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  Wilbur sat patiently, confused, on the Persian rug. Clive stared him down from the doorway of the kitchen. Darkus walked over to console the dog, until a sudden bang, like a gunshot, echoed from the street outside. Wilbur jumped, then froze on the spot.

  ‘It’s OK, boy, it’s only a car backfiring,’ Darkus deduced, then noticed a small, yellow puddle forming under Wilbur’s back legs. ‘Oh no . . .’

  The puddle rapidly spread out, forming a large, golden circle, penetrating the carpet fibres and soaking into the Persian rug.

  ‘Oh, now you’ve done it . . .’ Clive murmured. ‘That rug has been in the Palmer family since the Battle of Khartoum!’ He jabbed his hand towards the ceiling. ‘Out!’

  Clive stormed towards the dog until Wilbur’s lips rolled back and he snarled dangerously, displaying both rows of teeth.

  Clive reared up and retreated, turning to Jackie for support. ‘That dog,’ he stammered, ‘is to be out of this house by noon tomorrow. Or I’m checking into the Premier Inn. Permanently.’ Clive stamped his Adidas slip-on sandal emphatically. ‘It’s him or me.’

  Darkus knew who he’d prefer, but, in spite of everything, his mother would remain loyal to the man she’d married.

  Darkus went to Wilbur’s side, but recoiled when the German shepherd flinched, snarled in his direction and barked twice – shocking Darkus who fell back on his elbows. Then the dog turned tail and ran back through the kitchen door, towards the shed.

  Darkus looked to his mother with tears welling up in his eyes. ‘It’s not his fault.’

  ‘It’s for the best, darling,’ she replied softly. ‘It just hasn’t . . . worked out.’

  ‘It’s not fair,’ Darkus whispered defiantly.

  Jackie went to hug him, but Darkus shrugged her off then turned and followed Wilbur through the back door into the falling darkness. Jackie watched him go, looking like a piece of her heart had been torn out.

  Wilbur sat in the corner of the garden, forlorn, then wagged his tail once as Darkus cautiously went to join him. Wilbur’s ears were flat against his head; his brow furrowed as if to say he was truly sorry. Darkus slowly extended his hand and patted him. Wilbur wagged his tail once more.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ Darkus whispered to him.

  Wilbur looked up at him with tired grey eyes, unable to provide any answers.

  ‘I’ll come and visit you,’ said Darkus, feeling his own eyes well up again. He knew it wasn’t entirely rational, but he couldn’t help it. Since his father had effectively disappeared for the second time, Wilbur was the only person he really talked to. Not that Wilbur was equipped to give him any advice, but Darkus found he could have better conversations with him, and discover more about himself, than he could by talking to anyone else.

  As they sat on the grass they both felt the chill creep in. They could hear Clive talking to the TV while Jackie did the washing-up – routinely checking on Darkus through the kitchen window. Darkus waited as long as possible, then got to his feet. Wilbur dutifully followed his master through the back door into the house. Jackie handed Darkus a plate of jam sandwiches, which he carried upstairs with Wilbur in tow.

  In the privacy of his bedroom, Darkus gave his dog a triangle, then took one for himself. Wilbur consumed his in one bite, then looked up at his master, pleading for another. Darkus obliged, then went to his desk, took out the secure phone and scrolled to the name: Uncle Bill. Seeing Wilbur begging, Darkus gave him another two triangles, then pressed ‘Dial’.

  After two rings, a thick Scottish voice answered: ‘Aye?’

  ‘Uncle Bill? It’s Darkus here.’

  ‘A’right, Darkus. Only it’s nae Uncle Bill. This is his brother, Dougal. Ah’m afraid Bill is currently . . . indisposed.’

  Darkus looked at the phone, surprised: the similarity in their Highland accents was uncanny. He’d heard talk of Dougal, who operated a lighthouse in the Outer Hebrides, but why would he be answering Bill’s private line?

  ‘Is everything OK?’ said Darkus.

  ‘Well, nae exactly, nay,’ replied Dougal in the negative. ‘I cannae say much, but Bill has been admitted tae hospital again, this time with quite serious injuries. Our mam insisted I come doon tae have a swatch.’

  If the family were keeping a vigil, it had to be serious. ‘What kind of injuries? What happened?’

  ‘Ah’m sorry, Darkus, but I cannae say. Bill’s expected to pull throoough but he’s under twintie-four-hoor police guard. The rest is classified top secret.’

  Darkus’s mind left his own domestic problems and began turning the facts over in his head. His father had gone off the radar. Bill was in hospital. Something was most definitely afoot. He realised he couldn’t press Dougal any further.

  ‘Kindly send Bill a packet of chocolate digestives from me. And have him call me as soon as he’s well enough.’

  ‘Will dae,’ replied Dougal.

  Darkus hung up, his mind racing but having insufficient data to get anywhere.

  From downstairs came the sound of Jackie and Clive engaged in a heated discussion.

  Darkus told Wilbur: ‘Wait.’ Then he crept out of his bedroom, across the landing and halfway down the stairs.

  ‘. . . now if we hired someone like her, it might be a different story,’ Clive pointed out.

  An image glimmered on the TV set, showing a hulking, middle-aged woman, dressed in country tweed. Her bombastic figure appeared to be trussed up inside a tailored hunting outfit and Hunter wellington boots. Her index finger was raised commandingly as she towered over a golden retriever.

  ‘Ssssstay,’ the woman on TV instructed the retriever. She then backed away as the dog sat, seemingly terrified, on the spot.

  Darkus recognised the woman as Fiona Connelly, star of the popular dog training series Bad Dog.

  ‘Well, can’t you make some calls?’ Jackie asked her husband. ‘Try and contact her? I mean, you’re “in TV”.’

  ‘I may be “in TV”, Jax, but I’m not “on TV”. I’ve got about as much pull as an . . .’

  ‘Aston Martin?’ suggested Jackie cheerily.

  ‘Austin Metro,’ Clive replied grimly.

  The TV switched to the evening news. A female reporter stood in a dark London street, speaking to camera: ‘More reports this evening of aggressive dogs attacking innocent civilians, with devastating results. The government is announcing new tighter controls on dog ownership –’

  ‘As right they should.’ Clive idly flicked to another channel.

  Darkus frowned, returning to his bedroom where he found the rest of the jam sandwiches had strangely vanished. Wilbur sat in the corner of the room, looking at the carpet.

  ‘It’s OK. I wasn’t hungry anyway –’

  Wilbur made a small guttural yelp and looked up.

  ‘What is it, boy?’

  Wilbur trotted to the bedroom window, reared up and rested his front paws on the sill.

  On the street below, Darkus and Wilbur observed a shadow slope across the pavement and arrive under the single lamp post opposite the house. It was a dog of some kind. Sinewy and ripped with muscles under its slick, ebony coat. It was too dark and the distance was too great to make out exactly what breed it was.

  ‘What d’you think it wants?’ Darkus whispered.

  Wilbur whimpered and prepared to bark, until Darkus put a hand over his jaws. ‘Wait.’

  The dog under the lamp post appeared to turn and inspect Clive and Jackie’s house – for a good ten seconds. Then it walked in measured strides along the pavement as a second shape appeared from the darkness. It was another identical dog, taut and composed. What was even stranger was the two dogs then stood facing each other snout to snout under the lamp post, as if they were conversing with each other. Planning, even.

  ‘What are they doing . . . ?’ Darkus pondered.

  Wilbur whined again, registering the very odd scene that was unfolding below them. Then, as quickly as they’d appeared, the two dogs turned and ran away in opposite di
rections, leaving only a swirl of mist in their wake.

  Chapter 3

  Home from Home

  An hour later, Wilbur finally left the window, went to the basket at the end of Darkus’s bed, chased his tail and curled up in a ball. Within moments, the dog was asleep.

  Darkus buttoned his plaid pyjamas and attempted to follow suit, but was distracted by the distant whine of a motor scooter, which appeared to be approaching Wolseley Close. Wilbur cocked his ears, then ignored it.

  The scooter sputtered to a halt outside the house, just as Tilly’s bedroom door opened, then closed abruptly and footsteps thumped down the stairs and across the hallway.

  Clive shouted something from the master bedroom but the front door slammed before he could finish his sentence.

  Darkus got out of bed and returned to his vantage point at the bedroom window, watching as Tilly marched down the driveway to meet the waiting scooter: a gleaming machine finished in red and black. Sitting astride the machine was a young white male in white trainers, grey sweatpants, a puffa jacket and a black carbon helmet sporting what appeared to be devil horns on either side of the visor.

  To Darkus’s profound puzzlement and mild irritation, Tilly planted a kiss on the cheek of the rider and hopped on the back of the scooter, wrapping her arms around his waist. The rider straightened up, cranked the accelerator and sputtered away with Tilly holding on tight. They turned the corner at the end of the street and the noise reduced to a distant buzz, then vanished altogether.

  More perplexed than ever, Darkus left the window and returned to bed.

  Darkus slept uncertainly, remaining on the surface of consciousness, never quite reaching a satisfactory depth.

  At the edge of his brain, he heard Tilly return home a couple of hours later, accompanied by the brief report of the motor scooter before it buzzed off into the distance.

  When morning eventually arrived, Darkus had the momentary illusion that he was waking from a bad dream. But as grey light peered through the curtains, the reality set in – that although he hadn’t known Wilbur for long, Darkus was losing the best friend he’d ever had.

  Wilbur appeared to be having nightmares of his own, letting out a series of whimpers and crying sounds before raising his head at the end of the bed in a silent greeting. Much as it hurt, Darkus knew that Wilbur would be well cared for, returning to his former home at the dog rescue centre where his dad had first found him. And Darkus would visit as regularly as his schoolwork allowed.

  His train of thought was interrupted by Wilbur licking his face.

  ‘Yuk, Wilbur. OK, boy.’ Darkus got out of bed and stumbled towards the bathroom.

  Downstairs, Tilly was eating a large bowl of cereal with Clive watching in silence from the opposite end of the kitchen table.

  ‘Well . . . ? Who is he?’ Clive demanded flatly. ‘This mysterious character on the two-wheeled bottle rocket.’

  Jackie raised her eyebrows and continued emptying the dishwasher.

  ‘A friend,’ Tilly replied.

  ‘Hmm,’ Clive intoned accusingly.

  Wilbur appeared from the staircase and snuck around the outside of the table with his head down, arriving at the dog bowl Jackie had placed by the back door.

  ‘What’s wrong with Wilbur?’ asked Tilly.

  ‘Holiday’s over. He’s checking out,’ replied Clive, unable to conceal his good spirits. ‘Going back to the orphanage, aren’t you, boy? Vorsprung durch Technik,’ he added in his bad German.

  Tilly looked at her father in dismay, then shook her head and continued eating her cereal.

  ‘Right. I’m going to get the papers,’ Clive announced and jogged lightly to the front door, adjusting his shell suit. ‘Back in a mo.’

  Tilly and Jackie exchanged a mutually sympathetic glance, then went about their business, until a high-pitched shout interrupted them.

  ‘Jackie!!!’ Clive’s voice reverberated through the kitchen windows.

  ‘Yes?!’

  ‘The dog’s fouled the driveway! Tell Darkus to clean it up.’

  ‘It wasn’t Wilbur,’ Darkus replied from the kitchen doorway. ‘It’s obvious from the diameter of the –’

  ‘OK, sweetie. I believe you,’ Jackie stopped him.

  ‘There were two other dogs out there last night,’ he went on. ‘I don’t know who they belong to. I’ve never seen them before.’

  ‘I’m afraid that doesn’t change the situation, Doc,’ she said gently. ‘Wilbur and Clive just aren’t compatible.’

  Darkus looked down, trying to think of a solution to the impending catastrophe, but finding none.

  ‘Look, darling, sometimes you’ve just got to have a little faith in the world. OK?’ Wilbur went to sit by Darkus’s side. ‘Why don’t you two go play in the garden for a while, and I’ll put Wilbur’s basket in the car.’

  The drive to the dog rescue centre took less than an hour, but felt like an eternity. Wilbur was completely silent, yet Darkus felt more attuned to him than ever – as if they were both facing a life sentence to be served in separate cells.

  Jackie drove through the tall, metal gates of the compound and saw a well-built fifty-year-old man in grey combat fatigues, waiting for them in the car park. He had the gait of a military officer and clipped, receding hair, which framed a chiselled but kind face with soft blue eyes. From the back seat, Wilbur looked up and wagged his tail once, recognising the figure.

  Jackie stepped out of the car while Darkus opened the boot for Wilbur. A few distant barks signalled the presence of the other residents of the rescue centre, which consisted of a nondescript concrete block overlooking a large, fenced recreation yard.

  ‘Captain Reed?’ Jackie enquired.

  ‘Call me John.’ The man extended his hand. ‘Hello, Wilburforce.’

  Darkus felt a tug as Wilbur trotted towards his former master and sat obediently by his side.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ Jackie began. ‘We just can’t keep him any more.’

  Darkus said nothing, keeping his hands in the pockets of his herringbone coat, unwilling to make eye contact.

  ‘It doesn’t surprise me. I’m sure you did your best,’ Reed said diplomatically. ‘All of you,’ he added, directed at Darkus. Reed ruffled the German shepherd’s fur. ‘Wilbur’s a “war dog”. He’s seen things most people could never hope to recover from. These dogs, they saved a great many lives – including my own.’ Reed stroked the dark patch between Wilbur’s ears, losing himself in recollection for a moment. ‘In my experience, people let you down. But dogs, they never do.’ He looked up, gesturing to the rescue centre. ‘This is my way of paying them back.’

  ‘Can I visit him?’ Darkus asked, fiddling with his hat.

  ‘It’s not up to me,’ Reed replied.

  Darkus looked down again.

  ‘You’ll have to talk to her . . .’ Reed pointed off towards a classic London black cab parked in a corner at the end of the yard. The driver’s door opened and Bogna stepped out in a pair of wrap-around sunglasses, waving cheerfully as she came to greet them.

  Darkus broke into a broad smile and turned to his mum. ‘You mean . . . ?’

  Jackie nodded. ‘Wilbur’s going to live with Bogna and your dad. You can visit him whenever you like . . . I told you to have a little faith sometimes.’

  Darkus spontaneously gave his mum a hug, then knelt down and grabbed Wilbur in an embrace. Wilbur raised his snout proudly, then sniffed at Bogna’s brightly coloured housecoat, smelling a variety of strange and powerful odours.

  ‘Hello, Wilburs. You come to live with Bogna now, yes?’

  Wilbur wagged once in response.

  ‘Where’s Dad?’ Darkus asked her.

  Bogna shook her head uncertainly. ‘I haven’t seen much of him in a fort’s night.’

  ‘Can I go with them?’ Darkus asked his mum.

  ‘If you want,’ she said, feeling that same tug herself. ‘Just be careful, and be home tomorrow night in time for school.’

 
; ‘OK, Mum.’ Darkus attached the lead to Wilbur’s collar and walked him towards his father’s black cab without a second glance. Bogna hurried to keep up.

  Wilbur stopped, and looked back at Reed for a moment. The captain called out: ‘I’m here if you need me. That goes for both of you.’

  Wilbur twitched his ears. Darkus looked back and nodded, then stepped into the back of the cab with the dog, and within a few moments they had accelerated out of the gate, indicating right, but turning left, and vanishing from view.

  Jackie winced as she watched them go, then turned to Reed. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It’ll take a lot to split those two up,’ he replied with a brief nod – almost a salute. A chorus of light yelps from the main building punctuated the moment. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, Mrs Palmer, it’s nearly time for their walk.’

  ‘Of course.’ Jackie returned to her car alone and headed home.

  As Bogna swerved and jolted them towards London, Darkus felt like he was introducing Wilbur to a new part of his life – one that had lain dormant for too long. Once Wilbur was fed and settled into his new digs, Darkus intended to track down his father, wherever he might be. His aim was to find out what case he was pursuing – for he was in no doubt his dad was on a case – and to figure out how it related to their injured colleague, Uncle Bill. If Knightley Senior hadn’t been seen regularly for two weeks, then two things were abundantly clear: firstly, the case was consuming his every waking minute; and secondly – due to the fact that the first forty-eight hours (the most important in any investigation) had elapsed – the case was clearly not going to plan. Whatever trail his dad was following was likely to be cold, and perhaps Darkus could help to warm it up.

  Bogna guided the Fairway black cab through the warren of north London streets with surprising ease, and before long they were entering the borough of Islington and turning the corner into Cherwell Place.

  The short, terraced street with the almost imperceptible curve still looked as if it was being observed through a magnifying glass – just as Darkus remembered it. Bogna pulled into the narrow garage in the alley nearby. Then Darkus led Wilbur toward number 27 while Bogna yanked down the garage door and locked it.