The Ringmaster

by Vanda Symon

  ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I am not the only one on this investigation and it is certainly not my job to lead it, so don’t look at me for the shortcomings in the whole bloody thing. Leadership comes from the top. Your performance hasn’t been exactly stellar. You need to take a good hard look at yourself instead of looking for scapegoats elsewhere.’ The fuse-wire holding my temper in check had shorted and my voice rose to the occasion.

  He smiled, lips slowly exposing a row of perfect teeth and the image of a shark again jumped into my mind. I felt like a minnow under his gaze. I think the bastard was enjoying this.

  ‘Sit back down.’ He gestured with his hands and I, face burning, did as I was told. ‘Well, Shephard,’ he said, slowing his voice to a drawl. ‘I’ve got to give you credit for having balls. Not many people would dare talk to me like that and keep their job. But I’ll take that one on the chin, for now. So if you’re so well positioned to make an opinion, where do you think the investigation should go? I’m curious. What would you do?’

  My opinion was the last thing I expected to be asked for and I wavered for a moment.

  He pounced. ‘See, you can’t tell me. You have no idea, do you? So maybe you should—’

  ‘No, wait, before you write me off, give me chance to speak.’ My hand had shot up, gesturing him to stop and he looked at it and then at me with a look of condescending amusement. I felt like a mouse, being batted around by the cat until it tired of the game.

  ‘I think we need to go back to the beginning, Rose-Marie’s friends, flatmates, family, boyfriend, look into her life, her university studies, the things we started on before the circus connection became apparent. Get back to basics. We need to look over the other murders, similarities, differences, any connection between the victims.’

  ‘Yes, well this isn’t telling me anything your average schoolkid couldn’t figure out. You’ll have to do better than that.’

  ‘It hinges on the circus. If our murderer isn’t a member of the crew, then someone has gone out of their way to set them up, use them as a smokescreen. But who would do that and why? Is this something personal against the circus or a person in it? Did someone hate Terry Bennett, for example – enough to try and set him up for murder? Were all these victims random collateral damage for someone’s elaborate plan? Or is this about them as individuals, specifically targeted?’

  I could see him mulling it over, his fingers tapping his lips. ‘I hadn’t thought about this being a personal vendetta against the circus. If it was, they’ve achieved results in spectacular fashion. It makes me want to look at some of those animal-rights activists a bit more closely.’

  Me too. I’d heard of instances overseas where the activists had crossed the line from peaceful protest into wanton crime – the worst case involving desecrating some poor woman’s grave because her son-in-law bred guinea pigs for medical research. Could someone have gone so far as to commit murder – make that multiple murders – to get at a perceived animal abuser? That smacked of obsession bordering insanity.

  He looked up at me, this time minus the sneer. ‘Is that why you’re in here this morning? To look at the Bateman case?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, simply.

  ‘After everything that’s happened, and in your own time?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He tapped his fingers against his lips some more. ‘What do you need?’

  My God, was I actually going to get some support from the man? I wouldn’t get my hopes up. ‘Files on the investigation to date, access to the videoed interviews and transcripts of the ones that weren’t. Opportunity to talk to some of the parties involved.’

  Seeing as all cards seemed to be on the table, I dared another direct question.

  ‘How do I know you’re going to let me get on with this and not withhold information or interfere? How do I know you’re not setting me up to fail?’

  ‘You’re just going to have to trust me,’ he said, deadpan.

  ‘Well I don’t, so that’s going to be a problem.’

  The right side of his face twitched, but his voice remained even. ‘The feeling is quite mutual. I will give you the opportunity to prove my opinion of you wrong. But if, for any reason, you let me down, or make me look bad, no amount of help from above will keep your arse in this job. Understood?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  41

  I was back at square one, and after the events of the last week – my God, had it only been a week? – I felt sluggish, as though I was trying to shake off the effects of a persistent head cold. I slowed down from jogging pace and stood, breathing heavily, under the spider-like tree that marked the last moments of Rose-Marie Bateman’s journey. Her friends all called her Rosie, but somehow calling her Rosie didn’t sit right with me. It didn’t afford her the respect she deserved.

  Death. The shudder my body gave wasn’t just a result of the sweat cooling on my heated skin. This walkway used to be a favourite route. Now, even on a sunny day, it gave me the creeps.

  I’d felt compelled to come past here on my run, revisit the place, remind myself of what was at the heart of the matter. The path down to the spot where Rose-Marie was found still sported the remnants of crime-scene tape, although someone had chosen to ignore it and it lay discarded to one side. What would one more set of footprints matter? I checked around to ensure I had no company, then walked down the path and along the riverside until I reached the spot where I’d stood guard over her body. Today the site seemed innocent, even cheerful with sunlight glinting off the water’s surface and the musical soft murmuring of the Water of Leith. The exuberant warbles of a bellbird, which would on any other day elicit a smile, seemed to add to the injustice. All traces of Rose-Marie’s passage and struggle for life had disappeared. How quickly nature erased and the world forgot.

  Her murder had led to a cascade of events that had resulted in more death, destruction and misery. Just ask Terry Bennett, or Jamal, or Zarvo, no, Jason as he was known and his once hopeful and now devastated family. Just ask fifty-odd displaced circus performers and workers, jobless and many of them stranded in a foreign country. Then there were the murders that preceded all this. What a bloody mess to sort out. My brain was stuffed full of the facts of the investigation I’d been working through. I’d hoped the run would spur my subconscious into processing it all, picking out the bits that jarred, the bits that gelled. What I needed most was to talk with someone about it all to help order my thoughts, structure the bedlam. Smithy? I‘d considered ringing him, but he was a family man and I was sure being in the force put enough pressures on his domestic life without me adding to them by dragging him away from what little time he had with them. I couldn’t do that to Veronica and the kids. As for the others? I didn’t really feel I knew any of them well enough to impinge on them like that. There was Paul. He was still in town, but I wasn’t sure I’d be able to have a good work session without him being his usual chauvinistic self and irritating the crap out of me. My threshold for tolerating his rubbish was a bit low right now. Maggie was always good; maybe Maggie.

  It was all a moot point though. There were other priorities for the moment. I checked my watch; I’d have to rattle my dags. Mum would be expecting me at the hospital soon and it didn’t pay to keep her waiting.

  My sense of urgency had returned.

  42

  ‘Hi Sam-a-lamb, fancy seeing you here.’ Dad looked wired for sound with a drip going in one arm and ECG stickies poking through the grey mat of hair on his chest. I wasn’t quite sure what state I expected to find him in, but was relieved that he seemed perky and hadn’t lost that twinkle in his eye. He was sharing a room with two empty beds and a striped-pyjama-clad elderly chap who seemed to be trying to watch the very loud television through his eyelids.

  ‘Hey, Dad.’ I leaned over and gave him a kiss on his stubbly cheek. ‘Standards are slipping, I see,’ I said, giving the stubble a scritch with my knuckles. ‘Stick you in a chopper and send you to the big smoke and you think yo
u’re on holiday.’

  ‘Some holiday, the room service is terrible and as for the food. Don’t they know a man needs a real lunch? Where’s the meat?’

  ‘I think that brown stuff is meat, Dad.’

  ‘Really? If it is, it’s having an identity crisis. And as for this other stuff,’ he said, poking at some greens with a fork. ‘None of this limp-salad-and-orange-juice business. What the hell would I want with salad? Salad is for rabbits. That kind of diet will only make you sick.’

  ‘Glad to see there’s some fight left in the old boy. How are you anyway? What’s up with all this attention-seeking behaviour?’ I asked, indicating the array of hardware he was attached to. The lovely thing about Dad was you could be direct. He didn’t go for tiptoeing around the facts. No games, no bullshit, unlike someone else in the family.

  ‘You want to know the truth,’ he said quietly while looking around to check the coast was clear. He leaned forward and reached up to pull me close. Even at sixty-five he was a large and fit man, although, he did look a bit thinner than when I’d last seen him. I could see his abdominal muscles tighten as he sat up. When I had bent down near enough, he whispered in my ear. ‘I’m just doing it to annoy your mum.’ We both enjoyed a good laugh before the devil herself entered the room.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘Dad told me he had three days to live and he wanted his ashes to be blasted into space like that guy from Star Trek.’ We both laughed all the more, while Mum stood there, not so amused. She was what people described as a handsome woman, and having filled out slightly with age, she was a stocky, handsome woman. I did wish she’d upgrade her wardrobe, or at least go buy some Trinny and Susannah books to try and be a modern, stocky, handsome woman.

  ‘Samantha, don’t be so crass,’ she said, hands on hips. ‘You don’t make jokes about that kind of thing.’ The woman really needed to go buy herself a sense of humour too. One look at Dad told me it wasn’t so bad; he wasn’t about to drop dead. And he plainly thought he was okay, so that was the most important thing.

  ‘Can you come down with me to the nurses’ station, they want your cellphone number or something.’ She grabbed me by the arm and escorted me out of the room. I blew Dad a kiss on the way out the door.

  Once we were a safe distance along the corridor, she spun around and got started. Mum was a shorty, like me. In fact, she was one of the few people I knew who I could talk to at eye level. But where her altitude may have equalled mine, the attitude was poles apart and she took great pains to let me know my station in life and how great a disappointment I was for her. She gave new meaning to the term battleaxe and made Boadicea look like a big girls’ blouse. ‘You shouldn’t say things like that, Samantha. What if he’s really sick? How would you feel then, making light of everything?’

  ‘Well, is he? Is he really sick?’

  ‘That’s what we’re here to find out. They don’t fly people from here to there for nothing you know. They must be concerned about something.’

  ‘What have they told you?’

  ‘They want to do more tests on his heart. But they also want to do an MRI scan on him. They’re concerned something else is putting pressure on it, so want to check his whole chest.’

  ‘What makes them think that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Sheryl explained it to me, but I can’t recall all the details. I wish she’d been able to come over, but she couldn’t get anyone to look after the kids. She’d have been a great comfort for us all.’

  Because I wasn’t?

  ‘Where do I go to give the nursing staff my number?’ I asked, changing tack before I got to hear of Sheryl’s many virtues and get pinged some more.

  ‘Oh, they’ve already got it. I just needed to have a word with you, alone.’ That sounded ominous. ‘Look, I didn’t want to upset your dad, so I haven’t told him about you killing that elephant. He knows nothing about it.’ She made it sound so premeditated. ‘The last thing he needs right now is to hear about your latest escapade. I guess I’ve got used to you not wanting to tell me about these things by now. But your father would be really hurt if he knew you’d excluded us again.’

  Oh, Jesus, she knew exactly where to punch. Any debate was pointless. She was the queen of pique and I didn’t think there was anything I could ever do that would win her seal of approval. Even if I gave it all up to dedicate my life to saving AIDS orphans in Rwanda, she’d find fault, or tell me how Saint Sheryl would do it better. The chance of getting any sympathy for my misadventures was zip.

  I tried to change the subject before she let loose with another barb.

  ‘Where are you staying tonight? Do you want me to ask Jude if you could stay with us?’ The spare bedroom was made up, ready for such impromptu needs, although the thought of being under the same roof…

  ‘I wouldn’t want to be any trouble.’

  ‘She’d love to have you. In fact, she’d be mortified if you didn’t stay.’

  Mum wavered for a moment then gave a big sigh, as though it was such a tough decision. ‘Well, okay then, that would be very helpful. I’ll be at the hospital for most of the time, so I won’t get in anyone’s way.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be in the way. Come stay, then you won’t have to worry about accommodation or food and you can concentrate on looking after Dad.’

  ‘Tell her not to worry about me for meals or anything, I’ll pick things up from the hospital café. I wouldn’t want to be a bother.’

  My mother, ever the martyr.

  43

  This really was tragic. It was a hazy autumn afternoon with no breeze, the kind of Dunedin Saturday that settled over you like a warm grass-scented blanket. It was begging for a walk along the beach, or a bike ride up the peninsula, or even a chance to lounge outside with friends and share a good bottle of wine. But no, what was I doing? I was sequestered in my room, surrounded by an avalanche of notes, thinking of murder, not the season of mellow fruitfulness. My brain was flitting from Rose-Marie Bateman to Dad, to Terry Bennett, to the trail of death, to killing elephants, to any stupid, random thought that entered my head.

  I shoved aside the folder I had tuned out of, climbed off my bed and ambled over to the window. At this time of day my room didn’t get the sun, but I did have the consolation of the view. Somehow though, today, even that didn’t offer solace. I had an almighty case of the blahs. Blah, blah, blah. My head felt like someone had pulled my hair into a vicious ponytail and was insisting on making it tighter, my eyeballs had a sandpapery texture, which seemed odd considering how much spontaneous lubricating they’d been getting over the course of the day. I looked down at the red-brick-paved courtyard and watched as the Kershaws’ overweight fluffball excuse for a cat tried, very optimistically, to stalk a bird. It was about as subtle as a traction engine, and just as graceful. It wasn’t much of a surprise when the fantail flew off up into the safety of a kowhai tree, probably laughing. I enjoyed a derisive snort at the cat’s expense myself.

  My scheme of initiating positive action to distract myself wasn’t working. And, as much as I hated to admit it, what I really needed was company. Maggs, doing the studious thing, was down at the University Central Library on a hunt for references for an assignment due next week. Aunty Jude was at some Altrusa fundraising event. Mum was at the hospital, and wasn’t planning on getting in until later this evening. That only left Uncle Phil – and as much as I liked him, and he was always good for a chat, I didn’t feel I could interrupt his work because I had a case of the lonelies to go with the blahs.

  Unappealing as it was, the only remedy I could think of would involve me having to swallow pride.

  And pride was never a sugar-coated tablet.

  44

  Humble pie. Perhaps it wasn’t so bad, although this one did have a sharp aftertaste. When I’d rung to ask if he’d come round and discuss the case, Paul couldn’t resist getting a dig in about my needing him, after all. I didn’t expect anything less. Lucky for him I valued his opinion in a prof
essional sense, so I allowed him his mileage, if it made him feel better and massaged his little ego.

  So here we were, closeted indoors at the kitchen table, late on one of Dunedin’s finest Saturday afternoons, discussing death, murder, doom and gloom. Me, Paul and Fluffy the vanquished bird-slayer, with a pile of photocopied notes and a continuous supply of tea and coffee. We were chain-caffeining.

  ‘So,’ I said, my hands enjoying the last skerrick of warmth from being wrapped around my now empty mug of tea. ‘I don’t think anyone in the circus had anything to do with it. Well, not directly, anyway.’

  ‘But you think they did indirectly?’

  ‘Yes. It could be someone who wanted to set them up, destroy them. What better way than to label them as killers and get them under the scrutiny of the police and the media. They’d be guaranteed front-page news in every newspaper in the country and I imagine the gate sales would dry up a bit after that. Mr and Mrs Joe Average Kiwi wouldn’t be inclined to take little Johnny and Jill to the circus to see the big bad murderers.’

  ‘Yeah, but that’s a little extreme. I still think we need to keep an open mind on the circus folk. What about the guy that died? Zarvo?’

  ‘He has no form at all, under either name. It seems his greatest crime was being a spineless wonder. His poor family – not only have they found out he was alive and well and had just abandoned them, but they find out he’s now dead and they won’t get the chance for an explanation or even to give him an earful and a boot up the arse. What a cowardly thing to do, to take off like that and fake death, rather than own up and admit you weren’t happy. What kind of legacy is that to leave your kid? The only consolation is there doesn’t seem to have been another woman involved.’