Send in the Clowns, a Detective Mike Bridger novel

by Mark Bredenbeck

  As he crossed the threshold into the stairwell the air temperature changed slightly, there was a slight chill, which he attributed to the onset of autumn, with winter fast approaching behind it, or it may have just been tiredness. Bridger thought about the whisky from earlier. It was his favourite winter tipple, it ‘was’ his favourite tipple, full stop. He missed the warm lethargic feeling it gave him, but did not miss the angry, self-loathing low it gave him the next day. He had not touched a drop for over six months and wanted to keep it that way if he could. He took the steps one at a time, hand touching the handrail for support. The thought of seeing his wife was fighting for space in his head alongside the details of the investigation. He knew he had too clear his head if he was too give Laura his full attention; she deserved to see him, not someone who was distracted.

  As Bridger left the stairwell on the ground floor, he almost collided with the slender frame of Jane Little.

  “Hi Mike.” A smile radiated from her lips. Bridger noticed to his annoyance that they were devoid of any lipstick but still managed to look bloody inviting. Jane noticed what he was looking at and gave them a cheeky little pout. “How did you get on with Coster the imposter this morning?”

  Bridger lifted his eyes to meet hers. “Coster who?” The question had thrown him a little; he had not seen Jane since he and Laura had sat in her office and agreed to defer divorce proceedings and see how things worked out. It had been an uncomfortable meeting. One that Jane, who was acting as Laura’s lawyer at the time, looked like she had actually enjoyed. Bridger had sat through the whole thing praying she would not let on that they had been seeing each other behind her back. Jane was Bridger’s only addiction that he had not managed to give up.

  “Reece Coster, the animal activist… A friend of mine from the office knows him from around the university. They call him Coster the imposter because he is not a real student anymore. He just hangs around, making himself known to all the new female first year students. Bigging himself up too be some sort of activist, but it’s all just a front to impress the girls.”

  “Coster… Right, we did not get very far with him. He denied involvement in both inquiries we questioned him on.”

  “Look at you and your ‘Cop speak’ Mike. Both inquiries… you are forgetting that I am a defence lawyer and already know more about ‘Both enquiries’ than the Police. You do not need to hold anything back from me. In fact, P.A.A.I.N has secured our services to represent Coster, and the group as a whole. They are afraid the police will try to pin something on them in relation to the animals, or even the death of Wilson.” The playful smile had disappeared from her lips and she was back too being all business. She was a good lawyer, with a sharp and devious mind. It almost scared him, except he had seen her naked. He had been on the receiving end of her deviousness in the past though, despite that fact.

  Bridger toyed with the idea of asking Jane for some advice in relation to his upcoming interview with the independent police complaints authority, but quickly dismissed the idea, partly in embarrassment for his actions, and partly because it would be just more thing she would have on him. “So I guess I will be seeing a bit more of you then.” He could not think of anything else to say as he looked into the eyes that had shown him so many different depths. This was just another layer of tape that bound him into her confused world of passion and indifference, yet he still felt that slight tug of arousal she always drew out of him.

  “I guess you will Mike…” The smile returned to her lips and she gave him a wink, before turning her back on him and walking away. Bridger stared at her backside as she disappeared around the corner, left standing in a cloud of her scent. He closed his eyes and saw an image of Laura in his head, and she was crying.

  Chapter Nine

  Jo Williamson left the Police station and retrieved her bicycle from the basement garage. She lived on the flat area of south Dunedin, built on an ancient swamp and wetlands; the water table was so close to the surface you did not have to dig very far to find yourself back in the salty mess. The area was a miss mash of dilapidated workers cottages and fine homes, the rich and the poor alike. The lower socio economic tended to gravitate towards the cheaper rentals offered in the area, and so her house was very close to some of her less social clients. It was something she normally did not worry about too much, but since it had happened, she had lost a lot of her naive trust in the sacred line that most people did not cross. The police were supposed to be out of bounds.

  She knew different now though, however her financial circumstances at this point in her life would make it difficult to move anywhere else. At least the flatness of the reclaimed land made it an easy ride. She enjoyed the luxury of a quick cycle too work with then had the added bonus of no parking trouble.

  She was younger than most of her colleagues in the office, not even a proper Detective yet, just a uniform attachment gaining some experience. John Mouller was the closest to her in age, but even so, she still saw him join in with their funny looks when she walked into the office in her cycle gear every morning. That was when he was at work, before it had happened. The image of his broken body strapped to a chair flashed in front of her, another memory she could not shake. Pushing her bike out of the garage, she pushed her electronic key tag up against the gate release. She wondered if she would grow out of her fitness routine in time, as her colleagues obviously had. She hoped not, it was the only thing keeping her sane now. It was a way of releasing the stress of her life, if only for a short time. The fresh air would clear her head, making room for more positive happy thoughts.

  Strapping on her helmet and slipping on her gloves, she took a deep breath. Straddling the bike, she pushed hard with her legs, the bikes momentum picking up as she moved out into the alleyway beside her workplace. The bikes gearing was set on the largest cog, granny gears were for wimps. It would only be a quick ride up through the Octagon and then onto Princess Street. From there, barring traffic lights, it was a straight ride down towards south Dunedin and home. She increased her pace as she cleared the last set of traffic lights, where five roads met in one tangle of directions, at the southern end of the central business district. Up ahead she could see the yellow of the Big Top come into view as she closed in on the Oval. As she continued to ride, legs pumping strongly, Maria’s smiling face came to mind; she remembered it staring up at her from within the lens of the camera that had captured her image. The image haunted her thoughts, what was she trying to say with that look…? She almost collided with a bus pulling from the curb and had to brake sharply, the shot of adrenalin focusing her mind once again. As she got closer still, an aroma of fresh straw and animals found its way into her senses, the smell of exotic cooking floated just below. Without thinking, she dismounted her bike as she got alongside the encampment, and walked it slowly along the footpath. She could hear the occasional grunt, or snort, as well as more human noises coming from behind the canvas of the tents as she progressed. There were caravans that she could see towards the rear, behind the big yellow main tent. That was where she would be. One of those caravans would house Maria Staverly. Jo felt something unseen tugging at her, trying to make her deviate from her path. She went with the feeling and placed her bike against the tree, not bothering to lock it. Her body felt like it was moving of its own accord but the feeling did not worry her. This was the right thing to do and Maria would know why she was there.

  Too any casual observer it probably looked as if she chose the caravan at random, maybe she had, but something had drawn her too this one. She knocked on the thin metal door, and felt the metal frame flex, even under her minimal pressure. The door did not open. Listening, she could not detect any movement from inside. A flash of doubt crossed her mind, why was she actually here? She could not think of a single reason other than the face she had seen in the camera.

  “Are you looking for me?”

  Jo spun around, stepping backwards as the body behind the voice came into view. Maria Staverly stood a few feet away w
ith a quizzical look on her face. She was wearing black tights and sports top and there was a slight sheen of sweat on her forehead. The only thing out of place was the coloured cast on her wrist. She looked beautiful, like a porcelain doll, but the eyes where what captivated her. They were the eyes she had seen in the CCTV footage, dark, brooding, knowing, and full of secrets.

  “That’s my door you were knocking on…”

  Jo did not know what to say, she had not thought this through. She knew from the file that she and Maria were about the same age, but the sight of Maria in person made her feel slightly uncomfortable. She could see in Maria’s eyes a lifetime of experience that far outweighed anything that she had done.

  “Well?”

  She could feel Maria’s eyes appraising her, and realised she would not look remotely like a police officer. She was wearing cycle shorts and a T-shirt, and had an ungainly helmet on her head. She did not need to know what she did for a job; she just wanted to talk to her.

  “Can we talk?”

  Maria shrugged her shoulders and reached for her door, as if she did not care either way. “Please yourself.” her bare arm brushed against Jo’s as she stepped up and into the caravan. “I’m going to take a quick shower, make yourself comfortable.”

  Jo stepped up into the caravan in time to see Maria disappear into a tiny room at the rear, leaving the door slightly ajar. She could see a flurry of movement in the gap as Maria took off her clothes. She looked away, slightly embarrassed. Taking a seat on one of the chairs next to a small table, she stared back at the door. The angle she was sitting now hid any more view into the gap. Maria had not shown any curiosity as too why she was there, but strangely, that did not bother her. She felt herself relaxing as she heard the water start running, watching as the steam started to play around the edges of the door. She did not know what came next, but whatever it was, it felt right.

  Bridger looked at his wristwatch and knocked again, he was starting to get a little irritated, and he did not have time for this, he needed to see Laura as well tonight. It had taken him a good half an hour to drive out to Portobello towards the northern end of the peninsula. The coast road was narrow and hugged the shoreline of the harbour as it wound its way out to the little village making for a slow trip. It was a nice enough drive, but only if the final destination for the night was Portobello. Something that was obviously true for the occupants of the cars that he had to follow slowly around the bays, stressed workers inside winding down after a hard day’s work.

  He knocked again. John had acknowledged the text message that he had sent him earlier; he knew he was going to be coming too see him this evening. He had seen John’s flashy yellow motorcycle in the garage as he had come on to the property, not that he could have used it in his current state. The door to the garage was open in John’s typical ‘look at me’ style, so that everyone could see the bike when passing by. Alternatively, it may have been just poor security, either way, it gave the impression that John was actually home and just not answering his door. An uneasy feeling in his stomach replaced the irritation he had felt.

  Bridger tried the door handle but found it locked. Knocking one more time, but this time louder, he waited for a couple of seconds before moving to the side of the house, looking for a way around the back. There was a small gate with no lock, opening that, he saw a concrete path leading to the rear, which he followed cautiously.

  John’s state of mind had not been evident the last time he had seen him. He did not think that he was the type to do anything like harming himself, but who could be sure these days. You never really knew what went on inside someone else’s head until it was too late. He had seen numerous colleagues go down that path in the years he had been in the job. Each one of them had just reached the end of their own paths, and could not see their rights from their lefts. No one had seen those decisions coming, but the decision was always final, there was no coming back from it.

  John had been through a lot in the last few months and the prospect of not being able to do this job anymore would be hard to take. Bridger hated too think how he would feel if he could not do his job. As he continued to the rear he was hoping that John would be in the shower and just not have heard the knock, but as he passed under what looked like the bathroom window he could not hear any noise.

  Reaching the back, he saw a large glass sliding door, but a net curtain obscured the view into the house. Trying this door, he found it locked as well and tried peering through the glass into the murky interior. He saw a square of light flickering, but could not quite make out what it was, possibly a television, or computer monitor. As his eyes adjusted, he saw a dark bulky mass beside the flickering light. It was not moving but had the unmistakable shape of a person sitting down. Straining his eyes, he realised with a start that it was more slumped than sitting. It had to be John.

  Dread replaced his uneasy feeling; he banged hard on the glass panel, and called out, trying to get John’s attention. There was no movement. He shook the door desperately, trying to dislodge the lock. Sliding doors were notoriously bad for security, the locks tended to give way with a little persuasion. John was obviously well aware of this though. Bridger saw a piece of wood jammed into the lower rail on the inside, too stop the door sliding, even if it became unlocked. He called out again, vainly, but John did not move. He cannot be that stupid, he would not have harmed himself. His injuries were severe, but he would recover, he had too. Bridger knew he needed to find a way in. He could not see any insecure windows at the rear, so he jogged to the side of the house. Breaking a window was his last resort, but he would if he had too.

  Half way down the side path, he saw a small window, which was slightly ajar. It was higher up than he would have hoped, but it would do. Grabbing a small planter box, which was nearby, he pushed it over, emptying the contents onto the path in a mess of soil and weeds. Dragging it under the window, he used it as a step to gain the height needed to access the window. Pulling himself up, his feet scrabbled against the old weatherboards for purchase, as first one shoulder, then another, levered inside the window frame. Pushing his head all the way through, he knocked something off the ledge. It clattered, and then splashed, as it ended up inside the toilet bowl below him. He did not want to end up in the same position as the air freshener he could now see bobbing around in the blue water, so placed one hand on the cistern and the other above him, gripping the small overhanging ledge of the window frame. He would pull himself inside then spin around and sit up on the windowsill, which would make it easier to bring his legs inside under control, and then lower himself to the floor.

  He braced himself for the movement and pulled himself as far up the wall as he could. His finger strength gave way before he could complete the movement and he let go of the ledge above. The weight of his head and upper torso falling forward pulled him half inside the window. His chest collided with the edge of the cistern, knocking the wind out of him, just before his chin and head hit the toilet seat. Breathing heavily, with the salty taste of blood on his lips, he took stock of his situation. It would be almost comical, if it had not been as serious. He was stuck with his head inches above the blue water in the bowl. He could not move backwards and could not pull himself all the way inside. At least John had flushed the toilet recently.

  “Mike? What the hell are you doing?”

  Bridger pulled his head up and twisted it sideways too see John standing there holding onto a baseball bat.

  “I thought someone was trying to break in… What are you doing?”

  “John…? I thought… Never mind, help me down would you.”

  Bridger was standing behind John, who was sitting at the table in the dining room, the same place he had seen him slumped through the haze of the lace curtains. He was feeling a little bruised and battered after his encounter with the window frame, and he rubbed at his hips trying to get the blood flowing again. “What have you found John?”

  The flickering light he had seen had been a computer m
onitor, glowing in the slightly dim room. John claimed not too have heard when Bridger knocked at the doors, as he had on a pair of earphones that was noise cancelling. He had been doing a ‘bit of surfing’ on the net and always wore his headphones. Apparently, it gave him a more immersive experience. Bridger did not care either way, as he took in the voyeuristic action displayed on the screen before them.

  John was oblivious to his question. “This high definition screen is pretty good aye boss; you can almost see the sweat drops on their bodies.”

  “How did you come across this John? Is this what you were watching when I came in…?”

  John sunk a little lower in his chair and shrugged his shoulders slightly. “I have been doing a bit of follow up on P.A.A.I.N…, you know… just too keep my hand in. Grant has been keeping me informed of developments at work. I just thought I could help out in some way.”

  John looked slightly embarrassed, but Bridger could not tell whether it was because of the content they were now viewing or the fact he was working at home while on sick leave.

  Bridger had completely forgotten Reece Coster’s words from his earlier interview. If you want to know more, Look at the P.A.A.I.N website later… Staring them in the face was an ugly Zebra mask; the ill-fitting rubber contorted around the wearers face, obscuring half of the eyes, as the head moved back and forth in a rhythmic motion. The body attached to the mask was on all fours, the only thing marking it as female was the shape of small breasts moving visibly behind a tight top. An upright naked torso was behind the body, head just out of view above the camera lens, hips below. It was moving in time with the zebra, small gasps and guttural breathing providing the soundtrack. It was obscene and slightly enthralling at the same time, the camera angle capturing just the right image to show the domination of the fake Zebra.