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

by Stewart Giles

  “I just need to make a quick stop at the forensics building,” he said, “it won’t take long.”

  You’re playing with fire sir,” Whitton sighed.

  Smith parked outside the new forensics building and turned off the engine.

  “You can wait in the car if you want Whitton,” he said, “I won’t be long.”

  “I must be mad,” Whitton said.

  She opened the car door and got out.

  Grant Webber was typing a report in his office when Smith and Whitton walked in. He did not look particularly pleased to see them. Webber was York’s most senior forensics technician. He was brilliant at his job but his social skills left a lot to be desired.

  “Morning Webber,” Smith said, “beautiful day.”

  Webber looked up from his computer.

  “I heard rumours that you were back Smith,” Webber said, “I was hoping they weren’t true. What do you want? I happen to be very busy at the moment.”

  “We’re all busy Webber,” Smith said, “I need your expert advice. The student that was killed in The Ghoul’s house. What do you make of the ladybirds?”

  “Ladybirds?” Webber said.

  “Yes, ladybirds. Did you have a look at them?”

  “Why the hell would I want to analyse a bunch of ladybirds?” Webber seemed quite annoyed.

  “Because I have a feeling they’re important. What do you know about ladybirds?”

  “Absolutely nothing,” Webber replied, “what’s this all about?”

  “Do you think it’s possible to figure out if certain ladybirds came from the same place?”

  “You want me to do DNA tests on some ladybirds?” Webber was astounded.

  “Something like that,” Smith said, “Please Webber, this could be important.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out,” Webber sighed, “there must be some kind of ladybird expert on the internet somewhere. Now, if that’s all, would you kindly leave me in peace?”

  “Thanks Webber,” Smith said, “come on Whitton. We’d better get to the bank.”

  While they were walking to Smith’s car his phone started to ring. He looked at the screen.

  “Shit,” he said. It was Chalmers.

  “Smith,” Chalmers said, “where the hell are you?”

  “On our way to the bank sir,” Smith said, “I got a flat tyre. I’ve just this minute finished changing it.”

  “Forget about the bank Smith,” Chalmers said, “it looks like you may be right. There’s been another murder. Young lads had his neck sliced open with a guitar string.”

  “A guitar string?” Smith could not believe it.

  “That’s not all,” Chalmers said, “whoever did it threw a load of ladybirds on the body.”

  Chalmers gave Smith the address and rang off.

  “I knew it,” Smith said.

  “What’s wrong sir?” Whitton asked.

  “Looks like the ghoul is off the hook Whitton. There’s been another murder. Ladybirds again.”

  SIX

  “He’s upstairs,” Chalmers said, “it’s not a pretty sight.”

  Smith and Whitton walked past him and slowly climbed the stairs. A police officer in uniform was standing by the bedroom door. He looked very pale.

  “Morning sir,” he said to Smith, “you’d better brace yourself.”

  Smith opened the bedroom door and looked inside. Drake Whitlow was still lying on the floor of the room. The blood had soaked into the carpet around him. He had a gaping wound in his neck.

  “Oh my god,” Whitton said.

  “Guitar string,” Smith picked up the string by the bobble on the end, “who the hell would kill someone with a guitar string? Top E string if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Do we know who he is sir?” Whitton asked.

  “From the advert in the window downstairs I’d say this is Drake Whitlow. Guitar tutor. What a waste. Look at the ladybirds.”

  There were at least twenty dead ladybirds scattered on the body.

  “We’ve got some seriously depraved individual out there sir,” Whitton said.

  Smith took out his phone and dialled Webber’s number.

  “Webber,” he said, “how’s it going with the ladybirds?”

  “Give me a chance Smith,” Webber said, “I do have other things to do you know.”

  “We’ve got another one,” Smith said, “more ladybirds. I need you to make them your top priority.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,”

  “One more thing Webber,” Smith said, “what’s the chance of pulling a print from a guitar string?”

  “How thick is the string?”

  “Top E string,” Smith said, “roughly point nine of a millimetre.”

  “No chance in hell,” Webber said.

  “I thought as much,” Smith sighed, “get moving with the ladybirds will you.”

  He rang off.

  Smith walked back down the stairs. Chalmers was talking to a woman in her mid forties. She was sobbing and Chalmers was trying to calm her down.

  “This is Mrs Whitlow,” Chalmers said to Smith, “she found her son upstairs about an hour ago.”

  “Mrs Whitlow,” Smith said, “I’m sorry about your son. Is there someone we can call for you? What about your husband?”

  Mrs Whitlow stared at Smith. Her eyes were very bloodshot.

  “He’s away on a conference in Bournemouth or Blackpool,” she said, “I can’t remember where. I’ve tried to get hold of him but his phone is always switched off. Not that he’d give a damn anyway.”

  “I’m sorry Mrs Whitlow,” Smith said again, “I’m afraid I just need to ask you a few questions. Is there anybody we can call for you? You shouldn’t be here by yourself.”

  “My sister is on her way here from Leeds,” she said.

  “You found Drake upstairs about an hour ago?” Smith asked, “Is that right?”

  “I have a part time job at a baker’s shop down the road,” she said, “I only work a few hours in the morning. I got home and Drake was nowhere to be seen. He very rarely goes out during the day. I called out for him but he didn’t answer. Then I went upstairs and I found him in his room.”

  She started to cry again.

  “I know this is hard Mrs Whitlow,” Smith said, “but do you know what Drake was doing earlier today?”

  “He gives guitar lessons,” she replied, “he’s actually very good. He advertises on the notice board at the Student Union.”

  “Do you know if he had a lesson today?”

  “I don’t know,” she replied, “but if he did it would be in his book.”

  “His book?” Smith asked.

  “Drake is very organised. He keeps a book with all his appointments in it. All the details of his students are in the book.”

  “Could I see the book please?” Smith said.

  “It’s on the desk in his room,” she said, “I don’t think I can face going in there again.”

  “I’ll get it,” Whitton offered.

  She walked up the stairs and returned with a small black book. She handed it to Smith.

  “There’s only on lesson scheduled for today,” Smith said, “Joan Slyper. Beginner. Do you know Joan Slyper Mrs Whitlow?”

  “Never heard of her,” she replied, “Drake gets most of his students from the University.”

  “When is your husband due back?” Smith asked.

  “When he feels like it,” she scoffed, “he’s away so often I sometimes forget what he looks like.”

  Smith did not know what to say. This is the world we live in, he thought, where the father is away and the mother is left at home. He thought about the murder of Toby Philips. He had also had his throat slashed. He was beginning to see a pattern forming. Both young men had had their throats slashed. Both had had ladybirds thrown on their bodies and both of them had fathers who were never around.

  “Mrs Whitlow,” Smith said, “do you know if Drake knew a man by the name of Toby Philips?”

 
; “Not that I’m aware of,” she replied, “Drake doesn’t have many friends. I don’t know what I’m going to do. Drake was all I had.”

  She started to sob again.

  “I’ll have an officer stay here with you until your sister gets here,” Smith said. “Sir,” he said to Chalmers, “can I have a word outside please.”

  Chalmers nodded and walked towards the front door.

  “What are you thinking Smith?” Chalmers asked as they stepped outside.

  “I’ve got a strange feeling about this sir,” Smith said, “two dead men. Both of them with their throats slashed and both of them had ladybirds scattered on the bodies.”

  “What does it mean?” Chalmers asked, “What’s the significance of the ladybirds?”

  “I don’t know yet sir. Both of the murdered men’s fathers are away and don’t seem to care. There’s something strange going on.”

  “I think our friend the Ghoul is off the hook anyway,” Chalmers said, “this is definitely the work of one killer. I suppose we should try and find this Joan Slyper woman?”

  “The University is a good place to start sir,” Whitton suggested.

  “She could be the last person to have seen Drake Whitlow alive,” Smith said.

  “She could be the killer,” Whitton suggested.

  “I doubt it Whitton,” Chalmers said, “I think we’re looking for a man here.”

  “We need to have a word with Toby Philips’ father,” Smith said, “what’s wrong with the world today? Fathers today seem to think their responsibility ends with impregnating the mother. It makes me sick.”

  Whitton looked at him as if he had gone mad.

  “Thompson and Bridge can see if they can find this Joan Slyper woman at the University,” Chalmers said to Smith, “you and Whitton can have a word with Barry Philips. I’m going to get the Ghoul released. We’ll have a meeting back at the station at three. I’ve got a nasty feeling that this is going to be a long drawn out investigation.”

  “What was that all about?” Whitton asked as they drove in the direction of Marlborough Villas.”

  “What was what all about?” Smith said.

  “That little outburst about absent fathers.”

  “I know what its like to grow up without a father Whitton,” Smith said, “its not pleasant.”

  “Sorry sir,” Whitton said.

  Smith’s father had hanged himself in the garden when Smith was sixteen. Smith was the one who had found him hanging from a tree.

  “Looks like we could be in luck,” Smith said as he parked outside the house, “look at that car. I’d say that Mr Philips is at home.”

  A green sports car with the registration BARRY 007 was parked in the parking bay next to them.

  “Personalised number plates are so pretentious,” Whitton said, “and I bet that car cost more than I paid for my house.”

  “Aston Martin,” Smith said, “you’re probably right.”

  He locked his car, walked up the path towards the house and rang the bell. There was no answer. He rang the bell again.

  “Maybe there’s nobody home,” Whitton said.

  “They’re here,” Smith said.

  The door opened a fraction and Mrs Philips stood in the doorway. She had a bruise on her right cheekbone. She had tried to cover it up with make up but the bruise was still clearly visible.

  “Good morning Mrs Philips,” Smith said, “sorry to bother you again. What happened to your face?”

  “I hit it on the bathroom cabinet,” she replied, “I’m afraid I’d had quite a bit to drink.”

  From the look in her eyes, Smith could tell at once that she was lying.

  “Who the hell is that?” A voice was heard inside the house.

  Mrs Philips looked very nervous.

  “You’d better come back later,” she whispered to Smith.

  “I’m afraid we need to speak to your husband Mrs Philips,” Smith said, “can we come in?”

  She opened the door and Smith and Whitton went inside.

  “Who the hell are you?” Barry Philips asked as Smith and Whitton stood in the reception room.

  “Police,” Smith said. He took an immediate dislike to the man in front of him. Barry Philips was a short fat man with thick white hair. He had a permanent scowl on his face and from his ruddy complexion, Smith deduced that he was a heavy drinker.

  “What do you want?” Philips asked.

  “I appreciate this is a bad time Mr Philips,” Smith tried to remain calm, “but we need to ask you a few questions.”

  “About what?” Philips said. “My boy was killed. Why aren’t you out looking for the bastard that did it instead of bothering me and my wife? We have a funeral to organise you know.”

  “I’m sorry Mr Philips,” Smith said, “but this is important. Do you mind if we sit down?”

  “Feel free.”

  Smith and Whitton sat down on a two seater couch opposite Philips

  “Spit it out then,” Philips said, “Get me a drink,” he said to his wife.

  She left the room and returned with a large glass of whisky.

  “Where were you on Friday night?” Smith came straight to the point.

  “What the hell has that got to do with you?” Philips said.

  “Please just answer the question.”

  “I was on a boy’s night out,” Philips snarled, “that’s not against the law is it?”

  “No its not. What time did you get home?”

  “I didn’t. I’d had a bit of a skin full so I booked into a hotel for the night.”

  “Which hotel?” Smith asked.

  “What’s this all about?”

  “I believe you were supposed to have had a family meal that night. You, your wife and Toby?”

  “Who told you that?” He glared at his wife. “What the hell have you been telling them Julie?”

  “Which hotel did you stay in?” Smith asked again.

  “Julie,” Philips said, “put the kettle on. I’m sure these officers would like some tea.”

  She stood up and walked towards the kitchen.

  “There was no hotel,” Philips said when his wife was out of earshot.

  “So why did you lie?” Smith asked.

  “I was with a woman of course. Me and a few friends were at this strip club. For a few hundred quid you can get a room upstairs and the girls are prepared to offer a bit extra if you know what I mean.”

  He cast Smith a knowing glance.

  “No I don’t know what you mean,” Smith said, “what was the name of this woman?”

  “For Christ sake,” Philips said, “do you want me to spell it out for you? I was with a prostitute. That’s not exactly legal is it?”

  “I’m not interested in your depraved preferences,” Smith said, “what was the name of the woman? We can do this discreetly or I can take you down to the station. I suggest you tell me what I want before your wife gets back.”

  Philips took out a wallet and reluctantly handed Smith a plastic business card.

  “Phaze?” Smith said.

  “The strip club,” Philips said, “Linda’s number is on the back. You won’t give her any trouble will you?”

  “Like I said, I’m not interested in your warped mind.” Smith put the card in his pocket.

  “Will that be all?” Philips asked.

  “One more thing,” Smith said, “what do you know about ladybirds?”

  “Ladybirds?”

  “Yes, ladybirds. We found ladybirds on Toby’s body.”

  “What has that got to do with me?”

  Smith realised he had to tread carefully. He had found the ladybirds in Philips’ rubbish bin but he would need a search warrant for him to be able to use them as evidence.

  “Would you mind if I took a look around?” he decided to take a chance.

  “What for?” Philips was getting angry again.

  “Just to get an idea of what kind of person Toby was,” Smith lied,” it might help us.”

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nbsp; “I think its time I called my lawyer,” Philips said, “This is now bordering on police harassment. My son is barely cold and you’re implying that I’m somehow involved in his murder. I wonder how your superintendant will feel about all of this. It is most unprofessional.”

  Smith’s heart sank. He had to think quickly.

  “I’m sorry Mr Philips,” he said, “but we have to cover all angles. We won’t take up any more of your time.”

  It was too late.

  “You’ll be hearing from my lawyers,” Mr Philips said.

  Smith and Whitton stood up and left the room. They met Mrs Philips in the hallway.

  “Don’t you want some tea?” she asked.

  “Sorry,” Smith said, “we need to get back to the station. What time did your husband get back this morning?”

  “Just after you left, funnily enough. I told him you’d been here and he got very angry.”

  “I can see that,” Smith stared at the bruise on her cheek, “and did he leave the house at all after he got back?”

  “No,” she said, “he’s been here the whole time mores the pity. Why do you ask?”

  “Just routine Mrs Philips,” Smith said, “thank you for your time. We’ll be in touch if we hear anything.

  “What about the ladybirds you found in the bin?” Whitton said as they walked to the car.

  “I don’t know why he had ladybirds in his bin Whitton,” Smith said, “but Barry Philips is not our man. He may be an obnoxious human being and probably a wife beater at that but Toby Philips and Drake Whitlow were killed by the same man, I’m sure of it. Philips was here for most of the morning. He couldn’t have killed the guitar tutor. I bet his alibi for Friday night checks out too.”

  “The strip club?” Whitton said.

  “Yes. Check it out anyway but I’m certain Barry Philips did not kill his son. Let’s wait and see what Thompson and Bridge find out at the University.”

  SEVEN

  The conference room was quiet when Smith and Whitton walked in. Chalmers, Thompson and Bridge were already seated. Two uniformed officers that Smith did not recognise stood next to the door. Smith sighed as superintendant Jeremy Smyth walked in behind him.

  “Detective Smith,” Smyth said, “Could I have a quick word with you in my office after the meeting please?”