“What the actual fuck...” Darren slumped against the door. He tried to reach for his phone but was reluctant to leave the door, lest the creature try again.
He sat back and strained to listen.
There was nothing.
He let ten minutes pass then sprang into action. He pushed the desk against the door, and the chair and also the bedside table. Then he sat on this pile of furniture and dialled Detective Inspector Brough, suddenly feeling not such a strong guy after all.
Chapter Thirteen
Stevens steered his Ford Capri towards The Bear Pit, a hostelry not far from his flat. He’d be able to have a few jars (i.e. many) and leave his motor on the carpark until the morning.
“Sounds like a gay bar,” Pattimore observed from the passenger seat. Stevens pulled a face.
“Don’t remind me,” he grimaced. He had to suppress memories of a previous case in which he’d gone undercover as a drag act and had got locked up in the cellar. “No, it’s all right; I’m OK. You can take your hand off my leg now.”
“I’m not!” said Pattimore, holding up both appendages and waggling them as though he was in a DICWADS musical.
“Then...” Stevens looked down. He took in the white stripe, felt the zorilla’s body heat and its pinprick claws pierce the fabric of his chinos. “It’s the - the fucking wossname!” he squealed. “It’s fucking my leg!”
Pattimore seized the wheel, trying to keep the Capri from colliding with a lamppost. He succeeded but then a cry and a lurch from Stevens sent the car veering across the road and into a couple of wheelie bins gathered at the kerb.
“My car!” he yelped.
At least they had come to a halt. Stevens froze in abject horror and disgust as the little creature clung on doggedly, rubbing itself against the detective’s shin. Its tiny eyes were closed in ecstasy.
“How did it get in?” Stevens whimpered.
“Must have snuck in when you opened the door. I bet it followed us all the way through the park. It was probably watching us the whole time.”
“Why me?” Stevens wailed.
“It’s the pheromones,” said Pattimore. “You must have got some on you. And, combined with your body heat... That’s where we went wrong with the lure!”
“Never mind all that. Get this furry fucker off me!”
“Just close your eyes and think of England.” Pattimore unlocked the passenger door.
“Where are you going?”
“To get the stuff - the equipment. It’s in the boot.”
“Don’t leave me!”
“I’m only going to the boot.”
“And don’t slam the-”
But it was too late. The noise startled the amorous animal and it went off like a stink bomb. The car was filled with the most noxious stench Stevens had ever encountered. He clawed at the window for air, gasping like a drowning man.
Oops, thought Pattimore, safely out in the open air. He decided to call the zoo for expert help - once he had stopped laughing.
***
“Tell me everything,” said Brough.
Darren Bennett peered over the shoulder of the detective in his doorway.
“That lady one not with you?”
“Who?” said Brough. “Miller?”
“Is that her name?”
“Never mind her.” Irritated, Brough stepped into the room. The furniture was still in disarray but he had persuaded the lifeguard to move it from behind the door. “Your attacker spoke to you?”
“Yeah.” Darren Bennett sat on the bed. He patted a space beside him but Brough righted a chair and sat on that.
“And...?”
“And what?”
“What did he say?”
“Who?”
“The attac - Look, you’re obviously very shaken up by the experience.”
“I could do with a hug.”
“Yes, well, that’s not going to happen.”
“I better Miller would give me one.”
“Be that as it may, please try to focus on the incident. What did he say? The exact words, if you can.”
“Um... well, he said he was the CBSO.”
“Sorry? He told you he was the City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra?”
“No! Something like that. Er...”
“PCSO?”
“That’s it! PCSO... Taylor. He was the one who signed me in, he said.”
Brough made a note. “And then what?”
“And then this big hairy arm tried to force the door in.”
“Can you describe it?”
“About seven feet tall, flat and wooden.”
“The arm, I mean.” Brough was losing patience. Was the man being deliberately obtuse or was it apparent interest in Miller that was so irksome? After all, ten pounds is ten pounds.
“Well, it was big and it was hairy.”
“Colour?”
“Black. It was thick, black fur. And it had three claws on it.”
“I see...”
“Only I would have noticed if the copper who signed me in was a bloody gorilla or something, wouldn’t I?”
“One would hope.”
“Unless - unless he’s a werewolf or something.”
Brough stared at him. “A what?”
“You don’t know,” Darren Bennett shifted uncomfortably. “Not long back there was talk this town was crawling with zombies.”
“Nonsense.” Brough cleared his throat. “Then what happened?”
“Well, he tried to get in but I was too strong. Shut his paw in the door. He didn’t like that. Then he went away. I waited a bit to make sure and then I called you.”
“Right. This place is knee-deep in police and you called me.”
“Well, I couldn’t trust them, could I? Not after he said he was one of them.”
“No. I suppose not.”
Brough moved to the door. He inspected the woodwork for scratches. “There are no signs of forced entry.”
“I didn’t let him get that far.”
“Quite.” Brough stepped into the corridor. A look of dismay flashed on Bennett’s face.
“You’re not leaving me here, are you?” He grabbed the detective by the sleeve of his raincoat. Brough glowered at the hand until Bennett released him.
“It’s still the safest place. But I can come back for you later.”
“Oh, yes!”
“And take you down to Serious.”
“Oh.” Bennett seemed disappointed. Then he perked up. “Will Miller be there?”
Brough left. What a confusing fellow!
And what was all this bollocks about a werewolf?
Well, it was bollocks. That’s all it was.
He heard Bennett’s door close behind him and the sound of heavy furniture being moved. Brough supposed, in the same position, he might do the same.
He padded along the corridor. The sound of televisions behind locked doors - the councillors had no doubt made themselves as comfortable as possible - gave Brough snatches of football matches and soap operas. Someone was watching University Challenge. Someone else was watching German pornography. Brough quickened his step.
On the ground floor, he found a couple of PCSOs leaning against a wall. One was showing the other something terribly amusing on his phone.
“Taylor,” said Brough, flashing his i.d.
“Says Brow on there,” said the owner of the phone.
“It’s Brough!”
“Then why did you say it was Taylor?”
Brough made an inner plea for strength. What was it, Obtuse Fuckwits Day?
“I’m looking for Taylor. He’s a hob - he’s a PCSO.”
The men bristled. They did not like being c
alled ‘hobby bobbies’ - not even almost.
“There’s no Taylor here,” said one, with a cold stare.
“Then perhaps his shift has ended? Perhaps he’s gone off duty?”
“We don’t know no Taylor.”
Brough decided to let the double negative slide. He demanded to see the roster. One sloped off to fetch it. The other stood eyeballing the ponce in the raincoat with undisguised contempt. Brough returned the scrutiny with a steady glare. Uncomfortable moments crawled by until the other returned with the roster.
“Told you,” he said with an air of triumph. “There ain’t no Taylor here.”
“And neither of us have been up to the third floor in the past hour or so.”
The PCSOs gave him blank looks, unwilling to admit to anything or to do the snotty git any favours.
“And I don’t suppose there is any CCTV footage?”
“You’m right,” said one.
“Residential building,” added the other. “Them students like their privacy. For all their sex and drugs and that.”
“Right.” Brough drew himself up to his full height. “No more shirking, you two. One of you will stay here by the main entrance, the other will patrol the floors. You are to admit no one until I return. Is that understood?”
“Sir, yes sir!” they chorused but Brough couldn’t determine whether they were taking the piss. He left them to it and stepped out into the street.
The pub in which he’d left Miller was only two hundred yards away but surely even she must be wondering where he’d got to by now. He jogged along the road, ashamed to be made aware of how out-of-shape he had become. He would have to do something about that; he didn’t want Oscar Buzz, who travelled with his own gym and personal trainers, to go off him.
He found Miller nursing the same glass of pinot grigio - but the bottle on the table was now two-thirds empty.
“I remember you,” she gave him a grim smile. “Didn’t we used to work together?”
Brough lowered himself onto a stool. “Sorry about that, Miller.”
“The shits, was it?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Attack of the galloping squits?”
“Well, really, Miller. If you must know, I had a tip-off.”
“Mazel tov!” She raised her glass in a toast.
“Not like that. Listen, you’re in no fit state to drive. We have to get Darren Bennett down to Serious.”
“Send a van... Who?”
“Darren Bennett. From the leisure centre.”
“Oh...” Miller perked up. “I’ll give him a ride. I’ll give him a ride any day of the week.”
“You’re in no fit state to drive.”
“No stit fate? And who said anything about driving?” She cackled lasciviously, spilling wine on her chin.
For a second, Brough found himself wishing he was back with the hobby bobbies.
There was nothing else for it: he took out his phone and called that wanker Benny Stevens.
***
In the carpark of the Bear Pit, that wanker Benny Stevens’s Ford Capri was jack-knifed across three parking spaces and surrounded by onlookers. Three keepers from the zoo were trying, through raised voices and unsophisticated mime, to coax the detective to open the door or, at the very least, to wind down the window.
Stevens was wide-eyed and rigid, with the zorilla still clinging amorously to his leg. The beast was still - for now - in a post-coital snooze. Stevens hardly dared breathe in case he woke it and it started shagging his shin again.
The theme from The A Team blared out of a pocket in his tan leather jacket. The zorilla let out a yip of alarm and emitted another toxic cloud.
“Oh, for fuck’s –!” Claws or no claws, shag or no shag, Stevens shoved the door open and thrust his leg, zorilla and all, out into the fresh air. The crowd of spectators gasped at the stench and placed protective hands over their pint glasses. The keepers had come prepared with masks. In an instant, they rushed the detective’s leg and encased it in a carrying cage.
“What the fuck?” cried Stevens. “Get that off of me! Can’t you fucking tranquillise the bastard?”
“Let’s be having you,” said one of the keepers. He and a co-worker took Stevens by the arms and heaved him from the car.
The ringtone started up again. Stevens nodded to Pattimore. “Get that bastard thing, would you?”
Smirking, Pattimore reached into Stevens’s breast pocket and took out the phone.
“It’s David,” he said.
Stevens groaned. “Of course it fucking well would be.”
The keepers directed him toward their van. One supported the cage, the others had the hopping (and hopping mad) detective by the armpits.
“Where the fuck am we going?” he roared, casting a concerned look over his shoulder at his beloved Capri.
“Back to the zoo.” The keeper spoke as though Stevens was a moron.
“Try to remain calm,” advised another. “These things have sharp teeth.”
“Bastard bites me and I’ll bite him back,” said Stevens, although his voice sounded less brave than his words.
The keepers sat him on the floor of the van and closed the back doors, encasing him in darkness with the creature.
Pattimore watched the van trundle away. When Stevens’s phone rang the third time, he decided to take the call.
“Hello, Davey... No, it’s me. Jason.”
***
Miller finished the bottle. She considered going home and sleeping it off. Let Brough run around after that leisure centre bloke. He was fit though... and probably a bender too. Brough had all the luck... No, that wasn’t exactly the truth, was it? Miller remembered Brough’s first boyfriend since his arrival in Dedley. Nasty way to go. And then there was Jason. Nice lad. What went wrong there? Must have been something big; they’d seemed well-suited... And now Brough was having it large with one of the most famous and most handsome men on the planet.
On balance, Brough was doing much better than she was.
She cast a baleful glance around at the other patrons. Old couples staring silently into space, married so long they were beyond conversation. A boorish wag holding court to his potbellied mates. A group of kids - undoubtedly underage - on cider and blackcurrant.
Where were all the decent blokes?
Not in Dedley; that much was certain.
Sod it.
She tottered to the bar and ordered another large glass of the pinot and - fuck it - a packet of cheese and onion crisps. Not like I’m going to be snogging anybody tonight, is it?
While she waited to be served, her eye fell on a poster near the bar. It advertised the production of The Winter’s Tale by that bloke they were trying to find and take to safety. A strip of paper had been taped across it in a diagonal: CANCELLED.
The landlord noted Miller’s puzzled frown.
“My lad,” he nodded at the poster. “Runs his own theatre company. Well, what else can you do with a drama degree in Dedley?”
“It says the show’s cancelled,” Miller observed.
“Yeah; shame that. Funding fell through. I said he could have the room upstairs for free but he was gutted.”
“Mr... Emmetts,” Miller dredged up the name from the wine-murky waters of her mind, although she was feeling considerably more sober with every passing minute. “Where is your son now?”
“Our Noel?” Emmetts pulled a face. “Could be anywhere. He’s always up to something. Artistic temperament. Could be down the gym or somewhere. What is it he always says? An actor’s body is his tool. Or something. That’s five pounds seventy-five, please, chick.”
Miller paid. She returned to her table but touched neither the wine nor the crisps. Something the landlord had told her had raised a
flag in her mind, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. She went back to the bar and showed her i.d.
“We’d like to talk to Noel as soon as possible.”
“Is he in trouble?”
“No... we have reason to believe he’s in grave danger.”
“What kind of danger?”
“Grave - I just said so, didn’t I? Look: if you see him or talk to him, tell him to come down to Serious as soon as possible.”
“Right...” Emmetts looked alarmed. “Hang on; I’ll give you his mobile number. He never returns my calls. You might have more luck than me.”
Doubt that, thought Miller bitterly. He’s a bloke, isn’t he?
***
Brough was waiting at the kerb outside the halls of residence when Pattimore pulled up in Stevens’s Ford Capri. All the windows were open but Pattimore still gulped for air when he got out. When he could breathe again, he gestured to the car and offered a single word explanation. “Zorilla.”
“You caught it?”
Pattimore chuckled. “Well, Benny did. Or rather, it caught him. It’s a funny story actually. We-”
Brough cut him off. “We have to take Darren Bennett down to Serious.”
“Isn’t he safe here?”
“He’s been attacked in his room.”
“Fucking hell. Right; you fetch him out while I have another waft around with the air freshener.”
Brough’s lips tightened. It was more than a question of being told what to do by a mere detective constable. “Right,” he said and turned to go. He was halted by Pattimore’s hand on his elbow.
“Davey...” The younger man searched Brough’s eyes imploringly. Brough’s face was impassive, unreadable. “Could we, like, have a chat at some point? I’m different now. I’m better. The weekly sessions - I’m still going. They’re very pleased with my progress.”
Brough looked coldly at the hand on his sleeve. “I have a boyfriend.”
“Yeah, yeah. And he’s hot - you don’t need me to tell you - but if we could just clear the air, it would make things easier at work. Don’t you think?”
Brough met his gaze. “I’m glad you’re dealing with your issues, Jason, but as far as I can see, it’s only a problem at work when you bring it up. So let’s just get on with it, shall we?”
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