Catscape (2 page)

“Wow! … and have you found any of the cats so far?” he asked, squatting beside Murdo and slowly turning over the pages in the folder.

“Not a single one. These cats have just disappeared into thin air,” said Murdo. “Listen, why don’t we go for a coke and I’ll fill you in? I’ve been dying to tell someone about all this for ages.”

An hour later, having delivered some bruised onions, dented milk, a crumpled magazine and a hurried explanation to his mother, Fergus was perched on a window seat in the Copper Kettle Café on Raeburn Place. His head was reeling but it was no longer a result of being upended by Murdo. He was now trying to come to terms with information on cats of every name and description. At the same time his stomach was spinning in a different direction with the after-effects of two cokes, two doughnuts and a vanilla slice.

Murdo had been on “the case,” as he kept calling it, for three months, initially spending time at weekends, but now using every day of the summer holidays to try and make some progress in finding even one of the missing cats. He had certainly been very busy. He had visited all forty-three “lost cat owners” and had recorded descriptions of their cats and details of where and when their cats had gone missing.

Murdo kept mentioning his “Incident Room,” which he described as the “nerve centre” of his lost-cat operation. Fergus was already excited at the idea of trying to solve what seemed like an intriguing mystery, and had agreed to visit Murdo’s Incident Room at the earliest opportunity.

“What’s the time?” asked Murdo. “I think I’d better be getting home.” Fergus pulled up his sleeve.

“That’s a DataBoy!” said Murdo, his eyes widening.

Before Fergus could say anything, Murdo disappeared off his seat and started rummaging in one of his rucksack’s many pockets. A moment later he pulled out a rather scratched looking DataBoy, which had only one piece of its strap attached. “They’re brilliant, aren’t they?” he said flourishing his watch. “This hasn’t lost a second in ten months, even though I’ve given
it a bit of a hard time,” he said ruefully looking at the missing strap and chipped glass. Fergus realized that he had been so absorbed in the story of Murdo’s investigations that he had quite forgotten about his watch’s timekeeping problems.

“I didn’t tell you why I was looking at that manhole cover,” Fergus said, making a snap decision that Murdo might be someone who would believe his curious story. Sure enough, Murdo listened intently as Fergus described how his new watch had developed a curious habit of going backwards.

“Well there’s only one thing to do,” said Murdo. “Let’s go and test my DataBoy in the same place!”

Fergus grinned and without delay the boys paid up, collected Jock from outside and headed back to the scene of their collision.

“It’s been a strange day,” thought Fergus as he followed Murdo Fraser and Jock through the streets away from Comely Bank Avenue. It was unusual enough to collide with someone who then becomes your enthusiastic new friend, but to discover that the city’s cats were mysteriously disappearing really took the biscuit. However, the biscuit had not only been taken but scoffed in one great gulp, as Fergus had watched Murdo stand on the manhole cover only to see his older, and supposedly reliable, DataBoy blink backwards through the minutes. Murdo had shaken his head in disbelief and had then systematically stood on a range of paving slabs around the manhole cover but was unable to repeat the strange effect. Fergus was secretly pleased to find that if he was going completely mad then at least he had Murdo for company. Meanwhile, Murdo had been more than a little upset to find that what he described as “the best watch I’ve ever had” now had a tendency to go in the wrong direction.

The boys got some curious glances from passers-by as they stood staring at their watches at various points on the pavement or at the edge of the road. Jock looked on in an equally quizzical manner, with his head cocked to one side. They found nothing strange until they stood on the manhole cover. Every time they did that, their watches went very slowly, but very definitely, into reverse. Murdo finally concluded that going back to the Incident Room to work out a plan was the only way to think about missing cats and backwards watches. A quick visit to Mrs. Speight cleared Fergus to go to Murdo’s for a couple of hours without having to give much away about the two mysteries they were intent on solving.

Now, as the boys turned into 101, Orchard Brae Gardens, Murdo announced that they had arrived. Although bordered by neat flowerbeds on either side there was no way to stand back and admire the front garden because taking up most of the driveway was a small caravan.

“This is the Incident Room,” said Murdo proudly. “Dad keeps saying he’s going to sell it because we never take it anywhere, but in the meantime I’ve commandeered it for the investigation.”

Producing a bunch of keys from his pocket and looking over either shoulder as if there was someone watching them, he unlocked the caravan’s door and entered. Jock slipped in under his feet as Fergus glanced back to the road. There was no sign of anyone at all on Orchard Brae Gardens, and he wondered if Murdo wasn’t taking his investigations just a little too seriously.

Not quite knowing what to expect, Fergus entered the caravan. Even though it was the middle of a sunny summer day, it was gloomy inside as the blinds were pulled down and the curtains closed. Murdo switched on a lamp in one corner and Fergus began to take in the scene.

He had already had hints of the organization behind Murdo’s efforts to find the cats, but nothing had prepared Fergus for the inside of the Incident Room.

On the left-hand wall was a huge map of Edinburgh dotted with a multicoloured rash of map pins. Each had a thread leading out towards a numbered flag, giving the effect of a giant spider’s web across the city. Fergus could see numbers going into the forties and realized that each flag corresponded to the home of a missing cat.

“Forty-three cats and a pin for every one,” said Murdo noticing Fergus looking at the map. “The pins show where the owners live, which was usually the last place that their cat was seen.”

“Over there is my filing system with all the investigation documents.” He pointed to three grey metal cabinets, each of which had drawers marked with big white labels boasting Murdo’s alphabetical filing system in red marker pen from A to Z.

“These are my reference texts,” said Murdo moving round the small caravan and waving grandly at two shelves bending under the weight of all the folders and books stacked on them. At a first glance Fergus could see various maps and guides to Edinburgh, an
Encyclopaedia of Cats
, and a book called
Cats are from Mars and Dogs are from Venus.
On the table in the middle of the caravan sat a set of desk trays marked “In,” “Pending” and “For Filing.” The “For Filing” tray was empty and Fergus reckoned this was yet another indication of Murdo’s organizational abilities. Another sign was the thick hardback notebook, which Murdo handed to Fergus. The sticker on the front said “Investigation Diary.” Inside it neatly listed every activity that Murdo had undertaken as part of his attempts to locate the cats. “I write it up each night,” he said, with a glint of pride in his eyes.

“This is amazing,” said Fergus as he gazed around the caravan and leafed through the diary.

“Well, these cats have certainly kept me busy,” said Murdo sounding very serious, as he watched Fergus’s reaction with pleasure.

“Right,” Murdo said grabbing a red marker pen and heading for the large whiteboard which took up most of one wall. “It’s time to have some fresh ideas on the case.”

To Fergus it looked as though every idea that Murdo had ever had was written neatly on it already, but wiping a corner clean with a cloth, Murdo stood poised for action.

“Come on, we need to brainstorm,” he said, his pen poised at the board.

“What does that mean?” asked Fergus.

“It’s … it’s … it’s what you do … you know … for ideas … word
association, no holds barred. We need blue sky thinking, Fergus!”

Murdo was waving his arms around enthusiastically as he spoke but Fergus could honestly say he hadn’t a clue what his new friend was talking about. He wondered if Murdo actually had much of an idea himself, but decided that it didn’t really matter because it was certainly entertaining.

Murdo stopped waving his arms and prepared to write on the board again. “If I said ‘cats’ what words do you think of?”

“Meow,” said Fergus giving his best cat impersonation.

Jock barked loudly from his basket in the corner and settled down again.

“Good,” said Murdo writing ‘Meow’ on the board. “Come on, what else?”

“Kitten, ball of wool, stuck in trees … firemen?” said Fergus.

“Excellent, excellent,” said Murdo enthusiastically, writing as fast as he could, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrated on getting all of Fergus’s suggestions written on the board. “Keep going. Remember, think big!”

“You mean like lions, tigers, leopards?” said Fergus.

“No … no … no … pet cats … but think differently … think … think out of the box!”

Fergus wasn’t sure which box he was supposed to think out of, but gave it a go.

“Whiskers. Eating fish … er … I’m getting stuck now,” said Fergus.

“Right, we’ll move on then,” said Murdo in a business-like manner. He drew a line under Fergus’s suggestions. “What if I said the word ‘lost?’”

“Lost …” said Fergus pondering on the word. “What about missing, gone, disappeared … runaway, stolen … kidnapped … catnapped?”

“Slow down, slow down …” said Murdo, squeaking the big marker pen over the board and spelling ‘kidnapped’ with only
one ‘p.’ Fergus weighed up whether he should point this out, but decided that Murdo would not appreciate the interruption.

“Now,” said Murdo standing back and looking at his work, “do any of these help us?”

“Well, it’s obvious,” said Fergus. “We need to look for a fireman with a giant ball of wool who is encouraging cats to run away from home.”

“If you’re not going to take this seriously then you might as well go,” said Murdo huffily, looking at the writing on the board but not coming up with any alternative suggestions.

“Sorry,” said Fergus. “Well, cats don’t get lost do they? And not that many of them would run away … so from our list that leaves us with them being stolen. But why would anyone steal cats?”

“To sell them somewhere?” said Murdo.

“To set up a cat zoo?” Murdo gave Fergus a warning look that suggested he wasn’t being serious enough again.

At that moment there was a knock at the door.

“Who is it?” said Murdo.

“The Prime Minister of Swaziland,” said a girl’s voice.

“What’s the password?” said Murdo curtly.

“Your heid’s mince,” said the voice. Fergus stifled a smile.

“Incorrect,” said Murdo, looking flustered.

“Oh come on, Murdo, you know it’s me,” said the girl’s voice.

“That’s not the point, it’s security,” said Murdo stiffly. Fergus was curious to see who was giving Murdo a difficult time and at that moment the door opened.

“Yeah, that’s really secure,” said the girl stepping boldly into the caravan, seemingly without a care, and certainly without Murdo’s invitation to do so. Fergus guessed that the girl was a good two or three years older than him and Murdo, had a mischievous smile on her face and was looking around the Incident Room as if to find something new to make fun of. The only new thing was the arrival of Fergus.

“Hallo,” she said spotting Fergus, “I’m Heather … Murdo’s loving sister.” She gave a pretend sickly smile and leered towards Murdo as she said this.

“Hi,” said Fergus weakly, feeling slightly uncomfortable at the girl’s confidence and completely forgetting to introduce himself in return.

“You must be Dr. Watson,” said Heather, continuing to address him and ignoring Murdo.

Fergus felt confused and could only manage to say “Er … um,” rather than anything intelligent in response. Heather’s eyes rolled upwards in exasperation. “You must be Dr. Watson because he thinks he’s Sherlock Holmes,” she said spelling it out carefully and pointing towards Murdo. “You’ll need to be a bit quicker than that if you’re going to solve any mysteries,” she added.

“What do you want?” said Murdo. A sullen expression had replaced his previous enthusiasm as soon as Heather had breezed into his “secure zone.”

“Have you got any batteries? I need some for my discman,” said Heather, looking around the caravan, trying to spot what she wanted.

Suddenly her face changed. Looking over Murdo’s left shoulder her eyes widened. She gasped and pointed, “Murdo … behind you … a CAT!”

Murdo spun round. As he did so, Heather grabbed a new packet of batteries from the table top and with a laugh jumped back out of the caravan, leaving the door flapping open as a final insult to Murdo’s security precautions.

Murdo was red in the face, and Fergus wasn’t quite sure where to look for a few moments. “She seems nice,” he said, trying to break the silence.

Murdo walked over stiffly and shut the door. “She is impossible — how can I be expected to work under these conditions?” he said, tight-lipped with anger. He turned back to the whiteboard and shook his head violently as if to rid himself
of any memory of Heather’s intrusion. “Now where were we?”

There was another knock at the door.

“Go A-WAY,” said Murdo.

“That’s charming,” said a woman’s voice.

“Oops, sorry, Mum,” said Murdo instantly changing his tone. “Em, … password please.”

“It’s your mother,” said the woman opening the door, “I don’t need a password.”

Fergus concluded that Murdo really needed a review of his security systems. Murdo meanwhile just stood shaking his head slowly and sadly, as if wondering where it had all gone wrong.

Murdo’s mother, Mrs. Fraser, stood in the doorway, “Heather told me you had company, Murdo. I just wondered if you boys wanted some lunch … but I would need an introduction first,” she added, turning and smiling at Fergus.

Murdo introduced Fergus and within ten minutes the boys were sitting at the kitchen table in the house, with steaming bowls of soup and crusty bread in front of them. Mrs. Fraser asked Fergus lots of questions about what he liked doing, where he lived and who he lived with, and he soon began to relax and feel really at home.

Meanwhile, after the security breaches, Murdo seemed to have regained some of his earlier enthusiasm. His mum knew a little bit about his efforts to find the cats and Fergus was amused to hear himself being described as a “colleague working in the same field.” Fergus did notice that he didn’t mention the curious mystery of the DataBoys, however, and began to wonder if Murdo wasn’t really that interested in the malfunctioning watches. However, he was proved wrong when Mrs. Fraser left the room for a few moments and Murdo leant towards him with a determined whisper.

“I’ve been thinking. We can’t just concentrate on the cats. We need to move things along with the watch investigation too.
I don’t know how we can do it but we have to find out what’s underneath that manhole cover. Any ideas?”

Before Fergus could answer, Mrs. Fraser came back into the room and Murdo instantly picked up where he had left off about the missing cats. “So we really need to get back and plan our next moves on the case, Mum. Can we go?”

Mrs. Fraser had a smile on her face that revealed years of listening patiently to Murdo. “Murdo wants to go, but I have the power to make him stay with just two words,” she said looking at Fergus. Fergus smiled back and waited to see Mrs. Fraser work her magic words.

By now Murdo was sidling out of his seat. “Mum, we’ve got work to do!” he said impatiently.

“Sponge pudding,” said Mrs. Fraser.

Murdo stopped in his tracks and his round face changed to a combination of pleasure at the thought of his favourite dessert and sadness that his mother had got the better of him once again.

“I’ll get the syrup,” he said, changing direction to fetch a chair so he could reach up to a cupboard. He plonked a tin on the table and pulled a teaspoon from a nearby drawer. Sticking the end of the spoon’s handle under the edge of the lid, Murdo worked his way around it and prised it open to reveal the sticky smooth golden contents.

By now, Mrs. Fraser had put a bowl with a steaming chunk of sponge pudding in front of each of the boys, and with a wellpractised twirl of the teaspoon, Murdo transferred a big glob of syrup from the tin to trickle on to his piece of sponge.

Fergus found himself staring at the tin or, to be more precise, at the lid, which was now upside down on the table with the teaspoon beside it. A lever and a lid — it was so easy. He looked up at Murdo who was halfway through his pudding already.

“I’ve got the answer to your question,” said Fergus.