by Jonathan Day
overnight cell at 3.40 in the morning did not go down well, so PC Shah reluctantly invoked the authority of the detective chief superintendent, which provoked even more resentment. Having anticipated the condition Taylor would be in, the constable had brought with him some methadone and change of clean clothes due to be donated to a charity shop. Taylor was beyond saying anything sensible, so the constable removed the trainers’ laces, just to be on the safe side, and let him sleep.
That was the easy part: persuading the young man three hours later to have a meal before being interviewed by D/C.Supt Andersen was more difficult. At last Taylor was able to communicate sensibly after the methadone, two hours sleep and food. PC Shah's mother would have probably thought the young man's addled brain only fit to be analysed in a Petrie dish, but her son needed to salvage what was left of its memory.
Fortunately D/C.Supt Andersen was an expert interviewer. The constable took notes as she patiently encouraged Taylor to recall what had happened those five years previously. He could remember meeting DI Proctor. The detective had pulled him out of a squat about to be raided by armed police pursuing a dangerous drug dealer. What happened after that remained a blank.
Another hour and several strong coffees later, glimmers of what had happened came back to him. Taylor was able to explain how DI Proctor had put him in his car and on the way back to the Balfours stopped off to look into a complaint about a large cat killing family pets - dogs included. Had Taylor been in his right mind at the time, it might have occurred to him that it was an odd errand for a detective inspector. The addict had been told to wait in the car while DI Proctor left to knock on the front door of a large house. He could only remember that it was somewhere in the north of the town.
DI Proctor went into the house and never came out.
Taylor waited an hour before, still addled by drugs, leaving the car to find his way back to the railway arches.
If he hadn’t been seen leaving the squat with DI Proctor and taken in for questioning he would have probably forgotten everything.
PC Shah searched the database for reports of missing pets about that time. The occupiers of the house the complainants named had been very secretive, coming and going all times of the day and night, and kept a huge cat with an unearthly yowl that sent urban foxes running for cover. There was even a photo of the place. A plaque on the perimeter wall announced that this was home to The Cult of the Bast Cat. On the occasions their feline assassin managed to get out, the trail of the neighbourhood pets' remains always led back to that address. The RSPCA had tried to investigate, but found the property dark and not so much as a suspicious paw-print in the raked forecourt gravel. So the matter was forwarded to the police. DI Proctor might have genuinely picked up the file because his family were animal lovers, keeping everything from gerbils to a wolfhound, and felt some empathy with the other pet owners. But D/C.Supt Andersen had known the man well enough to realise that there had been something more to it than that.
PC Shah picked up the keys of the house from a letting agency and reported back.
‘Do we tell Taylor about the child, ma'am?’ PC Shah asked D/C.Supt Andersen as they went to her car. ‘His parents were pretty indignant when I mentioned it.’
‘They would be. Too full of their own importance. We can only hope the DNA test proves it to be someone else's.’
‘It will end up in care.’
‘You and your new wife could adopt it.’
This woman knew too much about the way the mind of his new bride worked and that he was a pushover when it came to large-eyed infants of any species. They were a young couple destined to adopt.
The detached house DI Proctor had left Taylor outside had been deserted since his disappearance and was in a poor state of repair. The Cult of the Bast Cat plaque had gone and a TO LET board on a tree hung by one nail.
D/C.Supt Andersen and PC Shah entered a spacious hall. The sparse furnishings gave it the feel of a religious order. Facing them was the main room. Half open shutters allowed in enough light to illuminate the large statue of a cat on the plinth at its far end.
‘Bast,’ PC Shah announced without warning.
D/C.Supt Andersen knew all about cats. ‘Egyptian, isn't she?’
‘Yes,’ he picked up a folder full of faded photocopies. ‘Though the photos of these pieces aren't from the same cult. They’re just random antiquities – mainly Egyptian.’
His superior suddenly stepped back. ‘Oh my goodness!’ She had been about to tread on the desiccated remains of a large cat.
‘PC Shah's reaction was the same. ‘Good God!’
‘Well that at least solves the cold case about what was eating the pets. Animal that size has to be a puma. Probably poisoned by neighbourhood watch.’ She turned her attention to the pages scattered about the floor. ‘These seem to be in Arabic.’ She handed one to PC Shah.
Without hesitation he picked out several words. ‘Tinsaal… mumtaaz – taman… wadi il mulook... These are descriptions of relics for sale.’
The fact that he understood Arabic did not surprise her.
‘Oh no, Daniel walked in on a gang of antiquities smugglers. Stupid man. Why didn’t he report in first?’
‘They must have created the Bast cat cult as cover.’
D/C.Supt Andersen perched disconsolately on the edge of the statue's plinth. ‘So, what now? Look for a body, do you think? His wife’s convinced he’s still alive.’
PC Shah was both flattered and disconcerted that his superior officer was asking his opinion. ‘She could be right, ma'am. These criminals were experts. Their business was fencing valuable antiquities. It is unlikely they would have committed murder in cold blood. DI Proctor probably blundered in at the wrong moment and was somehow spirited away.’
‘How? Daniel was a good officer. He would have found some way of getting in contact.’
‘I've no idea, but there is every indication that this syndicate left in a hurry.’
‘What are the chances of tracking them down after five years?’ she pondered to herself. ‘They could have relocated to the other side of the world.’
PC Shah began to gather up the discarded paper. ‘May I study these ma'am?’
‘Go ahead. You're the only copper I know who understands Arabic and the budget won’t run to a translator on a cold case - even mine. I’ll be at a conference for two days, but call me right away if you get a lead.’
PC Shah took the documents back to the station. He worked through the evening and into the night. Apart from one discreet phone call to his new wife, he examined the stack of soiled papers for some small clue that would pinpoint the current location of the syndicate. Many of the relics in the photocopies were listed on the antiques’ database as stolen or missing. Most of them came from Egypt. A call to The Ministry of State for Antiquities there confirmed that the best pieces had been stolen from museum collections. PC Shah's fluency in Egyptian Arabic enabled him, with several phone calls, to ascertain that the gang responsible had been apprehended two years previously as they attempted to leave Egypt with their hoard on a chartered plane. Most of them were convicted and sentenced to substantial terms in prison.
PC Shah emailed a photo of DI Proctor to the investigator in charge of the case.
The next morning there was a response.
Daniel Proctor had been apprehended with the antiquities smugglers, though not convicted. He had been unable to respond to questions in any language and was deemed unfit to plead. He was committed to a sanatorium where, every month, questions about his identity were put to him. Medical opinion decided that his mind remained in a drug-induced passivity which kept him removed from the real world.
On being informed, D/C.Supt Andersen immediately left the conference to board a flight to Cairo where she confirmed his identity. After proving that he was a police officer, the authorities allowed her to bring him back to the UK.
Daniel Proctor’s reunion with his family induced no response from him, so PC Shah persuaded his
mother to examine the DI.
A scan revealed no brain damage. Beyond eating, sleeping and carrying out basic tasks, the mental shutter had come down on reality. Where he was now, there was no way of telling.
The detective's family were relieved that he was still alive, yet distraught that he did not recognise them. They insisted that there was only one way to bring him back. Dr Shah advised against it. Without knowing more about his condition, shock therapy was not the answer.
As it would have been difficult to override their wishes, D/C.Supt Andersen was obliged to let them have their way.
‘Has Taylor been tidied up?’
‘Yes ma'am,’ said PC Shah. ‘His mother brought in a therapist who seems to be helping him deal with his addiction.’
Dr Shah’s appeals to Daniel Proctor’s family for them to wait before trying to reawaken the trauma that had catapulted him out of the real world only convinced D/C.Supt Andersen to never sign over power of attorney to her relatives. She persuaded the Balfours to allow their son to accompany her, PC Shah, Dr Shah, DI Proctor and his wife to the house of The Cult of the Bast Cat.
Outside was a newly-erected board displaying an artist’s impression of the expensive apartments to take the building’s place after it was demolished. This HQ for an international smuggling syndicate would soon be the up-market residences of those most likely to buy their antiques – genuine or counterfeit;
