Zorilla At Large! (9 page)

Chapter Twelve

“This is disgraceful.” Enoch Marshall folded his arms - just about - over his barrel chest. His face was even redder than before. “I've lost a day's trade, sat sitting here. And will I be compensated? Will I fuck!”

“Um...” Across the table, Harry Henry adjusted his spectacles. He pushed a sheet of paper toward the butcher. “You've seen this before, I take it.”

Marshall barely glanced at the paper. “I wrote it. What about it?”

“It's your bid for lottery funding,” said Harry Henry.

“I know it is; I wrote the bastard.”

Chief Inspector Wheeler sent Harry a glare. Harry coughed.

“Tell us more about your idea. Why you wanted lottery support in the first place.”

“No point,” said Marshall. “I didn't get it, did I?”

“I'm interested,” said Harry. “Go on.”

“Why, are you going to put your hand in your pocket? No; thought not. My idea - and I still hold it's a good one - was to set up a home delivery service. Mainly to the big houses, folk who can afford it. You see, what used to be poor man's grub is now seen as a delicacy. Tripe and all that. I was going to undercut the big supermarkets - bastards! - and go that extra mile. Thought if I could get me a little van, all spruced up, like, with a logo on it, and set up a website and an app or something. Got to do something, haven't I? Forcing us out, those big supermarkets are. Do you know how many independent traders have gone to the wall?”

“Um... What wall?”

Chief Inspector Wheeler cringed. Come on, Harry, she urged silently. Prove you're the man for this job.

“They undercut our prices, and they don't know what they'm doing. I'm a qualified professional, I am. I've got certificates. I'm not some poor sod on benefits they'm exploiting for slave labour. Although I will be soon, if things keep going the way they'm going.”

Harry made a few notes then, with the tip of his tongue poking out, carefully highlighted them with his bright yellow pen.

“Inspector, a word,” said Wheeler. She jerked her head toward the exit.

“Um...” Harry gathered up his pens, lest the butcher try to nick them, and followed her out into the corridor.

“What the actual fuck?”

“Um, I think he's thawing, Chief. He's warming to his theme. All this antagonism towards the supermarkets. Could be a motive.”

“Harry, the victims aren't the supermarkets, the victims are lottery funded.”

“Yes, but...”

“Right. Get back in there and nail him. Ask him about the victims. Did he know them? Did they come in his shop for sausages? And put those fucking felt tips away. It's a statement you'm writing not a fucking colouring book.”

“Um.”

She opened the door and ushered the bumbling D I back inside, hoping she would not have to reconsider her decision.

***

Brough and Miller had arrived at the block of flats wherein the last lottery bid winner was believed to reside. There was a row of buttons near the entrance, numbered and with nameplates, most of which bore faded labels.

“Emmetts,” Brough checked his notes. “First name, Noel.”

Miller scanned the buttons up and down and up again. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, there's no Noel Emmetts. Hah! Do you remember that song?”

“What?”

“Never mind. I don't suppose you were much of a disco bunny. There's a couple of nameplates with no names on them. We could try them.”

“Go on then.”

Miller pressed the first button. A bulb lit weakly, and an elderly woman's voice crackled from a speaker. “Who is it?”

“Police,” said Miller. “Is there a Noel Emmetts there?”

“Who, dear?”

“Noel Emmetts.”

“No, dear. Just me, dear. Why don't you come up for a cup of tea? I think there's some biscuits in the cupboard. Been a while since I had visitors.”

“Thank you!” said Brough, curtly. He pulled Miller's finger off the button. He pressed the next one. There was no reply.

“I'll bet that's the one,” said Miller. Brough was already bounding up the stairs. Sod that, thought Miller, and headed for the lift, holding her breath against the stench of urine.

She didn't exhale until she reached the top floor. Her breathing was back to normal by the time Brough emerged from the stairs, looking rather winded. He used to go running, Miller recalled, used to take more care of himself. I suppose now that he's off the market... On the other hand, you'd think he'd want to be in the best possible shape for his famous fella... And why, oh why, am I thinking so much about it?

“Have you knocked?” Brough spoke through sharp breaths.

“Was waiting for you, sir. What took you so long?”

Brough ignored her. He rattled the knocker over the letterbox. They waited. There was no answer.

“He's not in,” said Miller.

“Someone's on her way to promotion,” sneered Brough. “What time is it?”

“Half past.”

“Half past what?”

“Seven.”

“Come on then,” Brough sighed. “I'll buy you a drink.”

He headed back to the stairs, with his raincoat flapping dramatically behind him. A little stunned, Miller tottered after him.

On the way to the ground floor, Brough made a call to get some uniforms or even (God help them) PCSOs stationed outside the flat. Noel Emmetts had to be taken in for his own safety, regardless of the pretentious bollocks he was trying to inflict on the world.

***

Darren Bennett paced the room he had been allocated. Student accommodation was hardly palatial and so he was achieving little more than turning around on the spot. It wasn't right keeping him cooped up like this. He was a strong guy; he could take care of himself, against any attacker, assailant or assassin that might try it on with him. He looked at the card the bloke detective had given him. Perhaps he should give this, ah, Brough, a call. Plead his case.

Got to do something, Darren Bennett grunted in frustration. There's no room to swing a dumbbell in this shithole, never mind a cat.

There was a knock at the door.

“Um, Mister Bennett?” said a man.

“Um...” Darren's mind raced. What had the detectives told him about answering the door or even his phone to strangers? No one must know of his whereabouts if his safety was to be guaranteed.

“PCSO Taylor,” the man continued. “I signed you in, remember?”

“Um, oh yeah.” Darren reached for the door handle and turned it. At once, the door was shoved against him, taking him by surprise. A paw, covered in black fur, with three sharp claws slashed at the air. Darren Bennett leaned against the wood with all his might, his mind careering in panic. He let the door open just a sliver and then slammed it on the paw. He heard a whimper and the paw withdrew.

“What the actual fuck...” Darren slumped against the door. He tried to reach for his phone but was reluctant to leave the door, lest the creature try again.

He sat back and strained to listen.

There was nothing.

He let ten minutes pass then sprang into action. He pushed the desk against the door, and the chair and also the bedside table. Then he sat on this pile of furniture and dialled Detective Inspector Brough, suddenly feeling not such a strong guy after all.

Chapter Thirteen

Stevens steered his Ford Capri towards The Bear Pit, a hostelry not far from his flat. He'd be able to have a few jars (i.e. many) and leave his motor on the carpark until the morning.

“Sounds like a gay bar,” Pattimore observed from the passenger seat. Stevens pulled a face.

“Don't remind me,” he grimaced. He had to suppress memories of a previous case in which he'd gone undercover as a drag act and had got locked up in the cellar. “No, it's all right; I'm OK. You can take your hand off my leg now.”

“I'm not!” said Pattimore, holding up both appendages and waggling them as though he was in a DICWADS musical.

“Then...” Stevens looked down. He took in the white stripe, felt the zorilla's body heat and its pinprick claws pierce the fabric of his chinos. “It's the - the fucking wossname!” he squealed. “It's fucking my leg!”

Pattimore seized the wheel, trying to keep the Capri from colliding with a lamppost. He succeeded but then a cry and a lurch from Stevens sent the car veering across the road and into a couple of wheelie bins gathered at the kerb.

“My car!” he yelped.

At least they had come to a halt. Stevens froze in abject horror and disgust as the little creature clung on doggedly, rubbing itself against the detective's shin. Its tiny eyes were closed in ecstasy.

“How did it get in?” Stevens whimpered.

“Must have snuck in when you opened the door. I bet it followed us all the way through the park. It was probably watching us the whole time.”

“Why me?” Stevens wailed.

“It's the pheromones,” said Pattimore. “You must have got some on you. And, combined with your body heat... That's where we went wrong with the lure!”

“Never mind all that. Get this furry fucker off me!”

“Just close your eyes and think of England.” Pattimore unlocked the passenger door.

“Where are you going?”

“To get the stuff - the equipment. It's in the boot.”

“Don't leave me!”

“I'm only going to the boot.”

“And don't slam the-”

But it was too late. The noise startled the amorous animal and it went off like a stink bomb. The car was filled with the most noxious stench Stevens had ever encountered. He clawed at the window for air, gasping like a drowning man.

Oops, thought Pattimore, safely out in the open air. He decided to call the zoo for expert help - once he had stopped laughing.

***

“Tell me everything,” said Brough.

Darren Bennett peered over the shoulder of the detective in his doorway.

“That lady one not with you?”

“Who?” said Brough. “Miller?”

“Is that her name?”

“Never mind her.” Irritated, Brough stepped into the room. The furniture was still in disarray but he had persuaded the lifeguard to move it from behind the door. “Your attacker spoke to you?”

“Yeah.” Darren Bennett sat on the bed. He patted a space beside him but Brough righted a chair and sat on that.

“And...?”

“And what?”

“What did he say?”

“Who?”

“The attac - Look, you're obviously very shaken up by the experience.”

“I could do with a hug.”

“Yes, well, that's not going to happen.”

“I better Miller would give me one.”

“Be that as it may, please try to focus on the incident. What did he say? The exact words, if you can.”

“Um... well, he said he was the CBSO.”

“Sorry? He told you he was the City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra?”

“No! Something like that. Er...”

“PCSO?”

“That's it! PCSO... Taylor. He was the one who signed me in, he said.”

Brough made a note. “And then what?”

“And then this big hairy arm tried to force the door in.”

“Can you describe it?”

“About seven feet tall, flat and wooden.”

“The arm, I mean.” Brough was losing patience. Was the man being deliberately obtuse or was it apparent interest in Miller that was so irksome? After all, ten pounds is ten pounds.

“Well, it was big and it was hairy.”

“Colour?”

“Black. It was thick, black fur. And it had three claws on it.”

“I see...”

“Only I would have noticed if the copper who signed me in was a bloody gorilla or something, wouldn't I?”

“One would hope.”

“Unless - unless he's a werewolf or something.”

Brough stared at him. “A what?”

“You don't know,” Darren Bennett shifted uncomfortably. “Not long back there was talk this town was crawling with zombies.”

“Nonsense.” Brough cleared his throat. “Then what happened?”

“Well, he tried to get in but I was too strong. Shut his paw in the door. He didn't like that. Then he went away. I waited a bit to make sure and then I called you.”

“Right. This place is knee-deep in police and you called me.”

“Well, I couldn't trust them, could I? Not after he said he was one of them.”

“No. I suppose not.”

Brough moved to the door. He inspected the woodwork for scratches. “There are no signs of forced entry.”

“I didn't let him get that far.”

“Quite.” Brough stepped into the corridor. A look of dismay flashed on Bennett's face.

“You're not leaving me here, are you?” He grabbed the detective by the sleeve of his raincoat. Brough glowered at the hand until Bennett released him.

“It's still the safest place. But I can come back for you later.”

“Oh, yes!”

“And take you down to Serious.”

“Oh.” Bennett seemed disappointed. Then he perked up. “Will Miller be there?”

Brough left. What a confusing fellow!

And what was all this bollocks about a werewolf?

Well, it was bollocks. That's all it was.

He heard Bennett's door close behind him and the sound of heavy furniture being moved. Brough supposed, in the same position, he might do the same.

He padded along the corridor. The sound of televisions behind locked doors - the councillors had no doubt made themselves as comfortable as possible - gave Brough snatches of football matches and soap operas. Someone was watching
University Challenge
. Someone else was watching German pornography. Brough quickened his step.

On the ground floor, he found a couple of PCSOs leaning against a wall. One was showing the other something terribly amusing on his phone.

“Taylor,” said Brough, flashing his i.d.

“Says Brow on there,” said the owner of the phone.

“It's
Brough
!”

“Then why did you say it was Taylor?”

Brough made an inner plea for strength. What was it, Obtuse Fuckwits Day?

“I'm looking for Taylor. He's a hob - he's a PCSO.”

The men bristled. They did not like being called ‘hobby bobbies' - not even almost.

“There's no Taylor here,” said one, with a cold stare.

“Then perhaps his shift has ended? Perhaps he's gone off duty?”

“We don't know no Taylor.”

Brough decided to let the double negative slide. He demanded to see the roster. One sloped off to fetch it. The other stood eyeballing the ponce in the raincoat with undisguised contempt. Brough returned the scrutiny with a steady glare. Uncomfortable moments crawled by until the other returned with the roster.

“Told you,” he said with an air of triumph. “There ain't no Taylor here.”

“And neither of us have been up to the third floor in the past hour or so.”

The PCSOs gave him blank looks, unwilling to admit to anything or to do the snotty git any favours.

“And I don't suppose there is any CCTV footage?”

“You'm right,” said one.

“Residential building,” added the other. “Them students like their privacy. For all their sex and drugs and that.”

“Right.” Brough drew himself up to his full height. “No more shirking, you two. One of you will stay here by the main entrance, the other will patrol the floors. You are to admit no one until I return. Is that understood?”

“Sir, yes sir!” they chorused but Brough couldn't determine whether they were taking the piss. He left them to it and stepped out into the street.

The pub in which he'd left Miller was only two hundred yards away but surely even she must be wondering where he'd got to by now. He jogged along the road, ashamed to be made aware of how out-of-shape he had become. He would have to do something about that; he didn't want Oscar Buzz, who travelled with his own gym and personal trainers, to go off him.

He found Miller nursing the same glass of pinot grigio - but the bottle on the table was now two-thirds empty.

“I remember you,” she gave him a grim smile. “Didn't we used to work together?”

Brough lowered himself onto a stool. “Sorry about that, Miller.”

“The shits, was it?”

“I'm sorry?”

“Attack of the galloping squits?”

“Well, really, Miller. If you must know, I had a tip-off.”

“Mazel tov!” She raised her glass in a toast.

“Not like that. Listen, you're in no fit state to drive. We have to get Darren Bennett down to Serious.”

“Send a van... Who?”

“Darren Bennett. From the leisure centre.”

“Oh...” Miller perked up. “I'll give him a ride. I'll give him a ride any day of the week.”

“You're in no fit state to drive.”

“No stit fate? And who said anything about driving?” She cackled lasciviously, spilling wine on her chin.

For a second, Brough found himself wishing he was back with the hobby bobbies.

There was nothing else for it: he took out his phone and called that wanker Benny Stevens.

***

In the carpark of the Bear Pit, that wanker Benny Stevens's Ford Capri was jack-knifed across three parking spaces and surrounded by onlookers. Three keepers from the zoo were trying, through raised voices and unsophisticated mime, to coax the detective to open the door or, at the very least, to wind down the window.

Stevens was wide-eyed and rigid, with the zorilla still clinging amorously to his leg. The beast was still - for now - in a post-coital snooze. Stevens hardly dared breathe in case he woke it and it started shagging his shin again.

The theme from
The A Team
blared out of a pocket in his tan leather jacket. The zorilla let out a yip of alarm and emitted another toxic cloud.

“Oh, for fuck's –!” Claws or no claws, shag or no shag, Stevens shoved the door open and thrust his leg, zorilla and all, out into the fresh air. The crowd of spectators gasped at the stench and placed protective hands over their pint glasses. The keepers had come prepared with masks. In an instant, they rushed the detective's leg and encased it in a carrying cage.

“What the fuck?” cried Stevens. “Get that off of me! Can't you fucking tranquillise the bastard?”

“Let's be having you,” said one of the keepers. He and a co-worker took Stevens by the arms and heaved him from the car.

The ringtone started up again. Stevens nodded to Pattimore. “Get that bastard thing, would you?”

Smirking, Pattimore reached into Stevens's breast pocket and took out the phone.

“It's David,” he said.

Stevens groaned. “Of course it fucking well would be.”

The keepers directed him toward their van. One supported the cage, the others had the hopping (and hopping mad) detective by the armpits.

“Where the fuck am we going?” he roared, casting a concerned look over his shoulder at his beloved Capri.

“Back to the zoo.” The keeper spoke as though Stevens was a moron.

“Try to remain calm,” advised another. “These things have sharp teeth.”

“Bastard bites me and I'll bite him back,” said Stevens, although his voice sounded less brave than his words.

The keepers sat him on the floor of the van and closed the back doors, encasing him in darkness with the creature.

Pattimore watched the van trundle away. When Stevens's phone rang the third time, he decided to take the call.

“Hello, Davey... No, it's me. Jason.”

***

Miller finished the bottle. She considered going home and sleeping it off. Let Brough run around after that leisure centre bloke. He was fit though... and probably a bender too. Brough had all the luck... No, that wasn't exactly the truth, was it? Miller remembered Brough's first boyfriend since his arrival in Dedley. Nasty way to go. And then there was Jason. Nice lad. What went wrong there? Must have been something big; they'd seemed well-suited... And now Brough was having it large with one of the most famous and most handsome men on the planet.

On balance, Brough was doing much better than she was.

She cast a baleful glance around at the other patrons. Old couples staring silently into space, married so long they were beyond conversation. A boorish wag holding court to his potbellied mates. A group of kids - undoubtedly underage - on cider and blackcurrant.

Where were all the decent blokes?

Not in Dedley; that much was certain.

Sod it.

She tottered to the bar and ordered another large glass of the pinot and - fuck it - a packet of cheese and onion crisps. Not like I'm going to be snogging anybody tonight, is it?

While she waited to be served, her eye fell on a poster near the bar. It advertised the production of
The Winter's Tale
by that bloke they were trying to find and take to safety. A strip of paper had been taped across it in a diagonal: CANCELLED.

The landlord noted Miller's puzzled frown.

“My lad,” he nodded at the poster. “Runs his own theatre company. Well, what else can you do with a drama degree in Dedley?”

“It says the show's cancelled,” Miller observed.