by J. E. Mayhew
The familiar stink met Blake as he let himself into the Lodge. He shook his head. “Why can’t you use the bloody litter tray?” He said to the stuffy air. A trail of shattered china ornaments lay strewn across the hall floor where the cat had jumped up onto the shelf over the radiator. A picture of Blake’s brother Jeffrey, lay face up, the glass splintered. It was a headshot of Jeff that had been used for one of his novel covers. Mum had said he looked so distinguished but Blake and Rosie his sister agreed their younger brother looked like he had a broom handle up his arse. Serafina was nowhere to be seen.
The landline rang and, startled, Blake snatched it up. “Blake,” he said, as if he was at work, then cursed himself for sounding like such an idiot.
“Hello?” It was Jeffrey. Glass scrunched under Blake’s feet and for one crazy moment he wondered if Jeffrey knew about his photograph.
“Hi Jeff,” Blake said, trying to sound casual.
“Are you okay, Will? Is it a bad time?” Like when was it a good time?
“I’m fine. I’ve just come in. The cat’s made a bit of a mess, that’s all.”
“Christ, have you still got that cat?” Jeff snorted. “I’d have ditched that thing months ago.”
“Yeah, Jeff. I know you would.” An awkward pause began to build into a suffocating silence, but Blake let it grow. He hadn’t called, Jeffrey had called him, and it was his job to kill the silence between them.
“So, I was just wondering. Have you done anything? About the house?”
“I’ve been kind of busy, to be honest, Jeff. I haven’t had chance to do anything. I’d have thought you’d be too busy to worry about the house; rushed off your feet with book tours or something…”
Blake heard Jeff clear his throat.
“Well, yeah, of course. I’m just working a few pitches up at the moment. Trying to choose a new agent. I just wondered. It’s been two years, Will. You’ve got to let go.”
“Let go and sell up, you mean? What’s up, Jeff? Run out of money again? For a best-selling author, you always seem a little short of cash. I could lend you another five grand, if you want. It’s not like I’m spending my hard-earned wages on wine, women and song and I’m living rent-free in the family abode, so…”
“There’s no need to be like that, Will…”
“Isn’t there? I never get these calls from Rosie. She seems happy doing her hippy commune shit up there in Scotland. What’s the great urgency?”
“There’s no urgency. But are you just going to sit there in that house like nothing happened? Is that the plan?”
Blake sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t have a plan, Jeff. I just happen to be here. Like I was here when Mum lost her mind. If you want to come up and sort things out, be my guest. I don’t care. But don’t pretend that you’re concerned for my wellbeing when what you want is your share of this house.” He slammed the phone down before his brother could answer. For a few seconds, he stared around the floor at the carnage he stood in and thought about his brother’s words. I’d have ditched that thing months ago.
“Well sod you, Jeffrey,” he muttered. “I’m not giving up on her that easily.” He pulled the ‘Behaviour Saviour’ note out of his pocket and thumbed the number into the phone. “Hello?” The voice sounded more wary than was warranted for an unfamiliar number.
“Hi, my name’s Will Blake. The RSPCA at Wallasey recommended your services for my delinquent cat,” Blake said, smiling at his own little joke.
“Oh! Right, yes. Great, okay. When do you want me to come and see the cat? I’m free now, if that’s convenient.”
Blake frowned. The woman sounded a bit too keen. Perhaps there wasn’t a huge call for animal psychologists on the Wirral. “Okay,” he said. He gave her his address and she told him she could be round in half an hour.
As he hung up, Serafina bolted for the door and vanished through the cat flap. Blake groaned. What were the chances that the cat would wander back in within the next thirty minutes? He was going to look like a right chump or worse, with no cat around. He hurried out into the front and glimpsed a pair of orange eyes glaring at him from the bushes. Then they vanished.
“Food,” Blake muttered and hurried back in, banging cupboard doors as he dragged a tin of cat food out and scraped an overgenerous portion into Serafina’s bowl. He headed out into the front again, tapping the bowl with a fork and making encouraging sounds. “Come on Sera,” he called. “Food. Come on…”
Each house in Rock park was set back in its own garden, far enough from the next to be away from prying eyes but Blake still felt his face reddening. He felt such an idiot. He tapped the bowl a few more times but then caught sight of Serafina sauntering across a garden and away through the bushes into the road. Blake stopped clacking the fork against the bowl and stepped back inside the house. His heart sank as two observations struck him.
One: The place looked like it had been burgled. Shards of glass glittered amongst the headless china ladies lying on the hall carpet. Clothes lay strewn around the lounge and a Matterhorn of dishes awaited an intrepid cleaner to climb them.
Two: What would anyone in their right mind make of the Bates Motel vibe to the house? A single man in his late forties living in an old house on the banks of the river, decorated to the tastes of his eighty-seven-year-old mother. At the very least, Blake would look like a total loser. At the very worst, the woman would run screaming from the house.
With a shake of his head, he pulled out the phone and called Paws for Thought back. “Hi, I spoke to you a moment ago. Look, I’ve changed my mind. I’m a bit busy today. Sorry for the inconvenience…”
“How busy?” The woman said, not letting Blake finish his sentence.
“Pardon? Well it’s just that the cat’s made a bit of a mess…”
“I don’t mind. You do want to help her, right?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I’ve seen all kinds of mess. She’ll keep making a mess until we fix the problem, won’t she?”
“Erm, yeah, I suppose…”
“Then I’ll be around in twenty minutes. Okay?”
“Okay… fine. See you in twenty minutes. Right.” Blake hung up, frowning at the phone. That hadn’t gone quite as he’d planned; he’d expected to brush the woman off. He felt like he’d been played in some way; tricked into saying ‘yes’ too many times until he just agreed to anything. He was a detective; not a gullible pushover but he hadn’t even asked how much she charged or how long she would take. This cat was Kryptonite to Blake; reducing him to some kind of gibbering imbecile.
It didn’t matter. He didn’t have to take this woman’s advice and, if she was a pain, he could send her packing. He’d still be left with a psychotic cat but there must be other animal behaviour people around. That’s what he kept telling himself but, as he hurriedly tidied the hall and the living room, he couldn’t get the impending visit out of his mind.
The doorbell finally rang, and Blake slammed the kitchen door shut on the huge pile of dishes that crammed the sink. He yanked open the front door and stared. “You’re the woman from the RSPCA centre.”
“Hi, yes. Erm… Laura Vexley. Paws for Thought?”
Blake shook her hand. “You’re the Behaviour Saviour?”
She reddened. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t like to mix my roles and the RSPCA might take a dim view of me touting for trade on company time. So I didn’t tell you when I gave you my number. But you looked like you needed help. Can I come in?”
“Please do,” Blake replied, stepping back. “I’m sorry about the décor. It’s my mother’s house. I’m not sure where Serafina is; she ran out before. She probably won’t show up for hours…”
“Serafina,” Laura said, looking around the hall. Blake blushed wondering what she thought of the peeling paint and ageing décor. “That’s something to do with angels isn’t it?”
He couldn’t help grinning. “I think so. I don’t know where my mother got the name for her. If that cat is an
angel, she’s a fallen one, that’s all I’m saying.”
“There’s a witch called Serafina in Pullman’s Northern Lights books, too,” Laura said. “Ever read them?”
Blake shook his head and glanced out into the hall where Jeffrey’s glassless photo sat. “I’m not a great fan of books. Don’t get much time to read.”
“You should make time,” Laura said, firmly. “With a name like yours, I thought you’d be a poet…”
Blake groaned. “My name is what probably put me off English lessons for ever. So, no.”
“How long is it since your mother passed away?”
“Well, it’s complicated,” Blake said. “Two years, give or take.”
He led Laura into the living room, feeling that same flush of embarrassment. “And you live alone here?” she asked.
“You can tell?” he said, widening his eyes in fake horror. Laura flashed a white smile at him. “Look,” he said. “What’s this got to do with the cat?”
“Sorry, Mr Blake. I just like to get a bit of background. There are reasons why your cat is aggressive and not using her litter tray but they don’t exist in isolation. So has Serafina’s behaviour changed since your mother’s death or has she always experienced problems?”
Blake wasn’t used to being questioned and he wasn’t sure he liked it. He could see Laura’s logic, though so he sat warily on the arm of his chair. “My mother didn’t ‘pass away.’ She went missing. She had dementia and let herself out of the house one day. We never found her. You might have read about it in the papers.”
“No, I missed that. I’m so sorry,” she said. “Has the cat been this way ever since your mother left?”
Blake thought about it. “She was okay at first. Then a bit vocal. A bit clingy; you know, following me round everywhere but this escalation has been more recent. The last sixth months, I’d say.”
“I see,” Laura said, arching her eyebrows as Serafina came scurrying in and jumped onto Blake’s lap. “Here she is. She’s gorgeous!”
Blake looked down at the cat, waiting for her to strike. “You think so? Honestly, I don’t know what she’s up to but normally when I come in, there’s crap everywhere and she’s demanding food from me. I’ve cut her rations down quite a bit. She..erm… she farts like a trooper…”
Laura laughed and nodded. “When your mother was… here, would you have described yourself as her prime carer?”
“I did what I could but my job means unpredictable hours. She had quite a package from Social Services, especially towards the end. But, yes, I did look after her when I could.”
Laura looked around. “And you don’t think your mother could still be alive, somewhere?”
“Well, I don’t think she’s changed her identity and is living a secret life in Argentina, if that’s what you mean,” Blake said. “We haven’t had her declared dead, yet. I suppose we keep putting it off. Well, I do.”
“Siblings?” Laura said.
“Yes,” Blake said. Serafina was like a little motor in his lap and he’d sunk back into the chair, the tension slipping away. It had been years since he’d spoken to anyone about anything so intimate. He suddenly felt a little ridiculous and sat up. Serafina stirred. “Can we get back to the cat?”
Laura fixed him with her green eyes and gave him a brief smile. “We can,” she said. “How many litter trays?”
“One.”
“Try two or even three. In different locations. Cats are fussy about where they go. Feeling she has to go behind the sofa may be increasing her stress levels…”
“You think the cat is stressed?”
“Could be. Maybe she hasn’t let go of the idea that her mistress may return. Nothing in this house is telling her that things have changed. There’s just absence. We need to think of a way to fix that.” Laura jumped up. “I need to go now. But try the litter trays and give me a call if you think of any ways you can acknowledge that your mother has passed away.” She extended her hand and began to leave before Blake had finished shaking it.
“Right,” he said as the front door slammed shut. He turned to the cat. “Was that about me or you?”
Serafina gave a hungry yowl and bit at Blake’s ankles.
Sunday October 27th
CHAPTER 20
Blake’s mobile rang as he was just putting away the last of the dishes. He hadn’t even had chance to admire the clean surfaces or wonder why he had felt it was so important to clear up.
“Hi Vikki, what’s the problem?” he said.
“Sorry for ringing you, sir but I thought you should know. It’s Rory Evans, Rebecca Thompson’s friend. There’s been a disturbance at the Evans household. Rory has been arrested and his dad is in hospital. I think it might be related to the case. We brought Rory to Birkenhead station. Didn't want to take him to the custody suite.”
“I’m on my way,” Blake said. He plonked a bowl of cat food down in the kitchen and hurried out of the door.
Twenty-five minutes later, Blake strode into the station. A number of uniformed officers gathered at the desk, talking to DS Vikki Chinn. They looked shaken. One had a cut lip and Blake noticed scratches on their hands.
“What happened?” Blake said.
“A call from neighbours,” Vikki said. “Apparently, it sounded as if Rory was murdering Phil. Some argument about a mobile phone. By the time police got there, Phil Evans was hiding in the bedroom and Rory was banging his head against the door. It took three officers to restrain him and get him down here. The lads are pretty cut-up about manhandling him but he doled out a fair bit of punishment.”
“Where is he now?”
Vikki nodded behind her. “In the voluntary interview room, calming down,” she said. “Looks like Phil Evans has a broken arm and numerous lacerations. We still aren’t sure what caused all the commotion but Rory keeps shouting about Clocky.”
“Do we have an appropriate adult who can work with Rory? I’d like to talk with him when he’s calm.”
“His mother is on her way. She lives over in Liverpool but should be here soon.”
“Good,” Blake said. “As soon as she arrives let me know. Keep me posted on any statement from Rory’s dad, too.” He hurried to the room to have a look in on the boy. Rory sat hugging himself and rocking on the bench in the small room. His head was down but Blake could tell he was sobbing from the rhythmic jerk of his head. “Poor kid,” he muttered.
Corrinne Todd, Rory’s mother, was a tiny powerpack of a woman dressed in leather and carrying a crash helmet. Her long, white hair hung down her back in a plait and her tanned face looked as though it had been sandblasted smooth.
“Where is he?” she demanded, thumping her crash helmet on the reception desk. “Where’s my son?”
“He’s in an interview room, Miss Todd,” Blake said. “It was the safest and quietest place we could put him. He’s not in any trouble but we’re trying to get to the bottom of what happened. It may be connected with the recent death of his friend, Rebecca Thompson.”
Corrinne Todd looked as though Blake had just sworn at her. “That bitch? She was never his friend, mate. I thought Phil had warned her off months ago.”
“I understood that they hung around together,” Blake said.
Corrinne pulled that face again. “They did but they were never friends. Becky Thompson was a manipulative little cow and a bully. She messed our Rory’s head up. You ever see a puppy that’s been slapped and stroked and slapped and stroked, until it doesn’t know what to think but runs back to its master every time? That was our Rory. To be honest, when I heard she was dead, I thought ‘good riddance.’”
“Really?” Blake said, glancing over at Chinn. “I’d like to talk with Rory about what happened but I’ll be led by you. If you don’t think it’s wise now, that’s fine, you can take him home and we’ll catch up later.”
Corrinne looked Blake up and down as if seeing him for the first time. “Thanks,” she said. “I’ll go and have a chat with him. See how he feels
. You wait outside and out of view and we’ll see.”
Blake and Chinn stood outside the room while Rory spoke to his mother. It seemed like the anxiety attack had burnt itself out as Rory looked spent. Corrinne popped a head outside the cell and gave them a nod. “Just a couple of minutes. Then I’ve promised I’ll take him home on the motorbike. He loves that.”
“Hi Rory,” Blake said, gently as he sat down on the bench next to him. “How are you feeling?”
Rory shrugged. “Not good. Three out of ten. Is Dad okay?”
“Cuts and bruises and a sore arm, apparently. He’ll be fine. What happened at the house, Rory?” Blake said.
“It was Clocky on the phone,” Rory whispered, his left foot starting to tap rapidly. “Clocky on the phone.”
“Take a breath, son,” Corrinne said, hugging him tightly round the shoulders and rocking slightly. Rory’s foot slowed down.
Blake waited. “Clocky… phoned you,” he said. “How did you know it was Clocky?”
Rory looked up at him, his face blotched with tears. “He used her phone. He said she was with him and soon I would be too.”
“Steady, Rory. Take your time. Breathe slowly,” Blake said. He waited again. “Whose phone number was it, Rory?”
“Becky’s it was Becky’s phone. Clocky was phoning me on her phone because he killed her and now he’s coming for me.” Rory sobbed and bit his lip. Blake noticed a dark stain at his crutch. The poor lad had wet himself.
“Can I borrow your phone, Rory? Just to see and make sure for myself?”
“I’m not lying,” Rory said, rummaging in his jacket pocket. “I’m not.”
Blake took the phone. “I’m sure you’re not, Rory. There just might be another explanation for this.” He looked at the phone, Rebecca’s number showed up several times last night and during the day.
“Dad said it was just someone messing around but I know. I know. He kept saying to leave it! He went mad at me.” Rory lowered his head. “I went mad at him.”
Blake knelt down in front of Rory. “None of this is your fault, Rory. Someone did make those calls and we’ll find out who because whoever has that phone is holding onto evidence from a crime scene. I swear, Rory, whoever made the calls is not Cameron Lock. He was just a boy about your age. He died almost forty years ago. I’m not even sure he killed the little boy they said he did.”