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

by Stewart Giles

  “The description of the woman standing outside the gent’s toilets and the one Mary gave us of the woman at France’s house are the same. Black hair, attractive, mid twenties.”

  “I still find it hard to believe a woman could do this,” Smith said, “These men were killed in such brutal ways. A bread knife, a guitar string, a razor blade and an axe. All of them with their throats cut open. If it was a woman she must be incredibly strong.”

  “I’m just thinking out loud here sir,” Whitton said, “and don’t take this the wrong way but the description matches your girlfriend perfectly.”

  “Girlfriend?” Smith said, “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

  “Doctor Wood,” Whitton said, “your stalker. She’s strong, she has black hair, blue eyes and even I must admit she’s very attractive.”

  “Don’t be so ridiculous,” Smith said, “that’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  He parked the car outside his house.

  “I need to get out of this suit,” he said, “Do you want to come in?”

  “I’ll wait in the car thanks,” she said.

  Smith went inside his house. He was incredibly thirsty. He turned on the tap in the kitchen and filled a glass full of water. He drank it in one go. He went upstairs and took off his suit. He felt better straight away. He changed into a pair of jeans and a T shirt. He thought about what Whitton had hinted about Doctor Wood but dismissed the idea. Karen Wood is not a deranged serial killer, he thought. He would have noticed something strange about her straight away.

  “That’s better,” he said as he got back in his car.

  “Sorry about before sir,” Whitton said, “like I said I was just thinking out loud.”

  “Don’t worry about it Whitton,” Smith said, “we have to explore every avenue but I’m afraid that one is just insane.”

  “Where are we going now sir?” she asked.

  “Back to France’s Estate Agents,” Smith said, “four people killed in a week. I’m going to find out the connection between these four men if it kills me. There has to be a connection. Then I’m going to get my car fixed.”

  Rachel Turner stood up when Smith and Whitton walked through the doors of France’s Estate Agents. She knew straight away that something had happened.

  “It’s bad new isn’t it?” she said before Smith and Whitton had even reached the reception desk.

  “I’m afraid so Mrs Turner,” Smith said, “Mr France is dead.”

  “I knew it,” she said, “I knew that something was wrong. Mr France never disappears like that.”

  “Does Mr France have any other family apart from his ex wife and his daughter?” Smith asked.

  “No,” she said, “He has no brothers or sisters, only Janine and Catherine.”

  “Do you have their contact details?”

  “I’ll phone Janine,” she said, “It’ll be better if she hears it from me and not the police.”

  “I’m going to need to speak to her anyway Mrs Turner,” Smith said, “There’s a few routine questions I need to ask.”

  Rachel Turner wrote Charlie France’s ex wife’s number on the back of one of the business cards on the desk.

  “This is terrible,” she said,” where did you find him?”

  “I’m afraid we can’t give out any details until his wife has been informed,” Smith said.

  “Ex wife,” Mrs Turner corrected him.

  “We’ll be in touch Mrs Turner,” Smith said.

  Smith had found a panel beater company in the phone book. From the brief conversation he had had with them on the phone that morning he had found them to be reasonably professional but when he parked his car outside their premises he started to have second thoughts. The company was called Brown Panel Beating and Workshop. There was a huge rusty sign outside the building. Whitton burst out laughing as soon as she saw it. The sign was so old that some of the letters had fallen off. The ‘n’ from Brown was gone as were the words ‘Panel’ and ‘and’ so now the sign read ‘Brow Beating Workshop.’

  “I bet Thompson’s wife learned everything she knows at this place,” Whitton laughed.

  “They’re supposed to be very good,” Smith said, “and they’re the only place that would agree for the police to pay.”

  He got out of the car and walked through the workshop to what looked like a small office. A man was filling in a word search puzzle in a magazine behind the counter.

  “Afternoon,” Smith said, “I’m here to have my car fixed. I phoned earlier. My name’s Jason Smith.”

  The man looked up from his puzzle. He was painfully thin and he was wearing glasses with the thickest lenses Smith had ever seen. They made his eyes look much bigger than they were.

  “Detective Sergeant Smith,” he said in a high pitched voice, “Red Ford Sierra, Ninety eight model. Bloody good cars those. They don’t make them like that any more.”

  “Can you fit me in?” Smith asked.

  “Of course,” the man said, “I believe York City Police department are footing the bill?”

  “Smith was amazed.

  “That’s some memory you have,” he said.

  The man smiled.

  “Dylan Amos,” he said, “pleased to meet you. It’s amazing what the brain is capable of. I assume the police won’t be paying cash.”

  “Of course not,” Smith said.

  “Then you’ll have to fill in a couple of forms first.”

  He handed Smith two oil stained pieces of paper and a pen.

  “I’ll get one of the blokes to bring your car in while you fill those in,” Amos said.

  He got up and walked to the back of the workshop.

  “Very upmarket establishment,” Whitton said as Smith filled in the forms.

  Pictures of half naked women were posted on most of the walls and various mystery car parts were thrown randomly around the workshop. Smith put the forms on the counter and watched as his car was driven onto one of the ramps.

  “First things first,” Amos said, “is there anything you need to take out of your car before we get started?”

  “Nothing,” Smith said.

  “Do you need an inventory?”

  “Inventory?” Smith said.

  “We don’t want to be accused of stealing anything out of the car while it’s in our care,” Amos said, “you won’t believe what we’ve been accused of nicking. One woman claimed she had an expensive bra in the glove compartment of her Volkswagen and she reckoned we stole it. Who in their right mind would steal a bra?”

  Whitton looked at him suspiciously but did not say anything.

  “She caused such a stink about it,” Amos continued, “she even got you lot involved. Two days later she phoned and said she’d found it. She didn’t even say sorry.”

  “There are no bras in my car,” Smith said, “there’s nothing in there worth stealing.”

  “That’s what she said,” Amos said, “that’s why we’ve got indemnity forms now.”

  He handed Smith another form.

  “Sign there,” he pointed to a line at the bottom of the form. “It puts us in the clear if anything does go missing.”

  Smith signed the form and handed it back to Amos.

  “Seeing as though the police are footing the bill,” Amos said, “do you want us to do a thorough check of the car if you know what I mean?”

  Smith looked at Whitton and smiled.

  “Why not,” he said, “my hooter doesn’t work, my shocks sound like they are about to go and I think my battery cables need replacing. It’s a bugger to start when it’s cold.”

  “Great,” Amos said, “we’ll have her looking as good as new in a couple of days. Oh, and your tax disc has expired.”

  “What?” Smith said.

  “Your tax disc,” Amos said, “it expired at the end of April. I just thought I’d let you know. You should have got a reminder in the post.”

  “Shit,” Smith said, “I probably did. I had a lot on my mind at that time.”
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br />   He handed Amos a card.

  “Give me a call when the car’s ready,” he said, “I just need to phone somebody to come and pick us up.”

  “I can give you a lift in the van if you want,” Amos said, “it’s not like we’re snowed under here.”

  “That would be great,” Smith said.

  Whitton glared at him. She was wearing a new skirt and she had visions of it getting covered in grease.

  Amos led them to an old Ford Transit van that looked like it had seen better days. It was covered in scratches and dents.

  “After you,” he opened the passenger door for Whitton informing her she must sit in the middle.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, “she’s not pretty but she means business. She’s a bit like Margaret Thatcher.”

  He smiled at Whitton and she forced a smile back.

  Smith got in next to Whitton. There was a strange smell inside the van. Amos started the engine. It started first time.

  “It’s funny isn’t it,” Amos said as he drove, “Mechanics always seem to drive beaten up old bangers don’t they?”

  Smith and Whitton did not say a word.

  “I wonder if economists are just as bad with their own money,” Amos continued, “and do you think doctors live unhealthily? I mean, you’re a policeman,” he looked at Smith, “and you’re driving around without a valid tax disc. It’s a funny old world isn’t it?”

  Smith smiled.

  “I’ll get it sorted out as soon as I can,” he said, “do you know the way to the police station?”

  “I’ve been there once,” Amos said, “that business with the stolen bra. I never forget anything. It’s a curse sometimes.”

  “We could use somebody like you on our team,” Whitton said.

  “I tried,” Amos said, “but I don’t think they liked the look of me. Besides, I’m almost blind.”

  He tapped the thick lenses on his glasses.

  “Without these things,” he said, “I wouldn’t be able to see anything.”

  They drove in silence for a while.

  “You’re probably not allowed to tell me anything,” Amos said, “but how are things going with the ladybird murder case?”

  Smith felt very annoyed.

  “The what?” he said.

  “The ladybird murders,” Amos said.

  “How do you know about that?” Smith said.

  “Come on,” Amos said, “I read the papers, I watch the TV, I surf the net more than anybody I know. Everybody knows about it.”

  “I wasn’t aware that the ladybirds were public knowledge,” Smith said.

  “Everything is public knowledge these days,” Amos said, “nothing can be kept secret. Social media takes care of that.”

  “We’re still busy with a few leads,” Smith tried to be as elusive as possible.

  “Do you want to know what I think?” Amos said.

  “What do you think?” Smith sighed.

  “Ok,” Amos said, “this is what I think. The ladybirds are much more important than most people realise. What I’ve read in the papers is mostly hogwash. The ladybirds represent much more than what they’ve said in the press.”

  “Very interesting,” Smith humoured him.

  “But,” Amos carried on, “if you go back to the middle ages when the ladybird or ladybug as the Yanks call it had its origins, it was more a symbol of a mother figure. It was even dedicated to the Virgin Mary. It was also seen as a messenger of promise and a symbol of protection.”

  “How do you know all this?” Smith asked. “Are you an expert on ladybirds?”

  “Not at all,” Amos said, “but I have an unfortunate memory remember. I never forget anything I read.”

  Whitton was transfixed. She was suddenly fascinated by this eccentric panel beater.

  “Are you saying that these ladybirds represent the protection of a mother figure?” she said.

  “They would,” Amos said, “if they were alive but from what I’ve read, the ladybirds found on the bodies were all dead weren’t they?”

  He parked his van outside the station.

  “Thanks Amos,” Smith said, “you’ll give me a call when my car is ready?”

  “Of course,” Amos said, “and get your car tax up to date.”

  “I will,” Smith said, “goodbye.”

  He got out of the van. Whitton got out behind him.

  “There’s something else you may be interested in,” Amos shouted out the window as he was driving away.

  Smith turned round.

  “What’s that?” he said.

  “It’s just my opinion,” Amos said, “not something I’ve read about and you can take it for what it is but I’m pretty sure your murderer is a woman.”

  NINETEEN

  Smith had barely walked through the doors of the station when he heard the ominous words, “Smith. My office. Now.”

  It was Chalmers.

  “What have I done now?” Smith asked but from the look on Chalmers’ face he realised the DI was in no mood for jokes. Chalmers raced off down the corridor. Smith followed him. He found it hard to keep up.

  “Close the door behind you,” Chalmers said.

  He sat down behind his desk. Smith closed the door and sat on the only other chair in the room.

  “What’s up sir?” Smith asked.

  “What’s up?” Chalmers said, “What’s up? I’ll tell you what’s up. The press are what’s up.”

  “Is this about the funeral?” Smith said, “That photographer was way out of order.”

  “Barry Philips beat the living shit out of a journalist in full view of a bunch of other journos,” Chalmers said, “they got the whole lot on tape.”

  “They don’t use tape anymore sir,” Smith said.

  “Don’t piss me off any more than you already have Smith,” Chalmers said.

  “But sir,” Smith said.

  “I’m not finished.” Chalmers was getting red in the face.

  “Barry Philips beat the crap out of a journo in front of three police officers and you decided to do nothing about it,” he said, “the super has had a rather unpleasant phone call from the editor of the York Post. He claims that one of our officers denied witnessing any altercation. Apparently, you told the injured man you hadn’t seen anything. Is this true?”

  “Pretty much sir,” Smith said, “but like I said, the guy was out of order. Barry Philips was burying his only son for god’s sake.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Chalmers said, “what sort of a message does it send out when a detective sergeant decides it’s alright for a man to assault another man because he’s upset?”

  “What would you have done sir?” Smith said.

  “It doesn’t matter what I would have done Smith,” Chalmers said, “I wasn’t there.”

  “What would you have done?” Smith said again, “off the record.”

  Chalmers scratched a scab on his forehead.

  “I probably would have done exactly the same as you,” he said, “but that’s not the point. The super is furious. Just when relations between us and the press are at an all time high you go and pull a stunt like this.”

  “So what now sir?” Smith asked.

  “Old Smyth had scheduled a press conference for tomorrow afternoon at two. Strictly regarding the cash machine gang of course. There will be no mention of the funeral. Luckily, Smyth and the editor of the Post go way back. There is to be no mention of the fight at the funeral.”

  “What about the ladybird killer?” Smith said.

  “Have you caught him yet?” Chalmers asked.

  “No,”

  “Then that’s off limits too. Tomorrow’s press conference is going to highlight a police success.”

  “I hate talking to the press,” Smith said.

  “You’ve got no choice,” Chalmers said, “two pm sharp. Speak to Thompson and get up to speed on the ins and outs of the case.”

  “Will that be all sir?” Smith asked.

  “You hav
e an appointment with a trauma specialist tomorrow at noon,” Chalmers said.

  “You can’t be serious sir,” Smith said, “a shrink?”

  “A trauma specialist. To be honest, I think it’s a load of bullshit too but it’ll work in your favour with the press.”

  “How the hell do you work that out sir?” Smith asked.

  “You were traumatised after the armed robbery. Your judgement was impaired and all the other bollocks these namby pambies come up with these days. That’s why you weren’t yourself at the funeral.”

  “This is insane sir,” Smith said.

  “Smith,” Chalmers stood up, “you’re a real pain in the arse but you’re a bloody good detective. Just humour the super on this one and you might be able to break your own record by going more than six months without being suspended.”

  “I’ll do it,” Smith said, “but have you forgotten that we have a psycho out there killing people left right and centre?”

  Chalmers sat down again.

  “How are things going there?” he said.

  “Badly,” Smith replied, “four dead men and we’re no closer to finding out anything.”

  “Nothing at all?” Chalmers said.

  “Whitton and me are exploring the possibility that our killer might be a woman.”

  “A woman?” Chalmers said, “You can’t be serious. Surely a woman isn’t capable of this.”

  “That’s what I thought in the beginning sir,” Smith said, “but I’m beginning to think it could be true.”

  “Do you have anything to go on?” Chalmers said.

  “There’s a connection between the four men,” Smith said, “I’m sure of it. Once we find out what that connection is it’ll bring us one step closer to catching this maniac.”

  “It’s late,” Chalmers said, “and you’ve got a long shitty day ahead of you tomorrow. I don’t envy you.”

  “Thanks sir,” Smith said, “I need a lift home. My cars in for repairs.”

  Smith’s phone rang in his pocket. It was Doctor Karen Wood.

  “How are you?” she said.

  “What do you want?” Smith said and realised he sounded ruder than he meant to.

  “What do detectives do after work?” she asked.

  Smith stood up. Chalmers nodded an indication that their meeting was over. Smith walked back down the corridor.