Blood Hound (3 page)

“I beg your pardon?” said Mumsiewumsie frostily.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just that…”

Mumsiewumsie drew herself up to her full height. She only came up to Mrs Surfer Dude’s chin, but with immense dignity she said, “I’ll thank you to keep your nose out of my private business. They’re my boys and I’ll feed them whatever I like.”

Mumsiewumsie had the figure of an egg on legs, so she didn’t exactly stride away in an epic fit of fury – it was more of a waddle and a huff – but it had the same effect.

Jessie’s owner sighed and said to me and Graham, “Poor dogs. They’re heading for heart attacks at this rate. Oh well. You win some, you lose some. See you around.” And then she left too.

Bertie walked us for the forty-five minutes required by Mrs Biggs and then we headed home. Everything was fine until we led the Pekinese back through his front door.

The second Bertie’s claws clicked on the tiled corridor I knew something was seriously wrong. The television was switched off, for starters. The silence was deafening.

I looked at Graham. “Sounds ominous,” I said nervously. I’d begun to think Mrs Biggs must have had another fall – maybe she’d been carted off to hospital again, or worse, maybe she was lying dead in the front room. But before my imagination could go into overdrive I heard Mum’s voice calling from the kitchen, “Poppy, is that you?”

“Yes,” I answered, confused. What was Mum doing here? And why did she sound so cross?

Graham and I followed Bertie down the corridor into the lounge, where Mrs Biggs fixed us with a Wounded Look. Mum was wearing a Stern Expression.

“What?” I said defensively. “What have we done?”

“It’s more a matter of what you haven’t,” said Mum. “Look what came through Mrs Biggs’s door while you were out.”

When you’ve walked a dog twice a day for a whole week it doesn’t take much to recognize a bag of poo – and there was one sitting on top of a Jiffy bag right in the middle of Mrs Biggs’s coffee table.

“I don’t get it…” I began.

“I told you what you needed to do,” said Mrs Biggs. “It’s not difficult.”

I started to get angry. No one likes to be falsely accused of doing something. Or not doing it. “I’ve scooped!” I protested.

Graham backed me up. “I assure you, Poppy has been most conscientious. Having witnessed her performing the task on several occasions, I can personally vouch for it.”

“And you put it where you’re supposed to – in the doggy bin?”

“Of course!” I said indignantly.

“How odd,” said Mum. “Why would someone post something like that through the door? What a nasty thing to do…”

I couldn’t agree more.

“Throw it away,” she went on. “It’s obviously just someone playing a silly joke. A malicious prank, that’s all.”

Gingerly picking the bag up by its handles, I dropped it back into the Jiffy bag and shoved it in the dustbin. I was unnerved by the whole thing, and judging from the look on Graham’s face, he felt the same. Not that we had a chance to discuss the matter, as Mum was dragging me off to town for a spot of Back to School shopping, which – as you can imagine – I was thrilled about.

It wasn’t until we took Bertie out for his walk that evening that Graham and I had a chance to talk.

“Do you think it could have been that mum? The one with the screaming kids? I mean, she threatened that man – you know, the guy with the hoodie.”

“Yes, she did. But he didn’t clear up after his dog – unlike us. So why on earth would she send a package like that to Mrs Biggs?”

“I don’t know. But she didn’t like Bertie sitting down in that puddle. Maybe it was because of that. Even so, it’s all a bit odd…”

When we got to the park we found a disconsolate pack of dog owners gathered on the grass. Mumsiewumsie and Mrs Surfer Dude’s argument had clearly been forgotten, because whoever was responsible for Mrs Biggs’s mysterious package had been hard at work. Everyone had found similar parcels on their doormats. While the dogs played, their owners conversed in low, worried tones.

Mumsiewumsie was almost beside herself. “It were downright nasty, it were. Right there on the mat. Nearly stepped in it.”

“It’s outrageous. Something ought to be done,” fretted Byron’s bow-tie-wearing owner.

“I called the police,” Mumsiewumsie told him. “I told my boys, I’m just not having it.”

When Horrible Hoodie and his hellhound came along the path, the owners bunched together like angry sheep and began muttering about how some people shouldn’t be allowed to keep dogs; some owners gave everyone else a bad name. Hoodie wasn’t bothered – in fact, a nasty leer spread across his face. He looked like a Man Who Knew Something.

“I called the police too,” Mrs Surfer Dude said in a low voice. “Grant thought I was overreacting, but … well, it’s just not nice, is it? It makes you feel so uneasy! And how did they know where we all live?”

Mumsiewumsie didn’t answer. No one did. They all seemed lost for words and I could see why.

The dog crowd were clearly a pretty chatty bunch, but it was only their pets they talked about. I knew most of the dogs’ names by now – their owners were always shouting them out, so it wasn’t hard to remember. I also knew who each animal was friendly with, who they attacked on sight and what games they liked to play. On the other hand, I knew virtually nothing about their owners. I didn’t know their names, and I most certainly didn’t know any of their addresses. A worrying thought hit me. Could someone have been following owners home from the park? Had they done that to me and Graham?

Before I had a chance to say anything, Super Speedy Sprinting Woman bounded through the gate. The sight of such a large group of people gathered on the grass made her pause. She hesitated, running on the spot, as if wondering whether to come over. Her eyes flicked across the dogs. Located Jessie, the golden retriever. She glanced at the owners and saw Mrs Surfer Dude. That decided her: she ran on. But Ball Obsessed Collie Woman waved to her and beckoned. She had no choice.

Pulling the headphones from her ears as she approached the group, she said reluctantly, “What’s the problem?”

“It’s Alexandra, isn’t it?” Collie Woman smiled placatingly. “I saw your name in the paper after you won that half-marathon.”

“What’s up?”

“It’s just that … well … we all seem to have had a bit of a nasty surprise this morning. I wondered if you—”

“Yes, I got one too,” she interrupted. “Some nutter. Best to ignore it.”

And that was the extent of her conversation. Stuffing her headphones back in her ears, she and the inexhaustible red setter took off.

“You don’t think it’s Kath, do you?” Mrs Surfer Dude suddenly asked Collie Woman. “I couldn’t bear it. Not after the business with Spike.”

“No!” said Collie Woman, looking worried. “Surely not…”

“It couldn’t be. That would be awful!” cried Mumsiewumsie.

“Spike?” I asked. “Who’s Spike?”

Everyone fell silent. Mrs Surfer Dude’s eyes were wide with anxiety. Mumsiewumsie picked up Malcolm in one arm and Stanley in the other, as if to protect them from some unseen danger. The ball-obsessed collie was brought to heel. Hamlet and Gertrude were clipped onto leads. One by one, the dog owners melted away, darting furtive, anxious glances over their shoulders as they left the park.

The
following morning an article appeared in the local paper. Mrs Surfer Dude must have called the news desk as well as the police, because there was a photo of her and her husband with Jessie on the front page, holding a bag of poo and looking disgusted. It was only then that I learnt their real names: Gabbie and Grant Robinson. He worked for an outdoor pursuits centre; she was employed by the RSPCA.

It must have been a very slack news day, because the next thing we knew the local TV station had sent a crew to cover the story. When we took Bertie for his morning walk we saw a car and a van parked on the tarmac near the park gates. A crowd had gathered to watch the excitement.

The presence of cameras might not in itself have been riveting, but the fact that the reporter was Dermot O’Flannery was enough to grab my attention.

“Look!” I said to Graham. “It’s him.”

“Who?” asked Graham.

“Dermot something. His wife got bashed by a burglar, do you remember? It was about six months ago, I think.”

“Yes, it was.” Graham frowned, trying to recall the details. “He went to pieces afterwards, didn’t he?”

“Yes – threw himself into her grave at the funeral. And then he burst into tears on live TV while he was reading the headlines. It was dead embarrassing.” I was vague on the precise details of the murder case, but I remembered that incident clearly enough – it had been a pitiful sight and afterwards he’d lost his job as the station’s anchorman.

But it looked like he was beginning to scrape the shattered fragments of his life back together. He was clearly having to start at the very bottom of the career ladder again, though – doing an item on dog poo was hardly the cutting edge of investigative journalism.

Nevertheless, Dermot O’Flannery seemed extremely nervous. He looked pale and kept swallowing anxiously, as if he was about to interview an assembly of world leaders.

By the time Graham and I arrived at the park, a whole pack of interviewees had assembled. Byron’s bow-tied owner was beating about in the bushes, although there was no sign of his beagle. Mumsiewumsie was sitting on a bench near by with Malcolm and Stanley, feeding them treats. Collie Woman was throwing a ball for Sam. The small Spanish woman with the large Great Dane was talking to the short, fat owner of the long, thin dachshund. One of the TV crew had jotted down their names and addresses and they were all ready and willing to tell Dermot their story, but he didn’t seem very keen to begin.

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.