A Calculated Murder

Book 0: Una McMurray

by Jo Cunningham

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery

Synopsis

Una McMurray is puzzled. Surely, statistically, the international cat show scene shouldn't be this... lethal?

Keen to make her mark in her new job in pet insurance, Una's first task is to calculate whether cat ownership extends human lifespan. Tragically, that's not the case for prizewinning cat owner Jeff Bridgely - a most improbable accident has ended his dreams of triumphing at the upcoming International Cat Show.

When a second competitor dies in mysterious circumstances, the maths just doesn't add up. Una vows to resolve this suspicious data discrepancy and impress her new project team, especially condescending Tim and ambitious trainee Patti.

After borrowing Pedro the cat and brushing up on her feline facts, Una dives deep undercover in the cutthroat world of cat shows. Competition is fierce, but what Pedro lacks in pedigree, he makes up for in character. Although as Pedro's odds of winning shorten, so do Una's chances of survival...

Armed with razor-sharp logic, analytical expertise and a scruffy moggy sidekick, can actuary Una catch the cat show killer before she becomes the latest fatal statistic?

Release date: August 28, 2025

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 73000

Sample

Una swung open the glass door that led onto the fifth floor of Katapult Insurance and was hit by a putrid smell and a series of squawks. The Desktop Support team must be doing one of their meet-and-greets. Monday was supposed to be a quiet, disinfectant-scented day. But then she saw Rachida carrying a fluffy dog under her arm instead of a Mulberry handbag. Today was the Pet Insurance department’s most treasured social event – Bring Your Pet to Work Day.

‘Hi, Una,’ said Rachida, waving the dog’s right paw at her.

‘Hi.’ Una lifted her hand to wave back at the dog and then stopped. She wasn’t a people pleaser, and she had no intention of becoming a pet pleaser.

Rachida beamed. ‘This is Mr Ritzbits. He’s loving his day at the office, aren’t you?’

Una looked into the shiny brown eyes of Mr Ritzbits. He had that look of existential dread, unsure of why he was anywhere and in particular here, with no way out and nowhere to escape to. It was a look she’d seen many times before on the faces of second-year graduate trainees.

‘Nice to meet you,’ said Una. Mr Ritzbits dropped the angst and stuck out his tongue.

‘Where’s your pet?’ said Rachida, with the level of suspicion expected from a member of the Regulatory Projects team.

Una tensed. ‘I don’t have a pet. I’m not really a pet sort of person. I mean . . . isn’t it a bit like Stockholm syndrome, keeping a pet in your house until it likes you?’

‘We’d better keep circulating,’ said Rachida. ‘Mr Ritzbits is very sociable.’

Una tucked her trousers into her socks and scanned the floor for lurking predators as she tiptoed to her row. Patti, her recently assigned graduate trainee, wasn’t at her desk, but her prior arrival was indicated by a stolid protein ball dutifully observing Newton’s First Law of Motion as it sat in front of her keyboard. Una checked there were no urgent emails and then set off for Gareth’s office. He’d not replied to her email asking about possible research projects she could take on to establish herself in her new department.

She stopped at the printer – the one that did colour printing if you were suitably ingratiated with Gareth’s assistant, Trish (she wasn’t). Draped across the printer, perilously close to its keypad, was Neoliberal Tim.

‘Tim,’ she said, her fingernails cutting into her palms, ‘what are you doing down here?’

Tim seemed to shimmer – was it some effect on his tartan jacket?

He scowled. ‘There’s a new pillar on the management scorecard. We’ve all got to do more inter-departmental stuff and so here I am, representing Life Insurance. I’m getting it out of the way on Monday morning so I can pull up the drawbridge and remain in my fiefdom for the rest of the week.’

‘I see,’ said Una. ‘Not here to see Gareth, then?’

Tim bristled at the mention of Una’s current manager and his former partner. ‘Not at all. We have a purely professional relationship now.’

‘But you don’t even have a pet.’

Tim brightened. ‘But I do, Una. Allow me to introduce you to Sammy the chameleon.’

He shimmered again and Una noticed the faint outline of Sammy on his jacket.

She nodded. ‘Impressive; but a tartan jacket . . . isn’t that really cruel?’

‘Nonsense,’ said Tim, glowering. Then his face softened. ‘Well, don’t tell anyone, but chameleons can’t change their colour that easily, so I bought this hideous jacket to fit in with Sammy.’

‘And how are things back in Life?’ asked Una. She still felt a tie to her old department. She was only a few weeks into her new role in the Pet team. Even moving one floor down had uncovered a completely different corporate culture.

Tim shrugged. ‘Same as ever, Una. I could say it’s just different, but we both know it’s simply better.’

‘Hey, guys,’ said Gareth, approaching them, a small bouncing dog at his feet. ‘Looking well, Tim. Interesting jacket.’

Tim folded his arms, causing a flurry of movement and colour across his chest. ‘This is Sammy. The chameleon.’

Gareth nodded and smiled. ‘Yes, well, at least the chameleon is trying to blend into its surroundings.’

‘I guess those of us from Life Insurance do stand out,’ said Tim. ‘Just wanted to show my face, show that I’m joining in.’

‘Appreciated,’ said Gareth, lifting the dog, who looked at Una with its head on one side. It made her want to put her head on one side too, but oh no, she wouldn’t. ‘So, Una, you’ve been trying to get hold of me about a new project, right?’

Una didn’t want to have this discussion in front of Tim. He wouldn’t treat the research potential of Pet Insurance with the seriousness it deserved.

‘Need to review the no-claims-bonus on gerbils?’ Tim smirked.

‘Perhaps we could talk about this some other time, Gareth?’ said Una.

Gareth held up his hand. ‘No need. I was thinking . . . you and Tim made such a great team on that Eastbourne project, extending the frontiers of actuarial research as well as catching a dangerous serial killer. You should work together on a research project that overlaps Pet and Life Insurance. That would be great for everyone. Win win.’

Tim frowned. ‘I don’t see how that’s a win for me, Gareth. I’m known for being an innovator. What on earth could be cutting edge about insuring someone’s budgie?’

‘And I really wanted an opportunity that would highlight my personal contribution,’ said Una, before adding, ‘as well as showing I’m a team player.’

Gareth nodded impassively, his experienced-middlemanager shell absorbing the gripes.

‘Great – that’s settled. I’m sure you can come up with a project to suit both of your aims.’

‘I’ll have a think, Gareth,’ said Una, faltering under his hardboiled pleasantness. ‘I can ask Patti, she’s good at generating new ideas.’

‘Super duper,’ said Gareth. ‘Let’s harness the full potential of our team. Tim?’

‘Only if the proposal presented to me is of a sufficient quality,’ said Tim, rocking up and down on his heels. ‘But if it’s something that will help you – I mean your department – then I’ll at least consider it.’

‘That’s a yes, then. Let’s catch up end of the month.’ Gareth patted the dog. ‘This is Thimble, by the way; only had her three weeks but we’re already soulmates.’

Tim’s brow furrowed. ‘You never mentioned wanting a dog.’

‘Things change, people change,’ said Gareth. ‘Now, Thimble, let’s get you some water. See you, guys.’

Gareth ambled off with Thimble prancing at his heels.

‘I’m pretty busy at the moment,’ said Tim. ‘I’ve quite a large team to manage so this project would have to be something super special to get any Tim time.’

Una bristled. ‘Well, I’m busy too, but I’ll let you know if I come up with anything that would be worthy of your attention.’

Tim lowered his voice. ‘How are you getting on with managing your graddie? One or two of the junior associates in my team act like they’re on The Apprentice – throwing their weight round, criticising my approach when they don’t know anything yet. It’s exhausting.’

‘Well, Patti isn’t like that. I’d better get on.’

Una made a coffee and returned to her desk. The truth was she was struggling with people management. She’d been so judgemental about her managers in the past and now she was in their position she realised that none of them knew what they were doing, because she certainly didn’t. She’d been on a couple of courses but that only reaffirmed her belief that management came naturally to but a few and was a serious case of impostor syndrome for everyone else. Her discomfort was punctuated by small victories when she was able to explain something technical, or give some advice based on what she herself had got wrong in the past.

Ten minutes later, Patti appeared at her desk with a huge reusable coffee cup bearing the company logo. She was wearing yet another new outfit that Una presumed had come from the upmarket recycled clothes site she often used. Una hadn’t explored any recycling options, she was still wearing her shop-bought clothes, but as she hadn’t purchased any new ones for some time, she consoled herself that it might count as some sort of entry-level recycling.

‘Morning,’ said Una.

Patti nudged the protein ball away from her keyboard. ‘Morning. It’s just your average start to the week, except for the office turning into a zoo. The New York team sent me that data overnight so I can get going on the charts you asked me to do.’

‘Thanks. Good to see someone else around here doesn’t have a pet,’ said Una.

Patti looked up from her screen. ‘Of course I have a pet – well, a family pet. A Persian cat. But Nigella doesn’t like travelling on public transport.’

Una nodded. ‘I can sympathise. By the way, I just spoke to Tim – someone I used to work with in Life Insurance. He now heads up one of the teams there.’

She tried to sound positive about the promotion that Tim had swiped from her after the fateful Eastbourne project.

‘That’s cool,’ said Patti. ‘I’d like to work in Life Insurance someday. Perhaps I can reach out to him about some mentoring advice.’

Una sighed. ‘I’m sure he’d enjoy that. He loves knowing best.’

‘No, no. I’ve joined a reverse mentoring scheme where I give feedback to senior managers on better ways to interact with junior members of staff. So that they can see things from my perspective. The Gen Z viewpoint?’

Una smiled. ‘I think Tim would be the perfect choice. Anyhow, Gareth suggested we work with him on a cross-departmental Pet and Life research project. Perhaps you want to think of some ideas?’

Patti was elated. ‘Brilliant. I’ll do a mind map.’

‘Okay. Why not?’ said Una. She knew why not. Mind maps were confusing to look at – her own mind didn’t resemble the sort of sprawling mess that passed itself off as a mind map; she felt pretty sure that her brain was formatted like an Excel spreadsheet.

Patti was almost fizzing with excitement. ‘When do you need it by?’

Una shrugged. ‘It’s not urgent.’

Patti was now actually fizzing with excitement. ‘I’d appreciate a deadline. It will help me as I’m an INTJ.’

‘Let’s say . . . by end of the week?’

Patti huffed. ‘Well, that’s going to be tough but okay, yes, I’ll do it.’

‘Great, thanks.’

Una looked down at her phone. A text from Mum to call her back. An emergency? Her mother lived in Eastbourne, so anything was possible.

She dashed out into the corridor to ring her.

‘Hi, Una, sorry to disturb you at work,’ said Mum. ‘Cassie has had to go into hospital for a knee replacement, a slot came up. We offered to look after Pedro, but she’s very insistent that you look after him.’

Una was outraged. Pedro was the difficult and diffident cat that belonged to Mum’s mystic friend, Cassie. She’d hoped never to see Pedro again.

‘Me? But I don’t even live nearby – it will be confusing for him if you take him out of Eastbourne, he’ll be out of his habitat. London will be too noisy for him.’

‘Cassie said she’d feel happier knowing he’s with you,’ said Mum. ‘She said it came to her in a vision that something bad was going to happen, but that Pedro would protect you. So, there you have it. It should only be for six weeks.’

‘Six weeks! But I don’t know anything about looking after a cat. We need to discuss this!’

‘We’re going to pop up to see you at the weekend. We can sort it out then . . .’

‘This weekend?’ Una spluttered. ‘And what about this vision you mentioned?’

‘I think this line’s breaking up,’ said Mum. ‘Have to go. Ken sends his love.’

Una returned to her desk. She was simmering with irritation at the possibility of having Pedro foisted upon her.

But then she recalled Rachida’s earlier disdain. Perhaps it did look a bit odd that she couldn’t even commit to looking after a pet for six weeks. When she was young, she’d had a pet tortoise, Raymond. She remembered lying on the patch of lawn at the back of their house, talking to Raymond, his leathery head bobbing in agreement. One winter, Mum had packed Raymond into a straw-filled Kwik Save cardboard box and put him in the cupboard under the stairs. Then in spring they had taken the box out.

‘Don’t look,’ Mum had said. ‘I think Raymond is having difficulty waking up.’

The next day, Dad had taken Raymond to a small hole he’d dug by the rosebush in the garden.

‘Una, do you want to say goodbye to Raymond? He’s going off to tortoise heaven.’

She’d wondered about this place and whether Raymond had led a good enough life. Dad had picked up Raymond, wrapped in a yellow J-cloth, and was setting him down in the hollow when a grey scaly leg had emerged and waggled.

‘He’s alive!’ Dad had said, turning round and beaming at her. ‘He’s still alive.’

Una had started crying – why was life so unpredictable?

She’d had little need for pets after that.

‘Perhaps you could give me some mentoring,’ she said to Patti, who had already joined two ovals titled ‘Life’ and ‘Pets’ on an otherwise blank mind map, ‘about looking after a cat, if I can’t find a way to wriggle out of it.’

Patti beamed. ‘You’re going to get a cat? I’m so happy – it will be a companion for you, so you don’t feel lonely.’

Lonely? Una wasn’t aware that she was lonely. Until now.

Una spent Saturday morning tidying her flat, ready for the onslaught of visitors. She hoovered the laminate flooring, washed mugs and sourced digestives (one pack plain, one pack milk chocolate). At noon, she slumped in her sturdy armchair and surveyed her handiwork. All done – the only remaining task was to avoid cat-sitting Pedro. At 12.15, the buzzer went, and Mum and Ken swept in.

‘Look at you,’ said Mum. ‘You look well.’

Tanned, with tousled, highlighted hair, Mum was the one looking well after her honeymoon. Ken, her newly acquired husband, was even more tanned, making his white, quiffed hair stand out more than usual.

‘Good to see you,’ said Ken, appraising the paintwork in the small hallway with an expression that would lose an amateur poker match, and rapping the walls with his knuckles to confirm they were solid. ‘Finally get to see your flat. Not the easiest place to get to, this Balham. Never mind, perhaps you’ll be able to afford somewhere more central someday.’

Mum and Ken wiggled themselves into the depths of Una’s two-seater sofa. Una tensed as Ken gently put down a plastic crate with a blanket over it. She suspected that somewhere inside that crate lurked Pedro. She would have to negotiate hard – as hard as when she successfully got Luca in the PMO team to add an extra bullet point on the monthly status update.

‘We brought a present back for you,’ said Mum, handing her a duty-free carrier bag.

Una opened it up. It was a bottle of a liqueur she’d never heard of.

‘It’s forty per cent proof,’ said Mum. ‘It’s probably illegal.’

‘But authentic,’ said Ken.

‘Thanks for the thought,’ said Una. Perhaps it would clear that persistent mould on the bathroom grouting.

‘Now then,’ said Ken, leaning forward, ‘let’s get Pedro accustomed to his new home.’

‘Home?’ said Una, moving a plate of milk-chocolate digestives towards them like a pawn. ‘I haven’t agreed to look after Pedro. You’ve been dodging the topic all week, Mum. I mean, wouldn’t Pedro be better off with you? You’re so good with cats.’

Mum shook her head. ‘Ken is selling his own place and moving into mine at the moment; that’s stressful enough without taking on a cat.’

‘Besides, we thought Pedro would be a bit of company for you,’ said Ken, peering over at a neat stack of New Scientist magazines that doubled as an occasional table.

‘I like my own company,’ said Una.

Pedro poked his head out of the cat box and then ducked it back in again.

‘What about Jean and John?’ said Una, shifting strategy to cover everyone she’d ever met in Eastbourne, starting with Mum’s bingo crowd.

‘They have a Baltic cruise coming up,’ said Mum.

‘Raj?’

Mum shook her head. ‘Not a pet person, he said. But he’s popping to London soon to see a musical. He’ll text you when he’s up here, perhaps you can go with him.’

‘He’s got tickets for Cats,’ said Ken, leaning forward.

Una shuddered; it was bad enough being bullied into looking after a cat, never mind having to pay to hear one sing. ‘Okay . . . what about Anton? He gets on with Pedro.’

Una had witnessed first-hand how well Ken’s son Anton could bring out Pedro’s good side.

‘The thing is,’ said Ken, ‘Anton’s a bit unsettled at the moment. I thought something was going to happen with him and Rosa after the wedding, they went out for dinner at Dino’s. But now he’s talking about looking for a flat up here.’

Rosa had been on duty for hair and make-up at Mum and Ken’s wedding. Although Una didn’t know her very well, her boho dress sense chimed with Anton’s dishevelled look. Perhaps Una could bring them together so that Anton could stay in Eastbourne and take charge of Pedro.

‘Such a shame,’ said Mum. ‘I think they’re perfect for each other. People can get in the way of themselves, can’t they, Kenneth? You just need to see what’s right in front of you.’

They gazed into each other’s eyes.

Una squirmed and leant forward. ‘Pedro. Pedro,’ she called softly.

Pedro emerged, one leg at a time. Una felt a bit sorry for him – she was his last resort.

‘We’ve brought a load of food for him,’ said Ken. ‘We found these pellets he’s okay with. And we’re trying to wean him off those Kitty Treats he likes; they’re no good for him. But we’re leaving a packet with you just in case.’

‘And what about injections?’ asked Una.

Mum beamed. ‘Knew you’d ask. He’s got a new flea collar on, and he’s completely up to date on all his shots.’

‘I meant for me,’ said Una. ‘Do I need any injections?’

Pedro was now fully out, looking ferociously at the carpet. How could she cope with sharing a living space with this wild animal?

‘Look,’ said Una, ‘I’m not happy at all about this. Is there some way I can speak to Cassie? You still haven’t given me her number.’

Mum unzipped her handbag and took out a Gregg’s receipt with a phone number written on the back. ‘Good thing you reminded me; there you go. She said you don’t need to call her every day with an update.’

‘What?’

‘She’d just like a video call now and then,’ Mum continued, ‘to show her that Pedro is okay.’

Una huffed. ‘Is that necessary? I could contact her if something goes wrong.’

‘That won’t help her get better, will it?’ said Mum.

‘Anyway, I wasn’t asking for her number to give updates about Pedro’s welfare, I want to know why she’s singled me out. What did she see in her vision?’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Ken, ‘just before they wheeled her away, she grabbed my arm and said she’d had a premonition that Pedro was going to save you from harm, and it was very important that he stayed with you for the foreseeable.’

‘Harm? What sort of harm?’

Ken reached into his blouson leather jacket and handed an envelope to Una. Inside was a handwritten letter on lined paper with some kind of watermark. The black ink sprawled across the page with an overabundance of loops and Una strained to parse each word. How did people communicate before word-processing software became readily available?

Dear Una,

Thank you for looking after Pedro or perhaps you should thank me for letting Pedro look after you. I had a dream about you. I could see you alone and afraid in a dark chamber, as danger and mayhem swirled all around. But somehow Pedro protected you. I don’t like the thought of him being in a big city so please take care of him, not least for your own sake. And make sure he has sardines once a week to keep his coat shiny (tinned will do).

Love Cassie

Throughout Una’s recent escapade in Eastbourne, Pedro had been a total menace. He’d led her in completely the wrong direction on her murder investigation. The thing was, Cassie’s visions had turned out to be pretty accurate and now she was predicting harm – harm to Una. There was no obvious danger in Una’s day-to-day life – just going to work, paying bills, keeping an eye out for sinkholes. What new disaster loomed?

‘A cup of tea would be nice,’ said Mum. ‘Was quite a drive.’

Una returned with teas and more biscuits.

‘We’re staying in one of these mini hotels,’ said Mum.

‘Cosy, and next to the motorway,’ said Ken. ‘I want to leave early doors; I need to make it back in good time for the over-sixties tap-dancing competition tomorrow afternoon.’

Una stayed silent – no way was she going to get drawn into a conversation about tap dancing. Pedro had now made it to the TV stand and was sniffing the completely redundant Blu-ray player.

‘You could get a sofa bed in here for next time we visit,’ said Ken. ‘I can’t really sleep on a normal sofa with my back, and I appreciate you’d have wanted to give up your own bed, but I wouldn’t want that.’

‘I’ll look into it,’ said Una. She hadn’t invited them to stay with her and was relieved to hear they’d sorted out their accommodation. But it was hardly being dutiful. She’d look out for a sofa bed in the sales.

She felt a nudge on her leg. It was Pedro. He was rolling the top of his head against her leg.

‘Aww, he likes you,’ said Mum.

‘He’s after a feed,’ said Ken. ‘Cupboard love.’

‘What about his . . . toilet training?’ said Una.

‘Litter tray in the boot,’ said Ken. ‘I’ll bring it up for you. Just google. It’s all on the internet these days.’

Una girded herself for reading up on cat toilet best practice that evening. Cassie’s warning was vague and unconvincing but there was always the possibility . . .

‘Look,’ she said, ‘since you brought him all the way here, I guess he can stay with me until I come to visit you next,’ she said. ‘Is that a deal?’

‘Deal,’ said Mum, opening the wrapper on the plain digestives.

‘You know, it’s funny, we had a Bring Your Pet to Work day on Monday and now I’ve got a pet – well, for a bit.’

‘Shame,’ said Ken. ‘But I don’t think Pedro would want to be round lots of other pets. This flat is perfect for him, his own domain. And you might be able to let him have a wander round that small patch of grass at the back.’

‘The communal gardens,’ said Una, suppressing the urge to enlighten him about the flat’s hefty service charge. ‘I’ll keep him indoors initially.’

‘We’re going to head off and check in,’ said Mum. ‘But we’ll take you out for a nice meal. Wherever you want to go.’

‘We can get the tube to meet you,’ said Ken. ‘It’ll be a bit of an adventure.’

‘What about Pedro? Can he stay here on his own?’

‘Perhaps put his basket in the kitchen,’ said Mum, ‘with some water and food.’

‘And the litter tray,’ said Ken. ‘He’ll be fine for a few hours, won’t you, mate?’

He tickled Pedro under the chin and Pedro transformed from a frosty, aloof figure into a puddle of affection.

Mum and Ken put on their coats, brought the rest of Pedro’s things up from the car and left.

Una was now alone with Pedro. He was stalking around her flat like a potential buyer. What was he making of it? Not a lot, from the rather unimpressed look on his face.

She put his bed on the kitchen floor where the units formed a corner. She hadn’t checked if she could keep a cat in the flat but surely no one would snitch on her, and it was a temporary arrangement to help Cassie.

When she was back at work on Monday, she’d ask Patti for some advice on what to do with him. Did he need to go for walks? If not, what sort of exercise schedule was required? How many times to feed him and with how much? How to clear the litter tray – which bin would that go into? And most importantly, his pet insurance – would Cassie’s policy cover his stay with a third party?

Pedro had stopped his walkabout and was washing himself. That was one thing, at least he was self-cleaning, like her oven.

She texted Anton:

Heard you might be flat-hunting let me know if I can help.

A few seconds later he replied:

Coming down to look next week, just a room in a house-share. Not looking forward to it. Maybe you could come on one or two of the visits if I get that far. Heard you’re looking after Pedro.

She hoped he wasn’t expecting to stay at her flat on the sofa – she already had a cat to host – and decided on a vague but polite approach.

Have you got somewhere to stay?

Yeah thanks. Staying with my mate and his girlfriend in Stoke Newington. Hopefully find something round there.

She wasn’t very familiar with Stoke Newington, other than that it was in North London somewhere. She’d hated flat-hunting – being interviewed by people and constantly not m. . .