KETAMINE
Saturday 6 March. York.
“Ketamine,” The Ghoul said with a wry smile on his face, “you’re going to feel like shit for a few days. Looks like he gave you a frigging decent dose of the stuff too.”
“I thought you’d given up swearing,” Smith croaked, “what with the new girlfriend and everything.”
“We weren’t really that compatible,” The Ghoul sighed, “in fact, we weren’t that compatible at all.”
“Let me guess,” Smith said, “she wasn’t impressed with your drinking habits?”
“Ten pints of beer is not excessive in my book,” The Ghoul insisted, “I lost count of how many times I tried to explain to her that its all relative to the human body’s capacity for breaking down the alcohol in the system. Some people just do it faster than others that’s all.”
“She just didn’t get you did she?”
“She was intellectually inferior by miles. Enough of my life’s woes, what do you want? I’m actually pretty busy at the moment. I’ve just received a sure fire tip that could make me a fortune on the stock exchange.”
Smith started from the beginning. The Ghoul listened intently as he heard about the killer using dates from Smith’s past and causes of death relating to people close to him.
“I don’t have a clue who this lunatic is,” Smith said, “I looked directly into his eyes but I did not recognise him.”
The Ghoul stared out the window. He smiled as a pair of swallows flew past. They were early this year. It promised an early summer.
“Maybe you didn’t recognise him because you’ve never met him before,” he said eventually.
“Why would someone I don’t know do this to me?” Smith asked.
“He seems to know you well enough. He’s going to great lengths to replicate these deaths and he’s not too bothered about covering his tracks. He either wants to get caught or he’s trying to draw you closer to him. Unfortunately, I have a feeling the latter is the case.”
“What do you mean?” Smith was baffled.
“I’m afraid he’s far from finished. Look at it this way. He could quite easily have killed you yesterday but he didn’t. Why do you think that was?”
“I have no idea.”
“I think he just wanted you to see that he actually exists.”
“How do we catch him?” Smith asked.
“For frigs sake Jason. I cut up dead bodies for a living. You’re the detective.”
“At least give me an idea where to start.”
“Go back.” The Ghoul scratched his cheek. “You need to look to the past to understand what is going on in the present.”
“Whitton said something similar,” Smith said.
“Smart woman that one. If you look into the history of most serial killers you’ll find that an event in their past made them into homicidal maniacs. They weren’t born like that.”
“So you do think we have a serial killer on our hands then?” Smith asked.
“Definitely and he’s not finished yet. If I were you, I’d sleep with one eye open from now on.”
“Thanks for the assurance.”
The Ghoul stood up to leave.
“One more thing,” Smith said.
“Why the hell do police detectives always say that?”
“Good luck with the stock exchange,” Smith added.
The Ghoul shook his head and left the room.
Smith lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. He thought about what the Ghoul had said. His mind was still hazy from the Ketamine hangover but if he concentrated enough he could think clearly. This man seemed to know everything about his past. His father’s suicide and his sister’s disappearance were hardly common knowledge and even if they were, why bring them up now? Could it be someone with a grudge against him? He thought. He had upset plenty of people in his twenty eight years on the planet but not enough to justify this. He stood up and instantly his vision went black. He held on to the bed and waited. Slowly, his vision came back. He breathed in deeply and took his phone from the table next to the bed.
“Whitton,” he said, “I need a lift from the hospital.”
“Have they discharged you?” Whitton asked.
“Something like that.”
“You need to rest sir,” she said, “I heard what the doctors said. You should stay there for at least another two days.”
“I’ll see you in ten minutes then,” he said. He rang off.
SEVENTEEN
RESEARCH
“Serial killer,” Chalmers growled, “I think that horse sedative has fried your brain Smith. We’ve never had a serial killer in York.”
“We’ve got one now sir,” Smith said.
He had the worst headache ever.
“Two murders do not make a serial killer,” Chalmers insisted.
He was terrified as to how Superintendant Jeremy Smyth would react when he found out a serial killer was on the loose on his patch.
“He hasn’t finished yet,” Smith said clearly, “he hasn’t even started.”
“And how can you be so sure Smith?”
Smith told him about his father and sister.
“Bloody marvellous,” Chalmers said, “why the hell are you only telling me this now? You’re saying we have a lunatic running around killing people and he’s doing it because one of York City’s police detectives? Christ, the press are going to have a field day. They’ll probably make a bloody movie out of it.”
“That’s why I’m telling you in private sir,” Smith said.
“Who else knows about this?”
“Whitton and The Ghoul,” Smith replied.
“Keep it that way. Shit. So much for the crime lull. So you’re telling me he’s mimicking the ways in which members of your family died?”
“Looks like it sir.”
“I don’t mean pry but who else in your family are dead?”
“Pretty much all of them sir,” Smith said, “apart from my sister. She just disappeared.”
“You’ve got no family left?” Chalmers was shocked.
“My dad hung himself but you know about that. My mother died in a car crash last year and my Gran died seven years ago.”
“How did she die?” Chalmers asked, “If you don’t mind me asking.”
“She was mugged sir.”
“That’s right and you beat the scrote who did it to within an inch of his life.”
“She broke her hip when she fell sir,” Smith said, “and she died of pneumonia days later.”
Chalmers shook his head.
“This is all a bit far fetched don’t you think Smith?” he said.
“It’s happening,” Smith said much louder than he intended.
“Why do I always seem to end up with my balls on the chopping block for you Smith?”
“What are you going to do sir?”
“You and Whitton report directly to me,” Chalmers said, “the rest of the team can carry on digging in the usual places. Phone records, witnesses at the hotels. That sort of thing.”
“He’s phoned me three times sir,” Smith added, “from two different numbers.”
“Bollocks Smith. Is there anything else you’re holding back from me? I need to know absolutely everything if this is going to work.”
“That’s everything sir.”
“Good. While Thompson and the rest of them are busy knocking on doors, you and Whitton are going to do a bit of research.”
“Research sir?” Smith asked.
“Go back Smith,” Chalmers began, “something in your past is responsible for this. Go back and maybe then we can go forward.”
“You’re the third person to say that sir.”
“Piss off,” Chalmers barked, “I must be off my rocker.”
EIGHTEEN
DINNER LADY
Maggie French walked home from work. It was two in the afternoon. Since retiring from a stressful position as a legal secretary, Maggie had taken a job as a dinner lady at the loca
l primary school. It did not pay well but money was not Maggie’s main priority. She was very comfortable in retirement; her husband had left her very well off and her own pension was a fairly decent one. For Maggie, it was the feeling of still being useful and getting up in the morning with a real purpose that was more important than a pay cheque. She opened the door to the newsagent and walked inside. She bought a local newspaper as she did every afternoon after work. A woman had drowned at the York Hilton Hotel. Foul play was suspected. Maggie left the newsagent and walked the two hundred metres to her house down the road. She did not see the bald man walking twenty metres behind her.
Maggie put the key in the lock and opened the door. She went inside and closed the door behind her. She walked to the kitchen and turned on the kettle. She looked at the clock on the wall. Twenty past two. Her programme would be on in ten minutes. The word game that Maggie never missed. There was a knock at the door. Maggie sighed. Why did someone always want to disturb her when her programme was about to start, she thought. Her husband had loved word puzzles and it was something that seemed to keep him close to her. He had been dead for five years now.
Maggie walked down the hallway and opened the door. Fred had always told her to put the safety latch on the door before she opened the door to strangers. “There are a lot of oddballs out there,” he had said. Maggie looked at the man standing on the doorstep. He was bald with dark brown, almost black eyes.
“I’m sorry to bother you Madam,” he said, “but I’ve just had my wallet and briefcase stolen. Would you be so kind as to phone the police for me? I’ll wait outside if you like.”
Maggie had always prided herself on being a good judge of character and this man, although slightly strange looking seemed harmless enough.
“You’ll do no such thing,” she said, “come in. I’ve just put the kettle on. When did this happen?”
“About five minutes ago. Two youngsters. Couldn’t have been more than teenagers. They just ran up and robbed me.”
“You poor thing,” Maggie said, “You’re not from around here are you?”
“I’m Australian,” the man smiled, “I’m visiting an old friend. The irony of the whole thing is my old friend is a policeman. Would you mind making that call?”
Maggie looked at him suspiciously. Something about his whole demeanour had changed. It was as if he was too impatient.
“Oh yes,” she said, “the police.”
She picked up the phone and dialled the number.
“They’re sending somebody over,” she said, “they said they’d be about twenty minutes.”
“Thank you,” the man said, “that doesn’t leave us much time does it? I’d better get started.”
Maggie looked at him. Her eyes widened as she watched him take out the syringe. Before she had time to defend herself he had emptied the contents of the syringe into her arm.
“Don’t worry,” the man said.
There was a strange glint in his eyes.
“This won’t hurt a bit.”
NINETEEN
INTERPOL
“She’s in there sir,” PC Walsh said. His face was very pale. “I have to warn you. It’s not a pretty sight.”
Smith walked inside. The first thing he noticed was how neat and tidy the house was; everything seemed to have its place. Maggie French was lying on the carpet in the living room. Her legs stuck out at an unnatural angle and it looked like her chest had caved in. Smith felt sick. He was still groggy from the effects of the Ketamine but he knew what he had to do. He did not even have to look at the soles of Maggie French’s feet to know what would be written there. Two, Five, Zero, Eight, Zero, Three. The day his Gran had died. She had broken her hip and both her lungs had collapsed days later. This was becoming all too much for him. Too personal.
“Walsh,” Smith said, “do we know who she is?”
“Margaret French sir,” Walsh replied, “dinner lady at the primary school down the road. Who would want to kill a school dinner lady?”
“We live in a sick world,” Smith sighed, “who found her?”
“I did.”
Smith was confused.
“How the hell did you find her? Did you just happen to be passing by?”
“She phoned us sir.”
“She phoned you?” Smith said.
“She phoned the police and said a man had been mugged. She said he’d asked her to phone the police.”
Smith shook his head in disbelief.
“How long did it take you to get here after taking the call?” he asked.
“About twenty minutes,” Walsh replied, “her door was wide open when we got here.”
“Jesus Christ,” Smith said, “that’s taking the piss.”
“Sorry sir?”
“Nothing Walsh. I’ll take over from here. Is this your first dead one?”
“Yes sir,” Walsh said, “I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.”
“You will Walsh. You can get back now.”
Smith looked at the woman. He guessed her age to be around sixty. This is my fault somehow, he thought, who would want to do this to me? He bent down and picked up one of the woman’s feet. She was wearing flat shoes and socks. He took off one shoe, paused and took off the sock. There was nothing written on the bottom of her foot. He did the same with the other foot. Nothing. It was only when he stood up that he noticed the writing on the TV screen. ‘2 5 0 0 0 3. Can you see what it is yet Smithy?’
“Think Smith,” Chalmers said.
He closed the door to his office.
“That’s three now and they’re all connected to you. Who the hell is this maniac?”
“I don’t know sir,” Smith replied.
“York’s first serial killer,” Chalmers added, “the Super is not impressed at all. The press have already latched on to it.”
“Has Smyth changed his mind yet about removing the doors?” Smith tried to lighten the mood.
“For Christ’s sake Smith,” Chalmers shouted, “what did you say at the Marriott by the way? There’s an interview with one of the receptionists there in the bloody York Evening Post. He claims that a police detective told him there was a serial killer on the loose and there was going to be a bloodbath. They’re calling him the Hotel Psycho for God’s sake.”
“I was tired sir,” Smith said, “he was holding up my investigation.”
“So you decided to scare the living shit out of him did you? You know what’s going to happen don’t you? Every sicko is now going to come out of the woodwork with information and that is going to interfere with this investigation even more.”
“Sorry sir,” Smith said, “what did Palmer and Whitton dig up from door to door?”
“The owner of the corner shop saw the old lady shortly before she phoned the police. She bought an afternoon paper.”
“And?” Smith said.
“He said a man may have followed her out of the shop but he couldn’t be sure.”
“Any description?” Smith asked.
“Bald. Very dark brown eyes.”
“That sounds like the man from the Royal York. The one who was with that businessman before he was hanged.”
“Who the hell is he Smith?”
“I don’t know sir,” Smith said, “I keep telling you that.”
“The Super wants to hold a press conference,” Chalmers said.
“Not a good idea sir,” Smith said, “it’ll only cause panic.”
“It’s a bit bloody late for that. You’re the one that opened your mouth about a serial killer so I think it only fair that you should be the one to talk to those bottom feeders in the press.”
There was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” Chalmers shouted.
It was Whitton.
“Did you find anything else?” Smith asked.
“The woman’s neighbour saw the man leave sir,” she said, “that’s the good thing about old people; they notice everything.”
“And?” Chalmers said.
/>
“Bald man in his sixties,” Whitton said.
“Same guy from the corner shop then?” Chalmers said.
“And the hanging at the Royal York,” Smith added.
“We need to get the guy from the corner shop to do a photo fit for us,” Chalmers said.
“I don’t think that will help sir,” Whitton said, “I think he’s using a different disguise each time.”
“Even so,” Chalmers said, “we need to look like we’re doing something and this guy is taking chances. He doesn’t seem to care about being seen. He’s got to slip up somewhere along the line. He was the one that set off the alarm at the Royal York; he smiled at the security camera in the pool building after drowning that girl. We’ve got his fingerprints from the Royal York and I’m pretty sure we’ll get some more from the Old lady’s place.”
“But we can’t find him anywhere on the system,” Smith said.
“What about Interpol?” Whitton suggested.
“Interpol?” Chalmers looked at her as if she had three heads.
“I think he’s a foreigner sir,” she said, “that’s why he’s not in any of our records.”
“The world is a big place Whitton,” Chalmers said, “where do you suggest we begin?”
“Australia sir. I have a feeling he’s Australian.”
“I hate feelings Whitton.”
Chalmers spat a piece of gum into his waste paper basket.
“I think Whitton may have a point sir,” Smith said, “the phone calls I received were from a man with an Australian accent. He could have been putting it on but I don’t think so. Also, why else would he know so much about my father and sister? That was hardly news anywhere else in the world.”
Chalmers rubbed his eyes with both hands.
“What have we got to lose sir?” Whitton asked. She smiled at him and her green eyes glistened.
“Those eyes of yours will get you into trouble one day,” Chalmers said, “I’ll have to run it by the Super of course but I can’t see it being a problem. He’s so obsessed with turning this place into a bloody police warehouse that I doubt he’ll even know what I’ve asked him.”
The York Trilogy: The First 3 DS Jason Smith Detective novels Page 36
