Harlequin

by Stewart Giles

  “Good afternoon,” Smith said, “DS Smith and this is DC Whitton. Can we have a word?”

  “Did you catch him?” Jessica said.

  “No,” Smith said, “but we’re working on it. We have a few decent leads but none of them are leading us anywhere at the moment.”

  Smith wondered how he was going to play this one.

  “That’s why we’re here,” he said, “can we come inside?”

  “I’ve had at least six or seven different policemen going through the place and asking me questions,” Jessica said, “I don’t know what I can tell you that I haven’t told them.”

  “I understand that,” Smith said, “this must be a tough time but sometimes it helps to get as many different perspectives on things. I just need to see for myself if you don’t mind. It shouldn’t take long.”

  He nodded inside the house.

  Jessica Green stepped to the side.

  “You’d better come in then,” she said.

  “Is your husband home?” Smith asked.

  “He’s busy making arrangements for the funeral,” Jessica led them into the living room, “Colin’s much better at that sort of thing than I am. He’s actually handled this whole thing remarkably well considering. I sometimes wonder if he actually cares.”

  “People handle times like these in different ways,” Whitton said, “I’m sure he’s hurting just as much as you are. Men just find it harder to express emotions.”

  “Can you show me where Nathan was when you last saw him?” Smith asked.

  Jessica looked like she was about to cry.

  “He was in the bedroom,” she managed to compose herself, “he’d had a nightmare so Colin put him in our bed. I went back downstairs.”

  She led them upstairs to the main bedroom.

  “You say you went back downstairs?” Smith said, “And when you came back up, Nathan was gone?”

  The tears came. They rolled down her face and dripped off Jessica’s chin. She did not even make an effort to wipe them away.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t think I had any more tears left in me. I’ve been crying nonstop since Saturday.”

  “Take your time,” Whitton said.

  Jessica Green sat down on the unmade bed and wiped her eyes.

  “Who would do such a thing?” she said, “Nathan was only five years old.”

  “I know,” Smith said, “we’ll do our best to find out what happened. I promise.”

  “I realized I hadn’t kissed Nathan goodnight,” Jessica said, “I always kiss him goodnight and tuck him in. I always have done.”

  “How long was it between the time Colin put Nathan in your bed and you going up to kiss him goodnight?” Smith asked.

  “Five minutes maybe,” she said, “ten at the most.”

  Smith left the room and walked back downstairs. Jessica Green and Whitton followed him.

  “We’re you sitting in the living room?” Smith asked Jessica.

  “Yes,” she said, “we were watching television. The football had just started.

  “Was the living room door closed?”

  “Yes,” Jessica said, “why?”

  “I’m just trying to get a clear picture of what happened,” Smith walked from the living room to the front door, “was the front door locked?”

  “No,” Jessica said, “I’ve answered all these questions before. A million times over.”

  “I’m sorry Mrs Green,” Smith said, “I’m almost done.”

  He walked back towards the living room. It was a distance of four or five metres. The whole thing still did not make sense. It would be possible to carry a five year old boy down the stairs and out of the front door without anybody realizing, he thought, but whoever did this was taking a huge risk; the parents could appear at any time.

  “What time is your husband due back?” Smith asked.

  “I don’t know,” Jessica said, “he has a lot to organize.”

  “What did you and your husband do when you realized that Nathan was missing?” Smith said.

  “What do you think we did?” she said, “We were out of our minds with worry. We searched the house from top to bottom.”

  “Both of you?”

  “Both of us,” Jessica said, “I went through the house upstairs and Colin checked downstairs. It was his idea. Then he went outside to get the torch out of the car.”

  “The torch?” Smith said.

  “After a while, Colin said I should stay inside while he went outside to see if Nathan had gone outside.”

  “Why would he have gone outside?” Smith said.

  “I don’t know,” Jessica said, “none of this makes any sense.”

  The door opened and Colin Green stepped inside. It was clear straight away that he was not pleased to see Smith and Whitton. He took off a brown overcoat and placed it on a coat stand in the hallway.

  “Who are you?” he looked at Smith.

  “Police,” Smith said, “we just need to ask a few more questions.

  “I’ve just made arrangements to have my five year old boy put into the ground,” Green said, “I’m not sure I’m in the mood to go over all of this again. I’ve answered all the questions I’m going to answer.”

  He walked through to the kitchen, took a bottle of beer out of the fridge and sat down at the kitchen table. Smith followed him.

  “Mr Green,” Smith said, “I know this is unpleasant but if we’re to catch whoever did this to your son there are still questions that need to be answered. Your wife said that you went outside when you realized Nathan was missing.”

  “He wasn’t in the house,” Green took a long sip of his beer, “that was bloody obvious; we’d looked everywhere so I thought he might have gone outside.”

  “Did he often go outside in the middle of the night?” Smith said and instantly realized how patronizing it sounded.

  “I don’t very much like the tone of your voice,” Green finished his beer and took another on out of the fridge, “I went to the car to fetch the torch and then I came back inside to tell Jess where I was going.”

  “So you went outside and then came back in again to let her know you were going to look for Nathan?”

  “I just said that,” Green was clearly annoyed, “is this leading anywhere?”

  “Where did you go?” Whitton asked him.

  “I don’t know,” Green said, “I wasn’t thinking straight. For god’s sake. My child had disappeared. I just walked and walked.”

  “How long were you gone for?” Smith said.

  “Half an hour,” Green said, “I don’t remember.”

  He looked over at his wife for assistance.

  “Colin was gone for almost an hour,” she said.

  “I was in a bit of a state,” Green said, “I wasn’t watching the clock.”

  “Where’s the torch now?” Smith said.

  Whitton looked at him as if he had grown another head.

  “We’d better be getting back to the station,” she said.

  “I have no idea where the torch is,” Green said, “I probably put it back in the car. What the hell has the torch got to do with any of this?”

  “Thank you for your time,” Smith walked towards the front door, “come on Whitton. We don’t want to be late for the meeting.”

  THIRTY TWO

  Torch

  “What was that all about?” Whitton said as they drove back to the station for the meeting, “that business with the torch?”

  “Just a thought that occurred to me,” Smith said, “I haven’t quite put all the pieces together yet. What did you think of Colin Green?”

  “He’s a bloke who’s just lost his only child in a horrible way,” Whitton said, “people deal with grief in different ways.”

  “Don’t you think there was something not quite right about him? Apart from him being a complete arsehole I mean.”

  “Not at all,” Whitton said, “they must be going through a really rough time at the moment.”

>   “He’s still an arsehole,” Smith said, “You’re probably right.”

  “I’m sensing a but,”

  “But I’m not finished with Colin Green yet,” Smith said.

  “It’s good to have you back,” Whitton said.

  Smith parked his car in the car park at the station. The clock on the dashboard told him they were twenty minutes late for the meeting.

  DI Bryony Brownhill did not look impressed when Smith and Whitton walked in the small conference room.

  “Glad you made the time to join us,” she said, “can we get started now? We have a lot to go through. Grant?”

  She smiled at Grant Webber.

  “What have we got to go on so far?” She asked him.

  “We know more than we did this morning,” Webber said, “both of the dead children were strangled. They both had obvious marks on their necks.”

  “I need to ask this,” Smith said, “what about signs of sexual abuse?”

  “Nothing,” Webber said, “there was no evidence of any sexual abuse on either of them.”

  “Then we have a really sick lunatic out there,” Smith said, “somebody is killing kids for the hell of it.”

  Brownhill glared at him.

  “What else do we know?” She asked Webber.

  “Lion hair,” Webber said, “Nathan Green was wrapped in a blanket covered in the stuff and we found traces of the same fur on Tiffany Beech’s clothing.”

  “The circus clown,” Smith said, “is our miserable clown still here?”

  “Jimmy Moreno?” Brownhill said, “in light of this new evidence, we’re going to hold him for a few days. Let’s see what we can get out of him after a few nights behind bars.”

  “Do you think he has anything to do with this?” Thompson said.

  “You never cease to amaze me Thompson,” Smith said, “of course he has something to do with this. He claims to have seen a child wrapped in a blanket. That blanket was covered with lion hair belonging to a lion he has access to.”

  “What about the other kid?” Thompson said.

  “Her name’s Tiffany Beech,” Smith said, “she was killed sometime between eight and nine this morning. Moreno was seen in The Lion’s Head a couple of hours later. He could have easily dumped the body in the wheelie bin and gone to the pub afterwards. Has anybody checked his clothes for lion fur?”

  “He hasn’t been formally charged with anything yet,” Brownhill said.

  “Then we’ll organize a voluntary search,” Smith suggested, “we find lion fur on his clothes and we’ve got him.”

  He looked directly at Webber.

  “What are you waiting for? Take Thompson with you; he can be very persuasive.”

  Webber did not budge.

  “He’s right,” Brownhill said, “ask Moreno to hand over his clothes for testing. If he is innocent, he should be quite cooperative.”

  Thompson muttered something under his breath and walked out of the room. Webber followed after him.

  “Let’s carry on then shall we?” Brownhill said, “I don’t need to remind any of you that this is a particularly delicate situation. Two children have been killed in the same way in the space of three days. We need to keep a tight lid on this.”

  “Do you think we’re dealing with a serial killer Ma’am?” Whitton said.

  “Let’s not jump the gun here,” Brownhill said, “there must be a perfectly reasonable explanation for all this.”

  “You don’t sound too convinced boss,” Smith said, “the kids are killed in exactly the same way; they both have lion fur on them. This all leads us to the circus if you ask me. Why don’t we just go in there and tear the place apart until we find answers?”

  “That is exactly what we’re not going to do,” Brownhill said, “the press will be onto it in a shot. I don’t need to tell anybody that what is discussed in this room stays in this room. The papers are going to speculate anyway with two dead children in the space of days but let’s not give them anything else until we’re one hundred percent certain.”

  “Where do we go from here boss?” Smith said.

  “I hate to admit it,” Brownhill said, “but this thing has got me stumped. Nobody seems to have seen anything this morning. Tiffany Beech seemed to disappear into thin air.”

  “Then she’s found in a wheelie bin round the corner from her house,” Smith said, “surely somebody must have seen something?”

  “If they did they haven’t come forward yet,” Brownhill said, “what did you find out at the Green’s house?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Smith said, “I found out that Colin Green is a bit of an arsehole and he’s holding something back. I can feel it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ll let you know when I’ve figured it out,” Smith said.

  “Let me summarize then,” Brownhill said, “we have two dead children. Both of them were strangled. There were no signs of sexual abuse. We have no reliable witnesses yet and no clear motive. Does anybody have any suggestions as to which direction we should go in next?”

  “We wait to see what Webber pulls from Moreno’s clothes,” Smith said, “and then we charge the bastard with two counts of murder. He’s our only suspect at the moment.”

  “Once again,” Brownhill said, “I have to agree with DS Smith. That will be all for now and remember, not a word of any of this is to leave this room.”

  She looked over at Smith.

  “DS Smith,” she said, “a word in my office.”

  “I think she likes you,” Whitton whispered.

  Smith smiled.

  Smith followed Brownhill down the corridor to her office.

  “Close the door behind you,” she sat down behind her desk.

  Smith closed the door.

  “What is it boss?” Smith sat down opposite her.

  “This is your very last warning,” Brownhill said, “if I find out you’ve been using illegal drugs again you’ll be kicked out so fast you won’t know what’s happening. You might be one of the best detectives I’ve ever come across but I will not tolerate drugs. Do I make myself clear?”

  Smith did not know what to say. Had Brownhill smelled the marijuana on him earlier before they had interviewed Jimmy Moreno?

  “You’re the boss,” he said.

  “And I’ll ask you to remember that,” she said, “things are going to change around here. I can tell you that.”

  “Will there be anything else?” Smith stood up.

  “That’s all for now,” Brownhill said, “go home. Get some sleep. I’ve got a feeling that tomorrow is going to be a very rough day.”

  THIRTY THREE

  Snakes

  Bryony Brownhill did not realize how right she was when she had said it was going to be a rough day. Tuesday 2 September 2010 was a day when all hell broke loose in York. It started the moment the morning papers hit the newsstands. The murders of the two children were on the front pages of all of them. The York Herald had even managed to find out about the lion fur and the circus clown. Emotions were running high in every corner of the city. Parents were keeping their children at home and there were rumors of a march on the circus grounds to be organized later in the day. The headlines glared out from every newspaper outlet. ‘Serial child killer on the loose’, ‘child murderer stalks the streets of York’.

  Smith was dreaming about snakes. It was a recurring theme in his dreams but this one was different. It seemed almost real. These dreams usually preceded some particularly unpleasant period in his life. The snakes were coming closer and closer. One of them; a brown monster with a black mouth came the closest of them all and bared a set of dripping fangs. It reared up and struck, biting Smith in the neck. Smith shot up in bed with a start. He realized he was covered in sweat. His phone was ringing on the table next to the bed. He looked at the clock next to it. It was eight thirty. He picked up the phone and answered it.

  “Where are you?” It was Whitton.

  “I’ve just woken up,”
Smith said.

  “Are you alright?” Whitton said, “You sound a bit strange.”

  “I’ve just had the weirdest dream,” Smith said, “I dreamt that this snake…”

  “You’d better get ready,” Whitton said, “it’s chaos out there. Someone has leaked some info to the Herald. They’ve found out about the lion hairs and the link to the circus.”

  “What the hell,” Smith said, “how did they find out about that?”

  “I don’t know,” Whitton said, “you’d better get down here as soon as you can. The DI has scheduled an emergency meeting at nine. I think things are about to get ugly.”

  “I don’t like the sound of this,” Smith said, “I’ll see you at nine.”

  He rang off.

  Smith quickly got dressed and ran downstairs. He let Theakston out and made some coffee.

  This is the worst news, Smith thought as he sat outside and drank his coffee. The dream about the snakes was telling him something. He lit a cigarette and thought about who could have leaked the information to the press. He could not think of anybody in his team that would do such a thing. He finished the cigarette and went back inside. His phone was ringing on the kitchen table. It was a number he did not recognize.

  “Smith,” he answered it.

  “DS Smith,” A woman said, “my name is Victoria Snow. I’m with the daily record. Can I ask you a few questions about this so called killer clown?”

  Smith ended the call.

  He could not believe what he had just heard. Killer clown, he thought. He hated journalists.

  The streets were practically deserted as Smith drove to the station. As he passed the Primary School on the corner he realized that something was different. There were no children in the playground today. The school was abandoned. This is worse than I expected, he thought. He arrived at the station just before nine. The small conference room was full to the brim when Smith walked in. He sighed when he spotted Superintendant Jeremy Smyth sitting at the front of the room. Chalmers was sitting next to him. Bridge walked in with Whitton. He looked like he had had a very rough night. He took a seat next to Smith.