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

by Stewart Giles

  Doctor Mathers stood up.

  “I’d like you to leave now.” She said, “I’ve already given you too much of my time.”

  “Please,” Smith said, “more people could die.”

  Doctor Mathers walked towards the door and opened it with her card.

  “Goodbye detectives,” she gestured towards the door.

  Smith and Whitton stood up and walked towards the door.

  “Karen Wood’s husband,” Doctor Mathers said, “or should I say ex husband?”

  Smith turned to look at her.

  “Go on,” he said.

  “He’s a professor of Literature at Durham University,” Doctor Mathers said, “now please go.”

  “Thank you,” Smith said.

  He walked back down the corridor towards the reception area.

  TWENTY NINE

  By the time Smith had dropped Whitton off at the station and headed home it was starting to get dark. He realised he had not eaten anything all day again. This job is going to kill me, he thought as he turned into his street and drove towards his house. He was exhausted. All he wanted was something to eat, a shower and a good night’s sleep. There was a police car parked outside his house as he drove nearer. He parked behind it and got out of the car. What now? He thought. A policeman in uniform got out of the police car and walked up to him. Smith did not recognise him.

  “What’s happened?” Smith said.

  The policeman walked over to Smith’s car and looked at the tax disc on the windscreen.

  “Your road tax has expired,” he said, “it expired two months ago.”

  Smith could not believe what he was hearing.

  “You can’t be serious,” he said.

  “Driving without a valid tax disc is very serious,” the policeman said, “it carries a heavy fine or it could lead to your car being impounded.”

  Smith was tired and in no mood to argue.

  “What’s your name?” he said.

  “PC Granger,” the policeman said.

  “How long have you been on the force?”

  “I’m six months out of training college,” he replied, “not that it’s any business of yours.”

  Smith took out his ID. He was now getting angry. This young PC was wasting his time.

  “PC Granger,” he said, “DS Smith. Nice to meet you. Did they teach you at the training college that when you are on duty you address a superior officer as sir?”

  Granger looked terrified.

  “I’m sorry sir,” he said, “I didn’t know.”

  “Well now you do,” Smith said, “furthermore, this vehicle without a valid tax disc is used as a police vehicle. The only reason I haven’t renewed the tax is because I’ve been busy trying to nail the second serial killer in York this year.”

  PC Granger stared at him.

  “Anyway,” Smith continued, “how the hell did you know my tax disc had expired?”

  “We had a phone call sir,” Granger said.

  “A phone call?”

  “Yes sir. A man called and told us his neighbour was driving around without a valid tax disc. He said it was his duty to call.”

  Smith looked at the house next door to him. He was sure the curtains were moving.

  “I’m sorry sir,” Granger said, “it seems like its all been a bit of a misunderstanding.”

  Smith looked at the house next door again. There was definitely somebody hiding behind the curtains. Smith had been in his house since he was sixteen. He had barely spoken two words to the man next door in all that time and on the occasions he did bump into his neighbour he had found him to be quite obnoxious.

  “PC Granger,” Smith said, “do you carry a pair of handcuffs?”

  “Of course sir,” Granger said.

  “Then do me a favour. We’re going to see what you’ve learned at Police College and give my nosy neighbour a bit of a performance. I’m going to wave my arms around in a threatening manner. I want you to grab me, slam me against the car and cuff me. Ok?”

  “What sir?” Granger could not believe what he was hearing.

  “I want to give my neighbour a show he won’t forget,” Smith said, “then I want you to throw me into the car and drive around the corner.”

  “Are you being serious sir?” Granger asked.

  “Just humour me Granger,” Smith said.

  A wry smile appeared on PC Granger’s face.

  “I’m going to pretend to punch you,” Smith said.

  He swung a punch at Granger’s head and deliberately missed.

  “Now grab my arm,” he said.

  Granger did as he was told. He took hold of Smith’s right arm and held it behind his back. Smith winced in pain. He glanced back at his neighbour’s house. The curtains had opened wider.

  “Now put the handcuffs on,” Smith said.

  Granger quickly took out his handcuffs and in one swift motion; he managed to snap them around Smith’s wrists.

  “Very impressive,” Smith said.

  “Thanks sir,” Granger beamed, “I’ve been practicing.”

  “Now throw me in the back of the car.”

  Granger opened the back door of the police car and pushed Smith inside. He got in the driver’s side, started the engine and drove off down the street.

  “That was brilliant,” Smith said, “I haven’t had that much fun in ages.”

  “I’m not going to get into trouble am I sir?” Granger said.

  “I’ve got your back,” Smith said, “You can stop the car here.”

  Granger parked next to a corner shop and switched off the engine. He got out of the car and opened the back door. He unlocked the handcuffs and Smith got out.

  “Thanks Granger,” Smith said, “maybe my nosy neighbour will think twice before doing that again.”

  Granger was beaming from ear to ear. Smith shook his hand and walked back towards his house.

  Smith’s neighbour was no longer hiding behind the curtains as Smith walked up the path to his front door. He opened it and went inside. The joy he had felt moments earlier was now gone. He was furious. What sort of country do we live in, he thought, where your next door neighbour phones the police to report a neighbour’s expired tax disc? He walked through to the kitchen and took a beer out of the fridge. He drank it in one go and got himself another one. He instantly felt better. Theakston was begging for food by his bowl. Smith filled it with dog food and sat down at the kitchen table. The business with his neighbour had made him angry. He thought about confronting him about it but decided against it. He would probably end up doing something that would get him into trouble and he did not have the time at the moment. He stood up and took a frozen pizza out of the fridge. He turned the oven on and waited for it to heat up. He took out his phone and looked at the screen. It was blank. They battery had died again. He realised that he desperately needed a new phone. He plugged the phone into the charger on the wall and switched it on. There were two missed calls from Grant Webber. Smith remembered he was supposed to phone Webber about the fingerprints on his coffee cup. He dialled Webber’s number and waited. Webber did not answer. As he was about to put the phone down it started to ring. It was Webber.

  “Tell me you have some news,” Smith said.

  “I do,” Webber said, “but it’s not good. The only prints I found on the coffee cup were yours.”

  “Are you sure?” Smith was disappointed.

  “I know how to do my job,” Webber said.

  “Shit,” Smith said, “thanks anyway.”

  He rang off.

  He slammed his fist on the kitchen table so hard that he winced with the pain. The alarm on the oven told him it was hot enough to cook the pizza.

  When he had finished eating, Smith sat on the sofa in the living room and turned on the television. He glanced at his guitars in the corner of the room and sighed. He did not feel like playing guitar. He had not felt like playing in a very long time. The weather report was on the television and a man in a terrible suit wa
s talking about a heat wave that was about to engulf the whole of the country over the weekend. Smith went to the kitchen and took another beer out of the fridge. He looked at his phone on charge next to the toaster. He picked it up and dialled Karen Wood’s number. She answered on the second ring. Smith realised he did not know what to say. He had not expected her to answer.

  “Detective Smith,” Karen Wood said eventually, “please tell me you haven’t become a heavy breather.”

  “A what?” Smith said.

  “One of those dirty old men who just breathe deeply down the phone and hang up,” she said.

  “Of course not,” Smith said. He tried to think quickly. “I just didn’t expect you to answer so quickly that’s all. What are you up to this evening?”

  He looked at the clock on the wall. It was almost nine.

  “I’m actually busy,” she said, “personal business. Why do you ask?”

  “I was going to ask you if you wanted to go out for a drink,” Smith lied, “it is Friday night after all.”

  “Maybe some other time,” she said, “I have something important to sort out.”

  She rang off.

  Smith stood staring at his phone. He put it down and took his beer to the living room. Theakston was snoring on the sofa. Smith smiled and sat next to him. The dog stretched out on his back. A film had just started on the television. It was a film about a group of criminal surfers. Smith had seen it many times before but he decided to watch it anyway. All he wanted to do was forget about everything for a while. He took a long sip of the beer and smiled. Theakston was now snoring so loudly that Smith had to turn up the volume on the television.

  THIRTY

  George Whitlow put down his glass of whisky and stood up. He started pacing up and down the small living room. George and his wife, Naomi had buried their only son that afternoon and the family and friends who had come back to their house after the funeral were now gone.

  “Sit down,” Naomi said, “you’re making me dizzy.”

  George ignored her and carried on pacing up and down the room.

  “Why are you so worked up anyway?” Naomi asked, “You didn’t care much for Drake while he was alive, why are you so bothered now he’s dead?”

  “Shut up woman,” George said, “I’m going out.”

  He walked out of the room, picked up his jacket and left the house.

  As he walked, George had an uneasy feeling that he was being watched. He could not explain it but he was sure somebody was following him. He walked past the Lion’s Head pub and looked behind him. It was still quite warm and there were quite a few people on the streets. He turned left again and entered the car park area of the Lion’s Head. He was now certain that somebody was following him. He quickened his pace and went inside the pub through the car park entrance. He walked straight up to the bar and sat on a stool from where he had a view of the whole pub. He kept an eye on the door the whole time.

  “Usual George?” a woman’s voice was heard and George jumped.

  It was Sandra, the bar lady who had worked behind the bar for as long as George could remember.

  “Make it a double Sandra,” George said.

  “We’re all so sorry about Drake,” Sandra said as she poured the whisky, “He was such a sweet kid.”

  She placed the whisky in front of him.

  “Thanks Sandra,” George said.

  The pub was quite full and George relaxed a bit but every time the door opened he flinched. He finished the whisky in one gulp.

  “Give me another one,” he said to Sandra.

  He placed the empty glass on the bar and looked around the room. Most of the faces were familiar. He had been drinking at the Lion’s Head for as long as he could remember. Many times when he had been away on business he had come here even before going home. This was a place where he could feel safe. He did not feel safe anymore though. When he had found out about Drake’s murder he had been shocked. He had never had much to do with his son but he had felt some kind of loss nevertheless. It was only when he had read about the murders of Toby and Barry Phillips, Barney Dodds and Charlie France that he had realised what was happening. He took a sip of whisky and felt the warm liquid burning his stomach. A woman with blonde hair approached the bar and smiled at him. George flinched and smiled back. The woman ordered a drink and walked back to her friends. George finished the rest of his whisky and ordered another. He thought back to that night more than twenty years ago. The four of them had been inseparable since fresher’s week at the University. Charlie France, Barry Phillips, Derek Dodds and himself did everything together. They had hit it off immediately even though they were all so different. Phillips was from London, France was from Newcastle and Dodds was from somewhere in Scotland. George was the only Yorkshire man among them. What they shared was a common interest in money and women. They soon learned that when you had money, women followed. That was when the competition began. Each of them started their quest for more and more money. They had all achieved mediocre grades in their respective degrees at the University but that did not seem to make any difference. They were all driven by money. Phillips had always had a flair for finance and had made a fortune on the stock exchange; France had done very well in the estate agent industry and Dodds had gone back to Scotland where he was paid silly money to advise huge oil companies on how to be more productive. George could be seen to have been the least successful of the four men even though he had been named salesman of the year on more than one occasion.

  George felt a hand on his shoulder, stood up and prepared himself for an attack. He turned round and saw it was Freddy Mansell, an old school friend.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you Georgie,” Freddy said, “you looked like you thought I was going to hit you. I just wanted to say how sorry I am about Drake.”

  George sat down again.

  “What are you drinking?” Mansell said.

  “Scotch,” George replied, “double.”

  Mansell ordered a drink for himself and a scotch for George. He sat down next to him. He was obviously quite drunk.

  “I read all about it in the papers,” Mansell said, “some maniac is killing people and chucking ladybirds on their bodies. What’s the world coming to Georgie?”

  “Don’t call me Georgie,” George said, “you know I don’t like it.”

  He stood up, finished what was left in his glass and walked out of the pub. He was feeling quite intoxicated now. He looked around him and decided he was being paranoid earlier. Nobody was following him. There were no evil spirits lurking in the shadows. He crossed the road to where the taxis were lined up and got in the back of the first one. He closed the door behind him.

  “Dunhill Hotel,” he said to the driver.

  He did not feel like going home and he always felt more comfortable in hotels where nobody knew him. He was feeling very drunk. The taxi driver drove off in the direction of the Dunhill Hotel and George mad himself comfortable in the back seat. Behind them, a woman had got into another taxi and was following closely behind.

  THIRTY ONE

  Saturday 29 May 2010

  Smith woke up and sat up in his bed. He was sweating all over. He had been dreaming about his sister. It was a dream he had not had in a very long time. He sister was under the water and as Smith reached out to grab her hand she disappeared from sight and sank to the bottom. His sister Laura had vanished from a beach in Fremantle when Smith was a teenager. At first it seemed she had been attacked by a shark but she had shown up years later in Tallinn. She had been abducted from the beach and had been brainwashed by a dangerous cult. Smith had spent a few minutes with her in Tallinn but he had been warned off ever contacting her again.

  Smith felt a rumbling in his stomach and rushed to the bathroom. He made it to the toilet just in time. He had never had such bad diarrhoea before. When he was finished, he washed his face and brushed his teeth but he needed the toilet again. He sat there for fifteen minutes until he was sure the diarrhoea was over.
He went downstairs and boiled the kettle for some coffee. He thought the coffee might settle his stomach. He opened the kitchen door so that Theakston could go outside. It was already incredibly hot. The weather forecaster had got it right for a change. He made the coffee and took it outside. No sooner had he sat down, his phone started to ring in the kitchen.

  “Shit,” he said out loud.

  He knew that when the phone rang so early in the morning it could only mean one thing – bad news. He went inside and answered the phone on the fifth ring.

  “Smith,” he said.

  “Your weekend is over,” it was Chalmers, “there’s been another one.”

  Smith felt his stomach tense up.

  “Where are you sir?” he asked.

  “At a hotel just outside the city,” Chalmers said.

  He gave Smith the address and rang off. Smith quickly walked back outside and finished the rest of his coffee. The sun was really beating down now. He went upstairs to get dressed and realised he needed the toilet again.

  What is wrong with me? He thought as he sat there, how am I supposed to work when I need the toilet every five minutes? As he got dressed, he thought about everything that had happened. Six men were now dead and they were no closer to finding out why it was happening. He thought back to what Karen Wood had said the previous evening. It was something about having something important to do and now another man is dead. He went back downstairs, picked up his phone and dialled her number. It went straight to voicemail.

  “Karen,” he said, “sorry for phoning so early but we need to talk. Phone me please.”

  As he drove to the hotel, Smith suddenly felt hungry. He stopped at a petrol station and bought three chicken sandwiches. He ate two of them as he drove. As he was about to open the third, he realised he was going to be sick. He pulled over to the side of the road and managed to open the door of the car just in time. He was violently sick on the pavement. An old woman walking her dog looked at him in disgust. He started the car again and drove off. He felt slightly better after being sick but he was now starting to sweat. He wondered if he was coming down with something. He parked outside the hotel. Chalmers was speaking with an elderly man by the door. Smith got out of his car and walked up to them.