Chapter 23
Wesley and Gerry approached the zoo’s ticket kiosk, where a bored-looking girl with purple hair was sitting chewing gum. The zoo entrance itself was badly in need of a coat of paint and fresh signage. It didn’t look particularly inviting.
‘Two adults, is it?’
‘Two police officers,’ said Gerry, showing his ID.
‘That’ll be twenty pounds.’
‘I don’t think you understand, love. We’re here to see the boss. Dale, I think his name is.’
The girl hesitated before picking up the grubby phone on the desk. After a short conversation, she told them to go through and Dale would meet them.
As they passed through the gates, the smell of animal dung hit them. In other zoos you might catch the occasional whiff, but here the smell was overpowering. Wesley looked at Gerry and put his hand to his nose.
A man appeared out of a wooden building to their right.
He was tall, once muscular but gone to seed, probably going on fifty, with a beer belly and greasy dark hair.
The buttons on his checked shirt strained over his abdomen and his jeans were stained with a substance that looked like oil but might have been something more unpleasant.
‘Dale Gadson?’ Gerry said, wondering whether the man might be some sort of underling engaged to muck out the cages.
‘That’s me. What can I do for you gentlemen?’ he asked warily. He was well-spoken, and Wesley couldn’t help wondering about his background. And how he’d ended up running a failing zoo.
‘Can we have a word?’
Dale hesitated for a moment. ‘Of course. Come into my office.’
He led them inside the wooden building and into an office as cluttered as Gerry’s own.
But even Gerry wouldn’t have tolerated the array of dirty crockery stacked up in the sink at the end of the room, as though nobody had tackled any washing-up for a good while.
Dale sat down at his desk, but there was nowhere for the visitors, so they remained standing.
Not wanting to waste time, Wesley began the questioning. ‘Jim Baker is a neighbour of yours. I understand you know him?’
‘Yeah. I know Jim.’
‘When did you last see him?’
Dale looked uncertain. ‘It was just before the weekend. I went round to his place for a drink.’ He stood up and walked over to a cupboard in the corner.
When he opened the door, Wesley could see bottles of spirits in there along with some cloudy glasses.
‘Talking of drink, can I tempt you? I usually have one around this time.’
‘No thanks.’
Dale filled a glass and tapped the side of his reddening nose. ‘Not while you’re on duty. That’s what they always say, isn’t it.’ He chuckled at his own joke and returned to his seat, glass in hand.
‘When exactly did you visit Jim Baker?’ Wesley persisted.
Dale shrugged his large shoulders. ‘Must have been Friday evening.’
‘What time?’ asked Gerry.
‘I’d had a few by then, so I wasn’t keeping track of the time. What’s all this about? What’s Jim done?’
‘We don’t know that he’s done anything yet. We’re investigating the murder of a woman in the village of Belsham, between Morbay and Neston. She died on Friday evening.’
Dale swore under his breath. ‘And you think Jim had something to do with it?’
‘The woman used to be a neighbour of his. We’ve been told they argued.’
‘Makes sense. Jim’s never got on with his neighbours. Mind you, I can’t see him being easy to live next door to. I live in the house behind the zoo. The music doesn’t bother me there.’
‘He said he plays his music loud because your animals like to hear it.’
‘Is that what he said?’ Dale chuckled. ‘He’s a character, is Jim.’
‘Ever heard the name Timothy Fontescue-Burns? Or a place called Sycamore House? It used to be a sort of commune. You might know it as Casa Mirabilis.’
Dale shook his head. ‘The miraculous house. Sounds nice, but I don’t know anything about it.’
Wesley glanced at Gerry. He could tell that the DCI wasn’t altogether convinced by the man’s reply either. ‘How many animals do you keep here?’
Dale took another sip from his glass. ‘Now you’re asking. There’s five chimps, a few lemurs and a couple of camels. Nasty, bad-tempered things. Sadly our last elephant died last year. She was a good age, though.’
‘Any big cats?’
The answer was a nod. ‘A couple of pumas. And three lions. One male, two females. No wonder poor old Rex always looks henpecked.’ The statement produced another chuckle.
As if on cue, they heard a loud roar: Rex making his own comment on his domestic situation, perhaps.
‘Have any of your big cats ever escaped?’
Wesley wondered whether he’d imagined the flash of pain in Gadson’s eyes as he took a long drink before shaking his head. ‘Not since my father’s day.’
‘When was that?’
‘I took over when he died ten years ago. I remember one of the pumas going AWOL when I was a kid.’
‘Was it ever captured?’
‘Dad told us it had been shot. But there was a lot of talk around that time about a mysterious beast killing livestock on Dartmoor. I reckon if our puma did survive and it was the Beast, it must be dead by now. Unless it met a lady puma that escaped from another collection and they had offspring. I wouldn’t rule anything out. ’
‘You don’t seem particularly worried,’ Wesley said, surprised at the man’s casual attitude to safety.
‘I’m not a farmer. No sheep to worry about here.’
He thought of Rachel and her family trying their best to run a farm. He knew that the loss of livestock was devastating for anyone in their position, but he kept his opinion to himself.
‘No incidents since then?’
Dale took another sip from his glass. ‘I heard that some escaped wild boar have been making a nuisance of themselves on the moor recently, but I assure you my cats are all present and correct. You can go and say hello to them if you like.’
‘We’ll pass on that if you don’t mind,’ said Gerry quickly. ‘What do you know about Jim Baker?’
‘He’s an artist. I give him a free pass to come in ’cause he likes to study the animals. He says he needs to get the anatomy right.’
‘Have you seen his paintings?’
A smirk appeared on Dale’s unshaven face. ‘He might study the anatomy of my animals, but if I had anything like that here, I’d run a mile. Weird things like dragons with fishes’ tails and camels with men’s heads. Like something out of a nightmare.’
‘Are you aware of him taking drugs?’ Gerry’s question was blunt, but Wesley had been thinking the same. Could Baker’s strange visions be the product of some hallucinogenic substance?
‘He told me he used to be heavily into that sort of thing, but now he just sticks to a bit of dope. And this stuff, of course,’ Dale added, waving his glass vaguely in their direction before helping himself to a refill.
‘Has he said why he chooses to paint things like that?’ Wesley couldn’t help being curious.
‘He says they’re manifestations of his anger, whatever that means. Strange bloke.’
‘Any idea what made him so angry?’
Dale took a deep breath. Then he exhaled slowly. ‘Not sure, but I suspect it’s something to do with his past. It’s usually family, isn’t it? Once when he’d had a few he said he was the child of the devil.’
‘Sounds a bit dramatic.’
‘Maybe, but I know how families can really screw you up.’ The words were said with bitterness, as though he was speaking from experience.
‘Some of the things in his paintings look very . . . Horns and hooves and all that. He sometimes goes on about the whisht hounds, seems obsessed with them if you ask me.’
‘He did mention them when we called. Said they’re the devil’s hounds.’
‘That’s what the old local legends say.’ Dale picked up the bottle, and when he saw it was empty, he stood up again and retrieved another from his stash. ‘Sure you won’t join me in a drink?’
The two detectives shook their heads as another roar filled the air.
Dale leaned forward. ‘Not sure I should tell you this.’ He fell silent for a few moments, as though he was making a decision.
‘Jim told me once that when he was on one of his acid trips, he thought he saw something really bad, something that changed his life and made him never want to touch the stuff again.’
Wesley and Gerry exchanged a look. ‘Did he say what he saw?’
‘Sorry, don’t know. He claimed it must have been a hallucination, but whatever it was really shook him. He only mentioned it once, and when I asked him about it the next day, he told me to forget it.’
‘Do you think it had something to do with those things he paints?’ asked Wesley.
‘It wouldn’t surprise me.’