by Vanda Symon
At the end of the interview the District Commander asked if I had any questions. I had one, but I didn’t really want to hear the answer.
‘How many died?’
The memory of the circus aflame and that noise reverberated in my mind. I had to close my eyes to blot it out as I clarified the question. ‘I mean people and animals, how many died because of that fire?’
Frederickson let out a weary sigh. The muscles tightened across his jaw.
‘We’ve got the people who started it. One of the bast—, I mean, men couldn’t live with the guilt of what happened and turned them all in. Vigilantes. Decided to take matters into their own hands and punish the circus after reading in the newspaper the so-called serial killer was one of the company. The culprits did a hit and run, as it were. Ran in, doused petrol, lit it and ran, so they avoided the security. They thought they’d send them a message. Some message. It’s cost six lives, so far. Your elephant. A vet had to be called in to put down a monkey and one of the lions after they critically injured themselves thrashing about in panic in their cages. Terry Bennett died as a result of a suspected heart attack.’ My breath drew in, involuntarily. ‘And the elephant killed two of the circus workers in its panic to escape. Apparently, they were trying to free it. That tally doesn’t include the other people injured trying to save and rescue the animals. There are a number of people in the hospital right now. One is seriously burned and may not pull through.’
Bloody hell. All that because some dickheads decided to take the law into their own hands and mete out mob justice. I hoped they were happy with the result.
‘Which of the circus people were killed?’ I asked. After days of interviews, I knew all their faces. The District Commander checked on one of the files in front of him.
‘Jamal Kumar, the elephant’s keeper. It struck him down with its trunk, according to witnesses; and Zarvo the clown or Zarvo Krunic. He died instantly too, apparently – trampled.’
‘Oh, shit.’
The expletive slipped out before I could stop myself and DI Johns felt obliged to give me a warning growl. ‘Mind your language, constable.’
Frederickson held up a hand to stop him admonishing further. ‘Why? Was there an issue with that man?’
‘Yes,’ I replied and passed over the brown manila folder I’d put on the chair beside me. The District Commander opened it and I leaned forward to place the two images side by side. ‘I think he was one of our potential murder suspects. Zarvo the clown, Jason McDonald, reported missing, presumed dead in 2004.’
Dead again, permanently.
36
Smithy had done the chivalrous thing and brought my car back to the station from the Oval to spare me the aftermath of the circus fire while my nerves were still shot. He’d had the sense to extract the car keys from me earlier, thank God, because my mind was too addled to think of it, and to make me remove my house key first. I decided my mentor was nothing short of brilliant.
It was the first, and probably the last time my car would ever get to see the inside of the station’s parking garage. The sense of grandeur I had, in pulling out of the police gates in the Honda didn’t, alas, extend to being able to magically find a space for my car once I got home. The crap-heap was still rotting outside the house and my already volatile temper was disproportionately rankled by the sight of the damned thing. The temptation to ram it was immense – I was insured now and was sure I’d have been able to make up a feasible story. Swerving to avoid a cat? Or a child? The only thing that stopped me was the fact I was rather fond of my car and couldn’t be stuffed with any resulting panel-beating hassle.
I couldn’t resist giving the Mini’s front tyre a kick or two on the way past though, and I didn’t bloody well care who saw me, although I did note a young woman with a pushchair crossed the road as soon as I started lavishing attention on the hunk of junk. Once my foot started hurting though, I gave up on retribution and stormed into the house and up the stairs to my room.
Maggie must have heard my entrance; anyone within a five-kilometre radius would have, courtesy of the stomping and colourful muttering. She arrived in a flash and before I could say anything she strode over and enveloped me in a huge hug. The effect was like sucking oxygen from a fire. All day I had laboured at holding myself together, trying to be the staunch, strong woman my colleagues expected. I had succeeded, mostly, but the sheer effort of that had taken its toll. The façade crumbled and I felt Maggie rocking me as I bawled all over her shoulder.
‘God, Sam, that must have been so awful for you,’ she said while rubbing my back the way Dad used to when I was a girl if I’d hurt myself and he was trying to soothe away the pain. ‘I’ve been in a lab all day and it’s like a vacuum from the outside world. I had no idea, otherwise I would have come and found you earlier. I’ve only just turned my phone back on and got your messages, I’m so sorry.’
‘That’s okay,’ I said and stood up straight to reach for some tissues to deal with the snot. Unfortunately, I’d also left a bit on Maggie’s shoulder and she laughed at my inept efforts at cleaning it up. It was pretty ludicrous and I managed to half-laugh, half-sob, which sounded so silly that Maggie laughed even more.
‘Well, Sam,’ she said as she held up the rubbish bin for the sodden tissues. ‘What are we going to do with you?’
I tossed them towards the basket and missed badly. The floor caught them. ‘Shoot me and put me out of my misery.’
‘After that fine display, if you tried it yourself, you’d probably miss. Just as well you had a damned big target this morning.’ I tried to smile, but the tears welled up again, instead and I could feel my face crumple.
‘Oh, sweetie, come back here,’ Maggie said, and wrapped her arm around my shoulders again, giving them a squeeze. ‘Besides, my snivelling little friend, if I shot you, it would make a hell of a mess on Aunt and Unc’s carpet. Anyway, I kind of like having you around, you keep me amused. Got any other suggestions?’
‘Am I allowed to suggest anything involving large quantities of alcohol?’
‘Only if I’m invited.’
‘You’re invited.’
‘I thought you’d say that, but I have to be honest. I don’t know if I want to be seen in public with someone whose eyes make her look like she’s spent the day smoking illegal plant life. I mean this in the nicest possibly way, but honey, you look like crap.’
‘Thanks, I needed that.’
‘You’re welcome. So, the first thing I’m going to do is take you downstairs and feed you up on some of Aunty Jude’s fabulous leftover lasagne, and I’ll even let you have the last bread bun, ’cos I’m generous like that.’
‘Gee whiz, ta.’
‘But wait, there’s more. I’ll even make you a cup of super-duper espresso coffee with the fresh roast beans I acquired from the Fix today.’
That got me smiling again. This house had all the mod cons, which included a Rocket Coffee machine that scared the bejesus out of me. That thing looked like a chromed miniature oil refinery, with pipes and gauges and steam venting in an alarming fashion. Maggie wasn’t afraid to use it. She could make that thing sing.
‘You got my attention with the coffee. I’ll pass on the food, although I appreciate the gesture, but where does the alcohol bit come in?’
‘Patience, child. I was going to suggest that after a bite to eat – I’m insisting on that, by the way – and a spruce up, we pop down into town and have a quiet one. Unless you wanted to go up to the police bar instead?’
We usually popped into the bar on the fourth floor, saluted the Queen and settled in for a couple on a Friday evening. But tonight, for some strange reason, I didn’t quite feel up to reminders of work – or the possibility of running into a particular someone, not that he drank with the plebs.
‘No, I think I’ll give that a miss, thanks. A quiet one or five in town sounds good.’
‘Did you want me to invite anyone else along? Smithy? Paul Frost? He’s still in town, isn’t he?
’
Paul had offered, and I knew Smithy would come, if asked. But in reality, the last thing I felt like was having to be sociable with blokes. Who could be bothered?
‘Nah, a girls’ night out would be good.’
Maggie was creating wondrous smells from the kitchen. Aunt and Unc had just arrived home and we were discussing the latest email from the girls, who were at a ski race event near Lake Tahoe in the US of A. Mercifully, they seemed unaware of some of the nastier events in Dunedin today, or had chosen not to mention them. Aunty Jude had been filling me in on the twins’ successes when Uncle Phil flicked on the television.
The images froze my blood. The aerial view was jumpy and the noise of the helicopter filled the room. Under the alien flicker of orange street lamps and shuddering white spotlight a lone, pathetically small figure stood its ground under the relentless approach of the lumbering beast. Pulsating sound from inside my head intermingled with the thrumming of the helicopter blades. A furious heat rushed up my body. My eyes saw the figure – the ant – pull the shotgun up to sight, the elephant getting closer, closer, and when the behemoth seemed impossibly close, bang. The shot caused my head to jerk back, my breath suck in and my world stand still. I could not tear my eyes away from the scene, as I knew the next move in this unlikely drama. Muffled voices caught at the edge of my hearing, but my mind was transfixed by the screen. The creature collapsed, its momentum carrying it forward to within metres of the figure. Fast forward, the figure standing behind the beast, shotgun muzzle to the head. Another shot, another jolt. Saliva flooded into my mouth. I slapped my hand over it to hold it in and bolted for the toilet.
37
‘Are you sure you’re up to this?’ Maggie asked as we wandered into the Sanctum. The Octagon in Dunedin was like Grand Bar Central with way too many drinking establishments to choose from. Not a place for the indecisive. My vote had been for one that didn’t have any televisions, so we’d had to case out and leave two before settling in here. Sure, the massive screens had been devoted to rugby matches, but I wasn’t going to chance someone flipping channels to check out the news.
‘Ask me that question again when I’ve got a big glass of red in my hand,’ I said. ‘Or even better, only half a glass of red left in my hand.’
‘Your wish is my command,’ she said, with a bow. ‘You find a seat, I’ll get the drinks.’
It was a bit chilly to sit at one of the outdoor tables, even if they did provide cuddly rugs, and besides, that was where the smokers were quarantined to and I didn’t feel like breathing in any of their second-hand crap. I wandered down the back and found a booth. It was perfect – comfortable, cocoon-like and with a sense of seclusion. A good hidey-hole. Dunedin hadn’t been my home long enough for me to keep bumping into people I knew. In fact, after growing up in small towns, and then being sole-charge police presence in Mataura, I was glad of the anonymity Dunedin offered. In Mataura, people could probably tell you what colour underwear you were wearing from what they’d seen hanging on your clothes line. Here, no one knew my business and I liked it that way.
It had taken me a good hour to get myself together after the shock of seeing the television footage. It wasn’t only the brutality of seeing me shoot poor Cassie. It was the second shot, so much like an execution, that was too much. Uncle Phil told me they had shown me slide down to the ground, leaning against the back of the elephant, just sitting there, head in my hands. He said they’d shown the humanity; that it hadn’t come across as a cold-blooded killing. That was no consolation. The footage had also been an eye-opener, made me realise just how close to disaster I’d come. At the time, everything happened too fast to think; I hadn’t contemplated the potential dangers. I was on automatic. What if I’d missed? I shuddered.
‘Here we go.’ Maggie was back bearing gifts of my favourite kind of fruit – the squashed and fermented variety. ‘I splurged and got us a decent Central Otago Pinot Noir. Enjoy.’
She slid a glass of deep, luscious burgundy-coloured liquid under my nose.
‘So it’s not for quaffing?’ I’d had something cheap and cheerful in mind, and lots of it.
‘Sorry. I thought the best way to make you pace yourself would be to get something civilised.’
I swirled the wine around the glass and inhaled the aroma. ‘Ooh, you’re right, this is good.’ I took a sip and savoured the mellow, warm flavour. ‘All we need’s a cheese board and it would be perfect.’
‘It’s on its way,’ Maggie said and tipped her glass. ‘I think of everything. Although, perfection would involve me, George, you and Brad, but I couldn’t quite swing that one, not even with my miracle-inducing superpowers.’
‘George and Brad?’
‘Clooney and Pitt.’
‘Ah, yes, they would complement the wine nicely. But it always gets ugly when you have to fend off all those other adoring women, and the paparazzi. I’ll make do with a quiet night and your charming company,’ I said, as I tipped my glass in her direction. ‘Thanks, Maggs.’
‘A toast,’ Maggie said. ‘Here’s to a glorious, humdrum, ordinary, stupefyingly dull and uneventful week ahead.’
‘Hear, hear,’ I said and clinked glasses.
My head had a pleasant buzz thing happening as the wine kicked in and its warmth softened the edges of the frozen ball in the pit of my stomach. My state of mellowness dissipated pretty quickly, however, when it was my turn to attend to the drinks. One of the pitfalls of being a bit on the short side is that people tend to overlook you. The situation wasn’t helped by bloody great lug-heads who pushed in front of me at the bar. By the time the bar-chick noticed me, which was an eternity – amazing how all the guys got served first – I was more than a little septic. I bit back the urge to point out her shortcomings. It was probably wasted on someone who wore one of those god-awful studs below her lower lip. I hated to think what it did to her teeth. But I almost forgave all when she filled the glasses to a generous level.
I turned around and made my way gingerly back through the throng. The place had filled up considerably and the volume had escalated with it. I had a couple of close calls as I made my way towards the back and had almost reached safety when a hand plonked onto my shoulder, near giving me a coronary. I held my breath as the wine sloshed to the rim of the glass.
‘Fancy seeing you here. So, you decided to come out, after all – and you didn’t even invite me.’ I half turned and there was Paul Frost with some stupid, mocked-up hurt look on his face. My eyes darted over to where Maggie was sitting and the cow gave me a wink.
‘Oh, spare me the pathetic looks, why don’t you. Are you stalking me, Paul? And don’t give me your cute “I’m-a-detective” line again.’
He laughed, deep and melodic. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, Sam, but no, you don’t quite rate high enough on my obsessions for a good stalking. Almost, but not quite.’ I supposed he thought that smile could charm all the girls. I wondered when he’d realise it wasn’t having the desired effect on me. ‘I’d arranged to meet some people here, but they haven’t turned up yet. I see Maggie’s over there.’ He waved to her and she gave a cheerful little wave back, before he returned his attention to me. His voice changed to his I’m-all-concerned one and his eyes focused in like I was the only person in the room. It suddenly felt a lot warmer in here. ‘How did your interview go? I hope they were sensible and didn’t give you a hard time.’ The crush of the crowd meant he was leaning over me, close enough for me to smell him. He had something nice on, but a bit too much of it. ‘Oh, you’d better watch your butt, it’s sticking out – someone can’t get past, behind you.’
‘It’s not that big,’ I said as I shuffled forward a bit, to let the guy past. Unfortunately, Paul got a shove from behind at the same time, forcing him forward into me. His body pushed against the glasses, the contents sloshed up and I watched aghast as two crimson stains ran down my best merino top in the most prominent of places. Paul’s hands grabbed first onto my shoulders to stabilise himself, and th
en behind my elbows to rescue the glasses.
‘Oh, bloody hell,’ I said. ‘Look what you’ve gone and done.’ Like I needed this right now. ‘Can’t you be more bloody careful?’
‘Shit, do you want me to wipe your boobs?’ he asked as he let go of me and looked around for something to repair the damage.
‘Nuh, uh, don’t you dare. You’ve done enough already.’ I thrust a glass into one of his hands, grabbed the serviette he’d swiped off a table, and then handed him the other glass. I made a futile effort at mopping up the spillage.
‘Hey, that wasn’t my fault,’ he said. ‘Between your bum, boobs and the crowd in here, it’s no wonder we got jostled.’
I sucked in a big breath. I didn’t think they were that big and how dare he talk like that. My internal barometer was on the rise again, assisted by the pressure of a truly awful day.
‘Oh, so it was my fault, was it? Well, Paul,’ my voice loud and laden. ‘See these? They’re called hips.’ I gave mine a Polynesian wiggle. ‘And they actually belong on a real woman. See these?’ I said as I pointed to my wine-stained chest. ‘They are breasts, not boobs. A boob is a mistake. There is nothing mistaken about these babies. In fact, some women pay to have them bigger – that’s very deliberate – no errors there, except in judgement. They are not boobs.’ His eyes were still fixated on my chest, which fuelled the fire all the more. ‘God, you men are all the same.’
With this rant of mine in full swing, Paul looked at first astonished, then bemused and as I finished the last, and I thought well-delivered line, he let out a loud laugh, and to my utter astonishment, stepped forward and kissed me squarely on the lips.
He stepped back, still laughing. ‘Good God, woman, do you ever shut up?’
I lifted my hand to my mouth. Did that just happen?
‘If I’m not allowed to use such blokish and apparently derogatory terms as boobs and bum, what am I allowed to use? Some sterile terminology?’ He put on a hoity-toity voice. ‘Why, what a lovely pelvic cradle you have. So perfectly balanced with your mammaries.’ It was my turn to stand, mouth agape. ‘I don’t think so. Sorry, Sam, but seeing as you hadn’t noticed, I’m a guy. If I like what I see I’m going to say something along the lines of “phorrrrrrrgh, nice arse” to go along with, “great rack”. It’s genetically imprinted in my DNA, along with that of every other red-blooded male in the world. So you need to lighten up and get over yourself. For Christ’s sake, what is happening in the world if a guy can’t give a girl a compliment?’