He was becoming quite intoxicated.
“We don’t like to broadcast it but I’m starting to like you. You’re Australian aren’t you?”
“I was,” Smith replied.
“Roxy can’t have kids, we found out a couple of years ago. We were devastated but we’ve learned to live with it. That’s one of the reasons we never bothered to marry, seemed a bit pointless without kids. Do you have any kids detective?”
“Not yet,” Smith said.
“Probably for the best in your line of work.”
“I’d better leave you in peace Mr Paxton. Thank you for your time. We may need to ask you a few more questions later though.”
“Anytime,” Paxton said, “This has actually been quite painless; the whisky helps, I suppose.”
Smith took out his phone and called Whitton. He finished his beer.
“Ready when you are Whitton,” he said, “Where are you?”
“Still at the Hog’s Head,” Whitton replied, “Marge has made me a steak and ale pie. She’s lovely.”
“Put an order in for another,” Smith said. “I’ll catch a cab. See you in about half an hour.”
“I couldn’t help listening in to your conversation,” Paxton laughed, “I know a really good taxi company, very professional. I have their number here somewhere.”
He stood up and headed in the direction of the kitchen. Smith followed him.
“Here it is,” Paxton said, “it’s on the fridge.”
As Smith was dialling the number on the fridge, something caught his eye. On the wall next to the fridge was a calendar; it was a whole year on one page. Appointments, birthdays and anniversaries were written in bold black ink. Smith concentrated on June 28. There in the same bold black was written ‘MARTIN AND WENDY ANIV’
“Roxy likes to keep up to date of birthdays and anniversaries,” Paxton said.
“So Roxy filled this in?” Smith asked.
“Of course, it’s a female thing isn’t it?”
The taxi firm said they would be there in ten minutes. Smith looked at the calendar again; something about June 28 was bugging him. Then he realised what it was. The suicide note, ‘I AM SO SORRY MARTIN.’ The word MARTIN was identical in both instances. Roxy Jones had written the suicide note. All Smith had to do now was figure out why.
“Taxi will be here in ten minutes,” he said.”
“Then you’ve got time for another beer,” Paxton said with gusto, “you Aussies certainly know how to drink beer.”
FIFTEEN
MINSTER
Monday 25 August 2003.
Jason Smith looked around the room. He was sitting on the single armchair where many a scarf had been knitted by his Gran. He looked at the picture above the fireplace; a framed pencil drawing of York Minster, meticulously sketched by his Grandfather before Smith was even born. The Minster looked different now. The fire in 1984 destroyed much of the roof and with the new roof bosses; the Minster took on a completely different character. Smith wished he could have met his Grandfather; he was a kind man, not at all like Smith’s mother. He looked at the cordless phone in his hand and dialled the number. A familiar but weary voice could be heard.
“Mom,” he said nervously, “Its Jason.”
“Do you know what time it is here?” his mother said. Smith knew exactly what time it was in Fremantle but he did not care.
“It’s the middle of the bloody night,” his mother said, she sounded drunk. “What do you want, money?”
Smith sighed. “I don’t know if you’ll be interested,” he said, “but Gran died this afternoon. Gran, your mother, remember her?”
There was silence on the other end of the phone.
“What happened?” Smith’s mother asked.
“Both of her lungs collapsed. She broke her hip and developed pneumonia in hospital. Her funeral’s on Saturday if you’re interested.”
“I’m not sure we’ll be able to make it; it’s a long way to come.”
“She’s your mother, you have to be here.”
“What about the estate?”
“The what?”
“Her will, do you know if her affairs are in order?”
“Your mother has just died and you want to know if she left you any money? What kind of daughter are you?”
“I just want to make sure that what she had gets handed down to someone who deserves it.”
“I have to go now but there’s one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m dropping the law degree.”
“You’re what? I thought you were top of the class; you could earn big money.”
“I’m joining the Police Force.”
That was the last time Jason Smith ever spoke to his mother. He had no family left.
SIXTEEN
GREEN EYES
Saturday 26 December 2008
“Taxis here,” Frank Paxton announced, “it’s raining again. Do you need to borrow an umbrella?”
Smith’s feelings about umbrellas were similar to those about slippers; neither of them should ever be used by a man. Nevertheless, he accepted Paxton’s offer as it gave him an excuse to return and find more about Paxton and Roxy. He unfolded the cursed thing and walked to where the taxi was waiting.
“Hog’s Head pub,” he said to the driver.
Inside the taxi a song was playing. Smith recognised it; it was his least favourite Beatles number, something about Desmond and Molly Jones.
“I know where that is,” the driver said.
He was Chinese.
“This is the fourth time I’ve been to this house in the past couple of days.”
Smith was not usually fond of the small talk of taxi drivers but this one roused his curiosity.
“Four times?” Smith repeated. “You came here at midnight on Christmas Eve and you’re here now, what about the other two? Sorry, I’m a police detective, DS Smith.”
“After I dropped that couple and their kid off, I got a call to come back here almost immediately.”
“Who did you pick up?”
“It was a woman; she was waiting outside the house when I got here.”
“Where did you take her?”
“I had a lot of fares that night, it being Christmas Eve but I think I took her to Lawrence Road where it turns into Hull Road.”
“And the other fare?”
“It was a man this time; I forget where I took him but if you want you can check down at the taxi depot. We are one of the most hi-tech firms in the country. All of our fares are logged with those GPS things.”
As they drove into the car park of the Hog’s Head, Smith was astounded by the willingness to help shown by this taxi driver. Most people these days were wary of the Police.
“Thanks a lot for your help,” he said as he paid the fare, “what did you say your name was again?”
“My name’s Dave,” he replied
“I’m going to need to speak to you again Dave.”
Dave smiled. “No problem,” he said, “Good evening Mr Smith.”
“Smells like a steak and ale pie is on the go,” Smith said as he entered the warmth of the Hog’s head.
Whitton was sitting by the fire eating. Theakston was on her lap.
“You’re spoiling him,” Smith said.
He laughed and picked up the puppy.
“Thanks Whitton,” he said, “can I get you a drink? It’s the least I can do, the pies on me too.”
“Marge has been looking after me,” Whitton said, “and that little fellow is adorable. I know why he’s called Theakston now.”
Marge came through from the kitchen with another pie.
“Perfect timing Marge,” Smith smiled, “and thanks for looking after the puppy.”
“He’s no trouble dear,” Marge said, “and he’s getting quite used to the place. Do you want a drink?”
“Pint of Theakstons please, and one for Whitton too.”
“She has a first name you know,” Marge grumb
led and went to fetch the drinks.
Whitton laughed. “She’s quite a character isn’t she?” she said.
Smith sat down. “We’ve got a lot to do tomorrow,” he said.
He filled her in on what he had found at Frank Paxton’s house.
“We’ll need a search warrant if we want to do this properly,” he said. “I want every I dotted and every T crossed. Lawyers can be such snakes these days and I bet our friend Paxton can afford a good one.”
“Still talking police business?” Marge placed two pints on the table. “Why isn’t a pretty young girl like you out enjoying herself instead of stuck in here with her boss?”
Whitton blushed.
“Sorry Marge,” Smith said, “we’ll talk about something else in a minute. I just need to fill Whitton in while things are still fresh in my head.”
“I’ll leave you to it then,” Marge said, “and like I said, she has got a first name.”
“Do you think the drugs in Paxton’s bathroom cabinet are the same ones they found in the Willow’s systems?” Whitton asked when Marge was gone.
“That’s why we need a warrant,” Smith said.
He took a big drink of his beer.
“And we need to compare the calendar with the suicide note,” he added.
He took out his phone, brought up his photographs and handed the phone to Whitton. “Scroll down,” he said. “There’s a couple of the puppy but I took a few of the drugs. I think we’re going to need a couple of extra bodies working on this one, if you’ll excuse the pun. I can’t run the risk of that retard Thompson buggering up the entire case.”
“You and he don’t get on do you sir?” Whitton said.
“No we don’t,” Smith replied, “and seeing as you’re off duty you can call me Jason, just don’t tell anyone. Thompson is a dinosaur. Sergeant is as far as he’s going to get. I still remember him from when I joined up, nasty little man. He’s terrified he’ll have to call me sir one day.”
Theakston was begging from Whitton.
“I think you need to be a bit firmer with him,” she said, “These dogs need discipline. No!” she said to the puppy.
He looked confused but merely started begging from Smith instead.
“Another drink?” Smith asked as he emptied the contents of his glass.
“Just one more,” she replied, “and how am I going to get home? I came here in your car.”
“I’d give you a lift,” he said, “but I’d probably get done for drink driving, there are bloody cops everywhere at this time of year.”
Whitton laughed. “We could share a taxi,” she suggested.
“In that case, we’re having more than one drink. I need a pee.” He got up and headed off to the Gents.
“You like him don’t you?” Marge said. She placed two beers on the table.
“What?” Whitton was taken aback. “He’s a brilliant detective,” she said, “I like working with him; he seems to have this extra sense.”
“You know what I mean,” Marge said with a wry smile, “I think he quite likes you too. I’ve never seen him this comfortable; he always seems so… what’s the word? Impregnable. That’s what he is, he’s built this huge moat around himself and nobody is allowed to swim across.”
“Very philosophical Marge,” Whitton smiled.
She was becoming quite tipsy.
“He’s coming back,” she warned.
“What are you two whispering about?” Smith said as he sat down.
“You, of course,” Whitton said.
She smiled at him. Smith smiled back. He had never noticed before what an unusual shade of green her eyes were.
“We’ll have one more beer after this,” Smith said, “and after that we’d better get moving.”
“You’re the boss,” Whitton replied
“Why don’t you stay at my place tonight?” Smith suggested.
Whitton smiled. “Like I said, you’re the boss.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. I have a spare room and we do work at the same place, I’ll give you a lift in the morning.”
“Ok,” she said without thinking, “but no funny business though, I was a good Catholic girl once you know.”
Smith still had the number of the taxi firm on his phone. As he went to the bar to order more drinks he dialled the number.
“We’ve got twenty minutes,” he said when he came back, “start drinking up.”
“I think this little tyke is trying to tell you something,” Marge said. Theakston was licking Smith’s legs.
“He does that when he needs to do his business,” Marge said, “he’s quite a clever little bugger.”
Smith picked Theakston up and carried him out of the pub.
When Smith returned, Dave the taxi driver was waiting in the bar. He flashed Smith a toothy grin as he approached. Smith wondered if the taxi firm had only one driver.
“I’ve remembered something else,” Dave said as they drove to Smith’s house, “that man I drove from where I picked you up earlier.”
“Go on,” Smith said.
“I dropped him off just round the corner from where I dropped the two adults and the kid off on Christmas Eve. I read in the paper there was a murder there.”
Smith was feeling quite drunk.
“We’ll come and see you in the morning,” he said. “This is my house right here.”
“One thing more Mr Smith,” Dave said as Smith paid the fare.
“What now Dave?” Smith was getting tired.
“Please don’t tell my boss about the dog. We’re not allowed to take them.”
“Dog?” Smith asked.
Whitton laughed. Theakston had poked his head out of Smith’s coat.
“Ok Dave,” Smith said, “no dog. We’ll see you in the morning.”
“Do you want some coffee?” Smith asked Whitton as he closed the front door behind them.
He put Theakston down and the puppy immediately went to see if there was any food in his bowl.
“I’d love some,” she replied, “and that dog seriously needs to go on a diet.”
Smith laughed. “Do you take sugar?” he asked.
“Two sugars and milk. Can I use your bathroom?”
“Upstairs,” he replied, “you’re a detective, you’ll find it.”
Smith made the coffee and put the two cups on the table. He looked at the bottle of Jack Daniels he kept on the sideboard. What the hell, he thought and went to fetch two glasses from the kitchen. He put the bourbon next to the glasses.
“Jack Daniels?” Whitton said as she flopped on the couch, “don’t mind if I do. Can I pour one for you too?”
Smith could not control the smile that appeared on his face.
“Please,” he said, “you’d better make them large ones.”
Theakston was trying to jump on the couch but his little legs could not quite make it. Smith gave him a nudge and he quickly snuggled down between them.
“Very nice place you have here,” Whitton said. She took a large sip of her Jack Daniels. “It’s nothing like the bachelor pad I’d imagined; it’s very homely actually.”
“It was my Gran’s,” Smith said, “she died six years ago. I was the only family she had left who gave a damn so she left it to me.”
He told her about that day by the Minster when his Gran was mugged.
“And that’s why I joined the force,” he finished off, “I studied law because I thought I could help people, innocent people, but after that scumbag’s lawyer got him a three year sentence for killing my Gran, I realised that most of the time lawyers actually help criminals. That low life is walking the streets again. Anyway, I’ve got verbal diarrhoea. What about you? Why did you join up? I know there’s all this equal opportunity bullshit these days but it’s still pretty much a boy job if you ask me.”
Whitton nearly spat out her drink.
“A boy job?” she exclaimed. “I suppose you’re right in a way. I knew that when I applied; I just didn’t know wh
at to do when I’d finished University. I could have found a job in an office for forty years but this seemed more interesting.”
“It’s utter crap for your personal life though,” Smith sighed.
“What personal life? I always seem to scare blokes away. Bloody hell,” she looked across the room, “is that what I think it is?”
She walked up to the guitar.
“It is,” she said rather too loud, “it’s a Fender Strat; an American one too. Can you play it?”
“When I’m sober,” he replied, “now I’ve seen everything, a girl who can hold her drink and spot a US Strat. I think I’m in love.”
He instantly regretted saying it. The room was silent. Only Theakston’s deep snoring could be heard.
Whitton blushed. “My dad had one,” she said finally.
“I play at the Deep Blues Club every now and then,” he said, “they have jam nights there on Thursday nights.”
He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece.
“Shit!” he said, “it’s almost one, we’d better get some sleep. There’s two spare rooms upstairs, take your pick. They’ve both got clean bedding on them. I just want to make sure this little feller does his business and I’ll be up in a minute.”
Whitton finished the rest of her Jack Daniels and walked up the stairs. Smith watched her go. She seemed quite unsteady on her feet but considering the amount she had had to drink, she maintained very well.
He put Theakston in front of the litter tray but the puppy was not interested. Smith smiled. Stubborn little bugger, he thought. He picked him up, switched off the light and went upstairs. As he was getting undressed he heard deep breathing coming from one of the spare rooms. Whitton was already asleep. He put Theakston on the bed. Shit, she’s a work colleague, he thought to himself as he got under the covers, it would never work, but the last thing he thought about before he fell asleep were those unusual green eyes.
SEVENTEEN
DAVE
Sunday 27 December 2008
Smith was dreaming. He was in the water again but it was much colder this time. His sister was nowhere in sight and it was getting darker and darker. The cold was almost unbearable. Suddenly a hand was thrust into the water. It grabbed him by the shoulder and lifted him to the surface. He looked up to find the owner of the hand staring down at him. It was those unusual green eyes again. The water was still stinging his eyes and he could not seem to dry his face. He woke suddenly to find Theakston on top of him pressing down on his chest. The puppy was licking his face frantically. Out of nowhere, Smith had a sudden laughing fit. Theakston thought this was great and continued licking, with more gusto this time. Smith’s head started to pound and he lifted the puppy off and went through to the bathroom. He could hear noises from downstairs.
The York Trilogy: The First 3 DS Jason Smith Detective novels Page 8