She opened up her computer and brought up the houses for sale.
“Here it is,” she said, “eighty five Fraser Road. Do you want me to write it down for you?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Smith said.
“Do you think anything has happened to him?” Mrs Turner asked.
“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Whitton said, “We’ll take a look at the house. Do you have the key?”
“I’m afraid Mr France has the only key. He took it with him yesterday.”
“We’ll check the house out anyway,” Whitton said, “please let us know if you hear anything in the mean time.”
“Thank you,” Mrs Turner said, “it’ll put my mind at rest to at least have someone out there looking for him.”
Smith was in a foul mood as they drove to Fraser Road.
“Why the hell did you tell her we’d go and check the house out?” he said.
“She was worried sick sir,” Whitton said, “It’ll take us two minutes.”
“You’ve gone soft Whitton. We’ve got more important things to do. Charlie France is probably shacked up with a young tart somewhere and he doesn’t even realise he’s being missed.”
“Can you remember why you joined up in the first place sir?” Whitton asked.
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Smith said.
“I joined up to make a difference,” she said, “to help people. I’m sure you did too but you seem to have changed over the past couple of years.”
“Crap,” Smith said, “I haven’t changed. The world has changed. People have gone soft. I remember in the old days you wouldn’t even dream of reporting someone missing to the police unless they’d been gone for at least a week.”
“You’ve become cold sir,” Whitton said, “you never used to be this bad.”
“This is the place here,” Smith parked the car outside the house, “let’s get this over with. We’ve got more important things to do and I need to get out of this suit; it’s squeezing the air out of my lungs.”
“You’re getting fat sir,” Whitton laughed.
“Not you as well Whitton?”
“What sir?”
“Nothing. Let’s see if Charlie France is hiding inside shall we.”
Smith knocked on the door. The door did not have a door bell.
“There’s nobody here,” he said, “What did I tell you? This is a waste of time.”
“Try again sir,” Whitton said.
Smith shook his head. He knocked again, harder this time. There was still no sign of movement inside the house.
“Let’s get going,” Smith said, “we’ve done what we said we would. I can promise you, Charlie France will turn up sooner or later.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Whitton said, “what now?”
“Something Barry Philips said to me at the funeral made me think,” Smith said, “it was more of a facial expression he couldn’t hide.”
“What do you mean sir?”
“When I mentioned the names of the other men who were killed,” Smith said, “Drake Whitlow and Barney Dodds, there was something in Philips’ eyes. It was like a spark of recognition.”
“Do you think he knew them sir?” Whitton asked.
“I don’t know.”
“What’s that noise?” Whitton said.
“What noise?”
“It sounds like a phone ringtone.”
“I can’t hear anything,” Smith said.
“You’ve gone deaf from playing the guitar too loud sir,” Whitton said, “listen.”
Smith listened. He could hear the phone ringing somewhere in the distance.
“It’s coming from inside the house,” Whitton said.
The sound stopped.
“I’ve got an idea,” she said.
She took out a card from her pocket.
“What’s that?” Smith said.
“I got it from the estate agents,” Whitton replied, “its Charlie France’s business card.”
She dialled the number on the business card. They could hear the ringtone from inside the house again.
“I told you,” Whitton said, “he’s here. I knew it.”
“His phone is here Whitton,” Smith said, “He could have left it here by mistake.”
“We need to get inside the house,” Whitton said.
“France has the only key,” Smith said.
“Then break the window.”
Smith walked back to his car and took the wheel spanner out of the boot. As he walked back towards the house he noticed that somebody was watching them from behind the curtains of the house next door. It seemed to be an old woman. Without knowing why, Smith waved at her.
“Nosy neighbour,” he said to Whitton, “stand back.”
He smashed one of the small panes of glass in the front door with the wheel spanner and removed the loose glass from the frame. He put his hand through and felt inside for the latch. The door to the house next door opened.
“What are you doing?” the old woman said.
“Trying to break in,” Smith replied, “we don’t have a key.”
“I’m phoning the police,” the woman said.
“Thanks,” Smith said but the woman had already run back inside her house.
He managed to find the latch and got the door open. He went inside. Whitton followed close behind.
“Phone France’s number again,” Smith said.
Whitton phoned the number and they heard the phone ringing upstairs.
“Do you think we should call for back up?” Whitton asked.
“I think our friend next door has already done that for us Whitton,” Smith smiled.
He walked slowly up the stairs and stopped and listened. He could hear his own breathing. Whitton dialled Charlie France’s number again.
“His phone is in there,” she pointed to a door to the left of the landing. The door was closed. Smith opened the door slightly and looked inside. Charlie France was lying on the floor. He had an axe buried in his neck. His shirt was unbuttoned and his jacket and tie were on the carpet next to him. The blood had stained the cream carpet a dark maroon colour.
“Shit,” Smith said, “looks like we’ve got another one.”
He noticed the ladybirds on Charlie France’s body.
Whitton poked her head round the door.
“Oh my god,” she said, “who the hell is doing this?”
They heard a noise downstairs. There was somebody else in the house.
“Police,” a man’s voice said, “could you come down please.”
Smith did not recognise the voice. He started to walk down the stairs.
“Stop there,” the policeman said, “what are you doing here?”
He obviously did not know who Smith was. Smith put his hand in his pocket to take out his ID but realised he was still wearing the suit he wore to the funeral. His ID was still in his jacket at home.
“Keep your hands where I can see them,” the policeman said.
“For god’s sake mate,” Smith said, “this isn’t the bloody movies. I’m a detective sergeant. My colleague DC Whitton is upstairs. We’ve got a dead body up there.”
The policeman looked at him nervously.
“My ID is in my other jacket,” Smith said, “we’ve just been to a funeral.”
He took another step down the stairs.
“Stop there,” the policeman said.
Smith ignored him and walked to the bottom of the stairs.
“I’m warning you,” the policeman said.
“Sir,” Whitton shouted from upstairs, “I think our guy washed blood off himself. There’s blood in the sink in the bathroom. You know what that means don’t you?”
“What Whitton?” Smith wanted to get out of there.
“The taps in the bathroom have got some beautiful prints on them. I can see them myself.”
The policeman’s expression changed.
“Who’s up there?” he asked.
; “I’ve already told you,” Smith said, “DC Whitton. How long have you been on the force?”
“Four months,” he replied.
“Four months sir,” Smith said, “make yourself useful. I want forensics here now. Preferably Grant Webber and I don’t want anybody to set foot in this house. It’s a crime scene. Have you got that?”
The policeman stared at Smith in the black suit that was obviously too small for him.
“I said have you got that?” Smith repeated.
“Yes sir,” he said. He walked outside to his car.
Whitton appeared at the bottom of the stairs.
“This is a mess,” Smith said.
He took out his phone.
“Chalmers,” he said, “I hate to say this but the secretary from the estate agents was right. Charlie France is dead. His neck was sliced open with an axe.”
“What’s going on in this town?” Chalmers said, “Don’t tell me. More ladybirds?”
“Right sir,” Smith said, “Whitton found some nice prints in the bathroom though. We’ll probably get some more off the axe. This guy doesn’t seem too bothered about leaving evidence around.”
“I’ll get Webber and his team there,” Chalmers said.
“I’m going to have a word with a very curious neighbour,” Smith said, “I bet she saw something.”
He rang off.
“Come on Whitton,” lets have a word with the neighbourhood watch next door.”
“Be nice to her,” Whitton said.
“I’m always nice,” Smith said.
The policeman walked back inside the house.
“Constable,” Smith said, “remember what I said. Nobody is to set foot in this place until forensics has finished ok?”
“I’ll make sure of it sir,” he said.
“What’s your name anyway?” Smith asked him.
“PC Smith sir,” he said.
“Great,” Whitton said, “just what we need. Another one.”
The next door neighbour was peering through the curtains when Smith knocked on her door. She answered the door almost immediately. Smith was amazed at how quick she had been to get to the door.
“Hello again,” Smith said, “Could we have a word with you please?”
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Police,” he said, “unfortunately we’ve just come from a funeral. That’s why we’re dressed like this but you can check with PC Smith next door if you like.”
The elderly woman looked Smith up and down. She had bright brown eyes.
“Come in,” she said, “who would make up such a preposterous lie? Would you like some tea?”
“That would be great,” Smith said.
They went inside. The old lady showed them to the living room.
“Have a seat,” she said, “I’ll just see to the tea.”
“Thank you Mrs…” Smith said.
“Downing,” she said, “like the prime minister’s street but please call me Mary.”
She walked through to the kitchen.
Smith looked around the room. Bookshelves lined three of the four walls. Smith estimated there to be over four thousand books in the room. He noticed there was no television in the room. He stood up and walked to the window. He pulled the curtains aside and looked outside.
“It’s just a hobby of mine,” Mary returned with the tea.
“Hobby, Mrs Downing?” Smith said.
“I don’t mean any harm by it,” she said, “and please call me Mary. I had thirty years of being called Mrs Downing.”
“Any harm by what?” Smith said.
“Watching the world go by outside,” she said, “since Arthur left me, I’ve been very lonely. I’ve read every book in this room more than once and you’ve probably noticed I don’t have a TV. Watching what happens outside helps to pass the time.”
“Was Arthur your husband?” Whitton asked.
“Yes dear,” Mary said, “we were married for forty nine years. We were planning a big trip to Blackpool for our fiftieth but poor Arthur didn’t make it. He’s been dead nine years now.”
“You couldn’t possibly have been married for forty nine years Mary,” Smith said, “You don’t look a day over fifty.”
“I’m eighty four young man,” Mary smiled, “but thank you anyway. You haven’t touched your tea.”
Smith picked up the cup of tea. The cup was very delicate. It felt too small in his hands.
“Has something happened next door?” Mary said.
“I’m afraid so,” Smith said, “Were you at home yesterday?”
“Of course,” Mary said, “I’m at home every day. I don’t have much cause to go out anymore. Even my pension is paid into the bank now so I don’t need to go to the post office anymore. I used to look forward to pension day.”
“Do you know the owner of the house next door?” Smith asked.
“Mr France,” she said, “I knew him but we rarely spoke although on the occasions we did he was always very courteous.”
“Did you happen to see Mr France yesterday?”
“Yes,” she said, “he was here with a young woman. I presume he was showing her the house. I do hope she’s not one of those who likes to play loud music at all hours.”
“What time was this?” Smith asked.
“It was yesterday afternoon sometime,” she said, “hold on.”
She stood up and picked up a notebook from the mantelpiece.
“Here we are,” she said, “he arrived at two thirty four. The woman had already been waiting for six minutes.”
Smith was amazed.
“Do you write everything down in there?” he asked her.
“I know it’s a bit strange,” she said, “but it helps to pass the time. It keeps my brain going too.”
“I think its fantastic,” Smith said, “so they entered the house just after half past two. Did you see anything else?”
“It’s all in here.” She patted the notebook. “The woman left on her own at two fifty three.”
“She left on her own?” Smith said.
“Yes.”
“Did you get a good look at her?” Smith said.
“Of course, I notice everything. I’d say she was in her twenties. She had black hair and I think her eyes were blue but I can’t be totally sure of that. She was very pretty but I could have sworn she had been crying.”
“Crying?” Whitton said, “How could you tell?”
“She looked like it that’s all. I was a teacher for thirty years. I can tell at once when a child has been crying.”
“Did you notice anything else strange about her?” Smith asked.
“There was something,” Mary said, “two things actually. She locked the door behind her when she left. Why would she do that if Mr France was still inside?”
“You said two things,” Smith said.
“I may be eighty four but my mind is still as sound as it was sixty years ago,” Mary said, “when the young woman was waiting for Mr France I got a really good look at her.”
“Go on Mary,” Smith said.
“I could have sworn she had red hair but when she came out the house her hair was black.”
“That is strange,” Smith said, “could it not have looked red in the sun?”
“There’s nothing wrong with my eyes,” she said, “her hair changed colour while she was inside.”
“Ok,” Smith said, “was there any more movement in or out of the house after that?”
“Not until I saw you trying to break in,” she said, “I should have known you were the police straight away. It was the black suit that stumped me.”
“You’ve been a great help Mary,” Smith said, “would you be able to come down to the station and make a statement some time.”
“It would be a pleasure,” she said, “I’ll get my coat.”
“Not now,” Smith said, “We’ll pop by when we need you. You can ride in a police car.”
Smith finished the rest of his tea and stood
up.
“Thank you Mary,” he said, “If you think of anything else could you write it down for us?”
Mrs Downing stood up and walked Smith and Whitton to the front door.
“Goodbye,” she said, “and take off that suit. It’s too small for you.”
“Thanks,” Smith smiled.
Grant Webber’s car was parked outside the house next door. Smith walked towards the front door but suddenly changed his mind. There’s nothing more we can do in there, he thought, not until forensics were finished.
EIGHTEEN
“She was quite a character wasn’t she?” Whitton said as they drove to Smith’s house.
“Mary?” Smith said, “She certainly was. I wish everybody could be like that. It would make our job a whole lot easier.”
“What do you make of all this?” Whitton asked.
“Four murders in the space of a week,” Smith said, “this is a serial killer isn’t it? This man is seriously deranged.”
“I’ve been thinking,” Whitton said, “with the exception of Toby Philips, there is something that connects all of the murders.”
“What’s that?” Smith said.
“A woman,” Whitton said, “a woman was involved in the murders of Grant Whitlow, Barney Dodds and now Charlie France.”
“You’re right,” Smith said.
He stopped his car at a bus stop.
“You can’t park here,” Whitton said.
“I need to think,” Smith said, “I can’t think properly when I’m driving. Drake Whitlow had a guitar lesson with a woman the day he was killed. There were three witnesses who described a woman outside the gent’s toilets just before Barney Dodds was killed and a woman was shown a house by Charlie France just before he was killed. Are you thinking what I’m thinking Whitton?”
“Our killer is a woman sir,” Whitton said.
“Shit,” Smith said, “do you believe a woman is capable of this?”
“We live in a mad world sir.”
There was a loud hoot behind them. A bus was trying to pull up into the bus stop. Smith started the engine and drove off.
“Do you know what else is strange sir?” Whitton said.
“What’s that Whitton?”
The York Trilogy: The First 3 DS Jason Smith Detective novels Page 70
