Zorilla At Large! (12 page)

Chapter Seventeen

“Bonk me on a donkey...” Chief Inspector Wheeler looked from one monitor to another. The screens showed Gideon Biggs in one interview room and Jessica Stamp in another. They each looked anxious - a natural reaction to being accused of serial murders. “We'm spoilt for choice.”

Behind her, detectives Brough and Miller, Stevens and Pattimore, twitched with anxiety of their own. Mount Wheeler, that most volatile of human volcanoes, was about to erupt.

“This one,” she stabbed a finger at one screen, “is a little old man. The other is a middle-aged woman. And you expect me to believe they have the physical strength to slash people's throats out?”

She wheeled around, eyebrow arched at the ready.

“Um,” said Brough. “She does have knitting needles and a thing for bears.”

“And knitting can build up your arms. I expect...” added Miller, unconvincingly.

“And our one had scalpels!” Stevens put in. “Proper nasty. And three of them.”

“And he had bear fur on him!” Pattimore piped up. “Well, in his pocket, not actually on him, not actually growing...” He ran out of steam.

“And here...” Wheeler clicked on a third monitor. “We have Jungle Jim using our conference room as his own personal gymnasium.”

On screen, Darren Bennett, with his top off, was doing press-ups on the long table. Brough, Miller and Pattimore gazed intently at the image, the rippling muscles, the sweat-drenched hair clinging to his forehead...

“Poof,” said Stevens. Brough and Miller rounded on him.

“What do you know?” they said in unison.

“Well...” Stevens flinched to be on the spot. “I mean... blokes building their bodies like that. It's all a bit, whatsit, isn't it? Metrosexual.”

“Never mind that - although if he is shagging on public transport we ought to nick him. I want him out of here. Take him back to the bastard safe house, for fuck's sake. Harry, you can do that.”

Harry Henry, so far silent at the back of the room, pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He was about to raise an objection: his car was still ripe from the zorilla going off like an exploding compost heap, but Brough beat him to it.

“But he was attacked there,” said Brough.

“So he says,” countered Wheeler. “There's no fucking proof only his word for it. Take him back but move his room.” She ran a hand over her crew cut, pausing to scratch her scalp at the crown. “Fucking time-wasters.”

The detectives remained silent, uncertain whether the Chief Inspector meant the suspects or themselves.

“All right, all right.” Wheeler tried to rest her backside on the edge of the desk but found she couldn't quite reach, no matter how she jumped up. She abandoned that idea and folded her arms instead. “Question these two. Ask them everything. Even what's their favourite colour and what size shoes they wear. Check their alibis, if they have them. Break them down. Perhaps one of them is our man - or indeed woman. Or perhaps we'm all just shitting into the hurricane while the real killer is out and about, looking for his - or indeed her - next victim.”

“I bet it's ours,” said Stevens. He pulled out a ten-pound note. “Any takers?”

“Betting on a case, Benny boy?” Wheeler snatched the cash and pocketed it. “That's frowned upon, old son.”

Brough and Miller exchanged guilty glances.

“Well, I don't know why you'm all still stood standing there like statues in a fucking idiot exhibition,” Wheeler flexed her thumb in preparation for her signature gesture. “You've got Gym Bunny Bollocks to take back, Mr and Mrs Death to interview and a fucking zorilla to account for... Busy day for the team. So, go on,” the thumb jerked at the door, “fuck right off.”

***

“So, the zorilla is still at large then, is it?” said Brough, as the four detectives walked along the corridor. “I thought you'd caught it, Ben.”

Stevens growled under his breath.

“Ben let it go,” said Pattimore.

“Did I fuck?” said Stevens. “I'm telling you, I closed my eyes for five minutes and the little fucker legged it.”

His co-workers laughed; Stevens realised he could have phrased it better.

“I mean, he ran off. They'm smarter than you think, those fuckers.”

“You actually admire it,” said Brough. “Hairy, smelly and peculiar-”

“And so's the zorilla!” quipped Pattimore. Brough gave him a cold look, disliking being interrupted - and beaten to his own punchline.

“Fuck the lot of you,” Stevens glared. “I hope the little fella's doing well out there on his tod.”

“Christ,” said Miller. “Look who's all dewy-eyed over a wammal.”

They had reached opposing doors, each leading to an interview room.

“Here we go,” said Brough.

“Losing team buys the drinks?” said Stevens.

“It's not about winning and losing,” said Brough. “It's about bringing a killer to justice.”

It was Stevens's turn at the hearty laughter. “Oh, that's a good one, that is, Dave. That's a bloody good one.”

They turned the handles and went inside.

***

“Stinks in here, mate,” Darren Bennett stretched the seatbelt across his broad pectorals. “Fucking ronks, in fact.”

“Zorilla,” said Harry Henry, turning the ignition. “Had it valeted three times already.”

“You had it in here, in this car?” Darren Bennett marvelled.

“Um, yes.”

“And you let it get away?”

“Well, um, no, actually. This was a different one. This one we got back to the zoo.”

“Oh! I didn't realise there was two of them on the loose.”

“Um, well...” Harry was embarrassed. He decided against telling the story of how the second zorilla got out.

Darren Bennett wound down the window and changed the subject. “You don't have to take me back there, you know.”

“I do, actually. Boss's orders.”

“Oh, come on, mate. I've got things to go, people to do, you know?”

“Sorry.”

“But I was attacked there, man. Turns out it's not very safe at all.”

“Well... we've taken in a couple of suspects, so you should be safe now.”

“Two? You've narrowed it down to two?”

“Um.”

“You don't know what you're doing, do you? Jesus. What a joke.”

“We're confident.” Harry sounded anything but.

“If you'm so bloody confident, mate, how come I have to go back to the safe house? How come you're not letting me go?”

“Um... I'm sure it won't be for long. A matter of hours.”

Darren Bennett sighed melodramatically. They had reached the busy roundabout where Chad Roe had been murdered. The pyramid was still covered and cordoned off and the traffic flow reduced to single-lane with an obstacle course of temporary traffic lights.

“Bloody hell,” said Darren Bennett, surveying the scene. Car horns bleeped all around the island, as though trying to censor the swearwords of the seething motorists.

“Perhaps I should have gone the long way round,” Harry was focussed on the taillights of the lorry in front. “Sorry. This could take a while.”

“Sod it,” said Darren Bennett. “Sorry, mate.”

In a single movement, he unclipped his seatbelt, pushed open the passenger door and was off. He nipped through the stationary vehicles and disappeared.

“Oh, no,” said Harry Henry, trapped in gridlock. “Oh, no. Oh, no.”

***

Wheeler watched the interviews via the monitors, flipping from one to the other, turning up and lowering the volume as necessary.

“Wankers...” she muttered, wishing she'd told Harry Henry to fetch her a coffee before he went. Mind you, he'd probably end up wearing most of it and spilling the rest.

The detectives went through the preliminaries, identifying who was present for the ‘benefit of the recording' and asking the suspects to confirm their identities. Lawyers had been appointed and they sat poised to interject at any moment.

“Better than the fucking goggle-box...” Wheeler sneered.

“Mr Biggs, please account for your whereabouts on the occasion of...” Stevens checked his case notes and read out the date of the first murder, that of Doctor Luntu Kabungo.

Biggs looked at his lap and then up at the low-hanging lightbulb. “Um - listen, this won't get back to Alice, will it?”

Alice, thought Wheeler? Alice? Who the fuck is Alice?

“Only if it goes to court,” said Pattimore. “Otherwise, your sister will never know.”

Good lad, Wheeler actually smiled.

“Well, my sister believes that I am undergoing treatment for cancer.”

“And are you?”

“No. No, I'm not.”

“Given up, have you?” This was Stevens. “So, you're spending what time you have getting even with a few folks, settling a few scores; am I right?”

“Steady on!” said the solicitor.

Stevens ignored him. “Answer me.”

“I - I don't have cancer,” Biggs blurted. “I had a bit of a scare last year but it turned out to be nothing. But, Alice doesn't know that. And she mustn't. Honestly, you don't know what she's like - what she was like, I mean. Things are better now. She was always overbearing. Bossy. Just because she was born ten minutes before me. All my life. But now, she thinks I might not be long for this world, she's backed off considerably. I had a terrible time of it, at first, persuading her not to accompany me to the chemotherapy and I was terrified she'd find out the truth. But I told her what I really needed was peace and quiet and some time to myself. I said it was what the doctors recommended. And it would be nice to come home to a nice bowl of soup. Homemade soup. This gave her something to do and me a couple of hours to myself.”

“Plenty of time to commit bloody murder, for example...” Stevens suggested.

“Oh, please!” said the lawyer.

“So you haven't got cancer?” said Pattimore.

“No.”

“And you don't go to the hospital?”

“No. Why would I?”

“So, where do you go? What do you do?”

Biggs and the lawyer exchanged looks. The lawyer nodded. Biggs sat up straight, steeling himself.

“I stuff animals,” he said.

“Sick fuck,” said Stevens.

“Dead ones!”

“Bloody hell.”

“My client is referring to the time-honoured and respected art of taxidermy,” sneered the lawyer.

“Get stuffed,” said Stevens. “Really?”

“Yes!” said Biggs. “My sister won't let me do it in the house. The chemicals, you see. And it can be a bit gruesome.”

“Where do you go?” said Pattimore. “Where do you do it?”

“I rent an old warehouse in Brierley Hill. It's light, it's airy, and there's plenty of room. Which is necessary when I've got a big job on.”

“Big job?” snickered Stevens. “Wait up; am you telling me there's a market for this shit?”

“You'd be surprised, Inspector.”

“I already am. And you make actual money doing this?”

“Well...” Biggs smoothed his hands over his thighs. “I make enough to cover the rent of the warehouse and the costs of materials. It's not about the money. It's about the art.”

Stevens snorted in derision.

“So, where do the scalpels come in?” Pattimore smiled. Good cop to Stevens's Arsehole cop.

“Skinning and dissection,” said Biggs. “It's a fascinating process. You see...”

Wheeler switched to the other monitor. Jessica Stamp was sobbing. Miller was supplying tissues from a box and Brough was waiting patiently for the woman to compose herself. Quite a different policing style, Wheeler observed. She was certain her decision to give that wanker Stevens the heave-ho was the correct one.

And as soon as this case was resolved, she would tell him.

“Tell me about the bears.” Brough looked intently across the table, skewering Jessica Stamp with his bright, brown eyes.

“B - bears?” Jessica Stamp stammered. Soggy tissues were crumpled in her fists. She sniffed wetly.

“All over your house. You even have a photograph of you with one.”

Jessica Stamp's shoulders heaved as she was wracked by a fresh wave of sobs.

“It's just Bubba. He was such a lovely animal. He could look right into your soul - do you know what I mean? Sometimes you get that with dogs, but this was different.”

“I'm sorry,” Miller interjected. “Was?”

“Thank you, Miller.”

“Yes! Bubba's - no longer with us.”

“I'm sorry,” said Miller, and meant it.

“Thank you, Miller!”

“It was the zoo's fault,” Jessica Stamp's spine straightened and she returned Brough's stare. “They must have done something to him. Or not done something, something he needed. I could tell he wasn't happy. Last time I saw him, I could see it on his little face.”

“What he needed was not to be locked up in a zoo,” Brough was losing patience. “Of course he wasn't happy.”

“And you blame the zoo for Bobby's-”

“Bubba,” Brough corrected Miller.

“For
Bubba's
passing?”

Brough rolled his eyes at Miller's mealy-mouthed euphemism. Nobody passes, he scowled. Everyone dies.

“Well, of course. I mean, I sent my money in like a good sponsor. Double sometimes. Or more. But then I saw in the paper how the zoo was getting lottery money - and what do they spend it on? Some jumped-up skunk with a funny name that nobody's ever heard of. Well, I think it stinks. And, the best of it is, the bloody thing's run off. Waste of everybody's time and money.”

“Do excuse us a moment, won't you?” Brough paused the recording and got to his feet, jerking his head toward the door for Miller to come with. Miller made sure Jessica Stamp was well-supplied with tissues before she left.