as ah could tell. It was tae clever tae be a normal doggy. Tae cunning.’
Dougal snorted from the corner, but it was unclear whether it was in response to Bill or not.
Darkus couldn’t help thinking about the two dogs that had staked out Clive and Jackie’s house on Wolseley Close the previous night. What were these sentient canines? Where were they coming from? And what did they want?
‘Ye see, it was as if the beastie was only interested in me ,’ Bill continued. ‘It didn’t change course once, and was nae interested in my chocolate Penguin biscuit neither. A terrible waste that was,’ he mourned.
Darkus and his dad exchanged glances.
Knightley added, ‘Bill’s under police protection here until we can get to the bottom of who, or what, was targeting them.’
‘Them?’ enquired Darkus.
‘That same night, during the full moon, three other senior Scotland Yard officers were viciously mauled, and later succumbed to their injuries.’
‘Aye,’ Bill interjected. ‘Had their throats torn oot, poor fowk.’
Darkus understood. ‘Wait, you mean the three officers in south London responding to a domestic altercation? I saw it on the news a few weeks ago. It said they were attacked by a tenant’s dog.’
‘That was a cover story,’ Knightley explained. ‘The officers were actually in three separate London locations, each returning home from the same high-level meeting of SO 42.’
‘Bill’s department. Specialist Operations 42. The Department of the Unexplained,’ Darkus murmured.
‘Correct,’ said Knightley.
‘What was this high-level meeting about?’
‘An unexplained rise in gang crime and aggressive dogs across the capital.’ Knightley gestured through the window to the sun sinking over the London skyline.
Darkus took a moment to process all this, then whispered to his father privately: ‘And you believe there’s a connection between this and the missing pets on Hampstead Heath . . . ?’
Knightley nodded uncertainly. ‘I do, Doc, I just haven’t worked out what that connection is yet.’
‘And I suppose you believe the Combination is involved.’
‘You read my mind. Nothing on this scale could escape their controlling grasp.’
‘But Morton Underwood, their leader, is dead.’
‘Their leadership is a revolving door, Doc. I told you that. Besides, I’m not convinced your former godfather is dead.’
‘He fell under a train. I saw it with my own eyes.’
‘But Morton’s body was never recovered.’
Darkus took a breath, trying to stay in the here and now. ‘This is all getting too far ahead of the evidence. We have no motive, no perpetrator, no dog.’
‘Nae werewolf,’ added Bill.
Dougal snorted again, and Darkus realised the Scotsman had in fact fallen asleep.
‘What I dae have is an artist’s impression of the beast,’ Bill said, extracting a crumpled piece of paper from his bedclothes and holding it up.
It was little more than a cartoon scribbled down with a Sharpie. Darkus examined the sketch, deeming it too crude to be of any use. It could have depicted the dogs he’d seen on Wolseley Close – or it could have depicted a particularly angry glove puppet.
A nurse interrupted them. ‘Mr Billoch needs his rest.’
Bill shrugged as another nurse plumped up his cushions. ‘What can ah do?’
Knightley fished in his jacket, took out a packet of chocolate digestives and set them on the bedside table.
‘Classic or new recipe?’ Bill asked quietly.
‘Classic, of course,’ answered Knightley.
‘Yoo’re mah Florence Nightingale, Alan,’ purred Bill.
‘Ah told ye, nae bannocks,’ Dougal piped up.
‘Haud yer wheesht!’ snapped Bill.
‘I suggest we get back to the office,’ Knightley told his son. ‘There might be time for a round of jam sandwiches, triangles not squares, naturally, then it’s an early night, wake up for a full English, say your goodbyes to Wilbur – for now of course – and take the first train home.’
Something
Dougal snorted from the corner, but it was unclear whether it was in response to Bill or not.
Darkus couldn’t help thinking about the two dogs that had staked out Clive and Jackie’s house on Wolseley Close the previous night. What were these sentient canines? Where were they coming from? And what did they want?
‘Ye see, it was as if the beastie was only interested in me ,’ Bill continued. ‘It didn’t change course once, and was nae interested in my chocolate Penguin biscuit neither. A terrible waste that was,’ he mourned.
Darkus and his dad exchanged glances.
Knightley added, ‘Bill’s under police protection here until we can get to the bottom of who, or what, was targeting them.’
‘Them?’ enquired Darkus.
‘That same night, during the full moon, three other senior Scotland Yard officers were viciously mauled, and later succumbed to their injuries.’
‘Aye,’ Bill interjected. ‘Had their throats torn oot, poor fowk.’
Darkus understood. ‘Wait, you mean the three officers in south London responding to a domestic altercation? I saw it on the news a few weeks ago. It said they were attacked by a tenant’s dog.’
‘That was a cover story,’ Knightley explained. ‘The officers were actually in three separate London locations, each returning home from the same high-level meeting of SO 42.’
‘Bill’s department. Specialist Operations 42. The Department of the Unexplained,’ Darkus murmured.
‘Correct,’ said Knightley.
‘What was this high-level meeting about?’
‘An unexplained rise in gang crime and aggressive dogs across the capital.’ Knightley gestured through the window to the sun sinking over the London skyline.
Darkus took a moment to process all this, then whispered to his father privately: ‘And you believe there’s a connection between this and the missing pets on Hampstead Heath . . . ?’
Knightley nodded uncertainly. ‘I do, Doc, I just haven’t worked out what that connection is yet.’
‘And I suppose you believe the Combination is involved.’
‘You read my mind. Nothing on this scale could escape their controlling grasp.’
‘But Morton Underwood, their leader, is dead.’
‘Their leadership is a revolving door, Doc. I told you that. Besides, I’m not convinced your former godfather is dead.’
‘He fell under a train. I saw it with my own eyes.’
‘But Morton’s body was never recovered.’
Darkus took a breath, trying to stay in the here and now. ‘This is all getting too far ahead of the evidence. We have no motive, no perpetrator, no dog.’
‘Nae werewolf,’ added Bill.
Dougal snorted again, and Darkus realised the Scotsman had in fact fallen asleep.
‘What I dae have is an artist’s impression of the beast,’ Bill said, extracting a crumpled piece of paper from his bedclothes and holding it up.
It was little more than a cartoon scribbled down with a Sharpie. Darkus examined the sketch, deeming it too crude to be of any use. It could have depicted the dogs he’d seen on Wolseley Close – or it could have depicted a particularly angry glove puppet.
A nurse interrupted them. ‘Mr Billoch needs his rest.’
Bill shrugged as another nurse plumped up his cushions. ‘What can ah do?’
Knightley fished in his jacket, took out a packet of chocolate digestives and set them on the bedside table.
‘Classic or new recipe?’ Bill asked quietly.
‘Classic, of course,’ answered Knightley.
‘Yoo’re mah Florence Nightingale, Alan,’ purred Bill.
‘Ah told ye, nae bannocks,’ Dougal piped up.
‘Haud yer wheesht!’ snapped Bill.
‘I suggest we get back to the office,’ Knightley told his son. ‘There might be time for a round of jam sandwiches, triangles not squares, naturally, then it’s an early night, wake up for a full English, say your goodbyes to Wilbur – for now of course – and take the first train home.’
Something
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