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

by Stewart Giles

  Stan looked at her. He handed the ID back to Smith.

  “I can tell you who’s staying here without even looking through the register,” Stan said, “there’s only bloody three of them. You should see this place in the school holidays. Packed to the brim it is. Me and Edith eat rump steak then. We have to hide bags of cash under the bed but I suppose I shouldn’t be telling you that should I?”

  “Please,” Whitton said, “this is important. Time is running out.”

  Stan stared at her as if she had said something offensive.

  “Your man George Whitlow is here,” he said, “he’s in the caravan furthest away from the office. Then there’s old Hans the German. He’s been coming here for over twenty years. He prefers it when the place is quiet. He’s a bit of a naturist if you know what I mean. Bloody Germans. Then there’s the woman on her own in a tent. She’s running away from something that one, I can tell.”

  “What’s her name?” Whitton asked.

  “Megan something,” Stan said.

  “Megan Collingwood?” Smith said.

  “That’s it,” Stan said, “Megan Collingwood. Why the hell did you have to ask if you already knew?”

  Whitton smiled at Smith.

  “This woman is extremely dangerous,” Smith said, “there are more of us on the way. I want you to make sure that nobody enters the caravan park until I say so.”

  “What’s she done?”

  “I can’t tell you that,” Smith said, “where’s the German? Hans you say?”

  “That’s right,” Stan said, “he’s where he always is. Flapping his todger around on the beach. I don’t know what it is with these krauts. Why can’t they wear clothes on the beach like everybody else?”

  “Don’t let him back in here,” Smith said, “this is very important. How do we get to George Whitlow’s caravan?”

  “Follow the path,” George said, “you can’t miss it. It’s the last caravan. His car is parked beside it.”

  “Thank you Stan,” Smith said, “when our colleagues get here be sure to tell them where we are.”

  The sun was disappearing over the horizon as Smith and Whitton walked along the path past the row of caravans. Smith looked at his watch. It was almost nine o clock. In all his years in England he had still not got used to the sun staying up so long in the summer. He spotted George Whitlow’s car next to the end caravan.

  “Shouldn’t we wait for the others?” Whitton said.

  “They should have been here by now,” Smith said, “We don’t have time. They must have got lost.”

  The sun was dropping quickly now and the lights of the caravan park were coming on one by one. Smith looked across the park. There were two tents pitched a fair distance from each other. He walked over to the furthest one. A car with German license plates was parked next to it.

  “This must be the German nudist’s.” Smith said.

  They walked over to the other tent. There was a blue Ford Fiesta parked next to it. The door was unlocked. Smith carefully opened the door and looked inside. There was a map of North Yorkshire on the passenger seat. He opened up the glove compartment. Inside was a roll of toilet paper, a torch and a small plastic bag. Smith could not see what was inside the bag. He took it out and switched on the interior light of the car. The bag was full of dead ladybirds. Smith closed the glove compartment again.

  “Sir,” Whitton said.

  “Nearly done,” Smith said.

  “Sir,” Whitton said again.

  There was something odd about her voice.

  “I’m coming,” Smith said.

  He looked up from the driver’s seat and from the look on Whitton’s face he knew something was wrong. Carrie Burton was standing behind Whitton. She had a gun pointed at her head.

  FIFTY THREE

  “Nice of you to join us,” Carrie said.

  Smith flinched. Her voice was almost identical to Karen Wood’s.

  “You’re just in time,” Carrie said, “get out of my car.”

  She had the gun pointed at Whitton’s head the whole time. Smith tried to think quickly. Should he reach for the gun? He could not risk anything happening to Whitton. He slowly got out of the car. His eyes were on the gun the whole time.

  “Close the door,” Carrie said.

  Smith slammed it shut.

  Carrie took a few steps back. She still had the gun pointed at Whitton.

  “Now walk slowly towards the last caravan,” she said, “George has been waiting all day. I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you. Hurry up, we don’t have much time left.”

  She’s insane, Smith thought as he walked beside Whitton towards the caravan. Out of the corner of his eye he could see lights in the direction of the caravan park office. The cavalry had arrived.

  “The door is open,” Carrie said when they had reached the caravan.

  The lights were on inside but the curtains were drawn.

  George Whitlow was lying on the bed. His hands and feet were bound together and his face was caked in blood. There was more blood on the back of his shirt.

  “Sit on the bench over there,” Carrie gestured with the gun to the bench next to the window.

  Smith shuffled in between the bench and the table. Whitton sat next to him.

  “Carrie,” Smith said, “I know why you’re doing this and I understand.”

  “Men don’t understand anything,” Carrie said

  “I know exactly what he did,” Smith looked at George Whitlow lying on the bed. His face was a disturbing grey colour.

  “He’s not going to get away with it,” Smith added.

  “He’s already got away with it,” Carrie said, “he got away with it for twenty years but in two hours time he’s going to pay.”

  Smith did not know what to say.

  “I’ll tell them everything,” it was George Whitlow that broke the silence. His voice was trembling.

  “I’ll tell them everything,” he said again, “I’ll go to jail if that’s what you want. We were young. We didn’t know what we were doing.”

  “He keeps saying that,” Carrie looked at Smith, “we were young, we were young. That’s his excuse. Megan Collingwood was young. My mother hated me before I was even born.”

  “Carrie,” Whitton said, “There are more police officers out there.”

  She pointed out the window.

  “There are officers out there with guns,” Whitton continued, “They’ll shoot you if they have to. Why don’t you put the gun down and we can talk.”

  Whitton was certain she saw a slight change in Carrie’s facial expression. There was fear in her eyes.

  “Are you married?” Carrie asked her.

  “No,” Whitton said.

  “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “Not at the moment,” Whitton said.

  “Why not?” Carrie said.

  “I don’t have the time,” Whitton said.

  “It’s probably for the best,” Carrie said, “men are all bastards.”

  “Please,” George Whitlow cried, “tell me what I have to do. There must be something I can do.”

  “Not long now George,” Carrie said, “June the first and then it will be all over. For all of us.”

  “Are you going to kill us all?” Smith said.

  “No,” Carrie replied, “just him.”

  She nodded to George.

  “I can’t let you do that,” Smith said.

  “Why not?” Carrie said, “He’s a monster.”

  “Because it’s my job.”

  “It’s your job to protect rapists?” Carrie said.

  “The man repulses me,” Smith said, “and believe me, I totally sympathise with you and if you’d asked me a few months ago I would have said blow the bastard’s balls off but you can’t just take the law into your own hands.”

  There was silence in the caravan for a few seconds. An owl flew over the caravan and hooted.

  “What happened a few months ago?” Carrie asked Smith.

 
; “What?” Smith said.

  “You said if I’d asked you a few months ago you’d have told me to blow his balls off. What happened?”

  Smith looked at his hands. He noticed that his nails needed clipping.

  “Some maniac was killing people to punish me for something my dad did over forty years ago. Before I was even born. The last one was my girlfriend. He slit her throat open in my bathroom. I was the one who found her.”

  Whitton looked on in disbelief.

  “The wheel turns,” Carrie said.

  “What?” Smith said.

  “Nothing really goes unpunished does it? I didn’t want to kill Toby, Barney and Drake. Their only crime was that they carried tainted DNA but the seed had to be terminated.”

  Smith noticed that she was starting to rock back and forth.

  “Carrie,” he said, “tell me about the ladybirds.”

  She started to laugh. It was a child’s laugh.

  “Ladybird ladybird fly away home,” she said, “your house is on fire and your children are gone. I did all of this for my mother. I hated her you know. I hated her just like she hated me. For twenty years of my life I hated her for tossing me aside like a piece of garbage but then I found out why she did it. The ladybirds were a way of saying I was sorry. They were to show her I was doing it for her. Time’s nearly up.”

  She opened the door of the caravan and looked outside. Three police cars were parked fifty metres away. Two other cars were parked behind them. Carrie closed the door again.

  “You were telling the truth about the other police,” she said to Whitton.

  She looked genuinely surprised.

  “We won’t lie to you,” Smith said.

  “All men lie,” Carrie said, “it’s in their nature.”

  Smith glanced at the clock on the stove. It was almost midnight. He still did not know what he was going to do.

  “Stand up,” Carrie said, “both of you stand up. Stand by the bed.”

  Smith and Whitton did as they were told.

  The minute hand on the clock was moving closer to the twelve.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” Carrie said, “don’t move.”

  Smith watched the clock. The hands seem to be moving in slow motion.

  FIFTY FOUR

  Everything happened at once. The hands on the clock joined together and a shrill alarm sounded. Carrie Burton walked towards the bed with the gun raised. She aimed it at George Whitlow’s head.

  “It’s all over George,” she said.

  She moved a step closer. Smith reached out to try and grab the gun from her hands but in doing so he found himself between Carrie and George. The alarm was still blaring out from the stove. There was a loud bang and Smith felt an explosion in his chest. He put his hand to his chest and instantly it was covered in a warm sticky liquid. He fell to the ground. There was another loud bang. Smith looked over to George Whitlow. There was a hole in the middle of his forehead. Blood was oozing out of it. Carrie Burton dropped the gun and fell to the ground. She started to sob uncontrollably.

  “Sir,” Whitton cried out.

  She crouched down beside Smith. Carrie was still sobbing on the floor. She was rocking back and forth.

  Smith sat up and took his hand away from his chest. His heart was pounding and he was starting to feel light headed. He looked up at Whitton.

  “Stay there,” she said, “I’ll phone for an ambulance.”

  Smith started to laugh.

  “Sir,” Whitton said.

  She assumed he was in shock. Smith opened his jacket. The T shirt underneath was stained a dark brown colour. The bullet had hit the top of the can of coke Smith had put in his pocket earlier. The can had exploded but the only injury Smith had suffered was a large bruise and a coke stained T shirt. He stood up and walked over to Carrie Burton. She was still rocking backwards and forwards.

  “Ladybird, ladybird fly away home,” she said.

  She had a wild look in her eyes. Smith picked up the gun and released the clip. There were no more bullets in the gun.

  “Carrie,” Whitton said, “let’s go. It’s all over.”

  George Whitlow was lying on the bed with his eyes open. He was clearly dead.

  Whitton helped Carrie up and opened the door of the caravan. She led her outside. Smith followed behind them. He signalled to the armed officers that everything was under control. Carrie Burton appeared subdued. Whitton had her arm on her shoulder. Nevertheless, the armed officers kept their rifles trained on her the whole time. Smith put his hand to his chest. It was starting to ache. He still had the gun in his hand. They were about ten metres away from the police cars when Carrie turned round and looked at Smith. She pushed Whitton to the ground and reached for the gun. Smith was not quick enough. She took the gun and raised it in the air.

  “No,” Smith screamed.

  A shot rang out and Carrie Burton fell to the ground. Smith knelt over her. Her eyes were open and her lips were moving. She had been shot in the chest. Smith thought she looked like a little girl lying there on the ground. He moved closer to hear what she was saying.

  “Your house is on fire,” she whispered, “and your children are gone.”

  “I need some help here,” Smith said.

  Carrie’s eyes were closing.

  “Now,” Smith said, “get me some help.”

  “All gone,” Carrie said.

  Her eyes closed and she stopped moving.

  FIFTY FIVE

  “The other bullet was meant for her,” Smith said to Whitton as they rode back to York in the ambulance, “one bullet was meant for George Whitlow and the other was for her.”

  “What are you talking about?” Whitton said.

  “There were only two bullets in the gun,” Smith said, “When she took the gun from me it was empty. She wanted to die today. She was going to take her own life twenty years after her mother did.”

  “She killed all those people,” Whitton said, “I still can’t believe it. She was no more than a child.”

  “I know,” Smith sighed, “in all the years I’ve been doing this, I actually felt sorry for this one. Imagine finding out all of this after leading a normal life for twenty years.”

  “You’re getting soft in your old age sir,” Whitton said.

  “Maybe,” Smith said, “but I did learn one thing today.”

  “What’s that sir?” Whitton said.

  “Anybody who ever tells me that coke is bad for you can stick their opinion up their arse.”