Cat Flap

by Ian Jarvis

  The eloquence left Watson with the odd impression that he was reciting something memorised.

  ‘Ebor Pharmaceuticals?’ echoed Quist.

  ‘The laboratory where she worked,’ said Selden. ‘She was a doctor there.’

  ‘Was she indeed?’ Curiosity twinkled in the detective’s eyes, but common sense took over. ‘I’ll be honest with you, this isn’t the type of work we take on. This sort of investigation is definitely police business. They have far better resources and...’

  ‘What?’ Selden’s complexion drained. ‘You’re saying you won’t help?’

  Quist regarded him thoughtfully. ‘No, I didn’t say that.’

  ‘I need you to investigate this. You could visit the railway and talk to the people at Ebor Pharmaceuticals...’

  ‘Yes, so you just said.’ Quist raised an inquisitive eyebrow. ‘I’ll tell you what, why don’t you leave it with me for a while and I’ll give you a decision.’

  ‘Er, thanks, mate.’ Selden hesitated, seemingly unsure of what to do next. ‘Er, yes, okay.’ He stood up and jerked the dog’s chain. ‘Come on, Klansman.’

  Quist watched as the huge man saw himself out. ‘Odd,’ he purred, staring at the closed door. ‘That repetition of words was bizarre and he was completely lost for a moment there. Did you see his expression when he realised I wasn’t interested? He almost turned white, and I noticed fear in his eyes - genuine fear.’

  ‘His bloody dog scoffed my dinner,’ said Watson. ‘I noticed that.’

  Quist lit a cigarette. ‘What did you deduce?’

  ‘I deduced I’ll be starving by five.’

  ‘He didn’t offer a contact number and never batted an eyelid when I told him to wait for my decision. That’s way out of character. Tell a Neanderthal like Selden that you need time to think things over, and he’d use a few profanities and employ someone else.’

  ‘He’s sub-human, Guv. They’re unpredictable.’

  ‘What on earth would a doctor be doing with a brainless thug like that?’ Quist drew slowly on the cigarette. ‘Ebor Pharmaceuticals,’ he murmured.

  ‘Joking aside, you’re right. Then again, it’s hard to believe he’d come here asking for our help at all. Not after the stuff he’s always saying to me.’

  ‘Very hard to believe. How are you getting home tonight?’

  ‘The Aston Martin, same as always, or maybe the bus. Why?’

  ‘I’ll give you a lift. We can drive by this railway track and take a quick look around.’

  ‘You’re not seriously considering this?’ Watson laughed. ‘I thought you were just getting rid of him when you asked for time to think.’

  ‘I found his behaviour intriguing. You know what killed the proverbial cat?’

  ‘Usually the proverbial busy main road.’

  ‘Curiosity, which is something of a flaw in my make-up. Plus, the alternative to looking into Selden’s problem is Mister Lumsden’s exciting divorce case.’

  ‘Come on, Guv. It’s obviously suicide. Anyone shagging that would top themselves sooner or later.’

  Quist frowned reflectively, his ring idly tinkling the coffee mug. ‘Ebor Pharmaceuticals,’ he repeated quietly.

  Don’t get involved. Common sense screamed out and Larry’s cautionary advice from the previous evening echoed in his head - make sure your insatiable curiosity doesn’t get you into trouble, Bernie. Eyes twinkling, he silenced the warnings, his ring-finger tapping faster. There was no harm in having just a quick look at the railway.

  Chapter 13

  St Basil’s infant school stood halfway along Bruce Rise in the eastern suburb of Heworth, a street of pretty sandstone houses and hanging baskets. Becca Travis found a space for her MG in the line of parked cars near the school gates and snatched her bag. She was already late, her inconsiderate parents were staying at Aunt June’s in Scarborough, and preparing her own dinner would make her later still. Paul McCartney was having a Wonderful Christmas Time on the radio until she killed the engine and jumped out, fuming with irritation.

  The young doctor flounced towards what passed for a home, eyeing the terraced houses with contempt. Becca had grown up in this street, but after escaping to Durham University, she’d never expected to return. Her flat was sold after meeting Adam North. He was to blame for this - Adam the solicitor, with his childish pride and prehistoric attitude to sex. She’d fallen for his salary, moved in with him, and all was fine until he checked her phone. Knowing how besotted Adam was, Becca had neglected to mention her other lovers. This in itself would probably have ended the relationship, but finding her system of performance points and seeing his own mediocre score hadn’t helped. Thanks to Adam kicking her out, she was temporarily staying with her parents and, so far, she’d hated every minute.

  What a tale she had for her pals tonight. Becca adored being the centre of attention and, as the wine bar crowd would have gleaned little about Saturday’s murder from the media, they’d be begging for her juicy inside stories of decapitation and torn windpipes.

  The girl shivered at a sudden wave of fear, St Basil’s school fuelling the sensation. She glanced at the classrooms beyond the wall to her right and quickened her pace. There was something so spooky about a school at night - a building, normally so raucous with boisterous life, standing in darkness, still and as silent as the grave. Becca let out a short tense laugh. Her friends were right; she did have a vivid imagination.

  Imagination had little to do with the footsteps approaching from behind. Drawing level with the boiler room gate, she turned to find a familiar face.

  ‘Shit!’ The doctor giggled nervously. ‘You scared the hell out of me.’

  ‘Sorry about that, Becca.’

  ‘You can’t be too careful. Do you know about Lisa’s murder? Er, what are you doing here anyway?’

  ‘I know all about the murder.’ A hand flashed out, clamping over Becca’s mouth, and the girl was slammed against the school gate. ‘Such a tragedy. I was fond of her.’

  A metallic tinkle sounded behind the doctor as a broken padlock hit the floor. The gate squeaked open and Becca realised she was being dragged to the boiler house. She struggled and whimpered as the hand squeezed, crumbling a fortune in dental crowns.

  ‘You’ll be pleased to know,’ said Lisa Mirren’s killer, ‘that I’m rather fond of you too.’

  Chapter 14

  Matthew Strand cruised by the gleaming high-rise buildings of Salford Quays, his metallic grey Lamborghini looking more suited to gliding through outer space than driving in Manchester traffic. This vast waterfront area lay at the end of the Ship Canal, to the west of the city centre, and Strand recalled the wartime Luftwaffe attacks on the industries here. Those German airmen wouldn’t recognise the place today. Then again, neither would the English pilots.

  The docks and factories closed in the eighties. Some of the old buildings were refurbished, but the majority were flattened and replaced by huge futuristic structures and sculpture-filled water promenades. Strand looked around at the fountains gushing in colonnades and the neon-lit plazas surrounded by upmarket hotels and restaurants. Theatres, cinemas and sporting stadiums rubbed shoulders with nightclubs, malls and film studios. Salford Quays was the first and largest of Britain’s urban regeneration programmes and the sparkling result was quite something.

  Strand headed further along the waterfront to the four renovated warehouses on Raven’s Wharf. Parking on the street between the looming office buildings, he locked the car, straightened his Armani suit and smiled at his reflection in the black glass. The dark green eyes and trim beard would have once earned good money in Hollywood playing villains in swashbuckler movies. The lean face was handsome, but the angular features hinted at a callousness which he regularly emphasised with a sneer.

  Waves slapped at the dock as Strand walked across the business park
to the largest of the warehouses, home to one of the many private companies trading on Salford Quays. Five stories high, the windows in the first three floors were bricked up, whilst the black armoured glazing of the upper stories presented outsiders with a reflection. Lawns surrounded three sides, the front pathway providing access to the glass entrance porch, whilst a quay allowed vehicles to the rear loading doors. A giant chromium cube stood on the grass and bore a central design of three letters over the company name, one S above and two interlocking below, like a radiation trefoil.

  SILVER SECURITY SYSTEMS

  The technical labs here specialised in state-of-the-art bugs and miniature cameras, surveillance, alarm, and protection systems. Strand checked his watch–the type with a price which most would consider a good annual wage–and pressed the porch call button, gazing into the lobby through the armoured glass of the inner doors. A marble desk stood by an elevator and Henry Moore statues reclined beneath chic paintings. The staff had finished at their usual time of five-thirty, but this building was never empty; the owner lived on the premises, along with several other individuals.

  Two large men appeared in reception, one of them punching numbers into an electronic door keypad. Strand gave a derisive whistle of respect, amazed that these broken-nosed giants in black suits could tie their own laces, let alone operate a coded entry system. Not only did Sangster and Browning have problems in the looks department, their faces resembling angling bait, but neither was famed for a scalpel-sharp mind.

  ‘Name?’ said Browning.

  ‘I’m the Committee Vice-President, you imbecile,’ said Strand. ‘I know you take security seriously, but are you actually asking me for my name?’

  ‘You’re expected, Sir.’ Sangster accompanied their visitor across the lobby. ‘You can go straight up.’

  Strand stepped into the elevator, pressed penthouse and eyed the tinted mirrors on either side. If this X-ray system detected any indication of a weapon, he’d be dead before the door closed. The lift opened onto the fifth floor corridor, where a further three members of the protection squad stood waiting. Fisher, Hinds and Galeen, as unattractive and dense as the monsters downstairs, were never far from their master.

  Galeen, the head of security, unlocked the penthouse and disappeared inside, leaving Strand to stare warily at the device suspended from the ceiling as he waited. Mechanised watchdogs like this monitored all private corridors and were unseen by the staff and public. The robo-sentry, thankfully dormant, looked like a futuristic CCTV camera, but had little to do with filming shoplifters. The compact units were equipped with heat sensors, motion trackers and miniature machine guns. When these were operational not even a speeding cat could make it along this passage.

  Galeen reappeared. ‘The President will see you now, Sir,’ he said, stepping back as Strand pushed brusquely past. ‘You’ll find him in the upper section.’

  Strand entered the largest room of the penthouse. Designed on two levels, a circular fire pit stood centrally in this lowest section, with gas jets erupting from broken stone and a cat statue towering over it. Eight feet tall and carved from basalt rock, the polished black surface of the Egyptian antique was lit by the dancing flames. Vegetation was everywhere. Vines covered the walls around the windows and tropical bushes and rockeries turned corners into jungle. The initial reaction of most visitors was to assume they’d mistakenly entered the roof garden. Sneering at the lily pond, Strand mounted the rock steps. He had difficulty in concealing contempt, but here it was inadvisable.

  Strand had never been up to this higher level on previous visits, but saw it was a control centre with computers and screens connected to the countless cameras around the building. Three doors led off, possibly to bedrooms, but the fourth steel door with its coded keypad was another matter. SSS sold many of their specialised products to foreign clients and, like the robo-sentries, this express escape elevator was the ideal Christmas gift for dictators–the sort of people who might have unexpected guests waving guns and shouting about revolution.

  A slender figure in an indigo suit, Lucius Silva stood with his back to the room, his gaze fixed on the rectangular pit at his feet. He’s got a hole in the floor, puzzled Strand. What’s he looking at down there? Walking closer, he silently groaned in disbelief.

  ‘Kali and Shiva,’ said Silva. ‘They’re quite beautiful, don’t you think, Matthew?’

  ‘Well...’ Strand peered at the two king cobras curled in the gravel five feet below. ‘I suppose it depends on your taste in pets.’

  ‘I suppose so. I had a small dog about forty minutes ago.’ Silva motioned to the hole. ‘It was an interesting tug-of-war.’

  At six feet-four, the old man loomed three inches above Strand and unlike many aged men, he never stooped. White hair, pale green eyes and a lined face placed him around seventy.

  ‘You wanted to see me before the meeting?’ said Strand.

  ‘I did. I understand you have something for me?’

  ‘Tayman’s report.’ Strand slid a folded file from his inside pocket. ‘Everything is here and, loathe as I am to admit it, he was right to be concerned about Sharp. The places and times are all recorded.’

  ‘Did you enjoy yourself?’ Silva opened the folder. ‘You were taking a vacation?’

  ‘Oh, yes. It was okay.’ Strand reached for a cigarette, reconsidered and adjusted his tie. The President of SSS didn’t like people smoking. Ordinarily Strand wouldn’t give a damn, but here he made exceptions.

  Silva skimmed through the papers. ‘Who did you go with?’

  ‘No one. Why do you ask?’

  There was no answer. Strand already stood four feet away, but shuffled further. Something emanated from the old man: icy vibrations that left people with a desire to stand a long way away. Preferably, another room.

  ‘Very good.’ Silva closed the file. ‘We’ll discuss this at tonight’s meeting.’

  ‘With respect, the winter meeting is only four days away. Couldn’t this have waited until then?’

  ‘This could wait.’ The President fixed Strand with a frigid gaze, the green eyes reminiscent of glacial crevasses. ‘But we have another problem - something in York that needs attending to by Thursday.’

  ‘York?’ Strand raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I’ll explain in the conference chamber.’ Silva turned back to the cobras. ‘Merry Christmas, Matthew.’

  Chapter 15

  ‘What could we possibly find that the cops haven’t already found?’ Watson munched a cheeseburger and followed Quist along the railway line. He brought out his mobile and read the messages. ‘It’s pitch black. You can’t see a thing.’

  ‘Then it might help if you looked too,’ drawled Quist. ‘Instead of constantly playing with that phone.’

  ‘Why don’t you get the torch from the car?’

  ‘Torchlight would attract attention, just like the screen on that thing. Put it away. We’re trespassing on railway property.’

  ‘It’s too dark to see what we’re trespassing on.’ He lifted a trainer and grimaced. ‘Or in.’

  Quist held up a hand. ‘How many fingers?’

  ‘Fourteen?’

  ‘Close enough. The light from Holgate Bridge up there is adequate and I have exceptional night vision.’

  ‘Oh great! Hey, what’s the matter now?’

  ‘That car.’ Frowning thoughtfully, Quist pointed to the right of the bridge. The sapphire-blue vehicle stood beneath a streetlamp. ‘It’s still there.’

  ‘Cool, it looks like a Maserati. What about it?’

  ‘It arrived as we climbed down the embankment and I don’t think anyone got out. The windows are so darkly tinted, it’s impossible to see if it’s empty or not.’

  ‘Don’t go paranoid on me, Guv. Surely you don’t think we’re being followed by someone in a Maserati?’

 
‘You’re right.’ Quist shrugged and turned back to the tracks. ‘It’s hardly likely.’

  Carl Dreyer would have disagreed. The Leeds Brightshield Glazing manager watched quietly from the car.

  ‘What if a train comes?’ asked Watson, glancing over his shoulder.

  ‘I’ll hear it and we’ll move.’ The detective walked up and down the line, occasionally lifting his overcoat and squatting to examine the gravel. ‘My hearing is on a par with my night vision.’

  ‘Whooo! Mister Super-Senses. You should be in the X-Men.’ Trudging behind, Watson checked the time on his phone. ‘Mum will have the dinner ready soon. She thought I was coming straight home.’

  ‘I bought that junk food to stop you complaining.’

  ‘The cops have computers, you know? CSI and forensic labs and stuff.’

  ‘Yes, I’m fully aware of their technological resources. Are you looking?’

  ‘Yeah, though all I’ve seen so far is mud. How do you know this is the right place? She might have died over there. There might be loads of clues over...’

  ‘If you check the tracks, you’ll notice this particular section of line has recently been cleaned. There’s a faint scent of bleach and you can see where the police footprints are concentrated and where poles supported a forensic shelter. It’s elementary; you only have to use your eyes.’ Quist lit a cigarette. ‘You moan about our boring work and here’s something different - someone asking us to investigate an unexplained suicide - and you’re still bored.’

  ‘I’m a teenager. We’re always bored.’

  The detective shook his head and laughed.

  Watson’s eyes widened. This was the most open display of amusement he’d seen from Quist. ‘I suppose it’s Selden,’ he said, grinning. ‘I’m a little pissed off to be helping a scumbag like that. Besides which, I thought we were winding down for Christmas, and if the cops are satisfied this Diane Woodall is a suicide, is it really worth investigating?’