by Rohan Gavin
‘Trust me,’ she said emphatically. ‘I’ll call you when I can.’ She hung up.
Darkus stared at the phone for another few seconds, puzzled. What could she possibly be doing that was more important than the case he was currently facing?
Frustrated, Darkus switched screens to the photo album, flicking through the various images he’d collected during the eventful past twelve hours. The secure phone Uncle Bill had given him on their first assignment was equipped with editing functions that could enhance images to nearly retina quality – in other words, there were so many pixels in the image that the human eye couldn’t tell the difference. It was almost as good as being there.
Darkus opened the photo of the large paw print, carefully examining the markings.
It was abnormal for several obvious reasons. The indentations were deep, indicating a large body mass, yet the claws were short and had barely made an impression. Secondly, the four cushioned pads of the paw were widely spread, yet the metacarpal pad, which usually sat just behind them for stability, was missing altogether.
Darkus glanced down at Wilbur’s paws as the dog slept. As he suspected, the print from the Heath was something entirely new. As well as the metacarpal pad being missing, the carpal pad, which usually wouldn’t make contact with the ground at all, had left a clear impression – meaning that the whole paw must have been held at an awkward, near-impossible angle.
Darkus committed these notes to his small black book, then took a deep breath and continued looking through the photo album, getting to the more horrifying images. He could never let these get into the hands of the unfortunate pets’ owners. Whatever fate they had imagined for their loved ones, it could never have been as sinister and agonising as what had actually happened. He felt chills behind his neck as he observed the aftermath of the animal’s ferocity. The staring eyes, or gaping sockets, the distorted jaws and limbs spreadeagled, all on display in this hideous, private gallery. But a gallery of whose making?
Darkus was interrupted by Bogna knocking and entering with a tray of sandwiches balanced on her forearm. He quickly clicked his phone off.
‘I think you need some sandwich to keep you going,’ she announced, pointing to each set of triangles in turn. ‘I bring chickens livers, spam and gammons.’
‘Thanks, Bogna, but I’m not hungry right now. I’ll have them later.’ Darkus winced, swallowed and smiled politely.
‘Whatevers.’ Bogna shrugged, set down the tray and closed the door behind her.
Knightley continued sleeping, his trance uninterrupted by the noise. Clearly he’d tried to protect Darkus from the true horror of what was taking place on the Heath. And despite Darkus’s instinct to please his dad by solving the case, he knew it would be reckless to return to the scene of the crime without proper back-up.
Darkus willed his mind to move away from the gallery of images and on to the next problem. Who was the figure in the woods that had attacked his father? Was this massively built man the owner, or guardian, of some kind of predator that was hiding out there, using the sprawling urban wilderness as its own private game reserve? Using it for sport? After all, humans had been doing the same thing to animals since history began.
He looked at Bogna’s tray of sandwiches and gagged a little.
Finding no obvious answer to the problem, Darkus sat back in his father’s chair to clear his head. Wilbur quivered and jerked in his sleep, as if fighting off unseen enemies. Darkus quietly watched him, respecting the principle of letting sleeping dogs lie, and realised that despite losing his father to a state of unconsciousness again, he had gained a four-legged partner. Whatever Bogna had unlocked in the mutt had resulted in Wilbur becoming an almost functional police dog again. Yes, Wilbur didn’t respond to commands as promptly as he could have done; and yes, when faced with a truly scary scene, Wilbur had turned tail and run away. But most of those poor deceased souls were his canine brethren, so who could blame him? And when Darkus whistled, Wilbur most definitely came.
Feeling his curiosity piqued, Darkus remembered something Captain Reed had said at the dog rescue centre. Darkus picked up his phone again and typed a search into the internet browser: war dogs.
He tapped on a link and began reading.
War dogs dated back to as early as 600 BC and had been used by armies throughout history, from the Greeks and the Romans, to the Americans in Vietnam and the allies in modern-day Iraq. The dogs often wore armour: more recently that meant Kevlar vests to repel bullets and shrapnel, but hundreds of years ago they would have worn chain mail and spiked collars. In the early days they accompanied the horsemen as they entered battle, running ahead to break the ranks of the enemy. During the Middle Ages, war dogs were given as gifts between royalty, so they could breed their own lines of canine soldiers. During World War One, a former stray Boston terrier named Stubby became the first dog to be promoted to the rank of sergeant. Sergeant Stubby was shot at, gassed, and reportedly even managed to capture a German spy by the seat of the man’s trousers. The mutt, who had begun his career as a stowaway, proved invaluable in the trenches of France, using his exceptional sense of smell and hearing to warn his unit of mustard gas attacks and incoming artillery shells. Despite being wounded in the foreleg, Sergeant Stubby recovered and was soon back in the trenches, before returning home to a hero’s welcome in the United States. He spent the twilight of his life as a mascot at American Football games where he would routinely dribble the ball around at half-time. After what any dog would consider a full and active life – if a short one – he passed away at the age of around nine or ten. Being a stray, there was no birthdate on record.
Darkus suspected there was a line of war dogs in Wilbur’s ancestry – but did that make his job easier or not? Darkus was the third generation in a line of private detectives, after his father of course, and his father’s father, Rexford. The line may have extended longer for all he knew. It was in Darkus’s blood and he could feel it, but that didn’t make his chosen career any less challenging, or the sacrifices he had to make any less painful. Both Wilbur and Darkus had had their childhood denied them, because it was just preparation for their true calling, which would engulf them and make other concerns seem petty. Perhaps that’s why they seemed to understand each other so well. Even when Wilbur was at his most difficult, there was a bond there that couldn’t be broken. Besides, since leaving Wolseley Close, the dog appeared to be going from strength to strength, rediscovering both his skills and his confidence.
Darkus continued browsing, finding accounts of US soldiers from the ill-fated military intervention in Vietnam in the 1960s and 1970s. Veterans from the war described how their dogs kept them company on night patrols and saved their lives countless times by sniffing out explosives. They could even detect snipers by the smell of gun oil from their rifles. Spending twenty-four hours a day under constant threat of death, the dogs and their handlers built a relationship that was stronger and more enduring than any other relationship in the soldiers’ lives. Wives and girlfriends may leave them, families may forget about them, but the dogs would never leave their side. The handlers learned to talk to them, to strategise and plan their operations, even if they didn’t receive a verbal response. It helped the soldiers keep their heads and in some cases to keep their sanity. The dogs had been trained to respond with basic movements, like coming to a halt and sitting down to indicate an explosive in the area; or biting the soldier’s hand if he was about to touch a tripwire.
It was estimated that war dogs saved the lives of ten thousand men in Vietnam.
Darkus kept seeing the same phrases repeated over and over again: ‘He helped me get back in one piece, physically, and mentally.’ ‘He was my best friend.’ ‘They did everything for you.’ ‘They gave so much, and expected so little . . .’
Tragically, when the Vietnam War came to an end, the generals gave orders, and the remaining soldiers were evacuated, but their beloved dogs were not. Approximately five thousand dogs served in Vietnam, but
only two hundred dogs returned home. The remainder were either put to sleep, or left behind. Some soldiers even tried to extend their combat tours to remain with their dogs. In quote after quote, Darkus saw the familiar heartbreak again: ‘Leaving my dog was the hardest thing I ever had to do . . . These dogs knew more about honour, duty and devotion than most people today.’ There were still soldiers, decades on, who couldn’t even talk about their dogs. It still bothered them.
Darkus clicked on a war dog memorial page that contained the names of all those missing or lost in action, along with the K-9 promise from dog to soldier:
‘My eyes are your eyes, to watch and protect.
My ears are your ears, to hear in the dark.
My nose is your nose, to sense the enemy.
And as long as you live, my life is yours.’
Darkus looked down at Wilbur and decided for once to break the rule of letting sleeping dogs lie. He knelt beside the German shepherd and gently gave him a hug. Wilbur started for a moment, before he settled back down and rested his head on the carpet, returning to whatever dreams or nightmares he was having.
Darkus took a shower and freshened up, partly to wash away the memory of the hanging room; and partly to erase any remaining scent that might prove useful to his enemies – whether they were real or supernatural.
When he returned to his father’s office, he found Knightley Senior still unconscious, just as he’d left him, but Wilbur was sitting in the corner of the room, cowering with his tail between his legs. The tray of sandwiches was strangely empty.
‘You must have been hungry.’
Wilbur twitched his light brown eyebrows apologetically.
It was noon and Darkus realised nature would soon be calling on Wilbur, so he picked up the lead and the Metropolitan Police Kong toy, ready for their walk, hoping the fresh air would provide a solution to the facts. Wilbur bounced up and wagged his tail repeatedly across Knightley’s face.
But Knightley just kept sleeping.
Chapter 10
The Scent of the Crime
Darkus walked Wilbur along Cherwell Place, looking over his shoulder to check that they weren’t being followed, either by pedestrian, car or canine; then they proceeded up the crowded high street. The swell of humanity faced Wilbur with a fresh set of challenges. Each new scent appeared to tempt and confuse him. Darkus noticed the dog was having trouble walking in a straight line, as every sensation lured him in a different direction. Darkus deduced that it must have been a while since Wilbur was on active duty around the general public.
Darkus decided to steer off down a side street, before they found their way to Highbury Fields, a tree-lined park in the centre of a residential neighbourhood, where a mix of young and old peppered the grass.
As Darkus and Wilbur crossed the park they encountered a variety of canines: some were finely coiffed lapdogs, others were pit bull terriers bred for violence and street status, following orders from their young masters, who appeared equally aggressive under hooded tops. Darkus remembered a phrase from his earlier canine research: ‘It travels up and down the lead. If you’re confident, the dog is confident.’ Darkus straightened up and walked on, undaunted. Wilbur, in turn, appeared unfazed, inspecting the pit bulls with professional disdain. Darkus observed this, feeling inwardly proud, and tried to adopt the same approach with the owners.
Darkus found a secluded area of grass and let Wilbur off the lead. He took the Kong toy and threw it as far as he could. Wilbur galloped after it excitedly, before turning back with the toy in his mouth, wagging his tail in a frenzy. Wilbur ran back and delivered the Kong into Darkus’s gloved hands, then jumped up and rested his paws on his master’s chest gratefully.
‘Don’t mention it,’ said Darkus, laughing.
For a moment, they were just an ordinary boy and an ordinary dog.
Wilbur hopped down and rolled on the grass, wriggling and scratching his back, then flopping over and playing dead.
‘You’re a terrible actor,’ said Darkus, smiling. ‘Here . . .’
He prepared to throw the toy again, until Wilbur sat up and began barking at something behind him, with a curious mixture of apprehension and excitement.
Before Darkus could turn around, a voice answered, ‘It’s OK, Wilbur.’
Wilbur sat down obediently. Then another voice followed it:
‘Sorry tae interrupt ye tway’s playtime . . .’
Darkus turned to see the corduroy-clad bulk of Uncle Bill limping across the park towards them. He was accompanied by Captain Reed from the rescue centre, wearing grey army fatigues and a raincoat.
Darkus instinctively went to stand by Wilbur’s side.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Reed, ‘we’re not here to take him away.’
Wilbur bounded towards the captain’s side, greeting his former master.
‘Quite the opposite as it happens,’ added Bill, removing his homburg hat and shifting from his bad leg to his good one. ‘Ah convinced the docs tae let me return tae work. Just packed Dougal aff tae his forsaken lighthouse.’
‘How did you find us?’ demanded Darkus.
‘Bogna told us ye were oot for a walkie. The rest was deduction. Simples,’ he said with a smile.
Darkus noticed Uncle Bill’s Ford saloon parked off at the edge of the grass.
‘That still doesn’t explain what you want with us . . . Here, boy,’ Darkus instructed Wilbur, who obediently returned to him and sat.
‘He’s coming along well,’ said Reed.
‘What can I do for you gentlemen?’ asked Darkus.
Bill looked at Reed for a moment, then back to Darkus.
‘We have a wee problem that I think ye Knightleys might be able tae assist us with,’ Bill began.
‘Dad’s had another episode,’ said Darkus defensively.
‘Ah’m aware of that, Doc.’
‘And I suppose it’s just coincidence that you’re here making your proposal in his absence? So he can’t object? Just like on the last case.’
Bill shrugged, impressed with the boy’s guile. ‘This is of vital importance tae the department – any one of their lives could be in danger at the next full moon,’ he warned grimly.
‘Dad was right,’ said Darkus. ‘There is something on the Heath. I’m not prepared to say that it’s supernatural, but it’s definitely . . .’ he paused, looked for the right word, ‘highly antisocial.’
‘We have more tae worry aboot than missing pets, Doc. London appears tae be crawling with strange canines, and they’re hunting down mah men. I’ve had tway of them watching mah hoose.’
‘Me too,’ replied Darkus.
‘I will nae say what they are, but they’re crafty as hell. They’re fast, they move too quick tae follow and they rarely leave any evidence behind. If they dae, it’s left as a sign, as if tae say, “We know where ye live.” However, with the right support, we believe ye and Wilbur here might be able tae help us find oot where they live, what they want, and who their keeper is. Before the next full moon of course. That’s in less than seventy-tway hours.’
Darkus thought it over.
‘We had a verra successful collaboration on the last case, ye must admit,’ Bill pleaded.
‘Help you how?’ said Darkus.
Bill rummaged in his voluminous overcoat before pulling out a plastic evidence bag containing a small fragment of torn corduroy.
‘This wee bit of trooser belonged tae one of the intended victims. Tae me, as a matter of fact. It’s coated in dried dog’s saliva. Disgusting,’ he explained. ‘They recovered it on the Millennium Bridge after mah wee high dive. It’s been kept tightly sealed since then, so the scent does nae escape.’ He waggled the evidence bag in the air before them. ‘I believe with the right nose on the job, this may lead us tae the perpetrator.’
‘You expect us to follow that, across the whole of London, maybe beyond?’
Captain Reed flipped up the collar of his raincoat and chimed in, ‘Wilbur here was attached to the bo
mb squad and special operations. He has a very unique set of skills. When we can’t detect things, and machines can’t detect things, we have to rely on a superior sense.’ Reed nodded towards Wilbur. ‘When it comes to counterterrorism, the K-9s are our last line of defence.’
Darkus looked down at his dog, confused.
‘Wilbur,’ Reed almost barked. ‘Find the gun,’ he instructed.
Darkus stood back as Wilbur reared up on two legs and appeared to paw at Uncle Bill’s overcoat.
‘Ho ye!’ Bill exclaimed, chuckling as Wilbur nuzzled into his armpit and pulled out a small snub-nosed revolver.
Wilbur then sat down and dropped the gun on the grass.
‘Good boy,’ said the captain in clipped tones.
‘Well, that was a tad overfamiliar,’ said Bill, straightening his clothes, embarrassed. ‘May ah pick up the mahaska?’ Bill asked Reed. ‘Mah piece?’ he implored.
‘Give,’ ordered Reed, then Wilbur retrieved the gun and dropped it in the captain’s hand. Reed balanced it in his palm before passing it back to Bill. ‘Odd weight for a .38.’
‘Aye, that’s because she’s loaded wi’ silver bullets,’ replied Bill, matter-of-factly. ‘Ah’m nae taking onie chances.’
Darkus raised his eyebrows.
Reed continued. ‘Wilbur can detect gun oil at several hundred metres, among many other danger signs.’
Darkus watched Wilbur anxiously. ‘I still don’t see how he could possibly trace a scent across an entire city.’
‘We’ve scoured the CCTV cameras at the scene of the crimes,’ Bill went on. ‘The dogs are always alone, with nae owner in sight. They always return tae the north side of the river. By comparing the footage of the dogs we’ve narrowed down their last known whereaboots tae a one-square-mile radius aroond Victoria Train Station. We believe that’s enough to give ye and Wilbur a fighting chance of finding their HQ.’
Darkus thought it over, suddenly wishing for an ordinary life, and an ordinary walk with his ordinary dog.
