Occum's Razor

by Giles, Stewart

  “Bob, no wonder I always beat you at poker.”

  “You count cards,” Chalmers said.

  “Never,” The Ghoul said, “maybe once or twice but it doesn’t help much in poker anyway. There was no water in either of their lungs. Plus, I found the needle marks. There was enough horse tranquiliser in their systems to knock out an elephant.”

  “Ok,” Chalmers said, “we’ve been told to stay away from that investigation.”

  “By the phoney spies,” The Ghoul said.

  “An order is an order,” Chalmers said, “Tommy Pike, what have we got?”

  The Ghoul glanced over at Tommy Pike’s body.

  “That’s why I invited you in,” he said, “I could have given you a straight forward report but I wanted to show you something.”

  He opened Pike’s mouth.

  “The tests we did showed that he did consume a hell of a lot of sleeping pills. Halcion, to be exact. It’s a very potent benzodiazepine.”

  “So it was a suicide then,” Whitton said, “what did you want to show us?”

  “He also had an impressive blood alcohol level. For a sports star he could certainly hold his drink.”

  “Get to the point Paul,” Chalmers said.

  “Look here,” The Ghoul pointed to Pike’s mouth.

  Chalmers and Whitton moved closer to get a better look.

  “See the bruising on the sides of his mouth,” The Ghoul said, “two of his teeth are broken too.”

  “What does it mean?” Whitton said.

  “It means his mouth was forced open,” Chalmers said.

  “Very good Bob,” The Ghoul said, “and we found scratches on the throat and his epiglottis was swollen from the constant gagging while he was trying to regurgitate the tablets.”

  “He was forced to take the pills?” Whitton said.

  “That’s right,” The Ghoul said, “his mouth was forced open and the sleeping tablets were pushed down his throat. He fought back though.”

  “What do you mean?” Whitton said.

  “He didn’t give in without a fight. I reckon whoever did this will have a couple of nasty bite marks on his hands.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Chalmers said.

  “I don’t understand why though,” Whitton said.

  “Why what?” The Ghoul asked.

  “Why make it look like a suicide? If it’s the same people who killed Jimmy Fisher and the Colombian plus Alfie Pike and Smith’s sister, why not just shoot Pike? These people don’t seem to care. Why go to all the trouble of staging a suicide?”

  “Sick people,” Chalmers said, “a has been footballer loses his only son. What has he got left? He decides he’s had enough and ends it all. It’s a very believable scenario. It makes me sick to the stomach.”

  “Of course,” The Ghoul said, “I knew it wasn’t a suicide before I’d even examined the body.”

  “Don’t tell me,” Chalmers said, “your sixth sense.”

  “No,” The Ghoul said, “just common sense. I saw the forensics report. Webber does a thorough job, I’ll give him that. The way the body was lying in the kitchen told me straight away it wasn’t suicide.”

  “How do you know that?” Whitton said.

  “Come on my dear. Think. If you were going to commit suicide, if you were going to end it all what would you do?”

  “I have no idea,” Whitton said, “The thought has never crossed my mind.”

  “Sleeping pills,” The Ghoul said, “a peaceful way to go. Add a bottle of whisky and you just drift off and don’t come back.”

  “I still don’t get it,” Whitton said.

  “You take the pills,” The Ghoul said, “you make yourself comfortable and you wait for them to transport you into oblivion. You lie back in bed, you run yourself a nice warm bath, you sit in your favourite chair. What you definitely do not do is…”

  He looked directly at Whitton.

  “Of course,” she said, “you don’t lie down on the cold tiles in the kitchen.”

  “There’s hope for you yet,” the Ghoul smiled.

  THIRTY

  Smith picked up the old guitar and frowned. It had been a long time since he had played any guitar let alone a beaten up acoustic like he held in his hands right now. He noticed that the whole room had gone quiet. Everybody was staring at him. He played a simple E major chord and winced. The guitar was badly out of tune. He tuned it as best he could and moved it closer to the microphone. He played the opening sequence to ‘Little Wing’ and stopped. June, the woman with the short black hair looked at him and nodded in encouragement. Smith started to play again. This time it sounded much better. It was all coming back to him. He closed his eyes and played. June came in at exactly the right time. Her voice was nothing like Smith had expected it to be; it was softer without any hint of huskiness he expected a woman in her forties who smoked would have.

  Smith opened his eyes again. The people in the pub were still staring at him but most of them were smiling now. Smith launched himself into the guitar solo and a few people stood up. He could hear that the guitar was starting to go out of tune again so he decided to wind things up. He looked over at June and smiled. She nodded back and Smith played the ending of the song. Everything went quiet and then the whole pub erupted in cheer. Smith put the guitar down and walked up to the bar.

  “That was brilliant,” the barman put a pint of beer in front of him, “on the house. We don’t hear stuff like that around here too often.”

  “Thanks,” Smith took a long sip and walked back to his table.”

  Theakston was still fast asleep under the chair; the noise in the pub had not fazed him at all. Smith sat down and smiled. He was feeling wide awake now.

  “Not bad,” a whiny voice was heard from the next table, “I’ve heard better though.”

  “Thanks,” Smith took this a compliment.

  He had a feeling that this short thin man had probably not complimented anybody in years.

  Smith finished his beer and stood up. He needed to get home. He knew that after a few beers and a bottle of jack Daniels he should find a place to stay for the night; he should not really be driving but he felt awake and he felt like the drive back to York. He woke Theakston up and waited for the dog to work out where he was. Smith walked out the door of the pub without speaking to anybody. Theakston followed slowly behind.

  It had stopped raining as Smith and Theakston walked back to where Bridge’s car was parked. It was dark and the moon was hidden behind the clouds so Smith did not see the man who stood in the doorway to the Duke of Wellington. He was talking on a mobile phone. Smith drove carefully along the winding country roads away from Danby. His head felt remarkably clear and he knew these roads like the back of his hand. He turned off Gray Lane onto the A170 and knew he could pick up a bit of speed on the straighter road. He had not seen a single car since leaving Danby. The clock on the dashboard said nine thirty. Smith knew he would be back at home just after ten. He looked at Theakston asleep on the passenger seat and sighed. His dog was all he had left. He had not even thought about the arrangements for the funeral. He realised it would be up to him to organise everything. Even though he hardly knew the young woman who had been pulled out of the river earlier, she was still his little sister.

  Smith looked in the rear view mirror. He was sure he could see car headlights about two hundred metres behind him. He turned on to the Malton Road and increased his speed. A short while later the lights were back again. They seemed to be getting closer. Smith was now about five miles from the Pickering turn off. There was definitely another car behind him and it was gaining. Probably another drunk who wants to get home, he thought but the way the car was driving made Smith think the driver had a purpose. The headlights were only fifty metres behind now.

  Smith could see the lights of Pickering up ahead and he hoped there would be more traffic on the roads soon. The car behind him was so close now that Smith was blinded by its headlights. He was starting to feel nervous. There h
ad been plenty of opportunities for the car to overtake him, why did it stay behind him? He decided to take a chance. At the next lay by he pulled over and stopped the car. He held his breath and hoped the other car would drive straight past.

  The car did drive straight past. Smith sighed. He realised he was sweating quite badly. The car up ahead had stopped about twenty metres away. Time appeared to pass very slowly. What do they want? Smith thought. The driver’s door of the car opened and a stocky man got out. Another man got out of the other side. Smith’s heart started to beat faster as they approached his car and he realised who they were.

  THIRTY ONE

  The Ghoul finished the rest of his third cup of coffee in the space of an hour and frowned. His head was pounding; he had frowned far too much during the day. He had just finished writing the autopsy reports on the two bodies they had pulled out of the river Ouse that morning. He looked at the top of the report. ‘Laura Smith’ it said, ‘Laura Smith, female, twenty one years old.’

  He wondered how Smith was handling it all. He had heard about Smith’s sister a few times. How she had been taken from a beach in Western Australia when she was just a child. How Smith had met up with her ten years later in Talinn. That episode in Smith’s life had nearly broken him. The Ghoul frowned even deeper. How is he going to handle this? He thought.

  The initial autopsy report had found nothing untoward; there were no signs of a struggle, no cuts or bruises apart from a small bruise on Laura’s face but on further examination they had found needle marks on both Smith’s sister and Alfie Pike. The blood tests had shown there to be large doses of a heavy sedative in both blood samples. Smith’s sister and Alfie Pike were both dead before they hit the water.

  The Ghoul felt like a drink. He thought about phoning Smith but dismissed the thought at once.

  He’ll be drinking away his regrets on his own, he thought, and I don’t blame him.

  “Paul Johnson?” A woman’s voice was heard in the doorway.

  The Ghoul got such a fright that he jumped. He did not normally get visitors at this time of night. He turned round and saw Sarah Proud standing in the doorway. Brad Friedman was standing behind her.

  “This isn’t an open bloody house,” The Ghoul said, “you can’t just walk into my office without an appointment. This is a pathology lab you know.”

  “We’re well aware of what it is,” Proud said, “We need the reports for the two bodies found in the river this morning.”

  “On whose authority?” the Ghoul said.

  “Mine,” Friedman said, “do I have to remind you who we are?”

  The Ghoul thought quickly.

  “You can have them when I’ve finished them,” he said, “I’ll e mail them to the relevant department in the morning.”

  “I don’t think you heard me Mr Johnson,” Friedman said, “We need those reports now.”

  The Ghoul stood up and faced them both. He was surprised at how tall Sarah Proud was.

  “No Mr Friedman,” he said, “if that’s even your real bloody name, I don’t think you heard me. Get out of my office.”

  Brad Friedman took a step closer. The Ghoul found himself taking an involuntary step back.

  “Mr Johnson,” he said, “I’m afraid you have no choice. Me and Miss Proud outrank anybody you normally deal with. If you haven’t finished the reports we’ll just wait here until you have.”

  “You’re not SOCA,” The Ghoul said, “I’m not stupid. I have eyes in my head and more importantly, I have ears too. Your accents, especially yours Miss Proud.”

  He looked her straight in the eyes.

  “You can fool most people,” The Ghoul continued, “but I’m not most people. I can hear that Eastern European twang a mile away.”

  Sarah Proud’s facial expression did not change. Her eyes continued to bore into the Ghoul’s until he had to break eye contact.

  “I believe you were arrested for murder earlier in the year?” Proud said.

  “An unfortunate series of events,” The Ghoul said, “they made a mistake.”

  “York Police department made a mistake,” Proud sneered at him, “DS Jason Smith made a mistake?”

  “He wasn’t around at the time,” the Ghoul said, “He was otherwise engaged.”

  “Yes,” Friedman said, “After the murder of his girlfriend I believe he went off the radar for a while. Tragic. Mr Johnson, you’re either with or us or against us.”

  “Of course,” The Ghoul found it hard not to laugh, “You’re either on the bus or off the bus. That’s how it works with you mobsters isn’t it?”

  “The reports,” Proud ignored his comment, “We’re not leaving until we get them.”

  “Do you know what I think?” The Ghoul noticed he had started to sweat, “I think you have everybody fooled. Smith, Chalmers, the whole lot of them. You’re very clever but you don’t fool me.”

  “What are you talking about?” Proud said.

  “You’re not SOCA. You’re not even government are you? Do you even have any ID? I think you’re involved with the people responsible for all of this; the people responsible for shooting Jimmy Fisher and the same people who killed Smith’s sister and Alfie Pike. Not to mention Alfie’s father. He didn’t kill himself.”

  Sarah Proud’s expression had changed now. She looked like a lioness about to make a kill.

  “You have a vivid imagination,” Brad Friedman took out his ID card. At the top in bold letters it read ‘Serious Organised Crime Agency.’ His name was at the bottom of the card. A black and white photograph of Friedman looking much younger was in the centre of the card. He still had the crew cut that annoyed Smith so much.

  The Ghoul shook his head.

  “The reports are there,” he pointed to the computer on his desk, “but I still think there’s something else going on. I don’t trust either of you.”

  “You don’t need to trust us,” Friedman sat down in front of the computer, “you just need to do as we say.”

  He attached the reports to an e mail and sent them. He then deleted both the e mail and the file the reports were stored on.

  “You’re not to mention a word of this to anybody,” Friedman stood directly in front of The Ghoul, “if you know what’s good for you.”

  “You need to work on your people skills,” The Ghoul said, “I thought I was socially inept but you make me look like Mr Popular.”

  Friedman did not look amused.

  “Good night Mr Johnson,” Friedman walked out of the office.

  Sarah Proud glanced at The Ghoul and followed behind him.

  THIRTY TWO

  “Could you step out of the car please sir,” one of the policemen said to Smith.

  Smith still could not believe what was happening. He had never been stopped by the police before.

  “Step out of the car please sir,” the policeman asked again.

  Smith opened the door and got out. Theakston woke up and started to growl; he could sense that something was wrong.

  “It’s alright boy,” Smith said, “we’ll be on our way in a few minutes.”

  “Have you been drinking sir?” the other policeman asked.

  “No,” Smith said, “I mean yes but I feel fine. Why were you following me like that?”

  “I need you to blow into this,” the policeman produced a breathalyser.

  Smith was gobsmacked. This was the second time this week he had been asked to take a breathalyser test.

  “You followed me for miles,” Smith said, “why were you following me?”

  “We had an anonymous tip off,” the policeman said, “Someone at the Duke of Wellington said you were intoxicated. He didn’t want you to hurt yourself or anybody else for that matter. He said you drank a whole bottle of whisky earlier in the day.”

  Smith could feel his blood boiling. Anonymous tip off, he thought, short thin man with a whiny voice no doubt. Used to be a police reservist.

  “I’m a detective sergeant in the York Police department,” Smi
th said.

  “And I’m Peter Pan,” the stocky policeman said, “please just blow into the tube. I can smell the booze on you.”

  He handed Smith the breathalyser. Smith did not know what to do. He did not have his ID on him and he was not sure it would make a difference anyway. Police officers were not above the law and loyalty within the force had long gone.

  Smith knew very well that if he blew into the tube it would all be over for him; instant dismissal, no pension and no prospects of finding a similar job.

  “Sir,” the stocky policeman said, “you can either do it here or we can cuff you and do things back at the station. It’ll be a lot better for you in the long run if you just do what we say.”

  Smith looked at the breathalyser and put his mouth over the tube. He closed his eyes and breathed in, trying to dilute the alcohol on his breath as much as possible. He knew the exercise was futile; he knew exactly how a breathalyser machine worked. He also knew that some of the alcohol on his system will have evaporated from the liquid he had drunk and moved to the air sacs in the lungs. The legal limit for driving was 0.08 grams of alcohol per 100 millilitres of blood. Smith breathed out slowly and waited. The stocky policeman took the breathalyser and he too waited. He waited for the sulphuric acid in the machine to turn the alcohol from Smith’s breath into a liquid solution. He waited for the potassium chromate to change colour from orange to green as it reacted with the alcohol. Finally, he waited for the needle on the dial to move and show the approximate alcohol level in Smith’s blood stream.

  “Nought point two five,” he said, “You’re in serious trouble.”

  “The machine must be wrong,” Smith knew he was three times over the legal limit.

  “There’s nowt wrong with the machine,” the other policeman said, “but a blood test will prove beyond any doubt anyway. I’m afraid you’re going to have to come with us.”

  Smith could feel his whole world starting to crumble around him. Bits and pieces of his life seemed to be crashing before his eyes.