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

by Stewart Giles

  Smith had never wanted to get out of somewhere so quickly. The pipes of the Andes were starting to give him a headache.

  “Thank you,” he said to indicate that the conversation was over.

  “You’ll be informed of the details in due course,” Smyth said but Smith was already halfway down the corridor.

  He needed a drink. He needed a lot of drinks.

  “What did Smyth say?” Whitton said to Smith as he was about to leave the station. “Are you suspended again?”

  “Let’s go for a drink,” Smith said. “I’m buying.”

  Fifteen minutes later they sat at the bar at the Hog’s Head. Smith had finished a pint of Theakstons and was a good way through the second.

  “Well?” Whitton said. “Are you suspended or not?”

  “They want to pin a bloody medal on me. Top cop for 2010.”

  “You’re kidding me?”

  “I wish I was. Smyth arranged the whole thing off his own back. What an imbecile. I humiliate him in front of the whole station and he wants to give me an award.”

  “But that’s great news,” Whitton raised her glass. “Top cop.”

  “It’s not great news,” Smith drained his glass and tried to catch the eye of the man behind the bar. “I’ll be the laughing stock of the station. Bang goes my street-cred. People like me don’t win awards for outstanding commitment to the job.”

  “You’re always selling yourself short. I don’t know anybody who’s more committed to the job than you.”

  “Two more pints,” Smith managed to catch the attention of the barman. “Where’s Marge today?”

  “She’s not feeling well,” the barman said. “She’s having a lie down upstairs.”

  “Nothing serious I hope?”

  “Just a touch of the flu,” the barman put the drinks on the counter.

  Smith had known Marge, the owner of the Hog’s Head for years. She had become a kind of Grandmother figure to him.

  “Will there be a ceremony and all that?” Whitton said. “An award ceremony?”

  “Let’s talk about something else,” Smith said. “That’s an order. What’s going on between you and Yang Chu?”

  “Nothing, he’s more like a little brother than anything else. He’s a good detective too.”

  “Make sure it stays that way,” Smith said.

  “Are you jealous?”

  “Of course not,” Smith took a long sip of his beer and smiled. “Anyway, Yang Chu’s not my type. I prefer green eyes.”

  Whitton laughed. She looked into Smith’s eyes. They were very bloodshot. He looked like he hadn’t slept properly for a while. They stared at each other for quite a long time. Smith had forgotten what an unusual shade of green Whitton’s eyes were. He broke eye contact.

  Smith finished his beer and ordered two more. He was starting to feel quite drunk but he liked it.

  “I’m still having the dreams,” he said. “The ones where I think I’ve woken up and then realise I’m still dreaming. They’re becoming more and more frequent. The last one scared the hell out of me. It started out like the ones I used to have all the time - the one where I’m in the water and my sister is sinking below me. I reach out and I can’t save her in time. Then I wake up, or at least I think I’ve woken up. I open the curtains and Laura floats past the window like she’s in the sea. She reaches out to me but I can’t get hold of her. Then she isn’t Laura anymore - she’s this evil animal with cruel eyes and sharp fangs dripping with blood. Then I woke up for real. It’s starting to freak me out.”

  “Maybe you should see someone about it,” Whitton suggested.

  “A shrink?” Smith said. “You’ve got to be kidding?”

  “Don’t’ come with all this macho crap. Something is causing these dreams. Maybe if you find out what it is they’ll stop.”

  “Whitton, there’s no way in hell that I’m going to see a head doctor.”

  “You’ve had a rough year. Anybody else would probably have had a nervous breakdown by now - lost the plot completely. Everything is building up inside that stubborn head of yours and it needs to be released somehow. The dreams are a part of this essential release.”

  “Where do you come up with this bollocks?”

  “Psychology 101,” Whitton said. “Three semesters a few years ago.”

  Smith started to laugh.

  “Two pints please,” he said to the barman.

  He turned to Whitton.

  “Are you tired?”

  “I feel wide awake.”

  “Me too, a bit drunk maybe but I’m still awake. I’m starving though.”

  “Why don’t we order a couple of steak and ale pies?” Whitton said.

  “Marge is ill,” Smith said. “The other chef doesn’t know how to cook them like she does. I’ll tell you what, I’ll treat you to a frozen pizza, a few beers and a new Metallica DVD. You should hear it through my surround sound system.”

  “You old romantic you,” Whitton said.

  “Is that a yes then?”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  LUZHANY, UKRAINE

  Friday 30 August 1991

  The small village of Luzhany was preparing for another weekend of celebrations. Boris Yeltsin had finally recognised Ukrainian independence. The festivities were set to carry on for weeks throughout Ukraine. Selene had woken early and she was busy in the kitchen. She was helping Zlata prepare a modest feast for the revelers. An ox had been slaughtered and was slowly roasting on an open fire in the village square. Zlata and Selene were busy with sacks of potatoes, cabbages and beetroot. Selene had come to like working with Zlata - they worked well together despite the fact that neither of them spoke the other’s language. They communicated with gestures. Zlata indicated what needed doing and Selene got it done. They made an excellent team.

  Ivor, the priest entered the kitchen and removed his hat. His brow was soaked with perspiration. It was promising to be an extremely hot day. He kissed Zlata on the cheek and rested his hand on Selene’s shoulder.

  “You are a gift from God indeed,” he smiled.

  Selene smiled back. She’d been with Ivor and Zlata for only four days but they’d been the happiest four days of her life. These strangers had treated her well - she felt like part of a family once more. Not once had either of them questioned her reasons for being there and Selene was happy not to have to divulge them.

  “We have enough potatoes here to feed the Ukrainian army,” Ivor said. “I think we’re going to need more cabbage.”

  “What are the celebrations for?” Selene asked him.

  “Freedom. Russia is dissolving before our eyes and not before time. Yeltsin is a wise man. He has spared much bloodshed. It was futile to ever expect such a diverse group of people to live under one flag. It has finally happened and we must embrace the change the only way we Ukrainians know how. With drinking…”

  He took Zlata by the shoulders and turned her round.

  “And dancing,” he added.

  They danced a slow waltz. Selene was amazed at how nimble Ivor’s feet were considering the weight they were carrying.

  “Ivor,” Zlata laughed.

  She said something Selene couldn’t understand.

  “Zlata seems to think that there is always work to do,” Ivor said. “But life’s not always about work. Selene, you’ve done enough for today, take a break. The river here is especially beautiful at this time of the year.”

  Selene followed Ivor’s orders and went outside. The sun was high in the sky and there wasn’t a cloud in sight. She walked past the old church and headed for the river. She spotted a group of boys in the distance. They were kicking a ball around between some trees. They stopped playing as Selene approached.

  “Salut,” Selene said.

  The three boys looked her up and down. One of them, a tall gangly boy with thin blond hair said something in Russian and the other boys started to laugh. The gangly boy’s chest seemed to swell up with pride.

  “What’s your name
?” One of the other boys said in English.

  He was tall and athletic with dark hair. Selene looked into his eyes. They were the darkest eyes she had ever seen. They were almost black like her hair. Long black eyelashes hung on either side of them.

  “Selene,” she said. “My name is Selene. I’m heading for the river.”

  She set off again. After a few paces she turned around. Two of the boys had returned to their game but the boy with the dark eyes was watching her. Selene turned around, smiled and continued on her way.

  She heard the river before she could see it - a soft trickle of water over rocks. She jumped down a small embankment and sat on an old tree stump. Ivor had been right. This was a most beautiful place. The river winded down through the valley. It flowed at its own pace. It didn’t seem to be in any hurry.

  I could stay here forever, she thought.

  She’d never felt such peace before.

  “You’re the Romanian girl,” a soft voice was heard behind her.

  Selene turned around. It was the boy with the dark eyes. He was staring at her. His long eyelashes didn’t seem real.

  “Yes,” she said and turned back to face the river.

  Without asking, the boy took a seat next to her on the tree stump.

  “I’m Luka,” he said. “I’m almost eighteen.”

  “Congratulations.”

  Selene didn’t know why she said it but it was the first word that came into her head.

  “You speak English?”

  “From the television. I don’t speak it well though.”

  “You speak it well enough,” Luka said. “I’m going to work in London next year. When I’m eighteen. I’m going to work in a big hotel. I’ve been learning English from a tape. Are you going to be at the dance tonight?”

  “I think so,” Selene didn’t know what was happening to her.

  She felt strange. It felt like something was burning inside her stomach.

  “Then perhaps we’ll dance,” Luka said.

  Selene focused on the river as it flowed slowly between its banks. She stared for some time.

  “Perhaps,” she said.

  When she turned around Luka was gone.

  As the sun disappeared behind the mountains in the distance, music could be heard in the valleys below. The smell of beef and potatoes and roasted onions had drawn people from miles around. Blue and yellow flags were flying from anywhere they could be fixed. The ox had been carved and plates and plates of delicious beef had been placed on a huge table in the village square. Enormous vats of vodka and wine were standing next to the table. The music stopped.

  “People,” a loud voice resonated through the square.

  It was Ivor the priest.

  “People,” he said again. “We have waited a long time for this and we must embrace it for as long as possible. We must stand together proudly as Ukrainians and do what Ukrainians do best. Now let’s drink.”

  A loud cheer was heard and the music started up again.

  Selene watched the whole spectacle in awe. The people of Luzhany and the surrounding villages were singing, dancing, eating and drinking together. The atmosphere was euphoric. She sound of the music mesmerised her. She felt a hand on her shoulder and jumped.

  “Would you like to dance?”

  It was Luka.

  “Perhaps,” Selene looked into his dark eyes. “But I don’t know this music.”

  “Follow me,” Luka put one hand on her shoulder and the other on the small of her back.

  His touch made her shiver.

  “It’s easy,” he said.

  He led her through the first part of the dance - a traditional waltz with a quick three-four time. Selene quickly got the hang of it and they moved closer to the rest of the dancers. Suddenly, Luka spun her round and she was grabbed by somebody. She was about to scream then realised this was part of the dance. She was in the arms of a hefty man with a beard who smelled faintly of cabbages. Soon she was reacquainted with Luka and she smiled. He deftly danced her away from the crowd and any further competition.

  The music stopped and another song began; a quicker, more upbeat song.

  “I don’t like this dance,” Luka said. “It has far too many complicated changes. I prefer to keep things simple. Let’s get something to eat.”

  He led her to the huge table laden with food. He piled a plate full of beef and potatoes for Selene and took a plate for himself. They sat down on the grass a short distance from the dancers.

  “Do you like it here?” Luka asked.

  “It’s like heaven,” Selene said. “I want to stay here forever.”

  “I don’t, I want more than this.”

  “What can be more than this? I thought you liked to keep things simple.”

  They ate in silence for a while. Selene had never felt so happy. She watched Luka as he ate. He seemed to take it very seriously. He had a very solemn expression on his face.

  “Selene,” a familiar voice was heard.

  It was Ivor.

  “You have to go,” Ivor sounded different.

  He sounded almost frightened.

  “Go where?” Selene said.

  “You need to get away from here. They know you’re here. He’s found you. Go now.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  YORK

  Tuesday 18 January 2011

  Smith woke up from a dream he instantly forgot. His head felt like somebody was hitting it with rocks. He rubbed his eyes and looked around the room. Theakston was nowhere to be seen.

  He must have slept downstairs, Smith thought.

  He turned his head and gasped. Whitton was lying in the bed next to him. She was breathing softly. Smith gently peeled the covers off and crept out of bed. He realised that he was completely naked. He tried to remember pieces of the night before. He recalled the conversation at the Hog’s Head. Then he remembered coming home with Whitton. They had eaten a pizza, drank a few beers and watched a DVD. Then the Jack Daniel’s had come out.

  “Fuck,” Smith whispered.

  Whitton stirred in her sleep and rolled over. Smith slowly lifted the sheets off her. She was also naked. He quickly replaced the sheets.

  What have I done? He thought.

  He got dressed quietly and tiptoed down the stairs.

  Theakston was waiting by the back door to be let out. The map of Romania that had been lying on the kitchen table was now in hundreds of tiny pieces on the floor.

  “I know boy,” Smith said. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. We were drunk.”

  He opened the back door and the dog marched out in disgust. Smith turned on the kettle. While he waited for it to boil he took a packet of aspirin out of the cupboard and popped three in his mouth. He washed them down with water straight out of the tap.

  “Are you making coffee?” Whitton was standing in the doorway. “My head hurts.”

  Smith couldn’t look her in the eyes.

  “I thought you didn’t get hangovers,” he said.

  “Urgh,” Whitton rubbed her temples. “I must be getting old. What happened here?”

  She pointed to the pieces of the map.

  “Jealous dog. He get’s destructive when he’s not allowed to sleep in the bed.”

  “About that,” Whitton said.

  “Do you take sugar?” Smith said in a futile attempt to change the subject. “It’s been a while since I made you coffee.”

  “Two,” Whitton said. “About last night.”

  “We don’t need to mention it again,” Smith started to make the coffee and dropped the tea spoon on the floor.

  “I think we should at least talk about it,” Whitton sat down at the kitchen table.

  “Talk about what?” Smith couldn’t think of anything better to say. “Sorry, my brain isn’t working properly yet.”

  “We had quite a bit to drink, and somehow we ended up in bed together. It happens.”

  “Does it?”

  “Is that coffee going to take long?” Whitton said.
“My head is pounding.”

  An awkward silence ensued. They sipped their coffee. Smith stood up and started to clear away the pieces of the map.

  “What’s the map?” Whitton said. “Or at least what was the map?”

  “It’s a map of Romania, someone left it outside my house.”

  “Why?”

  “I have no idea. Maybe they got the wrong house. I think we should keep what happened last night to ourselves. I think its best. Can you imagine the tongues wagging at the station when they find out?”

  “I’m going to have a shower,” Whitton stood up.

  She looked very upset.

  “Maybe it’ll clear my head a bit,” she added.

  Smith put the pieces of the map in the box it had been delivered in.

  “Bloody dog,” he said.

  Theakston walked in and stared at his empty bowl.

  “You’re far too sensitive,” Smith filled the bowl with dog food. “Far too sensitive.”

  Smith could hear the sound of the shower running upstairs. He tried to piece together the blanks from the previous night but nothing came to him.

  Whitton, he thought, things are never going to be the same.

  He suddenly realised what an idiot he’d been. Whitton had seemed quite upset. He was about to switch on the kettle to make some more coffee when he changed his mind. He went upstairs to the bathroom. The steam from the shower had filled the room and condensation had covered the mirror above the sink.

  Smith took off his clothes.

  “Whitton,” he said.

  She couldn’t hear him over the sound of the jets blasting over her ears.

  “Whitton,” Smith said again, louder this time.

  “What?” Whitton had heard him.

  Smith pulled the shower door open. Whitton stared at his naked body in disbelief.

  “What are you doing?” She said.

  “Last night, there are a few bits I don’t remember.”

  “Me too, but why the hell couldn’t this conversation wait until I got back downstairs?”