Zorilla At Large! (7 page)

“Mmm,” said Roberta Woolton, “I had intended this to be a quick call.”

They laughed. Roberta finished first.

“Now listen, darling, I'm afraid there's a bit of a howdye-do... Yes, of course about the blasted pyramid! What else? Those philistines on the council are stamping their feet on this one, and my influence over my husband only goes so far.”

Chad listened with mounting horror as Roberta related the latest preposterous proviso those iconoclastic shitwits wanted to impose.

“Warning tape? Black and yellow warning tape! All over my lovely pyramid?”

“There are health and safety concerns, my darling. In certain conditions, the thing is invisible. How many pigeons have broken their necks on it now?”

“Umm...” Chad thought about the rag in his pocket. He'd just finished wiping off the smear of the latest casualty.

“And there are times of day when the sun bounces off it. It's utterly blinding, darling. It's a hazard to motorists... Chad? Are you listening?”

“Umm... Hold on a second.”

Chad edged around the base of the pyramid. A thud had distracted him from Roberta's ranting. Probably another bloody pigeon come headlong into its doom. Perhaps he should collect all the corpses and make a companion piece: a pyramid of dead pigeons showing how beauty dies for art... Or something...

Chad was inspired and was already filling out the lottery grant application in his head when he noticed a shadow at the farthest side. Too large to be a pigeon - too large to be a man, come to think of it.

“I say!” he called out, striding around the corner.

“Chad?” Roberta's voice issued from the device in his hand.

“You there! You can't be on here.”

“Chad?”

“Oh, no! Oh, fuck, no!”

“Chad?!”

But all Roberta Woolton could hear was the scream of the artist, suddenly curtailed. There followed a spine-chilling gurgle and the sound of something heavy hitting the ground.

“Chad? CHAD?!”

Chad's phone landed several feet from his body. Now all there was in Roberta's ear was the dull rumble of traffic and the occasional car horn as yet another blinded motorist veered across the lanes.

Chapter Nine

To say that the motorists approaching Dedley from the south were inconvenienced would be an understatement. The tailback of traffic extended for miles - almost to Stourbridge. The intersection was closed to all comers. The police barricaded the routes leading to the traffic island, which was now a crime scene.

It was Roberta Woolton who alerted the emergency services, summoning everyone but the coast guard. Something had happened to Chad Roe, she told them, but being a couple of miles away in the student halls of residence when it happened, she didn't quite know what.

It did not take the police long to establish that the late artist was the latest victim of the maniac the papers had dubbed the Zorilla Killer.

Brough and Miller arrived at the scene, dazzled by camera flashes rebounding off the glass, recording as evidence the spatter of scarlet that had sprayed from Chad Roe's gizzard.

“Talk about putting one's lifeblood into your work,” said Brough.

“You're not funny,” said Miller. “And I thought you was into all this...” she gestured at the pyramid.

“What, Miller? Municipal kitsch? Glassware? Egyptology?”

“Modern art.”

“Well, I am if it's good. This - this is just rubbish. And a hazard to motorists.”

“Says the eternal passenger.”

The SOCO approached from around a corner. In his all-white coverall he looked like a low-budget alien emerging from its craft.

“We must stop meeting like this,” he laughed.

“I suppose we will eventually,” said Brough. “Either when we've caught the bastard or when the town runs out of people for him to murder.”

“Are we certain it's the same bastard?” said Miller. “And not just an art critic making a point?”

The men ignored her.

“Same three wounds,” said the SOCO. “I'd bet they're all inflicted simultaneously. One slash. One powerful slash.”

“And what might he be using?”

The SOCO pulled a face but the expression was lost behind the mask over his nose and mouth. “Something with three blades...”

“Like what?”

“Not claws then?” said Miller.

The men stared at her.

“Well,” she continued, “I thought, what with the fur found at every scene - Have you found any here?”

“As a matter of fact, we have. It'll take the lab to confirm it's the same type of fur as last time but I'd wager it is.”

Miller nodded. A little put out, Brough cleared his throat.

“And are we any closer to establishing the source of the fur? What kind of animal it comes from.”

“You need to check your messages, mate,” said the SOCO. “Lab delivered their results yesterday. It's bear.”

“Bear?” said Miller. She and Brough exchanged glances.

“You're not saying there's a bear - an actual bear - going around slashing people's throats because of the letter zed?”

“Eh?” said the SOCO. Enough of his face was visible for them to see his eyebrows dipping. “Zed?”

“He's right, sir,” Miller looked around. “There's no zeds here. Just a pyramid.”

Brough's mind raced. His eyes darted in all directions and he chewed his lower lip as he paced. Suddenly, he stopped.

“Ziggurat!” he cried.

“No, thanks,” said Miller. “I don't smoke.”

***

The gift shop at Dedley Zoo stocked plush versions of most of its popular animal attractions. For twenty quid you could get a floppy-necked giraffe or a bendy-armed chimpanzee or even a lemur shaped like a neck pillow. But there were no zorillas to be had. Not even for ready cash.

“Could you check out the back?” pleaded D C Pattimore, flashing his i.d.

Behind the counter, a woman whose name badge revealed she was called Babs puckered her mouth. “No point, is there?” she said. “They haven't come in yet. I should know; I did the order. We have got these, though. Can't shift them.”

She reached under the counter and plonked a heavy mass of fake fur, felt and googly eyes before the startled detectives.

“Fuck is that?” said Stevens, staring.

“A wombat?” ventured Pattimore.

“No, love,” said Babs. “It's a capybara. Rodent from South America or somewhere.”

“So it's a big rat. So fucking what?”

Babs ignored the one with the outdated moustache and directed her words to the younger, prettier one. “I can do you two of these for a fiver.”

Pattimore peered at the thing from a range of angles. He picked it up as though to guess its weight. “Just the one'll do. Don't suppose you've got any dye or paints or something?”

The puckered mouth put in another appearance. “Can do you some face paints. The kiddies like to go home looking like tigers or ladybirds.”

She placed a brightly-coloured box of brightly-coloured paints on the counter.

“The paints and the rat, six knicker.”

Stevens presented his i.d. “Official police business, love.”

Babs stood her ground. They had reached a standoff.

At last Pattimore capitulated and pulled out his wallet. “I'll need a receipt,” he muttered.

“Of course, chick.”

Babs rang up the sale. “Bag?” she asked.

“You can say that again,” sneered Stevens.

The detectives returned to Stevens's Ford Capri. To the car owner's annoyance, Pattimore displayed their purchases on the bonnet.

“Mind the fucking paintwork!”

“Paint work is exactly what we'm doing. Or at least I am. I got a GCSE in Art. I'll try to make this capy-whatsit look more like a zorilla while you go and get the pheromones.”

“And how do you propose I do that, Michael fucking Angelo?”

Pattimore laughed. “I don't expect you to actually go ferreting around its arse. Ask the head keeper. He wants us to find the bastard animal, doesn't he?”

Stevens sniffed. He had to remind himself who was the constable and who was the inspector in this partnership.

He sloped off to see the head keeper.

“Just been on the blower to your lot,” Stevens was informed.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yes,” said the head keeper. “Had to assure them all of our bears are present and accounted for. You don't know what that's all about, do you? Bears?”

“Not a fucking clue, mate. Now, a bottle of your finest ferret fanny juice, if you please.”

The head keeper gaped, aghast.

“Or a jar,” Stevens shrugged. “I'm not fussy.”

***

Roberta Woolton was brought down to Serious to give a witness statement. Chief Inspector Wheeler insisted on conducting the interview herself, out of courtesy for the witness's standing in the community. Sometimes you have to butter these people up if you want to keep earning your daily bread.

Calmly, some might say coldly, the ear-witness went through the conversation she'd had with Chad Roe and tried her hardest to describe the sounds she had heard.

“You hung up?” said Wheeler.

“Well, I had to, so I could call the police,” said Roberta, nettled by the question.

“Suppose,” said Wheeler. “Are you sure that's everything? Would you like to go through it again?”

“Oh God, no,” said Roberta. “What I would like is to go home - well, go to the office, and go about my business. Why would anyone want to kill Chad?”

“That's what we'm trying to find out,” said Wheeler. “Can you tell us anything else about him?”

“Such as?”

“Such as, how you came to know him?”

“Well, he applied for a lottery grant. I'd seen his work in the Sunday supplements, of course, like everyone.”

“Um,” said Wheeler.

“The committee was unanimous. I'd never seen them come to a decision so quickly. To have an original Roe right here in Dedley! It could only be good for the town.”

“Committee?”

“The local lottery. I am the chair.”

“I don't care if you'm the fucking sideboard,” Wheeler muttered. “And so everyone on this committee agreed about the - what do you call it? - sculpture?”

“Yes. It was the borough council who tried to put a spanner in the works. Why?”

“Oh,” Wheeler's head bobbed from side to side. “Just thinking... Anyone who might have objected...”

Roberta laughed bitterly. “I don't think any of those old dodderers on the council would be capable of murder, Chief Inspector. It's ludicrous.”

“Isn't your husband a bigwig on the council? King of the old dodderers?”

Roberta bristled. “My husband keeps that council ticking over. I was able to quell any dissension - using my influence on my husband, I mean.”

Wheeler's nose wrinkled. “Is that kosher?”

“I'm not Jewish.”

“Wheels within wheels, Chief Inspector. It's how things get done in a town like this. In fact, it's what makes the world go around. And I am very good at getting what I want.”

Wheeler smiled. The kind of smile you might find on a snake that has realised its jaws could distend wide enough to accommodate you.

“You'm going back to the safe house, chick. Where we can keep an eye on you. For your protection, of course.”

Roberta reddened. “This is preposterous! You can't keep me locked up - I have done nothing. None of us has.”

“Then tell us everything you know and we can catch the bugger all the quicker, can't we?”

“I've told you everything.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. What else could I possibly say?”

“Something beginning with zed.”

“What is this? I-Spy?”

“I'm not playing games, chicken. What had Chad Roe got to do with the letter zed?”

“Eh?”

Wheeler stood. It didn't make much difference but she was able to circle the desk and Roberta's chair. “We have a theory,” she explained, “that each murder is somehow related to the last letter of the alphabet.”

“What?”

“You heard.”

Wheeler sketched out the list so far. Zorilla and zoo and Zumba and Zoe and zoetrope... Roberta said she couldn't see how this had anything to do with Chad Roe. Wheeler threw Brough's word at her.

“I don't smoke.”

“It's a type of pyramid, isn't it?”

“Well, yes, but a ziggurat is - it has steps. Chad's pyramid has smooth sides.”

Wheeler scowled.

“Honestly, Chief Inspector, I think your zed theory is tenuous to say the least.” She got to her feet. “Now, is there a car ready to take me back to that hellhole?”

“So, you can't think of any zeds to do with that artist chap?”

“I've told you, no. But - hang about - what was the name of that Zumba instructor again?”

“Um. Zoe. Zoe something.”

Roberta's eyes darted around as she thought of something. “There was a Zoe who put in an application for a lottery grant... Yes, it was Zumba, now I think of it. She wanted to set up her own business and we helped her.” She beamed with pride, but then her face fell. “And she's dead, you say? Oh, dear.”

She tottered back to her chair. Wheeler poured her a glass of water.

“Those other victims. What were their names again?”

“I don't know if I can make you privy to that information.”

“Chief Inspector! You must! Don't you see? It's not zeds! It's not zeds at all!”

“Then what the fucking bastard is it?”

Roberta took a gulp of water. “It's me,” she said.

“Is this a confession?”

“I mean it's all the lottery. Everyone who has died so far has been granted money by my committee. The zoo - they wouldn't have set up that partnership with the game reserve without our funding. The Zumba classes. Chad!”

“The museum?”

“Yes!”

“Well, shag me, Jimmy Cagney.”

“I'm sorry?”

But Wheeler was dashing for the door. “You sit tight, love. I've got a fucking team to brief.”