then. It must be six weeks now.’
‘Six weeks? Arc you sure?’
‘Oh, yes.’
Cooper moved his hand over the cat’s belly, feeling carefully for signs of engorged teats, then moved it backwards. Miranda didn’t protest as he raised one back leg and took a quick peck at the rear end hidden under the fur. He lowered the leg and
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looked at the floor to the side of the basket, where there were several saucers, one containing fresh milk and the other three with various tasty-looking delicacies — one seemed to be tuna, and there were some scraps of chicken, too.
‘I hope you haven’t been spoiling Miranda too much,’ he said.
‘She has to cat properly,’ said Mrs Shelley, following his gaze. ‘It’s very important in the later stages of pregnancy. I make sure there is always plenty to tempt her appetite. I give her a few little tidbits. Nothing wrong with that, is there?’
‘Not within reason.’
Cooper let the cat settle back into its position. It eased itselt over to allow space for its rounded belly and looked
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up at him. The cat’s stare was faintly challenging, but full of conspiratorial knowingncss. A message seemed to pass between them, an acknowledgement by the cat that it had met someone who understood these things. A warm basket, as much food as you could want, a bit of affection and no demands made on you at all. It sounded idyllic to Cooper, too.
‘I don’t think Miranda will be having kittens any time soon,’ he said.
‘Oh dear, what’s wrong?’
‘There’s nothing wrong really. Nothing that a little less rich food and a bit more exercise wouldn’t help.’
‘Oh, but poor Miranda
‘And you might think about changing his name as well,’ said Cooper.
The cat gave him that look again. It was a steady gaze, resigned but with no hint of shame. ‘Man to man/ it said, ‘you’d have done exactly the same.’
‘Well, if you’ve <^uitc finished,’ said Mrs Shelley. ‘Are you going to tell me what you think of the flat?’
Cooper hesitated. He looked at the side wall of the house next door, at the cat hairs tangled on the floor of the conservatory, and at a raffia chair with black specks of mould, which sat under the boarded window. He still had no idea as to the whereabouts of the electricity meter, the size of the Council Tax bills, or who paid for the maintenance. In the pause before he answered, Cooper could hear nothing in the house but the purring of the cat and the ticking of the radiators, like a faint background heartbeat, the sound of somebody sleeping.
‘It’ll do fine,’ he said.
That night, at home at Bridge End Farm, Ben Cooper discovered that the Canadian woman, Alison Morrissey, had taken her story to the media. In fact, she must have contacted them in advance of her arrival with information on the purpose of her visit. It had been a clever move, and he wondered if someone had been advising her on a public relations strategy.
The regional television stations had picked up her story and there were items about her that night. Morrissey was a gift
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to the screen her face played well for the cameras, being striking as well as full of both passion and intelligence. There was a particular scene in a Ga/enJar piece on YTV that showed her against the backdrop of a snowcovered Irontonguc Hill, where the wreckage of her grandfather’s Lancaster bomber still lay. Morrissey’s face was flushed with the cold, and her dark hair was in constant movement in the wind as she spoke to the interviewer. Her voice came across calmlv and with absolute
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clarity against the bluster of the wind on the microphone. She was an articulate woman, too. There were no signs of the usual stumblings and ‘ers’ and ‘urns’ that were so irritating in people unused to being interviewed.
Cooper watched as the camera finally pulled awav and lingered on a shot of Alison Morrissey ga/.ing at the hill, her face in profile, her expression a picture of common sense and determination, but with a hint of strong emotion held in check. It wasn’t quite clear how she achieved that effect — it was something about the way she tilted her head, or the angle of her
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neck. He didn’t think it was entirely an act for the camera.
This woman wasn’t some nutcase whose life had been taken over by an irrational obsession. Determined and clever Morrissey certainly was, but she seemed to be sincere too. Sincere people could be the most trouble.
The sight of Morrissey on the screen had made him forget for a while all the noise around him. The noises were the sounds of his brother Matt’s family going about their usual evening activities, which seemed to consist mostly of shouting and arguing, laughing and singing. But even these seemed to retreat into the background as Cooper watched the piece shot on the hillside. He could see it had been Rimed early that afternoon, with clouds already starting to build up in the east, but shafts of sunlight lit up the outcrops of rock on top of Irontonguc Hill. The producer must have been delighted with the effect, as well as with the performance in front of the camera by Alison Morrissey herself.
She had certainly been a contrast to DC! Kcssen, who had made an appearance in the main news bulletin, appealing to the public for information about the whereabouts of Marie Tennent’s
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baby. ‘We’re very concerned for the safety of this child,’ he said. In fact, he said it three times, and still failed to get any sincerity into his voice.
When the next item came on the TV — a funny piece about a quaint rural tradition in North Yorkshire Cooper continued staring at the screen for a while without seeing it.
There was so much happening in his life at the moment that it seemed inconceivable he should be developing an interest in something fiftv-sevcn wears old. But the signs were there of the
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