by Rohan Gavin
‘Why Wilbur? Why me?’
‘He’s got the snout, ye’ve got the brain. The Knightley brain. With the Knowledge on board too. That’s a dynamite combo.’
Darkus didn’t look convinced.
‘A’right, Darkus, it’s like this,’ Bill went on. ‘If they see me or Cap’n Reed, the game’s up . . . Besides,’ he confessed guiltily, ‘nae one suspects a child.’
‘What if they already suspect me? They’ve been to Wolseley Close.’
Bill pouted and shifted on his feet.
‘What you mean is,’ Darkus concluded, ‘I’m deniable.’
‘There’s nae denying it. Nae.’
As usual, Darkus didn’t really understand what the Scotsman was saying – and he got the impression Bill liked it that way.
Fortunately for Bill, Darkus had the bit between his teeth and wasn’t about to let go.
‘With the right support,’ granted Darkus, ‘we may be of assistance.’
‘I cannae guarantee a surveillance drone or an armoured battalion, Doc. The department is facing greater austerity measures than ever. Even my meal allowance is in jeopardy. But ye have mah word I shall oversee the operation personally.’
Darkus considered his position. Nothing about the operation sounded appealing, other than to see what Wilbur was really capable of, and to prove once again to his father that he was a worthy business partner – and maybe, just maybe, to get to the bottom of what had put his dad back in a trance. Besides, as long as the ‘smart’ dogs were watching them, they’d never be truly safe.
The question was, were Darkus and Wilbur ‘smart’ enough to catch them?
Chapter 11
The Hunt
Less than an hour later, Darkus watched London through the window of the Ford saloon, finding himself compressed in the back seat with Uncle Bill on one side and Wilbur on the other. Reed sat up front next to the driver, who Darkus recognised from their last assignment. Wilbur’s window was cracked open for him to sniff the air, his jowls leaving a residue of slobber on the glass.
Before departing, Darkus had assembled his customary tools of the trade: his phone, fingerprint kit and a jeweller’s loupe (a small cylindrical lens which served as a miniature magnifying glass). Bogna had assured him that his father would be well taken care of in the usual way, and sent Darkus and Wilbur off with a packed lunch – although Darkus was unsure which sandwiches were for him and which were for the dog. As the catastrophiser hummed insistently at the back of his head, he was reminded that there was still one critical element missing. And that was his stepsister, Tilly.
She would bring that X-factor that Darkus couldn’t provide: her knowledge of the street, of emotions and human behaviour, which could not be learned in books no matter how many hours one spent reading. While Darkus was confident in his encyclopaedic knowledge of detective work, Tilly had an encyclopaedic knowledge of what makes people tick: the fine strings that make up someone’s personality and how to tug on the right one, to play them like a harp. Darkus suspected he would never understand people the way he understood cases.
Darkus stared at his phone keypad. Should he call her again? She’d already mentioned she wasn’t at home – that meant both of them were on the loose at the same time. In due course this would attract unwanted attention from Clive, the school authorities, or maybe even social services.
What was she doing anyway? Perhaps she was more preoccupied with the mysterious hoodie on the motor scooter who’d courted her in the early hours outside Wolseley Close? Darkus reminded himself that Tilly was still a wild card and could not be relied upon as an operational certainty. Yes, she had helped him recover his father on the last case, but not before risking life and limb in her own dogged pursuit of the Combination. She had her own agenda and it was jaded by tragedy: to track down those members of the Combination who were responsible for her mother’s death. If Darkus’s mission deviated from that agenda, he could not count on Tilly to be there in a crisis – or even to pick up the phone. And if he was honest with himself, Darkus couldn’t blame her. She was more alone than he had ever been. She was damaged, badly – but Darkus hoped not beyond repair.
Darkus put his phone back in his pocket and familiarised himself with his surroundings. The saloon pulled out of the plodding traffic and parked illegally by the kerb of Terminus Place, opposite the main entrance to Victoria Train Station. Uncle Bill strained to open the car door and hoisted himself out.
‘Follaw me,’ he bellowed.
Bill led Darkus, Wilbur and Captain Reed away from the Ford saloon as it briskly accelerated back into traffic. Darkus looked up at the once grand façade of Victoria Station, which was now encroached upon by the road barriers of London’s busiest bus terminal. A large clock occupied the centre of the station’s frontage, keeping time as legions of travellers hurried beneath it.
Bill led them through the bustle of people and queuing red buses to a white Transit van parked strategically across from the station entrance. The van had a ladder strapped to its roof and a builder behind the wheel with his feet on the dashboard, reading a tabloid newspaper. Darkus recognised the set-up from his last assignment: that particular operation had resulted in an attempted assault, a frenzied foot chase and the prime suspect being flattened by a bus. Hopefully this time round the going would be easier – although Darkus wasn’t convinced it would be and the catastrophiser was skittering in the background, making all the wrong noises.
Captain Reed climbed into the centre seat beside the driver, then instructed Wilbur to jump up next to him. Reed closed the door and wound down the window, then Bill passed him the evidence bag containing the torn piece of corduroy. The captain whispered something in Wilbur’s ear, then opened up the plastic to deliver the scent. Wilbur poked his snout right inside the bag, burrowing around, as if hunting for an invisible snack. He drew in the smell and allowed the molecules to be processed by the two hundred and twenty million nerve endings that make up the canine nose – as opposed to the mere five million in the human one.
Darkus reluctantly left Wilbur at the passenger window and followed Uncle Bill through the back door of the van. Inside was the customary array of TV monitors and surveillance equipment, with the familiar lanky male technician at the keyboard. Bill slumped into a wheelie chair, which threatened to career off towards the door, until he dug his heels in and scooted over to the monitors, replacing his hat with a telephone headset.
‘A’right nou, Wilbur is going tae sit up front and see if he can catch a whiff of the suspects. Captain Reed, can ye hear us?’ Bill spoke into his headset.
‘Wilbur and I are primed and ready,’ Reed answered through the mic from the front seat.
‘What happens if he gets the scent?’ Darkus asked Bill.
‘We’re tapped intae the London Transport cameras, here, here . . . and here.’ Bill appeared to get confused. ‘And here.’ He massaged his bald pate and continued. ‘Once we have a visual on the beasties I want ye and Wilbur to follow at a safe distance. If ye lose visual for a moment or tway, dinna worry, Wilbur will pick up the scent again. See where they go, who they associate with, find oot anything ye can. And we’ll be following ye on the cameras and tracking ye with yer phone . . .’ Bill handed Darkus a small flesh-coloured earpiece. ‘Every move ye make, we’ll be watchin’ ye . . .’ he intoned in his Highland burr.
‘Sounds like nothing could go wrong,’ said Darkus, not without irony.
‘Aye. Naething whatsoever,’ Bill assured him.
Darkus took a deep breath, pulled up a wheelie chair and watched the array of CCTV images splashed across the monitors. People flowed in all directions like human estuaries running in and out of the main body of the train station. Darkus forced his mind to ignore the people and only look out for the animals. He lowered his field of vision to the pavements and walkways. Hidden here and there were poodles, lapdogs, the occasional guide dog, and the very occasional stray cat.
Bill sat back in his chair and tore ope
n a large packet of chocolate biscuits.
‘Would ye care for a bicky?’ he offered. ‘I find they help tae pass the time.’
‘Thanks.’ Darkus accepted one and took a bite.
Bill took another two for himself, forming a makeshift sandwich, which he slid into his mouth in one go. ‘Have ye ever tried them frozen?’ he said, blowing a fine spray of biscuit crumbs over the desk. ‘Locks in the taste, gives ’em that extra bite,’ he explained like a connoisseur.
Time seemed to elongate and expand as they watched the monitors. Rain showers and sunbursts came and went. The movement of images across the screens resembled a procession of clouds across a horizon. The people blurred into one, multiplying then contracting, breaking, reforming, then diffusing. All on their way to their own particular destination, with their own agenda.
Darkus rubbed his eyes as they entered the second hour of viewing. The sun had begun to drop in the sky and pointed shadows were extending over the canopy and walkways at the front of the station, giving the CCTV images a bluish tinge as the cameras’ infrared light systems flicked on to defeat the darkness. The footage reflected across the technician’s glasses and over Bill’s smooth head, which had lost balance and was now propped at an unnatural angle. Darkus realised Bill was either asleep or in a food coma.
The only sound from the front seat was the occasional whimper, followed by Reed explaining, ‘Negative. It’s nothing.’
Darkus remained focused on the screens, mentally noting each fleeting animal appearance in the crowd, until . . .
‘Wait –’ Darkus said, peering closer at one particular camera angle. ‘There . . .’
The technician captured the image then enlarged it, making a high-pitched beeping noise, which roused Bill from his slumber.
‘Aye! What is it, Doc?’
‘That looks like one of the dogs.’ Darkus pointed at the screen.
A Rottweiler mix trotted purposefully between the legs of a dense crowd of travellers at a pedestrian crossing, heading towards the main entrance. The dog appeared to be untethered, but moved too stealthily for bystanders to notice it. It weaved through the foot traffic towards a youth in a hooded top, waiting on the pavement, holding a white stick.
‘It’s just a guide dog,’ said Bill, poking his finger at the screen as the youth in the hooded top patted the dog, then followed it into the main entrance, pointing with the white stick.
They were interrupted by a loud woof from the front seat. Reed’s voice followed it through the headset:
‘Wilbur’s got something.’
‘Look at his stride,’ said Darkus in quick staccato, staring at the youth. ‘He doesn’t look blind.’
Darkus moved closer to the screen, seeing a second youth in a hooded top, also holding a white stick. A second identical Rottweiler mix emerged from the crowd and led the youth into the station.
‘Since when have they used Rottweilers as guide dogs . . . ?’ Darkus whispered to himself.
‘Since never,’ said the technician and switched to a different camera angle as the two youths entered the terminal and began making their way across the packed concourse.
‘Gae, gae, gae,’ Bill instructed Darkus, while banging on the wall of the van.
Darkus hopped out of the back of the white van to find Reed and Wilbur waiting for him on the pavement. Wilbur was now wearing a black, Kevlar-lined tactical vest. Reed handed Darkus the lead. Darkus wrapped it round his wrist and patted Wilbur nervously.
‘Remember: your eyes are my eyes,’ Darkus whispered. ‘Ready, boy?’
‘Find them,’ Reed ordered, and Wilbur immediately tugged on the lead, pulling Darkus across a congested bus lane towards the station entrance.
Darkus had to run to keep up as Wilbur dodged through the tight knot of travellers, causing him to knock people out of their path.
‘Hey, watch it!’ a pedestrian called after them.
‘Sorry –’ Darkus muttered in response and continued after Wilbur who appeared to be locked on to the scent.
Darkus adjusted his flesh-coloured earpiece as Bill’s voice blurted through it: ‘Aye, Doc, we have ye in our sights. The tway bogies are heading for the platforms with the beasties in tow.’
Darkus followed Wilbur under the canopy and through two ornate stone arches into the main concourse, which was overrun with signage and dotted with shops. The enormity of the task became clear as Darkus saw hundreds of travellers moving in all directions, almost colliding with each other as they walked towards their respective platforms.
Wilbur stood with his back perfectly arched, his head upright and legs evenly positioned. He bobbed his nose left and right, discerning between the thousands – if not millions – of smells in the train station. The aroma of coffee and pastries in one direction, burgers grilling in another. Wilbur’s nostrils flared and narrowed repeatedly as he drank in the scene, but he wasn’t eager for food, he was only looking for the one scent that mattered.
‘I don’t have a visual,’ Darkus said to himself, knowing Bill would hear him through the earpiece.
‘Wait a second,’ Bill’s voice announced as he observed the cameras. ‘They’re getting something tae eat. The little bleeders. It looks like . . . yes, it’s a Cornish pasty! Go tae the Pasty Shop at platform nine.’
Darkus looked past the giant departure boards, ignoring the flickering orange letters, and instead looked for signs to the platforms.
At that moment, Wilbur tugged him forward at a sprint, having found the scent. Darkus stumbled after him through the melee of train goers.
‘Haud on. They’re heading yer way!’ Bill warned Darkus through the earpiece.
Wilbur accelerated again as the thick crowd parted briefly to reveal the two hoodies holding white sticks, their pale white faces obscured under baseball caps. The Rottweilers marched at their sides in a perfectly matching half-step, then suddenly came to a halt.
Both hounds raised their noses to the air, detecting trouble.
Wilbur also came to a halt, nervously assessing his opponents.
Darkus remembered the phrase: ‘It travels up and down the lead. If you’re confident, the dog is confident.’ He stood his ground as the crowd rejoined around them, blocking the hoodies’ view. But the hounds had the scent.
The Rottweilers abruptly sat down on the spot, causing the hoodies to stop dead and look at each other, realising something was wrong.
At just that moment, the crowds parted again to reveal Darkus and Wilbur standing a scant thirty metres away from the suspects.
Both Rottweilers raised their jowls and their thin black lips rolled back to reveal matching rows of perfectly symmetrical and impossibly sharp teeth. Instead of growling or barking, they emitted a series of excited, rhythmic grunts – as if eagerly anticipating what was about to happen.
The two hoodies glanced around, noting the CCTV cameras angled at various locations on the walls and roofs of nearby shops. Calculating that this was not the place for a stand-off, the hoodies both whistled sharply and darted off in the direction of the exit with the Rottweilers on either side of them.
‘They’re on the move,’ Bill’s voice blurted.
‘I can see that,’ Darkus replied as Wilbur yanked his arm and gave chase.
Wilbur slalomed through pedestrians, dragging Darkus with him.
The hoodies ran towards the exit, then banked left and deviated into the corner of the station under a blue sign that read: Victoria Underground Station. They sprinted down a set of stairs, knocking bystanders out of the way, the dogs racing beside them in perfect time.
‘They’re going for the Choobe!’ Bill’s voice erupted. ‘Don’t lose ’em!’
‘I’m doing my best –’
Darkus bobbed and weaved after Wilbur as they ran at full pelt down the stairway to the Underground. Pedestrians were by this time moving to the handrails to make room as the three dogs and their owners blazed a trail through the Tube station.
Darkus jumped the last few stai
rs to the ticketing area and saw the hoodies and their dogs jump one after the other over the barriers, in perfect unison, then continue on towards the platforms. A pair of police officers ran towards the scene but were instantly taken down by the two Rottweilers who wrestled them to the ground, tearing their yellow visibility jackets and threatening to rip them limb from limb. The officers screamed in helpless terror as the hoodies kept running. After a few seconds the dogs left their prey like limp rag dolls and sped after their handlers.
Wilbur accelerated after them, breaking free of Darkus’s grip and hurdling the ticket barriers. Darkus saw more police officers converging on the scene and stayed calm, removed his Oyster card from his pocket, swiped the machine, passed legally through the ticket barrier, then sprinted after Wilbur.
The hoodies reached the platforms, breathless, just as a District Line train arrived. The dogs looked about, their nostrils flaring and stubby tails wagging furiously, having the time of their lives. The hoodies pushed and antagonised their way through the waiting travellers to reach the front of the line. The Tube train came to a stop and the automatic doors slid open.
Darkus caught up with Wilbur and picked up his lead.
‘Doc, I’m losing ye . . .’ Bill’s voice screeched and broke up into digital interference.
Wilbur barked in the direction of the train, causing bystanders to back away, making a circle around him and Darkus. As the deluge of people parted again, Darkus saw the hoodies and their dogs board the train and begin shoving their way through the carriage.
The automatic doors began to slide closed until . . .
Darkus placed his foot in the way, causing the doors to stutter and slide open again. Darkus and Wilbur squeezed on board. The doors slid shut and the train jerked into motion. Wilbur barked, grabbed the lead in his jaws and passed it to his master, shaking it violently. Darkus understood. ‘OK, boy. Be careful –’
He unclipped the lead from Wilbur’s collar and the dog set off through the moving train, burrowing through the travellers’ legs to follow the scent.
