To Catch a Cat

by Marian Babson

  ‘You don’t understand.’ Nils exhaled audibly, something nasty flashed in his eyes. ‘I mean, I’ll need a key, so that I can come and go without bothering you at odd hours. You do have a spare key?’

  ‘Oh! Oh, sorry. Of course. I’ll just go and – ’ Another, sharper, nudge from Edith’s toe stopped him. He understood and quite agreed. He wouldn’t want to be left alone with Nils himself right at this moment.

  ‘Take mine.’ He wrenched the house key off his key chain. ‘I’ll get myself the spare one later.’ He handed it over.

  ‘Thanks. I’m sorry to be such a nuisance. You’ll probably be asleep when I get back, so I’ll say good-night now.’

  ‘Erm, yes, good-night. Sleep tight. I mean …’ But the front door had already shut behind Nils. With any luck, he hadn’t heard Edward’s faux pas.

  There was a long thoughtful silence before Edith spoke.

  ‘Edward, for heaven’s sake, what did you say when you invited him? How long does he expect to stay here?’

  11

  Mags stared down at the dishes neatly stacked in the sink, at first unable to identify what was bothering her. It had been very thoughtful of Robin to undertake the little chore of carrying the dishes into the kitchen for her. He had even offered to wash and dry them all by himself. An offer gratefully received, but prudently refused. They were her best dishes and she needed to know a little more about Robin’s domestic training before she turned him loose on them. Apart from which, there was the danger that he might be willing – but clumsy. They were really just getting to know each other.

  Mags lifted each dish and scanned it anxiously for chips. Robin had been awfully anxious to get back to his room, once he had dumped the dishes in the kitchen. Guilty conscience? Had he wanted to get out of the way before she discovered any damage he had done?

  But the dishes were clean and undamaged. Eva had trained him well. He had even rinsed them, in the way one would do before stacking them in the dishwasher. Dishwasher! Mags sniffed. That clapped-out old wreck must have been one of the first manufactured and, naturally, it no longer worked. They should have checked it before they moved in and perhaps arranged some sort of discount on the rent. That was the trouble with all these rented places – at least, the ones they could afford – there was always something wrong. Appliances that didn’t work, furniture that collapsed unless treated like fragile porcelain, heavy peasant pottery dishes riddled with cracks and chips where germs could lurk, threadbare carpets with revolting designs. Sometimes she wondered how much longer she could stand it.

  For an instant, a vision of home rose up before her: the beautifully proportioned, well-lit rooms, the faint scent of furniture polish and pot-pourri, spotless net curtains veiling windows that looked out on to green lawn and colourful floral borders, furniture that mixed the antique with the best-of-its-kind modern. For another instant, she couldn’t imagine why she had ever left.

  Oh, yes. Josh, of course. At least, it had been ‘of course’ then. He’d been so different from any of the boys she knew, so exciting, with a world before him that he was offering to share with her. The fact that he also offered an escape from, and rebellion against, her mother was an added bonus. Or so it had seemed.

  That world had run out of excitement and promise pretty quickly. There had been those first two exciting jobs Josh had been contracted for, then everything had gone wrong and life had been downwardly mobile ever since. An embittered Josh was even more difficult to live with than a cock-a-hoop one. His colleagues didn’t like his behaviour or his attitude, either; it wasn’t their fault that he had made a mess of things.

  But sometimes he was still so sweet and thoughtful, the way he had been in the beginning. Poor Josh, it wasn’t really his fault, either. He was caught up in a vicious circle. The worse his nerves were, the more obnoxious he became, and the more obnoxious he became, the worse his nerves got as his co-workers reacted with resentment. And so, they had spiralled downwards, each job more obscure than the last, each living place worse than the previous one. The next step was a decaying caravan on the edge of a third-rate caravan park at the end of the world.

  She couldn’t leave him now, even if she’d wanted to. You can’t quit on a losing streak, or hit a man below the belt when he is down. Such sentiments might be outdated, but they had been bred innto the bone of her –

  Bone! That was it! That was what had been bothering her.

  She whirled and stamped down on the treadle of the garbage bin. The lid flew up, revealing once again what she had seen when she had tossed their paper napkins inside: nothing!

  They had had lamb cutlets for dinner. What had Robin done with the bones?

  Not the garbage disposal unit, she prayed. Please, no, not that! It was almost the only thing in this hell-hole that still worked properly. He hadn’t wrecked it?

  Wouldn’t she have heard something? Some terrible grinding scream as bones and blades collided with disastrous results?

  But she had gone to the bathroom and, when she had emerged, the table had already been cleared and Robin, with an evasive nervous smile, was already darting up the stairs to his room.

  Almost, she could convince herself that she had heard a strange unearthly howl above the sound of flushing water. Or perhaps Josh had slammed the door behind him on his way out.

  ‘Robin!’ she screamed, rushing to the foot of the stairs. ‘Robin, come down here!’

  At the sound of a woman’s voice, Leif Eriksson lifted his head and looked towards the door hopefully. As the voice sounded again, he abandoned hope and returned to the pile of bones.

  ‘It isn’t her.’ Robin stroked the soft back gently. ‘It can’t ever be her again. It’s only Auntie Mags. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Rob-biin …’ The voice was increasingly impatient. ‘Are you up there?’

  ‘I’m coming!’ he called, dashing through the door and closing it firmly behind him. He thundered down the stairs and came to an abrupt halt in front of Mags. ‘I’m here!’

  ‘You might answer sooner,’ she grumbled. ‘I wasn’t sure you were there. You’re not to go out without telling me, you know.’

  ‘I know. I don’t.’ He smiled tentatively, hoping he didn’t look guilty. Had she heard the cat meowing while he was out? Had she discovered the missing cigarettes? He had never before had so much to feel guilty about. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing, I hope.’ Mags took a deep breath and tried to keep calm. ‘Just tell me you didn’t put those bones through the waste disposal. You didn’t, did you?’

  ‘Bones?’ It had never occurred to him to feel guilty about them. Who’d want a pile of old bones? ‘What waste disposal?’

  ‘All right.’ Mags exhaled and tried not to be too optimistic too soon. ‘I’m not angry. Just tell me what you did with them. They’re not in the garbage bin.’

  ‘You mean those old chop bones we had for dinner? You want them?’ And he’d thought Josh was weird. Now he was starting to think that maybe Josh and Auntie Mags were well matched.

  ‘I don’t want them. I just want to know what you did with them. You did take them, didn’t you?’ Who else would have? Certainly not Josh. ‘What did you do with them?’

  ‘I, um, took them upstairs.’

  ‘Why – ?’ Mags took another deep breath and spoke with exaggerated patience. ‘Why did you take those bones upstairs?’

  ‘I, um …’ Robin looked around for inspiration. ‘I wanted to make something with them.’

  ‘Make something?’ Mags closed her eyes against unimaginable horrors. What were they teaching kids on children’s TV programmes these days? In her time, creativity had centred largely on perpetrating grotesque constructions out of empty cardboard egg cartons. ‘What can you make with half a dozen greasy bones?’

  ‘Um …’ Robin’s inventiveness failed him. ‘Um … it was going to be a surprise.’

  ‘No! I don’t want to be surprised! Not ever!’ Her voice was shrill and she saw Robin back away from her.
‘I mean – ’ She bit down on panic. ‘It was sweet of you to think about a surprise but, really, I hate surprises.’

  ‘All right.’ His eyes were wary, he seemed ready to turn and flee. She hadn’t meant to frighten him, but he had frightened her. He still did.

  ‘Robin,’ she said softly. ‘Go and bring me those bones. Please. Now.’

  ‘Now?’ Leif had hurled himself on those bones as though he had never seen anything so delicious in his life. He had hunched over them defensively and even growled a couple of times. Robin didn’t relish the idea of trying to take them away from him until he had well and truly finished with them.

  ‘Yes, now.’ Mags sighed, she didn’t want to seem unreasonable. ‘You see,’ she explained, ‘they’re dirty, greasy - they’ll leave spots anywhere you put them down.’ (Not on the bedspread. Please, not on the bedspread.) ‘And they’ll attract insects and mice – ’

  ‘Not mice.’ Robin’s lips twitched. Was he laughing at her? Or at some private thought of his own? Had he wrapped up the bones? Or shut them in a box?

  ‘Yes, mice. Perhaps even rats – we’re near the water, you know.’ Echoes of her own childhood came back to her as she spoke, almost in the same tones her mother had used in warning them of life’s unsuspected dangers in such things as taking food to their bedrooms. ‘They don’t have any trouble climbing stairs, you know. The house can be overrun with them before we know it. And this place is bad enough as it is – ’ She broke off, conscious that such a statement might be construed as criticism of Josh or, at the least, disloyalty.

  Robin did not appear to have noticed. He had a distant look in his eyes and his head was cocked, as though listening to something no one else could hear.

  Or could they? Was that a faint scrabbling sound coming from overhead? No, no, it couldn’t be. Her imagination was working overtime, that was all. Hordes of vermin were not instantly invading the house. Even the most ravenous rats would not have had time to discover food that had only been missing for half an hour.

  ‘Just go and bring me those bones!’ She called on another of her mother’s tones: the no-nonsense, no-argument, do-as-I-say one that brooked no resistance. She could even feel her facial muscles falling into the same lines of imperious disapproval.

  However, it worked. Robin nodded acceptance and turned towards the stairs, dragging his feet, but moving in the right direction.

  The telephone startled her. No one ever called them. Unless Josh had forgotten something and wanted her to bring it to the station. Her steps almost as reluctant as Robin’s, she crossed to the telephone. ‘Hello?’

  How could tones so high and crystal clear sound so much like a death knell tolling in her ear?

  ‘Yes … yes, he is.’ How had she found out? ‘Yes … all right … just a minute.’ Robin already had his foot on the bottom step.

  ‘Robin,’ she called. ‘Never mind that for a minute. Come here and say hello to your grandmother.’

  12

  He hadn’t intended to come back here, not consciously. He hadn’t been thinking about where he was going at all and now he found that his feet had automatically carried him in the old familiar direction and he was home. What had been home.

  Nils gazed at the property assessingly from the opposite side of the street, trying to view it with the eyes of a stranger. How would it appear to those who came to look at the house with the idea of buying it?

  If he did say so himself, it was a fine-looking establishment. Tudorbethan – and nothing wrong with that, it was a very popular style – three storeys, double garage attached with door opening into the kitchen. Ingrid had been talking about covering the garage roof with a deck and replacing the guest room window with a french window opening on to the flat roof which she would turn into a roof terrace.

  Ingrid. Would the knowledge that the previous lady of the house had been bludgeoned to death in the master bedroom put off prospective buyers?

  Perhaps he should have that enormous tree cut down so that the overhanging branches were no longer an invitation to intruders to climb up and gain entry to the house. On the other hand, the tree was so old that there was probably a preservation order on it – or would be, if the nosy neighbours got wind of any intention to destroy it. Besides, it was rather picturesque. Best to leave it to the new owner to decide its fate.

  How soon could he put the place on the market?

  Would it look suspiciously greedy if he did so immediately? Or would people understand that he couldn’t force himself to go on living in that house again after what had happened in it?

  He had to admit that the landscaping left something to be desired right now. The autumn-blowsy flowers bordering the front path were straggly and tatty, the lawn was littered with dead leaves and a faint look of decrepitude was creeping over the whole property. It was Ingrid who had been the one for rushing out and dead-heading fading blossoms the instant they began to fade, for pushing the lawn mower over the grass and raking up the fallen leaves. The back garden looked even worse. He felt a surge of irritation. Ingrid had been going to clean up the garden and prepare it for the winter a couple of weeks ago, but had got sidetracked over getting the cat ready to compete in some upcoming cat show.

  Never mind that now. He tried to push aside the thoughts crowding in and concentrate on the more immediate matter.

  Spring was supposed to be the best time to sell a house, wasn’t it? The gardens looked their best then, the summer lay ahead, optimism was in the air and people were in a buying mood. Besides, it might take that long before the will went through probate and he was able to do what he planned. And memories were short. Ingrid’s death would just be a fading memory by then, not strong enough to put off purchasers who really liked the house.

  Ingrid … the cat … the intruder. The problem that was not going to go away … the sword of Damocles hanging over his head.

  The intruder … the witness. How much had that kid seen? Heard? Would the police believe the testimony of a burglar; a law-breaker in his own right? He had to find that kid first and silence him.

  Across the street, a car drew up and disgorged two men carrying cameras. They stood on the pavement and took several pictures of the house, then turned and looked up and down the street, presumably hoping for neighbours to interview.

  Nils drew back into the shadows. Another reason for waiting until spring; the media would have lost interest by then. New scandals would be claiming their attention … new murders. No one would worry about the fate of a mere house, even though it was the scene of the crime. It was not as though the house had been the setting for a succession of lurid murders and apt to attract so much prurient attention that the only thing to be done with it was to pull it down.

  No, the house was a valuable asset. Give it time and it would return to its full value. With enough time, perhaps another century, it might even become one of those historic sites featured in tours of famous crime locations.

  Not famous, no. Not lasting infamy. He didn’t want that. He just wanted it all to die down, be forgotten.

  Another car pulled up behind the first. Quite a different type of car. Nils’s upper lip drew back in an instinctive sneer. It was a very old model, hints of rust clinging to its edges, a crack across one side window, the rear-view mirror wobbling in its bracket. It would undoubtedly fail its next MOT: it was surprising that it had passed the current one.

  The man stepping out of it wasn’t much better. There was something faintly passé about him: the clothes had been cutting edge a few years ago, the hair was too long without being unkempt enough. Someone clinging to a time, a mindset, perhaps a career, that had already passed him by.

  The man pulled something from his pocket and frowned portentously at the house. The two cameramen looked at him and edged closer. He acknowledged them with a brief nod, then began speaking softly into the object in his hand. The cameramen seemed to be debating as to whether or not it was worth taking any shots of him. They split the difference. One too
k a shot, the other advanced up the path, dropped to one knee and angled his camera upwards for the sort of atmospheric shot that would make the house look looming and sinister.

  Nils frowned. Unpleasant pictures, if published, might linger in the memory of those who saw them, perhaps to surface again when the house was opened to prospective buyers. Would it be a good idea to consult a lawyer about restraining writs – or would that just antagonise the media and perhaps send them snooping around even more? No, leave well alone, the pictures might never be published. With luck, some international cataclysm might intervene and all this would be relegated to a few lines in the back pages of the national press, slipping out of the television coverage completely. Only the local press would be interested and who paid any attention to them?

  They were paying attention to each other. The two first arrivals were casually edging closer to the man with the microphone, circling like mongrel dogs deciding whether or not to start a fight.

  Mongrel dogs … pedigree cats. The association leaped into his mind and he looked around uneasily. Where was that damned Leif Eriksson?

  There was a rustling in the dry leaves under the holly hedge. He whirled to face the sound, peering intently into the shadows, catching a glimpse of greyish fur. His hands twitched as though he could feel the soft fur and the small fragile bones of the neck between them.

  ‘Come on, you bastard,’ he muttered softly. ‘Come to your Daddy.’

  A squirrel darted out from the underbrush and scurried across the lawn to disappear around the corner of the house.

  Nils recoiled involuntarily, his heart lurched violently and began pounding in a fast irregular rhythm that wouldn’t slow down. His hands, cheated of their prey, began trembling.

  Steady … steady. He forced himself to take deep slow breaths. Calm … calm … keep calm. His nerves were shot to hell. He wanted this to be over, his life to settle down into a peaceful routine again. A routine of his own making, not one dictated by a rich spoiled wife and her bloody useless, equally spoiled cat.