Sleeping Cat Blues, page 1
SLEEPING CAT BLUES
THE CLEVER CAT MYSTERIES
BOOK 6
ALISON O’LEARY
Copyright © 2024 Alison O’Leary
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The right of Alison O’Leary to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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First published in 2024 by Bloodhound Books.
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Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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www.bloodhoundbooks.com
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Print ISBN: 978-1-916978-93-5
CONTENTS
Newsletter sign-up
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
Also by Alison O’Leary
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Newsletter sign-up
Acknowledgements
About the Author
A note from the publisher
For Eddie
CHAPTER ONE
The headstones stood straight and smart, their shiny black surfaces barely touched by time and weather. The graves they guarded, decades old, held small pots of fresh flowers. Deep inscriptions, etched in gold lettering, told the tale of lives lost almost before they had begun. The woman glanced around her and then rose from her knees. She pulled her coat collar more tightly around her face and walked quickly away. The occupants of the graves lay sleeping, unaware that she had visited once more.
Jeremy watched as a small funeral procession made its slow progress along the road. A modest affair with a simple floral tribute and just one car following. He wondered who it was. Given the small number of mourners, probably not a young person. When a young person died, their friends and classmates turned out in droves, their teenage faces frozen in appalled disbelief that one of their number had actually ceased to exist, their voices stunned into silence at the thought that they would never see them again. So, no, this definitely wasn’t a young person’s funeral. They had a number of elderly neighbours though, some of whom had been here for years. It was probably one of them.
That was the trouble with having his study at the front of the house, Jeremy thought. At the time, the small bedroom over the porch had seemed ideal but now he wasn’t so sure. Too close to the window, too many distractions. He turned away from the view of the street and looked at his desk. The papers he had been working on earlier lay scattered across the surface. So much to do. Inspection reports to write, visits to arrange, training to attend and so very little inclination to do any of it. Settling back down in his chair, he re-read the last sentence that he’d written. While acknowledging difficulties in staffing, it is evident that in some areas the school has yet to demonstrate…
He sighed. Yet to demonstrate what exactly? Demonstrate that they were slightly above the shite category into which he had mentally placed them on his recent inspection visit? That would be the honest answer. But short of sticking a bundle of dynamite under it, changing its name and starting again somewhere else, he wasn’t entirely sure what the school could do about it. Situated in a semi-rural area with poor public transport links, high house prices and little to do by way of recreation, the chances of attracting quality teaching staff were remote to say the least. And, according to the head, the school budget had been cut in real terms year on year. It was all very well telling them that they had to improve, but if they didn’t have the tools to do it, it was pretty much a lost cause. Might as well enter a one-legged man in an arse-kicking contest.
He dropped his forehead into his hands. He didn’t know what was the matter with him lately. He had a constant feeling of restlessness, an inability to settle, which was most unlike him. By and large he had always been content with his lot. He wouldn’t have said that he was complacent but in truth he had pretty much everything he wanted. A nice home, sufficient income, a wife that he loved dearly and, for the past few years, a foster son, Carlos, of whom he had grown deeply fond. Some of those poor sods sleeping on the streets would think they were in heaven if they had only a tenth of what he had, and he knew it. But recently he had experienced a strange kind of yearning, a reaching for something, but what that something was he didn’t know. A bit like Mole in The Wind in the Willows. What was it that Mole had said? Something about ‘Bother’ and ‘O blow’ and ‘Hang spring cleaning!’ and he had bolted out of the house without even waiting to put on his coat. Except that Jeremy didn’t have any spring cleaning. And he didn’t want to bolt out of the house, with or without his coat. He just wanted… what?
He swivelled round in his chair and let his arms fall down behind him. Tipping his head back, he gazed up at the bookshelves and spotted Aubrey slumped, eyes fast shut, tail hanging down. He grinned. That feline air of studied innocence didn’t fool him. The rascal must have snuck in when he went to the bathroom. He’d already chucked him out twice this afternoon for messing about with the cables behind his desk. Ah well. Might as well let him stay there now. He was a good old boy, by and large. Except when he wasn’t.
He spun back round to face the door as Molly put her head round it.
“What time are you coming down?”
“Any minute now.” He shifted his gaze back to his laptop and logged off. He really wasn’t going to do any more this afternoon and it was no use pretending that he was. “I’ve just about finished for the day.”
Molly crossed the room and looked out of the window. The funeral procession had just reached the end of the road and was turning right.
“That’s probably Mrs Ross. I heard that she died.”
Jeremy looked up from his desk, surprised.
“Did you know her then?”
“Not really. Her nephew brought her to Lilac Tree Lodge to have a look round.” Molly smiled suddenly. “It was obvious that he was wasting his time. I could tell just by looking at her that she had no intention of coming to live there, she was just humouring him. I knew that she lived on our road, so I called in to see her afterwards. Just to make sure that she had everything she needed.”
“What was she like?” Jeremy asked, suddenly curious. He had seen the old lady out and about at various times, although he had never spoken to her. He wished now that he had. It wouldn’t have killed him to pass the time of day with her.
Aubrey opened one eye. He knew Mrs Ross, although she was more Vincent’s mate than his. But she was a good old sort. Didn’t make a fuss that day when they slipped in through an open window and she found them sitting on one of the kitchen worktops. In fact, she’d smiled and given them a small tin of tuna to share while she told them what she’d watched on television last night. Aubrey had the impression that she didn’t see many people.
Molly considered Jeremy’s question for a moment.
“Nice. Friendly. But nobody’s fool, if you know what I mean. I was a bit worried that she’d think I was interfering but she asked me in for a cup of tea and we had a chat. I got the feeling that she didn’t get many visitors.”
“Not the nephew?”
Molly shook her head.
“I don’t think so. All the time they were at the Lodge, he kept checking his phone and looking at his watch. He clearly had better things to do.”
“How old was she?”
Molly thought for a moment.
“Difficult to tell. In her eighties maybe?”
“Why did the nephew take her to the Lodge? Didn’t she have anyone else?”
“No. There was a daughter but she died years ago. There was a framed photograph of her on the mantlepiece, Mrs Ross pointed it out to me. It must have been taken sometime in the seventies by the look of it. A pretty girl, she looked about nine or ten.”
“How did she die? Was it an accident or something?”
Molly shook her head.
“No. She was murdered.”
CHAPTER TWO
Jeremy hesitated slightly and then strode into the classroom. The desks were arranged in a horseshoe. No chance of following his teenage instinct and sliding in at the back then. At the front, a small woman with greying hair scrunched up on top of her head was fiddling with papers and tapping at the keyboard of the small laptop that sat on the desk. Jeremy watched for a moment as she frowned up at the big white screen attached to the wall. They were obviously in for some visuals. What would she think, Jeremy wondered, if she knew that he was an Ofsted inspector? But for tonight, he suddenly realised, he wasn’t. Tonight he was just another student. One of a class of six who had signed up for a series of open lectures on the town’s history, given by the local history society and hosted free of charge by the college as part of its community participation programme.
He took a seat and looked around him. He still wasn’t quite sure what he was doing here. History, local or otherwise, wasn’t something that he’d often given any real thought to, other than to watch a documentary on the television now and then, and occasionally pausing to glance over the names on the war memorial in the town centre. But Molly, sensing his low mood and recent restlessness, had pointed the advert out to him in the local paper and he had been surprised at how seriously he was tempted. In fact, so seriously tempted that he’d signed up for it. They’d lived in the town for quite a while now and he still didn’t really know much about the place. Besides, it would be something to do, something different. It would get him out of the house. Out of his study and away from his computer.
He cast a furtive look at his classmates. Three older women and two other men. Surprisingly low number given that the class was free, but perhaps everybody had just got used to doing things online now. What, he wondered, had made this lot turn out? Were they, like him, restless and looking for something new to do? Were they lonely? Bored? Or maybe they had a genuine interest in the subject. He fiddled with the A4 pad that he’d brought with him, jotting down the date at the top of the first page while he slid a glance further along. The women, seated to the right of the centre, clearly knew one another. Elderly women, he realised suddenly, had changed. The old stereotypes of his youth were well and truly outdated. No longer the white-haired old biddy in the cosy slippers who was as round as she was tall and always had a sweet or two in her pinny pocket for the grandkids, or the hatchet-faced old cow with the claw-like hands and vinegar tongue beloved of sixties television drama. Nowadays old women had smart haircuts and well-cut clothes. They painted their nails and they had opinions. They didn’t fade into the background with an apologetic air for existing.
He watched them as they chatted easily together, fishing about in their bags, pulling out notebooks and pens. What had drawn them to this particular event, he wondered. Perhaps they were serial evening class attendees, working their way mob-handed through the gamut of adult education classes offered by the local schools and college. They should get loyalty points. He shook his thoughts free and sat up, prepared to concentrate, as the lecturer straightened her notes and began to speak.
He pulled off his overcoat and flung it over the banister. Molly had lit the fire, he could smell the comforting fragrance from where he was standing. Winter might be over but there was still a chill in the air and an open fire was a nice thing to come home to. Carlos looked up from his phone as he came in.
“How did it go?” asked Molly.
Leaning over and grabbing Aubrey from his place by the fire, Jeremy hauled him onto his lap as he sat down. Aubrey made a mild pretence at resistance and then settled himself. His two favourite resting places were Carlos’s bed and Jeremy’s lap. He’d even discovered how to turn on Carlos’s electric blanket when he’d jumped down one day and landed straight on the controls. It was a trick that he had shared with Vincent, and which both now used to full effect. Stretched along the arm of the chair where Molly was sitting, Vincent lay with his eyes half-closed.
Jeremy reached for the glass of wine that Molly passed him and studied it for a moment before answering.
“Very good. I enjoyed it, more than I expected really. The college is nicer than it looks from the outside.”
Which was, thought Aubrey, an understatement. He’d followed Carlos to college one day out of curiosity. The building, mostly glass and concrete, looked more like somewhere you’d get banged up than go to learn something. Inside, however, it was warm and bright and welcoming, with smiley-faced receptionists and comfortable chairs to sit in if you were kept waiting for someone. Aubrey knew they were comfortable because he’d sat in one of them and they hadn’t even chucked him out, although he knew that they’d seen him.
Carlos gave a half-smile.
“Yeah, it’s all right.”
Now in the second year of his catering course, Carlos thought that it was more than all right. Unlike school, where to be different was a clear invitation to have your head kicked in on a regular basis, at college everybody seemed to be different in one way or another. They took a positive pride in it because to be like everybody else was, well, just about the worst thing. Ever. He wasn’t sure how he was different, other than that his mother had been murdered and he lived with foster parents. It wasn’t the sort of difference he wanted to parade, but, be that as it may, he was really enjoying his time there. In fact, unlike some of his fellow students, he would actually be sorry to leave. Except that when he did leave, he could start on the next leg of his journey, which was to gain experience in restaurants with a view to eventually opening one of his own. Which he would share with Teddy when she finished her A levels and degree. At the thought of Teddy, his heart gave a little squeeze, as it always did. He wondered what she was doing now. Homework probably, or fighting with her brother Casper. He’d WhatsApp her later.
“How many were in the class?” asked Molly.
Jeremy took a mouthful of wine and thought for a moment.
“Six altogether. Three women and three men, including myself. The women looked as though they were retired.”
“Did you speak to any of them?”
“We had a short break halfway through and I chatted to one of the other blokes there. Nice chap. Mike. He lost his wife a couple of years ago. It was really sad.”
“How did she die? Was she ill?”
“No. A car accident. One of those freak things. She was turning right and a van just ploughed into her. The driver didn’t see her. Apparently he was on his phone,” he added.
“Did they have children?” Molly asked.
“Three. All grown up and left home.”
For a moment they both fell silent. Aubrey looked at them. As he knew only too well, the curtain between life and death was so very thin, never more so than when it came to unnatural causes. Turn this way and survive. Turn that way and die.
“What was the lecturer like?” said Molly at last.
“She was pretty good. She obviously knows her stuff. She’s called Margaret. She’s retired now, but she used to be a reporter on one of the London dailies. She teaches evening classes now. Literature, local history, stuff like that.”
“What sort of things did she cover?”
“How the town developed, the coming of the railways, how it turned into a holiday resort, that sort of thing. So, did you know for instance, that originally going to the seaside was something that doctors prescribed for their patients? It was supposed to be a cure for things like skin complaints and diseases like gout.”
“Gout?” Carlos looked confused. “I thought that was, like, Henry the eighth and all his legs and that.”
Jeremy grinned.
“He only had two, Carlos.”
“People still get gout now,” said Molly. “Some of the residents at Lilac Tree Lodge suffer from it. It’s very painful.”
“Anyway,” continued Jeremy, hastily heading off what he could see was about to become a major side-track from Carlos, “the town sort of grew from there. Visiting the seaside became fashionable. And of course, once it became fashionable there was money to be made. Quite a lot of money, it seems. For instance, piers that were originally just built as simple wooden landing stages for boats grew into entertainment venues. They started putting on shows and opening booths selling food and drink. Margaret showed us some photographs taken in about 1920. It looked a riot.”
