He threw the cigarette in the snow and walked up to the house. Smith followed behind him. The front door was in a state of disrepair - the panels had obviously been repaired one too many times. The word ‘Lupei’ was carved in the wood on the door.
Alin banged on the door so hard Smith was worried the panels would break. Moments later it was opened with a creaking sound and a large man in his late fifties stood in the doorway. He looked Smith and Alin up and down then said something in Romanian. Alin replied to him and took out the photograph of the young girl. The man looked carefully at the black and white photograph and his whole demeanor changed - he seemed to shrink to half his size. Tears started to flow from the corner of his eyes and he had to hold onto the doorframe to prevent himself from falling over.
“Selene,” he sobbed, “Selene.”
CHAPTER FIFTY TWO
YORK
At four on the dot an eerie hush descended on the large conference room at York police station. Fortunately, Superintendant Smyth had been called away at the last minute to attend to some administrative business and DI Brownhill was left in peace to run the press conference. Chalmers entered the room and made his way to the front where Brownhill was going through some last minute notes.
“Smyth should be out of action for a good few hours,” Chalmers said. “I’ve made sure of it.”
“Thanks sir,” Brownhill said. “How did you manage that?”
“That’s neither here nor there,” Chalmers smiled. “He’s out of our way. He only buggers things up for us. Let’s get this out of the way shall we?”
Brownhill stood up.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began. “Thank you for your patience. Let’s get started. Most of you know the drill by now. For any of you who don’t, I’ll start with what we’ve got so far and I’ll be happy to answer any questions you may have afterwards. Is that clear?”
A low murmuring was heard in the room. Brownhill scanned her audience. The room was packed to the brim. Ian Blakemore was sitting at the very back. Brownhill offered him a sympathetic smile but he wasn’t looking in her direction. He seemed distracted.
“Firstly,” Brownhill said. “I assure you all that we intend to get to the bottom of this investigation. Three men have been murdered in York in a little over two months. So far, we believe there is no connection between them - they didn’t appear to know one another. However, the evidence that we have would suggest the same killer was responsible for all three murders.”
A fat man with a repulsive wart on his cheekbone stood up.
“Sorry,” he said. “I know I’m going against protocol and all that. Kenny Young, Mail on Sunday. Could you please cut out the ambiguous crap? Phrases like ‘we believe’, ‘it appears’ and ‘we think’ don’t exactly fill us with confidence. In fact they’re phrases that would suggest you don’t know anymore about what’s going on than my Aunt Fanny’s dead dog. Could you perhaps give us something you know for a fact?”
He sat down again. Brownhill didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t expected this.
“We know that three men are dead,” she stressed the word ‘know’. “And we know that two of them were rendered unconscious before they had their throats sliced open with a very unusual knife. We also know we are looking for a woman with black hair - traces of hair were found at all three murder scenes but what we don’t know at this moment is who this woman is and why she’s doing this. Why is she killing men in this city?”
Kenny Young stood up again.
“You know bugger all then,” he said.
The whole room erupted.
“At this moment,” Brownhill raised her voice. “I have to admit that we’ve reached a bit of a deadlock. This is one of the most baffling cases I’ve ever worked on but we’re carrying on regardless. We won’t give up until whoever is responsible for these crimes is brought to justice. Now, are there any questions?”
“You said two of the men were rendered unconscious before they were killed,” a woman with a slight lisp said.
“That’s right,” Brownhill said.
“Why do you think the last victim wasn’t?”
“We don’t know, this man’s murder is still a mystery.”
“He was Russian I believe?”
“He was Ukrainian,” Brownhill corrected her. “He worked in Russia.”
“What was he doing in York?”
“We don’t know,” Brownhill said.
She decided to leave out the fact that Luka Gravov may have had some information about the woman they were looking for.
“Any other questions?” She said.
A young man with shoulder length brown hair stood up.
“Gavin Lightfoot,” he said. “Evening Post. I’m the new guy. Do you think there’s any significance to the fact that the first two men were killed during the full moon?”
Brownhill looked at Chalmers. Chalmers shrugged his shoulders.
“I doubt it,” Brownhill said. “It’s probably just a coincidence. There wasn’t a full moon when Luka Gravov was killed. Next question.”
She wanted the ground to swallow her up. Why had they not made the connection with the full moon?
“Where’s the famous DS Smith?” a tall woman with bright red hair asked. “I don’t see him here today. Has he been suspended again?”
“No, he hasn’t been suspended. He’s taken a bit of leave that’s all.”
“In the middle of a murder investigation? I find that very hard to believe. Has he lost his touch? Where is he?”
“He’s in Romania,” Brownhill said without thinking. “Like I said, he’s taking a bit of time off.”
“Romania?” The woman wasn’t going to give up. “At this time of year? I’m starting to think you’re not telling us everything.”
“I’ve given you all the information at my disposal.”
“Ukraine,” the woman said. “Romania? Is there a connection there? Has this got something to do with illegal immigrants? Is DS Smith in Romania as part of the investigation?”
“No comment,” Brownhill looked to Chalmers for some support.
Chalmers stood up.
“That’s all we have for you at this time,” he said. “The DI has given you more than enough to satisfy your sordid thirsts for now. Please leave in an orderly fashion. I’m sure you all have deadlines to meet.”
He nodded to Brownhill.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get the hell out of here. Just being in the presence of these scumbags makes me sick to the stomach.”
Brownhill sipped her coffee in the canteen. Her hands were shaking.
“I’m sorry,” she said to Chalmers. “I really messed that one up didn’t I?”
“It could’ve gone better, but don’t worry about it - you can never tell what that lot are going to chuck at you.”
“I don’t know if I’m cut out for this anymore.”
“Get a grip,” Chalmers said. “You should know by now, you can’t let a bunch of parasites get to you.”
“Everything’s getting to me. It’s been over two months now and we’re still no closer to working this mess out.”
“Something will turn up. Have you heard anything from Smith?”
“That’s a bit of a sore point. He went straight over my head and cleared his leave with the Super.”
“Bryony,” the sound of Chalmers using her first name made her sit up in the chair. “I’ve known Smith for a good few years. He can be a right royal pain in the arse but he’s one of the best detectives I’ve ever met, if not the best. If Smith went over your head to make sure he got to Romania I can promise you he had a bloody good reason for it. His stubborn refusal to follow rules has got us results plenty of times in the past.”
“What do you think about that full moon stuff?” Brownhill said. “I can’t believe we didn’t figure that out.”
“Because it’s probably not important. Two murders during a full moon is hardly anything more than a coincidence.”
&n
bsp; “Do you think I made it worse by mentioning Smith’s trip to Romania?”
“No, not at all. I know those bastards - they’ll concentrate on the gory parts. Romania will be the last thing on their minds.”
CHAPTER FIFTY THREE
BORSA, ROMANIA
Smith had to duck to fit under the low doorframe and enter the house. The large man led him and Alin through a dark hallway into a small kitchen. A log fire was burning in the corner. A woman roughly the same age as Smith was drinking tea at the table with an older man. The woman bore a striking resemblance to the girl in the photograph. Smith could feel their eyes on him the whole time. The big man said something to Alin in Romanian.
“Please sit down,” Alin said.
Smith sat opposite the woman.
“Would you like some tea?” The woman asked him in perfect English.
“That would be great,” Smith smiled at her.
Her eyes were the same as the girl’s in the photograph. While the woman made the tea, the big man said something to the other man. Smith couldn’t understand what was being said but from the tone of the conversation he knew it wasn’t just pleasantries.
“Have you found Selene?” The woman placed a pot of tea on the table and poured Smith and Alin a cup.
Smith nodded.
“We think so,” he said.
He didn’t know how he was going to begin.
How can I tell these people that a member of their family is a suspect in a triple murder investigation? He thought.
“My name is Natasha,” the woman said. “Selene is my sister. This is my husband Cristian and my father Eduard. Do you know where Selene is?”
“We don’t know,” Smith realised how ridiculous he sounded. “We might do. When was the last time you saw your sister?”
“Twenty five years ago. She disappeared one night and we haven’t seen her since. My mother was so distraught that she died six months later. I think her heart broke and couldn’t be mended.”
“Do you know what happened to her?” Smith took a sip of the strange looking tea.
It tasted very bitter.
Natasha looked at her husband. He shook his head.
“She just disappeared,” Natasha said.
“Where is she?” Cristian asked.
“In York,” Smith said. “In the north of England or at least we think she’s there. Do you know a man by the name of Luka Gravov? He’s from Ukraine.”
“No,” Cristian said. “What’s this all about? Selene disappeared twenty five years ago and you come here now. Who are you anyway?”
Smith decided to be straight with them.
“My name is Jason Smith,” he said. “I’m a detective sergeant with the York police department. Three men are dead and we believe Selene may be involved somehow.”
“Why?” Cristian stood up and looked out the small window.
Smith started from the beginning. He told them everything. Alin translated for Eduard as Smith spoke. Smith told them about the murders of Christopher Riley and Arnold Mather and about the strange Ukrainian. He left nothing out.
When Smith was finished, the room fell silent. Eduard sat at the table with his head in his hands.
“You’ve made a mistake,” Natasha said. “Selene wouldn’t do these things.”
“Like I said,” Smith said. “We’re not sure yet but everything we’ve got seems to lead to her.”
“I think you should leave now,” Cristian stood up, “I’ll walk you out.”
“Thanks for the tea,” Smith said.
He stood up and followed Cristian towards the front door. Alin walked behind him.
“Thank you for your time,” Smith said to Cristian in the doorway.
“There’s more,” Cristian walked outside and closed the door. “But we can’t talk here. Take the road out of here and drive a few hundred metres until you reach an old abandoned church. I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes.”
“What’s going on here?” Smith said.
“Not here, I’ll meet you at the church in twenty minutes.”
He went back inside the house and slammed the door behind him.
CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR
YORK
Sunday 6 February 2011
Chalmers’ words were still fresh in DI Brownhill’s ears when the Sunday papers landed on her doormat. The Sunday Mail was staring at her from the carpet. On the front page the headline read : ‘Serial killer still at large. Police suspect Romanian immigrants’.
Brownhill had to read it twice to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.
What have I done? She thought.
Her phone started to ring in the hallway. She ignored it. The ringing stopped and the ringtone of her mobile could be heard from the kitchen. She walked though and looked at the screen. It was Grant Webber.
“Grant,” she answered it.
“Are you alright?” Webber said. “Have you seen the Sunday papers yet?”
“Only the headline. I haven’t had chance to read the article yet.”
“Don’t, it’s all nonsense. There’s some pretty nasty stuff in there. Do you want me to come over?”
“I’ll be fine, you know what newspapers are like - it’ll all be forgotten about in a few days.”
She rang off. The phone started to ring again. She put the phone down and went upstairs. She turned on the shower and undressed. She stood underneath and felt the warm jets blasting onto her shoulders. For a moment she forgot all about the murder investigation. Her thoughts turned to a time when she was a child on a sailing holiday in Wales with her family. She remembered how her father would make her and her brother check the anchor chain and rope before they set off. Her father had drummed it into them that every link in the chain had to be checked for defects. She remembered his exact words.
‘One buggered link will render the whole thing useless’.
Sometimes it was hours before they could weigh anchor and set the sails. Her brother used to find the whole thing tedious and it was not long before he would make up any excuse not to go sailing with them but, as Brownhill thought about it again, she realised it was all part of the whole experience. Checking the anchoring system became part of a ritual that she actually came to enjoy.
Brownhill turned off the shower and dried herself. She could hear that both her landline and mobile phone were ringing downstairs.
This isn’t going to be a quiet Sunday, she thought.
The steam from the shower disappeared and she looked at her face in the mirror. Hair was starting to sprout from her upper lip again. She shook her head and brushed her teeth.
Let it grow, she thought.
She went downstairs and made some coffee. She picked up her mobile phone and saw that she had sixteen missed calls. She switched the phone off and sighed. She walked through to the hallway, unplugged the landline from the wall and sat down to read the paper. The murder investigation was the main story. Brownhill read the article from start to finish and then read it again. It began with an outline of the murders of Christopher Riley and Arnold Mather and then changed tack completely. When the article reached the part about a Ukrainian national being killed it turned into an immigration issue with Romanian immigrants believed to be the main suspects. Brownhill was thankful there was no mention of the full moon.
Brownhill finished her coffee and slumped down in her chair. She realised that the backlash from the newspapers would be enormous. The immigration issue was already a tender one and this would only make matters worse. She stood up, picked up her car keys and left the house. She drove away from the city and headed for nowhere in particular. She just wanted to drive - to get away from everything for a while. The sky was clear and the snow had given up the ghost for the time being. She turned onto the A19 and headed north.
I’ll drive to Scotland if I have to, she thought.
She pressed her foot down on the accelerator and increased her speed. There were very few cars on the road on this Winter Sunday morning. She increas
ed the pressure on the accelerator further but the old Citroen failed to respond. It appeared to be slowing down. It came to an abrupt stop on the side of the road. Brownhill looked at the dashboard. The red light that had been flashing for the past half an hour was now glaring at her. She’d run out of petrol. Brownhill started to laugh. She didn’t know where it came from but she couldn’t stop herself. The laughter continued until her eyes filled with tears. She managed to contain herself and reached inside her coat pocket for her mobile phone. It wasn’t there – she’d left it switched off at home.
A car approached, slowed down but didn’t stop. Brownhill got out of the car and shivered. She realised she didn’t even know where she was. She saw a truck approaching in the opposite direction. She watched as it slowed down and came to a halt on the other side of the road. A thin man with a beard jumped down and crossed the road.
“Broken down?” He said.
“This is so embarrassing,” Brownhill said. “I seem to have run out of petrol.”
“It happens to the best of us. You don’t see many of them on the roads these days.”
He pointed to Brownhill’s old Citroen.
“I’ve got some petrol in the back,” he walked back to his truck and returned with a jerry can.
He found the petrol cap, unscrewed it and emptied the contents of the jerry can into the car.
“That ought to be enough to get you to the nearest petrol station,” he said. “York’s the closest I think.”
“Thank you,” Brownhill said. “How much do I owe you?”
“Owe me?”
“For the petrol.”
“Don’t be daft, I can’t charge a damsel in distress now can I?”
Without waiting for an answer he crossed the road and got back in his truck. Brownhill watched as he drove away. She got back in her car, started the engine and drove to the next exit. She rejoined the A19 south and headed off back to York.
The incident with the truck driver had lifted her spirits somewhat and by the time Brownhill parked outside her house she was feeling much more positive. She went inside and switched on her mobile phone. She listened to her messages. Most of them were from journalists. How they had found her mobile number, Brownhill could only guess. The last message was from Smith. Brownhill listened to it three times.
Selene: A disturbing DS Jason Smith thriller (A DS Jason Smith Thriller Book 6) Page 21
