“Give me half an hour,” he said, “I’ve got a feeling I’m going to regret this.”
“Probably,” Johnson said.
He rang off.
As Smith drove back he thought once again about Jimmy Fulton and what had happened earlier in the year. What had started as a suicide in one of York’s upmarket hotels had spiralled into the worst killing sprees in the history of the York police department. Fulton had slit the throat of Smith’s girlfriend while he and the rest of the department were looking for Smith’s colleague, DC Erica Whitton. She had been drugged and held captive in a disused warehouse on an old industrial estate. Later on, Smith had managed to catch Fulton and an armed officer had shot him dead.
Smith reached the outskirts of the city. The past six weeks had been the hardest in his twenty eight years. His days had been spent roaming the moors around Danby and his nights were spent drinking to forget. He had no family and very few friends. Even his work colleagues had become weary of his behaviour. As the days dragged on and on, Smith knew he had to make a decision; he could not carry on like this. That decision became harder and harder to make with every day and every empty bottle.
He parked his car outside the supermarket where he usually bought his whisky. He remembered that he only had half a bottle of Jack Daniels left at home. He stopped the engine and took off the seat belt. He looked over at Theakston who was still sleeping on the passenger seat.
“Maybe I shouldn’t drink tonight boy,” he said to the dog.
He started the engine again and drove off in the direction of the police station. Theakston was starting to stir. Smith parked the car outside the station and stopped the engine. It had been more than four weeks since he had last parked there. He had come to collect some personal belongings. He had been so drunk that he had not even made it to his office. Detective Inspector Bob Chalmers had taken him aside and told him in no uncertain terms that if he carried on like this, his career was over. He had put Smith in a taxi and told him not to come back until he had sorted himself out. That day seemed like years ago now. He got out of the car and looked around the car park. DS Thompson’s black Audi was parked in its usual place close to the entrance. Superintendant Jeremy Smyth’s racing green Jaguar was nowhere to be seen. Smith sighed in relief; he did not want to bump into the public school buffoon today.
Smith walked up to the entrance of the station and opened the door. As he went inside a wave of nausea engulfed him. He had to breathe in deeply to avoid the embarrassment of throwing up in the reception area. He noticed that PC Baldwin was staring at him from behind the desk. Nothing has really changed, he thought as he approached the desk.
“Afternoon Baldwin,” Smith said, “I’m here to see a friend of mine. Paul Johnson. He’s been arrested for murder. Bit of a mistake I’m afraid. Do you know where he is?”
“Are you back at work again sir?” Baldwin asked, “We’ve all missed you.”
Baldwin was one of the few police officers that Smith actually liked.
“No Baldwin,” he said, “I’m not back at work. I don’t know if I ever will be. Like I said, I’m just here to see a friend of mine. Could you please tell me where he is?”
“Thompson brought him in sir,” she replied, “he’s in holding cell four. I still can’t believe he killed that man.”
“He reckons he didn’t do it,” Smith said, “he asked me to come and see him. Thanks Baldwin.”
Smith walked down the corridor towards the holding cells. He hoped he would not bump into any of his colleagues while he was here. He did not feel like explaining to them what he had been doing all this time. He was here for one reason only. Paul Johnson had been a good friend and colleague who had helped him out with many investigations.
“The prodigal son has returned.”
Smith’s heart sank. DS Thompson was the last person he wanted to bump into. Thompson and Smith had clashed heads on more than one occasion.
“I thought you were still on loony leave,” Thompson said.
“How’s the wife Thompson?” Smith asked.
Thompson’s rocky relationship with his wife was a running joke at the station.
“We’re very happy at the moment,” Thompson replied.
“It won’t last,” Smith said, “I’m here to see The Ghoul.”
“He’s going down,” Thompson said smugly, “we’ve got so much evidence it seems as if he wanted to get caught.”
“What happened?” Smith asked but instantly regretted it.
“Never mind,” he added, “I’ll ask him myself.”
TWO
Paul Johnson was slumped on the uncomfortable bed in holding cell four. He had his head in his hands. Smith sat down opposite him in one of the two chairs in the room.
“You’ve got yourself in a bit of a mess,” Smith said.
Johnson looked up. He looked like he had not slept in a few days.
“You look like shit Smith,” Johnson said, “Jack Daniels has left his mark.”
“You’re not such a pretty sight yourself. How the hell did you get yourself into this?”
“Why don’t you answer your phone?” Johnson asked, “I’ve been in here since Saturday night.”
“My phone only seems to bring bad news,” Smith sighed, “anyway, I’m on sick leave. I’m not on the force anymore.”
“I didn’t do it you know,” Johnson looked Smith in the eyes, “like I said, it all comes down to an unfortunate series of events.”
“What exactly didn’t you do?” Smith asked, “I still don’t know what this is all about. Who’s dead?”
“Don’t you watch the news?” Johnson snarled, “There’s been nothing else on it since this all happened. They’ve even come close to hinting who their main suspect is. I don’t like it when the media get involved.”
“I don’t watch the news,” Smith said, “and I don’t read the papers after what happened in March. I get all the news I need from the weather report. Do you want to fill in the gaps?”
“Late on Friday night I got a call about a disturbance in one of my student houses.”
“Student houses?” Smith said.
“That’s right. As you know, I like to play the stock exchange. Pathology pays ok but I’m always on the lookout for ways to earn a bit of extra cash. The stock exchange is not what it used to be what with the recession and everything so I decided to find something a bit steadier.”
“What has this got to do with the murder?” Smith asked.
“I’m getting to that,” Johnson replied, “Property is the way to go in the long run and when I bought the properties it was a win-win situation. Buyers market and lowest interest rate in donkey’s years. I bought two houses, converted them into student accommodation and I haven’t looked back. The rent I get more than covers the mortgages and in twenty years time, I have a very nice little pension that cost me nothing.”
“Very clever,” Smith said.
“Or that’s what I thought,” Johnson continued, “it seemed so simple. Rent to students and sit back and watch my assets grow in value. That was before I realised what animals these students can be. I didn’t realise I had to take into account the wild parties, damage to property, complaints from the neighbours, rental arrears. Being a landlord isn’t what I thought it would be.”
“So what happened?” Smith asked.
“Last Friday night I got a call from somebody complaining about a disturbance at one of the houses. Obviously, it being a Friday night I’d let my hair down a bit if you know what I mean. It’d been a particularly rough week.”
“How much had you had to drink?” Smith asked.
“A little more than usual,” Johnson smiled.
“How much is that? I don’t think I’ve ever met anybody who can drink as much as you can.”
“Somewhere between fifteen and twenty beers,” Johnson said, “I can’t be exactly sure. Looking back, I wish I hadn’t answered the phone.”
“What happened then?”
&n
bsp; “Is this a formal interview?” Johnson asked, “I’ve been interrogated non stop since they brought me in.”
“I told you,” Smith said, “I’m not a policeman anymore. This is just two old friends having a chat.”
“I phoned a taxi and went to see what all the fuss was about.”
“Then what happened?”
“When I got to the house, everything was quiet.”
“What time was this?” Smith asked.
“Around midnight,” Johnson replied, “I have a set of keys for the place. I’m not supposed to go in without prior warning but I thought, what the hell, it was midnight and I wasn’t about to phone to ask permission to enter my own house. I wish I had done now though.”
“What did you do then?”
“I opened the front door and went inside. I’ve told this story a hundred times.”
“I just want to get a picture of what happened,” Smith said, “go on.”
“The house was in darkness. It’s not quite the end of the summer semester but some of the students have already finished writing exams and have buggered off to god knows where for the holidays. When I was a student we worked all bloody year round.”
“Go on,” Smith insisted.
“I switched on the light but the bulb seemed to have blown because it didn’t seem to work. I know the house pretty well; I was the one that renovated it, so I walked through to the kitchen in the dark. The kitchen light didn’t seem to be working either. That’s when I realised the bloody students hadn’t put any electricity in the meter. I put in a prepaid meter so I wouldn’t get lumbered with huge bills.”
“So you walked through to the kitchen,” Smith said, “then what?”
“The kitchen smelled funny,” Johnson said, “it was a familiar smell but I couldn’t quite place it at the time. From the meagre light that there was I could make out a huge pile of dirty dishes in the sink. These students are so lazy. There was something sticking out from the draining board. When I moved closer I saw that it was a bread knife. It was sticking out blade first. Looking back, it was the most stupid thing I’ve ever done but I picked the knife up by the handle and put it in the sink.”
“Then what?” Smith asked.
“Seeing that the house was quiet, I left the house and locked the door behind me.”
Smith looked at his watch.
“Do you have somewhere you’d rather be?” Johnson said. He was obviously annoyed.
“My dogs in the car,” Smith replied, “you still haven’t told me why they brought you in.”
“I went home and went straight to bed. I slept for maybe six or seven hours. I was woken up by two of your uniformed friends. They told me there had been an incident at one of my houses. Obviously, I was quite pissed off after the wasted trip the night before so I wasn’t exactly what you would call cooperative.”
“Incident?” Smith said.
“One of my tenants was dead. He’d had his throat slashed.”
Smith had a sudden flashback to Lucy Maclean lying on his bathroom floor with a gaping wound in her neck.
“As I’m the landlord,” Johnson continued, “they thought I should know. One of the other students had come home at three in the morning and found the man on the floor in the kitchen.”
“Don’t tell me he was killed with a bread knife?” Smith said.
“Looks like it,” Johnson said, “I didn’t do this.”
“I know,” Smith said, “I believe you.”
“Everything else seems like a blur. The next thing, I’m here at the station. I made the mistake of telling Thompson about the phone call in the middle of the night and how I went to the house to check everything out. Then I was charged with murder.”
“They can’t just charge you without evidence,” Smith said.
“They’ve got evidence,” Johnson said, “They’ve got more evidence than they need. They’ve spoken to all of the neighbours and the people who share the house. Two of the students are away but the other two are staying on for the summer. Nobody seems to have phoned about a disturbance. My fingerprints are on the murder weapon and to top it all off, I walked through a pool of blood in the kitchen. My shoe prints are all over the place. I must have walked right past the body. Like I said, a most unfortunate series of events.”
“This is bad,” Smith said, “this is very bad. What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to do your job. Find out what really happened.”
“I told you,” Smith said, “I’m no longer a police detective.”
“You’ll let me go to jail for something I didn’t do?”
“I’m not the only policeman in York,” Smith argued, “if you didn’t do this they’ll soon realise.”
Johnson stood up.
“I’ve been charged with murder Jason,” he said, “you know as well as I do, the evidence will put me away.”
“It’s all circumstantial,” Smith insisted, “there’s no motive. Why would a landlord want to kill one of his tenants?”
“This is where it gets even better,” Johnson said, “they have two witnesses that saw me arguing with the dead student two days before he was killed. He owed me four months rent. I threatened to evict him.”
“That’s still no motive for murder,” Smith said.
“The smug bastard stood there and told me to my face that I knew as well as he did that it was almost impossible to evict someone these days. He was right too. Tenants have much more rights that landlords do. I lost it. I told him to watch his back and stormed out of the house.”
“Why the hell did you say that?” Smith asked.
“I was angry,” Johnson replied, “that jumped up student had just set a precedent in my house. The other students now knew they could pretty much get away without paying rent. They think I killed him Smith. I need your help.”
Smith stood up.
“I told you,” he said, “I’m off the force. You’ll have to speak to somebody else. There’s no way I can go back.”
He turned round and walked out of the holding cell.
When Smith unlocked the door to his house and went inside he felt a sudden craving for a drink. He opened the cabinet next to the television and took out the bottle of Jack Daniels. There was more left in the bottle than he thought. He unscrewed the cap and took a long swig out of the bottle. Theakston walked to the kitchen and stood staring at his food bowl. Smith put the bottle on the coffee table, walked to the kitchen and filled the dog bowl with food. He realised that he had not eaten anything all day. The whisky was already making him feel giddy. He opened the freezer, took out a frozen lasagne and turned the oven on. While the oven was heating up he went back to the living room, sat on the sofa and closed his eyes. I have to make a decision, he thought, I can’t carry on like this. In four days I have to either wipe out seven years of my life or get back to work. I’m in the worst kind of limbo at the moment. He was woken from his thoughts by the alarm on the oven telling him the temperature was right to cook the lasagne. He took another long drink from the whisky bottle and walked back to the kitchen.
“I have to make up my mind boy,” Smith said to Theakston, “what would you do?”
He put the lasagne in the oven and set the timer for thirty minutes.
While he was waiting for the lasagne to cook, Smith went upstairs and turned on the shower. He shuddered as he remembered the night he had found Lucy dead on the floor of the bathroom with her throat cut open. The blood had covered the tiles. He stepped under the shower and felt the jets of water pound his head. Maybe I should sell the house and start a new life somewhere else, he thought, somewhere with no memories. He had lived in the house for eleven years. When his Gran had died, she had left the house to him.
“Too many memories,” he said out loud as he turned off the shower and dried himself. He thought of a song he had heard. ‘Too many memories. Things live here no eyes can see.’ He could not remember the name of the song. He got dressed and went back downstairs. The alarm
from the kitchen told him the lasagne was ready.
For the first time in days, Smith felt hungry; he finished the lasagne in less than five minutes. Theakston looked on disapprovingly as Smith finished everything on the plate. He put the plate in the sink and went to the living room. Without knowing why, he switched on the television. The news was about to start. He thought about turning it off but something made him change his mind. The main story was about mail workers threatening to strike after hearing the news of a Royal Mail sell off. Smith sighed; there was no mention of the dead student. The next item was about how South Africa was not ready to host the upcoming Football World Cup. Smith took a sip of whisky and smiled. They always say that, he thought. Theakston jumped up on the sofa and flopped on Smith’s lap. Smith gasped when he saw a colour photograph of The Ghoul on the television screen. Underneath the photograph was the caption ‘Landlord charged with murder of student.’ Smith forced himself to watch as the newsreader spoke about how The Ghoul had threatened the student only days before he was killed and how the police had enough evidence to convict. There followed a short article regarding how unscrupulous landlords had been exploiting students for years in the UK. Smith felt a knot in his stomach. He had known The Ghoul for years. He was surely going to be found guilty unless some new evidence came to light. Smith finished what was left in the bottle and lay back on the sofa. Maybe The Ghoul is guilty, he thought but instantly dismissed the thought. He closed his eyes and was asleep in seconds.
THREE
Tuesday 25 May 2010
Smith woke with a start. Theakston was barking at the television. There was a programme on about how to train unruly dogs. Smith rubbed his eyes and looked at the clock above the fireplace. It was seven in the morning. He had slept on the sofa the whole night. His mouth was incredibly dry. He scowled at the empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the coffee table. I can’t go on like this, he thought as he went upstairs to the bathroom. He turned on the water, undressed and got in the shower. The water was cold. He turned the hot water tap until it was fully turned but it did not help. He quickly washed himself in the cold water and turned the water off. He tried the hot water in the basin but that was also cold. The water heater must be broken, he thought as he dried himself off. He got dressed and went downstairs to fetch a stepladder to climb into the attic. He checked the water heater. It was cold. He sighed and went downstairs to make some coffee. He took out a local telephone directory and found a company that specialised in water heaters. He dialled the number but there was no answer. He realised it was still too early. He made the coffee and looked out of the kitchen window. The sun was already beating down and there were no clouds in the sky. He opened the kitchen door and took his coffee outside to the garden. He sat on the garden chair and watched a house sparrow chasing a ladybird through the air. The ladybird lost the race and was gulped down by the sparrow. Smith took a sip of coffee and sighed. He did not feel like driving to Danby today. He would change his routine; today would be different. He would not take his usual walk along the river. He would not bump into the slightly odd old lady who walked her two border collies every day. Smith went back inside, locked the kitchen door and tried the number of the water heater company again. There was still no answer. These people don’t want to do business, he thought. He picked up his car keys and left the house.
The York Trilogy: The First 3 DS Jason Smith Detective novels Page 60
