Cat Flap

by Ian Jarvis

  Katie turned from the windows. ‘We haven’t ruled that out,’ she said. ‘Why didn’t you mention this earlier? With one of your team dead, didn’t you think it worth telling us that another was missing?’

  ‘She wasn’t missing.’ Gillette shrugged. ‘This is Di’s week off.’

  ‘Really?’ The Inspector glared. ‘She’s certainly missing now, isn’t she?’

  ‘I still can’t believe it,’ said Becca, excitedly. ‘Four of us worked together in South Lab. Within three days, two are dead. It’s so deliciously creepy. I can’t wait to tell everyone at the wine bar.’

  Katie regarded her dourly. ‘What exactly did Lisa and Diane do here? I know it’s a medical lab, but what...’

  ‘It’s a dermatological research laboratory,’ said Gillette.

  Amy cleared her throat. ‘When patents expire, we buy creams and lotions and develop them into better, safer products,’ she explained. ‘Pharmaceutical and beauty products; anything to do with the skin and eyes.’

  Katie nodded. ‘What was Diane working on prior to her death?’

  ‘Two wrinkle creams and a moisturiser,’ said Gillette.

  ‘And the Solstice...’ began Amy.

  ‘I’ll give you a list,’ broke in the director. ‘Mascaras, lipsticks, creams–it’s all pretty mundane stuff.’

  ‘I noticed earlier that you have no animals here,’ said Katie.

  ‘No, we don’t conduct testing,’ said Amy. ‘Everything is sent to test centres.’

  ‘Places with security to keep out the animal-rights lunatics,’ added Becca.

  ‘My ex would say they have a point,’ said Katie, snorting. ‘He’s a Friend of the Earth.’ She left out that he’d also been a good friend of his female gym instructor.

  ‘Ah.’ Gillette looked up as a red-haired girl in a turtleneck sweater and pencil skirt arrived at the table. ‘Miss Patterson?’

  ‘Sorry, Doctor.’ The secretary smiled. ‘You have a phone call. Shall I say you’re busy? Er, the gentleman claimed it was important.’

  ‘Take your call.’ Katie climbed to her feet. ‘We have everything we need for now. One last thing–Diane’s gold bracelet.’

  ‘That tacky Indian thing?’ Becca pulled a face. ‘Her name is etched on it in Sanskrit. What about it?’

  ‘It’s missing. Perhaps she lent it to someone here?’

  ‘I wouldn’t think so,’ said Amy. ‘She wore it everywhere.’

  ‘Mmh, that’s what her father told us.’ Katie followed Aslam into the corridor and ran an eye over his red-haired secretary. ‘Miss Patterson, wasn’t it? I presume someone interviewed you earlier about Lisa Mirren? Did you know Diane Woodall?’

  The secretary shrugged apologetically. ‘I didn’t know either of them; I only started this week.’

  ‘Nicole is a temp,’ explained Gillette, leading the way into the lobby. ‘My usual assistant is sick.’ He studied her through his huge glasses. ‘Speaking of which, young lady, you look rather pale.’

  ‘A cold.’ Nicole coughed into her fist. ‘It must be this weather.’

  ‘You don’t say.’ Katie scowled at the rain through the glass doors and turned to the director. ‘Have you informed the owner of the company about all this yet?’

  Gillette gave an uncomfortable smile. ‘Doctor Stapleton has been skiing in Canada for the past week...’

  ‘And seems to be temporarily out of contact. Yes, you said this morning.’ She pushed open the door. ‘Goodbye for now then. We’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Doctor...’ began Nicole.

  Ignoring her, the director watched the police leave, then rushed to his office and lifted the phone.

  ‘Ah, at last, Will. Being kept waiting is a new experience for me. The report was due last night, as you know.’

  Gillette had been expecting this, but stifled a whimper. The voice on the line was purring and cold; the exotic accent difficult to pin down.

  ‘Er, the police were here, Mister Silva.’ He turned white, a trip to the bathroom suddenly seeming like a good idea. ‘Two researchers are dead. One was murdered...’

  ‘You put in progress reports to Stapleton, and Stapleton puts in reports to me. I’d say that was straightforward, but perhaps I’m mistaken?’

  ‘Are you aware that Stapleton has vanished?’ Gillette’s voice quavered. ‘I’ve been ringing the house and mobile, but there’s no reply.’

  ‘Seeing as I haven’t received a report, perhaps you’d care to furnish one now?’

  ‘Well... there hasn’t been much progress and what with this, er disappearance...’ The director gulped as the line went dead, his shaky hand replacing the receiver. ‘Jesus! What am I doing?’ he croaked. ‘What the hell am I doing?’

  ***

  Once the main route from York to Scotland, the A19 runs north from the barbican gate of Bootham and changes its name to Shipton Road as it passes through the suburb of Clifton. A peaceful cul-de-sac of Victorian architecture and mature trees, Minster Avenue ran off this busy thoroughfare and Katie Bradstreet stood with Aslam and Gregson in one of the dark gardens. Stately developments like this began emerging after the seventeenth century, when York flexed its muscles and pushed outwards beyond the confines of its walls and fortifications. The movement was initiated by the aristocrats and wealthy merchants, who were offended by the ubiquitous stench of plague, dead bodies and shit.

  ‘Very nice,’ said Gregson, noticing his police colleague’s interest in the cycle parked by the house. ‘Is it American?’

  ‘Yes, a Harley Davidson,’ said Aslam. The Sergeant noticed an inflatable sex doll on top of the lawn Christmas tree, as Katie rang the bell. ‘It’s an Electra Glide.’

  A girl opened the door. A very attractive girl, thought Aslam, smiling at the denim-clad legs, her shoulder-length blonde hair, and the glimpse of breasts before she closed her shirt.

  ‘Oh, hello again,’ she said. ‘What can I do for you?’ She looked the trio over with vivid green eyes and smiled mischievously. ‘Are you carol singing?’

  ‘Not tonight.’ Katie showed her warrant card. ‘We’d like to speak to Peter Hatton again.’

  ‘Ah!’ She folded her arms and leant on the jamb. ‘You mean Creeper. No one calls him Peter.’

  A naked creature loomed behind her, a cross between a long-haired Rocky Marciano and an actual pile of rocks. ‘What’s the problem, Fran?’ he grunted. ‘What do these twats want?’

  ‘They want to see you again,’ said Fran.

  The monster snarled. ‘I thought I could smell filth.’

  Katie held up her identification on the chance Creeper could read. ‘As you know, we’re investigating the death near Lamberley,’ she said. ‘Seven motorcyclists, including you two, were in the village that afternoon.’

  ‘Your memory can’t be up to much, Sweetheart,’ snorted Creeper. ‘We’ve already been interviewed, and I reckon you must have spoken to the pub landlord?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Gregson. ‘But the thing is...’

  ‘So he must’ve confirmed what we said and told you what time we went in his pub and what time we left. That means we’re in the clear. End of story.’

  Fran shrugged apologetically as Creeper shoved her down the passage.

  ‘Mister Hatton,’ said Gregson. ‘We have to speak to you again to eliminate...’

  The naked man spat on the stoop and slammed the door.

  ‘Well...’ Katie sighed and stepped back as Aslam hammered on the woodwork. ‘I can see this is going to be fun.’

  Chapter 7

  Like many lounge pianists, Craig Sinclair played even the slowest melody at half-speed and was well into his latest piece before anyone in the cocktail bar recognised White Christmas. The song fills people with festive warmth, but it was doing very little tonight for the drunk b
y the window. Nearby tables eyed Rex Grant warily. Slumped on a couch in his sunglasses and jet-black attire, he resembled a jewel thief from a corny movie.

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ he slurred, attempting to bring the pianist into focus. Swigging back another scotch, Rex pushed the shades up his nose to hide the redness and wondered whether to try calling his brother again. ‘What’s the point?’ he muttered. He was sick of hearing the answerphone and Raoul’s mobile was still switched off. This hotel in Bath was close to Raoul’s Wiltshire home and he’d ring again in the morning. ‘He doesn’t care. No one cares.’

  Staring miserably out of the window, he spotted a billboard advertisement down the street. ‘Brilliant!’ he groaned.

  The Grant Homes logo was all he needed to end the day; a little reminder of the joys awaiting him once his father Lionel returned from his American trip.

  Lionel and Rupert Grant built their first housing estate in Cheltenham and soon had developments outside many southern towns. Rupert had no children and it was assumed that Lionel’s sons Rex and Raoul would eventually head the company. Assumed by everyone except Rex, who enjoyed his huge allowance, but not the idea of running a building firm with his brother.

  Rex had prolonged Cambridge as long as possible, blowing his cash on drink and girls, regularly appearing in tabloids with minor celebrities, and fuelling his vivid imagination with martial arts and executive wargames, the sort that supposedly build managerial skills. His plan had been to continue the playboy life, drinking, shagging, and shooting salesmen with paint, until one evening six months ago when everything changed. Destinies are shaped by bizarre events–spiders in caves, falling apples, guys getting nailed to crosses–and with Rex it was a documentary about the eighties.

  Britain had been in a dire state in 1980, with strikes, terrorists, and Thatcher becoming Prime Minister, her arrival delighting the population in the same way that a ferret delights a rabbit warren. A tonic was needed and it arrived when soldiers stormed the Arab-held Iranian embassy in London. The hostage liberation took minutes, but the legend would last decades. Along with stately homes, a Royal family and a colossal national debt, the proud British realised they also had the Special Air Service, one of the world’s deadliest fighting forces.

  Even if the SAS had been cocaine-snorting celebrities with weird sexual tastes, the tabloids couldn’t have screwed more mileage from them. Over the months they were turned into superheroes. These faceless supermen can silently kill with their hands in a hundred ways. Each is trained to surgeon standards and appendectomies are performed on one another in the field without anaesthetic. Surviving on worms and seawater, they’re dropped from fifty miles up wearing nine-hundred kilos of hi-tech equipment. on landing, they run sixty miles and...

  Some people, like Rex, believed it all. This was the sensational life he was born for and, the moment the documentary ended, he adjusted the bulge in his jeans and made up his mind. The family building company could go screw itself, because the armed forces were about to get a debonair new Captain.

  Choosing the right service had been the first step. The RAF and the Navy seldom abseiled through windows waving guns, which narrowed the field to the SAS and the Royal Marines. A call to the careers office narrowed it further still. The SAS only recruited from within the forces, which meant serving with some boring regiment before getting down to the real action in a sexy black outfit. This was no good to a man whose heart was set on tossing grenades into terrorist strongholds by Christmas, but there was no way around it.

  Applications were completed and the Marines offered him a place on their Potential Officer Course. Rex knew exactly what they were looking for: someone cool and dashing, who could leap through windows, throw knives and shoot from the hip. Training for the course was arduous–diving about on Hampstead Heath and watching Hollywood action movies–but quick-draws with the paintball gun hadn’t felt right, and he’d bought something more realistic from an Asian gentleman in a pub toilet. The Walther PPK lay hidden in the Ferrari at the moment, but he normally carried it in the rear waistband of his jeans. Casually allowing the butt to be glimpsed in wine bars drew satisfying gasps from the type of women he dated.

  Rex’s father had exploded on hearing his plans, but eventually agreed that if Rex could make it as a military officer, then he’d accept his choice, otherwise he’d begin helping his brother at Grant Homes and finally start to earn his allowance. Rex had thrown a party to celebrate his new life on Saturday, before motoring to Lympstone the following day filled with exhilaration. It was now seven-thirty on Monday and the elation was long gone. How could things go so wrong in one short day? Failed candidates could return after twelve months to try again, but the maximum age was twenty-five and next year Rex would be too old.

  ‘Merry Christmas!’ he grunted, listening to the James Bond tune. Where was the 007 music coming from? Rex scanned the room drunkenly, then realised it was his mobile ringtone. ‘Hello,’ he slurred. ‘You’re through to a complete failure.’

  ‘Are you okay.’ Raoul Grant sounded worried. ‘I’ve just found dozens of missed calls. What’s happened? Are you at Lympstone?’

  ‘Lympstone?’ Rex laughed manically. ‘The bastards said I was living in a fantasy. They said I wasn’t the material they were looking for.’

  ‘I might have known. What the hell did I say to you?’

  ‘I don’t know. What the hell did you say to me?’

  His brother sighed bitterly. ‘All that nonsense with the black clothes and wearing sunglasses all the time.’

  ‘I had to get into the part.’ Rex adjusted the shades. ‘Lots of people apply, but they don’t take just any arsehole. You have to make an impression on the selection staff and look the part of a special forces officer.’

  ‘Yeah, well you obviously made an impression. For God’s sake, you never listen to anyone, do you?’ Raoul hesitated. ‘Do you know about Lisa? Have you heard what’s happened?’

  ‘Some girl at your office told me.’ Rex let out a sob. ‘I’m exactly what they need and I’ve been training for months. How could they turn me down?’

  ‘I don’t need this right now,’ snapped Raoul. ‘I’ll speak to you tomorrow when you’re sober. God knows, I need a drink myself. I’ll meet you in the village pub at noon. Pull yourself together and get some sleep.’

  The line went dead, the lounge pianist’s laborious music filling the silence.

  ‘Yeah, goodnight,’ muttered Rex. He shook his head and wished he hadn’t as blurred walls rotated and his stomach lurched. ‘He doesn’t care. No one cares.’

  Chapter 8

  Bernard Quist wore a dark, calf-length leather coat over his jacket. Sitar music and a fruity curry aroma drifted from Patel’s shop behind him as he sheltered beneath the awning and flicked through the evening edition of the Yorkshire Post in the window light. He was aware of how the Wolds murder victim had died from the morning paper, but frowned apprehensively as he read it again. There are many ways to dispose of people, but not being the most ingenious of souls, killers usually resort to strangling, stabbing, or beating the poor sods to death. Tearing someone’s throat out by hand was a real novelty.

  ‘I wonder...’ mumbled the consultant detective. He shook his head. No, forget it! This wasn’t his problem. Whoever the unfortunate girl was, it was no concern of his.

  A woman entered the shop and gave him a smile, which he returned. Despite the prominent nose, Quist was an attractive middle-aged man. Some girls had claimed the nose looked distinguished and made him stand out, and he suspected his new assistant would agree. Knowing Watson’s humour, he’d certainly say it stood out. Quist had an inexplicable charisma which often drew females to him, although it had been some time since he’d had a real relationship. Relationships were difficult.

  He returned to the newspaper front page. According to the report, the murder victim Lisa Mirren was single and
had moved to York from Wiltshire to work as a chemist at Ebor Pharmaceuticals, a dermatological laboratory here. Why did this murder intrigue him so much? Taking a deep breath and folding his newspaper, he looked across the street at the city walls rising behind the pubs and shops. He knew why. It was the way in which this girl had been killed.

  Illuminated by spotlights and looming high above their embankments, the limestone ramparts of York were the most complete medieval fortifications in Britain. Most people would find it impossible to believe that, back in the eighteen-hundreds, they were scheduled to be torn down to solve the perceived problem of horse-drawn congestion. Quist wondered what those Victorians would think of the traffic today. The artist Will Etty led the preservation campaign and had the stone-flagged path constructed alongside the top of the walls which allowed people to navigate the circuit and enjoy their beauty. The detective had completed the walk countless times to marvel at the city views. He turned at the sound of approaching footsteps, his thoughts of architectural grandeur instantly vanishing.

  Selden from the debt collection agency walked past with his bullock-like Rottweiler, smirking at Quist and spitting on the pavement as he passed the newsagent’s door. Knowing this skinhead would rather drink bleach than frequent a shop owned by Asians, the detective made a shrewd guess that Selden’s agency didn’t bother with Equality & Diversity training for its staff. He noticed how the man had developed the insolent swagger peculiar to people with large muscles and small IQs. His dog had a similar gait, but at least Klansman could blame it on selective breeding.

  Stowing the newspaper in his leather overcoat, Quist hurried through the rain to his old Volkswagen Beetle with its canvas roof.

  ‘Mister Quist?’ enquired a lisping voice. ‘Bernard Quist?’

  He turned from the car to see a stranger approaching.

  ‘I’m Carl Dreyer of Brightshield Glazing.’ The man held out his hand. ‘I’m manager of the central Yorkshire office in Leeds.’ An aura of smarmy crookedness is common to many salesmen, but this creature had been practising. ‘I control the York branch below your agency.’