The Spotted Dog

by Kerry Greenwood

  Daniel drank some more tea and bit into an Oasis muffin.

  ‘I really don’t think he would have run away. A dog who has survived Afghanistan is probably immune to nervous shock. Geordie was much more likely to have attacked whoever belted Alasdair.’

  ‘So the assailant either wanted Geordie, or they killed him when they knocked out Alasdair and took the dog’s body away to dispose of it.’

  ‘Which is unlikely. If it was just an ordinary mugger, they would have left the dog. And anyway, I know most of the muggers in the city. I’ve spoken to one of the boldest, Big Charlie, who said he saw Alasdair on the street last night and actually thought about mugging him. But once he’d had a good look at him he decided not to. He pegged Alasdair as a dangerous dude. And if Big Charlie didn’t dare, none of the others would. Besides, I know for a fact it wasn’t him.’

  ‘So someone stole Geordie.’

  ‘They did – or they tried to,’ said Daniel. ‘If he managed to evade them, the homeless will find him. Sister Mary’s spread the word. A special blessing on the ones who bring Geordie home. Also, we’ll check with the RSPCA and the Lort Smith Animal Hospital and the Lost Dogs’ Home. He’s microchipped. And other than that …’ He shrugged. ‘I’m waiting for something out of the ordinary to happen.’

  ‘What sort of something?’ I asked, snitching a bit of his muffin as a punishment for being cryptic. He patted my hand and explained.

  ‘Knocking down a soldier and stealing his dog is unusual. Whoever did it had a reason. So I’m expecting something odd to occur as a result.’

  ‘All right,’ I agreed. ‘Why are you so sure it wasn’t Big Charlie, by the way?’

  ‘Alasdair was only hit on the head,’ said Daniel. ‘All Big Charlie’s victims are belted across the knees as well.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘Big Charlie’s a dwarf,’ said Daniel. ‘He always brings his victims down to his level first. I’m a bit surprised that anyone managed to assault Alasdair, though. He’s from Paisley, and they breed them tough there.’

  ‘Where’s that? I assume Scotland from his accent, but I’ve never heard of Paisley.’

  ‘Outskirts of Glasgow, in the wilds of Strathclyde. But he’s a long way from home now.’

  ‘So the homeless are looking for Geordie. What should we be doing?’

  Daniel shrugged. ‘Like I said, ketschele, we wait.’

  Daniel was waiting for something unusual. How was he going to be able to tell in this very strange city? I left him in charge of the sleeping warrior, packed my gin and tonic, picked up my cat, and ascended to the roof garden for my afternoon drink. The sole advantage of getting up at four am is that you finish work early and can sit under the green leaves sipping a G and T while the peons toil in their glass boxes. Occasionally I see their poor tongues hanging out at the sight of me. I felt pity mingled with relief that I was no longer one of them. Once I too had slaved away counting other people’s money and helping those who were far too rich already get even more obscenely affluent. Not any more.

  It was cool in the Temple of Ceres. Horatio sprawled out along a marble bench. I put my feet up and considered soldiers, who risked not only their lives but their peace of mind, their future, their hopes of a family and a happy life, in service to Queen and Country. All I could recall about them was a Kipling poem called ‘Sappers’. Which I would look up as soon as I went back downstairs. But I would close my eyes first. Just for a moment.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, THE TEMPEST, ACT 1, SCENE 2

  I was woken by a kiss, which is much the best way of being woken and doesn’t happen often enough. I relaxed into Daniel’s embrace – if this wasn’t Daniel, I would have to get out that skillet – and murmured my appreciation.

  ‘Any of that gin left?’ he asked.

  ‘Plenty.’

  Horatio was still asleep, smearing himself out in that catlike way which seems to spread the creature flatter than a paper bag, in order to apply as much of himself as possible to the cool stone. Daniel poured himself a drink. I surveyed him. He looked frayed.

  ‘No news of Geordie?’

  ‘None. And the council sweepers haven’t found his corpse, either. So we can assume he is alive and in captivity. For some reason.’

  ‘Ransom?’ I hazarded.

  ‘What has Alasdair got that anyone would want? His military pension? That’d be worth two cups of coffee at a Salvo’s refuge on a good day.’

  ‘Yes, but what about information? Intelligence?’

  ‘I don’t think the CIA specialises in stealing dogs,’ he answered, gulping gin.

  I grabbed the bottle away from him and refilled my own glass.

  ‘No, listen, I mean local criminals. I’m sure we’ve imported some along the way. That’s what Australia was for from the beginning. And everyone says that the attempted reconstruction of Afghanistan is a byword for corruption.’

  ‘That’s a thought,’ he said. ‘I may have to consult …’

  ‘A certain uncle?’ I finished. Although there is certainly no such organisation as Mossad, and it most definitely doesn’t have a local representative, the one it doesn’t have is the good and worthy Uncle Solly, who runs the New York Deli in the city. He is a charming, cheerful, Yiddish-speaking darling, and not to be crossed unless you have a team of Sherpas with you. Or, on second thought, not even then. A formidable person. I am very fond of Uncle Solly.

  ‘As you say. Let’s finish this drink, no rush, then meander down to the New York Deli to buy some dinner.’

  ‘What about Alasdair?’ It didn’t seem right to leave him alone.

  ‘I’ve given him the keys to my office,’ said Daniel. ‘He has nightmares. When he was in a hostel the night manager found him hoarse and covered in sweat. He was disturbing the other guests. Which is also deeply humiliating for him.’

  ‘Meroe’s given him a charm to ward off nightmares,’ I pointed out. We really had to find this dog.

  ‘Well, yes; but he’ll be better off with me. And because he has to make the place secure. Every lock. Every window. My office even has shutters and iron grates. He’ll feel safer there than at a hostel. He doesn’t like a lot of people around.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. Daniel’s office is actually a small flat. It’s clean enough and has all the amenities and because it’s right in the city centre it has very heavy security. In Melbourne’s heartland if you don’t, you can experience all the joys of aggravated burglary. I would trust Daniel’s locks with my life.

  I drained my gin and Daniel held out his arm. ‘Now, Madame, if you would do me the honour …’

  I rose and took it. I picked up the esky, he elevated Horatio, and we went downstairs to de-cat. Then, leaving Horatio to continue his post-lunch pre-dinner nap, we went out into the street.

  It was a filthy day. The heat had settled down on the city like a lid on a saucepan. I was soaked in sweat within seconds.

  So it was with great relief that we stumbled into the New York Deli. Uncle Solly was sitting in his usual chair in his white cook’s apron, drinking a tall glass of something pink.

  ‘Dollinks!’ he exclaimed. ‘You look melted! Come, sit, drink a little cool drink with me.’ He snapped his fingers and one of his multitudinous ‘nephews’ poured and carried. It was Campari and soda, icy cold and bitter.

  Daniel dispatched his in one long draught.

  ‘Good, Ari, you got the proportions right – give the man another,’ ordered Uncle Solly. He eyed me with his bright, penetrating gaze. ‘Corinna, dollink! Are you okay? This weather – what can you do? And how about this ox?’ He gestured to Daniel. ‘He been treating you right?’

  ‘Yes, Uncle, dear,’ I said. ‘He’s a mensch. But we’ve had a sad case come our way. A soldier who’s been in Afghanistan.’

  ‘That’s a sad case indeed,’ said Uncle Solly. ‘There are no good stories coming out of that place.’

>   ‘We wondered …’ I began delicately.

  ‘If you could get a good dinner from the New York Deli?’ he finished, jumping up. Several people had come into the shop. ‘Of course! For you, everything. The good sausages, the salt beef, the salads, the olives! You step in the back, ask Eph about the new pastrami.’

  I can take a hint, so I collected Daniel and we stepped around the counter and into the back room.

  Which was a surprise. The first section was the kitchen, with refrigerators and boxes of produce and a lovely long counter with bowls and knives and other implements. Behind that, though, there was a computer installation which looked like it could run the International Space Station all by itself.

  Staring at the oversized screens, fingers poised over keyboards, was a pair of twins. Small, dark, undistinguished-looking. Both female. Both with that faraway gaze as if half of them is always still in the Matrix.

  One twin removed her radio headset and said, ‘I’m Eph. Uncle sent to you ask about … ?’

  ‘Afghanistan,’ I said. ‘A returned soldier called Alasdair, a missing dog, and possible local involvement.’

  ‘Geordie,’ she said.

  ‘You know about it?’ I asked, surprised.

  ‘It’s our business to know everything that happens in the city,’ she said, matter-of-factly. To her left was a bank of screens showing what had to be police CCTV. This was hacking of a high or Lone Gunmen order – the Lone Gunmen being Insula’s IT Miracles While U Wait consortium. Their knowledge of computers was only equalled by their incomprehension of almost everything else, including nutrition or basic housekeeping.

  ‘All right,’ said Daniel patiently. ‘What can you tell us?’

  Which is, I noticed, not the same as ‘What’s happening?’.

  ‘Go and tell Ari to give you two more Cokes,’ she ordered him. ‘And tell him more ice this time. I’m lining up the images. It will take a couple of minutes.’

  Daniel went. I sat beside her. She smelt very sweetly of something like patchouli oil and cola. The film flowed. The life of the city, running backwards, light/dark/light. The Mouse Police would be scampering out to ram-raid the Japanese restaurant at … that one. I would be opening the door of my bakery at about … that frame. It was fascinating.

  Daniel returned with the supplies. The silent twin reached for hers without ever taking her eyes off the screen. She was watching something altogether different. Several youths tipping over rubbish skips. Youthful high spirits, their defence counsel would say to the magistrate. Who wouldn’t believe it, either.

  Refreshed with Coke, Eph clicked a key.

  ‘This footage is from outside a club in King Street that is of interest to us,’ she explained. ‘It has political people visiting it. Here’s your soldier.’

  Alasdair went past, Geordie at his side. As Big Charlie had noted, he looked like a dangerous dude. Shoulders straight, gaze flickering from right to left and up and down, alert, wary. I wondered if he had brought his sidearm back with him. Geordie was a smallish, vaguely border collie-esque black-and-white dog. He stuck close to Alasdair’s heel, watching him all the time. They were not just comrades, they were a partnership. Man and dog strolled out of shot.

  ‘Next camera’s not as good,’ said Eph. ‘Sorry. But here –’ she clicked it along frame by frame ‘– is when it happened.’

  Two men – no, three. One pounced on Alasdair from behind and hit him with a small club. I didn’t recognise the weapon. Geordie launched himself off the ground, teeth bared, as his master crumpled to the footpath. He sank his fangs into the forearm of one man before he was stuffed into a sack and the three men hurried away. A few seconds later Alasdair sat up and looked around groggily. He put a hand to his head then got gingerly to his feet. He opened his mouth, as if calling out. Then he staggered out of the frame.

  ‘I’m printing all we can see of those faces,’ said Eph. ‘Which isn’t much. Hoodies are the height of fashion for every crim in this city.’ Her tone was dispassionate as she continued, ‘We pick your man up again at McDonald’s. Soup Run.’

  I saw the admirable Sister Mary direct that night’s heavy, a huge Maori called Ma’ani, to carry Alasdair into the back of the van for first aid. The doctor was Jorgen, who had also just come back from a war zone. That must have helped. Alasdair was in the van for some time. When he emerged, he was clutching the envelope on which Sister Mary had written the directions for my bakery. He went on his unsteady way, his lips moving as if he was still calling for Geordie. I was almost in tears as I watched.

  That settled several things. The dog had been kidnapped. Alasdair had been deliberately targeted. That meant they wanted something from him. Now we just had to find out who did it and get Geordie back unhurt. Eph handed Daniel a printout, which he scanned quickly and thrust into his pocket. He must have been thinking along the same lines, because he asked Eph, ‘Did you recognise the men who took Geordie?’

  ‘They’re not on our database. Not political, as far as we know. But we couldn’t see much of their faces so we can’t be sure.’

  ‘Is there anything connected with Afghanistan, sappers or dogs that we should know?’

  ‘Afghanistan is rotten,’ she said in her expressionless voice. ‘We’re keeping an eye on several people. Here are their names and a summary of what we know. You should call Ari on the special line before you approach any of them.’

  ‘All right,’ said Daniel. ‘I’m a bit surprised you had all this ready for us. Did you know we were coming?’

  Eph gave him a quick grin of satisfaction. ‘It wasn’t hard to guess that Alasdair would find you, and you’d come to us. That’s how come we had all this ready for you.’

  ‘I’m grateful, believe me. What else?’

  ‘Strange stuff,’ said Eph’s twin, speaking for the first time. ‘They’re tipping out all the skips along King Street. That’s hard work. They don’t usually do that.’

  ‘They?’ Daniel asked.

  ‘Youths,’ she said contemptuously. I would have put her own age at about fifteen, if that. ‘Also, there’s a nasty assault happening on Swanston. Right in front of the cops. Both men now arrested.’

  ‘Did anyone recognise that weapon they used on Alasdair?’ I asked.

  ‘It was a sap,’ said Daniel. He looked from one twin to the other. ‘Do you know anyone who uses such things? Or sells them?’

  ‘They sell them in Knives and Fishing Supplies in King Street,’ replied the twin.

  ‘Sorry,’ I told her, ‘I didn’t catch your name.’

  She smiled at me. ‘Raim.’

  The two girls then said in unison. ‘Our code name: Ephraim.’

  ‘Lovely to meet you both,’ I said, smiling in return. Though it did seem like I was talking to one person. Ephraim being one of the Twelve Tribes, it seemed an appropriate name for them both.

  ‘All right, Agent Ephraim, will you keep me informed?’ asked Daniel.

  They giggled. ‘Certainly, Agent Daniel.’ Then they added a crisp phrase in Hebrew which made Daniel laugh.

  We went back out through the shop, carrying the documents in a New York Deli tote bag into which I also gathered some of Uncle Solly’s marvellous potato salad, a green salad with a sachet of Thousand Island dressing and some sausages. ‘With good sourdough bread,’ announced Uncle Solly, kissing the tips of his fingers. ‘A feast.’

  We kissed him goodbye and plodded home through the steamy heat.

  Insula had never seemed so cool and clean. We met Trudi in the atrium. (Of course we have an atrium, with an impluvium and goldfish. What else?) She was down to navy cotton shorts and a blue T-shirt with a modified leather glove strapped to her shoulder for her kitten, the diabolically inspired Lucifer. He was a small orange cat whose karma, Meroe says, is already indelibly smirched and who lives for trouble. He was presently swimming in the pool, diving for – but not catching – goldfish. Trudi reeled him in and he came up grabbing with both clawed front paws.

  She put him
on her shoulder and he dripped all down her T-shirt.

  ‘Can I dry him for you?’ I asked. Her trolley stood nearby and she always had cat-drying towels. A wise precaution, given Lucifer’s propensities.

  She smiled wearily. ‘No, it’s nice and cool. Maybe one day we’ll be cold again, eh?’

  I fervently hoped this was the case and left her to continue reasoning with the freight elevator. It only obeys Trudi.

  I won the game of scissors paper stone and got first shower. I dressed in a loose green batik robe with blue butterflies; Jon – our resident overseas aid worker and inexhaustible mine of information about the world and everything in it – had brought the fabric from Bali and Therese had made it into a garment for me. We work on a barter economy in Insula. Then I yielded Daniel the shower and went to cook the sausages. Instantly Horatio woke and reminded me that it was cat food time. Actually, I had remembered that all by myself. It was always cat food time. Horatio munched, I cooked sausages, and Daniel washed.

  He came out of the shower dressed in a rather abbreviated towel. I still gasp at the sight of him. The muscular lines of his body, the scar where a Palestinian shell had nearly scooped out his insides. The very gleam on his kneecaps is strong enough to peel paint off walls and does terrible things to my libido. I didn’t even know that libidos notched up that high. But his eyes were glowing with another kind of hunger.

  ‘Food,’ he said, getting out plates and doling out salad.

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed. I was hungry too.

  He poured me a glass of Marlborough Sound sauv blanc and we sat down to eat.

  ‘Just one phone call first,’ he said. He made a call, and spoke fast to someone called Mike. ‘Dog bites,’ he explained as he picked up his fork. ‘Geordie sank all his teeth into one thug’s forearm. He would have needed a doctor. Mike has access to all the hospital emergency departments. That bloke would have had a very sore arm.’

  ‘Not sore enough,’ I said, biting vengefully into a sausage. It was a very good sausage. ‘And I hope his tetanus jab stung. Bastards. Are you in contact with Alasdair?’