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

by Stewart Giles

  “Your policeman’s sixth sense?” Lucy said.

  “Something like that,” Smith sighed, “I’ve had it before. It’s seldom wrong and it always ends badly.”

  “That phone call freaked you out didn’t it?”

  “Whitton didn’t show up for work this morning,” Smith said, “and she’s not answering her phone. It’s most unlike her.”

  “Maybe she lost it,” Lucy suggested, “maybe she’s lying sick in bed and doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

  “You could be right Lucy,” Smith admitted, “Bridge is on his way to her house as we speak. I’m sure there’s a perfectly rational explanation for the whole thing.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be alright,” Lucy said.

  Smith parked his car in the Hotel car park and they managed to get inside the hotel just in time. The rain clouds that had followed them all the way from Morecambe finally opened up and drenched the road in seconds. While he was retrieving their key from reception Smith’s phone rang. It was Bridge again. Please be good news, Smith thought, please tell me Whitton is safe and sound. He handed the key to Lucy and answered the phone.

  “Bridge,” Smith said, “what now?”

  “Whitton is not at home sir,” Bridge sounded concerned, “I’m there now.”

  “Shit,” Smith said, “does everything seem alright at the house?”

  “I don’t know sir,” Bridge replied, “I just knocked on the door and there was no answer.”

  “Try the bloody door Bridge,” Smith ordered.

  There was a pause on the phone.

  “The door’s open sir,” Bridge said, “I’m going inside.”

  Smith followed Lucy and Theakston up to their room. He still held the phone to his ear.

  “Whitton’s not here,” Bridge said after a while.

  “Did you check upstairs?” Smith asked, “She might be in bed.”

  “I looked everywhere.” Bridge sounded like he was going to cry. “There’s nobody here.”

  “Why would she go out and leave the door open?” Smith said. “What does the place look like? Is there any sign that something happened?”

  “The place looks fine sir. There’s a wine glass on the coffee table in the living room. There’s still some wine left in it. The DVD player is still on. Girl with the dragon tattoo.”

  “So there’s nothing to suggest that something is wrong?” Smith asked.

  “Hold on sir,” Bridge said.

  Smith started to feel sick.

  “I’ve found her phone sir,” Bridge said, “Whitton never goes anywhere without her phone.”

  “Anything else?”

  Smith felt like he was going to throw up.

  “Oh my God,” Bridge gasped, “sir, I think you’d better get back here right away.”

  FIFTY SIX

  HEAD LICE

  The general rule as set by the Parent-Teacher Association of South York Primary School was that when they had a spate of head lice in the school, any child that merely scratched their head more than once was instantly sent home and ordered to undergo the treatment of the noxious smelling shampoo and the rigorous combing of the scalp to get rid of the parasites. Tommy Richmond knew this rule all too well and he had used it to his advantage on more than one occasion. Because he came from what was politely termed a low income family; his father was a warehouseman and his mother worked in the local newsagent, he was also seen as a prime candidate for head lice.

  Tommy was ten years old but he had the street savvy of a teenager. As he walked home from the school grounds he smiled at how clever he had been. He knew his parents would be at work and there was nobody else to fetch him so the head teacher had made him promise to go straight home. Of course, Tommy Richmond had no intention of going home. He had heard rumours about one of the desolate buildings on the old industrial estate on the outskirts of the city. The building used to house a thriving electrical component manufacturing company but it had closed down due to the competition from China and the Far East. The rumours Tommy had heard had nothing to do with the component company but the way in which the company had operated. They were not exactly honest with the tax man and Tommy had heard that they had money stashed all over the building. The business basically closed overnight to avoid their creditors but a lot of the cash had been reportedly left behind. Tommy Richmond had decided that morning that he would find a way to get out of school and search for the hidden money. It would be like a treasure hunt, he thought. The head lice story had come to him in a sudden burst of inspiration.

  As he jumped the fence that surrounded the derelict industrial estate, Tommy was instantly on his guard. Not too many people knew about the place but he was wary nevertheless. He looked around at the shells of buildings that, not too long ago, housed thriving businesses. He spotted the old electrical component building behind a six foot wall. A faded sign on the wall read, ‘Burton Components Pty Ltd.’ Tommy jumped over the wall and searched for a way inside the building. Most of the windows had been broken. Probably during previous treasure hunts, Tommy thought so he walked round to the back to find a way in that nobody had found before. Tommy was tall for his age but the weeds that had been allowed to grow after the business had closed down almost reached his head. He came to a window that had been painted over and peered inside. The paint was faded but he had to look carefully to see what was in there. His heart skipped a beat when he saw the filing cabinets lined up against the wall. That’s where they’ve hidden the money, Tommy thought. They would probably be locked but that was why he had brought along his trusty hammer. There was nothing he could not open with his hammer.

  Tommy looked for a way in. He could break the window of course but then he would run the risk of being cut by the glass and his parents would only ask questions. He walked further along the edge of the building until he came to a door. The lock had been broken but what looked like a brand new padlock had been put in its place. The padlock still had the price label on it. Four pounds fifty. Tommy took out the hammer and put the claw of the hammer in between the shank of the padlock. He was about to snap it open when he thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye. Something moved inside. Must be a rat, Tommy thought but then it moved again and Tommy realised it was definitely not a rat. It was too big. He pressed his face against the glass and stared inside. He saw a chair against a wall. There was something on the chair. The paint on the window obscured his vision but Tommy could see exactly what it was. A woman was slumped on the chair. She was strapped in by two strips of leather around her waist.

  Tommy felt a hand on his shoulder. He froze.

  “You should be at school little fella,” a voice said behind him.

  The man had a peculiar accent. Tommy turned round and looked into the strangest blue eyes he had ever seen. The man smiled and tried to grab hold of Tommy’s arm. Tommy was too quick for him and ducked out of the way. The man reached out again but Tommy quickly stepped to the side and headed for the wall. He was over the six foot wall in one leap and then he ran. He did not stop running until he got home.

  FIFTY SEVEN

  1966

  Smith sat on the sofa in Whitton’s house. Bridge was still there and Chalmers and Thompson had arrived shortly after Smith.

  “What does this mean Smith?” Chalmers asked. He was pacing up and down the room nervously.

  “I don’t know sir,” Smith replied, “The dates mean nothing to me. This is before I was even born.”

  He looked at the wine bottle on the coffee table again. The label on the back had been removed and somebody had written in black permanent parker the numbers, 1 1 1 0 6 6.

  “We need to get this place checked out,” Smith said, “have the guys in forensics been informed?”

  “They’re busy with a break in at a petrol station,” Chalmers replied, “someone robbed a cash machine.”

  “Fuck the petrol station,” Smith shouted, “that can wait for God’s sake. We need them here right away. Whitton’s life is in danger
.”

  “Calm down Smith,” Chalmers said quietly, “you’re no use to us in this state. They’ll be here as soon as they can.”

  “Think Smith,” Thompson said, “are you sure these dates mean nothing to you?”

  “I’ve told you,” Smith glared at him, “I wasn’t even born in Ninety Sixty Six. What the hell happened in Sixty Six?”

  “England won the World Cup,” Thompson suggested.

  “You’re not helping here Thompson,” Chalmers said.

  Grant Webber and two other men Smith did not recognise entered the room.

  “About bloody time,” Smith snarled.

  “We came as soon as we could,” Webber insisted, “some bastards blew up a cash machine and stole over a hundred grand. They made a huge mess in the petrol station. Where do you want us to start?”

  “The wine bottle,” Smith said, “and have the contents checked too.”

  Webber put on a pair of rubber gloves and carefully picked up the bottle by the neck.

  “Hmm,” Webber said, “this is interesting.”

  “What Webber?” Smith said.

  “Most bottles of wine these days have screw caps,” Webber said, “This one has an old fashioned cork.”

  “What’s your point Webber?” Smith asked.

  “If you look here you can see where the wine was opened. Whoever opened it knew how to open a bottle properly. It must have been a decent corkscrew too. The marks where the corkscrew went in are clean and straight.”

  He pointed to the marks where the corkscrew had gone in.

  “But there’s something else,” he said.

  “What is it?” Smith was becoming impatient.

  “If I was a betting man,” Webber continued, “I’d say this bottle of wine has been spiked.”

  “Spiked?” Chalmers said.

  “Look,” Webber showed Chalmers the cork. “There’s a tiny hole on the top of the cork.”

  He carefully removed the cork from the bottle.

  “And it’s the same at the bottom,” he added, “I’ve seen this before. I think somebody used a very strong syringe and injected something into the wine. The composition of cork is such that it will expand when it’s removed from the bottle. That’s why it’s almost impossible to manually replace the cork all the way back inside the bottle once it has been taken out. With the naked eye the syringe marks will have been almost impossible to spot when the cork was in the bottle but now the cork has expanded even more so the pin prick hole has expanded with it.”

  “How the hell did someone manage to get hold of a bottle of Whitton’s wine and inject it with God knows what?” Chalmers asked.

  “I think I know sir,” Bridge stood up and walked to the window.

  “Spit it out then Bridge,” Chalmers said.

  “Whitton told me that someone had left a bottle of wine on her doorstep on Valentines Day. She was certain it was me but I promise it wasn’t.”

  “Shit,” Smith said, “so this maniac had been watching us long before the murders started.”

  “But how could he know for sure when Whitton would drink the wine?” Thompson asked, “It could have been any time.”

  “Like I said Thompson,” Smith said, “he’s been watching all of us. Particularly me and Whitton. He must have known our every move.”

  “There’s still one thing I don’t understand,” Chalmers said, “Jimmy Fulton is still banged up in Full Sutton isn’t he?”

  “He is sir,” Thompson replied, “I phoned them this morning. He hasn’t left his cell since they brought him in. He’s still under twenty four hour suicide watch.”

  “I have a feeling about that one sir,” Smith said.

  “I hate feelings Smith,” Chalmers said, “You should know that by now. What are you thinking?”

  “I’ll let you know when I’ve figured it out sir,” Smith replied, “Right now we should be concentrating all of our efforts on finding Whitton.”

  Smith took out his phone.

  “I received a message yesterday,” he said.

  He read out the message.

  “If you can’t see what it is yet then someone you know is going to die.”

  The room was silent.

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell us about this Smith?” Chalmers asked, “I’m getting a bit tired of you withholding information.”

  “I thought it was just a sick joke sir,” Smith insisted, “I phoned your friend Coleman at Full Sutton and he assured me there was no way that Fulton could have had access to a phone. I just assumed it was some sicko trying to wind me up but then I realised something.”

  “What Smith?” Chalmers asked.

  “This ‘can you see what it is yet?’ crap was never released to the press. It wasn’t in any of the papers. I even checked. The only people that know about it are Jimmy Fulton and the people in this room.”

  “Are you sure Fulton couldn’t have got hold of a phone somehow sir?” Bridge asked, “Maybe one of the guards let him borrow a phone for a few minutes.”

  “I thought about that too,” Smith said, “I checked. The two men guarding Fulton have over thirty years service between them. There’s no way either of them would jeopardise their jobs for a scumbag like Fulton.”

  “Where does that leave us then Smith?” Chalmers asked.

  “Like I said sir,” Smith said, “I have a gut feeling but I need to confirm a few things first.”

  Smith remembered that Lucy and Theakston were still in the car outside Whitton’s house. He had driven there straight from Grasmere. It had taken him forty five minutes.

  “Give me a minute will you,” he stood up and walked outside to his car.

  “Bad news?” Lucy asked. She saw the expression on his face.

  “I’m afraid so,” Smith sighed, “it looks like the holiday is over for a while. I’m sorry. Do you think you’ll be able to find my house?”

  “Of course,” Lucy replied, “my sense of direction is legendary.”

  Smith handed her his house keys.

  “I’m sorry Lucy,” he said again.

  He kissed her on the cheek.

  “I’ll be back when I can.”

  “Just find her Jason,” Lucy said.

  She got in the drivers side of the car, adjusted the seat and drove off.

  “Can somebody give me a lift to the station?” Smith asked when he walked back inside Whitton’s house, “I need to make a few phone calls.”

  “Come on Smith,” Chalmers said, “you can drive with me. Thompson, Bridge, I need you to knock on doors. Find out if anybody saw or heard anything.”

  “But sir,” Thompson protested, “my shift is over. I’m supposed to be taking Mrs Thompson out for a meal tonight.”

  “Cancel it Thompson,” Chalmers looked him directly in the eye, “tell her you’ll be working very late. I’m authorising as much overtime as it takes. We need everybody we’ve got on this. Whitton is one of our own for God’s sake. I want you to speak to everyone in this street. Find out if anyone has seen anything unusual in the past twenty four hours. Someone must have seen something.”

  Chalmers turned to Webber. He was busy packing up.

  “Webber,” he said, “if you’ve got everything you need, get back and get us some results. This is your only priority at the moment.”

  FIFTY EIGHT

  FINGERPRINTS

  “What’s this hunch of yours Smith?” Chalmers asked as they drove to the station.

  “I’m not one hundred percent sure yet sir,” Smith replied, “that’s why I need to make a few phone calls but if it’s what I think it is then we’re back to square one.”

  “You’re talking in bloody riddles Smith,” Chalmers put his foot down harder on the accelerator, “I hate it when you do that.”

  “Just give me a few hours please sir.”

  “This is supposed to be a team operation Smith. Do I need to keep reminding you of that?”

  “Trust me sir,” Smith said, “its better at the moment th
at the rest of the team don’t know until I’m certain. It would only cause panic and confusion.”

  “You’ve got two hours Smith,” Chalmers agreed, “after that I want to know everything that’s going on in that annoying head of yours.”

  “Ok sir,” Smith said.

  “And I mean everything.”

  Smith walked down the corridor to his office. He stopped outside his new door with the plaque on the outside and smiled. He opened the door and closed it behind him. He had informed Baldwin that he was not to be disturbed under any circumstances. He switched on his computer and waited for it to boot up. While he waited he phoned the internal number for the evidence department.

  “Speak,” a croaky voice answered the phone. It was Don Martin. He had worked in evidence for as long as Smith could remember.

  “Don,” he said, “DS Smith. How’s the hip?”

  “Giving me shit,” Martin replied, “what do you want? I was about to go home.”

  “When Fulton was arrested,” Smith said, “Did anybody take his fingerprints?”

  “The serial killer?” Martin asked.

  “Yes,” Smith said, “the serial killer. When he was brought in did he have his fingerprints taken?”

  The line went quiet for a moment.

  “No,” Martin said eventually, “his prints were never taken.”

  “Why the hell not?” Smith asked.

  “His prints were on file from his days in the army it says here. They matched all the ones from the murder scenes. He confessed for God’s sake.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Smith said and hung up.

  He phoned the number for Full Sutton Prison.

  “Barry Coleman,” he said to the woman with the high pitched voice, “I need to speak with Barry Coleman.”

  “He’s busy,” the woman said.

  “We’re all busy,” Smith said, “it’s just a matter of who’s busier. Get hold of him for me please.”

  “I’ll see if he’s in.”

  The woman put Smith on hold and the dreary saxophone music came on the line. While he was waiting for Coleman, Smith opened up Google and searched for the Campbell army barracks in Perth. A page appeared and Smith clicked on the contact details icon. He looked at the clock on his desk and worked out it would be midnight in Perth.