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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

My scheme of initiating positive action to distract myself wasn’t working. And, as much as I hated to admit it, what I really needed was company. Maggs, doing the studious thing, was down at the University Central Library on a hunt for references for an assignment due next week. Aunty Jude was at some Altrusa fundraising event. Mum was at the hospital, and wasn’t planning on getting in until later this evening. That only left Uncle Phil – and as much as I liked him, and he was always good for a chat, I didn’t feel I could interrupt his work because I had a case of the lonelies to go with the blahs.

Unappealing as it was, the only remedy I could think of would involve me having to swallow pride.

And pride was never a sugar-coated tablet.

44

Humble pie. Perhaps it wasn’t so bad, although this one did have a sharp aftertaste. When I’d rung to ask if he’d come round and discuss the case, Paul couldn’t resist getting a dig in about my needing him, after all. I didn’t expect anything less. Lucky for him I valued his opinion in a professional sense, so I allowed him his mileage, if it made him feel better and massaged his little ego.

So here we were, closeted indoors at the kitchen table, late on one of Dunedin’s finest Saturday afternoons, discussing death, murder, doom and gloom. Me, Paul and Fluffy the vanquished bird-slayer, with a pile of photocopied notes and a continuous supply of tea and coffee. We were chain-caffeining.

‘So,’ I said, my hands enjoying the last skerrick of warmth from being wrapped around my now empty mug of tea. ‘I don’t think anyone in the circus had anything to do with it. Well, not directly, anyway.’

‘But you think they did indirectly?’

‘Yes. It could be someone who wanted to set them up, destroy them. What better way than to label them as killers and get them under the scrutiny of the police and the media. They’d be guaranteed front-page news in every newspaper in the country and I imagine the gate sales would dry up a bit after that. Mr and Mrs Joe Average Kiwi wouldn’t be inclined to take little Johnny and Jill to the circus to see the big bad murderers.’

‘Yeah, but that’s a little extreme. I still think we need to keep an open mind on the circus folk. What about the guy that died? Zarvo?’