Zorilla At Large! (11 page)

“You can have two,” Wheeler grinned back. She went out to join him in the corridor, leaving Stevens to hang his head and rub his thumb and forefinger across his eyelids.

“Well,” said Ball. “Have you made your decision?”

“I was just getting to it,” said Wheeler. “If I could be left to get on with my job.”

“You're annoyed with me, and I understand that,” said Ball. “But I'm only the messenger. There's no need to shoot me.”

Oh, yeah? Wheeler scowled. I'll be the fucking judge of that.

“Just get a move on,” Ball drew himself up to his full height, towering over the diminutive Chief Inspector. “The end of the week approacheth.”

“Something up with your dentures, Kev?” Wheeler beamed. She kept beaming until the lanky git had disappeared around the corner. She turned to open the door and was almost knocked over by Stevens on his hurried way out.

“Sorry, Chief, something's come up,” he called over his shoulder as he jogged away.

“Wanker!” she called after him, although she actually felt relieved for the stay of his execution. Even the hangman is glad of a lie-in, she reflected.

But, for fuck's sake, Benny. What have you done with that wammal?

***

Stevens had to fold himself into the passenger seat of Pattimore's car. The Capri was being valeted - deep cleaned, but Stevens doubted they'd be able to get out every last trace of zorilla stink.

“Still got your bollocks then?” said Pattimore.

“Fuck off.”

“Ben, did you really let that zorilla escape?”

“Fuck off.”

“You can tell me.”

“You can fuck off. Like I said in there, I fell asleep - wouldn't be surprised if the fucking thing gassed me - and when I woke up, it had gone.”

“OK...” Pattimore started the engine. “Let's go and face the music then, shall we?”

“What?”

“The choirmaster's house. Up in the posh side of town.”

“Oh,” Stevens fastened his seatbelt. “I didn't know we had one.”

***

The duty officer at Serious put through a call to Detective Inspector Harry Henry, the only member of the team currently in the building.

“Um, this is Henry Har - um, Harry Henry speaking.”

“All right?” said the caller. “This is Noel. Noel Emmetts.”

“Um...” Harry Henry stumbled into a chair and reached across the desk for paper and pen. “Is that two ems or two tees?”

“Both.”

“And what's it in connection with, please?”

“You tell me.”

“I tell you what?”

“You tell me why I was supposed to call. I got a message saying I was supposed to call Serious Police, and so this is me now, calling.”

“Right...” The penny dropped and so did Harry's glasses. Noel Emmetts was the last one they were looking for to take in for protection. “Where are you, please?”

“I'm in town. Why?”

“Um... would you like us to fetch you or can you make your own way here?”

“What? Why?”

“Um, police business. Nothing to worry about, nothing to worry about,” Harry was keen to impress that point upon the young man. If the detective let slip he believed someone was out to murder him, Noel Emmetts might do a runner and never be heard from again.

“Hmm...” said Noel Emmetts. “It's not convenient at the moment.”

It won't be convenient if you get your throat slashed open, thought Harry Henry.

“I can send a car. It's no trouble.”

“No, no, really.”

“Just tell me where you are and-”

Noel Emmetts disconnected.

“Oh,” said Harry Henry, blinking at the phone.

***

The so-called posh side of town was a hill with a winding road along which bigger and bigger houses looked down on the rest of Dedley. The only higher point was the castle, slap bang in the centre of the zoo, although to give the Norman fortification its due, it had been there for centuries before the locals had even heard of an elephant.

Victorian town houses gave way to sprawling bungalows and 1970s mini-mansions with front lawns like golf courses. As Miller navigated the twists and turns, Brough revealed that his parents had considered moving here after his father retired from his post as Chief Constable.

“Can see why,” said Miller. “Some lovely big houses. Why didn't they?”

“Well,” Brough shrugged. “It's still Dedley, isn't it?”

“Hmm,” said Miller. There was no arguing with that. This area was just the part of the turd that had been dipped in the glitter box.

She turned into a road of those lovely big houses, the morning sun glinting off plate glass. “What number was it again?”

Brough checked the scrap of paper from Shazza the alleged slag. “Fourteen,” he peered at the front doors and mail boxes as they crawled past. “Should be up here on the right.”

Miller parked and locked the car - because you never know - and was conscious it looked out of place among the gleaming Beamers and Mercedes that adorned many of the driveways. Like a battered sausage in a bowl of caviar.

They walked along the path that bisected manicured grass and approached the broad double front door. Brough nodded at the doorbell and Miller pressed the button.

“I expect they've got a butler,” said Miller. “If they have, we can just nick him. It's always the butler, isn't it?”

“Don't be ridiculous, Miller.”

An amorphous shadow appeared behind the frosted glass, only assuming human form when it reached the door and opened it. A woman in a housecoat and her hair in rollers looked the callers up and down.

“Watchtower, is it?”

“No,” said Brough and in that syllable he implied that this woman was a stupid cow and he was already tired of her. He flashed his i.d.

“Jessie?” said Miller.

“Jessica, actually,” the woman clutched at the lapels of her housecoat. “Jessica Stamp. What's this about, please?”

“May we come in?” Brough was already stepping forward.

“It's not convenient.” Jessica Stamp tried to close the door.

“Suit yourself. We can shout out our questions through your letterbox, questions about our ongoing murder investigation.” Brough's raised voice gave rise to panic within Jessica Stamp. She ushered the detectives over the threshold and sent nervous glances up and down the street.

In the living room, which, Miller marvelled, was like something out of a lifestyle magazine, albeit an ancient one you'd find at the doctor's, Jessica Stamp gestured to the leather sofa, which was the same dusty pink shade as the shag-pile carpet. The detectives sat. Miller looked around, taking in the details. For the most part, the room was uncluttered. A couple of books about Impressionist painters were artfully arranged on the glass-topped coffee table. There was a stereo system in a cabinet; all the albums - vinyl, no less! - were tidied away behind doors. There were family photographs in silver frames on the mantelpiece and, Miller nudged Brough to take a look, there was a shelf unit housing dozens upon dozens of tiny figurines made of glass and porcelain.

“My weakness,” Jessica Stamp had followed the female detective's gaze. “Buggers to dust, Mrs Jeavons says, but well, they're my only indulgence.” She simpered.

“Bears!” Miller nudged Brough again.

“I adore bears!” Jessica Stamp wittered, looking fondly at her collection. “So cute, don't you think? Especially the cubs. But don't let them fool you. They can be deadly.”

“We're not here to talk about bears,” said Brough, coldly.

“Aren't we?” said Miller.

“Let's talk about the Castoffs first, shall we?”

At the sound of the name, Jessica Stamp bristled. She fought to retain her composure and stop her hands from wringing in her lap.

“Mrs Stamp?”

“That's all over, I'm afraid,” she looked at the carpet, sadly. “I don't know; you try to do a bit of good, bring a bit of light into people's lives and they turn around and spit in your face.”

“What happened?” said Miller. Brough shot her a look; he was supposed to be asking the questions.

“Well, the funding fell through, didn't it? I don't know why. I expect it's that bitch Roberta whojimmyflop that put the kibosh on it. Never liked her.”

“And why would she do that?” Brough prompted before Miller could pipe up.

“Jealousy! Envy! Or whatever you call it. Oh, she thinks she's it because her husband's the leader of the council but I know her of old; oh, yes. Me and her go way back.”

“How so?”

Miller sat back, contenting herself with observing Jessica Stamp's reactions. What must this place have cost, she couldn't help wondering? Miller would never be able to afford anything half the size of a house like this on a copper's salary. Not even Wheeler could stretch to a house on this hill.

“We were at school together. Back when it was Dedley Girls High School. It's a car-park now - which I think is a disgrace. What's happening to our heritage, I ask you? Anyway, she only got in because of some scholarship deal. She was from the Sink Estate - oh, she keeps that quiet. I bet she hasn't told you that. Well, we couldn't have her lowering the tone so we - my friends and I - put her in her place. And now she's paying me back. Snuffing out my little community project before it got off the ground.”

“So,” Brough at least tried to look interested, “she denied you lottery funding because you bullied her at school. What was it? Hair-pulling? Head down the toilet?”

Jessica Stamp looked embarrassed. “Something like that. But we were children. That's all forgotten now. In all honesty, holding a grudge like that for all these years, well, the woman's obviously disturbed. Clinically, I shouldn't wonder.”

“That doesn't sound professional,” said Brough.

“Tell her, not me!” Jessica Stamp cried.

Brough shook his head. He was having difficulty believing all of this bloodshed might be over some sort of schoolgirl spat. He asked for a cup of tea.

“What do you reckon, Miller?” he asked when Jessica Stamp had gone to the kitchen.

Miller stood and walked around. She looked at the colourful, cheerful and cuddly bears. “I don't know...”

Brough nodded to the mantelpiece. “Seen that?”

“What?” Miller moved across. “The wedding picture?”

“Next one along. Honestly, Miller, do you ever see past a wedding dress?”

Miller's eyes widened when she saw the subject of the next photograph along the shelf. She picked up the frame and took a closer look. “It's a bear!” she gasped.

“Exactly,” said Brough. “The woman's some sort of fetishist.”

“Why would she have a photo of a bear along with the family snapshots?”

“Look closely, Miller.”

Miller did. “Oh...” she said.

“Isn't he adorable?” Jessica Stamp returned carrying a tray laden with fine china. “That's my Bubba. Well, I had to share him, of course. But I used to go and see him any time I liked.”

“You adopted him,” said Miller.

“Well, my husband did. Anniversary present. I got newsletters every other month. He's dead now.”

“Who?” said Brough. “Your husband or the bear?”

“Both.” Jessica Stamp looked wistfully at her wedding photograph.

“Nice,” said Miller. She put the picture back. She exchanged glances with Brough. “Tell me, Mrs Stamp, you still have your knitting needles?”

“Why, yes, of course. Just because the people of Dedley don't want to stump up the subs for a club, I'm not going to stop making my cardigans.”

“And,” Brough stood too, “do you have, by any chance, a fur coat? A bearskin coat?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I do. No law against it, is there? I mean, I know they've fallen out of favour, what with animal rights nutters and all the rest of it. But it was the Seventies when I got mine. Everyone else was swanning around in fox and mink. But I was the first to have bear - black bear, just like Bubba! - in Dedley. That was an anniversary present too, now I think of it. Now, come on; this tea will be stewed.”

“Jessica Stamp,” said Brough, producing handcuffs from his raincoat pocket. “I am arresting you on suspicion of the murders of Doctor Luntu Kabungo, Jeffrey Newton, Zoe Brownlow, Mavis Morris and Chad Roe.”

“What?” Jessica Stamp gasped. On the tray, the tea cups and saucers rattled.

“I said-”

“No! No!” Jessica Stamp's eyes were wide with panic. Her hands flew to her face in shock. This action caused her to drop the tea tray, which smashed its way through the glass-topped table. The whole lot was in smithereens. Mrs Jeavons would find it a bugger to get out of the shag-pile.

Jessica Stamp wailed in despair.

“Let me guess,” said Brough, closing the cuffs around her wrists, “Anniversary presents.”

Chapter Sixteen

While Brough and Miller were interviewing Jessica Stamp, across town Stevens and Pattimore were on the doorstep of the house belonging to Gideon Biggs, the choirmaster of the dreaded DUDS. His sister was denying them entry.

“I keep telling you, he's not here,” her lips curled with disdain. “He's - he's... out.”

“Make a note of that, Jase,” said Stevens. “He's not in, he's out.”

“Um, when might he be back?” said Pattimore.

“Beats me,” said the sister.

“Does he now?” said Stevens. “Bit handy, is he? Bit violent?”

“No! I mean, I don't know when he'll be back. He's a law unto himself, is my brother.”

“I see,” Stevens smirked. “Lives by his own rules, does he, and society be fucked?”

“No!” the sister was aghast. “And I'll thank you to moderate your language. I have neighbours.”

“Do you happen to know where he's gone, where we might find him?” said Pattimore, in his role as Polite Cop.

The woman seemed to weigh something up in her mind, and then gave a groan of resignation. “If you must know, he's at the hospital. It's his treatment day. You know: chemo.”

“Ah,” said Pattimore.

Tears welled in the woman's eyes. “He knows it's hopeless but he keeps going. For my benefit. I keep telling him he doesn't have to put himself through it on my behalf and we should just enjoy what time we have-”

She gripped the edge of her front door and clung to it as though it were a lifebelt. Then her eyes flashed angrily and she revealed her teeth in a savage sneer.

“All he wanted - all he wanted was to get his choir - he loves that choir - all he wanted was to get them back on top. But they turned him down. The lottery lot. He wanted money to bring in a voice coach and to set up a stipend to bring in a replacement for-”

And here she did break down. Pattimore stepped forward but Stevens pulled him back.

“We'll catch him at the hospital then,” said Stevens.

“Thank you,” said Pattimore. “Sorry.”

Stevens shook his head all the way back to Pattimore's car. “You'm too fucking soft. You fucking pansy.”

“And you're a fucking knob.”

“Granted.”

They headed to the hospital.

***

But the chemo-ward had never heard of Gideon Biggs. Stevens and Pattimore asked the receptionist to search the entire database. The receptionist pouted, muttering about patient confidentiality and the data protection act. Stevens thumped the counter top. Pattimore elbowed him aside and affixed his most winning smile. He explained that they didn't want to know the gory details, just if there was a Gideon Biggs listed.

The search came up with zero results. No Gideon Biggs had ever attended the hospital for cancer treatment or anything else.

“Odd,” said Pattimore.

“Is there another name?” the receptionist twirled a strand of her hair, coyly.

“Um, no. No, thank you.”

“This is a waste of time,” said Stevens. “Both the search and the flirting. Sorry, love, my mate's a poof.”

He led Pattimore away by the elbow. Pattimore shook him off.

“So what now?”

“Stake-out,” said Stevens. “Let's buy snacks.”

“Stake-out where? Why?”

“Outside Biggs's house, you nit. He's been lying to his sister about his comings and goings. For months probably. It's an alibi, don't you get it? She thinks he's off getting treatment when all the while he's running around town, maybe even slashing people's throats out...”

Pattimore gaped. “Do you know, that actually makes a bit of sense!”

“I'm not just a pretty face with a big cock.” Stevens got into the car. “To the suck shop, Jason my lad. And the off-licence!”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

***

Noel Emmetts looked at his phone. Should he call the police again? They weren't going to leave him alone until he did. What did they want him to go in for? The bloke he'd spoke to had been supremely vague. Safety? What had that got to do with it?

He pressed the little green phone icon and waited to be connected.

There was no answer.

He tried a different number.

“Hello, Dedley Council. Saba speaking. How may I help you?”

“Um... I'd like to speak to the boss, please. The bloke in charge.”

“Do you mean the leader of the council, caller?”

“Yes. Whatsisname. Woolton.”

“I'm afraid Mr Woolton is not available at this time.”

“His Mrs, then.”

“She doesn't work here.”

“No, I know. She does the lottery.”

“We can all dream,” Saba came over all wistful for a moment.

“No, I mean. She's on the committee. You know, the lottery committee.”

“Oh arh, but either way, like I said, she doesn't work here.”

“I just thought she might have popped in, you know, to see her old man.”

“He's not here. None of them is. All been rounded up, haven't they, for safety. Hello?”

But Noel had disconnected.

That word again. Safety...

No wonder there was no answer at Roberta's office.

Damn.

It was imperative that he find Roberta Woolton at once.

Safety... Where would the cops take a shitload of shitheads for safety? Noel Emmetts paced around, chewing his lower lip.

There was one way to find out. He called Serious.

“Hello, Noel!” It was the same guy as before. He sounded overjoyed to receive the call.

“I want to go to safety,” said Noel Emmetts.

***

“Please try not to drop crisps everywhere,” Pattimore implored Stevens, who was already munching his way through his second bag.

“Shit happens,” Stevens replied, spraying crumbs of salt-and-vinegar like a zorilla's toxic cloud.

“Benny!” Pattimore wailed.

“You sound more like your ex bum-chum every day,” Stevens opined. “What's that all about? You can't be with him so you'll be like him? Fuck that shit.”

“No! Just because your car's in a mess, doesn't mean mine has to be as well.”

“You want to worry less about your precious interior and keep your eye out for our man,” Stevens advised. “Not that we even know what he looks like - all the more reason to keep 'em peeled.” He shovelled another handful of crisps into his mouth. Crumbs clung to his moustache like unheeded warnings to other potato-based snacks.

“Well, we know which path he'll be going up, don't we?”

“Is that a metaphor, you dirty git?”

“No. But it stands to reason. He'll go up to that door there and he'll have a key, I expect.”

Stevens pulled a face, conceding Pattimore's point. “Where'd you put my Freddos? Are they in here?”

He yanked at the glove compartment door and pulled out a carrier bag. “Come to me, you delicious froggy bastards.”

“Oh, for fuck's sake, forget the fucking chocolate frogs,” Pattimore exploded. “Look, there's somebody coming along now.”

Stevens snapped the head off one of the cartoon representations of a frog in a T shirt and ate it. He peered through the windscreen. “Where?”

“Behind you,” said Pattimore, whose gaze was fixed on the rear-view mirror.

Stevens looked. Coming up the road was an elderly man in a huge overcoat, shuffling along. The detectives held their breath as the old man approached the end of the path to Number 14.

“It's not him,” said Stevens, devouring the frog's decapitated body.

“It bloody is,” said Pattimore. “He's going up to the house.”

He put a finger on the door release but Stevens put a hand - a greasy, snack-stained hand - on the detective constable's sleeve.

“It's not him, I'm telling you,” Stevens breathed. “He's not the killer.”

“But - but he's putting a key in the lock.”

“It's not him.”

“Benny! Come on. Let's nick him.”

“It's not him!”

But Pattimore was scrambling from the car, like a new-born bird, fighting its way from the eggshell, hungry for life. He tore up the path just as the old man was pushing the door open.

“Mr Biggs?” he called out. “Mr Gideon Biggs?”

The old man froze at the sound of the name. He turned slowly, like a kebab on a chip-shop spit. And, like that reconstituted ‘meat', the old man's face was grey and sweating.

Pattimore showed him his i.d.

“It's not him,” said Stevens in the car. He broke another Freddo in two and got out.

“I can explain!” Gideon Biggs held up his hands in surrender. Three scalpels fell from his coat and clattered to the paving stones.

“Well, well, well,” said Pattimore.

“It's not him,” said Stevens, catching up. But Pattimore was already stooping and depositing the scalpels in polythene evidence bags from his pocket.

“Three blades, Ben.”

“They're for my hobby!” quailed Gideon Biggs.

By this point, his sister had arrived in the doorway. “Giddy?”

“Nice nickname,” said Stevens.

The woman scowled. “From the treatment, I mean. Gideon, let's get you indoors.” She glanced anxiously at the neighbouring windows.

“Go back inside, Alice,” Gideon Biggs was trembling. “Please!”

“One minute,” said Pattimore. He patted the old man down for further implements. He found none but a search of the overcoat's inner pockets turned up a swatch of black fur.

“No!” The old man tried in desperation to snatch the swatch away. He sent a look of despair to his sister.

“Now,” Pattimore held the fur towards Stevens with a triumphant smirk on his face. “What's the betting this come off a bear?”

Alice Biggs gasped. Gideon Biggs wailed.

“Fuck me,” said Stevens, through a mouthful of chocolate. He spat it onto the path and whipped a pair of handcuffs from his jacket. “Gideon Biggs, we are arresting you on suspicion of several counts of murder.”