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

by Stewart Giles

  “Might help what?” Smith said.

  “The investigation of course,” she said, “Webber gave me details of the first two murders. There were at least twenty ladybirds found on and around each body.”

  “Go on,” Smith said.

  “You don’t just go out and find that many ladybirds lying around. That means whoever killed these people had to get them from somewhere. I think the murderer breeds his own ladybirds to use them at the crime scenes.”

  “You hinted on something similar yesterday at the meeting,” Smith said, “I seem to remember you were quite rude to DC Whitton.”

  “Was I?” she seemed quite surprised, “I suppose I can come across that way sometimes. Anyway, I was thinking, ladybird breeding is not a very popular pastime.”

  “I think I can see where you’re going,” Smith said, “if we can track down the suppliers of ladybird breeding kits we can find out if any kits have been sold in this area recently. But where do we start?”

  “The most obvious place of all,” she said, “the internet. After all, that’s where…”

  She stopped there.

  “That’s where what?” Smith asked.

  “Nothing. I’ll help you if you want.”

  Smith looked at her sitting opposite him in his back garden. The sun was shining in her eyes. For the first time he noticed a thin dark green ring around the unusual blue irises.

  “I’ll have to run it by the DI,” he said, “but I can’t see it being a problem. Are you ready?”

  “I can’t go dressed like this,” she said.

  “Why not?” Smith said, “You look fine to me.”

  “I’m all sweaty,” she said, “I’ll just go home, have a shower and get changed.”

  “I’ll give you a lift.”

  “No,” she said.

  Her whole facial expression changed. Smith was sure he could see fear in her eyes.

  “I haven’t finished my run,” she said. Her face seemed to lighten somewhat. “I’ll meet you at the station in about half an hour.”

  The uneasy feeling returned when Smith arrived at the station. He had forgotten all about it when Doctor Wood had turned up at his house that morning but now it was back. He still could not figure out what it meant. Something that had happened in the last twenty four hours was not quite right. He walked through to the conference room. Chalmers was there already. There was no sign of anybody else. Smith checked his watch. It was almost eight in the morning.

  “Sir,” Smith said to Chalmers, “I need to ask you something.”

  “Spit it out,” Chalmers said.

  He seemed very impatient today. Smith tried to remember the last time he had seen Chalmers in a good mood. It was quite a long time ago.

  “That bug doctor sir,” he said, “she’s come up with an idea. I think its worth considering.”

  “I’m all for new ideas,” Chalmers said.

  Smith told him about Doctor Wood’s suggestion that that they check the internet for companies that sold ladybird breeding kits.

  “It can’t hurt can it?” Chalmers said when Smith had finished, “where the hell is everybody?”

  He looked at his watch.

  “If there’s nobody here yet,” Chalmers said, “I’m off out for a quick smoke.”

  “I thought you’d quit sir,” Smith said.

  “I did, but now I’ve started again. There never seems to be a good time to give up in this bloody job.”

  He stood up and walked out of the conference room.

  Smith sat down at the table and used the peace and quiet to work out what direction they should go in. Three young men are killed within a week of each other, he thought, there must be a link between them somewhere.

  “Penny for them sir,”

  It was Whitton. Smith had not heard her come in.

  “Morning Whitton,” he said, “I’m just trying to figure all of this out in my head. None of this makes any sense at the moment. There has to be some kind of connection between Toby Philips, Drake Whitlow and Barney Dodds.”

  “I agree sir,” Whitton said, “but what’s the connection?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Smith said, “guess who showed up at my house this morning?”

  “The ladybird killer?” Whitton joked, “Can we all go home now?”

  “I wish it was Whitton,” Smith said, “It was Doctor Karen Wood.”

  “The bug doctor?” Whitton looked annoyed, “she turned up at your house? What did she want?”

  “To bring me breakfast.”

  “I knew she was weird,” Whitton said, “but I didn’t think she would turn out to be a stalker.”

  “She’s not a stalker Whitton,” Smith insisted, “besides, she came up with a good way to try and trace anybody who bought a ladybird breeding kit.”

  “I don’t like her,” Whitton said.

  “Well, she’s helping us. Chalmers has given the go ahead.”

  “How did she even know where you lived?” Whitton said.

  “I don’t know,” Smith replied.

  There conversation was cut short by the arrival of Thompson, Baldwin and Bridge. They all flopped down at the table.

  “Morning,” Smith said as a combined greeting.

  He received a few grunts in reply. Everybody looked exhausted.

  Chalmers walked in with Doctor Wood. She had changed into a light blue summer dress and her hair was no longer tied up. Smith could not help but stare at her. Whitton glared at him.

  “We’ve got a long day ahead of us,” Chalmers began, “so we might as well get started. Doctor Wood has kindly offered her services again and we are most grateful.”

  He went on to outline Doctor Wood’s idea.

  “Excellent idea,” Bridge said. He smiled at Doctor Wood.

  “Smith,” Chalmers said, “where do we go from here?”

  Smith stood up.

  “There has to be a connection between the three murder victims sir,” he said, “three people don’t just get killed at random. We need to find out what links all three of them.”

  “Do you think this is the end of it?” Thompson asked.

  “I don’t know Thompson,” Smith looked at him as if he had said something stupid, “For now we have to assume it isn’t. We have to find this murderer before somebody else is killed. Bridge, you’re the computer expert; you and Doctor Wood can get started. Do a bit of browsing on the internet. See if you can come up with anybody who has bought ladybird breeding kits in this area recently.”

  “The server’s down in my office sir,” Bridge said.

  “What?” Smith said.

  “My internet is down. Has been since yesterday morning.”

  “You can use my computer then,” Smith said, “my password is Theakston.”

  Karen Wood smiled and her eyes lit up. Nobody seemed to notice.

  “Thompson,” Smith continued, “you and Baldwin can have a word with Drake Whitlow’s parents. I’m sure his father must have returned home by now.”

  “The guitar guy?” Thompson said.

  “That’s right,” Smith said, “we spoke to his mother but we need to speak to his father too. Whitton, you and me are going to find a bit more about Barney Dodds. Something connects all three of them, I’m certain of it.”

  “Smith,” Chalmers said, “can I have a word?”

  Smith followed him out of the room.

  “Problem sir?” Smith said.

  “Just the opposite,” Chalmers replied, “Barry Philips has dropped the police harassment charges against you.”

  “Just like that?” Smith was confused.

  “Just like that. It’s your lucky day.”

  Smith did not know whether to feel relieved or angry. There were no grounds for the charge in the first place; he had been simply doing his job.

  “Thank you sir,” he said in spite of this, “can you do me a favour?”

  “What now Smith?”

  “Please try and keep the super away from the press. We d
on’t know what we’re dealing with here and you know how old Smyth likes to confuse things.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Chalmers walked off down the corridor.

  Smith went back inside the conference room to fetch Whitton. Bridge and Doctor Wood walked past him. Bridge was beaming from ear to ear.”

  “Did you see the look on Bridge’s face?” Whitton said, “Pathetic if you ask me. A pretty face and a nice body and men are turned to jelly.”

  “Come on Whitton,” Smith ignored her comment, “let’s go and have a word with Mr and Mrs Dodds.”

  The house where the Dodds family lived was in an exclusive estate to the north of the river.

  “This is where the footballers live,” Whitton said as they drove into the estate, “these places cost an absolute fortune.”

  “Does York even have a football team?” Smith asked.

  “Of course they do,” Whitton said, “they used to be quite good. These days, even the players in the lower divisions get paid silly money.”

  “I hate football,” Smith said, “this is the house here. Number fifteen”

  He parked his car outside a detached, north facing house that had been painted a light green colour. There was a glass conservatory on the front of the house. They got out of the car and walked up the path. There was a video intercom system on the front door.

  “How the hell does this thing work?” Smith said.

  “Let me do it,” Whitton laughed.

  She pressed the buzzer and looked up at a camera suspended from the guttering. After a few seconds she heard a weary voice.

  “Can I help you?” the voice asked.

  “Mrs Dodds,” Whitton said, “sorry to bother you but we’re from the police. Can we have a quick word with you?”

  Almost immediately, the door opened.

  “What now?” Smith whispered.

  “I’m in the back garden,” Mrs Dodds said as if to answer his question, “Carry on straight through the house.”

  Smith and Whitton went inside. The front door closed behind them. Smith looked at Whitton in disbelief.

  Jean Dodds was sitting on a cane chair in the back garden. There was an empty crystal glass on the table next to her. Smith had never seen such an enormous garden. It must have been at least ten times bigger than his own.

  “Mrs Dodds,” he said, “I’m DS Smith and this is DC Whitton. We’re very sorry for your loss. Could we have a few words?”

  “Do you know what I did last night?” she said. Her eyes were very bloodshot.

  “I went to the mortuary and identified the body of my only child. That’s what I did.”

  “I’m sorry Mrs Dodds,” Smith said. This was the worst part of his job.

  “There’s a bottle of vodka in the freezer in the kitchen,” Mrs Dodds handed the empty glass to Whitton. “Be a darling and fill me up. Two blocks of ice.

  Whitton looked at Smith and he nodded at her.

  “Is your husband at home Mrs Dodds?” Smith asked while Whitton was pouring the vodka.

  “Derek,” she laughed, “Derek’s never at home,” he’ll be back this afternoon though. He works off Aberdeen on the rigs. He’s some big shot technical advisor. I don’t even ask him what he does anymore.”

  Whitton returned with the vodka. Mrs Dodds looked at the glass in disgust.

  “What part of two blocks of ice didn’t you understand dear?” she said.

  There were three ice cubes in the glass.

  “What the hell do they teach you at Police College these days?” Mrs Dodds added.

  She took a long sip of the drink.

  “Too much ice dilutes the bloody stuff.”

  She took one of the ice cubes out and threw it over the wall.

  Whitton looked like she was about to say something. Smith subtly shook his head.

  “We’ll try to keep this brief,” Smith said to change the subject,” do you know if Barney knew anybody by the name of Toby Philips?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” she replied.

  “What about Drake Whitlow?”

  “Barney had a lot of friends,” she said, “He was a kind boy. Never had a bad word to say about anybody. He couldn’t care less about money either. God knows where he got that from. Me and his bastard of a father are obsessed with the stuff. Just look what money can buy you.”

  She opened her arms in a theatrical gesture to show off the house and the garden.

  “Oh yes,” she finished the rest of the vodka in the glass, “money makes you so bloody happy.”

  Smith realised they had reached a dead end; they were not going to get any further with Mrs Dodds today.

  “Thank you for your time Mrs Dodds,” he said, “I’m afraid we’re going to need to speak with your husband when he gets back.”

  He handed her one of his cards.

  “Could you let us out please?”

  “There’s a green button to the left of the front door,” she said, “press it and the door will open. It’ll close automatically after ten seconds. Derek and his bloody paranoia. This place is like Fort Knox.”

  “Thank you Mrs Dodds,” Smith said.

  “Get the bastards,” Mrs Dodds said as they were leaving.

  “Excuse me?” Smith said.

  “Get the bastards that did this to my boy.”

  “We’ll do our best,” Smith said.

  Whitton had already pressed the green button and stepped outside.

  ELEVEN

  Doctor Wood and DC Bridge had hit a brick wall. They had just about exhausted every company on the internet that sold ladybird breeding kits. None of the companies had reported selling kits to anybody in the York area in the past few months. Most of the companies had been cooperative but one of them had insisted they could not divulge their client’s information without a court order. That company would take time to look into. Bridge had a pile of paper with the lists of customers in front of him.

  “Let’s take a break,” Doctor Wood suggested.

  Bridge could smell her perfume. It was a combination of lavender and something he could not place.

  “How about a cup of coffee?” she said, “It might wake us up a bit.”

  “How do you take it?” Bridge asked.

  “White, no sugar,” she replied.

  While Bridge was getting the coffee, Karen Wood opened up Smith’s e mails. She was amused by the lack of security measures that were in place on the computer of a police detective. She knew of teenagers that had more security on their mobile phones. She scanned through the e mail messages. One of them caught her eye immediately. It was an e mail from a firm of solicitors in Perth, Australia regarding the last will and testament of Lucy Maclean. Karen Wood had read all about the incident earlier in the year when Smith’s girlfriend Lucy Maclean had been brutally murdered in Smith’s bathroom. She gasped when she saw the amount of money that was in the estate. Detective Jason Smith is a dark horse, she thought. The e mail was to inform Smith that it was not legally possibly for them to transfer the funds from the estate directly to Lucy’s brother Matt as Smith has requested. The will was binding, Smith was the sole heir. Karen Wood had to read the last part twice to believe it. He wants to give away almost two hundred million, she thought. The e mail continued to say that should Smith wish the estate to go wholly to Lucy’s brother, it would be in everybody’s best interests for Matt Maclean to drop the contestation order which they deemed a costly and lengthy process and for Smith to simply transfer the funds directly to Matt Maclean when they became available. They continued to offer their legal representation to make sure this process went as smoothly as possible.

  “And you lot will get your greasy hands on your commission a lot sooner too,” she said out loud.

  She typed a quick e mail in reply.

  ‘After further consideration,’ she wrote, ‘I have decided that I would like Lucy Maclean’s wishes as stated in her last will and testament to stand. I advise you to proceed accordingly. Yours.
Jason Smith.’

  She sent the e mail, deleted the original, opened up the sent items page and deleted the e mail she had just sent. She then opened up the deleted items page and permanently deleted the messages. She then closed down Smith’s e mail program and opened up the Internet.

  Bridge returned with the coffee. He looked very angry.

  “I’ve just had my head bitten off by the DI,” he said.

  “What for?” she asked.

  “For leaving you on your own,” he said.

  “I didn’t mind,” she said.

  “It’s not that, I got a bollocking for leaving you unattended with a police computer at your disposal.”

  “Don’t worry,” she smiled at him, “I just played a few games of solitaire. It helps me to think. Shall we get cracking again?”

  Bridge sat down next to her at the computer. He looked again through the list of websites they had tried. None of them had given them anything to go on.

  “There’s only a couple left to try,” he said.

  He clicked on a link on the computer and a web page opened. He looked at the contact details, picked up Smith’s land line phone and dialled the number on the screen.

  “Bradford Insects,” a man’s voice answered.

  Bridge asked him the same questions he had been asking all morning. He waited for the man to reply. He expected to hear the same reply he had heard all morning. Bridge had asked him if his company had delivered any ladybird breeding kits to York. The man said he would check his records and Bridge waited. He was becoming extremely impatient. They had wasted a whole morning on this fruitless exercise. The man came back on the line. Thirty ladybird breeding kits had been sent to a post office in York earlier in the year. The name of the person who had ordered the kits was Joan Slyper. Bridge’s heart started to beat faster. They were finally getting somewhere. He took down all the details. Joan Slyper had ordered the breeding kits in March of that year and they had been delivered to a post office in the city centre. The payment method was postal order. Bridge thanked the owner of Bradford Insects and hung up.

  “We’ve got her,” he shouted.

  Doctor Wood did not look too convinced.

  “A Post Office address,” she said, “and a postal order as payment method. It seems to me that this Joan Slyper wanted to cover her tracks. A credit card payment would have been easy to trace as would a physical address but a postal order and a PO address are pretty hard to trace. Anybody can arrange for a parcel to be delivered to a PO Box address without being found out.”