He screamed, dropped Hamlet, and flung an arm at my face. I ducked and grabbed at him, managing to get his hand. I could feel a bit of skin, and I scratched my fingers on it as hard as I could as he slithered from my grasp. He spun round and ran across the garden before barging through the hedge and disappearing.

Hamlet crashed through his flap into the kitchen. My breathing was coming fast, my heart pounding. Dad was standing in his dressing gown, looking at me in stunned silence. I walked across the lawn to him. ‘Let’s get inside.’

I followed Dad into the kitchen, closed the door firmly behind us, and swivelled Hamlet’s flap to ‘closed’.

Dad lowered himself onto one of the chairs. ‘I heard a noise,’ he said. ‘In the garden.’

I picked up the kettle and took it to the sink, hands shaking. The tap was too tight. I couldn’t work it with one hand. I put the kettle in the sink and realised I was crying. I turned to Dad. ‘Oh my God, they had Hamlet. Why didn’t I keep him in? I’m so stupid.’

I put the kettle down, and swooped over and grabbed Hamlet, holding him tight. For once, he tolerated it, although he wasn’t purring. I buried my head in his fluffy fur and tried not to sob.

Hamlet finally decided enough was enough and grappled his way out of my grasp, landing with a thud on the floor.

‘Careful now,’ Dad said. ‘You wouldn’t want him injuring himself.’

I laughed. ‘Oh God. No, he’s not the most graceful.’

I turned back to the kettle and managed to fill it and stick it on its base. The image flashed into my mind. The man holding Hamlet. Hamlet who was so innocent and trusting. Who’d most likely gone up to the guy for a stroke. My voice was cold. ‘I’d fucking kill him,’ I said. ‘Seriously. I would not rest until he was dead.’

‘Sit down a minute,’ Dad said. ‘Hamlet’s fine.’

‘What if they’re killing other people’s cats?’

‘They won’t do that. It would alienate too many people. Sit down. There’s nothing you can do now. Have a cup of tea.’

I found my case, dug out an evidence bag and carefully scraped under my fingernails.

‘Do you think you got his DNA?’ Dad asked.

I nodded. ‘Just hope he’s on the database.’

I made us each a tea, dished out some food for Hamlet who I figured deserved it even though he was getting fat, and plonked myself down at the table. ‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘There’s nothing I can do now, but I will get that bastard. Thank God you heard him and Hamlet’s okay.’