Cat Flap

by Ian Jarvis

  Quist eyed the slender moustache, designer suit and Omega watch, then reached for the clammy hand. Shaking felt like sexual foreplay with a haddock.

  ‘As you know, we’re replacing your office windows.’ Dreyer steered him back under the awning, his green eyes and grinning teeth sparkling in the shop lights. ‘The good news is we have several Christmas offers and if we glaze your home at the same time...’

  ‘I’m afraid you’re misinformed,’ broke in Quist. ‘I don’t need any windows.’

  ‘We pay your VAT and if you sign tonight...’

  ‘My house is double-glazed.’ Quist gave a lopsided grin. ‘And the office is fine. You mean to tell me you came from Leeds to see me?’

  ‘But you spoke to John Wynn in our branch here.’

  ‘A misunderstanding; I don’t want any. Look it’s raining and...’

  ‘I wonder if I could explain?’ Dreyer gazed into his eyes. ‘It’s delicate and I shouldn’t be telling you, but John was recently treated for paranoiac depression. The treatment wasn’t entirely successful and any rejection could push him over the edge.’

  Quist peered back incredulously.

  ‘If you rescind your agreement, John could easily do something silly.’ The sales manager slid out an order form. ‘I know you don’t want a suicide on your conscience, so if you just sign and give him the sale he needs...’

  ‘I’m sorry, but it sounds like your salesman should be back in medical care. Now if you’ll excuse me?’

  It didn’t work. Dreyer moved aside, his jaw falling as Quist climbed into the blue Beetle and drove away. It didn’t work - but that was impossible! How the hell could it not work?

  ***

  Kevin Selden opened the door of his Subaru car, allowing his dog to clamber onto the mess of Right Wing booklets and baseball bats on the back seat. The debt collector always carried a bat when visiting clients, but rarely used it; his forehead was much harder. Ted Duggan’s debt company used a simple system; so simple, even Selden understood it. The more he battered from clients, the more he earned, and after a satisfying afternoon spent terrorising York, the skinhead was ready for a well-earned gallon at the Stormtrooper.

  Selden’s brother Barry opened the Stormtrooper public house in May, dressing his Aryan barmaids in SS uniforms and decorating throughout with Third Reich memorabilia. It had quickly become popular with a certain clientele. The Acomb residents resented a Nazi theme pub on their doorstep and had tried everything to get the place closed, so far only managing to get the swastika flags removed from outside. Barry argued that this was against his human rights, and that the protests were anti-German and therefore racist. Politically correct councillors had been feebly debating the point for three months. Kevin Selden hoped to retire from the rat race one day and run a similar pub himself. The rat race wouldn’t miss him; most people who met Selden concluded he’d already retired from the human race.

  The Rottweiler stiffened and growled in the back seat, glaring at a black car that had pulled up behind Selden’s Subaru. The debt collector scowled as the driver’s window sank.

  ‘Excuse me,’ purred a voice. ‘Kevin Selden?’

  ‘Why?’ he grunted. ‘You lookin’ for trouble?’

  Klansman whimpered and began to tremble.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so.’ Lisa Mirren’s murderer leant out. ‘I wonder if we could have a chat?’

  ‘A chat, eh?’ A leer wrinkled the swastika on Selden’s brow. ‘I don’t see why not.’

  ***

  ‘It didn’t work?’ Frederick Tayman, the head of Brightshield Glazing in Liverpool, hissed down the telephone. ‘What do you mean, it didn’t work?’

  ‘I can’t explain, Sir.’ Carl Dreyer sat in his car outside the York office. Sweat streamed down the Leeds manager’s face as he pressed the mobile to his ear. ‘He just pushed past and drove away.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. How could he?’

  ‘I er... don’t know.’

  Six seconds of icy silence followed. ‘I take it this is the first time you’ve failed?’

  ‘Of course, Sir.’

  ‘Dreyer, I really don’t need this; you know the kind of pressure I’m under at the moment. What was his name again?’

  ‘Bernard Quist. He’s a private investigator with an office above our York showroom.’

  ‘And his home address?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. I’ve been checking, but no one seems to know much about him. I intend to follow him, find out who he is and...’

  ‘Find out what you want,’ snarled Tayman. ‘But find out why you failed.’

  Chapter 9

  Bernard Quist burst from the undergrowth and sprinted down an incline, dodging trees, to where a wide stream weaved through the wooded valley. Rich scents of wet earth and vegetation hung on the still air and a tawny owl called eerily overhead. The shard of crescent moon supplied little illumination, but Quist possessed excellent night-vision. Anyone else stupid enough to run through a wood in these conditions would have ended up in hospital with their face resembling an inept boxer.

  Springing over the water and up the opposite banking, he leapt the fence into the meadow beyond where sheep scurried in a woolly turmoil of frantic bleating. The detective paused, lightly panting, to gaze meditatively at York some five miles to the east. The Minster rose above the rooftops, basked in a golden glow of floodlights, and a distant church bell tolled forlornly. Over the years, Quist had moved around, living quietly in many towns, but York was definitely one of his better choices. This ancient city had been his home for the past two years and he was still entranced by its enigmatic beauty. York rivalled most European capitals for bygone splendour, and every twist and turn in the medieval streets brought him face-to-face with antiquity: a Tudor inn, a Viking wall, a half-timbered Elizabethan building, or a Roman turret. A stroll through York was a stroll through the pages of history.

  His thoughts turned once again to the way in which the Wolds girl had died. Her throat had been torn out. Quist pictured the horror, narrowing his eyes warily. Shaking himself, he jumped a wall and covered the last six-hundred yards to his isolated house. No, just forget about it! The murder had nothing whatsoever to do with him.

  Briar Cottage on the outskirts of Askham Richard village was straight from an Enid Blyton story - the sort of thing seen on the lids of biscuit tins. Roses cascaded over a porch, a small orchard spread from the wisteria-covered gable, and a walled garden stretched into the rear meadow. Quist cleared the ivy-clad brickwork and leapt down onto the lawn beyond. He landed on all-fours and stiffened, his senses telling him he wasn’t alone.

  A chuckle sounded in the darkness. ‘Still keeping yourself in shape, I see?’

  ‘Larry?’ The detective gasped his relief. ‘For a moment...’

  ‘You take your time on your runs. The taxi dropped me here ages ago.’ The old man rose from the garden bench. ‘I’d give you a hug,’ he laughed, ‘only...’ He gestured to his friend’s appearance.

  ‘I see what you mean.’ Quist shook himself, showering the grass with sweat. ‘Come on in and make yourself at home while I change.’

  ***

  ‘Your postcard arrived this morning,’ shouted Quist. ‘Have you eaten?’

  Taking an ice bucket from the kitchen freezer, he tightened his dressing gown and returned to the lounge. Paintings and bric-a-brac filled the room, a grandfather clock ticked in the corner and logs crackled in the grate of a black-leaded range.

  ‘I ate on the train,’ said Larry Reynolds, turning from studying a bookcase, one of the many antiques in the old cottage. ‘In any case, you’re still on the vegan diet. Still doing yoga too, I expect?’

  ‘I remember when you were the same - plain food and yoga every day.’

  ‘Fortunately I don’t need to bother anymore.’

&n
bsp; Quist smiled. It was probably just as well, because it was hard to picture this old, white-haired gentleman standing on his head in yoga meditation. He ran his eyes over the frail frame beneath the tweed jacket. It was hard enough picturing him climbing stairs.

  ‘Impressive collection.’ Larry stroked his snowy moustache and fingered a leather spine in the bookcase. Most of the volumes were devoted to anthropology, history and mythology. ‘I see there are a few of yours here. I read this one again recently.’ He slid out a book on the Egyptian city of Amarna.

  ‘A knowledge of history is essential for an antique dealer,’ said Quist. ‘But, to be honest, I can’t see my old writings being of much help to you. My controversial theories on why Amarna was abandoned and lost beneath the desert for over a thousand years.’

  ‘Controversial,’ agreed Larry, ‘but we both know you were correct.’ He moved to a painting below the open staircase. ‘Is that a real Turner? I haven’t seen it in here before.’

  ‘It’s just a print I picked up. If you’re silly enough to hang the genuine article on your wall, people ask questions.’

  ‘I remember when you had some really nice stuff.’ The old man smiled at his friend. ‘You donated everything to public collections, didn’t you? No regrets?’

  ‘Possessions don’t amount to much.’

  ‘By the way, we’re not very festive, are we?’ Larry looked around. ‘You don’t have a Christmas tree or anything.’

  ‘It’s a long time since I celebrated Christmas.’ The detective took a deep breath. ‘Anyway, did you enjoy your Scottish break?’

  ‘Enjoy it? I certainly needed it after all the upheaval with the move and the sale of the business.’

  ‘I hear your old shop reopens in two weeks. It’ll be a bookshop.’

  ‘Yet another bookshop in York.’ Larry laughed. ‘Just what you need.’

  ‘I’ll miss Reynolds Antiques on Micklegate.’

  ‘Well... you know how it is.’

  ‘Will you still be calling yourself Reynolds in Oxford?’

  ‘Yes. Come to think of it, isn’t it about time you had a name change?’

  ‘Not for a few more years.’ Quist examined his signet ring, then opened a cupboard and brought out a bottle of Askaig malt and a cedar box of cigars.

  ‘Now you’re talking.’ Larry’s moustache twitched enthusiastically. He took a cigar and clipped the cap with a guillotine from the box. ‘Cohiba - excellent!’

  ‘Your postcard didn’t say, but I presume you’re not travelling to Oxford tonight?’ Quist dropped ice into two glasses and poured the whisky.

  ‘No, tomorrow on the three o’clock train. I wanted to see you, Bernie. With the move and everything I never really got the chance to say goodbye properly. I’ve known you so long, it seemed the right thing to do.’

  ‘Hardly goodbye.’ Quist sniffed a cigar and snipped the end. ‘We’ve lived further apart than York and Oxford before.’

  Larry opened his mouth to speak and decided against it.

  ‘Are you booked into a hotel?’

  ‘No, I thought you might have a spare bed.’

  ‘I have.’ Quist lit the cigars and handed him a glass. ‘So it won’t matter if you have too many of these.’

  Puffing on the Cohiba, Larry slipped off his jacket and removed his spectacles from misted brown eyes. ‘I’ll miss you, Bernie,’ he mumbled.

  ‘You seem to have smoke in your eye.’ Smiling affectionately, Quist led him to the Chesterfield couch, stabbed the log fire with a poker and sprawled in the glow of the crackling flames. ‘Come on,’ he prompted. ‘Tell me again. Where are these new places you’ve bought?’

  ‘The antique shop is in Oxford city centre and the house is in Wolvercote. You’ll have to see them when I get settled in. York was good, but it was time for a change.’ Larry looked around. Shadows danced between the ceiling beams like ghosts in a disco. ‘This is a lovely place, Bernie. How long have you been here? Two years? A few more and you’ll have to move again. It’s a pity.’

  Quist fell quiet and inspected the ice in his drink.

  ‘I’m tired of it all.’ Larry ran a hand through his hair. ‘You wouldn’t believe how tired. Perhaps I’ve spent too long amongst antiques.’

  ‘There’s not much we can do about it.’ Quist sipped his whisky and eyed the furniture. Aromatic Cuban smoke mingled with the scents of old leather and wood. ‘And there’s nothing wrong with antiques.’

  ‘What if we could do something about it? What if...’ Larry hesitated, studying his friend. ‘Oh, I’m talking nonsense. We’re like a couple of antiques ourselves. Just look at you. You used to have a sublime sense of humour; it was one of the things I liked best about you. These days you hardly laugh, and you’ve no friends.’

  ‘Probably a stage I’m going through. Sometimes you get a little jaded with everything as time passes.’

  ‘And passes.’

  ‘Apart from you, how can I have friends?’ Quist blew a cloud of smoke. ‘The closest thing to a friend is the young assistant I employed three weeks ago. You met him at the office just before you moved south.’

  ‘Yes, your private detective office. I was surprised when you started the business, but then I realised detective work is ideal for you. I know what that insatiable curiosity of yours is like.’

  ‘I prefer consultant detective. Yes, it’s just what I need. I’m enjoying it and it keeps my mind occupied.’

  ‘But why did you employ this kid?’

  ‘I don’t know really.’ Quist drew thoughtfully on the cigar. ‘Maybe I’m tired of being alone. It’s different having someone... normal around and Watson is as normal as it gets. He has a sprig of mistletoe ready to attach to his belt buckle and he can’t wait for all the Christmas parties next week.’

  Larry laughed. ‘That’s my point. Having people around has always been a problem.’

  ‘Watson is far cleverer than he realises, but he’s young and down-to-earth and hardly likely to notice anything... unusual.’

  ‘Well, like I said, remember your curiosity. You’ll just have to watch it doesn’t get you into trouble again.’

  ‘No fear of that. I only take on small stuff - divorces and suchlike. Nothing that would get me noticed.’ Quist held up his glass. ‘To your new life in Oxford, Larry. Merry Christmas.’

  ‘Merry Christmas, Bernie. Many more of them.’

  ‘Yes, many more.’ Quist gave a hollow chuckle. ‘There, I do laugh sometimes.’

  Larry sipped his whisky. ‘Speaking of news and detectives, I read something in Scotland about that murder on Saturday - the female birdwatcher. She had her throat torn out, didn’t she?’

  ‘Apparently so.’

  ‘It wasn’t too far from York, was it? I was wondering...’ The old man gulped his drink. ‘Do you have any ideas on the matter?’

  ‘No,’ lied Quist. He poured more whisky. ‘I haven’t thought about it.’

  Chapter 10

  Raoul Grant lived in Musgrave, the pretty village being central for the Grant housing offices in Reading, Marlborough and Salisbury. Life in the hamlet wasn’t so much tranquil as tranquillized. Nothing much happened, and if the place had been a patient on life-support, its relatives would probably have asked for the machine to be turned off.

  Rex pulled into the car park of the Rathbone Inn and parked his Ferrari beside several huge 4x4 vehicles, proof that some were actually used in the countryside and not driven exclusively by city folk for school runs and the gym. A khaki Landrover stood near the rear entrance, echoing Wiltshire’s large military presence, and Rex stared at it the way a father might stare at his daughter’s number scrawled on a lavatory wall. His own military career had ended before it had even begun and he knew he had to accept it. Pondering, he took the Walther pistol from the glove compartment an
d hid it in his rear waistband before locking the car. The special forces dream might be over, but at least the 9mm comfort blanket made him feel exciting and a little happier as he trudged moodily across the gravel.

  The dark passages and wood-panelled rooms of the inn hadn’t changed since the civil war and oak beams were everywhere, crossing walls and supporting rafters. Mostly they were hidden in shadow at forehead height and, with the sunglasses, the place was a death-trap to Rex. Several couples were attacking lunch-hour meals in the taproom, a few green-welly types propped up the bar, and the two occupants of the army Landrover stood near the door. Rex glared enviously at their camouflage jackets and, pulling down his black sweater to ensure the gun was hidden, he walked over to where Raoul sat at the counter.

  His elder brother ran a cold eye over the black leather jacket and jeans. The men looked similar and both had dark hair, although Raoul’s grew longer and a well-tailored grey suit covered his plumpness. The age gap between them was nine years, but the mental age gap was much wider.

  ‘Hello there,’ said Raoul. ‘What are you drinking?’

  ‘Bitter,’ muttered Rex, gesturing to the pumps. ‘I don’t imagine they serve battery acid.’

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘How would you feel if your world had just fallen apart?’

  ‘And how do you suppose I feel right now?’

  ‘Oh yeah, sorry.’ Rex grimaced. ‘Lisa Mirren.’

  ‘Her father’s in a bad way.’ Raoul paid for two pints. ‘He rang me on Sunday with the news and then the police were in touch. I was interviewed yesterday.’

  ‘Why did they want to see you? You broke up around the time she took that York laboratory job.’

  ‘The engagement was over, but we stayed friends.’ Raoul glanced around the room. ‘I wonder if you’d do me a favour?’ Take off those glasses, would you? You look idiotic in this dim light.’