A Room Full of Bones: A Ruth Galloway Investigation

cats.
    And that brings her to her biggest current worry. Where the hell is Flint? He had taken flight the moment six children descended on him yelling ‘Kitty Kitty!’ Ruth didn’t blame him. She assumed that Flint would lurk in the garden for a bit and be back for his tea. Flint normally eats at six o’clock, the time Ruth usually gets back from work, but though Big Ben was chiming from the radio Flint’s ginger face did not appear at the cat flap. Ruth went into the garden, shaking his biscuit box. ‘Flint! Supper!’ She noticed dimly that a van was parked outside the cottage next door. So the dreaded trendy couple are moving in at last, but at the time Ruth could only think about Flint. Maybe he was chasing birds on the marshes and too busy to think about cat biscuits. But now it is pitch black and still no sign of Ruth’s precious boy.
    She knows that she is slightly neurotic about Flint. Once she had another cat, a beautiful little black and white shorthair called Sparky. Sparky had been quieter than Flint and less demanding, but a character none the less, cheerful and independent. Ruth had loved her and, one night, had opened her door to find Sparky on the doorstep with her throat cut. Just thinking about it now makes Ruth feel like crying. Sparky’s death had been part of a whole nightmarish series of events, culminating in murder. Ruth knows that the killing of a human is more serious. She may love her cats but she has a sense of proportion. At the university they are always on the alert against attacks by animal rights groups and, whilst Ruth feels squeamish about the use of animals in experiments, she can see that it might occasionally be necessary. Shedoesn’t place the rights of animals above those of humans but she does, undoubtedly, prefer her cats to many humans. And now, with Flint not responding to her calls, she feels sick and panicky. He’s a cat, she tells herself. They do what they want. But she can’t help imagining Flint’s mangled body, his lovely marmalade fur clotted with blood …
    Stop, she tells herself, scrubbing the stairs for the tenth time. He’s probably having a lovely time chasing voles through the long grass. But Flint is a creature of habit and he is always in by this time, stretched out on the rug, purring like a tumble dryer on spin. She has never met a cat who purrs so loudly. Oh, where is he?
    The trouble is, because of Kate, she can’t go out on the marsh and look for him. She walks to the end of the garden and back, listening for the telltale movement in the wind-blown bushes that means Flint is nearby. Nothing. Silence, apart from the sea roaring in the distance and the far-off cry of an owl. The owl. Hecate’s symbol. Ruth has a rather close relationship with the goddess of witchcraft so she prays to her as well as to the other, more macho, God; neither of whom she believes in.
    She goes back into the house. Maybe she should carry Kate up to bed but she is sleeping so peacefully it is tempting to leave her where she is for the moment. How can she sleep when Flint is missing, presumed mangled? The room still smells faintly of sick, she’d better clean the stairs again.
    The knock on the door makes Ruth stand stock-still,floorcloth in hand. Visitors are rare on the Saltmarsh, and at this hour they rarely bring good news. She’s not scared, she tells people, living in such an isolated place, but she is
wary
. ‘Who is it?’ she calls.
    ‘I’ve got a cat,’ shouts an unfamiliar voice. ‘I wondered if it was yours.’
    Ruth has the door open in a second. Even a mass murderer would be welcome if he had found Flint.
    A squat dark-haired man stands in the doorway, holding Flint in his arms. When the cat sees Ruth he meows accusingly.
    ‘Flint!’ Joyfully, she reaches out for him. He feels extremely heavy and squeaks when she squeezes him.
    ‘I see you know each other,’ says the man, sounding amused.
    ‘Oh yes. Thank you! How did you … Where did you …?’
    ‘He’d managed to get himself shut in my outhouse. I was moving in and may have left the door open. I’m sorry.’ The man holds out his hand, smiling broadly. ‘I’m your new next-door neighbour, Bob Woonunga.’
    ‘Oh,’ Ruth puts Flint down and reaches out to shake his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ He doesn’t look like half of a trendy couple, she tells herself.
    ‘By the way,’ says Bob, ‘there’s a parcel out here for you.’
    He hands her a box inexpertly wrapped in pink