‘Don’t scare him, I’ll help you clean it up. The poor thing’s probably terrified.’

  ‘Terrified?’

  They could both hear him barking loudly, then whining.

  Gecko opened the back door and yelled, ‘Quiet!’

  ‘Marion!’ Elvira called out. ‘This isn’t like you, calm down, you’re frightening me.’

  ‘Frightening you?’

  ‘What’s come over you, my love?’

  ‘What’s come over me? I rescue him out of the kindness of my heart and this is how he rewards me?’ He went outside and saw Humphrey cowering against the wall on the far side of the tiny garden. The dog was shaking.

  Elvira came out and stood beside Gecko. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He’s cowering against the wall.’

  ‘Be kind to him, he’s probably completely traumatized. Humphrey!’ she called gently. ‘Humphrey, darling, are you hungry? Would you like some food?’

  Gecko again shook the bag of dog treats. Humphrey stayed where he was by the wall, looking at them both with scared eyes. ‘Come on, boy,’ he said. ‘Dinner!’

  The dog did not move.

  Gecko filled a cereal bowl with dry food, then placed it on the floor. He filled another cereal bowl with water and laid it on the floor beside it. Then, helped by Elvira, he cleaned up the three indoor places where the dog had peed.

  When they had finished, he went upstairs, into the spare room which was Elvira’s office and which he now shared, opened his laptop and logged on to the Sussex dog forum. There was no mention of any missing dog called Humphrey.

  He checked Twitter and found nothing there either.

  Too soon, he decided.

  He would check again in an hour.

  As he went back downstairs, he smelled a vile stench. It became worse as he walked into the kitchen, and he saw a pile of poo on the floor, just beside the little dining table. There was no sign of the dog.

  He stormed into the living room. Elvira was again sat right in front of the television, now watching David Attenborough talking about bird migration. She loved his programmes.

  ‘Can you fucking believe it?’

  ‘Is Humphrey OK? Is he eating his dinner now?’

  ‘Can’t you smell it?’

  She raised her head and sniffed, then screwed up her face. ‘Ewwww.’

  ‘Yep. Yech. I put out his dinner and the little bugger came inside, didn’t touch his food, shat on the floor and went back out into the garden again.’

  ‘Maybe he’s trying to tell you something,’ she said with a smile.

  ‘Yeah, what?’

  ‘That you should watch MasterChef more and improve your culinary skills.’

  ‘That is so not funny.’

  They both heard the dog barking again, loudly, enthusiastically.

  ‘Humphrey thinks it is!’ she said.

  54

  Sunday 28 March

  Roy Grace immediately put his arms around Cleo, hugging her tight. ‘Vanished?’

  She began sobbing uncontrollably. ‘It’s been awful. I’ve been trying to call you.’

  ‘I only just saw your messages, what happened?’

  They perched on the sofa. He noticed the bottle of red wine, a partially filled glass beside it, as Cleo related what had happened in Stanmer Park earlier. ‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘Do you think he’s been stolen?’

  He sat still for some moments, thinking it through, staring at the obstacle course of Noah’s toys on the floor.

  ‘Darling,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Humphrey is not a dog that would be of any interest to the puppy trade – they don’t want mongrels.’

  She nodded bleakly, looking unconvinced, still sobbing.

  ‘And he’s seven years old. He’s not remotely in the target zone for the dog thieves.’

  ‘But someone’s stolen him, Roy,’ she said. ‘They’ve bloody stolen him.’

  ‘Listen,’ he said, heavy-hearted and trying to calm her down. ‘I love him as much as you do. He can be a monkey. There’s a few times when I’ve been out with him and he’s just run off. He gets the scent of a rabbit, or even another dog, and boom – he’s gone.’

  ‘So why didn’t he come back?’ she asked. ‘I was there for ages calling him. Over an hour.’

  ‘Maybe someone found him and thought he was lost. That happened to me once, on a run up on the Devil’s Dyke, remember? He’d vanished and I found him with a young couple he’d just gone up to as if looking for help. We think dogs are smart, but sometimes they’re just like us – like kids who get lost.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ she said. ‘He’s just such a soppy dog, he loves everyone. He’d go with anyone at all – especially if they offered him treats.’

  ‘Have you reported him missing to the police, or shall I?’ he asked.

  She nodded. ‘I have – and the RSPCA, and the dog warden.’

  ‘What about social media? Facebook, Twitter?’

  ‘I was thinking about that.’

  ‘Tell me exactly where you last saw him and I’ll go back and look for him.’

  ‘It’s getting dark.’

  ‘I’ll take a torch. If he’s wandering about, I just want to check all around where you were when you last saw him, he may come back to that area. But first let’s find a good picture of him and post it on the Facebook dog forum, and on Twitter and Instagram.’

  ‘Should we offer a reward?’ she asked.

  He thought for some moments. ‘Well, if it gets Humphrey back it’s probably worth it. It’s not like we are being ransomed. Let’s give it some thought.’

  ‘You know all about how many dogs are being stolen at the moment,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, but as I said, it’s young, pedigree dogs – or popular cross-breeds that people will pay big money for. Bless Humphrey, we adore him, but he doesn’t fit the profile of dogs at risk.’

  Nodding through her tears, she opened her laptop and began to look for pictures of Humphrey. There were dozens and dozens. The cutest of all was one she had taken a week ago, in long grass in the field behind their cottage, looking straight at the camera as if he was grinning.

  ‘If someone’s found him, why wouldn’t they have done something about it already, Roy? That’s what’s worrying me. He’s got his name and my mobile number on his collar and he’s chipped.’

  That was worrying him, too, but he didn’t want to distress Cleo further. The one thing he did know from all his team’s research since the start of Operation Brush was that the criminals involved were after high-value dogs and Humphrey just did not fit into that category. So where was he?

  He formed two hypotheses in his mind. The first that Humphrey had been taken by someone who genuinely thought he was lost and intended to inform either the police or the RSPCA, but had not yet got around to doing it. The second was that he’d been taken by a similar person to the one who had taken Sara Gurner’s dog, mistaking it for a dog of some monetary value. In which case they might release him back onto the street.

  As they looked at more photos of Humphrey, Cleo’s phone rang. She saw from the display it was her sister, sounding more subdued than usual. ‘Hey, Clees. Any news of Humphrey?’

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘I’m going to put out some posts on social media. We’re just getting some photos ready now and I’ll think of some wording. Roy’s going back to the park to have another look for him. We’re thinking of offering a reward – what do you think?’

  ‘Good idea, but not too much – you don’t want to be deluged with people trying to con you. There’s a lot of nasty people out there.’

  ‘OK,’ Cleo said. ‘How much?’

  Charlie was quiet for a moment, then she said, ‘I’d go for something modest, but a sum that would be useful to many people. One hundred pounds?’

  ‘Thanks, that’s helpful.’

  ‘No worries. Listen, I’ll meet Roy there and help him.’

  ‘No, please don’t worry, I can’t imagine Humphrey is still in the park.’

  ‘He might be, Clees. Don’t you remember that time you and I left Toby on top of Firle Beacon?’

  Cleo frowned, thinking back, distantly remembering something about it. Then it came flooding, so embarrassingly, back. She’d not long passed her driving test, and had borrowed their mother’s car to take her adored miniature poodle for a walk on the Downs – it was more an excuse to go for a drive than anything else.

  They’d driven up to the famed beauty spot, had a glorious walk, chatting away, then gone back home. An hour after they got home their mother had said it was strange, but she’d called Toby and he hadn’t come for his dinner. At which point both Cleo and Charlie realized to their horror they could not remember bringing the dog back – they’d been so absorbed talking. They shot back up there and found a woman – a total saint – who’d seen the very lost little dog and had stayed with it, in the hope its owner would return.

  ‘I’ll be there ASAP, Clees. I’ll call Roy when I’m there.’

  Cleo thought for a moment, then realized that it would be helpful. Stanmer Park was vast and it would be hard to tell him exactly where she had last seen Humphrey. ‘Are you really sure? I don’t want to ruin your nice cosy Sunday evening with Lance.’

  ‘I’m one hundred per cent sure.’ Then Charlie lowered her voice. ‘I feel so guilty about the breeder I sent you to. I want to help and make it up to you both. And I’m sure we’ll get him back quickly. I know it’s hard but try not to worry. In all honesty, it will be a joy to get away from Lance for a couple of hours, he’s doing my head in!’

  Cleo smiled fleetingly. She didn’t think anything could make her smile at this moment. But all her life, Charlie had managed to surprise her.

  55

  Sunday 28 March

  The Exhibits Office was housed in a group of rooms on the ground floor of the Major Crime Suite of Sussex Police Headquarters. Entering it always felt to Glenn Branson like walking into a labyrinth. The walls on both sides were lined floor-to-ceiling with grey shelves stacked with green and blue plastic boxes crammed with items. And some bigger items which would not fit in lay on the shelves wrapped in polythene or brown paper and tagged.

  Stuck on one wall of each room was the list of names of all the operations. Glenn glanced at one. Op Magnesium; Op Sunlight; Op Maytree; Op Clyde.

  Laid out on two plain tables that had been pushed together were all the exhibits recovered so far for Op Brush, each in a clear plastic evidence bag. The DI and the Exhibits Officer, Michelle Boshoff, both wearing latex gloves, were identifying the fast-track items that would be sent initially for forensic examination. So far these consisted of a cigarette butt, part of a number plate and fibres from the outer clothing of the victim, Tim Ruddle.

  There was a black baseball cap that had been found on the muddy ground near the farmer. It had been shown to his wife who said she had never seen it before, and nor had their farmhand. Glenn picked up the bag containing it and turned it round, looking at it closely, thinking it could well have been on the head of one of the assailants, and could reveal vital DNA clues. He added that to the fast-track items. Then as he put it down, he wrinkled his nose at an unpleasant smell. Some kind of animal dung, he realized, and then saw the possible culprit. A small plastic water bottle, half-empty, inside an evidence bag. On the bottle itself was a small brown smear – so small he had almost missed it.

  He picked the bag up, momentarily holding it away from himself. ‘Can you smell anything, Michelle?’ he asked.

  ‘Your cologne?’ she said.

  ‘Seriously?’

  She smiled. ‘It’s very nice – and a lot better than most of the smells I have to put up with in here!’

  He held the bag closer to his nose. Then immediately said, ‘Yuk!’

  ‘A rival cologne?’ she asked.

  He handed it to her. She sniffed and then quickly pushed it well away from her face. ‘I definitely prefer yours, Glenn.’

  ‘Thanks a bunch!’

  She sniffed again, harder this time. ‘You know what this reminds me of? Pigs.’

  ‘You think?’

  She nodded. ‘About four years ago I had to deal with two skip loads of pig excrement seized from a farm near Guildford and sent to the lab for sieving, looking for body parts, bones, teeth etcetera – it was on a murder enquiry, Op Morgan. I had to live with that smell for days and it’s very distinctive. I’d say that’s what this is.’

  ‘I’ll put the cap and bottle on the fast-track list to be checked for prints or DNA.’

  Branson sniffed it again disdainfully. ‘Definitely pig shit.’

  ‘Stay with the brand you’re wearing, Glenn,’ she said. ‘It suits you better.’

  56

  Sunday 28 March

  Chris Fairfax had suffered Sunday night blues from right back into his childhood. Unlike many of his friends who had loved their schooldays, he’d had an unhappy time. His father, insisting it would make a man out of him, had made him become a weekly boarder at a school near Brighton from the age of seven.

  Sunday nights back in his childhood had been a time of dread, when one of his parents would drop him back at school, to the same Sunday supper in the refectory of cold, cremated beef encircled by a large amount of fat, mashed potato, beetroot and cabbage, followed by a banana custard dessert. Even today, he still could not eat fat or bananas.

  Katy, although she’d had a much happier childhood, also shared that Sunday night feeling. So they had agreed to make Sunday nights a time to properly relax and enjoy.

  Normally.

  A time to chill before the Monday morning onslaught of human misery. Sure, it paid good money, but sure, too, it took a toll on their own life. There were days when they came home laughing at the absurdity of some of the things their clients had told them. But there were other days when they came home close to tears, astonished by the way one human being could treat another – especially a partner they had at one time truly loved.

  Normally on a Sunday night they’d be lounging in front of the television, pigging out on a pizza – extra pepperoni for him and extra anchovies for her – and a few glasses of wine, followed by far too many pieces from a selection of whatever chocolates they had in the house, watching a box set, catching up on shows they’d been recommended. Last week it had been Call My Agent, and they had loved the previous two episodes and had watched some more during the week. They had planned to watch the final two of the series tonight.

  But instead, they were both up in Bluebell’s all-pink bedroom, increasingly worried about her. She was hot, perspiring and her temperature was steadily creeping up even more. The last time they’d taken it, an hour ago on Chris’s watch, it was a very concerning 38.8. She lay back, her duvet with its princess gown motif pulled up to her neck, her head framed by the princess crown motif on her pillow, moaning that she was so hot.

  Chris opened the window, letting a cold wind blow in. Almost straight away, Bluebell screamed. ‘No, no, it hurts, close it, Daddy, it hurts!’

  Chris and Katy stared at each other, puzzled. He immediately shut it. Katy went out into their bedroom and returned with a face towel which she had soaked under a cold tap. But as she dabbed their daughter’s face, Bluebell screamed out in terror. ‘No, no, no. NOOOOO!’

  Katy jumped back in shock, staring bewildered at her husband. Then she turned to Bluebell. ‘Would you like a cooling shower, darling?’

  Bluebell writhed in her bed and screamed, ‘No, no, no! No shower, please, Mummy.’

  Whispering to her husband, Katy said, ‘I’ll get the thermometer and see if there’s been any change.’

  He nodded.

  She slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her. As she did so, he felt a faint draught of air and, to his shock, Bluebell reacted to it. ‘That hurts, Mummy, Daddy, that hurts!’

  ‘The air, darling?’ he asked gently. ‘The air hurts?’

  Her voice a high-pitched squeal, she said, ‘So much, so much.’ She began sobbing.

  He sat on the bed, scared and bewildered, stroking her face, looking around the little room, with the pink dressing table covered in bottles of nail varnish. At Bluebell’s dressing-up clothes she loved so much, spilling out of her over-stuffed wardrobe.

  Katy came back in, took her temperature, then, alarmed, showed Chris the reading.

  38.9.

  Gesturing him to follow her out of the room, they went and stood on the landing. As a precaution, Katy shut Bluebell’s door as gently as she could to avoid any draught. ‘Dr Grogan said if her temperature continued to rise we should call her.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Katy dialled the number and got Dr Grogan’s voicemail. She left a message asking her to call back urgently. When she ended the call she turned to her husband. ‘I’m really worried,’ she said, her face pale. ‘There’s something very wrong with her.’

  He nodded, feeling utterly helpless.

  ‘Maybe we should take her to A&E at the hospital?’

  ‘Let’s give the doctor a chance to call back. Half an hour?’

  ‘Half an hour, no more. If she doesn’t call back, we’re taking her to the hospital.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘I’ll go and sit with her. Shit, we’ve completely forgotten about Moose—’

  ‘I’ll check on her,’ he said.

  He went downstairs. Moose was up and about. He saw she’d eaten all of her food.

  Chris was pleased, at least, to see her getting better, but was increasingly worried about the seeming disappearance of the breeder, John Peat, from whom they had bought the puppy. His and Katy’s concerns had been deepened by an article in yesterday’s local paper, the Argus, about a farmer who had been murdered while, apparently, attempting to stop criminals from stealing a litter of puppies from his farm.

  In buying Moose, had they, albeit unintentionally, contributed to this vile trade in puppies? he wondered.

  But it wasn’t Moose’s fault. She was a beautiful, sweet puppy. All his thoughts went back to Bluebell.

  Then he heard Katy’s voice.

  ‘Darling, it’s Doctor Grogan.’ She came into the room, holding her phone to her ear. ‘One moment, doctor, I’m just putting you on speaker.’ She tapped a button on the phone and after a moment he heard the woman’s voice.