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

by Stewart Giles

  “He phoned me,” Smith said, “he said he had something important to tell me. It turns out he was forced to call me. We found a piece of paper with the exact words he used in out conversation on it.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Chalmers said, “Barry Philips phoned you to say he had some important information and you say he was forced to say this. Who would do such a thing and more importantly, how?”

  “She had a gun sir,” Smith said, “she held a gun to his neck and ordered him to phone me.”

  “She?” Chalmers said, “Are you telling me our killer is now a woman?”

  “Always was sir,” Smith said, “I saw her.”

  “You saw her,” Chalmers said, “this just gets better and better.”

  “She escaped through a fire door. By the time I’d got out of the hotel she was far away in the distance.”

  “Bollocks,” Chalmers said, “do we have any idea who she might be?”

  “I have a rough idea,” Smith said, “I’m just waiting for Webber to get his arse out of bed so I can confirm it.”

  “Doctor Karen Wood,” Whitton said.

  Everybody looked at her.

  “We don’t know that for sure,” Smith said, “let’s not be too hasty but she seems to be the odds on favourite at the moment.”

  “Christ,” Chalmers said, “she was here in this bloody building. She even helped us with info on the ladybirds. Does anybody know where she is?”

  The room fell silent. All eyes were on Smith.

  “I spoke to her briefly this morning,” Smith said eventually.

  “Where is she then?” Chalmers said.

  “I don’t know. I asked her where she was and she just hung up on me. I tried to call her back but she must have switched her phone off.”

  “Great,” Chalmers said.

  “This looks very cosy,” Superintendant Smyth had walked in the canteen, “getting ready for the big press conference I hope.”

  “Yes sir,” Chalmers said before anyone else could answer, “just going through some of the finer points in the cash machine robbery case.”

  “Good good,” Smyth said, “this is very important. I’ll leave you to it then. See you all at two sharp.”

  “This is bullshit,” Smith said when Smyth was out of earshot, “we should all be concentrating on the ladybird killer case. I stayed up for most of the night and I think I’ve figured something out.”

  “It’s going to have to wait,” Chalmers said.

  From the look on his face, Smith knew he was serious.

  “But sir,” Smith said anyway.

  “But sir nothing,” Chalmers said, “You’re fully booked today. Take the morning to get up to speed on the details from the cash machine robbery case. Thompson can fill you in. I want you to be prepared for anything those bastards of the press can throw at you. After that, you’ve got a date with the lovely trauma counsellor. Maybe she can finally sort you out.”

  Smith was about to say something but he quickly changed his mind.

  “Two o clock,” Chalmers said, “You’ll be in the firing line and I want to make it absolutely clear to you that there is to be no mention of the ladybird killings or the fiasco at the funeral. Have you got that?”

  “Loud and clear sir,” Smith said.

  He stood up. He had not touched his coffee.

  “Come on Thompson,” Smith said, “let’s get going with the cash machine robbery details. The suspense is killing me but first, I’m taking you out for a coffee. I can’t think straight without some caffeine in my system and this stuff tastes like cow shit.”

  He walked out of the canteen. Thompson followed him.

  “I’m worried about him,” Whitton said when Smith had gone, “I think he might be about to lose it completely. I’ve never seen him like this before. This morning when I picked him up he was laughing his head off in the rain like a lunatic.”

  “Bollocks Whitton,” Chalmers said, “Smith has always been slightly odd and he always will be.”

  “He’s always been a bit of a rebel,” Whitton said, “but he’s different this time. He’s like a bomb that could go off at any time.”

  “He’ll be fine Whitton,” Chalmers said, “haven’t you got something you need to do?”

  “There is something I wanted to run by you sir,” Whitton said, “I thought me and Bridge could take a drive through to Pickering.”

  “Pickering?” Chalmers said, “This is no time to be gallivanting around the countryside.”

  “Charlie Frances ex wife lives there,” Whitton said, “I thought it might be a good idea to have a chat with her. It might help.”

  “It can’t hurt,” Chalmers agreed, “but make sure you’re back here before the press conference. The super will expect everybody to be there. God help us if anybody commits a crime this afternoon.”

  “We’ll be back by then,” Whitton said.

  “Don’t you worry about Smith,” Chalmers said, “he’s a lot tougher than most. He’ll be fine.”

  “If you say so sir,” Whitton said.

  TWENTY FIVE

  Smith was halfway through his second extra large double espresso in the café Luigi around the corner from the station. Even though the coffees had cost him more than three pints of beer he felt instantly more awake. Thompson sat opposite him. He was drinking an herbal tea.

  “What do I need to know?” Smith asked him, “What can the great DS Thompson teach me about these cash machine robbers?”

  “You think everything’s a joke don’t you?” Thompson said.

  “What do you mean?” Smith asked, “I need to know everything before the press conference this afternoon.”

  “You’ve got no respect,” Thompson said, “no respect for authority.”

  “That’s not true,” Smith said, “it all depends on who holds the authority. Old Smyth deserves the same amount of respect as a dung beetle although dung beetles are probably more useful.”

  “I don’t know how you get away with it,” Thompson said, “Anybody else would have been kicked out years ago.”

  “I guess I’m just unlucky,” Smith sighed, “anyway, tell me everything you know.”

  Smith’s phone rang in his pocket. He took it out and looked at the screen. It was Amos from the panel beating company.

  “Smith,” he said, “tell me you have good news.”

  “Your cars ready and looking better than new,” Amos said.

  “Great,” Smith said, “can I pick her up?”

  “The bill hasn’t been paid yet,” Amos said, “but if we can’t trust our local police, who can we trust?”

  “I’ll see you in ten minutes,” Smith said and rang off.

  “Can you give me a lift?” Smith asked Thompson, “it won’t take long.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” Thompson said, “you do exactly what you please don’t you?”

  “Ten minutes,” Smith said, “I need my car back.”

  “You smell like a wet dog,” Thompson said, “I’ve just had the seats in my car cleaned.”

  “I’ll try not to get them dirty,” Smith said, “and then you can fill me in on everything I need to know to face the press.”

  Whitton parked outside the house on Whitby Road in Pickering. She was getting used to expensive houses but this one really took her breath away. It was a double storey detached house set in magnificent gardens on the outskirts of Pickering. She got out of the car and looked around her. The sky had cleared up and the sun was poking through the remaining clouds. A brand new Land Rover was parked outside the house. It did not even have number plates yet.

  “We’re in the wrong job,” Bridge said, “how much do you think this place is worth?”

  “More than we’ll ever be able to afford,” Whitton said, “let’s see if Mrs France is home.”

  She walked up to the house and found the door bell. She pressed it twice and waited. Janine France answered the door in her dressing gown. She looked exhausted. She eye
d both Whitton and Bridge with suspicion.

  “Good morning Mrs France,” Whitton said, “we’re from the police. Could we have a word with you?”

  “Is this about Charlie?” Mrs France asked.

  “That’s right,” Whitton said, “can we come in?”

  “I suppose so,” she said, “but please don’t call me Mrs France. I stopped being Mrs France three years ago. Please call me Janine.”

  She opened the door wider and beckoned for them to come inside. Bridge went in first. Janine closed the door behind them and walked down a long corridor to what appeared to be a large reception room. Whitton and Bridge followed her. Music could be heard from upstairs. Whitton gazed up at the wide staircase leading to the upper floor.

  “That’s Catherine,” Janine said, “she ought to be at school but I’m keeping her off for a while. I don’t think it’s too much to ask under the circumstances is it.”

  Both Whitton and Bridge shook their heads.

  “She hasn’t so much as left her room since she found out about her father,” Janine said, “would you like something to drink?”

  “No thank you Mrs France,” Bridge said.

  “Janine,” she glared at him.

  “Sorry,” Bridge said, “no thank you Janine.”

  “Please have a seat,” Janine said, “have you found out who did this to Charlie?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Whitton said.

  “Then why are you here?”

  “We just need to ask you a few questions,” Whitton said.

  “I fail to see how I can be of any help,” Janine said, “I stopped caring about what went on in Charlie France’s sordid life long before we even got divorced.”

  “I’m sorry,” Whitton said, “and I know this is hard but we just need to ask you a few things. Did Mr France have any enemies that you know of?”

  “Hundreds,” Janine replied so quickly it took Whitton by surprise. “There were rival estate agents, jealous businessmen plus the husbands and boyfriends of the women he bedded. Need I go on?”

  “When was the last time you saw Charlie?” Bridge asked.

  “I can’t remember exactly,” Janine said, “I’d say it was a few weeks ago. I saw him briefly when he picked Catherine up.”

  “Can you think of anybody who would want to do this?” Whitton said.

  “I read about the ladybird murders in the paper,” Janine said, “I have no idea what it has to do with Charlie.”

  The music stopped upstairs. Whitton turned and watched as a young girl walked down the stairs. She was very tall and her eyes were a deep brown colour. There were dark bags underneath them and her eyes were bloodshot.

  “Catherine,” Janine said, “these people are from the police. They’re here to ask a few questions about Daddy.”

  The girl stared at Whitton. She had an unnerving stare. Whitton broke off eye contact first.

  “Hello Catherine,” Bridge said, “I like the music you were playing. It was Miley Cyrus wasn’t it?”

  Catherine rolled her eyes.

  “Couldn’t you hear it was Rihanna?” she said.

  “Of course it was,” Bridge knew that all along.

  “I phoned him you know,” Catherine said, “I know I’m not supposed to.”

  She looked at her mother in defiance.

  “Daddy used to send me air time,” Catherine said, “He said it was for emergencies.”

  “When did you phone him Catherine?” Whitton asked.

  “Yesterday afternoon. Mummy was going to ask him if I could stay with him this weekend. She has some kind of stupid reunion orgy organised.”

  “Catherine,” Janine said, “that’s enough.”

  She glared at the child.

  “I’m sorry officers,” she addressed Whitton and Bridge, “she’s not normally like this.”

  “It’s ok,” Whitton said.

  She looked at Catherine.

  “You said you phoned your Daddy yesterday afternoon?”

  “He wasn’t available,” Catherine said, “that’s exactly what the lady said. Your Daddy is not available.”

  “What lady?” Whitton said.

  “How am I supposed to know?” Catherine said, “I phoned my Daddy and a woman said he wasn’t available and hung up. I thought it was quite rude to do that.”

  “Yes it was,” Bridge agreed, “what did she sound like, this woman?”

  “Like a woman,” Catherine seemed confused, “although she had a deeper voice than most women. Stupid bitch hung up on me.”

  “Catherine,” Janine said, “what have I told you about that kind of language?”

  Catherine stared at her. She had an expression of pure hatred in her eyes.

  “She gets that from her dad,” Janine added.

  “Bitch isn’t a swearword,” Catherine insisted, “You hear it on TV all the time.”

  “Go up to your room,” Janine said, “and don’t come down until your attitude has improved.”

  Catherine started to walk up the stairs.

  “Catherine,” Whitton said, “this woman. Do you think you would recognise her voice again?”

  “Probably,” Catherine shrugged her shoulders, “she sounded a bit like a man.”

  She stared at Whitton. She looked like she was about to cry. She carried on up the stairs. Shortly after, the music came on again, much louder this time.

  “She’s unbearable at times,” Janine said, “she’s so much like her father it’s not even funny.”

  “I don’t mean to sound rude,” Whitton said, “but what was Charlie like? I mean what was he like as a person?”

  “He was a charmer through and through,” Janine sighed, “we met at university and I fell for that charm hook line and sinker. Everybody did. He had a bit of a reputation if you know what I mean.”

  “Not really,” Whitton said.

  “You know the type,” Janine said, “if he were a woman he would be known as a slut but men can get away with it can’t they? I should have never married him. I knew what I was getting myself in for right from the start. I should have listened to the rumours.”

  “Rumours?” Whitton said.

  “I don’t know if you were ever at university,” Janine said, “but you wouldn’t believe the gossip that goes on there. I mean these so called students are the supposed future of the country. Top five per cent and all that crap but most of them behave like school kids. There was this one rumour about an incident at one of the halls of residence. There were so many versions of what happened that night that I don’t think anybody really knows for certain what went on but it involved a girl.”

  “What happened?” Whitton asked.

  “Like I said, nobody really knows the truth but something terrible happened and it involved Charlie in some way. The girl left university soon afterwards and nobody ever heard from her again. I didn’t even know her; we didn’t really mix in the same circles. It was before I even met Charlie. Anyway, nothing came of it. You know how quickly rumours can spread. To cut a long story short, I married the biggest bastard in the country and eight years later Catherine arrived. I divorced him three years ago. I couldn’t put up with his lies anymore. Anyway, I’m now knocking on for forty, filthy rich and blissfully happy and if you believe that you’re worse off than me.”

  Whitton did not know what else to say.

  “Thank you for your time,” Bridge said, “if you think of anything else that might be important please give us a call.”

  He handed her his card.

  “What will happen to the estate agents?” Whitton asked.

  “I’ll probably sell it,” Janine said, “Catherine doesn’t realise it but she’s probably the richest twelve year old in Yorkshire. Charlie left everything to her.”

  “Thank you Janine,” Whitton said, “we’ll find our own way out.”

  “Do you see a pattern here?” Whitton said as they drove back to York.

  “Pattern?” Bridge said.

  “All of the murder v
ictims with the exception of Drake Whitlow were rich men with similar personalities.”

  “What do you mean?” Bridge said.

  “A psychologist would class them as your typical alpha male,” Whitton said, “control freaks. When I was at university there was always at least one in each class; bully boys, men who had to dominate.”

  “What do you make of the rumour about France when he was at university?” Bridge asked.

  “I think we need to look into it,” Whitton said, “I’ve got a feeling it’s important.”

  TWENTY SIX

  Smith parked his car outside the office building that housed the consultation room of doctors Bryce and Wilson. He got out of the car and slammed the door. He looked at his car. The panel beaters had done an amazing job. There was no sign of the damage the cash machine robbers had done. He walked up to the entrance of the building. There were two small plaques next to the door. He looked at the one on the top, Doctor P. Bryce Psychiatrist & Trauma Councillor.

  This is bullshit, he thought. He turned round and walked back to his car. His phone started to ring. He took it out of his pocket and answered it.

  “Smith,” he said.

  “If you drive away now,” a woman’s voice said, “I’ll have no alternative but to recommend that you be suspended with immediate effect.”

  “Who is this?” Smith was confused.

  “Phillipa Bryce,” the woman said, “we have an appointment and I suggest you honour it.”

  Smith turned round and looked up at the building.

  She must be watching me, he thought.

  “I’ll expect you in here just now then,” she said and rang off.

  Smith could not believe it. He put his phone back in his pocket and walked back towards the entrance of the building. He pressed the buzzer and the door opened immediately. He went inside and closed the door behind him.

  “Detective sergeant Jason Smith,” a pretty blonde woman approached him. Smith thought she looked to be in her late twenties.

  “Glad you could make it,” she held out her hand.

  Smith shook it. She had a very firm handshake.

  “You don’t look like a shrink,” Smith said.

  “Doctor Phillipa Bryce,” she said, “please call me Phillipa. What did you expect me to look like?”