James Craig - The Circus

‘Fucking first,’ declared Shelbourne, ‘drugs second.’ Eyeing her sheer lime-green bra he was relieved to feel a comforting twitch in his groin. The stress of recent events had been impacting on his ability to perform of late, but hopefully tonight he would be okay. The girl reached behind her back to unclasp the bra but he gestured for her to stop. ‘Leave it on.’ The anticipation, he reckoned, was always better than the reality. Shrugging, she did as she was told. Kicking off his jeans, he pulled down his Spanx boxers with his free hand while unscrewing the top of the whiskey bottle with the other. ‘Suck me off.’

‘Gimme some Jack,’ said the girl, grabbing the bottle. Before he had time to react, she poured half the contents of the bottle over his crotch.

‘Hey!’ Shelbourne objected.

The girl gave him a sly grin. ‘If I’m gonna eat it, I want it to taste good.’ She took two long slugs.

Seems reasonable, Shelbourne thought, falling back on to the mattress.

He couldn’t have been asleep for long. Slowly, slowly, slowly, the room came into focus. Shelbourne found himself staring at the crown of the girl’s head as she vigorously worked on his whiskey-flavoured member. Her roots need doing, he thought. Gingerly, he reached out to grab her hair.

‘Fuck off,’ was the muffled reply as she slapped his hand away, digging her teeth ever so slightly into his skin as a gentle reminder of who was in charge.

‘Maybe we should just fuck,’ he grumbled.

Her response was to pitch forward on to his chest, before sliding off the bed.

‘Jesus,’ Shelbourne laughed, ‘you’re even more fucked than I am!’

‘Not for long,’ interjected another voice. Standing in the doorway, Trevor Miller took in the sordid scene.

Simon Shelbourne sobered up in an instant once he registered the silenced gun in Miller’s left hand.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked. Forcing himself into a sitting position, he could now see the two bloody holes in the girl’s back. He tried to scream, but only succeeded in vomiting into his own lap.

Trevor shook his head. ‘This isn’t going to look good when the police get here.’

‘Hold on,’ Shelbourne whimpered, trying to shuffle off the bed. ‘You can’t do this. I didn’t tell that girl anything.’

‘I can’t hold on any longer,’ Miller said grimly. Then he lifted the gun and fired four shots into the naked man’s chest.

Yawning, Carlyle stepped into the R6 newsagent on Drury Lane, nodding at Suraj behind the counter, who was patiently waiting for one of the local drunks to count out sufficient copper coins to pay for a can of Red Stripe.

Easy like Sunday morning. . Covent Garden style.

It’s 9:30 a.m., Carlyle thought groggily, a bit early to be hitting the booze. Sucking on a latte from the Ecco cafe up the road, he scanned the front covers of the newspapers laid out by the till. It was the usual mix of celebrities, sex, drugs and disaster. As he did every weekend, Carlyle wondered why his family bothered purchasing newspapers any more. In his book, they were just a waste of time and effort — a bloated mix of no news and the noxious opinions of ridiculous columnists that you would happily cross the road to avoid if they ever came walking down your street. It was Helen who insisted that they keep buying them; more out of habit than anything else. Somehow, he still managed to waste an hour or so of his free time restlessly flicking through pages brimming with bile and manufactured outrages in a vain search for something that might catch his interest.

Finally coming up with the right cash, the dosser grabbed his lager and shuffled towards the door, giving off a rather nasty niff as he did so.

‘The usual?’ Suraj pulled a Sunday Times and Sunday Mirror from their respective piles and set them in front of the inspector.

‘Thanks,’ Carlyle smiled, handing over a fiver. Waiting for his change, his gaze fell on the front page of the Sunday Witness .

HANNAH PARENTS: ‘ CALL US ’

Carlyle’s heart sank as he reached for a copy. ‘I’d better have one of those as well.’

‘What did you get that for?’ Helen asked, as he dropped the pile of newspapers on the living-room floor. Sitting on the sofa with a cup of green tea, she carefully considered which bit of which paper she wanted to read first.

‘Work,’ Carlyle grumped, annoyed that his wife would think he would have bought the Witness through choice. Grabbing the tabloid, he slumped into an armchair and began reading. Under an ‘Exclusive’ tag, the front page was dominated by a picture of a smiling Hannah Gillespie, along with a strapline that said: Full story, pages 4, 5 and 6. ‘Jesus,’ he mumbled, ‘misery sells.’

‘Nothing new in that,’ sniffed Helen, as she tore open the plastic wrapper containing the Sunday Times magazines.

‘Thank you for that stunning insight,’ said Carlyle, flicking to page four and starting to read:

The parents of a missing schoolgirl yesterday begged her to come home as the police admitted they didn’t have enough men available to find her .

Fuck , Carlyle thought, Simpson isn’t going to like that comment. He quickly scanned down through the article.

Accused of being slow to react, police have admitted that they are no closer to finding Hannah. Despite listening in to her phone messages, they still have no idea where she is. One said: ‘We are just not getting anywhere on this. There’s simply not enough officers deployed on it. At this rate, we’re not going to find her — and we’ll end up getting sued by the parents .’

Carlyle frowned as he reread the quote. ‘You have got to be kidding me.’

‘What?’ Helen asked, looking up from her article on winter soups.

Carlyle gestured at the phone sitting on the arm of the sofa.

‘Throw me my mobile, will you?’

Reaching over, Helen grabbed the phone and handed it to him.

‘Ta.’ Carlyle pulled up 901 and hit call.

You have no new messages and twelve old messages .

Quickly deleting the first three, he came to the one that Joe had left for him a couple of days earlier.

‘ Boss, it’s me. What do you want me to do on this Hannah Gillespie thing? I’m worried that it’s dragging on and we are just not getting anywhere on this. She’s still checking her voicemails, so that’s okay, but she’s not responding to any of them. With the benefit of hindsight, people are gonna say there’s just not enough officers on the case. At this rate, we’re not going to find her. And Simpson’ll go mad if we end up getting sued by the parents. Give me a call .’

Carlyle replayed the message. Then he looked back at the newspaper. ‘Bugger me,’ he groaned. ‘It looks like my phone’s been hacked.’

‘Hah!’ Helen chuckled. ‘Who’d want to hack your phone?’

‘You’d be surprised.’ Right on cue, the mobile started vibrating in his hand. It was Joe. Mightily relieved that it wasn’t Carole Simpson, Carlyle squeezed the receive button with his thumb. ‘I’ve seen it,’ he said, by way of introduction.

‘What?’

‘The Sunday Witness .’

‘Well, forget about that,’ Joe replied brusquely. ‘Sorry to interrupt your Sunday-morning reading but we’ve found a body.’

Standing behind the police tape in an Army surplus jacket, Bernie Gilmore caught Carlyle’s eye. Filled with an overwhelming sense of grim resignation about the turn of events, the inspector left his sergeant dealing with the pathologist, and wandered slowly towards the journalist.

‘Bernie.’