Zorilla At Large!

by William Stafford

  Christ, thought Wheeler. Perhaps not.

  ***

  The Serious team could not help being reminded of a previous case that had come to a head at Dedley’s arts centre a couple of years earlier. It seemed they were about to have a repeat performance. Except on this occasion there were hostages - that is, if the Wooltons weren’t already dead.

  Wheeler and Harry Henry monitored the operation from Serious. The chief inspector sported a headset despite her reservations that it made her look like she worked in a fucking call centre, while Harry Henry charted the action on a bank of computer screens, incorporating satellite maps and CCTV coverage.

  “Right, Stevens, Pattimore, you go round the back door.”

  “Wahey!” Wheeler heard Stevens distinctly.

  “Mind on the job, wanksplat,” she barked. “Brough, Miller, I’d like you to penetrate the front entrance.”

  “Yes, Chief!” said Miller, perhaps the only one of the team refraining from sniggering.

  “And keep the uniforms out of sight until absolutely necessary. We don’t want to throw this loony into a panic.”

  “Um, Chief,” Harry Henry interrupted, “I don’t think you should be disparaging about mental illness like that.”

  “Oh, fuck off,” Wheeler was dismayed. “Can I disparage him about all the fucking murders he’s committed, or is that too much for your sensitive fucking earholes?”

  Harry fixed his eyes on the monitors. Wheeler returned to giving instructions.

  “Get the hostages out first - one at a time, if need be. He gives us something, we give him something. Keep him talking as long as possible. I’ve got a SWAT team on its way. They’ll swoop in and take him out on your say-so. Brough, that means you. Do you copy?”

  “Um,” said Brough. “Yes, Chief.”

  “Eff me and call me Jeffrey! I need you on the ball. David!”

  “Yes, Chief. I’m here.”

  “I certainly hope so. Fucking hell. Keep all channels open. Wheeler out.”

  She shook her head. What was Brough playing at? Fine time for him to lose focus! Although, truth be told, he’d been away with the fairies, so to speak, ever since he took up with that fucking film star.

  “I’m going down there,” she announced. “If you want something fucking doing...”

  “Do you think that’s wise, Chief?” Harry Henry dared to swivel around.

  “What?”

  “Storming into an ongoing operation. Um...” He could feel himself withering like a daisy under a laser beam.

  “No, no; you’re right.” Wheeler came back from the door. “I’m sure David’s got this... But I will have his bollocks for earrings if it all goes tits-up.”

  Harry Henry turned back to the screens. And crossed his legs.

  ***

  The big room at the arts centre was in darkness. The floor was empty save for two chairs near to and facing the stage. Tied to these chairs were Mr and Mrs Lionel Woolton. Their mouths were gagged.

  A spotlight clunked on. The hostages flinched, screwing their eyes shut against the sudden influx of light. A figure stepped into the bright circle.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Noel Emmetts, dressed as a trawler man, addressed his exclusive audience. “You are about to witness a very special piece of theatre, presented especially for you. For one night only, before your very eyes, I present William Shakespeare’s The Winter’s Tale, as it should be seen! So come aboard the trawler Sicilia, on the choppy waters of the North Sea - I’ll forgive you if you don’t applaud; I know your hands are tied at the moment.”

  He emitted a bitter laugh and left the stage. Seconds later, the curtains were cranked open. The squeaks of the winch filled the auditorium. Blue fabric was stretched across the stage from wing to wing. Behind it wobbled a construction of canvas stretched over a frame and painted to look like the side of a boat. Noel Emmetts popped up from below deck, with a captain’s hat on. Pre-recorded sounds of waves and seagulls came through the p.a. system. Emmetts had to raise his voice over it; swaying in place he launched into Leontes’s speech about suspecting his wife, the Queen, of knobbing his best friend.

  The hostages watched, wide-eyed and horrified. It was truly atrocious. Emmetts ducked behind the gunwales and popped back up again with a long wig and a crown. Now he was Hermione, imploring the king’s best friend to stay a while longer.

  On it went. Captain/King Leontes addressed a sock puppet as his son, Mamillius.

  Mr and Mrs Woolton began to long for death

  Brough and Miller were at the doors at the rear of the auditorium. Brough was cringing at Emmetts’s mangling of the verse. Miller was amused by the puppetry.

  “I can’t bear much more of this,” Brough whispered. “I’m going in.”

  “You can’t!”

  “Watch me. The boy’s obviously delusional - and the lottery people can’t be much better if they think this shit is worth a penny of their money. I’m going to take a direct approach.”

  “How’d you mean?”

  “I mean I’m going to direct the production. I’m going to take him seriously. The lad obviously needs direction. On stage and off. And then, when I give the signal, we nab him.”

  “Can’t we just nab him now?”

  “We could, Miller... but who knows what he might do? We might get the hostages out unscathed but what if he injures himself? No; softly, softly, catchy monkey.”

  “Bloody hell - do you know all of Shakespeare?”

  Brough gave her a withering look. “Wait here,” he instructed. “And tell the others. Wait for my signal.”

  Before Miller could utter another word, he pushed the double doors open and walked toward the stage, clapping loudly.

  For a while, Noel Emmetts carried on, denouncing his faithless wife and casting her into a dinghy, but eventually he became aware there was a man standing beyond the footlights and the man’s applause sounded more sarcastic than it was enthusiastic.

  “Bravo,” said Brough. “Bravo!”

  Noel Emmetts shielded his eyes from the spotlights and squinted out into the darkness. “Excuse me; trying to do a show here. Do you mind?”

  “You carry on, mate,” Brough called back. “If you want to put us all to sleep.”

  “I beg your pardon? Who the hell are you?”

  “Someone who knows about the theatre. Someone who can help you. That scene with Paulina, for example.”

  “What about it?” Noel Emmetts snapped defensively.

  “The high-pitched screech - is that really necessary? Why not just try it in your normal voice. Keep her level-headed. Let the passion in her words be stated simply and directly. She’s a woman on a mission to save her queen, not a cartoon character.”

  “Er –” Noel Emmetts was at a loss.

  “Run it again.”

  “What?”

  “That scene. Run it again and let’s see if we can knock it into shape together.”

  “Really? But I - the audience - they’ve already seen it.”

  Brough approached the Wooltons’ chairs. The hostages’ eyes were rolling, desperately trying to communicate. “That’s where you’re going wrong,” Brough said. “You’re not ready. Oh, I’m all for open rehearsals but how can you expect these people to give you any constructive feedback when you’re treating them like this?”

  “Well, I –” Noel Emmetts gaped like a landed fish.

  “Tell you what. Let’s let them go and they can come back another time, when the show is ready to be seen. It’s the best way to ensure glowing reviews.”

  “But-”

  “I’ll untie them, shall I? And then we can get down to some serious rehearsing.”

  At the door, Miller stiffened. Brough had said ‘serious’. Was that the signal? He hadn’t st
ipulated what the signal was. Miller chewed her lower lip. She decided to hang back.

  Around the back, Stevens and Pattimore were listening in.

  “Fucking hell,” Stevens muttered. “How long’s this going on?”

  Pattimore remembered the DVD Brough had made him sit through. “Fucking hours,” he sighed.

  “I’m going in,” Stevens decided. Pattimore grabbed his leather sleeve.

  “Wait. If Davey’s untying the hostages, we’d better not burst in.”

  “Fuckinell.”

  At Serious, Wheeler was biting her thumbnail. What was Brough playing at? Too fucking soft - that was his trouble. All this artsy-fartsy bollocks when there was a perfectly good SWAT team in the back of a van, ready to swoop in and kick a few heads in.

  Brough undid Roberta’s hands and feet. She tugged at the gag but he warned her to be quiet. Together they untied her husband. Brough sent them both scampering to the exit where Miller ushered them out of the front door. Uniformed officers escorted the Wooltons towards an ambulance.

  “Good work...” Wheeler muttered. Saving the leader of the council could only be a positive move.

  On stage, Noel Emmetts ran through Paulina’s lines. Brough approached the footlights, making encouraging sounds. Emmetts reached the end of the speech and looked to his mystery director for approval.

  “Better...” said Brough. “You must have been delighted to get the lottery money for this - this masterpiece.”

  “Thanks - what do you mean? I never got a penny. They turned me down.”

  “That’s not what I heard.”

  “What?” Noel Emmetts paled beneath his make-up. He bumped into a cardboard iceberg. “They - they wanted to give me money?”

  “Yes!” said Brough. “Why wouldn’t they?”

  Noel Emmetts dropped to his knees. “Oh, God. Oh God oh God oh God.”

  “Come on,” Brough extended a hand. “Come with me.”

  “But - but - the play...”

  “Later.” Brough smiled. “Come on.”

  For a second it looked as though Noel Emmetts would take the hand that was offered to him. But then he sprang behind the cut-out trawler and dashed off into the wings. Brough clambered onto the stage and gave chase.

  “What’s going on?” cried Wheeler.

  “I think it’s the interval,” said Miller.

  Brough tore along the corridor that ran alongside the auditorium, passing dressing rooms and store rooms. Emmetts was a dark shape ahead. Brough realised he was wearing the fur pelt.

  Exit, pursuing a bear... Brough mused.

  Emmetts burst through the back doors, bowling into Stevens and Pattimore and knocking them onto their backsides. They were just picking themselves up when Brough came out, knocking them down again. He became entangled in their flailing limbs. All three detectives swore and scrambled. In their ears, Chief Inspector Wheeler out-swore them all.

  Noel Emmetts was gone.

  Chapter Twenty

  Wheeler recalled the team to Serious for an emergency briefing, leaving the uniforms and the fucking SWAT team to continue the bear hunt.

  “What the fuck went wrong?” she roared. “We had him. Right there. I knew I should have gone in hard and heavy. But no, I leave it to you fucking jokers and our man - a mass fucking murderer - gets away. What a fucking balls-up!”

  The team took the barrage of abuse unflinchingly. Brough ventured to speak but Wheeler waved him down.

  “I don’t want to hear it. Not right now. Go on; get out of my sight, the fucking lot of you. We’ll talk in the morning. Benny, I want to see you in my office first thing.”

  Stevens gaped. What had he done now?

  But there was no point asking what it was about. Chief Inspector Wheeler had followed her own thumb out of the room; she had fucked off.

  ***

  Brough didn’t sleep. He didn’t bother going to bed. He sat at his laptop, fully clothed this time, with the cursor hovering over the Skype button. What time was it where Oscar was? Did that even matter? Shouldn’t he be available 24/7? Isn’t that how relationships are supposed to work?

  Oh, to leave all this shit behind. To leave this dismal town and fly off to the sun. To spend the rest of my day’s with the world’s hottest man... It’s a consummation devoutly to be wished...

  Brough opened Word and began to type his letter of resignation.

  ***

  The sunrise over Dedley was gloomy and hardly worth the bother. Miller picked Brough up as usual, early if not especially bright. They rode in silence down to Serious. Pattimore’s car was already in a parking space.

  Harry Henry was also in sombre mood. When Brough and Miller entered the briefing room, he made a half-hearted gesture towards the coffee pot but they both shook their heads no. Pattimore nodded in greeting.

  “Ben’s in with her now,” he said.

  “In her office?” said Brough.

  “Yes. Davey-”

  But Brough was already striding out.

  In Wheeler’s office, sitting on a low chair she kept to make people feel uncomfortable, Stevens peered at the Chief Inspector. His view was framed by his gangling legs. Wheeler, behind her desk, was standing –but that made no difference.

  “The thing is, Ben...” she kept saying. Her eyes were ringed with dark shadows. She’d had little sleep, going over this interview again and again. She’d thought it would be easier than this. “We live in straitened times. There’s not enough in the pot - I’m putting this badly. There’s-”

  She was interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. D I Brough walked straight in, the cheeky fucker.

  “I’m in the middle of something here,” she nodded towards Stevens.

  “I’m sorry, Chief. This can’t wait another minute.” He presented an envelope.

  “What’s this?” Wheeler frowned at it as though it was an alien artefact.

  “Read it.”

  Wheeler snatched the envelope and tore it open. Her eyes scanned the neatly-printed type. Then she looked up. “That’ll be all, Ben. Sorry to have wasted your time.”

  Baffled, Stevens got to his feet and left.

  “Well?” said Brough.

  Wheeler looked the detective - the best of her bunch - up and down. “You’ve made mistakes,” she said. “You’ve been sloppy; we all have. But your mind’s been on other things and that’s not like you at all.”

  Brough looked at his shoes. He had this coming; he knew that.

  “But I want to thank you, David,” the chief inspector’s words surprised Brough into looking up and meeting her gaze. “You’ve just helped me make one hell of a decision.”

  Wheeler put the letter in a drawer. “We’ve got a briefing to go to,” she said, her face inscrutable. She walked out. Brough had no choice but to follow.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Wheeler clicked on the projector. “Things have moved on overnight.”

  The screen was filled with the face of Noel Emmetts. Dead on a mortuary slab.

  “He was found in the canal. Whether he fell in or jumped in or was pushed, we can’t say. But the weight of the bear skin he was wearing dragged him down. My view is his conscience got the better of him - too bloody late for his victims - but he couldn’t face up to what he’d done and so he topped himself. Whatever happened, he was our prime and only suspect in this case. A case which I’m calling as closed.”

  Brough hung his head. He felt responsible. If only he’d arrested Emmetts when he had the chance.

  “What we mustn’t do is blame ourselves,” Wheeler looked directly at Brough until he looked up and met her gaze again. She didn’t exactly smile but she didn’t exactly scowl either. “We’ve taken a statement from the Wooltons. Roberta Woolton blames clerical error. Apparently, Noel Emmetts n
ever received notification that his application for lottery funds had been successful. That’s no reason to go on a murder spree; the boy was obviously unhinged in some way. Mrs Woolton has also confided that he was only awarded funds due to another clerical error. Apparently, she misread his application. She thought he was setting the play in the time of the Cold War, and not, as she puts it, ‘all this pissing about with trawlers and fishing nets’. So, he wouldn’t have got the money for his project anyway.

  “Be that as it is, we’ve brought this case to a conclusion, albeit an unsatisfactory one but hey, shit happens. And, speaking of shit, there’s been something else going on behind the scenes all this while. I have been under strain - in fact, you might have noticed one or two F words escaping my lips. I have been under pressure, boys and girls, to make cuts to our division. In order to save money, I was instructed to nominate one of you for redundancy.”

  Stevens gaped. Wheeler winked at him.

  “I am happy to say I have not had to make that decision after all,” Wheeler continued. Brough nodded. His resignation had saved Stevens’s bacon.

  “Because,” Wheeler blinked away a tear, “I can’t break up the team. You’re not perfect but one way or another, you get things done. And so, tits and shits, I have decided to tender my resignation. I’m putting in for early retirement. I know, I know: I don’t look old enough. But it should save the bastards enough money to keep you lot together.”

  A stunned silence filled the room.

  “But - but my letter?” Brough said.

  “What fucking letter?” said Wheeler with a steely gaze.

  The door opened and Superintendent Ball came in, laden with champagne.

  “Blimey,” said Wheeler. “That’s a bit fucking previous! Can’t wait to see the back of me, eh? You bastard.”

  “What?” Ball was puzzled. “Oh, no! That’s all over. Nobody need leave. Didn’t I tell you? I’ve had the most enlightening telephone call from Lionel Woolton. Your money is ring-fenced. There will be no redundancies or retirements.”

  The team gasped in surprise and delight.

  “And this is because we saved his sorry skin last night?” said Wheeler. “Fuck me!”