The Scent of Blood Read Online Free PDF

scent of death
    After the lunch break Graham and I made our way to the Frozone with a growing sense of unease. The animals seemed strangely tense too. As we walked past the Savannah the zebras kicked out at each other, ears laid back, yellowed teeth snapping. In the Rainforest the monkeys screeched and squabbled. Despite Kylie’s effort with the log and the aftershave, the tigers paced restlessly.
    “Do you reckon someone wants to hurt Mr Monkton?” I asked Graham.
    “Statistically speaking, the writers of anonymous notes rarely resort to physical violence. I would assume that the same rule applies to graffiti. As we know, the object of the exercise is to terrorize the victim.”
    “Well, it worked. The poor man was scared stiff this morning. But who did it? It has to be an inside job, doesn’t it?”
    “I would have thought so,” ventured Graham. “Mr Monkton certainly isn’t popular with the protesters outside the gates, but it seems unlikely that they’d be concerned about the death of a keeper.”
    “And they wouldn’t know the effect the tiger suit would have, either, would they?”
    “No,” Graham agreed. “Which all points to the culprit being a member of the zoo staff.”
    We were due to meet our next keeper at 2 p.m. by the polar-bear pit. At five to two we were both standing there watching the animals dozing on a concrete rock.
    “I don’t know,” I said, surveying the enclosure. “You can’t help feeling that those protesters might have a point. It’s not exactly the Arctic wilderness, is it?”
    “It’s a complex ethical issue,” Graham replied sagely. “If global warming continues at its present rate, a zoo might be the only alternative to extinction.”
    We didn’t have time to debate the matter any further, because just then Charlie Bales appeared, clocked our green overalls and said, “You’re the Behind the Scenes kids, right?”
    We nodded.
    “OK. Follow me.”
    Kylie’s manner had been brusque, but Charlie’s was positively menacing. The first thing he did was take us into the little kitchen near the polar-bear pit. Reaching up to a high shelf, he pulled down two small bottles and gave one to each of us. They were the old-fashioned sort – square-based, heavy, with a large glass stopper – the kind of thing you might see in a Victorian chemist’s or a Mad Science Lab. Mine was half full of clear liquid. There was no label telling me what it contained.
    “Have a sniff of that,” he urged me. “Go on. Take a deep breath.”
    I didn’t like the way his eyes were glinting, but I couldn’t think of any reason to refuse. Hoping it might be aftershave, I pulled out the stopper and did what I was told.
    It was only with a monumental effort that I managed to stop myself emptying my lunch and breakfast and everything else I’d ever eaten onto the tiled floor. I have never, ever smelt anything so utterly stomach-churningly disgusting. It literally made my head reel and I had to sit down on the nearest chair to recover.
    Charlie Bales laughed nastily, and Zara’s words about keepers with an odd sense of humour drifted through my head. I’d have bet all my pocket money that he’d been the one to put that suit in her office.
    I couldn’t speak, but Graham – who’d caught a whiff even though he hadn’t breathed it in – said faintly, “What
is
that stuff?”
    “Putrescine,” said Charlie.
    “Putrescine?” echoed Graham. “As in
putrid
? Meaning rotten? Decomposed?”
    “You’ve got it.”
    Graham and I exchanged a worried glance. We were at the mercy of a total madman. Graham’s solution seemed to be to keep him talking until we could escape.
    “But why…?” he began.
    “The bears love it,” said Charlie. “I soak logs in it from time to time. Keeps them very busy, it does…” He leant forward until his nose was almost touching Graham’s. “It’s the scent of death.”
    “Environmental enrichment?” Graham’s voice wavered back at him.
    “You’re