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

by Stewart Giles

  “Why did you kill those men?”

  “You know why, I had no choice. The faces in the moon are different each time you know.”

  Smith didn’t know what to say. He remembered something he had practiced over the weekend.

  “Selene,” he said. “Selene Lupei. Unde te-ai nascut?”

  Blakemore looked at him with interest. There was a sparkle in her eyes and she smiled.

  “Am fost nascut in Borsa desigor,” she said.

  Smith’s heart sank. He had asked her where she was born and she had replied in fluent Romanian that she was born in Borsa. There could be no doubt - Jessica Blakemore was Selene Lupei. Smith had found his serial killer.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY ONE

  Jessica Blakemore confessed to the murders of Christopher Riley, Arnold Mather and Luka Gravov. She described the killings in such detail that there was no reason to doubt her word. She claimed that she couldn’t carry on any more and she was ready to face the consequences of her actions before the next full moon. When questioned about the unusual knife, Blakemore said she had thrown it in the river - she had discarded it once and for all. After the confession, Blakemore seemed to have cocooned herself in her own little world and she hadn’t uttered a word since. She’d been taken away to a secure mental facility where she was under twenty four hour suicide watch.

  Smith sat opposite Whitton in the canteen. Bridge and yang Chu walked in and sat down. Nobody seemed to know what to say.

  Bridge sighed.

  “I can’t believe it’s all over,” he said. “I thought it would never be over.”

  “I still don’t get it,” Smith said. “We worked with the woman day in and day out.”

  “I can’t believe we didn’t notice something,” Yang Chu said.

  “She’s a psychopath,” Whitton joined in. “Her brain is not right.”

  “What do you think will happen to her?” Yang Chu said.

  “She’ll probably end up in a nut house,” Bridge said. “She’s a first class whacko.”

  “We should be celebrating,” Yang Chu said. “We’ve just put an end to the most frustrating case in history.”

  “Does anybody really feel like celebrating?” Smith said, “I certainly don’t.”

  “It’s Valentine’s Day,” Bridge said. “I’m certainly not going to let all this put a downer on my plans. I’ve got a hot date lined up.”

  “It’s my birthday today,” Smith said. “One more year and I’ll be thirty.”

  “That’s old,” Yang Chu said.

  “Happy birthday,” Whitton said. “I didn’t know it was your birthday. Do you want to do something later?”

  “Like a date?” Smith smiled at her.

  “Maybe.”

  “Sounds good, I feel like a steak and ale pie and a few gallons of Theakstons.”

  “I’ll pick you up at seven then. When’s your car going to be fixed?’

  “Wednesday. It’ll be good to have the old banger back again.”

  DI Brownhill walked in the canteen with Chalmers. Brownhill looked very tired.

  “Before you all head off for the day,” she said. “We need to talk about damage control. What happened during this investigation stays between these four walls. Is that clear?”

  “I agree,” Smith said. “If the press get wind of what happened, they’ll eat us alive.”

  “I’ve got a birthday present for you,” Chalmers handed Smith a small box.

  “You shouldn’t have,” Smith said.

  He opened the box. Inside was a small plaque. The words, ‘DS Jason Smith. For outstanding commitment to the job 2010’ were written in italics on the wood.

  “I thought I’d save you the embarrassment of a ceremony. Smyth took a bit of convincing though. You owe me one.”

  “Top cop of two thousand and ten,” Bridge said. “I think we should sing for he’s a jolly good fellow.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” Smith said.

  He stood up.

  “I’ll see you at seven,” he said to Whitton. “I’ll see the rest of you on Friday. I’ve got three days off. If I don’t take it, I’ll lose it.”

  He walked out of the canteen.

  “He seems a bit down,” Yang Chu said. “It’s his birthday as well.”

  “This investigation has left a bitter taste in all our mouths,” Brownhill said. “Jessica was a friend. I for one certainly won’t be celebrating this one.”

  “Can I give you a bit of advice?” Chalmers said. “Put it behind you. I’m afraid you’re going to come across worse ones than this in the future - that’s just the way it is.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY TWO

  Friday 18 February 2011

  Smith woke up to the telephone ringing on his bedside table. He rubbed his eyes. It wasn’t quite light yet but the sun was starting to rise. He realised that the ring tone on his phone was not his usual one.

  “I’m still dreaming,” he said.

  He thought about what Jessica Blakemore had told him about controlling his dreams.

  Here goes, he thought.

  He got out of bed and opened the curtains. The sun and the moon were both out together. Smith closed his eyes and ran at the window. He crashed through the glass and felt a sharp pain in his arm. A shard of glass had sliced open his shoulder. He felt himself falling and landed on the pavement with a dull thud.

  “Jesus Christ,” Smith woke up in bed.

  I need to practice that a bit more, he thought.

  His phone was ringing on the table next to the bed. It was his usual ringtone. He picked it up and looked at the screen. It was Webber.

  “Webber,” Smith said. “Don’t you ever sleep? It’s still the middle of the night.”

  “I’ve got some bad news.”

  “Great,” Smith said. “I was planning on being in a good mood today.”

  “I found the hair - the hair that was on the watch strap. One of my technicians decided to bag it separately and didn’t have the common sense to tell me.”

  “Why’s that bad news?”

  “If it’s Jessica Blakemore’s hair it’s bad news.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I compared it to the other hair samples,” Webber said. “The ones from the murder scenes and the owner of this hair is not the same woman who killed those three men.”

  “Are you sure?” Smith could hear his heart beating in his ears.

  “Positive. And it gets worse. I wanted to make absolutely sure so I compared the fingerprints from the last crime scene with the ones we took from Jessica Blakemore.”

  “They don’t match do they?”

  “Nope,” Webber said. “Looks like we’ve locked up the wrong woman.”

  “But she confessed,” Smith said.

  “I’m just giving you the facts. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

  He rang off.

  Smith couldn’t believe what Webber had told him. Jessica Blakemore had confessed to three murders she didn’t commit.

  Why would she do that? He thought.

  He got dressed and went downstairs to make some coffee. While he was waiting for the kettle to boil he went outside and smoked a cigarette. He phoned Whitton.

  “Morning,” Whitton sounded wide awake.

  Smith told her what Webber had said.

  “You’ve got to be kidding?” Whitton said. “Why did she confess then?”

  “I have no idea. I should have known. There was something gnawing away at me in the back of my mind - there was something just not quite right about the whole thing.”

  “What do we do now?”

  “We go back to square one. The full moon will be out tonight. If Jessica Blakemore isn’t Selene Lupei someone is going to be killed tonight.”

  “I’ll see you at the station in half an hour,” Whitton said.

  “This isn’t good at all,” Brownhill said.

  Smith, Whitton and Yang Chu sat in her office. Bridge had a day off and he had turned his mobile phone
off.

  “Jessica Blakemore is lying in a hospital bed drugged up to the eyeballs,” Brownhill said. “She’s been charged with three murders she had no hand in.”

  “Why did she confess?” Yang Chu said.

  “I don’t know. Her state of mind is not exactly stable. I think she’s suffered some kind of serious breakdown. What I do know is there’s a killer still out there and it’s highly likely she’s going to kill again tonight.”

  “Where’s Bridge?” Whitton said.

  “His phone is off,” Brownhill said. “I can’t get hold of him.”

  “How the hell are we going to find this woman?” Smith said. “We have until tonight. We’ve been working on this for months and we still have no idea where to look.”

  “Go through the immigration files again,” Brownhill said. “There must be something we’ve overlooked.”

  “We found nothing in there,” Smith said.

  “It’s all we’ve got to go on,” Brownhill said much louder than she intended. “A man is going to die tonight unless we find this woman.”

  Smith opened up the familiar list of names again. They were running out of time. He went through all the names of the women who had arrived from Romania in ninety one and ninety two and reaped the same results.

  She’s not here, he thought, this is a complete waste of time.

  He left his office and went to the canteen to get some coffee. He took the coffee outside and lit a cigarette.

  This is pointless, he thought.

  He took a long drag of the cigarette and exhaled a cloud of smoke.

  Think, he thought, what haven’t I thought of?

  He’d gone through every single Romanian woman who had arrived in the UK in the two years in question and he had not managed to find anything.

  Romanian, he thought, Romanian immigrants.

  A thought suddenly occurred to him. He remembered something he had watched on the television recently - a droning voice lecturing him about the status of immigrants. He threw the cigarette butt into the distance and went back to his office. He picked up the phone.

  “Whitton,” he said. “Find anything yet?”

  “Nothing,” Whitton sounded dejected. “What about you?”

  “I’ve come up with an idea. Forget about looking for Romanians.”

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “Stateless citizens. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. I don’t think Selene Lupei entered the country as a Romanian citizen. I don’t believe she possessed a passport. She came in as a stateless citizen. We need to check every person of unknown origin who entered the country in ninety one and ninety two. Tell Yang Chu to get onto it too.”

  He rang off.

  Smith’s heart was beating fast and his fingers were fumbling on the keyboard.

  We’re getting closer, he thought, I can feel it.

  His optimism soon faded when he realised how many people of unknown origin had entered the UK in ninety one and ninety two. There were six hundred and eighty five of them. Of those, three hundred and ten were women and eighteen were of the age Selene Lupei would have been in those years. He emailed the list to Whitton and Yang Chu, instructing them to take six names each.

  Four hours later, having eliminated all but six of the names on the list, they met in the canteen for a break.

  “It would have been easier if Bridge was here,” Whitton said. “I can’t believe he’s switched his phone off.”

  “He’s with that old woman of his,” Yang Chu said.

  “We’ll keep going,” Smith said. “Bridge doesn’t even know what’s going on. He’d be here if he knew.”

  He returned to his office and continued with the list. Half an hour later he was left with one more name. Emilia Lopez.

  “Here goes,” he said.

  Emilia Lopez came into the country in October nineteen ninety one. She arrived in Dover with no passport or any other documents to indicate where she’d come from. She’d been taken in as an asylum seeker and spent the first six months in an immigration centre. After that, there was no further information about her.

  “Damn it,” Smith said.

  He didn’t know where else to look. He noticed that there was a telephone number on the screen - a number for general information. He picked up the telephone and dialled the number. He listened as an automated voice gave him a number of options. He pressed seven to speak with an operative.

  “Immigration,” a woman with a deep voice answered.

  “Goof afternoon, Smith said. “My name is detective sergeant Jason Smith. I’m trying to find out some information about a woman who came into the country almost twenty years ago.”

  “We’re not at liberty to give out that kind of information to just anybody,” the woman said.

  “I’m not just anybody, my name is DS Smith and this is extremely important.”

  “I’m sorry sir, but how do I even know you are who you claim to be?”

  “Phone this number.”

  Smith gave her the number for the central switchboard.

  “Ask to be put through to DS Smith,” he said. “This is a matter of life and death.”

  Smith looked at the clock on the wall. It was half past two. In a couple of hour’s time, the sun would go down and the moon would appear. The telephone on his desk started to ring.

  “Smith,” he said.

  “DS Smith,” the monotone of the immigration operative said. “What do you need to know?”

  “A woman entered the UK in October nineteen ninety one. Her name is Emilia Lopez. I need all the information you have on her. Where she ended up. Everything. Do you think you can manage that?”

  “Give me your email address, and I’ll look into it for you. It should only take a couple of days.”

  “I don’t have a couple of days. I have a couple of hours. A man is going to die unless I get this information now.”

  The line went quiet. Smith realised he had gone a bit far with his little outburst.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Please can you send me the information straight away?”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” the woman said and hung up.

  Smith spent the next half an hour staring at the screen of his computer. He’d opened up his emails and was waiting for the information on Emilia Lopez. No new emails had arrived. He picked up the phone and was about to phone the immigration department again when a familiar beep told him he had received an email. He clicked on it. It was from the woman he had spoken to on the phone. There was a file attachment with the email. Smith opened it up and a detailed file filled the screen. There was a photograph of a young girl. It was black and white and slightly out of focus but when Smith looked closely, there was no doubt about it - he had found Selene Lupei.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY THREE

  Whitton, Yang Chu and Smith were sat round Smith’s desk. They were looking at the computer screen.

  “That’s her,” Yang Chu said. “That’s the same girl as the one in the photograph Luka Gravov sent you.”

  “Emilia Lopez,” Smith said. “She came here in October ninety one. She arrived at Dover and spent the next six months in a centre for asylum seekers.”

  He scrolled down the page.

  “It says she was placed in foster care, and then lived with a family in Southampton for a while. Mr and Mrs Higgins. Martin and Lisa.”

  After that there was no further information. Smith looked at the clock. It was almost three. He picked up the phone and dialed the number for the front desk.

  “Baldwin,” he said. “I need you to find the numbers for every Martin Higgins in Southampton.”

  “You don’t ask for much do you?”

  “I need the numbers two hours ago.”

  Ten minutes later, Smith was talking to the third Martin Higgins in Southampton.

  “Mr Higgins,” he said. “My name is DS Smith. Do you know a woman by the name of Emilia Lopez?”

  “Emily?” Higgins said. “Of course
. Lisa and I took her in about twenty years ago. What’s this all about?”

  “I’m trying to find her. It’s important that I speak to her. Do you know where she is now?”

  “We lost touch. We looked after her for just over a year but she went her own way when she turned eighteen. What’s this all about?”

  “Do you have any idea where she went after she left you?”

  “Emily was a wild one,” Higgins said with a hint of pride in his voice. “But I believe she settled down eventually. Last I heard was she met this IT geek and got married. Hold on a minute.”

  Smith could hear he had put down the phone and voices were heard in the background.

  “Riley,” Higgins said eventually. “That was his name. We only met him once. The wife has a much better memory than me. Emily married a man called Christopher Riley.”

  Smith held the phone to his ear long after he had finished talking to Martin Higgins.

  “Emily Riley is Selene Lupei,” he said. “The first man she killed was her ex husband.”

  “Bridge is with her now,” Yang Chu said.

  “And the sun is already starting to set,” Whitton added.

  Smith was out of his office and down the corridor in seconds. He barged into Brownhill’s office.

  “We’ve got her,” he said. “Selene Lupei is Emily Riley.”

  “The ex wife of the first victim?” Brownhill said. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive, I’ve just spoken with the man who looked after her shortly after she arrived in the country. Bridge is with her now.”

  “What the hell is Bridge doing with her?”

  “He’s been seeing her for a while. I’m going over there right now.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” Brownhill said. “Have you tried phoning Bridge?”

  “His phone is still switched off. He’s in danger. We have to get there now. I think Bridge is going to be the next one.”

  “You’ll wait for back up. This woman is extremely dangerous. I want armed officers on the scene first.”

  “There’s no time,” Smith ran out of the office and headed for the door.