Animal Instinct Read online

  Animal Instinct

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  1

  2

  3

  4

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  6

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  Dark Game

  Copyright

  Animal Instinct

  Simon Booker

  1

  She has no idea she is being watched.

  The last visitor left the wildlife park as darkness fell. No security guards, no CCTV. Who would dare to steal a Sumatran tiger or a clouded leopard or a silverback gorilla?

  Inside the storeroom she prepares milk for Samson, the baby elephant rejected by his mother and reliant on round-the-clock feeds. Unaware of the hooded figure observing from the shadows, Bella has no reason to feel unsafe. Home is less than a mile away. Her parents are almost certainly awake – her mother in bed, drinking wine and reading Vogue, her father closeted in his study with his single malt and his creepy collection.

  Murderabilia.

  Is that even a word?

  She is irritated at having lost her iPhone but it will turn up. Nothing to fret about. So why does she feel uneasy? The elephant house has always been a haven. Why should tonight feel different?

  She pulls herself together. If she’s jittery it’s her own fault. Too much coke. On a weeknight, too. A wave of self-loathing washes over her. She remembers the old joke the boy yelled as they ran back from the woods: Cocaine is God’s way of telling you you have too much money! Was he being chippy or having a dig? She hopes he won’t turn out to be another inferiority-complex-on-legs, intimidated by all the trappings. All the same, she has to admit it’s not every twenty-year-old whose family owns a zoo.

  This is not the first night Bella has spent in the elephant house. On Christmas Eve three years ago, Plato, an elderly bull, suffered a life-threatening bout of colic. Disaster was averted thanks to a 48-hour vigil and gallons of oil, helping to shift the blockage in the elephant’s intestinal tract. But Operation Plato was different: all the keepers had turned out, Christmas or not.

  Tonight, Bella is alone, apart from the elephants.

  And the silent intruder she cannot see.

  She switches off the blender. The outsize plastic bottle is ready: 450 g SMA Wysoy, 25 g coconut, 25 g calcium, 33 ml collocal, 50 g pony nuts. She screws on the rubber teat, opens the storeroom door and emerges into the freakishly warm night. Nearly midnight and the August air hangs heavy. The heatwave will break by dawn; rain will be a relief.

  Crossing the yard, conscious of a tickle of sweat under her arm, she ducks between the horizontal bars of the perimeter fence, her blonde hair falling over her freckled face, her skinny-fit Levi’s chafing the metal bars. Her footsteps are the only sound as she heads for the huge barn that houses little Samson and his aunt, Kashka.

  Fifty-year-old Kashka has low status, always bringing up the rear of the herd, always last to feed, but lately she seems to have created a role for herself, looking out for her nephew in the weeks since his mother rejected him. Hand rearing will ensure the calf’s survival (this is Kent not Kenya) but to Bella, Samson still cuts a forlorn figure. Or perhaps she’s guilty of what her father rails against: the Disneyfication of animals.

  As she glances up at the moon, full two nights ago, now on the wane, her memory flashes to an image of herself as a six-year-old. Her first safari in the Okavango Delta. Her father spooking her with campfire tales of predators on the prowl.

  ‘Lions do their best hunting when darkness lets them surprise their prey, but on a moonlit night they often go hungry. So just after a full moon, when the light isn’t so good, they catch up on missed meals – and that could be you.’

  To a six year-old. Just before bedtime. Way to go, Dad.

  Now, grasping the barn’s iron bolt, Bella stops in her tracks. A sound from the far side of the yard: the storeroom door opening then closing. She freezes, aware of her own heartbeat, of the blood pulsing in her ears. She remembers a piece of advice from another safari. Namibia. Her father’s face uplit by the campfire, his breath soured by whisky.

  ‘Remember, Bella: you’re an animal. We’re all animals. Trust your instincts. If you sense something is wrong – no matter how unlikely – it probably is.’

  She stands still, eyes scanning the yard, senses straining to catch the slightest sound. The air is calm. Not a breath of wind. Did the storeroom door bang of its own accord? Did she leave it ajar?

  She waits. No movement. No sign of life.

  She breaks the silence with an involuntary sniff. Immediately, the acrid aftertaste of the cocaine rises to the back of her throat, reminding her why she feels on edge. She shrugs off her jitters. Makes a promise: cut down on the coke, especially during the week. She doesn’t really like the stuff, or the people she has to hang out with to get it. She remembers the guy in the woods, his clammy hands on her breasts, frantic fingers fumbling between her legs. Suddenly, she feels an overwhelming sense of fatigue. If she’s lucky she might snatch some sleep on the keepers’ old sofa before Samson’s next feed. But it’s three hours since the ele’s last bottle. She has a job to do.

  A screech of metal as she slides the bolt, heaves open the huge door and flicks the switch, flooding the elephant house with flickering overhead light.

  On the other side of the bars the calf is already on his feet, raising his trunk in greeting. At his side, Kashka towers over her nephew. She takes a step towards him, nudging him forward, but Samson needs no encouragement. His trunk snakes through the bars.

  ‘Hello, lovely boy. Ready for your midnight feast?’

  Bella raises the bottle towards his pink, open mouth. She feels his bristles, his warm breath on her hand. He suckles on the rubber teat. For a second she feels better, losing herself in the moment, forgetting everything.

  The boy in the woods. The lost iPhone. The scalding row with her father.

  Then the lights go out.

  2

  Joe Cassidy had seen the three-legged dog before, a scruffy Border terrier skittering across the shingle with surprising grace, sniffing the bins behind the Beach Cafe. He’d tried to feed him – saveloys, chicken nuggets – but the dog had kept its distance. Just as well. This was no time to be adopting strays.

  The fisherman’s shack Joe called home had a leaky roof, an erratic boiler and a bed that sagged. An aching back wasn’t helping his mood, nor was the knowledge that Katie would be enjoying a power shower in what she had ominously started to refer to as the marital home.

  As he boiled a saucepan of water he checked his watch. 6:50 a.m. Ten minutes before his visitor was due, before he must make a choice: to maintain a safe distance from the world or take a risk and plunge back in.

  The call had come an hour ago. A voice from the past.

  ‘Sorry to call so early. It’s Adam Pennefeather. My daughter’s missing. I need your help.’

  Joe had agreed to listen but that’s all. He couldn’t allow himself to be guilt-tripped – to take on something that might send him back into the black hole. But maybe – just maybe – it was time.

  He took his tea outside and folded his lanky frame into the plastic chair facin
g the sea. The three-legged mutt was back, watching from the far side of an oasis of sea kale. Joe removed the lid from last night’s takeaway. This was more than just leftovers, this was his brave new world. Cold curry for breakfast any time he liked. It was a hollow sort of freedom but would do for now.

  Dunking a chunk of chicken tikka into the jar of marmalade (he’d finished the chutney last night), he saw the dog sniffing the air, cocking its head to one side. Something about the animal’s quizzical expression, its matted fringe, undid Joe’s resolve to let the stray fend for itself. In any case, a mouthful of chicken was all he could stomach. He made a mental note to buy basic provisions – bread, cheese, Rioja – then stood and took a few barefoot steps towards the dog. He laid the carton on the shingle and returned to the chair.

  The dog held out for several seconds but temptation proved too great. It crept out from behind the sea kale and moved forward. Then, with a couple of feet to go, courage failed, fear holding sway over hunger. The dog stopped, fixing Joe with a stare and issuing a low growl.

  Joe looked away. He must avoid eye contact or sudden movement. He sat motionless for half a minute then eased his body out of the chair and lowered himself onto the shingle, lying flat, below the dog’s eye level. The submissive posture did the trick. The stray limped forward, reaching the food and cleaning out the carton in a few hungry licks. He gave his benefactor a wary look before turning and hobbling away.

  Joe got to his feet and returned to his chair. He watched the dog head for the black and white lighthouse and, looming beyond it, the vast nuclear power station that dominated the shoreline, a gigantic fortress visible for miles. He drank his tea, running a hand through his unruly straggle of black hair and turning his face to the early morning sun.

  Dungeness was unlike anywhere else Joe knew. If movie directors needed a location for a post-apocalypse blockbuster they need look no further: the windswept landscape was heavy with melancholy, the flatland’s designation as a wildlife sanctuary offering an endless variety of birds and insects: moths, spiders, beetles, bees. But it was the space, the big skies and lack of people that made this strange outpost the place Joe needed to be.

  It was tempting to think that his neighbours were kindred spirits, taking a breather while wondering how their lives had turned to seven kinds of crap, but the truth was probably different. Fishermen? Artists? Second-homers in search of something out of the ordinary? Joe had no intention of finding out. Give him stray dogs and seabirds over people any day.

  He looked up to see a Range Rover cruising along the road that led from New Romney. He checked his watch. Exactly seven o’clock. The car turned off the tarmac, crunched over the shingle and pulled up alongside the red MGB. Adam Pennefeather got out. Bald and ruddy-faced, he wore a Barbour and red corduroy trousers tucked into a pair of muddy Hunters. A Telegraph reader, thought Joe, but he’d try not to hold that against him. His visitor was unshaven, his rheumy eyes told of a sleepless night, but he had a kind face. A man you would trust to return a book.

  Pennefeather gave Joe the once-over.

  ‘Still got your hair,’ he said. ‘Bastard.’

  Joe returned the smile. Only between Englishmen would a conversation about a missing girl start with a jokey insult. He shook Adam’s hand, trying to convey empathy through the firmness of his grip.

  ‘No news?’

  Pennefeather’s face darkened. He shook his head. Ushering the man inside, Joe caught a hint of stale whisky. His smile faded. He’d forgotten how much he disliked Adam Pennefeather. But not how much he owed him.

  * * *

  ‘What makes you think someone might have taken Bella?’

  Joe handed his visitor a cup of Nescafé.

  ‘The only thing she cares about is elephants,’ said Adam. ‘She’d never let a baby ele like Samson miss one feed, let alone three.’ He met Joe’s gaze. ‘She’s been a nightmare ever since she left school. Mood swings, dropping out of uni, out all night, sleeping all day. The only thing she’s serious about is animals.’

  ‘Like father, like daughter?’

  A nod. ‘In that respect, if nothing else. She’d never bugger off without telling her mother.’

  ‘What are the police doing?’

  The question was for form’s sake. Joe knew the answer.

  ‘They took her details,’ said Adam. ‘And her laptop. But she’s not one for Facebook or Twitter. I gave them some photos then I got a lot of jargon about things like “PNC” and “FLO”.’

  ‘Police National Computer,’ said Joe. ‘Family Liaison Officer. They’re following standard procedure.’

  The man’s jaw tightened. ‘I don’t want “standard”, Joe, I want them to pull out all the stops.’ He clenched his fist, open and shut. ‘She’s over eighteen so they say there’s nothing they can do for now. “Most missing persons turn up within seventy-two hours, blah, blah, blah.”’ His black and gold signet ring caught the light as he raised his cup to his lips. ‘Is that true?’

  Joe nodded. ‘It’s not even forty-eight hours. Try not to get too worked up.’

  Adam tightened his grip on the cup.

  ‘Has your wife always been a pain in the arse or just since she was promoted?’

  The hostility took Joe by surprise.

  ‘She’s quite a looker, I’ll give her that,’ continued Pennefeather. ‘But Christ, she’s a patronizing cow.’

  Joe let it go.

  ‘Are you dealing directly with Katie?’

  Adam nodded. ‘I told her, “This is my daughter, sweetheart. I don’t need platitudes, I need action.”’

  Joe tried to picture his wife suppressing her fury at being called ‘sweetheart’.

  ‘That’s when she started wittering on about “the most efficient use of resources”. I got annoyed and insisted she give me your number.’

  He scanned the open-plan living area, taking in the sink full of washing-up, the rumpled bed visible in the next room, the empty Rioja bottles.

  ‘Divorced? Separated?’

  Joe gave a tight smile. ‘Just taking a breather.’

  Adam responded with a man-of-the-world grin.

  ‘Do I detect a touch of cherchez la femme? An affair?’

  ‘Nope,’ said Joe. Time to get the conversation back on track. ‘Do you think Bella could be on drugs?’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Adam. ‘She hangs around with some ghastly chavs.’ He raised his cup to his lips then sniffed it suspiciously. ‘Is this instant?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Joe watched as Adam took a polite sip then set the cup on the table. His sleeve rode up his wrist, revealing three long scratches. Red. Raw. Recent.

  ‘What happens when you call Bella’s mobile?’

  ‘It goes straight to voicemail,’ said Adam. ‘Can’t the police track it?’

  ‘They won’t go down that route yet. There’s a protocol. Search phases and so on.’ He didn’t mention the official misper guidelines. If in doubt, think murder.

  ‘I assume you’ve left messages?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Adam. ‘So has her mother. And Saffron.’

  ‘Saffron?’

  ‘Bella’s sister.’

  ‘Does she live at home too?’

  Adam shook his head. ‘In north London. She married an Irish chap. Do you like pizza?’

  Joe shrugged, puzzled by the non sequitur. ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘I can’t stand them,’ said Adam. ‘But it turns out they bring in big money. Liam’s made a mint.’

  Following Pennefeather’s gaze, Joe became aware that the man was staring at something on the pine dresser: a blister pack of Citalopram, unopened. ‘I see you’re on happy pills. Like my wife.’

  Joe fought the urge to tell his visitor to mind his own business.

  ‘I keep forgetting to take them.’ He leaned forward in his chair. ‘Would you like me to have a word with Katie?’

  ‘No, I’d like you to put a rocket up her arse. Then I need your help to find Bella.’ The visitor c
ast another disdainful look around the shack. ‘Unless you’ve something more pressing to do.’

  The flash of petulance reminded Joe why he’d been keen to end their friendship. Even as a boy, Adam Pennefeather had exuded the sense of entitlement Joe generally encountered only during dealings with the rich.

  ‘I’m not a private detective.’

  ‘I’ve no intention of sticking a pin in Yellow Pages,’ said Adam. ‘I kept tabs on you in the papers. You were a good DI.’ He leaned forward. ‘And frankly, it doesn’t seem a lot to ask. After all, I did save your life, n’est-ce pas?’

  Joe smiled. He’d already made his decision, even before the blatant attempt at emotional blackmail.

  ‘I’ll do whatever I can.’

  Pennefeather wasted no time on gratitude. He produced a sheet of paper. ‘This might be a start. Bella’s haunts: cafes, shops, bars.’

  He handed Joe a photograph of a young blonde woman, startlingly pretty in a plain white linen shirt, her freckled face free of make-up, her cornflower-blue eyes brimming with the insouciant confidence that comes with privilege, youth and beauty.

  ‘Bella,’ said Adam. ‘She’s twenty.’ He repeated the word for emphasis. ‘Twenty.’

  ‘Understood,’ said Joe. He laid the photo on the table. ‘The best thing you can do is to go home.’

  He stood up. The meeting was over.

  Outside, Joe turned his face to the sunshine. It was still early. He’d planned to spend the day patching up leaks in the roof but the DIY could wait. Adam put his hands in his pockets and looked out to sea. ‘We should talk about money. How’s three hundred a day?’

  Joe shook his head. ‘No need. Old times’ sake.’

  Adam nodded then headed for his car. He turned.

  ‘Can I ask why?’ He jangled his keys.

  ‘Why what?’ said Joe.

  ‘Why jack it all in? You’re only fifty, same as me.’

  ‘Is that all?’ said Joe. ‘I feel like Methuselah.’

  Adam tutted.

  ‘You’re in your prime. So why chuck away a good career? I know about the Kinsella girls. The whole country knows. But you did all you could. You weren’t to blame. You caught him.’