Yarrow: The Smiley Killer

10th November 2019 10:00

It was early when Doug Chaney arrived at Christine Yarrow's place. He parked his mauve Renault Clio around the side of the gated, family house so the neighbours couldn't see it; as was made clear to him the last time he showed up uninvited. He took his tie off and threw it in the back seat with his mottled grey jacket. Christine had made it very clear during their time working together that his dress sense was utterly embarrassing.

He took a tissue out of his pocket and blew his nose as he approached the door. The chill of winter had caught up with him and he had a major case of the sniffles. He gripped the cold, brass door knocker shaped like a hippo with a nose piercing. He paused. This was harder than the last time he had asked for help from her. He knocked, once and waited a few seconds before forcing out a couple more thuds.

The door flew open.

"Dougy!"

Doug hated that nickname. Everytime she referred to him like it he kicked himself for correcting her the first time she had called him it during the Sliding Faces case all those years ago.

"Christine," he said avoiding eye contact and twiddling his thumbs, palms clasped together.

"Not another case you can't solve, that's two in one year. I think you're getting old and losing your touch personally."

She stroked his arm and gave him a cheeky wink to suggest she was joking. His body language didn't change. Christine began that stare he hated. That probing stare that pierced every square inch of skin and bore in to his soul.

"It's not just help with a case is it Doug?"

He shook his head and finally made eye contact with his old partner, "Have you got that bottle of scotch still? The old Macallan 18?"

"55."

"Pardon?"

"It was a Macallan 55, think I still have it somewhere," she had an expression he had not seen before, a genuine concern, "Come in."

The last time he had seen the foyer of the house it had been a New Years Eve party. It looked much larger and colder than it had then. Just Christine alone in the house her family had owned for generations. The last of the Yarrow line. He followed her to the games room where she proceeded behind the bar and generously poured him a glass of scotch with a single ice cube. She remembered how he liked it.

"You may want one too," he said, taking the glass and turning towards the seating area.

Christine poured herself a vodka, no ice, and followed Doug towards the large, brown, leather sofa.

"Doug, what's happened? You've got me worried."

Doug reached into his bag pocket and withdrew three crumpled up pieces of A4 paper folded in to quarters. He held them in his right hand and tapped them in the palm of his left.

"You're friend Lacey..."

"Which Lacey?"

"Jeffers. She was found last night."

"I didn't know she was missing?"

"She was found dead Christine."

The cold from the November air outside crept in to the room as Christine was silenced. Doug would normally cherish these moments. The ones where she had nothing to say but he was desperate for her to make a sound. She looked vulnerable for the first time since he'd met her as a plucky twenty-three year old fresh out of university.

She reached over to Doug and snatched the papers out of Doug's hand. She exhaled slowly as she unfolded the papers to three crime scene photos. She had seen many crime scenes and murders in the past but these three smuggled images of evidence really hit home.