Zorilla At Large! (8 page)

Chapter Ten

Brough and Miller escorted Roberta Woolton to her office. She was reluctant, to put it mildly, but she handed over a list of all applications that had been successful. Her qualms were assuaged by the notion that the information could lead to an arrest or at the very least prevent further murders. The quicker a resolution could be brought about, the sooner Roberta Woolton's life could go back to normal.

Brough scanned the print-out. The names were all there: Zoe Brownlow, Jeffrey Newton, Dr Kabungo... the museum...

“And you've emailed this to the Chief?” Miller checked.

“Yes. Will that be all?” Roberta's cursor hovered over the shut-down option.

“Thank you,” said Brough.

“Hang about,” said Miller. “What about a list of those you turned down?”

“What?”

“Genius, Miller! Yes! Bring up a list of those whose applications you denied. Perhaps one of them holds a grudge.”

Roberta rolled her eyes but complied. Within seconds, a second sheet of A4 was chugging out of the printer. Miller snatched it up.

The detectives thanked Mrs Woolton for her time. Brough said she could have a couple of minutes to gather anything she needed before a driver would collect her and take her back to the halls of residence.

Peering at each other's list, Brough and Miller headed out to Miller's car.

“I think you might have cracked it, Miller.”

Miller inspected her car's bodywork in alarm.

“The case,” Brough brandished his list. “We merely have to round up those who received lottery funding and take them into safety, while questioning those whose applications were rejected and perhaps among them we shall find our killer.”

“Um,” said Miller, looking up at Roberta Woolton's office window. “Do you think she'll be OK, up there on her own?”

Brough pulled a face. “I'll order her a patrol car. She won't like it but tough tits.”

He got into the passenger seat and patted his thighs excitedly. As Miller buckled up, he put a hand on her arm.

“I don't say this very often - well, I don't often get the chance, but Well done, Miller.”

Miller blushed - because of the physical contact rather than the praise. The moment was broken when Brough's phone played a fanfare. It was a text from Oscar Buzz, triggering an exchange of messages that kept Brough occupied all the way back to Serious.

Ha! Miller thought bitterly. If your mind was on the job, sir, instead of mooning around after your Hollywood heartthrob, you might have put two and two together while I was stood wondering where that woman goes to get her roots done.

***

The list of successful applicants almost matched the list of murder victims apart from two names who, as far as Serious was aware, were still numbered among the living. The list of unsuccessful applicants had only three names. Roberta Woolton's lottery committee was certainly generous - on paper, at any rate.

“Should make your job a bit easier,” said Wheeler, handing Harry Henry a copy.

“My job, Chief?”

“Look into the unsuccessful bids. Find out who's behind each one and where we can find them.”

“Rightio,” said Harry Henry, pushing his spectacles up his nose - the gesture meant he was ready to start work. He hurried out to begin his research on the internet.

“Leaving you, Brough, Miller,” Wheeler gave them back the other list, “with the task of rounding up the remaining successful applicants and placing them under our protection.”

“And what about us, Chief?” said Pattimore with a hopeful smile.

“Don't tell us we've still got to scrat around looking for that bastard wammal,” said Stevens.

“Have you found it yet? No? Well, then. You don't need me to tell you anything. Now, go on; fuck off.”

Wheeler passed Superintendent Ball on her way to her office. Before he could utter a word, she scowled. “I know, I fucking know. I'm working on it. Right this minute.”

She slammed the door behind her, leaving the superintendent nonplussed in the corridor. He had been about to buy her a cup of coffee but now he supposed he wouldn't bother.

Wheeler grabbed the folder from the top of the pile. It was Stevens's.

“Right,” she snarled. “Now we'm talking.”

***

Brough and Miller's next port of call was Dedley Leisure Centre, which boasted a swimming pool, a couple of squash courts, and a bar. Built in the 1970s, it was now hideously outdated. If anything was in need of an injection of lottery cash, it's this place, thought Brough as Miller locked her car.

The humidity hit them as soon as they walked in, that chlorinated dampness that warms the air.

“Oh, arh,” said the receptionist. “Yo'll want Darren.” She glanced at her watch. “He's on lifeguard duty if you want to wait. Should be out in half hour.”

She directed them up to the bar where they could sit and, through a panoramic expanse of glass, look down on the pool. Miller bought coffees.

“Is that him then?” she peered through the window.

“I imagine so...” said Brough.

On a high chair, like an overgrown baby at dinner, sat a well-built man whose wedge-shaped torso was accentuated by his white vest. His muscular thighs strained against the confines of his red swim shorts. He was watching the people in the pool like a hawk - and they were the prey. He looked ready to swoop and snatch someone from the water at any second, although the couple of saggy pensioners doing laps with polystyrene floats seemed to be doing fine.

“Cor!” said Miller, taking a seat without taking her eyes from the window. “He's a bit of all right.”

Brough spared her a withering glance that went unnoticed. “Don't be so sexist, Miller.”

Miller laughed. “That's rich coming from you!”

“And what's that supposed to mean?”

“Oh - never mind. But you have to admit he is as fit as. I've always liked a swimmer's build, haven't you?”

“Well...” Brough shifted uncomfortably. He did not want to talk about his taste in men with Miller of all people. He was spared by an urgent buzz from his smartphone. His face lit up to match the screen when he saw who was calling.

“Oscar!” he gasped, standing up. “How lovely!”

He walked away from the table and out of Miller's earshot.

Miller's shoulders slumped. Her own phone hadn't rung for a long time; she couldn't remember when. Not a personal call, at any rate. And certainly not a lover. Although she had enjoyed a protracted exchange with some bloke who was trying to get her to switch energy providers the other night.

She warmed her hands around the coffee cup and gazed absently at the lifeguard.

Perhaps I should chuck myself in, she mused. At least that way I'd get picked up. Might even get the kiss of life...

“Stop staring, Miller,” Brough returned, grinning like the cat that had got both the cream and the canary.

“All right, is he?” Miller nodded at Brough's mobile. He pocketed it quickly.

“Fine and dandy. Wants me to fly out for the weekend. I can't wait to see him.”

“You can't,” said Miller.

“Oh, he's paying.”

“No, I mean, we've got a case on. Wheeler will never allow it.”

“Fuck Wheeler.” But Brough knew Miller was right. All the more reason to bring this case to a swift resolution.

Down at the high chair, a changing of the guard was under way. Angular Darren was relinquishing his seat to a collection of sticks in a baggy tracksuit and glasses like jam jars.

“Isn't he more your type?” Brough teased. Miller showed him her tongue.

The receptionist's Dedley accent crackled through the air. “Darren to the Olympus bar, please. Darren to the Olympus bar.”

“Tenner says he's gay,” said Brough.

“Not everyone's gay,” said Miller. “You're on.”

They watched the lifeguard bound nimbly up the stairs, taking two, sometimes three, at a time. He greeted the detectives with a broad and perfect smile, a lighting flash of white.

“Who wants me?” he said. He wasn't out of breath in the slightest.

Brough and Miller couldn't help smiling back in admiration. Miller flashed her i.d.; Brough handed over his card.

The lifeguard's brow crinkled but only slightly. “Cops? Oh dear, what have I done this time?” He laughed and Brough and Miller found they were laughing too.

“We haven't come for you, sir,” said Brough.

“Well, we have,” Miller nudged him. “In a sense.”

The lifeguard held out his arms, wrists together as though ready for handcuffs. “I'll come quietly,” he grinned, and then with a wink added, “unless your neighbours don't mind a bit of noise.”

Miller blushed. Brough forced himself not to lick his lips.

Darren Bennett laughed again. He was used to having this effect on people and he loved it. “Please,” he gestured to a nearby table. “Take the weight off and tell me what this is all about.”

The detectives sat facing the lifeguard, resting their chins on their hands and gazing adoringly at this charismatic, handsome and fit-as-fuck specimen.

“Go on then,” Darren prompted after a couple of minutes of basking in their silent admiration. “Tell me. Or am I supposed to guess?”

“Lottery,” Miller managed to squeak.

“Never play it.” Darren sat back and rested his arm on the back of the chair beside him, affording them a better view of his pecs. “My balls dropped years ago.” He chuckled. Brough was agog. Darren Bennett had certainly won the draw when the top prize had been good looks.

“You put in a bid,” Brough had to look at the space beyond the lifeguard's shoulder. “You were awarded a grant?”

“Oh, that! Oh, yeah.”

“What was it for?”

Darren Bennett made an expansive gesture. “Look at the state of this place.” The detectives didn't take their eyes off him. “Most of the time I feel like a big fish in a shit pile. And all we get from the council is cuts and more cuts. And then they wonder why the kids are all tubby fuckers. So, I decided to set up a fitness club for youngsters. That lottery committee lapped it up. Offered me double the amount I asked for. As of last week, I'm working my notice. Got my eye on some premises I'm going to rent and, in a few months' time. I'll be up and running. Bring your kids along.”

“I haven't got any!” Miller blurted. “I'm not even married.”

“You do surprise me,” Darren Bennett twinkled. Miller giggled.

“And I'm not the paternal sort,” Brough chimed in.

“Oh, no?” Bennett flashed Brough a twinkle. “I suppose you're a bit on the young side to be somebody's
daddy.
”

Brough's mouth fell open.

“We'm taking you in,” said Miller. “For protection.”

“I can protect myself, sweetheart.” He flexed his muscles to prove it.

“You may have heard there's a killer on the loose,” Brough stated, although his voice was constricted.

Bennett pulled a face. “I heard something about an animal or something. Got out of the zoo, didn't it? Some skunk done a bunk!”

Miller laughed, too loudly and for too long.

“That's a separate issue,” said Brough. “There is a vicious murderer in Dedley and we have reason to believe he - or indeed she - is targeting those whose applications to the lottery committee were successful.”

“You're shitting me.”

“I shit you not.”

“Shit.” Darren Bennett now looked stunned as well as stunning. “Bugger me.”

Brough coughed.

“So, if you'll please come with me...” Miller got to her feet.

“With
us
,” Brough amended, also standing. “We'll take you to a place of safety.”

“I've heard worse chat-up lines, I suppose. But really? I mean, I've got things to do and training to stick to. How do you think you get a body like mine, eh?”

“I was just wondering that,” said Miller.

“It won't be for long,” said Brough.

“Well, we can't say that for sure, can we, sir? Who knows how long it'll take to catch him - or indeed her,” she mocked Brough's pompous tones.

“I run,” said Brough. “Perhaps we could train together...”

Miller rolled her eyes. “Let's make a move. I've got a car outside. He doesn't even drive.”

“Ooh, back seat for us then, um,” Darren glanced at Brough's card for the first time, “David!”

Miller seethed. Brough looked triumphant.

“You can ride in the front with me,” said Miller. “More legroom. I'm sure the detective inspector won't mind.” She fluttered her eyelashes. Brough scowled.

Darren Bennett was delighted. “It's all right, David,” he clapped Brough on the shoulder. “I'll toss you for it.”

Chapter Eleven

Harry Henry's task was to track down the people behind the unsuccessful lottery bids. It might lead to no leads, he knew, but every trail had to be followed even if it lead to a brick wall on the edge of a cliff, or wherever.

He was glad the list was short.

The things people want funding! Someone wanted to set up a home delivery service, which sounded fair enough, until you read on and saw what they wanted to deliver. The entrepreneur behind
Absolutely Offal
certainly had guts, Harry mused. He laughed alone and made a mental note to crack that funny again in briefing.

He made a note of the contact details - a butcher's shop in Netherton. And then his blood ran cold.

A butcher... A butcher would have all sorts of sharp implements as tools of his trade...

Someone would have to have a butcher's hook at him...

Harry Henry chuckled to himself again. I'm really on a roll today.

The next rejected application was from a choir who wanted a new minibus so they could ‘spread their joy throughout the borough and beyond'. They specialised in bringing Handel's
Messiah
to hospitals and retirement homes - anywhere there was a captive audience, it seemed. Hah. Harry's wife had dragged him along to hear that choir last Christmas. He wouldn't be surprised if somebody had sabotaged their old van to bring an end to their reign of terror.

But he made a note of the contact details. It was a large choir, he remembered. Every member would have to be questioned, until someone sang - um, warbled - er... Harry faltered. He couldn't think of any more jokes.

He tried to think of anything that might suggest a member of the choir was the killer. Perhaps the choirmaster - or indeed mistress - used a baton like an orchestra conductor... It seemed a long shot.

People don't realise the legwork that goes on, Harry Henry considered as he remembered how many people were in that choir - and none of them able to carry a tune in a bucket. Being a detective's not like it is on the telly, all punch-ups and car chases and autopsies.

The third and final application had been made by a knitting circle. They aimed to bring the craft to young people.
Addicted to computer games? Put down the joystick
, their publicity material said, proving how out of touch they truly were,
and pick up the needles
.
On drugs? Put down your syringes and pick up these needles
...

Harry was not surprised the bid had been turned down. Every member of this group would have to be investigated. He wondered if they were from a close-knit community - Hah! I'm back in the room, he laughed. Something, something, casting my purls... No, Harry; quit while you're ahead.

But needles... What diameter knitting needles would you need to make wounds in someone's throat like those on the victims? Could it be done?

Harry Henry waddled hurriedly to deliver his findings and his musings to Chief Inspector Wheeler. She riffled through his notes and hummed and ahhed through his ramblings. It was not the enthusiastic response for which he had hoped.

“It's a lot of work, Harry,” she sighed. “We just don't have the manpower.”

“Or indeed womanpower,” Harry quipped. Wheeler regarded him with narrowed eyes in case he was really D I Brough in disguise.

“Narrow it down a bit,” she thrust the papers back at him. “The butcher and the knitters. My money says it's one of them. The bastard choir can wait. Although they all want locking up - have you heard them? Rim me up a chimney; what a load of fucking shit.”

***

Brough and Miller, having accompanied Darren Bennett back to his flat to pack a few things before delivering him to the halls of residence for safekeeping, argued all the way back to Serious and from the car park to the briefing room.

“Cough up,” said Brough. “You saw the poster in the kitchen. Straight men have never even heard of
La Cage Aux Folles
.”

“And you saw the photo by the telly,” countered Miller. “Him with his arm around some wench, the light of love in their eyes.”

Brough scoffed. “Light of love? You've been at the chick-lit again, Miller.”

“That tenner, if you please, sir. I only accept cash.”

“He had green tea. Loose leaf!”

“He also had a Coldplay CD.”

Brough was stumped for a moment. “That's inconclusive, Miller. It could have been an ill-advised gift from someone.”

“Yeah. That girl in the picture.”

“Who could be his sister...”

“She looks nothing like him.”

“Adopted!”

“Bloody hell.”

“All right; let's just say the jury is still out.”

“Which is more than he is.”

“Thank you, Miller. Let's focus on work for a moment, shall we?”

He pulled a folder with his name on from the shelves that served as pigeonholes. Harry Henry had provided detailed notes on the last remaining lottery applicant.

Hah, thought Miller. Focus on work... That was rich, coming from Mr Head-in-the-clouds-every-time-his-Hollywood-boyfriend-texts.

“What have we got?” She tried to peer over his shoulder.

“Oh, God...” Brough groaned. “It's a theatrical.”

“Oh, shit,” said Miller. They both shuddered to recollect a previous case involving Dedley's foremost am-dram society, the DICWADS.

Brough took out some publicity material Harry Henry had printed off from a website. “Shakespeare as it has never been done before,” he read with a mounting sense of horror. “One actor, one hell of a play... blah, blah, blah... set in the time of the Cod War - oh, for fuck's sake! Is this the kind of pretentious bollocks that eats up all the funding? Perhaps we ought to leave this –” he squinted at the smaller print, “Noel Emmetts to the killer.”

“What is it? What's he doing? Much Ado About Quotients?”

Brough gaped at her. “Actually, Miller, that would make more sense. This poor, misguided idiot wants to do
The Winter's Tal
e when really, something like
Romeo and Juliet
would be better suited. You know, ‘Two trawlers, both alike in dignity'...”

He laughed; Miller didn't.

“Let's go and get him,” she moved to the door. “Let's hope we don't have to trawl the streets for him. Heh.”

“Stop it, Miller.”

***

Local independent butcher, Enoch Marshall was brought in to Serious to assist with enquiries. A burly man, he gave the impression of being comprised of overstuffed sausages, the skin of which might burst at any second. His face and hands were ruddy, matching the red of the apron he wore over his whites. Although spotless and completely free of the detritus of his trade, he still gave off a bit of a whiff, a hint of the heady scent of blood.

Wheeler kept him stewing in his own juices, alone in an interview room. She watched him on a monitor elsewhere in the building. She knew you couldn't always tell a murderer by looking at him, but here was a man who hacked away at corpses (albeit wammal ones) all day every day. A job like that has got to do something to a man.

And... being a butcher, he'd have all sorts of blades and skewers and shit, wouldn't he? His shop was being searched at that very moment for the murder weapon. Surely, a conviction was only a matter of time...

Harry Henry bumbled in, spilling cocoa on himself in the process. “Whoops.”

“Never mind whoops,” said Wheeler. “Let's get in there and cook this fucker's goose.”

“Is that a butcher joke, Chief?”

“It's a fucking instruction. Come on; you can lead. I'll just be a presence, lend an air of fucking menace.”

“Um...” Harry's spectacles fell off.

“You know: good cop, hard-as-fucking-tungsten cop.”

“Um... but wouldn't you rather ask the questions, Chief? I could, um, take notes or something - in a threatening manner. It can be quite intimidating having someone write down everything you say. I know: I'll get a clipboard and a highlighter pen!”

“Fucking hell. This is why I have to be the menacing one, Harry, for fuck's sake. Of the two of us, I'm the butcher.”

“Um...”

“Don't let me down, Harry. Not now.”

She strode out, leaving a puzzled Harry Henry to dwell on that remark. He gave up and hurried after the chief inspector, spilling the rest of his cocoa on his loafers.

***

“This is fucking hopeless,” D I Stevens complained. He was lying on his belly behind some bushes in Field Park, having dragged the scented lure all around the paths.

“You're yanking it too hard,” said D C Pattimore at his side. “It looks like it's playing hopscotch. Zorillas don't play hopscotch.”

“So you'm a fucking wammal expert now?”

“No, but...” Pattimore gave up. “Let's keep quiet. Leave it where it is and just give it the occasional twitch, like it's sniffing something.”

“The things I have to do. If I'd wanted to run a fucking puppet show-”

“Ssh!”

The prostrate detectives lay in wait and in mud. The ground was cold and wet beneath them and Stevens kept fidgeting. Every time he moved, the painted toy on the end of the fishing line jumped as though startled.

“It'll be dark soon,” Stevens grumbled.

“Good. Zorillas are nocturnal.”

“Oh, for fuck's sake!”

“Ssh!”

The sun set behind the disused pavilion. Shadows extended across the grass like long fingers grasping. Stevens felt a flash of panic.

“Hoi, you don't think we'll be locked in, do you?”

“Nah,” said Pattimore. “Wheeler cleared it with the council. The bloke who drives around locking up the parks knows we'm here.”

“You mean there's no actual park keeper here?”

“No, a bloke comes in his van.”

“Wanker!”

“Probably.”

“Not surprising people get up to all sorts in the parks then, is it?”

“It's the cuts.”

“Doesn't make our job any easier.”

“No. Anyway, ssh!”

Stevens let out a cry as his arm was wrenched toward the path. He had to scramble to follow. “It's got me! It's fucking got me!” he screamed, getting entangled in the foliage. Pattimore sprang from the bushes and onto the path.

Instead of the fugitive zorilla getting jiggy with the decoy, there was a tangle of limbs, sprawled and cursing on the asphalt. A man in shorts and a hoodie had been getting joggy. Pattimore helped him to his feet.

“Thanks,” the jogger gasped. He rubbed his knees and then, straightening up, made eye contact with his Good Samaritan.

It was Pattimore's turn to gasp. “You're all right,” he said. “I mean, are you all right?”

“I'll live.” Dimples appeared in the jogger's cheeks. “Thanks for picking me up.”

“You're welcome,” Pattimore was wide-eyed, drinking in the beauty of the man, the gleam of sweat in the hollow between his clavicles...

“Do you often pick up men in the park?”

“Um - no, I wasn't - I mean –” Pattimore's blustering was interrupted by the emergence of Stevens from the bushes.

“Fuck me. Nearly lost two fingers then.”

The jogger looked from Stevens to Pattimore and back again. “I see...”

“No!” Pattimore cried. “It's not like that. It's not what you think. We-”

“And what the hell is this?” The jogger stooped to examine the trampled toy that had tripped him up. “Is this yours?”

“Sort of.”

“You want to be more careful where you leave things. I could have broken my bloody neck.”

“Hoi, this is official police business,” Stevens bore down on the jogger, rather menacingly. “Jog on.”

“Police?”

“Yes,” sighed Pattimore. Deep within him a feeble flame of hope was extinguished.

“I see. This is entrapment!”

“Exactly!” said Stevens.

“Not like that,” said Pattimore.

“You set a trap to get men into the bushes and then you arrest them.”

“No!”

“It's a good idea,” Stevens conceded, “but in this instance we'm after a wammal.”

“A what?”

“A zorilla,” said Pattimore.

“A what? No, never mind. I don't want to know.”

The jogger jogged away. Pattimore was deflated.

Stevens wound the fishing line around and around the soft toy. He wasn't, despite appearances and conduct, completely insensitive. He knew Pattimore hadn't had a sniff of another bloke since his bust-up with Brough. “Pub?” he suggested.

“Pub,” Pattimore agreed.