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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

Man, I wanted to be out of here. I wasn’t exactly comfortable around dead people – especially young, violently killed, female dead people: they were too similar to what happened in Mataura. But that wasn’t the only reason I wanted to leave: all of this cold, damp air and running water had left me desperate for the loo. I jiggled from foot to foot in an attempt to find a position that was almost comfortable.

Failed.

I badly needed to be relieved.

3

Warmth and dry clothes were what I was looking for after the bone-numbing chill caused by standing in the rain and having to look at that bedraggled body. I had planned a quick dash home to change before going back to work, but it didn’t quite pan out that way. First I’d had to park half a mile away from home, at Roslyn Village, as some dick-head had their car parked outside our gate and left it marooned there for the last two weeks, selfish bastard. Then, when I headed back to work and when I got to my usual parking area down behind the old railway station, someone else had nabbed my spot and the rest of the place was chocka, courtesy of the Saturday morning farmers’ market. It had taken me two drives around the block and another ten flaming minutes before I finally found a place to park, somewhere near Christchurch. By the time I’d walked to the police station I was wet and cold again, so what with that and the morning’s events, I was about ready to rip the throat out of the next person to annoy me.

‘Grumpy alert: be nice,’ I said to Smithy as he sat down next to me at the back of the briefing room.

‘You didn’t need to warn me – you’re radiating nasty vibes. Why do you think no one else is sitting here?’

He had a point.

‘I thought you’d gone home to get dry,’ he said. My fingers twitched for his jugular.

The room was filling up with police and CIB. Many had been on duty at the rugby the previous night and had been called in from home for the murder enquiry. The Otago Highlanders had done the unthinkable and won the match, which resulted in a fair amount of carousing by the fans, so it had been a busy night and there were several hung-over bodies warming the cells downstairs. There was an awful lot of yawning and eye-rubbing going on upstairs, too. It was only eleven o’clock in the morning and, considering the victim had been discovered at a quarter past eight, the police behemoth had proved it could move pretty quickly when it needed to.