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

by Stewart Giles

  “I’m busy,” Webber said, “I’m not a taxi service.”

  “I need you to dust one of my coffee cups for prints,” Smith said, “I’ll explain when we get there.”

  TWENTY TWO

  She let herself into the house, closed the door behind her and stopped dead. There was a noise coming from upstairs. It was a quiet thud thud sound. She quickly realised it was just the water in the radiator pipes cooling down and contracting the metal. Even though summer had almost arrived, she had to keep her room at a constant temperature for the ladybird larvae. A drop of sweat rolled down her nose and into her mouth. She licked her lips and winced. She went to the kitchen, took out a bottle of water and drank half of it in one go. The salty taste in her mouth disappeared. It had been a long time since she had run so fast. She smiled when she thought about the look on the policeman’s face when he realised he had no hope of catching up to her. York’s finest, she thought and he couldn’t even give chase.

  She went upstairs to her room and opened it. Inside the room, the curtains were drawn but the light was on, a dim light that she knew the ladybirds liked. She looked inside her glass cages. There were enough dead ladybirds for her to be able to finish off what she had started but she was tired and her impatience had almost cost her everything. With Barry Philips it had been close. Too close. She had watched as he had driven away in the opposite direction to everybody else at the funeral. She had decided there and then to act on the spur of the moment for once. She would rely on luck and fate. She had quickly got into her car and headed off in the same direction as him. A car like his was easy to spot and she had caught up with him after only a few minutes. She had followed him out of the city and watched as he parked outside the hotel. She had parked her own car round the corner from the hotel. She had given him enough time to check into his room and calmly walked into the hotel. She had told the woman on reception that she was Philips’ daughter and she needed to see him. The receptionist had given her his room number. She shuddered at the thought that the part about her being Philips’ daughter could well be true. She had walked up to his room and knocked on the door claiming to be room service. When he had told her to go away she had panicked for a second but she had made up a story about a complimentary drink for all new guests and he had opened the door. She would never forget the look on Barry Philips’ face when he saw the gun. She had explained to him why she was there and that she was not going to hurt him as long as he did what she told him. She just wanted the truth, she had said. She had told him to sit on the chair and she had tied his hands to the arms with duct tape.

  Barry Philips had told her everything. He had pleaded for his life more than once. He had even asked for forgiveness. There were parts of his story that were not in the book and she had been very close to killing him on the spot as he went into details but she had managed to compose herself. With the gun pressed against his neck, she had ordered him to phone DS Smith. She had given him a piece of paper to read from. She had pressed the barrel of the gun so hard into his neck as he spoke to the policeman that Philips had winced.

  When Philips had finished the telephone conversation she had taken out the broken bottle and stuck it in Philips’ neck with such force that she had had trouble removing it. She had watched as Philips’ blood drained from his body. She had removed the tape from his wrists and placed his hands together as if in prayer. She had spoken to him, ‘it’s too late for forgiveness you bastard.’ She had placed the bottle, duct tape and the piece of paper in the bin and she had scattered ladybirds on the floor around the chair. She had stayed in the room too long. She knew the police were on their way but something had kept her in the room. She did not know what it was. She was hypnotised by the blood and the ladybirds merging together into one gory pool on the carpet. By the time she realised what was happening, the policeman was already in the hotel. She had run out of the room and headed for the nearest fire exit. As she opened the door the alarm sounded and she knew she had to move quickly. Once she was outside, she had run like she had never run before. Only once did she turn round and that was when she had seen the policeman standing there with the desperate look on his face.

  She thought back to what had happened and shivered. She had been careless; she had digressed. She would have to be more focussed next time. She took off her clothes and climbed under the sheets of the bed. Even though she was exhausted, she knew she would not be able to sleep.

  TWENTY THREE

  “This had better be worth it,” Webber said, “Do you know what time it is?”

  Smith led him into the kitchen.

  “Just humour me please,” Smith said, “what’s the problem? You had to come back into town anyway.”

  It had taken Webber and his team more than two hours to finish up at the White Oak Hotel. Smith had managed to find out from the woman who was working on reception that day that a woman claiming to be Barry Philips’ daughter had gone up to his room earlier that afternoon. She had described the woman as being in her twenties with black hair. She had told Smith that the woman had not come down from the room again.

  It was now after midnight and Webber just wanted to go home.

  “My lazy bachelor habits may work in our favour on this one,” Smith said, “I haven’t washed the dishes all week.”

  “You’re a slob Smith,” Webber said, “how can you live like this?”

  “I’ve got nobody to impress,” Smith said and suddenly realised how sad it sounded, “This little bloke doesn’t seem to mind.”

  He patted Theakston on the head.

  “He’s not that little,” Webber seemed very wary of the dog, “and aren’t those things supposed to be vicious?”

  As if to disprove Webber’s theory, Smith picked Theakston up and kissed him on the nose.

  “That’s disgusting,” Webber said, “what did you want me to dust for prints?”

  Smith thought back. Doctor Wood had made him coffee on the morning she had surprised him by showing up at his house. He tried to remember which cup she had used.

  “That’s it,” he pointed to a large coffee mug with a picture of York Minster on it. It was his favourite mug. It had belonged to his grandfather.

  Webber took out a pencil and carefully picked up the mug by the handle. He set it down on the kitchen table.

  “Be careful with that,” Smith said, “don’t break it. It belonged to my grandfather.”

  Webber ignored him and took out his fingerprint kit.

  “Obviously there’ll be a few of my prints on there,” Smith said, “but we can easily eliminate those. How soon can we have the results back?”

  “First thing tomorrow,” Webber said, “I’m knackered and even if I did head off to the lab now, I’m not sure I’d be able to concentrate.”

  “Fair enough,” Smith agreed with him, “I think we all need a good nights sleep.”

  He suddenly remembered that his appointment with the psychiatrist and his date with the press were waiting for him the next day.

  “All done,” Webber said, “I’ve got some good ones here. Let’s hope they’re not all yours.”

  “Thanks Webber,” Smith said, “I really appreciate it. Thanks for the lift too.”

  “Do you really think this Doctor Wood or whatever her real name is killed all these men?” Webber asked while he was packing up his equipment.

  “I don’t know what to think,” Smith said, “What I do know is nothing is impossible in this crazy world we live in.”

  “I’ll get onto it first thing in the morning,” Webber said, “hopefully then we can put an end to this madness.”

  Smith let Webber out and closed the door behind him. In a sudden moment of paranoia, he locked the door and put on the safety latch. Even though he had felt exhausted earlier, he now felt wide awake. Sometimes it was late at night when everything was quiet that he could think most clearly. He went to the kitchen and switched on the kettle. The coffee mug with the picture of York Minster on it was still sitting on th
e table. It was covered in fingerprint dust. He filled Theakston’s bowl with food and watched as the dog ate. He made some coffee, sat down at the table and started to think about everything that had happened. He thought back to the very beginning. It had been less than a week since Toby Philips had been killed with a bread knife in the kitchen but it seemed like a lifetime ago. He took a sip of coffee and tried to clear his mind of everything else. The press conference tomorrow, the appointment with the shrink, the fact that his car was in for repairs and his expired tax disc. He tried to forget it all.

  Toby Philips, he thought, killed with a bread knife. Drake Whitlow was killed with a guitar string. Barney Dodds with a razor blade. Then it was Charlie France and now Barry Philips. Philips, Whitlow, Dodds and France, he thought, it sounds like a firm of solicitors. Barry Philips knew Whitlow and Dodds, Smith thought; he also claimed to know Charlie France. What have they all got in common? Something has to connect them all together. He finished his coffee and debated whether to make another cup. It was now one in the morning and he knew he needed to get some sleep. He turned off the kitchen light and went upstairs. He lay on the bed and thought about Karen Wood. He still could not believe she could have killed all those men. This week had been full of unfortunate coincidences, he thought. It had all started when the Ghoul had been called out to one of his houses in the middle of the night. Smith sat upright in bed. That’s when this all began, he thought, that’s what we have to focus on. He thought of something else but forgot what it was almost immediately. A dark cloud of despair seemed to surround him. He felt like he was being suffocated. He got off the bed and went back downstairs. He picked up his phone and dialled Karen Wood’s number. There was no answer. He turned the kettle on to make another cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table. He thought about phoning Whitton but he knew she would be fast asleep. Whitton never seems to take her work home with her, Smith thought, even after being drugged and held captive in a warehouse she had bounced back amazingly quickly. Smith made the coffee and took out a note book. He tried to clear his head of everything that was bothering him at the moment and went back to the very beginning. The Ghoul was arrested last Saturday morning, he wrote. Philips was found with his throat slashed. The Ghoul denied any involvement. We interviewed Toby Philips’ house mates. The woman was away in Newcastle for the whole weekend and the man was at a comedy gig all night. Drake Whitlow was killed with a guitar string in his bedroom. He had a guitar lesson booked that day with a mystery woman. Barney Dodds was killed with a razor blade. A woman was seen hanging around the Gent’s toilets. Charlie France was killed while he was showing a woman a house and Barry Philips was killed in a hotel room. A woman who claimed to be his daughter was seen going up to his room. Five men killed. Four of them seemed to involve this mystery woman.

  Smith stopped writing. Who is this woman? He thought. He finished the rest of the coffee. It was stone cold. Is Doctor Wood involved? He thought. He looked at the clock on the wall. It was three in the morning. He went to the living room, put a Robert Johnson CD in the machine and lay down on the sofa. Theakston jumped up and lay by his feet. Within seconds, they were both asleep.

  TWENTY FOUR

  Friday 28 May 2010

  Friday 28 May dawned grey and dreary. Black clouds were moving in from the West. Smith opened his eyes and for a moment he did not know where he was. Theakston was snoring loudly by his feet. Smith carefully got of the sofa and walked through to the kitchen. He sighed when he saw there was still fingerprint powder on his favourite coffee mug. He looked at the clock on the wall. He had had four hours sleep but he felt like he had not slept at all. His phone started to ring on the kitchen table. He looked at the screen and his whole body started to tremble. It was Doctor Karen Wood. He remembered he had tried to phone her a few hours earlier. He thought about what he would say to her. He picked up the phone and pressed the answer button.

  “Smith,” he said even though he knew who it was. He hoped his voice did not give away his agitation.

  “Hey,” Karen Wood said, “what’s wrong? You sound different.”

  “Lack of sleep,” Smith said, “I hardly slept all night. Where are you?”

  The phone went dead. Smith cursed himself for being so stupid.

  “What the hell did I say that for?” he said out loud.

  He knew that she had just split up from a husband who was a complete control freak and wanted to know where she was the whole time. He phoned her number. It went straight to voice mail.

  “Hi,” he said, “it’s me. I’m sorry if I upset you. I just need to talk to you. Give me a call when you can.”

  He rang off. He went upstairs and turned on the shower. The water scolded his skin. He cursed the people who had replaced his water heater. They must have set the thermostat too high. He turned on more cold water, closed his eyes and thought about what lay in store for him. He wondered if Webber would make an early start on the fingerprints from his coffee mug. Once he knew either way whether Karen Wood was involved in the ladybird murders he would be able to relax a bit. He turned off the water, dried himself off and got dressed. He fed Theakston and left the house.

  “Shit,” he said as he looked at the empty space where he usually parked his car. He had forgotten that his car was in for repairs. He wondered when it would be fixed. He took out his phone and called Whitton.

  “Whitton,” he said, “are you up?”

  “Of course I’m up,” she said, “I’m just about to leave. Do you need a lift?”

  “You’re a star Whitton,” Smith said.

  “I’ll see you in five minutes.”

  She rang off.

  The dark clouds were directly overhead now and it was starting to spit. Smith sat on his wall and looked up at the sky.

  “It’s going to be a shitty old day,” he said out loud.

  As if in reply, the heavens opened and within seconds Smith was drenched. Without knowing why, he started to laugh. It started out as a wry smile then a slight giggle but eventually Smith found himself at the mercy of an uncontrollable laughing fit. He did not notice that Whitton had pulled up outside his house and was staring at him as if he had lost his mind. As quickly as it had started, the laughing fit stopped. Smith looked at Whitton sitting in her car and smiled. The rain was still lashing down. He walked round to the passenger side, opened the door and got in.

  “Are you alright sir?” Whitton asked.

  “Never felt better,” Smith smiled.

  The rain water on his clothes had already soaked the passenger seat.

  “You’re soaked through,” Whitton said.

  “It’s raining,” Smith said.

  Whitton shook her head. They sat in silence the whole way to the station. The rain was still pouring down when she parked her car in the car park. They got out of the car and ran inside the station. Smith went straight to his office, picked up the phone and dialled Grant Webber’s work number. There was no answer.

  “Crap,” he said.

  He dialled the switchboard number for the forensics department. A man with a gruff voice answered.

  “Morning,” Smith said, “Do you know if Grant Webber is in yet?”

  “How should I know?” the man said.

  “Can you find out please,” Smith said, “it’s extremely important.”

  “I haven’t seen him,” the man said, “so I would assume he isn’t in yet.”

  Smith was getting irritated.

  “Listen,” he said, “when Webber gets in ask him to phone DS Smith straight away.”

  “Who?” the man said.

  “Detective sergeant Smith,” Smith said, “this is urgent.”

  “Ok,” the man said and hung up.

  Smith could not believe the conversation he had just had. They were in the middle of a murder investigation and it could rest on one vital piece of evidence but nobody seemed to give a damn. He was so angry that he picked up the phone again and phoned Webber’s mobile number. It went straight to voice mail
. Smith could feel his blood boiling. He slammed the phone down and stood up. His clothes were still drenched. He picked up the phone and threw it through the window that looked onto the car park. He felt better immediately. He left his office and walked down the corridor to the canteen. Thompson was talking to Chalmers at the table nearest to the door. Smith walked past them and headed for the coffee machine. He selected the strongest coffee the machine had on offer even though he knew it tasted awful. He took the coffee to his usual table by the window. The rain was showing signs of abating and patches of blue sky could now be seen. Whitton walked in the canteen with Bridge. Bridge was carrying a broken phone. He placed it on the table in front of Smith.

  “I believe this is yours,” he said, “Bloody thing nearly went through my windscreen.”

  “Sorry Bridge,” Smith said.

  “What was all that about?” Whitton asked.

  “Just having a bad day,” Smith said.

  “It’s not even eight in the morning yet,” Whitton said.

  “I thought it would be better to take it out on the phone,” Smith said, “besides, I feel a hell of a lot better for it.”

  “What’s going on?” Chalmers had walked over to their table.

  “Unruly phone sir,” Smith said, “it wouldn’t cooperate so I chucked it out of the window.”

  Chalmers shook his head.

  “Seeing as though were all here,” he said, “we might as well have a brief meeting here in the canteen.”

  He gestured to Thompson to come and join them.

  “Barry Philips makes five doesn’t it?” Chalmers said when they were all gathered around the table, “what’s going on Smith?”

  “Me and Whitton found him in his hotel room sir,” Smith said, “His throat was slashed with a broken bottle.”

  “What the hell were you doing at the hotel?” Chalmers asked, “Why do you always seem to be in the right place at the right time?”