Harlequin

by Stewart Giles

  Less than an hour later he was finished. It had been easier than he thought. The entertainment system was ready. He had arranged the speakers as neatly as possible and some of the cables were still sticking out but the system was ready to do what it was designed to do. He switched it on and inserted the DVD into the slot. He turned on the television and waited. Nothing happened. There was nothing but a blank screen in front of him. He picked up the instruction and immediately put it down again. He realized he had forgotten to connect the DVD player to the television set. He found the correct cable and inserted it into the back of the television. A blurred picture appeared on the screen. There was no sound. The picture became clearer but lines of interference crossed the screen at regular intervals.

  That must be where Pete cut the videotape, Smith thought.

  He stopped the DVD and watched it from the very beginning.

  A man and a woman were sitting on a blanket. Smith could not make out the man’s face properly. There was a small baby drinking from a bottle on the blanket next to the woman. A small boy was kicking a ball around next to them. The camera zoomed in on the woman and she put her hand in front of her face as if she were embarrassed. It then focused on the man. There was a close up of his face but it was as if the camera had got too close and his features were blurred. Smith could not make out any distinguishing features. The camera then filmed the man’s eyes. His eyes filled the screen for half a second and then the video stopped.

  Smith watched it again. He still could not make out the man’s face; only the split second where the eyes filled the screen. They eyes were vacant and faraway as if he were on some kind of drugs. Smith watched the DVD once more but he still did not recognize the man. He thought about what Whitton had told him about Yorick Moreno killing his wife in the bath tub. There had been two children who had been put up for adoption shortly afterwards. A baby girl and a four year old boy.

  “This is Yorick Moreno’s” family, Smith said out loud.

  But why leave the videotape outside Alberto Moreno’s caravan? He thought.

  He took out his phone and dialed Whitton’s number. It went straight to voicemail. Smith realized he had forgotten what he wanted to ask her so he did not leave a message. He ended the call. He finished his beer and went to the kitchen to get another one. He took it outside and smoked a cigarette. He was angry; the videotape had not made any sense. Why would Yorick Moreno leave an old tape of a family picnic outside the caravan of his brother? There was nothing on it at all to give them any clues as to the identity of Yorick Moreno. There was only a pair of glazed eyes that Smith did not recognize.

  Smith went back inside and turned on the television. He had attached the television aerial to the back of the television. He turned on the home theatre system again. Suddenly, everything in the room began to shake. Smith wondered if they were experiencing an earthquake. He then noticed that one of the speakers was moving across the floor towards him. He grabbed the remote and turned the system off.

  “Pete was right,” he said to Theakston.

  The dog was cowering in the corner.

  “My neighbours are going to love me for buying this baby.”

  SEVENTY

  DIY Barbecue

  Smith was woken by the ringtone on his phone. It was right next to his ear; he had left the phone next to the mattress he was sleeping on. He rubbed his eyes, stretched and picked it up. It was Whitton.

  “Whitton,” Smith said, “what time is it?”

  “Half eight,” Whitton said, “I thought I’d let you have a bit of a lie in seeing as though you’re on holiday again.”

  “What do you want?” Smith said, “Have you found something?”

  “No,” Whitton said, “the adoptions office is only open again tomorrow morning. I missed a call from you last night. I switched my phone off. I had a date with Brad Pitt and a couple of bottles of wine.”

  Smith tried to remember why he had phoned Whitton.

  “Oh that,” he said, “it wasn’t important. I’ve actually forgotten what it was I wanted to ask you.”

  “Are you still smoking the weed?”

  “No,” Smith lied, “what are the plans for today? With the investigation I mean.”

  “We’ve got nothing,” Whitton said, “we keep banging our heads against one brick wall after another.”

  Smith sighed. He looked at his new entertainment system on the floor on the opposite side of the room. His house was starting to take shape. His living room looked much better with its newly painted walls but he did not know if he would be able to finish the whole house before his suspension was lifted.

  “Whitton,” Smith said, much louder than he intended, “I’ve just had a brilliant idea.”

  “I don’t like the sound of this,” Whitton said, “it almost certainly means my day off has been cancelled doesn’t it?”

  “Yes and no,” Smith said, “get hold of Bridge and Thompson and tell them I want you all at my house around ten. And tell them to wear old clothes.”

  “What are you up to?” Whitton said.

  “Just get here.”

  He ended the call. He knew that Whitton would do as he had asked.

  Smith made some coffee and went outside to smoke a cigarette. The sun was beating down and there was not a cloud in the sky. It was a perfect day for what he had planned. He finished the cigarette and went back inside. He dialed Chalmers’ number. Chalmers answered almost immediately.

  “Boss,” Smith said, “how are your DIY skills?”

  “My what?” Chalmers said.

  “I’m inviting you to a DIY barbecue,” Smith said.

  “What the hell is a DIY barbecue?”

  “You’ll see,” Smith said, “be at my house at ten and don’t wear anything you don’t want to get covered in paint.”

  Smith rang off and dialed Brownhill’s number. He was not sure whether he should invite her but then he realized that she owed him a favour after sticking his neck out for her. Her phone went straight to voicemail. Smith left her a message explaining his idea.

  Smith got dressed and left the house. He drove to the supermarket and bought the necessary supplies; more paint brushes and rollers, charcoal and meat for the barbecue and enough alcohol to go around. Whitton and Bridge were waiting outside his house when he got back.

  “What’s this all about?” Whitton said.

  She was wearing an old pair of jeans and a white T shirt that was covered in red paint.

  “I’ve decided we can kill three birds with one stone,” Smith smiled.

  “How did you figure that one out?” Bridge asked.

  “You’re all going to help me finish painting my house,” Smith said, “after that we’ll have a barbecue and a lot to drink.”

  “And how does that kill three birds with one stone?” Bridge said.

  “Firstly,” Smith said, “it’s something different. It’ll take our minds off this exhausting investigation for a while. Secondly, it’ll give the team a chance to get to know each other away from work and lastly, it’s good to let off a bit of steam every once in a while. It refreshes the mind. We might even come up with something new to work on. Plus it will get my house finished in a fraction of the time.”

  “You’re crazy,” Whitton said but she could not hide the smile on her face.

  Thompson, Chalmers, Brownhill and Webber all arrived at Smith’s house at the same time ten minutes later. Only Thompson had something negative to say about Smith’s idea. Brownhill surprised Smith by saying that she thought it was a great idea.

  “This is just what we all need,” she said after finishing one of the walls in one of Smith’s spare rooms.

  “Thanks for coming,” Smith said, “the meat for the barbecue and the booze are on me.”

  By two in the afternoon, Smith’s house was finished; all the walls had been painted. Smith would never have had the place finished so quickly on his own. Everybody sat outside in Smith’s garden. Everybody apart from Thompson had huge grin
s on their faces.

  “The fridge in the kitchen is full of booze,” Smith said, “help yourselves. I’ve got wine, beer, cider and I’ve even got that lager stuff for the wimps among you.”

  He smiled at Bridge.

  “Now,” he said, “I’m going to see if I still have enough Australian blood left in me to remember how to make a Barbie.”

  SEVENTY ONE

  Men in uniform

  The barbecue was ready two hours later. Smith had cooked chops, steak, sausages and chicken and now a feast filled up the table Smith had put outside for everybody. Whitton had brought some salad and Brownhill had managed to whip up a potato bake with the ingredients she found in Smith’s kitchen. Bridge had gone home to fetch some music and The Red Hot Chilli Pepper’s ‘Under the Bridge’ was blaring out of Smith’s brand new home theatre system.

  For the first time in weeks, nobody mentioned work. Even Thompson had lightened up after a few beers.

  “I’d like to propose a toast,” he raised his beer can in the air and soaked Brownhill’s hair.

  Brownhill did not appear to notice.

  “Here’s to Smith,” Thompson said, “here’s to the biggest arsehole I’ve ever worked with.”

  Nobody said a word.

  “But,” Thompson smiled, “He’s also a guy with a heart this big.”

  He stretched his arms out and patted Smith on the shoulder.

  “Thanks Thompson,” Smith said, “and thanks to all of you. I never would have got my house finished without your help. Now, let’s eat.”

  Thompson was first to the table. Bridge went inside to change the music and the haunting intro to The Doors’ ‘Light my fire’ oozed out of the house.

  “This was one of your better ideas,” Chalmers said, wiping some chicken marinade from his chin, “look at everybody. They’re all relaxed. They’re more chilled out than they’ve been in months.”

  “This investigation has taken it out of them,” Smith said, “I can’t remember the last time when a murder investigation was so draining.”

  “Have you got any whiskey?” Brownhill shouted from the other side of the table.

  Her cheeks were flushed; she had had quite a lot of red wine to drink.

  “Only Jack Daniels,” Smith said, “shall I go and get it?”

  “Yesh,” Brownhill slurred, “and that’s an order.”

  The food was finished and Bridge had volunteered to wash the dishes. The bottle of Jack Daniels was being passed round. Nobody seemed to mind drinking from the bottle.

  “Let’s play a game,” Brownhill said, “let’s play a drinking game.”

  Everybody looked at her. They could not believe it was the same person.

  “Thish is off the record,” she said, “we all take a swig of the bottle and tell the others what’s been the most embarrassing thing that’s happened to us on the job. Who wants to start?”

  “Not Thompson,” Smith said, “we’ll be here all night.”

  Everybody laughed. Even Thompson had a wide grin on his face.

  “Why don’t you go first,” Smith said to Brownhill.

  “Ok,” she took a long swig from the bottle, “but this is to go no further. Ok?”

  Everybody nodded.

  “It was when I’d just been promoted to DS,” Brownhill began, “in Leeds. I was keen to impress as you can imagine. We got word that a major player in a drug syndicate we were after had been spotted at a strip club in the city.”

  “This sounds interesting,” Thompson said.

  “Anyway,” Brownhill said, “we’d set up a raid on the strip club and we were waiting outside. This drug dealer’s car was well known to us. It was a fancy Mercedes Benz, a black one. I still remember it. We held back waiting for back up but I spotted the car outside the club. There was somebody inside. Anyway, I don’t know what made me do it, a mixture of ambition and naivety I suppose, but I got back into my car and drove straight into the driver’s side of the Mercedes.”

  Everybody stared at her, mouths wide open.

  “What’s so embarrassing about that?” Bridge said.

  He had finished washing the dishes.

  “There were, in fact, two people in the car,” Brownhill said, “a man and a woman.”

  “Who was it?” Whitton said.

  “Let’s just say it was a very high ranking police officer,” Brownhill smiled, “I won’t mention any names. He was married at the time. He got out of the car. He was a bit dazed. He had been frolicking in the back with one of the strippers from the club.”

  The garden was quiet.

  “That’s brilliant,” Smith said eventually.

  Everybody started to laugh.

  “What happened afterwards?” Whitton said, “We’re you in trouble for smashing into his car?”

  “On the contrary,” Brownhill said, “the whole matter was hushed up. A high ranking police office couldn’t be seen to have been in such a position. The press would have had a field day with it. Who’s next?”

  She looked at Chalmers and handed him the Jack Daniels.

  “I once beat the shit out of a department store mannequin,” Chalmers took a swig of the whiskey, “and another time I arrested a nun by mistake. I thought she was in disguise. I got a real bollocking for that one.”

  The garden was filled with laughter. Smith could not remember the last time he had laughed so much. His jaws were aching.

  “When I was a PC,” Bridge took the bottle from Chalmers, “I kicked in the wrong door on a raid. It should have been the house next door. You should have seen the looks on the faces of the two old people when their door was smashed in by the police.”

  “What’s going on here?” A squeaky voice stopped the laughter.

  It was Smith’s neighbour.

  “Hello,” Smith raised his beer, “Come and join us. We have plenty of booze to go round.”

  “Turn off that music,” the man said, “or I’ll call the police.”

  BI Brownhill started to laugh. It started off as a quiet giggle and escalated into a deep guffaw.

  “Can you imagine that,” she said between bursts of laughter, “can you imagine the looks on the faces of the men in uniform when they get here and see who’s disturbing the peace?”

  Whitton also started to laugh. It was infectious. Bridge followed suit.

  “Evening all,” Bridge laughed, “could you bunch of inebriated detectives please turn it down a bit?”

  That was it. The cream of York’s police department were rolling around on the lawn. Smith’s neighbour stood with his mouth wide open. He did not know what to say. He turned around and went back inside his house.

  It was starting to get dark and rain clouds were forming in the east.

  “I think we should call it a night,” Grant Webber said.

  He had barely spoken all day.

  “Why?” Brownhill said, “I haven’t laughed like this in ages.”

  She emptied what was left of the Jack Daniels into her mouth.

  “Come on,” Webber took her arm, “this has been just what the doctor ordered but we need to have clear heads tomorrow.”

  Brownhill seemed to sober up immediately. The DI in her seemed to rear its ugly head again.

  “Grant’s right,” she said, “how about we wrap things up? We have a lot to get through tomorrow.”

  It was as if a switch had been turned off. Everybody drained what was left in their glasses and serious expressions formed on their faces.

  “Smith,” Brownhill said, “today was great. It was just what we all needed. Please apologize to your next door neighbour on my behalf.”

  “Not a chance in hell,” Smith said.

  SEVENTY TWO

  Yang Chu

  Monday morning dawned grey and damp. DI Brownhill’s team began to count the cost of the copious amounts of alcohol they had consumed the day before. Whitton arrived at the station first. She could not remember the last time she had suffered a hangover. She went straight to the canteen and
got some coffee from the machine. Bridge shuffled in shortly after her. He looked terrible; he was unshaven and his eyes were so bloodshot you could barely make out the whites of his eyes. He nodded to Whitton and winced as if it hurt his head. He got the strongest coffee possible and sat next to Whitton. He took out two headache tablets.

  “How’s your head?” Whitton said.

  Bridge groaned in reply.

  He popped the tablets in his mouth and took a sip of the coffee.

  “That was quite a party yesterday,” Whitton said, “Smith really knows how to bring the team together.”

  “He’s changed,” Bridge said, “he’s different somehow.”

  “He hasn’t changed that much,” Whitton said.

  Thompson and Brownhill walked in together. A man who Whitton recognized from uniform walked behind them.

  “Morning,” Brownhill seemed unusually awake considering the amount she had had to drink at Smith’s house, “in Smith’s absence we have a temporary replacement to help us. This is PC Yang Chu. He’ll be assisting us until Smith get’s back.”

  Whitton and Bridge nodded to Chu.

  Whitton looked him up and down. He was short and stocky with black hair and a tanned face. His nose was small and pointy and his eyes were dark brown. He had very high cheekbones and Whitton thought, if he wore make up he could easily pass for a woman; his skin was smooth and his face was too pretty to belong to a man. DI Brownhill beat him hands down in the facial hair stakes. Chu noticed that Whitton was staring at him and smiled at her. Whitton looked away.

  “Meeting in ten minutes,” Brownhill said, “I hope you’re all feeling fresh after yesterday.”

  Fifteen minutes later, they all sat in the small conference room waiting for Brownhill to begin. Whitton purposefully took the seat next to Yang Chu.

  “I’m loathe to admit it,” Brownhill began, “but we have nothing to go on at the moment. Our main suspect in the murder of three children is once again the brother of Alberto Moreno. Yorick Moreno. A man who, seven years ago was accused of the murder of his wife. She was found in the bathtub with twenty seven stab wounds to her neck face and body. While Moreno was being driven to his trial, the car he was in ran off the road and into the river. Yorick disappeared. His body was never recovered.