To Catch a Creeper (5 page)

‘That’s what I thought,’ I say satisfied. Phew. For a moment I was considering going home early, but now…

‘Was he a very good friend of Declan’s?’ Henrietta’s been unusually quiet this evening but now she chips in.

‘I’ve never heard of him before. But, I don’t know, his reaction was quite weird. Maybe he’s been speaking about him loads lately and I just haven’t noticed, being so busy with my new job and all… Did I tell you Walt Whitman came in Friday?’

‘Only ninety-five times.’ Isobel does a mock yawn as she tucks a lock of her long brunette hair behind her ears. ‘You were hissing down the phone to me when he was in the office, remember?’

‘How’s work going, Cathy?’ asks Henrietta sweetly. ‘Still loving it to pieces?’

‘Mmm.’

‘Mmm?’ Isobel gives me a curious look.

‘Had a funny day, that’s all. Maybe I’m just a tad oversensitive with some of my colleagues. That’s what Rosa thinks. I’ve got this awful feeling that I’m not that popular.’

‘Of course you’re popular.’ Henrietta puts her arm around me. ‘Everybody loves you, Cath.’

‘Although, saying that, you do work part time,’ Isobel declares. ‘And it’s a well-known fact that full-timers hate part-timers.’

‘And the old guys hate the new guys,’ Henrietta adds.

‘And the men hate the women,’ says Janet fiercely.

‘And the permanents hate the temps. Yessiree,’ Isobel sums up. ‘Offices aren’t all they’re cracked up to be, you know. Ooh Carlos, over here.’

Carlos, the waiter, ambles across and takes our order.

Here we are in our usual haunt, Tropicos. We’ve been coming here years. We do try different places occasionally, but always end up returning. The spicy potatoes are utterly addictive, the damson crumble deliciously delectable and the relaxed convivial atmosphere make it a home from home.

The WOWs or rather Wednesday Once Weeklies meet, yes, you’ve guessed it, every Wednesday evening. It’s like an organic structure, constantly changing and
evolving. Once one woman leaves there’s always another to fill her place. Similar to
Zulu
. Except none of us get killed. Cross fingers.

Lately we’ve consisted of:

Henrietta. Co-founder, mother of six-year-old twins. My second best friend in the world. Lives about three streets away from me – only thirty and extremely attractive with delicate features and a whippet-thin frame. She is also one of those people that seem to have got everything together. Quietly confident, calm, never shouts or gets harassed. Admired by all. Gone through quite a bad time recently, having miscarried her much-wanted third child, but has kept a brave face on it.

Isobel. Mother of three. Tall, powerful looking, thin as a stick and stiff backed like she’s been doing the Alexander technique for years. Handsome rather than pretty, deep-set eyes, always smartly turned out and rather po-faced until she smiles. The oldest of our bunch having just reached the ripe old age of forty-four. When you first meet her you think she’s a bit haughty and off-hand, but once you break through the barriers with a beer or two, or in her case a few white wine spritzers, you find that underneath she’s a real softy. Her middle child goes to Barrington Juniors while mine and Henrietta’s go to Princes Road Primary. Different schools, different tribes. We’re slowly bridging the gap – taking special care not to praise our own school too much and occasionally slagging it off, just to make her feel less of an outsider.

And then there’s Janet – a beady eyed woman, short dark hair, thirty-two with tattooed shoulders who happened to turn up at one of our girly evenings and had such a good time she’s joined us ever since.

And I’m not sure exactly what I think about her. For some reason I feel uncomfortable when she’s around.I don’t know, maybe it’s because she’s so fiercely single and making pots of money in her insurance career.I still can’t fathom why she’d want to hang about with us boring married housewives – unless she’s studying us to snigger over with her much trendier friends. Or maybe it’s because she has opinions so strong you could use them as steel girders on an oil rig.

She’s not even really officially allowed to be part of the WOWs as it’s only supposed to be for mothers, but Henrietta insisted it was only right that we are accepting of all. Plus we lost three members in a short space of time so we were desperate.

‘Incidentally,’ Isobel perks up, ‘did you hear the latest about the Crouch End Creeper? Totally hysterical,’ she giggles. ‘The police think he’s a transvestite.’

‘Really!’ Janet exclaims. ‘God. Why would they think that?’

‘Because someone saw a masculine-looking woman in an indigo dress and black lambswool coat around the same time the last burglary took place. The police are warning people to look out for a woman, over six foot tall, with broad shoulders, hairy legs…’

‘…and a five o’clock shadow,’ Janet finishes. ‘Is this for real?’

‘Apparently so,’ Isobel laughs.

Henrietta’s glaring fixedly at the menu.

‘Trust the pigs,’ Janet says fiercely, ‘to go after the sexual deviants.’

‘Transvestites aren’t sexual deviants,’ I jump in. ‘They’re just normal men in touch with their feminine side. It’s not like they’re–’

‘Gay?’ Janet raises a scornful eyebrow at me.

‘I didn’t say that,’ I protest. ‘I was thinking about child molesters.’ Why does she always put me on the sodding defensive?

‘Weak and confused, that’s what they are,’ Janet says, sniffily. ‘Neither one thing nor the other.’

Henrietta pushes her chair back. ‘I need the loo.’

‘Me too,’ I add.

‘You know I think I need to go as well.’ Isobel starts to stand up and Henrietta glares at her.

‘There’s only two cubicles,’ I dictate bossily. ‘You keep Janet company.’

Janet’s staring at us as if we’re all mad. ‘Is this a straight women thing?’ she asks. ‘Peeing in packs.’

‘Oh, it’s OK,’ Isobel sits down again looking slightly despondent, ‘I can wait.’

I glance across at Henrietta who’s already halfway across the restaurant. When I reach the toilets, she’s leaning forward with her hands pressed hard down against the sink, looking like she’s about to throw up.

‘Neil’s got a lambswool coat,’ she says. ‘I bought it for him.’

‘So what?’ I shrug. ‘Masses of men probably do. This season’s fabric.’

‘And an indigo frock,’ she adds flatly.

A toilet flushes and we both fall silent as a small tubby lady comes out of a stall and washes her hands.

‘A frock…’ I echo, as the door shuts behind the lady.

‘He likes dressing up in women’s clothes. Like you said, it’s no big deal.’

‘No, ’course not,’ I say, smiling and nodding to prevent my head from shaking in disbelief. Neil, Henrietta’s husband, the loveliest man in the universe is a
transvestite
. And she’s never told me.

‘And he’s over six feet tall. Just like the Creeper.’

‘Well, I bet there’s thousands of transvestites in Crouch End,’ I add enthusiastically. ‘Or hundreds anyway. Doesn’t follow that they’ll target him.’

‘Even though he
completely
matches the description of the Crouch End Creeper?’

‘No, but, yes, but… Look, Henrietta,’ I put my arm around her, ‘it’s not conclusive that the burglar’s a transvestite, is it? And we know Neil didn’t do it.’

‘So what should we do?’ Henrietta sounds bitter. ‘Ring the police and suggest they’re barking up the wrong tranny? The minute they know Neil has a lambswool coat, they’ll place him top of the suspect list. And what if they leak it to the press? He might get sacked. The twins will get teased at school. Even if they don’t pin the burglary on him, the bloody police will probably have him pegged as a sexual deviant – like Janet says.’

‘Yes but that’s only Janet’s opinion.’ It comes out fiercer than I intended.

‘Face it, Cathy. Tons of people are intolerant of this sort of thing. Especially the Old Bill. They’ll come knocking on our door any time a small child goes missing…’ Her face is white and worried. ‘Neil called me from the office when he heard.’

‘He already knows?’

‘Of course, everyone round here’s been following the Creeper case, haven’t they?’

‘I guess…’ I stop as the door opens and a couple of young teenagers walk in, giggling at something. ‘Tell him to stay cool.’ I squeeze Henrietta’s arm as we traipse out. ‘Don’t admit a thing. We’ll work on it.’

***

‘…that many burglars rely on you leaving the key under the mat,’ Isobel’s telling Janet as we all return to the table. ‘Or else simply shove a hooked stick through the letterbox to grab the keys that most householders conveniently leave on a table next to the door. But apparently this one is cleverer than that, so my dad says.’

‘How does he know?’ Janet asks, as Henrietta slides into the chair next to her.

‘Should we order dessert?’ I grab the menu hoping to change the subject but there’s no stopping Isobel.

‘He used to be a police inspector. Retired now but he still drinks with his old gang. Says this guy knows his stuff. Goes for money, jewellery, small valuables mostly. But a couple of times he’s totally cleaned them out. TVs, video cameras, DVD players.’

‘Well, I’m safe then,’ I shrug. ‘All my jewellery’s from Accessorise and we don’t own a DVD player.’

‘What!!’ Three voices raised in unified disbelief.

‘I mean, just, well…’ I feel rattled under their stares, ‘we don’t play music all that often.’

Janet rolls her eyes. ‘Cathy, you know…
D-V-Ds
,’ she emphasises the letters, ‘as in movies…films.’

‘OK, Janet,’ I find myself snapping, ‘I do know what a DVD player does. It just came out wrong. I meant films. Of course I meant films.’

‘Although some DVD players play music CDs too,’ says Henrietta, the peacemaker, offering me the relish tray.

‘They do?’ Isobel gasps. ‘I must try it when I get in.’

‘Videos are practically obsolete,’ Janet says knowingly. ‘You won’t even be able to buy them in a few years. Same as fat televisions.’

At least our little spat has moved the discussion safely away from burglars to how technology is advancing so fast and soon we’ll be paying for groceries by fingerprint scanners. Turns out Janet’s Smartphone has a great camera so we all take a group snap and then she demonstrates her new iPod Touch with retina display and 16 GB storage.

‘Hey, Isobel, does your dad know if the burglar steals iPod Touches?’ Janet blurts out. ‘Because if he doesn’t, that might be a clue. Maybe he doesn’t know what they are, like Cathy and her DVDs. Would mean he’s in an older age group or–’

‘Gosh have you heard about Albania?’ I butt in, in an effort to divert the conversation, for fear of upsetting Henrietta all over again.

‘No, what’s happened?’ Isobel looks extremely concerned.

‘Nothing,’ I say, suddenly uncomfortable. ‘That’s what I mean. Nothing.’ I sweep my flattened hand across my chest like a one-armed swimmer doing breaststroke. ‘Calm as a cucumber.’

They’re all silent a moment before they start off again about the Government allowing you to kill burglars these days under certain circumstances.

I catch sight of poor Henrietta’s face, obviously envisaging a lynch mob coming for Neil, and try again. ‘So Isobel,’ I interrupt again, ‘how’re things with Liam?’

***

‘…then I said in a firm voice,“Stand still now and let me sniff you”,’ Isobel says half an hour later, all talk of burglars and transvestites thankfully long quashed by her favourite topic. ‘So I sniffed again, harder this time. I knew I recognised the smell but was it drugs? No. Glue? No. Cigarettes? Whisky? Uh huh.’ She shook her head. ‘Then it came to me. Why he was looking so guilty…’

It’s always fun listening to Isobel’s stories, not only because she tells a good yarn, with masses of tension, big eyed expressions and pregnant pauses but also as Liam’s fifteen now, we’re learning what lies in store for us. It’s just like when our babies were breastfeeding and we’d bump into mothers whose babies were on solids. We’d instantly cluck round them, sitting at their feet cross-legged, firing questions and hanging off their every guru-like word, while they explained how to puree parsnip and carrot and whether banana and apple was a good combination for a new baby’s digestion.

‘So what was it?’ I ask, riveted. What had the dreadful Liam been up to this time?

‘Ginger biscuits.’ Isobel leans back in her chair and folds her arms. ‘He’d guzzled down the whole packet.’

‘Ahh,’ we all say relieved, before topping up the glasses with more wine.

Sometimes the evenings have got quite debauched with half of us – me and Janet mostly – getting merrily pissed, Henrietta who doesn’t drink, leading the sobriety party. Although saying that, knowing I need to be sharp for work, I’ve been moderating my behaviour somewhat.

I muse fuzzily about my new role on my walk backfrom Tropicos. Us WOWs, we’re not YUPPIES and we can’t be DINKIES (Dual Income No Kids) because of our offspring. I suppose you could lose the n and say we’re DIKES. Except that Janet, who really is a YUPPY, being young, professional with no partner or kids already calls herself a dyke – and, judging from tonight, clearly thinks I’m a moron, too ancient to understand DVDs and…if I were the Crouch End Creeper, say…probably too stupid to steal an iPod Touch. Which brings me back to the real issue buzzing around my brain. Poor Neil. Poor Henrietta. What should they do? How can I help? I can’t ask Declan because of not giving away sorority secrets but even someone from the middle ages, technology-deficient though I might be, can see their situation looks bad. Really bad.

***

I open the door to the house and check my watch. Two minutes to midnight. The house is hushed and silent.

I tiptoe into the lounge, switch on the light and almost leap out my skin.

‘Declan? What are you doing up?’

He’s standing with his back to me, staring out of the lounge window. ‘Couldn’t sleep.’

‘Why? What’s wrong?’

He turns. His face is ashen and his eyes red around the rims. ‘Hugh’s dead,’ he says in a hollow voice.

‘Oh no!’

He takes a deep breath and shakes his head. ‘And I killed him!’

Chapter 5

‘Killed Hugh? Who’s Hugh?’