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

by Stewart Giles

  “That’s none of your business. Haven’t you two got any work to do?”

  “That app of mine didn’t give me much,” Bridge said. “I put the old photo of the young girl in and tried all kinds of different combinations but all it spewed out was a combination of Baldwin and that shrink woman. I don’t think it’s going to give us anything to go on.”

  “It was worth a try,” Smith said.

  “Well I wasted the whole of yesterday on those racists,” Yang Chu said. “You wouldn’t believe how ignorant people are these days. How long is this going to go on for?”

  “As of now, I want everybody on the team to concentrate on finding out when this woman entered the country. We know she came from Romania. That’s the key to this whole thing. We should be able to piece together where she ended up. It’s going to be a lot of work but I’m sure if we all put our heads together we can get to the bottom of it eventually.”

  “Ten days,” Yang Chu mused. “We’ve got ten days before the next full moon. It’s like something out of a bad horror film. We have ten days to save this woman’s next victim.”

  “That’s why we need to get cracking,” Smith said. “We’ll do it systematically. Yang Chu, you and me can concentrate on ninety one and Bridge and Whitton can go over ninety two.”

  “Are you absolutely sure she came into the UK in those years?” Bridge asked.

  “No, but I’m about ninety percent sure. We need to check out every female of Selene Lupei’s age who entered the country in those years. One of them has to be her.”

  Four hours later, the team stopped for a break. They gathered in the canteen. Whitton sat as far away from Smith as possible. Brownhill and Blakemore walked in and sat at a table away from everybody else. Smith sighed. He couldn’t remember a time when the team had been as despondent as this. Even during the most frustrating investigations they had found it in themselves to stick together and fight it out.

  “This is a waste of time,” Yang Chu said. “Four hours of my life wasted. What a complete waste of time.”

  Every single woman who had entered the country from Romania of Selene Lupei’s age at the time had been investigated and discarded from the list. Whitton and Bridge had come close - they believed they had found a likely suspect but when they dug deeper they found out the woman had died a few years earlier.

  Brownhill had been watching them from a distance. She noted the despair on the faces of the team and stood up. She walked over to where they were sitting and clapped her hands together.

  “Right,” she said. “We’re going to find this woman. Jessica has come up with an idea and I think it might work.”

  Whitton snorted.

  “Jessica has worked hard on this,” Brownhill ignored Whitton. “And I believe it may help. Jessica.”

  Brownhill beckoned for Blakemore to come and join them. Blakemore stood up and sat on the chair next to the window. She smiled at Whitton but Whitton turned away.

  “This may seem like madness,” Blakemore said. “But I’m sure we all agree that there’s a very fine distinction between madness and sanity these days.”

  “You should know,” Whitton said.

  “I was led to believe, that the people sitting before me are one of the finest if not the finest investigative team in the whole country.”

  “Is this going to take long?” Whitton said. “We’re running out of time here.”

  “Time,” Blakemore said. “Time. That leads me beautifully to my point. You’re not going to catch this woman in time.”

  Everybody stared at her.

  “This woman doesn’t want you to catch her,” Blakemore elaborated. “Almost every documented serial killer, if we can give her that label, has demonstrated some kind of desire to be caught - they secretly want to be stopped but this woman will carry on killing until you outsmart her. She needs to kill.”

  “How do you suggest we catch her then?” Smith said. “You’re wasting our time here. We should be carrying on with the immigration stuff.”

  “No, that is precisely what you shouldn’t be doing. I profess to having a deeper understanding of how the human brain works than you and what I suggest you do right now is stop looking for her.”

  “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” Whitton said.

  “Isn’t it just?” Blakemore smiled at her. “But it just might work. Your brains have reached saturation point - if you carry on like this you won’t be able to absorb any more information and you most certainly won’t be able to process any of it in any rational order. I suggest you stop what you’re doing for a few days and switch off.”

  “A few days?” Yang Chu said. “We don’t have a few days. In ten days time we’re going to have another body to worry about. This woman is going to kill another man in ten days time.”

  “Jessica is right,” Brownhill said. “I must admit that I was skeptical at first but what she says makes sense. I want you all to go home for a few days. Forget all about the investigation and come back here on Friday morning with fresh brains and fresh ideas.”

  Nobody made any effort to stand up.

  “That’s a direct order,” Brownhill said. “In case you’ve all forgotten, I am a detective inspector.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY SIX

  “Did I just hear right?” Bridge said. “Did we just receive an order telling us to have a few days off in the middle of a murder investigation?”

  “She’s got a point though,” Yang Chu said. “Our brains are fried. Maybe a few days without having to think about all of this will help. She’s the shrink - she seems to know what she’s talking about.”

  “I disagree,” Smith said. “I know from experience that my brain works best when it’s overloaded. I’m beginning to think she has some kind of ulterior motive.”

  “Ulterior motive?” Bridge said. “What are you talking about?”

  “I don’t know. Ever since she’s been here she seems intent on distracting us.”

  “What are you saying?” Bridge said. “Are you suggesting that she’s actually our psycho and she’s trying to stop us from getting closer to her?”

  “Maybe,” Smith rubbed his temples. “I don’t know. I’m certainly not going to sit on my arse and forget about this investigation for a few days. I can’t just switch my brain off like that.”

  “Well I can,” Bridge stood up.

  He had a wry smile on his face.

  “I’m off to make a certain woman very happy,” he added.

  “Who is this woman?” Smith said. “I’m starting to think she doesn’t even exist - you’re making the whole thing up.”

  “Oh she’s very real,” Bridge winked at Smith. “Very real indeed.”

  He swaggered off out of the canteen.

  “I’ll help you if you want me to,” Yang Chu said to Smith. “If you need any help I’m here.”

  “No, go home. Do what the DI said. I’ll see you here on Friday.”

  Yang Chu looked at Whitton. She was gazing absentmindedly out of the window. The blizzard was still in full force outside.

  “See you on Friday,” he said and left the canteen.

  “I’m sorry,” Smith said to Whitton. “You were right. I never should have gone for a drink with Blakemore. Nothing happened, I promise.”

  “I know,” Whitton said. “You have your faults but dishonesty isn’t one of them.”

  “Theakston says thank you for the donuts. The fat bugger ate the whole lot.”

  Whitton could not help but smile.

  “I’m glad they didn’t go to waste,” she said.

  “Are we alright then?”

  “I don’t know. My head’s in a real mess at the moment. I need time to think. This whole business is starting to suffocate me.”

  “Phone me if you feel like company.”

  Whitton nodded, took a last look out of the window and walked slowly out of the canteen.

  Smith sat by himself for a while. He could hear the wind whistling outside the window.
He didn’t know what he was going to do. He couldn’t just sit back and do nothing while a woman was still a large waiting to plan her next murder.

  Ten days, he thought, ten days can go by in the blink of an eye.

  He stood up, left the canteen and walked down the corridor towards his office. He turned on the computer and opened up his Facebook page. He typed in ‘Jessica Blakemore’ on the search bar and fifteen matches appeared on the screen.

  “This is crazy,” he said out loud. “I’m being paranoid now.”

  Jessica Blakemore isn’t our killer, he thought, the whole idea is preposterous.

  He turned off the computer and left his office. He walked through to the front desk. Baldwin was there as usual.

  “Where is everybody?” Baldwin said. “The place is deserted. I don’t like it.”

  “Me neither. Blakemore told us all to go home for a few days.”

  “We’re going to be snowed in again. At least it’s sent those morons with their placards back indoors. Don’t you ever wish you’d stayed in Australia?”

  “Not really,” Smith said.

  He suddenly remembered his smashed windscreen.

  “Baldwin, do you have any tape? Something I can use to tape up my windscreen until I get it fixed properly?”

  “Duct tape,” Baldwin opened her desk and produced a roll of white duct tape. “This stuff can fix anything.”

  She handed the tape to Smith.

  “Thanks Baldwin, I’ll replace it.”

  “No you won’t,” Baldwin said.

  Smith smiled and walked out into the snow storm.

  A thick blanket of snow had settled on the car park when Smith got outside. He ran to his car and groaned. It looked like a disaster area. He had parked into the wind and the hole in the windscreen had let in so much snow he had to spend ten minutes scooping it out with his hands before he could start taping up the windscreen. He took out the tape and covered the hole as best he could. By the time he was finished, his hands were numb with the cold.

  I can’t drive the car like this, he thought.

  He ran back inside the station.

  “Baldwin,” he said. “Can you do me a huge favour?”

  Baldwin sighed.

  “Go on,” she said.

  “Could you arrange for my car to be towed away to the nearest garage? Those fascist idiots threw a brick through my windscreen and I don’t think it’s safe to drive in this weather. I think my insurance is still up to date. I’ve got my details here somewhere.”

  He started to rummage around in his pockets.

  “Don’t worry, I still have them from the last time. I’ll get to go home one of these days.”

  “Thanks Baldwin,” Smith said. “I owe you one.”

  Whitton appeared from the corridor. She seemed shocked to see Smith still at the station.

  “I thought you’d gone home,” Smith said.

  “I had to send a few emails.”

  “Could you give me a lift home?”

  “What’s wrong with your car?”

  “It’s a long story,” Smith said.

  Whitton parked her car outside Smith’s house. She left the engine running.

  “Are you sure you won’t come in?” Smith said.

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Phone me,” Smith opened the door and got out.

  He watched as Whitton drove off through the blizzard. He ran inside his house and closed the door behind him. He walked through to the kitchen and slumped down on one of the chairs. His clothes were soaked through but he didn’t care. He looked at the advert for the guitar on the fridge.

  What the hell, he thought.

  He took out his phone and dialed the number on the advert. A woman answered after three rings.

  “Hello,” Smith said. “I’m phoning about the ad for the guitar. The eighty two Gold Top. Is it still available?”

  “It is.”

  Smith thought hard for a moment.

  “Are you still there?” The woman asked.

  “Yes I’m still here. How long have you had the guitar?”

  “It was my husbands. He bought it straight out of the box in eighty two.”

  “Could I speak to your husband? I just want to ask him a few questions.”

  “He died last year,” the woman said. “I need the money. I can’t see the point of keeping it. Nobody is going to play it anymore. The price is negotiable.”

  “I’ll take it, and I’ll pay the full price. If you could just give me your details and I’ll do a transfer and arrange delivery.”

  The line went silent for a few seconds.

  “Are you being serious?” The woman said eventually.

  “I want that guitar.”

  Twenty minutes later the deal was completed. Smith had transferred the money and the guitar was due to be delivered the next day. He sat staring at the photograph on the fridge. Theakston ambled into the kitchen and collapsed on Smith’s feet.

  “I’m just done something impulsive,” Smith said.

  Theakston was already snoring.

  “I’ve just spent two months salary on a guitar.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY SEVEN

  Wednesday 9 February 2011

  The guitar arrived the next day just before noon. Smith signed the delivery slip and took the guitar inside. He felt like a child with a new toy. He opened up the case and gasped. The guitar was in immaculate condition. There wasn’t a scratch on it. He picked it up and started to play. It was even in tune. The tone was exactly what he had been looking for. He realized he didn’t have an amplifier to play it through – he’d forgotten to buy one. He carried on playing.

  I need to buy an amp, he thought.

  He looked around for his car keys and remembered that his car was in for repairs. He picked up his phone and dialed Bridge’s number. It went straight to voice mail. He thought about phoning Whitton but decided against it. He phoned Yang Chu. Yang Chu answered almost straight away.

  “Yang Chu,” Smith said. “Remember you said you’d help me?”

  “Any time Sarge,” Yang Chu said.

  “I need a lift into town - my cars in the garage and I’ve just bought the most amazing instrument and I have no amp to play it through.”

  “You need a lift to the music shop?”

  “It’s an emergency.”

  Yang Chu was outside Smith’s house in less than twenty minutes. Smith locked up and climbed in the passenger seat.

  “I really appreciate this,” he said.

  “I was bored at home anyway,” Yang Chu set off in the direction of the city centre.

  He parked in the short stay car park round the corner from the Minster.

  “At least it’s stopped snowing,” Yang Chu got out of the car. “I’m sick of all this snow.”

  Smith closed the car door and took a deep breath. The air was crisp and cold. They set off in the direction of the music shop. They passed the McDonalds and were about to carry on when Yang Chu spotted stopped.

  “Hold on,” he said, “that’s Bridge.”

  He pointed inside the McDonalds. Bridge was sitting at one of the tables eating a hamburger. A young girl was sitting opposite him. They appeared to be deep in conversation.

  “Who’s he with?” Smith took a closer look.

  “Some kid,” Yang Chu said.

  “He mentioned something about his new girlfriend having a kid,” Smith said.

  “Shall we go in and say hello?”

  “Why not? Let’s go and wind him up a bit.”

  They went inside the McDonalds and walked up to where Bridge was sitting. Bridge looked up at them and frowned. He was obviously not very pleased to see them.

  “Afternoon Bridge,” Smith said. “I never would have pictured you as a fan of McDonalds.”

  “Afternoon Sarge,” Bridge said. “I’m not. I’m just keeping this little lady company while her mother does a bit of shopping.”

  “Hello there, “ Smith said to the young girl. “
I hope Bridge isn’t boring you too much.”

  The girl seemed vaguely familiar.

  “He’s not in the least bit boring,” she said in a tone that surprised Smith.

  She sounded much older than she looked.

  “Are you going to join us?” She asked.

  “No, we just came in to say hello. Wouldn’t you rather be shopping than sitting here with an old man?”

  “No,” she said. “I abhor shopping.”

  “OK,” Smith said. “Goodbye…”

  He looked her in the eyes.

  “Maggie,” she said.“My name’s Maggie. Goodbye.”

  “You know who that was don’t you?” Yang Chu said outside the McDonalds.

  “Who?”

  “The little girl, that’s the daughter of the guy who was killed on Christmas Day.”

  “I thought I recognised her. No wonder Bridge wanted to keep it a secret - he’s shacked up with the widow.”

  “Ex widow,” Yang Chu said. “If there is such a thing. She was divorced from Christopher Riley when he died.”

  “What on earth is Bridge playing at? She has to be at least ten years older than him.”

  “Maybe he likes that sort of thing.”

  “It’s not right, cozying up to a grieving widow. It’s not exactly ethical is it?”

  “If I remember right, the mother is quite a looker.”

  “It’s still not right.”

  They went inside the music shop and Smith studied the guitar amplifiers they had on display. One of them caught his eye immediately. It was an Orange micro twenty amp valve amp.

  “Can I help you?” A tall skinny youth with long greasy hair in a ponytail asked.

  “I’ve just got a new guitar,” Smith said. “And I need an amp. I was thinking about the Orange.”

  “What guitar have you got?”

  “A Les Paul gold top,” Smith said. “Eighty two model.”

  “The Epiphone one?”

  “Gibson,” Smith said.

  “Bloody hell, do you know what that thing’s worth?”

  “I have a vague idea,” Smith said. “I’ll take the Orange.”

  By the time Smith reached Yang Chu’s car he was exhausted. The amplifier wasn’t particularly heavy but it was awkward to carry and Smith wasn’t in the best physical shape.