by stewartgiles
THIRTY EIGHT
INTRUDER
Sunday 3 January 2009
“Did he give you any trouble?” Bridge asked as Smith, Whitton and Mick Hogg emerged through the Arrivals door at Manchester Airport.
“Quiet as a lamb,” Whitton said, “he seems more afraid of Roxy Jones than anything else.”
“I don’t blame him,” Bridge said, “she is quite vicious. I believe you had a nice dip in the sea whiled you were away?”
“Very funny,” Whitton said, “word travels fast. I’m sitting in the front on the way back to York; I’ve been as close as I ever want to get to this thug.”
Smith opened the back door of Bridge’s car, pushed Hogg inside and sat next to him. He still had the handcuffs attached.”
“Sorry about the break in at your place,” Bridge said as they left the airport car park.
“Thanks Bridge,” Smith sighed, “I need to get there as soon as we get back. I believe Thompson looked after the place while I was away? I must thank him for the favour.”
Bridge laughed.
“His wife kicked him out sir,” he said, “You actually did him a favour.”
“Why did she kick him out?”
“They’d had a big fight. She wanted him to leave the force. She’d been nagging him for ages it seems. He was making himself comfortable in one of the empty cells when the call came through about your place. You did him a favour, he jumped at the chance.”
“I must thank him anyway,” Smith insisted, “poor bastard.”
“It looks as if Martin Willow is still going to go down for killing his wife sir,” Bridge said.
The sign on the road indicated that York was fifty miles away.
“What about Roxy Jones?” Smith asked.
“We can only tie her to the murders of Lauren Cowley and Susan Jenkins. It seems the attacks on the Willows were mere coincidence.”
“There’s no such thing as coincidence,” Smith said, “You should know that by now.”
“I thought so too sir,” Bridge admitted, “but there is nothing to suggest that Roxy Jones had anything to do with it.”
“Has she confessed to the other murders?” Smith asked.
“Not yet sir, but the DI has an idea. She doesn’t know that we have him.”
Bridge pointed to Mick Hogg who was silent in the back.
“We’re going to let them accidentally bump into each other at the station.”
Hogg’s face turned ashen.
“Classic Police technique,” Whitton said.
“Straight out of the movies,” Smith added, “let them both know the other is being questioned and see which one rats out the other first.”
“But that’s not fair,” Hogg interrupted, “Roxy said she’d kill me if I didn’t keep my mouth shut.”
Smith winked at Whitton.
“Shut up you,” he said to Hogg, “you’re opinion ceased to count when you nearly drowned my colleague. Bridge, would you mind dropping me off at my house first, I’ll get to the station as soon as I can. I wouldn’t want to miss this for the world.”
Smith’s house was in a bit of a state. There was fingerprint powder everywhere; empty beer cans covered the floor and his entire CD collection was spread across the living room floor. Some of the cases had been smashed. He heard the sound of the toilet being flushed upstairs, the adrenalin began to pump and he was instantly alert. He hid behind the door and waited as he heard the intruder start to walk down the stairs. He looked around the room for something he could use as a weapon. That was when he realised his guitar was gone. His precious Fender had been stolen. The anger boiled up inside him. He picked up an empty Jack Daniels bottle and held it ready, above his head. The intruder had reached the bottom of the stairs and was coming straight towards him. Smith was ready. As the intruder entered the room, Smith grabbed him around the neck with one hand and brought the bottle down with the other. The man was too quick. He countered the attack, stuck an elbow in Smith’s midriff and neatly flipped him over on to one of the couches.
“How was the holiday Smith?” the man said.
“Thompson!” Smith croaked, “Where the hell did you learn to do that?”
“You pick up a few moves after twenty seven years in the force,” Thompson laughed.
“Sorry if I scared you,” Smith said, “or not.”
He stood up.
“I didn’t know you were still here.”
“So it seems,” Thompson said, “they had a real good go in here. Is there much missing?”
“I’ll have to check but they’ve definitely taken my bloody guitar; I’ve had that for ten years.”
“The fingerprint guys got loads of good prints.”
“So I see,” Smith surveyed the room, “they’ve been unusually thorough.”
“They get quite upset when its one of their own,” Thompson said, “you’ll need to make a list of what’s been taken and you’ll have to make a statement but I suppose you already know that.”
“That can wait,” Smith said, “we need to get to the station. We’ve got Roxy Jones and Mick Hogg there; I reckon its going to be quite explosive.”
“We’ll have to go in your car,” Thompson said, “my wife has taken mine; she’s gone to stay with her brother for a few days.”
“No problem,” Smith said, “Oh and one more thing Thompson…”
“What’s that?”
“Thanks. Thanks for keeping an eye on the place; you didn’t have to.”
“Does that mean we’re friends?” Thompson asked.
“No,” Smith replied immediately.
“Good,” Thompson said with a smile, “Let’s go.”