Zorilla At Large! (4 page)

Chapter Four

It fell to doe-eyed volunteer Lindsey to inform the police of Jeff Newton's murder, with an efficiency and presence of mind hitherto unseen. Within the hour, the office was sealed off and crawling with Forensics, and Chief Inspector Karen Wheeler was about to blow her top.

“What the fuck is going on in this place?” she seethed. “Have the animals taken over the fucking asylum?”

Brough and Miller, who had been just a couple of hundred yards away at the Railway Hotel, were keeping out of her eye line. They had arrived before the Chief and had so far ascertained that no one had seen a thing.

“Wank me with a hanky! You're supposed to be detectives. De - tec - tives! Do you know what that fucking means? You detect things.”

“I'll - we'll talk to the p.a.,” offered Miller. “The girl who found him.”

“It's a fucking start, I suppose.”

“And when Forensics have finished, we'll talk to them.”

“Yes, Miller.” Wheeler jerked her head towards Brough who, so far, had contributed nothing. “What's up with Fairy Fuckface then?”

Not even the homophobic slur could rouse D I Brough from his thoughts. Wheeler rolled her eyes. She considered stamping on his foot but there were policies against that kind of thing, apparently. She supposed there were policies about calling a gay detective Fairy Fuckface too. Well, more like guidelines, really.

“Any word from Tweedledum and Tweedle-fucking-shitwit?”

“Pattimore and Stevens?”

“No, Miller. The Dalai Lama and the Pope.”

Miller pursed her lips. “Not a sausage, Chief. Still running around after the weasel thing, I expect.”

“Fuck the fucking weasel. Tell them I want them up here. The murder of a fucking human being is more important than some furry-arsed prick running around.”

“Yes, Chief.” Miller pulled out her phone. She'd call Jason rather than that wanker Stevens - although she did feel somewhat disloyal for still having Brough's ex's number. Oh, grow up, Melanie, she told herself. You have the number for professional purposes only.

And it's no business of Brough's whose numbers you have in your contacts folder.

“Hello, Mel!” Pattimore answered at once. Miller could hear the sounds of traffic in the background.

“All right,” said Miller, careful not to use Pattimore's name within Brough's earshot. “Chief wants you to stop what you'm doing and come up to the zoo. All hands on deck kind of thing.”

“Right you are. Might be a few minutes. Benny's in the boozer.”

“He's what?”

“Officially, he's checking the bins behind the kitchen. From the vantage point of the bar, of course.”

“Of course.”

“See you in a bit.”

“T'ra.”

Miller put her phone away. Wheeler was eyeballing her with an eyebrow raised in enquiry.

“They're on their way, Chief.”

“With or without the furry fucker?”

“Without, I expect.”

“Fucking typical,” said Wheeler. Her phone buzzed. It was Superintendent Ball. He could fuck off.

Chapter Five

But there was no evading Superintendent Ball forever. When Chief Inspector Wheeler got back to Serious, he pounced. He bore down on Wheeler, backing her into his office. He kept himself between her and the door. A brave thing to do.

“Not now, Kevin. I've got a lot on my plate.”

“Karen, we can't put this off indefinitely. We have to have The Talk.”

Wheeler groaned. “All right. When a mommy and a daddy love each other very much, they fuck each other's brains out.”

“Not
that
talk.”

“Kevin, I'm up to my fucking eyes in it - and don't you say a fucking peep about that not being very deep, you heightist bastard.”

Superintendent Ball could feel himself shrinking away, try as he might to stand his ground. Wheeler could be like a cornered animal when stressed. And also when she wasn't stressed, come to think of it.

“Two murders, Kevin.” She showed him the corresponding number of fingers as an illustration. “Two fucking murders.”

“Yes, I know it's perhaps not the optimum moment-”

“Too cocking right it's not the opti-fucking moment.” Wheeler's chest was heaving, placing strain on the silver buttons of her uniform. “There's never going to be a right time.”

“I'm sorry,” said Ball, and he meant it. “I'll leave it with you until the end of the week. And best of luck with the investigation.”

He left. Wheeler let out a torrent of swearwords and kicked the furniture.

How could she contemplate losing one - or even two - members of her team? It was unthinkable.

But the great god Funding Cuts demanded his sacrifice.

Someone was for the chop and it fell to Wheeler to draw the dotted line around that someone's neck.

She ran her hand over her short and spiky hair as her temper abated. And then flared up again.

“This isn't my fucking office!” she snarled.

***

“Um...”

Saba, the receptionist at Dedley Council House, spoke into her headset. “Councillor Woolton? There's some people to see you.”

The leader of Dedley Council's voice could be heard distinctly through the receptionist's headphones. The poor girl cringed with embarrassment.

“Tell them to piss off,” Councillor Woolton barked.

“I'm afraid I can't do that, sir.”

“Hell's afire! Why not?”

“Um, they're actually like police officers or something.”

“Detectives,” interjected Brough, not wishing to be lumped in with his colleagues in uniform.

“Like detectives,” Saba amended her response.

“And what the blinking blue fuck do they want with me? Can't Frank handle this?”

“Frank's not here,” said Saba, “and they asked for you pacifically.”

Brough cringed visibly.

“Oh, for fuck's sake! Send them up - No! I'll come down; easier to get shot of them that way.”

There was a click as Woolton disconnected. Saba smiled weakly at the detectives.

“He's coming down,” she said redundantly.

Brough and Miller nodded as though they hadn't heard every word. Miller offered up a smile of sisterhood as if to say, “I know what it's like to work with arseholes”.

Saba gestured across the lobby where upholstered benches flanked a water cooler. Brough shook his head but Miller tottered off to fetch a drink.

“Free water!” she enthused. “You don't get that every day.”

“You pay your council tax, don't you, Miller?”

“Yes, of course. Direct debit. So?”

Brough gave up. He cast his gaze around the marble features of the ornate reception. Civic pride, he mused. Even in Dedley.

A man in a sharply tailored suit came nimbly down the staircase, tugging at his shirt cuffs. It's the toupee that needs adjusting, thought Brough. This vain figure could only be Lionel Woolton, leader of Dedley's council. He looked to the receptionist who nodded at Brough.

Lionel Woolton flicked on a PR smile and extended a cold hand to the detective. “Lionel Woolton,” he smarmed. “Council leader.”

“Detective Inspector David Brough. And this –” he nodded to Miller who was having difficulty with the dispenser, “is D S Miller. Come over here, Miller.”

Miller bumbled over, managing to bark her shin on a low table and spill cool, refreshing water all over her front.

“Oopsy daisy,” she laughed. Her eyes grew wide when they clocked Woolton's wonky hair piece. Brough sent her a warning frown but Miller was too fascinated to catch it.

Brough explained that Councillor Woolton would have to accompany them to the Serious building.

“Preposterous!”

Brough explained it was for the council leader's protection.

“Poppycock!”

Brough explained that everyone who had attended the reception at the zoo was being taken in as a safety precaution.

“Absolute cock batter - Why is this woman staring at me? Have I got shit on my nose?”

“Do stop staring, Miller.”

“I can't...” said Miller, just about managing to refrain from reaching up and straightening the errant toupee.

“Your wife will, of course, have to come along too,” continued Brough. “Perhaps you'd like to call her. It might be better coming from you.”

“Oh, for fuck's-”

“We have a car out front,” said Brough, gesturing toward the exit. “It's unmarked and we spared you the indignity of being escorted by uniformed officers.”

Lionel Woolton harrumphed. “Anyone would think I am under arrest.”

“You're under something,” muttered Miller.

“This really is unnecessary!” Woolton vented his anger on the receptionist. “Cancel my fucking meetings. Forward all my calls. And get Mrs W on the phone; warn her she's about to be picked up by the fuzz.”

He stormed out. The detectives followed him down the wide, concrete steps. Miller was smirking all the way. She let the council leader into the back seat and shut the door. She spoke to Brough across the roof of her car.

“Hah! What do you think he sticks that on with, eh? Council tacks!”

Pleased with herself, Miller got into the driving and seat and then unlocked the passenger door for Brough. They drove down the hill to the Serious building, arriving there miraculously unscathed, no thanks to Miller's incessant leering at the rear-view mirror.

***

The zoo - well, Jeff Newton's p.a. - furnished a full guest list and, within a couple of hours, the councillors, dignitaries and other assorted worthies were collected and crammed into the largest of the briefing rooms in the Serious building. A general hum of complaint and frustration droned in the air, like a swarm of bees with a grievance.

When all were safely gathered in, Chief Inspector Wheeler addressed the room. “Ladies and genitals,” she began, hoping to take the edge off with a taste of her subtle humour.

The din continued unabated.

“Ladies and GENTLEMEN!” Wheeler raised her voice but still no one took a blind bit of notice. She sent a scowl across the room to where that wanker D I Stevens was smirking against a wall. His moustache drooped suddenly, like a caterpillar that had just been shot. He approached.

“Get these bastards' attention for me,” Wheeler barked. Stevens scratched his chin and glanced around.

“I could set the sprinklers off,” he offered.

“Well, aren't you the fucking genius!”

Pattimore approached. He held out his hand as though inviting the chief inspector to dance. With the detective constable's aid, Wheeler stepped onto a chair and thence onto a table top. Light from a ceiling projector picked her out like a diva about to sing.

“That's fucking better.” She awarded Pattimore a rare smile. He was a good kid - despite his anger management issues. But since they didn't impact the quality of his work, it was none of her fucking business.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Wheeler's third attempt succeeded. The din quickly diminished into a low murmur of those who were slow to catch on. An arched eyebrow and a pout soon shut those fuckers up. Wheeler smiled - like a shark welcoming dinner guests.

She told them why they were there, which gave rise to outbursts of shock and disbelief. She asked for their patience and forbearance until more suitable and secure accommodation could be arranged. For the time being, they would have to sit tight in Serious, the safest building in the county.

“This is an outrage,” one man stood up. “An infringement of our civil liberties.”

“Hello, chick,” Wheeler smiled. “And who might you be?”

The standing man turned purple. “I am Lionel Woolton, leader of the fucking council.”

“I don't care if you'm Paul Weller, leader of the Style Council. Sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up.”

From across the room came the short, sharp sound of a slap: Superintendent Ball's palm striking his own face.

“We all have important work to do,” Woolton continued. “It is vital we be allowed to do our jobs.”

Around him, several councillors pulled faces. They didn't look bothered either way.

“And it's vital I do my fucking job,” countered Wheeler. “If I'm to stop you getting your throats ripped open.”

Superintendent Ball intervened. “I am sure,” he spoke in buttered tones, addressing his words directly to Lionel Woolton, “when the Chief Inspector has finished briefing you, our office suites will be at your disposal, for telephone calls and emails and the like.”

Woolton scowled but accepted the compromise.

“But no bugger must say where they am,” Wheeler warned. “We don't want that bastard knowing you'm all cooped up in here.”

“Quite so,” Ball agreed. “I am sure everyone appreciates the need for secrecy.”

The councillors and dignitaries nodded. They looked shit-scared, thought Wheeler. Good. The leader himself looked particularly shocked - unless that was the runaway zorilla on his head.

The Mayor raised a tentative hand. “Will there be coffee?” he asked.

“Of course!” Ball smiled, magnanimously.

“And pizza?”

“Don't fucking push it,” said Wheeler.

The sudden arrival of a woman in faux fur startled everyone. She was speaking into a mobile phone, cradled in the crook of her neck and swiping a manicured talon across the screen of a tablet.

“Never mind, Saba,” she snapped. “I've found him now.”

She went directly to Lionel Woolton and air-kissed the vicinity of his cheek.

“Who the fuck is this?” said Wheeler.

“This is my good lady wife,” said Lionel Woolton.

“Roberta Woolton,” the good lady beamed, extending her hand toward the little woman on the table. Wheeler eyed it as though it were a shitty nappy. “This really is most inconvenient. I have had to leave the lottery committee on tenterhooks.”

Superintendent Ball explained to Wheeler that Mrs Woolton headed the local lottery committee, awarding funds to arts projects and worthy causes.

“I was instrumental,” expounded Roberta Woolton, “in funding the whole partnership between the zoo and the African game reserve. Not only instrumental but first violinist, you might say.” She laughed like a donkey snorting cocaine.

Wheeler narrowed her eyes. “Are you saying you fiddled it?”

Roberta Woolton's mouth puckered like a cat's anus. Her husband came to her defence.

“Without my wife's diligence and dedication, Dedley would have no - thingy - whatsname - zorilla at all.”

“Whoop-de-cocking-do!” said Wheeler. “And that's working like a fucking charm so far, isn't it?”

She clambered from her perch and took Ball to one side. “I don't like this,” she grumbled. “All these bastards cluttering the place up. If I'd wanted to babysit a bunch of fucking dickheads, I would have been Brown Owl of the fucking Brownies.”

“Then you'd better arrange places of safety pretty damned quick,” said Ball with uncharacteristic ferocity. “Honestly, Karen, of all the men to cross swords with. The leader of the council! Who do you think is pressing for the reduction of our budget?”

“That prick?”

“Yes. Quite. That prick.”

“Well, bugger me with a rugger team.”

“Exactly.”

“I think it's time for a charm offensive.”

“I think you've already managed half of that.”

“I'll send Brough in. He'll charm the pants off him.” Seeing Ball's shocked expression, Wheeler assured him it was merely a fucking figure of speech. She looked across the room at the haughty Mrs Woolton turning her nose up at the cup of Serious coffee being offered by D S Miller. “I'll make sure Mrs Faux-Fur-and-fake-laugh gets special treatment.”

“Goodo,” said Ball.

“Not because she's the wife of the cocking council leader, though.”

Ball gaped at Wheeler, dumbfounded.

“But because all this zorilla business is down to her - well, the money side of it, at any rate. Bloody hell, Kevin. If our killer's targeting the movers and shakers behind the zoo exchange - or whatever it is - then old Mrs Snotty Drawers is slap bang in the line of fire.”

“Good lord,” said Ball. “I do believe you're right. Only, Karen, one thing: do try to restrict your effing and blinding to a bare minimum, eh?”

Chief Inspector Wheeler smiled sweetly and batted her eyelashes.

“Suck my dick,” she said.

***

A mile or two from Serious stands Dedley's arts centre, a late-Victorian edifice of red tiles and gothic windows. Latterly more of a community ‘hub' than a repository for theatre and artistic expression, on this particular evening it was closing early. No bugger had turned up for Zoe's Zumba Zession and so Zoe had zhut up zhop. She unplugged her ghetto blaster wondering not for the first time if that was a racist name for a portable cassette-and-CD player. Perhaps she should upgrade to one of those MP threes - although to Zoe it sounded too much like a trio of politicians. She slipped into her Puffa jacket (homophobic?) over her lilac leotard.