“First, he pepper sprays the kid,” Smith said, “then he removes the eyes. It must have been horrific. Why do you think he removed the eyes?”
“I don’t know,” Brownhill said, “we’re dealing with a very sick individual here.”
“Did Webber check the hair they found on the carpet?”
“Of course he did,” Brownhill looked offended, “Grant knows his job inside out. Same hair as the first two murders. Lion fur. My guess is it’s from that mangy creature at the circus.”
Smith stood up and started to pace up and down.
“I don’t get any of this,” he said, “none of this makes any sense. Three kids are dead and we have no idea where to start. The phone that rang Eric Swift yesterday belongs to a dead man. This dead man was our main suspect and now we’re back to square one.”
“Are you positive the three murders are connected?” Brownhill asked him.
“One hundred per cent,” Smith said, “the words that were written on the mirror in blood, ‘tick tock tick tock’. Nathan Green mentioned something to his father about a Ticktock man before he was abducted.”
“Ticktock man?” Brownhill said.
“That’s what he said,” Smith said, “why would this lunatic write tick tock, tick tock on the mirror?”
“Maybe he’s taunting us,” Brownhill suggested, “maybe he’s telling us that time is running out.”
“That’s what I thought,” Smith said, “who would have thought that we’d be thinking along the same lines? I think you and me are going to get on just fine.”
“Don’t push it,” Brownhill said, “I’m afraid I’m running out of ideas. Any suggestions?”
“Two,” Smith said, “we need to find the connection between all three kids and we need to pay another visit to our friends in the circus.”
FORTY NINE
Yorick
Alberto Moreno was sitting cross legged inside the circus tent all alone when Smith and Whitton entered. He looked like he was deep in prayer. His eyes were closed and he had a pained expression on his face.
“Mr Moreno,” Smith said.
Alberto shot up with a start. He shook his head when he saw who had disturbed his meditation.
“Detectives,” he said, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”
He looked directly at Smith.
“How’s the head?” he said.
“Better,” Smith said, “what are you doing?”
“Contemplating,” Alberto said, “musing about purgatory. It’s amazing how the universe works isn’t it? Everything can be taken away from you in the blink of an eye. Jimmy, Bruce and all of this.”
He made a theatrical gesture with his arms to take in the whole tent.
“All gone,” he said, “it’s all over. It makes you ask, what’s the point?”
“We’re very sorry about your brother,” Whitton said.
“You will be,” a sly smile appeared on Alberto’s face, “let the Moreno curse be on all of you. A circus clown’s curse is a very dark entity.”
“It wasn’t our fault,” Whitton said, “We didn’t know he was suicidal. Otherwise we would have kept a closer eye on him.”
“I’m joking, my dear,” Alberto said, “Jimmy was always heading for oblivion. It was just a matter of time before he self destructed. What do you want?”
“You said something back there,” Smith said, “something about losing everything. You mentioned Bruce. Is the lion dead?’
“Not yet,” Alberto said, “but the vet didn’t give us much hope. He has something wrong with his stomach. He can’t eat and he’ll starve to death. The humane thing would be to put him to sleep but Bruce wouldn’t thank us for it. He’s a proud beast you see. Did you come here to ask about the lion or was there something else you wanted?”
“Another child was murdered last night,” Smith said.
“I see,” Alberto did not seem the slightest bit disturbed by this news.
“His throat was sliced open,” Smith continued, “his eyes were gouged out and the words, tick tock tick tock were written on the mirror in blood.”
Alberto’s expression changed. Smith’s words had obviously affected him.
“Tick tock,” he said, more to himself than anybody else.
“What do you know about it?” Smith asked him.
“Repent Harlequin,” Alberto smiled, “Repent Harlequin said the Ticktock man.”
“Who’s the Ticktock man?” Smith’s heart started to beat faster.
“It’s just a poem,” Alberto said, “Repent Harlequin, said the Ticktock man. Why let them order you about? Why let them tell you to hurry and scurry like ants or maggots? It’s all about taking life at your own pace and not letting other people dictate how fast your life should go. Jimmy used to love than poem.”
“That’s interesting,” Smith said.
“My mother used to read it to the three of us when we were little,” Alberto seemed lost in thought.
“Three of you?” Whitton said.
“What?” Alberto said.
“You said your mother used to read it to the three of you,” Whitton said, “I thought it was just you and Jimmy.”
“It is,” Alberto said, “or at least it was. Now it’s just me. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“We’d like to speak with the other people who work here,” Smith said, “if you don’t mind.”
“Why would I mind?” Alberto said, “We’ve got all the time in the world now. You’ll probably find Charlie and Val round the back with Bruce. They want to be with him at the end. I’m done with goodbyes now.”
He sat back down on the ground and closed his eyes.
“Poor bloke,” Whitton said as they walked out of the tent and headed for where the lion was kept.
“Poor bloke my arse,” Smith said, “I’m not finished with Alberto Moreno yet. He knows something. He’s keeping something from us. Christ, you can smell that lion a mile away.”
A noxious stench hovered around the area where the lion slept. Flies were buzzing around the entrance to the enclosure. Smith took a deep breath and went inside. Charlie Small and Valerie were standing over the lion. A man in a white coat was injecting the lion with something in a syringe.
“How’s he doing?” Whitton said.
Valerie turned round to face them. She looked like she had been crying.
“Not good,” she said, “if he doesn’t start to improve, he’s going to have to be put to sleep. Not a noble way to go for the king of beasts. There’s something wrong with his stomach. He can’t eat and there’s nothing we can do for him.”
“I’m sorry,” Whitton said, “could we have a quick word with you outside?”
“What about?” Valerie said, “Is it about Jimmy?”
“Can we please go outside?” Smith said, “This smell is burning my eyes.”
They went round the side to Valerie’s caravan. She brought out three chairs for them to sit on.
“How long have you known Alberto Moreno?” Smith asked her.
“Years,” Valerie said, “I’ve been with the circus for over fifteen years now.”
“And has Jimmy always been around?”
“On and off,” Valerie said, “do you mind if I smoke?”
Smith took out his packet of cigarettes, lit two of them and handed one to Valerie.
“Thanks,” she took a long drag, “now that’s something you don’t see every day. Chivalry. I thought that died out in the sixties.”
“I have my moments,” Smith said, “how did you get involved with the Morenos?”
“Fate,” Valerie sighed, “I was with a man who wasn’t afraid to reason with his fists if you know what I mean. I saw no way out and then Alberto appeared as if from nowhere. He came into my life at the right time. I ran away to join the circus. Awfully romantic.”
“Are you and Alberto a couple?” Whitton asked her.
“No,” Valerie started to laugh, “it’s nothing like that. He’s a perf
ect gentleman. No, he was just my knight in shining armour, that’s all.”
“Does Alberto have any other brothers or sisters?” Whitton said.
Valerie suddenly went very pale.
“Why do you ask?” she said.
“Just something Alberto mentioned earlier,” Whitton said, “is there another Moreno sibling?”
“There was,” Valerie said, “I shouldn’t really say too much. Alberto doesn’t like us to talk about it.”
“Who is it?” Smith said.
“A brother,” Valerie said, “Yorick was his name.”
“Where is he now?” Smith said.
“I have no idea. Like I said, Alberto doesn’t speak of him. There was an incident a long time ago.”
“What kind of incident?” Smith said.
“Alberto won’t speak of it,” Valerie said, “I’ve already said too much. Please don’t tell Alberto I told you about this. Yorick is buried in the past for a good reason.”
FIFTY
Something rotten
“Alas poor Yorick,” the contorted face in the mirror said, “I knew him well.”
The man in the grotesque clown makeup smiled as he thought about how, like many other people before him, he had misquoted Hamlet but this version seemed much more appropriate.
“There’s something rotten in the city of York,” he added.
“What are you doing in there?” a shrill voice interrupted his thoughts.
He had not heard her open the front door and come up the stairs. He started to panic. He looked at his face in the mirror. He had accentuated the makeup around his eyes. They were blacker than ever and the lips were made to look like there was blood dripping from the corners.
“I just came to fetch a few things,” the woman said, “will you be alright?’
“I’m fine,” the man said, “just go.”
He wondered if this sounded a bit harsh but as he heard the footsteps going back down the stairs and the sound of the front door slamming, he forgot all about it and relaxed again. He thought about what he was going to do next. His journey was nearing completion. The great Moreno clown family would pay the ultimate price but it was going to have to wait a while. He would let them hurry and scurry like ants and maggots. All of them. The great Alberto Moreno, the famous detective Jason Smith and his team. He smiled and began to remove the makeup. He started with the red streaks at the corners of his mouth.
“Let them run around in circles for a while,” he said to the reflection in the mirror.
He took a damp cloth and removed the remaining makeup from his face.
He thought about Kenneth Swift. He did not know what had happened to him in that house. Something had snapped deep inside him when he had looked deep into the eyes of the boy. Those eyes were a sinister reminder of what he had lost; what they had done to him, Yorick Moreno.
I must be more careful next time, he thought.
He took one last look at himself in the mirror, unlocked the bathroom door and went downstairs. The house was eerily quiet. He picked up the telephone and dialed a number. It was answered almost immediately.
“Alice,” he said, “I won’t be coming in for the next few days.”
There was silence on the other end of the phone.
“I’m sure you understand,” he said, “after everything that has happened.”
He rang off before Alice could offer an argument. He had said all he was going to say.
He went into the kitchen and took a beer out of the fridge. He felt like something stronger but he knew he had to keep his head clear. He was not finished yet. He took the beer to the living room and turned on the television. He changed the channel to the sports station. A football game he had seen before was playing. Manchester United versus Bayern Munich. United were losing badly but he knew they would make a remarkable comeback to win the match. He turned the sound off. He hated the incessant drone of the crowd. The doorbell rang and the man got such a fright that he spilled beer down the front of his shirt.
FIFTY ONE
Angel
Smith parked his car on Nunthorpe road and got out. The second murder victim, Tiffany Beech had been on her way to school and somewhere between the school and where Smith and Whitton were now, she had been abducted. They walked up the driveway and Smith rang the doorbell. There was no sound inside the house. Smith rang the doorbell again. This time he spotted a stocky man in his forties inside the hallway. The door opened and the man stood before them. His eyes were bloodshot and Smith could smell the alcohol on him straight away.
“Mr Beech?” Smith said, “Sorry to bother you but we’re from the police. Can we have a word with you?”
“Do you have any ID?” Beech sounded nervous.
“I’m afraid mine went up in smoke,” Smith smiled but DC Whitton has hers.
Beech did not look amused. Smith made a mental note to have a new ID issued to him when he got the chance. Whitton took out her ID and showed it to Beech.
“Can we come inside?” She said.
Beech stood in silence for a while. Smith thought there was something odd about him but he could not figure out what it was.
He’s just lost his daughter, he thought, maybe he’s still in shock.
“Come in,” Beech’s whole demeanor seemed to change, “can I offer you something to drink? I’m having a beer myself.”
Smith realized he did feel like a beer but DI Brownhill’s lecture still burned his ears.
“No thanks,” he said, “we just need to ask you a few questions.”
“Come through to the living room,” Beech said, “I’ll just get myself another beer if you don’t mind.”
“Is Mrs Beech at home?” Whitton asked Beech when he returned with the beer and sat down in a well worn armchair.
“She’s staying with her sister,” Beech said, “we’re burying our only child the day after tomorrow.”
“But you’re staying here?” Smith said.
“I’m better off here,” Beech took a long sip of his beer, “I can still feel Tiffany here if that makes any sense.”
“We’re very sorry Mr Beech,” Whitton said.
“Are you sure you won’t have a drink with me Inspector?” Beech said, “It doesn’t feel right to be drinking on my own.”
“Detective sergeant,” Smith corrected him.
He looked over at Whitton. She shook her head.
“A beer would be great,” Smith ignored her.
Whitton sighed. Beech stood up and went to fetch the beer from the kitchen.
“What?” Smith whispered to Whitton.
“I didn’t say a word,” Whitton said.
Beech returned and handed Smith a bottle of Heineken. Smith took it and finished half of it in one large gulp. He realized he should not really be drinking after the concussion but the cold beer tasted great.
“We have to ask you this Mr Beech,” Smith said, “can you think of anybody who could have done this to Tiffany?”
“No,” Beech replied straight away, “Tiffany was a beautiful child. Everybody liked her. She wouldn’t hurt a fly. She was my angel.”
“We’ll need to talk to your wife,” Smith finished the rest of the beer and put the bottle on a side table.
“You won’t get much out of her, “Beech said, “she’s a bit of a wreck at the moment. One for the road?”
He pointed to Smith’s empty beer bottle.
“Why not,” Smith handed the bottle to him.
“Mr Beech,” Whitton said when Beech returned with Smith’s beer and one for himself, “do you know anything about a man called Yorick?”
Smith glared at her.
“Yorick?” Beech said, “Alas poor Yorick, I knew him Horatio. I studied Hamlet at college. What has this got to do with anything?”
“Just thinking out loud,” Whitton said.
She studied Beech’s facial expression but it did not give anything away.
“One more thing,” Smith slurped at his beer.
&n
bsp; It was making him feel quite tipsy.
“Have you ever been to see the Moreno circus?” he asked.
“Circus?” Moreno seemed to be getting quite angry, “First Hamlet and now the circus. Are you two on drugs?”
“Not at the moment,” Smith said, “did you ever take Tiffany to see the Moreno circus?”
“No,” Beech said, “I’ve always hated the circus. Why are you asking me all these stupid questions? My daughter has been killed. You should be out there trying to catch the bastard who did it, not wasting my time with idiotic questions.”
“We’ll get him,” Smith was starting to slur his words, “I realize these questions may seem irrelevant but sometimes they are the ones that reap answers. Could you write down the address for us?”
He stood up and his vision went black for a few seconds.
“Address?” Beech said.
“Your wife’s sister,” Whitton said, “we’d like to talk to your wife.”
Beech wrote the address on a piece of paper and handed it to Whitton.
“Thanks for the beer,” Smith said.
He took out one of his cards and handed it to Beech.
“If you think of anything else,” he said, “however trivial it may seem, please give me a call.”
“Did you know that the name Yorick probably had its origins in York?” Beech was getting quite drunk.
“Excuse me?” Smith said.
“Yorvick,” Beech said, “the old Viking name for York. Shakespeare’s most famous clown was named after our beautiful city.”
FIFTY TWO
Yoghurt
It was starting to get dark as Smith drove away from the Beech house. The September haze formed a blanket over the outline of the city in the distance.
“Don’t you think there was something odd about our Mr Beech?” Whitton said.
“What do you mean?” Smith said.
“I don’t know. He’s just lost his only child and he seemed so calm about it.”
“He’s a bloke,” Smith said, “blokes show their emotions on different ways to you lot. He seemed alright to me. He gave me a couple of beers so he can’t be that bad.”
Harlequin Page 16
