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

by Stewart Giles

  “He could be anywhere by now sir,” Smith said.

  “We’ve got four patrol cars out looking for him,” Chalmers said, “if he’s anywhere in York they’ll find him.”

  They drove for about forty five minutes but they could not find Smith’s car anywhere.

  “I’ll drop you off at home Smith,” Chalmers said, “I’ll let you know if anything turns up.”

  “Thanks sir,” Smith said, “and sorry about all of this. I really thought it was a good idea at the time.”

  Chalmers stopped his car outside Smith’s house. The clock on the dashboard read nine o clock.

  “Put some ice on that nose,” Chalmers said as Smith got out the car, “it looks bloody awful.”

  “Thanks sir,” Smith said, “and thanks again for punching me in the face. It’s nice to know that somebody has my back.”

  Lucy shook her head and rolled her eyes.

  “Boys,” she said, “lets get that nose of yours sorted out.”

  Theakston took one look at Smiths face and started to bark. Smith bent down and kissed him on the head.

  “He’s terrified of the sight of blood,” Smith said.

  “Have you got any ice?” Lucy asked.

  “In the freezer in the kitchen,” Smith replied.

  He went to the living room and took out the bottle of jack Daniels from the sideboard next to the television. He took a long swig straight from the bottle and sat down on the sofa. His nose was throbbing. Lucy returned with a wet cloth and a bag of ice. Smith winced as she wiped the blood from his face.

  “Don’t be such a baby,” she said.

  She kissed him on the forehead, wrapped some ice in the towel and placed it on the bridge of his nose.

  “Hold it here,” she said, “it’ll help the swelling do down.”

  “I think you’d better do it,” Smith said, “I prefer it when you do it. You’re quite the nurse.”

  “I need to use the bathroom,” Lucy said, “that nose is going to look awful in the morning.”

  She walked upstairs to the bathroom. Smith sat on the sofa with the icepack pressed against his nose. He took another sip of the Jack Daniels and smiled as the bourbon started to numb the pain.

  “Aren’t you going to offer me one of those?” Lucy pointed to the Jack Daniels, “I’ll take mine in a glass with ice though.”

  “Kitchen cupboard,” Smith said. “You wouldn’t mind getting it would you? My head hurts every time I move.”

  “You’re such a baby Jason,” Lucy smiled.

  “Would you mind feeding Theakston for me while you’re there?” Smith asked, “His food is in the broom cupboard.”

  Lucy shook her head and walked to the kitchen.

  “I can’t believe he stole my car,” Smith said when Lucy came back with the glass, “I loved that car.”

  “It was a pile of junk,” Lucy said.

  “I mean,” Smith said, “the gall of the man. To steal a car from a police station car park.”

  “Chalmers is right you know,” Lucy said, “the press are going to eat you alive.”

  “I’ve thought about that,” Smith said, “we need to use the press to our advantage.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’re the last resort. We’ll give them everything we have. All the information about the Fulton twins, Whitton. Everything. I hate journalists but we need them at the moment to help us find Whitton. I’ve got a sinking feeling that tomorrow is going to be a very shitty day.”

  SIXTY THREE

  VULTURES

  Thursday 18 March 2010

  “Jason,” a voice woke Smith from a dream he was having. He was drifting in a lifeboat in the middle of the Indian Ocean. He opened his eyes. His nose was throbbing and he could taste blood in his mouth.

  “Jason,” Lucy shouted again, “look out of the window.”

  Smith rubbed his eyes and slowly stood up. His vision went black for a moment. He waited until he could see again and walked over to the bedroom window. He opened the curtains and looked outside.

  “What the hell?” he said out loud.

  His car was parked in its usual place outside his house. Lucy ran into the room and handed him an envelope.

  “I found this downstairs on the mat in front of the front door,” she said.

  There was nothing written on the front of the envelope. Smith opened it. Inside were his car keys and a hand written note.

  ‘Many thanks for the use of your car Jason,’ it began. ‘I thought it only courteous to fill up the tank again when I had finished. You won’t see me again. I’m very sorry about your colleague but I’m afraid it’s too late for her. Yours, John Fulton.’

  Smith read the letter again and sat down on the bed. He felt sick. He handed the note to Lucy.

  “We’ll find her Jason,” Lucy said when she had finished reading, “don’t give up. How’s the nose?”

  “Hurts like hell,” Smith replied.”

  “Do you want some coffee?”

  “Yes please,” Smith said, “strong as possible.”

  Lucy went back downstairs to make the coffee while Smith got dressed. He walked to the bathroom and splashed some water on his face. The cold water stung his nose. He still found it hard to believe that Chalmers had punched him in the face. He knew he would have some explaining to do at the station. He dried his face and looked in the mirror. His nose looked terrible. It was now a reddish purple colour. His left eye already had a black bruise underneath it. Smith sighed and walked downstairs.

  “You look awful,” Lucy said. She handed him a cup of coffee.

  “Thanks,” Smith said, “I don’t feel much better. I’ve got a rough day ahead of me too. I hate talking to the press. It’s never pleasant.”

  “Do you need some help?” Lucy asked, “I’m quite good with that sort of thing. I can tell you what to say and, more importantly, what not to say.”

  “Thanks but I’d better do this on my own. The press already know about you and I don’t want to drag you down with me.”

  Smith put his coffee down and put his arms around Lucy.

  “When this is all over, we’ll go somewhere nice,” he said, “I promise.”

  The press were already waiting outside when Smith arrived at the station. He spotted beak nose immediately. He decided that she would be his main priority. The Sun newspaper had by far the biggest circulation figures out of all the newspapers.

  “Detective Smith,” she said as he walked towards the entrance to the station, “what happened?”

  She pointed to his nose.

  “I walked into a door,” he replied, “bloody superintendant decided to put all the doors back on and didn’t inform anyone.”

  “Can I ask you a few questions?” she said.

  “All in good time,” Smith replied, “you’ll all get your turn. There’s a formal press conference arranged for nine.”

  He looked at his watch.

  “That gives you half an hour to figure out what you want to ask us,” he added.

  “I see you’ve got your car back,” she said.

  How the hell do these people get their information so quickly? Smith thought as he walked through the main doors to the station.

  “What happened to your nose?” Baldwin asked as Smith walked past reception.

  Smith sighed. He was going to get a lot of grief about his appearance today.

  “Irate prisoner,” Smith replied, “didn’t like the food here.”

  Smith walked through to the conference room. He shook his head when he saw superintendant Smyth standing at the front of the room. He was tapping on a microphone with his finger.

  “Testing testing Un, deux, troix,” he smiled.

  He looked around the room as if he had made a huge joke but nobody was paying any attention.

  Smith found Chalmers next to the wall on the side of the conference room. He was looking through some newspapers with DC Brown.

  “How’s the nose Smith?” Chalmers asked
. “Fulton really gave you a good smack there.” He gave Smith a sly wink.

  “Bloody hell sir,” Bridge exclaimed, “Did Fulton do that to you?”

  “It’s a long story Bridge,” Smith replied, “what’s the plan? Don’t tell me Smyth is going to lead the press conference?”

  “Thankfully not,” Chalmers said, “he’s just going to lead off with his usual public speaking shite and then the floor is all yours.”

  Chalmers turned to Bridge.

  “Is there anything you want to say to them?” he asked, “I mean, you’re our resident serial killer expert.”

  “Nothing at the moment sir,” Bridge replied, “I still think we should all be out there looking for Whitton instead of talking to these scumbags.”

  “Bridge,” Smith looked him directly in the eye, “I know you and Whitton are close. We all want Whitton back here safe and sound but this is our only hope at the moment. Unless you have any other suggestions?”

  “No sir,” Bridge sighed.

  He looked like he had not slept in days.

  “It’s nearly time,” Chalmers said, “are you ready for this Smith?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be sir,” Smith replied.

  Chalmers took him to one side.

  “Not a word about Fulton’s escape ok?” he said, “If you know what I mean.”

  “Understood sir,” Smith agreed, “let’s round up the vultures.”

  SIXTY FOUR

  WATER

  Whitton was having a dream. She was alone in the desert and everywhere she looked there was sand. There was flat sand as far as the eye could see; behind her, in front of her, all around her was just dry oppressive sand. She felt exhausted and her mouth was unbelievably dry. She staggered forwards and after a few paces she fell down. Her face hit the sand and she could taste it in her mouth. The sun was blazing down and there was no shelter anywhere to be seen. She looked up and gasped. A few feet away she saw what seemed to be a cluster of trees. She headed towards them. She was in desperate need of water. Suddenly it started to rain. Light spots of water fell to the ground but they evaporated instantly. Then the heavens opened and a torrential downpour followed. The rain water drenched her hair. She lay on her back and let the water gush into her mouth. She coughed as the water went down the wrong way.

  Whitton woke to the sensation of being doused with water. She coughed and spat out a mouthful. Jimmy Fulton was standing in front of her and he was pouring water over her out of a metal bucket. The water was incredibly cold. Whitton shook her head and a spray of water hit Fulton in the face. She felt better than she had done in days.

  “I’m not a monster,” Fulton said, “two days without water is almost enough to kill you in a most horrible way. Do you want some more?”

  Whitton nodded her head. Fulton poured another bucketful on her. He reached underneath the chair and loosened the straps that were holding Whitton’s legs. She stretched her legs for the first time in two days.

  “Don’t get any funny ideas now,” Fulton said.

  He took out a towel from black rucksack and dried her head and her face.

  “I just want you to look at your feet,” he added.

  Whitton tried to lift one of her legs and winced. The pain was unbearable.

  “You can do it,” Fulton insisted, “look at your feet.”

  Whitton tried again. The leg lifted more this time but she was still in terrible pain. She leaned over and looked at the sole of her foot. She felt sick when she saw what Fulton had written. ’20. 03. 10.’

  “That’s this Saturday,” she said.

  “That’s right my dear,” Fulton smiled, “that’s how long the great detective Jason Smith has to figure out where you are.”

  “He’ll find me,” Whitton insisted.

  She felt like she was going to be sick.

  “Two days,” Fulton said, “forty eight hours. Two thousand, eight hundred and eighty minutes. Sounds better when you think of it like that doesn’t it?”

  He put the empty bucket in front of Whitton as if he knew what was about to happen. Whitton felt the surge and then she lost the meagre contents of her stomach into the bucket.

  SIXTY FIVE

  STAGE FRIGHT

  “Ladies and Gentlemen of the press,” superintendant Jeremy Smyth began, “firstly, I’d like to say how nice it is to see so many of you gathered here today. In this new era of policing it is imperative that the press and the police work arm in arm in a harmonious way. It is in all our best interests. I appreciate that in the past we have not always had the same agenda but I believe that is all behind us now.”

  A tall man with a goatee beard stood up.

  “How was the champagne lunch the other day superintendant?”

  Smyth looked at him with his mouth wide open. He did not know what to say. Chalmers shook his head and stood up.

  “That’s not why we’re here today,” he said, “If the superintendant has nothing more to say we’ll get on with the matter at hand shall we? Detective sergeant Smith would like to say a few words.”

  Chalmers nodded to Smith.

  “Thanks sir,” Smith said, “I thought Smyth was going to be up there all day.”

  He walked to the front of the room.

  “Morning Smith,” Smyth said, “all ready?”

  “Morning sir,” Smith said, “nice opening speech.”

  “Thank you Smith. Now don’t speak too close to the microphone and don’t get too far away either. Not everybody is used to getting up in front of so many people. It can be a bit nerve wracking at first but you’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll give it a go sir,” Smith smiled, “you can sit down now.”

  Smith looked at all the people sitting in front of him. He had played his guitar in front of more people before but this was different. Whitton’s life could depend on what he said in this room today. He suddenly realised that he had stage fright. He had thought carefully about what he was going to say but none of it seemed to make any sense at this moment.

  “We’re waiting detective,” a woman in the front row said. It was beak nose.

  Smith stared at her and smiled.

  “Before I begin,” he said eventually, “let me say what I have to say. Any questions will be answered at the end.”

  The room was silent.

  “As you are no doubt aware,” Smith continued, “In recent weeks, York City has suffered its worst string of murders its long history. The man responsible for these murders is a man by the name of James Fulton. He is an Australian national in his sixties. We were under the impression that we had arrested the man but it later transpired that we had in fact apprehended his twin brother John.”

  Smith glanced over at DS Thompson. He was red in the face.

  “While John Fulton was in custody, his brother abducted one of our detective constables, Erica Whitton and we now believe he is holding her against her will somewhere in the city. That is why you are here. We have set up a special call centre so that anyone who might have seen this James Fulton can call in with any relevant information.”

  He emphasised the word ‘relevant’.

  “Jimmy Fulton has used a number of disguises during the past few weeks but we have accurate details of at least two of them and we have photographs of what he really looks like. With your help and if Fulton has been seen anywhere in York, we are sure we can catch him and save the life of DC Whitton.”

  Smith paused for a breath.

  “Now,” he said, “I’ve said what I wanted to say. Does anybody have any…”

  Beak nose stood up before Smith had finished his question.

  “Detective Smith,” she said, “is it true that Jimmy Fulton’s brother John escaped while he was in your custody?”

  “That is true,” Smith replied.

  “And is it true that he also stole your car?”

  “Also true,” Smith said, “I can think of better getaway cars but John Fulton seemed to like my old beat up Ford Sierra.”

 
The room erupted into laughter.

  “And I also have this to show for it,” Smith said. He pointed to his nose.

  A short fat man with ginger hair put up his hand.

  “Albert Grimes, “the man said, “York Evening Post. Do you think your colleague, detective Whitton is still alive?”

  Smith glared at him. He felt like walking up to him and punching him in the face but he quickly regained his composure. He remembered why he was up there.

  “Mister Grimes,” he said, “we have to work on the assumption that detective Whitton is still alive. You will be given photographs of both Whitton and Jimmy Fulton in due course. We hope that with your help we can find them both.”

  “Detective Smith,” beak nose stood up again, “are you in fear of your own life?”

  “Why would I be?” Smith replied.

  “This is about you after all isn’t it? This serial killer has it in for you doesn’t he?”

  “No. I don’t believe he’ll come after me,” Smith said, “what we’re dealing with is a very sick individual that’s all. It happens all the time in America.”

  “But it doesn’t happen in York does it?” beak nose said.

  “We’ll catch this man,” Smith said, “anything else?”

  “I have a question.”

  A young woman stood up.

  “Who might you be?” Smith asked. She looked familiar.

  “Jane Brown,” the woman replied, “York University Press. You led the investigation when my house mate was killed last year didn’t you?”

  “That’s right,” Smith replied, “I remember you now Miss Brown. What would you like to know?”

  “Isn’t it true that Jimmy Fulton has succeeded in making a fool out of the entire York police department?”

  “Excuse me?” Smith was getting very annoyed now.

  “Let me reiterate,” Jane Brown said, “you know who he is. You have his fingerprints all over several murder scenes. You have video footage of one of the murders and yet you still allow him to walk up and kidnap one of your officers. It doesn’t make you look too good does it?”

  She sat down.

  Smith was about to lose it.