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

by Stewart Giles

  The man turned to look at him. Fulton took the Champagne bottle out of his jacket and raised it above his head. The man stared in disbelief as Fulton brought it down with all his strength on the top of his head. The bottle smashed and the man’s eyes widened as the blood ran down his face into his mouth. He could taste his own blood mixed with the two hundred and fifty pounds a bottle Dom Perignon.

  The alarm outside had stopped.

  “I bet you’ve never tasted Dom Perignon before have you?” Fulton said as the man collapsed to the floor.

  Blood was pumping out of the deep gash in his head.

  By the time Fulton had removed the man’s shoes and socks and written the date on the man’s feet, he was dead. Fulton washed the blood and Champagne from his hands and dried them under the machine. He walked back inside the restaurant, put three hundred pounds on his table and walked towards the door.

  FORTY

  DOCTOR BRIDGE

  “Whitton,” Smith said, “can you talk?”

  “There’s a Bull Terrier sitting at my feet,” Whitton replied, “but I don’t think he’ll repeat anything. Where are you sir?”

  “Doncaster,” Smith said.

  “Doncaster?”

  “I should be in York in less than half an hour. Can you pick me up from the train station?”

  “I’ll see you there sir.”

  Whitton rang off.

  An hour later, Smith opened the door to his house and went inside. Theakston jumped up at him and he gave the dog the biggest hug he had ever given him. He had never been so pleased to see him. Smith sat down on the sofa in the living room.

  “You look awful sir,” Whitton said, “you’ve got a bit more colour in your face but you still look terrible.”

  “Rough trip,” Smith sighed.

  Theakston jumped up on the sofa and sat on Smith. He patted the dog on the head.

  “Did you look after Whitton while I was away boy?” Smith said.

  “He was a little darling,” Whitton smiled, “although he takes up most of the bed. He’s getting too big to sleep in the bed.”

  “I know,” Smith said, “do you want to tell him?”

  “How was the trip sir?” Whitton asked.

  “First things first Whitton. Do we have any coffee?”

  “We sir?”

  “Do I have any coffee?”

  “I’ll make some.”

  “I need a shower,” Smith said, “I’ll be ten minutes.”

  Theakston followed Smith up the stairs. He lay on the bathroom mat. As Smith turned on the water he was sure he could smell the soft fragrance of Lucy’s perfume on his skin.

  ‘I’ll see you in a week or so’

  What had she meant by that? Smith thought as the powerful jets blasted water all over his body.

  Smith dried himself off and brushed his teeth. He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. Whitton was right, he did have more colour in his face. He put on clean clothes and walked back down the stairs.

  “That’s better,” he said to Whitton as he sat on the sofa.

  Whitton handed him a hot cup of coffee.

  “Thanks Whitton,” he said, “and thanks for looking after Theakston. He really likes you.”

  “Did you find anything useful in Australia sir?” Whitton asked.

  “Plenty,” Smith replied, “my dad fought in Vietnam with Fulton’s twin brother. Jimmy Fulton was discharged during basic training but his brother John made it to the front line with my dad. I also went back to that beach where my sister disappeared.”

  Whitton was gobsmacked.

  “You did what?” she asked.

  “I wanted to go back so I did and it helped. The sea doesn’t bother me any more. I also found this.”

  He took out his father’s diary from his backpack.

  “I haven’t read it all yet but from what I have read it doesn’t really give us much to go on.”

  Whitton looked disappointed.

  “You heard about the three youths Fulton killed while you were away didn’t you?”

  “I heard about it,” Smith replied, “but not in too much detail.”

  “He was in The Hogs Head sir.”

  “The Hogs Head?” Smith exclaimed.

  “Apparently, he sat at the bar reading a newspaper and these three youngsters were acting, well, like youngsters do these days. Marge said he stuck up for her and asked them to leave.”

  “Is Marge alright?” Smith asked.

  “She’s fine. She said he was a charming chivalrous gentleman. She couldn’t believe what he did to them. A woman walking her dog found them. She had to be sedated; she was in such a state.”

  “Was it that bad?”

  “He broke the neck of one of them with his bare hands by the look of it. The man’s arm was also snapped.”

  “Christ,” Smith said.

  “The second one had his trachea crushed. His neck was caved in but it was the third one that looked the worst. His femoral artery had been severed and all the blood in his body flowed out. There was blood everywhere.”

  “Fulton certainly knows how to kill,” Smith said.

  “We found the knife he used. He put it in the hand of the guy with the crushed trachea but we found his fingerprints on it. He hadn’t wiped them off properly. He’d sliced through the artery and left the poor man to bleed to death on the street.”

  “And you’re quite sure it was our guy?” Smith asked.

  “Positive,” Whitton replied, “like I said, his fingerprints were there and as it was only a stone’s throw from The Hogs Head we spoke to Marge and she told us about the man at the bar. She said he was Australian and the description fitted. It was him.”

  “But why?” Smith could not believe it. “This had nothing to do with the other murders.”

  “It looks like he’s getting a taste for it sir,” Whitton sighed, “and it looks like he’s a very dangerous man. To kill three healthy young men. Two with his bare hands.”

  Smith’s phone rang.

  “Here we go,” he sighed.

  He took a long sip of his coffee.

  “Smith,” he said.

  “We missed you at Heathrow detective,” a man said.

  “Who is this?” Smith asked.

  “Peter Philbin,” the man said, “Daily Mail. I just want to ask you a…”

  Smith rang off.

  “Bloody vermin,” Smith scoffed.

  His phone rang again.

  “Listen here you scum,” Smith said, “I’m tired. Why don’t you speak to our serial killer expert, Doctor bloody Bridge? You’ll find…”

  “Sir,” a voice said.

  “Who the hell is this?”

  “Doctor bloody Bridge,” Bridge laughed, “I know you’ve just got back but I think you need to get down to Gillygate. Café no 8 Bistro. It looks like Fulton has struck again.”

  “Shit,” Smith said, “oh one more thing Bridge.”

  “Yes sir?”

  “You and me are going to have a long talk about press conferences afterwards.”

  He rang off.

  “Trouble?” Whitton asked.

  “When don’t we have trouble Whitton?”

  Smith finished the rest of his coffee.

  “After you detective.” He beckoned towards the door.

  Smith got out of the car outside Café no 8 on Gillygate. Bridge approached him

  “Sir,” he said, “before you start, I didn’t want to do the press conference. The super…”

  “Later Bridge,” Smith said, “what have we got?”

  “Inside the toilets sir. A man has had his head smashed in with a bottle of champagne.”

  “Bollocks,” Smith said under his breath, “come on Whitton.”

  Inside, the restaurant was empty apart from a woman sitting at a table with her head in her hands. A man in his early forties was consoling her.

  “Who found him?” Smith asked the man.

  “Nicola did,” he replied. He nodded towards the
woman at the table.

  “And who are you?”

  “Jack Kramer. I own the restaurant. How long will all of this take? Saturday is our busiest day of the week. I’m losing money here.”

  Smith was about to say something but he changed his mind.

  “Where is he?” he asked Kramer.

  “In the gents. He hasn’t been moved yet.”

  He pointed to a door behind them.

  “I have to warn you,” Kramer said, “It’s not a pretty sight.”

  Smith walked inside the toilets. The man was still lying on the floor. Grant Webber was carefully picking up shards of glass and placing them in a reinforced plastic bag.

  “Webber,” Smith said in acknowledgement.

  “Smith,” Webber reciprocated.

  “What have we got?” Smith asked.

  “Poor bastard was killed with a two hundred and fifty quid bottle of Dom Perignon. Moet and Chandon 2008. It would have been a lot cheaper to do him in with a bottle of Liebfraumilch.”

  “Any prints?” Smith asked.

  “Plenty but I don’t think we’ll need them. It’s Fulton alright.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Smith said.

  “Look at his feet.”

  Smith took a pair of rubber gloves out of his pocket and put them on. He picked up one of the man’s feet. Written on the sole were six numbers, 1 4 0 2 0 9.”

  “Fuck it,” Smith said.

  “Ring any bells?” Webber asked.

  “Wedding bells,” Smith sighed, “I think we can get the poor bastard out of here now. Thanks Webber. I assume you’ll get the prints on record anyway.”

  “I know my job Smith,” Webber snarled.

  Smith’s head was pounding as he walked back inside the restaurant. Two paramedics had arrived with a stretcher.

  “In the gents,” Smith said to one of them.

  He had known her for a few years. He sat at the table opposite the waitress and Kramer, the owner.

  “Nicola,” Smith said, “I know this is hard but can you tell me what happened.”

  The waitress started to cry again.

  “Take your time,” Smith said.

  His head felt like someone was hitting it with a brick.

  “What exactly happened?” he asked.

  “The man ordered a drink from me,” Nicola said, “and then I saw him go into the toilets. When he didn’t come out again I went in to see if everything was alright. A couple of people have accidentally locked themselves in the cubicles.”

  “I’ve had that fixed,” Kramer said sternly.

  “Go on,” Smith said.

  He did not like Kramer one little bit.

  “I went in and that’s when I found…”

  She started to sob uncontrollably. Kramer stood up.

  “I have to get that mess cleaned up in there,” he said, “if that’s alright with you. I’m losing money here.”

  Smith cracked.

  “Listen here,” he said.

  The paramedics walked past carrying a stretcher. They had covered the man with a blanket.

  “That man has just lost a lot more than money,” Smith said, “he lost his life in such a violent way that Nicola here will find it hard to forget and you’re sat here moaning about losing money.”

  “I didn’t mean to sound cruel,” Kramer protested, “it’s just…”

  “Bridge,” Smith interrupted him, “come here.”

  Bridge walked over to the table.

  “Kramer,” Smith said, “meet Doctor Bridge. He’s the master of the press conference. If you like, the next time he speaks to those parasitic leeches of the press he can relate how an innocent man was butchered in your restaurant. That wouldn’t be too good for business would it? Then you would know all about losing money.”

  Kramer looked like he was about to cry. “I just meant…” he began.

  “Nicola,” Smith said, “was the man on his own?”

  “Yes,” she sobbed.

  “The champagne bottle,” Smith said, “where did that come from?”

  “The man sitting opposite ordered it. It cost two hundred and fifty quid. A week’s wages for a bottle of bubbly.”

  “What did this man look like?” Smith asked.

  “Real Toff,” Nicola replied, “tweed jacket, strange moustache and he had one of those funny glasses in one eye.”

  “Monocle?” Bridge suggested.

  Smith glared at him.

  “I assume this man left shortly afterwards?” Smith asked.

  Louise nodded.

  “The man he was with left and he left about ten minutes after him.”

  “He was with another man?”

  “Another Toff,” Louise said, “he was a real buffoon. He couldn’t even figure out how to work his stupid car alarm. It went off three times while he was here. I mean, when you can afford one of those fancy cars, surely the alarm has to work properly.”

  “What car was he driving?” Smith asked.

  “Jaguar. English racing green. I only know because my younger brother has a poster of one on his bedroom wall. He would have had a wet dream if he’d seen it.”

  Smith shook his head.

  “What did this other man look like?” he asked even though he already knew the answer.

  “Tall with a gormless look on his face.”

  “Brown hair in a stupid side parting,” Smith added.

  “That’s right,” Louise said, “how do you know that?”

  “This just gets better and better,” Smith sighed and walked out of the restaurant.

  FORTY ONE

  HELL HOUND ON MY TRAIL

  Smith lay back on the sofa and closed his eyes. The text message alert sounded on his phone. He opened one eye and looked at the phone lying on the coffee table. The red light was flashing like a warning beacon. This thing only brings bad news, he thought as he picked up the phone. He opened the message.

  ‘Your boss drank champagne with a serial killer,’ it read. Smith read it again.

  “Bastard,” he said out loud.

  Theakston looked up from where he was lying.

  Smith thought about the dates on the man’s feet. Valentines Day last year. The day he had rescued Whitton from David Lin in Whitby. Lin had shot the captain of the boat through the head and forced Smith to pilot the boat. Whitton and Lin had fallen in the sea and Smith had jumped in after them. He had hit Lin on the head with a bottle of champagne and Lin had shot him in the arm. Smith ran his fingers over the star shaped scar on his arm.

  Smith thought back to what Fulton had said, ‘only two left now.’ Now there was only one and Smith had a sinking feeling he knew who that would be. He looked over at the bottle of jack Daniels in the cabinet next to the television Thompson had bought him. He stood up and walked towards the front door. He never locked the door when he was at home but he put the key in the lock and turned it. He turned the handle to make sure it was locked. He repeated the procedure with the back door. He picked up a glass from the kitchen and walked back to the living room. He opened the jack Daniels and poured himself a healthy measure. He took a long sip and felt the warmth of the Bourbon as it flowed down his throat into his stomach. He felt more relaxed almost immediately. He turned on the CD player and pressed eject. He gasped as he saw a Meatloaf CD in the machine. Whitton has shit taste in music, he thought as he took it out and replaced it with a Robert Johnson album. Hell Hound on my Trail blasted out of the speakers. Smith turned the volume down and smiled. Whitton listens to Meatloaf at full blast, he thought, that’s quite depressing. He ejected the Robert Johnson CD and put on a Doors album instead. Roadhouse Blues.

  “Much better,” Smith said to Theakston who was still lying in his usual position on the couch. Smith sat next to him and put the Jack Daniels on the coffee table. He picked up his father’s diary. Something in here has to give me some sort of clue to this whole mess, he thought.

  Sunday 15 October 1965

  Two weeks to go and things are really
hotting up. They need us out there now. Sarge reckons the Yanks are in deep shit. What they thought would be a quick in and out operation has dragged on for over five years now. Christ, who the hell are these Vietnamese, Frigging robots? A letter came from Jo yesterday. She thought I didn’t know about her and Jimmy. She told me she was sorry but I should have written to her. I don’t really care. I wrote her a long letter but I didn’t send it. That’s all in the past now anyway. Jimmy is getting scared. He made the mistake of paying too much attention to what they say in the news. The blokes are dropping like flies over there. Over three thousand dead this year already. I don’t read the newspapers and I don’t watch television. Its better that way. Quite a few of the blokes here are getting cold feet. One of them, a giant of a man we call Titan, tried to escape. Stupid bastard tried to fight four guards. They had to shoot him in the leg in the end, he went so crazy. I’m ready for any shit they throw at me.

  Saturday 28 October 1965

  Me and John are officially frigging soldiers in the Royal Australian army. Mum and dad were here earlier. They said they are so proud but mum cried when we said goodbye. She’s worried that I might not come back. We were allowed a few hours with the family before we get shipped off to god knows where. Jo was here too. She came with that bastard Jimmy Fulton. You would have thought she would have stayed away for my sake. I mean she threw it right in my face about her and Jimmy. Jimmy looks awful. He’s so pale and you can tell he’s still pissed off about not being able to go with us. They treated us like frigging heroes today. The Sarge shook my hand and said in all his years he hasn’t come across a more all round soldier than me. Soldier. That word doesn’t sound real. It’s like we’re a bunch of ants marching off to defend the Queen. God Save the Queen. God bless America and all that shit. Hi Ho Hi Ho it’s off to war we go. Too much whisky. I think I’ll sign off now before I write something I might regret in the morning.

  Smith poured himself another glass of Jack Daniels. There’s still nothing to go on, he thought, Jimmy Fulton was bitter about being discharged but surely he was bitter at the army, not at my father. He looked at the clock on the wall. Ten o clock. He felt like he had not slept in weeks. He finished the last drop of whisky, switched off the light and walked upstairs. As he lay in bed with his eyes closed he could see Lucy’s face. One green eye and one blue one. ‘See you in a week or so.’ Smith smiled and was asleep in seconds.