by Tony Nash
Dyce could not help but give him the bad news, ‘Your problems just multiplied, David. The suspected rabies case is the kennel-mate of the dog you’re looking for. The terrier could be infected too, and if it bites the boy…’
There was silence at the other end of the line, broken finally by, ‘Wish me luck, Tony. I think I’m going to need it. Full county alert and all resources diverted. First stage is local authority and police control. That’ll be your Yarmouth office, and Yarmouth council. I’ll alert DEFRA, and set up the required hotline.’
‘If you need anything at all – men, machines, vehicles, don’t hesitate. I’ll clear it with the Chief Constable.’
‘I won’t, Tony. Thanks. My lot can cover up to the fifteen-mile ring, but only on the roads. Can you organise a search of the marshes?’
‘On it, David, though we’ll not be able to cover the whole area before nightfall. If we don’t find them today, we’ll have an all-out search from first light tomorrow.’
He rang Transome, who began to gush a greeting. He interrupted him, ‘Get every man you can lay hands on to Horsey Mere, and search till dark. Work with the DVO. Full search for the boy and the dog, ASAP.’
‘But sir! PC Argyle was not sure…’
‘Do it, and ring me once an hour.’ He cut off the conversation, under his breath applying several quite uncomplimentary epithets to the inspector in Yarmouth.
Jane had a frown as she asked him, ‘Don’t you think you were a bit hard on him, darling?’
‘Hard? I’ll give him hard if he slips up just once. I won’t interfere, but I’d better slip over to Yarmouth and let him understand he’s under the microscope.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Sam grinned, ‘You’re all right, Billy, you’re small enough you don’t have to duck like I do. Come on in.’
He bent to enter his home, an old underground army shelter, left over from the Second World War.
The walls were brick and crumbling, with moss growing on the cement, and the roof was semi-circular and made of asbestos corrugated sheets. High up in the far wall was a tiny, grimy window, just at outside ground level, but there was a thick bush growing outside it, making it virtually invisible to accidental visitors.
The whole place was in a bad state of repair. Several animal skins were nailed on the back of the door to dry, giving the inside a peculiar sweet-stinky smell.
Under the window, Billy saw the old man’s bed and bedclothes – dried animal skins sewn together – and his pillow, a skin filled with some form of stuffing.
There was an orange crate with a candle in a bottle on it by the bed, and a large cupboard stood by the wall on the left. Hung on the outside of it by a nail was the uniform of a lance corporal in the Royal Norfolk Regiment, complete with forage cap. The buttons and badges were fairly clean, but the uniform itself was in a bad state, due to age and mildew. To one side stood a small, square plywood table.
By the right hand wall pride of place was taken by an old ‘round devil’ stove, beloved of all the forces to heat their huts during the war, its chimney going straight up through the ceiling. On top of the stove stood an old brown enamel teapot and a kettle. Heaped beside it were piles of wood and a few pieces of newspaper. A mesh bag hanging from the cupboard held a few carrots, swedes and potatoes. Held up by a nail on the wall by the bed was a picture of the Queen, without a frame, cut from some magazine or other. Two old fishing rods leant against the side of the cupboard, already rigged for perch fishing, with old fixed spool reels and large homemade floats about three feet above single size six hooks.
Sam looked around, as if he had never seen the place before, ‘Not exactly the Ritz, is it?’
‘The Ritz?’
‘A very famous hotel, Billy, or leastways, it was – I don’t know if tha’ss still there.’
‘Oh…no…but it’s…very nice. Better than that old haystack.’
‘Ar, but not much. Bit earthy, too. Still, it suits me – tha’ss private, an’ the rent in’t too high.’ He cackled.
Billy was eyeing the uniform, ‘Were you a soldier?’
Sam hesitated, then changed the subject quickly, ‘Put the rabbit on the table, and le’ss go arter them perch ‘fore that get too dark.’
He laid the pheasants on the table and picked up the fishing rods.
‘Yes, but what’s the uniform for, if you weren’t a soldier?’
‘I…was a soldier.’
‘In a war?’
Sam moved towards the door, ‘You bin watchin’ too many fillums.’
‘Did you kill anyone?’
‘Bloodthirsty little tyke! No – I din’t, nor did I want to.’
Billy looked disappointed, ‘Oh…but…’
Same interrupted firmly, ‘Perch!’
‘Where did you get the rods and things, Sam?’
Sam was immediately on the defensive, ‘I din’t steal ‘em. I din’t. Don’t believe in stealin’. Traded some rabbits fer ‘em a long time ago, an’ you can pick up enough tackle left on the river banks after every weekend to open a tackle shop.’
As they walked down to the water, the dog was running around excitedly, sniffing the ground.
Billy called him, ‘Here, dog.’
‘He’s likely on the scent o’ somethin’.’
The dog disappeared behind a bank of reeds, and they heard excited yelps and the squeals of some animal in pain.
‘Sound like he’re found it. Come on!’
They ran round the reeds and saw Mukki with a water rat in its mouth, shaking it.
Billy shouted, ‘Put it down! Put it down!’
Sam urged, ‘Don’t go near! If that rat get away, that’ll be in a nasty mood, an’ then they’re dangerous.’
The squeals got louder, then the rat twisted its body and dug its teeth into Mukki’s muzzle.
The dog yelped and dropped the rat, which ran away, blood on its back, and dived into the water.
‘That there dog just havta git inta scraps. Wa’ss wrong wi’ ‘im? I thought he’da kilt that ol’ rat, but that din’t get orf scot-free; he musta nipped it.’
‘D’you think he should have killed it?’
‘I dunno, Billy. I don’t go around killin’ animals for the sake onit, but rats is one o’ God’s creatures I don’t much care fer; do a lotta damage, they do. Tha’ss right, dog, lick it clean.
‘Rats allus goes fer a dog’s nose. C’mon, Le’ss get at that fishin’.’ He handed Billy one of the rods.
‘But what are we going to use for bait?’
‘All taken care of, I hope.’
Sam picked up a piece of string tied to a bunch of reeds, with the other end dangling in the water. He pulled it up and brought out of the water a minnow trap, made from a wine bottle, with a cork in the top and a hole about half an inch knocked through the centre of the bottom cone. There were seven minnows inside.
‘There you are – the Lord’ll provide. You heard about the parable of the five fishes, hen’t you?’
‘No. How…’
‘Tha’ss a minnow trap, Billy. You leave the cork in, see, knock a hole in the middle o’ the bottom, where that go up into the bottle, an’ put a little bread inside. The fish go in arter the bread, an’ foller the funnel shape, but they can’t find their way out agin.’
‘But isn’t it cruel to use them for bait?’
‘They’re jus’ as likely to get eaten swimmin’ about off a hook as on one, aren’t they?’
‘Yes, I suppose so, but doesn’t it hurt them?’
‘No, watch.’
He took the cork out of the bottle and shook it until one minnow fell out into his hand. He replaced the cork.
Holding the minnow in his right hand and the hook in his left he said, ‘If you look closely, you’ll see two holes like nostrils in his upper lip, see?’
‘Yes, I see.’
‘Well, we slip the hook real careful-like through one of the holes, and away he go inter the water, lively as a crick
et. We cast, like this, out inter the deeper water, and hope a perch’ll come along. If one don’t, our minnow get let off agin when we’re finished fishin’ an’ can continue his life as if he’d never bin caught.’ He laid his rod on the ground, ‘Now le’ss fix you up, or would you rather do it yoursel’?’
Growls and high-pitched yelps made them look around at the dog, attacking a root ferociously near the trees.
Sam frowned, ‘That in’t normal behaviour fer a dog.’
‘Aw. He’s only playing.’
‘I don’t know so much…’ He baited the other rod and handed it to Billy, who cast the line out to his satisfaction, then dropped the minnow trap back into the water.
‘Where did he come from?’
‘Dunno. He just turned up.’
The dog was tearing furiously at the root, growling.
Sam stood watching him, shaking his head.
Billy had been watching both floats, and Sam’s has disappeared with a ‘plop’ under the water.
Billy grabbed Sam’s arm, ‘Sam! Sam!’
Sam turned back to the rod, lifted it and took the bale arm off the reel to let line run off freely.
Billy was surprised, ‘Don’t you have to jerk the rod up? I’ve seen lots of people do that when they’ve got a fish on.’
‘Not yet, Billy. Y’see, when a perch, or a pike fer that matter, take the bait, that grab it between the jaws, stun it, an’ run with it sideways-on in its mouth – sometimes with half on it a-stickin’ out. Then that stop, spit the little ol’ fish out, an’ swallow it whole – headfust! When that run for a second time, tha’ss when you strike. Strike the fust time an’ you lose it – you pull the bait right outa its mouth.’
Sam’s float came up to the surface several yards away from where it had disappeared.
‘There! Now…any minute…’
The float bobbed a couple of times then went under again, moving fast, and line began streaming off the reel. Sam flicked the bale-arm on again and struck, ‘Now!’
The line moved even faster, and the rod bent almost double.
Sam groaned, ‘Oh-oh!’ and began fighting the fish, letting out more line, but under firmer control.
Billy was excited and showed it, ‘Gosh!’
‘Tha’ss ‘gosh’ orlright – tha’ss a pike, not a perch, an’ a really big ‘un – twenty pound or more by the feel on ‘im. I don’t think we’ll ever see him on the table.’
‘Why not?’
He’re got rows an’ rows o’ sharp teeth. They’ll…’ The line snapped, ‘There!’
Billy said it for both of them, ‘Aw.’
‘Don’t worry about it, Billy. That wunt do if we caught all the fish in the water. You need a steel wire trace for them big pike, you do, ‘cos o’ their sharp teeth. They…hey! Look out – you’re got one! Let some line out, quick!’
Billy got all fingers and thumbs as he struggled to do as he was told.
‘Oh – don’t let him get away too! You take the rod, please!’
‘No – he’s your fish – you’ll get ‘im, don’t worry. Let ‘im have some line.
The boy’s float came up to the surface, then dived again.
‘Now, tighten the line an’…strike!’
Billy pulled the rod tip up. The fish was hooked.
He shouted, ‘I’ve got him, Sam! I’ve got him!’
‘Just watch you don’t lose ‘im. Keep the rod tip up…up…tha’ss right. Now don’t reel him in too fast, let ‘im fight ‘isself out.’
‘Have I really got him, have I, Sam? Have I?’
‘You’re really got ‘im, Billy.’
The boy kept reeling and the fish came to the bank. It was a perch of just over a pound. Sam put the net under and brought it up from the water.
‘Now tha’ss a lovely perch, Billy. You’ll enjoy him grilled!’ He took the hook out of the fish’s mouth, pulled a ‘priest’ from his pocket and went to stun the fish.
‘No, Sam!’ Billy stopped him.
‘Why not? Don’t you want ‘im fer supper?’
‘Can’t we let him go? He’s my first real fish, and he’s so…lovely. I couldn’t eat him, really.’
‘Course we can, young shaver. Here you go then, lucky fella. You’re still got the chance to grow to a record.’
Sam supported the perch in the water with his hand until it had recovered, then let it go as it started to move its tail.
He watched it swim away, then looked at the sky, ‘Be dark in a few minutes, lad. Le’ss get back an’ hev our supper.’ He began to turn away with his rod.
‘Sam.’
He turned back to face the boy, who slipped his hand into the old man’s. Billy had tears in his eyes, ‘I…want to stay with you…always...please…’
Sam’s eyes began to water too. He answered gruffly, after a pause, squeezing the boy’s hand, ‘We’ll talk about it tomorrow, lad…Now, wha’ss that dog doin’?’
They looked over at Mukki, still tearing at the roots.
Billy handed Sam his rod, ‘I’ll fetch him.’
‘Looks like you’ll hetta carry ‘im – ‘e don’t wanta leave that ol’ root.’
Billy reached the mongrel and bent down to pick him up, but the dog would not release its hold on the root.
‘Let go, dog!’ He put his hand inside the dog’s jaws, forcing them apart off the root, then picked the little animal up and walked back to where Sam was waiting.
‘That old root must have tasted really good.’
‘Aye. ‘E was….’ He broke off, looking at Billy’s hand, which was bleeding slightly from a small puncture, where one of the dog’s teeth had gone through the skin.
‘He bit you, lad.’
Billy looked down and wiped the blood off on his other hand, ‘It’s only a scratch, and he didn’t mean it, did you, dog?’
‘Ar, even so, animal bites can be nasty things sometimes. Suck it clean and spit it out.’
‘Urggh!’ He looked down at his hand with disgust.
‘Go on, lad. It won’t kill you.’
The boy lifted his hand slowly to his lips and began to suck at the wound, a distasteful expression on his face.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Transome stood with the captain, looking in at Moos. The kennel door was padlocked.
The Inspector had spoken only monosyllables since coming back on board, and Heini was puzzled, ‘I do not understand, Inspector. I telephoned for the…’
‘Vet! He would not come – not allowed to.’
‘Not allowed, but why?’
‘This case is out of his jurisdiction; your dog has suspected rabies.’
‘Ray-bees? Is that…’
‘What you people aptly call ‘Tollwut’.’
Heini frowned, not sure if he had heard correctly, certainly not expecting to hear a German word from Transome.
‘Ah, Tollwut! Sie sprechen deutsch, Herr Inspektor.’
‘Only when necessary, captain.’
‘You surprise me.’
‘Surprise can be useful sometimes.’
‘Ja – besonders fűr die Polypen.’
‘Yes, particularly for the ‘narks’, but you don’t seem too alarmed at the prospect of rabies on board your ship.’
‘Why should I? It is something we have lived with for a very long time, Inspector. As you know, it was…endemic…in Germany…since 1945. We seem to be free of it now.’
‘I suppose I should congratulate you on your remarkable grasp of English, captain.’
‘For an ignorant, warlike German, perhaps…’
Transome did not answer, but chewed his underlip.
‘You see – we understand each other, Inspector.’
‘That’s fine, captain, because perhaps you will understand this; you personally have achieved what your nation failed to do in two world wars – you have successfully invaded us.’
‘I am sorry? I do not understand.’
‘The other dog, man! If this one has rabies…’
‘Yes?’
‘Several months ago, in Bergen, the dogs were loose on the quay, which was a closed off area, and they fought with the watchman’s Schäferhund - a German Shepherd – the breed you English insist on calling Alsatians. They were both bitten; Moos on the tail, Mukki in the ear, but no more than scratches.’
‘Quite enough to do the damage.’
They heard the footsteps of four men coming down the steel stairs. When they reached the bottom and in sight of the captain and the policeman, the tallest of the trio, the Divisional Veterinary Officer, thanked the seaman who had directed them and walked up to the pair, accompanied by his assistant. Both were dressed in black rubber coats and gumboats. Transome was not happy to see that the fourth member of the party was Detective Chief Inspector Dyce, whom he immediately saluted.
The DVO was a man in his fifties, with the look of a man who has seen it all and not liked much of it. His face was set in stern lines, under a shock of pepper and salt hair, a lock of which fell over the left side of his forehead. A long scar under his left eye gave him almost the look of an old-fashioned swashbuckler.
His assistant, Michael, a blond, blue-eyed man, was in his late twenties. He had learnt early on in life that one can learn much more by listening than by talking.
Transome greeted the DVO, ‘Good evening, David. You made good time.’
The vet nodded, ‘Richard.’
‘This is the captain of the Eisenstern and this, captain, is the Divisional Veterinary Officer.’
‘This is the dog?’
‘Ja – this is Moos.’
‘This is a most serious business, Captain, requiring the immediate removal of your dog to our quarantine kennels in Norwich for observation. You understand our law?’
‘Yes, natűrlich, whatever is best for Moos.’
Transome had to get his four pennyworth in, ‘We are concerned with what is best for England, Captain.
The DVO was not enchanted at the comment, ‘Quite, but the Captain is naturally interested in the welfare of his pet.’
‘I will be allowed to visit him?’
‘I’m sorry, Captain, no – and on that subject, I must insist that you and your crew be vaccinated immediately. You may telephone, of course.’ He handed a small card to the captain, ‘This is the number. Rest assured he will have the best of treatment, but should he die, you must understand that we have to perform a post-mortem.’