Roger’s ears perked up and he lunged excitedly up the track with a woof, almost dislocating Flynn’s shoulder from its socket, and headed towards the Shogun. Flynn tried to rein him back to get more control. To some degree he was successful, but Roger certainly had a mind of his own and obviously knew his job, so Flynn let the lead reel out a little.
At the car, the dog sniffed around, encouraged by Flynn’s words. He rose up on his back legs and placed his massive front paws on the driver’s door window, making Flynn appreciate just what a huge dog he was, more like a fully grown man in a dog suit. He shoved his wet nose to the glass and slavered on it, then pushed himself away from the vehicle and dragged Flynn up the track, zigzagging as he went, nose-down in the snow, foraging, pausing occasionally to sniff the air, or a particularly interesting tree trunk.
Flynn sensed the dog was on to something. At least up to the point where he stopped, sniffed and pawed the ground. Flynn approached with trepidation, drawing the lead back on to the inertia reel, thinking that something — someone — had been found in a shallow grave. His imagination ran riot.
The dog circled tightly, dropped his back end and started to shit.
Flynn didn’t know whether to be relieved or annoyed, but the expression of pure pleasure on Roger’s face actually made him chuckle. Then, with one last squeeze, Roger had completed his task and was ready to resume the search. He went up the track, pulling Flynn behind him. Flynn remarked philosophically, ‘When you gotta go, you gotta go.’
For an old dog with arthritic joints, Roger moved quickly and with purpose. It was all Flynn could do to keep up and prevent the lead from wrapping around trees and snagging bushes. Flynn knew that police dog handlers usually allowed their dogs to roam freely on wide searches, but he didn’t want to face the prospect of never seeing Roger again and having to explain that away.
The ground was broken and uneven underneath the snow and it was hard to keep upright, but Flynn was fit and agile and controlling Roger reminded him, in a way, of playing a marlin. Not as much fun, obviously. The path rose steeply and Flynn saw they were making their way up alongside a high fence on their right. Suddenly they reached a plateau which opened up at a dilapidated farm building.
Then it was as though Roger had an injection of speed. He surged ahead, uttering a growl, and hurtled towards the building. The lead played out like a fishing line from a spool. The dog skittered and half-disappeared behind a wall that had once been one of the gable-ends of the old farmhouse.
Flynn rushed up behind him as Roger stopped abruptly and dropped into a rigid attacking stance, hackles rising, ears flattened back, a very dangerous snarl, revealing thick, long, sharp canines. His teeth were stained brown with age, but even so they looked like they could still tear off a man’s biceps when combined with the powerful muscles in the jaw.
Flynn skidded around the corner, the inertia reel clattering like a broken tape measure as it gathered back the lead. He almost collided with Roger, whose training had taken over as he stood looking ferociously at the two bedraggled, exhausted and weatherbeaten men he had discovered sheltering in the protection provided by the crumbling wall.
Roger glanced at Flynn, waiting for the attack signal. Flynn let the lead rattle all the way back in until it was as short as it could be, then he thumbed on the locking mechanism. Only then did he look properly at the men.
The one who’d been on his haunches, almost eye-to-eye with Roger, rose unsteadily, knees cracking. The other one, sitting against the wall, stayed where he was.
‘Bloody hell,’ Flynn gasped. ‘Henry-freaking-Christie. What are you doing here?’
‘I could ask you the same question,’ Henry croaked.
‘Walking my dog, obviously,’ Flynn said.
‘I never thought I’d be glad to see you,’ Henry admitted. ‘Need some help here.’
As they helped Donaldson to his feet, Flynn inadvertently knocked the locking catch on the lead and Roger, now uninterested in his find, moseyed off towards the fence. Flynn kept hold of the lead, but did not watch what he was doing.
Roger raised his sensitive nose and sniffed the air. A change came over him: his head fell and his hackles rose again as they had done on finding the two men, but this time he stepped backwards, his throat rumbling uncertainly. There was a terrible growl from the other side of the fence. Roger leapt a foot high, all four paws leaving the ground, turned tail and ran back to Flynn, coming around him and wrapping the lead around his legs, taking cover.
Henry and Flynn looked from the dog to the fence and back again.
‘What the hell was that?’ Flynn said, stepping out of the lasso formed by the lead and hunching one of Donaldson’s arms around his shoulders.
‘Don’t know — an owl?’ Henry suggested.
‘Big owl,’ Flynn said.
They manhandled the sick and lame Donaldson between them the mile or so back down the hill, passing the Shogun on the way, and eased him on to the back seat of Flynn’s hired Peugeot where he slumped gratefully across the upholstery with a groan. Flynn switched on the engine and turned up the fan heater a few notches.
‘It’s not far to the village from here,’ Flynn said, blowing into his cupped hands. Darkness was almost upon them, the snow unrelenting. ‘This could cut the place off,’ he said, gesturing at the weather. ‘We probably need to get going, otherwise the road from here could be impassable, too.’
‘Yeah, good idea,’ Henry agreed. ‘Shall we?’ He indicated the car.
‘But not just yet,’ Flynn said.
‘He needs to get somewhere warm,’ Henry said.
‘And I reckon I’ve got another ten minutes of looking,’ Flynn said.
Henry regarded him. His face felt frozen and unfeeling, his fingers inside his gloves like ice-pops, and all he wanted to do was defrost. ‘Just what the hell are you doing here?’ he asked. ‘What are you looking for? I’m here because an ill-judged jaunt went wrong, but you’re two thousand miles off your patch, aren’t you?’ If he was honest, he did not care what Flynn was up to or why, he was simply grateful their paths had collided, thankful for his assistance with Donaldson, and now he just wanted a hot bath, hot food and to get his friend sorted. He had no interest in Flynn’s circumstances.
‘I couldn’t resist a plea from a husky maiden,’ Flynn said, not giving Henry the additional reasons he’d left Gran Canaria, such as the possibility of an assault complaint, or the lack of work. ‘So I’ve turned up here and, to cut a long story short, I think I’m looking for a body.’ He pointed to the Shogun up the track. ‘That’s her car. Her keys and possessions were in it, but she’s nowhere to be found. I’m thinking bad things.’
‘And who is the dusky maiden?’ Henry said, playing along with reluctance.
‘Cathy James, the rural beat officer out here.’
Henry would have frowned, but the cold had made his forehead as smooth and fixed as if he’d had a Botox injection. ‘A police officer?’
‘You might remember her as Cathy Turnbull — if you know her at all.’
Henry’s internal light bulb flickered. ‘She married Tom James, a detective from Lancaster.’
‘The very one.’
‘He’s a good lad,’ Henry said. Flynn emitted a doubtful noise. Henry relented a little and tried to show some interest. ‘So what’s going on?’
‘Nutshell? I got a few frantic calls from Cathy — we go way back,’ he explained. ‘I turned up here and found she hasn’t been seen since a domestic ding-dong. Good lad Tom acts like he doesn’t give a shit and now I’ve found her car.’ He opened his arms helplessly.