by stewartgiles
NINETEEN
YORKSHIRE
Smith parked his car in the car park of the Danby Moors centre. He had planned on only going as far as Pickering but as the rain came down harder and harder he had just kept on driving. A rare patch of blue sky the size of a football field had appeared to his left so he had driven towards it and ended up in Danby in the northern section of the North York Moors National Park. He had been here once before with his Gran; she had always said that Yorkshire was the most beautiful place on earth and the moors around Danby were some of the bleakest. The car park was empty and the sign told Smith that the Moors Centre was closed. He opened the car door and before he could stop him, Theakston fell out onto the dirt and rolled on his back. Smith laughed, put the puppy on his feet and locked the car door. It was a strange habit he had developed the moment he came to England; nobody ever locked their car doors in Fremantle.
Theakston spotted a magpie on a fence about twenty metres away and set off to give chase. Smith watched as the puppy reached full speed and tried to jump at the indifferent bird. He walked up to the fence where the magpie still stood, climbed over a wooden stile and headed off towards the river. The air felt fresh in his lungs. Theakston quickly caught him up and decided it was time to explore his new surroundings, stopping every minute or two to make sure Smith was still in view. Smith reached the River Esk and sat on a dead tree stump overlooking the river bank. With the river slowly running, he could finally think. He thought about the case. Wendy Willow, dead. Lauren Cowley dead. Penny Willow in a coma. Martin Willow did not do this, he thought. He needed to look more closely at Frank Paxton and Roxy Jones. His cell phone rang in his pocket. He took it out. It was Whitton.
“Tell me you’ve cracked the case and we can all go on holiday,” he said.
“Not quite,” she replied, “but I think I’ve got something. Where are you?”
“I’m sitting on a log next to the River Esk in Danby.”
“In Danby? How did you end up there?”
“Something brought me here. Theakstons loving it. What have you got?”
“The babysitter’s house mate, Susan Jenkins flew off to Tenerife yesterday with her boyfriend.”
“Are you telling me this to make me jealous?” Smith said.
“She was flat broke sir,” Whitton ignored his sarcasm, “I have a photograph of her and her boyfriend. Maybe Dave can identify them. She has blonde hair sir.”
“Good work Whitton,” Smith said, “does this mean you need me back in reality?”
“Sorry sir, shall we meet at the taxi depot in forty five minutes?”
“Give me an hour. These roads are pretty narrow.”
“There’s something else sir,” Whitton added.
“What’s that?” Smith asked.
“You have a bit of a fan club at the Deep Blues Club.”
“I’ll see you in an hour.”
He hung up.
As Smith drove back to York he made a mental to do list. They had overlooked a number of factors that may be important. First they had to find out who was the father of Lauren Cowley’s baby. He remembered the message she had left on Martin Willow’s phone. ‘I’m sure she knows’. Who was she talking about? How did the Benzodiazepine find its way into Lauren Cowley and all of the Willows? There were huge pieces of the puzzle missing.
Whitton was waiting outside the taxi depot as Smith drove up.
“Nice work Whitton,” he said as they walked in together.
“There’s something else sir,” she said, “The baby sitter drank two bottles of expensive wine the night she died. I managed to get my hands on the empty bottles so we can have them tested.”
“Tested for what?” Smith asked.
“The drug we found in hers and the Willow’s systems. If we can find out where the bottles came from we might get closer to catching whoever did this.”
Her green eyes were sparkling.
“Jane Brown, Lauren’s house mate said the wine belonged to Susan Jenkins, the woman who conveniently did a runner yesterday.”
“Go on Whitton,” Smith was intrigued.
“If we can get the taxi driver to identify Susan from the photo, I have another theory I’d like you to consider.”
“What theory?”
“Let’s see what our friend Dave has to say first.”
As luck would have it, Dave was still there when Smith and Whitton entered the staff room.
“Mr Smith,” he said with a grin, “we’re becoming good friends. Twice in one day and you’ve brought a friend this time.”
He beamed at Whitton.
“We’ve come back to test that amazing memory of yours,” Smith said. “The woman and man you took on separate fares on Christmas Eve, do you think you would recognise them?”
“Of course,” Dave replied.
Whitton showed him the photograph of Susan Jenkins and Mick Hogg.
“That’s the man,” Dave said immediately, “and the woman has the same face but her hair was different; it was blonde.”
“Are you absolutely sure?” Smith asked.
“Positive. I could be a police man like you Mr Smith.”
Smith’s heart began to beat faster. They were finally getting somewhere.
“Thank you Dave,” Smith said, “you’ve helped us a lot.”
“Any time Mr Smith,” Dave replied.