by Evelyn James
Tommy was able to answer that question.
“The thugs were shooting blindly. They did not hit anyone on our side until the building was stormed.”
Harold walked to the door of the building and paused, once more drawing an invisible line up to the window where Leong had stood.
“Not impossible, but highly unlikely,” he said, almost to himself. “However, all this is supposition, my mutterings, nothing more. Can we look at the room?”
Clara had the key for the one door of the building that was still intact. It was round the back and she had to escort Harold down an alleyway and through a yard to reach it. Once inside the ground floor, they could see the debris from the shootout.
The building had been some sort of storage place before Leong had acquired it, the ground floor was large and open, just a few brick pillars breaking up the view as they supported the upper floors. The concrete floor was dotted with dried puddles of dark red blood and dozens of spent bullet casings, along with a few that had never been fired. There was a table at the back where the thugs had been trying to reload guns, when they were interrupted. The unloaded bullets sat on the table, lonely signs of the carnage that had happened here.
“Brings back memories,” Harold muttered. “Were many killed?”
“Fortunately, no,” Clara reassured him. “Mostly the men inside were injured and unable to fire further. I think that was more by luck than anything else.”
Harold gave a knowing look.
“In the heat of the moment, a man fires to kill, so yes, it was luck that saw so few slain.”
“I think the element of surprise went in the police’s favour too,” Tommy added. “Quite literally they caught this lot napping.”
Harold surveyed the scene, but this was not the place that interested them, even if it was where most of the action had occurred.
They headed for the stairs at the far side of the main floor. They were wooden and punctured by bullet holes. Harold threaded his finger into one of these and did a quick count of the number. He raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
The stairs only went to the first floor, then they had to walk along a dark corridor to reach a second staircase. Harold peered through the open doors that led to the rooms at the front.
“Any shooting here?” He asked.
Clara stopped and frowned.
“I don’t honestly know. The police report on the matter simply does not exist. Chief Constable’s instructions. I don’t know where all the shooters were, other than roughly.”
Harold walked into the room next to him and looked around. A brick which had cleanly smashed the window lay in the middle of the floor. Glass was scattered around. Harold went to the window and looked out.
“Not much of a line for a shot,” he said. “Too low still, can’t see behind the lorry from here.”
He took a closer look at the window frame.
“Even better, the window does not open except for this narrow pane at the top,” he laughed at his failure to notice sooner. “Unless this window was smashed, like it is now, no one was shooting through it.”
“The glass was only smashed recently,” Clara confirmed.
“Let’s move on,” Harold said.
They found the second staircase, even in daylight it was dark and hard to see. The building was not wired for electricity and the gas seemed to have been shut off for some time, though Clara did tentatively turn on a fitting and smell the air. There was no hiss or whiff of gas.
“We shall have to remain in the dark,” she said, and they headed upstairs.
“We found a man dead in this corridor,” Clara told Harold as they walked to Leong’s room. “We are not sure who he was, but we suspect he was Jao’s bodyguard. He was shot in the back of the head and that was certainly done from within the house.”
Harold inspected an ominous black patch on the floorboards.
“What have the police said?”
“They don’t think it was one of them who shot him, nor the army,” Clara answered.
Harold rose and stepped through the door of the room where Leong had breathed her last. It was as Clara remembered, the blood stain just touching the edge of the rug. Harold prowled around the stain, but made no comment, then he walked to the window.”
“No bullet hole?” He asked.
“The window was raised, like this,” Clara lifted the lower sash.
“How tall was this woman?”
Clara used her hand to give Harold a rough idea of the size of Leong. His brow had creased, his mind churning over everything he saw.
“And she was hit in the head?”
“About here,” Clara pointed to her temple.
“Well, considering the angles, it is just possible,” Harold mused. He leaned against the wall and stared outside, down at the marks the lorry made. “I don’t much like it though. It is tight, very tight and when you contemplate no one could be seen up here and no one knew the woman was about, then the mind starts to boggle.”
“Could you work out where a person would need to be stood to have shot her?” Clara asked, trying to hide the fact that she was saddened Harold had said it was possible. She had hoped he would look down and tell her it could not have happened at all, that the angles were all wrong. If there was even just a possibility the bullet could have reached Leong from the ground, that opened up perilous implications for the police.
“The bullet would be travelling at a very sharp angle,” Harold was still thinking. “If I could speak with the coroner, I could perhaps tell you if the bullet came from the ground depending on the injury to the skull.”
Clara almost sighed with relief at this news.
“That would be hugely helpful,” she agreed.
“Have they determined the type of gun that killed her?”
“Still a work in progress,” Clara replied.
Harold stared out of the window.
“That would be important in terms of working out how the gun would have had to have been held to fire it, but both a rifle and a pistol could have shot up this far. I don’t think I have really helped you.”
Harold looked a little abashed, having noticed Clara’s disappointment.
“I had hoped for a definitive answer in the negative,” Clara explained. “But we cannot have everything.”
“Sorry about that,” Harold sighed. “I want to be utterly honest with you, I don’t want to lead you astray.”
“And I would ask for nothing less,” Clara promised him. “Please, do not be fretful over this, I appreciate what you have told us and though it is not impossible, it is surely improbable that a gun was fired at just the right moment and at the right angle to hit Leong.”
“And for no conceivable reason,” Tommy interjected. “We must not forget that.”
“Precisely,” Clara said.
They headed back the way they had come, leaving through the back door. Clara clicked the key in the lock. It felt a relief to step away from that scene of blood and bullets, there was something unpleasant and horrible about the sight of those dried red puddles.
“I would like to take some measurements while I am here,” Harold produced a protractor from his pocket and a tape measure. “I should be able to get a good idea of the angle of the shot from outside, but if not, I have an idea or two.”
“You do that, I am going to head to the park to enquire about tortoises,” Clara said.
Harold looked bemused. Tommy slapped his shoulder.
“For her other case,” he remarked. “I can explain over lunch. Meet you back at home around noon Clara?”
“Yes, I shall be desperate for some warm food by then,” Clara rubbed her hands together, the cold starting to bite. Then she walked away, leaving the boys to their calculations.
Chapter Twelve
The petting zoo was situated in the largest of the public parks found in Brighton. The park was called the Pleasure Gardens and had been designed primarily for the regular influx of seasonal tourists
who descended yearly on the town. During the late summer and autumn, the park was extremely busy, and there was no end to the various vendors who set up stalls or walked around with boxes of trinkets to sell. Many of these opportunist traders had no permit to sell goods in the park but were prepared to take a chance. The police only rarely cracked down on the matter, since they had far better things to do than to chase down a fellow selling novelty postcards for tuppence.
During the winter and spring, visitor numbers dropped significantly, and the park became the domain of the locals taking peaceful Sunday strolls, pushing infants in prams and walking the dog. The illegal vendors dispersed to try their luck elsewhere and many of the legitimate traders turned to other avenues of income over the slim months. Some did remain to eke out a living; such as the man who sold cups of tea from a big brass urn that shone like gold and the little old lady who sold paper bags of bread crumbs to people to feed to the ducks.
Clara strolled through the park, trying to remember the last time she had come here. It seemed a long time ago and she regretted not making the effort sooner. Sometimes life became so busy. A stroll in the park had the power to refresh her senses and soothe her soul for a while.
She passed the duck pond, returning the wave of a small toddler, who was beaming with delight as he fed the birds. Then she made her way down a side path and reached a sign that proclaimed – Petting Zoo. Tickets available all day. The gate beneath this sign was locked, as the zoo was shut for the winter. Clara knocked on the gate and hoped that the keeper was present.
Several moments passed without anyone appearing. Clara glanced around for help and spotted a park keeper raking leaves.
“Excuse me?”
The park keeper looked up.
“I wanted to speak to someone in the petting zoo. I was hoping for some advice on tortoises. Is there anyone about?”
The park keeper gave her a puzzled look, as if she had spoken her request in Russian. Then he straightened himself and, without a word to Clara, walked to the gates. Retrieving a key from his pocket, he unlocked them and strode in, letting them close behind him. Having been given no clue as to what she should do, Clara hesitated to follow. She tapped a toe on the concrete path impatiently and came close to opening the gates and striding inside, but eventually decided it was best to wait.
At last, the park keeper returned with another man behind him. The park keeper walked out of the gates, glanced at Clara but did not speak, and returned to raking his leaves. The second man, dressed in rough trousers and a long apron, was friendlier. He smiled at Clara and greeted her warmly.
“I am Mr Cobb. I run the petting zoo. I am told you are looking for advice on tortoises?”
“I am,” Clara replied. “A friend has been given a tortoise and is unsure how to care for it successfully.”
“That is often the case,” Mr Cobb nodded. “Tortoises live a very long time and are regularly handed down in the family, so to speak.”
Mr Cobb was a cheerful soul; tall and lean, with greying hair, he walked with a firm step and seemed as fit as a man half his age. He was also clearly passionate about the animals in his zoo. After welcoming Clara through the gates, he pointed out his pair of miniature ponies, his guinea pig community and his rabbit warren. Among his many charges were a variety of birds, some familiar British species, including a stunning male kestrel – “Rescued after he broke his wing.” – and some more exotic, such as the white cockatiel that fanned its head crest at Clara and reminded her of her very first murder case. The initial victim had been such a bird.
“This is the tortoise shed,” Mr Cobb took Clara to a long wooden building. At one end there was a mesh enclosure, with bare soil and a pool for bathing in. Great piles of hay had been freshly placed inside. “We have a variety of tortoises, many come to us as unwanted pets.”
Mr Cobb showed Clara into the shed, which was split into multiple bays, each securely divided by wooden walls.
“Despite what everyone thinks, tortoises can be very territorial. We have a few individuals who will happily co-habit, but we also have some very grumpy fellows in the collection,” Mr Cobb smiled as he talked fondly of the animals. “Fortunately, they tolerate other animals well. I take them out to the other enclosures to ensure they have room to move about. They are quite happy among the rabbits or guinea pigs, even trotting about the base of the aviary.”
Clara peered over into one of the bays and saw a tortoise munching vigorously on a cabbage leaf.
“That is our Sulcata Tortoise, Ernie,” Mr Cobb made the introductions. “Sulcatas come from Africa and require a high fibre diet and no fruit. Ernie is one of our more anti-social tortoises. Now, in this pen we have Beatrice and Maud, who are Leopard tortoises, again they need a lot of hay and leafy greens.”
Clara peered down at a pair of tortoises, smaller than Ernie, who seemed content in each other’s company.
“I did not realise there were so many species of tortoise,” Clara said, thinking that her knowledge was really rather dire.
“Oh, there are several varieties that are kept as pets. Aside from the Leopard and Sulcata tortoises, there is the Red-Footed, the Indian Star, the Horsfield, the Spur-Thighed, the Hermann and the Marginated tortoise,” Mr Cobb reeled off the names with authority. “And those are just the common varieties, not to mention there are a few sub-species. I know of at least one lord in this country who currently owns a Giant tortoise, though, of course, they are not easy pets to house.”
Clara looked across the pens.
“I thought tortoises hibernated in winter?”
“Some do indeed,” Mr Cobb replied. “As a general rule of thumb, Mediterranean species of tortoise hibernate. For instance, I have three Horsfields and they are all hibernating as we speak, but other species do not sleep out the winter. It depends where they originate from. Ernie, for instance, does not hibernate, nor do the girls.”
“I did not know that,” Clara felt a new pang of worry slip into her mind. “What would happen if the wrong species was forced to hibernate?”
“It would die,” Mr Cobb answered bluntly. “Sadly, that is the fate of far too many pet tortoises. People think they can get by with just a little knowledge, as if it is as easy as looking after a cat or dog, but it is not. Each species of tortoise has different needs. Some require small amounts of meat to survive, for instance, while tortoises like Ernie should never be given meat. I really wish people would learn more before taking on such exotic pets.”
Mr Cobb leaned into the Leopard tortoise pen and lightly stroked the shell of Beatrice, or maybe it was Maud, Clara was not sure which was which.
“What species does your friend have?”
“I don’t know,” Clara admitted. “I am not sure he does either. As I say he was given it. It was already in a box hibernating.”
Mr Cobb frowned.
“Tortoises do not like being moved during hibernation. They need a safe place that is not too warm and not too cold. Let me show you where I hibernate mine.”
He took Clara outside again and around the side of the shed. There was another small wooden hut; when he opened the door, it revealed a series of shelves and several contained stout wooden crates. Mr Cobb indicated a thermometer attached to a shelf.
“Tortoises only hibernate at a very specific temperature. Roughly between 35- and 41-degrees Fahrenheit keeps them content. Any warmer and they believe the better weather is coming and wake up, any cooler and they could potentially die.”
The thermometer read 37-degrees. Mr Cobb was satisfied.
“Another thing people fail to realise is that the duration a tortoise hibernates is dependent on their age. A young tortoise may only hibernate for around three weeks. The length increases as they age, but I am not keen on this notion that they must be put into hibernation for six months at a time, that is wholly unnecessary. My oldest hibernating tortoise only sleeps for twenty weeks.”
“This is proving to be eye-opening,” Clara admitted.
> “I try to educate people as best I can during the summer when the zoo is open. I have even written a pamphlet about tortoise care. I shall give you a copy.”
They walked back into the main tortoise house and Mr Cobb plucked a booklet from a little wooden holder nailed up next to the door. Though clearly an amateur work, Mr Cobb had gone to the trouble of having it illustrated and it was dense with printed information.
“Thank you,” Clara said. “Tell me, if a tortoise was to wake from hibernation unexpectedly, would it be likely to wander outside in this weather?”
Mr Cobb shook his head.
“They are not foolish creatures. They do not like the cold. They would do anything they could to avoid going outside in this frosty weather.”
“My friend has a door that is prone to popping open,” Clara elaborated. “He has been concerned that the tortoise might wander through it into the garden.”
“During the summer that is a possibility,” Mr Cobb said. “In the winter, a tortoise has far more sense. None of mine will set foot outside, even if I gave them the option. Except for Ernie, he does not mind the cold so much as he is bigger and if there is a nice bit of sunshine outside, he will be tempted out to bask in it. That is why I always put fresh hay out, just in case he decides to stretch his legs.”
Mr Cobb indicated where a doorway led out of Ernie’s pen and into the enclosure Clara had noticed earlier.
“He is the only one of my tortoises allowed to roam as he pleases. He has been here thirty years and has rather earned the right.”
Ernie had consumed his cabbage and was now attacking a pile of hay with a seemingly ravenous appetite.
Clara felt she had learned a lot from Mr Cobb, but much of it made her even more concerned for the safety of Jeremiah. Whether or not he was in the clutches of Alf Martin, how could she be sure he was being kept at the correct temperature? An ignorant person might set him by the fire to keep him warm and unwittingly wake up the tortoise, conversely, he might allow him to get too cold. And if Jeremiah had awoken, how would Martin know what to feed him? Since Mr Malory was unsure as to the species of his new pet, how could a common crook be expected to have such knowledge? What if he was fed something that he should not have?