Harlequin

by Stewart Giles

  She isn’t supposed to be back for another hour, he thought.

  He quickly washed the make up from his face. He stuffed the hat in the bathroom cupboard behind a pile of towels. He looked in the mirror one last time. His eyes were bloodshot but that was understandable under the circumstances. He unlocked the bathroom door and went downstairs.

  I’ll soon be much lighter, he thought, I’ll be rid of the burden I’ve carried for all these years.

  THIRTY SEVEN

  Lucky

  “He’s going to be fine,” Doctor Jack Patel said to Chalmers in the waiting room of the hospital, “he must have a very hard head.”

  “Can I see him?” Chalmers asked.

  “He’s asleep right now,” Patel said, “I’ve given him something for the pain and it’s knocked him out for a bit. He took quite a knock so we’d like to keep him in overnight. He could have a concussion. He wasn’t too happy about it when I told him.”

  “I bet he wasn’t,” Chalmers smiled to himself.

  “He’s going to have a sore head for a few days,” Patel said, “but I don’t see why he shouldn’t make a full recovery.”

  “Thanks Doctor,” Chalmers said, “I’ll arrange for someone to pick him up tomorrow. That’s if he doesn’t decide to discharge himself first.”

  “I’ve advised him not to,” Patel said.

  “We’ll see,” Chalmers walked towards the exit of the hospital.

  “How’s he doing?” Whitton asked Chalmers back at the station.

  “He’ll live,” Chalmers said, “he took a nasty knock on the head but he’ll be alright. These knuckles of mine are throbbing something chronic though; it’s been a while since I’ve had to knock someone out.”

  DI Brownhill walked up to them. She did not look happy at all.

  “I’ve called a press conference for five o clock,” she said, “I want to make it absolutely clear that what happened today will not be tolerated. The police are there for a reason. The general public cannot just take the law into their own hands.”

  “Be very careful,” Chalmers said, “don’t tell them too much.”

  “This press conference has nothing to do with the ongoing investigation,” Brownhill said, “this is about the vigilantes we’ve had to deal with. Two police officers were injured. How is Smith by the way?”

  “He’ll be fine,” Chalmers said, “it’ll take more than a knock on the head to finish Smith off.”

  “He was very lucky,” Brownhill said, “he was lucky you stopped that thug when you did.”

  DC Baldwin ran down the corridor towards them. She looked terrified. Her face was a strange grey colour and her eyes were open wide.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Brownhill asked her.

  Baldwin could not speak.

  “Baldwin?” Brownhill said, “What’s going on?”

  “In the cells,” Baldwin croaked, “He’s in the cell.”

  “Who’s in the cell?” Brownhill said, “What’s wrong with you?”

  “He’s dead,” Baldwin looked like she was going to pass out.

  Chalmers ran in the direction of the holding cells on the other side of the building. Brownhill and Whitton followed him.

  Jimmy Moreno was hanging from the light fitting in the cell. A chair had been kicked over underneath him. He was not wearing any trousers. It appeared he had managed to tie the trousers to the bed sheet and make a sort of hangman’s rope. Chalmers, Brownhill and Whitton stood there staring at him. His tongue was hanging out of his mouth and his eyes were bulging out like a chameleon’s. There was a newspaper on the floor next to the chair.

  “Help me get the poor bastard down,” Chalmers said.

  He tossed the newspaper on the bed and picked up the chair. Jimmy Moreno had obviously used the chair to stand on to reach the light fitting. Chalmers stood on the chair and supported Moreno’s body with his shoulder. He was still warm.

  “Get another chair from somewhere,” Chalmers said, “I can’t hold him up and untie him at the same time.”

  Whitton rushed off to find a chair. Chalmers lifted Moreno further up and slung him over his shoulder. He started to work on the knot around the light fitting. Whitton returned with a chair. She was about to place in on the floor next to Chalmers when there was a loud crack. The light fitting came away from the ceiling and Chalmers crashed to the ground. Jimmy Moreno fell on top of him.

  “Get him off me,” Chalmers said.

  Whitton and Brownhill took an arm each and managed to lift the body onto the bed in the corner of the room. Chalmers had been winded by the fall. The light fitting had missed him by inches. He picked up the overturned chair and sat down.

  “This isn’t good,” he looked over at the lifeless body on the bed, “how the hell did this happen?”

  “How the hell indeed Bob,” Superintendant Smyth was standing in the doorway.

  “I was just on my way out,” Smyth said, “PC Baldwin told me what had happened. She’s very disturbed by the whole business. Do you fully appreciate the ramifications of all this?”

  “The poor bastard topped himself in our care,” Chalmers said, “that’s what I understand.”

  He turned to Whitton.

  “Get Webber here now,” he said, “we need to start covering our arses. There will be a thorough investigation into how this happened. I can promise you that.”

  Whitton was glad to leave the cell. The image of Jimmy Moreno hanging from a light fitting with his eyes bulging would stay with her for a very long time.

  THIRTY EIGHT

  Internal investigation

  “I don’t understand it,” Baldwin said.

  She was sitting in the canteen with Whitton and Bridge. Whitton had made her a strong cup of tea for the shock.

  “He seemed quite normal,” she said, “I’d taken him some food only an hour earlier. I went back to collect the plate and that’s when…”

  “Try not to think about it,” Whitton said, “drink your tea.”

  She put her hand on Baldwin’s shoulder.

  “Do you reckon he did it?” Bridge said, “Do you think he killed those two kids? I reckon that’s why he hung himself.”

  “We don’t know,” Whitton said, “maybe we’ll never know.”

  “If he did do it,” Bridge continued, “he’s done us all a favour. Case closed. I reckon we should announce it to the press as soon as possible.”

  “You’re not talking to anyone in the press,” Whitton cast him a knowing glance.

  “Has anyone heard how Smith is?” Bridge changed the subject.

  “He’s going to be fine,” Whitton said, “Chalmers was with him at the hospital. They’re keeping him in overnight for observation.”

  “I’ll believe that when I see it,” Bridge said.

  Bryony Brownhill walked in the canteen and approached their table.

  “Baldwin,” she said, “a word in my office please.”

  She walked out of the canteen. Baldwin finished her tea and followed her.

  “Close the door,” Brownhill said.

  She was sitting at her desk and staring out of the window.

  Baldwin closed the door and sat on the chair in front of the desk. Brownhill swung round on her chair.

  “This is very serious,” she began, “when a suspect dies in police custody a very thorough internal investigation has to be carried out. I know you’re probably still in shock but I want to get an idea of what exactly happened while the events are still clear in your head.”

  “It was awful Ma’am,” Baldwin said, “I don’t think I’ll ever forget about him just hanging there with his eyes bulging out.”

  “Just tell me what happened,” Brownhill said, “and don’t leave anything out. You will have to answer these questions again and again. I just want to make sure you get all the facts straight.”

  “I went in to collect his plate,” Baldwin said, “and he was just hanging there.”

  “In your opinion,” Brownhill said, “what wa
s his state of mind the last time you saw him? Was he depressed? Did he seem at all agitated?”

  “Not at all,” Baldwin said, “he even made a joke about the food I brought him. He said it was better than anything he could make himself. He seemed quite upbeat. I handed him the food and he asked me if I had anything he could read.”

  “He wanted something to read?”

  “Yes,” Baldwin said, “he said he was going crazy locked up in there just staring at the walls. He said that reading would help pass the time before he was released.”

  “So he was certain he would be released?” Brownhill said.

  “He seemed to be,” Baldwin said, “I found a copy of today’s Herald in the canteen. It had just been left there. I assumed that whoever bought it had finished with it so I gave it to Moreno.”

  “You gave him today’s York Herald?” Brownhill said.

  “It’s just a newspaper Ma’am.”

  “It’s just a newspaper that has just printed an article about the main suspect in a double child murder being a circus clown,” Brownhill stood up and started to pace up and down the office.

  “I didn’t mean for him to kill himself,” Baldwin said.

  “Ok,” Brownhill sat down again, “It’s not your fault. This is what we’re going to do. We’re not going to mention the newspaper to anyone. Have you got that? There will be an appointed investigator who will be brought in to question you. I have to warn you that it is not going to be pleasant. Between the time you gave him his food and returned to fetch the plate, did anybody else have access to the cell?”

  “I don’t think so,”

  “You don’t think so?” Brownhill said, “That is definitely something you will not say on the record. Think. Did anybody else go anywhere near the cells?”

  “The station was very quiet,” Baldwin said, “most of the officers had been called out to deal with the mob at the circus grounds.”

  “Good,” Brownhill said, “now, it is my duty to advise you to see somebody about this ordeal.”

  “See somebody?”

  “A counselor,” Brownhill said, “you’ve been through a very traumatic experience and regulations state that you are entitled to stress related sick leave and access to a specialist.”

  “No thanks,” Baldwin said at once, “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  “Very well,” Brownhill said, “at least we’re on the same page where psychologists are concerned. You’ll go far PC Baldwin. That will be all.”

  Baldwin walked back towards the front desk. Jimmy Moreno was being carried out on a stretcher.

  This is a nightmare, she thought.

  THIRTY NINE

  Sick people

  By half past four, the car park of the police station was full. Brownhill gazed out of the window in her office and sighed. It seemed as though every newspaper in the area had sent a representative to attend the press conference. The meeting was due to begin in half an hour’s time. Brownhill left her office and headed to the canteen to get a cup of coffee before the onslaught began. Thompson, Whitton and Bridge were sitting at their usual table by the window. Brownhill walked over to them.

  “I’ve noticed that you three spend an awful lot of time in here,” she said, “isn’t there something more productive you could be doing?”

  “This is productive,” Whitton said, “a great detective once pointed out that it’s not the endless knocking on doors and asking questions that solve crimes; it’s often when you take a moment to step back and reflect that the mind puts the pieces together.”

  “The gospel according to the great Jason Smith I assume?” Brownhill said.

  “He’s right,” Bridge said, “look at his crime stats.”

  “They are very impressive,” Brownhill admitted, “but right now we have a press conference to prepare for.”

  “Take a seat,” Thompson said, “I’ll get you a cup of coffee.”

  He stood up and walked over to the coffee machine. Brownhill could not seem to make up her mind whether to sit down or not.

  “Have a seat,” Thompson returned with the coffee.

  Brownhill shook her head and conceded defeat. She sat down next to Bridge.

  “This is not going to be pleasant,” she took a sip of her coffee, “press conferences seldom are but it is necessary. What happened today has severely undermined our position in society.”

  “The world is changing,” Thompson mused, more to himself than to anybody else, “when I joined up, putting on that uniform meant something. It earned you respect. Not any more though. There’s too many bloody left wing do-gooders around these days.”

  “Thank you for your insight,” Brownhill finished the rest of her coffee, “I want you all in the main conference room in five minutes.”

  “Keeping my seat warm for me are you?” A voice was heard behind them.

  Everybody turned round and watched as Smith walked up. He had a bandage on his head and he walked stiffly as if he was in severe pain.

  “DS Smith,” Brownhill said, “I thought you’d had strict instructions to remain in hospital overnight for observation. You could have a concussion.”

  “I was,” Smith smiled.

  He winced as if smiling made his head sore.

  “I hate hospitals,” he said, “they’re full of sick people.”

  “How are you feeling?” Whitton said.

  “Sore as hell,” Smith said, “but I haven’t got time to be lounging around in the hospital. We have a murderer to catch. We need to put a stick of dynamite up this Jimmy Moreno’s arse and get him to tell us what he knows. He’s involved in this. I know it.”

  The canteen went quiet. Nobody knew what to say.

  “You haven’t heard have you?” Whitton said eventually.

  “Heard what?”

  “Moreno is dead,” Whitton said, “he killed himself in his cell; hung himself from the light fitting.”

  “Shit,” Smith said, “when was this?”

  “A couple of hours ago,” Whitton said, “Baldwin found him hanging there. She’s still in a bit of a state.”

  “Is that why there are so many journos out there?” Smith said, “That lot can smell something like this a mile away.”

  “They don’t know about the suicide yet,” Brownhill said, “and I have no intention of letting them know just yet. Nobody is to mention a word of it. The suicide of a suspect in police custody is a very delicate matter. I’ve called the press conference because of the incident at the circus grounds and that is the only topic on the agenda.”

  “I reckon Moreno topped himself because he killed those two kids,” Bridge said, “why don’t we just tell the newspapers that? It’ll put a lot of people’s minds at ease. A child killer is off the streets. Isn’t that the main thing?”

  “That would be very convenient,” Brownhill said, “but we still don’t know if Moreno was the killer. The evidence we do have on him is very weak and we still don’t know why he would do such a thing.”

  “It wasn’t him,” Smith said, “I’m sure of it. He knew something about it but he wasn’t the murderer.”

  “What?” Whitton said, “How can you be so sure about that?”

  “I don’t know,” Smith said, “but I’m going to find out. What time is the press conference?”

  “Five minutes ago,” Brownhill said, “do you think you’re up to it? You should really be in hospital.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Smith said, “let’s go and throw ourselves to the vultures shall we?”

  FORTY

  Herald

  They all headed for the main conference room in the new wing of the police station. DI Brownhill went in first. Smith was about to follow her inside when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “Sir,” Bridge said, “can I have a word?”

  “The press conference is about to start,” Smith said, “what’s it about?”

  “It can wait,” Bridge sighed.

  He followed Smith inside. They were so late that th
ere were no seats left. They stood by the door at the back.

  Brownhill took her place at the front of the room. Grant Webber was sitting in the corner. He smiled at her as she passed him. Chalmers was sitting next to Superintendant Smyth. He glanced over at Smith and shook his head.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Brownhill began, “thank you all for coming here today. I’m sorry about starting a bit later than scheduled but you probably appreciate that we have had a lot on our plates recently.”

  Smith was impressed at how at ease Brownhill was talking to all the people in the room. She oozed confidence.

  “The incident at the circus grounds earlier,” Brownhill continued, “took us all by surprise. Fortunately, nobody was seriously hurt and the majority of the two hundred strong crowd left of their own accord.”

  A tall thin man stood up and raised his hand.

  “You’ll all have the opportunity to ask questions later,” Brownhill said before the man had a chance to speak.

  He sat back down again.

  Smith’s head was still pounding.

  Maybe I should have gone straight home, he thought.

  The crowd of people in the room were not helping his headache and he could feel a slight tingling sensation in his arms.

  “Of course,” Brownhill said, “there will always be an isolated faction who feel they are above the law. In this instance we are talking about twenty or thirty people who ignored our warnings and continued to cause havoc at the circus grounds. These people were dealt with promptly and a total of twenty two arrests were made. Most of them for disturbing the peace. A few more were charged with resisting arrest and one for assault on a police officer.”

  Brownhill looked over at Smith standing by the door. He was sure he detected a slight smile on her face. The thought made him shudder. The tingling in his arms had now spread to his legs.

  “The reason I have called this press conference,” Brownhill said, “is I want to make it absolutely clear to everybody that the behavior we witnessed today will not be tolerated and this police force for one will come down hard on anybody who thinks they can take the law into their own hands. Vigilantism will not be tolerated. Any questions?”