Occum's Razor

by Giles, Stewart

  “See,” Smith said, “he won’t hurt you.”

  Theakston rolled over and ran off to look for another squirrel.

  “My name is Jason Smith,” Smith said, “I’m a policeman. I’m looking for Alfie Pike.”

  “He’s not here today,” Barry said.

  “I know. Were you playing football with him yesterday?”

  “They made Alfie play in goal,” Barry said, “Nobody wants him on their side. He always gets picked last.”

  “What time did Alfie go home yesterday?” Smith said.

  “He didn’t,” Barry picked up a stone and threw it in the distance. He had a good throwing arm for his age.

  “What do you mean?” Smith said.

  “Some bloke came to take him to the hospital.”

  “The hospital?” Smith said, “Did you know this man?”

  “I don’t know,” Barry said, “some bloke came and asked which one of us was Alfie Pike. He said Alfie’s dad had been taken to hospital and Alfie had to go with him.”

  “What did this man look like?”

  “Tall,” Barry said, “like you. He was wearing a city shirt.”

  “A football shirt?”

  “Alfie’s dad plays for city,” Barry said, “Alfie just thought it was someone from the club. He was driving one of those fancy Land Rovers.”

  “So he took Alfie to the hospital?” Smith said.

  “That’s what he said, “Barry said, “I have to go home.”

  “Is there anything else you can remember about this man?”

  “Not really,” Barry said, “like I said, he was tall with black hair. He looked like he was out of one of those army films.”

  “Army films?”

  “You know,” Barry said, “the war films. This bloke had army hair.”

  “Thanks Barry,” Smith said, “you’ve been a big help.”

  Smith walked back to the car. Theakston followed behind him. He was obviously exhausted. Smith had to wait for him to catch up. He made up his mind to put the dog on a strict diet as soon as possible. Smith sat in Bridges car outside Tommy Pike’s house. He took out his phone and dialled Chalmers’ number. Chalmers answered it straight away.

  “Smith,” he said, “where are you?”

  “Outside Tommy Pike’s house,” Smith said, “I’ve just spoken to some kids who were playing football with Alfie yesterday. One of them gave me a description of the man who took the boy. Tall with dark hair cut in an army style. He was driving a Land Rover.”

  “What do you mean army style?” Chalmers said.

  “Crew cut, I would have thought. Like a marine.”

  “Anyway,” Chalmers said, “go home. It’s all over.”

  “What do you mean it’s all over? Have they found Alfie Pike?”

  “No,” Chalmers said, “SOCA are on it. It’s not our concern anymore.”

  Smith could not believe what he was hearing.

  “And you’re fine with that,” he said it louder than he intended, “you’ll just wait until the poor kid turns up dead?”

  “Of course I’m not bloody fine with it,” Chalmers said, “and you watch the way you speak to me but my hands are tied. SOCA have been on this from day one, you know that. After this little stunt we’re lucky to both survive with our jobs.”

  “But sir.”

  “I mean it Smith,” Chalmers said, “you are to leave this one well and truly alone. You will be fired on the spot if they catch you anywhere near it. Have you got that?”

  There was silence on the line.

  “I said have you got that?” Chalmers said again, “go home. This is where it ends.”

  He rang off.

  TWENTY TWO

  Smith lay back in the bath. He rarely took baths but he decided that his neck still ached and thought a warm bath might help. Tommy Pike must be going out of his mind with worry, he thought. He wondered what it must feel like to have a child to take care of; to worry about. Smith did not have any children and the way things were going he wondered if he ever would. He had turned twenty eight in February; he had less than two years to go before he hit thirty. When he was in his teens, thirty seemed old. At twenty eight, Smith already felt old. His neck was sore, his head was sore and right now, his soul was sore. Chalmers had told him the investigation was over. In Smith’s seven years as a police officer no investigation had ever been over until the case was cleared up. What about the promise they had made to Tommy Pike? He thought. They had promised to do everything they could to find Pike’s son.

  Smith got out of the bath and dried himself off. His neck felt slightly better. He got dressed and went downstairs to smoke a cigarette. He stubbed his foot on the nail sticking out of one of the stairs.

  “Fuck,” he screamed.

  He went to the kitchen cupboard and took out a hammer. He went back to the staircase and tried to pull the nail out with the claw of the hammer. The nail was too thin. He turned the hammer round and hit the nail in so hard that the wood on the step cracked. He had made it ten times worse. He shrugged and went to the kitchen to get his cigarettes.

  He opened the pack and saw that there was only one cigarette left. He had smoked almost a whole pack in a matter of hours.

  “I’m become a chain smoker overnight,” he said to Theakston who was lying on the mat in front of the back door. Smith opened the door and went outside to the garden. It was starting to get dark but it was still very warm. There seemed to be no end to the heat wave they were having. Smith finished the cigarette and flicked the butt over the fence into his neighbour’s garden. He looked at his watch. It was half past nine. The off license would still be open. He went back inside and locked the back door behind him. Theakston was still asleep on the mat. He picked up Bridge’s car keys and left the house.

  An uneasy feeling came over him as he was about to get into the car. He stopped and looked around. The air was still; there was not a breath of wind. He heard a noise behind him and turned around. A black cat shot across the road in front of him. Smith could not remember if it was supposed to be lucky or unlucky for a black cat to cross your path. He walked around the car and checked all four wheels. They all seemed to be fine. He got in the car and drove slowly to the off license. He parked the car outside the off license and got out. The uneasy feeling came back to him. It was something the boy in the park had said to him earlier about the man who had taken Alfie pike; something about him looking like someone from a war film. He pushed the thought to the back of his mind and went inside the off license.

  “Make it quick,” the surly man behind the counter said, “we’re about to close.”

  Smith had never liked him. He had been coming in here for over five years and the man had always seemed annoyed when a customer walked in. He always seemed to be in a hurry to get away from work. He must really hate his job, Smith thought. It was then that Smith realised he was not that much different to this man at the moment. He shuddered when he realised he was getting tired of the police force. He had often thought of doing something else but every time he came close something happened that reminded him why it was he had joined up in the first place. He was reminded of a song, ‘That’s Life’. It was a Frank Sinatra song but Smith preferred the David Lee Roth version.

  “Are you going to be here all night?” the man behind the counter made Smith forget the line in the song that he liked the most.

  Smith bought twenty four beers, a bottle of Jack Daniels and three packets of Benson and Hedges. Whatever Chalmers said about them, Smith still preferred them to Marlboroughs.

  “Can I give you a piece of advice?” Smith said while he was paying.

  “I’m sure you’re going to anyway,” the man said.

  “Smile once in a while,” Smith said, “there are much worse jobs out there.”

  “Jobs?” the man said, “Jobs? I own this shit hole. Ten in the morning until ten at night six days a week. You show me a worse job than this.”

  Smith suddenly felt tired. He decided to
leave it and walked outside to where he had parked the car.

  TWENTY THREE

  The woman carefully poured some water in the boy’s mouth. The child had not been given enough to drink since he had been brought here and he was showing the initial signs of dehydration. His eyes were sunken and he seemed disorientated.

  “How long are you going to keep him here?” she asked the man sitting opposite her.

  He was smoking a strong smelling cigarette. Steels, much better than the rubbish they sold in England, the man thought.

  “We were going to take him back tomorrow,” the man said, “but I received a rather disturbing phone call earlier. One of our friends thought it prudent to inform me of what was going on. The boy’s father was seen at the police station. That was not part of the deal. He was seen speaking to none other than Detective Sergeant Jason Smith.”

  The woman flinched at the sound of Smith’s name. A flood of memories seeped through her brain.

  “What do you mean?” she said although she already knew what it meant.

  “A deal’s a deal,” the man stubbed out the cigarette in an ashtray shaped like a maple leaf, “Pike knew the score.”

  “He’s just a child,” the woman brushed a wisp of hair away from the boy’s eyes.

  “I wasn’t much older than him when I killed somebody for the first time,” the man smiled and revealed a mouth full of rotten teeth.

  “Not everyone is an evil bastard like you,” the woman said.

  She was not expecting the blow.

  The man slapped her so hard on the side of her face that she dropped the glass of water she was holding. The glass smashed on the floor. The boy’s sunken eyes showed the first sign of any emotion they had in hours. He looked absolutely terrified.

  “Clean that mess up,” the man ordered, “the boy’s father will get him back.”

  “What about the deal?” the woman put a hand to her face. It was stinging like mad.

  “I didn’t say he’d get him back alive,” the man lit up another cigarette, “now clean up that glass. Somebody could get hurt.”

  TWENTY FOUR

  Wednesday 11 August 2010

  Smith was dreaming about sharks. He had never dreamt about sharks before. The sharks were circling him. There were five or six of them and with each circuit they seemed to get closer. Eventually, one of them got so close that Smith found himself peering into its black, dead eyes. Eyes that bored into his brain. The rest of the sharks seemed to have given up; they were nowhere to be seen but this one shark just kept circling him, its dead eyes never leaving him. Smith shot up in the bed so violently that Theakston woke up and started to bark at him.

  “Shit,” Smith said, “sorry boy. That was some freaky dream.”

  He realised he was covered in sweat. He knew what had woken him up. His phone was ringing on the bedside table. Smith looked at the clock. Eight thirty; he had slept for over nine hours. He answered the phone. It was Chalmers.

  “Smith,” Chalmers said, “where are you?”

  “In bed,” Smith said, “what’s wrong?”

  “They’ve just pulled two bodies out of the river,” Chalmers said, “a young woman and a little boy.”

  Smith felt sick. This was not happening.

  “What happened?” he said.

  “We don’t know yet,” Chalmers said, “looks like they drowned but the woman had a bruise on her cheek.”

  “Where are you?” Smith said.

  “In between Lendal Bridge and St Mary’s,” Chalmers said, “the poor bastards were tied to one of the barges there. The owners of the barge found them; they’re in a right state.”

  “Give me ten minutes,” Smith rang off.

  While he was getting dressed, Smith had an uneasy feeling. Who are this woman and child? He thought, people don’t just drown in the River Ouse. He went downstairs, picked up the keys to Bridge’s car and left the house.

  The area of the river between Lendal Bridge and St Mary’s Abbey was buzzing with people when Smith got there. The ruins of the Abbey glowed eerily in the morning sunlight. It was promising to be another scorching hot day. Smith pushed past the crowd of onlookers and ducked under the police tape. He spotted Whitton and Chalmers and walked over to where they were standing talking to a middle aged couple. The woman looked like she had been crying.

  “Morning,” Smith said to Whitton, “what have we got?”

  “They’re over there,” Whitton pointed to a barge on the river. Smith saw it was called ‘Great White’. There was an elaborate paint job on the front of the barge that resembled shark’s teeth. The barge looked to be immaculately maintained. Smith had always wondered how people could actually live on these floating caravans. He could not think of a worse place to live. There was an ambulance parked in front of the barge and three or four paramedics were mulling around. Smith walked towards them. There were two white body bags on the concrete next to the ambulance. Smith nodded to one of the paramedics. She was the one who had helped him the day before after his car accident. He crouched over the body bags and opened one up. He recognised Alfie Pike straight away. The boy’s face was bloated and his eyes were closed but he knew it was Alfie.

  “Jesus Christ,” he said.

  He suddenly felt queasy. He had seen plenty of dead bodies before but it never got any easier. The sight of this child laying before him in a body bag made him sick to the stomach. He took a deep breath and started to open the second bag. He unzipped it carefully. Whitton had walked over to him but Smith had not noticed. Smith looked at the face of the woman and froze. She was in her early twenties, twenty one to be precise, Smith even knew when her birthday was, and she had mousy blonde hair. Smith touched her cheek. It was freezing cold. Her eyes were open. She had pale blue eyes with long eyelashes. Smith recognised those eyes; they were his eyes.

  Smith looked up at Whitton. The tears started to flow.

  “Sir,” Whitton said, “What’s wrong?”

  The tears were pouring out now. Smith sniffed and tried to clear his throat.

  “Sir,” Whitton said, “do you know her?”

  “This is Laura,” Smith said, “This is my little sister.”

  TWENTY FIVE

  Smith sat in the driver’s seat of Bridge’s car. He was shaking so badly that it scared him. He could not get the image of Laura’s face out of his head. He remembered her most from when she was a child; always smiling and full of mischief. She had a bruise on the side of her face. Smith had nothing left now. Nobody. Even though he had only seen her once in the past twelve years, the fact that he knew she was alive somewhere in the world had made it bearable somehow. Now she was gone and Smith had never felt so alone. His father had hanged himself when Smith was sixteen, his mother had died in a car crash and his Gran had developed pneumonia after breaking her hip in a mugging. Laura had been the only family Smith had left and now she too was gone.

  Smith smacked the steering wheel with both hands. He smacked it over and over. The clock on the dashboard showed half past nine but Smith felt like a drink. He felt like getting drunker than he ever had done before.

  “Sir,” he heard a voice next to the window.

  It was Whitton.

  “Leave me alone,” Smith said, “leave me alone if you know what’s good for you. People close to me end up dead.”

  “They’ve taken the bodies away sir,” Whitton said, “I think you should go home. Are you alright to drive?”

  Smith looked at her and she flinched. The expression in his eyes was one of pure hatred.

  “I’m going to get this bastard,” Smith said, “This is all my fault. He did this because of me and I’m going to make him pay for it. Wolfie is going to wish he’d never met me.”

  A Land Rover pulled over next to them and Brad Friedman and Sarah Proud got out. Smith watched as they walked over to where Chalmers was still talking to the couple who owned the barge. He smacked the steering wheel once more and got out of the car. Whitton knew it was futile to do anyt
hing so she just stood and watched as Smith paced off towards Proud and Friedman. Chalmers could see from the look on Smith’s face that something was about to happen. He had seen that look plenty of times before and it never ended well.

  “We’ll take over from here,” Friedman said.

  Chalmers winced. Smith did not move.

  “Are you deaf?” Friedman looked directly at Smith.

  Smith looked over at Sarah Proud. She was walking along the path next to the river. She was talking on her mobile phone. Smith turned back to Friedman. He did not know why but Friedman’s hair cut annoyed him more than usual today. Crew cut; army style.

  “Friedman,” Smith said, “Two more people are dead and it’s all because you took over this investigation in the first place.”

  “You know what your trouble is Smith?” Friedman said, “You take everything too personally and you trust the wrong people.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Smith could feel that his heart was starting to beat faster.

  “It’s a job,” Friedman said, “that’s all. Once you start treating it like one and not a personal mission you’ll find you’ll be able to sleep better at night. People get murdered. We live in a sick society.”

  Smith’s fists clenched by themselves.

  “You’re a fucking arsehole Friedman,” he said, “were you bullied as a child? Is that why you’re such and arsehole now?”

  “Be careful Smith,” Friedman said, “I don’t think you’re fully aware of the damage I can do to you.”

  “Damage?” Smith said, “Damage?”

  He looked at Friedman’s face; crew cut, lifeless black eyes, flat nose and square chin.

  “I can do damage too,” he said.

  Before Friedman had time to react, Smith hit him underneath the chin. He hit him so hard and with so much rage that Friedman must have been knocked out temporarily. He staggered to the side and only just managed to stay on his feet. Sarah Proud came running over. Friedman assumed a boxer’s stance, legs apart. He was ready to fight.