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

by Stewart Giles

  “Grant,” Brownhill said. “Could you please give us a rundown of what you’ve found so far?”

  Webber cleared his throat.

  “Not much,” he said. “We’ve confirmed that the same knife was used on both occasions. The same curved blade was used and chloroform was administered before their throats were cut. Both men were found in their beds. The woman appears to have black hair - traces of hair were found at both murder scenes and we found some fingerprints on the thermostat of Mather’s heater.”

  “Any luck there yet?” Smith said.

  “Nothing, they’re not on out system anywhere.”

  “Do we at least have any suspects yet?” Brownhill said.

  “Maybe one,” Smith said. “A Norwegian student who lives across the road from Christopher Riley’s flat. She has black hair and a couple of witnesses claim she could be the woman Riley was seen with on Christmas Day.”

  “Why hasn’t she been hauled in yet? Why isn’t she in one of the interview rooms right now?”

  “Because I don’t think she’s our killer, it’s just a feeling I get about her.”

  “I’m not going to ignore a murder suspect on a feeling you get, bring her in.”

  Forty five minutes later, Kjersti Pelge sat in interview room two with Brownhill and Whitton. She had declined the offer of a solicitor. Brownhill had decided that it would be better for her to be interviewed by two female officers.

  “Kjersti,” Brownhill said. “Do you know why you’re here?”

  “I assume it’s because I live across the road from where the dead guy was found,” Kjersti said matter-of-factly.

  “That’s right, did you know Christopher Riley?”

  “No,” Kjersti said.

  “You never met him? You lived across the road from him and you’ve never bumped into him before?”

  “No, I saw him a couple of times but I didn’t know who he was. He was just some bloke who lived across the road.”

  “That’s an interesting hair colour,” Brownhill said. “Is that the fashion these days?”

  “I don’t go in for fashion, it’s not my natural hair colour - I’m actually blond.”

  “Blond?” Brownhill said.

  “But I dye it black. I mean, come on, all Norwegian’s have blond hair don’t they? They have blue eyes and shag like rabbits. I wanted to get away from the stereotypical bullshit.”

  “You’re a student aren’t you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What are you studying?” Whitton asked.

  “Psychology and Sociology. What has that got to do with anything?”

  “We’re just trying to gather all the facts,” Brownhill said. “Why are you studying here in York? I believe the Universities in Norway are first class.”

  “Norwegian isn’t exactly widely spoken, I wanted to do my degree in English. Besides, can you believe I actually came here for the weather? I was tired of the snow.”

  “How old are you?” Whitton said.

  “Thirty four.”

  “Isn’t that a bit old to be a student?”

  “You’re never too old to learn,” Kjersti smiled.

  Whitton didn’t like the smile one little bit.

  Kjersti looked at her watch. It was a very unusual watch.

  “Is this going to take much longer?” She said. “I have to be at work in an hour. Are we going to drag on with the pleasantries or are we going to get down to the nitty gritty sometime today?”

  “Nitty gritty?” Brownhill said.

  “The dead guy, I live across the road from where a man was found dead in his bed. I’ve never spoken to him before, I didn’t see him on Christmas Day and I didn’t see anything untoward around midnight the night he died. I also don’t know anything about how he happened to expire. Can I go now?”

  “Not yet, how did you know he died around midnight?”

  “The other detective told me,” Kjersti said. “The unusual looking one. I think he likes me. He came back to give me his card. He said my hair looked better in black.”

  “Where were you between six and eight last Wednesday evening?” Whitton said.

  “At home, I finished my shift around five then I went home.”

  “Was there anybody with you?”

  “No,” Kjersti said. “Kim was out at some swimming gala thing. I was on my own.”

  “Kim’s your flat mate?” Brownhill said.

  “She stays in the flat opposite mine.”

  “So there was nobody who can confirm that you were actually at home?” Whitton said.

  “No, the other girls only came back this weekend.”

  “Nobody can vouch for you?” Whitton said.

  “Vouch for me? Why would I need somebody to vouch for me?”

  She shifted her green wig to the side slightly.

  “Do you know a man by the name of Arnold Mather?” Brownhill said.

  “Never heard of him, am I a suspect here?”

  “Not at the moment, right now we’re just looking at things from all angles. We’re trying to narrow things down a bit.”

  “Let me help you then, I didn’t kill the guy who lived opposite me nor did I kill this Arnold Mather bloke. I read about it in the papers. Can I please go now? I’m going to be late for work.”

  “Would you object to providing us with a hair sample?” Whitton said. “And your fingerprints of course?”

  “I thought you said I wasn’t a suspect.”

  “We’d just like to make sure,” Brownhill said. “Then we can eliminate you from our enquiries and concentrate our efforts elsewhere.”

  “If I’m not a suspect in the first place, why would you need to eliminate me from your enquiries?”

  “Because it’s our job,” Whitton realised her voice was getting louder. “Will you agree to have your fingerprints taken and give us a hair sample or not?”

  “Ok,” Brownhill said. “Let’s calm things down a bit shall we. I apologise if we’ve come across as being a bit harsh but murders tend to stir up the emotions a bit.”

  “Am I obliged to provide you with my fingerprints and hair samples?”

  “If we suspect any involvement in a crime we have the power to enforce it,” Brownhill said.

  “And do you? Do you suspect my involvement?”

  “At the moment,” Brownhill said. “No we don’t but it would be in your best interests to cooperate fully at this stage.”

  “I’m late for work, I assume I’m free to go?”

  Whitton looked across the table at Brownhill.

  “Yes,” Brownhill said. “For the moment, you’re free to go. Thank you for your time. We may need to speak with you again.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

  “I can’t believe Brownhill let that Norwegian wise arse go,” Whitton said to Smith in the canteen. “I don’t like her at all. There’s something odd about her.”

  “She’s not our killer,” Smith said. “Get over it.”

  “What happened with you and yang Chu last night? He seems a bit upset.”

  “He’s hungover,” Smith said. “He can’t handle his drink. I told him about us and he got a bit out of hand. I didn’t realise he liked you so much.”

  “What happened? Why did you tell him about us? I thought we were going to keep it quiet for a while. Your words, not mine.”

  “I had to tell him, he went off about how I didn’t have the right to tell him what he could or couldn’t do when he was off duty. He told me he was in love with you and was going to ask you out. I didn’t want to watch him make a fool out of himself so I told him about us.”

  “How did he take it?”

  “He was drunk,” Smith said. “He completely lost it. He tried to hit me.”

  “Oh my God, that’s how he got the lump on his head. You socked him one didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t hit him. He swung a punch at me and missed. I stepped to the side. He fell over and hit his head.”

  “Poor guy, maybe I should have a
word with him.”

  “You’ll do no such thing, let him calm down a bit first. He’ll get over it.”

  “I couldn’t sleep last night,” Whitton said.

  “Me neither,” Smith said. “From the red eyes at this morning’s meeting, I don’t think anybody slept much last night.”

  “There must be something in the air - a full moon or something.”

  “You don’t believe in all that crap do you? About how the phases of the moon affect our moods?”

  “It’s been proven. Some people are affected more than others. Look at how dogs go crazy when there’s a full moon. Where do you think the word lunatic comes from?”

  “My dog doesn’t go mad when there’s a full moon,” Smith said.

  “Your dogs not quite right in the head, he takes after his owner.”

  “Anyway, I’m pretty sure there wasn’t a full moon last night. Did you find anything useful from the Norwegian?”

  “She’s stubborn,” Whitton said. “Refused to give samples of hair and fingerprints.”

  “We can’t force her. Anyway, she’s not the one. I told you that.”

  “She’s weird - she dyes her hair black and then wears a green wig.”

  “She dyes her hair black?”

  “That’s right,” Whitton said. “She’s actually blond.”

  “Then forget about her, Webber would have mentioned if the hair sample was dyed. He would have spotted it straight away.”

  “Damn it,” Whitton said. “I was really hoping she was the one. This is getting so frustrating. I don’t know if we’re going to be able to crack this one.”

  “Something will turn up,” Smith said. “It always does.”

  Bridge burst into the canteen. He was very red in the face.

  “Thompson’s collapsed,” he said. “He’s collapsed by the front desk.”

  “What?” Smith stood up.

  “He just collapsed. One minute he was standing talking to me and the next thing he’s on the floor. Baldwin’s called for an ambulance. It looks like a heart attack.”

  Smith couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He ran out of the canteen and raced down the stairs two steps at a time.

  Thompson was lying on his side on the floor by the front desk. Brownhill, Chalmers and Yang Chu were crouched over him. Chalmers was loosening Thompson’s shirt and trying to make him more comfortable. Smith stepped closer.

  “Thompson,” he said.

  Thompson’s face was a strange grey colour.

  “The ambulance will be here in five minutes,” Brownhill said.

  “What happened?” Smith said.

  “He just fell into a heap,” Baldwin said. “One minute he was talking to Bridge and the next thing he’s on the floor. Do you think it’s a heart attack?”

  “I don’t think so,” Chalmers said. “Thompson always kept himself in good shape. He doesn’t smoke and he rarely drinks these days.”

  “He’s had a cold for a while,” Smith said. “He couldn’t seem to be able to shift it.”

  “He doesn’t look right,” Baldwin said.

  “He’ll be fine,” Chalmers said. “Where the hell is that ambulance?”

  The ambulance arrived three minutes later. Two paramedics rushed in and moved everybody to the side.

  “Is it a heart attack?” Bridge asked one of them.

  “I don’t think so,” the man said. “His heart rate is quite normal. Has he been ill at all recently?”

  “He’s had a cold for as long as I can remember,” Brownhill said. “It’s been getting worse over the past few weeks.”

  “Ok,” the other paramedic said. “Let’s get him out of here shall we?” I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

  With Smith’s help they managed to haul Thompson’s considerable bulk onto a stretcher and they wheeled him out of the station to the ambulance.

  “I’ll go with him,” Smith said. “Yang Chu, take my car and meet us at the hospital.”

  He handed Yang Chu his car keys and ran outside.

  Smith sat next to Thompson in the ambulance. He was still unconscious.

  “Talk to him,” one of the paramedics said.

  “Can he even hear me?” Smith said.

  “We don’t know. Talk to him anyway.”

  “Thompson,” Smith said. “Stop being an arsehole and wake up. We need your help back at the station. There’s a dangerous woman out there remember.”

  Thompson didn’t stir.

  “Thompson, just cut the crap now. You’ll probably get a few days off now if that’s why you’re putting on this performance. Why the hell didn’t you just get a doctor’s note like anybody else?”

  Smith looked up. The paramedic was smiling.

  “Nearly there,” he said. “We’ll have him back at work in no time.”

  They arrived at the hospital ten minutes later. They were met at the door by two orderlies, three nurses and a man Smith assumed to be a doctor. Thompson was wheeled out of the ambulance and whisked inside the hospital. Smith watched as Thompson disappeared round a corner. A sudden emptiness engulfed him. He’d known Thompson for years – they’d never really seen eye to eye but Smith still felt a strange affection for the old detective sergeant.

  “You can wait in the waiting room,” a nurse said to Smith. “Someone will let you know when you can go in and see him.”

  Yang Chu arrived and patted Smith on the shoulder.

  “I’m sure he’ll be alright,” he said. “I’ll wait here with you.”

  They followed the signs to the waiting room.

  “Has anybody phoned Thompson’s wife?” Smith said.

  “Chalmers called her,” Yang Chu said.

  “I don’t even know her name. In all the years I’ve known Thompson I don’t even know his wife’s name. She’s always just been Mrs Thompson. Even Thompson calls her that.”

  “Let’s sit down,” Yang Chu said. “Do you want some coffee?”

  “No thanks.”

  They waited for a while in the waiting room. Smith watched as a man who was obviously drunk approached the reception desk, was told to sit down and returned to his seat. He repeated this exercise six or seven times before he was escorted out by a burly orderly. Thompson’s wife entered the room and made her way over to Smith. She didn’t appear distressed about her husband’s condition.

  “Mrs Thompson,” Smith stood up. “I’m sure he’ll be alright.”

  Mrs Thompson nodded gravely.

  “Is there somewhere we can talk?” She said.

  “I saw a sign for a canteen back there,” Yang Chu said. “I’ll wait here in case there’s any news.”

  “What’s going on?” Smith said.

  He sat next to Mrs Thompson by the window in the hospital canteen.

  “It was bound to happen,” she said.

  “What? What are you talking about Mrs Thompson? What was bound to happen?”

  “Call me Eve, my name’s Eve. He didn’t want anybody to know.”

  “Know what? I don’t understand.”

  “Alan is a proud man. Always has been. This is how he wanted it. Those persistent colds - I knew they weren’t just colds. I made him get himself checked out. He didn’t want to of course but he did it for me. Alan was diagnosed with throat cancer four months ago.”

  “Cancer?” Smith couldn’t believe it. “No?”

  “Alan Thompson is the most stubborn man I’ve ever met, and he distrusted the medical profession more than anything. He refused treatment and I had to go along with his wishes. Some days were fine but on others he couldn’t even get out of bed. The pain must have been unbearable but Alan never let on.”

  Smith was finding it hard to take it all in.

  “The cancer spread,” Eve continued. “I suppose that’s what cancer does. It’s spread to the blood and there’s nothing we can do.”

  “Surely there’s something we can do?”

  “We can,” Eve put her hand on Smith’s shoulder. “We can allow him as much dignity
a man of Alan’s character deserves. He watched as his mother faded away to nothing. It was the treatment that killed her. Alan didn’t want to go out like that.”

  Smith didn’t know what to say. The sat in silence for a while.

  “He bought a new car you know,” Eve said after a few minutes. “He bought it for me even though I can’t even drive. A Mercedes Benz.”

  “I know,” Smith thought back to the night he had reversed into the car. “Will you be alright?”

  “I’ll be fine dear,” Eve said. “Will you be alright? I’ve had plenty of time to prepare for this. This must be quite a shock for you.”

  Yang Chu walked in the canteen.

  “He’s awake,” he said. “Thompson has woken up.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

  Thompson was sitting up in the bed when Smith and Eve came in. A drip was feeding a colourless liquid into a vein in his arm. He smiled at his wife and looked at Smith.

  “Come to gloat have you?” he said. “Even in this state I reckon I could still beat you in an arm wrestle.”

  “How are you feeling?” Smith said.

  “I’ve had better days.”

  “And I’m sure you’ll have plenty more,” Smith could feel a lump forming in his throat.

  This is what death looks like, he thought, Thompson is dying right in front of my eyes.

  “I need to use the ladies,” Eve said. “I’ll leave you boys alone for a while.”

  She patted Smith on the shoulder as she left the room.

  “How’s the investigation going?” Thompson asked. “Bit of a bastard this one isn’t it?”

  “You’re not wrong there,” Smith said. “Mrs Thompson has told me everything.”

  Thompson didn’t seem surprised.

  “She’s a good woman,” he added. “But she never could keep a secret. So here we are. Aren’t you going to ask me if I have any last requests?”

  “Thompson, this is serious. Why didn’t you tell anybody? You old fool.”

  “You can’t change an old fool,” Thompson mused. “My dad used to say that. I have my reasons and I’d appreciate it if you could respect them.”

  “Fair enough, how long have you got?”

  Thompson started to laugh.

  “We’ll make a Yorkshireman out of you yet,” he said. “Straight to the point. My system is busy shutting down as we speak. That little episode back at the station was its way of letting me know that it can’t go on much longer. They’ve made me comfortable. I’m not scared.”