Occum's Razor

by Giles, Stewart

  “What sort of bullet are we talking about here?” Smith said.

  “This little beauty here,” Webber pointed to the screen.

  Smith and Thompson looked at the screen. There was a photograph of a rifle cartridge.

  “Seven point six two,” Webber said. His hands were shaking.

  “Fifty four mil,” he continued, “of course what we found in Standen’s shoulder was what was left of the bullet but I happen to be a bit of a buff. Rifles are fascinating.”

  “What’s so special about this bullet?” Smith said.

  “It’s not so much the bullet,” Webber said, “It’s the rifle that fired it. It’s not your average stock standard rifle if you’ll excuse the pun.”

  Neither Smith nor Thompson got Webber’s joke.

  “Stock standard,” Webber said, “rifle stock. Anyway, I searched the data base and the only rifle that fires such a cartridge is the Dragunov SVD.”

  “Dragon Hoff?” Smith said.

  “Dragunov,” Webber said, “designed by Evgeny Dragunov in nineteen sixty three.”

  “So it’s an old gun then?” Thompson said.

  “Not at all,” Webber replied, “they’re still in production today. It is an exceptional rifle. They were used in Vietnam, Afghanistan, Iraq, you name it.”

  “Ok Webber,” Smith said, “where can you get your hands on one of these rifles?”

  “That’s just it,” Webber said, “you can’t. It’s strictly Russian military issue. You can’t just pick one up on E bay.”

  “I don’t get it,” Smith said, “why would someone go to all the trouble of getting a supposedly unobtainable weapon to shoot a football player from a mediocre team?”

  Thompson glared at him.

  “Smith’s right,” Webber said, “I’m not a detective but even I can see that it doesn’t make sense. This rifle has a range of over a kilometre and it takes a trained marksman to be able to use it properly. This weapon is designed for one thing and one thing only.”

  “What’s that?” Thompson said.

  “It’s a sniper rifle,” Webber said, “Surely if you’re going to kill a football player, you’d use a much less elaborate method. It’s like taking a Rolls Royce to a drag race.”

  “You say the rifle is Russian?” Smith said.

  “That’s right,” Webber said, “although in sixty three it was still the Soviet Union. A lot has changed since then.”

  “So where do we start looking?” Thompson said.

  “That’s not my job,” Webber said, “I’m just an underpaid forensics technician who just happens to be a rifle fanatic.”

  “That would explain the suits at the meeting,” Smith said.

  “Suits?” Webber said.

  “Nothing,” Smith said, “thanks Webber. Me and Thompson have to get going. We’re going to pay a visit to Boot Crescent.”

  “Bootham,” Thompson corrected him.

  “Whatever,” Smith said, “let’s go and see if we can figure out who would want to kill a goalkeeper.”

  FOUR

  Bootham Crescent was a five minute drive from the forensics building. Smith did not know why but he had expected the stadium to be much more impressive than it was. Having been forced to watch a couple of games during the world cup in South Africa earlier in the year and being impressed by the grandeur of the stadia there, York City’s home ground was a bit of a let down.

  “The theatre of dreams,” Thompson said as he parked his car in the parking area, “I’ve been a season ticket holder here for years.”

  “I still can’t see what all the fuss is about,” Smith said, “it’s just a stupid game.”

  “It’s the beautiful game,” Thompson insisted.

  “Look at all the flowers,” Smith said.

  Wreaths of flowers of all shapes and colours had been placed all around the stadium. Photographs of Jimmy Fisher were all over the concrete.

  “What a loss,” Thompson said, “best keeper we’ve ever had. We’ve got to get the bastards who did this.”

  “Let’s make a start then,” Smith said, “how do we get into this place? Everything seems to be locked up.”

  Thompson led him past the flowers and stopped next to a side door.

  “The grounds man is expecting us,” he knocked on the door.

  The door opened and an elderly man with a bald head peeped out. He looked Smith and Thompson up and down.

  “It’s closed,” he said, “if you want to pay your respects leave flowers or you can make a donation to the fund.”

  Smith took out his ID. Thompson did the same.

  “Sam Vernon?” Thompson said.

  “That’s me,” Vernon said, “You must be the police. You’d better come in. What took you so long?”

  He did not wait for an answer. He led them down a long corridor. Old photographs lined each wall. They were photographs of football matches over the years. Thompson stopped and stared at one of them.

  “Come on Thompson,” Smith said, “this is no time for nostalgia.”

  The photograph was black and white. It looked very old. It depicted a man in an old York City shirt. He was holding a football and he had a huge grin on his face.

  “He looks familiar,” Smith said.

  “Ernie Thompson,” Thompson smiled, “nineteen thirty nine. Just before the war. He was my granddad.”

  Vernon stopped and turned round.

  “Ernie Thompson was your granddad?” he said, “My dad used to talk about him all the time. One of the best forwards York has ever seen. Bit before my time though. Come on, I’ll show you through to the pitch.”

  He unlocked a door that led to another corridor. There was another door at the end of it.

  “After you,” Vernon said to Thompson as he opened the door, “any grandkid of Ernie Thompson’s is welcome here any time.”

  Thompson walked onto the field and he felt like he was in a dream. The pitch was in a state of disrepair but Thompson did not seem to notice. Brown tufts of grass gave the pitch an unkempt look.

  “We can’t afford the maintenance like we used to,” Vernon said, “when I started here thirty years ago the pitch was like a golf green but things have changed a lot since then. The club nearly went under a few times.”

  “Where was the player shot?” Smith said.

  “He was over by the goal in front of the Longhurst stand,” Vernon said, “they were parading him up and down. It’s a big thing for us you know. I might even get a pay rise out of it.”

  “Longhurst stand?” Smith said.

  “He’s not from around here is he?” Vernon asked Thompson.

  “How can you tell?” Thompson said.

  “The David Longhurst end is over there,” Vernon pointed to the goal posts at the far end of the stadium.

  “That’s where the home fans sit,” he added, “poor buggers got an eyeful of the whole thing.”

  “Where were you during the game?” Smith said.

  “In the club office,” Vernon said, “I don’t normally watch the games. There’s usually too much other stuff going on for me to have that luxury.”

  “So you didn’t see anything?” Smith asked.

  “I came out onto the main stand to watch the penalty shootout. My nerves were shot by the end of it. Like I said, promotion for us is a big deal. I’ll show you.”

  He walked to the left hand side of the field.

  “I was standing right there when Jimmy got shot,” he pointed to the tunnel leading to the dressing rooms.

  “And where was Jimmy Fisher?” Smith said.

  “Over there,” Vernon pointed to the goalposts, “they had him in the air. Nobody knew what was happening. The crowd was making such a noise. It was Craig Standen that fell to the ground first.”

  “The one who took the bullet in the shoulder?” Smith said.

  “He fell to the ground pretty much in the middle of the penalty area,” Vernon said, “the noise was deafening. It was chaos. The lads who had Jimmy in the a
ir had blood all over them.”

  “The shot could have come from anywhere,” Thompson said.

  “How would someone get a rifle into a football ground?” Smith said, “Somebody must have seen something.”

  He looked across to the other side of the stadium.

  “What’s behind there?” he pointed to the other goal.

  “Grosvenor Road,” Vernon said, “it’s where the away supporters stand.”

  Smith walked over to it and climbed the steps to the top. He looked over the advertising banners. There was a row of terraced houses behind the stadium. Thompson and Vernon caught up to him.

  “These houses,” Smith said, “you could probably see the whole field from them.”

  “You can,” Vernon said, “Tight buggers watch the games from there every weekend. There’s nothing we can do about it.”

  “How long is the pitch?” Smith asked.

  “One hundred and five metres exactly,” Vernon said.

  “And these houses are another twenty metres away,” Smith said, “that’s easily within range of the weapon used to shoot Fisher.”

  “What are you thinking?” Thompson said.

  “I’m thinking that whoever killed Jimmy Fisher was watching the game from one of those houses. That would explain why nobody saw anything.”

  “So what now?” Thompson said.

  “What do you think?” Smith said, “We find out if any of the people living in these houses had a special guest yesterday during the game; a special guest with an unusual Russian rifle.”

  FIVE

  Thompson drove round the stadium and parked his car directly behind the Grosvenor Road stand. They were about to get out of the car when Smith’s phone started to ring in his pocket. He took it out and answered it.

  “Sir,” it was Whitton, “where are you?”

  “Still at the football ground,” Smith said, “it looks like our sniper shot the goalkeeper from one of the houses at the back of the stadium. What’s wrong?”

  “There’s been another one sir,” Whitton said.

  “Another what?”

  “Another dead football player,” Whitton said, “Paulo Rubio. He was the one who missed the penalty before Fisher was killed.”

  “You’re kidding me,” Smith said, “when did this happen?”

  “This morning. He was walking back from the shop round the corner from his house. He was shot in broad daylight. They only knew it was Rubio from the clothes he was wearing. Most of his head was blown off.”

  “My God,” Smith said,” where did this happen?”

  “Rubio played for Darlington,” Whitton said, “He had a house in Richmond. Did you find anything out at Bootham Crescent?”

  “Only that Thompson’s grandfather was a football player,” Smith said, “we’re about to start knocking on doors now. What the hell is going on here? Who would want to kill football players?”

  “I don’t know,” Whitton said.

  “I want you and Bridge here now,” Smith said, “there’s quite a few houses to check out.”

  “Chalmers wants all of us in Richmond,” Whitton said.

  “We’ll go after we’re finished up here. This is where it all started. You should know by now that the first one is almost always the most important one; the one we should look most closely at. Remember the ladybird killer? She was one of the first people we spoke to.”

  “Chalmers isn’t going to like this sir,” Whitton said.

  “Chalmers never does,” Smith said, “I’ll see you in ten minutes.”

  He rang off.

  “Let’s get started then,” Smith said to Thompson, “we’ll start at one end and work our way along. All these houses look the same to me.”

  The door of the first house was opened almost immediately by a young man in a tracksuit. He had a permanent scowl on his face. Smith took an instant dislike to him.

  “What do you want?” he said.

  “Police,” Smith said, “can we have a word?”

  “Depends on what you want,” the man said.

  “Were you home yesterday,” Smith asked.

  “All day,” the man said, “I watched the game from upstairs. It’s not against the law is it?”

  “Not as far as I know,” Smith said, “can we come in and have a look around? We just need to see the view of the pitch from your house.”

  “Have you got a warrant?” the man asked, “I haven’t done anything.”

  Smith was getting impatient. They had a lot to get through.

  “Listen,” he said, “we’re not interested in you. We just need to look upstairs. What’s your name anyway?”

  “Chris,” he said, “Chris Jenkins. Like I said, I haven’t done anything. You’ve got no right to be harassing me like this.”

  “Mr Jenkins,” Thompson intervened, “we’re investigating the murder of Jimmy Fisher. You wouldn’t want to be known as the man who got in the way of that investigation would you?”

  “Why didn’t you just say that?” Jenkins said, “Come in. The place is in a bit of a state though. We had a bit of a party after the game yesterday.”

  He led them inside. The living room was filthy. It smelled of stale tobacco and body odour. There were empty beer cans all over the floor.

  “Can you show us where you watched the game from yesterday?” Thompson said.

  “I watched it from my old lady’s room,” Jenkins said, “Her room has the best view.”

  “Where’s your mother now?” Smith asked.

  “At work. Somebody has to bring some money into the house.”

  He walked up a narrow staircase and stopped outside a door at the top.

  “What are you looking for?” he said.

  “We just need to see the view,” Smith said.

  “You can see most of the pitch,” Jenkins said, “There’s a bit by the Longhurst Stand you can’t quite see. You have to lean out a bit but its better than paying eight quid every weekend isn’t it?”

  Smith ignored him and went inside the room. The bed was made and the room was much cleaner than the rest of the house. He walked to the window and looked outside. From here he had a view of the top of the stadium and most of the pitch. Jenkins had been right, he thought, the angle of the house made it difficult to see the goal in front of the Longhurst end, the goal Jimmy Fisher had been in front of when he was shot. Jimmy Fisher’s killer had not shot him from Chris Jenkins’ mother’s bedroom.

  “Thank you for your time,” Smith said, “we may need to speak to you again.”

  He walked down the stairs, through the squalor of the living room and into the fresh air outside. For some reason he felt like a cigarette. He did not smoke but he had a craving for a cigarette. He shrugged off the thought. Whitton and Bridge had just parked behind Thompson’s car.

  “Chalmers isn’t happy,” Whitton said as she got out the car, “Smyth is breathing down his neck. It’s all very well when an English footballer gets killed but when a Colombian is murdered in broad daylight it’s a whole different ball game. It takes priority. You know what it’s like in this country. The press are already all over it.”

  “Colombian?” Thompson said, “Do you think this is a drug thing? You know what these Colombians are like.”

  “Chalmers wants us in Richmond right away,” Bridge said.

  “Its going to have to wait,” Smith said, “I’m positive that Fisher was shot from one of these houses. The one we had a look at didn’t have a clear view of where Fisher was shot. We’ll start in the middle of the terrace and work our way out. Whitton, you can come with me.”

  An hour later they had ruled out all but two of the houses.

  “I knew this was a waste of time,” Thompson said, “Chalmers is going to have our arses for this.”

  “You and Bridge take the one on the left,” Smith ignored him, “and we’ll try the other one.”

  Thompson walked off shaking his head. Smith knocked on the door of the house. There was no answer. He knoc
ked again. Nothing.

  “There’s nobody home,” a voice came from the upstairs window of the house next door.

  It was the woman they had just finished talking to.

  “Are you sure they’re not here?” he said.

  “Of course I’m sure,” she said, “they’ve been away since last Wednesday.”

  “Where are they?” Smith asked.

  “Holiday. Greece I think.”

  Smith looked through the window into the house. He could not see anything out of the ordinary. The house was exceptionally neat and tidy.

  “Let’s have a look round the back,” Smith said to Whitton.

  “What for?” Whitton said.

  “Just humour me,” Smith walked up the street. He counted the houses as he walked. Whitton walked after him. They reached the corner and came to an alleyway at the back of the houses. Smith counted the houses as he walked along the alley.

  “I think this is it,” he stopped outside a red wooden door.

  He tried the handle. It was locked.

  “Give me a lift up,” he said to Whitton.

  “Sir,” Whitton said, “don’t you think we should call it in?”

  “It won’t take two minutes,” Smith said, “I just want to have a look in the back yard. Help me up.”

  Whitton sighed and helped Smith over the wall. He got one leg over and landed on the other side with a thud. Moments later the gate opened and Smith stood there with a huge grin on his face.

  “I knew it,” he said, “The window in the back door has been smashed. Somebody has broken in.”

  “We need to call it in,” Whitton said.

  “Not yet,” Smith said, “besides it’ll take too long. I’ll just go in and have a look. I’ll be careful.”

  The back door was slightly ajar. Smith pushed it open.

  “Whoever broke in wasn’t too bothered about covering their tracks,” he said.

  He walked upstairs and looked around. Whitton walked slowly behind him. The house was laid out exactly the same way as the others they had looked at in the street. He came to the door that he knew led to the room that afforded the best view of the football field and pushed it open. He peered inside the room. The curtains were drawn and a slight breeze was moving the curtains back and forth. The window was open. Smith walked inside and looked around. He spotted something on the bed.