To Catch a Creeper (17 page)

‘Whatever,’ she says dismissively. ‘He’s obviously going into Phase 3.’

‘Phase 3?’

‘Phase 1, slightly distracted, lacking in energy on arrival home from the office, not listening to you when you try and discuss anything apart from football or other sports, that sort of stuff. Most men are on Phase 1 after a few years of married life,’ she chuckles. ‘Phase 2, babbling, obsessions, talking to oneself, reading really weird existential books, trying to discover the meaning of life, hooking in to past anxieties, over-emotional responses to situations, i.e. colleague’s death–’

‘He’s definitely in Phase 2,’ I cut in.

‘Phase 3, can’t hold down job, erratic spending, losing track of conversations, complete meltdown.’

‘Complete meltdown!’ I say aghast.

‘Sorry to be the bearer of bad news,’ Isobel squeezes my arm in a sympathetic way, ‘Larry might be a complete prick at times, but he knows his onions, and from all accounts, your husband’s hovering on the edge of sanity…or insanity as the case may be. Oops,’ she checks her watch, ‘gotta rush, can’t miss toddler group. They’ve a guest accordion player.’

I rush home, just in case Declan’s burnt the place down or is hanging from the banisters or something. I arrive just at the same time as Peter, our postman. He has a pile of letters in his hand and is leafing through them.

‘One for your hubbie,’ he hands it over, ‘two for you, two for both of you, junk mail I reckon, and one for little Sophie, aw, bless.’

‘Sophie? She’ll be over the moon.’ I take them all from him. ‘She once went in for an art contest at Brent Cross, never won but they now keep sending her other competitions. She adores getting letters.’

‘Doesn’t everyone? That’s what makes my job so pleasurable.’ Peter’s dark eyes crinkle, curly hair peeking out from under his khaki postman’s cap. Handsome little devil. Small but almost perfectly formed, maybe a bit puny on the shoulder front, but his cheeky smile and ready banter more than make up for it. Only in his early thirties but he’s been on our patch for years. So friendly. Even Custard likes him. ‘Oh well, must go, Mrs O’Farrell. Nice catching up with you again. Haven’t seen you for quite a while.’

‘And nice seeing you.’ I give him a little wave, then close the door and head back to my ultra clean kitchen with the ultra clean tiles. Declan looks up from pouring Mr Muscle down the sink plughole.

‘Anything exciting in the post?’

‘Unlikely,’ I reply, skimming through.

First envelope, I’ve won a competition. £5,000 no strings, honest. Bin.

‘Oh before I forget,’ he says, ‘there was a great thing on Radio 4 you missed. This discussion…’

‘Oh yeah…’ I open the second letter. Dentist appointment due, keep. ‘How’s the cat been?’ Better show interest.

‘Tic-Tac, oh he’s fine. Gave him some minced lamb with his tablets. He loves it you know.’

‘I’m sure he does.’ Third – joint – bank statement, stick it in sand, along with head. Fourth– joint – renewal for house insurance, gone up again. I mean, why? We haven’t made any claims or anything. Cheek of it. And I need to economise, not just receive letters giving me rises in bills. Place in back pocket for dealing with at a future time. ‘So
no more choking or anything? Oh, this one’s for you.’ I hand him over the jiffy bag, but not until I’ve felt round it a bit. Feels like another book.

‘Oh great.’ He puts aside his Mr Muscle and grabs it from me. I catch a quick glimpse of the title before he tucks it under his arm and heads off. Something, something…healthy flock?

‘By the way,’ I rush after him and call up the stairs, ‘what was that you were telling me about – the Radio 4 programme?’

‘Radio 4 programme?’ he mutters as he heads into our bedroom. ‘Can’t think for the life of me…’

***

We have lunch together. French bread, beetroot, salad, cheese, pickle and tomato soup. I prepared it as Declan was the one who bought it. He cycled down to the shops with a big smile on his face and carrying a small backpack. I’m seriously beginning to doubt Larry; I’ve never seen my husband so joyous. His mouth must ache from pursing up into happy whistling. And twice he’s flung his arms around my waist and given me a big smacky kiss.

In fact they were so big and smacky, it kind of put me off a bit, so I crept upstairs to the attic, feigning work.

I face an empty screen and a telephone with no-one to ring. Ugh. I’m deeply depressed. Can’t even clean the house as it’s spick and span from all Declan’s morning efforts. He even went as far as washing the skirting boards and right now he’s going through the kids’ bedrooms, emptying cupboards, folding clothes, dusting. I’ve never felt so redundant.

The phone rings. ‘Are you paying too much for house insurance?’

‘Sure am.’ I think back to the letter we received this morning. ‘They’ve put my blinking premiums up and I’ve not claimed once. You’re not from Endells, are you?’

‘No. I’m representing Rhoda’s Rooms, a new all women insurance company specialising in house insurance.’

‘All women, you say?’

‘Well first named on account has to be a woman. You can have a husband or boyfriend living with you and male children, it doesn’t matter.’

‘Oh, good.’

‘Are you finding your insurance company is going up and up, without you even claiming?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you frequently feel that they are ripping you off?’

‘Yes. I do.’

‘Can you tell me what you’re paying at present?’

‘£49 a month and they want to make it £55.’

‘Give me ten minutes and I’ll call you right back.’

I put the phone down.

So what now?

My fingers seem to have a will of their own as they sidle up to the mouse, click onto my recent documents and move further right and down to the file named CROUCH END CREEPER. Before I know it, I’ve added in Victim No. 10 to the other sheets and made another page with the heading.

COMMON DENOMINATORS – SHEET 6

For example, do all the victims drink at the same pub?

I research my notes – unknown.

Do they employ same builders?

Again research my notes – unknown.

Are they all members of the masons or other such society/club?

Possibly – but then you can’t always tell who are masons – plus a few victims were women – mason’s wives perhaps? Note to self – check on all masons in area. That could be one for Isobel’s dad as lots of police are meant to be them.

Do the victims visit the same shops, garden centres, banks? What about rubbish collections – same bin men? Are they all out in the day?

The first common denominator I can officially put down is that:

1. They
were
all out when the burglar did his deed, so either he knows their work pattern or he watches them beforehand

2. They all live within a mile radius of each other – that was an easy one

3. –

I’m thinking of No. 3 when the insurance lady calls me back.

She’s found me a cheaper plan, by £3, but considering it was going to go up by £6, it’s saved me £9.

‘Sounds good.’ I mentally pat myself on the back.

‘Right, but first I need to go through a list of questions, see if you qualify.’

‘Fire away.’ It’s like a quiz show. Anne Robinson – you are the weakest link. Goodbye.

‘How many bedrooms would you say you have?’

‘Three. Although one’s more a box room, but we have an attic, which we use as an office.’

‘Do you have a mortice deadlock of at least five levers?’

I nod even though she can’t see it. ‘If not seven.’

‘Window locks?’

‘Yes. Tiny little keys.’

‘Do you rent out the property?’

‘No.’ I did, last year, to Rosa, but no need to go into that. Last thing I need adding to my woes is tax inspectors on my doorstep.

‘How many days a week do you go out to work or are you at home?’

‘At the moment I’m at home. Actually,’ I admit reluctantly, ‘I was sacked, but please don’t tell my husband. Although saying that my husband is at home too as he’s just quit work.’

‘So you know about him quitting work, but he doesn’t know about your sacking?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Must be awkward.’

‘It is very.’ It feels good to confide in someone at last. ‘And I will tell him, but he’s going through a funny phase right now.’

‘Male menopause?’

‘He’s forty-four.’

‘Don’t tell me, he’s spring cleaning the house?’

‘Ironing as we speak.’ I tell her about Isobel’s theory.

‘Well, yes, could be. Or again the male menopause.’ She lowers her voice. ‘If I was you, I’d keep your being fired to yourself or at least wait until he’s finished all that cleaning. And he’ll tire of it, they all do. Enthusiastic at first, sleeves rolled up, seeing it as a personal challenge, but then, after a few weeks of the kids still leaving clothes on the floor, their uniforms still needing washing, the dinner still having to be bought, cooked and cleared up, the monotony sets in and they realise what a thankless task it all is. That’s when they often go back to work. I tell you, it’s short-lived.’

There’s a moment of silence as if she’s reliving something. And then a click on the line as if someone’s monitoring the calls.

‘Promise you won’t tell him?’ I whisper urgently.

‘God’s honour. Right, well back to the questions. Is it just your family living with you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you have burglar alarms installed?’

‘No. But my neighbour might be having hers done.’

‘Sorry doesn’t count. Smoke alarms?’

‘Yep.’ Although I don’t tell her the battery’s sitting on the piano waiting to be replaced.

‘Good.’ She sounds pleased.

‘And I own a dog,’ I say, hoping for another few quid off. ‘And quite a ferocious lizard.’

‘Mmm. And the last one. Are you an active member of a Neighbourhood Watch scheme?’

‘Well I went once.’ It was pretty dismal as only three people turned up and none of them had any juicy stories to relate. ‘And they send me occasional e-mail warnings.’

‘But would you say you are
active
? Remember all calls will be recorded.’ She’s trying to steer me towards a yes answer.

‘Yes, yes I am,’ I say, crossing my fingers. ‘Very active. Extremely active, oh yes indeedy.’

Well I will be if it saves me a few bob.

Remember, Cathy, name of the game is economise, economise, economise.

***

‘…thinks we’re up to something and now she refuses to go out with us, even in the car.’

I tut sympathetically. Five p.m. I ran into Mrs Baker junior in Mrs Baker senior’s front garden and for the last fifteen minutes she’s been rattling off a long list of her mother’s latest capers.

‘It must be very distressing,’ I soothe. ‘And such a burden for you and your brother.’

‘Burden?’ she sighs, ‘You don’t know the half.’

‘Oh, talking about your mother,’ I stop her before she tells me the other half and I’m kept here another fifteen minutes, ‘I’ve been meaning to call you. We got a note posted through our door a short while back. It was rather daft…’ I’m just about to inform her about her mother’s lunatic message, when I see out of the corner of my eye a blue paisley handkerchief waving out of Mrs Baker senior’s bathroom window, and then a sign unfurling in bright red letters on a white background ‘HELP ME!!!!’

‘What kind of note?’ Mrs Baker junior looks puzzled. ‘About what?’

‘Er…about…’ I gaze again at the sign, which is now being waved furiously. ‘About, er, insurance… Yes insurance.’

‘Insurance?’

‘Renewal, but it’s all sorted. Don’t worry. I’ve saved myself nine quid.’

Chapter 16

‘…using the lock, stop, chain and check procedure.’ A bald-headed man, early sixties, with goofy teeth is holding court in his living room. ‘We encourage our older residents to seek the help of neighbours…’

‘What happens,’ a second bald-headed man butts in, obviously his twin as he looks exactly the same, apart from his jumper is purple while the other’s is red, ‘is that the elderly citizen shows the Nominated Neighbour card through a window, letterbox or, having secured the chain, through a partially opened door.’

While the two men are standing up taking turns to read from a leaflet, we’re all sitting squashed next to each other on a tiny sofa. Shilpa, the Chairman – a black-haired Asian-looking woman, early to mid-fifties draped in the most gorgeous black and apricot sari; Norman – roughly the same age who has weird devil-like horned eyebrows, long dripping tap nose, and myself.

I yawn as the twins prattle on; ending each other’s sentences like Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Things I’ll do to save some dosh.

After the insurance company phone call earlier today, I thought I’d better go back over my emails to at least find out when the meetings took place. Knowing my luck if I did have a claim they’d check up and go through the minutes to see if I’d attended or something equally pernickety. I mean, she was a nice woman, the broker, understanding and all that about my husband’s condition, but everyone knows how insurance companies will do anything to wriggle out of coughing up.

Anyway, turns out it was tonight. Russell Road. Same road as Janet’s, seconds from my house.

I might not even have gone if Declan hadn’t patted the seat next to him on the sofa and said, ‘Come on then, Cathy, sit down, sweet. Tell me all about your campaign.’

‘The crime reduction unit also advise the occupant not to enter into any conversations with the callers. They say here,’ the bald guy with the purple jumper continues, ‘that “
A genuine caller will be more than happy to follow the instructions on the card
…”’

Bo-o-ring. I stifle a yawn as the Neighbourhood Watch meeting waffles on. They’ve spent hours discussing bikes on pavements, adolescents stealing from sweetshops, car wing mirrors broken off and I was half hoping there might be some developments with the Creeper that I could report back to Henrietta. Show her that the net’s closing. I’ve even brought along my file. Not that I’m unsympathetic towards mown-down pedestrians and out-of-pocket shopkeepers, but it’s just not
interesting
enough to keep me awake at this time of night.