into some helpless prey.
Cooper stopped in front of a loose box, eyeing an old horse who stared straight back at him unblinkingly.
‘Hello. What’s your name?’
He glanced aside to look at a notice on the wall next to the loose box. It said: ‘ This horse has been ill- treated. Watch her — she bites.’
Cooper had been warned just in time. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw an enormous set of teeth flashing towards him. He jerked his head back instinctively. What had happened to the animal in the past that it would lunge at a complete stranger the moment his attention was distracted?
Ah, well. That wasn’t what he was here for. He made his way to the cattery, which was at the back of the sanctuary: a couple of low buildings with concrete walkways.
When he got there, Cooper hesitated. So how, exactly, did you go about choosing a cat? How on earth did you make a judgement when you were faced with rows and rows of felines in mesh cages? All of them were animals who’d been abandoned or mistreated in some way. All of them deserving of a good home.
It wasn’t like buying a car, when you could look at the mileage, check under the bonnet, sit in the driving seat and try out the controls. He hadn’t even thought about what colour of cat he’d like, which was the first question that Claire had asked him when he told her. Did it matter whether it was a tabby, a tortoiseshell or a ginger tom? It was the personality that mattered, the question of whether you were compatible. And you wouldn’t discover that with a cat until you’d worked on the relationship for a while.
So standing here in the animal rescue centre, being asked to make a choice, seemed suddenly too daunting. It was an impossible challenge, surely?
But, in the end, it proved to be very simple. The question was resolved for Cooper beyond doubt by the time he got halfway down the first row of cages. There, he found a small, furry bundle clinging to the mesh, two bright green eyes fixed determinedly on his, and a tiny paw reaching desperately for his sleeve until claws hooked in and drew him closer. He barely noticed the colour of the fur in the intensity of the moment of communication. A pink mouth opened in an almost silent cry as the young cat spoke to him.
And somehow, Cooper knew exactly what he was being told. He didn’t have to choose a cat, after all. His cat had chosen him.
Dorothy Shelley was waiting for him when he arrived home in Welbeck Street. Cooper never really understood how his landlady knew everything that was going on. But he certainly wasn’t going to be able to keep a new cat secret from her. He could see her grey-haired figure in a faded blue cardigan, hovering by the window of number 6 as he pulled his Toyota towards the kerb.
‘She’s lovely,’ said Mrs Shelley, peering into the pet carrier before Cooper even got to the door of his flat. ‘She is a “she”, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, this time,’ said Cooper, with a laugh. He remembered that his landlady had not been too expert at assessing the gender of a cat in the past.
‘Have you decided what you’re going to call her?’
He looked at the bright green eyes, huge and anxious, set in a face marked with perfect tabby tiger stripes.
‘Not yet. It’s going to take some thinking about.’
As he went inside his flat, Cooper reflected that he might have to take some time over that decision. It wasn’t something to be rushed into. A name had to match a personality. And you didn’t really understand another person’s character until you’d got to know them properly. Sometimes, you could know a person for quite a while, and never understand them at all.
40
Monday
Fry didn’t know why she had such a bad feeling as she walked up to Superintendent Branagh’s office first thing on Monday morning. Often, an urgent summons meant you were in trouble, but she was confident that she hadn’t put a foot wrong this week. She had obtained a good result, hadn’t she?
So it ought to be good news — a commendation, or a bit of praise, at least. It had been known, even from Branagh. Perhaps she was going to apologize for having been wrong about Fry’s record. That would be a turn-up for the books, all right. Like Count Dracula turning vegetarian.
Fry entered the corridor from the top of the stairs and saw the superintendent’s office door ahead. Actually, praise from Branagh was definitely her due. She should go in expecting it as her right, not nervously approaching the feet of an angry god.
But, no matter how she rationalized it, she still had a bad feeling.
‘Come in,’ called Branagh at her knock.
Fry entered cautiously, and glanced around the room. She realized straight away that she’d been right to be uneasy. The atmosphere in the superintendent’s office was tense, the silence that met her arrival too unnatural. Branagh’s two visitors were immediately recognizable as police officers, though they wore civilian clothes. Detectives, then? Were they from another division, or headquarters staff? Strange that they didn’t look familiar, either the man or the younger woman who now stood to greet her.
‘DS Fry. Thank you for coming up to see us.’
‘Sir.’
Fry held out her hand automatically to take his, feeling in no doubt from the start that she was addressing a more senior officer. He wasn’t much above her own age, his hair just starting to recede a little from his forehead, grey eyes observing her sharply from behind tiny, frameless glasses.
Then he smiled, and Fry hesitated, wanting to let her hand drop, but feeling it still clutched awkwardly in his.
‘It’s been a long time, Diane,’ he said.
And then she recognized him. They’d been in uniform on the same shift years ago, but he’d got his stripes really early. Too early, some had said. But he’d been ambitious, with the right mix of ambition and ability that got you noticed in the force. Blake — that was his name. Gareth Blake. He’d matured now, dressed better and went to a decent hairdresser. He still reeked of ambition, though.
Fry realized that he was staring at her, that smile still lingering on his face, a bit uncertainly now. She looked from Blake to the woman, and back again.
‘So,’ said Fry, ‘I don’t suppose this is a social call. What exactly can I do to help Birmingham CID?’
Blake introduced the woman with him as Rachel Murchison. She was smartly dressed in a black suit and a white blouse, dark hair tied neatly back, all businesslike and self-confident. Fry cautiously shook hands, wondering why the woman was studying her so closely. She could sense that Branagh was watching her too, from behind her desk. She couldn’t still smell of horse shit, surely? She’d showered three or four times since then, and thrown everything into the wash.
‘Rachel is a specialist counsellor who works with us sometimes,’ said Blake.
So she’d been wrong, then. Not a police officer. Too smartly dressed, perhaps — that should have been the giveaway. The woman was a professional, though. It was that guarded watchfulness that had given Fry a misleading impression.
‘What sort of counsellor?’ she asked.
Blake and Murchison exchanged glances. ‘We can go into that shortly, Diane. There’s a bit of explanation to do first.’
‘So what section are you working in these days, Gareth?’
Fry could hear her voice rising, already developing that strident tone she tried so hard to avoid. Blake raised a placatory hand.
‘Let’s take things one step at a time.’
But Fry shook her head. ‘Tell me what section you’re working in.’
Branagh looked about to interrupt, but changed her mind. Fry waited, her face set in a grim line.
