NINETEEN
Drug fiend
“It’s good to have you back,”
Smith felt a hand on his back as he left the conference room. He knew at once it was Chalmers.
“You always did have a knack of brightening up a meeting,” Chalmers said, “smoke?”
Smith nodded and headed outside to the car park.
Outside, Chalmers lit up a Marlborough and handed the pack to Smith.
“Thanks,” Smith took out a cigarette and lit the end, “you look different boss.”
Smith thought the new DCI looker older somehow and he had grown a moustache.
“What’s with the caterpillar under your nose?” Smith said, “Is it an attempt to outdo the fulsome Bryony Brownhill in the facial hair department?”
Chalmers laughed.
“She’s lovely isn’t she?” He said, “I knew you’d like her and you don’t look too healthy yourself.”
“I gave up drinking,” Smith said.
“Well, start again,” Chalmers said, “abstinence doesn’t seem to agree with you.”
“Is that an order boss?”
“If you like,” Chalmers threw his cigarette butt into the car park and lit up another.
“How’s the DCI job suiting you?” Smith said.
“I hate it,” Chalmers said, “I don’t know what possessed me to even think about it. Old Smyth thinks I’m his best bloody mate. He even wants me to start playing golf with him.”
“Golf?” Smith laughed, “I can’t picture you walking around a golf course. Poker maybe, but not golf.”
“Speaking of poker,” Chalmers said, “what are you going to do with your share of Paul’s estate?”
“The Ghoul?” Smith said, “Has the will been wound up?”
Paul, ‘The Ghoul’ Johnson was a pathologist friend of Smith’s and Chalmers’. He had been killed earlier in the year when a car bomb had exploded while he was driving. He had left everything he had to Chalmers, Whitton, Smith, Grant Webber and a colleague of his.
“Didn’t you get the letter from the solicitors?” Chalmers said.
“Probably,” Smith said, “it’s probably in the pile of mail next to the front door. I haven’t bothered to sort any of it out yet.”
“After everything has been paid off,” Chalmers said, “we’re all in for about sixty five grand.”
“Sixty five thousand?” Smith could not believe it.
“Not quite enough to retire on,” Chalmers said, “but enough to make life a bit easier for a few years. Mrs Chalmers has already spent mine though. She reckons we need a bloody conservatory. Can you believe it?”
“Sixty five thousand,” Smith said again.
“What are you going to do with yours?” Chalmers said.
“I could go on a cruise around the world,” Smith said, “but I hate boats. I’ll probably use it to replace the stuff that was ruined in the petrol bomb attack. The fire destroyed the lot.”
“Don’t tell me you didn’t have insurance?” Chalmers said.
“Structural,” Smith said, “but I never bothered to insure the contents. I couldn’t see the point. I’ve got hardly any furniture in the house at the moment. I’m sleeping on a mattress on the floor in the living room.”
“Open your bloody mail,” Chalmers said, “sort yourself out. You look like hell. You look like one of those drug fiends if you ask me. And start drinking again. Stopping drinking is bad for your health.”
“Ok boss,” Smith said, “if you insist. I’ll have a few drinks later but right now I’ve got a date with a circus lion.”
“You really pissed off old Webber in there,” Chalmers smiled, “you showed him up in front of everybody. Webber hates that.”
“What’s the story with Webber and Brownhill?” Smith said, “they seem to be getting along too well if you ask me.”
“Stranger things have happened,” Chalmers sighed.
“I thought Webber was married,” Smith said.
“Was being the operative word,” Chalmers said, “she left him years ago. And anyway, DI Brownhill is married to a doctor as far as I can remember.”
“They seemed very cozy in there anyway,” Smith said, “I’d better be off. I’m sure you’ve got plenty to discuss with the Super.”
“Cheeky bastard,” Chalmers said, “I’m actually starting to count the years until I retire. Sad isn’t it?”
“I’ll see you later,” Smith threw his cigarette to the ground and stamped on it.
TWENTY
Troupe
“I’m coming with you.”
Smith was about to open the door to his car. DI Brownhill was standing next to the passenger side.
“Are you sure you want to?” Smith started to panic.
He remembered that he had stashed half an ounce of marijuana resin in his glove compartment.
“I wasn’t asking your permission,” Brownhill opened the car door and got inside.
Smith sighed. He got in the car and started the engine.
They drove in silence for a while. Smith did not feel like starting a conversation with this peculiar woman.
“What’s that smell?” Brownhill said when they were about a mile away from the circus grounds.
“Smell,” Smith said, “I can’t smell anything.”
“Your car has a funny smell to it,” Brownhill said, “I’ve smelled it before.”
“That’ll be Theakston,” Smith said.
“Theakston?”
“My dog,” Smith said, “he travels a lot in the car. He’s got a heart of gold but he stinks sometimes; his personal hygiene leaves a lot to be desired.”
“I don’t like dogs,” Brownhill said, “I can’t understand this country’s obsession with dogs.”
Smith was about to say something but quickly realized that an argument about the merits of owning a dog would be futile. He parked his car in the field next to the circus tent and stopped the engine. He suddenly felt like a drink. Chalmers had been right. Giving up drinking had not done him any favors. He made a mental note to buy a case of beers before he went home.
The circus grounds were a hive of activity as Smith and Brownhill walked across the field towards the back of the tent where the staff accommodation was situated. Smith spotted Alberto Moreno straight away. He was wearing his ring master’s jacket. He was holding a top hat in his hand.
“Back so soon?” Moreno held out his hand.
He looked Brownhill up and down.
“I thought you said the next show wasn’t until tomorrow,” Smith shook Moreno’s hand.
“Oh this,” Moreno tugged at the lapel of his jacket, “we’re going over a new part of the act. I find it helps to be in full costume while we practice. What can I help you with DS Smith?”
He looked at Brownhill again. He seemed to be concentrating on her facial hair. Smith could not help but notice.
Maybe he’s on the lookout for a new bearded lady, he thought.
“DI Brownhill,” Brownhill said to Moreno, “we need to speak to your brother urgently.”
“Jimmy’s not here,” Moreno said, “nobody has seen him for a couple of days.”
“Do you know where he might be?” Smith asked.
“In a pub no doubt,” Moreno said, “if that’s all, I have a show to prepare for.”
He started to walk away.
“How many lions do you have here?” Smith said.
Moreno seemed to freeze in his tracks. He turned round and looked at Smith.
“Lions?” He said, “we have just one lion. Bruce is his name.”
“Can we see him?” Smith said.
“What’s going on here?” Moreno‘s whole demeanor had changed.
He seemed to be on edge.
“Just a routine check,” Smith smiled.
“A routine check on a lion?” Moreno’s face broke into a smile, “what’s he accused of? Does he need the services of a lawyer?”
DI Brownhill was not amused.
“The
lion,” she said, “could you please show him to us.”
A very tall man approached them. He was at least six feet eight inches tall. Smith recognized him as the mandolin playing clown.
“Charlie,” Moreno said, “what has Bruce been up to? These two detectives would like to have a word with him.”
Charlie Small looked confused.
“Could you show them to his cage?” Moreno asked him, “I have things to do.”
He put the top hat on his head and walked away.
“Charlie Small,” Charlie said to Brownhill, “don’t mind Alberto; he’s stressed out all the time these days. The circus is not what it used to be. Financially, I mean. Let me introduce you to Bruce. You’re going to love him.”
The first thing Smith noticed when they entered the enclosure where the lion slept was the revolting smell. He had never experienced a stench like it before. It was something between excrement and rotting meat. He flinched. The smell hit him like a wave of foulness. DI Brownhill did not seem in the least bit perturbed.
“Bruce has been ill,” Charlie noted the expression on Smith’s face, “even though we muck him out every day, the smell seems to linger.”
“What’s wrong with him?” Brownhill said.
“I don’t know,” Charlie said, “I’ve never seen him like this before. At first I thought he had a bit of indigestion. The kids sometimes feed him stuff they shouldn’t but we’ve stopped that. Nobody has been near him who shouldn’t be here but he seems to be getting worse.”
“Who looks after the lion?” Smith said.
The smell was now making him feel dizzy.
“We take it in turns,” Charlie said.
He rapped his fingers against the cage but Bruce did not stir.
“That’s odd,” he said, “Bruce normally comes over when I do that. I’m really worried about him. He’s the only one here I really click with.”
“So everybody here has access to the lion?” Brownhill said.
“Like I said,” Charlie said, “we can’t afford a dedicated carer for him. Times are hard. What’s this all about anyway?”
“How many employees are there here at the circus?” Smith realized he needed to get out of there as soon as possible.
Charlie thought hard for a moment.
“Firstly,” he said, “this is a circus, we don’t have employees. Everyone here is a member of the troupe.”
“How many?” Smith said.
“There are seven of us here on a permanent basis. There’s me, Alberto, Jimmy, Valerie, Franco, Danny and Alexis. Then we have a few casuals who help us out when necessary.”
“And everybody has access to the lion?” Brownhill said.
“Yes,” Charlie said, “what has Bruce got to do with anything?”
“We need a sample of his hair,” Brownhill produced a plastic packet from her pocket.
Charlie stood with his mouth wide open.
“You need a hair sample from a lion?” he said.
“Just humour her,” Smith said, “I think it would be better if you took the hair sample. Bruce knows you and my DI here might scare him.”
Brownhill glared at Smith.
Charlie shook his head and walked to the back of the cage where Bruce was lying. He put his hand through the bars and tugged out a handful of hair from the lion’s mane. Brownhill held open the packet and Charlie put the hair inside.
“Thank you,” Brownhill said, “I don’t know much about lions but that one doesn’t look right at all. I think you should consider calling in a vet.”
“A vet?” Charlie said, “he’s not a dog. Do you know how much a vet will charge to look at a lion?”
“Very well,” Brownhill said.
“Can we talk outside?” Smith said, “I’m going to pass out if I breathe in this stench any longer.”
He smiled and walked outside.
“Do you know where Jimmy Moreno is,” Smith said to Charlie outside the lion enclosure.
He breathed in mouthfuls of fresh air.
“Nobody has seen Jimmy in days,” Charlie said, “he does this every now and again. Goes off on a bender. In Birmingham he disappeared for almost a week. I don’t know how Alberto has put up with it for so long. I suppose it’s because Jimmy’s his brother.”
“When he does show up,” Smith handed Charlie his card, “phone me straight away. Day or night.”
Charlie looked at the card and put it in his pocket.
“And please do something to help out that wretched creature in there,” Brownhill said, “I can’t bear to see animals suffering.”
TWENTY ONE
Occam’s razor
“I think I might have misjudged you,” Smith said to Brownhill as they drove back to the station.
The sun was slowly disappearing behind the roof tops of the city.
“I’m not here to be judged,” Brownhill said, “I’m your boss and don’t you forget that.”
Smith did not say anything. He was looking forward to a few beers at home with Theakston.
“How did you misjudge me?” Brownhill said after a few minutes.
Smith smiled.
“Back there,” he said, “you were quite concerned about poor old Bruce. I never had you pegged for the animal lover.”
“The beast obviously needs to see a vet,” Brownhill said, “even if it’s just to put him out of his misery.”
“That’s better boss,” Smith said, “what now?”
“It’s getting late,” Brownhill said, “our only decent witness has vanished so I suggest we call it a day. You can drop me off at the station.”
“Yes boss.”
“And don’t call me that,” Brownhill said.
“Sorry,” Smith pulled up outside the station.
Brownhill got out.
“Bright and early tomorrow,” she said, “and please do me the courtesy of not underestimating my intelligence. The smell in this vehicle is not the smell of a dog. I have an impeccable sense of smell. I know exactly what that smell is and I will not tolerate it. Get your act together or you may be seeking alternative employment. Is that clear?”
Smith watched as she marched towards the entrance of the station with her arms swinging. She reminded Smith of a silverback gorilla he had once seen in a documentary. He was gob smacked. He felt like a small child who had been chastised for stealing apples from a neighbour’s garden. He felt like a drink.
“Long time no see,” the man in the off license around the corner from Smith’s house said when Smith walked inside.
Smith had not had a drink for over two weeks.
“Been away?” the man asked.
“Something like that,” Smith put a case of beer on the counter.
“Give me two bottles of Jack Daniels as well please.”
“Forty eight fifty,” the man said.
Smith handed him his credit card.
“Terrible business about that kid,” the man said as he swiped Smith’s credit card, “what’s the world coming to? I remember the days when York was a safe place to live. This has expired.”
“What?” Smith said.
“Your credit card had expired. Two weeks ago.”
“Shit,” Smith said.
I really need to get my life sorted out, he thought. He checked his wallet to see how much cash he had. There were three crumpled ten pound notes and a handful of change.
“I don’t think I have enough,” he said, “you’ll have to put one of the bottles of whiskey back.”
“That’s thirty one sixty five then,” the man was clearly annoyed.
Smith put the money on the counter. He thought about the sixty five thousand pounds The Ghoul had left him and smiled. It was a sign. It was definitely time to get his life back on track.
Theakston was waiting by the front door when Smith walked in. Smith walked past him and put twelve beers in the fridge. He realized he did not have any dog food in the house. He found a two day old pizza on the kitchen table and scraped it into
Theakston’s bowl.
“We’ll make a new start tomorrow,” Smith opened a beer and took a long sip.
The beer tasted delicious after two weeks without drinking.
“Both of us,” Smith patted the dog on the head, “we’ll get both of us fattened up and healthy again.”
He finished the rest of the beer in one go and took out another. He walked through to the living room and looked at the pile of letters on the floor.
“Might as well start somewhere,” he said to himself.
He picked up the pile of mail and sat on the floor. There were two new editions of guitar monthly. Smith put them to one side; he would open them later. He opened a letter that he knew was from the bank. Inside was his new credit card. He put the card in his wallet. He leafed through the pile until he found what he was looking for. The letter was from the firm of solicitors representing the estate of The Ghoul. Smith ripped open the envelope and opened up the single piece of paper. He scanned down until he came to the figure near the bottom. Sixty four thousand, eight hundred and seventy six pounds. Smith read the letter again. The solicitors were requesting Smith’s banking details and informed him that upon signing the relevant documentation, the funds would be available within four working days.
Smith looked around the bare room and smiled.
“A new beginning,” he said to Theakston.
The dog had made himself comfortable on the mattress Smith was using as a bed. Smith decided he would use the money to buy some new furniture, a new hi-fi, replace his CD collection and maybe he would have enough left over to buy a new guitar. He finished his beer and went to the fridge to get another one. He went outside to the back garden and lit a cigarette. The sun was long gone but it was still surprisingly warm. Smith decided that September was his favourite month of the year in York. He looked at the roses growing in his neighbor’s garden and remembered the time when his neighbor had admonished him for throwing his cigarette butts into his garden. That simple act had led to the discovery of vital evidence in a case Smith was working on at the time. Smith also remembered the trip to the dentist and the lecture the dentist had given Smith about how people often overlook the obvious. William of Occam, Smith remembered, Occam’s Razor. The dentist had outlined the principle where you look for the obvious first and nine times out of ten you will find what you are looking for.
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