The Scent of Blood

  But this wasn’t a kid’s shoe. It was an adult’s. Black leather. Laces. A quality shoe; the kind that wouldn’t get lost easily or by accident. And it was excessively shiny. I had a horrible feeling that I’d seen that shoe somewhere before.

  Just then, a keeper came banging through the door marked STAFF ONLY, talking angrily into his walkie-talkie.

  “Is Mark with you?” he demanded.

  “No,” Kylie’s voice crackled faintly back. She sounded close to tears. “He was supposed to be checking the monkey’s abscess first thing. His bag’s here but he’s gone and vanished on me.”

  “If you see him, tell him to hurry up. I’ve got a wallaby that needs looking at. I’ve been waiting ages for him.”

  I looked at the shoe again and then at the crocodile. Its stomach seemed tight as a drum; its smile really very self-satisfied. Just how big a breakfast had it eaten?

  Mark: the vet whose name Mr Monkton had forgotten at the staff party. April had been looking for him. Kylie had said he’d vanished. I began to suspect that Graham and I had just found him.

  the writing on the wall

  S.M. VENGEANCE BRINGS FREEDOM!

  The words were daubed in red paint on the far side of the crocodile enclosure. Graham and I hadn’t been able to see them where we’d been standing, but right after we’d called the police and they’d arrived in a storm of blue flashing lights and screaming sirens, Inspector Murray had spotted them straight away.

  April had come hurrying back from the office and practically collapsed on the path when Inspector Murray pointed the writing out to her. Her grief seemed to be one hundred per cent genuine. Or perhaps she was a very good actress.

  Our gruesome discovery meant that Mum had to be called away once again so that Inspector Murray could interview us in a corner of the hotel lobby. She’d been immersed in a vat of Volcanic Mud when they plucked her out of the spa, and by the time the policeman had finished with us it had pretty much hardened. She was cracking up. Literally.

  “You two are to stay right here in the hotel,” she told us as soon as Inspector Murray had left. “Go upstairs and pack your stuff. Don’t you dare set a foot outside – it’s far too dangerous. The second I’ve finished this treatment, we’re leaving. This has been the most stressful weekend of my life.” She headed back to the spa, leaving a trail of small, muddy chunks across the polished wooden floor. The stuff was so thick, I didn’t think it would be coming off any time soon.

  I reckoned we had about an hour before we’d be dragged away from the zoo. “S.M.,” I said to Graham after Mum had disappeared through the doors. “I suppose it all comes down to him. Which knocks the April theory on the head. Unless she’s doing it to mislead the police.”

  “That’s a strong possibility,” said Graham. “Although I can’t understand why she’d want to kill the vet. I just don’t see where he fits in.”

  “Vengeance brings freedom,” I murmured. “Freedom for whom? Not for anyone who knew Sandy. The keepers all looked miserable this morning. Do you reckon the protesters outside might have had something to do with it?”

  “Motive. Means. Opportunity,” observed Graham. “That’s what we have to consider. The protesters would certainly have the motive. But as to the means and the opportunity, I’m not so sure.”

  “This place is open to the public. It’s not like you could tell the difference between a protester and anyone else unless they were carrying a placard.”

  “True. But how could they have killed Mr Monkton? That happened during the staff party – the site was closed to everyone apart from them and the hotel guests.”

  I considered. “It’s a big place. Perhaps someone came in during the day and hid until after closing time?”

  “I can see why one of the protesters might want to kill Mr Monkton. But why attack Charlie – or the vet?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “I suppose it depends on how much they hate this place. Might they have killed Charlie because he was a keeper? And the vet because he worked for the zoo?”

  “I gather that people can get very passionate about such causes,” Graham said slowly. “But you’re forgetting the writing. It seems to me that if the protesters were behind it, they’d daub something different on the walls. FREE THE CAPTIVES or something – a slogan from one of their placards. Besides, the zoo’s been closed to the public for the past two days. Surely no one could have got in without being spotted?”

  “Yes, you’re probably right.” I sighed. “So it all comes back to Sandy Milford. We need to know more about his death – not just what was in the papers. There must be more on the zoo’s computers. Reports or something. It’s no good, Graham. We’ll have to get into their system. Quickly, before Mum finishes in the spa.”

  “I don’t think it will be possible from the computers in our rooms.”

  “No, but we could try the education centre. Zara won’t be there, will she? She must have fed the cockroaches by now. It’s not like there’ll be any kids in today. I bet she’s gone off home again.”

  With one of his blink-and-you-miss-it grins Graham pulled his library card from his pocket. “I think we might be needing this.”

  Graham could open locked doors with his library card, but on this occasion we didn’t need to make use of his special talent. When we crossed the courtyard to the education centre the place was already open.

  The ground floor was deserted, but as soon as we entered we could hear footsteps above us. Climbing the stairs to the office we found Zara, apparently cleaning out the cupboards. She looked up, surprised, when Graham and I came in. “Hello, you two. What are you doing here?”

  If Mum hadn’t been about to drag us off home, I don’t think I’d have said anything. We’d probably have made up some lame excuse and sneaked back later when the place was empty. But we were both desperate to find out more about Sandy Milford, and this was the last chance we were going to get. We had to grab it with both hands.

  “Could we use your computer?” I asked. “We want to look something up.”

  “Erm… I don’t know, really,” she said, taken aback by the request. “Can’t you use the one in your room?”

  “The maids are cleaning in there,” Graham lied, surprising me once again with his capacity for low cunning. “They’re doing mine, too. It won’t take a minute.”

  “I don’t know if I should… It’s probably against the rules.” She chewed her lip anxiously for a second but then her shoulders drooped despairingly and she said, “I don’t suppose it matters now. Everything’s been turned upside down. All these deaths! I wish I’d never come to work here. It’s been horrible from day one.” She shrugged and, gesturing towards her desk, added, “Go on. Help yourselves.”

  Graham switched on her computer and sat down in the swirly-whirly chair before she changed her mind. But it was going to be extremely awkward doing any research while she was in the room. Frantically, I tried to think of a way to get rid of her.

  I glanced at her from beneath my fringe. Took in the lost and miserable expression on her face. She looked out of her depth; like she wanted to go to bed and hide under the duvet for a week.

  “Why don’t you go home?” I said soothingly. “There won’t be any kids visiting today, will there?”

  “No, there won’t.” She sighed. “I don’t know why I bothered coming in at all. Just wanted to show willing, I suppose.” She blew her nose.

  “We won’t be here very long,” I wheedled. “We’ll shut the door behind us when we go.”

  The idea of escape was too tempting for her to resist. “Yeah. Maybe you’re right. I will go home. I probably shouldn’t do this, but… Well, you’re both sensible kids, aren’t you. You will flip the catch on the door when you leave?”

  “Sure.”

  She smiled weakly. “Bye, then.”

  I watched Zara disappear forlornly down the steps. When I heard the door slam shut, I turned my attention to the computer. Pulling up a wooden stool, I looked over Gr
aham’s shoulder while he typed.

  It didn’t take him long to find an incident report that described exactly what had happened on that fateful day.

  We read it in silence. One Monday morning a year before, the zoo vet, Mark Sawyer, had been doing a routine health check of the three tiger cubs.

  “Do you think those are the three big ones that are here now?” I asked. “How long does it take for a tiger to grow up?”

  “I presume it takes about a year for them to reach maturity. That would be the normal rate of growth for a large carnivore, anyway. I would therefore think it’s highly likely that they’re the same animals.”

  We turned back to the report. The cubs’ mother had been lured into a cage in the service area while the vet and Sandy Milford caught her babies. Not liking being handled, the cubs had started hissing and spitting at their captors. The tigress had become enraged and repeatedly thrown herself against the cage door until the rusty hinges gave way. She had sprung at Sandy, felling him with one blow of her paw before biting and killing him instantly. The vet had already pressed his panic button and the zoo’s emergency response team had reacted immediately. Taking the rifle from Mr Monkton’s office, Charlie Bales and his boss had sped to the tiger enclosure. When they had arrived the tigress had been between Mark Sawyer and the way out, crouching, ready to pounce. They had had no choice. As she had sprung forward, Mr Monkton had given the order and Charlie had shot the tigress in the back of the head.

  Exactly where he’d been shot himself.

  Goosebumps prickled down my arms when I read that part. “Is there more?” I asked. “Can you find anything else?”

  Graham scrolled through all kinds of files but he couldn’t find any more information about the accident. He did find something else, though. A purchase order that showed Mr Monkton was paying for a memorial stone for Sandy Milford. A large marble plaque was to be erected near the gates. His full name, Alexander Duncan Milford, was going to be on it, along with the date he died and the words Much missed.

  I read it twice. I could feel an idea dangling almost within reach. “Alexander,” I said aloud, trying to grasp it. “Not Sandy.”

  “No. Well, you’d only put someone’s full name on a memorial stone, wouldn’t you?”

  “So why did the graffiti say S.M.?”

  “I suppose the writer must have been someone who knew him well enough to use his nickname,” said Graham reasonably.

  It made sense, but I had the feeling there was more to it than that. I got off my stool and started to pace the length of the room. “All the people who have died were linked to that accident in some way. There was even that maintenance guy who killed himself. But maybe he didn’t! Maybe he was murdered too…”

  “He could have been. If his negligence caused the tigress to break through and kill Sandy, our murderer could well have decided to target him. But why kill the vet? It most certainly wasn’t his fault.”

  “I don’t know. We’re missing something.” I said nothing for a while, trying to work it out. I sat down again and cupped my head in my hands. “We thought it was to do with avenging Sandy,” I said at last, “but maybe it wasn’t. Maybe the keepers’ alibis fitted together perfectly because they were all true. Maybe Charlie really was sick. I think we’ve been looking at it from the wrong end.”

  “The wrong end?” echoed Graham. “Which end should we have been looking at it from?”

  “Sandy wasn’t the only one to die that day, was he?” I said suddenly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The tigress! Do we know anything about her?”

  Graham shrugged. “If we’re right in assuming that she was the mother of the present three tigers, we know that she was Sumatran. That’s the smallest of the existing sub-species of tiger. Highly endangered, of course.”

  “Sumatran,” I echoed. A thought tickled at the back of my brain. “Did she have a name?”

  We looked back at the report, and there it was. I’d been so interested in the people, I’d skipped over that piece of information. And it was the key to the whole thing. My heart was thumping with excitement as I read aloud, “Sumatran Maharani.” I looked at Graham. “S.M.”

  His mouth dropped open.

  “How could we have been so stupid?” I exclaimed. “She was the one being avenged, not Sandy Milford! It’s been about her all along.”

  “So who did it?” asked Graham.

  “I don’t know. But I reckon those protesters must have something to do with it. An innocent tiger being shot by its jailers? That’s what they’d say, isn’t it? It certainly gives them plenty to be angry about.”

  “So … if it’s to do with the tigress,” said Graham, “we need to know more about her.” He turned back to the computer. “She must be here somewhere. They’re part of a captive breeding scheme, according to the sign on the cage. There must be records about her.”

  It didn’t take long for Graham to find out that Sumatran Maharani had been sent to Farleigh Manor from Grampian Zoo.

  “Grampian?” Something stirred deep in my memory. “Didn’t Kylie say that someone there was killed by an elephant?”

  “Yes,” said Graham, frowning. He scrolled down and then murmured, “Here we are. He was called Dougal McTaggart, the director of Grampian Zoo. Which just so happens to be where Sumatran Maharani was born.”

  “Another accident? Or do you reckon he might have been murdered too? It’s got to be connected with what’s been happening here, hasn’t it?”

  “The chances of it being purely coincidental are very slim,” said Graham as he accessed the Grampian Zoo website. He couldn’t find anything, so he typed “Grampian Zoo Sumatran tigers” into the search engine and came up with an entry that had been posted five years ago. It was about a tiger cub that was being hand-reared by a keeper called Chris Ball.

  “Chris?” I gasped. “Those protesters called the ferret-faced guy Christopher! Could it be him?”

  “Possibly.” Graham looked at me. “From what Kylie said, we know that hand-rearing requires an awful lot of dedication. Regular feeds several times a night. You wouldn’t get a proper night’s sleep for months on end.”

  “You’d have to really love animals to do that, wouldn’t you?” I said. “Can you find a picture of this Chris person?”

  For several nail-biting minutes Graham drew a blank. But eventually he found an old photograph in the archives of a Scottish paper. The hair was dark, not orange, but the smiling face of the keeper holding the tiny cub was unmistakeable. Chris Ball wasn’t the ferret-featured man from the gates.

  It was Zara.

  vengeance brings freedom!

  “Christine, not Christopher,” I said, staring at the computer. “Wow.”

  In front of us Zara’s face grinned happily from the screen.

  Then, behind us, the real-life version came back through the door – and she was neither grinning nor happy. She hadn’t left the building at all. She’d listened to our entire conversation. Her depressed, ditzy manner had completely vanished. Her features were hard. Determined. And she was carrying a gun.

  “How very reckless of you,” she said grimly, pointing the rifle in our direction. “You seem to have worked it all out.”

  “Revenge,” I told her flatly. “Starting with Dougal McTaggart.” I stared at her for a moment and then said angrily, “It’s an awful lot of people to kill for one tiger.”

  “You don’t understand,” she said, glaring at me with hate-filled eyes. “No one does. She’s dead because those stupid people let her down. I loved Maharani. She was mine. Mine!” Zara jabbed the butt of her rifle at the computer screen. It smashed to the floor and died with an eerie electronic whine. “I looked after her from the day she was born. She was so weak, so fragile. The vet said she wouldn’t survive. He wanted to put her down. I wouldn’t let him. Night after night I sat up with her, willing her to live. And she did. For me. She was so special. So precious! But Dougal just treated her like any other animal. W
hen she was old enough he sent her off for breeding. I begged him not to, but he insisted. He persuaded Mr Monkton to take her. I pleaded for a transfer so I could go with her. I knew she’d be miserable without me. But he wouldn’t listen. And then they shot her.”

  “So you killed Dougal McTaggart?”

  “Yes. It was easy enough to arrange an accident. That elephant used to be in a circus, so she was very good at following orders. I only had to say the word. Alisha stepped back, and that was it.”

  “And then what?” I demanded. “You tried to get a job here?”

  “Yes. It took a while: there weren’t any vacancies for keepers. So when I saw a post advertised in the education centre, I changed my name, faked a CV and got the job. Then I plotted my revenge.”

  “Archie Henshaw? Was he your second victim?” asked Graham.

  “Archie? Ah yes, him. Did he jump or was he pushed?” Her lips curled into a malicious smile. “Pushed.”

  “But why?”

  “He didn’t do his job properly. If his workmanship had been better, Maharani would never have broken through.”

  “Is that how you killed Mark Sawyer, too?” I demanded. “Pushed him into the enclosure?”

  “It wasn’t difficult. I told him there was an emergency with the crocodile. A blow to the head first thing this morning and he toppled straight over the wall. Easy. Served him right. If he hadn’t wanted to look at Maharani’s cubs in the first place, she would still be alive.”

  “And you shot Charlie,” I said.

  “Naturally.” Zara smiled again. “With the same gun he used on Maharani. I’d say that was poetic justice, wouldn’t you? They keep it in Mr Monkton’s office. In a locked cabinet, of course, but I took the key from him before I killed him.”

  “But that’s not right.” Graham shook his head indignantly. “You might have committed all those other murders, but you couldn’t have killed Mr Monkton. We saw you! You were in that teddy-bear suit being chased around all evening.”