Cat Flap

by Ian Jarvis

  ‘Look out,’ shouted Watson. ‘Behind you.’

  A huge black cat dived through the French doors, slamming into the detective and throwing him like a rag doll. Sangster had transformed fully, his suit hanging in tatters where the feline form had burst from the material. Crashing into a table and struggling on his back, Quist grunted as the panther pounced on him. He rammed a hand under the jaw to keep the snarling mouth from his throat, and searched desperately for a weapon, all too aware that the talons were about to start clawing and disembowelling. Something had fallen from the wrecked table to his right.

  Sangster hadn’t anticipated Quist’s strength. Looking down at the wooden legs sticking out from his furry chest, he gurgled blood and rolled over in a dead heap. There wasn’t much else he could do with a garden gnome buried waist-deep in his heart.

  ***

  Strand turned to the two bodyguards in the rear of the van. ‘Go and see what’s keeping them.’

  Hinds frowned. ‘They’ve only been gone a few moments.’

  ‘I’m aware of that. Now do as you’re told.’ He watched them clamber out into the fog and waited until they reached the cottage gate. ‘Oh, by the way...’

  Turning, Fisher saw Strand’s sneer and the silencer levelled on his torso. ‘Er...’ he began.

  By the time he’d registered that the gun was firing, two bullets had ripped into his chest, and the four had hit Hinds.

  ‘It’s been fun, boys,’ said Strand. ‘But I’m afraid you’re now surplus to requirements.’

  Chapter 50

  ‘Unbelievable!’ Watson emerged from behind the couch. ‘Absolutely unbelievable!’

  ‘Thanks for the help,’ spluttered Quist. He leant against the fireplace massaging aching ribs through a blood-drenched shirt.

  ‘Didn’t look like you needed help, Guv. I thought these twats were dangerous? You handled that pair okay and look at the size of them.’

  ‘I was lucky,’ said Quist. ‘They didn’t expect me to attack.’

  ‘They probably didn’t expect you to snap that off either.’ Trembling uncontrollably, Watson checked the spindle used on Browning. ‘Solid oak and two inches thick.’

  ‘The staircase is old.’ Quist shrugged. ‘Full of woodworm.’

  ‘What the hell...’ Amy tottered to her feet in shock, the Ubasteri no longer sharing a pigeonhole with leprechauns in her scientific mind. ‘They were going to kill us, but you killed them.’ She gaped at the legs protruding from Sangster’s chest. ‘You killed them with a spindle and that?’ The wooden flashing gnome had been rammed in to the jutting penis.

  ‘Nice work!’ Watson laughed nervously. ‘In up to the bollocks, as they say.’

  The corpse by the stairs squelched sickeningly. Amy turned away as Sangster’s abdomen burst and the contents bubbled.

  ‘Ugh!’ Watson retched. ‘Are they going to change to pizza topping like Lisa?’

  ‘They’ll decompose faster.’ Quist dusted his shirt. The blood had powdered and was easily brushed away. ‘They’re older.’

  ‘They were shapeshifters,’ stuttered Amy, her head in worse turmoil than her stomach. All vestiges of scepticism were gone. ‘It’s all real. Everything you said about these cat people is true. The thing that chased me - was it one of these two?’

  ‘Possibly,’ sad Quist. ‘They were certainly at the morgue last night. I recognised their voices.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Bernard.’ She watched Browning’s remains crumble to dust. ‘These things have tried to kill me twice now, and both times you’ve saved my life. I’m so sorry for ever doubting you.’

  ‘How did they know Amy was here?’ demanded Watson. ‘Maybe we were followed?’

  Quist nodded. ‘There were five of these creatures at the morgue.’ Lifting the gnome from Sangster and gripping it like a rifle, pointed hat out front, he stepped through the French doors. ‘The others may be waiting.’

  ‘You’re not seriously looking for giant cats in the fog?’ The terrified youth followed him down the cottage gable with Amy tagging on. ‘Armed with a fuckin’ garden gnome?’

  ‘Wait here by the corner,’ murmured Quist. ‘If I’m attacked, run. Don’t try anything heroic, alright?’

  Watson nodded briskly. ‘If you insist.’

  The detective moved cautiously to the silent lane beyond the gate, fanning left and right with the gnome. He stood motionless, listening and gazing into the billowing veil, then lowered his eyes. ‘Ah, our friends weren’t alone.’ He crouched by two crumpled suits on the tarmac. ‘Come take a look.’

  ‘What happened here?’ whispered the doctor.

  Quist searched the jackets. ‘Bullets.’ He picked six jagged stars from the dust inside and flinched. ‘Or what’s left of them.’

  ‘They were shot?’ said Amy. ‘But we heard nothing. Someone must have used a silencer. Are the bullets...’

  ‘Silver?’ He tossed them down. ‘Yes, they are. From the spread, they’re hollow-point rounds.’

  Amy gulped. ‘Silver dumdum bullets?’

  ‘They don’t look so elite now, do they?’ said Watson. ‘Who killed them?’

  ‘Hello, what’s this?’ Quist took a card from one of the pockets. ‘Sunnyvale Clinic. Birchley, Ashton-Under-Lyne. A peaceful oasis for troubled minds.’

  ‘Sounds like a loony bin.’ Watson narrowed his eyes. ‘Isn’t that where the BMW is from?’

  ‘BMW?’ echoed Amy.

  ‘Yes,’ said Quist. ‘It’s been following us for the past few days, conveniently allowing me to see the number. It’s registered to this address. Speaking of addresses, how did they know mine. I’m certain we weren’t followed here. Unless...’ He turned slowly to the Beetle. ‘No, surely not.’

  Watson followed him to the car. ‘Surely not what?’

  Dropping into a press-up position, Quist checked under the car and quickly shuffled around to the rear bumper.

  ‘Bernard?’ Amy watched in disbelief as he brought out a small black box. ‘Is that what I think it is?’

  ‘You’ve got to be joking,’ croaked Watson.

  ‘A magnetised transponder on the chassis.’ Quist climbed to his feet. ‘They had a tracker on my car?’ He strode back up the path and into the lounge. ‘What the hell is going on?’

  Watson gazed at the powdered remains of the intruders in the disarray of furniture, the gravity of the attack sinking in. ‘So what do we do now, Guv?’

  ‘Sunnyvale.’ Quist examined the tracker, then placed it in the fireplace and smashed it with a poker. ‘The Lancashire mental hospital on the planted card. That’s where the answers lie.’

  ‘Planted card?’ gasped Amy.

  ‘Of course it was planted - just like those badges.’

  Watson laughed uneasily. ‘Someone shoots a pair of cats and leaves them for us with a handy address card? This is getting weirder by the minute.’

  ‘This has all been planned,’ said Quist. ‘The badges to get us to the biker house, a tracker under the car to follow our movements, and now the card pointing us to this institution near Manchester. Ebor Pharmaceuticals manufactured a sunscreen for the Ubasteri and for some reason the research team were murdered. Who on earth would want us involved in that?’

  Bewildered, Watson ran a hand through his hair. ‘We still don’t know why they wanted us to go to the biker’s place. Hang on. If these four Ubasteri have been driving the BMW, how come we were tailed in the daytime?’

  ‘The windows will be sunlight-protected; I noticed they were dark.’ Quist stroked his nose. ‘But if they did travel here in it, where is it, and where’s the fifth member of their group? Perhaps he shot them, but why?’

  ‘When are you setting off for Lancashire?’ asked Watson. ‘Tomorrow morning?’

  The detective shook his head. ‘The sooner the b
etter. We’ll go now.’

  ‘We?’ Watson’s pent-up tension erupted in a hysterical laugh. ‘I was hoping for the latest mobile phone this Christmas, not a label tied to my toe. Two things, Guv. One - you said I was strong enough to take all this. You’re wrong. Two - if someone is tracking us and the card was planted, this is probably a trap.’

  ‘Almost certainly a trap, but I only want to see the place, and I may need your help. Don’t worry; I’ll ensure you come to no harm.’

  Amy took a deep breath. ‘I’m coming too.’

  ‘I thought doctors were clever?’ said Watson. ‘You’re already on their pussy hit-list.’

  ‘No,’ said Quist. ‘It would be far better if...’

  ‘These cat things know where I live and they’ve tried to kill me twice. I can’t go to the police with this, I can’t go home, and I definitely won’t put my sister and her kids at risk by going to stay there again. No, I’m coming with you.’

  ‘A hotel?’ angled Quist. ‘We could drop you on the way and...’

  ‘I saw how you handled those giant panthers and I’ll feel safer with you.’ Amy linked arms with Watson. ‘If it’s safe enough to take him, it’s safe enough for me. I’m coming.’

  ***

  ‘At last.’ Strand watched the Beetle crawl along the lane and past the foggy farm track where he waited in the van. ‘I thought you’d never leave.’

  He chuckled as Quist vanished around the bend, then pulled out of his hiding place and drove back to the empty Briar Cottage. Five minutes ticked by before a white BMW drew up in front.

  ‘Not late, am I?’ The driver opened the boot.

  ‘No problem.’ Strand climbed from the van. ‘They’ve only just left.’

  ‘I hope this is okay. It’s a bit messy.’

  ‘Ah, that’ll do nicely.’ Strand inspected the plastic-wrapped corpse. ‘Let’s get it inside.’

  ‘Where do you want it?’

  ‘I see you’ve ripped his guts out.’ Strand ran a finger down what was left of Constable Gregson’s blood-soaked face and licked it. ‘Better make it the bathroom.’

  Chapter 51

  The fog had cleared after Tadcaster, and Quist’s soft-top Beetle tore south along the M1 motorway at seventy. The sky resembled a heap of soggy blankets - grey, but tinged with an eerie lavender that threatened snow.

  ‘Leeds.’ The detective realised he wouldn’t reach Lancashire before dusk and nodded to an approaching sign. ‘Don’t you think a hotel...’

  ‘Bernard,’ snapped Amy, ‘will you please stop trying to dump me at every town we pass.’

  ‘I’m only thinking of your safety.’

  ‘So am I. Speaking of which, I hope Rex is okay. He said in his answerphone message that he’d bumped into some of those creatures last night. If they tracked me to your cottage, they may be following him and that biker girl.’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry.’ Watson laughed in the rear seat. ‘The SAS are well-trained.’

  ‘Trained to handle shapeshifters?’ said Amy.

  ‘Yeah, and aliens and stuff. The training will be secret at somewhere like Area 51, so the public doesn’t realise such things exist and get panicky.’

  Quist had bitten his tongue long enough. ‘I’m sorry,’ he sighed, ‘but Grant is no more SAS than I’m a ballet dancer. He isn’t the military type. Can you honestly picture him living off his wits behind enemy lines and abseiling through windows to rescue hostages?’

  Watson glanced at Amy. Thinking about it seriously, it was easier to picture Mister Bean performing heart transplants.

  The doctor shook her head. ‘Why would he lie?’

  ‘People with boring lives have exciting dreams and fantasies they wish were reality.’

  ‘But his family are loaded,’ said Amy. ‘He certainly isn’t lying about that. He’s one of the heirs to the Grant housing company.’

  ‘Millionaires get bored too,’ said Quist. ‘Why do you think they experiment with drugs, and religious cults? When fantasists meet strangers, they get a chance to briefly live their dreams. An unemployed girl on holiday may say she’s a model. A road sweeper a pilot.’

  ‘And you think Rex is the same with the SAS?’ asked Watson.

  Quist shrugged. ‘Despite his wealth, he’s still basically unemployed. It sounds more thrilling to tell strangers he’s a Captain than a privileged wastrel.’

  Watson turned to Amy. ‘That does explain a few things.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Quist. ‘That’s why I didn’t contact him when I realised what we were dealing with. I didn’t want him around before, but now... well, it’s safer for everyone with him out of the picture. Taking this girl to her brother’s should keep him out of the way.’

  ‘So he lied to me.’ Amy pulled a face. ‘I hate it when men do that.’

  ‘He means no harm,’ said Quist. ‘I’m guessing he’s recently been turned down by the military and he feels rejected. Acting out the macho fantasy probably makes him feel better.’

  ‘I suppose you could be right,’ agreed Amy. ‘I imagine most people have things they keep covered.’

  ‘Not me,’ said Watson. ‘No secrets in my closet. How about you, Guv?’

  ‘My closet isn’t exactly empty.’

  ‘Oh? What’s this then?’

  ‘If I told you, it wouldn’t be secret, would it?’

  ‘Whatever.’ Watson grinned. ‘Here’s hoping it doesn’t involve choirboys.’

  Quist shot him a withering glance in the rear-view mirror. ‘Speaking of secrets, Amy, I’ve been hoping to talk about the secretive owner of your company. Now that we have time, perhaps you can tell us about this elusive Doctor Stapleton?’

  ‘Elusive is the right word,’ said Amy. ‘Like I told you, Will Gillette ran everything. We were lucky to see Doctor Stapleton once a week. She’s a real recluse.’

  ‘She? Stapleton is a woman?’

  ‘Doctor Francesca Stapleton. Didn’t you know?’

  ‘Fran,’ whispered Quist.

  ‘Nice going,’ said Watson, eyes wide. ‘Fuck all out of ten for deduction there.’

  ***

  Marika sat in the library at Sedgefield Grange. Blowing dust from the old leather book, she opened Richard Quayle’s Creatures Of Darkness and found the design: the red inverted pentagram in a circle. Spreading the tarot again, she randomly picked three cards, but knew they’d be the same: the Moon, the Tower, and the Five of Pentacles. Ominous, foreboding and sinister–fancy words were fine, but drawing the same cards ten times was downright bloody ridiculous!

  She was certain now. Everything tied in with her psychic nightmares and that brief vision: that mark on Rex’s hand. His life would shortly end, sometime tonight, and she knew the terrible shape his death would take. Marika took out her phone. This would be better face-to-face, but waiting for his return was futile. She’d have to ring and somehow try to convince him of this new horror. She began keying in Rex’s number as a scream sounded above. Racing from the library, she ran up the stairs to find a maid sobbing hysterically in the west corridor.

  ‘Julie,’ gasped Marika. ‘What is it?’

  The ashen servant pointed to a bedroom.

  Marika walked into the room where her party guests Graham and Tania Smythe spent the night, or more precisely, where Graham slept after his wife stormed home. Everything appeared normal; dusters and polish lay on the dresser and the blanket chest stood open. Julie must have been taking out fresh linen, an assumption confirmed by the sheet on the floor. She looked again, stiffened to see blood on the cotton, and peered in.

  A clawed corpse had been crammed inside, the head torn off and legs broken and twisted to ensure a snug fit. Numb and dazed, Marika stared at the head between the ankles. The white face stared back at her, terror filling the glassy eyes and jaw
hanging wide in a silent scream.

  Rupert arrived, still dressed in his Santa outfit. ‘What’s up?’ he slurred, drunkenly. ‘Barrymore tells me a maid is screaming like a stag with its stomach out. What’s the matter with her? What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘She didn’t go home,’ stammered Marika. ‘She was here all along.’

  ‘Who was here? The maid?’ He rolled his head to clear the alcoholic fog. ‘What are you blabbering about, woman?’

  His wife burst into tears and waved a trembling finger at the blanket box.

  Rupert gazed in at the headless corpse of Tania Smythe and belched. ‘Damn them!’ he hissed. ‘Those bastard foxes.’

  Chapter 52

  Birchley lay to the east of Ashton-under-Lyne, an isolated hamlet on the rugged Pennine moorland. The black Ferrari cruised to a halt at the end of Forest Lane, a rural cul-de-sac flanked by high walls on the outskirts of the village.

  ‘This place?’ Rex stared over his shades. ‘Your brother lives here?’

  ‘There’s no place like home,’ said Fran, jumping from the car. She spoke into the gatepost intercom and returned as the wrought-iron gates electronically parted.

  Built in Victorian Gothic style, with towers, shuttered windows and security bars, the Sunnyvale mental hospital stood in private parkland encircled by high railings and cameras. Moors flanked three sides with an area of dark woodland to the south.

  ‘Your brother actually owns an asylum?’ asked Rex.