The sky clouded over above her, and with it, something clouded over inside her. The case Roy was currently on, the illegal trade in puppies and the epidemic of dog thefts, along with their experience yesterday. Could someone have taken Humphrey?

  Impossible, surely. Although he was a rescue mongrel, she knew, to the inexperienced eye, Humphrey could be mistaken for a pedigree Labrador. But only a very inexperienced eye.

  ‘HUMPHREY!’ she shouted again, as Molly began crying. ‘COME ON, BOY! SAUSAGES!’

  She was approaching the woman with the golden retriever, who was repeatedly tossing a tennis ball for it from a ball launcher. Cleo asked her if she’d seen a black Lab. But she hadn’t.

  None of the other five people she approached, increasingly frantically, over the next ten minutes had either.

  Finally, she stopped at the top of the hill and stared around the expanse of park in all directions, ignoring Molly’s continued, increasing crying. There was no sign of Humphrey. No sign at all.

  49

  Sunday 28 March

  The dog was a tart, Gecko thought. It sat beside him on the passenger seat of his van, and even though it was anxiously squeaking it was still able to munch the biscuits he drip-fed it as he headed along the A27 dual carriageway towards Brighton. The name on its collar read Humphrey, and there was a phone number beneath.

  Gecko had decided to do a little private business for himself, spurred on by seeing all the substantial rewards posted online for the return of missing dogs. He had a simple plan – grab the dog and hold it to ransom! Give it a couple of days, during which its owner would become increasingly frantic and willing to pay almost anything to get it back. And then play the white knight, say he’d found the dog wandering around the streets, deliver it back and collect the reward.

  Simples!

  He reached over and patted the dog on its head. ‘Good boy, Humphrey, good boy!’ The dog was panting.

  He turned off the dual carriageway and wound down through the Hollingbury industrial estate, then made a sharp turn into the car park of the ASDA superstore. Leaving the dog in the van, with his window cracked a little, he dashed in, bought a small sack of cheap dry dog food and several bags of treats, paid and hurried back out, mindful of the police office nearby.

  Five minutes later, turning south off the A27, Gecko carefully stuck to the 40 mph then 30 mph speed limits as he headed south into the city limits of Brighton and Hove. Reaching Preston Park, still shovelling treats into the dog’s mouth, he made a right turn at the lights and threaded the van up towards the street of Edwardian terraced and semi-detached houses, Kingsley Avenue, and pulled into a space a few yards down from number 18, where Elvira lived and which was now the home they often shared.

  After he turned off the engine, he dropped a rope noose over the dog’s head and was met with no resistance as he pulled it tight. ‘Good boy, good Humphrey!’ he said. ‘Just one more little thing to do.’ He reached around Humphrey’s neck, undid his collar and put it in the van’s glove locker. ‘Good boy!’ he said and fed him yet another treat. Then, his shopping in one hand, he encouraged the dog out of the door with the other and locked the van.

  As he walked round to the pavement, he saw to his dismay a nosey elderly woman neighbour coming out of her front door with her wheeled shopping cart. She greeted him with a pleasant wave. ‘You’ve got a dog!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘It’s for Elvira, a guide dog,’ he explained, the idea popping into his head from nowhere.

  ‘Oh, good,’ she said. ‘Such wonderful dogs!’

  ‘They are.’

  As she went on her way, he walked up to their front door, Humphrey walking along beside him on the leash, his tail hanging low.

  50

  Sunday 28 March

  Shortly after 11.30 a.m., following leads from the House-to-House Enquiry Team, Velvet Wilde drove the marked police car, with Norman Potting beside her, along a rutted track directly below the South Downs. They passed two large fields of sheep and another of cows, until they came into a farmyard, with a small duck pond and a pretty Georgian-style house on the far side, with a well-tended bed of roses in front. A solitary cocker spaniel ran towards them, barking loudly.

  The two detectives climbed out and, accompanied by the dog, which was wearing a collar embossed with the name ‘Sophie’, walked up to the farmhouse door and rapped hard.

  It was opened moments later by a friendly woman with untidy brown hair, dressed in grubby cut-off jeans, a T-shirt and flip-flops. She looked at their warrant cards and said, ‘Officers, apologies for my appearance. Are you here about the bloody neighbours down the road?’

  There was a tantalizing aroma of fried bacon.

  Norman Potting, distracted by the spaniel, was kneeling and stroking his own tummy. ‘Got any of that bacon going spare?’ he asked.

  ‘Norman!’ Velvet Wilde stopped him, and immediately turned to the woman. ‘Mrs Yanci Allen?’

  ‘Yes, that’s me.’

  ‘Your husband is David?’

  ‘Yes, he is. What’s this about, exactly?’

  ‘We are carrying out enquiries at a number of farms in this area regarding puppy farming,’ Potting said.

  ‘The Jims? I know they keep dogs,’ Yanci Allen said.

  ‘Yes. That’s one of the farms we want to talk about.’

  They were joined by a tall, burly man, with a bald dome and a long rug of hair either side, wearing dungarees. He was holding a trowel and had muddy knees. Addressing the detectives he said, ‘Weeds, the little buggers. This time of year is a nightmare for them.’ He waved his trowel in the air. ‘No one ever tells the little sods it’s Sunday and they should have a day of rest.’

  ‘These are police officers,’ his wife said.

  ‘Come to arrest our weeds have you, officers?’ He chuckled at his joke.

  ‘Mr David Allen?’ Potting asked.

  ‘Well I was when I went to bed last night,’ he said amiably.

  ‘We’d just like to ask you a few questions about some of your neighbouring farms – including Appletree as your wife has just mentioned.’

  Instantly his expression darkened. ‘They might be geographical neighbours,’ he said. ‘But that’s where the word neighbours stops. Are you finally going to do something about them?’

  ‘Would you officers like to come in for a cup of tea?’ his wife asked.

  ‘We’re fine, thank you,’ Wilde replied, glancing at Potting for confirmation. ‘It’s kind of you but we’ve a lot of people to see this morning.’

  ‘Finally do something about them?’ Potting asked, looking at the couple. Then he caught Wilde’s eye. ‘Have there been any problems with them?’

  David Allen gave a sarcastic laugh and his wife nodded. ‘Apart from bits constantly being nicked off everyone’s tractors and other farm machinery, their dogs chasing and killing sheep, their relatives’ kids running wild. And their son, Dallas, up the road is just as bad. All of them drive their 4 x 4s as if the roads around here are a racetrack. They go lamping in the middle of the night all over everyone’s property without permission. They’ve run over cats, dogs and they don’t give a toss – they’re not farmers, they’re villains who live on what used to be farms.’

  ‘So they’re not on your Christmas card list?’ Potting asked drily.

  ‘I don’t think they’d know what a Christmas card is,’ Yanci Allen replied.

  51

  Sunday 28 March

  Katy Fairfax gave Dr Victoria Grogan a quick rundown as they headed up the stairs.

  Chris followed them up and into Bluebell’s room, and the doctor tried to put their drowsy, bewildered daughter at ease. ‘Hello, Bluebell,’ she said. ‘Your mummy and daddy tell me you’re not feeling very well. Is that right?’

  She nodded weakly.

  The doctor beamed at her. ‘Well, we don’t want you in bed feeling unwell, do we?’

  Bluebell shook her head.

  Dr Grogan peered at the livid mark on the little girl’s nose. ‘That’s a nasty scratch you have there. How did you get that?’

  ‘A puppy we saw when we picked up Moose,’ she murmured.

  ‘Moose? Who is Moose?’

  Chris explained.

  The doctor nodded, studying the mark even more closely. ‘The puppy did that?’

  ‘He didn’t mean to,’ Bluebell said. ‘He was just playing.’

  ‘It wasn’t actually our puppy that bit her,’ Chris said. ‘It was another one we were looking at.’

  Grogan frowned. ‘When did you start feeling ill?’

  ‘On Friday,’ Katy said.

  ‘And you said this happened on Thursday?’

  ‘Yes,’ Chris said.

  ‘Your puppy has had all her vaccinations, I presume?’

  Chris and Katy looked at each other. ‘We’re not actually sure she has, but Bluebell is up to date on her tetanus,’ Chris said.

  Katy qualified this. ‘Moose has not been well, but she’s really picking up now. The vet thinks she might not have had any vaccinations. That the breeder we bought her from may have lied to us.’

  ‘She was bred in the UK?’

  ‘We’re not even sure about that,’ Katy admitted, and blushed.

  The doctor looked at them both, then smiled. ‘My husband and I have dogs and young children. I wouldn’t worry too much about that little bite, but we’ll all keep an eye on it.’ She looked down at Bluebell. ‘OK, sweetheart, I’m going to take your temperature and then examine you and see if we can make you better quickly.’

  Fifteen minutes later, Chris and Katy went back downstairs with the doctor and through into the kitchen. Out in the garden, Katy watched a thrush drinking in the stone bird bath.

  ‘What do you think is wrong?’ Katy asked.

  ‘Well, she’s not displaying any Covid symptoms,’ the doctor said.

  ‘She’s had a negative PCR – the doctor we saw yesterday texted us to say it wasn’t Covid,’ Katy added.

  ‘I think it’s a bug she’s picked up – probably from school or it could have been from the swimming pool – there are a couple of nasty ones doing the rounds at the moment. But I’m concerned about her temperature, which is 38.7. I’ll give you some pills which should settle her and enable her to sleep tonight, and I’ll write you a prescription for tomorrow. I’m sure she’ll be fine, but if her temperature doesn’t start to come down, or if you get worried during the night, call the emergency number – I’ll be around until 7 a.m. tomorrow, or if you get really concerned call 999, but I doubt that will be necessary.’ Dr Grogan gave them a brief smile.

  ‘And if she’s not better in the morning?’ Chris asked.

  ‘Then I think it would be sensible to refer her to the paediatrician at the Royal Alexandra Children’s Hospital for blood tests. But hopefully it won’t come to that.’ She gave them another smile.

  They showed Dr Grogan to the door and thanked her again. As they closed it, Bluebell cried out. They both ran back upstairs and into her room.

  She was sitting up in bed, tears rolling down her cheeks.

  ‘What is it, darling?’ Katy asked. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Am I going to die?’

  52

  Sunday 28 March

  As Roy Grace drove the Alfa slowly along the cart track towards their cottage, in glorious sunshine, he felt uplifted as he always did at this time of year. The promise of months of long, light evenings ahead. Over to his right he saw sheep dotted across the hill, tufts of fluffy white, like bonsai clouds, he thought.

  He passed on his left the open-sided corrugated iron barn belonging to the local farmer, which contained several large pieces of agricultural equipment and a decrepit tractor that had not moved in all the time they’d been here. He was looking forward to a Sunday evening with Cleo, when their happy routine was to enjoy a cheese platter, with a glass or two of red wine – when he wasn’t on call – and watch Antiques Roadshow and then an ITV drama, or maybe another episode of Succession, which they’d got into.

  Just as he pulled up behind Cleo’s recent acquisition, a second-hand hybrid Kia, his phone rang. It was Robin Smith, calling from Jersey.

  ‘You all right, buddy?’ the Chief Officer asked.

  ‘All good.’

  ‘Sorry it’s taken a while to get back to you, I just wanted to make double-sure. This Mr and Mrs Jones at the address you gave me, in Don Street – that address, as I suspected, doesn’t exist.’

  ‘That’s really helpful, Robin, thanks.’

  ‘There are only a few Jonathan Joneses here. One is in his nineties, another only twenty-two. The only one that fits your age description is a Jonathan Jones who’s a member of a prominent highly respected Jersey family – they own a number of restaurants and cafes and a pottery business. Jonathan and his partner, Manon, have an interior design business, and he serves as a volunteer on the lifeboats. I can have someone interview him if you’d like, but he doesn’t seem like your man and the address doesn’t fit. I’ve just pinged you his photograph from the internet.’

  ‘Thanks, Robin, I’ll have a look and get back to you if I need any more on him, if that’s OK?’

  ‘Anytime. Come over here with your wife for a holiday sometime – Jersey is the best kept secret of the British Isles – it’s gorgeous – and would be good to see you!’

  ‘I might just do that,’ Grace replied and thanked him for his help.

  As soon as he had ended the call, he opened the attachment in the email Smith had sent. The picture he saw, of a good-looking, silver-haired man with elegant glasses, was nothing like the Tom Hartley he’d met, yesterday, in Bournemouth.

  He climbed out of the car and walked up to the front door, smiling at the rows of daffodils in full bloom on either side of the path, and the sound of the hens in the garden on the far side of the cottage. But as he put his key in the lock he frowned, puzzled by the silence from the other side of the door. Normally, Humphrey barked excitedly, greeting him home any time of the day or night.

  Nor was there any sign of him as he opened the door. Instead, he saw Cleo standing up from the sofa, phone in hand, her eyes raw with tears.

  53

  Sunday 28 March

  Gecko had told Elvira, all along, that he worked for a dog rescue charity, and she loved that so much, loved that he did such a wonderful and kind thing. So she wasn’t surprised when he came into her little house with the docile, friendly dog, and let it come up to her, then removed the rope halter.

  Seated on the sofa, in her thick glasses, some mindless programme was on the large-screen television, just a few feet from her. She patted Humphrey’s neck with both hands, then stroked his head. ‘You are lovely and soft! What’s your name?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Gecko lied. ‘He didn’t have a collar or name tag. We’ll need to give him a name.’

  ‘Where was he?’

  ‘In Stanmer Park. I was walking a couple of rescue dogs for the charity – you know, as I do – and he was just wandering around, looking very lost. He came up to me, like he figured I might be able to help him.’

  Elvira smiled. ‘That’s because he was drawn to you by your aura of kindness. He knew you could help him.’ She stroked Marion’s arm, then took his hand and kissed it. ‘Animals have instincts that tell them when someone is a kind person. That’s why he was drawn to you.’

  He kissed her cheek. ‘You say the sweetest things. Yeah, maybe.’

  She shook her head. ‘Not maybe. He knew you were the person who could help him.’ She hesitated. ‘But why didn’t you leave him at the rescue centre – at Raystede?’

  ‘Yeah, well, I thought about it. But he seemed pretty distressed. Figured I’d bring him here for the night so we could take care of him, give him some love and attention, and I’ll have a look on the internet. There’s a Facebook forum where people often post about lost dogs – that’s how we return a lot of them to their owners. And they often post on Twitter, too –thought it might speed up the process. He looked at me so soulfully, you know, I hadn’t the heart to leave him in kennels overnight.’

  She squeezed his hand. ‘You are such a kind man. It’s one of so many things I love about you.’

  ‘It is five thirty p.m.,’ her talking watch announced.

  She raised her wrist so he could see the watch. ‘And I love this – you are just so thoughtful.’

  ‘Humphrey,’ he said.

  ‘Humphrey?’

  ‘The dog,’ he said. ‘He feels like a Humphrey to me.’

  ‘OK,’ she said and smiled. ‘Hello, Humphrey!’

  The dog nuzzled her.

  ‘Humphrey!’ Gecko called.

  Immediately the dog looked at him.

  ‘I think he likes that name!’ he said. ‘Are you hungry, Humphrey? Food?’ He shook the carrier bag full of food and treats.

  Humphrey cocked his leg and peed on the carpet.

  ‘Jesus!’ Gecko shouted at him, startling Elvira. ‘Bad boy, bad boy!’

  Humphrey barked and ran out of the room.

  ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘He’s pissed on the floor – on the carpet.’

  ‘Don’t be angry with him – he’s probably nervous.’

  ‘I’ll give him bloody nervous.’ He hurried out of the room and saw Humphrey again cocking his leg on the bottom step of the staircase.

  ‘Humphrey, what the hell are you doing?’

  The dog looked at him balefully and began licking one of his front paws.

  ‘There is no pissing in this house!’ he admonished angrily.

  Scared of the tone of his voice, Humphrey dashed off and into the kitchen, where he again cocked his leg and peed on the tiles.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Gecko opened the rear door and shoved him, roughly, out into the garden, slamming the door behind him.

  ‘My love, don’t be angry at him, he’s probably confused.’

  ‘Confused? He’s pissed again on the stairs and now on the kitchen floor.’