CHAPTER SEVEN
YORK
Monday 27 December 2010
Smith stepped over the tape that Grant Webber, the head of forensics had placed in the doorway of Christopher Riley’s flat to prevent unauthorised access to a potential crime scene. Webber was dusting one of the whisky glasses for prints.
“Afternoon Webber,” Smith said. “What can you tell me?”
Webber didn’t look up.
“I can tell you that I was in the middle of a very pleasant lunch when I got called out.”
“I see the DI has started to shave,” Smith said. “She must really like you.”
“I’ve just this minute got here,” Webber ignored Smith’s comment. “Do we know who the dead man is?”
“Christopher Riley,” Smith said. “Divorced. Thirty eight years old. Do we know how he died?”
“You were first on the scene. What do you think?”
“Webber, how many times have you told me that your job is to find out how and then it’s up to me to figure out why and try to catch who did it?”
“I’ll get to him in good time, but I can tell you now he didn’t drop off peacefully in his sleep.”
“Murder?”
“Looks like it.”
“About bloody time,” Smith said. “It’s been far too quiet around here recently.”
“Do you ever take anything seriously?” Webber poured the amber liquid from one of the whisky glasses into a small glass vial.
“I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve nearly died. I’m not even thirty and I’ve faced death far too many times. Life’s too short for seriousness.”
“Very philosophical,” Webber said. “Let me show you something.”
He walked over to the bed and turned Christopher Riley’s head to the side. Smith gasped. There was a gaping wound in his neck. It had been sliced open.
“How did I not notice that when I first came in?”
“I don’t normally speculate,” Webber said. “But I’d say he was killed whilst lying on his stomach. The blood will have gushed out but most of it has been soaked up by the bed sheets and the mattress.”
“Interesting,” Smith said.
“What are you thinking?”
“Nothing. How soon will you be able to tell us anything?”
“When I’m ready. The path guys will give us the time and cause of death. In the meantime I have to go through this pigsty with a fine toothcomb and I would appreciate a bit of peace and quiet. Don’t you have something else to do?”
Smith looked out of the window. On the opposite side of the street there was a building that Smith knew had been converted into student accommodation.
“Let me know as soon as you find anything,” he stepped over the tape and walked back down the stairs.
DC Whitton and DI Brownhill were standing next to an ambulance when Smith emerged onto the street. The wind had picked up and Smith wished he’d worn something warmer. Yang Chu was nowhere to be seen.
“Afternoon boss,” Smith said to Brownhill. “Whitton.”
“What have we got?” Whitton said.
“Dead divorced guy. His throat was slashed. Webber’s going through the flat now. Sorry about interrupting your romantic lunch boss.”
“Do we know anything yet?” Brownhill said.
“Not yet. We spoke to the owner of the Chinese restaurant but he hasn’t seen Riley since Christmas day. Where’s Yang Chu?”
“He went home,” Whitton said. “He wasn’t feeling well.”
“This is his first dead one isn’t it?”
Whitton nodded.
“He’ll soon get used to it.”
“What now?” Brownhill said.
“It’s a long shot, but I want to see if anyone in the student flats across the road saw anything. I know that most of the students will have gone home for the holidays but there might be some who’ve stuck around. The curtains in Riley’s flat were left open. It’s worth a shot.”
“I’ll come with you,” Whitton said.
Smith pressed the buzzer on the door of the student accommodation. A few seconds later a woman’s voice was heard.
“Hello,” she said.
“Police,” Smith said. “Can you let us in please?”
“Give me a minute,” she said.
“Probably stashing away all the drugs these students use these days,” Smith whispered to Whitton.
“You don’t like students do you Sarge?”
“They’re useless wastes of space. Self-important idiots.”
“That’s a bit harsh,” Whitton said. “And I remember it wasn’t that long ago that you stopped smoking weed.”
The door opened and a woman with green hair stood in the doorway. Smith cast Whitton a knowing smile.
“Afternoon,” he said. “DS Smith and this is DC Whitton. Can we come in?”
The woman looked Smith up and down.
“Do you have any identification?” she said with an accent that indicated she didn’t come from York.
Smith took out his ID.
“Sorry, you don’t exactly look like a detective sergeant. You can’t be too careful these days. What’s this all about?”
“Can we come inside?” Whitton said. “Its brass monkeys out here.”
“You should spend a winter in Bergen,” the woman stepped aside and let Smith and Whitton inside.
Smith stared at her. He had a blank look on his face.
“Norway,” the woman said. “I’m Norwegian. Kjersti Sorenson.”
“How many people stay here?”
“Normally there are eight of us, but right now it’s just me and Kim. It’s the holidays.”
“Do you or Kim live on the second floor?”
“I do,” Kjersti said. “Why?”
“Can we see your room? I want to see the view from your room.”
Kjersti appeared confused.
“Just humour him,” Whitton said.
Kjersti shook her head and led them up a narrow staircase. She stopped outside a red door.
“You’ll have to excuse the mess,” she opened the door. “I wasn’t expecting guests. I’ve been working nonstop since the term finished.”
They went inside. The student flat consisted of a kitchen area cum dining room and a small space for a bed and a wardrobe. A huge map of Norway covered one of the walls. Smith walked over to the window and looked outside. He could see the flat above the Chinese restaurant. Grant Webber was clearly visible. He appeared to be collecting samples from Christopher Riley’s clothing.
“You say you’ve been working nonstop?” Smith said. “Where do you work?”
“At a bistro in the city centre,” Kjersti said. “I work weekends and out of term time. The money gives me a bit of independence.”
“This may sound odd but you didn’t happen to see anything unusual going on in the flat across the road in the last few days did you?”
“Unusual? Like what?”
“People coming and going. People you haven’t seen before.”
He decided to come straight to the point.
“The man who lives in the flat above the Chinese restaurant was killed,” he said. “Sometime between Christmas day and this morning.”
“Oh my God,” Kjersti sat down on the bed. “Murdered?”
“Looks like it, can you remember seeing anything strange?”
“No,” Kjersti said. “It’s not as if I sit here and spy out of the window all day.”
“Did you know the man who lived above the Chinese restaurant?” Whitton asked.
“No,” Kjersti said straight away. “I have to get going. I have to get ready for work. Will there be anything else?”
“That’s all for now,” Smith said. “Come on Whitton.”
Smith was halfway down the stairs when he turned round and walked back up to Kjersti Sorenson’s room. He knocked on the door. Kjersti opened it a few seconds later. She no longer had green hair - it had obviously been a wig. Long black hair flowed down her back
.
“Sorry,” Smith handed her one of his cards. “Just in case you think of anything else. By the way, the black hair suits you much better.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“She was a bit weird,” Whitton said as they drove through the dimly lit streets back to the station.
“Weird?” Smith said.
“There was something definitely not right about her. I didn’t like her.”
“Whitton, since I’ve known you there hasn’t been a woman you have liked.”
“I like Baldwin,” Whitton said. “I just think she was odd that’s all. And what’s she doing in York? Did you know that anybody from anywhere in the world can study in Norway for free? Why come to York and pay the exorbitant tuition fees they charge these days?”
“Maybe she’s here for the weather,” Smith parked his car outside the station.
The wind had picked up to almost gale force strength and when Smith opened the car door an icy blast almost tore him in two.
“She’s obviously here for the weather,” he said and ran inside the station.
Whitton followed closely behind.
Baldwin was sitting behind the front desk when they got inside.
“Hi Baldwin,” Smith said. “What’s with this weather? I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Afternoon sir,” Baldwin said. “Brownhill wants everyone in the small conference room in half an hour.”
“Come on Whitton,” Smith said. “We’ve got time for a cup of God awful coffee before all hell breaks loose. It might warm us up a bit.”
Bridge, Yang Chu and DCI Chalmers were sitting in the canteen. Chalmers was staring out of the window at the dark grey clouds coming in from the east. He had a faraway look in his eyes.
“Afternoon boss,” Smith said to him. “Long time no see. I wasn’t sure if you still worked here or not.”
“Smyth is driving me nuts,” Chalmers said. “You know his bloody crime stats lecture is coming up next week don’t you? He’s got me going through the whole stats from the last year. All I can see in front of my face are figures and more figures. I see them in my bloody sleep for God’s sake. Have you got anything on this Christopher Riley murder?”
“Nothing, Webber seems to think that his neck was sliced open while he was lying on his stomach.”
“That’s a bit odd isn’t it?”
“Yes it is.”
Smith turned to Yang Chu.
“How are you feeling?” he said.
“Fine, it was just a bit of a shock that’s all.”
“First dead one?” Chalmers said.
Yang Chu nodded.
“I remember my first one,” Chalmers mused. “You never forget the first one. It was over twenty years ago now. Down past St Mary’s on the river. We got a call out to a suspicious object in the river. It was only when we pulled it out that we realised it was the body of an old man. Bloated as hell he was. I had nightmares for days afterwards. Turns out he slipped and fell and nobody was around to help him - poor bugger. Anyway, you’ll get over it.”
Whitton handed Smith a cup of coffee.
“Thanks Whitton,” Smith put both hands around the cup and felt them warming up straight away.
“The weathers going to get worse,” Bridge said. “They say we’re in for a long cold spell.”
“Great,” Smith said.
“What’s the plan?” Chalmers said.
“Brownhill has called a meeting,” Smith said. “She seems to know what she’s doing. I’m actually starting to like her.”
“Have you noticed she’s started shaving?” Bridge said. “Her and Webber must be getting serious.”
Chalmers started to laugh.
“They deserve each other,” Smith said. “Anyway, it won’t last. Relationships on the job never do.”
He glanced over at Yang Chu. Yang Chu’s face turned a deep crimson colour.
“I’m off for a smoke,” Chalmers said. “And then it’s back to more bloody crime stats. The DCI job will be the death of me.”
“I miss Chalmers,” Whitton said when he had left the canteen. “He’s a grumpy bugger but he’s alright.”
“Where’s Thompson?” Smith said.
“He’s off with a cold,” Bridge said.
“I don’t think I’ve ever had a cold,” Smith finished his coffee and put the cup on the table. “We’d better get moving. We wouldn’t want to keep the fulsome Bryony Brownhill waiting would we?”
DI Brownhill was sitting alone in the small conference room. Smith, Whitton, Bridge and Yang Chu took seats around the table and waited. Brownhill looked agitated. Something was obviously bothering her.
“Afternoon,” she said suddenly, as if she had snapped out of a trance. “Let’s get started shall we? We have a lot to get through. What do we know so far?”
“Not much,” Smith decided to open the proceedings. “Christopher Riley, thirty eight year old divorcee. Throat sliced open on the bed. No murder weapon found yet. Webber seems to think he was killed while he was lying face down on the bed.”
“Does he now? Well, if Grant thinks that then it’s probably true. What else have we got?”
“His ex wife found him. She was dropping their daughter off at his flat. She found him this morning.”
“Have you spoken to her?”
“Briefly, but she didn’t say much. She seemed very calm under the circumstances. She phoned the police straight away.”
“OK,” Brownhill said. “Do we know if anybody saw anything?”
“We’ve spoken to Riley’s landlord - he owns the Chinese restaurant below Riley’s flat. He hasn’t seen Riley since Christmas Day.”
“We also spoke to a student,” Whitton said. “A Norwegian woman who lives across the road from Riley’s flat. She claims she didn’t see anything either.”
“What do you suggest we do?” Brownhill looked at Smith.
“The forensics and path reports should be in later today,” Smith said. “We’ll know a bit more then but in the meantime I reckon we should try and retrace Riley’s tracks.”
“Go on,” Brownhill said.
“He was last seen around two on Christmas Day,” Smith said. “By the obese Chinaman who happens to be his landlord. We need to find out where he went between then and this morning when his ex wife found him.”
“Good, get onto it then.”
“Whitton,” Smith said. “You come with me.”
“I disagree,” Brownhill said. “You and Whitton have the most experience here. Whitton can team up with Yang Chu and Bridge can go with you.”
“I’ll take Yang Chu,” Smith said. “Come on.”
He walked out of the room before Brownhill had a chance to argue.
CHAPTER NINE
“That was a bit obvious Sarge,” Yang Chu said to Smith by the front desk.
“I don’t care,” Smith said. “I’m keeping you and Whitton apart. I need you to stay sharp and you can’t do that if you’re thinking with your todger.”
He stopped by the front desk.
“Baldwin, have you got the photographs of Christopher Riley?”
Baldwin handed him two black and white photographs.
“Good luck out there,” she said. “Stay warm. It’s getting colder and colder by the minute. It’ll be dark soon.”
“Thanks Baldwin.”
They drove back towards Christopher Riley’s flat.
“I’m not thinking with my todger,” Yang Chu said. “I happen to have a lot of respect for Whitton and since when was the word todger in the Australian vocabulary?”
“I’ve been here too long, and you might not believe this but I’ve been infatuated a few times myself. You and Whitton are not going to happen. Get used to it.”
He parked outside the Chinese restaurant. The flat above was in darkness but the restaurant was well lit up. Smith and Yang Chu went inside. Mr Yin was sitting at a table at the back of the restaurant. He was polishing off his third plate of chicken chow mein. He spotte
d Smith and Yang Chu and sighed.
“Mr Yin,” Smith said. “Sorry to interrupt your feast but we need to ask you a few more questions.”
“Have a seat,” Yin said. “Would you like something to eat? The chicken chow mein here is almost bearable.”
He started to laugh.
“No thanks,” Smith sat down opposite him. “Do you know where Mr Riley went after you saw him on Christmas Day? Did he tell you what his Christmas Day plans were?”
“It was his first Christmas after the divorce,” Yin wiped his mouth with a napkin and belched loudly. “Excuse me. I asked him if he wanted to join me here but he said no. He said he was going to drown his sorrows in the pub all day.”
“Which pub?”
“How should I know? I have work to do. They need help in the kitchen. We have a party of twenty five coming in later. I’m not looking forward to it.”
“Are there many pubs around here?” Yang Chu asked.
“I don’t drink,” Yin said. “Eating is my vice as you can probably tell. Mr Riley set off on foot if that’s any help to you.”
“Yes it is,” Smith said. “Thank you Mr Yin.”
Ye Olde Yeoman was a hundred metre walk from Riley’s flat. By the time Smith and Yang Chu went inside they were both frozen to the bone. There was a log fire burning in the corner of the room. A jukebox was blasting out an old Alice Cooper song. Smith rubbed his hands together and approached the bar. A man in his early twenties was typing frantically on a mobile phone behind the bar.
“Excuse me,” Smith said. “Do you work here?”
The man looked up from the phone and stared blankly at Smith and Yang Chu.
“Of course I work here,” he said. “What can I get you?”
Smith shivered.
“Double Jack Daniel’s,” he said. “No water, no ice.”
Yang Chu looked shocked.
“Make that two,” Smith said.
He smiled at Yang Chu.
“It’ll warm you up.”
The barman poured the drinks and placed them on the bar counter. Smith took out one of the photographs of Christopher Riley.
“Do you recognize this man?” He showed the photo to the barman.
“Might do, who’s asking?”
Selene: A disturbing DS Jason Smith thriller (A DS Jason Smith Thriller Book 6) Page 3