In October, Crooked Cat Publishing
release the second novel in the ‘Avenging Cat’ series, Catacomb. This one differs from the first, in that the main
protagonist, Catherine Vibrissae (Cat) isn’t featured in the beginning. This is
a flashback of some three years, to explain the two NCA characters hounding Cat
and Rick, Pointer and Basset, both of whom we met in Catalyst.
CATACOMB
Prologue:
Dogs of Law
2012
Vauxhall,
South London
“Rippon’s death seems a little bizarre,”
I remarked over the rim of the Delft coffee-cup. I should have known better but
sipped the aromatic hot black liquid anyway, then grimaced. The Superintendent’s
secretary had sugared it again. “All he did was rub suntan lotion on himself – and
a couple of hours later, he’s dying before everyone’s eyes.” It was a gruesome
case, skin peeling off, disintegrating into body-fluids.
“Let
me explain, Alan.” Superintendent Thurston scratched his bald head. Since I’d
joined SOCA, he’d used my first name; we’d been round the block together for a
few years. When accompanied by anyone else, of course, I was DI Pointer. Now,
he steepled his plump fingers, an old mannerism. Implicit in his tone was “Are
we sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin!” So he began: “Some years ago a group
of Birmingham chemists discovered a method of getting plastics to disintegrate
automatically after being thrown away.”
“Yes,
but that was a long time back; I thought it wasn’t practical, lack of funding
for research...?”
Thurston
nodded, setting his sallow cheeks trembling. “The invention involved dyes
which, when added to plastics, caused them to break down under the action of
sunlight’s ultra-violet rays.”
“Though
this was before the ozone layer depletion crisis? Now, they’d disintegrate even
faster than planned, I guess.” The irony was lost on him.
“Correct.
The Swedes and Canadians have been working on it too, but only the British
version works when subjected to direct sunlight. Well, I say British, but it
isn’t quite. The firm now dabbling in it is French-Swiss – Cerberus. Their
founder, Loup Malefice bought the rights and hired the scientists.”
“So
commodities on window-sills are safe?”
“Yes.
To start with, the self-destruction time could be varied from three months of
summer sunshine to three years. They toyed with calling it Ecodream! Now,
though, if applied in the right proportions, this stuff could turn plastics to
dust in three hours!”
I
didn’t like where this was leading: Rippon, the incredible melting man. But it
was time for my “It’s only effective on plastics, surely?”
Shaking
his head, Thurston mumbled, “Was, Alan, was... But the military got
interested...”
Bloody
typical!
“As
you’re aware, any major scientific discovery has the Defence people looking for
ways of utilising these inventions. Often, it’s the other way around, isn’t it?
A military invention has civilian use – look at GPS, for example.” I nodded
while trying to maintain my bearings in Thurston’s lengthy and rather
meandering explanation. “Intensive research came up with a refined adaptation
for use on human tissue and metals. In fact, only glass and rubber are really
impervious.”
Of
course the suntan lotion had been in a glass jar.
Thurston
went on, “It can assume any colour; we still call it a dye, though.” He
shrugged. “But without the action of sunlight, the stuff’s harmless.”
Well,
in for a penny: “And the formula’s been stolen?”
“As
well as a large sample of the dye, yes.”
My
mouth had gone dry, but I had no desire to resort to the coffee. “How on earth
did Rippon come to possess the doctored lotion in the first place?”
“A
good point. Rippon was the Under Secretary responsible for Science and Research
Coordination. He used to entertain scientists regularly at his Belgravia home. Keeping
in touch, he called it. The four suspects all visited Rippon last week when
they reported the formula and sample missing.”
“I
see. A few minutes in Rippon’s bathroom and the lotion could’ve been treated. I
suppose that money’s the motive?”
“Oh,
yes. Our lab discovered the bottle’s label had a message on it: Payment of £2
million for the formula’s return...”
“And
the means of communicating our response?”
“We
must give our decision in tomorrow’s Times
and await further instructions. The alternative given isn’t pretty – an
unspecified town’s water-supply will be treated with the stuff at...” and he
squinted at his desk-clock/calculator, “... seven tomorrow night...”
“This
puts the current bout of consumer terrorism in the shade.” No pun intended. “We’ve
less than twenty hours...”
“Imagine,”
Thurston said, shaking his head, staring at his open file.
I
had already: a whole town, washing and cooking, then going out to work in the
sunshine. Sunshine was rare enough in these islands, but to make it a killer
defied belief. Bloody typical of the defence establishment! A boon to mankind,
to abolish waste, and they have to meddle with it, turning sunshine into a
killer far more effective than cancerous melanoma.
We
could pray for rain, I suppose.
Thurston
stood up, paced the tired carpet and scowled at the streaks of pigeon-pollution
brightening the window-sill outside. “Well, Alan, I want you to go to their
Research Establishment – Pethewray Point, on the Devon coast. The security dossiers
of the prime suspects, courtesy of the Minister himself, are on my desk.” He jutted
his chin at the teak furniture in case I had difficulty identifying it as a
desk. The dockets were red, and as I picked them up their India-tags clinked on
the polished surface. Thurston swerved round, and I smiled: the desk was unscathed.
“All have been involved with the project since MOD took over. And they’re the
only ones who’ve had access to the formula and the dye samples.”
***
I elected to drive down in my battered
old Citroen – I profited more on expenses. Sergeant Carol Basset occupied the
passenger seat, working through the dossiers. She usually drove me around, but
was happy to let me take the strain. It had proved a strange yet rewarding partnership;
we’d worked together since SOCA was established in 2006 and after a brief
period getting to know each other’s methods we’d gelled. Partly due to our
surnames, partly because we made a good and rather tenacious team, many in SOCA
referred to us as “the dogs of law”. I’m not keen on celebrity, a term that’s
been demeaned over recent years, but I couldn’t argue with that definition, I
suppose. Carol reckoned it was a hoot. I always thought of her as Carol, but
traditionally I referred to her as “Sergeant”, rather than “Basset”.
All
the way on the road I couldn’t get rid of the nightmare vision of a sunny
Cornish ghost-town succumbing. Had I just passed through it? Were those
shoppers I’d seen back there destined to die by the sun’s glowing rays? Death
held no sting for me now, but this latest threat made me shudder.
Twenty
chequered years with the Force meant I’d seen my fair share of misery: widows
prostrate, rape victims in catatonia, unrepentant murderers in strait-jackets,
orphaned children in traumatic shock, mutilated children and their bereft
parents: the list was endless. And the Grim Reaper hadn’t left me unscarred,
either. Eileen had foolishly opened a mysterious parcel addressed to me during
the Kyle terror-gang investigation. There wasn’t much of the house standing
when the bomb-blast’s dust-clouds subsided. Courtesy of extremists, not your
run-of-the-mill underworld villains. Society of late seemed to breed a lot of
extremists; it was as if the thin veneer of civilisation was being scraped away
by incursions from the State, self-interest groups, interfering self-aggrandising
do-gooders, religious zealots, law-makers who didn’t understand human nature,
and of course politicians who didn’t live in the real world. Eventually, we
caught the bastards, though their subsequent sentences didn’t remove the
profound emptiness she’d left behind. We’d bought this car on our tenth wedding
anniversary.
When
some of the city’s villains I’d helped put inside actually paid their respects
at Eileen’s funeral, I had almost gone to pieces. Stupid, really, we’d been too
close, loved too deeply, so when I was left alone, I was just that – alone. We
had no friends, only acquaintances and colleagues. They did their best,
offering well-meaning platitudes. Christ, I’d better get rid of the car. I
can’t face this self-pitying catharsis every time I drive long-distance!
“You’re
very quiet, sir?” Carol said.
“Sorry,
I was thinking.”
“That’s
my job. You make the arrests.”
I
laughed, tears streaming, vision slightly blurred, but not dangerously affected.
I glanced quickly at her but she was looking at the dossier. Hastily, I wiped
my eyes and cheeks with the back of a hand; there was hardly any wobble as I
steered one-handed.
***
Under the benign sun I parked in a
layby, a small distance before the next rise which concealed all but the radio
antennae of the Pethewray Point establishment.
“We’re
early,” I said. “The Research Director isn’t expecting us till 9am.”
“Fancy
a look around, sir?”
“Indeed.”
I opened the door and got out. “Time for a little relaxation, before the fray.”
Leaning
on the other side of the car roof, Carol said, “And time to blow away the
memories, if nothing else.”
Sometimes,
I was sure she was a mind-reader.
Breathing
in the salty air, I walked across the weather-beaten prickly-yellow gorse,
Carol silent by my side. Fields gently climbed towards the cliff edge a
half-mile away, where I could glimpse the shale rooftops of a couple of
cottages. Circling gulls squealed plaintively.
The
warming sun highlighted the Ministry of Defence notices surrounding the
isolated village of wired-off Nissen huts and prefabricated offices. Scaffolding
framework stalked to the rear of the place; drills stuttered loudly on the
faint breeze. It was in places like this, on the edges of solitude, where my
senses came alive; the opposite of sensory deprivation – city-life surrounded
the body, permeated the skin and mind: only here could I seem to function as a
human being.
I
blinked away morbid thoughts and turned to Carol. “Time to go, Sergeant.”
***
I
hope this whets your appetite for the actual book!
Only
the prologue is in the first person. The rest of the novel is told in third
person, as usual.
A
few more glimpses into Catacomb will
be made in the run-up to publication day, 20 October, 2015.
Cataclysm, the third in
the series will be published in mid-December.
CATALYST available in paperback and e-book
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