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

by Stewart Giles

  Fulton put his head in his hands again. He closed his eyes.

  “That’s enough Smith.”

  The door was opened and Chalmers walked in.

  “What are you playing at telling the guys on the door to bugger off? If you haven’t noticed, this psycho is a very dangerous man. He’s being moved to a maximum security facility while he waits for a trial date. He’s no longer our problem.”

  Smith stood up. He looked at Fulton sitting there on the bed with his head in his hands and left the cell.

  “Your father was a good man Jason,” Fulton shouted after him.

  Smith turned round. Fulton smiled at him. His black eyes were like snake eyes now. They were full of menace. Smith walked off towards the canteen.

  Whitton was sitting at a table by the window drinking a cup of coffee when Smith walked in.

  “Did you speak to him?” Whitton asked as Smith sat down.

  “I spoke to him but he said nothing,” Smith sighed, “the guy’s a mental case. All he said was that my father was a good man. What the hell did he mean by that?”

  “What now sir?” Whitton asked.

  “Back to the crime lull I suppose. At least we’ve got him off the streets.”

  Smith looked out of the window.

  “Look at them Whitton,” he said, “like vultures hovering over a dead body in the desert. I bloody hate journalists.”

  “It’s their job,” Whitton said, “Even vultures have their uses. If it wasn’t for vultures deserts would be rotting cess pits.”

  “I suppose you’re right Whitton,” Smith sighed, “I still don’t get it though.”

  “Get what?”

  “Why he gave himself up. It doesn’t feel right somehow.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Something’s wrong.” Smith said.

  “You can’t just leave it can you?” Whitton said.

  “Why would he kill all those people in such elaborate ways and taunt and play with us and then just decide to turn himself in. It doesn’t seem to fit his pattern somehow.”

  “You’re starting to sound like Bridge now sir.”

  “I’m telling you Whitton, something just isn’t right. I can feel it.”

  “It’s over sir,” Whitton insisted, “at least we can get back to normal again.”

  “I’m thinking about taking a week off Whitton,” Smith said.

  “You never take time off sir,” Whitton remarked, “apart from your annual suspensions.”

  “Very funny,” Smith smiled, “It seems that I’ve accumulated so much leave that unless I take it before the end of this month, I’ll lose it. Lucy’s flying out on Tuesday and I thought we could go away somewhere for a week. I need a break.”

  “You like her don’t you sir?”

  “I suppose I always have done,” Smith sighed, “this business with Fulton has just churned up a load of stuff from the past and Lucy was a part of that.”

  “Be careful sir,” Whitton warned.

  “I’m always careful,” Smith smiled, “besides, I’m a big boy now. Can I give you a lift home?”

  “Bridge asked me if I want to go and see a film with him,” Whitton replied, “I’m just waiting for him to finish off.”

  “Bridge?” Smith said. He cast her a knowing smile.

  “It’s nothing like that sir,” Whitton insisted, “It turns out we have the same taste in films that’s all.”

  “I hope he hasn’t got the same shit taste in music as you too,” Smith said.

  “Meatloaf is a genius,” Whitton insisted.

  “Enjoy the movie,” Smith said, “It’ll all end in tears. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  The journalists were still hanging around outside as Smith left the station. The woman with the big nose was standing next to Smith’s car. Smith sighed and walked towards her. He thought about how Smyth had sat drinking champagne with Fulton only moments before Fulton killed the man in the toilets. Bloody fool, he thought.

  “Detective Sergeant,” the beak nosed woman said, “I’m not going back to London until I’ve got something juicy we can print.”

  “Piss off,” Smith said. He put the key in the lock the car door.

  “I can get it from you or I can get it from someone, how shall I put it, someone a little less informed. It might be all lies but either way we’re going to put something on the front page of our little paper in the morning. Come on Jason, you must have something you can tell me.”

  Smith recoiled as he heard his first name. He looked at the woman. Her nose gave her the appearance of a first rate scavenger. She was definitely in the right profession.

  “I’ve got something for you,” he said eventually, “but to protect my job and my sanity you must promise to keep my name out of it. You didn’t hear it from me ok?”

  “Discretion is my middle name,” the woman smiled, “what have you got?”

  Smith thought for a moment and decided to go for it.

  “I’m sure your readers would be interested to know that the superintendant in charge of York city police had a cosy chat with our serial killer in the restaurant moments before he killed his last victim.”

  Beak nose took out her tape recorder.

  “No tape,” Smith said, “write it down. Like I said, I wish to remain anonymous.”

  She took out a note book.

  “Carry on,” she said.

  “I’ve even got the headline for you,” Smith said, “York Police Boss drinks from murder weapon.”

  FORTY FIVE

  GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO

  Smith sat back on his sofa. He pressed the remote control and the television switched on. A documentary about the sexual behaviour of chimpanzees was on. He switched the television off. It’s all over, he thought. In two weeks, Jimmy Fulton had arrived on the scene, killed eight people and now he was behind bars. It did not seem real. Smith’s stomach was telling him that he had not eaten anything all day. He did not feel like cooking so he stood up, picked up his keys and left the house. As he walked to the Hog’s Head he felt a pang of regret about what he had told the reporter about Smyth. He wondered if he hade made a mistake mentioning that Smyth had drank champagne with a serial killer. Smith decided that Smyth deserved everything he had coming to him.

  The Hog’s Head was almost empty when Smith walked in. He often wondered how Marge could survive on such meagre trade. She had said to him on a few occasions however that she preferred it that way. She was not getting any younger and she found it hard to keep up when the pub was busy.

  “Jason,” Marge flashed him a warm smile as he approached the bar, “you look well. Pint?”

  “Yes please Marge,” Smith replied, “and a steak and ale pie too.”

  “All out I’m afraid, “Marge said, “I’ll only be getting more in tomorrow. We had a whole load of journalists in earlier and they cleaned me out.”

  “I hate journalists,” Smith said.

  “I can do you a couple of chops with mash,” Marge suggested.

  “Perfect Marge,” Smith said.

  Smith sat at the bar and watched as Marge poured his beer.

  “Where’s the dog”? Marge placed the beer on a beer mat in front of Smith.

  “At home,” Smith replied, “too much pub grub is making him fat. He really needs to go on a diet.”

  Marge laughed. Smith took a long swig of the beer.

  “How are you Marge?” Smith asked, “I heard about three youths that were here just before they were killed.”

  “I still can’t believe it,” Marge said, “I’m still in shock. He seemed like such a nice man. He appeared to be too old to be able to do such a thing.”

  “He’s a very disturbed individual,” Smith said, “What did he look like when he was in here? He’s a bit of a master of disguise.”

  “I thought he looked about my age. Maybe a bit younger. He was bald with dark brown eyes and he had a tiny scar on the tip of his nose. He seemed harmless but you should have seen the look o
n his face when those young men started to swear in front of me. I mean, I run a pub so I’ve heard it all before but that man looked like a wild animal. I’ll go and see to your food.”

  She walked off to the kitchen.

  Smith took a sip of his beer. Much better than that Australian crap, he thought. He could not believe that Lucy would be here on Tuesday. He made up his mind. He would take a week off and take her somewhere nice. Maybe the Lake District. It had been a while since he had been there. He would find somewhere that allowed dogs. Theakston had never been on holiday before. He smiled at the prospect.

  “Fancy seeing you here,” a voice was heard behind him. It was Whitton. She was with Bridge.

  “I thought you were going to the movies,” Smith said.

  “We did sir,” Bridge said, “the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. A bit drawn out but Whitton seemed to enjoy it.”

  “It was brilliant,” Whitton insisted, “not as good as the book but films seldom are.”

  “It lost me after about twenty minutes,” Bridge said.

  “Not enough sex and violence for you,” Whitton smiled at him.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” Smith asked.

  “Pint of lager please sir,” Bridge said.

  “I figured you for a lager drinker Bridge,” Smith said, “Whitton?”

  “Theakstons please sir.”

  “Less of this sir bollocks you two.”

  Marge appeared behind the bar.

  “Two pints of Theakstons please Marge,” Smith said, “and a pint of that horse pee for Whitton’s gay friend here.”

  He finished the rest of his beer and put the empty glass on the bar.

  “Hello dear,” Marge said to Whitton, “lovely to see you again. Who’s your friend?”

  “This is just a colleague of mine,” Whitton said, “DC Bridge.”

  “Three police detectives,” Marge smiled, “makes me feel safe. First it was journalists and now it’s the police. I’ll organise your drinks.”

  “About those journalists Whitton,” Smith said, “do you think the super reads the Sun?”

  “I doubt it,” Whitton said, “I’m not even sure if he can read. Why do you ask?”

  “I might have dropped him rather deep in the shit. I may have mentioned to a particularly repulsive journo that he was drinking champagne with Fulton minutes before he killed that bloke in the gents.”

  “You didn’t sir?” Whitton found it hard not to smile.

  “Afraid so Whitton. Maybe they won’t print it.”

  Marge put Smith’s chops and mash on the bar in front of him.

  “Would you rather eat that at a table?” she asked.

  “Here’s just fine Marge,” Smith said.

  He tucked in greedily.

  “That looks good,” Bridge said, “Whitton, are you hungry?”

  “I could eat one of those,” she replied.

  “Could we get two more of those please?” Bridge asked.

  “Coming up,” Marge said.

  “Well sir,” Bridge said, “Fulton’s off our hands now. Great news hey?”

  “Where did they take him?” Smith asked.

  “Full Sutton prison. Maximum security. He’ll die there I suppose.”

  Smith took at mouthful of his food.

  “Full Sutton?” Smith said when he had finished chewing, “there’s some pretty nasty people locked up in there. Fulton will be in his element. Whitton, do you feel like a drive east tomorrow?”

  “Sir?” Whitton said.

  “After a night in Full Sutton, Fulton might be a bit more willing to talk.”

  Smith finished off the rest of the food.

  “You can’t just drop it can you sir?” Whitton said.

  Marge placed two plates of chops and mash in front of her and Bridge.

  “Nope,” Smith stood up. “Marge, could I get a bag for these bones please? Theakston will be upset if I don’t bring him anything. I’ll pick you up at eight tomorrow Whitton.”

  FORTY SIX

  SNAKES

  Smith lay back on his bed and opened his father’s diary. There has to be something in here, he thought. He wanted to be ready for Fulton.

  Friday 24 November 1965. Phuok Tuy Province.

  War isn’t anything like any of us had expected. Me and John haven’t fired a single shot in the three weeks we’ve been here. A lot of the blokes are pissed off and I’m afraid that if we do have to fight we’ll all be too fast asleep to do anything. John put it beautifully the other day. He said we’re like the twelfth man in a game of cricket. Ready to play but unless one of the first eleven has a bloody heart attack or something we’re destined to sit on the bench and wait in anticipation.

  I don’t know why they haven’t put us to use in the field yet. The Yanks had the shit knocked out of them at La Drang. They totally underestimated the North Vietnamese and their second battalion walked straight into an ambush. The Yanks have over three hundred thousand men out here and they are all frigging clueless. It’s like they are fighting an invisible enemy. Those Northern Vietnamese are like bloody ants. Kill one and two more appear out of nowhere. When you watch the TV you can see the Yanks have it covered. Their propaganda has everybody fooled. They’ve even started brainwashing the people back home with their statistical body count system. Ten to one, that’s what they reckon. For every American killed, ten Vietnamese are killed. Fat lot of bloody good that is when there are millions of bastards here willing to die.

  A few of the blokes have come down with the fever. One of the men nearly died. The mosquitoes here are as big as bats and they bite like hell. Day and night. They say that malaria stays with you for the rest of your life. I’ve been lucky so far. The mozzies don’t seem to like my blood.

  I’m dreaming about getting back to the good clean air of Western Oz. The air here is so oppressive you can drink from it and nothing stays dry here. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before. No wonder the Gooks are ahead. Fighting in these conditions is impossible.

  Saturday 25 December 1965

  Happy Christmas everybody. John made everybody wear silly paper hats today. It seemed to lift the mood a bit though. Nobody seems to know what’s going on. There are some good blokes here though. Four of us in particular are thick as thieves. Me, John, Abo and Brain are inseparable. Life revolves around routine interspersed with extreme boredom. None of us ever thought it would be like this. Every day we hear about death and here we are, chain smoking and waiting for something to happen. Nobber or Sergeant Nobber as he likes us to call him when the officers are listening reckons we shouldn’t be too keen to get out there and fight but it seems a total waste to have us sitting here while men are dying out there.

  I saw my first dead body last week. A bloke by the name of Phil Davies. It looked like he had died in his sleep until they found the krait underneath him when they took him away. That bastard snake had crawled under his blanket while he slept and old Davies had obviously crushed it when he rolled over. It bit him without him even feeling it. Nobber reckons it was the cruellest of ironies. While Davies was busy dying from the venom that eventually suffocated him, the snake was being suffocated by Davies at the same time. He had this look of agony on his face when we found him. A couple of the blokes cooked the snake over a fire but I couldn’t bring myself to try it. They reckoned it tasted like chicken.

  Monday 14 February 1966

  John has malaria. It’s confirmed. Boor bastard’s been shivering hot and cold for four days now. They reckon he’ll be man down for a couple of weeks at least. Three and a half months in this snake infested swamp pit and it’s finally starting to feel like home a bit. They have rats here as big as dogs. I suppose that’s why there are so many snakes but the rats are bloody good for target practice. Abo killed a snake the other day. It was a cobra and it was as big as a man. The funniest thing happened. When Abo had cooked the wretched thing, old Nobber took a bite and broke a tooth. He had this look of disbelief on his face. Broken tooth from a s
nake. When he saw what had broken the tooth he couldn’t believe it. He’d bitten into a bullet. The snake must have eaten one of the rats we’d shot, bullet and all. We couldn’t stop laughing. Even Nobber saw the funny side once his tooth had stopped hurting. He wears the bullet round his neck on a piece of string as a kind of good luck charm.

  The Yanks are still fighting on against the brick wall. It’s relentless. Brain reckons it won’t end until they’re all dead. How many people have to die before they realise it’s all been a huge mistake? I said the yanks are just too arrogant for their own good. If they pull out now it will be like admitting to the world that the great United States of America were wrong. They’d rather send dead bodies back home in the thousands than admit to the world that they’ve made a balls up. For the first time since we got here I actually feel grateful for the fact that we haven’t had to kill anything more than a rat. The South Vietnamese we have in camp here are pretty decent people. I mean we’ve come here uninvited and invaded their space. I know if thousands of bloody foreigners were to land on the beach in Western Australia and just take over, I’d be pretty pissed off but the people here are so peaceful. There’s one bloke here we call Dimple because he has a huge scar on his forehead. Dimple is a real character. He even knows how to surf for god’s sake. I never would have believed you would be able to surf here but Dimple reckons there are some awesome breaks further up on the Northern coast. You can’t get there at the moment because the Northern Vietnamese control the country up there but it’s quite surreal to talk surfing with Vietnamese in the middle of a bloody war.

  The boredom is getting to a few of the blokes. Marijuana is available on tap here and it helps to pass the time. I’ve smoked a good few joints but it’s not really for me. I like to be in control. At least with whisky I still know who I am. Nobber tolerates a bit of green but some of the blokes are into opium now and that’s another story altogether. Opium can wipe out a man for days and when he returns to the land of the living he wants more. One of the men got so hooked so quickly that when he couldn’t get any more he went ape. He ran off into the jungle and they only found him three days later. When they brought him back he was like a rabid animal. He had this disturbing look on his face. John hit the nail on the head when he said this was a war none of us would ever be able to forget.