Captivity (First 8 Chapters) (2) This is an automatically generated response. Please do not reply. The roots, branches, twigs, shoots and leaves of Roz’s family tree spread now over seven continents, which was two more than the Olympics. The tern had come in a green shoebox, exhausted. It stayed one night in the same shoebox, ate nothing, and flew off the next day. It had not been given a name. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of shoe boxes containing birds in various states of mangle-hood had come Roz’s way through the years, some had arrived ringed. About half of them had their necks wrung almost as they arrived, almost as soon as the rescuer had made it out through the garden gate; Roz had no time for a hopeless case. About half of those who made it past her grim bird-reaping fingers were released the same day. Only about half of those who stayed at least one night made it back into the wild, even if they didn’t last long once the got there. Most of the rest just died. Birds are like that: they just die. You are what you eat, and by that there was scarcely a cat in Brentwood who was not some portion shoebox bird. One or two refused to die or fly, and stayed. The soul extant member of this select was Pica, the magpie who lorded over the cottage, and who said ‘bugger’ and ‘arse’ which Roz assumed must be the most common exclamations in and around the house. He also made the noise of a percolator. The nameless Arctic tern had suddenly become an important bird in the life of Roz. * * * * * From: Miranda Littel Date: Mon, 12 May 2009 05:31:50 +1000 To: Miles CC: Francis Littel Subject: Re: franks wild year DADDY frank was last heard off in france and he left tommies place in niece a week ago on his way to holland you can imaguine what for knowng your imagination HA! HA! HA!!! his plan is to come for you and work as arrainged he is afterall working his way round the world so far he has worked through viet nam laoas thialand India turkey morrocco and canns via niece and so will no doubt be working a on a cannal as i write or a windmill do you think it is drugs or skinny little girls???? my feeling is probably both because frank isn’t one to do things by halfs is he??? hes a Gordon afterall, even if he is a Littel one but he is sensible and dosnt get in trouble if he cant avoid it. ha ha ha do they have beautiful grils in amstredam or are they all big fat cheese eaters??? i suppose they do they have them evertywhere. LOL so it will be a case of all hand on the pumps and he will come out of the blue someday soon and if you can make him work then god bless no one else can do a thing with him please tell me when his amongst you because I havent herd his voice for quiet a while. big kiss for the step-monster and we are always thinking about you here in tassy love always for you daddy and a big kiss for you too MIRA Miranda was almost fifty! The dry sticks of the Gordon family tree were somewhat slightly less expansive than the verdant foliage of Roz’s, though at least Sir Miles’ family were human, mostly. He had a wastrel son in the south of France and slightly dotty daughter in Tasmania. Both bore the cartoon Gordon facial features: a big nose, big eyes, thick lips, bushy eyebrows and thick curly black hair. Behind the faces that could have sprung from nowhere but his loins there lurked two brain-like arrangements which Sir Miles assumed had been donated by their respective mothers, neither of whom had much to spare, because they were certainly nothing to do with him: his looks, their brains. * * * * * Chatham solved a certain number of crimes. Policemen did. Crimes were solved by DNA, by tip-offs, by accident, and by the stupidity of the perpetrators. Chatham was unaware of a single crime, anywhere, which had been solved by a profiler – who didn’t even exist – by a psychic, or by Holmsean deduction. Detectives collected ‘clues’: fingerprints, DNA, fibres, footprints, tyre-tracks, dog-hair. Then they fed what they could into databases. They talked to people and more or less asked them if they knew who had done it and “can you account for your movements…” That was it. Everything else was TV. When a burglar took anything, he left something behind: hair, spit, piss, snot and sweaty, oily traces of lines on their skin. If he been caught red-handed sometime in the past, then on file somewhere would be records of this spoor. Apprehension was thenceforth a matter of luck, time and judicious consultation of telephone directories, DWP records, “When did you last see your father?” and “Does he still drink down The Lion?” It was eight in the morning, Thursday. That he was driving a dog to a zoo to tell a knight that a vet had gone of the road and to ask after a next of kin was unusual in its specifics but gloriously typical in its drear. There were no notes cobbled together from cut out letters from HEAT magazine; there were no suspicious transactions; no ghost dogs; no bodies of headless Armenians washed ashore in secluded coves; no gangs with red hands. No surprises. Except how hard it was to get into a zoo. The visitors’ entrance was locked. There was no buzzer or entry-phone. The main gate to the avenue leading to Brentwood House seemed to have been welded shut. There were plenty of signs of life beyond the gates, but none of it human. He called the station, got Brentwood’s number and listened to an answering machine. Finally, he just blew the horn. Poppy howled merrily along. On her porch, supping her porridge, Bianca listened to the horn. Bianca was not a gatekeeper, she was a gorilla keeper. She had lobbied hard for his chalet, secluded from the other staff, but had grown sick and tired of the gate in the first week. “Why do you just install a bloody buzzer?” she furiously demand of Sir Miles at the end of an otherwise wholly disagreeable conversation. “People would be buzzing all day long,” said Sir Miles, “pain in the bloody arse,” which made no sense at all, because ‘all day long’ the gate was open. It was only early in the morning or late in the evening that Bianca was subject to shouting, handclapping, whistles and horns. Mostly, she ignored it. Bianca supped more porridge. Chatham peeped and parped to no avail, and finally turned the siren on. Bianca wracked her brain to the occluding drone. She could think of nothing interesting it might mean. If someone had called an ambulance, they would have arranged for the gate to be opened. She eyed the single green LED on her walkie-talkie. If something was on fire, she would smell it. If something had escaped, it would be a pain in the arse. Why should she open the gate to give herself a pain in the arse? It would not be a Gorilla that had escaped, it would be a stupid dog or cat. For Bianca, the police were pigs, scum, filth and corrupt and conniving characters from her youth in Romania, but if she didn’t open the gate, Banrock probably would and whatever the siren might mean, it wouldn’t or couldn’t be as bad a Banrock whine, whine, whining like one of his whine, whine, whining wolves for the next 274 years. All around her chalet, Banrock’s wolves set up a howling. Bianca put down her bowl. She clipped his keys and her walkie-talkie onto her belt, picked up her coffee mug and strolled towards the gate. “Hoop hoop hoop hip hip hip hoop hoooOOO ooOOOOooo OOOooo hip OOoooooo OoOOooo,” she sang along with the wolves and the siren, if singing it be. * * * * * “Bruce Chatham, West Kent CID. Do you happen to know this dog, miss?” The gate swung open and Poppy fussed over Bianca, all tongue and tail. Bianca liked Poppy. “Of course I do. Poppy is my very good friend. Where’s George?” “George…” Chatham pulled a face that he hoped was grimly neutral, “Mr Amis has met with a misfortune on the road. Do you know where I can find Sir Miles?” Bianca swung the gate fully open and sent it crashing onto its restraint. Chatham observed a woman in the peak of physical condition, make-up free and solid as a rock beneath her baggy sweatshirt and cargo pants. She was one of the smallest people Chatham had seen for quite some time, a fairy with blonde spiky hair and a nose like a boxer quite late in his career. “Just follow the road. It’ll drive you straight to the house. Will I look after Poppy?” “Please. Will Sir Miles be up and about?” “Of course he will. Sir Miles comes ‘up with the lark’, always. What’s going on? George is in trouble?” “All in good time, Miss. Let’s just say that Mr Amis has left worldly cares behind. You’ll find Poppy not greatly in need of breakfast.” Bianca wiped a trail of drool from her thigh and decided to follow the police-car on foot. * * * * * Sir Miles had breakfast with Banrock most days, but this was no indication of amity. Banrock was employed at Brentwood because he was good at his job. His job was dealing with animals, especially wolves. His people-skills were quite another matter. Banrock was an American, and steadfastly curmudgeonly. Sir Miles had never heard him confess to liking anything, except breakfast. The central beauty of the zoo for Sir Miles was that there was always something going on, always something to talk about. It was open house at breakfast time; years of all-nighters at the Curzon Club had taught Sir Miles the value of giving people a good breakfast. Banrock came most days; the coffee was good as was the muesli, and the bacon, pancakes, duck eggs Benedict, marmite soldiers… George joined them about half the time, and anyone else who cared to. Temporary or new staff were regularly invited or even summoned, because this was where and when Sir Miles sussed you out. All important events at Brentwood could be traced back to some breakfast or other. Banrock was relating to Sir Miles the curious sexual behaviour of his two pet raccoons who refused to breed, when he saw the police car. “Something’s up. That siren was for us.” Sir Miles joined Banrock at the French windows. Banrock held a bowl of slowly soggening nuts, fruits, grains and yoghurt; Sir Miles held a mug of coffee in the shape of a gorilla’s head. “It’s never good. The police never bring good news. Shall we descend?” They went down the steps and arrived on the gravel as the police car came to a halt. Chatham stepped out. “Sir Miles, Mr Banrock.” The policeman nodded. “Detective Inspector Chatham, West Kent CID.” Banrock was highly recognisable character who had starred in a popular TV series ‘Pack Man’: most visitors to the zoo recognised him. He was famous for his face-offs with Chechnyan warlords, Spanish circus owners, and plasticized American heiresses; anyone, indeed, who had ever owned wolves and kept them in circumstances of which Banrock disapproved. Well over half of the wolves at Brentwood were there as a result of Banrock’s rescue efforts. “I’m afraid there has been an accident.” Chapter3 The second orphan Roz raised was tiger cub she named Roger, after the rabbit. When he was four months old, he had been taken away and sent to a zoo in France. He had gone accompanied by a handwritten letter from Roz where she detailed Roger’s every quirk of habit and foible of appetite. A couple of weeks later she had received a letter from Etienne, Roger’s new keeper, with pictures. And that was the beginning of what had become Rozweb. Roz was in contact with hundreds of keepers all over the world. And hundreds of vets, and nurses, and zoo owners and anyone else who had ever crossed her children’s paths. Her tiny home office was lined with photos and maps, newspaper clippings and kid’s paintings. Years ago the post had brought letters and pictures daily, and Roz had spent much her spare time writing replies. She had taken to the internet like an otter to a brook. It was safe to say that Roz new everything and everybody. Tern RTS0112098.tf3 was such a special bird to her because it was through him that Roz had conquered her seventh continent. She changed her facebook status. Roz Hynde has conquered the world * * * * * “Does anyone know where George is?” squawked the radio on Banrock’s hip. “Or Sir Miles? Or Roz? Earth to Banrock? Anybody? Pick up?” Chatham looked at the radio as Banrock pulled it from its holster. “Banrock. Wassup Moose?” Matthew “Moose” Chalmerston was the third of the three high-priests of Temple Brentwood. If it looked like a dog or a cat, it belonged to Banrock. If is was shaped like a man, even a very small man, it was Bianca’s and Moose had everything else, elephants, deer, lizards, birds, giant hissing cockroaches… “Something fucking terrible has happened…” Sir Miles looked at Chatham who held up his hands and shook his head. “ You ain’t making yourself very clear, Moosey. Where are you?” “I’m up with the sables. You better come up. Bring George if you can raise him. He doesn’t pick up… You better come up. Fuck…” “I’m on my way.” Banrock raised his eyebrows at Chatham and Sir Miles as he spoke. “I will be there too, in exactly one minute!” Bianca’s unmistakeably direct matter-of-factness chimed in. “I’m by the Bongos.” “You won’t raise George Amis, I’m afraid,” said Chatham. “George Amis met with an accident on the road. I’m afraid Mr Amis is dead.” Sir Miles and Banrock stood speechless. “What…” began Sir Miles, but he was immediately interrupted by Banrock. “I’d better…” he nodded towards the expanse of zoo before them, and began to walk away when his walkie-talkie cackled again with a stream of Romanian expletives. “You better be up here Mr Banrock. And where is George? And see if Sir Miles is about. This is really bad, bad shit.” Sir Miles Gordon encompassed his golf cart in an expansive gesture. “Perhaps, you would accompany us Inspector Chatham? It sounds like we are having a minor emergency. We can talk on the way.” * * * * * The three keepers, Sir Miles and Chatham stood in a circle around the corpse, or rather what was left of the corpse. “This… this… this…” Banrock was speechless. “Was this…” Chatham stared at the corpse. “Was this done by one of your animals? Has something escaped?” “There is only one animal in this zoo could do this kind of thing,” muttered Sir Miles. “Tiger?” said Chatham. “You,” said Banrock. “Us,” said Bianca. “Homo sapiens sapiens,” said Moose. “Human nature,” said Sir Miles. “Red in tooth and claw.” “And what was this beast?” “It was a sable antelope,” said Moose. “Hippotragus niger. Female. 6 years old.” There was a lot of blood. Margarita had been smaller than Matrix, but in life she had been almost as impressive as he. Brown instead of black, her horns were still nearly a metre and half long. Dead, and beheaded she looked small and pathetic, more like a goat really; an anonymous, brown, headless farm-animal. Her head had been chopped or sawed off with a machete or some other giant knife and the remains of her neck were ragged. The blood covered a relatively small area, having soaked into the ground. The head was gone. “Is this any of my business?” said Chatham. The four others tore their eyes from the bloody hole where Margarita’s head used to be. “Detective Inspector Dennis Chatham, West Kent CID.” “Who called the police?” asked Moose. “No one called me. I came on another matter.” He looked at Sir Miles. “George is dead. Car crash last night, on the Maybury road.” “But… ..what has George got to do with this?” Chatham was accustomed to this kind of reaction. People receiving bad news often made random connections with the events which were unfolding as they heard the news. [ -I’m afraid your husband has been found dead in a ditch. -But he can’t be, I’ve made a rice-pudding!] “Has anything like this ever happened before?” The shocked zoo-folk continued to stare at the gory hole and all four shook their heads, but it was Sir Miles who spoke. “Not here, not in my time, but these things are not entirely unknown in the zoo world. There is no shortage of lunatics who want to kill or be killed, Satanists, vandals, kids involved in stupid dares and bets, animal liberationists… perhaps we should return to the house, Inspector. “Is Matrix OK?” “He’s in his shed. Doesn’t seem any better or worse than usual,” said Moose. “Perhaps, Inspector, you should have a look at Matrix. See what Margarita is missing.” “Do you want this mess cleaned up?” “Probably best to leave things exactly as they are for now,” said Chatham. “Any problem with that?” “Not really,” said Moose. “Matrix won’t come near here, none of them will.” Sir Miles and Chatham headed back to the gate by way of the shed. Matrix came to the door and huffed. “Jesus,” said Chatham. “Is that what is missing?” “Margarita’s head would have been slightly smaller and her horns a good foot shorter, but that is the order of things, yes. You can’t just chop the head off a sable antelope, stick it in a supermarket carrier and take it away. In fact, one man alone would be hard-pressed to carry the thing.” “Are they dangerous?” “Only when threatened, like most of us.” * * * * *
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