Smith

by stewartgiles

  THIRTY FIVE

  THE DROWNING MAN

  The room allocated to Smith and Whitton in the Hotel Casablanca had a much better view than the one afforded to the guests in 262. Whitton stared out of the window.

  “Do you know what sir,” she said, “I haven’t seen the sea for over two years. Isn’t that sad considering that we live on a small island?”

  “The sea’s overrated,” Smith replied, “where’s that manager?”

  “I hope those stamp collectors don’t make too much noise tonight,” Whitton joked, “I’ve heard they can be a rowdy lot.”

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Come in,” Smith said.

  The door opened and a tall blonde man with light brown eyes stood in the doorway.

  “Donovan Green,” he stuck out his hand to Smith. “I’m the manager of this place, have been for five years. Never had to deal with a corpse before though.”

  “DS Smith,” Smith shook his hand, “and this is DC Whitton.”

  Donovan Green’s eyes lit up when he heard Smith talk.

  “I’m from Melbourne,” he said, “spent the first twenty years of my life there.”

  “Cool,” Smith said, “I’m from York. Can we see the room next door please?”

  Green looked confused.

  “Of course,” he said, “I’ve got the key right here. It hasn’t been touched since they took the body away.”

  He led them to the next room and opened the door. The place was exactly as the cleaner had found it.

  “Have the local police been in here?” Smith asked.

  “The CNP,” Green replied, “no, they told us to wait until you had had a look.”

  “You can leave us to it,” Smith said, “We’ll call you if we need anything.”

  Donovan Green cast a glance at Whitton and left the room.

  “Can I ask you a question sir?” Whitton said.

  “Go for it Whitton,” Smith replied.

  “You always get so defensive when people mention anything about Australia. Why is that?”

  “It’s Bullshit.” He said it louder than he intended. “It’s all in the past,” he added, “just because we were born on the same stupid island doesn’t mean we have this instant fraternity bond. What do you see in this room Whitton?”

  “Looks like the stamp collectors were here sir.”

  Smith could not hold back a smile.

  “Sorry Whitton,” he said.

  “For what sir?”

  “I’ve been a bit of a miserable Git haven’t I?”

  “No more than usual. Looks like quite a party was had here. Where was the Susan Jenkins found?”

  “The side of the bed. This side. Whitton, stand by the door please.”

  She did as she was asked.

  “Can you see the side of the bed from there?”

  “No sir.”

  “Do you see this?” He pointed to the carpet.

  “See what?” Whitton was curious.

  “Stand on this side, the light’s better.”

  “What am I looking at?”

  “Do you see the way the carpet fibres are pointing in a different direction there?”

  “And here,” Whitton said, “It’s like a path.”

  “Exactly,” Smith said, “like a snail trail. It looks like something heavy was dragged from the window over to the side of the bed.”

  “Like a body?” Whitton suggested.

  “Exactly. What else doesn’t seem right?”

  “The bed. The bed is not straight.”

  “Standard hotel practice,” Smith said, “Most double rooms consist of two single beds. Couples usually just push the two together. These ones look like they were pushed together and someone tried to separate them again but didn’t do a very good job.”

  “If they were left together, the body would have been visible from the door.” Whitton observed.

  “Yes,” Smith said, “and maybe then, the CNP would have noticed there had been two people in the room straight away.”

  “We need to find the boyfriend,” Whitton said, “He’s got to be the killer.”

  “Slow down,” Smith warned, “you of all people should know by know that nothing is as it seems. Let’s ask a few questions first.”

  The reception had filled up as Smith and Whitton walked out of the lift.

  “Stamp collectors,” Whitton suggested.

  “Could I have a quick word?” Smith asked the receptionist.

  “Be quick,” she said curtly.

  “The woman who was found dead in room 262. Did you see much of her?”

  “I didn’t see her at all,” the woman said, “I’ve just returned from ten days leave. Lucia was working. She’s actually just finished her shift; if you hurry you may still catch her. She’s short with long blonde hair and she’ll still be wearing her uniform. Go left when you exit the hotel. Now please, will that be all; these philatelists can be very impatient.”

  “Thank you,” Smith said, “come on Whitton, we’ve got to run.”

  They rushed out of the hotel. The sun blinded their eyes as they turned left and half ran, half walked down the long road leading to the beach.

  “There she is,” Whitton cried, pointing to a short woman with blonde hair

  They quickly caught her up.

  “Excuse me,” Smith said.

  He was out of breath.

  “Are you Lucia?” he asked.

  “That’s me,” she replied. She seemed apprehensive.

  “Sorry if we startled you. We’re Police officers from England.”

  “Is this about the dead woman?” she asked.

  “Yes, the man who was with her; do you know where he went?”

  “I last saw him on New Year. It was the early hours of the morning. Him and the woman collected their key and went up to the room.”

  “And you haven’t seen him since?”

  “No, he never came down.”

  “Can you remember anything else about the woman?”

  “Not really, she spent most of the time in her room. There was one thing. She had a visitor.”

  “When was this?” Smith asked.

  “A few days ago. She seemed quite scared when I phoned up to her room to let her know.”

  “Can you remember this visitor?”

  “A woman, mid thirties, forties, around there. They talked for a while in the lobby.”

  Whitton took out her phone.

  “Was this her?” she asked. She showed her a photograph of Roxy Jones.

  “That’s her,” Lucia replied, “will there be anything else? I’m late for an appointment.”

  “You don’t know where the man might be?” Smith said, “It’s important that we find him.”

  “He usually drinks at the Los Paradiso Sports Bar,” Lucia replied, “it’s a tourist pub down on the beach front. He wore one of those T shirts they give away to good customers.”

  “Thank you,” Smith said,” you’ve been a big help.”

  “So Roxy’s trip to Morocco was a front,” Whitton said smugly, “I knew it.”

  “But what was she doing here?” Smith asked, “And how many other photographs have you got on that phone of yours?”

  “I’ve got Martin Willow,” Whitton began, “Roxy’s, Frank Paxton, Susan Jenkins and her boyfriend’s. I’ve also got some pretty compromising ones of you from New Year,” Whitton laughed, “but you’ll have to be nicer to me before I show you those.”

  Smith shook his head.

  “This is the place here,” he said, “Los Paradiso Sports Bar. Typical tourist place. People come to do exactly what they do at home with a bit of sun outside. Fancy a drink Whitton?”

  “Why not sir,” she said, “we are on holiday.”

  They sat at a table by the window. The place was very quiet. A waiter with a surly face cam to take their order

  “Two beers please,” Smith said. />
  The waiter shrugged his shoulders. “

  Spanish, English,” he said, “French, German, Dutch, Czech, we’ve got the lot.”

  “Spanish please,” Smith said, “San Miguel if you have it.”

  “Of course we have it,” the waiter said and walked off.

  “Friendly chap,” Whitton observed, “I bet the tourists love him.”

  “Let me see that photo of Mick Hogg again Whitton,” Smith said.

  She passed him her phone.

  “Looks like a nasty piece of work,” Smith said, “tattoos, piercings, evil eyes.”

  “Should be easy to find,” Whitton suggested.

  The waiter put their beers on the table.

  “Have you seen this man?” Smith showed him the photograph of Mick Hogg.

  “Big Shot Mick,” the man said immediately, “he spent a lot of money in here.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?” Whitton asked.

  “New Years Eve, I remember because he came in and put one thousand Euros on the bar. He was very popular that night.”

  “Did he come in alone?” Smith said.

  “He was with a woman, young, pretty with blonde hair.”

  “You said he was flush with cash?”

  The waiter paused.

  “Look,” he said, “I’m not one to pry on my customers but a couple of days before New Year he was here with another woman, an older one. They had a few drinks and she gave him an envelope full of cash.”

  “How did you know what was in the envelope?”

  “He wasn’t exactly discreet about it. He counted the whole lot on the table; there must have been a few thousand in there.

  “Thank you Mr?” Smith said.

  “Wurth,” the waiter replied, “Bill Wurth. What’s he done anyway?”

  “Nothing,” Smith lied, “we just need to talk to him, that’s all”

  He handed him his card.

  “If you see him again call me ok? How much do we owe you?”

  “On the house,” Wurth said, “it’s always good to help the Police.”

  “Do you ever have to pay for anything?” Whitton asked as they left the bar.

  “Just lucky I suppose,” Smith laughed, “I should be rich by now. Hold on Whitton, show me that photo of Mick Hogg again.”

  Whitton took out her phone and showed him.

  “That guy over there,” Smith whispered, “in the telephone booth, that’s him isn’t it?”

  “I think you may be right sir,” Whitton said, “What are we going to do?”

  “Let’s have a quiet word with him”

  “Shouldn’t we phone for back up sir?”

  Smith looked at her with a puzzled expression on his face.

  “Who are we going to call?” he said, “and we don’t even know where we are. Just walk towards him casually.”

  Smith took hold of Whitton’s hand and held it.

  “Sir,” she said, “what are you doing?”

  “Blending in Whitton. Relax; we are Mr and Mrs Smith after all.”

  As they approached the man in the phone booth, it became clear that it was Mick Hogg. Smith rapped on the glass of the phone booth.

  “It’s taken,” Hogg snarled, “piss off.”

  Smith took out his ID and placed it against the glass.

  “Mick Hogg,” he said, “please end your call, we’d like to have a quick word with you.”

  The blow seemed to come from nowhere. Smith felt like he had been hit in the midriff with a sledgehammer. He doubled up in agony. Hogg bolted off in the direction of the beach. Smith caught his breath and gave chase with Whitton not far behind him. Hogg was fast. Smith cursed himself for not exercising more; he used to be quite an athlete. Hogg raced along the beach but he was running out of land.

  “Stop him!” Smith screamed to a couple who were walking hand in hand just up ahead but they did not hear him.

  Hogg had reached a section of the beach where rocky screes blocked the passage round the point.

  “We’ve got him,” Smith panted, “there’s nowhere left for him to go.”

  “Unless he tries to swim for it,” Whitton said.

  She had caught up and was not even out of breath.

  “Shit,” Smith said, for Whitton was spot on.

  Hogg had run into the sea and was trying desperately to make a swim for it.

  “What do we do now Whitton?” Smith realised he was feeling dizzy; he was sweating.

  “Go after him,” Whitton said.

  Hogg was struggling in the water. He was a decent runner but he barely knew how to swim. Smith ran to the edge of the water and froze. He could not move.

  “He’s going to drown!” Whitton screamed.

  Smith did not appear to hear her. Hogg was really struggling now. He was making very little headway and his arms were flapping about in the water.

  “Sir!” Whitton shouted, louder this time.

  She looked at Detective Sergeant Jason Smith with dismay. The scene was disturbing. Smith was standing very still and he had a look of absolute terror in his eyes. Whitton ran past him into the water. The water was freezing. She swam out to where Hogg was splashing around. Whitton was a very strong swimmer but she had no idea what she was going to do when she reached the drowning man. Hogg was now finding it difficult to stay afloat and he had started to swallow water.

  “Hogg!” Whitton called out, “try and float. You’re going to drown unless you do as I say.”

  Hogg did not seem to hear her. She swam closer.

  “Piss off cop,” he spat a mouthful of water out.

  Whitton grabbed him by the arms. He was weak now from the struggle but he still managed to put his arm around her throat. He forced her head under the water and kept it there. Using all her strength, Whitton managed to twist herself round and with all her strength she managed to kick him hard in the groin. He let go immediately.

  “Sir!” Whitton called again, “I need some help here. Jason Smith, snap out of it.”

  Smith still did not move. It was as if something about the sea had hypnotised him. He stood there fixed to the spot. Hogg was close to exhaustion and was dragging Whitton under. She released his grip on her, put her arm around his chest and started swimming towards where Smith was still blankly staring on the shore. Hogg was now a dead weight and Whitton was running out of strength.

  “Just a few more strokes,” she told herself.

  She finally reached a place where her feet touched the bottom and paused for a while. With one last lunge, she managed to cover the last few metres and drag Hogg onto the beach. A sizeable crowd had now gathered and a few were eyeing Smith with some concern. As suddenly as it had begun, Smith’s trance was now over. He shook his head and turned to see Whitton and Hogg collapsed on the beach.

  “What the hell happened there sir?” Whitton was furious, “I could have drowned.”

  “I don’t know Whitton,” Smith said.

  He was still quite shaken.

  “That’s never happened before,” he added.

  “Now can we phone for back up?” Whitton was shivering, “and tell them to bring some towels.”