It was in this frame of mind – wary, suspicious, unable to distinguish one devil from another – that Cat went for her nightly run. It was now 20 March, and while the daylight hours were lengthening appreciably the roads were still prone to be slippery with ice and compacted snow. A couple of times she’d ended up sprawled across the asphalt with bleeding palms, torn pants and injured dignity. So she had every reason to reconsider her routine – perhaps exercise at home, do crunches and sit-ups or whatever – but she needed to feel cold air on her face and the ground under her feet. She needed the ruthless clarity of running.
Upon her return from the extended lunch hour, Bellamy – who was idling with malignant purpose near her desk – had glanced very pointedly at the wall clock. She’d affected her most disarming smile.
‘I know, I know – I can still get lost around town without my GPS and—’
‘Kindly step into my office, Ms Thomas.’
Inside he told her not to bother taking a seat. Leaning back against his desk and folding his arms, he said, ‘I believe you know a man called Carter Carterius?’
‘Of course.’ Cat hadn’t been expecting this. ‘The admin manager at Credit Cards.’
‘He was your personal contact there?’
‘He was.’
‘Do you know he’s been reassigned to branch manager – effective immediately?’
‘He has?’ Cat blinked. ‘To where?’
‘To Musselburgh. To take over from a manager who’s retired due to illness.’
‘Well’ – Cat gulped, feeling of rush of claustrophobia – ‘that’s interesting.’
Bellamy’s nostrils dilated. ‘Are you absolutely sure, Ms Thomas, that you’ve put to bed the Napier credit card case?’
‘I can guarantee it,’ she said – truthfully, because she’d long moved on from that.
He strained all the muscles of his face. ‘You know, I want to believe you, I dearly want to . . . and yet something makes me sceptical.’
Cat made sure she didn’t even blink.
He thrust himself off the desk and glided past her, uncomfortably close. ‘Never mind. Just remember that I only need an excuse, any excuse. Because let me tell you’ – he was holding the door open with a sadistic grimace – ‘I enjoy clearing out the troublemakers in my department.’
There was something specifically sexual about the way he said it that Cat would later find troubling. But that wasn’t to say he wasn’t right. It was enjoyable overturning old stones and exterminating insects. It was, in fact, her calling. Her destiny. The very reason for her existence.
Presently she ran up and down the hilly side streets of sleepy Ravelston. In Miami she had very nearly been run over by a car backing recklessly out of a driveway, purposely or not, and afterwards she had taken to running in the middle of the road wherever possible. She was doing it now, constantly on the alert for strange people, menacing faces, ‘operators’ sent out to ‘deliver a message’. It had happened in Florida and there was no reason why it couldn’t happen here.
In Blinkbonny Avenue a woman straightening a wheelie bin glared at her. Towards the bridge underpass on Craigleith Drive a four-by-four squealed to a halt behind her. Hammering up the incline of Ravelston House Road, she noticed a hedge rustling and was preparing to change course when a scrawny fox bolted across the road. Pounding down the slope on the other side she flinched at what she thought was a rifle shot, but it was only a man slamming the rear door of his hatchback. She reprimanded herself for being oversensitive.
She was three-quarters of the way through the run, passing through the inky shade on Ravelston Dykes, when she noticed a shawled woman standing on the verge holding a dog by the leash. The dog – yet another Border Terrier – was snarling at her defensively. Cat, vaguely amused, was transferring from the road to the pavement when she thought she heard the woman bark something.
‘Cat.’
Perhaps she was taunting the dog for some reason.
‘Cat Thomas.’
The woman had spoken louder than strictly necessary. Caught up in the impetus of running, Cat considered not altering her stride, but curiosity got the better of her. She drew up in her tracks and looked back, panting.
‘Excuse me?’
The woman was about thirty feet away, standing in the shadow of an elm tree, an orange streetlamp casting an ungodly nimbus behind her. It was difficult to make out anything but a wizened face under an old-style cloche. She resembled Miss Marple. The Border Terrier was still growling.
‘You should be wary of the company you keep,’ the old woman said in a phlegmy voice.
Cat assumed at first the warning had something to with her investigation. ‘Say again?’
‘I said you should be very careful of the people you associate with. They have plans for you.’
Cat stared at the woman. As far as she could tell the two of them, plus dog, were entirely alone for hundreds of metres.
‘How do you know my name?’
‘I made it my business to discover your name.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I only want to protect you.’
‘Protect me from who?’
The old woman glanced at her Border Terrier. ‘From the dark ones,’ she said, with a sibilant hiss.
Cat started to get angry. ‘Who sent you? Was it the Dunns?’
‘I know of no Dunns.’
‘Then why are you here?’
‘I’ve made it my duty to watch those who consort with witches.’
Cat narrowed her eyes and the woman seemed to read her mind.
‘That’s right, dear – I know of which I speak. And I say again, they have great plans for you.’
‘Is that some sort of joke?’ The sweat was freezing on Cat’s skin.
‘You know very well it is not.’
The Border Terrier was still grrrrrrring. Meanwhile a shadowy figure was emerging from a house across the road with a brace of eager hounds on leashes. Their presence seemed to put the old hag – and her terrier – further on edge.
‘Come to me when you need to know more,’ she said. ‘And in the meantime consider your every step.’
‘Why should I come to you?’
‘Because you will want answers. You will need answers. You have my address.’
Then the old hag turned, jerking the dog’s chain, and hobbled up the sidewalk. The hounds across the road were undulating like a seven-headed hydra.
Cat watched for a few moments, trying to raise an objection. Or a chuckle. But the hag, moving up the sidewalk with great alacrity despite a pronounced hobble, soon disappeared around a corner. And Cat got back to finishing her run – frowning, freezing, and wondering how the hell she was meant to know the old woman’s address.
When she reached Dean Village she was so distracted she barely noticed the now-familiar crowd of shadowy tourists. But when she got closer to her building she certainly noticed Boucher – he was leaning into the engine cavity of his MG with a flashlight – and she swung around impulsively before he could spot her.
She had barely taken two steps, however, when she found herself being wrenched around – a muscular movement that sucked the air from her lungs.
An ogre with a buzzcut and a flattened nose had a hand the size of a baseball mitt clamped around her upper arm. He waited just long enough for her to recover from her shock, then he leaned in.
‘It’s a warning,’ he spat. ‘Don’t end up like the—’
Then: the force.
Cat had no time to react. She could only watch, breathless, as the ogre was ripped away from her. As he was propelled against the wall of a neighbouring building. As the back of his head was slammed against the sandstone blocks.
It took her a moment to register that the surge, this time, was most definitely Robin Boucher.
‘Keep your fucking hands off her!’ he was yelling. ‘Don’t ever touch her! You hear?’
The ogre – looking as stunned as Cat – seemed not to know what to do. He stared up at Boucher, who was towering over him.
‘Do you hear?’
The ogre couldn’t counter Boucher’s intensity. And he wilted. All two hundred and fifty pounds of him wilted. He squirmed away, like a chastened dog, and with one last terrified glance at Cat – as if she were somehow responsible – he disengaged from Boucher and loped off, picking up pace as he gained distance.
Boucher, whom Cat had never realised had such heft, looked across at her. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ she said.
‘A friend of yours?’
‘No, I’ve got no idea who he is.’
‘Something to do with your work?’
‘Probably.’
‘The investigation?’
‘I guess so.’
‘I told you to be careful.’
‘You did. You did at that.’
They took a final lingering look down the street, where the ogre was being swallowed up by a cluster of disapproving tourists.
‘Anyway,’ Boucher said, drawing a chamois cloth from his pocket, ‘it’s good to see you again.’
‘You too,’ managed Cat, almost laughing at the tone shift.
In truth, she was still shaken by his thrilling performance. It had been pulsating. Erotic, even. And just quite possibly contrived.
‘Just one second.’ As Cat continued to the stair door, Boucher diverted to the car and gently closed the bonnet. He was wearing what passed for his down-and-dirty clothes – oil-stained jeans and sleeveless jacket – and yet still looked impossibly stylish. ‘Haven’t seen you since that overspiced dinner,’ he noted, joining her again.
‘That’s right,’ she said, getting the key out of the lock. Her breath was still coming in gasps. ‘I should’ve thanked you for that.’
‘And I should’ve thanked you for being there.’ When he raised an arm to hold back the door, she got an intoxicating whiff of heated engine grease – he seemed almost to be smoking. ‘No mail for me?’
‘Doesn’t look like it, no.’ She withdrew from the mailbox a brown envelope and a padded envelope.
‘Oh,’ he said, as if he ever got any mail. ‘After you.’
As they ascended the stairs, Cat, still reeling, was painfully conscious that her pert Lycra-bound glutes were practically in his face. ‘I’m a little sweaty,’ she said.
‘I don’t mind. I hope you had a good time anyway – at the restaurant?’
‘It was great, thanks.’
‘You were a bit under the weather at the end.’
‘I was, I apologise. I disgraced myself.’ They whirled upwards. ‘I hope I didn’t say anything stupid?’
‘Nothing of the sort.’
‘I ended up having a nightmare,’ she admitted.
‘Did you? I didn’t hear anything.’ Which didn’t sound remotely convincing. ‘But really, I’m the one who should apologise. It wasn’t right of me to leave you in that way.’
Cat was startled. Was he saying he’d been in her flat after all? She fumbled for her keys.
‘You know, Cat,’ he went on, as they reached her landing, ‘if you don’t mind my saying, you look a bit shaken up.’
‘I am shaken up,’ she said, still trying to open the door. ‘That guy – well, it brought back bad memories.’
‘No doubt,’ he said, as smooth as ever. ‘I expect you could do with a distraction.’
‘Always.’
‘Then I was wondering’ – he sounded almost tentative – ‘if next time you might join me for dinner upstairs.’
The lock finally clicked. Cat looked at him. ‘You want to . . . cook me a meal?’
‘I’m rather proud of my culinary prowess, you know.’
‘Is that right?’
‘And you didn’t speak highly of the Mexican food.’
‘I didn’t?’
‘“Bobo” or something, you called it.’
‘There you go, I did embarrass myself – “bobo” is a Floridian term.’
‘No, you were right to criticise. But what I can cook upstairs, I promise, will be a perfect Italian pasta.’
‘Uh-huh.’ She had all the locks open now.
‘Even though I’m not remotely Italian.’
She pushed open the door and finally dared to look at him. ‘Uh . . . Italian? Pasta? Yes, of course, that sounds fine.’
He arched his eyebrows, smiling. ‘Well, then – say, seven-thirty on Friday night?’
‘Sounds great,’ said Cat, but immediately she had second thoughts. Because she was submitting again. ‘Hang on,’ she said, before he could turn. ‘Hang on. I’ve got an even better idea. How about you come to my place? And I cook you an Italian meal?’
‘Really?’
‘It’s my turn, yeah? The Mexican meal was your treat, after all.’
‘That’s true – and it’s very thoughtful of you.’
‘I fancy my hand at Italian cuisine too, you know.’
‘Indeed?’ He sounded amused. ‘Then I’d be delighted to come down.’
‘Just knock whenever you feel like it.’
‘And I’ll bring a bottle of something – non-alcoholic, of course.’
‘OK.’
‘There’s still a great deal I’d like to clarify about myself, you know.’
‘OK.’
She stepped across her threshold and closed the door. Chained it. And turned the Chubb locks.
Still a great deal I’d like to clarify about myself.
And that would be very much in order, Cat thought.
When she had settled enough to open the mail she was surprised to find nothing inside the brown-paper envelope but an elegant business card.
MADAM MORGANACH
OCCULT RESEARCH
13A Featherhall Close, Corstorphine
Edinburgh
She was so disturbed by this – the idea that Miss Marple had traced her somehow to her residence – that she barely noticed herself tearing open the padded envelope. It was only belatedly that she remembered the growl – the threat – of the ogre: ‘It’s a warning.’
Looking down, she flung the envelope on the table in disgust.
Inside, bound in cling film, was an enormous maggot-ridden rat.