K-9 (20 page)

‘And his son,’ muttered Clive dismissively.

Draycott continued reading. ‘A werewolf?!’ he blurted. ‘Hah!!’

‘I have a feeling my daughter’s involved too. She’s been AWOL since yesterday afternoon.’

‘You realise I can’t involve the police without reasonable suspicion that a crime has been committed.’

‘I don’t want the fuzz involved.’

Draycott frowned at this crude slang for law enforcement. ‘Then what
do
you want?’

‘To find out what’s
really
going on up there on Hampstead Heath. It’s probably just a bunch of hyperactive foxes. Cute, cuddly foxes.’ Clive’s face went blank and he seemed to drift off for a moment.

‘I believe the correct term is a
skulk
of foxes.’

‘Whatever.’

‘Your point being . . . ?’ urged Draycott.

‘I want to pool our resources, uncover the truth and discredit the Knightleys for good. A covert operation, undercover, black ops, dead of night. We catch the preda­tor and the Knightleys are left with egg on their face. Well, what d’you say?’ Clive panted. ‘It’ll be . . .
phe-nom-enal
.’ A tiny ball of saliva formed at the corner of his mouth as he waited for Draycott’s response. ‘Come on, don’t keep me hanging here.’

Draycott flicked through all the reasons why this would be a terrible, potentially career-ending move, before replying: ‘OK, you’re on.’

‘Fan-tastic!’ Clive erupted, before sitting down in his seat again.

So tantalising was the prospect of outwitting the ‘great’ Alan Knightley and his extremely odd son, that Draycott couldn’t resist. ‘But we do things
my
way, Clive. No showboating. This isn’t TV, this is reality.’

‘You took the words right out of my mouth.’

‘Right. I need to think about this.’

‘What sort of car will we need?’ asked Clive excitedly. ‘I’m thinking all-terrain. Or quad bikes. Quad bikes are awesome.’

‘We need to move stealthily, under cover of night.’

‘Black quad bikes.’

‘No quad bikes, Clive.’

‘OK.’ He still looked like he had quad bikes on the brain.

‘We need to get to Hampstead Heath as soon as possible, before the whole of Great Britain picks up on this story.’

Clive picked up his phone and slid it across the table. ‘Might be a little late for that . . .’ On the screen a national tabloid headline read:
Detectives track werewolf in London.
‘News travels fast,’ said Clive.

‘Then we must be faster,’ replied Draycott as the food arrived. ‘I’ll have mine boxed up to take away.’

‘Make that two, Doreen,’ said Clive.

Doreen shrugged and trudged away.

At that moment, another figure entered the restaur­ant sporting a handlebar moustache, a combat jacket with
Burke
velcroed on it, and a pair of jogging trousers bearing the Cranston logo.

‘Forgot to mention,’ added Clive. ‘I’ve enlisted some extra ground support. May I introduce Lance Corporal Burke from Cranston’s PE department.’

Burke nudged in beside him. ‘Unavoidable delay. Man down on the rugger pitch.’

Clive patted him on the shoulder. ‘Burke’s encountered the Knightleys before – Darkus, to be exact, during one of my daughter’s escape attempts. He also has a background in army special operations.’

‘Really?’ said Draycott dubiously.

‘Territorials. The Rock,’ replied Burke.

‘Alcatraz?’ asked Draycott, confused.

‘Gibraltar,’ the teacher corrected him.

‘Ah,’ said Draycott, looking him over. ‘Nice facial hair.’

‘Ditto,’ said Burke.

‘Trust me,’ Clive went on. ‘Ray is a good man in a fight. And he’s got some sweet gadgets. So are we ready to rock ’n’ roll or what?’

Clive raised his hand to Draycott in a high five.

Draycott winced but couldn’t disguise the eager smile spreading under his moustache. He extended his hand and smacked it triumphantly against Clive’s.

‘But no funny business,’ Draycott warned him, pointing at his newfound ally with the long finger of the law.

‘Cub’s honour,’ replied Clive, giving the three-finger salute, but knowing full well he’d earned a lifetime ban for tying another scout’s tent to the trailer hitch of a four-by-four. ‘It’s
showtime
!’

Chapter 18

Dusting For Paw Prints

At just before 2 p.m. Knightley drove the Fairway cab along East Heath Road, past the park in question, with Darkus and Tilly observing it from the back windows. A persistent rain was sheeting down over the trees and meadows, making the leaves shimmer with a sinister quality, and leaving a scattering of pock marks on the surface of the ponds. A few determined dog walkers were the only signs of life on the Heath; their heads down, braced against the weather.

As they passed the car park, Darkus spotted a small mobile broadcast van with a radar dish, a cameraman setting up his gear and a female reporter clutching her notes – an older version of Alexis, he thought to himself. The same wave of blonde hair, the tailored outfit, the long legs. The news channel’s logo was plastered across the side of the van.

Tilly almost seemed to read his mind. ‘Tabloid vultures . . .’ she muttered.

Inexplicably, Tilly had changed her own hair to blonde in the short space of time between Fiona Connelly leaving and their departure to examine her residence. Darkus didn’t know if this was inspired by Alexis’s picture in the paper or not, but it was a trad­itional, Hollywood glamour look for Tilly and Darkus thought it suited her well.

‘What are you looking at?’ she challenged him.

‘Your hair. It looks very . . . blonde,’ said Darkus.

‘I need to keep changing it to avoid unwanted attention, that’s all. There’s nothing more to it than that.’

‘I just thought it looked nice,’ answered Darkus, baffled.

‘Your comment has been noted.’ Tilly pulled on a knit cap and looked out of the window.

Also, quite inexplicably, Uncle Bill had insisted on meeting them at the Connelly residence, although it was difficult to guess what he would bring to the party. His powers of detection were limited, his powers of reasoning even more so; and his white Transit van (or mobile command centre, or ‘Moby Dick’ as he commonly referred to it) was only useful for live tracking in real time – and Fiona Connelly’s back garden was most definitely a ‘cold scene’.

Bill had, however, provided them with an update on Barabas King. Someone matching King’s description was seen leaving a South London warehouse earlier that day in the company of several hoodies and a pack of Rottweilers. The gang were seen entering a convoy of blacked-out minicabs, but the vehicles were soon lost in London traffic, which abounds with blacked-out minicabs.

It was clear that King was an expert at remaining off the radar. With the clock ticking until the full moon, Darkus was left with an intriguing array of clues, but no line of reasoning to link them all together. The ‘smart’ dogs were acting on King’s orders and picking off senior police officers from SO 42. But who was pulling King’s strings? How did Fiona’s intruder fit in? And who or what was responsible for the atrocities on the Heath?

As the Knightleys’ Fairway cab pulled up at the gated driveway, they found Uncle Bill already waiting on the street outside, shifting on his feet. Before a word could be exchanged, the electric gates whirred open, welcoming the team to the Connelly residence.

Knightley parked next to Fiona’s champagne-coloured Volvo estate while Uncle Bill jogged up the driveway after them, finding himself nearly pinched by the swiftly closing gates.

‘Glad you could make it,’ said Knightley.

‘Would nae miss this for the world, Alan,’ Bill puffed. ‘Fiona Connelly is a national treasure.’ He lowered his voice privately. ‘And a nice plate of rumbledethumps.’

‘Come again?’ asked Knightley, having no idea what Bill meant.

‘Spot o’ eeksy-peeksy,’ said Bill.

‘Again?’ repeated Knightley.

‘Braw wifie.’

‘Once more.’

‘She’s an extremely attractive lady, Alan,’ he exclaimed.

‘But I thought you . . . and Bogna . . . ?’ Knightley trailed off.

‘A man should never tie himself doon, Alan. Nae at my age,’ said Bill, although it wasn’t clear if he meant he was too old, or too young.

Darkus, Tilly and Wilbur got out of the cab and surveyed the Victorian Gothic fa
ç
ade of the house. At that moment the front door opened and a dozen golden retrievers, Labradors, collies and terriers flooded out on to the gravel path.

‘Lovers! Wait!’ Fiona appeared at the door, a vision in a long flowy skirt and a heaving blouse.

The dogs leaped about merrily, jumping up on the guests and cavorting in the driveway. Wilbur stood his ground apprehensively, keeping a safe distance, raising his snout to avoid the sniffs, licks and general smothering, until a sharp command stopped the dogs in their tracks.

‘Sit!!’

Knightley and Uncle Bill snapped to attention. The dogs froze and sat down on the spot. All eyes turned to Fiona as her commanding scowl unwound into a gentle smile and she lightly clapped her hands together.

‘Good boys and girls. Now let’s give our guests a warm,
calm
, canine welcome.’ The dogs trotted inside obediently on either side of Fiona’s thick legs whose cankles protruded from the bottom of her skirt, encased in compression stockings and Birkenstock sandals. ‘All of you. Do come in.’ Wilbur sniffed around her feet and wagged his tail by way of a greeting. ‘Yes, that includes you.’ She petted him fondly.

Uncle Bill doffed his hat and led the way. ‘Ah’m from Scotland Yard, madam,’ he began. ‘The name’s Billoch. Montague Billoch. Most people call me Bill.’

‘Well, hel-lo, Bill,’ Fiona warbled. ‘It is reassuring to have a genuine officer of the law in the house.’

‘Aye. Ye can call me Monty, if ye like.’

‘And
ye
,’ she playfully imitated him, ‘may call me Fifi. Now how about a cup of tea and some chocolate Hobnobs?’

Bill turned to Knightley with his mouth hanging ajar. ‘Ye see, Alan,’ he whispered excitedly. ‘
Marriage material
.’

Knightley shrugged and headed inside.

‘Dad?’ Darkus spoke up. ‘Tilly and I are going stay out here and examine the perimeter.’

Fiona turned to address them, linking her arm in Bill’s. ‘I’ve turned the security system off, so you can work unhindered.’

‘Good plan,’ Knightley answered and awkwardly followed the fledgling lovebirds into the house.

Darkus and Tilly looked at each other and silently got to work, heading in the direction of the back garden. Darkus studied the gravel but found it had been thoroughly turned over by paw and foot traffic and ploughed by parking cars. They crossed over a short paved patio and proceeded round the side of the house, arriving at a tall security gate, which had deliberately been left open for them.

Darkus examined a steel locking mechanism located halfway up the gate with a small pad on either side of it.

Tilly put her finger on the pad and a red light illumin­ated it, followed by a sharp error tone. ‘Biometric scanner on both sides,’ she explained. ‘Reads fingerprints. Only approved guests allowed.’

Darkus nodded, inspecting the high gate and the black metal railings on either side. ‘I suppose it must have scaled it then,’ he said, raising himself on tiptoes and looking as high as he could.

Tilly left him there and continued into the back garden. Darkus caught up with her, grabbing her arm before she stepped on the grass.

‘Wait,’ he cautioned.

The lawn was scattered with several different sizes of dog faeces. Darkus stooped down and surveyed the turf, looking for any bent blades of grass. But it had been well trodden by dogs, gardeners and foxes. There were no obvious tracks.

‘It’s a minefield,’ commented Tilly, stepping over the small brown mounds and approaching the high brick wall that encircled the garden.

Beyond the wall were the dense trees and overgrown foliage of Hampstead Heath, barely tamed beyond the property line. For someone as security conscious as Fiona Connelly, it must have been daunting to have this barren wilderness merely metres from where she slept – with all its nocturnal inhabitants very much awake.

Darkus followed Tilly, picking his way across the grass and examining the brickwork. He then noted a length of black plastic tubing running along the edge of the wall and vanishing under the turf of the lawn.

‘Plastic conduit for running wiring,’ Tilly went on. She spotted several more lengths of conduit protruding from the edge of the lawn in various places. ‘My guess is it’s buried fibre-optic cable. Detects intruders within seconds and relays a message back to the security hub. High-end stuff. If you know how to use it.’

‘Interesting,’ commented Darkus and continued his survey of the back garden, stopping on a section of flower bed.