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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

‘Yes,’ I replied and passed over the brown manila folder I’d put on the chair beside me. The District Commander opened it and I leaned forward to place the two images side by side. ‘I think he was one of our potential murder suspects. Zarvo the clown, Jason McDonald, reported missing, presumed dead in 2004.’

Dead again, permanently.

36

Smithy had done the chivalrous thing and brought my car back to the station from the Oval to spare me the aftermath of the circus fire while my nerves were still shot. He’d had the sense to extract the car keys from me earlier, thank God, because my mind was too addled to think of it, and to make me remove my house key first. I decided my mentor was nothing short of brilliant.

It was the first, and probably the last time my car would ever get to see the inside of the station’s parking garage. The sense of grandeur I had, in pulling out of the police gates in the Honda didn’t, alas, extend to being able to magically find a space for my car once I got home. The crap-heap was still rotting outside the house and my already volatile temper was disproportionately rankled by the sight of the damned thing. The temptation to ram it was immense – I was insured now and was sure I’d have been able to make up a feasible story. Swerving to avoid a cat? Or a child? The only thing that stopped me was the fact I was rather fond of my car and couldn’t be stuffed with any resulting panel-beating hassle.

I couldn’t resist giving the Mini’s front tyre a kick or two on the way past though, and I didn’t bloody well care who saw me, although I did note a young woman with a pushchair crossed the road as soon as I started lavishing attention on the hunk of junk. Once my foot started hurting though, I gave up on retribution and stormed into the house and up the stairs to my room.

Maggie must have heard my entrance; anyone within a five-kilometre radius would have, courtesy of the stomping and colourful muttering. She arrived in a flash and before I could say anything she strode over and enveloped me in a huge hug. The effect was like sucking oxygen from a fire. All day I had laboured at holding myself together, trying to be the staunch, strong woman my colleagues expected. I had succeeded, mostly, but the sheer effort of that had taken its toll. The façade crumbled and I felt Maggie rocking me as I bawled all over her shoulder.