Occum's Razor

by Giles, Stewart

  Smith thought hard for a while.

  “I’m going to get to the bottom of this,” he said.

  “I thought you might say something like that,” Chalmers said, “while I’ve got you in this frame of mind, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

  “What is it?” Smith was intrigued.

  “I’ve been put forward for the DCI job,” Chalmers said.

  “Do we even have a DCI?” Smith said, “I can’t remember ever seeing one around.”

  “Old Doug Donnelly,” Chalmers said, “spent more time on stress related leave than he did at work. Anyway, top brass have had enough and he’s being retired for good so it means his position will be up for grabs.”

  Smith now vaguely remembered a DCI Donnelly from a few years back. He recalled a short timid man. He always seemed to be scared of something.

  “Good luck with that sir,” he said, “I wouldn’t want that job in a million years. Reporting directly to old Smyth; kissing the old goat’s arse all the time.”

  “If I do get the job,” Chalmers said, “and it’s by no means in the bag, my job will be open. They’ll advertise it of course but they always prefer to fill the position internally.”

  “Not a chance in hell,” Smith realised where Chalmers was heading.

  “You’re ready for it,” Chalmers said, “and it’ll mean a lot more money.”

  “I don’t need more money,” Smith said, “I hate money and I don’t want the DI job. Give it to Thompson; he’s been here a lot longer than I have.”

  Chalmers looked around to see if Thompson was in earshot but he was already in the pub across the road from the church with Whitton and Bridge.

  “Thompsons old school,” Chalmers said, “he’s not DI material; he never will be. Think about it and remember, if you do get the job Thompson will have to call you sir.”

  The idea did seem appealing when Chalmers put it that way but Smith was still adamant.

  “The answers still no,” he said.

  “Think of it this way,” Chalmers was running out of carrots to dangle in front of Smith’s face, “the position can either go to someone who knows the station inside out; someone who knows the team. Someone everybody already likes and respects or it can go to some stranger who might turn everything on its head. You might even have to take orders from someone.”

  “I take orders from you,” Smith said but immediately realised how ridiculous it sounded, “I’ll think about it.”

  “I’ve already put your name forward,” Chalmers said, “set everything in motion.”

  “You did what?”

  “I recommended you,” Chalmers said, “a bit of gratitude wouldn’t go amiss.”

  “Thank you,” Smith said, “I’m thirsty. Let’s get a drink and talk about something else.”

  Smith and Chalmers made it across the road to The Old Boar pub just in time. The heavens opened; the rain came down in buckets.

  “About bloody time,” Thompson said as Chalmers and Smith walked in, “I don’t live in York for the weather. It’s about time we had a bit of rain; this infernal heat wave we’ve been having isn’t natural.”

  “Two pints of Theakstons,” Smith said to the man behind the bar.

  He watched as the man poured the beer.

  “That was some funeral,” Grant Webber said, “only The Ghoul could give himself a send off like that.”

  “How much do you think he left us?” Chalmers said, “I believe he was worth a few bob.”

  “I know he had three houses,” Smith said, “and his portfolio of stocks and shares must be quite substantial.”

  He picked up his beer and emptied half the glass down his throat in one go.

  “Who were the two women at the back?” Whitton asked.

  “The mysterious woman in black,” Webber said, “there’s always a mysterious woman in black at a funeral. The Ghoul had to go one better and have two of them at his. I reckon there’s a story there but I guess we’ll never know.”

  “We’ll never know,” Chalmers raised his glass in the air, “here’s to our friend The Ghoul. One in a million thank god. Now, let’s do him proud and get pissed.”

  FORTY SEVEN

  Smith slumped down on the couch in his living room. He was exhausted but he knew that sleep was out of the question. There were too many thoughts running through his head. He had made arrangements for his sister’s ashes to be placed next to his Gran’s on a memorial wall in the city centre. He had considered flying out to Western Australia and scattering them on the beach Laura loved so much but he quickly decided that the memory of his sister as a young child standing up for the first time on a surfboard was the one he wanted to remember her by; not some ceremonial scattering of ashes on a beach full of strangers. He lit a cigarette and looked around the room. His three guitars still stood gathering dust in the corner. The photograph of his Gran looked down from him on the mantelpiece.

  “What am I going to do Gran?” he said.

  He remembered the message from The Ghoul telling him to check his e mails. He had completely forgotten about it when he was finished talking to Brad Friedman in his office. He took out his phone and dialled the central switchboard number for the station. Baldwin answered almost immediately.

  “Baldwin,” Smith said, “I need you to do me a favour.”

  “Of course you do,” Baldwin sounded tired.

  “Go to my office,” Smith said, “turn on my computer. I need you to forward an e mail to my home e mail address.”

  He gave her his e mail address.

  “The e mail came from Paul Johnson just before he was killed. My password is Theakston.”

  “Sounds intriguing,” Baldwin said, “I’ll do it right away.”

  “Thanks Baldwin,” Smith said, “I owe you one.”

  “You’ve said that before,” Baldwin said but Smith had already hung up.

  There was a knock on the door and Smith jumped. He looked at the clock on the wall. It was eight o clock. He stood up and went to answer it. He was not expecting anybody. Theakston stood at his feet and started to growl. Smith was confused; Theakston rarely growled. He opened the door slowly. Brad Friedman stood outside in the rain. He was soaked through. He looked different; he was wearing a pair of jeans and a black sweater. Drops of rain were running down from his army style haircut.

  “Can I come in?” Friedman said, “It’s raining.”

  “Of course,” Smith stepped to the side.

  Friedman closed the door behind him and Smith led him through to the kitchen.

  “Do you want some coffee?” Smith asked, “I was just about to make some anyway.”

  “Coffee sounds good,” Friedman sat down at the kitchen table.

  “Is there something wrong?” Smith switched on the kettle, “I thought you were leaving.”

  “This visit out of the blue you mean?” Friedman said, “I’m afraid its work related. I know you’re on leave but I need to ask you a few more questions.”

  Smith made the coffee and put one of the mugs in front of Friedman.

  “Thanks,” Friedman took a sip, “Paul Johnson was a friend of yours wasn’t he?”

  “The Ghoul?” Smith sat opposite Friedman, “We got on well. He was a strange bloke; not too many people really got him. He was one in a million. Why do you ask?”

  “This business with his car exploding,” Friedman took another sip of the coffee.

  “What about it?” Smith had an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  “Whoever did this wanted him silenced,” Friedman said, “do you know if he found out anything recently?”

  The uneasy feeling had now spread through Smith’s whole body. He thought again about the message telling him to check his e mails. Why did Friedman always seem to be around at just the right time? What had The Ghoul called it? Sinister.

  “Nothing,” Smith said, “as far as I know, The Ghoul knew nothing that would make someone want to kill him. Why would he? He was a pathol
ogist; he examined dead bodies.”

  He realised Friedman was staring at him. It made him nervous. Smith could tell that Friedman did not believe a word he was saying.

  “Are you sure?” Friedman said, “He didn’t mention anything to you about finding anything unusual?”

  “No,” Smith said rather too quickly, “what’s this all about?”

  “Paul Johnson was almost certainly killed because he discovered something he shouldn’t have,” Friedman said, “and if he passed on that information to anybody they could also be in danger.”

  “The Ghoul didn’t tell me anything,” Smith was starting to get angry now.

  The Ghoul’s funeral was still fresh in his mind.

  Friedman finished the coffee in his mug.

  “I’m sorry if this sounds like an interrogation,” he changed his approach, “but I need to know everything if I’m to protect you.”

  “Protect me?” Smith could not believe what he was hearing, “protect me from what? I don’t know anything, I’ve already told you that.”

  He stood up and opened the back door. The rain had stopped and a few stars were visible in the sky. He went outside and lit a cigarette. Friedman followed him.

  “Cigarette?” Smith asked him.

  “No thanks,” Friedman took out a packet of cigarettes, “I’ll smoke my own. They’re a bit stronger than yours.”

  He took out a cigarette and lit it.

  “Who do you think killed The Ghoul?” Smith said.

  “Boronov,” Friedman said without hesitation, “it had Boronov all over it. Do you know how he did it?”

  “Do I want to know?” Smith sighed.

  “Classic KGB method,” Friedman said, “Siphon out most of the petrol in the tank. Leave just enough for the car to start and so a thin wire can float on top of the petrol. As the car drives off and the petrol is burned up the wire makes contact with the bottom of the tank and makes a complete electrical circuit. This triggers the detonator and... Boom.”

  Smith shuddered. He finished his cigarette and flicked the butt into his neighbour’s garden. Friedman did the same.

  They sat down again at the kitchen table.

  “You don’t trust me do you?” Friedman said.

  “I don’t trust anybody,” Smith said, “it goes with the job. You’re a fine one to talk.”

  “I was completely open with you about Nadia Boronov,” Friedman said, “or Sarah Proud if you prefer. I told you who she was.”

  “That’s right,” Smith said, “why exactly did you do that?”

  “Because I thought you should know what you were dealing with,” Friedman said, “who you were allowing yourself to get close to.”

  He looked at the clock on the wall. It was past ten.

  “I have to be going,” he said, “if you think of anything please phone me.”

  He took out a card and placed it on the kitchen table.

  “I told you,” Smith said, “I don’t know anything.”

  “If you should think of anything,” Friedman stood up, “Anything Paul Johnson might have mentioned, even if it seemed unimportant at the time, phone me.”

  He held out his hand. Smith did not know why; maybe he was tired but he found himself shaking it.

  As he watched Friedman’s Land Rover driving away Smith pondered what he was going to do for two weeks. He closed the door and walked through to the kitchen to lock the back door. He walked through to the living room and switched on his computer. Finally he would have a chance to see what The Ghoul had meant when he told him to check his e mails. Smith was about to open up the e mail program when he heard a noise in the hallway. It sounded like something was being pushed through his letter box. It made him jump. He got up and went to see what it was. His heart was starting to beat faster. There was a small plastic bag on the mat in front of the door. Smith looked closer and saw it was full of cigarette butts. There was a note attached to the bag. Smith picked it up and read it.

  ‘If you persist in involving me in your filthy habit, I’ll have the law onto you.’

  It was from his next door neighbour. Smith crumpled up the note and picked up the plastic bag. He took them both to the kitchen. He was about to throw them in the bin when something caught his eye. One of the cigarette butts stood out from the others; it had a much darker filter. Smith took it out and had a closer look. He could make out a word on the cigarette just above the filter. ‘Steels’ was written in black. Steels; the same brand of cigarette they had found in the room with the Dragunov sniper rifle. Why had his next door neighbour found a Steels cigarette butt in his garden? Smith went back to the living room and looked through his e mails. He had not checked them in over a week and there were sixty five new messages to read. He scrolled down to the one from The Ghoul and read carefully. There was a message from The Ghoul, ‘use an online translator.’ There was a forwarded message that was sent to an address Smith did not recognise. He read the words on the e mail. It was in a language that seemed vaguely familiar. He remembered the time he had spent in Talinn and how one of the people he had met, a flight attendant called Stepan had told him how the Estonian language was closer to Finnish than Russian. The words on Smith’s computer screen were Estonian. He copied the three sentences and opened up his internet. He found an online translator and pasted the Estonian sentences in the box. The translation that appeared did not make any sense.

  ‘Everything clean,’ the translation read, ‘nothing more to point to us. All traces have been cleaned.’

  “What the hell does that mean?” Smith said out loud.

  Why did The Ghoul send me this? Smith thought. He looked at the e mail address. He had never seen anything like it before. He was exhausted now. He switched off the computer and went upstairs to bed.

  FORTY EIGHT

  Saturday 14 August 2010

  Smith woke up and looked at the clock on the bedside table. It was eight in the morning. He felt like he had not slept at all. He had tossed and turned for hours thinking about everything that had happened in the past week. The visit from Brad Friedman had unnerved him. There had been something about him that had made Smith distrust him from the moment he had set eyes on him. He had got out of bed and gone downstairs to make some coffee. He had gone through everything that had happened in his head. Friedman and Proud had conveniently appeared on the scene at just the right time. Jimmy Fisher had been shot and the SOCA hot shots had done everything they could to prevent Smith and his team from investigating. They were not allowed anywhere near the case. Smith had taken out a piece of paper. He found that writing everything down as it happened often helped when he had reached an impasse in an investigation. He had started at the beginning. Jimmy Fisher had been killed with a sniper rifle in front of thirty eight thousand people. Cigarette butts with the word Steels on them had been found in the same room as the rifle. Smith’s next door neighbour had posted a bag of cigarette butts through Smith’s letter box. One of the butts was from a Steels cigarette. It was only when he had been tossing and turning for a while that Smith remembered Brad Friedman throwing his cigarette butt into the neighbour’s garden. Steels are Estonian cigarettes. Why does Brad Friedman smoke Estonian cigarettes? After the murder of Paulo Rubio, Tommy Pike’s son Alfie is kidnapped. One of the children Alfie was playing with at the time remembered a man with a crew cut telling him he must go with him to the hospital. The man drove a Land Rover. Smith had written Friedman’s name down again and again. Alfie Pike and Smith’s sister are pulled out of the River Ouse the next day. Brad Friedman was one of the first people on the scene. How did he know?

  Smith had finished his third cup of coffee before he realised how they had all been fooled. He had to admit to himself that it had been a brilliant plan. Proud and Friedman had done everything they could to divert the attention away from them. They had posed as government agents while they were busy eliminating any potential witnesses and whistle blowers. Friedman had even had the audacity to put himself forward as the guilty pa
rty in all seven murders. Smith did not know why but somewhere between two and three in the morning a name had come to him. He had remembered what the chatty dentist had said about police detectives often ignoring what was right in front of their faces. William of Occum, Smith had remembered, the Philosopher. Occum’s Razor. He had recalled the dentist’s words. In the event of there being various reasons for an event or chain of events it is usually the one with the fewest assumptions that should be selected first. The series of murders were all connected and Sarah Proud and Brad Friedman merely cemented that connection further. It had been almost six in the morning by the time Smith had finally drifted off to sleep. He had only slept for two hours.

  Smith rubbed his eyes and got out of bed. He went downstairs and looked at the piece of paper on the kitchen table. Brad Friedman’s name was written on it more than six times.

  “I’ve been such an idiot,” he said to Theakston, “I let them manipulate me into letting them get away with it.”

  He did not know what to do. In the eyes of the public, the murders had been cleared up; as far as they were concerned, the guilty party had been arrested and was now awaiting trial. For the police to admit they had made a mistake now would mean nationwide humiliation. The top brass would not let that happen. Smith sighed; his hands were tied. He cursed himself for the major part he had played in this facade. He had been the one to persuade Chalmers that Friedman’s idea of putting himself forward as a scapegoat for the murders was a good idea.

  “I feel like a puppet,” he said out loud.

  He opened the back door and went outside to the garden. His next door neighbour was pruning his roses. Smith walked over to the fence.

  “Can I have a word?” he said.

  His neighbour stopped pruning. He appeared nervous.

  “I just wanted to say thank you,” Smith said, “thank you for posting cigarette butts through my letterbox last night. You did me a huge favour.”

  He walked back, sat down at the table and lit a cigarette. His neighbour stood holding his pruning shears in the air with his mouth wide open.