Street Cat Blues, page 1
Street Cat Blues
Alison O’Leary
Published by RED DOG PRESS 2020
* * *
Distributed by Bloodhound Books 2022
* * *
Copyright © Alison O’Leary 2020
* * *
Alison O’Leary has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
* * *
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
* * *
Second Edition
First Edition published by Crooked Cat 2018
* * *
Paperback ISBN 978-1-913331-89-4
* * *
Ebook ISBN 978-1-913331-90-0
* * *
www.reddogpress.co.uk
Contents
Love best-selling fiction?
Also by Alison O’Leary
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Acknowledgements
You will also enjoy
Love best-selling fiction?
About the Author
Love best-selling fiction?
From Bloodhound Books
Sign up today to be the first to hear about new releases and exclusive offers, including free and discounted ebooks!
* * *
Why not like us or follow us on social media to stay up to date with the latest news from your favourite authors?
Also by Alison O’Leary
Country Cat Blues
Beach Cat Blues
Summer Cat Blues
Christmas Cat Blues
1
“What happened? Was he done in like the others or what?”
Across the road a small knot of people stared at old Mr Telling’s house. Even Ozzie the postman had paused from his customary breakneck hurtle down the street and was leaning on his bike watching the scene. A police car and ambulance stood waiting. Aubrey watched for a second and then slipped beneath the nearest parked car and inched his way along its length to get a closer look.
The grease and dirt coating the undercarriage nudged against his fur and he paused for a moment, trying to hold his breath against the petrol fumes. He moved further forward to get a better view as the legs and ankles of the little crowd jostled across his line of vision. He narrowed his eyes as Mr Telling’s front door opened and two burly men emerged carrying a large zippered bag. Their large hands handled the bag as tenderly as if the thing inside it was still a living breathing thing, a sentient being that might cry out in shock or pain if suddenly jolted. Behind them, walking at a measured pace, head bowed and hands clasped together, marched a pair of short fat legs ending in a pair of sparkly flip-flopped feet. Aubrey held his breath and watched through slitted eyes. His old enemy, Maria. He might have known it.
“That’ll do now, madam, thank you, although we may need to talk to you again later.”
The young police officer spoke gently but firmly, barring Maria’s way to the waiting ambulance. She opened her mouth to protest and then closed it again, watching in silence along with Aubrey and the rest of the crowd as the ambulance swung out into the road with the police car following.
“What happened?”
Maria turned to the waiting audience.
“Was it you that found him?”
Aubrey watched her as she regarded them in silence for a moment, her sharp dark eyes alight with self-importance. She tipped back on her heels and thrust out her chest. The buttons on her thin cotton blouse strained against the pressure as she lowered her voice and moved forward. The waiting neighbours drew in and gathered in a semi-circle around her.
“Yes, it is me,” she whispered, “I am the person who find him.”
Maria lowered her voice still further and slid her gaze to right and left as though watching for a sniper in the crowd before continuing.
“This morning all is normal. I get off bus. I walk down road. I sing. La la. I let myself in with key. I am doing the houseworks. But suddenly I stop and think, but where is Mr Telling?” She stared round at the crowd, eyes widened and eyebrows raised. “He is not here. But then I think, he must be here. Always he is here.”
One or two of the heads in the crowd nodded in agreement.
“That’s right. He never went out. Well, hardly ever. Only down The Laurels.”
“And so,” continued Maria, “I think if Mr Telling is not out then he must be in.” She nodded and looked around her as she spoke, clearly impressed with her own powers of deduction. Several of the less mentally agile among the crowd nodded along with her. “And so, I put down duster and I go upstairs. Perhaps he is ill, I am thinking, perhaps he is ill and he is in bed. If Mr Telling is ill I will get doctor. I am not paid to do this but this I will do.”
From beneath the car Aubrey snorted. Put her feet up and help herself to his sherry more likely. Or go snouting through the papers that Mr Telling kept in a battered old biscuit tin in the cupboard under the stairs. She was always poking her stubby little fingers into things when she thought that nobody was looking.
“But he is not upstairs and so I go back down and look in other room.” She paused for dramatic effect and then continued on a rising note, her voice spiralling upwards. “And then I find him. Me.” She stabbed herself in the chest with a fat finger. “He is stretched out on floor. At first,” she continued, warming to her story, “I think that he has fainted but then I am seeing that there is no breath. But I do not panic. No.”
“Yes, but what happened? Was it a heart attack or what?”
A new voice this time. The crowd were becoming impatient.
Maria raised her hand and waited for silence before continuing.
“I lean over and I say Mr Telling, Mr Telling, wake up! But he does not wake up! And then I lean over more and I see blood! Blood on floor! Blood on mantelpiece! Blood on hair! And then I think Mr Telling he has fall. He has fall backwards and he has hit his head. Like this!”
Aubrey watched as she raised her arms and lurched her podgy little feet stiffly forward in dramatic effect, her glittery flipflops winking in the pale sunshine that had started to break through.
“So it was an accident then?”
The crowd began to disperse around the edges; the excitement was clearly over. Aubrey waited until the last one had left and then he too slid out from beneath the car and headed for home. His heart beat fast as he jumped the garden wall. In all honesty he hadn’t been particularly upset when Miss Bradford and Mrs Lomax had been killed, and Miss Jenkins he had positively disliked, but now it was Mr Telling, dear kind gentle Mr Telling, and that was another matter altogether.
2
Aubrey slipped through the cat flap and made his way upstairs. Jumping on to the pile of ironing which lay on the bed in the spare room, he licked his paw and flicked it across his left ear. He needed to get things straight in his mind and a quick wash always helped. Maria had said that Mr Telling had fallen over backwards and had died as a result. That couldn’t be right, for a start. Aubrey knew for a fact that when people fell over they fell forwards, not backwards. It was something to do with how they were made. He’d actually seen one of them do it once.
It had been at the height of summer the previous year, temperatures had been soaring and a young woman carrying heavy shopping had stopped suddenly in the middle of the pavement. Stretched along the warm roof of a parked car, from where he had been an interested observer, Aubrey had watched as she had sort of folded at the knees and fallen forward in a little crumpled heap. But the point was that she had fallen forwards, not backwards.
So, if Mr Telling had fallen backwards then he must have been pushed. And if he’d been pushed then there must have been someone in the house with him. But who could that have been? Mr Telling lived by himself and the few visitors that he had were usually of the feline variety who regularly called in on the off chance of a drop of milk or the lickings from an empty yoghurt pot.
Mr Telling’s own cat had long since died but the cat flap was still operational and there weren’t many strays that slipped through and were sent away with an empty paw. Truth to tell, Mr Telling had been down on Aubrey’s own reserve list so to speak, just in case it didn’t work out with Molly and Jeremy. Not that he was complaining. So far so good, but you could never tell with these things. It was all very well being picked out at a rescue centre and taken home with a new set of owners but any cat with half a brain cell always had not only a Plan B but a Plan C, D and E as well. Kindly, friendly and unfussy, Mr Telling had been the ideal human. If Aubrey had ever been in need of an alternative address in a hurry, Mr Telling’s place would have been his first port of call.
He licked his paw again ready to wash the other ear but then stiffened as the unmistakeable click clack sound of the cat flap echoed from below. Leaping from the bed he raced down towards the kitchen. He wasn’t hungry but he was damned if he was going to let some strange cat near his food. He flexed his claws ready to spring and narrowed his eyes as a small orange-coloured snout struggled its way through the flap, followed by the rest of a little furry body. Aubrey relaxed. It was all right, it was only Moses.
“All right, Aubrey?”
Aubrey nodded. So called because he’d been found by his owner abandoned in a plastic carrier bag down by the canal, Moses had a high little squeak of a voice and bright excitable eyes that exactly matched the rest of him. Aubrey watched as he landed and shook himself, his tiny little paws skittering on the polished tiles.
“Vincent sent me,” said Moses, his eyes shining.
“Did he?” said Aubrey. “What for?”
Moses looked back at him, his expression blank, and then gave a longing glance towards Aubrey’s dish.
“You wanting that?”
“Help yourself.”
He watched as Moses dipped his head and tucked into the food, spraying half of it up the wall in his eagerness to get it into his mouth. For such a small cat he couldn’t half put some food away and yet he never seemed to get any bigger. Funny that. He wondered what Vincent wanted. Nothing in particular, probably. Just a catch-up. And even if it was something there was no point in telling Moses, he would have forgotten it by the time he got to the end of the street. But he should have thought of Vincent in the first place. Vincent always knew what was going on. If anybody had any information about what had happened at Mr Telling’s place, it would be Vincent.
The cool breeze fluttered the ends of his fur as he made his way across the gardens. Behind him and struggling to keep up, he could hear the scamper of Moses’ little legs. A faint rustling sound drew him to a halt. It was coming from near the bushes. His green-gold eyes swept the landscape. It was all right if it was only, say, a hedgehog, but it might be a badger and with badgers you could never tell. They weren’t the sort of creatures that you ever wanted to cross. They could turn nasty if you came up against one in the wrong mood, as he knew from experience. He put one paw tentatively forward and then jumped sideways as a soft lithe shape brushed against him.
“God, Vinnie, don’t do that. You startled me.”
Vincent grinned, his green eyes gleaming. His gold-coloured neck tag glittered against his rich dark fur.
“Aubsie, me old mate. How’s tricks? Don’t seem to have seen you in a while. Thought I’d send Moses, see if you was all right. Was wondering how you were getting on. What you been up to?”
Aubrey shrugged.
“Not much. Same old same old.”
The two cats fell into step together and strolled round the side of the house towards the bins. Moses trotted along behind them. Funny, thought Aubrey, how old habits die hard. Sleek and well fed the pair of them, and yet they still couldn’t resist the lure of a good bin. Aubrey waited while Vincent sprang up and inserted a muscular paw under the lid of the nearest bin, pulling it towards him and jumping clear just as it hit the ground.
“Vin, I was wondering, did you hear anything about what happened at Mr Telling’s place today?”
“Number sixty-two? Talk is that he fell over and hit his head.” Vincent paused and looked at him sideways. “Why? You thinking something different?”
Aubrey nodded.
“It doesn’t seem right, Vin. Mr Telling wasn’t the sort of bloke to just go around falling over.”
“I’ll put the word out. The twins might know something.”
Aubrey felt a quick shiver run through his fur. A pair of Siamese, rumour had it that Rupert and Roger were running every racket this side of the railway bridge. The further away they were from Aubrey, the better he liked it. The mere mention of their names made him feel tense. Nobody crossed them. Even Vincent didn’t cross them. But there was no denying, if any cats had their paw on the pulse it was them.
“Thanks, Vin.”
For a moment both cats were silent as they surveyed the contents of the bin strewn on the ground in front of them. Vincent pulled out a tangle of chop bones and tossed one to Moses.
“Course, what with all the fuss about the others, you might not be the only one thinking it was no accident,” said Vincent. “And you know what that means.”
Aubrey nodded gloomily. When Miss Jenkins, the retired school teacher, had been found with her head caved in it had been bad enough. There had been press and police swarming all over the place, you couldn’t move for running into one of them. And when Miss Bradford was discovered strangled in her kitchen, followed shortly afterwards by Mrs Lomax in a similar state, the emotional temperature had hit an all-time high. It had all been very unsettling for the cat community, especially with the increase in traffic zooming up and down the roads. You took your life in your paws every time you went out.
“Looks like your bloke was only the first,” continued Vincent.
“My bloke?”
“The one you used to live with before you come here. The one who got himself done in at the back of his shop over on the parade.”
Aubrey stared at him. He hadn’t thought of Raj in relation to the others. It had been over a year ago and there hadn’t been nearly the same amount of fuss for a start. In fact there had hardly been any. Raj’s murder had simply been put down to a robbery that went wrong. It had barely made the inside page of the local paper. But perhaps Vincent was right. Maybe Raj had been the first in what was turning out to be many. A tiny knot of anxiety lodged itself in his stomach and he let go of the piece of fish batter that he had just pulled from its wrapping.
“Lots of changes going on round these parts, Aubsie,” continued Vincent. “Not all of them bad. This place is practically unrecognisable from what it used to be.” Vincent paused for a moment and stared around him. “I mean, take this street, never seen so many builders. Practically can’t move for skips. And another thing,” he chewed reflectively for a moment, “Less dogs. Time was when every other house had one. Not now. Nowadays what everyone wants is cats. Less trouble. Cleaner. Nicer to look at, obviously. This place is on the way up, stand on me. Once they stop killing each other, that is.”
Aubrey thought for a moment. Vincent was right. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually seen a dog out on the street. Not that he was complaining. He didn’t actively dislike dogs; he just didn’t want to get too close to one. Vincent dropped the chop bone he had been chewing and licked appreciatively at his paw.
“Anyway, about time I was off. Got a bit of business to sort. Just wanted to check that you was all right.” He glanced over to where Moses had fallen asleep in an empty flower pot. “Come on Moses, shift yourself. Can’t stay here all day.”
“Vin?”
“What?”
