Smith

by stewartgiles

Detective Sergeant Jason Smith was having the dream again; it was always the same dream. He was under the water and the waves were crashing violently above his head. He could see Laura, his sister, far away under the water. She held out her hand. She had the same look on her face as always. Her eyes were pleading him to help her. Then she drifted down, further down and she was gone. Smith swam down after her as he always did in the dream. He swam so far down that he felt his ears were about to burst. His ears started to ring, an incessant ring that got louder and louder. He woke with a start.

  “Holy Shit,” he said.

  He was drenched in sweat. His cell phone was ringing. He cursed himself for agreeing to be on call on Christmas Day. Nobody would be calling to wish him ‘Happy Christmas’. He picked up the phone.

  “Smith,” he said gruffly.

  It was DC Palmer. Another loser with no family or friends, Smith thought.

  “We’ve got a body sir,” Palmer said.

  “On Christmas Day?” Smith replied, “Where are you?”

  “I’m at the scene sir. It looks like a suicide.”

  “Address?”

  Smith grabbed a pen and the latest issue of Guitar Monthly that lay by the side of his bed.

  “Seven Hull Road,” Palmer said, “it’s a shared student house. The dead girl was a student at the University.”

  “Give me twenty minutes,” Smith said and hung up.

  Hull road was only a couple of miles away. Smith checked the clock on his bedside table. 07.30.

  “Bloody Hell,” he said out loud.

  He had had approximately three hours sleep. He had been at The Deep Blues Club until three and could not sleep when he came home.

  He went to the bathroom and dared to look in the mirror. He looked like he had had approximately three hours sleep; his eyes were more bloodshot than usual and he desperately needed a shave. He quickly threw some water on his face, brushed his teeth and took two aspirins from the bathroom cabinet. Robert Johnson’s ‘Crossroads Blues’ was playing in his head. I must have made a deal with the devil while I was drunk, he thought. He quickly made some coffee, poured it in a flask, picked up his ID and car keys and left the house.

  It was raining heavily outside. Smith raced to his car. The roads were deserted. He drove quickly up Fulford road, past the cemetery and took a right onto Lawrence which soon became Hull Road. There were two police cars outside number seven. As he opened the car door, DC Palmer walked up.

  “Morning Sir,” he said, “Merry Christmas. You look like shit.”

  “Where’s the body?” Smith said.

  “Upstairs. We’ve got uniform manning the door.”

  Smith entered the house with Palmer close behind him.

  “I thought you said this was a student pad,” Smith said.

  The place was immaculate.

  “It’s shared by four women sir,” Palmer replied, “they’re obviously house proud.”

  Two women in their early twenties were sitting in the lounge downstairs, drinking coffee. One of them had obviously been crying and was being consoled by the other one. The two detectives walked past them and up the stairs.

  “Second door on the right,” Palmer directed.

  Smith took out his badge and showed it to the uniformed officer guarding the door. He did not recognise her. She must be new, he thought.

  The dead girl was lying on the bed. Her eyes were closed and she merely looked asleep.

  “Pretty girl Sarge?” Palmer said.

  “Where’s the note?” Smith asked.

  “Bedside table. It was apparently in her hand but the girl that found her moved it after she had read it.”

  Smith took out his pen and opened the folded piece of paper with it. The suicide note consisted of just five words: ‘I AM SO SORRY MARTIN’.

  “What’s the girl’s name?” Smith asked.

  “According to the house mate, it’s Lauren Cowley, second year sociology student at the University. Straight A student all the way as far as I can tell.”

  “Who found her?”

  “The girl who was downstairs crying.”

  “Name?”

  “What Sarge?”

  “What’s the name of the girl who found her?” Smith’s headache was returning.

  He rubbed his temples gently.

  “Jane Brown, also a Sociology student.”

  “Let’s go and have a chat with Miss Brown then.”

  Palmer looked at his watch.

  “That is unless you have something better to do.”

  “No sir,” Palmer said quickly.

  “Miss Brown,” Smith said to the woman.

  She still looked distraught.

  “My name is DS Smith and you already know my colleague DC Palmer. I know it’s been a bit rough but we need to ask you a few questions. It won’t take long. I’m sure you could use a cup of coffee. I certainly could.”

  He addressed the other woman on the couch.

  “Two sugars, no milk.”

  She stood up, smiled at Smith and went to the kitchen.

  “Miss Brown,” Smith continued, “you found Lauren lying on the bed. Is that right?”

  “Yes.” She started to cry again.

  “Take your time,” Palmer said, “it’s going to be alright.”

  Smith glared at him.

  “What time did you find her?”

  “We’d agreed to get up at six to open presents, we all love Christmas. When Lauren didn’t get up I went upstairs to wake her. I thought she was asleep so I shook her.”

  “You shook her?”

  “She didn’t wake up. That’s when I found the note.”

  “Ah yes,” Smith mused, “the note. ‘I AM SO SORRY MARTIN’. Who is this Martin, a boyfriend?”

  “No. Lauren didn’t have a boyfriend. She was too busy with her studies. The only Martin I know of is Mr Willow. He lectures in Sociology occasionally at the University. He prefers it if we call him Martin.”

  Smith rubbed his temples again.

  “Does he now?” he said.

  “Lauren did some babysitting for Martin and his wife sometimes. She was supposed to be there last night but she wasn’t feeling well. She felt really bad about letting them down.”

  “That’s still no reason for killing herself.” Smith recalled the note – ‘I AM SO SORRY MARTIN’.

  “Was there anything going on between Lauren and this Martin Willow character?” he asked.

  “No, no way,” Jane Brown said, “Lauren wasn’t like that.”

  Smith’s phone rang.

  “Sorry Miss Brown.” He said.

  It was forensics.

  “That was quick for you guys,” he said, “Number seven. You can’t miss it.”

  He hung up.

  “You’re not from around here are you,” Jane Brown asked.

  “I live a few miles from here,” Smith replied.

  “I mean originally. That accent, its Australian isn’t it. I’m quite good at spotting accents. You play guitar don’t you; I saw you last night. You were very good.”

  “We may need to ask you a few more questions Miss Brown.” He ignored her questions. “And if you think of anything else please give me a call.”

  He handed her his card.

  “Palmer,” Smith said, “you’re finally free to go. Forensics can have a poke around but, to me it looks like a standard suicide, if there is such a thing. Young woman gets the Christmas blues and takes a few pills. We’ll see what the slimy bastards in forensics have to say and then hopefully sign off on the whole thing. I’m off to buy myself a Christmas present.”

  It was still raining as Smith drove away from the house. Why did I end up here? He thought as the rain came down harder. The clock on the dashboard said 10.00. He drove back the way he had come, turned left and followed the road round until he reached the bridge that spanned the River Ouse. The river was grey and it seemed to be flowing more quickly than usual today. He
crossed the bridge and carried on for a further two miles. He turned into a small side street and stopped the car outside a small house with a green roof. He took out the piece of paper with the address on it from his jacket pocket but when he heard dogs barking he put the paper back.

  Smith knocked on the door of the house. The door was opened by an elderly woman and immediately Smith was overwhelmed by four or five puppies. He smiled. He had always loved dogs. There was nothing sinister about them.

  “You lot,” the elderly lady said, “get off him. I’m sorry about that. Mr Smith isn’t it?”

  “That’s right,” Smith said, “I phoned you yesterday. Mrs Coates?”

  “That’s me dear. Would you like some tea?”

  “That would be great.”

  Old people were also on his favourites list.

  “Come through to the lounge,” Mrs Coates said, “and please excuse the mess. These little buggers will chew anything you leave around.”

  In the lounge was a small basket. The puppies had indeed made a bit of a mess. Chewed socks were strewn all over the room.

  “Take your pick,” Mrs Coates said, “apart from that white one there. She’s been promised to my daughter. I’ll go and pour the tea.”

  Smith knew immediately which dog he wanted. It was a black male; all black with a white ring around its neck and one white paw. It sat and looked Smith directly in the eye. The puppy approached him. Mrs Coates returned with the tea.

  “I see you’ve been chosen,” she chuckled, “I’ve had Bull Terriers for forty years and they’re all different, I can tell you that. That one there is quite a character.”

  Smith took a sip of his tea.

  “I’ve wanted a dog for quite some time,” he said, “This one is definitely the one.”

  The puppy was resting its nose on Smith’s feet.

  “Two hundred pounds you advertised?” he said.

  “That’s right,” Mrs Coates replied, “and worth every penny.”

  Smith paid her, finished his tea and got up to leave.

  “Thank you Mrs Coates,” he said.

  The puppy followed him Mrs Coates smiled. The dog had found a good home.

  Smith put the puppy on the passenger seat of the car and drove home. His Christmas Day plans were simple: he would go back to bed, wake up around 4 pm, have something to eat and spend the rest of the day with his puppy, watching the usual rubbish they show on television at Christmas. The puppy had other ideas however. It just wanted to play. Smith was prepared. He had bought a small dog bed and placed a warm blanket inside. He had put a box down and filled it with newspaper. He fed the puppy, gave it some water, placed it in the dog bed and went upstairs for a much needed sleep.

  After only two minutes Smith heard a mournful cry from downstairs. The puppy was sobbing. He covered his ears with a pillow but he could still hear it. Finally, Smith gave in, went downstairs and picked the puppy up. Immediately it stopped crying. He carried it upstairs and placed it on the bed. Smith climbed back into bed.

  “No more crying,” he said to the puppy.

  It began to explore the bed. The clock on the bedside table said 12.00. Smith closed his eyes and within a minute he was asleep. The puppy moved closer to Smith and curled up on his stomach. It too, was soon sound asleep.

  FIVE

  EXILED

  Friday 25 December 1998.