Chapter Three

Chief Inspector Wheeler called Brough, who put the call on loudspeaker for Miller’s benefit. They were still at the Railway Hotel, alone in the banqueting hall - a grimmer venue Brough could not envisage although Miller thought a few balloons and floral displays would make it just the ticket for a wedding reception.

“Preliminary results am in,” Wheeler’s voice blared. “Doctor Kabungo died as a result of blood loss from injuries sustained to his throat. Three slashes did for him, severing his oesophagus and his jugular.”

“Any idea what he was slashed with, Chief?”

“Good question, Miller. The forensic pathologist is thinking along the lines of an animal attack. Claws.”

Brough wrinkled his nose, then realised Wheeler couldn’t see that reaction so he said he thought that was unlikely.

“Oh, you are there!” said Wheeler. “Thought you were away with the fairies. Well, I think so and all. I think it’s more likely blades of some kind. I’ve got a bet on with the Superintendent. Now, what have you uncovered at the Railway Hotel?”

“Not much,” said Miller. Brough kicked her under the table. “Ow! I mean, so far our diligent efforts have not resulted in any promising leads.”

“If it had been an animal, there’d be more clues,” added Brough. “The very lack of evidence suggests an all-too-human perpetrator.”

“Woo-hoo!”

“Chief?”

“Just mentally spending my winnings. Fucking yes!”

“Chief,” Miller dared to interrupt the Chief Inspector’s premature celebrations. “Do you think - do they say? - it’s three blades and one slash or one blade slashing three times?”

“Another good question. Fuck me, Miller; have you been on the energy drinks or what? They reckon it’s three all at the same time, given the angle of the slashes and all the rest of it. And now all this talk of slashing is making me need one myself. I’m off before I piss myself. Ta-ra.”

The line went dead.

“Perhaps...” Miller was thinking out loud, “perhaps there’s something in the hotel with three blades... Something in the kitchen maybe...”

She looked at Brough, who was gazing blankly into space. She paid him back the kick under the table.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“We’ve got work to do. Stop daydreaming about your bloody billionaire boyfriend and concentrate!”

Brough’s nose wrinkled at the accusation. “I wasn’t, actually, Miller. I was just wondering, if you must know, why this place is called the Railway Hotel when Dedley doesn’t even have a station?”

***

Stevens sat back and belched loud enough to draw the attention of the diners at the surrounding tables. Peri-peri sauce clung to his moustache. Pattimore was both embarrassed and disgusted. The salad he had plumped for remained largely untouched on the plate before him. He found himself missing the more genteel table manners of David Brough, who would never dream of eating a burger without a knife and fork.

“Good bit of chicken, that.” Stevens declared. “I feel like tossing the bones over my shoulder.”

“Please don’t. We ought to be getting back to work.”

“Getting back? I’ve never stopped. All the while you’ve been sat moping there like a smacked arse, I’ve been watching the bushes out there.” Stevens nodded over Pattimore’s shoulder to the artfully placed square of hedge through the window. “Come on. Bring some of that lettuce; you never know.”

Stevens wrapped his chicken bones in a napkin, left twenty quid on the table and, sucking his moustache, stalked toward the exit. It was left to Pattimore to bring the zoo-keeping equipment.

“Going fishing?” asked a waitress, holding the door open for him.

Pattimore smiled thinly. “Something like that.”

“Because if it’s environmental health, we’ve sorted out that business with the-”

“It’s not!” Pattimore interrupted; he didn’t want to hear about any environmental health issues the restaurant may have had, sorted out or ongoing.

He found Stevens on all fours peering into the hedge, and holding out a chicken bone. He was making clicking noises with his tongue.

“Bloody hell,” gasped Pattimore. “Don’t tell me you’ve found it!”

“Will you shut the fuck up?” Stevens hissed over his shoulder. “There’s something in here. I’m trying to lure it out. Give us that lettuce in case it’s vegetarian.”

“Animals aren’t vegetarian,” said Pattimore. “They’re herbivores. Or carnivores, if they eat other animals. Or omnivores, if they like a bit of both.”

“Well, in case this thing is bi, chuck us that salad. And get ready with that hoop.”

Pattimore prepared himself with the snare on a stick. He held his breath. Stevens peered into the bush. “Here, puss-puss,” he urged. Pattimore rolled his eyes.

“Fuck it!” Stevens cried as something bolted from under the bush. He fell over. Pattimore swatted at the thing with the stick but it darted between his legs and along the path. They lost sight of it when it reached the monument to Jim Fish, a local man who had gone to Hollywood in the 1920s and had directed such early classics as The Abomination, and Bride of the Abomination. It was a peculiar piece of public art: strips of celluloid fashioned from bronze, atop a huge concrete pile of circular film cans. Pattimore supposed it made sense, to have it near the multiplex and supposed Brough would be able to tell him more about the artistic style and composition and symbolics and all that shit.

I must stop missing him, Pattimore scolded himself. I fucked it up between us and my punishment is to go without him.

“Did you see it?” Stevens scrambled to his feet. “Come on!” He tore along the path and rounded the Jim Fish monument. Pattimore chased his partner around the base. “Where the fuck is it?”

“Are you sure that was it? It wasn’t a cat or something?”

“A cat? A fucking cat would never get across that road.”

“But a wild weasel would?”

“It was it! I’m fucking telling you.”

“Well, it’s gone now, whatever it was.”

“Shit.”

Pattimore glanced around. Paths led off in all directions from the monument, slicing through a grassy area. Beyond was the car-park and the main entrance to the cinema. Behind were industrial units and the busy double-dual carriageway.

Where could it have gone?

“It’s probably under one of the cars,” Stevens said with a sniff. “Plenty of wheels to hide behind. Go on; you start at one end and we’ll meet in the middle. We’ll rout the bastard out into the open.”

“It was probably a rat, you know. You said it yourself, there’s shitloads of them around here. Because people keep leaving their chicken bones all over the place.”

“Let’s apprehend the suspect first, shall we, before we rule it out of our enquiries.”

Pattimore was surprised. Stevens was actually right for once.

***

In one respect, Harry Henry was feeling better. The sneezing had stopped and his breathing was back to normal. On the other hand, he felt terrible. He felt responsible for the escape of the second zorilla. Jeff Newton had told him not to worry about it - which was kind of him, although Harry Henry detected more than a hint of ‘Get out of my sight’ in the zoo official’s tone. Newton had retired to his office, to coordinate the second search from there. All that remained for Harry was to gather his things and head back to Serious to face the music. That music, emanating from Chief Inspector Wheeler would be something akin to rugby songs delivered by an operatic soprano with bellyache and bloodlust. Harry Henry was not looking forward to it.

He changed out of his muumuu and back into his tweeds. He snatched up his holdall and headed for his Beetle.

Not a good day at the office. Well, that was the problem: if he’d been allowed to stay in the office, none of this would have happened. It was being out of the office and pretending to be someone else that had led to this debacle.

He fastened his safety belt and started the engine. Behind him, on the backseat, his holdall bulged and rippled.

Harry Henry headed back to Serious. He put a classical music station on the radio, hoping for something to soothe his ruffled feathers, or something rousing he could get his teeth into.

The 1812 Overture was playing. Perfect. Harry beat the steering wheel with the heel of his hand in time with the melody, singing along. It cheered him up.

His eyes caught sight of something in the rear-view mirror. Two black beads were glinting over his shoulder.

“Flipping heck!” Harry swerved. A zorilla was perched on the headrest. It sprang over his shoulder and landed in his lap.

Angry motorists struck their horns with no respect for Tchaikovsky’s metre. Harry Henry froze. He tried to keep the car in one lane as he searched for somewhere to pull over.

The zorilla padded around in a circle on the detective’s lap. It settled down for a nap.

“Oh, no! Oh, no! Oh, no!” Harry Henry wailed through gritted teeth. He pulled into a layby. A lorry blared past. The zorilla looked up, transfixing Harry. It got to its tiny feet and circled again - but not all the way around this time.

“Oh, no! Oh, no! Please don’t!” Harry quailed.

But there was no reasoning with the zorilla. It lifted its tail.

Harry Henry screamed and flailed as the car filled with the worst stench he had ever encountered.

***

Jeff Newton was enjoying respite from the madness for five minutes in his office. Two creatures on the loose - and not to mention an important international visitor murdered. He consoled himself with the time-honoured notion that there, apparently, is no such thing as bad publicity. The events would certainly draw attention to the zoo; there was no doubt about that.

He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes.

He hoped those idiots who blundered around calling themselves Serious detectives would somehow bring about a satisfactory resolution, catch the killer, catch the zorillas, and then things could get back to something approximating normality.

He became aware that someone had entered the office. Lindsey, probably. Bringing the coffee he’d asked for. Silly girl had never grasped the basics of office etiquette, like knocking the bloody door.

And now she was hovering, instead of just putting the mug down and buggering off. All right, she was a volunteer and the zoo was grateful for all the volunteers and their efforts but honestly-

He straightened in the chair and opened his eyes. His mouth hung open, the castigation he’d intended to level at doe-eyed Lindsey died in his throat.

There was no one there. Furthermore, there was no mug of coffee on his desk.

Useless girl. What was she doing, harvesting the beans herself?

He got to his feet. It looked like he was going to have to make his own bloody coffee.

It was an outrage.

No, it’s not, he scolded himself. It’s been a tough couple of days. You’re overwrought. It’s not Lindsey’s fault. Perhaps there’s some decaff...

Before he could open the door, a shadow loomed over him as the figure that had been squatting out of his line of sight drew itself up to its full height. Jeff spun around. The furry figure towered over him.

“What the-”

Jeff never got to complete his question. The furry figure slashed at him with its front limb. Clutching at his throat, Jeff dropped to his knees, and then fell flat on his face. His lifeblood pumped from his severed vessels and pooled around his body.

The furry figure stepped over him and left.