“Sir,” Smith answered the phone, “are you checking up on me?”
“Sorry to do this,” Chalmers sounded grave, “but I need you back at the station as soon as possible.”
“What’s wrong?” Smith asked.
“I’ll explain when you get here,” Chalmers said, “come straight to my office.”
He rang off.
Smith put the phone back in his pocket and got in the car.
What’s so important that Chalmers can’t explain over the phone, he thought.
He started the engine and drove out of The Hog’s Head car park.
Chalmers was sitting staring out of the window when Smith walked in. He had a faraway look in his eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Smith said, “If this is about the inspectors post I haven’t forgotten about it. I’m still considering it.”
“Sit down,” Chalmers said.
Smith could tell that something was seriously wrong. Chalmers turned to face him. The expression on his face was one of a father whose son has severely disappointed him.
“Sir,” Smith said, “what’s going on?”
Chalmers took a file out of his top drawer and threw it in front of Smith.
“What’s this?” Smith was confused.
“Read it,” Chalmers said.
Smith opened the file and gasped. It was a police charge sheet. It was from Pickering police station. His name was written in bold black ink on the front.
“How come I’m the last to find out about this?” Chalmers said.
Smith read the details about the charges he was facing. Driving under the influence of alcohol, resisting arrest, perverting the course of justice. He remembered what Brad Friedman had said about a change of career coming his way.
“This isn’t good,” Chalmers said.
“Where did you get this?” Smith said.
“It was sent directly to the Super,” Chalmers said, “Smyth is furious. Apparently one of the SOCA agents got hold of it and thought Smyth should know.”
“This is total crap,” Smith said, “The whole thing is a set up.”
“So you weren’t driving pissed?” Chalmers said.
“A little bit,” Smith said, “but I wasn’t charged with anything. This file is a fake. The SOCA agents are phonies. I had a little meeting with Friedman only half an hour ago. He warned me about this. He knows I’m onto him. We have to stop him.”
“Enough,” Chalmers said, “There’s nothing I can do for you. You realise what this means don’t you?”
“I’m on leave for two weeks,” Smith said, “You can’t really suspend me when I’m on leave.”
Chalmers stood up and walked to the window. The window was open and there was a fresh breeze drifting in from the west.
“It’s out of my hands now,” he sighed.
“So now what?” Smith said, “What does that mean? Out of your hands?”
“It means that you’ve had your last chance,” Chalmers said, “drinking and driving on duty is a serious offence.”
“I wasn’t on duty,” Smith said.
“Read the report. It’s all in there. You were on duty and you were caught driving under the influence.”
“Are you firing me?” Smith could not believe what was happening to him.
“Like I said,” Chalmers said, “it’s out of my hands. I’ve been told to inform you that your contract with the York police department has been terminated.”
Smith did not know what to say.
“This is bullshit,” he said eventually, “this is clearly a set up.”
“I believe you,” Chalmers said, “but my opinion counts for bugger all here. These people are too powerful. It makes me sick to the stomach to be honest. You’re a real pain in the arse but you’re one of the best I’ve ever worked with.”
“There must be something we can do,” Smith was getting desperate.
“You can appeal of course,” Chalmers said, “but I doubt it will do any good. It looks like you’ve been stitched up good and proper.”
“So what do I do now?” Smith said.
“I’ve been ordered to tell you to clear out your office of any personal belongings and leave quietly. If you don’t you will be escorted from here and neither of us wants that.”
“This isn’t happening,” Smith said.
“I know,” Chalmers scratched his nose, “the whole thing stinks. I managed to persuade old Smyth to let me handle it. He wanted to speak to you directly but I had a feeling that a charge of GBH on a police superintendant wouldn’t do you any favours. This is a dark day in the history of this police force I can tell you that.”
“Friedman killed all those people,” Smith said, “He killed my sister. He killed The Ghoul and he got away with it. It isn’t right.”
Smith stood up.
Chalmers held out his hand.
“No,” Smith said, “I’m not going to take this. I’m going to get this bastard if it’s the last thing I do.”
Smith waited for an argument from Chalmers but it did not materialise.
“Nail the bastard to the wall,” Chalmers said, “but be careful. I’ve already been to one funeral too many this week.”
Smith left the office without shaking Chalmers’ hand.
Clearing out his office took Smith less than a minute. He had nothing in there of a personal nature besides a spare packet of cigarettes in the drawer. He was not one for sentimentality. He walked down the corridor towards the front desk. Baldwin was nowhere to be seen. Smith could not remember the last time Baldwin had had a day off. He was glad that he did not have to bump into anybody he knew as he walked out of the station for good.
Smith drove away from the station and lit a cigarette. Brad Friedman’s face was in his head. How had he managed to fake a police charge sheet? He thought. He made up his mind. He was going to make Friedman pay for what he had done. Smith realised he was driving too fast. He eased his foot off the accelerator and slowed down. He thought about what he was going to do. He had lost his job. Only twenty four hours earlier he had been asked to consider the inspector’s job and now he was left with nothing. He parked the car outside his house and left the engine running. He ran up to the front door and opened it. Theakston was waiting for him on the mat.
“Come on boy,” Smith said to the dog, “you’re going to stay with Whitton for a few days. I’ve got something important to do. I haven’t asked her yet but how could anyone resist that face.”
Theakston looked up at him as if he had lost his mind. He followed Smith back to the car and got in the passenger side.
Smith parked outside Whitton’s house and got out the car. Theakston followed him. He knocked on the door. Whitton answered almost straight away.
“Sir,” she said, “is everything alright? You look a bit stressed.”
“I need a favour Whitton,” Smith said, “I have to go away for a few days. Would you mind looking after this little bugger for me?”
Whitton looked at Theakston and sighed.
“He’s not so little anymore,” she said, “where are you going?”
“I can’t tell you,” Smith said, “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”
“Come in,” Whitton said, “do you want something to drink? I think there’s a couple of beers in the fridge.”
“No thanks,” Smith said, “I have to go.”
“Is everything alright?”
“Not really,” Smith said, “I’m going after Brad Friedman. He’s messed in my life one too many times this time.”
“I thought you were on leave,” Whitton said.
“I am on leave,” Smith said, “I’m on permanent leave from now on. I’ve been fired.”
He told Whitton what had happened.
“That can’t be right,” she said, “surely the super will realise the mistake and take you back.”
“That’s the worst part,” Smith said, “I’m not sure I want to go back. I always thought the police force would support me; w
atch my back but now I know that sort of thing doesn’t happen anymore. Maybe it’s a sign.”
“A sign?”
“A sign telling me it’s time to do something else,” Smith said, “I’ll be back to fetch Theakston in a few days.”
He patted the dog on the head.
“Thanks Whitton,” he said, “you’re the only person I can trust. I owe you.”
He walked back to his car. Theakston did not even try to follow him. He went inside the house with Whitton.
Smith drove straight home. He sat in the car outside his house and thought about what he was going to do now. Seven years in the police force had been wiped out in seconds. He still could not believe how Friedman had managed to pull the wool over everybody’s eyes. The only person who had seen through the whole facade was The Ghoul and now he was dead. He got out of the car and went inside the house. The place seemed too quiet without Theakston. Smith took a beer out of the fridge and went into the living room. He picked up his old Fender Stratocaster and started to play. The guitar was badly out of tune. Smith put it straight back on the stand; he could not be bothered with the effort to tune it. He turned on the CD player and found the CD he was looking for. He put it in the machine and turned up the volume. Robert Johnson’s haunting voice was singing about making a deal with the devil. Crossroads Blues.
Hell hounds on my tail, Smith thought, I’ve always had hell hounds on my tail. He finished the beer and went to the kitchen to get another. He realised he had not eaten anything all day but he was not in the least bit hungry. The beer was starting to make him feel light headed. He went outside to the garden for a smoke. The sun was low in the sky. It would be dark soon. He finished the cigarette and went back inside to the living room. He lay back on the settee and was asleep within seconds.
FIFTY TWO
Smith was woken up by a strange noise. He opened his eyes and realised the whole house was in darkness. He heard the noise again. It sounded as if doors were being opened upstairs. Somebody was in his house. He was instantly awake. The noise was definitely coming from upstairs. Smith stood up and braced himself. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears. He heard footsteps on the top of the stairs. Whoever was up there was coming down the stairs. Smith tried to remember what he had learned in the police self defence classes but nothing in particular came to mind. The footsteps had now reached the bottom of the stairs and were coming towards him. He prepared himself for an attack. He looked around the room. There was nothing there he could use as a weapon.
The light in the living room was switched on and Smith was blinded for a second or two. Sarah Proud was standing in the doorway.
“You?” Smith said, “What are you doing in my house? How did you get in?”
“For a policeman you’re not too hot on security,” she said, “your front door wasn’t even locked. There’s no time to talk. You have to get out of the house.”
“What do you want?” Smith said.
“Please,” she said, “you have to trust me on this one. We don’t have much time. Grab anything you can’t afford to lose and come with me.”
Smith was about to argue about trust but the look on Sarah Proud’s face appeared genuine. Her eyes were pleading with him. He went through to the kitchen and picked up his phone, wallet and cigarettes. Sarah Proud followed him.
“Quickly,” she said, “we have to get out of here.”
“What’s going on?” Smith said.
“I’ll explain everything to you in the car,” she said, “let’s go.”
She headed for the front door. Smith did not know why but he found himself following her. He followed her out of the house and down the street where she had parked her car.
“What now?” Smith asked as they got in the car, “are you going to tell me what the hell this is all about?”
“Quiet,” she sounded nervous.
A car approached from the opposite direction and stopped outside Smith’s house. Smith could see it was a Land Rover. He watched as three men got out and walked up the path to the front door. They were carrying something in their hands. One of the men took something out of his pocket and Smith could see the small flame of a cigarette lighter. He flinched when he realised what they were carrying in their hands. He watched as the petrol bombs were lit one by one. Three of them were sent crashing through the downstairs window and three upstairs. Within seconds the flames were snaking out of the windows. Smith felt sick. It took less than three minutes for his house to burn to the ground.
The three men got back in the land Rover and drove off in the direction they had come from. Smith sat with his mouth wide open. Sarah Proud started the engine and drove off in the opposite direction.
“My house,” Smith still could not believe what had happened, “they burnt my house down.”
“You were supposed to be inside,” Proud increased her speed.
“Friedman?” Smith said.
“Yes,” Proud said, “you’ve certainly upset him.”
“Stop the car,” Smith said, “let me out.”
“That wouldn’t be a very good idea,” Proud said, “We need to get as far away from here as possible.”
Two fire engines passed them on the other side of the road.
Too little too late, Smith thought.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Proud said, “somewhere safe.”
“Friedman told me all about you,” Smith said, “Nadia Boronov. You’re Wolfie’s sister.”
“My name is Sarah Proud,” she said, “Nadia Boronov died the same day as my brother did. Viktor Boronov is dead to me.”
“I don’t believe you,” Smith said.
“You might not realise this,” Proud said, “but I just happened to save your life back there. I don’t expect your gratitude but you have to trust me.”
“That’s exactly what Friedman said,” Smith said, “who the hell is he anyway?”
“A man you don’t want to cross,” Proud said.
They drove in silence for a few miles. Smith did not know where they were going but he had a feeling they were travelling north. He looked out of the window as they lights of suburbia slowly dwindled and they left the city of York behind them. He looked over at Sarah Proud. She was busy concentrating on the dark road and did not notice him staring at her. Smith thought about the three men who had set fire to his house. He thought about Theakston probably tucked up in bed with Whitton. I must have known something was about to happen, he thought. He did not want to think about what would have happened if Theakston had been in the house when the petrol bombs had come hurtling through the windows. He spotted a signpost on the side of the road : A19 North. Middlesbrough 35 miles. His gut had been correct; they were heading north. He closed his eyes and leaned back further in the seat. The soft purring of the Mercedes’ engine was making him feel tired.
“I know where we can go where they won’t find us,” Proud turned to look at Smith but he was fast asleep.
FIFTY THREE
The fire engines had managed to put out the fire at Smith’s house. From the dim light of the street lamp it was clear that there was nothing left inside. The blaze had destroyed everything. The acrid smell of petrol, burnt paint and melted upholstery oozed out the holes in the walls where the widows had been. Smith’s next door neighbour’s house was relatively undamaged. The reinforced adjoining wall had spared it from too much damage. Whitton and Chalmers were standing outside the house talking to one of the firemen. Chalmers had received the call at three in the morning and he had phoned Whitton immediately. They had arrived together ten minutes later.
Whitton was shaking. She stared blankly into the shell that used to be Smith’s house. Surely nobody could survive a blaze like that, she thought, not even Jason Smith. She had left Theakston alone at her house. At least the dog had been spared, she thought. She still could not believe that Smith was dead. It was bound to happen sooner or later, she thought, Smith always seemed to be in the wron
g place at the wrong time but she saw him as one of those people who could survive anything.
“Looks like petrol bombs,” Chalmers snapped Whitton out of her trance.
“What?” Whitton looked at him.
“Petrol bombs,” Chalmers said, “a whole load of them. Upstairs and downstairs. If there was anybody in there at the time they wouldn’t have stood a chance. You can smell it can’t you?”
“What?” Whitton was not really listening.
“I think you should get home,” Chalmers said, “you’re in no fit state to do anything useful here.”
“No,” Whitton seemed to wake up, “don’t you want to know?”
“Know what?”
“If he was in the house when the fire was started,” Whitton said, “I need to know.”
“The firemen have put out the fire,” Chalmers said, “they had to do it from down here in the street. The heat inside was too intense for them to go in.”
“Didn’t they look inside?” Whitton said.
“Too dangerous,” Chalmers said, “they said the ceiling boards could collapse at any time. They’ll be back at first light. They’ll have a better idea then. We’ll meet up here again then.”
“I’m staying here,” Whitton said, “I’ll wait in my car until it gets light. I can’t go home. I won’t sleep anyway.”
“Do what you want,” Chalmers said, “I’m off to get a few more hours shut eye.”
“Don’t you even care?” Whitton said as Chalmers was about to walk back to his car, “Smith was one of us. He was more than that. He was a friend for fuck’s sake.”
Chalmers was stopped in his tracks. He had never heard Whitton swear like that before. He turned to face her.
“I’ve got a feeling,” he said, “I don’t know what it is, a hunch, a gut instinct, I don’t know but I’m pretty sure Smith isn’t lying in there burnt to a crisp.”
He pointed to what was left of the house.
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