by James Barrie
When Emily came downstairs five minutes later, Theodore was still sitting on the table in front of Jonathan.
‘Are you two friends now?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I think we are,’ Jonathan said, rubbing Theodore’s ears. ‘Look he brought me a present.’
He lifted up the grubby sausage to show Emily.
‘He brought you a sausage?’
‘Yes, he brought it in and dropped it on the paper. He must have raided someone’s barbeque. And look: he’s singed his fur and burnt his nose.’
Emily picked Theodore up and examined him.
‘It does look a bit sore.’
‘He’s a very brave cat,’ Jonathan said.
‘Well, I think he likes you now.’
Emily hugged Theodore to her. ‘It took a little bit of time for him to get used to you,’ she said, ‘but he likes you now.’
‘Well, I’m glad I’ve passed the Theodore Test,’ Jonathan said.
He picked up the sausage and carried it out to the backyard.
Smoke from barbeques still hung heavy in the air. He checked that Theodore was not watching as he put the sausage in the outside bin. From down the hill he heard two men arguing.
A lovers’ quarrel, he thought, as he gently replaced the bin lid.
Wendy Makes a Confession
As summer progressed there was little development in the murder case, either by the police or Theodore. While weeks earlier, it was all that the locals had talked about, it had now evaporated from idle tongues like spring puddles dried out by the summer sun.
While the case file was kept open and any new leads followed up by the police, it seemed more and more unlikely that they would ever catch the Clementhorpe Killer.
It was left to Theodore to carry on the investigation on his own.
He was sitting on the back wall of Wendy Morris’s house, eavesdropping as Wendy chatted to her friend Irene.
‘Have another biscuit,’ Wendy said, gesturing to the plate in the middle of the oval table.
‘Don’t mind if I do,’ Irene said, taking a Viscount. ‘I do like a Viscount,’ she said, pronouncing the ‘s’.
‘There was a thing on the radio this morning about a dead pigeon,’ Irene said, her mouth full of biscuit. ‘They went and found a dead pigeon down a chimney somewhere down south. Well, the pigeon had a message strapped to its leg in a little canister or something. But the message was in code so they don’t know what it said... They reckon it had been there since the war.’
‘Let’s hope the message wasn’t important,’ Wendy said.
Irene took a magazine from a pile on the side board. The title read Gruesome Scenes.
‘I don’t know how you can read these,’ she said, flicking through the magazine.
‘I used to read them when I couldn’t sleep,’ Wendy said. ‘But I don’t have the stomach for them anymore. I’m going to take them down the charity shop on Bishopthorpe Road... Been having a clear out.’
‘The Deep Fat Fryer,’ Irene read, her face in the magazine.
‘Oh, that’s a good one. He was the one that smothered his wife in her sleep,’ Wendy said.
‘Smothered his wife, did he?’ Irene said.
Bill chopped up her body into small parts and started to feed them to his dog. However, the dog turned up its nose at the chunks of raw human flesh, having previously only ever eaten processed dog food. The dismembered body parts were left rotting in the yard. Realizing that the fleshy morsels might begin to attract unwanted attention and flies, he took out his deep fryer and fried them up in beer batter.
While they were cooking, the dog began to take an interest, drooling onto the kitchen linoleum. The husband put two pieces of deep fried arm in the dog’s bowl, and within five minutes the bowl had been licked clean.
For the next week the dog devoured his former mistress, though it never made the connection.
What the dog wouldn’t eat, Bill put beneath the floor boards. However, he was not a carpenter by trade, and when the police came round, at the request of his wife’s sister, a bouncy floorboard gave him away.
‘Sounds absolutely gruesome,’ Irene said, her face still stuck in the magazine. ‘Can I borrow it?’
‘Of course,’ Wendy said, picking out another magazine. ‘But this one here’s a good one.’
Irene took the proffered magazine from Wendy.
‘Bonfire Jack,’ she read.
The local girls never took to Jack. ‘There was something odd about him, they would all later say,’ Irene read aloud.
So Jack imported a wife from Thailand. However, she overdid his steak one day (‘Do you not understand what medium rare means?’) and so he strangled her, doused her with petrol and put her on the bonfire at the bottom of his garden.
Jack soon became tired of being by himself, having now experienced the love of a woman. So he ordered another Thai wife. His neighbours never even noticed the difference.
This one fared better. She lasted a few months. But then one day she scorched a hole in one of Jack’s shirts, having being distracted by the Australian soap opera she had started to watch in the late afternoons. Jack strangled her and added her to his bonfire that was always smouldering away at the bottom of his garden.
The third wife was untidy and within a week was on the bonfire, with the other two. He considered asking for his money back over that one but thought questions might be asked by the agency.
Jack would have ordered a fourth had a neighbour not complained to the council about the smoke. It was ruining her washing, she’d said. The Environmental Health Officer was confronted by the charred corpses when he paid an unannounced visit one morning while Jack was out at work.
‘I’ll take that one too,’ Irene said.
‘The Mexborough Chainsaw Mass Killer,’ Wendy said, pushing another magazine onto Irene.
The peaceful South Yorkshire town of Mexborough was infamous for fifteen minutes in the 1980s following a killing spree in the town centre. Archibald Templeton, a diagnosed schizophrenic in his mid-thirties, bought a chainsaw, filled it with petrol and headed into town. He first called in at the post office on Main Street, where he butchered twenty people, mainly pensioners. Once he had finished at the post office, the inside of which could only be described as a blood bath, he headed past Teddy’s Amusements, through the pedestrianized centre, where he cut up any person not fast enough to get out of his way. Body parts lay scattered where they fell.
The killing spree was brought to a dramatic end in front of the Boy and Barrel when Archibald took the chainsaw to his own head.
The street where Archie put an end to his sad life is now named Hope Street, and the town’s Heritage Society have done their utmost to remove all traces of the bloody slaughter from the history books.
‘I was wondering why I’d not heard of that one,’ Irene said.
‘There’s the festive special here,’ Wendy said, waving another magazine at Irene.
‘The Santa Claus Killer,’ Irene read, taking a sharp intake of breath. ‘No… I think I’ll just take these for now.’
‘Suit yourself,’ Wendy said.
She took a gulp of tea and looked out of her kitchen window. Her eyes met Theodore’s.
‘That girl’s cat is back,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why it bothers now. There’s no pigeons left. That black cat had the last one.’
‘It’s just curious,’ Irene said.
‘Well, you know what they say,’ Wendy said. ‘Curiosity…’
‘Yes, I know,’ Irene interrupted before Wendy could continue.
‘Talking of which – I think you should tell Diane,’ Irene said. ‘Tell her what happened to Arthur. It might put her mind to rest. For all you know she might be thinking he’s going to come back some day.’
‘I’m not going to tell her,’ Wendy said. ‘That cat of hers was a menace.’
‘It’s not right though, and you know it. If you don’t tell her, I will.’
‘Don’t you go te
lling her,’ Wendy said. ‘That would really put the cat among the pigeons.’ She laughed unconvincingly.
‘It’s the right thing to do,’ Irene said.
Wendy stopped laughing. ‘I’ll pop round later,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell her myself what happened. Just you keep your nose out of it.’
‘You will?’
‘Yes, that’s what I said. I’ll tell her he was knocked down. Then at least she’ll know he’s not going to come back.’
Theodore listened, not sure if he believed Wendy.
Later he watched as Irene left through Wendy’s back gate to take Rocky for his walk.
◆◆◆
Theodore made his way along the back walls, up the hill. Ahead of him several people were coming down the hill, towards him.
Balding men with shaven heads, wearing ill-fitting suits; middle-aged women in bright summer dresses and high heels. They tottered and weaved across the cobbles. Two men stopped to urinate against a gate.
A woman in high heels and short red dress shoved soggy yellow chips into her mouth from a polystyrene tray, spilling them across the cobbles as she lurched forward. Further up the hill, a man lay on the ground, his mobile held in an outstretched hand.
Through the drunken race-goers Zeynep waddled, calling out her cat’s name. She smiled up at the grey cat as she passed.
A group of men with red faces and sunglasses then entered the alley. They carried cans of lager that they’d bought at South Bank Stores to keep them fully inebriated on their way to the city centre.
From down the alley, Theodore heard a gate scrape open, and then Michael appeared togged out in a bright pink top and tight black Lycra shorts. He did a few stretches and then began to jog up the hill towards the descending racegoers.
Some moved aside and Michael dodged between the ones that didn’t.
As he passed the group, one called out, ‘Wanker!’ Another one shouted, ‘Poofter!’ Then another joined in with ‘Fudge pusher!’
The group laughed and jeered, and Michael spat on the ground and continued up the alley at a sprint.
They now approached Theodore.
‘Look: a cat,’ one of them sneered.
‘Here pussy, pussy,’ another slurred.
Another lobbed his can of lager at Theodore.
Theodore jumped down from the wall, just avoiding the can but getting splashed by lager spray.
The men laughed as Theodore scrambled into the bottom of a hedge. He licked the sticky liquid from his fur as drunken stragglers marched past. He stayed beneath the hedge until the alleyway emptied of people and his annoyance at humankind subsided.
If people spent more time sitting beneath hedges, Theodore thought, the world would surely be a better place.
◆◆◆
Just as he was about to cross the alley and head home, Wendy appeared. She walked up the hill and stopped in front of Diane’s back gate. After a few moments hesitation, she rapped on the gate.
‘Hullo,’ she called out. ‘Anyone in?’
Shortly the gate was opened and Wendy disappeared inside Diane’s yard.
Theodore jumped back up on top of the wall and hurried up to Diane’s. Was she really going to own up to killing Arthur?
The two women were standing in the kitchen, facing each other.
‘I thought you should know,’ Wendy said. ‘Your cat is not coming back.’
‘I know that,’ Diane said.
‘You do?’
‘Yes.’
Diane reached for her packet of cigarettes.
‘He was by the side of Scarcroft Road,’ Wendy lied. ‘Must have been hit by a car.’
Diane lit a cigarette.
‘I buried him there in the allotments. I wasn’t sure whose cat it was. And I didn’t want to leave him lying there.’
‘You buried him?’ Diane said, blowing out smoke.
‘Yes,’ Wendy said. ‘That’s what I said. In the allotments. I didn’t want to leave him by the side of the road.’
‘That’s strange,’ Diane said, frowning.
Wendy backed away from the cloud of smoke.
‘I buried him in the allotments,’ Wendy said. ‘I could hardly bury him in my yard... There’s no soil in it. I didn’t know he was yours, you see. He didn’t have a collar on. Then I heard that you had lost your cat and I put two and two together. So here I am.’
Diane blew more smoke at Wendy.
‘And then someone dug him up and buried him in their garden?’ she said. ‘I don’t get it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Some guy said that he’d found Arthur in the allotments. He’d taken him and buried him in his garden.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ Wendy said, backing towards the door. ‘I just thought you should know. In case you were wondering what had happened to him. I’d better be going.’
Diane said, ‘You said you buried him in the allotments. Then someone tells me they found him in the allotments and buried him in their garden. Someone’s lying.’
‘I buried him in the allotments,’ Wendy said. ‘Why would I lie about it?’
‘Somebody’s lying,’ Diane repeated and sucked on her cigarette.
‘Well, it’s not me,’ Wendy said.
She turned and walked out of the back door.
Diane exhaled smoke into the air, her forehead creased into four distinct lines.
The Importance of Mrs Columbo
Theodore returned home to find his food bowls empty, his water stagnant and Emily asleep on the sofa in the front room; the shutters closed to the outside world. On the floor there were several silver trays that had held Chinese food.
Theodore kneaded the softness of her stomach through her damp cotton t-shirt but she did not stir. He jumped down and ate the meagre remains from the tinfoil containers.
Among the debris on the floor, he found a brown envelope and a photocopied sheet of paper. On the sheet of paper was a pink post-it. ‘Thought this might be useful,’ the note read.
Emily’s mother must have been to the library again, thought Theodore.
The article was headed: ‘Chinese Restaurant Syndrome’.
Theodore read the first paragraph.
‘Chinese restaurant syndrome is a set of symptoms that some people have after eating Chinese food. Reports of serious reactions to Chinese food first appeared in 1968. A food additive called monosodium glutamate (MSG) has been blamed for the condition. However, this has not been proven to be the cause. There have been many studies that have failed to show a connection between MSG and the symptoms some people describe.’
If it’s not MSG, thought Theodore, what else could it be?
He read on: ‘Symptoms include flushing, sweating, headaches, chest pains, numbness or burning in and around the mouth…’
He glanced over at Emily. Her hair was wet with sweat. Her face was puffy and pink. Her lips were red and bloated.
Then he noticed the LED on the answerphone was flashing. He walked over and pressed the button with a paw to play the message, as he had seen Emily do many times.
‘It’s your mother,’ the message announced. ‘I’ve dropped you off some information from the library…’
‘All this Chinese food you’ve been eating, I think it’s making you ill. Remember that you are quite intolerant to some foods. There was that time in Spain when you had chilli prawns… You were on the toilet for hours… Both ends.’
Theodore closed his eyes, hoping that further details were not forthcoming.
‘Then the time you tried mussels. You’ve always reacted violently to bivalves. I’m sure I don’t have to remind you of the time you had fruits de mer on the Algarve…’
Please don’t, thought Theodore.
He let the message play to the end with his eyes and ears closed. Then he padded over to a plastic bag and made a note of the address of the Chinese takeaway printed on the side.
Back in the kitchen, he glanced at this empty food bowls again.
; What detective can work on an empty stomach, he wondered?
Sherlock Holmes had Mrs Hudson to take care of his everyday needs. Columbo’s investigations were never hindered by Mrs Columbo’s over fondness for Chinese food. Hercule Poirot dined out a lot, Theodore presumed.
They didn’t have to worry where their next meal was coming from. Their needs were taken care of so that they could concentrate their faculties on the case in hand (or paw in Theodore’s case).
He realized that he would have to put his own house in order if he was ever going to catch the Clementhorpe Killer. And the only way to do that was to investigate the Lucky Twin.
His tail held straight up, he made for the cat flap.
The Special Ingredient
The back alley behind the Lucky Twin was overgrown, with neither tarmac nor cobblestones adorning the surface. Two parallel lines of bare compacted earth ran the length of the alley, kept free of weeds by the occasional vehicle.
There was a single garage behind the Chinese takeaway, its twin doors opening on to the alley, with a short section of wall to the side, badly spalled on top.
Apart from the garage, the rear of the Lucky Twin was given over to a garden. The garden contained a blanket of purple poppies. The branches of a cherry tree from a neighbouring yard hung over the boundary wall. The branches provided Theodore with a hideout from which he could observe unnoticed.
He had walked over the Big Dipper, to the spot where he’d almost been run over by Diane. Then he had followed his nose, locating the takeaway within a few minutes.
He gazed down at the colourful garden. He longed to jump down and frolic among the flowers, in the soft loamy soil.
But Tony Wong was squatting down among the flowers, his flip-flopped feet straddling the plants. He wore a plain white shirt and black trousers. In his hand he held a small fork, which he used to turn over the soil. Every now and then he tossed a small weed or other undesirable item into a large bowl by his side.
Theodore watched Tony gardening. It was quite relaxing watching humans at work. He closed his eyes, still aware of the man’s movements but passing into a half sleep. He only opened them again, almost an hour later, when Tony stood up, took his bowl and entered the back door of the Lucky Twin, through a screen of red, blue and yellow plastic strips.
