Smith

SEVENTEEN

  DAVE

  Sunday 27 December 2008

  Smith was dreaming. He was in the water again but it was much colder this time. His sister was nowhere in sight and it was getting darker and darker. The cold was almost unbearable. Suddenly a hand was thrust into the water. It grabbed him by the shoulder and lifted him to the surface. He looked up to find the owner of the hand staring down at him. It was those unusual green eyes again. The water was still stinging his eyes and he could not seem to dry his face. He woke suddenly to find Theakston on top of him pressing down on his chest. The puppy was licking his face frantically. Out of nowhere, Smith had a sudden laughing fit. Theakston thought this was great and continued licking, with more gusto this time. Smith’s head started to pound and he lifted the puppy off and went through to the bathroom. He could hear noises from downstairs.

  “How’s your head Whitton?” he asked as he reached the bottom of the stairs and saw her standing there with a cup of coffee in her hand, “mine feels like someone is learning to play the bongos in it.”

  “I don’t get hangovers,” she replied, “drink this, it’ll help.” She handed him the cup of coffee.

  “I need to fetch my car from the pub,” he said, “Do you have the keys?”

  “Right here.” She handed him the keys.

  He looked out the window; it had stopped raining.

  “I think I’ll walk,” he said, “I need to clear my head. Do you want to stay here? It’s about a mile I think.”

  “I reckon I can manage it,” she smiled.

  She looked pale.

  Smith picked up Theakston.

  “Marge said she would look after him again,” he sighed, “but I think I’m going to have to make other arrangements for the little bugger in the future. Do you think the DI would deputise him? He’d make a bloody good police dog.”

  “In your dreams,” Whitton laughed.

  “Whitton,” Smith said as he opened the front door, “I had a good time last night.”

  “Me too,” she agreed, “I’ll drive when we get there, it’ll be safer.”

  The station was eerily quiet as they walked through reception. Smith was glad, he knew how tongues wagged in this place, it was worse than being back at school.

  “Come through to my office,” he said to Whitton, “Its Sunday today, we’ve got no chance in hell of getting a search warrant for Paxton’s place and I doubt we’ll get anything on the drugs either.”

  “So that leaves the taxi firm then,” she replied.

  “Yes, we need photographs of Roxy Jones and Frank Paxton.”

  “I reckon they’re on here somewhere,” Whitton tapped a few keys on Smith’s PC keyboard and within minutes had the photographs they needed.

  “Let’s hope our friend Dave is on duty today,” Smith said, “Although, I’m pretty sure he will be.”

  “Ready when you are sir,” Whitton said.

  “Whitton, it doesn’t take two of us to check the taxi routes.”

  “Am I being dumped?”

  “No, you can go home and get some sleep if you want.”

  “I’m not tired sir and something else is bothering me.”

  “You’re beginning to sound like a detective. What is it?”

  “The baby sitter sir.”

  “Lauren Cowley?”

  “Someone killed her in her room. We need to find out how she was drugged and how someone got in her room and smothered her.”

  “What are you thinking Whitton?”

  “That we can kill two birds with one stone. You check the taxi records and I’ll pay a visit to Lauren’s house mates. They must have heard something. As a woman I may be able to get a bit more out of them.”

  “A woman in a boy job?” Smith smiled.

  Whitton laughed.

  “Exactly. Could you give me a lift home first though, I need a shower and a change of clothes. I smell a bit like dog.”

  Dark clouds were gathering in the sky as Smith drove to the taxi depot. Smith sighed. Does it ever stop raining here? He thought. He longed for sunshine. In Fremantle the sun shone for most of the year. The taxi depot was quiet on a Sunday morning. He parked his car outside and went inside the office. The room was small and there was just one woman behind the counter.

  “Can I help you sir?” she asked as she minimized the card game she was playing on the computer.

  Smith was impressed; he could not fault this taxi firm.

  “Good morning,” he said, “my name’s DC Jason Smith, I need to look through some of your records if that’s ok.”

  Smith had learned a long time ago that a friendly approach always worked better than some of his colleagues’ bullying tactics.

  “Date and time?” the woman asked.

  She closed down her game of Solitaire and brought up the company route program.

  “Let’s look at Christmas Eve first shall we.”

  “Come round here so you can see better,” she said, “use that door on the left there.”

  Smith sat beside her in front of the computer.

  “Ok,” he began, “midnight, Christmas Eve, driver named Dave.”

  The woman quickly tapped in the information and brought up the exact route from Paxton’s house to the Willow’s place

  “12.01,” she said, “route 4.8 miles. It took eleven minutes and thirteen seconds. Dave dropped the fare off at 12.12.”

  Smith was impressed.

  “This is some system you have here,” he said.

  “It cost a bit,” the woman said, “but it’s paid for itself ten times over; we probably have the most efficient taxi service in York.”

  “Where did Dave go after this fare?” Smith asked.

  “Hold on,” the woman said, “this is odd, he went straight back to the house he had come from.”

  “Do you have any records of who booked the taxi?”

  “Of course,” she replied, “we always take a name and a phone number, we get a lot of the rival taxi firms wasting our time by pretending to be customers. It says here the call came in at 12.10. Funny name, Wendy Willow.”

  “Are you sure?” Smith asked.

  “Look for yourself.” She pointed at the screen.

  “And where did Dave take this woman?”

  “Hold on,” the woman clicked on the route finder icon. “Hull Road,” she said, “Arrived at 12.35.”

  Smith was becoming excited.

  “Let me guess,” he said, “the next fare was back to the place where he picked up the woman on her own.”

  “You’re dead right. How did you know?”

  “And I bet Dave then went back to the house where he dropped off the two adults and the kid?”

  “Right again. Do you need the name of the person who booked?”

  “Was it Martin Willow by any chance?”

  “It was. What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know but I’m going to find out, can you give me a print out of these records please?”

  “No problem,” she said.

  “Where’s Dave now?” Smith asked.

  “In the staff room. Things are always quiet on a Sunday morning.”

  She handed him the print outs.

  “The door is just through there.” She pointed to a door by the entrance.

  “Thanks for all your help,” Smith said.

  “It’s a pleasure,” she replied, “always nice to help the police. Do you have any ID by the way, I forgot to ask.”

  “Of course.” He took out his ID.

  “Sorry,” she said, “but I’d get into trouble if I showed this information to just anyone.”

  Dave was sitting on a plastic chair watching television as Smith walked in. It was a broadcast of a church service.

  “Mr Smith,” Dave said cheerily, “Hello again. Would you like some coffee? We have a kettle and its proper coffee.”

  Smith’s head was starting to pound again.
>
  “That would be perfect,” he said.

  While Dave poured the coffee, Smith looked over the taxi records again.

  “I’m sorry to bother you on your break,” he said, “I just need you to look at a few photographs.”

  “No problem,” Dave replied, “I have a very good memory for faces. Some people get very surprised when I recognise them from driving them in my cab two or three years later.”

  He smiled a proud smile.

  “Great,” Smith said, “that will be a big help. The woman you took to Hull road on Christmas Eve.”

  “The one who waited outside for me?”

  “That’s the one, is this her?” He showed Dave the photograph of Roxy Jones.

  “That’s not her,” Dave said immediately, “she’s too old. I mean, the woman I picked up was much younger and she had blonde hair.”

  Smith tried to hide his disappointment.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “This has never failed me.” Dave tapped his head.

  “And the man on his own?” Smith took out the photograph of Frank Paxton.

  “Sorry, Mr Smith,” Dave said, “not him either. Also much younger.”

  “That’s fine Dave. Give me a call if you remember anything else.”

  He handed Dave his card.

  “Did you find what you were looking for?” the woman behind the desk asked as Smith walked back through.

  “Not quite,” he replied, “but thanks for your time anyway.”

  It was threatening to rain as Smith got outside. He took out his cell phone.

  “Whitton,” he said, “we’ve got a bit of a problem. It looks like Frank Paxton and Roxy Jones didn’t go anywhere in the early hours of Christmas Day.”

  “So who were the two people the driver took to the babysitter’s and the Willow’s?” Whitton asked.

  “I’ve got no idea. Where are you now?”

  “The babysitter’s house. I’ve just got here.”

  “Dave, the driver said the woman he dropped off had blonde hair. See if any of Lauren Cowley’s house mates match that description.”

  “Ok sir. What next?”

  “I’m going to take Theakston for a walk and try to clear my head a bit. Call me if you find anything.”