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

by Stewart Giles

  We have a day off tomorrow. I really must write to Jo, she keeps threatening to stop writing when I don’t reply but her letters keep coming. I feel terrible but I still don’t know what to write. All she wants to hear is how much I still love her and how we will be back together some day. I’ll see how I feel tomorrow.

  Smith closed the diary and put it back inside his bag. He had not noticed the flight attendant had put two beers on the table in front of him. There was so much he did not know about his father, he thought as he opened one of the beers and poured it into a glass. I didn’t know him at all, he mused. He looked at his watch. They would be landing soon. He decided he would find a quiet spot in the airport and take the three hours he had in transit there to relax and forget all about Jimmy Fulton.

  THIRTY SEVEN

  PARIS

  Saturday 13 March 2010

  Smith sat in the transit lounge in Singapore’s Changi airport. He had bought himself a Tiger beer and a copy of the English Times newspaper lay beside it on the table. He took a sip of the beer and winced. It was not exactly to his taste. He took another sip and picked up the newspaper. He gasped as he realised that all plans of putting Jimmy Fulton out of his mind were about to disappear.

  “For fuck’s sake Bridge,” Smith said much louder than he planned as he glanced at the front page of the newspaper.

  Two men who looked like businessmen cast him an admonitory glance. He smiled at them in way of an apology. He looked at the newspaper headline again. There on the front page of the most widely distributed non-tabloid English newspaper were the words ‘Serial killer wreaks havoc in York’.

  Underneath the headline there were two photographs. One was of Jimmy Fulton. It was taken from the video footage in the swimming pool of the Hilton. Fulton, in his blond wig was smiling at the camera. He had a marker pen in his hand and he was holding it up to the camera. The other photograph was of Smith taken the year before just after he had caught the Chinese man after he had gone bezerk in Whitby. Smith suddenly felt cold. He finished the rest of his beer and ordered two more from the surly waiter. The story covered the whole of the front page and was continued on page three. The waiter returned and placed the two beers on the table in front of Smith. He opened one and read the article.

  Serial killer wreaks havoc in York

  What began as a tragic suicide in one of York’s prestigious hotels has spiralled into one of the worst spates of murder in history. The UK has never seen the like before. What makes this killing spree all the more sinister is the way these brutal murders are being carried out. A hanging in a top hotel, a drowning in another upmarket hotel, the slaying of an elderly woman in her own house and a hit and run on a quiet road in this peaceful historic city. Nobody would ever have linked these apparently unconnected deaths if it weren’t for one Detective Sergeant Jason Smith. Smith, best known for catching and killing the Wendy Willow killer, David Lin in Whitby two years ago, is at the centre of this massacre in much more than a professional capacity. The killer, an Australian called James Fulton has made no effort to hide the fact that he is responsible. York police have accumulated so much evidence against him; numerous fingerprints, DNA samples, video footage of him actually killing one of the victims that it is unbelievable that they have not apprehended him. They know who he is and yet he is still at large.

  A police spokesperson, Detective Constable Bridge, an expert in serial killers has spoken openly about the series of murders.

  ‘These murders are definitely the work of York’s first serial killer,’ Bridge claims, ‘they are all connected to one of our Detective Sergeants – Jason Smith.’

  Smith could not believe what he was reading. Expert in serial killers, he thought. He finished his beer and poured the other one into his glass. He continued reading.

  ‘Smith’s father hanged himself in December 1997. The first victim was found hanged in the Royal York hotel with that exact date written on the soles of his feet with a permanent marker pen. Smith’s sister apparently drowned in November 1998 and that date was also written on the feet of the girl found by the side of the pool in the Hilton. So it goes on with the elderly woman and the girl that died in the car crash. We do not know why this man Fulton is recreating the deaths of members of Smith’s family but Smith is on his way back from Australia as we speak and we believe he has new information that could help us catch this animal. What we do know is this man uses a different disguise each time. We also believe that, in the nature of most serial killers, he will not stop until he has finished what he has set out to do.’

  Smith shook his head in disbelief. Bridge, you’re a bloody idiot, he thought. The newspaper article continued to mention the three youths that Fulton had killed but Smith had read enough. He took out his phone and dialled Lucy’s number. She answered on the seventh ring.

  “Yes,” she said. She sounded tired.

  “Lucy,” Smith said, “did I wake you?”

  “Jason,” Lucy’s voice seemed to brighten up, “are you alright? You’re all over the news.”

  “I know,” Smith said, “one of my constables is in for a severe bollocking when I get back. I need your help.”

  “What’s wrong Jason? Where are you?”

  “I’m still in Changi. I need you to change my ticket. I haven’t a clue about that sort of thing. You’re the frequent flyer.”

  “Hold on,” Lucy said.

  Smith waited. He could here the sound of a computer being started up.”

  “Where do you want to go?” Lucy asked eventually.

  “Paris,” Smith replied, “it doesn’t have to be first class but I can’t land at Heathrow.”

  “Why Paris?” Lucy asked.

  “I’ve got a feeling that the press will be waiting for me at Heathrow. What with everything that has been printed in the newspapers. They’re a bunch of bloody vultures that lot. DC Bridge has told the world my fucking life story. I’ll get on the Eurostar to Victoria and then I’ll catch a train to York. They won’t be expecting that.”

  “Hold on,” Lucy said.

  Smith could hear the sound of a mouse clicking on a mat.

  “Go to the main checkout desk,” Lucy said, “give them your old ticket and your passport and tell them you’ll be flying to Paris instead. It’s all booked and paid for. The plane leaves in two hours. Oh, and you’re flying first class.”

  “I love you Lucy,” Smith said and instantly regretted it.

  “No you don’t,” Lucy sighed, “I’ll see you in a week or so.”

  “What?” Smith exclaimed.

  “You don’t have much time. Go and get your ticket. Good luck Jason, I think you’re going to need it.”

  She rang off.

  Smith finished the rest of his beer and stood up. He left the newspaper on the table. He changed his ticket at the check in desk and walked through to departures. He had a feeling that people were staring at him as he sat down and waited for the call to board the plane. I’m being paranoid, he thought, not everybody reads the news. His plan was simple. He would fly to Paris, get the train to London and then catch another one to York. After that he had a feeling that his life would never be the same again.

  THIRTY EIGHT

  LUCIFER

  There were only four other people in the first class section on the Quantas flight from Changi, Singapore to Charles de Gaulle, Paris. Smith sat back in the huge seat and closed his eyes. An image flashed in his mind and he quickly opened his eyes. It was an image of Jimmy Fulton in the hotel room shortly before he had stuck the syringe in Smith’s leg. The blue eyes shone brightly. Smith knew he would not be able to sleep during the thirteen hour flight so he turned on the screen in front of him. He scrolled down, looking for a movie that interested him but he found nothing other than action films and children’s animated cartoons. He browsed through the catalogue of music on offer but there was nothing that grabbed him there either. It was either easy listening crap or modern boom boom trash. He bent down and took the diary out of h
is backpack. He could no longer smell Lucy’s perfume. What had she meant when she said she would see him in a week or so? He thought and why did the words ‘I love you’ come so easily to him? He had never said it to anybody like that before. He paged through the diary until he came to the where he had stopped reading.

  Friday 29 September 1965

  Jimmy Fulton is a frigging snake. The scheming bastard has hooked up with Jo. My Jo. When her letters stopped coming I just assumed it was because I had stopped writing. It had to happen sometime. I mean, one way correspondence is no fun but John told me this morning. I don’t think I was meant to find out but John thought I had a right to know. That’s true friendship in my eyes. I know I shouldn’t really care. Me and Jo were over as soon as I stepped foot in this place but it had to be Jimmy Fulton of all people. If it had been anybody else I wouldn’t have batted an eyelid but Jimmy Fulton? I must be a bit upset about it because my shooting was up to shit this morning. Four out of twenty. Normally I’d bang twenty in with my eyes closed. The Sarge told me to piss off and come back when my heart was in it. Full of sympathy old Sarge. John’s managed to get hold of a bottle of Jack from God knows where. I don’t want to know but we’re going to knock that back tomorrow night and forget about everything for a while.

  Sunday 1 October 1965

  Never again. I repeat, never again. What tasted like heaven last night tasted like pure hell as it left my stomach at a hundred miles an hour this morning. Jack Daniels is Lucifer himself. John was fine, smug bastard that he is and I drank a lot more than him anyway. The Sarge took one look at me this morning and asked me if I’d got it out of my system. I just stood up, ran to the toilet and got even more out of my system. I couldn’t believe there was any more still in my system. Anyway, Jimmy Fulton and Jo are welcome to each other. I have this. This is my life now and I know that, deep down, Jimmy would much rather be here than messing around with an old friend’s girlfriend. I don’t even hate him anymore; I feel sorry for him. At the end of this month, me and John are off on an adventure of a lifetime.

  Smith was woken up by the monotonous voice that announced that they were beginning their descent towards Charles de Gaulle airport and that the temperature in Paris was a cool ten degrees Celsius. The flight attendant must have closed the shutter over the window while he was asleep. Smith opened it and was almost blinded by the light that came through. He looked at his watch. Twelve noon Paris time. He could be back in York by that evening. He took the diary off his lap and put it back in his back pack.

  THIRTY NINE

  PILKINGTON

  The man in the tweed jacket smiled at the waitress in Café no 8 on Gillygate in the centre of York. He put down his newspaper.

  “Do you have such a thing as a Dom Perignon in your fine establishment?” he asked in his finest public school accent.

  “I’ll find out for you sir,” the waitress replied.

  “Very good,” the man nodded and picked up the newspaper again.

  He looked at the photographs on the front page. He took out a small compact mirror from his jacket pocket and studied his face in it. Ruddy complexion, light brown eyes and a fabulous handlebar moustache.

  “You look nothing like me,” he whispered to the reflection in the mirror.

  He checked his watch and looked out of the window on to the street. The green Jaguar stopped and a tall thin man got out. He closed the driver’s door behind him and pressed a button on the remote control in his hand. He had a perplexed expression on his face. He pressed the remote control again and an unholy din pierced the air. The lights of the car flashed on and off. The man pressed the remote control again, two loud beeps were heard and then silence. He walked towards the entrance of the restaurant.

  “Terribly sorry about that everybody,” Jeremy Smyth shouted as he walked through the doors of Café no 8, “pesky alarm is giving me trouble again.”

  He looked around the restaurant. He had an air about him of a baby elephant that had lost its mother.

  “Jeremy,” a voice boomed from across the room.

  Smyth looked over at the man with the monocle and the impressive moustache.

  “Don’t tell me you don’t recognise an old Etonian old boy,” the man called out.

  The other patrons in the restaurant either shook their heads or rolled their eyes.

  “Pilkington?” Smyth said, “Is that you old chap?”

  “It’s been a while Smythy,” Pilkington smiled, “come and take the weight off. I’ve enquired about a bottle of bubbly. We have a lot of catching up to do.”

  Superintendant Jeremy Smyth pulled out a chair and sat down.

  “I couldn’t believe it when you phoned,” Smyth said, “I’d heard that you were dead I’m afraid.”

  “Rumours,” Pilkington sighed, “rumours based on nothing but bloody rumours.”

  The waitress approached the table.

  “I’ve managed to find you a bottle of Dom Perignon sir,” she said, “but its two hundred and fifty pounds a bottle.”

  “Then bring it here then,” Pilkington ordered. “Two glasses. In ice of course.”

  “What’s the occasion?” Smyth asked, “Champagne at lunchtime?”

  “No occasion,” Pilkington replied, “just nice to meet up with an old school chum that’s all. What have you been up to all these years?”

  “After Eton,” Smyth began, “I did a bit of law at Oxford. Didn’t understand a word of it of course but it helped to get me into the police force.”

  “A copper?” Pilkington looked surprised.

  “Superintendant,” Smyth announced proudly, “thankless job really. Nobody listens to me. What about you? You look like you’ve done alright for yourself.”

  “Historian,” Pilkington smiled, “history is a fascinating subject. You wouldn’t believe how the past influences the present.”

  The waitress placed the Champagne on the table.

  “I’ll do the honours thank you miss,” Pilkington said as the waitress was about to open the bottle.

  “These kids don’t know how to treat Champagne properly,” he whispered to Smyth.

  He carefully popped the cork and poured some Champagne into a glass. He handed it to Smyth.

  “Just the one for me,” Smyth said, “I have to be back at work sometime this afternoon.”

  “Any big exciting cases on at the moment?” Pilkington asked matter-of-factly.

  He poured himself a glass of Champagne.

  “This serial killer nonsense is a bit of a drag. It’s taking up all of our resources. I’m in the middle of a huge shake up at the station and this business is buggering up my plans.”

  “Terrible business,” Pilkington agreed, “I read about it in the papers. Do you think you’ll catch this monster?”

  “One of my sergeants is heading the investigation. He’s on his way back from Australia with some crucial information I believe.”

  “Is that so?” Pilkington seemed very interested.

  “I don’t really take much interest in the nitty gritty.”

  Smyth took a long sip of the Champagne.

  “This is very good,” he said, “but this so called serial killer is really buggering up my crime stats. This sort of thing just doesn’t happen in York.”

  A man in his late thirties entered the restaurant and sat at a table opposite them. He picked up a menu and looked around in an attempt to get the attention of one of the staff. Pilkington sensed he was not waiting for anyone.

  “We must hook up sometime,” Smyth finished the rest of his Champagne. “When I’m not so busy,” he added. “You look good Pilkington. History seems to be treating you well.”

  He stood up and shook Pilkington’s hand.

  “I’ll be thinking of you,” Pilkington said as Smyth walked towards the door but Smyth did not hear him as he had pressed the wrong button on the remote control again.

  The ear piercing shrill of the alarm filled the restaurant.

  Pilkington poured himself a
nother glass of Champagne and smiled. He watched as the man on the opposite table stood up and walked towards the toilets. He stuck the bottle of champagne under his jacket and followed the man. Inside the toilets he looked at himself in the mirror. Smyth’s car alarm could still be heard.

  “You look bloody ridiculous Jimmy Fulton,” he said.

  “Excuse me,” the man facing the urinal said.

  “Nothing. I was just musing that out of all of my disguises this has to be the most farcical of them all. I mean, look at me. Tweed jacket, monocle, handlebar moustache. Who the hell looks like this these days?”