“What about the dog?” he said.
“Does he bite?” the stocky policeman looked at Theakston on the passenger seat.
“Only if you upset him,” Smith said.
Theakston jumped out of the car and stood at Smith’s feet. Smith locked up Bridge’s car and walked towards the police car.
THIRTY THREE
The Ghoul stared at the blank computer screen. He was about to switch the computer off when a thought struck him. He had watched as Brad Friedman had sent the reports to the unknown e mail address and then deleted the e mail. The Ghoul could not recall him deleting the message from the deleted e mail folder. He opened up the e mail program and clicked on ‘deleted messages’. At the bottom of the list was the e mail Friedman had sent containing the autopsy reports for Alfie Pike and Laura Smith. The Ghoul looked at the e mail address. It was the strangest address he had ever seen. He read the message on the e mail and frowned, ‘Koik puhas, Miski ei vita meid. Koik jaljed on eemaldatud.’ It was a language he did not recognise. He copied the message, closed the e mail program and opened up his internet explorer. He found the online translator page; he had a fascination for language and had used it many times before. He pasted the e mail message in the box and pressed ‘Translate’. The translation that appeared on the screen was vague and The Ghoul had to read it three times for it to make any sense.
‘Everything cleared out,’ it read, ‘there’s nothing more to point to we. All puzzles have been removed.’
The Ghoul could not believe what he was reading. He looked at the language indicator on the side of the screen. The language that Friedman had used to write the e mail was Estonian.
The Ghoul forwarded the e mail to his cell phone. He heard the phone beep and knew it had been received. He checked just to make sure and saw it had been delivered correctly. Once he was sure it was on his phone he found Smith’s e mail address and forwarded the message to him. He then permanently deleted the message from his e mail files. He dialled Smith’s number but it went straight to voice mail.
“Smith,” he realised his voice was shaking, “I’ve discovered something interesting, nay, sinister about our two friends from SOCA. Check your e mails. Phone me as soon as you get this. Night or day.”
He rang off.
He switched off the computer and left the office. He really felt like a drink.
The pathology department was quiet as The Ghoul walked along the long corridor towards the exit. He looked at his watch. It was ten o clock; an hour until the pubs closed. He remembered he had enough beers at home and made up his mind that he would go straight home and drink there. After the encounter with Proud and Friedman he would need some time and space to think anyway. Who are these people? He thought to himself as he walked towards his usual parking space. His gut instinct told him they were trouble. He walked past the lift and noticed that somebody was on their way down to the parking level. He wondered who could be around at this time of night. The car park was empty. He opened the door to his car and got inside. He sat for a moment and thought hard. Smith’s sister is found in Talinn after ten years, he thought, she ends up dead in York after Smith gets involved in the murders of two football players. Two so called SOCA agents send her autopsy report to somebody who speaks Estonian.
“Something is going on here,” he said out loud, “something evil.”
There was a rap on his car window and The Ghoul jumped. He rolled down the window.
“Off home are you Paul?” it was the night security officer Harry.
“Rough day Harry,” The Ghoul said, “I’m off to have a few beers.”
“Lucky bugger,” Harry said, “I’m here until six in the morning. See you tomorrow.”
“Good night Harry,” The Ghoul started up the car and drove out of the car park.
The streets were wet as The Ghoul drove home. He had been stuck in the hospital all day and had not even realised it had rained. The light on the dashboard was lit up to show he was low on petrol.
That’s odd, he thought, he had only filled up the car a few days ago. He did not feel like driving to a petrol station; he knew he would have enough in reserve to get him home and there would be enough left to make it to the petrol station in the morning. Besides, he needed a drink; a beer or ten to help him forget the awful day he had just had. He crossed the river and knew he would be home drinking beer in less than five minutes.
As The Ghoul turned left into his street, the fuel level in his tank had dropped drastically; so drastically that the engine was basically running on fumes. The float wire that had been placed inside the tank on the top of the fuel made contact with the bottom of the tank for the first time, completing a circuit. The electrical connection was complete. The Ghoul would not have known what was happening as the two, three kilogramme packages of plastic explosive detonated simultaneously underneath his car.
THIRTY FOUR
It was only a five minute drive to the police station in Pickering but for Smith it seemed to take forever. Delaying the inevitable, he thought. He had been three time over the legal limit for driving; he may as well kiss his seven year career in the police force goodbye. It was odd though; Smith did not feel the slightest bit bothered. He did not feel like he was about to lose everything he had worked for. On the contrary, he felt quite relieved. Maybe this was some kind of sign, he thought, maybe it was meant to be. He did not know what he would do when he was no longer a police detective but he did not care. His house was paid for and he had enough money saved up to last him for months. Maybe he could go away for a while; join a commune or go trekking in the Himalaya maybe. He dismissed the idea immediately. The mere thought repulsed him.
Smith took out his phone and dialled Whitton’s number. He noticed he had missed a call earlier. The call was answered after the fourth ring.
“What?” Whitton sounded different.
“Listen,” Smith said, “I’m in trouble. I’ve been arrested for drunk driving. I’m three times over the limit. They’re taking me to Pickering police station as we speak.”
There was no sound on the other end of the line.
“Are you still there?” Smith said.
“Give me twenty minutes.”
The phone went dead.
“I must be more drunk than I thought,” Smith said to Theakston, “Whitton sounded really weird.”
The police car stopped outside the police station in Pickering and the two policemen in the front got out. Smith waited as the back door was opened and he was told to get out. Theakston started to growl again.
“It’s alright boy,” Smith said, “They won’t send me to jail. I’ll probably just lose my license.”
“Keep an eye on that dog,” the stocky policeman said, “I don’t trust those things.”
“I trust him more than I trust anybody else,” Smith said.
“Come on,” the comment had fallen on deaf ears.
He led Smith towards the entrance of the police station. The building was in darkness. Smith was surprised at how small the station was; it looked more like a tiny church hall than a fully operational police station. It was nestled between a row of old oak trees and the building looked ancient.
Smith could not believe his eyes as the stocky policeman took out a set of keys and opened up the door to the police station.
“Are you telling me the station is closed?” he said.
“Pickering isn’t exactly the crime centre of Yorkshire,” the stocky policeman put the keys back in his pocket.
“I know,” Smith said, “York is.”
They went inside. The other policeman switched on the lights. There was nobody else inside the building.
“You can sit there,” he pointed to one of three chairs in the tiny reception area, “the doctor won’t be here for a good hour yet.”
“Doctor?” Smith said.
“For the blood test. If we’re going to process this quickly we need to get a blood test done as soon as possible. I’d offer you a cup of coff
ee but it’d only interfere with the blood test results.”
Smith sat down on one of the chairs and looked out of the window. The rain clouds had drifted off towards the south and the stars were now visible in the sky. He saw the headlights of a car as it approached and parked in the car park outside.
“Looks like the doctors early,” the stocky policeman said, “that’s good, maybe we can get an early night in.”
Smith watched as the car headlights were switched off and a tall figure got out the car. Theakston stood up and started to stare at the door. He seemed excited about something. The door to the police station opened and Sarah Proud walked in. Theakston walked over and jumped up at her long legs. Smith was confused.
“What’s going on here?” she said to the stocky policeman.
“This man has been arrested for drink driving,” he said, “who are you?”
“Detective Sergeant Smith’s boss,” Proud said, “he’s been helping us with a very sensitive investigation and you may have just jeopardised it.”
“I told you I was a DS,” Smith said.
Proud took out her ID and handed it to the open mouthed policeman.
“I’ll take him off your hands now,” she said.
The stocky policeman scrutinised the ID card and handed it back to Proud.
“He was still caught drunk driving,” the other policeman said, “he was three times over the limit.”
“Occupational hazard,” Proud smiled at Smith, “like I said, he was in the middle of some very sensitive undercover work. He couldn’t exactly say he didn’t want to drink with one of the main suspects for fear of losing his job as a police detective could he?”
Smith was finding it hard not to laugh.
“Let’s go,” Proud said.
She looked at the stocky policeman. She was a good twenty centimetres taller than him.
“Don’t worry,” she said, “I’ll smooth things out with your superiors. We need to go.”
THIRTY FIVE
The blast had shattered the windows of four houses on each side of the street. House alarms were blaring out and lights were switching on one by one in the road. Within minutes, all that was left of The Ghoul’s car was a smouldering black shell. The tyres had melted immediately with the intense heat and, luckily for the Ghoul, he had been incinerated straight away. There was no sign that a driver had been present in the car when it had exploded. The sound of sirens could be heard in the distance. Somebody had obviously phoned for the police or the fire brigade.
Some of the doors in the houses opened and curious people were cautiously peering out to see what was going on, half expecting there to be another blast. Luckily for most of the residents, in this part of York the houses had garages attached to them so there had been no cars parked on the street. A fire engine was the first on the scene followed closely behind by two police cars and two unidentified cars. Whitton and Thompson got out of Thompson’s Audi and looked around them. The clouds had moved off now and the moonlight cast an eerie glow over the carnage. The shattered windows in the houses gave them a derelict look.
“What the hell happened here?” Chalmers walked over to Thompson’s car.
“Looks like a terrorist attack,” Thompson pointed to The Ghoul’s car.
“We don’t get terrorist attacks in York,” Chalmers said.
“Cars don’t just explode by themselves,” Thompson said, “look at it. There’s bugger all left of it.”
“What do you want us to do sir?” Whitton asked.
“Get that lot back as far as possible,” Chalmers pointed to the group of people who were starting to venture out onto the street,” bomb squad are on the way just in case and a couple of ambulances have been called out. Find out if anybody has been hurt. There must be a lot of broken glass around.”
Whitton and Thompson walked towards the group of people.
Chalmers stood next to Thompson’s car and scanned the street. The scene did not seem real. The Ghoul’s car was still oozing black smoke. Chalmers could not even figure of what make of car it had once been; it was just a black shell. The dark green reinforced vehicle of the bomb squad pulled up a few metres behind Thompson’s car. A short fat man with a bald head walked up to Chalmers.
“I thought this was a piss take when we were called at first,” he said in a gruff voice, “a hoax. How are you Bob?”
“Bloody marvellous,” Chalmers said, “look at this mess. We’re going to be here all night by the looks of things.”
Frank McCallum had been a detective constable when Chalmers was a DS many years before. Chalmers could not remember if McCallum had ever had hair.
“Do we know what happened?” McCallum said.
“We got a call to say a car had exploded in the street,” Chalmers said, “from what we heard, it had to be a big explosion. When I heard what street it was I came straight away.”
“Why’s that?”
“I play poker just down the road there,” Chalmers pointed further down the street, “a friend of mine lives down there. Looks like he was lucky. His house still has windows.”
“You know the drill Bob,” McCallum said, “We need everybody out of the surrounding houses while we check the vehicle over. Not that we’ll find anything; I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a totally obliterated car but you know more than anyone, procedures are procedures.”
“I have two experienced officers on it,” Chalmers said, “How long do you think you’ll need?”
“Looking at that,” McCallum pointed to wreck of The Ghoul’s car, “shouldn’t take more than half an hour. If it was a bomb that did that, the blast will have exploded any secondary devices but we have to make sure.”
He walked off towards the bomb squad vehicle.
THIRTY SIX
“How did you know where I was?” Smith asked Sarah Proud as they drove out of Pickering towards York, “have you been following me?”
“I was actually ready for bed,” she said, “I could have ignored the phone call you know.”
“What phone call?” Smith was confused.
“You phoned me remember. You said you had been arrested for drunk driving.”
Smith realised what must have happened. He had meant to phone Whitton and he had dialled Sarah Proud’s number my mistake.
“Sorry,” he said, “I was meant to phone somebody else but thanks anyway. You saved my skin there.”
“Then you owe me,” Sarah proud said, “I may need you to do the same for me one day.”
They drove in silence for a few miles. Smith was starting to get a headache and his mouth felt incredibly dry. The walk around the moors of Danby and the fresh air had made him forget what had happened but now everything was starting to hit him hard. His sister had been killed and he was beginning to think it was all his fault. It was a message to him; a sign to make sure he stayed well away. He had the feeling that what had started with the shooting of a couple of football players was only just the beginning of something much bigger; something more sinister than he could ever imagine.
“You’ve had a hell of a day,” Sarah Proud said as if she could read his thoughts, “I’m sorry about your sister.”
It all started to come back to him. The phone call about the bodies that had been pulled out of the river; the terror when he had unzipped the body bag and seen his sister’s face. The fight with Brad Friedman. Sarah Proud had stopped Friedman from hurting him. What had she said? Smith thought.
“How did you know it was Laura?” he said.
“What?”
“This morning,” Smith said, “just after I’d smacked Friedman in the face you stopped him from doing anything. You said ‘it was his sister, cut him some slack’. How did you know it was Laura? As far as I know, Laura hasn’t been to York before. I didn’t know she was here. Have you met her somewhere before?”
Sarah Proud did not say a word.
“What’s going on here?” Smith said, “What has Laura got to do with all this?”
Proud shook her head.
“Not here,” she said, “not now. It’s late.”
Smith looked carefully at her face. She was wearing a pained expression. If he did not know any better he could have sworn she was fighting some inner demon or other.
“My house,” Smith said, “I’ll make us some coffee and you can tell me everything. I don’t mind staying up all night if we have to.”
It’s over,” Proud’s expression changed again, “I can tell you that much. It’s over.”
“Bullshit,” Smith said, “it’s far from over. When somebody tries to kill me and then kills my little sister I take it rather personally. Believe me, it’s only just beginning.”
Sarah Proud stopped outside Smith’s house. She left the engine running.
“Are you going to leave the engine running all night?” Smith said.
“I’m not staying,” she said, “get some sleep. I doubt if we’ll ever see each other again.”
“Please,” Smith said, “one coffee. I need to know.”
“Goodbye detective,” Proud said.
“I don’t feel like being on my own tonight,” Smith knew it was a long shot but he was desperate.
Proud switched off the engine.
“One coffee,” she said, “but then I have to go. I have to be in London tomorrow.”
“Of course,” Smith said.
Smith turned on the kettle to make the coffee. Theakston slumped on the dog bed in the kitchen and was asleep immediately. Sarah Proud sat at the kitchen table and rubbed her eyes.
“I’m listening,” Smith poured the water into the coffee mugs.
“Where do I start?” Proud said.
“The beginning is usually a good place,” Smith put one of the mugs in front of her and lit a cigarette, “what happened to your hand?”
He noticed she had a small bandage around two of her fingers.
“Caught it in the car door,” she said, “hurt like hell.”
“I want to know everything,” Smith said.
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