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

by Stewart Giles

  What am I doing? Smith thought.

  He could hear his heart pounding in his head.

  “Because I’ve got a feeling,” Smith said. “I’ve got a feeling that the parts I can’t remember were the best parts.”

  Whitton looked at him. Smith felt like he could look at her green eyes forever. She smiled.

  “You need to work on your chat up lines,” she said.

  “It’s been a long time,” Smith stepped inside and closed the shower door behind him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Smith parked outside the station and he and Whitton got out of the car. The sky was clear but an icy wind cut straight through to the bone. Smith didn’t even notice the cold - he had a smile on his face he couldn’t seem to shift. They’d driven the whole way to the station without saying a word but each of them could tell that the other was thinking hard. A million thoughts had rushed through Smith’s head. Was he making a mistake? He felt like a hypocrite after warning Yang Chu about relationships in the force. Did he have an ulterior motive without even realising it?

  “Sarge,” Whitton said when they had reached the door to the station. “What just happened at your house?”

  “Was I that bad?” Smith said. “That you’ve forgotten already.”

  “No, I’m being serious here.”

  “To be honest, I don’t know what happened. It was odd. I stood in the kitchen when you went up for a shower and I thought about last night. I didn’t want you to think that I make a habit of instantly forgettable one night stands.”

  “So you thought you’d make it two?”

  “Yes, I mean no. Whitton, I’m crap with this sort of thing. Talking about feelings and stuff. Let’s go inside - its freezing out here.”

  Baldwin was not at her usual post behind the front desk. A man Smith had never seen before was talking loudly on the phone when they approached.

  “Calm down,” the officer said. “I’m pretty soon he’ll be back soon. I mean, it’s only been a few hours for Pete’s sake.”

  He held the phone away from his ear and Smith could hear screaming on the other end.

  “OK,” the officer said. “I’ll send someone round. What’s the address?”

  He wrote the address on a piece of paper.

  “I said I’ll send someone round,” he said and put the phone down.

  “Trouble?” Smith said.

  He saw from the man’s name tag that he was PC Jarvis.

  “So called missing person,” Jarvis said. “God, he’s only been gone for twelve hours. If I had a wife like that I’d be gone for a hell of a lot longer than that, I can promise you that.”

  “Twelve hours can feel a lot longer when someone doesn’t come home. You’re new aren’t you? Where’s Baldwin?”

  “Off sick. Perfect bloody timing if you ask me. It was supposed to be my first day on the beat. I mean, who the hell wants to walk the streets in this shit weather.”

  “PC Jarvis,” Smith said. “Can I give you a bit of advice? Watch your language in here. I personally couldn’t give a rat’s arse but this is a public area and a lot of people don’t appreciate it.”

  He walked down the corridor towards his office.

  “Is he for real?” Jarvis said to Whitton.

  “Yes,” Whitton said. “And he’s right. Curb your swearing - it doesn’t impress anyone.”

  Smith turned on his computer and waited for it to boot up. It seemed to take much longer than usual. The cold seemed to slow everything down. Smith thought again about what had happened between him and Whitton. He’d worked with Whitton for four or five years and nothing had ever happened before.

  Why now? He thought.

  He typed in his password and opened up his emails. There were five new messages. Two were from Superintendant Smyth. One was a copy of the crime stats for the previous year and the other was to inform Smith of the upcoming award ceremony. Smith deleted both e mails. The third email detailed the new pension scheme structure for the new year and the fourth was to tell him how much leave he had remaining. He needed to use up twelve days of holiday before the end of March or he would forfeit them. The fifth email was from an unknown address and consisted of just seven words: ‘The full moon is upon us again’. There was no indication of who sent the email. Smith closed down the computer and stood up. He’d forgotten about the fifth email by the time he had walked up the stairs to the canteen.

  There was nobody in the canteen apart from DI Brownhill. She was sitting by the window staring vacantly at the clouds which appeared to be moving faster than they should.

  “Morning boss,” Smith sat opposite her.

  Brownhill jumped.

  “Oh,” she said. “I didn’t hear you come in. I was miles away there. It looks like it’s going to snow. Those sinister looking things are definitely snow clouds.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No, of course not. Do we have any new developments on the Christopher Riley investigation?”

  “Afraid not boss,” Smith said. “It’s an enigma. We’ve interviewed the ex wife again and she’s got nothing more to add. I’m afraid if we talk to her anymore she’s going to have us on a harassment charge.”

  “What about the mystery woman?”

  “Still a mystery. Nobody seems to have seen them together apart from the drunk guy and his word is hardly reliable. I don’t know where else to start looking.”

  “I know,” Brownhill said. “Grant and I had a huge fight about it last night. I asked him if there wasn’t maybe something he had overlooked at the crime scene.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “I should have known better, I know his work is exemplary. Frustration is getting the better of me.”

  “I know,” Smith said. “This sounds terrible but sometimes I think it would be easier if this murderer struck again - at least then we’d have a bit more to go on.”

  “I know what you mean. I’ve called a meeting in my office for what it’s worth. Maybe we can bounce a few ideas off each other.”

  Smith, Whitton and Yang Chu sat opposite Brownhill in her office. Thompson was off sick again and Bridge had not shown up for work.

  “This is the team is it?” Smith looked around the room. “The fantastic four. Where’s Bridge?”

  “He hasn’t turned up yet,” Brownhill said. “He’d better have a damn good reason.”

  “What’s happening to this place? Even Baldwin’s off sick. She’s never sick. I don’t like the look of the guy who’s taken over at the front desk either.”

  “He’s new,” Brownhill said.

  “He won’t last long with his attitude.”

  “Let’s make a start,” Brownhill said. “Does anybody have anything new to add?”

  Silence.

  “Nothing at all?”

  “We’ve been over everything a million times,” Whitton said. “We’ve spoken to everyone who knew Riley and none of them could give us anything to go on.”

  “Let’s start at the beginning once more,” Smith said.

  Everyone sighed.

  “I know it’s tedious,” Smith said. “But that’s what our job consists of. Ninety percent tedium, nine percent disappointment and one percent elation when we finally nail the bastards.”

  “I’m going to have that printed out and stuck on the walls all around the station,” Brownhill said.

  The mood seemed to lift slightly.

  “Christopher Riley was seen at the Chinese restaurant underneath his flat at around two in the afternoon on Christmas Day,” Smith began. “The last confirmed sighting was at Ye Olde Yeoman just before closing time. A witness claimed he saw Riley with a woman with black hair.”

  “A woman who looked just like Baldwin,” Yang Chu added. “Maybe that’s why Baldwin is off today - maybe she’s out stalking her next victim.”

  “Yang Chu,” Brownhill said. “This isn’t helping.”

  “Nobody seems to know who this woman is,” Smith said. “The few friends that Riley had
didn’t recall him being in a relationship so we have to assume it was someone he met that night. Nobody has reported seeing her since that night. Riley was found on the morning of the twenty seventh. The path report has confirmed that he died between one and three in the morning of the twenty sixth. We need to find this woman.”

  “How many times have we heard that?” Yang Chu said. “She’s disappeared into thin air.”

  “Nobody simply disappears.”

  “What do you suggest we do?”

  “We keep digging. We do what we always do - we dig until we find what we’ve been digging for.”

  “Whitton,” Brownhill said. “You’re very quiet. Do you have anything to add?”

  “No Ma’am,” Whitton said. “I mean, Smith’s right. We can’t give up.”

  “I still say we keep a close eye on Baldwin,” Yang Chu said. “She claims to have been on her own the whole of Christmas Day. There’s nobody to back that up - nobody to vouch for her.”

  “Yang Chu,” Brownhill said. “I said that’s enough. Baldwin is not out murderer.”

  “I just think it’s strange that’s all,” Yang Chu wasn’t giving up. “That our only witness described Baldwin to a Tee. Why’s she not at work today?”

  “Enough,” Brownhill said. “Smith, you and Yang Chu can have another word with Riley’s ex wife. I get the feeling she doesn’t like women very much. Maybe you two will be able to get more out of her.”

  “What about me?” Whitton appeared annoyed.

  “Webber has come up with a beautiful reconstruction of the knife that was used,” Brownhill said. “He’s based it on the shape of the wound. You and I are going to do some research on knives. Suppliers, manufacturers, that sort of thing. This is a very unusual knife; maybe if we find out where it came from we’ll be a step closer.”

  Brownhill’s phone started to ring on her desk. She picked it up.

  “Brownhill,” she said.

  Smith, Whitton and Yang Chu watched as Brownhill listened to whoever was on the other end of the line. She didn’t appear too impressed.

  “I have a meeting with the Super,” she said when she had finished on the phone. “Something to do with an officer of the year award.”

  “That’ll be me,” Smith said with a wry smile on his face.

  “You’re joking right?” Brownhill said.

  “Nope.”

  “This place is turning into a madhouse,” Brownhill said. “Get out, the lot of you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  The woman with the long black hair crossed the street again and walked past the bakery. Again. The door to the house with the green door across the road from the bakery opened. She checked her watch. Five minutes to two.

  Like clockwork, she thought.

  She smiled. She watched the slightly overweight man struggle with the lock on the door and turn left. She knew exactly where he was heading.

  Look up at the sky, she thought.

  As if he had heard her, the man lifted his head and gazed up at the snow clouds that were circling wildly above him. He shook his head.

  Arnold Mather was a creature of habit. He disliked anything out of order. For twenty two years, he’d spent eight hours every day, Monday to Friday, as a dispatch clerk at AB Jennings Logistics. From five in the morning until one in the afternoon, Arnold was in charge of making sure the deliveries and collections were taken care of. Arnold had suggested these hours himself claiming that if he arrived an hour before the six until two shift clocked in, he could have things organised and things would run much more smoothly. In fact, Arnold had suggested these hours for his own benefit. He didn’t care about waking early and when one o clock came around he would hop in his car and beat the mad rush leaving the industrial estate where AB Jennings had their warehouse. He would arrive home no later than fifteen minutes past one. A quick bite to eat and a shower and he’d still have plenty of time to make it to the Fox Inn at two.

  Arnold turned left at the Post Office and walked the remaining fifty metres to the Fox Inn. He looked up at the sky again. The snow clouds looked ominous. He’d have been better off looking behind him for then he’d have spotted the woman with the long black hair who was following a short distance behind. If Arnold had been the observant type, he’d have noticed that the woman had followed him every day for over a week. Five beers in the pub, no more, no less and Arnold would be home at six. In time to watch the news. After that, he’d read for precisely an hour and a half and settle into bed at eight. It’d been like this for ten years and Arnold liked it that way. There were too many changes in the world as it was, some kind of normality was important. He’d been married for ten years but the daily drudge had taken its toll on her and she had finally succumbed to the charms of an older, more interesting man. That was over ten years ago.

  Arnold entered the Fox Inn and approached the bar. A complete stranger was washing glasses behind the counter. Arnold didn’t know who he was nor did he particularly like strangers interfering with his routine - they upset the equilibrium somehow.

  “Where’s Ted?” Arnold asked the imposter.

  “He’s sick,” the man said. “There’s a lot of flu going round.”

  “Oh,” Arnold said. “Pint of Best please.”

  The barman poured the beer and placed it on the counter. Arnold paid and took the drink to his usual table in the corner. He sat down and opened one of the newspapers the pub provided for paying customers. An Iraqi suicide bomber had killed sixty three people in Tikrit - Barclays Bank was ordered to pay out millions to customers it had conned, a nasty weather front was set to grip the whole country for days. Arnold leafed through to the crossword. He cursed when he realised that somebody had beaten him to it. The grid was half filled in. Arnold hated completing someone else’s crossword. He didn’t notice the woman walk past the window, peer in, and continue in the direction of the river.

  The woman with the black hair opened the door to her house and went inside. She realised that her hands were shaking. She opened the sideboard, took out a bottle of brandy and poured herself a large measure. She took a long swig and felt the brandy burn her throat as it went down. She sat in the leather arm chair and stared out of the window. Snow was starting to fall. Thin flakes were hitting the window and melting on the warm glass. Heavy snow had been forecast for the next few days. The woman finished the brandy in the glass and started to panic.

  The clouds, she thought - the snow clouds are going to obscure the moon.

  There was a knock on the door and she dropped the glass on the floor.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  “Nice place,” Yang Chu said. “Her husband obviously did alright for himself.”

  “Ex husband,” Smith knocked on the door again. “She’s at home. I saw something move inside.”

  The front door opened and Emily Riley stood in the doorway. She was wearing a thick black sweater and a pair of jeans. Smith could smell the alcohol on her breath straight away.

  “Mrs Riley,” he said. “Sorry to bother you again. Can we come in?”

  “This is getting ridiculous,” Emily said. “How many times must we go over the same things?”

  “I know, the snow is really coming down again. Can we come inside?”

  Emily sighed, looked up at the sinister grey clouds and stepped to the side. Smith and Yang Chu went in.

  “Would you like something to drink?” Emily said. “Coffee? You lot solve all your cases with gallons of coffee don’t you?”

  “That’s only in detective novels.”

  Emily led them through to the sitting room. A huge jigsaw puzzle lay completed on the floor. It was a photograph of the Eifel Tower. One of the pieces was missing.

  “I hate it when that happens,” Yang Chu said. “All that effort and you’re left with an incomplete picture.”

  “Rather like police work I imagine,” Emily said. “And that’s why you’re here aren’t you?”

  “Mrs Riley,” Smith sat down on a leather arm c
hair.

  “Emily, and I’ve reverted back to my maiden name. It seems right don’t you think? Under the circumstances. But please just call me Emily.”

  “What’s your maiden name?” Yang Chu said.

  Smith glared at him.

  “Eastman,” Emily said.

  Yang Chu took out a notebook and wrote the name down.

  “Emily,” Smith said. “We’re sorry to have to keep harassing you like this but it’s been almost a month now and I’m afraid we’re still no closer to figuring out who would want to do this to your ex husband. Is there anything else you’ve thought about that might be important?”

  “No,” Emily said, “like what?”

  “Why did you and Christopher get divorced?” Yang Chu said.

  “Boredom,” Emily said matter of factly. “Do you mind if I make myself a drink?”

  Smith shook his head. Emily poured herself a glass of whisky.

  “Chris was a good, old fashioned, salt of the earth type,” she said. “Solid as a rock but, God was he boring. I used to look forward to him being away from home. I used to count the hours. When he started working more and more from home I couldn’t take it anymore.”

  “So it was you who filed for divorce?” Smith said.

  “Yes. I’d had enough. That wasn’t living - I merely existed. I was Mrs Riley, Chris’s wife. I’d had enough.”

  “Did you have much contact with Christopher after the divorce?”

  “Not much,” she sipped her whisky. “He had Emily every second weekend and some holidays so I had to see him then but apart from that I didn’t have much contact. I moved on.”

  “But he didn’t?” Yang Chu mused.

  “What’s this got to do with his murder?” Emily said.

  “We don’t know,” Smith said.

  “Where’s Maggie now?” Yang Chu said.

  “At school of course. Life goes on, even for a nine year old. How much longer do I have to endure these interrogations?”

  “Like I said,” Smith said. “We’re sorry but we don’t have much to go on at the moment. Do you know if Christopher was involved with anyone before he was killed?”