“What’s on your mind boss?” Smith said.
Brownhill sat down on a chair next to the window in the canteen.
“Please do not call me that,” Brownhill said, “something doesn’t quite add up with this Moreno character. I don’t think he’s telling us everything.”
“He’s told us plenty,” Smith said, “he saw the man carrying Nathan Green at around ten on Friday night. That ties up with the time the Green’s discovered that Nathan had disappeared. What’s the problem?”
“It’s all a bit too convenient for my liking,” Brownhill said.
“What are you suggesting?”
“I’m saying I don’t believe him,” Brownhill said.
“I believe him,” Smith said, “I can normally tell when someone is lying. It’s a curse I was born with.”
“Well I don’t,” Brownhill said, “and I’m not about to release him until I’m sure he’s telling the truth.”
“You’re making a big mistake,” Smith stood up, “I’m going out for a smoke.”
“Do I have to remind you I am your superior officer?” Brownhill said.
“No you don’t.”
Smith walked out of the canteen.
TWENTY EIGHT
Arthur Taylor
“Just chuck it in the truck Stan,” Peter Cole said, “there’s only a few more bins left on Blossom and then we can go and have a bite to eat. I’m starving. I don’t know about you.”
“The lids not down Pete,” Stan Grimhope said, “rules are rules.”
Stanley Grimhope had been working on the bins in York city for over thirty years. The advent of the wheelie bin had been a godsend to him. Gone were the days of getting his hands dirty and coming home with the stench of other people’s garbage oozing from every pore in his body. When wheelie bins had been introduced ten years ago they were viewed with a fair degree of skepticism by a few of the old traditionalists who saw the profession of bin man as an honourable one; an honest day’s work, but now very few of them would go back to ‘the good old days’.
“Lid’s not down properly,” Stan said again, “regulations state that we’re not allowed to empty it unless the lid is all the way down. It could bugger up the machine in the back.”
“For god’s sake Stan,” Pete said.
He jumped up in the air and slammed both hands down on the lid of the wheelie bin.
The lid still would not close.
“Leave it,” Stan said.
Cole was about to try again when the door to the house they were standing outside opened and an old man hobbled up to them. He looked very angry.
“What’s going on?” he said in a gravelly voice, “why haven’t you emptied my bin?”
“Lids not properly down,” Stan said, “we can’t empty it unless the lids down. You know the rules.”
“Arthur Taylor,” the man said, “I know the rules alright. I was on the committee that came up with the rules. Pedantic bunch of bastards that lot. The rules were very clear when that lot insisted on these bloody bins. The lid was down when I put the bin out this morning. Somebody must have filled it up. It was only half full. I’m an old man living on my own you know. I couldn’t fill one of these things up if I tried.”
“Rules are rules,” Stan looked at his watch, “we’ve got work to do.”
Arthur Taylor’s face turned a deep crimson colour.
“How about this then,” he walked over to the bin, “how about I empty half of this onto the street. The lid will be down then and you can empty the bloody thing. What do you say to that?”
“Then we’ll have to report you for littering,” Stan said, “there’s a heavy fine for that.”
He looked at his colleague.
“Come on Pete,” he said, “we’d better finish off the rest of the street and then we can get something to eat.”
Arthur Taylor watched as the refuse truck drove off slowly down the road. He was now furious.
“Bugger this,” he said out loud.
He opened the lid of the wheelie bin and looked inside. The lid could not close because of the two legs sticking out; the legs looked like they belonged to a young girl. A pair of brand new school shoes shone in the sunshine. Arthur Taylor gasped for breath. He just managed to grab hold of the wheelie bin as his legs gave way and he collapsed to the ground.
TWENTY NINE
Gillygate
Smith was annoyed. The positive mood he had woken up with that morning had been wiped away in the space of minutes. He got in his car and drove out of the car park. His mouth felt incredibly dry and his stomach was begging for something to eat. He drove far too quickly to the city centre and parked his car in the short stay car park outside Gillygate. He got out and walked the few hundred metres to the Bistro around the corner from the Minster. He remembered coming here a few years earlier. He had taken his Gran out to celebrate passing his end of year exams when he had been studying to become a lawyer. It all seemed light years ago now. After the meal, Smith’s Gran had been attacked and knocked to the ground. She had broken her hip and died a few weeks later in hospital.
Smith sat outside the Bistro and waited for someone to come and take his order. His phone started to ring in his pocket. He ignored it for once. A surly looking man appeared and put a menu on the table in front of him.
“Can I get you a drink?” the waiter asked him.
“Coke,” Smith said, “a bucketful if you have it.”
The waiter did not look amused.
“Just pour some ice in two pint glasses,” Smith said, “and fill them both up with coke. I’m starving. I’ll have whatever you can whip up in the shortest amount of time. I’m not fussy.”
The waiter found it hard to disguise his disdain. He picked up the menu and walked back inside.
Smith’s phone started to ring again. He took it out of his pocket and switched it off.
One hour, he thought, give me one hour of peace. The waiter reappeared and placed two pints of coke in front of Smith.
“Food’ll be about fifteen minutes,” he said, “we’re not a fast food joint.”
Smith ignored him. He picked up one of the glasses of coke and drank it in one go. He immediately felt better. He took out a cigarette and lit it. A woman sitting opposite him eyed him with disapproval. Smith smiled at her and exhaled a huge cloud of smoke. He suddenly remembered that he did not have any money with him; he had spent what he had left at the off license.
Ten minutes later, the waiter placed what looked like an elaborate beef burger in front of Smith. Smith looked at the plate and then at the waiter.
“It’s a burger,” the waiter said, “like I said, we’re not McDonalds.”
When Smith had finished eating he thought about what he was going to do about paying the bill. He then remembered he had a new credit card in his wallet. The waiter arrived and threw the bill down on the table in front of Smith. He shuffled impatiently from one foot to the other.
“Expecting a tip are you?” Smith said, “do you take credit cards?”
“I’ll get the machine,” the man sighed.
“Service is outstanding here isn’t it?” Smith said to the woman sitting opposite him but she did not say anything in reply.
The waiter returned with the wireless credit card machine. Smith handed him his card and watched as the waiter swiped it through the machine. He hoped his pin number was the same as before but the transaction went through smoothly. The bill came to fourteen pounds fifty. Smith decided he would not be eating here again in a hurry. He signed the slip and left the gratuity section blank.
Smith left his car in the car park and walked towards the centre of town. He stood outside the offices of Black and White Solicitors and checked to see if he still had the letter they had sent him. It was still in his back pocket. He went inside and walked up to the front desk. An elderly woman looked up from her computer screen and smiled. She smiled with sparkling eyes. It was a genuine smile; a rare sight these days, Smith thought.
/> “Good afternoon,” she said, “how can I help you?”
Smith took out the letter and placed it on the counter in front of her.
“You’re in luck,” she said, “Mr Black has just this minute finished with a client. He should still be in his office.”
She pressed a button on a small keypad and waited.
“Yes,” a deep voice was heard.
“Mr Black,” the woman said, “I have a Mr Smith here to see you. It’s regarding the Johnson estate.”
“I see,” Mr Black said, “send him through. Let’s finally put this one to bed shall we?”
“You can go through,” the woman said to Smith, “second door on the right.”
Percy Black was gazing out of the window in his office when Smith walked in. He was a lot smaller than his deep voice suggested.
“Mr Smith,” Black averted his eyes from the storm clouds coming in from the west, “take a seat. We meet at last.”
Smith sat down in a brown leather chair. It looked very expensive.
“Mr Smith,” Black sat down at his desk, “I must say this is very refreshing.”
Smith was confused. He did not know what Black was talking about.
“The letter we sent you,” Black explained, “it was sent almost two weeks ago. The amount is almost sixty five thousand pounds. What is refreshing is you have waited all this time to procure the funds. Most people would have been here before the ink on the letter was dry; they couldn’t have waited to get their grubby hands on the dosh.”
“I’ve been distracted,” Smith said, “anyway, this is nothing. Last year I gave away a lot more than this. My girlfriend left me over a hundred million. I gave it back. I didn’t want it.”
“Let’s get this done then shall we,” Black took out some forms from his desk, “before you change your mind again.”
He handed the forms to Smith.
“Fill these in,” he said, “sign and initial each page and the money should be in your account before the end of the week.”
Smith started to fill in the forms. As he did so he was engulfed by a sudden wave of sadness. The Ghoul had been a good friend; one of only a handful of people Smith had ever called a friend. He finished filling in the forms, signed them and handed them back to Mr Black. Black put them in a green folder.
“Like I say,” Black said, “the cash will be in your account before the end of the week. Are you planning on investing it? Paying off your mortgage? Blowing it all on a trip to Vegas?”
“I don’t know,” Smith said, “my house blew up a few weeks ago. I was thinking of using it to replace the stuff that was destroyed.”
Black looked at Smith. He seemed to be trying to figure out whether Smith was joking or not.
“Thank you very much Mr Smith,” he said, “thank you for proving that there is still such a thing as humanity in this crazy world we live in.”
THIRTY
Empathy
As Smith walked back to his car he thought about what the strange solicitor had said. Humanity, he thought, surely what Percy Black had said was a bit unfair. There were still plenty of good people in the world. Black must have grown cynical over the years, Smith thought, a solicitor must have to deal with the lowlife of society on a daily basis. He got in his car and turned on the engine. He realized that his phone was still switched off. No sooner had he turned it back on than it started to ring. He answered it immediately.
“Where have you been?”
It was Whitton.
“Sorry Whitton,” Smith said, “my phone must have switched itself off. What’s wrong? You sound a bit stressed.”
“The girl that disappeared this morning,” Whitton said, “looks like she’s been found.”
“Tiffany Beech?” Smith said, “That’s good news. Where was she?”
“She’s dead,” Whitton said, “an old man found her outside his house. She’d been stuffed inside a wheelie bin.”
Smith was not sure he had heard properly.
“A wheelie bin?” he said, “Are you sure?”
“You’d better get down here,” Whitton said, “and you’d better come up with a good excuse for going AWOL. Brownhill is furious.”
She gave Smith the address and rang off.
“Shit,” Smith said out loud.
He drove out of the car park and headed for the bridge over the river.
This isn’t happening, he thought. Two dead children in the space of a few days. He turned onto Blossom Street and parked behind Thompson’s Audi. He spotted DI Brownhill straight away. She was talking to a man Smith did not recognize. Whitton was standing with them. Two officers in uniform were preventing onlookers from getting too close to the crime scene. Smith got out of the car and walked over to them.
“What happened?” he said to Whitton.
“We don’t know yet,” she said, “it seems that the owner of the wheelie bin had an argument with one of the refuse collectors when he wouldn’t empty the bin. When he refused to empty it the owner must have found the poor girl inside.”
“Where is he now?” Smith said.
“He collapsed,” Whitton said, “he must have had quite a shock. The paramedics are with him now. They reckon he’ll be alright but he hasn’t said a word since it happened. This is Stan Grimhope.”
She pointed to the man who was standing with Brownhill.
“He works as a refuse collector,” she added.
“Where have you been?” Brownhill asked Smith.
She stood with her face only inches from Smith’s. She reminded Smith of an old sergeant major.
“Sorry boss,” Smith said, “I had some important business to attend to. How much do we know?”
“Not much,” Brownhill said, “the girl hasn’t been formally identified yet but it is pretty obvious that it’s Tiffany Beech. Webber and his team have gone over the scene. Time of death seems to be some time this morning. We’ll know more when the body has been thoroughly examined.”
“Do you think it’s the same man who killed Nathan Green?” Smith said.
“I think it’s safe to assume it’s the same killer,” Brownhill said.
“What’s going on in this city?” Smith mused, “Two dead children in the space of a few days.”
“This is no time for emotions,” Brownhill said, “we need to think clearly and catch this monster before he does it again.”
Grant Webber walked up to them. He nodded to Smith in acknowledgement.
“We found prints all over the bin,” he said, “of course, they could belong to the owner of the bin or the refuse collectors. There’s also what appears to be a full hand print on the lid. We’ll have a closer look at that one.”
“I think I can explain that,” Stan Grimhope said, “my colleague tried to slam the lid shut. He whacked it a few times with his hand.”
“Anything we can use?” Smith said.
“We’ll know more when I get the kid’s clothes back at the lab,” Webber said, “who in their right mind would do such a thing?”
“I know,” Smith said, “it makes me sick to the stomach.”
“Somebody must have seen something,” Webber said, “it can’t be easy to stuff a child inside a bin without anybody noticing.”
“I’ve got people on it,” Brownhill smiled at Webber, “uniform are busy going door to door. If somebody did see something, we’ll soon find out.”
“Have the parents been informed?” Smith said.
“They’re on their way to the mortuary as we speak,” Brownhill said.
“It must be awful,” Smith said, “to lose a child like that. I can’t think of anything worse.”
Webber looked at Smith as if he had lost his mind.
“I think I’ve seen everything now,” he said, “I never pictured you as an exponent of empathy.”
“It’s just a phase I’m going through,” Smith said, “I’ve been thinking about maybe settling down, getting married and having a few kids.”
“Don’t do it,�
� Thompson walked over to them, “you’ll live to regret it.”
“There’s not much we can do here,” Smith said, “not until we’ve got all the results back.”
He looked at Whitton.
“Come on,” he said, “we need to do something we should have done right at the very start.”
“And what’s that?” Brownhill said.
“We need to speak to the parents of the first child that was killed,” Smith said.
“This is your ‘go back to the very beginning’ theory isn’t it?” Brownhill said.
“Exactly,” Smith said, “if I’m wrong you can say I told you so but at least let me do things my way for once. What have we got to lose?”
“You’ve got two hours,” Brownhill looked at her watch, “there will be a meeting back at the station at four sharp.”
“Thanks boss,”
Smith walked back to his car.
THIRTY ONE
Nathan Green
Smith parked outside the house in Meadowgate and turned off the engine.
“What are you going to say to them?” Whitton asked.
“I don’t know yet,” Smith said, “something doesn’t feel right. I still can’t understand how a child can be abducted from his house while his parents are downstairs. I just want to have a good look around.”
“It’s good to have you back,” Whitton said.
“It was touch and go for a while there Whitton.”
“Are you still smoking the green stuff?”
“Off and on,” Smith said, “it’s amazing how it changes the way you think. It gives you a completely different perspective on things. I reckon every decent detective would benefit from it when they hit a brick wall.”
“If you say so,” Whitton sighed, “let’s get this over with shall we? This is the worst part of this job; talking to people after they’ve lost someone. It must be awful to lose a child.”
“I’ll try to go easy on them,” Smith opened the door and got out.
The door to the house was open when Smith and Whitton walked up the driveway. Jessica Green was standing in the doorway. It was past midday but she was still wearing her dressing gown. Her eyes had dark rings around them and she looked like she had not washed her hair in weeks.
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