At first glance the flat looked much as they had expected. The furniture had the low income, dissonant feel of second hand acquisitions, most of it dating from the 1930s, and was of a style that might have belonged to Cole's grandparents. Some of the pieces had the varnish sanded off. But the living room was much less cluttered than they had imagined and the fusty, uncleaned smell of the landing outside was abruptly replaced by the oddly reassuring fragrance of lavender wax furniture polish and the freshness of bathroom cleaning spray. The place was simple, but obviously cared for. It didn't seem like a young man's place at all. Predictably, what had once been an elegant bay window on this third and top floor of the Victorian building had peeling gloss paint and patches of exposed, blackened wood around the drafty window frames, yet the windows gave out on to a startling and robustly beautiful sweep of dark green Yorkshire hills set against a dramatically gusty early winter sky with granite coloured, stern looking clouds.
For a second or two, the two officers were put off their train of thought by this unexpected view. It didn't quite fit the pattern of drab deprivation that had been forming in their minds. Nor did the domestic competence implied by the fragrances in the air. An armchair placed facing west in the bay window showed that Cole was in the habit of sitting here, despite a noticeable draft from the single glazed window. There was a tartan rug neatly folded over the back of it and he had hung heavy dark red velvet curtains to keep out the drafts in the evenings.
"It's odd, him just disappearing like that," said Sanjit, pursing his lips in thought as his eyes swept the room without taking any of it in.
"The thing is, he rang me on Thursday night to ask me if I would mind putting out some dry food for the cats. That wasn't like him at all. It wasn't a problem, after all I live here myself on the ground floor. But he never said he was going away for any length of time. I just assumed he was going out for the evening, or overnight at most."
"So who has been feeding the cats since Thursday night?" It's Monday now," said WPC Riley.
"Well dry food would last them for at least two days, so they would take them until Saturday, or even Sunday at a pinch, but that still leaves at least one day unaccounted for."
"Yes," said WPC Riley, bending down to look closer at the bowls on the floor. "And there seems to be fresh water here."
"Odd," said Battersby, making a note of this.
Having absorbed what information they could from the condition of the living room and kitchen area, they moved into the only other room in the flat, the adjoining bedroom. As they opened the door they saw that the furniture was in the same style as that of the living room, but again clean and tidy. The bed had been made and the room, although rather cold, smelled fresh. WPC Riley made straight for the 1930s wardrobe and opened it to see if Cole's clothes were gone. It was important to establish if there was any evidence of Cole having prepared to leave. There were some trousers, a jacket and several clean, ironed shirts hanging there, and the shelves were sparsely covered with neatly folded underwear, socks, T shirts, a pair of jeans, two pairs of summer shorts and some swimming trunks. The towels and bedding were all folded in a large chest of drawers next to the wardrobe. It was difficult to tell whether Cole might have taken some clothes with him, or whether what they saw was in fact all he owned. There was a sports bag on top of the wardrobe but no sign of a travelling case anywhere.
The two officers became aware of cats mewing on their way in through the cat flap in the door to the flat. WPC Riley went out of the bedroom to investigate. She liked cats. Meanwhile DC Battersby had worked his way in almost a full circle round the bedroom and was turning back to face the door he had just come through. It was then that he caught sight of a set of ceiling to floor shelves built into a small alcove behind the bedroom door. Five of these were filled with some books on ancient history and religion, while on the others was an assortment of items including a travel book on Tuscany and a postcard from Monaco, postmarked ten days previously.
Battersby was just pondering these incongruous items when he heard WPC Riley chuckling from the next room.
"What is it?" he shouted from behind the bedroom door, as Sanjit also moved closer, looking with a puzzled frown at the model of the mosque.
"These cats have got the weirdest names," came the reply. "I've just been reading their tags! Get this: they are called: "Cassia," "Aurelia" and – wait for it, "Clodia!" Where the heck did he dig those up from?!"
"Weird," muttered DC Battersby, turning over the postcard from Monaco and reading:
"Wish you were here,
Lucky."
He turned to Sanjit:
"Name "Lucky" mean anything to you?"
"No, but then I didn't know any of Cole's friends, if he had any that is. Only his sister. Monica is her name I think."
"Yeah, ok, thanks Sanjit. That'll do for now. We've got your mobile number, so we'll be in touch if we need to come round again……. Ready Trish?"
"Yep, just putting down some food for the cats. Wouldn't want them to peg it, would we?"
"I'll make sure they are taken care of until Cole gets back," said Sanjit, thinking to himself, but feeling ashamed for thinking it: "If he gets back."
So, leaving Cole's three fine Burmese cats to their supper, their nametags tinkling with the movement of their heads, the two DCs pulled the latch shut, taking the postcard of Monaco with them.
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