Zorilla At Large!

by William Stafford

  “I’m not sure...”

  “So I’ll go alone. But I’ll still need your suit.”

  Lionel Woolton deflated. He never could deny his wife anything. He stood and began to undress.

  “Marvellous!” She pecked him on the cheek. “We can watch all the films you want on our fifty-inch screen. With the curtains drawn, of course.”

  Fifteen minutes later, she was applying the finishing touches to his make-up. He’d protested at first about cosmetic enhancements to his appearance but she had teased him. “You want to look pretty, don’t you?”

  He puckered his lips to accept the lipstick.

  “Ta-dah!” she showed him his new look in her compact mirror. Beneath his foundation, the leader of Dedley council paled. If anyone should recognise him - the papers would have a field day - the opposition would laugh him out of the Chamber...

  “Now, come on,” Roberta opened the door. “Let’s walk out of here as though we’re entitled to come and go as we please.”

  “But - but there’ll be guards.”

  “This is Dedley student halls, darling. Not Colditz. Now, take my arm. You’re not accustomed to those heels.”

  She opened the door and stuck her head into the corridor. She gasped in shock to see a man’s face directly ahead of her.

  “Evening,” grinned the PCSO. “Going somewhere?”

  Lionel Woolton cringed behind the door.

  “As a matter of fact, we are,” said Roberta, imperiously. “And I’ll thank you to step aside and let us pass.”

  The PCSO tipped his hat. “Oh, no, sir,” he grinned. “I can do better than that.”

  “What mean you?” She deepened her voice, pleased that her disguise appeared to be working.

  “I’ll accompany you,” the PCSO clapped his hands together. “Right, where am we off to?”

  “Just get us out of the building, would you? We can handle things from there.”

  “I’ve got a motor...”

  Roberta almost laughed but she didn’t want to spoil the illusion. “Very well. I can see we are going to get along famously, Officer, um...?”

  She reached for her husband’s hand. Lionel kept his head down, allowing the wide-brim of his borrowed hat to conceal his blushes and indeed his blusher.

  “Your efforts shall not go unrewarded, Officer, um...” The Wooltons followed the fluorescent yellow tabard along the corridor.

  The PCSO glanced over his shoulder and grinned. “Taylor,” he said.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Stevens was glad of the excuse to be back at the Bear Pit. It was his kind of boozer. Simple and unpretentious, with furniture that didn’t match and a ceiling that was still discoloured by the nicotine that was no longer permitted indoors.

  “I can’t believe Wheeler’s let us come in here while we’m on the clock,” he kept saying. “She must be getting soft.”

  “Yes, well,” Pattimore found that assessment unlikely. “We’re here to work.”

  Stevens downed the rest of his half of bitter and savoured every drop that clung to his moustache. “So, let’s get the work done and then we can have a proper drink.”

  He returned to the bar.

  “Same again?” said the landlord, reaching for the pump.

  “No,” said Pattimore, appearing at Stevens’s side. He flashed his i.d. “Just a couple of questions.”

  The landlord stiffened. “Oh, yeah? What about?”

  “A bear,” said Stevens.

  “A what?”

  “A bloody big bastard of a bear,” Stevens accompanied his words with a mime, personating a grizzly on the attack.

  “Oh, yeah?” The landlord was noncommittal. “Try the zoo.”

  Pattimore took over. “We have reason to believe you are about to take possession of the stolen corpse of a bear. One that you have commissioned to be stuffed and mounted by a Gideon Biggs.”

  “Oh,” said the landlord. “That bear. Let’s have a sit down, shall we?”

  With a barmaid called Tracey summoned to mind the bar, the landlord ushered the detectives to a table in the corner, out of earshot of the few other patrons present.

  “Thing is,” Emmetts began, “I come across all sorts of gear in this place. Flat screen tellies. DVD players. The lot. But when this bloke comes in, this Biggs fella, and he says you know what would look good in that alcove by the door.”

  Stevens and Pattimore turned their heads to see the space indicated.

  “What?” said Stevens.

  “A bear,” said Pattimore.

  “Yes,” Emmetts continued. “A bear. And this bloke says he can get me one. There’s one just popped its clogs up at the zoo and he has a contact and blah, blah, blah. At first I tells him he can stuff it and he says, yes, he can. And there was a bit of confusion but when we got that cleared up, we agreed on a price. I knew it was all on the hush-hush but I didn’t think it was actually illegal. I mean, who wants a dead bear? What’s the value of it? Well, there’s the fur, I suppose.”

  “Yes,” said Pattimore. “The fur...”

  “And the claws,” said Stevens.

  “Is there something I should know?” Emmetts frowned. “Only, the thing is, he never finished the job. I never saw hide nor hair of that bear, so to speak.”

  “But you paid him,” Pattimore pointed out.

  “Well, not fully, no. I paid a deposit but never the rest. Well, I wasn’t going to, not until the bear was stood in that alcove. I reckon I’ve been conned. I don’t think there even was a bear.”

  “Oh, there was,” said Pattimore.

  “Well, if you see that Biggs, tell him I want my money back.”

  “Oh, we’ll see him, all right,” said Stevens ominously. “We’m doing him for murder.”

  “Ben!” Pattimore kicked his partner’s shin under the table.

  “Ow! Fucking hell!”

  Emmetts was sweating. “Murder? That old chap?”

  “So...” Pattimore tried to keep hold of the reins of the conversation. “You never saw the bear. What about when you went to pay the deposit?”

  “What? Went? Went where?”

  “To Biggs’s, um, studio, I suppose you’d call it.”

  Emmetts shook his head. “Oh, no. I never went there. Sent the boy, didn’t I?”

  “Boy?” said Pattimore.

  “Well, he’s twenty three now - where do the years go? I sent him along to pay the deposit. Then we never heard nothing for weeks. Not until you pair come in.”

  “So, you didn’t know the bear has been stolen?” said Stevens. “I mean, stolen again.”

  “What?”

  “That’s right. Somebody’s had away with it. Like shit off a shovel.”

  “Um,” Pattimore interrupted. “Is he around? Your son? We’d like a word with him as well.”

  “Er...” Emmetts looked nervous. “I don’t know where he is from one minute to the next. He’s - well, he’s unpredictable, is Noel. Head full of crazy ideas. Here.”

  He pulled a poster from the wall. The detectives peered at the advertisement for the one-man staging of The Winter’s Tale. Stevens’s nose crinkled. He pointed out that it was August.

  “He put a lot of work into that,” Emmetts nodded. “And then the funding fell through. He was heartbroken. I said he could have the room upstairs for nothing but that wasn’t good enough, apparently. Devastated, he was.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Pattimore. “What did you say? About the funding falling through?”

  “Well, he applied for lottery funding, didn’t he? Big dreams of the Edinburgh festival and all that shit. Spent days on the application, making projections of income and all of that. He jumped through all the hoops. I checked it through. Blowed if I could see anything wrong
with it. But, then he didn’t hear nothing. Like I say, it broke his little heart.”

  Pattimore’s mind was racing. He was sure Noel’s production had been granted funding. There was something else too. The play - the title was familiar. He was sure Brough had made him sit through a DVD of it, during their time together... Now, what was it?

  He got to his feet. “Come on, Ben.”

  Stevens looked longingly across at the beer pumps but stood up anyway. Pattimore thanked the landlord for his time and said they would speak again soon. Stevens grumbled all the way back to the car.

  “I was only going to have the other half,” he said, rubbing the mound of his belly. “It doesn’t feel right, not having a full pint.”

  “Get in,” said Pattimore. “Check those lists. Who got funding and who didn’t. Then we’re going to talk to Roberta Woolton, see if there’s been a mistake or something. But first...” He took out his phone and pushed the pre-programmed button that connected him to David Brough.

  ***

  Brough saw it was Pattimore’s number flashing on the screen. His finger hovered over the DECLINE option but, in a twinge of professionalism, touched ACCEPT instead.

  “What is it?” he snapped.

  “Hullo,” said Pattimore. “You sound out of breath; are you OK?”

  “Never mind that-”

  “Have you been wanking? You have, haven’t you?” Pattimore recognised the sounds his ex used to make.

  Brough could hear Stevens snicker in the background. “I have done nothing of the sort,” he said coldly, although his face was red with blushing and his recent exertions.

  “Listen, it’s about a play. The Winter Wossname. Shakespeare. Remember?”

  “Of course. The Winter’s Tale. What about it?”

  “Well, there’s a production of it in town - or there was, but it’s been called off because the bloke didn’t get the funding. But he did, Davey! I’m sure he did. But what if-”

  Brough took up the thread. “What if he didn’t know he’d got the money... what if he believed he’d been rejected...”

  “I’m right, aren’t I?” said Pattimore. “And there’s something about the play that got me thinking.”

  “Of course!” said Brough, and clapped a sticky hand to his forehead. “Of bloody course! Exit pursued by a bear! It’s so obvious now.”

  “What?”

  “You remember - we watched it together, and I pointed out it was one of the most famous stage directions ever written. Exit pursued by a bear. I think you’ve cracked it. Where are you?”

  “Um, outside the Bear Pit. It’s his dad’s pub.”

  “And the son’s not there? Right...” Brough did some quick thinking. “Meet me at the halls of residence. My guess is he’ll go after Roberta Woolton as a big finale. I’ll phone Miller, get her to pick me up. You’ll let Wheeler know? See you in twenty minutes.”

  “Tell him to wash his hands first,” Stevens called out.

  “See you, Davey,” said Pattimore, but Brough had already disconnected.

  ***

  While the rest of the team converged on the halls of residence, Harry Henry checked the list twice. Yes, indeed, he was able to confirm. Funding for Noel Emmett’s one-man production of Shakespeare’s The Winter’s Tale had been granted.

  “So, what’s his motive then?” Wheeler snatched the print-out and skimmed it.

  “Um,” Harry pushed his glasses up, “He didn’t know. He thought he’d been unsuccessful.”

  “So... it’s not our friend the wammal stuffer then...”

  “It appears not, Chief.”

  “Um... Well, I’m reluctant to let him go, just yet a while. Let the fucker stew for a bit. Because he’s peculiar. I mean, stuffing animals! Who wants to do that? And for fun! Fucking pervert.”

  “Um...” Harry Henry tried to refocus the chief inspector’s attention. “Will you be going to the safe house, Chief? Might look good - to the leader of the council, I mean.”

  Wheeler regarded him intently. What did he know? What had he heard? “You’re not as thick as you fucking look, are you, Harry?” she smiled.

  Harry Henry’s glasses fell off.

  ***

  When Brough and Miller pulled up outside the halls of residence, Pattimore jogged over to meet them. He even opened the passenger door so Brough could get out.

  Charming, thought Miller.

  “She’s not here,” Pattimore began.

  “Who? Wheeler?”

  “No. Roberta Woolton. Nor her husband.”

  “Then where the hell are they?”

  “Have you asked the PCSOs?” said Miller, locking her car with a beep from her key ring.

  Brough groaned.

  “Yes,” said Pattimore. “They said they must have snuck out during the changeover of shifts.”

  “Bloody fools,” said Brough. “Is there any CCTV?”

  “Benny’s looking at it now.”

  Almost as if summoned, D I Stevens strode over to join them. “All right, Dave!” he laughed. “Forgive me if I don’t shake your hand.”

  “Eh?” said Miller.

  “Nothing,” said Brough, blushing again.

  “CCTV shows a couple and a hobby bobby leaving by the rear exit about an hour ago. They get into his car and drive off. So at least they’m safe.”

  “And what leads you to that conclusion?” said Brough.

  “Well, they’m with a copper, ain’t they? I mean, not a proper copper, I grant you. But it’s better than them wandering around on their own. Isn’t it?” Stevens looked to the others for support.

  “What’s the betting this one’s called Taylor?” said Miller.

  “Eh?” said Stevens.

  Brough had moved away from the group by a few paces, his mind fitting the pieces into place as he walked. He stopped and addressed his colleagues. “It’s an actor we’re dealing with, after all. He dresses up as a hobby bobby, walks right past those two idiots in there, then walks right out again with Mr and Mrs Woolton. The question is now, Where would he take them?”

  The detectives looked blank.

  “The zoo!” said Miller.

  Brough shook his head.

  “Their place?” said Pattimore. “At least they’d go willingly and wouldn’t put up a struggle.”

  “Interesting,” said Brough. “Ben, did the couple on the CCTV look as though they were struggling?”

  Stevens pursed his lips. “No. Well, not in the way you mean. Although it did look like the bloke was having trouble with his high heels.”

  “Eh?” said Miller and Pattimore.

  “They’m cross-dressing for some reason. Perhaps it’s all part of his sick game. Getting them to play out roles or some shit.”

  “Possibly...” said Brough although he sounded unconvinced. “Very well. We’ll adjourn to the Wooltons’ house. Someone tell Wheeler.”

  “Tell me what?” said Wheeler, surprising them all. She had approached unseen - an easy feat when you’re not as tall as most people’s cars.

  They told her.

  ***

  Within the hour, the Serious team had the home of Lionel and Roberta Woolton surrounded. Backup, in the form of two dozen uniformed officers, had been mobilised, but they were under strict instruction to keep back - in the next street, in fact - along with their transit vans and an ambulance on standby.

  “Place is deserted, Chief,” Pattimore reported to Wheeler. “If only we had some of that heat-detecting equipment, we’d be able to tell if they’re in there for sure. Even down to what room they’m in.”

  “Heat-detect my arse,” said Wheeler. “Do you know how much those fucking things cost? Do you?”

  Pattimore backed away.

  “No s
ign of the car from the CCTV either,” said Miller. “We’ve had every street checked.”

  “The logical conclusion is they’m not here; is that what you’m telling me?” Wheeler put her hands on her hips and spat on the pavement.

  “Looks that way,” said Miller.

  “Brough?” Wheeler turned to her best detective. “What’s your view?”

  “Um...” Brough held up a finger, signalling the chief inspector to wait. He pocketed his phone. “View of what?”

  “The crisis in the fucking Middle East.”

  “She means whether the Wooltons are in the house or not?” said Miller.

  “I doubt it,” said Brough.

  “Then where, brain box?” said Wheeler. “Can your precious phone tell you that?”

  “Um...” Brough frowned. He was embarrassed to have been caught sending a text to Oscar. He doubted Wheeler would appreciate the urgency of his need to talk to his Hollywood superstar boyfriend. “I don’t know...”

  “The theatre!” said Miller suddenly, startling everyone. “Where he was going to put on his play. I bet he’s taken them there.”

  “Another bet, Miller?” said Brough. “You haven’t paid up for the last one.”

  “Which is still open as far as I’m concerned,” said Miller. “He’s not gay; I’m telling you.”

  “If we could keep our minds on the case,” said Wheeler, “I’d be so fucking obliged.”

  None of them had brought the flyer for Noel Emmetts’s show with them. Pattimore put in a call to Harry Henry back at Serious.

  There was a brief interlude during which Harry Henry could be heard, via loudspeaker, bumbling around and riffling through papers. After his fifteenth ‘um’ he announced the proposed venue had been the arts centre.

  “Of course!” said Brough.

  Wheeler gave him a disparaging look. Brough wasn’t fooling her. His head wasn’t in the game. Perhaps that wanker Stevens deserved a reprieve...

  “Come on then,” that wanker Stevens piped up. “To the arts centre!” He adopted a superhero pose and then slapped Brough in the chest. “And no stopping off to crack one out, eh, David?”