Where There's Smoke

The fire officer waited for her to say more, then looked around as a white patrol car pulled up in front of the red engine. “I’ll need to make out a report, but I’ll leave you to tell them, then.”

He stepped down onto the path. His boots splashed in the grimy puddles.

“One thing, though. I wouldn’t have another cat flap when you have the new door fitted. Whoever it was might make a more serious try next time. All it would take would be a length of pipe and they could pour the petrol straight into your flat.”

He stared at her, to make sure his words had registered, then winked. “Puss’ll just have to wait until you let him in.”

Chapter 18

Kate’s birthday was on a grey, windy day, when all the lights had to be switched on to counter the unrelieved twilight, and the approaching spring seemed like another country. She hadn’t given much thought to it before; too much else had been happening to dwell on such irrelevancies. But that morning she woke up with the awareness that another year had been ticked off her life’s calendar.

The post arrived before she left for work. She collected it from the cage covering the letter-box on her way out.

The new front door had been fitted the day after the fire, a sturdy hardwood slab with a small frosted-glass window.

The door to Miss Willoughby’s flat had also been replaced, at the insistence of the estate agent. Ironically, her own only needed repainting, but the coconut mat in front of the other had acted like a wick, charring the wood deeply.

She left the junk mail inside and closed the front door, glad to be in fresh air. Several days after the fire, the stink of it still permeated everything. The painters were due at the end of the week, and Kate told herself that things would seem better when the flat smelled of wet paint instead of the oily reek of petrol and smoke. A police car cruised by. Kate wondered if it was coincidence, or evidence of Collins’s assurance that they would step up patrols outside her home. The car went past without either of the occupants glancing at her, and she turned her attention to the post.

There were two birthday cards. One was from an aunt who lived in Dorset, while the other was from a girl she had been to college with, one of the few people she’d given her new address to when she’d moved, and who kept in occasional touch by letter. There was nothing from Lucy. Kate felt a skim of anger masking the hurt. They had never missed each other’s birthdays before. She’d felt sure that Lucy would still send her a card, and had already anticipated using it as an excuse to phone her again. Now, though, the snub only made her more resolved not to.

No one mentioned her birthday at work. Clive had usually remembered in the past, but obviously hadn’t this time.

Kate knew she was feeling sorry for herself, and in danger of wallowing in it. Pathetic cow, she thought, angrily, and went up to her office and shut herself away.

It was almost lunch-time when Clive buzzed through on the intercom. “There’s somebody to see you,” he said. His voice sounded odd. “Can you come down?”

“Who is it?”

“Er... I think you’d better see for yourself.” There was a hesitation. “It isn’t anything to worry about, though.” He cut the line.

More irritated than puzzled, Kate went downstairs. She opened the door to the office. A police constable was standing in the centre of the room.

“It’s all right, there’s no problem,” Clive said, quickly. Kate noticed him flash Caroline a glance, but her attention was on the policeman. He was young and good-looking.

He stepped towards her. “Kate Powell?”

Her mouth was dry. “Yes?”

She was vaguely aware of Clive nodding reassuringly. The policeman opened a notebook. “Is today your birthday?”

“Uh, yes. Why, what’s—”

“In that case I’ll have to charge you with being thirty-four in possession of an eighteen-year-old’s body,” he said, and tore open his tunic.

It came apart in a rip of velcro, revealing a shirt and tie bib over a bare chest. He cast them flamboyantly to the floor with his helmet and ripped open his trousers. Underneath he wore only a black posing pouch, with a police badge pinned on the front. Kate jerked her eyes from it as the young man kicked free of his trousers and began singing. “Happy birthday to Kate, happy birthday to Kate, happy birthday dear Ka-yate, happy birthday to you!”

He ended with a flourish and grinned. “Now I’ve got a surprise for you,” he said, and Kate took an involuntary step back as he put his hand into his pouch and began to pull something out.

“No!” she exclaimed, and then he was holding up a stuffed cloth truncheon. He waggled it at her.

“The sentence is a kiss, or I’ll have to hit you with this,” he said, but before Kate could answer Clive had stepped forward.

“I think we’ll skip that bit, thanks.”