“You look terrible,” Smith said.
“I feel terrible,” Bridge said.
His eyes were bloodshot and Smith was sure he could still smell alcohol on his breath.
“But it was well worth it if you know what I mean,” Bridge added.
“I won’t ask,” Smith said, “do you know what’s going on?”
“All I know is that some newspaper has got hold of some info they shouldn’t have,” Bridge said, “there’s a rat in our midst.”
“Good morning everyone,” Superintendant Smyth began.
The whole room fell silent.
“We have a rather unfortunate situation,” Smyth continued, “it appears our esteemed friends in the press have gleaned certain aspects of our ongoing case that they shouldn’t have. I believe it is now critical to counteract their findings with a certain amount of damage limitation.”
“Once again in bloody English please,” Thompson said a lot louder than he had intended.
Whitton started to giggle.
“What was that?” Smyth said.
“Nothing sir,” Thompson said, “go on.”
“This is very unfortunate,” Smyth said again, “there is understandably a general feeling of panic on the streets. The schools have closed their doors and the children are being kept at home.”
Chalmers stood up.
“Morning,” he said, “we appear to have a leak. Confidential information has been blabbed to the press. The consequences of this are being felt all over York. As the Super said, kids are being kept at home but now it’s starting to get out of hand. We’ve just had word that a mob is on their way to the circus grounds and that can only mean trouble. Remember what happened earlier in the year when the football players were killed? This is going to be ten times worse. Two kids have been killed, we don’t seem to be doing much about it and the people want blood.”
“How did the press get their information?” Whitton asked.
“Search me,” Chalmers said, “the murder of the kids couldn’t be kept quiet but nobody knew about the lion hair and the clown we have in custody. We have a spy in our ranks.”
“Very good Bob,” Smyth said, “no doubt this will all blow over in a day or two but…”
“This will not blow over in a day or two,” Smith stood up, “when the masses want justice, we are in deep trouble. We need to get as many people as possible down to the circus grounds now. Innocent people are going to get hurt.”
“I disagree,” Smyth said, “I think we have to tread carefully around this one. Public opinion of the police is a very delicate area. I’m sure you appreciate that. We wouldn’t want to upset anybody.”
Smith was about to say something but he changed his mind. He realized he would probably regret it and it would not help the situation.
I’m growing up, he thought.
He sat back down.
“I agree with DS Smith,” Brownhill said, “this could get ugly. We have to nip it in the bud right now.”
Smith was taken aback; this was the third time Brownhill had taken his side in the space of two days.
Maybe she’s not too bad after all, he thought.
“Me too,” Chalmers said, “sod public opinion. We’re not paid to win bloody popularity contests; we’re here to keep law and order. Smith, Thompson, Whitton, Bridge, get down to the circus grounds and put a few feelers out. Try and gauge the situation. I’m coming with you. It’s about time I got my hands dirty again.”
THIRTY FOUR
Protest
Smith did not know what to expect as they drove in convoy to the circus grounds. He could remember clearly how the public had taken to the streets earlier that year after the football players had been killed. The people of York had marched outside the police station and declared a vote of no confidence in the police force. They had demanded results. Smith knew this time would be different. When children are butchered, emotions run at their highest. It had been four days now since Nathan Green had been taken from the safety of his house while his parents were downstairs watching television.
Smith followed closely behind Chalmers’ black Volvo as it turned left and headed for the open ground that served as the car park for the circus. Even though there was no show scheduled for the day, the car park was full of cars. Smith’s heart started to beat faster. He was worried that they might be too late. He parked his car next to Chalmers’ and switched off the engine. Bridge and Whitton parked behind him and Thompson’s Audi was not far behind. Four police cars approached and stopped a few metres away. They had their lights flashing but their sirens were silent.
When Smith got out of the car he could hear from the sound in the distance that trouble was afoot. The low murmuring of some kind of chant could be heard. Smith could not make out the words but he could hear from the tone that the mood was not friendly.
“This doesn’t look good,” Chalmers walked over to him, “I don’t like the sound of that at all.”
“Do you think we should have got the riot guys involved?” Bridge asked him.
“Not yet,” Chalmers said, “let’s see what we’re up against first. Sometimes, the mere sight of the uniforms is enough to put them off. At least the law abiding ones anyway.”
An officer in uniform walked over to Chalmers. Smith knew him to be Sergeant Graham Bullock. He was a bear of a man who had served time in the army before he joined the police.
“Bob,” Bullock had known Chalmers for years, “what’s the plan?”
“I want uniform to go in first,” Chalmers said, “most of them won’t want any trouble. Hopefully the sight of the uniforms will thin them out a bit.”
Bullock nodded in agreement and walked back to the other police cars.
“Let them go first,” Chalmers said to Smith, “we’ll go in afterwards to help them round up the stragglers.”
“I still think we should get the riot blokes in,” Bridge said, “they’re trained for stuff like this.”
“Not yet,” Chalmers said, “for once I have to agree with old Smyth. People see policemen with shields and batons and it sets them off into a frenzy. Let’s see if we can calm the situation down first.”
Bullock and his men had already set off in the direction of the circus tent. The noise from the crowd seemed to be getting louder. Smith and Chalmers walked about fifty metres behind them. Whitton, Bridge and Thompson walked next to them. Smith was not sure what to expect but as they approached the circus tent he saw what was making all the noise. At least two hundred people had gathered outside the circus tent. They were shouting about child killers. Someone had written ‘gypsy murderers will pay’ in large red letters on the side of the tent.
Smith watched as Bullock and his men closed in on the protestors. Chalmers had been right. At the mere sight of the police, at least half of the crowd were leaving the scene. Good old law abiding Englishmen, Smith thought. There were still at least fifty or sixty people to deal with. Smith wondered where the members of the circus troupe were hiding. He set off alone round the back of the tent to where the staff accommodation was situated. All of the caravans seemed to be locked up. He walked up to Alberto Moreno’s caravan and knocked on the door. There was no response. He knocked again.
“Alberto,” he shouted, “police. Could you let me in please?”
He spotted Alberto Moreno’s face at the window and a few seconds later the door to the caravan was opened.
“Get in quickly,” Alberto said.
He sounded terrified.
Smith went inside and Alberto locked the door behind him. Inside, were Charlie Small, Valerie and a man Smith did not recognize.
“What the hell is going on?” Alberto said, “they came about half an hour ago screaming things about child murdering gypsies and kill the clowns. We’re not gypsies. I’m Danish. There are no gypsies here.”
Smith explained what had happened; about the leak to the press and how Jimmy Moreno was a suspect in the murders of the two children.
“Y
ou’re wrong,” Alberto said, “Jimmy has his faults but he wouldn’t hurt anybody, let alone kill two children.”
Charlie and Valerie nodded in agreement.
“We need to get you out of here anyway,” Smith said, “it’s not safe here.”
The noise from the remaining mob seemed to be getting louder.
Smith peered out of the window of the caravan. Six or seven people had rounded the tent and were approaching quickly. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted something. A man was holding something in his hand. It looked like a brick. Smith watched as he raised it in the air and got ready to launch it at the caravan they were in.
“Get down,” Smith screamed.
The brick crashed through the window and hit the panel Alberto had been leaning against seconds earlier. A shard of glass embedded itself in Smith’s cheek. Charlie Small stood up. He seemed to fill the whole caravan.
“I’ll sort this out,” he headed for the door, “I’ll let the lion out if I have to.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Smith said, “there are more of them behind that lot.”
Sergeant Bullock and his officers had succeeded in thinning the mob down to around thirty or so people but these diehards seemed to be intent on causing as much damage as possible. Two of the caravans had been turned over and the circus tent had been ripped to pieces. The crowd were now heading for the largest caravan; the one where Smith was hiding with Moreno and his troupe.
“We have to get out of here right now,” Smith realized they were in grave danger if they stayed where they were, “they’re going to flip the caravan.”
“What is wrong with these people?” Alberto said, “Why are they doing this? We haven’t done anything to them.”
Smith peered through the broken window. Four officers in uniform were now standing in front of the caravan. At least twenty angry protestors were standing behind them.
“Now,” Smith unlocked the door to the caravan, “run in the opposite direction. Get as far away as you can. We’ll sort this out.”
Alberto nodded to the other three and they did as Smith had told them.
Smith walked out of the caravan and slowly approached the uniformed officers. One of them had blood running down his chin. Smith touched his cheek and winced. The shard of glass had gone in deep and his cheek was bleeding quite badly.
“The show’s over,” he shouted to the mob, “go home before you’re in serious trouble.”
“He’s one of them,” a woman with a high pitched voice screamed, “he’s one of the gypsy murdering bastards.”
What happened next seemed to happen in slow motion. It was like a scene from an old black and white silent movie. Smith watched as the mob broke through the small wall of police and rushed towards him. Chalmers, Thompson, Whitton and Bridge appeared on the scene and Smith saw Whitton’s lips move but he couldn’t make out the words she was saying. It appeared to Smith that they were watching the whole thing from the sidelines. An evil looking youth with a skinhead ran towards Smith and raised something above his head. It looked like a big plank of wood. Smith watched as the wood came down and hit him on the top of the head. He managed to stay on his feet but the thug hit him again. Smith saw white flashes before his eyes and a numbness spread from the top of his head to his jaw and then to his teeth. He felt himself falling to the ground and he hit the dirt with a thud. He was lying face down in the mud. He could smell the fresh earth. Then he caught a faint smell of soap. A wave of nothingness seemed to engulf him; he closed his eyes and felt nothing more.
THIRTY FIVE
Unkillable
DI Brownhill was leaning over Smith’s lifeless body. She had arrived just as the man had attacked him. She felt his pulse. It was very weak but he was alive.
“We need an ambulance here now,” she said.
“On its way,” Whitton had already phoned for one, “is he going to be alright?”
“I don’t know,” Brownhill said, “he took one hell of a beating there.”
Thompson was standing next to Chalmers a few metres away. Chalmers was rubbing his knuckles. The skinhead who had attacked Smith was lying on the ground. He was lights out. When he had been about to hit Smith a third time, Chalmers had rushed forward and punched him under the chin. An ex boxer, Chalmers had known exactly where to hit for the maximum effect.
“That’s quite a right hook you have there,” Brownhill said.
“It’s like riding a bike,” Chalmers said, “you never forget how to box.”
The sound of sirens could be heard in the distance. The ambulance was not far away.
All together, twenty two of the protestors had been arrested. Apart from the policeman who had injured his chin, Smith was the only casualty.
“What the hell was Smith thinking about?” Brownhill said, “Going into the caravan on his own. He could have been killed.”
“He was trying to help the innocent people in there,” Whitton could not keep quiet.
“And we still don’t know if he’s going to be alright,” Bridge added.
“He’ll be alright,” Chalmers said, “that bastard is unkillable, if there is such a word.”
“Nobody’s immortal,” Brownhill surveyed the carnage around her, “look at this mess. I think the shows over for a while.”
“The shows over for good,” a man’s voice was heard behind her.
It was Alberto Moreno.
“Nobody is going to want to come to the circus after this,” he said, “they’ve ruined us. What has Jimmy done? Is he going to be alright?”
He pointed to the lifeless body of Smith lying on the floor.
“He’ll be fine,” Chalmers said, “but I think you’re right. Nobody in York is going to want to see the circus for a very long time.”
An ambulance drove up and stopped about ten metres away. Two paramedics got out and ran up to Smith. They carefully put him on a stretcher and carried him to the ambulance. The ambulance left. Nobody said a word.
“I’m going to follow them,” Chalmers said eventually, “that bloke is going to be the death of me.”
A new group of people had gathered around the circus tent. Photographers were frantically snapping away at the destruction the mob had caused. Whitton looked over and saw that Bridge was talking to a woman with blond hair. From what she could gather, the conversation was not a friendly one. Finally, Bridge raised his hands in the air and walked back to his car.
“I don’t think you’ll have any more trouble,” Brownhill said to Alberto Moreno, “I think you’d better start cleaning up this mess.”
“It’s over,” Alberto said in a somber tone, “this is the final curtain for us. It’s time to bow out. Can I go and see my brother?”
“We’re holding him on suspicion of murder Mr Moreno,” Brownhill said, “your brother is in deep trouble.”
“You’re making a big mistake,” Alberto said, “Jimmy can’t have done the things you say he’s done.”
Whitton walked back to where Bridge had parked his car. Bridge was sitting in the driver’s seat with his head in his hands. Whitton got in and sat next to him.
“What’s wrong?” She said.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Bridge said.
“Who was the woman you were talking to?” Whitton asked.
“Bridge looked over at her.
“I think I might have done something really stupid,” Bridge said.
“You’re always doing stupid things,” Whitton said.
“No,” Bridge said, “this is the most stupid thing I’ve ever done. This is all my fault.”
“What is?”
“This mob,” Bridge said, “Smith almost being beaten to death. If Chalmers hadn’t stepped in, Smith could be dead and it’s all my fault.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m the rat,” Bridge said.
“The what?” Whitton was confused.
“That woman I was talking to is a hack for one of the newspapers,” Bridge said,
“I didn’t know it at the time. We’ve been seeing each other for a few weeks.”
Suddenly the penny dropped.
“You?” Whitton said, “It was you who leaked the stuff about the lion hair and the clown? Oh my god.”
“I didn’t know,” Bridge said, “I didn’t know this would happen. We’d had a few drinks. I thought she was just showing an interest in my job; I didn’t know she was a bloody journalist. What a bitch. I suppose I’d better come clean.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Whitton said, “if anybody finds out it was you who leaked all this to the press, your life won’t be worth living. You’ll be hated by everyone.”
“But I feel terrible,” Bridge said.
“You’re an idiot,” Whitton said, “but you can’t tell anybody about this. I won’t say a word to anybody. It’s done and dusted and there’s no need to make things worse.
“Thanks Whitton,” Bridge said, “I have to tell Smith about it though. I owe it to him at least.”
“Not yet,” Whitton said, “Smith will be fine. You heard Chalmers, “he’s unkillable. What else did you tell this woman?”
“Nothing,” Bridge said, “I told her nothing she hasn’t already printed.”
“Good,” Whitton said, “this conversation never took place. Ok?”
THIRTY SIX
Bees
“Look what we’ve done,” the macabre face in the mirror smiled.
The man’s face was made up dramatically. The eyes and the mouth showed a permanent scowl but the man beamed inside. The bells on the oversized harlequin hat rang as he nodded to his reflection in the mirror. On the desk next to the mirror were three newspapers; each one opened up on the page of the articles about the child murders.
“See how they run,” he looked at the headline in one of the newspapers, “it’s their turn to hurry and scurry like bees around their queen. Running around in a hundred different directions. Never knowing where they are headed.”
The man realized that a tear had formed in the corner of his left eye. It rolled down his face and was followed by more. The makeup was getting smudged. A noise from downstairs interrupted his thoughts and the man shot up out of his chair and ran to the bathroom. He quickly locked the door.
Harlequin Page 12
