Blood Hound

  Graham and I casually sidled over to Mr and Mrs Surfer Dude, aka Grant and Gabbie Robinson. I’d asked Mrs Biggs about the mysterious Spike incident but she’d only paled and said she didn’t want to discuss it, so I was hoping to overhear something interesting. They were discussing Dermot O’Flannery, or at least, Gabbie Robinson was. Her husband was squatting down next to Jessie, both arms around the dog’s neck. And he was watching Super Speedy Sprinting Woman as she ran around the perimeter of the park. His tongue was practically lolling out. I half expected him to start drooling.

  Gabbie hadn’t noticed her husband’s preoccupied silence. Her back was to him and her eyes were fixed on the pale-but-undeniably-handsome TV presenter. “He doesn’t look well, does he?” She sighed. “Mind you, after what that poor man’s been through it’s hardly surprising.”

  There was silence as both of them drifted along in their own little worlds. But then Gabbie Robinson’s eyes fell on Mumsiewumsie. “That wretched woman! Look at her, stuffing those dogs full of treats. She’ll make them clinically obese if she’s not careful. They’re already badly overweight. It’s abuse, really: every bit as bad as neglecting them. You know, I’ve had a word with her but she just brushed me off! If things don’t improve, I’ll have to take action.” She sighed again heavily. “Why can’t people look after their animals properly?”

  “If they did, you’d be out of a job,” her husband said coldly. Alexandra had stopped running and seemed to be doing some stretching exercises before she left the park. “Jessie’s getting bored sitting here,” Grant added casually. “I’ll just take her for a quick run.”

  “What about the interview?” demanded Gabbie.

  “You can manage on your own, can’t you? You always do.” Grant didn’t wait for an answer, and five seconds later he was chatting to the red-headed runner on the other side of the park while Jessie and the setter romped on the grass together.

  By now the make-up girl had finished dabbing Dermot’s nose, but there was no disguising the fact that his face was a nasty shade of ivory beige. Despite the powder, sweat had beaded on his forehead and he was saying weakly, “Why did it have to be this story? I don’t want to do it. I asked them to let me cover the flower show!”

  “I know,” soothed the make-up girl, “but Brian was taken ill this morning. There wasn’t anyone else available.” She looked thoroughly worried. “Are you feeling OK, Dermot? Shall I get you some tea or something?”

  The cameraman was more brutal. After checking his watch impatiently he said, “We need to get on. We’ve got to wrap this one up quickly or we won’t get to the council offices on time. We’re doing that piece about bin collections, remember?”

  “Sure, of course, you’re right.” Dermot took a very deep breath and muttered to himself, “Come on, Dermot, act like a professional. You can do this.”

  Graham and I stood on the sidelines with Bertie and watched, but I have to say that the interviews Dermot carried out weren’t exactly gripping. He talked to the assembled owners and they all said pretty much the same thing: about how shocked they were by the packages and how strange and unfair it was because they were responsible owners who always cleaned up after their dogs. “Unlike some,” Gabbie Robinson added darkly as she caught sight of Horrible Hoodie being dragged along the path by his hellhound. Dermot followed her gaze and his own eyes narrowed as if he was wondering whether to interview him, too, but when the mastiff cocked a leg against the nearest tree, Dermot looked away, clearly changing his mind.

  In order to flesh the item out, Dermot also got what he called “vox pops” from other park users about their opinion of urban dogs. When he came across the young mother of the screaming, dog-phobic kids in the play area, he must have thought he’d hit TV interviewer’s gold.

  She was as angry as she’d been when she had that go at Bertie, and kept raving about how disgusting it was when people didn’t clear up after their animals and what nasty diseases small children could catch from dog poo and the terrible dangers of out-of-control canines and how every single one of them should be microchipped and licensed and never ever be walked off the lead in a public place because it just wasn’t safe.

  Dermot looked even paler when he’d finished talking to her, but that wasn’t surprising – she was enough to intimidate anyone.

  The crew were getting ready to leave and we were about to head for home when Bertie trundled up to Dermot and sniffed his shoes. For one dreadful moment I thought he was going to widdle on them, but instead he looked up at the news reporter, grinned a doggy grin and wagged his tail.

  “Hello there, fella.” Dermot smiled. Bertie continued to gaze up at him, so Dermot reached down to ruffle his coat. “Sure, you’ve a big personality for a little guy, haven’t you?” he said.

  “Do you have a dog?” Graham asked politely.

  “No, I don’t,” replied Dermot, climbing into the front seat of his car and starting the engine. “I’m not that keen on them, to be honest. Guess I’m really more of a cat man.”

  Puzzling, I thought, watching him go. Very puzzling indeed. Dermot O’Flannery said he didn’t have a dog.

  So why was there a huge metal dog guard fixed across the boot of his car?

  Graham and I watched the dog poo item on the evening news with Mum. The not-exactly-gripping series of interviews had been cut to make the piece quite interesting. And when the young mother came on, the screen caption informed us that her name was Kathryn Hughes.

  I waited until the programme was over and Mum was safely in the kitchen starting on the tea before I said to Graham, “Do you remember what Gabbie Robinson said? Something about ‘Kath’. Kathryn. Kath. Are they the same person?”

  “Could be,” said Graham.

  “Can we find out more about her? And that ‘business with Spike’ that Gabbie mentioned?”

  “Do you think Kathryn Hughes was responsible for those packages?” asked Graham.

  “Well, you heard what she said to Horrible Hoodie,” I replied, switching on the computer. “She certainly hates dogs. No one else would have that motive, would they? It’s got to be her. It stands to reason.” I typed her name into the search engine.

  “Posting dog poo doesn’t amount to much of a crime, though,” Graham pointed out as I scrolled down through the zillion and one Kathryn Hughes that seemed to populate the world.

  “No. But if she’s gone a bit mad … well, you never know how far someone like that will go, do you? She ought to be stopped.”

  Graham reached over, grabbed the mouse and clicked on the Google news icon. He found what we needed pretty much immediately. There was a report from the local paper dated a few months ago. It turned out that Kathryn Hughes’s small son had been badly bitten by a friend’s pet: a two-year-old Alsatian called Spike. The dog had been put down despite desperate pleas from its owners, Gabbie and Grant Robinson.

  Graham breathed out slowly. It was a while before either of us said anything.

  “Well, that explains why the kid screamed when Bertie surprised him,” I said eventually.

  “Yes,” murmured Graham. “And it also explains why Kathryn Hughes is so vehemently anti-dog. And why she now regards the entire canine population as a potential threat.”

  “So what do you reckon? She’s sending out those packages as some sort of revenge?”

  Graham nodded. “It would seem to fit the facts. But surely she’s not a real danger to anyone? It’s unpleasant, that’s all.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  We crossed our fingers and told ourselves that Kathryn Hughes’s anti-dog campaign was weird but basically harmless.

  Except it wasn’t.

  While we were out walking Bertie on Monday morning another package plopped onto Mrs Biggs’s mat, and this time there was a single word scrawled across the back of the Jiffy bag: DIE!

  byron’s triumph

  We took Bertie for his evening walk at 5.30 p.m. As soon as we got through the gates we spotted Gabbie Robinson. S
he’d been throwing a stick for Jessie, but when she saw us she shouted, “Did Bertie’s mum get another one too?”

  I nodded. “With writing on it this time.”

  “Same here. Who’d do something like that?”

  Ball Obsessed Collie Woman joined us, along with the Great Dane’s small owner and the dachshund’s fat one, and then Mumsiewumsie appeared and for the next ten minutes or so all the grown-ups had a good long moan about the nasty anonymous message. Hellhound was in the park too, along with his owner, who had his skull-embossed hoodie pulled well down over his face like he didn’t want to talk to anyone. Not that anyone would have tried – all the other dog owners avoided him whenever possible. As he headed towards the shrubbery, no one called him over to see if he’d been sent a similar parcel.

  There was a distinct frosting of the atmosphere a moment later, and I looked around to see what – or rather who – had caused it. Kathryn Hughes was coming down the path. The kids in the double buggy were fast asleep, which was probably just as well. Gabbie threw Kathryn a look so acid it could have melted through solid steel as the mother carried on walking in the same direction as Horrible Hoodie. Then, without warning, she suddenly exploded. “Silly cow!” she said. “If she’d controlled that kid of hers nothing would have happened!”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  Gabbie Robinson fixed me with a furious stare. “You try sticking your fingers in your eyes, see how it makes you feel! If her kid had kept his hands to himself, my Spike would never have bitten him!”

  She looked on the verge of tears. Then she turned and strode off, whistling to Jessie and following the same path that Kathryn Hughes had taken. I hoped she wouldn’t catch up. I’d have bet all my pocket money that if those two women met, a fist fight would break out in thirty seconds flat.

  There was an embarrassed silence, and after a few mumbled goodbyes and half-hearted waves the crowd of dog owners dispersed.

  Bertie, however, had decided to weed that particular section of lawn. He’d conquered the daisies but had now found a new enemy to vanquish: dandelions. We knew from experience that there was absolutely no point trying to get him to follow us while he was working on a project, so Graham and I sat on a bench to keep an eye on him. From there we had a good view of most of the park.

  Ball Obsessed Collie was hurtling back and forth, doing his thing with the ball. Mumsiewumsie was strolling towards the back gate. She took the long route around the shrubbery and was soon out of sight. Horrible Hoodie, Kathryn Hughes and Gabbie Robinson had disappeared along the path that wove through the bushes.

  Super Speedy Sprinting Woman came in through the main gate and started her usual circuit. She stopped, though, when Grant Robinson ­– who was possibly looking for his wife and dog, or possibly not – appeared behind her. The two of them proceeded to have an animated conversation in the middle of the grass, punctuated by so many bursts of laughter that they drew disapproving glances from the small Spanish woman and the owner of the dachshund. If Bertie had been a more co-operative dog we might have managed to sidle over for a spot of eavesdropping, but I knew there was no chance of that.

  Horrible Hoodie must have changed his mind about going through the shrubbery, because it wasn’t long before he was heading back towards us, his hellhound straining on its length of chain.

  By now it was nearly 6 p.m. Gabbie Robinson had reached the side gate and was about to leave when Jessie suddenly went galumphing off into the undergrowth, not paying the slightest attention to her owner’s shouts. So Gabbie went in pursuit.

  At 6.15 p.m. precisely Bertie’s in-built clock told him it was time for tea. He executed his last dandelion and trundled over to us expectantly. Graham and I prepared to escort His Lordship home.

  But then Byron the runaway beagle dashed past, tail stiff as a paintbrush, nose glued to the ground, on the trail of what appeared to be the most irresistible scent he’d ever detected.

  “Do you need a hand?” we asked his desperate owner as he hobbled breathlessly after him, flat cap in one hand, tweed jacket in the other, bow tie askew.

  “Could you? I’d be so grateful. He’s heading for the rhododendrons. Maybe you could cut him off at the pass.”

  Carrying Bertie under one arm and the doggy go-kart under the other, Graham slipped down one side of the bushes while I nipped around the back and Byron’s owner approached from the far end. All three of us reached the clearing at the same time.

  Byron was standing proudly, tail wagging frantically. The hound clearly thought he had done the best day’s tracking of his entire life. His tongue was hanging out of a widely grinning mouth and he looked like he was expecting a medal.

  He’d led us all straight to Mrs Surfer Dude. Gabbie Robinson was lying face down, arms at her sides, almost as if she was asleep in the sun.

  But the back of her head had been caved in with a single, vicious blow. Her death must have been instant.

  give the dog

  a bone

  It wasn’t a pretty sight.

  We stood there, frozen, for a few seconds. Then Byron’s owner grabbed his bow tie as if it was choking him. He ripped it off and started throwing up into the nearest bin. Graham handed Bertie to me and called the police on his mobile.

  Jessie, meanwhile, was lying beside her owner, oblivious to the drama. She had an extremely large joint of meat clutched between her paws – the kind of thing you’d roast for a Sunday dinner. She was still chewing on it happily when the police arrived, and was very put out when one of them prised it from her mouth and dropped it into an evidence bag.

  Graham and I were delighted to find out that Inspector Humphries was on holiday. We didn’t think he’d be too thrilled to discover that we were the first to arrive at yet another crime scene. We hadn’t met Inspector Fowler before, and she must have been new to the area, because when she saw me and Graham she frowned and said to the nearest constable, “Why didn’t you tell me there were children involved? This is a most unsuitable place for them. Take them home immediately.”

  Byron’s owner was in a far worse state than either of us, but he was a grown-up, so it was left to him to fill her in on what had happened. We were carted off in a panda car with Bertie, who was terribly indignant about the delay to his tea. After handing him back to Mrs Biggs, we went over to my house to give PC Trevor Black our statement while Mum quietly fumed from the armchair about our uncanny ability to get ourselves involved in murder investigations.

  We told PC Black all we’d seen and noticed. When we mentioned Horrible Hoodie changing direction and coming back past us, he looked up from his notebook.

  “You sure?” he asked. “You saw Kyle Jacobs? Black sweatshirt, skull motifs, big dog?”

  We nodded in unison.

  He scratched his head and flipped back a few pages. “It’s just that the woman with the two little dogs…”

  “Mumsiewumsie?” we filled in helpfully.

  “Mrs Braithwaite,” he said sternly. “She said she saw him leaving through the back gate at about ten past six. Mind you,” he added with a roll of the eyes that spoke volumes about the reliability of most witnesses, “she couldn’t swear if that was today, yesterday or last week.” He shut his notebook with a decisive thwack. “It will be easy enough to check his movements, though. The guy’s tagged.”

  My ears pricked up at this.

  “Tagged?” Mum asked, alarmed. “You mean he’s been in trouble with the police? Is he dangerous?”

  “Oh no, ma’am. No need to concern yourself about him. There was an incident a few months ago. Minor theft. Nothing too serious. Rest assured, we’re keeping an eye on him.”

  Mum didn’t look terribly reassured, but there wasn’t much more the policeman could say or do. When the panda car pulled away, Mum insisted on driving Graham home. Every so often she would look over her shoulder as if expecting hoodies to come bursting out from behind a bush. When we reached his house, she escorted him up the path and shoved him through his door
without stopping for her usual chat with his mum, Sally. It was all so quick that Graham and I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye. It wasn’t until later – when Mum was fast asleep and I was tucked up in bed with the mobile phone I’d cunningly removed from her coat pocket – that we could talk things over.

  “What do you reckon?” I said. “It’s got to be Kathryn, hasn’t it?”

  “It certainly looks highly likely,” Graham answered slowly. “As far as I can see, she was the only one with the motive, means and opportunity. Mothers can be extremely dangerous when it comes to defending their young. I suppose the incident with Spike must have turned her thoughts to murder.”

  “She really hated Gabbie Robinson,” I agreed. “She could easily have hidden in the bushes. The kids were fast asleep. And she had that big bag on the pushchair. I guess the murder weapon was in that. And the meat. No wonder Jessie ran off – she must have caught a whiff of it. Lure the dog in and the owner’s bound to follow. All Kathryn had to do was wait.”

  “If it was Kathryn, and I’m inclined to think it must have been – that might put Gabbie’s husband in danger. He was Spike’s owner too.”

  “Grant Robinson? I bet he feels dead guilty now,” I said.

  “Why?” asked Graham.

  “Well, there he was, flirting with Super Speedy Sprinting Woman while his wife was getting killed just a hundred metres away.” And remembering the way the two of them had been chatting, I added, “You know, I reckon that sprinter has a thing for him. She’s always really friendly when she sees him. But when it’s Gabbie walking Jessie, not Grant, she never even stops to say hello. She’d have a motive for murder, wouldn’t she?”