This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008124045

Ebook Edition © July 2015 ISBN: 9780008127664

Version: 2015-11-03

Dedication

To Ann Young, Zina Daniel and Maureen Larkin.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

Chapter One

I bound from the car and, nose to the ground, zig-zag around the front lawn of my new home. I hoover up downy feathers that stick to my wet nose and I sneeze, sending the feathers flying. As a pup, I once tore a cushion to shreds searching for the duck inside. I found loads of feathers but never found the duck. I’m still searching. Can’t be that many naked ducks about.

‘So, what do you think?’ Rose asks, smiling.

What do I think? I think those bitter white tablets the vet gave me were worth it after all. I can’t feel my stitches and my paws seem to float above the grass as if I’m dreaming. I run over to Rose, tail wagging like a windscreen wiper in a downpour, and lick her hand. After being cooped up in a cage at the vet’s, I need the wind in my fur, big time. So I charge up and down, leaning into each turn like a motorcycle at Brands Hatch, almost tripping over a faded wooden sign on the overgrown grass that once welcomed visitors to Duckdown Cottage. It even has a white duck painted on it.

Duck!

I bolt down the side of the house to where the duck droppings are so potent it’s like fireworks going off in my head.

‘Monty!’ she calls. ‘Leave the ducks alone.’

She can’t be serious! Duck and pheasant retrieval is what I’m bred for. It’s a calling.

I go into selective hearing mode and charge for the pond, revelling in the glorious combination of mud, poultry poo and stagnant water. It’s the canine equivalent of Chanel No. 5. Most of the quack-pack sit serenely in the shade of a willow. A matronly mallard leads them in meditation.

‘Om shanti,’ the mallard intones.

‘Om shanti,’ they reply.

The others snooze, plump bodies balanced on one of their twig-like legs, eyes closed. It’s too much. I can’t resist. Time for a bit of duck toppling!

I charge at them, plumed tail held high like the battle flag of an invading army, and bark with excitement. The ducks panic, running around in circles, then scatter. Some head for the water, others bolt across the lawn, wings back. Before Rose can grab my collar, I dive for the pond, water splashing over me, cool and exhilarating.

‘Monty, stop! Your stitches!’

Mouth open, I pounce on a black and white tufted dowager and come up with her in my jaws.

‘Get off me, you slobbering fur-ball!’ she quacks and kicks me in the muzzle.

I can’t tell this squirming mass of feathers and webbed feet that I’m not going to hurt her, because I’ll drop her if I do. Sodden but proud, I trot out of the pond and deposit the ruffled bird, unhurt, at Rose’s feet. A gift. I am expecting praise, ears up, long pink tongue dangling, mouth turned up in what the big’uns – that’s our term for people – often think of as a smile.

‘Bad dog!’ she scolds, trying to catch her breath.

The duck quacks out ‘Tosser!’ as she waddles off, a little wobbly.

I watch her go, my ears flat, head lowered, tail tucked in, confused by Rose’s reaction. Not the duck’s. They never take it well.

‘This isn’t going to work if you eat the ducks. You have to leave them alone, Monty,’ she says, wagging her finger.

Even when she’s cross she’s softly spoken. It’s like a gentle breeze whispering through tall grass.

I ‘harrumph’ and sit.

Detective Constable Rose Sidebottom is the alpha, the pack leader. My new pack. I can’t quite wrap my brain around what a sidebottom is, since the ones I like to sniff are most definitely at the back. So I think of her as Rose. She’s a trainee detective. I sympathise. I was a trainee guide dog once, and it’s not easy having your every move watched and judged. On the way here I spotted her training harness in the back of the car. Who’d have thought detectives wear them too! Except she calls hers a stab jacket. Not sure why.

I peer up at her eyes, the colour of Blu Tack. How do I know? I tried eating some once. Very chewy, which was great fun. But not very tasty. Her mousy brown hair is pulled back in a long ponytail that reminds me of a bushy tail. I know she is not very tall because my head comes up to her waist, but she is strong, as I found out when I bolted from my cage and she grabbed my collar. She’s not one for glinting, clinking jewellery and she dresses in monotones – today, it’s a grey trouser suit. The only exception is an antique silver watch with narrow strap and diamonds around the tiny face that carries someone else’s smell: a sickly person wrapped in blankets. Even this she keeps hidden under her shirt cuff. It’s as if she doesn’t want to be noticed.

Rose gnaws her lower lip. She looks worried. Is this because I chased the ducks? Oh no. I feel bad about that. I’ll have to try not to. Will be hard though. Goes against my instincts. You know the Retriever thing.

I puff out my chest and sit tall, determined to ignore the little quackers.

I will be good, I will.

But I just can’t resist a glance at the pond. The bird I’ve just released lifts her tail feathers and farts at me in defiance. Right, that’s it! I’m not putting up with …

‘Now we’ve got that clear I’ll show you around, but take it easy, okay? You need time to heal.’

I focus back on Rose. Butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth.

‘Stand!’ she commands.

I obey, quick-smart and walk to heel. I know how to do all this easy stuff. Sit! Heel! Drop! Stay! Fetch! All those commands – and many more – were drilled into me at guide dog school. Although I didn’t know at the time, getting to guide dog school is like winning a scholarship to Oxford or Cambridge. And I got top marks there, too. I was destined for great things. It wasn’t until my first posting that I disgraced myself and suffered the ultimate humiliation – but that’s a story for another time.

Ahead is a tumbledown shed covered in ivy. As wide as a garage, its lopsided wooden doors hang open on broken hinges. The ancient black paint peels and curls. I sniff a door post and pick up an old wee-mail – that’s the doggie equivalent of an email. It’s a message from a slightly deluded Dachshund called Legless who believes she is named after the elf in Lord of the Rings because of her exceptional speed. On those little legs? Somehow, I don’t think so. Wee-mails, though brief, go one step further than emails: they convey our mood. Hers is elation. She boasts she’s finally bitten the postman’s ankles after three years of trying. That I can believe: her head’s at the perfect height.

‘Aunt Kay used to love gardening. It helped her unwind,’ Rose says, staring at a dented green wheelbarrow just inside the door. ‘She could grow anything. She’d sing to the flowers, you know.’

I look up and see tears in her eyes. I lean against her leg and feel her sadness. It reminds me of my own. I don’t understand why big’uns’ eyes fill with water but I do understand the pain of loss and Rose clearly misses this Aunt Kay very much, just like I pine for Paddy, my old master. It feels like I’ve lost a limb and although it will never come back, the memory is agonisingly real. I howled each night at the vet’s, calling Paddy’s name, but in my heart I knew he wouldn’t come.

I miss Paddy’s hand stroking my head. I miss our fishing trips together and how he’d never scold me when I scared away the fish. I miss our evenings; he’d sit in his armchair tapping away at his laptop as I lay at his feet, head resting on his leather slippers. And I miss his smell: musty books, Listerine, woollen cardigan, and liver treats, which he always kept in his cardigan pocket, just in case.

‘Should mow the lawn one day,’ Rose mumbles, as she walks away.

It takes me a while to focus on what she’s said. Mow? Why? I prefer meadow. Love the way the dandelions tickle my belly and the bees scatter as I charge through the tall grass.

I place a wee-mail above Legless’s ancient message. No need to sign it because every dog has a unique aroma. It’s the same wee-mail I’ve left whenever I’ve had the chance to pee. It conveys my shame. I ask one question: who killed Professor Patrick Salt? I hang my head and tuck in my tail as I plod after Rose. She’s investigating his murder, but little does she know, so am I. I failed Paddy in life and I have vowed I will not fail him in his death.

Rose waits for me.

‘Poor boy,’ she says, giving me a pat. ‘I shouldn’t get cross with you. It’s not your fault I’ve messed up at work.’

It’s early evening in September and summer came late this year so the air is still warm and the light has only just begun to fade. We stroll by a greenhouse with panes of glass missing and tomato plants laden with over-ripe fruit. I can smell their sweetness. I also detect a ratty scent. I clock it for investi-gation later, and follow Rose to the very end of the garden where a tall oak tree tickles the sky and a thick yew hedge marks the boundary. My heart races. This must be where the river is. Oh boy! Just like home. Then I remember this is now my home.

In the distance, there’s a low rumble that becomes a clackety-clack. It gets louder as it draws closer. I feel vibrations through the ground. My nose is stung by a gush of air, ripe with hot metal, engine oil and rubber. I step back and bark a warning, then there’s a fearful scream from the other side of the hedge. It tears by so fast it’s gone in seconds, its bright eyes glaring at me through gaps in the foliage. My tail is up and curled over my back like a question mark, my legs wide set, then I charge forward and growl at the creature. I must defend us. I bark at Rose to move away, but she stands there laughing, her ponytail bobbing.

‘It’s all right, Monty, just a train. You’re going to have to get used to it. The line’s on the other side of the hedge.’

She strokes my head and I relax. Not sure about this train thing. Never met one before and until I’ve thoroughly sniffed it, I’ll be on my guard.

Rose kneels down and looks me in the eye.

‘The fence is pretty rotten and I can’t afford to fix it. So I need you to promise me you won’t run away.’ She scratches behind my ear.

Oh yeah! Up a bit, that’s it. A bit more. Ah yes, bliss!

‘Okay?’

For you, anything! I promise.

Unless …

Truth be told, I have an Achilles Heel. My nose might be my greatest asset but it’s also the chink in my furry armour. I’m a food addict. There. I’ve said it. An addict. Food’s the reason I’m no longer a guide dog. The most embarrassing moment of my life. But then, that’s how I met the Professor. Life’s confusing, isn’t it?

‘Hungry?’ Rose asks.

Something tells me we’re going to get along just fine.

I walk back to the house, so close to Rose she almost trips over me. She unlocks the stable-style kitchen door. It scrapes the worn yellow and brown, diamond-patterned lino floor. I am hit by a smorgasbord of smells: some very old indeed. What better place to inhale the house’s history than the kitchen? Rose’s scent is the newest: vanilla and honey, peppermint and the sea. She must’ve spent her childhood near the ocean because the sea is part of her make-up now. But her clothes carry the odours of her work: bitter coffee, stale cigarettes, plastic chairs in over-heated rooms and someone else’s sweat that’s tinged with the vinegary smell of fear. Ever wondered why your dog sniffs you when you come home? He wants to know where you’ve been and who you’ve met.

There’s a loud ringing coming from Rose’s pocket. I feel her body tense. She answers.

‘Sir?’ Her hand trembles.

I look around, searching for the threat, ready to defend her.

A man yells down the phone. ‘Sidebottom, get in here now!’

Chapter Two

If you asked Rose Sidebottom to describe herself she would say she was of average height with a forgettable face, had average mousy hair tied back in a plain ponytail, and graduated from police college with an average pass.

However, there were two things about her that were far from average. One was her embarrassing surname. She’d heard every single bottom joke ever invented. Her school days had been plagued by taunts, police college with practical jokes, and it was now proving a handicap in her struggle to be taken seriously as a trainee detective constable. The other unusual thing about Rose was her instinctive ability to know when somebody was lying. A tingling feeling, much like pins and needles, would spread from her hands and feet all over her body. As a child, it had sucked big time. Rose knew from a very young age that there was no Father Christmas or Tooth Fairy, that thunder wasn’t God moving His furniture, that at twelve her best friend had betrayed her secret crush on a boy to a gang of girls who hated her, and that her father was cheating on her mother. Life would have been so much easier simply not knowing.

However, as a police officer, her in-built lie-detector had sent her conviction rate through the roof, and at one domestic incident, she’d saved the life of a woman whose polite and helpful boyfriend had claimed all was well, as the woman lay bruised and bloodied in the back room. Her skill for ferreting out the truth helped her earn a coveted position on the Major Crime Team, much to the surprise and envy of her uniformed colleagues.

But it hadn’t saved her from committing the mother of all cock-ups earlier that evening, which is why she now stood in front of DCI Craig Leach, wishing the ground would open up and swallow her. Her boss sat behind his messy desk; his shaved snooker-ball head welded to a heavy-set, bull-like body without, so it appeared, a neck.

Rose tried not to fidget.

‘Do you realise what you’ve done?’ he said, his voice a low rumble, his Mancunian accent as strong as ever, even after twenty years working down South. He didn’t wait for her answer. He yelled, red-faced.

‘You’ve blown Operation Nailgun!’ Boom! Like a volcano erupting.

Nailgun was a Drugs Squad operation.

He continued, ‘DI Morgan’s livid, and I don’t blame him. Five months of surveillance up in smoke!’

The flats of his fat-fingered hands slammed down on the desk, the piles of files quivering. Rose jumped, and knew that through the glass wall behind her, DI Pearl heard every word. Why was he still here? They’d been working non-stop on the Salt case all weekend. Everyone else had gone home to get some much needed rest.

‘Sir, I had no idea who he was. I’m not involved in Operation Nailgun.’

‘You walked straight past two undercover detectives in their car, and then Gary and Meg in the pub. They couldn’t believe it, and nor can I. What are you? Blind?’

‘Sir, I barely know Gary and Meg.’

The Drugs Squad was on level four, Major Crime on two.

Rose naturally spoke quietly, with a soft West Country accent, unwilling to engage in the loud banter and often coarse language of her fellow detectives. She knew Leach found her voice irritatingly mouse-like, so she raised it as best she could. But it sounded more like a croak.

‘I stopped at the pub to have a quick drink on my way home. To be honest, sir, I was a bit shaken up.’ She paused. Was she sounding weak?

Leach nodded. ‘Go on.’

‘Sir, he started chatting me up. I was flattered. He’s a good-looking bloke. Charming.’

‘Ray Summers? The charming bastard deals in Class A drugs. The real nasty stuff. He’s … no, he was our only lead in an international drugs trafficking ring. Summers was meeting the local gang leader tomorrow. One more day and we’d have had those scumbags behind bars. Do you see what you’ve done?’

‘I’m sorry, sir.’ Close to tears, she stared at the floor.

‘What the hell did you tell him?’

‘Nothing, sir. I didn’t even tell him I was a police officer.’

Revealing her job sent any potential boyfriend running for the hills. It was a more effective turn-off than body odour, flatulence or a history of chain-saw massacres.

‘Well, you blew their cover, didn’t you! They raid his warehouse a half hour later and find a big fat nothing. No drugs, no computers, no financials, and he’s disappeared.’

Rose swallowed hard. Her career was about to end before it had even begun, because of one stupid mistake. Why-oh-why hadn’t she just picked up Monty and taken a bottle of plonk home with her instead?

‘How did he know you were a detective?’

‘When I went to the loo, I left my handbag behind. He must’ve gone through it and found my warrant card.’

Leach raised surprisingly bushy eyebrows, given his scalp was so hairless. They reminded Rose of furry caterpillars on a white cabbage. ‘Never let your warrant card out of your sight, Sidebottom. This is your last chance.’

‘Sorry, sir, it won’t happen again.’

‘Did he at least say anything that could help us find him?’

‘He was on the phone when I got back from the loo. He ended the call when he saw me, but I heard him say something about a shipment. That it had to be stopped. Then he made his excuses and left in a hurry. I didn’t put two and two together until Meg came over and gave me an ear-bashing.’

Leach had his hands clasped together on the desk so tightly that his puffy knuckles turned purple.

‘So, the Super chews my ear off, Morgan wants you back on the beat, and God knows what your team will think of you. Great result!’ He threw his weight into the back of his chair. The bags under his eyes were darker and puffier than usual. She felt sorry for him. ‘If your colleagues don’t trust you, you’re no use to them or me. You need to fix this. Start by apologising to Morgan and don’t put a foot wrong on the Salt case, you hear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Leach placed his hands behind his head and studied her flushed face.

‘Rose, are you sure you really want to do this job?’ His voice had softened. ‘We get to see people at their worst. Doing terrible things. Murder, torture, abuse. It’s long hours, the public and the media generally hate us, and it’s hard on relationships.’

Rose glanced at his ring finger where a wedding band had once been, leaving a permanent dent in his pudgy skin.

‘Yes, sir.’ She looked straight into his eyes. ‘I’ve always wanted to be a detective.’

Leach tilted his head to one side. ‘God, you remind me of Kay when she was your age. Stubborn and naïve.’ He smiled, which was rare and therefore unnerving. His teeth were surprisingly small for such a large head. Like baby teeth. ‘She found it tough going at first, you know. She was sensitive, found the blood and guts hard to deal with. But she was dogged. Wouldn’t give up. Became the best DI I’ve ever known.’

‘I want to be like Kay, sir. I know I can do it.’

Leach nodded as he stood. ‘Maybe. But this is a big cock-up, Rose. I’m increasing your supervision and assigning you to an experienced DI …’

Opening his office door, Leach beckoned Dave Pearl inside.

A slick dresser, fancied by most of the female officers and popular with the lads, he sauntered into the office as if it were his own.

‘Dave is your new mentor.’

Just when Rose thought it couldn’t get any worse, it just did. Dave’s tanned forehead creased into a frown as his eyes, the colour of tarnished silver, looked down at her with contempt.

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