It's Always the Dog Walkers

I stumbled upon the first of the bodies by a clump of blackberries.

Well, luckily I didn’t literary stumble upon it, because I was wearing my Hunter wellies. The ones I’d brought for Glastonbury. Limited edition of course. Some Scandinavian designer with an unpronounceable name but fabulous taste dear and four times the price of those nasty things Susie Prenderghast turned up in. I’m sure she was wearing them for a bet.

But where were we? Oh yes. Max Mara, my Tameside Terrier. Very exclusive breed, you know. Not yet recognised by those fuddy-duddies at the Kennel Club. But here’s a tip, it’s sure to be the next big thing once Paris Hilton’s featured in Hello Magazine with hers. All very hush, hush, or so the breeder told me as he debited my American Express card with the 5 K.

Well Maxy, out for a jaunt in his brand new studded collar and matching leather pants starts sniffing round, what I can only describe as a thing. Oh Revolting. It looked like a cross between a dressed crab and a rotten peach. Urgh. Turned by stomach. I’m sure I would have retched if I hadn’t been wearing vintage Chanel.

‘Put it down boy,’ I tell him, quite severely. Well does he listen? Does he Burberry? He’s got such an independent spirit, has my Maxy. He carries on, sniffing, nudging, licking.

‘Max Mara’, I say, quite sharply this time. ‘Put that thing down or you’ll get your new outfit all mucky.’

Well, Doris, my lady who does, her cousin’s a specialist dry cleaner and she’s sure she can get that nasty black ooze out of my Gucci scarf. It’s not cheap, mind you, but you get what you pay for, I always say.

Luckily, I’ve got a pair of rubber gloves in my roomy Radley handbag, (as featured in Vogue). Just in case Maxy … well keep the country tidy. That’s my motto. They’re ever so stylish, black with a diamante monogram, and fur-trimmed cuffs. Well, I have to protect my Marple Manicure, French is so last year, all the smart people are shopping locally, and a hundred and fifty pounds is not bad for a half-hour Bollin mud-wrap and Nantwich salt-scrub, plus extra for the polish in Stockport Scarlet.

So, I reach over and try to pull the thing from Maxy’s mouth. Revolting. I screw my eyes shut, but then I think of crow’s feet, so I open them again and cover them delicately with one hand.

And that’s when I hear his voice, all dreamy and Richard Burton.

‘It’s always the dog walkers isn’t it?’ he says. A bit of a peculiar thing to say, but he must be alright because he looks like Brad Pitt and he’s wearing a Rolex.

‘Hello yourself’, I simper flashing my ten grand veneers at him and touching his arm flirtatiously.

‘And joggers they’re another lot’. Oh he’s a bit gruff. And his jeans are last season’s Calvin Klein, but men like to dress down for a stroll along the canal. Don’t they?

‘Have I missed something?’ I say batting my Cheryl Cole eyelashes, and flashing my Yves St Laurent mineral eye-shadow in oyster and pearl.

‘Bodies.’ Oh, he’s a bit fresh. But I like a man who cuts to the chase. Very Bruce Willis. But with a bit more hair.

‘Jogging’s not really my thing, but I did the Bollington Booty Bootcamp last May and I think the results are quite evident’. I say wiggling my pert derriere, alluringly. Of course the bit of lipo helped but he doesn’t need to know that.

‘Corpses, cadavers, grisly murder victims, always discovered by dog walkers. Have you ever thought, if there were no dog walkers the Old Bailey would have to close down due to lack of business. Biggest bunch of busy bodies on the planet are dog walkers.’

Oh he’s looming in an attractively brooding manner. Very Collin Firth as Mr Darcy.

‘What ever do you mean?’ I demand spiritedly. A woman who owns a genuine Armani evening gown should never be cowed by a man in an Emporio sweater.

‘That mongrel of yours...’

‘Mongrel!’ Well I’m outraged as you can imagine, ‘Max Mara Jean-Paul Giorgio the Third, is no mongrel. I’ll have you know he has a very exclusive pedigree.’

‘That mongrel…’ and you know he spits the word, very uncouth, that’s the last time I trust a man in last years Calvin’s. ‘That mongrel is poking his nose in where he’s not wanted.’

‘You are a very rude man’, I tell him straight. ‘Max Mara, drop that bit of old fishing bait and come here at once. We’re leaving.’

‘No you don’t’ and he has the effrontery to block my way. A man in Marks and Spencer boxer shorts, (you can see the elastic over the top of his Calvin’s) has the effrontery to block my way.

Well, quick as a flash I whip out my No 5 body spray (as worn by the legendary Marylyn Monroe) and squirt it in his eyes. And while he’s rolling on the floor I tie him up with my Chanel belt. Then, I get onto my diamond encrusted i-phone and call out the boys in blue.

He was ever so nice, that young constable. Dealt with all that grisly business they found under the blackberry bush. I knew we’d get on as soon as he got out his Paul Smith pen to take my statement.