FORTY TWO
ARRESTED
Sunday 14 March 2010
Detective Sergeant Alan Thompson was in a brilliant mood. His wife had let him move back in again and the conditions this time were not as daunting as on previous reconciliations. All he had to agree to was to spend more time being the husband his wife deserved and less time watching football. She had not even mentioned his drinking habits this time. As a celebration, he had decided to take her out for breakfast at one of York’s more expensive restaurants.
“You really didn’t have to do this,” Thompson’s wife Barbara said as she tucked into her bacon and eggs.
“You deserve it,” Thompson smiled, “It’s just my way of saying thank you for putting up with me all these years. Thirty years is a long time. Are you going to eat that sausage?”
Barbara shook her head and put the sausage on his plate.
The restaurant was full to the brim. Sunday breakfast was obviously popular. Thompson ate his breakfast with gusto. It was his favourite meal of the day. He looked up from his plate and noticed the man sitting at a table on the other side of the restaurant. He looked vaguely familiar. He was staring directly at Thompson. Thompson looked away for a second but when he looked at the man again, he was still staring. He had the most unusual blue eyes Thompson had ever seen. Thompson took a sip of his coffee and suddenly felt cold. He had seen those eyes before. He stood up quickly.
“Are you alright?” Barbara asked.
“Just going to the gents,” Thompson replied.
As he walked towards the toilets, Thompson made sure that the man was still there. He was drinking tea from a small china cup.
Thompson locked himself in a cubicle, took out his phone and dialled a number.
“He’s here sir,” he said, “he’s sitting across from us in a bloody restaurant.”
“What are you talking about Thompson,” Chalmers asked.
He sounded like he had just woken up.
“I need as many bodies as possible at the Wessing restaurant in the town centre. Fulton is sitting here drinking bloody tea. Me and Barbara are having breakfast here.”
“Are you sure?” Chalmers sounded excited.
“Positive,” Thompson said, “It’s him.”
“Don’t go near him,” Chalmers ordered, “I’ll organise back up straight away. Finish your breakfast and act like nothing’s wrong.”
“Ok sir,”
Thompson rang off. His heart was pounding in his chest. This could be his big moment; the kind of moment that only happens once in a lifetime. He, DS Thompson would be the man responsible for catching the first serial killer in the history of York.
“Is everything alright?” Barbara asked as Thompson sat back down.
“Fine,” Thompson replied. He looked at his watch.
“You haven’t finished your breakfast,” she said, “that’s not like you.”
“I’m full,” Thompson said.
He looked over at the table on the other side of the room. The man was still there. A waitress had just placed a plate of scrambled eggs in front of him. Thompson checked his watch again.
“Do you have to be somewhere?” Barbara asked, “You’re acting strange. This is exactly the kind of behaviour that made me kick you out in the first place. I don’t think this is going to…”
“Barbara,” Thompson said quietly, “shut up please.”
“Well is this is how you say you’re sorry.”
She stood up and picked up her bag.
“Sit down,” Thompson said sternly.
Barbara looked at him and sat down.
“Listen to me dear,” he whispered, “there’s a man sitting across from us who may very well be York’s first serial killer.”
“Oh my,” Barbara said, “the one who killed all those poor people?”
“Keep your voice down,” Thompson said, “I’ve called for back up. That’s what I was doing in the gents. They should be here any minute.”
He looked across the room. The man had finished his breakfast and was wiping his mouth with a napkin. He stood up and put on his jacket.
“Shit,” Thompson said.
Barbara looked at him in disgust.
“Where the hell is everyone?” he said.
The man walked straight towards their table. His blue eyes were shining.
“Do you mind if I join you?” he pointed to an empty chair next to Thompson.
Thompson’s heart started to beat faster.
“I know who you are,” he said and prepared himself for an attack. His self defence instincts kicked in and his muscles tensed in anticipation. His first thoughts were how to protect his wife. He looked at the knives and forks on the table. They would be useful should it come to that.
“That won’t be necessary,” the man said as if he could read Thompson’s thoughts.
“I’m done,” he said calmly, “I’m finished and I’m ready to accept whatever is coming my way. May I?” He pointed to the chair again.
“I’ve called for back up,” Thompson warned him, “they’ll be here any minute.”
“Naturally,” the man smiled. He sat down next to Thompson, “like I said, I’m ready. Are you going to eat that?”
He pointed to what was left of Thompson’s breakfast.
“I’ve heard that prison food is not up to much.”
The doors to the restaurant opened and four men walked in. Thompson recognised them as members of the armed response unit. He could see from the bulges under their jackets that they were armed. They had obviously been ordered to be discreet. Thompson nodded to the man in front. He was a short, stocky man by the name of Pete Winter. Thompson had known him for many years. Winter looked confused. He approached Thompson’s table cautiously. The three other men followed close behind. Thompson stood up.
“Jimmy Fulton,” he said.
His chest seemed to swell up with pride. This was the moment. His moment. He would be forever remembered as the man who arrested the serial killer.
“You are under arrest for the murders of…”
Thompson took his notebook out of his jacket pocket.
“You are under arrest for the murders of eight people,” he said eventually.
He thought for a second and then continued.
“You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court.”
Thompson took a deep breath.
“Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”
Fulton laughed and clapped his hands. It started out as a quiet chuckle but then erupted into a hearty guffaw. His blue eyes shone.
“Evidence?” he said, “Evidence. I think you lot have plenty of that don’t you?”
Thompson was taken aback. He nodded to Winter.
“Please stand up slowly,” Winter said, “and place your hands behind your back.”
“That’s what I like about you Pommes,” Fulton said, “courteous to the last.”
He placed his hands behind his back. Winter took out a set of handcuffs and put them on Fulton.
“Would you please come with us,” Winter said.
Fulton looked around the restaurant. Everybody was staring at him.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he addressed the room, “Detective Sergeant Thompson. Remember that name. This is the man who has singlehandedly caught York’s first serial killer. What are you waiting for?” he addressed Winter. “Let’s get this over with shall we?”
FORTY THREE
MEATLOAF
Smith was woken by an ungodly sound. Terrible music was playing nearby. He realised what it was. He had personalised the ringtone for when Whitton phoned and now Meatloaf’s ‘Bat out of Hell’ was insulting his eardrums from the bedside table. He looked at the clock. It was almost lunchtime. He picked up the phone and answered it before Meatloaf got any more offensive.
“Sir,” Whitton said, “are you sitting down?”
“
Lying down,” Smith replied, “I’m still in bed. I’ve just had the best sleep in a very long time.”
“I’ve got good news and bad news sir.”
“Give me the good news then,” Smith said.
“We’ve got Fulton in a cell down at the station.”
Smith did not think he had heard properly. Meatloaf has damaged my eardrums, he thought.
“Say that again Whitton,” he said, “I thought I heard you say you’d caught Fulton.”
“That brings me on to the bad news sir,” Whitton said, “I didn’t catch him. It was Thompson who arrested him.”
“Fuck,” Smith said, “sorry Whitton. What happened?”
“Thompson was having breakfast with his wife when he spotted a man that looked like Fulton. He phoned for back up but it appears he didn’t need it. Fulton came and sat down next to him and basically gave himself up although you know that’s not what Thompson will say happened. The press are already camped outside the station.”
“What time did this happen?” Smith asked.
He got out of bed and walked downstairs to switch the kettle on.
“Ten this morning.”
“How the hell did the press find out so fast?”
“The restaurant was full to the brim. Thompson had an audience. It doesn’t take those leeches long to smell a good story.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
He poured the water into the coffee cup.
“Thompson is never going to let me forget about this is he Whitton?”
“I’m afraid not sir,” Whitton replied, “but at least we’ve got him now.”
“I suppose so,” Smith sighed, “oh Whitton. Since when did you listen to Meatloaf? You left a CD in the machine. Bloody awful stuff.”
“He’s brilliant sir,” Whitton said, “very theatrical.”
“I’m going to have to educate you in music appreciation,” Smith said, “I’ll see you just now.”
He rang off.
Smith did not know how to feel. It was bitter sweet. Fulton had been caught but why the hell did it have to be Thompson that arrested him? He finished his coffee and went upstairs. He looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. There was something different about it. His eyes were no longer bloodshot and the tan made his face look healthier but that was not it. Smith realised what it was. He was smiling. He was smiling without realising it. He had a wide beam on his face that he seemed to have no control over. It was all over. Thompson or no Thompson, Jimmy Fulton had been stopped.
The smile disappeared from Smith’s face as he saw what waited for him outside the police station. The car park was almost full. He parked his car in one of the few remaining bays and got out. He waited for the onslaught. Camera crews had set up camp outside and reporters scuttled about like ants ready to swarm their prey. A woman with the biggest nose Smith had ever seen approached him.
“DS Smith,” she said, “I’m from the Sun. Is it true that you were sleeping while your colleague risked his life to arrest the serial killer?”
Smith shook his head and walked straight past her.
“Is it also true,” the woman continued, “that you went on holiday with a mysterious blond woman while this maniac was still at large.”
Smith could feel his face turning red. He stopped and turned round.
“I would have thought,” he said, “a newspaper as big as the Sun would pay you enough to have that nose done. How the hell do you kiss your husband without poking his eyes out?”
Another reporter put his arm on Smith’s shoulder. Smith shrugged it off. He recognised the man. He was from the York Evening Post. A local man.
“Detective Sergeant,” he said, “how does it feel to have that lunatic off the streets?”
“Great,” Smith replied, “you’ll get a chance to find out all about it later. I’m sure our public school gay boy superintendant will organise a spiffing press conference for you guys as soon as he can.”
“Can I quote you on that?” the man asked but Smith had already walked through the doors of the station.
Two men in uniform were manning the door to keep the journalists out.
“Where is he?” Smith asked Baldwin.
She was standing behind reception.
“Holding cell six sir,” she replied, “the DI wants to see you first.”
“Thanks Baldwin,” Smith said.
The station was buzzing as Smith walked towards Chalmers’ office. He stopped at his own office on the way. The door had been replaced with a new one. There was even a plaque on the door that read ‘DS Jason Smith’. Smith smiled. He turned on his computer. It seemed to take forever to boot up. Eventually, he logged in and checked his e mails. There were eighty four of them. He sighed as he looked through the list of messages. Most of them were from newspapers requesting interviews and information about Jimmy Fulton. Smith’s eyes fell on an e mail in the middle of the list. He looked at the e mail address – Lwhite@white&white.au. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears. He opened the e mail.
‘I’ve been doing a lot of thinking Jason and all that thinking has driven me crazy. I’ll be in the UK on Tuesday. Let me know if I’m doing the right thing. Lucy’.
Smith read the e mail again. He had a warm feeling in his stomach. He had not felt like this for a very long time. There was a knock on the door. It was Whitton.
“I’m not disturbing you am I sir?” she asked.
“Not at all,” Smith replied, “give me two minutes. I’ll see you in Chalmers’ office.”
Whitton looked at the e mail on the computer screen.
“Two minutes,” Smith said.
When Whitton had left, Smith sat down in front of the computer. He could not think of what to write. I feel like a teenager again, he thought. He started to type.
‘Lucy. Very hectic here at the moment. You’ll probably hear all about it but Fulton has been caught. I’ll see you on Tuesday. I’ll get a few bottles of wine in. Or maybe not. Ha ha. You are definitely doing the right thing. Jason’.
He pressed send and smiled. He sat back in his chair with his hands behind his head. My life is looking pretty good at the moment, he thought, it makes a nice change. He shut down the computer and stood up. Pretty damn good.
Thompson and Whitton were sitting in Chalmers’ office when Smith walked in. Chalmers still did not have a door.
“Getting one tomorrow,” Chalmers said as he saw Smith looking at the door frame, “everybody is. Old Smyth has decided his idea was not such a good one after all.”
“Can I see him?” Smith asked.
“Smyth?” Chalmers said.
“Fulton. Can I have a quick chat with him?”
“He’s not talking,” Whitton said, “hasn’t said a word since he was brought in.”
“He’ll talk to me,” Thompson said, “I was the one who arrested him after all.”
“Congratulations Thompson,” Smith sighed, “you’ll probably get a bloody medal out of it. The press are queuing up outside to interview the hero that arrested a psychopath.”
“Sour grapes don’t suit you Smith,” Thompson scoffed, “I arrested him, its only right that I get to interview him.”
“The way I see it,” Chalmers said, “we don’t need to interview him. We have his fingerprints at all the murder scenes. For god’s sake, we have him on tape killing that girl at the Hilton. Whether he says anything or not, he’s still going down.”
Smith scratched his head. The sunburn on his scalp was getting itchy.
“I need to know why sir,” he said.
“Why?” Chalmers asked.
“Yes sir. I need to find out what this all has to do with me.”
Chalmers shook his head.
“You’ve got ten minutes Smith,” he said.
FORTY FOUR
SNAKE EYES
Fulton was sitting on the bed in holding cell six. One of the uniformed officers who were guarding the door opened it for Smith. Smith took a deep breath an
d went inside. It was in this cell where he had beaten the living daylights out of the man who was responsible for his Gran’s death. Smith sat in a chair across the room from Fulton. He had his head in his hands. Here was the man who had killed eight people in two weeks. Smith realised he was in the same room as a serial killer and he did not feel the least bit scared. He could not explain why.
“You can leave us now,” he said to the two constables guarding the door.
“But sir,” one of them said, “we have orders to stay here. He mustn’t be left alone.”
“He’s not alone,” Smith said, “give me five minutes.”
The two men reluctantly walked off down the corridor.
“Jimmy Fulton,” Smith began, “you have to be the most fucked up individual I have ever set eyes on.”
Silence. Fulton did not even look up.
“Haven’t you got anything to say?” Smith asked.
Fulton looked up. He had removed the blue contact lenses and he stared at Smith with his black lifeless eyes. Smith was sure he detected a slight smile on Fulton’s lips.
“You said there were just two left,” Smith said, “You sent me a message. What did you mean? You gave yourself up after killing just one more. Why is that?”
Fulton just stared at him. Smith was feeling dizzy. He desperately needed something to eat.
“I’ve got my father’s diary you know.” Smith tried a different approach.
Fulton’s facial expression did not change.
“It makes for very interesting reading. You didn’t make it to Vietnam did you? It must have been tough watching your brother and my father head off to Vietnam like heroes. How did it feel?”
Fulton shook his head and smiled.
“Don’t you have anything you want to say to me?” Smith was getting frustrated. “What did I do that made you want to torture me like this?”
The York Trilogy: The First 3 DS Jason Smith Detective novels Page 45
