by James Oswald
Two steps take me to the bathroom door. I nudge it open with a foot, feeling more foolish with each passing moment. The bedroom door’s partly open and I can see my unmade bed. I can’t remember not throwing the duvet back over the sheets this morning, but I can’t remember actually doing it either. The smell is stronger here though, sharp, almost like cigarette smoke, but distant. No, more like a struck match.
I push the door open, step inside, let out the breath I’ve been holding as I see there’s no one here. The thin curtain riffles in a gentle breeze, so I must have forgotten to close the window. The smell is probably from outside, someone lighting up a couple of floors down.
Except there’s something odd about the bed.
I haven’t made it, but that’s not unusual. The duvet’s rucked up in the middle of the mattress, half covering the pillows, and for a moment I think there’s someone sleeping there. Then I notice the marks on the patterned cover, dark spots like holes in the faded fabric.
My umbrella seems an ineffectual weapon as I reach out for the duvet with my free hand, poke a stupid finger into one of the holes. All at once I know what the smell is.
Brimstone.
Cordite.
Gunfire.
I’m still staring at the cover in disbelief when the folds shift, something moving beneath. I leap back in alarm, may even let out a little girl’s squeal of surprise. Get a grip of yourself, Con. You’re a grown woman. I reach for the bottom of the duvet, well away from the two black holes, and flip it over to the side of the bed.
Something long and black lies in the little dent in the mattress made by many years of my sleeping there. I can see one small hole beside it, where the bullet has passed clean through and presumably into the floor underneath the bed. The other one’s nowhere to be seen. For a moment I can’t understand why someone would put a dead cat in my bed, and then the poor beast moves again.
I drop the umbrella and lean over. That’s when I see the other bullet hole, tinged with a small stain of dark-red blood, and a chunk missing from the cat’s ear. I don’t own a cat, although there’s plenty that live around here. Some have homes to go to, but most are feral, I’d guess. Judging by the general condition of this one, and its lack of collar, I’d go with the latter option. It’s fairly obvious what’s happened. I must have forgotten the window when I left in the morning. This poor moggie’s found its way in and crawled under the covers for a kip.
Then someone’s put two bullets through the duvet thinking I’m still in there asleep.
10
‘Don’t think this is going to get you any sympathy from Professional Standards. You know that’s not how they work.’
My tiny apartment is full of police officers and forensic technicians. Knowing that someone’s been in here while I was out is bad enough, but this is a special kind of violation. I’ve worked with some of these people, and probably wouldn’t have chosen to invite them around to my place for a coffee. Least of all Detective Superintendent Gordon Bailey. I’m frankly astonished that he’s turned up, but I guess I’m on his radar right now. Either that or he’s naturally nosey.
‘What’s all this fuss about anyway? I heard someone left a dead cat in your bed. Not sure we need all of this, do we?’ He’s standing in the hall, getting in the way of the fingerprint specialist and the firearms residue expert. Someone should have told him to put on a white paper coverall, but maybe they saw I wasn’t wearing one and just assumed it wasn’t important enough a crime scene to warrant it.
‘First of all, sir, the cat’s not dead. Someone from the RSPCA’s taken it off to the vets. Second, it wasn’t put in my bed. I reckon it must have crawled there itself, looking for somewhere to have a kip. Must have got in through the window.’
‘You’re a police officer.’ Bailey manages to put a great deal of uncertainty in such a small observation. ‘I’d have thought you’d know better than to leave a window open.’
I ball my hands into fists out of sight. The man’s impossible. ‘I know that, sir. Must have been a bit distracted this morning when I left for my interview with PS. The point you seem to be missing is that someone broke in here and fired two bullets into my bed, thinking I was lying there asleep.’
Bailey couldn’t look less concerned if he tried. ‘Not much of a hitman if he can’t tell the difference between a sleeping woman and a cat.’
How I stop myself from lamping him, I’ve no idea. I always knew the man was a prize arse, but just because he doesn’t much like me doesn’t make it any less of an attempted murder. So soon after they killed Pete too, anyone with an ounce of sense would be all over this.
‘You know how cheap it is to put a hit out on someone these days, sir. Any halfwit can get hold of a gun too. What I don’t know is how the fuck they found out where I live.’
‘Well, at least we know how they got in.’ He finally moves, brushing past me and stepping into my crowded bedroom. It was a mess before forensics got here, but now it’s chaos. Clear plastic evidence bags are filled with my duvet, sheets, pillows and some underwear that was lurking in the corner on its way to the laundry bin. Now a couple of technicians are studying the bare mattress. I’ve a horrible feeling they’re either going to take it away for tests or cut out the bit they want to take away for tests and leave me with the rest.
‘Give us a hand, will you?’ one of the white-suited technicians asks me, nodding towards the mattress. I hesitate just long enough to annoy him. ‘Need to turn it on its side. See what’s underneath, right?’
I know what’s underneath, but I help him all the same. The bed’s an old wooden frame thing I picked up from a modern antiques place in Pimlico. One of the bullets has splintered a wooden slat passing through, but the other must have met the gap. Both have disappeared into a mess of old clothes and dust bunnies.
‘Never seems to be time to tidy,’ I say as the forensic technician draws in a sharp breath. I stand back as he carefully picks up my discarded tops, a pair of white jeans I’d forgotten I even owned, some underwear that at least isn’t too kinky. He inspects every item closely, and though he says nothing I can hear the tutting anyway. He has to do it, of course. The bullets could be anywhere.
As it turns out, they’re both buried in the floor. The technician goes down on all fours, prising at the carpet with a pair of tweezers, and comes back with a tiny lump of metal that once might have been a bullet. He drops it into a plastic evidence bag, I hope to be sent to the lab for analysis so they can identify the gun. The second bullet goes in another bag, then he stands up, back creaking as he stretches.
‘Must’ve been using a cheap sound modifier or something. Took most of the force out of the bullets. The mattress will have done the rest.’ The technician turns, points at Bailey. ‘Judging by the trajectory, your man was somewhere by the window there, popped off two rounds and legged it. You sure the door was locked?’
‘Positive.’ I shove my hand in my pocket, pull out my keys. ‘Had to use these to get in.’
The technician hobbles over to the window, pushes it as wide as it will go, and peers out. I don’t need to follow him to know that it’s a long drop onto a concrete path. There’s a flat roof at the back of the next building just a bit higher than here, but the distance is too far to jump, surely. You’d have to be an acrobat to even contemplate it. Either that or mad. On the other hand the cat got in.
‘Christ only knows how, but your man must have come in this way. Probably off his face on something. If he’d gone out the way he came in we’d be scraping him off the path down there, so he must have scarpered out the front door.’
Back at the station I thought I’d left for good. I’m getting used to all the strange looks now, even if I still want to yell at everyone to fuck off and get on with their jobs. I thought some of these people were my friends, which just goes to show you never really know someone until you need their help.
Pete would have been on top of the situation. He’d have seen what was going on and had quiet words with the worst of the station gossips. He knew how to keep a team together even when one of them wasn’t exactly Miss Popular.
But Pete’s dead. And everyone blames me.
‘Are you even listening to me, Fairchild?’
I register the change in Detective Superintendent Bailey’s voice too late to fake it. ‘Sorry, sir. It’s been a long day and I—’
‘You’re a bloody disgrace, that’s what you are. I don’t know what Copperthwaite saw in you.’
That gets my back up. ‘Disgrace? What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘Don’t take that tone of voice with me, Constable.’ Bailey’s anger flares as swiftly as my own, and I wonder what’s fuelling it. He’s lost a good detective, true, and a major operation’s been flushed down the toilet, but this seems more personal than that.
‘I’ll take whatever tone of voice I fucking like, sir.’ I lay extra emphasis on the last word. ‘Ever since Pete’s death I’ve been treated like shit. Like it was my fault. Like I was the only person working on that operation. Fuck’s sake. How many other officers have been hauled up in front of Professional Standards? How many are suspended? Someone tried to fucking kill me this morning and all I get is “You’re a bloody disgrace”. Well, fuck that and the horse it rode in on.’
Bailey’s always looked a bit like a toad, but now his eyes are bulging so far out of his face I think he’s going to burst. I tense, ready for the shouting, but when he finally responds it’s with a quiet, calm voice. That’s somehow more frightening than the anger.
‘You’re suspended and under investigation because you’re the only person who could have blown DI Copperthwaite’s cover. You’re the only person who’s acted suspiciously since his death.’
For a moment I can’t speak. Have I fallen through some weird time warp into a mad mirror dimension? Am I actually dreaming and soon I’ll wake up and blame it all on late-night cheese? This man somehow managed to scrabble up the greasy pole to detective superintendent and yet his head is rammed so far up his own arse I’m surprised he can’t see the back of his teeth.
‘Someone tried to kill me today, sir. Just a day on from Pete’s funeral. Please tell me you’re at least going to have that looked into. Or do you think I set the whole thing up myself?’
Bailey stares at me like a man waiting for his constipation medicine to kick in, and I can’t help thinking I’ve just planted an idea in his mind that wasn’t there before.
‘Of course we’re going to investigate it. I don’t like the idea of someone thinking they can take potshots at my officers, no matter how much of an irritant they are. We’ll wait and see what forensics comes up with before jumping to any conclusions though.’
‘At least tell me you’re going to put a couple of officers on the door. In case whoever did this comes back for a second go.’
The pause before his answer isn’t reassuring. ‘I can’t authorise that kind of manpower. You’ll have a panic alarm and we’ll get the patrols to concentrate on that area of town for the next few days. You’re not going anywhere anyway. Maybe you’ll remember to keep your windows closed now.’
11
I don’t really want to go home. Forensics have been and gone, the locksmith’s fitted a new lock and I know all the windows are closed. All the same, I can’t help but feel exposed as I climb the concrete stairs to the second-floor walkway. Exposed and angry.
I stare out into the street for a while, hoping to see one of the promised patrol cars, but nothing appears. Who’s out there? Who wants to kill me and why? Even Mrs Feltham’s nowhere to be seen, and I miss her cheery hello. One hand in my pocket, I can feel the panic alarm nestling there like the useless piece of junk it is. Sure, if I press the button a patrol car will come rescue me. Chances are I’ll be dead long before it gets here though.
There’s plenty of light left in the evening as I fumble for the unfamiliar keys and let myself in. The flat feels all wrong, and not just because there are traces of fingerprint powder everywhere. This was my home for years, my refuge, and now that’s all been taken away. I know it’s just a transient feeling, part shock, part my brain dealing with all that’s happened. Knowing it will pass doesn’t make it any easier.
My trusty umbrella sits by the front door, and I pick it up as I drop my backpack in its place, hang my jacket on a hook. I draw the living room curtains before turning on the light. I wouldn’t normally bother, but the insecurity is playing on my mind. The television isn’t any solace as I flick listlessly through the endless channels of rubbish. Soap operas and reality TV, game shows where hopeful idiots vie with one another to see who can be most public in their stupidity. In the end, I stop on a wildlife documentary. Not because I particularly want to watch it, but because it’s not as vacuous as everything else. David Attenborough’s voice is soothing too.
‘You don’t need to stay here, you know?’
I should be startled by the voice, but instead I’m strangely calm. Over in the far corner I can see a man, his face shadowed, body still. I’d know him anyway, even if he hadn’t spoken.
I mute the television, even though the volume is set low. ‘Where would I go, Pete? I need to get through this. Find out who killed you. Who tried to kill me.’
He shakes his head slowly. I can’t see his features at all.
‘No you don’t, Con. Nothing good will come of that.’
‘So, what? I should just move on? Quit the force and find a rich man to marry?’
I can hear his silent laughter, the gentle chiding that was always his way. ‘Why on earth would you want to do that? You hate all that stuff. Don’t give in to it. Think about what you love.’
He’s annoying when he’s like this, but he’s right. Accentuate the positive, as the song goes. Except there’s one small fly in that ointment. ‘But I love my job. I love helping people, setting the world to rights.’
‘You don’t need to be a cop to do that. Plenty other lines of work you could be in. And you’ve got training, hard-earned skills. Use them, why don’t you?’
I don’t know why I laugh at that. He’s not really here, after all. This is just my guilty conscience talking. ‘You mean go and work for your ex?’
‘Maybe.’ Pete’s shadow shrugs. ‘Or maybe just yourself. Think about it, Con. You don’t owe those bastards anything. Except maybe a constructive dismissal claim.’
He has a point. I don’t owe them. If anything, they owe me. But all I’ve got from them is suspicion and cold shoulder. That and the panic alarm I’ve left in my jacket pocket out in the hall where it’s fuck all use to anyone. Maybe I should take his advice, make good on my threat to quit. Go and do something else with my life before I get too old to change.
I open my mouth to tell Pete’s ghost he’s right, but the light has changed in the room and now he’s gone.
The door buzzer startles me out of a state of semi-stupor, Pete’s parting words still echoing in my mind. I’m slumped in the armchair, umbrella across my knees as if it’s the best possible weapon against intruders with guns. The television is still silent, but judging by the images flickering across the screen, turning up the volume wouldn’t be an improvement. I wonder for a moment if I just imagined the noise, but then it goes again.
I approach the front door warily. The only way to see who’s outside is to peer through the peephole, and that puts my body in the perfect position to be shot through the door. Christ, Con. When did you get so paranoid?
‘Who is it?’ The umbrella is still clutched in my right hand, raised as threateningly as a rolled up umbrella can be.
‘RSPCA, mum. I’ve got yer cat.’
It’s perhaps a sign of my poor state of mind that the thing that most annoys me is being called ‘mum’. I take a chance and glance through the peephole. Sure enough, there’s th
e young man who took the stunned cat away to the vet. I thought that would be the last I saw of either of them, but apparently not. Putting the umbrella down carefully by the door, I unlock it and open it wide. He’s standing back a way, holding on to a black plastic pet carrier.
‘I think there’s been some kind of mistake. This isn’t my cat.’
‘You sure of that, mum? Picked it up here, din’t I?’ He hefts the carrier up, and inside I can see the poor creature staring at me with wide eyes. It’s not that I don’t like animals. We had cats and dogs when I was growing up, even a couple of ponies when I was a teenager, but I grew out of that quickly enough. Living in London and working the hours I do, it wouldn’t be fair to have a pet.
‘I know you picked it up here, but it’s not my cat. It must have come in through the window. No idea who it belongs to.’
The young man’s face drops in disappointment. He gently raises the pet carrier and peers in through the bars. ‘Might explain why she ain’t chipped, then. I was gonna suggest you get that done, but if she’s not yours . . .’ He lets the cage down gently again, shoulders slumped as much in dismay as from the weight of it.
‘Sorry. I thought you knew when you picked her up.’ I’m aware this doorstep conversation has been going on longer than I’d have liked, but I don’t really want to invite a stranger in, even if he is clearly not a threat. ‘She, you say? I had no idea. She’ll be OK though? Someone’ll claim her?’
‘Don’t rightly know.’ He lets out a heavy sigh. ‘No chip means we can’t track her owner through the database. She’ll go in the pen for now, but rehoming adults is a nightmare. Everyone wants kittens, right? And nobody wants black ones.’
‘What happens if you can’t find a new home for her?’ I know the answer but ask the question anyway.
‘She’ll be put to sleep. Can’t just let her loose, even if that’s where she’s come from.’
The cat takes that moment to move in the carrier. Either she’s naturally placid or still drugged, but as her eyes peer through the front of the pet carrier I can see they’ve shaved a square of fur and stitched up her wound. One of her ears is split, although whether that was from the bullet or some earlier fight I’ve no idea. When she looks up at me with those wide, round eyes, I can’t help but think my own problems are small in comparison.