by stewartgiles
THIRTY THREE
MR AND MRS SMITH
Saturday 2 January 2009
“Detective Sergeant. I am Oficial Santos,” the officer shook Smith’s hand, “and this is my colleague, Agente Carlos. We are with the CNP, the Cuerpo Nacional de Policia.”
“Jason Smith,” he replied,” and this is Detective Constable Erica Whitton.”
Whitton stared at Smith, this was the first time Smith had used her first name at work.
“Oficial Santos,” Smith continued, “I must say that we appreciate you calling us.”
“You have my man here to thank for that Detective,” Santos said, “he is very diligent. We know the dead woman is Miss Susan Jenkins, we could find that out from her passport but Agente Carlos here found a student union card in her purse. It was from York University.”
“You contacted us very quickly,” Smith said, “I’m impressed. I believe the woman was only found yesterday.”
“Common courtesy Detective,” Santos smiled, “and I would hope that you would reciprocate should the shoe be on the other foot as it were.”
“Your English is impeccable,” Whitton said, “there are a few people in York who could learn a thing or two from you.”
Santos beamed.
“Thank you,” he said, “I spent a good many years in Ireland when I was younger.”
His chest seemed to have swelled up with pride.
“What do we know so far?” Smith asked.
Agente Carlos produced his notebook. He nervously turned a few pages.
“I’m sorry my English is not good like my Oficial,” he began, “but I get by. Girl found by cleaner tomorrow afternoon at two.”
“Yesterday,” Santos corrected him.
“Yesterday,” Carlos repeated, “at two.”
“We believe this woman is involved in a murder investigation,” Santos said.
“She could be,” Smith replied, “how do you know that?”
“Your friends in York seem very open with their information. I once had to liaise with some of your fellow Police in London. Those guys are so bloody secretive.”
Whitton laughed.
“We’re a bit more rough and ready up north, Oficial,” she said.
“Yes,” Smith added
He looked at Whitton.
“Yorkshire folk are very forward,” he said, “they have a saying in Yorkshire – I say what I like and I like what I bloody well say.”
“That’s funny,” Santos said.
“Can we see the room where the woman died?” Smith asked.
“Of course,” Santos replied, “we’ll drive there now and this evening you will both have supper with me and my family. Where are you staying?”
“My inspector thought it would be a good idea to stay at the hotel where the woman was found.”
“Very clever. You can get a feel about what happened. We’ll go in my car. Carlos will drive; he drives like a lunatic but I assure you he’s quite safe.”
“Tenerife is very beautiful,” Whitton said as they drove to the hotel, “It must be very nice to live here, it’s warm, even in January.”
“We get five million tourists here each year,” Santos said, “they are good for business but it gets too crowded. January is a very nice time, very quiet and this, Miss Whitton is what we call cold weather.”
“What happened to the dead woman’s boyfriend?” Smith interrupted.
“I can see you’re a very good Detective,” Santos said, “but we know nothing of any boyfriend.”
“Susan Jenkins was here with her boyfriend, Mick Hogg.”
“No boyfriend, just the woman. This is the hotel here. I’m afraid the body had to be taken away; a dead body in one of the rooms is not good for business but we informed the staff to leave the room exactly as it was until you got here.”
“Thank you Official,” Smith said, “I appreciate it.”
“Oficial,” Santos corrected him, “it’s the CNP equivalent of Sergeant.”
“Sorry Oficial. We’re going to check in first and then we’ll take a look at the woman’s room.”
“Will you be requiring anything else from us Detective?” Santos asked.
“Not for the moment,” Smith replied, “thank you again for all your help.”
Santos handed Smith his card.
“This is my number,” he said, “I’ve written my address on the back. You’ll come at seven and my wife will cook for you.”
“Thank you Oficial, see you then.”
The hotel lobby was deserted as Smith and Whitton walked up to the Reception desk.
“Good Morning,” Smith said, “we have reservations, the name’s Smith.”
“Mr and Mrs Smith,” the receptionist smiled, “yes, here it is. Room 260, I just need your passports please.”
“Mr and Mrs Smith?” Whitton whispered to Smith, “How corny is that?”
“You are the English Police aren’t you?” the receptionist said.
“That’s right,” Smith said
He noticed the look on Whitton’s face.
“Excuse me,” he said, “you don’t perhaps have another room? We’re not actually Mr and Mrs Smith. Detective Whitton is actually my colleague.”
“I’m sorry Sir,” the receptionist said, “there was only one room reserved and, even though it’s our quiet time the hotel was fully booked up a while ago by the London Philatelist society.”
“The what?” Smith asked.
“Stamp collectors,” Whitton said.
“Breakfast is served from seven until nine,” the receptionist added, “Here’s your key, number 260, second floor.”
“Can we see the room where the woman was found?” Smith asked.
“The room next to yours I’m afraid. I’ll give you a while to settle in and then I’ll ask the manager to come up and see you.”
“Thank you,” Smith said. He looked over at Whitton. “Come on Mrs Smith,” he said, “smile, we’re on holiday.”