To Catch a Cat (8 page)
Authors: Marian Babson
He hadn't intended to come back here, not consciously. He hadn't been thinking about where he was going at all and now he found that his feet had automatically carried him in the old familiar direction and he was home. What had been home.
Nils gazed at the property assessingly from the opposite side of the street, trying to view it with the eyes of a stranger. How would it appear to those who came to look at the house with the idea of buying it?
If he did say so himself, it was a fine-looking establishment. Tudorbethan â and nothing wrong with that, it was a very popular style â three storeys, double garage attached with door opening into the kitchen. Ingrid had been talking about covering the garage roof with a deck and replacing the guest room window with a french window opening on to the flat roof which she would turn into a roof terrace.
Ingrid. Would the knowledge that the previous lady of the house had been bludgeoned to death in the master bedroom put off prospective buyers?
Perhaps he should have that enormous tree cut down so that the overhanging branches were no longer an invitation to intruders to climb up and gain entry to the house. On the other hand, the tree was so old that there was probably a preservation order on it â or would be, if the nosy neighbours got wind of any intention to destroy it. Besides, it was rather picturesque. Best to leave it to the new owner to decide its fate.
How soon could he put the place on the market?
Would it look suspiciously greedy if he did so immediately? Or would people understand that he couldn't force himself to go on living in that house again after what had happened in it?
He had to admit that the landscaping left something to be desired right now. The autumn-blowsy flowers bordering the front path were straggly and tatty, the lawn was littered with dead leaves and a faint look of decrepitude was creeping over the whole property. It was Ingrid who had been the one for rushing out and dead-heading fading blossoms the instant they began to fade, for pushing the lawn mower over the grass and raking up the fallen leaves. The back garden looked even worse. He felt a surge of irritation. Ingrid had been going to clean up the garden and prepare it for the winter a couple of weeks ago, but had got sidetracked
over getting the cat ready to compete in some upcoming cat show.
over getting the cat ready to compete in some upcoming cat show.
Never mind that now. He tried to push aside the thoughts crowding in and concentrate on the more immediate matter.
Spring was supposed to be the best time to sell a house, wasn't it? The gardens looked their best then, the summer lay ahead, optimism was in the air and people were in a buying mood. Besides, it might take that long before the will went through probate and he was able to do what he planned. And memories were short. Ingrid's death would just be a fading memory by then, not strong enough to put off purchasers who really liked the house.
Ingrid ⦠the cat ⦠the intruder. The problem that was not going to go away ⦠the sword of Damocles hanging over his head.
The intruder ⦠the witness. How much had that kid seen? Heard? Would the police believe the testimony of a burglar; a law-breaker in his own right? He had to find that kid first and silence him.
Across the street, a car drew up and disgorged two men carrying cameras. They stood on the pavement and took several pictures of the house, then turned and looked up and down the street, presumably hoping for neighbours to interview.
Nils drew back into the shadows. Another reason for waiting until spring; the media would have lost interest by then. New scandals would be claiming their attention ⦠new murders. No one would worry about the fate of a mere house, even though it was the scene of the crime. It was not as though the house had been the setting for a succession of lurid murders and apt to attract so much prurient attention that the only thing to be done with it was to pull it down.
No, the house was a valuable asset. Give it time and it would return to its full value. With enough time, perhaps another century, it might even become one of those historic sites featured in tours of famous crime locations.
Not famous, no. Not lasting infamy. He didn't want that. He just wanted it all to die down, be forgotten.
Another car pulled up behind the first. Quite a different type of car. Nils's upper lip drew back in an instinctive sneer. It was a very old model, hints of rust clinging to its edges, a crack across one side window, the rear-view mirror wobbling in its bracket. It would undoubtedly fail its next MOT: it was surprising that it had passed the current one.
The man stepping out of it wasn't much better. There was something faintly
passé
about him: the clothes had been cutting edge a few years ago, the hair was too long without being unkempt enough. Someone clinging to a time, a mindset, perhaps a career, that had already passed him by.
passé
about him: the clothes had been cutting edge a few years ago, the hair was too long without being unkempt enough. Someone clinging to a time, a mindset, perhaps a career, that had already passed him by.
The man pulled something from his pocket and frowned portentously at the house. The two cameramen looked at him and edged closer. He acknowledged them with a brief nod, then began speaking softly into the object in his hand. The cameramen seemed to be debating as to whether or not it was worth taking any shots of him. They split the difference. One took a shot, the other advanced up the path, dropped to one knee and angled his camera upwards for the sort of atmospheric shot that would make the house look looming and sinister.
Nils frowned. Unpleasant pictures, if published, might linger in the memory of those who saw them, perhaps to surface again when the house was opened to prospective buyers. Would it be a good idea to consult a lawyer about restraining writs â or would that just antagonise the media and perhaps send them snooping around even more? No, leave well alone, the pictures might never be published. With luck, some international cataclysm might intervene and all this would be relegated to a few lines in the back pages of the national press, slipping out of the television coverage completely. Only the local press would be interested and who paid any attention to them?
They were paying attention to each other. The two first arrivals were casually edging closer to the man with the microphone, circling like mongrel dogs deciding whether or not to start a fight.
Mongrel dogs ⦠pedigree cats. The association leaped into his mind and he looked around uneasily. Where was that damned Leif Eriksson?
There was a rustling in the dry leaves under the holly hedge. He whirled to face the sound, peering intently into the shadows, catching a glimpse of greyish fur. His hands twitched as though he could feel the soft fur and the small fragile bones of the neck between them.
âCome on, you bastard,' he muttered softly. âCome to your Daddy.'
A squirrel darted out from the underbrush and scurried across the lawn to disappear around the corner of the house.
Nils recoiled involuntarily, his heart lurched violently and began pounding in a fast irregular rhythm that wouldn't slow down. His hands, cheated of their prey, began trembling.
Steady ⦠steady. He forced himself to take deep slow breaths. Calm ⦠calm ⦠keep calm. His nerves were shot to hell. He wanted this to be over, his life to settle down into a peaceful routine again. A routine of his own making, not one dictated by a rich spoiled wife and her bloody useless, equally spoiled cat.
But it wouldn't be over until he had taken care of that cat, that sodding monster. And the kid. The kid must be keeping it shut up somewhere. If the cat got free, it would come back here. It had nowhere else to go. It would come looking for Ingrid â and then he'd have it.
What if it didn't? What if the kid kept holding on to it? No, he couldn't do that, not for long. Sooner or later, he'd have to let the cat out. And then the cat would return, back to the scene of the crime. One side of his mouth twitched upwards in an unpleasant smile. Just what he was doing himself, of course. And with the same excuse â they both lived here â or had.
He looked back across the street at the house where he would not live much longer. The three men who had been the earliest arrivals were talking together now, ignoring the newcomers who had just driven up in an outside broadcast
TV van and were doing their best to pretend the others were not there.
TV van and were doing their best to pretend the others were not there.
The first three suddenly banded together and swung off in the direction of the nearest pub. The new crowd shuffled along the pavement, viewing the house from different angles, obviously trying to decide where to make a start. One of them looked across the street hopefully, seeking someone, anyone, to interview.
Nils drew farther back and began moving away, using the hedge for cover. This house was empty, as were the houses on either side of his own across the street â the occupants all belonged to the same social club and were off on a group junket to the Caribbean. The media would search in vain for someone to interview. That was why he had chosen this opportunity to do away with Ingrid â there was no one around to hear her screams.
He could cut through the back garden here with no danger of being observed and out into the street running parallel with this one. As he moved along, another squirrel darted across his path and scurried up the nearest tree. They must have a nest there.
Damn animals! All animals!
At least, he congratulated himself, he had never mentioned the bloody cat to the police. An oversight easily explained by his state of shock, if anyone required an explanation. He'd been in such a state, it would be no surprise if it were weeks before he even remembered the existence of a cat.
Meanwhile, he would keep searching. The cat would lead him to the kid â the witness. Then he could dispose of both of them.
No one knew it, but Leif Eriksson was the ace up his sleeve.
âSheets â¦' Auntie Mags muttered wildly. âPillowcases ⦠decent teacups â¦' She rampaged around the room, scavenging for funds: pulling a fiver from a drawer and shaking some pound coins out of the jam jar where Josh dumped his spare cash. Finally, desperately, she caught up the jacket he had left draped over the back of a chair and began going through the pockets.
Robin backed a little farther up the stairs, keeping well out of her way. She'd been like this since hanging up the telephone after Granna's call.
âHah!' Mags found a twenty in the top inside pocket and waved it triumphantly before another thought blotted out the triumph. âOh, God! Towels!'
She stared around frantically, then pounced on a CD, extracting another twenty from inside its sleeve. She shook out a few more CDs, but the first had been a lucky guess; there was no more money concealed.
She gave a loud unsteady sigh that sounded more like a sob and dashed out of the room, out of the house. The front door slammed shut behind her.
Robin waited for a minute, then descended the stairs slowly as the reverberations died away. At the foot of the stairs, he hesitated, cocking his head for the sound of any returning footsteps. But Auntie Mags had gone shopping and it was obviously going to take her quite a while. Josh wasn't likely to return soon, either; he had to be at the radio station a couple of hours before airtime in order to check everything out and update his script with any last-minute ideas or developments in the breaking news.
He had the house to himself.
He sighed deeply and went into the dining-room, feeling weighed down by the problems he carried on his shoulders.
He dragged a chair over to the Welsh dresser, climbed up on it and stretched on tiptoe for the tea caddy. Lifting the lid, he frowned down into the container. There weren't as many cigarettes in it as there had been before.
He dragged a chair over to the Welsh dresser, climbed up on it and stretched on tiptoe for the tea caddy. Lifting the lid, he frowned down into the container. There weren't as many cigarettes in it as there had been before.
How many did he dare take? Definitely, three to replace the three he had given to Jamie. But, after that �
He sighed again. The weight of the world settled over him. No matter what he did, he was in trouble.
Josh would kill him if he caught him. But it was the only way he could think of to placate Kerry. Not that Kerry would really expect him to produce Leif Eriksson after what had happened to Mrs Nordling. He could just look Kerry in the eye and claim that he hadn't got round to trying to steal the cat yet, and now, of course, there was no chance. Even Kerry couldn't expect anyone to go through a police barrier and into a house where a woman had been murdered.
He pulled his thoughts away abruptly. He didn't want to think about that. He didn't want to remember. He must never allow anybody to suspect how much he knew.
He tried not to notice that his hand was shaking as he carefully extracted six more cigarettes. The remaining cluster of cigarettes clearly showed up the gap that was left. He hesitated, but had already decided that he couldn't offer Kerry fewer than the six extra. That ought to be enough to make him happy and, with luck, distract him from any idea of setting Robin an alternative unpleasant task to perform.
Robin shook the tea caddy experimentally, spilling the cigarettes out of their neat rows and tumbling them against each other. Yes, that looked better. You couldn't see quite how many were missing now. He shook it again. Yes, a lot better. And Josh would think he'd tumbled the contents around himself the next time he pulled down the tea caddy. He might not even notice how many were missing, or be sure that he hadn't smoked them himself. He hoped.
He replaced the caddy and jumped to the floor, even remembering to wipe his footmarks off the chair before returning it to its place. He was getting awfully good
at covering his tracks; maybe he was cut out for a life of crime.
at covering his tracks; maybe he was cut out for a life of crime.
The house seemed colder when it was so quiet. He wished that Mum had allowed him to stay in their old flat. He'd have been all right by himself and his friends could have come to visit, so he wouldn't have been lonely. He didn't really see why he couldn't have stayed there, even though Mum had explained that she was putting it up for sale. He could have helped; he could have shown people around just as well as any estate agent. Better. He could have shown them the bit of the windowsill that lifted up, revealing a secret space between the inner and outer walls, just right for hiding a few comic books, or the loose floorboard beneath which valuables could be concealed. Or â¦
He didn't like this house. Josh didn't want him here. Why couldn't things have stayed the way they were? It was bad enough when Dad went away, but he'd still had Mum. Now she'd married Steve, his ânew Dad', she'd told him, but then they'd both gone away and left him. Where would they live when they came back? If they came back? Would they still want him to live with them?
He shivered. This house was getting colder by the minute. And maybe Mags or Josh would return unexpectedly because they'd forgotten something. He had to get upstairs and hide these awful cigarettes until he could deliver them to Kerry tomorrow.
Tomorrow ⦠He shivered again and trudged up the stairs slowly, his feet dragging on every step. Maybe he could run away. It was not the first time the thought had come to him, but he had always been able to recognise it for the false hope it was. He was too young, too small, to have that option. They'd catch him right away and then he'd be in worse trouble, with everyone mad at him. Maybe in three or four years, when he was into his teens and almost grown-up, he could get away with it. Eleven was such a nothing age, into double digits so he wasn't a little kid any more, but not yet into the teens, not for another year and a half. If he could stand the way things were for that long â¦
In the press of other troubles, he had momentarily forgotten the cat. He pushed open the door incautiously and heard a high sharp yowl of protest.
âOh, no!' He saw the cat skitter back as he entered. âI'm sorry, Leif. I didn't mean to hurt you.' The cat must have come to meet him and then been rewarded with a blow to its sensitive nose. âI'm sorry.'
Leif was a forgiving cat and the blow hadn't been very hard, probably it had startled him more than hurt him. He inched forward slowly, nose twitching, eyes on the possible bounty clutched in Robin's hand.
âNot for you,' Robin apologised. âLet me put them away and then I'll open a tin of catfood for you to eat.'
âEat' seemed to be a word Leif recognised. He reared up on his hind legs to sniff at Robin's hand, then dropped back on all four legs and backed away sneezing.
âTold you,' Robin said absently, looking around for a safe hiding place. There weren't many in this bedroom and he didn't dare go outside the room where someone might stumble over his hoard. With an increasing feeling of uneasiness, he had to settle for putting them at the back of the dressing-table drawer, alongside Mrs Nordling's bracelet.
The cat leaped to the top of the dressing-table and advanced to its edge, peering down into the drawer and watching intently as Robin rearranged his underclothes to hide the contraband.
âYou're feeling better!' Robin felt a glow of relief. âYou're getting lively.'
Only ⦠the relief gave way to a fresh anxiety. A lively inquisitive cat would not be willing to stay cooped up in one small room for very much longer. If Leif was getting over his shock and bruising, it wouldn't be long before he wanted to begin exploring more of his new surroundings, perhaps even go out-of-doors where he might be seen. That could be disastrous â for both of them.
âJust be patient,' he pleaded. âI promise you, we'll work something out.'
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