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Back The Ringmaster Save as PDF
Chapters (73)
  1. Cover
  2. The Ringmaster
  3. Contents
  4. Prologue
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. 49
  54. 50
  55. 51
  56. 52
  57. 53
  58. 54
  59. 55
  60. 56
  61. 57
  62. 58
  63. 59
  64. 60
  65. 61
  66. 62
  67. 63
  68. 64
  69. 65
  70. 66
  71. Epilogue
  72. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  73. Copyright

I hadn’t really thought that hard about what I’d do. It was Saturday. I had the day off work, so was a free agent, but I felt shackled by the need to know what was happening with Dad. It was 7.15 a.m. and Mum hadn’t rung. Surprise. I could ring Stephen on his cellphone, but that might wake them up if they’d had a late night at the hospital and Mum would probably get snarky because she’d think I didn’t trust her to ring me. Family politics could do your head in. It would be a waiting game, and patience wasn’t one of my strong points. I needed a good distraction, which got me to contemplating something that had been waving for attention at the back of my mind.

With all the events of yesterday, my mind had veered off target. I realised I’d lost sight of a beautiful young girl, murdered, dumped in a river, who needed justice.

It was time I turned my attention back to Rose-Marie.

40

It was still obscenely early for a Saturday morning, but I decided to make a trip down to work and pick up some notes on the Bateman case. With luck, the antisocial hour would lessen my chances of bumping into anyone. The plan was I’d join the milling hordes at the farmers’ market at the railway station and grab a coffee and a fresh pastry, then tootle into work, grab the information I needed, dump the notes back at the house, force myself to go for a run to clear the cobwebs and make the most of the splendid morning, then set my mind to the riddle of Rose-Marie’s death and those who had preceded her. Solid plan.

Mum had finally rung and told me Dad was being transferred by helicopter to Dunedin hospital in the afternoon. I was going to meet her there at 2 p.m. He’d had a good night and was stable, which was reassuring.

I didn’t notice the note on the windscreen until I was in the driver’s seat. I stared at it for several moments, trying to get my heart rate back under control, before throwing the door open, getting back out and tearing it from under the wiper blade. Now what?

Bang, bang.

I tasted the acid tang of bile in the back of my throat and a surge of fire in my veins. Someone was playing a stupid little game and I wasn’t in the mood. I pulled a pen and notebook out of my bag and marched back down to the hunk of junk outside our house. My initial pang of apprehension had been overwritten by indignation. Stuff this. It was time I did something. I was going to check out the number plate and find out who the shit-heap belonged to, then it was time to pay a little visit.