K-9

by Rohan Gavin

  Doyle went pale inside his helmet and cranked his head to see the Rottweilers leap straight over the barriers and zero in on him. He urged the scooter on, rocking back and forth, willing it forward. The Rottweilers leaped again in perfect synchronicity . . .

  The scooter toppled and smashed to the ground, its rear wheel spinning fruitlessly in space. The engine ran free with a high-pitched scream – which went some way towards hiding the human one.

  Doyle struggled helplessly on his back. The black helmet with the horns was tossed aside as the beasts smothered the rider on the ground. A few curtains twitched in the windows of the high-rise overhead, then were still.

  Chapter 13

  A Wake-Up Call

  Darkus sat in the back seat of the Ford saloon with Wilbur while Uncle Bill took the front seat next to the driver. Captain Reed had made his apologies and returned to the rescue centre where his other dogs required attention. Bill had given Darkus a new secure phone to replace the one that was lost in the tunnel – clearly the mission wasn’t over yet.

  Wilbur wouldn’t sit still and kept circling on the seat, sniffing around in the footwell below it, until the driver took a sharp turn and a small yelp escaped from the heavy tartan blanket at their feet. Darkus looked down as the fabric unfurled to reveal Tilly curled in a ball under the seat. Wilbur wagged his tail and made room, pleased to see her.

  ‘Nice of you to drop in,’ said Darkus. ‘You were a big help back there,’ he added with a hint of sarcasm.

  ‘Why d’you think the boydem showed up when they did, huh?’ Tilly snapped.

  ‘By “boydem” are ye referring to me?’ asked Bill, a little insulted.

  ‘I believe it’s current street parlance for the law enforcement community,’ Darkus explained.

  ‘And what the hell were you doing there in the first place?!’ she challenged him, dragging herself up on to the back seat. ‘You nearly compromised a two-month, deep cover operation.’

  ‘Doing what?’ said Darkus. ‘Maybe if you were more willing to share information, we might build a new spirit of cooperation.’

  ‘Whatever. You were lucky I was there at all,’ she replied. ‘I had to borrow Brendan’s mobile in case they’d bugged mine.’

  ‘So that’s what you were doing on the back of that scooter. Hanging out with Doyle.’

  ‘I don’t expect you to understand the importance of field work. You can’t learn everything from books.’

  ‘I can’t see what you’d learn from the likes of him.’

  ‘That sounds like jealousy in your voice, Darkus. It doesn’t take a great detective to spot that. Brendan isn’t so bad really. His parents are lawyers, so yeah, he tries a bit hard to be all gangsta – but he can take care of himself, and he took care of me. And he knows people who know people, and they all work for one person: Barabas King. And King is so big I’m betting he’s connected to the biggest baddie of all: and that’s the Combination.’

  Darkus knew she could be right, but it was too early to entertain that possibility without proof, and it felt too much like something his father would say. ‘You’re as bad as my dad,’ he said. ‘There’s no hard evidence that the Combination’s behind this. King’s too insane to be kept on a leash by the likes of Morton Underwood or his colleagues – that’s if Underwood’s even alive. Besides, King said it himself: he answers to no one.’

  ‘You really think he’d admit to anything in front of his band of artful dodgers? Or that he’d have access to the kind of resources necessary to send highly trained dogs to whack senior police officers?’

  ‘How d’ye know about tha’?’ said Bill from the front seat.

  ‘I read the news, I question the official story. All you need is a computer, an internet connection, a natural curiosity and an ability to blend in.’

  Darkus nodded. He couldn’t help being impressed by Tilly’s ingenuity.

  ‘And guess what?’ Tilly went on. ‘It’s no coincidence that each of the victims lost a small article of clothing in the lead-up to the full moon.’

  Darkus turned to Bill. ‘Is this true?’

  ‘Now ye say it, I did lose a glove a few days befoore mah attack.’

  Darkus caught on. ‘They used it as bait for the dogs. To give them the scent.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Tilly. ‘Of course there could also be an occult connection. I’m not excluding anything at this point.’

  ‘It had a Custard Cream hidden in it tae,’ muttered Bill. ‘Lucky bleeders.’

  ‘I’d prefer to deal in the rational,’ said Darkus. ‘This sort of thing was common practice in East Germany during the Cold War. The secret police kept thousands of pieces of fabric in jars, taken covertly from potential dissidents, in order to track them with sniffer dogs at rallies or insurrections.’ He closed his encyclopaedic brain for a moment. ‘But that doesn’t bring us any closer to stopping King. Or to finding out who’s going to be targeted at the next full moon.’

  They were interrupted by the bagpipe ringtone of Bill’s secure phone. He patted himself down, locating the phone in a commodious inside pocket.

  ‘Aye,’ he said into the handset. ‘Aye, aye, aye.’ He relayed the information to Darkus. ‘Nae sign of King. Nae sign of the beasties. The building’s clean.’ He listened again. ‘Aye . . . Ew . . . OK.’ He hung up, then turned to face Tilly. ‘I’m afraid it appears yer mucker Brendan Doyle was involved in a particularly . . . nasty hit-and-run accident.’

  ‘No –’ Tilly stammered. ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘He’s been admitted tae hospital with what they’re calling “life-changing injuries”.’

  Tilly looked down, biting her lip until blood trickled down one side of her mouth. It was closely followed by a stream of bitter, stinging tears. ‘I have to see him.’

  Bill shook his head. ‘He’s under police guard. Nae one’s getting through.’

  She looked up at Darkus, her mascara running. ‘He was covering for me. Because he liked me . . .’

  Darkus reached over and held her around the shoulders, reluctantly, because he didn’t know the rules for this sort of engagement, but he instinctively knew it was what she needed. ‘It’s not your fault . . .’

  ‘I should’ve known,’ she insisted.

  ‘We’re not dealing with ordinary criminals.’

  ‘You’re right,’ she sobbed, pushing him away, then wiping off the mascara in a horizontal smear that resembled warpaint. ‘They take people’s lives away, without mercy. Like they took away Mum. And that’s why they’re going to pay.’

  Darkus had to remind himself that few of Tilly’s reactions would ever be as calibrated or rational as his own. The Combination had murdered her mother in a freak car ‘accident’, and no matter how much anyone tried to make up for that loss, those scars would never heal. And due to the fact that her mother had been his father’s former assistant, deep down Darkus knew Tilly would always hold him and his dad responsible too.

  The Ford saloon pulled up outside 27 Cherwell Place, then Darkus, Tilly and Uncle Bill approached the blue door with Wilbur in tow.

  Bogna greeted them each in turn, reserving an extra big hug for Uncle Bill who appeared to lift her clean out of her Crocs for a few seconds.

  ‘Och, yoo’re a big lassie . . .’

  ‘Mr Billochs, really.’ Bogna blushed under her housecoat. Then she pointed Wilbur in the direction of a bowl of what appeared to be cabbage stew, which he wasted no time in consuming hungrily.

  Darkus led the procession to his father’s office, where Knightley remained composed but unconscious on the sofa, with the Discovery Channel playing on TV.

  ‘How is he?’ Darkus asked.

  ‘Nothing changes,’ said Bogna. ‘He say somethings during his bed bath, I don’t understand what . . . You want I make some sandwich? Triangle not square?’

  Darkus and Tilly nodded gratefully.

  ‘That’d be stoatin’, Boggers,’ Bill replied eagerly.

  Bogna smiled coquettishly, straightened h
er apron and vanished downstairs.

  Darkus relayed the details of his pursuit and subsequent capture at the hands of Barabas King, then Tilly provided supporting information on his gang and their methods of operation. Bill listened, awkwardly shifting his weight in the armchair and intermittently wheezing.

  ‘King could be hidden in any number of estates across London,’ Tilly explained. ‘He’s impossible to track. I’ve tried.’

  ‘What about the dogs?’ asked Bill. ‘How’s he training ’em? And why are the attacks happening at the full moon?’

  ‘Murderers have a habit of striking on significant dates,’ said Darkus. ‘From serial killers to terror groups. They often pick dates that are numerologically or culturally significant. As well as describing the date September 11th, the numbers 9-11 are also the phone number for the US emergency services. Perhaps that was no coincidence.’

  Tilly nodded. ‘Superstition adds to the sense of terror, which is exactly what King wants. To frighten his op­ponents into submission.’

  Darkus turned the evidence over in his mind. ‘The full moon is the perfect decoy. Everyone’s chasing werewolves, while the real culprits are perfectly ordinary attack dogs.’

  ‘Wait a second,’ Tilly interrupted. ‘There’s nothing ordinary about those dogs. Whoever’s behind this has trained them to track their enemies like laser-guided missiles. That could only be the work of a state-sponsored group. Or a group large enough to draw on multiple assets – perhaps even the supernatural.’

  ‘You’re talking about the Combination again.’

  ‘It’s the only answer,’ said Tilly bluntly. ‘And remember, those dogs were sniffing around your house and your office.’ She gestured to the Knightleys’ headquarters. ‘I’ll put money on you or your dad being next.’ She looked around. ‘By the way . . . where’s your hat?’

  Darkus checked around, before realising with a sinking feeling. ‘I left it at the tower block.’

  ‘Whit da – ?’ Bill anxiously searched about for his own hat, then realised it was still on his head.

  ‘Coincidence . . . ?’ Tilly asked Darkus. ‘I think not. Looks like you need my help. Again.’

  Darkus checked his watch, then turned to Tilly. ‘When is your dad going to notice you’ve gone AWOL?’

  ‘He doesn’t seem that bothered any more. He still gets memory lapses,’ she explained. ‘Must be the aftermath of Underwood’s post-hypnotic suggestion. Sometimes he doesn’t seem to know I’m there at all.’

  ‘What about Mum?’

  ‘Jackie? She’s more concerned about you,’ Tilly said with a trace of envy, then shrugged. ‘I figure I can stay out until the full moon. That’s only two days from now.’

  ‘I’m aware of that,’ said Darkus grimly.

  The door pushed open and Wilbur entered, followed by Bogna carrying a tray of sandwiches. As Bogna gave detailed descriptions of each one, Wilbur curled up at Darkus’s feet. Darkus realised he’d missed the quiet companionship of his four-legged friend, who seemed a world away from the war dog he’d witnessed in action a few hours earlier. Now slumped at his feet, without the tactical vest, the German shepherd was just like any other household pet: a lovable furball, someone to confide in, who would silently understand without passing judgement. For a person who thrived on exchanging ideas and competing theories, this was a calming antidote for Darkus. Talking to a pet might seem like a safe option, or a captive audience; after all, Wilbur would never open his mouth to question his judgement – although he’d done just that during the pursuit. Yet, for Darkus, confiding in someone who couldn’t talk back was second nature. That was the state his father had been in for those four long years – and was in again now.

  Knightley’s chest heaved and fell as Bill and Tilly helped themselves to the sandwiches, but Darkus had lost his appetite.

  Bogna fetched Tilly a self-inflating mattress and some blankets, making up a bed for her on the landing. Uncle Bill said his goodbyes and returned to the Ford saloon which was waiting outside. Darkus remained in the armchair with Wilbur at his feet, watching his father. Tilly soon fell asleep beyond the doorway. The TV continued playing the Discovery Channel at a low volume. Before long, Darkus and Wilbur were asleep as well.

  By midnight, the terraced house was vibrating with snores.

  In the office, the Discovery Channel showed footage of a leopard chasing a gazelle across the African tundra. A sober narrator explained: ‘The combination of speed and agility gives the wild cat an effortless advantage over its hapless prey . . .’

  From the sofa, Knightley’s hand clenched into a fist, then his lips began to curl into a malformed word. ‘Cohmm . . . bin . . . ation . . .’ he mumbled quietly. The word appeared to be waking him up, just as it had done with his last ‘episode’. Then he went quiet again, his hand falling limp, in the same position as before.

  The other investigators were none the wiser.

  Outside the house, a lone figure arrived on Cherwell Place, her slim figure casting a thin shadow over the pavement. She paused as two Rottweilers exited the street at the other end, strangely trotting side by side. She cocked her head and adjusted her trilby hat as she watched their stubby tails turn the corner. She waited warily for a moment, then headed towards number 27, unshouldered her leather reporter bag, reached under the flap of her belted raincoat and dug in her trouser pocket, pulling out some small change. She chose a one-pence coin, reached back and hurled it up at the top window. It plinked against the glass, almost hard enough to break it, but fortun­ately not quite. The coin skittered away into the road.

  Darkus woke with a start as Wilbur raced to the window and balanced his front paws on the ledge. Tilly and Knightley continued snoring, apparently unperturbed.

  Darkus rose from the armchair, parted the curtains and peered out, seeing the female figure on the street below. He hesitated, waiting until he had a positive identification, then closed the curtains and guided Wilbur to his basket.

  ‘Stay here, boy. Don’t wake anyone up.’

  Darkus pulled on his herringbone coat and crept across the landing.

  He descended the stairs, hearing the bronchial rumblings from Bogna’s quarters, then opened the front door and walked past the railings to the street. The female figure sauntered to greet him.

  ‘Sorry to drop in on you like this,’ she said.

  ‘Hello, Alexis,’ said Darkus cautiously. ‘What can I do for you? Not another photo shoot I hope? I haven’t had my beauty sleep.’

  Alexis smiled, resting one foot on the pavement and exposing a slender trouser leg through the folds of her raincoat.

  ‘I’ve got all the shots I need. And like I said, you can call me Lex.’ She curled a lock of blonde hair under her hat and waited for him to respond.

  ‘So, what can I do for you . . . Lex?’

  She reached in her reporter bag and pulled out a freshly printed newspaper, bearing the name: The Cranston Star.

  ‘I wanted you to see tomorrow’s headline,’ she said proudly and handed him the paper.

  Darkus unfolded it to reveal the front page:

  Darkus felt the colour drain from his face as he began to read:

  A photo of Darkus, covertly taken, filled the lower half of the page. Inset was a photo of the Tai Chi man.

  ‘What have you done?’ he whispered.

  ‘It’s called investigative journalism. This is my big break,’ she boasted.

  Darkus felt his blood begin to boil, at the same time as his eyes were blinded by her charms. His heart and mind had declared war on each other.

  ‘You’ll jeopardise the whole investigation,’ he warned. ‘You might even jeopardise lives.’

  ‘I’m hoping for national coverage on this one. Anyway, I wanted you to be the first to know.’

  ‘Is there anything I can say or do to stop you?’ Darkus pleaded.

  She looked him over, sizing him up. ‘Sorry, Doc, but this is bigger than both of us.’ She shrugged and slung her reporter bag over her
shoulder, before delivering a parting shot. ‘Guess I’ll see you when you get back to school, whenever that is.’

  She walked off into the darkness, leaving Darkus alone clutching the newspaper.

  Chapter 14

  Strict Confidence

  When Darkus finally got himself back to sleep, just before dawn, it was a plunge so deep into the unconscious that a number of things happened around him that he was completely unaware of. Upon waking, it took him several moments to realise that he was no longer dreaming. Tilly had materialised at the council estate the previous night and rejoined him as a partner in crime-solving. Alexis had arrived on Cherwell Place in the early hours and delivered a copy of The Cranston Star, which remained protectively rolled up under Darkus’s arm, and which – much to his frustration – threatened to blow the whole investigation wide open. But most staggering of all, when Darkus opened his eyes and adjusted to the daylight, he found that his father was no longer lying unconscious on the sofa, and in fact the sound of his animated voice was clearly echoing up the staircase from the living room.

  Darkus looked around, noticing that Tilly’s mattress had been folded away and Wilbur’s basket was empty. He checked his watch: it was nearly eleven o’ clock. Finding it hard to fathom how he’d slept so late, he struggled to his feet and thudded down the stairs.

  Bogna was mopping the hallway when she looked up and saw him.

  ‘Master Doc. Alan is awake! They are having a meetings.’

  She pointed the dripping mop head at the living-room door, where a large pair of Hunter wellie boots had been propped outside.

  ‘They are?’ Darkus asked, feeling oddly left out. Why had no one taken a moment to wake him? And who were they meeting?

  Darkus turned the door handle and walked in to find a bizarre parlour tableau of characters. His father sat in an armchair with his feet on an ottoman, fully dressed and looking, it must be said, better than ever. Wilbur sat perfectly upright by his side, with Tilly next to him on the carpet with her legs crossed. A golden retriever was inexplicably curled up by the fireplace, watching the proceedings.