The Hoxley Killer

1

Only the bruises on the young woman’s face suggested why she was lying in a hospital bed, so tranquil and composed was her appearance otherwise. The doctor who was stood beside her, however, feared that the internal damage she’d sustained from the brutal assault was far worse than the superficial, outward marks on her body.

The doctor failed to mention this to the man who was stood on the opposite side of the bed – a man who had closely-cropped black hair, a boxer’s nose and a powerful physique.

The doctor was aware that this man was with the circus, which was due to have its opening show this very evening. The man had informed the doctor of this half an hour before, in heavily accented English, having first stated that the young woman was his sister. Since then he’d stood in silence, maintaining a silent vigil without any visible sign of emotion.

The young woman had also been part of the circus until almost a year before, when she’d fallen in love with an apparently respectable and well-mannered man in his early twenties. This man had impressed her brother with both his manners and obvious infatuation for his sister...

By covering his face with his large hands, Gregor Hristov attempted to conceal his suddenly overwhelming, mixed sensations of grief and anger from the doctor. He was by now all too aware that this well-mannered young man was in fact a gangster notorious both in this area and London as a whole. He was by now all too aware that this well-mannered man had been systematically abusing his sister while he’d been touring with the circus, culminating in the assault that had put her in hospital for the first time…

And the last.

Gregor knew that his sister was dying; he’d seen this information clearly displayed on the doctor’s face when he’d made his terse introduction earlier.

Lenche Hristov coughed, blood spraying from her mouth and staining the starched white pillow and sheets. Her body began to convulse and the doctor called for a nurse. Two answered his shout, one escorting Gregor kindly but firmly away from the bed as the other drew the curtains around it.

As the nurse and Gregor moved towards the wide doors at the end of the ward they opened. A portly, smartly-dressed man in his early fifties entered.

‘Excuse me, I’m looking for a Miss Hristov,’ he told the nurse who was still gripping Gregor’s arm. She motioned with her head to the curtained-off bed.

‘The doctor is with her – I’m afraid that she is very ill,’ she replied.

In spite of his concern for his sister’s welfare, Gregor still looked keenly at this man, trying to ascertain just who he was – just what his visit could mean. Some instinct informed him that this man was nothing to do with Lenche’s boyfriend, for he returned Gregor’s searching stare with no trace of either hostility or fear.

When the portly man spoke again it was to both the nurse and Gregor.

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Mundy, Hoxley CID. I came to see how Miss Hristov is, to perhaps ask her a few questions, but I realise now that this is an impossibility.’

Mundy had an authoritative voice, his words clipped and precise. Despite the portly appearance, which normally afforded a person an air of affability, he looked stern, with severely cut, receding grey hair and cold, piercing blue eyes. His nose was large, and when he spoke he had a habit of looking at a person along it like a gun-sight with his face slightly raised, in an entirely subconscious attempt to compensate for his lack of height.

‘You can talk to me – I’m her brother,’ Gregor stated, his voice deep and rich with the words rolling out in the same even tone.

‘I’ve reason to believe that your sister was the victim of a physical assault. At the moment we have no firm evidence suggesting anyone in particular as the culprit, but I…’

The detective’s voice faltered as something primeval burned in Gregor’s eyes, his hairy hands bunching into fists at his sides.

‘I know who did it.’

Trying hard not to swallow due to a sudden but not unreasonable attack of nerves, Mundy reflected that this powerfully built man did indeed look as though he could take on Teddy Bowyer and the rest of the Rawley Street Boys on his own.

There was no doubt in Mundy’s mind that Bowyer was responsible for the girl’s condition, not that anyone locally would dare snitch on him. The young criminal and his mates could do practically what they liked when they liked in broad daylight in the town centre and no one ever saw a thing.

Which made the likelihood of finally bringing him to justice – something of a crusade for Mundy these last few years – highly unlikely.

Mundy spoke slowly, trying to make his voice carry a sincerity he did not feel.

‘Mr Hristov, I assure you that I will do my utmost to discover who did this.’

He did not have to look at Gregor to realise that his declaration had sounded hopelessly ineffectual, tinged with a hopelessness he just could not conceal. Once again the young gang leader was going to get away with it, and furthermore laugh in Mundy’s face as he’d done too many times before. Mundy fervently hoped that Gregor wouldn’t attempt to extract his own revenge – the last thing he needed was an open war between the circus and the vicious Rawley Street Boys.

His thoughts stopped as the commotion behind the curtained-off bed suddenly ceased, filling the ward with an eerie silence. The doctor appeared and walked towards the small group stood by the doors, causing Gregor to give an almost inaudible groan.

‘Mr Hristov – I’m so sorry. Everything was done that could have been done, but the internal injuries were just too severe…’

Nodding tightly at the doctor’s words, Gregor then turned and walked quickly through the two wide doors that led out of the ward, away from this place of death. After a few seconds’ hesitation Mundy followed.

Beyond the doors there was a staircase, and Mundy saw Gregor on the flight below. Mundy took the stairs two at a time, already starting to sweat. He’d been far too long behind a desk to cope with this sudden burst of physical activity.

‘Mr Hristov!’ he shouted.

Giving no indication that he’d heard his name being called, Gregor neither looked round nor slowed his pace.

Succeeding in catching up with him, Mundy said breathlessly, ‘Mr Hristov, please – I’m so sorry about your sister. Will you leave this to me; I will find whoever did this.’

Gregor stopped walking and stared at the diminutive, portly detective, who attempted to return a powerful and authoritative look while struggling to get back his breath.

The foreign man’s toneless answer reverberated throughout the stairwell –

‘Your words mean nothing. She is dead.’

For a few moments his eyes grew moist as he remembered… At twenty-seven he’d been nine years older than Lenche, looking after her as they’d fought to exist in their native Bulgaria… The circus had offered an escape from a grinding, joyless life and so they’d gratefully joined. Lenche had cared for the horses while Gregor had proved himself useful in helping to keep the circus on the road.

Gregor had been concerned when his sister had asked for his permission to remain in Hoxley the previous year. Ivan’s Circus had been about to leave town and continue with its European tour.

But the plausible young Bowyer had allayed Gregor’s doubts and fears – he would find Lenche a good job, look out for her and introduce her to another group of friends so that she did not feel too lonely in a strange country. He would also handle the official formalities, and upon seeing the pleading look in Lenche’s eyes Gregor had been unable to refuse – the young couple were so obviously in love. He’d sent the occasional letter during the year he’d been away, but the complete lack of return mail had not unduly concerned him. No one in his family had ever been great letter writers.

Returning to England, Gregor’s quiet excitement at seeing his sister again had increased the closer the circus had got to Hoxley, as it worked its way down from Scotland and through the North.

And then had come the revelation.

Lenche’s best friend, Marie, who was of the same age and who also helped to groom and feed the horses, had sought Gregor’s company one evening, no longer able to keep her secret.

Just before the circus had left Hoxley that previous time she’d gone for a walk in the town – to think, to try to make sense of the conflicting emotions that came with leaving her best friend behind with a man who was so charming, rich – and handsome.

Marie had then become aware that she was being followed by a thin woman with raven-black hair who continually looked about her, as though fearing that she was being followed herself.

Catching up with Marie, she gave a quick and concise warning –

‘For the love of God, you must not allow your friend to stay with that man Bowyer! He is evil, a killer, and he will destroy her!’

With that the thin woman crossed herself, and furtively looking round once more hurried away. Marie, who could not decide whether the woman was genuinely concerned or simply raving mad, imparted the message to her infatuated best friend later that evening.

Lenche lost her temper, accusing the girl of lying – of being jealous of her happiness. This caused an ugly wound in their friendship that had still not healed when the circus left Hoxley the next day, leaving Lenche Hristova behind with the killer.

Gregor could have throttled Marie when he heard this, although she was by now almost out of her mind with worry and regret that she hadn’t said anything sooner. Outwardly he appeared sceptical and he reassured her – Lenche would be fine; the woman’s words were madness. But inwardly a sense of foreboding chilled his heart.

Whereas before he remembered Teddy Bowyer’s cheerful, honest face, he now clearly saw hate and violence. The solemn words and promises had been fork-tongued lies. The six weeks it had taken to reach Hoxley had been a feverish nightmare for Gregor, but not once did he consider leaving the circus to travel ahead. His complete loyalty to it denied any impulsive behaviour – it had become something more than just a second family.

It was Marie who saw an ambulance collect Lenche’s battered body, even before Gregor had had a chance to look for her when the circus finally reached Hoxley. And it was Marie who ascertained from the gathered crowd that Lenche had been badly beaten by some… one…

The crowd’s furtive whispers were loaded with insinuations they would never have dared say out loud – insinuations regarding the swaggering young man with whom Lenche had thought she’d found happiness…

…The memories finished: Gregor again became aware of his surroundings and the portly man stood in front of him.

‘I’ll be all right, now,’ Gregor said, turning to walk away. The detective lightly gripped one of his arms and he turned sharply back round, sudden anger blazing in his eyes.

Mundy met the fearsome gaze directly, and with evident sincerity said softly, ‘I’m truly sorry.’

Gregor looked surprised, as though he was not used to receiving sympathy. The detective’s hand fell away from his arm. As he walked towards an exit from the hospital he mouthed a word. It had no easy meaning in English, but approximately translated poleka meant be quiet, reveal nothing – be a man. It was more a word of rough self-comfort than anything else.

The route to the green where the circus was setting up took Gregor through run-down streets and slums, a boy squealing happily inside a wooden barrel as his friends pushed it across the cobbles.

A man suddenly obstructed Gregor’s path, attempting to sell him a newspaper. Not by a fraction did Gregor slow his pace, and as he barged roughly past he knocked the sweating paper-vendor to the floor. Gregor was deaf to the shouted insults coming from behind him, as the vendor angrily collected the scattered copies of The Herald and replaced the cloth cap that had fallen from his head.

Gregor had seen the front-page of the newspaper, with the pictures of marching troops and the headlines ominously exclamation-marked. His ability to read English was significantly worse than his ability to speak it, but that didn’t matter: it was obvious that war would soon be breaking out, and for Gregor it was now a case of the sooner the better.

He would join the army at the first opportunity; he would be a good soldier – strong, loyal and courageous – and maybe the hell of war could blot out his own pain.

He walked past red-bricked shops and houses, outside of which hard-faced women hung laundry that flapped despondently in the light breeze. At the top of the road there was a pub, men in work attire stood outside it, nursing their pints and smoking. They regarded Gregor with sullen suspicion as he walked past, seeing that he was a foreigner, not of the area – but those who met his gaze instantly dropped it.

There was death in his eyes.

The circus came into view ahead. The section of the green that contained it was a hive of activity; the circus-hands swarmed around, no one short of something to do. As Gregor walked onto the sun-hardened earth Marie ran up to him. He looked into the concerned eyes: they were the same colour as his late sister’s and for a moment Marie was Lenche – young, healthy and full of naive optimism concerning life in general...

‘Gregor…’ Marie said tentatively, unable to voice the intended question. She already knew the answer.

‘She is dead,’ Gregor roughly confirmed as he walked past, deaf again to the noise behind him – to the wail of grief issuing from Marie.

Those other people whom Gregor passed solemnly bowed their heads – they’d heard Marie’s shriek – and a few muttered their condolences.

Gregor did not acknowledge them; he confined his dealings with most of these employees to work-related matters. He’d only two acquaintances in the circus who could have been termed friends – Rose, the clairvoyant and palm reader whose trailer the public paid a trifling sum to enter; and Hans, who assisted in setting up and dismantling the circus.

Indeed, Gregor and Hans had once had an act together, until that dreadful time six months previously when they’d got drunk and quarrelled over a card game. This had resulted in a fistfight that had shocked everyone with its brutality; neither man had won, and neither man had spoken to the other since.

Rose the clairvoyant watched as Gregor entered his trailer, the pain more than apparent in his hunched-over gait and the way in which his feet dragged along the ground. She decided to let a little time pass before she entered. She would let Gregor grieve in the only way he was able – in private and alone.

Rose was the only circus person who would dare to enter his trailer unannounced and uninvited, but even she could not guarantee her reception. No man was an island, however, not even Gregor…

Rose knew that he would need someone – and as she thought of the man who’d caused young Lenche to meet such a premature death, the elderly woman’s face grew dark. Such a foul act warranted immediate revenge, although such a decision of course lay only with Gregor…

Inside, Gregor’s trailer was all but bare. A mattress was turned up against the wall, a few well-patched blankets folded neatly beside it. The floor was wooden and worn to a smooth shiny sheen through years of use. Gregor’s few clothes were folded in another corner, kept along with his mattress and blankets well away from the section of roof that was liable to leak in bad weather.

Looking around the wooden-panelled interior, Gregor recalled all the times he’d played card games with his sister inside this same trailer.

She’d often talked with the silly, hopelessly optimistic air of a young woman, alternately irritating and then amusing her brother with her far-fetched and unattainable dreams.

At this time, this now bare cabin had been full of her possessions. Gregor himself disliked owning anything beyond the bare essentials, which were his clothes and a pack of cards.

Sinking down against the wall, away from the mattress, Gregor stared at the opposite side of the trailer for what seemed like hours. Then the door opened, causing Gregor to snarl like a dog as he turned to see who’d dared disturb him at such a time.

But the anger left his eyes when he saw the gypsy.

‘Later,’ he said tersely.

Sympathetically shaking her head, Rose smiled sadly as she looked at him. ‘No Gregor – not later. I will stay here with you now.’

Her voice was coarse from the pipe she’d smoked from perhaps time immemorial; it carried the suggestion of a friend whom it was definitely worth having and the worst enemy it was possible to make.

Gregor rose and crossed the room, dropping the mattress down in a brusque display of hospitality before resuming his original position. He drew comfort from Rose’s presence. She frequently reminded him of his late mother with her lined hands and face, the silvery-grey hair that was almost beautiful with its age, suggesting a lifetime of experience.

His memories of his mother had not dimmed in the fourteen years since her death – how could they have done? She had provided for Gregor and Lenche when her husband had been stabbed to death in a bar brawl, the result of the local brandy that inflamed the tempers of the overworked and poorly-paid men in Plodvik, a small and desolate place sixty kilometres from the capital Sofia.

One accursed night a few of Gregor’s father’s friends had called at the family shack, not looking at the children but taking their mother outside. And then had come the muffled sobbing as the men spoke quickly, softly – trying not to let the children hear that their father was a corpse.

The remainder of the family had carried on as best as they’d been able, scrimping together a living but always dependant on the goodwill and generosity of their neighbours. And in the midst of such grinding poverty, where nothing could be spared, the neighbours’ actions had gone beyond being mere kindness to instead become something almost holy.

When Gregor had been fifteen his mother had started to waste away, her weight quickly plummeting until she was nothing but pain covered with skin. She died on the solitary bed that stood in the corner of the shack the family shared.

After her death Gregor had quickly learned to fend for both himself and his sister. They’d struggled even harder to extract a living from the land during the seven years before they’d left that harsh life behind, trading it for the only slightly easier but infinitely more interesting life of the circus…

Gregor brought his thoughts back to the present. He longed for the war to start, for at this moment in time the prospect of his own death did not trouble him. Indeed, so dark was his current mood that he actively welcomed it.

Rose saw that he was crying, and so moved to sit beside him. She tentatively reached out a gnarled hand and placed it on his shoulder, and was surprised when he did not angrily shrug it off but instead let it remain. She felt him deriving considerable comfort from her touch.

She knew then that his spirit had not died along with his sister.

And she knew then that there would be vengeance.

2

Facing a mirror, Teddy Bowyer combed his fair hair back from his forehead. Satisfied with his appearance, he turned his attention away from himself and onto the twelve men sat in his living room.

These men were the uneasy disciples of a leader who’d finally gone too far. They nervously smoked Woodbines, and seemed to find looking at their teacups to be far more appealing than meeting Bowyer’s gaze.

‘Well, it’s tragic, ain’t it?’ asked Bowyer, in a jovial tone that suggested it was anything but tragic. His usually cold grey eyes now danced with amusement. He’d yet to actually confess to the fatal beating of his young, foreign girlfriend, and as one his men fervently hoped that he wouldn’t do so now.

The members of the Rawley Street Boys were dressed in identical dark suits; they shared the narrow eyes and the mean mouths that turned many a man’s bowels to water when they entered a public house. Nearly all bore the scars of battle, ranging from slight nicks to the jagged rent that ran across the unappointed second-in-command’s face, Alan Norris. Norris’s nickname was rather descriptive: ‘Chiving’ Al suggested his love of using a taped-down razor to carve his opponents’ faces to ribbons.

Teddy Bowyer did not initially appear as fearsome as any of the men who he commanded, being both rather small in height as well as stature. This he compensated for by walking and talking with as much swagger and emphasis as he could muster, although his real gift of leadership lay in his uncanny ability to judge the strengths and weaknesses of other men, and to deal with these accordingly. More basically he’d an utter, almost psychotic disregard for his own safety, and through sheer bravado had beaten opponents who’d previously seemed all but invincible.

But Teddy Bowyer had finally gone too far: this was the unspoken but mutual consensus of his men. Bowyer sensed this, his senses as they were perpetually attuned to recognising a potential mutiny; he realised that he’d have to stamp out this rebellion before it even began.

Bowyer had summoned his men to his house half an hour before, informing them that Lenche had died shortly before at the hospital while remaining cagey as to exactly what had caused her death.

But all the men had come to the same conclusion: they knew that he’d taken to knocking Lenche about with increasing ferocity as his interest in her had waned. It wasn’t the first person whose death had been caused by Bowyer’s fists, but it was the first woman. The Rawley Street Boys knew what was required: they were to act as Teddy Bowyer’s alibi when the copper who plagued their every move inevitably came calling.

‘Someone talk!’ roared Bowyer suddenly, causing one of the men to spill most of his tea onto the expensive white carpet. He gazed fearfully at the gang leader but Bowyer appeared not to notice, being too involved with the present situation to worry about anything else rendered trivial in comparison.

‘Chiving’ Al cleared his throat nervously, his eyes clear with worry.

‘People…’ he said hesitantly, ‘people won’t like this, Teddy.’

‘People will bloody like what I tell them!’ Bowyer shouted, with all the venom he could muster.

Then he forced himself to become calm – and as he continued speaking in a more reasonable tone he looked around the room, forcing each man in turn to meet his gaze, his eyes imploring.

‘I didn’t mean it, she was a good girl. But it happened, she got dolly…’

He felt with great pleasure the suspense and fear in the room increasing with his pause; then he finished: ‘No one saw me ditch her.’

The men looked at each other with great alarm. Before this confession Bowyer’s crime had been unspoken – known, but still unspoken. Now they too were implicated in what, even to their violent nature, was a heinous crime.

‘Come on, boys!’ Bowyer said jovially, walking around the two sizeable sofas placed either side of a large mahogany table. He playfully ruffled the hair of one of the younger men, a gesture which nonetheless carried the subtle suggestion of menace and of control.

‘We’ve been through worse than this and got through,’ he declared. ‘So supposing that stupid bastard Mundy does comes round – just say we were playing cards like good boys, at about mid-morning, and we’re laughing.’

As if rebuking this false alibi the doorbell rang, everyone but Bowyer starting. They all knew who it was, as Bowyer dispatched one of the younger gang members to the door.

The man returned, Detective Sergeant Mundy behind him.

‘Don’t get up on my account,’ he said coldly, addressing everyone in the room. ‘I’ve just come about your guv’nor’s girlfriend.’

Bowyer looked up in mock alarm. ‘Lenche? What about her?’

Despite his rather reserved and cynical demeanour, Mundy could no longer contain his anger.

‘You bloody vicious bastard – I’ll see that you swing for this. She died an hour ago,’ he growled.

The men looked silently at the floor, ashamed. Lenche had been a pretty, lively girl at the beginning, before Bowyer had turned her into just another gangster’s moll – drab, silent, all the enthusiasm and life beaten out of her.

‘Why? What happened?’

Mundy glared at Bowyer, whose grin was almost audible in the question he’d just asked.

In reply, Mundy gave a deliberately officious account of events:

‘Miss Lenche Hristov was found, severely injured, in Abbot’s Lane. Her injuries were consistent with that of a physical assault and she was taken to St Joseph’s Infirmary, where she later died.’

With a mirthless smile, Mundy added acidly: ‘And don’t worry, she didn’t regain consciousness to say anything that I could get you on. You may as well know that, though like as not you already do.’

‘I don’t know anything about it. I liked her, I really did. Ask anyone – we were thick, me and her,’ Bowyer said.

‘Where were you between ten a.m. and noon?’ asked Mundy tonelessly.

‘That’s easy. Me and the boys were playing cards. Right?’

The boys in question nodded half-heartedly, and Bowyer’s eyes flashed dangerously as he sensed the threat of rebellion.

‘Are you sure about that, chaps?’ asked Mundy with uncharacteristic gentleness. He also sensed the threat of rebellion and so encouraged it: Bowyer was so nearly in his grasp…

‘This was a particularly nasty crime, and one that I know – whatever else you do – wasn’t any of your style,’ finished the detective.

Bowyer opened his mouth to speak but Mundy stopped him by raising a podgy hand. His gaze remained firmly fixed on the men seated around the table, his eyes almost pleading.

‘It’s the truth,’ Al said at last, despair at his own weakness clear in his voice.

Mundy sneered as he faced Bowyer, saying, ‘Stay in the area, son. I’ll see my own way out.’

As he turned his attention back to the seated men, sarcastic anger curdled his voice –

‘Well done, boys. Sleep well tonight, won’t you?’

None of the men met Mundy’s stare before he turned and walked out.

Bowyer stood in silence for a few seconds, a variety of expressions cloaking his sharp-featured face – from anger to what appeared to be suspiciously like fear. Finally he shouted, ‘’Course I’ll stay in the bloody area, it’s my home! I’ve done nothing wrong!’

The last word carried a note of hysteria, a sign that he was cracking up: he was not as invincible as he’d thought. Looking at his men he attempted a grin.

‘See, I told you. Piece of cake. It’ll take more than that poxy sod to bring us down.’

But Bowyer saw the shudder that ran collectively through the men, a show of revulsion at the word us – this suggestion that they were in the same class as him. He’d killed a beautiful young woman: a woman of whom they’d all been fond, and a woman whom a couple had secretly fancied.

Bowyer turned his attention back to the mirror and his narcissism.

‘Go,’ he said: a blunt dismissal.

The Rawley Street Boys rose silently and trooped gratefully out of the door.

*

It was growing dark outside and still Gregor sat, his tears having long since ceased. Rose finally stood up; the evening’s entertainment would soon be commencing, and so she would be needed to fleece the public of a few shillings as they waited to enter the main tent. The circus sympathised with Gregor’s loss, but they could not halt the performance on account of it – it ran on far too tight a budget.

Rose left without farewell: an unspoken conversation had already passed between herself and Gregor, and so it was only left for her to find the one who could help him avenge his sister’s murder.

Time passed…

And the room was nearly pitch black before the door opened again, and Gregor looked slowly round to see who it was who was stood quietly outside, waiting for him to give the invitation to enter.

*

The moon was out and the stars were just visible through the smog. Teddy Bowyer breathed deeply, enjoying the celestial view and a cigarette as he stood on the patio outside the living room. It was such a beautiful time, the night, allowing him the tranquillity necessary to formulate his future plans.

Like most he recognised that war was imminent; but unlike most he welcomed this. It would create a wonderfully lucrative black market situation that could be exploited by someone who had both the brains and the muscle – here he recognised himself – to see it through.

The fact that the war might well entail conscription did not worry him, for there were several doctors who would be only too happy to give him the necessary documentation excusing him from active service, provided of course that the price was right.

Bowyer now decided not to extend this privilege to most of the other Rawley Street Boys. The implied threat of rebellion in their actions and words earlier today had been enough to assure him that they needed to go and fight for King and Country, rather than to hang around Hoxley and possibly help put his neck in a noose.

He picked up a glass of lemonade from a table by his side. Bowyer had tried alcohol once and he’d never touched it again. The loss of control, the way life’s necessary harshness became blunted and comfortable, ambitions lost in a jolly void that left the head aching the next day…

It was for losers – a category that lately included ‘Chiving’ Al Norris. Al was in a booze-induced sleep in the back room, having drunk himself insensible in a nearby public house. This drinking didn’t affect Al’s pocket; he’d plenty of money, and besides which the fearfully sycophantic landlord would never accept money for the stout he guzzled…

But Al’s drinking left Bowyer nervous; he couldn’t have a deputy leader who drank to excess, leaving him open to letting things slip that need not be known – for this could ultimately lead to the gallows.

The animosity and revulsion that Al felt for Bowyer had emerged when he’d come calling at Bowyer’s house an hour or so before, barely able to stand or speak. Bowyer had let him collapse on his sofa, Al fixing him with such a stare as he did so that Bowyer had actually stepped back from the hate obvious in it.

The consequent verbal ramblings had been all but unintelligible, although one word was clear – Bastard. Bowyer had, not astutely, guessed the word to be directed at himself.

A cry came from the back room – it appeared that Al was having a bad dream.

Pisshead.

Sipping his lemonade, Bowyer took pleasure in the teetotalism that was both his strength and advantage. In fights, especially, it gave him the necessary edge. The opponent who went flying in, brave with alcohol, was a welcome thing: they could be finished quickly and with almost scientific precision.

Flicking his cigarette into the garden Bowyer yawned, deciding to turn in. He was about to enter the house when he heard footsteps falling heavily on the wooden floor of his hallway.

He again turned his back to the double-doors that led into the sitting room and stood waiting, a smile stretching his thin lips. From his pocket he produced a knife, a blade springing out as he depressed a button on one side of the handle. Gingerly running his thumb across the blade, Bowyer felt his skin part despite his caution.

So it had come to this: the big showdown. No doubt the others had played a part in this mutiny, and had elected the biggest man, ‘Chiving’ Al, to carry it out – he’d not been as pissed as he’d pretended, after all.

Maybe, Bowyer considered, he’d just beat the hell out of Al and slice his face to pieces; or maybe he’d see the job through right to the end. Bowyer almost hoped it wouldn’t be the latter, but he already felt that mood beginning to cloud his mind – nihilistic, primeval violence fogging clear thought.

More than likely he would come-to repeatedly putting his blade into a man who was already dead, as had happened before. No one would report anything they might hear to the police; it wasn’t the done thing and everyone knew the repercussions of grassing.

No one in Hoxley wanted, at the very least, a ‘permanent smile’.

The footsteps came ever closer; and then they were muffled as their owner entered the carpeted living room, where earlier Mundy had attempted to get the Rawley Street Boys to talk. The moon bathed the patio in an eerie, shimmering light. The blade of the knife glinted evilly, shaking slightly as Bowyer felt the half-consciousness creep upon him –

He screamed as he turned to face something that came straight from the darkest recesses of a nightmare.

The thing was at least three metres tall and dressed shapelessly in black. The head was hidden by a cowl, the face – was there a face? – a black void within. This was as much as Bowyer saw before the moon tucked behind a cloud and in wild terror he lanced out with his knife, which was immediately knocked from his hand.

Then there was an agonising pressure around his throat, and as though from far away he heard cartilage and bone cracking in his neck. He uttered a strangled gargle, which died away as there was another cracking sound louder than any before.

The creature worked methodically, one black-covered – hand? – appearing as though it was gently massaging the neck, so slight was the effort needed to reduce it to a pulp. The other gripped the crown of Bowyer’s head and pulled; it detached from the body with a sucking sound. The creature – with speed surprising for something of its size – moved to one side to avoid the sudden spurt of blood and unceremoniously dropped the body and the head onto the patio.

The creature avoided the pool of blood that issued from the headless corpse and walked onto the lawn, where it was quickly swallowed by the dark.

The cigarette that Bowyer had discarded glowed for a short while longer, and then went out.

3

Detective Sergeant Mundy grimaced as he swallowed the dregs of his coffee – a reaction to both the coldness of the beverage and the solemn article on the front page of The Herald: Hitler had invaded Poland, and consequently England had declared war on Germany.

This news had caused the normally bustling police station to become unusually quiet, everyone too concerned with the implication of the war on their own futures to talk about relative trivialities.

A knock came at the door to Mundy’s office, and putting down his newspaper the detective called, ‘Come.’

The door opened to reveal a Detective Constable who had a wide and good-natured face with little eyes, his expression curiously vacant.

He waited patiently for Mundy to address him.

‘Yes, Briggs?’

‘Got some rather surprising news for you, Sergeant.’

Mundy waited to hear exactly what this ‘surprising news’ was, but after a few moments was obliged to say testily, ‘Well, what is it?’

‘Teddy Bowyer was murdered last night.’

Mundy sat bolt upright and dropped his empty mug, all gloomy thoughts concerning his cold coffee and the war instantly vanishing.

‘What! How?’

‘He… something…’

Mundy’s mouth opened to berate the hesitant constable, who seeing this said quickly, ‘Well, something tore his bloody head off, Sergeant. One of his men, Alan Norris, is in St. Joseph’s Infirmary with a bump on his head. No bad injury but he’s in severe shock or something. Says that whatever cracked him was about three metres tall – woke up and there it was standing over him, before it put him back into nod-land. By all accounts he’d had a good drink, which don’t make him the best of witnesses.’

Mundy’s thoughts immediately focused on the circus: no matter how much Alan Norris had had to drink there was no way he’d mistake a normal man for such a giant. This being the case, there was only one place that could conceivably have something matching such an impossible description.

‘Head torn off, you say Briggs? With the hands?’

‘Apparently. Don’t know if this thing had hands – that Norris said something about claws.’

‘Did he now? Anything else you can think of regarding this fantastic creature?’

‘Well, a few of the scene of crime boys have been at Bowyer’s house this morning, and despite the late summer weather having caused the lawns to go hard they still found footprints which suggest the thing weighed about four-hundred pound. The footprints vanish at the wall that goes around the garden, so I reckon whatever it was jumped over the wall into the street.’

‘Unless it can fly as well,’ muttered Mundy.

He immediately regretted the sarcasm for Briggs appeared to take this suggestion seriously.

‘Right,’ said Mundy snappily, ‘I want to see this Norris character. He was a big brave boy yesterday – lets see what he’s like now. Then I think I’ll pay a little visit to the circus on the green.’

Briggs stared vacantly at his superior.

‘For clues, for Gods sake!’ cried Mundy in exasperation, and the constable’s dull eyes lightened a little with sudden understanding.

‘You think the thing might be at the circus, Sergeant?’

Smiling thinly, Mundy said, ‘When you consider that Bowyer certainly murdered a circus-hand’s sister, and that the circus is probably the only place you could expect to find – something – that’s approximately three metres tall, I’d say it’s a pretty good place to start. Wouldn’t you?’

Standing up, Mundy collected his overcoat from the back of the chair. Patting a pocket to make sure he had his cigarettes and matches, he then put it on.

‘C’mon Briggs; you’re with me this morning.’

‘Very good, Sergeant,’ replied Briggs gleefully.

*

‘Chiving’ Al lay curled in the foetal position and on the same bed that had had Lenche Hristova lying on it the day before. Mundy's nose wrinkled with distaste at this bitter irony, as he looked down at the hard-looking but extraordinarily ugly man who lay like a baby, his eyes shut and his body shaking, moaning softly on occasion. A long scar ran across one cheek and over a nose that was already swollen and red-veined with drink.

‘Norris… Norris…’

The authoritative voice broke through Al’s drugged cocoon, which insulated him from reality and the prospect of looking up and seeing, for the split-second before he was again knocked unconscious, something that came straight from a nightmare.

‘Norris… Norris…’

The voice was insistent, allowing the shocked hard-man no respite: ‘Chiving’ Al opened one eye as his body began shaking.

‘You all right, Norris?’ asked Mundy without compassion. ‘I just need to ask you a few questions, that’s all.’

The patient’s mouth opened and closed like a fish stranded on dry land; he managed to coarsely whisper, ‘You’ve got to stop it…’

But this was all too much effort and so his eyes closed once again, the mind gratefully retreating back into its protective cocoon.

‘Norris… Norris…’ spat Mundy, as a nurse walked huffily over to where he and Briggs were stood.

‘Really, I must ask you to leave. This man is in a state of severe shock,’ she said angrily.

‘But we…’

One look from the nurse was enough to quieten Mundy; the hard face did not encourage discussion. Shrugging, the detective walked away to the wide doors at the end of the ward, accompanied by Briggs.

‘Well, what do you think?’ Mundy asked the constable, as they left the hospital.

‘S’like a bloody horror story, Sergeant. I think we’d better be careful around that circus,’ Briggs stated immediately.

Mundy looked curiously at him, but read nothing in that wide, honest face.

Sighing, Mundy replied, ‘I think you may have a point there, lad. I’m not entirely sold on stories about giants with claws for hands, but whoever it was had to be pretty good to get the better of Bowyer. The man was like a rattlesnake with that blade of his – and he was no slouch with his fists, either.’

Grimacing, Mundy recognised the tone almost of admiration that had crept into his voice.

He hastily added, ‘Even if he did use them on women.’

The two men walked on in silence, unwittingly tracing the route Gregor had taken the previous afternoon. The streets were largely deserted, the men hard at work in the local factories and warehouses, the women caring for the pre-school children inside the narrow red-bricked houses. Looking through the window of a pub, Mundy saw an elderly man nursing an old and mild at the bar, his face resigned and drawn towards death.

The detective and the policeman saw the erected Big Top ahead as they reached Abbot’s Lane, the long road that led to the green – and the road where the fatally injured Lenche Hristova had been found.

Reaching the circus, Mundy was conscious of the looks he and Briggs attracted from the many people who worked for it; not hostile, but curious. Whenever he met one of these stares the person looked quickly away, and he found himself wondering if any of these people knew the identity of Bowyer’s murderer.

A group of young women tending to an old pony captured Briggs’s amorous attention, and as one caught his look he smiled at her. As she shyly returned this smile he felt the first tingle of anticipation.

Noticing this, Mundy said curtly, ‘Knock it off, Briggs – you’re not paid to look at the crumpet. Try to remember that we’re here on business.’

As he spoke Mundy became aware of an elderly woman who was stood staring at him. She did not drop the look when their eyes met. Something drew him over to her and the gaudily painted caravan she stood outside, Briggs dutifully following like a dog. A notice had been painted over the caravan’s door in some foreign language, but Mundy did not require a translator to know that this old woman was the circus’s clairvoyant.

‘You are policemen,’ she announced as the two men approached. Briggs – who no longer being a ‘woodentop’, a constable on the beat, was not in uniform – stared at her as though he’d just met Sherlock Holmes himself.

Fighting the urge to roll his eyes, Mundy made the introductions.

‘I’m Detective Sergeant Mundy, and this is Detective Constable Briggs.’

The woman made no attempt to introduce herself in return but simply stared at the two men, waiting for Mundy to continue.

‘We’re investigating a particularly nasty murder that happened sometime last night and, with the greatest of respect, the description of the murderer – along with one or two other factors – makes our first port of call the circus,’ Mundy said tersely.

Nodding, the old woman opened the door behind her.

‘You’d better come in; it’s best that you talk to me. A lot of people here can’t speak English, and wouldn’t talk to you even if they did.’

It was small inside the caravan, a table draped in dark-purple cloth the central feature. The old woman manoeuvred herself around this and sat with her back to the wall. Both Mundy and Briggs ignored the single other chair and spent several moments studying the walls which were adorned with old pictures, photos and drawings of strange things and creatures.

Serpents, gigantic octopuses, levitating humans and a man naked from the waist up – all the better to show that he had four arms – were just some of the freaks on show.

Rose observed their observations with a look of amusement, before deciding that it was time to get to the point –

‘How do you think that the circus can help with your investigations, detective?’

Mundy shrugged. ‘The man murdered was one Edward Bowyer, whom you may well know is – I mean was – a strong suspect in the murder of Lenche Hristov.’

‘So I am to assume that you suspect her brother, Gregor?’

‘Mr Hristov is not three metres tall, and nor do I assume – despite his obvious strength – that he can rip people’s heads off with his bare hands,’ Mundy answered diffidently.

‘But the circus is as good a place as any to find such a strange man?’

‘I wouldn’t call such a creature a man, strange or otherwise,’ Mundy replied.

Smiling slightly, Rose motioned to the assorted pictures on the walls with a wave of her hand.

‘There exist such things on earth that should not,’ she said, ‘and there also exist such men whose evil nature should not be allowed. Occasionally – but only occasionally – forces other than mortal take a hand in punishing such men.’

Briggs felt the room chill and he shivered, not caring as he noticed Mundy observing his reaction with annoyance. Some things were far worse than the mere wrath of superiors.

‘Well, I’m afraid that your theories aren’t much use to me,’ Mundy said, keeping the irritation and sarcasm out of his voice with difficulty. He was too busy for this kind of nonsense, and he had the idea that he was wasting both his and the constable’s time

‘I really don’t think that we have anything more to say, and I thank you for your time.’

Having said this he opened the door and stepped out, Briggs – taking one last nervous look at the pictures – following. Rose stayed seated as Briggs shut the door behind him, staring at the clear ball on the table. Then she lifted the cloth that covered the table and exposed a draw.

This she opened, producing a photograph that she stared at with the faintest trace of amusement. Live by the sword, die by the sword: it was an accurate saying, she reflected.

Her expression reposed as she considered Mundy. She’d sensed that he was fundamentally a good and decent man, and she sympathised with the mind-boggling case he was attempting to solve. But the circus extracted its own revenge; it relied on no one else.

But still she felt strangely dissatisfied and irritated as she left her caravan, and several people felt, for no good reason, the sharpness of her tongue throughout the rest of the day.

*

The circus was being dismantled, the final show having just been given. Mundy walked around, his keen eyes looking for anything or anyone that might give him a possible clue to the Bowyer case, which had been quietly dropped by his superiors after only the most cursory of inquiries.

The door-to-door visits by the police of properties close to Bowyer’s house had yielded no information, which was hardly surprising. A few people had heard the scream that had sliced the night’s silence like a knife at about midnight, but they’d kept quiet. No one locally felt any animosity to Bowyer’s murderer – quite the opposite, in fact.

Despite the hatred he’d had for Bowyer, and the sense almost of satisfaction he couldn’t help but feel at the young man’s demise, the case still rankled Mundy, compelling him to try to find answers in his own time. He’d researched the other gangs that had been in conflict with the Rawley Street Boys, but had found no answers there.

If there was a new and nightmarish assassin belonging to one of these gangs then he – or it – was being kept extremely well hidden. None of the contacts whom Mundy had carefully cultivated in the underworld, who relied on his discretion for the sake of their very lives, had any idea as to who, or what, had murdered Teddy Bowyer in such a brutal manner...

People raced furiously around Mundy, shouting instructions in many different tongues. The desire to get away from the area was clear, and the detective doubted whether Ivan’s Circus would be back next summer or indeed ever again.

Mundy came across Gregor, who was busy folding the wooden chairs that served as the seating inside the Big Top. These were being put into a canvas-topped trailer, and Mundy failed to notice the shape that moved quickly away at his approach, retreating into the dark sanctuary at the back of the trailer.

‘Mr Hristov,’ he greeted.

Gregor nodded tightly and continued with his work.

‘You should know that I’m still investigating your sister’s murder,’ Mundy stated.

Gregor stopped folding the chairs and turned round to face him. Sweat glistened on his forehead and the shirt he wore stuck to his body, showing off his superb physique.

‘Bowyer is dead?’ he asked suddenly.

Mundy looked at him with considerable confusion.

‘Yes, of course he is – I thought you knew that.’

Unbelievably Gregor laughed, and slapped Mundy’s arm with his large hand.

‘Then it is all OK. I know he is dead but still – I like hearing people tell me. Listen: I join the army tomorrow to fight Hitler, and soon all this will be forgotten.’

Despite his initial joviality he said the last words solemnly; they carried the suggestion that he was certain he did not have long to live. Mundy nodded: there were clearly hard times ahead for everyone. Suddenly he wanted to be safely ensconced inside the Six Bells public house, wanted a pint or two of bitter, and wanted most of all to forget this utterly bizarre case.

‘Good luck,’ he said simply, before walking away.

Gregor watched him go, and then turned around and softly spoke in the direction of the trailer.

4

The following seven years proved to be a busy time for Mundy, who’d been rapidly promoted to the rank of Detective Inspector soon after the outbreak of global hostilities. He was too old for service, having seen his action in the Somme, but some of the younger lads at the station left their secure civilian jobs and joined the army, citing patriotism as their reason to incredulous friends and relatives. And a few – including Briggs, who met his death on the beaches of Dunkirk – were fated not to return to their country and civilian life.

It was an overworked and dispirited Mundy who quietly celebrated V.E Day, in-between trying to keep the new Bowyer and his toerags in check. He longed for the retirement that would allow him to devote more time to his precious allotment. He often found himself considering the strange case he’d dealt with as war had broken out, his thoughts focusing on Gregor Hristov, the old psychic woman and the circus, convinced that amongst all of this lay the answer.

But Mundy couldn’t – wouldn’t – accept stories of three metre tall giants with claws for hands. The murder of Bowyer had become part of Hoxley’s folklore, with unruly children being informed by their mothers that the circus giant would come for them should they not behave.

It was the closing month of 1946 and Mundy was walking wearily home. Since his wife had died six months previously he found the house to be a cold and depressingly empty place, and so he preferred to spend his evenings at the Six Bells, chatting as he played cards or dominoes with the locals, or simply enjoying a well-earned pint as he read the ‘paper from cover to cover.

He walked with his coat buttoned up, for the night was freezing; the heels on his shoes clacked on the cobbled streets. Mothers were fetching their children in from the streets at eight o’clock, many fearfully watching the night sky as though they might still see a fleet of Heinkel bombers approaching, unannounced by sirens or antiaircraft batteries. Mundy recognised some of the men who walked past him, all looking as equally weary after a long day’s work, and brief greetings were exchanged accordingly.

Something ahead caught his attention, although he struggled to see exactly what was occurring as he was not wearing his glasses. It looked as though someone was sticking something to the remains of St Joseph’s Infirmary, left derelict after a direct hit in 1943.

Yes: someone was sticking something up – a fly-poster.

‘And just what do you think you’re doing?’

Mundy’s strident voice caused a young man to drop his bucket of adhesive onto the street; he turned to face the detective, his eyes imploring.

‘A please, I no do nothing…’

Mundy quietened him with a gesture of his hand, his attention suddenly transferred to the freshly put-up poster. It couldn’t be. With a shaky hand he produced a box of Swan Vestas, and lighting one held it to the poster, his eyesight too poor to be helped much by the dim and flickering street lamps

The first two words were enough…

Ivan’s Circus.

He stood staring at the flyer for a few moments, before the match burnt his fingers and he remembered the man who was stood watching the portly detective with a puzzled expression.

‘Don’t… Just don’t stick too many up…’ Mundy said vaguely.

He immediately returned his attention to the wall, lost in his memories. Taking his chance the man walked quietly away, unnoticed by Mundy. It was too late now, but lunchtime tomorrow would not be spent – as was usual – in the Six Bells. Mundy had to instead visit the circus – just for old time’s sake.

*

The circus seemed reassuringly familiar to Mundy as he walked about the next day, although the last time it had been in Hoxley it had been late summer rather than December, and so he’d not been clapping his hands together in an attempt to keep them warm.

But it was as busy as he remembered, staff hurrying to get everything set up before the first night’s show. Mundy’s attention was drawn to a despondent-looking clown who was sat on a crate, feeding a horse an apple from the palm of his hand, and he smiled slightly at the pleasant surrealism.

Then his attention was dragged away from the scene, his eyes compelled instead to look at the old woman who was stood outside a different caravan than the one Mundy remembered. Rose surveyed the busy scene as acrid smelling smoke wafted from her pipe, which she now languidly waved at him.

He walked over to her, casually lighting a cigarette as he said, ‘Well, it’s been a while. I didn’t think that I’d ever see you back here again.’

The clairvoyant raised her eyebrows inquiringly. ‘Why ever not, Detective Sergeant Mundy?’ she asked.

Mundy started slightly in surprise at her having remembered his name, thought to correct his rank – and then something of far greater importance entered his mind.

‘And where is Gregor Hristov?’

Rose’s already lined brow creased even further with her sorrow. ‘He’s dead. Many of the men from this circus were killed during the war. With Gregor I may as well have lost my son.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Mundy said, surprising himself with the sincerity in his voice.

‘Tell me – did you ever find that young man’s murderer?’ There was a keenness in the gypsy’s face that was unnerving, and an intensity in her question that demanded an immediate answer.

‘No. There were no witnesses apart from one of Bowyer’s men who got hit by the thing, and he ended up in an asylum thanks to that and the booze. He committed suicide about a year ago.’

Mundy was surprised to see distant amusement flare in Rose’s misty eyes and then he suddenly knew, as deep down he always had. A look passed between them that carried an unspoken question and answer –

Do you?

Yes.

Rose nodded slowly; it was incredibly hard to gain the old woman’s trust, but this Mundy had achieved.

Rose opened the door behind her, saying, ‘I think that you’d better come in, detective.’

The interior of this caravan was much the same as the other had been, with the same fantastic pictures stuck on the walls, all the better for awing the pubic into parting with their money. Mundy took a seat as Rose sat at her spot in-between the cloth-covered table and the wall.

She smiled gently, her somewhat hard visage correspondingly softening for a second.

‘You seem a sensible man, although I fear that your type of policeman is fast becoming a rarity in this day and age. I would appreciate it if what I tell you does not go beyond these walls – ’

Mundy shook his head. ‘I can’t guarantee that.’

Rose shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter – you can’t bring Teddy Bowyer’s murderer to justice now, anyway.’

Mundy nodded slightly at the heavy sarcasm the gypsy had placed on the word ‘justice’, and then permitted himself a slight smile.

‘Rejoined the other world, has it?’

Rose smiled in return as she opened a draw in the round table, producing a large and dog-eared photograph which she handed to Mundy.

‘Oh no, detective. It – sorry, they – were very much of this world, and they were both very mortal. So mortal, in fact, that the war resulted in both of them losing their lives. They had an act together, which they stopped after they fought over a card game. They were close friends, you see – almost like brothers. They fought like brothers; but they loved like brothers, too.’

Mundy stared at the photograph, only the slightest trace of surprise showing in his expression as he nodded his comprehension. All things considered, he’d been a fool not to have realised this before.

The photo showed Gregor supporting an equally well-built man on his shoulders – Mundy did not recognise Hans, but the answer was now obvious regarding who it was who’d detached Bowyer’s head from his shoulders.

The two men wore only trousers and their exposed skin was slick with sweat, suggesting that they’d just done a show requiring significant exertion.

A multitude of black clothing lay about them, the quantity suggesting that it had been used primarily to conceal their combined shape. Most illuminating of all, though, was Hans. His massive hands held the two pieces of a thick lump of wood that he’d snapped like a twig, the blue veins on his incredibly large arms prominent as he smiled cheerily at the camera.

*

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