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

by Stewart Giles

  “Thank you for your time Mr Walker,” Smith said.

  He stood up to leave.

  “I meant what I said earlier,” Walker said.

  “What do you mean?” Smith said.

  “You two do make a marvellous couple.”

  Smith walked out of the office. Whitton followed closely behind him.

  “Can you believe that?” Smith said as they walked back to the car.

  “What?” Whitton said.

  “You and me. A couple. I’ve never heard anything more ridiculous in my life.”

  “What now?” Whitton changed the subject.

  “We find Mr and Mrs Burton,” Smith said.

  “How do we do that?”

  “Internet,” Smith said, “if there’s one thing that Karen Wood taught me it’s how you can find just about anybody on the internet.”

  FORTY SEVEN

  George Whitlow woke up with the feeling that her had not slept at all. It had been happening more and more recently. He felt exhausted. He forced himself to get out of bed and boiled some water to make some coffee. The caravan felt stuffy so he opened the door to let some air in. It was already very warm outside. Fragments of the dream he had during the night came back to him. He had been lying in a bath full of ladybirds but after a while he realised it was not ladybirds it was blood. It was his blood. He tried to put the dream out of his thoughts and made the coffee. He put some clothes on and took the coffee outside. The caravan park was very quiet; a lot of the campers had left already. George did notice one new arrival. A young woman with black hair had parked her car about fifty yards away and was now trying to pitch her tent. She was making a real mess of it. George debated whether he should go and help her but he decided against it. He did not feel like talking to anybody. He watched as she struggled to piece together the correct tent poles. She finally managed to get the framework right and started work on pegging out the groundsheet. She seemed to sense that George was watching her and she gazed over at him. There was something vaguely familiar about her but George could not put his finger on it. George looked away and took a sip of his coffee. The woman stopped working on the tent and walked over to him.

  “So much for chivalry,” she said.

  Her voice was very quiet.

  “Excuse me?” George said.

  “Chivalry,” she said, “it’s all but gone. You stood and watched me struggle. How about a bit of help over there?”

  “Sorry,” George said, “what I know about pitching tents is scary but I’ll see what I can do.”

  He walked over to the tent. It was a bit of a mess.

  “You’ve put the pegs in too tight,” he said, “You should only really tension the guys when the tents pitched.”

  He took the pegs out of the ground.

  “The fly sheet is on the wrong way round too,” he added.

  He turned it round and slid it back over the frame.

  “There we are,” he said when he was finished, “now it looks like a tent. It seems I know how to pitch a tent after all.”

  “You’re full of surprises aren’t you?” she smiled at him.

  She walked to her car and opened the passenger door. She reached for the gun under the seat and picked up the diary.

  “We need to talk George,” she said.

  Her voice was different now. George knew at once who she was. He recognised the huskiness in her voice from the phone call. He was about to run to his car when he saw the gun in her hand.

  “I don’t want to shoot you George,” she said, “that would be a waste but I will do if I have to.”

  She handed him the diary. His hands were shaking as he took it. He looked at the cover. There was a drawing of a ladybird on the front.

  “What do you want?” George asked although he did not want to hear the answer.

  “You and me are going to spend the day together George,” she said, “go back inside the caravan. I’ll be right behind you. You’ve got a bit of reading to do.”

  FORTY EIGHT

  Smith and Whitton found Jeremy and Charlotte Burton a lot quicker than they had expected. Smith had typed their names into the search engine followed by the word ‘York’ and at least a dozen listings came up. They were both lawyers and had been practicing in York for almost twenty five years. They had an office in the centre of town. Smith took down their contact details and looked at Whitton.

  “This is your call,” he said, “phone them and tell them we need to speak to them urgently.”

  “Why me?” Whitton said.

  “Because I hate lawyers,” Smith said, “that’s why. Lawyers and journalists. They’re exactly the same. I’m afraid I might say something I might regret.”

  “Is there anybody you actually do like?” Whitton picked up the phone and dialled the number. The call was answered immediately.

  “Jeremy Burton,” a man said.

  Whitton was not expecting him to answer his own phone. She did not know what to say.”

  “Jeremy Burton,” he said again, “how can I help you?”

  “Sorry,” Whitton said, “I wasn’t expecting you to answer.”

  “Why phone somebody you don’t expect to answer?” Burton said

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” Whitton said, “can we start again?”

  “Ok,” Burton said, “Jeremy Burton, how can I help you?”

  Whitton smiled. Smith looked at her as if she had lost her mind.

  “Mr Burton,” she said, “my name is Erica Whitton. I’m a detective constable in the York police department. I need to talk to you regarding your daughter.”

  “Caroline?” Burton said, “What’s happened? Is she alright?”

  “She’s fine as far as we know,” Whitton said, “this is rather delicate. I’d rather not talk over the phone. Is there any way we could meet? It’s extremely important.”

  “I was just heading home as a matter of fact,” he said, “I was going to do a bit of gardening. You’re quite welcome to chat while I do a bit of pruning.”

  “Great,” Whitton said, “Can I have the address please?”

  He gave her the address.

  “Give me an hour,” Burton said, “I need to pick up a few things from the garden centre first.”

  “Thank you Mr Burton,” Whitton said, “see you in an hour.”

  She hung up the phone.

  “Nicely done,” Smith said, “I knew you could do it.”

  “He seemed very nice,” Whitton said, “not all lawyers are evil.”

  “You’ll see,” Smith said.

  The phone on the desk started to ring. Smith picked it up.

  “Smith,” he said.

  “Detective,” a woman said, “this is Naomi Whitlow. Can I have a word?”

  “Of course,” Smith said, “what’s wrong?”

  “I think I might know where George is,” she said.

  “Go on,” Smith said.

  “When he phoned me yesterday there was a strange noise in the background. I didn’t think much about it at the time but I couldn’t sleep much last night and I finally figured out what it was.”

  “What was it?” Smith humoured her.

  “It was a sea bird,” she said, “a gull of some kind. They have an unmistakable call.”

  “I still don’t see what it means,” Smith said.

  “Like I said, I think I know where George is. When Drake was little we used to rent a caravan in a caravan park in Robin Hoods Bay.”

  “Robin Hoods Bay?” Smith said, “Where’s that?”

  “Just down the coast from Whitby,” she said, “I think that’s where George is. He said he was somewhere safe. George is in Robin Hoods Bay.”

  “What do you want us to do Mrs Whitlow?” Smith asked.

  “I just thought you ought to know,” she said, “do you think he’ll be alright?”

  “Does anybody else know about this caravan park?” Smith said.

  “No,” she said, “just me and George.”

  “Then
I’m sure George will be quite safe there,” Smith said, “I’m sorry but we’ve just received some information that may be crucial to catching whoever killed Drake and all the other men. If you hear anything else from George, please let us know.”

  He put the phone down.

  “What was all that about?” Whitton said.

  “George Whitlow’s wife thinks he’s in Robin Hoods Bay,” Smith said, “they used to camp there when Drake was a kid.”

  “Do you think we should try and find him?” Whitton asked.

  “I’m sure he’ll be quite safe there,” Smith said, “how would the ladybird killer know he would go there? Anyway, it can wait. We need to speak to these lawyers.”

  Jeremy and Charlotte Burton’s house was just as Smith had expected it to be. It was a detached double storey building set in beautiful landscaped gardens. A black Land Rover was parked outside. Smith and Whitton walked up the long path to the front door. Smith rang the bell. The door was opened by a short man with thick grey hair.

  “Mr Burton?” Whitton decided to do the introductions.

  “That’s me,” he said, “DC Whitton I presume?”

  Whitton was growing to like him more and more.

  “That’s right,” she said, “and this is DS Smith. May we come in?”

  “Of course,” Burton said, “follow me through to the back garden if you don’t mind. I don’t get to do much gardening and I’m not going to waste a day like this. I’m afraid the garden is getting a bit out of hand.”

  Smith and Whitton followed him inside. Smith stopped by one of the walls and stared. The whole wall was covered with guitars. They all seemed to be collector’s items.

  “Bit of an obsession of mine,” Burton said, “Charlotte despairs of me sometimes.”

  “Is this a Clapton Strat?” Smith pointed to a red guitar.

  “Not exactly,” Burton smiled, “it was Eric Clapton’s Strat. Played by the master himself. I have the certification papers.”

  Whitton shook her head.

  “You’ve got quite a collection here,” Smith said.

  “I’ve just got my hands on a real gem,” Burton said, “Robert Johnson’s acoustic. The one he played when he recorded Crossroads. It’s on its way from the states as we speak. You don’t want to know what I paid for it but as I always say, what’s the point of working all hours if you can’t spoil yourself once in a while. Do you know how many mega rich people are real miserable bastards?”

  Smith immediately changed his mind about Burton. He was not such a bad guy after all.

  “Do you play?” Burton asked.

  “I used to,” Smith sighed, “I haven’t played in a few months.”

  “You’ll play again,” Burton assured him, “the therapeutic value of playing guitar is vastly underrated. Come through to the garden.”

  He led them through a large conservatory and into the back garden.

  Smith and Whitton sat down under a large gazebo. Burton put on a pair of gardening gloves and set to work lopping the heads off a large rose bush.

  “What’s going on with Caroline?” Burton got straight to the point.

  “Do you know where she is?” Smith said.

  “She should be at University,” Burton said, “unless she’s finished writing exams. Caroline and I have been out of touch for a while.”

  “Why is that?” Whitton asked.

  “Caroline is adopted,” Burton threw a dead rose in a black plastic bag, “I don’t know if you knew. We adopted her when she was eight months old. She was a beautiful child. Always full of laughter. Something happened a few months ago that changed her completely.”

  “What happened?” Smith said.

  “I don’t know what brought it on,” Burton said, “but Caroline developed a morbid curiosity about her birth mother.”

  “What do you mean?” Smith said.

  “Charlotte and I couldn’t have children,” Burton said, “We knew that when we got married but we both loved kids so we always intended to adopt. Caroline was a blessing and we treated her no differently than we would were she our own flesh and blood. We decided early on that when Caroline was old enough to understand, we would tell her everything. We both agreed that she had a right to know.”

  “Do you know the full circumstances behind Caroline’s birth mother?” Whitton said.

  “The suicide you mean?” Burton said, “of course we knew. It didn’t change anything though. Caroline needed a home and we needed a child. What is this all about?”

  “You said something about Caroline developing a sudden curiosity,” Smith said.

  “Her mother left behind a few items that we though we should keep for when Caroline was old enough to understand,” Burton said, “There were a few items of clothing and a diary. We gave them to Caroline a few months ago.”

  “There was a diary?” Smith said, “Did you read it?”

  “Of course not,”Burton said, “it wasn’t any of my business

  “So you gave her the diary a few months ago?” Smith said.

  “That’s right,” Burton said, “I should have burned the cursed thing.”

  “Why’s that Mr Burton?” Whitton said.

  “Because that’s exactly the time that Caroline started acting funny. She lost interest in her studies and she rarely came home.”

  “Where does she live now?” Smith asked.

  “She rents a shared house,” Burton stopped pruning the roses and sat down opposite them. He took off his gloves and took a small notebook out of his pocket. He wrote the address on a piece of paper and handed it to Smith.

  “That’s the address,” he said.

  Smith looked at the piece of paper and something struck him about it. He was sure he recognised it.

  “Thank you,” Smith said, “we might need to talk to you again Mr Burton.”

  “Any time,” Burton said, “I hope Carrie is not in too much trouble.”

  “What did you say?” Smith said.

  “I said I hope she’s not in too much trouble.”

  “You called her Carrie.”

  “That’s right,” Burton said, “she sometimes calls herself that. I used to hate it but it’s grown on me.”

  “Carrie Burton?” Smith said.

  “What’s going on?” Burton said.

  “Nothing,” Smith said, “we have to go.”

  He stood up and walked inside the house.

  “Sorry about that Mr Burton,” Whitton said, “he’s not normally so rude. I don’t know what’s got into him.”

  “I’m a lawyer,” Burton smiled, “I’ve seen worse than that. You wouldn’t mind letting yourselves out would you? I have a lot to get done here.”

  Whitton walked back inside the house. She found Smith looking at the guitars again.

  “He’s got some real beauties here,” Smith said, “He’s got a sixty four Les Paul. Do you know how much that things worth?”

  “What was that all about?” Whitton said, “You were very abrupt.”

  “We’ve been so stupid Whitton,” he said, “Carrie Burton. Doesn’t that name ring a few bells?”

  “Not at all,” Whitton said.

  “Think back. Toby Philips. The first murder at the Ghoul’s house. Carrie Burton was the first person we spoke to. She’s been laughing at us the whole time.”

  “The girl with the pink hair?” Whitton said.

  “That’s her. We should have checked her out. Damn it, she lived in the same house as Toby Philips. She could have killed him any time she wanted.”

  “But she said she was away the whole weekend when Toby was killed,” Whitton said, “She was away in Newcastle or somewhere.”

  “Did we check to see if she was lying?” Smith said.

  “No sir,” Whitton said, “she was at Toby’s funeral too wasn’t she?”

  “Fuck it,” Smith stopped staring at the guitars, “let’s go and pick up the ladybird killer.”

  FORTY NINE

  George Whitlow sat down next
to the table in the caravan and looked at the diary.

  “Read it,” Carrie said, “read the fucking diary.”

  “What are you going to do to me?” George asked. His voice was trembling. He had never felt so scared in his life.

  “If you don’t start reading, I’m going to shoot you,” she said, “I’m going to shoot you in the balls and watch you bleed to death.”

  George opened the diary. The first entry was Christmas Day Nineteen ninety eight. He started to read.

  ‘December 25 1998. Best Christmas ever. Didn’t eat much at home because Charlie promised to take me to this fancy restaurant. I couldn’t believe what he bought me for Christmas. A brand new CD hifi. It must have cost him a fortune. I think I’m falling for him in a big way although I didn’t want to. He has a bit of a reputation but with me he’s different. He’s not like people say.’

  George stopped reading and looked at Carrie. She was biting her nails as if she were anxious about something. She still had the gun in her hand.

  “Do you see how happy she was?” she said, “She was on top of the world. Now skip forward to June eighty nine.”

  George turned the pages.

  “Faster,” Carrie pointed the gun at him, “June eighty nine. Read the entry for the twenty seventh of June.”

  George quickly turned the pages to the date Carrie had told him to and carried on reading.

  ‘Big party tonight,’ he read, ‘Charlie and Barry have organised a party to outdo all other parties. Everybody is invited. I’m starting to like Barry more than I used to. I couldn’t stand the sight of the arrogant prat at first but he’s growing on me and Charlie seems to be good friends with him so he can’t be too bad. Charlie’s two lap dogs still make me cringe though. They follow him round like sad puppies most of the time. George and Derek. Even their names are wet.’

  George cringed when he read his name in the diary.

  “What do you want from me?” he said, “Why are you doing this?”

  Carrie walked towards him and hit him on the back of the head with the barrel of the gun. George felt the pain of the blow and white flashes of light appeared in his vision. Blood started to flow down the back of his neck.