Monty and Me: A heart-warmingly wagtastic novel!

‘What happened to the warning?’ I ask Dante, panting. ‘And where’s Betty?’

‘Here!’ she says, appearing from a dark corner. ‘Jeez, you’re almost black. What happened?’

I realise that I’m covered in dirt from the puddle. The estate’s greyness is rubbing off on me.

Dante is defensive. ‘I can’t watch you all the time. I’m not God!’

Then I see he’s clasping a shiny beer bottle top in one claw.

‘Got distracted, did you?’ I tease.

He ignores my comment and nods to his right. ‘Four doors down. Larry’s in there. I’ve just seen him at his kitchen window making a cup of tea. So, what’s your plan?’

Good question. In my enthusiasm to find Larry Nice, I haven’t thought about how I’m going to get close enough to smell him.

Betty and I creep down the puddle-riddled walkway and stop outside number 251. The door is shut and looks as if it’s been kicked in at some point: the bottom panels have been replaced and the wood around the lock is splintered.

‘Betty, you stay out of sight,’ I say. ‘Dante, use your beak to knock on the door. When you hear him coming, fly away.’

Betty conceals herself behind a drainpipe. Dante stands on the doormat and taps three times, but nobody comes. I hear the radio inside his flat. The weather forecast man is predicting showers. I could have told him that!

‘Louder. Give it a good whack.’

‘I’m doing my best,’ he protests, but he bangs harder and keeps going.

I hear footsteps, Dante flies off, and the grimy lace curtains are pulled back a fraction. Larry’s face appears at the kitchen window. He looks at where an average height big’un might stand if he were outside the door, and as a result he doesn’t see us.

‘Bloody kids!’ I hear him say.

He disappears from view and Dante returns.

‘Knock again,’ I say.

‘My beak’s getting sore,’ Dante complains, but follows my instructions.

I hear Larry, his voice angry. ‘Right, you little bastards, I’m going to give you a bloody good hiding.’

The door opens wide and a skinny man, with a face like a whippet and legs like a chicken, stands there in his burgundy nylon dressing-gown. Larry Nice has been smoking weed and is enveloped by an acrid fug. Initially, that’s all I can smell. It’s overpowering. I remember Paddy’s killer smelt of it too, so I stand my ground, bedraggled, a filthy grey, on his soggy doormat.

Larry gawps at me. ‘What the f—’

I jump up, pressing my nose against his skin, but he thinks I am about to bite and he squeals. I knock chicken-whippet man flat on his back. He lies winded on a carpet that stinks of beer, then struggles to push me off him. His slippery dressing-gown is short sleeved and in the struggle my claws scratch his arm, but he has no bite mark. He smells of cheap aftershave and pubs, Rich Tea biscuits and polystyrene. But not that weird, stinky food stench, and not the disease that reminds me of an insect, which I still can’t place. As I charge out of the door and down the steps, I know for certain that Larry Nice did not kill my master.

Chapter Twelve (#ulink_c191b525-8ef7-5549-bca9-ad0472e60a5a)

Rose helped PC Joe Salisbury raise the roller door to Larry Nice’s lock-up on the Truscott Estate, wearing an unflattering blue rain jacket that made her look like a blueberry. Her shoes were soaked through from searching for Monty in the rain. She’d woken to find the dog gone and Kay’s old torch in the garden. How Monty had escaped she had no idea since the exterior doors were shut.

‘This is going to take a while,’ said Salisbury, jolting her from her cogitation.

The garage was packed full of boxes.

Salisbury’s uniform had attracted a small crowd of jeering teenage boys. The oldest, probably eighteen, shouted, ‘Filth!’ and threw a bottle, which hit Rose’s arm, then shattered at her feet. Salisbury was a muscular giant whose mere presence was usually enough to cause troublemakers to think twice. He headed for the perpetrator, who turned to run but Rose got there first. Shoving him into the wall, she cuffed one wrist and then the other before the stunned offender knew what was happening. The rest of the gang scarpered.

‘Name?’ Rose demanded.

‘I ain’t saying nothing.’

‘Hold him,’ she said to Salisbury. She searched his pockets and found a wallet and driving licence. ‘Damien Flannery.’ Rose looked at the young offender. ‘I’m Detective Constable Rose Sidebottom and you’re going to apologise for throwing that bottle at me.’

‘Get fu—!’

‘Language!’ snapped Salisbury.

‘If you apologise,’ Rose continued, ‘I may change my mind about charging you with assaulting a police officer.’

Salisbury gave Rose a questioning look. She ignored it. ‘Well, I’m waiting.’

‘No way.’

‘I’m still waiting,’ she said, cupping an ear.

‘You got it all wrong. The bottle fell. I didn’t throw nothing.’

‘Don’t make me do it,’ she warned.

‘All right, all right.’ Flannery scanned the carpark, checking nobody was within ear shot. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered.

‘Right. Consider this a warning. Now you leave us alone to get on with our jobs, okay?’

‘Yes, detective.’

Salisbury undid the handcuffs and Flannery shuffled off, hands in pockets.

‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’ Salisbury asked. ‘Not even a formal caution?’

‘We don’t want a riot on our hands, and anyway, he’s young. I want to give him a second chance.’

Salisbury shook his head but didn’t argue.

‘Best we get started,’ she said and tore open a box.

‘You handled yourself well just then.’

‘Thanks, Joe.’

Rose had always considered Salisbury handsome, despite a potato-shaped chin hidden beneath a thick beard. At Police College she had developed a crush on him, but it became obvious he was in love with a local nurse so she’d resigned herself to the role of friend. Now he was married, a devoted father to a baby boy, and her closest mate at the nick.

The first few boxes contained flat screen TVs, the next, iPads.