Zorilla At Large! by William Stafford Page B

Brough scowled.
    Darren Bennett was delighted. “It’s all right, David,” he clapped Brough on the shoulder. “I’ll toss you for it.”

Chapter Eleven
    Harry Henry’s task was to track down the people behind the unsuccessful lottery bids. It might lead to no leads, he knew, but every trail had to be followed even if it lead to a brick wall on the edge of a cliff, or wherever.
    He was glad the list was short.
    The things people want funding! Someone wanted to set up a home delivery service, which sounded fair enough, until you read on and saw what they wanted to deliver. The entrepreneur behind Absolutely Offal certainly had guts, Harry mused. He laughed alone and made a mental note to crack that funny again in briefing.
    He made a note of the contact details - a butcher’s shop in Netherton. And then his blood ran cold.
    A butcher... A butcher would have all sorts of sharp implements as tools of his trade...
    Someone would have to have a butcher’s hook at him...
    Harry Henry chuckled to himself again. I’m really on a roll today.
    The next rejected application was from a choir who wanted a new minibus so they could ‘spread their joy throughout the borough and beyond’. They specialised in bringing Handel’s Messiah to hospitals and retirement homes - anywhere there was a captive audience, it seemed. Hah. Harry’s wife had dragged him along to hear that choir last Christmas. He wouldn’t be surprised if somebody had sabotaged their old van to bring an end to their reign of terror.
    But he made a note of the contact details. It was a large choir, he remembered. Every member would have to be questioned, until someone sang - um, warbled - er... Harry faltered. He couldn’t think of any more jokes.
    He tried to think of anything that might suggest a member of the choir was the killer. Perhaps the choirmaster - or indeed mistress - used a baton like an orchestra conductor... It seemed a long shot.
    People don’t realise the legwork that goes on, Harry Henry considered as he remembered how many people were in that choir - and none of them able to carry a tune in a bucket. Being a detective’s not like it is on the telly, all punch-ups and car chases and autopsies.
    The third and final application had been made by a knitting circle. They aimed to bring the craft to young people. Addicted to computer games? Put down the joystick , their publicity material said, proving how out of touch they truly were, and pick up the needles . On drugs? Put down your syringes and pick up these needles ...
    Harry was not surprised the bid had been turned down. Every member of this group would have to be investigated. He wondered if they were from a close-knit community - Hah! I’m back in the room, he laughed. Something, something, casting my purls... No, Harry; quit while you’re ahead.
    But needles... What diameter knitting needles would you need to make wounds in someone’s throat like those on the victims? Could it be done?
    Harry Henry waddled hurriedly to deliver his findings and his musings to Chief Inspector Wheeler. She riffled through his notes and hummed and ahhed through his ramblings. It was not the enthusiastic response for which he had hoped.
    â€œIt’s a lot of work, Harry,” she sighed. “We just don’t have the manpower.”
    â€œOr indeed womanpower,” Harry quipped. Wheeler regarded him with narrowed eyes in case he was really D I Brough in disguise.
    â€œNarrow it down a bit,” she thrust the papers back at him. “The butcher and the knitters. My money says it’s one of them. The bastard choir can wait. Although they all want locking up - have you heard them? Rim me up a chimney; what a load of fucking shit.”
    ***
    Brough and Miller, having accompanied Darren Bennett back to his flat to pack a few things before delivering him to the halls of residence for safekeeping, argued all the way back to