Free The Scent of Blood by Tanya Landman

you’re right. I will go home. I probably shouldn’t do this, but… Well, you’re both sensible kids, aren’t you. You will flip the catch on the door when you leave?”
    “Sure.”
    She smiled weakly. “Bye, then.”
    I watched Zara disappear forlornly down the steps. When I heard the door slam shut, I turned my attention to the computer. Pulling up a wooden stool, I looked over Graham’s shoulder while he typed.
    It didn’t take him long to find an incident report that described exactly what had happened on that fateful day.
    We read it in silence. One Monday morning a year before, the zoo vet, Mark Sawyer, had been doing a routine health check of the three tiger cubs.
    “Do you think those are the three big ones that are here now?” I asked. “How long does it take for a tiger to grow up?”
    “I presume it takes about a year for them to reach maturity. That would be the normal rate of growth for a large carnivore, anyway. I would therefore think it’s highly likely that they’re the same animals.”
    We turned back to the report. The cubs’ mother had been lured into a cage in the service area while the vet and Sandy Milford caught her babies. Not liking being handled, the cubs had started hissing and spitting at their captors. The tigress had become enraged and repeatedly thrown herself against the cage door until the rusty hinges gave way. She had sprung at Sandy, felling him with one blow of her paw before biting and killing him instantly. The vet had already pressed his panic button and the zoo’s emergency response team had reacted immediately. Taking the rifle from Mr Monkton’s office, Charlie Bales and his boss had sped to the tiger enclosure. When they had arrived the tigress had been between Mark Sawyer and the way out, crouching, ready to pounce. They had had no choice. As she had sprung forward, Mr Monkton had given the order and Charlie had shot the tigress in the back of the head.
    Exactly where he’d been shot himself.
    Goosebumps prickled down my arms when I read that part. “Is there more?” I asked. “Can you find anything else?”
    Graham scrolled through all kinds of files but he couldn’t find any more information about the accident. He did find something else, though. A purchase order that showed Mr Monkton was paying for a memorial stone for Sandy Milford. A large marble plaque was to be erected near the gates. His full name, Alexander Duncan Milford, was going to be on it, along with the date he died and the words
Much missed
.
    I read it twice. I could feel an idea dangling almost within reach. “Alexander,” I said aloud, trying to grasp it. “Not Sandy.”
    “No. Well, you’d only put someone’s full name on a memorial stone, wouldn’t you?”
    “So why did the graffiti say S.M.?”
    “I suppose the writer must have been someone who knew him well enough to use his nickname,” said Graham reasonably.
    It made sense, but I had the feeling there was more to it than that. I got off my stool and started to pace the length of the room. “All the people who have died were linked to that accident in some way. There was even that maintenance guy who killed himself. But maybe he didn’t! Maybe he was murdered too…”
    “He could have been. If his negligence caused the tigress to break through and kill Sandy, our murderer could well have decided to target him. But why kill the vet? It most certainly wasn’t his fault.”
    “I don’t know. We’re missing something.” I said nothing for a while, trying to work it out. I sat down again and cupped my head in my hands. “We thought it was to do with avenging Sandy,” I said at last, “but maybe it wasn’t. Maybe the keepers’ alibis fitted together perfectly because they were all true. Maybe Charlie really
was
sick. I think we’ve been looking at it from the wrong end.”
    “The wrong end?” echoed Graham. “Which end should we have been looking at it from?”
    “Sandy wasn’t the only one to die that day,