Today
sees the launch by Crooked Cat Publishing
of
the second book in the ‘Avenging Cat’ series
featuring Catherine Vibrissae:
CATACOMB
Catacomb, a
subterranean cemetery:
a place where ancient corpses are found – or new ones
are dumped…
After their
recent success in Barcelona, both Cat and Rick continue their vendetta against
Loup Malefice and his global company, Cerberus, penetrating the lair of Petra
Grimalkin in Nice.
But death stalks
the pair, as do the dogs of law from the NCA, Basset and Pointer.
Cat’s trail of
vengeance next leads to the Cerberus health food processing plant in the
Maghreb… She puts her skills to good use
in Morocco where she again confronts the psychotic killer, Zabala. From the exotic streets of Tangier to the
inhospitable High Atlas Mountains, danger lurks and a deadly ambush awaits…
If
you haven’t read the first in the series, Catalyst,
now is the time – it’s available at an e-book bargain price! (Sorry, the
paperback is still the standard price, though still a bargain, folks!)
The
third book in the series is Cataclysm
and will be published by Crooked Cat Publishing on 15 December 2015.
(Excerpt
from Catacomb)
Cat scales a
building in Nice in the rain and breaks into Petra Grimalkin’s apartment…
Chapter One:
Cat on a hot wet roof
… Opening her belt pouch, she grabbed a slim
lock-pick. The apartment door was alarmed, she knew from earlier
reconnaissance. But the French window wasn’t. Within seconds, she opened the
door, stepped inside, glad to get out of the rain.
She
shut the door behind her as a strong cloying mixture of perfume smells hit her;
she shouldn’t be surprised, since one of Grimalkin’s roles was as head of Cerberus’
Cosmetics Division.
Hastily,
she removed from her pack a sheet of polythene, unfolded it and stood on it, so
the drips of rain that slid off her would collect there. She unfastened her
belt and its pouches, lowered them to the plastic, and these were followed by
the backpack. She slipped off her shoes, stripped to her black underwear, removed
a small towel and dried herself, all the while studying the long lounge-dining room.
Overhead
lights were on, as she’d noted from the rooftop; the bedrooms and bathroom were
also lit. Petra Grimalkin wasn’t cost-conscious or ecologically concerned about
wasted electricity.
Immediately
in front of her was the apartment door that opened onto the corridor, complete
with spyhole. To her left was a dining table, six chairs, a wall-mounted TV
screen, two armchairs, and beyond were three open doors; apartment plans
indicated these led to a bathroom and two bedrooms. On her right was a walnut
drinks bar with two matching stools.
A
red light flickered on the answerphone on the bar counter, next to a large
empty silver ice bucket. Cat resisted the urge to check it. Instead, she
hunkered down and from another belt pouch she retrieved her mobile phone, and
fitted the earpiece. She selected Rick’s number, and when he answered, whispered,
“I’m in.”
He
let out a sigh in her ear. “Good. I reckon you’ve got an hour, that’s all.
Zabala’s supposed to be bringing Petra back then.” He’d only been in Petra’s
apartment once, before he’d met Cathy, but on that occasion he had located the
safe – behind the bar unit.
“Back
from where?” Cat queried.
“The
invitation was for the pair of them to visit an art show, given by one of
Loup’s protégés. Then they have to return, collect their bags and fly on to
Tangier.”
“Gadabouts.”
Rick
chuckled.
Now,
Cat noticed a couple of red Samsonite suitcases standing at the nearest bedroom
door. She heard a shower dripping, as if in counterpoint to the rain that
pattered against the windows.
She
tugged on a pair of latex gloves and then padded across the thick pile carpet,
the sensation quite pleasurable for her bare slightly damp feet. She lowered to
one knee and swung open a cupboard door. Inside she recognised the type of safe,
with its distinctive handle and combination wheel. “Found it.”
“Glad
it’s still there!”
“Me,
too. I’ll be in touch.” She closed the call and tucked the phone in her briefs.
Now, for the first time, she would test her safe-cracking skill in earnest.
Compared to her other pursuits, this had taken what seemed like an inordinate
time to master.
After
she opened the safe, she pulled the phone from her briefs and photographed
where everything lay. She whistled softly. On the shelf were several thick
bundles of pristine fifty-euro notes amounting to €500,000. At the back, behind
the money, was a black velvet bag. She opened it, poured into her palm a
diamond necklace and an exquisite gold filigree brooch with a diamond at its
centre. It was tempting to take some of this loot, if not all, but she didn’t
want anyone to know that the safe’s contents had been compromised. On the floor
of the safe were five folders. Fortunately, Petra Grimalkin was Malefice’s
bag-lady as well as one of his heads of division, so carried important
documents when accompanying her boss; that fact had prompted this latest
break-in. Cat grabbed all of the folders and stood at the bar, checking the
titles.
Tangier
Marrakesh
Rome
Durban
Izmir
Rick had mentioned Tangier; she wondered if he’d
heard of Cerberus operations in these other places. She shrugged; no matter. A
quick flick through them revealed that every folder contained a half-dozen
sheets; they might prove useful in her ongoing war of attrition against Loup
Malefice and his organisation.
Cat
diligently photographed each document from the folders, then replaced them as
she’d found them, checking with the photo on her phone. She shut the safe door,
twirled the combination wheel. Petra Grimalkin wouldn’t be aware that anyone
had tampered with the contents of her safe.
“I’ve
got the full details,” she informed Rick.
“Good.
Now, please get out.” She loved him for that, the measure of concern in his
tone. Not strident, but firm.
She
returned to the bundle of clothing and her shoes on the polythene sheet. They
were still wet, understandably, and a small puddle surrounded them. She dabbed
the towel in the puddle, absorbing most of the rainwater, glanced around and
spotted the ice bucket and bundled her jeans, T-shirt and towel in there, then carried
it to the bathroom. She’d squeeze the surplus water into the bidet. The
clothing would be marginally easier to put on then.
She
passed the two suitcases at the bedroom doorway, glanced in.
The
bedding was in disarray. She stopped, puzzled. Perfume bottles lay scattered
over the top of the dressing table, a few of them broken. The smell was
pungent, even from here.
Maybe
Petra and Zabala had argued.
She
stepped into the bathroom and instantly dropped the ice bucket. Luckily, it
missed her toes by inches; it emitted a ringing sound as it rolled over the
tiles.
Cat
gagged, felt the bile rising, kicked aside her wet clothes and the ice bucket
and rushed to the bidet on her right. She was just in time. Her lunch erupted,
her stomach suddenly cramping. She ran the tap, careful not to send the
water-stream full force, and washed away her weakness. She clutched the
porcelain rim; her heart pounded against her chest as she leaned over.
Gradually, she sensed her pulse slow and turned off the water. The strong
perfume smell throughout the apartment couldn’t alleviate the powerful stench
of vomit in her nostrils.
Snagging
a toilet roll from the rack next to the bidet, she tore off sections and wiped
her mouth and nose and then discarded it in the WC bowl, and flushed it away.
She
got to her feet, stood on wobbly legs.
Trembling,
she stared, her heart fluttering. She’d never seen anything like this. Ever.
She fumbled at her briefs, gripped the phone. Selected Rick, punched dial.
“Are
you out yet?” Rick asked.
She
shook her head, tears blurring her vision. “Did you see them both leave?” she demanded, her throat raw, dry, her
voice croaking.
“What,
Zabala and Petra?”
“Yes,
dammit!”
“What’s
the matter, Cathy?”
“Well,
did you?”
“No,
I’m going on what I overheard in the lobby… Why, what’s wrong?”
“Petra never went to the art show.” Cat stared
at Petra Grimalkin, her naked body eviscerated, lying in the open shower cubicle.
A small trickle of blood dribbled off her soaked corpse and snaked towards the
plughole. “She’s dead – murdered.”
Chapter Two:
Marmalade cat
Her mind reeled as she stood, unmoving, her
mobile phone tucked in her briefs, Rick’s words echoing in her mind, “Get out,
Cathy. Now!” That was her first instinct, too. But she couldn’t. Not yet. Adrenaline
pumped through her veins; she could barely keep her hands steady. Violent death
was not something she’d ever encountered. This was only the third dead person
she’d seen in her life; her mother’s death had been natural, if premature. Her
father was killed in a car crash – murdered, she reminded herself; but he
hadn’t looked like this: he had appeared to be asleep, serene.
Dark
red swam before her eyes and she felt as if the whole building vibrated through
her bare feet. She struggled to think rationally, to take it all in, to
observe.
Hunched
in the corner of the shower unit, her legs splayed out, Petra stared
sightlessly at her. That stare gave Cat a jolt. A sheet was bundled at Petra’s
feet, soaked with blood and water. The tiled floor all around the base of the
shower was wet but mercifully there was no blood outside the cubicle. The
shower head dripped droplets of water onto Petra’s head; her brunette hair hung
lank and glistened blackly.
Think! Difficult. She’d known Petra,
briefly, and hadn’t liked her. That dislike had intensified when Petra and
Zabala held her prisoner in Malefice’s Barcelona office. She shuddered,
remembering their catfight on the jetty. They’d struggled, Petra’s vibrant warm
flesh against hers, inflicting hurt and pain. It was hard to grasp that this
still, pale form, its innards exposed, had been a living, breathing vital
person.
Petra
stared. Cat wanted to close those eyes, but didn’t dare go near. She told
herself she had no intention of contaminating the murder scene, but she
suspected her reason was more primal than that; probably plain fear of violent
death. The dead can’t hurt you? If she left traces of her presence, maybe Petra’s
death could harm her, Cat thought.
She
screwed shut her eyes and remembered seeing her father in his coffin. Petra’s
boss had engineered Daddy’s death. Hold onto that. She gritted her teeth, opened
her eyes and looked away.
Think!
Her
heart fluttered and her stomach scrunched up, as if she’d been punched. Trying
to ignore these symptoms, she stooped, picked up her fallen clothing and the
towel and hurriedly squeezed tightly each item over the bidet, getting rid of
as much rainwater as possible. Would the crime scene people notice the
different type of water here? She doubted it. She left the ice-bucket where it
was, a mystery for the investigators, and turned, went into the lounge
dining-room.
A
little awkwardly, she tugged on her wet clothing and put the mobile in her back
pocket. She left the towel on the polythene sheet and came to a decision.
She
returned to the safe. Having remembered the combination, she opened it again and
lifted out the bundle of money. Now, there was no sense in not taking this. If
Malefice was aware of it, then its loss could be blamed on the murderer. She
decided to leave the safe door open.
Her
heart still pounding, she wrapped the money in the towel and tucked it in her
backpack. She fastened her belt, slipped on her shoes and removed the latex
gloves, and bagged them.
One
last glance. Nothing left behind. The carpet was damp near the French door. She
opened the door, and then carefully carried the polythene to the door, tipped
the little pools of water onto the balcony floor, then folded the sheet, dumped
it in the backpack. She stepped onto the balcony. The wind’s direction had
altered by some twenty degrees, and it was light drizzle now. She was so
grateful to feel the rain on her flesh, to taste the fresh air, to get away
from the cloying perfume smell. Grateful to be alive. But now she must get
away.
***
CATACOMB - Universal
purchase link HERE
