Sunday 20 February 1966
It’s happened. The day half of us have been waiting for and half of us have been dreading. We’ve had orders to get ready to move north to Binh Duong province. We’re being taken to Bien Hoa air base which is near the town of Tan Bihn. I have the whole map of Vietnam imprinted on my brain now and I reckon that after this I’ll be able to draw it free hand with my eyes closed. Towns, provinces, rivers. The whole bloody place. The yanks are apparently building a road of tactical importance there whatever the hell that means. Anyway, some of their engineers have reported sniper fire in the vicinity so we’ve been told to move in there to cover them.
John is coming with us but he’ll be staying at the air base. He’s fuming of course. He reckons he feels one hundred percent fit but Nobber isn’t having any of it. He doesn’t want to risk it. I don’t know if I’ve just got used to it here or I’m scared of what lies in store but I’m going to miss this place. Dimple is staying behind. I told him we’ll definitely go surfing together when this is all over. If it ever is.
Thursday 24 February 1966
The war has arrived with a vengeance for us. Me, Abo and Brain stayed up all night. We took up a position overlooking the Suoi Bong Thang river. The North Vietnamese have been shooting at the engineers building the road. At around ten last night, one of our guys said he could see lights coming towards us about two hundred and fifty metres away. Brain got on the radio immediately and requested artillery and mortar fire to target the location just to be safe. Word came back that they weren’t about to waste ammunition on what the man thought he saw. We then heard over the radio that some of the blokes on the other side of the perimeter had also seen lights in the distance. The request for cover fire was denied once again. We’re in for shit, we thought.
We heard the gunfire just after midnight. Gunshots and mortar fire broke the silence of the night for almost five minutes and then everything went quiet. We heard that Northern Vietnamese had been spotted coming out of the jungle and they were forming groups on the edge of the perimeter. It was quiet for about an hour and then all hell broke loose. It was like the fireworks on the beach on Australia Day. The Gooks were firing mortars and bullets all over the place. The American tanks ahead of us started to blast away at the jungle. We just aimed and fired in the same direction. A bullet flew past my ear. I’ll never forget the sound it made. It was like a thin blast of air. It was chaos. There were now Yanks in front of us and Yanks behind us and we were in serious danger of being caught up in the crossfire. We couldn’t see shit. It was so dark. We didn’t know where to shoot. Eventually, the American aircraft flew overhead and we could at least see if we were shooting at the right people.
By first light it was all over. The Gooks that were left had retreated back to the jungle and our first taste of war was over. Me and Abo were ordered to join the clearing patrol. Brain had a gunshot wound in his arm so he stayed behind. He didn’t even realise he’d been shot. Nobber said it was because of the adrenalin. On the first sweep we found nearly a hundred dead Gooks. There were dead bodies everywhere. After five minutes, Abo puked. There were legs, arms, brains, you name it. They were spread all over the place. There was blood and guts stuck to the rubber trees that hadn’t been mowed down. It was disgusting. I don’t know why but I just switched off to the whole scene. It was like I was on autopilot, trawling through the dead bodies to find anything we could salvage. When we had recovered all the weapons and ammunition we could find the villagers from Ap Bo were brought in. I watched as they were mobilised and ordered to pile the bodies on to ox wagons and take them away. They counted over four hundred dead Gooks. The Yanks were pleased. With only eleven dead Americans it meant the ratio was forty to one. A resounding victory as far as they were concerned. More than four hundred people died in the space of six hours. I need to get out of here.
FORTY SEVEN
FULL SUTTON
Monday 15 March 2010
Smith was dreaming about trees made of red rubber. The trees were moving as though each one was covered with a red mass of slithering snakes. He woke up with a start. His phone was ringing. Meatloaf. He made a mental note to change Whitton’s ring tone and picked up the phone.
“Hi Whitton,” he said.
“Where are you sir?” she asked, “It’s half past eight.”
“Shit. Sorry Whitton. I overslept. I think I need a holiday. I’ll pick you up at nine ok?”
He rang off.
Smith realised that he was dressed. He had fallen asleep on top of his bed with his clothes on. His father’s diary was lying open on the floor next to the bed. He picked it up and saw the words, ‘I need to get out of here’ before he closed it. He undressed, walked to the bathroom and turned on the shower. As he let the warm water wash over him, he thought about what he had read in his father’s diary. He went through some pretty awful things out there, Smith thought. He sighed as he realised he was still no closer to working out Fulton’s motives for the murders. Maybe I’m looking in the wrong place, Smith pondered; maybe the war in Vietnam had nothing to do with it. He turned off the shower and dried himself. Wrapped in a towel, he walked downstairs and switched on the kettle for some coffee. While he waited for it to boil he walked back upstairs and got dressed. His phoned beeped to tell him he had received a message. He sighed and picked up the phone. It was from Lucy.
‘About to board plane,’ it read, ‘see you in York at eleven tomorrow morning UK time. Lucy. X.’
Smith smiled at the kiss at the end of the message. Lucy Maclean, he thought, and a nice holiday. That’s what I need. He walked back downstairs, forgot all about the coffee and left the house.
Smith drove to the petrol station down the road from him and filled his tank. As he was waiting to pay he noticed the headline on the front page of the Sun newspaper.
“Fuck,” he said.
The man behind the counter glared at him.
“Sorry,” Smith smiled.
He picked up a copy of the newspaper.
“Tank four,” he said to the man, “and this as well.”
He placed the newspaper on the counter.
Before driving off, Smith looked at the front page of the newspaper. The Sun, bestselling tabloid in England. Six and a half million readers every day. This can only end badly, he thought.
‘Police boss drinks from murder weapon’.
“Shit,” Smith said out loud.
Nose beak had even used his suggestion for a headline. Underneath the headline were two photographs. One was Jimmy Fulton. It was the same photograph Smith had seen on the front cover of the Times in Singapore. The other photograph was of Superintendant Jeremy Smyth. He was holding a glass of champagne as if to say cheers and he was smiling his inane grin. It looked like the photograph had been taken at some police function or other. From the way the photographs were positioned it appeared that Smyth was saying cheers to Jimmy Fulton. Smith remembered the old adage that today’s headlines are tomorrow’s fish and chip wrappers but he had a feeling that this one would last a lot longer that that. He started the engine and drove off in the direction of Whitton’s house. He stopped outside her house, pressed the hooter and remembered that it did not work. He got out the car, walked up the path to her front door and knocked. Whitton opened the door almost immediately.
“Come in,” she said, “I just need to get my coat. It looks like it might rain.”
Smith went inside and closed the door behind him. He realised that in all the years he had known Whitton, this was the first time he had set foot in her house. He was impressed with how clean the place was. There was a pleasant smell about it.
“Ok sir,” Whitton said, “ready to go.”
“What about your phone?” Smith pointed to a small smart phone lying on the table in the hallway.
“That’s not mine,” Whitton said nervously, “come on. We’re late already.”
Smith looked at the phone and smiled. He took out his own phone and dialled a number.
&
nbsp; The phone on the table started to vibrate. Whitton blushed. The phone stopped moving.
“Bridge,” Smith said into his phone, “you appear to have left your phone at Whitton’s place last night. Do you want me to drop it off at the station for you?”
He rang off and smiled at Whitton.
“I can’t believe you did that sir,” she said.
“It’s none of my business what you get up to in your spare time Whitton,” Smith smiled, “but seriously. Bridge? It’ll all end in tears you know.”
“Can we get going please,” Whitton insisted.
The car was filled with silence as Smith drove. He turned right on to Hull Road and followed the signs for the A166. Hull Road consisted mainly of double storey terraced houses that shrewd landlords had subdivided for student accommodation. Smith slowed down as they passed one of the houses.
“Seems like a million years ago doesn’t it?” he said to Whitton as he looked at the house. A student had been found dead in her bed here on Christmas day.
It had looked like suicide at first. A student gets the Christmas blues and ends it all but it later they realised it was murder. The death of this young woman had kick-started a chain of events that had culminated in Smith racing to Whitby to rescue Whitton from a maniac who had taken her hostage on a boat in the North Sea.
“Can you remember what you said to me on that boat when I woke up?” Whitton asked.
“I have a terrible memory Whitton,” Smith lied.
“You asked if I wanted to get married.”
Whitton turned her head and looked at him.
“I wasn’t asking you,” Smith insisted, “I was just wondering if you would want to get married one day. We were lying under a ‘Just Married’ banner. Besides, I’d just been shot and hyperthermia had kicked in.”
Smith veered right where Hull road joined the A166.
“So do you?” he asked.
“Want to get married?” Whitton said, “of course. Who doesn’t?”
“Me,” Smith replied immediately.”
“What about Lucy?”
“Lucy’s been married and I don’t think she’d be in too much of a rush to do it again. Anyway, we hardly know each other.”
“What are you going to say to Fulton when we get there?” Whitton changed the subject.
“To be honest Whitton,” Smith replied, “I don’t have a clue. I don’t even know if they’ll let us speak to him. It hasn’t been authorised.”
“So we’re driving all this way for nothing?” Whitton shook her head.
“I felt like a drive. What’s the story with you and Bridge?”
“No story,” Whitton said, “we get on well that’s all. Besides, he makes me laugh and he’s not that bad looking.”
“You know how it’s going to end don’t you?”
“You keep telling me that sir. Full Sutton. There was a sign back there. There’s a turn off a mile up ahead.”
Full Sutton maximum security facility was a drab grey cement structure that instantly made Smith think of a World War two film. He had heard of it but this was the first time he had ever been here. This place held the most violent offenders. It was threatening to rain as he drove closer and the ominous dark clouds made the grey building look even more sinister.
“Nice place,” Whitton remarked as Smith drove up to the gate.
Razor wire surrounded the entire perimeter and as Smith looked up he half expected to find guard towers with machine gun posts.
Smith stopped the car and got out. A few drops of rain fell on the tarmac in front of him. He walked up to the entrance. A man in a prison officer’s uniform approached him.
“Can I help you sir?” the man said in a polite but slightly irritated tone as if he had been dragged away from his crossword. Smith took an instant dislike to the man. In his experience, prison guards were either police officer who had retired early or people that had applied to join the police force and had been unsuccessful. This was the next best thing.
“Detective Sergeant Jason Smith,” Smith showed the man his badge. “And this is Detective Constable Whitton. We need to speak to one of your inmates urgently.”
“Has this been authorised?” the man asked.
Smith was afraid this would happen.
“Not exactly,” he replied, “but it’s extremely important.”
The prison officer shook his head and Smith could detect a smug smile on his face.
“If it’s not authorised then I’m afraid I cannot help you,” the man insisted.
Smith experienced a moment of Déjà vu. This was exactly what had happened at the army base in Perth.
“What’s your name?” Whitton smiled at the man.
“Warner,” he smiled back, “George Warner.”
“George,” Whitton said in a soft voice.
She looked him directly in the eyes. Warner blushed.
“George,” Whitton repeated, “As my colleague here said, it is extremely important that we speak to this inmate. Jimmy Fulton. He was brought in yesterday.”
“The serial killer?” Warner gasped. “That’s going to be impossible.”
Smith walked back to his car. He took out his phone and dialled a number.
“Sir,” he said, “I need to ask you a favour.”
“Where the hell are you Smith?” Chalmers growled.
“Full Sutton sir,” Smith replied, “I need to talk to Fulton.”
“No way,” Chalmers said, “what part of case closed can’t you get into that thick skull of yours? Get back here right now. The Super wants to have a little chat with you about some article in the Sun newspaper.”
“Please sir,” Smith implored, “you must be able to pull a few strings for me. I need to find out why Fulton did this.”
“You’re going to give me a bloody ulcer Smith,” Chalmers said, “I know the guy in charge there. Ex copper. I’ll see what I can do. I should be bloody committed.”
“Thanks sir,” Smith said but Chalmers had already rung off.
Five minutes later George Warner had reluctantly opened the gates and Smith was driving towards the main prison building. He parked his car where he had been told to park and stopped the engine. A flash of lightening lit up the prison and was followed shortly by an almighty clap of thunder.
“This is like a horror movie,” Whitton said, “I’m half expecting Bela Lugosi to come and ask us if we’d like to spend the night. It’s going to chuck it down in a minute.”
They got out of the car and ran towards the entrance. They were buzzed in and a man in his late fifties approached them.
“DS Smith?” He offered Smith his hand. “Barry Coleman. Ex job. I used to work with your boss, Bob Chalmers. Bloody good copper that one. I believe you want to speak to our serial killer?”
Smith shook his hand. He had a very firm grip. Smith thought he looked like he could handle himself in a fight.
“Jimmy Fulton,” Smith nodded, “It’s really important that I talk to him.”
“You shouldn’t really,” Coleman said, “he’s in isolation at the moment. It’s for his own good. You wouldn’t believe how many of the scumbags here would like to have a pop at a serial killer.”
“Please,” Smith said, “I just need to ask him a few questions.”
“Bob warned me you were stubborn,” Coleman smiled, “come with me and put these on.”
He handed Smith two visitor’s passes.
“Oh and Smith,” he added, “When I was on the force I found it was only courteous to introduce a colleague of mine.”
He nodded towards Whitton.
“I see that things have changed.”
“Shit,” Smith said, “sorry. My mind’s somewhere else. This is DC Whitton. She’s here for moral support.”
“Pleased to meet you detective,” Coleman shook Whitton’s hand, “follow me.”
FORTY EIGHT
ISOLATION
“They used to call this solitary confinement,” Coleman said as he s
topped before a huge steel door.
He keyed in an eight digit code and the door opened with a loud thud.
“That was in the good old days when these scumbags were exactly that. Scum. Nowadays though, these bloody left wing pansies have decided that prisoners have rights. Can you believe it? You can kill as many people as you want and still have a claim to human rights. Anyway, they decided that the term solitary confinement wasn’t politically correct so they changed it to isolation. All bollocks if you ask me. Fulton is at the very end.”
“I can imagine that you and Chalmers got on well together,” Smith smiled.
“One of the best, Chalmers is. You should think yourself lucky to be working with him.”
“I do,” Smith mused, “every day.”
“How’s old Smyth these days?” Coleman asked, “Still poncing around? I read something very interesting about him in the Sun this morning.”
“I’m going to regret that,” Smith said.
“What?”
“Nothing. What are all these men in for?”
“All sorts,” Coleman said, “murder, rape, GBH. Nasty pieces of work the whole lot of em.”
He rapped on a door to one of the cells.
“This one here bit the ear off one of the other scumbags. If I had my way I’d leave em to it. Stick them all in a courtyard and let them fight it out amongst themselves. Do you know how much these bastards cost us taxpayers every year?”
Smith shook his head.
“A shit load of money,” Coleman said, “this is Fulton here, he hasn’t said one word since he was brought in.”
“What’s with the guards?”
Smith pointed to the two men outside Fulton’s cell.
“Suicide watch,” Coleman replied, “can you bloody believe it? We wouldn’t want the poor murdering bastard to top himself now would we? This world has gone soft.”
The York Trilogy: The First 3 DS Jason Smith Detective novels Page 47
