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  "So, what do you say?" I ask again. "Want to spy for me?"

  Even though I'm not shifted, I feel his assent and grin. I've won a spy that nobody will ever suspect. Granted, he won't be able to tell me what the humans he sees are talking about, but he'll be able to do some reconnaissance. Cats are everywhere, and most people don't pay much attention to them. Very few people know that I can talk to them. This is going to be epic.

  I pick up the kitten and carry him to the front door.

  "Come again tomorrow, and I'll give you both food and a mission."

  He looks at me with eyes so intelligent that I don't have any doubts about the success of this new venture.

  An image of other cats pops into my mind.

  I smile. "Yes, you can bring your friends too, if they're interested."

  He turns around and runs off, not giving me a second glance. Cats usually give me more attention than they give humans, but they still don't like to appear needy or tamed. They always keep their word though. Cats may be devious at times, but they're honest about it.

  I go back inside and eat my own breakfast. The beans have turned cold and the toast soggy, but I don't mind. In my head, I'm already making plans for an underground cat network. I'll have to order more cat food. Lily won't like it, but she'll see the advantage of it soon enough. I know disliking cats is intrinsic to her nature, but she's come to like me. I'm her best friend and vice versa.

  I yawn and put my plate in the sink, hoping that someone will clean it. The probability of that is tiny, but that doesn't stop me. I have more important things to deal with than dirty dishes.

  In my office, I put my feet on the desk as always and take the top folder from my entry tray. Inside, a photograph of the murder victim stares at me. The man is still alive in the picture, but his eyes have a strange haunted, terrified look. He was either anxious in general or scared of whoever took the photo. I draw a little question mark next to the picture. It's as good a starting point as any.

  The victim's brother has written a short statement on the next page. According to him, Winston Kindler was a quiet, reclusive man with very few hobbies. He went fishing occasionally, but not much else. No drug habits, no alcohol addiction. No mention of gambling either. A man so dull that even reading his file makes me yawn. All Winston seemed to do was work in his sweet shop and sit at home. Guess his shop is where I need to head to first.

  So far, there are no reasons at all for why someone would want to kill him.

  I take a notepad and scribble some instructions for Benjamin: Bank accounts, police records, medical information.

  Benjamin is a thief, the best, and he'll easily get me that info. No need to actually ask people for those documents. It's much quicker to just steal them. Maybe I'll see some new lines of enquiry once he's got them for me, but for now, I'm stuck with taking a look at the crime scene and the shop. Doesn't sound terribly exciting. Definitely not as fun as a good assassination. Then I remember that glorious blank cheque and decide that visiting a sweet shop will be a lovely thing to do.

  Winston Kindler's shop isn't closed like I expected. No, there's a queue of children snaking all the way around the street corner. Most of them are waiting patiently in line, but others are jumping up and down excitedly. What the fuck is going on? Also, is there no school today? Sometimes, I lose track, but I'm pretty sure it's not a weekend today.

  I choose a girl who's standing by her own, looking a little lost.

  "What's going on?" I ask her, nodding towards the shop.

  She smiles shyly. "They're giving away free sweets."

  I raise my eyebrows. "Are they? Do you know why?"

  She nods. "The owner died, and he said in his will that all the sweets should be given away for free."

  The girl grins, exposing some blackened teeth. I'm tempted to tell her that she shouldn't eat any more sweets but then ignore that thought. She wouldn't listen to me anyway.

  I let her be and walk to the entrance of the shop. Some of the children grumble about me skipping the queue, but nobody actually confronts me. I'm trying to keep my usual talk-to-me-and-I'll-kill-you aura to a minimum, but it's hard to let go of that habit. The fewer people know me, the fewer can testify against me in court. Or kill me.

  I squeeze past a few rowdy boys until I'm inside the shop. It's every child's dream. Large glass jars full of sweets in every single colour are packed onto shelves that seem to cover every inch of available space. It smells like chocolate and liquorice, making me forget that I've already had breakfast.

  A young woman stands behind the counter, weighing sweets on antique brass scales. I wait until she's poured them in a paper bag and handed them to one of the boys before approaching her. The children behind me complain quietly as I interrupt the queue.

  "It's for children only, madam," the girl says. She's barely out of childhood herself, maybe seventeen at most. Her apron is full of sugar dust and syrup stains. She's rather plain, but her eyes sparkle with intelligence.

  "I'm not here for the sweets," I say, working hard to keep the regret from my voice. I really hope she's going to offer me some mints despite my words. "I'm here about the owner, Mr Kindler."

  "Such a tragedy," she mutters. "He was so kind to everyone. I don't know why anyone would want to kill him."

  "You're aware he was murdered?" I ask, a little surprised.

  She nods. "Oh yes, we're neighbours. I saw his body." She shudders. "It wasn't a pretty sight. But let's not talk about that in front of the children."

  Her eyes flick to the boys behind us who are listening with wide eyes. This is going to be the gossip in all of the town's schoolyards soon.

  "I agree. Do you have a break soon?"

  She looks at her watch, a heavy, expensive one. Strange for a shop girl to wear one like that. An heirloom, maybe?

  "Officially in one hour, but with all that's going on, it might take longer. The news is spreading fast, and I think every single child in the city is on their way here. I wouldn't be surprised if I'll be standing behind the counter all day or until the sweets are gone. It was a lovely gesture of Win... Mr Kindler to do this, but it's hard work for me."

  For a split second, a shadow darkens her expression, as if she's not impressed with her former employer. I file it away in my mind, along with her almost calling him by his first name.

  Grudgingly, I nod. "I'll be back in the evening. Here's my card in case you're done before I get here."

  I'm really glad I had those business cards printed. It doesn't say much on them, only my address and a phone number. No mention of assassinations. That would be tasteless.

  "Meow?" she asks, frowning.

  "My business name," I reply. "It's an acronym."

  I don't tell her what it stands for because I don't know myself. Ever since I came up with the silly name, I've been trying to find an explanation that I can give to clients, something to pretend that it wasn't just a dumb joke. I never thought this whole business thing would actually take off. I would have chosen a slightly more serious name otherwise. But for now, I'm stuck with Meow. Masters in Ending Others... Whatever.

  She slides my card into the front pocket of her apron, then gives me an annoyed look as if she’s wondering why I’m still here, stopping the masses of children behind me from getting their sweets.

  “See you later,” I tell her, making it sound more like a threat than a promise. I’m not used to being nice to people. The people I deal with usually end up dead anyway, so there’s no reason to waste time and emotional energy on pretending to like them. I can be professional with my clients, but I’m sure none of them would describe me as ‘nice’. Pleasantly cool, perhaps. Frosty helpful. But as long as they pay my fees, I don’t care what they think. They don’t matter to me in the slightest.

  I leave the sweet shop, almost wishing that I’d got myself a bag of mints. The smell in there has made me hungry. Breakfast feels too long ago. My metabolism has been crazy recently. I eat three times as much as I used to.
Maybe it’s the fact that I now have money to buy as much food as I want, or perhaps it’s the effect of no longer wearing a collar. It’s a little annoying, having to spend time on getting or making food several times a day, but at the same time, I’ve realised how much I like food. The little kick I get from of a well-arranged platter, the tastes of a new dish, the tingle of the spices I’ve discovered in the corner of the weekly market. Food is no longer just sustenance for me, it’s become a hobby.

  Maybe it’s a good thing that my current case is partly set in a sweet shop. I’ll have an excuse to return there and perhaps sample the contents of those big glasses. For research purposes, obviously.

  Chapter Three

  For now, I ignore the twinge of hunger poking my stomach and head towards the dead man’s house. It’s not far from the shop, just a few streets away. He had an easy commute to work. I’m almost jealous.

  It’s a pretty but boring neighbourhood. Neat little terraced houses, most of their gardens expertly manicured. I gag at the thought of someone actually sitting there, making sure every bit of grass is as tall as the rest. How quaint.

  Mr Kindler’s house is one of five identical ones squeezed into one large unsightly block. It’s like someone took a handful of dough and cut it into five thin slices, not caring that they might be too small to live in. I know that Mr Kindler lived alone and I doubt there would have been space for more than just one person in this tiny house-slice.

  I give the street another once over. No one is around, no curtains are moving to suggest curious onlookers. It seems everyone’s at work, school or whatever else ordinary people do at eleven in the morning. Fishing, maybe. Who knows. I’ve never been among normal people. I usually just kill them.

  Confident that nobody is watching me, I head up the tiny driveway – barely large enough to allow a bike to be parked there – and fish a key from my pocket. There’s no sign of any police activity. No police tape, no stickers warning me not to enter. They must have decided that there’s no evidence worth protecting in the house. Let’s see if I’ll come to other conclusions. It wouldn’t be the first time for me to outthink the police.

  The door opens with a squeak. It could do with some oil. Maybe he left it like that intentionally as a sort of alarm bell. But somehow I doubt he was thinking in those sort of ways. The only indication I have of him being anything but the boring man his brother has described him as is that mugshot with haunted eyes and a slightly scared expression. It’s not much to go on. I might be reading too much into that picture, but my instincts rarely prove me wrong.

  There’s a short hallway ending in carpeted stairs at the end. Two doors lead to either side, and I decide to check out the kitchen to my right. It’s small, not that I expected anything else. It’s also incredibly tidy. So clean that I doubt he’s cooked in here. I randomly open some of the cupboards. Most of them are empty; the others sport a few basics like rice and sugar. His fridge contains nothing but a single can of cider and a piece of cheese that looks like it’s seen healthier days. Again, it doesn’t look like Mr Kindler made much use of the kitchen.

  After opening even more drawers and cupboards and finding nothing, I head over to the living room opposite the kitchen. A worn sofa and a tv on a stained wooden cabinet is the only furniture. No bookshelves, no floor lamps, not even a rug. There’s not a single cushion on the sofa. Who the heck doesn’t have pillows?

  I take the remote control from the cabinet and press a few random buttons. Nothing happens. I check the socket, but there doesn’t seem to be power. Great. A living room with nothing to do other than a tv which isn’t even working. Mr Kindler must have been incredibly boring. Or not who everyone thinks he was.

  I throw the remote on the sofa – and pick it up again. There’s something strange about it, something I didn’t realise before. It’s the wrong weight. It’s too light. I turn it around and open the cover hiding the battery compartment. It’s empty. Why aren’t there batteries in the remote control? Sure, you don’t really need it if the tv isn’t working, but why bother removing the batteries when you could just leave them in?

  Slowly, I run my fingers over the black plastic. It still feels wrong. I close my eyes, focusing on my sense of touch. Optics can lie, but touch usually doesn’t. There’s something beneath the bottom of the battery compartment. Like… a second layer. How clever. I pry it open with my fingernails, revealing a key stuck in a small space underneath. It’s a nondescript metal key that could open anything. I extract it and slip it into my pocket. Hopefully, I’ll find the matching lock soon. This case is beginning to be a little more interesting.

  Now that I know that not everything in this house may be as it seems, I continue my exploration with a little more excitement. There’s nothing else in the living room, but when I turn over the drawer of the bedroom cabinet, I grin. Bingo. There’s an envelope taped to the bottom of it. I’m kind of disappointed when there’s nothing but money in there, but when I count it, I revise my opinion. That’s a lot of money for a sweet shop owner. Hell, it’s more than my mysterious benefactor gave me. With this, I could fix up the house and give us all a holiday. I’m glad nobody is around to see my devious smile. I’m trained to keep my expression neutral, but it’s tough to keep a straight face when you’re looking at over a thousand darems. I slip it into a pocket hidden in the lining of my coat and put the drawer back in place. Finders, keepers.

  What I really want to find is whatever the key opens. A safe? A hidden drawer? A door to a secret room? Sadly, there’s not a single locked keyhole in the entire house. That’s strange in itself. Even in his little office, none of the drawers is locked. In one, I find some more money, but compared to the banknotes hidden in his bedroom, this is peanuts. This amount fits the image of the sweet shop owner I had in my mind. Enough to pay expenses and maybe an unplanned repair, but nothing that could provoke suspicion. That’s what the entire house feels like. Average, bending to stereotypes, everything exactly like what you’d expect. That in itself makes me want to discover something incriminating. Nobody is this boring. Especially not someone who got murdered.

  There are some random bills and invoices in his desk drawers. The sight of them makes me yawn. I have the same waiting for me in my in-tray in my own office. I like to ignore them. They give me a headache. It seems Mr Kindler did the same. Some of these bills are from last year, and they don’t look like he ever even took them out of the drawer.

  After one final sweep of his house, I head out into his perfectly manicured back garden. It’s basically just a small stretch of grass leading to the tiniest garden shed I’ve ever seen. It’s too low for me to enter without bending my head and I’m not the tallest woman around. Inside are a lawn mower and some other tools that I wouldn’t even know what to do with. I’ve never had a garden, and I’m not planning to have one in the future. I’m not a garden person.

  I can picture Winston Kindler here though. Kneeling on a foam mat, using scissors to cut his grass into the perfect length. Boring. I’ve tried having plants in the house to make it look more like a home, but they usually die. Mostly because I kill them. Old habits die hard. Kat, the plant assassin. Yup, that’s me. Yet another title to add to my business card. It might be easier to explain than Meow.

  Something about this shed irritates me, and I throw all the tools outside until the hut is empty. Sadly, there’s no hidden cache. Not even a trap door. I do love a pretty trap door, but they’re hard to come by nowadays.

  Disappointed, I put everything back inside, not really caring that it now looks like an earthquake made everything fall from shelves and hooks. The lawn mower is last. It’s bright red and reminds me of a ladybug for some reason. When I lift it to put it back in the shed, something on the cord catches my eye. There are numbers scribbled on the orange rubber.

  3 9 5 7 2 0 4

  It’s not printed on the cord; otherwise I’d assume it would be a barcode or something like that. No, it’s drawn there in shaky, uneven marker pen. I write th
e numbers in my little notebook, kind of hoping that they’re the combination for a safe or something exciting like that. With my luck, it might just be his favourite numbers that he’s written there because he was bored with being a boring sweet shop owner.

  I sigh. I now have a key and a series of numbers but don’t know what to do with them. I’ve explored the entire house and the garden – not that there’s a lot to explore here besides the shed – but found nothing of interest. Except for the fact that it doesn’t look very lived in. No cushions on the sofa, an empty fridge, brand new bedding and even the tools in the shed look unused. It’s like Winston Kindler lived somewhere else and only used this as a pretend home. But why would anyone do that? It doesn’t make any sense. Maybe I’ll find more answers in the sweet shop.

  Chapter Four

  I grab a sandwich on the way, knowing that the sweet shop will make me hungry again. I don’t see how anyone can work there without being fat as a dog. I’d probably get fired on my first day for eating too much. Maybe it’s because I never got any sweets while growing up. Now that I can decide what I eat and when, sugar plays a major part in my diet.

  There are still children waiting in front of the shop, but the queue has grown a lot shorter. I ignore them and head inside, impatient to wait even longer. The girl is still behind the counter, now looking decidedly exhausted. No wonder, if she's been handing out sweets all day. At least I got to explore the neighbourhood.

  When she sees me, she sighs. "I'm still not done."

  "Is there a back room I can wait in?" I ask her, and she sighs again.

  "There's a small office. Don't touch anything, I'll be with you as soon as possible."

  I smile pleasantly and let her guide me into the office which is just off the shoproom. She didn't exaggerate when she called it small. It's basically just a desk, a shelf and an old leather chair that looks like it's about to fall apart. The shelf is brimming with folders and papers. Completely the opposite with Mr Kindler's home office. This room actually looks like it's been used regularly. The desk is cluttered with letters and bills.