by Natalie Cox
We carry on rinsing and loading the dishwasher for a moment and I decide to try another tack. “So, Cal moved back here after his father died?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says. “It was a difficult time. He and Martin were very close. And while Martin’s death wasn’t sudden, it was no less . . . difficult. Cal never quite forgave himself for not picking up on the symptoms earlier. Martin had a rare form of bone cancer.”
“I see.”
“And then there was the Valerie problem.” She sighs.
“‘Valerie’?”
“Sorry, I thought you knew. Cal’s ex-fiancée. She moved down here with him. And it worked out fine, for a time. They set up the practice together.”
“What went wrong?” I ask.
Gerry hesitates. “I’m not entirely sure. I think she saw a side of him she hadn’t known in London. At least, that’s what she claimed. And maybe he realized that there were aspects of himself he’d lost during all those years in the city.”
“So she left?”
Gerry nods. “She eventually broke things off and went back to the flat in Belsize Park.”
Ah. The North London connection.
“And Cal stayed,” I say.
“Yes. It was all very . . . unfortunate.”
“How was he afterward?”
“He threw himself into his work. Which was probably the right strategy. And into looking after me. But it was a difficult time. He was still mourning Martin, of course. And missing the dog.”
“The dog?”
“Valerie got the dog.” She shrugs. “It was more her dog than his, originally. But Cal was very attached to it.”
“I see.”
Gerry sighs. “Cal’s been very attentive this last year,” she says hesitantly. As if she doesn’t want to be disloyal.
“But it’s time to move on,” I say.
She looks at me and nods. I see her blink rapidly, then she shakes her head and smiles.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I just want him to be happy. I want us both to be happy.” She gives a weak laugh, then turns back to the dishes.
“You know what Kant would say?” I ask. Gerry stops and peers at me.
“Immanuel Kant? The philosopher?” she asks. I nod.
“He says it’s up to us to make ourselves happy.”
She smiles at me, then touches my arm. “I like you,” she says outright.
“I like you, too,” I say, a little startled. “Thank you for inviting me.” She picks up the kettle then and moves to fill it at the tap.
“Oh, that wasn’t my idea,” she says over her shoulder. “It was Cal’s.”
Cal’s? My memory is crystal clear. Gerry would like to invite you to lunch.
Just then we hear singing from the other room. Gerry grins and puts the kettle on to boil, then we both return to the table, where we find Dibber strumming a tiny ukulele and singing “Silent Night” to the others. I slide into the seat next to Cal and glance over at him. He seems to be enjoying himself, so I relax a little. Gerry immediately joins in with Dibber, harmonizing, and after another moment both the vicar and Cousin Viv start to sing, too. I wait a moment, then lean over to Cal, until I am barely a few inches away.
“Why aren’t you singing?” I whisper.
He grins. “Can’t carry a tune,” he whispers back.
“Says who?” I reply. He frowns then and gives a little shrug.
Then we both open our mouths and sing. Tunelessly.
* * *
We work our way through Dibber’s repertoire, by which time it is almost twilight. It has been nearly three hours since I left Peggy and the pups, so I signal to Cal that I must go, and he instantly rises. I thank Gerry and say good-bye to the others. Cal offers to see me out. Outside, the snow has stopped and the evening looks set to be clear and cold. Romulus and Remus are curled up obediently where I left them, and they spring to life like windup toys, watching me expectantly. I hesitate, taking in the winter sunset, and feeling far less certain of Cal than I had while inside. Then I bend down to hitch the dogs to the sulky, while Cal kicks at the snow under his feet. When I’m finished, I rise and turn to him. “Thank you for inviting me,” I say a little awkwardly.
He says nothing, merely stares at me, his mouth curled in a half-smile.
“What?” I ask. He shakes his head slowly.
“Everything looks different in the snow,” he replies. “Except you.”
Then he steps forward and my heart crashes around inside my chest. But as he draws near, we both hear the front door open and Gerry appears framed in the light of the doorway. “Charlie? You forgot your hat!” she calls, holding it aloft. Cal takes a step back and swipes a hand through his hair.
Nooooo.
“I’ll fetch it,” he murmurs.
OMG, if my lips do not make physical contact with this man soon they will shrivel and drop off.
He trots back up the path to the front door. As he does, I turn to see a car heading our direction on the snowy road, its headlights bearing down upon us. It slows right down as it draws near and suddenly I realize that it’s the white van. In the next instant it passes and I peer inside to see the dark-haired man with the enormous mustache at the wheel; our eyes meet and I am certain he recognizes me. As the van pulls away it accelerates, and in that instant I understand where he’s going. I glance desperately at Cal, who is now walking toward me with the bobble hat, a lascivious look in his eye.
“I have to go!” I say abruptly, jerking the sulky around so it is facing in the right direction, then jumping inside.
“What?!”
“Sorry! I have to get to the dogs!”
“The dogs are fine—” he starts to say.
“No! They’re in danger! I can’t explain.”
“What?”
“There isn’t time.” I release the brake, take up the reins, and snap them hard, shouting at the dogs to run. For a split second, the twins look back at me, then instinct kicks in and they set off at a lunge. I grab the sulky to keep from tumbling out and we race off down the lane, leaving Cal openmouthed behind us. The white van has disappeared, but if we hurry we might just catch up with it. I curse my luck! But I cannot leave the dogs at the mercy of Mr. Mustache.
We career down the A road, my heart flailing like a trapped bird inside my chest, until finally we round the last bend in the road before Cozy Canine Cottages. When we do, my worst fears are confirmed as the white van is just pulling out of the driveway. As we approach, Mr. Mustache sees me coming and quickly spins around and speeds off in the opposite direction, his tires squealing. For an instant I do not know what to do—I am torn between checking on the dogs and following him in the sulky. But then I pull hard on the reins and the sulky jerks to a halt.
I race to the door and it is wide open. I am certain I locked it, so he must have either broken in or come through some other part of the house. I dash inside and the first thing I see is Malcolm standing squarely in front of Peggy; he is facing the door, ears back and hackles raised, as if in preparation for a fight and he looks truly menacing.
Good boy! Perhaps he’s not a coward, after all.
When Malcolm sees me, his entire posture suddenly relaxes, and he gives a little wag of his tail. I cross over to Peggy, who is panting hard with alarm, and my eyes meet hers. I quickly count the pups, and much to my relief, all eight are there. Peggy looks anxious, but fine; I give her a reassuring pat, then turn to Malcolm and stroke my hand all the way down his massive back. “Well done, Malcolm,” I tell him, even though he cannot hear me. “I knew I could count on you.” Then I turn round to reassure the others.
That is when I see that Judd is gone.
chapter
22
I am a triple idiot. Here I was, terrified that Peggy and her litter would be stolen, when the most obvious target for thie
ves at Cozy Canine Cottages was Judd. I bend down to cuddle Slab and Hulk, who are cowering in the corner. “Don’t worry,” I tell them. “We’ll find him.” Though I have no idea how. Just then I hear a car door slam outside and Cal’s face appears in the window, his angry blue eyes staring in at me. As I stand and cross the room to open it, his brow furrows and I realize that he isn’t angry, but frightened. I open the door.
“Are you OK?” he asks anxiously.
I shake my head. “He’s taken Judd,” I say.
“Who?”
Mr. Mustache!
“The man in the white van that passed us. He’s been snooping round the kennels for the past few days. I recognized him.”
Cal’s eyes widen. “Why didn’t you tell me? Which one is Judd, anyway?”
“The Irish setter. He’s a triple champion.”
Cal hesitates. “Then he’ll be worth stealing,” he says.
“How worth stealing?”
“I’m not an expert, but his stud value could run into six figures.”
Six figures! He’s a dog! How can that be possible?
“Who’s the owner?” he asks.
“Camilla somebody. Scarily posh. And suffers no fools.”
“Perfect,” he says grimly. “You’d better let her know. Hopefully she’s insured.” His eyes meet mine and I know we are both thinking the same thing.
Is Jez insured? Lord in heaven, please let Jez be insured!
“Do I have to? Can’t I try to find him first?” Cal rolls his eyes.
“Charlie, you can’t go messing about with criminals. It could be dangerous. You should ring the police.”
“But it’s Christmas. The police are hardly going to pull the stops out over a missing dog!”
“Just ring them.”
“Fine.” I sigh.
“Look, I’m sorry to leave like this, but I’ve got to get back to Mum and the others. I barely had time to explain. And anyway, I’m due to take Cousin Viv and the vicar home.”
“Sure,” I say, suddenly disheartened. “You go.” He hesitates uncertainly, then reaches out and squeezes my hand.
“Don’t worry. He can’t have got far. The police will find him.”
* * *
Cal leaves me to ring the police and promises to return later, once the guests have gone home. But when I call the emergency services I am politely informed that 999 is only for crimes in progress. The fact that Judd is still missing does not count, apparently. Who knew? The operator instructs me to ring the Devon and Cornwall nonemergency number instead, and when I do, the officer who answers sounds as if he has drawn the mother of all short straws for working on Christmas Day. The phone call does not go well.
Me: My dog has been stolen. Well, he’s not exactly my dog. I was looking after him for someone else.
Police: Madam, are you certain that the owner simply didn’t come and fetch their dog?
Me: I’m positive. Someone broke into my house! And I saw a suspicious man fleeing the scene!
Police: OK. Have you got a description of the man or the vehicle?
Me: He has a mustache! A big mustache. Not like . . . a little chevron. More like . . . a walrus.
Police: (slowly) A walrus mustache. Is that all? Age? Height? Race?
Me: Well, it was dark, so I couldn’t really say for sure, but I’m pretty sure he’s white. And maybe mid-thirties. Or thereabouts. I’ve seen him hanging around here before, so I suspect he’s local. And he drives a white van.
Police: A white van. Not many of those in Devon.
Hang on! Is he mocking me?
Me: But the mustache. That could help.
Police: I’m afraid we don’t keep a criminal database of facial hair.
He is definitely mocking me!
Me: What about fingerprints? He broke into my house. Well, it’s not my house. Technically, it’s my cousin’s house.
Police: (pause) So you’re not the property owner? Is the property owner there right now?
Me: Um. No.
Police: It would be helpful if I could speak directly to the owner of the property.
Me: She’s at the North Pole.
Police: (long pause, weary) Right.
OK, given that it’s the twenty-fifth of December, this does make me sound like a nutter.
Me: Couldn’t you send someone over to dust for prints?
Police: (sighs audibly) I’m afraid that due to the holiday, crimes involving persons are being prioritized over those involving property, which we’ll be following up on after Boxing Day. I’m very happy to make a note of your details and an officer will investigate in due course.
Me: Crimes involving persons.
Police: That’s right.
Me: But not animals.
Police: Animals would be construed as property.
Me: But that’s ridiculous! Animals are living beings!
Police: I’m afraid animals would be construed as property.
Me: But he’s a triple champion! He’s very valuable!
Police: (pause) Even valuable property is considered to be property.
Chattel! The police consider Judd to be no more than chattel!
But then I remember that I have a key piece of evidence.
Me: Hang on! I’ve got a photo of his car on my phone.
Police: (dubious) OK. Is that to say you have the license details?
I pull out my phone, enlarging the photo, which was taken in the dark, from a distance, with a shaky hand. The number plate is blurry, but I can just about make it out. I peer at it closely: I can definitely discern three out of six digits.
Me: Mostly . . .
Police: Meaning you have a partial number?
Me: That’s correct.
Police: What about the make and model?
Me: Um. It was a white van. OK, cars aren’t really my thing.
Police: (sigh) Madam, could I politely request that you file an online crime report?
Me: (disbelief) I’m sorry? What?
Police: We have an excellent website with a detailed contact form. You can log all the details of the crime and someone will respond within seventy-two hours to follow it up.
Me: Are you serious?
Police: Completely serious.
Me: (sighs audibly) Fine.
Police: Happy Christmas. Thank you for ringing Devon and Cornwall Police.
* * *
Oh, the march of progress!
In addition to paying our bills, buying our household items, ordering takeaway meals, registering to vote, booking a holiday, or a doctor’s appointment, now, when we are victims of a crime, all we have to do is log on to a website. And instead of interacting with a reassuring human presence, we can quickly and efficiently interface with a long series of drop-down menus.
After I hang up I feel desolate. Judd could be in danger, or suffering, or even dead. There must be something I can do to find Mr. Mustache. I squint down at the photograph, trying desperately to identify the license number. Is that a B or an 8? And is the other character a G or a 6? There can’t be that many possibilities. And if you cross-checked the different combinations with white vans and geographic locations on the Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency website, you could probably work it out. The trick would be accessing the DVLA website.
Which for most people would be impossible.
Although I work in IT, I am not a hacker. Many people assume otherwise. I am more of a systems design person, someone who analyzes organizational needs and devises an IT solution. If you really must know, I’m into data architecture. Just don’t ask me to define it. But anyone who works in tech will have come across hackers—and I am no different. They’re a very peculiar breed: highly intelligent, endlessly curious, and fascinated by the abstract; they can also absorb countless bits of information quickly
and easily, as long as they have total control over that information. But they tend not to rub along well with other humans. Basically, hackers prefer machines to people.
If I sound like a bit of an expert, that’s because I have engaged in what Jane Austen might have called amorous congress with one. My second university boyfriend (after Felix the film buff) was a guy called Rob. Rob was a classic hacker—he studied electrical engineering but rarely attended class, preferring to spend his days in a darkened room in front of a blinking terminal. I was attracted to him because he was funny, clever, and knew stuff. No matter what topic came up in conversation, Rob always had more information stored in the dark recesses of his cortex than anyone else in the room and, at the tender age of twenty, I found that intoxicating. Rob’s brain was like an overactive cricket: it jumped around endlessly, rarely settling in one place for more than a few moments.
Unless he was coding. At those times he operated with total concentration, oblivious to the world around him. Rob could curtain himself off for days at a time if he was working on a project. Naturally, as his girlfriend at the time, I found this deeply annoying. One night when I’d stayed over at his flat, the building’s fire alarm went off in the middle of the night. I stumbled blearily out of bed to find Rob at his terminal, completely unaware. I could vaguely smell smoke somewhere in the building, but after remonstrating with him for several minutes, I left him to it and dashed downstairs. As we all huddled outside on the pavement in our dressing gowns, I frantically stopped the firefighters on their way in and explained that my boyfriend had refused to leave. “If I were you, I’d get a new boyfriend,” one had grunted, dashing off inside. Eventually, I did.
But we’ve remained friends (to the extent that Rob has friends), though I’ve not spoken with him in several months. In spite of the fact that it’s Christmas, I decide to text him now. Because if anyone can break into the DVLA’s database, it’s Rob.
Hey. Happy Hols! What you up to?
Right now? Kind of busy.
Doing what?