“The Ghoul said he had walked into the kitchen and approached the sink,” Smith said. “He said he did not see the body on the floor. Brian said he found the body next to the table. It was dark when The Ghoul walked in and I agree; it would have been hard to see it. I think The Ghoul is telling the truth.”
Smith parked his car outside Marlborough Villas. His old red Ford Sierra looked out of place amongst the sports cars and SUVs parked there.
“Look at this place,” Whitton said, “who could afford to live in a place like this?”
Marlborough Villas was a three storey stone building that afforded impressive views over the river Ouse. It was impeccably kept with nothing out of place.
“This is how the other half live,” Whitton added.
“Lucy left me a hundred million dollars,” Smith said.
“You’re kidding me sir,” Whitton said, “what are you still doing at work.”
“I only saw the e mail this morning. She left me everything.”
“Are you being serious?” Whitton was gobsmacked.
“Deadly serious Whitton. I told her lawyers I don’t want it. Money only makes you miserable.”
“You turned down a hundred million?” Whitton shook her head in disbelief. “You could have bought this whole street.”
“Its only money Whitton. Besides, it wouldn’t have felt right. Let’s have a word with Toby’s parents shall we. What was his surname again?”
“Philips,” Whitton said, “Toby Philips. I hate this part of the job.”
They walked up the long path to the house and came to an impressive front door. It must have been at least three metres high. Smith rang the bell. There was no answer. He rang again. The door was opened by a woman in her late thirties. She was wearing a dressing gown and she had a nice figure. She looked like she had been crying and Smith was sure he could smell alcohol on her breath.
“Mrs Philips,” he said, “we’re from the police. We’re so sorry about Toby.”
“At least somebody is,” she said, “do you want to come in?”
“Thanks,” Smith said, “after you Whitton.”
They followed Mrs Philips inside. She led them down a long wide corridor. Various animal skins hung from the walls. They came to a huge reception room. More animal skins decorated the floor.
“Take a seat,” Mrs Philips said, “would you like something to drink? I’m going to have something.”
“No thank you,” Smith said.
He sat on a leather arm chair opposite a large marble fireplace. Above the fireplace on the wall was the head of an animal Smith had never seen before. It looked like a large deer.
“Kudu,” Mrs Philips saw Smith staring at it, “female. My loving husband likes to kill things.”
She left the room.
“I told you,” Smith said to Whitton.
“Told me what?” Whitton asked.
“That money only makes you miserable.”
Mrs Philips returned with a bottle of white wine and a single glass. She sat down next to Whitton.
“You don’t mind do you?” she asked as she poured the wine, “I’m in a bit of a state at the moment. Do you know that my boy has been dead for four days now and the only visitors I’ve had have been the police. Isn’t that quite sad?”
“I’m sorry Mrs Philips,” Smith said. He did not know what else to say.
“What about your family?” Whitton suggested.
“What family?” Mrs Philips took a long sip of her wine, “I left my family behind when I married Barry. That was one of the conditions and his family are so cold that you have to wear gloves when you shake their hands.”
She laughed and a mild coughing fit ensued. Whitton stared at Smith.
“Is your husband at home?” Smith asked.
“Barry,” she laughed, “It’ll take more than the murder of his only son to keep him away from the blasted stock exchange. I’ll be very surprised if he shows up at the funeral. Toby was such a big disappointment to him. Barry wanted him to follow him into the glorious world of stocks and shares but Toby wasn’t interested. He was more into politics and that sort of thing.”
“When will your husband be back?” Smith asked.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Mrs Philips looked like she was about to cry, “The funeral is on Thursday. If you’re lucky you may catch him there but then again, you may not.”
“So he doesn’t stay here then?” Smith said.
“He does what he pleases. Always has done. I made the mistake of marrying the cruellest man I’d ever met. I’ve been paying for it ever since. He stays here when he has nothing better to do. Most of the time I’m stuck in here with only these dead beasts for company. Are you sure you won’t have a drink?”
“No thanks Mrs Philips,” Smith said, “when was the last time you saw Toby?”
“About a week ago. The cruellest of ironies is he was supposed to be here on Friday evening. I was going to cook him dinner. Barry was going to be here too.”
“What happened?” Smith asked.
“Barry happened,” she replied, “like he always does. He informed me at the last minute that he wouldn’t be joining us. He had some boy’s night out planned that he had forgotten about. Whores and strippers more like it. He said he didn’t want Toby coming round when he was not here.”
“Why not?” Smith asked.
“He thinks me and Toby have nothing better to do that to sit around talking rubbish about him. As is always the case, when Barry talks, I listen. So, Toby didn’t come and instead he was killed.”
She started to cry. Smith looked over at Whitton. Whitton looked back and shrugged her shoulders.
“Can I use your bathroom please?” Smith asked as an attempt at a distraction.
“Up the stairs,” Mrs Philips replied, “second door on the right.”
Smith quickly stood up and left the room. He walked up the stairs. The banister was teak and more animal skins hung on the walls.
This place is like an abattoir, Smith thought, who in their right mind has dead animals all over the house? He found the bathroom and locked the door behind him. When he was finished, he washed his hands in the most expensive looking basin he has ever seen. The taps were gold. Smith was sure they were pure gold. He suddenly remembered about his water heater and made a mental note to phone the heater specialists when he got home. He left the bathroom and walked past the other rooms. He glanced inside the nearest one. From the general décor Smith deduced that a woman slept in there. There was a dressing table in the corner with various creams and lotions on it. They looked very expensive. Everything in this house stinks of money, he thought. There was something strange about the room but Smith could not quite figure out what it was. It was clear that the room was being used. The bed was not made and there were a number of open books on the bed. Smith decided to have a look in the other rooms. The adjoining room appeared to be locked but the one next to it was open. He walked inside and gasped. There were even more animal skins and busts on the walls. The head of a huge warthog dominated the biggest wall in the room. On a desk next to the window hunting magazines were stacked in a neat pile. The bed was made in this room. This is the husband’s room, Smith thought, they sleep in separate rooms. Something caught his eye in the corner of the room. There was a waste paper basket on the floor. It was almost full of crumpled pieces of paper. What had caught Smith’s eye was something on one of the papers. It was something red. He looked closer and saw that it was a dead ladybird. Smith removed all of the papers from the basket and put them on the floor. Inside the basket were more than thirty dead ladybirds.
Smith quickly walked back down the stairs. He could hear his heartbeat. He walked back into the reception room.
“We’d really like to talk to your husband Mrs Philips,” he handed her one of his cards, “please ask him to phone me when you see him.”
“If I see him you mean,” Mrs Philips slurred.
Smith noticed that the bottle of win
e was empty. She stood up and stumbled out of the room. She returned with another bottle.
“Barry is going to kill me but here is his business card,” she said. She gave the card to Smith. “Rather phone him. I know he won’t phone you.”
“Thank you Mrs Philips,” Smith said, “come on Whitton, we have to go. Something has come up. We’ll see ourselves out Mrs Philips.”
He looked at her slumped on the chair with a bottle of wine in her hand and left the room.
“What’s the rush sir?” Whitton said as they drove away from the River Ouse.
“Brian said something strange when we spoke to him earlier,” Smith said, “something about ladybirds in the blood and on the body.”
“That’s right,” Whitton said, “what are you thinking?”
“While I was upstairs in the Philips’ house I had a quick look through the bedrooms.”
“You did what sir?”
“I was just curious Whitton. The first thing I found out is Mr and Mrs Philips aren’t exactly what you would call a happy couple.”
“Mrs Philips made that pretty clear sir,” Whitton said.
“They sleep in separate rooms,” Smith said, “and that’s not all. You wouldn’t believe what I found in the paper bin in Barry Philips’ room.”
“Surprise me sir.”
“Ladybirds Whitton,” Smith said, “a whole load of dead ladybirds.”
“What does this mean sir? What’s the significance of the ladybirds?”
“I don’t know Whitton,” Smith said, “but don’t you think it’s a bit more than a coincidence that dead ladybirds were found on a murder victim and then more are found at the home of the dead student’s father?”
“You think Barry Philips killed his own son?”
“I don’t think anything,” Smith said, “but I’ve got a gut feeling that The Ghoul just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. We need to find this Barry Philips and ask him a few questions about Friday night. At the last minute a dinner with his son is cancelled and Mrs Philips seemed to have no idea where her husband was that night. It all seems a bit suspicious if you ask me.”
“Where are we going now sir?” Whitton asked.
“I’m going to drop you off at the station and then I’m going to see if somebody in this city can fix my broken water heater.”
FOUR
Finding the house was easier than she had anticipated. Although most of the buildings in the terrace looked the same, this one stood out from the others. A row of guitars could be seen upstairs in one of the rooms and a large sticker covered half of the ground floor window: ‘Guitar lessons. Drake Whitlow. Beginners welcome.’ She had bought the guitar earlier that morning; a cheap, battered steel stringed acoustic. She had purposefully removed the top E string. She knocked on the door and waited. She could hear loud music coming from inside. She knocked again but there was still no answer. She panicked. What would happen if nobody answered the door? She thought. She noticed a doorbell on the wall next to the door and pressed it in for four seconds. She sighed as the music inside the house stopped and the door opened. A young man with long greasy hair stood in the doorway. He looked vaguely familiar.
“You must be Joan,” he said in a friendly tone, “good, I see you’ve brought your own guitar. It’s much better to learn on your own instrument.”
She could not stop herself from staring at him.
“Ok,” he said, “let’s get started.”
“Is anybody else here?” she said nervously.
“No,” Drake said, “it’s just the two of us.”
He noticed the worried look on her face.
“I’m quite harmless,” he smiled, “I’ve been teaching guitar since I was sixteen. That’s three years. I’ve taught a lot of you guys from the University. Is that where you saw the advert?”
“Sorry,” she said, “yes it is. There’s an advert in the student union bar. It’s just you can’t be too careful these days. There’s a lot of weirdos around.”
“I usually teach up in my room,” he said, “but if you prefer we can play downstairs instead. My parents won’t be home for a few hours.”
“Upstairs is fine,” she said immediately.
Her face seemed to have brightened somewhat.
She followed Drake upstairs to his room. There were five guitars lined up against the window. The walls were covered with posters of guitarists she had never heard of.
“First things first,” he said, “How long have you been playing? I just need to know where we can begin.”
“Not long,” she replied, “I can play a bit but I mostly just strum along. I want to learn a few songs.”
She took the guitar out of the case and put it on the bed. Drake picked it up and played an A minor chord. It sounded dreadful.
“Well,” he laughed, “she definitely needs tuning and I see the top E string is missing.”
“Does that make much of a difference?” she asked.
“Definitely,” he said, “but don’t worry, I’m sure I have another one around here somewhere. I always keep spares.”
She smiled as Drake opened a cupboard next to his bed and took out a pack of strings.
“Here we go,” he said, “top E string. The gauge looks about right.”
He put the rest of the packet back in the drawer.
“I’ll just put the string on for you then,” he said.
“I’ll do it,” she insisted, “I need to learn how to do it anyway. You can just tell me what to do.”
“Good idea,” Drake said.
He handed her the string.
“Be careful though,” he warned, “the top E string is the worst for cutting yourself on.”
She took the string and unwound it completely.
“Now thread it through the hole in the bridge,” Drake instructed.
She did as she was told.
“Do you have anything to drink?” she said.
“I’ll get us a couple of cokes,” Drake replied.
As soon as his back was turned, she yanked the string off the guitar and stood up. Drake did not even know what was happening. She stood directly behind him and put the guitar string around his neck just under the Adam’s apple. With one swift tug, she felt the .12 gauge string slice through Drake’s neck. The blood spurted out immediately and he fell to the floor. She let go of the string, picked up her guitar and put it back in the case. Drake was making low gurgling sounds on the floor of his room. She watched as the blood flow subsided and Drake stopped moving. She put her hand in her pocket, took out a handful of dead ladybirds and sprinkled them all over his dead body. She picked up the guitar case, walked down the stairs and left the house.
FIVE
“Where the hell is Smith?” Chalmers barked. He was sitting in his desk chewing on a raw carrot.
“He had to sort something out sir,” Whitton said.
“Sort what out?”
“He didn’t say,” Whitton lied.
“Well he’d better get back here soon,” Chalmers said, “first day back and he’s already AWOL.”
“Has anything happened sir?” Whitton asked.
“Another bloody cash machine robbery,” Chalmers said, “they hit the one in the high street opposite the MacDonalds. They’re getting brazen; they robbed it in broad daylight. We need everyone we can spare on this one. They need to be stopped.”
“What about the murder of the student sir?”
“As much as I hate to admit it Whitton,” Chalmers sighed, “it looks like our friend Paul Johnson is the one. All the evidence points to him and him alone.”
“Smith found something at the dead student’s parent’s house sir.”
Whitton told him about the ladybirds in the waste paper basket.
“I’m sorry Whitton,” Chalmers said, “but a few dead bugs do not qualify as evidence in a murder investigation. Have you spoken to this Barry Philips yet?”
“Not yet sir.”
“Good,” Chalmers
said, “Don’t. The last thing we need right now is police harassment charges being brought against us. The man has just lost a son for God’s sake. What was Smith thinking of?”
“But this Barry Philips sounds like a real nasty piece of work,” Whitton said, “he kills animals for fun.”
“Whitton,” Chalmers said, “I know of doctors, lawyers, even vets who like to shoot animals. It doesn’t mean they’re cold blooded murderers.”
“But sir.”
“Drop it Whitton,” Chalmers sounded quite cross, “get hold of Smith and if he can drag himself away from what it is that’s so important, tell him we have a gang of very well organised cash machine robbers out there and we need him back at the station.”
“Looking for me?” Smith poked his head round the door. “Sorry, my water heater is broken and I needed to get it fixed. The heater company can only come tomorrow though.”
“You sort that kind of thing out in your own time,” Chalmers said, “Whitton informs me you have a thing for ladybirds.”
“We need to speak to Toby Philip’s father as soon as possible sir,” Smith said.
“Absolutely not,” Chalmers said, “from this minute on, you and Whitton are helping Thompson with the cash machine gang. The Super is having a fit. The press are all over him. They want to know why we’re not doing anything about a gang that blatantly robs ATM machines.”
“I hate the press,” Smith said, “bunch of leeches.”
“Anyway,” Chalmers said, “I want you and Whitton to get down to the Halifax bank opposite the MacDonalds. These scumbags have to be stopped.”
“But sir,” Smith said.
“Just do what I say for once Smith.”
Smith was about to argue but he changed his mind. It was no use. He walked off down the corridor. Whitton walked quickly after him.
“Those ladybirds are important Whitton,” Smith said as they drove to the bank, “I can feel it. The Ghoul didn’t do this.”
“I believe you sir,” Whitton said, “but the DI will have our necks if we pursue it any further. Where are you going sir? The banks in the other direction.”
Smith had turned left and was heading away from the city centre.
The York Trilogy: The First 3 DS Jason Smith Detective novels Page 62
