Harlequin

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Harlequin Page 20

by Stewart Giles


  I’m finally sorting my life out, he thought.

  The murder investigation was still there at the back of his mind but he resigned himself to the fact that he could do nothing about it. He had been given a week off work. It was a sign; fate had intervened. It was time to fix up his house and sort his life out.

  “Doing a bit of decorating are you?” a squeaky voice interrupted his thoughts.

  It was Smith’s next door neighbour, a man he was not particularly fond of.

  “What?” Smith said.

  The man was standing next to the hedge that acted as the boundary between the two houses.

  “The paint on your arms,” the man said, “it’s about time you fixed the place up. You’re lowering the value of the surrounding houses with that pigsty.”

  Smith went back inside without bothering to reply to his nosy neighbour.

  “Why can’t people mind their own business?” he said to Theakston.

  He went upstairs and started work on his bedroom.

  By six that evening, Smith was finished. All of the walls had been primed and tomorrow he would be able to start painting. Then he could buy some furniture and a few appliances and finish the place off. Smith sat in the kitchen and drank a beer. An amazing feeling of accomplishment washed over him. It felt like his life was back on track. He finished the beer and got another one from the fridge. The smell in the house was oppressive. Even though he had opened all the windows in the house, the fumes from the primer were giving him a headache. He fetched the mattress from the hallway and took it outside.

  “Looks like we’re roughing it tonight boy,” he said to Theakston.

  The dog replied by curling up in the middle of the mattress.

  Smith placed his tin of marijuana paraphernalia on the kitchen table and opened it. There was not much of the drug left. He had managed to smoke over an ounce in less than two weeks. He rolled a small joint and lit the end. The smell from the primer was replaced by the peppery odour of the marijuana. Smith felt nauseous for a second or two but it soon passed. He went outside to the garden, lit a cigarette and lay back on the mattress.

  “Fumes getting to you?” his neighbour appeared at the hedge again.

  Smith ignored him and closed his eyes. The hash was making his head spin.

  “I hope you’ve got the necessary planning permission for whatever you’re going to do in there,” the man carried on undeterred, “I’ll report you if you haven’t.”

  “Nope,” Smith took a long drag of the cigarette and opened his eyes. He focused on a cloud that was the shape of Africa.

  “What are you doing in there anyway?” The man asked.

  “I’m planning on building an Olympic size swimming pool upstairs,” Smith said.

  “Why aren’t you at work?” The man said, “You coppers get more time off than teachers do.”

  “I’m suspended again,” Smith decided he would have some fun.

  “Suspended?” The man seemed to take an interest, “What for?”

  “I killed a suspect with my bare hands,” Smith said.

  The cloud looked more like the outline of South America now.

  “I’m suspended until they decide whether I acted in self defence or not,” Smith said.

  He looked up and saw that his neighbour had suddenly disappeared.

  SIXTY THREE

  Rydale Psychiatric Hospital

  Bridge stopped the engine and stared out of the window. The Rydale Psychiatric Hospital stood before them like a haunted house

  “Look at this place,” he said to Whitton, “if you’re not crazy when you’re admitted this place is enough to send you round the bend.”

  “It looks like one of those houses in the movies,” Whitton said, “you know the ones you’re not supposed to go into but some idiot always does and winds up dead.”

  “Let’s see what they can tell us about Yorick Moreno,” Bridge opened the car door and got out.

  The interior of the hospital was nothing like the exterior; it was very modern. It looked just like any other hospital apart from the abnormally large male nurses that patrolled the corridors. Whitton and Bridge walked up to what appeared to be the reception desk.

  “Good afternoon,” Whitton said to a stocky woman with bleached blonde hair, “we’re looking for some information on a patient here.”

  The woman looked at her suspiciously.

  “Are you a relative?” She asked.

  “No,” Whitton took out her ID, “we’re from the York police department.”

  The woman picked up the telephone in front of her.

  “Doctor Bauer,” she said, “I have two police officers at the front desk. They need some information about a patient here.”

  Whitton could hear a voice on the other end of the line but she could not make out what was being said.

  “That’s what I thought,” the woman said into the phone.

  She replaced the handset.

  “I’m afraid we can’t help you,” she said to Whitton, “I’m sure you’re aware of doctor patient confidentiality.”

  “Of course I am,” Whitton said, “but this is important. Three children have been killed.”

  “I read about that in the papers,” the woman said, “but what’s that got to do with us?”

  “We believe that somebody who used to be a patient here might know something about it,” Whitton said.

  “Used to?”

  The woman picked up the phone again.

  “Doctor Bauer,” she said, “sorry to bother you again. The police officers are still here. They want to know about one of our past guests.”

  Two minutes later, a giant of a man appeared as if from nowhere. He must have been at least six feet ten inches tall. Whitton had to crane her neck to look at his face. Bridge tried to make himself taller by straightening his back.

  “Good afternoon,” the man said, “I’m Doctor Bauer. How can I help you?”

  Bridge could not help but stare at his massive bulk.

  “Do you have to be a giant to work here?” He asked.

  “Of course not,” Dr Bauer laughed, “but it does help to have physical strength. This facility houses some very disturbed individuals and sometimes they need to be restrained. How can I help you?”

  “We’d like to talk to you about an ex patient,” Whitton said.

  “We prefer the term guests here,” Dr Bauer said, “the word patient implies sickness and we don’t believe that is appropriate when applied to the mind.”

  “Yorick Moreno,” Bridge said.

  Doctor Bauer’s jaw dropped.

  “You’d better come through to my office,” he said, “I’d rather we talk in private if you don’t mind.”

  Doctor Bauer led them down a wide corridor. A high pitched scream was heard from one of the rooms they passed and whiten flinched.

  “Don’t worry,” Dr Bauer said, “they’re perfectly alright. Sometimes it’s therapeutic to scream once in a while.”

  He unlocked a dark blue door and held it open for Bridge and Whitton.

  “Take a seat,” he said and locked the door behind him.

  “You can’t be too careful,” he sat down behind a huge mahogany desk, “we had an incident a while ago where one of our guests found his way into the staff canteen and managed to stick a knife into one of the nurse’s arms. It took four of us to drag him away. We lock all doors now.”

  “What can you tell us about Yorick Moreno?” Whitton said.

  “Alas poor Yorick,” Dr Bauer smiled as if he had made a huge joke.

  Whitton and Bridge did not look amused.

  “I never quite understood Shakespeare,” Bridge said.

  “Yorick Moreno,” Dr Bauer said with a grave voice, “was one of our failures I’m afraid. Tragic story.”

  “What happened to him?” Bridge asked.

  “He arrived here six or seven years ago,” Dr Bauer said, “he was on a court order.”

  “You mean he’s been sectioned?” W
hitton said.

  “No,” Dr Bauer said, “he was sent here while he was awaiting trial. He was sent here to be evaluated. To see if he was sane enough to be tried, to put it crudely.”

  “What was he accused of?” Whitton said.

  “Murder,” Dr Bauer sighed, “he was accused of murdering his wife. She was found in the bathtub. She had been stabbed over twenty times.”

  “Did Yorick do it?” Bridge said.

  “We’ll never know,” Dr Bauer said, “all I know is in the short time he spent with us he denied it emphatically. He couldn’t remember anything about it. The tragedy was, he had two children. A baby girl and a four your old boy. They had to be put up for adoption afterwards.”

  “Are you saying that Yorick is in jail?” Bridge said, “He’s not on any of our records.”

  “No,” Dr Bauer said, “he never made it to court. I found nothing to indicate that he was mentally unfit to stand trial so I signed off on him.”

  “What happened to him then?” Whitton said.

  “A terrible accident,” Dr Bauer said, “while he was being transported to the crown court in York an oncoming truck lost control on the Bridge over the River Ouse and veered onto the other side of the road. It slammed into the car that Yorick was in and sent it flying into the water. It sank like a brick. The driver and his colleague managed to get out after breaking a window. They swam to the surface but, when the car was pulled out a few hours later, it was empty. Yorick was gone. His body was never found.”

  SIXTY FOUR

  Evil eyes

  Smith woke up and realized he was soaking wet. The morning dew had drenched the mattress he was lying on. Theakston stretched out and shook himself. Droplets of water scattered in all directions. Smith stood up and went inside to make some coffee. He had slept remarkably well on the mattress outside. Inside the house, the smell of the primer was not as overpowering as it had been the day before.

  “Today’s the day we paint this house from top to bottom,” Smith said to Theakston.

  He filled the dog’s bowl with food and turned on the kettle. He went upstairs to change into some dry clothes. When he got back down he remembered he had turned his phone off. He turned it back on and it started to ring straight away. It was the same unknown number that had called the day before. Smith sighed and answered it.

  “Smith,” he said.

  “Detective,” a woman’s voice said, “this is Valerie. From the circus. You need to get over here right away. I have something you need to see.”

  “I’m not on duty,” Smith decided he did not need to tell her he was suspended.

  “Please,” Valerie said, “a videotape was dropped off outside Alberto’s caravan yesterday morning. I think the man in the tape is his brother.”

  “Jimmy?” Smith said.

  “No,” Valerie said, “it’s Yorick.”

  Smith was out of the house before he had time to remember he was suspended. He drove far too quickly through the sparse Saturday traffic and made it to the circus grounds in less than ten minutes. The tent had been dismantled and the field looked much larger than it did before. Smith parked his car next to the caravans. He spotted Valerie straight away. She looked very agitated; she was pacing up and down and looking around her as if she were scared of something. Smith got out of the car and walked up to her.

  “What’s wrong?” He said, “what’s all this about a videotape?”

  “Alberto destroyed it,” Valerie said, “he lost it. I’ve never seen him so angry before.”

  “What was on the tape?”

  “It was a home video,” Valerie said, “the quality was very poor but you could still make out what was going on. There was a man and a woman with two small children.”

  “And you think this man was Alberto’s brother Yorick?”

  “I’m sure of it,” Valerie said, “I’ve never met Yorick but the family resemblance was striking. The man in the video had evil eyes but the bone structure and perfect teeth were the same as Alberto’s and Jimmy’s.”

  “Where’s the tape now?” Smith asked.

  “Alberto ripped it apart,” Valerie said, “he threw it in one of the skips we use to dispose of rubbish.”

  “Show me,” Smith said.

  “But it’s been destroyed,” Valerie said, “Alberto tore it to pieces. He was in such a rage.”

  “I feel like doing a bit of bin diving,” Smith said, “just humour me.”

  Valerie led Smith round the back of the caravan. Two large green skips were parked there. The smell was overpowering and flies buzzed around the tops of the skips.

  “It’s this one,” Valerie pointed to the skip on the right.

  Smith looked inside. He spotted the videotape straight away. Valerie was right, the tape inside the casing had been pulled out and it was ripped in a few places. Smith tried to reach it but it was too far inside the skip. He sighed. He realized he would have to climb inside.

  “Hold onto the other side of the skip,” he said to Valerie, “I don’t want it to tip up with my weight.”

  Valerie did as she was told. Smith pulled himself up and jumped inside. His foot landed on something soft. He lifted his leg and saw that his foot was covered in a foul smelling slimy substance. Maggots were crawling around in it. Smith felt like he was going to be sick. He took a deep breath and concentrated on the task in hand. He carefully picked up the videotape casing and wound the tape that had been pulled out around his hand.

  Smith jumped out of the skip and took off his shoes. He washed them under the tap next to Alberto Moreno’s caravan. He looked at the tape in his hand. He was sure he would be able to get it repaired. He remembered seeing an advert for a shop that could transfer old videotapes onto DVDs. They should be able to fix the tape, he thought. He put his shoes back on.

  “Where’s Alberto now?” He asked Valerie.

  “I don’t know,” she said, “he stormed out of his caravan just after I called you and threw the tape in the skip. Nobody has seen him since.”

  “You say the tape was dropped off yesterday morning?” Smith said.

  “That’s right,” Valerie said, “Alberto was furious.”

  “Was there anything else with the tape?” Smith said, “a note or a letter to indicate where the tape came from?”

  “Nothing,” Valerie said, “there was no not. Just the videotape and an alarm clock; one of those old fashioned ones that tick nonstop.”

  “A ticking clock?” Smith thought out loud.

  “What?” Valerie said.

  “Nothing,” Smith said, “thanks for your help.”

  He walked back to where he had parked his car. He took out his phone and dialed Grant Webber’s number.

  “Webber,” a gruff voice answered.

  “Morning,” Smith said, “you need to get back here to the circus grounds.”

  “What?” Webber sounded half asleep, “what are you doing there? I thought you were suspended.”

  “Just get here as soon as you can,” Smith said, “and bring something we can use to break into a caravan.”

  “What’s going on?” Webber said.

  “I’ll tell you when you get here,” Smith said, “and Webber…”

  “What?”

  “Give my regards to Bryony Brownhill.

  He rang off.

  SIXTY FIVE

  Jackass

  Webber arrived half an hour later. Smith was relieved to see that he was alone. He did not know how he would explain what he was doing to DI Brownhill.

  “What’s going on?” Webber did not look happy, “what’s all this about breaking into a caravan?”

  “Good morning to you too,” Smith said, “come with me.”

  He led Webber to Albert Moreno’s caravan. He knocked on the door first to make sure that Alberto had not returned while he was waiting for Webber to arrive. There was no answer.

  “Did you bring something we can use to get inside?” He asked Webber.

  Webber shook his head and w
ent back to his car. He returned with a crowbar and handed it to Smith.

  “You do it,” he said, “you’re already deep in the shit. I don’t even know why I agreed to this madness.”

  Smith inserted the crowbar next to the lock and pulled hard. There was a loud crack and the door swung open.

  “After you,” Smith said.

  “What are we looking for anyway?” Webber said inside the caravan.

  “An alarm clock,” Smith said, “one of those old fashioned ticking ones.”

  “Tick tock, tick tock,” Webber said, “that’s what was written on the mirror in blood. What the hell is going on here?”

  “I’m going to find out,” Smith said, “and you’re going to help me.”

  They found the alarm clock straight away. It was on the table next to the stove. It had stopped ticking.

  “Are you going to tell me what this alarm clock has to do with anything?” Webber donned a pair of gloves and carefully picked it up.

  “This was dropped off yesterday morning,” Smith said, “I think whoever left it here knows something about the three murders. See if you can get anything off it.”

  Webber sighed and got to work.

  “You do realize,” he spread powder all over the clock, “even if we do find something important here, we can’t use it. This is an illegal search. We broke into the caravan. We don’t even have a search warrant. Whatever we find here cannot be used as evidence.”

  “I know,” Smith said, “it doesn’t matter. We won’t need to use it.”

  “What am I doing here then?” Webber spread tape over a set of good prints on the alarm clock.

  “To satisfy my curiosity,” Smith said, “I’m certain that whoever left this clock has something to do with our investigation. I just don’t know what it is.”

  “I’ve got some nice ones here,” Webber removed the tape and carefully placed it inside a clear bag.

 

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