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

by Stewart Giles

  “Lucy,” he shouted.

  He slammed the door behind him.

  The house was silent. Theakston was not there either by the sound of it. Smith switched on all the lights and rushed into the living room. Theakston was lying on his side on the floor. There was a piece of paper on the coffee table. Smith recognised his father’s handwriting. It was the missing page of the diary.

  “Theakston,” Smith shouted.

  The dog did not move.

  “Theakston,” Smith ran over to the dog and picked him up. He was still warm. He put him on the sofa and ran upstairs.

  “Lucy,” Smith shouted.

  He checked all of the bedrooms but Lucy was nowhere to be seen.

  He found her in the bathroom. She was lying face down on the floor. From the amount of blood on the tiles, Smith knew immediately that she was dead. He turned her over and gasped. Her throat had been sliced open. He sat against the bath and started to shake. His whole body felt numb. He looked over at Lucy and broke down. Tears ran down his face and into his mouth. He did not even bother to wipe them away. He sat there for what seemed like hours. He closed his eyes and he could see Lucy’s face. One green eye and one blue eye. She was smiling. They were walking hand in hand along the beach in Fremantle. He heard the front door open and then he heard movement in the room below him.

  “Smith,” a voice cried out.

  It was Bridge. Smith could not speak.

  He heard footsteps coming up the stairs and then Bridge was standing in the doorway looking in. Thompson was standing behind him.

  “Oh my god,” Bridge said, “Are you alright sir?”

  Smith turned and looked up at Bridge. The tears were still streaming down his face. Bridge did not know what to say. Thompson went back downstairs and took out his phone.

  “We need an ambulance at Smith’s house,” he said.

  “What’s happened Thompson?” Chalmers asked.

  “I don’t know yet sir,” Thompson replied, “it looks like Smith’s girlfriend is dead. Smith is in a right state.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Chalmers said, “I’ll be there right away. I’ll organise an ambulance on the way.”

  Thompson rang off and walked into the living room. Theakston was still lying on the sofa.

  Not the dog as well, Thompson thought, Smith loved that dog.

  Theakston started to stir. He was making low murmuring noises. Thompson sat next to him on the sofa. The dog started to growl.

  “It’s me boy,” Thompson said.

  Thompson had looked after the dog while Smith was away looking for his sister in Tallinn the year before. Theakston opened his eyes and stared at Thompson.

  “Good boy,” Thompson said softly, “stay there.”

  He walked back up the stairs. Smith was still lying against the bath. He had stopped crying but he had a faraway look in his eyes.

  “Smith,” Thompson said gently, “there’s an ambulance on the way. Do you know what happened?”

  Smith just looked blankly in Lucy’s direction.

  “Theakston is alright,” Thompson added, “it looks like he was just drugged but he’s woken up now.”

  Sirens could be heard in the distance. Thompson nodded to Bridge to leave Smith alone. They both walked back down the stairs.

  “I didn’t know what to say to him,” Bridge said, “what do you say to someone in situations like these?”

  “Smith will be fine,” Thompson insisted, “what do you think happened here?”

  “Whitton said something in the hospital sir,” Bridge replied, “Something about her not being Fulton’s intended victim. He said something about the last one tearing Smith’s heart in two. Fulton must have known Smith wouldn’t have been here so he broke in and killed her.”

  The bright lights of an ambulance could be seen flashing outside. Two paramedics walked inside the house. Chalmers walked in behind them.

  “What happened?” Chalmers asked Thompson.

  “Looks like Fulton killed Smith’s girlfriend sir,” Thompson replied, “she’s upstairs in the bathroom. The bastard even drugged Smith’s dog to keep him out the way.”

  “This isn’t happening Thompson,” Chalmers said, “where is Smith now?”

  “Upstairs in the bathroom,” Thompson said, “he’s been lying up against the bath since we got here. I think he’s in shock.”

  Chalmers walked slowly up the stairs. He braced himself and looked inside the bathroom. He felt sick when he saw Lucy lying on the floor surrounded by blood.

  “Smith,” he said.

  Smith looked up at him from the bathroom floor. There was no life left in his eyes.

  “I’m sorry to do this Smith,” Chalmers said, “but I need you out of here.”

  Smith did not move.

  “Please Smith.” Chalmers held out his hand.

  Smith took the hand and Chalmers pulled him up. Smith was shaking so badly that Chalmers had to hold him all the way down the stairs.

  “He needs checking out,” Chalmers said to one of the paramedics, “can you give him something to calm him down a bit too?”

  “We’re not allowed to I’m afraid,” the paramedic said, “He needs to see a doctor first.”

  Thompson walked to the living room and opened the cabinet next to the television. He knew that Smith kept his Jack Daniels in there. He took out a glass and poured a large measure into it.

  “You shouldn’t really give him alcohol,” the other paramedic said, “If he’s in shock we don’t advise it.”

  “Bollocks,” Thompson said, “whisky has been used for shock for hundreds of years all around the world.”

  He handed the glass to Smith.

  “Sit down,” Thompson said, “and get that down your neck.”

  Smith did as he was told. He sat on the sofa next to Theakston.

  “What are we going to do boy?” Smith said to the dog.

  He patted him on the head.

  “Thompson,” Chalmers said, “a word please. In private.”

  He walked through to the kitchen. Thompson followed him.

  “I know this is Smith’s house,” Chalmers said, “but it’s still a crime scene. We need forensics here now.”

  “They’re on their way sir,” Thompson said, “I phoned them after I phoned you. What about Smith? He should be in hospital. Just to make sure he’s all right.”

  “I know that Thompson,” Chalmers said, “but you know as well as I do there’s no chance in hell he’ll go.”

  Two hours later Smith was alone in the house. Theakston was sitting on his lap in the living room. Chalmers had tried his best to persuade him to go to the hospital but Smith had refused outright. He needed to be at home with his dog. A half empty bottle of Jack Daniels lay on the coffee table in front of him. Webber had finished upstairs in the bathroom and two of the younger forensics officer had kindly cleaned the blood off the floor. Lucy had been taken away in an ambulance. Smith still felt numb. Lucy was dead because of him. What he had said to her earlier had been so true. ‘People close to me seem to end up dead.’

  Theakston stumbled off the sofa and walked unsteadily to the kitchen. Smith followed him and opened the kitchen door. Theakston walked outside to the garden and vomited on the lawn. What sort of an animal is this Fulton? Smith thought as he watched his poor dog retching uncontrollably outside. When Theakston came back inside, Smith filled up the water bowl and placed it on the floor. Theakston drank greedily. Smith looked at the clock on the microwave. It was four in the morning. He walked back to the living room and poured another glass of Jack Daniels. He picked up the last page of his father’s diary and started to read it. He thought about Lucy and what Fulton had done to her because of what happened more than forty years ago.

  “I should have known boy,” Smith said as Theakston walked back in to the living room, “you knew didn’t you? You tried to tell me. I could have stopped it. Some detective I am. What are we going to do now?”

  Smith picked Theakston up and la
id him on the sofa next to him. He put the glass on the table, lay back on the sofa and closed his eyes. All he could see was Lucy’s smiling face. One green eye and one blue eye.

  Smith woke suddenly to a noise coming from the hallway. Meatloaf. It was his mobile phone. He stood up and instantly felt dizzy. His vision went black. He waited for the darkness in front of his eyes to disappear and walked to where his phone was ringing. The ringing stopped. It was light outside. Smith looked at his watch. Nine in the morning. He had slept for five hours. Meat Loaf’s ‘Bat out of Hell’ started to play again. Smith picked up the phone and answered it.

  “Whitton,” he said, “how are you feeling?”

  “I’m fine sir,” Whitton replied, “how are you doing? I heard what happened. I’m so sorry sir. It’s awful.”

  Smith did not know what to say.

  “Do you want me to come over?” Whitton asked.

  “No Whitton,” Smith replied, “you need to get some rest.”

  “I need to get out of here. I’m coming over.”

  She rang off.

  Smith walked upstairs and washed his face with cold water. He looked down at the floor where Lucy had been lying only hours before. The forensics officers had done an excellent job of cleaning up. It was as if nothing had ever happened. He looked at his face in the mirror. He had dark bags under his eyes and his skin was deathly pale. He went back downstairs and boiled some water for coffee. Theakston walked towards him and sniffed at the empty food bowl. Smith filled it up and Theakston ate although not with his usual gusto. The dog looked better than he had done earlier though. Smith made the coffee and took it through to the living room. There was a knock on the door. Smith sighed and went to answer it. It was Whitton.

  “I said you needed to get some rest,” Smith said, “how are you feeling? You look very pale.”

  “I always look pale,” Whitton smiled, “I’m from York. Are you going to let me in?”

  Smith shook his head and walked back to the living room. Whitton walked in and closed the door behind her.

  “That won’t help.” She pointed to the bottle of Jack Daniels on the coffee table in the living room.

  “Nothing will help,” Smith snarled,” and if you know what’s good for you you’ll stay the hell away from me. People around me end up dead.”

  “I know this is hard sir,” Whitton looked him straight in the eyes, “but you know what you need to do don’t you?”

  “I need everybody to leave me alone,” Smith said, “that’s what I need. And I need to get away from everything. York. The Police. Everything.”

  He stood up and walked towards the window. He turned round and looked at Whitton.

  “Could you just leave me please,” he said, “I have a date with Mr Daniels over there.”

  He pointed at the whisky on the coffee table.

  “I told you that won’t help,” Whitton said.

  “Get out,” Smith shouted, “close the door behind you.”

  Whitton could see there was no use in arguing so she shook her head and left.

  SEVENTY TWO

  Saturday 20 March 2010

  CELLPHONE MASTS

  Two hours later Smith had drained the remaining whisky from his glass. The bottle was empty. Theakston was asleep on his feet.

  “Whisky’s finished boy,” Smith slurred, “Be a good dog and get me some more will you?”

  He laughed at his joke and started to cough. He ran to the kitchen and made it just in time. The contents of his stomach splashed into the kitchen sink. Smith ran some water and splashed it on his face. He sank down and sat on the tiles against the washing machine. He stared at Lucy’s coat on the back of one of the chairs around the table. He started to cry. The tears rolled down his face and dripped off his chin. Theakston came to investigate and when he saw Smith sitting on the floor he walked over and licked his face. Smith pushed the dog away, stood up and walked upstairs to his bedroom. He lay on the bed and closed his eyes. His head throbbed and the cut on his arm was starting to sting but within seconds he was asleep.

  When Smith woke up it was dark outside. The clock on the bedside table told him it was seven in the evening. He felt better than he had earlier although his head still throbbed. He got off the bed and walked downstairs to the living room. He switched on the television. The news had just started. Smith gasped as he saw Lucy’s face staring at him from the television screen. A photograph of Jimmy Fulton appeared and Smith could feel his heart beating faster and faster.

  “I’m going to get you, you bastard,” Smith said out loud, “I’m going to get you if it’s the last thing I do.”

  Whitton was right, Smith thought. He picked up his phone and dialled her number. It went straight to voice mail.

  “Whitton,” Smith said to the answer machine, “you were right as usual. I’m sorry.”

  The phone rang as soon as he had rang off.

  “Sir,” Whitton said.

  “You were right,” Smith said, “We need to catch Fulton. I’m going to make him pay for this.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Meet me at the station in half an hour,” Smith said, “and bring some food. My stomach is growling”

  Twenty minutes later, Smith walked through the doors to the station to be greeted by a look of utter disbelief from PC Baldwin behind the reception desk.

  “Good evening sir,” she said, “we didn’t expect you in for a while. How are you? I’m so sorry for what happened.”

  “Is Chalmers in?” Smith asked.

  “Everybody is sir,” Baldwin replied, “Chalmers has got everybody working round the clock.”

  Chalmers was in his office. Thompson and Bridge were sitting at his desk.

  “What are you doing here?” Chalmers asked, “You should be at home.”

  “I’m here to do what I get paid to do,” Smith said, “same as you. We need to catch this bastard.”

  Whitton appeared in the doorway behind Smith. She handed him a lunchbox.

  “Cheese sandwiches are all I could manage at such short notice sir,” she said.

  “Thanks Whitton,” Smith said, “you’re a star.”

  “You shouldn’t be here either,” Chalmers said to Whitton, “I thought you were still in the hospital. You look awful.”

  “Thanks sir,” Whitton said, “I was going crazy in there. We need to find Fulton before he disappears off the face of the earth.”

  “What’s the plan sir?” Smith said with a mouth full of cheese sandwich.

  “We’ve got bugger all to go on I’m afraid,” Chalmers sighed, “Fulton has to be the slipperiest bastard I’ve ever come across. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s left the country by now.”

  “Surely we’ve got the airports covered sir?” Bridge said.

  “Fulton’s not stupid Bridge,” Chalmers said, “he’s a master of disguise and he seems to have access to limitless funds. Do you know how easy it is to get hold of a fake passport these days?”

  “Where do we start then?” Bridge asked.

  “I think he’s gone too,” Thompson said, “we’ll never see him again.”

  “That’s very helpful Thompson,” Smith said, “do you have anything useful to say?”

  “I’m just saying what I think,” Thompson argued.

  “Do any of you have anything constructive to add?” Chalmers was clearly becoming irritated.

  “Has he tried to contact you at all sir,” Bridge asked Smith.

  “No,” Smith replied, “Why would he?”

  “I think he will sir.”

  “But why?”

  “Because in the past he always seemed to enjoy seeing the reaction to his actions. It fits his pattern. I’m almost sure he’ll try to contact you.”

  “What are you getting at Bridge?” Chalmers said.

  “I think I’ve come up with a way to trace his calls,” Bridge said.

  “But he always gets rid of the sim cards,” Smith said, “You said it was impossible to tra
ce the phone afterwards.”

  “It is,” Bridge said, “if he’s destroyed the card but not if it’s still in the phone.”

  “I still don’t get it Bridge,” Smith said.

  “I’ve been doing some research and I saw this one case where the FBI caught a dangerous terrorist by using his mobile phone signal.”

  “This is all a bit far fetched Bridge,” Chalmers said, “how does all of this work?”

  “Mobile phones can only be used where there is sufficient coverage. There are certain places in the countryside for example where the phone masts are too far away to give out a signal. There are hundreds of cell phone masts in this country and every phone that is used has to connect wirelessly to one of these masts and then they are connected to the person they are calling. Every call is recorded and therefore it can be traced to a distance near to the corresponding mast. We can’t pinpoint where the call is coming from but we can narrow it down to an area of roughly three hundred square metres. If more than one mast picks up the same signal then that area is reduced even further.”

  “This is all very well Bridge,” Smith said, “but you’ve already said that if Fulton destroys his sim card then there’s nothing we can do.”

  “That’s why we’ll monitor your mobile phone all the time sir,” Bridge smiled, “that’s what the FBI did in America. We can have your phone linked up the whole time. That way, even if Fulton destroys his sim card afterwards it will be too late. We’ll have already pinpointed his position.”

  “Lets get this thing started then,” Chalmers said, “it all sounds like a load of bollocks to me but Bridge seems to know what he’s talking about and we have nothing else to go on.”

  “I’ll make a few phone calls then,” Bridge said, “and I’ll need your authorisation for this sir,” he looked at Smith.

  “Just do whatever you need to do Bridge,” Smith said, “and let’s hope you’re right about Fulton wanting to contact me.”

  SEVENTY THREE

  OLD OAK HOTEL

  The phone call came three hours later. Smith’s phone was being permanently monitored by his service provider. Smith took out the phone and looked at the screen. It was a number he did not recognise. His heart started to beat faster. This has to be him, he thought, who else would phone him so late? He answered the phone on the sixth ring.