To Catch a Creeper (30 page)

‘…that if the Creeper was being shown around, he’d have to be registered with them. And…’

‘And he’d also need to view at least one property to show that he was actively looking at places.’ She nods and shoves the most gigantic nipple I’ve ever seen into Meredith’s mouth.

‘Which in turn suggests…’ I think hard, ‘that he’d have to put his place on the market, either through Hardwick and Wiles, if they’re rooting for double commission, or someone else.’

‘Why don’t you have another look at their swishy website, see what other properties Hardwick’s are handling?’

‘So you think the Creeper may be a client?’ My mind starts clacking.

‘Well if you’re working on the premise that he’s a local man, then if he’s selling up, he’s either with them or another Crouch End agent. Or else he’s just checking the houses out through the web and going straight round to rob them without being registered anywhere. That’s the other possibility.’

‘Yeah. Oh and, just so you know, we went along with your flushing-him-out suggestion.’

‘Flushing-him-out suggestion?’ She looks blank.

‘About setting up cameras in Mrs Baker’s house while she’s away and passing on rumours about there being a jewel-filled empty house. When you were in labour.’

‘I told you to do that? God I don’t remember. Must have been out of my mind. Talking of which, how’s Declan?’

‘Same old, same old. Little improvement as you might have seen.’

She looks mystified.

‘Well, for example, the bear hug to Alec just now.’ I roll my eyes. ‘Before his illness he’d never give guys bear hugs.’

‘Aw, but bear hugs are nice. Sweet. Not only for Americans.’

‘No,’ I say sadly, ‘it’s these books he’s been reading, all about opening up your heart and letting people in. And how to be sincere and honest, it’s really worrying. Isobel’s husband thinks…’

The shaking of her head halts me in mid-flow.

‘What, what?’

‘Cathy listen, I’ll say this once and once only. Do you think Isobel’s husband is a bright person…as in intelligent?’

‘Um.’ I consider a minute. ‘No. Thick as two short planks. He’s always harping on at Isobel for neglecting the cleaning.’

‘I see,’ she frowns. ‘Isobel works too, doesn’t she?’

‘Sure does.
And
looks after their three children almost single-handed.’

‘Mmm. Rather sexist.’

‘And he makes her wear a head torch to bed.’

‘Kinky sex?’ Rosa’s eyebrows rise a fraction. ‘Can’t be that bad.’

‘No. He doesn’t like her reading with the lights on. Disturbs him.’

‘Oh.’ She nods as if she knows the type. ‘And is that kind, understanding and thoughtful behaviour?’

I think hard. ‘No, it’s petty, thankless, and selfish behaviour.’

‘And do you consider him to be a good counsellor, as counsellors go?’

‘Doubtful. But then I’ve never met him. Where’s this line of questioning heading?’

‘Put it this way. Do you think you should be relying on the opinion of a thick, sexist, domineering counsellor that diagnoses a third person through his wife’s friend?’

‘Maybe not. No.’

‘So, my dear Watson, perhaps you might deduce from what I’m saying is that Declan may not be having a breakdown after all. He might have just got pissed off with his job. Fancied a career change. It happens. Especially to men of his age. Could be worse, he could be hankering after a Harley or wooing other women.’ She pulls Meredith expertly onto her shoulder and gently pats her back. ‘I think you two need to talk. Over a romantic meal somewhere. Have yourselves some fun.’

‘Fun?’ I give a wry laugh. ‘Remind me?’

She rolls her eyes. ‘You know, Cathy, you always say you love Declan but sometimes wish he was a bit more of a softie, crying at sad films, voicing his innermost emotions, listening to your girly chat, whatever.’

‘Yes, but…’

‘Well maybe your wish has finally come true. Think on it. That’s all I ask, Cathy. Think on it long and hard.’

***

‘What do you fancy?’

‘Can’t decide.’ I ponder the menu, gazing soulfully at the prices. All I see is £10 and £15 and that’s not including all the salads and vegetables which seem to be charged as separate items.

It’s Monday now, six days since I visited Rosa and I’m still thinking on her deduction long and hard. I want to believe my husband’s perfectly sane and all that bear-hugging lark is just a new softer side emerging from introspection of his soul and re-evaluation of his persona and my wish has come true, but again Larry is the professional with all the Counselling Diplomas from that top Texas Institute and Rosa is only a mother still riddled with hormones so is probably not thinking too clearly. Although, saying that, I did go along with her suggestion about going out for a meal and Henrietta positively jumped at the chance of babysitting. ‘I need to get away from Neil,’ she said unhappily, when I spoke about it at our WOWs evening. ‘In fact I’ll babysit every night if you like until you’ve caught the Creeper.’

Until
I’ve
caught the Creeper.
I? Me?
See what pressure she puts me under?

‘Every night that he has to stay in,’ she’d continued, while the burden of responsibility clambered its way up my spine and came to a rest on my right shoulder blade breathing in my ear, ‘it’ll be one less chance of him being arrested.’

‘He won’t be arrested.’

‘Well he was before, wasn’t he? Frogmarched off the streets.’ Tears pooled in her eyes and flowed down her face. I grabbed a napkin and handed it to her. ‘Every time Neil goes out now, I don’t believe he’s coming back.’

I’d never seen H like that before. She’s always had so much strength, even after losing her much-wanted baby last year. And I realised with a sudden jerk that it was her marriage that had given her that strength and without it, without Neil, she’d be the same as the rest of us – perhaps even more vulnerable. Marriages do that to people – good ones that is – the whole being greater than the sum of its parts. Like who would Richard Branson have been without Mrs Branson? Clinton without Hilary? Martin Luther King without Coretta? Nelson Mandela without Winnie? Actually, cut the last one. They say behind every strong man there’s an even stronger woman, but again, and I’ve never considered this before, behind every strong woman, maybe…just maybe, there could hide a strong man.

Metaphorically speaking.

‘Have what you want.’ Declan’s still waiting, while I’m still searching for the cheapest options. ‘Goose eggs with sun-dried tomatoes look fairly interesting.’

‘Goose eggs?’ I glance at the price and have to stop myself gasping with shock. ‘Thought you were vegetarian?’

‘I eat eggs, Cathy,’ he looks at me strangely. ‘I’m not vegan, you know.’

‘Oh…yeah…’ Still. Who does he think he is, Moneybags Malone for Chrissake? Spending my possibly hard-earned earnings on costly goose eggs.

‘So what do you think of this place?’

‘S’all right.’ I look around. Few people queuing at the door.

‘Just all right?’ He seems disappointed. ‘It’s apparently almost impossible to get a booking. When you suggested going out I thought I’d try somewhere special. It’s not like we do this every night.’

‘No,’ I sigh. Thank God. All I’m thinking about is, this one meal could pay for the whole week’s shopping or last week’s overdue cheque, or even towards next week’s vet’s bill. It can’t go on much longer.

Thing is not only has practically everyone we know heard about my suspension which means it’s bound to get out in the not too distant future but I look across at my husband of ten and a half years sitting opposite happily selecting morsels to eat, and I see a different creature to the one that I used to know and love. And now he’s not working and he’s buying all sorts and grown his hair long, do I still love him? Do I respect him? Do I miss the cynical workaholic I used to groan about? I shiver as a horrible thought strikes. Be careful what you wish for, Cathy. There I am worrying about Henrietta’s marriage when my own will probably hit rocky shores a darn sight sooner.

I mull this over as I sip my expensive wine and choose from my expensive menu and the atmosphere gets steadily heavier. We hardly say a word through our main course. We’re like one of those couples you laugh at when you’re young but you secretly dread ever being. Seated opposite each other with nothing to say. But we have nothing to say. Anything I tell him would be a lie, anything he might talk about would more than likely concern his chickens, new range cooker or Hugh’s death and I think he realises all three subjects infuriate me beyond belief. Sometimes when I walk past the oven at night I want to kick it, and sometimes I do. In fact there’s a small chip broken off the enamel in the bottom left hand corner.

Just as I’m starting on my dessert my mobile bleeps, indicating a message.I pull it from my bag, relieved at the distraction, and stare at the display. It’s from Henrietta. Five words that chill me to the bone.

THE CREEPER’S KILLED THE VET.

Chapter 29

‘What is it, Cathy?’ Declan looks concerned as I quickly delete the message. ‘You’ve gone white?’

‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘Doesn’t matter, eh?’ He places his fork on his plate and stares intently at me. ‘What’s going on?’ He says this just as I put the sponge cake into my mouth.

‘Nothing. I’m just eating some sponge.’ I chew and then swallow with difficulty. £6.20 and it’s as dry as a duster.

‘Don’t take this badly,’ he clears his throat, ‘but…you’ve been a bit odd lately.’

‘In what way odd?’ I gaze up at the ceiling trying to avoid his probing looks. Talk about pots and kettles.

He breathes deeply. ‘For a start every time I catch you on the phone, you’re slamming it down on someone like they’ve upset you. You shut the door in the postman’s face then accuse him of being a sex pest. You were prickly with Sophie when she wanted to ask questions of a historic nature, have secret phone texts which you won’t tell me about. That isn’t you, Cathy. You’ve never been like that before.’

‘That’s not fair,’ I protest. ‘I’ve only never hidden texts before because I never used to receive them. You know how slow my friends are at grasping new technology.’

‘It’s more than that. I’m not stupid. Tell me truly…’ He pauses, pulls my chin around so we’re eyeball to eyeball. ‘Do you think you may be going through the menopause, because I’ve been reading up on it and–’

‘I am
not
going through the menopause,’ I cut in indignantly, feeling my face colour with embarrassment. ‘I’m far too young. Christ, I’m only in my thirties.’

‘Hot flushes,’ he softly caresses my no doubt red cheek with the back of his index finger. ‘They’re a sign as well. Do you have night sweats too? Thinning hair? Spotting, heavy bleeding? Any dryness anywhere?’ His head drops to one side in an enquiring manner.

‘No, I sodding haven’t. Bloody cheek!’ I pour myself another glass of wine and swig it down in two gulps. ‘In fact…’

I stop as my worst nightmare unfolds in front of my eyes.

Turks has just appeared in the doorway.

‘What’s wrong?’ Declan catches my open-mouthed expression and turns round.

‘Nothing. It’s my fork. My fork’s just dropped on the floor.’ I grab it from my plate and dive under the table. ‘Just fetching it.’

Luckily he’s never seen Turks before, so he won’t recognise him, but I can’t stay here forever. I kneel down and stare at the floor for inspiration, heart thumping, mind racing.

‘Did you get it?’

‘Get what?’

‘The fork.’ Declan’s smiling face ducks under the tablecloth. ‘Honestly, Cathy, it’ll be dirty anyway, leave it.’

‘All right.’

I don’t move.

‘All right? Does that mean you’re coming out?’

‘Can you just…give me a minute?’

‘What is it?’

‘I’ve…got this…this…pain…’

‘Pain? Where about?’

‘In my…ovary. I’ll be fine in a second.’

‘Oh.’ His face disappears and I slowly lift the cloth and peek out. Turks is sitting two tables down from us. If he sees me he’s bound to come over. Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’s ashamed at what he did. Or worse what I did. Who’s he with? Woman. Not Vivien. Older. Much older. At least in her sixties. Mother? Aunt? Client? Who knows? Who cares?

‘How’s your ovary?’ Declan hisses from above.

‘Still bad. In spasm.’

‘Do you want an ambulance?’

‘No. It happens a lot, just before my period.
I do still have periods you know
.’

‘Of course. Of course you do,’ he says quietly.

‘I just need another few minutes.’ I pant heavily, just enough to keep him concerned, but not too much to make him take over completely.

A pair of legs appears. Shiny shoes. They belong to the waiter.

‘Everything all right, sir?’

‘Yes. Great. Umm…maybe I could get the bill?’

‘Yes, sir.’ I hear the waiter reply. ‘Right away, sir.’

I watch as the shiny shoes disappear into the distance.

‘Go up and pay,’ I hiss. ‘And I’ll meet you outside in a few moments.’

‘But why?’

‘Don’t ask questions,’ I say sternly. ‘It’s women’s problems. Spare me some dignity.’

‘OK, OK.’

His legs leave now and I watch as they make their way over to the counter, linger there for a while, then walk out the door.

Now with him out of the way all I need to do is get out from under the table and leave too. But just as I’m about to stand, two other pairs of legs appear, pull out our two recently vacated chairs and then sit down on them.

Oh Christ.

‘So darling,’ the male pair says to the female pair. ‘How was your day?’

‘Great,’ the pair of tights replies, ‘Started this temp job in Shoreditch. What a doddle. Had shit all to do. Left early, yet I was paid for the whole afternoon.’

‘What kind of company was it?’

‘Recruitment. I have to data process these…’ and the woman’s off, spouting on and on. I’m wanting to fall asleep from sheer boredom, wondering how on earth her boyfriend puts up with it, but I know Declan’s outside waiting in the cold and I also know if I don’t come out soon, there’ll be a fleet of ambulances arriving waiting to remove my ovary.

And then my text goes off again.