The Spook Dog (first bit)

Rookie DC Darren Edwards smiled at the elderly lady trying hard to keep focus on her grey eyes in an effort to avoid looking her loose flabby breasts visible through her thin cotton top.

‘He moved into the old house opposite in January. The place’s been empty for ages. Been years since anyone was in there. Nobody here knows who owns it. We reckoned it belonged to someone who’s dead. It’s looked after though. Every few weeks in summer a bloke in a Land Rover come and cuts the grass and tidies up the trees and stuff in the back - like a forest out there it is – and whenever kids broke a window a van turns up after a couple of days and it gets fixed. Few years ago a couple of men come and painted the window frames. December they replaced them with double glazing. . . ‘cos he was movin’ in I spoze. None of the workers ever spoke to anybody. Just arrived got on with the job and disappeared. Always refused my offers of a cup of tea.’

‘Did you notice the name of the double glazing company?’

‘What you mean like Everest or something?’

‘Yes.’

‘No, it was a plain Transit. Dark blue one, same as my David’s got. That’s why I remember. I thought he’d come to see us when I saw it turn up.

The young copper scribbled everything she said into a small notebook.

‘Sometimes absent owners pay an agency to look after empty houses, Madam. We’ll check on it.’

‘Yeah, maybe. I don’t miss much, living right opposite an’ all.

‘Does Mr. Heron own the property?’

‘No idea. We only know his name ‘cos Mrs. Jones’s husband is a mate of the postman. He hardly ever spoke, just walked that poor dog. I did see him passing the day with Fred and Doris a couple of times.’

‘Where does Mr. Jones live? We might need to speak to him.’

‘Number 45. Don’t tell him I told you, he’s a bit wary of cop—, policemen.’  

‘Oh right.’ Makes note in book.

‘Fred and his wife. . . . Doris? Do you know their address?’

‘No, Darling. Doris isn’t his wife,’ laughs, ‘Doris is his Basset Hound. Funny little thing she is with those long ears of ‘ers.’

‘Doris,’ grins, ‘where did you say they live?’

‘Fred’s in number 89, top end of the street. Fred . . . em . . . Jackson I think. Yeah Jackson. Used to be a policemen in Wales somewhere. ’

‘That’s useful to know. We’ll get in touch with him.’

DC Edwards finishes making notes and pockets his Paper Mate.

‘That it?’

‘For now. Just to recap.’ Flips through note book. ‘You saw Mr. Heron last night about 10.30pm?’

‘Yup, I was making us cocoa before bed, we always have—. Hey, spoze that makes me the last one to see him alive.’

‘He hasn’t been located yet, Madam.’

‘Yeah, but something bad must’ve happened to him after what happened to his dog.’

Ignores the comment. ‘. . . And you noticed the dog at 6am stretched out on the doorstep of number 23? Mr. Heron’s house?

‘Oh shit (sorry) don’t remind me,’ she turns pale and looks out of the window at the red brick Victorian detached house opposite. The lower half covered in blue plastic sheeting and wrapped in a tangle of incident tape.  

It was awful. Blood all over the place.’

‘The dog was dead?

‘With a bloody great hole in his head? What do you think? 

‘Yes, erm . . . must have been a terrible shock . . . and you regularly saw Mr. Heron take his dog walking. Normally three or four times a day?

‘Rain or shine.’

‘Always the same route.’

‘Yes. Up through Dover Street to the rec. and back on the other side of the road.’

‘And sometimes he stayed in the recreation park longer than normal.’

‘Yeah. I didn’t think anything of it until you asked about it, but it’s probably when the dog needed to . . . you know. I mean I never saw him do anything in the street, except the odd wee, but that’s dogs. Always pi—‘

 ‘Yes well, I think that’s enough for now. We may want to talk to you again, Mrs Darlington.’

‘Anytime, love.’ Makes cheeky wink.

‘Thank you.’ Polite smile.

‘Here, wait a minute, I just realised the dog weren’t wearing his harness.’

‘His harness?’ Takes pen out of pocket.

‘He always had a harness on. Not a collar. A bit like the ones police dogs wear, more bulky though. It had side pockets on it. For sh—, poo bags I suppose. It looked heavy even for a big dog like that. Red it was with a sort of pattern of black spots on the side, “Mr. Heron’s taking his ladybird for a walk again.” I used to say my Harry.’  

‘Thank you, that’s good to know. I’ll tell the forensics people to look out for it.’

The young DC pockets pen and notebook and drains the mug of tea he’d been given. Mrs Darlington (call me Helen) holds the front door open and he leaves in a buzz of radio chatter coming from the Battenberg SUV straddling the pavement opposite. Crossing to the Heron house, he approaches a uniformed sergeant.

‘Is the CSM around, Sergeant?’

‘No, Lad. He went back to the station with one of my blokes.’

‘DI Parker?’

‘She left with the CSM. She said there isn’t much she can do until the forensics team are finished and that could be a while.’

‘Did they find anything interesting?’

‘Yes and no. Have you been in there?’

‘No, they sent me to interview the lady who reported the incident. Did they find a dog harness? A red one. Apparently the dog always wore it when they went out.’

‘No, Lad. They haven’t found anything. The place has been completely stripped.’

Darren steps off the curb and makes for the small VW he’d parked in Mrs. Darlington’s drive. A black BMW narrowly misses him and scuffs to a halt ten metres away.

DCI Jeff Bush steps out the beamer with a wide grin.

‘I’ll get you next time, DC Edwards. You need to brush up on your Green Cross Code, Son.’

‘Sorry sir. I didn’t hear you coming.’

‘Yeah that’s the problem with these bloody hybrid jobs. Is the CSM about?’

‘No sir, they went back to the station a short while ago.’

‘They?’

‘DI Parker went with him.’

‘Have you been in the house?’

‘No, Sir. I was sent here to interview the lady who reported the dog.’

‘Well you better come with me. . . . Darren isn’t it?

‘Yes, sir. Thank you sir.’

‘Don’t thank me, it’s your job. I like people working a case with me to call me Jeff. Breaks down barriers. It helps with passing on info. . . . Not in front of the uniform chappies though.’ Winks

‘I didn’t think I’d been put on this case, Sir.’

‘I’m the SIO, if you’re with me consider yourself on my team.’

‘Yes, Sir . . . Jeff.’ Big smile.

‘This’ll be good experience for you. . . . Besides, no other fucker’s available. What do you have?’

Darren shows DCI Bush, the most experienced investigator in the division, his recently scribed notes. Bush flips through the pages scanning each with care. When he finishes he hands it back.

‘That’s bloody unusual.’

‘Do you think so?’

‘Yeah, I can read your writing.’ Laughs, ‘No, lad there’s something really off over there.’

‘Could it be a drug thing?’

‘Too early. Never speculate this soon. Open minds are best at the moment, Darren. C’mon lets take a gander inside.’

Stopping in his tracks Bush stares at the group of letters and numbers filling the screen of his jangling smartphone.

‘Bloody Hell.’

Holding the device close to an ear, Jeff listens intensely.

‘I’ll start clearing out.’ Swiping the call off, he shook his head and muttered something under his breath.

Darren heard, ‘Kntz.’

‘Problem, Si—Jeff?’

DCI Bush shoves his phone in his coat, takes a deep breath and blows it loudly out through his teeth.  

‘Not ours anymore.’ Stands motionless for ten seconds. ‘. . . Fuck it. Come with me.’

Unsure of what the words meant Darren joined Bush as he approached the uniformed sergeant.

‘Morning, Sergeant. . . . Avon.’

‘Yes, Sir. Good Morning.’

‘DCI Bush. I’m the SIO on this one. We need to get inside ASAP.’

‘Yes, Sir, but the forensic people are still working on it.’

‘I’m sure they are, but I need to speak to the one in charge. Who’s the CSM’s main man?

‘Caroline Saunders, Sir.’ Tries to stifle smile.

‘Ah good. I know her.’

While they don gloves, hair and overshoe protection from a box by the door, Jeff whispers to Darren.

‘I weren’t far out, Lad.’

‘Is she gay?’ Macho smile.

‘No, Darren. She’s Dutch.’ Jeff lifts the incident tape and they pass under it.

Trekking across the paraphernalia laid down by the forensics team they are met by a fierce looking blonde who towers over 5' 11" Darren and has to look slightly down to meet 6' 4" Jeff's eyes. 

 ‘We haven’t finished yet, Inspector.’ Her soft voice out of sync with her wide shoulders and masculine features that make some women beautiful.

Darren “got” Bush’s whispered message.

‘Yes I know, Mrs Saunders. Sorry, but I need to have a look around before you get a call from the CSM.

‘You’re the SIO?’

‘At the moment, yes. Can you show us where you are so far please?’ Warm smile. ‘Good to see you again by the way.’

‘Of course, Inspector.’ Knowing nod.

The two detectives followed her through rooms containing articles of furniture upended or pulled apart and carpets ripped into clumsy rolls. Floor boards had been jemmied into gaping crocodile like grins. Remnants of curtains catapulted from wrecked rails hung like drawn and quartered victims. A small room, clearly converted from a bijou dining area into an office was littered with the remains of a desk, a chair and strands of cable ripped from wall sockets and missing computers. The fridge-freezer and every cupboard in the kitchen had been raped and eviscerated. Tins were the only items they once contained that hadn’t been opened or ripped into pieces and the contents dumped into pools of melting ice water.

Upstairs was a similar story, except only one of the three bedrooms was furnished. Bedclothes and curtains were in a pile wrapped in torn up foam back. The wardrobe and bedside tables had suffered a similar fate to the kitchen cupboards. Socks and items of underwear mixed in with bits of rubber foam decorated damaged floorboards. The bathroom looked like an elephant had slipped on a bar of soap while taking a shower.

During the tour, Bush used his smartphone to take shots around each room. Disapproving glances from Caroline were met with a mute “mind your own” shrug.

‘Curiously,’ Caroline said, ‘outer clothing like suits, coats and shoes appeared to have been removed. They even went into the loft. There’s a guy up there now. Pretty unpleasant with all that glass wool. We haven’t had a chance to do much up there yet.’

‘Someone here has seriously pissed somebody else off. Have you been outside?’

‘Yes, Inspector. The back-side was the point of entry.’ The unintended literal translation from Dutch brings on a childish guffaw from Darren which he tries to hide by coughing behind his hand. ‘There’s been a lot of activity there. If you want to go in the garden you’ll need wear an anti-contamination suit. We can’t risk it otherwise.’

 

Image by David Holt of London: https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marquage_Battenburg#/media/Fichier:London_...(26918177123).jpg