Smith

by stewartgiles

Smith woke with a start. He looked at the clock: 17.30. He had slept for over five hours and he felt refreshed. The puppy was still by his side. Smith smiled. He could not figure out what had woken him. He had not had the dream. This little fella is good for me, he thought. He was incredibly hungry and what he felt like more than anything in the world was one of Marge’s Steak and Ale pies with mash and gravy from the Hog’s Head pub down the road. He reached for his phone. He had the number of the Hog’s Head on speed dial.

  “Marge,” he said, “it’s Jason, Merry Christmas. Are you still serving food?”

  “Steak and Ale pie is it?” she replied, “I’m sure I can whip one up for a good looking police detective.”

  Marge was over seventy.

  The puppy began to stir.

  “Oh and Marge,” Smith said, “I’ve got myself a cute puppy. I don’t want to leave him at home by himself.”

  “If you take care of him, make sure he’s no nuisance then he’s welcome.”

  “Thanks Marge. You’re a darling.”

  He hung up.

  “Come on you,” he said to the puppy, “we’re off to the pub. I’m sure you’re also hungry.”

  The Hog’s Head was one of the few traditionally English pubs left in York. It was a free-standing building with a rustic air about it. Smith opened one of the wooden doors and went inside. He shook the rain off his coat. There was a log fire burning on one side of the bar. Apart from an old man reading a newspaper at one of the tables, the place was empty. Smith smiled. He did not feel like bumping into anyone he knew. He approached the bar. Marge was sitting behind it knitting what looked like a very intricate pattern. “Hello handsome,” she said with a smile.

  She reminded Smith very much of his Grandmother.

  “Steak and Ale Pie and a Pint of Theakstons?” she asked.

  “Perfect Marge,” Smith replied, “and could you please get me a saucer of water for this little bugger?”

  The puppy was poking his nose out of Smith’s jacket.

  “What a little darling,” Marge said, “naughty little tyke too, I can see. What’s his name?”

  “I don’t know yet Marge, I’m waiting for something to come to me.”

  Marge poured the beer.

  “It’s very quiet in here today Marge,” Smith said.

  “Nobody seems to want this kind of thing any more,” Marge sighed, “apart from the tourists of course but they won’t come this time of the year. Breweries are killing us too. People would rather buy from the supermarkets and drink at home. Times are hard. I don’t know how much longer we can survive. Look at old Stan over there.”

  She pointed to the old man reading the paper.

  “God bless him, he comes in every day but I’m not going to get rich from old buggers who nurse half a pint for three hours.”

  She placed Smiths beer on the counter.

  “I’ll just go and see to your pie,” she said, “mash and gravy too?”

  “Thanks Marge,” Smith replied, “we’ll be sitting by the fire.”

  “I think I’ll find you,” she said and went through to the kitchen.

  Smith picked up his beer and walked over to the table. He removed his coat and put it on the back of his chair to dry off. The fire warmed him immediately.

  The puppy started to investigate. It approached the fire wearily. It could discern that the orange thing with its snaky flames was inviting but it did not dare to get too close. Smith took a large swig of his beer. It had taken him quite a while to get used to the taste of English beer but in the cold it made sense. Marge approached the table with a saucer of water and a side plate.

  “Pie will be about twenty minutes,” she said.

  “Thanks Marge,” he said.

  He put the saucer on the floor for the puppy, walked over to where it was trying to climb up the old mans chair and picked it up. He placed it in front of the saucer. The puppy was not interested. Smith sighed and took a swig of his beer. He bent down and picked the puppy up. Its nose twitched and it looked up at Smith’s face. Smith gave it a kiss on the nose. That was when it went bezerk. Its tongue licked Smith’s face with gusto. It lingered over his lips and Smith had to pull it away. He had an idea. He emptied the saucer of water into a plant pot in the corner and poured a tiny drop of beer in it. He put the saucer in front of the puppy and within seconds it was empty. Smith poured some more. He could not pour it quickly enough. Smith was amazed. Marge walked over with a place mat and some cutlery. Smith picked up the puppy.

  “Marge,” he said, “meet Theakston.”

  At that moment, the puppy let out such a resounding belch that both Smith and Marge could not believe it could have come from such a small creature.

  “You watch your manners in here,” Marge said and patted him on the head.

  “Could I get another pint please Marge,” Smith asked, “this guy has just knocked back the best part of half a pint.”

  “Coming up, but no more for the dog. He’s still a baby remember.”

  Smith laughed. This was a dog after his own heart.

  Marge returned with another beer and the steak and ale pie.

  “Thanks Marge,” Smith said, “looks great.”

  Smith cut off a small piece for Theakston and let it cool on the side of the table. He tucked in with gusto. Marge’s steak and ale pies were the closest thing Smith had come to his Gran’s cooking. His phone rang in his pocket. He sighed; when his phone rang it was never good news. He considered ignoring it but that thought lasted precisely two rings. He took out the phone and answered it before the answering service kicked in.

  “Smith,” he said.

  “Sorry to bother you sir.” It was DC Palmer. “Something unusual has come up in the Lauren Cowley case.”

  “Unusual?” Smith asked. “Would you care to elaborate?”

  He took another mouthful of the pie. This phone call would almost certainly mean his Christmas Day plans were shot.

  “If it’s ok with you sir,” Palmer said, “I’d rather not discuss it over the phone.”

  Theakston was trying to reach the pie on the table. Smith put the plate on the floor.

  “Palmer,” Smith said with a mouth full of pie, “where are you?”

  “I’m at the mortuary sir. I think it would be best if you got over here.”

  “Perfect,” Smith moaned, “who the hell doesn’t want to spend what’s left of Christmas Day in the morgue?”

  “Sir?”

  “Give me an hour,” Smith said, “I’m just finishing one of Marge’s world famous steak and ale pies. The girl will still be dead when I get there.”

  He hung up. He regretted saying that immediately. Theakston was begging for more pie.

  “Jeez boy,” Smith said to the puppy, “I’ve never met such a pig.”

  Smith and Theakston finished the pie between them. Smith could not help wondering what was waiting for him at the morgue. He still had a full pint of beer in front of him. He picked it up and put it in front of the old man who was still reading his paper.

  “Thanks Pal,” the old man said, “That’s quite a dog you’ve got there; although I wouldn’t want to be you when the flatulence kicks in later.”

  He took a big swig of his free beer. Smith put on his coat, put Theakston inside it and went to pay.

  “Thanks Marge,” he said, “I’ve been called away.”

  He paid the bill.

  “Merry Christmas young man,” Marge said.

  “You too Marge. I hope things get a bit busier.”

  It was still raining as Smith left the warmth of the Hog’s Head and walked outside. Theakston had overindulged in the pub and could barely keep his eyes open so Smith put him on the passenger seat and covered him with his coat. The mortuary was roughly a fifteen minute drive from the Hog’s Head. As he drove, Smith recollected his first impressions of the scene where Lauren Cowley had been found dead. University student found dead. Straight A student. Apparent su
icide. Suicide letter: ‘I AM SO SORRY MARTIN.’ No sign of a struggle. What could Palmer possibly have found out?

  Smith parked the car in the hospital car park. Theakston was still sleeping so he wrapped him up warmly and left him in the car. DC Palmer was waiting for him outside the mortuary.

  “What’s the situation?” Smith asked.

  “Its not a suicide sir,” Palmer began, “looks like we’re looking at a double murder.”

  Smith was confused.

  “What do you mean double murder?” he said.

  “A heavy sedative was found in her bloodstream sir,” Palmer took out his notebook. “It’s a Benzodiazepine.”

  Smith shrugged his shoulders.

  “What the hell’s that?” he asked

  “Like Rohypnol,” Palmer said.

  “The date rape drug?”

  “That’s right sir, but that’s not how she died; she was suffocated. Probably smothered with a pillow while she was out of it. The sedative numbed her muscles so there was no obvious sign of a struggle but there were traces of fibre that could have come from the pillow in her mouth, nose and throat.”

  “You said it was a double murder,” Smith said.

  “She was pregnant,” Palmer replied, “six to eight weeks. I know that legally, a foetus in that stage of development does not have the same legal rights but in my book it’s still two deaths.”

  “Palmer,” Smith said, “we have one murder. Let’s concentrate on the one we can nail the bastard for.”

  “Ok sir,” Palmer agreed.

  “What about the note,” Smith asked, “Who wrote that?”

  “The only prints we found on it were Lauren Cowley’s.”

  “Where is the note?”

  “It’s still down at the station.”

  “How long have you been at it today Palmer?”

  “Since six this morning sir.”

  Smith checked his watch: 19.30. “I still need to talk to the pathologist,” Smith said, “and then I want to check in at the station but you can get going. I’m sure you have someone who’s missing you at home.”

  “Just Lady Whiskers sir,” Palmer replied.

  “Who?”

  “My cat sir.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow. Eight sharp.”

  “Thanks sir,”

  “Lady Whiskers,” Smith said out loud when Palmer had left, “for Pete’s sake. Shit. Theakston.”

  The puppy was still in his car.

  The rain had decided to give up for the night as Smith went back to his car. A thin mist now cloaked the car park in an eerie haze. He opened the passenger side and looked in. Theakston peered up at him. Smith moved the puppy off his coat and put it on. Something was vibrating in the pocket of the coat; his cell phone. Theakston had somehow managed to switch the ring tone to vibrate only as he slept on it. Smith took the phone out of the pocket. He had missed three calls.

  “Smith,” he answered the phone.

  “Where are you?” It was Detective Sergeant Alan Thompson, a fossil of a man whom Smith was not particularly fond of.

  “I’m at the hospital,” Smith replied curtly, “at the morgue. Remember the dead girl found this morning while you were probably still asleep?”

  “We’ve got a body,” Thompson said gravely, “three actually; one dead, one just about dead and one gibbering wreck we can’t get any sense out of.”