The Spotted Dog

by Kerry Greenwood

  I gave her my most dazzling smile. ‘I told you we were looking for a lost dog. That was absolutely true.’

  ‘And here he is,’ put in Alasdair from the front seat. He lifted the dog in his sling. Geordie wagged his tail weakly, blinked, and tucked his head back into the harness.

  Letty abandoned Daniel and me, opened the front passenger door and looked from Alasdair to Geordie and back again. ‘Who are you?’

  He saluted. ‘Sergeant Alasdair Sinclair, British Army, retired, ma’am. And this is Geordie.’ Hearing his name spoken, Geordie’s head reappeared briefly to say hello.

  Letty shook her head wearily. The bullhorn was still issuing orders, flames could be heard crackling behind us, sirens still resounded through the baking plains of Kilmarnock, as far as we could tell the walls and roof were falling in, but we had eyes and ears only for her. ‘Well, Sergeant Sinclair, would you care to tell me what this is all about?’

  ‘These bastards stole ma dog from me in the city. I sustained a number of injuries defending meself and Geordie. He and I went through a lot together in Afghanistan, and I wanted him back. So I engaged Daniel to find him.’

  Letty’s mouth opened once or twice. ‘Why on earth would they steal – no, wait. They wanted him to check for explosives, yes?’

  ‘That’s right. And Geordie knew all along there were explosives there, but he didn’t tell them because they didn’t know the right words. Geordie only answers to commands in the Gàidhlig.’

  ‘Garlic? What? Oh, never mind. I don’t care. So if I arrest the lot of you on a charge of police obstruction, your defence is that you were looking for a lost dog, and the fact that it happened to coincide with a bigger and more important crime was pure coincidence, is that it? All right. I’ve seen the dog. Get out of here.’ She fished in her pocket for the keys and returned them to Timbo. ‘Just make sure you drive straight ahead and clear right out of the area.’

  ‘Soggies taken over the crime scene?’ Daniel ventured.

  ‘Yes, Daniel, they have. They’ve been standing by all day. Because I was expecting this to blow up today and we called them in as soon as the shooting started. Luckily for you, I don’t think you precipitated the shootout, otherwise you really would be helping me with my enquiries. Off you go. Straight ahead till the T-junction, then turn right and don’t come back here for any reason whatever.’

  Dismissed, we slunk away towards the T-junction.

  For those unfamiliar with our police force’s ultimate weapon in crisis management, the Soggies, or Sons of God – their real name is the Special Operations Group – are the ones who do most of the shooting. I thoroughly approve of this, as does everyone acquainted with them. We do not want rank-and-file cops blazing away blammity-blam and shooting anything that moves. If there is to be a shooting war, it is carried out by the Soggies. They are without exception experienced marksmen and women who do not fire off ordnance out of animal high spirits. They can stake out a target for hours on end. They will shoot when instructed to, and not otherwise. They are quite happy to hold fire, should fire not be required. Because this is Australia, and we do not worship firearms or constitutional amendments.

  I let out my breath slowly. We really had got away with it all. We had the dog, we had solved most of our mysteries, and we were still in one piece. I wondered about this. ‘Daniel, are we all right? Please tell me we still have all our necessary bits. Please tell me that we aren’t dead, and merely imagining that we’ve escaped.’

  He took my hand and squeezed it. ‘Can you feel my hand, ketschele?’

  ‘I can. It feels warm, alive and reliable. And you’ve still got soot on your face.’

  ‘So have you. I think we’re alive.’

  ‘Erm, well.’ Alasdair turned to face us. ‘I’d say we’re definitely alive, because my arm hurts. The fact that I’ve got Geordie back might be no more than the fulfilment of a dream, but I doubt I’d be hurtin’ so much in the afterlife.’

  ‘I notice you came out of the yard with an impressive dive under the door, Alasdair.’ I looked at him. He seemed to have escaped the blanketing cloud of soot. Maybe as a soldier he had special soot-avoidance skills. ‘What were you looking for, if I may ask?’

  ‘Clearing our line of retreat. I wanted to make sure there was no one behind us.’

  ‘And please,’ I wanted to know, ‘how did you find the combination? I’ve been wondering, but there wasn’t any time to ask before.’

  He gave a short bark of fox-like laughter.

  ‘I tried 1-2-3-4. It’s amazing how often that works. Where are we going, Corinna? Because this poor wee doggie is seriously underfed.’ I saw him stroking Geordie through the sling. ‘He’s no’ been eatin’ much, I guess. ‘Ach, mo chu!’ Alasdair’s voice died away into muttered Highland endearments.

  ‘I’d like that too,’ Timbo volunteered. ‘I’m fresh out of supplies.’

  ‘All right.’ Daniel closed his eyes for a minute. ‘There’s a Nando’s not far from here. Do you know it, Timbo?’

  ‘Oh yeah!’

  ‘Good. Let’s go there. Immediately. I’m starving.’

  Alasdair looked at him doubtfully. ‘Will they serve Geordie as well?’

  ‘They will if we go to that one. The owner owes me a favour.’

  ‘A big favour?’

  ‘Tolerably big. He was being stood over for protection by a certain family – no, not the Petrosians this time – but I persuaded them to back off and leave him alone.’

  ‘Guid for you.’

  And so it was that twenty minutes later we were seated at a sidewalk cafe. Daniel was tucking into a splendid-looking paella and Alasdair was devouring a terrifying peri-peri chicken. Perspiration streamed down his face, but he didn’t even seem to notice it. I recalled that hot curries are the national dish of Scotland. I would not have approached it without fireproof gauntlets myself. I had chosen a chicken, bacon and avocado salad. It tasted heavenly. Sometimes simple, well-cooked food is just what you want, especially after narrowly avoiding being blown up or shot.

  Beside us, Geordie was tucking into a metal water bowl filled with raw chicken pieces, courtesy of our grateful host. I gazed at our rescue dog. Alasdair’s left hand was stroking the fur around his head. Geordie was a medium-small, happy little fellow with a whiteish coat and a few black spots indicating that some near ancestor had been fraternising with a cast member from One Hundred and One Dalmatians. If dogs could purr, he would be purring.

  I looked back at Alasdair. The haunted, despairing look on his face I remembered had vanished. I looked at the imperturbable Timbo, steadily working his way through a supersized plate like a front-end loader through a gravel pit. And I looked at my beloved Daniel, wielding his knife and fork with quiet pleasure. We raised our glasses of iced cola and clinked them together.

  ‘We made it!’

  ‘Aye, we did.’ Alasdair grinned. ‘I cannae tell ye how grateful I am. Thank you all.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Said dog my heart is true

  And steadfast more than you

  And love binds more than words what I can do.

  DAVID GREAGG, ‘CAT AND DOG’

  Daniel dropped me home, then went back to his apartment to superintend The Homecoming of Geordie. I was glad for him, and for Alasdair, but I had gone deep into adrenaline debt and it was presenting its bills with more than its usual insistence. Besides, Daniel didn’t have to get up at four am to begin baking bread like I did.

  Horatio nuzzled my ankles as I ran myself a lavender bath and poured myself a stiff gin and tonic. When, he wanted to know, would his dinner be served? Clearly you are skipping dinner, he noted. Probably because of all the chicken flavours decorating your clothes and hands. Will there be chicken for a virtuous cat who has been stuck here for far too many hours all by himself without company of any kind? This is not good enough.

  He sniffed my fingers experimentally and began to wash them, licking up the residue of my lunch. I sighed, and opene
d the fridge to see if I had any cold chicken for him. There was a sealed plastic box with some chicken pieces in it. I shook some out into his bowl, and he sat down, flicked his tail around his front paws, lowered his shoulders and set to work. I sipped at my G and T, with double ice and cold lemon slices. A refreshing waft of summer hillsides was emerging from the bathroom. Come and lie down, Corinna, it was suggesting. Bring your drink with you. And despite the manifest peril of falling asleep in the bath, dropping my G and T into the tub and giving myself the laceration of a lifetime, I obeyed the summons.

  It was but the work of a moment to doff my clothes and leave them in an untidy heap on the bathroom floor. And why not? It was my floor. I’d deal with it in the morning. Meanwhile, my entire body felt as though it had been used as a tilting ground for knights on horseback. I grabbed the steel railing firmly in my left hand, lowered myself into the water and leant back, resting my head on the bath’s edge. Lavender essence drowned my senses. I wiped my face clean of dynamite residue and patted my features with moisturiser. With aching care I reached for my drink, drained it to the dregs, then set it down carefully as far from me as I could reach. Now it wouldn’t even matter if I fell asleep where I was. I listened to my racing pulse slowly subside from allegretto to a stately adagio. Then I surprised myself, and greatly alarmed my cat – who had, as usual, followed me in to observe the strange ritual of the bathtub – and punched the air with my right arm.

  ‘Yes! We did it!’ I exulted.

  Horatio padded out of the bathroom in disgust, but I was having none of it. I had been serially burgled and all but shot and blown up; we had been led royally up the garden path with as wild a profusion of mysteries as ever belaboured a semi-virtuous baker; and yet we had been triumphant. And with that I drew myself out of the bath, pulled out the plug, threw on a summer nightie and flung myself into bed. Just before sleep closed over me I set the alarm; and I had no dreams at all.

  Four am struck with less than its usual feeling of imminent doom. I stretched my limbs experimentally. Everything seemed to be more or less there. My ankles and calves were issuing pianissimo complaints, but I seemed miraculously alive and well. When had I fallen asleep? It could not have been long past six pm, which meant almost ten hours of virtuous slumber. I wandered into the bathroom with more than my usual spring in my step. Some slattern had left a pile of clothes on the floor, but I kicked them into a corner and had a steaming hot shower. Then I threw on a light robe and sauntered into the kitchen.

  I made my first cup of steaming Arabica coffee and inserted two sourdough slices from last Friday into the toaster. I watched the toaster carefully, wondering if it was going to explode or do anything else untoward, but it didn’t. It popped up, its slices a creamy mid-brown, positively begging to be covered with butter and cherry jam. I bit into them with relish and relaxed.

  No one was trying to break into my apartment. There was not a sound from anywhere except for the soft padding of Horatio, who draped himself around my calves and announced that he too was ready for breakfast. Kitty dins (dry) rattled agreeably into his bowl, and he settled down to give them his full attention.

  I finished my early-morning repast, donned the stout overall and cap and the stouter shoes. Down the stairs to the bakery, where the big air conditioners had already come on, along with the ovens. And there was Jason, reading a book (another Patrick O’Brian) while waiting for his first rising to mature.

  ‘Cap’n on deck!’ he said, jumping to his feet and saluting.

  What I wanted was a pleasantly dull, quiet day of diurnal bakery. I hoped I would get it. If you listen to some people, they claim to crave adventures. My life is so normal! they will complain. Why doesn’t anything exciting happen to me? If only they knew. The last week’s adventures had offered way more excitement than I had ever wanted in my life. I returned my midshipman’s snappy salute and we set to work. Today we would make normal bread and normal fruit muffins and do totally normal things.

  I inspected the bakery floor. There were Heckle and Jekyll, sitting obediently by their bowls and proudly displaying the results of their night-shift exertions. Four mice and a truly enormous rat. Only slightly damaged to look at, but apparently dispatched with their customary brusqueness and lack of sympathy. I made my customary oblations and the bakery was filled with the sound of contented crunching. Then I let them outside to sit their patient vigil outside Nippon for their second breakfast of tuna oddments.

  Sugar was sifted, flour beaten into shape, yeast was introduced with maximum formality, and dough hooks clicked. Coffee steamed in its pot and was cautiously imbibed. I admired Jason’s muscular arms kneading with astonishing expertise. It really was extraordinary how good a baker he had become.

  He caught my eye and raised an eyebrow. ‘What are we making today, Cap’n?’

  ‘Well, Midshipman? What do you want to make today? Your choice, as long as we’re making bread and not getting burgled, shot at or blown up.’

  He thought about this and scratched his cheek with a floury finger for a moment. ‘You haven’t been getting blown up, have you, Cap’n?’

  ‘Yes, I have. Sorry, didn’t I tell you? I expect it was all over the TV – though you don’t watch TV, do you?’

  ‘Not really. TV is for old people. But I did see something about it on my phone. Some gang got their house blown up, and there was a full-on gun battle. You weren’t in on that, were you, Cap’n?’

  ‘Yes, I was. When we get the baking properly underway I will tell you about my weekend. Filled With Incident doesn’t even begin to cover it. So tell me: what are we making today?’

  His eyes unfocused for a while. ‘Usual sourdough, olive, cheese and herb, and – I think I’d like to try Irish soda bread. Muffins? Cheese and ham, and apple and spice.’

  I nodded approvingly. ‘Good choices, Jason. At this time of year people want more traditional muffins. I don’t know why, but they do. Probably because they’re sick of mince pies and other exotica after Christmas and New Year. All right, Midshipman. Let’s to work, and I shall tell you all about it.’

  I dragged out the tins for my sourdough and we began. As we rolled, kneaded, soothed and caressed our farinaceous charges into their ovens, I expounded at length on the events of Saturday and Sunday. He did not ask any questions, but I could see he was taking it big. When I concluded my account, he grinned. ‘Cap’n,’ I’m really happy it’s all over. So, no more cops in the building? I don’t like cops. Never have. And we aren’t getting broken into any more?’

  ‘As far as I know, we should now be safe. Cross fingers, touch wood. I still don’t know a few of the side details, but the survivors of the Armenian gang will be under arrest, and the Azeris as well, I expect. So both gangs will be busted.’

  ‘They’re bad people, Cap’n. We won’t miss them at all.’

  I thought of the women and children with their teddy bears and pets. And the matriarch who had looked us straight in the eye, realised that we were only there to rescue Geordie, and let our presence pass unremarked. ‘It takes all sorts, Jason. The women and children will probably be set free. They’ll have to find somewhere else to live, but I expect they have other places to go.’

  ‘You said they looked like normal kids?’

  ‘Absolutely normal. They probably don’t even ask themselves what Daddy does for a living. And one of the kids was carrying a bunny. Which reminds me: have you got a bunny yet? You said you were thinking of it.’

  A slow, adoring smile broke out over his floury visage. ‘I’m getting one tomorrow, Cap’n. I was going to wait a bit longer, but I’ve found one I like.’

  ‘That’s wonderful! What’s it like?’

  He looked, for a moment, about twelve years old. Beneath his patina of flour he may have been blushing. His eyelashes flickered. ‘He’s grey. Small ears; not those long floppy ones. Real calm and placid. Just what I need in my life.’

  ‘Please tell me it’s a boy.’

  ‘Yeah, Cap’n.’
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br />   I was relieved. Rabbits will increase their tribe on the slightest provocation, and I didn’t want his flat looking like a casting call for Watership Down: The Musical.

  ‘What are you going to call him?’

  Embarrassment and fierce pride contended in his eyes. ‘Bruce.’

  ‘Bruce?’

  ‘I had an uncle called Bruce. He gave me a Christmas present once.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘A lightsabre.’

  I forbore to press him any further. I imagine that Christmas presents would have been exceedingly rare coin in what had passed for his childhood. ‘Well, don’t forget to introduce me to Bruce, if you’ve a mind to.’

  He grinned proudly. ‘Aye-aye, Cap’n.’

  By seven am we were well underway, and Jason departed for his trucker’s special: the one that makes my arteries go into shock if I just think about it. Exit Jason; enter Heckle and Jekyll. They had dined to their own satisfaction. In the baking summer air that wafted in through the door the scent of fish was unmissable. Kiko and Ian had come to the party, it seemed. Both cats gave me their customary look of satisfaction now that the daybreak ceremonies had been performed, and curled up on flour sacks to sleep the morning away. As they were well entitled to do, having worked the night shift and slain the thieving rodentia on my behalf.

  The door opened again and brought in Kylie and Goss in a small whirlwind of girlish enthusiasm. They had a lot on their minds, and did not hesitate to share it with me.

  ‘Corinna! We saw you! Are you all right?’ Kylie enthused. They were exuding Method Acting with every gesture. I hesitate to judge Generation Millennial, but there is something immortally wrong with selfie culture. Do young women spend their whole lives posing for Instagram, or rehearsing for it? I registered formation puzzlement and let them tell me all about it.