by stewartgiles
SEVENTY SIX
WEDDING BELLS
“What the hell is wrong with Smith?” Chalmers asked Thompson, “he barged out of my office like a mad man.”
“I don’t know Sir,” Thompson said, “he ran straight past me out of the door; he said our man is with Whitton in Whitby.”
“What did he mean by that?”
“Something about the Willow murder. He’s not answering his phone either.”
“Go after him,” Chalmers ordered.
“What Sir?”
“Go and find him. Take Bridge with you; there’s obviously something wrong.”
Smith was driving too fast along the A64 to Scarborough. Theakston was sleeping on the passenger seat; he was snoring. Nothing fazes this dog, Smith thought as he pressed down on the accelerator. He looked at the speedometer. Ninety miles an hour. He noticed he was very low on fuel. There had been a petrol station a few miles back but he decided to risk it until he found another one. The petrol light had now come on; he would have about twenty miles in reserve. He reached the outskirts of Scarborough and turned left onto the coast road to Whitby. His heart was beating fast; what has Dave done with Whitton? He thought. Has he hurt her? He saw a sign telling him there was a petrol station just up ahead. Relieved, he parked the car next to a pump and got out. He noticed for the first time that it was reasonably warm outside and there were no rain clouds in the sky. He filled up the tank and went inside the shop to pay. The woman behind the counter smiled at him as he approached. He decided to take a chance.
“Afternoon,” he said to the woman, “you haven’t perhaps seen a woman and a man here today have you? A Chinese man and a woman in her mid twenties with green eyes.”
“It’s been very quiet today,” the woman said, “I think there was a woman in here earlier.”
Smith realised he had a photograph of Whitton on his phone. He showed it to the woman.
“That’s her,” she said, “she was all dressed up. I didn’t see a man though, although he could have been waiting in the car.”
“What time was this?” Smith asked.
“About an hour ago,” she replied.
“Thanks,” Smith said and paid for the petrol. “How far is Whitby from here?”
“About twenty miles on the A171,” she said.
Smith ran out of the shop. The woman watched in amazement.
The A171 to Whitby was a beautiful stretch of coastal road. Smith could not drive more than sixty mile per hour as there were some dangerous bends. After two miles or so, something caught his eye on the side of the road. He stopped the car and reversed back to the side road. He parked the car where he thought he had seen something. There was a wheel lying in the middle of the road with a spanner on the top. The tyre was deflated. A few metres away Smith found what had caught his eye. It was a cell phone. He picked it up and saw that the screen was cracked but it still seemed to be working. He recognised the phone immediately; it was Whitton’s. He put the phone in his pocket, took out his own phone and dialled Thompson’s number.
“Thompson,” he said, “I need you to get to Whitby as soon as possible.”
“We’re half way there,” Thompson said.
Smith was amazed.
“Who’s with you?” he asked.
“Bridge. Chalmers told us to follow you. What’s going on?”
“I think our friend Dave killed Wendy Willow and I’m almost certain he’s kidnapped Whitton.”
“Wait for us to catch up,” Thompson ordered.
“There’s no time,” Smith said. He rang off, got back in the car and sped off in the direction of Whitby.
As he drove, Smith tried to figure out what he would do when he got there. He had never been to Whitby before. He gazed out across the North Sea on his right hand side. “Focus,” he said to himself and concentrated on the road instead.
The wedding was on a boat in the middle of February. Whitton must know some crazy people, he thought, why did it have to be on a boat? He saw Whitby in the distance ahead of him. He turned right on to Church Street and then left onto Bridge Street. The River Esk emptied into the sea just ahead. He started to panic as he drove down Pier Street and saw the North Sea in front of him. He stopped the car, took a few deep breaths and patted Theakston on the head. He parked the car in a car park at the top of the town.
“Wait here boy,” he said to Theakston. He locked the car and looked around. He could see plenty of boats in the harbour but none of them looked like they were about to take a wedding party out. Who the hell would want to start their wedded bliss like this? Smith thought. He could picture Thompson and his wife. I bet they didn’t get married on a bloody boat, he thought. He took out his phone and rang Thompson’s number.
“Where are you?” Thompson asked.
“I’m running down to the harbour,” Smith replied.
“Wait for us there. Don’t do anything stupid.”
Whitton’s phone started to ring in his pocket. He took it out and answered it.
“Where are you,” a woman’s asked, “you were supposed to meet us an hour ago.”
“Who is this?” Smith asked.
“Who is this?” the woman repeated.
“I’m a friend of Erica’s,” Smith said, “what’s the name of the boat you’re going out on? And where is it?”
“It’s called the James Cook II, “she said, “It’s moored at the main harbour. You can’t miss it; it has decorations all over it.”
“Thank you,” Smith said, “if you see her will you please let me know on this number.”
“She’s here,” the woman said, “its ok. “
The phone reception was very bad.
“What was that?” Smith shouted.
“She’s here,” the woman repeated, “she didn’t mention anything about bringing a guest though.”
“Wait,” Smith said.
The phone went dead. Smith looked at the broken screen. The battery was dead.