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kitchen, its bottle brush tail high in the air.
    Gwen followed obediently and then realised there wasn’t any cat food in the house. She took down a tin of tuna and mashed up a little on a plate, while the cat wound its wiry body round and round her legs. ‘You’re going to trip me over,’ she said.
    The cat screeched.
    ‘All right, all right.’ Gwen put the plate down in front of it.
    While the cat made short work of the tuna, she filled a saucer with some watered-down milk. ‘You shouldn’t really have dairy, but you look like you need the extra calories.’
I’m talking to a cat. God help me.
    The cat sniffed the liquid, then lapped. Gwen felt a ridiculous sense of achievement.
    She fetched one of the sad-looking cushions from the living room and put it on the floor of the kitchen. ‘You can sleep in here tonight.’ Then, shutting the kitchen door, she went upstairs. She went to the bathroom and washed her hands. There was no knowing what the animal had. Worms or fleas or, quite possibly, scurvy. She would need a litter tray, food, a new cat bed, and to get it checked by a vet.
    Gwen paused on the landing, looking at the moonlight on the hallway tiles and listening to the night-time sounds of the house.
    The cat was curled up on the foot of the bed. Gwen looked at it for a long moment. The cat looked steadily back at her. Then she got into bed.
    Gwen opened her eyes. Two yellow ones hovered about an inch from her nose. She stifled a scream and blinked. The cat stretched lazily and jumped off the bed, landing with a thud. ‘I thought cats were light-footed.’ The cat paused, looking at her with an expression of disgust. In the daylight, Gwen could see that it was most definitely not a black cat. It had a mix of markings, not tortoiseshell or black and white or marmalade, but all of them. Like several cats had been put in a blender. Which was a horrible image and one Gwen instantly tried to whitewash over. The cat regarded her sternly as if mind-reading. ‘Sorry,’ she said, and then felt ridiculous.
    She fed the cat some more tuna, bulked out with bread soaked in water. Then she remembered the leftover soup. She took it out of the fridge and sniffed it. Chicken. The cat started to wind around her legs, crying out and purring. ‘Smells good, huh?’ She poured a tiny bit into a saucer and put it on the floor. The cat dived for the dish, then stopped. His hackles rose and his fur stood on end. He hissed at the dish, then disappeared through the door, a streak of fur and fury.
    Gwen picked up the saucer and sniffed it again. Maybe the cat objected to herbs. She began clearing up.
    The back door, that Gwen would’ve sworn blind was locked, swung open. ‘Knock, knock. Only me.’
    Lily Thomas smiled, her tiny teeth sparkling. ‘Soup for breakfast?’
    Gwen realised she was still holding the Thermos in one hand. ‘Just washing up.’ She plunged it into the sink full of soapy water. ‘What can I do for you?’
    ‘Just come to pick up my dishes.’
    ‘Of course.’ Gwen finished rinsing the flask and dried it on a checked tea towel. Then she fetched the ceramic casserole and handed them over. ‘Do you know the name of Iris’s cat?’
    Lily frowned. ‘Iris didn’t have a cat.’
    Gwen decided not to mention the cat bed in the outbuilding. It would be like directly calling Lily a liar, which probably wasn’t the way to be a friendly neighbour. Besides, there was something snake-like about Lily’s eyes. She kept her voice mild: ‘Well, I’ve got one now. He seems pretty at home.’
    ‘Must be a stray. Don’t feed it or you’ll never get rid of it.’ Lily paused. ‘Have you had a chance to check that list yet?’
    ‘Kind of. Yes.’
    ‘Did it mention a notebook?’ Everything about Lily was casual – her stance, leaning against the kitchen counter, her voice, her open expression – but Gwen could feel the tension thrumming in the air.
    She shook her head. ‘Sorry.’
    ‘It’s completely fine.