Книга - Monty and Me: A heart-warmingly wagtastic novel!

Monty and Me: A heart-warmingly wagtastic novel!
Louisa Bennet


Introducing loveable dog detective Monty – the must-have book this Christmas!You might think that dogs can’t understand us…but you’d be wrong.Apart from an obsession with cheese, Monty is a perfectly rational animal. So when his beloved master is stabbed to death, Monty decides to use his formidable nose to track the killer down.Luckily he manages to find a home with Rose Sidebottom, the young policewoman who’s investigating the case. But with her colleagues turning against her, and the wrong man collared, she’s going to need a little help…















Copyright (#u768dc580-c032-59bb-84b2-d32cbf7a47e6)


AVON

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

The News Building

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2015

Copyright © Louisa Bennet 2015

Cover design © Emma Rogers 2015

Cover images © Shutterstock 2015

Louisa Bennet asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008124045

Ebook Edition © July 2015 ISBN: 9780008127664

Version: 2015-11-03




Dedication (#u768dc580-c032-59bb-84b2-d32cbf7a47e6)


To Ann Young, Zina Daniel and Maureen Larkin.


Table of Contents

Cover (#ud4528bdb-250f-5280-a278-9c81c8d5f5fe)

Title Page (#u54b42a1c-4985-5887-a4e8-0ffa90f94a74)

Copyright (#u6af47d8d-2f54-59d0-9f18-2377a016dfc8)

Dedication (#u0f2cb68b-355c-5e9e-8b79-1d6f58b230bc)

Chapter One (#u867e944b-e508-5006-be5a-6b6ca8d26d97)

Chapter Two (#u5a297284-4d9c-5518-ad93-737999ee86fb)

Chapter Three (#u7ae270b4-1428-56be-a934-e4ee69cdb3bb)

Chapter Four (#u82337308-2da2-52bb-b28e-17059e8cf788)

Chapter Five (#u367abcf0-205d-5197-b738-074c9bb676bd)



Chapter Six (#ub30f8ff3-9d3b-578f-997c-83e086cc93f1)



Chapter Seven (#ud907b0cd-d767-509f-9827-8c22977b9316)



Chapter Eight (#u1f9269a6-445a-54c6-8ab0-34902f0b92ea)



Chapter Nine (#uc1160a24-cdf7-51c6-b579-db94c167ef01)



Chapter Ten (#udc68e783-f514-5412-9a13-6def306b288c)



Chapter Eleven (#u79b18c98-3de7-51e5-8c52-45d354e254e1)



Chapter Twelve (#uc7a611a5-d5c6-5143-a7da-8b9a775dd585)



Chapter Thirteen (#ue6d33bef-c7af-5c28-b41e-9a5fe445974b)



Chapter Fourteen (#u36fedd2b-4dd1-5364-9555-5501a64d5295)



Chapter Fifteen (#u6b5308d7-6996-5d9f-bde8-03525d0bf0f2)



Chapter Sixteen (#u9c24f8ff-263d-5f7f-9934-b6e497fea87d)



Chapter Seventeen (#u64cf86a6-5dd3-5d73-a043-245eef40bbf2)



Chapter Eighteen (#u2d13b0d4-9736-5790-a1cf-9949205e191d)



Chapter Nineteen (#uc05636c4-4193-548c-ab88-8c6899b23734)



Chapter Twenty (#u5ae281ba-dc9d-5544-89b3-f191e1dcf840)



Chapter Twenty-One (#u5c18c954-cd83-51b3-8989-4731f1501e0f)



Chapter Twenty-Two (#ue1917dad-c1d0-5d5e-8875-bcd9af0610b5)



Chapter Twenty-Three (#uc2582d96-971c-5598-87cc-b6e58345fbe3)



Chapter Twenty-Four (#u3cf8d562-47d5-563c-8016-29cf70c13722)



Chapter Twenty-Five (#udcebd696-93ee-5bff-819c-2db23a1657aa)



Chapter Twenty-Six (#u235adafa-1eb5-5352-bb22-446c9b16b197)



Chapter Twenty-Seven (#u86f86a8f-72c4-52e6-87f7-cdfd17284da5)



Chapter Twenty-Eight (#u64522e2f-0f07-53ee-ac1e-5e319a6eb559)



Chapter Twenty-Nine (#u4313a004-e504-567b-8fcc-1e969b1ea4b8)



Chapter Thirty (#u4b1ff235-b8a3-5650-bcd1-62339d2a8e88)



Chapter Thirty-One (#u2f271290-829d-59ab-9b3e-5922d24c11c6)



Chapter Thirty-Two (#u102570b7-c944-5d98-a875-8827afc7a105)



Chapter Thirty-Three (#u0d508794-b327-50ac-b3d9-66c42829faf7)



Chapter Thirty-Four (#u198c5c64-afe8-5123-ab17-f35d6a174c53)



Chapter Thirty-Five (#u5b8ae76a-00f6-58db-b928-b992b9bc1982)



Chapter Thirty-Six (#u412d5935-07eb-56b5-bbc5-458e2ccc6f0d)



Chapter Thirty-Seven (#u02884a55-310f-5856-a285-e0a5eabc0fad)



Chapter Thirty-Eight (#uf9eed38c-76e8-5579-9a24-c39674995ad2)



Chapter Thirty-Nine (#u67cb818a-c169-5973-b51d-fa326e0cb658)



Chapter Forty (#u92aa4bd8-5230-59f5-8faf-37165681afac)



Chapter Forty-One (#ua910015d-4a41-509b-8341-67d76dd3b3f1)



Chapter Forty-Two (#u3aed29b2-5a89-5ff9-a9f6-57efa5a885d3)



Chapter Forty-Three (#ud4fee3af-2e26-58f8-b9f9-0284572c09c7)



Chapter Forty-Four (#uefb1faad-5815-5abe-8228-ff2d887ef9d3)



Chapter Forty-Five (#ube7a5669-84b4-51f8-92a0-aced7fbad2ca)



Chapter Forty-Six (#ub8b5620d-fa02-5240-aea4-7911a70b8e1e)



Chapter Forty-Seven (#ue2c55484-b3c7-5c32-a19a-dd710ea9157a)



Chapter Forty-Eight (#u4dd11691-48c6-59c0-8728-bf40d37282fe)



Chapter Forty-Nine (#u62a4d478-24d1-5897-911a-6a91e9223424)



Chapter Fifty (#u2463590e-620f-5a93-9559-cd1d5320f6d7)



Chapter Fifty-One (#u23591064-e131-551b-87b7-6cecb32e7b70)



Acknowledgements (#u15c49e00-32d5-59aa-bd54-ad167fbe142e)



About the Author (#u34c906c5-ff52-5c1f-9620-27fa9b7e3a39)



About the Publisher (#u36a871fc-abbd-54b8-b956-6d1b8ba86751)




Chapter One (#u768dc580-c032-59bb-84b2-d32cbf7a47e6)


I bound from the car and, nose to the ground, zig-zag around the front lawn of my new home. I hoover up downy feathers that stick to my wet nose and I sneeze, sending the feathers flying. As a pup, I once tore a cushion to shreds searching for the duck inside. I found loads of feathers but never found the duck. I’m still searching. Can’t be that many naked ducks about.

‘So, what do you think?’ Rose asks, smiling.

What do I think? I think those bitter white tablets the vet gave me were worth it after all. I can’t feel my stitches and my paws seem to float above the grass as if I’m dreaming. I run over to Rose, tail wagging like a windscreen wiper in a downpour, and lick her hand. After being cooped up in a cage at the vet’s, I need the wind in my fur, big time. So I charge up and down, leaning into each turn like a motorcycle at Brands Hatch, almost tripping over a faded wooden sign on the overgrown grass that once welcomed visitors to Duckdown Cottage. It even has a white duck painted on it.

Duck!

I bolt down the side of the house to where the duck droppings are so potent it’s like fireworks going off in my head.

‘Monty!’ she calls. ‘Leave the ducks alone.’

She can’t be serious! Duck and pheasant retrieval is what I’m bred for. It’s a calling.

I go into selective hearing mode and charge for the pond, revelling in the glorious combination of mud, poultry poo and stagnant water. It’s the canine equivalent of Chanel No. 5. Most of the quack-pack sit serenely in the shade of a willow. A matronly mallard leads them in meditation.

‘Om shanti,’ the mallard intones.

‘Om shanti,’ they reply.

The others snooze, plump bodies balanced on one of their twig-like legs, eyes closed. It’s too much. I can’t resist. Time for a bit of duck toppling!

I charge at them, plumed tail held high like the battle flag of an invading army, and bark with excitement. The ducks panic, running around in circles, then scatter. Some head for the water, others bolt across the lawn, wings back. Before Rose can grab my collar, I dive for the pond, water splashing over me, cool and exhilarating.

‘Monty, stop! Your stitches!’

Mouth open, I pounce on a black and white tufted dowager and come up with her in my jaws.

‘Get off me, you slobbering fur-ball!’ she quacks and kicks me in the muzzle.

I can’t tell this squirming mass of feathers and webbed feet that I’m not going to hurt her, because I’ll drop her if I do. Sodden but proud, I trot out of the pond and deposit the ruffled bird, unhurt, at Rose’s feet. A gift. I am expecting praise, ears up, long pink tongue dangling, mouth turned up in what the big’uns – that’s our term for people – often think of as a smile.

‘Bad dog!’ she scolds, trying to catch her breath.

The duck quacks out ‘Tosser!’ as she waddles off, a little wobbly.

I watch her go, my ears flat, head lowered, tail tucked in, confused by Rose’s reaction. Not the duck’s. They never take it well.

‘This isn’t going to work if you eat the ducks. You have to leave them alone, Monty,’ she says, wagging her finger.

Even when she’s cross she’s softly spoken. It’s like a gentle breeze whispering through tall grass.

I ‘harrumph’ and sit.

Detective Constable Rose Sidebottom is the alpha, the pack leader. My new pack. I can’t quite wrap my brain around what a sidebottom is, since the ones I like to sniff are most definitely at the back. So I think of her as Rose. She’s a trainee detective. I sympathise. I was a trainee guide dog once, and it’s not easy having your every move watched and judged. On the way here I spotted her training harness in the back of the car. Who’d have thought detectives wear them too! Except she calls hers a stab jacket. Not sure why.

I peer up at her eyes, the colour of Blu Tack. How do I know? I tried eating some once. Very chewy, which was great fun. But not very tasty. Her mousy brown hair is pulled back in a long ponytail that reminds me of a bushy tail. I know she is not very tall because my head comes up to her waist, but she is strong, as I found out when I bolted from my cage and she grabbed my collar. She’s not one for glinting, clinking jewellery and she dresses in monotones – today, it’s a grey trouser suit. The only exception is an antique silver watch with narrow strap and diamonds around the tiny face that carries someone else’s smell: a sickly person wrapped in blankets. Even this she keeps hidden under her shirt cuff. It’s as if she doesn’t want to be noticed.

Rose gnaws her lower lip. She looks worried. Is this because I chased the ducks? Oh no. I feel bad about that. I’ll have to try not to. Will be hard though. Goes against my instincts. You know the Retriever thing.

I puff out my chest and sit tall, determined to ignore the little quackers.

I will be good, I will.

But I just can’t resist a glance at the pond. The bird I’ve just released lifts her tail feathers and farts at me in defiance. Right, that’s it! I’m not putting up with …

‘Now we’ve got that clear I’ll show you around, but take it easy, okay? You need time to heal.’

I focus back on Rose. Butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth.

‘Stand!’ she commands.

I obey, quick-smart and walk to heel. I know how to do all this easy stuff. Sit! Heel! Drop! Stay! Fetch! All those commands – and many more – were drilled into me at guide dog school. Although I didn’t know at the time, getting to guide dog school is like winning a scholarship to Oxford or Cambridge. And I got top marks there, too. I was destined for great things. It wasn’t until my first posting that I disgraced myself and suffered the ultimate humiliation – but that’s a story for another time.

Ahead is a tumbledown shed covered in ivy. As wide as a garage, its lopsided wooden doors hang open on broken hinges. The ancient black paint peels and curls. I sniff a door post and pick up an old wee-mail – that’s the doggie equivalent of an email. It’s a message from a slightly deluded Dachshund called Legless who believes she is named after the elf in Lord of the Rings because of her exceptional speed. On those little legs? Somehow, I don’t think so. Wee-mails, though brief, go one step further than emails: they convey our mood. Hers is elation. She boasts she’s finally bitten the postman’s ankles after three years of trying. That I can believe: her head’s at the perfect height.

‘Aunt Kay used to love gardening. It helped her unwind,’ Rose says, staring at a dented green wheelbarrow just inside the door. ‘She could grow anything. She’d sing to the flowers, you know.’

I look up and see tears in her eyes. I lean against her leg and feel her sadness. It reminds me of my own. I don’t understand why big’uns’ eyes fill with water but I do understand the pain of loss and Rose clearly misses this Aunt Kay very much, just like I pine for Paddy, my old master. It feels like I’ve lost a limb and although it will never come back, the memory is agonisingly real. I howled each night at the vet’s, calling Paddy’s name, but in my heart I knew he wouldn’t come.

I miss Paddy’s hand stroking my head. I miss our fishing trips together and how he’d never scold me when I scared away the fish. I miss our evenings; he’d sit in his armchair tapping away at his laptop as I lay at his feet, head resting on his leather slippers. And I miss his smell: musty books, Listerine, woollen cardigan, and liver treats, which he always kept in his cardigan pocket, just in case.

‘Should mow the lawn one day,’ Rose mumbles, as she walks away.

It takes me a while to focus on what she’s said. Mow? Why? I prefer meadow. Love the way the dandelions tickle my belly and the bees scatter as I charge through the tall grass.

I place a wee-mail above Legless’s ancient message. No need to sign it because every dog has a unique aroma. It’s the same wee-mail I’ve left whenever I’ve had the chance to pee. It conveys my shame. I ask one question: who killed Professor Patrick Salt? I hang my head and tuck in my tail as I plod after Rose. She’s investigating his murder, but little does she know, so am I. I failed Paddy in life and I have vowed I will not fail him in his death.

Rose waits for me.

‘Poor boy,’ she says, giving me a pat. ‘I shouldn’t get cross with you. It’s not your fault I’ve messed up at work.’

It’s early evening in September and summer came late this year so the air is still warm and the light has only just begun to fade. We stroll by a greenhouse with panes of glass missing and tomato plants laden with over-ripe fruit. I can smell their sweetness. I also detect a ratty scent. I clock it for investi-gation later, and follow Rose to the very end of the garden where a tall oak tree tickles the sky and a thick yew hedge marks the boundary. My heart races. This must be where the river is. Oh boy! Just like home. Then I remember this is now my home.

In the distance, there’s a low rumble that becomes a clackety-clack. It gets louder as it draws closer. I feel vibrations through the ground. My nose is stung by a gush of air, ripe with hot metal, engine oil and rubber. I step back and bark a warning, then there’s a fearful scream from the other side of the hedge. It tears by so fast it’s gone in seconds, its bright eyes glaring at me through gaps in the foliage. My tail is up and curled over my back like a question mark, my legs wide set, then I charge forward and growl at the creature. I must defend us. I bark at Rose to move away, but she stands there laughing, her ponytail bobbing.

‘It’s all right, Monty, just a train. You’re going to have to get used to it. The line’s on the other side of the hedge.’

She strokes my head and I relax. Not sure about this train thing. Never met one before and until I’ve thoroughly sniffed it, I’ll be on my guard.

Rose kneels down and looks me in the eye.

‘The fence is pretty rotten and I can’t afford to fix it. So I need you to promise me you won’t run away.’ She scratches behind my ear.

Oh yeah! Up a bit, that’s it. A bit more. Ah yes, bliss!

‘Okay?’

For you, anything! I promise.

Unless …

Truth be told, I have an Achilles Heel. My nose might be my greatest asset but it’s also the chink in my furry armour. I’m a food addict. There. I’ve said it. An addict. Food’s the reason I’m no longer a guide dog. The most embarrassing moment of my life. But then, that’s how I met the Professor. Life’s confusing, isn’t it?

‘Hungry?’ Rose asks.

Something tells me we’re going to get along just fine.

I walk back to the house, so close to Rose she almost trips over me. She unlocks the stable-style kitchen door. It scrapes the worn yellow and brown, diamond-patterned lino floor. I am hit by a smorgasbord of smells: some very old indeed. What better place to inhale the house’s history than the kitchen? Rose’s scent is the newest: vanilla and honey, peppermint and the sea. She must’ve spent her childhood near the ocean because the sea is part of her make-up now. But her clothes carry the odours of her work: bitter coffee, stale cigarettes, plastic chairs in over-heated rooms and someone else’s sweat that’s tinged with the vinegary smell of fear. Ever wondered why your dog sniffs you when you come home? He wants to know where you’ve been and who you’ve met.

There’s a loud ringing coming from Rose’s pocket. I feel her body tense. She answers.

‘Sir?’ Her hand trembles.

I look around, searching for the threat, ready to defend her.

A man yells down the phone. ‘Sidebottom, get in here now!’




Chapter Two (#u768dc580-c032-59bb-84b2-d32cbf7a47e6)


If you asked Rose Sidebottom to describe herself she would say she was of average height with a forgettable face, had average mousy hair tied back in a plain ponytail, and graduated from police college with an average pass.

However, there were two things about her that were far from average. One was her embarrassing surname. She’d heard every single bottom joke ever invented. Her school days had been plagued by taunts, police college with practical jokes, and it was now proving a handicap in her struggle to be taken seriously as a trainee detective constable. The other unusual thing about Rose was her instinctive ability to know when somebody was lying. A tingling feeling, much like pins and needles, would spread from her hands and feet all over her body. As a child, it had sucked big time. Rose knew from a very young age that there was no Father Christmas or Tooth Fairy, that thunder wasn’t God moving His furniture, that at twelve her best friend had betrayed her secret crush on a boy to a gang of girls who hated her, and that her father was cheating on her mother. Life would have been so much easier simply not knowing.

However, as a police officer, her in-built lie-detector had sent her conviction rate through the roof, and at one domestic incident, she’d saved the life of a woman whose polite and helpful boyfriend had claimed all was well, as the woman lay bruised and bloodied in the back room. Her skill for ferreting out the truth helped her earn a coveted position on the Major Crime Team, much to the surprise and envy of her uniformed colleagues.

But it hadn’t saved her from committing the mother of all cock-ups earlier that evening, which is why she now stood in front of DCI Craig Leach, wishing the ground would open up and swallow her. Her boss sat behind his messy desk; his shaved snooker-ball head welded to a heavy-set, bull-like body without, so it appeared, a neck.

Rose tried not to fidget.

‘Do you realise what you’ve done?’ he said, his voice a low rumble, his Mancunian accent as strong as ever, even after twenty years working down South. He didn’t wait for her answer. He yelled, red-faced.

‘You’ve blown Operation Nailgun!’ Boom! Like a volcano erupting.

Nailgun was a Drugs Squad operation.

He continued, ‘DI Morgan’s livid, and I don’t blame him. Five months of surveillance up in smoke!’

The flats of his fat-fingered hands slammed down on the desk, the piles of files quivering. Rose jumped, and knew that through the glass wall behind her, DI Pearl heard every word. Why was he still here? They’d been working non-stop on the Salt case all weekend. Everyone else had gone home to get some much needed rest.

‘Sir, I had no idea who he was. I’m not involved in Operation Nailgun.’

‘You walked straight past two undercover detectives in their car, and then Gary and Meg in the pub. They couldn’t believe it, and nor can I. What are you? Blind?’

‘Sir, I barely know Gary and Meg.’

The Drugs Squad was on level four, Major Crime on two.

Rose naturally spoke quietly, with a soft West Country accent, unwilling to engage in the loud banter and often coarse language of her fellow detectives. She knew Leach found her voice irritatingly mouse-like, so she raised it as best she could. But it sounded more like a croak.

‘I stopped at the pub to have a quick drink on my way home. To be honest, sir, I was a bit shaken up.’ She paused. Was she sounding weak?

Leach nodded. ‘Go on.’

‘Sir, he started chatting me up. I was flattered. He’s a good-looking bloke. Charming.’

‘Ray Summers? The charming bastard deals in Class A drugs. The real nasty stuff. He’s … no, he was our only lead in an international drugs trafficking ring. Summers was meeting the local gang leader tomorrow. One more day and we’d have had those scumbags behind bars. Do you see what you’ve done?’

‘I’m sorry, sir.’ Close to tears, she stared at the floor.

‘What the hell did you tell him?’

‘Nothing, sir. I didn’t even tell him I was a police officer.’

Revealing her job sent any potential boyfriend running for the hills. It was a more effective turn-off than body odour, flatulence or a history of chain-saw massacres.

‘Well, you blew their cover, didn’t you! They raid his warehouse a half hour later and find a big fat nothing. No drugs, no computers, no financials, and he’s disappeared.’

Rose swallowed hard. Her career was about to end before it had even begun, because of one stupid mistake. Why-oh-why hadn’t she just picked up Monty and taken a bottle of plonk home with her instead?

‘How did he know you were a detective?’

‘When I went to the loo, I left my handbag behind. He must’ve gone through it and found my warrant card.’

Leach raised surprisingly bushy eyebrows, given his scalp was so hairless. They reminded Rose of furry caterpillars on a white cabbage. ‘Never let your warrant card out of your sight, Sidebottom. This is your last chance.’

‘Sorry, sir, it won’t happen again.’

‘Did he at least say anything that could help us find him?’

‘He was on the phone when I got back from the loo. He ended the call when he saw me, but I heard him say something about a shipment. That it had to be stopped. Then he made his excuses and left in a hurry. I didn’t put two and two together until Meg came over and gave me an ear-bashing.’

Leach had his hands clasped together on the desk so tightly that his puffy knuckles turned purple.

‘So, the Super chews my ear off, Morgan wants you back on the beat, and God knows what your team will think of you. Great result!’ He threw his weight into the back of his chair. The bags under his eyes were darker and puffier than usual. She felt sorry for him. ‘If your colleagues don’t trust you, you’re no use to them or me. You need to fix this. Start by apologising to Morgan and don’t put a foot wrong on the Salt case, you hear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Leach placed his hands behind his head and studied her flushed face.

‘Rose, are you sure you really want to do this job?’ His voice had softened. ‘We get to see people at their worst. Doing terrible things. Murder, torture, abuse. It’s long hours, the public and the media generally hate us, and it’s hard on relationships.’

Rose glanced at his ring finger where a wedding band had once been, leaving a permanent dent in his pudgy skin.

‘Yes, sir.’ She looked straight into his eyes. ‘I’ve always wanted to be a detective.’

Leach tilted his head to one side. ‘God, you remind me of Kay when she was your age. Stubborn and naïve.’ He smiled, which was rare and therefore unnerving. His teeth were surprisingly small for such a large head. Like baby teeth. ‘She found it tough going at first, you know. She was sensitive, found the blood and guts hard to deal with. But she was dogged. Wouldn’t give up. Became the best DI I’ve ever known.’

‘I want to be like Kay, sir. I know I can do it.’

Leach nodded as he stood. ‘Maybe. But this is a big cock-up, Rose. I’m increasing your supervision and assigning you to an experienced DI …’

Opening his office door, Leach beckoned Dave Pearl inside.

A slick dresser, fancied by most of the female officers and popular with the lads, he sauntered into the office as if it were his own.

‘Dave is your new mentor.’

Just when Rose thought it couldn’t get any worse, it just did. Dave’s tanned forehead creased into a frown as his eyes, the colour of tarnished silver, looked down at her with contempt.

‘All right with you, Dave?’ asked Leach.

When Pearl realised he was being watched, he produced an affable smile. ‘Of course, boss.’

‘You do what Dave asks and nothing more, you got that?’ said Leach, picking up his coat. ‘Right, I’m off.’

He strode out, leaving Rose alone with Pearl. Pearl’s smile vanished.

‘Well, well, so the chosen one’s fallen from grace,’ he mocked.

Despite being almost a foot shorter, she squared up to him. ‘Guv, I’m very sorry about what’s happened and I’m going to work extra hard on the Salt case. I know I’ve got a lot to do to win back people’s respect.’

He shook his head. ‘You know, I just don’t think it’s going to be that easy. I mean, who’s going to want to work with you after this?’

‘If you give me a chance, the others will follow, sir.’

Pearl leaned closer. ‘You’re not up to the job. Never were.’

‘I know what this is really about. Just because I didn’t want to go for a drink with you …’

‘You’ve got it all wrong, lady. Why would I want to go out with someone who drops her knickers for a drugs trafficker?’

She balled her hand into a fist but punching him would instantly end her career.

‘How dare you!’

‘Just because you’re Kay Lloyd’s niece, doesn’t mean you’ve got any talent. Remember that.’




Chapter Three (#u768dc580-c032-59bb-84b2-d32cbf7a47e6)


Rose left me in the kitchen with a water bowl and a promise she wouldn’t be long. She kept her promise, but the yelling man has upset her: Rose hangs her head like a dog that’s been scolded. I nudge her leg and lean against her, wagging my tail in support. She bends down, taking me in a hug.

‘What a mess!’ she sighs into my fur.

Mess? From under her armpit I look around the kitchen. It’s not that much of a mess and I’ve already tidied up a Marmite-coated crust I found under the table earlier. In the sink are some Chinese take-away food cartons that, thankfully, haven’t been washed and could do with a good licking. I’m happy to oblige, all in the name of orderliness, naturally. Sadly, there’s not a whiff of McDonald’s – my absolute favourite. Every dog’s absolute favourite, truth be told. I just wish McDonald’s would sell doggie-burgers, or better still, open up separate doggie cafés. How about Big Barker burgers, Woofer Wraps and Puppyccinos? Oh dear, I’m salivating at the thought, all over Rose’s shoes.

‘Let’s get you fed,’ she says.

She sounds chipper, but her anxiety thrums like a dragonfly’s wings.

From a bag, she pulls out some dog food tins. How do I know they’re for me? They have an ecstatic Labrador on the label, that’s how! They only grin like that when there’s food in the offing. When Rose opens a cupboard door, I smell wafts of joyful laughter, roses, ripe tomatoes and rich earthy smells. I wonder if this might have been Aunt Kay, as her scent is faint, and scents fade with time. However, the kitchen’s surfaces hold a lot of stories. From the scratched skirting boards I pick up a whiff of Legless the Dachshund, mostly washed away after many years of mopping. A farmhouse oak table has deep gouges and is marked with ink, from a time when this house was full of children. The only thing that seems new is the washing machine that’s winking its red light, stuffed full of clean washing waiting to be hung up to dry.

‘How much should I give you?’ Rose asks, peering into an open tin of meaty goodness. ‘Never had a dog as big as you, Monty.’

How much? All of it!

She looks down at me and I lick my lips. She shrugs.

‘All of it, I guess.’

We’re really bonding!

She scoops out the gooey yumminess into a bowl, adds a white tablet, then places the bowl on the floor. She is surprised when I wait for the command.

‘It’s okay. Eat it.’

I wolf down my meal fast because you never know when another dog will turn up. I then lick the bowl until I swear I can taste the ceramic glaze. Rose hangs her washing up on the garden line strung up between two trees and I help by stealing socks so she has to chase me to get them back. What fun! When the last sock is coerced from my mouth, Rose is breathless and laughing. She gets me in a playful head lock.

‘You’re naughty, but you’ve cheered me up no end.’

Glad to be of service!

Now to focus on her meal. She chops chicken breast and some vegetables. I breathe in the delicious sweet fleshiness of chicken sizzling in a wok and look up at her, eyes wide with hope. Her mobile rings just as I have her in my hypnotic gaze. Damn! I swear she was about to give me some.

Rose peers at the phone’s screen and looks relieved. At least it’s not the shouting man again. Instead, oinking noises are coming from the phone.

‘Mum, that’s never been funny,’ Rose sighs.

Is her mother a pig? Surely not?

‘Come on dear, what do you expect? You’ve joined the pigs.’ Another oink.

I haven’t seen Rose with a single pig so I have no idea what the crazy woman is talking about.

Rose’s voice falters. ‘Maybe not for much longer.’

‘That’s wonderful news! I can’t wait to tell your father.’

‘No it’s not, Mum! I love what I do. But I’ve ruined a surveillance operation and my boss thinks I’m a blithering idiot. Can’t say I blame him.’

Her heartbeat is up, her pale face flushed like sunburn. I nuzzle her leg.

‘Don’t you let those bastards bully you. I know what they’re capable of, remember. I’ve been on the receiving end of their brutality.’

Rose rolls her eyes. ‘Give it a rest, mum. You’ve never even been arrested.’

The succulent meaty smell is too much. Two long strands of my drool are competing to reach the floor first. But because I tilt my head, one stalactite of saliva lands on Rose’s knee.

‘Oh, Monty,’ she says, wiping it away with paper towel.

‘So you have a boyfriend? I was beginning to wonder if there was any hope.’

‘Monty’s a dog.’ She lets go of the spatula and strokes my head.

A big sigh from the pig. ‘Why aren’t I surprised! You know, Allen still asks after you.’

‘He has bad breath and doesn’t wear deodorant.’

‘Well, at least he has a conscience.’

The chicken is burning. This is terrible. I nudge her hand.

‘Mum, gotta go. Just serving dinner. I’ll call soon.’

She serves her meal and eats at the table. I lie at her feet and keep an eye out for any titbits she might drop by mistake. As we say, If it’s on the ground, it belongs to the hound. But Rose is a tidy eater. Next time I’ll be upping the cute factor and begging. Paddy always used to give me a little piece at the very end of his meal. Except when he ate curry. He used to say that curry made my farts smell like cow dung, which didn’t seem a problem to me but made Paddy screw up his nose and make Phwoar noises.

As Rose works at her laptop, I lie at her feet. I hear claws scratching wood and see a squirrel peering in through the kitchen window. It stretches out a claw and taps a Neighbourhood Watch sticker on the glass. I lift my head and it bolts. What a strange little fellow! Distracted, I almost miss a photo of my beloved Paddy in a scientific journal Rose is reading. He’s looking mighty fine in his best suit. I love the way his eyebrows and moustache are dark, but his beard and hair are almost white. I guess it’s the equivalent of a dog’s muzzle going white with age. The corners of his eyes are full of wrinkles because he smiles a lot and his eyes are a rich brown and welcoming like hot chocolate. I hear a whimper and realise it’s me. Rose looks down and strokes my head. It’s very soothing. The photo disappears from her screen but his face stays with me.

I imagine Paddy’s house all dark and lifeless, and my doggie duvet near the back door, complete with a very grubby, and therefore exactly-how-I-like-it, fluffy yellow duck. It pongs to perfection. Once, Paddy placed my manky friend in the washing machine. It was a front loader, so just in time I snatched it away and hid it behind some hollyhocks. Even worse, every now and again, Paddy would insist on washing my doggie duvet cover. We’d argue over it, as I held one end in my jaws and Paddy hung on to the other. Of course, Paddy was the boss so I’d let go eventually, but I could never understand why he’d want to wash away my blissful cocktail of stink. Let me explain.

My bed is an aromatic archive of my adventures, places I’ve been, animals and people I’ve met, and even old bones I’ve chewed. Ah, those bones! Most important of all, it’s a heady history of Paddy himself. Every time he touched my bed, he left his loving scent, as well as details of where he’d been, who he’d touched and what he’d eaten. My short-term memory is as sharp as a puppy’s canines. But, my long-term memory is as poor as a where-the-hell-did-I-put-my-nuts squirrel. So, my bed holds my long-term memories for me, which means I can revisit them whenever I wish. All it takes is a quick snuffle. Wash my bed and you wash away all those fond recollections – gone forever. The result? Olfactory amnesia. Very distressing. How I long to bury my nose in my doggie duvet and inhale all those happy times.

‘Goodnight, Monty,’ Rose says, startling me.

I open my eyes to find she has created a makeshift bed of cushions.

‘I’ll collect your old bed as soon as I can,’ she says. ‘This’ll have to do for now.’

I sniff the cushions and jerk my head back. Lavender, moth balls and sickness and … oh dear. Someone was once very ill in this house. And sad. Sadness has a scent too; it’s like decaying rose petals.




Chapter Four (#u768dc580-c032-59bb-84b2-d32cbf7a47e6)


I rest my jowl on one paw and try closing my eyes. I am tired, but can’t sleep. I miss Paddy so much and want to be with him. My eyes spring open at the pitter-patter of tiny claws on the floor. I smell dustbins on a hot day, rotting fruit, greasy food wrappers and, strangely, a hint of hot metal, engine oil and rubber, just like the train. It can only be one thing, though: a rat. I creep towards the source of the sound. It is dark but I don’t need lights to see where I’m going. There is a small hole in the skirting board to the right of the larder door. Sticking out of that small hole is a rotund rat’s bottom. Its back legs are scrabbling on the lino’s worn and slippery surface. I can hear muttering.

‘Need to go on a diet,’ she says, with a high-pitched squeak, tail wriggling like a worm. Or what’s left of her tail. She appears to have lost half of it. I’m guessing in a trap.

I was a young pup when I discovered how much big’uns hate rats. I’d been fostered to a family who were preparing me for guide dog school. This was in Windsor and my foster dad, John Collum, was a gardener at the castle. You may know something about Windsor Castle’s history – prisoners in towers, political intrigues, sieges, royal weddings, and the 1992 fire that was supposedly an accident; the canine wee-vine says otherwise. But most big’uns don’t know about the doggie shenanigans both past and present. The royal Corgis are master conspirators and escape-artists who regularly make a break for McDonald’s on the high street. The footmen have to disguise themselves as ordinary folk and catch them before they make headlines in the Sun. How do I know this? When the Family wasn’t in residence John let me join him in the castle grounds. That was when I first met the royal canines and first saw rats in traps, many dead or dismembered. I’ll never forget it.

‘Are you stuck?’ I ask the fat, furry bottom.

Her squeak is ear-splitting and she bursts out of the hole, stubby tail first, like a cork from a champagne bottle. She sees me and does the kind of turn I’ve seen stunt car drivers do on TV – a hand-brake turn I think it’s called. Then she bolts.

‘Wait! I won’t hurt you. Just want to talk,’ I say, jogging along after her at a leisurely pace.

She tries to escape through a gap under the door, fails, and makes a dash for it in the opposite direction. This goes on for a while, backwards and forwards across the lino until I decide to sit in the middle of the kitchen and just watch her scurrying to and fro, a bit like watching a tennis match. Eventually she stops darting about and leans against a table leg, gasping for breath.

‘Mate, you’re killing me,’ she says.

‘I’m not going to kill you,’ I reply. ‘I’ve been sitting here, just watching, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

Her bulbous, ball-bearing eyes assess me. ‘What do you want, then?’ she asks, her nose and gossamer whiskers twitching constantly.

‘Nothing, really. My name’s Monty and Rose adopted me today.’

‘What you done then? Got kicked out, did you? Sent to the pound?’

Her breathing is less frantic and she rests her pink paws on her pot belly. But her stare is penetrating.

I look away. ‘My master was killed by another big’un,’ I say. ‘I tried to defend him. I really did …’

I howl. I have to. I don’t know any other way. It’s just what we do. In the distance, another dog hears me and howls back, in an Oprah-like, I-hear-your-pain way. When I look down again, the rat is sitting near one of my paws and stroking my fur. Because she is so small, it feels like a feather, and it’s very relaxing.

‘There, there, you poor thing,’ she says. ‘I’m really sorry to hear that. You lot are very loyal to your masters, so this must be hard for you, but I’m sure you did everything you could.’

I still can’t find words. Careful not to squash my new friend, I place my muzzle between my two front paws on the floor. She continues to stroke my fur.

‘Name is Betty Blabble. Nice to meet you, and look, sorry I was so suspicious earlier, but you’re sorta big, you know. Even for one of your lot. Gave me a shock, is all.’

‘I don’t kill other animals. No need, since I’m always fed. Might have had fun chasing a few in my time, but that’s all. You’re safe with me.’

She peers into one of my eyes. It occurs to me that she can probably see her full reflection.

‘You know, I think you’re a good egg,’ she says, nodding.

Her twitching whiskers touch my muzzle. My ears wriggle, as they do whenever I feel ticklish. She laughs, which sounds like nails scratching a chalk board, but it cheers me up.

‘Just so happens you’re in luck,’ she continues. ‘Rose might work for the filth, but she’s a good ’un. First copper I ever met who is. I only moved here a few days ago so I’m still getting to know the place, but she always has enough food in the pantry and doesn’t seem bothered with a few house guests, including yours truly.’

I lift my head, intrigued. ‘Why don’t you like the police?’

‘Well now. That’s a long story, but all I’ll say is that I’ve had a few run-ins with the Law. In my Eurotunnel days. Turned over a new leaf since,’ she announces, nodding once for emphasis.

‘Which Law?’ I can’t help asking. ‘French or English?’

I haven’t met a Eurotunnel rat before but from her slight Kentish twang I’m guessing she’s spent more time at the British end of the tunnel. Who hasn’t heard of the vicious tunnel turf wars? Big’uns believed the damage caused by the bitter rodent rivalry was due to human vandalism. How wrong they were.

There’s a hard glint in her eyes as she makes the zip-it sign across her mouth. I take the hint and change the subject.

‘Rose is going to find the man who killed my master. She’s working the case. And she rescued me from the vet’s. So in my book, she’s the best.’ Betty nods, whiskers tickling my nose again, my ears twitching in response. ‘I want to help her find Paddy’s killer, but don’t know where to start.’

‘So, this killer. Did you get a good sniff of him?’ she asks. ‘A him or her?’

‘Definitely male. And I got a good smell and taste. I took a chunk out of his arm.’

Betty holds up her tiny paw to high-five me. I lift mine, so my black pads hover near her. She smacks hers onto mine.

‘Good on ya,’ she says. ‘Proud of you.’

‘So if I could get near enough to sniff the suspect, I’d know immediately if he was Paddy’s killer.’

‘Now we’re talking,’ says Betty. ‘Can’t understand why big’uns don’t use your lot more often to solve crime. Your super-snorters could save a hell of a lot of time. I say, let the police dogs get on with it and fire all those useless coppers.’

I decide not to point out that Rose would be one of those coppers getting fired.

‘Paddy once told me we have the best sense of smell of any mammal, except for a bear.’

‘I’ll have you know, Mr Monty, rats can beat dogs in one sniffing category. Landmines.’ She nods her head again for emphasis.

I am taken aback and shift my paws, unintentionally knocking Betty over, who tumbles like a roly-poly Weeble.

‘I’m sorry, are you okay?’

She brushes her fur down. ‘Take more than that to worry me. Just try not to do it again, will ya?’

‘So what did you mean about sniffing landmines?’

‘Rats are the best at finding landmines. Don’t know why, but it’s a scientific fact. I know ’cause a mate of mine works for the army and he finds them.’

‘Never knew that.’

‘So,’ Betty says, sitting up on her hind legs, nose raised as if she has the scent of a plan. ‘Next question: do they have any suspects?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve been at the vet’s since it happened.’

Betty stares at the gash of seventeen stitches; my chest fur has been shaved.

‘Well, mate, if we’re going to catch us a killer, you’re going to need to tell me everything.’

Seems like we are now a criminal-catching partnership. My heart lifts. I have a buddy to help me. Then it drops like a stone in a pond. I don’t want to relive the worst moment of my life. It makes me feel sick. I get up and pace around the table.

‘I can’t.’

‘Go on love, tell me what happened.’




Chapter Five (#u768dc580-c032-59bb-84b2-d32cbf7a47e6)


I look out of the window at the full moon. It reminds me of a triple cream brie I stole one Christmas from Paddy’s nibbles platter. Betty and I sit close together on the kitchen floor, bathed in the milky moonlight.

‘Go on,’ she says. ‘You can do it.’

I have relived the attack on my master many times in my head, always wondering the same thing. Could I have saved him? But I haven’t told anybody about what happened. I lick my nose, psyching myself up. My heart races. I swallow hard and begin my tale.

‘I knew there was something wrong, even before I saw the man.

Perhaps it was the way the car crawled down our single-track lane, like that creepy cat two doors down who stalks birds. I heard the tyres crunch on the gravel and thought it odd, since our elderly neighbour, Mr Grace, never has evening visitors, and we weren’t expecting any. I should have paid more attention, but I didn’t because I was up to my chest in cool river water, facing upstream, searching for fish. Once I’m fishing, I’m focused.

Paddy was sitting in the back garden working on his laptop as usual, sipping his after-dinner wine, the clink of the glass on the table top a familiar sound. Our home was a semi-detached, red-brick cottage, with low ceilings and narrow leadlight windows at the end of a cul-de-sac. The house was small – a two up, two down – but the garden was canine-heaven: quarter of an acre of lush green lawn, loads of flowerbeds to dig up, trees that dropped a plentiful supply of sticks to chew, and, best of all, on the other side of an easily jumpable gate, was the river.

So there I was enjoying the currents tickling my belly when I spotted a cracker of a fish no more than a few inches from my right paw. Just in time I remembered not to wag my tail. I’ve learned the hard way that the ripples frighten fish away. I opened my jaw, ready to pounce, grizzly-bear-style. Then I heard our front doorbell ring. Paddy didn’t, but my hearing is much better than his. I should have gone to investigate then, but the fish was tantalisingly close.’

I drop my head, ears flattened.

Betty interjects. ‘You weren’t to know Paddy was in danger. Stop blaming yourself.’

I shake my head and whimper. I should have known. It was my job to protect him. I swallow and press on with my tale.

‘I pounced, head into the water, mouth clamped down on what I hoped was a fish. But the slippery sucker zipped off and all I was left with was a mouthful of leaf litter and a nose full of water. When I’d stopped sneezing, I glanced up the garden path. I saw a man I didn’t recognise walking down the side passage. His face was covered with some kind of dark sock with holes in it for his eyes and mouth. Paddy stood abruptly, knocking his chair backwards. I was too far away to smell his fear but I knew instantly he was in danger.

“What do you want?” Paddy said, his voice shaky.

The man said nothing but raised a single gloved finger to his lips. He was telling Paddy to be quiet, in the same way Paddy used to tell me to be quiet when I got carried away barking at squirrels.

I scrambled as fast as I could for the bank, but the water clung to me like porridge and I slipped on a stone. I got up, raced through the open gate and up the path. I detected the sour smell of Paddy’s terror. I heard his heart beating too fast.

I bark. “Run,” I told him, “Run”

But he didn’t run. Perhaps because he was an old man: in dog years he was eight, in big’uns years, fifty-six. Or perhaps because he was paralysed with fear. I’ll never know. I accelerated, my teeth bared, eyes locked onto the intruder, tail rigid and pointed at the sky. My growl was deep and rumbling.

The intruder saw me and his body tensed. Yet he didn’t flee. I was not a surprise. Through the slit in his head-sock I saw him slowly lick his lips as if he wanted to eat me. For a split second I was confused about why he didn’t seem afraid, but I kept coming. The man had a knife in his hand. He stepped forward and plunged the blade into my master’s body. I roared in anger. As I leapt over plant pots to reach him, I inhaled his scent: the acrid tang of funny cigarettes, damp walls, some kind of stinky food not even I would want to eat, and a disease. One I have never smelled before. It reminded me of an insect, but I couldn’t place which one.

Paddy opened and closed his mouth in shock. The attacker pulled out the blade. My dear master clutched his wound and fell to his knees.

“No!” I bellowed, as I jumped at the masked man.

He turned and swept his arm across my body. The blade sliced into my chest, slashing through skin and muscle. I yelped at the searing pain, but the force of my leap drove me forward and I crashed into him, knocking him onto his back. I rolled away as quickly as I could, afraid he would strike again. He missed by inches, and when the knife hit the ground I hurled myself at him. I bit deep into the arm holding the weapon and shook it with all my strength, tearing his flesh. It was his turn to yelp now. His flimsy jacket was no protection at all. I drew upon all my fury to dig my teeth deeper and deeper. The attacker dropped his knife, but then he kicked me so hard in the stomach, I had to let go. I managed to tear away part of his sleeve. I collapsed on my side, desperately trying to catch a breath. The left side of my face was sticky with blood oozing from my chest wound.

The man cradled his mauled lower arm. I noticed part of a tattoo. He spun around, searching for his knife. I was lying on it. I stayed still. He glanced at Professor Salt, who lay motionless, eyes wide open, as if the setting sun was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. But I knew my dear master saw nothing. Those kind brown eyes were blind and cold, like marbles. The killer knew it too. Every time I breathed, it was as if I was being kicked again, but I managed to lift my head and snarl. I knew it was a weak snarl, but he didn’t. He backed away, grabbed Paddy’s laptop from the garden table, took his wine glass and entered the house. For the first time I noticed he was wearing a backpack. He slammed the back door shut, in case I followed. But I wasn’t leaving my master.

I heard the killer move through the house to the study – I knew exactly which creaky floorboard he stepped on – and the rasp of desk drawers yanked open, then dull thuds. He was throwing something heavy in his bag. Then paper files slid against the fabric too. He moved to the sitting room, drawers thrown on the floor. Then the clank of metal.

I crawled over to Paddy and licked his face. Perhaps he was alive after all? I so wanted to be wrong. I did it again and again and his head jerked with each increasingly desperate lick. But his eyes didn’t flicker.

I whimpered, “Wake up! Please wake up!”

I placed my snout above his mouth and sniffed for breath, hoping to feel the slightest waft of air. Nothing. I howled, my nose pointing to the darkening sky. I howled in pain and grief, as we have done for centuries. I howled because I can’t weep like big’uns. I howled because I love my master more than anything.

I stopped when I heard the front door open and shut and the man’s feet crunched on the gravel drive. A car door opened. But not quietly. It was metal screeching on metal. I smelt diesel as he drove away, and heard a tink, tink, tink of something rattling.

I grew weaker and dizzier as the pool of blood from my wound grew. But I would not leave Paddy. He was my world and someone had taken him from me. I howled again, but my head felt so very heavy. I rested it on Paddy’s chest, his white shirt drenched in blood where the blade had pierced his no longer beating heart. I vowed to myself that if I was to live I would never rest until I found the man who took him from me.’





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