placed on the sofa, to share its fate. They had begun to melt but were still recognisable. Fortunately the Van Gogh was in his new house.
The smoke cleared somewhat and Brook headed for his bedroom. He opened the door to the words ‘OINK, OINK. YOUR GOING TO PAY PIG’ daubed on the wall in red.
‘Oh no.’ Brook stepped to the bed and sat besides the remains of Cat. He placed a hand on its still warm body and stroked what was left. For once the cat didn’t careen itself around Brook’s hand. Its head was pulp though he could still identify the stub of pink tongue poking through broken teeth. Two grapefruit-sized splashes of dark red on the back of the door told its tale.
He closed his eyes to remember his only friend.
Sirens in the distance grew louder. He roused himself to look around. He reached to pick a towel from a hook and wrapped Cat reverently into a bundle.
He went outside to his car and placed the body gently in the boot. He hesitated. ‘I’m sorry, Cat. I should have named you.’ He closed the boot and turned to face the squad car screeching to a theatrical halt behind him.
It was after midnight when Brook returned to his new house in Hartington.
He pulled up to the kerb and silenced the ear-splitting cacophony from the Sprite’s exhaust, oblivious to the disturbance it must have caused in this sleepy village. He opened the boot and removed a carrier bag and newly- purchased spade. He took both in the house and returned to the car. He picked up the bundle containing Cat and took it to the back garden.
In darkness, he dug a small hole in a corner of the garden and placed Cat down. He replaced the soil on top and patted it down before putting a large stone on top to discourage scavenging foxes. ‘Rest in Peace, little friend.’
Brook climbed the path to the house and sat down on the patio bench. He pulled the bottle of whisky and two packets of cigarettes from the carrier bag, poured himself a large measure and lit up.
‘Cheers, Cat.’ He took a swig and flinched as the fiery liquid burned its way to his stomach. ‘Cheers, Charlie.’ He took another, smaller swig. ‘Professor.’ This time he merely held the glass aloft, declining to drink.
The next morning Brook was woken by birdsong. He was on the bench with a thin blanket for cover and a cushion for a pillow. He sat up and looked at his watch. Then he stepped into the kitchen and picked up the phone. He dialled, asked for an extension number and lit a cigarette in the pause to be connected. ‘Chief Superintendent McMaster. DI Brook, ma’am. About my resignation-I’ve been thinking it over…’
