“Here comes trouble,” he said, “only Brownhill could drive a car like that.”
DI Brownhill marched over to them. Whitton stood up and for a second, everything went black.
“What’s wrong with you?” Brownhill asked her, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I’m fine,” Whitton lied, “I just felt a bit faint, that’s all. I feel ok now.”
“What have we got?” Brownhill said.
“Nathan Green is inside the church,” Bridge said, “he’s wrapped in a blanket. Doctor Samuels has confirmed that he’s dead.”
“Time of death?” Brownhill said.
“We’re not sure Ma’am,” Bridge realized that he sounded ridiculous.
The shock of seeing a dead child had made them forget all about procedures.
“The doctor is still in there,” Whitton said, “together with Webber and his team. I’m sure they’ll be able to tell us something when they’re finished.”
“Who found the body?” Brownhill said.
“An American tourist,” Whitton said, “luckily for Webber, they were the only ones that went near the body.”
“Where are they now?”
“Ma’am?” Whitton said.
“The American tourists DC Whitton,” Brownhill sounded annoyed, “where are they?”
Bridge looked round and spotted an ambulance parked about thirty metres from the church. Milly and Dwain Phoenix were talking to one of the paramedics.
“They’re over there,” Bridge pointed to the ambulance, “I think they’re still in shock.”
“Have you spoken to them yet?”Brownhill said.
“We only got here a short while ago,” Bridge said, “we’re also in shock. There’s a dead child inside the church.”
“And it is your job to find out why there’s a dead child inside the church,” Brownhill said, “it is very sad but right now is no time for emotions. You must think. Procedures are put in place for a reason. Go and talk to the Americans. I’m going inside the church to see if this Grant Webber lives up to his reputation.”
“That is one cold hearted bitch,” Bridge said when Brownhill was out of sight, “she’s a bloody robot. Why did Smith have to miss the Inspector deadline? I never thought I’d say this but I actually miss the Australian pain in the arse.”
“I miss him too,” Whitton said, “let’s speak with the Americans before Brownhill comes out again.”
Milly and Dwain Phoenix were holding each other when Bridge and Whitton walked over to them. Milly looked like she had been crying. Whitton took a deep breath.
“Good afternoon,” she addressed Dwain, “I’m DC Whitton and this is DC Bridge. I know this is unpleasant but we need to ask you a few questions.”
“My wife is still in shock,” Dwain said, “I don’t know if she’ll be able to tell you much.”
“Let’s get out of here,” Bridge said, “there’s a nice place just around the corner where we can get a nice cup of tea and talk in peace.”
Whitton smiled at him. Sometimes Bridge surprised her with his compassion.
They sat outside Café No 8 on Gillygate. Milly Phoenix sipped from a strong cup of coffee.
“Where are you from?” Whitton asked her.
“We live in a place called Fairfield,” she said, “It’s about fifty miles from Boise.”
“Idaho,” Dwain said, “we both grew up there. This trip is the first time we’ve been anywhere but Idaho.”
“My own private Idaho,” Bridge thought out loud.
Whitton glared at him.
“It’s a great movie,” Milly said, “it shows it like it is.”
Whitton realized that Bridge had broken the ice.
“Where you the first ones in the church?” she said.
“I was,” Dwain said, “I love old churches. I wanted to get in there before those damn Japs ruined it like they’ve ruined everything else on this tour. I’m not a racist but the Japanese have got no regard for anybody else have they?”
“I understand,” Whitton said, “I believe it was you who found the boy Mrs Phoenix?”
She looked at Milly.
“Dwain was taking photographs at the front of the church,” Milly took a long sip of her coffee, “I was the one who spotted the blanket. I was curious so I opened it up.”
She looked like she was going to cry again. Dwain reached over and squeezed her hand.
“We’re nearly finished here,” Bridge assured her, “would you be able to come to the station? I’m afraid we’re going to need your fingerprints.”
“We’ll also need a statement from you,” Whitton said, “it won’t take long. Are you staying in York tonight?”
“We are,” Dwain said, “and tomorrow morning we’re going up to Edinburgh although right now I feel like getting us on the first plane out of here.”
Whitton did not know what to say.
“We’ll arrange a lift for you to the station,” Bridge said, “and we’ll make sure you’re dropped off back at your hotel. It shouldn’t take much more than an hour. You really don’t want to miss Edinburgh. It’s such a beautiful city.”
TEN
Smith
Smith looked at the screen on his phone. The back light had timed out but in his mind he could still see the writing on the screen. ‘Whitton. 8 missed calls’. The message light was flashing. Whitton must have left a message, he thought. He put the phone down on a cardboard box he had been using as a table in the living room. Theakston appeared in the doorway. He was wagging his tail as a sign that he wanted to be let out. Smith picked up his cigarettes and followed the dog to the kitchen. He opened the back door and went outside.
The sun was setting as Smith sat at the table outside. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. The nicotine that rushed through his body seemed to bring back a hint of the marijuana induced high he had come down from hours before.
“What am I doing?” Smith said to Theakston, “I’m knocking on for thirty and I’m spending my days getting stoned out of my mind like a waste of space teenager.”
He took another drag of the cigarette and watched as the sun slowly dropped behind the houses in the distance. Three weeks earlier he had been happy on an island off the north east coast with a woman he could quite easily have fallen for. That woman was now dead and Smith had been in a kind of limbo ever since. He had smoked his first joint after a night out at The Deep Blues Club in the city centre and he had liked it. It had made him see things differently. The next day, he had wanted more. He had smoked it in a cigarette, in a pipe; he had made tea with it and even tried to make cakes out of it. Each way he took the drug gave him a new perspective on everything; different from the norm but every morning when he woke up with the marijuana hangover, he would want more. He wanted to start again. To forget. To remember.
Smith finished his cigarette and flicked the butt onto the lawn. He went back inside and switched the kettle on to make some coffee. While he waited for the kettle to boil he looked around the kitchen. Everything was new and unfamiliar. The builders had done a good job in rebuilding the house after the fire but Smith did not recognize anything anymore.
Maybe this is just what I needed, he thought. He poured the water into the mug and realized he did not have any milk. The house had belonged to his Gran. She had died a few years earlier and left the house to Smith. Gone were the homely touches Smith used to take for granted. This had been his Gran’s home for over forty years. Now it was just a shell without a soul.
“A burnt out shell,” Smith said aloud.
He took the coffee to the living room.
“A burnt out shell,” he said again, “without a soul. Just like me.”
He sat on the floor against the wall where once the fireplace had stood and contemplated the scene in front of him: A bank bag full of the green plant, a pipe with a small tube sticking out of it and a packet of cigarette papers. He emptied half a cigarette into it, opened the bank bag and sprinkled a small amount of the con
tents onto the tobacco. After the last time, he did not want to smoke too much. With shaking hands, he managed to roll what any seasoned hash smoker would consider an embarrassing effort. He lit the end and inhaled deeply. He coughed; the tobacco was harsh on his throat without a filter. He exhaled a wisp of smoke and almost straight away felt the tetrahydrocannabinol in the marijuana rush through his bloodstream and reach his brain. His heart started to beat faster and the drug started to do its thing. The light on his phone was still flashing. It seemed much brighter now but Smith knew that was just the effect of the weed in his system. He took a long sip of coffee and without knowing why, he picked up the phone. He fumbled on the keyboard until he had brought up the messages menu. His eyes were starting to get heavy and he was feeling very relaxed. He read the last message Whitton had sent him.
‘Five year old boy found murdered in St Olave’s church. We need you’.
ELEVEN
Donatello
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Alberto Moreno bellowed out to the crowd of people all around him, “boys and girls, children of all ages…”
Alberto paused for a few seconds for effect. He also paused to glean the vibe of the audience that evening. He decided that the vibe was positive.
“We welcome you to the Moreno circus,” he continued, “this evening you must prepare yourselves to be amazed, mystified and enthralled. Over the next couple of hours, ready yourselves to experience creatures of pure enchantment. Some of them will make you laugh; some of them will make you cry. Let us begin.”
The lights in the circus grew dim and a single spotlight focused its beam on a single figure playing a mandolin. The crowd became silent and all eyes were fixed on the man plucking the strings of the mandolin.
“Many many years ago,” Alberto said, “in Napoli, there lived a boy named Donatello, who had no mother or father.”
The mandolin slowed down to a maudlin drone and the man playing it walked closer to the audience.
“Donatello,” Alberto said, “dressed in rags, begged for bread and slept in doorways, but… he was happy. Boy was Donatello happy. And he could do wonderful things. Some say he could talk to animals, and he could juggle.”
Another spotlight was turned on and the mandolin player’s features were highlighted. His face was painted white; he had black rings around his eyes and his lips were dark purple. On his head he wore an old Harlequin hat with three gold bells hanging down over his ears.
“Now,” Alberto continued, “Donatello is grown up and he is here this evening especially for you. Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, children of all ages, I give you Donatello, the juggler from Napoli.”
Donatello skipped across the stage and, at ten second intervals gave a theatrical bow to the different areas of the crowd. He danced back to the centre of the stage and picked up his mandolin. Instead of playing it, he tossed it ten metres into the air. There were gasps from some of the children in the crowd. Donatello then reached into a wooden chest and produced three more mandolins. Before the first one had come down to earth, he threw the other three up. The music in the circus tent started again. It was carefully arranged so that each time Donatello caught a mandolin he appeared to be playing a two second excerpt on each instrument. The outcome was extremely effective. The routine had obviously been well rehearsed. Donatello finished off by throwing one of the mandolins much higher than the rest. The other three were deftly caught as they fell down but the fourth was nowhere to be seen. Donatello counted the mandolins in his hands with three theatrical gestures. He threw out his arms and, using only facial expressions and gestures he pleaded with the audience to help him find the fourth mandolin. Most of the children and some of the adults found themselves staring up towards the roof of the big top but the fourth mandolin was nowhere to be seen.
Donatello, looking completely dejected, slumped off towards the back of the stage. Before he left, he turned back to face the crowd and wiped an imaginary tear from one of his eyes. Meanwhile, Valerie, who was up on the trapeze wire, waited for the precise moment to drop the fourth mandolin on top of Donatello. She had caught it earlier when Donatello had thrown it higher than the rest. The lighting in the tent was such that the audience could not see what was happening. Valerie saw that Donatello was now standing directly underneath her and she carefully released the mandolin from her grasp. Donatello had his head bowed down. The spot light was still directed on him and everybody in the audience was waiting to see what would happen. Donatello braced himself for the impact of the mandolin. Even though the instrument weighed next to nothing, from the height it was dropped, it could cause some damage if he did not tilt his head so the hat took the full force. It hit him exactly where it was supposed to. Valerie was a good shot.
The crowd cheered as the mandolin hit Donatello on the back of the head. He lifted his head and touched the back of his hat. He staggered to the left and to the right and then collapsed in a heap on the floor. The crowd gasped. A small child started to cry. Donatello was not moving.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Alberto’s voice was heard again, “I would ask you to hold onto your children. The king of the jungle is close and he’s hungry.”
The lights went off and the circus tent was in total darkness. The unmistakable roar of a lion could be heard. There were screams from the crowd. The lights were turned back on again and Bruce the lion was standing over the lifeless form of Donatello. Bruce was nudging at the clown’s face. Donatello started to stir. He looked up at the lion standing over him and shot up into the air. He got to his feet and started to run round and round, flapping his arms in the air as he ran. Bruce seemed unperturbed by this outburst. The lion strolled over to the edge of the stage and as Donatello got closer he casually stuck out a paw and sent the clown flying into the air. Bruce then walked over and put the same paw on top of Donatello’s head.
“The king of the beasts, ladies and gentlemen,” Alberto’s voice boomed out of the loud speaker, “even a clown such as Donatello is no match for the beast of beasts.”
Bruce released his paw from Donatello and the clown stood up. He threw his arms around the lion’s neck and raised a huge paw into the air. Bruce and Donatello bowed to the crowd. Cheers erupted inside the tent. Donatello gave Bruce a final hug and walked off towards the stage door. Bruce stayed exactly where he was; he was needed in the next act.
“I think that went well,” Valerie said, “all things being considered.”
She sat in front of the mirror in her small caravan taking off her makeup. The show had finished over an hour earlier and most of the audience had gone home.
“Charlie saved the show,” Alberto said, “his Donatello is mesmerizing. I don’t think I’ve seen anything like it these days. He’s a natural. His Donatello is fast becoming the main draw card. Him and Bruce of course.”
“What happened to Jimmy?” Valerie lit a cigarette and took a long drag.
Alberto shook his head.
“That brother of mine,” he sighed, “he is starting to become a liability. This is the third time he hasn’t shown up. I know he’s family but I think I’m going to have to let him go. I can’t afford to keep going like this.”
“Where does he go at night?” Valerie said, “one minute he’s here and the next minute he’s gone. He’s like a ghost sometimes.”
“He’s a strange one,” Alberto said, “always has been. He did the same thing in Harrogate and Darlington remember; just didn’t turn up for the show. The next day he couldn’t even remember where he’d been.”
“I’ll have a word with him,” Valerie said, “he’s just going through a rough patch at the moment.”
“We can’t afford rough patches,” Alberto said, “we had almost a full house tonight and we barely broke even.”
Alberto Moreno was right about one thing. The circus tent had been almost full. Full apart from three empty seats right at the front. They were the seats where Colin, Jessica and Nathan Green were supposed to be sitting.
TWELVE
Elvis
Whitton shot up in the bed. She had been in the middle of a disturbing dream but something had woken her. She took a deep breath, she hardly ever had nightmares. In the dream there had been a small boy wrapped in a blanket. The boy was being carried by a man with an unsteady gait. The man’s face was featureless. His nose, eyes and mouth were pitch black. Another man had staggered past them and whispered something in Whitton’s ear. That was when Whitton had woken up. She wiped the sweat from her forehead and tried to remember what the man had said to her. She got out of bed, dressed and went to the bathroom. It was while she was brushing her teeth that it came back to her.
‘Wrapped in a blanket,’ the drunk man had said, ‘didn’t make a sound.’
Whitton rinsed her mouth out and ran downstairs. She picked up her keys and phone and sprinted out of the house.
Ten minutes later, Whitton was in Chalmers’ old office. It did not seem right to see Bryony Brownhill sitting behind the desk. The new DI was talking on the phone when Whitton burst in. She glared at her and ended her call.
“I don’t know what DCI Chalmers used to let you get away with,” Brownhill said, “but you knock on the door before you enter my office in future. Have you got that?”
“I did knock,” Whitton said, “this is important.”
“Out with it then,” Brownhill stood up and looked out of the window. Storm clouds were coming in from the north east.
“Yesterday,” Whitton said, “while we were busy with door to door on Meadowgate, a drunk man approached us and asked what we were doing.”
“Go on,” Brownhill did not look impressed.
“He was rat arsed,” Whitton said, “so we didn’t pay him much attention. One of the uniform guys told him to move along and then my phone started to ring.”
“Is this leading somewhere?”
“As the drunk was walking away, he muttered something to himself,” Whitton said.
“What did he say?”
Harlequin Page 4