by Joan Lock
Smith knew different. He knew that at a time of shock your mind could be wiped clean of certain memories which later popped up in vivid little pictures. He knew Best got them – of people drowning, reaching out to him and screaming … him pushing them away …
Jack Hare’s manner proved quite different from that of his father and tediously familiar to a policeman with any service. Not exactly belligerent but hovering – waiting for an opportunity to let fly. Smith didn’t give it to him. He treated Jack Hare with impeccable courtesy – a stance which clearly confused the young man – at first.
‘Now I know this has all been very unpleasant for you both,’ Smith assured him, ‘and you have to get your ride started up again soon to make some money.’
Jack Hare sat forward in his chair and nodded vigorously. ‘Yeh, we do.’
‘Well, I’ll be as quick as I can with this,’ Smith assured him. ‘But you do understand that we need your assistance.’
The lad opened his mouth uncertainly as if to speak but nothing came out. Clearly any previous contact with the constabulary had not been on these polite terms.
‘You see,’ Smith went on, ‘we don’t know who this lady is so we need all the help we can get – anything you remember about her …’
‘I don’t remember nothing,’ said Jack Hare abruptly.
‘No, well maybe not straight away. I can understand that. But I’d like you to think back to what you were doing…’
‘I have been – an’ I still remember nothing.’ There was a note of triumph in his voice. The lad was regaining his confidence and with it his ingrained hatred of the police.
He’s also decided I’m soft, thought Smith. He looked at Jack silently for a moment then said, ‘Well, if you do …’
‘I won’t,’ he said.
‘Ah,’ said Smith thoughtfully, rubbing his chin, ‘that’s a pity.’ The young man’s expression had now grown insolent. ‘You see, no identification does stretch the business out rather …’
‘What d’you mean?’ He sat forward, bunching his powerful shoulders threateningly.
‘Well,’ said Smith icily, ‘what I mean is, we will have to examine the place where she died much more thoroughly to see whether there was something there that may have caused her death. And the doctor will have to examine her more thoroughly – and he will have to come to see your machinery …’ He took a deep breath. ‘Then we might have to get the safety people to examine it …’
The young man jumped to his feet, his fists bunched and arms drawn back in a fighting stance which doubtless served him well in the fairground. ‘What d’you mean? There’s nowt wrong with our ride!’
‘Maybe so, Mr Hare,’ said Smith coldly. ‘But we’re not to know that and we’ve got to be sure, you see. And, of course, the palace authorities will expect you to help us all you can, won’t they now?’
There was a time for conciliatory tones and a time for making sure they knew who was boss, Best had always told him.
‘I, well…’ The lad was floundering now. Good. Smith put the boot in.
‘You weren’t keeping a proper eye out for your customers, were you? You could be closed down right now for that.’ Smith paused while this message sank in. ‘Now,’ he ordered, ‘please wait outside with your father until we are ready to continue.’
It was touch and go whether the man punched Smith or obeyed but the detective sergeant guessed that the mention of closing down and of his father swayed the matter and he merely glared and left the room.
Smith knew that many people lied to police on principal. Said they had seen things which they hadn’t, but mostly denied seeing things which they had – even when the matters were of no consequence to them. So he made sure that the pair were kept waiting long enough for their minds and memories to link up with self-interest and survival.
‘My dad says he thinks he remembers something now,’ a truculent Jack muttered as Smith emerged from the inner office into the waiting-cum-charge room where the two men sat side by side on a hard wooden bench.
‘Oh, good,’ Smith said, showing no surprise.
‘Yeh. He says he thinks she talked funny.’
‘Funny?’ said Smith glancing at the older man. ‘With an accent, d’you mean?’
‘Yeh. That’s right.’
‘A foreign accent? French or Italian?’
The old boy shook his head. ‘Nah. Northern or summat.’
‘From Liverpool? Birmingham?’
‘Dunno.’ The man shook his head helplessly and held his hand to his chest before wheezing. ‘Not London is all I know. Couldn’t understand ’er at first.’
‘How about Scottish?’
‘Oh no. My wife was Scottish, I knows that.’ He was pleased to be able to be definite about something. ‘Weren’t Welsh neither, cos the man on the swings is from Wales.’
‘An ’e thinks someone was with ’er,’ exclaimed Jack.
His father frowned at him. ‘I said I wasn’t sure …’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Smith. ‘We know you could be mistaken.’ And telling lies, he thought. This time claiming to have seen something you didn’t, encouraged by your son who hoped this new cooperation would speed things up and who had realized that they would accept Dad’s word before his.
‘Was it a man or a woman?’
‘Woman.’ He frowned and waved his hand in the air as if trying to conjure up her image. ‘’Bout the same age as the dead lady, an’ wearing a sort of grey dress …’ He sat back and sighed apologetically. ‘That’s all I can remember.’
‘That’s fine,’ Smith assured him with a cheerfulness he didn’t feel. He wanted this all done so he could get back out with Best on the hunt for Quicksilver. ‘Very helpful.’ He stood up. ‘We’re a bit further forward. Right –’ he slapped his hands together – ‘let’s go to see that ride.’
He ushered both men out of the office, thinking, Best is right. This job is all acting. That’s all it is, acting.
They were stopped in their tracks by the arrival of Stompy, A Division’s surgeon whom they had seen earlier and mistaken for an old lag.
‘Right, where is she?’ he demanded, smacking his hands together in a businesslike manner.
Dr Roper was a quick little man with quick impatient movements who gave the impression of implacable self-confidence. Smith had no idea whether this was justified. Uniformed officers had more contact with divisional surgeons when they dealt with the results of melees and sudden deaths.
‘No way of telling what she died of, really,’ he said briskly giving her the once over, ‘not without a post-mortem.’ He pulled up her eyelids. ‘Hmm. Pupils a bit small.’
‘What does that mean? Morphine?’
Roper shrugged. ‘Could have been taking something with morphine in it …’ He paused. ‘How did she act when she died?’
‘We don’t know.’
He frowned. ‘All these people about – someone must have seen her? Did she just slump, clutching her chest, cry out … ?’
‘We don’t know,’ Smith repeated. ‘She was on one of those new three-abreast roundabouts, in the centre.’
‘Wasn’t there anyone with her?’
‘No one we’ve found yet.’
‘What about the other riders?’
‘They all say they didn’t see anything until people began screaming. To be honest, they don’t get a very good view of each other – they’re too busy looking out at friends.’ He paused. ‘You wouldn’t be able to hear any sound she made for the noise of the music.’
Roper grinned ruefully. ‘So it’s a good job I don’t think there’s anything suspicious about the death!’
Smith nodded uncertainly and cleared his throat. ‘I was wondering,’ he said.
‘Yes?’ said Roper briskly.
‘The bleeding from her head?’
‘Yes?’ Roper glanced at his watch.
‘Well, if she died from a heart attack why did she bleed afterwards when her head hit the ground? Should
n’t it have stopped?’
Roper nodded. ‘Certainly very soon afterwards, Sergeant. But she might have been unconscious for several minutes before death. Hard to tell in this case, isn’t it?’
Smith had to admit that it was.
When Smith finally got around to inspecting the roundabout there wasn’t much to see apart from blood beneath the horse ridden by the unfortunate woman. He did, however, find scratch marks down the side of the withers where she had tried to save herself from falling – so she hadn’t died instantly.
There was no lady’s watch to be found anywhere. ‘If she had one with her it might ’ave dropped out of her pocket when she fell,’ said Jack Hare, now making a show of being helpful. ‘But we never saw none.’
‘Pity, it might have had her name on it.’
‘Tells us one thing though, don’t it,’ said Joe Hare knowingly.
‘What’s that?’
‘Well, if she did have a watch, she weren’t poor, was she?’
Chapter Six
When all the screaming first began, Best imagined that Quicksilver’s plan must be swinging into action. This was the disaster he’d planned for them.
Now, he knew that the death on the merry-go-round was merely an incidental diversion. Indeed, a normal occurrence at such an event only made more dramatic by where and how it had happened.
Quicksilver’s puzzle still had to be solved and his presumed dire aims thwarted. Best cursed the time lost. He had not even completed his initial tour of inspection.
He resumed their patrol where it had left off, at the fairground. The swings were still swinging; small and shrieking bodies on straw mats continued to be catapulted from the bottom of the helter-skelter. Tiny tots clung on to red, white and blue balloons and kites. The ice-cream seller was doing an even more roaring trade and the photographer had his head tucked under his black drapes to immortalize a nervous young couple unused to being the focus of so much attention.
Some of the crowd were drifting south towards the racetrack to watch the hay-making and rustic procession while others headed north to the circus tent. Best joined the latter. He skirted the huge boating lake where perspiring fathers tried to make light of rowing around the central island in the heat, and indignant mallards and tufted ducks tried to avoid the persistent attentions of fascinated toddlers.
Who could Quicksilver be? Best wondered as he was being propelled down the slope by gravity. What person would be that angry at us? And why would they want to kill other people as well?
He shrugged. Probably something trivial. A copper clipped his ear when he was young or stopped him bowling his hoop – and it’s niggled him ever since. He’s probably just a nutter who thinks it’s ruined his life. Ruin mine, too, Best thought, if he kills a lot of people.
Be more sensible to try to work out some of his riddles. That name, for a start – Quicksilver. Did it just mean he’s too fast for us? We won’t be able to catch him?
But it could mean more. He frowned and sucked at his pearly white teeth. Quicksilver – wasn’t that the stuff they put on the backs of mirrors? Was this all to do with reflections? Was that it? Was he being philosophical – darkness … mirrors … ?
He arrived at the circus tent just as Shareef, the baby elephant, was making his triumphal entry. Perched on his head was a judge’s wig of mighty proportions, while draped about his shoulders a judge’s gown of similar unlikely size.
The alleged frightening appearance of Shareef was claimed to have startled a pony which had bolted, causing a lady passenger to be thrown out of a trap. She had fractured her collar bone and claimed damages for medical expenses.
Defence claimed that there was nothing frightening about docile little Shareef. To illustrate the point, his wily owners took him to the Royal Courts of Justice. An agreement was reached between parties. Shareef’s time in court caused much hilarity and brought him much fame – which was being duly exploited.
This might be a good place to cause havoc – near this famous elephant which had been treated liberally by the law – where, possibly, Quicksilver hadn’t?
As he entered the circus tent tunnel, Best fished his warrant card from his waistcoat to show discreetly to the uniformed constable who was lounging by the entrance.
Instantly, the man straightened up, adopted a more alert pose and began to raise his arm.
‘Relax – and don’t salute me for heaven’s sake,’ Best hissed.
The constable, aware that he had been caught off guard looking less than alert, blushed and slowly brought his arm down to his side while glancing around surreptitiously to see if anyone had noticed. An act which succeeded in appearing far more suspicious than a full blown salute might have done.
Luckily, only the performers, scarlet-spangled bareback riders and diminutive clowns, were nearby and they were too engrossed in last minute adjustments to their costumes or chattering to each other in French to notice what some English policeman was doing.
Judging from the roars of laughter coming from the big top, Shareef’s antics were going down well. The wild shout of the children and the curious smell of damp grass under canvas evoked childhood memories for Best. He had sometimes helped his uncle Alfredo sell ice cream outside circus tents in exchange for a ticket to the performance.
Inside, the tent was throbbing with life. The audience, packed high and dense, was roaring its approval for Shareef and obeying instructions to shout ‘Yes, your Worship!’ and ‘Not Guilty!’ Shareef bowed in response, removed his wig with his trunk, doffed it, and bowed again. In prime position among the cheering crowd was a broad patch of deep blue and white – the police orphans – screaming their delight as hard as any.
It had occurred to Best that a circus would be a good place to hide away – with all the extra hands they had on for things like this. But Billings had not agreed.
‘Not as easy as some think. They’re a tight lot and these ones don’t move about as much as most.’
‘What about the clowns’ make-up for disguise?’
‘Oh, they’d notice that right off – it’s all very specific. They all have their styles.’
‘How about hanging about in the other parts of the ground?’ Best recalled a clowns’ cricket match at another police fête.
‘Ah, yes. Now that’s a possibility,’ Billings had admitted. ‘I’ll tell the men to keep a look out for wandering clowns.’
Smith rejoined Best just as he was entering the Japanese Village below the palace’s west entrance. It was a pretty sight with its delicate oriental temple and house together with the requisite stone lanterns and arched wooden bridge over an undulating stream, as seen on every Willow Pattern plate.
The palace authorities insisted that no trash would be sold in its bazaar but ‘Japanese productions of the highest and rarest, as well as the most ordinary kinds’.
Judging by the orange and black paper parasols being carried aloft and handsome lacquered fans being waved about by obviously occidental ladies, their exhortations had proved reassuring. One or two little girls had even swapped their plain white smocks for colourful kimonos.
Smith’s eye was suddenly caught by a woman’s face in the crowd. He frowned. ‘Isn’t that …?’
‘Who?’ said Best. ‘Where?’
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘I thought I recognized somebody – but it’s not them.’
As they turned away Smith once again caught sight of the familiar face but said nothing. It was better like that, he was sure. Well, fairly sure. He wished he could ask Best’s opinion, as he usually did, but in this case Best was the one person who could not be consulted.
The spaces under the stilts of the Japanese Village buildings made Best and Smith exchange wary glances. But they found no suspect parcel propped up against the wooden pilings.
Their movements, Best was pleased to see, had not escaped the notice of one very tall policeman. Fred Henley was an old colleague of Best’s uniformed days on N Division. He allowed his eyes to light upo
n the detective inspector for a moment, but had the sense not to offer any sign of recognition. Instead he shouted, ‘Come on, out of there. Don’t want you dropping matches and burning the place down, do we?’
‘No, Officer, quite right,’ said Best.
Rather than reassure him, the lack of sinister evidence made Best more tense and worried. ‘Back to the palace for our meeting with the high and mighty,’ he proclaimed looking at his watch. ‘And, if we’re lucky, a pint of ale.’
It was just as Smith and Best reached the top of the steps leading on to the palace terrace that Inspector Littlechild ran out of the west entrance.
Spying them, he shouted, ‘Quick! Quick! Catch him!’ pointing ahead to his left.
The mass of humanity shielded the object of his pursuit from their view. Nonetheless, Best and Smith joined in the chase, charging through the dense crowd as best they could.
The taller, younger and fitter Smith began to outpace the two thirty-year-old inspectors but he glanced back to Littlechild for guidance as to just who was their quarry.
‘Straw boater, cream ribbon, cream blazer,’ Littlechild shouted breathlessly. ‘It’s him! It’s him!’
They turned left on to the south terrace but their man was still not discernible. On the grass below them, a dense circle of onlookers had gathered around an already inflated balloon. The surplus ballast bags had been removed and the ground crew were hanging on to the basket. But there was only one person on board, a man of late middle-age who was looking anxiously about him.
Suddenly, across the space between the crowd and the balloon darted a young man wearing a boater and a cream blazer. He flung himself at the balloon car and began to clamber aboard, aided by the older man.
‘Get him!’ yelled Littlechild. ‘Don’t let him escape!’
Smith sped on like a bullet out of a gun, reaching the car at the moment that the middle-aged man pulled the rope, undoing the neck of the balloon, and shouted, ‘Let go!’ Smith, too, flung himself at the wicker sides of the oblong car – and clung on as the basket parted company with the ground.