“Coleman,” a voice said on the phone.
“Coleman,” Smith said, “DS Smith. York police. Sorry to bother you again but I need some urgent information.”
“Bob Chalmers was right,” Coleman said, “he said you were a bit of a pain in the arse. What do you need?”
“Is Fulton still there?”
“Of course he’s still here,” Coleman sounded angry, “why do people keep asking me that? Nobody has ever escaped from here.”
“Sorry,” Smith said, “I assume that when inmates are booked in you take their fingerprints for your records?”
“Of course,” Coleman replied, “you know we do.”
“Did you take Fulton’s prints?”
“I just told you, we take all of the prisoner’s prints. What’s this all about?”
“It’s about protocol,” Smith replied, “protocol that at least you’ve adhered to but I won’t bore you with the details. I need Fulton’s prints right away. You can send them directly to me.”
He gave Coleman his e mail address.
“I thought you had his prints,” Coleman sounded surprised.
“The retard that arrested him neglected to take them,” Smith replied, “he figured a confession would be enough.”
“Thompson never ceases to amaze me,” Coleman said, “I’ll have the prints sent over right away.”
“Thanks Coleman,” Smith said, “just one more thing.”
“Make it quick Smith. I’m supposed to be in a management meeting in five minutes.”
“What do you drink?” Smith asked.
“Single Malt.”
“I’ll have a nice bottle sent over,” Smith said.
He hung up.
Why did Thompson not take Fulton’s prints? Smith thought as he looked at the contact details for Campbell army barracks. How could he have been so stupid? Smith dialled the number on the screen. As he listened to the dialling tone he hoped that there was someone there at midnight that would answer the phone. He also hoped that Private Colin Green, the army historian was an insomniac. As luck would have it his wishes were granted on both counts. It was Private Green that answered the phone. He sounded wide awake.
“Sorry to bother you so late,” Smith said, “I met you a week ago. Its detective sergeant Jason Smith from York police.”
“I remember,” Green said, “what can I help you with?”
“I need some more information,” Smith said, “if it’s not too much trouble I need the army records for John Fulton.”
“He fought in Vietnam the same time as your father didn’t he?” Green asked.
“That’s one heck of a memory you have there Green,” Smith was impressed.
“A good memory is essential for a historian,” Green said, “where can I send the information?”
Smith gave him his e mail address.
“Can you send it as soon as possible?” Smith asked.
“I’m sending it as we speak,” Green replied, “I’ve been up all night transferring all of the old army records on to computer files for easier reference. I’m up to nineteen sixty seven already.”
“Thanks mate,” Smith smiled.
He opened up his e mails. There were twenty four new messages. He saw that he was receiving two new e mails. The first one was from Full Sutton prison. Smith opened the attachment. It was Fulton’s fingerprints. He picked up the phone and dialled the number for the forensics unit.
“York forensics unit,” a woman with a very friendly voice answered, “how can I help you?”
“Put me through to Grant Webber please,” Smith said.
“One moment please,” the woman said.
“Webber,” Webber answered almost immediately. He sounded annoyed.
“Webber, “Smith said, “How are things going?”
“We’ve only just got back Smith,” Webber said gruffly, “I know that Whitton is a colleague but we’re going as fast as we can.”
“That’s not why I’m phoning,” Smith said, “I need a favour.”
“When didn’t you need a favour? Shoot.”
“I’m sending through a set of prints. I need you to compare them with all of the prints you found at the murder scenes. Fulton’s to be precise.”
“What?” Webber said.
“Please Webber. I’m sending them through now. How long will it take?”
“What about the stuff from Whitton’s house?” Webber asked.
“That can wait,” Smith replied, “how long will it take to compare the prints?”
“That depends. Where are the prints from? What format are they in?”
“They’re from Full Sutton prison’s database.”
“Then it will take roughly fifteen minutes,” Webber said and hung up.
While Smith was waiting for Webber, he opened up the e mail from Private Green from the Campbell army barracks in Perth. As he opened the attachment Smith saw that the army historian had done an impeccable job of transferring the old files to a word document. Smith read through the records carefully.
John Fulton had joined up on 28 July 1965. It was the same day his father had started his basic training. He was sent to Vietnam in November the same year. There was nothing out of the ordinary on his record. He had contracted malaria in the February of 1966 and was out of action for a few weeks. He fought in the Battle of Long Tan in August but he had survived. Two weeks later the records showed he had lost his mind during an attack against the VC. Smith gasped. His father’s name was mentioned. John Fulton had apparently gone crazy and walked straight into the enemy fire. Smith’s father had gone after him and was shot through the lung. Both of them had ended up in the same field hospital in Phuoc Hai province. Smith’s heart started to beat faster. This made everything make even less sense than before. His father had actually saved John Fulton’s life. After a brief spell in rehabilitation John Fulton had taken a spell of R and R in Singapore with a nurse he had met at the hospital. Smith had read about it all in his father’s diary. The next part was not in the diary. An anonymous tip off had led to John Fulton’s arrest by the military police in Singapore and he was brought back to Vietnam for a court martial. He was charged with insubordination due to the fact that he was feigning madness to avoid active duty. He was given a choice of either jail time or returning to full service. He chose the latter. He was sent back to the front line and was part of a small search and destroy platoon that was ordered to advance into enemy territory. An ambush ensued and every single one of the men in the platoon was killed.
“Shit,” Smith said out loud as he finished reading the report.
John Fulton’s body was never found and thus he was declared MIA. Missing in action.
The phone on Smith’s desk rang and he jumped. It was Webber.
“Smith,” he said, “I’ve never seen anything like this in York before.”
“What did you find?” Smith was intrigued.
“The prints from Full Sutton and the ones from the murder scenes are identical but…”
“Shit,” Smith said, “that’s not what I wanted to hear.”
“Wait,” Webber said, “I said they were identical but only to the naked eye. Even to the trained eye but I ran them through our computer system and we found something.”
“Go on,” Smith felt like he was starting to get somewhere.
“On thorough analysis we found some very subtle differences in the ridges and valleys on the prints.”
“In plain English please Webber,” Smith said.
“I’m afraid the man sitting in Full Sutton prison is not the one that killed all those people. Do you want to tell Thompson he arrested the wrong man or shall I?”
“I’ll tell him with pleasure,” Smith said, “but tell me one thing Webber.”
“Make it quick,” Webber said.
“You say the prints looked the same to the naked eye. What are the odds of that happening?”
“Astronomical,” Webber replied, “you’d get better odds on the Natio
nal Lottery.”
“So how can you explain it? You’re the forensics expert.”
“There was a case in France a while ago,” Webber said, “before the new technology we have today. The same thing happened and it turned out that the two sets of prints came from twins.”
“Twins,” Smith could hear his heartbeat in his ears.
“Identical twins,” Webber said, “now can I get back to work?”
“Thanks Webber,” Smith said.
He still had the phone to his ear long after Webber had hung up.
FIFTY NINE
NO SMOKING
“Any news from door to door?” Smith asked as he walked into Chalmers’ office. The room was still without a door.
“Nothing yet,” Chalmers replied, “Thompson and Bridge are still busy with it.”
“I thought you were supposed to get a door yesterday sir,” Smith said.
“It’s still sitting in the storeroom,” Chalmers said, “Bloody idiots haven’t fitted it yet. I’m thinking of fitting it myself. It’s a pain in the arse without a door.”
“I’ve got some bad news sir,” Smith said as he sat down in the chair opposite Chalmers.
“What other news do you ever have for me?”
“Thompson arrested the wrong man.”
“Bullshit,” Chalmers said, “it’s the same man from the video footage at the pool.”
“Don’t you still think it strange that he just handed himself in?” Smith asked, “I mean, he went to so much trouble to orchestrate the killings and then he just gave himself up.”
“Maybe he’s got a conscience,” Chalmers suggested, “what makes you so sure it’s not him?”
“Fingerprints sir,” Smith replied, “did you know that Thompson didn’t even get his fingerprints when he booked him in?”
“You can’t be serious?” Chalmers said, “Thompson should know better.”
“Afraid so sir. I think Thompson was so sure he had just nabbed York’s first serial killer that he got lost in his moment of glory. I had the fingerprints sent over from Full Sutton and they didn’t match any of the ones from the murder scenes. They were close but Webber noticed some subtle differences.”
“What are you telling me Smith?” Chalmers asked.
“The man in Full Sutton is not our murderer.”
“I gathered that Smith,” Chalmers said, “but there’s more to it isn’t there?”
“Jimmy Fulton had a brother. He served in Vietnam. His name was John Fulton. I checked his army records. He was part of a platoon that was ambushed in November Nineteen Sixty Six. The entire platoon was killed but John Fulton’s body was never recovered. He was officially reported missing in action.
“Bollocks,” Chalmers said, “the numbers on Whitton’s wine. November Sixty Six.”
“There’s more sir,” Smith said, “Jimmy and John Fulton are identical twins. I think its John Fulton who is sitting in Full Sutton which means…”
“Jimmy Fulton is still out there,” Chalmers said.
“And I think he’s got Whitton,” Smith added.
Chalmers stood up and started to pace around the room.
“The press are going to have a field day with this Smith,” he said, “how the hell did you manage to figure all of this out?”
“It started with something Marge said,” Smith replied.
“Marge?”
“She owns my local pub sir. The Hog’s Head. Jimmy Fulton was in there moments before he killed those three youths. I asked her for a description of Fulton. I mean, he’s used so many disguises but it seems he wasn’t in disguise this time. Marge said he looked quite old with a bald head and dark brown eyes. Basically a description of the guy that Thompson arrested but there was something else she said that made me think.”
“What was that?” Chalmers sat down again.
“She said he had a small scar on his nose,” Smith continued, “I checked the footage from the Hilton pool. Even though he was wearing a disguise, you could still make out the scar. I had the prison e mail me their photo of Fulton. They have photographs of all the inmates for their records and, Bingo, no scar. They might be identical twins but there are slight differences between them.”
“So where does that leave us?” Chalmers asked.
“Like I said sir I’m afraid we’re back to square one and Whitton is in serious danger.”
“What do you suggest we do Smith?”
Chalmers walked over to the window and opened it. He took a cigarette out of a packet and put it in his mouth. Smith watched in disbelief as he took out his lighter and lit the cigarette. The station had been a non smoking station as far back as he could remember.
“Sorry,” Chalmers said.
He took a long drag from on the cigarette.
“Do you want one?” He offered Smith the packet.
“No thanks sir,” Smith replied.
Chalmers took another long drag and threw the cigarette out of the window.
“What now Smith?” he asked.
“You need to give Smyth a big kick up the arse sir,” Smith replied, “We need everything we have out there. Wake everybody up. Cancel all leave. We need to organise a full scale search for Whitton and this maniac and I know you’re not going to like this but we need to get the press involved.”
“Are you out of your bloody mind Smith?” Chalmers lit another cigarette. “We’ll be crucified. First we arrest a serial killer and then we regret to inform them that we got the wrong man and the maniac is still out there. We’ll be the laughing stock of the whole country.”
“Think sir,” Smith sounded adamant. “This serial killer is still out there somewhere and he’s got Whitton. We’ve got no choice. God knows what he’s doing to her. I think we should have Fulton’s face staring at the whole country from the front pages of every newspaper there is with every disguise he has ever used. We can set up a call line so that anyone who has ever seen anybody that remotely resembles Fulton can phone in but in the meantime…”
“I always shit myself when you say in the meantime,” Chalmers said, “what are you formulating in that brain of yours?”
“First I need a lift home,” Smith replied, “I’ve been seriously neglecting my house guest. Then I need full authorisation to go to Full Sutton prison and bring Jimmy Fulton’s twin brother back here for questioning.”
“You are out of your mind,” Chalmers shook his head, “what do you hope to gain from that?”
“I’m going to appeal to his better nature sir,” Smith replied, “my father saved his life. Maybe he has one of those consciences you spoke about earlier.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Chalmers sighed, “Baldwin can give you a lift home.”
SIXTY
HANOI HILTON
Smith opened the door to his house and went inside. He was exhausted. He found Lucy and Theakston in the living room. Lucy was asleep on the sofa and Theakston was lying on her feet.
“Some guard dog you are,” Smith said.
Lucy opened her eyes and smiled.
“Is there any news about Whitton?” she asked.
She rubbed her eyes, stood up and hugged Smith.
“No news yet,” Smith sighed, “but my hunch was right. Thompson arrested the wrong man.”
“What?” Lucy exclaimed.
“It was John Fulton that gave himself up. Jimmy Fulton is still out there and he has Whitton. I’m sure of it.”
“What are you going to do?” Lucy asked.
“I’m going to have a shower and then I’m going to drive to Full Sutton prison and bring John Fulton back here.”
“Are you hungry?” Lucy asked.
“Not at all,” Smith replied, “I could kill for a cup of coffee though. I’ve got a feeling its going to be a long night.”
“I’ll make some coffee while you have a shower.”
“You’re one in a million Lucy,” Smith kissed her on the cheek, “I’m sorry about having to cut the holiday short. I’ll make it
up to you.”
“Go and have that shower.”
When Smith came back down the stairs ten minutes later he felt refreshed. Lucy handed him the cup of coffee.
“Do you want me to come with you?” she asked.
“Only if you’re sure,” Smith said, “Fulton can really get inside your head.”
“I’m sure,” Lucy said.
“Let’s get this over with then.”
Smith finished his coffee, picked up his keys and walked to the front door.
“Does it ever stop raining here?” Lucy asked as they drove.
The rain was coming down so hard now that the windscreen wipers on Smith’s old Sierra were finding it hard to cope. He had to drive very slowly.
“I like the rain,” Smith said, “It washes away all the shit. This is the place here.”
He stopped the car in the visitor’s car park next to the prison.
“Looks spooky,” Lucy said, “it’s like something out of a horror movie.”
They got out the car and ran to the entrance. Barry Coleman was waiting for them inside.
“Detective Sergeant,” Coleman held out his hand, “we meet again. I believe old Thompson made a bit of a balls up?”
“Seems like it.” Smith shook his hand. “Is Fulton ready to go?”
“I don’t know how you managed to get this authorised at such short notice Smith,” Coleman said, “You must have friends in high places.”
“I pulled in a few favours,” Smith laughed, “but technically Fulton should not be in here anyway. We could have him for interfering with a police investigation but we have evidence that clears him from any direct involvement in the murders.”
Coleman looked at Lucy.
“Detective Smith is very rude,” he said to her, “he has the manners of a chimpanzee.”
“Sorry,” Smith said, “this is Lucy. She’s my…”
“Nice to meet you Lucy,” Coleman said, “follow me. I have the release papers ready for you.”
The York Trilogy: The First 3 DS Jason Smith Detective novels Page 52
