We stared at each other, aghast, and for a few seconds we were completely silent. Which was just as well, because at precisely that moment Charlie Bales himself decided to pop in for tea and biscuits with Kylie.
“There is justice in the world after all,” he told her, not bothering to lower his voice as he pushed open the door to the kitchen. “Put the kettle on, love, and crack open the chocolate biscuits. Let’s celebrate. Our glorious leader has finally got what he deserved.”
“Shh!” Kylie hissed urgently. “What if someone hears you? You shouldn’t say stuff like that!”
“Come on, Kylie, you didn’t like him any more than I did. Think of what he did to Sandy! Archie, too, for that matter. He got what was coming to him.”
“Maybe,” Kylie conceded. “But you shouldn’t say it. Not now. Keep your mouth shut. The police…”
Charlie interrupted her with a scornful grunt. “The police are useless around here. They couldn’t even track down a stolen bike, I reckon. Trust me, Kylie, they’ll never work it out.”
“They were here in the kitchen this morning, asking about that old tiger suit.”
Charlie stiffened. “Did you tell them anything?”
“Of course not. But someone will. You should never have taken it out of that bin.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Charlie sniffed dismissively. “It was just a joke. It doesn’t mean anything.”
Kylie chopped away in silence for a few moments. Then she said, “That policeman said he was stabbed. Lots of times.” Her voice rose higher.
Beside me, Graham gave a sharp intake of breath. My mouth fell open.
“That’s what they told me, too,” said Charlie casually.
“Inspector Murray said that some of the wounds were really deep. But others just glanced off his ribs.” Kylie looked up at him miserably. “Who killed him, Charlie?”
Charlie laughed. “We’ll probably never find out who struck the fatal blow. Pity, really. I’d like to shake the killer by the hand.” His words sent a shiver down my spine. Draining the dregs from his mug, Charlie kissed Kylie goodbye and walked away.
Between the bamboo leaves, Graham and I watched him swagger jauntily down the path.
For someone who had spent the previous evening heaving his guts up, he looked surprisingly perky.
the african savannah
Graham checked his watch. It was almost time to meet Mike Hobson. Once Charlie was out of sight we freed ourselves from the bamboo and headed through the Frozone towards the African Savannah. According to our schedule we’d be meeting the giraffes, mucking out the zebras and feeding the baby elephants.
“What did Kylie say yesterday?” I asked Graham nervously. “Isn’t the elephant the most dangerous zoo animal of them all?”
“That’s what she said,” he replied, his voice wobbling just a little. “But surely their calves shouldn’t prove too much of a threat?”
We stopped and looked at each other uncertainly.
“I suppose there’s only one way to find out.” I shrugged, then changed the subject. “Charlie seems to have recovered from his illness very quickly, doesn’t he?” I said.
“Yes, he does. But I believe that would be consistent with mild food poisoning.”
“Mmm… I’m not so sure. I reckon he might have been faking.”
Graham frowned, puzzled. “I can’t see how he’d have managed it. We both heard him, didn’t we?”
We’d reached the penguin pool by now, and at precisely that moment Charlie came marching breezily up the path, whistling and swinging a bucket of sardines in each hand. He acknowledged us with a brisk nod as he let himself into the enclosure. An eager rockhopper waddled towards him and he threw it a small fish. There was no escaping it: Charlie looked healthy. Robustly healthy. Suspiciously healthy.
An idea began to take shape as we walked on. As soon as we were out of earshot I said urgently, “No one went to check on him last night, did they? And we didn’t actually see him. We just heard him being sick, that was all.”
“What do you mean?”
“Pop singers mime along to their songs sometimes, don’t they?”
“True.” Graham nodded solemnly. Last Christmas we’d been tricked by someone doing just that.
“Could Charlie have been using a recording?” I asked. “He might have gone into the toilet, switched on the player, rung Mr Monkton on his mobile to get him to go to the bear pit, then climbed out of the window. He could easily have stabbed Mr Monkton, then got back in without anyone knowing.”
“It’s technically possible for him to have broadcast the sound of vomiting,” said Graham slowly. “There are all kinds of ways he could have done that. But there was the smell, too. It was vile when I visited the gents’. It’s a very distinctive aroma.”
“Yeah.” I deflated instantly. “I don’t see how you could fake that.” We trudged on through the Frozone, past the little kitchen where Charlie had almost made me keel over the day before. In my head a great big light bulb suddenly lit up. “Those bottles!” Stopping dead, I stabbed a finger at Graham’s chest. “Putrescine! Cadaverine! Suppose Charlie’s got one in there that smells like puke?”
“What a dreadful thought!” Graham exclaimed.
“He could have, though, couldn’t he?”
“Theoretically, yes. I suppose you could manufacture that kind of odour.”
We both looked at the closed kitchen door.
“You’re not suggesting we find out?” asked Graham weakly.
My legs felt wobbly at the very thought. I mean, I’d nearly passed out the day before. I wasn’t exactly keen to repeat the experience. I took a deep breath. “Look, Graham,” I said, summoning up my courage. “Charlie definitely did that thing with the tiger suit – he more or less admitted it back there. We know he hated Mr Monkton. He’s got to be the killer. But if we’re going to tell the police, we need proof. We’ve got to know if one of those bottles contains the scent of sick. We’re going to have to sniff them.”
Graham gulped and looked green about the edges and I felt exactly the same. We’d be late to meet Mike Hobson, but it felt like we had no choice.
Graham checked his watch. “It will take Charlie about ten more minutes to feed the penguins. We’d better be quick.”
Seizing our opportunity, I turned the handle and opened the door, and together we sneaked into Charlie’s kitchen.
A whole row of bottles lurked nastily on the top shelf. I took down the first and, holding it at arm’s length, gingerly lifted the stopper a fraction. The ghastly aroma of long-dead fish wafted out. Hastily pushing the stopper back in, I replaced it on the shelf.
“OK,” Graham croaked courageously, “I suppose it’s my turn.”
He took down the second bottle and raised the stopper no more than a millimetre. Weirdly, the smell of strong coffee filled the room.
“Lucky you,” I grumbled, removing the glass stopper from the third. It was full of cheap aftershave. The next one stank of poo. Then it was wee. We worked our way along the entire shelf, feeling steadily more ill with each disgusting aroma. When Graham pulled the stopper from the very last bottle, the unmistakable scent of sick filled the room. Queasily triumphant, I looked at Graham. “Bingo! This is all the proof we need. We’d better find Inspector Murray.”
Graham opened his mouth to reply. But before he’d managed to get a single word out, a gunshot rang across the grounds. Monkeys screamed in alarm. Tigers roared. Gulls took to the skies, shrieking.
And Charlie Bales fell face down into the penguin pool, stone dead.
teamwork
S.M. WILL BE AVENGED!
It was scrawled on the path beside the pool where Charlie Bales lay as dead as the fish he’d been throwing to the penguins. I dimly registered something odd about the choice of words, but in my shocked state I couldn’t figure out what it was.
Inspector Murray arrived on the scene about two seconds after us. He took one look at the dead keeper and then ordered Graham
and me to wait for him in the hotel. We sat in a dark corner of the lobby, muttering quietly to each other.
“Charlie’s death has got to be connected with Mr Monkton’s, hasn’t it?” I said.
“Undoubtedly,” agreed Graham.
“OK… Mr Monkton. Let’s start with him. Inspector Murray didn’t tell us about those stab wounds,” I said resentfully.
“Perhaps he thought it was an unsuitable subject to discuss with minors,” replied Graham.
“It sounds weird, though,” I puzzled. “Some were really deep. You’d need to be pretty wound up to do that, wouldn’t you? But others just glanced off his ribs. How could that happen? You’d have to have your eyes shut. Or not be trying hard enough.” Another possibility suddenly hit me like a sledgehammer.
Different wounds.
Different blows.
Different hands holding the knife.
“Graham,” I whispered, my eyes practically popping out of my head. “Suppose they all did it?”
“Who? What do you mean?”
“Well, we agreed that everyone had a motive even if they didn’t have the opportunity, didn’t we?” I said. “I reckon this is about justice. It’s Payback Time for Sandy’s death. And Archie’s. Just like Charlie said. Mr Monkton was cleared of blame at the inquiry, so they all decided to kill him. Maybe everyone who left the room that night was involved: Charlie, Kylie, Pete, Mike, Angie, Ron. Jerry, too. That’s why their alibis backed each other up – they’d planned it beforehand. One blow each. No one would know who struck the fatal wound. That’s why Kylie asked who killed him and Charlie said, ‘We’ll probably never find out.’ And if the original plan had worked, the bears would have eaten Mr Monkton and the police wouldn’t have known he’d even been stabbed. It would have looked like an accident – like he’d fallen in or something.”
“It sounds perfectly plausible,” said Graham. “But where does Charlie’s murder fit into this highly orchestrated scheme? Who killed him?”
I thought about Charlie. Loud. Breezy. Over-confident. “Mike said something about Pete being competition for Charlie, didn’t he? Do you think Pete’s in love with Kylie?”
“In the USA, love triangles are number seven on the list of most common reasons for murder,” Graham informed me.
“Plus, Charlie couldn’t keep quiet. Kylie told him to shut up but he wouldn’t. He was really full of himself. He was putting everyone in danger.”
“But why write those words on the path?”
“It must have been a diversion. As soon as Inspector Murray gets here, we’ll tell him.”
Mum had to be pulled out of a Seaweed Wrap treatment to attend our interview. She wasn’t very happy about having to sit there plastered in green gunk wearing nothing but a dressing gown. We kept everything brief and to the point, but if the policeman was impressed by our theory, he didn’t show it. He listened carefully and nodded thoughtfully before telling us, “I hate to disappoint you, but the keepers’ alibis are absolutely watertight. Of course we’ll check and double-check, that’s routine police procedure. But I’m sure that none of them was involved.”
When he’d finished with us, Mum disappeared back into the spa and the policeman went in search of keepers to interview. We were allowed to spend the rest of the day doing what we were scheduled to do with Mike Hobson, but he wasn’t exactly welcoming. In virtual silence we fed the baby elephants – who turned out to be perfectly harmless and very cute. Then we visited the giraffes, who seemed to lower their heads out of the sky to take their bananas. Mucking out the zebras was hard work, so we didn’t really have time to think or talk.
We finished at 4.30 p.m. again and went back to the hotel for another scented bath. The Ballroom Café was shut, seeing as the zoo hadn’t been open to the public all day, so we had to chew our way though a couscous, halloumi and spinach salad in the hotel restaurant with Mum and Becca. It wasn’t exactly filling. Then Mum insisted we sit down together in her room to watch a jolly musical on TV that she promised would “take our mind off things”. It didn’t work. We were all tense and preoccupied, and when we eventually crashed out, I couldn’t get off to sleep.
I dozed fitfully and tossed and turned for ages. When I finally dropped off, I had a horrible dream about being on a rollercoaster that was out of control. I was hurtling into oblivion when I suddenly snapped wide awake.
And then I knew what was odd about the writing on the path.
S.M. WILL BE AVENGED!
Will be. Future tense. As if whoever was responsible for the killings hadn’t finished yet.
crocodile tears
On our last morning, Graham and I were supposed to be Behind the Scenes in the Australian Outback. At the appointed time we set off through the almost deserted zoo.
It was a cold morning and a sharp wind cut across the grounds.
I could see at once that the keepers were worried and upset. No one was gossiping or chatting this time – they just swept cages and fed animals in grim, tight-lipped silence. You could almost taste fear hanging in the air. There was an atmosphere of anticipation – as if something even more dreadful was going to happen.
Charlie’s death had changed everything. There’d been a kind of excitement following Mr Monkton’s murder – a certain level of satisfaction. OK, so the police didn’t think the keepers were involved, but he hadn’t been a popular man. No one on the staff had seemed bothered about him being killed.
Except one.
We were walking through the African Savannah, where Mike Hobson was mucking out the hippos, when we saw April coming towards us, heels clicking purposefully on the tarmac. She stopped, called Mike over and asked him briskly, “Have you seen Mark?”
Mike pulled his shoulders back as if he was standing to attention before replying politely, “No, I’m afraid not. Not this morning. Sorry, ma’am.”
She gave a small sigh of irritation and nodded briefly at Mike, who then went back to work as if he’d been dismissed by his commanding officer. She walked on, snapping a curt “Good morning” at us as she passed by.
She was the walking embodiment of an efficient, respected boss. Which was odd, considering she was Mr Monkton’s secretary. Interesting, I thought. Very interesting.
“April,” I said to Graham, “was the only person who cried about Mr Monkton.”
“Is that significant?” he asked.
“Maybe.” I remembered her face when she’d come running back from the Frozone. She’d looked terrible. Her shock and distress had seemed genuine. But could she have been acting? “There’s something funny about her,” I said. I stopped and looked back towards the house – a vast stately home with acres and acres of land. It must be worth a fortune.
“What will happen to it all?” I wondered aloud. “Who will inherit this lot?”
Graham frowned. “An estate would normally pass to the next of kin.”
“Next of kin?”
“The wife or children – or, failing that, the nearest surviving relative. It said in the information I downloaded that Mr Monkton’s brother was killed in a car accident some years ago. It will probably go to a nephew or niece,” said Graham. “Seeing as he never married.”
“As far as we know,” I said.
“What are you suggesting?” asked Graham, surprised.
“April…” I said slowly as I finally realized what had been odd about her manner. “When we first saw her with Mr Monkton she was formal and polite, wasn’t she? Like any secretary would be with their boss. She called him ‘sir’, and she was like that at the party, too, once the staff began to arrive. But in the entrance hall – when she thought no one was around – she called him ‘dear’, do you remember? She straightened his tie. And she picked fluff off his jacket. That’s the kind of thing you only do if you’re close to someone.” I grabbed Graham by the arm. “Suppose she was married to him? She’d inherit the lot!”
“Surely people would know if they’d been married. No one’s said anything about it.”
>
“They might have done it in secret.”
“Why would they have done that?” asked Graham.
“He was really rich!” I exclaimed, setting off once more. “And you know what families can be like about money. I bet his relatives would have objected if they’d known he was planning to marry his secretary. Especially with him being a bit eccentric. They’d have called her a gold-digger or something.”
Graham glanced at me with rising excitement. “As you know, money and property are number five on the motives for murder list.”
“So it’s possible that April could have persuaded him to marry her and then killed him off? The whole ‘S.M.’ thing could be a diversion?”
Graham nodded eagerly. “It’s certainly plausible. But would she have had time to stab him? She wasn’t gone very long. And where does Charlie Bales fit in?”
I thought some more. “OK… Here’s what I think could have happened,” I said at last. “We were right about Charlie. He did fake the sickness and sneak out to stab Mr Monkton. April could have been paying him to do it. But then he got too pushy. Perhaps he started threatening to blackmail her or something – that’s just the kind of thing he’d have been likely to do, isn’t it? He’d probably have thought it was all a big joke. So she had to get rid of him.”
By then we’d reached the Australian Outback. We’d arrived five minutes early for our session, so we stopped to draw breath, leaning on a fence overlooking the enclosure where an enormous saltwater crocodile lay basking under a sun-lamp.
“Sadly, we don’t have a single shred of evidence. Do you think we ought to mention it to the police anyway?” asked Graham.
I didn’t answer. Because it was then that I noticed the shoe wedged between the rocks to one side of the crocodile. My stomach turned over.
Kids lose shoes all the time. They’re forever pulling them off and throwing them out of their pushchairs before their parents notice. It’s not remotely unusual to see a toddler’s sandal or trainer all on its own.
The Scent of Blood Page 5