K-9

by Rohan Gavin

  He looked around his father’s office, noting the rows of reference books, the solitary office chair and the mahogany desk, accented with Carpathian elm. Darkus wondered to himself whether this was what the future had in store for him as well – like father, like son. It was a lonely existence, one devoted to details, formulas and technicalities. Some might even call it a devotion to the trivial, until of course these elements were arranged into a logical pattern in order to solve the crime. But surely when a mind was so focused on the details, it might miss the wood for the trees. Maybe the really important things in life could not be examined, catalogued and explained. Maybe they were what took place between the clues and behind the scenes, while detectives were too busy detecting things.

  ‘What’s on your mind?’ Tilly interrupted him from the doorway.

  ‘Tonight is the last night before the full moon,’ Darkus replied. ‘We can only hope the press coverage peaks before King lets the dogs out.’

  ‘I’m more worried about the Heath,’ she replied. ‘By tomorrow night, that place is going to be crawling with looky-loos and have-a-go heroes. I only hope they don’t run into whatever’s creeping around up there –’

  ‘Wait . . .’ Darkus interrupted her and moved towards the sofa urgently.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  Hung over the edge of the sofa was his father’s tweed jacket – except for a small square of fabric that had been cut away from the arm. A piece of frayed silk lining was poking out in its place. The catastrophiser started humming and rattling.

  ‘Dad – ?’ Darkus called out.

  A thundering on the stairs heralded Bogna’s arrival with an ever-present tray of sandwiches. ‘Something is wrong? I was just preparing sandwich.’

  His father appeared behind her. ‘What is it, Doc?’

  ‘Was there some kind of accident with your jacket?’ Darkus demanded.

  ‘Not that I know of,’ said Knightley.

  Bogna approached the offending hole in the garment. ‘Who has done this to Alan’s nice jacket?’ she asked, outraged.

  Darkus looked to Wilbur but the dog didn’t exhibit any of his traditional guilty signs – and besides, he was a reformed character. ‘It wasn’t Wilbur,’ he confirmed.

  Bogna tried unsuccessfully to press the lining back into the hole. ‘Who would do such a thing?’

  ‘The Combination,’ Knightley answered. ‘I fear they’re behind this. And I can only deduce that I have now been targeted personally.’

  Tilly nodded. ‘Every dog-attack victim lost an article of clothing in the run-up to the full moon.’

  ‘It’s how they track you,’ agreed Darkus grimly, nodding to the office window. ‘The lock’s been forced. Someone must have got in while we were talking to Miss Khan.’

  ‘Now let’s not get hysterical,’ Knightley assured them. ‘It’ll take more than a few trained mutts to take down Alan Knightley.’

  Bogna, Darkus and Tilly looked at each other, appearing less convinced.

  ‘Especially now that we have Miss Khan’s high-tech dog whistles,’ Knightley went on.

  ‘I don’t fancy their chances against a werewolf,’ Tilly suggested.

  ‘Hopefully none of us will get close enough to find out,’ said Darkus.

  ‘So you concede a supernatural presence is at work?’ his father asked him.

  ‘I concede nothing. I discount nothing,’ Darkus responded. ‘We have members of SO 42 marked for death at the jaws of King’s attack dogs. And we have a particularly fierce creature picking off victims at random on Hampstead Heath and visiting a well-known TV personality. All during the full moon. What connects these bizarre events is something I’m still working on.’

  ‘Well, now’s no time to hold anything back,’ said Knightley, sounding more coherent and more fearful than usual. ‘Share your theories.’

  ‘OK,’ agreed Darkus. ‘But first, what do we know about Fiona Connelly? Tilly . . . ?’

  Tilly tapped on her phone and typed in a search. Within moments she was reading a short bio of Fiona Connelly.

  ‘Fiona was raised and educated in Kenya, East Africa. An only child, born of white parents of British descent who reportedly ran a wildlife park near Mombasa before dying in a safari accident, leaving Fiona an orphan. Fiona assembled a host of veterinary qualifications in Kenya before making the move to Britain five years ago, arriving as a relative unknown. She quickly impressed the “powers that be” in the TV world with her know­ledge and understanding of dog behaviour and, well, the rest is history. She’s written two bestselling dog behaviour guides and has been a judge at Crufts. She is unmarried and has not been linked to any significant others, in the public eye, or otherwise.’

  ‘Thanks, Tilly,’ said Darkus. ‘Now I’ll tell you what I know – or rather what I can prove,’ he announced, pausing for effect. ‘Whatever was in Fiona’s garden was permitted entry into it.’

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Knightley.

  ‘How?’ enquired Tilly.

  ‘We saw footage of the creature moving along the side of the house to the front of the property,’ explained Darkus. ‘But, as you observed yourself, Tilly, the fingerprint scanner on the side gate has sensors on both sides – therefore, the creature could not have passed in or out of that door unless it was an approved person, with fingerprints.’

  ‘Surely it could’ve just scaled the fence?’ argued Knightley.

  ‘I discounted that possibility for the simple reason that there were no scratch or scuff marks on the black metal railings. I checked carefully. Nothing has scaled that fence,’ Darkus stated with conviction. ‘As I said before, it’s not about what the footage shows, but what it doesn’t show. We never saw the creature cross that threshold. It’s as if whoever let the creature on to the property wanted to disguise the fact that they had done so.’

  ‘Are you saying Fiona deliberately let that thing on to her own property?’ Tilly asked.

  ‘Either she did, or someone with access to her secur­ity system did,’ replied Darkus. ‘Security is tight. So tight that someone had to have known about the intruder.’

  ‘A-plus,’ said Knightley. ‘I take my hat off to you, Doc.’

  ‘I still don’t have a complete solution to the facts,’ Darkus complained. ‘If you’d allow me a few hours alone with my thoughts, I may be able to find one.’

  Knightley raised his eyebrows, realising he was being ejected from his own office. ‘OK, I’ll make a cup of tea and see if I can raise Uncle Bill.’

  ‘Tilly, perhaps you could look at whether we can bypass Fiona’s security system for our own purposes. I suspect we’ll need to conduct further surveillance on the property tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m on it,’ she replied.

  ‘Dinner is served at seven thirty,’ Bogna added. ‘It will be a collection of cold meats and cheeses, including hard-boiled eggs, delicious blood sausage and favourite kielbasa sticks.’

  ‘Yum,’ said Knightley, then retreated to the door, leaving Darkus alone at the desk.

  ‘Wilbur,’ said Darkus, ‘you can stay.’

  The German shepherd wagged his tail and sat obediently by his master.

  Chapter 20

  Amateur Night

  The sun sank below the trees surrounding Hampstead Heath and the handful of street lamps at the East Heath Road entrance flickered to life.

  A light mist began to creep in over the meadows as a cameraman packed the last of his equipment into a mobile broadcast van. His blonde reporter companion hopped into the passenger seat, the doors slammed shut and the van pulled out of the now empty car park.

  A few moments later, an unmarked police Vauxhall drove in and parked in a far corner, switching off its lights. A few moments after that, a customised open-top Land Rover with a steel roll cage and a vertical exhaust accelerated into the car park and skidded to a halt in a cloud of dust.

  Chief Inspector Draycott grimaced and stepped gingerly out of his Vauxhall in a black polo neck and permanent crease trousers.
He wafted away the dust to find Clive Palmer grinning at the wheel of the Land Rover, with Lance Corporal Burke standing behind him on a makeshift weapons platform, wearing full camouflage and a pair of night-vision goggles.

  ‘Tell me you don’t actually have a machine gun on that thing?’ Draycott demanded.

  ‘Of course not,’ replied Clive, leaning out of the window. ‘But Ray’s brought his crossbow. Just in case.’

  Burke held the weapon aloft in a silent battle cry.

  ‘No four-by-fours,’ commanded Draycott. ‘No crossbows.’

  ‘I knew you were going to say that.’ Clive jumped down from the vehicle to reveal he was wearing an all black shell suit and matching trainers. He walked around to the back and released the tailgate. ‘Which is why I brought these . . .’

  Clive took out three BMX bicycles and lined them up against the car.

  ‘Aren’t we a little old for this sort of thing?’ asked Draycott, before finding himself strangely taken with the bikes.

  ‘These are from my personal collection. I’m taking that one . . .’ Clive pointed to his favourite, which had black plastic wheels. ‘You can argue it out over the other two.’ Then he added privately to Draycott, ‘But I wouldn’t upset Ray. He’s got a very short fuse.’

  Burke leaped down from the back of the Land Rover and shouldered a military backpack. Draycott gave the man some distance, before turning to Clive, who was hoisting a large, heavy sports bag on to his back.

  Draycott recoiled, turning up his nose. ‘What in God’s name is that smell?’

  ‘Lion dung,’ said Clive with a wink. ‘Stole it from Chessington World of Adventures.’

  ‘Why would you do that?!’ Draycott implored.

  ‘It’s a well-known deterrent to foxes and other predators,’ Clive explained. ‘Makes ’em think there’s a “big cat” around. Scares the pants off ’em.’

  ‘Not as stupid as he looks,’ commented Burke.

  ‘Thank you, Ray,’ Clive added.

  ‘OK,’ admitted Draycott. ‘This is not as bad as I was expecting. Let’s saddle up and do some good.’

  ‘Amen, brother,’ replied Clive.

  On the other side of the Heath, at the entrance to Parliament Hill Fields, a female figure walked intrepidly in a thick anorak and woolly hat, holding a flashlight. Slightly embarrassingly, she also held a crucifix, although it was buried deep in her jacket pocket out of sight, clutched in a gloved hand. Alexis didn’t believe in all that supernatural stuff, but she still decided to err on the side of caution.

  ‘Come on, Ian!’ she called behind her.

  A lanky adolescent figure, Ian Dulwich, ambled to keep up with her. ‘Coming . . .’ he said gallantly, although he was weighed down by a long-lensed camera and a fully laden rucksack with several water flasks swinging from it.

  She turned to chastise him. ‘It’s not enough to just break the story – I’ve already got every major news outlet chomping at the bit. Now it’s about the follow-up . . . the wow moment . . . the National Geographic shot. If we, or rather you, can get a snap of this thing, whatever it turns out to be, then we’re talking worldwide acclaim. I’m talking the Loch Ness monster, Big Foot. Proper myth and legend stuff.’

  ‘Whatever you say, Lex.’ Ian shifted the rucksack and attempted to stretch out his back.

  ‘According to the witness report the epicentre of the activity is Parliament Hill.’ She pointed up the steep, dark incline towards the summit, just visible on the skyline.

  ‘It looks like an awfully long way up . . .’ Ian pointed out. ‘And it doesn’t look like anyone else is around. I mean . . . no one could hear us scream.’

  ‘I’m not intending to scream, Ian. Are you?’ Alexis challenged him.

  ‘Of course not,’ he backtracked. ‘I’m just saying . . .’

  ‘Last one up’s a sissy,’ she ordered and took off up the hill, with one hand swinging confidently, while the other one still clutched the crucifix, out of sight.

  On the opposite side of Parliament Hill, the sound of three panting cyclists could be heard over the background hum of the city and the occasional birdcall from the wilderness. Clive Palmer, Chief Inspector Draycott and Lance Corporal Burke hyperventilated as they leaned down on the pedals with all their middle-aged spread, coaxing their undersized BMXs up the arduous hill from the ponds. The path was overarched with tall, ancient trees and thick foliage on all sides. The bikes had no lights but could just be seen in the dim light of the not yet full moon.

  ‘I . . . can’t . . . go . . . one . . . centimetre . . . further.’ Clive stopped pedalling and almost began to roll backwards down the hill until he painfully dismounted. ‘My L-5 vertebra is bloody killing me.’

  ‘Maybe it’s that sack of steaming lion excrement on your back,’ snapped Draycott. ‘I mean, if there is something out there, it’s going to smell us a mile off. And you did insist on these stupid bikes,’ he complained. ‘I’ve got a perfectly good mountain bike at home. With pannier bags and everything.’

  ‘If you two are finished comparing your tackle, can we take this hill?’ Burke advised, before surveying the scene. ‘Switching to infrared.’ He pulled down his night-vision goggles, tapped his head and said, ‘Follow my lead.’ He then pumped his fist in the air and continued pedalling heavily uphill.

  Draycott groaned and continued after him. ‘If my wife knew I was riding without a helmet, there’d be hell to pay.’

  Clive rubbed his lower back and kept walking, pushing the bike beside him. Suddenly, the heavens opened up and started pouring with rain.

  ‘Fan-bloody-tastic –’

  Then a noise stopped him. A high-pitched crying noise, almost like a baby.

  ‘Guys?’ Clive called after the others who were almost out of sight at the upper edge of the woods. ‘Oh, guuuuys . . . ?’ Clive started walking faster, pushing the BMX uphill more urgently. ‘Wait for me!’

  Burke and Draycott leaned against their bikes at the top of the tree-lined path. Behind them, the grassy banks of Parliament Hill stretched up to the grey, foreboding sky.

  Clive arrived in a hurry, his bike toppling to the ground as he clutched his chest. ‘I heard something. Like a baby crying –’ he gasped.

  ‘Probably foxes,’ said Burke. ‘It’s rutting season.’

  ‘Perfect,’ announced Draycott. ‘Then it’s all the work of some randy foxes and the Knightleys think they’re chasing a werewolf? Those amateurs! Just wait until we solve this case, hand it over to Bill Oddie or Bear Grylls and have our moment in the limelight.’

  Suddenly a much louder noise echoed through the trees around them. It was a tortured howl – like the distress horn of a sinking ocean liner.

  ‘That didn’t sound like a fox,’ whispered Clive.

  ‘No. It didn’t,’ agreed Draycott.

  Burke scanned the undergrowth with his night-vision goggles. A large shape appeared to move through the trees on his infrared. ‘Stay calm, people. The hostile seems to be a quarter of a klick due north of our position. When engaging the enemy it’s vital to maintain the element of surprise –’

  Burke was interrupted by another fearsome howl, which lasted longer and reached an even more terrifying pitch.

  ‘Surprise?’ hissed Draycott. ‘You really think it hasn’t already smelled us? Or rather him.’ He jabbed a finger at Clive.

  Clive checked his watch. ‘Oh, bum. I promised Jackie I’d be home for MasterChef,’ he improvised. ‘I’d better get going –’

  ‘Ah-ah, not so fast,’ said Draycott. ‘You got us into this mess in the first place. I want to know what’s going on up here. Deserters will be court-martialled.’

  ‘I second that,’ added Burke.

  ‘Bl-oody hell, all-right . . .’ Clive moaned.

  ‘Platoon, move out!’ Burke ordered.

  The troop pushed their bicycles in the direction of the sound, along the path at the base of Parliament Hill.

  Meanwhile, Alexis and Ian tramped across the other side of th
e hill, with a distant spire behind them, which was just a vague shadow on the skyline. They crossed the apex and descended through a small wooded outcrop, arriving at a fallen tree stretched dramatically across the meadow before them.

  Then they froze, also hearing the howl echoing through the woods.

  ‘Er . . . Lex?’ Ian piped up, his water bottles rattling. ‘Did you hear that?’

  ‘Sure did. And it sounded like it was coming from behind those trees.’

  She pointed to a small, dark gap in the undergrowth.

  ‘Er, don’t you think,’ suggested Ian, ‘perhaps, we should call for help?’

  ‘What, and let someone else get all the glory? No way.’

  She strode towards the gap in the hedgerows with her torch trained ahead of her – and the crucifix in her pocket, feeling like it was burning a hole in her gloved hand. She bent her head to duck under the overhanging branches and ventured through the rabbit hole, so to speak.

  ‘Remember,’ she recited to herself. ‘Sky News Sunrise . . . Good morning, Eamonn . . . Charlotte . . . It’s Alexis here with a breaking story . . .’ She picked her way through the brambles which were tearing at her clothes. ‘OK, and it’s over to Nazaneen with a weather update . . .’

  Her torch beam picked out a deserted clearing with a muddy circle of ground surrounded by a high wall of thickets. In no way did it look inviting. It was darker than the outer reaches of space, and it smelled of death.

  ‘Ian? You should take a look in here. It’s really cool,’ she lied.

  Then she suddenly heard a frantic rattling of water bottles.

  ‘Ian . . . ?’ She turned the beam around to search the meadow that lay just beyond the hedgerows.

  Ian wasn’t there any more.

  ‘Ian!’

  She saw him stumbling away across the hillside in fear, the rucksack jangling behind him.

  ‘You coward!’ she shouted after him angrily.

  ‘Sorry, Lex! Not worth it –’ he panted over his shoulder.

  ‘Fine!’ she yelled defiantly. ‘This was a once in a lifetime opportunity. And you blew it!’