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

by Stewart Giles

  “You killed my mother,” Carrie said, “you, Derek, Barrie and Charlie. You killed her.”

  “We were young and drunk,” George said, “we didn’t want to do it. Me and Derek wanted to stop it.”

  “July the eighth,” Carrie ignored him, “read July the eighth.”

  George looked at the diary again. The blow on the back of the head had made his vision blurred but he concentrated and could just make out the words.

  ‘When I think back,’ he read, “it was like I was a spectator watching it happen to somebody else. You only read about that kind of thing don’t you? It doesn’t happen to you. I don’t know what’s worse, the fact that it happened at all or that Charlie was involved. No, he was more than involved, he instigated the whole thing. My Charlie. The word rape doesn’t even come close to explaining the horror of it all. The music and the thrusting are constantly in my mind. It won’t stop no matter how hard I try to forget about it. They were laughing the whole time like everything was alright. I can’t go back there. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I can’t go home and I’m not strong enough to make them pay. Charlie France, Barry Philips, Derek Dodds and George Whitlow; this diary is my legacy. You know what you did. You know how you savaged my soul and one day I pray it will come back to haunt you like its haunting me from the moment I wake up until the moment I fall asleep.’

  George’s head was pounding and he felt like he was going to be sick.

  “It’s not easy to read is it George?” Carrie said, “I’ve read it so many times I can recite it word for word.”

  “How did you find me?” George said.

  “It’s amazing what you can do when you put your mind to it,” Carrie smiled, “but how I found you isn’t important. September the first. Read it.”

  George turned to the entry on the first of September. He felt drained. He did not know how much more he could read.

  ‘The nightmare just goes on and on. When the pain was beginning to ease I find out I have to go back again. I have a creature growing inside me. I hate the thing already. I don’t know which of the four of them created this demon and I don’t want to know. I want it out of me. I can’t take it any more.’

  “Oh my god,” George said. He could not read any more.

  “Do you know how many times I’ve read those words George?” Carrie said, “I’ve read them over and over until they consumed me. ‘I hate the thing already.’ Do you know what something like that can do to a person? Megan Collingwood did get the demon out of her. Nine months after you and your friends gang raped her. Nine months after that I came out into world already doomed. The bastard child of one of four bastards. My mother killed herself a few months later.”

  “I’m sorry,” George said and instantly realised how pathetic he sounded. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

  “Twenty years ago tomorrow,” Carrie said, “isn’t that convenient? Twenty years ago my mother killed herself because of you. You’re the only one left George. The seed is all but gone. Maybe after this I can sleep again like I used to.”

  “You’re crazy,” George said.

  “Whose fault is that George?” she smiled, “Ladybird ladybird, fly away home. Your house is on fire and your children are gone. Lie on the bed.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Lie on the bed.”

  She pointed the gun at his head.

  “Face down,” she added.

  George stood up and walked over to the bed. Beads of sweat were forming on his forehead and he felt like he was going to pass out. He knew that she was going to kill him. He turned and looked at her. Her blue eyes seemed to bore into his. There was no life left in them.

  “You don’t have to do this,” he said as a last desperate attempt to change her mind, “you can go now and nobody will ever know.”

  “You don’t get it do you George,” she said, “I want everybody to know. I want them to know what you did. Nobody will even blame me.”

  George tried to wrestle the gun from her grip but she was too quick for him. She caught his hand with her left hand and slammed the gun into the front of his face. There was a loud crack and blood started to pour out of his nose.

  “I said lie on the bed,” she was barely out of breath.

  George did as he was told. The pain in his nose was unbearable. The blood was flowing into his mouth.

  “Put your hands behind your back,” she said, “we don’t want you trying any more heroics do we?”

  She took out a roll of duct tape from her pocket and bound his hands together. She did the same with his feet.

  “Now you can roll over,” she said, “you don’t want to suffocate before I’m finished with you. Make yourself comfortable, it’s going to be a long day. We still have quite a few hours to go before the first of June.”

  FIFTY

  Smith parked his car round the corner from the shared house where Carrie Burton rented a room. Thompson and Bridge parked behind him. Superintendant Smyth had insisted that an armed unit should go into the house first and they were on their way. Smith had been ordered not to do anything until they arrived. Smith sighed when he saw Smyth’s green jaguar turn the corner and drive towards them.

  “What the hell is he doing here?” he said to Whitton.

  “He probably wants his name in the papers again,” Whitton said, “I’ll bet you anything he’s already notified the press. The capture of a serial killer is big news.”

  Smith was becoming impatient.

  “What’s the hold up with the armed unit?” he said.

  He opened the car door and got out.

  “What are you doing?” Whitton said, “What about the orders?”

  “Since when did I take any notice of orders?” Smith walked towards Carrie Burton’s house. Whitton got out and walked after him. Superintendant Smyth looked on in disbelief. Smith knocked on the door. There was no answer. He knocked again. This time the door was answered by a slightly chubby man. Smith recognised him as Carrie Burton’s house mate. They had spoken to him the week before.

  “Afternoon,” Smith said, “Could you please come outside and close the door behind you.”

  “What’s going on?” the man said.

  Smith took out his ID.

  “Just do as I say,” He said, “its Brian isn’t it?”

  “That’s right,” Brian said, “what have I done?”

  “Nothing,” Smith said, “please just come outside.”

  Brian stepped outside and closed the door behind him.

  “Come with us,” Smith led him to a house a few doors away.

  Thompson and Bridge approached them.

  “You were supposed to wait for the armed unit,” Thompson sneered, “but I suppose orders mean nothing to you do they?”

  “They’re taking too long,” Smith said.

  “They’ve just this minute arrived,” Bridge said, “old Smyth is busy briefing them.”

  “God help us all,” Smith said, “This is Carrie Burton’s house mate Brian.”

  He nodded to Brian.

  “Is Carrie at home?” Smith asked.

  “No,” Brian said, “it’s just me. What’s going on? I just popped back for lunch. I need to get back to work soon.”

  “She’s not at home?” Smith said, “Do you mind if we take a look?”

  “I told you, she’s not here,” Brian said.

  Two armed officers walked towards them. Smith could not help but smile at the way they walked. They looked like they were carrying a water melon between each arm. He always found it amusing how the armed unit walked when they were carrying a weapon. Smith noticed they were both armed with hand guns.

  “We’ll go in first,” one of the men said to Smith.

  His name was Steve something. Smith could not remember.

  “When the place is clear we’ll let you know,” the other one said, “which house is it?”

  Smith pointed to the house. Steve and the other man slowly wal
ked towards it. The water melons between their arms seemed to have grown. They took out their guns and Steve opened the door.

  “Armed Police,” he shouted into the house, “if you’re inside, please come out with your hands raised.”

  A crowd of people were now gathered in the street.

  “See if you can get rid of them,” Smith said to Bridge.

  Bridge walked up to the group of people.

  “Armed police,” Steve shouted again, “please come out with your arms in the air.”

  There was no sound from inside the house. Steve looked at his colleague and nodded. They went inside. Smith felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned round to see Superintendant Smyth grinning at him inanely.

  “Exciting stuff hey?” Smyth said, “arresting a serial killer. Those armed guys should have it sown up in a flash.”

  “She’s not home,” Brian said again, “I’ve already told you that.”

  Four minutes later Steve and the other armed officer emerged from the house shaking their heads.

  “There’s nobody in there,” Steve said, “We’ve searched the whole place.”

  “I’ve been trying to tell you that,” Brian said to Smith.

  “Do you have any idea where she might be?” Smith said.

  “No,” Brian said, “she said she was going to take a trip to the seaside. She asked me if I wanted to go with her but I…”

  “Shit,” Smith said and ran back to his car.

  FIFTY ONE

  George Whitlow was exhausted. He was in extreme pain and the fear was welling up inside him. He looked at the small clock on the stove in the kitchen compartment. It was five thirty in the afternoon. Carrie Burton had not said a word in over three hours. She had sat staring out of the window.

  “I need something to drink,” George said, “my tongue is drying up.”

  Carrie just stared out of the window. George did not know what to do. The words in the diary were still fresh in his mind. He was overcome by guilt. Guilt, not only for the part he had played in Megan Collingwood’s suffering but guilt also for what had happened to his only son because of him. He thought about Naomi at home all by herself and shivered. He wondered if he would ever see her again. They had not exactly seen eye to eye over the past few years but there was nobody else he would rather be with at the moment. He wished he had told her where he was.

  “My wife will be here soon,” he said, “she knows where I am.”

  “No she doesn’t,” Carrie stared at him. Her blue eyes were unnerving.

  “I spoke with her,” Carrie said, “I went round to your house. It was quite depressing really. I mean, I’d been there only days before to have a guitar lesson with your son hadn’t I? Nobody knows where you are George.”

  “What do you mean you went to my house?” George said, “Why did you do that?”

  “It was all very cosy,” Carrie said, “she invited me in and made me a cup of tea. I told her how sorry I was about Drake. That was the truth in a way. He was a nice guy. We could have even been brother and sister couldn’t we George?”

  “If you’ve hurt my wife I’ll make you pay,” George said, “God help me, I’ll make you pay.”

  Carrie started to laugh. It was an unusually childish laugh that made George flinch. It stopped just as abruptly as it had started.

  “Why would I want to hurt her?” she said. Her eyes were cold again. “She’s done nothing to me. I have to exterminate the seed. She has nothing to do with that.”

  “You need help,” George said.

  “I’m working on it,” she looked at the gun.

  “You’re not going to get away with this,” George said.

  “No George,” she said, “you’re not going to get away with this. Do you believe in god?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you believe in our God Almighty? Because if you don’t, now’s as good a time as ever to start. Now’s a good time to ask for forgiveness.”

  “Forgive me,” George felt like he was going to cry. The last time he had cried was when Drake was born. The thought of Drake being lowered into ground in a coffin was too much. The tears welled up in his eyes, ran down his face and mixed with the dry blood from his nose. Carrie stood up and George flinched. I’m going to die, he thought, this is it, but Carrie opened the door and walked outside.

  FIFTY TWO

  “Where the hell is Robin Hoods Bay?” Smith asked Whitton as he drove out of the city.

  “Head towards Whitby,” she said, “take the A64 to Pickering and follow signs for Whitby. The turn off for Robin Hoods Bay should be a few miles before Whitby. Why don’t you get a GPS?”

  “What for?” he turned off onto the slip road to the A64.

  “Do you think we’re too late?” Whitton said.

  “Too late for what?” Smith said, “Look at that idiot.”

  A blue 4x4 was driving very slowly along the slip road.

  “Get out of the way you moron,” Smith shouted out of the window.

  “Too late to save George Whitlow,” Whitton said.

  “After what he did,” Smith said, “do we really want to save him?”

  “It’s our job sir,” Whitton said, “you seem to be forgetting about that a lot lately.”

  “I’m not sure I even like this job anymore Whitton,”

  The blue 4x4 had finally made it onto the dual carriageway. Smith increased his speed and overtook it.

  “Arsehole,” he shouted as he drove past.

  The woman in the driver’s seat looked at him in astonishment.

  “Calm down sir,” Whitton said, “you’re going to cause an accident.”

  Smith eased his foot off the accelerator and the car slowed down a bit.

  “Sorry Whitton,” he said.

  “You’re freaking me out,” Whitton said.

  “How do you do it?” Smith asked her.

  “How do I do what?” she said.

  “Put up with this shit day in and day out and still manage to go home and get a good nights sleep?”

  “I try to concentrate on the good we do,” Whitton said, “I don’t dwell on the other crap and I don’t let anything faze me. You take it all way too personally.”

  “I do not,” Smith said.

  “You do sir. If you have a bad day you take it as a personal insult. I suppose in a funny way that’s what makes you such a good detective. You need to take a step back sometimes though.”

  “I’ve been thinking of stepping back for good,” Smith sighed, “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

  “In the words of some pain in the arse Australian I know,” Whitton said, “grow a pair of testicles and stop being such a girl.”

  Smith looked out of the windscreen ahead of him and smiled. Then he burst out laughing.

  “Thanks Whitton,” he said.

  Whitton started to laugh too.

  Smith’s mouth was feeling very dry again and he was starting to feel light headed so he stopped at a petrol station just before Pickering and bought two cans of coke. He drank one in one go and put the other one in his pocket. He got back in the car and headed into the North Yorkshire Moors. He thought about his walks along the paths around Danby with Theakston. This was his favourite part of the world. His thoughts were interrupted by his phone ringing in his pocket. He took it out and looked at the screen. It was Chalmers. He handed the phone to Whitton.

  “What do you want me to do?” Whitton asked.

  “Answer the bloody thing,” he said.

  “Whitton,” she answered the phone.

  “Where the hell are you?” Chalmers said.

  “Just past Pickering,” Whitton said, “on our way to Robin Hoods Bay.”

  “We’ve spoken to Naomi Whitlow,” Chalmers said, “the caravan park is just outside the town on the B1447. It’s the only caravan park in Robin Hoods Bay.”

  “Thanks sir,” Whitton said.

  “I’m on my way,” Chalmers said, “Thompson and Bridge are in another car an
d the armed unit are right behind them. Stand off until we get there. Have you got that?”

  “Sorry sir,” Whitton said, “you’re breaking up.”

  “I said don’t go near the caravan park until we get there. She has a gun remember.”

  “I can’t hear you sir,” Whitton said, “the phone reception is terrible around here.”

  She rang off.

  “Did you just do what I think you did?” Smith smiled at her.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Whitton said.

  Smith turned off at Sleights and followed the road towards Fylingthorpe. He could see the sea in the distance and he shivered. Although his fear of the sea was not as intense as it used to be it still made him nervous. He found the B1447 and turned left. There was a sign that told him the caravan park was half a mile down the road.

  “What’s the plan sir?” Whitton asked as Smith drove along the gravel road to the entrance of the caravan park.

  “We find George Whitlow and get him out of there,” Smith said, “then we arrest our ladybird killer.”

  “Just like that?” Whitton said.

  “Just like that.”

  He pulled over outside the caravan park office. There was a small shop next to it. Smith got out the car and went inside. An elderly man was reading a newspaper behind the counter.

  “Hello,” Smith said, “could I have a word?”

  The man looked up from the sports page.

  “If you want a word,” he said, “get yourself to the bloody library. Now, if you want a caravan, you’ve come to the right place.”

  Smith was gobsmacked. He took out his ID and showed it to the man. He grabbed it and took out a huge microscope.

  “These things are easily forged,” he said, “I should know, I used to be in the game although I shouldn’t really be telling you that should I? Passports and driving licenses were more my thing but its all one in the end isn’t it? The names Stan by the way.”

  “That one’s real Stan,” Whitton said, “like my colleague said, we need to have a word with you. We need to know if a man by the name of George Whitlow is staying here.”