The Scent of Blood (5 page)

The staff party consisted of a big, sit-down meal followed by a bit of dancing. By the time we’d finally finished our pudding, their first course had arrived and Graham and I were kind of trapped in our corner. We couldn’t get out without having to squeeze between the tightly packed tables, so we stayed put. They started serving the meal just before eight o’clock and the keepers tucked into their first course with relish. But at about ten past eight Charlie Bales suddenly got up and rushed to the gents’, where we heard him being violently sick.

I was about to comment on it to Graham when I noticed Mr Monkton answering his mobile phone. He was sitting at the far end of the room, so I couldn’t hear his conversation, but his face suddenly clouded with confusion. He said something to April and then left.

The second course arrived and Charlie Bales hadn’t returned. Graham went off to the loo, and when he came back he said Charlie was still being sick.

When Kylie had finished her food, she leant over to Pete and said, “I’d better go and feed Basil. He’ll be hungry by now.”

“I’ll come too,” he volunteered, and they both slipped outside.

“Charlie had better watch out,” the bearded Mike Hobson said with a broad wink to his wife, and there was a smattering of laughter from the other keepers. “Looks like he’s got competition for Kylie’s affections.”

Outside, things seemed to be going from bad to worse for Zara, who was now being chased in large circles around the lawn by a pack of screaming infants. I watched for a bit, wondering if we should do anything, when Mike decided to nip out to check on his kids.

Everyone but Charlie was back at the table when the puddings arrived, and then the waiters brought coffee. At about 9.15 p.m. Charlie finally emerged from the gents’ and slumped onto a chair next to Kylie.

“You all right?” she asked.

“Been better. Must have been something I ate.”

“Shall I take you home?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “But we’d better listen to Monkton’s speech first. You know what he’s like. He’ll be in a right huff if we walk out before he’s done his famous last words.”

When the clock struck the half hour Jerry from maintenance switched on the microphone at the top table, which let out a squealing whine. Everyone turned to the front, ready to hear Mr Monkton’s speech.

But Mr Monkton was nowhere to be seen.

April looked flustered. “He’s not answering his phone,” she hissed at Jerry, but her words were caught by the mike and broadcast across the ballroom. “He said someone told him there’s a problem with the bears. I’ll go and see what’s keeping him.”

The ballroom fell silent for a moment, then there was an excited buzz of chatter at the unexpected drama.

Something awful had happened. I was one hundred per cent certain of it. I looked at Graham and he nodded. We broke cover, pushed our way between the tables and headed for the door.

So we were the first ones to see April stagger back across the grass a few minutes later, her face drained of all colour, unable to speak.

We were the first ones to sprint in the direction in which she was pointing. Towards the Frozone. The polar-bear pit. Where we found Mr Monkton. Or what was left of him.

And we were the first ones to read the words that had been chalked on the path: S.M.
WILL BE AVENGED
!

The
police talked to us right after they’d finished taking a statement from April, who was weeping uncontrollably. We were horribly shaken up too: the polar-bear pit hadn’t been a pretty sight. I mean, Graham and I had seen plenty of dead bodies before, but nothing quite as gruesome as that.

But if we were upset, Mum was almost beside herself. After the rigours of all that intense relaxation, she’d fallen fast asleep. She’d had no idea we’d been at the party until the police woke her up to be the Responsible Adult at our interview. She was horrified about us getting involved in yet another murder investigation.

Graham and I knew how to stick to the facts. We didn’t offer a single opinion. We’d learnt from experience that policemen aren’t keen on hearing unproven theories from a pair of kids. Not that we really had any theories at that point – there was way too much we didn’t know.

“I’ll probably need to talk to you again,” said Inspector Murray, the policeman, once we’d finished. “You’re staying here in the zoo hotel, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” said Mum sadly. “We’re supposed to be having a nice, relaxing weekend break. Some hope.”

“Good,” he said briefly, ignoring her tone. “I’ll be in touch again in the morning.”

As soon as the inspector left, Graham and I were ordered to our rooms and given strict instructions to go straight to sleep and not stir until the morning. Mum went to bed and fell into such a deep slumber that I could hear her snoring from across the corridor. It was pretty late by then, but I couldn’t sit still – my mind was buzzing with everything we’d seen and heard that day. Graham must have been the same, because about five minutes after Mum crashed out there was a faint tap on my door and he was there, his eyes shining with excitement. It turned out that what I’d taken to be a flat-screen TV in the corner of my room was actually a computer. All the rooms had one, and Graham had just discovered that the hotel gave free Internet access. Which meant we could start trawling for information straight away.

We began with Sandy Milford, typing his name into the search engine, but we didn’t learn much more than we’d already overheard. Sandy – the father of two children – had been killed a year ago when a tigress broke through her cage door. Charlie Bales had been part of the emergency response team and had rushed to his aid. He was quoted as saying tearfully, “I tried to save him. But I was too late.”

The accounts that had appeared in the press were very sad, but not exactly news as far as we were concerned.

Then I thought of looking up Archie Henshaw and things suddenly got much more interesting.

The first thing we found was his obituary. Archie had jumped off a bridge the week before. It turned out that he had worked in the zoo’s maintenance department.

“So there
was
an inquiry into Sandy Milford’s death,” said Graham, pointing at the screen. “I was right. Look – it says that it reached its conclusion a week ago. The judge found Archie Henshaw to be negligent.” He read aloud,
“Zoo director Anthony Monkton produced documentary evidence in the form of a series of memos detailing work to be done. Archie Henshaw – for reasons he was unable to explain satisfactorily – ignored the direct instructions of his employer. He was consequently relieved of his post.”

I whistled through my teeth. “So he got sacked, and then he killed himself? Poor man!”

We sat looking at the screen in silence for a few moments, digesting this new information. And then I said, “I don’t get why Kylie blames Mr Monkton for the accident if it was Archie’s fault.”

“It does seem a little illogical,” Graham agreed.

There was another pause. As we sat there, the vision of a grinning tiger suddenly flashed through my mind. Bright orange. Synthetic fur. Plastic teeth. I was tired by then – overtired, I thought – I must be going slightly bonkers. But then I realized the significance of the tiger suit.

“You can fake memos,” I said suddenly. “Someone did it to Zara this morning!”

Graham stared at me. “You think Mr Monkton might have provided forged evidence to the court?”

“It’s possible, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so. But it would be terribly unethical.” Graham looked outraged.

“What if he made up all that documentary stuff?” I asked.

“He might have done. But why would he neglect the fabric of the buildings?” Graham was perplexed. “Even if he deceived the judge to save his own reputation, surely a responsible zoo owner wouldn’t knowingly put his staff in danger in the first place?”

“Come on, Graham, you saw him in action today!” I said. “He was more interested in alternative therapies than the animals, let alone the people who worked for him. He didn’t even remember who Sandy was! And the whole of the zoo is run down. I bet that’s why the keepers blamed him for Sandy’s death.” I was pacing now, up and down the room, trying to work things out. “OK, so our murderer’s got to be someone who knew Sandy. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” Graham nodded.

“So that rules out anyone who joined the zoo in the past year.”

“And the office staff,” added Graham. “That girl – Angie – she didn’t understand the meaning of that graffiti, did she? Neither did the other one.”

“No… But that’s a bit odd, because didn’t Kylie say she was getting a lift home with Angie? You’d think if they were that friendly she’d know about Kylie’s brother. She might have been pretending she didn’t. Still, it was more likely to have been one of the keepers. Which one, though? It can’t have been Charlie, can it?”

Graham shook his head firmly and shuddered. “No – he was far too unwell.”

“But Kylie and Pete left to feed Basil, so they could have done it. Mike, too – he went out to check on his kids.” A thought suddenly occurred to me. “Of course it doesn’t
have
to have been one of the keepers. Jerry put the microphone up just after nine, but he wasn’t in the room before then, was he? And he would have worked with Archie. He must have been furious that Archie got blamed for the accident if it wasn’t really his fault. And then with Archie killing himself… That would give him a really good motive.”

“True,” said Graham.

“I don’t think April could have done it, though,” I decided. “She was so upset.”

“She did appear to be terribly distressed,” agreed Graham.

The thought flashed through my head that there was something strange about April, but I still couldn’t pin down what it was. “She was his secretary,” I said slowly. “She must have done all his typing. So if he had forged that evidence, she’d have known, wouldn’t she? And yet she didn’t say anything. So she’s got to have been on his side.” I breathed out and sat back down in a leather armchair, suddenly exhausted. “Zara said the keepers are a really close-knit group, but that probably applies to the other departments too. As far as I can see, pretty much everyone in the zoo had a motive for wanting him dead.”

“Yet Mr Monkton was only out of the room for half an hour,” said Graham reasonably. “Most of the staff were present in the ballroom for the entire time – we saw them ourselves. It should be a relatively straightforward matter for the police to work out who had the opportunity to commit the crime.”

But sadly it turned out not to be quite as simple as Graham had thought. When Inspector Murray arrived at the hotel the following morning, we told him which keepers had left the ballroom. But he informed us that none of them had gone anywhere near the Frozone. Kylie and Pete had fed Basil – Jerry had seen them and so had the guy from the ticket office, Ron Baker. Mike had gone to check on his kids, but Angie had done the same, so they could vouch for each other.

Their alibis slotted together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Neat. Tight. A perfect fit. Almost as if they’d been planned.

Farleigh
Manor Zoo was closed to the public the day after Mr Monkton’s murder: firstly so that the police could search the grounds, and secondly as a mark of respect. But the animals still needed feeding and cleaning out, so the keepers turned up as usual. Graham and I could hear the protesters yelling at them as they arrived for work. The ferret-faced Christopher’s Scottish accent rose above the others as he called out, “Jailer!” and “Torturer!”

We weren’t due to meet Mike Hobson for our Behind the Scenes tour of the African Savannah until 11 a.m. Mum and Becca were determined to achieve as much Serious Relaxation as they could possibly squeeze in, so after breakfast Graham and I wandered off into the grounds for a spot of investigating. The trouble was that with no Great British Public milling about, we stuck out like sore thumbs and our opportunities for eavesdropping were severely limited. Groups of staff who had clumped together for a good gossip melted away like snow in spring when they saw us coming. Very frustrating. The only person who seemed even remotely pleased to see us was Zara, who’d come in to feed the education centre’s animals.

“Oh – hello, you two,” she said with a faint smile. She sounded completely and utterly dejected. “I thought you’d have gone home by now.”

“No,” replied Graham. “We’re staying the weekend.”

“So you were here last night?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Crikey!” Zara rolled her eyes. “Those kids! Just as well I’m a fast runner. It was a complete nightmare. I could have been killed!”

As soon as the words were out of her mouth Zara flushed scarlet. “Whoops! I shouldn’t have said that. I forgot about Mr Monkton for a second. Bad taste. Sorry.”

“Speaking of bad taste,” I said, changing the subject, “Do you think it could have been Charlie Bales who put that suit in your office?”

Zara looked at me, eyebrows raised in sudden realization. “Yes! It could have been, couldn’t it? Charlie’s got a really weird sense of humour. He’s forever playing jokes on people. One time he made me sniff one of those bottles of stuff he keeps for the polar bears. I nearly passed out.”

“He did that to us, too,” I said.

“Did he? That’s the kind of thing he finds funny. It’s sick, really. Yes, I bet it
was
him.” There was a pause and then she said, “I’ve got to feed the cockroaches and things. Then I might as well be off home, I suppose. I was meant to be doing a session for the St Mary’s Sunday School outing but everything’s been cancelled. Oh, well. At least I don’t have to face any more kids today.” She smiled weakly and went on her way, leaving me and Graham with plenty to talk about. We meandered towards the proboscis monkeys’ enclosure, finally coming to rest on a bench that was half hidden by a clump of bamboo. Kylie was in the kitchen, chopping fruit again. We tucked ourselves into the vegetation so that she wouldn’t be able to see us but we would still be able to hear if anything interesting happened.

“Charlie Bales,” I said softly. “I think we ought to keep an eye on him.”