To Catch a Creeper (33 page)

But for now, until early evening at least, we have to keep everything under our hats.

***

Mid-afternoon, I’m at Mrs B’s again, chasing up Henrietta. Knowing her doddery old boss, he’ll be watching her every second, making certain it’s his work she’s doing. So dark ages. Not like in Younger’s, where it was all modern and swishy and you were given free rein. Although in my case maybe too much free rein. I gulp. I’m trying to forget about my previous employers. Just that, now the Creeper mystery’s been solved, images keep popping into my head. Maybe it’s partly because today’s the day Rosa’s going in there showing everyone baby Meredith. And it’s a bit like she’s going off to see one of my ex-boyfriends, for coffee maybe, which she did once, and it was hard, because the break-up was hard and yet she was his friend too and so I had no rights to dictate and, she told me afterwards, it was to give him a piece of her mind, but I didn’t know it at the time and was imagining all sorts. Not that she was getting off with him or anything but…you know…

‘EARTH TO CATHY. EARTH TO CATHY,’ Henrietta’s voice booms in my ear.

‘Yes, yes, I’m here. Any progress on the typing?’

‘Halfway through it all. Glad you called because I just wanted to double-check a few details.’

‘Go on then.’

‘Clue 1,’ she seems to be reading, ‘Janet was totally sure Shilpa has valuables more valuable than you might imagine from her earnings?’

‘You heard Isobel going on about her new bracelets.’

‘One bracelet I thought she said.’

‘Well, you know. One, two, they were new.’ Hey that rhymes.

‘And she had access to the internet?’

‘Yep. Well I think so. Does it matter?’

‘If we’re putting it to the cops that she was casing the joints on-line, it might help a tad.’

‘She could have used the library and most likely has a PC. Everyone does these days.’

‘Well I guess they can check out her hard drive, so that’ll be proof. Thirdly. Clue 8, when exactly did she join the Neighbourhood Watch?’

‘Christ, H, we’re not writing her blinking biography here. We’re just handing what scant details we have over to the authorities. Let them get all the nitty-gritty stuff.’ I give an exasperated sigh. Ungrateful beast and after I practically saved her marriage n’all. Oh everyone thinks Henrietta’s so sweet and lovely but sometimes she’s just plain grabby.

‘And…one more thing,’ I hear the rustle of some papers, ‘did anyone actually ask her if her house was on the market with Hardwick’s?’

‘Well you lot must have, because you all found out about the selling situation after I’d gone to the hospital to visit Rosa.’

‘Yes, but Shilpa wasn’t there.’

An icy shiver tingles down my spine.

‘She wasn’t?’

‘Left just after you. Had to run some errands. Oh. But that doesn’t mean anything, does it?’

‘No, course not.’ Does it?

‘And when you and Pimple were phoning around instructing us to pass on the Mrs Baker’s going-away-and-leaving-a-jewel-ridden-empty-house rumour, you must have mentioned Hardwick and Wiles being the key to it all, eh?’

‘Just carry on typing the report.’

And then her voice goes all strange on me. ‘Cathy,’ she croaks, ‘just tell me, where are you? Right now.’

‘Enjoying a few rays while Mrs Baker has a nap. In the swing seat in her garden, under the copper beech tree that I told you about, the one that keeps dropping–’

‘Don’t want to worry you,’ she cuts in, her voice even stranger. ‘But…Sturgent Urgent! Sturgent Urgent! Get back inside the house! I’m looking on Norman’s website right now and there’s an arm sticking through Mrs Baker’s letterbox!’

***

‘Come in, French Fancy,’ I hiss down the walkie-talkie. ‘Do you read me?’

‘What’s going down, Sly Fox?’ Mrs Baker yawns in reply. ‘I was just taking forty winks.’

‘Lock yourself in your bathroom. Quick! Someone’s entering the house. I think it’s Shilpa.’

‘Standing by.’ The walkie-talkie clicks and then falls silent.

‘Pink Lady. Where are you? Can I receive your position?’

No answer.

‘Is Shilpa inside yet?’ I switch back to the mobile where Henrietta’s waiting anxiously.

‘Sort of. It’s a bit fuzzy but it looks like she’s got the lock unbolted.’

‘Back-up needed, Pink Lady? Do you copy?’

‘Do I copy?’ Janet’s voice comes over the air. ‘Only when the teacher’s not looking and I’m sitting next to a swot. Is that you, Sly Dog?’

‘I’m Sly Fox. Not Sly Dog.’ Now she finds her sense of humour? ‘And keep your bloody voice down. No need to lick the lollipop.’

‘Wilco Roger,’ she whispers. In the background I can hear music. Sounds like Lady Gaga.

‘Where are you anyway? You’re meant to be on back-up duty?’

‘But I thought it was over.’

‘Negative. It’s never over, until it’s over,’ I say sternly. ‘Now hurry! Quick smart. How soon can you get here?’

‘Five minutes. I’m at the YMCA gym. You know you told me after I ran all the way from Hardwick’s that I should get myself fit. Well I took your advice and during off-peak periods they do the most fab first time…’

‘Cut the chat and head straight for Mrs Baker’s house. We’ve a Code Red situation and I’m going in.’

***

I weave and bob between bushes as I head towards the open back door, heart thumping, brain racing. Shilpa must have realised we were covering the joint, or perhaps she didn’t. Maybe she does have that DIDthingy Isobel mentioned and her Jekyll (or was it Hyde?) character knew it was a trick to ambush the Creeper but her Hyde (or was it Jekyll?) didn’t. Slowly, as quietly as possible, I creak open the door and tiptoe forward. Hopefully Mrs Baker has hidden away. Buys me some time. I try and reflect on what might be Shilpa’s weak spots. She does have quite a few varicose veins and she complained a bit about dodgy hips and a bunion. Don’t like to, but might have to use this, if I’m to bring her down.

Suddenly I hear a scratching sort of noise, like rats. I hate rats. I spook myself. What could she be doing? Why hasn’t she gone upstairs? Where is she?

And then I see her, on the bottom step about to go up, and wearing a woolly balaclava. Immediately this superhuman indignant feeling surges through me as I relive all the injustices done to me in my past. Like the time I got hugely cross because I went to my friend, Lorna’s party with Rosa and I met up with Lorna a few days later and she kept joking about how long my cigarette ash had been that night and how it had all dropped on her new carpet and I kept telling her I didn’t smoke, but she just laughed, and said it doesn’t matter Cathy, honestly I’m not upset, you were blotto, and I’ve seethed about that ever since because afterwards I realised she’d got me and bloody Rosa mixed up and it was Rosa whose ash must have gone all over her new carpet. By the time I next saw her, however, it was ages later and anything I might have said would have looked petty, as if it had been playing on my mind since the party, which it had and still has fifteen years later. Then there was the time Josh was in trouble at school and his teacher told me she was more annoyed because he smirked when she told him off, when in reality that’s what he does when he’s holding back tears, but I didn’t justify it ’cos it would have looked like I was a deluded parent making excuses. Or the time I was given the V sign by an angry car driver because I’d beeped my horn totally by mistake, the time I was at a quiz evening and everyone ignored my opinions and I was right
so many
times. All the little things in the past where I’d kept my mouth shut because a) I didn’t want to upset people and cause arguments and b) I hated the thought of not being liked by everybody. That and the fact that she killed the vet, who could possibly have turned into my new friend. Anyway, so that’s what’s driving me (plus I realise Shilpa might be taller and stouter than me but she can’t be massively stronger, especially considering I’ve probably ten or more years on her) as I rush forward, arms flailing and rugby tackle her just as she reaches the second stair.

We both fall backwards, either my weight or hers, and in the tussle that follows, I manage to pull off her balaclava and when I do she turns and stares at me, and it’s weird. Really weird because…I’m looking at Shilpa, and instead of her smooth Asian skin and bow-shaped lips, there are acne scars and a stubbly chin.I look at her hair, and instead of the glossy-to-die-for black wave, there’s a short back and sides. Then I go to the neck – instead of the pearl clad neck, there’s a ruddy great Adam’s apple the size of a ping pong ball.

First thought – not a woman – man. Second thought, not Shilpa. Peter. The postman.

We stare at each other for a micro-second while all these thoughts come to the fore, then he goes for me, whipping his arms forward and grabbing me round my waist.

‘But why?’ I gasp as he drags me into the kitchen.

He mutters something about being because of Yvette but it’s difficult to make out what he’s saying because he has me in a headlock which blocks my hearing somewhat.

‘Yvette? I don’t know any Yvette. I’ve never even heard of an Yvette. You’ve got the wrong person. Wrong house. Let me go!’

He stops, maybe thinking on it… I try again, brain racing like a greyhound chasing a mechanical lure.

‘Actually saying that… I do know someone that
knows
an Yvette. Yes, in fact she’s best friends with an Yvette. Lives just down the road, No. 36. Yes, they’re
very
good mates. Always dropping round each other’s houses for coffee.’

I stop, letting him ponder.

‘Not
Yvette
,’ he growls, ‘
The vet
. You made me kill her.’

‘I did no such thing,’ I say crossly.

‘It wasn’t meant to be like that. She wasn’t meant to be home. You made me go back there.’

‘Oh right then, I’m to blame now.’ I try and shake my head, but as I said, it’s still in a headlock and I can only move it a millimetre or two. ‘What a sad old blame culture this is,’ I mumble into his smelly armpits. They always say keep talking, try and establish a relationship. ‘First it’s paving slabs on big toes, then potholes, then…’

‘Shut up,’ he growls again. ‘Shut the fuck up! Bitch!’ He tugs at the gold ring stuck on my finger.

‘How dare you!’ I struggle to escape but he’s far too strong. I try tickling him, shouting, ‘Tig a liga liga. Tig a liga liga’ and for a second he drops me. I race down the hallway towards the front door, but he yanks at my collar just as my hand reaches the knob and manhandles me back into the kitchen, rage swelling his eyes so that he now resembles a cow giving birth. I kick him in the shins, and attempt to get my knees up higher to reach his goolies, but my jeans are too tight (all those buns Pimple keeps force-feeding me).

I can’t see what I’m doing as my head’s back in the headlock but I hear a whirring sort of sound and then my wrists are pulled upwards and then twisted down, like he’s trying to get my hand in the sink for some reason. I’m still kicking and then with terror, I realise what he’s trying to do… It’s the waste disposal and he’s trying to dispose of my fingers… Easier than taking my ring off, I realise with alarm. I struggle again, wildly this time, gnashing my teeth, punching and thumping his back, but it’s no good, he’s far too strong.

‘Don’t!’ I yell. ‘Please don’t!’

A sound from outside startles him and for a second he loses his grasp. I run again, just a few feet, before I trip to the ground. And then his hands are around my throat and I feel huge pressure. I’m almost blacking out when out of nowhere, someone’s burst through the back door. He turns but it’s too late for him. With one almighty swoop, legs seem to rise in the air and with the next he’s been drop-kicked in the head and is out stone cold on Mrs Baker’s lino.

Janet. My saviour.

A whistling noise emanates from under the table and I realise it’s coming from my mobile which I dropped in the battle. I pick it up. It’s Henrietta – whistling.

‘Cathy, are you all right?’

‘Oh hi, H. Don’t worry, it’s all finished.’

‘Thank God for that. I called the police. They’re on their way.’

‘Good.’

‘I could only see a bit…although I heard a lot of grunting. Was it Shilpa, did she… Yes…yes, I know Mrs Eccles, but I’ve heard all your excuses and I just don’t buy it. If you can’t pay up tomorrow, we’re taking you to court.’

And the phone cuts off.

‘Right? Where is she?’ Mrs Baker opens the door and races through carrying a small old fashioned hand pistol. ‘Let me get to her. I wanna shoot her in the eye.’

‘Him.’ I point to Peter lying face up on the floor, thankfully still out cold. ‘It’s a him.’

‘Oh. That explains it. You see, when I was taking my nap just now, I remembered where I saw that ring thing.’ Mrs Baker puts down her pistol and pops on the kettle. ‘It was on the front of his postman’s hat.’

***

‘About time! How many messages have I left you? How many texts? Oh, my God,’ Rosa examines my face then recoils in horror. ‘You look like death.’

‘I almost was.’

‘Are you OK?’

‘Apart from a grazed arm, bruised ribs, sore neck and a few squashed fingers. Not bad considering.’

‘What happened?’

I briefly explain the events of the afternoon.

‘Oh, poor you. So he’s in custody?’

I nod as she leads me to her living room. ‘Once Janet knocked him out,’ I giggle as I plonk myself on her big squashy sofa. ‘She tied Mrs Baker’s washing line all round, and then,’ I giggle again, ‘she said, “It’s a wrap”.’

‘It’s a wrap?’ Rosa looks baffled. ‘What did she mean?’

‘It was a joke,’ I explain.

‘And not the time for jokes, eh?’ She knows my feelings towards Janet. Or what
were
my feelings towards Janet.

‘Actually I thought it was quite funny.’

‘Did you tell Declan?’

‘About Janet’s joke?’ I scoff. ‘Wasn’t
that
funny.’

‘No. About what happened. The arrest. Your part in it.’

‘Of course. Don’t I tell him everything?’

She gives me a look.

‘OK, well he found out, but I would have told him if he hadn’t. He came over as soon as he saw Mrs Baker flashing her little green Morse code box out of her bathroom window. It was lucky it was dusk or he might not have noticed. But even if she hadn’t, he’d have guessed what with the five squad cars outside. Henrietta rang them first, then Norman was apparently logged into the spycam along with some geek from Guildford and an Alaskan nicknamed Bear. They both rang them too and then Mrs Baker’s daughter sent along one for good measure. Talk about overkill.’