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

by Stewart Giles

  Smith found Bridge in the canteen.

  “So much for an early night sir,” Bridge said, “Barry Philips still hasn’t turned up.”

  “I need to ask you something Bridge,” Smith said, “this is very important.”

  “Fire away sir,” Bridge said.

  “Yesterday when you and Doctor Wood were searching for companies that sell ladybird breeding kits, were you with her the whole time?”

  “I think so sir,” Bridge said.

  “Think Bridge,” Smith said, “are you sure?”

  “Hold on,” Bridge said, “she suggested we take a break. We’d been at it for hours. She asked me if I’d get her a cup of coffee.”

  “And you left her alone in my office?”

  “It was only for a few minutes sir,” Bridge said, “When I came back she was playing solitaire on your computer. What’s this about?”

  “For God’s Sake Bridge,” Smith said.

  He was about to give Bridge a lecture on procedure but he had come up with an idea.

  “Do we have a telephone directory somewhere in the station?” he said.

  “Probably,” Bridge said, “why?”

  “I need to find the number for a pub,” Smith said, “the Lady’s Arms. Why didn’t I put two and two together? Lady’s Arms. Ladybird.”

  Bridge took out his phone and tapped a few keys.

  “Lady’s Arms,” he said, “I’ve found their number.”

  “Read it out to me then,” Smith took out his phone.

  Bridge read out the number. Smith dialled it. A man answered the phone.

  “Lady’s Arms,” he said, “how can I help you?”

  “Hi,” Smith said, “my names DS Smith. I’m a police officer. I was in there with a colleague of mine and I can’t seem to get hold of her. She’s a woman in her mid twenties, black hair, very attractive.”

  “I remember her,” the man said.

  “Is she still there?” Smith asked.

  “She left about ten minutes ago.”

  “Shit,” Smith said.

  He suddenly thought of something else.

  “This is a long shot,” he said, “but have you cleared the table we were sitting at? We had fish and chips and a couple of beers.”

  “Of course we’ve cleared the table,” the man said, “we clear the tables as soon as the customer has gone. We’re not like some places that leave the dirty plates on the tables for hours.”

  “And have you washed the glasses we were drinking out of?”

  “What’s this all about?” the man asked, “Are you trying to wind me up?”

  “Police business,” Smith said, “please just answer the question.”

  “The glasses go straight into the dishwasher,” the man said.

  “Thank you,” Smith rang off.

  “Do you want to tell me what’s going on sir?” Bridge said.

  “Doctor Karen Wood,” Smith said, “I’ve got a sickening feeling she’s our ladybird killer.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Bridge said, “she seemed so nice.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Smith sighed, “but there are so many things that are pointing in her direction. Whitton had a gut feeling about her all along. It turns out that Webber picked her out from the internet because she was the first insect expert on the list. When we looked again we found no trace of her. She seems to be a clever scam merchant. She also knew about Barney Dodds’ murder before we did.”

  “What do we do now sir?” Bridge asked.

  “We need to find her as soon as possible,” Smith said, “even if it’s just to rule her out of this bloody mess.”

  Smith’s phone started to ring. He saw it was the same number he had ignored earlier in the evening.

  “Smith,” he said.

  “Detective,” a man’s voice said, “I tried to phone you earlier.”

  “Who is this?” Smith asked.

  “Its Barry Philips,” he said, “Toby’s father.”

  Smith did not recognise his voice. The arrogance in his tone was gone. Smith was certain Barry Philips sounded scared.

  “Where are you?” Smith asked him.

  “I’m at a hotel just outside the city,” Philips replied, “The White Oak.”

  Smith had to think quickly.

  “I thought you were going home after the funeral,” he said.

  “Please just hear me out,” Philips said, “I couldn’t face anybody after the funeral. All those phoney people with their fake sympathy make me sick. I needed to think. There’s something you need to know. It’s about the murders. I’m well aware that I might have killed that photographer earlier; I saw it on the news but that’s the least of my worries. I think my life is in danger.”

  The line went quiet for a second.

  “Mr Philips,” Smith said, “are you still there?”

  “I lied to you at the funeral,” Philips said. His voice was shaking. “I know the names Dodds and Whitlow very well. I also knew Charlie France. Bring me in to the station and I’ll tell you everything.”

  He hung up.

  “Bridge,” Smith said, “find out the address for the White Oak hotel. Me and you are going for a drive.”

  Whitton and Thompson walked in to the canteen.

  “Whitton,” Smith said, “we know where Barry Philips is. He’s just phoned me from a hotel outside the city. He sounded terrified. It also seems you may have been right about a certain Doctor Karen Wood. She’s not who she claims to be.”

  “Who is she then?” Whitton asked.

  “I don’t know,” Smith said, “but I’ve got a terrible feeling she’s our ladybird killer. We need to find her. Barry Philips wants to tell me something. Something that links all the murders together if I’m not mistaken and I think our mystery insect doctor’s name is going to crop up somewhere.”

  “What does Philips know?” Whitton said.

  “Me and Bridge are going to find out,” Smith said, “we’re getting close here. I can feel it. I want you and Thompson to organise a team to look for Doctor Wood or whoever she is.”

  “Smith,” Thompson said, “have you forgotten that I’m a detective sergeant?”

  “No,” Smith said, “Whitton. Aren’t you going to say I told you so?”

  “That would be mean sir,” Whitton said, “but I did tell you so.”

  “I’ve got the address sir,” Bridge said, “It’s quite a drive.”

  “Come on then,” Smith said, “We’ll have to go in your car.”

  TWENTY ONE

  Smith knocked on the door of room number twenty one in the White Oak Hotel. He looked at his watch. It was nine pm. There was no answer. He knocked again.

  “Barry Philips,” he shouted, “its detective sergeant Smith. York Police.

  He waited for an answer.

  “It doesn’t look like he’s here sir,” Bridge said, “are you sure this is the right hotel?”

  “There’s only one White Oak in York Bridge,” Smith said, “we checked at reception. Barry Philips checked into room twenty one earlier this afternoon.”

  “Maybe he went out.”

  “He phoned me Bridge,” Smith said, “why would he go out? He said he had something to tell me.”

  Smith knocked again. There was still no answer. He tried the door handle. The door was locked.

  “Bridge,” Smith said, “go down and find somebody who can open this door.”

  While Bridge was looking for somebody with a key, Smith took out his phone and dialled Barry Philips’ number. He heard a phone ringing inside the room. He felt a burning sensation in his stomach. Something is very wrong here, he thought. What did Philips want to tell me? Why was he in fear of his life?

  Bridge returned with the night porter. He handed Smith the spare key to the room.

  “You can leave us now,” Smith said to him.

  The night porter looked like he was about to argue but the look in Smith’s eyes seemed to make him change his mind. He walked back down the
corridor. Smith slowly turned the key in the lock and opened the door. Barry Philips was sitting in a chair with his back to the door. His head was bowed and from where Smith and Bridge were standing it looked like he was praying. Smith knew he was dead as soon as he saw the ladybirds on the floor around the chair. He walked slowly towards Philips. His hands were clenched together as if in prayer and blood had soaked his white shirt. He had had his throat slashed. Bridge walked over and stared at the lifeless body.

  “He’s dead Bridge,” Smith said, “I want you to wake up Webber and get him here right away. Get hold of Whitton and Thompson too. I need this hotel shut down. Nobody is to leave.”

  Bridge was still staring at Barry Philips.

  “Bridge,” Smith shouted, “did you hear what I said?”

  Bridge snapped out of his trance and took out his phone.

  Smith looked closely at Philips. His chin was resting on his chest. Smith lifted his head and gasped when he saw the gaping wound in his neck. He could not believe that Karen Wood was capable of such a thing. A shrill sound suddenly filled the room. It was the fire alarm. Smith realised straight away what was going on. He ran out of the room and darted off down the corridor. He looked for a sign that would direct him towards a fire escape. He knew that the fire alarm also sounds when somebody opens up the fire escape doors. He followed the signs down a staircase to the ground floor of the hotel. His heart sank when he reached the bottom. The fire door was wide open. He ran outside and came to an open piece of ground at the back of the hotel. He stopped and tried to get his breath back. He realised he was panting. I must get more exercise, he thought. He could see a figure far away in the distance. He could not see if it was a man or a woman but whoever it was was running at such a speed, Smith knew he would never be able to catch them on foot. He ran round to the front of the hotel where Bridge had parked his car. He knew that Bridge often left his keys in the ignition but this time he was out of luck. The car was locked. He took out his phone and dialled Bridge’s number.

  “Bridge,” he said, “throw your car keys out of the window.”

  “What?” Bridge said.

  “Look out the window,” Smith said, “and throw me your car keys.”

  Two seconds later, Smith saw one of the windows open. Bridge tossed his keys down to the ground. Smith ran over and picked them up. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears. He ran back to Bridge’s car and opened it after three attempts. He put the key in the ignition and started the engine. He drove around the hotel to where he had last seen the figure running away and set off in pursuit. He drove along a deserted street until he came to a dead end. He turned the car around and drove back the way he had come. There was nobody to be seen.

  This is pointless, he thought, whoever he saw was far away by now. He drove back to the front of the hotel and parked the car outside. Whitton and Thompson had just arrived.

  “Philips is dead,” Smith said. He was still out of breath.

  The fire alarm was still blaring.

  “What happened?” Whitton asked.

  “He had his throat slashed,” Smith said, “there were ladybirds on the floor around the chair he was sitting on. It looks like the killer got to him before we could. Philips had something important to tell me. I don’t know what to make of all this Whitton.”

  “There’s no sign of our Doctor Wood anywhere,” Whitton said, “her phone is switched off and nobody has seen her since your date at the Lady’s Arms.”

  “I don’t understand any of this,” Smith said, “Philips phoned me less than an hour ago. He was very much alive. How could whoever did this manage to kill him and escape in the space of time it took us to get here? It’s as if they knew Philips wanted to tell me something and they couldn’t let that happen. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Unless,” Whitton said.

  “Unless what?”

  “What did Philips sound like on the phone sir?” Whitton asked.

  “Nervous,” Smith said, “in fact I didn’t even recognise his voice at first. He sounded nothing like he did when we first spoke to him. It was like he was terrified of something.”

  “Do you think the killer could have made him say what he did?”

  “But why?” Smith said, “Why go to all the trouble? Why not just kill him?”

  “I don’t know sir,” Whitton said, “maybe to make sure you would come to the hotel and find the body.”

  “I was right behind them,” Smith said, “Whoever did this is one hell of a runner.”

  “Karen Wood is very athletic isn’t she sir?”

  “I thought of that,” Smith sighed, “I’m beginning to think she’s the one but how did she find out where Philips was staying? He was supposed to be at home.”

  “She always seems to have ways of finding out things,” Whitton said.

  Grant Webber and his team of forensic technicians pulled up next to Bridge’s car. Webber got out the van. He looked extremely annoyed.

  “I’ve had five hours sleep this week,” he said to Smith, “why is it that as soon as you come back to work we have bodies piled up to the rafters? Where is he?”

  “Room twenty one,” Smith said, “I’ll come up with you. Whitton, can you and Thompson speak to whoever’s on reception and find out if they saw anything. Ask if they noticed an attractive woman with black hair.”

  He followed Webber inside the hotel. The fire alarm had been switched off. A group of people had gathered in the foyer. Smith was impressed to see Bridge questioning them. He nodded his appreciation to him.

  Smith showed Webber to room twenty one and stood back as Webber went through the motions. He knew how angry Webber could get if anybody got in his way while he worked. He had once punched one of his technicians in the face for picking up a piece of evidence without first putting on gloves. Webber tilted Barry Philips’ head back and examined the wound.

  “Hmm,” he said, “your guy is definitely creative. A bread knife, a guitar string, a razor blade, an axe and now a broken bottle. He never uses the same weapon twice. The neck’s been ripped open.”

  “A broken bottle?” Smith was amazed.

  “Not my first choice for a murder weapon,” Webber said, “a bit unpredictable. You’d need to be pretty lucky to inflict a fatal wound to the neck with a broken bottle.”

  “What are you saying Webber?” Smith said.

  Webber looked around the room.

  “Where’s the broken glass?” he said, “You don’t break a bottle and slash somebody in the neck without leaving shards of glass around. Unless…”

  Webber seemed to have found something.

  “Look at these marks on the wrists,” he said.

  Smith walked over and took a close look at Barry Philips’ wrists. There were thick red marks on both wrists and the hairs on the arms were gone.

  “He was tied to the chair?” Smith suggested.

  “Exactly,” Webber said, “and the absence of broken glass means what?”

  “The bottle wasn’t broken in this room,” Smith said.

  “You’re not as stupid as you look,” Webber said, “I’d say that the bottle was broken somewhere else for the sole purpose of causing death at a later stage. These marks on the wrist look like they were made with some sort of tape. Possibly duct tape.”

  “That would explain why there are no defence wounds on his hands and arms,” Smith said, “Barry Philips wasn’t the sort of bloke not to put up a fight.”

  “When you’re tied up you can’t defend yourself,” Webber said.

  “Sir,” one of Webber’s technicians said. Smith did not recognise him.

  “What now Applegate?” Webber said.

  “Come and have a look at this.”

  He pointed to a rubbish bin in the corner of the room. Webber walked over and looked inside the bin.

  “Here’s your murder weapon,” Webber took out a pencil and picked the broken bottle out of the bin.

  “And if I’m not mistaken,” he said, “that looks very
much like duct tape to me but what’s this?”

  He pulled out a piece of paper. There were blood stains all over it. He carefully opened it and laid it on the floor next to the bin.

  “This is quite a speech,” he said.

  Smith read the words on the piece of paper. He suddenly felt sick.

  “This is basically what Barry Philips said to me on the phone,” he said, “almost word for word. Philips was tied up and made to read this out.”

  Webber had pushed Philips’ head forward again and was examining the back of the neck.

  “I still don’t get it,” Smith said, “You don’t use a broken bottle to threaten somebody into phoning a police officer and reading from a piece of paper.”

  “No,” Webber said, “you use a gun. Have a look at this.”

  He showed Smith a small indent at the back of Barry Philips’ neck.

  “I’d say this was made by the barrel of a gun,” Webber said, “I’ll have to examine it further but it looks like the barrel of the gun was pressed against his neck so hard it would have been extremely painful.”

  “So that’s how he was persuaded to sit down in the chair,” Smith said, “no wonder he sounded so scared. He knew he was about to die. Thanks Webber, you’ve just reinforced any thoughts I had about what a cold blooded sicko we have on our hands.”

  “Glad to be of help,” Webber said, “by the way, I spoke to Paul yesterday. He said he hasn’t heard from you in a while.”

  “The Ghoul?” Smith said, “I know, I must pay him a visit. It must have been terrible being locked up like that for something he didn’t do but I haven’t had the time.”

  “It looks like there’s prints on the bottle,” Webber said, “and I’ll bet we’ll get some good ones off the duct tape if that’s any help.”

  “I doubt it,” Smith said, “we’ve got prints from all the murder scenes but they’re useless without anything to compare them with.”

  Smith suddenly had an idea.

  “Webber,” he said, “I need you to give me a lift to my house.”