“Miss King I presume?” he said to the woman.
He held out his hand but she did not accept it. She merely stared at him. Her unusual blue eyes made him nervous.
“Charlie France,” he said, “I happen to own France’s Estate Agents. My junior estate agent is sick so I’m afraid you’re going to have to put up with the boss today.”
He smiled at her as if he had made a huge joke.
“Dawn King,” she said, “shall we go inside then?” She had an unusually deep voice.
France opened the front door.
“After you,” he said.
He followed her inside.
“This is one of the nicer houses in the street,” he began his famous sales pitch, “I had central heating put in a few years back and its fully double glazed. There’s even a small garden at the back. It’s ideal for kids. I suppose you’re a bit young to have kids though?”
She did not say a word.
“Anyway,” he said, “you won’t get much better than this for the price these days. House prices are on the up again.”
“Is this your house?” she asked him.
“One of many,” France beamed at her.
She nodded and a slight smile appeared on her face.
“The price is sixty five thousand,” he said.
“I did see the advert,” she said, “You’re wondering if I can afford it aren’t you?”
France was taken aback.
“Straight to the point,” he said, “I like that. Seeing as though we’re being straight, can you afford it or am I wasting my time?”
“My mother left me some money,” she said.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” France said tried to sound sympathetic.
“She died a long time ago,” she said, “Can I have a look upstairs?”
“Be my guest,” France said, “I’ll wait for you down here unless you want me to show you the bedroom.”
“I think I can find it by myself,” she said.
She walked up the stairs.
Worth a try, France thought to himself. She’s not a bad looking woman. He was still quite good looking for his age. He was forty five but many people thought he looked much younger. He had lost count of how many woman he had seduced while showing them houses.
“I’ll take it,” Dawn King shouted from upstairs.
France was amazed. It had been one of the easiest sales in years.
“Mr France,” she added, “maybe you could show me that bedroom after all.”
France smiled. I’ve still got it, he thought. He ran up the stairs and found her in the larger of the two bedrooms. She was sitting on the bed.
“You knew my mother didn’t you?” she asked him.
“I don’t think so,” France replied.
He took off his jacket.
“I think you did,” she said, “it was a long time ago.”
“I’ve known a lot of women over the years,” France smiled, “you do look a bit familiar though now that you mention it. It’s those unusual blue eyes.”
He took off his tie and started to unbutton his shirt.
“Her name was Megan Collingwood,” she said.
France stopped unbuttoning his shirt at once. His face had changed colour. It was now a light grey colour.
“The name doesn’t ring a bell,” he said nervously, “but like I said, I’ve known a lot of women.”
“You’re a fucking liar,” she said, “You knew her. You knew her very well.”
“What’s this all about?” France said.
He did not even have time to react. She jumped off the bed and buried a small axe in his neck with surprising strength. France stared at her in disbelief. The blood gushed out at once. He put his hands to his throat but it was too late. He fell to the floor and within seconds he was dead. She looked at him lying on the floor of the bedroom with his shirt unbuttoned. His jacket and tie were lying on the floor next to him. She found the keys to the house in his pocket and put them in her handbag. She picked a handful of ladybirds from her pocket and scattered them over Charlie France’s body. A wave of joy came over her but it did not last long. Without knowing why, she unfastened the Tag Heuer watch from his wrist and put it in her pocket. She left the axe in his neck. She walked to the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. There were specks of blood on her neck and face. She washed the blood off and dried her face. A phone rang in the bedroom and she jumped. She quickly went to the bedroom. The phone was in France’s jacket pocket. She took out the phone and looked at the screen. The name Catherine was displayed on the screen. She answered the phone.
“Daddy?” A girl’s voice said.
“Your Daddy is not available at the moment,” she said.
“Who’s this?” the girl asked.
She rang off and ran down the stairs. The tears were streaming down her face. She took off the red wig and put it in her pocket. She wiped the tears from her eyes and opened the front door to the house. She took the keys from her handbag and locked the front door behind her.
FOURTEEN
Smith stood at the reception desk at the station. Doctor Wood had left an envelope for him with PC Shaw. Inside the envelope were his house keys, three hundred pounds and a note. Smith was confused. What’s the money for? He thought. He read the note. ‘I managed to get a better rate from that vile water heater man,’ she had written, ‘I’ll see you around maybe. K’
“See you around maybe?” Smith said out loud, “what the hell does that mean?”
“Sorry sir?” Shaw asked.
“Nothing Shaw,” he said, “just thinking out loud. Where is everybody? This place is like a morgue.”
“Chalmers is in a meeting with the Super sir,” she said, “Whitton and Bridge were in the canteen last time I saw them and Thompson and Baldwin are still at the bank.”
At that moment, Thompson and Baldwin walked in. Thompson looked furious.
“Thanks a lot Smith,” he said, “You owe me.”
“What do you mean I owe you?” Smith said.
“Leaving me to clear up the mess at the bank. Do you know how much paperwork I have to do?”
“It’s your job Thompson,” Smith said. He was in no mood for Thompson’s bickering.
“It’s going to take me all night,” Thompson continued.
“Thompson,” Smith said, “you were in charge of the investigation of the cash machine gang. Take the credit. I did you a favour.”
He walked through to the canteen. Bridge and Whitton were sitting in their usual seats by the window. Smith sat down next to Whitton and stared out of the window. An ominous dark cloud was approaching from the south.
“It’s going to chuck it down in a minute,” Whitton said, “I love summer thunderstorms.”
“How did you get on at the post office?” Smith asked.
“Dead end,” Bridge said, “Doctor Wood was right, anybody can get a temporary PO Box address. You don’t even need to give your name and address if you don’t want to. For a small fee you can have anything delivered anonymously through the post.”
“What about the method of payment?” Smith said, “For the ladybird breeding kits. Surely we can trace that back to whoever paid it?”
“Same thing I’m afraid sir,” Whitton said, “postal orders are pre paid at any post office and used for payment. You don’t need to give any form of ID.”
“Damn it,” Smith said, “that was the closest we’d come to getting somewhere in this investigation. What about the staff at the post office? They must remember what this Joan Slyper woman looked like?”
“They get so many people through the doors sir,” Bridge said, “They said they can’t remember everybody.”
“Shit,” Smith said, “how are we supposed to do our jobs when nobody pays attention to anything anymore? Nobody seems to give a shit what goes on around them as long as they’re ok.”
Bridge and Whitton both looked at him as if he were losing his mind.
“How are you fe
eling sir?” Whitton asked.
“What do you mean how am I feeling?”
“I mean after the robbery at the bank.”
“I’m fine,” Smith said, “why shouldn’t I be?”
“You had a gun pointed at your head,” she said, “you should really speak to someone about it.”
“You mean a shrink?” Smith laughed, “In the last year or so I’ve been shot and I’ve lost count of how many guns I’ve had pointed at me. I’ve come out of it alright without a shrink so far haven’t I?”
Whitton shook her head.
“What do we do now?” Bridge said.
“We go right back to the beginning again,” Smith said, “Toby Philips, spoilt little rich kid. Killed with a bread knife. Mother, borderline alcoholic. Father a nasty piece of work who’s never at home. Drake Whitlow. Killed with a guitar string. Mother who’s a nervous wreck and father who’s never at home. Does anybody else see a pattern here?”
“Barney Dodds,” Whitton said, “killed with a razor blade. His mother was sozzled at ten in the morning and his father also works away a lot. What does all this mean?”
“None of this makes any sense,” Smith said, “From what we’ve gathered; none of these young men knew each other, why would somebody want to kill all three of them?”
“And what about the ladybirds?” Bridge said, “Where do they fit in?”
Chalmers barged through the doors of the canteen. He had a smile on his face for a change. Whitton and Bridge looked at each other in amazement.
“What’s wrong sir?” Smith asked, “Did you win the lottery?”
“If I’d won the lottery,” Chalmers said, “I’d be in the bloody Bahamas by now. No, we’ve managed to clear up the cash machine robbery investigation thanks to you Smith. The super wants a word.”
“I was just lucky sir,” Smith said, “in the right place at the right time or should that be the wrong place at the wrong time?”
“Bollocks Smith,” Chalmers said, “old Smyth wants you to head up a press conference as soon as possible. He’s pretty chuffed about the whole thing.”
“Thompson can do it,” Smith said, “I hate the press. They make me sick.”
“Tough shit Smith,” Chalmers said, “It’s just what we need at the moment. It’ll take the heat off us for a while. Give the public a bit of good news while this ladybird crap is going on.”
“Why does Smyth want to see me?” Smith asked.
“You’re a bloody hero Smith and he wants you to see a counsellor.”
“I’m not seeing a counsellor,” Smith said.
“I’m afraid you don’t have any choice,” Chalmers said, “its standard procedure when an officer goes through the kind of trauma you went through.”
“Trauma?” Smith could not believe what he was hearing, “I get more traumatised when I have to go shopping on pension day. Those old ladies can be brutal.”
“You’re seeing a counsellor,” Chalmers said, “and the press conference is going ahead whether you like it or not. Morale in the station is low, very low. This is exactly what everybody needs at the moment.”
“You’re starting to sound like Smyth,” Smith said, “where is the old fool?”
“In his office,” Chalmers said, “and its superintendant Smyth to you.”
Smith stood up and walked out of the canteen shaking his head.
“I’m worried about him sir,” Whitton said when Smith had gone, “he’s not himself. I think he came back to work too soon.”
“He’ll be alright,” Chalmers said, “he’s a tough one. Besides, we need him; he’s a bloody good copper.”
Smith could hear music playing as he walked towards Smyth’s office. He could not quite place the song but it sounded quite offensive. The door to the office was wide open. Smith knocked once and went inside. Superintendant Smyth was standing facing the window. He was playing a crude type of air guitar to the music. Smith found it hard not to laugh. He realised what the music was. It was Michael Bolton singing something about love. He cringed as he watched Smyth making a complete fool out of himself to an awful song.
“Sir,” he said but Smyth did not hear him.
He walked up to the CD player and turned the music off. Smyth turned around.
“Oh,” he said, “hello Smith. I was just letting off a bit of steam.”
“So I see sir,” Smith sat down in front of Smyth’s desk.
“It’s good to let go every now and again,” Smyth said, “don’t you agree Smith?”
“If you say so sir,” Smith said.
“Now that this dreadful cash machine robbery business is behind us we can relax a bit. I’m going to enjoy watching the press eat their words. They said we’d never catch these rogues.”
“Sir,” Smith said, “I hate to remind you but we’ve got a murderer out there. He’s already killed three people.”
“I am well aware of that detective,” Smyth said, “but let’s concentrate on the issue at hand shall we? You’ll be glad to hear that I’ve put you forward for an award.”
“What?” Smith could not believe it.
“A bravery award. It always does the morale of the station good when one of our officers goes that extra mile in the line of duty. It serves to inspire don’t you think?”
“I don’t want an award.” Smith said, “I did nothing over and above what I get paid to do. I just happened to be at the bank when they struck.”
“Modesty Smith,” Smyth said, “an admirable quality.”
“I wasn’t even supposed to be there,” Smith continued, “I was on duty. I went to the bank to withdraw money for a personal matter.”
“Of course we’ll overlook that little detail,” Smyth said, “and we’ll have to keep it away from the press but as Shakespeare most beautifully put it, all’s well that finishes well.”
“Ends well,” Smith said.
“What?”
“Nothing sir. Will there be anything else? I’m pretty tied up with this murder investigation.”
“Ah yes,” Smyth said, “how’s all that going?”
“Badly,” Smith said, “very badly. We’ve got nothing so far. We seem to keep banging our heads against one brick wall after another.”
“I’m sure something will turn up,” Smyth said, “it always does with you. Before I forget, you need to schedule an appointment with a police counsellor. Chalmers has the details.”
“I feel fine sir,” Smith said.
“I’m afraid its regulations detective. It’ll do you good to talk about what happened. Get it out of your system. I find that music helps too.”
“If you say so sir,” Smith said.
“I’ll keep you up to speed with the details of the press conference. I can’t wait to see the looks on their faces. Well done again Smith, you’ve made this station very proud.”
Smith stood up. He could not bear to listen to any more of the Super’s drivel. He had a sudden craving for a drink. He shrugged off the feeling.
“One more thing sir,” Smith said, “when the cash machine gang were driving away from the bank, they crashed into my car. They did quite a bit of damage. Will I be expected to pay for it to be fixed myself?”
“Certainly not,” Smyth said, “get it repaired and tell them to send the bill directly to me. I’ll have it sorted out on the spot.
“Thanks sir,” Smith said.
“We can’t have a police hero driving around in a battered up old car now can we?”
Smyth beamed from ear to ear. Smith forced a smile and left the office. Halfway down the corridor, Michael Bolton’s voice insulted his eardrums once more.
FIFTEEN
Thursday 27 May 2010
Barry and Julie Philips sat at the breakfast table in their huge kitchen. They sat in silence. It was the first time in months that they had eaten breakfast together. Julie Philips prodded a piece of bacon on her plate with her fork. She felt numb and the last thing she felt like doing was eating breakfast.
�
�Are you going to eat that?” Barry said. He pointed at the plate in front of her.
“I’m not hungry,” she said.
She stood up and walked over to the fridge. She took out a half empty bottle of white wine and poured some into a glass.
“You’re not starting already are you?” Barry asked, “We’ve got a long day in front of us. God knows what time we’ll be able to get rid of everybody. Why the hell did you insist that they all come back here afterwards anyway?”
“Because we have a huge house that never gets used,” she took a long sip of the wine, “it will be nice to have more than just me and these damn dead animals in the place for a change.”
“You know I’ve got an early start in the morning don’t you?” he said. “I can’t be out of the office tomorrow. We stand to make a fortune on this deal.”
Julie Philips glared at him.
“We’re burying our only son in less than two hours time,” she said, “can you at least stop obsessing about money for today of all days.”
“What do you think pays for all this?” he said, “money. What do you think pays for the booze you’re drinking at half ten in the bloody morning?”
“You’re a bastard Barry Philips,” she said, “I wish I’d never married you.”
She finished the wine in her glass and poured another one.
“Toby is dead for Gods sake,” she added.
“Don’t you think I know that?” he said. “I just don’t show my emotions like you do.”
“You’re a cold hearted bastard, that’s what you are.”
Barry Philips stood up, walked over to her and slapped her across the face. A red mark appeared on her face immediately. The glass of wine dropped out of her hand and smashed on the tiles on the kitchen floor.
The York Trilogy: The First 3 DS Jason Smith Detective novels Page 68
