Occum's Razor

by Giles, Stewart

  Is this what it’s like to die? He thought, with the brain vying for one last moment of consciousness?

  He was only under for a few seconds but it felt like much longer. He saw Sarah Proud’s face in his mind again. She was smiling at him. She was laughing. It was the same laugh he could listen to all day. She was laughing at him.

  “For a cop, you spook pretty easily don’t you?” Sarah Proud managed to say between bursts of laughter.

  Smith coughed and spat out a mouthful of sea water.

  “Me and the sea don’t exactly see eye to eye,” he said and started to swim ashore.

  “I’m sorry if I freaked you out back there,” Sarah Proud said when they were back on the beach, “I was just having a bit of fun.”

  She started to dry herself off with her shirt.

  “I’ve forgotten what fun is,” Smith said.

  “Then its time you learned about it again,” she put her arms around him and kissed him hard on the lips. Smith kissed her back. She tasted of salt and Jack Daniels. They fell back onto the beach and as the moon disappeared behind a cloud their bodies appeared to sink into the sand.

  Smith did not know how long he had been asleep but he woke with a start. Something had jarred him awake. Sarah Proud was still lying next to him. Her eyes were open and she was trembling. Smith moved closer to her. She was ice cold and he could feel her heartbeat against his chest. It was beating incredibly quickly.

  “He’s coming,” she said in a voice that chilled Smith to the bone, “Boronov is coming.”

  SIXTY THREE

  Monday 16 August 2010

  The heat wave that had smothered York for the past week or so disappeared as quickly as it had arrived and a cold North Easter straight from the Arctic pushed the temperatures down drastically. Whitton shivered as she got in the back seat of Chalmers’ car. Bridge was sitting next to Chalmers in the front.

  “What the hell’s that?” Chalmers pointed to Theakston.

  He had jumped in next to Whitton.

  “It’s a dog sir,” Whitton said.

  “That thing can’t come with us,” Chalmers said, “Mrs Chalmers is allergic to dogs. She’ll sneeze the roof off the bloody car next time she gets in.”

  “I can’t leave him by himself,” Whitton said, “he’s had a rough time of it recently. He’s still traumatised about having a gun pointed at him.”

  Theakston did not appear traumatised at all. He had his paws on the top of the back seat and he was trying to get a better view out of the back window.

  “He’s very well behaved when he wants to be,” Whitton said, “he has a problem with flatulence every now and again but he has a heart of gold.”

  “We’d better get going then,” Chalmers sighed, “Mrs Chalmers is going to make my life hell when she finds out about this though.”

  Light drizzle was falling from the sky as they left York behind and headed north. Chalmers inserted a cassette into the car stereo and the haunting bass intro to Metallica’s ‘Enter Sandman’ blasted out of the speakers. Bridge turned round and smiled at Whitton.

  “Metallica?” Whitton could not believe it, “really sir. I never had you pictured as a heavy metal fan.”

  “I’m not,” Chalmers said, “but it helps me to think and it’s either that or Mrs Chalmers’ Barry Manilow collection.”

  “Metallica,” Bridge and Whitton said at the same time.

  “Do you think Smith is alright?” Bridge said.

  “I don’t know,” Chalmers said, “what I want to know is what the hell is he doing on Holy Island and who took him there in the first place?”

  “I suppose we’ll find out soon enough,” Whitton said.

  They drove in silence for the next thirty miles or so. Theakston had fallen asleep almost immediately and he was now snoring loudly on the back seat.

  “That dog’s a pig,” Chalmers turned up the volume on the stereo.

  James Hetfield was singing about the Unforgiven. Whitton closed her eyes and listened to the words. ‘What I’ve felt, what I’ve known. Never shined through what I’ve shown. Never free, never me, so I dub thee unforgiven.’

  It made her think of Smith for some reason, she did not know why.

  “I don’t know how he comes through with his sanity intact time and time again,” she said what she was thinking.

  Bridge turned round and looked at her as if she were insane.

  “Look at everything he’s been through,” Whitton said, “It’s a miracle he isn’t locked up in some loony bin banging his head against a wall all day.”

  “Women,” Chalmers looked at Bridge, “melodramatic and over emotional. Don’t tell Mrs Chalmers I said that though.”

  “It’s true,” Whitton said, “when I spoke to Smith on the phone yesterday he sounded almost normal.”

  “The word normal does not apply to Smith,” Chalmers said.

  “I’m serious,” Whitton said, “his sister gets killed, he loses his job and his house is burned to the ground. Any other person would have had every reason to crack but not Smith. He sounded quite rational.”

  “This Friedman bloke really doesn’t like Smith does he?” Bridge said, “He’s responsible for all of this.”

  “I need to pee,” Chalmers said, “this bloody bladder of mine is not like it used to be.”

  “I saw a sign for a petrol station back there,” Bridge said, “It should be a few miles from here.”

  The rain was falling heavier as they got out of the car just north of Newcastle.

  “I knew it couldn’t last,” Bridge said, “I’m thinking about moving somewhere warmer. The South of France maybe.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding?” Whitton said, “I like the weather in York. When it’s hot, people only moan. The British are never happy.”

  Chalmers got back in the car. He was soaked through. Theakston was still snoring on the back seat. Chalmers started the engine and drove out of the car park. He was about to turn left onto the dual carriageway when a green Land Rover flew past at quite a speed.

  “Bloody idiot,” Chalmers said, “did you see that? He must have been going over a hundred.”

  He pulled out onto the road. The Land Rover was nowhere to be seen.

  “I checked the tide tables,” Bridge said, “we’ll be lucky to make the morning crossing. We might have to wait until this afternoon. We should have left a bit earlier.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell me this earlier?” Chalmers said.

  “I didn’t think,” Bridge said, “I thought we’d make it. I’d forgotten how slowly you drive.”

  “Carefully,” Chalmers said, “I drive carefully you cheeky git. This is just great. So we’ve just got to sit and wait for the tide to go down? That’s a great way to spend a few hours while god knows what is happening to Smith on that island. What do you think Whitton?”

  Whitton did not reply. She had fallen asleep on the back seat. Theakston was asleep with his head on her lap.

  SIXTY FOUR

  Smith woke up in the bed in the stone cottage. His memory of the previous night was very vague. He could remember swimming in the sea and the moon shining down over the cliff above him. After that there were just bits and pieces of information that his brain could not seem to sort into the right order.

  I must stop drinking so much, he thought.

  He got out of bed and went to the bathroom. The cottage was silent apart from a strange dripping sound coming from outside. Sarah proud was nowhere to be seen. Smith finished in the bathroom and went outside. Light rain was falling and the sky was a light grey colour. He walked round the back of the cottage to where Proud had parked her car. The Mercedes Benz was gone.

  Maybe she’s gone to fetch breakfast, Smith thought.

  He lit a cigarette and stood inside the door way where it was sheltered from the rain. He finished the cigarette and went back inside. He switched the kettle on to make coffee and sat down at the kitchen table. He tried to remember more about the night before bu
t his mind was still blank. The feeling disturbed him; he rarely had memory blanks no matter how much he had had to drink.

  The sharp click of the kettle turning off made Smith jump. He made the coffee and sat back down at the table. The rain was coming down heavier on the roof of the cottage now. Smith finished the coffee and put the mug in the sink. He looked at his watch. It was seven thirty in the morning. He wondered where Sarah Proud had gone. He went to the bedroom and put on some clothes. They were the same clothes he had worn for two days. He realised he would have to buy some more clothes if he was going to stay on the island much longer. He looked at the cupboard in the corner of the room and wondered if there were any clothes he could borrow in it. He opened the cupboard. There were a couple of old raincoats and a pair of waterproof trousers inside. He took out one of the rain coats and threw it on the bed. It might come in useful if the rain continued, he thought. He was about to close the cupboard when he spotted something behind the waterproof trousers. He moved the trousers to the side and saw there was a black suitcase standing on its side behind them. He took out the case and laid it on the bed. The case felt heavy; there was obviously something inside it. He opened the four catches on the case and was about to open the lid when he heard the sound of a car outside the cottage. Sarah Proud had returned. He carefully opened the lid of the case. There was a red piece of cloth covering whatever was inside. Smith removed the cloth and gasped.

  “Beautiful isn’t she?” Sarah Proud was standing behind him.

  Her voice sounded different. She spoke with a strange accent.

  SIXTY FIVE

  It was half past eight by the time Chalmers, Whitton and Bridge reached the car park across the road from the causeway to the island.

  “Bollocks Bridge,” Chalmers looked out to sea.

  The tide was rising and the causeway was already under a foot of water.

  “What time does the tide go out again?” he asked.

  “Not until this afternoon,” Bridge said, “I knew we should have set off earlier. If you’d driven like a normal person we would have made it.”

  Chalmers was about to say something but he changed his mind. They were all a bit stressed out at the moment.

  “What now then?” he said.

  “I suppose we’ll have to wait until this afternoon,” Bridge said, “unless your car can suddenly turn into Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and float on water.”

  Whitton was starting to stir in the back seat. She had slept for over an hour.

  “What’s going on?” she said.

  “We’ve missed the tide,” Bridge said, “We’re going to have to wait until this afternoon to get across to the island.”

  Whitton opened the door and got out of the car. She needed to stretch her legs. Theakston fell out after her and headed for a small verge of grass next to the car park. He lifted his leg and urinated against a signpost. He suddenly stopped and sniffed the air. He seemed to spot something on the other side of the car park. He ran over to another car and started to bark. It was a green Land Rover.

  “Come here boy,” Whitton said but Theakston continued to bark.

  She walked up to the dog and stroked him on the back.

  “What’s up boy?” she said, “come on let’s go back to the car.”

  Theakston obeyed her and followed her back to Chalmers’ car.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Chalmers said.

  “I don’t know,” Whitton said, “I don’t think he likes Land Rovers very much.”

  “I recognise that car,” Chalmers said, “it looks just like the one that came flying past us at a hell of a speed. Didn’t help him much did it? He’s still got to wait for the tide.”

  “It looks just like Brad Friedman’s car,” Whitton said.

  She walked over to the Land Rover and looked inside. The car was empty. She looked closely through the window. In the compartment between the two front seats she noticed a packet of cigarettes. It was a brand she had never seen before. She took a closer look and saw that they were Steels.

  Steels, Whitton thought, they were the brand they found at the house across the road from where Jimmy Fisher was killed; in the same room they found the Dragunov rifle.

  “Looking for something?” a familiar voice said.

  Whitton turned round and found herself staring into the face of Brad Friedman. His bald head made him look much more sinister than the army crew cut. Another man was standing next to him. Whitton did not recognise him. He was not one of the men Friedman had brought to her house the day before. Whitton felt scared. She looked back to see where Bridge and Chalmers were. Bridge was still sitting in the passenger seat of Chalmers’ car and Chalmers had walked down towards the sea. He was smoking a cigarette and staring into the distance.

  “Looks like you didn’t make the tide either,” Friedman said.

  “What do you want here?” Whitton said, “I’m not scared of you.”

  She realised her voice was trembling.

  “We want the same as you DC Whitton,” Friedman said, “We want to make sure DS Smith comes to no harm.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Whitton said.

  “Our friend Smith has a nasty habit of putting himself in dangerous positions,” Friedman said, “we’re here to get him out of one of those situations.”

  “You’re a fucking liar Friedman,” Whitton said.

  Friedman and the other man looked at her in surprise. Whitton did not know what to make of Friedman’s colleague. He had a friendly face. He did not look at all like one of Friedman’s gorillas.

  “Let’s talk,” the man said in a gentle voice.

  “I’ve heard enough of his lies,” Whitton said.

  “Please,” the man said, “there’s a small coffee shop just up the road. We can get something to eat and explain everything to you.”

  “I told you,” Whitton said, “I don’t believe a word that comes out of his mouth.”

  She snarled at Friedman.

  “I assume your DI and DC Bridge will be joining us?” the man ignored her, “please, just indulge me.”

  Whitton walked back to where Chalmers was standing staring at the sea. She half expected to feel the blow of a bullet in the back of her head.

  “Sir,” she said to Chalmers, “Friedman’s here and he wants to talk to us.”

  Chalmers looked over to Friedman.

  “What the hell does he want?” he said, “Is he trying to rub our noses in it again?”

  “I don’t know sir,” Whitton said, “he’s here with another bloke.”

  “Let’s go then,” Chalmers started to walk towards his car.

  “But sir,” Whitton said, “he could be trying to trick us again.

  “Whitton,” Chalmers turned round, “if Friedman’s with us he can’t get to Smith can he? The longer we hold him up, the better chance Smith has of staying alive.”

  SIXTY SIX

  “I don’t understand,” Smith could not help staring at the Dragunov sniper rifle in the case, “what’s going on? I thought...”

  “Beautiful isn’t she?” Sarah Proud said again, “did you know you could blow somebody’s head right off from over a kilometre away with one of these? It’s an outstanding weapon.”

  She had a disturbing look on her face.

  “What’s the rifle doing here?” Smith said.

  “That’s the beauty of this particular rifle,” Proud ignored his question, “just think, you can kill somebody and you already have a kilometre head start.”

  “What the hell is it doing here?” Smith looked Proud in the eyes.

  “I brought it here of course,” she said, “I told you, Boronov is coming.”

  “I have to go,” Smith said, “I shouldn’t have come here with you.”

  He stood up and started to make his way towards the bedroom door. He felt a sharp blow to the back of his head and fell to the floor. He saw flashes of light before his eyes and then everything went black.

  When he woke up, Smith did not
know where he was at first. The back of his head was throbbing. He put his hand on his head. His hair was stuck together with dried blood.

  “Please don’t do that again,” Sarah Proud was sitting on the bed. She had an even wilder look on her eyes now. Smith saw that she had a small hand gun on her lap. He realised that was what she must have hit him with.

  “Who the hell are you?” Smith tried to get up.

  “Stay there,” Proud pointed the gun at him, “I don’t want to hurt you again but I will if I have to.”

  Smith did as he was told.

  “You know damn well who I am,” Proud said, “and you also know who my brother is.”

  “Wolfie,” Smith said, “Viktor Boronov. What’s going on here?”

  “Boronov is coming,” she said, “I expect he’s already on the island somewhere. It won’t be long before he finds us. My beloved brother thinks he’s here to clear up a few annoying loose ends.”

  “Loose ends?” Smith was confused.

  “Loose ends,” Proud said, “that will be you and me. Boronov believes he’s coming here to kill us both. I made sure of that.”

  “I still don’t get it,” Smith said.

  “I planned it all along,” Proud looked at the gun in her hand, “it’s a plan Viktor would have been proud of; a flawless plan.”

  “What plan?”

  “You’re the great detective,” Proud said, “You’re the one that figures everything out when everybody else is still scratching their noses. Think.”

  Smith tried to think but his brain did not seem to be working properly. The bang on the head had made everything a blur.

  “It started when I shot the football player,” Proud said, “the whole thing just came to me. You could call it a moment of inspiration.”

  “You shot Jimmy Fisher?” Smith could not believe what he was hearing; none of this seemed real.

  “I shot him and left the rifle behind,” Proud smiled at him, “I must admit, I didn’t expect you to find it so quickly. When we found out what an unusually adept detective we were dealing with, the plan had to be tweaked. You and your gung ho actions nearly jeopardised everything.”