The Ringmaster

by Vanda Symon

  I gulped a bit more air before replying: ‘Compliment? Huh.’ Seeing as witty repartee failed me, I resorted to that other frequently used item in a girl’s arsenal and turned around and stormed off, well as much as you could storm through a crowded room. Maggie looked like she was about to wet herself, she was laughing so much.

  ‘I suppose you heard all that?’ I asked, as I reached over and grabbed my bag. Hopefully I’d find something in there that could deal with the spillage.

  ‘Above this din? Not a word. I didn’t need too. As they say, a picture tells a thousand words.’ She nodded in the direction I’d come from. ‘Don’t you think you’ve forgotten something?’

  Ah, crap, the wine. I slowly turned my head and there was Paul, making his way over, a smug grin on his face. I turned and looked pointedly at the wall.

  ‘Ladies,’ he said, and I heard two clinks as he placed the glasses on the table.

  ‘Why thank you, kind sir,’ Maggie replied. I could only guess at the theatrics, as I wasn’t going to grace it with a glance.

  ‘Always a pleasure,’ he said and then I heard the gentle chuckling recede.

  I turned back to see Maggie looking at me with the kind of amused expression that made you want to forcibly wipe it off.

  ‘That was entertaining, I didn’t know they provided a floor show here.’

  ‘Ah, shut ya face.’ I took a slug of what was left of my wine, and then headed off to the bathroom.

  38

  The cellphone rang while I was back, once again, in the Sanctum’s bathrooms, trying to blot with wet toilet paper the wine spilled on my top, but succeeding only in leaving a little white paper trail where I’d dabbed, in turn, drawing more attention to my chest.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Samantha? It’s Mum.’

  Oh, crap. With everything that had been happening, I’d forgotten to ring the olds and let them know what was going on. After the Mataura fiasco, and associated ladled-on guilt, I had promised to call more often and keep them in the loop, especially when things got interesting. They must have seen the news, figured out it was me and Mum was ringing to give me one of her little speeches again.

  ‘Hi, Mum. Gosh, I was just about to ring you guys.’ I cringed and slapped my forehead as I realised it was 11 p.m. and no sane person would be ringing their parents at that hour. There was a long pause and I braced myself for the onslaught.

  ‘Sam, it’s about your Dad.’ The cold knot re-formed in the pit of my stomach.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘It looks like he’ll be okay, but he’s had a bit of a turn. We’re at the hospital in Invercargill.’ My mind sprinted through all the options to get myself down there. After three glasses of wine, driving was out of the question, even though the call had sobered me up in an instant. I was sure to be legally under the limit, but I knew my liver’s tolerances, and I wouldn’t be safe behind the wheel. I could get someone to take me. But who? Maggie had been drinking as well and, like me, always erred on the side of caution. It was a two-and-a-half to three-hour drive and a big ask to impose on a friend. There wouldn’t be any buses or flights until the morning.

  ‘I’ll try and get there as soon as I can,’ I said, my brain still calculating the logistics.

  ‘You don’t need to do that. We’ll be fine. Stephen and Sheryl are here, thank heavens. Sheryl’s been great, explaining what’s going on to me.’ Of course Saint Steve and Saint Francis Sherylgale would be there. Fortunately for Mum, Steve had married her perfect daughter – a nurse and devoted mother of her grandchildren. Not like her wayward one doing a man’s job. How could I ever compete? I sighed, the weight of the day descending on me like a vanload of unexpected relatives at Christmas.

  ‘I can be there tomorrow morning, Mum.’ I’d go home, try and get a few hours’ sleep, then set out early, five o’clock.

  ‘No, don’t you worry, you don’t need to do that.’ There she went again. I knew damned well if didn’t go I’d be forever reminded of my lack of support when they needed me most. I was on a hiding to nothing.

  ‘What’s wrong? Do they think it’s his heart again?’

  ‘That’s part of it, but they think there maybe something else.’

  ‘What kind of thing?’ I asked.

  ‘They want to do some more tests, they want to fly him over to Dunedin.’

  Shit, it must have been serious if they were going to do that. The hospital in Invercargill could handle most things.

  ‘What kind of tests?’ I asked. I heard her talking to someone in the background.

  ‘Look, Sam, I’ve got to go. Steve needs his phone back to call the babysitter. I’ll ring you tomorrow.’

  Before I had a chance for a ‘But…’ or a ‘Take care’ or a ‘Love you’, she’d hung up, leaving me standing in the bathroom, clutching wet toilet paper and feeling utterly alone.

  39

  It was Saturday morning, and I was feeling the effects of the night before. None of my cruddiness was due to alcohol. The wine was too good and there hadn’t been enough of it for that, more’s the pity. The news of Dad being ill, on top of destroying elephants, flaming circuses and too many dead people, had left me feeling like I’d had the life sucked out of me leaving a pale-faced shell of a thing doing an impersonation of Sam Shephard. And a piss-poor one at that.

  There had been no point in getting up at a sparrow’s fart and driving to Invercargill. Dad might be transferred here and Mum’s ‘I’ll ring you’ had put her firmly in the controlling seat, while ensuring she could still play her trump ‘You’re-never-there-when-I-need-you’ card. She was ever the master at these games.

  I heard the pad of feet approaching me from behind. ‘What on earth are you doing in the laundry at this hour of the morning?’ Maggie asked, stifling a yawn with the back of her hand, a picture of elegance in a once-white dressing gown and with shambolic morning hair. ‘You look a fright.’ There was the pot calling the proverbial kettle names.

  ‘I couldn’t be fagged dealing with my top last night, so I just bunged it in some water. I hope it’s not ruined. I was looking for stain soaker, but there’s so much crap in here.’ The Kershaws’ laundry cupboard was full of unidentifiable boxes and ancient-looking concoctions. The washing powder lived on the shelf above the tub, but if you needed anything a little more specialist, a bit of archaeology was in order. I picked up a box that looked the right shape for stain soaker and lifted the lid. It was a powder, but the colour was a bit dodgy. ‘What is this stuff?’

  Maggie peered over, her expression somewhere between a grimace and a laugh. ‘Eew, no, for God’s sake put that away, that’s Great-Uncle George.’

  ‘What do you mean, Great-Uncle George?’ I said, giving it a little shake.

  ‘I mean, that is, literally, Great-Uncle George. Those are his ashes.’

  The dawning realisation I was holding someone’s remains in my hands gave me a major case of the heebie-jeebies. I flipped the lid back down and hastily put him back on the shelf where I found him.

  ‘Who the hell keeps their relatives in the laundry cupboard?’ I asked as I rubbed my hands down my pyjama pants. Then, deciding that wasn’t quite good enough, I reached over and washed them in the sink, with an excessive amount of soap.

  ‘He’s been there for years. He’s Uncle Phil’s father. Apparently, they didn’t get along too well, so when he died, Uncle Phil put him the laundry cupboard and he’s stayed there ever since.’

  ‘Why didn’t they just scatter him somewhere or bury him?’

  ‘Aunty Jude wants to, make it decent and proper. In fact, she was the one who caved in and picked him up from the Kremlin.’

  ‘Kremlin?’

  ‘Crematorium. Uncle Phil wasn’t very impressed at her meddling. He’d wanted to leave them there, uncollected. So now the ashes are here, George takes pride of place in the laundry.’ I know my old flame Lockie’s parents had their English pointer cremated when he died, and the dog’s remains were kept in the lounge o
n a bookshelf until he was planted under a memorial pohutukawa tree in the garden. That was creepy enough. We always just dug a bloody big hole when one of the farm dogs died; we didn’t waste money on cremation. Anyway, if a dog wasn’t allowed in the house when it was alive, why the hell would you change the rules, just because it was dead? I’d thought they were a bit strange. Although, this took the cake.

  ‘But surely he’d see them all the time in the laundry; it would be a continuous reminder under his nose, every day. The old guy must have really pissed Uncle Phil off to end up in some cupboard.’

  ‘It’s a bit of a sore point and no one will talk about it. Besides, I think the ashes are quite invisible to him in the laundry. I mean to say, how often does your dad do the washing?’ As soon as the words came out of her mouth, I could see Maggie regretted the reference to my dad. ‘Oh God, Sam, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I know you’re worried, I—’

  ‘It’s okay, I know what you mean, and it was a fair comment. I don’t think Dad’s seen the inside of our laundry for decades.’

  Maggie smiled and gave me a tug on my sleeve. ‘Come on, leave that for now. Another hour won’t hurt it. I need a cup of tea and some breakfast – we’ve got fruit toast, if you’re interested.’

  She knew damned well a promise of fruit toast and tea would get my attention. I trailed her out to the kitchen and plonked myself down at the table, so I could stare out of the window. The morning light was reflecting off the still water of the harbour. It was breathtaking. It was moments like this that had me thanking my lucky stars I’d made the decision to up sticks and move here.

  Maggie filled the kettle and flicked it on, a magical sound. The next piece of magic was the sound of the toaster clicking with its cargo of fruit bread.

  ‘So what’s your plan of attack today?’ she asked.

  I hadn’t really thought that hard about what I’d do. It was Saturday. I had the day off work, so was a free agent, but I felt shackled by the need to know what was happening with Dad. It was 7.15 a.m. and Mum hadn’t rung. Surprise. I could ring Stephen on his cellphone, but that might wake them up if they’d had a late night at the hospital and Mum would probably get snarky because she’d think I didn’t trust her to ring me. Family politics could do your head in. It would be a waiting game, and patience wasn’t one of my strong points. I needed a good distraction, which got me to contemplating something that had been waving for attention at the back of my mind.

  With all the events of yesterday, my mind had veered off target. I realised I’d lost sight of a beautiful young girl, murdered, dumped in a river, who needed justice.

  It was time I turned my attention back to Rose-Marie.

  40

  It was still obscenely early for a Saturday morning, but I decided to make a trip down to work and pick up some notes on the Bateman case. With luck, the antisocial hour would lessen my chances of bumping into anyone. The plan was I’d join the milling hordes at the farmers’ market at the railway station and grab a coffee and a fresh pastry, then tootle into work, grab the information I needed, dump the notes back at the house, force myself to go for a run to clear the cobwebs and make the most of the splendid morning, then set my mind to the riddle of Rose-Marie’s death and those who had preceded her. Solid plan.

  Mum had finally rung and told me Dad was being transferred by helicopter to Dunedin hospital in the afternoon. I was going to meet her there at 2 p.m. He’d had a good night and was stable, which was reassuring.

  I didn’t notice the note on the windscreen until I was in the driver’s seat. I stared at it for several moments, trying to get my heart rate back under control, before throwing the door open, getting back out and tearing it from under the wiper blade. Now what?

  Bang, bang.

  I tasted the acid tang of bile in the back of my throat and a surge of fire in my veins. Someone was playing a stupid little game and I wasn’t in the mood. I pulled a pen and notebook out of my bag and marched back down to the hunk of junk outside our house. My initial pang of apprehension had been overwritten by indignation. Stuff this. It was time I did something. I was going to check out the number plate and find out who the shit-heap belonged to, then it was time to pay a little visit.

  But once at the office, all thoughts of retribution against note-writing idiots flew out of my head the moment the lift doors opened. For despite my theory of getting in early to avoid any inopportune meetings, I was presented with the worst-case scenario. Oh, fuckity fuck.

  What do you do when trapped in a small steel box and find yourself face to face with an arsehole boss? It wasn’t like I could take evasive action.

  DI Johns took one look at me and glowered. I took one look at him and felt an overwhelming need to go to the loo.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ I said, forcing a hopefully friendly-looking smile on my dial. In training, they always said the best thing to do in a confrontational situation was to talk calmly to an aggressor.

  ‘Shephard,’ he said, before an uncomfortable pause. ‘I think we need to have a little chat, down in my office, now.’

  Shit. The last thing I wanted to be was enclosed in a small room with him and no witnesses, but what choice did I have? The temptation was to let the lift doors close and pretend I was never there. Didn’t think that would help my cause, though. There were no other detectives around to divert attention – my plan had worked perfectly there – and I didn’t want the DI to think I didn’t have the guts to front up. So I stepped out of the lift and took what felt like a very long walk down the corridor to his domain. The sound of his door clicking shut as he closed it caused a corresponding lurch in my stomach. I folded my arms across my chest and stood, braced, waiting for it.

  ‘Take a seat.’ He indicated towards the chair and went and sat behind his desk. I did as requested. His eyes engaged mine for what felt like minutes, not seconds, until I had to break away to examine the few wisps of cloud in the otherwise azure sky behind him.

  ‘Ahem.’ The sound of him clearing his throat drew my attention back to him. ‘I’ll be completely honest with you, Detective Constable, and say I think you are an irresponsible and foolhardy officer and I think you are an impediment to this team.’

  That was certainly honest, brutally so. Despite chewing on the inside of my lip, I could feel the tell-tale tears spring to my eyes.

  ‘I opposed your inclusion in the detective programme, but for whatever reason, others thought you were of the right material. As far as I’m concerned, your actions have only gone to prove that they made the wrong decision. But I have been instructed’, he spat out the word instructed with sneering distaste, ‘to allow you to continue in this case in an active role.’

  At least there were higher powers on my side. ‘So against my better judgement, I will allow you to assist in the murder investigation, but I will not tolerate any unorthodox behaviour or meddling on your part. Do you understand me?’

  ‘Yes sir,’ I said, my voice hoarse.

  ‘I will be watching everything you do, and the moment you step out of line, or screw up, I will be down on you like a ton of bricks and you won’t know what’s hit you. And this time, there will be no one to save you. You might have everyone else fooled, but I know what you’re really like young lady. You seem to think you’re above the rules and everyone else here, and I will not hesitate to take you down and kick your arse back to the boohai where you belong. The only reason you’re still here is because you’re someone’s pet. I don’t know who you fucked to get here, but don’t think you’ll get any special attention from me.’ Jesus Christ, all I’d ever had was special attention from him. ‘Do you have anything to say?’

  Actually, I did.

  I cleared my throat and spoke, my voice still gravelly, but quiet and clear. ‘If we’re going to be brutally honest, sir, then I have to say I feel that you’ve had it in for me from the moment we met at Mataura. I don’t think I ever had a chance in your eyes because you already had me pegged and labelled and that’s
not going to change, no matter what I do.’ My eyes flicked up from the desktop to his eyes and saw them, cold and narrowed. I paused a moment, anticipating the rebuttal, but he didn’t interject. ‘Despite what you seem to think, I am a good detective and a good investigator’, I continued, daring to look him straight in the eye, ‘if you’d only give me a chance to do my job, instead of throwing up these constant barriers and impediments. You have to admit I have come up with the main leads in this case.’

  ‘Yeah, and the circus lead looks like it was one great red herring. You’ve wasted everyone’s time, and not to mention, lives.’

  He knew how to throw the cruellest barbs, and once I was able to continue talking, I couldn’t disguise the hurt.

  ‘You can’t lay the blame for that on me, and the coincidences there are too great to ignore. There is a connection between the circus and those murders, you know there is.’

  ‘Why don’t we have any firm suspects, then?’ he asked, leaning forward over the desk. ‘Sometimes coincidence is just that.’

  ‘Because we haven’t looked hard enough. We haven’t given the processes enough time. We’ve been too distracted by everything else.’

  ‘And whose fault is that?’

  God, he was good. My mother finally had some serious competition when it came to applying guilt, but I was damned if I was going to accept this load. I leaped to my feet and leaned forward with my hands planted on his desk.