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

by Stewart Giles

  “I’ll pay later,” he said to the young woman at the counter.

  “I’m afraid you have to pay now, “she said, “The owner doesn’t give credit.”

  “I don’t have any money with me,” Smith said, “I will be back to pay later. I need to drink something.”

  The young woman looked at him carefully. She swiped the cans of coke and the chocolate over the bar code machine, took out some money from her own purse and paid for it. Smith could not believe it. He handed her his card.

  “I seem to have a terrible memory at the moment,” he said, “call me if I don’t pay you back in the next few days. Thank you. You’ve just restored my faith in human nature.”

  He ran out of the supermarket and got back in the taxi.

  As they drove, Smith realised he would not be able to pay the taxi driver either. They parked outside the Minster and Smith thought carefully about what he was going to say.

  “Thirteen quid,” the driver said, “not including tip.”

  “I don’t have any money,” Smith said, “I’ll have to owe it to you.”

  “IOUs don’t pay my rent pal,” the driver said, “thirteen quid.”

  “I told you,” Smith said, “I don’t have any money.”

  He took out his ID.

  “Drop by the police station tomorrow,” he said, “and I’ll pay you. You might even get a tip.”

  He walked off before the driver had a chance to argue. He found the antique shop and pressed the buzzer on the door at the side. The door was opened after ten seconds. He recognised Naomi Whitlow from the day her son had been killed with a guitar string.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said, “you don’t look too well.”

  “I’m fine,” Smith said, “what’s this all about?”

  She led him up the stairs into the flat and closed the door.

  “Would you like something to drink?” she asked.

  “Just a glass with ice if you have it,” Smith said, “I’m a bit dehydrated. I’ll be ok after a few cans of coke.”

  While she was getting the glass, Smith sat down and looked around the flat. It struck him at once that this was not a place where a woman lived. This was a bachelor pad. Naomi put a glass filled with ice on the table next to him. Smith poured one of the cokes in the glass and finished it in one go. He filled the glass with a second coke.

  “Thanks,” he said, “what’s this all about? Where’s your husband.”

  “Like I said on the phone,” Naomi sat on the other chair in the room, “he’s disappeared. He’s not answering his phone either. He seems terrified that something is going to happen to him.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “He was here just over an hour ago,” she said, “and then he left.”

  “You said you think this has something to do with the ladybird murders?” Smith said.

  The coke had made him feel much better.

  “George said it did,” Naomi said, “He said something about this woman killing them all.”

  “Who’s they?”

  “George said the gang are all dead,” Naomi said, “Charlie, Derek, Barry and George were thick as thieves at University. George is the only one left. He said they did something terrible and now they were being made to pay.”

  “Do you know what he did?” Smith said.

  “I have no idea. I met George after he had graduated. I wasn’t exactly what you would call University material. Nobody in my family went to University. George was a hero to my parents. A University graduate. They didn’t know what a bastard he was though.”

  “Do you have any idea where George might go?” Smith said, “Friends, work colleagues. Is there anywhere he might try and hide out?”

  “Only here,” Naomi said, “but I buggered that up. He thought I didn’t know about the place.”

  “So this is George’s flat?” Smith said.

  “He rented it a few years ago,” Naomi said, “I found out about two years later. Stupid idiot left an invoice for the rent at home. He seemed genuinely scared.”

  “We’ll find him,” Smith said, “he can’t have gone far.”

  He finished the second coke and poured the last one on the glass.

  “You’re thirsty,” Naomi said.

  “I had a bit of food poisoning,” Smith said, “I was told I needed to get my fluid levels up. You’re telling me that George and three of his friends were involved with something when they were at University and this something has come back to haunt them?”

  “It seems like it,” Naomi said, “George wouldn’t tell me about it. I said he should contact the police but he said it would get him into trouble.”

  Smith thought hard for a moment.

  “Do you have a photograph of George?” he asked.

  “Not here,” she said, “but I have lots at home.”

  “Would you be able to bring one down to the station?” Smith said, “And we can put the word out.”

  “Do you think George was right?” Naomi asked.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you think he’s in danger?”

  “I don’t know,” Smith said.

  He thought about Karen Wood, heavily sedated in the psychiatric wing of the hospital. If what George Whitlow said was true and this all started twenty years ago, Karen Wood would have been around six years old. It did not make sense.

  “I have to go,” Smith said, “please bring a photo of George down to the station and we’ll see if we can find him.”

  He stood up and waited for the dizziness but it did not materialise.

  The coke must be working, he thought as he walked towards the door.

  “Don’t worry Mrs Whitlow,” he said, “we’ll do everything we can to find your husband.”

  “Thank you detective,” she said, “me and George may not be close anymore but he’s all I have left now.”

  Smith’s phone started to ring in his pocket.

  “Sorry,” he said to Naomi as he took it out.

  It was Grant Webber.

  “Smith,” Webber said, “I’ve got good news and bad news depending on how you look at it.”

  “Give me the bad news,” Smith said.

  “Karen Wood is not our ladybird killer,” Webber said.

  Smith did not know what to say.

  “Are you still there?” Webber said.

  “I’m still here,” Smith said.

  “The fingerprints we took from Karen Wood did not match any of those we got from the murder scenes,” Webber said.

  “You said you had good news,” Smith said.

  “The good news is your girlfriend is not a psychopathic killer,” Webber said, “you should be glad about that at least.”

  “Thanks Webber,” Smith said.

  He put the phone back in his pocket.

  “I have to go,” he said to Naomi Whitlow, “something’s come up. We’ll find your husband. Don’t you worry about that.”

  He walked down the stairs and emerged into the bright sunshine. Hoards of tourists were shuffling along like ghosts, unaware of anything that was going on around them. Smith felt much better after drinking the three cans of coke but his heart felt heavy. They had reintroduced Karen Wood to her worst nightmare. It’s all my fault, Smith thought as he walked past the Minster and turned on to Gillygate. Karen Wood is innocent, he thought, and we treated her like a common criminal. If she had her wits about her, she would be justified in laying charges of wrongful arrest and police harassment against us. As he walked past the bistro on Gillygate, Smith recalled what had happened there earlier in the year. Jimmy Fulton had killed a man in the toilets with an expensive bottle of champagne only minutes after drinking the champagne with Superintendant Smyth.

  I need to go back to the hospital, Smith thought, I need to speak to Karen Wood and explain. Maybe there’s still some hope of preventing her from retreating into her own disturbed mind again. He remembered he did not have any money for a taxi so he took out his phone and
dialled Whitton’s number.

  “Whitton,” he said, “I need a lift back to the hospital.”

  “What do you mean?” Whitton said, “I thought you were in the hospital.”

  “I popped out for a while,” Smith said.

  “Where are you? Are you alright?”

  “I’m fine,” Smith said, “never felt better. I’m on Gillygate. Remember the bistro where that poor bastard got his head smashed in with a bottle of Moet and Chandon?”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” Whitton said, “café number 8 isn’t it?”

  “You’ve got a good memory,” Smith said but the phone line had already gone dead.

  While he waited, Smith went inside the restaurant to use the toilet. After three cans of coke, his bladder was ready to burst. He remembered the place like it was yesterday. He walked through the restaurant to the toilets. He shuddered as he thought about the poor man who had been lying on the floor in the toilets with his head smashed open. When he was finished, he washed his hands and walked out of the toilets. As he was about to leave the restaurant, a surly looking man in a brown suit approached him.

  “This is a restaurant,” the man said, “It’s not a bloody public toilet. Only patrons of the restaurant are permitted to use the bathroom.”

  “Sorry,” Smith said, “in that case, I’ll have a Big Mac and fries.”

  The man did not know what to say. Smith smiled at him and left the restaurant.

  Whitton was waiting outside. She was driving Smith’s red Ford Sierra. Smith was glad to see that she was on her own. He got in the passenger side and closed the door behind him.

  “Don’t you want to drive?” she asked, “It seems funny driving your car with you in it.”

  “You can drive,” Smith said, “I’m sick remember.”

  Whitton started the engine and drove off in the direction of the hospital.

  “Karen Wood is innocent,” Smith said as they drove, “Webber phoned me earlier.”

  “I know,” Whitton said, “that performance earlier was all for nothing. What do you think will happen to her?”

  “I don’t know,” Smith said, “I feel terrible. She has a morbid fear of being institutionalised again. She’s terrified of the thought that she’ll be thrown in a mental hospital again. That’s why I need to go back to the hospital. I need to straighten a few things out with her.”

  Smith told Whitton about the conversation with Naomi Whitlow and how George Whitlow had disappeared.

  “So we were right,” Whitton said, “George Whitlow is the last one.”

  “That’s why we need to find him,” Smith said, “He knows what this is all about.”

  “What if we’re too late?” Whitton said, “What if she’s already found him?”

  “We’ll have to assume she hasn’t,” Smith said.

  “What could have happened that was so terrible that six men had to die for it?” Whitton said.

  “Naomi Whitlow hinted on something that George and his friends did twenty years ago while they were at University. That’s where we’ll start.”

  Whitton parked the car in the hospital car park.

  “You know you’re going to be in trouble for leaving the hospital?” Whitton said.

  “I feel fine,” Smith insisted, “a bit groggy but otherwise I’m a hundred percent. Do you think they’ll let me see her?”

  “Karen Wood?” Whitton said, “I don’t see why not. She’s probably so drugged up though. I doubt she’ll be able to hear anything you say.”

  “I have to try anyway,” Smith said, “I feel terrible for what she had to go through. I need to make it right.”

  They got out of the car and walked through the doors of the hospital. The nurse who had reattached the drip to Smith’s arm recognised him immediately.

  “I’m afraid we can’t help you,” he said to Smith, “you made sure of that. When you discharged yourself you were no longer our responsibility.”

  “I’m fine,” Smith said, “I need to speak with the doctor looking after Karen Wood.”

  “The crazy woman?” the nurse said, “She needs serious help that one. I’ve seen it before.”

  “Please,” Smith said, “I need to speak to her.”

  “I’ll have the duty nurse come and see you,” the nurse said, “You know you shouldn’t have taken that drip out by yourself. You could get an infection.”

  “Could you please just let me speak to somebody in charge?” Smith said.

  The nurse shrugged his shoulders and walked off in the direction of the general wards.

  What happened next would stay in Smith’s memory for a very long time afterwards. There was a sudden commotion in the hospital and Smith knew that something was terribly wrong. Three nurses ran past with such urgency that they nearly knocked him to the ground. They were followed by a man in a grey suit. An alarm sounded and two more nurses rushed past. Smith did not know why but he ran after them. Whitton looked on in amazement. Smith was getting out of breath and the dizziness he felt earlier had returned. The nurses had stopped outside a room. Smith walked up to them.

  “What happened?” he asked a woman in a sister’s uniform.

  “Nothing to concern you,” the sister said, “please just get to where you are going.”

  Smith pushed past her and looked inside the room. Three nurses and the man in the grey suit were crouched over a figure on the floor. When Smith looked closer he noticed that there was a lot of blood on the floor. The man in the grey suit straightened up and shook his head. Smith walked in the room to get a better look. Karen Wood was lying on her back. Her eyes were open. She gazed straight ahead as if she were staring at an object in the distance. Smith saw the broken bottle next to her. Both of her wrists had been slashed open. He left the room and walked back down the corridor. He had to lean against the wall to keep his balance. Whitton was standing at the end of the corridor. He walked up to her and put his arms around her. Whitton did not know what was going on. Smith felt like his legs would give way at any moment.

  “What happened sir?” Whitton said.

  “Karen Wood,” Smith struggled to get the words out,” Karen Wood.”

  There was a stretcher at the side of the corridor. Smith let go of Whitton and sat down on it. His head felt heavy and he had to support it with his hands. He looked up at Whitton.

  “She’s dead Whitton,” he said, “Karen Wood is dead.”

  FORTY

  Sunday 30 May 2010

  Smith poured half of his mug of coffee down the sink and opened the bottle of Jack Daniels. He filled the mug to the brim. He looked at the picture on the mug. York Minster. The mug had belonged to his grandfather and it was Smith’s favourite. It had been the one that Karen Wood had chosen when she had made him coffee the previous week. How did she know? Smith thought, how did she know it was my favourite mug? He took a long sip and winced. His stomach was empty and the liquid burned more than usual. He took another sip and waited for the whisky to do its job. The whole series of events the day before did not seem real. Karen Wood had been arrested for the murders of six men; she had put up a fight and had to be sedated. When it transpired that the fingerprints they had found at the murder scenes were not hers, security around her had been relaxed and the doctor had decided that sedation was no longer necessary. What happened next is unclear but Smith had had time to formulate a theory in his head. He believed that she had woken up in a hospital bed and panicked. Thinking she would have to endure the horror of a mental institution again, she had got out of bed and tried to escape. A hospital orderly who had been on duty at the time had recalled his version of the events that followed. Karen Wood was seen running away from her room. She was holding a bottle of water. The orderly claimed she had appeared disorientated and he had called out to her. He said she had then run off at such a speed that he knew something was wrong. He had had trouble keeping up with her. He had lost sight of her a couple of times but had caught up with her outside one of the private rooms. When
he had tried to approach her she had held up the bottle in a threatening manner. He had gone to get help but when he returned it was too late. She had smashed the bottle and sliced her wrists so deeply that all of the tendons had been severed. She was already dead when they found her.

  Smith took a long sip of the coffee. Theakston was begging for food by his feet but Smith ignored him. The dog started to lick Smith’s feet.

  “Go away,” Smith said, “get out if you know what’s good for you. People around me seem to end up dead.”

  He finished the rest of the coffee, stood up and boiled the water to make some more. His phone rang but he ignored it. He picked up the phone and looked at the screen. The call was from an unknown number. He did not know why but he dialled Karen Wood’s number. It went straight to voice mail.

  “Hi this is Karen,” her voice made Smith flinch, “I can’t take your call right now but if you leave your name and number I’ll try and get back to you. If you haven’t heard from me in twenty four hours you can bet your arse there’s a bloody good reason for it.”

  Smith didn’t know what to say. He had heard the message many times before but it seemed quite eerie now.

  “Karen,” he said, “this is Jason. I tried to talk to you earlier but I was too late and you had other plans. I didn’t want this to happen…”

  He ended the call and dialled the number again.

  “Hi this is Karen…”

  He listened to the message another four or five times until he could bear it no longer. He looked at the phone and threw it against the kitchen wall. The phone hit the wall with a thud and fell to the floor.

  “I can’t even get that right,” Smith said out loud as he picked up the phone. It was still in one piece. He was about to throw it again when it started to ring. It was a number he did not recognise. He looked at the screen for a few seconds and answered it.

  “Smith,” he said. He winced at the sound of his voice. It did not sound like his voice at all. It was much weaker.

  “Mr Smith,” the voice on the other end of the line brought back memories. The woman had an Australian accent.