9
The Cat and the Hat
The Weasel could never actually admit that April and Connor had done well on their debut as the Special Investigations team, but he did announce to the news room when April returned, ‘I told you to break the news to Martin – I didn’t mean kill the cunt.’ He knew he wasn’t being factually accurate, but he never missed the opportunity to grandstand in front of his staff or use the c-word. In fact he said it so often in conference, fellow executives now called the daily meeting the Vagina Monologues.
Encouraged by the nervous smiles around him the Weasel turned to face April and Connor. ‘Seth’s death really was manna from heaven for you pair.’
He was right. With their guile, experience, contacts and a huge slice of luck, April and Connor were way ahead of the pack. By the time the next day’s paper hit the streets, everyone in Scotland would be aware of Selina’s death from the TV news bulletins. But the Daily Herald would have the added extra of Martin’s suicide attempt, with the front-page splash: Jewellery Queen murdered: Griefstricken husband tries to take his own life. And a strapline at the foot of the page boasting: See exclusive pictures on pages 2–9. Two by-lines would also share the front page: April Lavender and Connor Presley, Special Investigations Team.
Connor and April had battered out their copy. He couldn’t help but be impressed by the speed of the old burd. She had churned out every ‘cough, spit and fart’, as he described it, from Martin Seth and then added a timeline, from the estimated time of Selina’s death to Martin’s suicide bid. April Lavender was what was termed ‘an operator’ in the trade. She finished her copy, well before her young colleague, and playfully berated him. ‘What’s keeping you? I’m bloody starving.’
April was dog tired by the time she got home. The adrenaline of writing a front-page story had subsided and the day’s events had left her exhausted. Constant tiredness due to her advancing years had become her biggest enemy. It made it harder to get up each day and face work, and it put her off attempting to lose weight.
Even trying to get her reluctant old cat Cheeka to go outside for a pee was a struggle. April stood with the front door ajar, trying to coax the moggy to move. After several words of encouragement the cat still hadn’t budged an inch, so April gently pushed Cheeka with her foot, only to discover it was her black furry hat she’d been talking to. It had fallen on the floor from the coat stand behind the door.
Her eyesight was getting worse by the day. Maybe that’s why she’d put on those odd shoes this morning. She felt as though she was falling apart at the seams, along with her career. Sure, she had mustered some fighting spirit today, but there would be other days when she’d have no stories or leads to work on. That’s when the Weasel would be right on her case, making her feel like a failure or someone who was cheating the company out of a wage.
In the solitude of her bungalow in Glasgow’s Southside, April suddenly felt very low. She had helped to pay for this place with the proceeds from her third divorce. Now the kids had gone along with hubby number three. Why were her relationships always doomed to fail?
Still, at least she had the cat for company. She poured a generous gin and tonic and went to sit in the armchair in front of the telly. As her ample behind lowered itself into the chair, April suddenly realised the place was occupied. She managed to catch herself just in time, spilling half her G&T in the process. After a quick glance April fumed, ‘That bloody hat again,’ and out of spite, plonked herself down firmly on top of it. The ‘hat’ let out a loud, anguished yowl. Cheeka had been fast asleep before being abruptly woken by the full weight of her owner’s considerable behind.
∗∗∗
While Connor was enjoying a beer in the Press Bar and April was vibrating a glass cabinet with her heavy snoring, DCI Crosbie was still working, poring over the statement from Selina’s husband. Like April, he too knew Martin was lying. Something wasn’t right. Crosbie had stood back and observed Martin intently as he’d identified his wife’s body in the morgue. Not a flicker of emotion, but by the time he had reached the front door where the media lay in wait, Martin had turned on the water works, tears streaming down his face conveniently for the cameras.
This was a man who one minute was trying to drown himself and the next perfectly capable of fulfilling his next-of-kin duties. He went from one extreme to the other – it was as if there were two Martins.
Crosbie hoped forensic results would shed more light on the case in the morning. Just as he was about to leave for home DS Cruickshank arrived unannounced. He looked harassed, taking his hat off and patting his thinning hair.
‘This,’ he said, deliberately taking his time, ‘is a nightmare. Do we have anything yet, Crosbie? Anything at all?’
Nothing yet, you balding bastard, screamed Crosbie’s suffering alter ego, but as soon as I do, I’ll make sure you take the credit, dickhead.
‘Nothing yet, sir,’ Crosbie said out loud. ‘A few discrepancies in the husband’s statement that we’ll check out, but forensics are due back in the morning.’
‘Very well,’ replied Cruickshank, ‘but we need to get her murderer fast.’
‘Oh, do you think so, moron?’ Crosbie muttered.
‘What was that, DCI Crosbie?’
The colour drained from Crosbie’s face before he quickly composed himself. ‘I think it’ll be clearer in the morning.’
‘Here’s hoping, Inspector,’ and with that the DS turned on his heels and left.
This Tourette’s thing is getting worse, Crosbie thought to himself. It was bad enough cursing like a trooper in his head – he abhorred swearing – but now it was escaping into the real world he needed to seek help. Maybe he was cracking up? Maybe he’d seen the results of too much violence – Selina would be his forty-second murder case. He had a horrible feeling this case – and his condition – was going to get a lot worse before it got better.