“Smith,” he said.
He hoped his voice did not give away his agitation.
There was silence on the other end.
“Who is this?” Smith asked.
“Can you see what it is yet?” the voice said.
“What?” Smith looked at Bridge and gave him the thumbs up.
Bridge immediately phoned Smith’s service provider.
“Can you see what it is yet?” The voice said again. “The picture is complete. You must be able to see what it is now.”
“I’m going to get you, you bastard.” Smith said but the phone had gone dead.
Bridge was still busy talking to Smith’s service provider on his phone.
“We’ve got him,” Bridge said eventually, “they’re sending through the information as we speak.”
He rushed to Chalmers’ computer and checked the e mails. An e mail was coming through. After what seemed like forever he opened the attachment and printed the document
“Two of their masts picked up Fulton’s signal,” he said.
He took the map he had printed and placed it on Chalmers’ desk.
“Fulton is there somewhere,” he pointed to the highlighted areas on the map.
“He’s somewhere between St Johns and Foss Bank,” Chalmers said, “find out what’s there. Hotels, pubs restaurants, anything.”
“He could have been driving sir,” Thompson suggested, “He could be miles away by now.”
“He wasn’t driving,” Bridge said, “they said the signal was very strong. He was standing still.”
“There’s a hotel on Monkgate,” Whitton said, “The Old Oak. Fulton seems to like his hotels.”
Smith stood up and walked towards the door.
“Where are you going?” Chalmers asked.
“To the Old Oak,” Smith replied, “I’m going to catch that bastard.”
“Not yet,” Chalmers said, “we don’t even know if he’s even at the Old Oak.”
“Let’s go and find out then,” Smith was becoming agitated.
“Smith,” Chalmers said calmly, “I think it might be a good idea if you stepped back from this one. Your head’s not right at the moment. You’re too personally involved.”
Smith stared at Chalmers.
“I’m a detective sergeant sir,” he said, “Let me do my job. Let’s go before it’s too late.”
“I’m going to mobilise an armed unit first,” Chalmers said, “and then we can get cracking. This is going to be done by the book Smith. No heroics. If Fulton is there we need to bring him in not beat the living shit out of him.”
Smith did not say a word.
“Have you got that Smith?” Chalmers asked.
“Loud and clear sir,” Smith said, “let’s get moving.”
Fifteen minutes later, Smith was driving towards The Old Oak Hotel. Whitton was sitting next to him in the passenger seat. Chalmers, Bridge, Thompson and the armed unit had taken a different route. Smith and Whitton said nothing as they drove. The vision of Lucy lying on the bathroom floor covered in blood was still fresh in Smith’s memory. Why did I have to drag Lucy into all of this? Smith thought as he drove. He could feel the anger welling up inside him. He recalled Chalmers’ words, ‘this is going to be done by the book.’ Smith knew that would be impossible this time. If Fulton was at the Old Oak, the only way he would be brought in would be in a body bag. Smith felt like he had nothing left. Lucy was dead and he no longer cared what happened to him.
“What are you thinking about?” Whitton interrupted his thoughts.
“Theakston,” Smith lied, “he tried to warn me that something was wrong. I should have listened to him.”
“If Fulton’s at The Old Oak,” Whitton said, “what are you going to do? I know you. You won’t just arrest him will you?”
Smith glared at her.
“Fulton has ruined my life,” he said, “What do you expect me to do?”
“Just think sir,” Whitton said, “you could lose everything. You won’t do anything stupid will you?”
“I have already lost everything Whitton,” Smith said, “what would you do?”
“I’d see him rot in jail for the rest of his life,” Whitton replied, “that would be the worst punishment.”
Smith’s phone vibrated in his pocket.
“What now?” Smith said.
He took out the phone and answered it.
“Well done Jason,” the voice said, “you’re smarter than I thought. I see you have my old friend Erica in the car with you too. How’s she feeling? She’s a tough cookie that one.”
“I’m coming for you, you bastard,” Smith said but the phone had gone dead.
Smith stopped the car and looked around.
“Fulton can see us,” he said to Whitton, “he must be close by.”
He got out of the car and looked at the houses on each side of the road. The Old Oak was three hundred metres further up the road.
“He’s not at The Old Oak,” Smith said, “he’s somewhere near. I can feel it.”
Smith’s phone rang again. It was Chalmers.
“Where the hell are you?” Chalmers barked. “We’re all set to go in The Old Oak.”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” Smith said.
He rang off.
Smith looked at the houses again. He’s somewhere around here, he thought.
“There,” he said to Whitton.
“What sir,” Whitton said.
“Did you see that? I saw something move upstairs in that house.”
He pointed to a red face brick house with a black roof.
“The curtains moved,” he said, “I’m sure of it.”
“We should let Chalmers know what you’re doing,” Whitton said, “You don’t want to go in there by yourself.”
“I do,” Smith said and walked towards the house.
“Sir,” Whitton cried,” don’t do this.”
It was no use. Smith had already made up his mind. He reached the front door. The blood was pounding in his temples. He tried the door handle. The door was not locked. His muscles tensed as he slowly turned the handle. The door opened with a creak. Smith went inside. The house was in total darkness. Fulton knows I’m here, Smith thought as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark. He listened carefully but he could hear nothing. Maybe I was wrong, he thought, maybe I didn’t see anything after all. He heard a sound from upstairs. It sounded like a door closing. Smith found the staircase and slowly walked up the stairs. He stopped on every step and listened. He could hear his heart pounding in his ears. When he reached the top of the stairs, he stopped and looked around. There were four rooms. He knew that these were probably three bedrooms and a bathroom. All of the doors to the rooms were open apart from one. He walked up to the door that was closed and stopped. He carefully put his ear to the door and listened. Nothing. He put his hand on the handle and slowly turned it. He braced himself for an attack. He was surprised that he did not feel the least bit scared. He could see Lucy’s face in his head. One blue eye and one green one. He opened the door and stood in the doorway. He stood there for what seemed like hours. He peered inside the room and found the light switch. With one swift movement he rushed into the room and switched on the lights. There was nobody in the room and the curtains were open. Smith sighed and turned to walk back out of the room. Fulton was standing in the door way. He was pointing a gun at Smith’s head.
“Sit down on the bed Jason,” Fulton said.
He was not wearing a disguise. His black eyes bored into Smith’s skull.
“Sit on the bed,” Fulton said again, “we need to talk.”
“You’re a dead man Fulton,” Smith said.
He cautiously sat down on the bed, keeping his eyes on Fulton the whole time.
“You’re the one with a gun pointed at his head,” Fulton laughed a sinister laugh, “do you know what a boomerang is?”
“Of course I know what a fucking boomerang is,” Smith snarled.
“
Your father killed my brother,” Fulton said.
“My father saved your brother’s life.” Smith said.
“But then he got my brother killed. He should have kept his mouth shut.”
“Your brother is still alive,” Smith said, “I met him myself.”
“I thought he was dead,” Fulton sighed, “for forty years I thought my own brother was dead. Forty years is a long time.”
“You killed more people even after you found out he was still alive,” Smith said.
“I had to finish it. Can’t you see that? Did you like the way I got John to pretend to be me and give himself up? You thought you’d got me didn’t you? It was brilliant. John was a bit reluctant at first but he always did do what his big brother told him to do.”
“Why Lucy?” Smith said.
“Hurts like hell doesn’t it Jason? Losing someone you love. One minute you’re on the top of the world and then Boom. Boomerang. Your father started all of this. The boomerang always comes back in one way or another.”
“You didn’t have to kill Lucy,” Smith could feel his face reddening.
“Pretty thing,” Fulton said, “unusual eyes.”
Smith stood up. He wanted to kill Fulton with his bare hands. Fulton cocked the gun.
“Sit down Jason,” Fulton said, “I’m not afraid to kill, as you well know.”
Smith moved a step closer.
“Sit down,” Fulton repeated, louder this time, “I mean it. I will shoot you.”
“Shoot me then,” Smith said, “I don’t give a fuck.”
He moved another step closer.
Fulton stepped back. He still had the gun pointed at Smith’s head.
“Last warning detective,” Fulton said, “sit down on the bed.”
“Go to hell Fulton,” Smith screamed.
He lunged at Fulton. Fulton’s black eyes stared at him in disbelief. Smith heard the loud crack of the gun shot and collapsed on the floor.
SEVENTY FOUR
Sunday 28 March 2010
BOOMERANG
When Smith thought back to what had happened in that house just over a week before it did not seem real. Fulton had pointed a gun at his head, Smith had stood up and lunged at him and then he had heard a gunshot. When Smith had got up from the floor Fulton was lying there with his black eyes wide open. There was a hole in the middle of his forehead and blood was flowing out of it. Smith had looked around the room and saw the hole in the window where the bullet had come through. Jimmy Fulton was dead.
When Smith had gone into the house by himself, Whitton had called Chalmers and told him what was happening. Chalmers and the armed unit were outside the house in five minutes. With the light on in the bedroom and the curtains drawn Fulton had been clearly visible from the street outside. The police marksman had Fulton in his sights the whole time. When Smith had stood up and approached Fulton the marksman had fired the shot. It had gone straight through the window and hit Fulton in the forehead. Smith had fallen to the floor in an instinctive reaction.
Smith threw the ball for Theakston. The park was unusually busy but the weather was warming up and more and more people were spending time outside. Theakston sprinted off in chase. Smith thought about what he was going to do. He had been put on sick leave immediately after the incident with Fulton in the house. Maybe he could carry on with the law degree he had started before he became a policeman but the thought appalled him. I’m a police detective, he thought, that’s what I do. Theakston returned with the ball and dropped it at Smith’s feet. Smith picked it up and threw it as far as he could. He walked along the path by the lake. Two ducks were being followed by at least eight ducklings. Spring was definitely here, Smith thought. There had been an impressive turnout at Lucy’s funeral earlier in the week. Even though she was new to York almost a hundred people had gathered to show their respects. Most of the York police department had been there. Smith stopped as something landed by his feet. He looked down and saw it was a boomerang. A small child was staring at him about fifty metres away. Smith looked at the boomerang and bent down to pick it up. He took aim and threw it into the distance. It did not come back.
‘LADYBIRD, LADYBIRD FLY AWAY HOME.
YOUR HOUSE IS ON FIRE AND YOUR CHILDREN ARE GONE.’
PREFACE
In the dream there are always more of them; their faces distorted into one. Grimaces of malice and ecstasy. Grotesque bodies moving to the sound of the music that is always playing. Their eyes are always blurred but somewhere in the chaos of the thrusting and writhing are a pair of eyes so vile and menacing that it is always at this point that she wakes up. They are her eyes; blue with a greenish tint.
She wakes up and shivers. She looks over at the table next to the bed. The book is still there. A faded pencil sketch of a ladybird adorns the cover. She wipes a bead of sweat from her brow and turns on the light. The book is her life; her bible. She picks up the book and it falls open at the usual page. In the book there are four of them. She reads the words again. The familiar words start to pull her down into the depths of despair but somehow, something feels different today. She is ready.
ONE
Monday 24 May 2010
The sun shone over Danby Moor. A grouse began its clumsy take off. It reached the appropriate speed, frantically flapped its small wings and left the moorland behind. It landed fifty metres away and darted off into the thick heather. The clouds were forming in the north east and from the way they were quickly joining together, Jason Smith knew that rain was on the way. The reason for the grouse’s hasty departure emerged from the heather.
“Come on boy,” Smith smiled at the Bull Terrier, “it’s going to rain again. Let’s get back to the car.”
Smith walked quickly along the well worn path in the direction of the Moors Centre. Theakston, his dog, had to run to keep up.
They reached the car just in time. The first drops of a summer rain shower landed on the windscreen. Theakston lay down on the passenger seat and fell asleep almost immediately. Smith turned on the ignition and switched the car radio on. The weather forecast promised sunshine with intermittent showers. He sat back in the seat and closed his eyes. He had driven the road from York to Danby almost every day in the past six weeks. It was a place he could come to think and, more importantly, it was a place he could come to forget.
Smith’s phone vibrated in his pocket. It was the fifth time it had done so that day and Smith ignored it for the fifth time. He was coming to the end of his sick leave. In four days he would have to make a decision. He had two choices and neither of them particularly appealed to him. He could resign or he could go back to what he had done for the past seven years; he could return to his job as detective sergeant in the York police department. His phone vibrated again. This time, Smith took out the phone and looked at the screen. The caller was an old friend of Smith’s, Paul Johnson. He was a brilliant pathologist also know as The Ghoul due to his macabre sense of humour. Smith sighed and put the phone back in his pocket. Theakston was now snoring loudly on the passenger seat. Smith drove out of the Moors Centre car park.
As he drove back to York, Smith thought again about what had happened two months earlier. His girlfriend had been killed by a murderer Smith had been trying to catch. He was the first serial killer Smith had ever encountered. Jimmy Fulton had come to York and in the space of three weeks had succeeded in killing nine people in an act of revenge for something Smith’s father had done forty years before. Lucy Maclean had been Fulton’s last victim. The image of Lucy, lying on the floor of his bathroom with her throat slit open was still very fresh in Smith’s mind.
The phone vibrated again. This time Smith gave in and answered it.
“I’m on sick leave,” he snarled at Paul Johnson, “leave me alone.”
“I need your help,” Johnson said.
Smith did not reply.
“Are you still there?” Johnson asked.”
“I’m not a policeman anymore,” Smith insisted.
“
I’m in deep trouble,”
The Ghoul sounded very scared. Smith had never known The Ghoul to be scared of anything. Nothing seemed to bother him; for somebody who cut up dead bodies for a living he was always remarkably upbeat.
“What’s so important that you have to bother me while I’m on leave?” Smith asked even though he did not want to hear the answer.
“I’m in deep shit,” Johnson replied, “I’ve been arrested.”
“Arrested,” Smith repeated, “what did you do? Steal a body?”
“They’ve arrested me for murder.”
Smith did not know what to say.
“Murder?” he said eventually, “where are you?”
“Disneyland,” Johnson said, “where the hell do you think I am? They’ve arrested me for murder. I’m at the station. Your friend DS Thompson is about to charge me with murder.”
“What do you want me to do about it?” Smith said, “like I said, I’m not on the job anymore. I’m thinking of resigning.”
“Get a bloody grip Jason,” Johnson said, “let me put this in a way your stubborn Aussie brain can comprehend; I’ve been arrested for murder. I didn’t kill anybody so that means that somewhere out there on the streets of York is a killer and not to give you too much of a big head, you happen to be bloody good at catching killers.”
“I don’t know,” Smith sighed, “I don’t think I could go back. Too much has happened.”
“I need your help for Gods sake, “Johnson said, “They think I killed someone. They have evidence.”
“What evidence?”
“An unfortunate series of events,” Johnson said, “it happens sometimes. I didn’t do this Jason.”
The rain was beating down on the windscreen of Smith’s car. He turned on the windscreen wipers. He had just had new ones fitted. From the way that the rain fell straight down, Smith knew this would be a short downpour.
The York Trilogy: The First 3 DS Jason Smith Detective novels Page 59
