Chapter Nineteen

Stevens was glad of the excuse to be back at the Bear Pit. It was his kind of boozer. Simple and unpretentious, with furniture that didn’t match and a ceiling that was still discoloured by the nicotine that was no longer permitted indoors.

“I can’t believe Wheeler’s let us come in here while we’m on the clock,” he kept saying. “She must be getting soft.”

“Yes, well,” Pattimore found that assessment unlikely. “We’re here to work.”

Stevens downed the rest of his half of bitter and savoured every drop that clung to his moustache. “So, let’s get the work done and then we can have a proper drink.”

He returned to the bar.

“Same again?” said the landlord, reaching for the pump.

“No,” said Pattimore, appearing at Stevens’s side. He flashed his i.d. “Just a couple of questions.”

The landlord stiffened. “Oh, yeah? What about?”

“A bear,” said Stevens.

“A what?”

“A bloody big bastard of a bear,” Stevens accompanied his words with a mime, personating a grizzly on the attack.

“Oh, yeah?” The landlord was noncommittal. “Try the zoo.”

Pattimore took over. “We have reason to believe you are about to take possession of the stolen corpse of a bear. One that you have commissioned to be stuffed and mounted by a Gideon Biggs.”

“Oh,” said the landlord. “That bear. Let’s have a sit down, shall we?”

With a barmaid called Tracey summoned to mind the bar, the landlord ushered the detectives to a table in the corner, out of earshot of the few other patrons present.

“Thing is,” Emmetts began, “I come across all sorts of gear in this place. Flat screen tellies. DVD players. The lot. But when this bloke comes in, this Biggs fella, and he says you know what would look good in that alcove by the door.”

Stevens and Pattimore turned their heads to see the space indicated.

“What?” said Stevens.

“A bear,” said Pattimore.

“Yes,” Emmetts continued. “A bear. And this bloke says he can get me one. There’s one just popped its clogs up at the zoo and he has a contact and blah, blah, blah. At first I tells him he can stuff it and he says, yes, he can. And there was a bit of confusion but when we got that cleared up, we agreed on a price. I knew it was all on the hush-hush but I didn’t think it was actually illegal. I mean, who wants a dead bear? What’s the value of it? Well, there’s the fur, I suppose.”

“Yes,” said Pattimore. “The fur...”

“And the claws,” said Stevens.

“Is there something I should know?” Emmetts frowned. “Only, the thing is, he never finished the job. I never saw hide nor hair of that bear, so to speak.”

“But you paid him,” Pattimore pointed out.

“Well, not fully, no. I paid a deposit but never the rest. Well, I wasn’t going to, not until the bear was stood in that alcove. I reckon I’ve been conned. I don’t think there even was a bear.”

“Oh, there was,” said Pattimore.

“Well, if you see that Biggs, tell him I want my money back.”

“Oh, we’ll see him, all right,” said Stevens ominously. “We’m doing him for murder.”

“Ben!” Pattimore kicked his partner’s shin under the table.

“Ow! Fucking hell!”

Emmetts was sweating. “Murder? That old chap?”

“So...” Pattimore tried to keep hold of the reins of the conversation. “You never saw the bear. What about when you went to pay the deposit?”

“What? Went? Went where?”

“To Biggs’s, um, studio, I suppose you’d call it.”

Emmetts shook his head. “Oh, no. I never went there. Sent the boy, didn’t I?”

“Boy?” said Pattimore.

“Well, he’s twenty three now - where do the years go? I sent him along to pay the deposit. Then we never heard nothing for weeks. Not until you pair come in.”

“So, you didn’t know the bear has been stolen?” said Stevens. “I mean, stolen again.”

“What?”

“That’s right. Somebody’s had away with it. Like shit off a shovel.”

“Um,” Pattimore interrupted. “Is he around? Your son? We’d like a word with him as well.”

“Er...” Emmetts looked nervous. “I don’t know where he is from one minute to the next. He’s - well, he’s unpredictable, is Noel. Head full of crazy ideas. Here.”

He pulled a poster from the wall. The detectives peered at the advertisement for the one-man staging of The Winter’s Tale. Stevens’s nose crinkled. He pointed out that it was August.

“He put a lot of work into that,” Emmetts nodded. “And then the funding fell through. He was heartbroken. I said he could have the room upstairs for nothing but that wasn’t good enough, apparently. Devastated, he was.”

“I’m sorry,” said Pattimore. “What did you say? About the funding falling through?”

“Well, he applied for lottery funding, didn’t he? Big dreams of the Edinburgh festival and all that shit. Spent days on the application, making projections of income and all of that. He jumped through all the hoops. I checked it through. Blowed if I could see anything wrong with it. But, then he didn’t hear nothing. Like I say, it broke his little heart.”

Pattimore’s mind was racing. He was sure Noel’s production had been granted funding. There was something else too. The play - the title was familiar. He was sure Brough had made him sit through a DVD of it, during their time together... Now, what was it?

He got to his feet. “Come on, Ben.”

Stevens looked longingly across at the beer pumps but stood up anyway. Pattimore thanked the landlord for his time and said they would speak again soon. Stevens grumbled all the way back to the car.

“I was only going to have the other half,” he said, rubbing the mound of his belly. “It doesn’t feel right, not having a full pint.”

“Get in,” said Pattimore. “Check those lists. Who got funding and who didn’t. Then we’re going to talk to Roberta Woolton, see if there’s been a mistake or something. But first...” He took out his phone and pushed the pre-programmed button that connected him to David Brough.

***

Brough saw it was Pattimore’s number flashing on the screen. His finger hovered over the DECLINE option but, in a twinge of professionalism, touched ACCEPT instead.

“What is it?” he snapped.

“Hullo,” said Pattimore. “You sound out of breath; are you OK?”

“Never mind that-”

“Have you been wanking? You have, haven’t you?” Pattimore recognised the sounds his ex used to make.

Brough could hear Stevens snicker in the background. “I have done nothing of the sort,” he said coldly, although his face was red with blushing and his recent exertions.

“Listen, it’s about a play. The Winter Wossname. Shakespeare. Remember?”

“Of course. The Winter’s Tale. What about it?”

“Well, there’s a production of it in town - or there was, but it’s been called off because the bloke didn’t get the funding. But he did, Davey! I’m sure he did. But what if-”

Brough took up the thread. “What if he didn’t know he’d got the money... what if he believed he’d been rejected...”

“I’m right, aren’t I?” said Pattimore. “And there’s something about the play that got me thinking.”

“Of course!” said Brough, and clapped a sticky hand to his forehead. “Of bloody course! Exit pursued by a bear! It’s so obvious now.”

“What?”

“You remember - we watched it together, and I pointed out it was one of the most famous stage directions ever written. Exit pursued by a bear. I think you’ve cracked it. Where are you?”

“Um, outside the Bear Pit. It’s his dad’s pub.”

“And the son’s not there? Right...” Brough did some quick thinking. “Meet me at the halls of residence. My guess is he’ll go after Roberta Woolton as a big finale. I’ll phone Miller, get her to pick me up. You’ll let Wheeler know? See you in twenty minutes.”

“Tell him to wash his hands first,” Stevens called out.

“See you, Davey,” said Pattimore, but Brough had already disconnected.

***

While the rest of the team converged on the halls of residence, Harry Henry checked the list twice. Yes, indeed, he was able to confirm. Funding for Noel Emmett’s one-man production of Shakespeare’s The Winter’s Tale had been granted.

“So, what’s his motive then?” Wheeler snatched the print-out and skimmed it.

“Um,” Harry pushed his glasses up, “He didn’t know. He thought he’d been unsuccessful.”

“So... it’s not our friend the wammal stuffer then...”

“It appears not, Chief.”

“Um... Well, I’m reluctant to let him go, just yet a while. Let the fucker stew for a bit. Because he’s peculiar. I mean, stuffing animals! Who wants to do that? And for fun! Fucking pervert.”

“Um...” Harry Henry tried to refocus the chief inspector’s attention. “Will you be going to the safe house, Chief? Might look good - to the leader of the council, I mean.”

Wheeler regarded him intently. What did he know? What had he heard? “You’re not as thick as you fucking look, are you, Harry?” she smiled.

Harry Henry’s glasses fell off.

***

When Brough and Miller pulled up outside the halls of residence, Pattimore jogged over to meet them. He even opened the passenger door so Brough could get out.

Charming, thought Miller.

“She’s not here,” Pattimore began.

“Who? Wheeler?”

“No. Roberta Woolton. Nor her husband.”

“Then where the hell are they?”

“Have you asked the PCSOs?” said Miller, locking her car with a beep from her key ring.

Brough groaned.

“Yes,” said Pattimore. “They said they must have snuck out during the changeover of shifts.”

“Bloody fools,” said Brough. “Is there any CCTV?”

“Benny’s looking at it now.”

Almost as if summoned, D I Stevens strode over to join them. “All right, Dave!” he laughed. “Forgive me if I don’t shake your hand.”

“Eh?” said Miller.

“Nothing,” said Brough, blushing again.

“CCTV shows a couple and a hobby bobby leaving by the rear exit about an hour ago. They get into his car and drive off. So at least they’m safe.”

“And what leads you to that conclusion?” said Brough.

“Well, they’m with a copper, ain’t they? I mean, not a proper copper, I grant you. But it’s better than them wandering around on their own. Isn’t it?” Stevens looked to the others for support.

“What’s the betting this one’s called Taylor?” said Miller.

“Eh?” said Stevens.

Brough had moved away from the group by a few paces, his mind fitting the pieces into place as he walked. He stopped and addressed his colleagues. “It’s an actor we’re dealing with, after all. He dresses up as a hobby bobby, walks right past those two idiots in there, then walks right out again with Mr and Mrs Woolton. The question is now, Where would he take them?”

The detectives looked blank.

“The zoo!” said Miller.

Brough shook his head.

“Their place?” said Pattimore. “At least they’d go willingly and wouldn’t put up a struggle.”

“Interesting,” said Brough. “Ben, did the couple on the CCTV look as though they were struggling?”

Stevens pursed his lips. “No. Well, not in the way you mean. Although it did look like the bloke was having trouble with his high heels.”

“Eh?” said Miller and Pattimore.

“They’m cross-dressing for some reason. Perhaps it’s all part of his sick game. Getting them to play out roles or some shit.”

“Possibly...” said Brough although he sounded unconvinced. “Very well. We’ll adjourn to the Wooltons’ house. Someone tell Wheeler.”

“Tell me what?” said Wheeler, surprising them all. She had approached unseen - an easy feat when you’re not as tall as most people’s cars.

They told her.

***

Within the hour, the Serious team had the home of Lionel and Roberta Woolton surrounded. Backup, in the form of two dozen uniformed officers, had been mobilised, but they were under strict instruction to keep back - in the next street, in fact - along with their transit vans and an ambulance on standby.

“Place is deserted, Chief,” Pattimore reported to Wheeler. “If only we had some of that heat-detecting equipment, we’d be able to tell if they’re in there for sure. Even down to what room they’m in.”

“Heat-detect my arse,” said Wheeler. “Do you know how much those fucking things cost? Do you?”

Pattimore backed away.

“No sign of the car from the CCTV either,” said Miller. “We’ve had every street checked.”

“The logical conclusion is they’m not here; is that what you’m telling me?” Wheeler put her hands on her hips and spat on the pavement.

“Looks that way,” said Miller.

“Brough?” Wheeler turned to her best detective. “What’s your view?”

“Um...” Brough held up a finger, signalling the chief inspector to wait. He pocketed his phone. “View of what?”

“The crisis in the fucking Middle East.”

“She means whether the Wooltons are in the house or not?” said Miller.

“I doubt it,” said Brough.

“Then where, brain box?” said Wheeler. “Can your precious phone tell you that?”

“Um...” Brough frowned. He was embarrassed to have been caught sending a text to Oscar. He doubted Wheeler would appreciate the urgency of his need to talk to his Hollywood superstar boyfriend. “I don’t know...”

“The theatre!” said Miller suddenly, startling everyone. “Where he was going to put on his play. I bet he’s taken them there.”

“Another bet, Miller?” said Brough. “You haven’t paid up for the last one.”

“Which is still open as far as I’m concerned,” said Miller. “He’s not gay; I’m telling you.”

“If we could keep our minds on the case,” said Wheeler, “I’d be so fucking obliged.”

None of them had brought the flyer for Noel Emmetts’s show with them. Pattimore put in a call to Harry Henry back at Serious.

There was a brief interlude during which Harry Henry could be heard, via loudspeaker, bumbling around and riffling through papers. After his fifteenth ‘um’ he announced the proposed venue had been the arts centre.

“Of course!” said Brough.

Wheeler gave him a disparaging look. Brough wasn’t fooling her. His head wasn’t in the game. Perhaps that wanker Stevens deserved a reprieve...

“Come on then,” that wanker Stevens piped up. “To the arts centre!” He adopted a superhero pose and then slapped Brough in the chest. “And no stopping off to crack one out, eh, David?”

Christ, thought Wheeler. Perhaps not.

***

The Serious team could not help being reminded of a previous case that had come to a head at Dedley’s arts centre a couple of years earlier. It seemed they were about to have a repeat performance. Except on this occasion there were hostages - that is, if the Wooltons weren’t already dead.

Wheeler and Harry Henry monitored the operation from Serious. The chief inspector sported a headset despite her reservations that it made her look like she worked in a fucking call centre, while Harry Henry charted the action on a bank of computer screens, incorporating satellite maps and CCTV coverage.

“Right, Stevens, Pattimore, you go round the back door.”

“Wahey!” Wheeler heard Stevens distinctly.

“Mind on the job, wanksplat,” she barked. “Brough, Miller, I’d like you to penetrate the front entrance.”

“Yes, Chief!” said Miller, perhaps the only one of the team refraining from sniggering.

“And keep the uniforms out of sight until absolutely necessary. We don’t want to throw this loony into a panic.”

“Um, Chief,” Harry Henry interrupted, “I don’t think you should be disparaging about mental illness like that.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Wheeler was dismayed. “Can I disparage him about all the fucking murders he’s committed, or is that too much for your sensitive fucking earholes?”

Harry fixed his eyes on the monitors. Wheeler returned to giving instructions.

“Get the hostages out first - one at a time, if need be. He gives us something, we give him something. Keep him talking as long as possible. I’ve got a SWAT team on its way. They’ll swoop in and take him out on your say-so. Brough, that means you. Do you copy?”

“Um,” said Brough. “Yes, Chief.”

“Eff me and call me Jeffrey! I need you on the ball. David!”

“Yes, Chief. I’m here.”

“I certainly hope so. Fucking hell. Keep all channels open. Wheeler out.”

She shook her head. What was Brough playing at? Fine time for him to lose focus! Although, truth be told, he’d been away with the fairies, so to speak, ever since he took up with that fucking film star.

“I’m going down there,” she announced. “If you want something fucking doing...”

“Do you think that’s wise, Chief?” Harry Henry dared to swivel around.

“What?”

“Storming into an ongoing operation. Um...” He could feel himself withering like a daisy under a laser beam.

“No, no; you’re right.” Wheeler came back from the door. “I’m sure David’s got this... But I will have his bollocks for earrings if it all goes tits-up.”

Harry Henry turned back to the screens. And crossed his legs.

***

The big room at the arts centre was in darkness. The floor was empty save for two chairs near to and facing the stage. Tied to these chairs were Mr and Mrs Lionel Woolton. Their mouths were gagged.

A spotlight clunked on. The hostages flinched, screwing their eyes shut against the sudden influx of light. A figure stepped into the bright circle.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Noel Emmetts, dressed as a trawler man, addressed his exclusive audience. “You are about to witness a very special piece of theatre, presented especially for you. For one night only, before your very eyes, I present William Shakespeare’s The Winter’s Tale, as it should be seen! So come aboard the trawler Sicilia, on the choppy waters of the North Sea - I’ll forgive you if you don’t applaud; I know your hands are tied at the moment.”

He emitted a bitter laugh and left the stage. Seconds later, the curtains were cranked open. The squeaks of the winch filled the auditorium. Blue fabric was stretched across the stage from wing to wing. Behind it wobbled a construction of canvas stretched over a frame and painted to look like the side of a boat. Noel Emmetts popped up from below deck, with a captain’s hat on. Pre-recorded sounds of waves and seagulls came through the p.a. system. Emmetts had to raise his voice over it; swaying in place he launched into Leontes’s speech about suspecting his wife, the Queen, of knobbing his best friend.

The hostages watched, wide-eyed and horrified. It was truly atrocious. Emmetts ducked behind the gunwales and popped back up again with a long wig and a crown. Now he was Hermione, imploring the king’s best friend to stay a while longer.

On it went. Captain/King Leontes addressed a sock puppet as his son, Mamillius.

Mr and Mrs Woolton began to long for death

Brough and Miller were at the doors at the rear of the auditorium. Brough was cringing at Emmetts’s mangling of the verse. Miller was amused by the puppetry.

“I can’t bear much more of this,” Brough whispered. “I’m going in.”

“You can’t!”

“Watch me. The boy’s obviously delusional - and the lottery people can’t be much better if they think this shit is worth a penny of their money. I’m going to take a direct approach.”

“How’d you mean?”

“I mean I’m going to direct the production. I’m going to take him seriously. The lad obviously needs direction. On stage and off. And then, when I give the signal, we nab him.”

“Can’t we just nab him now?”

“We could, Miller... but who knows what he might do? We might get the hostages out unscathed but what if he injures himself? No; softly, softly, catchy monkey.”

“Bloody hell - do you know all of Shakespeare?”

Brough gave her a withering look. “Wait here,” he instructed. “And tell the others. Wait for my signal.”

Before Miller could utter another word, he pushed the double doors open and walked toward the stage, clapping loudly.

For a while, Noel Emmetts carried on, denouncing his faithless wife and casting her into a dinghy, but eventually he became aware there was a man standing beyond the footlights and the man’s applause sounded more sarcastic than it was enthusiastic.

“Bravo,” said Brough. “Bravo!”

Noel Emmetts shielded his eyes from the spotlights and squinted out into the darkness. “Excuse me; trying to do a show here. Do you mind?”

“You carry on, mate,” Brough called back. “If you want to put us all to sleep.”

“I beg your pardon? Who the hell are you?”

“Someone who knows about the theatre. Someone who can help you. That scene with Paulina, for example.”

“What about it?” Noel Emmetts snapped defensively.

“The high-pitched screech - is that really necessary? Why not just try it in your normal voice. Keep her level-headed. Let the passion in her words be stated simply and directly. She’s a woman on a mission to save her queen, not a cartoon character.”

“Er –” Noel Emmetts was at a loss.

“Run it again.”

“What?”

“That scene. Run it again and let’s see if we can knock it into shape together.”

“Really? But I - the audience - they’ve already seen it.”

Brough approached the Wooltons’ chairs. The hostages’ eyes were rolling, desperately trying to communicate. “That’s where you’re going wrong,” Brough said. “You’re not ready. Oh, I’m all for open rehearsals but how can you expect these people to give you any constructive feedback when you’re treating them like this?”

“Well, I –” Noel Emmetts gaped like a landed fish.

“Tell you what. Let’s let them go and they can come back another time, when the show is ready to be seen. It’s the best way to ensure glowing reviews.”

“But-”

“I’ll untie them, shall I? And then we can get down to some serious rehearsing.”

At the door, Miller stiffened. Brough had said ‘serious’. Was that the signal? He hadn’t stipulated what the signal was. Miller chewed her lower lip. She decided to hang back.

Around the back, Stevens and Pattimore were listening in.

“Fucking hell,” Stevens muttered. “How long’s this going on?”

Pattimore remembered the DVD Brough had made him sit through. “Fucking hours,” he sighed.

“I’m going in,” Stevens decided. Pattimore grabbed his leather sleeve.

“Wait. If Davey’s untying the hostages, we’d better not burst in.”

“Fuckinell.”

At Serious, Wheeler was biting her thumbnail. What was Brough playing at? Too fucking soft - that was his trouble. All this artsy-fartsy bollocks when there was a perfectly good SWAT team in the back of a van, ready to swoop in and kick a few heads in.

Brough undid Roberta’s hands and feet. She tugged at the gag but he warned her to be quiet. Together they untied her husband. Brough sent them both scampering to the exit where Miller ushered them out of the front door. Uniformed officers escorted the Wooltons towards an ambulance.

“Good work...” Wheeler muttered. Saving the leader of the council could only be a positive move.

On stage, Noel Emmetts ran through Paulina’s lines. Brough approached the footlights, making encouraging sounds. Emmetts reached the end of the speech and looked to his mystery director for approval.

“Better...” said Brough. “You must have been delighted to get the lottery money for this - this masterpiece.”

“Thanks - what do you mean? I never got a penny. They turned me down.”

“That’s not what I heard.”

“What?” Noel Emmetts paled beneath his make-up. He bumped into a cardboard iceberg. “They - they wanted to give me money?”

“Yes!” said Brough. “Why wouldn’t they?”

Noel Emmetts dropped to his knees. “Oh, God. Oh God oh God oh God.”

“Come on,” Brough extended a hand. “Come with me.”

“But - but - the play...”

“Later.” Brough smiled. “Come on.”

For a second it looked as though Noel Emmetts would take the hand that was offered to him. But then he sprang behind the cut-out trawler and dashed off into the wings. Brough clambered onto the stage and gave chase.

“What’s going on?” cried Wheeler.

“I think it’s the interval,” said Miller.

Brough tore along the corridor that ran alongside the auditorium, passing dressing rooms and store rooms. Emmetts was a dark shape ahead. Brough realised he was wearing the fur pelt.

Exit, pursuing a bear... Brough mused.

Emmetts burst through the back doors, bowling into Stevens and Pattimore and knocking them onto their backsides. They were just picking themselves up when Brough came out, knocking them down again. He became entangled in their flailing limbs. All three detectives swore and scrambled. In their ears, Chief Inspector Wheeler out-swore them all.

Noel Emmetts was gone.