“We’ve lost our place in the queue,” Whitton said. “What’s going on?”
“It was him,” Smith said. “That bloke who was watching me inside the club. I’m sure of it.”
“Let’s walk, it’s not that far. The fresh air will do us good.”
She took his hand and they set off in the direction of the city centre.
“Do you have any of that Jack Daniel’s left?” Smith said as they passed the off license round the corner from his house.
“We drank it all. I mean you drank it all.”
“It’s alright, I have plenty of the stuff at home. The walk has sobered me up a bit.”
They reached Smith’s house and he fumbled with the key in the lock.
“After you,” Smith opened the door.
Whitton went in first and Smith closed the door behind them. Neither of them noticed the tall man with the dark hair. He’d been watching them from behind a wall on the other side of the street.
CHAPTER FORTY THREE
Wednesday 1 February 2011
Smith woke from a dreamless sleep to find he was alone. Whitton was gone. He got up and went downstairs. Whitton had left a note on the kitchen table to inform him she’d gone home to change her clothes before work. Theakston wasn’t begging to be fed so Smith assumed Whitton had already fed him. The dog sat by the front door waiting to be let out. Smith turned on the kettle, picked up his cigarettes and opened the back door. A blast of cold air blew into the kitchen. Smith went outside. A blanket of fresh snow had covered the entire back garden - it had obviously snowed heavily during the night. Smith lit a cigarette and shivered. His head felt remarkably clear considering the amount of alcohol he had consumed the night before.
It must be the watered down beer, he thought.
He finished the cigarette and threw it into the snow. The butt made a quiet hiss as it made contact with the snow.
Smith went back inside the house and made some coffee. He decided he would do something he hadn’t done in a very long time. He turned on the radio, tuned into the local station and listened. A song he had not heard in years was playing. It was a song Smith used to love. Something about being happy and having sunshine. He smiled but when the song ended and the DJ announced that The Gorillaz’ ‘Clint Eastwood’ was ten years old it made Smith feel slightly depressed.
I am getting old, he thought.
The news started and Smith flinched as the announcer began talking about the two murders. Apparently, the York Police department were no closer to bringing a close to the investigation. They had no new leads and no more witnesses had come forward.
“This is exactly why I don’t listen to the radio,” Smith said to Theakston. “Where do they get their information from?”
The weather report warned of more heavy snowfall and Baltic temperatures in the north of the country for the coming week. A huge cold front was moving in from the Arctic and the announcer suggested that people should stay indoors whenever possible.
Great, Smith thought, why the hell did I ever move here?
He picked up his phone. There were no new messages. He opened up the phone browser and googled the weather in Perth. Thirty degrees and clear blue skies. For the first time Smith had come to York he contemplated going back to Australia.
At least for a short while, he thought, they don’t have snow and Baltic weather there - only warm seas and sunshine.
A noise woke Smith from his thoughts. The morning mail had landed on the doormat with a dull thud. He finished his coffee and went to see what bills had dropped on his carpet today. He smiled when all he saw on the doormat was the February issue of ‘Guitar Monthly’.
Punctual as always, he thought, it’s a sign - I need to buy myself a new guitar.
He picked up the magazine and was about to take it to the kitchen when he noticed there was a letter underneath it. He picked it up. His name was written on the front of the envelope but nothing else. It had been handwritten. He took it to the kitchen and made another cup of coffee. He opened up the guitar magazine and went straight to the back to the classifieds. He scanned through the guitars for sale and something caught his eye. It was a nineteen eighty two Gibson Les Paul gold top. From the photograph, the guitar appeared to be immaculate. The price was four thousand pounds but Smith knew he would be able to knock it down a bit. Times were hard and people needed the cash. He tore out the advertisement and stuck it on the front of the fridge.
“When this is all over,” he looked at the photograph of the guitar. “You’re mine.”
Nineteen eighty two, he thought, the year I was born. It’s a sign.
Smith took a sip of coffee and opened up the envelope. Inside was a small piece of paper folded in half. He opened it up and read.
‘I can help you,’ he read. ‘I have some answers. I’ll be in touch.’
That was all it said - thirteen simple words. There was nothing to suggest who wrote the note - no name at the bottom and no contact details, nothing at all to say what the letter was all about. Smith read the words again.
“Who the hell are you?” He said.
It has to be the same person who’s been sending me the emails, he thought.
He made a mental note to bring the matter up at the investigation meeting later that day.
For once, Bridge was the first to arrive at the station. He was drinking from a bottle of water when Smith walked in.
“You’re early,” Smith sat opposite him. “No big date last night then?”
“No,” Bridge said. “Her kid was ill and I didn’t feel like looking after a sick child all night.”
“Kid?” Smith said. “Exactly how old is this woman?”
“Old enough to teach me a few things, if you know what I mean.”
“Who is this mystery female?”
“I told you,” Bridge smiled. “Trade secret. How was the band last night?”
“Brilliant. Completely wasted on those low life students though.”
“Why do you hate students so much?”
“I don’t know, I can’t explain it. It all started when I wasn’t one anymore.”
Yang Chu and Whitton walked in. Whitton went straight over to Smith and kissed him on the cheek.
“Can you two just get a room,” Yang Chu said. “You’re embarrassing.”
“How’s this weather?” Bridge said. “My windscreen was frozen over this morning.”
“There’s a bastard of a cold front coming in from the north,” Smith said. “I’ll be glad when this winter is over. Has anybody seen Brownhill this morning?”
“She was already here when I got in,” Bridge said. “Her and that hot shrink.”
“You’re terrible,” Whitton said. “Do you ever think about anything else?”
“What else is there to think about? And I’m not terrible. I’m single.”
“What about the grandmother you’ve shacked up with?” Yang Chu said.
“Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”
Brownhill walked in and sat down next to Smith. Smith thought she looked different. She seemed to be happy - her face was animated somehow.
“Morning boss,” he said. “You look fresh this morning. What time do you want us in your office?”
“Slight change of plan. We’ll be having the meeting in here today. The heating in my office is on the blink and Jessica agrees that we’ll probably be more productive in this informal environment.”
“She’s the expert,” Bridge said. “Where is she anyway?”
“She had to make a few phone calls. She’ll be along shortly.”
They sat in silence for a while. Each of them appeared to be lost in their own personal thoughts.
These are my only friends, Smith looked at the faces gathered around the table. We live and die together.
His thoughts suddenly turned to Thompson. He felt sad that Thompson’s name had hardly been mentioned since his death.
Oh well, he thought, maybe that’s how it is - maybe it’s for th
e best to concentrate on the living.
“Sorry to keep you all waiting,” Jessica Blakemore hurried into the room. “I had a number of tedious matters to sort out. Being a shrink is never plain sailing. Why all the contemplative expressions?”
Blakemore’s cheery disposition seemed to wake everybody up.
“OK,” she looked at Whitton. “Don’t leave anything out. Tell me about your childhood.”
Whitton burst out laughing. Bridge followed suit. Soon, the whole canteen was filled with raucous laughter. A PC in uniform walked in and looked at them as if they had gone mad. He looked exhausted - he had obviously just finished a night shift.
“The canteen’s closed,” Brownhill said. “Go home and get some sleep.”
The policeman looked at her with bleary eyes and left the canteen.
“I’ll put a note on the door,” Bridge said.
He stood up, tore a piece of paper out of his notebook and stuck it on the door. Smith watched as Bridge smiled and wrote something on the paper.
“That should do the trick,” Bridge sat down again.
“What did you write?” Smith said.
“Canteen closed due to snow, that’ll confuse the hell out of everybody.”
“Right,” Brownhill said. “I can see we’re all unusually sharp witted this morning. I’ve got a feeling a breakthrough is on the cards sometime soon. Who wants to start?”
“There’s something I think I need to share,” Smith said. “I didn’t think much of it before and it may or may not be important but I’ve been getting strange emails and letters.”
He told them about the emails he had received from the anonymous sender.
“Beware the full moon?” Bridge said. “What on earth does that mean?”
“Maybe our killer is a werewolf,” Yang Chu suggested.
Brownhill gave him a look of disapproval.
“What about the map of Romania?” Brownhill said. “What does that imply?”
“I have no idea,” Smith said. “And this morning I got a letter through my door from someone claiming to be able to help me.”
“You say this person knows who our murderer is?” Brownhill said. “Do you still have the photograph of the young girl this person sent you?”
“It’s on my PC. It’s all very strange. Last night I’m sure someone was watching me. I think I’m being followed. I think it’s the same guy.”
“What exactly did the letter you received this morning say?” Blakemore said.
She seemed quite agitated somehow.
“It said I can help you, and I have some answers. He said he’d be in touch.”
“And you have no idea who this person is?” Blakemore said.
“No.”
“Probably some whack job,” Blakemore said. “There’s plenty of them out there. I ought to know.”
“I think it’s worth looking into anyway,” Brownhill said.
“You’re wasting your time,” Blakemore insisted. “I think we’ve got much more important things on the agenda.”
Brownhill looked confused.
“Jessica, it’s been over a month now since we’ve had anything to go on. Finally we have a lead and I’m not going to ignore it. Bridge?”
“Yes Ma’am,” Bridge said.
“You’re pretty clued up with computers aren’t you?”
“I keep up to date.”
“See if you can find out where these emails came from. Get some technical help if need be. Smith, I need that map and the letter that arrived this morning. Webber can go over them with a fine tooth comb.”
“I’m afraid the map was pretty much chewed up by my dog,” Smith said. “He get’s destructive when he doesn’t get his own way sometimes but I have the letter at home.”
“Get the map and the letter to forensics, I think we might be finally starting to get somewhere.”
“I still think you’re wasting your time here,” Blakemore said again. “We should be going through other things. I may have come up with a realistic profile of the woman we’re looking for.”
“We’ll look at that later,” Brownhill said.
“I thought you said this profiling thing was bullshit,” Bridge said. “You said they only did that in the movies.”
“There is some truth in it,” Blakemore said. “They tend to exaggerate it in the films.”
“We’ll hear what you have to say later,” Brownhill said. “Right now we’re going to concentrate on the concrete evidence we have.”
“Bu I spent all night coming up with this.”
“Later,” Brownhill was adamant. “Whitton, you and Yang Chu find out everything you can about Romania. If our killer is from Romania, she must have come in the country somehow. Find out when and where.”
“The top part of the map was highlighted,” Smith said.
“Get onto it, we need to find this person. If he knows who this woman is, we need to find him as soon as possible. Oh, and Bridge.”
“Ma’am?”
“Take the note off the door. This meeting is over.”
CHAPTER FORTY FOUR
It took Smith less than half an hour to go home and then drive to the forensics building. The snow was starting to melt and thick layers of slush had covered the side of the road. Grant Webber was in an unusually good mood when Smith went inside his office. Smith was instantly on his guard - he much preferred Webber when he was irritable and rude.
“Morning,” Webber smiled. “It looks like the weathers finally going to clear up. The weather guys got it wrong again. What can I do for you this morning?”
“I don’t know,” Smith took out the letter and the box containing the reassembled map of Romania. “Brownhill asked me to bring these over for you to have a look at. They were delivered to my house anonymously.”
“What am I supposed to do with them?”
“We need to establish where they came from.”
Webber picked up the envelope, removed the letter by the corner and read it.
“I can help you,” he read. “I have some answers. I’ll be in touch.”
“Do you think you’ll be able to get any prints off it?”
“I doubt it, this type of paper doesn’t really reveal prints but stranger things have happened. Has this got to do with the murder investigation?”
“Yes, I don’t know if this person is for real but he’s sent me a couple of e mails too and the other night I’m sure he was following me.”
“What have you got in there?” Webber pointed to the small box.
“A map of Romania. It was also dropped off at my house. It’s pretty ripped up but I managed to piece it back together.”
“The map is useless,” Webber said. “Your prints will be all over it but I’ll have a good look at the box it came in. How are things going anyway?”
“With the investigation? Badly. This is the most frustrating case I’ve ever worked on.”
“Not the investigation,” Webber said. “With you. How are things going between you and Whitton? I believe you two have finally hooked up. It took you long enough.”
“It’s early days,” was as much as Smith felt like divulging with Webber.
“Leave this lot with me. I’ll get back to you in due course if I find anything useful.”
When Smith got back to the station and walked through the front door an overwhelming feeling of anticlimax washed over him. The upbeat mood from the meeting earlier had rapidly descended into melancholy. Webber had been right - they didn’t expect to find out much from the letter and the map. Smith realised he didn’t know what to do. As he stood by the front desk, he felt impotent - helpless and hopeless at the same time.
“Penny for them,” Baldwin said.
“Sorry?” Smith said.
“You’re miles away there. Are things alright between you and Whitton?”
“Why can’t everybody just mind their own bloody business?” Smith said. “I knew this was a bad idea.”
He walked down the cor
ridor towards his office.
Bridge and a man Smith didn’t recognise were sitting behind Smith’s computer in the office. The stranger was typing frantically on the keyboard of a laptop computer. Smith cleared his throat to announce his presence and Bridge turned round.
“We’ve found him,” Bridge said. “At least we know who he is.”
Smith’s mood suddenly lifted. It was good news for once.
“Luka Gravov,” Bridge said. “Thirty three years old, lives in Moscow. Born in a small village just across the border from Romania. Luzhany - it’s now in the Ukraine.”
“Romania?” Smith said.
“That’s right,” Bridge said.
“Therein lies the rub,” the man with the laptop stopped typing and looked at Bridge.
“Sorry,” Bridge said. “This is DS Smith. Smith this is John Milton. What he doesn’t know about computers isn’t worth knowing.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Smith shook Milton’s hand.
“John Milton,” Milton looked at Smith as if he were expecting a different reaction.
“John Milton,” Smith repeated. “I got it the first time.”
“Like the poet,” Milton said. “Paradise Lost, Paradise Regained? I usually get some kind of comment.”
“Never heard of him,” Smith said. “Good work anyway.”
“It was a piece of cake,” Milton seemed offended. “I don’t like to undervalue my expertise but in this instance a ten year old with a server could have figured it out.”
“I couldn’t,” Smith admitted.
“Let me show you then,” Milton opened up his lap top. “If you don’t mind, your system is older and slower than God’s dog.”
Smith watched as he typed the email address into the search engine. A whole list of similar emails appeared on the screen.
“Did you know there are over two hundred million email addresses in Russia?” Milton said.
He clicked on one of the links.
“This narrows it down to around two thousand,” he carried on clicking and clicking at an alarming rate. “And then there was one. Luka Gravov, thirty three years old. Around six two with dark hair and brown eyes. Listens to Barbara Streisand and Barry Manilow while he’s not watching repeats of the X Files and working as a teller at a bank in Moscow.”
Selene: A disturbing DS Jason Smith thriller (A DS Jason Smith Thriller Book 6) Page 17