George stopped at a fish shop and ordered a cod and chips. He took it to one of the few free benches and ate it out of a newspaper. For a brief moment he forgot all about his problems. He looked out across the water. Pleasure boats full of sunburned tourists were heading back in from a day out at sea. George finished the fish and chips and threw the newspaper in a nearby bin. He walked the whole way along the promenade and for a second he actually felt like a tourist. He stopped at one of the stalls and bought a bag of seashells for Naomi. She would like them, he thought, she could put them in the bathroom. He walked back along the promenade and back up the steps to where he had parked his car.
Before he left Whitby, George stopped at a supermarket and bought a bottle of scotch and a case of beers. He drove back to Robin Hoods Bay and smiled to himself.
She has no idea where I am, he assured himself, how could she know?
He parked the car outside his caravan and took the scotch and beer out of the boot.
“Having a party are you?” a woman’s voice made him turn round. He almost dropped the bottle of scotch.
“Sorry,” she said, “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
It was the woman who had borrowed the coffee from him earlier. She handed him the same plastic bag he had given her. It was full of coffee.
“I told you not to worry about it,” George said.
“I know,” she said, “but I hate owing people anything. Are you here on your own?”
“I am yes,” George said.
“A group of us are having a bit of a get together later,” she said, “nothing too extravagant. Just a few drinks. You’re welcome to join us if you want.”
“Thanks,” George said, “but I actually came here to be on my own. Thanks anyway.”
“No problem,” she said, “you know where we are if you change your mind.”
She walked off in the direction of the ablution block.”
George opened the caravan and took the scotch and beer inside. He realised that his heart was beating unusually fast. He opened a beer and took a sip straight out of the can. He locked the door of the caravan behind him and switched on the television. A football match was about to start and he smiled. George had always liked football. He soon realised it was a repeat of the 2006 World Cup final between Italy and France. It had been one of the worst cup finals in history but George took another beer out and sat down to watch it anyway.
FORTY FIVE
Monday 31 May 2010
Smith and Whitton followed Sonja Taylor up a short flight of stairs to her office. She was a plump woman in her forties and as Smith followed her he could not help but notice how fat her legs were. She was out of breath by the time she opened the door to her office.
“Excuse the mess,” she said, “this is one of the busiest times of the year for us. People seem to think that University lecturers have it easy what with the long holidays and all but most of us spend the breaks we do get either catching up or preparing for the next semester. Would you like something to drink?”
“No thanks,” Smith said.
He followed her inside. The office was tiny. There was barely enough room for the desk and the three chairs. Various files were thrown all over the room.”
“So much for modern technology,” Taylor said when she noticed the expression on Smith’s face, “computers are supposed to make life easier but we still have to fill in a mountain of paperwork. Have a seat if you can find one.”
Smith moved a pile of papers off a chair and sat down. Whitton sat next to him. Sonja Taylor slumped down into her chair behind the desk. Smith was not sure it would hold up under her weight.
“You want to know what happened here twenty odd years ago don’t you?” she said to Whitton.
“That’s right Mrs Taylor,” Whitton said.
“Miss,” Taylor said, “I’ll be Miss Taylor for the rest of my life I reckon.”
“What happened?” Smith asked.
“It was almost exactly twenty one years ago to the day,” Taylor said.
“How can you be so sure of the date?” Smith said.
“Because I graduated twenty one years ago,” Taylor said, “and I’ve been here ever since. You could say I’m part of the woodwork now.”
“So that was Nineteen eighty nine?” Smith said.
“The eighties weren’t like today. Nowadays, any Tom Dick or Harry goes to Uni and comes out with a degree in Teletubbies or Pamela Anderson or whatever. Back then you had to have a few brain cells to get into University.”
“So it was May eighty nine?” Smith was starting to get impatient.
“June,” Taylor corrected him, “most of us had finished finals or were almost finished. Anyway, after months of study it was traditional for the students to let off a bit of steam.”
“Let off a bit of steam?” Whitton said.
“Party,” Taylor said, “go a bit wild.”
“So what happened?” Smith said.
“I was staying in the Viking Halls of Residence,” she said, “very original I know. It was a Saturday if I can remember. A party to end all parties, that’s what they called it.”
“Who organised the party?” Smith asked.
“The same people who organised most of the parties,” Taylor said, “Charlie and Barry. Real charmers but real bastards if you know what I mean. Anyway, Barry, Charlie and their two lap dogs Derek and some other bloke whose name I forget organised this party.”
“George,” Smith said, “George Whitlow.”
“That’s him,” Taylor said, “George Whitlow. The four of them had organised this huge bash. I remember it because it was one of the few parties I was actually invited to.”
“You didn’t get invited to parties?” Whitton said.
“Look at me,” Taylor said, “I’m not exactly a super model and I wasn’t that much different to look at in those days either.”
“What happened at this party?” Smith said.
“It started earlier than usual. Around four in the afternoon. It didn’t get rowdy until about nine o clock.”
She stopped there. Something was clearly bothering her.
“Take your time,” Whitton said.
“These parties had a habit of turning into something else.” Taylor said, “You know what its like, couples end up in god knows who’s room and then nature takes its place but that night it was different.”
“How do you mean?” Smith said.
“I must have gone to bed at around midnight,” Taylor said, “alone if you hadn’t already guessed. The music was loud and I had no hope of getting any sleep. Anyway, at about one in the morning I gave up and decided to get up and go for a walk to get away from the noise.”
Something was clearly bothering her. Smith was afraid she was going to cry.
“I left my room,” she took a deep breath, “and I walked down the corridor. There was a common room at the end of the corridor but nobody ever seemed to use if for some reason. I thought I could go in there and read a book until the noise died down. I was about to go inside when I heard a noise from inside. There was no door on the common room. One of the earlier parties had got out of hand and the door had been stolen. It was never replaced.”
“What happened then?” Smith said.
“The noise was loud,” she said, “and it’s a noise I will never be able to forget. A woman was crying in such a terrible way. I looked inside the room and that’s when I saw them.”
“Saw who?” Smith said.
“Megan Collingwood,” Taylor said, “she was one of the pretty girls. She never had a problem getting a boyfriend. I remember she was knocking around with Charlie France at the time.”
“So Megan was in there with Charlie France?” Smith said.
“It was dark,” Taylor said, “but I could see Megan. She was being held down by two or three men. I recognised Charlie, Barry and Derek but I didn’t recognise the other man until it was all over.”
“What happened?” Smith said.
/> “I should have left straight away,” Taylor said, “I don’t know why I stayed at that door watching them. It was like I couldn’t pull myself away.”
“It’s alright Whitton said, carry on.”
“They took it in turns,” Taylor said,” the bastards took it in turns. Three of them held her down while the other one… You know.”
“Oh my god,” Whitton said, “they raped her?”
“She didn’t look like she had much choice to me,” Taylor started to cry, “I should have helped her. I don’t know why I didn’t. I was so scared.”
She started to sob uncontrollably.
“It’s ok,” Whitton said, “take a break for a while.”
Smith did not know what to say.
“Sonja,” he said eventually, “what happened to Megan afterwards?”
Sonja looked at him. Her eyes were bloodshot.
“She just disappeared,” she said, “she didn’t come back for the next semester.”
“And the four men who did this,” Whitton said, “what happened to them?”
“Nothing happened to them,” Taylor said, “they got away with it. I should have done something but who was going to believe someone like me over the four of them? They were the popular ones. I would have been laughed out of University.”
“So nobody heard from Megan again?” Smith said.
“Like I said, she just vanished into thin air but one day about a year later I was reading a newspaper and there she was in front of me. I remember I got such a fright.”
“Why was she in the newspaper?” Smith asked.
“It was awful,” Taylor said, “there was a small photograph of her but she looked completely different to how I remembered her. In just one year she had changed. She looked terrible, haunted even. She had killed herself.”
“She killed herself?” Whitton could not believe it.
“She sliced her own throat open,” Taylor said, “what could possibly make a person do such a thing?”
“I don’t know,” Smith sighed.
“That’s not the worst part,” Taylor said, “when I read further it seems that two months before she killed herself she’d given birth to a baby girl.”
FORTY SIX
“Where are we going?” Whitton said as they drove away from the University.
“City Council,” Smith said.
Whitton looked confused.
“Whitton,” Smith said, “when someone gives birth in York, there has to be a record of it somewhere. The baby has to be registered.”
“I still can’t believe what happened to that poor woman all those years ago,” Whitton said, “how can anybody think of committing suicide when they have a baby to look after?”
“We live in a sick world Whitton,” Smith said, “it was just as sick twenty years ago. The only difference is nowadays we have almost unlimited access to information. What happened to Megan Collingwood is at the root of all this.”
“What are you saying?” Whitton said.
“Did you leave your brain on the kitchen sink this morning Whitton? A young woman is attacked by four men. One of the men made her pregnant. Two months after giving birth to a daughter, she kills herself.”
“You think the baby is our ladybird killer?”
“It all adds up,” Smith said, “only the baby isn’t a baby anymore, she’s a twenty year old woman. What did she write with the ladybirds at the hotel? Something about the seed being stopped? She’s killed all the men.”
“Except George Whitlow,” Whitton pointed out.
“He’s next,” Smith said, “you can bet your life on that.”
“What about the ladybirds?” Whitton said, “What do they mean in all of this?”
“Karen Wood said something about the ladybirds representing a kind of mother figure. I think that by scattering the ladybirds on the dead bodies the killer was paying homage to her mother. A mother she only knew for a couple of months.”
“You knew Karen Wood wasn’t our murderer didn’t you?” Whitton said.
“Deep down I knew,” Smith said, “I should have listened to my instincts. It didn’t add up. Karen Wood was a victim not a killer. She was a victim of her own mind.”
Smith parked outside the city council offices and stopped the engine.
“What are we looking for?” Whitton said as they got out of the car.
“There can’t have been too many baby girls born in York at the beginning of nineteen ninety,” Smith said, “we can narrow it down to March or April if Megan Collingwood was attacked in June the year before.”
“She was raped sir,” Whitton said, “she wasn’t attacked, she was gang raped.”
“I know Whitton,” Smith looked her in the eye, “and it makes my blood boil too but we can’t let emotions get in the way of us doing our job. We need to concentrate on facts.”
They went inside the council building and approached the reception desk. A bored looking man with spiky hair nodded in acknowledgement.
“Good morning,” Smith said, “we need to look through the birth records from nineteen ninety. Can you help us?”
“Births, deaths and marriages,” the man said in a monotonous voice, “second floor. The lifts broken so you’ll have to use the stairs.”
“Thank you,” Smith said.
“Happy bloke,” Whitton said as they made their way up the stairs, “obviously gets great satisfaction from his job.”
“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you Whitton,” Smith said, “here we are, births deaths and marriages.”
An equally bored looking woman was sitting behind a desk in the room. She was typing something on a keyboard.
“Morning,” Smith said, “DS Smith and this is DC Whitton. We need to look at the records of births from nineteen ninety.”
The woman shrugged her shoulders and moved to another computer. She pressed a few keys on the keyboard.
“Here we are,” she said, “nineteen ninety. Four hundred and eighty five babies were registered here that year.”
“Four hundred and eighty five?” Smith was amazed.
“There were over six hundred last year,” the woman said, “and a quarter of those were bloody foreigners.”
“Ok,” Smith ignored her comment, “let’s narrow it down. How many of those were female and were born in March or April?”
The woman casually typed away.
“Eight,” she said, “five in March and three in April although of the five in March, three were triplets. Can you imagine having triplets? Instant bloody family.”
“Do you have the names of the other two?” Smith said.
“Of course,” she said, “Rebecca Maxwell and Caroline Collingwood.”
“That’s her,” Smith said, “Caroline Collingwood. Could you look something else up for us while we’re here?”
“I’m not exactly run off my feet here,” she said, “what do you need to know?”
“Megan Collingwood,” Smith said, “she died in nineteen ninety.”
The woman typed in the name.
“Megan Collingwood,” she said, “died 1st June Nineteen Ninety. Oh my god, that’s twenty years ago tomorrow. Cause of death suicide. That’s awful. I’ve been here five years and I’ve never registered a suicide.”
“One more thing,” Smith said, “who do I speak to about children who were placed in foster care or were up for adoption?”
“First floor,” she said, “will that be all? Its time for my break. I’m dying for a cigarette.”
Smith shook his head.
“Thank you,” he said, “you’ve been a great help.
The man who opened the door in the adoption records office was a lot more cheerful than the other two clerks they had dealt with that morning. He introduced himself as Mike Walker.
“Come in,” he said with a broad smile, “have a seat. Let’s get the ball rolling shall we.”
Whitton looked at Smith and smiled.
“I can see straight away that you’ll make excellent
parents,” Walker said, “it’s a gift of mine and I’m rarely wrong.”
“Mr Walker,” Smith said, “we’re not here to adopt a child.”
He took out his ID and showed it to Walker.
“Oh, I see,” Walker said.
“I’m DS Smith,” Smith said, “and this is DC Whitton. We need you to help us with a possible adoption case from nineteen ninety. A baby may have been adopted or taken into foster care.”
“Forgive me for being presumptuous,” Walker said, “but you two really do come across as a perfect couple.”
Whitton could not help it. She burst out laughing.
“Sorry,” she said.
“Nineteen ninety,” Smith said, “a girl by the name of Caroline Collingwood. Do you have any records of her?”
“Let’s see shall we,” Walker said.
He walked over to a large filing cabinet.
“Computers are all very well,” he said as he opened the cabinet, “but they have a habit of crashing for no apparent reason. I keep back up files the old fashioned way. Collingwood you say?”
“That’s right,” Smith said, “Caroline Collingwood. Nineteen ninety.”
“Here we go,” Walker smiled.
Smith noticed he was missing a few teeth.
Walker placed the file on the desk and opened it.
“Caroline Collingwood,” he said, “oh dear, this is a sad one. It says her mother died just months after giving birth to her.”
“What happened to Caroline?” Smith asked.
“Six months in foster care,” Walker said, “this one had a happy ending. She was adopted by a couple in their early thirties. Jeremy and Charlotte Burton. There’s nothing untoward in the file so I can only assume they all lived happily ever after.”
“Right,” Smith said.
“Sorry?” Walker said.
“Nothing. Do you have any contact details for Mr and Mrs Burton?”
“Unfortunately not,” Walker said, “this was twenty years ago. You must understand detective, adoption is not like prison. There is no parole period. Once the adoption has been approved and finalised the family is left to get on with it. We don’t interfere.”
The York Trilogy: The First 3 DS Jason Smith Detective novels Page 84
