Chapter Fifteen

It was a bleary-eyed D S Miller who pulled up outside Brough’s flat the following morning. While she waited, she pressed two paracetemols from a blister pack and swallowed them dry, grimacing at the bitter taste they left on her tongue.

Come on, come on... She considered giving him a blast of her car horn despite - or perhaps because of - knowing how much he hated that. The dashboard clock told her they would be late for briefing if he didn’t get a wiggle on, and Miller could not face Wheeler’s scorn and derision that morning.

Somewhere in the deepest recesses of her bag, Miller’s phone buzzed and continued to do so while she delved in a hand and rooted around. By the time her fingers closed around the device, she had missed the call.

Brough.

She was about to call him back when a text message arrived

Don’t need lift. See you at briefing.

Marvellous. Now you bloody tell me.

Miller tossed the phone back into the bag and pulled away. She hiccoughed and tasted the bitter pills all over again - Unable to decide if that was a metaphor for something, she drove down to Serious in a rotten mood.

***

And there he was, in the briefing room, Detective Inspector David bloody Brough. He mouthed a ‘sorry’ when he saw Miller come in but she glared at him anyway.

“Good morning, bastards and buggers,” Chief Inspector Wheeler greeted her team. She brandished the remote control for the overhead video projector. “I’ve been having a bit of what-do-you-call-it, incest with this thing so we should have no trouble with the bastard today.”

She waved the remote like a fairy wand. Over her shoulder, the white screen sprang to life. A photograph of a lot of faces in rows appeared, their mouths in wide Os.

“I know what you’m thinking, Benny boy, but these am not a load of blow-up doll rejects.”

D I Stevens emitted a grunt of mock disappointment. He had the appearance of someone who had been up half the night scrubbing himself red raw and certainly, his second-best leather jacket hadn’t seen the light of day for quite a while.

“This lot,” Wheeler continued, “Am the Dedley Urban District Singers. Or DUDS, to give them their chillingly accurate acronym. These buggers will murder your favourite song as soon as look at you. One minute with this lot and you’ll want to rip your own ears off and fry them. But...”

With a flick of the button, Wheeler zoomed in on a single face top left, and then panned along the rows. The team were impressed by her I.T. skills. Usually by this point, the projector would have burst into flames.

“...Is the face of our killer among this tone-deaf bunch of cunts? Is it him, with the glasses? Or her, with the hair? Or this one who looks like he’s been dug up and shat on? Well, that’s what you’ve got to find out. Which one of these is so aggrieved to miss out on lottery funding that they kill off the opposition in an envious rage?”

She squinted past the projector beam. The team were sitting in various poses of rapt attention but they didn’t fool her.

“All right, all right; it’s not a guessing game. This is why we do the legwork. In order to find out. Um, yes, Jason love?”

Pattimore’s hand was aloft. “Um,” he took it down. “I think we should first approach the, ah, choirmaster, if that’s what they’m called. Whoever’s got most invested in the choir in terms of time and effort...”

Wheeler nodded slowly. “Give that boy a cornflake. No reason why we shouldn’t start with the most bastard obvious, is there?”

Pattimore shrank in his seat, glad of the gloom to hide his blushes.

“Right. Stevens, Pattimore, you’m to track down the choir and eliminate them - but only from our enquiries, although fuck knows you’d be doing everyone a favour if you wiped them from the face of the Earth. Harry will provide the contact details for each and every one of these sorry sacks of shit; won’t you, Harry?”

“Um...”

“And congratu-fucking-lations on finding that skunk, lads. Well fucking done.” She clapped her hands and encouraged the others to do the same. Unfortunately, Wheeler’s applause triggered the remote she was still holding. The photo of the DUDS was replaced by YouTube footage of D I Stevens performing his drag act.

“Hoi!” Stevens leapt to his feet. “I thought you’d taken that down.” He tried to wrest the remote from Wheeler’s grasp.

“Two million hits, Benny boy,” Wheeler laughed. “You’m an internet sensation.”

Eventually, she relented. She aimed the remote and the video clip was replaced by a flyer for the knitting circle. Stevens went back to his seat, his face like thunder. Wheeler cleared her throat, signalling the brief amusing interlude was over.

“The Castoffs,” she read. “Is that supposed to be a pun? Why does every bastard and his mother’s business have to a bastard pun? Anyway, this lot were turned down and they’m armed to the teeth with sharp implements. Same motive applies. Brough, Miller, this lot’s yours. Harry will do the honours with the names and addresses.”

“Um...” said Harry.

“Right then,” Wheeler’s thumb was poised. “F-”

She was interrupted by the abrupt entrance of Superintendent Ball and a woman in the green and khaki livery of the zoo.

“Apologies, Karen,” Ball grimaced. “This is urgent, apparently.”

The woman from the zoo scanned the room until her gaze settled on Stevens.

“Right, you!” she levelled an angry finger at him. “Where’s our fucking zorilla?”

***

Brough and Miller left Stevens to his inquisitor and headed out. The duty officer on Reception hailed the detective inspector.

“Just come in. For you.” He placed a huge bunch of flowers on the counter.

“Wow...” said Brough, searching for the card. He knew before he read it, the flowers were from Oscar.

Missing your hot ass. Skype me. O.

Brough pocketed the card. Miller rolled her eyes.

“If you think you’m putting those things in my car, sir, you can take a running jump.”

“You’re just jealous, Miller.”

“No, I’m allergic.”

“Since when?”

He followed her across the car-park, struggling beneath the bulk of the flowers. He looked like a walking vase.

“Listen,” he heaved the flowers onto the roof of Miller’s car. “Where are we going?”

“To see those knitting bastards.”

“And where shall we find those knitting bastards?”

“Um,” she checked the first page of the sheaf of papers Harry had provided. “Dedley South community centre.”

“Don’t you think these blooms will brighten the place up? The people there must be crying out for a bit of greenery, a bit of colour in their lives.”

“You’re really going to give them away?”

“I get flowers all the time. Oscar makes Elton John seem like a hay fever sufferer.”

“Does he.” Miller rolled her eyes again. “Go on then.” She got into the car, leaving Brough to struggle with getting the elaborate arrangement into the back seat.

They headed to South Dedley and the heart of several blocks of council houses, known as the Sink Estate, named after an erstwhile civic dignitary, Leslie Sink, who had been Mayor of Dedley three times.

“I was wrong about the splash of colour,” Brough murmured as Miller’s car crawled through the dismal streets with their potholes and broken paving. Technicolor graffiti tags adorned every expanse of brick wall. Litter skittered around, hopping over dog shit. People in jogging bottoms lounged against boarded shop windows, nursing a can of industrial-strength lager. It was nine thirty a.m.

“Golly,” said Brough. “If ever a place could use an injection of lottery cash...”

“I don’t think it’s cash they’m injecting around here,” said Miller grimly.

The community centre was a single-storey edifice coated in graffiti-proof pebble-dash. It was an oasis of pink among the grey. Not to be outdone, the local street artists had scratched their designs into the paintwork of the front doors. Art, like life, will always find a way. And perhaps it was doing the community a service to inform anyone who happened by that someone called Shazza was a slag. There was even a mobile number provided.

When the detectives entered, a mother-and-baby session was underway, which seemed to Brough to be a festival of noise and smells he would rather do without. He and Miller hung back in the doorway. Miller nudged him to look at a noticeboard. There was one of the Castoffs’ posters.

“He’s a bit grown-up,” a woman whose roots needed attention approached, looking Brough up and down.

“I’m a detective,” said Brough, flashing his i.d.

“You must be a proud mum,” the woman laughed. Miller laughed too, before producing her own warrant card.

“We’m not here for the mother-and-baby,” she said.

The woman’s eyes rested on the enormous bunch of flowers. “They look like they could do with some water,” she diagnosed.

Brough handed them over; the woman staggered, almost collapsing. “Be my guest,” he said.

The woman set the colourful burden on a nearby chair. “So what is this in aid of? Some kind of outreach project? Think if you butter me up with some flowers, I’ll grass up half the wenches in here for prostitution and drug-dealing?”

“Um...” said Miller.

“Pulling your leg, love,” the woman cackled. “As if I’d ever grass...”

“What can you tell us about the Castoffs?” Brough took the poster from the board.

“The who? Immigrant family, are they, chick?”

“Knitting circle,” said Brough. The woman squinted at the paper.

“Oh, them. They used to meet up in here. Of a Thursday. Not anymore. Bad business...”

“Really?” Miller’s eyebrows went up. “Or are you pulling my other leg now?”

“No, love. They couldn’t get the members - not like you, I bet. Pretty thing like you. I bet you get no end of mem-”

“So, they disbanded?” Brough interrupted.

“The whole thing unravelled,” said the woman.

“Have you a contact number, for the organiser?” Miller pulled out a notebook.

The woman puckered her lips. “I told you. I ain’t no grass.”

“You can keep the flowers,” said Brough.

“Big deal.”

“Or we can take you in for obstructing police business.”

“Well, now you put it like that. Hold up.” The woman shuffled away - they noticed she was wearing carpet slippers. Miller peered at the mothers and babies. There was a lot of chatting going on, over the noise of children shrieking in happiness and distress. There were lots of nappies being changed.

“Don’t get broody, Miller,” Brough teased.

“Piss off, sir.”

The woman returned with a slip of paper. “Jessie somebody, I think. Couldn’t get the subs to pay the hire charges for this place.”

“Thank you,” said Miller

“And you are?” Brough asked.

“Oh, I’m nobody,” said the woman. “I’m just the key holder here. I let them in and let them out again.”

“Could we take a name though, love?” said Miller. “Just to put in our report, like.”

The woman sniffed. “I’m Shazza,” she said.

***

They got back to Miller’s car in time to chase off a couple of ne’er-do-wells who had their eyes on the tyres for some nefarious purpose or other. They drove a few streets away where the grass was the legal variety. Brough leafed through Harry Henry’s sheaf of papers.

“I suppose most of these we can ditch,” he reflected. “If they weren’t turning up, they’re not going to be bothered that the group disbanded.”

“Don’t be so sure,” said Miller. “Perhaps the lottery bid was a last attempt to keep the thing going. And when that went tits-up...”

“Just trying to save us a lot of legwork,” Brough sighed.

“You just want to hurry up and Skype your boyfriend,” said Miller.

“Can you blame me?”

“Well, no...” Miller started the engine again. “But, if I might make an observation, sir: this is not like you. You’ve always had your mind on the job. Even when you were with, um, Jason-”

“No, Miller. I do not give you permission to make an observation on my private life. Now, please, just let’s go and talk to this - this Jessie something - and see where that gets us, all right?”

“Yes, sir.”

They travelled across town in moody silence.

***

“How many more times?” Stevens wailed. “I don’t bloody know! I fell asleep, didn’t I? When I woke up, the bastard was gone.”

The woman from the zoo remained as sceptical as ever. Beside her, Wheeler was growing impatient.

“Come off it, Benny,” she snarled. “That skunk thing didn’t open the door by it-fucking-self.”

“You don’t know that,” said Stevens. “They’m smarter than they look, those things.”

Wheeler narrowed her eyes and peered into his. “You admire it!” she accused. Stevens flinched.

“I just don’t think you should underestimate it; that’s all I’m saying.”

“Well,” Wheeler turned to the zoo keeper. “This ain’t getting the bastard found, is it? I’m sure D I Stevens knows it would do the wammal no good to be out in the open. Especially not in this town with its fondness for kebabs from roadside vans. I just wish I could spare him to help you look, chick, but I need the manpower to track down a fucking killer.”

“But –” the woman tried to protest, but Wheeler was already steering her to the door.

“We’ve already found the fucker for you once, love,” Wheeler beamed. “You’re on your own now.”

She pushed her out and closed the door. Perhaps the time had come to have That Talk and break it to Stevens that his days were numbered.

Superintendent Ball’s head appeared in the doorway. “Karen, a word?” he smiled but his eyes were hard.

“You can have two,” Wheeler grinned back. She went out to join him in the corridor, leaving Stevens to hang his head and rub his thumb and forefinger across his eyelids.

“Well,” said Ball. “Have you made your decision?”

“I was just getting to it,” said Wheeler. “If I could be left to get on with my job.”

“You’re annoyed with me, and I understand that,” said Ball. “But I’m only the messenger. There’s no need to shoot me.”

Oh, yeah? Wheeler scowled. I’ll be the fucking judge of that.

“Just get a move on,” Ball drew himself up to his full height, towering over the diminutive Chief Inspector. “The end of the week approacheth.”

“Something up with your dentures, Kev?” Wheeler beamed. She kept beaming until the lanky git had disappeared around the corner. She turned to open the door and was almost knocked over by Stevens on his hurried way out.

“Sorry, Chief, something’s come up,” he called over his shoulder as he jogged away.

“Wanker!” she called after him, although she actually felt relieved for the stay of his execution. Even the hangman is glad of a lie-in, she reflected.

But, for fuck’s sake, Benny. What have you done with that wammal?

***

Stevens had to fold himself into the passenger seat of Pattimore’s car. The Capri was being valeted - deep cleaned, but Stevens doubted they’d be able to get out every last trace of zorilla stink.

“Still got your bollocks then?” said Pattimore.

“Fuck off.”

“Ben, did you really let that zorilla escape?”

“Fuck off.”

“You can tell me.”

“You can fuck off. Like I said in there, I fell asleep - wouldn’t be surprised if the fucking thing gassed me - and when I woke up, it had gone.”

“OK...” Pattimore started the engine. “Let’s go and face the music then, shall we?”

“What?”

“The choirmaster’s house. Up in the posh side of town.”

“Oh,” Stevens fastened his seatbelt. “I didn’t know we had one.”

***

The duty officer at Serious put through a call to Detective Inspector Harry Henry, the only member of the team currently in the building.

“Um, this is Henry Har - um, Harry Henry speaking.”

“All right?” said the caller. “This is Noel. Noel Emmetts.”

“Um...” Harry Henry stumbled into a chair and reached across the desk for paper and pen. “Is that two ems or two tees?”

“Both.”

“And what’s it in connection with, please?”

“You tell me.”

“I tell you what?”

“You tell me why I was supposed to call. I got a message saying I was supposed to call Serious Police, and so this is me now, calling.”

“Right...” The penny dropped and so did Harry’s glasses. Noel Emmetts was the last one they were looking for to take in for protection. “Where are you, please?”

“I’m in town. Why?”

“Um... would you like us to fetch you or can you make your own way here?”

“What? Why?”

“Um, police business. Nothing to worry about, nothing to worry about,” Harry was keen to impress that point upon the young man. If the detective let slip he believed someone was out to murder him, Noel Emmetts might do a runner and never be heard from again.

“Hmm...” said Noel Emmetts. “It’s not convenient at the moment.”

It won’t be convenient if you get your throat slashed open, thought Harry Henry.

“I can send a car. It’s no trouble.”

“No, no, really.”

“Just tell me where you are and-”

Noel Emmetts disconnected.

“Oh,” said Harry Henry, blinking at the phone.

***

The so-called posh side of town was a hill with a winding road along which bigger and bigger houses looked down on the rest of Dedley. The only higher point was the castle, slap bang in the centre of the zoo, although to give the Norman fortification its due, it had been there for centuries before the locals had even heard of an elephant.

Victorian town houses gave way to sprawling bungalows and 1970s mini-mansions with front lawns like golf courses. As Miller navigated the twists and turns, Brough revealed that his parents had considered moving here after his father retired from his post as Chief Constable.

“Can see why,” said Miller. “Some lovely big houses. Why didn’t they?”

“Well,” Brough shrugged. “It’s still Dedley, isn’t it?”

“Hmm,” said Miller. There was no arguing with that. This area was just the part of the turd that had been dipped in the glitter box.

She turned into a road of those lovely big houses, the morning sun glinting off plate glass. “What number was it again?”

Brough checked the scrap of paper from Shazza the alleged slag. “Fourteen,” he peered at the front doors and mail boxes as they crawled past. “Should be up here on the right.”

Miller parked and locked the car - because you never know - and was conscious it looked out of place among the gleaming Beamers and Mercedes that adorned many of the driveways. Like a battered sausage in a bowl of caviar.

They walked along the path that bisected manicured grass and approached the broad double front door. Brough nodded at the doorbell and Miller pressed the button.

“I expect they’ve got a butler,” said Miller. “If they have, we can just nick him. It’s always the butler, isn’t it?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Miller.”

An amorphous shadow appeared behind the frosted glass, only assuming human form when it reached the door and opened it. A woman in a housecoat and her hair in rollers looked the callers up and down.

“Watchtower, is it?”

“No,” said Brough and in that syllable he implied that this woman was a stupid cow and he was already tired of her. He flashed his i.d.

“Jessie?” said Miller.

“Jessica, actually,” the woman clutched at the lapels of her housecoat. “Jessica Stamp. What’s this about, please?”

“May we come in?” Brough was already stepping forward.

“It’s not convenient.” Jessica Stamp tried to close the door.

“Suit yourself. We can shout out our questions through your letterbox, questions about our ongoing murder investigation.” Brough’s raised voice gave rise to panic within Jessica Stamp. She ushered the detectives over the threshold and sent nervous glances up and down the street.

In the living room, which, Miller marvelled, was like something out of a lifestyle magazine, albeit an ancient one you’d find at the doctor’s, Jessica Stamp gestured to the leather sofa, which was the same dusty pink shade as the shag-pile carpet. The detectives sat. Miller looked around, taking in the details. For the most part, the room was uncluttered. A couple of books about Impressionist painters were artfully arranged on the glass-topped coffee table. There was a stereo system in a cabinet; all the albums - vinyl, no less! - were tidied away behind doors. There were family photographs in silver frames on the mantelpiece and, Miller nudged Brough to take a look, there was a shelf unit housing dozens upon dozens of tiny figurines made of glass and porcelain.

“My weakness,” Jessica Stamp had followed the female detective’s gaze. “Buggers to dust, Mrs Jeavons says, but well, they’re my only indulgence.” She simpered.

“Bears!” Miller nudged Brough again.

“I adore bears!” Jessica Stamp wittered, looking fondly at her collection. “So cute, don’t you think? Especially the cubs. But don’t let them fool you. They can be deadly.”

“We’re not here to talk about bears,” said Brough, coldly.

“Aren’t we?” said Miller.

“Let’s talk about the Castoffs first, shall we?”

At the sound of the name, Jessica Stamp bristled. She fought to retain her composure and stop her hands from wringing in her lap.

“Mrs Stamp?”

“That’s all over, I’m afraid,” she looked at the carpet, sadly. “I don’t know; you try to do a bit of good, bring a bit of light into people’s lives and they turn around and spit in your face.”

“What happened?” said Miller. Brough shot her a look; he was supposed to be asking the questions.

“Well, the funding fell through, didn’t it? I don’t know why. I expect it’s that bitch Roberta whojimmyflop that put the kibosh on it. Never liked her.”

“And why would she do that?” Brough prompted before Miller could pipe up.

“Jealousy! Envy! Or whatever you call it. Oh, she thinks she’s it because her husband’s the leader of the council but I know her of old; oh, yes. Me and her go way back.”

“How so?”

Miller sat back, contenting herself with observing Jessica Stamp’s reactions. What must this place have cost, she couldn’t help wondering? Miller would never be able to afford anything half the size of a house like this on a copper’s salary. Not even Wheeler could stretch to a house on this hill.

“We were at school together. Back when it was Dedley Girls High School. It’s a car-park now - which I think is a disgrace. What’s happening to our heritage, I ask you? Anyway, she only got in because of some scholarship deal. She was from the Sink Estate - oh, she keeps that quiet. I bet she hasn’t told you that. Well, we couldn’t have her lowering the tone so we - my friends and I - put her in her place. And now she’s paying me back. Snuffing out my little community project before it got off the ground.”

“So,” Brough at least tried to look interested, “she denied you lottery funding because you bullied her at school. What was it? Hair-pulling? Head down the toilet?”

Jessica Stamp looked embarrassed. “Something like that. But we were children. That’s all forgotten now. In all honesty, holding a grudge like that for all these years, well, the woman’s obviously disturbed. Clinically, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“That doesn’t sound professional,” said Brough.

“Tell her, not me!” Jessica Stamp cried.

Brough shook his head. He was having difficulty believing all of this bloodshed might be over some sort of schoolgirl spat. He asked for a cup of tea.

“What do you reckon, Miller?” he asked when Jessica Stamp had gone to the kitchen.

Miller stood and walked around. She looked at the colourful, cheerful and cuddly bears. “I don’t know...”

Brough nodded to the mantelpiece. “Seen that?”

“What?” Miller moved across. “The wedding picture?”

“Next one along. Honestly, Miller, do you ever see past a wedding dress?”

Miller’s eyes widened when she saw the subject of the next photograph along the shelf. She picked up the frame and took a closer look. “It’s a bear!” she gasped.

“Exactly,” said Brough. “The woman’s some sort of fetishist.”

“Why would she have a photo of a bear along with the family snapshots?”

“Look closely, Miller.”

Miller did. “Oh...” she said.

“Isn’t he adorable?” Jessica Stamp returned carrying a tray laden with fine china. “That’s my Bubba. Well, I had to share him, of course. But I used to go and see him any time I liked.”

“You adopted him,” said Miller.

“Well, my husband did. Anniversary present. I got newsletters every other month. He’s dead now.”

“Who?” said Brough. “Your husband or the bear?”

“Both.” Jessica Stamp looked wistfully at her wedding photograph.

“Nice,” said Miller. She put the picture back. She exchanged glances with Brough. “Tell me, Mrs Stamp, you still have your knitting needles?”

“Why, yes, of course. Just because the people of Dedley don’t want to stump up the subs for a club, I’m not going to stop making my cardigans.”

“And,” Brough stood too, “do you have, by any chance, a fur coat? A bearskin coat?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I do. No law against it, is there? I mean, I know they’ve fallen out of favour, what with animal rights nutters and all the rest of it. But it was the Seventies when I got mine. Everyone else was swanning around in fox and mink. But I was the first to have bear - black bear, just like Bubba! - in Dedley. That was an anniversary present too, now I think of it. Now, come on; this tea will be stewed.”

“Jessica Stamp,” said Brough, producing handcuffs from his raincoat pocket. “I am arresting you on suspicion of the murders of Doctor Luntu Kabungo, Jeffrey Newton, Zoe Brownlow, Mavis Morris and Chad Roe.”

“What?” Jessica Stamp gasped. On the tray, the tea cups and saucers rattled.

“I said-”

“No! No!” Jessica Stamp’s eyes were wide with panic. Her hands flew to her face in shock. This action caused her to drop the tea tray, which smashed its way through the glass-topped table. The whole lot was in smithereens. Mrs Jeavons would find it a bugger to get out of the shag-pile.

Jessica Stamp wailed in despair.

“Let me guess,” said Brough, closing the cuffs around her wrists, “Anniversary presents.”