‘Cat,’ he said, looking like a game-show host concealing a prize.
‘Hi there,’ she returned.
‘I just want to apologise to you.’
‘Apologise?’
‘For being so insensitive.’
She was stabbing her key at the lock. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I was rather enthusiastic on Friday night,’ he said. ‘Perhaps a bit too much so. But I trust you understand?’
Inserting the key. ‘Don’t be silly, you’ve got nothing to apologise about.’
‘In any case, I thought I should make it up to you.’
‘Oh?’
His smile broadened. ‘A Cat really should have a cat, don’t you think?’
She was trying to engineer another chuckle when he produced something from behind his back. It was black. It was furry. It had yellow eyes. And yet it took her a few seconds to realise that what he was offering to her was a cat. An honest-to-god, living, breathing cat.
‘He’s twelve months old, they tell me. Fully neutered and vaccinated – I picked him up from the animal shelter.’
Cat was speechless. She loved cats, of course, but she didn’t need a pet. And at any other time she would have told him to keep it for himself, or take it back, or give it to some kid down the street. But these were not normal times. These were moments when one acted antithetically to one’s first impulses.
‘Oh my,’ she said finally. ‘You shouldn’t have.’ Even while accepting the little critter – velvety, curious – into her own hands. Even while Boucher continued to grin.
‘I hope it’s not an imposition?’
‘No, no – I love cats. I said that, didn’t I? I love cats.’
‘You did say that. And I couldn’t resist.’ He smirked. ‘Thomas Cat – the obvious name, eh?’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ With an affected laugh, as if no one had ever said that before. While standing awkwardly on her threshold, trying to reject his implicit request to follow her inside.
The door buzzer saved her. The sound was coming from within her apartment.
‘Oh – do you mind? Sounds like I’m wanted.’
‘Indeed. Well, I’m so glad the gift is not unwelcome. I’ll be seeing you around, then?’
‘Yes, I’ll see you around.’
He headed down the stairs, still wearing his grin, as Cat forced her way into her flat, dropped the cat to the floor and picked up the intercom phone.
‘Hello?’
‘Ms Thomas – it’s Detective Inspector McReynolds. May I speak to you for a few moments?’
‘Down there?’
‘I’d prefer to come up.’
‘Yes, of course.’ She buzzed him through. Then heard him saying something to Boucher – or Boucher saying something to him – as the two men passed each other in the stairwell. Cat looked down at the cat, which was staring up at her with its diamond irises.
Knock knock knock.
She went back to the door. ‘Yes, come in, please.’ McReynolds moved past her, reeking of a tobacco-scented deodorant. Or perhaps tobacco. ‘Nice cat,’ he said, glancing down.
‘He’s new,’ said Cat.
McReynolds wasn’t really interested in cats. ‘I’ve not seen you since the business with the Moyle fellow.’
‘I guess so,’ she said. ‘Is this something to do with that?’
‘Not exactly. Not exactly.’ But he was looking at the ceiling. And running fingers over his powder-burn bristles. ‘I should explain, for a start, that I’m no longer leading the official investigation. It’s been bucked upstairs.’
‘To the MIT?’
‘That’s right,’ he said, ‘to the MIT. I’m only working the fringes now. Running on my own gas, as you Americans say.’
She wondered if she was supposed to be sympathetic.
He straightened his shoulders. ‘Are you familiar with a fellow called Blair Griffon?’
‘Moyle’s friend?’ She thought it best not to lie. ‘Yes, I heard something from Terry Grimes. He was found dead, too – is that right?’
McReynolds had been watching her closely and seemed pleased – or disappointed – with her reaction. ‘In the reeds beside Duddingston Loch, aye. You know the reeds around there? They grow as high as a man.’
‘I think so . . . I don’t know.’
‘Well, that’s where his body was found. Or at least what was left of him.’
‘He was . . .?’
‘Ripped apart. Butchered. Exactly like Mr Moyle.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘And again there are no evidentiary traces whatsoever.’
Cat was intensely aware of the need to act natural. And equally aware that people like McReynolds – people like herself – knew exactly how people did not act natural.
‘I see . . .’ she said. All the time thinking that the loch was not far from the Innocent Railway. And if Griffon had found his way there after fleeing down the tunnel, then there was every possibility that she and the tandem cyclists were the last people to see him alive.
‘So do you have anything to offer us?’ McReynolds asked. ‘Anything that might connect the two incidents?’
In a flash Cat considered the possibility the cyclists had already been questioned; that lying now might only implicate her later. But ultimately she could not bring herself to admit anything – certainly not the possibility that Boucher had driven Griffon off with a pulse of energy. And possibly murdered him in the same way.
‘I wish I could help,’ she said. ‘But I really don’t know what’s going on.’
He paused before nodding. ‘Well, you’re not the only one.’ His eyes were fastened on her. ‘Can I show you a photograph?’
‘Of course.’ She had a terrible suspicion it would show Griffon’s body.
‘Fellow named Angus Blinny.’ From his breast pocket, McReynolds had produced a mug shot. ‘An underworld hitman.’
Cat recognised the ogre who’d seized her after her run. But again she wasn’t sure how to react. ‘Uh-huh,’ she said, not looking up.
‘You don’t know him?’
‘Can’t say I do.’
‘A witness said he attacked you.’
‘Oh?’ Cat made a show of squinting at the photo.
‘Recognise him now?’
‘It was dark. I really don’t know.’
‘So you were attacked?’
‘I don’t know if I’d call it an attack. A man grabbed my arm – when I was coming back from my run.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. He bolted away before he explained himself.’
‘He didn’t say anything at all?’
‘I didn’t hear him properly.’
‘And then he just fled?’
‘Not from me.’
‘Then who?’
Cat again felt disinclined to mention Boucher. But why wasn’t McReynolds himself mentioning him? She raised her head to look at him. Natural, she reminded herself. ‘I don’t know . . . he just ran away. Why? Has he lodged a complaint or something?’
McReynolds sniffed and repocketed the photo. ‘Mr Blinny won’t be lodging any complaints.’
‘You mean . . .?’
A flutter of the chambray eyes. ‘His body was found in the Water of Leith, about three hundred metres from here.’
‘My God.’ Cat didn’t need to feign surprise. ‘He wasn’t . . .’ She wanted to ask if he’d died the same way as Moyle and Griffon.
‘Stabbed, beaten around the head with a blunt instrument . . .’
Cat remembered the tourists closing around him. ‘And this happened – when?’
‘Same night as he assaulted you.’
Cat suppressed a shudder. And with great effort she kept her voice steady. ‘But he didn’t assault me, as I said. He just tried to get my attention. And I don’t know why he did that – honestly, I don’t know.’ She didn’t mention the dead rat. ‘Something to do with my job, possibly.’
‘Your job.’
McReynolds glanced at the black cat, which had climbed onto an arm of the sofa and was watching them blankly. ‘Yes, Terry Grimes told me he saw you in the street.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Apparently you’ve had some problems recently at your work.’
‘That’s true. It’s very complex.’
‘Nothing you want to tell me about?’
‘Not really. Not yet, anyway. It’s all rather messy.’
As he had at their first meeting, McReynolds looked as though he was struggling not to say something. ‘Well, just look after yourself,’ he said in the end. ‘I know Alistair Dunn. I know the men, high and low, that he associates with. And I know exactly what he’s capable of. You still have my card?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Then I’m still contactable if necessary.’ An apologetic smile. ‘If I come back here – if I’m allowed to come back here – I’d just like to make sure it’s not for the wrong reasons.’
When she was alone, Cat rushed to the bathroom and retched into the basin. Then stood staring at herself in the mirror as vomit dribbled down her chin. Moyle. His friend Griffon. The ogre who’d seized her. And: ‘I don’t want to come back here for the wrong reasons.’ Unless she was mistaken McReynolds was telling her he couldn’t protect her any more. That no one could.
Her newfound resolve, not thirty minutes old, had already shattered into a thousand shards.
A movement at the corner of her eye startled her and she whirled around defensively. But it was only Thomas Cat, standing at the bathroom door and staring at her icily.
CHAPTER
THREE
Cat knew very well that old-time witches and warlocks kept cats as malevolent servants and bodyguards. She knew it because once, when she been particularly argumentative in Literature class, her exasperated teacher had exclaimed, ‘Catriona Thomas, I swear you’re the Devil’s own familiar!’ And it had stuck. Whenever she was being difficult or argumentative she was called ‘the Devil’s familiar’. Now, surveying the newly acquired Thomas Cat, which continued to look remarkably sly for something barely older than a kitten, she started to wonder if he too was meant to be a familiar – for her – or some sort of monitoring device for Boucher himself.
Hearing her own thoughts aloud, she chided herself again for entertaining such absurdities.
But then, remembering the gruesome and unexplained murders of Dylan Moyle, Blair Griffon and Angus Blinny, she decided that Boucher might indeed wield supernatural powers.
Then she started to contemplate the possibility that she was losing her mind. She paced restlessly around the flat for twenty minutes and the cat followed her everywhere.
There was a knock on her door.
She knew immediately it was Boucher because no one else could climb the stairs so unobtrusively. She considered pretending she wasn’t home before deciding it wouldn’t wash. She opened up.
He was bearing a big sack of eco-friendly cat food, a bag of kitty litter and a tartan cat bed.
‘The least I could do,’ he said, oozing charm. ‘Oh, there he is now.’
The cat had worked its way between her legs. Boucher dropped to his haunches to give it a stroke. And Cat, standing astride the thing, very nearly kicked it into his face. But once again she was inhibited by the possibility that she was submitting to her self-destructive impulses.
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘He’s already settled in nicely.’
‘They told me he was fully house trained.’
‘Then we’ll suit each other perfectly.’ She closed the door before he had risen fully to his feet.
Inside, still watched attentively by the cat, she considered fleeing for the hills. Because she doubted she could live like this. Even now, Boucher’s barely audible movements in Number Six grated on her as much as Moyle’s aggressive clatter.
But if she fled, would she not become the prime suspect in the mysterious murders of Moyle, Griffon and Blinny? And what, for that matter, would Boucher himself make of it? Would he become enraged? And prevent her from running? Strike her down, even?
She settled on writing up a list of essential items and prized possessions – objects and mementoes she would prefer not to leave behind – but even this raised more questions than it answered. How, for instance, would she organise a sale of her property from afar? What about all the garden birds that had come to depend on her feeders? And Thomas Cat, for that matter, who was even now nudging her legs as though demanding more food?
She barely slept that night, twisting and turning and waking up feeling as seedy and ragged as she had during the height of Moyle’s campaign. The cat was sitting on the end of her bed, staring at her. She got up and sprayed a heap of Boucher’s pet food onto a dish, put out a bowl of water, had a scorching hot shower – the cat, having wolfed down its food, wormed into the bathroom to watch her – and headed off to work, where she was promptly called into the cockpit.
She entered with leaden feet, assuming the hour of her dismissal had come.
‘Ms Thomas.’ Bellamy had his right arm clenched around the back of his chair this time – clearly a need for anchorage. ‘I thought I understood that you’d shelved your rogue investigation. You assured me that you’d moved on. Is that not what you told me?’
‘If you’re saying that Mr Napier has not yet received that letter it’s only because I judged it best—’
‘No, Ms Thomas, I don’t give an actual toss about Mr Napier.’ Bellamy’s teeth were shimmering with saliva. ‘But I’ve now received word – from upstairs, no less – that an officer in my department has been making unauthorised probes. Demanding account information, customer names, logs of staff authorisations. Now, I was given no indication of who that officer might be, but what name do you think popped instantly into my head? Joshua Walsh?’
Josh Walsh was a mistake-prone temp whom Bellamy had once reduced to tears.
‘I honestly don’t know,’ Cat replied. ‘But I assure you that that investigation is the last thing on my mind right now.’
‘Then you admit the investigation has been going on behind my back?’
‘Only in the sense that I needed to clear up some loose ends.’
‘Clear up some loose ends . . .’
‘More a case of, you know, letting the air out of the balloon slowly so no one notices the noise. Always best to walk away backwards from a shit show, huh?’
Bellamy contemplated her a while before unclamping his arm from the seat. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I hope you’re not still communicating with Ms Sampson.’
‘I’ve not seen her since . . . I don’t know when.’
‘Is that right? If I didn’t know better, I’d say her influence was rubbing off on you.’
‘I can’t comment on that.’
‘Of course not,’ Bellamy said. ‘Well, next time you happen to see her, please give her my kind regards. I have a feeling she’ll soon try to invoke the powers of the FSU’ – the Financial Services Union – ‘so our paths are bound to cross again.’
‘She’s given no indications . . .’
‘Not that it will do her any good. I had everything – everything – signed off by senior management. And I’m meeting with them again this very afternoon. With any luck your name won’t come up this time.’
He’d tilted his head upwards, as though to give her a sneak preview of his plans. And Cat realised at that moment that Agnes was right – this guy was a right royal bastard.
‘Dismissed for now,’ he said, exactly like a Wing Commander to a fighter pilot, and got back to consulting his diary.
Cat had not been long back at her desk, feeling increasingly desultory, when a call came through from the switchboard.
‘The manager at Musselburgh wants a word with you.’
‘Carter Carterius?’
‘That’s right.’
He was the last person Cat needed to speak to right now. ‘OK,’ she said, sighing inwardly, ‘put him through.’
‘Dear Ms T
homas.’ Even Carterius’s voice wore a bow tie. ‘I believe you’ve been attempting to contact me.’
‘That was some while ago . . .’
‘Well, I can see you now. The sooner the better.’
Cat wasn’t sure if this was a test. On her monitor she could see a reflection of Bellamy in his office, staring at her. ‘I don’t know, Mr Carterius. I’ve sort of been moved on, you see, and now—’
‘You said you wanted to take this to the top, didn’t you?’
She winced. ‘I might have.’
‘Then meet me this evening. I can’t overstate the importance of this. Meet me this evening. Can I count on you to be there? Six o’clock on the seventh floor?’
‘The seventh floor?’ Cat had a vague memory of someone saying Alistair Dunn reigned from there.
‘Six o’clock. It’s in your interests to come, Ms Thomas, trust me.’
He hung up.
To Cat, he sounded very forced and unnatural. And it seemed manifestly imprudent to phone her at the office to arrange such a rendezvous. But then she saw Bellamy heading off to his meeting, smugly re-knotting his tie like a scheming MP off to plot a cabinet coup, and she figured she had nothing to lose. This might be her final chance to hurdle Bellamy, save her job, boost her status in ABC, and bring a little retribution to the world. As unlikely as all that seemed now.
By the time she stepped into the elevator most of the staff had departed. Standing at the console, a maintenance guy in overalls asked her for her floor. When she told him, he gave her a onceover and smirked. He got out at the fifth.
On the seventh, Cat found Carterius standing with hands steepled like a vicar leading a group prayer. He said, not looking at her directly, ‘Ms Thomas – you made it.’ As if hoping she hadn’t.
‘What’s this about?’ she asked.
‘Just come with me, please.’ Wearing a pained expression, he led her down a corridor decorated with paintings of old ABC buildings.
‘I say again, what’s this about?’
Carterius looked as though he was hardly breathing. ‘It’s out of my hands now,’ he said.
‘What is?’
They arrived at a reception desk, where Carterius muttered something to a sleek male secretary. The secretary asked for their phones. Carterius promptly handed over his Samsung and indicated that Cat should do the same. ‘Just a formality,’ he assured her. Then he guided Cat to an imposing door and knocked. When someone inside yelled ‘Aye!’ Carterius opened up and, as Cat whisked past, whispered as discreetly as possible, ‘I’m truly sorry about this.’ Then he drew the door closed behind her.
The Devil Upstairs Page 21