The fence was far too tall to climb over, and the gate was locked from the other side. It must lead to a private patio or allotment.
She’d lost him.
Then she saw it: a fingerless glove, caught on the chainlink fence by the gate. It must have snagged when the man ran through to shut the gate.
So there was at least a clue...
Chapter 11
Back at the house, Pattie had already taken her magnifying glass to the second letter.
“What could he mean?” asked Linsey, who stood by the kitchen counter as the kettle heated on the stove. “He’ll get his ‘honour’ back? Does he think he was framed or something?”
“Crowley is a serial killer,” Pattie said, not taking her eyes off the letter. “He was wanted by the police for years before Andrew even got involved. He’s as guilty as sin. The problem was proving it. Eventually Andrew found the evidence that tied him to all of his subsequent murders: an apartment in York registered under another person’s name, full of trophies from his victims. Crowley definitely committed his crimes, and like most serial killers, he knew exactly what he was doing and collected memoirs of his exploits to ruminate over. A killer as bad as Crowley comes around once every few decades. He’s fully aware of what he did to those people, so if he’s got a beef with my son, it’s only because he begrudges getting caught, not because he believes he was wrongly imprisoned.”
Pattie put down the letter with a sigh. “There’s nothing useful on this.”
“I know you, Pattie,” said Linsey. “If there’s something to find, you’ll find it.”
“I don’t feel at the height of my game right now,” Pattie confessed, taking off her spectacles to clean them with a microfibre cloth she kept in her blouse pocket. “Usually I feel like all the clues are there, and all I need to do is put them together. But with this case … I don’t know. I’ve never been the victim before.”
After passing Pattie a cup of mild tea, Linsey sat down opposite her mother-in-law. “You have a strong mind, Patricia. Just put that one detail to the side, and look at it like any other case.”
“It’s not that.” Pattie rubbed her forehead. She was developing another headache. “Something’s just not adding up about this whole thing. Why would Crowley come here? And why wouldn’t he just burst in and do what he came to do – especially knowing that Juliette was not in here to defend me? Does he want to play with me; frighten me? I helped Andrew on the Crowley case, and I’ve seen the case file. He was never known to play games. This is just too much for me to deal with – I’m not thinking clearly. None of the pieces fit!”
“Maybe you just need another clue.” said D.C. Palmer, who entered the kitchen holding up a transparent evidence bag containing the glove that the ‘homeless man’ had lost. “Sorry – I knocked, but you must not have heard me.”
“Where did you go?” asked Linsey.
“Mrs Lansbury, I’m sorry that I didn’t see the note getting delivered. I was distracted by two young lads having a drunken brawl. But I saw another person near the house just before you came out: a homeless guy. I chased him but he got away – although he did leave this behind. I’m going to have the forensics team take a look at it, but it could take a week, or even longer. We have to ship it out to one of the city labs.”
Pattie put her spectacles back on. “Is it a left glove, or right?”
“Right,” said D.C. Palmer, after taking a look.
“And this homeless person was definitely a man?”
“I didn’t get a look at his face, but from the body shape and the sound of his voice, I’d say definitely.”
“Hmmn.”
Pattie stood and took a few slow sips of her tea. It was hot and delicious.
She had decided that she’d spent far too long worrying about what might happen and dwelling on the past, that she’d almost forgotten herself. This was not the Patricia Lansbury, consulting detective, who had survived a family scandal and her two sons moving away. The Pattie who had lived through her husband’s death and subsequent years of loneliness; who had set up her own rescue business and solved some of the biggest crimes of the region. This was some other woman, and Pattie didn’t like her!
“Enough moping,” she said to herself. “Let’s solve this case. And I know just where to go from here!”
Then she whistled.
Chapter 12
Some of Pattie’s cats responded to whistling, and others didn’t. One of the responsive ones was Tyson, a silver tabby with bold stripes and an attitude to match. Tyson had been adopted after he’d been caught troubling a nearby police training school for dogs. The tyke had been teasing some of the new dogs and soon the training offers had to have him shipped out – but not before he’d picked up a fondness for the canine race and some of their best characteristics, including tracking skills.
“Even for a cat, Tyson has an incredible sense of smell,” Pattie explained as she, Linsey and D.C. Palmer waited for him to show up. “This wouldn’t be the first time he’s helped me on an important case.”
D.C. Palmer put her hands on her hips. “I’m sure he’d be a great asset if he decides to show his furry little face.”
Linsey tittered. “Shh, maybe he’s using the litterbox!”
Pattie whistled again. Finally Tyson appeared, slinking around the corner and padding up to Patty with a ‘so, what’s up?’ attitude. Pattie gave him a few grateful strokes – he really was one of the prettiest residents of Pat’s Whiskers, similar in appearance to Harlequin – and then asked D.C. Palmer to let him have a sniff of the glove.
With a few tasty treats to get him in a helpful mood, Tyson was soon padding off to the front door with the three woman in tow.
“Is he really leading us to the homeless guy?” asked Linsey, amazed. “I didn’t think cats could do this!”
“Cats can do anything that dogs can do, with a little extra training – and a lot of extra patience.”
“Then why do people say they can’t?” teased D.C. Palmer.
“Because cats rarely deign to do what a human asks of them,” laughed Pattie. “If you had a servant who fetched you food when you were hungry, and comforted you when you were cold or lonely, would you follow his instructions?”
“I’d better stay here with Claire,” said Linsey. “Hopefully Simon will be home in a few hours. Good luck! You will be safe, won’t you?”
“I’m going to let my partner know where we are,” D.C. Palmer said. “Don’t worry.”
With that, Pattie and the Detective Constable stepped back out into the darkness to follow the lithe little shape of their feline guide.
Chapter 13
They followed Tyson up Shepherd’s Street, which ran along the bottom of the valley. At the point where the street began to slope, it branched into Highbarn Street and zig-zagged up the terraced estate that overlooked the village’s nearby fields and farmland.
The route took them down the side-road where D.C. Palmer had lost the homeless man. They found the gate open; someone must have since come down the road from the other side. As expected, beyond the gate was a large allotment that adjoined several nearby properties. They hopped along a succession of paving stones until they met another road running parallel to the first on the other side.
Occasionally Tyson would stop and look over his shoulder, as though to check that his human companions were still following faithfully. So satisfied, he would then trot on, following a trail that only his noise could detect, lingering in the air.
As they walked, Pattie examined the state of the stars and the moon, which let their light bounce off her spectacles and glisten in her silver hair. “It’s a beautiful night,” she said.
D.C. Palmer took a moment to respond, as though she’d been deep in thought. “Hmm? Oh, yes. It is.”
“Something – or someone – on your mind, Detective Constable?” Pattie asked with a twinkle in her eye. She knew full well who Juliette was thinking of. She and her partner, D.C. Thomas Downey,
had been getting closer by the day since his marriage had fallen through – probably even before then. Pattie thought their impending romance was inevitable, although they denied its viability fervently.
“How did you guess? I suppose I do have someone on my mind. It’s just, with a job like this, it’s difficult to find some free time to get together and really talk it out, you know?”
“Oh, I understand. It took my husband and I a couple of months to get it together, which was a long time in those days. Charlie used to be a pilot, you know, and flew in the war. They kept him on as an NCO for a while, but once we were married he soon got tired of the life. He said he wanted to see more of me and the boys. It was almost like he knew that he wouldn’t live long enough to see his grandchildren. Poor Charlie.”
“Well, I don’t know if it will get as far as grandchildren,” D.C. Palmer laughed, “but it feels different to my other relationships. When I lived in Manchester all I could find were super-hectic career guys. I didn’t think there was anything else until I moved here.”
“And then you met Thomas,” said Pattie with a smile.
The D.C. couldn’t help but grin in return. “I suppose I can’t pull the wool over your eyes can I? Thomas and I just can’t seem to find the right moment to do anything about it. There are moments I can sense that he’s biding his time, waiting until I’m ready, but it’s always at times that I have other things to deal with. Then a week later, it’s the other way around and I don’t see him for days. It’s just … really difficult.”
“It would be easier if you were both cats,” chuckled Pattie. “If you met and liked what you saw, then that’s all it would take. I’m sure that Tyson here’s been making midnight visits to some lucky lady cat; he’s out most nights lately. The cheeky devil!”
“Speaking of which…” said D.C. Palmer. “I think he’s really on to something.”
Tyson had taken them across a lonely hill and towards a ridge on the valley. This was the site of Cliffton Cottage, which was said to be one of the very first buildings from the birth of Little Hamilton, built by one of its founders hundreds of years ago. Its grey stone walls looked out across the valley, surrounded by several acres of private land that kept developers at bay. In any case, all of the moors around Little Hamilton were National Heritage sites, and so they would remain as they are for a hundred years more. It also meant that house prices in the village were as steep as the valley they were built on, and climbing ever-higher.
“Did someone buy Cliffton Cottage?” asked Pattie as she huffed and puffed up the hillside. “That place has been empty for a year.”
“Looks like it. There’s a Land Rover parked outside, and I think I can see a light on.”
When they got to the end of the path they found Tyson waiting for them with a nonchalant look on his face. He knew that he had done his job, and done it well. It was now time to go home.
“Well done, Tyson,” beamed Pattie, “you did a stellar job! You may go home, now.”
D.C. Palmer was standing by the front door with her arms crossed. “Doesn’t look like the home of a tramp, does it?”
But Pattie was sure that Tyson had correctly followed the scent trail from the glove to this place, and didn’t hesitate before knocking on the door. What waited on the other side might not be a tramp, but it would most certainly supply some answers.
They waited, but there was no answer. Pattie knocked again. And again.
Finally there was movement.
“Do you want to speak, or shall I?” Pattie asked of D.C. Palmer.
“Leave it to me.”
The door opened. A handsome middle-aged man stood in the hallway, looking agitated. His thick dark hair, with silver around the temples, was perfectly arranged, but his expensive clothes seemed as though they’d just been thrown on. He had thick eyebrows and a full mouth, as well as a strong jawline and deep chest.
Pattie recognised him immediately. “Mister Matthew Conrad, isn’t it?”
“Do you realise what time it is? I was having dinner.” His voice was rich and hard, the voice of a man who wasn’t used to being crossed.
“We’re sorry to interrupt your meal, sir,” said D.C. Palmer, putting on her policewoman voice. “My name is Detective Constable Juliette Palmer; this is Mrs Patricia Lansbury. May we come in a moment?”
“No, you may not. What is this about?” the man snapped. “I’m very busy.”
“I’m sure you are, Mister Conrad,” said Pattie. “Someone of such high standing as yourself always is. We had no idea that you had moved to our village. Welcome to Little Hamilton.”
“Am I missing something?” said D.C. Palmer.
Pattie gestured with her hand. “This gentleman is Matthew Conrad, the media mogul. He owns The Northern Times and The Protector newspapers. One of his companies owns the YTV News channel, isn’t that right, Mister Conrad?”
Mister Conrad did not look too pleased about this discussion. “If this is some half-arsed interview, I really don’t have any interest in continuing. Please tell me why you’re here.”
“YTV,” said the Detective Constable, snapping her fingers. “So your daughter is that newshound, Laura Conrad? Do you know how many times I’ve threatened her with arrest for interfering with police business?”
“I don’t see how that’s any concern of mine,” said Mister Conrad, closing the door. “Goodnight!”
“We brought back your glove!” Pattie called, just before the door slammed shut in their faces. There was a pause. Then the entrepreneur opened the door again slowly. D.C. Palmer raised the evidence bag containing the homeless man’s fingerless glove, which he looked at, stony-faced, before relenting.
“I suppose you’d better come in,” he said. “Wipe your damned feet.”
Chapter 14
Mister Conrad led them into the cottage. Surprisingly, a young man was on-hand to take their coats, which he did so without a word and then disappeared into another room.
The interior of the cottage was far different than what Pattie expected. It seemed much bigger on the inside than it did on the outside, like on that TV show with the doctor in the phone box. It had also been lavishly renovated, preserving only a little of a cottage’s expected rustic charm, instead replacing much of it with rich oak panelling and antique furniture. Although Pattie loved the traditional country style of her own place, she had to admit that it was marvellous.
Mister Conrad took them into a large study at the back of the house. Pattie was shocked to learn that this room was part of an enormous modern extension to the cottage.
“How on Earth did you get planning permission for this?” she asked. “All the houses in the village are protected!”
“I’m sure that I don’t have to explain myself to either of you, but needless to say, I got the permission. The construction noise obviously didn’t even disturb the other residents of Little Hamilton, so you can safely presume that I haven’t harmed the integrity of the village’s image or the countryside. I’m very proud of the extension. It also includes a WC and a solarium upstairs.”
Mister Conrad led them between well-stocked bookcases and gestured to some leather chairs around a small coffee table. There were the traditional large globe and abstract sculpture placed nearby. As the ladies took their seats, Mister Conrad stooped to take out a bottle and some tumblers and poured himself a drink. He didn’t offer one to his guests. That was fine with Pattie, who never touched the stuff, but manners counted for a heck of a lot in her book. She already thought less of the rude Michael Conrad, who leant back in his overstuffed chair and let the ice rattle around his glass.
“So,” he said in his deep voice, “tell me what you have come to tell me.”
D.C. Palmer dropped the evidence bag containing the fingerless glove onto the coffee table. “Can you explain this?”
He looked a little sorrowfully at the glove, then sipped his drink. “Detective … Palmer, was it? In London, I am universally recognised as the powerful entrepren
eur, owner of a dozen global businesses – at least, the ones you’ve heard about – including the UK’s leading news organization, its national rail services, a globally successful travel company and, in just a few short years, I’ll be on the first commercial space-shuttle trip to the moon, along with fifty-nine very rich passengers. My face is in the newspapers, TV, and on the sides of trains and aeroplanes. My so-called private life is plastered all over the media every other week: philanthropist this, womanizer that, Matthew Conrad has crashed his own personal submarine again.”
“I have little sympathy,” said Pattie, having just cleaned her spectacles so as to see the man’s expressions more clearly. “You have chosen the lifestyle that you lead. If a man wishes to conquer the world, then he should expect a little media attention.”
Mister Conrad’s face grew darker. “A little? Mrs Lansbury, every time I step out of the door, there are reporters hassling me, young aspirants desperate to be on Lion’s Den with me, or fanatics protesting about some perceived sleight to animals or the rainforests or the atmosphere, or whatever wonderful natural resource I’ve apparently polluted via my evil corporate conglomerations. It is, as you might imagine, thoroughly exhausting – not to mention frustrating, aggravating and disruptive.”
“So you moved to Yorkshire to get away from all that?” said Pattie. “I can imagine that to be true, but it would hardly make much difference. This is where your nosy reporter daughter lives after all, isn’t it? The YTV studios are based just next door in York. You’re just as well known in Little Hamilton as you are in London. Forgive me for saying, but I’m not sure that quite makes sense.”
“Just because it doesn’t make sense to you, it does not follow that it’s doesn’t make sense at all, Mrs Lansbury. You shouldn’t be so vain. Yes, I’m known anywhere in the country. But as you say, my businesses in the North are based nearby, and this cottage is secluded enough that – if I bought and renovated it in private – I could hide away whenever I pleased.”
The Escapee and the Case of the Cat-Napper (A Pattie Lansbury Cat Cozy Mystery Series Book 3) Page 3