She moved the curser again and replayed the scene repeatedly, each time trying to read the smile on her face as Maria paraded herself for the camera. There was something there; she knew she needed to talk too Maria. She needed to know what it was that she saw in her smile.
Chapter Eight
Bridger and Grant stood awkwardly in the cramped interior of Anthony’s caravan; it smelt of stale whisky and sweat, with an undertone of recently smoked Cannabis. Anthony looked only slightly less uncomfortable in his own surroundings, his eyes darting around the small living space. Bridger noticed them linger a bit longer on the small table sitting beside a small leather sofa. He followed his gaze and saw the remnants of a Cannabis cigarette stubbed out in a dirty ashtray. Not something, he could be bothered with, but he looked back at Anthony, catching his eye, raising his eyebrows in question. Anthony opened his mouth as if to say something but decided better of it and looked at the floor instead. It was not a very fair thing to do, Anthony was not a suspect at this point, but Bridger had found it was better to put someone on the back foot before starting an interview; they were less likely to try to pull one over him.
“Please, sit down…” Anthony had regained some of his composure and was indicating two of the small chairs next to a very small dining table. He took a deep breath as if he was trying too steady himself. “You will have to forgive me Sergeant; it’s not been a very nice couple of days and I’m not sure how I can be of much help… I feel so useless…” he sniffed and turned his head away again.
Bridger was not sure he believed Anthony’s depreciation of himself, his voice sounded too mechanical and practised. The man was a performer, he would know how to play to a crowd, it made sense he could pretend to be anything he wanted, in anyone’s company. “Mr Gonzales, if you could go over the events last night leading up to the last time you saw Michael Wilson.”
Anthony sat down opposite them, put his hands on the table in between, and spoke quietly. “We set up for the performance last night as usual, the Clowns do most of the labouring, it leaves me able to get in a few practice swings before the show. Mick was in his caravan warming up; he needs a bit of quiet time to get himself in the right headspace...” Anthony’s voice caught in his throat, “He needed space… I still cannot believe he is gone…” A tear glistened on his cheek and he sniffed loudly.
This time his emotions were not for Bridger’s benefit, they would not get very far if he broke down. A bottle caught Bridger’s eye, the amber liquid a very familiar sight. Without thinking, he reached over and picked it up, along with a small tumbler sitting next to it. It just seemed a natural thing to do. He poured a generous two fingers with a practiced hand as Anthony watched over with the subtle eye of a drinker, nodding his approval when the tumbler was almost three quarters full. Bridger pushed it towards Anthony without speaking and he grabbed it up with both hands, imbibing deeply. He watched as Anthony’s shoulders visibly relaxed and calmness descended over his features. Bridger felt everything Anthony did in his head, as only a fellow drinker could. He felt the pull of the bottle, tugging at his senses, and he had to screw the cap on quickly too stop himself taking a pull. His own sobriety was something he had control over now, which was more than he could say for other parts of his personal life.
Bridger noticed that Grant did not say anything, as he no doubt watched the interaction between the two of them. Instead, he saw that he had taken out his notebook and pen, waiting for Anthony to speak, his features not giving anything away about whether he approved of this action or not. Good man, he was glad of the support. He looked back at Anthony.
“Thank you Sergeant.” Anthony looked at the tumbler in his hands. “Mick was a very important part of our lives here at the Circus, as well as being the owner he was also our friend… a very proud man… proud of the legacy of this Circus. He does not have any children; he was the last Wilson in a very long line. I’m not sure where we go from here.” He took another smaller sip of the whisky. “Mick’s great, great, Grandfather Cyril Wilson started this Circus, with just a few animals and some Clowns… quite a small affair it was back then. Then I guess travelling with a big operation in those days would have been too difficult. It was not until my own great grandfather arrived from the old country that they could really offer a good show though. He was only seventeen years old and a gifted athlete; he practically pioneered the acrobatic styles we have today. He put Wilsons Circus on the map; he was the one they all came to see. The Clowns had nothing on him…” A pride was evident in his voice. “The crowds grew bigger and bigger, my great grandfather’s performance got better with each show. Soon he was a household name; no one came to see the Clowns anymore. They wanted thrills and that is what he gave them, it is what we Gonzales’s have been giving them ever since.”
Bridger saw Grant shuffle in his chair impatiently as did Anthony who stopped talking and looked at his lap. They probably did not need any of the back-story Anthony was providing, but he knew by letting him talk he would relax, and then they were more likely to get the information they needed. “Go on Mr Gonzales, any bit of information you can provide may be helpful.
Anthony looked up again; his expression had changed slightly, taken on a harder edge. “After one of the performances here in Dunedin, an errant newspaper article surfaced. I forget who wrote it, but in essence, it laid waste to everything about the circus, calling it an ‘average circus’ going on to say it contained ‘nothing striking’. In particular, it portrayed the Clowns in a poor light. My great grandfather got a glowing mention for his skills though, which incensed the Clowns no end. It caused a real shit-storm within the Circus, the Clowns rallied against him. They had been part of the troupe longer than he had, so they made up stories about him and went too Cyril. He had to side with the Clowns out of a misplaced loyalty and so my great grandfather left the troupe after that… Listen to me… I should not be going on about that, it is all ancient history now. You want to know about last night, not any ancient grievance…”
Grant looked up from his notebook, which Bridger noticed had not seen a single entry. “That would be good Mr Gonzales; you were telling us about what you were doing before the show last night?”
Anthony looked at the now empty tumbler in his hands and Bridger took the unspoken cue. Pouring another two fingers into the glass, he watched as Anthony added a splash of water from a decanter sitting on the table. His taste buds tingled slightly, and he swallowed an imaginary dram. It was the closest he wanted to come to the nectar he had been so fond of, but he still missed the burn. Anthony continued speaking.
“The show went as it always did, starting with those dreary Clowns, followed by Maria and I. We always do a couple of easy jump and catch routines at the beginning, sort of a teaser for what was too come. Get the audience in the mood. Except last night…, Maria fell, as you already know, and that ended the show.
I stayed with Maria until the ambulance arrived, Michael looked after the audience, and the handlers went back to the animals. After Maria went to the hospital, I went and confronted the Clowns.” Anthony touched the bruise on his eye “They were the ones who set up the ropes… they were too short, I know it. We have done that jump hundreds of times and never had an accident. It’s just like all those years ago… the Clowns aren’t happy with their lot and they feel threatened...”
“Why would they feel threatened Mr Gonzales?” Grant butted in.
“Look, the Circus is losing money… it’s a tough world out there now. We have to compete for attention. It is hard to drag the kids away from their computers and games. You can see all sorts of things on the internet for free, why would you want to pay for the same stuff.”
“I still don’t see what that has to do with the Clowns feeling threatened.”
“The Clowns know that they would be the first to go… no one comes to the Circus too see Clowns anymore. What is a Clown going to do in the real world? Michael had already spoken too us about possible redundancies and that has them
scared. It makes sense they would tamper with our act.”
Bridger did not really follow his logic. “We will look into what you have told us about the Clowns when we speak with them, but for now we have to concentrate on Michael Wilson’s murder. Can you tell us what you did after confronting the Clowns?”
“The Clowns did not take too kindly too me accusing them of tampering with the ropes.” Anthony touched his eye again. “But that is for another time… I returned too Michael’s caravan, I wanted to call the police, he told me not too. We argued about the reasons…, he said it was not worth it, that Maria was okay. He did not want to stir up any trouble. I think the Clowns have something on him; he lets them get away with so much. I called the Police anyway, but when they arrived the female Sergeant told us it was not a Police issue and left it at that.”
“She was right Mr Gonzales, unless we can prove anyone tampered with your ropes then it is just that, an accident. Did you check the ropes yourself before you jumped? I would have thought it’s the first thing you would do…” Bridger did not want Maria’s accident too bog them down.
“Well… no, no I didn’t, but we don’t usually have too. I check them when we first put them up, then periodically through the week’s performances. I see we will have to review that policy in light of what happened.”
“Ok, Mr Gonzales, let’s move on to what you did next.” Bridger could not tell whether Anthony was deliberately trying to steer them away from what happened last night or that he just felt strongly about his assumptions of Maria’s accident.
“The Police left and Michael said he would go into town… too see if Maria was alright.”
“Did you go with him?”
“No…,” Anthony shifted slightly in his seat. “He said he wanted to go on his own, he said that he needed some space. He said he had things to think about… He wouldn’t tell me what they were… he… he didn’t come home… that was the last time I saw him and we argued…” A single tear ran down Anthony’s cheek and he quickly brushed it away, downing the rest of his whisky in one gulp. His voice took on a hard edge “Michael is dead… now I am in charge. I have to be strong… making this work, for him. The Circus needs to go on.”
Bridger looked at the man in front of him. His demeanour had changed dramatically throughout their brief conversation; it had gone from grief stricken through all range of emotion until what he saw before him. He was an actor, but one with a motive? He could not see one. “Thank you Mr Gonzales, we will be in touch.”
The white board in the office was almost full. Michael Wilson, the man they called Irish Mick, in all his chiffon glory, was staring out from a promotional picture placed at the top of the board. No one at the Circus could come up with a proper picture of him and Bridger hated using crime scene photographs so had procured the small poster as a substitute. Beneath the poster, a tangle of lines drawn with marker pen, spread downwards like cobwebs, and at the end of each line was an enquiry. Each enquiry had a name or heading and whether it had been completed or not. The entire team had gathered in the small office and were staring at the board, trying to decipher any potential clues that might magically jump out. The elephant in the room was the word ‘Motive?’ written in the centre of the board and circled in red marker pen. Bridger was staring at the word.
“What motive would anyone have to kill a Circus Ringmaster, aren’t they supposed to bring people happiness?”
The rest of the room remained silent as if waiting for Bridger too answer his own question.
“Putting aside a random attack, what do we know about those at the Circus? Could any of them be involved?”
Becky spoke up from the back of the room. “Maria Staverly was, by her own admission, in the area, but I don’t see her being able to do something like that. She told Gill, and me, that after she left the hospital she went into town. She cannot remember much after that, but I cannot see her wanting to walk through the alleyway behind the Hercus building too get too George Street, not even the students walk through there at night, drunk or not. She told us that she returned home early the next morning to find the Police at the Circus enclosure, which was when she heard about Mr Wilson.”
“Good Becky.” Bridger looked over at Jo but she did not hold his gaze “Jo did you manage to nail down the timings for when Maria or Wilson left the hospital?”
Jo made a show of consulting her notebook. “It was twenty two thirty hours Sergeant, she came out the door on her own, still wearing her costume, looked around, and then walked out of view.”
“You said ‘She’? Jo, what about Wilson.”
“No sign of Wilson entering or leaving the Hospital while Maria was there, but you can check, in case I missed him.” Jo clicked a button on her computer and sent the file up to the projector. The file started playing on the white screen to the side of the room.
Everyone’s eyes were on the screen as Maria walked out of the front door, on her own, and dressed in her crisp white spandex circus outfit. There were sparkly bits all over it and the tightness accentuated her shapely figure. She paused, threw something in the bin and then looked up at the camera briefly, before walking from view. There was no sign of Wilson.
The sight of her circus costume brought back the memory of Wilson’s corpse, lying in the alleyway, dressed in an equally flamboyant way. Bridger shuddered with the memory. Maria showed no embarrassment about wearing her revealing costume in public; Wilson had been equally as comfortable in his costume, not taking it off before ending up in the alleyway, a long way from the big top.
“Thanks Jo…So, Wilson didn’t make it to the Hospital after all.” Bridger filed the small fact in his mind and carried on “Grant and I spoke with Anthony Gonzales. He is part owner of the Circus and last saw Wilson when he went into town, apparently going to see Maria… from what we have just seen, we can infer that he never made it to the hospital. Wilson and Gonzales had argued, but it was over a trivial matter… not enough to kill over.” As Bridger spoke the words, he thought about all the trivial matters that people actually did kill over; he decided to defer his own judgment on that point. He looked at Brian who took his cue.
“The Clowns were a pretty strange bunch; it was almost as if they had forgotten how to be anything but Clowns. They kept finishing each other’s sentences, slapping each other on the backs, slapping themselves, that sort of thing. They did not seem too upset about Wilson’s death though, but I guess that even in a place as close knit as a Circus, you would not be close to everyone. They did let on that they had a heavy drinking session after they cancelled the show. The night was a blur too them after that. They do not remember seeing Wilson after the show, but they did say they had a visit from Gonzales. Apparently, he tried to blame them for the accident. One of them pointed to his purple size fifteens and made a kicking motion before laughing silently. I took that too mean they did not receive the allegation well.” Brian shook his head and sucked in a breath. “They may be drinkers, and a bit violent too boot, but I can’t see them as our killer or killers. They all had copies of the Holy Bible placed beside their camp beds. Besides, they don’t go anywhere without each other, so for them it would have to be all of them…, or none.”
Bridger looked around the room; he saw that all eyes were on him. “Reece Coster is the only other name that comes close to a motive, stretched as it would be. He has an implied angst against the Circus, in that it keeps animals in captivity. For those that do not know, Reece Coster is a member of P.A.A.I.N, a university action group. People against animals in captivity network. P.A.A.I.N, or Coster working on his own, will be behind that little incident this morning at the Circus, no one else has anything too gain. He denied any involvement in that and in Wilson’s death when we put it to him. Putting that aside, his alibi is weak. He may have had a run in with Wilson at some point. He saw him in the alleyway and settled a score. Things got out of hand and he ended up killing him.”
“He does not strike me as that radical though Mike” Becky spo
ke up, “He pretends he cares, but all he likes is the action, not the cause. It is a long bow to draw, for us too think he would kill over it.”
“I agree on that point, but it’s worth keeping in mind. There is more too this, something we are missing.” Bridger looked at his watch. He was dog-tired and could feel his head getting thick and sluggish. He wanted to be able to look like he was interested in saving his relationship when he saw Laura that evening. They had done what they could for the day; they would gain nothing by rehashing what they already knew. He made a decision “Let’s sleep on it, come back in the morning with a fresh pair of eyes. We will revisit the crime scene and see if we can dig up any more CCTV footage from the surrounding area. I hope that our killer will show up on that. We need to find out how everyone fits together in the puzzle.” He looked around the room for any questions, but saw that no one disagreed, as each started to gather things on their desks and put them in piles. Everyone likes an early day, even when there was a murder too solve. Bridger noted the time in his notebook, twenty hours since he attended the scene in the alleyway and he had been on duty ever since. Walking out into the hallway, he saw Inspector Allison coming out of the lift. He ignored her questioning look as he made his way towards the stairs. Murder or not, he needed sleep, and time with his soon to be ex wife.
Send in the Clowns, a Detective Mike Bridger novel Page 6
