Occum's Razor

by Giles, Stewart

  Smith closed his eyes and opened his mouth. His senses were playing tricks on him. He could not feel what was going on in his mouth but his hearing seemed to be enhanced. It was as if everything he heard was being played over a loudspeaker. Every click of the various tools Dr Rice was using was clear. The small drill started up and it rang through Smith’s eardrums like a guitar tuner on a concrete floor; an A flat, shifting to an A sharp as the drill increased its speed. He opened his eyes and, seeing Dr Rice’s mouth moving, could tell that she was still talking. The words were blocked out by the sound of the drill which was now making Smith’s ears ring.

  The drill was switched off and for a brief moment there was silence in the room. Dr Rice was preparing a white cement like substance in a small metal dish.

  “Terrible business about Jimmy Fisher,” she said, “what a horrible way to die. In front of all those people too. My husband is still in shock.”

  Smith tried to picture Dr Rice’s husband. He wondered if he was ever able to get a word in with this woman around. He tried to talk but the lidocaine had numbed his mouth so much that the words that came out were inaudible.

  “Who would want to do such a thing?” Dr Rice continued, “Who would want to kill a football player?”

  “There are some sick people out there,” Smith tried to say but the words were all mingled together.

  “You’re right there,” Dr Rice seemed to understand him perfectly well.

  She must be used to people speaking like this, Smith thought.

  “Are you working on the investigation?” Dr Rice asked him.

  “No,” Smith replied.

  It was partly the truth. He had been told to stay away.

  “I wanted to join the police,” Dr Rice said, “if it wasn’t for my parents I probably would have done. Dentistry’s in the blood you see. I would have made a good police detective.”

  She started to fill the hole in Smith’s tooth. Smith still could not feel a thing.

  “I read a lot of crime novels,” she said, “After a while you start to see patterns. Do you know what one of the most common mistakes the protagonists in crime books make?”

  Smith shook his head. He was sure she was going to tell him whether he wanted to know or not.

  “They complicate things too much,” she said, “They always overlook the obvious.”

  Smith sighed but Dr Rice seemed unperturbed.

  “It’s all so simple really,” she was starting to get quite excited.

  Smith was hoping this would not take too long.

  “Have you ever heard of Occum’s Razor?” she finished filling the hole and was now pressing the cement inside.

  Smith shook his head.

  “Occum’s razor,” Dr Rice took a strange tool from a silver dish and started to press tightly on Smith’s tooth.

  “William of Occum was a philosopher in the fourteenth century,” she said, “he devised a brilliantly simple but effective problem solving principle. When you look at it it’s actually just a matter of stating the bloody obvious if you’ll pardon my French.”

  Smith had a sudden urge to get out of there as soon as possible.

  “Occum’s razor states that if there are various possible reasons for an event or chain of events it is the one with the fewest assumptions that should almost always be selected.”

  Smith shook his head. Dr Rice had finished with the tooth and was starting to pack away her equipment. She walked over to the basin and washed her hands. Smith stood up. He was starting to get the feeling back in his mouth.

  “Let me give you an example,” Dr Rice dried her hands on a small towel, “it’s a very crude one but I’m sure you’ll get what I mean. Let’s say, for instance that you leave a frozen chicken on your windowsill to defrost. Too hours later you come to get the chicken and it has disappeared. There’s a tabby cat sitting underneath the windowsill with a smile on his face. He’s still licking his lips. Now let’s say there are three possible explanations for the disappearance of the chicken. Reason one: the chicken suddenly woke up and ran away. Reason two: the chicken was abducted by aliens and, reason three: the cat was passing by and smelled the chicken and decided to eat it. Which one would you pick?”

  “The cat of course,” Smith sighed.

  “Of course,” Dr Rice said, “the other two are just absurd. Look for the obvious first.”

  “I have to go,” Smith said, “thanks for fixing my tooth.”

  “Occum’s razor,” Dr Rice said, “think about it. You can pay at the reception desk and don’t leave it too long next time.”

  EIGHT

  Smith drove away from the dentists and smiled. His tooth felt strange but the pain was gone. Dr Rice had done a good job. He had forgotten everything she had told him about the old philosopher. He could not even remember the man’s name. He parked his car outside the station and got out. He went inside and headed straight for the canteen. He got a cup of coffee and took a small sip. The coffee tasted terrible but there was no pain when the warm liquid hit his tooth. His phone rang in his pocket. He took it out and looked at the screen. It was a number he did not recognise.

  “Smith,” he answered it.

  “Is this sergeant Smith?” a man said.

  Smith thought his voice sounded vaguely familiar.

  “DS Smith,” he said, “who is this?”

  “We met earlier,” the man said, “Sam Vernon. I’m the grounds man at Bootham Crescent. Can I have a word?”

  “What’s this all about?”

  “It’s about the Jimmy Fisher shooting,” Vernon said, “I might have a bit of info for you.”

  Smith thought hard for a second. He had been told to leave the investigation well alone.

  “Where are you?” he said anyway, “At the football ground?”

  “No,” Vernon said, “I’m at a pub round the corner. The Old York. This is a bit delicate.”

  “Give me ten minutes,” Smith said and rang off.

  He finished the rest of the coffee and walked back through to the front desk. Baldwin was there by herself.

  “Where is everyone?” he said to her.

  “Richmond sir,” she said, “they’re questioning people about the shooting of the Colombian.”

  “When will they be back?”

  “No idea sir,” she said.

  “I have to go out. Something has come up.”

  He walked out of the station before Baldwin could say anything else.

  Smith found the Old York pub quite easily. From the outside he could tell at once that it was a favourite haunt of York City fans. The red and white of the Minster men hung in the windows in the form of flags and banners. Smith went inside and looked around. More football memorabilia hung on the walls of the pub. The place was almost empty and he spotted Vernon straight away. He was sitting in the far corner of the bar with another man. The man looked very young. Smith thought he could not be more than eighteen or nineteen.

  “Sergeant,” Vernon said when Smith walked over to their table, “have a seat. Can I get you a drink?”

  Smith felt like a drink. He felt like more than one drink but he knew what would happen if he had just one beer. Besides, he was not even supposed to be there.

  “I’m fine,” he said, “what’s this all about?”

  He sat down opposite Vernon.

  “And who’s this?” he pointed to the other man.

  Smith looked closely at him. He was very tanned and his eyes were dark brown. He was definitely not a Yorkshireman but what struck Smith most was the expression in his eyes. He looked terrified of something.

  “Sergeant,” Vernon said, “this is Rico Sanchez. He’s been with us since he was sixteen. Last season was his first in the main squad. He’s got a bright future ahead of him. One of the best defenders we’ve ever had.”

  Smith nodded to Sanchez.

  “What’s this all about?” he said.

  “Tell him what you told me,” Vernon said to Sanchez.

  Sanchez
looked at Smith and then looked around the pub as if he was expecting someone to walk in at any minute. Smith’s phone started to ring in his pocket but he ignored it.

  “What’s on your mind Rico?” Smith said.

  “I don’t know what to do,” Sanchez said in a strange accent.

  It was definitely of Spanish origin but the intonation had a slight Northern twang to it.

  “Take your time,” Smith said.

  “Tell him,” Vernon said.

  “I don’t think they knew what they were getting themselves into,” Sanchez said, “I’ve seen it before. Somebody was bound to get hurt.”

  “What are you talking about?” Smith said.

  “Jimmy’s dead,” Sanchez said.

  “I know,” Smith said, “do you know who did this?”

  He had a feeling he was about to learn something important but he also knew he was not supposed to be there.

  “We met them just over a week ago,” Sanchez said.

  “Who’s them?” Smith said.

  “Them. They didn’t give their names. There was me, Jimmy and Tommy.”

  “Tommy?” Smith said.

  “Tommy Pike,” Vernon said, “on his way out I’m afraid. Can’t keep up with the younger blokes anymore.”

  “What happened?” Smith said.

  “Tommy and Jimmy were drinking,” Sanchez said, “I don’t drink but I still go along with them for the team spirit thing. They were quite drunk and I saw them talking to these three men in the bar of the club.”

  “Did you know these men?” Smith said.

  “No, I’d never seen them before but they didn’t look nice.”

  “How do you mean?” Smith said.

  “Mister Sergeant,” Sanchez said, “I’m from Uruguay. I grew up in one of the worst parts of Montevideo. I’ve seen plenty of men like these before. Un Peligroso. Dangerous people.”

  “Do you know what they were talking about?” Smith said.

  “I was sitting at one of the tables overlooking the dance floor,” Sanchez said, “Tommy, Jimmy and these men were talking at the bar. I couldn’t hear what they were saying.”

  “So what is it you want to tell me then?” Smith was confused.

  Sanchez looked around the room. Apart from an elderly gentleman reading a newspaper, the pub was empty.

  “It was what I saw,” Sanchez said, “not what they said. Jimmy suddenly stood up and walked away from the bar. Tommy was still talking to the men. Jimmy had an angry look on his face.”

  “I still don’t get it,” Smith said.

  “One of the men with Tommy smiled,” Sanchez said, “it was the most evil smile. I’ll never forget it but its what he did afterwards that scares me.”

  “What did he do?” Smith was wondering if this was a complete waste of time.

  “He watched Jimmy walk away and then he did this.”

  Sanchez raised his hand in the air and made the shape of a gun with his thumb and forefinger. He pointed it at Smith’s head and pulled the imaginary trigger.

  NINE

  Smith got back in his car and looked at his phone. The message alert light was flashing. He remembered he had missed a call when he was talking with Vernon and Sanchez. He pressed the message retrieve button and listened.

  ‘Jason Smith,” a man with a strange accent said, ‘this is your first and last warning. Stay away from matters that don’t concern you.’

  The message ended there. Smith saved the message and listened to it again. The voice was vaguely familiar. Where had he heard that voice before? He thought. He put the phone back in his pocket and turned the key in the ignition. He drove towards the river. Sam Vernon had given him Tommy Pike’s address. Smith knew the area well. He was surprised that a football player would live in such a poor area. He knew that he had no business speaking to Pike but the detective in him knew he had to get to the bottom of all of this. The sun was beating down on the roads now. The weather forecast had predicted heat wave conditions for the rest of the week. Smith smiled as he passed children dressed in shorts and T shirts. It reminded him of Western Australia most of the year round. Unfortunately in York these bursts of hot weather were very rare.

  Smith parked outside Pike’s house and got out of the car. He realised he was sweating quite badly. He thought again about the voice message he had received earlier. Where had he heard that voice before? He knocked on the door and waited. There was no answer. He knocked again. The door was answered by a young boy wearing a football kit. Smith thought he could not be more than five or six years old. He had unusually large ears. They stuck out from his head on either side at angles of ninety degrees.

  “Hello,” Smith said, “does Tommy Pike live here?”

  “He’s my dad,” the boy said.

  He had a very deep voice for his age.

  “Is he home?” Smith said.

  “He’s watching telly,” the boy said.

  He was staring at Smith the whole time. Smith found it quite unnerving.

  “Can I come in and speak to him?” he said, “I’m a policeman. I need to talk to him.”

  “He’s watching Countdown,” the boy said, “He doesn’t like it when people bother him when he’s watching Countdown.”

  “Who is it?” a voice was heard from inside.

  “Police,” the boy shouted back.

  As soon as Tommy Pike stood in the doorway, Smith could see who the child had inherited his unfortunate ears from. Tommy Pike had a very thin face and the way his ears protruded from his head it lent him a comical look. He would not have looked out of place in a twenties silent comedy.

  “What do you want?” Pike said.

  “I need to talk to you,” Smith said, “can I come inside?”

  “Alfie,” Pike said to the boy, “go to your room.”

  The boy did as he was told. Pike walked off down the hallway. Smith took this as an invitation to come inside the house. He closed the door behind him.

  Pike’s house was not at all like he had imagined it to be. He had expected a football player, even a lower division player to live in far more luxury than Pike seemed to.

  “The wife took almost everything,” Pike seemed to read Smith’s mind, “left me over a year ago with nothing more than this place and a kid to look after when she gets tired of him.”

  Smith did not know what to say.

  “What do you want?” Pike said, “Is this about Jimmy?”

  Smith decided to come straight to the point.

  “Who were the men you were talking to at the nightclub last week?” he asked.

  Pike looked like he had been hit in the face.

  “What are you talking about?” he said.

  He started to scratch one of his huge ears.

  “You were seen talking to three men,” Smith said, “you and Jimmy. From what I’ve heard they were pretty unsavoury types. Who were they?”

  “Who told you all this?” Pike said.

  “That’s not important. What were you talking about?”

  “I can’t remember,” Pike scratched his ear even harder.

  Smith knew at once that he was lying.

  “I don’t know what’s going on here,” Smith said, “but I have a nasty habit of digging until I get to the bottom of things. Why do you think Jimmy was shot?”

  “I have no idea,” Pike said, “Jimmy was alright. I don’t know why anybody would want to shoot him.”

  “Were you and Jimmy friends?” Smith decided to try a different approach.

  “We played on the same team,” Pike said, “You get to know a person well when you both play for the same side. You stick together.”

  “That wasn’t what I asked,” Smith said.

  “I wouldn’t say friends,” Pike said, “he never invited me round to his house if that’s what you mean but we’d have a few drinks after the game sometimes.”

  “Like that night at the club?” Smith suggested.

  “Like I say, I can’t remember. What’s this all about?”


  Smith was starting to get irritated.

  “Let me spell it out for you shall I? You and Jimmy Fisher were seen talking to three men at a night club. From what I heard, Jimmy didn’t seem to like the topic of conversation so he left the bar. One of the men pointed an imaginary gun at him. You know, like they do in mafia films where a threat is implied. A week later, Jimmy is shot dead in front of thirty eight thousand people. That’s quite a coincidence isn’t it? I hate coincidences. I’ll ask you again, what did you and these men talk about?”

  “I can’t remember,” Pike was adamant, “I can’t help you.”

  “Can’t or won’t?” Smith said.

  “I think I should call my lawyer,” Pike said.

  Smith’s heart sank. He hated lawyers and he was not even supposed to be there.

  “That won’t be necessary,” he said, “if you suddenly do remember anything, give me a call.”

  He handed Pike one of his cards.

  “I’ll see myself out,” Smith said.

  Smith sat in his car outside Tommy Pike’s house and thought hard. Pike knows something, he thought but how am I supposed to find anything out when I’m not even supposed to be on the case? He started the car, engaged first gear and drove away from the house. He turned right onto the road that led to the dual carriageway. The car did not feel right. Smith did not know what it was but there was something wrong. He had owned the Ford Sierra for six years and it had not given him a day’s trouble but now, Smith knew that something was wrong. The car was not responding to the steering wheel as it should do. He took his hands off the wheel and the car veered to the right. He quickly steered to the left and slowed down to thirty miles per hour. He felt something go clunk on the right side of the car and he swerved onto the other side of the road. He had no control of the car. The steering wheel was not working. He could only watch as the white van parked on the side of the road came closer and closer. He seemed to be watching it in slow motion. There was a loud bang and everything went black.

  TEN

  The waves were crashing down on Smith’s head. He looked around but his surfboard was nowhere to be seen. He had nothing to hold onto and he was forced below the surface. He tried to stick his head out of the water to take a breath but the waves were too powerful. His lungs felt like they were about to explode. He needed air soon or he would drown. He spotted something under the water about ten metres away. The figure came closer to him and he realised who it was. It was his little sister, Laura. She had disappeared from a beach in Western Australia when Smith was sixteen. Everybody thought she had been attacked by a shark but when Smith met up with her again in Talinn eleven years later, he had found out the truth; she had been abducted from the beach while Smith was surfing. Smith had spent a brief moment with her but had been warned against ever making contact with her again.