Occum's Razor

by Giles, Stewart

“How can you know that?” Whitton said, “His car is still parked outside.”

  “Like I said,” Chalmers said, “it’s just a feeling. Stay here if you want but I can promise you that Australian pain in the arse hasn’t finished making our lives miserable just yet.”

  He walked back to his car.

  Whitton was not sure if she believed Chalmers or not. Where would Smith have gone so late at night? She thought, what if he was asleep in bed when the petrol bombs were thrown through the windows? He wouldn’t have stood a chance.

  FIFTY FOUR

  Sunday 15 August 2010

  Smith woke up and looked around him. He was alone in the car. Sarah Proud was nowhere to be seen. He started to panic but soon realised the car was parked at a petrol station. The driver’s door opened and Sarah Proud got in.

  “Sleep well?” She said, “You’re not much company on a long drive are you?”

  “Sorry,” Smith rubbed his eyes, “where are we?”

  “Just outside Alnwick,” she said.

  “Where?”

  “Northumbria,” Proud said.

  “Where are we going?” Smith asked.

  “Somewhere they will never find us,” Proud said, “have you ever heard of Holy Island?”

  “No,” Smith said.

  “It’s beautiful,” Proud said, “I stopped at the petrol station for a couple of hours. You can only get to the island when the tide is low.”

  “I need a cigarette,” Smith said.

  He opened the door and got out of the car. The sun was poking its head up over the bleak hills in the distance. Smith walked away from the petrol pumps and sat down on a bench next to the car park. He lit a cigarette and closed his eyes. He felt like he was in a dream. What had happened to him did not seem real. He had lost his job and his house in a matter of hours and now he was miles away from anywhere heading for some island with a woman he knew nothing about.

  Sarah Proud walked up to him with two polystyrene beakers filled with coffee. She sat on the bench next to Smith and handed him one of the beakers.

  “Thanks,” Smith took a sip and winced.

  “This is crap,” he said.

  “I know,” Proud said, “but it might wake you up. We have to get going soon. The island is still about fifty miles away from here. I’ve checked the tide tables and we have to get there before eight otherwise we’ll have to wait for the afternoon tide to get across the causeway.”

  “I don’t like the sound of this,” Smith said, “why do we have to wait for the tide? Isn’t there a bridge?”

  “The road is under the water half the time,” Proud took a long sip of coffee, “if you don’t time it right you could get washed out to sea.”

  Smith shuddered at the thought. He finished his coffee and stood up. He flicked the cigarette butt into the distance.

  “Let’s go then,” he said, “maybe being washed out to sea isn’t the worst thing that could happen after everything else that has gone on recently.”

  “Where was the dog?” Sarah Proud said as they left the petrol station behind and headed north on the A1.

  “Theakston?” Smith said, “I left him with Whitton. I told her I needed to get away for a few days. I must have had some kind of premonition. How did you know they were going to set fire to my house?”

  Sarah proud did not say anything. She stared at the road ahead.

  “Why did they have to burn down my house?” Smith said, “If they wanted me dead why not just shoot me or stab me in a dark alley?”

  “He wanted to destroy you,” Proud said, “not just take your life. You don’t know him and you don’t want to. He wanted to destroy everything about you; your job, your house, everything.”

  “Boronov?” Smith said.

  “No,” Proud said, “Friedman. Like I said, he’s a very dangerous man.”

  “But Friedman works for Boronov,” Smith said.

  “Not now,” Proud said, “I can’t talk about this now. I’ll tell you everything in time. I promise.”

  They did not talk as the desolate landscape of Northumberland whizzed by. The roads were deserted. Smith shivered as the sea appeared in the distance. They were almost there. A queue of cars was lined up waiting for the tide to drop and give them access to the causeway that linked the island to the mainland.

  “We’re early,” Sarah Proud stopped the car in a car park across the road from the queue of cars, “the causeway will only be passable in about an hour’s time.”

  “I don’t like the look of that,” Smith pointed to the old road that led to the island. It was partially submerged.

  “When the tide goes out its perfectly safe,” Proud started the car and drove out of the car park.

  “Where are we going?” Smith said, “I thought we were going to the island.”

  “We need supplies,” Proud said, “the shops on the island are fairly limited. I don’t know how long we’re going to be cooped up on the island. We’d better be prepared.”

  She drove towards the centre of the small town of Beal and parked outside a supermarket. Smith’s phone started to ring in his pocket.

  “Don’t answer it,” Proud appeared scared.

  Smith looked at the screen. It was Whitton.

  “It’s DC Whitton,” he said.

  “Please,” Proud said, “don’t answer it. Nobody must know where we are and please don’t phone anyone while you’re here. It’s very important.”

  Smith put the phone back in his pocket.

  Half an hour later they emerged from the supermarket with five shopping bags full of food, toiletries and anything else they thought they might need on the island. Smith had also insisted on buying two cases of beer and two bottles of Jack Daniels. Sarah Proud had protested at first. She had warned Smith that they needed to keep clear heads but Smith had blatantly ignored her.

  The cars were starting to move slowly across the causeway towards the island when Smith and Proud got back. Smith reckoned there to be at least a hundred cars. The procession looked like a centipede hundreds of metres long winding its way along the road.

  “Where are all these maniacs going?” Smith said as they followed the giant centipede.

  “They’re mostly tourists,” Proud said, “don’t worry, most of them will stay close to the mainland side of the island. We’re going to a place called Castlehead. It’s on the far north east of the island. We should be completely alone there.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Smith said.

  He looked out of the window at the sea only metres away from the car. He wondered what would happen if someone had an accident on this road. There were no barriers; only road and sea connected together as if by an odd mutual bond of respect for each other.

  The traffic began to thin out as they left the main tourist areas behind them and headed inland towards Castlehead. Sarah proud had been right. Apart from the odd vehicle every few miles, they were completely alone.

  “You seem to know this place well,” Smith said.

  “I used to come here when I was younger,” she said, “the family I lived with used to take their summer holidays here. More recently though I’ve been coming in the winter. It’s much more beautiful in the winter. Cold and bleak.”

  “Sounds lovely,” Smith said, “I thought you grew up in Talinn.”

  “I did,” she said.

  She seemed much more relaxed now. It was as if this familiar landscape had calmed her.

  “I spent the first few years of my life in Estonia,” she continued, “but for most of my life I’ve been in England. The cottage is just over the next ridge. There’s a castle not far from here too.”

  She drove along the winding road and turned right onto a steep dirt road that led to the top of a cliff. Smith gasped at the view. The North Sea unfolded before them as far as the eye could see.

  “Impressive isn’t it?” Proud noticed Smith’s surprise, “there’s nothing but sea between us and Denmark. It’s quite soothing when you think about
it isn’t it?”

  She stopped the car outside a small stone cottage.

  “You can get the supplies out of the boot,” she said, “I want to park the car where nobody can see it from the road.”

  Smith did as he was told. He got out of the car and piled everything up next to the front door of the cottage. Sarah Proud drove off round the back of the cottage.

  FIFTY FIVE

  Whitton woke up with a sore neck. She had managed to get a couple of hours sleep in the car while she waited for the sun to come up. She stretched her arms out and hit her knuckles on the roof of the car.

  “Damn it,” she said.

  She got out of the car and looked across the road at Smith’s house. Smoke was still drifting out of the gaping holes where the windows had been and there was still a slight whiff of petrol in the air. She walked across the road to get a better look inside the house. The full extent of the damage became apparent. Whitton could not see what the upper floor of the house looked like but if it was anything like what she saw through the hole downstairs it was clear that nothing had withstood the blaze. Everything inside the house was black. She saw that the blast from the petrol bombs had taken out the windows at the back of the house as well. She had been warned by the fireman not to go inside the house until they had given it the all clear. The ceiling boards could collapse at any time. A green Land Rover drove up and parked on the opposite side of the road to Smith’s house. Whitton recognised it. Brad Friedman and a man Whitton did not know got out. She remembered what Smith had told her about going after Friedman. Had Friedman acted first? She thought, was he responsible for the fire? She pushed the thought aside. Friedman wouldn’t be so brazen as to come back and check up on his handiwork would he?

  “What happened?” Friedman pointed to Smith’s house, “It looks like a bomb exploded in there.”

  Whitton did not know what to say. She realised she was scared. If what Smith had told her was true, this was the man who had killed Smith’s sister, The Ghoul and who knows how many other people.

  “I was here just the other day,” Friedman said, “DS Smith and I had a nice chat. Do you know if he was at home when the fire started?”

  “We don’t know yet,” Whitton looked at Smith’s car parked down the road from the house.

  “God help us all if he was,” Friedman said.

  A fire engine pulled up outside the house. An ambulance and a blue station wagon parked behind it. Brad Friedman seemed to be very interested in the driver of the station wagon. A man with short black hair got out and Friedman walked up to him. Whitton watched as Friedman and this man spoke to each other. Four firemen got out of the fire engine and began checking their equipment. Whitton’s phone started to ring in her pocket. She took it out answered it.

  “Whitton,” it was Smith.

  “Oh my God,” Whitton said, “you’re alive. Where are you?”

  “On some island in Northumbria,” Smith said, “That’s not important. Can you talk?”

  “Of course,” Whitton looked around her.

  Friedman was still talking to the man in the blue station wagon.

  “Friedman tried to kill me,” Smith said, “He burned down my house.”

  “I know,” Whitton said, “I’m standing outside it now. It’s in a right state. Friedman’s here. I think he wants to find out if you were inside.”

  “Listen carefully,” Smith said, “Friedman is going to pay for this. He’s going to pay for everything he’s done but I need you to do something for me.”

  “OK,” Whitton said.

  “I need Friedman to think I was in the house,” Smith said, “I need him to think I’m dead. It’ll give me a bit of an advantage over him.”

  “I think it’s a bit late for that,” Whitton said, “Friedman is all over the scene as we speak.”

  “What do you mean?” Smith said.

  Whitton looked over at Friedman. He was now talking to one of the firemen.

  “He’s with the fire brigade right now,” Whitton said, “he’ll soon find out there was nobody in the house.”

  “Think of something Whitton,” Smith said, “try and stall things. Use your charm. He mustn’t find out I’m still alive.”

  “I’ll try,” Whitton said, “I’m so glad you’re ok. I spent the night in my car outside your house.”

  “Who’s alright?” a voice was heard from a few metres away.

  Whitton turned round. Brad Friedman was standing behind her.

  “Whitton?” Smith said.

  Whitton turned off the phone.

  “Who were you talking to?” Friedman asked.

  “DI Chalmers,” Whitton quickly lied.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Friedman looked her directly in the eyes.

  “Nothing,” Whitton started to walk towards her car.

  “Then why did you say you’re glad he’s alright?” Friedman called after her.

  Whitton turned round and looked at him. His bald head made him look even more of a thug than his crew cut had. She could feel the anger welling up inside her. This maniac had tried to kill Smith. She walked up to him.

  “Listen to me,” she said, “you may have everybody else fooled but I know who you are. I know what you are. I know for a fact that this was your doing.”

  She pointed at Smith’s house.

  Friedman smiled at her.

  Whitton remembered what Smith had asked her to do.

  “You’re going to burn in hell you bastard,” she said, “you’re going to rot for burning him alive in his own house.”

  Friedman was taken aback.

  “Nice try,” he said, “what makes you so sure he was inside?”

  “His car is still there,” Whitton said, “unless he was sleepwalking down the street in the middle of the night, he’s in there.”

  “We’ll soon find out,” Friedman said.

  He pointed to the man with the black hair.

  “The fire inspector will inform me when it’s safe to go inside,” he added.

  “You have no jurisdiction here,” Whitton knew she was really clutching at straws now.

  Friedman started to laugh. He took out his ID.

  “Do you see this little card?” He said, “This little card gives me the authority to go anywhere I like. Would you like me to phone Superintendant Smyth and have him explain it to you? I’m sure Jeremy wouldn’t mind being woken up early on a Sunday morning for such an important matter.”

  Whitton wanted to knock the smug smile off Friedman’s face. She took a deep breath and backed off. She knew she would have to admit defeat for now.

  “All clear,” the fire inspector called out from upstairs in Smith’s house, “the ceiling boards were very well built. They withstood the whole thing.”

  Thirty seconds later he emerged from the house. He was covered in black soot.

  “We’ve done a quick scan of the house,” he said to Friedman, “it looks like our DS Smith was lucky. There was nobody in the house when the fire started.”

  Whitton’s heart sank.

  “Are you sure?” Friedman said.

  “Like I said,” the fire inspector said, “we did a quick search and there’s no sign that anybody was there. The guy must have been out. He’s one lucky bastard.”

  “I’m going to have a look myself,” Friedman said.

  “You’ll bugger up your suit,” the inspector said.

  Friedman ignored him and went inside the house.

  Ten minutes later a blackened Brad Friedman emerged from Smith’s house. His bald head was black and he looked very angry. Whitton found it hard not to smile. Friedman approached her.

  “I’ll be seeing you,” he said and walked back to his Land Rover.

  FIFTY SIX

  Smith had decided to ignore Sarah Proud’s pleas and he had called Whitton. He needed to tell her that he was alright; he knew she would be worried about him. He also needed her to make Brad Friedman believe he was in the house when the petrol bombs were thrown t
hrough his windows. He looked at his watch. It was eleven in the morning although it felt much later. Sarah Proud was sleeping in the bedroom. She was exhausted after driving all night. Smith went outside and looked around. A cool breeze was blowing in off the sea. He walked along the cliff and looked out at the horizon. What had Sarah Proud said? He thought, there was nothing between them and Denmark but water. For some reason the thought scared him. He wondered if Whitton had managed to come up with something to persuade Friedman that he had perished in the fire. Whitton will have thought of something, he thought.

  Smith’s stomach was groaning. He realised he had not eaten anything for two days. He made his way back to the cottage. Sarah Proud’s low breathing could be heard from the bedroom. She was still fast asleep. Smith found some bacon and eggs in one of the bags of groceries. He looked around the kitchen. There was a small gas stove in the corner. It was a camping type burner with two plates. Smith sighed. He had never been much of a cook; takeaways, frozen pizzas and pub lunches were more his thing. He found a small frying pan in one of the cupboards. He took out his cigarette lighter, turned on the gas and lit the plate. He put as much bacon in the pan as he could fit and put it over the flame. Very soon, the smell of bacon had filled the whole cottage.

  “I never pictured you as the domesticated type,” Sarah Proud was standing in the doorway.

  Her hair was dishevelled but Smith could not help staring at her.

  “I’m not,” he focused his attention back on the bacon in the pan, “are you hungry?”

  “The smell of bacon has made me hungry,” Proud said.

  After breakfast Smith wondered if he ought to tell Proud about his conversation with Whitton. He decided against it. Both of them were relaxed for the first time in ages and it would only make things tense between them.

  “What do we do now?” Smith said.

  “We wait,” Proud said, “hopefully Friedman will think you died in the fire and all this will be over.”

  “That’s what I said to Whitton,” Smith said and instantly wished he could go back in time ten seconds.