K-9 (2 page)

The dog was almost smiling, its slick coat glowing in the mist. Playtime was over, it was dinner time now – and Bill presented a buffet spread of possibilities.

‘A’right, beastie,’ he wheezed.

The dog hissed through its bared teeth.

‘Cheerio for nou –’ Bill grabbed hold of the railing and hoisted himself over, teetering on the edge for a few seconds, like a side of beef on a butcher’s scale.

The dog leaped up at him and bit, tearing away a piece of calf flesh and corduroy. But gravity was on Bill’s side, and with another small budge, his full bulk toppled over the edge of the railings.

Somehow, Bill had the forethought to tuck his knees against his belly (as close as his physique would permit) then wrapped his arms around them, forming a human cannonball as he hit the freezing surface of the Thames, ejecting a tower of water into the air in his wake. A bystander on dry land described the scene as similar to a small car being dropped into a lake.

Bill instantly vanished underwater, his entire form being swallowed up by the river. Within moments, the tower of water evaporated and the Thames returned to its restless flow, leaving no trace of him.

The dog watched from the bridge, whined with abject disappointment, then trotted back across the walkway and into the night.

Chapter 1

Healthy Competition

Darkus Knightley knelt down in the grass, planting his fingers along the chalk line. Six other runners were pos­itioned alongside him, with the Cranston School sports field extending ahead of them. Although Darkus was physically fit, his frame was slighter than many of his classmates. He considered his physical form a vessel for his brain rather than a tool in itself – although he had, on occasion, needed to rely on it for self-defence. But even then, his brain was the real weapon; his body merely followed orders. He was also far more comfortable in a nicely cut tweed suit than in his own skin – which was currently exposed to the elements with only a running vest, shorts and a clunky pair of trainers for protection. And no hat.

The benefit of exercise, in his mind, was that it dulled the noise of the ‘catastrophiser’ – that trusty tool of his, which continually digested potential clues from his immediate surroundings and churned out the worst-case scenario. Of course the worst-case scenario was often
not
the case, but when it
was
, the device would quickly unearth the dark, unpalatable truth.

He also found that physical exercise provided a fresh burst of oxygen to help him solve any outstanding cases or logic problems; but, if he was honest, he had precious few of those to solve at the moment, due to the fact that his father, Alan Knightley, had once again disappeared into his work, leaving Darkus behind to deal with the trivial pursuits of school life.

Burke, the sports master, fired the starting pistol, which snapped Darkus’s mind into sharp focus. His fingers left the chalk line and balled into fists as his legs projected him down the track. The fifteen hundred metres was a chess game as much as a race and he would need to time it perfectly if he had any hope of finishing in a reasonable position. There was no audience in attendance, and no possibility he could win, but Darkus took a certain pride in everything he did. Strangely, the last time he’d run with such determination was when he was being pursued by Burke the sports master himself. Darkus had assisted his stepsister Tilly with her great escape from the school grounds only three months earlier. Fortunately, Burke had never made a positive identification. Of course back then the stakes had been infinitely higher: saving his father’s life; and protecting the world from his one-time godfather Morton Underwood and the evil Combination. Today was a far simpler game.

Matt Wilson, the school champion and an honest competitor, was already moving towards the inside lane, leading the pack. Brendan Doyle, who was built like an outhouse and wasn’t exactly charitable by nature – due to an unhappy home life, Darkus deduced – jostled for position, still wearing the hoodie that he routinely used to intimidate fellow classmates. The teachers had put Doyle down a couple of years, which only added to his physical superiority. Darkus allowed Doyle to move in front of him and watched as the bully elbowed other runners out of the way.

Darkus turned the first corner, near the back of the pack – then saw something in the undergrowth at the edge of the track: it was the glint of a single lens. By the diameter of the reflection Darkus estimated it was a telephoto lens, with a focal length of between two hundred and three hundred millimetres. Darkus’s catas­trophiser started whirring feverishly, stealing oxygen from the rest of his body and raising his heart rate. It was unlikely to be a sniper. There were more discreet ways to dispose of a detective than on a school playing field. But if not, then who was it? As his arms and legs kept moving, his breathing sped up and he experienced a burning sensation in his lungs from gulping down the cold air. As usual, he didn’t want to listen to the catastrophiser, but his rational brain provided no reasonable explanation.

Darkus took evasive action by moving forward through the pack to obscure himself from whoever was watching. He saw Doyle in front of him, his hoodie visibly lagging from the exertion. Darkus moved to overtake him.

‘What are you doing,
Dorkus
?’ the boy demanded.

‘Nothing special,’ Darkus answered in between breaths.

‘Think you’re going to beat me or something?’

‘Highly unlikely. You have a clear, physical advantage.’

‘Then why are you all up in my stuff?’

‘Just avoiding someone,’ Darkus answered, glancing back to see the glint at six o’ clock relative to his current position.

Doyle cocked his hoodie, baffled. ‘By the way, it’s Friday. What happened to that homework you owe me?’

‘I’m afraid I had to go back on our agreement,’ Darkus began. ‘My hope was that a few good marks would boost your morale and improve your overall performance. But I can see my intervention has had the opposite effect,’ he said, catching his breath. ‘Might I suggest focusing on sport? Perhaps of the full contact variety?’

Darkus stopped talking, steadied his breathing and continued to move through the pack until he felt a sharp pain in his right thigh. At the same time his right leg buckled and collapsed. He silently tumbled to the grass at the side of the track, feeling a numb, wet sensation on the upper part of his leg. The three other runners in close proximity collided painfully with him and fell nearby. Wilson the school champion slowed down, looking over his shoulder to check that none of his classmates were injured. Doyle accelerated past the leader triumphantly.

Darkus investigated the pain, reaching down to discover a small puncture wound in his thigh, which was oozing blood. The wound was too small for a sniper’s bullet, too messy for a knife blade, but perfectly corres­ponded to a homemade ‘shiv’ – or improvised blade. Darkus looked up to see Doyle toss just such a weapon – a sharpened plastic comb whose teeth had been removed – into the undergrowth at the edge of the track. Doyle, who was now leading the pack, turned and shot Darkus a sinister smile from under his hoodie.

Darkus ignored this petty assault, and searched instead for the glinting lens, which had now vanished al­together. As Darkus scanned the surroundings, Burke jogged over to him, to inspect the wound.

‘You’re bleeding, Knightley.’ Burke peered over his handlebar moustache.

‘Must’ve caught it on a spike, sir. No harm done.’

Darkus got to his feet, took out a monogrammed handkerchief, bound up his leg, and completed the race.

He came last.

Darkus’s mum, Jackie, was waiting at the school gates with Wilburforce sitting obediently beside her, his bat-ears twitching at every small sound. When Darkus approached in his usual tweed jacket and waistcoat ensemble, Wilbur wagged his tail once, which was normally the extent of the greeting. Darkus wasn’t offended by this, because he knew the German shepherd was still recovering from the deafeningly loud noises he’d encountered during his long career in the K-9 unit of the bomb disposal squad. Darkus didn’t know all the case histories because they were classified, but he could see by the greying temples and the tired eyes that Wilbur had seen more than most dogs (or people) would ever wish to.

Wilbur had been a gift from Darkus’s father, Alan, after their first assignment. It was fair to say that this recent addition to the family hadn’t gone down brilliantly with Darkus’s stepdad, Clive. It had only been a matter of months since Clive suffered under the hypnotic powers of the villain Morton Underwood and had an embarrassing on-air meltdown while filming his TV series,
Wheel Spin
 – which was then taken off the air. And now an emotionally fragile police dog had moved into his house, leaving unexplained puddles (or worse) in the garage and sitting in his favourite La-Z-Boy chair. For some reason, Wilbur’s post-traumatic stress disorder only ever seemed to affect Clive’s belongings. Darkus, Jackie, and Clive’s daughter, Tilly, were all immune. Their clothes never went missing and their things were never chewed or found their way to the bottom of the garden. Clive, however, was fair game for all of Wilbur’s less sociable habits and there was no end to the missing gloves, hats, boxer shorts and DVDs that he would complain to Jackie about.

Darkus and Jackie talked in private about the fact that Clive’s mind hadn’t been the same since his own trauma – and he seemed to routinely forget where he’d put things. So perhaps the objects that were going missing weren’t
all
Wilbur’s fault. Naturally, Clive was convinced that the
Schweinhund
(German for pig-dog) was responsible for everything that was wrong in the house. Jackie had relented and tried a local dog trainer, with no success. After that she hired a ‘dog whisperer’, but the words fell on deaf ears. Next, Jackie tried an even more alternative therapy and visited a friend of a friend who specialised in natural remedies, including herbal extracts and flower essences. Wilbur tried taking what was known as a ‘rescue remedy’ with his morning meal, but the only discernible effect was that he trotted around the house for the rest of the day with his tail between his legs, peeing uncontrollably.

‘How was school?’ enquired Jackie, bringing Darkus back to the present.

‘The usual,’ Darkus replied, then put on his tweed walking hat and patted Wilbur on the head. ‘Attaboy,’ he whispered.

Wilbur wrinkled his jowls and lifted his whiskers in a half-smile.

Doyle appeared through the school gates, tightening the strings of his hoodie and flashing a gang sign of some kind at Darkus, who smiled and waved by way of reply. Wilbur growled protectively, straining on the lead.

‘Easy . . .’ Darkus reassured the mutt. ‘Nothing I can’t handle.’

Tilly appeared through the gates next, in a leather jacket with her hair in purple dip-dyed pigtails. ‘What up, fam?’

‘We’re fine, thank you, Tilly,’ said Jackie, and led the motley-looking group towards their waiting estate car.

Darkus tapped his stepsister on the shoulder, leaving Jackie to put Wilbur in the back of the car. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but were you watching me on the playing field?’ he asked.

‘Me?’ Tilly snipped. ‘No. Why would I be doing that?’

Despite the easing of relations on their first case, Darkus was reminded that Tilly’s default setting would always be defensive since losing her mother, Carol – who’d been Darkus’s father’s assistant.

‘Never mind,’ he said, puzzled.

At that moment, a blonde female classmate darted out of the school gates and approached them. Tilly instinctively moved to block her: ‘Can I help you?’

‘My name’s Alexis,’ the blonde introduced herself. ‘Friends call me Lex.’

‘I know who you are,’ said Tilly disdainfully, giving her the once-over. ‘Editor-in-chief of
The
Cranston Star
.’

‘And chief photographer,’ added Darkus, who couldn’t help observing Alexis’s slender legs, against which a long-lensed camera dangled from a strap over her shoulder. She was a year older than him, but at this age, it felt like an aeon.

‘Guilty as charged,’ replied Alexis, her lips curling into a cockeyed smile. She plucked a small twig from her blonde tresses, then flicked it away.

‘You were watching me on the playing field,’ deduced
Darkus.

‘Sorry if I distracted you,’ she answered.

Tilly looked from Alexis to Darkus, unsure if she was detecting chemistry.

‘If you wanted a photo, you only needed to ask,’ said Darkus and shrugged on his herringbone overcoat.

‘I wasn’t after a glamour shot, Darkus. Or should I say . . . “Doc”. The truth is, I’m breaking a story.’

‘Really?’ Tilly interjected. ‘And what’s the subject matter?’

‘It’s autobiographical, really. You see, I was on the Piccadilly Line last October, over half-term. Dad was taking me to a matinee . . .’ she said coyly. ‘I don’t remember what film to be honest.’

‘So?’ demanded Tilly. ‘For a journalist you certainly take a long time getting to the point.’

‘I witnessed a unique air pressure phenomenon while we were underground,’ said Alexis flatly. ‘A freak tornado. You may’ve heard about it?’