“Valerie,” he said, “where have you been my dear? I missed you at breakfast.”
He looked Smith and Whitton up and down.
“Who have we here?” he said.
“Police,” Valerie said, “they want to speak to the clowns.”
“I see,” Alberto said, “what have the clowns done now? Juggling without a license?”
Smith burst out laughing.
“Juggling without a license,” he said, “good one.”
His laughter stopped just as quickly as it had started.
“Where are they?” he said with a forced straight face.
“You’re looking at one of them,” Alberto said, “actually I’m only a part time clown. The others are Jimmy, my brother and Charlie. Charlie is in his caravan and where Jimmy is is anybody’s guess.”
“And who might you be?” Smith said.
“Alberto Moreno,” Alberto smiled and displayed a row of perfect teeth, “the circus has been in my family’s blood for decades. My grandparents were the great Willy and Inga Moreno. No doubt you’ve heard of them?”
“Nope,” Smith said.
“I was being sarcastic,” Alberto said, “Valerie, would you please take these people where they need to go. I haven’t quite finished digesting the woes of the world.”
He picked up his newspaper and started to read.
“Don’t mind him,” Valerie said as they walked, “he still remembers the good old days when circuses were all the rage. Thirty years ago, ringmasters like him commanded respect. Nowadays, kids are just not impressed.
She stopped outside a small green caravan. Music could be heard from inside. It was a stringed instrument but Smith could tell it was not a guitar.
“Charlie is inside,” Valerie said, “good old loyal Charlie. He’s always around when you need him. He never leaves the grounds.”
She knocked on the door and the music stopped. A very tall man with bright blue eyes opened the door.
“Charlie,” Valerie said to him, “these people are from the police, they need to speak to a clown.”
Whitton realized straight away that Charlie was not the drunk man she had seen the day before.
“Come inside,” Charlie beckoned, “what’s this all about?”
Whitton and Smith stepped inside. Whitton was surprised to find so much space inside the caravan. The exterior was deceptive. The place was like a Tardis.
“We need to find a man who claims to be a clown at this circus,” Whitton said, “he may have some important information about a serious crime.”
“I’m one of the clowns,” Charlie said, “then there’s Jimmy and sometimes Alberto fills in when necessary.”
“We’ve spoken to Alberto,” Whitton said, “We need to find this Jimmy.”
“What’s that?” Smith pointed to the stringed instrument on the bed.”
“It’s a mandolin,” Charlie said, “it’s part of one of my acts.”
“Can I have a go?” Smith stood up and picked up the mandolin before Charlie had a chance to answer.
The mandolin was different to any instrument Smith had played before. He strummed the strings and realized the tuning was the same as the first four strings on the guitar. He played a simple twelve bar blues sequence. Charlie looked over and smiled.
“I’m playing the clown,” Smith started to sing in a deep voice.
Whitton looked on in astonishment.
“I’m playing the clown,” Smith switched to the A string.
“I’m playing the circus clown blues,” Smith put the mandolin back on the bed.
“Cool instrument,” he said, “where can we find Jimmy the clown?”
SIXTEEN
Australian idiot
“Lion fur?” DI Brownhill said to Grant Webber in the canteen of the forensics department, “are they sure?”
“Ninety nine per cent sure,” Webber had just got off the phone with a colleague in the zoological office in Newcastle.
He had confirmed that the hair sample Webber had sent him came off a fully grown male lion.
“This doesn’t make any sense,” Brownhill said, “surely they’ve made a mistake.”
“These people don’t make mistakes,” Webber stood up, “they’ve e mailed me a detailed analysis but what they are saying is the hair samples I took from the blanket Nathan Green was wrapped in came from a lion. A domesticated lion.”
“How do they know that?”
“It’s complicated,” Webber said, “but I’ll try to put it simply. A wild lion living in its natural habitat in Africa will have hair follicles unique to the environment it lives in. It’s weather dependant. The lion adapts to the environment. In domesticated lions, especially those that come from a line of domesticated lions, the hair follicles show subtle changes. The climate effects the way the hair grows. Yorkshire is hardly the natural habitat of a lion is it? If it was, we would have lions roaming wild all over the place.”
“And we wouldn’t want that would we?” Brownhill smiled at Webber.
Webber did not know why but he was finding himself drawn to this strange looking woman.
“So where does that leave us?” Brownhill said.
“I’m afraid that’s your department,” Webber said, “I’ve solved today’s conundrum. Now it’s up to you detectives to do what you do best.”
“Right,” Brownhill seemed to be thinking of something else, “speaking of detectives, what do you make of this Smith character.”
“Smith?” Webber seemed taken aback.”
“Yes,” Brownhill said, “I’ve only met him once and that was this morning. Briefly. I haven’t had the chance to figure him out yet. All I have to go on are rumors and more rumors. More negative ones that positive.”
“Smith is his own worst enemy,” Webber said, “his insight and sixth sense are unrivalled when he’s on form. He’s the best I’ve ever seen; the best any of us have ever seen.”
“I’m sensing a but,” Brownhill said.
“But,” Webber humored her, “he’s a liability. He’s a loose cannon if you’ll excuse the detective cliché.”
“So you say I need to keep an eye on him?”
“Let’s put it this way,” Webber said, “would I want to have a few drinks with him after work? The answers no but would I want Smith on a difficult investigation that has reached dead end after dead end? I would say yes. He hasn’t got away with what he’s got away with so far by being an incompetent detective. I’ve said too much. It always leaves a bad taste in my mouth when I have to compliment that Australian idiot.”
“Thank you,” Brownhill said, “you’ve said just enough. I can see I’m going to have to watch Jason Smith like a hawk from now on.”
“This lion business,” Webber said.
“Yes.”
“I’m not a detective but if I were you I would start in the obvious places.”
“Zoos and private animal parks you mean?”
“Exactly,” Webber said, “lions are not exactly popular family pets are they? I’m going to enjoy working with you DI Brownhill.”
Brownhill took a step closer. Webber’s heart started to beat faster.
“Likewise,” Brownhill shook Webber’s hand, turned around and left the canteen.
SEVENTEEN
Titanic
Smith sat slouched on a chair in Chalmers’ old office with his legs almost touching the desk. He was slowly coming down from the marijuana he had smoked by the circus tent and his mouth felt incredibly dry. He looked around the office. He hardly recognized it anymore. DI Brownhill had transformed it into a sterile void; Chalmers’ old photographs were gone, the room even smelled different. Smith always liked the slight smell of tobacco smoke that lingered in the room. Chalmers had always been careful enough to smoke next to an open window but the smoke still lingered for days afterwards. Smith stood up and walked over to the window. He was tempted to light up one final cigarette for old time’s sake; to bid a final farewell to a chapter in his l
ife but he knew what would happen if he did.
“Not the best view in the station,” a deep voice interrupted his thoughts.
Smith turned round. Bryony Brownhill was standing in the doorway.
“But you can see who’s coming and going in the car park,” she added.
Smith did not say anything. A headache was on the way, he could feel it.
“Afternoon boss,” he looked Brownhill up and down.
She was almost as tall as he was. He noticed the hair on her top lip straight away.
“Take a seat,” Brownhill closed the door behind her.
Smith sat down again in the chair in front of the desk. He sat upright this time.
“Are you alright?” Brownhill sat behind the desk, “your eyes are very bloodshot.”
“The curse of the blue eyes,” Smith said, more to himself than to the hulk of a woman sitting before him.
“Very well,” Brownhill put two large hands on the desk in front of her, “the famous DS Smith. We meet at last.”
“Yes we do,” Smith smiled at her.
“I’ve heard all about you Smith,” Brownhill said, “you seem to get results.”
She looked at Smith, expecting him to say something.
“Was that a question?” Smith said.
“No,” Brownhill carried on undeterred, “DCI Chalmers gave you a lot of space to work in didn’t he? I believe he left you to your own devices most of the time. And that was a question.”
“Like you said,” Smith said, “I seem to get results.”
“Do you know anything about boats?” Brownhill stood up and looked out of the window.
“Boats?” Smith said, “a little bit. I used to mess around on boats when I was a kid. That was a long time ago though.”
“I used to do a bit of sailing when I was younger,” Brownhill mused, “we had a small ketch down in Wales. My father named her the Titanic.”
Smith nodded. He could feel a lecture coming on.
“We’d set off in the morning,” Brownhill said, “and we would spend the night moored just off the coast.”
“Very nice,” Smith said, “I hate the sea. Is this going to take long? There’s a killer out there.”
“Do you know what my father used to make my brother and I do every time we set foot on the Titanic?” Brownhill set her beady eyes on Smith’s.
“No.”
“He made us check the anchor line,” Brownhill said, “I remember it like it was yesterday. Sometimes it took us over three hours. We had to check the anchor, the shackles, the anchor warp and most importantly, we’d check the chain.”
Smith did not know why but he started to laugh.
“I’m glad I’m amusing you,” Brownhill glared at him.
“Sorry,” Smith said, “carry on. You were about to tell me that no matter how strong the links in a chain may be, if there’s just one weak link, the chain will break.”
He looked at the new DI with a serious expression on his face.
“Detective Sergeant,” Brownhill said, “I’m not saying I don’t like you but I don’t like your type. There’s one of you in just about every police station in the world.”
Smith was about to say something but his head was pounding.
“I know that Chalmers used to sit back a bit,” she said, “but that’s not how I work. I like to get my hands a bit dirty.”
“And what impressive hands they are,” Smith stood up, “thanks for the little chat but I have work to do. There’s an important witness we need to track down.”
“Jimmy Moreno,” Brownhill said.
Smith was impressed.
“I’ll let you know what we find out,” he headed for the door.
“Not so fast,” Brownhill said, “I’ve scheduled a meeting.”
She looked at her watch.
“In half an hour,” she said, “some new information has come to light and I believe it is imperative for everybody working on the investigation to have all the information we have. I’ll have no secrets in my station.”
Smith sighed. He was instantly reminded of the time when Superintendant Smyth had come up with the bright idea to remove all the doors in the station in an attempt to improve communication. The plan had not worked and the doors had been replaced weeks later.
“Conference room in half an hour,” Brownhill said.
Smith nodded and left the room.
EIGHTEEN
Elementary
“Where’s Chalmers?” Smith said to Whitton in the canteen, “he’s not in his office and I haven’t seen him since you dragged me back to this shit hole.”
“Stuck in meetings with the super,” Whitton said, “he’s been in meeting after meeting since he took the DCI position. He hates it. The whole thing is driving him mad and I didn’t drag you back here. It was about time you came back. Are you still stoned?”
“Not so loud,” Smith looked around the canteen.
The paranoia caused by the marijuana had kicked in.
“I’m fine,” he said, “we’d better get to the meeting. Let’s see how good this new DI is.”
“You’ve met her then?” Whitton said.
“We had a nice cozy chat,” Smith smiled, “If she lost a bit of height, a lot of bulk and had a personality transplant she’d be just my type. A shave every morning wouldn’t go amiss either.”
Whitton laughed.
“I knew you’d like her,” she said.
It was as if Smith had never been away when he walked in the conference room. Chalmers was sitting at the table in the front. He was talking to Superintendant Smyth. Smith nodded to him. Chalmers rolled his eyes and shook his head. Bryony Brownhill was at the head of the table. She was obviously intending to lead the meeting. Smith took a seat between Whitton and DS Thompson.
“The prodigal son returns,” Thompson said, “Once again. You can’t stay away can you?”
“I’ve missed you so much Thompson,” Smith put his arm around the old detective sergeant’s shoulder.
Thompson quickly shook it off.
“Good afternoon,” Brownhill began.
Her voice was so loud she did not need a microphone.
“As you’re all aware, we’ve had a child murdered on our patch and I don’t know about everybody else but that leaves a particularly bad taste in my mouth.”
Smith was impressed. He thought it a good way to begin a case meeting.
She doesn’t beat about the bush, he thought.
“On Friday night,” Brownhill continued, “Nathan Green was taken from his home on Meadowgate. His body was found yesterday behind one of the pews in St Olave’s church. Why anybody would want to abduct and kill a five year old boy is still a mystery but we do have a few leads to go on. DC Whitton.”
She looked over at Whitton.
“Thank you Ma’am,” Whitton said.
Smith looked on in disbelief.
“There is a man we need to find urgently,” Whitton said, “He could be an important witness. While we were conducting a door to door, a man appeared and asked us what we were doing. He was clearly drunk so he was asked to leave but as he was walking away he said something that I only realized later how important it was.”
“What did he say?” Brownhill asked.
“He said something about a child wrapped in a blanket,” Whitton said, “it was only when Nathan Green was found that I realized he must have seen the murderer. The child was wrapped in a blanket.”
“Do we know who this man is?” Thompson said.
“DS Smith and I questioned a few people who may have seen him that day,” Whitton said, “and it lead us to the circus.”
“The circus?” Thompson said.
“Moreno’s circus is in town at the moment,” Whitton said, “the witness is almost certainly Jimmy Moreno. He’s a clown and his brother is the ring master. It is imperative that we find him.”
Smith did not say a word. He sat in his chair digesting everything that was being said.
&
nbsp; “Another piece of evidence has come to light,” Brownhill said, “Grant.”
Grant Webber approached the front of the table and smiled at Brownhill.
“Grant?” Smith whispered to Whitton, “is there something going on I don’t know about?”
“We found samples of hair on the blanket the child was wrapped in,” Webber said, “plenty of hairs. At first we assumed they were dog hairs but on closer examination it was clear they were like no dog hair I had every analyzed before. The specimens were sent off for further analysis and the results were conclusive. The hairs came from a full grown male lion.”
There was a low murmuring in the conference room.
“A lion?” Superintendant Smyth squealed, “Are you sure it was a lion?”
“Positive,” Webber said, “the dead child was wrapped in a blanket that, at some time had come into contact with a fully grown lion.”
The room fell silent.
“Any questions?” Brownhill said.
“Yes,” Smith stood up.
Everybody waited to hear what he had to say.
“I assume you’ve been through the house with a fine toothcomb?” He said.
“The house?” Brownhill said.
“The kid’s house,” Smith said, “how can a child disappear from his room while his parents are downstairs? Did the killer carry him down the drainpipe? It all sounds a bit iffy to me unless…”
“Unless what?” Brownhill said.
“Unless his mother and father are not being entirely straight with us,” Smith said, “what’s the old cliché? It’s almost always the husband isn’t it?”
“We’ll look into it,” Brownhill said, “anything else?”
“What about the lion?” Webber said, “we’ve checked and there are no zoos or animal parks anywhere near where the boy lived.”
“That’s obvious,” Smith said, “Even a moron like me figured that one out.”
“And how did that brilliant brain of yours do that?” Webber scoffed.
“Elementary my dear Webber,” Smith smiled.
There were sniggers all around the room.
“I know where your lion is,” Smith said, “the circus is in town remember.”
Harlequin Page 6
