Murder and a Song (A Pattie Lansbury Cat Cozy Mystery Series Book 2) (8 page)

            “You’re
right,” replied the officer, rubbing his eyes. “I’ll call some of the officers
who are already at the festival and have the two of them arrested.  I’m keeping Mister Jeffries here too.  I wish now I hadn’t released any of them
after questioning today.”

            “You
should get some sleep,” Pattie advised gently.

            “So
should you,” he replied pointedly. “But we both know we won’t sleep until we
get some answers … Do you really think that cat has something to do with it?”

            “I’m
not saying it’s a serial killer or anything, but it has to be connected
somehow.  Please have your men check the
van and the tent for the cat.  You can
have it dropped off at Pat’s Whiskers and I’ll take care of it.  I doubt it’ll be comfortable in one of your
evidence lockers.”

            “Alright.  I’m making the call now.  You go home and put the kettle on, okay?”

            “Like
you said,” Pattie reminded him, “neither of us will be asleep any time
soon.  I’ll need more than one cup!”

            One
of the officers gave her a lift home. 
Pattie was still respected by the police, despite whatever happened with
her son.  They had known her for years,
first as the mother of one of their former star detectives, then later as a
valuable consulting detective – even if she did have some strange methods.  To most people she was “Mrs Lansbury”, and to
the ones who hadn’t been around that long, “the cat lady”.

            Pattie
didn’t mind the moniker.  She loved her
furry friends and practically cheered when they rushed to greet her at the
door.  She always felt like she was
neglecting them during cases like this. 
Luckily they didn’t crop up often, and she could make it up to the
kitties by sitting around with a crossword or Sudoku puzzle, sipping tea or
maybe watching one of the soaps on the telly with half a dozen cats around her.

            Simba
was usually the first to greet her when she came home, but tonight he was
joined by Macy, Putz and Tyson, who was getting a little used to the treats
she’d been giving him and was probably there for selfish reasons.

            “I
suddenly feel quite tired,” she confided to them as she took off her coat and
boots, then trudged wearily to the kitchen. 
Simba followed her and curled up on the tiles under the oven as she
turned on the gas hob and filled up the kettle.

            Within
minutes she had fed thirteen meowing faces and settled down in the comfy chair
to sip her tea and rest in front of the fire. 
It had been a long day.  Mia
jumped up and settled on her lap to sleep.

            “What
a good idea…” Pattie murmured.

At the same time two miles away, two
police vans pulled up at the edge of the festival parking area.  In the driver’s seat of one was Constable
Palmer, dressed in what she called her ‘roughhousing uniform’: that is, the
usual, plus a knife-proof coat and her helmet. 
Two officers were with her in the back seats.  She spoke to them, as well as into the
dashboard radio, so that the officers in the second van could hear her.

            “Alright
chaps, listen closely.  The targets for
apprehension are one James Farrell and one Toby Draper, both Caucasian males in
their mid thirties.  We are to consider
them dangerous and possibly armed.  Once
they are safely under arrest, we can search the tent, the surrounding plot, and
their white Ford Transit van.  We believe
there may be a cat in the van or the surrounding plot, which we are to contain
if possible.  The tent plot is three
minutes away on foot and all units are to follow me.  Are we all clear?  I want to hear ‘yes, Ma’ams’.”

            The
officers in the back and those in the second van all chimed, “Yes, Ma’am!”, and
they were ready to go.

            This
was Constable Palmer’s first tactical operation, and although it was potentially
very minor, she intended to do a good job with it.  She was still under D.C. Downey’s
responsibility and she was still pending her Detective prefix.  This was going to go well.

            In
a minute they were assembled outside the vans, ignoring nosy onlookers who
crawled out of their tents or put down their beers to stare.  Constable Palmer nodded to her five officers
and then took the lead, striding through the campsite directly to where she
knew that plot 369 was. 

            As
promised, it only took three minutes at a fast walk to get there.  The tent was still in the darkness, with no
light shining from within.  Constable
Palmer stood in front of the tent as the other officers dashed around the small
plot, peered through the front windows of the van, and then joined her by the
tent.

            “James
Farrell.  Toby Draper,” shouted the
Constable, “this is the police.  Step
outside now.”

            There
was no movement from the tent or the van.

            “Last
warning!” she called, preparing her baton and CS spray canister.  The other officers did the same.
“Alright!  We’re coming in!  Lie down on the ground and put your hands on
the back of your heads!”

            Simultaneously,
officers poured into the large tent and others smashed the front driver’s
window of the van.  One group checked the
partitioned ‘rooms’ of the tent; the other found the release switch for the
back doors of the van and unlocked them.

            There
was no sign of the two suspects.  The
tent and the van were empty.

            “Bloody
hell,” whispered Constable Palmer under her breath.  The plot was surrounded by festival goers
gaping at the action.  She chose to reign
in her temper and ignore them.

            “I
think the cat’s in this box here,” called one of the officers, who had found a
large cardboard box in the back with holes cut in it, and a camping stove
placed on top to weigh it down. “It’s alive. 
No sign of the targets, Ma’am.”

            “Peterson,
go and fetch one of the vans and park it fifty feet that way.  You, Fenwick and Hill stay in the van and
wait to see if the targets come back.  I’m
going to join you in an hour if nothing happens before then.  The rest of you, come with me – bring that
box with the cat.  Do not let it get out,
okay?”

At the Pat’s Whiskers Feline Retirement
Home, a woman was dreaming.

            She
dreamt that she was in a moonlit meadow. 
There was no mud and no tents, but there was a stage.  On the stage Paul, John, Ringo and George
were playing ‘Hey Jude’ in sharp blue suits beneath a spotlight.  Pattie was dancing.  She hadn’t danced for years, not properly –
maybe a little jiggle in the kitchen every now and again when a favourite song
came on the radio.  But she was dancing as
though she were a younger woman … In the dream, she
was
a younger woman … and the man she was dancing with was a young
man.  The young Pattie knew him well but
wanted to know him better.  He was
familiar, someone whose company she enjoyed immensely.  It was not her ex-husband, God bless his
soul.  Even though Pattie was young in the
dream, her heart was old.  This was a new
love.

            Pattie
awoke to the sound of her doorbell ringing. 
She coaxed the drowsy Mia off her lap and made her way to the door.  Real life compared to the dream was stiff and
slow.  She sighed as she opened the front
door.  Outside was Detective Constable Downey,
looking thoroughly exhausted, with a cat in his arms.

            “Hello,
Mrs Lansbury.”

            “Please,
come in – I think the kettle’s still warm.”

            “I’d
better not stay, if that’s alright,” said the D.C., handing over the placid
animal. “I’ve got to get back to the investigation.  Juliette took a team to the campsite but the
suspects weren’t there.  They hadn’t
packed anything up, and the van was still there, so either they did a runner on
foot or they don’t know that we’re on to them. 
Are you sure about this cat being involved?”

            Pattie
gathered up the legs of the wriggling ginger tom and stroked him gently. “I’m
sure that this little fellow holds the key to the whole thing.  I’m just not sure how, yet.”

            D.C.
Downey smiled. “I thought I’d better leave him with you for the time
being.  Juliette and I are trusting your
hunch on this.”

            “Don’t
you agree that things are adding up so far?” asked Pattie.

            “Well,
there must be
something
going on …
First Ms Carter and her dead boyfriend, then her affair with Harry Widmore who
turns up dead, this cat of Seth MacGowan’s, who’d been mixed up with Daryl
Hardy … If you’re seeing the lynchpin for all this, please fill me in!”

            Pattie
took O’Malley a few steps into the hallway and then gently put him down on the
carpet.  He flicked his tail and looked
at the front door, but Simba was Pattie’s savour: he touched noses with the new
cat, and O’Malley seemed to sense that this was a friendly and safe place to
be. 

            “The
cat is the lynchpin,” Pattie told D.C. Downey. “And once I’ve had a bit of time
with him, I’ll be able to tell you how. 
Meanwhile, we don’t know what these awful men are up to, or what they’re
really capable of.”

            “We’ll
catch them,” the D.C. assured her. “Goodnight, Mrs Lansbury.”

            “Goodnight
… and good luck.”

            D.C.
Downey walked back to his car, where it was parked at the side of the road with
another officer at the wheel.  Pattie
closed the door and looked at herself in the small mirror nailed to the wall,
rubbed her eyes and called for Simba. 
Simba trotted up for a nuzzle, and Pattie scratched him behind the ear
where he liked it. “Good boy, for making friends, Simba.”

            Pattie
collected a box of treats from a drawer and rattled them.  O’Malley put his head around the corner.  So Seth and Elaine MacGowan at least treated
their feline friend occasionally; he was familiar with the sound and associated
it with tasty goodness.  She took out a
treat and held it out for him to eat.  He
was not shy about approaching her and nipping it out of her fingers with his
teeth.

            She
sat in the armchair and let him come to her for more.  Once he’d had a few she put the box behind
her back and turned him around to examine him.

            O’Malley
was a gorgeous ginger tabby with a fleecy white belly and white legs.  Strangely, his tail was also white, as was
the back of his neck.  His tabbyness was
restricted to a saddle on his back, giving him a turtle-ish appearance when he crouched,
and a cap on his head.  Pattie checked
his paws: good sharp claws and strong pads, which signified an adventurous
outdoors cat.  His fur was in good
condition, although there were several burrs caught up in it, which Pattie
picked out for him.  There was a thinning
around his neck from collar-use.  He had
clear eyes and strong, clean teeth and gums. 
He was nice and plump.

            There
was nothing to suggest that O’Malley was anything but an active farm cat with
an attentive owner.  Pattie fed him one
last treat, and then put out a clean blanket for him to curl up on.  She was surprised to see that he was quite
lethargic.  Perhaps he’d recently eaten a
bird?  Maybe giving him those treats had
been a bad idea … But then, poor O’Malley had been through quite an ordeal:
trapped in a box for some reason, possibly for two days or so, and why?  Even being in the custody of a police
Constable and now safely at Pat’s Whiskers would be a little traumatic.  How was he to know that he was finally safe
and about to be returned home?

            She
went to the phone and dialled for the MacGowan farm.  She wanted to tell Seth and Elaine that their
cat was safe and would be returned to them ASAP.  There was no answer.  She left her usual polite voicemail and hung
up.

            Pattie
thought about it for a moment, then picked up the receiver to dial for Elliott
Knight.

It was getting close to 21:30 at the
festival campsite.  Constable Palmer was
slumped back in the driver’s seat of the police van.

            “How
long are we going to wait out here, Juliette?” asked Officer Peterson. “These
guys must be on to us; they’re not going to come back now.”

            “Idiots
like these will come back for their stuff,” Constable Palmer told him. “You can
bet on it.  They’re probably just hiding
out in a beer tent somewhere and hoping we’re gone by the time they get back.”

            “Well,
the police van’s hardly inconspicuous,” said Officer Hill, who was sat in the
back keeping the log and trying not to fall asleep.

            “There
are police cars parked all around this place, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

            “Look,”
said Officer Peterson suddenly, pointing. 
Constable Palmer followed his gaze and saw two men hanging about near a
burger van.  They wore hoodies with the
hoods up, and appeared to be watching the tent in plot 369.

            “Could
be them,” said Constable Palmer. “Watch them. 
Hill, log it and I’ll call it in.”