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

by Stewart Giles

  “I don’t know,” Smith said and realised how ridiculous he sounded.

  Alin shook his head and turned right onto a road that looked like it was rarely used.

  “Do you speak Romanian?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “What about Russian?”

  “No, English is all I can manage.”

  “I thought so. It’s not going to be easy then. The people in the north are very simple people. They haven’t changed much in hundreds of years. Strange things go on up there if you believe the tales.”

  “What strange things?”

  “Ah,” Alin said. “Just superstitious nonsense. We’re almost there.”

  Smith marvelled at the approaching mountain range covered in snow. He’d never seen anything like it before - it was like something you only saw on picture postcards. They drove past a few houses, a farm stall, a place that looked like a bar and an old wooden church. Alin stopped the car.

  “Why are we stopping?” Smith asked.

  “Borsa,” Alin smiled. “We’ve just driven through it. If you blink, you might miss most of the town. If we carry on any further on this road we’ll end up in Ukraine.”

  Smith thought for a moment. He suddenly realised that he didn’t have any idea what he hoped to find here.

  “Will you help me?” He said to Alin. “I’ll pay you of course.”

  “I’ve told you the price. I said I’d help you and I will. But let’s have a drink first.”

  He reversed back and stopped outside on old stone building with boarded up windows. They got out of the car and Alin led Smith up a gravel path to a door. He knocked hard on the door and shortly afterwards a small elderly man opened it up. Alin said something to him in Romanian and the old man stepped to the side.

  “Come in and get warm,” Alin said to Smith.

  Smith headed straight for a table next to an open fire. The only other patrons were two huge men who were sipping coffee and playing dominoes in the corner of the room. They didn’t even look up when Smith and Alin walked in.

  Alin placed two cups of coffee and two glasses containing a brown liquid on the table.

  “Drink this first,” he picked up one of the glasses. “Welcome to Romania.”

  He raised the glass to his lips and waited for Smith to do the same. Smith eyed the contents of the glass suspiciously, shrugged and drained the glass in one go. The burning sensation that followed was something he would never forget. It started in his throat, continued down to his stomach and seemed to spread out to his chest, arms and legs. When Smith was certain he couldn’t take it anymore, the heat calmed down and he felt a strange warming sensation spread throughout his whole body. Alin Smiled.

  “Now drink some coffee,” he said.

  “What was that stuff?” Smith gasped.

  “Tuica. It’s made from plums. It’ll turn you insane if you drink too much but not many people can manage more than a glass or two. I can see you can handle your drink.”

  “I’ve had a bit of practice,” Smith took a sip of the coffee.

  It was much stronger than he was used to but it tasted delicious after the Tuica.

  “OK,” Alin said. “Here we are in Borsa. Tell me who you’re looking for.”

  Smith didn’t know how to tell a complete stranger that he was looking for someone who had killed three men in the space of a couple of months.

  “I’m trying to find a woman,” he said. “Someone who may have lived here fifteen to twenty years ago.”

  “I see,” Alin’s face turned serious. “Can I ask you a question first?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me straight away that you were a policeman?”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “Not at all,” Alin said. “You look nothing like any police I’ve come across but my brother saw it straight away. He spent ten years as a policeman. He says there’s something in the way a policeman talks that will always give them away.”

  “Sorry,” Smith said. “Detective Sergeant Jason Smith. That’s who I am.”

  “Detective? Then it must be serious. I’m going to order us two more Tuicas and if you’re still capable of talking after that, you can tell me everything. From the beginning.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  YORK

  Whitton and Yang Chu sat in Brownhill’s office waiting for the DI to finish her phone conversation.

  “Yes,” Brownhill said. “We do believe that there is a connection between the three murders. No we’re still working on the connection. If anything comes to light, you lot will be the first to know. Goodbye.”

  She slammed down the phone so hard that the whole desk shook.

  “Reporters?” Whitton said.

  “The worst of them all,” Brownhill said. “Yorkshire Post. I don’t even know how that vulture managed to get hold of my number.”

  “I wonder how Smith is getting on,” Yang Chu said. “It must be freezing over there at the moment.”

  “It’s not that warm over here,” Brownhill said. “And Smith is going to find it even colder when he gets back and faces the consequences of going over my head. What was he thinking?”

  “There’s another front on its way,” Yang Chu changed the subject. “It’s moving in across the Atlantic. I wonder when it’s ever going to end.”

  “Where’s Blakemore?” Whitton said. “I haven’t seen her around for a few days. Is she finished helping us?”

  “She’s sick. I think she’s caught this flu bug that’s been going around.”

  “Do we know anything else about this Gravov guy?” Yang Chu said.

  “Nothing, apart from the fact he was a bank clerk living in Moscow. They’ve finished with the autopsy - his family are arriving on Monday to make the necessary arrangements.”

  “I wonder what he wanted to tell Smith,” Whitton said.

  “Whatever it was, it was so important that it cost him his life. This has to be the most frustrating investigation I’ve ever worked on. It seems like every time we feel like we’re getting somewhere, we end up back to square one.”

  “I don’t think we’re ever going to get to the bottom of this mess,” Whitton sighed.”

  “Smith will bring something back with him,” Yang Chu said. “He always does doesn’t he?”

  “He better come back with something,” Brownhill said. “We’ll solve this one sooner or later.”

  “I don’t know,” Whitton said. “This case is different to any other. It’s like you said - it’s frustrating. It’s as if this woman is some kind of ghost. Nobody saw her at the hotel Gravov was staying at. Nobody knows anything about her. She appears and then disappears like a phantom.”

  “We need to stay positive. Where’s Bridge? Isn’t he supposed to be on duty today?”

  “He is,” Whitton said. “But I swapped my day off with him. Bridge asked if he could swap - he’s got a date with that mystery woman of his. They’ve gone ice skating.”

  “Ice skating in this weather?”

  “Apparently Bridge’s girlfriend has a young kid,” Whitton said. “I never thought Bridge would hook up with a woman with a kid.”

  “We all have to grow up sometime,” Brownhill mused. “Even Bridge.”

  Grant Webber entered the room. He seemed very agitated.

  “There’s trouble at the front desk,” he said. “Baldwin’s trying to fob off a bunch of journos. They’re not exactly behaving themselves.”

  Yang Chu stood up.

  “I’ll go and sort them out,” he said.

  “No,” Brownhill said. “Let’s give them what they want.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m going to arrange a press conference for this afternoon.”

  “Do you think that’s a good idea?” Whitton asked.

  “It can’t be helped. Those parasites are going to write about these murders anyway. At least this way we’ll have a bit of control over what they write. Speculation can be very damaging to our
public image.”

  “Bryony’s right,” Webber said. “Give them a bit of info to be going along with. It’ll prevent the kind of panic we had with that Harlequin mess.”

  Baldwin was fighting off six or seven journalists by the front desk when Brownhill appeared. She appeared to be taking some strain.

  “Quiet everybody,” Brownhill boomed.

  Everybody shut up and stared at her.

  “I understand you wanting to know what’s going on,” Brownhill said. “But this is not the way to go about things.”

  “Three men have been killed in York in a couple of months,” a young woman with a voice louder than Brownhill’s said. “Do we have another serial killer at large?”

  “I’ve decided to give a press conference,” Brownhill said. “Four this afternoon. Your questions will be answered then and only then. I seem to remember a time when there was such a thing as journalistic etiquette.”

  “Journalistic etiquette?” A balding man in his fifties started to laugh. “I love it. That’s my new favourite oxymoron. That’s even better than police intelligence.”

  “Four o’ clock sharp,” Brownhill ignored him. “Now would you please get out of here and leave us to do our jobs?”

  “Journalistic etiquette,” the bald man sniggered to himself.

  He walked towards the door. The other members of the press followed after him.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” Brownhill said to a tall thin man with a goatee beard. “The press conference will be at four.”

  “I’m not a reporter,” the man said. “the name’s Ian. Ian Blakemore.”

  “Blakemore?”

  “I’m Jessica’s husband,” he said.

  “What seems to be the problem Mr Blakemore?”

  “Call me Ian,” he said.

  “Ok Ian. What can I do for you?”

  “Not here, can we talk somewhere private?”

  Whitton and Yang Chu were still sitting in Brownhill’s office when she returned with Ian Blakemore.

  “This is Jessica Blakemore’s husband,” Brownhill said. “Can you leave us in peace please?”

  Ian Blakemore smiled at Whitton but Whitton sensed immediately that something was not right.

  “Come on,” she said to Yang Chu. “I’m dying for a cup of coffee. You can buy me one.”

  Yang Chu stood up.

  “Nice to meet you,” he said to Ian Blakemore and left the room.

  Brownhill closed the door.

  “Please take a seat,” she said.

  “It’s Jess,” Ian sat down. “I’m really worried about her.”

  “She’s got a bit of flu, I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

  “Flu?” Ian seemed confused. “She hasn’t got the flu.”

  “I spoke to her on Wednesday morning, she said she’d be off for a few days with flu.”

  “I saw her on Wednesday, and she most certainly didn’t have flu.”

  “Maybe I heard wrong, what’s going on here?”

  “She came home on Wednesday afternoon,” Ian said. “I was surprised to see her and she was even more surprised to see me. I’d been working from home on a new project. I got the distinct impression she wasn’t too happy to see me.”

  “I’m sorry, but what has this got to do with me?”

  “I’m worried about her. She didn’t seem herself.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “She was acting weird, like something was bothering her.”

  “This investigation is taking its toll on all of us. We’re all a bit on edge at the moment.”

  “She had a nasty scratch on her face,” Ian said. “Naturally I asked her about it and she completely lost it.”

  “What did she do?”

  “She told me not to pretend that I even cared where she got it. I was very upset. Of course I care. Anyway, she finally told me that your cat scratched her when she was staying with you. ‘Brownhill’s fucking cat’ were the words she used if you’ll excuse my language.”

  “But,” Brownhill suddenly felt sick. “I don’t have a cat. I hate cats.”

  Ian looked confused.

  “Why would she lie about something like that?”

  “I don’t know,” Brownhill said, “where is Jessica now?”

  “That’s why I’m here. I haven’t seen her since. She stormed out on Wednesday and she hasn’t come back. I thought she might have come back here.”

  “No, I last saw her on Tuesday. She phoned on Wednesday to say she wouldn’t be coming in for a few days.”

  “I’ve tried phoning her, but it looks like she’s switched her phone off. I don’t know what to do.”

  “I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation,” Brownhill said although she could hear the doubt in her own voice.

  CHAPTER FIFTY ONE

  BORSA, ROMANIA

  “So,” Alin said, “you think this Femme Fatale of yours is Romanian?”

  Smith stared at the six empty glasses on the table in front of him. His head was pounding and the room was starting to spin. He’d just finished telling Alin about the investigation.

  “I’m sure about it,” Smith said. “Luka Gravov, the man who was killed, wanted to tell me something before he died. He sent me a map of Romania and a photo of a young girl. He knew who she is, I’m certain he knew who she is.”

  “And you think by coming here you’ll find answers?” Alin said. “Just like that?”

  He tried to snap his fingers together but nothing happened.

  “It’s better than sitting back in York going crazy. We’ve hit a dead end.”

  “So you have the photograph with you?”

  “Of course,” Smith opened up his bag and took out the copy of the photograph.

  “Pretty girl,” Alin looked at the photograph. “Unusual eyes.”

  “Do you know who she is?”

  “Never seen her before.”

  “Maybe if we start showing it around someone might recognise her.”

  “Maybe,” Alin agreed. “But take a piece of advice first. You start to show this photograph around and say you’re looking for a murderer you’ll be met with such a silence that you’ll end up going crazy.”

  “What do you suggest then?

  Alin scratched his head and took a drink from one of the glasses on the table. He didn’t notice that it was already empty.

  “Ok,” he said. “You do this. You’re not a policeman - you’re a friend of the woman’s and you’re here to try and find her family. That’s where we’ll start.”

  “Why couldn’t she just come back herself to find them?”

  “Because she doesn’t know you’re looking for them. Do you have any better suggestions?”

  Smith realised he didn’t have a better suggestion.

  “Where do we start then?” He said.

  “I’m going to sleep for a while. I need to sleep off six glasses of tuica. I’ve never managed six before. I suggest you do the same.”

  Three hours later, Smith woke from a dream about guitars and realised he was alone. The log fire was still burning but the bar was empty. His mouth felt incredibly dry and he could feel a headache coming. The old man appeared as if from nowhere and placed a jug of water and two glasses on the table. Alin was nowhere to be seen. The old man walked off without saying a word. Smith filled one of the glasses and drank it in one go. It tasted of lemons. Alin pulled up his chair and sat down.

  “I needed the bathroom,” he said. “How’s your head?”

  “Not too bad,” Smith lied.

  “Then you’re a much better drinker than me. I never thought I’d ever say that to anyone. I’ve spoken to the man who owns this place - he knows everybody around here and he told me something very interesting.”

  Smith rubbed his eyes and poured himself another glass of water.

  “Let’s go,” Alin stood up. “There’s a small village to the south of here where we might find some answers.”

  Smith and Alin drove out of Borsa and he
aded south towards a vast expanse of fields and open land. The snow was thick on the ground and Smith wasn’t sure if they were actually on the road or not. He was grateful for the chains on the tyres. Alin stopped the car next to an old farm house. Smoke was rising straight up from the stone chimney - there wasn’t a breath of wind in the air.

  “Give me the photograph,” Alin ordered. “And stay in the car. These people can be very suspicious of strangers.”

  Smith took the photograph of the young girl out of his bag and handed it to Alin. Alin opened the car door and the cold air rushed in. Smith watched as Alin walked up to the old house and knocked on the wooden door. It was opened soon after and Alin started to speak. Smith couldn’t see who was behind the door. He watched as Alin handed the photograph to the mystery person behind the door and then nodded. He then offered his hand and received the photograph instead of a handshake. The door was promptly slammed in his face. Alin returned to the car and got in. He started the engine and drove towards a dense forest in the distance.

  “Problems?” Smith asked.

  “Not at all, I think I may have found the person you’re looking for - or at least I have a place to begin.”

  Smith could feel the blood soaring through his veins.

  This could be it, he thought, this could be the breakthrough they needed.

  Alin drove for a further two or three miles through the countryside and stopped outside a house standing on its own in the middle of a huge field. A large barn stood a hundred metres away from it. The whole place appeared to be deserted.

  “This is the place,” Alin said.

  He got out of the car. Smith also got out. He took out a packet of cigarettes, lit one and offered the pack to Alin.

  “You don’t strike me as the smoking type,” he took a cigarette and let Smith light the end.

  “I’m not,” Smith said. “It helps me to think. That moonshine back there almost fried my brain.”

  Alin laughed.

  “It keeps you warm at night. We need to tread very carefully here. If what the old woman in that house back there told me is correct, the girl in the photograph used to live here.”