The Spotted Dog

by Kerry Greenwood

  ‘Maybe. I can’t imagine why anyone wants the dog except as a means of getting to Alasdair. But there is a problem with that.’

  He took my hand in his and squeezed it gently, something which always sends a shiver of delight up my spine. ‘How do they get a message to him to issue their demands? That really is a problem, isn’t it? He’s staying with me, but I’d be very surprised if anyone knows where I live.’

  I patted his hand reassuringly. Daniel’s flat is in an utterly anonymous grey block near the market. Thus far, apparently, not one of his nefarious acquaintances had managed to trace his whereabouts. Daniel had been trained in an exceedingly hard school, and I suppose that ordinary crims are less gifted trackers than Hamas gunmen.

  He kissed me and rose. ‘I’m going to make the rounds of the rest of inner Melbourne’s underworld in the next few days. And I may have another talk with Big Charlie. He may not have attacked Alasdair himself, but I suspect he knows more than he’s letting on.’

  I stood also and embraced him. ‘Be careful, my love.’

  He pressed his body close to mine and kissed me again. ‘I will.’

  I watched him depart, then returned to my apartment to feed Horatio. I spent the rest of the evening in quiet contemplation and retired to bed early. My dreams were troubled by barking dogs and the haunted faces of soldiers. Then the scene changed, and I was chained up with my hands above my head. Someone was pushing sandpaper across my face and leering at me.

  I awoke, drenched in sweat and fear, to find Horatio washing my face. I switched on my bedside light and hugged him. Normally he would not permit such liberties, but tonight he lay patiently in my arms. I felt his even breathing and relaxed my grip. At once he struggled up onto my pillow and washed himself. Then he pushed his nose against mine and nuzzled me. I stroked his beautiful flank and he relaxed again, tucking his face into his paws. I switched the light off, and subsided into dreamless slumber.

  Four am.

  I have probably mentioned how I feel about four am. I breakfasted, fed Horatio, fumbled into my baking clothes and felt my way down the stairs.

  Jason was there, whistling. He saw me. He stopped whistling. I gestured to him to continue.

  ‘There must be something wrong,’ I told him, with the poet Frost, ‘in wanting to silence any song.’

  ‘Er, yeah, Captain,’ responded Jason. ‘Sourdough mixing, olive bread on the go, making pane di casa.’

  ‘Carry on,’ I said, with a Picardian wave. There was also freshly brewed coffee, I noted gladly. This was going to be a day for high-octane caffeine. I poured a cup and sipped. All that emotion from yesterday was lying heavily on me. I watched Jason as he moved, sure, strong. I could see the muscles in his back shift as he hauled a sack of flour to the mixer. A beautiful piece of nature, healthy, comely, curly-headed and cheeky. Which could so easily be reduced to its component atoms by one improvised explosive device.

  ‘Cap’n?’ he asked, catching my gaze. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I was thinking about soldiers,’ I said. ‘And wars.’

  He grinned at me. ‘It’s not doing you any good,’ he told me. ‘Think about bread instead. Should we make bara brith again today?’

  ‘Good advice, Midshipman. Bara brith it is, so get out the spices. And later you can have a go at making baklava if you like. Ask Yai-yai for some tips.’

  I would much rather think about bread than wars. Thinking about wars just makes me angry and sad, but thinking about baking means that there is, in the end, bread. Which can be eaten.

  We baked busily. The Mouse Police displayed their prey. Five mice, one rat and a couple of moths. The moths were not strictly vermin, but I decided that they might have flapped into my precious Mother of Bread and inconsiderately drowned, in that annoying way moths have, which made them a legitimate threat to public health. I distributed munchies and disposed of the corpses.

  The bakery filled with the pleasant noise of mixers mixing, Jason whistling, air conditioner whirring and cats crunching. My mood improved.

  By the time I let my cats out into Calico Alley, the sun was rising, but there were no distressed soldiers walking down it. Just Ian of the Rising Sun putting on Radio Nippon and speaking politely to the moggies who had collided with his door as he was opening it. And required compensation in the form of tuna, of course. I went back into the scented bakery to sift spices. Cinnamon, cloves, allspice, the perfumes of paradise.

  Just as we were settling into our comfortable, unthinking routine, there came a shriek of feline fury, the one that tears eardrums and shatters wineglasses, and a frenzy of barking and yelping.

  I ran out into Calico Alley. This hadn’t happened for ages. Most of the local dogs knew enough to stay away from the Mouse Police. The battle-scarred faces, deckle-edged ears, the rolling seaman’s gait all indicated to the wise canine that here was Trouble with a capital ‘T’ and they suddenly remembered urgent appointments in quite another part of town.

  However, here they were: two large, lolloping, curly-coated black dogs, bailed up against their door by Heckle, who was shrieking like a soul in torment and had every hair on his scruffy body raised. The poor dogs didn’t dare to move. They had never seen anything like this enraged, heavily armed porcupine. With attitude.

  ‘Heckle, if you please,’ I said to him as I walked up the alley. ‘They’re just nice dogs and this is a public throughway, you know. And Ian has some tuna scraps with your name on,’ I added.

  Ian held out the plate of scraps, and Heckle smelt his favourite fish. I could see him decide, Well, all right then, but you’ve got off lightly: I could beat you with a tram tied to my tail and don’t you forget it, as he snapped his mouth shut, shook himself, and strolled over to the Rising Sun to reunite with his fellow police officer and the tuna.

  I swallowed. Now I had to face the owner of the dogs, who might be justifiably annoyed. The poor creatures were shivering. They hadn’t expected something like Heckle to rise out of the cobbles. They’d probably have nightmares.

  ‘Is that thing a cat?’ asked a pleasant, sceptical voice. A short, dark, very pretty young woman, accompanied by a slightly taller, dark, equally pretty young woman, was opening the shop door. The dogs bolted in, tails between legs, and mobbed their owners, wagging frantically and trying to explain that it wasn’t their fault, the door had been open and it all looked really interesting until suddenly … (sob) … there was this thing …

  ‘Darlings, sweethearts, it’s all right,’ said one pretty young woman, patting and caressing. ‘It’s not your fault! It’s mine!’ Turning to me, she explained, ‘I left the door open while I put the paper away and they just slipped out. They’re spoodles, so they do tend to be a bit scatty. I’m Marie, and this is Kate.’ She gestured to the other woman then extended a hand.

  We shook.

  ‘I’m Corinna. That’s my bakery on the corner. I hadn’t noticed your shop.’

  ‘We just moved in,’ said Marie, taking her friend’s hand affectionately.

  ‘Music?’ I looked around, taking in scores and discs and books and a cheerful jumble of things which would be hours of fun to sort through.

  ‘That’s the name,’ said Kate, pointing.

  I looked up. A newly painted sign bore the blazon HEARD IT BEFORE.

  ‘Lovely,’ I said. ‘And these poor darlings?’

  ‘They’ll be all right as long as I remember to keep the door closed,’ said Marie. ‘Let me introduce Allegro and Biscuit.’

  The dogs had calmed down in the absence of Heckle, and each licked my hand politely, though that might have been the remaining traces of flour.

  ‘I let the Mouse Police out every morning at six,’ I said. ‘They’re usually back as soon as they run out of tuna. I’m so sorry. Can I offer you something by way of apology? A loaf of bread, perhaps?’

  ‘That sounds fair,’ said Kate, grinning.

  ‘Right, then, I’m still baking, but come along later and you shall have whatever you like. Even
some of Jason’s muffins.’

  ‘Did he make the astounding one I bought yesterday that tasted like Turkish delight?’ asked Marie.

  ‘He’s a master when it comes to muffins,’ I agreed.

  As I left, I heard Marie say, ‘Now, if we let them out every morning at six, we’ll be in muffins for life.’

  I smiled to myself. They were charming and I was delighted to meet them. I hoped their shop did well.

  The day was looking up. I returned to Earthly Delights to take the sourdough rolls out of the oven before they scorched. Heckle returned, shoving Jekyll with his shoulder in an ‘I showed them who is the dominant mammal in this lane, me hearties’ piratical manner which I found extremely funny.

  Jason and I completed the baking, and I sent him to the Pandamus family’s Cafe Delicious for their trucker’s special breakfast. I suspect they keep adding extra bacon and hash browns and toast and so on to see just how much Jason can eat before he literally explodes. They haven’t managed to daunt him yet. He has years of abuse, heroin addiction and related malnutrition to assuage. Also, he has just discovered a cable TV program called Man v. Food. The champion eater is his new role model. I preferred it when he wanted to be Marvel’s Thor.

  Jason returned, replete for the present, and we loaded the rest of the bread into the ovens. I was just peacefully arranging shop bread into racks when Goss ran in (I think it was Goss, she was too overwrought to announce herself), screaming, ‘Del’s gonna kill Taz!’

  I don’t know what she thought I could do about it, but I dutifully ran to the second battle of the day, telling Goss to bring her phone in case we had to summon help. A silly thing to say. She would naturally bring her phone and film anything exciting. It would be going viral on YouTube before lunch – assuming we got to lunch, at this rate.

  When I arrived at the cafe, I found the situation adequately exciting. Del Pandamus, who was one of those stocky middle-aged peasant men who can, if the need arises, haul a tractor out of a ditch or prop up a fallen horse all by themselves, was holding Taz – one of the nerds collectively known as the Lone Gunmen – up against the wall by his throat. He didn’t look like letting him down any time soon.

  Taz was turning an interesting shade of purple. I like Del. I didn’t want him to go to jail for nerdicide. I stepped up and enquired as to the bone of contention.

  Del shouted that the little malakas had sent rude pictures to the Kyria. That was beyond unlikely, the nerds being acquainted with sex only in theory and probably really happy with their Black Widow blow-up doll. So I poked Del under the armpit and said, ‘Put him down! Now!’ in my firmest voice. Del did. Jason calls it my captain’s voice. Works on dogs, too, though never on cats.

  ‘Taz, are you all right?’ I asked.

  I let him lean on my shoulder while he fought to get some breath back. When he could speak he gasped, ‘No, no, it wasn’t us! Really! No!’

  ‘All right, it wasn’t you, I believe you,’ I assured him. ‘Del? What’s this about?’

  ‘This little wanker, he fix my accounts for me!’ shouted Del. All Greek arguments must, by law, be conducted at the highest possible volume. ‘He sneak something into the machine, and when the Kyria log on, she saw … she …’ He made a broad, Promethean gesture of horror and despair.

  ‘All right,’ I said, ‘this is clearly some sort of glitch. Taz and I will look at the computer, Taz will fix it, and no one needs to die today; it’s already far too wearing for a Tuesday.’ Then I added,

  ‘Del, you have customers,’ which is the only thing guaranteed to divert a Greek patron from homicide.

  Loudly calling on St George to defend his honest house, Del rushed into the cafe.

  ‘It was just a real simple accounting program,’ said Taz hoarsely. ‘Shouldn’t have thrown up any pictures at all.’

  ‘Come on, let’s have a look. Goss, can you open the shop? Show’s over. You can show me the vid later.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Goss – I had guessed right – and I escorted a quivering Taz into the little office at the back of the cafe, picking up a can of Diet Coke for him as I went. Nerds run on caffeine, as do bakers, just via a different delivery system.

  There sat Kyria Anastasia, a pillar of black salt in the office chair. The screen showed a complicated writhing, spurting, moaning mass of bodies, limbs everywhere, mouths, hands, both sorts of genitalia … no wonder Del had gone up like a rocket. Actually, I would have liked to inspect it further, if only to work out who was doing what to whom, because they sounded like they were really enjoying it, but now was no time for amusement.

  ‘It wasn’t him,’ I told the old lady. ‘Come and have a strengthening ouzo and a sit-down, Kyria.’

  She yielded the chair to Taz and allowed me to escort her into the family room, where she pointed out the ouzo and the fridge. I poured her a good dollop and we watched it turn pearly as the ice melted. This reminded me irresistibly of certain biological substances in which the video had been liberally doused. I bit my lip and poured myself a small tot. The Kyria took the glass, winking at me as she took a healthy swig. Then we both broke down and started giggling. Old ladies aren’t all that easy to shock, generally.

  ‘Harvest festival,’ said the Kyria nostalgically. ‘Those were good days.’

  I drained my glass and bade her sit for a moment, to preserve her fiction of being shocked, then went back to the office. Taz, cola-fuelled, was attacking the keyboard with fingers that moved faster than sound.

  ‘Anything?’ I asked. ‘I have to get back to the bakery soon.’

  ‘Can’t nail it down,’ muttered Taz. ‘I’ll have to get onto my own system. They’re good, whoever they are. I expect we’ll find some ransomware; but I can fix it. Er, thanks, Corinna. Saved my life.’

  ‘Any time,’ I told him. I ought to return to Earthly Delights, I knew. But Jason could look after things without me for a while. Instead, why should I not spend a little longer here, relaxing while others worked?

  I reached into my bag and pulled out The Spear Of Destiny again. It had been sitting there ever since the previous night, and now seemed a good time to remind myself about it. Some of Professor Monk’s latest enthusiasm (Biblical scholarship) had rubbed off on me, which is why I had bought it. While I couldn’t do ancient languages, I felt able to cope with this one. Even though the author was a bit over the top in his descriptions of Mystical Experiences, which he treated as matters of fact rather than fancy.

  I might not believe much in magic, but there is one thing most people would agree on, and that is the idea that you can sense when someone is staring at you. I was sensing it right now: someone behind me was staring at my shoulder blades. I didn’t want to turn around quickly and alert whoever it was that I was onto them. If only the cafe had an appropriately situated mirror, like the ones that turn up so conveniently for detectives in novels. But as it turned out the mirror wasn’t necessary, because the sensation ceased as the starer rose and walked past me, pausing for a moment to look at my book, then left.

  I did not get much of a look at him. Smallish, vaguely Eastern European, and utterly unmemorable. Was it me or the book that interested him? I had never seen him before, of that I was certain.

  I returned to the bakery, where all was well, although Jason was cross at missing out on the fun. Goss was consoling him by showing him the video on her phone. I must say I did come across as commanding.

  ‘You go, Cap’n!’ exclaimed Jason.

  ‘Is all the bread loaded?’ I asked quietly. I really needed another cup of coffee. I wasn’t used to drinking ouzo at this hour of the morning. Jason jumped and practically saluted.

  ‘All the restaurant bread’s gone, Cap’n. All the muffins are shipshape.’

  This reminded me of my earlier encounter. ‘Oh, by the way, Kate and Marie who’ve opened the music shop will be in for some free muffins I promised, so leave a few aside for them.’

  ‘Okay.’

  I got some more coffee, Goss put her phone awa
y, and the day proceeded gently, with bread sales and quiet conversation, rather than by leaps and screams. It was most soothing. Boring, perhaps, but sometimes I just like boring.

  The lunch crowd cleaned us out of almost everything. I saved a loaf and some cakes for myself, not knowing if I would have visitors. I still felt a bit guilty about those poor dogs whom Heckle had probably startled into permanent conniptions. There were enough cases of PTSD around as it was.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Thy head is as full of quarrels as an egg is full of meat.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, ROMEO AND JULIET, ACT 3, SCENE 1

  The panic alarm sounded at three o’clock.

  The residents of Insula had agreed that our collective security needed some beefing up. It wasn’t as though any of us had put in a requisition for Adventures, with a side order of terror and kidnapping. Most of us just wanted to grow things, make things and, in my case, bake bread. But Adventures kept on happening, and as a result we had installed panic buttons in every unit, with displays showing in whose apartment the alarm had been triggered. Dion Monk’s red light was flashing on my wall, and the insistent beep-beep screamed from the speaker. I pressed the mute button, wrapped myself around with my dressing-gown, grabbed my bag and left the apartment. I had just closed Earthly Delights and had been looking forward to a pleasant afternoon nap. It did not appear that I was going to get it.

  Professor Monk’s door was ajar. Mrs Dawson and Trudi were already there. Trudi – once again in shorts and a blue T-shirt – was brandishing a large garden fork and looked ready to use it. The ginger kitten Lucifer was perched in his harness on her shoulder, sniffing excitedly. Mrs Dawson – elegantly dressed despite the heat in a summer skirt, cream-coloured blouse and mauve jacket – had disdained weaponry. She nodded to me. ‘Well, Corinna? The three of us will have to manage for now.’