Zorilla At Large!

by William Stafford

  A couple of councillors bravely put themselves between His Worship and the relentless sneezing. Was it some kind of terrorist attack, they wondered? Some kind of germ warfare?

  Harry Henry staggered around. Someone said something to him in Swahili but it might as well have been Martian. Someone else swore at him in good old-fashioned Anglo-Saxon but Harry was too preoccupied with his nasal expulsions to respond.

  His fingers closed around the handle of a water jug. He picked it up and drenched his head. Breathless, he collapsed onto the table top.

  “My dear fellow,” it was Jeff Newton, “Are you quite all right?”

  “Fur...” Harry Henry managed to say between pants. He gestured frantically at his lapels. “The Mayor... he had ermine on his jacket.”

  “Christ alive,” Jeff Newton muttered. He surveyed the aftermath of the chaos. The Mayor had already been bundled out. The press were still snapping pictures.

  His heart sank when his gaze fell on something on the floor. The cage. The cage was empty.

  There was now a second zorilla at large.

  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.

  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 pho
ne 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.

  Chapter Five

  But there was no evading Superintendent Ball forever. When Chief Inspector Wheeler got back to Serious, he pounced. He bore down on Wheeler, backing her into his office. He kept himself between her and the door. A brave thing to do.

  “Not now, Kevin. I’ve got a lot on my plate.”

  “Karen, we can’t put this off indefinitely. We have to have The Talk.”

  Wheeler groaned. “All right. When a mommy and a daddy love each other very much, they fuck each other’s brains out.”

  “Not that talk.”

  “Kevin, I’m up to my fucking eyes in it - and don’t you say a fucking peep about that not being very deep, you heightist bastard.”

  Superintendent Ball could feel himself shrinking away, try as he might to stand his ground. Wheeler could be like a cornered animal when stressed. And also when she wasn’t stressed, come to think of it.

  “Two murders, Kevin.” She showed him the corresponding number of fingers as an illustration. “Two fucking murders.”

  “Yes, I know it’s perhaps not the optimum moment-”

  “Too cocking right it’s not the opti-fucking moment.” Wheeler’s chest was heaving, placing strain on the silver buttons of her uniform. “There’s never going to be a right time.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Ball, and he meant it. “I’ll leave it with you until the end of the week. And best of luck with the investigation.”

  He left. Wheeler let out a torrent of swearwords and kicked the furniture.