BooksBarbecue
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

This was stupid; it was just a note, someone having a sick joke. The way my heart was thumping away in my chest was plain ridiculous. Maybe I should tell someone? Nah, this was small fry in light of the murders and everything else going on around here. Some idiot’s idea of fun wasn’t worth a mention. In fact, the guys at work would probably just laugh and tell me not to be such a sissy. That logic didn’t do anything to quell my hyperactive nervous system though.

I got out of the car, and with slightly shaky hands, went over to the gutter and retrieved the screwed-up note. Maybe it would pay to keep hold of it, just in case.

23

There was something about Zarvo the clown that set my crap-o-meter jangling. He was hiding something. A lot of them had been hiding something, you could tell that by the overt signs of nervousness, sweating, hand rubbing, strained laughter. It was to be expected of people, many foreign, caught up in a large police investigation. I’d be feeling edgy too. But with him there was something else. He was a clown in the show, but didn’t look very clown-like today, a clean-shaven (over his entire head except for the eyebrows), unremarkable-looking man dressed in a clean white T-shirt and blue jeans. Like all the circus people we’d encountered so far, with the exception of Terry Bennett and the fat lady, he had a fit and muscular physique. He was probably accustomed to hiding under half an inch of make-up and an absurd wig, so maybe conversation undisguised made him uncomfortable. But he still seemed too measured, too careful in his choice of words. I didn’t think it could be put down entirely to language difficulties. He hadn’t requested a translator and his Slavic accent was pretty broad, which the others didn’t seem to have noticed.

I listened as Smithy asked the now familiar string of questions about his whereabouts.

‘I was at rehearsals in afternoon, then I was doing dogs. My job is look after dogs. They part of my act. Then we eat, then do show.’

The dogs in question came into the way-too-cute category. White balls of charming fluff Bichon Frise. I recalled seeing three of the little blighters attired in hats and waistcoats rehearsing some pretty slick moves. I was sure they’d be a hit with the crowd.

‘Is there anyone else who could vouch for your whereabouts?’

‘Serge with me the whole time. He do dogs too. We in same caravan.’