K-9 (17 page)

‘I’d prefer to deal in the rational,’ said Darkus. ‘This sort of thing was common practice in East Germany during the Cold War. The secret police kept thousands of pieces of fabric in jars, taken covertly from potential dissidents, in order to track them with sniffer dogs at rallies or insurrections.’ He closed his encyclopaedic brain for a moment. ‘But that doesn’t bring us any closer to stopping King. Or to finding out who’s going to be targeted at the next full moon.’

They were interrupted by the bagpipe ringtone of Bill’s secure phone. He patted himself down, locating the phone in a commodious inside pocket.

‘Aye,’ he said into the handset. ‘Aye, aye, aye.’ He relayed the information to Darkus. ‘Nae sign of King. Nae sign of the beasties. The building’s clean.’ He listened again. ‘Aye . . . Ew . . . OK.’ He hung up, then turned to face Tilly. ‘I’m afraid it appears yer mucker Brendan Doyle was involved in a particularly . . .
nasty
hit-and-run accident.’

‘No –’ Tilly stammered. ‘Is he dead?’

‘He’s been admitted tae hospital with what they’re calling “life-changing injuries”.’

Tilly looked down, biting her lip until blood trickled down one side of her mouth. It was closely followed by a stream of bitter, stinging tears. ‘I have to see him.’

Bill shook his head. ‘He’s under police guard. Nae one’s getting through.’

She looked up at Darkus, her mascara running. ‘He was covering for me. Because he liked me . . .’

Darkus reached over and held her around the shoulders, reluctantly, because he didn’t know the rules for this sort of engagement, but he instinctively knew it was what she needed. ‘It’s not your fault . . .’

‘I should’ve known,’ she insisted.

‘We’re not dealing with ordinary criminals.’

‘You’re right,’ she sobbed, pushing him away, then wiping off the mascara in a horizontal smear that resembled warpaint. ‘They take people’s lives away, without mercy. Like they took away Mum. And that’s why they’re going to
pay
.’

Darkus had to remind himself that few of Tilly’s reactions would ever be as calibrated or rational as his own. The Combination had murdered her mother in a freak car ‘accident’, and no matter how much anyone tried to make up for that loss, those scars would never heal. And due to the fact that her mother had been his father’s former assistant, deep down Darkus knew Tilly would always hold him and his dad responsible too.

The Ford saloon pulled up outside 27 Cherwell Place, then Darkus, Tilly and Uncle Bill approached the blue door with Wilbur in tow.

Bogna greeted them each in turn, reserving an extra big hug for Uncle Bill who appeared to lift her clean out of her Crocs for a few seconds.

‘Och, yoo’re a big lassie . . .’

‘Mr Billochs, really.’ Bogna blushed under her housecoat. Then she pointed Wilbur in the direction of a bowl of what appeared to be cabbage stew, which he wasted no time in consuming hungrily.

Darkus led the procession to his father’s office, where Knightley remained composed but unconscious on the sofa, with the Discovery Channel playing on TV.

‘How is he?’ Darkus asked.

‘Nothing changes,’ said Bogna. ‘He say somethings during his bed bath, I don’t understand what . . . You want I make some sandwich? Triangle not square?’

Darkus and Tilly nodded gratefully.

‘That’d be stoatin’, Boggers,’ Bill replied eagerly.

Bogna smiled coquettishly, straightened her apron and vanished downstairs.

Darkus relayed the details of his pursuit and subsequent capture at the hands of Barabas King, then Tilly provided supporting information on his gang and their methods of operation. Bill listened, awkwardly shifting his weight in the armchair and intermittently wheezing.

‘King could be hidden in any number of estates across London,’ Tilly explained. ‘He’s impossible to track. I’ve tried.’

‘What about the dogs?’ asked Bill. ‘How’s he training ’em? And why are the attacks happening at the full moon?’

‘Murderers have a habit of striking on significant dates,’ said Darkus. ‘From serial killers to terror groups. They often pick dates that are numerologically or culturally significant. As well as describing the date September 11th, the numbers 9-11 are also the phone number for the US emergency services. Perhaps that was no coincidence.’

Tilly nodded. ‘Superstition adds to the sense of terror, which is exactly what King wants. To frighten his op­ponents into submission.’

Darkus turned the evidence over in his mind. ‘The full moon is the perfect decoy. Everyone’s chasing werewolves, while the real culprits are perfectly ordinary attack dogs.’

‘Wait a second,’ Tilly interrupted. ‘There’s nothing ordinary about those dogs. Whoever’s behind this has trained them to track their enemies like laser-guided missiles. That could only be the work of a state-sponsored group. Or a group large enough to draw on multiple assets – perhaps even the supernatural.’

‘You’re talking about the Combination again.’

‘It’s the only answer,’ said Tilly bluntly. ‘And remember, those dogs were sniffing around
your
house and
your
office.’ She gestured to the Knightleys’ headquarters. ‘I’ll put money on
you
or your
dad
being next.’ She looked around. ‘By the way . . . where’s your hat?’

Darkus checked around, before realising with a sinking feeling. ‘I left it at the tower block.’

‘Whit da – ?’ Bill anxiously searched about for his own hat, then realised it was still on his head.

‘Coincidence . . . ?’ Tilly asked Darkus. ‘I think not. Looks like you need my help. Again.’

Darkus checked his watch, then turned to Tilly. ‘When is your dad going to notice you’ve gone AWOL?’

‘He doesn’t seem that bothered any more. He still gets memory lapses,’ she explained. ‘Must be the aftermath of Underwood’s post-hypnotic suggestion. Sometimes he doesn’t seem to know I’m there at all.’

‘What about Mum?’

‘Jackie? She’s more concerned about
you
,’ Tilly said with a trace of envy, then shrugged. ‘I figure I can stay out until the full moon. That’s only two days from now.’

‘I’m aware of that,’ said Darkus grimly.

The door pushed open and Wilbur entered, followed by Bogna carrying a tray of sandwiches. As Bogna gave detailed descriptions of each one, Wilbur curled up at Darkus’s feet. Darkus realised he’d missed the quiet companionship of his four-legged friend, who seemed a world away from the war dog he’d witnessed in action a few hours earlier. Now slumped at his feet, without the tactical vest, the German shepherd was just like any other household pet: a lovable furball, someone to confide in, who would silently understand without passing judgement. For a person who thrived on exchanging ideas and competing theories, this was a calming antidote for Darkus. Talking to a pet might seem like a safe option, or a captive audience; after all, Wilbur would never open his mouth to question his judgement – although he’d done just that during the pursuit. Yet, for Darkus, confiding in someone who couldn’t talk back was second nature. That was the state his father had been in for those four long years – and was in again now.

Knightley’s chest heaved and fell as Bill and Tilly helped themselves to the sandwiches, but Darkus had lost his appetite.

Bogna fetched Tilly a self-inflating mattress and some blankets, making up a bed for her on the landing. Uncle Bill said his goodbyes and returned to the Ford saloon which was waiting outside. Darkus remained in the armchair with Wilbur at his feet, watching his father. Tilly soon fell asleep beyond the doorway. The TV continued playing the Discovery Channel at a low volume. Before long, Darkus and Wilbur were asleep as well.

By midnight, the terraced house was vibrating with snores.

In the office, the Discovery Channel showed footage of a leopard chasing a gazelle across the African tundra. A sober narrator explained: ‘The
combination
of speed and agility gives the wild cat an effortless advantage over its hapless prey . . .’

From the sofa, Knightley’s hand clenched into a fist, then his lips began to curl into a malformed word. ‘Cohmm . . . bin . . . ation . . .’ he mumbled quietly. The word appeared to be waking him up, just as it had done with his last ‘episode’. Then he went quiet again, his hand falling limp, in the same position as before.

The other investigators were none the wiser.

Outside the house, a lone figure arrived on Cherwell Place, her slim figure casting a thin shadow over the pavement. She paused as two Rottweilers exited the street at the other end, strangely trotting side by side. She cocked her head and adjusted her trilby hat as she watched their stubby tails turn the corner. She waited warily for a moment, then headed towards number 27, unshouldered her leather reporter bag, reached under the flap of her belted raincoat and dug in her trouser pocket, pulling out some small change. She chose a one-pence coin, reached back and hurled it up at the top window. It plinked against the glass, almost hard enough to break it, but fortun­ately not quite. The coin skittered away into the road.

Darkus woke with a start as Wilbur raced to the window and balanced his front paws on the ledge. Tilly and Knightley continued snoring, apparently unperturbed.

Darkus rose from the armchair, parted the curtains and peered out, seeing the female figure on the street below. He hesitated, waiting until he had a positive identification, then closed the curtains and guided Wilbur to his basket.

‘Stay here, boy. Don’t wake anyone up.’

Darkus pulled on his herringbone coat and crept across the landing.

He descended the stairs, hearing the bronchial rumblings from Bogna’s quarters, then opened the front door and walked past the railings to the street. The female figure sauntered to greet him.

‘Sorry to drop in on you like this,’ she said.

‘Hello, Alexis,’ said Darkus cautiously. ‘What can I do for you? Not another photo shoot I hope? I haven’t had my beauty sleep.’

Alexis smiled, resting one foot on the pavement and exposing a slender trouser leg through the folds of her raincoat.

‘I’ve got all the shots I need. And like I said, you can call me Lex.’ She curled a lock of blonde hair under her hat and waited for him to respond.

‘So, what can I do for you . . . Lex?’

She reached in her reporter bag and pulled out a freshly printed newspaper, bearing the name:
The Cranston Star
.

‘I wanted you to see tomorrow’s headline,’ she said proudly and handed him the paper.

Darkus unfolded it to reveal the front page:

Darkus felt the colour drain from his face as he began to read:

A photo of Darkus, covertly taken, filled the lower half of the page. Inset was a photo of the Tai Chi man.

‘What have you done?’ he whispered.

‘It’s called investigative journalism. This is my big break,’ she boasted.

Darkus felt his blood begin to boil, at the same time as his eyes were blinded by her charms. His heart and mind had declared war on each other.

‘You’ll jeopardise the whole investigation,’ he warned. ‘You might even jeopardise
lives
.’