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‘Classic or new recipe?’ Bill asked quietly.

  ‘Classic, of course,’ answered Knightley.

  ‘Yoo’re mah Florence Nightingale, Alan,’ purred Bill.

  ‘Ah told ye, nae bannocks,’ Dougal piped up.

  ‘Haud yer wheesht!’ snapped Bill.

  ‘I suggest we get back to the office,’ Knightley told his son. ‘There might be time for a round of jam sandwiches, triangles not squares, naturally, then it’s an early night, wake up for a full English, say your goodbyes to Wilbur – for now of course – and take the first train home.’

  Something about his father’s announcement didn’t ring true. It was as if they both knew, one or way or another, the train would not be caught and Darkus would not be going home – at least not yet.

  ‘Dad, you know full well I can’t leave in the middle of a case,’ Darkus remonstrated. ‘That is unless you want it to remain in the vaults of the Department of the Unexplained, rather than have it put before a jury and see justice done.’

  ‘You do make a strong case, Doc.’

  ‘I know. I learned from the best.’

  ‘Flattery will get you everywhere. But there is one overriding issue that you have patently ignored, and I fear you will have no adequate answer for. And that is your mother. I imagine she’s expecting a call within the hour, and you home by tomorrow night.’

  ‘Can you tell her I’m unwell?’ Darkus suggested.

  ‘She won’t buy it.’

  ‘I thought you said you were a good liar.’

  ‘Not that good.’

  ‘Then perhaps we should offer her the truth,’ said Darkus.

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘That you’re out of your depth. Again.’ His father frowned, his brow creasing. Darkus continued regardless: ‘And that without my assistance you may fall victim to another “episode”, or worse.’

  ‘The delivery was unnecessarily cruel, Doc. But, as usual, I fear you may be on to something.’

  ‘She does care about you, Dad. Whether she admits it or not.’

  Knightley pursed his lips and made an odd chomping expression as he digested this last piece of evidence, before coming to a decision. ‘Let’s hope you’re right.’

  Chapter 7

  The Dog Whisperer

  If Darkus had any doubts about Wilbur’s new digs, they were quickly dispelled when he and his father returned to 27 Cherwell Place that evening to find Bogna and the mutt had already become bosom buddies.

  After greeting the Knightleys with an unusual level of affection – wagging his tail several times as opposed to the usual single wag – Wilbur returned to Bogna’s lap, literally leaping on to her as she sat in an armchair following a particularly gruelling session with the Hoover. Bogna didn’t seem to mind this furry lump using her as an improvised dog basket. In fact she appeared to like it.

  ‘Good boyee, Wilburs. Now show Alan and Darkus what Bogna teach you.’

  Wilbur raised his eyebrows as if to say: Do I have to?

  ‘Don’t make argument with me, Wilburs.’

  Wilbur frowned, twitched his whiskers, then lowered one, two, then all four legs to the carpet. He then walked to the centre of the living room and sat perfectly still, back straight, head held high.

  Darkus watched in amazement, then looked to his father for confirmation. Knightley narrowed his eyes to examine the phenomenon.

  Bogna resumed her tuition. ‘Good. Now fetch Bogna the feathered duster.’ Wilbur cocked his head reluctantly. ‘Go . . .’ she urged.

  Wilbur slowly got back to his feet and trotted into the kitchen, vanishing behind the fridge. A moment later he returned, carrying the feather duster gingerly between his teeth. He raised his snout, handing it to Bogna, who duly nodded and held it vertically in her right hand, briefly resembling a monarch upon the throne holding a sceptre.

  ‘Outstanding,’ remarked Knightley.

  ‘It’s incredible,’ agreed Darkus.

  Bogna casually shrugged. ‘Now, Wilburs . . . Bogna is feelings hungry. Fetch Bogna something for eats.’

  Wilbur wagged his tail, trotted back to the fridge, sat on his haunches and extended his back, reaching out with his right paw. He pulled on the handle and the fridge door swung open. Wilbur then staggered forward on his hind legs, gently resting his paws against the shelf of the fridge and carefully taking a small box of choc­olates between his teeth. He staggered backwards, sat on his haunches again, closed the door with his paw and returned to Bogna, wagging his tail.

  Bogna took the chocolate box from his jaws. ‘Good boyee. Now, feets?’ She nodded to the ottoman, which Wilbur obediently nudged into position as she lowered her Crocs on to it, for ultimate relaxation.

  As she selected a chocolate from the box and popped it in her mouth, Darkus and his dad exchanged an even deeper look of disbelief.

  ‘How did you do it?’ asked Darkus, struggling to comprehend how it took Bogna one day to achieve what he had failed to do in three months.

  ‘You don’t like?’ she replied, concerned.

  ‘No. It’s amazing,’ said Darkus. ‘You could put Fiona Connelly out of business.’

  Bogna bit down on a particularly chewy chocolate piece. ‘I just talk to him like normals adult.’ She cocked her head and swallowed. ‘I say gets me this, he gets me that.’

  ‘It’s his training,’ Knightley added under his breath. ‘It must be coming back. Wilbur is clearly a very clever dog under his rather dysfunctional exterior. I’m confident he may yet be of some use to us.’

  Darkus checked his simple Timex watch and frowned. Knightley caught his look and nodded.

  ‘To business,’ said Knightley and led his son upstairs.

  They entered the office, closing the door behind them. Knightley took up position behind his mahogany desk while Darkus pulled up a chair, took out his secure phone and dialled. After a few rings Jackie picked up.

  ‘Doc?’ she asked anxiously. ‘Is everything OK?’

  ‘I’m fine, Mum. But I’m afraid I won’t be coming home tomorrow.’

  ‘But – what about school?’

  ‘I suggest you tell them I’m ill,’ he advised. ‘Sorry, but I have to ask you to be economical with the truth.’

  ‘You mean lie,’ she replied bluntly.

  ‘For good reasons, yes,’ said Darkus, then paused, summoning the courage to confess. ‘Dad needs my help again.’

  He was met with stony silence on the other end of the line. Then Jackie’s voice wavered, not wanting to believe that history was repeating itself.

  ‘Put your father on the phone, Doc,’ she said sternly.

  ‘OK, Mum.’ Darkus passed the phone to his dad.

  ‘Hello, Jackie,’ Knightley began cheerily, until he was cut off by her response, which Darkus could imagine, but couldn’t hear. ‘Well, actually, it was his idea –’ Knightley replied, until he was cut off again.

  Not wishing to listen to this awkward altercation, and finding it strangely familiar from the days when they were a complete, if eccentric, family, Darkus walked to the landing window and glanced down at Cherwell Place. The Victorian street lamps flickered to life, one by one. A light mist crept around the lanterns as it was wont to do.

  Darkus tuned out the sound of his parents arguing, then felt something brush against him. He started, and looked down to see Wilbur nuzzling his trouser leg restlessly, before raising his snout, as if sniffing for trouble.

  ‘What is it, boy?’

  Wilbur made some apprehensive puffing noises, then reared back and raised his front paws to rest on the window ledge, beside Darkus.

  Darkus followed his line of sight and spotted two low, muscular shapes appearing from the mist at the end of the road, dimly lit by the street lamps which were still warming up. Darkus instantly recognised the shapes as canines – their torsos jet black and teeming with sinews and tendons: most likely a Rottweiler-wolf mix. Not so different to Bill’s crude sketch – if one used some imagin­ation. As the dogs trotted along the pavement
in a perfectly matching half-step, Darkus drew closer to the windowpane. Uncannily, the pair looked identical to the dogs that had been conducting surveillance at Wolseley Close just the night before.

  Darkus and Wilbur watched as the two dogs came to a halt in the circle of light under the street lamp located outside number 27. The dogs turned to look at each other, as if they were in some sort of silent conver­sation, like co-conspirators – they appeared almost human in the subtlety of their expression. Both dogs directed their gaze upwards to the office. Darkus immediately flicked the light switch off, so he and Wilbur could observe unseen.

  ‘What are they doing here . . . ?’ Darkus uttered under his breath. ‘What are they sniffing around for?’

  Wilbur let out a low growl and his tail sank fearfully between his legs.

  The dogs gazed up at the office for another full thirty seconds, then appeared to nod at each other and trotted away with identical purpose, but in opposite directions. Darkus squinted to check his eyes hadn’t deceived him.

  Within moments, the dogs had exited from opposing ends of the street.

  Darkus took a moment to process this nonsensical evidence, then confidently re-entered the office, closely followed by Wilbur.

  His father was in mid-speech: ‘I promised once, and I’ll promise you again, Jackie. I won’t let any harm come to him . . .’

  ‘Dad, I need to speak to Mum,’ Darkus interjected with certainty.

  ‘Hold on a tick –’ said Knightley, attempting to bring her to a halt. ‘Doc wants to speak to you.’ He shrugged and passed the phone guiltily back to Darkus.

  ‘Mum, I’m sorry to do this . . . again,’ he admitted, knowing how unfair it was on her. ‘But in the light of recent events I am now convinced the game is – once again – afoot, and Dad needs my help . . . more than ever.’

  Her voice came through the handset. ‘Darkus, I know how loyal you are to your dad, and I respect that. But you’re still a child –’

  ‘Mum, listen to me. For the moment, my being at Wolseley Close is not safe, not for me . . . not for you, Clive or Tilly. Something is going on, and until I work out what it is, I’m staying in London with Dad.’

  ‘And I suppose I have no say in this?’ she argued.

  ‘You trusted me once. Just trust me again.’

  ‘What d’you expect me to say, Darkus?’ Jackie’s voice wavered with emotion. ‘If I agree I’m putting you in harm’s way, and if I refuse –’

  ‘You’ll be doing the exact same thing,’ Darkus answered for her.

  ‘So what am I meant to do?’ she asked helplessly.

  ‘Call Cranston on Monday. Be as convincing as you can. Tell them I’m suffering a bout of seasonal influenza, my temperature is fluctuating between thirty-nine and forty-one degrees, my glands are up and you’ve confined me to bed rest for the next few days. At least until the full moon.’

  Knightley raised his eyebrows, realising his son was now, without question, on the case.

  ‘Until the full moon . . . ?’ Jackie asked, incredulous.

  Darkus realised he’d said too much. ‘Yes. I believe I will have completed my work here by then. Thanks for understanding, Mum.’

  ‘Wait, Darkus –’

  ‘The trail is getting cold, Mum. I love you. I’ll keep my phone on whenever I can, as long as it doesn’t compromise the investigation. Bye for now.’ Darkus winced and ended the call, then looked up at his dad.

  ‘She’ll understand,’ said Knightley in an attempt at reassurance. ‘It’s me she won’t forgive.’

  ‘I’m more concerned by our current predicament,’ said Darkus. ‘Have you noticed a pair of dogs conducting surveillance on the office?’

  ‘Dogs? Conducting surveillance?’

  ‘I believe so, yes,’ said Darkus.

  ‘I’ve seen nothing of the kind.’

  ‘Then I must assume they’ve either eluded your attention, or they have somehow followed me from Wolseley Close – incredible as that may sound.’

  ‘You saw them there as well?’ asked Knightley, astonished.

  Darkus nodded. ‘Last night . . . And they’re no ordin­ary canines. They appear to be a particularly aggressive-looking Rottweiler mix.’ Darkus hesitated, before proceeding with testimony that he knew full well would provide a lit match to his father’s most explosive and far-fetched ideas. ‘I only have visual evidence, in poor light, but I believe – irrational as it sounds – that these dogs are able to communicate with each other, possibly in an operational capacity.’

  ‘You mean they’re “smart” dogs?’ Knightley’s ears pricked up.

  ‘It would appear so. The question is . . . what do they want with us?’

  ‘The question is . . .’ Knightley weighed in, ‘are we in fact dealing with more than one werewolf . . . ?’ He pondered a moment. ‘Think about the attacks on the police. The missing pets on the Heath.’

  Darkus shook his head. ‘I would prefer to stay in the realm of reality, not the supernatural. We don’t even know that the cases are linked.’

  ‘The evidence will determine which one of us is residing in reality, Doc,’ said Knightley, then sat back in his chair and massaged his brow, as if waiting for an answer to present itself. ‘Well, what are your theories?’ he submitted.

  ‘Based on the evidence, Dad,’ Darkus began, ‘the paw print we found at Hampstead Heath cannot be a match for the prints of the dogs that have been watching us. The print from the Heath was far larger in size and far more unusual in toe spread and angle of footfall. Therefore, I can conclude that these two lines of investigation are – so far – unrelated.’

  ‘It’s too early to make that assumption,’ Knightley reprimanded him. ‘The soil may have been corrupted. The Heath is three hundred and twenty hectares large. There must be more prints out there.’ Knightley’s eyes lit up wildly. ‘Given time and resources, we may be able to find them.’

  Darkus realised he was yet again engaged in the same old dispute with his father: namely, would the five senses account for every unexplained incident in the world; or, in some cases, does the occult provide the only solution, however improbable it might seem?

  ‘As you say,’ Darkus continued, ‘the Heath is the size of a small town. It would be like looking for a needle . . . in a small town. Besides, I see no reason to force the square peg of a mythical werewolf into the round hole of this investigation. So far, there is no empirical connection. Our immediate problem is that we appear to be under surveillance by a pair of very clever canines.’

  ‘So what d’you recommend we do about it?’

  ‘Simple. We use counter-surveillance,’ Darkus replied.

  ‘You mean cameras?’ Knightley remarked. Darkus shook his head in response. ‘Then what . . . ?’

  Wilbur trotted into the middle of the room and sat perfectly upright.

  ‘You’re looking at him,’ said Darkus, nodding to the dog. ‘Wilbur can tell us when they’re here,’ Darkus announced. ‘He can smell them.’

  ‘Your reasoning is sound,’ admitted Knightley.

  Darkus steepled his fingers and narrowed his gaze. ‘Once he has the scent, we might even be able to track them.’

  Chapter 8

  An Early Morning Walk

  Later that evening, the Knightleys found their senses overpowered by the characteristically pungent aroma of Bogna’s traditional Polish cooking. After a meal of bigos (hunter’s stew) consisting of boiled cabbage, boiled sausage and boiled onions, which could have fed an army, and required several hours to digest (Darkus feared some ingredients would never be fully digested), Knightley ordered his son to set aside the case for the day.

  Darkus suspected his father was still holding something back from him, but he couldn’t work out what it was; and Darkus knew that if he confronted his dad, he would only clam up further.

  The Knightleys retired to their respective bedrooms – Darkus’s being the chaise longue in the office. Wilbur opted for the armchair opposite.

  Da
rkus and his dog both slept fitfully, with each of them flinching and emitting mumbled communications that were more the result of the unconscious than the conscious. At around five in the morning, Wilbur slipped off the armchair and leaped to his feet, causing Darkus to do the same. Darkus tuned his hearing to cover all possible frequencies, finding one wavelength that contained the rumbling, bronchial snores of Bogna; and another that appeared to contain muffled footsteps descending the stairs and quietly closing the front door behind them. Having superior powers of hearing, Wilbur had already darted to the office window; and when Darkus joined him they saw Knightley striding down Cherwell Place towards the alley with the row of garages – one of which contained the black London cab.

  Before Darkus could assemble his thoughts, he heard his father’s cab stutter, then fire up on all cylinders, exploding into life. Seconds later it accelerated out of the alley and vanished down a side street. Darkus pressed the speed dial on his phone, but, as he suspected, his dad’s mobile was switched off. He opened an application on his phone and hailed a black cab online. Then he threw on his clothes and descended the stairs. As he took the collar and lead from a coat hook, Wilbur cried with excitement, until Darkus hushed him, for fear of alerting Bogna. Fortunately her rumbling snores were undisturbed.

  Darkus closed the front door behind him and led Wilbur towards the waiting cab. He was tempted to say ‘Follow that car’, but realised his father was already long gone.

  The cabbie leaned out of the window and pointed to Wilbur. ‘He soils the vehicle – you’re paying.’

  ‘I give you my personal guarantee, he’ll do nothing of the sort,’ replied Darkus. ‘Now please take us to Hampstead Heath as quickly as possible.’ He led Wilbur into the cabin and was thrown back in his seat as the driver hit the accelerator.

  During the ride, Darkus thought he saw his father’s cab some way ahead, racing through shadowy intersections in the predawn light. But it was too far away to tell if it was Knightley or just another black cab in a hurry, like the one Darkus was now travelling in. Wilbur raised his nose to the half-open window, drinking in the motley array of smells that circulated around the capital in the early hours.