Occum's Razor

by Giles, Stewart

  “With SOCA out of the picture,” Chalmers said, “we can do this our way.”

  There was the sound of a cough behind them. Chalmers had spoken too soon. A man with an army crew cut stood behind them. Brad Friedman looked like he needed some more sleep. He had heavy bags under bloodshot eyes. Sarah proud was nowhere to be seen.

  “Speak of the devil,” Smith said.

  “What do you want?” Chalmers said to Friedman, “where’s your sidekick?”

  “Gone,” Friedman said, “and I’ll be gone too in a few moments. I just thought it common courtesy to say goodbye and thank you.”

  “Thank you for what?” Smith said, “Bowing down to your orders? Punching you in the face?”

  “Do you see what you’ve done?” Chalmers said, “Have you seen that rabble out there? They say we can’t do our jobs. They’re taking it all the way to parliament. No confidence in the police. Do you realise how this makes us look?”

  “That’s unfortunate,” Friedman said, “but that’s how things are.”

  He turned to face Smith.

  “Can I have a word?” he said.

  “What about?” Smith said.

  “Just give me a few minutes,” Friedman said, “I need to talk to you.”

  FORTY

  Smith and Friedman went into Smith’s office. Friedman closed the door behind him.

  “Why the secrecy?” Smith said, “Why couldn’t you say what you have to say in front of the others?”

  “Detective sergeant,” Friedman said, “I can see you are an incredibly competent police detective but I think your gut instincts are a bit out of synch at the moment.”

  “My gut instinct is telling me to punch you in the face again,” Smith said, “I don’t think I hit you hard enough the first time.”

  “I tried to warn you,” Friedman said, “be careful who you trust.”

  “That was you?” Smith remembered the message he had received, “thanks for the concern but I have a pretty good feeling about who I can’t trust. You for example.”

  “And yet you seem to have let your guard down in front of my colleague.”

  “What are you talking about?” Smith was starting to get angry.

  “I know what’s been going on between you and Proud,” Friedman said.

  “Get out of my office,” Smith said, “this conversation is over.”

  “Sit down,” Friedman said, “I want to show you something.”

  He walked over to Smith’s computer and turned it on.

  “You won’t find anything on there,” Smith said.

  Friedman typed in a web address and a web page Smith had never seen before appeared on the screen. It looked like some kind of government data base. Friedman typed away frantically on the keyboard. Smith was afraid he was going to break it. A black and white photograph of Sarah Proud appeared on the screen.

  “I shouldn’t be showing you this,” Friedman said, “this is classified information but I have no choice. Like I said, you should be careful who you trust.”

  Smith moved closer to the computer screen and read the words on the screen. Underneath the photograph of Proud was a name.

  “I don’t understand,” he said, “who’s Nadia Boronov?”

  “You know her,” Friedman said, “If I’m not mistaken, you know her intimately.”

  “Sarah Proud?” Smith said, “What the hell is going on here?”

  “Sarah Proud does not exist,” Friedman said, “he name is Nadia Boronov. Born in Talinn nineteen seventy eight. Two months after she was born her parents were killed in a suspicious car crash.”

  Smith shuddered. He remembered what Proud had told him about Wolfie the previous night.

  “Boronov?” he said, “Sarah Proud is Viktor Boronov’s sister. She’s Wolfie’s sister.”

  Friedman looked shocked.

  “How much has she told you?” He said.

  “Not enough apparently,” Smith said, “she told me about Boronov but she left out the bit about him being her big brother. Why are you telling me all this?”

  “For your own safety,” Friedman said, “stay away from her. You wouldn’t want to go the same way as your pathologist friend now would you?”

  Smith started to pace up and down.

  “This is all a bit much to take in,” he said, “why did they kill The Ghoul? He was just a simple pathologist.”

  “I don’t know,” Friedman said, “maybe he knew something that made him a threat.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know,” Friedman’s left eye started to twitch.

  “What is Sarah Proud doing in SOCA?” Smith said, “Is she really a government agent?”

  “That’s just the thing,” Friedman said, “she worked her way up like everybody else. We only found out who she really is a few months ago.”

  “And you still let her continue with the investigation?”

  “You don’t understand how we operate,” Friedman said, “Everything we do is shrouded in secrecy. We chose to use the fact that she didn’t know we knew her real identity to our advantage.”

  Smith’s head was starting to spin.

  “How do you use that to your advantage?”

  “By keeping an extra special eye on her of course,” Friedman said, “by following her every move. She’s careful, I’ll give her that but she has to slip up sometime. Can you remember the man who kindly gave you his lighter at the pub?”

  Smith took out the lighter.

  “That’s the coat of arms of Estonia,” Friedman pointed to the lighter, “beautiful isn’t it?”

  “This is all too much,” Smith said.

  “The two police officers who took you to Pickering,” Friedman continued, “you must have been very drunk. What kind of policeman takes a suspect to a locked police station in the middle of the night?”

  Smith realised that Friedman was right.

  “Where is Sarah Proud now?” Smith asked, “Or whatever name she goes by.”

  “Disappeared,” Friedman said, “along with the rest of them. If you’re lucky you won’t see them again.”

  Smith took out his cigarettes and lit one. He handed the packet to Friedman although he knew he probably did not smoke. Friedman took a cigarette out and lit it with Smith’s lighter.

  “A bit lighter than I’m used to,” he said, “but it’ll have to do.”

  “Have you seen what’s happening outside the station at this moment?” Smith said, exhaling a huge cloud of smoke.

  “Human nature,” Friedman said, “these people are scared witless. They don’t have a clue what’s going on and it terrifies them.”

  “They want to know what we’re going to do about the murders,” Smith said, ‘in the space of a few days, five people have been killed. Six if we include The Ghoul. The people want results.”

  Smith suddenly remembered something. It was the message from The Ghoul telling him to check his e mails. He did not want to do it with Brad Friedman in the room.

  “You won’t catch him,” Friedman interrupted his thoughts; “God knows we’ve tried. He covers his tracks; surrounds himself with only the best. He appears out of nowhere and disappears just as quickly. It’s as if he’s some kind of supernatural being.”

  Smith sat with his head in his hands. He thought about Sarah Proud and the night they had spent together. He still could not believe she had lied to him.

  “There is a way out of this,” Friedman interrupted his thoughts.

  “I thought you said this Boronov was untouchable,” Smith said.

  “He is,” Friedman said, “I mean there’s a way to sway public opinion back in your favour.”

  Smith looked up at Friedman.

  “I’m listening,” he said.

  FORTY ONE

  “You’ve got to be joking,” Chalmers said, “are you completely out of your mind?”

  “Pretty much,” Smith said.

  Friedman closed the door to Chalmers’ office and sat in one of the chairs opposit
e the desk.

  “Do you have any better ideas?” Smith said, “This Boronov character cannot be caught. This is the next best solution.”

  Chalmers looked directly at Friedman.

  “So what you’re saying is this,” he said, “you’re prepared to offer yourself up as a scapegoat for all six murders?”

  “It’ll work,” Friedman said, “I know the details of all the murders inside out. I could very well be the killer. Arrest me, march me out there in handcuffs for all the world to see. Organise a press conference. It’ll work.”

  “He’s right sir,” Smith said, “I hate to admit it but he’s right. The idea is so unbelievable that people will have to believe it if that makes any sense.”

  Chalmers scratched his nose.

  “I’ll have to clear it with the super,” he said.

  “Consider it done,” Friedman smiled, “that man is so incompetent that I could persuade him to go outside and dance around naked if he believed it would help his crime stats.”

  Smith found himself smiling for the first time in days. Maybe this government agent with the annoying crew cut hairstyle was not so bad after all. Maybe my gut instinct was wrong, he thought.

  “So what now?” Chalmers said.

  Friedman stood up and held out his hands.

  “How does it usually work?” he said, “cuff me and say ‘you’re nicked’.”

  Five minutes later, Chalmers was ready. He opened the doors to the station and looked outside. The crowd of people have grown substantially in numbers. He took a deep breath and walked towards them.

  “Detective inspector,” a woman Chalmers knew worked for the York Evening Post shouted, “the people of York want to know what’s going on.”

  The noise from the crowd was deafening. Chalmers was starting to feel quite intimidated.

  “We have a suspect in custody,” he said but the noise from the crowd drowned out his words.

  “This is hopeless,” he said to the woman from the Evening Post.

  She put two fingers to her mouth and produced the most ear piercing whistle Chalmers had ever heard. The crowd were silent.

  “Listen,” her voice was almost as loud as the whistle, “DI Chalmers has something to say.”

  Chalmers looked at her in disbelief.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “I have some information for you. Please let me finish. We have a suspect in custody. A suspect who, as we speak, is confessing to the murders of Jimmy Fisher, Paulo Rubio, Tommy Pike, Alfie Pike, Laura Smith and Paul Johnson.”

  Chalmers could feel his face getting redder. He was a hopeless liar. He hoped that nobody would notice.

  “It’s all over,” he said, “There’s no more need to panic. You can all go home now and leave us to do our jobs.”

  “Detective inspector,” the woman from the Evening Post said.

  “We will be holding a press conference a six o clock sharp,” Chalmers said as if he could read her mind, “We will answer all your questions then.”

  He addressed the crowd again.

  “You can all go home now,” he said again, “believe me, justice will be served.”

  He walked back towards the station and lit a cigarette. He realised his hands were shaking. The crowd of people were starting to disperse. Chalmers realised that Friedman’s scheme could work. Smith was right, he thought, who in their right mind would concoct such a ridiculous plan? He stubbed out his cigarette and went back inside the station. He went straight to the canteen and got a cup of coffee from the machine.

  “How did it go?” Smith said.

  “I think they bought it,” Chalmers said, “although I don’t like it one little bit.”

  “What now?”

  “It’s not over yet,” Chalmers said, “we still have a press conference to get through; we’re not quite out of the woods yet.”

  “I need some time off,” Smith said.

  “Not a chance,” Chalmers said, “we’ve still got a shit load of damage control to organise. I know you too; you’ll only use the time to dig around in things that don’t concern you.”

  “I have to bury my sister.”

  “Jesus Christ Smith,” Chalmers said, “I’m sorry. I completely forgot.”

  “I haven’t had more than two days proper leave in the past three years,” Smith said, “if you don’t include loony leave and suspensions.”

  “How long do you need?”

  “Two weeks,” Smith said.

  Chalmers shook his head.

  “I’ll tell you what,” he said, “I’ll make you a deal. You head up the press conference and you’ve got your two weeks.”

  “I hate the press,” Smith said.

  “Take it or leave it,” Chalmers said, “think about it as a way to get one up on those vultures in the press besides, you know more about this investigation than any of us.”

  “I’m being manipulated aren’t I?”

  “Completely,” Chalmers said, “what’s it going to be?”

  “I’ll be back at five,” Smith said.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Pickering,” Smith said, “I accidentally left Bridge’s car there last night. I promised I’d go and fetch it with him.”

  “You did what?”

  “It’s a long story,” Smith said, “I’ll see you at five.”

  FORTY TWO

  Bridge’s car was exactly where Smith had left it; on the Malton Road about five miles outside of Pickering.

  “Why did you leave it here?” Bridge said as he got out of Smith’s car.

  “You don’t want to know,” Smith handed Bridge his car keys, “I’ll see you back at the station later. I’m not looking forward to the press conference.”

  “At least we’ve got some good news for them for a change,” Bridge said.

  “If you say so.”

  “Where are you going?” Bridge asked.

  “There’s something I need to check out,” Smith said, “thanks again for letting me borrow the car. I’ll sort out your forty quid when I get to the bank.”

  Smith watched Bridge drive away. He started the car and headed off towards Pickering. It took him five minutes to reach the police station. Why had it taken them so long last night? He thought. He parked outside the station and got out the car. The station looked different in the daylight. There was a notice on the wall of the station showing the opening times. 09.00 – 14.30. Smith checked his watch. It was two in the afternoon. He went inside the station. There was a young woman sitting behind the counter. Besides her, the station seemed to be deserted.

  “Good afternoon,” the woman said as Smith approached, “how can I help you?”

  “Hi,” Smith said, “could I ask you a few questions?”

  “Of course,” she said.

  “I see the station closes every day at half past two,” Smith said.

  “That’s right,” she said, “Pickering isn’t exactly a crime hub.”

  “What happens if somebody needs the police after that?”

  “Of course the switchboard is operational twenty four seven,” she said, “but it isn’t justified to have the station open all hours. Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious,” Smith handed her his ID, “I’m thinking of taking it easy for a while. Maybe trying for a transfer to one of the smaller rural stations.”

  “You’d be bored within a week,” she said, “I’d give anything to work in a busy station like York.”

  “Can I ask you something else?” Smith said.

  “I’m not exactly snowed under with work,” she said.

  “Let’s say somebody is picked up for drunk driving,” Smith said, “what happens if the station is closed? Would the officers in charge open up the station in the middle of the night?”

  “Of course not,” she said, “they’ll take the suspect to one of the bigger stations. Maybe York or Darlington, depending on where the suspect was picked up.”

  “So they definitely wouldn’t be brought here?”


  “There are only two sets of keys for this place,” the woman said, “I have one and PC Wilkie has the other set.”

  Brad Friedman had been right, Smith thought, the police who had brought him here last night were not policemen at all.

  “Thanks,” he said, “maybe we’ll be working together some day.”

  “Don’t do it,” the woman said.

  Smith got back in his car and slammed his fists against the steering wheel. He suddenly thought of something else. He took out his phone and dialled Whitton’s number.

  “Whitton,” he said, “did I phone you last night?”

  “I think you need more sleep sir,” Whitton said, “you phoned me at about half ten and said you’d been arrested for drunk driving.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then the phone went dead,” Whitton said, “I was busy at the scene of the car bombing and when I got the text message a few minutes later I didn’t think any more of it.”

  “Text message?”

  “Somebody sent me a message to say the misunderstanding with the drunk driving had been sorted out. I was so busy with the carnage on The Ghoul’s street I completely forgot about it.”

  “Thanks Whitton,” Smith said and rang off.

  Smith’s head was starting to spin. He tried to figure out what had happened the previous night. He had been taken to the police station in Pickering by two fake policemen. Sarah Proud just happened to arrive and smooth things out. He slammed his fists on the steering wheel again. They had spent the night together. After what Friedman had told him about her, Smith felt so stupid. He had been reeled in hook, line and sinker. He recalled Friedman’s exact words, ‘be careful who you trust’. He had trusted Sarah Proud and been wary of Brad Friedman. It should have been the other way round. He thought again about the message from The Ghoul. What did he know that was so important that he had to die for it? He made a mental note to remember to check his e mails before he went on leave.

  “I’ve been so fucking dumb,” Smith said out loud.

  FORTY THREE

  The large conference room was full to the brim. There were not enough chairs for everybody and those journalists who had arrived late were resigned to standing room only. Smith could not believe there could be so many press representatives. He hated journalists. He looked at them all. They all looked the same to him; like vultures waiting for the lions to finish so they could pick at the scraps. The bottom feeders of society.