Occum's Razor

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Occum's Razor Page 18

by Giles, Stewart


  Smith took a last drag of the cigarette and a plan began to formulate in his mind. He looked up at the sky. There were no clouds. The rainfall the day before had given only temporary respite; the heat wave seemed to be back with a vengeance. Seven people have been killed, he thought, seven people in less than a week. One of the people had been his sister. The murderers had got away with it. Smith knew he had a moral obligation. He had to see things through to their natural conclusion. He was on leave for two weeks. Two weeks should give him plenty of time.

  FORTY NINE

  Smith sat in the security guards’ office in the pathology department of the hospital.

  “Do you want some coffee?” Harry Towler asked.

  “No thanks,” Smith said.

  “Probably for the best,” Towler said, “the stuff they have here tastes like shit.”

  “Thank you for seeing me,” Smith said, “I realise you work nights. I won’t keep you long.”

  “Paul was a good bloke,” Towler said, “I still can’t believe anyone would want to kill him. He was a bit weird but he was harmless. He always made an effort to speak to me. Some of these doctors can be real snobby bastards.”

  “What do you do here?” Smith said.

  “Security,” Towler said, “I’m on six to six. It suits me just fine. I don’t sleep too much anyway.”

  “And you knew Paul quite well?”

  “Like I said,” Towler said, “he was one of the good ones.”

  “Did you see him the night he was killed?”

  “He left about ten,” Towler said, “I might be getting on a bit but there’s nothing wrong with this.”

  He tapped his head with his finger.

  “Was he by himself?” Smith asked.

  “It was late,” Towler said, “He often worked late; there was nothing unusual about that.”

  “Did you notice anybody unusual hanging around about that time?” Smith said, “Someone you hadn’t seen before?”

  “I was doing my usual nine o clock rounds,” Towler said, “same route every night. The director reckons I should vary it from time to time but I don’t see why. Anyway I noticed that Paul had a visitor.”

  “A visitor?” Smith said.

  “Two actually. A man and a woman. I’m a naturally nosey bastard, I don’t mind admitting it. I suppose that’s what makes me good at my job. Anyway, this man and woman left Paul’s office at about half nine. They paid me no attention.”

  “Did you see where they went?” Smith said.

  “Down to the parking bays,” Towler said, “I thought it a bit strange at first. It’s normally only the long standing employees that get to park down there but these two had parked in the secure parking. Obviously some big shot consultants or something.”

  “What did they look like?” Smith said.

  “The bloke looked like he was a bit of a prick if you’ll pardon my French but the woman was a bit of alright.”

  “Could you be a bit more descriptive,” Smith said.

  “He was about your height,” Towler said, “with short hair. Very short; he looked like one of those army types. She was like I said a bit of a looker. Also tall like you.”

  Smith felt like he was starting to get somewhere.

  “And you said they left about half past nine?” He said.

  “That’s right. I followed them down to the car park. It’s nice for them to know they’re being looked after. I mean, it was late and I make a point of making sure everything’s alright.”

  “Did you see what car they were in?” Smith asked.

  “They were in two cars,” Towler said, “she got in a dark blue Mercedes and he was standing outside a Land Rover. I watched her drive away. I assumed he would follow her out.”

  “So the woman left?” Smith said, “But you didn’t see the man drive away?”

  “Like I said,” Towler said, “I assumed he would go after her. I went back up the stairs to my office for a coffee break. By the time I went back down the Land Rover had gone.”

  “Thanks Harry,” Smith said, “you’ve been a great help.”

  “Any time,” Towler said, “if I could get my hands on the bastard that did this I’d rip his bullocks off.”

  Smith got in his car and started the engine. The clock on the dashboard read ten in the morning. He had agreed to meet Brad Friedman at The Hog’s head at twelve. He had decided he would phone both Friedman and Sarah Proud. He had phoned Proud first but it appeared her number was no longer in service. Friedman had answered on the second ring. Smith knew that The Hog’s Head would be full to the brim on a sunny Saturday afternoon. There would be safety in numbers. Friedman would not dare to try anything in front of so many people. Smith drove in the direction of the river. There were some more questions he needed answers for. He headed for the area between Lendal Bridge and Saint Mary’s Abbey. It was here they had found Alfie Pike and his sister next to one of the barges on the river three days ago. Smith parked his car in the car park next to the Abbey and walked down towards where the barges were bobbing up and down in the breeze. The walkway next to the river was buzzing with people enjoying the sunshine. Smith spotted what he was looking for immediately, the barge with the shark’s teeth painted on the front. ‘Great White’. He shivered in the heat when he thought about his sister lying cold just feet from this boat. The couple who he had seen that day were sitting on the deck of the barge drinking coffee. Smith still did not know what he was going to say to them. He walked over and looked at the barge more closely. He could tell that it was very well maintained. The woodwork looked brand new and there was not a scratch on the paintwork.

  “Can I help you?” the man on the barge said.

  “Sorry,” Smith said, “I was just admiring the paintwork. You must take good care of her.”

  Smith had never understood why vessels were always referred to as ‘her’.

  “This is our home,” the woman said, “you could say we’re house proud.”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt your coffee,” Smith said, “but could I just ask you a few questions about the two drowning we had here a few days ago?”

  Both of them now eyed Smith with suspicion.

  “Are you a journalist?” the man asked, “we’ve got no more time for journalists.”

  “No,” Smith said, “I hate journalists. I’m actually a police officer. I need to ask you a few more questions if you don’t mind.”

  He took out his ID.

  “We didn’t answer any questions,” the woman said, “and I thought the man who killed these two people had been caught.”

  “He has,” Smith knew he had to tread carefully, “there’s just some things I need to tie up. You said my colleagues didn’t ask you any questions?”

  “That’s right,” she said.

  “That’s strange,” Smith spoke his thoughts out loud, “could I have a quick word anyway?”

  “Step on board,” the man said, “would you like some coffee?”

  “That would be great,” Smith tentatively stepped onto the barge.

  He was surprised at how stable it was.

  “It’s more for my own piece of mind,” he said.

  “What do you want to know,” the man said, “I’m Chris and this is my wife Rita.”

  Rita poured some coffee into a tin cup from a thermos and handed it to Smith.

  “Thank you,” Smith said, “Did you notice anything unusual on Tuesday night or early Wednesday morning?”

  “Not really,” Rita said, “I’m a very deep sleeper. I could sleep through a hurricane. In fact I did just that when we were travelling through Florida in a camper van. This one’s the light sleeper.”

  She nudged Chris on the shoulder.

  “There was nothing out of the ordinary,” Chris said, “nothing really happens along here.”

  “So you didn’t hear anything strange?” Smith asked, “you didn’t see anyone who shouldn’t be here?”

  “There was something,” Chris said, “Like Rit
a said, I’m a light sleeper. I woke up to go for a pee in the middle of the night. We have a toilet on board but I prefer to pee off the barge into the river.”

  “Chris,” Rita seemed embarrassed.

  “What?” Chris said, “Why not? It saves water and the pee just floats down the river anyway. There was a car parked just up from us. I’d never seen it before. We’re quite a community around here. Some of us have been living on the river for years; we’re kindred spirits. I’d never seen this car before.”

  “What sort of car was it?” Smith took a sip from the tin cup. The coffee tasted much better than he had expected.

  “It was dark,” Chris said but it looked like one of those fancy four by fours everyone’s driving now.”

  “Like a Land Rover?” Smith said.

  “That’s it,” Chris said, “It was a Land Rover. A new one.”

  “Did you see anybody in the vehicle?” Smith said.

  “No,” Chris said, “but I wasn’t paying much attention. Like I said, I was having a pee. I finished off and went straight to bed.”

  “Where was this vehicle parked?” Smith said.

  “Just up there,” Chris pointed to a spot a few metres from where Smith had parked his car.

  “Thank you,” Smith said, “you’ve been a great help.”

  He handed Rita the tin cup.

  He stepped off the barge and walked over to where he had parked his car. He was not exactly sure what he was looking for. He scanned the ground for anything unusual and his eyes came to rest on something familiar. Three or four cigarette butts had been thrown on the ground. Smith knew from the colour of the filters exactly what brand of cigarettes they were from.

  FIFTY

  Smith sat in the beer garden of The Hog’s Head and lit his third cigarette in less than half an hour. He was amazed at how he had become addicted in such a short space of time. He looked at his watch. Brad Friedman was ten minutes late. He had always pegged Friedman as a stickler for time keeping. Maybe he’s not coming, Smith thought; maybe he’s got wind of what’s going on.

  “Jason Smith,” a man’s voice made Smith jump.

  He turned round and saw Friedman standing there. He looked different; he had shaved off all of his hair. It made him look like a prisoner of war. Smith could not help but stare at him.

  “It’s always good to have a change every now and again,” Friedman noted Smith’s surprise, “It’ll soon grow back; it always does.”

  A waitress approached their table and Smith ordered two pints of Theakstons without even asking Friedman what he wanted to drink.

  “Have you thought of something?” Friedman got straight to the point, “I was actually on my way back to London.”

  “I doubt that,” Smith said, “there is something The Ghoul mentioned. I didn’t think much of it at the time.”

  The waitress put the two pints of beer on the table.

  “Drink up,” Smith said, “I think you’re going to need it.”

  He had thought carefully about what he was going to say.

  “What did he say?” Friedman leaned across the table.

  “He left a message on my phone,” Smith took a long sip of beer, “I won’t go into too much detail but he told me to check my e mails.”

  Friedman’s expression changed.

  “He forwarded me a very interesting e mail,” Smith continued, “a very confusing one in fact. Maybe you can translate it for me. How’s your Estonian?”

  The colour had drained from Friedman’s face. He now looked even more like a prisoner of war.

  “It’s not what you think it is,” he said but even he could see how pathetic it sounded.

  “What is it then?” Smith said, “Do you want me to tell you what I think it is?”

  He finished the rest of the beer in his glass and looked around for the waitress.

  “It’s just an educated guess,” Smith said, “but I think that you and Sarah Proud were involved in this thing from the very beginning.”

  The waitress approached their table.

  “Another pint of Theakstons please,” Smith said.

  Friedman had not touched his drink.

  “You were involved the whole time,” Smith said, “when Jimmy Fisher was shot we should have realised. Fisher was shot because he did not do what he was told.”

  “You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” Friedman said.

  “No,” Smith said, “you don’t know who you’re dealing with. Shut up and let me speak. You killed Paulo Rubio because he threw a spanner in the works; he messed up your plans. Tommy Pike did not uphold his part of the deal so you killed his son and then made it look like Pike had taken his own life out of remorse. The Ghoul saw straight through you from the very start so you made sure he kept his mouth shut.”

  The waitress put a pint of beer in front of Smith.

  “It all makes sense now,” Smith took out a cigarette and lit it, “apart from one thing. There’s one thing I don’t understand. Why did you kill my sister?”

  Friedman smiled. Smith had to look away. What he felt like right now was strangling the smugness out of the man sitting opposite him.

  “Laura was too soft,” Friedman said, “in the end it was just bad for business. She tried to help the boy escape. They couldn’t tolerate that kind of behaviour.”

  Smith took a sip of the beer.

  “You’re fucked Friedman,” he said a lot louder than he meant to.

  An elderly couple on the next table glared at him. Friedman took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one. He offered the pack to Smith.

  “Those things will kill you one day,” Smith said, “that’s a promise. If you hadn’t thrown your cigarette butt into my neighbour’s garden and if this neighbour hadn’t been such a pedantic idiot I wouldn’t have figured it all out. I have enough evidence to put you away for the rest of your life.”

  “Evidence?” Friedman seemed surprised.

  “Evidence,” Smith repeated, “you were seen taking Alfie pike away; we found cigarette butts in the same room as the rifle that was used to kill Tommy Fisher. They’re the same brand as yours. No doubt your fingerprints were all over the rifle too. Is this starting to hit home yet?”

  Friedman remained silent.

  “You and Sarah proud were seen talking to Paul Johnson just before his car was blown up. Your car was seen in the underground car park just before he left. Your Land Rover was seen by the river the night before Alfie Pike and my sister were found there. Do I need to go on? This kind of evidence would make any defence lawyer crap in his pants.”

  Friedman started to laugh. It took Smith by surprise; he was not expecting it. A few of the other people in the beer garden turned to look in their direction.

  “Evidence,” Friedman said again, “and what exactly are you planning on doing with this evidence? You know as well as I do that the man responsible for all of these murders is behind bars.”

  Smith realised he was sweating quite badly. He took a long sip of his beer.

  “You know very well,” Friedman carried on smiling, “there’s no way in hell they’ll open up this investigation again. You are all heroes; you caught the man everybody in York loves to hate. If you admit you’ve made a mistake you’ll be the laughing stock of every police department in the world. It was you, the great DS Jason Smith who stood up in front of every journalist worth their salt and told them it was all over.”

  Smith sank back in his chair. He felt dejected. Brad Friedman was right.

  “You’re not going to get away with this,” Smith said.

  He could hear the desperation in his own voice.

  “They have got away with it,” Friedman said, “don’t take it personally. You’re not the first person to discover the hard way that you can’t beat them and you won’t be the last.”

  “Why do you keep saying them?” Smith said, “You’re all together in this shit. Why can’t you just admit it for god’s sake?”

  “Things are not always a
s they seem,” Friedman said, “You of all people should know that by now.”

  He stood up.

  “I’m loath to say this,” he said, “but it’s been interesting knowing you Jason Smith even if it was just for a short while. If you ever consider a career change you’d be more than welcome in our little organisation. Come to think of it, I’ve got a strange feeling a career change is on the cards for you. We could use someone like you. Of course you do have a bit of work to do on your moralisation. There’s no place for sentiment these days.”

  He walked away towards the car park. Smith noticed he had left his cigarettes on the table. The word Steels was written in red against a navy blue background. Smith wondered if he had left them there on purpose just to rub his nose in the fact that he had outsmarted not only him but the whole York police department.

  Smith finished his beer and looked around him. Saturday afternoon on a sunny day in York. Families were enjoying lunch in the open air. Opportunities like these were rare in the North of England. Soon it would be September and the nights would get longer with the onset of autumn. Smith thought about what he was going to do. He had two weeks away from work. He should be enjoying himself. The logical thing to do would be to try and put all of this behind him and move on. That would be the rational thing to do if he thought about it. Logic and rationality are not some of my strong points, Smith thought; maybe I do get too emotionally involved; maybe I do take things too personally. He thought back to Wednesday morning. He still remembered vividly the image of his sister after he had unzipped the body bag; her pale blue eyes gazing up to the sky.

  “This is personal,” he said out loud.

  He stood up, put a ten pound note on the table and walked away from the beer garden. He suddenly stopped and turned round. He walked back to the table, picked up Friedman’s cigarettes and put them in his pocket.

  FIFTY ONE

  Smith was just about to get into his car when his phone started to ring in his pocket. He took the phone out and looked at the screen. It was Chalmers. Smith thought about ignoring it; he was on leave but he decided it must be something important. Chalmers rarely phoned without good reason.

 

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