Send in the Clowns, a Detective Mike Bridger novel

by Mark Bredenbeck

  “Fuck you… I didn’t do it… I didn’t fucking do it…” The tears were hot and wet on her flushed cheeks “Why does everyone hate me?” The sob burst out of her making her chest heave in protest. She curled up in a ball and let herself cry as the slot in the door closed, sealing her inside her misery.

  The darkness in Reece Coster’s mind was absolute. The terror, brewed in his imagination, had tightened his muscles into spasms of pain. His body had wound itself so tight he dare not move, least he exploded outwards in an untangling of limbs that would give the animal in the darkness the target it was waiting for. He knew it was there, waiting for him, waiting to dine on his measly existence. There was just darkness, silence, the animal… and the terror.

  Images of Clowns were permeating into his dread, adding to the mix of animal stench, fear, and cowardice. Feelings that kept him rooted to the cold floor of his cage. The ghostly faces, instead of being jolly, were angry sneers. Painted smiles smeared across flat angry thin lips. The eyes glaring at him were blazing below putrid smoking black curly wigs. Burn marks were visible on the pale faces he saw in his mind, there were little balls of spittle forming at the corner of their horrible mouths, dripping red makeup like drops of blood. They were all accusing him with their stares, and then they would disappear into a ball of flame, before returning more grizzly than before. Closing his eyes just made it worse; he could not escape their attention. For the first time in his life, Reece felt real fear.

  Was it the Clowns; were they the ones who kept him here? He only remembered the fire clearly, but they had been there earlier though. He had seen them. A sharp pain in his head bought back a memory. He was walking away from the fire; he could smell the smoke that had started to float around him. He remembered the satisfaction of the successful mission, and then something had hit him from behind, a sharp pain in his head, the feeling of dizziness coming over him. Strong arms had grabbed him just before the blackness had set in and then he had awoken here. Why would they do that? It was only a fire and no one was hurt. A statement is all it was, cementing his legend.

  Some legend he had turned out to be, he was scared, and the Clowns in his head just made it worse.

  A slight metallic sound in the darkness rang quietly in his ears; followed by what sounded like paws scrabbling for purchase on the straw covered floor off to his right. The beast was moving. A low growl echoed around the dark space as the metallic sound got louder. Someone was pulling open a bolt or something. He wanted to cry out for help but stopped himself. If it was the people holding him, he did not want to show fear. He needed to stay staunch.

  The animal in the darkness obviously did not have the same thoughts as he did. An angry animalistic noise bounced around the confined space, echoing fearfully inside his head. The fetid sour breath that came with it made him gag. A door swung open letting in a slightly dull light, enough to see the dirty brown monster staring at him from behind a caged divider. The Lion saw him as well and lunged at the bars, a giant paw pushing through the gaps looking for his kill. Reece fell back against the cold wall in panic, hitting his head but avoiding the swiping paw.

  “Enough…”

  The Lion cowered into the corner of the cage, blending back into the darkness. Looking over to where the voice had come from Reece saw the angry painted sneers of the Clowns from his head. All thoughts of staying staunch inside the nightmare evaporated as a warm and wet feeling spread around his groin and pooled around his buttocks.

  Bridger felt the familiar vibration of his cell phone against his thigh. He fished it out of his pocket and saw John Moullers name on the small screen. Pushing the answer button, he held it against his ear as he negotiated the stairs, already out of breath even though he was descending. Outside he could see dark clouds gathering on the skyline from the windows of the stairwell.

  “Mike? Is that you I can hear heavy breathing? You’re not still watching the money-shot video are you?”

  Bridger felt his cheeks flush, whether it was because of his lack of fitness or what John was implying, he could not tell. “I was just on my way to get a coffee, what can I do for you John?”

  “I have been looking at the P.A.A.I.N site. You know…just to see if anything changes… well anyway, I found another clip hidden amongst the sub files. No sex on this one I’m afraid… but it was interesting though…”

  Bridger had stopped on the landing and was waiting for John to continue. He was never one to get straight to the point, which he always found slightly irritating. “Spit it out John”

  “It was made by Coster again. He had that stupid mask on but I could tell it was him straight away. You would think he would hide the tattoo. It seems to be some sort of confession in relation to the tent fire last night. The only thing is it hasn’t been posted yet…”

  “So?”

  “So, you would think he would have posted the link by now, given his quickness with the other video. He craves attention for his actions, people knowing about what he has done is what drives him. This clip is still hidden in the sub folders, almost obscure.”

  Bridger’s mind was working faster than his stair climbing ability and John’s inability to get to the point. “There is no way he would have missed the opportunity to release that clip if he could. Which means he is not able to access the site… and I know he has an internet capable phone, he showed me the P.A.A.I.N site on it the other day.” He could almost hear John nodding in agreement. “He is probably not in hiding then, which means he is most likely missing, and not of his own accord I would think.”

  Bridger cut the connection on the phone before John had a chance to answer and stood looking at the small screen. What did that really mean? Why would someone take Coster out of the picture? Unless he had seen something, or done something, he should not have… He still had forty-five minutes before his meeting. Coffee would have to wait. He scrolled down the screen to another number in his contacts and touched the call icon. “Gill…, its Mike. Could you do me a favour? Get over to Reece Coster’s flat again, and this time I even need you to go through his underwear drawer.”

  There was a deep rumble from somewhere outside in the distance, audible even through the concrete walls of the stairwell. Small droplets of water started pattering against the glass. Turning, he started climbing the stairs one at a time, the approaching weather not even registering in his busy head.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Anthony Gonzales was fifty-six years of age, only one year younger than Michael Wilson had been. His body was still strong, his mind stronger and he had an incredible thirst for life. This thirst had sustained him all these years, but he was not stupid enough to think it would last forever.

  He took a long pull on the Whisky he had poured into his favourite crystal tumbler. There were only two pieces of ice in the bottom and they clinked together as he swirled the remaining whisky. Two cubes were just enough to chill it slightly, but not enough to water the burn. The burn was his vice, it was the only pleasure he took from it.

  His mind had been working overtime since Mick’s death and the Whisky was slowing his thoughts, steadying them into line. He needed to be clear, if he could not make sense of it, it would all be for nothing.

  Looking at the blank television screen in front of him, he saw the slight reflection staring back at him, its face was lined and the eyes were haunted. His name Gonzales, was Spanish, although he knew nothing of Spain, it was something given too his family many generations ago. The only thing left of this legacy now was borne out in the reflection he saw; but his once dark hair was thinning and unkempt. When had he gotten so old?

  Swallowing the Whisky, which had been sitting on his tongue, he let the burn move from his mouth to his throat and then into his belly. He needed to start making some decisions. Mick was dead and Maria was in a cell. He knew she was in trouble, but hoped her chemical memories would continue to put distance between the Police and the truth of what had happened that night, for everyone’s sake. His thoughts lingered
on Maria, sweet little Maria. She had no idea, and that was how it would stay, if he were to get what they owed to him. Besides, he had spent the last 25 years trying to make up for the past, a past that only a few knew of. Mick had known, he had bloody started all of this, but now it was only him and the Clowns. Maybe somewhere deep down Maria knew too, but she never let on.

  He swilled the last dreg from the tumbler and held a shallow breath in his mouth, savouring the peaty taste in his mouth. There were things that needed doing; his first priority was moving what was left of the Circus off the reserve and into storage. He needed to contain it and stop the leakage. The Clowns were irritable and he did not want them to start spreading their hate. He knew of what they were capable. He had too much to lose.

  A deep rumble came from somewhere outside and in the distance. The smell of rain was seeping into the back of his nose and a small pattering started beating an uneven rhythm on the thin roof above him. There was a storm coming, the animals would be agitated. He made his decision.

  Stepping outside the caravan and into the light drizzle, he made his way over towards the Clowns enclave. He was sure he could hear a slight fizzing sound as the raindrops fell on what was left of the big-top tent that was lying in a scorched mess off to his right. The acrid smell, competing with everything else around him, made him gag slightly. The ground underneath him, already trampled over by hundreds of people in the last few days had become slippery where the grass had flattened against the hard earth. It would be mud in a few hours if the rain kept coming. Looking at the expensive leather shoes that he had on his feet he realised that no matter what he told himself, he really did hate this part of his life. That was why he had to move on.

  As he neared the Clowns caravan he could hear music laughter and frivolity coming from inside. It was something you would expect from Clowns. To the outsider it would sound completely normal; to him it was hollow, underpinned with narcissism and hate. They would all be pissed off their heads on whatever cheap booze they could lay their hands on. Drinking and joking, laughing and hating, they were no better than the animals they pretended to care for.

  He drew a breath and knocked on the thin door. The music stopped and he saw a flicker of light from one of the windows off to his left. A threadbare curtain moved aside and then closed. It was quick, but he still caught the flash of red visible against the white of the face behind it. A sneering apparition, or just a simple Clown, it was hard to see the difference. A full minute passed before the door opened, the Clowns obviously displaying their dominance by making him wait in the drizzle. They might as well just have pissed on him like an animal.

  The door in front of him was now fully open but there was no one stood in the entrance. An eerie silence had replaced the normal frivolity of a greeting; it was as if the occupants had been spirited away. A shiver ran down his spine, but he shook it off. He was in charge here, not them. They were just playing silly, like they always did. That was what Clowns do; he knew that better than most.

  Stepping up into the cramped interior, the smell of stale cigarettes and beer assaulted his nostrils. Someone belched and there was a suppressed giggle. The door shut quietly behind him and he stood in the middle of the cramped floor surrounded on three sides by a gaggle of painted faces smiling up at him from their seats. A gaggle of painted faces…and one very scared looking fake zebra boy, eyes covered with cloth.

  Standing outside in the rear yard of the police station Jo Williamson could feel the rain starting to spatter on her cycle helmet. The slightly warm tarmac under her feet was getting darker as the drops increased and had started to emit a slight odour as only wet tarmac could. She looked up at the beige concrete walls above her and then down at the shuttered rear entrance to the holding cells. She was seething inside, Sergeant bloody Bridger had just ignored her hesitation of Maria’s guilt. Maria was just not capable of murder, end of… She had seen herself in Maria’s knowing smile as she had looked into her eyes the other night, which told her all she needed to know. They had both suffered in some way and now spent every day dealing with the consequences. It was an unspoken understanding of life that only victims would understand. They were victims, victims but not killers.

  Jo shuddered a little, was that was she was, a victim? She hated that word, but it went with her job. Images of desperate people crying out for help from their pitiful existence. When she had first started as a Police Constable those people had been nothing more to her than someone to pity. They all led a different life than she, so in her world she would not ever be a victim. She knew differently now though. She knew, but did Maria? Some people were able to live life unaware that they were victims. Their behaviour would always reveal something in their lives that was not normal though. Maria was not a normal girl, she had suffered in some way, of that she was sure now.

  If only Sergeant Bridger could understand that, look at the girl instead of the circumstances, then he would see. Jo silently cursed herself for not being able to verbalise her hesitations, but she still did not feel comfortable enough yet in the office to speak up properly. She found herself hoping his interview with the IPCA did not go in his favour, just to teach him a lesson. No one was perfect, not even him. He would feel the shame, just as she did, just as she was sure Maria did.

  The drizzle turned to rain and a gust of wind sprayed the water over her bare legs making her shiver again. It was not fair of her to think this way; Sergeant Bridger was always open to ideas. She just needed to speak up, but to do that she needed to speak with Maria first. Leaning her bicycle against the wall, she went back up the stairs and into the building, bypassing the stairs she took the corridor towards the cellblock.

  He watched her go back inside the building; he knew it was the same girl; she was the bicycle girl… the one they had watched the other night with Maria, in the sawdust, just before the fire. There was something between them, it was electric, it had been beautiful to watch, such intimacy. He had been happy for Maria; she needed some comfort in her life. He wondered if Maria remembered things from her past that made her act out the way she did. Was that the reason she was here in the cells? Could it lead to murder? Not Maria…

  She was only a little girl when it was happening, hardly old enough to know. Even he did not know exactly what had happened, he was only in his infancy as a Clown himself, but whatever it was, it had pushed Anthony from their group. Anthony was the only Clown he knew to forgo the life of jest for something else. Once a Clown always a Clown was the norm, but he left anyway. Judas…

  They had seen him take the zebra boy after the fire, they had seen him put that fake zebra in the cage, they knew what he wanted to do, but they were going to change his plans. Fake zebra boy would still have to face judgement for his actions, he had killed two of the family and used the Clowns image in vain, but Maria was their priority right now.

  He looked to the sky letting the raindrops hit, and then run down his face. A flash of light lit up the sky in his periphery, slightly before a deep rumbling sound rolled in from the east. The storm was out at sea and gathering force. It would not be long now; he could smell the salt, blown in on the blustery wind. The gods were smiling; it would soon be time for action.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Sergeant Bridger?” The non-descript, ill-suited man, stood right in front of him, the question sounding more like a statement. Bridger looked at the specimen in front of him. He had a thick pile of papers in one hand and a very expensive looking fountain pen in the other, which he was absently clicking in and out. This must be the IPCA investigator, Mr uppity Joyce, all very cliché.

  “Mr Joyce” Bridger put his hand out. The investigator fumbled with his pen while trying to reciprocate and dropped it on the floor. He saw it rattle towards him in the corner of his eye and he shuffled his foot sideways pushing it further along the floor out of immediate reach. There was no reaction from the investigator and he was left feeling like a bit of a bully. He did not really care though, the investigator was e
arly and he had better things to be doing.

  “Call me Keith…,” he said, shaking Bridger’s hand vigorously. There was no embarrassment in his voice, as if dropping his pen happened all the time. “I’m a little bit early so I came to find you…” The investigator was looking at Bridger as if it should mean something, but Bridger remained stony faced. “Quite…” he carried on “Shall we get to it then? As I may have told you on the phone the other day, I have booked the third floor conference room. That should do us just fine.” He turned and walked towards the elevator without retrieving his pen.

  Bridger felt as if he had no choice in the matter, so he picked up the discarded pen, put it in his pocket, and followed the shiny grey suit towards his fate.

  The short ride up one floor in the elevator was uneventful, almost unnerving. Keith Joyce, not having anything to say chose instead to stare at the closed doors. Bridger, standing behind him in the confined space, could see his lips moving slightly in the reflection of the polished surface. The elevator stopped its accent and the investigator nodded deftly before stepping purposely out into the hallway. A wave of his hand beckoned Bridger to follow without instruction.

  Entering the room Bridger saw that someone already occupied the space next to the head of the table. The subtle fragrance filling his nostrils’ as well as the natural blonde hair tied back with a blue band, registered her identity a fraction of a second before Jane Little turned and smiled at him. He thought he caught a slight smirk under her practiced persona as she sat stirring a steaming cup.