Blood Hound

by Tanya Landman

  “I don’t understand,” he was wailing miserably. “What went wrong?”

  The dog licked him.

  “It wasn’t supposed to end like this!” he said angrily. “That was the whole point, wasn’t it? No one else was supposed to get hurt! Nobody was supposed to get k—”

  We would have heard a whole lot more if Bertie hadn’t chosen that moment to break cover. He trundled out from under the bushes, closely followed by Malcolm and Stanley, and Jessie leapt up, eager to play. Grant stopped talking, stood up and glared at the little dogs. It was only then that I saw he hadn’t been speaking to Jessie. He had a mobile in his hand, which he switched off before the person on the other end could reply. He looked dead guilty. For of course he knew that where there was a dog, an owner wouldn’t be far behind.

  We couldn’t exactly pretend we hadn’t been in the bushes. The only thing to do was make it look like we’d only just got there. I did a lot of rustling and then we both burst out, apparently out of breath.

  “Have you seen Bertie?” I puffed, rushing across to Grant. “And the shih tzu? We’ve lost the lot!”

  “Oh, there they all are!” exclaimed Graham, looking the picture of innocence. “Gosh! We were so worried. What would we have said to their mummies?”

  “Bertie’s getting worse than Byron!” I realized as soon as the words slipped out that it wasn’t the most tactful thing to have said, seeing as Byron was the one who had discovered Gabbie’s body. A hot flush of embarrassment swept over me, but Grant didn’t seem to notice – he was too busy trying to catch Jessie, who was bounding around with Malcolm and Stanley while Bertie looked on, a superior expression on his face.

  Graham and I had no control whatsoever over the shih tzu, so it took a while for Grant to grab his dog and clip her on the lead. Once he’d managed it, he stalked off angrily, throwing a menacing look at me and Graham over his shoulder.

  The encounter had left us with lots and lots to talk about. And the first thing I asked Graham was, what did he reckon Grant had been going to say before Bertie interrupted him? “Nobody was supposed to get killed”?

  mr x

  “What on earth is going on?” I plonked myself down on the spot where Gabbie Robinson had breathed her last. “Do you reckon Grant was talking about his wife’s murder?”

  “It’s possible,” said Graham, lowering himself onto a pile of dry leaves. “And if he was saying ‘nobody was supposed to get killed’, I think we can assume that the attacker was merely meant to rough her up a little.”

  “But what would be the point of that?” I asked, before answering my own question. “As a warning, maybe?”

  Graham nodded. “Maybe. And if that was the case, it would seem to suggest that Gabbie knew too much. Perhaps someone wanted to intimidate her to prevent her from finding out more about the dogfighting ring.”

  “But how come her husband’s involved?” I asked. “It doesn’t make sense.” You only had to look at Grant with Jessie to see that he adored his dog – he was completely daft over her. A man who was that soppy couldn’t possibly want to stand and watch dogs dying for his own amusement, could he? But, as that phone call had just proved, he certainly knew something.

  “This is all getting too weird,” I said. “If it is to do with dogfighting, Kyle’s got to be involved. Grant clearly knows something about it. But neither of them can have killed Gabbie. Kathryn Hughes could have, but she’s been in custody, so she can’t have had anything to do with Mumsiewumsie’s accident. The hit-and-run just has to be connected. But why would anyone want Mumsiewumsie dead? We’re missing something, Graham. Come on, think.”

  I decided to start with Mumsiewumsie. All we knew about the car that had hit her was that it had a dog guard in it. So did Dermot’s. But he’d said that he didn’t keep a dog. He’d told us he didn’t even like them.

  Suppose he was lying?

  My heart started to thump against my ribs. “Why would you lie about keeping a dog, Graham?”

  “I have no idea,” he said, looking at me closely. “I suppose if you lived in a flat or somewhere you weren’t allowed to keep pets.”

  “Weren’t allowed?” I echoed. “Weren’t allowed … which would make it illegal. Like the dogfights. Dermot says he hasn’t got a dog, but maybe he has. Maybe he just doesn’t want to admit it because he’s using it for something dodgy… It could have been him hiding in the bushes!”

  “No, no, no,” Graham said firmly. “The heat must be affecting your capacity for logical thought. Dermot O’Flannery cannot possibly be involved in this! He draws crowds like a magnet draws iron filings. If he’d been within a hundred metres of the park the day Gabbie Robinson was murdered, someone would have noticed. We would have noticed!”

  Graham was right. Curse him. I deflated like a whoopee cushion. Sighing loudly, I tried again. Kyle Jacobs, I thought. What about him? I screwed my eyes tight shut and thought back over everything that had been said about him, hoping I might find a link to the mysterious Mr X – the stranger who’d lurked in the bushes. I turned over every last scrap of information and finally remembered what PC Black had said when we’d given him our statements right after Gabbie’s murder. He’d let slip that Kyle “Horrible Hoodie” Jacobs was tagged. Minor theft, the policeman had said. So Kyle hadn’t been involved in anything serious. Or at least nothing that they knew about…

  A flash of inspiration hit me like a thunderbolt. “Wasn’t Dermot’s house broken into the night his wife died?” I exclaimed.

  “You know it was.” Graham stayed annoyingly calm. “Her murder was the result of a bungled burglary.”

  “And Horrible Hoodie is tagged for theft.”

  “Minor theft.” Graham shrugged. “They wouldn’t let him walk the streets otherwise.”

  “Maybe he only got caught doing minor theft. It doesn’t mean he’s never done anything else.”

  “Are you suggesting he…?”

  “Yes.” I jumped to my feet, grabbing Graham’s arm and pulling him up so forcefully that he squealed in protest.

  We weren’t any closer to finding Gabbie’s killer. Or to knowing who’d driven the car that had knocked down Mumsiewumsie. But I was suddenly convinced that Horrible Hoodie had killed Dermot O’Flannery’s wife.

  “How? Why?” Graham puffed as we sped through the side gate of the park. I wanted to get as far away from there as possible.

  “OK,” I said as we raced along the pavement towards home. I’d picked Bertie up so we could move faster. Graham was dragging the doggy go-kart along with one hand and the two huffing, puffing shih tzu with the other. “I reckon they must have known each other from the dogfighting ring. I don’t care what you say – Dermot’s got a dog, I know he has. Maybe he uses it for fighting, I don’t know. But he and Kyle are connected somehow, I’m sure of it. It’s the only explanation. Dermot could have paid Kyle to kill his wife and make it look like a burglary.”

  “But why? He was devoted to her. He went to pieces! Fell into her grave and everything.”

  “Yes, well, Grant looks grief-stricken now too, doesn’t he? And yet he spent all his time in the park flirting with Sprinting Woman before Gabbie died. Dermot’s upset widower bit might just have been a good act. I bet his wife was well insured or something.”

  “Insurance money?” Graham nodded. “Yes, that sounds plausible. As we know, money is high on the list when it comes to murder motives.”

  “Exactly. And the case is still unsolved, which could be because up until now there’s been nothing to connect Kyle and Dermot – nothing at all. Except for the dogfighting, which Gabbie Robinson, RSPCA inspector, was investigating. Suppose she was about to find out that they knew each other? Wouldn’t that be enough for them to want to shut her up?”

  “But where does Grant Robinson fit in? And Mumsie­wumsie?”

  “I’ve no idea. But we’ll work it out.”

  “So what do we do now?” asked Graham, sitting down on a wall and pausing to catch his breath.

&
nbsp; “We’ve got no choice,” I told him. “Let’s call the police now. Tell them what we overheard, at any rate. Where’s your phone?”

  Graham plucked his mobile from his pocket but we were out of luck. After informing him that its battery was dangerously low, the mobile died with a soft, despairing bleep.

  “Stupid thing!” I exclaimed crossly. I fought the urge to stamp on it. “We’ll have to drop the dogs off and call from home, then.”

  Graham paled. “But your mum won’t…”

  “I’ll distract her – you make the call.”

  Graham reluctantly agreed and we set off again. Cutting down a side street, we soon reached the alley that came out about a hundred metres from my house. We were only halfway down it, however, when a shadow fell across the exit. A man stood there, blocking our path.

  The light was behind him and his hood was up. We couldn’t see his face, but there was no mistaking the hellhound drooling on the end of its chain.

  I’d talked to him earlier and he’d seemed OK. I told myself firmly that there was no reason to assume he knew that we knew about him. Kyle turning up right here, right now was just a harmless coincidence. I decided to ignore his threatening posture and attempt friendliness.

  “Hi Kyle,” I called hopefully. “OK, then?”

  He didn’t answer but squared his shoulders as if preparing for a fight. Then he murmured to his dog, and the beast started growling and straining impatiently, eager to attack. There was no doubt at all that he was on to us.

  Graham and I froze. Malcolm and Stanley whimpered. Bertie barked, just once. We must have stood there for a good ten seconds, images of a painful death flashing through all of our heads, and then I had an idea.

  “Back off,” I whispered to Graham. “Nice and slow. We can get out the other way. He won’t attack us when we’re in the street. Too many witnesses.”

  Keeping our eyes firmly fixed on the slavering, snapping hellhound, we took a step back. Then another. We hadn’t retreated more than three paces when we heard more growling, this time from behind us.

  Unwilling to take my eyes off the killer dog in front of me, I snatched a quick glance over my shoulder.

  “What on…?” I gasped. My heart plummeted into my shoes. A cold prickle of terror swept through me. Terror and confusion. Because Kyle was also standing behind us, hood up, hellhound snarling at the end of its chain.

  “Graham,” I said faintly, “there are two of them!”

  Graham’s jaw dropped. “What…? How…? I don’t understand!” he squeaked.

  But I did. Suddenly it all made sense. I wanted to kick myself for having been so stupid. All this time I’d been looking so hard for a connection, and yet there wasn’t one.

  That was the whole point.

  “Horrible Hoodie was telling the truth!” I wailed. “I should have trusted my instincts. He must have come in through the side gate while we were watching Grant and Sprinting Woman. The guy we saw going into the bushes wasn’t him! Same hoodie. Same breed of dog. Different man.”

  Graham looked from one advancing figure to the other and swallowed nervously. “So which of these is really Kyle Jacobs?”

  “Neither of them,” I said. “The police thought Mumsiewumsie was being absent-minded – that maybe she’d got the wrong day – but she wasn’t. She saw Gabbie’s murderer leaving through the back gate. That’s why she got knocked down. They wanted her dead.”

  The dogs were closer now. Flecks of spittle hit the fences on either side of the alley. “Which one of you is Dermot?” I yelled.

  For a second, both hounds and men stopped. The dogs strained at their leashes, but at a single command they both dropped to the ground. The man who had given it shook back his hood and smiled a charming Irish smile.

  “Sure, you were right,” he called to the second man. “They’ve worked it out. We should have been more careful.”

  “Let me guess.” I turned to the other man and pointed an accusing finger. “You’re Grant, right?”

  Slowly, reluctantly, Grant Robinson peeled back his hood.

  “No wonder Alexandra felt like you were using her,” I said. “She must have come in very handy when you needed an alibi.”

  “Yeah, well…” Grant shuffled awkwardly from one foot to the other. At least he had the grace to look guilty.

  Graham was working hard to catch up. “So where does Kyle fit in?” he asked.

  “He doesn’t,” I said. “He’s got nothing to do with any of it. Well, apart from maybe sending out those bags of dog poo. The first lot, anyway. I’ll bet you did the second round, didn’t you?”

  Dermot smiled. “It helped muddy the waters,” he said with a wink. “Confused the police a treat.”

  I was furious with myself. “Why didn’t I see it before – it was so obvious!”

  “What was?” demanded Graham.

  “Two men just happen to lose their wives in tragic circumstances, and both of them are perfectly innocent because they just happen to have perfect alibis?” I glared at Dermot. “No wonder you didn’t want to cover the poo package story. You didn’t want any kind of link to be made between the two of you, did you? And if it hadn’t been for Kyle’s stupid little joke, no one would have known you two had ever met.”

  “But,” said Graham, mystified, “I don’t get it. Who’s Mr X?”

  “He is.” I jerked my head towards Dermot. “It’s true, isn’t it? You killed Gabbie Robinson.”

  “Sure I did.” Dermot sounded quite proud of himself. “You know, I couldn’t see quite how to do it at first. Then I spotted that young lad. Distinctive hoodie? A mastiff just like mine? Perfect! The solution was so simple!”

  “So that’s why you lied about keeping dogs…” Graham looked thoughtful. “With the hood pulled over your face no one recognized you. We all assumed you were Kyle.”

  I looked from one man to the other. “You swapped murders, didn’t you? You planned two killings committed by people so unconnected to their victims that the police would never solve them. You were total strangers, weren’t you?”

  “Strangers?” queried Graham. “Surely people don’t hatch plans like this with people they don’t even know?”

  “Look at the way Alexandra was with Mum,” I reminded him. “A bit of tea and sympathy and she was telling her whole life story.” I turned back to Dermot. “So where did you first meet? On a train? In a pub?”

  “In an airport lounge, actually.” Dermot grinned. “The plane was delayed. We got talking. Found we had some problems in common. Wives: holding us back, getting in the way. Of course, I had the foresight to get mine well insured…”

  “And you?” I glared at Grant. “Was Gabbie the same? Did you do it for the money, or what?”

  “No!” protested Grant. “It wasn’t that! I just didn’t love her any more, that was all.”

  “Excuse me,” said Graham politely, “but if that was the case, wouldn’t a simpler solution have been to divorce her?”

  A dark cloud of fury suddenly contorted Grant’s handsome surfer-boy features. “She would have taken Jessie away from me.”

  A tug of love over a golden retriever? It seemed so ridiculous I almost laughed out loud. But hey, we were in a parallel universe. Somehow, on Planet Dog, murdering someone over a canine figured.

  “Hang on, though,” Graham objected. “I thought we’d decided Gabbie wasn’t supposed to get killed. When Grant was on the phone, didn’t he say…?”

  “No,” I interrupted with a tired sigh. “I was wrong about that, too. He wasn’t talking about Gabbie. He was talking about Kathryn Hughes. A young mum arrested. Two small kids at home.” I eyed Grant. “You felt bad about it, didn’t you? That was what you were about to say. It wasn’t ‘nobody was supposed to get killed’; it was ‘nobody was supposed to get caught’. You felt guilty about her being charged.”

  “It was a good plan!” cried Grant. “Flawless. No one else was supposed to get hurt.” He looked at Dermot accusingly. “No one was supp
osed to get arrested!”

  I detected friction between the conspirators. If we could use it, we had a slim chance of survival.

  Dermot broke in on the conversation. “There’s nothing we can do to help Kathryn,” he said. “She’ll be convicted. The Braithwaite woman will die – I’ll see to that. And you two… Innocent kids killed by strays? Urban dogs are such a menace! You know, I might just do a feature on it. Let’s get on, shall we?”

  We’d been standing in the alleyway chatting like dog walkers on a Sunday afternoon. But now Dermot bent down to the hellhound at his side and slipped the chain over its head.

  I swung around to face Grant. “Are you going to let him do this?”

  Grant winced. In a voice husky with emotion he said, “We can’t let you go. I can’t end up in prison. Who’d look after Jessie?” He slipped the other dog off its chain.

  Death came a heartbeat closer.

  But if I’d learned one thing during all those strolls in the park it was that dog owners like to talk about their pets. Frantically I asked Dermot, “What’s his name?”

  “Bruno,” replied Dermot smoothly. “And behind you is Frazier.”

  “Oh?” Graham chipped in helpfully. “They’re both yours, are they?”

  “They are.”

  “Did you use the clicker method?” asked Graham. “Only, they seem far better trained than Kyle’s dog.”

  “Oh, they are.” Dermot smiled. “They’re trained to attack.” He grinned another cheeky grin. And then calmly, clearly, he commanded his dogs: “Kill.”

  Bruno and Frazier leapt forward. The shih tzu fled, yelping.

  A gust of hot, flesh-eating breath. A flash of tearing teeth. Blood-chilling snarls. I couldn’t help it – I dropped Bertie and grabbed Graham. There was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. All we could do was shut our eyes, hide our faces in each other’s shoulders and wait to be torn apart. It wasn’t going to be quick and it wasn’t going to be painless. Frankly, I whimpered. We both did. I’ve never been so scared in my life.