smith still did not recognise him. Some time later; it could have been seconds or minutes or even hours, Smith was aware of the door to the room opening and people running into the room. It was Whitton, Thompson and two paramedics.

  “What happened sir?” Whitton asked.

  “Falling asleep on the job again,” Thompson said and for once, Smith was actually pleased to see him.

  “I think I shook hands with York’s first serial killer,” Smith said quietly.

  He tried to get up but he was gently pushed down onto the bed again by one of the paramedics.

  “Easy does it,” she said, “We need to get you to the hospital.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Smith protested.

  “I insist sir,” she said.

  “It was our man Whitton,” Smith said, “how the hell did you know where I was?”

  “I’m a detective,” Whitton said, “This is what I get paid to do. When you said you were in what looked like a hotel room and, knowing you don’t generally have one night stands with random floozies, I figured out where you were last and put two and two together.”

  “The guy disappeared didn’t he?” Smith sighed.

  “Looks like it,” Whitton replied, “he put a do not disturb sign on the door and must have casually walked down the stairs and out of the hotel.

  The paramedics slid Smith onto a stretcher and were about to wheel him out of the door.

  “Thanks Whitton,” he said, “get hold of The Ghoul and tell him to pay me a visit at the hospital.”

  “Ok sir. I have to get back to the station.”

  “One more thing Whitton,” Smith said.

  “What’s that sir?”

  “How do you know I don’t have one night stands with random floozies?”

  “Whatever sir,” she laughed, “I’ll come and see you later.”

  FIFTEEN

  BOOMERANG

  2 September 1966. U.S. Field Hospital. Phuoc Hai. Vietnam.

  Private John Fulton was talking in his sleep. He was dreaming about catching the biggest wave in Australian history when Sophie shook him awake. He shot up in his bed.

  “What time is it?” he asked her.

  “Half past four in the morning,” she said with a smile.

  She kissed him on the forehead

  “That was some dream you were having there. How’s my favourite patient this morning?”

  “Morning?” Fulton said, “It’s the middle of the night. I feel much better now.”

  He pulled her down towards him so their faces touched.

  “Not here,” she laughed, “I’ll be in big trouble and you’ll be declared fit for duty and shipped out as soon as you can say boomerang.”

  “Boomerang,” Fulton mused, “I like it. It suits me.”

  “Come with me,” she said, “nurses orders.”

  “Is it safe?”

  “We’re in the middle of a goddam war. Of course it’s not safe. Get up.”

  Fulton quickly got out of bed and followed Sophie out the door to the tent. He glanced over at his friend Max. Max had been taken off the danger list and was now recuperating in the general ward. Fulton smiled. Max was fast asleep. He had a peaceful expression on his face. Fulton did not see the peaceful expression disappear and be instantly replaced by one of sheer hatred as he opened one eye and watched Fulton and Sophie leave the tent together. Sophie led Fulton past the operating theatre and into a growth of trees next to a small river. It was starting to get light.

  “Nobody will see us here,” she said as they made themselves comfortable on a patch of grass by the rivers edge.

  Fulton leaned over and kissed Sophie on the mouth. She kissed him back. Gunfire could be heard in the distance.

  “What are we doing here?” Fulton said when Sophie finally broke the embrace, “I’m twenty one and you’re what, twenty four?”

  “Don’t you know that it’s rude to ask a girl her age?” Sophie smiled.

  “Anyway,” Fulton said, “what I’m trying to say is this is all crazy. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Where do you suggest we go?”

  “Anywhere but here. Let’s run away somewhere.”

  She looked distraught.

  “They need me here,” she said, “I joined up to help.”

  “I suppose you’re right as always,” he said.

  He noticed the pained expression on her face.

  “I’m just a Boomerang anyway; I’ll only end up landing back here.”

  They both laughed. The sun was rising over the trees.

  “They say the sunrise here is the most
beautiful in the world,” Fulton said.

  “I bet you say that to all the girls,” Sophie said, “you romantic fool.”

  She kissed him quickly on the cheek and stood up.

  “We’d better get back,” she said, “We’ll be missed soon. Wait ten minutes and make your way back to the ward.”

  Fulton watched as Sophie walked away through the trees. She was like a defenceless animal lost in the jungle.

  Max was awake as Fulton entered the tent. He was sitting up in bed with his legs over the side.

  “Hey Max,” Fulton said cheerily, “do you need some help there?”

  “I’m fine,” Max replied, “I need to do this on my own. You’re in a good mood today. Are you being sent home?”

  “Hardly,” Fulton laughed, “they’re just waiting for me to show some signs of being sane again. I’m completely mad remember.”

  He winked at Max but Max was no longer looking at him. He was taking his first steps since getting shot. He took two steps, stumbled but managed to hold on to the bed. Fulton rushed over to help him.

  “I said I don’t want your help,” Max said gruffly, “You’d better get back into bed and pretend to be a loon. The docs will be round soon.”

  “Why are you in such a rush to get better Max?” Fulton asked, “You know they’ll just send you back out there don’t you?”

  “You haven’t heard have you?”

  “Heard what?”

  “We’ve got some R and R coming up and I intend to be fully fit when that time comes.”

  “You’re serious aren’t you?” Max said.

  “Deadly,” Max smiled, “and I’m planning a little surfing trip.”

  “You’re crazier than I am,” Fulton sighed.

  SIXTEEN