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

by Stewart Giles

  “But it didn’t fall through did it?”

  “No. It was the complete opposite. From that one deal alone, David made over one hundred million dollars. I had my eyes checked and the doctor said it was quite common for eyes to change colour during periods of extreme stress. Normally both eyes change but you should know by now that I’ve never been normal.”

  “They’re beautiful eyes anyway,” Smith said.

  The barman placed the food on their table. Theakston woke up immediately and stared at Lucy.

  “I’ll save you some,” she said to the dog, “just stop begging ok?”

  “This is delicious,” Lucy said, “do you want to try some?”

  “No thanks,” Smith replied, “I’ll stick with the steak and ale pie. Not as good as Marge’s but still very good.”

  After she had finished eating, Lucy stretched her arms out and yawned. Smith laughed.

  “Can I ask you if you’re tired now?” he said.

  “I think the jet lag has caught up with me,” Lucy smiled.

  “Do you want to go back to the room?” Smith suggested.

  “If you don’t mind. We can just lie on the bed and watch TV.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Smith said.

  He stood up and walked to the bar.

  “Can we have the bill please?” he asked the barman.

  “Are you staying at the hotel?” the barman asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then I can put it on your room bill if you like. How long are you here for?”

  “Until Sunday,” Smith replied.

  “You picked the right time of the year to visit. You should see this place in the summer. It’s full of bloody tourists.”

  “Thanks,” Smith said and walked back to their table. He put the lead on Theakston.

  “Shall we go then?” He asked Lucy.

  “After you,” she replied and followed him through the door that led to the hotel.

  “I’m stuffed,” Lucy said as she lay on the bed in their hotel room.

  Theakston was lying on her feet.

  “That dog really likes you,” Smith laughed.

  He turned on the television. The news was on. The Americans had killed three militants in Pakistan. Greece was plunging even deeper into the mire of debt. Rhino poaching was getting out of hand in South Africa. He changed the channel. A man had just won fifty thousand pounds on a quiz show.

  “This is why I don’t watch television,” Smith said, “its all rubbish.”

  He switched back to the news. A man in an offensive suit was reading the weather forecast. There was an eighty per cent chance of rain tomorrow across the whole country. “Looks like rain tomorrow,” he sighed.

  He looked at Lucy lying on the bed. She was sound asleep. Smith switched off the television and lay down next to her. He turned off the lamp on the table next to the bed and lay there listening to the sound of the rain outside. Theakston had started to snore and Smith smiled. He closed his eyes and, with the sound of Theakston’s rhythmic snoring and the light patter of rain on the window, he too was fast asleep.

  FIFTY THREE

  MORECAMBE BAY

  Wednesday 17 March 2010

  Smith woke with a start. Something had disturbed his sleep. He did not know what it was but he had an uneasy feeling. He looked around the room and realised he was alone. Lucy and Theakston were nowhere to be seen. He got off the bed and went to the bathroom. As he was washing his face he heard the door to their room open. He dried his face and was instantly on his guard. He relaxed when he heard the unmistakable snorting sounds that Theakston always made when he was happy.

  “Jason,” Lucy called.

  “In here,” Smith said.

  He walked back in the room.

  “Where’ve you been?” he asked Lucy.

  “This little bloke wanted to go out,” Lucy replied, “he tried like hell to get you up but you wouldn’t budge so he pestered me instead. He’s quite insistent. I took him for a walk down a lane at the back of the hotel.”

  “Thanks Lucy,” Smith said, “I must have needed the sleep. I feel great though. What’s the weather like?”

  “The sun’s out but it looks like its going to rain later. Shall we get some breakfast?”

  “I don’t normally eat breakfast but I’m hungry for some reason. It must be the country air. What time is it?”

  “I have no idea,” Lucy replied.

  Smith took out his phone. It was eight thirty. He looked at the message icon flashing on the screen. He opened the message. It was from a number he did not recognise. He gasped when he read what it said. ‘If you can’t see what it is yet Smith then someone you know is going to die.’

  “Something wrong?” Lucy asked, “You look pale.”

  “Practical joker,” Smith lied, “someone with a really sick sense of humour.”

  Smith no longer felt hungry as he sat opposite Lucy in the restaurant of the Red Lion Hotel. He sipped on a cup of coffee.

  “Lost your appetite?” Lucy asked as she wolfed down a plate of bacon and eggs.

  “I need to make a quick phone call,” Smith said and stood up.

  “Ok,” Lucy said, “but you’ve got to try this when you get back. This is a proper English breakfast.”

  Smith opened the door to the hotel room and went inside. Theakston was asleep on the bed. He picked up the phone on the bedside table, dialled directory enquiries and asked for the number for Full Sutton prison. He dialled the number.

  “Full Sutton Correctional facility,” a woman with a very high pitch voice said.

  “I need to speak to Barry Coleman,” Smith said, “it’s very important.”

  “Who can I say is calling?” the woman squeaked.

  “Detective Sergeant Smith,” Smith replied.

  “Putting you through,” she said and the sound of a saxophone playing could be heard on the line.

  “Detective,” Coleman said after about thirty seconds, “what can I do for you?”

  “Jimmy Fulton,” Smith said, “is he still there?”

  “Of course he’s still here,” Coleman replied, “what’s this all about?”

  “Does he have access to a phone?” Smith asked.

  “Of course not. What’s going on?”

  “He sent me a text message yesterday, “Smith replied, “a very disturbing one. Are you sure he couldn’t have got hold of a phone somehow?”

  “Absolutely not,” Coleman sounded irritated. “He’s in solitary confinement in a maximum security prison. He’s under twenty four hour guard and he was thoroughly searched when he was brought in. We didn’t find a phone on him. There’s no way he could have sent you that message.”

  “Thanks Coleman,” Smith sighed.

  He rang off.

  “Shit shit shit,” Smith said out loud.

  Maybe it was a prank message after all, Smith thought as he made his way back to the restaurant, there are plenty of sickos out there.

  “Is everything alright?” Lucy asked as Smith sat down.

  Smith thought for a while and decided he had to be honest with Lucy. He took out his phone and showed her the message.

  “This is creepy,” she said, “You say this is from that Fulton bloke?”

  “It has to be,” Smith replied, “nobody else knows about the ‘can you see what it is yet?’ crap but I just phoned the prison where he’s being held and he’s still locked up in solitary confinement. The prison boss says there’s no way he could have got hold of a phone.”

  “Then it’s just some other nut job playing a joke,” Lucy insisted, “have some breakfast.”

  Smith smiled at her.

  “You’re the only one that can calm me down Lucy Maclean,” he said, “you always were.”

  He walked to the buffet table and helped himself to four sausages, six rashers of bacon, three eggs and four slices of toast.

  “I thought you didn’t eat breakfast.” Lucy stared at the food on his plate.

  “I’m sudden
ly hungry,” he said, “and half of this is for Theakston.”

  “I thought he was on a diet,” Lucy smiled a wry smile.

  “He’s on holiday,” Smith said, “we all are.”

  “What do you want to do today?” Lucy asked.

  “Do you feel like a trip to the seaside?”

  “The sea?” Lucy exclaimed, “We’re in the middle of the Lake District. The sea must be miles away.”

  “We can be there in an hour,” Smith insisted, “Morecambe. They have the best shrimps in the world there.”

  “I’m in,” Lucy smiled, “let’s get going then.”

  Twenty minutes later, Smith had driven through Kendal and was heading south. They left the hills of the Lake District behind them and the landscape became more urban. They drove past industrial estates and housing estates. Smith turned on to the M6 and headed for Morecambe. The rain that was forecast was nowhere in sight as Smith parked his car in the car park next to the beach. Smith opened the back door and Theakston immediately darted off towards the sea. The beach was deserted as Smith and Lucy caught him up.

  “That’s the dirtiest looking sea I’ve ever seen,” Lucy said.

  “Irish Sea,” Smith said, “it used to be one of the most polluted seas in the world but it’s much cleaner now. It just looks a bit grey. Let’s take a walk along the pier.”

  FIFTY FOUR

  ATONEMENT

  Whitton was disorientated. Her head was pounding and when she opened her eyes she saw flashes of light. She had no idea where she was or what time of the day it was. It was dark but there seemed to be a glint of light coming from somewhere. She was aware that her hands were tied behind her back. She tried to move but when she looked down she realised she was tied to a chair with leather straps. She sensed there was someone else in the room with her. She could not see anything but she was sure she could hear light breathing and there was the vague scent of cigarette smoke.

  “Welcome back,” a familiar voice said, “how did you sleep? You’ve been out for almost sixteen hours. You drank the wine too fast. You’re strapped to a chair and your hands are tied behind your back but you’ll have noticed that I haven’t taped up your mouth. Nobody will hear your screams from in here.”

  “What do you want?” Whitton asked in a voice that did not sound like her own.

  “What everybody wants eventually,” Fulton replied, “Justice. Atonement. Retribution. Call it what you will.”

  “They’ll catch you you know,” Whitton said.

  Her mouth was incredibly dry.

  “Just like your bumbling Sergeant caught me in that restaurant you mean?”

  “How did you escape?” Whitton could not figure it all out.

  “Like I said before, not everything is as it seems. You must be incredibly thirsty.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Open you ears,” Fulton said. The words came out louder than he had intended and Whitton winced.

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “Can you read?” Fulton asked.

  “Of course I can read,” Whitton scoffed.

  “Then take a look at this. Maybe everything will become clearer.”

  He took out a piece of paper and placed it in front of her. Her eyes were sore but she could make out the words on the paper. It was hand written.

  “I took this as a souvenir from an army base in Perth,” Fulton smiled, “your good friend Smith has the rest but he’s missing the best part. Read it.”

  Whitton started to read.

  Left one of the superior officers an anonymous letter. I told them the whole story. That John had been faking the madness all along to get out of active service. I don’t know why I did it and, never in a million years did I think it would spiral completely out of control. John was apprehended by the MPs in Singapore and escorted back. They charged him with insubordination and threw him in the can. Facing a good few years in jail, they made him a deal. If he would declare himself fit for active duty his sentence would be quashed. Of course the crazy idiot agreed and he went back out there. My hands are shaking because of what happened afterwards. What happened because of what I’d done. John was deployed as part of a small search and destroy platoon just north of Saigon. The Yanks got their intel completely wrong as usual and sent the blokes into a bloodbath. John’s body was never recovered but from the reports it was pretty clear that he was dead. None of them survived. They were blown to pieces before they had a chance to react. Sophie took it badly. She couldn’t handle it. She walked into the river next to the field hospital. They found her body five hundred metres down stream the next day.

  “Oh my god,” Whitton exclaimed, “John was your brother wasn’t he?”

  “Well done,” Fulton said.

  “But what has this got to do with Smith?” Whitton asked, “He had nothing to do with your brother’s death. It was his father’s fault.”

  “Blood is much thicker than water my dear,” Fulton had a sinister look on his face.

  “Smith’s father took the easy way out,” Fulton continued, “He couldn’t bear the fact that he had John’s blood on his hands. He checked out before I could get him. Jason Smith is the last one. He is the only one left connected to Max Brown.”

  “They’ll look for me you know,” Whitton insisted, “I’ve never missed a day of work since I joined up. They’ll realise something is wrong and come looking.”

  “Where will they look my dear?” Fulton asked, “You don’t even know where you are do you?”

  Whitton was terrified. Fulton was right. They would never know where to look.

  “Kidnapping a police officer is a serious offence,” she said, “What are you going to do with me?”

  “Murdering a police officer is an even more serious offence Erica,” Fulton smiled, “you’re going to help me to reel in a big fish. A fish by the name of Detective Sergeant Jason Smith.”

  Whitton watched in horror as Fulton took out a syringe and filled it from a vial of clear liquid.

  “But now it’s time to sleep again my dear,” he said.

  He injected the liquid into Whitton’s arm.

  FIFTY FIVE

  BLONDE CHICK

  Smith and Lucy sat on a bench at the end of Morecambe pier. Theakston sat at their feet. He was exhausted from the long walk.

  “What are you thinking about?” Lucy asked Smith.

  “I’m thinking that life couldn’t get much better than this,” he replied, “I’ve just put the worst case of my life behind me and I’m sitting staring into the Irish Sea with a hot blonde chick by my side. What are you thinking about?”

  “I’m thinking that all these years in England have done nothing to improve your chat up lines,” Lucy replied, “Hot blonde chick? Surely you can do better that that.”

  Smith’s phone started to ring. He ignored it.

  “Aren’t you going to answer it?” Lucy said, “It might be important.”

  “What could be more important than this?”

  He put his arm around Lucy. The phone stopped ringing.

  “It’s getting cold out here,” Lucy said.

  Dark clouds were forming over the sea in the distance.

  “Let’s go and try some of those famous Morecambe Bay shrimps you were talking about before it starts to rain.”

  “I think one of us might have to carry Theakston,” Smith smiled, “look at the state of him. He’s knackered.”

  “These things are tiny,” Lucy said as she picked at the shrimps on her plate.

  “That’s why they’re called shrimps,” Smith laughed.

  “They’re delicious anyway,” Lucy admitted.

  Smith’s phone started to ring again.

  “Answer it please,” Lucy said, “I don’t mind.”

  “This bloody thing only brings me bad news,” Smith sighed.

  He pressed the green button. It was Bridge.

  “Sorry to bother you on your holiday sir,” Bridge said, “but have you heard anythi
ng from Whitton?”

  “Whitton?” Smith said, “Why would I?”

  “She didn’t turn up for work this morning sir and she’s not answering her phone.”

  “Maybe she’s sick Bridge,” Smith was becoming irritated, “didn’t you give that a thought before you decided to bother me on the first holiday I’ve had in years?”

  “Of course sir,” Bridge said, “I’m sorry about that sir but you know Whitton as well as I do. She’s never too sick to come into work. Even if she was dying she’d show up or at least phone in to let us know. I’m worried about her sir.”

  “Bridge,” Smith said, “you’re supposed to be a police detective. Act like one. Go and see if she’s at home and if there’s nothing else, I’d quite like to finish my lunch.”

  He rang off before Bridge could say anything else.

  “Problems at work?” Lucy asked.

  “Nothing any competent policeman shouldn’t be able to handle,” Smith replied, “the whole place falls apart when I’m not there. Shall we get going? It’s going to chuck it down in a minute.”

  The sky above them had turned black and the sea was now a dreary grey colour.

  Smith did not say much on the drive back to Grasmere. He thought hard about the phone conversation he had just had. Bridge was right of course, Whitton never missed a day at work and it was completely out of character for her to just take a day off without letting anybody know. Something’s not right, Smith thought as they got nearer to the Lake District. They had left the rain clouds behind them but it would not be long before they caught up.

  “Something’s bothering you Jason,” Lucy said eventually, “you’ve been quiet all the way. Is it something I’ve done?”

  “Of course not,” Smith turned to look at her, “I’ve just got this uneasy feeling. I’ve had it since I woke up this morning. I can’t explain it but something’s not right.”