“If there are no more questions,” he said, “We’ll wrap it up there.”
“You haven’t answered my question,” Jane Brown stood up again.
“I didn’t realise it warranted a reply,” Smith said, “Like I said, we’ll conclude there.”
He switched the microphone off.
“Before I say something I might regret,” he added under his breath.
“That went rather well,” superintendant Smyth said as Smith walked to the back of the room.
“If you say so sir,” Smith said.
The camera crews and photographers were busy packing up their equipment. A man with a spectacular beard approached Smith.
“You did well,” he said, “under the circumstances I mean. I’ve seen much more experienced officers crack under pressure like that. My name is Ian Snowdon.”
He offered Smith his hand but Smith did not shake it.
“I’m head of news at the local TV station,” Snowdon added.
“What time is your news broadcast?” Smith asked him.
“Six thirty,” Snowdon replied, “prime time. Most of the population of York will be watching.”
“Do you have the photographs of Whitton and Fulton that we circulated?” Smith asked.
“Plenty. We’ll be dedicating a full five minutes to the story this evening.”
“I appreciate it,” Smith said. He shook the man’s hand. “I have to get going now; I have a lot to do.”
Smith ignored the barrage of questions that were being fired at him from all directions and left the conference room. He went straight to his office and closed the door behind him. Almost immediately there was a knock on the door.
“Go away,” Smith said, “I’ve said all I’m going to say for today.”
“It’s me sir,” a voice was heard behind the door, “its Bridge.”
“Come in Bridge,” Smith said.”
Bridge opened the door.
“Close it behind you will you,” Smith asked, “I don’t want to see another journalist for as long as I live.”
Bridge closed the door behind him and sat opposite Smith. He looked like he was about to cry.
“Sir,” he said, “do you think Whitton is still alive?”
“Of course she is Bridge,” Smith replied, “Whitton is a tough one. She’s probably driving Fulton mad.”
“Do you think we’ll find her in time?”
“I don’t know Bridge,” Smith sighed, “I don’t know what Fulton has in stored for Whitton but what I do know is if he’d killed her he would have let us know. That’s the way he operates.”
“Do you really think so sir?”
“Bridge, I’ve been thinking and all of Fulton’s previous victims have been strangers to us. He took a huge risk abducting Whitton. A huge risk.”
“What are you saying sir?” Bridge asked.
“You’re supposed to be the expert in serial killers. Something that big nosed reporter said made me think. Can you remember what you said about serial killers being driven by some strange force and that it is essential to them to finish off what they’ve set out to do?”
“Vaguely sir,” Bridge replied, “I suggested that you could be the last victim.”
“So what does all of this suggest to you now then?”
“I don’t know sir,” Bridge said, “I can’t seem to think straight at the moment.”
“You’re a police detective,” Smith realised he had raised his voice. “Think. Whitton hasn’t been seen for two days. It doesn’t fit the pattern that you mentioned. I believe that Whitton is very much alive.”
“And he wants us to find him?” Bridge asked.
“Good Bridge. What else?”
“He wants you to find him sir,” Bridge replied, “shit, this is all a trap isn’t it?”
“That’s what I’m thinking Bridge. I think Fulton did this to lure me straight into his web. Now go home and get a few hours sleep. I’ve got a terrible feeling we’re going to have our hands full after the news broadcast this evening.”
SIXTY SIX
CURSED
Smith opened the door to his house and was instantly hit with the most unbelievable smell he had ever smelled.
“Are you hungry?” Lucy asked. She kissed him on the lips.
“I wasn’t,” Smith replied but I am now. What are you cooking?”
“Roast chicken,” Lucy replied, “I thought I would cook you something special.”
“Smells great,” Smith said, “I could kill for a beer.”
“I’ll get you one. How did the press conference go?”
“Better than I’d expected,” Smith mused, “those journos can be real bastards to deal with but it went better than I thought it would.”
“I’ll get you that beer,” Lucy said, “go and sit down. I’ll bring it through to the living room.”
Smith walked through to the living room and sat on the sofa. Theakston jumped up and lay next to him. Smith smiled. Lucy is really spoiling me, he thought, I could get used to this.
Lucy handed him the beer and Smith took a long sip. He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. The news report would be starting in just over an hour. He wondered what would come out of it. He thought about Fulton and what he had done to Whitton. He wondered if she was still alive but instantly dismissed the thought.
“You’re miles away,” Lucy said, “What are you thinking about?”
“I’m thinking about how long it will be before that chicken is cooked,” he smiled, “it smells delicious.”
“Liar,” Lucy slapped him playfully on the shoulder. “It’s nearly done.”
After they had finished eating, Smith switched on the television. The news report was about to start. Lucy sat on the sofa next to him. She laid her head on his shoulder. Smith put his arm around her.
“I could get used to this,” Smith said.
“So could I,” Lucy agreed, “I’ve been thinking.”
“I don’t like the sound of this,” Smith said.
“I’m being serious Jason.”
“Hold on,” Smith said, “the news is about to start. Let’s hope those bastards in the press can get it right for once.”
The news report started with a run down of Jimmy Fulton’s killing spree starting with the hanging in the Royal York Hotel. A photograph of Fulton was on the screen the whole time. Then the presenter spoke about Whitton’s abduction. A photograph of her was also shown on the screen. Smith’s heart started to beat faster. The presenter asked for anybody with any relevant information to phone in on the number that was displayed on the screen. Two more photographs of Fulton were shown. The first was from the video footage from the Hilton swimming pool and the second was a photo fit showing Fulton with piercing blue eyes, a fake tan and thick black hair. Smith had not yet been mentioned. The number for the hot line remained on the screen throughout the broadcast. The presenter finished off with a warning that Fulton should not be approached under any circumstances. The report ended and the weather forecast came on. Smith sighed. Rain was forecast for the whole weekend. He switched channels. The national news was on the other side. He gasped as he saw his own face staring at him from the television screen. His phone rang.
“Here we go,” he sighed, “it’s started already.”
He answered the phone.
“Smith,” he said.
The phone was silent.
“Who is this?” he asked.
The line went dead.
“Bloody arsehole,” he cursed.
His phone beeped. He had received a message. He opened it but the message was blank. He saw that the message had two attachments. He opened the first one. It was a photograph of Whitton. She looked terrified. Her eyes had dark rings around them and her eyelids were drooping. Smith opened the second attachment. He could not quite make out what the photograph was at first. He zoomed in and then he realised what it was.
“Fuck,” he said.
On the phone screen in front of him was
a photograph of the sole of a foot. Whitton’s foot, Smith assumed. On the foot was written the numbers 20 03 10. Smith showed the photographs to Lucy.
“The date,” she said, “that’s this Saturday. Two days time.”
“He’s going to kill Whitton on Saturday,” Smith said.
“At least we know she’s still alive,” Lucy said, “That’s one thing.”
“He could be anywhere Lucy,” Smith said, “How are we supposed to search the whole of York before Saturday? They might not even be in York for all we know.”
“You’ll find her Jason.” Lucy put her arm on Smith’s shoulder. “You found her last year when that Chinese maniac took her hostage.”
“It’s all my fault,” Smith said. He stood up. “I’m cursed. People around me seem to end up dead.”
“That’s not true,” Lucy said, “you’re too hard on yourself.”
Smith walked over to the cupboard next to the television and took out the bottle of Jack Daniels. He sighed when he saw it was nearly empty. There was barely enough for a single shot.
“I need to go out and get some more,” he said
“Do you think that’s such a good idea?” Lucy asked, “You need to keep your head clear.”
“It’s a bloody good idea,” Smith said. He picked up his car keys and left the house.
As he drove to the all hour’s supermarket, Smith thought about what an idiot he had been. He had treated Lucy like dirt. I’m no better than Whitey was, he thought. He parked outside the supermarket and went inside. He bought two bottles of Jack Daniels. As he was about to pay he noticed some small bunches of flowers on a display unit next to the till. He picked one up and placed it on the counter next to the whisky. I don’t deserve Lucy, he thought as he paid.
Lucy was standing in the doorway when Smith got back home.
“I’m leaving Jason,” she said, “I don’t have to stay here and be treated like this.”
She had her bag next to her on the carpet. Theakston was licking her feet.
“I bought you these,” Smith said. He handed her the flowers. “I’m sorry.”
He closed the door behind him.
“Please Lucy,” he said, “I’m sorry. I was an arsehole. Let’s have a drink and talk.”
He smiled at her.
“Please,” he repeated.
Lucy shook her head and followed him to the living room.
“Do you want one?” He pointed to the Jack Daniels.
“Might as well,” Lucy replied.
Smith poured the drinks and they sat down.
“What was it you were thinking about earlier?” Smith asked.
“Thinking?” Lucy said.
“Before the news came on you said you’d been thinking about something.”
“Oh that,” Lucy said, “That was before you stormed out.”
“I’m back now,” Smith said, “I said I was sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind at the moment.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. I’m afraid that you always will have lots on your mind. I spent too many years with somebody who had everything on his mind but me.”
“You’re the only thing on my mind at this moment though,” Smith said and immediately realised how corny it had sounded.
Lucy put down her glass and kissed him on the lips. Smith kissed her back. He stood up, took her hand and led her upstairs.
SIXTY SEVEN
Friday 19 March 2010
IMBECILE
Smith woke up early. The clock on the bedside table told him it was six o clock. He looked at Lucy lying next to him and smiled. She looked so peaceful. He carefully got out of bed and got dressed. He did not want to wake her. He went downstairs and boiled the kettle for some coffee. The morning papers would be in the shops by now. He put on his shoes and went outside. The weather forecast had got it wrong again. The sun was coming up and there were no clouds in the sky. He froze as he went inside the newsagents. Jimmy Fulton’s face was staring at him from every newspaper on the shelves. He shivered as he picked up a copy of every newspaper and put them on the counter. The woman behind the counter gave him a strange look as he paid.
“Like to know what’s going on in the news do you?” she asked as she gave him his change.
“I buy them for the crosswords,” Smith said.
As he walked home, clouds were starting to form over his head. Maybe the weather forecast was right after all, Smith thought. Lucy was up when Smith got home. She was sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee. Smith put the newspapers on the kitchen table and kissed her on the forehead. He put some dog food in Theakston’s bowl and put it on the kitchen floor. Theakston looked at the food suspiciously and walked away in disgust.
“He wants chicken,” Lucy laughed, “he knows there are some bones left from last night.”
“He’ll eat his own food eventually,” Smith insisted, “how about a cup of coffee?”
“What time do you have to be at work?” Lucy asked as she made the coffee.
“I’m going in early,” Smith replied, “I’ve got a feeling that the calls to the hot line will keep us busy all day. I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave you on your own all day again.”
“That’s fine,” Lucy handed him the coffee, “I think I’ll take a walk around the city. Do the tourist thing.”
“I’d better get going,” Smith said. He finished his coffee. “I don’t know what time I’ll be finished today but I want to take you out for dinner when I do get back. To say thanks for last night.”
“You’re such a charmer Jason,” Lucy said.
“I mean to say thanks for cooking for me.”
He kissed her on the lips, picked up his car keys and phone and left. As soon as Lucy heard his car drive off she picked up the bowl of dog food and emptied it back into the dog food bag. She took the chicken carcass out of the fridge and put it in Theakston’s bowl. Theakston finished it in less than a minute.
The station was eerily quiet when Smith walked in. He had an uneasy feeling. He could not quite figure out what it was but it felt like something was wrong.
“Where is everyone?” he asked PC Baldwin behind the reception counter.
“Its seven in the morning sir,” Baldwin replied, “not everybody is in yet.”
“We’ve got a mad man out there with one of our colleagues,” Smith snarled, “everybody should be working around the clock to find him. Is Chalmers in?”
“In his office sir,” Baldwin said.
Smith stormed off down the corridor to Chalmers’ office. What’s wrong with everybody? He thought as he banged on Chalmers’ door.
“Piss off,” Chalmers said from behind the door. He was obviously in a foul mood.
Smith opened the door and went in.
“What’s wrong sir?” he asked, “you sound more grumpy than usual.”
“Smyth is what’s wrong Smith,” Chalmers said, “I had three officers manning the hot line all bloody night. Three officers that could have been put to better use. I was expecting hundreds of calls in the first hour. Do you know how many calls we had?”
“How many sir?” Smith asked.
“One,” Chalmers replied, “And that was a wrong number. That stupid bastard Smyth gave the news people the wrong bloody number”
“You’ve got to be kidding sir,” Smith said, “we’re running out of time to find Whitton.”
“I know that Smith. The proper number will be broadcast tonight. Then hopefully we can start looking for Whitton tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow’s too late,” Smith said, “we need to find her today.”
He took out his phone and showed Chalmers the photographs that Fulton had sent to him.
“Shit,” Chalmers said, “He’s going to kill her tomorrow.”
“According to the date, yes,” Smith said.
“Then we’ll have to start without the press then.”
“Where do we start sir?” Smith asked.
“I’ve called a meeting for eight this morning. Eve
rybody had been told to attend. All leave has been cancelled. We’re going to have to do this the old fashioned way.”
“Old fashioned way?” Smith said.
“Back to knocking on doors. Asking questions. Somebody must have seen something. You don’t just abduct someone these days without someone noticing.”
“What if he’s not in York any more sir?” Smith suggested.
“We’ve got to assume he is,” Chalmers said, “those photographs of yours. Send them over to forensics. Get them checked out. Maybe they can give us a clue as to where this lunatic is holding Whitton. Now piss off. I’ve got half an hour to do a bit of meditation before this day starts.”
Smith opened the door to his office. He sat down in front of his computer and switched it on. He checked his e mails. He sighed as he looked at the e mail confirming his booking at the Red Lion Hotel. The Lake District seemed like a very long time ago now. Most of the e mails were from journalists wanting more information. He took out his phone and plugged in the USB cord. He transferred the photographs of Whitton on to his computer. He brought up Grant Webber’s e mail address and sent the photographs as file attachments. He dialled Webber’s number.
“Webber,” a weary voice answered.
“Webber,” Smith said, “DS Smith. Are you at work?”
“Day off,” Webber replied, “I was enjoying a lie in.”
“Sorry Webber,” Smith said, “the day off is cancelled. I need you to go to the lab and have a good look at some photos I’ve just e mailed you. I need you to see if you can find out where they were taken.”
“Can’t it wait?” Webber asked, “I was planning on taking a drive out to the Dales.”
“No it can’t wait,” Smith replied, “if we don’t find Whitton today, Fulton is going to kill her.”
He rang off.
Smith thought that maybe he was a bit harsh saying that to Webber but he shrugged it off. He looked at the clock on the wall. He had fifteen minutes before the meeting was due to start. He picked up his phone and dialled Lucy’s number.
“Jason,” she said, “is everything alright?”
“Everything’s fine,” he lied, “I missed you, that’s all.”
The York Trilogy: The First 3 DS Jason Smith Detective novels Page 55
