‘Happily!’ Potting smiled. ‘To see my old mate Cliff. One of those gangs tucked my ex-mother-in-law up for ten grand for resurfacing her driveway. They might intimidate little old ladies, but not a tough bastard like me.’

  ‘Which one of your ex-mothers-in-law?’ asked Velvet Wilde.

  ‘The only one I liked.’ He paused. ‘Or maybe I should say, the only one who liked me.’

  ‘I’ve found a report of a farmer in Beddingham, East Sussex – a Mr Tony Monnington, who had his dog stolen near the round-about two months ago, and then ransomed back to him for two hundred quid,’ Luke Stanstead said.

  ‘Worth looking into?’ Grace asked.

  He shook his head. ‘They’re already under local police surveillance. Just a bunch of messers.’

  Grace nodded then said, ‘Have we had much response from our press conference?’

  ‘There’s an article up on the Argus website already, and they’re planning to run it on page three tomorrow,’ DC Nick Nicholl said. ‘There might be a nice photo of you, boss.’

  ‘Page three?’ Potting quizzed. ‘Did you keep your clothes on, chief?’

  Several of the team laughed. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, Norman,’ Grace replied. ‘Have we had any calls?’

  ‘Fifty-two, so far,’ Emma-Jane Boutwood replied. ‘Mostly timewasters, and one batty lady who’d lost her hibernating hedgehog, which she thinks was stolen.’

  ‘A prickly case,’ Potting commented.

  ‘But there was one that I’m following up,’ E-J said. ‘It was a woman who saw a man acting strangely in St Ann’s Well Gardens yesterday. Her description fits the man we just saw on the video – a short man with a very pale face, in a beanie and anorak.’

  ‘Strangely in what way, E-J?’ Grace asked.

  ‘She said he seemed to be watching people with dogs, and on a couple of occasions ducked behind trees, as if not wanting to be spotted. I’ve got her contact details.’

  ‘Be worth going to see her and having a chat.’

  ‘Will do, sir.’

  Grace looked down at his notes then turned to the Family Liaison Officer, DC Gallichan. ‘Emma, has Mrs Ruddle given you a list of everyone who visited the farm in the past few days?’

  ‘She has, and they are all being followed up, sir.’

  ‘Has she said anything else at all of possible significance? Any strangers sighted on the property in the days before the murder? Any unfamiliar vehicles in the area? Did her husband have any concerns about anyone?’

  DC Gallichan shook her head. ‘Sharon – Mrs Ruddle – just repeated that they, like most people, were worried about money, especially with a young family and the constant need to diversify the farm – which explains why Mr Ruddle was so desperate to stop the offenders.’

  ‘Were the puppies insured for theft?’

  ‘The two adult dogs had pet insurance, but that was all. I have got some more photographs of the parents of the puppies from her,’ she said, and circulated several copies around the table.

  ‘Oh my God, they’re gorgeous!’ said E-J.

  Grace thanked her and turned to DC Nicholl. ‘Nick, you spent part of yesterday and today trawling through the online sites offering puppies for sale, for any dogs matching any of these. How has that gone?’

  ‘It’s a massive task, sir. I’ve got several hundred possible matches to the puppies being advertised around the country, so I’m focusing on a local radius of thirty miles, to start with.’

  ‘Thanks, Nick,’ Grace said, then addressed the whole team. ‘You’ve all viewed the drone footage of the farm and surrounding area. Has anyone spotted anything significant?’

  No one had.

  He turned to the financial analyst, Emily Denyer. ‘Have you found anything of relevance in the Ruddles’ finances, Emily?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, boss – what I’ve seen so far tallies with what Mrs Ruddle has told me – and what Emma has just said. They’ve been struggling a bit since they bought the Old Homestead Farm – on a large mortgage. They’ve just about washed their face, but that’s all.’

  ‘Any life insurance policy on Tim Ruddle?’

  ‘None that I’ve found, so far,’ she replied.

  Grace clicked on the remote, and a group of seven usable sets of footprints appeared on the monitor. ‘I received these this afternoon from Professor Kelly, the Forensic Gait Analyst, via our Exhibits Officer. The first two, marked Exhibit A and B, are identified as belonging to Mr and Mrs Ruddle. The third belongs to the farmhand, Norris Denning. The other four potentially belong to the offenders. The good news is that the UK National Footwear Reference Collection has identified matches. The bad news is two are popular brands of trainers, one is a popular work boot and the other gum boots, widely available. If we tried to identify when and where they were purchased, and by who, it would tie all of you up for the next two years, at least. And no hits in the National Footwear Database for the wear patterns as yet.’

  ‘But if we catch the offenders, these footprints might help put them at the scene, boss,’ Glenn Branson said.

  ‘Very definitely,’ Grace replied. ‘There might be thousands of identical pairs of a brand, but according to Chris Gee, only one pair will be an exact match to each of those prints. The process they use is called feathering. This can be unique which will be very helpful.’ He was interrupted by his private phone ringing and saw it was Cleo. He fleetingly thought about sending it to voicemail, then worried just in case it was anything urgent. Raising an apologetic hand, he answered quietly.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you,’ Cleo said. ‘The puppy people we’re seeing tomorrow just rang to confirm we are definitely going – they say they’ve got a waiting list of four people desperate for that same puppy.’

  ‘We’re going,’ he said. ‘3.30 p.m. just outside Bournemouth, right? Glenn’s covering for me tomorrow.’ He glanced at the DI, who nodded.

  Ending the call, he turned back to his team. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘We don’t yet know what we’re dealing with. The offenders could have been a small bunch of local criminals who hadn’t been expecting any resistance and panicked. Or they might be part of an organized crime gang fully prepared to kill anyone who got in their way. My hypothesis is the latter. The number plates on both vehicles clocked by the ANPR cameras matched the vehicles’ makes, but actually belonged to a different Range Rover and Ford Ranger pickup, both of which have been eliminated from our enquiries. But both these vehicles live in East Sussex. All the more reason to suspect we are looking for a reasonably local gang. Does anyone have anything to add at this stage?’

  No one did.

  ‘I’m extremely concerned by the level of violence these people are prepared to use. Right now every dog owner in the county – and elsewhere – is at risk. And I know several of you are dog owners. The Chief Constable is very disturbed by this horrible crime and has asked me to report to her daily on Operation Brush. Which means each of you is going to be under her eagle eye. We need to find them quickly – and we’re going to.’

  35

  Saturday 27 March

  Dr Zoe Dixon-Smith was a small, bubbly woman in her late thirties, with curly brown hair bunched tight on her head and a warm personality that seemed to fill her tiny office. Katy Fairfax had drawn up a complicated will for her some five years ago.

  ‘So, what seems to be the matter, lovely?’ she said, addressing a pale-looking Bluebell, seated on her mother’s knee.

  The seven-year-old, dressed in jeans, a fleece top and sparkly trainers, stared back at her vacantly beneath her tangle of long blonde curls, then turned to her mother.

  ‘She’s not eaten anything for over twenty-four hours,’ Katy said. ‘Her head feels clammy and she’s running a temperature of 37.2.’

  ‘What’s that mark on your nose from?’ Zoe Dixon-Smith leaned forward to peer more closely at it.

  ‘A puppy nipped me when we picked up Moose,’ Bluebell replied quietly.

  ‘Moose?’

  ‘Our new puppy,’ Chris explained.

  The doctor stood up and came around from her desk, peering closer at Bluebell. ‘Let’s have a look at you, shall we?’ Turning to Katy, she asked if she could put her on the examination table. Then, when Bluebell was seated, legs dangling over the side, she pinged a thermometer at her forehead and, a moment later, frowned at the readout. ‘Feeling rotten are you, my dear?’

  ‘Yep,’ Bluebell replied.

  ‘I love your name, Bluebell. It’s a very happy name.’

  Bluebell looked at her woozily and managed a smile.

  ‘She’s been sick several times,’ her father said.

  ‘What’s coming up?’

  ‘The last few times, just bile,’ her mother replied.

  ‘You’re definitely running a fever, aren’t you?’ Dr Dixon-Smith stared at Bluebell. ‘Let’s see what’s going on, shall we?’ She turned to Katy. ‘From my records, you’ve had Covid, three months ago, right?’

  Katy nodded.

  Then, addressing Chris, she said, ‘But you escaped it?’

  ‘So far.’

  ‘OK.’ Turning to Bluebell, she asked, ‘Have many children at your school had Covid?’

  ‘Quite a few,’ Katy answered for her daughter. ‘Bluebell does regular lateral flows – we did one this morning and it was negative.’

  For the next ten minutes Dr Dixon-Smith carried out a thorough examination of Bluebell, while Chris and Katy watched, occasionally giving their daughter reassurances. Finally, the doctor returned to her chair behind her desk and faced the three of them.

  ‘What do you think it is? Covid?’ Katy asked.

  Giving a bright smile, but one that was short of a couple of bulbs, Zoe Dixon-Smith said, with a breeziness that didn’t quite ring true, ‘I’ll do a PCR test, but she’s not displaying typical Covid symptoms. It’s probably just a bug that’s going round.’ Then she added, with a frown, ‘When did that scratch on your nose happen?’

  ‘Yesterday,’ Katy said, answering for her again. ‘It was a puppy in the same vehicle as Moose. A Staffie bull terrier sort. It was in a separate dog cage on its own and Bluebell was playing with it. But don’t panic, she had a tetanus jab last year.’

  ‘Hmm, it looks a nasty scratch – a little bit livid,’ the doctor said, pulling out a prescription pad. ‘I’ll give you some antibiotic cream.’ She scribbled a prescription on her pad then looked up. ‘This puppy, how exciting! What breed is it?’

  ‘A golden doodle,’ Chris Fairfax said.

  ‘Such lovely dogs!’ the doctor replied. ‘I have two! What fun and what a great choice! You’re going to adore her.’

  ‘Yes,’ Katy said. ‘I’m sure we will. She’s just getting used to us at the moment – I think she’s a bit shy.’

  The doctor cocked her head sideways, focused on Bluebell and did the PCR test. ‘They take a while to settle, don’t they. Where did you get her, a nice breeder?’

  ‘Yes, we found what we hope was a good one, as much as you can know a stranger,’ Chris said. ‘Moose is a bit quiet at the moment but maybe that’s just her personality.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Around eight weeks,’ Katy replied.

  ‘No doubt she had all the vaccinations?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Chris said. ‘We have all the documentation.’

  ‘Good. And you met her parents, presumably?’

  Chris and his wife looked at each other. ‘Well, no, not exactly. It’s pretty hard to find golden doodles at the moment – there’s been a lot of demand for them,’ Chris said. ‘We found this one on the internet but the breeder, who’s based in Wales, was very helpful and open.’

  The doctor smiled. ‘Good, excellent!’ She tore off the prescription form and handed it to Katy. ‘This is for antibiotic cream to apply to Bluebell’s nose three times a day. Give her Calpol and Nurofen and plenty of fluids, but if her temperature goes up further, please call me.’

  They thanked the doctor and left.

  As they closed the door behind them, Zoe Dixon-Smith sat for some moments in concerned thought. Something about the little girl’s temperature, heart rate and blood pressure did not chime, not for a girl of that age. It wasn’t Covid-related, it was something else. Hopefully it would all settle down.

  36

  Saturday 27 March

  Roy Grace glanced in the rear-view mirror at Noah, strapped in his child seat, fast asleep – at last. The little chap had been chattering excitedly for much of the past hour about the puppies they were on their way to see. It was a fine, bright afternoon, the dazzling sun shining through the windscreen as he drove west along the M27 motorway, bypassing Southampton. He had his visor down and Cleo was wearing dark sunglasses.

  He was in a happy mood, enjoying a rare long drive in his beloved Alfa, and pleased to escape the pressure cooker intensity of Operation Brush for just a few hours. He was genuinely interested by this adventure, seeing the springer spaniel puppies with Noah but making sure to manage his expectations. They still really wanted a rescue dog so were making the journey more out of curiosity, but he knew there was a small chance they’d buy one if they met the right dog.

  As ever, during those critical early days of a murder enquiry, he was still churning over the case in his mind as he drove, trying to think of anything he might have missed.

  ‘Dream a Little Dream of Me’ was playing on the sound system. Cleo reached across and stroked Grace’s left arm. ‘Do you?’ she asked, smiling.

  ‘Do I – what?’

  ‘Dream a little dream of me?’

  ‘All the time.’

  ‘Fibber!’

  ‘No, it’s true, I do!’

  ‘That’s how I feel about you,’ she said. ‘I love this song. Whenever I hear it, I think of you. Us.’

  He nodded, smiling fondly, watching the sign coming up ahead for the turn-off. ‘I do too. It’s our song.’

  They had danced to it at their wedding. The opening dance, just them, alone, entwined on the dance floor.

  ‘So, did you think back then that three years later we’d be driving to Bournemouth to look at some puppies, with a three-year-old on the back seat and our baby at home with the nanny?’

  ‘If I had, I’d have bolted for the door!’ he said.

  She punched him playfully. ‘Charming. Why the hell do I love you?’

  ‘My good looks? Genius in the kitchen? My general all-round brilliance? Because I’m a great lover?’

  She windmilled her hands. ‘Keep going.’

  ‘None of those?’ he said, feigning hurt.

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you.’

  ‘So, tell me?’

  ‘I’ve no idea!’ She nuzzled her head against his shoulder. ‘But I do, I love you.’

  ‘I love you, too.’ And he did. He was in a place that over a decade ago when his first wife, Sandy, had vanished, he’d thought he would never ever be in again.

  Cleo leaned across and kissed him on the cheek as he drove in the fast lane, passing a lorry then a car towing a caravan, watching his speed carefully, as always. In his early days on the force, traffic cops were given the moniker Black Rats, because those rats would eat their own progeny. And it was still true today, many of them took a special delight in booking police officers.

  For the next thirty minutes after turning off the motorway, Roy Grace followed the directions of the satnav carefully. It took them into a residential area on the outskirts of Bournemouth, and finally into the street Grace had been given. A wide, tree-lined avenue with smart detached houses fronted by well-tended gardens.

  ‘Looks like we’re in Bournemouth’s Millionaires’ Row,’ Cleo said.

  He nodded, driving slowly now, looking for the house number and name.

  ‘There, on the right!’ she called out. ‘Number 32, Fernlea.’

  He pulled up just beyond two brick pillars, painted white, at the bottom of a steep driveway and switched off the engine. They climbed out, and Cleo unbuckled Noah’s seat belt then lifted him out. A tall yew hedge hid the front of the house from view. Each taking one of Noah’s hands, they walked up the hard surface of the driveway, towards a dark-coloured Peugeot parked at the top in front of a garage, and saw the front door on the left. Grace pressed the bell. Immediately on the far side he heard a dog barking.

  The door was opened by a stocky man, in his mid-fifties Grace guessed, holding a barking spaniel by the collar. He was wearing a thick cardigan over a plaid shirt, baggy blue jeans and carpet slippers, and looked at them suspiciously. ‘Yes?’

  ‘We’re here to see Mrs Hartley,’ Cleo said.

  ‘I’m her husband, Tom,’ he said guardedly, in an accent that sounded more Scouse than Bournemouth.

  ‘We made an appointment to see a puppy.’

  His demeanour immediately changed to a warm smile. ‘Ah, right, Mr and Mrs Grace would it be?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Come on in, come on in! The missus is expecting you – she’s the doggie one in our family, her passion!’ They now heard the yipping and yapping of puppies.

  ‘You don’t sound from around these parts,’ Grace said as they followed him through the small hall into a large, bright open-plan living-dining area, with a full-length conservatory at the far end, sunlight shining. It was pleasantly furnished if a little sterile, Grace thought, looking around, taking it all in. The spaniel ran off into another room.

  ‘No, I’m from Liverpool, but the missus was born down here, and we decided to retire down south. And breed dogs, like, for a hobby.’

  Noah broke free from his parents, and ran excitedly across to a large basket full of lively brown and white puppies in the middle of the room, where a woman kneeled, teasing them with a ball of paper.

  ‘Madge, love, Mr and Mrs Grace are here!’

  She turned and greeted them with a warm smile, then stood up. She was plump, parcelled in a bright smock dress, with a pleasant, dimpled face, her grey-brown hair pulled back into a bun. She reminded Grace of one of those Russian dolls that had endless smaller copies inside them. ‘So very nice to meet you both!’ she said. Then she kneeled to Noah’s height. ‘Are you going to help choose the dog?’