To Catch a Cat

by Marian Babson

  Of course, there was more to an animal than just the bones - there were all the soft vulnerable things in its middle. Was something vital crushed or damaged?

  He didn’t know. He was suddenly, violently, angry with himself. He didn’t know enough to be of any real help. He didn’t know anything. He was stupid, stupid, stupid! And, because he was so useless, the cat might die.

  He slammed his clenched fist down and struck the hard sharp object he had released from Leif’s neck. He lifted it up and stared at the glittering prize now dangling from his hand. Gold and diamonds and rubies. Everybody knew the Nordlings had heaps and heaps of money – it had to be real.

  Maybe that was why Mr Nordling had been so mad at his wife. Playing with her cat by placing precious jewels around its neck might have driven him into that murderous frenzy.

  Only … now he had Mrs Nordling’s precious bracelet. And Mrs Nordling’s cherished cat.

  And Mr Nordling wasn’t going to like it. He was going to want to get both of them back.

  5

  Nils carefully avoided looking at the body lying between himself and the door. It was nothing to do with him. It must come as a terrible shock when he eventually returned home and discovered it.

  He’d taken the precaution of putting on a pair of black leather gloves and now he opened the jewellery box and upended it into the pillowcase, watching impassively as the glittering shower of gems cascaded in. They were nothing to do with him, either.

  Still carrying his shoes (they could trace shoes by some unnoticeable pattern on the soles, couldn’t they?), he switched off the light, then recalled hastily that he shouldn’t and switched it back on. A thin film of sweat broke out on his forehead – there were so many things you had to think about. Things that might trap you.

  At the bottom of the stairs, he put on his shoes, picked up the pillowcase full of loot again and went out to his car. At first, he drove around aimlessly, mentally trying out bits of his story as he would relate it to the police, rehearsing aloud the intonation, the expressions, the break in his voice.

  Should he cry? Or would that be going too far? Perhaps the blank incredulous look, the breaking off and staring into space, the man in deep shock, would be the best card to play. Too much emotion made people uncomfortable.

  Uncomfortable people looked around for a distraction. If they happened to be the police, they might pay closer attention to their investigation, scrutinise everything too closely.

  Loose ends. How many loose ends had he left?

  So far as he knew, only that unexpected witness.

  The thought that had been gnawing at the darkest corner of his mind broke into the open. Now that he had more time, he allowed himself to examine it thoroughly – and to consider all of the implications.

  A witness. Someone who had heard Ingrid’s screams. Someone who had seen him naked and blood-splattered. Someone who could testify against him at a murder trial. Someone who knew that a murder had been committed.

  Concentrate, Nils, think. What did that witness look like? Who was he?

  No one he knew, he was sure of that. No one he had ever seen before. But he didn’t know all that many people in this miserable town Ingrid had insisted on moving to when she had inherited her aunt’s house here. Ingrid, with her charity work, her coffee mornings, her cat shows, was the one who had settled comfortably into the dreary life of this dead-and-alive hole.

  He wrenched his mind away from that dangerous detour and cast it back into the dark hallway, lit only by the light from the room behind him. In that brief instant before he had been blinded by the dazzling light striking his eyes, he had seen a small crouching shape.

  A kid? This town was full of kids – and they all looked alike to him.

  But there had been something odd about this kid. He was … misshapen. A hunchback?

  No … He replayed the memory of the barely glimpsed form. The lump had been on the chest, not the back.

  A female? There was nothing to say that a girl couldn’t be as opportunistic a cat burglar as a boy but, somehow, he didn’t think it was a girl.

  Why not? Again, he visualised the elongated shadow that had stretched, lurching, down the front path. Almost shapeless, except for the lumpy blob slung low on its chest, the arms clutching it tightly.

  What had the kid stolen before being discovered?

  Instinctively, Nils glanced into the back seat where he had tossed the pillowcase filled with valuables. He had gathered up everything that might have tempted a thief, disdaining the TV and paintings as not being portable enough, but including Ingrid’s jewellery. So, what else was left?

  Everything that might have tempted a thief had still been in place for him to take. He shuddered now at the memory of going back through the bedroom, into the dressing room, and emptying Ingrid’s jewel case, but it had been necessary to underline the fact that she had been attacked because she had discovered the burglar at work.

  Nothing had been missing before he set to work.

  But everything was missing now – and he had to dispose of it all. He swung the car in the direction of the deserted old stone quarry. The water was cold and deep there. It had engulfed old cars, bicycles, bedsprings and, doubtless, the odd body. It would swallow a pillowcase full of loot without even a ripple.

  He tied a knot in the pillowcase and hurled it as far out as he could, without a moment’s hesitation. He never wanted to see any of those things again – they had all belonged to Ingrid and, anyway, the insurance company would pay up on them.

  His only regret was that bloody Leif Eriksson wasn’t in the pillowcase, too, sinking down into the icy depths, fighting for the breath he would never get again.

  The cat! That was what was missing!

  He’d assumed that it had slunk off to lick its wounds after he had hurled it out of the bedroom. Now he began to have his doubts.

  He had thrown it with all his might, registering with satisfaction the dull thud as it had hit the wall. Then Ingrid had hurled herself at him in full attack. He had planned to go back and finish the cat later – but first, he’d had to finish Ingrid.

  When he’d opened the door again, he’d seen the stooping figure and, yes, Leif Eriksson had no longer been on the floor.

  The kid had taken the cat. Whether out of sympathy or because he thought the cat was valuable – which it was – the kid had made off with the cat. Nils remembered now the loud howl of what he had taken to be terror just before the kid streaked off down the stairs. But it hadn’t come from the kid, it had come from the cat. Leif Eriksson.

  Much good it would do the kid. Leif Eriksson was the most photographed cat in town. Ingrid had seen to that. If the kid tried to sell it, he would be caught immediately. The same went for entering it in any cat show. Ingrid Nordling’s young Leif Eriksson had taken too many prizes to be passed off as just any new cat making its first appearance in a cat show.

  Leif Eriksson was instantly identifiable!

  The realisation struck him forcibly. He might not be able to tell one kid from another, but he’d know that damned cat anywhere!

  Find the cat and he’d find the kid. And then he could eliminate the only witness. And eliminate bloody Leif Eriksson, too.

  He savoured the thought. His fingers curled as though already tightening around the hated cat’s neck. The end of Leif Eriksson – what a satisfactory moment that would be. Second only to the satisfaction he had felt when he had realised that Ingrid had stopped breathing.

  Ingrid! It was time to go home and discover her body. And call the police. And tell his story. And set the wheels of officialdom into motion.

  A chill wind rippled the deep cold water of the quarry and sent a shiver coursing through Nils’s body.

  It was time to get out of here. It would be too ironic if he were to catch pneumonia and die just as life was opening up properly at last.

  He got back into the car and adjusted the rear-view mirror to practise a few more grief-stricken expressions befor
e he had to face the hard eyes of the law.

  After he’d taken care of that – his eyes narrowed, becoming harder than anything the law could display – he’d find the kid and the cat and take care of them.

  6

  Robin awoke slowly, as though reluctant to face the day. His arm pulled the comforting cushion closer.

  But … He swam up gradually through the layers of consciousness. But … there was something wrong about this cushion. It was strangely warm … and furry –

  He opened his eyes. The cat was staring gravely into his face. When he had gone to sleep, it had been sprawled at the foot of the bed. Now it was curled in the crook of his arm … watching him.

  As he stared back, blinking, the cat opened its mouth suddenly, displaying two rows of sharp pointed menacing teeth.

  Robin froze.

  The mouth opened wider still, the little pink tongue inside curled back, the eyes closed. The cat wasn’t about to attack – it was only yawning.

  Now it stretched, the sharp little claws appearing and disappearing again harmlessly, the back arching and relaxing.

  Robin felt himself relax, too. He watched in fascination as Leif Eriksson sat up and proceeded to give himself a slow and meticulous bath. The contortions involved finally convinced Robin that the cat had no broken bones.

  That still didn’t mean the cat wasn’t hurt. It might have been his imagination, but he thought the cat flinched and licked more cautiously at certain spots. Bruises, perhaps, where it had hit the wall.

  Did cats bruise? Once more, the helpless rage swept over him as he realised how little he knew.

  ‘I’ll find out,’ he promised softly. ‘I’ll go to the library and get some books about cats. They’ll tell me how I can help you.’

  Leif Eriksson paused in his ablutions, looked up and seemed to nod in agreement.

  ‘But first you need something to eat, don’t you?’ Even as he spoke, Robin realised that the simple act of feeding the cat would give him more information about its condition. If it ate the food, then the major part of its insides were probably all right.

  If it refused the food, they were in trouble.

  Downstairs, the sickly sweet acrid tang lingering in the air told Robin that Joshua and Mags had ended the night as he had come to learn they usually did: smoking pot. At least, Joshua did. Mags maybe not so much, she was better-tempered in the mornings.

  And that reminded him of the other requirement for his acceptance into the gang: he was supposed to bring them three sticks of pot.

  They probably thought that was the one that would stop him dead in his tracks. They didn’t know how easy it was.

  He lifted his head, listening. The house was silent. Mags and Josh were still sleeping it off, probably. They hadn’t been smoking before Robin went to bed. They thought that, if he didn’t see them, he wouldn’t know about it. He knew more than they thought.

  He knew where to look. They thought they were talking over his head with their veiled allusions, but any child who had gone through a parental divorce had learned to identify and interpret every nuance of adult conversation. And as for the subsequent courting and remarriage …

  Robin pulled his mind back from the painful subject and concentrated on present problems.

  He knew where Joshua kept his stash, all right. It was in the old Victorian tea caddy on the top shelf of the Welsh dresser.

  He carried a chair over, set it down silently and climbed up on it, stretching on tiptoe for the high shelf. The tea caddy nearly slipped from his grasp and crashed to the floor. He caught it just in time and clutched it to him, lifting the lid.

  He was in luck. It was full. Josh must have scored a hit recently. They’d never miss three. He took them out carefully and stowed them in his pyjama pocket, restored the tea caddy to its place, then replaced the chair. Now for his other mission.

  He padded into the kitchen and opened the fridge door, taking stock of its contents.

  His luck was holding. There was a roast chicken, only half consumed. No one would notice a few extra slices missing. If they did, he could say he ate them all himself and his mother would pay for it when she came back … if she came back.

  Another subject not to be contemplated at this moment.

  Cats drink milk. He concentrated on the safer subject. One he could do something about. Well, one he could probably do a little something about – until he found out more.

  He piled the hacked-off pieces of chicken into a saucer and poured a glass of milk. Once the cat had eaten the chicken, he could use the saucer for the milk. Or maybe he could pour the milk right in with the chicken. How fussy were cats, anyway?

  Meanwhile, if anyone caught him going upstairs, he could claim it was all for himself.

  No one did. The cat was asleep again on the bed. Asleep – or unconscious?

  The first sniff of chicken settled that worry. The cat lunged to his feet and gulped at the food as though he was starving.

  Perhaps he was. Who knew when he had had his last meal? Even if Mrs Nordling had fed him before she went to bed, that was a long time ago now.

  Mrs Nordling … He didn’t want to think about Mrs Nordling.

  He had begun to nibble absently on a piece of chicken but, as his stomach turned over abruptly, he replaced the chicken in the saucer where the cat snatched at it greedily.

  He didn’t really want any of the milk, either. He poured some into the saucer and felt a little better as he watched the cat lap it up eagerly. The poor thing had been parched as well as famished. It wouldn’t be surprising if it went back to sleep again after this.

  Sleep … it was a tempting thought. Robin felt his eyelids grow heavy. The bed beckoned, but only Leif Eriksson could answer its call.

  The saucer empty, the cat leaped back on the bed. Before settling down, it gazed intently at Robin, then looked from the remaining milk in the glass to the empty saucer and back again.

  ‘You want more milk?’ Robin emptied the glass into the saucer and was conscious of a warm glow of approval from the cat, just before it slumped down and closed its eyes.

  It didn’t want the milk right now, he understood, it just wanted to be sure there was some waiting for it when it awoke.

  From the room down the hall, there suddenly came sounds of stirring. Robin dressed hurriedly.

  ‘You stay here and keep quiet,’ he whispered, arranging the quilt to cover the sleeping cat. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

  As he passed the bedroom door, he shouted, ‘Auntie Mags, I’ve got to go to the library. I’ll be back soon okay?’

  He ran down the stairs and was out of the house before she had roused herself enough to answer.

  7

  ‘I … I can’t believe this! It can’t be true! I keep thinking I’ll wake up soon and find Ingrid safe beside me. Oh, God! It’s a nightmare and I can’t wake up! I can’t – ’ He allowed his voice to break and covered his face with his hands, sternly resisting the temptation to peek and see how his audience was reacting.

  ‘Steady on, old chap.’ The best thing about Edward Todmaster was that he was totally predictable. You could bet your life on what he was going to say next. ‘Let me fix you a good stiff drink. Are you sure you don’t want me to call the doctor for you? You’ve had a nasty shock, you know.’

  ‘Yes … no … I mean …’ He uncovered his face, hoping it was arranged in a suitably bearing-up-under-this-tragedy expression. ‘There’s nothing a doctor can do.’

  ‘Erm, quite.’ Edward was puce with embarrassment but, typically, persevered. ‘Not for … erm, ah …’ Edward hesitated for so long that Nils wasn’t sure he was actually going to say it. Did the fool think she had lost her name along with her life?

  ‘Not for poor Ingrid,’ Edward finished with a gasp of effort. ‘But he could do something for you. Give you something to help you sleep …’

  ‘I’d still have to wake up.’

  ‘Oh, quite, quite. But it would tide you over these first few d
ays … nights. Time is the great healer, you know.’

  ‘Revenge might heal me more.’ For a moment, the fantasy killer became real, someone to be caught, to be punished for what he had done to Ingrid. ‘If I could only get my hands on him – ’

  ‘Try not to think about it.’

  ‘Not think about it? You didn’t see her. The blood … the bruises … the open eyes …’ He covered his own eyes again, in earnest this time. Would he be able to sleep?

  Not in that room. No, of course not. The question wouldn’t arise for some time yet. The bedroom was still sealed off. The police were photographing, measuring, prying into drawers and corners, and carrying out all the grubby, petty, small-minded routines they imagined might lead them to the identity of the anonymous burglar who had violated the Nordling home. No wonder people called them Plods.

  ‘Come back to my place.’ Good Old Edward was still running true to form. ‘You can’t stay here tonight … alone.’

  ‘I – I don’t know?’ He tried to react with surprise, gratitude and bewilderment. Why else did that fool Edward think he had called him? ‘It’s kind of you – ’

  ‘Nothing of the sort, old chap. You’d do the same for me. I mean, if the circumstances were reversed – I mean – ’ Edward broke off, visibly sweating.

  ‘Yes … yes. I suppose you’re right …’

  ‘Of course I am.’ Edward appeared to refrain with an effort from giving him a hearty slap on the back. ‘See if the police will let you pack a few things, otherwise you can borrow a pair of my pyjamas and a spare dressing-gown. Don’t think anything else of mine would fit you, though.’ Edward was more comfortable and assured when dwelling on practical matters. ‘See here, would you like me to have a word with the coppers for you?’

  ‘I – I don’t know.’ He didn’t. Would a traumatised newly created widower allow his old friend to take over for him? Or would he try to do things for himself, still trying to exert some control over an impossible situation? Would he be willing to move in with a friend? Or would he want to be alone? ‘I – I can’t think!’