“It all seems fine,” she said eventually.
She signed the papers at the bottom. Walker stood up, shook her hand and handed her the keys.
“Congratulations,” he said, “you are now the owner of a lovely little Fiesta. Perfect first car.”
The elderly man was still looking at the Land Rover. Walker quickly left his office and ran through his salesman tactics in his head.
“You won’t find anything more versatile than that baby,” he said to the man.
“I’ll take it,” the man said.
“Ideal car for day to day traffic and if you want to do a bit of off-roading…”
“I said I’ll take it,” the man said.
“Ok,” Walker was dumbfounded.
This was the easiest sale he had ever had to make.
“It’s forty thousand,” he said.
“I can read,” The man said, “I already have one. I’m buying this for my son. He’s a policeman you know.”
“Very well. Mr?”
“Smith,” the man said, “Fulton Smith.”
He shook Walker by the hand. Walker was surprised at the firmness of his grip.
“I just need to take her for a test drive first then we can sort out the formalities.”
“No problem Mr Smith,” Walker said.
He was already working out his commission in his head. Forty thousand pounds at seven point five percent. He was due almost three and a half thousand pounds. He smiled to himself when he realised the trip to Florida in the summer was becoming a reality. His wife would be over the moon.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to wait until my colleague gets back from lunch,” Walker said, “I’m holding the fort on my own at the moment.”
“I’m actually in a bit of a rush,” the man said.
“Our policy states that someone must accompany the customer on a test drive.”
“No problem,” the man said matter-of-factly, “there are plenty of other car dealerships in York. Good day.”
Walker’s commission was disappearing in front of his eyes.
“Wait,” he said, “you said your son is a policeman?”
“That’s right,” the man replied, “detective sergeant.”
“Wait a minute,” Walker said and walked back to his office and picked up the phone. Moments later he reappeared on the forecourt with the keys to the Land Rover.
“I can see you’re a man of your word,” Walker said, “I took the liberty of phoning the police and they do have a detective sergeant Smith working there. Just don’t go too far ok”?
He handed the man the keys.
“Its refreshing to see that someone still has faith in his fellow humans,” the man said, “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”
He took the keys and opened the Land Rover. Walker smiled as he watched the man drive off carefully.
“Florida here we come”, he said.
The old man drove down Queen Street and turned onto Nunnery Road. He had watched Merle Brandon take this route. Traffic was quiet so he increased his speed. After three or four minutes he spotted the white Ford Fiesta driving slowly up ahead. He remained one hundred metres behind her. The Fiesta turned left onto a road where the speed limit was fifty miles per hour. The Land Rover also turned left. He closed the distance to fifty metres behind the Fiesta. He could see a heavy goods truck in the distance travelling in the opposite direction. He pressed his foot harder on the accelerator and moved closer to the Fiesta. The truck was now only five hundred metres away.
Merle Brandon saw the Land Rover in her rear view mirror.
“Just overtake,” she said to the mirror.
The vehicle was far too close to her. There was a grass verge on the side of the road.
“This is what these things were built for,” the man said to himself.
The truck was approaching quickly. He steered to the left and came up alongside the Fiesta on the grass verge. Just before the truck passed them on the other side of the road, the man swung the steering wheel sharply to the right. The little car was no match for the power of the Land Rover and was pushed onto the other side of the road. Merle Brandon screamed as the truck slammed straight into her new car. She was thrown through the windscreen on impact and she was dead before she hit the tarmac.
The man in the Land Rover stopped the vehicle and got out. He walked over to where Merle Brandon lay face down on the road. He took off both her shoes and wrote the date on both of her feet. The driver of the truck was stirring in the cabin. The man looked at him, smiled and walked back to the Land Rover.
TWENTY SEVEN
MEDITATION
“What are you doing here sir?” Whitton asked. She looked agitated.
“Is Chalmers in?” Smith said.
“In his office but I don’t think he’ll be too pleased to see you. Old Smyth is fuming. I still can’t believe you called him a faggot.”
Whitton found it hard not to smile.
“I’m flying out to Australia tomorrow Whitton,” Smith said.
“You’re doing what?” She was gobsmacked. “I thought you never wanted to go back there.”
“Lucy persuaded me. She has a very persuasive nature.”
“Lucy?”
“Whitey’s wife. She made a good point. I can do a bit of digging into this Jimmy Fulton’s past.”
“So you’re flying out with Lucy?” Whitton asked.
“You’re not getting jealous are you Whitton?” Smith smiled.
“Of course not,” Whitton replied almost too quickly.
Her face reddened slightly.
“You’d better not let the Super see you. He can fire you on the spot you know.”
“I’ll just pop in and have a word with Chalmers then I’ll be out of here. I’ll send you a postcard.”
“How long are you going for?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Well good luck sir.” She thought about hugging him but quickly changed her mind.
“Thanks Whitton,” Smith said, “oh, you wouldn’t mind looking after Theakston while I’m away would you? He’s quite well trained now. Just don’t give him too much beer; he gets quite obnoxious when he’s drunk.”
Whitton shook her head.
“No problem sir,” she said.
Chalmers was sitting by his desk when Smith walked in. His door was gone. He was sitting back in his chair with his feet on the desk and his eyes were closed. Soothing music was oozing out of the computer speakers.
“Morning sir,” Smith said.
Chalmers did not seem to hear him.
“Morning Sir,” Smith repeated, much louder this time.
Chalmers nearly fell off the chair. One of his feet slipped off the desk and took a pile of papers with it. They scattered all over the floor.
“What the hell,” he said.
He looked up and saw Smith standing in the doorway.
“What are you doing here Smith?” he growled.
He bent down and started to pick up the papers.
“Unusual music sir,” Smith smiled, “very meditative.”
“Its supposed to be calming,” Chalmers said, “my wife reckons it will help me give up smoking but it doesn’t work. It doesn’t help that people keep interrupting me and not having a bloody door on my office makes it pretty pointless if you ask me. What do you want?”
“Just a word sir,” Smith replied.
“Not here.”
Chalmers picked up his coat.
“The super will have both of our balls if he sees us talking together. I’m going out for a smoke.”
“You could be onto something there Smith,” Chalmers said in the staff car park.
He took a packet of Marlboros from his pocket.
“How long are you planning on being away?”
“Not long sir,” Smith said, “I just want to have a look at his army records and family history, stuff like that. I might be able to find out what the connection between us is.”
Ch
almers lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.
“Your suspended for a week,” he said, “we can’t really afford to lose you, what with a serial killer out there but Smyth is adamant. You really hurt his feelings there Smith.”
“I don’t think this guy is going to kill any time soon sir,” Smith said, “the only one left is my mother’s car crash and he’s hardly likely to be able to recreate a car crash is he?”
“You’re probably right. When do you leave?”
“Tomorrow morning,” Smith replied, “I’ve got a few things to do. Packing and that sort of stuff but I just wanted to let you know what was going on first.”
“Thanks Smith.”
Chalmers threw his cigarette butt into the distance. It landed on the bonnet of the Superintendant’s Green Jaguar.
“What about the press conference sir?” Smith asked.
“Smyth has appointed Bridge, our resident expert on serial killers in your place.”
“Is that such a good idea?”
“No it’s not but seeing as you’ve left us in the shit, he’s the best we can do. You’ll read all about it in the papers. Now, get out of here before Smyth does his hourly check to see if his precious car is still here.”
Smith drove home, picked up Theakston and drove the fifty miles to the Moors Centre in Danby in the North Yorkshire Moors. He often came here when he needed to get away from everything and think. He parked his car in the Visitor’s Centre car park, turned off the engine and opened the door to let Theakston out. Ominous dark clouds were closing in from the North and Smith could smell the impending rain. It always rains here, Smith thought as he locked the car and set off in search of his dog. His phone vibrated in his pocket. He ignored it. He found Theakston by a gate leading to a path by the River Esk. The dog had put on a bit of weight since the last time he was here and could no longer fit through the gap in the fence. Smith opened the gate and Theakston bolted off towards the river. A raven sat on a dead tree stump. It squawked as it saw the dog approach and took flight, notably disgusted. Two hikers walked towards Smith.
“That dog ought to be on a lead,” one of them said.
“Damn right it should,” Smith said, “these bloody dogs have got no respect for the law these days.”
He walked past the man who obviously could not think of anything else to say.
Smith sat on the bank of the river and stared up at the sky. The dark clouds were moving closer together now; they performed a macabre dance above his head. The first spots of rain fell into the river. Smith thought about the last time he was in Western Australia. It was Christmas Day nineteen ninety eight, exactly a year since his father had hanged himself. His mother had given him a one way ticket to England. She did not even say goodbye to him at the airport. Theakston was stalking a moorhen in the river but he was not brave enough to jump in and catch it. The rain was heavier now.
“Come on boy,” Smith said, “this rain is just going to get worse. This is Yorkshire after all.”
They ran back to where Smith had parked his car. The two hikers were putting on rain coats in the car park. They looked at Smith disapprovingly. Smith opened the door to the car, let Theakston in and jumped in after him. The rain was falling in bucketfuls now. He took the towel from the back seat and dried Theakston off. The phone in his pocket vibrated again. He took it out and saw that he had two new messages. The first one was from a number he did not recognise. He pressed the retrieve button. It read ‘Only two left now Smith. Can you see what it is yet?”
Smith was confused. What did ‘two left’ mean? The second message was from Whitton. ‘Fatal car crash on Greenhill Road. Numbers written on the victim’s feet. He’s killed again.’
TWENTY EIGHT
DEAD EYES
Smith parked his red Ford Sierra behind the ambulance on Greenhill Road. An officer in uniform was directing traffic on the other side of the road.
“Stay here boy,” he said to Theakston.
He got out of the car and walked over to the white Ford Fiesta. The windscreen was shattered and the engine was now in the back seat. There was a heavy goods vehicle parked behind the Fiesta. The front fender was crushed and there were slight dents in the cab but otherwise it was barely damaged.
“This is a crime scene Smith,” a familiar voice was heard behind him.
It was Thompson. Smith ignored him and walked over to the back of the ambulance. Merle Brandon was on a stretcher inside. She was covered in a blanket. Whitton was talking to a man on the other side of the ambulance. He had blood all over his face but otherwise he seemed fine.
“You’re suspended,” Thompson said, “you’re not allowed to be here.”
Smith turned round. He was not in the mood for Thompson right now.
“Thompson,” he said, “I’m tired and I have a hell of a long week ahead of me but I’ll make you a deal.”
“What kind of a deal?” Thompson asked.
It was starting to rain.
“If I can tell you exactly what is written on this girl’s feet, cut me some slack will you?”
“Ok,” Thompson agreed.
He folded his arms against his chest.
“Two, one, zero, six, zero, nine,” Smith said.
Thompson took out his notebook, flicked through a few pages and gasped in amazement.
“How the hell did you know that?” he asked.
“Magic,” Smith sighed, “what happened?”
“According to the driver of the truck, he saw a Land Rover push the Fiesta over onto the other side of the road straight into him.”
“Can I have a quick word with him?” Smith asked.
“You shouldn’t really,” Thompson said.
“We had a deal Thompson. Off the record; I just want to get a picture of what happened.”
“Five minutes.”
Thompson looked up at the grey clouds forming over his head.
“I hate the rain,” he said and walked back to his car.
Smith climbed into the ambulance. The driver of the truck was shaking. He had a gash in his forehead and his ear was bleeding quite badly.
“What happened?” Smith asked him.
“We need to get him to the hospital,” a paramedic said, “He may have a concussion.”
“Five minutes please.” Smith flashed his warmest smile.
“Five minutes,” the woman smiled back.
“What happened?” Smith repeated.
“I was driving back to the depot,” the man said.
His voice was hoarse.
“I saw the Fiesta up ahead. The Land Rover was driving far too close behind. Suddenly the Land Rover pulled over onto the grass verge next to the Fiesta and pushed it onto the other side of the road. It all happened so quickly. There was nothing I could have done.”
“I know,” Smith said sympathetically, “it’s not your fault. What happened then?”
“We need to get going,” the paramedic said.
“Two more minutes,” Smith insisted, “you smashed into the Fiesta and then what?”
“It was terrible,” the driver continued, “there was a loud crunch and the woman flew through the windscreen and hit the front of my cab. I must have blacked out for a moment because the next thing I remember was the man leaning over the poor woman. He wrote something on her feet.”
“Did you get a good look at him?” Smith asked in anticipation.
“I was still a bit dazed but I’m sure he smiled at me when he’d finished writing.”
He looked over at Merle Brandon under the blanket.
“He did,” the driver said, “the bastard smiled at me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so evil in my life.”
“What did he look like?” Smith asked.
“Old. Bald head. He had dead eyes.”
“Dead eyes?” Smith repeated.
“His eyes were so black that from where I was sitting it looked like they had no life in them. Dead eyes.”
“We really must get going now,”
the paramedic insisted.
“I’m finished here,” Smith said, “thank you.”
Smith walked with Whitton back to his car. It was only a few metres away but the rain was falling so heavily now that they were both drenched by the time Smith had closed his door behind him. Theakston was sleeping on a towel on the back seat.
“I got a message just before you texted me earlier Whitton,” Smith said.
He took out his phone and showed her the message.
“What does he mean by two left now sir?” Whitton asked.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Smith replied.
He rubbed his temples.
“Maybe I shouldn’t go to Australia tomorrow after all. What if he kills again while I’m away?”
“You’re still suspended sir,” Whitton said, “you’ll be no use whatsoever if the super fires you and he will you know. You should see him at the moment; he’s like a bear with a sore head.”
“I really upset him didn’t I?” Smith smiled.
“You did sir. Oh, I forgot to tell you, you don’t have a door on your office any longer.”
“Bloody public school twat,” Smith said.
He took a set of keys out of his pocket.
“These are my spare house keys Whitton.” He handed her the keys, “you can stay in the house if you like. The spare bedroom is always made up and there’s plenty of food in the freezer. Theakston would prefer it.”
He looked at the dog snoring on the back seat.
“Ok sir,” Whitton sighed, “I hope you find something useful in Perth.”
“Thanks Whitton.”
Smith looked at the rain pelting on the windscreen.
“You’d better get a lift back with Thompson,” he said.
He leaned over and kissed her on the top of her head. Her wet hair smelled of lavender.
“Good luck,” she said.
She opened the door and ran to where Thompson was waiting in his car.
TWENTY NINE
SINGAPORE
Tuesday 9 March 2010.
“You can let go of my hand now,” Lucy grimaced, “hopefully I’ll get the feeling back soon.”
The York Trilogy: The First 3 DS Jason Smith Detective novels Page 39
