Occum's Razor

by Giles, Stewart

  Laura swam over to Smith and placed her hand in his. Her hand was cold. Smith smiled. He wanted to hold onto her forever.

  “Laura,” he said under the water.

  He watched the bubbles as they rose to the surface as his words came out. His lungs could not take much more. They needed air.

  “Laura,”

  She had disappeared again.

  “Sir,” Smith heard a woman’s voice, “Sir, can you hear me?”

  “Laura?”

  Smith opened his eyes. He found himself staring up at the sky. There was not a cloud in sight and the sun was beating down on his face.

  “Can you hear me?” the woman asked.

  Smith looked at her bending over her. She was wearing a paramedic’s uniform.

  “What happened?” he said.

  “Your car took a sudden dislike to that van over there,” she pointed to the white van parked by the side of the road.

  Smith tried to look over but the pain in his neck stopped him halfway.

  “Don’t move,” the paramedic said, “you could have whiplash.”

  “What happened?” Smith asked again.

  He could remember skidding over to the other side of the road and not being able to steer the car.

  “Looks like your wheel came off,” she said, “you lost control of the car and slammed into the van. You were lucky you weren’t killed.”

  Smith managed to look over. His car was being towed away by a tow truck. He tried to stand up.

  “Not so fast,” the paramedic said, “you need to be checked over first.”

  Smith felt himself being lifted up and he was taken to an ambulance parked nearby. A crowd of people had gathered around. His head was pounding and he was sure the pain in his tooth had returned. He was placed on the bed inside the ambulance and for a few moments he found himself alone. He thought about what the paramedic had told him. How could the wheel have come off? He thought. He had had the tyres replaced not so long ago by a reputable company. It did not make any sense.

  Smith’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps climbing up inside the ambulance. A uniformed police officer stood over him. Smith did not recognise him.

  “Sir,” the policeman said, “my name is PC Findlay. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to take a breathalyser test.”

  “What?” Smith could not believe what he was hearing.

  “Have you been drinking sir?”

  “No,” Smith sat up on the bed, “but I could certainly use a drink while I listen to your bullshit.”

  “Sir,” PC Findlay said, “there’s no need for aggression; I’m afraid it’s routine in car accidents such as these.”

  He took out the breathalyser machine.

  “Could you please blow in here?”

  He attached the tube and handed the machine to Smith.

  “I haven’t been drinking,” Smith said, “you’re new aren’t you?”

  “That’s none of your business,” PC Findlay said, “please just blow into the tube.”

  “What do they teach you in training these days?” Smith said, “Can you smell alcohol on my breath?”

  He breathed out.

  “No sir,” PC Findlay said, “but like I said, it’s just routine.”

  “Blow into the bloody tube Smith;” it was Chalmers, “it’ll be the first test you’ve passed in years.”

  Chalmers stepped inside. PC Findlay looked confused. Chalmers took out his ID.

  “You can leave us now,” he said.

  “I was just doing my job sir,” Findlay said.

  “Leave now,” Chalmers said, “Before you upset Detective Sergeant Smith anymore than you need to.”

  Findlay looked at Smith and stomped out of the ambulance.

  “What the hell were you doing driving down here in the first place?” Chalmers said, “Where were you going?”

  “I got a phone call from the grounds man at Bootham Crescent,” Smith said, “He said he had some information for me.”

  “You can’t leave things alone can you?” Chalmers said.

  “I met him at the pub round the corner from the football ground.”

  He told Chalmers what Sanchez had told him and about the subsequent conversation with Tommy Pike.

  “I don’t like this,” Chalmers said.

  “The paramedic said my wheel fell off,” Smith said.

  “I know. The bloody thing nearly knocked out an old lady. She’s still in shock.”

  “There’s no way a wheel can just fall off sir.”

  “I suppose I should ask you how you’re feeling,” Chalmers said.

  “I’m fine,” Smith said, “there’s something else you should know.”

  “There always is isn’t there?” Chalmers sighed.

  “While I was talking to Sanchez I received a phone call. I ignored it but whoever called left a message.”

  He took out his phone and played Chalmers the message.

  “Do you know who this is?” Chalmers asked.

  “The voice is familiar but I can’t quite put my finger on it right now.”

  “So what do you think he meant?” Chalmers said, “First and last warning? Stay away from matters that don’t concern you?”

  “I don’t know sir,” Smith said, “but don’t you think it’s strange that my car just happens to skid off the road minutes after I’ve spoken to Tommy Pike? Something’s going on.”

  Chalmers rubbed his nose with his thumb. Smith knew that he always did that when he was thinking hard.

  “What do we do now sir?” Smith said, “Tommy Pike knows something. I’m sure of it.”

  Chalmers rubbed his nose even harder.

  “Christ Smith,” he said, “why do you always do this to me? You know we can’t go anywhere near this case.”

  “But sir.”

  “But sir nothing. Get yourself checked out and don’t come back to work until they tell you.”

  He walked away shaking his head. Smith could hear him talking to the paramedics.

  The paramedic who had spoken to Smith earlier got in the back of the ambulance and sat on the chair next to the bed. She leaned over and strapped Smith in. The doors were closed and Smith heard the sound of the engine starting up.

  “He doesn’t like you very much does he?” the paramedic said.

  “Who?” Smith said.

  “Your boss. He told me to make sure we keep you in for as long as we possibly can.”

  “He tends to get a bit overprotective at times,” Smith said, “he loves me really.”

  The paramedic shook her head and smiled.

  ELEVEN

  Tommy Pike switched off the television and walked through to the kitchen. He looked at the clock on the wall. It was four in the afternoon.

  “Where the hell is that kid?” he said out loud.

  His son Alfie had gone to play football in the park across the road. He had been told to be back home by three. Pike opened the fridge and took out a bottle of beer. After his conversation with Smith he felt like something stronger but he knew how that would end up. Badly. His career was almost over; he was coming to the end of his shelf life as a professional football player and he needed to try and stay as fit as possible for as long as he could. Twenty years at York City, he thought. All he had to look forward to was a meagre pension. A coaching position that paid peanuts would be the next best thing. He had not saved during the good years and the recent divorce had put huge pressure on his finances. He took a long sip of the beer and sighed.

  “Twenty years,” he said to the photograph on the wall; it was a photograph of York City FC in the nineties, “twenty years and what have I got to show for it? A pig sty of a house and a kid who can’t even tell the time.”

  He heard the front door open.

  “Alfie,” he said, “get straight up to your room. When I say three o clock I mean it.”

  The house was silent.

  “Alfie,” he said again, “I mean it. Just because that
mother of yours lets you get away with murder it doesn’t mean you can do the same here.”

  Not a sound could be heard. Pike started to get worried. This was not like his son at all.

  “Alfie,” he said once more, “is that you?”

  “Your boy is safe,” a voice was heard.

  Pike knew at once who it was and he started to sweat. A short stocky man walked through to the kitchen. There were two other men standing behind him. He recognised them from the nightclub the week before. The stocky man took the beer from Pike’s hand and finished it in one gulp.

  “If you hurt my boy, I’ll kill you,” Pike said even though he was terrified.

  It has been proven that the instinct to protect ones offspring almost always supersedes logic. Reason goes out the window. The stocky man started to laugh. It was the same evil laugh Pike had heard when he had pointed the imaginary gun at Jimmy Fisher.

  “Like I said,” the man said, “your boy is safe. It’s your job to keep it that way. What did the policeman want?”

  “He wanted to know what happened to Jimmy Fisher of course,” Pike said.

  The stocky man started to laugh again.

  “The brave goalkeeper,” he said, “our money wasn’t good enough for him. No, he would rather take one for the team. You think what we did to Fisher was bad; you should see what a Dragunov can do at close range. To a boy of your son’s size for example.”

  “I didn’t tell the police anything,” Pike said, “they don’t know anything about you.”

  “There wouldn’t be much left of him,” the man continued, “You should have seen the Colombian. They had to scrape him off the street and take him away in a bag.”

  Pike was starting to feel queasy.

  “I swear,” He pleaded, “I told the police nothing.”

  “I hope so. For your boy’s sake.”

  He put his hand in the side pocket of his jacket. Pike winced and closed his eyes.

  So this is how it’s going to end, he thought, they’ll find me with my head blown off in my house.

  “This is half of what we agreed on,” the stocky man threw a large brown envelope on the kitchen table.

  “You’ll get the rest in two days time,” he said, “together with your son. That is unless we have any more trouble with Jason Smith.”

  Pike stared at the envelope on the table.

  “I just want my boy back,” he said.

  “Tommy Pike,” the man took a step forward, “I’m just the messenger. I just bring the news, good or bad. Our friend Jason Smith seems to have survived his little accident so I hope for your sake that you didn’t tell him too much.”

  “I didn’t,” Pike said.

  “Two days, you’ll get the rest of your money and we can put this all behind us. Your boy will be delivered unharmed.”

  He nodded to the taller of the men standing behind him. The man walked back to the front door and opened it.

  “Two days,” the stocky man said again.

  He walked out through the front door. The other men followed behind him.

  TWELVE

  “I’m fine,” Smith said to the doctor in private room eight at York General Hospital, “I need to get out of here.”

  “I’m afraid we need to check you out first,” the doctor looked at the chart at the end of Smith’s bed, “you’ve had quite a shock. I think it would be best if we kept you in overnight just to make sure.”

  “Do I have a choice?” Smith said.

  “You could discharge yourself,” the doctor said, “but I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  “Then that’s what I’ll do,” Smith sat up in the bed.

  His vision went black for a few seconds. He took a deep breath and smiled at the doctor.

  “Thanks for your help,” he said, “I’m feeling much better now. You did a great job.”

  “If that’s what you want,” the doctor said, “I can’t stop you. I’ll organise the forms for you.”

  “Forms?” Smith said.

  “Indemnity forms,” the doctor said, “it puts us in the clear if anything does happen to you as a result of the accident. It’s getting worse than America here now. People are suing the medical profession left right and centre. Once you sign the forms you are no longer our responsibility. It also makes it absolutely clear that you went against our advice and discharged yourself.”

  “Where do I sign?” Smith said.

  While he was waiting for the doctor to fetch the indemnity forms, Smith took out his forms and dialled Whitton’s number. She answered on the second ring.

  “I need a lift Whitton,” Smith said.

  “I heard about the accident,” Whitton said, “how are you?”

  “I’ll be better when I get out of here. Can you pick me up at the hospital? They’re just about to discharge me.”

  “You mean you’ve discharged yourself,” Whitton said.

  “I feel fine,” Smith said, “can you pick me up or not? I can always ask Thompson.”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  “I need to get over to forensics,” Smith said, “I want to see what Webber can tell me about the wheel that came off my car.”

  “You’re impossible sir,” Whitton said, “I’ll see you in ten minutes.”

  She rang off.

  The doctor returned with the indemnity forms and Smith signed them without even reading them. He put on his shoes and got off the bed.

  “Thanks Doctor,” he said, “don’t worry about me. I feel worse than this on a daily basis.”

  He left the room. His head was throbbing as he walked through reception towards the exit. His neck was incredibly stiff. He knew that he should have probably done what the doctor had told him but he hated hospitals. Besides, he needed to get to the bottom of the cause of his accident. Wheels don’t just fall off cars, he thought, something strange is going on.

  Smith walked outside into the blazing sunshine. The heat wave was in full swing. He could not remember the last time that it had been so warm for so long in York. He spotted Whitton’s car in the car park and walked towards it.

  “Are you really ok sir?” Whitton asked when Smith got in the passenger seat.

  “I’m fine,” Smith said, “I’ve got a bit of a sore neck but it’s nothing serious.”

  “You could have whiplash,” Whitton sounded concerned, “it can be serious you know. You should be resting.”

  “I hate resting. Let’s see if Webber has anything to tell us shall we?”

  They drove in silence to the new forensics building. Whitton drove very slowly. Smith had forgotten what an overly cautious driver she was.

  “Doesn’t this thing go any faster?” he asked eventually.

  “I can’t believe you sir,” Whitton said, “you’ve just had a car crash and you want me to driver faster.”

  “What are the odds of having two car accidents in one day?” Smith smiled at her. “I’m just a bit irritable and impatient at the moment. Something is going on and I hate it when we don’t have anything to go on. What do you make of all this?”

  “All what sir?”

  “Two football players are killed,” Smith said, “both of them with the same weapon. A Russian military issue sniper rifle is found across the road from where one of them was shot. My wheel decides to fall off my car just after I’ve questioned someone about the two murders. Someone I’m sure is not telling us everything. I don’t know what’s happening but I don’t like it.”

  “Sir,” Whitton said, “what part of stay away from this case don’t you understand? You’re not supposed to be snooping around on this one.”

  “Someone left a message on my phone,” Smith said, “They said it was my first and last warning and told me to stay out of this.”

  “Maybe you should listen to them.”

  “When people are killed,” Smith said, “it’s my job to find out who did it. It’s your job too in case you’ve forgotten. I think somebody tried to kill me too. Wheels just don’t fall o
ff cars.”

  “I think you have a concussion sir,” Whitton said, “you’re being paranoid.”

  She pulled up in the car park outside the forensics building.

  “We’ll see,” Smith said.

  He got out of the car and walked quickly to the entrance. Whitton had to run to keep up with him.

  Grant Webber was in the large workshop in the basement of the building. It was here where they worked when the evidence was too large to carry upstairs to the main building. Webber saw Smith approaching and rolled his eyes.

  “I thought you were in hospital,” he said, “not to sound like I really give a shit but you should really stay overnight to get checked over properly. Concussion and whiplash can be nasty.”

  “I’m fine Webber,” Smith said, “Did you find anything out about my car?”

  “Give me a chance,” Webber said, “I’m just about to start. They only brought it in about an hour ago.”

  He nodded to Whitton in acknowledgement.

  “Excuse him,” Whitton said, “he’s had a bang on the head; he’s even worse than usual today.”

  Webber shook his head.

  Smith’s red Ford Sierra had been raised over a pit in the ground by a hydraulic jack. Smith sighed as he looked at his beloved car. The front end had been completely smashed in, the windscreen was smashed and the front axle was bent.

  “You were lucky,” Webber said, “You could have been seriously injured, even killed.”

  “I’m charmed,” Smith said, “let’s get to it shall we?”