‘I appear within the twenty-eight allotted days to ask for the return of these animals.’

The mayor was happy to take him on. ‘According to my notes, Mr Donnellan, there were … twenty-three cats, a dozen or so kittens, although the officers suggested a lot got away.’

‘That number seems excessive.’

‘Well, it’s what they collected.’

‘Regardless, my mother (who’s been suffering under a great deal of stress since the event) wasn’t warned.’

The mayor was having none of it. ‘Mr Donnellan, the council’s guidelines on pets are quite clear. Maximum three cats, and these need to be kept inside, or within fences. The report suggests these animals had been roaming wild. There are children in your street?’

‘Some.’

‘And if I were one of their parents …?’

Peter opened a piece of paper. ‘This photostat, of your bylaw, states—’

‘Mr Donnellan, we’ve limited time. Three cats, under control, vaccinated, desexed, not roaming other people’s yards, taking down their washing, piddling on porches. Should I continue?’

‘Council make up their own rules and try to convince us—’

‘Mr Donnellan! I realise you’re a lawyer but tonight is about cats, and fences, not whether you think councils have the right to regulate what goes on in your street. You could always try the High Court. Failing that …’ He took a drink of water.

Peter wasn’t fazed. ‘The point of this evening is to seek the return of six cats. She’s been upset without them. She’s had one for eighteen years.’

The mayor consulted his deputy. A few words, then he said, ‘No.’

‘Three cats then. We’ll make sure they’re desexed, registered, vaccinated.’

‘Too late, Mr Donnellan. They’ve all been destroyed.’

Peter took a moment, then shook his head. ‘All of them?’

‘Our vet decided. Too wild. Full of disease. No one would want them, so it was best. We’ve carried the cost, although there was talk of sending your mother the bill for their destruction.’

‘The bill?’

‘We’re not doing animals a favour by letting them run wild. I’m sure your mother cared for them, but I’m not sure she understood compassion.’

‘Of course she did,’ he said. ‘More than anyone.’

‘Well, from what I see here, and these photos.’ And he offered to show him.

Peter had given up. His shoulders had dropped, and his belly popped out. He looked at the carpet, with its Gleneagles crest showing a dragon with a rabbit in its talons.

That was it. We returned to the car park and I drove Peter home in the 120Y (he did have a full licence, but hadn’t driven for years). And all the way, he kept saying, ‘How am I gonna tell her, Clem?’