The Cat Hunter

by Krishna Ahir

  A feeling similar to pride momentarily passed through Harold. After working to groom Drake into something akin to a lead Detective, he was finally starting to act like one.

  He also noted the younger man's use of plural pronouns. Harold knew all too well that the coordination of the effort was Drake's own, yet the Constable didn't even think to use it as an opportunity to promote himself. He cared about the case — about the victim — not some kind of forced attempt at sprinting through the ranks.

  He hummed his approval and turned his vision on the kitchen. Very little was out of place (if he were to ignore the mutilated cat hanging in the airing cupboard). There were no signs of a struggle past the blood pool on the floor, and the cast off from whatever weapon had been used to subdue the victim. Everything was eerily calm and in place.

  It was at times like these that he wished Dean Price was still alive. Retirement be damned, if he could Harold would have called him and pleaded for him to drive the four hours from London. Forensic extraordinaire and self-proclaimed "human magnifying glass", Dean could have found a needle in a stack of needles; more than that, he could even tell you exactly when and where it was made.

  Instead, he had to put his faith in the Grand Stone Bay forensics unit. So far, it seemed, they were at least thorough and competent enough to justify that faith.

  "Any theories on what happened?" Harold asked, beginning to pace around the room.

  "Well..." Drake began. "Sorry if I'm sounding a bit too much like Osborne, but this smells of a trap." He pointed up at the lights, then to the fuse box as he explained. "Whoever took him cut the power to make sure he came to the fuse box. Then they used the cat as a distraction to get the drop on him."

  "Probably came up from behind, using the blind spot of the corner," Wilson added. "Must have hit him with something fucking hard to knock him out."

  "All of which tells us whoever did this knows the layout of the house," Harold continued, his voice heavy. "They managed to kill the cat, cut the power and hide ready for the trap before he got home from college. They couldn't have done it this smoothly without having been here before. That or they're extraordinarily lucky."

  "They may be lucky and well prepared," the forensic specialist added, her voice cutting through the darkness like a blade, "but they're not very strong. Look at the blood smears. He was dragged. Not very consistently either. Whoever took him stopped and started a lot."

  "I don't know whether to find that comforting or not..." Drake muttered, under his breath.

  "Don't," Harold answered. "Find it comforting, I mean. Strength is relative; the fact that they're not physically strong doesn't change a damn thing. They're still dangerous. Don't forget that." Stepping back and looking over the three people in front of him, Harold addressed them as a whole. "What else have you found?"

  Drake walked over to the dining table and picked up a folded piece of paper. He held it gingerly by corners as if worried that, in spite of his gloves, he might somehow contaminate it. "This."

  Carefully unfolding it, he displayed the contents to the DCI, as Wilson shone his torch on the sheet.

  "Christopher had this passed through his door the same day that he found the first dump site," Drake explained. "My guess is he didn't report it because he thought the two were unrelated. I even thought so myself, when he told me about it yesterday. But now..."

  "Now we know that this is almost definitely from our perp," Harold muttered. "Fantastic."

  "So we know now that he's been the target from the beginning?" Wilson asked.

  "More than likely, yes," Harold confirmed. "But something doesn't seem right... They started off with the cats, and truth told it probably should have stayed at that. But this is a rapid escalation... Someone like this doesn't suddenly go from animal mutilations to kidnapping. There's got to have been some kind of trigger." He took a deep breath, and held it for a moment. "I just hope to god they haven't killed anyone yet."

  He indicated Drake and Wilson, and motioned for them to follow him. Moving to exit the kitchen, he moved his hands about as he spoke. The methodical mindset was beginning to take over, and he could feel his mind clicking through the various steps and stages of his process.

  "I need you two to start going door-to-door," he began. "Have the uniforms help you, so you can cover more ground quicker. Use as many of them as you need. When you're done with the street, re-convene at the house, and by then the scene of crime guys will have finished processing the scene. Wilson, I want you to call your partner. Have her start checking traffic cameras, and see if they picked up anything."

  Reaching the doorway, Harold looked up and out of the house. Whipped from the clouds by the lightning, rain had finally started to descend on the landscape. Thick and fat drops crashed down on the street, drowning the onlookers and officers both. A stream had already formed in the road, running downhill before being swallowed by the guttering. The forensics unit, in the middle of erecting a marquee in the front garden, sped up their efforts into a furious pace, so that any trace evidence left in the garden wasn't washed away.

  Eyes darting down the road, between the cascading sheets of rain, Harold observed the crowds of people, as if looking for someone.

  Turning his back on the downpour, his eyes fell on Drake once again. "I thought I told you to call your partner?"

  "I did," Drake said, knitting his brows in confusion. "Right after I called you that was the first thing I did."

  Harold hummed pensively. "Strange... He should be here by now."

  "Yeah..." Wilson joined in. "Where the fuck is Osborne?"

  Tufail Kalam was running late.

  The dry cleaner had been late in finishing his suit, meaning that his trip home resulted in him meeting the swarm of storm-induced traffic streaming both to and from the middle of Grand Stone Bay's City Centre. After sitting in the gridlock of cars for more than an hour, he finally managed to make his way back to his apartment, in the South East end of the city.

  An opulent neighborhood, teeming with studio apartments, he had moved into his three bedroom flat three years earlier and never felt more at home. Stylish in the clinical, minimalist sense, Tufail's decoration and design was composed almost entirely of sleek black and white. His garage, where he parked his soft-top BMW Z3, was built in below the space, and only accessible by key card. Much like the rest of the estate. Usually, he liked that. The fenced-off area afforded him a sense of exclusivity that could seldom be found in the rest of the city. Now, however, it was more than a small issue.

  In such a rush to get home from the dry cleaners, he had left his access card on the main desk of the establishment. Not wanting to return through the traffic, he had to phone one of his neighbors to let him in. The time it took him to realize his predicament, and for his well-intentioned neighbor to arrive and unlock the gate, was enough to fill him with more than a touch of anxiety.

  Tufail was already late by at least an hour, and now that time had been added to by twenty minutes. If he didn't hurry, he was going to miss his meeting.

  Checking his watch, as he abandoned his convertible on the kerb outside of his building, Tufail swore under his breath. It was nearly eight o'clock. The fact that it was a Friday night also didn't help to improve his mood.

  Hurrying up the stairs, he fished his keys out of his Jacket pocket; the dry-cleaned suit bundled under the other arm, and entered his apartment. Passing through the kitchen, and taking a brief glance at the landline phone on the counter, he was relieved to see that he didn't have any answer phone messages.

  Yet.

  His investor likely wouldn't forgive him, if he were late.

  Somewhat of a local celebrity (at least in his own mind) Tufail was the owner of at least four restaurants in the greater Grand Stone Bay area. Specializing in Indian and Bangladeshi cuisine, he was attempting to form what could eventually become a successful and recognizable brand.

  At least that was the plan, if his investors decided to play ball.

&nbs
p; The meeting was scheduled for nine o'clock in his first, and highest rated restaurant. "Tufail's" was located in Parkridge Shopping Centre, fifteen miles north of Grand Stone Bay, just beside the industrial estate. One of the most high-class establishments in the Centre (in his opinion) Tufail's father had opened the restaurant while he was still in junior college, and had given it to him following his graduation. Not satisfied with one establishment, he had taken it upon himself to re-invest all of his profits and open another restaurant in Grand Stone Bay's city centre. This was then followed by a takeaway, and so on.

  The prospect of being able to branch out further from the valley in which the city and its subsidiary towns were located made his hands itch in anticipation. A true businessman if ever there was one, Tufail was more than eager to further expand his brand.

  Showering quickly, Tufail hurriedly moved around his apartment, shaving as he went. The last thing he wanted to do was ruin his business model by being late to one meeting.

  Fate, however, didn't appear to be on his side.

  The main route to Parkridge was along the motorway. However, given the time of night and the fact that it was a Friday evening, he was almost certainly going to hit the traffic coming out of the industrial estate. That would eat up at least an hour that he didn't have.

  Checking the time again, this time on his steel wall-mounted clock, he saw that it was now closer to quarter-past-eight. Swearing again, he hurried back to the bathroom and lathered his hair with product.

  Giving himself the once-over in the mirror, Tufail made sure that he looked just right before quickly running to dress in his newly cleaned suit.

  A somewhat large man, his weight spoke less of sloth and gluttony, and more of opulence and fortune. Well-fed, with glossy black hair and strong, powerful shoulders, he had boyish features and friendly eyes. His cheeks now free from stubble, he sported a van-dyke beard.

  As he dressed, his ears twigged to a heavy thumping sound, almost as if a group of people were running over his roof. Still in the process of tying his tie, he moved to the window and grimaced when he laid eyes on the downpour. It would only exacerbate the traffic situation, and people had a bad habit of driving stupid when it rained.

  Again checking the time, he pulled on his Jacket and snatched up his phone, wallet and keys before practically running out of the door and pounding down the stairs of the complex. Leaping down, from halfway up the flight, he flung open the front door and dived into his car.

  Making up his mind, Tufail decided to avoid the motorway altogether. The traffic situation was bad enough, but rain on top was not a good mix.

  His best bet, if he were to arrive on time, would be to take the country roads and loop into Parkridge from the north west.

  Chapter 24

  Veronica heard the knock at the door, the dull thumping sound coming at her as if through an invisible filter. At first, she mistook it for the sound of her own heartbeat. Just standing as close as she was to Christopher, her pulse was so fast that she could feel her entire body trembling, as if she were about to erupt into some kind of joy-induced seizure. It only stood to reason that she would be able to hear the beat of her heart.

  Almost nose-to-nose with Christopher, she watched as he registered the sound. His pupils dilated in response to the knock, expanding and swallowing light. Knowing that he was staring at her, and seeing her own reflection ringed in the darkness of his pupil, Veronica felt her breath hitch in her throat. As she inhaled, she caught a faint wisp of Christopher's scent; musky and coppery. Blood flushed to her cheeks in a pink blush, and she could feel her head grow hot. A slight dizziness took her and she fought to stay poised, drunk off of his presence.

  Again the knock came from the door, and she was snapped from the daze.

  Her right hand, holding the metal grip of the kitchen knife, tensed and tightened. Emanating from the weapon, a comforting sensation eased through her.

  Around Veronica, everything seemed to crawl into slow-motion. Options and thoughts swam through her head, as she considered what to do in the situation.

  There was someone at the door. That much she was certain of. Who exactly it was she had no idea. Her house rarely had visitors, save for the postman and the man that checked their water meter, and she doubted that it would be either of them. After all, it was far too late at night. That left only two options: either it was a stranger, or it was the man she had seen her mother with.

  A powerful force took over her as she considered the possibility.

  Either way, something had to be done. This was the night. The special night that she had spent endless hours planning and preparing for. Christopher was there, her competition had been taken out of the picture, and everything was running smoothly. Everything was going exactly as she hoped it would.

  Everything except the knocking at the door.

  It bothered and distracted her, taking her attention away from what was important. Even when her bloody fingers had hold of Christopher's own; even with his face practically inches from hers, it was all she could think about.

  She considered ignoring it. She considered leaving well enough alone and pretending that no one was home. But that wouldn't work. The lights in the front room were on, and the car was in the driveway. Meaning that she would have to answer the door, lest her absence arouse suspicion.

  But then what?

  She would have to just turn them away; tell them that whoever they were looking for (more than likely her parents) were currently out, and would call them when they got home. After all, that had worked when the police had knocked on her door a few days earlier.

  Releasing her grasp on Christopher's hand, she straightened up and turned around. Only vaguely aware that she was still holding the knife, she closed the door to the room behind her and ventured down the hallway. Her footsteps echoed through the dimly lit space and pulsed in her head, their effect similar to that of the rap on the front door. Coming to the end of the hall, she turned left and began to climb the stairs out of the basement. Veronica's pace was quick and brisk, but in her mind time was moving at a fraction of its correct speed. After what seemed like an hour she reached the top of the staircase and moved out of the door that opened into the kitchen. Absent-mindedly sliding the bolt into place, she paused for a second before traversing the clear linoleum floor. Through the archway leading into the kitchen, she could see rain through the living room window, the thousands of droplets illuminated like stars by the headlights of a car on her driveway.

  For the third time, she heard the banging of knuckles against wood, as the uninvited guest knocked on the door. Filtered by the barrier, her ears recognized the distant sound of someone swearing.

  Reaching the door, the bloody fingers of her left hand unlatched the deadbolt before winding around the doorknob. Cold air smashed her in the face as she swung the structure open, shocking her senses into needle precision. The musty smell of rain assaulted her nose, and in the distance her eyes picked out a thread of lightning, stitching the sky. The white flash was intense enough to send a shiver through her body at its purity, and when the thunder followed it sounded like the deafening crescendo of the final act in an opera.

  The air, charged by static from the storm, was sticky and thick. Taking a slow breath, Veronica had a hard time filling her lungs with the heavy hair. Flicking her eyes closed for a brief second Veronica saw afterimages of the lightning, dancing in angular shocks of purple and red. When she opened them again, the colors remained in her eyes, holding stark against the white of the lightning. Instinctively she thought of blood and bruising, her heart again beating faster at the thoughts.

  A large figure moved into her line of sight, blocking out the brilliance of the storm and intrusively dominating her vision. Darkness fell on her as she looked up into the shadow cast by the silhouette.

  An ominous feeling washed over Veronica, causing her hand holding the knife to tremble. Fear and anxiety plucked at her heartstrings, like the fingers of some cruel God pl
aying her like an instrument. Thunder rolled in her ears, like a percussive slam of bass, and lightning flashed like the crash of a cymbal.

  "Hey," the figure said, in a voice ruined by cigarettes, a note of confusion in its undertones. "I know you."

  Osborne turned the corner of the country lane with a clumsy, unpracticed tilt of the steering wheel. Ahead, his headlights parted the darkness, illuminating the scenery in varied flashes of green. Hedgerows, banks and trees tore past him as he sped up, prompted by the speed limit displayed on the liquid crystal screen of his SatNav. His mismatched eyes flinched closed beneath his dark brows as a flash of lightning seared the landscape.

  "In four hundred yards, you will have reached your destination." The synthetic female voice of the satellite device dictated the final order of his journey, just before thunder shook the frame of the car.

  Confused by the direction, Osborne checked the screen before again sweeping his vision across his surroundings. Currently powering along a country road, in the middle of the fields that bordered the western edge of Grand Stone Bay, he was as far removed from civilization as was possible. Contouring the side of a hill with his route, to his left the lights of the new estate fringed the horizon, like distant stars.

  Maybe the boy lived in one of the houses dotted about the countryside? That would certainly explain how he had gone missing, without anyone noticing.

  What Osborne took issue with, however, was that he wasn't hearing any sirens. He couldn't even see the flashing neon of cruiser lights. Given the time that Drake had called him, surely there had to have been at least some uniforms there already.

  Apparently not.

  The road he was currently on was the epitome of the phrase "silent as the grave". Indeed, save for the occasional boom of thunder, he heard nothing. For a brief moment Osborne considered the idea that a particularly loud clap had temporarily deafened him.