To Catch a Cat Read online

  The door still resisted. He pushed against it roughly, the fury sweeping over him again. She’d had it coming! If she was on her feet, he’d hit her again. He’d been wanting to do that for years.

  She wasn’t in sight as he pushed into the room. Hiding, the bitch! She knew – His bare foot caught on something. He looked down.

  Ingrid looked up at him through half-closed eyes. Her nightgown was soaked with blood.

  ‘Ingrid …?’ There was a terrible stillness about her. The eyelids didn’t flicker. Blood had poured from her nose down into her opened mouth, he could see the pool of it glistening below her teeth. The icy knowledge began to settle over him: no one could lie like that, with a mouthful of blood, without swallowing it or coughing it out. No one with any human reflex still available to them.

  No one alive.

  He had killed her? He had battered her to death? Was that what he had intended from the very beginning of the evening? Was that why he had started the quarrel naked – so that any splashes of blood could easily be washed away? No bloodstained clothing to betray him.

  No! Denial … he was in denial. Even as he realised his state, he persisted in it. No! It couldn’t be true!

  ‘Ingrid … Get up, Ingrid. Come on, I’ll help you. You’ll feel better when you get back to bed.’

  He bent to her and reality swamped him again. He couldn’t touch her. Couldn’t move her. She would spit blood at him.

  Blood. He had to wash it away. He stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the shower, standing under it until the last vestige of blood had long been washed away and the water was beginning to run cold.

  Cold … he was cold. He would never be warm again. Even the rough towel, roughly used, could not restore proper circulation. And this was just the beginning … it would be cold in a prison cell … behind thick cold stone walls …

  No! Bits of the plan were returning to him now. That had been the point of being naked, avoiding traces of blood … of guilt. He’d been going to do the deed, drive off and come home later – much later – to discover the body, obviously the victim of an intruder.

  An intruder. There had been an intruder. A real one. He’d seen him, chased him. There was someone real to blame.

  He was fully dressed before the realisation came to him: the intruder had also seen him. Seen him naked and blood-splattered. The intruder could be a witness against him.

  As his shadow crossed her, Ingrid seemed to smile. He fought back an impulse to kick the body. It was all her fault! She had tormented him into a position where he finally had no alternative but to kill her. He must not allow her to rattle him into doing something stupid which would leave traces to betray him to the police.

  Giving the body a wide berth, he stepped out into the hallway. That icy draught was still swirling along the floor. He followed it to its source.

  Of course. The spare room window was wide open, the window giving on to the garage roof. He’d always meant to do something about that tree. It had grown too high, its spreading branches an open invitation to someone to climb up on to the roof and have a look around.

  Burglary. An opportunist crime. And Ingrid had discovered the burglar at work … and paid for it with her life.

  Just as well he’d never done anything about that tree. It was more useful the way it was.

  There just needed to be a few valuables missing …

  He stepped over to the bed, pulled back the covers, stripped a pillowcase from the pillow and looked around. Frankly, there was nothing worth stealing in this room. Even the most amateur thief wouldn’t bother with it.

  Downstairs … the dining-room. He didn’t turn on the light as he went downstairs, remembering his wild descent in the wake of the fleeing youth. Youth? Teenage tearaway, probably. No way of identifying him again. Most of what he had seen had been shadow, something strangely misshapen about it.

  A corner of his mind teased at the puzzle, while he went into the dining-room and tossed the antique silver tea set into the pillow case, following it with a shower of spoons and cutlery. It didn’t matter if anything got dented. He hated it all. It was all Ingrid’s and she had no use for it any more.

  The living-room … He looked around wildly: the VCR, yes! That was the sort of thing burglars took. Not the television set itself, that was too big. So were the paintings. They were valuable, but not sufficiently portable. Someone who had climbed in the window over the garage roof and left it open would expect to be going out again the same way. An opportunist, a chancer. Not one of your organised gangs who drove a van up to the front door and systematically stripped the whole house.

  The collection of antique snuff boxes in the little display table, yes. The jade carvings on the mantelpiece, fine. He noted vaguely that he was panting and his heart was racing. Well, why not? He wasn’t used to this sort of thing. And there was still one more mountain to climb.

  Upstairs. Her dressing room to be entered. Her jewel box to be emptied.

  It had to be done. That was when she had discovered the burglar. That was why she’d had to be killed.

  He wiped his hand across his brow, drawing several ragged uneven breaths.

  He had to do it. He couldn’t let her defeat him now. She was gone. Done. Finished.

  The path to freedom stretched out ahead of him. Except for one little hurdle he had not evisaged.

  He had never imagined that there might possibly be a witness.

  3

  ‘Where’s the kid?’

  Mags jumped. He’d been quiet for so long she’d almost forgotten he was there.

  ‘Upstairs, I suppose.’

  ‘He’s not, you know. I looked in his room a little while ago. It’s empty. He’s sneaked out.’

  ‘He can’t have.’ Mags looked around vaguely. ‘He must be somewhere else in the house.’

  ‘Oh, yes? In the library, perhaps? Or the billiards room? Maybe the butler’s pantry? Where else in this palatial mansion do you think he could have got to? Oh, I forgot – ’ He slapped his forehead extravagantly with his open hand. ‘The wine cellar, of course! He’s gone down to choose a suitable vintage for tomorrow’s banquet when the Lord Mayor is our guest.’

  ‘It’s not that bad.’ Mags defended the little terraced house - it was a lot better than some of the places they had lived in. ‘Anyway, where could he go? He’s new in town, he doesn’t know anybody. And it’s nearly one o’clock in the morning.’

  ‘That never stopped any kid yet. He’ll be exploring, looking around, getting into trouble.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘I was a kid once myself. I’ve got a good memory.’ Joshua gnawed thoughtfully at a shred of remaining fingernail. ‘Maybe I could do something with that. Kids aren’t what they used to be.’ ‘You just said that they were.’ Even as she spoke, Mags knew it was the wrong thing to say. Everything was the wrong thing to say when Josh was working on the rant.

  ‘What I say to you has nothing to do with what I say to them.’ He raised his head and glared at her. ‘You ought to know that by now.’

  ‘I think I’ll go upstairs and take a look around.’ She avoided his eyes. ‘You might have missed him.’

  ‘I wouldn’t miss him if he disappeared for ever,’ Josh growled. ‘I don’t know why you had to lumber us with him in the first place.’

  ‘He’s my nephew – and there’s no one else to take him.’

  ‘How about your mother? He’s her grandson.’

  ‘Eva would never ask her. They never got along all that well and besides – ’ She stopped, but Joshua was able to complete the sentence without any trouble.

  ‘Besides, she’s afraid she’d never get him back again – once her ex-mother-in-law got her hooks into him.’

  ‘You can’t blame her for worrying about that. Mother can be … difficult. She never quite forgave Rob for not going into a custody battle, just letting Eva have Robin without a fight.’

  ‘Well, Eva’s safe with us. She can have the kid b
ack the minute she wants him – and the sooner the better.’ He went back to chewing his fingernail and glaring at the computer screen.

  Mags withdrew quietly. Josh was in a bad mood and to say anything more would inevitably lead to a quarrel. Already several delicate subjects had been touched on, any one of which could have led to a fatal explosion.

  Mags reached the top of the stairs and knew that Joshua had been right. Wherever Robin might be, he was not here.

  She proved it to herself by looking into each room, saving her nephew’s bedroom until last. His belongings were scattered around the room, including the in-line skates Eva had given to him to smooth her departure – and her conscience. He had never used them, perhaps he never would, not until Eva came back.

  Anyway, Mags’s spirits lifted, at least he had not packed his case and run away. Wherever he had gone, he was coming back.

  But where could he have gone? Over the hills to Grandmother’s house? Mags had the distinct impression that Robin was slightly afraid of his grandmother – and who could blame him? Mummy was a very daunting woman, with a habit of rearranging history to her own satisfaction. Especially personal history.

  Just look at the way she was handling Mags’s situation. ‘Dear Margaret is taking her gap year,’ she kept telling friends who were too tactful – or too indifferent – to bother pointing out that this was Dear Margaret’s third gap year in succession. By any normal standards, Mags would be considered a fully fledged drop-out.

  And Joshua didn’t exist at all. What would Mummy do if he suddenly found the fame he yearned for? Attempt to continue ignoring him? Or clasp him metaphorically to her bosom and begin planning the wedding?

  Either alternative was too embarrassing to contemplate. Mags went back downstairs.

  ‘So, good evening, friends of Radio Dimwit, Radio Moron, Radio Thickhead – ’ Joshua was in full flow, speaking through clenched teeth, biting off each word as though he grudged it the ability to leave his mouth.

  ‘So, come on, you bimbos, dumbos, weirdos, psychos – no matter how stupid you are, how prejudiced, how boring, ring up and tell me about it. That’s what I’m here for – to pander to the lowest element that can crawl out from under a rotting log and manage to dial the number of this station. Come on, pond life, ring me up – and I’ll pretend I think you’re human.’

  ‘Great rant!’ Mags stood in the doorway and gave him a slow handclap. ‘Going to use it this weekend, are you? Got another job lined up you haven’t told me about, then?’

  ‘Someday I will. Someday I’ll rattle their cage bars so much even these local yokels will wake up and take an interest in something besides their own navels.’

  ‘Want some coffee?’ Mags had heard it all before, too many times to even pretend to be listening. She had her own more immediate worries. ‘Do you think we should call the police?’

  ‘Huh?’ He swung to face her, she had his full attention now. ‘Where did that come from?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That. One minute you’re going to make coffee, the next you’re rabbiting on about the police. What put that grotesque idea into your head?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Josh! Robin is missing. It’s 1 a.m. and he’s only eleven years old. All his things are in his room. Maybe something happened to him.’

  ‘No such luck. We’re stuck with that dumb brat until the end of time. Or until your ex-sister-in-law decides that the honeymoon is over and she’s coming home to claim him.’

  ‘Meanwhile, we’re – ’ She corrected herself quickly. ‘I’m responsible for him.’

  ‘That’s right!’ Not quickly enough. ‘You! You’re responsible for him. Leave me out of it.’

  ‘You don’t like him, do you? I don’t understand why. What’s he ever done to you?’

  ‘He doesn’t like me.’ Under the guise of an evasion, the truth slipped out. Joshua had to be liked. Loved, even. It was the bread of life to him. He needed it. He did not deal kindly with those who withheld it from him. He’d been warned several times at the radio station about the torrents of abuse he poured out over callers who dared to criticise him.

  Sometimes, Mags wasn’t very sure that she really liked him herself. Not any more. It had been fine in the beginning but –

  ‘What was that?’ Joshua surged to his feet as the snick of the latch broke the silence and he stepped into the passage, blocking Robin’s path.

  ‘Where the hell have you been at this hour of the night? Your poor auntie has been worried sick!’

  ‘Sorry.’ Robin seemed to shrivel under the accusing gaze. His arms were crossed over his chest, cradling a bulging backpack. ‘I didn’t mean to worry anyone.’

  ‘What in hell have you got there?’ Josh took a step forward. Robin retreated. ‘What have you been up to?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Robin took a step sideways and dodged past Joshua. ‘I just went for a walk.’

  ‘At this hour?’ Joshua whirled around to watch as Robin scrambled up the stairs, still hunched over, guilt written all over him. ‘You’ve been scrumping apples, haven’t you?’

  ‘No.’ Robin was at the top of the stairs, retreating towards the safety of his room.

  ‘Come back here!’ Joshua was turning puce with fury. ‘And explain – ’

  ‘Oh, leave him alone,” Mags said. ‘Stop bullying the kid.’

  ‘Bullying?’ Joshua swung to face her. ‘Me?’

  The door slammed shut above them. Robin had reached sanctuary.

  4

  ‘It’s all right,’ Robin whispered as he leaned over the bed and slid the straps from his shoulders. ‘He can’t get us now.’

  The backpack lay inert and silent on the bed. There was no movement inside it.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Robin felt sudden fresh panic. Had he smothered Leif Eriksson by cramming him in there?

  ‘Hold on, I’ll get you out.’ His fingers were clumsy as he fought to unbuckle the flap. ‘You’ll be all right. You’ve got to be all right.’

  There. He lifted up the flap and moved back, waiting.

  At first, he was relieved that the cat did not burst out in a flurry of teeth and claws and spitting rage. As the moments dragged by and nothing happened at all, he began to worry again.

  ‘Cat … ? Um … Leif? … Eriksson? Are you all right?’

  Was he going to have to put his hands inside to pull the cat out? And maybe get horribly scratched and bitten? How would he explain that to Auntie Mags and Joshua?

  ‘Cat …?’ He grasped the backpack by its bottom fold and tilted it, sliding its contents out on to the bedspread.

  Slowly, Leif Eriksson slid into view, surrounded by pencils, sweet wrappers, conkers and all the miscellaneous clobber that had lined the bottom of the backpack when he had been shoved in on top of it.

  ‘Cat …? Leif …?’ He stretched a tentative finger out towards the motionless ball of fur.

  One glazed eye opened slightly, one ear twitched. Dazed and disorientated, the cat seemed to struggle to lift up its head and look around, but then abandoned the struggle and sank back into unconsciousness.

  With a sickening lurch of his heart, Robin remembered that awful thud as the cat had hit the wall. Had Mr Nordling broken all its bones? Killed it?

  Robin didn’t want to think about Mr Nordling. Or Mrs Nordling. Or broken bones. Suddenly, he found himself shivering uncontrollably.

  ‘Cat …?’ It was still breathing, anyway. Its side rose and fell in a slow, shallow, barely perceptible movement. Robin blinked against the tears prickling in his eyes.

  ‘Cat …?’ Gingerly, he ran a finger lightly down one of the forelegs. He was afraid of hurting it, but he knew he had to get some idea of what damage had been done.

  The leg felt all right, nothing was sticking out or anything, but it might still be broken. He didn’t think so, though.

  Emboldened, he checked the other legs, using both hands now, probing gently, carefully; they seemed to be all right. So far as he could tell – which, he rea
lised, wasn’t very far.

  He was working his way delicately up the cat’s spine when it opened its eyes and turned its head to look at him.

  ‘I didn’t hurt you, did I?’ he whispered, stricken. ‘Here – ’ He thrust his hand in front of the cat’s face. ‘If I did, you can scratch me – a little bit.’

  The cat sniffed at the offered hand for a moment, then lightly licked one fingertip.

  ‘You know I’m trying to help you!’ Robin’s heart swelled with awe and pride. ‘And you’re right. I’ll get you on your feet – your paws – again.’

  Leif Eriksson closed his eyes and let his head sink back. His breathing seemed to be slightly stronger.

  ‘Now, why can’t you hold your head up, boy? Let’s have a good look at your neck.’ For a minute, he felt almost expert … assured, grown-up … as he probed the fleecy ruff.

  Then he froze. There seemed to be a thin ridge of small broken bones circling the neck – on the outside.

  Circling? Outside?

  He held his breath as he parted the fur, burrowing down towards the skin. It was very thick fur which seemed almost to have two layers, the long silky hairs on top and a long thicker woolly coat beneath. A cat which had evolved to live in the Norwegian forests in the depths of winter. Nature was certainly –

  His breath caught in his throat as something glittered at him from the depths of the fur. He worked his fingers underneath it and tugged gently.

  Bright glittering square stones the colour of blood rose to the surface and caught fire from the light of the lamp. Gold links gleamed between the stones, joining them together.

  In stunned disbelief, Robin pulled at the brilliant circle, sliding it around Leif’s neck, trying to find the clasp.

  Leif gave a faint choking cry as some of his fur caught in the links.

  ‘Sorry … sorry …’ Robin found the clasp and released it. ‘You’ll be all right now.’

  He tossed the bracelet aside and gently probed the cat’s neck again. Nothing was obviously out of place. So why wasn’t Leif Eriksson sitting up and moving around?