Blood Hound (7 page)

“Well, you were there in the shrubbery, weren’t you? Before you came back past us. Did you see anything odd?”

“I weren’t,” he said hotly, fixing me with an angry stare. “I come straight through the side gate. I weren’t nowhere near them bushes.”

It was really odd. There could be no doubt at all that he was lying through his teeth. We’d seen him going in there ourselves! But if I hadn’t known that – if I hadn’t watched him with my very own eyes – I’d have sworn that he was telling the truth.

Once she’d heard about Kathryn Hughes’s arrest, Mum decided to relax her self-imposed minder duties. After Dermot had finished his report and climbed into his car to leave, Mum suddenly realized she had A Million and One Better Things To Do than walk one reluctant Pekinese and two overweight shih tzu. She went home, leaving me and Graham to exercise the dogs.

“I reckon Horrible Hoodie posted those packages, don’t you?” I asked.

“He certainly had the appearance of a guilty man,” Graham agreed grimly. “I’ve never seen anyone look so shifty.”

“How did he know everyone’s addresses, though? I mean, we’d have noticed if he’d followed us home, wouldn’t we? He’s not exactly the kind of person you can miss.”

Graham shrugged as if the answer was obvious. “There are other ways. You had to give Mrs Biggs’s address when you picked up Bertie’s eye-drops, if you recall. One would only have to sit in the vet’s waiting-room and listen to obtain that kind of information.”

“Oh … yeah, I see. I wonder why he did it, though? No one seems to like him much. Maybe he was just getting his own back.”

Graham nodded. “The packages may have been his idea of a joke; something that came into his mind after the encounter between him and Kathryn Hughes. If so, it was just a rather malicious prank. Nasty, but not deadly.”

“Mmmm,” I murmured. Something was tickling inside my head. I was juggling the various bits of information we’d read about Gabbie Robinson on the Web. Judging a dog show … dealing with cruelty cases … and then there was that investigation that had been described as “ongoing”.

Kyle’s dog. A mastiff, with a tattered ear.

“What did you say mastiffs were bred for?”

“They were attack dogs,” said Graham. “For use in battle. And in peacetime I think they were used for bear-baiting, dogfights, that kind of thing.”

“Dogfighting! Gabbie was investigating something like that! And Kyle’s dog has a ripped ear…” I stopped and looked at Graham. “What do you know about dogfights?”

Graham frowned. “Not a great deal,” he confessed. “It was once socially acceptable but it’s been illegal for years. People still do it, though. Some like it, strange as that seems. And there’s a lot of money involved, what with the gambling and so on.”

Kyle’s face swam before my eyes. That nasty smirk when I’d asked about the packages … yes, he seemed exactly the kind of person who would regard dogfights as light entertainment.

“You don’t think Gabbie knew something about him, do you?” I said. “He looks the type to be involved in something really dodgy, don’t you reckon?”

“It’s perfectly possible,” agreed Graham. “In fact, it seems quite likely to me. After all, we already know he has a criminal record. And if Gabbie knew something incriminating about him, it would have put her in a very dangerous position indeed.”

The
trouble was, we knew full well that Kyle Jacobs couldn’t have killed Gabbie. We’d both seen him go into the shrubbery. But then he must have turned around, because he’d come back past us
before
Jessie had run off and Gabbie had gone in pursuit. Kyle Jacobs had been in full view when Gabbie was being bashed over the head.

“It was weird, though, him turning round,” I said. “Why would he do that?”

“There could be a perfectly simple explanation. He could have changed his mind about where he wanted to walk.”

“Or there could have been a reason for him wanting to be in full view at the crucial moment…”

“What do you mean?”

“If he knew what was going to happen to her, he would have wanted to make sure no one suspected him,” I said.

“So why did he go into the bushes in the first place?” asked Graham.

“I’m not sure.” I considered the matter. “If he’s involved with dodgy dogfights … well, it wouldn’t be just him, would it? I mean, you couldn’t do something like that on your own. There must be a whole gang of them.”

“An accomplice,” mused Graham. “Yes, that seems reasonable.”

“And maybe Kyle was the only one who knew Gabbie by sight. Perhaps he pointed her out to the attacker. Someone who was already in the bushes, waiting for her.”

My theory was taking shape nicely, so I ignored the odd feeling I’d had that Kyle had been telling the truth when he’d said he hadn’t been in the shrubbery. I didn’t want to be distracted from my train of thought. “So we’re probably looking for a complete stranger…”

“The mysterious Mr X,” said Graham. “Find him and the murder is solved.”

We strolled on quietly while I thought back to the evening of Gabbie’s murder. It was strange that we hadn’t noticed anyone, but then no one seemed to have seen anyone unusual. The police wouldn’t have arrested Kathryn Hughes if there had been any other suspects, would they? And unfamiliar faces did get spotted: look at what had happened each time the film crew turned up. Poor Dermot O’Flannery had nearly been flattened by the crowd that had gathered to look at him.

Graham and I had slowly walked the three dogs all around the park and were coming back towards the side gate when we heard a peculiar noise coming from the shrubbery. It was halfway between a growl and a yelp, and for a moment I thought an animal was lurking in the undergrowth. Then I realized that whoever was making the sound was not only human, but suffering from some sort of Extreme Emotion. Sadness? Anger? It was difficult to tell. Graham and I looked at each other. As one we dropped to our hands and knees and crawled under the bushes so we could get closer. Intrigued, Bertie, Malcolm and Stanley followed.

From behind a large hydrangea we saw Grant Robinson kneeling on the ground exactly where his wife’s body had been found. His arm was around Jessie, his face turned into her neck, and he was muttering into her fur. He had his back to us, so we couldn’t see his expression. But we could hear what he was saying clearly enough.

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

The dog licked him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suppose he was lying?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And Horrible Hoodie is tagged for theft.”

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

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

“Are you suggesting he…?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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