Monty and Me: A heart-warmingly wagtastic novel!

Monty and Me: A heart-warmingly wagtastic novel! Louisa Bennet Introducing loveable dog detective Monty – the must-have book this Christmas!You might think that dogs can’t understand us…but you’d be wrong.Apart from an obsession with cheese, Monty is a perfectly rational animal. So when his beloved master is stabbed to death, Monty decides to use his formidable nose to track the killer down.Luckily he manages to find a home with Rose Sidebottom, the young policewoman who’s investigating the case. But with her colleagues turning against her, and the wrong man collared, she’s going to need a little help… Copyright (#u768dc580-c032-59bb-84b2-d32cbf7a47e6) AVON HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd The News Building 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2015 Copyright © Louisa Bennet 2015 Cover design © Emma Rogers 2015 Cover images © Shutterstock 2015 Louisa Bennet asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Source ISBN: 9780008124045 Ebook Edition © July 2015 ISBN: 9780008127664 Version: 2015-11-03 Dedication (#u768dc580-c032-59bb-84b2-d32cbf7a47e6) To Ann Young, Zina Daniel and Maureen Larkin. Table of Contents Cover (#ud4528bdb-250f-5280-a278-9c81c8d5f5fe) Title Page (#u54b42a1c-4985-5887-a4e8-0ffa90f94a74) Copyright (#u6af47d8d-2f54-59d0-9f18-2377a016dfc8) Dedication (#u0f2cb68b-355c-5e9e-8b79-1d6f58b230bc) Chapter One (#u867e944b-e508-5006-be5a-6b6ca8d26d97) Chapter Two (#u5a297284-4d9c-5518-ad93-737999ee86fb) Chapter Three (#u7ae270b4-1428-56be-a934-e4ee69cdb3bb) Chapter Four (#u82337308-2da2-52bb-b28e-17059e8cf788) Chapter Five (#u367abcf0-205d-5197-b738-074c9bb676bd) Chapter Six (#ub30f8ff3-9d3b-578f-997c-83e086cc93f1) Chapter Seven (#ud907b0cd-d767-509f-9827-8c22977b9316) Chapter Eight (#u1f9269a6-445a-54c6-8ab0-34902f0b92ea) Chapter Nine (#uc1160a24-cdf7-51c6-b579-db94c167ef01) Chapter Ten (#udc68e783-f514-5412-9a13-6def306b288c) Chapter Eleven (#u79b18c98-3de7-51e5-8c52-45d354e254e1) Chapter Twelve (#uc7a611a5-d5c6-5143-a7da-8b9a775dd585) Chapter Thirteen (#ue6d33bef-c7af-5c28-b41e-9a5fe445974b) Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo) About the Author (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter One (#u768dc580-c032-59bb-84b2-d32cbf7a47e6) I bound from the car and, nose to the ground, zig-zag around the front lawn of my new home. I hoover up downy feathers that stick to my wet nose and I sneeze, sending the feathers flying. As a pup, I once tore a cushion to shreds searching for the duck inside. I found loads of feathers but never found the duck. I’m still searching. Can’t be that many naked ducks about. ‘So, what do you think?’ Rose asks, smiling. What do I think? I think those bitter white tablets the vet gave me were worth it after all. I can’t feel my stitches and my paws seem to float above the grass as if I’m dreaming. I run over to Rose, tail wagging like a windscreen wiper in a downpour, and lick her hand. After being cooped up in a cage at the vet’s, I need the wind in my fur, big time. So I charge up and down, leaning into each turn like a motorcycle at Brands Hatch, almost tripping over a faded wooden sign on the overgrown grass that once welcomed visitors to Duckdown Cottage. It even has a white duck painted on it. Duck! I bolt down the side of the house to where the duck droppings are so potent it’s like fireworks going off in my head. ‘Monty!’ she calls. ‘Leave the ducks alone.’ She can’t be serious! Duck and pheasant retrieval is what I’m bred for. It’s a calling. I go into selective hearing mode and charge for the pond, revelling in the glorious combination of mud, poultry poo and stagnant water. It’s the canine equivalent of Chanel No. 5. Most of the quack-pack sit serenely in the shade of a willow. A matronly mallard leads them in meditation. ‘Om shanti,’ the mallard intones. ‘Om shanti,’ they reply. The others snooze, plump bodies balanced on one of their twig-like legs, eyes closed. It’s too much. I can’t resist. Time for a bit of duck toppling! I charge at them, plumed tail held high like the battle flag of an invading army, and bark with excitement. The ducks panic, running around in circles, then scatter. Some head for the water, others bolt across the lawn, wings back. Before Rose can grab my collar, I dive for the pond, water splashing over me, cool and exhilarating. ‘Monty, stop! Your stitches!’ Mouth open, I pounce on a black and white tufted dowager and come up with her in my jaws. ‘Get off me, you slobbering fur-ball!’ she quacks and kicks me in the muzzle. I can’t tell this squirming mass of feathers and webbed feet that I’m not going to hurt her, because I’ll drop her if I do. Sodden but proud, I trot out of the pond and deposit the ruffled bird, unhurt, at Rose’s feet. A gift. I am expecting praise, ears up, long pink tongue dangling, mouth turned up in what the big’uns – that’s our term for people – often think of as a smile. ‘Bad dog!’ she scolds, trying to catch her breath. The duck quacks out ‘Tosser!’ as she waddles off, a little wobbly. I watch her go, my ears flat, head lowered, tail tucked in, confused by Rose’s reaction. Not the duck’s. They never take it well. ‘This isn’t going to work if you eat the ducks. You have to leave them alone, Monty,’ she says, wagging her finger. Even when she’s cross she’s softly spoken. It’s like a gentle breeze whispering through tall grass. I ‘harrumph’ and sit. Detective Constable Rose Sidebottom is the alpha, the pack leader. My new pack. I can’t quite wrap my brain around what a sidebottom is, since the ones I like to sniff are most definitely at the back. So I think of her as Rose. She’s a trainee detective. I sympathise. I was a trainee guide dog once, and it’s not easy having your every move watched and judged. On the way here I spotted her training harness in the back of the car. Who’d have thought detectives wear them too! Except she calls hers a stab jacket. Not sure why. I peer up at her eyes, the colour of Blu Tack. How do I know? I tried eating some once. Very chewy, which was great fun. But not very tasty. Her mousy brown hair is pulled back in a long ponytail that reminds me of a bushy tail. I know she is not very tall because my head comes up to her waist, but she is strong, as I found out when I bolted from my cage and she grabbed my collar. She’s not one for glinting, clinking jewellery and she dresses in monotones – today, it’s a grey trouser suit. The only exception is an antique silver watch with narrow strap and diamonds around the tiny face that carries someone else’s smell: a sickly person wrapped in blankets. Even this she keeps hidden under her shirt cuff. It’s as if she doesn’t want to be noticed. Rose gnaws her lower lip. She looks worried. Is this because I chased the ducks? Oh no. I feel bad about that. I’ll have to try not to. Will be hard though. Goes against my instincts. You know the Retriever thing. I puff out my chest and sit tall, determined to ignore the little quackers. I will be good, I will. But I just can’t resist a glance at the pond. The bird I’ve just released lifts her tail feathers and farts at me in defiance. Right, that’s it! I’m not putting up with … ‘Now we’ve got that clear I’ll show you around, but take it easy, okay? You need time to heal.’ I focus back on Rose. Butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth. ‘Stand!’ she commands. I obey, quick-smart and walk to heel. I know how to do all this easy stuff. Sit! Heel! Drop! Stay! Fetch! All those commands – and many more – were drilled into me at guide dog school. Although I didn’t know at the time, getting to guide dog school is like winning a scholarship to Oxford or Cambridge. And I got top marks there, too. I was destined for great things. It wasn’t until my first posting that I disgraced myself and suffered the ultimate humiliation – but that’s a story for another time. Ahead is a tumbledown shed covered in ivy. As wide as a garage, its lopsided wooden doors hang open on broken hinges. The ancient black paint peels and curls. I sniff a door post and pick up an old wee-mail – that’s the doggie equivalent of an email. It’s a message from a slightly deluded Dachshund called Legless who believes she is named after the elf in Lord of the Rings because of her exceptional speed. On those little legs? Somehow, I don’t think so. Wee-mails, though brief, go one step further than emails: they convey our mood. Hers is elation. She boasts she’s finally bitten the postman’s ankles after three years of trying. That I can believe: her head’s at the perfect height. ‘Aunt Kay used to love gardening. It helped her unwind,’ Rose says, staring at a dented green wheelbarrow just inside the door. ‘She could grow anything. She’d sing to the flowers, you know.’ I look up and see tears in her eyes. I lean against her leg and feel her sadness. It reminds me of my own. I don’t understand why big’uns’ eyes fill with water but I do understand the pain of loss and Rose clearly misses this Aunt Kay very much, just like I pine for Paddy, my old master. It feels like I’ve lost a limb and although it will never come back, the memory is agonisingly real. I howled each night at the vet’s, calling Paddy’s name, but in my heart I knew he wouldn’t come. I miss Paddy’s hand stroking my head. I miss our fishing trips together and how he’d never scold me when I scared away the fish. I miss our evenings; he’d sit in his armchair tapping away at his laptop as I lay at his feet, head resting on his leather slippers. And I miss his smell: musty books, Listerine, woollen cardigan, and liver treats, which he always kept in his cardigan pocket, just in case. ‘Should mow the lawn one day,’ Rose mumbles, as she walks away. It takes me a while to focus on what she’s said. Mow? Why? I prefer meadow. Love the way the dandelions tickle my belly and the bees scatter as I charge through the tall grass. I place a wee-mail above Legless’s ancient message. No need to sign it because every dog has a unique aroma. It’s the same wee-mail I’ve left whenever I’ve had the chance to pee. It conveys my shame. I ask one question: who killed Professor Patrick Salt? I hang my head and tuck in my tail as I plod after Rose. She’s investigating his murder, but little does she know, so am I. I failed Paddy in life and I have vowed I will not fail him in his death. Rose waits for me. ‘Poor boy,’ she says, giving me a pat. ‘I shouldn’t get cross with you. It’s not your fault I’ve messed up at work.’ It’s early evening in September and summer came late this year so the air is still warm and the light has only just begun to fade. We stroll by a greenhouse with panes of glass missing and tomato plants laden with over-ripe fruit. I can smell their sweetness. I also detect a ratty scent. I clock it for investi-gation later, and follow Rose to the very end of the garden where a tall oak tree tickles the sky and a thick yew hedge marks the boundary. My heart races. This must be where the river is. Oh boy! Just like home. Then I remember this is now my home. In the distance, there’s a low rumble that becomes a clackety-clack. It gets louder as it draws closer. I feel vibrations through the ground. My nose is stung by a gush of air, ripe with hot metal, engine oil and rubber. I step back and bark a warning, then there’s a fearful scream from the other side of the hedge. It tears by so fast it’s gone in seconds, its bright eyes glaring at me through gaps in the foliage. My tail is up and curled over my back like a question mark, my legs wide set, then I charge forward and growl at the creature. I must defend us. I bark at Rose to move away, but she stands there laughing, her ponytail bobbing. ‘It’s all right, Monty, just a train. You’re going to have to get used to it. The line’s on the other side of the hedge.’ She strokes my head and I relax. Not sure about this train thing. Never met one before and until I’ve thoroughly sniffed it, I’ll be on my guard. Rose kneels down and looks me in the eye. ‘The fence is pretty rotten and I can’t afford to fix it. So I need you to promise me you won’t run away.’ She scratches behind my ear. Oh yeah! Up a bit, that’s it. A bit more. Ah yes, bliss! ‘Okay?’ For you, anything! I promise. Unless … Truth be told, I have an Achilles Heel. My nose might be my greatest asset but it’s also the chink in my furry armour. I’m a food addict. There. I’ve said it. An addict. Food’s the reason I’m no longer a guide dog. The most embarrassing moment of my life. But then, that’s how I met the Professor. Life’s confusing, isn’t it? ‘Hungry?’ Rose asks. Something tells me we’re going to get along just fine. I walk back to the house, so close to Rose she almost trips over me. She unlocks the stable-style kitchen door. It scrapes the worn yellow and brown, diamond-patterned lino floor. I am hit by a smorgasbord of smells: some very old indeed. What better place to inhale the house’s history than the kitchen? Rose’s scent is the newest: vanilla and honey, peppermint and the sea. She must’ve spent her childhood near the ocean because the sea is part of her make-up now. But her clothes carry the odours of her work: bitter coffee, stale cigarettes, plastic chairs in over-heated rooms and someone else’s sweat that’s tinged with the vinegary smell of fear. Ever wondered why your dog sniffs you when you come home? He wants to know where you’ve been and who you’ve met. There’s a loud ringing coming from Rose’s pocket. I feel her body tense. She answers. ‘Sir?’ Her hand trembles. I look around, searching for the threat, ready to defend her. A man yells down the phone. ‘Sidebottom, get in here now!’ Chapter Two (#u768dc580-c032-59bb-84b2-d32cbf7a47e6) If you asked Rose Sidebottom to describe herself she would say she was of average height with a forgettable face, had average mousy hair tied back in a plain ponytail, and graduated from police college with an average pass. However, there were two things about her that were far from average. One was her embarrassing surname. She’d heard every single bottom joke ever invented. Her school days had been plagued by taunts, police college with practical jokes, and it was now proving a handicap in her struggle to be taken seriously as a trainee detective constable. The other unusual thing about Rose was her instinctive ability to know when somebody was lying. A tingling feeling, much like pins and needles, would spread from her hands and feet all over her body. As a child, it had sucked big time. Rose knew from a very young age that there was no Father Christmas or Tooth Fairy, that thunder wasn’t God moving His furniture, that at twelve her best friend had betrayed her secret crush on a boy to a gang of girls who hated her, and that her father was cheating on her mother. Life would have been so much easier simply not knowing. However, as a police officer, her in-built lie-detector had sent her conviction rate through the roof, and at one domestic incident, she’d saved the life of a woman whose polite and helpful boyfriend had claimed all was well, as the woman lay bruised and bloodied in the back room. Her skill for ferreting out the truth helped her earn a coveted position on the Major Crime Team, much to the surprise and envy of her uniformed colleagues. But it hadn’t saved her from committing the mother of all cock-ups earlier that evening, which is why she now stood in front of DCI Craig Leach, wishing the ground would open up and swallow her. Her boss sat behind his messy desk; his shaved snooker-ball head welded to a heavy-set, bull-like body without, so it appeared, a neck. Rose tried not to fidget. ‘Do you realise what you’ve done?’ he said, his voice a low rumble, his Mancunian accent as strong as ever, even after twenty years working down South. He didn’t wait for her answer. He yelled, red-faced. ‘You’ve blown Operation Nailgun!’ Boom! Like a volcano erupting. Nailgun was a Drugs Squad operation. He continued, ‘DI Morgan’s livid, and I don’t blame him. Five months of surveillance up in smoke!’ The flats of his fat-fingered hands slammed down on the desk, the piles of files quivering. Rose jumped, and knew that through the glass wall behind her, DI Pearl heard every word. Why was he still here? They’d been working non-stop on the Salt case all weekend. Everyone else had gone home to get some much needed rest. ‘Sir, I had no idea who he was. I’m not involved in Operation Nailgun.’ ‘You walked straight past two undercover detectives in their car, and then Gary and Meg in the pub. They couldn’t believe it, and nor can I. What are you? Blind?’ ‘Sir, I barely know Gary and Meg.’ The Drugs Squad was on level four, Major Crime on two. Rose naturally spoke quietly, with a soft West Country accent, unwilling to engage in the loud banter and often coarse language of her fellow detectives. She knew Leach found her voice irritatingly mouse-like, so she raised it as best she could. But it sounded more like a croak. ‘I stopped at the pub to have a quick drink on my way home. To be honest, sir, I was a bit shaken up.’ She paused. Was she sounding weak? Leach nodded. ‘Go on.’ ‘Sir, he started chatting me up. I was flattered. He’s a good-looking bloke. Charming.’ ‘Ray Summers? The charming bastard deals in Class A drugs. The real nasty stuff. He’s … no, he was our only lead in an international drugs trafficking ring. Summers was meeting the local gang leader tomorrow. One more day and we’d have had those scumbags behind bars. Do you see what you’ve done?’ ‘I’m sorry, sir.’ Close to tears, she stared at the floor. ‘What the hell did you tell him?’ ‘Nothing, sir. I didn’t even tell him I was a police officer.’ Revealing her job sent any potential boyfriend running for the hills. It was a more effective turn-off than body odour, flatulence or a history of chain-saw massacres. ‘Well, you blew their cover, didn’t you! They raid his warehouse a half hour later and find a big fat nothing. No drugs, no computers, no financials, and he’s disappeared.’ Rose swallowed hard. Her career was about to end before it had even begun, because of one stupid mistake. Why-oh-why hadn’t she just picked up Monty and taken a bottle of plonk home with her instead? ‘How did he know you were a detective?’ ‘When I went to the loo, I left my handbag behind. He must’ve gone through it and found my warrant card.’ Leach raised surprisingly bushy eyebrows, given his scalp was so hairless. They reminded Rose of furry caterpillars on a white cabbage. ‘Never let your warrant card out of your sight, Sidebottom. This is your last chance.’ ‘Sorry, sir, it won’t happen again.’ ‘Did he at least say anything that could help us find him?’ ‘He was on the phone when I got back from the loo. He ended the call when he saw me, but I heard him say something about a shipment. That it had to be stopped. Then he made his excuses and left in a hurry. I didn’t put two and two together until Meg came over and gave me an ear-bashing.’ Leach had his hands clasped together on the desk so tightly that his puffy knuckles turned purple. ‘So, the Super chews my ear off, Morgan wants you back on the beat, and God knows what your team will think of you. Great result!’ He threw his weight into the back of his chair. The bags under his eyes were darker and puffier than usual. She felt sorry for him. ‘If your colleagues don’t trust you, you’re no use to them or me. You need to fix this. Start by apologising to Morgan and don’t put a foot wrong on the Salt case, you hear?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ Leach placed his hands behind his head and studied her flushed face. ‘Rose, are you sure you really want to do this job?’ His voice had softened. ‘We get to see people at their worst. Doing terrible things. Murder, torture, abuse. It’s long hours, the public and the media generally hate us, and it’s hard on relationships.’ Rose glanced at his ring finger where a wedding band had once been, leaving a permanent dent in his pudgy skin. ‘Yes, sir.’ She looked straight into his eyes. ‘I’ve always wanted to be a detective.’ Leach tilted his head to one side. ‘God, you remind me of Kay when she was your age. Stubborn and na?ve.’ He smiled, which was rare and therefore unnerving. His teeth were surprisingly small for such a large head. Like baby teeth. ‘She found it tough going at first, you know. She was sensitive, found the blood and guts hard to deal with. But she was dogged. Wouldn’t give up. Became the best DI I’ve ever known.’ ‘I want to be like Kay, sir. I know I can do it.’ Leach nodded as he stood. ‘Maybe. But this is a big cock-up, Rose. I’m increasing your supervision and assigning you to an experienced DI …’ Opening his office door, Leach beckoned Dave Pearl inside. A slick dresser, fancied by most of the female officers and popular with the lads, he sauntered into the office as if it were his own. ‘Dave is your new mentor.’ Just when Rose thought it couldn’t get any worse, it just did. Dave’s tanned forehead creased into a frown as his eyes, the colour of tarnished silver, looked down at her with contempt. ‘All right with you, Dave?’ asked Leach. When Pearl realised he was being watched, he produced an affable smile. ‘Of course, boss.’ ‘You do what Dave asks and nothing more, you got that?’ said Leach, picking up his coat. ‘Right, I’m off.’ He strode out, leaving Rose alone with Pearl. Pearl’s smile vanished. ‘Well, well, so the chosen one’s fallen from grace,’ he mocked. Despite being almost a foot shorter, she squared up to him. ‘Guv, I’m very sorry about what’s happened and I’m going to work extra hard on the Salt case. I know I’ve got a lot to do to win back people’s respect.’ He shook his head. ‘You know, I just don’t think it’s going to be that easy. I mean, who’s going to want to work with you after this?’ ‘If you give me a chance, the others will follow, sir.’ Pearl leaned closer. ‘You’re not up to the job. Never were.’ ‘I know what this is really about. Just because I didn’t want to go for a drink with you …’ ‘You’ve got it all wrong, lady. Why would I want to go out with someone who drops her knickers for a drugs trafficker?’ She balled her hand into a fist but punching him would instantly end her career. ‘How dare you!’ ‘Just because you’re Kay Lloyd’s niece, doesn’t mean you’ve got any talent. Remember that.’ Chapter Three (#u768dc580-c032-59bb-84b2-d32cbf7a47e6) Rose left me in the kitchen with a water bowl and a promise she wouldn’t be long. She kept her promise, but the yelling man has upset her: Rose hangs her head like a dog that’s been scolded. I nudge her leg and lean against her, wagging my tail in support. She bends down, taking me in a hug. ‘What a mess!’ she sighs into my fur. Mess? From under her armpit I look around the kitchen. It’s not that much of a mess and I’ve already tidied up a Marmite-coated crust I found under the table earlier. In the sink are some Chinese take-away food cartons that, thankfully, haven’t been washed and could do with a good licking. I’m happy to oblige, all in the name of orderliness, naturally. Sadly, there’s not a whiff of McDonald’s – my absolute favourite. Every dog’s absolute favourite, truth be told. I just wish McDonald’s would sell doggie-burgers, or better still, open up separate doggie caf?s. How about Big Barker burgers, Woofer Wraps and Puppyccinos? Oh dear, I’m salivating at the thought, all over Rose’s shoes. ‘Let’s get you fed,’ she says. She sounds chipper, but her anxiety thrums like a dragonfly’s wings. From a bag, she pulls out some dog food tins. How do I know they’re for me? They have an ecstatic Labrador on the label, that’s how! They only grin like that when there’s food in the offing. When Rose opens a cupboard door, I smell wafts of joyful laughter, roses, ripe tomatoes and rich earthy smells. I wonder if this might have been Aunt Kay, as her scent is faint, and scents fade with time. However, the kitchen’s surfaces hold a lot of stories. From the scratched skirting boards I pick up a whiff of Legless the Dachshund, mostly washed away after many years of mopping. A farmhouse oak table has deep gouges and is marked with ink, from a time when this house was full of children. The only thing that seems new is the washing machine that’s winking its red light, stuffed full of clean washing waiting to be hung up to dry. ‘How much should I give you?’ Rose asks, peering into an open tin of meaty goodness. ‘Never had a dog as big as you, Monty.’ How much? All of it! She looks down at me and I lick my lips. She shrugs. ‘All of it, I guess.’ We’re really bonding! She scoops out the gooey yumminess into a bowl, adds a white tablet, then places the bowl on the floor. She is surprised when I wait for the command. ‘It’s okay. Eat it.’ I wolf down my meal fast because you never know when another dog will turn up. I then lick the bowl until I swear I can taste the ceramic glaze. Rose hangs her washing up on the garden line strung up between two trees and I help by stealing socks so she has to chase me to get them back. What fun! When the last sock is coerced from my mouth, Rose is breathless and laughing. She gets me in a playful head lock. ‘You’re naughty, but you’ve cheered me up no end.’ Glad to be of service! Now to focus on her meal. She chops chicken breast and some vegetables. I breathe in the delicious sweet fleshiness of chicken sizzling in a wok and look up at her, eyes wide with hope. Her mobile rings just as I have her in my hypnotic gaze. Damn! I swear she was about to give me some. Rose peers at the phone’s screen and looks relieved. At least it’s not the shouting man again. Instead, oinking noises are coming from the phone. ‘Mum, that’s never been funny,’ Rose sighs. Is her mother a pig? Surely not? ‘Come on dear, what do you expect? You’ve joined the pigs.’ Another oink. I haven’t seen Rose with a single pig so I have no idea what the crazy woman is talking about. Rose’s voice falters. ‘Maybe not for much longer.’ ‘That’s wonderful news! I can’t wait to tell your father.’ ‘No it’s not, Mum! I love what I do. But I’ve ruined a surveillance operation and my boss thinks I’m a blithering idiot. Can’t say I blame him.’ Her heartbeat is up, her pale face flushed like sunburn. I nuzzle her leg. ‘Don’t you let those bastards bully you. I know what they’re capable of, remember. I’ve been on the receiving end of their brutality.’ Rose rolls her eyes. ‘Give it a rest, mum. You’ve never even been arrested.’ The succulent meaty smell is too much. Two long strands of my drool are competing to reach the floor first. But because I tilt my head, one stalactite of saliva lands on Rose’s knee. ‘Oh, Monty,’ she says, wiping it away with paper towel. ‘So you have a boyfriend? I was beginning to wonder if there was any hope.’ ‘Monty’s a dog.’ She lets go of the spatula and strokes my head. A big sigh from the pig. ‘Why aren’t I surprised! You know, Allen still asks after you.’ ‘He has bad breath and doesn’t wear deodorant.’ ‘Well, at least he has a conscience.’ The chicken is burning. This is terrible. I nudge her hand. ‘Mum, gotta go. Just serving dinner. I’ll call soon.’ She serves her meal and eats at the table. I lie at her feet and keep an eye out for any titbits she might drop by mistake. As we say, If it’s on the ground, it belongs to the hound. But Rose is a tidy eater. Next time I’ll be upping the cute factor and begging. Paddy always used to give me a little piece at the very end of his meal. Except when he ate curry. He used to say that curry made my farts smell like cow dung, which didn’t seem a problem to me but made Paddy screw up his nose and make Phwoar noises. As Rose works at her laptop, I lie at her feet. I hear claws scratching wood and see a squirrel peering in through the kitchen window. It stretches out a claw and taps a Neighbourhood Watch sticker on the glass. I lift my head and it bolts. What a strange little fellow! Distracted, I almost miss a photo of my beloved Paddy in a scientific journal Rose is reading. He’s looking mighty fine in his best suit. I love the way his eyebrows and moustache are dark, but his beard and hair are almost white. I guess it’s the equivalent of a dog’s muzzle going white with age. The corners of his eyes are full of wrinkles because he smiles a lot and his eyes are a rich brown and welcoming like hot chocolate. I hear a whimper and realise it’s me. Rose looks down and strokes my head. It’s very soothing. The photo disappears from her screen but his face stays with me. I imagine Paddy’s house all dark and lifeless, and my doggie duvet near the back door, complete with a very grubby, and therefore exactly-how-I-like-it, fluffy yellow duck. It pongs to perfection. Once, Paddy placed my manky friend in the washing machine. It was a front loader, so just in time I snatched it away and hid it behind some hollyhocks. Even worse, every now and again, Paddy would insist on washing my doggie duvet cover. We’d argue over it, as I held one end in my jaws and Paddy hung on to the other. Of course, Paddy was the boss so I’d let go eventually, but I could never understand why he’d want to wash away my blissful cocktail of stink. Let me explain. My bed is an aromatic archive of my adventures, places I’ve been, animals and people I’ve met, and even old bones I’ve chewed. Ah, those bones! Most important of all, it’s a heady history of Paddy himself. Every time he touched my bed, he left his loving scent, as well as details of where he’d been, who he’d touched and what he’d eaten. My short-term memory is as sharp as a puppy’s canines. But, my long-term memory is as poor as a where-the-hell-did-I-put-my-nuts squirrel. So, my bed holds my long-term memories for me, which means I can revisit them whenever I wish. All it takes is a quick snuffle. Wash my bed and you wash away all those fond recollections – gone forever. The result? Olfactory amnesia. Very distressing. How I long to bury my nose in my doggie duvet and inhale all those happy times. ‘Goodnight, Monty,’ Rose says, startling me. I open my eyes to find she has created a makeshift bed of cushions. ‘I’ll collect your old bed as soon as I can,’ she says. ‘This’ll have to do for now.’ I sniff the cushions and jerk my head back. Lavender, moth balls and sickness and … oh dear. Someone was once very ill in this house. And sad. Sadness has a scent too; it’s like decaying rose petals. Chapter Four (#u768dc580-c032-59bb-84b2-d32cbf7a47e6) I rest my jowl on one paw and try closing my eyes. I am tired, but can’t sleep. I miss Paddy so much and want to be with him. My eyes spring open at the pitter-patter of tiny claws on the floor. I smell dustbins on a hot day, rotting fruit, greasy food wrappers and, strangely, a hint of hot metal, engine oil and rubber, just like the train. It can only be one thing, though: a rat. I creep towards the source of the sound. It is dark but I don’t need lights to see where I’m going. There is a small hole in the skirting board to the right of the larder door. Sticking out of that small hole is a rotund rat’s bottom. Its back legs are scrabbling on the lino’s worn and slippery surface. I can hear muttering. ‘Need to go on a diet,’ she says, with a high-pitched squeak, tail wriggling like a worm. Or what’s left of her tail. She appears to have lost half of it. I’m guessing in a trap. I was a young pup when I discovered how much big’uns hate rats. I’d been fostered to a family who were preparing me for guide dog school. This was in Windsor and my foster dad, John Collum, was a gardener at the castle. You may know something about Windsor Castle’s history – prisoners in towers, political intrigues, sieges, royal weddings, and the 1992 fire that was supposedly an accident; the canine wee-vine says otherwise. But most big’uns don’t know about the doggie shenanigans both past and present. The royal Corgis are master conspirators and escape-artists who regularly make a break for McDonald’s on the high street. The footmen have to disguise themselves as ordinary folk and catch them before they make headlines in the Sun. How do I know this? When the Family wasn’t in residence John let me join him in the castle grounds. That was when I first met the royal canines and first saw rats in traps, many dead or dismembered. I’ll never forget it. ‘Are you stuck?’ I ask the fat, furry bottom. Her squeak is ear-splitting and she bursts out of the hole, stubby tail first, like a cork from a champagne bottle. She sees me and does the kind of turn I’ve seen stunt car drivers do on TV – a hand-brake turn I think it’s called. Then she bolts. ‘Wait! I won’t hurt you. Just want to talk,’ I say, jogging along after her at a leisurely pace. She tries to escape through a gap under the door, fails, and makes a dash for it in the opposite direction. This goes on for a while, backwards and forwards across the lino until I decide to sit in the middle of the kitchen and just watch her scurrying to and fro, a bit like watching a tennis match. Eventually she stops darting about and leans against a table leg, gasping for breath. ‘Mate, you’re killing me,’ she says. ‘I’m not going to kill you,’ I reply. ‘I’ve been sitting here, just watching, in case you hadn’t noticed.’ Her bulbous, ball-bearing eyes assess me. ‘What do you want, then?’ she asks, her nose and gossamer whiskers twitching constantly. ‘Nothing, really. My name’s Monty and Rose adopted me today.’ ‘What you done then? Got kicked out, did you? Sent to the pound?’ Her breathing is less frantic and she rests her pink paws on her pot belly. But her stare is penetrating. I look away. ‘My master was killed by another big’un,’ I say. ‘I tried to defend him. I really did …’ I howl. I have to. I don’t know any other way. It’s just what we do. In the distance, another dog hears me and howls back, in an Oprah-like, I-hear-your-pain way. When I look down again, the rat is sitting near one of my paws and stroking my fur. Because she is so small, it feels like a feather, and it’s very relaxing. ‘There, there, you poor thing,’ she says. ‘I’m really sorry to hear that. You lot are very loyal to your masters, so this must be hard for you, but I’m sure you did everything you could.’ I still can’t find words. Careful not to squash my new friend, I place my muzzle between my two front paws on the floor. She continues to stroke my fur. ‘Name is Betty Blabble. Nice to meet you, and look, sorry I was so suspicious earlier, but you’re sorta big, you know. Even for one of your lot. Gave me a shock, is all.’ ‘I don’t kill other animals. No need, since I’m always fed. Might have had fun chasing a few in my time, but that’s all. You’re safe with me.’ She peers into one of my eyes. It occurs to me that she can probably see her full reflection. ‘You know, I think you’re a good egg,’ she says, nodding. Her twitching whiskers touch my muzzle. My ears wriggle, as they do whenever I feel ticklish. She laughs, which sounds like nails scratching a chalk board, but it cheers me up. ‘Just so happens you’re in luck,’ she continues. ‘Rose might work for the filth, but she’s a good ’un. First copper I ever met who is. I only moved here a few days ago so I’m still getting to know the place, but she always has enough food in the pantry and doesn’t seem bothered with a few house guests, including yours truly.’ I lift my head, intrigued. ‘Why don’t you like the police?’ ‘Well now. That’s a long story, but all I’ll say is that I’ve had a few run-ins with the Law. In my Eurotunnel days. Turned over a new leaf since,’ she announces, nodding once for emphasis. ‘Which Law?’ I can’t help asking. ‘French or English?’ I haven’t met a Eurotunnel rat before but from her slight Kentish twang I’m guessing she’s spent more time at the British end of the tunnel. Who hasn’t heard of the vicious tunnel turf wars? Big’uns believed the damage caused by the bitter rodent rivalry was due to human vandalism. How wrong they were. There’s a hard glint in her eyes as she makes the zip-it sign across her mouth. I take the hint and change the subject. ‘Rose is going to find the man who killed my master. She’s working the case. And she rescued me from the vet’s. So in my book, she’s the best.’ Betty nods, whiskers tickling my nose again, my ears twitching in response. ‘I want to help her find Paddy’s killer, but don’t know where to start.’ ‘So, this killer. Did you get a good sniff of him?’ she asks. ‘A him or her?’ ‘Definitely male. And I got a good smell and taste. I took a chunk out of his arm.’ Betty holds up her tiny paw to high-five me. I lift mine, so my black pads hover near her. She smacks hers onto mine. ‘Good on ya,’ she says. ‘Proud of you.’ ‘So if I could get near enough to sniff the suspect, I’d know immediately if he was Paddy’s killer.’ ‘Now we’re talking,’ says Betty. ‘Can’t understand why big’uns don’t use your lot more often to solve crime. Your super-snorters could save a hell of a lot of time. I say, let the police dogs get on with it and fire all those useless coppers.’ I decide not to point out that Rose would be one of those coppers getting fired. ‘Paddy once told me we have the best sense of smell of any mammal, except for a bear.’ ‘I’ll have you know, Mr Monty, rats can beat dogs in one sniffing category. Landmines.’ She nods her head again for emphasis. I am taken aback and shift my paws, unintentionally knocking Betty over, who tumbles like a roly-poly Weeble. ‘I’m sorry, are you okay?’ She brushes her fur down. ‘Take more than that to worry me. Just try not to do it again, will ya?’ ‘So what did you mean about sniffing landmines?’ ‘Rats are the best at finding landmines. Don’t know why, but it’s a scientific fact. I know ’cause a mate of mine works for the army and he finds them.’ ‘Never knew that.’ ‘So,’ Betty says, sitting up on her hind legs, nose raised as if she has the scent of a plan. ‘Next question: do they have any suspects?’ ‘I don’t know. I’ve been at the vet’s since it happened.’ Betty stares at the gash of seventeen stitches; my chest fur has been shaved. ‘Well, mate, if we’re going to catch us a killer, you’re going to need to tell me everything.’ Seems like we are now a criminal-catching partnership. My heart lifts. I have a buddy to help me. Then it drops like a stone in a pond. I don’t want to relive the worst moment of my life. It makes me feel sick. I get up and pace around the table. ‘I can’t.’ ‘Go on love, tell me what happened.’ Chapter Five (#u768dc580-c032-59bb-84b2-d32cbf7a47e6) I look out of the window at the full moon. It reminds me of a triple cream brie I stole one Christmas from Paddy’s nibbles platter. Betty and I sit close together on the kitchen floor, bathed in the milky moonlight. ‘Go on,’ she says. ‘You can do it.’ I have relived the attack on my master many times in my head, always wondering the same thing. Could I have saved him? But I haven’t told anybody about what happened. I lick my nose, psyching myself up. My heart races. I swallow hard and begin my tale. ‘I knew there was something wrong, even before I saw the man. Perhaps it was the way the car crawled down our single-track lane, like that creepy cat two doors down who stalks birds. I heard the tyres crunch on the gravel and thought it odd, since our elderly neighbour, Mr Grace, never has evening visitors, and we weren’t expecting any. I should have paid more attention, but I didn’t because I was up to my chest in cool river water, facing upstream, searching for fish. Once I’m fishing, I’m focused. Paddy was sitting in the back garden working on his laptop as usual, sipping his after-dinner wine, the clink of the glass on the table top a familiar sound. Our home was a semi-detached, red-brick cottage, with low ceilings and narrow leadlight windows at the end of a cul-de-sac. The house was small – a two up, two down – but the garden was canine-heaven: quarter of an acre of lush green lawn, loads of flowerbeds to dig up, trees that dropped a plentiful supply of sticks to chew, and, best of all, on the other side of an easily jumpable gate, was the river. So there I was enjoying the currents tickling my belly when I spotted a cracker of a fish no more than a few inches from my right paw. Just in time I remembered not to wag my tail. I’ve learned the hard way that the ripples frighten fish away. I opened my jaw, ready to pounce, grizzly-bear-style. Then I heard our front doorbell ring. Paddy didn’t, but my hearing is much better than his. I should have gone to investigate then, but the fish was tantalisingly close.’ I drop my head, ears flattened. Betty interjects. ‘You weren’t to know Paddy was in danger. Stop blaming yourself.’ I shake my head and whimper. I should have known. It was my job to protect him. I swallow and press on with my tale. ‘I pounced, head into the water, mouth clamped down on what I hoped was a fish. But the slippery sucker zipped off and all I was left with was a mouthful of leaf litter and a nose full of water. When I’d stopped sneezing, I glanced up the garden path. I saw a man I didn’t recognise walking down the side passage. His face was covered with some kind of dark sock with holes in it for his eyes and mouth. Paddy stood abruptly, knocking his chair backwards. I was too far away to smell his fear but I knew instantly he was in danger. “What do you want?” Paddy said, his voice shaky. The man said nothing but raised a single gloved finger to his lips. He was telling Paddy to be quiet, in the same way Paddy used to tell me to be quiet when I got carried away barking at squirrels. I scrambled as fast as I could for the bank, but the water clung to me like porridge and I slipped on a stone. I got up, raced through the open gate and up the path. I detected the sour smell of Paddy’s terror. I heard his heart beating too fast. I bark. “Run,” I told him, “Run” But he didn’t run. Perhaps because he was an old man: in dog years he was eight, in big’uns years, fifty-six. Or perhaps because he was paralysed with fear. I’ll never know. I accelerated, my teeth bared, eyes locked onto the intruder, tail rigid and pointed at the sky. My growl was deep and rumbling. The intruder saw me and his body tensed. Yet he didn’t flee. I was not a surprise. Through the slit in his head-sock I saw him slowly lick his lips as if he wanted to eat me. For a split second I was confused about why he didn’t seem afraid, but I kept coming. The man had a knife in his hand. He stepped forward and plunged the blade into my master’s body. I roared in anger. As I leapt over plant pots to reach him, I inhaled his scent: the acrid tang of funny cigarettes, damp walls, some kind of stinky food not even I would want to eat, and a disease. One I have never smelled before. It reminded me of an insect, but I couldn’t place which one. Paddy opened and closed his mouth in shock. The attacker pulled out the blade. My dear master clutched his wound and fell to his knees. “No!” I bellowed, as I jumped at the masked man. He turned and swept his arm across my body. The blade sliced into my chest, slashing through skin and muscle. I yelped at the searing pain, but the force of my leap drove me forward and I crashed into him, knocking him onto his back. I rolled away as quickly as I could, afraid he would strike again. He missed by inches, and when the knife hit the ground I hurled myself at him. I bit deep into the arm holding the weapon and shook it with all my strength, tearing his flesh. It was his turn to yelp now. His flimsy jacket was no protection at all. I drew upon all my fury to dig my teeth deeper and deeper. The attacker dropped his knife, but then he kicked me so hard in the stomach, I had to let go. I managed to tear away part of his sleeve. I collapsed on my side, desperately trying to catch a breath. The left side of my face was sticky with blood oozing from my chest wound. The man cradled his mauled lower arm. I noticed part of a tattoo. He spun around, searching for his knife. I was lying on it. I stayed still. He glanced at Professor Salt, who lay motionless, eyes wide open, as if the setting sun was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. But I knew my dear master saw nothing. Those kind brown eyes were blind and cold, like marbles. The killer knew it too. Every time I breathed, it was as if I was being kicked again, but I managed to lift my head and snarl. I knew it was a weak snarl, but he didn’t. He backed away, grabbed Paddy’s laptop from the garden table, took his wine glass and entered the house. For the first time I noticed he was wearing a backpack. He slammed the back door shut, in case I followed. But I wasn’t leaving my master. I heard the killer move through the house to the study – I knew exactly which creaky floorboard he stepped on – and the rasp of desk drawers yanked open, then dull thuds. He was throwing something heavy in his bag. Then paper files slid against the fabric too. He moved to the sitting room, drawers thrown on the floor. Then the clank of metal. I crawled over to Paddy and licked his face. Perhaps he was alive after all? I so wanted to be wrong. I did it again and again and his head jerked with each increasingly desperate lick. But his eyes didn’t flicker. I whimpered, “Wake up! Please wake up!” I placed my snout above his mouth and sniffed for breath, hoping to feel the slightest waft of air. Nothing. I howled, my nose pointing to the darkening sky. I howled in pain and grief, as we have done for centuries. I howled because I can’t weep like big’uns. I howled because I love my master more than anything. I stopped when I heard the front door open and shut and the man’s feet crunched on the gravel drive. A car door opened. But not quietly. It was metal screeching on metal. I smelt diesel as he drove away, and heard a tink, tink, tink of something rattling. I grew weaker and dizzier as the pool of blood from my wound grew. But I would not leave Paddy. He was my world and someone had taken him from me. I howled again, but my head felt so very heavy. I rested it on Paddy’s chest, his white shirt drenched in blood where the blade had pierced his no longer beating heart. I vowed to myself that if I was to live I would never rest until I found the man who took him from me.’ Chapter Six (#ulink_15480d5c-b289-5cf4-8493-1a32098ca9a7) A wall clock marks our silence as the second hand jerks around the face. I slump to the floor. Betty sidles up to me and lies, belly down, prostrate along the length of my paw, gripping it tightly as if it were a life raft in a big sea. Her head droops. ‘You poor, poor thing,’ she replies, stroking my fur, as if she is paddling her raft. ‘And poor Mr Salt.’ Then she peers up at me, nose twitching. ‘Can you tell me what happened next?’ I return to my story. ‘Some time later, I became conscious of an old, quivering voice. Sounded like Mr Grace next door, but my eyes were shut. I opened my jaw and made a sound, a whimper, or at least I thought I did. I lapsed back into unconsciousness and heard Paddy calling my name. He’s alive! I rushed towards him and he knelt down and hugged me. I tucked my head into his chest and snuffled. “It’s okay, boy, I’m here,” he said. We walked side-by-side along the river bank. He threw a ball into the water and I charged after it, enjoying the river’s coolness. I was floating. No effort, no paddling, I was light as air. The surface glistened in the sun and I heard the words, “Fetch. There’s a good boy.” A piercing and repetitive wailing burst into my dream. It threatened to drag me back to reality. I wanted to stay with Paddy. But the siren grew louder and more insistent. Then footsteps, urgent voices, big’uns shouting. I felt a warm hand on my neck. It was hesitant, the person, perspiring. She didn’t like dogs, I could tell. Was she trying to hurt me? I managed to shift my head a little, which was still resting on Paddy’s chest. The hand was withdrawn in an instant and the woman leapt backwards like a startled cat. I mustered a weak growl. I wasn’t dead yet and wouldn’t let anyone touch my master if I could stop it. “Dog’s still alive!” the woman said. Someone else bent over me. “Got to move him. The man could be too.” I opened both eyes, or tried to, but the lashes touching Paddy’s chest were glued together with blood. “No,” I growled, and tried to sit up, but the growl came out as more of a moan. I recognised the police uniforms and those funny chequered hat bands that look like reflective dog collars. My upper body was lifted from my master’s chest, but my hind quarters stayed more-or-less where they had been. The result was I lay next to Paddy, my head facing him. The ambulance crew crouched over him searching for signs of life. A machine beeped and Paddy jolted, but his eyes still stared vacantly at the sky. I heard, “Get a vet. Dog’s bleeding to death by the looks of it. He’s a surviving witness, poor fellow.” “Witness? It’s just a dog!” More voices. More sirens, car doors slammed, feet pounding up and down the side path. Someone issued orders in that sharp tone of a big’un in charge. Another man kneeled next to me. His shoes were covered in blue booties and he wore a white body suit. He had black spiky hair and large hands. I knew he was a vet from the smell of disinfectant and various animals he carried on him. Several cats, a guinea pig, a tortoise (now, there’s an odd creature), dogs, even a Jack Russell I think I recognised called Flash, and cows. Lots of cows. Always know when a vet’s been near cows. That smell of shit stays with them for days. Of course, big’uns can’t smell it after they’ve washed, but we can.’ Betty nods knowingly. ‘Cows really stink.’ I didn’t want to say that rats are high up on the animal kingdom stink-ometer, too. Best not to offend her. I go on with my tale. ‘The vet patted my head. “It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, then he lifted my lip. “Lip colour’s not good. He’s lost a lot of blood.” He drew closer. “There’s some fabric caught between his teeth. Could be from the assailant,” he said, looking at Paddy lying next to me. As the vet listened to my heart through a tube, a small female hand gently touched my brow. I liked her smell. It reminded me of a vanilla milkshake at the seaside. She stroked my face to relax me as she read my name tag. She was not afraid of me at all. It was Rose. “Monty,” she said, then glanced at the vet. “Malcolm, we need SOCO to swab his mouth.” She waved someone over, also wearing an all-in-one white suit and small white mask. “Looks like he bit the killer,” Rose said to the lady, then to the vet, “Can you hold his mouth open while we do this?” “I’ll give him some pain relief first.” I felt a slight sting in the scruff of my neck and within seconds I was drowsy again. Before I knew it, strong hands had prized my jaw open and the SOCO lady had removed something stuck between a canine and my back teeth. Rose patted me, her disposable gloves bloody. “It’s okay, Monty, you’ve been very brave and we’ll take care of Professor Salt now.” I looked up into a heart-shaped face and large blue eyes. I saw her properly for the first time. Her smile was genuine and in human terms she had a natural kind of translucent-skinned beauty. None of that greasy make-up stuff that many women wear. Doesn’t taste good when you lick their faces, I can tell you. It’s hard to tell the age of a big’un but I guessed Rose was no more than twenty-one. Much younger than everyone else there. Distracted by her soothing presence, I didn’t see the vet approaching with a muzzle until it was too late. I pulled my head back and managed to lift a paw to push the muzzle away, but it was already fastened. I struggled, trying to cry out, “No, I must stay with Paddy.” But they didn’t understand. Rose said, “Must you use that? After all he’s been through? He won’t bite.” I tried to hold onto Paddy’s shirt but I couldn’t because of the muzzle. Malcolm placed his arms under me. “Best to be safe,” he replied as he lifted me, which is no mean feat given I’m thirty-eight kilos. “Would you look at that!” Rose said, looking down. “Dog was lying on the murder weapon. Good boy.” I tried to wriggle out of Malcolm’s grip, but the agony was too much, despite the painkiller. “It’s okay, boy, you’ll be okay,” Rose said, her voice soft as a puppy blanket. As Malcolm carried me away I glanced back to see people in white suits walking towards Paddy. Rose was about to pick up the knife but stopped. “Yes, take it,” I urged. “Sir, over here,” she called. People stepped out of his way. Eyes followed him. The man in charge. He reminded me of a Bulldog I once had a nasty encounter with. He placed the knife in a bag, nodded, and walked away. A tall blond man with slicked-back hair like an over-groomed show dog shouted at her, “Sidebottom! Over here! Leave that mangy dog. And mind where you step.” She looked in my direction and sighed, then strode towards the man who’d called her name. She referred to him as “guv”. He directed Rose into the house and as she walked, he stared at her backside. The alpha male claiming the female. All swagger. I didn’t like him at all.’ Chapter Seven (#ulink_de0540e6-eefe-58a5-9a31-bd49c6c5b264) I glance down at Betty who is up on her hind legs, shadow boxing. ‘Nasty toe-rag!’ she exclaims, punching the air. ‘How dare he! You’re not mangy, you’re a bleeding hero. You wait till I meet this big’un. I’ll give him a nasty nip.’ ‘I’m no hero, Betty, and I’d rather you help me find the killer.’ ‘With pleasure, Mr Monty. I need a project to focus on. Will stop me worrying about my pups.’ ‘You’re a mum?’ I dumbly look around as if her brood is huddled behind her. ‘All left the nest, doing their own thing now. Miss them terribly.’ Betty slumps against my leg. Her whiskers droop. She looks glum. ‘Must be difficult to let them go,’ I say. ‘That’s the hardest thing. I can’t help wondering if they’re okay. Makes no difference they’re my fifth litter. I love them just as much as my first.’ ‘And their dad? Is he with you?’ She leaps up. ‘You must be joking. He’s the reason I left the tunnel. Bastard!’ I clearly touched a sore point so I stay quiet. ‘Right, no point moping about. As my dear old mum used to say, “Don’t get down, get up and at ’em.” So, let’s get on with solving this murder.’ She scratches her head. ‘The killer’s scent? You’d know it again?’ ‘How could I forget?’ I snort, reliving the smell. ‘A stinky food, like rotten egg; damp walls; those funny cigarettes made from weeds; and a disease linked to an insect I’ve never come across before.’ ‘Do you mean he’s been smoking weed?’ I look blankly at Betty. ‘You know, makes big’uns giggle and eat lots.’ ‘I’m not sure about that. Sometimes Paddy would take me with him to the university and some of his students’ clothes smelt of this weed.’ Betty nods sagely. ‘And the disease? You think he’s ill?’ ‘There is a sickness in him but I don’t know what. It was like licking copper.’ ‘Do that often, do you?’ Betty is giving me a worried look. ‘Not really.’ ‘Okay, so we need to get your nose near some suspects. Sniff ’em out, so to speak. Hmm. How we going to do that?’ ‘That’s my problem, you see. I’m not a police dog. I want to help, but how can I, if I’m stuck here?’ ‘Shush, shush, shush. Let me think. What has Rose said? Has she mentioned any names?’ I think back to earlier that evening when she collected me from the vet’s. At first, all I remember is my excitement at being free of my cage and, once she was driving, all the amazing smells zooming past the open window so fast I could barely inhale them in time. I’ve always wondered why smells speed up when I’m in a car. Perhaps they’re running, trying to keep up with the moving vehicle, a bit like dogs chasing a cyclist? ‘Come to think of it,’ I say, after the clock’s second hand has twitched away a minute, ‘someone rang Rose when she was driving. She said she couldn’t believe a Larry somebody-or-other could be a murderer. Called him a … what was it? A small-time thief. That’s it.’ ‘Larry who?’ I get up and have a good shake to clear my mind. Fur and slobber flies everywhere. Luckily the fall-out misses Betty but a few slippery blobs litter the lino floor. ‘Larry Rice? Lice? No. Larry Ni … Nice! That’s it. Larry Nice. I remember thinking he didn’t sound nice at all.’ ‘Why’s this bloke a suspect?’ ‘Not sure, but I heard the caller say they’d let him go.’ ‘Did they say where he lived?’ she asks. ‘Don’t think so.’ ‘Then what we need is The White Pages. There’s a copy on the hall table. We look up his address and pay him a visit.’ Betty nods conclusively. But her brow slowly creases. ‘Oops. We may have a slight problem.’ ‘What’s that?’ ‘I’ve eaten the top right hand corner.’ ‘Of that big fat book?’ I stare at her large stomach. No wonder she’s so round! She examines her claws, avoiding eye contact. ‘I get peckish.’ I shake my head. ‘It doesn’t matter anyway. I can’t leave here. I promised Rose I wouldn’t run away.’ Betty tutt tutts. ‘Oh you dogs are so domesticated. Think outside the square, will you? I get that you’ve been trained to take orders. But don’t tell me you’ve never broken the rules. Come on! You must have.’ ‘I was a naughty pup. I mean, who isn’t? Chewed a few shoes, stole food, peed on a trouser leg, that sort of thing. But I soon learned not to. And, okay, I’ll admit to a few slip-ups since, but they weren’t intentional. Not planned, like this. And they always involved food. I’m good as gold until I smell … well, anything meaty, to be honest. Then my mind gets fuzzy and I completely forget what I’m meant to be doing. It’s a bit of a problem, really.’ Betty scurries up my leg and sits between my shoulder blades and whispers in my ear. ‘There you go! Why’s this any different? And finding Larry is for a good cause. After all, we’re trying to catch a killer.’ I remember Paddy chuckling at a TV cartoon in which a tiny red devil sits on one shoulder and a little white angel sits on the other. Both are whispering in the big’un’s ears. I glance round at Betty – my own little devil. ‘Betty, you’re asking me to break one of the canine Ten Commandments: Obey your master. I promised Rose I wouldn’t run away. This is premeditated disobedience.’ She leans closer to my ear. ‘But you’re helping Rose solve the case. There are exceptions to every rule, Mr Monty.’ Betty just doesn’t get it. Leaving Duckdown Cottage without Rose’s permission is like Mutiny on the Bounty, Spartacus and Rebel Without a Cause all rolled up into one mega-pic of rebelliousness. It’s all very well squeezing through the hedge, lapping up the left-overs of someone’s lunch and then hopping back into the garden again. It’s a whole other thing to travel far from home. Betty scampers back down my leg and stands in front of me. ‘You’re not serious about these what-did-you-call-’em? Commandy things?’ ‘I am, Betty. The Commandments were laid down by our founding fathers, way back when the wolf nation first agreed to work alongside big’uns. They’re our laws and are centuries old and every dog in the world is taught them as a pup. It’s because of these laws that we have such a special relationship with people.’ ‘Yeah, but there’s got to be a rule about keeping your master safe, surely?’ ‘That’s number three: defend your master.’ ‘What’s number one then?’ ‘Love your master.’ ‘Exactly!’ Betty jumps up and down with excitement. ‘So you did your very best to defend him. But now you need to demonstrate how much you love him and break the dis-obeying rule so you can hunt down his killer. You see where I’m coming from?’ I shake my head. ‘If I run away to find this man, I risk being ostracised by my kind. Do you understand what that means?’ ‘Oh yes, only too well.’ Betty slumps against my leg like a deflated balloon and stares into space. Her moods go up and down very fast. I wait. Nothing happens, so I nudge her gently with my nose. No response. ‘Are you an outcast, Betty?’ She looks sideways at me and sighs. ‘Nah. Course not.’ But she doesn’t sound convincing. Suddenly she jumps up and points a paw at the moon shining in through the kitchen window. I’m so surprised I rear up and bark. ‘But you’re not going to break any commandy things, Mr Monty, because Rose won’t even know you’ve left the house. We’ve got all night, you see. This Larry bloke is bound to be a local, so you’ll be back before she wakes up. So no harm done.’ I know what she’s proposing isn’t right but I’ll never find Paddy’s killer if I never leave the cottage. ‘Look. At least let’s find out where he lives before we make any decisions?’ Betty urges. ‘What harm can that do?’ I nod. Chapter Eight (#ulink_331e8c86-85e0-5bfc-b2a5-6a5203a63e87) I position my front paws on a narrow hall table, my hind legs on the floor. A phone, notepad, mug of pens and a brick-thick copy of a phone directory lies, dusty and unused, on top. With my nose I push The White Pages until a corner of it hovers beyond the table top. Tiny bits of dust rain down on Betty and she sneezes, and again, and again. I take the big book in my mouth, careful to apply just enough pressure to keep it there, but not enough to tear the cover. It sure is heavy! As usual my mouth is full of slobber and there is a moment when I feel the directory slip, but I tilt my head just in time to stop it falling. Relieved, I quietly place it on the worn carpet. ‘Allow me,’ the rat says, spying the drool-coated cover. She slides on her belly across its surface, her fur like a cloth, wiping up the mess. ‘Who needs Sainsbury’s wipes when you’ve got me?’ She chuckles like raindrops on a tin roof. I stare down at a well-chewed directory that’s three years out of date. And it’s not just the top right hand corner that’s missing. ‘I thought you said you’d only nibbled a corner?’ ‘Okay, so it’s a little bit more than that.’ I give the book a shove with my nose and it falls open at the E section. ‘Can you turn the pages? My paws are too big.’ ‘No problem, governor.’ Digging her front claws into the carpet, she kicks out her back legs, flipping the pages at lightning speed. ‘Tell me when to stop. I can’t read.’ ‘Slow down,’ I say. ‘How’d you learn reading then? The Professor teach you?’ ‘Yes, but don’t tell anyone, Betty. Do you know what happens to animals that do anything out of the ordinary? They put them in cages and experiment on them. Betty, you’ve got to promise me you’ll keep this to yourself.’ ‘I promise, on my pups’ lives.’ Betty is panting. ‘This is like a bleeding workout, this is.’ She passes the Ls. ‘Paddy was interested in how animals communicate, especially bees. He was a professor of bees, you see.’ ‘Didn’t know they had such a thing.’ She’s slowing down. ‘Paddy saw I was a fast learner, so he started teaching me the English language. I’m not talking about sounds and tones or basic commands. I mean letters of the alphabet.’ Betty stops kicking the pages and stares up at me, jaw open, her minuscule sharp teeth on display. I bet they could inflict a nasty nip. ‘Bleeding Nora! Are you for real?’ ‘I got lucky; I had a brilliant teacher. But I get in a muddle when there are too many words, and Mr Google baffles me.’ ‘Who’s Mr Google?’ ‘A very clever man who lives inside a computer,’ I say. ‘Can you keep going, Betty? We’re nearly there.’ She turns round and kicks the pages again. She reaches the Ns. ‘Stop!’ I follow the columns of names, addresses and phone numbers: A Nice Benjamin Nice Mrs CE Nice Then nothing. Just teeth marks and a circular hole. ‘Oops,’ she says. ‘Did I eat Larry Nice?’ ‘Oh dear.’ ‘I never thought I was actually going to need to use it.’ Betty looks sheepish, if it’s possible for a rat to look sheepish. I sit and consider our situation. ‘I guess we’re going to have to use Rose’s laptop, but I’m a klutz with the keyboard. I’m going to need some help.’ ‘Don’t look at me,’ says Betty. ‘I can’t spell and I wouldn’t know one end of a computer from another. There wasn’t much call for reading in them tunnels.’ ‘Then we need Dante. He’s really fast with a keyboard.’ ‘Dante!’ Betty laughs. ‘Jeez, he must fancy himself with a name like that.’ ‘Well, he is a magpie.’ Betty jumps back as if she’s touched hot metal. ‘Magpie! What you doing being friendly with those devils? They’re nasty buggers.’ ‘Dante’s all right. He can be a bit snappy sometimes and he thinks he’s a bit of an intellectual, but he’s helped me out before.’ ‘A magpie?’ Betty spits on the floor, although the gob is so small I can barely see it. ‘Nah, I’ll never trust one of them. They lie and steal and he’ll probably try to eat me. Can’t you use the laptop without him?’ ‘Why don’t you give him a chance?’ ‘You guarantee my safety?’ ‘I’ll keep you safe. But first we have to contact him.’ ‘So how do we do that?’ ‘A torch will do.’ ‘Where do we find one of them, then?’ ‘Paddy used to keep his in a cupboard under the sink.’ The kitchen cupboard doors have small circular knobs and I manage to pull them open, but there is no sign of a torch. There are two bins under the sink: everyday waste and recycling. Betty has crawled onto my shoulder and we both inhale the left-overs. Before I know it, Betty has dived head first into the general waste bin as if it were a swimming pool. I can’t resist any longer and shove my nozzle in and ferret around for left-over chicken. I lick my muzzle. Now what was I doing? I shake my head, realising I got side-tracked. Again. ‘Betty, we must stay focused. Get out of there, will you?’ ‘You’re one to talk,’ she replies, part-buried under scraps. It takes all my willpower to turn away but just as I’m free of the bins, the larder starts calling to me. Before I know it, my nose is stuck to the door as if it were a magnet. Ah, those biscuits smell so good. ‘Come on,’ Betty says, suddenly by my side, a little slimy with soy sauce in her fur. ‘We’ll have a big feast later. Let’s keep looking for that torch.’ I plod from room to room, with Betty at my side. She has to run to keep up. I discover a dusty dining room that hasn’t been used for years; a cosy sitting room with faded sofa and armchairs; a very messy study with piles of books on the floor like mini skyscrapers; and an under-the-stairs loo. The toilet is making gurgling noises. ‘Should it be doing that?’ I ask. Betty shrugs. ‘No idea, mate.’ I peer up the stairs. I know they creak but I don’t know where to tread yet to avoid the noise. I prick up my ears to check Rose is still asleep. Her breathing is slow and steady with the occasional little snore. Luckily, she’s a deep sleeper. ‘Best you don’t come up, Betty. If Rose hears me, all she’ll do is send me back to the kitchen. But, if she sees you, I’m not sure how she’ll react.’ ‘I’ll wait here then,’ Betty replies, and plonks down on a threadbare section of carpet and starts licking the soy sauce off her fur. I creep up, as quiet as a mouse – or a rat – although Betty has to be one of the chattiest rats I’ve ever met. I’m making good progress when the tread of a middle stair makes a rasping sound. I lift my paw and freeze. Rose’s breathing is still a slow rhythm. She hasn’t heard. I continue and hit another loose floorboard and this one makes a terrible screech. Again I freeze, paw raised. Rose’s breathing pattern remains unchanged. On the landing, I find only one door is shut: Rose’s bedroom. There are three other rooms. One is a bathroom – I smell drains, toilet cleaner and fruity shampoo. I tiptoe in to find an ancient bath and basin in a very stylish yellow, something like the colour of vomit, and a toilet with a split wooden seat. Dangling from the chain-pull is a rubber basin plug instead of a wooden handle. There’s a mirror above the basin, the surface mottled with damp. I peer up at some shelves littered with lotions. But I can’t see a torch. A silvery face suddenly appears at the bathroom window and I jump backwards, almost knocking over the bin. It’s that same squirrel again, tail flicking aggressively. What is his problem? To confuse me further, I swear I can hear him humming the theme tune for Mission: Impossible. I remember it from the time Paddy and I watched the movie together on TV. I back out and am about to enter an empty bedroom when I detect something I’ve only ever come across once before: the smell of a human sickness that causes people to waste away and die. It’s not easy to describe but it’s like a mix of sunburnt human skin and rust. I back away. I really don’t want to go in there and it takes all my willpower not to whimper. It’s faint so I know the person isn’t there any more. I pace round in circles, willing myself to get on with the search, and, holding my breath, I enter. The room has curtains and a bedspread in matching florals. The double bed has a carved wooden bedhead. Dolls in dresses, with glass eyes and long eyelashes, are arranged on the bed near the pillows, and a tasselled lampshade over a reading lamp sits on the bedside table. On that table are two gardening books and on top of them are some reading glasses. I breathe. I’m drawn to the many photographs on a chest of drawers, some faded, some in colour, some black and white. In them, the number of people gets fewer and fewer, as the woman who is in all the photos gets older and older. One particular photo stands out. It is of two women arm in arm and both look to be about Rose’s age. One is tall with dark curly hair, wearing dungarees that flare out at the bottom. The other is of petite build, with mousy brown hair that flicks outwards on either side of a central parting, and pale blue eyes. She’s wearing chunky gold earrings and a skirted fawn suit with huge shoulder pads. I am struck by the similarity between this last woman and Rose. But this image was captured a long time ago. I sniff this photo and pick up the aroma of decaying rose petals – the smell of sadness. The wardrobe is closed but I know that the clothes hanging inside belonged to a woman who smoked cigarettes and liked a particular perfume. I think she was Aunt what-you-me-call-it. My head hangs and my tail droops. I am overcome by the room’s melancholy. I almost give up my search when I spot a pair of fluffy slippers and a torch under the bed. Perhaps she had it there in case of a power cut? I take its long rubber handle in my mouth. It’s a relief to leave the room. The torch is heavy and hangs at an awkward angle but I manage to carry it down the stairs and into the kitchen. ‘Now what?’ asks Betty. I put the torch down and look out of the window at the full moon. ‘We go outside and get Dante’s attention.’ ‘Mate, door’s shut, in case you haven’t noticed.’ My mouth curls into a smile. ‘Leave that to me.’ Chapter Nine (#ulink_c1e3968b-3aef-521b-a403-3680adbd7848) The stable-style back door has a wrought-iron handle that reminds me of a rawhide chew with a knot at one end. I jump up, place my front paws on the door, take the handle between my teeth and drop my head. Trouble is the door opens inwards so the first time I do this, I succeed in unlatching it, but my weight shuts it again. The next time I get it right. I use my paws instead of my mouth to push the handle down and teeter on my back legs, dropping to all fours as soon as I can. The door opens a fraction but that’s all I need. I squeeze a paw and then my head into the gap, and force it open. I grab the torch and Betty and I walk out into the moonlit garden. I can see everything as clear as day, including the sleeping ducks and a couple of startled hares, eyes as wide as my water bowl. ‘Now what? Now what?’ Betty squeals, as she hops about with excitement. I drop the torch in the grass and nuzzle the handle until I find the bumpy bit Paddy used to push to switch it on. ‘Press this,’ I say to Betty. She does so, and jumps back as a powerful beam of light illuminates the middle section of the garden. The hares do backflips and dart for the nearest cover. I angle the torch so that the big oak tree is floodlit. It’s like I’m calling Batman from his cave. I twist the handle a little, first one way, and then the other, so the beam shudders against the tree’s tall branches. ‘Oh wow!’ says Betty, clapping her paws together. I can’t speak – I have my mouth full. I just hope that Dante is near enough to see it. He’s very fond of bright lights and shiny things. Well, a bit more than fond. It’s his obsession. Just as mine is food, his is all things glittery. It’s landed him in all sorts of trouble, and I mean trouble with The Law. Big’uns’ law. ‘I say! You there! What do you think you’re doing?’ I almost drop the torch in shock. I can’t work out where the nasal voice is coming from. He sounds like he has a clothes peg on his nose. ‘There!’ Betty says, pointing at the oak’s wide trunk. Lowering the torch a fraction, I see an upside down squirrel clinging to the bark with its claws. ‘I don’t wish to be rude but this behaviour just won’t do. This is a nice neighbourhood,’ he continues. Since dogs and squirrels have existed, we’ve always played Chase. We chase squirrels on the ground and they scamper into the trees. Gives us the opportunity for a jolly good bark. No harm done. But this squirrel is clearly in no mood for fun. I lay the torch on the lawn and go for the friendly approach. ‘Hi there. Name’s Monty, and this is Betty. What’s yours?’ ‘Nigel. Your local Animal Neighbourhood Watch representative.’ He puffs out his chest. ‘Very important work. Without my constant vigilance, this quiet hamlet would descend into anarchy.’ ‘It would?’ ‘It would,’ says Nigel, flicking his tail. ‘Look, I don’t want us to get off on the wrong paw, but there are by-laws about this sort of thing.’ Betty and I exchange glances. ‘What sort of thing?’ I ask. ‘Disturbing the peace, of course. You can’t flash lights like that at this time of night. It’s just not neighbourly. The hares are complaining of migraines already.’ ‘We won’t be much longer. We’re trying to attract someone’s attention.’ ‘And what will be next? A rock band? Drunken brawls?’ The squirrel scampers up the trunk and stops on a branch. ‘Mark my words, young hound. Your actions tonight are the first step on the slippery slope to oblivion.’ In a flash of vibrating tail, Nigel disappears into the dark foliage. He’s humming the Mission: Impossible theme tune again. ‘Who does he think he is?’ Betty protests. ‘Let’s get on with it, shall we?’ I say, gripping the torch between my teeth and waving it about. It’s not long before I hear a familiar chattering in the dis-tance. Initially, I mistake a large bat for Dante. Then I see the magpie, heading straight for the flickering beam. As he crosses it, his black and white plumage is illuminated – it’s Batman in a white T-shirt. ‘Bleeding Nora,’ says Betty, as she runs under my body to hide. ‘He’s a big bastard!’ I lower the torch and bark, as quietly as I can, ‘Dante, it’s me, Monty. Down here!’ I glance at the upper windows but Rose’s face doesn’t appear. The magpie lands, claws outstretched, a few feet away. Betty cowers. In the torch’s beam his striking features are visible – black beak and head, white above his wings and on his belly, and long dark tail feathers that shimmer a peacock green. ‘Is this your idea of a joke?’ he snaps, stomping towards me, his black, beady eyes angry. ‘You’re giving me a headache.’ ‘Dante, calm down, I need your help and had to get your attention.’ I try to keep my voice to a quiet woof so that Rose doesn’t wake. The magpie goose-steps up and down. ‘Oh for goodness’ sake, Monty, find someone else to tap those bloody keys. I have better things to do.’ ‘No, no. This is important.’ ‘What? Doggie lost his bone?’ He’s in a foul mood. Not good. ‘My master’s dead.’ Dante dips his head, as if scooping up water, and his tail lifts high. He then returns to his normal stiff posture. ‘Dead? Oh dear me. I see.’ He clears his throat. ‘That explains what you’re doing so far from home.’ He resumes his pacing. ‘I did wonder what all that commotion was about on Friday. Lots of shiny badges and glistening equipment.’ I step closer, forgetting my jittery friend sheltering beneath me. She darts to one side, before I tread on her. ‘Did you see what happened?’ My tail has gone berserk. It’s going so fast Dante’s feathers are getting ruffled by the breeze I’m creating. ‘Do you know where the killer went?’ Dante has noticed Betty. His eyes sparkle. He darts forward, sharp beak open. I block his path. ‘No! Betty is not a midnight snack.’ My teeth are bared. Shocked, Dante backs off. He knows that if I chose, I could break his neck. ‘Fine way to treat a friend,’ he complains. ‘Betty is my friend too. I need you two to get along.’ Dante laughs, the kind of nasal, withering laugh I’ve heard from villains on the TV. ‘Oh, please! You don’t expect me to befriend my food, do you?’ ‘This one isn’t food, okay?’ ‘This is preposterous! Who are you to tell me what I can and can’t eat? I’m leaving.’ He turns his back on me. ‘Wait! I need your help to find my master’s killer.’ The magpie ignores me and is about to take off. ‘You owe me, remember.’ I had vowed I would never mention this, but I’m desperate. It’s not just about finding Larry Nice’s address. Dante can be my eyes in the sky. He turns quickly and screeches. ‘I’ve paid that debt!’ He’s opened his wings wide and looks menacing. Betty darts behind a flowerpot. I step forward but keep a safe distance from his sharp beak. ‘Not yet. You help me find Paddy’s killer, then the debt is paid.’ He folds his wings and tilts his smooth black head to one side, as if contemplating my offer. ‘And you can have my shiny dog tag. You’ve wanted it for ages. Well, now you can have it.’ Dante stares at the round tag, a red and silver paw on one side, my name and the Professor’s address engraved into the metal, on the other. This tag is the only thing I have to remember my beloved master by. It means the world to me. But finding his killer means more. He nods. ‘Throw in the torch, too.’ ‘No,’ I reply. ‘It’s not mine to give.’ He opens his wings wide again and I think he’s about to fly off. But he folds them. ‘Oh all right. I’ll help you find Salt’s killer. You have my word,’ says Dante. ‘But, I want the tag now. Call it a down payment.’ ‘And you won’t hurt Betty, or any other creature who helps me?’ Dante sighs. ‘Yes, yes, okay, but try not to involve the whole wretched animal kingdom, otherwise I’ll starve to death.’ I look over my shoulder at Betty. ‘It’s okay, Betty. Dante is a bird of his word.’ She shakes her head and stays put. I focus back on Dante. ‘The laptop’s inside.’ Dante glances into the kitchen. ‘What are you looking for?’ ‘A suspect’s address in The White Pages.’ ‘That’s it? Oh for goodness’ sake! What a waste of my exceptional talent.’ I ignore his griping. ‘That’s just the start. Follow me.’ Dante flies behind me and deftly lands on the kitchen table. He focuses his steely stare on me. ‘Whose laptop is this?’ ‘Belongs to my new master, Detective Constable Rose Sidebottom, who’s working on the case.’ ‘Sidebottom? They have a coat of arms, you know. Ancient big’un family. Been around since the Norman Conquest of 1066. Famous for their prowess in the saddle and for their noble hunting hounds.’ He cocks his head as if deciding whether I qualify as a noble hound. Unfortunately, a long strand of drool hangs from my mouth and one side of my jowl is tucked into my gums, having got stuck there from when I held the torch. Dante tutts. Apparently not. ‘How do you know about coats of arms?’ ‘Bit of a history buff. Did you know my ancestors originally guarded the Tower Of London, not those wretched usurpers, the ravens?’ ‘We’re pressed for time so can you get on with it?’ He sighs but positions himself so that his claws rest on the edge of the keyboard. He leans forward and taps a key with his beak. As the screen is illuminated, Dante becomes mesmerised, as he is by everything bright. Betty has followed us at a distance. She tugs my fur. I drop my head so I can hear what she says. ‘So why does he owe you?’ she whispers. I whisper back. ‘I saved his life.’ Chapter Ten (#ulink_a940201e-3906-5987-bb8d-a1bedacd1565) Rose’s laptop is demanding a password. Dante turns his dark, sleek head in my direction and blinks. ‘Well? Any idea?’ Betty leans into me as if trying to hide in my fur: she’s still fearful the magpie will try to eat her. ‘Let me think,’ I say. ‘It wouldn’t be her name …’ ‘Obviously,’ says Dante, with withering condescension. All magpies sound arrogant, but Dante’s exceptional intellect makes him particularly intolerant. ‘Date of birth, something that’s important to her?’ he suggests. ‘Humans are sentimental like that.’ ‘Duckdown! Try duckdown,’ I say, wagging my tail, confident I’ve cracked it. Dante taps in the word and up pops, Incorrect Password. ‘Try harder, Monty,’ he says, sighing. ‘Only two more goes, then we get locked out.’ I feel Betty fidget. ‘Oy, Mr Dante. Why don’t you have a guess?’ she says. ‘Madam, I have an IQ in the top ninety-ninth percentile in the world and I would be a member of Mensa, if big’uns allowed birds to join, which they don’t, the stupid snobs. However, I don’t know the owner of this laptop so your guess is as good as mine.’ ‘What about a car number plate?’ I suggest. ‘I know big’uns love their cars.’ The magpie nods. ‘A possibility.’ ‘Wait here.’ I run out of the kitchen door, down the side passage to the front of the house where her car is parked. Betty comes with me, muttering something about not being ‘left alone with that tosser’. I memorise the number plate and we race back to the kitchen. But it doesn’t work – Incorrect Password. ‘One more try,’ Dante announces. My tail is drooping as my confidence wanes. I realise I know very little about my new master. Where does she come from? Somewhere by the sea, but that doesn’t help. Is she a pack animal or, as I suspect, a lone wolf? I know she’s a detective. I know she loves this house but is sad sometimes because the person who lived here before her has gone away. What was her aunt’s name? I think back to when Rose and I stood outside the dilapidated shed. It’s a bit hazy. Oh, hold on … ‘Kay! Her aunt! Could she be the password?’ ‘A bit short for a password, and remember this is your last chance.’ ‘Okay then, try Aunt Kay. That’s what she called her.’ My nose is dry so I lick it. I can feel Betty clinging to my leg. Dante taps in AuntKay. And … We are in! I’m so excited I run around in circles. But I collide with a chair on the turn and skid to a halt. Betty squeaks with delight. Dante ignores us. Colourful short-cut icons appear on the desktop, looking like tasty sweets in tiny jars. This reminds me of food. I peer longingly at the larder door, distracted by the mountain of deliciousness I know is stored within. My stomach rumbles. ‘I’m in The White Pages. Who are you after?’ Dante asks. I tell him. A moment later we have Larry Nice’s address: Block D, Flat 251, Truscott Estate, Greyfield Common. Betty rubs her front paws together. ‘I can get us to there.’ ‘And what, pray, would a rat know about directions?’ says Dante. ‘I can use Google maps.’ She ignores his sarcasm. ‘I know the railway tracks like the back of my paw. In fact, I ride the trains a lot, just hop on and hop off whenever I want. I happen to know that the Waterloo train stops here at Milford, and two stops later, hey presto, you’re at Greyfield Common. If we take the train, we’ll be outside Larry Nice’s flat before you can say Bob’s-your-uncle, Fanny’s-your-aunt. Then, Mr Brainbox, it’ll be up to you to find this Truscott Estate place. Think you can manage that?’ Dante rears his head up. ‘What you fail to comprehend, madam, is that I have better things to do with my time. Something your tiny little rat brain wouldn’t understand.’ ‘Piss off, Dante!’ says Betty, hands on hips. ‘At least I don’t have a poncy name like you.’ ‘I am named after The Divine Comedy, I’ll have you know. A masterful poem.’ ‘Yeah, I know The Divine bloody Comedy. Ate some pages from it once. Tasted like shit. You like to think you’re all dark and menacing, don’t you? Well, I’ve got news for you! You’re just a grumpy old bird!’ Dante opens his wings and screeches, ‘Harridan!’ ‘Stop it! Both of you,’ I say. ‘You’ll wake Rose!’ Instantly silent and still, we listen, like cardboard cut-out silhouettes in the laptop’s brightness. Rose doesn’t stir. ‘I like your idea of the train, Betty,’ I say, quietly, ‘but I’m a big dog. You can hop on and off unnoticed; I can’t.’ ‘That’s true,’ says Betty, ‘but the first train of the day is almost always empty and the driver is too sleepy to notice who gets on and off. Milford is a small station with loads of bushes. We hide until the train comes and then, just when the doors are about to close, we jump on.’ ‘When’s the first train?’ I ask, feeling uneasy. ‘Five-thirty.’ ‘I can’t do this, Betty. I don’t know what time Rose gets up for work. It’s too risky.’ Betty stands between my front paws, looking up into my eyes. I hang my head and our noses almost touch. ‘What if Larry Nice is the killer and gets away with it, all because you didn’t want to leave this house? You want to know the truth, don’t you?’ I pace up and down, wondering what to do. Disobey Rose, or stay put and feel useless? I think of the Queen’s Corgis and their secret night escapades from Windsor Castle. But they know they’ll get a royal pardon. I won’t be so lucky. I think of Rose upstairs who’s been very kind to me and what it might mean to betray her trust. Then I think of the promise I made to find the bastard who took Paddy from me. ‘Well?’ asks Betty, her ball-bearing eyes gleaming with mischief. ‘Let’s do it,’ I say. ‘Rose won’t know a thing,’ Betty promises. Famous last words. Dante nods at my dog tag. ‘We made a deal,’ he says. My tag says I belong to Patrick Salt. It still smells of him. I don’t want to let it go but I am a dog of my word. ‘We’ll need you to guide us to the Truscott Estate tomorrow.’ ‘Fine. My tag?’ ‘Betty, can you use your teeth to free the tag from my collar?’ ‘You sure?’ she asks. ‘I’m sure.’ She scurries up my chest fur and before I know it, the tag clanks to the floor. Dante swoops down, picks it up in his claws and flies out of the kitchen window like a black ghost. I watch my only remaining memory of Paddy disappear into the night. But Betty won’t let me feel down for long. She is squirming with excitement. ‘We’re going on an adventure, we’re going on an adventure!’ she squeaks, as she does The Twist. ‘This could be dangerous. Are you sure you want to come?’ ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Besides, we’re mates and I never abandon a mate.’ Chapter Eleven (#ulink_dcca4052-4277-59bc-9a88-901b55f65a2b) It’s five in the morning and it’s dark. I have no idea why big’uns say it’s raining cats and dogs, but it’s pouring down on this particular dog as I squeeze through the garden hedge and follow a bedraggled Betty hopping along the railway track. ‘Keep away from that. It’s the live rail,’ she says. It doesn’t look remotely alive to me, but I do as she says. Every now and again I look back, worried that the big screeching monster I heard last night will attack from behind. We pass an owl sheltering in a hollow tree, its yellow eyes piercing the blackness. It’s reciting Shakespeare. Owls often do this to confuse their prey. And let’s face it, Hamlet would confuse anybody. There you are going about your business and you look up wondering who’s wittering on about death and dreaming, and then, Bam! You’re skewered by a hooked beak in the back. ‘One may smile and smile and be a te-wit,’ the owl hoots. ‘Does he mean us?’ Betty asks. ‘I hope not,’ I say, starting to doubt our plan. We reach Milford station, which is little more than two raised platforms, one on either side of the tracks, and a footbridge over the line. The ticket office is closed. I hunker down on sodden shingle, while Betty scampers up the platform ramp. ‘All clear,’ she whispers. ‘We’ll hide in here till the train comes.’ I follow her into a tangled mess of brambles laden with decaying blackberries and wait for the five-thirty train. ‘Breakfast,’ she says, and nibbles a berry. She stands beneath a wide leaf and uses it as an umbrella. ‘So, tell me, how did you save Dante’s life, then?’ I blink away a raindrop. ‘It was nothing. Hardly worth telling.’ I sniff a blackberry and try one. Not bad. A bit furry. ‘Oh go on. Tell me. We’ve got nothing else to do till the train comes.’ ‘All right then. Dante found a silver necklace at the side of the road. The main road into Geldeford. He was so busy trying to peck open the locket he didn’t see a petrol tanker bearing down on him. He was going to get squashed. I was walking with Paddy at the time and I managed to grab Dante by the neck and pull him out of harm’s way. He thought I was going to kill him so he kicked up a terrible fuss and tried to poke my eyes out. When the tanker hurtled past and nearly clipped the both of us he realised I’d saved his life.’ Betty stares at me with her piercing ball-bearing eyes. ‘But why? Why risk your life for a magpie? Especially a miserable git like Dante.’ ‘I don’t know. I like to help, I guess. That’s why I wanted to be a guide dog.’ ‘Still don’t get it.’ Betty eats in silence. Despite the pat pat of rain on leaves and the ting of water hitting guttering, I hear the train approach before it comes into view. As it lumbers into the station, the platform lights illuminate its bright colours – yellow, red (or it could be green as I get these two muddled up), white and blue. It doesn’t seem fearsome at all, more like a colossal, brightly coloured centipede with gigantic eyes. Apart from the driver I only see one person in a carriage. Two men clutching hard hats run onto the platform just in time and board the front carriage. When the doors start to beep, Betty shoves me and we bolt into the last carriage. I sniff the stale air. The floor’s been mopped in dirty water – I detect a faint hint of cleaning fluid. Perhaps a thimbleful. Still smells of old coffee, stale chips, greasy hair and crumpled newspapers. I don’t hear any coat rustling or throat clearing or human breathing. We are alone, for now anyway. I give myself an almighty shake, which starts from the very tip of my nose, then sets my jowls flapping, ears bouncing, migrates down my spine in a cork-screw fashion, before becoming a bottom wiggle and capping the whole performance off with a tail wave. Ever watched a slow-motion dog shake? Worth it, I promise you. Anyway, water, loose fur and slobber sprays outwards in all directions, blanketing the floor, nearby windows, seats and Betty. Boy, does that feel good! She stands there glaring at me, a double-drowned rat. ‘Thanks a bunch!’ Betty does her own little shake and her fur fluffs back out. ‘What now?’ I ask. ‘When we get to Greyfield Common, we run out the door and head for the tunnel.’ ‘Tunnel?’ ‘Yeah, under the road. Until then, we lie down between these seats and hope no big’uns see us.’ I follow her. ‘Dante won’t let us down, will he?’ Betty asks. I want to do another shake – one is never enough – and my ears tickle. Must have water in them. I waggle my head instead, so as not to soak Betty again. ‘He’ll be there.’ ‘So what I don’t get is how come you and Dante are friends when he’s such a patronising git and you’re such a nice dog?’ I spot a cold chip, missed by the cleaners, under a seat. I extend my long tongue and snap it up. A bit soggy, but nice all the same. ‘Some months after the locket incident, Dante set up a nest in Paddy’s garden. At first he ignored me, so I left him to it. He was like all magpies: stand-offish. Then one day I found him in the garden shed using a stolen laptop. A shiny, silvery one, of course. He needed the power point, you see. When he realised I could read a bit, he warmed to me and showed me how to use the laptop. Even helped me set up on Twitter. He was my first follower. I felt a bit sorry for him, to be honest. He only has six Twitter followers, well, seven, counting me.’ ‘I’m surprised he’s got any at all.’ ‘I don’t think he has any real friends. And he doesn’t realise it’s his own fault. I think he’s quite lonely.’ ‘Serves him bleeding well right. He needs to learn some manners.’ The brakes screech and we stop at Geldeford station. My home is nearby! My old home anyway. I stand up, unable to fight the urge to leave the train and run to Paddy’s place. ‘What’re you doing?’ squeals Betty. ‘Hide!’ I lie down just in time. A woman gets into our carriage. Fortunately, she sits at the other end and doesn’t notice us, despite the puddle at the door and the paw prints. We are silent for the rest of the journey. At Greyfield Common we jump out, startling the woman, and run for the tunnel. Hidden in the darkness, we wait for the train to leave the station. We hear the flap of wings and Dante lands beside us. ‘Listen up!’ says the magpie, yelling like a drill sergeant. ‘These are your directions to the Truscott Estate. Follow the tunnel this-a-way.’ He points his beak into the blackness. ‘When you come out, you’ll see steep grassy verges either side of the line. One side has beech trees. Climb that slope. You’ll cross a road and then follow the riverbank path. But you’ll need to take the pavement for the last half a mile. It’s lined with houses so you’ll just have to take your chances. Follow me.’ ‘Yes, sir!’ says Betty and salutes him. He ignores the sarcasm and flies off. ‘Best get going,’ I say to Betty, ‘and best you get up on my back. I know you’re fast but you won’t be able to keep up once I get into a run.’ She clambers up my back leg and along my spine, until she sits behind my collar and hangs onto it like a little jockey. I set off at a jog and then, once I’m following the river, I run. It’s still bucketing and I have to blink away the rain as I peer up at my guide in the sky. We reach the final leg of our journey. I’m soaked. So is Betty. We sneak past front gardens and garages. If Dante sees a big’un coming, he squawks a warning and we hide until he gives us the all clear. ‘What a racket!’ Betty complains as we near the council estate. ‘If I ever meet the bloke who invented that wretched Twitter, I’m going to bite him.’ There’s a myth about the dawn chorus which I’d like to clear up. Big’uns assume the bird population is welcoming the new day in song, and that’s certainly how it all began. These days, it’s more raucous because they’ve discovered Twitter and they can’t tweet without tweeting – out loud. Every message has to be accompanied by bird song. Big’uns don’t feel the need to sing when they tweet and I don’t need to bark, so why do birds have to make such a commotion? I just don’t get it. We peer through the heavy rain at the Truscott Estate, which is a blur of street lighting and grey walls. Built on what used to be common land – a green open space everyone enjoyed – it now consists of four housing blocks in a row, fronted by garages, street parking and rubbish. Discarded appliances rust in the rain. Wrecked sofas, torn mattresses, broken glass and beer cans litter the pavement. Some cars have their wheels missing. Stairwells lead up to open walkways that connect each flat. Light grey breeze blocks, charcoal grey asphalt, blue grey gravel, silver-grey weathered timber fencing, gunmetal grey street railings. The whole estate seems to drip a dismal grey. It’s as if the architect was asked to design the most depressing housing possible, in keeping with the area’s name – Greyfield Common. The only hint of colour is from the angry graffiti and a child’s merry-go-round, once painted red, now faded to rust. Somebody has spray-painted ‘Release The Wolves’ along the length of a concrete walkway. I sniff the air but can’t detect any. Just a dog or two. Dante lands next to me. ‘Which block?’ I ask him. ‘Block D, over there,’ he nods, ‘Number 251. I’ll meet you on level two, by the steps.’ He flies off. A few people, heads down, sheltering under umbrellas, race to their cars or duck through covered walkways. We make it to level two unseen, but just as we turn the corner a big man in a blue overall, who smells of car grease and toast, almost collides with us. Betty scarpers. ‘What the …!’ The man tries to get round me. ‘Get outa here, you filthy stray!’ He attempts to kick me and I race back down the steps with him hot on my heels. I skid through a puddle and fall onto my side. I get up quickly and hide behind some industrial rubbish bins. The man squints in my direction, cursing and walks off. I wait a bit and then run back up two levels. ‘What happened to the warning?’ I ask Dante, panting. ‘And where’s Betty?’ ‘Here!’ she says, appearing from a dark corner. ‘Jeez, you’re almost black. What happened?’ I realise that I’m covered in dirt from the puddle. The estate’s greyness is rubbing off on me. Dante is defensive. ‘I can’t watch you all the time. I’m not God!’ Then I see he’s clasping a shiny beer bottle top in one claw. ‘Got distracted, did you?’ I tease. He ignores my comment and nods to his right. ‘Four doors down. Larry’s in there. I’ve just seen him at his kitchen window making a cup of tea. So, what’s your plan?’ Good question. In my enthusiasm to find Larry Nice, I haven’t thought about how I’m going to get close enough to smell him. Betty and I creep down the puddle-riddled walkway and stop outside number 251. The door is shut and looks as if it’s been kicked in at some point: the bottom panels have been replaced and the wood around the lock is splintered. ‘Betty, you stay out of sight,’ I say. ‘Dante, use your beak to knock on the door. When you hear him coming, fly away.’ Betty conceals herself behind a drainpipe. Dante stands on the doormat and taps three times, but nobody comes. I hear the radio inside his flat. The weather forecast man is predicting showers. I could have told him that! ‘Louder. Give it a good whack.’ ‘I’m doing my best,’ he protests, but he bangs harder and keeps going. I hear footsteps, Dante flies off, and the grimy lace curtains are pulled back a fraction. Larry’s face appears at the kitchen window. He looks at where an average height big’un might stand if he were outside the door, and as a result he doesn’t see us. ‘Bloody kids!’ I hear him say. He disappears from view and Dante returns. ‘Knock again,’ I say. ‘My beak’s getting sore,’ Dante complains, but follows my instructions. I hear Larry, his voice angry. ‘Right, you little bastards, I’m going to give you a bloody good hiding.’ The door opens wide and a skinny man, with a face like a whippet and legs like a chicken, stands there in his burgundy nylon dressing-gown. Larry Nice has been smoking weed and is enveloped by an acrid fug. Initially, that’s all I can smell. It’s overpowering. I remember Paddy’s killer smelt of it too, so I stand my ground, bedraggled, a filthy grey, on his soggy doormat. Larry gawps at me. ‘What the f—’ I jump up, pressing my nose against his skin, but he thinks I am about to bite and he squeals. I knock chicken-whippet man flat on his back. He lies winded on a carpet that stinks of beer, then struggles to push me off him. His slippery dressing-gown is short sleeved and in the struggle my claws scratch his arm, but he has no bite mark. He smells of cheap aftershave and pubs, Rich Tea biscuits and polystyrene. But not that weird, stinky food stench, and not the disease that reminds me of an insect, which I still can’t place. As I charge out of the door and down the steps, I know for certain that Larry Nice did not kill my master. Chapter Twelve (#ulink_c191b525-8ef7-5549-bca9-ad0472e60a5a) Rose helped PC Joe Salisbury raise the roller door to Larry Nice’s lock-up on the Truscott Estate, wearing an unflattering blue rain jacket that made her look like a blueberry. Her shoes were soaked through from searching for Monty in the rain. She’d woken to find the dog gone and Kay’s old torch in the garden. How Monty had escaped she had no idea since the exterior doors were shut. ‘This is going to take a while,’ said Salisbury, jolting her from her cogitation. The garage was packed full of boxes. Salisbury’s uniform had attracted a small crowd of jeering teenage boys. The oldest, probably eighteen, shouted, ‘Filth!’ and threw a bottle, which hit Rose’s arm, then shattered at her feet. Salisbury was a muscular giant whose mere presence was usually enough to cause troublemakers to think twice. He headed for the perpetrator, who turned to run but Rose got there first. Shoving him into the wall, she cuffed one wrist and then the other before the stunned offender knew what was happening. The rest of the gang scarpered. ‘Name?’ Rose demanded. ‘I ain’t saying nothing.’ ‘Hold him,’ she said to Salisbury. She searched his pockets and found a wallet and driving licence. ‘Damien Flannery.’ Rose looked at the young offender. ‘I’m Detective Constable Rose Sidebottom and you’re going to apologise for throwing that bottle at me.’ ‘Get fu—!’ ‘Language!’ snapped Salisbury. ‘If you apologise,’ Rose continued, ‘I may change my mind about charging you with assaulting a police officer.’ Salisbury gave Rose a questioning look. She ignored it. ‘Well, I’m waiting.’ ‘No way.’ ‘I’m still waiting,’ she said, cupping an ear. ‘You got it all wrong. The bottle fell. I didn’t throw nothing.’ ‘Don’t make me do it,’ she warned. ‘All right, all right.’ Flannery scanned the carpark, checking nobody was within ear shot. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘Right. Consider this a warning. Now you leave us alone to get on with our jobs, okay?’ ‘Yes, detective.’ Salisbury undid the handcuffs and Flannery shuffled off, hands in pockets. ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’ Salisbury asked. ‘Not even a formal caution?’ ‘We don’t want a riot on our hands, and anyway, he’s young. I want to give him a second chance.’ Salisbury shook his head but didn’t argue. ‘Best we get started,’ she said and tore open a box. ‘You handled yourself well just then.’ ‘Thanks, Joe.’ Rose had always considered Salisbury handsome, despite a potato-shaped chin hidden beneath a thick beard. At Police College she had developed a crush on him, but it became obvious he was in love with a local nurse so she’d resigned herself to the role of friend. Now he was married, a devoted father to a baby boy, and her closest mate at the nick. The first few boxes contained flat screen TVs, the next, iPads. ‘Must’ve fallen off the back of a lorry,’ Salisbury joked. Rose plonked down on a box of a dozen bottles of shiraz, rubbing her arm. ‘What’s the matter?’ Salisbury asked. ‘Are you hurt?’ ‘No.’ ‘Is this about Operation Nailgun?’ Rose nodded. ‘It’s no secret Leach laid into you. But look on the bright side. He gave you a second chance.’ Rose leaned forward so her forearms rested on the tops of her thighs, and stared at the concrete floor. Leaves from a nearby elm tree blew into the garage and swirled around her soggy shoes. ‘I’ve been a complete idiot, but I’m going to show everyone I can do this. I know I can.’ If she kept telling herself this, perhaps it really would come true? ‘My problem is Pearl. He’s made it clear he wants me gone from Major Crime.’ Salisbury opened a wine box next to her. ‘Gotta say he doesn’t seem very supportive.’ Earlier, Pearl had taken Salisbury aside and loudly instructed him to, ‘Make sure she doesn’t turn this into a bloody fiasco.’ He’d intended her team mates to hear. ‘And he’s supposed to be mentoring me. How perfect is that? Who’s the boss going to believe? Him or me?’ Salisbury moved on to the next box. ‘You’re just going to have to make sure you don’t put a foot wrong. Don’t give Dave any reason to push you out.’ She shook her head. ‘And to cap it all, the dog I rescued from the vet, you know, Monty, has run away.’ ‘That dog’s a survivor. I’m sure he’ll turn up safe and sound.’ She covered her face with her hands. Tears were welling up in her eyes. Stop it, you baby! she said to herself. Salisbury gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. ‘Rose, I think you need a cuppa and some breakfast. Knowing you, you haven’t had anything to eat. How’s about I go get us some?’ Rose couldn’t help but look at him and smile. Salisbury was a firm believer that a cup of tea could help solve almost any crisis. ‘Love a bacon and egg sarnie, and tea would be great. Thanks, Joe, you’re a real mate.’ As Salisbury strode off to the caf? round the corner, Rose continued the laborious task of opening every one of Larry Nice’s boxes. She shoved yet another wine box aside to get to the back of the lock-up when she heard a clank of metal on metal. Kneeling, she discovered a black backpack that seemed out of place in a sea of cardboard. She unzipped the top of the pack, her hands in disposable gloves. She glimpsed polished silver plates, a silver teapot and candelabra. She immediately called Pearl. ‘That inventory from Salt’s insurer. Any chance it listed some silverware that’s now missing?’ Rose heard him yell across the room to Detective Sergeant Kamlesh Varma, who confirmed that some silverware was indeed missing from Salt’s house and that the fastidious professor had photographed all his precious possessions and sent the images to his insurance company. Varma had these photos. ‘Can you send the photos to me via WhatsApp, sir?’ She received them within seconds and compared them to the contents of the bag. Identical. ‘Well, I think we may have found the missing silver,’ she said to Pearl, spotting Joe returning with breakfast. ‘Don’t touch anything else. I’m on my way,’ said Pearl. Chapter Thirteen (#ulink_2fe15957-0da5-5020-8ed7-04a613d76717) Later that morning, Rose watched Leach and Pearl interview Larry Nice through a video feed to a TV in the monitoring room. She felt sixteen again and banished from the in-crowd. She longed to prove she could squeeze a confession from a suspect, but that dream seemed about as unlikely as Pearl helping her to achieve it. Nice was shaking his head, hands on the table, fingers splayed. His wide-eyed terror reminded her of those greetings cards when animals have disproportionately huge, glassy eyes that never blink. ‘No way!’ Nice said. ‘I don’t know this Salt bloke.’ He hadn’t been hard to find: sitting in his council flat watching soccer repeats with a packet of crisps balanced on his stomach and a joint smoking away in the ashtray. He’d mumbled about a dog-attack. Said his nerves were shot to pieces. For a fleeting idiotic moment Rose wondered if the dog attack was in fact Monty. She dismissed the idea as ridiculous but couldn’t help worrying about him. ‘So how did his silverware find its way into your lock-up? Flew in, did it, on a magic carpet?’ asked Leach, crossing his arms and leaning back into a plastic chair too small for his bulky frame. ‘It’s a set-up, that’s what it is.’ Nice leaned forward. ‘I never been to his house. Honest, Mr Leach.’ ‘Yeah, and I’m Prince bloody Charles!’ Leach snorted. Nice smirked as if he were contemplating the rough-as-they-come detective as the future King. Leach continued, ‘Show me your arms.’ ‘What?’ ‘Your arms. Show them to me,’ he said, patting the table top. Nice looked baffled but did as he was told. ‘Got a few scratch marks there, Larry. Looks like a large dog paw to me. How did that happen?’ ‘As I told you, Mr Leach, a dog attacked me this morning. I opened my door and the vicious brute just went for me. No reason. Needs shooting, if you ask me.’ ‘Really? Anyone else see this attack?’ ‘Dunno. Neighbours could’ve heard me shouting.’ ‘Did the dog bite?’ Nice squinted at his arms. ‘Nah, don’t think so.’ ‘We’ll get you checked out at the hospital, just to be sure.’ ‘Very nice of you, Mr Leach.’ Pearl leaned in, his wrist watch hitting the table. It was a showy piece with a thick metal band that he wore one link too loose so it jangled when he moved. ‘Larry, you’ve got no alibi for Friday night. Home alone just doesn’t cut it.’ Their suspect shrugged but the sweat in the cleft of his upper lip and the damp patches under his arms betrayed his agitation. There was a knock at the door and an officer handed Leach a note. ‘Well now, isn’t this a surprise,’ he said, as he showed it to Pearl. Pearl tutted. ‘You’re in deep shit, now.’ Nice started to fidget. ‘What ya talking about?’ ‘Can you explain how your fingerprints ended up on Salt’s wine glass? Huh? The same one he’d been using just before he died,’ demanded Leach. ‘They can’t be my fingerprints.’ ‘Give it a rest, Larry,’ said Pearl. ‘We know you were there.’ Larry crossed his arms. ‘I’m not saying another word till you get me a lawyer.’ Leach gave Pearl a got-him-by-the-short-and-curlies look. ‘Come on, Larry. You’ve been caught red-handed. Why don’t you tell us where you hid Salt’s laptop and iPhone? You know it’ll be better for you if you cooperate.’ Nice stared at his stained old trainers in sulky silence. ‘You probably didn’t mean to kill him, right? Did Salt grab you or something? Did you panic?’ Nice’s only response was, ‘Lawyer!’ Leach stood, followed by Pearl. ‘Okay, we’ll get you one, but he won’t save you, Larry. Confessing could make things easier for you. Think about it.’ They left the interview room but Rose continued to observe Nice through the video feed. She’d watched and listened with every ounce of her concentration and hadn’t experienced a moment’s tingling. Not even a minor itch. As far as she was concerned, Larry was telling the truth. But it was obvious her superiors thought differently. Was she the only one to think this was all too easy and way too neat? She left the observation room and found Leach and Pearl in the corridor. ‘We’ve got the little prick,’ said Pearl, ignoring her. ‘But no bite marks,’ Leach said. ‘That we know of. Could be somewhere else on his scrawny body.’ Leach shook his head. ‘I need a confession, or a DNA match from the dog’s teeth.’ ‘But, boss, the wine glass puts him at Salt’s house and he’s got Salt’s gear in his lock-up. It’s a burglary gone wrong,’ said Pearl. ‘Not sure. It seems all too …’ Rose interjected, ‘Easy?’ Leach shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’ Pearl raised his eyes in frustration. Rose persevered. ‘Sir, this doesn’t feel right. Larry has been in and out of here for the last ten years and it’s always been about dealing in stolen goods. Not even an assault, let alone murder. And he’s never actually committed a robbery before. He might be a creep but he’s not stupid, so why would he leave the silver in a lock-up he knows we know about? That really is too dumb. It feels like a set-up to me.’ Leach squared up to her, his body filling most of the width of the corridor. Rose made a mental note not to get stuck behind Leach if the fire alarm went off. He didn’t move as quickly as he used to. ‘Rose, I’m an old-fashioned plod and I’m all for a bit of gut instinct, but it’s not looking good for Nice. We find a DNA match, he’s going down for murder.’ She could feel Pearl standing close behind her; she was caught between them like meat in a sandwich. ‘Rose, it’s not enough to feel he’s innocent,’ Pearl mocked. ‘Feelings can let you down, as you well know. You didn’t pick up on Ray Summers’ lies, did you?’ ‘Shut it,’ Leach snapped, surprising Pearl just as much as Rose. His rebuke encouraged her to go on. ‘What if this isn’t about a robbery?’ Rose persevered. Pearl would never listen to her. At least Leach might hear her out. ‘What if it’s about something more complicated, like what the Professor knew? Like what’s on his laptop?’ Her voice had gone high-pitched and squeaky with nerves. ‘The silverware theft could be a smoke screen.’ Leach folded his arms. ‘Go on.’ She cleared her throat. ‘I find it odd that Professor Salt was our leading expert in apiculture …’ Leach looked blank. ‘Bees, sir.’ ‘For crying out loud, just say bees then,’ he growled. Rose nodded. ‘He was trying to understand why the honey bee is dying out. So, isn’t it a bit odd he’s murdered just when he’s about to announce a major breakthrough?’ ‘What breakthrough?’ Pearl challenged. ‘His department head never said anything about a breakthrough.’ ‘I checked academic journals and media on background. He was highly regarded and there’s lots of support for his theories. His work is sponsored by Flay Bioscience, and their PR department has been whipping up a frenzy over a cure for whatever is killing bees. The big launch is in two weeks’ time.’ ‘Oh, come on,’ said Pearl, ‘you don’t seriously think someone is going to commit murder over sick bees?’ ‘Why not? Flay Bioscience is big money. It’s in the Footsie 100 and makes hundreds of millions in profit each year. People have killed for far less.’ Leach ground his teeth as if he had marbles in his mouth to contend with. ‘Look, Rose, if there’s a choice between a conspiracy and a cock-up, I’ll bet on a cock-up every time.’ Leach tapped his chin with his pudgy finger. ‘Is it likely that a high-profile corporation orders a hit-man to kill their star researcher? I don’t think so. However, Larry-the-loser cocking up a burglary? Now, that I can believe.’ ‘But, sir …’ Leach held up his hand. ‘Dave, has Flay Bioscience given us permission to see Salt’s files and emails?’ ‘No, sir. The company won’t allow access, claiming confidentiality and patent issues.’ ‘Have you gone after a warrant?’ asked Leach. ‘Not yet.’ ‘Get one. We should cover all angles.’ Leach directed his next order to Rose. ‘Talk to the neighbour, Francis Grace. He was muddled when we spoke to him on the night. He might be clearer today.’ Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/louisa-bennet/monty-and-me-a-heart-warmingly-wagtastic-novel/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.