Harlequin

by Stewart Giles

  “Why?” Smith said, “It wasn’t her idea to hold Jimmy Moreno for longer.”

  “What do you mean?” James said.

  Smith thought hard about what he was about to say.

  “It was my call,” he said, “I really thought Moreno was our guy. I persuaded Brownhill to keep him a while longer.”

  He realized he was entering dangerous territory and he did not know why he was saying what he was saying but he realized that Brownhill had a lot more to lose than he did.

  “Could you repeat that,” James said.

  “I was the one who decided our main murder suspect should be kept in custody,” Smith said.

  He stood up.

  “Sit down DS Smith,” James said.

  “I’ve had enough of this bullshit,” Smith said.

  “Sit back down,” James said, “that is an order.”

  “I’m done here,” Smith turned to walked out, “and if my ID hadn’t gone up in flames with the rest of my life I’d tell you exactly where you can stick it.”

  FIFTY NINE

  Hog’s Head

  Smith headed straight for his car, opened the door and slammed it behind him. He opened the glove compartment and took out the bag of marijuana resin. He rolled a crude joint and lit the end. Smoke slowly filled the inside of the car. He turned the key in the ignition and sped out of the car park. He was furious. How could those internal investigators determine whether they had done their jobs properly or not? He thought. He drove aimlessly for a while; he didn’t know where he wanted to go. The joint in his hand was burning his fingers so he opened the window and threw it out. The hash had calmed him down slightly but he still did not know what he was going to do. He did not want to go home; it was not a home anymore. He needed to be somewhere familiar and safe. He turned off the dual carriageway and drove for a few more miles. His head was now spinning from the dope and his stomach was screaming out for food. He parked the car in the car park of the pub and turned off the engine.

  The Hog’s Head was quiet when Smith walked in. He had not been here for a very long time but as he walked up to the bar a wave of nostalgia washed over him. Marge, the proprietor and good friend of Smith’s was behind the bar pulling a pint of lager.

  “Jason,” she said when Smith walked up, “where’ve you been hiding? I haven’t seen you for ages. You’ve lost weight.”

  “Hi Marge,” Smith said, “nothing a pint of Theakstons and a steak and ale pie can’t fix.”

  Smith felt better straight away. He had always felt comfortable in The Hog’s Head.

  “Coming up,” Marge said.

  “Jane,” she shouted to a young bar lady at the other end of the bar, “pint of Theakstons. I’m going to see to the food.”

  Smith took the beer to the table next to the fire at sat down. His stomach was growling. He took a long drink and thought about what was going to happen after his outburst in the interview room.

  I lost it, he thought, I thought that part of me was gone forever.

  It felt strangely liberating even though he knew it would probably result in a suspension. He had lost count of how many times he had been suspended over the years. He finished his beer and went to the bar to get another one.

  “Pie’ll be about twenty minutes,” Marge said, “another pint?”

  “That’d be great Marge,” Smith said, “it’s good to see you again.”

  Marge poured the beer and put it on the bar counter.

  “Are you alright?” She asked.

  “I’m fine now,” Smith took a long sip of the beer, “I’ve had a bit of a rough time recently.”

  “I read about those poor children in the papers,” Marge said, “what a thing to happen, in York of all places. I don’t know what’s happening in this town.”

  Smith took the beer back to his table and took out his phone. The message icon was blinking at him. He sighed and opened up the new message. It was from the bank. They had registered a large sum of money in his account and were offering investment advice should he wish to accept it. He deleted the message and put the phone back in his pocket. The bar lady called Jane placed the steak and ale pie in front of him.

  “Do I know you?” She said.

  “No,” Smith said although he recognized her from a case he had worked on a couple of years earlier.

  A woman had been found dead in her bed. A suicide note had been placed on the table next to the bed but it later transpired that she had been murdered.

  Jane seemed to get the hint and walked back towards the bar.

  Smith finished the pie in less than five minutes.

  “You were hungry,” Marge picked up the empty plate, “do you feel like a chat?”

  “Not now Marge,” Smith said, “I have to get back to work. I have some music to face.”

  “What have you done now?” Marge put the plate back down on the table and sat down.

  Smith told her about the internal investigation and the mob at the circus grounds. He told her about everything that had happened in the last few months; the events that had spiraled out of control after the football players had been killed. Marge listened intently without interrupting.

  “Jason,” she said when Smith was finished, “you’re a good man and there aren’t many like you left but you’re your own worst enemy at times.”

  “Thanks Marge,” Smith finished the rest of the beer.

  “You go too far sometimes,” Marge had not finished yet, “you’re easily obsessed and you’re probably the most stubborn man I’ve ever met. If you ask me, you’re in the right job and the wrong job at the same time.”

  “Have you been helping yourself behind the bar?” Smith said.

  “Don’t be impertinent,” Marge stood up, “you know exactly what I’m talking about. Think about what I’ve said.”

  SIXTY

  Armadillo

  Smith thought hard about what Marge had said as he drove away from The Hog’s Head. He decided it was not a good idea to go back to work; he had had a couple of beers and smoked a spliff and he knew that Brownhill would have something to say.

  The right job and the wrong job at the same time, he thought, what had Marge meant by that?

  Theakston was nowhere to be seen when Smith went inside his house. He remembered that he had left the back door open when he rushed out to go to the circus grounds. He found the dog in the garden. He was stalking a house sparrow on the grass. He was not doing a very good job of it. The sparrow obviously found the whole thing quite amusing and kept letting Theakston get closer and closer and then it would fly off.

  “Stealth is not one of your strong suits,” Smith said.

  Theakston ran over and rolled onto his back.

  “I’ve messed up again,” Smith rubbed Theakston’s belly, “I think I may need to start looking for another job.”

  He phone started to ring in his pocket. He thought about ignored it but changed his mind.

  “Might as well get this over with,” he pressed the green button on the phone.

  “Where are you?” It was DI Brownhill.

  “I’m at home,” Smith said, “I haven’t slept in days.”

  “I want to say thank you,” Brownhill said.

  Smith did not think he had heard properly.

  “Thank you?” He said.

  “Yes,” Brownhill said, “but I also have some bad news.”

  “My life is full of bad news,” Smith said, “what are you thanking me for?”

  “Because you were man enough to take one for the team,” Brownhill said, “I’d rather not carry on over the phone. I’m on my way over to your house.”

  She hung up.

  Ten minutes later, Bryony Brownhill’s impressive bulk stood in the doorway to Smith’s house. Smith had no choice but to let her in.

  “Can I get you a drink?” Smith asked her as she walked inside, “the milk is off but I have coffee and hot water.”

  “Have you got a beer?” Brownhill said.

  Smith’s
jaw dropped to the floor.

  “A beer?” He said, “aren’t you on duty?”

  “No,” Brownhill said, “I’m not. Do you have any beer or must I nip out and get some?”

  “I’ve got plenty of beer,” Smith went through to the kitchen.

  Brownhill followed him. Smith took two beers from the fridge and handed one to Brownhill.

  “Let’s go outside to the garden,” he said, “I think you’ll agree it’s the most comfortable room in the house.”

  “What’s this bad news?” Smith asked.

  They sat down on the bench outside.

  “I’m afraid you’re suspended for a week,” Brownhill took a tentative sip of her beer.

  Smith could tell she was not used to drinking it.

  “A week?” He said, “that’s not exactly bad news. It’s probably the shortest suspension I’ve ever had. What did I do?”

  Brownhill smiled. Her piggy eyes seemed to get bigger.

  “What did you say to them in the interview room?” She said.

  “Not much,” Smith said, “I just informed them they were hindering our investigation and that we were only doing our jobs.”

  “Whatever you said saved my skin,” Brownhill said, “probably my career with it.”

  “I might have mentioned that it was my idea to hold Jimmy Moreno for longer,” Smith said, “I figured I had a lot less to lose than you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome boss,” Smith went inside to get another beer.

  “What about the murder investigation?” Smith said when he sat back down.

  “That’s not your problem for a week,” Brownhill said, “we’ll carry on regardless.”

  “Hmm,” Smith took a long swig of the beer.

  “I mean it,” Brownhill said, “I’m extremely grateful for you sticking your neck out but you’re officially suspended. You’re off duty for seven days.”

  “What was the outcome of the internal investigation?”

  “We were lucky,” Brownhill said, “thanks to you. They found we had been negligent but not sufficiently so that they had to take it any further. Your suspension is basically a token one; they had to assign blame somewhere and you were the scapegoat.”

  Smith shrugged his shoulders.

  “You did a noble thing,” Brownhill said, “I underestimated you and this will not be forgotten.”

  “Any time boss,” Smith said.

  “I’m sorry about the suspension,” Brownhill said.

  “Like I said,” Smith said, “I’ve had worse.”

  “You’re like an armadillo aren’t you?”

  “An armadillo?”

  “An armadillo,” Brownhill said, “you’re all tough and armour plated on the outside but you’re quite soft on the inside.”

  “Armadillo,” Smith smiled, “I like that. Does this mean we’re friends?”

  “No,” Brownhill stood up and finished the rest of her beer.

  “Thanks for coming to see me,” Smith followed her inside the house.

  “You really ought to do something with this place,” Brownhill looked around at the bare walls and lack of furniture, “this place is basically a shell.”

  “You read my mind there boss,” Smith said, “I have a week off and I’ve just inherited a lot of money. This place will be transformed in a week’s time.”

  “One more thing,” Brownhill opened the front door, “I know all about how tongues have been wagging in the station. For the record, my husband left me six months ago. He ran off with a nurse much younger than himself. I’m not ashamed of it and recently I’ve sought comfort in the arms of York’s finest forensic technician. I don’t care what anybody thinks, I want it out in the open.”

  “It was out in the open straight away for me,” Smith said, “good luck with old Webber.”

  “Goodbye,” Brownhill closed the door behind her.

  SIXTY ONE

  Video cassette

  Alberto Moreno opened the door to his caravan and breathed in the fresh early morning air. For as long as he could remember, he had always been an early riser. Often, he would wake before dawn and wait patiently for the sun to come up. He stretched his arms and went outside. He almost tripped over the package that had been placed outside the door of his caravan. It was a small box, no bigger than a shoe box. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with black string. Alberto looked around. There was not a soul in sight. He picked up the box. There was a strange noise coming from inside.

  Tick tock, tick tock.

  Alberto froze. He almost dropped the box. He went inside the caravan and carefully placed it on the bed. The noise coming from inside seemed to be getting louder.

  Tick tock, tick tock.

  Alberto undid the string and took off the brown paper. Inside was a silver coloured gift box. He opened the lid and held his breath.

  Inside the silver box was a red alarm clock and a videotape. There was no note to indicate who had left the box. Alberto took out the alarm clock.

  Tick tock, tick tock.

  The sound of the ticking clock was driving him insane. He noticed that the alarm had been set on the twelve; midday or midnight. Alberto turned the winding mechanism anticlockwise until he heard a clicking sound. The ticking stopped. He picked up the videotape and examined it. There was nothing written on the label.

  Nobody uses videotapes anymore, he thought.

  He put the tape back in the box and turned on the kettle to make some tea. There was a knock on the door of the caravan.

  “Morning Alberto,” it was Valerie.

  “You’re up early,” Alberto put tea and sugar into a cup, “do you want some coffee?”

  “I’d love some,” Valerie stepped inside, “I couldn’t sleep. Are you still mad at me?”

  Alberto took out another cup and put three heaped teaspoons of coffee in it. He knew that Valerie liked her coffee strong and black.

  “I’m not mad at you dear,” he said, “I could never be mad with you.”

  “You’re one in a million Alberto Moreno,” Valerie said, “what’s that?”

  She pointed at the videotape.

  “Somebody left it outside my caravan this morning,” Alberto said, “I have no idea where it came from. There wasn’t a note or anything.”

  “What’s on the tape?”

  “I don’t know,” Alberto said, “I haven’t got a machine to play it on. I don’t think anybody watches videotapes anymore.”

  He handed the coffee to Valerie.

  “Charlie’s got one,” she said, “he’s got a pile of old tapes. Mostly old horror films. He reckons videos are much better than DVDs.”

  Alberto sighed and went outside. Valerie followed him. They sat on the bench next to the caravan.

  “Don’t you want to know what’s on the tape?” Valerie asked.

  “All in good time,” Alberto said.

  “How much longer do you think we can stay here?” Valerie said.

  “A week or so,” Alberto said, “I don’t see any reason to go anywhere else, do you?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “I don’t know how much longer I can carry on doing this,” Alberto said, “I’m growing weary.”

  “You’ll be alright,” Valerie stood up, put her hands on Alberto’s shoulders and gently massaged them.

  “Let’s watch the videotape,” she said.

  Charlie Small was still asleep when Alberto rapped on the door. He got out of bed and wiped his eyes. He scowled when he realized it was only seven in the morning. He opened the door to his caravan.

  “Morning Charlie,” Valerie said cheerfully, “can we watch something on your video player?”

  Valerie and Alberto went inside before Charlie could argue. Valerie turned on the video machine and television set and inserted the tape.

  “It’s not working,” she said.

  All they could see on the screen was a grey mist.

  Charlie picked up the remote and changed the channe
l. The screen was still fuzzy but an image came into view. Charlie adjusted the tracking and the picture became clear. They sat on Charlie’s bed and watched.

  On the screen was what appeared to be an amateur home movie. There was no sound and the picture was very shaky. The cameraman was obviously not very experienced. They could make out a man and a woman in their forties. They were sitting on a blanket in what looked like a park. A small boy was kicking a football next to them. He looked to be around four years old. A baby wrapped in a blanket was drinking milk next to the woman. It looked very content. Everybody seemed to be happy. The camera zoomed in on the woman and she held her hands in front of her face as though she was embarrassed. It was clear than she was laughing nevertheless. The camera then moved to the man sitting next to her. It zoomed in on his eyes. There were big and somewhat vacant.

  “Turn it off,” Alberto said.

  “What’s wrong?” Valerie said.

  “Turn that damn thing off,” Alberto said and walked out of the caravan.

  SIXTY TWO

  Enterprise Hardware

  Smith parked outside his house and got out of the car. He opened the boot. Inside were various tins of paint and primers, paint brushes, rollers and fillers. He carried them inside the house.

  “Seven days,” he said to Theakston who was curiously sniffing the tins, “we’re going to transform this place.”

  Smith had just spent almost a thousand pounds at Enterprise Hardware but, with The Ghoul’s inheritance money, he could afford it and he had bought the best products on the market. He decided he would start with the living room. It took him less than half an hour to empty the room and lay sheets on the floor. He was ready to begin. His phone started to ring in the kitchen. Smith ran through and saw that it was a number he did not recognize.

  Probably a journalist, he thought and ignored the call.

  He opened a tin of wall primer and the smell almost knocked him out. He opened every window in the room. Three hours later he was finished. The walls were now a pale green colour but the room already looked much better than it had done. He decided he would do his bedroom next. He would be able to sleep upstairs again soon. His phone started to ring again. He went through to the kitchen and turned it off without even checking to see who it was. He went outside to smoke a cigarette. The sun was beating down on his face and Smith realized he felt happier than he had done in a very long time.