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

by Stewart Giles

  The atmosphere in Brownhill’s office was gloomier than ever. There was an air of despair in the room. Nobody expected to make any progress anymore - that expectation had died out weeks ago and Thompson’s death had done nothing to help lift their spirits. The team was at its worst.

  “Where’s Chalmers?” Bridge asked.

  Everyone had started to get used to the DCI’s presence in their meetings.

  “He’s been called away for a week,” Brownhill said. “Smyth has dragged him off to a conference in Scarborough.”

  “Lucky bastard,” Bridge said.

  “Scarborough in January?” Whitton said. “I can’t think of anything worse.”

  “Anyway,” Brownhill said. “Let’s get started shall we? I know this whole business is starting to drag on a bit but we have to keep plodding along. Something will turn up.”

  “Groundhog Day,” Yang Chu said.

  “You’re not helping things with that attitude. Let’s go back to the beginning once more. We have two dead men, neither of which appeared to know the other. Both were killed in exactly the same way and put in bed afterwards. We have no witnesses as such and no evidence that we can use to identify this killer. Once again, does anybody have any suggestions? Did anybody wake up this morning and experience a Eureka moment?”

  “What about a new angle?” Smith said.

  “Good, can you explain what you’re thinking?”

  “OK, let’s step back and look at this from a different perspective. Every murder case I’ve ever worked on has had one thing in common. Motive. The motive is the key to the murder. So far, we’ve been wracking our brains to work out some rational reason why these men are dead. Let’s look for an irrational one.”

  “I think you need to get more sleep Sarge,” Bridge said. “You’re talking nonsense.”

  “No,” Brownhill said. “I like it. Go on.”

  “The very act of murder is irrational,” Smith said. “It goes against our very nature. Let’s forget about the most common motives - revenge, hatred, love, jealousy and financial gain and look for something else.”

  “Like what?” Yang Chu said.

  “That’s why you’re all here, that’s why we have a team. Spit out the first thing that comes into your head.”

  “A hatred of sad, lonely middle aged men,” Bridge said.

  “A deep seated fear of beer bellies,” Yang Chu chipped in.

  “That’s enough,” Brownhill said.

  “I think, in this woman’s head, she felt that she had to kill,” Smith said. “And there was nothing she could do to stop it.”

  “What do you mean?” Bridge said.

  “Look at the evidence. Both men were rendered unconscious first. They felt no pain. That indicates a certain amount of compassion. They were then killed and made comfortable in their beds.”

  “It’s almost as if she felt sorry for them afterwards,” Whitton said.

  “That’s right,” Smith said.

  “Remorseful even,” Brownhill added.

  “Why did she kill them though?” Yang Chu said. “Why kill them in the first place.”

  “Don’t think about why, the very act of killing them is why.”

  “I don’t understand,” Yang Chu said.

  “Are you saying we’re looking for a complete wacko?” Bridge said. “One of those loonies who hear voices in their heads?”

  “I don’t think so. Both of the murders were well planned. The chloroform and the way the murders were carried out indicate meticulous planning - it wasn’t a spur of the moment act of madness. She watched them beforehand and timed the whole thing to the last second.”

  “Do you think she’ll kill again?” Yang Chu asked.

  “I don’t know. Part of me wishes she will. Maybe she’ll slip up somewhere along the line.”

  “Then we’ll have another serial killer on our hands,” Bridge said. “Three murders. That’s what classes a serial killer.”

  “Only in America,” Brownhill said. “If Smith is right here then I think we’re going to need some help.”

  “What kind of help?” Yang Chu said.

  “A psychiatrist,” Smith said.

  “A head shrinker?” Bridge said. “How the hell is that going to help us?”

  “To bring a new perspective on the whole thing,” Smith said. “I hate to admit it but I think the DI is right. Do you have anybody in mind?”

  “As a matter of fact I do,” Brownhill said. “A woman by the name of Jessica Blakemore. We used her once or twice to great effect in Leeds. Her insight into the human psyche is incredible.”

  “A shrink?” Bridge still couldn’t believe what Brownhill was suggesting. “How’s a shrink going to help.”

  “What harm can it do?” Smith said. “I don’t mind admitting it - we’ve hit a brick wall here. How soon can you get her here?”

  “She can be here by this afternoon. In the meantime, does anybody have any other suggestions?”

  Nobody said a word.

  “OK, we’ll meet back here again at three this afternoon.”

  “What are we supposed to do until then?” Bridge looked at his watch.

  “Go home for a few hours. I’m giving you a direct order to bugger off home. Do whatever you like. Get some sleep - spend some time with your families. Absolutely no drinking though.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

  “Do you feel like going shopping?” Smith said to Whitton outside the station, “I’m going to look for a new guitar.”

  “I think I’ll pass,” Whitton said. “I’ve spent so much time at your place recently, I’ve almost forgotten where I live.”

  “OK, I think I’ll see if there are any guitars worth looking at and then take Theakston for a walk. The poor thing’s getting unfit.”

  “He’s always been unfit. I’ll see you back here at three.”

  She kissed him on the cheek and walked to her car. Smith watched her go. He still couldn't believe what was happening to them. It didn’t seem real somehow.

  Maybe this is just another of my weird dreams, he thought, maybe I’ll suddenly wake up and none of this will have happened.

  Smith arrived home without a new guitar an hour later. There had been nothing that really jumped out at him at the music shop. He had tried out a Mexican Fender but the action had been far too high and the tone wasn’t what he had been looking for. He missed his old beaten up Fender. It’d been destroyed with everything else when his house had burned down the year before. He turned the key in the lock and opened the door. Theakston was waiting for him as usual in the hallway.

  “Do you feel like a walk?” Smith said.

  Theakston eyed him suspiciously. It had been a long time since Smith had taken the dog for a walk and he seemed unsure as to whether he’d heard correctly. Smith fetched the collar and lead from the kitchen cupboard and put them on Theakston’s neck. The collar barely fitted anymore - the dog had got so fat.

  “You need to go on a diet,” Smith said. “We’ll go down to the park. It should be quiet this time of the year.”

  The walk down to the park usually took Smith ten minutes but with a twenty five kilogram Bull Terrier pulling him along, he made it in less than five. Smith almost had to run to keep up. He was grateful when they reached the park and found it was deserted. He removed the lead and Theakston shot off in search of the ducks near the small lake. Smith sat on one of the benches overlooking the lake. The snow had stopped but the ominous grey clouds overhead promised more snow very soon. Smith watched as Theakston darted in and out of the trees and stopped by the lake. A thin layer of ice had formed on the top and the dog appeared to be trying to decide if he could walk across or not.

  Don’t do it, Smith thought, there’s no way I’m going swimming in there today.

  Theakston turned round, ran up to the bench where Smith was sitting and collapsed at his feet.

  “You definitely need more exercise,” Smith said. “You used to run this park flat when you were younger.�
��

  Smith looked across the lake. The ducks were nowhere to be seen. Smith wondered where they went in the winter months. He thought it strange that when April finally arrived, there was always a new group of ducks with their offspring swimming behind them. He thought about the meeting with Brownhill’s psychiatrist. He still had four hours to kill before the meeting.

  Jessica Blakemore, he thought, she doesn’t sound like a shrink.

  He wondered if they were ever going to get to the bottom of the investigation. In all his years as a detective he had never experienced a case like this one. Two murders without any apparent motive. Two faceless, lonely men killed for no reason whatsoever. A motiveless murder was the hardest murder to solve. The whole thing was baffling. His thoughts turned once again to the disturbing dreams he’d been having. They were becoming more and more frequent.

  Maybe everything’s connected, he thought, maybe the dreams are a result of the frustration at not being able to fathom out this case. Maybe I ought to take Whitton’s advice and see someone about it. I should ask this head doctor.

  Theakston was starting to snore loudly at Smith’s feet. The first snowflakes were settling on the dog’s head.

  “I think that’s our cue to leave,” Smith stood up.

  Theakston stirred and got to his feet. The walk home took considerably longer than the walk down to the park - Theakston was exhausted and Smith was worried he might actually have to carry the poor dog home. By the time Smith opened the door to his house, both he and Theakston were drenched from the snow. He went inside and fetched a towel to dry the dog off. He filled the dog bowl with food and Theakston finished it in less than two minutes.

  “You’re such a pig,” Smith said.

  His phone started to ring in his pocket. He took it out and answered it. It was Whitton.

  “Missing me already?” Smith said.

  “Are you anywhere near a computer?” Whitton said.

  “I’m at home. We’ve just got back from a walk to the park.”

  “Turn on your computer, I’ve found something interesting.”

  Smith walked through to the living room and turned on his computer.

  “What’s this all about?” He said.

  “Google the name Jessica Blakemore, and you’ll see what it’s about.”

  “Hold on, this computer of mine is so slow. I think I need to get another one. Why did you Google the shrink?”

  “I was bored, I didn’t have a mental case detective sergeant to entertain me. I was curious to know what this woman’s like.”

  “You’ve really got a problem with women haven’t you?”

  “I have not,” Whitton said. “I just like to know a bit about people before I meet them.”

  “OK, it’s finally booted up.”

  He typed in Blakemore’s name into the search engine.

  “What’s so interesting?” He said read the information on the screen. “Thirty five years old. I see she has a whole load of qualifications. She’s only been practicing for eight years. What am I looking for?”

  “Look at the photo of her.”

  Smith scrolled down and a black and white photograph appeared on the screen.

  “Not bad, I don’t really like black hair though. She doesn’t look like a head doctor.”

  “Doesn’t she remind you of someone?”

  “She looks a bit like Baldwin,” Smith said. “An older version. What’s this all about?”

  “The photofit the guy from the pub came up with,” Whitton said. “It’s the spitting image of our psychiatrist.”

  “Come on Whitton, are you honestly telling me you think the shrink Brownhill is bringing in to help is actually our murderer?”

  “Look at the photo.”

  “The guy in the pub was blotto.”

  “I’m just telling you what I think.”

  “I think you need more sleep.”

  “Think about it,” Whitton said. “How many times have you read about murderers who get close to the investigations in one way or another?”

  “What do you suggest we do? Tell Brownhill that the expert she’s brought in is our murder suspect. Do we take her fingerprints and a hair sample as soon as she gets to the station or do we hear what she has to say first?”

  “Don’t be sarcastic,” Whitton said.

  “I’m not, It’s just a bit ridiculous.”

  “I’ll see you at work,” Whitton said and hung up.

  Smith stared at the blank screen on his phone. He thought about phoning Whitton back but decided against it.

  This investigation is messing with our heads, he thought, I’ll be glad when it’s all over.

  Smith turned off the computer, sat down on the couch and closed his eyes. He drifted off to sleep and was woken a few minutes later by his phone ringing.

  It’s Whitton calling to admit she was wrong, he thought.

  He answered the phone.

  “Smith,” He said.

  There was silence on the other end.

  “Who is this?”

  “A friend,” a man’s voice said. “I know who your killer is.”

  “Who is this?”

  The line went dead. Smith leaned further back in his chair. A strange sensation came over him. It felt like there was somebody else in the room with him. He could hear someone breathing nearby. He felt a hand over his mouth and a pungent smell filled his nostrils. He was starting to feel dizzy. He struggled but the hand over his mouth wouldn’t budge. He managed to twist his body and raised his hand up to his face. He felt a sharp pain in the palm of his hand and when he raised it up he realised it was covered in blood. There was a gaping wound in his hand. He screamed.

  “Holy Crap,” Smith woke up.

  Theakston was barking at him.

  I’m losing my mind, Smith thought.

  He went through to the kitchen and turned on the tap. He splashed some water on his face and dried it off with his shirt. He turned on the kettle and made the strongest cup of coffee he could. He sat down on the kitchen table and lit a cigarette. He looked at the clock - the meeting with the psychiatrist was due to begin in just over an hour.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  DI Brownhill had decided that it would be best if the four members of the investigative team and herself met with Jessica Blakemore in the privacy of her office for the first briefing. Whitton and Yang Chu were already seated when Smith walked in.

  “Am I late?” He said.

  “No,” Whitton said. “Bridge isn’t here yet. He’s going to have to watch his step. Brownhill won’t put up with his behavior for much longer.”

  “He’s probably with that mystery woman of his,” Yang Chu said. “Does anybody know who she is?”

  “I’ve got no idea,” Smith said.

  Brownhill entered the room with a tall thin woman. Smith recognised her from the photograph on the internet.

  “Good afternoon,” Brownhill said. “This is Jessica Blakemore. I’m sure she will prove to be very helpful in this investigation.”

  Yang Chu stood up and shook Blakemore’s hand. Smith did the same. Whitton merely nodded and averted her gaze. Smith couldn’t help but stare at this incredibly striking woman. Whitton had been right - she did bear an uncanny resemblance to PC Baldwin and the photofit the man in the pub had come up with. She had long black hair and thick eyebrows of a similar hue. Her eyes were intense. Smith had never seen eyes like them before - they seemed to be warm and welcoming yet slightly intimidating at the same time. Smith wondered if she used them in her profession to hypnotise her patients.

  “Where’s Bridge?” Brownhill asked.

  “He’ll be here in a few minutes,” Smith said. “It’s not yet three.”

  “What’s going on with him? He’s never used to be late for meetings.”

  Right on cue, Bridge burst through the door. He was red in the face. He looked like he had been running.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “I fell asleep.”

  He stared at Jes
sica Blakemore and smiled.

  “You must be the famous head doctor. I’m DC Bridge. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  He held out his hand. Blakemore nodded at him.

  “Ok,” Brownhill said. “Seeing as though we have everybody here we might as well make a start. We have a lot to get through. Jessica has kindly agreed to give up her time to offer us some assistance. We’re hoping she can bring a fresh approach to the investigation. Smith, would you like to go through everything that has happened for her benefit?”

  Smith spent the next twenty minutes filling Jessica Blakemore in on every aspect of the case so far. Blakemore listened intently, never once taking her eyes off Smith.

  “So there you have it,” Brownhill said when Smith was finished. “As I explained to you on the phone, we’ve hit a brick wall. We’re no closer to closing in on whoever did this than we were over a month ago when Christopher Riley was killed.”

  “Right,” Blakemore said.

  She had a very unusual voice. It was warm but there was something in the way she said that one word that Smith found intriguing. He couldn’t wait to listen to her further.

  “Firstly,” she said. “I don’t want you have any illusions about my being here. I am not going to magically pull a name out of a hat for you - I’m not a miracle worker and I don’t want you to be disappointed if my assistance bears no fruit.”

  She smiled at Smith.

  “What do you think?” She said.

  “Think?” Smith said.

  “Two men are dead. Tell me what you think about it.”

  “I don’t know,” Smith wasn’t prepared for this. “Both Christopher Riley and Arnold Mather were lonely, single, middle aged men. They were both quite drunk when they were killed. I’d say they were carefully selected.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of what they were. They had no friends - no family to speak of. I just think it’s easier to get away with killing someone that nobody is going to miss for a while.”

  “What else?”

  “I thought you were going to tell us.”

  “What else?” Blakemore ignored him.