Authors: Marian Babson

To Catch a Cat (2 page)

BOOK: To Catch a Cat

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The cat had stopped struggling and gone silent, probably disorientated by all the jouncing and shouting. Robin's eyes were more accustomed to the dark than Mr Nordling's. He drew a bead on the front door and dashed for it.

Mr Nordling was right behind him, gaining on him. The stairs seemed endless, his breath was giving out â¦ he could never make it. He was dead, finished, in this strange house in this awful town, with his mother thousands of miles away. Would she care? Would she even notice, now that she had a
new husband and was starting a new life? A life in which there might not even be a place for him â¦

The front door! He wrenched at the knob, tugging against the heavy unyielding wood, the force of gravity â¦ In just another couple of seconds, Nordling would catch his neck between those murdering hands â¦

Half sobbing, Robin pulled with all his might and the door swung back, carrying him with it. With a bellow, he let go and flung himself forward into the night.

The outer light blazed on behind him, throwing his own dark shadow ahead of him, an elongated, curiously menacing spectre. He glanced back over his shoulder fearfully.

There was the loud slam of an upstairs door, as the sudden draught swept through the house.

Nordling stopped abruptly, framed in the doorway in his stark nakedness, recalled to his senses by the slamming door and the abrupt realisation of his condition. There were neighbours in the surrounding houses; at any instant, one of them could look out and see him.

Robin stumbled as the light behind him disappeared and the front door echoed the slam from above. He kept on running though. His breath was ragged and there was a sharp pain in his side, but he was going to keep on running until he felt safe â or until he collapsed.

Something told him he would never feel safe again.

Christ!

Nils Nordling reeled back into the hallway, snapped off the overhead light and slammed the door. Just in time, he stopped himself from leaning against it as a bone-melting exhaustion swept over him. He couldn't risk leaving bloodstains on the inside of the front door.

Christ!

What had he done? What had happened? Who had seen it?

He shook himself, like a semi-aquatic animal surfacing from a long dive into a deep pool, and stared unbelievingly at the splotches of blood on his naked body. They could not mean what he thought they meant. They could bear no relation to the horror of the nightmare, the madness, that had seemed to possess him.

Could they?

He had been going to take a shower. Of course he had. That had been his only reason for stripping off. The hatred so long buried in the depths of his mind had been under control, as usual. Of course it had. He was of the cold calculating Nordic strain, always in command of every situation, never giving way to emotion, no matter how many times he had planned the moment of his release in the secrecy of his mind.

Only â¦ there had been that sudden teeth-grinding fury swamping him â¦ the red haze obscuring his vision â¦ then the wild uncontrollable rage that could only be assuaged by action.

Ingrid! Ingrid â¦?

She was all right. She had to be all right. Of course she was all right. In a temper, of course. Hadn't he just heard the slam of the bedroom door? Perhaps he had hurt her a little bit. He must go and apologise. It would not be easy. She must be very angry.

But the blood â¦ the wet, glistening fresh blood â¦ Ingrid's? She would be in a towering rage. He would be paying for this across many long bitter months to come.

Only â¦ the bedroom door was still ajar when he reached the top of the stairs. He hesitated outside it. After such a slam, it surely could not have bounced back open again. There was a cold draught curling around his ankles from somewhere farther down the hallway.

âIngrid â¦?' He pushed at the door, but encountered resistance. âIngrid â¦? I'm sorry â¦?'

No answer. Sulking. That was all, sulking. He hadn't hit her hard enough to knock her out. Had he? His head was throbbing and he was beginning to shiver with the cold â¦ or shock. Everything was a blur. Scenes from the quarrel flickered indistinctly at the edge of his mind, like shadows. Ingrid's face â¦ her nose spurting blood â¦ Had he broken it? âIngrid . . ?' he whispered. âI'm sorry â¦ Ingrid, please â¦ speak to me â¦'

He shivered again. He'd catch pneumonia standing here in this draughty hall. His clothes were in the bedroom. He'd have to go in and face her.

The door still resisted. He pushed against it roughly, the fury sweeping over him again. She'd had it coming! If she was on her feet, he'd hit her again. He'd been wanting to do that for years.

She wasn't in sight as he pushed into the room. Hiding, the bitch! She knew â His bare foot caught on something. He looked down.

Ingrid looked up at him through half-closed eyes. Her nightgown was soaked with blood.

âIngrid â¦?' There was a terrible stillness about her. The eyelids didn't flicker. Blood had poured from her nose down into her opened mouth, he could see the pool of it glistening below her teeth. The icy knowledge began to settle over him: no one could lie like that, with a mouthful of blood, without swallowing it or coughing it out. No one with any human reflex still available to them.

No one alive.

He had killed her? He had battered her to death? Was that what he had intended from the very beginning of the evening? Was that why he had started the quarrel naked â so that any splashes of blood could easily be washed away? No bloodstained clothing to betray him.

No!
Denial â¦ he was in denial
. Even as he realised his state, he persisted in it. No! It couldn't be true!

âIngrid â¦ Get up, Ingrid. Come on, I'll help you. You'll feel better when you get back to bed.'

He bent to her and reality swamped him again. He
couldn't touch her. Couldn't move her. She would spit blood at him.

Blood. He had to wash it away. He stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the shower, standing under it until the last vestige of blood had long been washed away and the water was beginning to run cold.

Cold â¦ he was cold. He would never be warm again. Even the rough towel, roughly used, could not restore proper circulation. And this was just the beginning â¦ it would be cold in a prison cell â¦ behind thick cold stone walls â¦

No! Bits of the plan were returning to him now. That had been the point of being naked, avoiding traces of blood â¦ of guilt. He'd been going to do the deed, drive off and come home later â much later â to discover the body, obviously the victim of an intruder.

An intruder. There had been an intruder. A real one. He'd seen him, chased him. There was someone real to blame.

He was fully dressed before the realisation came to him: the intruder had also seen him. Seen him naked and blood-splattered. The intruder could be a witness against him.

As his shadow crossed her, Ingrid seemed to smile. He fought back an impulse to kick the body. It was all her fault! She had tormented him into a position where he finally had no alternative but to kill her. He must not allow her to rattle him into doing something stupid which would leave traces to betray him to the police.

Giving the body a wide berth, he stepped out into the hallway. That icy draught was still swirling along the floor. He followed it to its source.

Of course. The spare room window was wide open, the window giving on to the garage roof. He'd always meant to do something about that tree. It had grown too high, its spreading branches an open invitation to someone to climb up on to the roof and have a look around.

Burglary. An opportunist crime. And Ingrid had discovered the burglar at work â¦ and paid for it with her life.

Just as well he'd never done anything about that tree. It was more useful the way it was.

There just needed to be a few valuables missing â¦

He stepped over to the bed, pulled back the covers, stripped a pillowcase from the pillow and looked around. Frankly, there was nothing worth stealing in this room. Even the most amateur thief wouldn't bother with it.

Downstairs â¦ the dining-room. He didn't turn on the light as he went downstairs, remembering his wild descent in the wake of the fleeing youth. Youth? Teenage tearaway, probably. No way of identifying him again. Most of what he had seen had been shadow, something strangely misshapen about it.

A corner of his mind teased at the puzzle, while he went into the dining-room and tossed the antique silver tea set into the pillow case, following it with a shower of spoons and cutlery. It didn't matter if anything got dented. He hated it all. It was all Ingrid's and she had no use for it any more.

The living-room â¦ He looked around wildly: the VCR, yes! That was the sort of thing burglars took. Not the television set itself, that was too big. So were the paintings. They were valuable, but not sufficiently portable. Someone who had climbed in the window over the garage roof and left it open would expect to be going out again the same way. An opportunist, a chancer. Not one of your organised gangs who drove a van up to the front door and systematically stripped the whole house.

The collection of antique snuff boxes in the little display table, yes. The jade carvings on the mantelpiece, fine. He noted vaguely that he was panting and his heart was racing. Well, why not? He wasn't used to this sort of thing. And there was still one more mountain to climb.

Upstairs. Her dressing room to be entered. Her jewel box to be emptied.

It had to be done. That was when she had discovered the burglar. That was why she'd had to be killed.

He wiped his hand across his brow, drawing several ragged uneven breaths.

He had to do it. He couldn't let her defeat him now. She was gone. Done. Finished.

The path to freedom stretched out ahead of him. Except for one little hurdle he had not evisaged.

He had never imagined that there might possibly be a witness.

âWhere's the kid?'

Mags jumped. He'd been quiet for so long she'd almost forgotten he was there.

âUpstairs, I suppose.'

âHe's not, you know. I looked in his room a little while ago. It's empty. He's sneaked out.'

âHe can't have.' Mags looked around vaguely. âHe must be somewhere else in the house.'

âOh, yes? In the library, perhaps? Or the billiards room? Maybe the butler's pantry? Where else in this palatial mansion do you think he could have got to? Oh, I forgot â ' He slapped his forehead extravagantly with his open hand. âThe wine cellar, of course! He's gone down to choose a suitable vintage for tomorrow's banquet when the Lord Mayor is our guest.'

âIt's not that bad.' Mags defended the little terraced house - it was a lot better than some of the places they had lived in. âAnyway, where could he go? He's new in town, he doesn't know anybody. And it's nearly one o'clock in the morning.'

âThat never stopped any kid yet. He'll be exploring, looking around, getting into trouble.'

âYou don't know that.'

âI was a kid once myself. I've got a good memory.' Joshua gnawed thoughtfully at a shred of remaining fingernail. âMaybe I could do something with that. Kids aren't what they used to be.'
âYou just said that they were.' Even as she spoke, Mags knew it was the wrong thing to say. Everything was the wrong thing to say when Josh was working on the rant.

âWhat I say to you has nothing to do with what I say to
them
.' He raised his head and glared at her. âYou ought to know that by now.'

âI think I'll go upstairs and take a look around.' She avoided his eyes. âYou might have missed him.'

âI wouldn't miss him if he disappeared for ever,' Josh growled. âI don't know why you had to lumber us with him in the first place.'

âHe's my nephew â and there's no one else to take him.'

âHow about your mother? He's her grandson.'

âEva would never ask her. They never got along all that well and besides â ' She stopped, but Joshua was able to complete the sentence without any trouble.

âBesides, she's afraid she'd never get him back again â once her ex-mother-in-law got her hooks into him.'

âYou can't blame her for worrying about that. Mother can be â¦ difficult. She never quite forgave Rob for not going into a custody battle, just letting Eva have Robin without a fight.'

âWell, Eva's safe with us. She can have the kid back the minute she wants him â and the sooner the better.' He went back to chewing his fingernail and glaring at the computer screen.

Mags withdrew quietly. Josh was in a bad mood and to say anything more would inevitably lead to a quarrel. Already several delicate subjects had been touched on, any one of which could have led to a fatal explosion.

Mags reached the top of the stairs and knew that Joshua had been right. Wherever Robin might be, he was not here.

She proved it to herself by looking into each room, saving her nephew's bedroom until last. His belongings were scattered around the room, including the in-line skates Eva had given to him to smooth her departure â and her conscience. He had never used them, perhaps he never would, not until Eva came back.

Anyway, Mags's spirits lifted, at least he had not packed his case and run away. Wherever he had gone, he was coming back.

But where could he have gone? Over the hills to Grandmother's house? Mags had the distinct impression that Robin was slightly afraid of his grandmother â and who could blame him? Mummy was a very daunting woman, with a habit of rearranging history to her own satisfaction. Especially personal history.

Just look at the way she was handling Mags's situation. âDear Margaret is taking her gap year,' she kept telling friends who were too tactful â or too indifferent â to bother pointing out that this was Dear Margaret's third gap year in succession. By any normal standards, Mags would be considered a fully fledged drop-out.

And Joshua didn't exist at all. What would Mummy do if he suddenly found the fame he yearned for? Attempt to continue ignoring him? Or clasp him metaphorically to her bosom and begin planning the wedding?

Either alternative was too embarrassing to contemplate. Mags went back downstairs.

âSo, good evening, friends of Radio Dimwit, Radio Moron, Radio Thickhead â ' Joshua was in full flow, speaking through clenched teeth, biting off each word as though he grudged it the ability to leave his mouth.

âSo, come on, you bimbos, dumbos, weirdos, psychos â no matter how stupid you are, how prejudiced, how boring, ring up and tell me about it. That's what I'm here for â to pander to the lowest element that can crawl out from under a rotting log and manage to dial the number of this station. Come on, pond life, ring me up â and I'll pretend I think you're human.'

âGreat rant!' Mags stood in the doorway and gave him a slow handclap. âGoing to use it this weekend, are you? Got another job lined up you haven't told me about, then?'

âSomeday I will. Someday I'll rattle their cage bars so much even these local yokels will wake up and take an interest in something besides their own navels.'

âWant some coffee?' Mags had heard it all before, too many times to even pretend to be listening. She had her own more immediate worries. âDo you think we should call the police?'

âHuh?' He swung to face her, she had his full attention now. âWhere did that come from?'

âWhat?'

âThat. One minute you're going to make coffee, the next you're rabbiting on about the police. What put that grotesque idea into your head?'

âFor God's sake, Josh! Robin is missing. It's 1 a.m. and he's only eleven years old. All his things are in his room. Maybe something happened to him.'

âNo such luck. We're stuck with that dumb brat until the end of time. Or until your ex-sister-in-law decides that the honeymoon is over and she's coming home to claim him.'

âMeanwhile, we're â ' She corrected herself quickly.
âI'm
responsible for him.'

âThat's right!' Not quickly enough.
âYou
!
You're
responsible for him. Leave me out of it.'

âYou don't like him, do you? I don't understand why. What's he ever done to you?'

âHe doesn't like me.' Under the guise of an evasion, the truth slipped out. Joshua had to be liked. Loved, even. It was the bread of life to him. He needed it. He did not deal kindly with those who withheld it from him. He'd been warned several times at the radio station about the torrents of abuse he poured out over callers who dared to criticise him.

Sometimes, Mags wasn't very sure that she really liked him herself. Not any more. It had been fine in the beginning but â

âWhat was that?' Joshua surged to his feet as the snick of the latch broke the silence and he stepped into the passage, blocking Robin's path.

âWhere the hell have you been at this hour of the night? Your poor auntie has been worried sick!'

âSorry.' Robin seemed to shrivel under the accusing gaze.
His arms were crossed over his chest, cradling a bulging backpack. âI didn't mean to worry anyone.'

âWhat in hell have you got there?' Josh took a step forward. Robin retreated. âWhat have you been up to?'

âNothing.' Robin took a step sideways and dodged past Joshua. âI just went for a walk.'

âAt this hour?' Joshua whirled around to watch as Robin scrambled up the stairs, still hunched over, guilt written all over him. âYou've been scrumping apples, haven't you?'

âNo.' Robin was at the top of the stairs, retreating towards the safety of his room.

âCome back here!' Joshua was turning puce with fury. âAnd explain â '

âOh, leave him alone,” Mags said. âStop bullying the kid.'

âBullying?' Joshua swung to face her. âMe?'

The door slammed shut above them. Robin had reached sanctuary.

BOOK: To Catch a Cat

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