Whitton told him about Derek Dodds, the message in room floor and what had happened to Smith.”
“Is he going to be alright?” Thompson asked.
“His head was removed from his body,” Bridge replied, “I don’t think he’s going to make it.”
“Not Dodds you idiot,” Thompson said, “Smith. Is he going to be ok?”
“He’ll be fine,” Whitton said, “they just need to pump some fluids into him for a day or so.”
“This message,” Thompson said, “the seed will soon be dead. What does that mean?”
“I have no idea,” Whitton said, “nobody seems to know what it means. Webber is up there now trying to find something in the room.”
Chalmers walked up to them.
“Did anybody find the missing fingers?” Whitton asked him.
“They’re nowhere to be seen,” Chalmers said, “it’s a complete mystery. They seem to have vanished into thin air.”
“Maybe the killer took them with him,” Bridge suggested.
“I doubt it Bridge,” Chalmers said, “that’s never happened at any of the other murder scenes and I thought we were looking for a woman on this one.”
“That’s what we’re going to look into,” Whitton said, “Karen Wood had disappeared. Smith spoke to her last night and she said she had something important to do. Her ex husband is a professor of Literature at Durham University. I think it might be a good idea if me and Bridge went there and had a word with him. He might know where she is.”
“Why are you still here then?” Chalmers said, “Durham’s quite a drive.”
“What about me sir?” Thompson asked.
Chalmers looked him up and down.
“You look like you need a bath,” he said, “don’t tell me you’re going all new age hippy on us?”
“We’ve got no water at home sir.” Thompson said.
“Then get down to the station,” Chalmers said, “pick up a razor blade on your way there. You can use the showers there. You look like shit.”
“Ok sir,” Thompson said.
“Then meet me at the mortuary,” Chalmers said, “this Derek Dodds bloke died in a much more violent manner than any of the others. Maybe your friend the Ghoul can explain the mystery of the missing fingers too.”
THIRTY FOUR
Smith opened his eyes and for a moment he did not know where he was. He had fallen asleep in the ambulance on the way to the hospital and it was only when he saw the drip next to the bed that he remembered what had happened. He had never fainted before and it was quite unsettling. He sat up in the bed and everything went black. He took a few deep breaths and his vision slowly returned. The needle in his arm was irritating him. He was about to pull it out when a man in a black shirt and blue jeans walked in the room.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” the man said, “your fluid levels are still dangerously low.”
“Who are you?” Smith said.
“Doctor Rossi,” the man said.
“How long do I have to stay in here?” Smith asked, “I have work to do.”
“You’re in no fit state to do anything at the moment,” Doctor Rossi said, “we’ve done some tests and that frozen pizza you ate last night must have been months past its sell by date. You need to rest and rehydrate fully before we can think of discharging you.”
“How long doctor?” Smith said.
“We’ll keep you in tonight and see how you’re doing tomorrow. Now try and get some rest. I’ll check on you later.”
When Doctor Rossi had left, Smith sat up further in the bed and shook his head.
This has to be the worst possible timing, he thought.
He suddenly remembered about Theakston. He took out his phone and dialled Thompson’s number.
“Thompson,” he said, “where are you?”
“At the station,” Thompson said, “I was about to have a shower here. My water’s off at home. How are you doing?”
“Fine,” Smith said, “you can shower at my house and would you mind staying there tonight? I’m going to be stuck in here. Theakston likes you.”
Thompson had stayed with Smith the previous year when he wife had kicked him out.
“There’s a spare key behind reception at work,” Smith said, “Baldwin knows where it is. Where’s Mrs Thompson?”
“At her sister’s,” Thompson said, “but there’s no way in hell you’ll get me staying there. I’d much rather stay at your place.”
“Thanks Thompson,” Smith said.
He was about to end the call when he thought of something.
“Thompson,” he said.
“What now?”
“Don’t eat any of the frozen pizzas in the freezer.”
He rang off and dialled Whitton’s number.
“Hello sir,” she said, “how are you doing?”
“Terrible,” Smith said, “they’re keeping me here all night. Where are you?”
“On our way to Durham,” Whitton said, “we’re going to have a word with Karen Wood’s ex at the University. I don’t even know if he’ll be there on a Saturday.”
“Somebody will be able to tell you where he lives,” Smith said, “keep me up to date will you?”
“Shouldn’t you be resting sir?”
“I’ve got a bloody tube sticking out of my arm Whitton,” Smith said, “and it’s not like I can go anywhere. Let me know the moment you find anything.”
He rang off.
He looked around the room. There was a television set in the corner of the room but he did not feel like watching the rubbish they always dished out on a Saturday. He concentrated on a spot on the far wall and thought about everything that had happened. Something came to him out of the blue. He leaned over and pressed the red button on the wall above the bed. Thirty seconds later a nurse rushed in the room. She was very red in the face.
“Is everything ok?” she asked.
“Fine,” Smith said, “sorry to bother you but could you get me a pen, paper and something to rest on please? I’ve just had a bit of a brain wave and I want to write it down before I forget it.”
“No problem,” she said, “can I get you anything else?”
“I suppose a cold beer and a steak and ale pie is out of the question?” Smith said.
She shook her head and walked out of the room.
When the nurse returned with the pen and paper, Smith had thought carefully about everything and a plan was formulating in his mind. He wrote a single word on the top of the paper, ‘Ladybird.’ He then recalled the murders in chronological order. Toby Phillips, Drake Whitlow, Barney Dodds. He stopped writing, moved further down the page and carried on in the order of the murders. Charlie France, Barry Phillips and now Derek Dodds. He was seeing a pattern forming on the paper right in front of his eyes. There were two father and sons in Barry and Toby Phillips and Derek and Barney Dodds. Drake Whitlow and Charlie France were the odd ones out. He thought about the message written with ladybirds in the hotel room. The seed will soon be dead. Smith felt he was close to something important but he could not figure it out.
“The seed will soon be dead,” he said out loud.
He turned the piece of paper over and started again. This time he wrote something different at the top of the page. ‘Father and son.’ He then wrote the names of Barry and Toby Phillips and Derek and Barney Dodds. Underneath, he wrote the names of Charlie France and Drake Whitlow. It was then that it hit him.
“This woman is only killing men,” he said to himself, “Charlie France did not have a son, he has a daughter. Shit.”
He took out his phone and dialled Whitton’s number.
“What now sir?” Whitton said.
“Whitton,” Smith said, “I think I’ve figured something out. Where are you?”
“Just approaching Durham,” Whitton said, “what have you figured out?”
“All the victims were men,” Smith said.
“We already know that sir,” Whitton sounded irritated.
“Charlie France had a daughter,” Smith said, “I can’t remember her name.”
“Catherine,” Whitton said, “her name is Catherine. What’s this all about?”
“The seed will soon be dead Whitton. That’s what this is all about. The kids were killed first. She wanted to make the father’s suffer first. She killed the kids and then she killed their fathers. The only exception was Charlie France but he only had a daughter. Can you see it?”
“I’m starting to get it,” Whitton said.
“I’ve written it all down,” Smith said, “and if I’m right there’s still one left.”
“Drake Whitlow’s father,” Whitton said.
“That’s right,” Smith said.
“But why?” Whitton said, “Why is this woman doing this?”
“I don’t know,” Smith said, “but what I do know is we have to find Mr Whitlow before this ladybird lunatic does. I’ve got a feeling that he knows exactly who she is.”
“We’re just parking outside the University now,” Whitton said, “we’ll let you know what we find out.”
THIRTY FIVE
There was a knock at the door. George Whitlow shot up in bed. His head was pounding and his mouth was incredibly dry. There was a knock at the door again.
“Who is it?” he croaked.
“Hotel cleaning sir,” a woman said, “we need to clean your room. It’s nearly noon. We have to clean the room now.”
Whitlow was instantly on his guard. When he had checked in he had not stipulated how many nights he would be staying. He had left his credit card details with reception and he had left instructions that they were to bill him at the end of his stay. He had stayed here many times and this had never happened before.
“Give me ten minutes,” he said, “I’ve just got out of the shower.”
The woman did not say anything else and Whitlow was sure he could hear her footsteps walking down the corridor. He got out of bed and dressed. He picked up his phone and put on his watch. He walked to the door and carefully opened it. His whole body tensed as he looked outside. There was nobody there. He made his way down to reception to settle his bill.
“I was just woken up by the cleaning lady,” he said to the receptionist as he paid, “she said she needed to clean my room. Surely they should give the guests a bit of peace.”
“That will be Doreen,” the receptionist said, “she keeps getting the room numbers wrong. I’m terribly sorry.”
“I just thought you ought to know,” Whitlow said.
He felt relieved.
Maybe I’m being paranoid, he thought as he walked out of the hotel.
The temperature was in the high twenties as George Whitlow made his way towards the taxi ranks across the road from the hotel. He was not yet sure where he was going to go. He could not go home. She would be able to find him there. He thought about whether he should go to the police and tell them everything but that might land him in trouble. He walked straight past the taxi rank towards the University. This is where this nightmare started, he thought as he approached the halls of residence. It was twenty years ago now but it was all coming back to haunt him. Music was blaring out of open windows in the student accommodation building and students were milling around preparing for a drunken Saturday. He remembered it like it was yesterday. He looked at the faces of the students as he walked by; young men and women in the prime of their lives. Their only worry was how they were going to fund their next party. He suddenly stopped dead in his tracks. She could be here, he thought, she could be here without him even realising it. She could be watching him right now.
It was incredibly hot and George Whitlow was sweating from every pore in his body. He found a taxi outside the student building and got in the back.
“Minster please,” he said to the driver, “there’s no rush.”
“Hot isn’t it?” the driver said. He had a peculiar accent.
“It’s supposed to be like this all weekend,” Whitlow said.
He usually avoided small talk but for some reason, today he felt like talking.
“Are you a student?” the driver asked.
“Yes,” Whitlow lied, “I’m a bit of a late starter. Now the kids are grown up I felt like expanding my brain a bit.”
“Its terrible about all those people getting killed isn’t it?” the driver said, “Some of them were students. I didn’t come to England for this. I felt safer back in Bulgaria.”
He parked the car around the corner from the Minster. Whitlow got out and paid him. He walked quickly past the crowds of tourists waiting outside the Minster and made his way to the antique shop. He had rented a flat at the top of the shop three years ago. Whitlow and his wife had drifted apart many years ago and he often came here when he did not want to go home. He opened the door at the side of the shop and walked up the stairs. It was only when he had closed the door to the flat behind him that he felt safe. Nobody would find him here, he thought. It was stuffy in the flat so he walked over to the window and opened it. The sounds from the streets wafted in. Tourists shuffled by and students were heading off for a Saturday of drinking. Whitlow took off his jacket and went to the kitchen. He took a bottle of water out of the fridge and took a long sip. His head was still pounding so he decided to have a nap. She was sitting on the bed in the bedroom.
“Hello George,” she said.
THIRTY SIX
The English Literature department at the University of Durham was housed in a modern building that looked completely out of place amongst the ancient structures that surrounded it. Whitton and Bridge took the elevator to the fifth floor after being given vague directions from a student with long greasy hair who was clearly high on something or other. They reached the fifth floor and stepped out into a spacious corridor. The place looked deserted as they followed the signs for the office. Whitton knocked on the door.
“Come in,” a deep voice said.
Whitton went in first. Bridge followed behind her. Inside, the room had an impressive view of the University campus. The man who had asked them to come in stood up. Whitton gasped. He must have been nearly seven feet tall. She had to strain her neck to look at his face.
“Are you lost?” he asked in his booming voice.
“I don’t think so,” Whitton said, “we need to speak to one of your professors, Professor Wood.”
“Chris?” the man said, “what do you want with Chris?”
“We just need to ask him a few questions,” Whitton took out her ID.
“What’s he done now?” the man asked.
“He hasn’t done anything,” Whitton said, “Do you know where he is?”
“If I know Professor Wood,” the man said, “he’ll be in his office. Beautiful sunny Saturday afternoon and he’ll be where he always is. I can show you if you like.”
“Thank you,” Whitton said, “that would be great.”
The man bounded out of the room. Whitton and Bridge had to run to keep up with him. He headed off down the stairs two at a time and stopped outside a green door. There was a plaque on the door that read, Chris Wood – Literature. The tall man opened the door without knocking and went inside.
“Chris,” he shouted, “There are two sinister looking police officers who would like a word with you.
Whitton and Bridge followed him into the room. A stocky man with balding brown hair stood up. Whitton was surprised when she saw him. She had never expected the husband of Karen Wood to look like this. She had imagined a sporty type with a fake tan and perfect teeth. This man appeared to be in his mid forties, he had a rather plump face and when he smiled at her she notice he had a couple of teeth missing.
“Good afternoon Professor Wood,” she said, “we’re from the York police department. Could we have a few minutes of your time?”
“York?” He said, “Beautiful city. Second only to Durham in the looks department. What can I do for you? And please call me Chris; this professor business makes me sound like some geriatric grey bearded
loonie.”
Whitton found herself smiling. Maybe he does have a certain charm after all, she thought.
“Mike,” Chris said, “could you leave us alone now please.”
“See you in the union at four?” Mike said.
“I’ll be there,” Chris said.
He looked at Whitton and Bridge.
“Have a seat,” he said, “what can I do for you? As far as I’m aware, I haven’t yet broken the law this year.”
Bridge looked at Whitton in disbelief. Whitton smiled and sat down on one of the chairs in front of the desk. Bridge sat down next to her.
“Professor Wood,” she said.
“Chris,” Chris corrected her.
“Sorry,” Whitton said, “Chris, we’re here about your ex wife.”
“Ah Karen,” Chris seemed to be lost in thought for a while, “Beautiful Karen. Beautiful and desperately lost. What I don’t know about Karen is not worth knowing.”
“When was the last time you saw her?” Whitton asked.
“Is she alright?” Chris said, “She tends to have periods in her life where she’s not exactly stable.”
“I’m sure she’s fine,” Whitton said, “when was the last time you saw her?”
“That I can’t say,” Chris said.
“You can’t say?” Whitton said.
“What I mean is, I can’t remember. I can recite Eliot’s Wasteland in its entirety after three bottles of wine but my short term memory is abysmal. If I were to hazard a guess I’d say I haven’t seen her for two weeks, maybe three.”
“Do you know where she lives?” Bridge asked.
“I should know,” Chris said, “I pay the rent. She has a room in a house in York. Karen’s financial situation took a bit of a nose dive after the divorce. She’s more than capable of working but paranoid schizophrenics are not exactly sought after in the job market. What’s this all about?”
“We can’t say,” Whitton said, “but it’s important we find her as soon as possible. Do you have the address of the house she lives in?”
The York Trilogy: The First 3 DS Jason Smith Detective novels Page 80
