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I go from house to house, taking the kitten with me. This is the kind of street where both partners need to work to afford the mortgage or the rent and at most of the houses there’s no answer. But at Number Three a woman with curly red hair and freckles comes to the door, wiping floury hands on an apron. Behind her I can see a kitchen and two red-haired children, a boy and a girl, also wearing aprons.
Hello, she says. Then she sees the kitten, still purring voluptuously in my arms. Oh, aren’t you sweet? she tells it.
I don’t suppose you know whose it is? I ask. It just came into my house.
She shakes her head. I haven’t heard of anyone around here with a kitten. Which house are you?
Number One, I say, gesturing next door.
The Fuehrer’s bunker? she says disapprovingly. Well, I suppose someone has to live there. I’m Maggie Evans, by the way. Do you want to come in? I’ll make some calls to the other mums.
Already the children are clustering around, clamoring to be allowed to stroke the kitten. Their mother makes them wash their hands first. I wait while she phones some neighbors. Three builders in hard hats troop up through the kitchen from a basement, placing empty mugs politely in the sink. Welcome to the madhouse, Maggie Evans says as she comes off the phone, although actually it doesn’t seem very mad at all. Both the children and the builders are incredibly well mannered.
I’m drawing a blank, I’m afraid, she adds. Chloe, Tim, do you want to make some Found Kitten posters?
The children enthusiastically agree. Chloe wants to know if they can keep the kitten if no one claims it. Maggie says firmly that the kitten will soon grow up into a great big cat, at which point it will eat Hector. Who Hector is, I never find out. While the children draw their posters Maggie makes tea and asks me how long I’ve been at One Folgate Street.
We weren’t keen on it being built in the first place, she confides. It’s just so out of keeping. And the architect was so rude. There was a planning meeting for him to listen to our concerns. He just stood there without saying a word. Then he went away and he didn’t change a thing. Not a single thing! I bet it’s hell to live in.
Actually, it’s lovely, I say.
I met a previous tenant who couldn’t stand it. She only lasted a few weeks. She said it was like the place had turned against her. There are all these strange rules, aren’t there?
A few. They’re quite sensible really, I say.
Well, I couldn’t live there. Timmy! she calls. Don’t use the china plates for paint. What do you do, by the way? she says to me.
I work in marketing. But I’m out sick at the moment.
Oh, she goes. She looks sideways at me, puzzled. I clearly don’t look very sick. Then she glances anxiously at the children.
Don’t worry, it’s nothing catching. I lower my voice. Just a course of chemotherapy. It wipes me out, that’s all.
Instantly, her eyes are full of concern. Oh my dear, I’m so sorry…
Don’t be. I’m fine, really. Right as rain, I say bravely.
By the time I leave, clutching a pile of homemade IS THIS YOUR KITTEN? posters as well as the kitten itself, Maggie Evans and I are firm friends.
—
Back in One Folgate Street the kitten explores with increasing confidence, making tiger-like little leaps up the stairs to the bedroom. When I go to look for it I find it spread out on my bed on its back, fast asleep, one paw stretched out to the air.
I realize I’ve come to a decision about work. I get out my phone and dial the main switchboard.
Flow Water Supplies. How may I help you? a voice says.
Can you put me through to Helen in HR, please?
There’s a pause, then the head of HR comes on the line. Hello?
Helen, it’s Emma, I say. Emma Matthews. I need to make a formal complaint about Saul Aksoy.
NOW: JANE
If tracking down DI Clarke was straightforward, getting Saul Aksoy’s email address is even easier. Typing his name and “Flow Water Supplies” into Google reveals he left the company three years ago. Now he’s the founder and CEO of Volcayneau, a new brand of mineral water sourced—so a slick website informs me—from underneath a dormant volcano in Fiji. A picture shows a good-looking, dark-skinned man with a shaved head, very white teeth, and a diamond stud in one ear. I send him my by-now-standard email. Dear Saul, I hope you don’t mind me writing to you out of the blue like this. I’m doing some research about a former tenant of the house I live in, One Folgate Street…
We’re all connected now, I think as I send it off into cyberspace. Everyone and everything. But for the first time since I started this, I get knocked back. The answer comes back swiftly, but it’s a no.
Thank you for your email. I don’t discuss Emma Matthews. Not with anyone. Saul.
I try again. I’m actually going to be near your office tomorrow evening. Maybe we could have a quick drink?
I attach my Messenger details. From the little I know about Saul Aksoy, I can be reasonably sure he’ll check me out on Facebook. And, perhaps immodestly, I’m guessing he wouldn’t mind having a drink with me.
