Selene: A disturbing DS Jason Smith thriller (A DS Jason Smith Thriller Book 6)

by Stewart Giles

  She scrolled down a list on the screen and clicked on ‘Romania’. There were still six hundred names on the list for the two years.

  “Ok,” she said. “Age group sixteen to seventeen.”

  Eighty eight names appeared.

  “Female.”

  They were left with eight names. Selene Lupei’s wasn’t one of them.

  “Crap,” Smith said. “Maybe she didn’t arrive here then. I was sure of it.”

  The next four hours were spent going through every single person of Selene’s age who had arrived in the country since nineteen ninety one. As the years went by, the search became more and more tedious. When they had reached the point where the records stopped and Smith and Whitton had found out how many Romanians had entered the country, Selene Lupei’s name was still not there.

  “I need a smoke,” Smith said.

  “I’m going to get some coffee,” Whitton said. “I’ll see you back here in twenty minutes.”

  Smith put his hand on her shoulder but she brushed it away.

  Chalmers was standing in the car park smoking a cigarette when Smith went outside.

  “Great minds think alike,” Chalmers said. “Smoke?”

  He handed Smith his packet of Marlboroughs.

  “No thanks boss,” Smith said. “Try one of these instead.”

  He took out a red, white and blue box.

  “Assos?” Chalmers said. “Never heard of them. Where the hell did you get them from?”

  “I brought two cartons back with me from Romania. Five quid a carton.”

  Chalmers took out a cigarette and eyed it suspiciously. He put it in his mouth and lit the end.

  “Not too bad,” he took a long drag.

  Smith lit one of his own and stared at the sky. More snow clouds were forming overhead.

  “Is this winter ever going to end?”

  “They say it’s going to drag on way into March,” Chalmers said. “It’s still nowhere near as bad as the winter of seventy six. How’s it going with the investigation?”

  “I thought we had her, now it seems like the trip to Romania was a complete waste of time. Me and Whitton have just spent four hours going through the immigration lists. We’ve gone through everyone who’s entered the country from Romania since ninety one and we found nothing.”

  “Maybe she came in under a false name,” Chalmers said.

  “Do you know how many Romanians have come here to live in the past twenty years? Over eighty thousand. We don’t know when she arrived. Do you know how long it’ll take to go through every woman on the list?”

  “What’s your initial feeling? What does your gut tell you?”

  “I think she came here shortly after she left Romania. She was last seen in the Ukraine in ninety one. I think she headed for the UK then. Something about the way these murders were carried out suggests she hasn’t just arrived here - she’s been here a very long time. She appears to be very familiar with the place.”

  He threw his cigarette butt into the distance and lit another one. He offered the pack to Chalmers.

  “No thanks,” Chalmers said. “One of those is enough for me. Go with that gut of yours. Dig a bit deeper into ninety one and ninety two.”

  “We have done, there were eight young women aged sixteen or seventeen who arrived during that time.”

  “Check them out. Like I said, maybe she used a false name. She probably had no passport. How’s it going with you and Whitton by the way?”

  “Women,” Smith said. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand women. Whitton told me to do something and when I did it she got all sulky.”

  “You probably didn’t do it the way she wanted you to do it. Never, ever try to understand the way a woman’s brain works - it’ll drive you to the brink of insanity. I’ve been married to Mrs Chalmers for over thirty years and I gave up trying to understand her after ten. That’s the secret to a happy marriage. I’d better get going. Old Smyth will be snapping at my feet soon.”

  “Thanks boss,” Smith said.

  “For what?”

  “I don’t know,” Smith said.

  Chalmers shook his head and went back inside the station.

  CHAPTER SIXTY ONE

  Whitton was already waiting in Smith’s office when he went back inside.

  “Where’ve you been?” She said. “I thought you said twenty minutes.”

  “Relax,” Smith said. “I was talking to Chalmers. What’s wrong with you today?”

  “With me? I’m fine. I’m not the one who has a date with a hot head doctor.”

  “I’ll cancel it then, I’ll phone and say I can’t make it.”

  “I’m starting to think you were right all along, about relationships at work never working out.”

  “What’s brought this on all of a sudden?”

  “Nothing, let’s get back to work.”

  “Chalmers reckons I should go with my gut,” Smith said. “Selene Lupei came into the country in ninety one or ninety two. I’m pretty sure of it. Let’s concentrate on the eight Romanian girls who arrived during that time.”

  He clicked on the list of young women and printed out a list. Whitton took the piece of paper, folded it in half and tore off four of the names.”

  “What are you doing?” Smith said.

  “I think it would be best if we take four names each, I’ll work better in my own office. If that’s alright with you Sarge.”

  She emphasized the word ‘Sarge’.

  “No problem,” Smith shrugged.

  “Enjoy your date,” Whitton said and left the office.

  Smith took a deep breath and got to work on the four names on the list. Whitton’s behaviour had confused him - he had never seen her act like that before. The first name on the list was Adriana Constantin. There was no information about her on the screen apart from her name and age. Smith thought about contacting the relevant immigration department to find out more about her but he knew that could take weeks and they were running out of time. He remembered something Bridge’s computer geek friend had said about Facebook being a great spy tool and decided to give it a try. He opened up the Facebook page but realised he didn’t have an account with them. He picked up the phone and dialed the number for the front desk. Baldwin answered immediately. She sounded very stressed.

  “Baldwin,” Smith said. “Are you alright?”

  “I’m knackered sir,” Baldwin said. “I’ve been taking phone calls from irate citizens all day. This immigrant thing is getting way out of hand.”

  “I need to open a Facebook account.”

  “You need to do what?”

  “Open a Facebook account, how do I do it? I have the page open in front of me now.”

  “Sir,” Baldwin said. “Is this really the time to start looking for old friends?”

  “I don’t have any old friends. How do I open a Facebook account?”

  “It’s easy, there’s a place where it says ‘Sign up now’. Enter your email address and a password and you’re ready to go.”

  “Thanks Baldwin,” Smith hung up the phone.

  He did as Baldwin had instructed and was informed that an email had been sent for him to confirm his details and to activate his account. He clicked on the link on the email and was redirected to the Facebook page. He typed in ‘Theakston’ as his password and his profile page opened up.

  Smith ignored all the questions on the screen asking him to add a profile picture and more information and tried to remember exactly what Bridge’s friend had done. He found the search bar and typed in Adriana Constantin. There were six possible results. Smith could tell from their photographs that none of them could possibly be Selene Lupei. He repeated the process for the three remaining names on the list. The last woman on the list, a woman by the name of Emilia Dragos was not on Facebook, but Smith could definitely rule out the first three. He closed down Facebook and typed in Emilia Dragos in the Google search bar. He scrolled down until he found a possible match. Emilia Dragos was a
lecturer in Eastern European studies at the University of Manchester. She was thirty five years old and had been in the country since nineteen ninety two. Smith opened up the link and sighed - even if she lost fifty kilograms and wore a black wig, she still would bear little resemblance to the eye witness accounts of Selene Lupei.

  Smith felt drained. He looked at his watch. It was six thirty. He’d been digging away for over eight hours and had still come up with nothing. He wondered if Whitton had found anything. He closed down his computer and switched off the light in his office. He was about to go and check in on Whitton but changed his mind - he wasn’t in the mood for any more of Whitton’s mood swings. He was due to meet Jessica Blakemore in half an hour.

  I’ll leave Whitton to calm down a bit, he thought, I need a drink.

  CHAPTER SIXTY TWO

  Jessica Blakemore was already at the Hog’s head when Smith walked in. She was sitting at the bar drinking a glass of white wine. There were three other people in the pub - an old man sitting at the bar by himself and a young couple sitting at one of the tables. They were laughing at something on a mobile phone. Smith walked up to the bar. Marge was nowhere to be seen.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Smith said to Blakemore. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  “I’ve got one,” Blakemore said. “You’re not late. I was early. I’ve had a rough day.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  He nodded to the stranger behind the bar.

  “Pint of Theakstons,” he said.

  The barman poured the beer and placed it on the counter.

  “Let’s sit at a table,” Blakemore suggested. “Somewhere away from prying ears.”

  Smith picked up his beer and walked over to his usual table by the fire. He pulled out a chair for Blakemore and she sat down.

  “That’s something you don’t see very often these days,” she said. “A gentleman as well. Is there any limit to your talents?”

  She had a playful glint in her eyes.

  “It’s one of my few good traits,” Smith said. “My Gran brought me up well.”

  He took a long swig of his beer and felt instantly relaxed.

  “Your girlfriend is not happy about us meeting like this. I was actually surprised when you showed up. I thought she might have tried to talk you out of it.”

  “It was her idea, I don’t understand women sometimes.”

  “Don’t even try.”

  “You’re the second person to tell me that today,” Smith finished his beer. “Can I get you another drink?”

  “Not at the moment,” Blakemore said.

  Smith went to the bar and returned with two pints of beer.

  “Saves me getting up again,” he smiled. “Where do you want me to start?”

  “How did the digging go today? Did you find anything?”

  “Nothing, I’m getting this close to giving up on this altogether.”

  “But you never give up do you?” Blakemore took a tiny sip of wine. “When did the dreams start?”

  “A few years ago,” Smith said. “I had this recurring dream about my sister.”

  Blakemore nodded for him to continue.

  “In the dreams, I’m always under the water. I’m sinking down and running out of air. I see my sister and try to swim down to her. My lungs feel like they’re going to explode. Sometimes in the dream I can reach out and touch my sister but I can never quite manage to pull her to the surface. My lungs are about to burst and this is when I always wake up.”

  “What happened to your sister?”

  “She disappeared. I was sixteen at the time. We’d bunked school and I’d taken her surfing. I got distracted and I left her by the shore. When I looked back at her, she was gone.”

  “And you blamed yourself?”

  “Of course I did - it was my fault. If I hadn’t taken her surfing that day she’d still be with us and I wouldn’t even be here talking to you today.”

  He finished one of the beers in one go.

  “Did your parents blame you too?”

  “It was only my mother,” Smith said. “My father was dead. It was my mother who sent me here to live with my Gran.”

  “I see,” Blakemore seemed to stop and think about what Smith had just told her. “Your father killed himself didn’t he?”

  “I thought you were going to help me get to the bottom of my nightmares.”

  “I am, but I need to know where they stem from - what triggers them off.”

  “I was the one who found him. My father I mean, he was hanging from a tree in the back garden.”

  “Why do you think he killed himself?”

  “I don’t know. Something to do with his time in Vietnam I think. Maybe he was weak. I don’t know.”

  “Your sister drowned didn’t she? She was pulled out of the river.”

  “She was trying to help a young boy,” Smith said. “So they killed her.”

  “Who killed her.”

  “Wolfie did, or at least his people did.”

  Smith didn’t know what was happening to him. He was talking to a virtual stranger about things he had hardly spoken about before.

  “Have I been hypnotised?” He said. “Have you put me under without me even realising it?”

  “Not at all, I do this for a living remember. This is what I do - I help people to work through traumatic events in their lives. Let’s go to the most recent dreams shall we. The double awakenings. When did the lucid dreams start?”

  “A few months ago,” Smith said. “The first one really freaked me out. I woke up and everything appeared to be normal. I went about my normal morning stuff and then I woke up again.”

  “What about the most recent one?”

  “They just keep getting more and more real. I had one just this morning. I woke up and I was alone in the bed. Whitton was nowhere to be seen. The sun was shining through the curtains. I walked down the hallway and saw that the light was on in the bathroom. I called out to Whitton but she didn’t answer. I opened to bathroom door and Whitton was lying on the floor next to the shower. Her throat had been slashed open. I tried to scream but nothing came out. My legs gave way and I fell to the ground. I saw a knife with a curved blade only inches from my face and screamed. That’s when I woke up for real.”

  Smith drained his glass and stood up.

  “I need something stronger,” he said.

  Smith returned with two large measures of Jack Daniel’s.

  “I insist you have a drink with me,” he pushed one of the glasses closer to Blakemore, lifted the other one to his lips and waited for her to pick up the glass.

  Blakemore smiled, raised her glass and drank it down in one go. Smith did the same.

  “How did you get that scratch on your face?” Smith asked her.

  He was starting to feel quite drunk.

  “Stupid accident, I woke up with a start and scratched my own face. You don’t have the monopoly on bad dreams you know.”

  “Why am I having these dreams?”

  “Dreams are an enigma. They’re a grey area in psychology. There has been plenty of research done on the subject but we’re still years away from finding anything conclusive as to the cause of dreams. A popular belief is that dreams are a way of processing thoughts in our subconscious - thoughts that the defence mechanisms in our brains have pushed to one side in order for us to cope without going insane. Did you ever have nightmares when you were a child?”

  “I don’t think so. I could never remember the dreams I had when I was younger.”

  “That makes them even more unusual, and it makes it even harder to try and fathom out what’s going on in your head now. Nightmares normally start during childhood. It’s seen as a sign of an active imagination. The dreams you’re having are obviously caused by something else. What are you afraid of?”

  “I don’t know,” Smith said. “Not much.”

  “Everybody is afraid of something. It could be dying, heights, snakes, flying, anything. Without fear we wouldn’
t survive for long. What are you afraid of most?”

  “I used to have this thing about the ocean. I used to freeze when I saw the vast expanse of water in front of me but that stopped a while ago. I suppose what I’m afraid of most is seeing people I care about getting hurt. People close to me seem to end up dead. My dad, my sister, my Gran, Lucy.”

  Smith appeared to drift off for a moment.

  “I’m not even thirty,” he said. “And I’ve seen so much death. Am I going crazy?”

  “No. Far from it. You have one of the strongest defence mechanisms I’ve ever come across.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment. What about the dreams?”

  “The dreams are part of that defence mechanism.”

  “Will they ever stop?”

  “No, I don’t think they’ll stop but they should get easier to understand. I want you to try an exercise for me.”

  “Hold that thought,” Smith stood up and went to the bar.

  He came back with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

  “This bottle is going to cost me a fortune,” he said. “But I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be worth it. Go on. What did you mean about trying an exercise?”

  He poured them both a large measure of whiskey.

  “I want you to try this,” Blakemore said. “The next time you have one of the dreams - when you realise you’re in control of everything that’s happening in it, try to direct it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Control it. You dictate how the dream unfolds. For example, the dream you had this morning. Whitton doesn’t have to end up dead, you can make it that she ends up flying over the rooftops of York holding your hand.”

  “Can I do that?”

  “You can learn to do it. You have a very rare gift if I can call it that. Fewer than one percent of people can actually control what happens in their dreams. People have tried to train themselves but very few actually manage to pull it off. Don’t let the dreams control you - get in first.”

  Smith took a long drink from the glass and smiled. He felt more relaxed than he had done in weeks. He realised that he was also extremely hungry.