Harlequin

by Stewart Giles

  “What did I do?” Smith was awake.

  He sat up in the bed and winced. He felt his legs. They were no longer numb.

  “What did I do?” he said again.

  He looked over at Whitton. She smiled and stretched her arms.

  “How are you feeling?” She said.

  “I’ll feel better when I find out why I’ve been locked up,” Smith said.

  “You passed out,” Whitton said, “you passed out in the conference room. You’re going to be in all the papers tomorrow.”

  She looked at her watch.

  “Today I mean,” she said.

  “That still doesn’t explain why I’ve been locked in one of the cells,” Smith said.

  “It was Brownhill’s idea,” Whitton said.

  “I bet it was,” Smith said, “I bet she’d love to see me locked up.”

  “She was actually very concerned,” Whitton said, “I’ve just had the weirdest dream.”

  “Welcome to my world.”

  “How’s your head?” Whitton asked.

  “In agony,” Smith said, “but at least I can feel my legs now. I thought I was having a stroke for a while there. What time is it?”

  “Quarter to one in the morning,” Whitton said, “we slept for six hours.”

  “We?” Smith said, “People are going to talk.”

  “I’d better get you home,” Whitton said, “you still need to rest.”

  Smith slowly eased his legs over the side of the bed. He put some weight on the left leg. The muscles seemed to be working again. He stood up and everything went black for a few seconds and then his vision returned. His head was still pounding.

  “Where’s my car?” Smith suddenly realized he had left his car in the car park at the circus grounds.

  “Bridge went back to fetch it,” Whitton said, “it’s in the car park outside. You shouldn’t really be driving though. You have a concussion and possibly a bit of whiplash.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Smith said.

  “I’ll drive you home,” Whitton said, “you should still have somebody there to keep an eye on you.”

  Smith was about to argue but realized it was futile.

  Whitton parked outside Smith’s house and turned off the engine. Smith’s phone beeped in his pocket to tell him he had received a message. He took out the phone and opened the message.

  “I’m rich,” he said, “The Ghoul’s money is in my account. Do you feel like doing a bit of furniture shopping tomorrow? Retail therapy. It’s just what we need.”

  FORTY FIVE

  Nightmare

  Smith’s furniture shopping was going to have to be postponed until a later date. He opened his eyes and saw that Whitton had placed a cup of coffee on the floor next to the mattress he was lying on. She was getting ready to leave.

  “Where are you going?” Smith said.

  “I have to go,” Whitton said, “a twelve year old boy was murdered last night.”

  “What?”

  “Looks like it was the same guy,” Whitton said, “they found what looks like lion hair on the carpet next to the body and the words ‘Tick tock, tick tock’ were written on the mirror in the hallway in blood. Remember the first child that was killed? His father mentioned that the boy had said something about a Ticktock man. This one sounds gruesome though. The head was almost sliced off and his eyes were poked out.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Smith sat up on the mattress.

  His head felt slightly better.

  “You are not,” Whitton said, “you need to rest. We don’t want a repeat of yesterday’s incident.”

  “I feel much better,” Smith said, “I’ll take a few headache pills and I’ll try not to get hit on the head.”

  Whitton realized that once Smith had made up his mind there was nothing she could do to change it.

  “You’ve got fifteen minutes,” she said, “get a shower and finish your coffee. I’ve fed Theakston.”

  “Thanks Whitton,” Smith said, “I don’t know what I would do without you.”

  Half an hour later, Whitton stopped Smith’s car outside eighteen Station Road. Grant Webber’s car was still parked on the other side of the road. The door to the house was open but a police tape had been put up around the entrance. Smith and Whitton got out of the car. Smith took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one. The first cigarette he had smoked in ages hit him immediately. He could feel the nicotine as it flowed through his blood. Webber ducked under the tape and came out to meet them.

  “Have you got one of those for me?” Webber pointed to Smith’s cigarette.

  “You don’t smoke,” Smith handed him the packet.

  “I’ve been here all night,” Webber took out a cigarette and lit it, “I could really do with a drink but this will have to do for now.”

  He handed the packet back to Smith.

  “I thought you were man down,” Webber said, “you caused quite a stir in the conference room yesterday.”

  “I’m fine,” Smith said, “I had a good nurse. Is it that bad in there?”

  He pointed to the house.

  “Worse one I’ve ever seen,” Webber said, “and I’ve seen some gruesome ones. The kid’s head was almost removed and both his eyes were poked out. They’re busy cleaning up now. The body was taken away about an hour ago.”

  “Do you think it’s the same guy who killed the other two kids?” Smith threw his cigarette butt on the pavement.

  “Looks like it,” Webber said, “There was fur on the carpet around the body. I haven’t tested the fur yet but I’m sure it’s the same as the hair we found at the other two crime scenes.”

  “Lion hair?” Smith said.

  “Yes,” Webber said, “this one’s different though. The other two were strangled. Not a pleasant way to die but this one was much more brutal.”

  “He’s getting angry now,” Smith said.

  “What?” Webber said.

  “Nothing.”

  Smith walked inside the house. Two of Webber’s technicians were cleaning the walls in the hallway. They were stained a light pink colour. The smell inside was terrible.

  “The boy was lying there,” Webber pointed to a spot where the carpet was a different colour to the rest.

  “What’s that smell?” Smith said.

  “A mixture of blood, vomit and human excrement,” Webber said, “the kid literally shat himself. It must have been a hell of an ordeal. We’ll know a lot more once the path guys have finished with him.”

  “Who found him?” Smith said.

  “His father,” Webber said, “he was called out to work at around six yesterday evening. Turns out it was a false alarm. Nobody at his work place claimed to have phoned him.”

  “Where was his mother?”

  “At work,” Webber said, “she came back at around eight. You could hear the scream for miles around.”

  “Where are the parents now?” Smith said.

  “With a neighbour,” Webber said, “the mother’s been sedated. Can you imagine what it must be like to see your child like that? Bryony warned her not to go inside but she ignored her.”

  “Bryony?” Smith said.

  “I’m going home,” Webber said, “like I said, I’ve been here all night. It’s your problem now.”

  “Thanks Webber,” Smith said, “you’ll let me know if you find anything else?”

  Webber shook his head and walked back to his car.

  “Bryony?” Smith said to Whitton when Webber had driven off, “do you think there’s something going on there?”

  “You’ve got an over active imagination,” Whitton said.

  “We need to speak to the boy’s parents,” Smith said.

  “Don’t you think we should wait a bit,” Whitton suggested, “they’re probably still in shock. This must be a parent’s worst nightmare.”

  “That can’t be helped Whitton,” Smith said, “time is of the essence. I’ve got a feeling we’re going to have to go back to the very beginning
with this one.”

  “Sir?”

  “Our main suspect is dead,” Smith said, “that means somebody else is killing children and we have no idea who it is or why he’s doing this. If we’re dealing with some maniac who’s simply picking off kids at random then we’ve got a problem. But I don’t think that’s the case here. I think there’s a connection between Nathan Green, Tiffany Beech and Kenneth Swift.”

  FORTY SIX

  Decapitated

  Eric Swift was sitting on the two seater couch in his neighbour’s living room when Smith and Whitton walked in. He was holding a cup of coffee. His hands were shaking so badly that he had spilled most of the coffee over his trousers. His neighbour, a short woman in her fifties, took the cup out of his hands and placed it on the table next to him.

  “Mr Swift,” Smith said, “my name is DS Smith and this is DC Whitton. I know this must be a difficult time for you but we need to ask you a few questions.”

  Swift did not say a word. He just sat there, staring vacantly out of the window.

  “Where’s Mrs Swift?” Whitton asked the neighbour.

  “Upstairs,” the woman said, “the doctor gave her a strong sedative. Something to help her sleep. What a terrible thing to happen. Who would do such a thing?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Smith looked at Swift.

  “Mr Swift,” he said, “we really need your help. We believe there is every chance that this man will strike again. We don’t have much time.”

  “Why would someone want to do this to my boy?” Swift looked Smith directly in the eyes.

  His eyes were very bloodshot.

  “I don’t know,” Smith said, “but we’re going to do our best to try and catch him. You said you received a call from work last night?”

  “That’s right,” Swift said.

  “What time was this?”

  “Around six thirty,” Swift said, “I had to go back in. They said they were having issues with one of the machines.”

  “Where do you work?” Smith asked.

  “SB Logistics,” Swift said, “I’m in charge of maintenance on the machines. I was told that one of the conveyor belts was playing up and it was holding things up.”

  “Do you often get called back into work?” Smith said.

  “All the time,” Swift said, “it’s part of my job. The other technician is on holiday at the moment so right now I’m on call twenty four seven.”

  “Who made the call?”

  “I don’t know,” Swift said.

  “You don’t know?” Smith was confused.

  “SB is a huge operation,” Swift said, “three shifts. Staff come and go. We don’t even bother to learn the names of the new guys. We have such a steady flow of temps in and out. Some bloke phoned and said I was needed urgently. He seemed to know a lot about SB so I didn’t give it a second thought.”

  “Do you have the number?” Whitton asked.

  “Number?”

  “The number where the call came from,” Smith said, “is it still on your phone?”

  Swift took out his phone and handed it to Whitton. She checked the call log, took out her notebook and wrote down the number of the call received at six twenty eight the previous evening.

  Swift picked up the coffee mug and took a long sip.

  “Mr Swift,” Smith said, “I know this is hard but can you think of anybody who would want to hurt your son?”

  “Of course not,” Swift said.

  He looked as if he was going to cry but managed to control himself.

  “How could anybody do such a thing?” He said, “His eyes. Did you see what he did to Kenny’s eyes? He was almost decapitated for god’s sake. What kind of monster is this man?”

  “The writing on the mirror,” Whitton said, “do you know what that was all about?”

  “Of course not,” Swift stood up and went over to the window.

  “Tick tock, tick tock,” Smith said, “you have no idea what that means?”

  “No,” Swift said, “could you please leave me alone now? My wife needs me. I don’t know how we are going to get through this. She blames me of course. She always said I should find another job. I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

  “We won’t take up any more of your time,” Smith nodded to Whitton.

  “We’ll see ourselves out,” he added.

  FORTY SEVEN

  Name and number

  “What do you think?” Smith asked Whitton as they drove to the station.

  “I think York has gone mad,” Whitton sighed, “things like this don’t happen in the York I know and love. They never used to anyway.”

  “Let’s get that phone number checked out,” Smith said, “let’s see who lured Eric Swift away from his house last night. We find that out and at least we’re a bit closer.”

  “Who is this maniac?” Whitton said, “He’s like a ghost. First he abducts Nathan Green from his house while his parents are downstairs, then he takes Tiffany Beech when there must have been loads of people around and now he’s killed a boy in the most terrible way.”

  “I know,” Smith said, “I’ve got a nasty feeling that this one is going to be difficult to catch.”

  Smith parked the car outside the station and got out. Chalmers was smoking a cigarette next to the entrance.

  “Smith,” Chalmers nodded in acknowledgement.

  “Boss,” Smith said, “managed to get away from old Smyth for a few minutes?”

  “That bastard is a nightmare,” Chalmers said, “he won’t leave me alone for a second. I’d take my old job back in a flash if I could.”

  “And deny us the pleasure of having Bryony Brownhill as a boss?” Smith said.

  “It’s DI Brownhill to you,” Chalmers said, “how are you getting on with this child killer?”

  “We’re a bit stuck at the moment,” Smith admitted, “we haven’t a clue why he’s doing this. Whitton’s got the number of the phone that called Kenneth Swift’s father yesterday evening so hopefully that will get us a bit closer.”

  “Do you think these murders are connected?”

  “Definitely,” Smith said, “someone must have a reason for doing this. The last one was like a scene from a horror film.”

  “I’d better get back,” Chalmers threw his cigarette butt on the ground, “Smyth wants me to go over last year’s crime stats.”

  “Enjoy,” Smith said.

  Baldwin was back on duty when Smith and Whitton walked in. She looked like she had not slept a wink.

  “Morning Baldwin,” Smith said, “how are you feeling?”

  “Better,” Baldwin said, “I still can’t get the image of Jimmy Moreno out of my head though. Why would he hang himself?”

  “I don’t know,” Smith said, “you’ll be alright. Can you do me a favour?”

  “When do I do anything else?” Baldwin sighed, “What is it?”

  “I want you to find out who owns the phone that called Kenneth Swift’s father yesterday.”

  “What’s the number?” Baldwin asked.

  Whitton took out her notepad and read out the number to Baldwin.

  “Have you tried phoning it?” Baldwin said.

  “No,” Smith said, “that’s why we value you so much around here.”

  Baldwin dialed the number.

  “It’s ringing,” she said, “at least it hasn’t been switched off.”

  “Put the phone on speaker,” Smith said.

  Baldwin did as she was told. The phone rang for seven or eight times then went to voicemail. A familiar voice was heard.

  ‘Greetings,’ the voice message began, ‘this is the great Jimmy Moreno here. I’m obviously not able to take your call right now but if you leave your name and number, I may decide to get back to you should the need arise.’

  FORTY EIGHT

  Ante mortem

  “Jimmy Moreno?” Brownhill said.

  She had been looking through the forensics report on Kenneth Swift when Smith ha
d walked in.

  “There must be some kind of mistake,” she said, “Moreno was already dead at the time of the call.”

  “It was Moreno’s phone,” Smith said, “it was his voice on the voicemail and we contacted the mobile phone company. That number was registered to Moreno. It was his phone.”

  “This just gets better and better,” Brownhill said, “I’ve got the forensics and path reports on the Kenneth Swift murder here.”

  “That was quick,” Smith said.

  “Grant happens to be very good at his job,” Brownhill said, “and the new head of pathology is very thorough.”

  “I preferred The Ghoul,” Smith said.

  “Unfortunately, I never had the pleasure of meeting him,” Brownhill said, “this makes for very interesting reading.”

  “How so?” Smith said.

  “The cause of death was loss of blood caused by a very deep laceration to the neck,” Brownhill said, “apparently a very sharp knife was used. It cut through cartilage and bone like butter but the interesting part is this.”

  She pointed to a paragraph on the third page.

  “The boy had traces of oleoresin capsicum in his nose and mouth.”

  “Oleo what?” Smith said.

  “Pepper spray,” Brownhill said, “it appears he was sprayed with the pepper spray before he was killed.”

  “Why use pepper spray?”

  “To incapacitate him probably,” Brownhill said, “he will have been blinded temporarily thus making him a much easier target.”

  “That’s interesting,” Smith thought out loud.

  “What is?”

  “His eyes were removed too weren’t they?”

  “They were gouged out,” Brownhill said.

  “Do we know if they were removed before or after his throat was slit open?”

  “According to the report,” Brownhill said, “they were removed ante mortem. Before he died. The amount of blood found around the eye sockets suggests this.”

  “The killer didn’t want the boy to see him,” Smith said.

  “What are you talking about?”