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

by Stewart Giles

  “There’s something I need to tell you.”

  “Here we go,” Thompson sighed. “Why do people feel the need to offload their crap onto dying men?”

  “Your new car, it was me who reversed into your car.”

  “I know,” Thompson said.

  “You knew?”

  “Of course I knew. I saw you. I was watching out the window at the sister in law’s place. Watching the car was far more interesting than anything they were babbling on about.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “What for?” Thompson said. “You were probably a bit drunk. What good would it have done? It’s only a bloody car.”

  “Thanks, you’re alright Thompson.”

  “Bugger off, but while we seem to be getting on for a change, can I give you a piece of advice? Do with it what you will.”

  “Fire away.”

  “Whitton’s a good woman,” Thompson said. “Don’t mess her around. It’ll destroy her. I’ve seen the way she is around you - I’m not blind. You only see that maybe once in a lifetime. Don’t bugger it up.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind,” Smith said.

  “I mean it, you hurt that woman and I’ll rise from my grave and haunt you for the rest of your life.”

  Eve returned with a bottle of mineral water. Smith stood up.

  “You don’t have to leave on my account,” she said to Smith.

  “No,” Smith said. “I’ll leave you two in peace. I have something important I need to do.”

  He winked at Thompson.

  “I’ll come and see you in the morning. I’ll bring Whitton with me.”

  By the time Smith reached reception, tears were streaming down his face and running down his neck. He took a deep breath and wiped them away. Yang Chu was still waiting.

  “Mrs Thompson told me what’s going on,” he said. “She told me what we can expect. I’m so sorry. You’ve known Thompson for a long time haven’t you?”

  “A few years,” Smith said.

  “Sarge, about last night. I’m sorry, I was a bit of an arsehole.”

  “Forget about it, I already have done.”

  Thompson died peacefully in his sleep four hours later. Smith was watching television with Whitton at his house when Chalmers phoned to tell him the news. Smith put down the phone, stood up and walked over to the sideboard. He took out a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, unscrewed the lid and took a long drink from the bottle.

  “Thompson died ten minutes ago,” he said. “His body just gave up.”

  Whitton stood up and held Smith in her arms. She was shaking. They stayed locked together in the middle of the room. Theakston walked over and lay by their feet.

  “It’s strange,” Whitton said. “We deal with death almost on a daily basis - it’s part of the job but when someone you see every day dies it knocks you for a six.”

  “I know but the death we see in the job is the death of faceless strangers. We put it to one side. We just try and find out what happened to them but what happened to Thompson…”

  He took another long swig from the bottle and handed it to Whitton.

  “He didn’t tell anybody,” Whitton drank from the bottle. “How could he keep something like that to himself? He must have been in hell.”

  “Mrs Thompson told me everything. Thompson didn’t want to fade away in a hospital bed with tubes sticking out of him, holding on to some hope that a miraculous cure might pop up at any moment. No, I have to agree with him on this one - I think I would have done the same.”

  “What? Not telling anyone? It’s not right.”

  She seemed to be getting angry.

  “How long have we worked together?” she said. “He owed us something. He at least could have told us what was going on.”

  “Why?” Smith said. “And have people tiptoeing around him for the last days of his life, offering sympathetic smiles? I have to agree with the old fool. He kept his dignity intact right to the end.”

  Whitton stared at Smith.

  “Since when did you have a head transplant? Where did that wise old head appear from? I think I almost prefer this new mature version.”

  “Death does funny things to you. It’s Chalmers we’d better keep an eye on - he’s known Thompson for thirty odd years. He won’t admit it but he’s going to be the one who takes it hardest.”

  “I’m going to miss him,” Whitton said. “I never really understood what it was he did at work but it’s going to be strange not having him around.”

  “Yang Chu apologised to me,” Smith changed the subject. “He told me he was sorry for acting like an arsehole.”

  “I’ve been thinking,” Whitton said.

  “I don’t like the sound of this.”

  “Yang Chu knows about us, and you know what it’s like at the station. Pretty soon everybody is going to know. Why don’t we just come clean.”

  “You make it sound like we’ve committed a crime.”

  “Haven’t we?” Whitton said. “Smith’s eleventh commandment. Thou shall not partake in relationships with work colleagues.”

  “Ok, you’ve got me there. Thompson warned me though.”

  “About what?”

  “He told me you’re a good woman, and he said if I mess you around he’ll come back from the grave and haunt me for the rest of my life.”

  Whitton smiled. Then a tear appeared in the corner of her eye and her mouth started to tremble. She couldn’t stop it - she started to sob uncontrollably.

  CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

  Saturday 29 January 2011

  Thompson’s funeral took place four days later. There were no complications as far as the autopsy was concerned - the cancer had spread to the blood and his vital organs had shut down one by one. He was fifty six years old when he died. Thirty two of those had been spent in the service of York city police department.

  “Thirty two years,” Smith said to Chalmers after the short humanist ceremony.

  “That’s right,” Chalmers said. “He spent more than half of his life catching scumbags.”

  “It was quite a turnout,” Smith said. “I didn’t realise Thompson knew so many people.”

  Ninety six people had turned up to say their goodbyes. At least half of them were work colleagues past and present.

  “Thompson could be a pain in the arse at times, but he was a genuine pain in the arse. What you saw was what you got with him.”

  “How’s Mrs Thompson coping?”

  “Better than most. She’s a tough bugger that one and besides, she’s known for some time remember. She’s had time to prepare. The daughter flew in from Canada and she’s going to stay for a couple of weeks.”

  “I didn’t even know Thompson had any kids,” Smith said.

  “Just the one daughter. There’s a lot you didn’t know about Thompson. He kept himself to himself.”

  Bridge, Whitton and yang Chu walked up. Smith kissed Whitton on the cheek.

  “It’s like that is it?” Chalmers said. “Don’t tell me you two have finally woken up.”

  “What do you mean?” Smith said.

  “It’s been pretty bloody obvious for anyone with eyes in their head to see. Just don’t let it bugger up your work.”

  “Mrs Thompson has booked the Hog’s Head,” Smith quickly changed the subject. “We’re all going back there for a few drinks. Are you coming boss?”

  “Try and stop me,” Chalmers said. “Besides, I promised to say a few words.”

  “Where was old Smyth? Why wasn’t he at the funeral?”

  “He was supposed to be there. He threatened to be there. He probably went to the wrong church and sat through some other poor bugger’s funeral without realising it. Besides, it’s probably better he wasn’t here. He’s not the most tactful person sometimes.”

  “Can we get going?” Bridge said. “I’m gasping for a pint.”

  The Hog’s Head was already packed when Smith and Whitton walked in. Half of the York police department was ther
e.

  “I hope nobody wants to report a crime in the next few hours,” Smith pointed to York’s finest huddled around the bar. “Even Baldwin has dragged herself away from the front desk.”

  “I think it’s quite touching,” Whitton said. “I hope there’s as many people at my funeral.”

  “You’re not dropping off any time soon,” Smith said. “Can I get you a drink?”

  “Pint,” Whitton said. “Better make it two. Have you seen the queue at the bar?”

  Smith pushed his way through the gaggle of already half-drunk police officers at the bar and caught the eye of Marge, the owner of the pub.

  “Jason,” she said. “Nice to see you again. Sorry about your friend. Pint of Theakstons?”

  “Four please Marge,” Smith said. “I see there’s some thirsty policemen here today.”

  Marge poured the drinks and placed them on the bar counter.

  “Thanks Marge,” Smith took out his wallet.

  “Put that away, it’s been taken care of.”

  Smith took the drinks back to Whitton who had managed to grab a table by the fire. Chalmers was sitting next to her. He was drinking a large measure of whisky.

  “Marge wouldn’t take any money,” Smith sat down.

  “It’s been sorted,” Chalmers said. “Thompson’s daughter stuck three grand behind the bar. Apparently she’s loaded. She wanted a good send off for her dad.”

  “This should be interesting,” Smith said. “A bunch of coppers with a free bar. They’ll have to call the police in to keep the peace later.”

  “Here’s to Thompson,” Chalmers raised his glass and drained its contents. “It’s time for my speech.”

  He walked up to the bar and said something to Marge. The brass bell behind the counter sounded and a semi hush ensued.

  “Everybody,” Marge said. “DCI Chalmers would like to say a few words. Could we have a bit of hush please? Food will be served afterwards.”

  “Thanks Marge,” Chalmers said.

  She placed a full glass of whisky in front of him.

  “I’ll try and keep this short,” Chalmers began. “I’m sure you lot want to take full advantage of the free bar. Firstly, my condolences go out to Mrs Thompson and her daughter who has come all the way from Canada to be here. If there’s anything you need, anything at all, we’re all here for you. Now, what can I say about DS Alan Thompson?”

  He took a sip of whisky. He had prepared two speeches beforehand and, looking around the room, made up his mind to go with the second one.

  “Thompson,” he said. “Must have held the record for being the longest standing detective sergeant in the history of the York police department. Twenty eight years ago he achieved this distinction and in typical Thompson style he just couldn’t be arsed to progress any further.”

  Everybody started to laugh. Even Mrs Thompson had a grin on her face.

  “Thompson had plenty of interesting moments in his career,” Chalmers continued. “One such incident involved a nun in a state of undress and, as there are women and children here I won’t elaborate on that one. But I will tell you about something that happened when Thompson and me were young DS’s together. A young bloke had been brought in after a bit of a drunken brawl at a pub. Thompson escorted him to the cells and suggested he sleep it off. The solicitor was going to sort him out in the morning. This bloke seemed terrified of what his wife would say - he was supposed to be at a night class at the time so, out of the goodness of his heart, Thompson phoned the duty solicitor and asked her to come out to get things speeded up a bit so the poor drunk could get home without his wife knowing anything.”

  Chalmers looked around the room. He had a captive audience.

  “Anyway,” Chalmers said. “The duty solicitor was called and she arrived about half an hour later in a foul mood. She’d been asleep in bed when Thompson phoned. When she was introduced to her client, we ended up having to pull her off the poor bugger. It turns out, she was the wife he was so terrified of. Not only did she have to get up in the middle of the night, it was all her husband’s fault.”

  The whole room erupted into laughter.

  “No harm was done,” Chalmers said. “And I believe they’re still happily married although the bloke rarely goes to the pub any more. But that was how Thompson was. He had a kind heart. I hope your glasses are full because I want you all to raise them to the finest man I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with. Alan Thompson.”

  “Alan Thompson,” the people in the room shouted in unison.

  Chalmers returned to his seat. Smith noticed that his eyes were very red. He looked like he had been crying.

  “Nice speech boss,” Smith said.

  “I’m going to leave you to it,” Chalmers said. “I’m knackered. It’s been a rough few days.”

  “Don’t you want something to eat?” Whitton said.

  “I’m not hungry. I’ll see you on Monday morning. That’s if Smyth lets me out of his sight.”

  He stood up and discreetly left the pub.

  “He’s taking it badly,” Smith said. “I knew he would.”

  “He’s older than Thompson isn’t he?” Whitton said.

  “I think so. Let’s get to the food while there’s still some left. These police officers can be a bunch of pigs.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

  Monday 31 January 2011

  The snow started to fall again just before dawn. Smith woke up and leaned over in bed. Whitton was breathing lightly next to him. See seemed peaceful and Smith was sure she was smiling in her sleep. He got up and quietly made his way to the bathroom. He examined his face in the mirror. His reflection appeared odd to him - he was older somehow. Grey hairs had sprouted out from his ears and he had more wrinkles than before. More grey hair had appeared on his head. The hair was growing quickly. He looked more closely in the mirror and realised that he was growing old before his sunken eyes. The eyes seemed to droop and huge bags appeared. He splashed some water on his face but all he achieved was a blurring of the grotesque image in the mirror. He watched as the grey hair became longer - it reached his shoulders and kept growing. His face suddenly started to crack and then turned to ash.

  “Jesus Christ,” Smith woke up in bed.

  Sweat was pouring off his face. Whitton was leaning over him.

  “I’ve been trying to wake you for ages,” she said. “That must have been some dream.”

  “Do I seem older to you? I had two dreams again. I thought I’d woken up and then I must have had another dream.”

  “You’re still as old as you were last night, are you alright?”

  She wiped the sweat from his forehead.

  “You’re burning up,” she said.

  “These dreams are starting to freak me out. I dreamt I woke up, went to the bathroom and watched myself grow old in the mirror. It seemed so real. My eyes popped out and my whole face turned to ash.”

  “I told you you should think about seeing someone about it, there’s obviously something bothering you.”

  “It’s nothing you can’t help me with,” he pulled Whitton on top of him and kissed her on the lips.

  “Dream therapy,” he pulled her closer. “Replacing the bad thoughts with good ones.”

  An hour later, Smith, Whitton and Bridge sat in the canteen at the station. Smith was staring out of the window contemplating the grey snow clouds that were circling in from the west.

  “It’s strange not having Thompson around,” he said. “He didn’t do much but at least he was around.”

  “I wonder if they’ll replace him,” Whitton said.

  “Thompson’s irreplaceable,” Smith said.

  “He’s been dead almost a week now,” Whitton said. “I still can’t believe he didn’t tell anybody he was sick.”

  “I can. I’m going to check my emails.”

  Smith sat in his office and switched on his computer. He looked at the two photographs on the wall. Lucy Maclean and his sister, Laura.

  B
oth of them killed because of me, Smith thought, am I getting immune to death?

  He opened up his emails. There was one from Superintendant Smyth wondering why Smith had not shown any interest in being awarded the top policeman of 2010 award.

  Top cop, Smith smiled, what a joke.

  He deleted the email. He had no intention of showing up at any award ceremony. The email at the bottom of the list caught his eye. It was from an address he did not recognise L.gravov@outlook.ru. There was no message in the body of the email but there was an attachment. Smith opened it up. It was a photograph of a young girl. She appeared to be fifteen or sixteen years old. She seemed vaguely familiar. She had long black hair and piercing brown eyes. Smith stared at the photograph for quite some time. He didn’t know why someone had sent him a photograph of a mystery girl. He suddenly remembered the other emails he had received from an unknown sender. He clicked on the deleted items icon and scrolled down. The same email address appeared on the screen L.gravov@outlook.ru.

  “Anything interesting?” Whitton appeared in the doorway.

  “This is odd,” Smith said. “Someone has sent me three emails and I have no idea who it is.”

  Whitton looked at the screen.

  “That’s from a Russian server,” she said. “Dot RU. It’s Russian.”

  “I don’t know anybody in Russia.”

  “Reply to the email,” Whitton suggested. “Ask them who they are and what they want.”

  Smith took Whitton’s advice literally. He clicked on the reply icon and wrote seven words, ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

  He pressed send.

  “We’ve got a meeting in Brownhill’s office,” Whitton said. “Yang Chu calls it the Groundhog Day briefing.”

  “Groundhog Day?”

  “Like the film, you know the one where the guy wakes up and lives the same day over and over again? I don’t think we’ll ever catch this woman. We’d better go. We wouldn’t want to keep the DI waiting.”