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

by Stewart Giles

  “You’re lucky I don’t beat you to a pulp,” he said, “sort yourself out.”

  Smith sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee. His only suit was hanging on a coat hanger on one of the kitchen cupboards. He stared at it but he could not bear to put it on. The last time he had worn the suit was at another funeral – Lucy’s. He looked at the clock on the wall. Toby Philips’ funeral was at twelve thirty. He still had over an hour to go. Superintendant Smyth had decided it would be a good idea in the interest of public relations that there should be a police presence at the funeral. Smith, in a moment of madness had agreed to attend. Whitton and Bridge had also volunteered. Smith knew that the press would be there in force; they would not be able to resist. Chalmers had come up with another reason to justify the police presence. He had pointed out that very often in cases such as these where the murders seem connected, the killer will show up at the funeral to either gain a sense of closure or to experience a feeling of control and dominance. They are the reason the people are gathering to mourn the loss of a loved one. Smith stood up, put his coffee cup in the sink and looked at the suit once again.

  “Let’s get this over with,” he said out loud.

  He picked up the suit and took it upstairs. While he was getting dressed, his phone rang downstairs. He cursed and ran down to answer it.

  “Smith,” he said. The tone of his voice clearly gave away his annoyance.

  “Am I disturbing you?” Karen Wood said. She could sense his anger.

  “I’m getting dressed to go to a funeral,” he said.

  For once, he was actually pleased to hear from her.

  “And my suit doesn’t seem to fit anymore,” he added.

  “You need more exercise,” she said, “you should come running with me.”

  “I’ll never be able to keep up,” Smith said.

  He had been quite a good athlete in his youth but he had not trained in years.

  “Do you want me to come with you?” she asked.

  “To the funeral?” Smith was taken aback.

  “I don’t mind,” she said, “I can be ready in half an hour.”

  Smith thought for a moment about what he might be getting himself into.

  “That would be great,” he said, “I’ll pick you up in half an hour. Where do you live?”

  “I’d rather meet you there,” she said immediately, “where’s the funeral being held?”

  “York City Church,” Smith replied, “I get the feeling the Philips family are not religious and the York City does a very modern service.”

  “I’ll see you there.”

  She rang off.

  Smith went back upstairs and finished squeezing himself into the suit. I should buy another one, he thought but decided he should rather lose a bit of weight. There’s nothing wrong with this suit, he thought. He wondered if was such a good idea to go to the funeral with Karen Wood. He was attracted to her but there was something about her he could not quite figure out. He remembered he had forgotten to thank her for sorting out the obnoxious heater repair man and for getting him a reduced price. He decided he would use the money she had saved him to take her out for a meal to say thank you. His phone rang again. It was Chalmers.

  “Smith,” he said, “where are you?”

  “At home sir,” Smith said, “I’m getting ready to go to the funeral.”

  “Of course,” Chalmers said, “I forgot. When you’re done there I want you to get down to France’s Estate Agents in the Viking Centre on Fairfax Street.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “Probably nothing,” Chalmers said, “we had a call from the secretary there, Rachel Turner. She’s worried sick about her boss Charlie France. He’s gone missing.”

  “When was this?” Smith asked.

  “Yesterday afternoon. He went to show a client a house and he hasn’t been seen since.”

  “You can’t be serious sir,” Smith said, “Surely this is a missing person’s case? He’s been gone less than twenty four hours. What’s all the panic about?”

  “Mrs Turner seemed genuinely concerned,” Chalmers said, “France has never done anything like this before.”

  “It’s a waste of time,” Smith said, “he probably got drunk, fell into bed late and now he’s sleeping it off.”

  “That’s what I thought at first,” Chalmers said, “but the secretary seemed sure there was something wrong. France hasn’t missed a day of work in years and he always phoned in when he was going to be late.”

  “Can’t uniform see to it sir?” Smith said, “I’m in the middle of a murder investigation.”

  “Just do it Smith,” Chalmers said, “It’ll take you five minutes. France will probably turn up with a raging hangover and Mrs Turner will laugh about it afterwards but she seemed frantic. I took the call myself.”

  “Ok sir,” Smith sighed, “I’ll take a look after the funeral.”

  “Don’t forget to keep an eye out at the funeral,” Chalmers said, “look out for someone who doesn’t belong there.”

  “I will sir,” Smith said.

  The line went dead; Chalmers had rung off.

  Great, Smith thought, not only do I have to go to the funeral of somebody I don’t even know, I have to waste time afterwards on a paranoid secretary who thinks her boss has been abducted by aliens. He picked up his keys and left the house.

  Smith had to park round the corner from the church. There were cars parked all along the road next to the church. He was shocked; Toby Philips, according to the people who had known him, was not the most popular of people. He spotted Karen Wood immediately. She was wearing a black sweater and a black skirt than came just above her knees. Smith thought she had very shapely legs. He walked over to her.

  “Thanks for coming,” he said, “and I forgot to thank you for saving me money on my water heater. What did you say to that horrible bloke exactly?”

  “You don’t want to know,” she smiled, “quite a turn out isn’t it? This Toby Philips guy must have been very popular.”

  “Not really,” Smith said, “I’m quite surprised how many people are here.”

  Whitton and Bridge walked up to them. Whitton did not even try to hide her distaste at Karen Wood’s presence. She glared at her and shook her head at Smith.

  The hearse arrived and parked directly outside the church. Barry Philips and three men Smith did not know carried the coffin inside. Julie Philips walked behind them. She was sobbing uncontrollably. A man with a very expensive looking camera was taking photographs of them as they walked inside the church. Barry Philips glared at him. Smith remembered what Chalmers had said. He looked around at the people gathered in the church grounds. He recognised two of them. The young man who had found Toby Philips’ body was there as was the girl with the pink hair. Carrie something or other, Smith remembered. This is a waste of time, he thought, how are we supposed to look for someone who should not be here if we don’t know who most of these people are?

  “I think the right thing to do,” Smith said, “is let them have the service in private. It’s none of our business. We’ll wait outside until it’s finished.”

  Whitton and Bridge agreed with him.

  There was a commotion by the entrance to the church. A man ran towards one of the photographers. It was Barry Philips. The photographer was the one who had been taking photographs of the coffin earlier. Philips grabbed the camera, threw it to the ground and punched the photographer in the face.

  “Shit,” Smith said, “that’s all we need.”

  He ran over to them. Barry Philips was hitting the man over and over again. More press photographers had gathered round and were snapping away freely.

  “I’ll kill the lot of you,” Barry Philips looked like a rabid dog.

  “That’s enough,” Smith shouted. He was surprised at how loud he could shout. Philips and the photographers stopped and stared at him.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Philips said.

  “I’m here to escort
these vultures out of here,” Smith said, “you lot, show some respect. I want you all to leave now.”

  “It’s a free country,” one of the journalists said, “We haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “Then I’ll make something up and arrest the whole lot of you,” Smith said. He hated journalists.

  The man Philips had assaulted got up from the ground. His eye was already swollen and his nose was bleeding badly. Smith recognised him. He was a particularly repulsive journalist.

  “Arrest him copper,” he said, “did you see what he did? He’s not going to get away with it.”

  Smith thought hard for a moment. How was he going to handle this? He chose the option that would probably land him in the most trouble.

  “I saw nothing,” he said, “this man is here to bury his son. Why don’t you lot piss off and prey on someone else.”

  Whitton and Bridge stared at him. Barry Philips straightened his tie and walked up to him. Smith prepared himself for an attack.

  “Thank you,” he said and walked back inside the church.

  “You’re fucked detective Smith,” the injured journalist said.

  “Get out of here,” Smith said, “before I arrest you for disturbing the peace.”

  The man opened his mouth to say something but changed his mind. He took out a handkerchief to wipe his bloody nose and walked off towards his car.

  Smith’s heart was pounding in his chest. He knew there would be serious repercussions from his actions.

  “Do you think I’m going to get in trouble for that?” he said to Whitton.

  “What?” Whitton said, “Letting a man get away with beating the crap out of a journalist? Relations between the police and the press are going to get much better after this aren’t they? The super is going to love it.”

  “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you Whitton,” Smith said.

  “Are you alright?” Karen Wood asked.

  “I hate journalists,” Smith said.

  “They’re only doing their jobs,” she said.

  Smith was surprised by this.

  “They’re a bunch of parasites,” he said.

  “They’re only giving the general public what they want to see,” she said, “its only human nature to want to see somebody fail or lose it. They wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for the people who lap this stuff up.”

  Smith realised she had a valid point but he did not admit it.

  The church service was a short one. People started to file out of the church into the church grounds. Barry and Julie Philips were the last to emerge. Barry Philips walked over to where Smith, Whitton, Bridge and Karen Wood were standing under an old oak tree.

  “Can I have a word,” he said to Smith.

  “Of course,” Smith said.

  “In private if you don’t mind.”

  He walked off towards the cemetery. Smith followed him.

  “You always think you’ll go first don’t you?” Philips said.

  He stared at an old gravestone.

  “What do you mean?” Smith said.

  “Burying a child has to be the most unnatural thing in the world don’t you think?”

  “I suppose so,” Smith said.

  “Do you have any kids?” Philips asked.

  “Not yet,” Smith replied.

  “Then you won’t understand yet. I may not be the best father in the world. God, I’m not even close but nobody should have to bury their child.”

  “It was quite a turnout,” Smith said.

  “Family and nosy bastards mostly,” Philips said, “only two of Toby’s friends bothered to come. I know he could be a pain in the arse sometimes but I expected more people to give a damn.”

  “Is there anybody here you don’t recognise?” Smith asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Philips said, “apart from the journos and you lot, most of the people here are family and friends of family. Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious,” Smith lied.

  “Do you think you’ll catch whoever did this?” Philips asked.

  “We’ll do our best,” Smith said.

  He did not tell Philips they were getting nowhere with the investigation.

  “I’d better get back,” Philips said, “now comes the worst part, trying to stay civil with people I hate.”

  “One more thing Mr Philips,” Smith said, “it’s just a thought but do you know if Toby knew anybody by the name of Drake Whitlow or Barney Dodds?”

  Smith noticed it immediately. There was a subtle change in Philips’ facial expression. The two names had brought about some kind of spark of recognition. It lasted a second or so and then it was gone.

  “Never heard of them,” Philips said, “I’d better get back to Julie. She’s a complete wreck. I just know she’s going to drink herself into a coma when we get back home. Thanks again detective.”

  He walked back to the church. People were beginning to leave. Smith went back to where Whitton and Bridge were standing. Karen Wood was nowhere to be seen.

  “Where’s Doctor Wood?” he asked Whitton.

  “She said she had to go,” Whitton said, “why the hell did you have to bring her? What were you thinking?”

  “What’s your problem Whitton? She’s harmless.”

  “You’ll see,” Whitton shook her head.

  “I like her,” Bridge said.

  “You would,” Whitton said.

  “What’s not to like? She’s beautiful, intelligent and she’s pleasant to be around.”

  “There’s something weird about her,” Whitton said, “she gives me the creeps.”

  “You’re jealous Whitton,” Smith said.

  “I am not jealous. She’s bad news.”

  “I have to go into town,” Smith said, “some estate agent hasn’t turned up for work. His secretary is convinced that something has happened to him. It’s probably a waste of time but I promised Chalmers. Whitton, you can come with me. Bridge, you can go back to the station and give poor old Thompson a bit of help with the paperwork for the cash machine robberies.”

  “Thanks a lot sir,” Bridge said, “can I at least go home and get changed first?”

  “Make it quick,” Smith said.

  SIXTEEN

  She walked out of the churchyard and turned left onto Monkgate. The sun was beating down and she wished she had worn something different to the funeral. She was starting to sweat. She put her hand in her handbag. The Tag Heuer watch was still there. She rummaged around and picked up a handful of ladybirds. She had been tempted to sprinkle them on the coffin; that would have been beautiful but there were too many people around and she would have been found out. She threw the ladybirds in the air and smiled. It had turned out even better than she had expected. She could still picture the pain in Barry Philips’ eyes as he punched the journalist. She had been quite surprised but even the devil feels pain sometimes, she thought. Watching him attack the journalist had been a delight. She shivered at the thought of what she had achieved. The police did not even know she was there. They saw her of course but that was another version of her. She thought about the ladybirds she had thrown in Barry Philips’ waste paper bin. The police had obviously not found them. She suddenly noticed something. Barry Philips’ car drove past her. She knew where he lived; she had been to the house with Toby a few times. Philips was going the wrong way. She decided to change her plans. Her car was parked around the corner. She ran up to it, got in and opened the glove compartment. The gun was where it always was. She started the engine and headed off in the direction Barry Philips had gone. She felt elated. She did not know how this would play out but she had not felt so alive in years. She felt in her pocket. There were still plenty of ladybirds left.

  SEVENTEEN

  Smith and Whitton walked through the doors of France’s Estate Agents on Fairfax Street. The woman at the reception desk looked at them suspiciously. They were still wearing the clothes they had worn to the funeral.

  “Good afternoon,” Smith said, “we
’re looking for Rachel Turner.”

  “That’s me,” she said, “Who are you?”

  “Police,” Smith said, “excuse the clothes. We’ve just come from a funeral. You phoned about a missing person?”

  “Mr France,” she said, “he owns the business. I haven’t seen him since yesterday.”

  This is a complete waste of time, Smith thought.

  “You saw him yesterday?” Smith said, “What time was that?”

  “About two in the afternoon,” she said, “he went to show someone a house. He said he would be back within an hour but he never came back.”

  “I can understand your concern Mrs Turner.” Smith noticed she was wearing a wedding ring. “But usually there’s a perfectly rational explanation when people disappear, especially for such a short period of time.”

  “You don’t understand,” she said, “Mr France doesn’t normally just disappear. He’s never missed a day of work and he always calls when he’s going to be late. That’s the way he is.”

  “Don’t worry Mrs Turner,” Smith said, “he’ll turn up. There could be any number of reasons he didn’t return to work yesterday.”

  “Such as?” she seemed very upset, “Where could he be?”

  “He could have bumped into an old friend, had a few too many drinks and slept it off in a hotel somewhere,” Smith suggested.

  “That’s not like Mr France,” she said.

  Smith was getting impatient. He hated it when people wasted his time. This woman was clearly paranoid.

  “What about his family?” Smith said as a last resort. “Have you spoken to them?”

  “Of course I have,” she replied, “I spoke to his ex wife. She hasn’t heard from him since last week. They have a twelve year old daughter, Catherine. I’ve even phoned all of the hospitals. Nobody matching his description has shown up in any of them.”

  She was getting quite worked up.

  “Calm down Mrs Turner,” Whitton said, “he’ll turn up. Where was he going yesterday?”

  Smith glared at Whitton.

  “He went to one of the houses he owns,” Mrs Turner said, “he doesn’t normally show the houses himself but the junior estate agent phoned in sick so Mr France had to go instead. He was quite angry about it. I’ll get you the address.”