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

by Stewart Giles

  The pizza shop was very busy when Smith walked in. He had to wait for five minutes just to place his order. He opted for a plain cheese pizza and was told it would take fifteen minutes to make. While he waited, he watched one of the television screens in the corner of the shop. A football game was on the screen. It was a repeat from the world cup in Germany in 2006. Smith sighed. The world cup was about to start in South Africa. The whole world would shut down for a month because of a stupid game. He looked at the television screen on the other side of the shop. The sound was turned down but Smith could tell the news was on from the icon on the screen. Smith was drawn to a photograph on the screen. It was a photograph of a ladybird. He ran up to the counter.

  “Can you turn the sound up please?” he asked the man behind the counter.

  “Sorry mister,” the man said, “we’re not allowed to.”

  “Turn up the sound,” Smith ordered.

  The man just looked at him with a gormless expression on his face. Smith looked at the television screen again. From what he could gather with the sound turned down, a man had been killed in a pub in the city centre. Why did they show a photograph of a ladybird? Smith thought. He ran out of the shop without paying once again.

  He drove far too quickly to the police station and parked his car outside the front doors. Baldwin looked at him as if he had lost his mind.

  “Where’ve you been sir?” she asked, “we’ve been trying to get hold of you for the past two hours.”

  Smith took out his phone. The battery was dead.

  “Shit,” he said, “I forgot to charge it. What happened? I saw something on the news about another murder.”

  Chalmers walked into the reception area.

  “Where the hell have you been Smith?” he said, “We’ve been phoning you for the last two hours.”

  “Phone battery died sir,” Smith said, “what’s going on?”

  “There’s been another one,” Chalmers said, “student killed in the toilets of a bar in the city centre. Throat slashed open. Ladybirds everywhere. Bloody journo happened to be drinking there at the time. This one hit the news before we’d even had the chance to shut down the scene. Forensics are going to have a fit.”

  “Shit,” Smith said, “what’s the name of the bar?”

  “Vibe,” Chalmers said, “rowdy student joint. They have a half price pint special on Tuesdays so the place was pretty packed with students.”

  “I know it,” Smith said.

  He ran out of the station.

  As he drove to the pub, Smith cursed himself for agreeing to have a drink with Karen Wood while a murder was about to be committed. He parked his car behind a police car. An ambulance was parked in front of the police car. There were a crowd of people on the street. An officer in uniform was standing at the door to the pub. He recognised Smith and let him straight through.

  “What took you so long Smith?” Thompson was standing next to a bald man in his late fifties. Smith assumed he must be the manager of the bar.

  “My phone battery died,” Smith said, “what have we got?”

  “Another dead student,” Thompson said, “Throat slashed. From the friends he was with we have ascertained his name was Barney Dodds. Twenty years old. He’s still in the Gents. Forensics have only just got here.”

  “DS Smith,” Smith said to the bald man, “are you the manager here?”

  “Arnie Greg,” the man said, “do you know how long this will take? I’ve got a bar to run.”

  “It’ll take as long as it takes,” Smith said.

  He walked through to the gent’s toilet and opened the door. Grant Webber was carefully picking up ladybirds from the floor with a pair of tweezers. He placed them one by one into a small glass jar. He nodded to Smith in acknowledgement. Barney Dodds was lying on the floor against one of the toilet cubicles. His throat was sliced open.

  “He used a razor blade this time,” Webber said, “the throat was sliced open so deeply that the blood would have emptied out in seconds.”

  “Do you know if anybody saw anything?” Smith asked.

  “That’s not my job is it?” Webber said, “But I do know that whoever did this would have got a hell of a lot of blood on them. There would have been no avoiding it.”

  “How do you know it was a razor blade?” Smith said.

  “I know my job Smith,” Webber snarled, “I know it was a razor blade because I examined the wound. Besides, we found this.”

  He produced a plastic evidence bag. The razor blade was inside it.

  “I assume you checked for prints?” Smith said but regretted it immediately.

  “We got a real beauty off one side of the blade,” Webber said, “looks to me like a thumb print.”

  “Thanks Webber,” Smith said, “we’ll need that print checked immediately.”

  He walked back through to the bar. Thompson was still talking to the manager.

  “Who found the body?” Smith asked Greg.

  “One of the students,” Greg replied, “ran out of the Gents like a lunatic. I went in afterwards. When are you going to get the body out of there? I’m losing a shit load of money at the moment.”

  “When we’re finished,” Smith said, “this is a crime scene and a young lad has been brutally killed. What’s wrong with people these days? Nobody seems to have any regard for human life; it’s all about money.”

  “I didn’t mean it like it that,” Greg said, “its just that with this recession and everything we’ve been struggling to make ends meet. We have to practically give the booze away.”

  “Where’s the student who found the body?” Smith asked Thompson.

  “Sitting over there,” Thompson said, “Whitton is still trying to calm him down; he was in a right state. I think he should be checked over by a doctor.”

  Smith walked over to where Whitton was sitting opposite a chubby man with a goatee beard. He had a wild look in his eyes.

  “Whitton,” Smith said.

  “Good evening sir,” she said, “where were you? We tried to phone you ages ago.”

  “Dead battery on my phone,” Smith said, “is this the guy who found the body?”

  “Peter Ross,” Whitton said, “he’s in a bit of a state.”

  “Peter,” Smith sat down next to him, “I’m DS Smith. I know this is hard but I need to ask you a few questions.”

  Peter Ross just stared into the distance.

  “Peter,” Smith said again, louder this time, “this is important. You went into the Gents and found Barney Dodds lying on the floor. What time was this?”

  “A couple of hours ago,” Ross said quietly, “it was terrible. There was blood everywhere.”

  “Did you know Barney?” Smith asked.

  “Of course I did. We were here together. Me, Barney, Jonathan and Adam. Barney disappeared for a while. We just thought he’d hooked up with some girl but then I needed to pee so I went into the Gents and he was just lying there. I ran out of there as fast as I could. I think I screamed but it’s all very hazy.”

  “Do you have any idea who could have done this?” Smith asked.

  “No,” Ross said, “who would do such a thing?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out. Did Barney have any enemies? Could this have been a fight that got out of hand?” Smith already knew the answer to this question.

  “Barney wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Ross said, “he was the most chilled out bloke I know.”

  “Whitton,” Smith said, “I’m afraid we’re going to have to speak to everybody who was in here tonight. Somebody must have seen something. Webber said that whoever did this would have had blood all over them. You, me and Thompson can make a start.”

  “Bridge and Baldwin are on their way too,” Whitton added.

  “Good,” Smith said, “let’s get on to it then.”

  Two hours later, they were all exhausted. Nobody had seen anything of any real significance. Three men claimed they had all seen the same woman lingering by the Gents toile
ts. They had described her as a woman in her mid twenties with black hair. All three men had commented on how attractive the woman had been but none of them had known who she was and they had never seen her before. Smith was getting despondent.

  “Somebody must have seen something,” he said to Whitton, “you would notice somebody who was covered in blood wouldn’t you?”

  He thought hard for a while. Somebody kills a student in the toilets of a packed bar. How could the killer come out with blood all over him without anybody becoming suspicious?

  “Shit,” he said and ran back inside the Gents. Whitton ran after him. Webber and his team were finished. Barney Dodds’ body had been taken away in an ambulance. The toilets were empty. Smith walked up to the window at the far side of the room. It was small but he believed a thin person could fit through it. He took out a handkerchief and pushed the window. It was open. Someone had opened it.

  “I think he jumped out the window after he killed Dodds,” Smith said, “and he pushed it closed after him. The latch is not properly closed. Can I borrow your phone Whitton?”

  She handed him her phone. Smith dialled Webber’s number.

  “Webber,” he said, “did you dust the window in the gents for prints?”

  “No,” Webber said, “Why would I?”

  “Because whoever killed Barney Dodds left through the window.”

  “Crap,” Webber said, “I was about to go to bed.”

  “Shit happens Webber,” Smith said.

  He rang off. He knew Webber would be here as soon as he could; Webber took his job very seriously.

  “Webber will be here soon,” Smith said to Whitton. He handed her the phone back.

  “Where were you earlier?” Whitton asked.

  “When?” Smith said.

  “When we were all trying to phone you. You were with that bug doctor weren’t you?”

  Smith did not know what to say.

  “She said she had some more information for me,” Smith insisted, “I took her to The Hog’s Head for a drink.”

  “I can’t believe you sometimes sir,” Whitton said, “and did you get some more information out of her?”

  “Not really,” Smith said, “it turned out she just wanted to have a drink with me.”

  “I told you didn’t I?” Whitton said.

  “I left after one drink.”

  “I told you there was something strange about her,” Whitton said, “I don’t like her.”

  “She’s alright Whitton,” Smith said, “Anyway; I doubt we’ll be seeing her again.”

  Grant Webber walked in.

  “Sorry Webber,” Smith said.

  “I can’t believe I missed it,” Webber said. He sounded angry.

  “We’re only human,” Smith said, “even you.”

  Webber got to work. He took out his fingerprint equipment and started to check the window. When he was finished inside he went round the side of the pub to check the window from the outside. Smith and Whitton followed him.

  “Three murders in York in less than a week,” Webber said, “what’s happening to this place?”

  He took out a flashlight and shone it on the ground underneath the window.

  “What’s that?” Smith pointed to something shining on a patch of grass.

  “I’d say it was blood,” Webber said.

  He shone the flashlight closer to the grass.

  “Definitely blood,” he said, “our man definitely jumped out the window.”

  “So now we know how he got out without being spotted,” Whitton said, “but we’re still no closer to finding out who he is.”

  “Or why he’s doing this,” Smith added.

  Webber was dusting the glass in the window for fingerprints.

  “I’ve got a nice one here,” he said, “If this matches the one from the razor blade then we’ve got our man.”

  “Only if he’s on the system,” Whitton said.

  “I think he will be,” Webber said, “you don’t just wake up and decide to kill a few people. You work up to it. I reckon he’ll have a record for something.”

  “I don’t think he will,” Smith said gravely, “this man is too clever. Three bloody murders, no witnesses, virtually no evidence.”

  “We’ll see,” Webber said.

  He was finished dusting for prints and was carefully packing away his equipment.

  “It’s late,” Smith said, “we’ll meet back at the station tomorrow at eight and see if we can make any sense of this mess.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow then sir,” Whitton said, “charge your phone.”

  “Thanks Whitton,” Smith smiled, “see you at eight.”

  Thompson was still talking to the bar manager when Smith walked back inside the pub.

  “You can open up again,” Smith said, “we’re all finished here.”

  “It’s eleven o clock,” Greg said, “it’s not really worth it.”

  “I’m off to bed,” Smith said to Thompson, “I suggest you do the same. We’ll meet back at the station tomorrow morning at eight.”

  “How is it,” Thompson said, “that you can come back from mad leave and immediately take charge of a murder investigation?”

  Smith was exhausted and in no mood for Thompson’s bickering.

  “Do you want to be in charge of the investigation?” he asked.

  “No,” Thompson said, “it’s just…”

  “Goodnight Thompson,” Smith walked out of the bar.

  Smith felt incredibly hungry as he drove home. He remembered the pizza he had ordered hours earlier. He wondered if the pizza shop was still open. He drove to the shop and discovered it had just closed. He cursed under his breath and stopped at a hamburger stand. He bought two cheeseburgers and ate one in the car. He drove home and parked his car. Theakston jumped on him as soon as he walked through the front door. He put the other cheeseburger in the dog’s bowl and turned on the kettle. While he waited for it to boil he put his phone on charge. As soon as the phone was switched on he received notification that he had missed fifteen phone calls. He also had eight text messages. He went through the messages carefully. They were all from work except one. He opened up the message. It was from Doctor Karen Wood.

  ‘Detective,” it read, ‘sitting here drinking by myself. Sorry if I came on a bit strong earlier. I heard about the other murder in the bar in town. If you need any more help, you’ve got my number.’

  Smith smiled and shook his head. Whitton was right, he thought, that woman is not quite right in the head. He forgot all about the coffee and went upstairs. He lay on his bed and was asleep in seconds.

  TEN

  Wednesday 26 May 2010

  Smith woke up with an uneasy feeling. He did not know what had caused it but he knew that something was not right. He lay in bed and thought about what had happened the day before. Two students had been killed, both of them with their throats cut. Ladybirds had been thrown on their bodies. Toby Philips had been killed the same way four days earlier. What do the ladybirds mean? Smith thought. He got up, dressed and walked to the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth. He went downstairs and let Theakston out the back door. He looked at the clock on the kitchen wall. It was seven in the morning. He had had a good sleep for a change but the uneasy feeling was still there. He made some coffee and took it outside to the garden. It was already warm outside but the weather forecast had warned of afternoon thunder showers. His phone rang in the kitchen. Smith sighed. It’s going to be a long day, he thought. He answered the phone. It was Doctor Karen Wood.

  “I’m standing outside your house,” she said, “your doorbell doesn’t appear to be working. Aren’t you going to let me in? I’ve brought breakfast.”

  Smith shook his head. He walked to the front door and opened it. Karen Wood was standing there in tight jogging pants and a blue T Shirt. Her hair was tied up in a pony tail. She had a pair of headphones in her ears and she held a bag of croissants in her hand.

  “Morning,” she said, �
�I was out for my morning run and I just happened to pass your house. I thought I’d bring you breakfast.”

  “I don’t eat breakfast,” Smith said gruffly.

  He was quite put out by the invasion so early in the morning.

  “Are you going to invite me in?” she asked.

  Smith shrugged his shoulders and walked back inside. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. Theakston ran up to her and sniffed her nervously. She shrugged the dog off and walked towards the kitchen.

  “Do you want these warmed up?” she pointed to the croissants.

  “I told you,” Smith said, “I don’t eat breakfast. I’m fine with coffee.”

  He walked back outside to the garden.

  “Have I done something to upset you?” she asked.

  “Sorry,” Smith said, “I’m not really a morning person. It normally takes me and hour, two cups of coffee and a bit of peace and quiet to get ready for the day ahead and I’ve got a horrible feeling this day is going to be a bit rough.”

  “Let me make you another cup of coffee then,” she smiled, “I’ll give you a few minutes of peace and quiet too. Don’t worry, I’ll find everything I need.”

  She walked back inside.

  Smith smiled. He was not used to having anybody around and he did not know how to handle it.

  Five minutes later, Karen placed a cup of coffee on the table in front of him.

  “Thanks,” Smith said, “and sorry about before.”

  “Its ok,” she said, “I should have phoned first.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes.

  “I thought of something after you left yesterday,” Karen said eventually, “something that might help.”