Occum's Razor

by Giles, Stewart

  SEVENTEEN

  Smith looked at the cigarette machine at the different brands and sighed. He was new to all this. He did not know one brand from the other. Chalmers’ Marlboroughs seemed a bit harsh and they had left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. He decided to take a chance and selected a packet of Benson and Hedges. He put the money in the slot and the cigarettes dropped out. He realised he did not have anything to light them with so he walked up to the bar to ask if they sold matches. Marge was speaking to a man with thick black hair. It was the same man Smith had seen smoking outside.

  “Sorry Marge,” Smith said, “do you sell matches? I’ve bought some cigarettes and I don’t have anything to light them with.”

  “You don’t smoke,” Marge looked quite shocked.

  “I’m thinking of starting,” Smith said.

  The man with the black hair smiled. He took out a black lighter.

  “Here,” he said, “you can have this one.”

  He handed Smith the lighter. It was black with a strange blue flag on it. It looked like some kind of coat of arms.

  “I have another one,” the man added.

  “Thanks,” Smith said.

  He still could not figure out where he had seen the man before; he was definitely familiar in some way.

  “Do I know you?” Smith said.

  “No,” the man walked away from the bar.

  “Strange chap,” Marge said, “I wonder where he’s from.”

  “What do you mean?” Smith said.

  “He spoke with a strange accent don’t you think?”

  “I’ve never been good with accents,” Smith said, “This country has hundreds of them.”

  “He wasn’t from around here,” Marge said, “He’s a foreigner if you ask me.”

  “What were you talking about?”

  “He wanted to know if I had a room for the night,” Marge said, “I told him to try one of the hotels in the city centre. I’ve got enough to do with the pub without worrying about paid guests.”

  Smith walked back outside to the beer garden. It was even hotter outside now. The waitress had put the beers on the table. Smith opened the pack of cigarettes, took one out and lit it. It tasted much better than Chalmers’ Marlboroughs. He noticed that Theakston had already finished his beer.

  “I’ve never seen a dog drink beer so fast,” Sarah Proud said, “I couldn’t believe my eyes.”

  “Nasty habit I taught him I’m afraid, “Smith said, “He expects it every time we go out now. Have you decided what you’re going to eat?”

  “Steak and ale pie sounds good,” she said, “I’ve never tried it before. You don’t get that kind of thing where I come from.”

  “Where do you come from?” Smith said, “I’m useless with accents.”

  “Far away from here.”

  She finished the rest of the beer in her glass.

  Smith decided to change the subject.

  “What does SOCA stand for?” he said.

  She looked at him as if he had asked her what size bra she wore.

  “Why do you ask?” she said.

  “Why all the secrecy?” Smith said.

  “I hate it when someone answers a question with a question.”

  “It’s an unfortunate trait of mine,” Smith said, “it comes with the job I suppose. What is SOCA?”

  “It’s the serious organised crime agency,” Proud said.

  “Government?”

  “Isn’t everything?” Proud smiled.

  “Now you’re answering a question with a question.”

  “It comes with the job,” Proud said.

  “Are we flirting?” Smith said.

  “Definitely not. I never flirt,” she said, “I find it a complete waste of time.”

  “I suppose you just go out and get what you want?” Smith said, “what do you mean by isn’t everything government?”

  “Everybody works for the government in one way or another,” Proud said, “you certainly do. We just do different jobs that’s all.”

  “You know what I mean,” Smith said, “SOCA is some kind of secret government department isn’t it?”

  “Not really. Serious organised crime is no secret.”

  “You guys go up against drug syndicates and people like that don’t you?”

  “Sometimes,” Proud said, “drug smuggling, arms running, prostitution rings. Anything that involves huge criminal networks and multi million pound operations.”

  “And you have an unlimited budget I suppose?” Smith said.

  “Not exactly,” Proud said.

  The waitress approached the table to take their order.

  “Three of Marge’s steak and ale pies,” Smith said, “and two more pints. The dog’s had enough for today.”

  He lit another cigarette.

  “Where did you get that lighter?” Proud looked closely at it.

  “That guy who was out here earlier smoking gave it to me at the bar,” Smith said, “why?”

  “No reason,” Proud said.

  Smith looked at the lighter. It was black with what looked like three blue lions on a shield on it.

  “Why is SOCA so interested in the death of a local football player?” Smith asked, “Was he involved in something else?”

  “You know I can’t tell you anything,” Proud said, “I thought we were both having a day off.”

  “Come on,” Smith said, “Give me a clue. I opened up to you last night. I never open up to anybody. Ask anyone who knows me. What’s really going on here?”

  “If I tell you I’ll have to kill you,” Proud said.

  “I’m serious,” Smith said.

  “So am I,” her voice deepened, “I can’t tell you anything.”

  “Then let me throw a few of my own theories at you,” Smith said, “let me know if I get warm.”

  The waitress with the purple hair put two pints of beer in front of them.

  “Pies’ll be about twenty minutes,” she said.

  “Ok,” Smith said when the waitress had left, “a football player is shot in front of thousands of people using a rare Russian rifle. We find the rifle across the road from the football ground. Another football player is shot with the same kind of weapon. As we had the first rifle safe in forensics we know these people are not short on weapons. Why did they shoot the Colombian?”

  He lit another cigarette.

  “I find out that Jimmy Fisher and Tommy Pike had a cosy chat with a few unsavoury types in a nightclub the week before the shooting,” Smith continued, “Pike wouldn’t tell me what they talked about but it certainly wasn’t football. I got the feeling that Pike was scared of something or somebody. While I was talking to Pike somebody decided to make sure my wheel came off my car when I drove away.”

  Sarah Proud’s facial expression had not changed while Smith was speaking.

  “I’m ninety nine percent who was behind the murders of the two football players,” Smith said, “it all seems to link up to our mutual friend Wolfie.”

  Smith was sure he detected a slight creasing of Sarah Proud’s eyes when he mentioned Wolfie’s name.

  “But I still can’t figure out why,” he said, “why were they killed? Normally we don’t have the luxury of knowing who the murderer is this early in the investigation. We start off by looking for a motive. When we find out why someone is killed it usually leads us to the whom in the end. Why kill two low profile football players? It doesn’t make sense.”

  He stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray and lit another one.

  “You’re chain smoking,” Proud said.

  “Am I?” Smith looked at the cigarette, “Its helping me to think. You’re not going to give me anything to go on here are you?”

  Sarah Proud smiled in reply.

  Three steak and ale pies were placed on the table in front of them. Theakston woke up immediately.

  “They’re still too hot boy,” Smith said to the dog, “just be patient.”

  “Looks great,” Proud sa
id, “can we eat in peace now. Your mind doesn’t stop does it?”

  “Ok,” Smith said, “but I’m going to get to the bottom of this one way or another.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Chalmers could not believe his eyes when he walked through to the front desk and saw Tommy Pike slumped on a chair. He remembered Pike from his glory days in the nineties. He had been one of the best strikers the people of York had ever seen but now he looked like a washed up street bum. His hair was filthy, he had at least a week’s worth of a beard and his clothes looked like he had slept in them. When he looked up at Chalmers it was clear that he was inebriated. His eyes were drooped and the whites behind the pupils were a dirty yellowish red colour.

  “Can you stand up?” Chalmers asked him.

  Pike just stared with a vacant expression in his eyes.

  “Come on,” Chalmers tried to lift him out of the chair.

  He was a dead weight.

  “How the hell did he get in here?” Chalmers asked Baldwin.

  “He staggered in about ten minutes ago sir,” Baldwin said, “He slumped down on the chair. I think he must have caught a taxi here. What are we going to do with him?”

  “Can you see if you can organise the strongest cup of coffee you can find and I’ll see if I can haul him into my office somehow.”

  Thompson walked into the reception area.

  “Perfect timing Thompson,” Chalmers said, “I think I’m going to need a bit of help here. Tommy Pike seems to have put on a bit of weight since I last saw him.”

  Pike looked up at Thompson and smiled. Thompson could smell the sweet sickly stench of the alcohol on his breath from where he was standing.

  “What’s going on?” Thompson said to Chalmers, “look at the state of him this early in the day. It’s a tragedy that’s what it is. He used to be one of the best.”

  “We all have bad days Thompson,” Chalmers said in a rare outburst of compassion, “Enough of the melodrama. Help me get him to my office. We can’t let anybody see him like this.”

  Between them, Chalmers and Thompson managed to march Tommy Pike, step by step down the corridor to Chalmers’ office. They put him on a chair against the wall so he would not fall backwards. Baldwin walked in with a steaming cup of coffee in her hand. She placed it on Chalmers’ desk.

  “Thanks Baldwin,” Chalmers said, “could you close the door please. I don’t want to be disturbed.”

  Baldwin closed the door behind her.

  “Look at the state of you,” Chalmers said to Pike, “how did you manage to get into such a state this early in the day? You must have been at it all night.”

  Pike tried to lift his head but the effort seemed too great and it slumped down again.

  “See if you can get some of that down his neck,” Chalmers said to Thompson.

  He pointed to the coffee.

  “I want to know what he’s doing here. He’s not going to tell us anything until he sobers up a bit.”

  Thompson put the coffee cup to Pike’s lips. Baldwin had made the coffee very strong.

  “What do you think he’s doing here?” Thompson poured some more coffee in Pike’s mouth.

  “I don’t know,” Chalmers said, “Smith went to see him yesterday. He seems to think Pike knows something about the Jimmy Fisher shooting.”

  When Pike heard Fisher’s name, his head shot up. Coffee was dribbling down the side of his mouth. He said something but neither Chalmers nor Thompson could make out the words. It sounded like he mumbled the word ‘Amalfi’.

  “Take a deep breath,” Chalmers said, “what did you say?”

  Pike looked at Chalmers. He looked like an animal caught in a trap begging to be released.

  “Alfie,” he said so slowly that the two syllables took forever to come out.

  The smell of alcohol on his breath made Chalmers take a step back.

  “Who’s Alfie?” Chalmers said.

  “My boy,” Pike said, “they…”

  Pike gulped twice and Chalmers knew exactly what was about to happen. He ran behind his desk and grabbed his waste paper basket. He emptied the contents on the floor of the office and quickly threw it to Thompson. Thompson caught it and pushed Pike’s head inside it just in time. He felt the warm liquid gush into the paper basket. He waited until Pike was finished and put the basket on the floor. The smell was terrible.

  “Thompson,” Chalmers said, “get that thing out of here before we all start puking.”

  Thompson glared at him. He carefully picked up the waste paper basket and left the room.

  “Tommy,” Chalmers looked at the pathetic figure slumped on the chair,” get a hold of yourself. What happened to the Tommy Pike who used to win the golden boot season after season in the nineties?”

  Pike gazed up at him. His eyes were more bloodshot after vomiting but he seemed slightly more awake.

  “They’ve got my boy,” he said slowly, articulating every word the way a drunk tends to do when he does not want to appear drunk.

  “Who’s got your boy?” Chalmers said.

  “Alfie,” Pike said, “they took Alfie.”

  “Who took Alfie? I don’t understand.”

  Pike sat upright in the chair. Chalmers handed him the cup of coffee.

  “Tommy,” he said, “what’s going on here? Do you know something about the shooting of Jimmy Fisher?”

  “They’ve got my boy and it’s all my fault,” Pike took a long sip of the coffee.

  “If someone’s taken your son then we’ll get him back for you,” Chalmers said, “but you need to tell me what this is all about.”

  “Why couldn’t Jimmy manage to do just one thing?” Pike said, “All he had to do was miss one penalty, make it look like an unfortunate miss. I mean, nobody expects the keeper to save a penalty these days anyway do they?”

  Chalmers was about to say something but Pike beat him to it.

  “Oh no,” Pike said, “Jimmy had to be the hero instead. One hundred per cent for the team. Good old Jimmy Fisher. Well, now he’s a dead hero and they’ve got my boy. God knows what they’re doing to him.”

  “Who are these people?” Chalmers said.

  “That’s the worst part,” Pike seemed to be sobering up now, “nobody knows. Ghosts, phantoms. They appear at night out of nowhere and then disappear into the shadows. They contact you; you never know when they are going to appear. Nobody was supposed to get hurt.”

  Chalmers scratched his nose and sat behind his desk. He opened the window behind him and took out a packet of cigarettes. He handed the pack to Pike but Pike shook his head. Chalmers took out a cigarette and lit the end. He sat back in his chair and inhaled deeply.

  “I think you’d better tell me what’s going on,” he said, “from the very beginning.”

  NINETEEN

  Smith pushed the plate to the side of the table and lit a cigarette. Sarah Proud had finished her steak and ale pie long before him. Smith had never seen a woman eat so quickly. Theakston had only just beaten her.

  “Looks like you were hungry,” he said to her.

  “It’s a childhood thing,” she smiled at him, “I grew up in a very large family. There were nine of us kids and often there wasn’t enough food to go around. If you didn’t eat quickly there was always somebody else to help you.”

  Smith thought this was a strange thing to say. He guessed that Sarah Proud was around his own age which would mean that she was born in the early eighties. Surely there was plenty of food to go round in England at that time.

  “We were seven brothers and two sisters,” she interrupted his thoughts; “I was the youngest.”

  “Was?” Smith said.

  “I mean I am the youngest of nine children. Anyway, that’s why I eat so quickly.”

  Smith was starting to think there was something not quite right about this government agent. He could not quite put his finger on it but there was something odd about her. His first impressions of her made him think she was a bossy, blinkered career agent whose
exterior could not be broken down but the more time he spent with her he realised there was much more to her than that. She had even spoken about her childhood with him. Smith realised he was actually beginning to enjoy her company and he did not know how to deal with it.

  “You’re going to burn your fingers,” she said.

  Smith could feel the heat between his middle finger and forefinger. He had been so carried away in thought that he had not noticed that the cigarette had burned right down to the filter. He stubbed out the cigarette.

  “Thanks,” he said, “I was miles away there.”

  “You think far too much detective,” Proud said, “Where I come we have a word for people like you.”

  “Where do you come from?” Smith said.

  His phone rang in his pocket. He took it out and saw it was Chalmers.

  “Hold that thought,” he said to Proud.

  He answered the phone.

  “Afternoon sir,” he said, “are you checking to see if I’m alright? Right now I’m enjoying…”

  “Smith,” Chalmers said, “shut up, “I can hear from that annoying voice of yours that there’s bugger all wrong with you. I have Tommy Pike here with me. He came in a while ago smashed out of his trolley. He’s sobered up a bit now. You might be interested in what he has to say.”

  “What’s he said?” Smith asked.

  “I’m sending Thompson to pick you up.”

  “I’m not at home,” Smith said, “I’m at the Hog’s Head. I’m having lunch with a friend.”

  Smith smiled at Sarah Proud.

  “I don’t want to know,” Chalmers said, “Thompson will be there in ten minutes.”

  He rang off.

  “Problems?” Sarah Proud said.

  “I don’t know,” Smith did not know how much information he should tell her.

  He did not have to.

  “You realise you have no jurisdiction,” she said, “If this is regarding the Jimmy Fisher shooting you are treading a fine line here.”

  Her whole demeanour had changed.

  “Like I said,” Smith said, “I don’t know. Does this mean our cosy lunch is over?”

  “I have work to do anyway,” she said, “I shouldn’t have come here. It was a bad idea.”