“He was looking for me,” Smith said. “The same knife was used wasn’t it?”
“Looks like it, but this one’s different. I doubt if the chloroform was used.”
“Why?”
“Look at his hands,” Webber said.
Smith looked closer and saw that both of Gravov’s hands had deep lacerations in them.
“Defence wounds,” Webber explained. “He tried to protect himself. I’ve got nothing more for you right now. Go home and get some sleep. You look terrible. Bridge has organised for a few officers to speak to the other guests in the hotel. You’re in no fit state to do anything right now.”
Smith was about to argue but he realised that Webber was right. He could be in big trouble if he was found on duty with so much alcohol in his system. Besides, all he wanted to do was curl up in bed for a very long time. Days, maybe.
Whitton was fast asleep when Smith finally collapsed next to her in the bed. She was breathing heavily. Smith smiled and looked at the clock on the bedside table. It was three in the morning. He had four hours of sleep to look forward to. He closed his eyes and an image of Luka Gravov filled his head. He was lying on the floor in the hotel room covered in blood.
What does this mean? Smith thought but that thought and any other he may have had soon disappeared as he drifted into the darkness.
CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN
“Wake up sleepy head,” Smith was aware of Whitton’s voice and the smell of coffee in the room. He opened his eyes and winced. Whitton had opened the curtains and bright light was burning into the back of his skull.
“What time is it?” He said.
“Half eight, it’s a beautiful day too. A perfect crisp, clear winter’s day.”
Half past eight, Smith thought.
He suddenly wondered if what had happened in the night had just been a dream he had just woken up from. Bridge’s phone call - the trip to the Hotel, maybe he had dreamed the whole lot.
“Luka Gravov is dead,” he said.
“I know,” Whitton said.
It hadn’t been a dream.
“Why did you let me sleep so late?” Smith sat up in the bed and his vision went black.
“I was told to. Brownhill phoned early this morning. Apparently she was following Webber’s advice.”
Smith finished the coffee and got out of bed.
“I feel like shit,” he said.
“I’m not surprised,” Whitton said. “Eight beers and the best part of a bottle of Jack Daniel’s tends to do that to you.”
“We’re back to square one,” Smith held his head in his hands. “Whatever Luka Gravov had to tell us died with him in that hotel room last night.”
“Maybe not, Brownhill hinted that Webber might have found something. Something important.”
“I suppose we should get going then. I need a cold shower first though.”
Smith felt marginally better when he sat opposite Brownhill in the small conference room half an hour later. Whitton, Bridge, Yang Chu, Webber and the two officers in uniform who had discovered Gravov’s body were also there.
“Right,” Brownhill said. “Let’s get moving on this. Luka Gravov, a Ukrainian national was found in his hotel room just after midnight last night. His throat was sliced open. Early indications point to the weapon being the same as the one used on Christopher Riley and Arnold Mather. This time the MO was slightly different. No traces of chloroform were found and Gravov had deep defence wounds on both hands.”
“She didn’t go there with the intention of killing him,” Smith said.
Everybody stared at him. Grant Webber nodded in agreement.
“I came to the same conclusion,” Webber said. “The room was in a bit of a mess. The mirror was smashed and it appears that quite a struggle took place. I’d say this was a spur of the moment killing.”
“Ok,” Brownhill said. “What exactly does this mean to the investigation?”
The room fell silent.
“My brain hurts,” Smith said eventually. “But even so, I have a theory.”
“Let’s have it then.”
“This Luka Gravov bloke contacted me on more than one occasion. He claimed to know quite a lot about our murderer. He wanted to help me and now he’s dead.”
“And that’s your theory?” Yang Chu said.
“I haven’t finished,” Smith said. “If this man knew who our killer was he also probably knew where she was. He may have tracked her down. I reckon he made contact with her and she killed him.”
“I don’t buy it,” Bridge said. “Are you saying they met in her hotel room and she just walked in and killed him?”
“Bridge, I’m the one who got bugger all sleep last night. Think. I’m saying that I don’t think she had any intention of killing him when she entered that hotel room. Haven’t you been listening?”
“Now you’re contradicting yourself,” Bridge said.
Smith sighed deeply.
“I think it was only after they started talking in the room, and she realised what he knew that she killed him. He put up quite a fight.”
“You could be right,” Brownhill said. “But it still doesn’t leave us with much. Our only witness is dead and according to the statements we received from the hotel staff, nobody can recall seeing a woman with Gravov last night.”
“What about the other guests? Have we spoken to them?”
“All three of them,” Bridge said. “This isn’t exactly the tourist season. None of them saw a thing.”
Smith remembered something that Whitton had said that morning - something about Webber finding something important.
“Webber,” he said. “You found something didn’t you? Something you didn’t find at the other murder scenes?”
“It may or may not be important,” Webber said. “But the dead man had traces of skin and blood under the fingernails on his right hand. I’d say he managed to take a chunk out of whoever did this before he died.”
“How does that help us?” Smith said. “We’ve already got this woman’s DNA from the other murders but she’s not on any of the databases.”
“No, but whoever did this will have quite a wound to cover up. We also found more black hair and a footprint in the blood on the carpet. It’s too small to have come from Gravov.”
“So we have some evidence for once, but it’s still worthless without someone to compare it with.”
“That’s your job,” Webber said. “I’m just telling you what I found.”
“Sorry Webber. Nice work.”
“I haven’t finished. We also found fingerprints on the wall and a complete handprint on the broken mirror. A beautiful handprint. This was definitely a spur of the moment thing. Before, she was careful not to leave much for us to find but this time she just lost it.”
“Where do you suggest we go from here then?” Brownhill said.
“Romania,” Smith said. “I don’t know where the hell it is but I think I should take a trip to Romania.”
“Why?” Brownhill said. “The woman may or may not come from Romania but surely that’s irrelevant now.”
“I don’t think it is. I want to see if I can find out more about her. Something is bugging me and I want to get to the bottom of it.”
“Definitely not,” Brownhill said. “I’m not going to authorise an expensive trip to Romania because something is bugging you.”
“Then I want to request some leave. I have quite a few days owing to me. I’ll lose them if I don’t take them soon.”
“I said no,” Brownhill was adamant. “And you’re definitely not going to be allowed to take leave while a murder investigation is in full swing.”
“I’ll speak to the Super,” Smith stood up. “Surely the top cop of 2010 has the right to take leave when he wants to?”
“I’ll block it. We need you here. Now sit back down please.”
Smith smiled and sat down. Brownhill didn’t notice him winking at Whitton.
CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT
Cluj Napoca, Romania
When the doors of the plane opened at Cluj Napoca Airport in central Romania, Smith didn’t know quite what to expect. A six hour delay in Bucharest due to heavy snowfall after the four hour flight from Manchester meant he’d been in transit for almost thirteen hours. It was already dark outside when he got off the plane and was hit with what felt like a wall of ice. The cold seemed to creep inside his clothing and cling to his skin. He shivered and drew his coat tighter around him. The terminal consisted of a building half the size of the police station Smith worked in. He’d taken Whitton’s advice and taken only hand luggage with him to avoid the queue at baggage retrieval. Brownhill had been furious when she found out he had gone over her head to arrange his leave but she’d left him no choice - he was certain the heart of the investigation lay in this Godforsaken place.
Smith suddenly realised he was in a different world. All of the signs and notices appeared to be in Romanian - there was not a trace of English anywhere. He walked up to what he assumed was an information desk of sorts and stood in front of a stern looking man who appeared to be asleep. He coughed to get the man’s attention and the man opened one eye and glared at him.
“Excuse me,” Smith said. “Do you speak English?”
“Of course,” the man said and closed his eyes again.
“I need to go North,” Smith said. “Up to the Maramures.”
Smith had done a fair bit of homework before he left. He wanted to know exactly where he should start looking. The man opened his eyes again.
“I need to get to the Maramures,” Smith said again.
“What for?” The man asked.
His curtness took Smith by surprise.
Webber would appreciate this guy, he thought.
“I’m meeting an old friend.”
The man eyed him suspiciously.
“My brother can take you.”
“Great,” Smith said.
“But not tonight,” the man added. “And it’s not going to be for free. I’ll let him know.”
“Great,” Smith said again. “Is there somewhere near here where I can spend the night? Can you recommend somewhere?”
“The Oscar is the best,” the man said.
“How do I get there?”
“It’s closed. It’s winter for the sake of Christ. You could try The Biscuit.”
“Biscuit?” Smith said.
“Biscuit,” the man repeated in a tone that suggested Smith was a complete idiot. “It’s a five minute walk from here. There’s only one road out of the airport. Follow it for a few hundred metres and turn right. The Biscuit is on the corner. You’re going to freeze in those clothes.”
He eyed Smith up and down again and then closed his eyes to indicate their conversation was over.
As Smith walked away from the airport terminal he decided he would add Romania to a list of the worst places anyone could visit. The people were miserable and the weather was terrible. By the time he reached the hotel he could barely feel any of his limbs. He went inside. The whole place was in darkness apart from a small fluorescent light that flickered on and off over the reception desk. Smith approached and pressed the bell on the counter. A few seconds later a woman in her twenties emerged from the darkness and sat behind the desk.
“Good evening,” she said in English. “Are you lost?”
“No,” Smith said. “I need a room for tonight and something to eat if it’s not too much trouble.”
“Passport.”
Smith took out his passport and handed it to the woman. She opened it and looked Smith in the eyes.
“Australia?” She said. “Are you on holiday?”
“Yes,” Smith said without thinking.
“The room will be two hundred Leu. The kitchens closed - its winter but I can make you a sandwich.”
Smith paid and received the key to his room.
“First floor, down the corridor to the left. I’ll bring the sandwich to your room in twenty minutes.”
“Thank you,” Smith said.
When Smith went inside his room it wasn’t at all what he’d expected it to be like. He was ready to be pounced upon by cockroaches and all other nature of evils but the room was quite neat and tidy. It was very small but clean. The bed took up most of the space but there was room for a small cupboard and a counter for making coffee and tea. A small television set hung in one corner. There was a separate bathroom next to the door. Smith went inside and splashed some water on his face. He looked at his reflection in the mirror.
I’m growing old, he thought, I’m aging before my eyes, growing old in some Godforsaken country I’d never heard of before. What kind of dreams am I going to have in a place like this?
Smith left the bathroom and lay down on the bed. It was surprisingly comfortable. He worked out how to switch the television set but a football game was showing so he switched it straight off again. There was a knock on the door and he jumped. He remembered the sandwich the receptionist had promised. He opened the door, the woman handed him the sandwich on a plastic plate and turned to leave.
“Wait,” he said. “Can I ask you something?”
She nodded.
“Hold on,” Smith opened his bag and took out the map of Romania. He showed her the highlighted part of the map.
“What’s up here?” He pointed to the map.
“Snow,” she said. “In summer it’s very beautiful but now…”
She shook her head.
“That’s where I’m headed,” Smith said.
He took a bite of the sandwich and winced. The filling was some kind of meat paste that had obviously seen better days.
“I’m looking for somebody,” he added. “From just across the border with Ukraine.”
“I’ve got work to do,” the woman turned and walked off down the corridor.
Smith left the rest of the sandwich well alone and lay on the bed. He closed his eyes and did a bit of mental arithmetic. The room had cost him less than thirty pounds. He listened to the sound of the Romanian evening. The only sound he could hear was the water pipes contracting in the cold. He turned the television back on. The football game was finished and from what he could gather, some kind of weather forecast was on. He couldn’t understand what was being said but from the figures on the screen he realised that tomorrow was going to be very cold - minus fifteen degrees Celsius. He shivered and crept under the covers fully clothed. He turned off the television and was asleep in seconds.
CHAPTER FORTY NINE
Saturday 5 February 2011
Smith woke to an incessant whining noise. It was coming from the table next to the bed. He sat up and tried to find the source of the annoying sound. A black digital alarm clock of the type popular in the eighties was flashing 07.00 before his eyes. He pressed the button on the top but nothing happened. Eventually, after pressing every button he could find, he opened up the back and removed the batteries. The noise stopped but he could still hear it ringing in his ears. He got out of bed, opened the curtains and looked outside. It was still dark but the sun was promising to come up over the mountains in the distance. Smith washed his face and brushed his teeth and wondered if breakfast was going to be too much to ask for. He rarely had the time for breakfast but his stomach was growling and he realised he hadn’t eaten anything besides the bite from the rancid sandwich since he left York. He packed everything he had into his bag and scanned the room to check he had not left anything behind. He wouldn’t be coming back here in a hurry.
Smith was surprised when he reached the reception area - quite a few people were up and about. There was a different woman behind the reception desk. Smith waited until she had finished dealing with an extremely round faced man and asked her where he could find some breakfast. Her reply was to point a long bony finger to a room to the right where five or six people were already queuing up waiting to go inside. He joined the back of the queue and waited for the doors to open.
Smith was halfway through a breakfast of
cheese, ham and bread with coffee when a tall man with thick black hair entered the dining room. From the look on his face, Smith knew at once that he was looking for someone. They made eye contact and the man approached Smith’s table.
“You need to go north,” the man sat down opposite Smith. “You want to go to the Maramures.”
Smith realised he must be the brother of the surly airport attendant.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m Jason Smith.”
He held out his hand but the man made no attempt to shake it.
“My name is Alin,” he said. “Alin Nicolescu. Alex is my younger brother. I’m the serious one I’m afraid. Alex is much more light hearted.”
Light hearted? Smith thought.
“The price will be five hundred Leu,” Alin said. “Let’s go.”
He stood up and Smith had no choice but to cut his breakfast short and follow him out the dining room, past the reception desk and out of the hotel. They emerged into the half light of a new Romanian day. The cold was worse than it had been the day before. Alin led Smith to an old brown Datsun with snow chains on the tyres. Smith got in the passenger side and shivered. Alin started the engine and drove up the road.
They drove in silence for the first twenty miles. Smith was grateful - he didn’t feel like talking to this strange man. He watched the white countryside whizz past as they drove. He could see the mountains far away in the distance - clouds had settled on the higher peaks.
“Where do you need to go?” Alin asked suddenly as if he realised how rude he had been.
“I don’t know exactly,” Smith said. “I’m looking for someone. Someone who used to live just across the border from Luzhany in Ukraine.”
Alin thought hard for a moment. It appeared to Smith as if the effect of the thought process was actually painful to him. His face tensed up and his eyes closed slightly.
“Borsa,” Alin said. “Borsa is the closest town to Luzhany.”
“What’s in Borsa?”
“Nothing. Farms and a few churches. It’s pretty in the summer but right now it’s very bleak. Who are you looking for?”
Selene: A disturbing DS Jason Smith thriller (A DS Jason Smith Thriller Book 6) Page 19
