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.