Cat Flap

by Ian Jarvis

  Rex frowned. ‘The?’

  ‘Well, that’s a Rolex, and the Ferrari out there is yours too. You’ve got to be the someone or other.’ The youth grinned at Quist. ‘How’s that for elementary deduction?’

  Quist nodded. ‘As I’ve said before, we’ll make a consultant detective of you yet.’

  ‘Captain Grant, actually.’ Rex straightened the sunglasses. ‘SAS.’

  Chapter 20

  Katie Bradstreet climbed from her Saab by St Basil’s school and grimaced at the fleet of police vehicles. Even a probationer fresh from training college would know that the forensic team working on the cordoned sports car signified something a little more serious than a stolen satnav. The next time the owner of this MG took to the road, it would be in something much slower with room in the rear for a lengthy box. The Inspector smiled gloomily as Gregson appeared from the playground.

  ‘Better prepare yourself, Ma’am,’ sighed the Constable. It’s Becca Travis.’

  ‘Doctor Travis?’ Katie’s mouth fell open. ‘Another member of the research team at Ebor Pharmaceuticals has been murdered? Please tell me we have something here to work with.’

  ‘I wish I could. We’re doing a door-to-door on the residents, but there are no witnesses.’ Gregson led her to the school boiler house. ‘Forensics have finished and, er, the Superintendent is in there.’

  ‘Is he indeed.’ With the lack of progress, Katie knew that Superintendent Lynch wouldn’t be in the jolliest of moods. She stooped under the gate cordon. ‘I understand forensics have finished with the Range Rover found near Lamberley?’

  ‘Yeah. It was stolen from the owner’s house on Higham Road early on Saturday morning - an accountant named Nesbitt. They’ve found alien prints and DNA, but they don’t match anything on our files.’

  ‘Damn! Speaking of alien DNA, the lab can’t identify the cat hairs found on Lisa Mirren’s body. Apparently, they’re closely related to leopard or lion.’

  ‘What?’ Gregson frowned. ‘How the hell did she get those on her?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. The team are checking her associates to see if any are connected with zoos, taxidermy, or the animal trade.’ Katie opened the boiler house, salivating at the aroma of roast pork. Forensic staff were busy around the furnaces and Tariq Aslam knelt examining a mangled padlock. It lay in two pieces, resembling a toy after ten minutes with a hyperactive child. ‘Good God!’ She looked over the Sergeant’s shoulder. ‘What did they use to get that off?’

  ‘The SOCO isn’t sure.’ Aslam climbed to his feet. ‘There’s another broken open like this that came from the street gate.’

  ‘Some wrench, perhaps?’ The roast meat smell was making Katie hungry.

  ‘Well...’ Aslam laughed uneasily. ‘From the indentations and the way the metal’s compressed and torn, the SOCO says it looks as if someone ripped them off by hand.’

  Gregson raised an eyebrow. ‘Someone’s been eating their spinach. It happened last night around five-thirty.’

  ‘Who discovered the body?’ Katie looked around as her Superintendent, an overweight man in a raincoat, appeared from behind the furnaces. ‘And where is it?’

  ‘Ashley Cooper, the janitor found her.’ Superintendent Lynch beckoned Katie over. ‘It was Cooper’s morning off. He came across the forced padlocks when he checked the boilers at noon. Then he found these.’

  The barbecue aroma was finally explained; two legs protruded from a furnace open door, blue stilettos still on the feet. The thighs ended in black stumps, the flesh a charred mess of flaked skin and melted nylon.

  ‘My God!’ whispered Katie. ‘This is Becca Travis? How can we know that for certain?’

  ‘There’s a unique tattoo on the left ankle,’ said Aslam. ‘Her father identified a digital photo. She lived with her parents just past the school. They stayed in Scarborough last night, so she wasn’t reported missing until this morning. Her father says she should have arrived home around five-thirty last night and the lab claims she left at five.’

  ‘I’m guessing,’ said Aslam, ‘but I’d say someone who knew Becca’s routine was waiting.’

  ‘I don’t want guesses,’ snapped Lynch. ‘I want facts and results. And, so far, results are as rare as suspects. The police in Bath have faxed Raoul Grant’s statement; Mirren’s ex-fiancé is clean. I understand our motorcyclist friends are also in the clear now?’

  ‘Lisa Mirren died at noon,’ said Katie. ‘The bikers arrived in Lamberley before eleven and were in the pub until two. The landlord and villagers confirm that. We really need to find the driver of that stolen Range Rover.’

  Aslam nodded. ‘I have a team searching for Becca’s bag, but so far...’

  ‘Bag?’ echoed Katie.

  ‘It’s vanished,’ said Lynch. ‘An Italian shoulder bag. Same blue colour as the shoes.’

  ‘It could be in the furnace.’

  ‘The ashes are being taken for analysis,’ said Aslam. ‘If it’s there, the lab will find metallic evidence. Her colleagues are certain she had it when she left, so if it isn’t burnt and we don’t find it in the area...’

  ‘Her killer probably has it,’ broke in Lynch. ‘We know some psychopaths keep trophies. First Lisa’s binoculars, then Diane’s bracelet, and now this bag.’

  ‘Right,’ said Katie. ‘We’re heading over to Ebor Pharmaceuticals and I want to speak to the elusive owner. Gillette said Stapleton was skiing in Canada, but I want verification. Get on to the airlines and immigration offices.’ She turned as Jay Mortimer appeared.

  ‘Afternoon, Katie.’ The pathologist waved to the furnace. ‘I’ve made an initial examination and life is extinct. I can’t tell you very much yet, except she had an expensive taste in shoes.’

  ‘Becca Travis worked in South Lab,’ said Katie. ‘The same department as the other two girls. Two could have been coincidence, but not three.’

  ‘You’re including Diane Woodall in these murders, of course?’ said Mortimer.

  ‘Yes, I read your report.’ The Inspector nodded. ‘Diane’s death looked like suicide, but after your post mortem and now this - yes, she was definitely the second murder victim.’

  ‘Sounds like you have a serial killer,’ said the pathologist, grinning. ‘One with a weird fetish for dermatologists.’

  Chapter 21

  By two-fifteen, only five customers remained in the Hound: two men at the bar and the three strangers at a table by the window. Quist sipped beer and studied the pictures that Watson was scrolling through on Rex’s phone. Rex had opened the photograph album on his brother’s social media page. He sat opposite, drinking a vodka martini and idly playing with his Zippo lighter, flipping open the casing and snapping it shut.

  ‘Didn’t mind the cold, did she?’ said Watson, crunching crisps. He arrived at a picture of a young couple on moorland with an ocean background. ‘Where’s that dump?’

  ‘The Isle of Fetlar,’ said Quist.

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ laughed Watson. ‘Obviously.’

  Rex dropped the lighter. ‘How could you possibly know that?’

  ‘What?’ Watson scrutinised the seascape. ‘You mean he’s right?’

  The detective sighed. ‘Lisa was a birdwatcher and she has binoculars in this shot, so we know that’s why she’s there. The terrain is definitely in the Northern Isles and that lighthouse in the distance looks familiar; I’ve visited the Shetlands myself. Also we know of her passion for owls. If she visited the Shetlands she’d hope to see snowy owls and the only place where there’s a chance of that is Fetlar.’

  ‘Er... right.’ Rex adjusted his shades. ‘Yes, it’s Fetlar. That’s Raoul, my brother.’

  ‘Lisa’s ex-fiancé.’ Quist passed the phone back. ‘An attractive couple, I must say.’ He shuddered as Rex flicked open his Zippo and the nine-inch flame flared.

  ‘Nice!
’ Watson tried the lighter, chuckling at the blaze and examining the engraved silver case. ‘Shouldn’t this crest be a dagger with wings?’

  ‘If it was my regiment, sure.’ Rex cleared his throat. ‘That’s the Marine’s crest. A guy I rescued gave me this.’

  ‘Whoo! What do you reckon to that, Guv?’

  ‘Amazing!’ Quist had watched emulsion dry with more enthusiasm.

  ‘So is he right?’ quizzed Watson. ‘Were they birdwatching?’

  ‘Er, yes.’ Rex frowned warily at the detective. ‘He was right about the owls too. Snowy owls were Lisa’s favourites. They’re deadly, but magnificent. So mysterious floating over the ice. So ferocious at the kill. We’re talking about nature’s ultimate silent killing machine; probably the closest thing in the animal kingdom to the SAS.’

  Quist’s mouth fell open.

  ‘Want one, Guv?’ Watson held out his beef crisps.

  ‘No thanks. I keep an eye on my shape.’

  ‘Owls, eh?’ The youth chomped his snack. ‘I’ve never seen one.’

  ‘You should be in my job.’ Rex pulled a face. ‘After two weeks of undercover work in the Iraqi jungles, you’d be sick of the sight of them.’

  ‘Perhaps we could return to the matter in hand?’ said Quist.

  ‘Yes, you’ve been pretty quiet.’ Rex beamed. ‘Thinking my proposal over, eh?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Watson gave the detective’s shoulder an excited slap. ‘Is this a brilliant idea or what?’

  Quist regarded him with disbelief. This was certainly Raoul Grant’s brother, the heir to Grant Homes, of that there was no doubt; he recalled various tabloid pictures with minor celebrities. But what the hell was this all-in-black SAS nonsense? Had the young man suffered some sort of mental breakdown?

  ‘Er, on the contrary,’ said Quist, ‘I think joining forces, as you suggest, might be unwise. In private investigations, discretion and subtlety are imperative and I think it might be best if you left this to us.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Rex. ‘Three heads are better than two. I’m here asking questions about Lisa’s murder and you’re investigating some suicide. The two are connected, so we should work together on this. We could really help each other out.’

  ‘Yeah, come on, Guv,’ enthused Watson. ‘Three heads are better and we can’t go wrong with the Captain around. Talk about coincidences? We come here and meet up with the brother of Lisa’s fiancé and, wow, he turns out to be SAS. It’ll be like having James Bond helping us.’

  ‘Er...’ Quist hesitated. 007 was exactly who he didn’t want helping. Three heads were fine, except when one wore shades indoors and saw itself as the ultimate silent killing machine. ‘It’s unlikely we’ll be meeting Doctor No. This is a discreet suicide investigation, remember.’

  ‘But your suicide is connected to Lisa’s murder,’ pointed out Rex. ‘That’s why you’re in Lamberley.’

  ‘It may be,’ admitted Quist. ‘But the girls working together could be coincidence.’

  Watson laughed. ‘But you said never to ignore coincidences.’

  ‘Alright, something tells me they probably are connected, but it would be best if you left this to us, Rex. If you give me your number I’ll let you know if...’

  ‘I have an obligation,’ said Rex. ‘I made a promise to Raoul.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry to hear about your brother’s distress, and how he begged you to find out the truth behind this, but...’

  ‘Like I say, I’ve an obligation. So what have we unearthed so far?’

  ‘Not much,’ said Watson. ‘But with someone like you around, things should speed up.’

  Quist closed his eyes. This bizarre character wasn’t going to be dissuaded. He’d have to find some way of ditching him, but it didn’t look like it would be happening today.

  ‘So what’s the next stage?’ asked Rex. ‘Where are we going next?’

  ‘Jefferson Road in York,’ said Watson. ‘The lab where they both worked.’

  ‘Just what I was about to suggest.’ Rex nodded eagerly and knocked back his martini. ‘Come on then, let’s see what we can find out.’

  ‘Yes, let’s.’ Quist tugged on his leather overcoat and strode to the door. ‘Thank you, Watson.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’ The teenager followed with Rex. ‘So you’re here on leave, you say?’

  ‘Sick leave.’ He slapped his thigh. ‘I took a bullet in the leg a couple of weeks ago. A bit painful, but it only tore through muscle. There’s no real damage.’

  ‘Where were you shot? Afghanistan? Iraq? Brixton?’

  Rex smiled thinly. ‘If I told you that, I’d have to kill you. People say that for a laugh these days, but I’m not joking.’

  ‘Really?’ Watson’s face lit up. ‘Phwoarr! Brilliant!’

  ***

  A Friesian herd huddled in a corner and watched the white car on the opposite side of their meadow. Cattle are perceived as stupid, but they possess enormous curiosity and if something stays motionless, they invariably stroll over to inspect it. Strangely enough, they hadn’t been within a hundred yards of the BMW with the black windows and, from the terrified look in their eyes, they weren’t likely to.

  The car had been parked on the hill above Lamberley for ninety minutes, a Haydn concerto drifting through the open window. From this vantage point, the driver could see the Hound public house, but a Maserati by the church held his attention too. It arrived after the blue Beetle and, like the BMW, it was obviously waiting. Like the BMW it also had darkly-tinted windows.

  Binoculars were quickly raised as figures left the inn. The middle-aged man in the overcoat looked irate as he stormed to the Volkswagen followed by a black youth, but the observer was more interested in the Ferrari owner. He noted the number and watched curiously as the black-garbed man threw himself into a press-up position to check the chassis for bombs. Switching off the music, the BMW driver adjusted the hi-fi tuner, his engine bursting into life as the cars in the valley pulled away. The binoculars were lifted again as the Maserati set off.

  ‘Just as I thought,’ he murmured. ‘You are tailing them.’ He took the number. ‘I’m afraid that won’t do at all.’

  Chapter 22

  Watson watched the black F50 vanish around the bend ahead in a cloud of spray. ‘I don’t know what your problem is with him helping,’ he said. ‘I thought he’d be useful.’

  ‘Really?’ Shooting his assistant a withering look, Quist turned onto Jefferson Road in York and checked the mirror. The Maserati and white BMW, both of which had been behind for the past few miles, were still there. ‘I think you’ll find your cool new SAS friend will be as useful as a pack of hounds to a lame fox.’

  ‘You didn’t mention the Harley badges or those bikers the landlord told us about. What’s the idea of keeping it to yourself?’

  ‘Trust me, alright?’

  Looking into Diane Woodall’s suicide was probably a mistake, Quist realised that, but it was no longer possible to walk away from this. The badges had obviously been left there for him to discover, but why and by whom? His curiosity had been aroused by Selden’s behaviour, but someone planting items at murder scenes was too intriguing to ignore. The priority was to investigate discreetly, without any police interaction. Avoiding contact with the authorities and blending into the background with his nondescript appearance had become second nature over the years. Rex Grant was the last person he needed around - an imbecile from the celebrity gossip columns who drove a Ferrari and wore sunglasses in the rain.

  The F50 brake lights blazed in the distance ahead.

  ‘Fantastic!’ Watson licked his lips. ‘All my life I’ve dreamed of driving a car like that.’

  ‘It has a top speed of over two-hundred. I don’t know if you’re aware, but the British limit is seventy.’

  ‘So
you prefer this heap, and the worry of the pilot light blowing out?’ The teenager patted the tinny dashboard. ‘In every television detective show the hero drives a fast motor and has exciting chases.’

  ‘What a shame I don’t meet the standards of your fictional detectives.’

  ‘Well, you’re quite like Miss Marple.’ Watson watched the Ferrari turn off the road into the grounds of a two-storey complex. ‘Hullo! That’s the place, huh?’

  ‘Yes, Ebor Pharmaceuticals.’ Following the Ferrari onto the car park, Quist checked the mirror as the Maserati and BMW continued past. Three empty police cars stood near the front doors.

  Watson watched wide-eyed as Rex twisted the wheel skidding the car to a sideways halt in a cloud of spray. ‘Mmmh! Bit of a twat, don’t you reckon?’

  Quist had to disagree; Grant was far more than a bit. Grant was a twat who deserved to be on the cover of The Observer’s Book of Twats.

  ‘Nice motor,’ enthused Watson, climbing out into the rain and walking around the black F50. ‘They did a limited run of these, didn’t they? What sort of speed will she do?’

  Rex grinned. ‘I’ve had two-hundred out of her in Germany.’

  ‘I’ve always been into prestige motors.’ Watson’s gaze moved lovingly over the air intakes and rear spoiler. ‘Er, any chance of a go in it?’

  ‘A go?’ echoed Rex.

  Quist winced. Giving his assistant a go in an F50 would be like giving a shotgun with strawberry-flavoured barrels to a manic-depressive.

  ‘A drive,’ said Watson. ‘Just a little drive around a car park, like this one, maybe?’

  Rex laughed. ‘About the same chance as me leaving a nightclub without a model on my arm.’

  ‘If you’re quite ready,’ sighed Quist. He needed Grant here like a sleepwalker needed a cliff. ‘We need to go about this tactfully. The last thing we want is to get involved with the police investigation in there.’

  Watson chuckled. ‘Not a wanted man, are you, Guv?’