Fay Gidney stood in the old woman’s house surrounded by cats.

Dozens of cats.

Well, fifteen cats anyway, once she had counted them. She’d found them in airing cupboards, on the top of bookshelves, behind radiators. One she found sleeping soundly in the oven. The oven unused and kinda clean if you didn’t count the cat hairs.

Now Fay had all the cats in one room. Some had struggled and clawed her, but most had ran in once they heard the low, but apparently unmistakeable, sound of someone opening a tin of cat food.

The old woman would be back soon. Fay picked up her gun and shot a ginger tabby.

The bullet split the cat’s head in two. The remaining fourteen cats now all hid behind curtains and furniture. Fay waited for one of them to stick its head out long enough that she could get another clean shot.

Bang.

This shot was cleaner. The cat slumped forward.

Thirteen left. Afterwards Fay would have to cut open their bellies and root around. One of these buggers must have eaten that diamond.