THIRTEEN
MUGGED.
Tuesday 29 July 2003.
“Top ten percent Gran,” Jason Smith shouted as he opened the letter at the breakfast table. “Top ten percent, that means I can pretty much take my pick of the top firms.”
He had just finished the second year of a law degree at York University.
“A lawyer in the family,” his Gran said, “who would have ever thought it? I’m so proud of you my boy.”
“I still have a long way to go before then Gran,” he said, “I’m not even half way there yet.”
“I know you’ll do it though; you’ve come a long way from that arrogant teenager who stepped off the plane nearly five years ago.”
“We need to celebrate,” he said, “I’m taking you out for lunch. Get yourself ready, we can have fish and chips at that new place on Gillygate.”
“That’s a bit fancy isn’t it?”
“No arguments. We can have a walk round the Minster afterwards.”
The weather report had promised glorious sunshine and temperatures in the mid twenties so Jason decided to get off the bus on the other side of the river Ouse at Coppergate and walk the rest of the way. He had always enjoyed walking around York; there was a piece of history around every corner. From Coppergate they took a left and walked along the quaint cobblestones of the Shambles. Old buildings hung above them trying to close off the sky. Jason was sure they were closer together than they were when he first took this walk. He always thought that one day the buildings would meet in the middle and there would be no sky left overhead.
“I’m not going too fast for you Gran, am I?” he joked.
“I’m not quite over the hill yet,” she replied, “I’ve walked along these streets since I was a young girl. Things have certainly changed since then though; look at all these people.” Hoards of tourists shuffled along the cobbled pavement, stopping now and then to take photos of the buildings and to buy souvenirs to take back home. They passed the old Minster, one of the most striking Gothic cathedrals in the world. Masses of tourists queued outside, waiting in anticipation. They continued on past the theatre and on to Gilly Gate. As they were about to enter the restaurant they were approached by two youths. They were in their late teens and had an air of malice about them. Jason especially did not like the look of one of them.
“Spare some change mister?” the taller of the two asked Jason.
He ignored the question and urged his Gran to get inside.
“Tight Arsed Git,” the other youth called after them.
“We never had anything like that in my day,” Jason’s Gran said as they sat down at their table.
“Don’t worry Gran,” Jason said,” forget about them, we’re celebrating. You can have anything you want; the skies the limit as long as its fish and chips.”
They both laughed.
“You know your mother phoned me the other day?” Gran said.
“What did she want?” Jason said curtly.
“She said he would quite happily pay for a ticket for you to go back home this summer. She’s very proud of you.”
“This is my home Gran,” He said, “I like it here and Anyway, I have plans for the summer. Its freezing in Fremantle this time of year anyway.”
“What plans? Are you off travelling somewhere?”
“No Gran, I’ve found a job with one of the smaller law firms here in York. The job found me actually; it’ll give me some good experience and a head start for next term.”
“You work too hard Jason; you need to take a break sometimes.”
“I enjoy it, I like helping people.”
The fish and chips were delicious. The batter was made out of beer.
“Shall we have a walk around the Minster now Gran?” Jason said as he settled the bill.
“That would be nice dear,” his Gran replied, “as long as it’s not too crowded, there’s tourists everywhere at this time of year.”
As they made their way to the Minster, Jason noticed the two youths who had bothered them. They were pestering a group of American tourists. One of them fixed Jason with a malicious stare as he walked past. Then, Jason Smith’s life changed forever. The other youth ran into Jason’s Gran and knocked her to the floor. He bent down, picked up her handbag and ran off in the direction of the River Foss. Jason ran after him, he was a very good runner. After a hundred metres he could see he was gaining on the thief. The youth looked over his shoulder, saw Jason quickly approaching and dropped the handbag on the floor in despair. Jason picked it up, thought about whether to carry on the chase but decided instead to go back to his Gran.
A crowd of people had gathered around Jason’s Gran, including a Police constable. Jason had always been impressed with the police force in this country. His Gran was still in the same position on the ground.
“Gran,” he said, “are you alright? I got your bag back.”
“I landed quite badly,” she replied, “I think I may have broken something. It’s very sore.”
“I’ve called an ambulance,” the policeman said.
“This is my Gran,” Jason said, “that guy just came out of nowhere.”
“We’ll catch him,” the policeman said, “I know who he is. We’ll have him within the hour. You really shouldn’t have tried to catch him, he’s a nasty piece of work that one.”
The sirens of the ambulance were getting nearer. The policeman introduced himself as PC Brownhill.
“I will need you to make a statement,” he said, “but we can do that at the hospital. That scumbag is going down for this.”
The ambulance arrived and two paramedics got out.
“Where does it hurt Ma’am?” one of them asked.”
“It’s sore here on my side,” Jason’s Gran replied, “and call me Edith please.”
“Ok Edith,” the paramedic said, “We’re going to roll you onto a stretcher and take you to the hospital. We can put the lights and sirens on too if you like.”
“Can we run a couple of red lights too?”
“Of course, which side does it hurt?”
“Right here.” She pointed to her left hip. They rolled her onto a stretcher from her right side and carried her to the ambulance.
FOURTEEN
CALENDAR.
Saturday 26 December 2008
Smith checked his watch: 15.00.
“Can you do me a favour Whitton,” he said, “I wouldn’t normally ask this but I don’t know what else to do.”
“Of course sir,” she replied, “what can I do?”
“We need to talk to Frank Paxton again,” he said, “Thompson is about as incompetent as they come, Theakston would have done a better job of questioning Paxton. When we get to Paxton’s house, I need you to drive to the Hog’s Head and pick up my puppy. I think I’ve abused Marge’s hospitality a bit too much.”
“What about the rules sir? There should be two of us at all times.”
“I know Whitton but that’s exactly why I want you to disappear for a bit. I’m going to try something quite unorthodox with our friend Paxton. He’s not telling us everything, I can feel it. I don’t want to get you into trouble.”
“What if the DI finds out? He’ll stick me behind a desk forever.”
“Trust me Whitton. This Frank Paxton is more involved than we think and he won’t want to make a fuss, I can promise you.”
“Ok sir,” Whitton conceded, “you owe me one.”
Smith parked his car outside Frank Paxton’s house.
“Here’s what we’re going to do Whitton,” he said as he switched off the engine, “you’re going to come inside with me.”
“I thought you wanted me to fetch your puppy sir.”
“Just bear with me.”
He took out his phone.
“I’ve brought up your number,” he said, “I’m going to keep my pho
ne in my pocket and when the time’s right I’m going to press dial. You’ll apologise, answer the phone and pretend that something has come up. You’ll look at Paxton, then at me and you’ll ask me if we can have a word in private. After that you can go and fetch Theakston. I’ll handle the rest; I want Paxton to be on edge. I’ve found that nervous people reveal a hell of a lot more than calm ones. Do you think you can manage it?”
“Piece of cake sir,” Whitton said, “I used to do amateur dramatics.”
“That I’d love to see.” Smith said.
“You still owe me one sir.”
As they knocked on the front door, Smith put his phone in his pocket within easy reach. There was no answer. Smith knocked again, harder this time. The door opened and Frank Paxton stood there. He looked like he had not slept; his hair was a mess and his eyes were very bloodshot. He smelled heavily of whisky. Even better, Smith thought, there was nothing better than a bit of alcohol to oil up the truth ducts.
“Mr Paxton,” Smith began, “DS Smith and this is DC Whitton, can we have a word?”
“I’ve just spoken to your lot,” Paxton said. He sounded quite drunk. “Where’s your ID?” he asked, “You don’t look like the police to me.”
“Mr Paxton,” Smith said, “you met me on Christmas Day at the Willow place.”
Smith and Whitton produced their IDs anyway.
“May we come in Mr Paxton?” Smith said, “There are just a few things we need to go over again.”
“Do I need a lawyer?” Paxton slurred.
“Not unless you think you need one,” Smith said, “there are just a few things I’m confused about and I hate that.”
“You’d better come in then. Do you want a drink? I’m having one.”
“No thanks,” Smith replied, “Is Miss Jones at home?”
“She’s visiting her sister; it’s a Boxing Day tradition with them. Roxy has to adhere to her traditions. Are you sure you don’t want a drink? It’s Christmas.”
“No thanks,” Smith repeated, “Mr Paxton, you said when you arrived at the Willow’s place, you phoned him when no one answered the door? And then you heard the phone ringing inside the house?”
“Did I?” Paxton took a large sip of whisky. “I can’t remember much now, these past few days have been a bit of a blur.”
Smith casually put his hand in his pocket and pressed the dial button on his phone. Whitton’s phone started to ring. She looked at the screen.
“Sorry,” she said, “it’s the station; I’ve got to take this. Whitton,” she said into the phone.
She pretended to listen. Her eyes widened and she looked at Frank Paxton with suspicion.
“Ok,” she said, “I’ll let him know.”
She ended the fake call.
“Sir,” she said to Smith, “can I have a word in private please?”
“Sorry, Mr Paxton,” Smith said, “this shouldn’t take long.”
Frank Paxton looked agitated as Smith and Whitton went into the hall way.
“That was bloody good Whitton,” Smith said, “You had me convinced. Take your time fetching Theakston. I’ll give you a call when I’m done here. Thanks again.”
He handed her his car keys.
“How about that drink now,” Smith said when Whitton had left, “do you have any beer?”
“I’ll get you one from the fridge,” Paxton said, “what was that about?”
“Just police business,” Smith lied, “they’ve found some new, interesting evidence in the Wendy Willow murder. It looks like Martin Willow is in deep trouble.”
“Really?” Paxton looked more at ease.
He handed Smith a Grolsch. Smith took a long swig.
“Did you know Lauren Cowley?” Smith asked, “The Willow’s babysitter.”
“Not really,” Paxton said.
His eyes shifted from side to side nervously.
“I think I met her once or twice in passing when I was out with Martin,” he said, “nothing special if I can remember.”
Smith had finished his beer.
“Another one?” Paxton asked.
“Why not,” Smith replied, “it is Christmas. I’m nearly finished for the day anyway.”
Paxton stumbled off to the kitchen to fetch the beer.
“Could I use your toilet?” Smith asked as Paxton came back with the beer, “the first beer always goes right through me.”
“Upstairs,” Paxton said, “first door on the right.”
Frank Paxton seemed much more relaxed now. Smith did not need the toilet, he had thought of something. In the bathroom he locked the door behind him. The room was unusually large for a bathroom. On the wall above the basin was a cupboard. Smith gasped as he opened it; there were pills, lozenges and medicines for every conceivable ailment. He donned a pair of rubber gloves and examined the contents carefully. There was aspirin, paracetamol, hay fever pills, anti sickness pills, anti inflammatory pills and pills to cure diseases Smith had never heard of. He spotted something at the back of the cabinet, a small clear bag with small capsules in it. There was a sticker on the front, the kind that doctors and pharmacists use. His heart quickened as he read the label. Benzodiazepine. He quickly took out his phone and took four photographs in quick succession of the label on the bag, and then he placed the pills back where he had found them. He flushed the toilet, unlocked the door and went back downstairs.
“That’s better,” Smith said as he reached the bottom of the stairs, “nice place you’ve got here Mr Paxton, that bathroom is huge.”
“We like it,” Paxton said. He was quickly becoming Jason Smith’s best friend.
Smith took a large swig of his beer.
“No kids?” he asked. “I can see you have no kids; this place is too neat and tidy.”
“Well spotted detective,” Paxton smiled, “you don’t miss a thing do you?”
He was becoming quite intoxicated.
“We don’t like to broadcast it but I’m starting to like you. You’re Australian aren’t you?”
“I was,” Smith replied.
“Roxy can’t have kids, we found out a couple of years ago. We were devastated but we’ve learned to live with it. That’s one of the reasons we never bothered to marry, seemed a bit pointless without kids. Do you have any kids detective?”
“Not yet,” Smith said.
“Probably for the best in your line of work.”
“I’d better leave you in peace Mr Paxton. Thank you for your time. We may need to ask you a few more questions later though.”
“Anytime,” Paxton said, “This has actually been quite painless; the whisky helps, I suppose.”
Smith took out his phone and called Whitton. He finished his beer.
“Ready when you are Whitton,” he said, “Where are you?”
“Still at the Hog’s Head,” Whitton replied, “Marge has made me a steak and ale pie. She’s lovely.”
“Put an order in for another,” Smith said. “I’ll catch a cab. See you in about half an hour.”
“I couldn’t help listening in to your conversation,” Paxton laughed, “I know a really good taxi company, very professional. I have their number here somewhere.”
He stood up and headed in the direction of the kitchen. Smith followed him.
“Here it is,” Paxton said, “it’s on the fridge.”
As Smith was dialling the number on the fridge, something caught his eye. On the wall next to the fridge was a calendar; it was a whole year on one page. Appointments, birthdays and anniversaries were written in bold black ink. Smith concentrated on June 28. There in the same bold black was written ‘MARTIN AND WENDY ANIV’
“Roxy likes to keep up to date of birthdays and anniversaries,” Paxton said.
“So Roxy filled this in?” Smith asked.
“Of course, it’s a female thing isn’t it?”
The taxi firm said they would be there in ten minutes. Smith looked at the calendar again; something about June 28 was bugging
him. Then he realised what it was. The suicide note, ‘I AM SO SORRY MARTIN.’ The word MARTIN was identical in both instances. Roxy Jones had written the suicide note. All Smith had to do now was figure out why.
“Taxi will be here in ten minutes,” he said.”
“Then you’ve got time for another beer,” Paxton said with gusto, “you Aussies certainly know how to drink beer.”