Send in the Clowns, a Detective Mike Bridger novel

by Mark Bredenbeck

  She knew from past visits to the city, if she could call it a city, that it thrived off the student population. She also knew that they seemed too congregate around the north end of town. That is where she would go; she would try to salvage something from her evening, such that it was. It did not even matter how she was dressed, that would work in her favour, something she had learned from experience. A small smile played out on her lips as she recalled the memories and then the pill started to take effect.

  Crossing over Great King Street, she walked over towards the old Hercus Building. There was an alleyway somewhere here, more of a driveway than an alleyway, which led around to the rear. Someone had told her once on a previous visit that it was where the old mortuary had been. The dead travelled through here in all of the states that death had found them. Obsessed over by pathologists, the empty shells would have been stripped of its secrets and then returned to the grieving. The bodies would have left, but the spirits would always remain. Not a place a young woman should be walking at night, sharing space with hundreds of lost souls.

  She did not care, old ghost stories were just that, silly stories… nothing too be afraid of at all. This way was quickest; it led right up to the rear of the Robbie Burns Hotel, with a bar she knew would be full of her kind of people. She did not even look back as she stepped into the darkness cast from the shadow of the building; and she did not notice the equally dark figure that had fallen into step behind her as she disappeared from the safety of the street. The little blue pill had taken its hold and she did not know much of anything, except anticipated pleasure…

  Chapter Three

  Mike Bridger saw the glow of the cellphone light up in the darkness before it even made a noise. The vibration brought it closer to his outstretched fingers and he was able to shut it off before Beethoven got into full swing, the ninth symphony being his ringtone of choice, something with which he could not quite put his finger on why he liked it. The first stirring of anger started to raise the bile in his throat; he could not be bothered with interruptions tonight. He felt a little relief in that was not ‘on call’, and so whoever it was could wait until morning. He had things that were more important on his mind.

  Not checking the caller details, he put the phone down on the bedside table. To stop any more unwanted interruptions he turned up the music playing on the small speaker, which was streaming from an application on his iPod – Dave Matthews Band – Grace is Gone, music that suited the evening’s activities, mellow guitars and a melancholy voice.

  Turning back towards the centre of the bed, he saw her shapely silhouette, lying on her side, arms outstretched invitingly… “Now, where were we?” he heard a small giggle and made a grab for the nearest lump he could see.

  The phone rang again, just loud enough to make itself known over a lull in the music. The clash of melody breaking the moment, he watched her shrink back under the covers with a frustrated sigh.

  “Bloody cell phones, you can’t get a moments peace.” Wishing he had turned it off he grabbed the phone from the bedside table, stopped the music, and sat up on the edge of the bed before pressing the answer key. “Bridger.” Whoever it was had better have a bloody good explanation. There was a slight pause on the other end of the phone. “Well…?” He grew impatient.

  “Detective Sergeant Bridger?” a slightly harried voice questioned.

  “I thought I had got that part out of the way already.” He knew in his heart that this would mean work; he could hear the telltale signs of the Police dispatch room in the background. He also knew that if it was work calling then he could kiss the rest of his night goodbye. He looked over at the inviting lump hiding under the covers next to him and gave in with a resentful groan.

  “What can I do for you tonight then…?” His unusually good mood was fast evaporating.

  It had taken him less than ten minutes from warm bed too cold alleyway and he did not quite have his head around what had just happened. The guilty feeling he should have been feeling for running out on her yet again was fighting against the more primal feeling of frustration. How many more chances would he have, she was willing, but from warm body too cold it was a sharp contrast, and looking at what he could see, Bridger knew that it was going to be a very long night.

  “Bloody hell Grant, who could do something like that…?” The broken mess lay silently in front of them.

  Detective Grant Wylie smiled in his direction, never one to be too squeamish “You’re right there, Mike; it is a ‘Bloody’ hell. Either that or we have stumbled onto the set of a B-grade horror movie.”

  They both stood silently in the darkness of the alleyway, just outside the circle of the high-powered lights, contemplating what was lying against the red brown brick of the old Hercus building and why it was there. Grant’s description of a horror movie set was not far wrong. Bridger could not see where the body finished and the blood started. It looked like an overzealous set designer had misinterpreted what his brief was and designed a cliché instead. He could see that the blood would have stopped flowing from the head wounds post mortem though. If the concaved scull did not cause the death, then the loss of what looked like of all of the blood a body can hold, would have. Pooled in a thick red puddle around the head, a small trail was making its way slowly towards the gutter. The depravity that some people were capable of did not usually affect him, but some scenes were stranger than others were.

  “Is that some sort of Circus costume?”

  “I’m not sure Mike, fancy dress maybe?”

  Whatever it was, it added a slightly macabre feeling too the cold corpse lying in front of them. The sound of someone clearing his throat turned Bridger around. He was still dizzy from the sight of all the blood and it looked like the smiling face of the portly Simon West was floating above a white cloud in the darkness behind them, or it could have been a snowman. In the frontal lobe of his frustrated brain, nothing was making sense for Bridger tonight. He rubbed his tired eyes and looked again.

  Simon West was one of the scenes of crime officers in Dunedin and was dressed in his customary white coveralls. His large girth gave Bridger the cloud impression when contrasted against the dark background.

  “Mike, it’s good to see you again.” Simon held out his gloved hand.

  Bridger looked down at the hand shrouded in off-white latex. There was no way he was going to shake that. Knowing Simons taste for the gruesome, he knew that he would have already been ferreting around the body looking for his trophies, so those gloves could be contagious. His distaste must have shown on his face as Simon also looked at his glove and withdrew the offer.

  “Quite right… I wouldn’t shake it either.” There was no offence in his voice. “Anyway, I would say death was caused by the blow to the head…”

  “Let’s leave that decision to the Pathologist shall we.” As much as Bridger respected the job that Simon did, he was still upset at the disruption of his plans for the evening, and he needed to take it out on someone.

  Simons face fell. “I was just saying… never mind…” He turned back towards the body and Bridger almost felt ashamed at his treatment of him. Simon was a simple man with simple needs, give him a gruesome death scene too deal with and he was in his element. He would also work all the hours needed and would not complain, unlike some of Bridger’s other colleagues who had not answered their phones tonight. That problem had left him standing here in the cold alleyway between the body and the now unhappy snowman. Bridger relented a little.

  “Sorry Simon, I do value your opinion… What have you found so far?”

  Simons face lit up and the excited little boy returned to his voice. “If you would care to step this way…” He indicated towards the corpse, pale under the cold glow of the lights. It was in a half sitting position with its back against the bricks. What was left of the face was staring out from within a crushed mask of red. The expression cemented on the ruined face for eternity was one of fear and shock.

  Simon crouched down
next to the body. “I had a quick look and can’t find any identification on the body…, so that’s no real help… I have collected a few cigarette butts from the immediate area, I cannot say at this stage how long they have been there though.” Simon showed them a small evidence bag before he turned his attention back to the body. “As you can see, the victim was assaulted with what looks too be a blunt instrument around the head and face. There was a fair amount of force put into the attack, resulting in what looks too be multiple fractures of the face and scull…” Simon looked up from his lecture and smiled, before turning to one side and lifting something off the ground next to him with his gloved hand. “I would say that this is the weapon used in the attack…”

  Bridger looked at the innocuous piece of timber in Simon’s hand. It was a rough sawn piece of four by two, around half a metre long and covered in blood, matted with patches of dark hair, which had stuck in the bloodied splinters on the end. Simon was looking up at him, obviously pleased with his find, like a puppy looking for praise.

  Bridger took a breath “Well done Simon, I would say that you are probably right…” He was trying his best to sound neutral about hearing something as obvious as Simon’s conclusion. Looking around for anything else that was obvious he noticed a pile of similar pieces of timber off to the right of them, obscured slightly in the dark. “It looks like our assailant found this piece of wood here though, so it was more likely a weapon of opportunity, rather than premeditated.”

  “So we might be looking at someone trying to protect themselves and then getting a little carried away in the process… a lovers tiff maybe.” Grant said, standing behind them and sounding like he had no issues with obvious conclusions.

  Bridger looked at Grant and wondered if he was serious, it was unlikely a female had the strength to subdue and beat to death the male before them, which gave him pause as to the probable sex of the offender. A strong female maybe…, but most likely it would be a male. “Maybe Grant, but we won’t know until we find the offender, and to do that we need to know who this gentleman is, lying here, very dead, and dressed in his finest clothes.”

  Bridger looked at his watch; it would be another eight hours before the rest of the team started in the morning. Thursday night in Dunedin, no one was going to be sober, the pubs would be full of people, hundreds of potential witnesses, but nowhere to start. He saw an opportunity to sneak back to his own evening and salvage what was left of her good will. Motioning to a uniformed officer that was hovering in the background looking nervous and slightly sickly, he quickly formulated a plan in his head.

  “Lock down the scene, let Simon and his crew finish up and then get photography too record it all. Keep a scene guard on this until morning. That body does not move until we can get a better look when its light.” That ought to do it; he felt his night coming back to him with his quick thinking. His mood lifted slightly.

  The uniform nodded gravely with the importance of it all. “No problems Sergeant…” Looking like he wanted to say something else, Bridger gestured with his hands for him too spit it out.

  “Gill Holler and Steve Kirkland made an enquiry earlier tonight, at the Circus over on the Oval. There was an accident and the trapeze girl fell from her swing. She was not seriously hurt, luckily…”

  Bridger wondered where all this was going, nodding along as the uniform spoke, but half thinking about whether she would still be awake. The uniform continued.

  “They said there were a couple of men from the Circus who were arguing about whether the girl fell by accident or by design. Steve said they were the owners, but he thought they were dressed a bit like the Village People… this guy might be from there…” he could see the uniforms cheeks reddening in the darkness as he indicated the clothing worn by the corpse.

  Damn it to hell, why did every Constable want to be a Detective these days. He could not ignore this though, keeping his voice even, so as not to give away his frustration, he replied. “I wasn’t aware there was a Circus in town…, that was a good call Constable, and it’s worth looking into.” Bridger just saw his plans evaporating before his eyes as he looked at the grateful smile on the uniforms lips, but they were not the lips he wanted to be seeing right now though.

  He glanced back at Grant, who by the look on his face had also worked out he would not be going home just yet either. “Fancy a trip to the Circus…?”

  Chapter Four

  Struggling with the mind crash that she always experienced after a heavy night, Maria was finding it hard to walk in a straight line. Stumbling and nearly falling she had to stop on a number of occasions to regain her balance. It was not the drink, nor the drugs; she just did not react well to either, especially when they mixed. Last night she had to mix, she wanted to forget, and that was the only way she knew how. The heavy cast on her wrist was a sharp reminder though. She desperately needed the toilet, and some food, but did not know which order would be best. Hearing birdsong in the trees as she walked told her that it must be early morning; she had not eaten since yesterday afternoon, just before her performance. The trees that were lining up along the road which she had been using for balance were sprouting green foliage which obscured the last efforts of the streetlights, giving a slightly dimmer path too her intended destination. However, there was a small glow glinting through the leaves, from the emerging sun. It was rising slowly, over by the raised railway tracks. They were visible on the other side of the motorway at the rear of the Oval. She knew them well, the noise of the passing trains kept her awake every time they set up in Dunedin. The sun was trying its best to dissipate the darkness around her, but it had not built up enough power yet and the cold air was getting colder with the dawn. As a result, her breath was causing a little condensation in the slight chill.

  As she got nearer to the southern end of the Oval, she could see the top of the main tent through the trees. A horrid yellow, it had always made her slightly ill too look at it. This morning her churning stomach made it even worse. Looking at her wrist, trussed up in its protective cast, she knew she remembered that happening, but realised little else of last night was clear in her mind. It had been dark in the room she had woken in; she had sensed a presence lying next to her, male or female? She could not tell. The fragrance suggested female but she knew that was a stereotype these days with what some of the men she knew wore on their wrists. Not one for the morning after niceties, she had quietly climbed out of the bed and gathered her skirt off the floor. She had still been dressed from the waist up.

  It must have been a male; the rye thought crossed her mind. Very romantic… but needs must.

  It had taken her a couple of hours to find her way back here, she had no money on her for a taxi and she hadn’t been able to find any back in that house before she left. Feeling cold and tired, she just wanted her bed. Something caught her eye near the road… As she got closer, she saw there was a number of darkened police cars parked against the curb.

  Shit, the Clowns must have been fighting again.

  She thought about turning around and finding a place that was open, maybe get a coffee, the last thing she wanted to do was speak to the police, but the draw of her bed was overpowering and she found herself walking into the surrounds of her makeshift temporary home anyway. She was only a few yards from her caravan. The police were probably just here to deal with the silent animal rights protesters that followed them around wherever they went. She could not see any of the usual lot, standing silently, hiding behind there animal masks. Maybe the police chased them off…

  “Maria…, Maria it’s awful… He’s dead Maria” The short fat woman that did most of the cooking had stepped into her view. She was looking at her and crying. Maria could not remember her name but knew she always had the smell of boiled cabbage about her. She did not keep track of the help normally, only her rivals.

  “Who? Who’s dead?”

  “Irish Mick…. Michael, he’s been murdered.” The woman sank further into her tears and tried to give her a
hug. Maria brushed her off in shock.

  “Micks dead? How?”

  “He got bashed in the head last night in some alleyway, left for dead… well, left dead anyway…He was on his way to the hospital too see you… did you not see him?”

  A cold chill ran down her spine, Mick had come for her; maybe she was wrong about him. An image of a cold dark alleyway fought its way into her mind, there was something familiar about the picture but she could not place it. She could remember nothing after stepping into the colder air outside the hospital last night. That was the pill, one of the downsides. She knew what she was doing when she was flying but she did not always remember it in the morning. She realised that the fat woman was staring at her in a funny way, staring at her costume. Looking down at her midriff, she saw spots of red blood scattered around in random places on the white spandex.

  Shit, where in the hell did that come from? Her mind drew a blank, anything could have happened to explain the blood, but the pill always hid the truth from her. Maria’s first reaction was denial, a sort of self-preservation. It was something she had learned at a very young age. Attack the suspicion that she could see in the fat woman’s eyes.

  “Its blood from my nose, you nosey slag, from when I fell last night. I haven’t been able to clean myself up yet…” She turned and walked away before the fat woman could say anything in reply, but she could feel her eyes on her back as she closed the door on her small metal quarters. The space was small and comfortable, but it did not block a lot of noise from outside. She could hear the sound of sobbing, angry voices, disbelief… and a clown’s laugh.