“Whitton,” he shouted back to her, “you were right, I think its time we called this one in.”
SIX
Grant Webber parked his car in the alley behind the house in Grosvenor Road. Smith sighed when he saw Chalmers in the passenger seat. Another vehicle pulled up behind them. It was a Land Rover or a Range Rover, Smith could never tell them apart. Sarah Proud and Craig Friedman got out.
“What are they doing here?” Smith said to Whitton.
“Detective sergeant,” Proud said before Whitton had a chance to answer, “right place at the wrong time again?”
“Something like that,” Smith said, “what are you doing here? This is a crime scene.”
“As of now,” Proud said, “this is our crime scene. We’ll take it from here. Webber is going to help us. Stay down here and don’t go anywhere. You’ll need to be debriefed when we’re finished.”
“Debriefed?” Smith could not believe what he was hearing, “I hope that doesn’t have anything to do with the removal of my underpants. You’re not really my type.”
Whitton started to giggle.
Proud ignored his comment and walked inside the yard to the house. Webber followed her. Chalmers walked up to Smith and Whitton.
“How do you do it Smith?” he took out a packet of Marlboroughs, put one in his mouth and lit it.
“Do what sir?” Smith said.
“You seem to have this sixth bloody sense,” Chalmers said, “you disobey a direct order and just when you’re in line for a bollocking, you find something like this. How do you do it?”
“Just lucky I suppose,” Smith said, “can I have one of those?”
He pointed to the cigarette in Chalmers’ mouth.
Whitton looked at him as if he had gone mad.
“You don’t smoke,” Chalmers said.
“I’m thinking of starting,” Smith said.
Chalmers handed him the packet and a lighter. Smith put a cigarette in his mouth, lit it and inhaled deeply. He coughed, took another drag and felt the nicotine spread through his body like a wave.
“Thanks sir,” he handed the pack back to Chalmers.
Grant Webber stared at the sniper rifle as if it were an exhibit in a museum.
“My God,” he said, “this is really a Dragunov. I’ve only ever seen one in a photograph before.”
Sarah Proud was looking through the gap in the curtains. The window had been opened slightly.
“Mr Webber,” she said, “I know you are one of the finest forensics technicians in the country but before you start I need to explain a few things to you.”
“Go ahead,” Webber was still staring at the Dragunov.
“What you find in this room stays in this room ok?”
“I will make my report as I usually do,” Webber said, “what’s this all about?”
“You will not make your report as usual,” Proud said.
Webber stopped staring at the rifle and looked at her.
“Your report will be sent directly to me,” Proud continued, “and you will not mention a word of this to anybody. Do I make myself clear?”
“Miss Proud,” Webber took a step closer to her, “I am a professional. Do not insult my intelligence. I do not make a habit of divulging my work with people it does not concern. I don’t know what this is all about but could you please let me get on with my job?”
Proud was looking at something on the window sill. It was an ashtray full of cigarette butts.
“Carry on,” she said, “I’ll leave you to it.”
She left the room and walked back down the stairs.
Webber started to unpack his equipment. His heart was pounding in his chest. This was the stuff of forensics’ dreams. Usually, he had a team to help him but on this occasion he had been told in no uncertain terms that he would be working alone. He set his case down on the floor and looked at the rifle on the bed. That would be his first priority. The initial thing that had struck him when he walked in the room was why did they leave the rifle behind? Surely, if whoever shot Jimmy Fisher had managed to get into the house unseen with a Russian sniper rifle, they could have taken it out with them again. It did not make sense. Webber knew from his research that a Dragunov could be disassembled and packed away into a case not much bigger than a briefcase. Why had they left it here?
Webber put on a pair of gloves and got to work. He carefully picked up the rifle. He was surprised at how light it was. It could not have weighed more than five kilograms. The magazine was still attached. Webber’s hands were shaking as he removed it and placed it on a sheet of cellophane on the floor.
“Get a grip,” he said to himself.
He put the rifle back on the bed and started examining the magazine. He took out his fingerprint powder and lightly dusted the magazine. Before the powder even hit it, Webber could see there were at least three good fingerprints. This is all wrong, he thought, less than twenty four hours after a brutal murder we have the murder weapon with prints all over it. Somebody is either very stupid or very clever.
Webber finished with the prints and placed the magazine in an evidence bag. He walked over to the window and opened the curtains. The window had been opened slightly. Just enough to accommodate the rifle, Webber thought. He dusted the window latch for prints. Once again, a clear thumb print was visible. The killer did not seem to care about leaving evidence behind. From where Webber was standing he had a clear view of the whole football stadium.
“This house was carefully chosen,” he said out loud.
He looked at the ashtray on the window sill. It was full of cigarette butts. There was a partially smoked cigarette in amongst them. Webber took out a pair of tweezers and picked it up. The word ‘Steels’ was written on the cigarette just above the filter. He put it in another evidence bag.
None of this makes any sense whatsoever, Webber thought. He took off his gloves and left the room. Smith and Whitton were in the back yard of the house when Webber walked outside. They were talking to Sarah Proud.
“Smith,” Webber said, “I never thought I’d say this but I need your help.”
“I knew you’d grow to like me sooner or later,” Smith said.
“I don’t like you,” Webber said, “I just need you to have another look upstairs and tell me what you see.”
“That’s out of the question I’m afraid,” Sarah Proud said, “The jurisdiction in this case has changed.”
“The jurisdiction may have changed,” Webber said, “but the crime scene is the same. Smith happens to be one of the best. We all want the same results don’t we?”
Nobody said a word.
“What harm can it do?” Smith said eventually, “I already know what’s up there anyway.”
He walked back inside the house without waiting for Sarah Proud to say anything else. She stared at him. Her mouth was wide open.
“Let him go,” Whitton said, “he’s going to do whatever he wants with or without your permission anyway.”
Webber followed Smith into the house.
“What do you make of this room?” Webber asked Smith.
Smith looked around. He walked over to the window and looked across at the football stadium.
“This house was carefully chosen,” he said, “whoever did this didn’t just break into any old house. I’d say they’d been here long before the game yesterday to check things out.”
He looked at the ashtray full of cigarette butts.
“And from the look of this,” he added, “our sniper is either a serious chain smoker or he was in this room for a very long time. Do you know what kind of cigarettes they are?”
“I don’t smoke,” Webber said, “filthy habit, but I found one that hadn’t been smoked all the way down. It had the word ‘Steels’ on it. It shouldn’t be too hard to find out where it came from.”
“This doesn’t make sense,” Smith looked at the rifle on the bed, “the location was carefully chosen; the rifle is an expensive and hard to come by weapon and it must ta
ke a skilled marksman to be able to use it, why leave the weapon at the crime scene?”
“I got prints off the magazine too,” Webber said, “and more off the window latch.”
“What do you think about all this?” Smith said.
“I’m not a detective,” Webber said, “I collect evidence but in all my years in forensics this has to be the most paradoxical crime scene I’ve ever been to.”
“Paradoxical?” Smith said.
“There are too many inconsistencies,” Webber said, “you’ve already hit on some of them. The unusual rifle. Whoever did this brought it in without being seen. Surely they could have got out the same way with the rifle. Why leave it here?”
“Are you done here?” A voice was heard from the doorway.
It was Sarah Proud.
“You know what’s going on here don’t you?” Smith said.
She shook her head.
“I have a good idea,” she said.
“Let’s hear it then,” Smith said.
“I’m afraid you are no longer to have anything to do with this matter.”
She looked at Webber. Her eyes bored into his.
“And remember what I said about the evidence,” She said, “it is to be sent directly to me. I need a report as soon as possible.”
“You’ll get it as soon as I’m ready,” Webber said.
“What now then?” Smith said.
“You go back to work,” Proud said, “but this case no longer concerns you. Have you got that?”
Smith was about to say something but changed his mind. His toothache was returning. He left the room and walked down the stairs.
SEVEN
Smith, Whitton, Bridge and Thompson sat around the table by the window in the canteen at the station. Nobody said a word. A rain cloud was drifting in from the east.
“Looks like rain,” Thompson said.
“We need it,” Whitton said.
It had not rained for weeks and the authorities were threatening a hosepipe ban if the situation did not improve. Smith stood up and walked over to the coffee machine in the corner of the room. He got some coffee, took one sip and threw the cup and its contents in the waste bin. His tooth was in agony.
“This is bullshit,” he said when he returned to the table, “how can these suits just waltz in and take over? This is our patch.”
“Forget about it sir,” Whitton said, “There’s nothing we can do about it.”
“Yes there is,” Smith turned and walked out of the room.
DI Chalmers was not in his office when Smith barged through the doors. Smith had an idea where he would be. He found him in the car park at the back of the station. He was smoking a cigarette.
“Can I have one of those?” Smith pointed to Chalmers’ cigarette.
“They’ll be the death of you,” Chalmers took out the pack and handed it to Smith.
“Thanks,” Smith took out a cigarette, put it in his mouth and lit the end. He handed the pack back to Chalmers.
“If this is going to be a regular thing,” Chalmers said, “you’d better start buying your own.”
“What’s going on sir?” Smith took a long drag on the cigarette.
“Do you know how long I’ve been in this job Smith?” Chalmers said, “Over thirty years. I learned a long time ago not to take things personally.”
“This is our case sir,” Smith said.
“Not any more. Get over it. SOCA have got it now.”
“SOCA?” Smith said.
“I’ve said enough,” Chalmers said.
Smith took another drag of the cigarette and winced. His tooth was throbbing now.
“Who are SOCA?” he said.
“Government,” Chalmers said, “police in fancy suits and expensive shoes. Believe me; you don’t want to get in their way.”
“Its not right sir.”
“Forget about it; we’ve got other things to worry about.”
He finished his cigarette and flicked the butt across the car park.
“I need a few hours off,” Smith said.
“I told you to leave it alone,” Chalmers said, “I know you, you’ll go off and get involved in something that will only end in trouble.”
“I need to see a dentist,” Smith said, “this tooth of mine is getting worse.”
“You’ve got two hours,” Chalmers said, “and you come straight back here when you’re finished. Have you got that?”
“Loud and clear,” Smith said, “I’ll see you later.”
As Smith parked outside the dental surgery in the centre of town he realised it had been over five years since he had last seen a dentist. He walked through the door into the reception area and a wave of nausea engulfed him. Dentist’s offices always smelled the same. He took a deep breath and tried to think of something else. He remembered why he had not been to the dentist for so long. The last time he had passed out before he had even sat down in the dentist’s chair. He took another deep breath and walked up to the reception desk. The man there looked up from his computer and smiled.
“What can I help you with?” he asked.
“Pint of Theakstons please,” Smith said.
The smile disappeared from the man’s face.
“Sorry,” Smith said, “I get a bit nervous when I come to the dentists. I’ve got a tooth ache.”
“Name?” the man said.
“Smith, Jason Smith.”
The man typed away on the keyboard.
“Nope,” he said, “you’re not here.”
“I know,” Smith said, “I’ve never been here before.”
“Then you’ll have to fill these in first,” the man handed Smith two forms, “if you can fill them in in three minutes Doctor Rice will be able to see you straight away.”
“Have you got a pen?” Smith asked.
The receptionist shook his head and handed Smith a black biro.
“I want that back though,” he said, “you wouldn’t believe how many pens we get through in here.”
Smith took the forms and sat down on one of the plastic chairs. The sound of a child crying could be heard from one of the doors. The door opened and a boy of around eight years old walked through. He was holding his hand to his mouth. Poor kid, Smith thought. He finished filling in the forms, stood up and handed them back to the receptionist.
“Pen,” the man said.
Smith took the pen out of his jacket pocket and handed it to the man.
“You can go straight through,” he said, “Doctor Rice’s room is the third one on the right.”
“Thanks,” Smith opened the door and walked down the corridor.
Dr Rice’s room was open and Smith went inside. A large woman in her forties was washing her hands in a basin in the corner. There was a funny smell in the room.
“Have a seat,” Dr Rice said without turning round, “I’ll be with you in a second.”
Smith did as he was told. He stared at the various instruments in the dish next to the chair. Instruments of torture, he thought. Dr Rice turned to face Smith. He thought she had a very friendly face. She had large droopy brown eyes and a very large mouth that always seemed to be smiling.
“What can I do for you?” she said.
“I have a toothache,” Smith said.
He touched the side of his mouth and winced.
“When was the last time you saw a dentist?” she said.
“Last time I had a toothache,” Smith said, “about five years ago.”
“I see,” she said, “let’s have a look then shall we.”
She walked over to the chair and turned on the light. Smith clenched both fists.
“Relax,” she said, “it’s not too bad. Open your mouth.”
Smith slowly opened his mouth. Dr Rice looked inside. She found what she was looking for immediately.
“Oh dear,” she said.
Smith gazed up at the lamp and his eyes were blinded for a second.
“What’s wrong?” he said.
“Yo
u’ve got a hole in your back left molar,” Dr Rice said, “looks like the hole is down to the pulp cavity. Does it hurt when you drink?”
“Like crazy,” Smith said.
“The nerve is just below the pulp cavity,” she said.”
“Can you fix it?”
“Of course.”
She took a syringe from a small cupboard next to the chair and filled it from a vial of clear liquid. Smith watched her the whole time. He remembered one time when, as a child, he had been at the dentist for a filling. The dentist, a man with the worst halitosis Smith had ever experienced, had made a mistake with the injection. He had injected in the wrong place. Smith still remembered the pain as the drill had bored into his tooth.
“Open your mouth wider please,” Dr Rice said.
Smith felt something cold on the side of his mouth. The sensation was not too unpleasant but he still closed his eyes and waited for the prick of the needle to hit his gum.
“Ok,” Dr Rice said, “let’s give it five minutes for the lidocaine to hit home and then we can get to work.”
Smith was amazed.
“I didn’t feel a thing,” he said.
He could feel the anaesthetic starting to work already.
“Dentistry has come a long way in the last few years,” Dr Rice said, “in the old days something like this would have meant gas and that would have knocked you for a six for a good five hours. This will be over in a few minutes.”
She picked up Smith’s file.
“Ah,” she said, “I see you’re a policeman and I knew that accent wasn’t from around here. You’re Australian.”
Smith nodded. His mouth felt completely numb.
“I have a sister in Australia,” Dr Rice said, “I haven’t seen her for years. I keep meaning to take the plunge and get out there but it’s such a long way to go isn’t it? She lives in Melbourne.”
Smith nodded again. This chatty dentist was starting to make his head spin.
“Ok,” Dr Rice said, “we’re all set. It’ll be over and done with before you know it.”
Occum's Razor Page 3