“Morning Charlie,” Alberto said, “how’s he doing?”
“He’s fine,” Charlie said, “Danny overreacts sometimes. I think he just ate something he shouldn’t.”
“What’s that smell?” Alberto said.
“That,” Charlie pointed to a noxious smelling heap in the corner of the container, “is whatever Bruce ate that he shouldn’t have and eventually crapped out. I think one of the kids fed the poor bugger something that disagreed with him.”
“He’ll be alright for the show this afternoon though?” Alberto said.
“He’ll be just fine. I’ve made sure he’s had plenty of water and I think he’s got most of it out of his system.”
“I can smell that,” Alberto said.
“Have you seen the state of Jimmy?” Charlie said.
“Don’t tell me,” Alberto said, “hung over again?”
“Worse,” Charlie said, “he’s still drunk and he’s miserable with it. Who wants to come and see a miserable clown?”
“He’ll be alright,” Alberto said, “he’s never let us down before.”
Jimmy Moreno was Alberto’s little brother. The clown gene had been in the Moreno family for generations. Ever since Willy and Inga Moreno had formed the Circus Moreno in Denmark in the forties, most of the family had earned a living performing in the big top. They knew nothing else. Jimmy Moreno had started drinking heavily about the same time as the popularity of circuses was waning all around the world. He was an extremely unhappy clown.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Alberto said, “make sure Bruce doesn’t eat anything else he shouldn’t; he’s our biggest draw card and please get someone to clean that stench up.”
“He’s safe with me,” Charlie ran his hands through Bruce’s mane.
Alberto walked up to one of the staff caravans and knocked on the door. There was no answer. He knocked again and waited. After a few seconds he turned the handle. He felt a slight resistance on the other side of the door. It was as if someone was holding the handle on the other side. He turned the handle harder and pushed open the door. He noticed there was a piece of string tied to the door handle. There was a strange noise coming from inside the caravan.
“Tick, tock, tick tock.”
Alberto looked around and found where the noise was coming from. On the table in the middle of the caravan was a strange metal contraption. The string on the door handle led to the middle of this metal box.
“Tick, tock, tick, tock.”
The sound seemed to fill the whole caravan.
Alberto noticed a small clock on the side of the metal box. It was counting down from a minute. He watched as the second hand moved round in an anticlockwise direction.
“Tick, tock, tick, tock.”
The hand on the clock was nearing the twelve at the top.
“Tick, tock…”
The sound stopped and Alberto held his breath. The top of the metal box opened and a bright red flag burst out with a bang. On the flag in white letters was written the word ‘BOOM’.
Alberto realized his heart was beating faster than usual. He shook his head and went back outside.
FOUR
Saturday Blues
Whitton and Bridge sat in Chalmers’ old office waiting for the new DI. They had made sure they were early.
“Stand up please,” a deep voice was heard from the doorway.
DI Bryony Brownhill walked in and sat down behind Chalmers’ desk. She looked extremely uncomfortable in the old chair. Her long legs did not seem to fit under the desk. Whitton and Bridge stood up. Bridge put his hands in his pockets.
“Right,” Brownhill said, “I’ll keep this brief as we seem to have a missing person on our hands.”
She glared at Bridge.
“What’s that?” she pointed at his T shirt.
It was an old faded black T shirt with ‘Future Sound of London’ written on it in bright purple letters.
“Ma’am?” Bridge was confused.
“Do I have to point out to you that you are a representative of the York police department,” Brownhill said, “and as such, the way in which you dress directly reflects upon us. I will not have any of my team wearing shirts with lewd designs on them, whether it be pop groups, artists or any such thing. Is that clear?”
“But Ma’am,” Bridge said, “I wasn’t supposed to be here today remember. I have a day off.”
“But you’re here aren’t you?” Brownhill said.
Bridge was about to argue that Chalmers had only called them in for an hour or so but the look on DI Brownhill’s face made him change his mind.
“You’ll do,” Brownhill addressed Whitton, “but I’ll be keeping a close eye on the two of you. Now, I need you both to get down to an address on Meadow Gate. We had a call about an hour ago about a missing person.”
“A missing person?” Bridge said, “An hour ago? Isn’t uniform available? If they’ve only been missing for an hour it isn’t technically a missing person is it?”
“DC Bridge,” Brownhill stood up, “please take your hands out of your pockets.”
Bridge did as he was told.
“The missing person is a five year old boy. His parents have been looking for him all night. I realize the standard procedure is to wait twenty four hours before we act but I think we can make an exception in the case of a five year old child can’t we?”
Bridge nodded.
“Good,” Brownhill sat down again, “twenty eight Meadow Gate. The boy’s parents are frantic, as you can imagine. I realize it may be interfering with your day off but you’ll soon learn that there is no such thing as a day off on my watch.”
Bridge could feel his face was getting flushed. He turned to walk out of the office.
“Bridge,” Brownhill said, “before you head off to Meadow Gate, go home and put on something more appropriate.”
Bridge stormed out of the room. Whitton followed after him.
“What a witch,” Bridge said as they drove to his house, “who the hell does she think she is?”
“She’s our boss,” Whitton said, “she’s not that bad. We’ve been spoiled for too long.”
“Do you think Smith is ever going to come back?” Bridge said.
“I don’t know,” Whitton sighed.
“It’s not fair,” Bridge said, “I mean, why do we have to deal with the bearded lady on our own? Smith would know how to handle her.”
He parked his car outside his house and went inside. Three minutes later he emerged wearing a white golf shirt. He opened the car door and got in.
“You look like my dad,” Whitton said, “Bearded Bryony Brownhill will be proud of you.”
“Shut up,” Bridge started the ignition, “you’re not funny.”
Meadow Gate was a quiet neighborhood a few hundred metres from the river Ouse. Bridge stopped the car outside number twenty eight.
“What do you make of this?” he said to Whitton, “Five year old kid goes missing?”
“He probably ran away from home for a while,” Whitton said.
“He’s five years old,” Bridge opened the car door, “what would make a five year old want to run away from home?”
“It’s a phase some kids go through,” Whitton said, “When I was about seven I was hitting the road on a regular basis. I never made it more than a few streets away though and I always came back when I was hungry.”
“You’re weird,” Bridge said.
“It has been said. Let’s see what’s going on shall we.”
Jessica Green opened the door before Bridge and Whitton had reached the house.
“Have you found Nathan yet?” she said.
Her eyes were pleading. She looked as if she had not slept in days.
“Mrs Green?” Whitton said.
“That’s right,” Jessica said, “you’re the police aren’t you?”
“DC Whitton,” Whitton said, “and this is DC Bridge. Can we come in?”
“He’s gone,” Jessica said, “Nat
han is gone. I don’t know what to do.”
Bridge did not know what to say.
“Let’s go inside Mrs Green,” Whitton said.
They followed Jessica inside. She went through to a small living room and sat down on one of the three chairs. Bridge and Whitton squeezed onto a two seater leather couch.
“Can you tell us what happened?” Whitton said.
“Colin put Nathan to bed last night,” Jessica said.
“Colin’s your husband?” Bridge asked.
“Yes, I realized I hadn’t kissed Nathan goodnight. I always kiss him goodnight. He can’t sleep otherwise. I went upstairs and he was gone.”
“Where’s your husband now?” Whitton said.
“Colin?” Jessica said, “Where do you think he is? He’s out looking for our son. I was going to go with him but he suggested I stay here and wait by the phone for any news. I don’t have a mobile phone you see.”
She started to cry.
“It’s alright Mrs Green,” Whitton said, “what time did Nathan go to bed last night?”
“At eight,” Jessica said, “he’s allowed to stay up later on a Friday.”
“So your husband put him to bed,” Bridge said, “and you went up later and Nathan wasn’t there anymore? What time was this?”
“About nine,” Jessica said.
“So it took you an hour to realize you hadn’t kissed him goodnight?” Bridge said.
Whitton glared at him.
“Sorry Mrs Green,” she said, “My colleague can be a bit insensitive at times.”
“He had a nightmare,” Jessica said, “we heard him scream and me and Colin ran upstairs to find out what was wrong.”
“What was wrong?” Bridge said.
He was beginning to think this was a complete waste of his day off.
“Like I said,” Jessica stared Bridge directly in the eyes, “he’d had a nightmare. He was sitting on the floor shaking. He kept mumbling something about a Ticktock man.”
“Ticktock man?” Whitton said.
“I couldn’t hear him properly,” Jessica said, “Colin told me he put Nathan in our bed and told him the Ticktock man couldn’t scare him in there. It must have been a really scary dream.”
“Then what happened?” Bridge said.
“Colin and I went back downstairs and I realized I hadn’t kissed him goodnight so I went back upstairs and…”
The tears started to run down her face.
“He wasn’t there anymore,” she sobbed, “Why do I have to keep telling you the same thing?”
“Sorry Mrs Green,” Whitton said, “we need to know all the details.”
“He’s our only child,” Jessica wiped her eyes with her hand, “I don’t know what I’ll do if something has happened to him.”
“Don’t worry,” Whitton said, “he can’t have gone far. Have you searched the house?”
“Of course we’ve searched the house,” Jessica said, “we spent most of last night searching the house. We must have opened every cupboard and drawer in the place. There’s nowhere left to look.”
“Mrs Green,” Bridge said, “how long would you say it was between your husband putting Nathan in your bed and you going up to kiss him goodnight?”
“No more than a minute,” she said, “two minutes at the most.”
“This is very odd,” Bridge said, “do you have any idea whatsoever where Nathan could be?”
“Of course not,” Jessica said, “I wouldn’t have called you lot if I did. Are you going to find my son or not?”
“We’ll do what we can,” Whitton said, “Do you have a photograph of Nathan?”
Jessica stood up and walked over to an oak sideboard underneath the window. She opened a drawer, took out a piece of paper and handed it to Whitton.
“This was taken two weeks ago,” she said, “we were down in Cornwall visiting Colin’s sister. Nathan looks so happy on that photograph. We were supposed to go to the circus today.”
“We’ll do what we can,” Whitton stood up, “we’ll organize a door to door and we’ll put the photograph on our missing persons database. In ninety five percent of cases, the missing person turns up in the first twenty four hours.”
“What about the other five percent?” Jessica said.
“He’ll turn up,” Whitton said although she realized she did not sound very convincing.
Something about this whole thing made her feel uneasy. She did not know what it was but she had a feeling that Nathan Green was not going to be one of the ninety five percent of cases.
FIVE
Black walls
Bridge and Whitton drove in silence back to the station. Bridge crossed the Skeldergate Bridge and veered right onto Fishergate.
“Turn left,” Whitton said.
“What?” Bridge said, “I thought we were heading straight back to the station.”
“Please,” Whitton said, “just humour me.”
Bridge turned left onto Kent Street and drove slowly down the narrow road. He suddenly realized where they were going. He stopped the car outside number thirteen. It had been over three weeks since the house had almost burned to the ground. He hardly recognized the house now. The transformation was amazing. The red face brick and the brand new windows made the house stand out from the others on the same street.
“I can’t believe it,” Whitton got out of the car, “it looks like the house has been totally rebuilt.”
“Do you see what I see?” Bridge pointed to an old red Ford Sierra in the driveway.
“I thought he was staying in a room off Moss Gate,” Whitton said, “shall we see what he’s been up to?”
“We’re supposed to be on this missing kid case,” Bridge said, “Brownhill will have our arses if we waste any time.”
“Seeing if Smith is alright is not wasting time,” Whitton said, “besides, Chalmers asked me to check up on him. He can pull rank.”
Bridge sighed and switched off the engine.
As they walked up the driveway, Whitton soon realized that some of the fire damage was still very obvious. The flames that had burst through the windows had scorched the rose bushes closest to the house and all that was left of them was a few charred branches. They won’t grow again this year, Whitton thought, it was early September and autumn was not too far away. She knocked on the front door. The sound of a dog barking could be heard from inside the house. Whitton knew that it was Theakston, Smith’s Bull Terrier. The barking stopped and Whitton knocked again. There was no answer.
“Let’s go,” Bridge said, “you know what Smiths like; if he wanted visitors he would have opened the door.”
Whitton walked up to the window and peered inside. What she saw made her gasp. The house was empty. Bare plaster covered the walls. They had not yet been painted. She was about to walk away when she spotted something on the floor next to where the old fireplace had been. A figure was lying on the floor. Its eyes were open and it was staring at the ceiling. Whitton watched for a few seconds but the figure did not move. She felt sick. The face she was staring at was a sickly grey colour and the eyes were sunken into the skull but she knew exactly who it was.
“He’s in there,” she said to Bridge, “Smith is lying on the floor in the living room. I think he’s dead.”
It took Bridge less than five seconds to kick in the front door. Whitton ran in first. She reached the living room and stopped. There was a strange smell in the room. Whitton had been to enough parties as a student to know what the smell was. She looked at Smith lying on the floor, his eyes still staring at something on the ceiling. Theakston was sitting next to him. The dog looked like it had lost a lot of weight since Whitton had last seen him. Smith was still not moving.
“Is he dead?” Bridge whispered.
Smith blinked his eyes and then closed them. Next to him on the floor was a crude homemade Hookah pipe. There was still smoke oozing out of the tip of the pipe. Whitton started to laugh. She did not know where it came from but she could not help he
rself.
“He’s not dead,” she said, “he’s stoned. He’s stoned out of his mind.”
“Stoned?” Bridge said, “As in marijuana?”
“Swazi,” the word that came from Smith’s mouth did not sound like his voice at all.
A smile formed on his dry lips.
“Swazi Gold,” he said, “I’ve been glued to the floor for god knows how long. I think I might be paralyzed.”
“Help him up,” Whitton said to Bridge.
Bridge took hold of Smith’s arms and lifted him up so his back was against the wall.”
“Thanks,” Smith said, “and remind me never to smoke that shit again. Would you mind sticking the kettle on? My mouth feels like there’s a Frenchman living in it.”
Bridge shook his head and walked through to the kitchen.
“What happened to you sir?” Whitton sat on the floor next to Smith, “You look terrible.”
“Thanks Whitton,” Smith shook his head violently as if to remove some kind of imaginary bubble around it, “I stopped drinking a couple of weeks ago. It didn’t go too well.”
Bridge returned with a cup of black coffee.
“Thanks Bridge,” Smith said, “put it on the floor will you. I’ll get to it in a minute. As you can see, I’m playing with the idea of adapting to the minimalist look.”
There was no furniture in the room. A blow up mattress with dirty sheets on it was the only thing in the room. Bridge put the coffee on the floor next to Smith.
“When did you start smoking weed?” Bridge asked.
“The same day I stopped drinking whiskey,” Smith tried to lift his hand off his lap but he could not seem to manage it.
A smile appeared on his face.
“What do you want?” he looked at Whitton.
“It’s been three weeks sir,” Whitton said, “People are starting to wonder about you. People are wondering if you’re ever coming back to work.”
“People?” Smith looked at the coffee on the floor.
Whitton picked it up and held it to Smith’s lips. He took a small sip and winced.
“People at the station,” Whitton said, “me, Chalmers, even Thompson. But there’s a new DI who’s especially interested in the cause of your lengthy absence.”
Harlequin Page 2