K-9 (8 page)

Two nurses hurried to his aid, one adjusting his gown while another poured him a cup of water. An armed policeman stood in silence, guarding the door.

‘Don’t over-exert yourself, Mr Billoch,’ one of the nurses cautioned, using Bill’s real name.

‘Aye, Bill, listen tae the hen,’ said an equally huge man from a cramped seat in the corner. ‘And for God’s sake cut doon on the swedgers.’

‘Ah, dinnae fash yerself!’ Bill retorted.

‘Dougal,’ said Knightley, addressing the extra Scotsman in the room. ‘I don’t believe you and Doc have been formally introduced.’

Darkus did a double take: the likeness between Dougal and Bill was quite extraordinary. Apparently Dougal was the younger brother, although they looked exactly the same age.

Dougal raised himself to his feet, doffed his homburg hat and shook Darkus’s hand in his giant paw. ‘I’ve heard a lot about ye, Doc.’

‘All good, I hope,’ replied Darkus.

‘Vairy impressive wark on the last case,’ Dougal responded, although it took Darkus a moment to translate.

Knightley approached the bed. ‘What’s the prognosis, Bill?’

‘The docs tell me mah calf is nearly healed up,’ said Bill. ‘They had tae dae a skin graft from mah . . . Well, I cannae go into tha’ nou, Alan. Nae in front ay young Darkus.’

‘Agreed,’ said Knightley.

‘Nou, Doc,’ Bill went on. ‘How are ye? How’s skale?’

‘Let’s just say I prefer the university of life. Or of criminal investigation, in my case,’ Darkus replied.

Bill turned to Knightley proudly. ‘Aye, he hasn’t changed a bit, has he?’ Knightley shook his head. ‘Well, what can ah dae for ye tway gents?’ Bill asked.

‘Doc’s here to talk to you about the incident at the Thames,’ Knightley began.

‘Aye, you mean the beastie,’ replied Bill. ‘It was dark, but ah believe it was a werewolf, Doc, as far as ah could tell. It was tae clever tae be a normal doggy. Tae cunning.’

Dougal snorted from the corner, but it was unclear whether it was in response to Bill or not.

Darkus couldn’t help thinking about the two dogs that had staked out Clive and Jackie’s house on Wolseley Close the previous night. What were these sentient canines? Where were they coming from? And what did they want?

‘Ye see, it was as if the beastie was
only
interested in
me
,’ Bill continued. ‘It didn’t change course once, and was nae interested in my chocolate Penguin biscuit neither. A terrible waste that was,’ he mourned.

Darkus and his dad exchanged glances.

Knightley added, ‘Bill’s under police protection here until we can get to the bottom of who, or what, was targeting them.’

‘Them?’ enquired Darkus.

‘That same night, during the full moon, three other senior Scotland Yard officers were viciously mauled, and later succumbed to their injuries.’

‘Aye,’ Bill interjected. ‘Had their throats torn oot, poor fowk.’

Darkus understood. ‘Wait, you mean the three officers in south London responding to a domestic altercation? I saw it on the news a few weeks ago. It said they were attacked by a tenant’s dog.’

‘That was a cover story,’ Knightley explained. ‘The officers were actually in three separate London locations, each returning home from the same high-level meeting of SO 42.’

‘Bill’s department. Specialist Operations 42. The Department of the Unexplained,’ Darkus murmured.

‘Correct,’ said Knightley.

‘What was this high-level meeting about?’

‘An unexplained rise in gang crime and aggressive dogs across the capital.’ Knightley gestured through the window to the sun sinking over the London skyline.

Darkus took a moment to process all this, then whispered to his father privately: ‘And you believe there’s a connection between this and the missing pets on Hampstead Heath . . . ?’

Knightley nodded uncertainly. ‘I do, Doc, I just haven’t worked out what that connection is yet.’

‘And I suppose you believe the Combination is involved.’

‘You read my mind. Nothing on this scale could escape their controlling grasp.’

‘But Morton Underwood, their leader, is dead.’

‘Their leadership is a revolving door, Doc. I told you that. Besides, I’m not convinced your former godfather is dead.’

‘He fell under a train. I saw it with my own eyes.’

‘But Morton’s body was never recovered.’

Darkus took a breath, trying to stay in the here and now. ‘This is all getting too far ahead of the evidence. We have no motive, no perpetrator, no dog.’

‘Nae werewolf,’ added Bill.

Dougal snorted again, and Darkus realised the Scotsman had in fact fallen asleep.

‘What I dae have is an artist’s impression of the beast,’ Bill said, extracting a crumpled piece of paper from his bedclothes and holding it up.

It was little more than a cartoon scribbled down with a Sharpie. Darkus examined the sketch, deeming it too crude to be of any use. It could have depicted the dogs he’d seen on Wolseley Close – or it could have depicted a particularly angry glove puppet.

A nurse interrupted them. ‘Mr Billoch needs his rest.’

Bill shrugged as another nurse plumped up his cushions. ‘What can ah do?’

Knightley fished in his jacket, took out a packet of chocolate digestives and set them on the bedside table.

‘Classic or new recipe?’ Bill asked quietly.

‘Classic, of course,’ answered Knightley.

‘Yoo’re mah Florence Nightingale, Alan,’ purred Bill.

‘Ah told ye, nae bannocks,’ Dougal piped up.

‘Haud yer wheesht!’ snapped Bill.

‘I suggest we get back to the office,’ Knightley told his son. ‘There might be time for a round of jam sandwiches, triangles not squares, naturally, then it’s an early night, wake up for a full English, say your goodbyes to Wilbur – for now of course – and take the first train home.’

Something about his father’s announcement didn’t ring true. It was as if they both knew, one or way or another, the train would not be caught and Darkus would not be going home – at least not yet.

‘Dad, you know full well I can’t leave in the middle of a case,’ Darkus remonstrated. ‘That is unless you want it to remain in the vaults of the Department of the Unexplained, rather than have it put before a jury and see justice done.’

‘You do make a strong case, Doc.’

‘I know. I learned from the best.’

‘Flattery will get you everywhere. But there is one overriding issue that you have patently ignored, and I fear you will have no adequate answer for. And that is your
mother
. I imagine she’s expecting a call within the hour, and you home by tomorrow night.’

‘Can you tell her I’m unwell?’ Darkus suggested.

‘She won’t buy it.’

‘I thought you said you were a good liar.’

‘Not that good.’

‘Then perhaps we should offer her the truth,’ said Darkus.

‘And that is?’

‘That you’re out of your depth. Again.’ His father frowned, his brow creasing. Darkus continued regardless: ‘And that without my assistance you may fall victim to another “episode”, or worse.’

‘The delivery was unnecessarily cruel, Doc. But, as usual, I fear you may be on to something.’

‘She does care about you, Dad. Whether she admits it or not.’

Knightley pursed his lips and made an odd chomping expression as he digested this last piece of evidence, before coming to a decision. ‘Let’s hope you’re right.’

Chapter 7

The Dog Whisperer

If Darkus had any doubts about Wilbur’s new digs, they were quickly dispelled when he and his father returned to 27 Cherwell Place that evening to find Bogna and the mutt had already become bosom buddies.

After greeting the Knightleys with an unusual level of affection – wagging his tail several times as opposed to the usual single wag – Wilbur returned to Bogna’s lap, literally leaping on to her as she sat in an armchair following a particularly gruelling session with the Hoover. Bogna didn’t seem to mind this furry lump using her as an improvised dog basket. In fact she appeared to like it.

‘Good boyee, Wilburs. Now show Alan and Darkus what Bogna teach you.’

Wilbur raised his eyebrows as if to say: Do I have to?

‘Don’t make argument with me, Wilburs.’

Wilbur frowned, twitched his whiskers, then lowered one, two, then all four legs to the carpet. He then walked to the centre of the living room and sat perfectly still, back straight, head held high.

Darkus watched in amazement, then looked to his father for confirmation. Knightley narrowed his eyes to examine the phenomenon.

Bogna resumed her tuition. ‘Good. Now fetch Bogna the feathered duster.’ Wilbur cocked his head reluctantly. ‘Go . . .’ she urged.

Wilbur slowly got back to his feet and trotted into the kitchen, vanishing behind the fridge. A moment later he returned, carrying the feather duster gingerly between his teeth. He raised his snout, handing it to Bogna, who duly nodded and held it vertically in her right hand, briefly resembling a monarch upon the throne holding a sceptre.

‘Outstanding,’ remarked Knightley.

‘It’s incredible,’ agreed Darkus.

Bogna casually shrugged. ‘Now, Wilburs . . . Bogna is feelings hungry. Fetch Bogna something for eats.’

Wilbur wagged his tail, trotted back to the fridge, sat on his haunches and extended his back, reaching out with his right paw. He pulled on the handle and the fridge door swung open. Wilbur then staggered forward on his hind legs, gently resting his paws against the shelf of the fridge and carefully taking a small box of choc­olates between his teeth. He staggered backwards, sat on his haunches again, closed the door with his paw and returned to Bogna, wagging his tail.

Bogna took the chocolate box from his jaws. ‘Good boyee. Now, feets?’ She nodded to the ottoman, which Wilbur obediently nudged into position as she lowered her Crocs on to it, for ultimate relaxation.

As she selected a chocolate from the box and popped it in her mouth, Darkus and his dad exchanged an even deeper look of disbelief.

‘How did you do it?’ asked Darkus, struggling to comprehend how it took Bogna one day to achieve what he had failed to do in three months.

‘You don’t like?’ she replied, concerned.

‘No. It’s amazing,’ said Darkus. ‘You could put Fiona Connelly out of business.’

Bogna bit down on a particularly chewy chocolate piece. ‘I just talk to him like normals adult.’ She cocked her head and swallowed. ‘I say gets me this, he gets me that.’

‘It’s his training,’ Knightley added under his breath. ‘It must be coming back. Wilbur is clearly a very clever dog under his rather dysfunctional exterior. I’m confident he may yet be of some use to us.’

Darkus checked his simple Timex watch and frowned. Knightley caught his look and nodded.

‘To business,’ said Knightley and led his son upstairs.

They entered the office, closing the door behind them. Knightley took up position behind his mahogany desk while Darkus pulled up a chair, took out his secure phone and dialled. After a few rings Jackie picked up.

‘Doc?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Is everything OK?’

‘I’m fine, Mum. But I’m afraid I won’t be coming home tomorrow.’

‘But – what about school?’

‘I suggest you tell them I’m ill,’ he advised. ‘Sorry, but I have to ask you to be economical with the truth.’

‘You mean lie,’ she replied bluntly.

‘For good reasons, yes,’ said Darkus, then paused, summoning the courage to confess. ‘Dad needs my help again.’

He was met with stony silence on the other end of the line. Then Jackie’s voice wavered, not wanting to believe that history was repeating itself.

‘Put your father on the phone, Doc,’ she said sternly.

‘OK, Mum.’ Darkus passed the phone to his dad.

‘Hello, Jackie,’ Knightley began cheerily, until he was cut off by her response, which Darkus could imagine, but couldn’t hear. ‘Well, actually, it was
his
idea –’ Knightley replied, until he was cut off again.

Not wishing to listen to this awkward altercation, and finding it strangely familiar from the days when they were a complete, if eccentric, family, Darkus walked to the landing window and glanced down at Cherwell Place. The Victorian street lamps flickered to life, one by one. A light mist crept around the lanterns as it was wont to do.

Darkus tuned out the sound of his parents arguing, then felt something brush against him. He started, and looked down to see Wilbur nuzzling his trouser leg restlessly, before raising his snout, as if sniffing for trouble.

‘What is it, boy?’

Wilbur made some apprehensive puffing noises, then reared back and raised his front paws to rest on the window ledge, beside Darkus.

Darkus followed his line of sight and spotted two low, muscular shapes appearing from the mist at the end of the road, dimly lit by the street lamps which were still warming up. Darkus instantly recognised the shapes as canines – their torsos jet  black and teeming with sinews and tendons: most likely a Rottweiler-wolf mix. Not so different to Bill’s crude sketch – if one used some imagin­ation. As the dogs trotted along the pavement in a perfectly matching half-step, Darkus drew closer to the windowpane. Uncannily, the pair looked identical to the dogs that had been conducting surveillance at Wolseley Close just the night before.