“Do you think you should be driving?” Whitton asked, “You were struggling to get the words out back there.”
“I’m fine,” Smith said, “I’ll drop you off at home and then I’m going home to get an early night. I recommend you do the same.”
“I will,” Whitton said.
“What was that Yorick business?” Smith asked.
“Just a wild stab in the dark,” Whitton said, “I wanted to see Beech’s reaction when I mentioned the name.”
“Oh dear,” Smith said, “your abstract brain is putting something together again isn’t it?”
“I’m just curious,” Whitton said, “Alberto Moreno never mentioned anything about another brother before.”
“Why would he?” Smith parked the car outside Whitton’s house.
“It’s probably nothing,” Whitton undid her seatbelt, “but the way Valerie spoke about the third Moreno brother got me thinking. It’s like his whole existence is shrouded in mystery. I think we should look into it.”
“Have you been smoking some of my green stuff?” Smith said.
“Of course not.”
“Do you want some?” Smith smiled.
“Goodnight sir,” Whitton got out of the car, “get some rest.”
Smith opened the door to his house and went inside. He was immediately aware of a terrible smell. The stench hit his nostrils as soon as he opened the door. Theakston was nowhere to be seen. Smith was on his guard at once; his dog always ran to greet him when he came home, day or night. Smith realized that something was wrong. He ran to the living room but Theakston was not there. It was only when the smell became stronger as he approached the kitchen did Smith realize what had happened. Theakston was down on all fours next to the back door. His ears were back and he could barely look Smith in the eyes. He looked very guilty. The source of the terrible odour was lying in the middle of the kitchen floor. A steaming dog turd had been perfectly placed in the centre of the room. Smith opened the back door and Theakston ran outside. Smith picked up the mess with a kitchen towel, went upstairs and flushed it down the toilet. He went back down the stairs and washed the floor with some bleach. The smell still lingered but it was not so overpowering anymore.
Smith went outside to look for his dog. Theakston was cowering under one of the outside chairs. Smith bent down and patted him on the head.
“It’s alright boy,” he said, “I shouldn’t have left you inside for so long. It’s not your fault.”
Theakston rolled over onto his back and Smith rubbed his belly.
“I’m a terrible dog owner,” Smith said, “are you hungry? Do you want some food?”
At the mention of food, Theakston seemed to perk up. He followed Smith back inside the kitchen. The smell had been replaced by the odour of the bleach. Smith filled Theakston’s bowl full of food and the dog ran over to the bowl to eat.
Smith realized he had not eaten anything all day. His stomach felt empty but he did not have much of an appetite. He went to the living room, took out his tin and rolled a fat marijuana cigarette.
This should help the appetite, Smith thought as he lit the end of the joint.
The ganja buzz hit him a few minutes later. He went outside and lit up an ordinary cigarette. He lay on the lawn and gazed up at the sky. Theakston came out and lay next to him.
“That was quite a present you left for me boy,” Smith said and suddenly found himself giggling uncontrollably.
Theakston looked at him as if he had lost his mind.
“I can’t believe a heap of shit that size could come out of something as small as you,” Smith said in between fits of laughter.
The marijuana had really hit home now.
“Bruce the lion has nothing on you boy,” Smith rubbed Theakston’s neck.
His mind started to flip at about a hundred miles an hour. Thoughts entered his head and were quickly forgotten. He suddenly felt hungry. He went inside and opened the fridge. Inside, was a carton of milk that Smith knew was probably sour and a solitary tub of yoghurt. Smith took out the yoghurt, ripped off the lid and devoured the contents in a matter of seconds. He was still hungry.
The marijuana had heightened Smith’s senses and he caught a slight whiff of the dog muck again. He thought back to the terrible stench that had oozed out of the lion enclosure.
“The lion,” Smith said out loud, “we need to examine that lion.”
FIFTY THREE
Enormous arms
“Who is this?” the angry voice on the other end of the line said.
“Boss,” Smith said, “I’ve thought about something that might be important. We need to do an autopsy on a lion named Bruce.”
“Smith,” Brownhill did not sound impressed, “it’s ten o clock at night. Are you out of your mind? Are you stoned?”
“Of course not,” Smith lied, “we need to get hold of someone at the circus and find out what they did with the body of the lion. Please, just humour me. This could be important.”
“Absolutely not,” Brownhill said, “I’m not about to waste valuable resources in the middle of the night based on the intuition of a stoner.”
Smith was tempted to educate Brownhill on the benefits that marijuana can have on the intuition but decided against it.
“Please,” he said, “there’s something about that lion. I’m almost certain of it.”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know yet,” Smith said, “we have to cut open that lion and see.”
The line went quiet for a while.
“Boss,” Smith said, “are you still there?”
“I’m still here,” Brownhill said, “I’m thinking. What is it exactly that you expect to find?”
“I don’t know,” Smith realized how stupid he sounded, “something connected to the investigation hopefully.”
“Hopefully?” Brownhill said sarcastically, “Bruce the lion is neither a suspect or a victim in this investigation. This conversation is over.”
Smith held the phone to his ear long after Brownhill had hung up.
“Shit,” he said.
He put the phone in his pocket, picked up his car keys and ran out of the house. It took him less than ten minutes to reach the circus grounds. The whole place was in darkness. He parked next to the tent and took his torch out of the glove compartment. He locked the car and made his way round the back to where the staff accommodation was situated. He realized he had forgotten to lock the back door at home.
At least Theakston won’t mess in the house again, he thought.
Smith shone his torch at Alberto Moreno’s caravan. It was in darkness. He was about to knock on the door when he heard a noise behind him. His whole body froze. Everything went quiet. Smith could hear his heart pounding in his chest. He heard the noise again. It sounded like footsteps on dry leaves. He wanted to turn round but something stopped him. The noise seemed to be getting louder. Somebody was creeping up on him in the darkness. His senses were alert. He could hear every little sound the footsteps made from the heel hitting the ground to the front of the shoe pressing down. He started to shiver even though it was a relatively mild night. His brain was working quickly, trying to figure out what he was going to do.
Everything went quiet and Smith started to think he had imagined the sounds. Then, he found himself being crushed by a pair of enormous arms. They were squeezing the air out of his lungs. He wanted to scream but the sound did not want to come out. Lights flashed in front of his eyes and he realized he was being suffocated. He was getting weaker and weaker but he managed to free his right arm and slammed the torch in the direction of his attacker. The torch hit something hard and Smith managed to break loose. He shone the torch into the face of Charlie Small, the giant clown from the circus.
“You?” was all Smith could think of to say.
He was feeling exhausted.
“You?” Small said, “What are you doing creeping around here in the middle of the night?”
“Why did you attack me?” Smith said.
“I thought you might be one of the mob who were here the other day,” Small said, “what are you doing here?”
“What happened to the lion?” Smith said, “Where did they take the body?”
“Bruce?” Small said, “Bruce isn’t dead. He’s still here. What are you talking about?”
“I thought he was going to be put down,” Smith said, “Alberto said he was too weak to survive.”
“We all thought that,” Small said, “but he seemed to make an amazing recovery. We called the vet again and he confirmed that Bruce’s stomach was no longer distended and he’d managed to empty everything out of his system. He’s even got his appetite back again.”
“I’m going to regret saying this,” Smith sighed, “but I need to have a look at whatever Bruce got out of his system.”
FIFTY FOUR
Reincarnated
Grant Webber turned over in bed and looked at the clock on the bedside table. It was five minutes past midnight. He sighed. He had been having trouble sleeping for weeks now. He turned over and looked at the woman sleeping next to him. The light from the streetlight outside the bedroom window highlighted the woman’s unusual features; the eyes that seemed to be too small and were set close together, the protruding nose and the abundance of facial hair on the upper lip. She was not attractive by any stretch of the imagination but Webber found her incredibly interesting looking and the smell of the soap she used was quite intoxicating. Webber had not intended for anything to happen between Bryony Brownhill and himself, she was married to a doctor, but in the end, he had just given in.
The phone on the bedside table started to vibrate. Webber had turned off the ringtone but now the phone was buzzing violently and threatening to throw itself to the floor. Webber managed to rescue it and looked at the screen. He sighed and answered it.
“Webber,” he said.
It was Smith.
“I didn’t wake you up did I?” Smith said.
“It’s past midnight,” Webber said, “don’t you ever sleep? What do you want?”
“I want you to join me at the circus,” Smith said.
“What are you talking about?”
“Just get here as soon as you can,” Smith said, “I’ve found something interesting. I need you here now.”
“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” Webber said even though he was already operating on auto pilot.
He realized he had got out of bed and was starting to get dressed.
“Give me twenty minutes,” he said.
Half an hour later, Webber and DI Brownhill parked next to Smith’s car and made their way to the lion enclosure. The smell inside was unbearable. Smith was talking to Charlie Small. He had what looked like excrement all over his hands and arms.
“Morning,” Smith said cheerfully, “excuse me if I don’t shake your hand.”
He looked at DI Brownhill.
“I didn’t expect you to be here,” he said to her, “is there something you two aren’t telling me?”
“Absolutely not,” Brownhill said.
“I thought it prudent to let Bryony in on whatever you have up your sleeve,” Webber said, “although if whatever is all over your sleeve is what I think it is I don’t think she’ll be too interested.”
“If you say so,” Smith winked at Webber.
“What’s so important that you have to drag me out of bed in the early hours of the morning?” Webber changed the subject.
“I’ve just spent the last two hours sifting through lion shit,” Smith said.
Brownhill looked at the lion, asleep in the cage.
“I thought the lion was dead,” she said.
“So did I,” Smith said, “but old Bruce managed to make it. He’s been reincarnated.”
“Are you on something?” Brownhill said, “I’ve warned you about that.”
“With all due respect boss,” Smith said, “you prod and poke your way through fifty kilos of lion excrement for two hours and see how you feel afterwards. I think I’m high from the stench.”
Brownhill did not know what to say.
“There,” Smith pointed to a small heap of dung he had set aside on the floor, “I haven’t touched anything although I’m sure that after forcing its way through the digestive system of a lion, any prints will be long gone anyway.”
Webber crouched down next to the pile of lion feces and donned a pair of gloves.
“Oh my god,” he said as he pulled the excrement apart.
Inside, was a small can of Police Magnum pepper spray and what looked like two perfectly intact human eyeballs.
FIFTY FIVE
Surreal insight
“This just gets more and more intriguing,” Brownhill said.
She had called an emergency investigation meeting in light of what Smith had found in the lion dung. Smith, Thompson, Bridge and Whitton were in attendance. Grant Webber was sitting next to Brownhill at the head of the table. He had spent the whole night examining the pepper spray and the two eyeballs.
“Grant,” Brownhill said.
“What was left of the pepper spray in the can was compared to the spray residue we found on Kenneth Swift’s face,” Webber said, “it is the same chemical construction but most pepper sprays are similar so we cannot be one hundred percent sure it is the same spray. It is remarkable the lion survived passing it through its system. Even a small leak would have resulted in a very painful death.”
“And the eyeballs?” Smith said.
“Kenneth Swift’s,” Webber said, “without a doubt. The DNA test was one hundred percent conclusive.”
“Good,” Smith said.
“How on earth did you know?” Brownhill said, “How did you know the lion was important?”
Smith shrugged his shoulders and smiled.
“Just another brilliant moment of surreal insight,” he said, “that’s why you pay me the big bucks.”
Bridge started to laugh. Brownhill glared at him.
“Come on sir,” Whitton said, “how did you know?”
“If you really want to know,” Smith said, “I can’t really take all the credit. I came home and found a steaming pile of dog shit in the middle of my kitchen. Something clicked in my brain and here we are.”
Bridge could not stop himself from laughing.
“This is all very well,” Thompson said, “but where does this actually lead us?”
“Do you still work here?” Smith said to him.
“We know that Kenneth Swift’s eyeballs were fed to the lion,” Thompson ignored Smith’s comment, “but how does that help us to further the investigation?”
“Thompson has a point,” Brownhill said.
“How many people have access to the lion?” Smith said.
Nobody said a word.
“Not many,” Smith answered his own question, “There’s Alberto Moreno, Charlie Small, Valerie and maybe three other people. That narrows it down a bit.”
“You’re forgetting something,” Whitton said, “and I don’t mean any disrespect but we’re dealing with a perpetrator who, so far has managed to cover his tracks at every murder scene. He’s left us nothing. He’s extremely clever. Feeding a lion wouldn’t be much of a problem would it. He could wait until the circus grounds are quiet and simply go inside the enclosure and feed Bruce whatever he wants.”
Smith sighed. He knew that Whitton was right.
“So what now?” Brownhill said.
“I was hoping you would have some ideas,” Smith said, “Whitton and Thompson have valid arguments. It looks like we’re back to square one.”
“Keep digging,” Brownhill said, “that’s what we do. We keep digging until we find what we’re looking for.”
“Can I say something?” Whitton said.
“Shoot,” Brownhill said.
“Yesterday, when we spoke to the woman at the circus, Valerie, she mentioned something about a third Moreno brother. A man by the name of Yorick.”
> “Yorick?” Brownhill said.
“Something happened to him,” Whitton said, “and they all seem very reluctant to mention anything about him.”
“And you think this Yorick is involved somehow?” Brownhill said.
“I don’t know,” Whitton said, “but it can’t hurt to check it out can it?”
“No it can’t,” Brownhill said, “we have another lead to go on. Is there anything else anybody has to add before I bring this meeting to a close?”
Nobody said a word.
“Ok then,” Brownhill said, “let’s get cracking shall we.”
“What’s happening with the Jimmy Moreno fiasco?” Thompson changed the subject.
“If I know those internal investigation guys,” Brownhill said, “we’re in for a bit of a rough time. They’re going to want to know everything that happened. Every little detail will be scrutinized.”
“They can’t blame anyone,” Smith said, “how were we to know he would top himself?”
“He was a very unhappy clown,” Bridge mused.
“I wonder what made him suddenly snap,” Whitton said, “he seemed quite cheerful when I last saw him.”
Brownhill stood up.
“You might as well know,” she said, “but not a word of this is to be repeated.”
Bridge realized he was starting to sweat.
“The chain of events went something like this,” Brownhill said, “somebody here leaked the information about the lion fur and the circus clown we had in custody to the press. The Herald printed it and Moreno read about it. Baldwin innocently gave him the paper to read. He must have realized the consequences and it became too much for him. He just couldn’t take it anymore.”
“I’d still like to find out who the rat was,” Thompson said, “he needs to be hung up by his balls.”
Bridge stood up.
“I can’t take this anymore,” he said.
Everybody stared at him. He looked at Smith apologetically.
“It was my fault you got bashed on the head,” Bridge said, “this whole mess is my fault. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”
Nobody knew what to say.
Harlequin Page 17
