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

by Stewart Giles

  Smith was amazed.

  “You can find out all of this from a single email address?” He said.

  “Not quite,” Milton scratched his nose. “I used the most sophisticated free spy tool ever invented. Facebook.”

  “Facebook?”

  “Do you have a Facebook account?” Milton said.

  “No.”

  “Probably for the best. You must have heard of Big Brother? Well, Facebook is the Big Brother of the twenty first century. Governments spend billions on fancy surveillance technology when they can do most of it for free on Facebook. Let me show you what your stalker looks like.”

  He opened up the Facebook page and typed in Luka Gravov’s name. A whole list of men with the same name appeared.

  “With a bit of insight into how the system works and a bit of investigative savvy, it’s quite easy to find almost anybody on here. You should really consider using it in the future.”

  A profile page for Luka Gravov appeared on the screen. Smith took a closer look. A photograph of a man slightly older than Smith was shown in the top left hand corner.

  “This is your phantom email sender,” Milton smiled proudly. “Not only do we know what he looks like - we also know where he is.”

  He scrolled down the timeline to one of Gravov’s posts.

  “That’s the Minster in the background,” Smith said.

  “Correct,” Milton said. “For the past week Gravov has been on holiday in York. Nice time of the year to visit although the weather here is probably a lot warmer than it is in Moscow right now.”

  “This is amazing.”

  “No,” Milton said. “This is the invasion of personal privacy at its worst. God knows where it’ll all end. Did you know that the FBI and the CIA have been using Facebook to track down terrorists for years now? The creators of social media didn’t realise what a monster they were to create when they started.”

  “How can we find him?” Smith said.

  “That’s your department,” Milton stood up. “I have an online game of chess scheduled for two this afternoon and I prefer to go to war in the comfort of my own flat. Gentlemen.”

  Milton picked up his laptop and left the office.

  “Quite a character isn’t he?” Bridge said.

  “Where did you find him?”

  “He was one of my roommates when I was at University believe it or not. His brain works like nobody else’s.”

  “Right,” Smith said. “I intend to find this man before he finds me. If he’s been in York for a week he must be staying somewhere and he must have come in from somewhere. Check all the arrivals for Luka Gravov for the last week.”

  “That’s if he used his real name.”

  “I think he will have done. I don’t know much about computers but he didn’t exactly try to hide his identity in cyberspace did he?”

  “Why don’t you just wait for him? He said he was going to contact you.”

  “Because I want to catch him unawares. He’s been messing us around. I want him to know he doesn’t have the upper hand anymore. That way we’ll probably get more out of him. Get onto it. I’m going to see what Whitton and Yang Chu have come up with.”

  CHAPTER FORTY FIVE

  Smith found Whitton and Yang Chu in the canteen. They appeared to be taking a break. A pile of papers lay on the table in front of them.

  “We’ve found out who my mystery stalker is,” Smith sat down next to Whitton. “Luka Gravov. He was born in a small village in the Ukraine just across the border from Romania.”

  “The highlighted part of the map,” Whitton said. “Northern Romania borders on the Ukraine.”

  “That’s where we concentrate on then. I’m positive that our killer comes from somewhere around there.”

  He told them what Bridge’s computer expert friend had found out.

  “Facebook?” Yang Chu said. “I always knew that thing was dangerous.”

  “Dangerous yes, but extremely useful. This Milton guy found out in one hour what would have probably taken us weeks. What do we know about Northern Romania?”

  “Not much,” Yang Chu sighed. “It’s pretty backward. The Carpathian Mountains form the border between Romania and Ukraine. It’s mostly small farming villages. The people there don’t appear to have evolved in hundreds of years.”

  “Sounds idyllic,” Smith said. “This woman is from there. I can feel it. What I don’t know is why the hell she’s killing people in York of all places. We need to find this Luka Gravov as soon as possible.”

  “Didn’t he say he’d be in touch? Why not just wait for him?”

  “Because I’m tired of waiting. This whole investigation has been about waiting - waiting for leads, waiting for witnesses to come forward, waiting for evidence to be analysed. Christ, we’re even waiting for another poor bastard to be found with his throat sliced open. I’m sick and tired of this whole thing to be honest.”

  “We didn’t know what we were supposed to be looking for,” Whitton said. “Nothing much happens in Northern Romania. They’re simple people who lead simple lives. That’s it.”

  “Where’s the shrink?” Smith said.

  “Probably sulking,” Whitton said. “Did you see how she reacted when Brownhill shot her down about her profiling?”

  “It was a bit over the top,” Smith admitted. “Anyway, let’s go and find her. See what she has to say. Bridge is trying to find the whereabouts of this Gravov bloke, Webber is looking into the stuff that got delivered to my house, we’ve got nothing better to do.”

  Jessica Blakemore was nowhere to be seen. According to Baldwin, she had been cooped up in Brownhill’s office all morning but when Smith knocked on the door there was no answer. They found her in the small conference room. She was sitting by herself in the corner, staring at the blank overhead projector screen.”

  “Hello,” Smith said. “Can we come in?”

  Blakemore jumped and stood up.

  “Hi,” she said. “Sorry, I was miles away there. It’s funny isn’t it that sometimes it’s when we concentrate on nothing that the most profound inspiration comes along. It’s like staring at the moon - it gives you a certain perspective on things.”

  “Sorry about earlier,” Smith said. “Brownhill’s frustration is getting to her. We’d like to hear about that profile you talked about if that’s alright.”

  Blakemore looked at Whitton then Yang Chu and finally back at Smith. She sat down again.

  “Take a seat then,” she said.

  Everybody sat down.

  “This is what I’ve come up with,” Blakemore began. “From the information I’ve been given so far. I haven’t been given much time but this is how I see it. Firstly, a female murderer is extremely rare if you take statistics into consideration. Primevally, a woman’s role is to nurture - to preserve life, not to destroy it. A woman who kills once can be rationalized - they could be protecting somebody or frightened for their own life but this woman is rather exceptional that she has taken the lives of two men for no apparent reason whatsoever.”

  She stopped and gazed at the blank screen again.

  “Secondly,” she seemed to wake up. “These murders appear to have been planned very carefully. They weren’t some kneejerk reaction to an outside stimulus. This suggests a certain cold heartedness which brings me to my third point : the paradox.”

  “Paradox?” Yang Chu said.

  “Contrary behavior. First, she plans the murder methodically and carries it out. Then she wraps her victims up warmly as if reverting back to her nurturing role. This would suggest a certain psychosis and in my experience, these tendencies are not present from birth - they develop somewhere along the line due to some kind of trauma or other.”

  “Tell me about your childhood,” Whitton said.

  Blakemore smiled.

  “Exactly,” she said. “In my opinion something happened to this woman early on in her life that has now materialised into homicidal behavior.”

  “Do you think she
’ll kill again?” Smith said.

  “Unfortunately yes, she needs to be stopped. This woman is extremely sick.”

  “Childhood,” Smith thought out loud.

  “Sorry?” Blakemore said.

  “Nothing, just thinking about childhood.”

  “Studies have shown,” Blakemore said. “For what it’s worth, that the first sixteen years of our lives are instrumental in molding us into what we are today. There are exceptions of course but look at all the documented serial killers. Almost all of them suffered severe trauma in their childhood.”

  “Thank you,” Smith said. “You’ve given us something to think about anyway. Whitton, do you feel like a drink? I need to talk to you about something. It’s already dark outside. Let’s call it a day.”

  The Hog’s Head was packed to the brim when Smith and Whitton went inside. Smith couldn’t understand why. A Tuesday night in the middle of winter was not normally when business boomed in the pub trade. He pushed his way through the crowds to the bar. Marge was frantically pouring drinks for the mostly elderly men behind the counter.

  “Jason,” she caught Smith’s eye. “I’ll be with you in a moment. Two pints of Theakstons?”

  She smiled at Whitton.

  “Thanks Marge,” Smith said. “Why’s it so busy in here tonight?”

  “Bright idea of the breweries,” Marge said. “Tuesday half price pensioner’s night. They’re like a bunch of animals. Don’t worry though, this place’ll be empty again come eight o clock.”

  She placed two pints of beer on the counter.

  “Hey you,” a man with an impressive handlebar moustache shouted over to Smith. “You’re not a bloody pensioner.”

  “Good genes,” Smith said. “I keep myself in shape.”

  He picked up the beers and took them to the only free table in the pub.

  “Cheers,” he took a long swig of beer. “Here’s to pensioner’s half price beer.”

  “What did you want to talk to me about?” Whitton sounded serious.

  “Do you think we’re doing the right thing?”

  “What do you mean? Are you having second thoughts?”

  “I don’t know, everything seems to be getting to me at the moment. This investigation, the dreams, everybody poking their noses into our business.”

  An altercation seemed to be breaking out by the bar. A tall skinny man who was obviously very drunk was having an argument with a much shorter man.”

  “Come on then,” the tall man started to roll up his shirt sleeves. “I used to box for the RAF. I still have a few moves.”

  “RAF?” The smaller man scoffed. “Public school pansies. You lot used to hit each other with your handbags.”

  Both men squared up for a fight. Smith was finding the whole spectacle quite amusing. The two men started circling one another, neither one of them daring to throw the first punch.

  “You two,” Marge screamed from behind the bar. “That’s enough. Pack it in or I’ll throw you both out.”

  The men eyed one another and returned to their seats.

  “That was entertaining,” Smith said.

  Whitton appeared lost in thought.

  “Are you saying we should end this?” She said. “Break up?”

  “I don’t know, let’s get out of here. I’ve got plenty to drink at home. Let’s get out of here before the geriatric pugilists start up again.”

  Smith and Whitton didn’t say one word to each other on the drive back to Smith’s house. Smith parked outside and they got out.

  “Beer?” Smith said to Whitton in the kitchen.

  “Thanks, I’ve got a feeling I’m going to need it.”

  Smith took two beers out of the fridge, opened them both and handed one to Whitton. He opened the back door and went outside to the garden for a cigarette. Whitton followed him out and sat on the bench.

  “I wish people would stop poking their noses into our lives,” Smith took a long drag of the cigarette and held it in his lungs for as long as possible.

  “They’re just curious. It’s human nature. Anyway, most people are happy for us.”

  “Are you happy?”

  “I thought I was, until you started with all this analysing shit.”

  “I feel like such a hypocrite,” Smith said. “How many years have I gone on and on about relationships at work never working? And yet, here we are.”

  “Here we are,” Whitton sighed.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “No.”

  “Me neither,” Smith threw his cigarette butt into his neighbour’s dead rose bushes.

  “What is it you want exactly?” Whitton said two hours and eight beers later in Smith’s living room.

  “The same as everybody else I suppose. To be happy and live a normal life.”

  “Bollocks,” Whitton started to laugh. “You’re not destined to live a normal life. You can still be happy though.”

  “Whitton,” Smith finished the rest of his beer. “I’m damaged goods. I’m not normal. People who get closed to me always seem to suffer. Do you want to take that risk?”

  “I’ve always wanted to take that risk. For a shit hot detective you’re pretty dumb sometimes.”

  Smith smiled and kissed her on the lips.

  “Shall we risk a drop of Jack Daniel’s?” he said. “I’ve got a whole bottle in there.”

  He pointed to the sideboard.

  CHAPTER FORTY SIX

  Wednesday 2 February 2011

  A good friend of Smith’s, the late Paul ‘The Ghoul’ Johnson had a theory that Smith had always agreed with. If you hit a brick wall in a murder investigation, finding another dead body is always a bonus. More evidence will come to light and there is a chance that the killer will have slipped up. The Ghoul also maintained that the best way to ensure the appearance of another cadaver is to drink eight beers and a bottle of whiskey. Thus, when Smith’s phone started to ring on his bedside table at one-fifteen in the morning, Smith had been asleep for less than half an hour and was still as intoxicated as he had been when he drifted off to sleep.

  “Smith,” he groaned into the phone.

  The room around him was spinning.

  “Sarge,” it was Bridge.

  “What time is it?” Smith said.

  “Quarter past one.”

  “What the hell do you want?”

  “We’ve found this Luka Gravov bloke,” Bridge said.

  Smith’s senses were slowly coming back.

  “Where is he?” He said.

  “I traced him to a hotel just outside the city centre. I organised a couple of uniform officers to bring him in.”

  “Couldn’t this wait until tomorrow? I’ll speak to him first thing in the morning.”

  “I don’t think he’s going to be able to tell you much,” Bridge said. “He’s dead. He’s had his throat sliced open.”

  “Christ Bridge,” Smith sat up in bed. “What’s the name of the hotel?”

  “The Beacon,” Bridge said. “It’s just off the old Foss Road.”

  Whitton stirred in the bed next to Smith but she didn’t wake up. Smith got out of bed, got dressed and went downstairs. He made the strongest cup of coffee he could stomach and sipped it slowly. He realised he was in no fit state to drive but he didn’t feel like the rigmarole of organising a taxi to come and pick him up.

  “What’s going on?” Whitton appeared in the doorway.

  She stretched her arms and yawned.

  “Our star witness is dead. Bridge tracked him down to a hotel but it appears we were too late. She beat us to it.”

  “Do you want me to go with you?”

  “Go back to bed,” Smith said. “There’s no point in both of us feeling like zombies tomorrow. Today, I mean.”

  He finished his coffee and picked up his phone and car keys. He hugged Whitton tightly and left the house.

  Smith drove under twenty miles per hour the whole way to the Beacon Hotel. He had all the windows in the car wide open to let in as mu
ch fresh air as possible. He was thankful that the roads were deserted. He knew he was taking a huge risk driving in his condition but he didn’t bump into any police cars along the way.

  This is becoming a habit, he thought as he drove, I’m becoming a serial drunk driver.

  He parked outside the hotel and stopped the engine. Three police cars and an ambulance were already on the scene. Webber’s car was also there as usual. Smith realised he didn’t have his police ID with him when he walked through the doors of the hotel and up to the reception desk. PC Jarvis was standing talking to a thin woman behind the reception counter.

  “Morning Sarge,” Jarvis said. “Room twenty nine. Not a pretty sight.”

  Smith walked past him to the lift, changed his mind and took the stairs instead.

  Two officers in uniform were standing outside room twenty nine. Smith started to panic - he didn’t recognise either of them.

  “Move along please sir,” one of them said as Smith approached.

  “DS Smith,” Smith said as clearly as he could.

  The PC recoiled as he smelled the alcohol on Smith’s breath.

  “Sir,” he said. “Go back to your room please.”

  “Let him in,” a gruff voice was heard from inside the room.

  It was Webber. Smith pushed his way inside and looked at the mess in the room. The man assumed to be Luka Gravov was lying on his back on the floor. His throat had been sliced open and blood had dried on his neck and shirt. There was more blood on the wall behind him and on the bed. The mirror on the wall was also covered in blood and it had been smashed.

  “You stink,” Webber said. “I think you ought to go home. You’re still drunk.”

  “Bridge phoned me. I’d only just gone to sleep. What have we got?”

  “What does it look like? Hit and run? Dead tourist by the looks of things. His passport was in the drawer. Ukrainian national. Luka Gravov. God only knows what the hell he was doing in York at this time of the year.”