“I don’t think this woman really enjoyed killing them.”
“Why do you say that?” Blakemore took out a notepad and wrote something down in it.
“It’s just a feeling I get. I’ve investigated murders before and the majority of the perpetrators gain some kind of thrill out of it. I don’t think this woman does. Like I say, it’s just a feeling I get. I could be wrong.”
“He seldom is,” Brownhill said.
“I see,” Blakemore said. “Intuitive sort are you?”
“It’s a curse I was born with.”
He didn’t notice that Whitton’s face was getting redder and redder by the second. It was clear she didn’t like this woman.
“I’m inclined to agree with you,” Blakemore said. “The chloroform and the very way these men were left after they were killed support your theory. It suggests a certain amount of remorse.”
“Can I say something?” Whitton said.
“I was hoping you would.”
“We already know all of this. We’ve gone over this again and again for weeks now. I thought you were here to give us something new.”
“I’m trying to establish all the factors of the equation,” Blakemore said.
“The DI said you’ve helped her out before,” Whitton said. “Excuse me if I sound rude but how did that work out? Were you at all helpful then?”
“Mrs Blakemore was extremely useful,” Brownhill wasn’t happy. “But, like she said, we can’t expect miracles from her.”
“Ok,” Blakemore said. “You all seem pretty sure that you’re looking for a woman here and even without the witness accounts, I must admit I’m inclined to agree. I would suggest that she charmed these men into letting her into their homes, knocked them out with the chloroform and then killed them. Do you know what my initial feeling is?”
“The suspense is killing us,” Whitton said.
“I believe she underwent four phases,” Blakemore ignored Whitton’s sarcasm. “Four distinct phases. Phase one is the preparation period - she observes her victim for a while beforehand. She knows exactly when to strike. She has procured the chloroform and the knife and she’s completely prepared. Phase two is where she puts this meticulous planning into action. She manages to gain the trust of the victim and gains access to where they feel the safest - in their own homes. She knocks them out with the chloroform and all the time she will appear perfectly calm. These men didn’t stand a chance. They will have had no inkling of what was going to happen. The third phase is the most disturbing one. Her whole personality will change. She slices open the throat of her victim. Slitting somebody’s throat is not easy - it requires a determination to kill and there are many other ways to kill someone - less drastic ways.”
“Do you think the way they were killed is significant?” Smith said.
“Definitely, I’m sure I’m only stating what you’ve all been thinking. Why slit their throats when they’re completely helpless? Why not just poison them? Why does it have to be so violent?”
“What’s phase four?” Whitton said. “Have you forgotten about the fourth phase?”
“She calms down again,” Blakemore said. “Her blood pressure most certainly drops and she realises what she’s done. She knows she had to kill them but she starts to feel remorse. That’s why she tucks them up in bed. Then she leaves.”
“Are you saying we’re looking for a lunatic?” Yang Chu said. “A mad woman?”
“Madness is complicated, and I’ll be the first to admit that psychiatry is not an exact science. The human brain is an enigma but yes, the person you’re looking for is definitely unbalanced. I wouldn’t rule out schizophrenia but please don’t quote me on that.”
“Do you have any suggestions as to why she’s doing this?” Brownhill said.
“Not yet, without knowing more about her - her childhood for instance, it’s impossible to say.”
“This is a waste of time,” Whitton said. “I thought you were here to help us.”
“Detective?”
“Whitton,” Whitton said.
“Detective Whitton, this isn’t the movies. This is real life. If you expected me to come in here for a few hours and put together a profile picture that points out your killer, you’re not living in the real world.”
“Speaking of pictures,” Whitton said. “Where were you on Christmas Day?”
“Whitton,” Brownhill said. “That’s enough. I think we’ll take a break for half an hour.”
Everybody stood up.
“Whitton,” Brownhill said. “Could I have a word before you go?”
CHAPTER FORTY ONE
“What the hell was all that about?” Brownhill said to Whitton when they were alone in the office.
“What was what about?” Whitton said.
“You’re whole attitude. Jessica is here to help. I’d appreciate it if you’d show her a bit of common courtesy, not to mention respect. She’s very accomplished in her field.”
“I don’t like her. There’s something not quite right about her.”
“No doubt she thinks the same of you. Take a break. When we resume I expect you to behave like a police detective.”
Whitton left the office and headed for the canteen. Smith, Bridge and Yang Chu were sitting by the window talking to Jessica Blakemore. Whitton sat down next to Smith.
“I hope I didn’t get you into trouble back there,” Blakemore said.
“I’m sorry if I was a bit rude,” Whitton managed to force the words out.
“Rude?” Blakemore said. “I don’t think you were rude at all. I wish more people were as open as you are. It would make my job a whole lot easier - yours too I imagine. I think that was a very productive session. I didn’t want you to hold back; I wanted you to say exactly what was on your mind.”
“Are you married?” Bridge said. “I’m just saying what’s on my mind.”
Everybody laughed. Even Whitton managed a smile.
“Yes,” Blakemore said. “I’m married. He’s an architect. He’s a southerner but he’s alright. That brings me to your question.”
She looked at Whitton.
“Question?”
“Christmas Day. You asked me where I was on Christmas Day. I was in London with my husband’s family.”
“We’re just frustrated,” Smith said. “We’ve been slogging away for weeks and we’ve got absolutely nothing. We were hoping you would be able to give us something new.”
“Let me sleep on it,” Blakemore said. “It’s amazing what the human brain can come up with when you least expect it. Let me process all of this and I’ll get back to you tomorrow.”
“What about the rest of the meeting?” Bridge seemed disappointed.
“I’d say we’ve accomplished more in here in five minutes than we did in two hours in there.”
She stood up.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” she said. “That’s if you still want me to try and help you.”
“Of course we do,” Smith turned to Whitton.
“We do,” Whitton said. “This one is getting to us, that’s all.”
“Let it get to you - that’s how you’re going to crack it. That’s a bit of free advice. Anything more and I’m going to have to start charging you by the hour and I’m not cheap.”
She walked out of the canteen.
“What do you make of her?” Smith said when Blakemore was gone.
“I like her,” Bridge said.
“Me too,” Yang Chu added.
“She’s not as bad as I thought she would be,” Whitton admitted.
“At least we have a bit more to go on now,” Smith said.
“Do we?” Whitton said.
“We now know for sure that Riley and Mather were not connected - they were chosen at random. At least now we can stop wasting our time on finding a link.”
“What do you suggest we waste our time on now then?” Yang Chu said.
Smith looked at his watch.
“Ourselves,” he said.
Everybody stared at him.
“What’s happened to you?” Bridge said. “You used to be obsessed about solving a case. You wouldn’t sleep until you’d got to the bottom of it.”
“Look where that got me. I almost lost my mind a few times when there were things I couldn’t figure out.”
He stood up.
“Where are you going?” Whitton said.
“To speak to Brownhill. To tell her we’re calling it a day. Do you feel like seeing a band tonight?”
“A band?”
“The Sweaty Pigs are playing at The Fringe tonight,” Smith said.
“The Sweaty Pigs?”
“They’re a bit rough and ready, but they play the best raw blues I’ve heard in a long time.”
“Sounds great,” Whitton said, “I think.”
“I’ll pick you up at seven.”
He walked out of the canteen.
Brownhill was still in her office when Smith went in. She was talking to Jessica Blakemore. They seemed to be sharing a joke.
“Excuse me,” Smith said. “Me and the team have decided to call it a day if that’s alright with you.”
“So I’ve gathered,” Brownhill said. “Jessica was just giving me her professional opinion on all of you,”
“I don’t want to know. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“I’ll walk with you,” Blakemore said.
She stood up and left the room with Smith.
“I’ve heard all about you DS Smith,” Blakemore said as they walked down the corridor towards the front desk. “I could devote an entire psychological dissertation to somebody like you.”
“I’m just a bit unlucky.”
“Unlucky?” Blakemore stopped by the door that led to the front desk.
“Unlucky?” She said again. “I’d say you’re more that unlucky. Your father commits suicide when you’re a kid and your sister disappears the very next year. You’re sent to York to stay with your Gran and a few years later she dies too. You join the police force and things really start to happen. You find your girlfriend dead in your bathroom and a few months later your sister is pulled out of the river. Your house gets blown up and your friend dies when his car explodes. That’s more than unlucky.”
Smith nodded.
“That’s about it,” he said.
“Not to mention how many times you’ve almost died yourself. What is it? Three or four times?”
“More like six,” Smith said. “If you count the time I spent in Talinn looking for my sister.”
“I’m surprised you’re still in one piece. Mentally that is. Anybody else would be in an institution by now banging their heads against the wall all day.”
“The dreams probably help,” Smith said.
“OK, now we’re talking. Dreams - the most uncharted of territories. I imagine it’s nightmares you’re talking about?”
“Sort of,” Smith didn’t know why he was telling this stranger all of this.
There was something about her that made her easy to talk to.
“Whitton calls them double dreams,” he said. “Something like that anyway. Lucid dreams.”
“Double awakenings,” Blakemore’s intense eyes seemed to brighten. “You’ve been having lucid double awakenings?”
“I wake up, or at least I think I’ve woken up. I’m in complete control of the dream. It’s like I’m really awake and then I wake up for real.”
“That’s extremely rare,” Blakemore said.
“I’d better go. I’ll see you in the morning. Are you staying in York tonight?”
“I’ll be here for the whole week. Bryony has kindly offered to put me up.”
“See you tomorrow then,” Smith said.
He started to walk away and felt a hand on his shoulder. It seemed to send a shockwave throughout his whole body.
“Detective,” Blakemore said.
Smith turned around. Blakemore’s eyes bored into his.
“If you want to talk about those dreams of yours,” she said. “I’d be happy to listen. No charge of course. I’d be very interested to hear about them.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“They’re only going to get worse.”
“I’ll be fine,” Smith walked past Baldwin’s desk and out of the station.
CHAPTER FORTY TWO
The Fringe Club was a small intimate venue just outside the city centre. It was one of those so called alternative night spots frequented by students and wannabe hipsters keen to escape the drudgery of their nine to five existences. Smith and Whitton had arrived at half past seven and by eight the place was slowly filling up. Smith had chosen a table in the middle of the room - not too far away from the stage but not to close that the close proximity to the band would leave him half deaf for the next few days.
“Look at them,” he said to Whitton. “York’s finest. Top ten percent. We’re all doomed if they’re the future of this country.”
Scores of young student types were propped up at the bar frantically drinking to make sure they took full advantage of the mid week booze specials.
“You’re so cynical,” Whitton knocked back half of the beer in her glass. “They’re not that bad. I was a student once you know.”
“Me too, that’s how come I know so much about them. I’m going to get a few drinks in before the band come on. And before that rabble drink the place dry.”
He walked towards the bar and pushed his way through the aliens with their peculiar hairstyles and obscure attire. He was suddenly aware that he was being observed. He’d experienced the feeling before. It was as if the pair of eyes that were watching him were burning through his skin. He turned round but he couldn’t see anybody who appeared to be out of place.
“Four pints of Theakston,” he said to a sweaty bull of a man with long greasy hair. “The beer’s not watered down is it?”
The barman glared at him.
“Of course it isn’t,” he said.
“These student bastards wouldn’t even notice, but I would. It’s illegal you know.”
“What are you?” The barman poured the beers. “The beer police?”
Something like that, Smith thought but decided to hold his tongue.
Smith took the drinks back to the table. The feeling that he was being watched was still with him.
“About time,” Whitton took a long drink from the glass. “What time are the Greasy Pigs on?”
“Sweaty Pigs,” Smith said. “Their first set is at nine. I think someone’s watching me.”
“Watching you?” Whitton looked around the club. “Everybody’s watching you. You’re not exactly dressed like the rest of the elite clientele in here. You stick out like a sore thumb.”
Whitton’s words instantly made Smith feel depressed.
“What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed? Anyway, I used to rock in clubs like this one. You’ve seen me play.”
“That was a long time ago,” Whitton said. “You’ve grown up since then.”
“What a terrible thing to say. You’re making me feel old.”
“Not old, just more mature.”
“That’s even worse.”
Smith thought back to the many times he had stood on the stage of The Deep Blues club and played off the top of his head.
I’m buying myself another guitar, he thought, as soon as this awful investigation is over.
“I’m going to the ladies,” Whitton stood up. “Keep my seat.”
“OK,” Smith said. “Unless someone better comes along. Maybe someone who likes old men like me.”
Whitton shook her head and headed for the toilets.
While Smith was waiting for Whitton to come back he scanned the room. It was a habit he had acquired when he had joined the police. Young men and women wearing T shirts depicting bands Smith had never heard of were smiling and talking about how they were going to change the world.
Idealists, Smith thought, they’ll soon realise how shitty this world is when their dre
ams are smashed.
It was while Smith was looking around the room that he saw him - a man in his thirties who didn’t seem to belong there. For a split second, their eyes met and the man quickly looked away. Smith wracked his brain. He didn’t recognise the man. He was tall with dark hair and an unfortunately large nose. He appeared to be on his own. Whitton returned to the table.
“Three of the students have already thrown up in the ladies,” she said. “Oh the simple joys of youth.”
“Look over there,” Smith said. “Between the pillar and the jukebox. There’s a man on his own with dark hair. He’s the one who’s been watching me.”
Whitton looked over.
“I can’t see anyone like that,” she said.
Smith tried to locate the man again but he appeared to have vanished.
“You’re imagining things. Here, this’ll cheer you up.”
She put her hand in her coat pocket and pulled out a small silver hip flask. She handed it to Smith.
“Jack Daniel’s,” she said. “That’s what blues guys drink isn’t it? We used to smuggle booze in all the time when I was a student.”
Smith smiled and took a long swig from the flask.
“These mangy hogs had better be good,” Whitton said.
Two hours later, Smith and Whitton stood outside The Fringe Club waiting in a line of inebriated academics for a taxi. An altercation could be heard further down the queue but it soon evaporated and loud laughter could be heard.
“They weren’t bad,” Whitton said. “Not really my kind of thing but I wouldn’t mind seeing them again.”
“They were brilliant,” Smith said.
He was feeling very drunk.
“Country Joe and the Fish, Grateful Dead, Zappa - all the classics. Their version of Good Vibrations was pure genius.”
“I prefer the original,” Whitton said.
“You would. I mean, anyone who thinks Meatloaf is music would. Hold on.”
He had spotted something across the road from the taxi rank.
“It’s that bloke again,” he said. “He’s just walked off down the road.”
Before Whitton could say anything, Smith had set off across the road. He was almost run down by an approaching taxi. The driver hooted as it drove past. Smith half walked, half ran in the direction he had seen the man go. He came to the shop on the corner and looked around. The street was deserted. He felt a hand on his shoulder and braced himself for an attack.
Selene: A disturbing DS Jason Smith thriller (A DS Jason Smith Thriller Book 6) Page 16
