The Ringmaster

by Vanda Symon

  ‘Don’t you worry about him. I’ll have a word with higher powers because I don’t think he’s being objective or fair. You did a good job out there this morning, Sam, under bloody awful circumstances.’

  Having some positive affirmation of my morning’s work set the waterworks off again and I wiped away at the tears, annoyed at how easily they betrayed me.

  ‘They captured the whole thing on video.’

  My eyes slammed shut. Oh God, just what I needed. The thrum of the helicopter rotors re-invaded my headspace. Not only would I have to recount the event in detail for the inevitable enquiry, I’d get to see it all from God’s point of view in marvellous technicolour. That awful moment replayed again and again, and not just in my mind. Smithy put a hand out to steady my legs as they twitched.

  ‘They?’

  ‘News crew, I’m afraid. I’ve seen the footage. You were incredible, I’m … well, we’re all in awe. You don’t have anything to worry about. Despite what Johns said, no one’s going to have you up for what you did. It’s obvious you had no choice. We’re just all glad we weren’t in your place.’

  Tiredness was taking over and my body was losing the battle against gravity. I slumped further against the wall. Maybe it would be a good idea to go home, try and forget it all for a few hours. There would be the unavoidable internal investigation, and I didn’t expect DI Johns would let my outburst slide. And then there was finding where this all fit in the context of the murder investigation. I couldn’t let this distract me from the fact that a young woman was dead. And now there were more deaths to add to the tally, even if by an indirect cause.

  ‘Do you think they’d miss me for a few hours?’

  ‘Of course, but we’ll cope without you.’ He was being facetious and I gave him a thump on the leg for his trouble. It did draw a smile from me, which quickly lapsed back into a frown as another thought came to mind.

  ‘Oh, crap. My car’s down at the Oval.’ Returning to the scene and seeing the carnage at the circus was the last thing I felt like right now. Too raw, too much. ‘Can you give me a lift home?’

  ‘No prob.’

  34

  It took a moment to register the knock at the door over the melodic strains soothing my mind via my phone. I didn’t normally like to use earplugs unless running, but this morning the need for all-encompassing sound to drown out the memories overrode any concerns about hearing preservation. I couldn’t find anything obnoxious and thrashy enough, so instead had opted for mellow and chill. It had backfired a bit because now all I felt was numb. I pulled the plugs out and went to the lounge window to peek and see who it was. The front door was made of glass, so if you could see them, they could see you, but spying from the side of the bay window gave a view of the visitor and therefore the option of hiding. When I saw who it was, I skipped that option, pulled my clothes into some semblance of order and headed around to greet him.

  ‘Paul. Hi. What are you doing here?’ I asked as I tucked a wayward lock of hair behind my ear. ‘How did you know where I live?’

  Paul Frost stood dominating the doorway, hands in pockets, a quizzical look flickering across his face. ‘I’m a detective, Sam. It would be a bit pathetic if I couldn’t find out your address.’

  Valid point. He hadn’t answered the first question though.

  ‘Was there something I could help you with? I thought you were supposed to be in court.’

  ‘No, no, court’s finished for the day, I’m a free agent. No, I just heard about your exploits this morning and thought I’d pop around to make sure you were okay.’

  ‘Oh. Thank you, I’m fine.’ I can’t have been a convincing liar as he stood there, with one eyebrow cocked up. Oh, what the heck, company might be good, even if it was him. Paul, for all his obnoxiousness, was one of those men who seemed to feel the need to protect me. I remembered him doing it in my Mataura days and he obviously couldn’t control the urge here either. It was annoying in a gratifying kind of a way.

  ‘Did you want a cup of tea or coffee?’ I asked as I led him down the hallway.

  ‘Coffee would be good, thanks.’

  I bypassed the lounge and headed straight down into the kitchen to make the drinks. Paul followed along behind, pausing here and there to take in the original artwork on the hallway walls.

  ‘There’re some rather well-known names on the paintings,’ he said. ‘Is that a Ralph Hotere?’

  If he was impressed with the hallway gallery, he’d be blown away by the works in the lounge. Aunty Jude and Uncle Phil’s approach to art was to buy works they loved from emerging artists. The pay-off was they got to enjoy living with pieces that gave them pleasure, and over time, some of those emerging artists had turned into stars. They also had friends in the right places.

  ‘Whoa, great view.’ In the kitchen, Paul headed straight to the vast picture window. The Kershaws’ ridge-top house had a million-dollar view, and that was probably not much less than the price tag of the house. From the rooms on this side you could see down across the dense green belt and to the central city, then on to the glittering harbour and peninsula, with the Pacific Ocean in the distance. Nightfall removed the water vista, but added a new dimension of beauty with the sprinkling of city lights moulded into the contours of the hills. It was one of the things I loved about this city. Every corner turned brought with it a new pocket vista, whether it be the harbour, peninsula, green belt or historic architecture. Even the clagged-in drizzly days were somehow spectacular.

  ‘It must be tough having to look at this every day,’ Paul said. ‘And it’s Maggie’s aunt’s house? They must have a bit of dough.’ I hadn’t really thought about it that much, but I suppose they must be pretty well off, considering the art collection and antique furniture and the address. Highgate. A grand old house on Highgate. Expensive real estate, even if the parking was crap.

  ‘It is rather posh, I suppose. Uncle Phil’s a lecturer at the university and I think he inherited quite nicely when his father died. Aunty Jude came from a bit of old money too. When in doubt, marry rich.’ I fossicked around in the pantry until I found the open packet of Toffee Pops to offer, and then sat down at the kitchen table, opposite where Paul had already plonked himself. He had the knack for making himself at home in any situation.

  ‘So, why do you call them aunt and uncle if they’re Maggie’s relatives?’

  ‘You don’t come from a big family, do you? Lots of relatives, cousins?’ He shook his head. ‘When you do, everyone a generation older than you who’s not your parent becomes aunt or uncle. The habit’s stuck.’

  ‘I take it your family breeds well, then?’

  ‘We’re farming stock, what else can I say?’ I slid a mug across the table and under his nose.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Looks like there’d be plenty of space to squeeze you and Maggie in. What is this place, six, seven bedrooms?’

  ‘Eight,’ I said, while munching on a biscuit. ‘Well, originally, but Aunt and Unc have a den each, they converted one into an en-suite and walk-in wardrobe off the master bedroom – got to have the mod-cons. There’s a permanent guest room, the twins had a room each and the last one’s been turned into a sun room.’

  ‘Great what money can buy,’ he said, with only a hint of envy.

  ‘Yeah. Haven’t had the chance to find that out yet, personally. I have to say though, it must have felt a bit empty here when the twins left home, before we came along. It was all a bit echoing hallways and vast spaces. I think they were quite pleased to have a couple of extra warm bodies in the house.’ They were certainly gracious and accommodating hosts.

  ‘I bet you’re in no hurry to go. Bit of board money in exchange for the Ritz.’

  ‘Oh yes, a girl knows a good thing when she’s on to it, and Aunty Jude’s a fabulous cook. Why would you leave that? Anyway, they charge mates’ rates and I couldn’t afford to live anywhere else. I lost everything in the fire in Mataura, remember?’

  ‘Maybe you should have been ins
ured, then.’

  Like I needed to be reminded. I shot him a look that left no doubt about what I thought of his insensitivity. ‘Why did you come here again?’

  He had the grace to look abashed and held his hands up in supplication. ‘I’m sorry Sam, that was a bit low.’ He turned on the full-beam look. ‘I was worried about you.’ That look might have got my pulse up a bit on another day, but I was too numb for it to even elicit a token twitch.

  ‘Well, you’ve got a funny way of showing it,’ I said and wrapped my hands around my hot mug.

  ‘What can I say, my charm doesn’t always work. But really, how are you, anyway?’

  ‘You mean for someone who had to shoot an elephant this morning? Oh, just fine and dandy.’

  He smiled at the sarcasm. ‘I heard about the thing with Dickhead Johns.’

  ‘Yeah, well, you got his title right. I don’t get where he gets off treating me like that.’ I took a gulp of the too-hot tea, to try and prevent the waterworks from starting. I felt it burn its way down my throat. Made a change from acid burning its way up. ‘It was bloody awful having to kill her. I’ve had to destroy animals before, on the farm. Dad made sure I got to do some of the hard jobs, lessons in life, and all. You have to do the hard jobs as well as the good ones, he always said. Builds character. But it was nothing like this.’

  ‘Sam, you had, what, a four-tonne elephant charging at you? Of course it was hard. Most of us would have shat ourselves.’

  ‘I know, but it’s not that. Well, it was a bit. But I’d spent some time with her, you know. When I was at the circus for the interviews I always made a point of going over to give her a pat and a rub down. She seemed so sad, and I felt sorry for her, chained up like that, dragged out like a performing monkey, and yes, I felt sorry for them too. It probably sounds weird, but it was like shooting a friend.’

  He reached across and put his hand over mine. ‘For all your bravado, you’re a bit of a softie, aren’t you, Sam?’

  ‘Don’t I know it?’ I looked down at the table before girding up the strength to ask the next question. ‘Did he die?’

  Full points to Paul in that he knew exactly who I was talking about. ‘Yeah, sorry, Sam. A massive heart attack, they think, and hardly surprising under the circumstances.’

  My eyes were misting up and I reclaimed my hand, using it to take another slug of my drink in an attempt to fight back the tears. So much for the saying you can’t cry if you’re drinking. What a bloody mess. How many lives had been lost because some git, probably drunk git, had decided to mete out their own form of justice and torch the circus?

  My hands started to shake again.

  35

  My cellphone rang and saved me the indignity of completely falling apart in front of Paul. Not that it was a call I valued. It was time to front up at the station and answer the hard questions while they performed a post-mortem on my actions. I wondered who ‘they’ would be. The thought of DI Johns being on the panel turned my innards into a seething mass of worms again. Mind you, Smithy had said he’d have a word to higher powers. I prayed to God he had, and that Johns would be off my case and off my back.

  Paul had offered me a lift down to the station and had been astute enough not to bother with idle chitchat along the way. Instead, my mind drifted to the strains of the Rolling Stones. I was relieved he had classic taste in music. His home town was Gore, home of Country and Western, but he didn’t subscribe to their favourites. Small mercies.

  He pulled up outside the station and turned to me as I undid the seat belt. ‘All the best with the debrief. You’ll be fine, you’ve got nothing to worry about.’ That’s what everyone was telling me, but it was scant comfort. It was me, not them, who had to front up and bear the scrutiny. Another burden on an already crap day.

  ‘I hope you’re right. Hey, thanks for checking up on me, and thanks for the lift.’

  Before I could move to get out of the car, he leaned over and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. ‘Tell it exactly like it happened, keep it simple and drop in key words like “public safety” and “risk”. And if you feel like going out later to drown your sorrows and need some company, give me a call.’ Tonight was the last thing on my mind, but I was touched by the sentiment.

  ‘I don’t know what I feel like at this stage, but thanks anyway.’

  I got out of the car and heard him call out, ‘Look after yourself, Sam,’ before I closed the door and with stomach churning, turned to face the music.

  ‘Sam, can I have a word?’ It was Sergeant Watson, one of the Intelligence officers.

  ‘Yeah, sure, Bruce. What’s up?’

  He’d caught me in the second-foor hallway, on my way to the interview room.

  ‘You know that fellow you asked us to check out from the circus, Zarvo Krunic? We’ve turned up something rather interesting.’ He opened the manila folder he was holding and rearranged the contents so there were two photographs side by side. The first one I recognised as the picture taken yesterday of a serious-looking Zarvo that Jeff Arnott had supplied me with. The second picture was of a grinning, olive-skinned man, European, curly brown hair, mid-thirties I’d guess and not too bad looking.

  My eyes flicked back and forth between the two, comparing features. Zarvo’s shaved head, his nose, chin shape, eyes and eye shape. Pad the face out with an extra ten or more kilos and add some hair, a suntan, and a smile and it was the same man.

  ‘Not called Zarvo, I take it?’

  ‘No. Meet Jason William McDonald. Reported missing from Tauranga in 2004. Missing, assumed dead. Left behind a wife and then four-month-old son. Went to work on Tuesday night, late shift at the hospital as usual. He was a nurse. Never arrived at work, never came home. His car was found, burned out near Te Puke. Police speculated he had been robbed and murdered, but his body was never found. Now we know why. DNA testing will confirm it.’

  ‘Wow, how do you go from being Jason McDonald to Zarvo the Clown? I’ve heard of people running away to the circus, but he seems to have gone to extreme measures to hide himself. Mind you, slathered in clown make-up, it would be like hiding in full sight. Did he have any form?’ Perhaps he’d run away to escape past crimes, and in his new life had resumed his old hobbies.

  ‘No, nothing, not even a parking ticket. Basically, your bog-standard, working-class family man. No priors, no known enemies, loved his wife and kid.’

  He can’t have loved them that much if he’d run away and hidden in the relative anonymity of the circus. It did make you ask questions as to why, especially in light of the string of murders that had tailed this particular circus around the countryside. I couldn’t imagine boredom would drive someone to abandon their family and do something so extreme. This information certainly placed him firmly back in the running as a suspect in Operation Sparrow. It also meant there was a family in Tauranga that may or may not be thrilled to receive news of their lost loved one.

  ‘Thanks for that, Bruce. Can I keep this? I’m on my way to see the boss.’ Unfortunately, for me. ‘I’ll pass this on.’

  ‘That’s your copy. Well spotted.’ He hesitated a moment before adding, ‘Good luck with…’ He inclined his head towards my pending interrogation. ‘You know.’

  I was accustomed to being in the interview room delivering the questions, not being in the firing line. I rubbed my hands up and down my trousers and measured my breaths while I waited for them to take their positions. DI Johns was there, bugger it, but avoided eye contact. There was also the big gun, the Southern District Commander, Ian Frederickson. Normally, one of the detective senior sergeants would conduct this, but they must have decided the situation warranted more power. I was getting the full treatment. Ian had interviewed me when I was under suspicion in Mataura, but despite the bad memories that brought back, he was what I classed a goodie. I hoped I wouldn’t be proven wrong. He started the proceedings.

  ‘Detective Constable, thank you for coming in for debrief. I hope you’ve had a chance to rest after this morn
ing’s events. This interview is for the purposes of the station and is being recorded. Also, be aware that you will be questioned later for the Police Complaints Authority, as is standard for this kind of incident.’

  I wasn’t aware that this kind of incident, as he put it, happened frequently enough for there to be a standard. It certainly hadn’t come up in any manual I’d seen. At least it appeared the District Commander would be asking the questions this afternoon rather than my arch-nemesis. The knot in my stomach loosened a little.

  ‘Did you wish to have any representation present?’

  ‘Is this a disciplinary hearing?’ I asked.

  ‘No, it is purely for the purposes of recording and reporting the incident. We have video footage, which will help verify the sequence of events, but as there was a firearm discharged and public safety put at risk we need to have a formal interview.’ He was being very proper in his language, but the tone of his voice and the relaxed nature of his posture told me this was no witch-hunt and my anxiety levels dropped another notch.

  ‘Then no, I don’t need any representation.’

  ‘Very good. Would you like to see the helicopter video footage?’

  I couldn’t help the shudder and knew there was no way in hell I was ready to see that yet. ‘No thank you, sir. Maybe at a later date.’ Much, much later.

  DI Johns still had not spoken and I noted he was sitting like someone had rammed a steel bar up his arse. My guess was Smithy had been true to his word about reporting his behaviour. Good. It was nice to see him looking so damned uncomfortable for a change.

  There were no unpleasant surprises in the line of questioning. Why I had been present at the circus, the order of events, where I had gotten the firearm, why I deemed it necessary to shoot the elephant, what risk I had seen to public safety, and my own. The District Commander asked all the questions and DI Johns sat there like Big Chief Thundercloud. I surprised myself at how calm I remained throughout and how my emotions stayed in some semblance of control.