I wait, listening hard. But I hear nothing more. It could have been the boiler coming on or turning off. That’s the likeliest explanation. Yet I remain unmoving.
It’s ridiculous, but despite the silence that’s settled over the big house now, I can’t shake the sensation that I’m not alone. That someone else is here with me.
I tiptoe back towards the doorway, grimacing at every creak of the floor.
That’s when I see the notebook.
Dad’s tweed jacket is hanging on the back of the door, and there’s a black notebook sticking out of the pocket. It looks exactly like the one I’ve been looking for.
There’s no time to feel triumphant, but it’s hard not to be excited. My heart thuds as I pull the notebook out of the pocket, and flick through it quickly, just to check it’s what I came for.
It’s the same book, I’m sure of it. That’s my dad’s handwriting. The same endless lists of symptoms and treatment schedules. The name ‘Rachel’ leaps out at me again. And my own name too, here and there, scattered through the pages.
Catherine.
Underlined in red every time.
Chapter Forty I hear a noise downstairs again, and freeze instantly. It’s not the heating this time. Too loud for that. A door being closed, perhaps.
Has Dad come back to check on me?
I try not to panic. There’s still time to get out of his room without being noticed. But I need to hide the notebook, too. I can’t risk anyone else seeing me with it.
Not even Dominic.
I fumble with the rucked-up flap on Dad’s pocket, trying to conceal my theft, and something falls to the carpet. Something small, white and rectangular.
I bend and pick it up.
It’s a blank white card.
I turn it over.
A business card. I move closer to the light coming from the landing through the gap in the bedroom door and read the embossed black writing.
Jason Wainwright. Private Investigator.
Why on earth has Dad got a business card for a private investigator in his jacket pocket? Is it something to do with his work at the Foreign Office? There’s a mobile number, an email address and a website. No postal address, but it does state London offices under the name.
Another odd noise from downstairs. Not a click or a thud this time, but a thin, pathetic cry.
Like a cat mewing.
I shove the business card back into Dad’s jacket pocket. What the hell? Am I imagining the sound of a cat in the house again?
But no, there it is, clear and unmistakeable, breaking the silence.
A cat, mewing.
This is way beyond funny, I think angrily. If somebody’s playing a trick on me it’s downright cruel. Especially if it’s a real cat in distress.
I hurry out of his bedroom, lock the door behind me and return the key to the box on my mother’s mantelpiece. Then I head upstairs to our flat and push the notebook as far under the bed as I can reach. It’s not the world’s most original hiding place but it will have to do. I can always move it later. Right now, I need to check out the cat sound. Nobody is making a fool out of me twice.
I head downstairs more slowly, favouring my weak ankle. I can still hear mewing. The living room and the dining room are both dark and empty. I make my way cautiously past the closed cellar door.
The kitchen is dimly lit. One spotlight is on over the range, its bulb angled away to shine on artfully exposed brickwork.
I spot a brief flicker of movement under the pine table, and gasp. My hand goes instinctively to my heart.
‘What’s that? Who’s there?’ I ask.
The movement comes towards me, gradually getting closer to the head of the table. Like I’m being tracked.
‘Jesus.’
Then it emerges out of the shadows. Two green eyes raised in curiosity, followed by a narrow body with glossy dark fur, and a tail held high, curved in a question mark.
A cat. A young black cat, looking lost and in need of some love.
‘Oh my God,’ I whisper.
So it was a cat I could hear. This time at least, I wasn’t imagining things.
But how did a cat get into my parents’ kitchen?
I crouch to stroke its head, and the graceful creature purrs weakly, tilting its neck back for more.
‘Hello, gorgeous. What on earth are you doing here?’
It doesn’t have a collar, though I suppose it could have been microchipped by its owner. It looks very young, almost too young to be away from its mother. Not that I know much about cats. We were never allowed to have pets as a child, due to Rachel’s tendency to mistreat animals. I guess we just never got around to getting a cat once she was gone.
The cat necklace swinging round my neck is attracting the cat’s vivid green stare.
At the sound of soft laughter, I look up to find a figure watching me from the darkened archway that leads into the utility room.
‘Dominic? You startled me,’ I say, straightening up and staring at him. ‘What are you doing home?’
‘Happy Christmas,’ Dominic says. He looks down at the black cat, who is weaving between my ankles, purring more loudly now.
I don’t understand at first. Then I get it.
‘It was you,’ I say slowly. ‘You brought the cat in here.’
He smiles.
‘For me?’ I ask.
‘You said you’d always wanted a cat.’
‘But Mum and Dad . . .’
‘It’s okay, I got their permission first. It won’t be a problem.’
He bends down and strokes the cat.
‘No name yet,’ he says lightly. ‘I thought you might like to choose one.’
‘He’s my cat, then?’
‘Cat’s cat.’
I don’t know what to say. Tears are pricking my eyes.
‘Thank you,’ I say, and kiss him on the cheek. I scoop the cat up off the kitchen floor and cuddle it. ‘Is it a girl or a boy?’
‘Boy,’ says Dominic.
I can’t believe I actually have a cat of my own. A real live cat to name and to love. And to love me back, I hope. The warm, lithe body wriggles against my chest though, hating captivity even for those few seconds. When I resist, there’s a cross mew and a sharp scratch at my wrist.
I open my arms and watch, disappointed, as the cat springs to the ground and stalks away, its tail high and twitching. That taunting question mark, whisking back and forth.
‘Ouch.’
‘Yeah, better watch out,’ Dominic says wryly. ‘Even kittens have sharp claws. He’s not used to you yet. Or this house.’
‘Well, he’s only a kitten.’
‘Nine weeks old.’
‘But where did you—’
‘Sally’s cat had a litter back in the autumn. I put first dibs on this one, soon as I saw him. Totally black.’
‘Like a witch’s cat.’
‘Exactly.’
I pretend to punch him, and he grins.
‘He can be your familiar,’ Dominic says, and laughs when I make a face. ‘Look, I know looking after a pet is a big responsibility.’
‘Too right. I haven’t the faintest idea where to begin.’
‘I don’t want you to worry about anything. Sally’s given me a diet sheet for the first month, and instructions on how to look after him. He’s not quite house-trained yet, she says.’ He grimaces. ‘Which didn’t exactly please Ellen. But I promised her we’d clean up any accidents.’
‘Of course we will.’
He searches my face. ‘So you like?’
‘Hugely.’
‘Because I wasn’t sure . . .’
‘It’s the best Christmas present I’ve ever had.’
Dominic holds my gaze like a thread between us. ‘Seriously?’
‘Totally.’
He covers his face with his hands.
I frown, watching him. ‘Hey, what’s the matter? You okay?’
His hands drop from his face and he looks back at me with a curious intensity. His eyes are shiny with unshed tears. ‘I don’t know what to say. Except . . . you make me happy.’
‘You’re so sweet, Dom.’
I put my arms around him, and lean my head against his shoulder.
For a moment I’m tempted to tell him about the notebook. But some inner voice of caution warns me against it. Not until I’ve had a chance to examine it. I mean, what if there’s something in the notebook about me? Something embarrassing? Something that might make him think differently about me? I don’t think I could bear that.
So instead I whisper softly, ‘Thank you for getting me the perfect present.’
‘The purr-fect present?’