by Paula Daly
Mad Jackie gives me a look, moves away from my desk to let the woman approach.
‘Good afternoon,’ she says. She’s about mid-forties. ‘I’ve brought Hamish in because we’re relocating – we’re moving to the Middle East – and I wondered if you would like to buy him from me.’ She says this in such a bright, sunny manner you’d think she was offering me a free holiday.
Jackie coughs.
‘That’s not really what we do,’ I explain, and the woman tilts her head to one side.
‘But he’s ever such a good dog, very clean and well-behaved. I have his pedigree papers right here,’ she says, and gives a little wave of an envelope.
Patiently, I tell her how we work and what we do and, though I’d like to say this is a one-off occurrence – someone wanting payment for a pedigree – it’s not. It happens at least once a fortnight. They really think the same rules apply as if they were selling a plasma TV. Why would you not want to buy it when they’re offering it at such a reduced rate? When it’s such a bargain?
I give a kind of helpless shrug. ‘Sorry,’ I say to her, ‘but we’re a charity.’
Her pleasant, jolly demeanour is suddenly no longer there and her expression is one of deep concentration. She’s faced with a problem she wasn’t anticipating.
‘You could still leave him with us,’ I try. ‘I have space for one more dog, and I’m sure he’ll find a lovely home.’
‘I told my husband we’d be reimbursed,’ she says, frowning. ‘We’ve spent a great deal of money on him and we were hopeful of recouping some because—’
All at once Jackie pipes up. ‘You’re dumping this poor animal here, and you want paying for it?’
I could feel it coming, could feel Jackie getting heated, but I had hoped she would keep it under wraps.
The woman’s indignant at Jackie’s tone. ‘I am not dumping anything,’ she replies. ‘My husband has been headhunted and we have no choice but to relocate.’
‘There’s always a choice,’ answers Jackie. ‘Just depends on your priorities.’
‘My priorities are with my family – that is why we’re going! Now,’ she says, turning back to me, ‘we paid fourteen hundred pounds for this dog, it will make someone a lovely pet, it doesn’t need much walking and it’s very clean.’
Jackie’s eyebrows are raised. ‘ “It”???’ she’s mouthing.
‘I’m quite sure someone would be happy to pay for it,’ the woman continues unabated, ‘and if this shelter is not prepared to offer me some money, then I’ll simply put an advertisement in the Westmorland Gazette. Somebody will.’
Jackie wanders over to the door and looks out. Then she turns round, all innocent. ‘That your Lexus out there, then?’
The woman says yes. Yes, that is her car.
‘Forty grands’ worth o’ car and you’re farting around in here trying to get some fool to buy your bloody dog? … A dog that you no longer want?’
‘It’s not that I don’t want him, as I’ve explained—’
Jackie, walking back to the desk, cuts her off. ‘Yeah, yeah, you’ve said … Well, let me explain to you, because Lisa here is far too nice to do it. Let me tell you what should happen when you can’t care for your dog any longer …
‘You come in here all friendly and apologetic,’ Jackie tells her, ‘and you say, “Please, nice lady, who gets paid next to nothing to mop up after ungrateful shits who don’t give a damn about their pets, please, nice lady, could you take this dog from me and find him a good home, because finding a good home for him is the most important thing. A home where he’ll be loved and cared for.” And then you say, because you are so grateful to the nice lady for taking away your problem, you say, “I’d really like to give a donation to the shelter, because it must cost an awful lot of money to run this place. Why, you must have food costs, vet bills, heating costs. How about I write you a lovely big cheque right now? What? No, of course I don’t mind! My husband’s loaded! He’s been headhunted by a bunch of Arabs, so we’re gonna be minted. No! I don’t mind at all.” ’
Jackie folds her arms across her substantial chest and glares at the woman. ‘That’s what you say.’
The woman storms out, dog in tow, and I look at Jackie and shake my head. ‘You can’t go dealing with people in that way.’
‘Who says?’ she snaps. ‘She had it coming. I can’t stand women like that. Think they can walk away from their responsibilities just ’cause the mood takes them. I don’t know how you do this job, Lisa, I really don’t … Anyway, did you see that hat?’
21
YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED to have favourites.
I know that. But sometimes you can’t help it.
Currently, we have an old Bedlington Terrier at the shelter named Bluey that nobody wants. We have him in a kennel on his own, because he’s the nervous type and what he’s truly craving is companionship in the human form – he’s not really one for other dogs. He tolerates them, he’s not aggressive – Bedlingtons rarely are – but he’d just as soon be left alone.
Bluey’s been at the shelter for five months, and the reason no one wants him is because he’s old. No one wants to take on an old dog, what with the increased chances of illness and vet bills. But every time I walk past his kennel my heart aches for him. He’s forever standing by his gate, never sitting or lying, and he’s waiting. Always waiting. He’s like one of those horses left out in the rain, the ones you see tied up outside the saloon in Westerns. Head dropped, hind leg crooked, eyes half closed, waiting.
I talked to Joe about Bluey last week and we decided that if he doesn’t get rehomed in the next fortnight we’ll find space for him back at ours.
But then, as of two o’clock this afternoon, I decide there is a God after all because, just when I’m spiralling downwards, what with no news about Lucinda, and three dead kittens on my hands, in walks a guy who tells me he wants to adopt a dog in need.
Immediately, I tell him about Bluey, and he seems not put off by his age; in fact, he says he’d prefer an older dog because he’s not got time for a pup at the moment.
‘I can’t tell you what a lovely boy he is, so calm and gentle, the perfect dog,’ I tell him. ‘Have you owned a dog before?’
‘Not since I was a kid. I’ve just got kinda lonely these last few months, I’m new to the area, so I thought it would be a good way to meet new people.’
I nod in acknowledgement, like, Yes, I know how that is. But inside I’m thinking I can’t imagine this guy having trouble meeting people. Without meaning to, my eyes move to his left hand. There’s a barely noticeable band of paler skin where a wedding ring once lay, so either he’s newly separated or he’s taken it off to play away from home.
He’s wearing a shin-length Barbour wax coat and a striped woollen scarf. The scarf is knotted in that way the well-heeled tend to knot them nowadays – where you fold it over lengthwise, drape it around your neck and insert the loose ends through the loop. Some folk look as if they’re being strangled when they wear them in this way, but on this guy it looks chic.
I’d put him at around thirty-four. He’s attractive. And he knows it.
‘Can I take your name?’
‘Charles Lafferty.’
I go to write but for a second both of us are startled into silence by a Tornado jet flying low overhead. The whole room shakes and I squeeze my eyes tightly shut. It’s the third one this hour, and it gets a bit wearing. On bright days it can seem as if the RAF deploys every single one of its fighter jets for a mad whizz around the Lakes.
Charles Lafferty is also wincing from the assault of noise. When it passes, he asks, ‘Do you have many dogs for adoption?’
‘Too many,’ I say. ‘And no doubt we’ll have a load more in after Christmas.’
‘Really? Do people still buy pets as presents? I thought they’d know better by now – after all the “A dog is not just for Christmas” warnings I see in car windows.’
I look up briefly. ‘Apparently not … Mind you, we
don’t tend to get the unwanted pups in till about June. That’s around the time the Christmas pups have turned into destructive, crazy adolescents. We get a deluge of dogs after New Year because Christmas is such a stressful time for people. They find it hard to cope, and often the first thing they do – to make things easier – is get rid of the dog.’
‘Poor things,’ he says earnestly. ‘I wish I could take more than one.’
‘One is brilliant. Believe me. If everyone could just take one dog then it would be so much—’
I’m babbling.
‘Let me take you through to meet Bluey,’ I say firmly. ‘I’ve been talking you into this dog and you haven’t even seen him yet.’ I roll my eyes at my own ineptitude, expecting him to laugh along with me, but he doesn’t. He regards me in a strange way, keeping his gaze fixed on mine. And then, as if he’s all of a sudden remembered how to do it, he smiles at me warmly.
‘Follow me,’ I tell him, and we make our way past the first few kennels, stopping in front of Bluey’s.
The dog’s standing in his usual spot. You couldn’t find a sorrier-looking animal if you tried. ‘Here he is. This is Bluey.’
Charles Lafferty squats down. He’s wearing good, expensive, pinstripe trousers and soft calfskin loafers. He seems very out of place on the utilitarian tiles, the sharp smell of Jeyes Fluid around us.
‘He looks so sad,’ he comments.
‘He needs an owner.’
‘He’s okay, though?’ he asks. ‘He’s not got depression or anything, has he?’
‘Just lonely. He really needs some company. Shall I open the kennel and you can have a proper look? He tends to come alive more when he has a bit of a fuss made of him.’
Charles stands. ‘Yes, please do. Let’s see what he’s like.’
The cast-iron gate makes a low, groaning sound as I pull it open and Bluey is snapped into alertness. The dog views me and then Charles, and I swear, if a dog could smile, then Bluey is doing it right now.
‘Look at that!’ says Charles excitedly. ‘He looks almost happy, doesn’t he?’
I give Bluey a deep, kneading kind of rub on the front of his chest where I know he likes it, and instantly his eyelids drop down a fraction again as he relaxes under my touch.
‘May I?’ asks Charles.
‘Be my guest. Just don’t stroke him round his tail-end area, he gets a bit cross.’
‘He’s housetrained, is he?’
‘Oh yes,’ I say confidently, while at the same time thinking, Actually I have no idea.
It’s impossible to say whether they are fully housetrained or not, because all the dogs have to crap inside their kennels. We haven’t got the manpower to get them outside four times a day. When in doubt (and in circumstances such as these), I find it’s best to lie. Because Bluey needs all the help he can get.
I stand back to give them both some room to get to know each other. Charles is scratching Bluey behind his ear, which sets Bluey’s back leg off in that circling motion they can’t help but do. And I feel a little choked by the spectacle. I almost have to blink back the tears.
I’m certain he’s going to take him. It’s very rare you get someone fussing over a dog in this way for them to turn around and say they’ll think about it. Please, I pray … Please take him.
Charles stands, and his eyes are shining. ‘I’ll have him,’ he says decisively. ‘Can I take him now?’
‘’Fraid not,’ I reply. ‘There are a few things we have to go through first. I need a copy of a utility bill – you know, to prove you actually have a home and you’re not sleeping in your car or something – and when I get that I can do a home visit, just to check that it’s suitable for Bluey.’
‘Oh, absolutely,’ he says. ‘I fully understand. You can’t just go sending them anywhere, can you?’
‘Not really. Do you happen to have any proof of address on you right now? Then we can get that hurdle out of the way, and I’ll be able to do the home visit as early as tomorrow, if that suits.’
‘Heck,’ he says. ‘No. No, I’ve not. How disappointing. But what about if I come in tomorrow morning, give it to you then. And you could do the visit in the afternoon? How would that be?’
I exhale, smiling. ‘That would be wonderful … you don’t know how relieved I am that you’re giving him a chance. He’s been a real worry for us. We all adore him.’
He bends to tickle the curls on top of Bluey’s head. Then he straightens up, saying, ‘He’s going to be the perfect companion for me. Aren’t you, Bluey?’
‘Do you live alone? I only ask because I don’t think he would be great being poked by young children – some of the senior dogs prefer a quiet household.’
Bluey would be fine with young children, I’m sure. And even if he wasn’t, I’d be happy to send him to a busy household, just to get him out of long-term kennel life. The reason I ask him if he lives alone is because I’m being nosey.
‘Yep,’ he answers. ‘Just me. I do work fairly long hours, but I can bob back home several times a day – my office is just round the corner from my house, so it shouldn’t be a problem.’
‘What is it you do?’
‘Solicitor. Actually, I haven’t yet asked her, but my secretary’s a real animal lover, and I’m hoping I’ll be able to sneak him in with me a few days a week and she can keep an eye on him. What do you think?’
‘Bluey is the perfect office dog. I’m sure he’ll curl up underneath her desk.’
‘How does he walk on the lead? Does he pull at all?’
‘Not one bit.’
‘Could I take him out for a walk now? I know it’s a bit cold, but I’d really love to go for just a short while.’
‘That’s no problem. In fact, we encourage people to try a walk with the dogs before reserving them. It’s important to get the right dog. After all, you’re going to be together for a long time. I’ll get you a lead. And I think we might have a coat to fit Bluey somewhere too.’
‘Excellent,’ he says.
‘There is one thing we’ve not discussed – bit awkward, actually, I’m never good at this part – but as a charity we’re not allowed to accept any payment for the dogs we rehome, but we do ask for a donation. Whatever you can manage is great—’
Usually, at this point people start fishing around for their wallets, telling you how they’d be more than happy to give blah blah blah, but this guy stays stock-still, his face a bit blank. Mildly uncomfortable, I continue with my rehearsed speech: ‘Our vet bill can run upwards of £25,000 a year,’ I say, ‘so the donations go towards that, and of course Bluey comes to you fully vaccinated and neutered so—’
I raise my eyebrows and smile gawkily at him. Still nothing.
‘The lead?’ he says, prompting me, as if the last minute hadn’t happened.
‘Oh, yes,’ I stammer. ‘I’ll just get it for you.’
And what is it when you know something is not right? When you know something is a little bit off, and yet you ignore it and continue on regardless? Is that stupidity? Or is it ignorance?
Both, perhaps.
I’m not sure what it is, but forty-five minutes later Charles Lafferty has not returned with Bluey and I’m getting nervous. It’s minus six out. The ground is frozen and the air is raw. Exactly how far has he taken Bluey on this ‘short walk’?
I go outside hoping I can see them returning and it’s then that I notice there are only three cars in the car park. Mine, Lorna’s and Shelley’s – Shelley is the other kennel girl; she drives a clapped-out Fiesta.
Charles Lafferty has gone. There is no trace of him.
And, bizarrely, he’s taken Bluey with him.
22
IT’S ALMOST 5 P.M. and Joanne has spent the last couple of hours building up a picture of Guy Riverty. The plan is to head to Troutbeck to question him, just as soon as McAleese gives them the say-so. McAleese first wants the properties Guy owns around Troutbeck searched, then they’ll widen it if that turns nothing up.
Ron Quigley’s been assigned ViSOR – the Violent and Sex Offender Register – and he’s not a happy bunny. He keeps tutting and shaking his head, periodically mumbling, ‘Fucking sickos.’ Which Joanne supposes is only natural.
Sex offenders must confirm their registration each year. Meaning they have to inform the police of any changes in their personal circumstances – their address, their job, and so on and so forth. Failure to do so results in a penalty of up to five years’ imprisonment. Which should be a good enough deterrent.
But is it?
Do sex offenders really inform the police of their every move? Joanne supposes not.
Ron’s looking for movement of individuals into the Cumbria area within the last six months. But, by the sounds of it, he’s becoming sidetracked by their offences. Unsurprisingly, Guy Riverty is not on the register, but McAleese has told Ron to keep going over it, should this new lead on Guy amount to nothing.
Pushing the chair out from her desk, Joanne says, ‘I’m getting a coffee, Ron. You want one?’
‘Aye, okay. You’ve not got any Rennies in your handbag, have you? My stomach needs settling.’
‘It’s all that pastry you keep eating for breakfast. Get your wife to make you some porridge.’
Ron gives her a look. He is not really a porridge type of guy. ‘I was fine before I started looking at these sick bleeders.’
‘Fair point. I’ll see if I can find you something.’
Joanne leaves the office as Ron’s muttering, ‘Like a needle in a haystack of Gary Glitters, this is—’
She walks down the hallway, past DI Pete McAleese’s office, where he’s shouting and bawling at someone on the phone. She’s humming Gary Glitter’s ‘Rock and Roll Part 2’, louder than she probably ought to … not really the done thing if you’re working on a child-rape case.
Shame about Gary being such a fuck-up, Joanne muses. She always did like his music.
She presses buttons on the machine for two milky coffees and thinks about Guy Riverty. She can’t shake the feeling he’s involved somehow and so has been checking online which of his properties are occupied by holidaymakers. Not many. Most are empty right now, the next bookings coming just before Christmas.