by Rohan Gavin
‘What d’you think I was doing? Hunting a werewolf of course.’
Darkus nodded, resigned to his father’s outlandish obsessions. ‘Then why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Because you don’t believe in werewolves.’
‘Maybe I do.’
‘Come, come, Doc. Don’t be childish,’ he said with no hint of irony. ‘We both know what you believe – and I quote: “There’s always a rational explanation rather than a supernatural one”. Apart from in this case obviously. I refer to the paw print you no doubt saw in that wooded clearing.’
‘I recorded the evidence, yes.’
‘I know of no animal on record with a print that resembles that. Do you?’ enquired Knightley.
‘Not immediately, no.’
‘Quod erat demonstrandum,’ his father said, resting his case.
‘Not necessarily,’ Darkus countered.
‘Must we indulge in this idle back-and-forth in the absence of any evidence to the contrary?’
‘Clearly your investigation has drawn a blank. Those missing posters have been there for over a month.’
Knightley frowned. ‘I’m aware of that, Doc.’
‘More importantly, I hear Uncle Bill is out of play, in hospital recovering from serious injuries.’
‘Sadly, that is correct,’ admitted Knightley. ‘But it’s not yet clear if these two cases are related.’
‘What happened to him?’ Darkus demanded.
‘That’s not relevant at this point.’ Knightley avoided the issue. ‘It could be coincidence.’
‘I never succumb to the luxury of coincidence,’ said Darkus, feeling increasingly frustrated. ‘You taught me that.’
‘You’re going to have to bow to my age and wisdom on this, Doc. I must focus my energies on the matter at hand.’
‘Well, maybe I can be of service. You might have forgotten . . .’ He slid a business card across the table. ‘It says . . . and Son.’
‘If you’d like to interview one of my witnesses before you shoot down my werewolf theory, be my guest.’
‘When and where can I interview this he, she . . . or it?’
Knightley checked his wristwatch. ‘We can meet him in exactly twenty minutes, if you’d like?’
Darkus had no idea how his father could be so precise, but he shrugged his consent. ‘There’s no time like the present.’
Knightley turned to the waitress and called out: ‘Two portions of chocolate fudge cake and the bill, please.’
Chapter 5
A Shaggy Dog Story
The climb back up Parliament Hill was infinitely more challenging after having consumed a pizza and a thick slice of chocolate fudge cake. Darkus and his dad were both nursing a stitch by the time they reached the summit.
‘And how is your mother?’ Knightley enquired, with his usual attempt at indifference. But Darkus knew his father’s tone well enough to hear the keen interest disguised under the surface.
‘She’s OK,’ he replied, not knowing quite where this line of questioning was going. ‘She’s been spending time with Wilbur – well, she was, until he was evicted.’
‘Clive . . .’ Knightley nodded evenly.
‘He and Wilbur just never . . . clicked.’
‘Well, there’s a surprise.’
‘Sometimes I don’t know why Mum . . .’ Darkus trailed off.
‘I’m sure she has her reasons, Doc,’ his father explained. ‘She’s loyal to a fault. It takes a lot to drive your mother away. But I managed it, didn’t I.’
‘The “episode”, your condition, it wasn’t your fault,’ Darkus went on.
‘A great many things were my fault though. Still, I hope I’ll have a chance to make it up to you. To both of you.’
‘Good day, Mr Knightley,’ a female voice interrupted them.
Darkus turned to see an imposing figure approaching from a side path, surrounded by dogs of all shapes and sizes. It was a large, dramatically shaped woman in her fifties, hemmed in by a tweed jacket and a long plaid skirt. Her white hair was tied back under a silk Hermès headscarf, framing a striking face and a pair of rose-tinted granny spectacles. A sports whistle hung on her chest. The tight ring of golden retrievers, collies and terriers that encircled her sturdy Hunter boots almost gave the impression she was floating on a cloud.
‘Is that your witness?’ Darkus asked uncertainly.
‘No,’ Knightley replied. ‘An acquaintance from the Heath.’
Darkus did a double take, realising who it was.
‘That’s Fiona Connelly, from Bad Dog,’ he murmured, a little star-struck. She looked even more commanding than she did on TV.
‘The very same,’ answered Knightley with a hint of pride. ‘Fiona, meet my son, Darkus. You can call him Doc.’
‘Hello, Doc,’ she cooed in her dainty but strict upper-class accent, then turned to address his father. ‘Mr Knightley, I wonder if I might trouble you for a sit-down sometime soon.’ She felt a tug and turned aside to one poorly behaved Labrador. ‘Ssssssit!’ She blew her whistle so loudly that it gave everyone a start. Then she returned her attention to Knightley, lowering her voice. ‘I have a little . . . problem, Alan, which I wonder if you might be able to assist with.’
‘Fire away. You’re in good company. My son sometimes works with me . . .’ He searched for an apt description. ‘Sort of like an intern.’
Darkus shot his father a look.
Fiona continued: ‘It’s a little . . . inappropriate to discuss it in front of a child.’
‘Technically, I’m a teenager,’ Darkus chimed in. ‘And by the way, I’m a big fan of your work.’
‘How very kind of you. But I would still prefer a private session,’ she trilled, ‘if you wouldn’t object, Alan.’ She raised an eyebrow, revealing a gummy smile. ‘Don’t make me beg.’
‘Very well,’ said Knightley and handed her a card. ‘Call my office and I’ll be happy to arrange a time.’
‘Thank you, I’ll do that. Come, my darlings!!’
She pointed to the other side of the hill, blew her whistle and the parade of four-legged friends followed behind her with unquestioning loyalty.
‘Wow,’ uttered Darkus. ‘Do you think she does private classes?’
‘If we play our cards right, who knows.’
‘So where’s your witness . . . ?’
Knightley pointed to a middle-aged man with a shock of long, grey hair and a pair of heavily bristling sideburns. He was dressed in slightly over-tight spandex, with a bandana tied around his head, and was performing a series of Tai Chi exercises on a small mound. He swept his arms around, then brought them close to his chest, occasionally raising a knee or extending into a stretch. Darkus noted the similarities to the Knightleys’ own chosen martial art, Wing Chun, which also relied on the movement of energy – but in the Knightleys’ case it involved deflecting an enemy’s energy and returning it in the form of a punch.
An ageing but loyal collie appeared from the blind side of the hill, also wearing a bandana, and dropped a frisbee at the Tai Chi man’s feet. The close resemblance between dog and owner was a phenomenon Darkus had seen on many occasions, but in this case the likeness was uncanny. Without breaking his rhythm, the man reached down for the frisbee and elegantly hurled it down the hill for the dog to fetch. The dog fled after it, leaving the man to continue his exercises.
‘Him?’ whispered Darkus.
His father nodded.
‘I hope you brought your silver bullets,’ Darkus quipped.
‘I’m still working on those, although there’s no first-hand evidence that they actually do kill werewolves,’ Knightley responded, perfectly serious. ‘Excuse me, sir?’ he called out.
‘Is there something more I can help you with?’ the Tai Chi man replied, his voice fading in the wind.
‘My son would like to hear your testimony,’ Knightley went on.
‘He’s only a kid, man,’ the Tai Chi man replied, examining Darkus with scepticism.
&
nbsp; ‘Yes, but with a thirst for knowledge,’ replied Knightley. ‘Be good enough to tell him what you saw at the last full moon.’
Darkus examined the witness carefully for any facial tics or tells.
The Tai Chi man reached in his spandex jacket for a tobacco pouch. ‘I come up here the same time every day. Good for the mind, body and soul,’ he advised, rolling up a cigarette, raising it to his mouth and lighting it.
Darkus had observed these sorts of contradictions before: sports masters who ate too much; doctors who drank too much; Uncle Bill who did all of the above too much. But he didn’t think this would disparage the witness’s testimony – if what the man had to say was even sensible.
‘Proceed,’ said Darkus.
‘Well, I was up here last month, and I decided to stay late, and the moon was high and full. I was practising my form, inhaling through my nostrils, drawing colourless energy from the earth, through my ancient roots, up my sushumna channel and into my sacral chakra. You dig?’
‘I dig,’ Knightley replied.
‘Then I blew out the dark, toxic energy through my mouth. Great clouds of it.’
‘Go on,’ prompted Darkus, raising his eyebrows and glancing at his father.
Knightley shrugged.
The Tai Chi man went on. ‘Well, Puja noticed it first.’
‘Puja?’ Darkus asked.
‘The dog,’ he replied, pointing down to the collie, who had still not located the frisbee, even though it was bright red and lying in plain sight.
‘What did she notice exactly?’ Darkus went on.
‘She started barking at the trees,’ he replied.
‘Which trees precisely?’ said Darkus.
‘All of them. She kept turning round in circles, barking in all directions.’
Darkus surveyed the Heath from this high position: there were acres of trees extending on all sides.
‘What d’you think she was barking at?’ he asked.
‘Something was moving in them,’ the man answered. ‘I couldn’t see what. But it’s like the trees themselves were moving.’
‘The wind perhaps?’ Darkus suggested.
‘It was going too fast for that. It was in the trees. Let’s just say, it wasn’t of nature.’
‘Did you get a look at this entity?’ asked Darkus. ‘Can you give us a description?’
‘Nope. We ran when we heard the howl.’
‘The howl?’
‘Most mind-blowingly terrifying noise I ever heard in my life,’ the witness stammered. ‘Puja bolted and I was right behind her. Didn’t stop running till we reached the pub.’
Darkus nodded. ‘I see. And have you ever witnessed this phenomenon since that time?’
‘Guess we’ll have to wait until the next full moon. But when it comes, you sure as hell won’t find me up here.’ He spread his feet shoulder-width apart, closed his eyes and returned to his exercises.
Knightley accompanied his son away from the mound.
‘Well?’ Knightley asked impatiently. ‘What d’you think?’
‘It’s too early to say,’ Darkus responded.
‘Don’t give me that line. I invented that line.’
‘Well, he’s hardly the most reliable witness.’
‘I thought you would’ve learned from our last investigation,’ said Knightley, ‘that you can’t judge a book by its cover.’
‘My mind is open to every possibility. Even the most outlandish one.’
‘You’re not a very good liar, Doc,’ his father commented. ‘You’ll find that comes with age and experience.’
Darkus furrowed his brow, not wishing to face the spectre of adulthood just yet. His father had made plenty of mistakes: losing Darkus’s mum Jackie to the interloper, Clive; and losing many of his detective skills during the four-year coma, which had ultimately led to Darkus and his father teaming up as partners in solving crime. Darkus would make plenty of mistakes too – but hopefully on his own schedule, not his father’s.
Knightley appealed to him again. ‘If you don’t believe this man’s testimony, and I can’t say I blame you,’ he admitted, ‘may I suggest we visit someone whose judgement you do trust? Or at least . . . sort of?’
Chapter 6
A Relative Once Removed
‘Did ye bring the bickies, Alan?’ Uncle Bill blurted, attempting to sit up in his hospital bed. He eventually resorted to pressing a button, which raised him like an overweight Count Dracula back from the dead. Without his hat and overcoat, Bill was deprived of some of his enigma, but none of his girth, which seemed to have experienced a growth spurt, or girth spurt – presumably due to a period of inactivity, regular hospital meals and sympathy gifts of confectionery – and as a result, his patient’s gown was struggling to conceal him.
Two nurses hurried to his aid, one adjusting his gown while another poured him a cup of water. An armed policeman stood in silence, guarding the door.
‘Don’t over-exert yourself, Mr Billoch,’ one of the nurses cautioned, using Bill’s real name.
‘Aye, Bill, listen tae the hen,’ said an equally huge man from a cramped seat in the corner. ‘And for God’s sake cut doon on the swedgers.’
‘Ah, dinnae fash yerself!’ Bill retorted.
‘Dougal,’ said Knightley, addressing the extra Scotsman in the room. ‘I don’t believe you and Doc have been formally introduced.’
Darkus did a double take: the likeness between Dougal and Bill was quite extraordinary. Apparently Dougal was the younger brother, although they looked exactly the same age.
Dougal raised himself to his feet, doffed his homburg hat and shook Darkus’s hand in his giant paw. ‘I’ve heard a lot about ye, Doc.’
‘All good, I hope,’ replied Darkus.
‘Vairy impressive wark on the last case,’ Dougal responded, although it took Darkus a moment to translate.
Knightley approached the bed. ‘What’s the prognosis, Bill?’
‘The docs tell me mah calf is nearly healed up,’ said Bill. ‘They had tae dae a skin graft from mah . . . Well, I cannae go into tha’ nou, Alan. Nae in front ay young Darkus.’
‘Agreed,’ said Knightley.
‘Nou, Doc,’ Bill went on. ‘How are ye? How’s skale?’
‘Let’s just say I prefer the university of life. Or of criminal investigation, in my case,’ Darkus replied.
Bill turned to Knightley proudly. ‘Aye, he hasn’t changed a bit, has he?’ Knightley shook his head. ‘Well, what can ah dae for ye tway gents?’ Bill asked.
‘Doc’s here to talk to you about the incident at the Thames,’ Knightley began.
‘Aye, you mean the beastie,’ replied Bill. ‘It was dark, but ah believe it was a werewolf, Doc, as far as ah could tell. It was tae clever tae be a normal doggy. Tae cunning.’
Dougal snorted from the corner, but it was unclear whether it was in response to Bill or not.
Darkus couldn’t help thinking about the two dogs that had staked out Clive and Jackie’s house on Wolseley Close the previous night. What were these sentient canines? Where were they coming from? And what did they want?
‘Ye see, it was as if the beastie was only interested in me,’ Bill continued. ‘It didn’t change course once, and was nae interested in my chocolate Penguin biscuit neither. A terrible waste that was,’ he mourned.
Darkus and his dad exchanged glances.
Knightley added, ‘Bill’s under police protection here until we can get to the bottom of who, or what, was targeting them.’
‘Them?’ enquired Darkus.
‘That same night, during the full moon, three other senior Scotland Yard officers were viciously mauled, and later succumbed to their injuries.’
‘Aye,’ Bill interjected. ‘Had their throats torn oot, poor fowk.’
Darkus understood. ‘Wait, you mean the three officers in south London responding to a domestic altercation? I saw it on the news a few weeks ago. It said they were attacked by a tenant’s dog.’
‘That was
a cover story,’ Knightley explained. ‘The officers were actually in three separate London locations, each returning home from the same high-level meeting of SO 42.’
‘Bill’s department. Specialist Operations 42. The Department of the Unexplained,’ Darkus murmured.
‘Correct,’ said Knightley.
‘What was this high-level meeting about?’
‘An unexplained rise in gang crime and aggressive dogs across the capital.’ Knightley gestured through the window to the sun sinking over the London skyline.
Darkus took a moment to process all this, then whispered to his father privately: ‘And you believe there’s a connection between this and the missing pets on Hampstead Heath . . . ?’
Knightley nodded uncertainly. ‘I do, Doc, I just haven’t worked out what that connection is yet.’
‘And I suppose you believe the Combination is involved.’
‘You read my mind. Nothing on this scale could escape their controlling grasp.’
‘But Morton Underwood, their leader, is dead.’
‘Their leadership is a revolving door, Doc. I told you that. Besides, I’m not convinced your former godfather is dead.’
‘He fell under a train. I saw it with my own eyes.’
‘But Morton’s body was never recovered.’
Darkus took a breath, trying to stay in the here and now. ‘This is all getting too far ahead of the evidence. We have no motive, no perpetrator, no dog.’
‘Nae werewolf,’ added Bill.
Dougal snorted again, and Darkus realised the Scotsman had in fact fallen asleep.
‘What I dae have is an artist’s impression of the beast,’ Bill said, extracting a crumpled piece of paper from his bedclothes and holding it up.
It was little more than a cartoon scribbled down with a Sharpie. Darkus examined the sketch, deeming it too crude to be of any use. It could have depicted the dogs he’d seen on Wolseley Close – or it could have depicted a particularly angry glove puppet.
A nurse interrupted them. ‘Mr Billoch needs his rest.’
Bill shrugged as another nurse plumped up his cushions. ‘What can ah do?’
Knightley fished in his jacket, took out a packet of chocolate digestives and set them on the bedside table.
