Send in the Clowns, a Detective Mike Bridger novel (20 page)

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 early 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.

“
I can give you and Ms Little some time to have a short
conference if you like Sergeant.” The investigator was looking at
Jane while he spoke, smiling flirtatiously. “I have plenty of time
and don’t mind at all… I am only going to be staring at the walls
of my hotel room tonight anyway.”

Bridger
looked at Jane who appeared to be smiling suggestively back at the
smarmy investigator. “I don’t think that will be necessary Mr
Joyce, I didn’t ask for any representation…”

Jane cut him
off. “I thought I would offer you some advice Mike… as a friend. I
do know how these things can go -no offence meant Keith- and you do
know that you can be your own worst enemy sometimes Mike.” Jane
winked at him before turning back to the investigator.

“
None taken Jane.” The smile on his face did not alter “I will
leave you two for ten minutes and grab a caffeine shot of my own…’
he said noting only two cups in front of Jane. “I can’t start
drinking anything heavier just yet… work and all that…” he let out
a small girlish giggle and then turned and faced Bridger with a
more serious look. “It’s a good thing to seek advice Sergeant; it
clears up a lot of ambiguities and lets everyone know where they
stand.”

Bridger
looked back at Jane and watched as she stood and brushed down her
short skirt, not making much of a difference to the length, before
moving towards him with a cup in her hand. Standing slightly behind
and to his side, she placed one arm around his waist and then lent
over his shoulder. Her breath was hot on his cheek.

“
I agree Keith; we don’t want any ambiguity, which is why I
offered my services to help facilitate these proceedings. As I told
you earlier, Mike and I go back a long way.” Jane’s hand moved from
Bridger’s waist to his shoulder. Her fingers casually stroking the
side of his neck as she spoke. “Drink this coffee Mike; I’ve made
it just how I know you like it.”

The
investigators smile faded, opening and closing his mouth several
times. Moving his tongue around inside his cheek, he stared back at
them, an angry but accepting look in his eyes at having his obvious
advances callously spurned.