Selene: A disturbing DS Jason Smith thriller (A DS Jason Smith Thriller Book 6)

by Stewart Giles

  “Apart from Baldwin,” Yang Chu said.

  Smith was about to say something but changed his mind. He smiled at Yang Chu.

  “It’s been a long day, let’s leave it for now. Our brains are fried at the moment. Something is bound to turn up tomorrow.”

  He said the last part with as much conviction as he could muster but he had a sinking feeling that this investigation was going to drag on for a very long time.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  LUZHANY, UKRAINE

  Monday 26 August 1991

  Selene was woken by slowly dripping water on her face. She opened her eyes and it took her a while for her to remember what had happened the night before. Rain was starting to fall. It wasn’t quite light but dawn was on the way. Selene sat up and surveyed the landscape around her. She didn’t know where she was - she didn’t even know if she was still in Romania or if she had crossed the border into Russia. She thought about her trek the previous night. Nobody had come after her this time. The rain was falling harder now and she was getting drenched but she didn’t care. She was free. After six years, she had managed to escape.

  The dawn came and the sun illuminated the most beautiful valley Selene had ever seen. The fields below her were similar to the ones that surrounded her village but they seemed less sinister somehow. They welcomed her. Selene stood up and started her descent. She felt elated for the first time in years. She ran down through the rain to the green fields below.

  “I’m in Russia,” she sang as she ran.

  She walked for a few miles and stopped to rest under an ancient oak tree. Her stomach was growling. She hadn’t eaten anything in a very long time. The rain clouds slowly moved over the mountains and the sun beat down on the meadows. Selene spotted a cluster of buildings in the distance. Two church domes rose far above the village. She set off again in search of something to eat.

  The small village of Luzhany was deserted when Selene reached the road that ran through it. There were no people on the streets and the houses appeared abandoned. Their windows were closed up and the doors were closed. Yellow and blue flags hung from every single house. More flags hung from poles in the gardens. Selene jumped - the flags were similar to her own flag. All that was missing was the red section.

  This flag is much prettier, she thought.

  She carried on walking and stopped outside the church. She couldn’t help staring at the strange building. It was constructed almost entirely out of wood and it looked very old. Two domes rose far above it. She opened the door and went inside. The musty smell hit her in the face immediately. She couldn’t help but think that all churches smelled the same. She sat down on a wooden bench and closed her eyes.

  I made it, she thought, I’m finally free.

  She’d been with the big man for six years. Six years with no contact with her family or friends. Her life had been what he told her it must be. She’d thought about contacting her family again but she was certain he would come and look for her there. He wouldn’t think to search for her in Russia. For six years she had been his student - his prodigy even. She had tended the fields by day and studied at night. She had learned all about the rituals and their origins and once a month the full moon would appear.

  Six years, she thought, seventy two months. Seventy two sacrifices.

  It was almost too much for her to comprehend.

  Selene was woken from her thoughts by a sound behind her. She jumped and turned around. An old man had entered the church and was now staring at her. He was dressed in black and he was wearing a strange black hat. A grey beard hung down to his huge chest. He continued to stare at her. Selene was sure she could smell alcohol on his breath.

  “Dobroye Utro Rebenok,” he said in the most soothing voice Selene had ever heard.

  She didn’t understand what he was saying. She’d studied a bit of English from the television programs she had been allowed to watch but she couldn’t speak a word of Russian. The priest looked her up and down and smiled.

  “Good morning Child,” he said to her in Romanian. “Are you lost?”

  Selene looked around the old church.

  “No,” she said. “I’m not lost. I’ve never wanted to be somewhere so much in my life.”

  Her reply seemed to surprise him. He raised his left eyebrow.

  “OK, are you hungry?”

  Selene nodded. The priest opened the door of the church and gestured with his arm for her to follow him outside.

  The local priest lived in a modest brick building next to the church. An elderly woman, also dressed entirely in black was preparing breakfast on a small gas stove when Selene walked in. The smell was something Selene hadn’t smelled since she was last at home. It was the smell of coffee, porridge and boiled eggs.

  “Zlata,” the priest said. “We have a guest. She’s come a long way to eat with us.”

  The old woman looked at Selene and smiled. It was a smile Selene would never forget. Her blue eyes lit up her whole face. Selene had never seen such bright blue eyes before.

  “Syad’te,” the old woman said. “Kak tvoye imya?”

  Selene stared blankly at her.

  “Zlata is asking you to please sit down,” the priest said. “What’s your name?”

  “Selene,” Selene said. “Selene Lupei.”

  “Then please sit down Selene Lupei. Zlata is the best cook in the whole of Luzhany.”

  Zlata placed a bowl of porridge in front of Selene and said something else she couldn’t understand.

  The priest started to laugh. He had a hearty laugh.

  “What did she say?” Selene tucked into the porridge.

  “She said you need to eat more,” the priest said. “In fact she said you’re as skinny as a Russian gymnast.”

  “Am I in Russia?” Selene’s heart started to beat faster.

  “Not anymore,” the priest smiled. “If you had come two days ago you would have been but now we’re free. You’re in the Ukraine. The opinion was overwhelming. Now we are free.”

  Selene had no idea what he was talking about. She finished her porridge and made a start on some boiled eggs on a piece of toast. Zlata looked on approvingly.

  “Well Selene Lupei,” the priest said when Selene had finished eating. “What’s your story? You claim not to be lost. Why are you here? Where are you heading?”

  Selene didn’t know what to say. How could she explain to this kind man that she had escaped from the grasps of a man who was responsible for the deaths of hundreds of people? She’d seen more than seventy of them first hand.

  “I’m all alone,” She said. “I have no family or friends. Romania held nothing more for me.”

  The priest merely nodded his head.

  “Ok,” he said. “Can you sew?”

  “A bit,” Selene said.

  “Good. Zlata has a lot to get through. Some of the celebrations got a bit out of hand and many of the flags were damaged in the excitement. Zlata will show you what to do.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  YORK

  Monday 17 January 2011

  Superintendant Jeremy Smyth’s annual crime statistics presentation had been postponed. Smyth had been taken ill with a mystery virus and at one stage it appeared as though the whole thing would have to be cancelled altogether. For the entire workforce at York police station this had been a Godsend but Smyth had made a rapid recovery and a collective groan had been heard around the station when the news hit the grapevine. Smyth’s annual four hours of torture was about to get under way.

  Smith sat between Whitton and Yang Chu. Thompson and Bridge were seated in the row in front of them. Brownhill and Chalmers had the misfortune of having to sit at the front of the main conference room with Smyth. Smith watched as Thompson took out a silver hip flask, opened it and took a long swig. He tapped Thompson on the shoulder.

  “Great idea,” Smith said. “If that’s what I think it is would you mind passing it around? It might make things a bit more bearable.”

  “Its
cough medicine,” Thompson said. “No matter how much of the stuff I get down my neck I can’t seem to shift this bloody cold.”

  “I feel like a drink,” Bridge said. “And old Smyth hasn’t even started yet.”

  “Next year,” Smith said. “Remind me to bring a flask like Thompson’s. Maybe two.”

  “Could we have a bit of hush please,” Brownhill was glaring in their direction. “The Superintendant is about to begin.”

  Loud sighs were audible all around the room.

  “Good morning everybody,” Smyth spoke into the microphone. “Is everybody here? The turnout seems to be down from last year.”

  “It’s the flu season sir,” Chalmers said. “Quite a few of them are off sick.”

  “Very well,” Smyth didn’t seem perturbed. “Let’s get this show on the road shall we? I’m afraid to say that two thousand and ten was, as Her Majesty most eloquently put it a few years ago, an annus horribilis for me and the York police department.”

  He switched on the huge screen at the back of the room.

  “As you can see,” he continued. “From January to March last year it was pretty quiet on the crime front. Things were looking good as far as my stats were concerned. We had the usual number of burglaries, a bit above average assault cases but on the whole it seemed promising. We were looking at a record year but then…”

  He paused for effect. He clicked a button and a graph appeared on the screen. It was a pie chart showing the crime statistics for the rest of the year.

  “What happened?” He said. “Can anybody here please explain to me what happened from March through to December?”

  The officers in the conference room were silent.

  “Twenty six murders,” he mouthed the words slowly. “Twenty six murders in nine months. That’s almost three a month. In York of all places.”

  Smith could feel that his heart was beating faster at the thought of what was coming next.

  “This is disgraceful. Based on my points system, the stats for this year are a whopping nine thousand percent worse than last year. Several stern letters have already found their way onto my desk, I can tell you that. Nine thousand percent. Is there anybody here that can even attempt to justify it?”

  Chalmers stood up. He’d never seen the Superintendant so angry before.

  “Sir,” he said. “To be fair, all but one of these murder cases was cleared up in a month or two. We’re still busy with the other one but I promise you that one won’t take long to crack. If you ask me, that’s what we should be looking at - the clear up rate. I’d say its bloody good detective work.”

  “You were in charge of most of the investigations weren’t you Bob?” Smyth said.

  “I was, and my team did us proud.”

  “That’s not good enough,” Smyth looked like he was going to cry. “We need to find a way to prevent these crimes happening in the first place. It’s all very well being adept at cleaning the crimes up but it still affects my statistics when murders occur.”

  “With respect sir,” Chalmers said. “That’s not our job. We are, as you said, the cleaners and I for one believe everybody here did a very good job last year.”

  “Do you realise,” Smyth wasn’t about to stop any time soon. “That in the last calendar year, York had more murders than Manchester? That’s virtually unheard of.”

  “Maybe the killers are just choosing more picturesque locations to commit their murders,” Smith whispered to Whitton.

  Whitton started to giggle.

  “What was that?” Smyth looked directly at Smith. “What did you say? Are you not taking any of this seriously?”

  Smith counted to ten but it wasn’t enough.

  It didn’t help.

  “Seriously?” He remained seated.

  Everyone in the room tensed up in anticipation.

  “Seriously?” Smith said again. “I take two of your precious statistics very seriously. One of them was my girlfriend and the other one was my sister. I also take it seriously when my house gets blown up and everything I own is destroyed. Talk about a fucking annus horribilis.”

  Superintendant Smyth didn’t know what to say. He stood there with his mouth wide open.

  He resembled a dead fish.

  “A few years ago,” Smith hadn’t finished yet. “I would have stood up and walked out but now I’m going to respect the authority you’ve had thrust upon you and sit here and endure the rest of your bullshit. Please carry on.”

  A few sniggers were heard in the room but it didn’t last long. The room remained silent for what seemed like forever.

  “Right,” Smyth filed through a pile of papers to regain his poise. “Let’s continue shall we?”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Smith finished the coffee in his cup and went to the machine to get another one. It tasted like liquid soil but he needed the caffeine. He felt like going home and rolling the biggest joint he could - he was sure he still had some marijuana left in the tin in the sideboard but he decided against it. Whitton and Yang Chu came in the canteen. They seemed to be sharing a joke. Both of them had huge grins on their faces.

  “Well Sarge,” Yang Chu sat opposite Smith. “I’d heard about it but I’d never seen it for myself.”

  “Heard about what?” Smith said.

  “The famous DS Smith ‘couldn’t give a shit about anything’ attitude.” Yang Chu said, “Old Smyth didn’t know what to do in there.”

  “Did you notice that he kept the rest of the presentation short too?” Whitton said. “You did us all a favour.”

  “The man’s an idiot,” Smith said. “And he’s very dangerous.”

  “Dangerous?” Yang Chu said.

  “Any idiot with that much authority is dangerous.”

  “There’s more snow on the way,” Whitton said to change the subject. “ Lot’s of it if the weather forecast is correct.”

  DI Brownhill marched in the canteen. She had a very grave look on her face.

  “Smith,” she said. “Can I have a word?”

  “Speak,” Smith said.

  “In private.”

  Smith stood up and followed her to the other side of the canteen. They sat down at a table by the window.

  “What’s up boss?” Smith said.

  “Detective Sergeant,” Brownhill said. “When I arrived here a few months ago I had preconceived ideas about you. I’d heard all about your antics - a loose cannon with an utter disregard for the rules when it came to solving cases. I didn’t like you. I’d made my mind up about that before I even met you.”

  “Thanks boss, is this heading somewhere or am I just in for more abuse?”

  “Just shut up and listen. I’ve gone through your file and it appears that you were instrumental in resolving every single one of the twenty five murder investigations that Smyth was crying about in there.”

  “I had a bit of luck,” Smith said.

  “Nobody has that much luck. The jury’s still out as to whether I like you or not but that’s irrelevant - you’re one of the best detectives I’ve ever come across, if not the best and if you repeat that to anybody I’ll deny it.”

  “Smyth’s going to suspend me again isn’t he?”

  “Why do you say that?” Brownhill said.

  “I’m not stupid, all this pre-bollocking praise. You’re letting me down gently.”

  “Smyth does want to see you,” Brownhill said, “but…”

  “I thought so,” Smith stood up.

  “Sit down. He does want to see you but I want you to know that you have my full backing. Chalmers will stick up for you too - I’ve spoken to him. We need you on the Christopher Riley murder. It’s been almost a month and we’re still no closer to finding out anything.”

  Smith stood up again.

  “Let’s get this over with then.”

  The door to Superintendant Smyth’s office was open. Smith knocked. Some kind of South American pipe music was playing softly inside.

  “Come in,” Smyth said.
“Take a seat.”

  Smith sat down. Smyth did not bother to turn off the music.

  “It helps me to relax,” Smyth said. “It’s an Andean troupe from Bolivia. Their El Condor Pasa is pure genius. You’ve got to hear it to believe it.”

  Smith’s reply was somewhere between a nod and a grimace.

  “You probably already know why you’re here. I will not tolerate insubordination at this station.”

  Smith sat in silence.

  “But, on this occasion, not only am I prepared to turn a blind eye - I believe I owe you an apology.”

  “An apology?” Smith couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “Yes,” Smyth said. “An apology. It was extremely insensitive of me to harp on about statistics considering what you’ve been through in the past twelve months. Your girlfriend, your house being destroyed and you mentioned something about a sister?”

  “She was pulled out of the river. After the football players were shot.”

  “Ah yes, I remember it now. Well I’m terribly sorry about all that. This ought to cheer you up though. In many countries they have such a thing as officer of the year - an award for outstanding commitment to the job.”

  “Sir, all I want is to be left to get on with my job.”

  “We don’t have such a thing as officer of the year here,” Smyth carried on. “But my position as Superintendant allows me certain powers. One such power is the ability to create such an honour. I’ve spoken at length to the Chief Constable and he thinks it’s a splendid idea. Also, I’ve been able to back date the award.”

  Smith didn’t like where Smyth was going with this.

  “And as such,” Smyth smiled a grotesque grin. “I’m proud to inform you that you’ve been awarded the police officer of the year award for 2010. I’m hopeful that more stations will follow suit when the publicity of your achievements comes to light.”

  “There’s no need,” Smith said.

  “Detective, I learned a long time ago that modesty is not a virtue. Modesty slows down progress. Anyway, this isn’t up for debate - I’ve already set the ball in motion. There will be a small informal ceremony of course. You should be very proud.”