“Let’s get the ball rolling then Whitton,” Smith said.
“I haven’t spoken to the Super yet,” Chalmers said, “and you’ve got a press conference to prepare for.”
“We’ll be discreet sir,” Smith smiled.
“Just piss off you too,” Chalmers barked, “I’m off for a smoke.”
TWENTY
FORENSICS
The Forensics Identification Unit of York City Police department was based in a modern building on the opposite side of the city from the police station.
“These bastards are notoriously slimy Whitton,” Smith said as he parked his car, “be very careful what you tell them.”
“I’ve never had a problem with them before sir,” Whitton said.
“You will. Let me do the talking.”
“Couldn’t we just get them to e mail copies of the prints over to us sir?”
“That would be the obvious way but I want to make absolutely sure the prints belong to our man before we get Interpol involved. We’ll only get one chance with them.”
“You’re the boss sir,” Whitton smiled.
The reception area was much cooler and brighter than the reception at the station. Smith approached the young man in the lab coat behind the desk.
“Jason Smith,” the man said, “long time no see. How’s the guitar playing going? I’ve just bought myself an SG. Plays like a dream.”
“Good on ya mate,” Smith exaggerated his accent, “is Webber in?”
“You know where he’ll be,” the man said, “you promised to teach me a few songs remember?”
“When I get the time,” Smith said.
“Looks like you have a fan,” Whitton said as they made their way through the maze of labyrinths that was the Forensic Identification Unit.
Webber did not see them come in. He was busy concentrating on something underneath a microscope.
“Webber!” Smith shouted, “How the hell are you my friend.”
Webber shot up and glared at Smith.
“What do you want?” he growled.
“What’s that you’re working on?” Smith asked.
“Fibres from a car boot,” Webber replied, “not that it’s any of your damn business. What do you want?”
“The fingerprints from the hanging at the Royal York,” Smith said, “did you compare them to the ones you found where the old lady was killed?”
“How do you know we found any at the old lady’s house?”
“I just know,” Smith said smugly,” did you compare them?”
“Of course I compared them.”
“And?”
“Same guy without a doubt.”
“I need them,” Smith said.
“I thought you lot had already come up with zilch,” Webber smiled.
“That was in our system. We’ve decided to go global on this one. We think the guys a foreigner.”
“I hate foreigners.”
Webber looked Smith directly in the eyes.
“You should get out more,” Smith joked, “please can you organise them nicely. Format them, package them, whatever. I need them ready for Interpol.”
“So you want me to put them in a box and tie a bloody ribbon on the outside?”
“Just do it Webber.” Smith was getting irritated. “Authorisation from the very top. You can check if you want.”
“I will,” Webber sneered.
“Webber,” Smith added, “just because you work for a unit with the initials FU doesn’t mean you can go around saying FU to everyone. You’re going to end up a very lonely old man.”
“How’s your social life Smith?” Webber asked.
Smith ignored him.
“I’ll organise them as soon as I’m finished off here,” Webber conceded, “now bugger off.”
“You really don’t like each other do you?” Whitton said as they drove back to the station.
“He’s brilliant at what he does,” Smith replied, “but he has no social skills whatsoever.”
“Sounds like someone else I know,” Whitton joked.
“What,” Smith said, “I can be quite charming when I feel like it. I just haven’t met too many people that deserve it yet.”
“If you say so sir. What’s the plan?”
“We go back and wait for Webber. He may be a pain in the arse but he knows his job. Look at that idiot.”
The car in front of them was driving at what must have been fifteen miles an hour in a forty zone. He was driving erratically. Smoke was oozing out of a gap in the passenger window. Smith pressed his hand on the hooter but remembered that it had not worked since he had had the electrics fixed in the car. He flashed his lights but the car in front still did not slow down.
“Don’t you have a siren sir?” Whitton asked.
“I think it’s in the glove compartment somewhere,” Smith replied.
Whitton opened the glove compartment and right at the back behind old sets of guitar strings was the siren. She plugged it in to the cigarette socket, switched it on and put it on the roof of the car. The siren lit up, made a pathetic rasping sound and died.
“I think you need a new one sir,” Whitton laughed.
“I never use it,” Smith said, “car chases are for the guys who are trained in that sort of thing.”
The car in front of them slowed down and stopped. Smith pulled up behind it and switched on his emergency lights.
“What are you going to do sir?” Whitton asked.
“Scare the shit out of the idiot,” Smith replied, “tell him to learn how to drive properly.”
He got out of the car and cautiously approached the other car on the driver’s side. He rapped on the window. The window opened and a billow of smoke oozed out followed by a cigarette butt. Smith coughed. He looked at the driver. He was a man in his forties. He was tanned and he was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses that seemed far too big for his face.
“Can I help you?” the man asked before Smith had a chance to speak.
He had an American accent.
“Do you realise you were driving like an old lady there?” Smith said, “You were all over the road.”
Smith took out his badge.
“Sorry officer,” the man said, “I’m not quite used to driving on the wrong side of the road yet. This shift stick takes a bit of getting used to as well. In The States we’re used to automatics.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t smoke in the car,” Smith suggested, “you might be able to concentrate more.”
“As far as I’m aware, smoking in a car is not yet against the law here,” the man said.
He moved a wisp of blonde hair out of his eyes.
“No its not,” Smith admitted, “Where are you going?”
“I’m just off to see the sights of this beautiful city of yours,” the man replied, “I’ll try to be more careful in future.”
“Make sure you are sir,” Smith said. He walked back to his car.
“Bloody tourists,” Smith said as he closed the car door behind him, “they think they can get away with murder.”
The man had already driven off and was nowhere to be seen.
“Where was he from?” Whitton asked.
“America, by the sound of his accent although there was something odd about the way he spoke. I can’t quite put my finger on it.”
He started the engine.
“Any messages?” Smith asked PC Baldwin at the station.
“Nothing Sir,” Baldwin replied, “although that bloke was back.”
“What bloke?” Smith said.
“The one with the strange blue eyes and the odd accent. He always seems to come here when you’re out. It’s as if he…”
“Shit,” Smith said, “shit, shit, shit.”
He ran outside to his car. Whitton ran after him.
“I knew there was something odd about that Yank,” Smith said as he drove too quickly back to where he had stopped the American.
“I don’t understand sir,” Whitton
said.
“His accent; it was American but it was like he was copying it from a movie or something.”
“I still don’t get it.”
“The way he said city. It doesn’t matter how long an Australian is away from home, certain words always give them away. City is one of them. It’s like it’s imprinted in their brain.”
“I see what you mean sir,” Whitton said, “It has a nasal twang to it. Your facial expression changes when you say it too.”
“I think I’ve just had my second encounter with York’s first serial killer Whitton,” Smith said, “but I need to make sure.”
“He’ll be long gone by now sir,” Whitton protested.
“I know but I need to be one hundred percent sure it was him.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“We’re going to look for the cigarette butt he threw out of the window.”
TWENTY ONE
NIGHTMARE
“The Great Detective Jason Smith,” the man said to himself in room ten of the York Park Hotel, “he looks just like his father. He’s seen me twice now.”
He took off the blonde wig and put it on the side of the basin. Jason Smith, the man thought, he looked much older than the photographs from the internet. I wonder if he’s been having trouble sleeping. There were heavy bags under his eyes. He’ll have figured it out by now, he thought, at least the part about the Yank he pulled over earlier. That will really mess with his head. He looked straight at me and he didn’t know who I was. I liked the look of the woman who was in the car with him. She was the one that Smith saved from drowning when the Chinese man went bezerk in Whitby. I think I’ll use my favourite disguise on her. I’ll give old Smithy a couple of days to put two and two together and come up with five and then I’ll send him spiralling into the depths of the worst nightmare he could ever imagine.
The man took the photograph out of his wallet.
“Not long now,” he said, “not long.”
TWENTY TWO
R AND R.
10 September 1966. Phuoc Hai. Vietnam.
“You’ve got two days,” Max said, “two days to make them think you’re sane. Do you think you can manage that?”
Fulton smiled.
“I reckon I can give it a go,” he said, “I stopped taking the meds a while ago and my head’s as clear as ice. Where are you planning on going?”
“I was going to do a bit of surfing up north but the docs have said that’s out of the question so I’m going back home for a while.”
“Perth?” Fulton said, “How did you manage that one?”
“Not Perth,” Max said, “Sydney is as close as I can get. It’s not the west but its close. What about you?”
“Singapore,” Fulton smiled, “me and Sophie are going to spend a week in Singapore. With any luck, the war will be over by the time we get back.”
Max looked away. Fulton could not see that his facial expression had changed. There was pure hatred in his eyes.
“I’m going outside for a smoke,” he said.
He got off the bed and walked off.
TWENTY THREE
LUCY MACLEAN
Smith opened the door to his house and went inside. He felt exhausted. Theakston jumped up at him and then ran to his bowl. Smith realised he had forgotten to buy dog food. With everything that had happened in the past week he had neglected his dog.
“Do you feel like a steak and ale pie boy?” he said to Theakston, “I’m starving and a few pints would go down very well right now too.”
He picked up Theakston’s lead from the back of the door and the dog immediately sat down and waited for Smith to attach it to his collar. Smith’s phone rang in his pocket. He ignored it.
The Hog’s Head pub was a ten minute walk from Smith’s house. It was one of the few traditional English pubs that had survived the combination of the recession and the determination of the breweries to turn every pub into modern structures with no soul that sold designer beer and Alco-pops. Some years earlier, Smith had persuaded his old acquaintance Whitey to part with enough money to enable Marge, the pub’s owner, to break free of the breweries and run things the way she always had done with pints of ale and wholesome, home cooked food.
“Two steak and ale pies please Marge,” Smith said as he approached the bar, “and a pint and a half of Theakstons.”
“Jason,” Marge said with a broad smile, “where have you been hiding? I haven’t seen you for weeks.”
Marge was like a grandmother to Smith.
“You look dreadful,” she added.
“Thanks Marge,” Smith said, “rough case we’re working on at the moment.”
“I read about the serial killer in the papers,” she said, “dreadful business. You were mentioned in the paper too.”
She poured the beers.
“Do you think you’ll catch him?” Marge asked.
“We’ll catch him,” Smith said, “We’ll be sitting by the fire, its still not quite spring yet.”
“I’ll organise the pies,” Marge said, “Do you want me to put one of them in his bowl?”
Marge pointed to Theakston.
“Thanks Marge,” Smith replied. He took a long sip of his beer.
Smith took the beers to his usual table in the corner by the fire. The place was empty apart from a young couple staring into each others eyes and a student frantically typing away on a laptop computer.
Smith’s phone rang again. This time he took it out and answered it. It was Whitton.
“Give me some good news Whitton,” he said.
“That depends sir,” she said, “you were right.”
“I’m always right,” Smith said.
“You’ve spoken to York’s first serial killer,” she said, “there were fingerprints on the cigarette butt. It matched all of the other ones. Where are you sir?”
“At the Hog’s Head. Fancy a drink?”
“I’d love to sir, but I have a date.”
“No you don’t.”
Smith was astonished. Whitton never went on dates.
“I do sir,” Whitton laughed, “Really.”
“Who is he?” Smith asked, “Do I know him?”
“No you don’t and you’re not going to. You’ll only…”
“Hold on Whitton,” Smith said, “I have another call waiting. Enjoy your date.”
He rang off and answered the other call. It was a local number.
“Smith,” he said.
There was no answer.
“Who is this?”
“You’ve seen me Jason Smith,” a man said, “and I’ve seen you but can you see what it is yet?”
The line went dead.
Smith quickly brought up the call register on his phone and rang the number back. The phone was answered on the fifth ring.
“Listen here you scumbag,” he said, “I’m going to find you, you can bet on that and when I do you’d better be ready because I’m going to nail you to the bloody ground.”
“Excuse me,” a woman’s voice said.
“Who is this?” Smith asked.
“Who’s this?” she said.
“I’m a police officer. A man just called me on this number.”
“This is a public telephone. I was about to make a call when the phone rang.”
“Where are you?” Smith asked.
“Town centre. Opposite the MacDonalds.”
“Did you see a man there just now? This is important.”
“He left. I was outside the booth waiting for him to finish on the phone. What’s this all about?”
“What did he look like?”
“Old. Bald. He was wearing a brown leather jacket.”
Smith ended the call and dialled another number.
“Baldwin,” he said, “find out who’s on patrol near the MacDonalds in the town centre. I need them to look for a bald man wearing a brown leather jacket. They must not approach him. I just need them to keep an eye on him. This is extremely important.”
“What’s he done sir?” Baldwin asked.
“Murder. Please Baldwin. Put the description out and if they find him tell them to call for reinforcements. Lots of them.”
He rang off.
Marge put Smith’s pie on the table and Theakstons on the floor by the fire. The dog ate greedily.
“You looked stressed Jason,” she said, “another pint?”
“Please Marge,” Smith tried to force a smile but it did not materialise, “just a pint for me though please Marge. No more for the dog. He gets a bit aggressive after too much.”
He looked at his phone on the table. The message indicator was flashing. He remembered the call he had ignored earlier. He retrieved the message. It was a woman’s voice.
“Hi Jason,” she said, “This is Lucy. I’m in the area for a few days. Give me a ring on this number if you feel like hooking up.”
Smith listened to the message again and smiled.
“Lucy Maclean,” he said to Theakston, “this could be interesting.”
TWENTY FOUR
PUBLIC SCHOOL FAGGOT
Sunday 7 March 2010
“We’ve got him,” Chalmers said with a beam on his face, “at least Interpol are on the ball.”
Everyone in the conference room sat up in their chairs.
“Who is he sir?” Smith asked.
“The first serial killer in York’s long history is a James ‘Jimmy’ Fulton,” Chalmers said, “Sixty four years old. Born in Perth Australia.”
Chalmers switched on the projector screen.
“Does anybody know how to work this bloody thing?” he asked.
He pointed to the computer linked to the screen.
“I do sir,” Palmer offered.
He tapped a few keys on the keyboard and a photograph of an old man appeared on the screen. He was bald with almost black eyes.
“Evil looking bastard,” Smith said, “he looks nothing like the guy from the swimming pool footage or the man I stopped in the car yesterday.”
Master of disguise,” Chalmers said.
“What’s his history?” Smith asked.
“What do you mean?” Chalmers said.
“If he’s on Australian records, he must have broken the law somewhere along the line.”
The York Trilogy: The First 3 DS Jason Smith Detective novels Page 37
