Cat Flap

by Ian Jarvis

  ‘We’re not investigating.’ Sitting on the railway embankment, Quist drew on his cigarette. ‘We’re merely pandering to my curiosity. This girl worked at the same laboratory as the doctor who was murdered in the Wolds. It probably means nothing, but Selden’s frightened attitude intrigued me. That and a... well, a feeling I had.’

  ‘Talking of feelings, I’m starving.’

  ‘You’ve just eaten a cheeseburger.’

  ‘I’m a growing lad. My stomach knows mum has the dinner ready for six-fifteen. We have routines around her work.’

  ‘What does she do?’

  ‘Fish fingers and chips on Tuesday.’

  ‘Actually, I meant for a living?’

  ‘Oh... she’s er, self-employed.’ Watson busied himself with the mobile again.

  Quist didn’t pursue it. From the obvious embarrassment, self-employed might involve internet contact sites and gentlemen callers. ‘Any new messages in the last two minutes?’ he quizzed sardonically. ‘What on earth do you do all day on that damned thing?’

  ‘It’s Facebook and all sorts of stuff. Everyone’s got a mobile these days. Everyone except you. No computer, no mobile, an old Beetle car. Not exactly Mister Twenty-first Century, are you?’

  ‘Hello!’ The detective’s eyes fastened on a twinkle by his assistant’s foot and he picked up a tiny badge. It was a simple design - a skull with Harley Davidson beneath. He examined the open clasp and passed it to Watson. ‘Take a look at this.’

  ‘Nice.’ Watson handed it back. ‘What’s it doing here?’

  ‘The bent fastener indicates it was lost accidentally.’ Quist puffed on his cigarette. ‘It could have belonged to Diane Woodall, but from what I’ve read of this doctor, I doubt it. As for the police, even plain-clothes officers aren’t in the habit of sporting motorcycle logos.’

  ‘Weird,’ said Watson. ‘If this was here yesterday, why didn’t the cops find it and bag it as possible evidence?’

  ‘Exactly.’ Quist watched curiously as the Maserati pulled away from the bridge. ‘I told Selden to wait. I think we’ll look into this matter a little further before giving him an answer.’

  Chapter 16

  Matthew Strand sat in a conference room beside Lucius Silva, waiting for the Committee President to finish reading paperwork and begin the meeting. The windowless chamber lay on the fourth floor of Silver Security Systems on Salford Quays, and Strand gazed at the Egyptian statue by the door. Identical to the black stone antique in the private quarters above, the huge sitting cat was illuminated by spotlights.

  Strand hated these gatherings, with their tense atmosphere and sycophantic obeisance. The table was circular, but it was clear that Silva sat at the head. The white-haired President wore a suit of grey silk, but preferred the Committee in sombre attire and the 21 dark-suited men surrounding him would never dare to disappoint.

  An Edinburgh restaurateur sat on Strand’s right, next to the owner of several Lancashire funeral parlours. The man behind the Mister Quarry boutique chain sat across, beside the proprietor of various northern nightspots and Polanski of Polanski Computing. To his left sat Doctor Jordan Zucco, the owner of Sunnyvale. The psychiatrist described his Lancashire institution as an oasis for the mentally incapacitated, which sounded agreeable, but didn’t prepare for the axe-killers and other criminally insane held there. Sunnyvale was definitely not the place to stick granny when she became forgetful. The other Committee members, including the President himself, were all successful multi-millionaires in their own field, although Lucius Silva exuded something different. Something that left mouths dry and palms clammy.

  Just look at the bastard, thought Strand, sourly. He ought to have a white cat on his knee. It was an unlikely scenario. Small dogs frequently came into Silva’s possession, but never for long; about as long as it takes to be swallowed by a snake.

  Oozing all the charm of a gangrenous wound, a Liverpool member sat beside Silva. In Strand’s opinion, this was someone who should have been thrown to the cobras long ago. With his puffy face and bald head, Frederick Tayman, the owner of Brightshield Glazing, didn’t have much going in the looks department and suffered from a nasty twitch. As Committee Executive, he was directly beneath Strand the Vice-President, and did little to conceal his promotion ambitions. Promotion would only occur if Strand died or made a stupid mistake, but in this cartel, it amounted to the same thing. Customers assumed Brightshield’s Steadfast and Immovable motto related to their windows, but after hours of brain-destroying patter, they realised it referred to the salesman’s refusal to leave without a sale. Whenever a salesman failed, the area manager paid a visit and, with their unique methods, the sale was guaranteed.

  At least that had always been the case. Tayman sat pondering his Leeds manager’s call from York, then realising he was being studied by Strand, he gave the Vice-President a sarcastic grin. Strand turned away as Silva closed the file.

  ‘Well...’ The President’s rich foreign accent cut the silence. ‘With our quarterly meeting this Friday, no doubt you’ll be wondering why I called you tonight?’

  Heads nodded, enough to confirm interest, but not enough to make it seem they were pushing for answers.

  ‘We have a situation in York. Stapleton has been heading a project for me and forwarding twice-weekly progress reports. Twice weekly, that was, until Sunday. It seems the doctor has vanished.’

  ‘As you all know,’ said a tense voice, ‘Stapleton owns a dermatology research company in York.’

  All heads turned to Peel from Sheffield, a dark-haired man with a guilty expression. Despite his apparent youth, Peel was head of a successful insurance company. He was also Committee controller for Yorkshire.

  ‘Yes,’ said Tayman, turning to Silva. ‘You ordered Stapleton and I to begin our projects at the autumn meeting. My glass filtration project is almost complete.’

  Ignoring him, Silva handed a newspaper to Strand. ‘Pass this around and please note the headline story.’

  Strand glanced through the text and handed it on.

  ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about this disappearance,’ said Tayman. ‘I can’t imagine how far the eye-droplet experiments have progressed, but chemical work will soon be redundant thanks to my success with the glass.’

  ‘Who completes first is not an issue,’ said Silva. ‘Our friend has vanished at the same time as this murder and apparent suicide.’

  ‘This could be coincidental.’ Strand shrugged. ‘You think there might be a connection, Sir? That Stapleton is responsible?’

  ‘The murder victim and suicide both worked at the York laboratory, and as you read the reports, I suggest you note how both girls died. I haven’t heard from Stapleton since Sunday. Yesterday I spoke to Peel and then to the laboratory research director. Doctor Gillette is the only one there who knows the truth about the project, but he knows nothing of this vanishing act and the deaths. If my suspicions are correct, I’m sure you can see how serious this is.’

  ‘I could be wrong...’ Tayman leered at Strand. ‘But wasn’t it you who introduced Stapleton to us? We’re supposed to vouch for our introductions.’

  ‘I’m not to blame.’ Strand’s tone would have made a Dalek sound friendly.

  ‘It was long ago,’ confirmed Silva, turning to Peel the Yorkshire controller. ‘So can you shed any light on this?’

  Peel coughed uneasily. ‘Like I told you on the phone, Sir, the last time I saw Stapleton was at November’s area meeting. I didn’t know about this until you called.’

  ‘You are the doctor’s controller.’

  ‘Yes,’ he stammered. ‘But I didn’t...’

  ‘That’s enough.’ Silva turned to the computer specialist, Polanski. ‘Break into the Home Office police files and find out what the authorities have on these dead women. I need to know everything they’re withholding from the media
.’

  ‘I don’t like this,’ said Polanski. ‘We haven’t had anyone turn rogue for years.’

  ‘Stapleton will be found before the Elite are jeopardised,’ said Silva. ‘A security team will be sent to...’

  ‘I could go,’ said Strand.

  Tayman gave a mocking laugh. ‘The Vice-President offering to clear up this mess himself? An odd request, isn’t it?’

  Strand glared across the table. If looks could kill, the executive would have needed to be shovelled into buckets.

  Silva shook his head. ‘The problem is in Peel’s area and as Tayman points out, this is hardly a task for you.’

  ‘As he also pointed out,’ said Strand, ‘I made the introduction and I feel somewhat responsible. I know how Stapleton works. We’ve vacationed on occasions and...’

  ‘Yes,’ said Silva. ‘That’s why I enquired yesterday whether you went alone on your recent trip.’

  Strand nodded. ‘We need this clearing up fast and I can guarantee results.’

  ‘The Mirren girl died on Saturday. That will certainly need clearing up by Thursday at the latest.’

  ‘I’ll leave tomorrow and deal with that problem first.’

  ‘Even if my fears are incorrect, Stapleton was ordered to report twice weekly.’ Silva thoughtfully inspected his immaculate nails. ‘Failure to report once is serious. Twice is inexcusable.’

  Orders and rules, reflected Strand, bitterly. Well, not for much longer.

  ‘Very well, Matthew,’ said Silva. ‘You’re in control of this.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir. Stapleton will be here to answer to you at Friday’s meeting.’

  ‘You’re going to York to rectify this.’ Silva smiled, but the green eyes remained cold. ‘That doesn’t include bringing the doctor back alive.’

  Chapter 17

  A rugged wilderness of storm-blasted heather and Jurassic rock, the North York Moors lie within a vast triangle formed by the Cleveland Hills, the Wolds and the North Sea. Stars encrusted the crisp night sky as Rex Grant sped across the desolate terrain, leaving the market town of Pickering and following signs for the fishing port of Whitby. It had snowed here, but the majority had melted, leaving only patches behind shaded stone outcrops and walls. Rex turned off the road near Lockton, heading west and descending into a wooded vale. The dark lane twisted alarmingly, but the Ferrari didn’t drop below sixty until the turn-off outside Sedgefield village. The private road terminated at a pair of gates, and braking by the gatehouse, Rex pressed the horn and read the sign.

  SEDGEFIELD GRANGE. STRICTLY PRIVATE

  ULTIMATE FORCE USED ON POACHERS

  Uncle Rupert hated poachers, but with the expensive game on his estate this was understandable. It was his loathing of the entire lower classes that amazed Rex. Rupert believed the unemployed should be used on the land; not as farm labour, but ploughed in as fertiliser. This afternoon Raoul had described the man as eccentric, but this was a little mild.

  The electronic gates swung wide and the Ferrari drove into the parkland beyond. The headlights illuminated four swans on a lake, and as they were still alive, Rex could only assume that his uncle hadn’t seen them. Rupert was a fanatical hunter, his passion for blood sports having begun in public school. He’d been champion fag-whipper for three years and had trophies for sissy-beating and boy-roasting.

  Rex skirted a copse and the Grange appeared. The Yorkshire mansion was late sixteenth century, but extensions and features had been sympathetically added over the years, Rupert’s swimming pool and outdoor hot-tub being the latest contributions. Skidding to a halt by the front steps, he reached onto the passenger seat for his bag and looked again at the front-page photograph of Lisa Mirren on the newspaper beside it. He’d bought this to read up on her murder, and he studied her face under the courtesy light. Lisa was certainly attractive and he remembered, uncomfortably, the time he’d once flirted with her behind Raoul’s back. The guilt was unnecessary, as nothing came of it. For some odd reason, she genuinely seemed to prefer his brother. Rex shook his head; if he lived to a hundred he’d never understand women.

  Climbing out, he mounted the steps and rang the bell. Was looking into Lisa’s death a good idea or as stupid and ill-advised as Raoul had made out? His frown melted into a grin - of course it was a good idea. The police were baffled and he’d been brilliant on those ‘murder mystery’ hotel breaks. A bit of exciting amateur detective work would help him forget the Marines fiasco, take his mind off the impending meeting with his father, and hopefully keep him occupied until Christmas.

  An elderly butler answered. ‘Mister Rex. How nice to see you again.’

  ‘Evening Barrymore.’ Rex stepped into the hall. A fifteen-foot Christmas tree stood at the bottom of the staircase, its lights twinkling. ‘Is my uncle about?’

  ‘He’s in the study, Sir. Mister Rupert has just arrived home. He’s been shooting in the west wood.’

  ‘Really?’ Rex peered over his shades in the direction indicated, a view similar to looking down a coalmine at midnight. ‘It’s been pitch-black for the past hour.’

  ‘He has a night-sight, Sir. He often returns with a brace of owl. Oh, by the way, I understand congratulations are in order.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Your exciting new career. I imagine you can’t wait to begin your training?’

  Cringing, Rex hurried across the hall and into the study. Lounging on a leather couch in a dressing gown, Rupert Grant flicked through a copy of Horse and Hound. He was fatter than Rex remembered; a sort of fat Oliver Hardy.

  ‘Evening, Uncle,’ said Rex. ‘Merry Christmas.’

  ‘Good Lord! How are you?’ Rupert hauled himself up, hugged the young man and headed for the drinks cabinet. ‘Nice to see you again, Rex. After your call from Raoul’s place, we didn’t expect you until tomorrow.’

  ‘That was the plan, but I came straight here instead of going home. I had a bag in the car.’ The bag had been taken to the Commando training centre and never unpacked.

  ‘Good show.’ Rupert took out a Cognac decanter. ‘You’ve picked a fine time to visit. We can do some shooting and we have the hunt ball here on Thursday.’

  Rex loved guns, but had never understood the attraction of shooting half-tame pheasants that were driven overhead. He wasn’t keen on fox hunting either, unlike Rupert who lived for the chase. With the weight problem, his uncle found horse riding too strenuous, but an open-top Bentley provided the solution and the car was now a well-known sight on the moors as it crashed through hedgerows behind yelping hounds.

  ‘You’ll have to count me out of the shooting,’ said Rex. Hopefully his stay would be filled with exciting detective work instead. ‘I’m going over towards York tomorrow.’

  ‘Shame!’ Rupert poured two drinks. ‘A few swans have turned up on the lake. I’m popping down with some bread and a shotgun tomorrow.’

  Rex raised his eyebrows, but wasn’t unduly surprised. This was a man who fired live rabbits from clay pigeon traps.

  ‘Your father’s in the States until Christmas, isn’t he?’ asked Rupert. ‘Has he said how the American deal is going?’

  ‘I’m not sure; I tend to keep out of all that.’ He’d have preferred keeping out of it for the rest of his life. ‘So how’s married life treating you?’

  ‘Marika is wonderful. I should have found myself a wife ages ago. There’s only so much you can demand from servants before they go moaning to the authorities.’

  Rex smiled. Rupert wasn’t the most attractive of men but, there again, penniless Romanian girls like Marika weren’t the most choosey of brides.

  ‘But never mind me. What about you?’

  ‘Me?’ Rex laughed. ‘I’m too young to get married.’

  ‘No.’ Rupert threw an arm over his shoulders. ‘Sorry I missed your party. Come on, tell me all abou
t the Marines. When do you begin your officer training?’

  Chapter 18

  The Committee meeting in Manchester was drawing to a close.

  ‘Anything further before we end?’ Strand’s gaze drifted around the conference room table. ‘Okay then...’

  ‘As a matter of fact, there is.’ Silva reclined in his chair, his voice so smooth it could have been spread cold onto freshly-baked bread. ‘I’m rather displeased with one of you.’

  An aura of dread filled the chamber.

  ‘Mister Sharp. Reports place you at a Glasgow railway station last Tuesday.’

  ‘Er, yes,’ said Sharp. The chubby restaurateur turned ashen. ‘Glasgow Central.’ Denial was useless; Silva had spies and his information service outclassed women in village post offices. Tayman was the worst informer and Sharp had noticed his piggy green eyes watching him recently.

  ‘Glasgow Central,’ echoed Silva, opening the file before him. ‘Attempting to procure young ladies.’

  ‘Sir,’ stammered Sharp. ‘If I may...’

  ‘I presume Matthew sanctioned this, for you certainly didn’t obtain my permission.’

  Strand shook his head, smiling sombrely at the mounting tension.

  ‘I tried,’ said Sharp. ‘My mobile didn’t work and there was a line fault that night...’

  ‘But despite being unable to obtain consent, you went anyway. There are procedures, as well you know.’

  ‘Yes, Sir, but nothing happened.’

  ‘You’re an Elite area controller and relied upon to set an example. I assume this is easy enough for you to understand?’

  ‘Nothing happened. I didn’t find anyone, and if I had, I’d have got in touch with you first. You know that.’

  ‘It wasn’t a homeless teenager you spoke to, was it? Two girls disappeared that evening. Not homeless unknowns, but people who will be missed. Office workers with friends and families–Sarah Aldridge and Lorraine Peters. You were seen speaking to the latter.’ Silva took two enlarged passport shots from his file. ‘Their photographs are in the Scottish newspapers.’