Cat Man wasn’t a remarkable-looking old guy. You wouldn’t have picked him out of a crowd of pensioners. Neat as grandma’s parlour. A deep, gentle voice. None of the signs of letting go you sometimes see in retired people. He wasn’t sitting unshaven in his bathrobe. But he could have been any proud, elderly man. Except for the cats.
They sat gazing at you from every corner of his large Victorian terraced house. If you had a guilty conscience they could have driven you insane, like the man in Edgar Allan Poe. Tabbies and gingers, tortoiseshells and marmalades, three-coloured cats, grey cats, wh
