Harlequin

by Stewart Giles

  “Can you get the prints checked straight away?” Smith said.

  “Today?” Webber said, “It’s Saturday. I have plans.”

  “Please Webber,” Smith said, “this is important.”

  “You’re a real jackass,” Webber said, “but I have to admit that what you did for Bryony was very selfless.”

  “How are things going with you two?” Smith said.

  “That’s none of your business,” Webber started to pack away his equipment.

  “Are you two getting serious?” Smith said, “do you keep a spare shaving razor next to the sink for her in case she spends the night?”

  “Don’t push me,” Webber said.

  He walked outside. Smith went after him. He looked at the damage he had done to the door.

  Alberto will assume it was someone from the mob that was here the other day, he thought.

  “I’ll give you a call later to let you know what I find,” Webber started to walk back to his car.

  Smith’s phone started to ring. He took it out of his pocket and answered it.

  “Sir,” it was Whitton, “what are you up to?”

  “I was intending on painting my house,” Smith said, “but something came up. Anything new in the investigation?”

  Whitton told him about the visit to the psychiatric hospital in Harrogate.

  “Yorick Moreno is dead?” He said.

  “His body was never found,” Whitton said, “they searched the river and found nothing.”

  “Then he’s still alive,” Smith said, “he’s somewhere out there. We’re getting closer; I can feel it.”

  “His children were put up for adoption,” Whitton said, “he had a boy and a girl. They were four and one at the time of his disappearance.”

  “Keep working on it,” Smith said, “and keep me informed of any developments.”

  “You’re suspended,” Whitton reminded him.

  “When has that ever stopped me in the past?” Smith said.

  He rang off.

  Smith got back in his car and looked at the mangled videotape on the passenger seat. He had made up his mind to keep the tape to himself for the time being. He did not want Webber or anybody else to know about it. He knew that, once it was put into evidence, he would probably not be allowed access to it due to his suspension. He would produce the tape but he wanted to watch it first. He drove away from the circus grounds and turned on the radio. A Miley Cyrus song blared out of the speakers. He turned the radio off. He drove towards the centre of the city and parked outside an electronics shop. A woman in her late teens was pushing two children in a pram past the shop. Smith suddenly thought of something. He took out his phone.

  “Whitton,” he said, “the children who were adopted. Yorick Moreno’s kids. You need to find out where they were placed.”

  “We’re already on it,” Whitton said.

  “What?”

  “You’re phoning me to ask me to check where these children ended up,” Whitton said and from the tone of her voice, Smith could tell that she was smiling.

  “Am I that predictable?” Smith said.

  “Sometimes,” Whitton said, “Bridge and me are going to look into it this afternoon.”

  “What’s wrong with right now?” Smith said.

  “Case meeting,” Whitton said, “you’re missing out on all the fun.”

  “Give everybody my regards,” Smith said, “let me know what you find out.”

  He ended the call.

  Smith walked inside the shop. Television sets and impressive sound systems were lined up against the walls. The place was deserted. Smith spotted a youth with spiky hair by the front desk. He was soldering what looked like the inside of a hi-fi. He looked very bored. Smith walked up and placed the mangled videotape on the desk in front of him.

  “Morning,” he said, “please tell me you can fix this.”

  The youth looked at the tape and frowned. Smith saw from his name tag that his name was Pete.

  “Well, Pete,” he said, “can you bring that thing back to life? There’s something on it which is very important.”

  “Piece of cake,” Pete smiled, “It’ll take me a while but I reckon I can salvage about ninety five percent of it.”

  “Ninety five percent?”

  “I’ll have to cut and splice it,” Pete said, “you’ll lose a bit but it shouldn’t make too much of a difference.”

  Smith realized he did not have a video player to watch the tape on.

  “Do you want me to transfer it onto DVD or USB?” Pete asked as if he had read Smith’s mind.

  “DVD I suppose,” Smith said, “when can I pick it up?”

  “Monday morning,” Pete said.

  “Can’t you make it sooner?” Smith said.

  “Sorry,” Pete said, “I have this hi-fi to fix first and then there’s a motherboard that needs to be put back together. Monday morning is the best I can do.”

  Smith was disappointed. He was hoping to watch the tape sooner than that.

  “Phone me when it’s ready,” he took out one of his cards and placed it on top of the videotape.

  SIXTY SIX

  Escapologist

  Whitton sat behind her desk in the office she shared with Bridge. The meeting had drained her. Apart from the information from the psychiatric hospital, nobody had anything new to add. They did not know which direction to go in the investigation. Everybody apart from Thompson had agreed that Smith was sorely missed. Brownhill even started the meeting by commending Smith on his actions regarding the internal investigation. Whitton opened up her computer and typed in ‘York adoptions’ on the search engine. An address, telephone number and e mail address appeared on the screen. Below that were the opening times for the adoption office. Whitton sighed. They were closed over the weekend.

  “What are you looking for?” Bridge walked inside the office.

  “Adoptions,” Whitton said, “how come the whole country shuts down over the weekend? Murderers can kill over the weekend but we have to wait until Monday to catch them because we can’t get any bloody information over the weekend.”

  She slammed her hand down on the desk.

  “Calm down,” Bridge said, “I’m sure there’s something we can do.”

  “What?” Whitton said, “These adoptions are important. I know they are.”

  “Do you think Yorick Moreno really drowned in the river all those years ago?” Bridge asked.

  “I don’t know,” Whitton said, “they never found his body did they?”

  “I reckon he’s dead,” Bridge said, “it’s a deep river. He could have been caught in the current and got snagged under a submersed log. He would have been hidden.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Someone would have seen him if he’d managed to escape,” Bridge said, “they did a widespread search and found nothing.”

  “You seem to be forgetting something,” Whitton said, “if Yorick Moreno is our serial killer, he’s a master escapologist. He managed to take Nathan Green from his house while his parents were downstairs watching television. He abducted Tiffany Beech on a busy school morning and then dumped her in a wheelie bin without being seen. The man’s a bloody phantom.”

  “Do you think we’ll catch him?” Bridge said.

  “I don’t know,” Whitton said.

  “Maybe he’s finished,” Whitton said.

  “Finished?”

  “Maybe Kenneth Swift was the last one,” Bridge said, “that was four days ago. He’s been quiet ever since.”

  “It sounds awful,” Whitton said, “but it would be better if he did strike again. At least then we’d have more to go on. I wish Smith was here. He’d think of something.”

  “I still can’t believe he stuck his neck out for Brownhill,” Bridge said.

  “That’s Smith for you,” Whitton said, “he’s a bit of an enigma.”

  “Enigma?”

  “A mystery,” Whitton mused, “you can never quite figure him out.”
>
  Thompson barged in the room.

  “So this is where you’re hiding,” he said.

  He slumped down on Bridge’s chair.

  “Can we help you with something?”

  “Nope,” Thompson said smugly, “don’t you think it’s peaceful around here without that arrogant Aussie? He’s back at work for less than a week and he gets booted out again. I reckon after this stunt he won’t be allowed back at all.”

  “How do you figure that out?” Bridge said.

  “Come on,” Thompson said, “even Smith has to run out of lives at some stage.”

  “He stuck his neck out for all of us,” Whitton said, “that internal investigation could have been a nightmare for us all if Smith hadn’t done what he did. You should be thanking him not sitting here slagging him off.”

  “Never,” Thompson stood up, “Smith’s time at this station is coming to an end. You mark my words.”

  He left the office.

  “Arsehole,” Bridge said when Thompson had walked down the corridor, “he’s the one who should be retired off. What does he actually do here anyway? Apart from get on everybody’s nerves?”

  “I’m going home,” Whitton said, “there’s nothing we can do until Monday anyway. I have a day off tomorrow so I think I’ll get a couple of bottles of wine and a crap DVD.”

  “Sounds good,” Bridge said, “do you want some company?”

  “Not tonight,” Whitton stood up, “I’ll see you on Monday. Hopefully then we can start putting the pieces of this mess together.”

  SIXTY SEVEN

  Credit card

  Smith had covered the last patch of the vile coloured wall primer with cream paint when his phone started to ring. He ran to answer it, hoping it was Whitton with some good news.

  “Mr Smith,” a quiet voice said, “this is Pete from the electronics shop. Your videotape is ready.”

  Smith could not believe what he was hearing.

  “I thought you said it wouldn’t be ready until Monday,” he said.

  “I did,” Pete said, “but that was before I looked at the card you gave me. When I realized you were a copper, I thought whatever might be on the tape could be important so I got onto it straight away.”

  “It could be,” Smith said.

  “I don’t mean to be nosy,” Pete said, “but don’t you guys have fancy tech guys who could have fixed the tape?”

  “It’s a long story,” Smith said, “thanks, I’ll see you in about half an hour.”

  Twenty minutes later, Smith parked outside the electronics shop. He went inside the shop. He saw that Pete was getting ready to lock up for the day.

  “What time do you close?” Smith asked.

  “Half an hour ago,” Pete said.

  “How much do I owe you?”

  “It took me two and a half hours,” Pete said, “but I’ll only charge you for two. It’s always good to stay on the side of the law. Ten quid. It’s ten quid more than anything else I’ve made here today.”

  Smith took out his wallet.

  “Hold on,” he said.

  He remembered he would not be able to watch the DVD; he had nothing to play it on.

  “Let’s boost your sales for the day,” he said, “I’m in the market for a DVD player and a television. What would you recommend?”

  “Are you serious?” Pete’s face seemed to light up, “What’s your budget.”

  Smith thought about The Ghoul’s money and how helpful this shop assistant had been.

  “I don’t have one,” he said, “give me the best.”

  “Follow me,” Pete led Smith to a display of wide screen television sets.

  “Panasonic LCD,” he said, “fifty five inches. Top of the range.”

  “I’ll take it,” Smith said, “although I don’t think it’ll fit in my car boot.”

  “I’ll deliver it for you,” Pete said, “I’m just about to close up anyway. I’ll follow you home in the van. Seeing as though you’re taking the Rolls Royce of TVs, you might as well compliment it with this.”

  He pointed to a huge home theatre system.

  “Sony,” he said, “Blue ray and DVD. Fifteen hundred watts with twin sub woofers. Your neighbours are going to hate you for it but this is the boss.”

  Smith smiled and handed Pete his credit card. He did not think about how much this videotape had ended up costing him. Pete swiped the card and wrote out an invoice. He handed Smith the slip to sign. Smith did not bother to look at the amount.

  “Give me five minutes,” Pete handed Smith his credit card back, “I just need to load the stuff in the van and I’ll follow you home.”

  “Do you want me to set it up for you?” Pete looked at the boxes of speakers in Smith’s newly painted living room.

  “I’m sure I’ll figure it out,” Smith said, “I’m still not sure where I want to put it all. That television is going to take up a whole wall. I needn’t have bothered painting it.”

  He took out his wallet and handed Pete a twenty pound note.

  “That’s for all your trouble,” he said.

  “Delivery’s no charge,” Pete said.

  “Take it,” Smith insisted, “it’s very rare you come across service like this these days. It’s Saturday night. Go out and enjoy yourself.”

  “Thanks,” Pete took the money, “if there’s anything else you need, just pop in.”

  “I will,” Smith said.

  SIXTY EIGHT

  Tokoloshe

  Yorick Moreno stood in the hallway and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He had turned off all the lights in the house and closed all the curtains. He had even fitted curtains in the kitchen and bathroom so the house would be pitch black. His wife was staying with her sister; it had become more and more of a permanent thing since the incident. He walked to the living room and bumped into the coat stand in the hallway. He realized he would have to practice more if he was going to be ready. He could not afford any mistakes if he was going to succeed. He went inside the living room and opened the curtain a crack. He peered outside and smiled. The moon was barely visible. In a few days time it would be almost invisible; his timing had been perfect.

  “They’re coming,” he said and realized his voice sounded different.

  He liked it. It made him feel different.

  Yorick walked around the house in the dark. He walked slowly at first, taking into account all of the obstacles in his way. He crept from room to room, carefully making mental notes as he went along. He went upstairs and covered every inch of the bedrooms and the bathroom. He opened the cabinet in the bathroom and took out the knife. He ran it lightly over the skin on his forearm and felt the blood run down his arm onto his fingers. He clenched his fist and felt the warm blood in his hand. The knife was sharp. He remembered how Kenneth Swift’s head had almost been removed from his neck after just one slice of the knife.

  They don’t stand a chance, he thought.

  Yorick repeated his tour of the house three or four more times, this time with the knife gripped tightly in his hand. He crouched down to make himself smaller and quickened his pace. He was barefoot and he made virtually no sound at all as he scuttled from one room to the other. He ducked under tables and rolled over furniture. Once more, he ran upstairs and deftly slid under the bed in the main bedroom. He felt his pulse. His heart rate was normal. He ran back downstairs and sat on the sofa in the living room. The blood on his arm was dry.

  “I’m like a Tokoloshe,” Yorick smiled.

  He had read about the Tokoloshe, a Zulu malevolent spirit that is a huge part of their culture.

  “I can make myself invisible,” Yorick said, “I’m invincible. Immortal”

  He thought back to the day the car he was in plummeted into the river. He was convinced he was going to die that day. Ironically, what was supposed to have killed him, saved him. The driver of the car had had the sense to roll down the window when he realized what was about to happen. The police officer in the back with Yorick
had looked at him while the car was sinking. Yorick remembered it clearly. The officer’s eyes were full of evil. He had jammed Yorick’s seat belt so he would not be able to get it released and he would drown. The officer had then managed to get out the car and swim to the surface, leaving Yorick all alone to await his watery grave.

  Yorick had thought he had no air left; his lungs had been burning, but, as the car drifted down to the bottom of the river, the seatbelt that had been jammed was suddenly jarred loose and Yorick managed to free himself. This new hope had spurred him on and Yorick had managed to get out of the window before the car hit the river bed and he swam to the surface. He had taken a huge gulp of air and managed to make it to the bank. There he had hidden in a large clump of reeds and gathered his thoughts.

  He had watched as the police car was hoisted out of the river. He remembered the surprised look on the people’s faces when they had realized the car was empty. It was then that he knew he had to get as far away as possible; he knew they would be looking for him. He had slowly climbed up the bank and walked away from not only the River Ouse, but from the life he had known. Yorick Moreno was dead.

  “But now I’m back,” Yorick said as he closed his eyes.

  SIXTY NINE

  Entertainment system

  Smith started to open up the boxes of his new entertainment system. He had placed the huge television set on the stand against the largest of the walls in the room. He got to work unpacking the various speakers, tweeters, woofers and what appeared to be about ten miles of cables. Theakston watched him curiously. He sniffed each box with interest but gave up when he realized there was nothing edible in any of them.

  “Where do we start boy?” Smith said, “We start with a beer and a spliff. That’s always a good place to start.”

  He went to the kitchen and took a beer out of the fridge. He sat down at the kitchen table and rolled a small joint. He went outside to the garden and lit the end.

  What’s on the videotape that sent Alberto Moreno into such a rage? He thought as the marijuana started to work. His mind felt paradoxically numb and clear at the same time. He finished the joint and threw the butt on the grass. He went back inside, picked up his beer and took it to the living room to make a start on the seemingly impossible task of putting all the cables in the right places.