‘Unless it can fly as well,’ muttered Mundy.
He immediately regretted the sarcasm for Briggs appeared to take this suggestion seriously.
‘Right,’ said Mundy snappily, ‘I want to see this Norris character. He was a big brave boy yesterday – lets see what he’s like now. Then I think I’ll pay a little visit to the circus on the green.’
Briggs stared vacantly at his superior.
‘For clues, for Gods sake!’ cried Mundy in exasperation, and the constable’s dull eyes lightened a little with sudden understanding.
‘You think the thing might be at the circus, Sergeant?’
Smiling thinly, Mundy said, ‘When you consider that Bowyer certainly murdered a circus-hand’s sister, and that the circus is probably the only place you could expect to find – something – that’s approximately three metres tall, I’d say it’s a pretty good place to start. Wouldn’t you?’
Standing up, Mundy collected his overcoat from the back of the chair. Patting a pocket to make sure he had his cigarettes and matches, he then put it on.
‘C’mon Briggs; you’re with me this morning.’
‘Very good, Sergeant,’ replied Briggs gleefully.
*
‘Chiving’ Al lay curled in the foetal position and on the same bed that had had Lenche Hristova lying on it the day before. Mundy's nose wrinkled with distaste at this bitter irony, as he looked down at the hard-looking but extraordinarily ugly man who lay like a baby, his eyes shut and his body shaking, moaning softly on occasion. A long scar ran across one cheek and over a nose that was already swollen and red-veined with drink.
‘Norris… Norris…’
The authoritative voice broke through Al’s drugged cocoon, which insulated him from reality and the prospect of looking up and seeing, for the split-second before he was again knocked unconscious, something that came straight from a nightmare.
‘Norris… Norris…’
The voice was insistent, allowing the shocked hard-man no respite: ‘Chiving’ Al opened one eye as his body began shaking.
‘You all right, Norris?’ asked Mundy without compassion. ‘I just need to ask you a few questions, that’s all.’
The patient’s mouth opened and closed like a fish stranded on dry land; he managed to coarsely whisper, ‘You’ve got to stop it…’
But this was all too much effort and so his eyes closed once again, the mind gratefully retreating back into its protective cocoon.
‘Norris… Norris…’ spat Mundy, as a nurse walked huffily over to where he and Briggs were stood.
‘Really, I must ask you to leave. This man is in a state of severe shock,’ she said angrily.
‘But we…’
One look from the nurse was enough to quieten Mundy; the hard face did not encourage discussion. Shrugging, the detective walked away to the wide doors at the end of the ward, accompanied by Briggs.
‘Well, what do you think?’ Mundy asked the constable, as they left the hospital.
‘S’like a bloody horror story, Sergeant. I think we’d better be careful around that circus,’ Briggs stated immediately.
Mundy looked curiously at him, but read nothing in that wide, honest face.
Sighing, Mundy replied, ‘I think you may have a point there, lad. I’m not entirely sold on stories about giants with claws for hands, but whoever it was had to be pretty good to get the better of Bowyer. The man was like a rattlesnake with that blade of his – and he was no slouch with his fists, either.’
Grimacing, Mundy recognised the tone almost of admiration that had crept into his voice.
He hastily added, ‘Even if he did use them on women.’
The two men walked on in silence, unwittingly tracing the route Gregor had taken the previous afternoon. The streets were largely deserted, the men hard at work in the local factories and warehouses, the women caring for the pre-school children inside the narrow red-bricked houses. Looking through the window of a pub, Mundy saw an elderly man nursing an old and mild at the bar, his face resigned and drawn towards death.
The detective and the policeman saw the erected Big Top ahead as they reached Abbot’s Lane, the long road that led to the green – and the road where the fatally injured Lenche Hristova had been found.
Reaching the circus, Mundy was conscious of the looks he and Briggs attracted from the many people who worked for it; not hostile, but curious. Whenever he met one of these stares the person looked quickly away, and he found himself wondering if any of these people knew the identity of Bowyer’s murderer.
A group of young women tending to an old pony captured Briggs’s amorous attention, and as one caught his look he smiled at her. As she shyly returned this smile he felt the first tingle of anticipation.
Noticing this, Mundy said curtly, ‘Knock it off, Briggs – you’re not paid to look at the crumpet. Try to remember that we’re here on business.’
As he spoke Mundy became aware of an elderly woman who was stood staring at him. She did not drop the look when their eyes met. Something drew him over to her and the gaudily painted caravan she stood outside, Briggs dutifully following like a dog. A notice had been painted over the caravan’s door in some foreign language, but Mundy did not require a translator to know that this old woman was the circus’s clairvoyant.
‘You are policemen,’ she announced as the two men approached. Briggs – who no longer being a ‘woodentop’, a constable on the beat, was not in uniform – stared at her as though he’d just met Sherlock Holmes himself.
Fighting the urge to roll his eyes, Mundy made the introductions.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Mundy, and this is Detective Constable Briggs.’
The woman made no attempt to introduce herself in return but simply stared at the two men, waiting for Mundy to continue.
‘We’re investigating a particularly nasty murder that happened sometime last night and, with the greatest of respect, the description of the murderer – along with one or two other factors – makes our first port of call the circus,’ Mundy said tersely.
Nodding, the old woman opened the door behind her.
‘You’d better come in; it’s best that you talk to me. A lot of people here can’t speak English, and wouldn’t talk to you even if they did.’
It was small inside the caravan, a table draped in dark-purple cloth the central feature. The old woman manoeuvred herself around this and sat with her back to the wall. Both Mundy and Briggs ignored the single other chair and spent several moments studying the walls which were adorned with old pictures, photos and drawings of strange things and creatures.
Serpents, gigantic octopuses, levitating humans and a man naked from the waist up – all the better to show that he had four arms – were just some of the freaks on show.
Rose observed their observations with a look of amusement, before deciding that it was time to get to the point –
‘How do you think that the circus can help with your investigations, detective?’
Mundy shrugged. ‘The man murdered was one Edward Bowyer, whom you may well know is – I mean was – a strong suspect in the murder of Lenche Hristov.’
‘So I am to assume that you suspect her brother, Gregor?’
‘Mr Hristov is not three metres tall, and nor do I assume – despite his obvious strength – that he can rip people’s heads off with his bare hands,’ Mundy answered diffidently.
‘But the circus is as good a place as any to find such a strange man?’
‘I wouldn’t call such a creature a man, strange or otherwise,’ Mundy replied.
Smiling slightly, Rose motioned to the assorted pictures on the walls with a wave of her hand.
‘There exist such things on earth that should not,’ she said, ‘and there also exist such men whose evil nature should not be allowed. Occasionally – but only occasionally – forces other than mortal take a hand in punishing such men.’
Briggs felt the room chill and he shivered, not caring as he noticed Mundy
observing his reaction with annoyance. Some things were far worse than the mere wrath of superiors.
‘Well, I’m afraid that your theories aren’t much use to me,’ Mundy said, keeping the irritation and sarcasm out of his voice with difficulty. He was too busy for this kind of nonsense, and he had the idea that he was wasting both his and the constable’s time
‘I really don’t think that we have anything more to say, and I thank you for your time.’
Having said this he opened the door and stepped out, Briggs – taking one last nervous look at the pictures – following. Rose stayed seated as Briggs shut the door behind him, staring at the clear ball on the table. Then she lifted the cloth that covered the table and exposed a draw.
This she opened, producing a photograph that she stared at with the faintest trace of amusement. Live by the sword, die by the sword: it was an accurate saying, she reflected.
Her expression reposed as she considered Mundy. She’d sensed that he was fundamentally a good and decent man, and she sympathised with the mind-boggling case he was attempting to solve. But the circus extracted its own revenge; it relied on no one else.
But still she felt strangely dissatisfied and irritated as she left her caravan, and several people felt, for no good reason, the sharpness of her tongue throughout the rest of the day.
*
The circus was being dismantled, the final show having just been given. Mundy walked around, his keen eyes looking for anything or anyone that might give him a possible clue to the Bowyer case, which had been quietly dropped by his superiors after only the most cursory of inquiries.
The door-to-door visits by the police of properties close to Bowyer’s house had yielded no information, which was hardly surprising. A few people had heard the scream that had sliced the night’s silence like a knife at about midnight, but they’d kept quiet. No one locally felt any animosity to Bowyer’s murderer – quite the opposite, in fact.
Despite the hatred he’d had for Bowyer, and the sense almost of satisfaction he couldn’t help but feel at the young man’s demise, the case still rankled Mundy, compelling him to try to find answers in his own time. He’d researched the other gangs that had been in conflict with the Rawley Street Boys, but had found no answers there.
If there was a new and nightmarish assassin belonging to one of these gangs then he – or it – was being kept extremely well hidden. None of the contacts whom Mundy had carefully cultivated in the underworld, who relied on his discretion for the sake of their very lives, had any idea as to who, or what, had murdered Teddy Bowyer in such a brutal manner...
People raced furiously around Mundy, shouting instructions in many different tongues. The desire to get away from the area was clear, and the detective doubted whether Ivan’s Circus would be back next summer or indeed ever again.
Mundy came across Gregor, who was busy folding the wooden chairs that served as the seating inside the Big Top. These were being put into a canvas-topped trailer, and Mundy failed to notice the shape that moved quickly away at his approach, retreating into the dark sanctuary at the back of the trailer.
‘Mr Hristov,’ he greeted.
Gregor nodded tightly and continued with his work.
‘You should know that I’m still investigating your sister’s murder,’ Mundy stated.
Gregor stopped folding the chairs and turned round to face him. Sweat glistened on his forehead and the shirt he wore stuck to his body, showing off his superb physique.
‘Bowyer is dead?’ he asked suddenly.
Mundy looked at him with considerable confusion.
‘Yes, of course he is – I thought you knew that.’
Unbelievably Gregor laughed, and slapped Mundy’s arm with his large hand.
‘Then it is all OK. I know he is dead but still – I like hearing people tell me. Listen: I join the army tomorrow to fight Hitler, and soon all this will be forgotten.’
Despite his initial joviality he said the last words solemnly; they carried the suggestion that he was certain he did not have long to live. Mundy nodded: there were clearly hard times ahead for everyone. Suddenly he wanted to be safely ensconced inside the Six Bells public house, wanted a pint or two of bitter, and wanted most of all to forget this utterly bizarre case.
‘Good luck,’ he said simply, before walking away.
Gregor watched him go, and then turned around and softly spoke in the direction of the trailer.
4
The following seven years proved to be a busy time for Mundy, who’d been rapidly promoted to the rank of Detective Inspector soon after the outbreak of global hostilities. He was too old for service, having seen his action in the Somme, but some of the younger lads at the station left their secure civilian jobs and joined the army, citing patriotism as their reason to incredulous friends and relatives. And a few – including Briggs, who met his death on the beaches of Dunkirk – were fated not to return to their country and civilian life.
It was an overworked and dispirited Mundy who quietly celebrated V.E Day, in-between trying to keep the new Bowyer and his toerags in check. He longed for the retirement that would allow him to devote more time to his precious allotment. He often found himself considering the strange case he’d dealt with as war had broken out, his thoughts focusing on Gregor Hristov, the old psychic woman and the circus, convinced that amongst all of this lay the answer.
But Mundy couldn’t – wouldn’t – accept stories of three metre tall giants with claws for hands. The murder of Bowyer had become part of Hoxley’s folklore, with unruly children being informed by their mothers that the circus giant would come for them should they not behave.
It was the closing month of 1946 and Mundy was walking wearily home. Since his wife had died six months previously he found the house to be a cold and depressingly empty place, and so he preferred to spend his evenings at the Six Bells, chatting as he played cards or dominoes with the locals, or simply enjoying a well-earned pint as he read the ‘paper from cover to cover.
He walked with his coat buttoned up, for the night was freezing; the heels on his shoes clacked on the cobbled streets. Mothers were fetching their children in from the streets at eight o’clock, many fearfully watching the night sky as though they might still see a fleet of Heinkel bombers approaching, unannounced by sirens or antiaircraft batteries. Mundy recognised some of the men who walked past him, all looking as equally weary after a long day’s work, and brief greetings were exchanged accordingly.
Something ahead caught his attention, although he struggled to see exactly what was occurring as he was not wearing his glasses. It looked as though someone was sticking something to the remains of St Joseph’s Infirmary, left derelict after a direct hit in 1943.
Yes: someone was sticking something up – a fly-poster.
‘And just what do you think you’re doing?’
Mundy’s strident voice caused a young man to drop his bucket of adhesive onto the street; he turned to face the detective, his eyes imploring.
‘A please, I no do nothing…’
Mundy quietened him with a gesture of his hand, his attention suddenly transferred to the freshly put-up poster. It couldn’t be. With a shaky hand he produced a box of Swan Vestas, and lighting one held it to the poster, his eyesight too poor to be helped much by the dim and flickering street lamps
The first two words were enough…
Ivan’s Circus.
He stood staring at the flyer for a few moments, before the match burnt his fingers and he remembered the man who was stood watching the portly detective with a puzzled expression.
‘Don’t… Just don’t stick too many up…’ Mundy said vaguely.
He immediately returned his attention to the wall, lost in his memories. Taking his chance the man walked quietly away, unnoticed by Mundy. It was too late now, but lunchtime tomorrow would not be spent – as was usual – in the Six Bells. Mundy had to instead visit the circus – just for old time’s sake.
*
&n
bsp; The circus seemed reassuringly familiar to Mundy as he walked about the next day, although the last time it had been in Hoxley it had been late summer rather than December, and so he’d not been clapping his hands together in an attempt to keep them warm.
But it was as busy as he remembered, staff hurrying to get everything set up before the first night’s show. Mundy’s attention was drawn to a despondent-looking clown who was sat on a crate, feeding a horse an apple from the palm of his hand, and he smiled slightly at the pleasant surrealism.
Then his attention was dragged away from the scene, his eyes compelled instead to look at the old woman who was stood outside a different caravan than the one Mundy remembered. Rose surveyed the busy scene as acrid smelling smoke wafted from her pipe, which she now languidly waved at him.
He walked over to her, casually lighting a cigarette as he said, ‘Well, it’s been a while. I didn’t think that I’d ever see you back here again.’
The clairvoyant raised her eyebrows inquiringly. ‘Why ever not, Detective Sergeant Mundy?’ she asked.
Mundy started slightly in surprise at her having remembered his name, thought to correct his rank – and then something of far greater importance entered his mind.
‘And where is Gregor Hristov?’
Rose’s already lined brow creased even further with her sorrow. ‘He’s dead. Many of the men from this circus were killed during the war. With Gregor I may as well have lost my son.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Mundy said, surprising himself with the sincerity in his voice.
‘Tell me – did you ever find that young man’s murderer?’ There was a keenness in the gypsy’s face that was unnerving, and an intensity in her question that demanded an immediate answer.
The Hoxley Killer Page 3