Harlequin

by Stewart Giles

  The tall thin man stood up again.

  “Brian Dunn,” he said, “Yorkshire Post. I am led to believe that this whole incident was sparked off by an article in the Herald; an article that mentioned a certain circus clown. If I’m not mistaken, the Herald was the only publication that was privy to that information. Is there some reason why the York City police department has favoured one newspaper over all the rest? Is there somebody on the payroll that us tax payers do not know about?”

  The whole room erupted. Bridge wanted the floor underneath him to swallow him up and not spit him out until this whole nightmare was over.

  A blond woman stood up. Whitton recognized her as the woman she had seen Bridge arguing with by the circus tent.

  “Quiet,” Brownhill said, “quiet please. Yes?”

  She looked at the blond woman.

  “Sharon Lewis,” she said, “York Herald. With all due respect Brian, the Herald and myself in particular obtained this information by doing what we’re paid to do. Investigative journalism. I will not reveal my sources and what you’re insinuating is just the result of sour grapes.”

  On old man who was wearing a badly fitted wig put up his hand.

  “Geoff Grimes,” he said, “Pickering Chronicle. Forty two years and counting. Whatever gripes my younger friends here have about journalistic ethics, if there is such a bloody thing, the question remains the same. Do you have a circus clown in custody here and was lion hair found on the bodies of both the dead children?”

  The room went silent. Smith’s throbbing head started to pound even more. His left leg had now become completely numb. He looked around the room but the heads of the journalists seemed to be joined together in one wave of hideous faces. He was finding it hard to stay on his feet. He shifted most of his weight onto his right leg but he did not know how much longer he would be able to stand up.

  “Mr Grimes,” Brownhill thought hard about what she was going to say.

  She looked over at Grant Webber for support but Webber merely shrugged his shoulders.

  “Mr Grimes,” Chalmers stood up, “DCI Bob Chalmers. The information Miss Lewis managed to get her hands on was correct. We did have a suspect in for questioning. This suspect happens to be a circus clown. Where this information came from is irrelevant.”

  Superintendant Smyth’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.

  “He was here to help us with our investigation,” Chalmers added, “that’s all.”

  “Are you still holding this clown?” Grimes asked.

  “No,” Chalmers said, “I think this press conference has run its course. We have nothing more to tell you.”

  The room was filled with loud chattering but Chalmers had made it clear that they would not answer any more questions.

  The sudden increase in volume in the conference room did nothing to improve Smith’s headache. He had now lost all feeling in his left leg.

  I’m having a stroke, he thought in a moment of panic, I’m not even thirty and I’m having a stroke.

  Lights were flashing in front of his eyes.

  “Are you alright sir?” Bridge asked him

  Smith could see Bridge’s lips moving but he could not hear the words that came out.

  “Sir,” Bridge said.

  Smith was feeling very drowsy. His right leg was also starting to tingle. He put some of the weight back on the left leg again but all feeling had gone. He crashed to the floor and landed with his head next to Bridge’s shoes. He could smell the polish on them. Then everything went black.

  FORTY ONE

  Eleanor Bulmer

  “Kenneth,” Eric Swift called upstairs, “can you come down here please?”

  The noise from the boy’s bedroom was so loud that Swift knew his son could not possibly hear him.

  “What is wrong with that kid?” Swift said as he walked up the stairs.

  The music that assaulted his eardrums was deafening. Swift opened the door to the room and the offensive music hit him like a wave. He walked over to the sound system and turned it off.

  “Dad,” Kenneth said, “you can’t just walk in here and do that. I was doing my homework. The music helps me to think.”

  “That’s not music,” Swift said, “that Iron Maiden or whatever it is, that’s just noise.”

  “Iron Maiden?” Kenneth started to laugh, “Nobody listens to Iron maiden any more. Korn are the kings.”

  “Korn,” Swift said, “Iron Maiden. It’s all rubbish. I’ve been calling you. I’ve been called into work.”

  “So?”

  Kenneth Swift was twelve years old.

  “I’ve been called into work,” Swift ignored his son’s insolence, “your mother won’t be back for a couple of hours. I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t have to but you’ll have to stay on your own until she gets back.”

  “Dad,” Kenneth said in the tone only a boy approaching his teenage years could, “I’m nearly thirteen. I’m old enough to stay at home by myself.”

  “Lock the door behind me,” Swift said, “and don’t answer the door to anyone. There’s a maniac out there remember.”

  “I’m not scared,” Kenneth said defiantly, “besides, this guy is killing little kids. I’m not a kid anymore. He can try and get me if his wants. I’ll batter him.”

  Eric Swift shook his head and went back downstairs.

  What’s happened to my boy? He thought as he put on his safety boots.

  It seemed like only yesterday he was teaching him how to ride a bicycle. It would not be long now before he would be wanting to learn how to drive a car.

  Swift left his wife a short note on the table in the hallway and left the house. He could hear that Kenneth had turned the music back on. He got in his car and drove away.

  Kenneth watched from his bedroom window as his father’s Datsun drove away. He watched as it turned left onto Leeman Road and headed in the direction of the river.

  “Freedom,” he shouted and jumped on the bed.

  His favourite song from the latest Korn album was playing. ‘Fear is a place to live’ blasted out of the speakers. Kenneth loved the lyrics from the song – ‘rip the mask from your head, show me the real face that you hide.’ He closed his eyes and smiled.

  Life is pretty good at the moment, he thought, he was no longer in the first year of secondary school. Now he was one of the bigger kids. He was close to persuading Eleanor Bullmore to go out with him and he had made it onto the football team where the popular kids were. Life was pretty good at the moment.

  The sound from the doorbell was heard from downstairs. Kenneth remembered what his dad had told him about not answering the door to anybody. He also remembered he was supposed to lock the door. He turned down the music and listened.

  “I’m nearly thirteen for god’s sake,” he jumped off the bed, “besides, it could be Eleanor Bullmore.”

  Kenneth ran downstairs to answer the door. He could still hear the music playing upstairs. The doorbell rang again. He checked his hair in the mirror in the hallway and walked up to the door. The Korn song was about to end. ‘Fear is a place to live.’ Kenneth checked his watch. It was quarter past six. Not too late for Eleanor Bullmore to be paying him a visit. He opened the door.

  “Tick tock, tick tock,” the figure standing in the doorway said.

  Kenneth did not know what to say. He found himself staring at the man with the clown makeup on his face. He did not know whether to laugh or not. The whole thing was absurd.

  “Rip the mask off from your head,” Korn screamed from upstairs, “show me the real face that you hide.”

  The clown took something out of his pocket.

  “Trick or treat,” he said.

  He sprayed something into Kenneth’s face.

  FORTY TWO

  Right one

  “Give him some room to breathe,” Chalmers said to the crowd of people who had gathered around Smith in the main conference room. Photographers were jostling each other to get the best picture of the detective
sergeant who was lying unconscious on the floor.

  “Should I call for an ambulance?” Bridge said.

  “He won’t thank you for it,” Chalmers said.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Brownhill had pushed her way through the group of spectators.

  “I think he has a concussion,” a man’s voice was heard.

  It was George Grimes, the veteran reporter from the Pickering Chronicle.

  “I’ve seen it before,” Grimes said, “he probably has a bit of whiplash too. Is he the one who was attacked at the circus grounds?”

  “Yes,” Whitton said, “he was hit on the back of the head with a wooden plank. What shall we do?”

  Grimes bent over and felt Smith’s pulse.

  “I’m no doctor,” he said, “but I’ve been around long enough to know when someone’s in the shit if you’ll pardon my language. Get him out of here and get him away from these vultures. Find him a quiet, dark place to sleep it off. He’ll be just fine. You should probably have someone stay with him just in case though.”

  “I think we should call an ambulance,” Brownhill said, “just to be safe.”

  “It’s up to you,” Grimes said, “this happened to me before. A few years ago the wife asked me to get a suitcase out of the wardrobe. We were off to Scarborough the week after. Anyway, I managed to get the bloody thing down but some smart arse had put a heavy wooden chest on top of it. Landed smack bang on the top of my head. Two days later I couldn’t feel my legs and I passed out. Whiplash. I stayed in bed for a day or two and I was fine. That’s what he has.”

  “Thank you Mr Grimes,” Brownhill said, “Thompson, Bridge, carry him out of here. Put him in cell number four. Let’s hope Mr Grimes is right.”

  “Watch his neck,” Grimes advised, “whiplash can be nasty.”

  Thompson and Bridge took an arm each, picked Smith up and marched him out of the room.

  “Show’s over,” Brownhill shouted to the reporters, “I’m sure you all have stories you’re dying to get out.”

  There was low murmouring in the conference room and one by one the journalists filed out of the door.

  “What now?” Whitton said to Brownhill.

  Brownhill looked at her watch.

  “Let’s call it a day,” she said, “it’s been a pretty exhausting one. I’m going home. Maybe I’ll get home in time to watch the news for a change. Somebody should really stay and keep an eye on Smith though.”

  “I’ll do it,” Whitton said without hesitating.

  Brownhill eyed her suspiciously.

  “Don’t you have a husband to get home to?” She said, “a boyfriend at least?”

  “No Ma’am,” Whitton said, “I haven’t got the time. Besides, men are all pretty much the same. Maybe I’m saving myself for the right one.”

  “DS Smith isn’t the right one,” Brownhill said, “I can promise you that.”

  “I’ll go and check on him,” Whitton walked out of the room.

  Smith was still asleep in cell number four when Whitton walked in. Somebody had placed a blanket over him. He was breathing so lightly that Whitton had to put her ear to his mouth to check that he was still alive. She picked up the chair in the corner, put it next to the bed and sat down.

  Why does this kind of thing always happen to you? She thought as she watched Smith’s chest rise and fall.

  She had forgotten how many times Smith had been so close to death in the short time she had worked with him. Four years, she thought. She smiled. Four years with never a dull moment when Smith was around.

  Whitton remembered the time when Smith had been shot in the shoulder after he had jumped into the North Sea in the middle of winter to save her from a crazed Chinese man. She had woken up next to him on the deck of a pleasure boat. There had been a ‘Just Married’ banner attached to the boat above their heads. Whitton had asked Smith if they had got married. Smith had asked her if she wanted to get married. It seemed like a lifetime ago now. On another occasion, Smith had risked his life to rescue her from an Australian psychopath who had drugged her and held her hostage in a disused warehouse. Smith’s girlfriend had been brutally murdered while Smith was busy trying to save Whitton. Not once since that incident had Smith so much as hinted that he blamed Whitton in any way for the death of his girlfriend.

  “You’re an amazing man Jason Smith,” Whitton looked at Smith’s face, “you’ve caused me countless sleepless nights but you’re one in a million.”

  She leaned back further in the chair and closed her eyes.

  It’s going to be a long night, she thought but within minutes she was fast asleep.

  FORTY THREE

  Scream

  The call came through to the station at seven thirty that evening. PC Baldwin had been relieved on account of the trauma she had suffered after finding Jimmy Moreno hanging in his cell. PC Paul Briggs had taken over the duties at the front desk. At first, Briggs had found it difficult to understand what the man on the other end of the phone was talking about and he had assumed it was a drunk making a prank call. The man seemed to be delirious. He kept talking about blood and eyes. When Briggs finally managed to get him to calm down a bit he got the man’s address. He had radioed for a police car to see if everything was alright at eighteen Station Road.

  Brownhill and Bridge arrived at eighteen Station Road half an hour later. The police car was still parked outside. One of the police constables was sitting with his head in his hands on the passenger seat. As Brownhill got closer she noticed a pool of vomit on the road next to the car. The Police constable got out of the car when she approached. He had vomit on the front of his jacket.

  “Ma’am,” he said.

  His voice was shaking. From his name tag, Brownhill ascertained his name was PC Blakemore.

  “He’s inside the house,” Blakemore said, “there’s blood everywhere.”

  Brownhill signaled to Bridge to follow her inside the house. She was not sure what to expect but from the look on Blakemore’s face she knew it was not going to be pleasant.

  Kenneth Swift was lying in the hallway when Brownhill and Bridge went inside. The smell inside the house was terrible. It was a mixture of blood, feces and vomit. There were smears of blood all over the walls in the hallway. On the mirror on the wall someone had written ‘Tick Tock, Tick Tock’ in blood. Brownhill slowly approached the body on the carpet. The neck had been sliced open so deeply that the head was barely attached to the body. She pushed back the feeling of nausea that was welling up inside her and took a closer look.

  The boy can’t be more than thirteen years old, she thought.

  He had a strangely peaceful expression on his face but there was something not quite right. He no longer had any eyes; they had been poked out.

  “Jesus Christ,” Bridge said.

  He ran outside the house and was sick on the lawn. He took a few deep breaths and went back inside.

  “I want Webber here now,” Brownhill said, “do we know who found him?”

  “I spoke to the other PC who was first on the scene,” Bridge said, “they got a call out at about half seven. The boy’s father phoned the station and kept babbling on about blood and eyes. PC Briggs decided to send a car out. It’s a good job he did.”

  “Where’s the father now?” Brownhill asked.

  “With a neighbour,” Bridge said, “he must be in a right state.”

  “We need to talk to him anyway,” Brownhill said.

  “You realize what this means don’t you?” Bridge said.

  “It means many things,” Brownhill said, “it means there’s a psychopath out there somewhere.”

  “It means Jimmy Moreno isn’t our killer,” Bridge said, “unless he managed to come back from the dead. It also means we have a really sick bastard out there somewhere.”

  There was a commotion outside the house. A woman’s voice could be heard. She seemed to be arguing with somebody. Brownhill went to the front door. A woman in her mid thirties was shouting at PC Blakemore
.

  “This is my house,” she said, “why can’t I go inside?”

  “Ma’am,” Brownhill said, “who are you?”

  “Yvonne Swift,” the woman said, “what the hell is going on? This policeman has told me I can’t go inside my own house.”

  Brownhill did not know what to say. She watched as Grant Webber’s car stopped on the other side of the road.

  “Mrs Swift,” Brownhill said, “I’m afraid something terrible has happened. I suggest you join your husband.”

  She looked at PC Blakemore for assistance.

  “He’s next door,” Blakemore said, “Mr Swift is with your neighbour next door.”

  “What’s going on?” Yvonne said, “where’s Kenny?”

  “Please Mrs Swift,” Brownhill said, “go and talk to your husband.”

  Before anybody had a chance to stop her, Yvonne Swift pushed past Brownhill and ran inside the house. The scream that was heard from inside number eighteen Station Road that night was a sound that nobody who was on the scene that night would ever forget.

  FORTY FOUR

  Agony

  Whitton woke up with a start. Something had woken her from a most unusual dream. She had been in a small boat in the middle of a vast expanse of water. There was no land to be seen in any direction. There was something in the water. It looked like the dorsal fin of a shark. It was circling the boat and each time it circled it got closer. Eventually, the fin was right alongside the boat. Whitton realized the boat was sinking; water was coming in from the bottom. After a while, the gunwale of the boat was parallel to the surface of the water and it sank slowly beneath her. The shark was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly, it appeared next to her. It opened its mouth and the rancid breath hit Whitton like a wave in the face. The mouth closed and the shark appeared to smile. Its face began to change. The eyes moved closer together and hair started to grow on its top lip. Before she woke up, Whitton saw the face of Bryony Brownhill clearly in her mind.