Send in the Clowns, a Detective Mike Bridger novel (19 page)

Bridger had
asked for the half hour before Maria had left the hospital to be
included in the footage and put the feed on fast play to quickly
scroll through, but not fast enough so they would miss anyone
moving through the screen. He had to stop and go back a couple of
times to eliminate each unsuspecting person appearing on the
recording. No one had entered the alleyway yet.

The clock on
the screen now read 10:34pm; four minutes after the original
Hospital camera feed they had seized captured Maria Staverly
exiting the front doors. The small and ghostly image of Maria
appeared on the screen leaving the hospital grounds via the vehicle
entrance; she appeared relaxed and even skipped a couple of times
as if dancing with herself as she walked out onto the road and out
of view. A couple of seconds later she appeared on the next feed
down stepping onto the pathway on the other side and walking into
the alleyway beside the Hercus building. Everyone held their
breath.

A split
second later, another figure followed her into the alleyway;
Bridger stopped the feed before the figure went out of view and
stared at the dark shape, stilled on the screen.

“
Those clothes… can anyone make out what they
are?”

Becky got off
her chair and leaned over the keyboard in front of Bridger. Hitting
a couple of keys, she made the image larger, before stepping back
and looking.

She did not
need to say anything, the image before them clearly showed who they
were looking at. The velvet waistcoat and chiffon shirt were
glaring back at them. Michael Wilson, in what would be his last
moments on earth, had followed their suspect into the alleyway
where he had met with the wrong end of a piece of rough sawn
wood.

Bridger
quickly scrolled through the next ten minutes of footage; he could
not see anyone else entering the alleyway via the Hercus Building.
The footage from the Robbie Burns hotel on the other side was next
to useless, but from the minimal view they had it was unlikely
anyone had come from there, unlikely, but not impossible. Either
way, it looked like to Bridger that they had the right person
sitting in the cells below them. They just had to prove
it.

Glancing at
the clock on the office wall, he realised that it was not going to
happen this late in the day. He had to attend the meeting with the
IPCA representative in an hour and it would be better not to keep
Mr uppity Joyce waiting. Feeling a little dryness in his mouth, he
wondered if he actually was a little more worried about the outcome
of that meeting than he realised. He had come such a long way since
then, did he deserve to have that taken from him?

Laura, Maria,
murder, and an angry assault, all tumbled around inside his head,
and all were fighting for equal attention. A drink would not go
astray at this point, but the thought instantly bought Laura’s name
to the front of the line. He did not want to go there; a coffee
would have to do.

Taking a breath to steady himself he looked at the expectant
faces in front of him, no one was speaking, just watching him with
hidden thoughts that he could not interpret. He wondered how long
he had been inside his own head.

There was
nothing else to do, they would have to sleep on it and put it to
Maria first thing in the morning. Everyone would be fresh, and a
night in the cells might make Maria realise the situation she was
in. “Alright team, time to knock it on the head, be back here at
seven tomorrow morning. We will interview Maria then.”

No one needed
telling twice, the office emptied quickly, leaving Bridger sitting
at his desk staring at the picture of Irish Mick in his costume,
smiling, as if he owned the world.

Chapter
Seventeen

The Clowns
were laughing and playing silly, just as they always did. They were
making her giggle uncontrollably, her stomach felt tight with the
effort. Looking up from the floor, she saw his great big red smile
beaming down at her, his spotty arms with big purple hands were
reaching down and tickling her around the waist. The others were
singing silly songs, and she was laughing, so hard she wet
herself.

It was not
much, just a little bit had leaked out, but she knew. She could
feel the wetness spreading, she could smell it… and so could he.
Feeling ashamed but still looking up at him, she hoped it would be
different. He had stopped tickling her, his spotty arms went to his
hips. She could see the permanent smile was still there, but his
eyes showed something else, something close to disgust. The
laughing had stopped, the others were gone, and there were no more
silly songs. “Don’t hate me… I didn’t mean it…” The purple hand
raised in a blur of spots…

“
Maria? Are you awake…? Maria.”

The look in
his eyes was the last to go as the light switched on, invading the
darkness in her head. Maria opened her own eyes and blinked as her
pupils contracted and got used to the glare. Had she been sleeping?
It had seemed so real. Why did she dream in such a way? It had been
happening more and more recently, polluting her happy memories with
dirt. The Clowns were her family; they were her carers in childhood
and they were her friends now. It was only the one she
feared.

“
Maria, do you want anything to eat?”

She looked up
blankly, looking for the person behind the voice. Who was this
asking her about food? She could see only eyes, in a small slot, in
a solid door. They showed indifference, not caring what her answer
would be. They were the eyes of a captor, and she was captive. The
cell she lay in crushed her senses as the reality of her situation
came back to her in a rush. Jo’s eyes flashed before her now, the
look that had passed between them when she had placed her hand on
her shoulder and said those words. It was a look of
betrayal.

“
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.