“Brad,” Proud shouted, “it was his sister for god’s sake.”
Friedman looked at her. His black eyes were glazed.
“It was his sister they pulled out of the river this morning,” she said, “cut the guy some slack.”
Chalmers looked at Proud in amazement. Then he looked at Smith.
“Get out of here,” he said.
His voice had a compassionate tone to it that Smith had never heard before. He walked back to Bridge’s car. His hand stung from the punch. He got in the car, started the engine and drove away.
Theakston knew that something was wrong as soon as Smith walked in the house. Smith filled a plastic bag full of dog food and went through to the living room. He picked up the bottle of Jack Daniels he had bought the night before.
“Come on boy,” he said to Theakston, “we’re going for a drive.
He took out his phone, switched it off and put it back in his pocket. He made sure he had a spare packet of cigarettes and left the house.
TWENTY SIX
Smith parked Bridge’s old Ford Escort in the car park of the Moors Centre in Danby. The car park was almost full. When Smith had been here earlier in the year he had always had the place to himself. After his girlfriend, Lucy Maclean had been killed by a serial killer Smith was chasing; he had come here almost every day. Smith and Theakston had wandered the trails across the bleak moors for hours. It was a place he could come to to forget about everything.
Smith sat in the driver’s seat and sighed as he looked around him. It was the school holidays and the sunny weather had brought out the tourists in droves. The tea shop was open and it looked like they were doing a roaring trade. Smith hoped that the majority of these holiday makers would stay in the vicinity of the Moors Centre. He wanted to be as far away from people as possible. Theakston was begging to get out of the car. Smith realised he had not brought the dog’s lead. He had never had to use it here before but he knew that there was a strict ‘dogs must be on a lead at all times’ rule around here. He picked up the bottle of Jack Daniels and realised he did not really care about the rule anyway.
“Come on boy,” he said to Theakston, “let’s get some fresh air in our lungs.”
Theakston did not need to be told. He jumped out of the car and dashed off in the direction of the river. He knew the way off by heart. Smith followed quickly behind him. There were a few people using the hiking trails but as they ventured further away from the Moors Centre they had the place virtually to themselves.
A man and a woman in their sixties eyed Smith and Theakston with obvious disapproval as they walked past. Theakston was darting in and out of the heather and Smith was casually strolling along swigging from the bottle of Jack Daniels. Smith stopped by a dead tree stump next to the river. Theakston was nowhere to be seen but he knew this place well and would soon realise where Smith was. Smith sat on the tree stump and stared at the river. It was shallower now and flowing more gently than he remembered. Theakston appeared and rushed down to the water’s edge to get a drink. Smith took a long swig from the bottle and closed his eyes. Laura’s face was still all he could see. Blue eyes with the long eyelashes. She’s died twice now, Smith thought; once in Western Australia and once in York. Both times had been from drowning. He took a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one. The light buzz of the nicotine flowing through his blood stream mad him wonder why he had not taken up smoking earlier.
Two times, Smith thought, drowned twice even though he knew the first time had been faked. The only thing he knew was the same man was responsible for Laura’s disappearance on both occasions. Smith did not know what to do. The first time he had tried to confront this maniac in Talinn had nearly cost him his life.
“That thing ought to be on a lead,” a whiny voice interrupted his thoughts.
Smith opened his eyes and saw a thin bald man standing only metres away. He was staring at the bottle of whisky in Smith’s hand.
“What?” Smith said.
“Can’t you read the signs?” the whiny voice was already starting to irritate Smith, “Dogs must be on a lead at all times.”
He emphasised almost every syllable. Smith was getting angry.
“He ate it,” he said.
“Excuse me?” the man said.
“His lead,” Smith said, “bloody dog ate his lead; he’ll eat anything this one. I’d make yourself scarce if I were you.”
He took a long drink from the bottle.
“You’re so fucking skinny,” he continued, “he might mistake you for a dog lead and eat you too.”
Smith smiled at the man. His eyelids were starting to feel heavy. The Jack Daniels was starting to work.
“I’m not scared of you,” the man said even though he had stepped back a few paces, “I used to be a police reservist you know.”
“God help us all,” Smith said.
“I’ll report you, you know,” the man was still backing off.
“Leave me alone,” Smith had had enough of this annoying little man.
He wanted to be left in peace.
“We don’t need your sort around here,” the man said and hurried off in the direction of the Moors Centre.
Smith closed his eyes again and tried to rekindle his thoughts of Laura. The pedantic little man had thrown him off track and all he could think about was the gently flowing river beside him. He sat on the grass against the dead tree trunk and took a sip of the Jack Daniels. He held the bottle in front of his face and realised it was empty. The river was trickling over the rocks. It was a constant trickle; not like the sound of the waves breaking on Freemantle beach. He closed his eyes and was asleep immediately.
TWENTY SEVEN
DI Chalmers received the phone call at exactly five in the afternoon. He had packed up his desk and was ready to finish off for the day. It had been an exhausting day. Two people had been pulled out of the river, presumably drowned. One of them had been Archie Pike and the other was Smith’s sister. Chalmers still recalled the look on Smith’s face after he had punched Brad Friedman on the chin. The ringing phone was not giving up. Chalmers considered ignoring it. Someone else can handle the shit for a change, he thought but the incessant ringing was annoying.
“Chalmers,” he answered it on the ninth or tenth ring.
“Sir,” it was Baldwin.
Chalmers wondered if Baldwin ever went home; she always seemed to be at work.
“What is it Baldwin?” Chalmers tried to hide his irritation but it was obvious in the tone of his voice.
“Tommy Pike is dead.” Baldwin said.
Chalmers thought he had heard incorrectly.
“You mean Alfie Pike?” he said, “Alfie Pike was dragged out of the river this morning. I already know that Baldwin.”
“Tommy Pike is dead too sir,” Baldwin said, “I’ve just had a phone call from the hospital. Looks like he killed himself. Overdose. His ex wife found him on the kitchen floor.”
“Are you sure?” Chalmers knew already that his day was about to get even longer.
“Positive sir,” Baldwin said, “it’s Pike. He was dead before the ambulance arrived.”
“Thanks Baldwin.”
Chalmers smashed his hand on the desk.
“This just gets better and better,” he said out loud.
Chalmers picked up his phone and walked through to the canteen. Whitton was sitting by herself at the table by the window. She was staring out of the window. She seemed lost in thought.
“There’s rain on the way from the North East,” Chalmers said.
Whitton jumped.
“Sorry sir,” she said, “I was miles away there. Rain did you say?”
“According to the forecast,” Chalmers said, “but you know how those idiots always get it wrong. You’re thinking about Smith aren’t you?”
“No,” Whitton lied, “but now you mention it, how much more do you think he can take before he cracks? First his girlfriend and now his sister. In a matter of months.”
“Smith’s tough,” Chalmers said, “he’ll be fine, besides, we’ve got work to do. Tommy Pike seems to have taken an overdose. He’s dead.”
Whitton did not seem to be able to digest what Chalmers said. She looked at him with a confused expression on her face.
“Tommy Pike’s dead?” she said.
“Afraid so,” Chalmers said, “his ex wife found him on the kitchen floor. We need to get to the hospital.”
Whitton sighed.
“What for?” she said, “If he’s killed himself there’s nothing we can do about it.”
“Wake up Whitton,” Chalmers said, “you of all people should know by now that not everything is as it seems. How many suicides have we dealt with that turned out to be murders?”
Whitton nodded. Chalmers was right. She could remember at least two apparent suicides that turned out to be murders.
“Let’s go,” Chalmers said.
TWENTY EIGHT
The weather forecasters had got it right for once. Drops of rain were starting to fall out of the sky. Smith was woken by water dripping onto his face and into his mouth. He opened his mouth and smiled. His mouth felt incredibly dry and the rain water in his mouth was quite pleasant. He looked up through the trees from where he lay. It was still day time but thick, dark clouds were gathering over his head. Theakston was lying at his feet. Smith took out his cigarettes and lit one. The smoke travelled down his throat through his lungs and seemed to rest in his stomach. He coughed once and felt a spasm in his chest. He could feel the warm liquid as it left his stomach and travelled up to his throat. He stood up and threw up over the dead tree stump. The stomach acids were burning his throat. He threw the cigarette into the river and took a deep breath.
“Come on boy,” he said to Theakston, “we’re going to get soaked in a minute.”
He picked up the empty Jack Daniels bottle and walked quickly in the direction of where he’d parked the car. He did not make it in time. By the time he and Theakston had reached the car park, the rain was coming down in buckets. Smith fumbled for the car keys but he could not find them. He spotted them inside the car. They were still in the ignition.
By the time Smith and Theakston got inside the car they were both drenched. Theakston shook himself and showered Smith with more water. Smith started the car, engaged first gear and took his foot off the clutch. He stalled twice before managing to get the car moving. He drove slowly out of the car park. He drove at ten miles per hour up the narrow road towards the centre of the village. The rain was lashing down now and the windscreen wipers were struggling to keep up. Smith spotted what looked like a pub further up ahead. The lights were on outside even though it was still daylight. The taste of bile in his throat had gone and Smith felt like another drink. He knew he should not be driving anyway and maybe the pub would have a room for the night. He parked the car outside the pub and turned off the ignition. This time he made sure he took the keys with him. He was about to get out of the car when he realised he did not have any money with him. He had left the house in such a hurry that he had forgotten to take his wallet.
Smith remembered something Bridge had bragged about a while ago. Ever cautious, Bridge had mentioned that he always kept some emergency money in his car just in case. Smith opened the glove compartment but apart from a map of York and a pair of old sunglasses, it was empty. He looked in both side compartments but they too were empty. He looked up at the passenger side mirror and smiled. He pulled it down and, in a slot next to the mirror were two crisp twenty pound notes. Smith took them out and put them in his pocket.
“We’d better run,” Smith said to Theakston.
It was still pouring down with rain. He opened the door and ran towards the pub. Theakston ran after him. Smith had never seen the dog run so fast.
The Duke of Wellington pub was packed when Smith and Theakston walked in. Smith shook off the rain water and approached the bar. There was some kind of talent competition going on. A man with a beard and squint eyes was busy killing The Door’s ‘Five to one’. It was so bad that Smith found himself flinching at every note.
“Old Gus actually thinks he’s good,” the tall man behind the bar said, noting Smith’s pained expression, “we let him go on first to get it over and done with. What can I get you?”
“Pint of Theakstons please,” Smith said, “is he alright in here?”
He pointed to Theakston.
The barman looked at the dog.
“As long as he behaves,” he said, “what’s his name.”
“Theakston,” Smith said.
The barman laughed.
“Then he’s welcome,” he said.
He poured Smith’s beer and put it on the bar in front of him.
“Two quid,” he said.
Smith handed him one of Bridge’s twenty pound notes. Thankfully, Old Gus was almost finished massacring the Doors’ classic. The bar man handed Smith his change. Smith walked to the only vacant table in the bar and sat down. Unfortunately it was also the table next to a small thin man who Smith knew had an irritating, whiny voice and who also used to be a police reservist. The man scowled at Theakston as he lay down under the table.
Smith took a swig of the beer and watched as a young man picked up an acoustic guitar and launched into the opening chords of Dylan’s ‘Times they are a changin’. Smith hated Bob Dylan, with his moaning voice and pseudo intellectual lyrics. He took out his cigarettes and was about to light up when he remembered that smoking was banned in pubs.
“They turn a blind eye in here,”
Smith turned round. A woman with short black hair was smiling at him.
“Unless somebody moans,” she said, “we’re all used to people smoking. What’s your name? You’re not from around here are you?”
Smith looked at her. He guessed her age to be somewhere in the late forties, maybe early fifties. He could not tell; she was wearing so much make up. He offered her a cigarette. She took two, lit them both and handed one back to Smith.
“Thanks,” she blew out a mouthful of smoke.
The thin man on the next table glared at them but for some reason he decided to hold his tongue.
Smith finished his beer and went to the bar to get another one. Theakston had fallen asleep under the table.
Smith’s ears pricked up when he heard the opening riff to ‘Whiskey in the jar.’
“Somebody always has to play that,” the barman said, “another pint?”
Smith nodded.
“It’s always the same old stuff,” the barman poured Smith’s drink; “I wish someone would play something different for a change. Clapton, Hendrix, something like that.”
Smith hated Eric Clapton. Slow hand. Always with that smug look on his face.
“I know some Hendrix,” Smith said and regretted it at once. He had not played for months.
“Then you’re up next,” the barman said, “the drinks on the house. What are you going to play? Purple Haze? Voodoo Chile?”
Smith looked at the battered old acoustic guitar on the stage.
“Not on that thing,” he pointed to the guitar, “but I can do ‘Little Wing’.”
“Great,” the barman said.
“I don’t sing though,” Smith realised he was trying to get out of it.
“That’s no problem,” the barman said, “June does.”
He pointed to the woman with the short black hair.
“I’m sure she knows ‘Little Wing’.”
There was no getting out of it.
“June,” the barman shouted to the woman, “You’re doing a duet with…”
He looked at Smith.
“What’s your name?” he said.
Smith thought hard for a moment.
“Bruce,” he said, “my name’s Bruce.”
TWENTY NINE
Tommy Pike was lying on a table in the mortuary. Whitton had forgotten how cold and spooky the mortuary was.
“Bob,” the familiar deep voice resonated off the
walls as Paul ‘The Ghoul’ Johnson danced rather than walked towards them. The Ghoul and Chalmers had been friends for years. They used to play poker twice a month but that had died off in recent months.
“And how’s the delightful Miss Whitton,” the Ghoul said with a smile that showed off his perfect teeth, “still Miss I assume? I hope you’re not still a DC. You’re much better than that.”
“Afraid so,” Whitton said.
“Where’s the grumpy DS Smith?” The Ghoul asked, “I thought you two were joined at the hip. You two can’t see it yet but you’re destined to be together someday.”
Whitton found herself blushing.
“He’s sick,” Chalmers said.
“Bullshit,” The Ghoul said, “Jason Smith is never sick. I heard about his sister although I’ve been told I’m not to talk about that.”
Whitton looked confused.
“How do you know about her?” She said.
“Sorry,” the Ghoul said, “I’ve said too much already.”
He made a theatrical gesture as if he were addressing the whole room.
“The dead can’t talk,” he said, “but the walls have ears.”
He tapped his nose with his forefinger.
Whitton looked at him as though he had lost his mind. She had forgotten about his eccentricities.
“I’m only joking,” he said, “You should know me by now. I work by nobody’s rules but my own. Especially a pair of so called government agents. Government agents my arse. Did anybody actually check their credentials by the way? I would if I were you. I was told by them to keep quiet and that, by my reckoning is like telling a shark to ignore the scent of blood. It aint gonna happen.”
“Do you know something about Smith’s sister?” Whitton asked.
“Sharp as usual,” the Ghoul smiled, “I know she didn’t drown and neither did the boy. They were both stone cold before they even hit the water.”
“How do you know that?” Chalmers said.
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