by Vanda Symon
Shit.
I hoped Smithy hadn’t handed that poster over yet. He might not want a killer’s schedule hanging on his little girl’s bedroom wall.
13
‘One moment please, constable.’
DI Johns continued his conversation with Detective Wallace while I tried not to visibly seethe at being addressed as ‘constable’. Did he do these things on purpose? I passed the time concentrating on the array of printers and copiers that congregated in the hallway outside his office and breathing out my anger. No communal office for the bigwig – he got his own space, which was a good thing really, as it kept him out of our faces. I had occasional fantasies about having my own office, my own dedicated work computer. Oh well, I knew what to do about it. Work hard, move up the ranks and climb up the food chain. Trouble was there was a bloody great shark at the top that appeared to have an appetite for Sam. My hands felt slippery against the shiny surface of the rolled-up poster I gripped.
‘Alright,’ he said to Wallace, ‘if you can get back to me with that by the end of the day, thanks.’ The detective gave me a wink as he headed out and the DI picked up the phone. ‘I’ve got one important phone call to make, then I’ll be right with you.’
I figured, to him, I was down there somewhere near plankton. No, make that something lower, a single-cell organism, a foram, I thought as he made a high-priority appointment for a haircut. One could live in hope my status would elevate after what I was about to show him.
‘So, constable, what can I do for you?’ For the sake of my career, I let that one slide too.
I passed him the poster and enjoyed the puzzled look on his face.
‘I went to the Darling Brothers Circus earlier this morning to follow up on the stolen motorbike report and while I was there noticed this.’
He unrolled it and stated the obvious. ‘It’s a poster.’ With those few words the edge had crept into his voice, along with a sizeable dollop of sarcasm.
‘Yes, but what caught my attention was the itinerary of the circus. Have a look at the towns they’ve been to so far.’ He put the poster down on his desk and anchored it with a stapler at the top and his hand at the bottom. I moved around and tapped on the word Christchurch. ‘I came back here and checked it out on the network and was stunned to find the dates match perfectly.’
He interrupted before I could explain further.
‘Match what? Look, I’m a very busy man and I don’t like having my time wasted. Is there a point to this?’
‘Yes,’ I said with deliberate calm, ‘a very important point.’ I indicated to each town and date on the itinerary as I went. Christchurch, first of March, young woman murdered, unsolved. Ashburton, sixteenth of March, man killed in what was thought to be a hunting accident, never resolved. Timaru, twenty-fourth of March, unexplained death, town bum, never resolved. Oamaru, sixth of April, young man murdered, unsolved. Dunedin, two days ago, young woman murdered. It all corresponds. The circus was in town at the time of every death. It can’t be coincidence.’
I was certain I saw the twitch and tussle in his face as he realised I was on to something and there was no way, try as he might, he could refute it. ‘Good God,’ he said. ‘If you’re right,’ which of course I was, ‘someone in that circus has been having a killing spree down the island. Okay, we’re going to have to call people in and formulate a plan of attack here. I’m going to need to talk to the area commander and these other towns, check out any patterns. He grabbed up the poster, strode out the door and left me standing there. No thank you, no well done, no nothing.
Bugger that.
I took off after him.
14
My lungs and legs were screaming at me to ease off, but I was damned if I was going to relent. The lush bush, earthy scents and birdsong of the green belt and Queens Drive had not quelled my mood in the slightest, so I’d continued to run down towards town, then headed back up the hill by assailing Stuart Street as hard out as I could go.
Unbelievable. It was me who had noticed the pattern in the itinerary of the circus, me who had followed it up and checked against other unsolved cases to confirm the pattern, and me who had presented the information to the DI. So why the hell was it me who had been left behind at the station when the hotshots went down to investigate?
Despite the protest from my lungs and legs, I upped the pace even more.
I’d provided the first significant break in the murder of Rose-Marie Bateman, and possibly unearthed something huge and sinister, and once again I’d been left in the dust, sidelined, discarded like some spent wad of chewing gum. Then, to top it all off, when I finally got home, that shit-heap of a car was still marooned outside the gate, and I had to park two blocks away from my own bloody house. I reached the Highgate Bridge and stopped, bending over, hands on knees, trying to suck in enough oxygen to satisfy my body’s screaming need. The urge to vomit was another of its unsubtle ways of telling me to stop, but I was too pissed off to listen. Not even the panoramic view across this harbour city could evoke a flicker of appreciation today.
‘Ah, fuck it.’
I stood upright and forcibly propelled myself forward. I wasn’t through with this yet.
15
Your car has been parked here for over two weeks and is restricting our access to our gate. Can you please shift it to another position if the car is not in regular use? That would be greatly appreciated.
Thank you.
340 Highgate.
That was pretty polite. I’d considered putting Shift your shit-heap right now or I’ll tow its arse but didn’t think it would go down that well. My handwriting was a bit dodgy, and it had taken a lot of concentration to control the adrenaline tremor. It wasn’t helped by my still-sweaty hand slipping on the pen. But it was first things first – I hadn’t showered and changed yet as I’d wanted to do this little task while I was in the right mood. I lifted the windscreen wiper up and popped the note underneath. There was a clean line in the dusty windshield where the wiper blade had been resting. Yet another indicator of how long the car had been stuck here – that, and an ever-growing colony of spiders and their architecture in the wing mirror. I had clapped eyes on the owner once. With a heap like that I’d have thought it belonged to a scruffy no-hoper, but the guy was actually quite tidy looking. It probably never occurred to him that leaving his car there could be a major pain to anyone else – inconsiderate bastard.
That done, I was finally beginning to feel on a more even keel, at least dealing with the car was something I had a chance of remedying. The work situation was a different prospect entirely. I bounded up the front steps and headed inside to freshen up.
It was amazing how great food, fine wine and sparkling dinner conversation could lift a mood. Unfortunately, one of the topics du jour related to work. Uncle Phil had a turn talking with the detectives today, along with most of his unit, which shared the same building as the Pharmacy Department and Rose-Marie’s sixth-floor lab. Social and Preventive Medicine was on the ground floor and he’d recognised her face from the photos as he’d seen her waiting for the lifts and recalled saying hi on occasion. He said she was very polite and seemed to work long hours. A view shared by everyone, it would seem. He hadn’t been able to enlighten the detectives much more than that. He’d have been saved the bother if the interview had been this afternoon. Things were off in a new direction now.
There was the usual crap on offer on the television, more than thirty channels to choose from and nothing to watch. We didn’t do reality TV. I failed to see the fascination in watching wannabe celebrities eating things that were bound to give you a dose of the shits or nightmares for the rest of your life. Besides, that sort of programme made me feel so embarrassed on their behalf I wanted to hide behind the sofa cushions. So by unanimous vote, we opted for a DVD. Maggie and I had been given the task of choosing, so here we were, privileged to be in Uncle Phil’s study, sorting through the crammed shelves that housed his rather extensive DVD collection.
/> ‘What about some vintage James Bond?’ Maggie asked as she leaned over and pulled out what looked like the entire set in a boxed collection. ‘Here we go, Sean Connery when he was young and hot.’
‘Or we could have Sean Connery when he was old and hot, Phil’s got Rising Sun here.’
‘Oh, yes, Wesley Snipes, yummy.’
Uncle Phil’s DVD collection was indeed impressive. As well as a penchant for James Bond, The Saint and The Avengers, it looked like he had the full collection of CSI, Criminal Intent, Law and Order as well as the British series Waking the Dead, Silent Witness and others. Despite knowing those type of programmes never reflected the reality of policing, they entertained, so I would have to raid those at a later date. Well, the British ones anyway.
I rarely went into Uncle Phil’s den and was always amazed by the sheer volume of things. Both he and Aunty Jude liked stuff. There were books on everything from architecture, to history, as well as his medical-related texts. Some looked pretty old and I’d bet a few were fairly valuable. He also had framed antique maps and a number of scale models. And he could afford what looked to be the latest in computer technology. He had dual LCD screens for his rather stonking-looking tower, a separate external hard drive and a few other bits of hardware, a laser printer and an inkjet. He also had a lightweight laptop for work and for around the house, which he could hook into the internet and the printers via their wireless network. It was a comprehensive set-up.
‘No wonder he disappears in here for hours on end,’ I said as I bent over to look at a limited-edition model Denny Hulme McLaren. ‘Give me a big pile of food and I could spend weeks in here. This has got to be every bloke’s idea of heaven, not to mention mine. Books, DVDs, music, computer, flash telly – I bet there’s a drinks cabinet here somewhere too. All it needs is a pool table and a sign on the door: ‘Girls keep out.’’
‘Oestrogen exclusion zone. Perhaps I could get him a sign made up for his birthday. He’d like that.’ Maggie was working her way along the row of DVD spines.
‘I’m sure your aunt would just love it. Mind you, I noticed she didn’t volunteer to come in and choose.’
‘I’m amazed we were allowed in. He’s usually so precious about his man cave. I’ve got it, something Tarantino, how about Pulp Fiction?’
‘Perfect, just what I need to wind down after a hard day solving murders. Blood, guts, drugs, guns, needles and funky dancing. Funny and gory. Hand it over, let’s get out of here.’
16
I dragged my apprehensive body into the building to face another day, wondering what triviality I’d get to waste it on. Sifting animal poo for evidence? Fingerprinting the circus tent? Fetching the coffee? My only cheer-up, as it were, had been the fact that the note I’d popped under the rustang’s windscreen wiper was gone this morning, so I might at least have a hope of a place to put my car when I got home. Wishful thinking.
I couldn’t face trudging up the stairs, so cheated and took the elevator, which always felt a guilty sin. I had barely made it into the door of our room when I was accosted by Smithy looking positively gleeful – a big ask with his craggy face.
‘What the hell are you so cheerful for?’ I asked. ‘And grown men shouldn’t jiggle up and down like that, it makes it look like you need to go to the loo.’
‘Sam, Sam, Sam,’ he said, his beaming phizgog bobbing up and down in front of mine in synch with each repetition. ‘You are going to love this, you are going to love this so much.’
‘Not half as much as you do, by the look of it. So are you going to share the cause of your excitement, or are you going to leave me in suspense?’ I tried to walk around him so I could chuck my bag under my desk.
‘Suspense,’ he said as he blocked my path.
‘Do you like being hurt?’ He can’t have been tuned in to my mood, or else he would have gotten the hell out of my way.
‘It depends who’s doing the hurting, but no. DI Johns wants to see you, and when you get out, let’s see if you’re doing the jig too.’
I frowned at him, puzzled, shoved my bag into his hands and, with a what-have-I-got-to-lose wave, headed down to the DI’s office. It must be something good to get Smithy that animated. He hadn’t even been that excited when his wife had a massive box of choccies and a dozen Mars Bar muffins delivered to his desk for his birthday.
Having circumvented the array of printers and shredders outside in the hallway, I took a deep breath, knocked at the DI’s door and walked in.
The DI had an odd look on his face. It hung between expressions, like he wasn’t quite sure whether to be amused or pissed off. ‘Constable Shephard, take a seat.’
I walked to the proffered chair and sat down. ‘You wanted to talk to me?’
‘Yes.’ He cleared his throat. ‘A rather interesting situation has come up concerning Mr Bennett, the circus owner.’
‘Have you already established him as the murderer?’ I asked. That was quick. Surely, the only way that could have happened would be with a confession, but to be frank, he didn’t look the type to own up to dropping a fart let alone a murder or two.
‘No, we didn’t get very far with Mr Bennett at all and…’ he paused, as though he didn’t want to finish the sentence. ‘He refused to talk to us.’ The DI had his hands clasped together, resting on the desk. His knuckles were rather white. ‘It would appear that Mr Bennett has developed a particular liking for you. He has made it very clear he will only deal with the police if you are present.’
‘Oh,’ I said. Apart from my initial surprise, I had to swallow hard to force down the laugh that was trying to escape my innards. No wonder Smithy was so flaming excited. That was a huge Up Yours to the powers that be. Despite my best endeavours, my face cracked into a smile, which the DI noted with first a frown, and then a smile of his own. Perhaps he had a sense of humour, after all.
‘Does that mean I’ll get to be with the front-line team down at the circus?’ I was starting to feel a bit fidgety myself.
‘Well, yes.’ The DI seemed reluctant to confirm my hopes. ‘It seems to be the only way we’ll get any cooperation out of Mr Bennett, but there will be strict conditions. You are only a trainee, so you will not be the main interviewer. You will be there as an observer. I don’t want to hear of any interference from you.’
I was perfectly happy with that. Hell, hierarchical disapproval or not, I was relieved to be involved at the coalface in any way. No more drudge jobs, trifling trivialities and wild-goose chases. Thank you, Terry Bennett. Of course, I didn’t trust the man as far as I could kick him. There was some other motive in play here. I was sure it wasn’t a sudden wish for my company and feminine charms. I seemed to recall our last conversation was a bit tense. Then again, it could have been because of my feminine charm. Odds were, he saw me as a soft touch, a naive little thing he could manipulate and arouse sympathy in for the poor, picked-on circus people. Well, he was in for a bit of a surprise. Mind you, it could be quite useful to play along with his silly game for a while.
‘When do we start?’ I asked. If I’d had any sense, I’d have hidden my excitement, but a little of it was spilling out the sides.
‘We leave in thirty minutes, after the morning briefing. And remember what I said. The detectives call the shots. Not a squeak from you.’
The urge to skip back to the office was pretty intense but I resisted it. Or at least for most of the way until I rounded the door and saw Smithy sitting on my desk, grinning like a demented monkey. My step just seemed to rise of its own accord until I reached him, danced a little jig and gave him a high five.
17
I wasn’t sure what alarmed me more; standing next to the cage of a very restless lion, or Terry Bennett’s reptilian smile when he clapped his eyes on me. Mind you, if I were in his position, I’d be feeling pretty pleased with myself too. My presence was a small but significant victory for him over the police. The knowledge wasn’t lost on my associates either, judging by the amount of posturing going on. I f
ound it all rather amusing, but had to check myself and remember we were here for a very serious reason. A young woman, Rose-Marie Bateman had been killed, and it was looking suspiciously like those involved had been busy leaving a trail of death in their wake.
Bennett seemed very keen to move us indoors and out of view, as we were directed into a large gazebo-like tent in front of the big top – I guessed it was a shelter area for spectators in the event of rain. Not that it would be an issue today; it was a stunner. I didn’t really understand why we were here at the circus at all. I thought it would be easier for all concerned if these conversations took place at the station, but it wasn’t my call.
DI Johns was in charge of the case, and knowing what he was like, and with an inkling of what Terry Bennett was like, these two would be like flint on steel. If we were lucky, the presence of Smithy and a couple of other detectives would serve as a damper. Then again, the fireworks could be entertaining.
I was surprised Bennett had chosen not to have a lawyer present. Perhaps he thought he was big enough and ugly enough to handle any offensive. Of course, it could have come down to being too tight to pay legal fees.
He shot the opening salvo. ‘Right, can you run these utter crap allegations past me again?’ Hands on hips, chest thrust out like it was waiting to have a medal pinned on it, he went on, ‘I couldn’t believe my bloody ears. Do you want to tell me exactly what you think someone from my circus has done and what the hell you expect me to do about it?’
The DI did the honours on behalf of the police. ‘As I said last night, there is circumstantial evidence to suggest that a series of murders have occurred in towns where your circus has been visiting, so—’