Now what? She read the message again, and made a decision. Taking out her mobile, she dialled a number. “Justin? Can we meet? It’s urgent. Yes, I suppose that will be all right. Your flat, around six o’clock? See you then.”
She stuffed the rest of the post into a bag, and returned to her car. There was nobody around, and she suddenly felt a shiver. It was a creepy old place, she thought, and if any of the animals escaped they’d have a hell of a job finding them. Safely in her car, she drove off down the drive and out into the comforting traffic jam, full of real people going home to lunch.
*
Back in her ticket booth, Margie Turner settled down for afternoon chats with families coming into the zoo. She liked to have a few words of welcome with each lot, and then direct them to where they should start. Most of them chose the chimps, and after that the sadly lonely tiger. He was a mangy old thing, and no one could remember where Pettison had got him from. Most of the time he slept, but occasionally padded over to the visitors and yawned, showing his crumbling old teeth. Only very rarely did he oblige with a roar, and that was when children poked sticks at him, until reprimanded by the keeper.
Before he went into hospital, Pettison had taken delivery of a new, fully grown chimpanzee, bred in captivity and trained to be mild and friendly. So the keeper had said. But today he was clearly depressed. He sat on a branch of dead wood, his head in his hands, looking gloomy.
“Cheer up!” said the father of a visiting family. “It may never happen!”
His wife laughed. “Perhaps that’s why he’s worried,” she said. Suddenly the chimp bounded down off the branch, and came to the front of his enclosure. He banged his huge fists on the bars, and chattered angrily.
“Come away, children!” said the visitor. “Let’s go and look at some little rabbits.”
“Missing his master,” said the keeper, when the incident was reported to him. “Old Pettison had got fond of him, and brought him treats to eat. I expect the poor thing is wondering where he’s gone.”
“He’ll have to get used to somebody else for a while, won’t he?” said Margie Turner, who had heard about it from a visitor leaving the zoo. “If you ask me, it’s a bad idea to get too friendly with animals. You never know what they’ll do next.”
Forty-eight
The bells of St. Martin’s church, around the corner from Dot Nimmo’s house, began their loud pealing for morning service, and Dot paused from her weekly chores, wondering whether she should go. She couldn’t remember the last time she went, and doubted if she could remember when to stand up and sit down. Never mind, she told herself, God won’t mind if I get it wrong. I don’t like them modern hymns, but maybe there’ll be one or two of the old favourites.
“Shut up, parrot,” she said, passing his perch. “I’m going to church, and I’ll say a prayer for the good Lord to take you sooner rather than later.”
There was a trickle of worshippers entering the church, and Dot was surprised to see Betsy and Ted among them. She fell in beside them, and together they sat in a pew suitably near the back of the church. Dot wondered if Betsy confessed her sins? Since she regarded her work as a service to mankind, she probably didn’t.
After the service, when some of the parishioners were collecting at the back of the church for a gossip, Dot and the Brierleys stood at the top of the steps outside, watching two strong men lifting a wheelchair bodily down to a specially adapted car. The occupant of the chair was well wrapped up from head to toe in thick rugs to keep out the cold.
“Must be a devout Christian,” said Dot, “to venture out in this icy wind.”
“Mm,” said Betsy, and she and Ted exchanged a furtive look.
“What?” said Dot.
“What nothing,” said Betsy. “Come and have a sherry, and we’ll have a gossip of our own.”
When they were safely out of the cold and into Brierleys’ warm sitting room, Dot began again. “Okay, what’s up? Is it to do with that man in the wheelchair—oh God, no! It wasn’t him, was it? He’s not in circulation again, is he?” She laughed at the ridiculousness of the idea.
“Depends what you’re talking about, Dottie,” said Ted.
“I’m talking about Pettison, of course. We all know there was a dreadful thing happened to him, but nobody knows the whole story, for some God-knows-what reason.”
“If we tell you, will you promise God’s honour not to tell anyone?”
“Natch,” said Dot. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”