Thompson’s face reddened.
“What does it matter who phoned him?” he said.
“Thompson,” Chalmers said, “someone phoned our current number one murder suspect just before the murder was committed. Find out who it was.”
“How am I supposed to do that?” Thompson asked.
“Willow’s phone is in evidence, isn’t it?” Smith said. “Go and get it. Now Thompson, stop me if I am going to fast for your slightly retarded brain. Look through the received calls history and find the one that corresponds with the time Paxton says Willow missed a call on Christmas Eve.”
“Do as he says,” Chalmers ordered.
Thompson left the room in disgust.
“Martin Willow is still too drugged up to question,” Smith said as Thompson was retrieving the phone, “The doctor said it will be a few days at least before we can talk to him. In the meantime, we need to concentrate all our efforts elsewhere.”
“You’re still convinced he didn’t do it aren’t you?” Chalmers said.
“Almost certain sir. Something just doesn’t add up.”
“Do we know the exact time of death of Wendy Willow?”
“Somewhere between midnight and two in the morning.”
“And the babysitter?”
“Also in the same time frame. What are you thinking sir?”
“I’ll let you know when I’ve figured it out.”
Thompson brought in the phone.
“They’re getting worse down there in evidence,” he moaned, “I had to fill in three forms to get this released. What do I do now?”
“Look back in the call history,” Smith said. “Just give it here.”
He snatched the phone from Thompson and switched it on. He looked back through the call log. There was a missed call at 23.45 on the 24th and a received call at 17.34 on the same day. The calls were from the same number.
“This is interesting,” Smith said, “why would the taxi firm have phoned earlier?”
He took out his own phone and dialled the number. The phone rang for a while then a voice mail recording could be heard. Smith gasped and his eyes grew wide. He hung up and rang the number again, this time with his phone on speaker phone mode.
“Everybody quiet,” he said, “listen to this.”
The phone rang three times and then a woman’s voice could be heard.
‘Hi, this is Lauren. I’m not available at the moment; please leave a message after the tone.’
“The dead babysitter?” Chalmers asked.
“That’s her,” Smith said.
“Sir,” Whitton added, “you said Martin Willow had missed a call. Did she leave a message?”
“Good thinking Whitton,” Smith said, “there’s no message icon flashing but he may have already listened to it. How do you check? This phone is a lot more complicated than mine.”
Whitton took the phone and dialled the voice mail number. She put the phone on speaker mode again. There were no un-read voice messages so she selected the ‘listen to all messages’ option. The last message left on Martin Willow’s phone was haunting.
‘Martin,” it began; it was clearly the same voice as on Lauren Cowley’s voice mail recording. ‘I need to talk to you urgently. I’m pregnant and I’m sure she knows. Please Martin; you’re the only one I can talk to. Phone me when you get this.’ She rang off.
The room was in silence. Thompson broke that silence.
“My version is looking pretty decent now isn’t it?” he said smugly, “college professor knocks one of his students up, wife finds out so he shuts her up. I wouldn’t be too surprised if he killed the babysitter too. I’m not looking so stupid anymore am I?”
The last question was directed at Smith.
Smith was thinking about something else.
“Thompson,” he said, “can you remember yesterday at the Willow’s house; we spoke to Frank Paxton, the one who discovered the attack?”
“What about him?” Thompson was tiring of Smith.
“I think we need to have a chat with him.”
“Me and Bridge were there earlier. He doesn’t know anything.”
“He said yesterday that he went to the Willow’s house to return a book. He claimed he knocked on the door and when he got no answer, he phoned Martin Willow.”
“What about it?”
“The last two numbers on Willow’s phone were the babysitter’s, both on Christmas Eve. There was no call from Frank Paxton, he lied to us.”
THIRTEEN
MUGGED.
Tuesday 29 July 2003.
“Top ten percent Gran,” Jason Smith shouted as he opened the letter at the breakfast table. “Top ten percent, that means I can pretty much take my pick of the top firms.”
He had just finished the second year of a law degree at York University.
“A lawyer in the family,” his Gran said, “who would have ever thought it? I’m so proud of you my boy.”
“I still have a long way to go before then Gran,” he said, “I’m not even half way there yet.”
“I know you’ll do it though; you’ve come a long way from that arrogant teenager who stepped off the plane nearly five years ago.”
“We need to celebrate,” he said, “I’m taking you out for lunch. Get yourself ready, we can have fish and chips at that new place on Gillygate.”
“That’s a bit fancy isn’t it?”
“No arguments. We can have a walk round the Minster afterwards.”
The weather report had promised glorious sunshine and temperatures in the mid twenties so Jason decided to get off the bus on the other side of the river Ouse at Coppergate and walk the rest of the way. He had always enjoyed walking around York; there was a piece of history around every corner. From Coppergate they took a left and walked along the quaint cobblestones of the Shambles. Old buildings hung above them trying to close off the sky. Jason was sure they were closer together than they were when he first took this walk. He always thought that one day the buildings would meet in the middle and there would be no sky left overhead.
“I’m not going too fast for you Gran, am I?” he joked.
“I’m not quite over the hill yet,” she replied, “I’ve walked along these streets since I was a young girl. Things have certainly changed since then though; look at all these people.” Hoards of tourists shuffled along the cobbled pavement, stopping now and then to take photos of the buildings and to buy souvenirs to take back home. They passed the old Minster, one of the most striking Gothic cathedrals in the world. Masses of tourists queued outside, waiting in anticipation. They continued on past the theatre and on to Gilly Gate. As they were about to enter the restaurant they were approached by two youths. They were in their late teens and had an air of malice about them. Jason especially did not like the look of one of them.
“Spare some change mister?” the taller of the two asked Jason. He ignored the question and urged his Gran to get inside.
“Tight Arsed Git,” the other youth called after them.
“We never had anything like that in my day,” Jason’s Gran said as they sat down at their table.
“Don’t worry Gran,” Jason said,” forget about them, we’re celebrating. You can have anything you want; the skies the limit as long as its fish and chips.”
They both laughed.
“You know your mother phoned me the other day?” Gran said.
“What did she want?” Jason said curtly.
“She said he would quite happily pay for a ticket for you to go back home this summer. She’s very proud of you.”
“This is my home Gran,” He said, “I like it here and Anyway, I have plans for the summer. Its freezing in Fremantle this time of year anyway.”
“What plans? Are you off travelling somewhere?”
“No Gran, I’ve found a job with one of the smaller law firms here in York. The job found me actually; it’ll give me some good experience and a head start for next term.”
“You work too hard
Jason; you need to take a break sometimes.”
“I enjoy it, I like helping people.”
The fish and chips were delicious. The batter was made out of beer.
“Shall we have a walk around the Minster now Gran?” Jason said as he settled the bill.
“That would be nice dear,” his Gran replied, “as long as it’s not too crowded, there’s tourists everywhere at this time of year.”
As they made their way to the Minster, Jason noticed the two youths who had bothered them. They were pestering a group of American tourists. One of them fixed Jason with a malicious stare as he walked past. Then, Jason Smith’s life changed forever. The other youth ran into Jason’s Gran and knocked her to the floor. He bent down, picked up her handbag and ran off in the direction of the River Foss. Jason ran after him, he was a very good runner. After a hundred metres he could see he was gaining on the thief. The youth looked over his shoulder, saw Jason quickly approaching and dropped the handbag on the floor in despair. Jason picked it up, thought about whether to carry on the chase but decided instead to go back to his Gran.
A crowd of people had gathered around Jason’s Gran, including a Police constable. Jason had always been impressed with the police force in this country. His Gran was still in the same position on the ground.
“Gran,” he said, “are you alright? I got your bag back.”
“I landed quite badly,” she replied, “I think I may have broken something. It’s very sore.”
“I’ve called an ambulance,” the policeman said.
“This is my Gran,” Jason said, “that guy just came out of nowhere.”
“We’ll catch him,” the policeman said, “I know who he is. We’ll have him within the hour. You really shouldn’t have tried to catch him, he’s a nasty piece of work that one.”
The sirens of the ambulance were getting nearer. The policeman introduced himself as PC Brownhill.
“I will need you to make a statement,” he said, “but we can do that at the hospital. That scumbag is going down for this.”
The ambulance arrived and two paramedics got out.
“Where does it hurt Ma’am?” one of them asked.”
“It’s sore here on my side,” Jason’s Gran replied, “and call me Edith please.”
“Ok Edith,” the paramedic said, “We’re going to roll you onto a stretcher and take you to the hospital. We can put the lights and sirens on too if you like.”
“Can we run a couple of red lights too?”
“Of course, which side does it hurt?”
“Right here.” She pointed to her left hip. They rolled her onto a stretcher from her right side and carried her to the ambulance.
FOURTEEN
CALENDAR.
Saturday 26 December 2008
Smith checked his watch: 15.00.
“Can you do me a favour Whitton,” he said, “I wouldn’t normally ask this but I don’t know what else to do.”
“Of course sir,” she replied, “what can I do?”
“We need to talk to Frank Paxton again,” he said, “Thompson is about as incompetent as they come, Theakston would have done a better job of questioning Paxton. When we get to Paxton’s house, I need you to drive to the Hog’s Head and pick up my puppy. I think I’ve abused Marge’s hospitality a bit too much.”
“What about the rules sir? There should be two of us at all times.”
“I know Whitton but that’s exactly why I want you to disappear for a bit. I’m going to try something quite unorthodox with our friend Paxton. He’s not telling us everything, I can feel it. I don’t want to get you into trouble.”
“What if the DI finds out? He’ll stick me behind a desk forever.”
“Trust me Whitton. This Frank Paxton is more involved than we think and he won’t want to make a fuss, I can promise you.”
“Ok sir,” Whitton conceded, “you owe me one.”
Smith parked his car outside Frank Paxton’s house.
“Here’s what we’re going to do Whitton,” he said as he switched off the engine, “you’re going to come inside with me.”
“I thought you wanted me to fetch your puppy sir.”
“Just bear with me.”
He took out his phone.
“I’ve brought up your number,” he said, “I’m going to keep my phone in my pocket and when the time’s right I’m going to press dial. You’ll apologise, answer the phone and pretend that something has come up. You’ll look at Paxton, then at me and you’ll ask me if we can have a word in private. After that you can go and fetch Theakston. I’ll handle the rest; I want Paxton to be on edge. I’ve found that nervous people reveal a hell of a lot more than calm ones. Do you think you can manage it?”
“Piece of cake sir,” Whitton said, “I used to do amateur dramatics.”
“That I’d love to see.” Smith said.
“You still owe me one sir.”
As they knocked on the front door, Smith put his phone in his pocket within easy reach. There was no answer. Smith knocked again, harder this time. The door opened and Frank Paxton stood there. He looked like he had not slept; his hair was a mess and his eyes were very bloodshot. He smelled heavily of whisky. Even better, Smith thought, there was nothing better than a bit of alcohol to oil up the truth ducts.
“Mr Paxton,” Smith began, “DS Smith and this is DC Whitton, can we have a word?”
“I’ve just spoken to your lot,” Paxton said. He sounded quite drunk. “Where’s your ID?” he asked, “You don’t look like the police to me.”
“Mr Paxton,” Smith said, “you met me on Christmas Day at the Willow place.”
Smith and Whitton produced their badges anyway.
“May we come in Mr Paxton?” Smith said, “There are just a few things we need to go over again.”
“Do I need a lawyer?” Paxton slurred.
“Not unless you think you need one,” Smith said, “there are just a few things I’m confused about and I hate that.”
“You’d better come in then. Do you want a drink? I’m having one.”
“No thanks,” Smith replied, “Is Miss Jones at home?”
“She’s visiting her sister; it’s a Boxing Day tradition with them. Roxy has to adhere to her traditions. Are you sure you don’t want a drink? It’s Christmas.”
“No thanks,” Smith repeated, “Mr Paxton, you said when you arrived at the Willow’s place, you phoned him when no one answered the door? And then you heard the phone ringing inside the house?”
“Did I?” Paxton took a large sip of whisky. “I can’t remember much now, these past few days have been a bit of a blur.”
Smith casually put his hand in his pocket and pressed the dial button on his phone. Whitton’s phone started to ring. She looked at the screen.
“Sorry,” she said, “it’s the station; I’ve got to take this. Whitton,” she said into the phone.
She pretended to listen. Her eyes widened and she looked at Frank Paxton with suspicion.
“Ok,” she said, “I’ll let him know.”
She ended the fake call.
“Sir,” she said to Smith, “can I have a word in private please?”
“Sorry, Mr Paxton,” Smith said, “this shouldn’t take long.”
Frank Paxton looked agitated as Smith and Whitton went into the hall way.
“That was bloody good Whitton,” Smith said, “You had me convinced. Take your time fetching Theakston. I’ll give you a call when I’m done here. Thanks again.”
He handed her his car keys.
“How about that drink now,” Smith said when Whitton had left, “do you have any beer?”
“I’ll get you one from the fridge,” Paxton said, “what was that about?”
“Just police business,” Smith lied, “they’ve found some new, interesting evidence in the Wendy Willow murder. It looks like Martin Willow is in deep trouble.”
“Really?” Paxton looked more at ease.
He handed Smith a Grolsch. Sm
ith took a long swig.
“Did you know Lauren Cowley?” Smith asked, “The Willow’s babysitter.”
“Not really,” Paxton said.
His eyes shifted from side to side nervously.
“I think I met her once or twice in passing when I was out with Martin,” he said, “nothing special if I can remember.”
Smith had finished his beer.
“Another one?” Paxton asked.
“Why not,” Smith replied, “it is Christmas. I’m nearly finished for the day anyway.”
Paxton stumbled off to the kitchen to fetch the beer.
“Could I use your toilet?” Smith asked as Paxton came back with the beer, “the first beer always goes right through me.”
“Upstairs,” Paxton said, “first door on the right.”
Frank Paxton seemed much more relaxed now. Smith did not need the toilet, he had thought of something. In the bathroom he locked the door behind him. The room was unusually large for a bathroom. On the wall above the basin was a cupboard. Smith gasped as he opened it; there were pills, lozenges and medicines for every conceivable ailment. He donned a pair of rubber gloves and examined the contents carefully. There was aspirin, paracetamol, hay fever pills, anti sickness pills, anti inflammatory pills and pills to cure diseases Smith had never heard of. He spotted something at the back of the cabinet, a small clear bag with small capsules in it. There was a sticker on the front, the kind that doctors and pharmacists use. His heart quickened as he read the label. Benzodiazepine. He quickly took out his phone and took four photographs in quick succession of the label on the bag, and then he placed the pills back where he had found them. He flushed the toilet, unlocked the door and went back downstairs.
“That’s better,” Smith said as he reached the bottom of the stairs, “nice place you’ve got here Mr Paxton, that bathroom is huge.”
“We like it,” Paxton said. He was quickly becoming Jason Smith’s best friend.
Smith took a large swig of his beer.
“No kids?” he asked. “I can see you have no kids; this place is too neat and tidy.”
“Well spotted detective,” Paxton smiled, “you don’t miss a thing do you?”
The York Trilogy: The First 3 DS Jason Smith Detective novels Page 7