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

by Stewart Giles

  “Sorry to bother you on a Sunday,” she said, “but I need to speak with you urgently.”

  “Who is this?” Smith said.

  “My name is Madeleine Dunlop,” the woman said, “I’m a lawyer with the firm overseeing the estate of Lucy Maclean. Do you have a moment to talk?”

  “I’ve already told you what to do with the money,” Smith realised he sounded very agitated. He opened the bottle of Jack Daniels and took a large swig straight out of the bottle.

  “You did advise us,” Dunlop said, “but then we received another e mail stating you had changed your mind. What is it to be Mr Smith?”

  Smith did not appreciate the tone of this woman’s voice.

  “You can stick the money up your arse if you want,” he said, “I didn’t send that e mail.”

  He thought about the day Karen Wood used his computer to help Bridge. She had sent the e mail to Australia. Why the hell did she do that? Smith thought.

  “I’m sure you understand our position Mr Smith,” Dunlop sounded very annoyed now, “the longer this drags on, the more tedious it becomes for everybody involved. Don’t you agree?”

  “I don’t need this shit at the moment,” Smith said, “Lucy’s brother can have the money. Money only brings misery and I’m full to the brim with misery at the moment.”

  He rang off.

  The phone started to ring immediately. Smith cancelled the call, switched the phone off and went upstairs. He took the bottle of Jack Daniels with him.

  FORTY ONE

  George Whitlow opened the door of the static caravan and looked outside. There were no clouds in the sky and it was already very warm. He could hear the sound of the sea in the distance. He walked down the path to the top of the cliff and waves of nostalgia ran through him. George had not been here in years. Drake had been no more than a baby but George remembered the place like it was yesterday. Not much had changed. There were more camping spots now than there had been but apart from that, the Caravan Park was exactly as he remembered it. He had fallen in love with Robin Hoods Bay the moment he had set eyes on the place. The view from the cliff top was like no other. George looked down to the beach where Drake had played as a small child. For the first time since Drake had been killed, George felt the pain that grief brought with it. This place represented the few years he had actually played the role of father. What happened after that, George had no idea. Weekends away on business turned into weeks. Sometimes, George spent whole months away from Naomi and Drake.

  “What happened to me?” he said out loud.

  He walked back towards the caravan. There were a few tents pitched but not too many that he would not have any peace.

  George made some coffee, took it outside and sat on the wooden bench outside his caravan. He wondered if he should call Naomi to let her know where he was but he decided it would be too risky. The fewer people that knew the better. She will never find me here, he thought. This ladybird killer who had killed his only son would never track him down to Robin Hoods Bay. He sipped on his coffee and looked around the campsite. Campers were starting to emerge from their tents and were heading towards the ablution block. George’s paranoia surfaced again and he scrutinised every face. Satisfied that none of the campers seemed out of place, George thought hard about what he was going to do.

  I can’t stay here forever, he thought, I have to go home sooner or later. He wondered if the police would ever catch this killer.

  A woman in her mid twenties approached him and George tensed up. He looked around for something to use as a weapon but there was nothing suitable.

  “Morning,” the woman said, “sorry to bother you but we’ve run out of coffee and the shop doesn’t open for another hour. My boyfriend goes crazy in the morning without a cup of coffee. Do you have some we could borrow?”

  George looked at her. She seemed to be genuine.

  “Wait here,” he said, “I’ll get you some from the caravan.”

  He went inside and filled a small plastic bag with instant coffee. As he was about to go back outside, he picked up a steak knife from next to the sink and put it in his pocket.

  “Is that enough?” he said.

  He handed the woman the bag of coffee.

  “More than enough,” she smiled, “I’ll replace it when the shop opens later.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” George said, “I have plenty.”

  He did not feel like socialising with anybody while he was here. He watched as the woman walked back to her tent. A man with long black hair was boiling water on a camping stove next to the tent.

  George’s phone started to ring inside the caravan. He went inside to see who it was. It was Naomi. It was the fourth time she had tried to phone him since he had been here but he did not want to talk to her. The phone stopped ringing and the phone beeped to tell him he had a message. He pressed the retrieve button and braced himself for what his wife had to say.

  “George,” she began, “I’m worried sick about you. I don’t care where you are; please just let me know you’re ok.”

  George put the phone down and sighed. I’m a terrible husband, he thought, and I was an even worse father. How did it all end up like this? Hiding out in a caravan park at the top of a cliff. He picked the phone up and dialled Naomi’s number. She answered immediately.

  “George,” she said, “where are you? I’ve been going out of my mind with worry. I didn’t sleep a wink last night.”

  “I’m ok,” George said, “I needed to get away for a few days, that’s all. I needed a place to hide. She’s coming after me. I can feel it.”

  “Where are you?” Naomi asked again.

  “Somewhere safe,” George said, “I can’t tell you where. You could be in danger. Please just believe me. It’s somewhere safe.”

  A herring gull flew overhead and squawked so loudly that George got a fright.

  “I’ll let you know when I’m coming home,” he said and ended the call.

  George felt hungry but he remembered he had forgotten to draw money before he arrived at the caravan park. He decided he would take a drive to Whitby and kill two birds with one stone. There were no cash machines in Robin Hoods Bay and it had been a while since he had eaten fish and chips in Whitby. They were reputed to be the best fish and chips in the world. He picked up his car keys but as he was about to leave his phone started to ring again. The number on the screen was one he did not recognise. He debated whether to ignore it or not but it could be business related. Times had been hard recently and George needed all the work he could get. He pressed the call retrieve button.

  “Hello George,” a woman said. She had a very husky voice.

  “Who is this?” George asked.

  “You know who it is George,” she said, “I’m so sorry about Drake. I liked him but I had to make absolutely sure the seed did no more damage.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “There’s only you left now George,” she said, “After that, I’ll be able to sleep again.”

  “You’re insane,” George realised his voice was shaking.

  “You’re probably right,” she said, “but whose fault is that George?”

  “I’m going to the police,” he said.

  “No you’re not. You won’t tell them anything. You’ll never tell them what you did. Isn’t it remarkable how the past always comes back to get you in the end?”

  George did not know what to say.

  “I’m sorry,” he said and straight away realised how pathetic he sounded. “We were young. We didn’t know what we were doing.”

  “It’s too late for that George,” she said, “I have to go now but I’ll be seeing you. Oh yes, one more thing George.”

  The phone went quiet for a few seconds.

  “What?” George said.

  “I just wondered,” she said, “is the sea air helping to clear your head?”

  FORTY TWO

  She put the phone on the table next to the bed and smiled. The diary
was lying next to it. She did not need to read the diary today. It was almost over. She stood up and walked over to the dressing table. She looked at herself in the mirror and sighed. The roots were showing in her hair. The pink dye had faded and the black roots were coming through again. She opened the bedroom door and went downstairs. Her housemate, Brian was drinking coffee in the living room.

  “Morning Brian,” she said, “It’s a beautiful day isn’t it?”

  Brian looked at her suspiciously. She was rarely this nice to him unless she wanted something from him although he had noticed a marked improvement in her mood in the past week or so.

  “Morning,” Brian said, “Do you want some coffee? The kettle’s just boiled.”

  “That would be just perfect,” she said, “so what are your plans for today?”

  “I’ve got a dissertation to finish,” Brian replied, “and then I’d better start thinking about what I’m going to do for the summer. I’ve been considering doing a bit of travelling. Get away from York for a while. It’ll do me good. I’ve got a bit of money saved up. What about you?”

  “Today,” she said, “I’ve got a date with a good book, a bottle of wine and a sunny spot in the park. I need some sun. Look at me, I’m as pale as a ghost.”

  “You look fine to me,” Brian started to blush.

  “And tomorrow,” she ignored his comment, “tomorrow I’m taking a trip to the seaside. York has its moments but I feel like an adventure by the sea. You can come with me if you want.”

  Brian was shocked. This was the first time she had shown any interest in him.

  “I’d love to,” he said, “but I’ve got to work. I’m putting in my notice at the supermarket though. I’ve had enough of the shit there.”

  “Suit yourself,” she said although she knew very well he would refuse to go. “That coffee isn’t going to make itself.”

  Brian stood up and walked through to the kitchen. While he was making the coffee, she thought about what she was going to do. She could not help but smile. It had spread across her face and there was nothing she could do about it. She had come so far and soon it would be all over. The gun was under the passenger seat in her car. She had enjoyed the power it had given her over Barry Philips. She would make George Whitlow truly understand what he had done before she killed him. She would make him suffer. What she was going to do when it was all over, she did not even think about. She did not care.

  Brian placed the coffee on the table next to her. She took a sip and smiled at him.

  “Thanks,” she said, “you’re such a darling.”

  Brian’s face turned a crimson colour.

  “I suppose that dissertation isn’t going to write itself,” he said. He started to walk out the room.

  “Brian,” she said, “you’ve been a great housemate.”

  Brian stared at her and walked upstairs to his room.

  FORTY THREE

  Smith woke up with a splitting headache. He leaned over and saw the half empty bottle of Jack Daniels on his bedside table. He scowled at it. Theakston was snoring at his feet. Smith got up, ran to the bathroom and vomited in the sink. He rinsed out his mouth and washed his face with cold water. He looked at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot and his face was a disturbing grey colour. He went downstairs and filled a large glass with water. He drank it slowly, not knowing if he would be able to keep it down. He saw that his phone was lying on the kitchen table. There was a small dent in the side of it and Smith remembered throwing it against the wall. He realised the phone was switched off so he switched it on and waited. The light flashed almost immediately to tell him he had a message. He sighed and listened to it. It was Whitton.

  “Sir,” she said, “we’re all worried about you. I’m just phoning to see if you’re alright. Me and Bridge may have found somebody who can help us. Phone me when you can.”

  Smith listened to the message again.

  What did Whitton mean? He thought, who has she found that might be able to help them?

  He felt a strange gurgling in his stomach and made it to the kitchen sink just in time. He rinsed the sink out, picked up the phone and dialled Whitton’s number.

  “Whitton,” he said, “sorry I didn’t phone earlier but I was otherwise engaged.”

  “I won’t ask sir,” she said.

  “Can you come over?” Smith asked her, “I feel like hell. What did you mean when you said you’ve found somebody who can help us?”

  “Somebody at the University,” Whitton said, “she was there twenty years ago. She was a student then but she still works there now. She lectures in Humanities.”

  “How can she help us?” Smith asked.

  “I’ll come over,” Whitton said, “I’ll see you in about twenty minutes.”

  “Thanks Whitton,” Smith said.

  “Do you need anything?” Whitton asked.

  “Yes,” Smith said, “actually I do. Bring as much coke as you can carry.”

  While he was waiting for Whitton, Smith had a shower and put on some clean clothes. He put on a pair of shorts and a T Shirt. He noticed with disgust how white his legs were. It had been a while since they had seen the sun.

  “Some surfer dude I am,” he said to Theakston who was still lying at the bottom of his bed.

  He went downstairs and opened the back door. He looked at the clock on the wall. It was two in the afternoon. There was a knock on the door and Whitton walked in. She had brought four litres of coke with her.

  “Thanks,” Smith said.

  He poured some coke into a pint glass and took a long sip.

  “Do you want some?” he asked.

  “No thanks,” she said.

  She looked at him in his shorts and T Shirt and burst out laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” Smith sounded quite hurt.

  “You call yourself an Australian?” she said, “I’ve never seen such white legs before. You need some sun.”

  “That’s exactly what I have planned for today,” Smith said, “let’s go outside to the garden. Who is this woman who can help us?”

  He took the coke outside with him. They sat on the bench in the garden.

  “We were lucky,” Whitton said, “I managed to get hold of someone at the University on a Sunday. They are busy finalising the end of semester grades or something. The man I spoke to was very helpful. He had no idea about what happened twenty years ago but he gave me the number of a woman who he thought might know. Sonja Taylor. The Humanities lecturer.”

  “How can she help?” Smith said.

  “I’m getting to that,” Whitton said, “I phoned her. Not only was she a student at the same time as Charlie France, Barry Philips, Derek Dodds and George Whitlow, she just happened to live in the same halls of residence as them.”

  “What did she have to say?” Smith said.

  “She was a bit reluctant to talk at first,” Whitton said, “I think she’d put the whole thing out of her mind but when I explained to her what was at stake she seemed to open up a bit.”

  “What happened all those years ago?” Smith said.

  He finished the rest of the coke in the glass.

  “I don’t know,” Whitton said, “but she’s agreed to meet us at the University tomorrow morning. I got the feeling she didn’t want to say too much over the phone. I don’t think she was alone. I think she can tell us something important.”

  Smith stood up and went to the kitchen to get more coke.

  “I’ve got a good feeling about this,” he said when he sat down again, “we could be finally getting somewhere.”

  “I think so too,” Whitton said.

  Smith was starting to feel a lot better.

  “What time tomorrow?” he asked.

  “Nine thirty,” Whitton replied, “I’ll pick you up for a change.”

  She stood up to go.

  “I’ll leave you to your sunbathing,” she stared at Smith’s pale legs again, “although it’s going to take a lot more than a day in th
e sun to restore those to their former glory.”

  “Thanks,” Smith smiled. He really was feeling much better now. He stood up.

  “I’ll let myself out,” Whitton said, “enjoy the sun.”

  Smith smiled. He turned his head so he was facing the sun. He could already feel his face was starting to burn but he did not care. This was just what he needed. He thought about George Whitlow. He remembered he had promised Naomi they would find her husband. He went back inside to get his phone. He sat back down on the bench and dialled her number.

  “Hello,” Naomi sounded very nervous.

  “Mrs Whitlow, “Smith said, “sorry to bother you on a Sunday. This is DS Smith.”

  “Has anything happened to George?” Naomi asked.

  “No,” Smith said, “that’s not why I’m calling. I just wanted to find out if you’d heard anything from him.”

  “I spoke to him this morning,” she said.

  “Where is he?”

  “He wouldn’t say,” Naomi said, “he said it was better that I didn’t know. All he said was he was somewhere safe.”

  “Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”

  “I don’t even know my husband anymore,” she said, “He could be anywhere.”

  “If you think of anything, please give me a ring,” Smith said, “any time.”

  “Thank you detective,” she said.

  Smith stood up and lay down on the grass. The coke had settled his stomach and the sun felt so nice on his face that he was asleep in seconds.

  FORTY FOUR

  George Whitlow parked his car in the car park at the top of town and looked out at Whitby. He got out of the car and straight away cursed himself for not wearing something lighter. The sun was high in the sky and the temperature must have been in the low thirties. He walked past the whale bones and took the steps down to the old part of the town. Trawlers were heading back to the harbour with the day’s catch. Frenzied gulls were following the boats closely behind. George smiled. The phone call earlier had rattled him but he now felt much safer. He still did not know how she had found out he had come to the coast but he was sure she would not find him here. He withdrew some cash from a cash machine and headed for the promenade. Hoards of people shuffled past the vendors selling mussels and winkles. Couples walked past him, arm in arm. Everybody seemed to be enjoying the unusually warm weather.