Zorilla At Large! (2 page)

Chapter Two

The Serious Crimes Division adjourned to the scene of the murder: Doctor Kabungo's room at the Railway Hotel, an establishment that had seen more murderers through its doors than Winson Green Prison. While appropriately-suited forensics officers went about the process of labelling and photographing everything visible (and some things invisible), the SOCO briefed Wheeler and her team in the sealed-off corridor.

“Initial inspection suggests the victim's throat was slashed - no, not slashed; ‘torn' might be a better word. From here to here.” He made a diagonal gesture from beneath his right ear to just below his Adam's apple, using three fingers. “Now, if you were to put a gun to my head and ask me to stipulate right here and now before we run any lab tests and all the rest of it, I'd have to say the poor bugger fell prey to some kind of vicious animal attack.”

Wheeler's eyebrows leapt towards the hairline of her salt-and-pepper crew cut. Detective Inspector Brough stepped forward.

“Are there any other signs of animal intrusion?”

“Did it fuck him, do you mean?” said Wheeler.

“No, Chief,” Brough dismissed her with a patronising smile and looked the SOCO in the eye. “I mean other marks, fur, droppings, urine, scratches on the furniture. How might an animal have got in? And out?”

“Could still be in there,” Miller nodded to the room behind the strips of yellow tape.

The SOCO negated Miller's notion and assured them if there was an animal in that room, his team would have stumbled across it by now. He said he would send his full report, nodded farewell to Brough and went back to finish his job.

Wheeler sneered in disdain. “Hoi, Casa-buggering-nova, isn't a film star fuck buddy enough for you?”

Brough blushed beneath his tan.

“Right,” Wheeler addressed the team as a whole. “Brough, Miller, you stay here. Talk to people: hotel manager, night porter, chambermaids, even the fucking paper boy. I want a full picture of what happened since Doctor Whojimmyflop checked in, right up until he... checked out. You two,” she stabbed a finger at Pattimore and Stevens, “You two am going on a skunk hunt.”

“What did you call me?” Stevens bristled.

“I said ‘skunk hunt',” said Wheeler deliberately.

Stevens groaned. “Make it a beaver hunt and you've got a deal.”

“I'm not in the fucking mood,” Wheeler snapped. “Perhaps you can twiddle your porn-star moustache and entice that thing out of hiding then, while it's fucking your fucking fuck face, Pattimore can chuck a bag over it.”

“Yes, Chief,” said Pattimore brightly, earning himself a sharp jab in the ribs from Stevens's elbow.

“And me, Chief?” Harry Henry stood blinking. He wore the hopeful expression of a boy scout during bob-a-job week.

“You, Harry,” Wheeler gave him a smile that would not have been out of place on an inmate in the zoo's house of reptiles, “are going to get your picture in the papers. I want you at that photo opportunity, keeping an eye on that second fucking skunk. Make sure His Worship the fucking Mayor doesn't come to no harm.”

She reached up and patted Harry Henry's face.

“That's not fair,” Stevens complained. His moustache curled like a petulant caterpillar. “Why can't I get my picture in the papers?”

“Because Benny-boy,” Wheeler rounded on him, “Of all of us, Harry is the only one qualified to go undercover on this one.”

“Eh?” said Stevens.

“Because he's black, you plum,” said Brough. “Or don't your detective skills extend far enough for you to notice?”

“I don't get it,” said Harry Henry.

“Chief wants you undercover as a member of Doctor Kabungo's African contingent. Am I right, Chief?”

“Yeah,” said Wheeler, although she might have gone with ‘tribe' rather than ‘contingent' - at least she didn't break out a can of boot polish for Brough, her top undercover man.

“I still don't get it,” said Harry Henry. “I'm from Tipton.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Wheeler. “You're to stand in for the dead doctor. Only don't tell them he's dead. Say he's ill, if you have to. Just shake the Mayor by the hand and smile sweetly for the photographers.”

“Oh,” said Harry Henry. He shuffled away but Brough jogged after him.

“Harry!” he clapped an arm around his colleague's shoulder. “Might I ask you something?”

“I suppose.”

“When you came in this morning and saw the screen, you recognised the animal right away, didn't you? None of us had ever heard of one before but you knew what it was called. How on Earth...?”

Harry Henry grinned. It was not often his knowledge was superior to that of Detective Inspector David Brough.

“You're not married, are you, David?”

“No...” Brough was baffled by the question. “You know I'm not.”

“You see, David, sometimes a married couple have to do certain things together to keep the fun alive.”

“Oh, God...” Brough paled - even with that tan - fearing Harry Henry was about to reveal there was a heterosexual sex position called The Zorilla.

“Say, when you're both stuck in a caravan during a rainy week away in Rhyl,” Harry Henry continued, oblivious of Brough's discomfort, “Well, the Mrs and I like to play what I call The Alphabet Game. Do you know it?”

“Um... Can't say that I do.”

“Well, you have a sheet of paper each and you write the alphabet down the margin and then you come up with different categories. Like Vegetables, for example. Or Capital Cities. Then it's a race to think of an example for every letter of the alphabet, do you see? And you score double points if you come up with an example nobody else has thought of. When it comes to Animals, people always go for zebra, you see. But I don't. Guess what I put. Go on.”

“Um... ‘zorilla' by any chance?”

“Double points every time!” Harry Henry laughed and tried to exchange a clumsy high-five with Brough.

“I see...” said Brough. “That explains that. For a moment there, I thought you were going to reveal something shockingly intimate about your domestic life.”

“Hah!” Harry Henry wiggled his eyebrows so much his spectacles fell off. He lowered his voice and confided, “High score gets oral from the loser.”

Brough edged away. “Fun for all the family,” he muttered.

***

Miller was waiting in the hotel reception. She watched Brough come down the stairs. How happy he looked! His whole body glowed with it - not just the rays of the Californian sun. Having a world-famous boyfriend was obviously doing Brough a power of good. Miller felt a twinge of sourness and decided to attribute it to envy: she envied Brough for having a boyfriend when she did not. She could live with that kind of envy. Envying the glamorous, multimillionaire Oscar Buzz for having Brough as his lover - well, that was something she did not wish to entertain. Not in the slightest. No, thank you. Please, move on.

“I said, Miller,” Brough's tone was impatient, suggesting he was about to repeat himself because she clearly wasn't listening, “I'm glad things are perking up a bit.”

“Are they?”

“A nice grisly murder. For a moment there I thought we'd be on that weasel hunt with Jason and Stevens.”

“Huh.” Miller hitched the strap of her bag onto her shoulder. “It's not a weasel, it's a zorilla.”

“Actually, I think you'll find it's a member of the mustelid family. Weasels, Miller.”

“Does Oscar Buzz find you this insufferable?”

“He adores me,” said Brough. “I can't wait to see him again but he's off filming in Morocco or Australia or somewhere. His new film's called
Bro, Where's My Camel?
Or something.”

“And you've got the hump because you can't see him?”

“Don't try to quip, Miller; you'll only strain yourself.”

“Wanker.”

“What was that, Detective Sergeant?”

“I said I've asked for the manager. He should be here in a minute.”

“Goodo. Oh! Remind me to show you my pictures. Oscar and I had the whole of Disneyland to ourselves one night. He paid for the lot. Can you imagine? The things we got up to in those spinning teacups.”

Miller made a face that suggested she might vomit.

A thin-faced man with a belly like a beach ball arrived. He introduced himself as Barry Morgan, manager, and ushered the detectives to the door that led to his office.

Morgan sat behind a cluttered desk. He would have leant his arms on it but his belly prohibited him from getting close enough. He gestured for the detectives to sit. There was only one other chair. Miller took it; Brough pouted.

“Most hotels,” Morgan began, “put on murder mystery nights but when it's all over, they jump up and go home. Here...” Words failed him. Miller sent him an empathetic nod. Brough was less patient.

“We want any and all CCTV footage from the time Doctor Kabungo checked in. We shall also want to interview all members of staff on duty since that time.”

“Also the guests,” added Miller.

“I was going to say that; thank you, Miller.”

“The guests?” Barry Morgan paled. “Are you sure that is absolutely necessary?”

“Crucial,” said Brough. “We'll set up an incident room - you can perhaps suggest somewhere suitable.”

“Um, well, there's the banqueting hall. Or the conference suite.”

“Whichever. Come on, Miller. While Mr - ah, Manager checks his staff rotas, let's make a start on rounding up the residents - is that what you call them, Mr Manager? Residents?”

“It's Barry. Barry Morgan.”

Brough frowned. “Surely you don't call them that.”

Miller swatted at him with the back of her hand. She stood. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr Morgan.” She smiled an apology for her partner's rudeness.

Out in the corridor, she upbraided Brough.

“I was not rude!” he gasped, indignantly.

“You bloody was! ‘Surely you don't call them that'. You snooty bastard.”

“Was I? Am I? Perhaps it's jet lag.”

“You've been back for a week.”

“Oh. I'm sorry, Miller. It's just that once you've had a taste of... something different - well...”

“Ugh! Spare me the blow-by-blow - and I could have phrased that better.”

“I mean a different life. It's completely different over there. The weather - do you know, rain actually surprises them? And there's such an optimism; you can see it in their eyes. The sense that anything is possible.”

“Bollocks,” said Miller. “You've had a bit of a fling with a rich-as-creases film star. You've visited a very exclusive bubble and - why are you laughing at me?”

“It's ‘Croesus', Miller. Not ‘creases'!”

“I wasn't far off. Now, come on.” They had reached the door of the first room. “Let's see who's in.”

She knocked.

“It's not a bit of a fling,” Brough was petulant. “He's asked me.”

“Who's asked you what?”

“Oscar Buzz. He's asked me to move to Hollywood. For good.”

Miller kept her eyes on the door. Which was not opening.

“No joy here,” she muttered. “Let's move on.”

***

At Dedley Zoo, Jeffrey Newton assured the detectives that his staff were conducting a thorough search of the grounds and had been doing so since the zorilla first got loose.

“Have you tried the lions?” Detective Inspector Stevens interrupted.

“Well-”

“'Cause if it got in with the lions, well, there won't be nothing left to find.”

“He - it won't have got into the lions' enclosure.”

“Am you sure about that?”

“Quite sure, yes.”

“Tigers, then.”

“It wouldn't have got into the tigers' enclosure either. Really, Inspector-”

“Well,” Pattimore interceded. “If you're satisfied your team have matters under control within the zoo boundaries, we'll concentrate our efforts elsewhere. We'll fan out in an increasing radius.”

“‘Fan out',” Stevens mocked. “You sound like that wanker, D I Brough.”

Pattimore grimaced. Mere mention of his ex brought instant pangs of guilt. Being compared to him rankled like hell.

“You'll need these, gentlemen.” Newton indicated some equipment on a table. There were long poles with what looked like snares on the end, thick gloves, and a carrying case with a cage door. “The zorilla may look cute but it can be vicious when aroused.”

“I'm the same,” said Stevens.

“What about if it, you know...” said Pattimore, “...squirts?”

“Yeah,” Stevens nodded. “Do we get clothes pegs or what?”

“Just try not to antagonise it,” Newton advised.

“So we just catch it with a noose on a stick and ram it into a box? I should fucking cocoa.” Stevens folded his arms to show how resolute he was.

“Well, if you're not up to the job...” Newton left the slight on Stevens's masculinity unfinished and hanging in the air - like a bad smell and, like a bad smell, the implications got right up Stevens's nose. He snatched up a stick and thrust the box at Pattimore's midriff.

“In all seriousness, gentlemen,” Newton smirked, “it's enough for you to locate the animal. Give us a call and I'll send a couple of experts, OK?”

“Gotcha!” said Pattimore.

Stevens murmured a vile imprecation into his moustache. They took the equipment with them anyway.

***

Harry Henry was looking nervously at the animal in the cage. The zorilla - the escapee's mate - was asleep, curled up like a cat in front of a fireplace.

Looks harmless enough, the detective considered. Quite cute, really. That broad stripe running along its back as though it had been run over by one of them whadyacallems - you know - those things they paint the lines on football pitches with. Oh, you must have seen them. Like a wheelbarrow sort of doobrie.