“Are you ready?” Chalmers said.
“Two weeks remember?” was Smith’s reply.
“Good luck.”
Smith switched on the microphone and scanned the room in front of him. He had headed up press conferences before but this was by far the largest gathering of journalists he had ever experienced. He looked at the faces of the people in the crowd; people waiting in anticipation to hear what he had to say. He found what he was looking for; a woman in her twenties with a pleasant, open face. He had used this method before when addressing large crowds. Concentrate on one face only; talk to the person with the friendliest face. It seemed to make the whole nightmare of public speaking more bearable.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “thank you for coming here today. Those of you who are accustomed to this sort of thing will already know the etiquette involved but for those of you who are not familiar I’ll tell you how it’s going to work. You will have the opportunity to fire questions at me at the end. Until then, I’ll ask you to please just listen to what I have to say.”
He smiled at the woman with the friendly face. She did not smile back.
“Earlier today,” Smith said, “we arrested a man we believe to be responsible for six murders in the space of a few days. A combination of perseverance, good old fashioned detective work and a bit of luck have brought this man to justice.”
Smith smiled. That last part was Chalmers’ idea.
“This suspect has subsequently confessed to all six murders and he is as I speak being detained at an undisclosed high security facility. The people of York have suffered a great loss but we assure you, the perpetrator will receive the full force of the law. He will no doubt spend the rest of his life behind bars.”
Smith looked over at Chalmers. He was beaming from ear to ear.
“Any questions?” Smith prepared himself for a barrage of words.
A woman with a wart on the end of her nose put up her hand.
“Moira Adams,” she said, “Yorkshire Herald. How can you be so sure you’ve arrested the right man? Couldn’t it just be some kind of whack job confessing to get the attention?”
“Of course we considered that possibility,” Smith said, “but this man knows details about all of the murders that only the perpetrator could know. We’ve got the right man.”
“Detective sergeant,” a man with an unfortunate lisp put up his hand, “Adrian Killian, Daily Mail. Do you have a name for us?”
“A name?” Smith said.
“Your suspect. Who is he?”
Smith thought hard for a moment. He knew he ought to have been prepared for this question. He decided to do something he knew he would regret.
“Viktor Boronov,” he said, “the man’s name is Viktor Boronov.”
The words stung his mouth as they came out. Viktor Boronov, aka Wolfie. The man who had taken his sister all those years ago; the man who had killed her.
“Viktor Boronov,” he said again.
He could see the frantic scribbling in front of him.
“Russian national,” he continued, “currently living in Estonia.”
“Isn’t that going to complicate things somewhat?” Killian asked.
“Not at all,” Smith knew he had to think quickly.
“Will he be extradited and tried in Estonia?” Killian said.
“He killed six people in Yorkshire,” Smith said, “He will be tried in Yorkshire and found guilty in Yorkshire. Any more questions?”
The woman with the friendly face stood up.
“Detective sergeant Smith,” she said, “Jessica Bowles, York Gazette. Isn’t it true that the woman they pulled out of the River Ouse was your sister?”
Smith felt like he had been hit in the stomach with a sledgehammer. How did this woman find out about that? He thought.
“That’s right,” he said.
There were low murmurs in the crowd.
“How does that make you feel?” Bowles said.
Smith quickly realised that underneath the friendly face lay a cold hearted journalist.
“How does that make me feel?” he said, “How the hell do you think it makes me feel? Angry, devastated. My sister was killed and dumped in the river.”
Smith spotted Chalmers. He was approaching the front of the room. Smith nodded to him to indicate that everything was under control. He looked at Jessica Bowles.
“I have a funeral to arrange,” he said to her directly, “and after that I can mourn my sister but right now I have a job to do and unfortunately, part of that job entails indulging parasites like yourself in the gory details of tragedies such as this.”
The whole room went quiet. A short fat man stood up and started to clap his hands together. More and more people stood up and did the same. Very soon everybody in the room was on their feet and Smith was facing a standing ovation. He could feel goose bumps all over his body.
Chalmers took the microphone.
“If there are no further questions,” he had to shout over the applause, “We’ll finish off there.”
He turned the microphone off.
“Are you alright?” he put his arm on Smith’s shoulder.
“Two weeks?” Smith said.
“Two weeks,” Chalmers said, “you’ve earned it.”
FORTY FOUR
Smith sat by the window in his office and lit a cigarette. He watched as the journalists scuttled back to their cars and drove off, eager to write their stories and make the first print in the morning. Smith decided he would not be reading any newspapers for the next few days. He took a long drag of the cigarette and held the smoke in his lungs for as long as possible.
“Are you alright sir?” Whitton was standing in the doorway.
“I’ve got two weeks off,” Smith said.
“Two weeks?” Whitton was surprised; Smith never took time off, “what are you going to do away from work for two weeks?”
“You know me,” Smith said, “I’ll find something to do. Do you know what I did last night?”
“Do I want to know?”
“I spent the night with Sarah Proud,” Smith said.
“As in spent the night?” Whitton said.
“She was gone when I woke up this morning,” Smith said, “and then I found out some disturbing things about her; she isn’t exactly who she claims to be.”
“Who is?” Whitton sighed.
“I’m getting out of here,” Smith said, “I think I’ll go insane if I spent one more minute in this place.”
He threw the cigarette out of the window and watched as it floated down to the car park below.
“Will we see you at The Ghoul’s funeral?” Whitton said.
“Probably,” Smith said, “I’ve got a funeral of my own to organise first.”
He stood up and left the office.
The sun was dropping behind the York skyline as Smith drove home. It cast an eerie glow over the Minster as it bade farewell to the day.
I love this place, Smith thought, but I hate it just as much. He parked the car outside his house and got out. A man was waiting for him next to the front wall. Smith recognised him as his next door neighbour. He had lived next door for over five years but they must have spoken fewer than two or three times. Smith wondered what he wanted. He had a very angry look on his face.
“I believe these belong to you,” the man handed Smith a small plastic bag.
Smith was confused. He looked at the bag. Inside were five cigarette butts.
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t throw your filthy fag ends into my garden,” the man said.
Smith was in no mood for an argument so he walked past the man towards his front door.
“I’m talking to you dipshit,” the man said.
Smith stopped in the doorway and turned round. He thought for a second, opened the front door and went inside. His next door neighbour stood open mouthed.
Theakston ran to greet him when Smith walked through to the kitchen. Smith opened the back door and
let the dog out. He switched on the kettle; he did not feel like drinking anything stronger than coffee. He made the coffee and took it outside to the garden. The air was very still and there seemed to be more stars out than usual. He lit a cigarette and sat on the grass. Theakston lay at his feet. Smith closed his eyes. He could see Laura’s face in front of him; her eyes were full of mischief, full of life. He opened his eyes again and realised he was crying. The tears came at an alarming rate. They ran down his face and into his mouth. The tears stopped as abruptly as they had started and Smith stood up and wiped his face. He finished the cigarette and without thinking he threw it over the wall into his next door neighbour’s garden. This simple act made him smile. He lit another cigarette and sat at the outside table with his coffee. This is going to be a week of funerals, he thought. The Ghoul had been a good friend. He had a remarkable mind; Smith had often turned to him for advice when he had hit a brick wall in an investigation. He finished the coffee and threw the cigarette butt over the wall. He went back inside and locked the back door. He went upstairs and lay on the bed. Theakston lay at his feet. Smith closed his eyes. He was sure he could still smell Sarah Proud’s perfume on the pillow next to him. He fell asleep before thinking about removing his clothes.
FORTY FIVE
Friday 13th August 2010
The morning of Friday the thirteenth of August dawned exactly as it should with grey storm clouds drifting in from the east. Smith opened the curtains and looked outside. The rain clouds were circling overhead and a downpour was imminent. He sighed. The weather had decided to play its own part on the day of The Ghoul’s funeral. He couldn’t have chosen a better day, Smith thought, Friday the thirteenth. Only The Ghoul would have a funeral on Friday the thirteenth.
The Ghoul was not religious at all; he was the most anti-religion person Smith had ever met so Smith thought it strange that the funeral was to be held at St Olave’s church in the city centre. Maybe it was a final piece of irony on the part of The Ghoul; a macabre joke that would be The Ghoul’s swan song. The rain had decided to hold off as the people gathered outside the church but it was coming, there was no doubt about that. Whitton, Bridge, Thompson and Chalmers were standing at the entrance.
“Smith,” Chalmers said as Smith walked up to them.
“Sir,” Smith nodded in greeting.
Nobody knew what to say.
“Looks like rain,” Thompson said.
Everybody stared at him as if he were mad.
“Well,” Thompson said, “it does and what else do the British talk about in awkward situations like these?”
Smith started to laugh.
“I’m going to miss him,” Whitton said, “I’m going to miss his sense of humour.”
“He was one in a million,” Chalmers agreed, “a mind like his was wasted on pathology. Do you know he once won ten games of poker in a row without even trying? It cost me a fortune; Mrs Chalmers didn’t speak to me for a week.”
“Let’s get it over and done with,” Smith said.
He hated funerals.
They filed inside the church. There were six or seven people already inside. Work colleagues, Smith assumed. The Ghoul rarely socialised outside of work circles. He spent so much of his time in the pathology lab he had little time for friends. Grant Webber walked in and sat in the pew in front of Smith and Whitton. He looked like he had not slept in days. He turned round and looked at Smith.
“Sorry about your sister,” he said and turned back round.
A man in a grey suit walked down the aisle and stood at the rostrum in the front of the church. He was in his late fifties and he had an impressive moustache that must have taken years to grow.
“Good morning,” he said in a voice that was obviously used to public speaking, “My name’s Mike.”
He was about to say something else but he was interrupted by the arrival of two more people; two women dressed in black. They took their seats right at the back of the church. Everybody stared at them as they sat down. Smith was sure they had been drinking.
Not such a bad idea, he thought.
“We’re all here to celebrate the life of Paul Johnson,” Mike said, “a remarkable man by all accounts. You’ll be amazed at how many people are remarkable when they’re no longer with us but in Paul’s case it seems there is no other word to describe him.”
There were a few titters from the pews. Even Smith found himself smiling.
“Remarkable,” Mike said again, “so remarkable that he even had the foresight to prepare his own eulogy in advance. Paul Johnson wrote his own heartfelt eulogy.”
He took out some sheets of paper and cleared his throat.
“This is how Paul would like you to remember him,” Mike said, “of course those of you that knew him well will understand that some of it had to be edited for obvious reasons but I don’t think I’ve altered any of his sentiment in doing so.”
He opened up the sheets of paper and started to read.
“Ok I’m dead,” he began, “now bugger off and get drunk.”
Smith started to laugh. He could not help himself. Chalmers also had a huge grin on his face but managed to control himself.
“Wait,” Mike said, “there’s more. I think that was just the icebreaker.”
He turned the piece of paper over.
“I meant that,” he continued, “I’m dead so there’s no excuse not to go out and get smashed. I’m not going to bore you about me. I’m dead remember. I’m going to talk about you; the people I’ve had the pleasure of wasting my time on. So there’s no fighting amongst you I’m going to this in alphabetical order. None of you are more important than you think you are. Especially you Webber.”
Webber smiled. Smith patted him on the shoulder.
“Bob Chalmers,” Mike continued to read, “Chain smoker or non smoker depending on his mood. Always the same old Bob Chalmers. Shit poker player.”
Mike stopped reading.
“Oh dear,” he said, “I must have missed that one.”
He looked at the page again.
“Bob,” he read, “work on your poker face. When you’re holding a couple of kings and another king is laid down try not to jump up and down like your arse is on fire. Brian Davies.”
Smith looked around the church. He assumed Brian Davies was one of The Ghoul’s work colleagues.
“Brian Davies,” Mike said again, “most anally retentive man I’ve ever come across. Should have really joined the police force. Jason Smith. What can I say about detective sergeant Jason Smith? He is his own worst enemy; cursed by the devil himself but if by any chance I’m dead due to suspicious circumstances its Smith I want in charge of the investigation. He’s the one who will work it all out in the end. A paradox in life with an intuition that switches between retarded and astonishing at the drop of a hat. Get him on a bad day and you might as well have stayed in bed but on a good day he’ll knock your socks off.”
Whitton put her hand on Smith’s. He made no attempt to move it away.
“Nearly done,” Mike said, “his words not mine.”
He carried on reading.
“Alan Thompson,” he read, “career policeman and by that I mean career detective sergeant because he’ll be a DS for the rest of his career. Pig headed, ignorant, chauvinistic and they’re just his good qualities. A good man deep down though; his wife always lets him come back home in the end doesn’t she?”
The mood in the church had lifted. Smith looked around and realised that everybody except the two women at the back were smiling.
“Last but not least,” Mike read, “Erica Whitton. Completely wasted in the police force. Intuitive and loyal. Her loyalty is her downfall sometimes especially her loyalty to the dumb Australian I’ve already spoken about. Anybody with eyes in their heads can see it. Please, for the sake of all of us, you two just get a room and be done with it.”
Whitton blushed and let go of Smith’s hand.
“One last thing,” Mike continued, “while I have y
ou all here I have something to say. I have no family; no wife, no kids that I know about. Nobody at all to leave my earthly goods to. I have therefore left instructions for my entire estate to be left to charity.”
One of the women at the back stood up. She was about to say something but the other woman stopped her.
“Charity,” Mike read, “Chalmers, Davies, Smith, Thompson and Whitton; the five saddest charity cases it was my misfortune to know. My assets will be split equally between you for you to do with as you wish but please do not spend it wisely. That would defeat the object.”
Mike stopped there.
The church was silent.
“Wait,” he said, “there’s something else at the bottom of the last page.”
He started to read.
“Seeing as though we’re in a church,” he read, “God, I assume you’re present. Isn’t it about time that you realised that your religion is a load of old bollocks?”
The whole church erupted. Even Mike found it hard not to raise a smile. This had been the most unusual funeral he had presided over.
FORTY SIX
The mood after the funeral was remarkably upbeat considering they had just bid farewell to a good friend. The rain had still not made an appearance as they stood outside the church. Smith took out his cigarettes and offered one to Chalmers.
“Only The Ghoul could choreograph his own funeral,” Smith lit the cigarette for Chalmers.
“That’s the way he was,” Chalmers inhaled deeply, “I’m going to miss the old bugger.”
“I wonder who would want to kill him,” Smith said, “who would want to murder a pathologist?”
“That’s typical of you,” Chalmers said, “you’re on leave; you’ve just attended a funeral and you’re thinking like a detective. We’ll find out.”
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