by Peter Helton
He brought his face close and spoke in a low voice charged with fury. ‘What the hell are you doing here, Honeysett?’
‘I was just following her,’ I said, pointing at Gem who appeared to have instantly bonded with the WPC over the cat.
‘Why were you following Gem Stone?’
‘It’s a detective thing, you wouldn’t understand.’
‘Stop clowning around. You know whose shack this is? Was?’
‘Albert Whatsit’s who expired in my car. I’m only guessing, of course.’
‘You must be bloody psychic. Yes, Albert Barrington. The woman who drops round his free-range bleedin’ eggs once a week got worried. No one else seems to have missed him. Except you and Gemma Stone obviously suddenly decided that you did. Did you know all along who the stiff was? You’re a mad fuck, Honeysett, and I loathe the sight of you, you know that? I want you out of here, pronto, so I can forget I saw you here. Now get back into your . . . thing and drive it away.’
Did I know the stiff? Now what kind of language was that for a police officer? The deceased, surely. ‘Gosh, that’s a gorgeous animal,’ I said loudly and ducked from under his incinerating gaze to join Gem Stone and the WPC who were busy ear-scratching the confused and mewing cat the policewoman was holding. The cat’s fur was a marbled grey and black but the downy fluff on his stomach flamed in autumnal gold. Until that very moment I had never shown even the remotest interest in pets of any kind but Deeks probably didn’t know that. I was just getting a little confused by his attitude and wanted to buy myself some time to work it out. After all, he’d spent the last few years trying to make my life a misery whenever the chance presented itself and now he wanted to just forget I’d been here? ‘He really is cute,’ I said to Gem. ‘Was he Albert’s?’ The cat wriggled in the policewoman’s arms and sniffed at me.
‘You like cats then?’ Gem asked with just a hint of suspicion.
‘Yeah, I’m quite potty about cats,’ I lied. ‘Though I don’t have one myself at the moment.’
‘Yes, I suppose he’s Al’s, technically, though he’d only just appeared out of nowhere a short while ago, as they do. Al wasn’t sure he should keep him. He wasn’t very well, you know. He wasn’t even sure that he could afford to keep him . . . cat food, flea collars, worming tablets, vet bills . . .’
‘Do you know the cat’s name then?’ the constable asked Gem. She was obviously a cat lover herself and oblivious to the fact that her uniform had already collected enough cat hair for her to knit her own moggy.
‘He didn’t want to give him a name until he’d made a decision about whether to keep him, he thought it would make it more difficult to let him go. What’s going to happen to him?’
The constable pulled a pained face. ‘Normally, in these cases, unless someone comes forward to claim the animal, like a relative, for instance, then he would have to be put down –’
‘Put down?’ Gem echoed, horrified. ‘As far as I know Al didn’t have any relatives.’
‘How about you then?’ The policewoman smiled invitingly and held the cat out to her.
‘I can’t. I’ve got a dog who wouldn’t take kindly to introducing a cat. Anyway, herb beds and cats don’t really mix.’
Deeks appeared by my side and just stared at me as though he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Perhaps he couldn’t. I tried to ignore him.
‘How about you, Mr . . .?’ The constable proffered the wriggling thing.
‘I really can’t. My place is . . . ehm . . .’
‘Huge,’ Deeks completed. ‘A cat is exactly what you need. Thank you, constable.’ He relieved her of the cat and shoved him at me, where he clawed his way up my leather jacket so he could stare at me with enormous eyes.
‘Hang on . . . I’m not sure I can afford to take on a cat, you know? Vet bills, worming collars, flea tablets –’
‘Rubbish, the moggy’s yours. Now beat it.’
‘Hey, just wait a second –’
‘You’ve run out of seconds.’ He grabbed me by the arm and dragged me along to the Landy. ‘You’re getting out of here and I don’t want to see you again near here or Gem Stone’s or anywhere, actually.’ He opened the door for me. ‘Get in there before Needham turns up and hauls your arse down the station again.’
I deposited the cat beside me. The first constable supplied my keys. I backed the Landy up as fast as I could. I knew when I wasn’t wanted and despite my curiosity the mention of Needham had convinced me I’d better figure this one out from a distance. When I glanced back towards the bungalow I saw Deeks talking intensely to the constable while keeping an avuncular arm around her shoulder, the constable nodding, nodding, nodding. The cat jumped into the footwell. He looked panicked by the sudden turn of events. I’d have to get rid of the animal at the first opportunity or I’d end up like one of those private eyes who discuss their cases with their moggy and take them down the pub for a beer. At least we’d achieved a stay of execution for the thing. At the moment I had plenty of other worries. We needed to get Jill’s son back and for that we would break into Telfer’s house and rob his safe. But I now had new stuff to worry about: for a start, Deeks obviously knew Gemma Stone. He didn’t seem at all surprised to see her there, nor did he object to her presence. Me however he couldn’t wait to get rid of. And since in the past few years he’d never missed an opportunity to drag me into Manvers Street under the flimsiest of pretexts this new attitude of wanting to keep me out of the interview room worried me not a little. Now I had an animal to look after, at least until I could find someone to foist it on. While rattling back towards Mill House through a fresh offering of drizzle from the man upstairs I couldn’t help marvelling at how, since answering that dreaded phone call from Griffin’s on that stormy morning, when I had nothing more hectic planned than squeezing a tube of cobalt blue, my life had suddenly become rather crowded. Sometimes though you just couldn’t back out or delegate. Serenity lay at the other end of burglary and – I was getting to know myself – a certain amount of mayhem.
I parked the Landy in the puddle-pocked yard close to the door and got out, walked round to the other side and opened the door for the cat to jump out. He looked at me with almond-shaped eyes of palest green, then looked past me left and right, sniffed, meowed and didn’t budge. ‘It’s just a bit of rain,’ I chided, ‘don’t be pathetic.’ He retreated into the furthest corner. I grabbed him. He scrabbled and clawed up my jacket and meowed. I carried him like a squirming baby indoors and set him down on the stone-flagged floor of the hall. He began sniffing around at once and cautiously inspected every nook and cranny. If he was going to give the whole of Mill House this kind of treatment he’d be a very busy cat for a few days. Annis appeared from the direction of the kitchen, having heard me suggest to the cat he may go ahead and spray my carpets if he was tired of life, and then started making exactly the same noises Gem and the constable had made. It had to be a genetic thing.
‘What’s his name? Kittykittykitty.’
‘He hasn’t got one and he won’t need one since he’s not staying. He’s just a refugee. He used to belong to the dead guy.’
‘Poor thing, lost your daddy.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Look at this as a transit camp,’ I told the cat as I squeezed past the mutual admiration society. ‘A clearing house.’
‘How can you be so cruel? You could call him Tiddles.’
‘No chance!’ Last thing I saw when I slipped round the corner was Annis hugging him to her chest and examining his bits. As if I didn’t have enough competition already. I had nearly made it to the kitchen when she called me back.
‘Did you bring any cat food?’
I walked back warily. ‘Cat food?’
‘Cat – meow – hunger – food. Cat food.’
‘Can’t he eat what we’re having?’
‘Pumpkin, sweet potato and banana curry?’
‘Ah.’
‘So then you’d better go and get some. I think he’s hungry.’ The cat
looked at me from the safety of her arms and meowed his agreement.
It had started.
Chapter Eleven
‘If it’s Thursday then it must be burglary,’ Annis murmured, wrapping her warm limbs tighter around me and snuggling her face deeper into my shoulder. It was still early, judging by the thin quality of the light, and I was wondering whether it was time for breakfast yet when I heard a scrabbling noise at the door. I saw the brass door handle move a little, then stop, then silence. Interesting. Not interesting enough to let go of the woman in my arms – not many things were – but still noteworthy that the nameless cat could stretch that high. More scrabbling. The door handle dipped, the door opened a few inches. I briefly saw the cat hang from his front paws on the handle, then drop out of sight. The door closed. Seconds later the thing had jumped on the bed and was walking confidently all over us.
‘Annis, the cat can open doors,’ I said in alarm.
‘Great. We could call him Paws.’
‘No chance.’
‘Let’s try and teach him to warm croissants then . . .’
It was over a breakfast of said croissants, heated in the oven without feline help, that I sought once more to simplify my life. I called Giles Haarbottle at Griffin’s and told him again that I was now convinced Lane was kosher.
‘All right, if you say so, but I don’t believe a word of it. Ah well, you can’t win them all. Sometimes that’s just how the cookie crumbles, you win some, you lose some.’
‘Mr Haarbottle, there are only so many clichés I can handle at breakfast time . . .’
‘Breakfast time? I’ve been at work for hours,’ he complained. ‘It’s the early bird that catches the worm, you know?’
‘But it’s the early worm that gets caught. And remember, it’s the second mouse that gets the cheese: I’ll send you my invoice.’
As soon as I cut the connection the phone rang. It was Sergeant Hayes. ‘Good news, Honeysett. They released what’s left of your car. What’s more they delivered it back here, which was kind of them, but we want you to pick it up pronto. Before traffic decide it’s not roadworthy, which I’m sure it isn’t.’
‘I’m on my way,’ I promised, not entirely truthfully, since it suddenly dawned on me that the keys hadn’t been in the ignition when it was found and I didn’t have the foggiest where the spare set might be.
It took nearly an hour and several upended drawers to locate them. They were hiding in a little wooden box along with a book of matches from a Turkish seaside restaurant, a champagne cork with lipstick marks and a dead beetle. If there was a story behind this then I didn’t remember it. By the time I got back downstairs, triumphantly waving the keys and expecting a lift to the station, Annis had gone out.
Another expensive taxi ride later and I was reunited with the DS. The bonnet was crinkled and one headlight smashed, the driver side was scratched and dented, and there was a star-shaped crack in the windscreen but I greeted the poor thing like an old friend. Miraculously the CD player was still there and not a single disc was missing. The rest of my possessions, Dictaphone, camcorder, my lightweight binoculars, were handed to me in a clear plastic bag. Nothing had been stolen. Nothing had even been touched. The car had been cleaned by the technicians, on the inside only, with some stuff that possibly smelled worse than death but faint stains still remained on the upholstery. I drove home with all windows open, with Radiohead at a satisfying volume level, wondering if anyone might deign to let me know who Albert really was and how he ended up in my car. I would go and ask Gemma Stone again, who obviously knew more about it then she let on, but not today. Needham and Deeks seemed to have decided I had nothing to do with it and anyway I had to cook supper for three, then commit burglary. Now, what was appropriate food for a break-in? Something light – you won’t feel much like climbing through windows after a three course meal that includes treacle tart – but at the same time sustaining – you don’t want your stomach to start growling halfway through. Raiding Telfer’s fridge really wasn’t part of the deal. It would be bad enough to come home and find your safe had been cleaned out.
I stood in the open kitchen door, watching the rain drown what was once a thriving herb garden, and called Jill. We had spoken every day, during which time she had shown a heartbreaking composure. ‘It’s tonight, isn’t it? I never wished anyone luck for a burglary before but there it is, good luck, Chris.’
I promised to call again as soon as there was any news.
Once we were all assembled in the kitchen, Tim already dressed in black and Annis with her hair in a tight plait, I went to work. Cooking in the face of adversity. I reckoned the wok was as hot as it would go and the water in the large saucepan was seething. I dropped a bundle of egg noodles into it. Then I poured oil into the wok, quickly followed by shredded spring onion, ginger and garlic. Keeping everything moving round in the pan I threw in shitake mushrooms dusted with corn flour and pak choi stalks. A good slug of rice wine and a few squirts of soy, then the torn leaves of the pak choi and some chili sauce. By the time the leaves had wilted to a glossy dark green it was ready to serve. In and out in three minutes like a good burglar. We slurped the noodles and chased what Tim insisted on calling shit-ache mushroom with chopsticks until we had finished every bit of it.
Tim dispelled my last-minute doubts. ‘It should be so hard. If Telfer goes playing cards at the Blathwayt Arms tonight like the man promised then we’ll be all right. It’s just a house with a safe, not the Royal Mint.’
Unless of course he had left it well guarded or installed some bizarrely sophisticated alarm system or had filled the house with trained attack dogs or kept a pet leopard or . . . I just couldn’t help fretting while Annis and I drove to the Blathwayt Arms high on Lansdown after dark. Tim had gone ahead to the Telfer house alone. I stopped the car by the side of the road a hundred yards or so from the pub so it wouldn’t attract attention.
‘I’ll just check he’s really here and looks like he’s enjoying himself, then we’ll zoom down and join Tim.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ Annis said quickly. ‘This car smells bad, it needs a clean. Also a new headlight, windscreen replaced, the bonnet straightened out and the side resprayed.’
‘Tell me something I don’t know.’
‘You’ve got soy sauce on your shirt.’
The Blathwayt was a large out-of-town pub with an over-ambitious car park and catered mainly to racecourse punters and golfers. It had recently left exotic 1970s fare like prawn cocktail and surf ’n’ turf-style nonsense behind and had gone down the ‘pan fried’ scallop/braised lamb with ‘mint jus’ road. I vaguely knew what Telfer looked like from seeing his picture in the papers but unfortunately had no idea what car he drove, which would have been helpful. There were three yellow cars parked outside. We pushed through the door and into the warm and cosily lit bar and dining room. There was a large fire burning in the grate. Several tables were taken by couples and families; none of them looked like gangsters. If Telfer was there to play cards and money was changing hands then the game would take place away from the public area in a room upstairs. Just when I was wondering how to go about this a waiter made for the stairs with a large tray full of a variety of drinks, all of them extremely blokish-looking, i.e. there wasn’t a slice of lemon or paper parasol in sight. I intercepted him at the foot of the stairs.
‘Has the Telfer party arrived yet?’
‘Yes, a few minutes ago.’
‘Mr Telfer himself, too?’
‘Naturally. May I ask . . .’ He looked at me with badly disguised irritation; the tray had to weigh a ton. I counted eighteen drinks. Rather a large number for a card game, I thought, until I realized that there were probably three of everything – they ordered ahead to be undisturbed for a while.
‘I had hoped to catch Mr Telfer before the game started but I really wouldn’t want to disturb him. When do they normally finish?’
‘It’s a private party so they can go on as long as they like but
they usually finish around midnight.’
I thanked him and we left. There’d be plenty of time then. I called Tim on his mobile and told him the news he’d been waiting for. ‘It’s just as well, I’ve set the train in motion. You know where to find me.’
I did. After parking the DS in Charlcombe Lane we climbed up to Telfer’s property the way we had come when we recced the place and caught up with Tim by the hole in the hedge. It was dark and our legs were damp from the grass but for once it wasn’t raining. Worryingly there were lights showing all over the house.
‘Do you think there’s someone in or is it just for show?’ I asked.
‘Oh, there’s someone in, I always figured he would leave someone here. It’s the same slob we encountered last time. We’ll have no problems tonight.’
‘I wish I shared your optimism. So what kind of train were you talking about?’ I whispered.
‘What?’
