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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

‘Where are you staying tonight? Do you want me to ask Jude if you could stay with us?’ The spare bedroom was made up, ready for such impromptu needs, although the thought of being under the same roof…

‘I wouldn’t want to be any trouble.’

‘She’d love to have you. In fact, she’d be mortified if you didn’t stay.’

Mum wavered for a moment then gave a big sigh, as though it was such a tough decision. ‘Well, okay then, that would be very helpful. I’ll be at the hospital for most of the time, so I won’t get in anyone’s way.’

‘You wouldn’t be in the way. Come stay, then you won’t have to worry about accommodation or food and you can concentrate on looking after Dad.’

‘Tell her not to worry about me for meals or anything, I’ll pick things up from the hospital café. I wouldn’t want to be a bother.’

My mother, ever the martyr.

43

This really was tragic. It was a hazy autumn afternoon with no breeze, the kind of Dunedin Saturday that settled over you like a warm grass-scented blanket. It was begging for a walk along the beach, or a bike ride up the peninsula, or even a chance to lounge outside with friends and share a good bottle of wine. But no, what was I doing? I was sequestered in my room, surrounded by an avalanche of notes, thinking of murder, not the season of mellow fruitfulness. My brain was flitting from Rose-Marie Bateman to Dad, to Terry Bennett, to the trail of death, to killing elephants, to any stupid, random thought that entered my head.

I shoved aside the folder I had tuned out of, climbed off my bed and ambled over to the window. At this time of day my room didn’t get the sun, but I did have the consolation of the view. Somehow though, today, even that didn’t offer solace. I had an almighty case of the blahs. Blah, blah, blah. My head felt like someone had pulled my hair into a vicious ponytail and was insisting on making it tighter, my eyeballs had a sandpapery texture, which seemed odd considering how much spontaneous lubricating they’d been getting over the course of the day. I looked down at the red-brick-paved courtyard and watched as the Kershaws’ overweight fluffball excuse for a cat tried, very optimistically, to stalk a bird. It was about as subtle as a traction engine, and just as graceful. It wasn’t much of a surprise when the fantail flew off up into the safety of a kowhai tree, probably laughing. I enjoyed a derisive snort at the cat’s expense myself.