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Authors: Gillian Galbraith
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voice over the noise of the wind.
‘I don’t know. I lost him a while back, some place before the raised bridge. But he always races on. I think he may be in there,’ she said, pointing at the sectioned-off area,
the blue-and-white tape that marked it writhing like an eel in the shifting gusts. Then she added pensively, ‘He shouldn’t be, should he? But dogs don’t know the law, do they?
They can’t read and write. But I’m very sorry, officers . . . for your . . . all your trouble.’
‘That’s the problem, you see, Sarge,’ the large WPC said slowly and unnecessarily. ‘He may be in there, disturbing things, mucking up the evidence. What should we
do?’
‘I’ve been shouting for him,’ the old lady volunteered, adding, ‘she gave it a go and all, didn’t you, love? But it’s hopeless.’
‘Yes,’ the WPC agreed, and as if to prove the point she bellowed out, ‘TEAZEL! TEAZEL!’, her words disappearing into nothingness, carried away by the next blast which
rushed past them and blew their hair into their eyes. Looking desperate, the old lady joined in, adding her cracked treble to the chorus and scanning the horizon with her bespectacled eyes.
‘Come on, Teazel, ye wee devil!’ she implored, suddenly losing patience with her pet and whirling the lead in her hand as if it was a lariat and she was about to lasso a recalcitrant
steer. From behind a trio of distorted hawthorn bushes a few hundred yards away, the missing Border terrier appeared on the skyline. Seeing them, he bounded towards them as if overjoyed at finding
them again. His tail wagging furiously, he leapt up onto his owner, leaving muddy pawprints all over her grey raincoat and all but bowling her over. Only the policewoman behind her saved her from
falling. Dangling from the dog’s mouth was the limp body of a long-dead rabbit, its skeletal legs terminating in over-large furry paws. The old lady bent down and, with surprising dexterity,
removed the corpse from her pet’s jaws and clipped the lead back onto his collar. Then, nodding, but saying nothing more, she set off hastily in the direction of the big house. The dog
followed jauntily behind her.
‘Did you get her name?’ Alice asked, watching them as they hurried away.
‘Yes. She’s called Irma Goodbody.’
‘Where does she live?’
‘Christ, I forgot all about her address,’ the WPC said, a look of panic on her face.
‘Better catch her then. Off you go. We’ll need a full statement. She may have seen something useful.’
Nodding, the sturdily-built policewoman jogged after the pair, her arms flailing as she battled to keep her balance on the uneven ground.
‘Over here, Sarge,’ a man’s voice shouted. Turning and catching sight of the speaker, Alice went to join him. He was standing on a muddy footpath, holding the fringed ends of
his tartan scarf over his ears, determined to stop his earache from getting any worse. The path on which he stood zigzagged between clumps of dead bracken. In the nearest clump lay a light yellow
anorak. Part of it was covered by the dark, slimy fronds of the plant and as she got nearer one of the wet sleeves broke loose with a sound like the crack of a whip. In the strong breeze it blew
freely, waving cheerily at them as if it had a life of its own.
By the time Alice had reached the man her shoes were sodden, but she was feeling pleased to be there, out in the fresh air, glad to have stumbled across this oasis of countryside hidden in the
heart of the suburbs, murder or no murder. Whoever it was who had failed to tell her that she was supposed to be starting her working day in Gayfield Square with the SART boys had done her a
favour. But for that she would be traipsing in and out of the pawnshops in Leith, inhaling exhaust fumes and dodging the gobs of chewing gum that studded the pavements. Instead, here she was,
outside, exploring this unexpected find of a place. She made a mental note to tell Ian all about it
‘I don’t know. I lost him a while back, some place before the raised bridge. But he always races on. I think he may be in there,’ she said, pointing at the sectioned-off area,
the blue-and-white tape that marked it writhing like an eel in the shifting gusts. Then she added pensively, ‘He shouldn’t be, should he? But dogs don’t know the law, do they?
They can’t read and write. But I’m very sorry, officers . . . for your . . . all your trouble.’
‘That’s the problem, you see, Sarge,’ the large WPC said slowly and unnecessarily. ‘He may be in there, disturbing things, mucking up the evidence. What should we
do?’
‘I’ve been shouting for him,’ the old lady volunteered, adding, ‘she gave it a go and all, didn’t you, love? But it’s hopeless.’
‘Yes,’ the WPC agreed, and as if to prove the point she bellowed out, ‘TEAZEL! TEAZEL!’, her words disappearing into nothingness, carried away by the next blast which
rushed past them and blew their hair into their eyes. Looking desperate, the old lady joined in, adding her cracked treble to the chorus and scanning the horizon with her bespectacled eyes.
‘Come on, Teazel, ye wee devil!’ she implored, suddenly losing patience with her pet and whirling the lead in her hand as if it was a lariat and she was about to lasso a recalcitrant
steer. From behind a trio of distorted hawthorn bushes a few hundred yards away, the missing Border terrier appeared on the skyline. Seeing them, he bounded towards them as if overjoyed at finding
them again. His tail wagging furiously, he leapt up onto his owner, leaving muddy pawprints all over her grey raincoat and all but bowling her over. Only the policewoman behind her saved her from
falling. Dangling from the dog’s mouth was the limp body of a long-dead rabbit, its skeletal legs terminating in over-large furry paws. The old lady bent down and, with surprising dexterity,
removed the corpse from her pet’s jaws and clipped the lead back onto his collar. Then, nodding, but saying nothing more, she set off hastily in the direction of the big house. The dog
followed jauntily behind her.
‘Did you get her name?’ Alice asked, watching them as they hurried away.
‘Yes. She’s called Irma Goodbody.’
‘Where does she live?’
‘Christ, I forgot all about her address,’ the WPC said, a look of panic on her face.
‘Better catch her then. Off you go. We’ll need a full statement. She may have seen something useful.’
Nodding, the sturdily-built policewoman jogged after the pair, her arms flailing as she battled to keep her balance on the uneven ground.
‘Over here, Sarge,’ a man’s voice shouted. Turning and catching sight of the speaker, Alice went to join him. He was standing on a muddy footpath, holding the fringed ends of
his tartan scarf over his ears, determined to stop his earache from getting any worse. The path on which he stood zigzagged between clumps of dead bracken. In the nearest clump lay a light yellow
anorak. Part of it was covered by the dark, slimy fronds of the plant and as she got nearer one of the wet sleeves broke loose with a sound like the crack of a whip. In the strong breeze it blew
freely, waving cheerily at them as if it had a life of its own.
By the time Alice had reached the man her shoes were sodden, but she was feeling pleased to be there, out in the fresh air, glad to have stumbled across this oasis of countryside hidden in the
heart of the suburbs, murder or no murder. Whoever it was who had failed to tell her that she was supposed to be starting her working day in Gayfield Square with the SART boys had done her a
favour. But for that she would be traipsing in and out of the pawnshops in Leith, inhaling exhaust fumes and dodging the gobs of chewing gum that studded the pavements. Instead, here she was,
outside, exploring this unexpected find of a place. She made a mental note to tell Ian all about it
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