Zorilla At Large! (13 page)

They reconvened with Chief Inspector Wheeler in the surveillance suite.

“I know it may seem like something of a tangent,” Brough sounded almost apologetic. “All this talk about bears but there is real resentment there. Real anti-zoo feeling, it seems to me.”

“Yes,” said Miller.

“Oh, no,” said Wheeler. “It's no tangent, chicken. Listen to this.”

She rewound the video recording of Stevens and Pattimore questioning Gideon Biggs.

“Tell us about the bear,” said the tiny Pattimore in high definition.

“Um,” said their suspect, his eyes darting from side to side. “I lost it.”

“What do you mean, ‘lost it'? Like a doctor loses a patient, lost it? Or what?”

“You could say I mislaid it,” said Biggs. “Or perhaps it was even stolen. All I had left was that patch of fur.”

“Now, who'd want to pinch a dead bear?” said Stevens. “Fucking hell.”

“Isn't that your job to find out, Inspector?” Gideon Biggs shot back.

Wheeler paused the playback. “There's a bit more of this. Turns out he bought the bear from the zoo. Well, from a bent keeper at the zoo. Backhanders and the back of a van type of job. Ordinarily, the dead wammals get incinerated but this particular bear was such a fine specimen and in such good nick, he was going to be sent to the Natural History Museum or somewhere. Only this keeper fiddled the books, flogs the dead bear to his friendly, local taxidermy enthusiast, and tells his boss, whoopsy-fucking-daisy, the thing got incinerated by mistake.”

Wheeler looked from Brough to Miller and back again. “Penny for them?”

“So... this man here,” Brough nodded to the frozen image of Biggs, “acquired a dead bear to fuel his passion for stuffing animals, but now claims he no longer has it in his possession.”

“I didn't ask for a fucking synopsis,” said Wheeler.

“How big is this piece of fur?” said Miller.

“How'd you mean?” said Wheeler.

“Is it big enough, say, to cover his arm? That bloke, Darren Bennett, said a furry arm tried to kill him.”

Brough grunted at the mention of the name. Let it go, Miller; he's gay, like I told you.

“Did he...” Wheeler's brow furrowed. “Right. Well. We've got Weeping Winnie with a revenge motive and a fistful of knitting needles in one hand, and Stuffy Mc Stufferson in the other, with a furry arm and three scalpels... Um...”

The room fell silent as the cogs beneath Wheeler's crew cut turned.

“Let her go,” she decided. “Revenge against the zoo doesn't account for all the other murders who had fuck all to do with the zoo.”

“But - the lottery funds...” said Miller.

“Nah,” said Wheeler. “Too much of a stretch. Those aren't muscles in her cardigan, they'm used tissues. She hasn't got the muscle power for slashing throats like we've seen. Let her go.”

“And the old man?” said Brough.

“What about him?”

“Do you think he has the muscle power?”

Wheeler eyeballed Brough, unable to decide if he was taking the piss. “Perhaps you don't need muscle power when you've got three sharp-as-fuck scalpels, Davey-boy. Now, go on; turf Cry-Baby Carol out onto the street and let's see if we can find the rest of this missing fucking bear.”

***

Stevens and Pattimore - well, mainly the latter rather than the former - managed to glean from Gideon Biggs what his plans were for the stuffed bear. He couldn't take it home - his sister was unaware he was spending his time with his hobby, believing he was being treated for a life-threatening disease instead.

Biggs had a buyer already. The landlord of the Bear Pit public house was keen to have the animal for his lounge bar. It would be a talking point and would attract drinkers to the pub to see it. There was even talk of ‘Teddy Bears Picnics' with activities and meal deals for families... The landlord was full of ideas and, with pub trade falling off, he had to try something.

“How much?” said Stevens.

Biggs frowned. “Pardon?”

“How much did he bung you?”

“I'm not prepared to discuss-”

Stevens slapped the table. “Get prepared! You're going to discuss every-fucking-thing. How much did he pay you?”

Biggs squirmed. “He - he didn't. I mean, he was going to but I haven't finished the job. How can I?”

“So, you didn't receive a penny?”

“No, that's not strictly true. The landlord covered the –what was the word? - the bung for the zoo keeper. And a little more for the materials. A deposit, really. The balance was due on delivery of the finished piece.”

“And then, you say, the bear went missing.”

“Or was stolen; yes.”

“And you didn't report it?”

Both Biggs and Stevens looked witheringly at the detective constable. Pattimore reddened.

“Oh, oh, yeah,” he blushed, realising Biggs was stuffing animals under the radar.

“So, this landlord chappie,” said Stevens. “Runs a good boozer, does he?”

Biggs looked affronted. “I, sir, do not drink.”

“Is that because of your cancer?” said Pattimore, earning himself another brace of hard stares. “Oh. Oh, yeah.”

“The Bear Pit...” Stevens spoke as if he'd never heard of the place, let alone frequented it. He wrote in his notebook with an exaggerated flourish. “We'll look into that.”

“I bet,” muttered Pattimore. “Let's take a break, shall we?”

“Can I go home?”

“Um, let's see...” Stevens stroked his chin. “How about no?”

“But - but - my sister - she'll have a bowl of soup waiting for me.”

“No,” said Pattimore. “She won't.”

***

“Right, then,” said Wheeler. “The landlord of the Bear Pit... Oh, go on then,” she could see Stevens champing at the bit. And she supposed he deserved a bit of fun, knowing what he'd got coming. “But no booze! Well, no more than a half. See what he knows. Perhaps he nicked the bear to welsh on the deal. I'll organise a search warrant, if you think it's necessary. Mind you, if he wants the bear on display, he's not going to hide it under the fucking bed, is he?”

“And Biggs?” said Pattimore.

“Still my number one,” said Wheeler. “The scalpels and the fur. The resentment against other lottery-funded projects.”

“But he is a bit old and, well, you know, spindly.”

Wheeler's lips pursed in a bid to stem the tide of invective bubbling up inside her. “He's not much older than me, you cheeky fucker. Now, go on; fuck off to the pub. And don't drink your fucking Vimto too fast or you'll get hiccups.”

Stevens tugged Pattimore by the sleeve, eager to get away.

“Love my job!” he laughed, racing to the car. “Especially when you'm driving.”

Chapter Eighteen

Brough and Miller took a disgruntled and very vocal Jessica Stamp back to her house. Brough thought they could have done with something like the zoo used to transport the zorilla from place to place. Or even a tranquilliser gun. He was glad to see the woman go. Her threats of writing letters of complaint to the world and his wife glanced off him like the slightest of breezes and troubled him not but Miller was less resilient.

“I feel awful,” she said, when the front door was at last closed. “I hate it when we arrest the wrong person.”

“Part of the process, Miller. She'll calm down.”

“So what now?”

“Back to Serious, I suppose - oh, shit! Is that the time? Can you take me back to the flat?”

“Miller's Cabs at your bloody service.”

“And put your foot down.”

“Within the constraints of the law, of course.”

Brough sighed. “If you must. Now, come on.”

***

Brough left the passenger door open and sprinted to his front door, fumbling the key towards the lock. Miller watched him go. When was the last time a man had been that enthusiastic about her, she wondered? She couldn't think... There was Gary... Detective Sergeant Gary Woodcock... but he'd been a bit too keen and his out-of-the-blue proposal of marriage had scared her a little bit. Where was he now?

Brough fired up his laptop and tore off his clothes while it booted up. Why do these things always take longer when you're in a hurry? He sat facing the screen, impatiently waiting for the device to be ready.

At last, the face of Oscar Buzz appeared in a window.

“David! Honey! There you are! I thought you'd forgotten me.”

“No - sorry; just got a little held up. That's all.”

“That's right. I mean, how could you forget me, right?”

“And with the time difference and all... So, how was your day?”

“David, David! I haven't got much time. We're flying out to the next location in an hour. So let's cut to the chase, shall we?”

“The chase?”

On screen, the naked Hollywood superstar began to stroke himself in a private show for Brough's eyes only.

“Yeah, ooh, yeah. Come on, David. Get busy! Let me see you.”

Brough hesitated. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. This wasn't what he wanted.

“David?”

“Sorry.”

Brough got busy.

***

Across town, in the halls of residence, Roberta Woolton was pacing the floor. Her husband was getting fed up of her constantly and repeatedly blocking his view of the television.

“Darling, please!” he leant to one side. “I'm trying to watch the news.”

She rounded on him. “What? A load of tripe designed to instil fear in the viewer while pushing the government agenda?”

“What?”

“Something I read in the common room. A student left his Media Studies essay lying around. Oh, honestly, darling, turn it off. I can't think straight.”

With a great show of reluctance, Lionel Woolton aimed the zapper at the set. “Come and sit down, love. What's on your mind?”

Roberta declined the invitation but at least she stopped pacing. “I can't bear being confined like this. Do you know, I'm beginning to doubt the wisdom of awarding that funding to the zoo? Those poor animals. That little whatsit - the skunk thing - had the right idea. He legged it at the first opportunity...”

Their eyes met.

“I don't think it's wise,” said Lionel Woolton. “The police will let us know when it's safe to go home.”

“They haven't let us know anything,” Roberta scoffed. “We don't know if they've even apprehended someone or what's going on. It's a disgrace.”

“All the same, I think we should sit tight, darling. Come on; let's put a film on.”

“Sod that. I can't concentrate in this - this - prison. Someone else is committing all the crimes and we're the ones locked up. It's madness.”

“Yes, but if it keeps us safe...”

“But we could be here for weeks! Months! I shall run mad; I know I shall.” The pacing resumed. Lionel Woolton sighed. As she strode around at an increasing rate, Roberta began to form a plan. “I'll put on a disguise. No one will recognise me. I'll go home - but I'll use the back door. No one will see me, I promise. If I'm going to be shut in, I'd rather be shut up in my own home. Wouldn't you, darling?”

“Well, yes, of course, but-”

“But nothing! Get your clothes off.”

“I beg your pardon.”

Roberta began to pull at her husband's tie. “Come on.”

“What? Here? Now?”

“No, you silly goose! The disguise! I'll be a man and you can be a woman. Don't gape at me like that, darling; you look like a roast pig that's lost its apple. Come on; it may even be fun.”

“I'm not sure...”

“So I'll go alone. But I'll still need your suit.”

Lionel Woolton deflated. He never could deny his wife anything. He stood and began to undress.

“Marvellous!” She pecked him on the cheek. “We can watch all the films you want on our fifty-inch screen. With the curtains drawn, of course.”

Fifteen minutes later, she was applying the finishing touches to his make-up. He'd protested at first about cosmetic enhancements to his appearance but she had teased him. “You want to look pretty, don't you?”

He puckered his lips to accept the lipstick.

“Ta-dah!” she showed him his new look in her compact mirror. Beneath his foundation, the leader of Dedley council paled. If anyone should recognise him - the papers would have a field day - the opposition would laugh him out of the Chamber...

“Now, come on,” Roberta opened the door. “Let's walk out of here as though we're entitled to come and go as we please.”

“But - but there'll be guards.”

“This is Dedley student halls, darling. Not Colditz. Now, take my arm. You're not accustomed to those heels.”

She opened the door and stuck her head into the corridor. She gasped in shock to see a man's face directly ahead of her.

“Evening,” grinned the PCSO. “Going somewhere?”

Lionel Woolton cringed behind the door.

“As a matter of fact, we are,” said Roberta, imperiously. “And I'll thank you to step aside and let us pass.”

The PCSO tipped his hat. “Oh, no, sir,” he grinned. “I can do better than that.”

“What mean you?” She deepened her voice, pleased that her disguise appeared to be working.

“I'll accompany you,” the PCSO clapped his hands together. “Right, where am we off to?”

“Just get us out of the building, would you? We can handle things from there.”

“I've got a motor...”

Roberta almost laughed but she didn't want to spoil the illusion. “Very well. I can see we are going to get along famously, Officer, um...?”

She reached for her husband's hand. Lionel kept his head down, allowing the wide-brim of his borrowed hat to conceal his blushes and indeed his blusher.

“Your efforts shall not go unrewarded, Officer, um...” The Wooltons followed the fluorescent yellow tabard along the corridor.

The PCSO glanced over his shoulder and grinned. “Taylor,” he said.