Chapter 12
Millstones, Upper Crompton, Wealdshire. Saturday 16 May 1998
Andrew Starling was asleep in the master bedroom of the mock Georgian house which he thought was more than adequate for his family's needs, but which his wife thought was poky and downmarket. He was suddenly woken by a finger jabbing his back and a loud insistent voice hissing in his ear. 'Andrew! Andrew! Wake up!'
He grunted and tried to ignore the unwanted (and probably, knowing Penelope, quite unnecessary) intrusion. Having been forced to stay awake until after midnight while his wife gave him full details of all her extravagant spending plans, he had then lain awake for a further few hours wondering how he could possibly afford her costly proposals. Did she really need to replace her BMW? Was the ownership of a Spanish villa actually going to give her happiness, or would the pleasure come solely from telling all her so- called friends about the acquisition? She would never invite any of them there anyway, so why not just pretend that she had a villa? Or two . . . Or three . . . Her whole life was little more than a pretence so what difference would it make? He had enough to worry about with Zicchi on his back. With his wife as well . . . it wasn't something he even wanted to think about.
The back-jabbing stopped and the shoulder-shaking started. 'Andrew! For God's sake wake up!'
Forcing his blurry eyes open, Starling squinted at the illuminated bedside clock and saw that it said 05.14. For a few moments he believed he had slept through most of Saturday and that was why he was being woken up so rudely. 'Sorry, sweetheart,' he mumbled. 'I must have been exhaust—'
A further loudly-hissed 'Andrew!' was accompanied by another rough shake which he couldn't ignore. He turned over and, surprised to see that his wife was still in bed with him, asked, 'Did you oversleep as well?'
'What are you talking about? We haven't overslept. It's quarter past five in the morning. Listen! — Can you hear anything?'
Starling forced himself to sit up. 'What am I supposed to be listening for?'
'I don't know!' came the tart reply. 'Just listen.'
'Maybe it's the milkman,' he suggested.
'It is not the milkman. The milkman clinks. This — whatever it was — rustled.'
'Ah. That's it then.'
'That's what?' Penelope demanded.
'Must be rustlers. Come to rustle your dog.' And would like to have added, 'Or you, you silly cow.'
'Don't be stupid. Leaves rustle — silk gowns rustle — dogs do not rustle.'
Oh my God, thought Andrew. What I would give to be married to someone who had a sense of humour.
'You're right, sweetie. I'm being stupid. Or else I'm still asleep.'
Penelope continued, 'Well? What are you going to do about it?'
'Uh . . . What am I going to do about what, exactly?'
'What are you going to do about the noise I heard?' she demanded to know.
'I expect you want me to say that I'm going to get out of bed and go and investigate.'
'Well! — At last you've said something sensible!'
Knowing that his precious wife would give him no rest until he had done as she wanted, Andrew Starling heaved himself out of bed, donned a dressing gown, and went off to explore the house. There was no sound from the bathroom, toilet, children's bedrooms, the guest bedrooms or his study — no sound from the stairs apart from the occasional creak as he went down them — no sound from the living room, conservatory, recreation room, washroom or utility room — and only the occasional snuffly snore from Fifibelle, the obnoxious poodle, in the kitchen.
Once back in the bedroom, Starling threw off his dressing gown and resisted the temptation to jump into bed. (She would have complained.) Instead, he carefully lifted back the duvet and slipped beneath it carefully. 'Not a sound, precious,' he said. 'Perhaps you imagined it.'
'Hmmph,' was all the gratitude he expected — and all that he received.
It seemed he had only just dropped off to sleep again when the air was rent by an ear-splitting scream. It sounded as if Penelope was being murdered. Stifling the urge to think, Thank God someone's had the nerve to do it, Starling leapt out of bed and raced downstairs.
The front door was wide open and his wife was leaning against the wall gagging. No, she was doing more than gagging — she was actually being sick. There was a pool of vomit at her feet and long dribbles of mucus were hanging from her nose and chin. Not a pretty sight, Starling reflected.
Although he tried hard to be a good husband, there were some tasks demanded of Starling which he found very difficult to carry out. Comforting a vomiting wife at this hour of the day was one such task. Knowing that she would be unable to talk sense for some minutes, Starling opened the washroom door and suggested that she step inside and freshen up. For the first time in ages, Penelope Starling followed her husband's suggestion, and shuffled along the hall and into the washroom.
By the time Starling had found a bucket and mop, washed the mess from the front step and parquet floor in the hallway, put the cleaning equipment away, received a non-committal reply when he'd knocked on the washroom door and enquired as to his wife's condition, made a pot of tea and drunk most of it — Mrs Starling had emerged from the washroom looking as if she had been chased by all the fiends in hell. She staggered into the kitchen, slumped onto a stool and, with still-shaking hands, had difficulty taking the cup of tea which Starling held out to her. Once she'd managed to take a sip without spilling any, she asked, meekly, 'Who could have done such a thing?'
Starling, realising that he was missing an important piece from the jigsaw and not wishing to demonstrate his ignorance, simply said, 'I don't know dear,' instead of what he really felt like saying — 'What the hell are you talking about, woman!'
'It's just dis . . . disgusting!' She spat the words out as if her husband had tipped rat poison into her tea (something which he'd actually done many times before — in his fantasies). 'What have you done with the sack?' she asked.
Ah ha, thought Starling, we're getting somewhere. If I'm careful I might discover what she's talking about without having to ask her. What could I have done with the sack? he wondered. What sack? He played for time. 'I haven't done anything with it yet. I had to . . . um . . . clear up your . . . the mess. And then I wanted to make you a nice cup of tea. If you're all right, I'll go and see to it now.'
'You haven't left it by the door, have you?' she started to complain.
'Uh, no — not exactly.'
'Whoever put it there must be sick,' she snarled.
And she who found it was sick, he thought. 'Look, are you all right?' he asked, 'I'll go and sort it out.'
From the way she yelled, 'Sort it out?' Starling realised his wife was well on her way to a full recovery. 'Sort it out? You must call the police. They mustn't be allowed to get away with it!'
Starling decided not to ask what it was that the police mustn't be allowed to get away with. 'I'll be back in a minute,' he said.
Wondering what on earth was outside, he made his way through the hall and then cautiously opened the front door. Nothing. Well, obviously there was nothing there or he would have noticed it when he was cleaning up the puke.Whatever was the stupid woman getting her knickers in a twist —
His question was left unfinished when he stepped through the door and spotted the black plastic bin liner standing on the gravel by the wall of the house. She'd mentioned a sack. She'd said it was disgusting. It had made her throw up. Oh God! What had she seen in the sack?
Starling approached the sack stealthily, as if afraid that crunching the gravel would cause the bag to burst open and spray him with its contents — whatever they were. There was a scrap of paper pinned to the side of the sack. There was some writing on it. What did the words say? Although the writing was large enough, the letters were not well-formed. Neither were the words well-spelt. Starling froze when he finally managed to decipher the message: THIS AINT A POODAL BUT NEX TIME IT CULD BE.
Oh shit! What the hell is in this bag? Not a poodle, the message says. What is it then? Has to be an animal of some sort. Christ, I hope it's dead. Must be.
He spotted a small pool of red liquid beneath the bag. A trickle of blood was oozing from a tear in the side. No wonder she'd thrown up. The big question now is whether I'm going to puke my guts up . . . I won't if I don't look inside . . . Got to look inside . . . No option . . . She'll ask what it was . . . I could lie . . . No . . . She's seen it . . . She knows.
The top of the sack wasn't tied but was folded over. Starling gingerly reached out and took hold of an edge of the opening. He grasped the opposite side. Very slowly — he pulled the sides of the sack apart until — he saw an unblinking eye staring up at him.
He thrust his hands together to close the sack and stop the creature — whatever it was — looking at him. Then he quickly stepped back in case sharp claws should suddenly burst through the thin plastic and gouge his eyes out. Breathing deeply, he waited.
Nothing happened.
Very cautiously, he approached the sack again, opened it, and forced himself to peep inside. It looked like a cat — thankfully a dead cat. Trying to swallow the bile which was rising in his throat, Starling continued to carefully open the sack. It was a cat all right. He didn't need to see any more. He didn't need to find out how it had died. It was enough to know that someone had dumped a dead animal on their doorstep and had made the threat that Fifibelle the poodle might end up in the same state unless —
Unless what? He didn't really need to ask. He knew. But what should he do now?
It was obvious.
Ten minutes later, having put the spade back into the garden shed, Starling went indoors to wash his hands. The hole in which he had buried the cat, sack and note was sufficiently deep to prevent Fifibelle from digging them up (not that the poodle had ever shown the slightest inclination to indulge in the sort of activities that come naturally to normal dogs). When he entered the kitchen, Penelope wasn't there — but the children were — filling their faces with cornflakes and toast, and staring at the television. Neither of them looked up as he entered. Neither of them mentioned the screaming that must have woken them. He wondered whether he was the only father in the world who was ignored except when someone wanted something. 'Where's your mother?' he asked.
'Dunno,' said Gerard through a mouthful of toast.
'Upstairs, I think,' managed Jaine-Marie as she sucked her cereal off a spoon.
Starling found his wife sitting on the bed staring at the window.
'Why did you do that?' she asked, without turning round.
'Do what?' Starling queried.
'Bury that revolting creature.'
'It was just a cat. It's gone now. Try to forget about it.'
'Have you called the police?' she asked, still not facing him.
'No, I haven't,' he said, knowing that she knew he hadn't.
'Why not?'
'I thought about it and decided it wouldn't be any use.'
Penelope Starling nodded. Andrew Starling breathed a sigh of relief. She wasn't going to argue with him. That made a change. Why? It was obvious really. Penelope would die of embarrassment if she saw a police car enter the drive. The neighbours would notice. And the neighbours would start talking. She could hardly call on all of them and say that someone had dumped a dead cat on the doorstep. Starling couldn't resist smiling to himself. If only all life's little problems were this easy to sort out.
Penelope turned and looked her husband in the eye. 'Do you know who did it?'
'Yes, I think so.'
It was those filthy tree people, wasn't it? Why don't you have them locked up.'
Starling doubted very much whether the tree people would resort to such tactics. But he knew someone who was probably capable of far more abominable acts. What should he tell Penelope?
'It's possible. I don't know. Whoever did it wanted to frighten us . . . me. The best thing I can do is ignore it. Show them I'm not frightened.'
Starling was not surprised when the phone rang a little later. Neither was he surprised when, after he'd asked who was speaking, he heard a voice say, 'Hello Andy. I said I'd give yer a little reminder 'bout our chat the other day. So, 'ere I am, remindin ya. I 'spect you've been thinkin of lots of different ways to solve your little problem with the tree rabble. I'm sure you'll come up wiv somethin. You knows the old sayin — there's more than one way to skin a cat. Gotta go now, Andy. Give my regards to your old lady. Nice family you've got. You make sure you keep 'em safe. Know what I mean?'
When Starling had put the phone down, he headed straight for the drinks cabinet. He didn't drink often — and never on a Saturday morning — but right now he needed a very large whiskey.
More than one way to skin a cat obviously meant I left the sack on your doorstep.
Nice family you've got. You make sure you keep 'em safe.
He had a horrible suspicion that he knew what that meant!