The Cat and the Photograph.

The neighbours were, quite rightly, angry. Night after night, the little tuxedo cat caterwauled. As long and as loud as he could. Sitting high off the ground in the branches of the fig tree that dominated Jenny Lloyd’s backyard. His call carried across fences, into bedrooms. A thin and haunting sound that screamed of sadness, piercing walls and movies on the television. Nothing would stop him and Jenny didn’t seem to care. Nothing done but the occasional shout of “shuddup”. But no matter what the threat, the bribe, the cat always maintained its vigil.

The tuxedo belonged to her husband Graham. A gentle man, in his fifties, good with numbers, bad with people. He utterly adored that cat. He’d found him dumped on the side of the road years ago, the runt of the litter. Graham nursed him back to health, and ever since that little tuxedo spent every night curled up on Graham’s lap. Every night Graham would fall asleep in his recliner, the cat snoring and purring on his lap while the television flickered blue ghosts across the room. Jenny hated that cat. And the cat hated her. But nothing she did would change Graham’s mind. The cat stayed. When Graham wasn’t around, it hid from her. But for the last week or so, maybe two, the little tuxedo cried his heart out in the fig tree.

Eventually the cops took notice, sending Officer Eric Preach out for a noise disturbance. He’d dodged the complaints before: neighbours unable to sleep, a woman abusive to anyone who she answered the door to. So late in the afternoon, he drove to Cooks Hill through the sticky heat of an Australian summer. He parked under the leaning powerlines and knocked on her door. Jenny answered the door in a nightie, her hair in rollers, opening it just enough to usher him inside. Inside smelled of dust and Mr Sheen Furniture Polish. The curtains drawn, as always. A dark, moody place. Somethings not quite right here thought Eric as he sat at the round kitchen table.

The cat appeared, stalking from the top of a bookcase, watching Eric intently. Eric’s eyes dropped a touch, noticing a photo of Graham and Jenny. Smiling on the deck of “Lucky Break”, a reasonably sized boat. Happy and tanned, Graham holding up a large fish. A facet of Graham that Eric never even suspected before. Jenny spoke at length about how important the boat was to Eric, how it was mistress, how he spent all his free time messing around with it. She spoke of his love of deep-sea fishing. How he’d disappear for days at a time to hunt some rare and exotic fish. “Perhaps that’s where he went” she said. And Eric realised that Graham wasn’t just at work, he was gone. Eric eyed her over his cup of tea, Jenny’s nonchalant manner raising his suspicions a little. To not know where he was strange. Even more strange that she didn’t seem to be too concerned that her husband was missing. It would be especially unusual for Graham, the absolute archetype of an accountant to just take off without a clear itinerary. He was the kind of man who’d be home most of the time. He had little social life beyond his work. No clubs he was a member of. And until Jenny mentioned fishing, Eric never suspected that the man had any hobbies.

Eric took a scone. Made with lemonade, topped with jam and cream. He looked deep into Jenny’s eyes, holding her with a steady stare. “Really? Deep-sea fishing?” he asked. Jenny broke his gaze, staring at the floor and fiddling with the hem of her nightie. “Maybe. I mean, I think so. No wait, that’s not it. He’s gone to Sydney. Work trip. Due back any day. Then that soggy rat-catcher will shut up” she said. Jenny talked, while Eric listened quietly. She unloaded. Complained about how he was always under foot. Or some nights he wouldn’t come home at all. The more she talked, the more Eric’s image of Graham started to make sense. Graham led an existence of working and staying at home, pouring his love and affection on his cat after Jenny rebuffed him one too many times. But Jenny was adamant that Graham would be back. Soon. Eric filled out a few notes in his notebook and decided to take the “Think of the neighbours, keep the cat inside” approach.

Eric was all set to leave. He put down his tea cup, tidied his tiny plate with the crumbs from the scones and stood up. That’s when the little tuxedo cat jumped from the bookcase. Scrabbling at the tiles, the cat rocketed across the kitchen floor and launched at the flyscreen door to the backyard. Scratching and clawing. Meowing loudly. Jenny shooed at the cat, driving it away with a hiss. Eric, sensing a need for extra paperwork he didn’t need and wouldn’t go anywhere, reminded Jenny to keep the cat inside. And to file a missing persons report if she didn’t hear from Graham by the morning. Jenny smiled. A fake, saccharine smile. Promising to do exactly that. If Graham didn’t show up, she’d be round the police station first thing. Asking for Eric. Eric tipped his hat and left the townhouse.

The next day came and went. As did several more. The neighbours kept calling about the little tuxedo cat. Caterwauling for hours from the fig tree. Jenny never did come to the police station to see Eric, never filed a missing persons report. So Eric after several more complaints he drove back to the townhouse in Cooks Hill. Again he met Jenny. Again she told stories. Conflicting stories. Nothing added up with what she’d said earlier. As Eric sat with Jenny, talking kindly and politely with her, the cat launched himself at the photograph on the bookcase. Knocking it to the floor in a crash of glass. Eric picked up the photo, and noticed that it had been folded over. A fold erasing a third person. A beautiful woman. Late twenties, early thirties. Blonde. A charming smile that somehow seemed predatory, her hand on Graham’s shoulder. Jenny feigned ignorance, trying to claim she had no idea who the person was. Or why they were in the photo. Or even that the photo had been folded over. Eric was thoroughly unconvinced, and elected to give Jenny an option. Either come peacefully to the station for a formal interview. Or be arrested and come anyway. Jenny chose the peaceful option.

The interview went nowhere. Jenny talked in circles, contradicting herself constantly. Nothing made sense. Nothing lined up with any facts. The only thing that kept running through the stories was that Graham had gone. He’d left a few weeks ago. In some stories it was to Sydney. Others it was out fishing in open water. Still more had him flying to Brisbane on a business trip. There was definitely something very wrong going on. So, to err on the side of caution, Eric arrested Jenny and gave her a barred room for the night. He checked the stories, chasing down any leads that arose. But the only thing for certain that Eric could say was that Graham definitely didn’t fly. And he definitely didn’t catch a train. He didn’t drive, because his very sensible taxi-spec Falcon was still sitting in the driveway. Stone cold. And after talking with the neighbours, nobody could remember it moving from its spot in weeks.

Back at his desk, Eric stared into the photograph. The name Lucky Break seeming to taunt him. The background didn’t look like Newcastle, so he started calling the marinas around Lake MacQuarie. At Marmong Point the manager said the boat was there. But it didn’t belong to Graham. It belonged to a woman named Claire. Eric knew the name. Everyone in Newcastle knew her. Or of her. She was an infamous figure in the Newcastle underworld. A fixer, she worked for Niven. And she was the kind of smart, ruthless person who fixed problems by burning things or dropping them on the seabed. Eric needed to rule out the idea that Graham was hiding out at the boat. So later that afternoon Eric took the drive out to Marmong Point. The lake was rolling, the Lucky Break bobbing and pulling on it’s ropes, banging into the pier as Eric walked towards it. Inside was definitely filthy. Overflowing ashtrays, rum and gin bottles. But nobody was there and it didn’t look like anyone was living there either. While it could take a short trip out of the Swansea heads, you’d never want to take it deep-sea fishing. Far too small.

But the connection with Claire had Eric intrigued. He’d had several run-ins with her associates over the years. Very strong-willed people. Nasty people. How Graham, the quiet, well-mannered, frightened little accountant could be keeping company with people like Claire was definitely strange. And to be such good friends with her as to go fishing with her, to go out on her boat and come back in one piece? And happy? He didn’t see a shred of evidence for it, but knowing Claire had a boat bit at him. A boat, tucked away in a lightly policed part of Newcastle and well away from prying eyes didn’t sit well with Eric. From Marmong Point it would be a short trip down the lake, to Swansea and out into the ocean. A trip that would almost certainly be unnoticed, especially at night. Once through Swansea it would be a quick trip to the Hawkesbury Shelf. A deep, dark chasm off the shoreline. Home to many predatory forms of sea life and near the East Australia Current. Drop anything off that shelf and it would be lost forever. Far beyond the reach of any casual scuba diver. The connection between Claire and the Lucky Break chilled the marrow in Eric’s bones, the question of just how many men and women found themselves going on a one-way trip out of Swansea on that boat a very unpleasant thought to have.

He knew he’d probably be better off leaving it alone, just mark it up as a missing person’s report and a noise complaint, then move on. The survival instinct telling him not to go digging. Graham wasn’t a friend, but Eric knew him. And if something terrible had happened to him he needed to know. So Eric decided to start trying to find Claire, maybe she might have a clue as to Graham’s whereabouts. She worked for Niven, a fat toad that was quite the name in the underworld. Eric cut across town, contemplating how to broach the subject with Niven. In the end he decided to just ask. Politely. Maybe Niven knew something he would divulge. Probably not. But at the least he could write up in his reports that he followed every lead he found. Niven was, as always, relaxing in his office above the Eurobar restaurant on Beaumont Street. The cosmopolitan slice of Newcastle. Coincidentally, where so much of the underworld gathered to do their deeds. Niven welcomed Eric inside as he always did. Offered him a coffee. Gratefully accepted. But he had no helpful information for Eric. In fact he had a few questions of his own when it came to Claire. She hadn’t been seen in months. And nobody had seen any trace of her. Niven wanted to find her. But if Eric discovered anything, he’d definitely let Niven know. It never hurt to pass on good courtesy to a man like him.

Eric felt the picture muddy in his head. Both Claire and Graham, missing. At roughly the same time. His instinct turned to thoughts of infidelity, a secret rendezvous gone wrong. Or very right. He was sitting at his desk, thinking and trying to figure out the puzzle. Then the phone rang. Another noise complaint from the neighbours. The little tuxedo cat was caterwauling from the fig tree once again. Eric felt a hunch forming. A question, a simple question: What the hell is it with that cat up that tree, screaming? Eric got in his car and took the drive back to Cooks Hill. Sure enough the little cat was in the tree. Sure enough the cat was caterwauling. But when it saw Eric, it stopped, measuring him. Then it jumped down and scratched at the ground by the base of the tree. Intrigued, Eric knelt. And dug where the cat was scratching. His hands pawing at the ground near the roots. The cat watching intensely. Until Eric’s fingers touched something other than dirt. A bit more scrabbling, a bit more digging and a finger was revealed. A human finger. Attached to a hand. Eric immediately went to his car and called the station. Calling for the forensic team. It’s not everyday that a finger is found, buried under a fig tree.

The forensic team came and did their work under the watchful eye of the little tuxedo cat. Digging carefully, they soon found a man and a woman in a shallow grave. One was an older man, probably in his fifties, balding, a bit of a belly on him. That was definitely Graham. The other was certainly going to be Claire. A shapely, beautiful woman about thirty. Ruby red lips. And blonde. Eric knew them both well enough to not need a second opinion. Especially when their ID’s were helpfully buried with them. The coroner’s office would come back with the news that they’d both died from blunt force trauma to the back of the head. But Eric didn’t need help with that either. As they exhumed the bodies it was clear that both of them had received a significant blow to the head. The back of Claires head, the top of Grahams. Looking at the bodies as they were carted away to the coroner’s van, it was crystal clear that Graham had most definitely not gone away on a business trip. And neither had Claire.

Eric returned to the station and interviewed Jenny once more. She began to tell a tale about how Graham had left her. He’d gone off with his mistress to Western Australia. He let her talk for a moment. Then he dropped the bomb. Her face went pale when Eric calmly informed her that they’d found the bodies. She began sobbing when Eric produced the photographs of Graham and Claire, together in the shallow grave. The gates opened and Jenny babbled at Eric. Telling of Graham’s mistress, how they spent so much time together. That she was afraid that one day he’d leave her, he no longer loved her. How she’d wasted her life on that horrible, boring man. That the only thing Graham cared about was that stupid cat and how he could spend more time with a floozy half his age. That he’d even bring her to the house when she was home, make her sit and have dinner with her replacement. She told Eric that finally one night it got too much. As Graham and Claire were talking on the back verandah, she took up a cricket bat. And swung. First Claire, then Graham as he pleaded his innocence. But the die had been cast and Jenny was lost to reason. She’d never learned to drive, but she knew she had to do something with the bodies. The ground under the fig tree was soft, and in the few remaining hours before dawn she unceremoniously buried them.

Eric let her talk, confident that with every sentence of her confession he’d have more than enough to satisfy his boss. He interrupted as little as possible, just to make sure of the case. When she’d talked herself to silence, Eric calmly informed her that she was being arrested for the murder of Claire and Graham. Jenny crumpled, her head on the desk, admitting over and over again that she’d killed them. But, despite the confession, the admission, there was one thing that still nagged at him. One little thread. How did someone like Graham manage to have a mistress like Claire? Claire was far from poor, the money she’d earned doing jobs for Niven was quite substantial. As proven by the thousands and thousands of dollars they’d found in her floorboards when her flat was searched earlier. And Graham was hardly the looker, or the charmer. That much was certain. He couldn’t believe that they were really romantically entangled. So Eric asked one more question before an officer came into the room, to handcuff Jenny and escort her back to the cells.

“Where did Graham work? Who was his boss?”

“Some guy called Niven. Has is own business.” Said Jenny.

The paperwork finished, Eric’s boss came over to discuss the case with him. It was an incredible story. The most ruthless, one of the most feared underworld personalities in Newcastle. Laid low. Not by gangsters or in a deal gone wrong. By a housewife in her fifties who suspected her of having an affair with her husband. Not realising that they were coworkers. A few months later Jenny stood in the dock. The trial was short and sweet. The evidence overwhelming. The confession in the interview damning. On advice from her lawyer, Jenny plead guilty. After the sentencing, Eric drives past the Lloyd house one last time. The fig tree was still there, a swing hanging from one of its branches by the new owners. And curled up in a sunny spot on the front verandah was the little tuxedo cat.