The Scent Of Blood Part 5

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 a 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 antic.i.p.ation a 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 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 pa.s.sed 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 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 pa.s.s to the next of kin."

"Next of kin?"

"The wife or children a 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 a when she thought no one was around a 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 a 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 salt.w.a.ter 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.

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 a 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 a 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 a 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 pa.s.sionate 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 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 a 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 c.o.c.kroaches 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. "h.e.l.lo, 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 Graham'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 b.u.t.ton 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.

Gooseb.u.mps p.r.i.c.kled 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?"