How could she contemplate losing one - or even two - members of her team? It was unthinkable.
But the great god Funding Cuts demanded his sacrifice.
Someone was for the chop and it fell to Wheeler to draw the dotted line around that someone’s neck.
She ran her hand over her short and spiky hair as her temper abated. And then flared up again.
“This isn’t my fucking office!” she snarled.
***
“Um...”
Saba, the receptionist at Dedley Council House, spoke into her headset. “Councillor Woolton? There’s some people to see you.”
The leader of Dedley Council’s voice could be heard distinctly through the receptionist’s headphones. The poor girl cringed with embarrassment.
“Tell them to piss off,” Councillor Woolton barked.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, sir.”
“Hell’s afire! Why not?”
“Um, they’re actually like police officers or something.”
“Detectives,” interjected Brough, not wishing to be lumped in with his colleagues in uniform.
“Like detectives,” Saba amended her response.
“And what the blinking blue fuck do they want with me? Can’t Frank handle this?”
“Frank’s not here,” said Saba, “and they asked for you pacifically.”
Brough cringed visibly.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake! Send them up - No! I’ll come down; easier to get shot of them that way.”
There was a click as Woolton disconnected. Saba smiled weakly at the detectives.
“He’s coming down,” she said redundantly.
Brough and Miller nodded as though they hadn’t heard every word. Miller offered up a smile of sisterhood as if to say, “I know what it’s like to work with arseholes”.
Saba gestured across the lobby where upholstered benches flanked a water cooler. Brough shook his head but Miller tottered off to fetch a drink.
“Free water!” she enthused. “You don’t get that every day.”
“You pay your council tax, don’t you, Miller?”
“Yes, of course. Direct debit. So?”
Brough gave up. He cast his gaze around the marble features of the ornate reception. Civic pride, he mused. Even in Dedley.
A man in a sharply tailored suit came nimbly down the staircase, tugging at his shirt cuffs. It’s the toupee that needs adjusting, thought Brough. This vain figure could only be Lionel Woolton, leader of Dedley’s council. He looked to the receptionist who nodded at Brough.
Lionel Woolton flicked on a PR smile and extended a cold hand to the detective. “Lionel Woolton,” he smarmed. “Council leader.”
“Detective Inspector David Brough. And this –” he nodded to Miller who was having difficulty with the dispenser, “is D S Miller. Come over here, Miller.”
Miller bumbled over, managing to bark her shin on a low table and spill cool, refreshing water all over her front.
“Oopsy daisy,” she laughed. Her eyes grew wide when they clocked Woolton’s wonky hair piece. Brough sent her a warning frown but Miller was too fascinated to catch it.
Brough explained that Councillor Woolton would have to accompany them to the Serious building.
“Preposterous!”
Brough explained it was for the council leader’s protection.
“Poppycock!”
Brough explained that everyone who had attended the reception at the zoo was being taken in as a safety precaution.
“Absolute cock batter - Why is this woman staring at me? Have I got shit on my nose?”
“Do stop staring, Miller.”
“I can’t...” said Miller, just about managing to refrain from reaching up and straightening the errant toupee.
“Your wife will, of course, have to come along too,” continued Brough. “Perhaps you’d like to call her. It might be better coming from you.”
“Oh, for fuck’s-”
“We have a car out front,” said Brough, gesturing toward the exit. “It’s unmarked and we spared you the indignity of being escorted by uniformed officers.”
Lionel Woolton harrumphed. “Anyone would think I am under arrest.”
“You’re under something,” muttered Miller.
“This really is unnecessary!” Woolton vented his anger on the receptionist. “Cancel my fucking meetings. Forward all my calls. And get Mrs W on the phone; warn her she’s about to be picked up by the fuzz.”
He stormed out. The detectives followed him down the wide, concrete steps. Miller was smirking all the way. She let the council leader into the back seat and shut the door. She spoke to Brough across the roof of her car.
“Hah! What do you think he sticks that on with, eh? Council tacks!”
Pleased with herself, Miller got into the driving and seat and then unlocked the passenger door for Brough. They drove down the hill to the Serious building, arriving there miraculously unscathed, no thanks to Miller’s incessant leering at the rear-view mirror.
***
The zoo - well, Jeff Newton’s p.a. - furnished a full guest list and, within a couple of hours, the councillors, dignitaries and other assorted worthies were collected and crammed into the largest of the briefing rooms in the Serious building. A general hum of complaint and frustration droned in the air, like a swarm of bees with a grievance.
When all were safely gathered in, Chief Inspector Wheeler addressed the room. “Ladies and genitals,” she began, hoping to take the edge off with a taste of her subtle humour.
The din continued unabated.
“Ladies and GENTLEMEN!” Wheeler raised her voice but still no one took a blind bit of notice. She sent a scowl across the room to where that wanker D I Stevens was smirking against a wall. His moustache drooped suddenly, like a caterpillar that had just been shot. He approached.
“Get these bastards’ attention for me,” Wheeler barked. Stevens scratched his chin and glanced around.
“I could set the sprinklers off,” he offered.
“Well, aren’t you the fucking genius!”
Pattimore approached. He held out his hand as though inviting the chief inspector to dance. With the detective constable’s aid, Wheeler stepped onto a chair and thence onto a table top. Light from a ceiling projector picked her out like a diva about to sing.
“That’s fucking better.” She awarded Pattimore a rare smile. He was a good kid - despite his anger management issues. But since they didn’t impact the quality of his work, it was none of her fucking business.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Wheeler’s third attempt succeeded. The din quickly diminished into a low murmur of those who were slow to catch on. An arched eyebrow and a pout soon shut those fuckers up. Wheeler smiled - like a shark welcoming dinner guests.
She told them why they were there, which gave rise to outbursts of shock and disbelief. She asked for their patience and forbearance until more suitable and secure accommodation could be arranged. For the time being, they would have to sit tight in Serious, the safest building in the county.
“This is an outrage,” one man stood up. “An infringement of our civil liberties.”
“Hello, chick,” Wheeler smiled. “And who might you be?”
The standing man turned purple. “I am Lionel Woolton, leader of the fucking council.”
“I don’t care if you’m Paul Weller, leader of the Style Council. Sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up.”
From across the room came the short, sharp sound of a slap: Superintendent Ball’s palm striking his own face.
“We all have important work to do,” Woolton continued. “It is vital we be allowed to do our jobs.”
Around him, several councillors pulled faces. They didn’t look both
ered either way.
“And it’s vital I do my fucking job,” countered Wheeler. “If I’m to stop you getting your throats ripped open.”
Superintendent Ball intervened. “I am sure,” he spoke in buttered tones, addressing his words directly to Lionel Woolton, “when the Chief Inspector has finished briefing you, our office suites will be at your disposal, for telephone calls and emails and the like.”
Woolton scowled but accepted the compromise.
“But no bugger must say where they am,” Wheeler warned. “We don’t want that bastard knowing you’m all cooped up in here.”
“Quite so,” Ball agreed. “I am sure everyone appreciates the need for secrecy.”
The councillors and dignitaries nodded. They looked shit-scared, thought Wheeler. Good. The leader himself looked particularly shocked - unless that was the runaway zorilla on his head.
The Mayor raised a tentative hand. “Will there be coffee?” he asked.
“Of course!” Ball smiled, magnanimously.
“And pizza?”
“Don’t fucking push it,” said Wheeler.
The sudden arrival of a woman in faux fur startled everyone. She was speaking into a mobile phone, cradled in the crook of her neck and swiping a manicured talon across the screen of a tablet.
“Never mind, Saba,” she snapped. “I’ve found him now.”
She went directly to Lionel Woolton and air-kissed the vicinity of his cheek.
“Who the fuck is this?” said Wheeler.
“This is my good lady wife,” said Lionel Woolton.
“Roberta Woolton,” the good lady beamed, extending her hand toward the little woman on the table. Wheeler eyed it as though it were a shitty nappy. “This really is most inconvenient. I have had to leave the lottery committee on tenterhooks.”
Superintendent Ball explained to Wheeler that Mrs Woolton headed the local lottery committee, awarding funds to arts projects and worthy causes.
“I was instrumental,” expounded Roberta Woolton, “in funding the whole partnership between the zoo and the African game reserve. Not only instrumental but first violinist, you might say.” She laughed like a donkey snorting cocaine.
Wheeler narrowed her eyes. “Are you saying you fiddled it?”
Roberta Woolton’s mouth puckered like a cat’s anus. Her husband came to her defence.
“Without my wife’s diligence and dedication, Dedley would have no - thingy - whatsname - zorilla at all.”
“Whoop-de-cocking-do!” said Wheeler. “And that’s working like a fucking charm so far, isn’t it?”
She clambered from her perch and took Ball to one side. “I don’t like this,” she grumbled. “All these bastards cluttering the place up. If I’d wanted to babysit a bunch of fucking dickheads, I would have been Brown Owl of the fucking Brownies.”
“Then you’d better arrange places of safety pretty damned quick,” said Ball with uncharacteristic ferocity. “Honestly, Karen, of all the men to cross swords with. The leader of the council! Who do you think is pressing for the reduction of our budget?”
“That prick?”
“Yes. Quite. That prick.”
“Well, bugger me with a rugger team.”
“Exactly.”
“I think it’s time for a charm offensive.”
“I think you’ve already managed half of that.”
“I’ll send Brough in. He’ll charm the pants off him.” Seeing Ball’s shocked expression, Wheeler assured him it was merely a fucking figure of speech. She looked across the room at the haughty Mrs Woolton turning her nose up at the cup of Serious coffee being offered by D S Miller. “I’ll make sure Mrs Faux-Fur-and-fake-laugh gets special treatment.”
“Goodo,” said Ball.
“Not because she’s the wife of the cocking council leader, though.”
Ball gaped at Wheeler, dumbfounded.
“But because all this zorilla business is down to her - well, the money side of it, at any rate. Bloody hell, Kevin. If our killer’s targeting the movers and shakers behind the zoo exchange - or whatever it is - then old Mrs Snotty Drawers is slap bang in the line of fire.”
“Good lord,” said Ball. “I do believe you’re right. Only, Karen, one thing: do try to restrict your effing and blinding to a bare minimum, eh?”
Chief Inspector Wheeler smiled sweetly and batted her eyelashes.
“Suck my dick,” she said.
***
A mile or two from Serious stands Dedley’s arts centre, a late-Victorian edifice of red tiles and gothic windows. Latterly more of a community ‘hub’ than a repository for theatre and artistic expression, on this particular evening it was closing early. No bugger had turned up for Zoe’s Zumba Zession and so Zoe had zhut up zhop. She unplugged her ghetto blaster wondering not for the first time if that was a racist name for a portable cassette-and-CD player. Perhaps she should upgrade to one of those MP threes - although to Zoe it sounded too much like a trio of politicians. She slipped into her Puffa jacket (homophobic?) over her lilac leotard.
It was the final of some dancing programme on the telly that night. Like cooking, people would rather watch zed-list minor celebrities do it than get their arses off the sofa and do it themselves. It was a sad and sorry reflection of society but Zoe would not be deterred. This was her own business, damn it, and she was buggered if she was going down without a fight. She decided to check the coffers; there might be enough of the start-up grant she’d received for a couple of them plasma screens (if that wasn’t offensive to haemophiliacs) like they have in pubs. Zoe could show the blimmin’ dancing show and her ladies could Zumba along with their favourite non-entities.
I could call it ‘Zumba To The Stars’... I’ll get some new flyers made...
Heartened, Zoe locked up the Big Room (it had used to be called the auditorium when the place was in the habit of putting on shows) and took the key to Reception. The caretaker was nowhere to be seen - but then, he wouldn’t be, would he? He wasn’t expecting the Zession to be over for another hour and a half.
What to do? What to do?
Shit.
She couldn’t leave the place unattended. Kids or tramps or somebody might get in and get up to all sorts.
On the wall a faded sheet of paper listed contact numbers, handwritten in biro. Among them was the caretaker’s mobile. Hallelujah.
Zoe rooted around in her bulky holdall. Where was her damned phone? Christ - if it wasn’t one thing it was another...
A shadow moved across the panes of glass in the front doors. Zoe froze, phone in hand. Perhaps the caretaker had come back early after all.
She waited but no one came in.
Kids then... or tramps...
She squinted at the number on the wall. Oh seven eight...
A loud bang startled her enough to drop her mobile. What on Earth?
It had sounded like something falling over. She returned to the doors to the Big Room - perhaps she hadn’t stacked the chairs properly and gravity had finally prevailed.
She was loath to unlock the doors and go back in. Let the caretaker take care of it; it’s his blimmin’ job.
A hand clamped her shoulder - no, not a hand: a claw!
It forced Zoe to turn around. A large animal towered over her, a silhouette of fur and fang. Zoe backed against the doors - oh, why hadn’t she unlocked them? - and opened her mouth to scream. Before she could utter a sound, the animal swiped at her throat. Three diagonal gashes opened in Zoe’s neck and the blood began to pour.
Gurgling, gasping for air, with her eyes wide in shock and disbelief, Zoe crumpled to her knees and keeled over onto her face. Her final thought before oblivion claimed her forever was that this would never have happened if those blimmin’ ladies had turned up for class.
**
*
Chief inspector Wheeler was working late in her office. The councillors and other assorted buggers were all being housed in student halls of residence with a strong but discreet police presence.
On her desk was a stack of files. She reached for the first and opened it. The handsome, boyish face of Detective Constable Jason Pattimore smiled back at her from a black and white photograph.
“Hello, chicken,” Wheeler muttered with a heavy heart. She turned the photograph face down; she didn’t want him watching her as she went through his notes.
Could Pattimore be the one for the chop?
After all, he was the most recent addition to the team - and wasn’t it common practice to get shut of the newbies? Last in, first out - some kind of shit like that.
And he’d be cheap to pay off. His package would be small. Wheeler laughed at that, despite herself.
There was tension in the team. The breakup between Pattimore and Brough still rankled. Wheeler was against intra-departmental relationships of whatever stripe but then, to be fair to both men, Pattimore hadn’t been a member of Serious when he and Brough had got together.
And then it had turned sour. Brough had confided the reasons why to Wheeler, had been on the brink of submitting his resignation. Now Pattimore was getting professional help with his ‘issues’ and things had calmed down considerably... but...
Even so.
What would it do to young Jason to lose his job while contending with his mental health problems?
Wheeler couldn’t do that to the boy.
And besides, the pragmatic side of her mind chimed in, saving a detective constable’s salary is not going to make all that much difference to the overall budget.
No.
Not Pattimore then.
She closed the file and reached for the next one. The telephone rang.
“Chief,” said D S Melanie Miller. “There’s been another murder.”
“What the fuck?” Wheeler’s mind reeled. How could this be? Everyone who had been at that cocking skunk reception was safely under benevolent lock and key...
Miller seemed to anticipate Wheeler’s next question. “It’s none of the bigwigs off the council,” she said. “It’s the woman what runs Zumba classes at the arts centre.”
Zorilla At Large! Page 4