TO KILL A MOCKING DOG

ANGELA COWAN
Copyright © 2011/2018 Angela Cowan

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Cover design: angelacowan.com
Table of Contents

Dedication

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From the Author
In memory of James McCartney Cowan.

"Jings bangs."
Thanks to Tom McGill and apologies to Harper Lee for the title. Thanks to Janet Cowan for support and chocolate sponges.

No dogs were harmed in the making of this book.

# 1

My name is Martin Hollis, and I'm a serial killer. Or at least I used to be when I was alive. Most people die once, but so far, I've managed it twice. The first time was in 1970 when I was thirty-five years old. I hid from the police in a secret room behind a bookcase in my cellar.

The next part is embarrassing, to say the least.

I panicked and dived into an empty steamer trunk and the hasp swung shut.

The police never found the room, and I suffocated in the dark, cursing my stupidity and the resilience of nineteenth-century locks.

Then I resurrected in 2010 – still aged thirty-five - due to a psychic connection with a fourteen-year-old boy. That life lasted a week before the connection broke and I aged forty years. A massive heart attack checked in, and it was _Goodnight, Vienna_.

Now I'm alive for the third time.

Is it fair for a murderer like me to have three shots at life when good people and living saints only get one? Maybe there's a skewed moral in there somewhere.

Or maybe not.

Anyway, here's what happened next.

At some point after that last death, I resurfaced in an empty motorway service station. I stood in a sea of blue Formica and looked out of the windows at black swirly fog. Hidden speakers blared popular songs from the 1960s played in a bossa nova style on the Hammond organ.

Heaven had let itself go a bit.

I figured I was there for a reason and waited for something or someone to appear. It didn't take long. Footsteps approached on the expanse of grey linoleum behind me, and I spun around.

No-one there.

I turned back. "Yeeargh."

A small dark man in a red suit was standing inches away. For crying out loud. Almost another heart attack.

"Martin Hollis? Known as Marty?"

"Uh...yes."

He gestured towards one of the empty tables. "Have a seat, Marty. And coffee. And a doughnut."

Coffee and doughnuts materialised on the table. I took a seat and a sip of stewed coffee. Surely Heaven would have cappuccinos or skinny lattes at the very least?

My companion slid onto the seat opposite, and I checked out the slim-fitting red suit, black shirt, red tie and black pointy shoes. He couldn't be an angel - unless angels were shopping at Pimps 'R' Us. So, if this wasn't Heaven, then it must be the other place. Made sense, I suppose. I had killed a few people. I looked at the man's dark skin and pale blue eyes and then scanned the thick black hair for anything protruding. He caught my gaze.

"I'm not him. Get a grip."

"Oh."

"I'm Mr Scarlet."

"Any relation to Miss Scarlet from 'Cluedo'?"

He raised an eyebrow, and my heartbeat performed a Keith Moon drum solo. I shut up.

"I'm your supervisor. We're in limbo, for want of a better word."

"Why am I here?" I thought this was a sensible question. Unfortunately, it would be the only sensible question I would ask for the rest of our meeting. He sipped his coffee, grimaced and pushed it away. I realised I was peckish and sank my teeth into a doughnut.

"Here's the deal. The Committee had a meeting -" he forestalled my unspoken question. "Don't ask. I don't have the time. You're getting a second chance. Well, technically a third, although we weren't responsible for that second resurrection. Anyway, you've been a serial killer, and now we're giving you the chance to be a serial saver."

"A serial saver? Like in a bank account?"

"No _._ Like in saving lives. Saving people who are about to be murdered and doing some good for a change. But first, you'll have to travel back in time, to meet your first potential victim and save their life."

I considered this. It was a chance to live again. It sounded good...apart from the saving bit. "How do I stop these people being murdered? By killing whoever is going to kill them?"

" _No._ What part of _doing some good_ don't you understand? There will be no killing by you. You will save the intended victim each time and move on to the next one."

Damn. "Right." I finished the doughnut and washed it down with the awful coffee. "And how do I support myself? Get around and whatnot?"

"You'll have money. Clothes. Whatever. We'll make sure you fit in with whatever period you're sent to. The stuff will be there. It's how everything works. Oh, and you'll be ageless."

"What? How do you mean? I thought I was still thirty-five."

He screwed up his face and sighed. "I don't know all the details; I'm told what to report to you. You'll feel the same as you do now. Most adults feel about eighteen or twenty inside, so that's the age you'll look. You'll be a young man."

I mulled it over. It sounded like a good deal. And what was to stop me disappearing wherever I was sent and not saving anybody? I could change my appearance and carry on with my total. I'd only managed nine murders; not a great deal as far as serial killers go. A bit embarrassing, in fact - I'd been aiming for double figures.

"And don't think you can go off and do whatever you want."

Good grief, was this guy a mind reader? "I wasn't."

He did the raised eyebrow thing again. "Any deviance from the plan and you'll be vaporised into black nothingness. For eternity. No more chances."

"Harsh."

"This is a kind of trial. A social experiment. If it works for you, we may widen it out across the board. And you won't have to worry about your compulsion to kill anyone."

"What? Why?"

"We've deprogrammed you. You're incapable of causing harm."

My mouth fell open. "But that's my work...my aims and ambitions. I won't be me if I can't be a serial killer."

"Rubbish. Anyway, I told you, you'll be a serial saver."

"Will you stop saying that? You make me sound like a bank manager."

I crossed my arms and sulked for a while. Mr Scarlet examined his black nails. They didn't look painted. Maybe he'd shut them in a door. I dragged my gaze away.

Then he looked at me. "The Committee doesn't want you to be alone in this experiment. We don't feel that it would be healthy or helpful. So we've arranged for you to have company." He looked towards the seat on my left, and my spirits rose. I thought of someone tall, blonde and shapely. I followed his gaze and saw something squat, brown and hairy.

"It's a dog," I said.

The dog turned, looked at me and curled his lip.

"Frinkin' balloobies. You don't miss much do you?" Except he said it in a broad Glaswegian accent: "Ye don't miss much, dae ye?"

"Wha...huh...?" I looked from the dog to Mr Scarlet who grimaced.

"I know," he said. "We reprogrammed him not to swear, but he's found a way round it. Still manages to sound obscene." He shrugged. "He's called Weedgie."

"Too frinkin' right," Weedgie said.

I took a deep breath and addressed Mr Scarlet.

"My problem with – er - Weedgie is not so much the language he's using, it's more the fact that he's talking."

I looked from Mr Scarlet to Weedgie and back again. Both sported expressions which said _and your point is...?_

"Forget it. I'm good. Talking dog. No problem."

I sat back and stared at the table top, and then jumped as 'Bat Out Of Hell' by Meatloaf rang out. Mr Scarlet delved into a pocket and produced a slim silver rectangle, glanced at it, and stood. "Sorry, I have to take this. Talk amongst yourselves." He pressed the phone to his ear and strolled away, and I heard him say, "Mum? I've told you not to call me at work."

Weedgie and I sat in awkward silence. I squinted to my left and studied him. He was roughly the size of a Labrador but had scrubby brown hair, a bit of an Elvis quiff and a whiskery face. To my horror, his teeth looked human, and he had big lips for a dog. He looked like Mick Jagger on a bad facial hair day.

"So...Weedgie." I was opening a conversation with the canine equivalent of the Rolling Stones' lead singer. I did my best to ignore that. "I'm here because I'm a serial killer and now I have to save people, but why are you coming with me? What did you do?"

"Bit the postman. Or mebbe stole sausages."

"Oh. You've always been a dog, then?"

"Whit? Ye've never bitten a postman or stole sausages?"

"Um...no." I didn't know if he was serious. "So you were human once?"

"Naw."

"That means 'no', right?"

"Aye."

"And that means 'yes'. But do you mean yes it means 'no' or do you mean yes it means 'yes'?"

Weedgie turned to face me and grinned with his big, scary mouth. He laughed a deep, creepy laugh.

"Heh, heh, heh."

"What's so funny?" I shrank away along the seat.

"Ye're a numpty."

"I'm a... _what_?"

"A numpty."

"Which is?"

"A poultice. A daftie. A pillock. A complete -"

"Okay, okay. Enough with the insults. I'm not taking this from a stupid dog."

"Oh, aye? You have nae idea, pal." He leaned closer and snarled.

"Are you trying to scare me?" I did feel rather unnerved, but I was still angry. "With a name like Weedgie? Huh. Sounds like wedgie _."_ I sneered at him.

His eyes narrowed. "And your name's Marty? Rhymes wi' farty."

My blood pressure soared. "Right, that's it. You little -" I launched myself at Weedgie. My hands reached for his throat. And then something unexpected and disturbing happened. Instead of strangling him, I was stroking him and fondling his ears. He bent his head towards me and purred through his Mick Jagger lips. "Aargh." I leapt back.

"Heh, heh, heh." He grinned at me. "Cannae hurt me, can ye? Cannae hurt naeboady. Some serial killer _you_ are, pal."

I was speechless. And devastated.

So it was true. I'd been deprogrammed. I'd lost the ability to kill or even maim. I slumped in my seat and contemplated my new future...as a serial saver.

Weedgie leaned towards me, rested his head on my shoulder, gazed into my eyes and whispered:

"Numpty." 

# 2

"Good to see you two getting on so well." Mr Scarlet appeared beside the table. "If you'd like to follow me to the swirling blackness then you can be on your way. Any questions?"

Yes. Loads. And all ridiculous.

"Whose life will I be saving?" I fell into step beside Mr Scarlet, and we marched towards the exit, Weedgie's claws clicking on the linoleum as he trotted behind us.

"I don't know. It's difficult to plan exactly, with the way human beings change their minds right, left and centre. All we know is wheels are set in motion, and an innocent person is doomed. You'll know who it is when you meet him or her."

"That's it?"

"That's it." He opened a glass door and stood back. "Good luck."

"Er...thanks." I stepped forward then stopped and stared out at the swirling blackness. Weedgie stood beside me. We looked at Mr Scarlet.

"Step out, and you'll arrive." He waved a hand out through the door.

Step out...into swirling blackness. Right. I took a deep breath and a tentative step, then Weedgie grabbed a mouthful of my jeans and tugged me forwards.

"Yow!" We were falling, swirling, spinning. All I could see was inky blackness and Weedgie's grinning face drifting by every few seconds.

"Oof." I landed on the padded seat of a moving vehicle.

"Frinkin' jinkies." Weedgie appeared beside me.

My hands wrapped around a huge steering wheel. I looked through the windscreen. A red number nine bus headed straight for us.

"Whit the -?" Weedgie bounced onto my knee. He grabbed the wheel and wrenched it to the right, and we careered past the shaken bus driver and his startled passengers.

"Get off." I wrestled the wheel back before we took out a row of parked cars. Then we swerved about like a drunken fly before I found the brakes and slowed us to a shuddering stop by the kerb. "Would you mind getting off my knee?" I said through gritted teeth. Then I squinted over the top of Weedgie's head and tried to see where we were.

"Have ye passed __ a drivin' test?" Weedgie half-turned and gave me the evil eye. I noticed he had big, hairy eyebrows like caterpillars. They rose towards his quiff.

"Ha, ha. That's so funny. Chased many cars, have you?"

"Oh, oh, ah'm laughing inside, so ah am. Whaur d'ye think we are?" He turned back to the windscreen, and I craned my neck and looked around.

"Big city. Could be London. Could be anywhere. Backstreets, Victorian houses, railings, not that many cars...hmmm..."

"Whit? Whit are ye hummin' at?"

"The cars. They're all..." I looked ahead, then turned and peered through the side windows. We were in a large blue van of some sort, with a wooden dashboard and round dials. Weedgie moved off my lap onto the long seat beside me.

"They're a' whit? They jist look like caurs tae me."

I felt smug and knowledgeable and duty bound to assert my superiority over him. "Well, that's where you're wrong, Weedgie, _old pal_." I swept my arm across the view of the street through the windscreen. "These cars are in the style of the nineteen sixties; some are earlier. Look at the large, bulbous bonnet on that green car over there. That's late fifties, early sixties. See the chrome bumpers and the small round wing mirrors on those two black cars across the street..."

"Jings bangs. Ya numpty."

I jumped. A small man with a moustache stood on the pavement beside us, staring in some concern. He tapped the window, and I wound it down. Then I realised I was sitting in a van talking out loud while gesturing and pointing for the benefit of a dog.

"Excuse me, young man - are you alright?"

"Naw, he's no'." Weedgie bounced back onto my knee and stuck his head out of the window, causing the man to retreat a step or two.

"Shush." I panicked and grabbed Weedgie. Bad enough talking to myself but with a talking dog? We'd end up in a circus.

"It's awright, calm doon, he cannae unnerstaun' me. He'll jist think ah'm a normal dug."

I doubted that. I looked at the man and smiled as best I could. "I'm fine, thank you. I was, er, practising a speech for...a wedding."

"Oh, I see." He looked relieved, stepped forward again and patted Weedgie on the head. "Thank goodness for that. For a moment I thought you were a bit mad. You know, your dog looks rather familiar."

"Is there anywhere near here to stay?" I said. "I'm looking for a room. Somewhere that takes pets."

The man considered this. "There's a rooming house round the corner; you could try there. Or there's a newsagent in the next street if you want to look through the local paper."

"Thanks." I wound the window back up, forcing Weedgie to beat a hasty retreat back onto the seat. The man gave a small salute and walked away.

"So I'm the only one who can understand you?" I blew a sigh of relief.

"Aye. Bummer for me. You're the only yin ah've got tae talk tae."

"This is...weird. You're a dog, but you look kind of human." I stole another look at him. "You're not Mick Jagger, are you?"

"In the name o' the wee man - whit the hinkin' jaloobies are ye oan aboot? Ah'm a dug. Right? Mick Jagger? _Mick Jagger?_ "

"Okay, okay." I was careful this time. I kept still and spread my hands in a placatory gesture. "I'm curious, that's all. You're not any recognised breed, are you? You must be a mongrel. Aargh. _"_

Weedgie was back on my lap, face inches from mine, lips curled. I pressed myself into the headrest.

"The word is _mixed-pedigree._ "

"Technically, that's two -"

"No' if ye spell it wi' a hyphen. _Pal_."

"Right. Okay. Mixed-pedigree it is."

More like nutter-psychopath. Weedgie retreated across the seat, and I tried to relax and breathe again. Then I looked down. I wore orange corduroy jeans and brown suede Chelsea boots, topped by a cream velvet shirt with a frill down the front. "Huh...? What..." I yanked the rear-view mirror around and peered into it. I looked about eighteen. My blond hair was long and shaggy. I had a droopy moustache. "Good grief. What happened to me?"

"Aye, well, ah didnae want tae say...but ye look like a big lassie. Apart fae the 'tache." Weedgie looked thoughtful for a moment. "Mind you, that last kennel maid ah had." He shuddered. "Mair masculine than you; though that wouldnae be hard."

I reeled in my temper and my escalating nervousness. "Let's go outside and explore." Hopefully, I wouldn't get beaten up for looking so girly on whatever streets were out there. Weedgie followed me onto the pavement. Another big red bus went by, with Piccadilly Circus on its destination board. "Yes. We're in London. London's hip and happening. Less chance of getting beaten up for wearing this shirt..." I hadn't meant to say all that out loud.

Weedgie snorted. "But mair chance o' gettin' bitten by me for bein' a Big Jessie."

"No. There will be no biting. Remember who I am."

"Aye, the Big Jessie in the lassie's blouse."

"I'm the person who will be feeding you - if you're lucky."

"Jings bangs. Ya numpty."

This time it was two young women with upswept hair, identical red Macintosh coats, and white knee-length boots.

"Ah...hello, ladies."

Weedgie sat down and wagged his long, bushy tail.

"What a cute dog," the woman on the left said. "Is he yours?"

"No," I said automatically, and then hesitated. "I mean, yes, I suppose."

"Jings bangs balloobies," Weedgie said. "Ya numpty."

"He doesn't have a collar," the second woman said. "Are you sure he's yours? You were shouting at him." They crouched down. Weedgie shuffled over and let himself be petted and cuddled, giving me dirty looks over his shoulder.

God, I hated that dog. "I've only just got him," I said, trying to sound happy about the fact. "I need to get him a collar and lead."

"Ye're no' puttin' ony lead oan me, pal." Weedgie's eyebrows came down over his eyes. The two women drew their hands away.

"He's growling at you," the first one said. "He doesn't like you."

The feeling was mutual.

"We should take him to the police station," the second woman said. "Hand him in as a stray."

"Yes," her friend said. "That's a good idea."

I couldn't believe my luck. "Well, that might be for the best," I said. Mr Scarlet could hardly blame me if someone took Weedgie away. I could say I'd done my best to stop them. He'd never know.

Then Weedgie leapt up and galloped down the road. He disappeared around the corner, and the women backed away, shaking their heads.

"Oh...great _._ " I took off after him, cursing. I rounded the corner, and there he was, sitting on the pavement halfway along the street. I stalked towards him, fury rising along with my blood pressure. I'd had enough. He would never embarrass me again. A large stick lay in the gutter, and I picked it up and raised it above my head. I stepped up to Weedgie. "I've had enough _._ You stupid, ugly -"

"Oh, look, Bobby isn't that lovely. The nice man loves his little doggie so much, doesn't he?"

I looked up, startled, to see a woman standing nearby, holding a small boy by the hand. They both smiled at me. I looked down. Weedgie held the stick in his mouth. I was crouched beside him, my arms around his neck in an embrace.

"It's so nice to see someone being affectionate to their pet," the woman said, then lowered her voice. "Although I'm not sure kissing him is very hygienic."

_Bleeugh._ I leapt to my feet and wiped a hand across my mouth. Weedgie dropped the stick on my foot. __ "Ow." I hopped away. Bobby giggled.

"Mwah. Mwah." Weedgie made kissing noises at me. I took a few deep breaths, counted to ten and then limped back. I noticed we were beside a row of shops.

"Is there a pet shop near here?" I asked the woman, who laughed and pointed right behind her to Pets Paradise. Weedgie rolled his eyes. I stifled a sigh. "Right. Thanks."

"You're welcome. Going to buy a nice treat for your dog?" Her voice faltered at the expression on my face and then she grasped Bobby's hand tighter and dragged him away. I marched into the shop, followed by Weedgie.

"Morning." A pale-looking man in a beige dustcoat stood behind the counter.

"Good morning." I indicated Weedgie. "I'd like a collar and lead -"

"Nae lead. Ah tellt __ ye."

I gritted my teeth. "I'd like a collar, please."

"Certainly, sir. This way, please." The assistant led us down an aisle to a rack filled with dozens of collars in various sizes and colours. I picked out a gleaming pink one.

"Ye've got tae be kiddin'."

"Er...he's a boy-dog, isn't he?" the assistant said. "Perhaps blue would be a better choice?"

"Ah'm no wearin' that – haw."

I swooped down and fastened the collar around Weedgie's neck. He glowered at me. "Take this Big Jessie collar aff ma neck."

"I don't think he likes it very much, sir." The assistant backed away.

"Ah'll bite ye. And I'll piddle up yer leg ony chance ah get."

Weedgie and I locked eyes and stared each other out. Then I unfastened the collar and hung it back up.

"Gie's that wan wi' the spikes." Weedgie nodded towards the end of the rack and a thick black leather collar with silver spikes. With a sigh, I took it down.

"Well, that's certainly a more masculine choice, sir. And the top of our range. Only the best for your dog, I see." The assistant beamed in delight as I fitted the collar on Weedgie.

Great. Now he looked even more psychotic.

"That's mair like the thing. Ye'll need tae buy me dug food, but. And bowls. And get me some o' thae wee crunchy bones. Ah like them."

I plastered a fake smile on my face and wandered the aisles, followed by Weedgie. I gathered an armful of dog food, crunchy bones and two gleaming metal bowls. Then I wondered how I was going to pay for everything. As soon as the thought entered my head, I felt something weighing down my back trouser pocket. I dumped everything on the counter. Then I groped inside the pocket and found a black wallet stuffed with banknotes. Result. Thank you, Mr Scarlet and The Committee.

The assistant began ringing everything up on the big metal till. Weedgie seemed transfixed by the _kerching_ sound it produced. He turned his left ear towards it each time it sounded. I glanced down at him, wondering how much of this weirdness he understood. And then I reminded myself that Weedgie was a talking dog and a significant part of the weirdness. He looked up at me and stuck out his tongue. I turned away and noticed a newspaper lying behind the counter.

"Is that today's paper?" I said, "May I have a look?"

"Certainly, sir, here you are." The assistant stopped ringing up Weedgie's food and handed me the Daily Mail. I ignored the headlines - something about the Royal Family - and focussed on the top of the page.

"Thursday the twenty-first of March, 1968," I read aloud, then frowned.

"Whit?" Weedgie stared at me. "Whit is it?"

"I'll tell you in a minute," I muttered.

"I beg your pardon?" The assistant handed me a large carrier bag with my purchases inside, and I handed over some notes.

"Nothing. Sorry."

"Jings bangs. Ya numpty."

I thanked the assistant and ushered Weedgie out of the shop onto the pavement. We stopped beside the window, which held a display of pet beds.

"Here, ye never got me a bed. Ah need a nice, comfy bed." He gazed wistfully at the large, furry, red monstrosity taking up most of the window. "That's a stoater."

"Be quiet and listen. This is 1968."

Weedgie was huffy. "Aye. So?"

"I'm alive in 1968. I mean, I was alive before I died in 1970. I was thirty-three in 1968. So...is there two of me now? Could I meet myself?"

"Two o' ye," Weedgie said, rolling his eyes. "Frinkin' balloobies. Is yin no' bad enough?"

# 

# 3

"So, whit were ye daein' in 1968...murderin' folk?" Weedgie sat on the pavement and stared at me. I found I couldn't quite meet his too-large brown eyes, and I didn't know why. It felt odd.

"Well, I started in September '67 after I met my wife and continued until my death in 1970." I couldn't help a note of pride appearing in my voice. Nine people in three years; not a bad average.

"And wha did ye murder?"

"Nine people. My wife. Stepson. Young women. Teenaged girls."

"Teenage lassies?" Weedgie's eyebrows rose. "Ye mean, like...schoolgirls?"

"Yes, a few of them." I shrugged, aiming for nonchalance but not entirely pulling it off. What was wrong with me?

"Jeez-o." Weedgie shuffled away from me. "Ye're a right scunner. A scunner an' a hauf."

I looked at him and caught a flash of disgust in his eyes and felt...shame. I didn't ask what 'scunner' meant. I didn't want to know. I slumped against the window and let the bag with Weedgie's food slide to the ground. I was a sociopath; a ruthless killer who'd murdered nine people. I didn't feel shame or guilt or any useless emotions which got in the way of having a good time. This was a fluke; it had to be. It was that damn dog's fault, staring with those big eyes and judging me. I glowered at Weedgie, and he gave a huge sigh. Then he grabbed the handles of the bag.

"Come oan, numpty," he said, through a mouthful of plastic. "There's a boarding' hoose along here." He walked off, struggling to carry the heavy bag. I trailed behind, ignoring the concerned looks of passers-by. I wondered if two of me could exist at the same time. Maybe that was why I felt so odd.

Weedgie stopped a few doors down, where the row of shops petered out, and terraced houses began. He dropped the carrier bag on the pavement outside the third house. "We'll get digs in here." He nodded to a sign in a downstairs window: Room To Let.

"Why here? We could get a proper hotel somewhere," I said. I didn't want to rent a room in a house; I had a wallet full of money. I was itching to spend it on something extravagant.

"Naw," Weedgie said. "We landed in the next street. This is the nearest place. We're supposed to stay here. Ring the bell."

I supposed he might be right - if there was any sense in any of this. I climbed the steps to the old-fashioned door-pull, and I tugged at it. A shrill bell rang out. We waited. Nothing. "No-one's in." I re-joined Weedgie on the pavement and picked up the bag. "Let's bring the van round and wait 'til someone

comes home."

"Aye, awright."

I strode off with Weedgie trotting along beside me. We must have looked like an odd couple and yet there were plenty of odd-looking people around. We passed two young men, one white with long blond hair and the other black with a large Afro. Both wore bright coloured jeans and fringed waistcoats. The white guy had a flower painted on his face. On the other side of the street, I saw a woman with a nest of bouffant hair. Daisies trailed out of it and hung over her face. She passed a man wearing a tie-dyed shirt and leather trousers. He had a long grey beard tied in a knot.

I began to feel quite normal.

We reached the blue van, and I opened the rear doors. The back held a suitcase, an electric guitar and something else. "Ya beauty." Weedgie bounded inside and threw himself onto the huge red furry dog bed. It was identical to the one in the pet shop window. "Haw, it's no jist you who gets whit he wants, then." He sat on the bed and grinned at me with his big Mick Jagger mouth.

"Apparently not."

I climbed into the back of the van and opened the suitcase. It held jeans, shirts, men's clothes and underwear, and some toiletries. I looked at the guitar. "I can't play the guitar. What's that here for?"

"There'll be a reason," Weedgie said.

Again, I wondered how much he knew.

"Right, let's get back in the front."

I drove around the corner and parked outside the boarding house. And then we sat there like the Odd Couple. The atmosphere grew tense. I remembered Mr Scarlet's threat and what would happen if I didn't follow this thing through and succeed. I didn't doubt it would play out the way he'd described. To distract myself, I wondered what Weedgie might be thinking. I chanced a sidelong glance at him. He was squinting at me. We both looked away. The tension increased. I had to do something.

"So," I said, and Weedgie jumped. "Where did you come from? Before this, I mean. I take it you were in Scotland?"

"Oh, well done, pal. Ah'm fae Glesca."

"You're from...where?"

"Glasgow, ya numpty."

"Oh, right." Keep your temper, Marty. "And did you have a home? An owner?"

He stayed silent for a few moments, and then he sighed. "Naw, ah never. Ah was born in the dug hame and ah lived in a kennel. Folk came to see the dugs and buy them, but naeboady wanted tae buy me."

Can't say I was surprised. Would any prospective dog owner be that desperate?

Weedgie looked out of the window. "Then that geezer in the red suit came in this mornin' and bought me. Tellt me ah was gettin' an owner at last."

"Oh yes?" I tried not to smirk as I thought of the poor devil who would end up with this psycho canine. "And who's that going to be, then?" Another silence. I looked at Weedgie. He turned and stared at me. He raised his eyebrows. My jaw dropped.

"Aye. Frinkin' bummer."

"Oh, dear God." I blinked in shock. Weedgie turned away again. Then we sat in pained resignation until a woman appeared, laden with shopping bags. She climbed the stairs to the house. I jumped out of the van and approached her.

"Excuse me, Madam," I said in my most polite voice. "Let me help you with those bags."

She turned and stared at me. "Not likely, hippy. Get lost."

I cleared my throat and tried again. "I was hoping to rent your room." I gave her my best smile, and she frowned. Behind me, I heard Weedgie jump out of the van.

"Is that your dog?" the woman said.

Oh great, she wouldn't want pets, and now we'd have to go and find somewhere else. Not that pet was the ideal word to describe Weedgie. Furry demon, perhaps. "Yes, he's mine," I said.

"Ooh, he's lovely. Look at his big brown eyes and his smile. He's got a smashing smile. Haven't you, poochy-woochy?" She beamed at Weedgie and blew him a kiss. He blew one back. "C'mon in, the pair of you." She unlocked the door and entered the hallway. Weedgie bounced in behind her, and I followed him. "What's his name, then?"

Satan. Hell-Hound. Beelzebub.

"He's called Weedgie."

She dropped the bags on the floor and spent the next few minutes cooing over Weedgie and rubbing his ears. He snuggled up to her and rubbed his head against her hand. I stood by wondering if I had discovered the secret of invisibility. What was it that everyone found so appealing about this stupid mutt? He was scruffy and hairy with an Elvis quiff and Mick Jagger's mouth, for crying out loud. A train-wreck of a dog. He'd never win a rosette at Crufts unless they introduced a category for Most Hideous Dog.

And I was stuck with him.

To distract myself, I looked at the woman. She was around forty, with dyed black hair teased up in a beehive. She wore a beige raincoat and sturdy brown boots. I wasn't used to being ignored, especially by women. Most people found me attractive. I'd had no trouble luring prospective victims into my car. I could talk anyone into doing what I wanted. Until now, it seemed. Now Weedgie was the star of the show, and I was his sidekick.

Well, this wouldn't do. No way.

I resolved to find a solution, and soon: something awful that could happen to Weedgie, and it wouldn't be my fault. I'd have to make sure it looked like an accident, though...

"Room's five guineas a week, you get breakfast, evening meal and lunch at the weekend. There's a rota for the bath, and you let me know if you're going away anytime. Two weeks payable in advance."

I hoped we wouldn't be there that long. I fished the money out of my wallet and handed it over. "I'm Marty," I said, as it was apparent she wasn't going to ask.

"Mrs Chalmers. Widowed. You can call me Sadie." She carried on fussing over Weedgie as I returned to the van and fetched the shopping, suitcase and the dog bed. I carried everything into the hall, then, as an afterthought went back out and brought in the guitar.

"Ooh, I hope you're not going to be playing that thing all hours. You're not one of those beatnik groupies or whatever you call them, are you?" Sadie looked horrified.

"No, no." I hastened to assure her. "I can't play it, and you need an amp, anyway. I want to keep it inside."

"Well, your room's upstairs; let me fetch the key."

She disappeared through the door of a room to the left. Weedgie and I stood in silence. I looked at the scuffed paintwork and dingy linoleum.

"Big hoose," Weedgie said. "She seems nice."

"Hmmm." I managed a weak smile. Then I gathered our belongings, struggling to hold everything together. The guitar cracked my shinbone. The furry dog bed tickled my nose. Weedgie watched and grinned. I counted to ten.

Sadie returned and led us to the top floor. There were two rooms up here and two on the floor below us. We passed a bathroom on the first-floor landing. "I've got the ground floor," Sadie said. "And the other three rooms are rented out." She glanced at her watch. "It's almost five. You'll meet everyone at dinner time; we usually eat at six-thirty. Here you are."

She flung open a door, and Weedgie bounded through and danced around. I followed him into a large room with a bay window looking onto the front street. There was a double bed, a large wooden wardrobe, a tired-looking green settee, and a scarred pine coffee table. A small wooden chest of drawers sat beside the bed. It held a lamp and a tray with an electric kettle and two chipped mugs. The wallpaper had once been pink and gold stripes. I'd no idea what the carpet had been.

"A little home from home, eh?" Sadie smiled at Weedgie who grinned back at her.

"It's delightful," I lied, dumping our stuff on the floor and taking the keys she proffered. "We'll get settled in and join you at half past six."

"Right you are, then. This key opens the front door, and this one's for your room. I'll see you downstairs."

Once the door had closed behind her, I heaved a sigh of relief. We had somewhere to stay. Now, what would happen?

"Jings bangs, this is brilliant," Weedgie said. "Put ma bed aside the couch, would ye?"

I kicked the hideous dog bed over to where he wanted it, and he jumped in and sat down. "This is ma first real hame. Ah've never had a room o' ma ain afore. There was always too mony dugs in the kennels and a lot o' noise. Man, this is braw."

I flopped onto the settee and tried to pretend he wasn't there. Ten minutes later, he was up beside me. "Ah'm hungry," he said. "And thirsty. Ye're neglecting yer dug owner duties."

I counted to ten, then got up and found his new bowls. I took one and trekked downstairs to the cold, damp bathroom. It had a Victorian lavatory pan and a dangling chain to flush. The bath looked like a team of coal miners had recently used it. I filled Weedgie's bowl with water and carried it back upstairs, and Weedgie fell on it and lapped noisily. I picked up one of the cans of dog food and then realised I couldn't open it. "How about you have some of those bones now, and I'll see about a tin-opener later?" I opened the box of crunchy bones and put a handful in the other dish.

"Ah'll come doon wi' ye and see whit ye're havin' for tea," Weedgie said, picking a bone out of the dish. "Ah'm no' too keen on dug food tae be honest." He started to crunch.

"You're not keen-? And yet you let me buy loads of it and struggle to carry it all up here?"

"Aye." _Crunch. Crunch_. "Ye needed the exercise."

A guttural sound escaped me. I swung my foot at him, missed by a mile, overbalanced and landed flat on my back. "Oof." I lay amid the dust rising from the carpet.

"Heh, heh, heh. Ya numpty." _Crunch. Crunch_.

I composed myself. Then I rose and decided to unpack the suitcase and put everything away in the wardrobe and chest of drawers. The case held toiletries and several more embarrassing items. These included shirts, a flowery waistcoat, a denim jacket and a paisley patterned dressing gown. These prompted snorts of glee from Weedgie.

"Are ye sure that's no' a lassie's suitcase?"

Two lots of jeans and another pair of corduroys completed the ensemble. I put the toiletries in the top drawer of the chest, closed the suitcase and shoved it under the bed. By the time I'd finished, it was six o' clock, and we heard sounds of occupancy in the rooms below. A male voice and a female one. I had assumed Sadie's tenants would all be male.

"Right, Psycho-Dog," I said. "Let's go down and meet everyone."

"Haw. Ma name's Weedgie. Cry me ma right name or ah'll bite yer bahookie."

"Wha...?" I stopped at the door. "I have no idea what you said. Why can't you speak English?"

"Ah am, ya numpty. Ah said, ah'll bite yer bahookie."

"Bite my...bahookie?"

"Bottom. Backside. Yer bum."

"Right, okay, I get the picture. Good God..."

I stormed out of the room and started down the first set of stairs. Weedgie bounded after me and trotted alongside. "And keep away from my feet, or you'll trip me up."

"Huh. Don't gie me ideas."

# 4

We arrived in the hall, and Sadie appeared and ushered us into the dining room. Or rather, she ushered Weedgie in, and I trailed behind. I sat down at a gate-leg table covered with a yellowing tablecloth and set for five. Sadie thumped a chipped plate in front of me and brought Weedgie a Wedgwood china bowl. She bustled off back to the kitchen. Weedgie sniffed the air and the cooking smells which wafted through to us. "Somethin' smells...mingin'."

"Minging?"

"Aye. Bowfin'."

"Minging and bowfing? Is that good?"

Weedgie sniffed. "Naw."

Voices were approaching. Two people. Weedgie looked at me. "Ah thought there was three folk stayin' here?"

"One must be out." I braced myself for the meeting ahead. I might be here to save one of these people. The voices grew louder. A man and woman entered the room.

"Oh." The woman was about thirty, with dyed blonde hair piled up on her head, and big gold earrings. She stared in surprise.

"I say, who are you?" The man looked the same age, with slicked-back brown hair and a thin, bony face. I took an instant dislike to him.

"I'm Martin Hollis," I said, and Weedgie trotted around the table to meet them. The man curled his lip in disgust and shrank away. I revised my opinion of him.

The woman crouched down and welcomed Weedgie with open arms. "Hello, doggie. Are you the latest lodger, then? What's your dog's name?"

"This is Weedgie." Sadie appeared wearing huge padded oven gloves. She plonked a large casserole dish in the centre of the table. "And that's Malcolm."

"Marty." I managed to smile at the blonde woman, and she sat beside me.

"I'm Patricia Sullivan. Call me Pat. And this is Eric."

The thin man took a seat opposite. "Eric Clegge at your service." I looked from one to the other. Sadie began dishing out stew. She gave Weedgie the first portion. I wondered what I should look for. No clues were forthcoming. Perhaps the missing person would be the one who needed saving.

I asked who occupied the room opposite mine.

"That's Lorraine," Pat said, "She went out for a meal with her boyfriend. You'll meet her later."

A faint shiver made me wonder if I was sitting in a draught. I looked down at Weedgie. He sniffed his

Wedgwood dish. I turned my attention to the meal.

It was awful. The gravy was floury and lumpy. The meat had the consistency of plywood. I tried to spear a potato, and it shot across my plate and pinged off the side of my glass. If the army ever ran out of ammunition, then Sadie's kitchen would be their first stop. "Jings bangs," came a mutter from below. "Ah'll need tae see a dentist efter this lot."

I laughed, managed to turn it into a cough, and felt obliged to try and force some of the food over. A glance around the table showed Sadie, Pat and Eric with taste buds dulled into submission. They all tucked in with gusto.

"Lovely," Eric said, between mouthfuls.

"Mmm...good," Pat agreed.

I called on my talent for distorting the truth. "Interesting flavour." At my feet, Weedgie snorted with laughter. The torture continued. The stew preceded hard, tinned pears swimming in thin, runny custard. I noticed Sadie had managed some consistency in style; the custard was as lumpy as the gravy.

Pat was keen to know all about Weedgie and asked lots of questions. I responded vaguely, steering the conversation back to the house and its occupants as soon as I could. I learned that Sadie had been a widow for two years. Pat was the head typist in an insurance office. Eric was a clerk with an accountant. They'd both lodged with Sadie for a year while Lorraine worked in a shop and had been there six months.

"Jeez-o. A year o' this mingin' dross. Ye'd get less time for breakin' an' enterin' and the prison food would be better." Weedgie tugged at my trouser leg. "Get us a fish supper, eh? Ah want fish and chips."

Pat looked down at him. "Who does your dog remind me of...?"

This was my cue to exit, using the excuse of walkies. Sadie told me everyone would be in the lounge next door when I got back and be sure to bring Weedgie to join them. I thanked her through gritted teeth, and we left.

"C'moan." Weedgie was off like the clappers as soon as his claws hit the pavement. "Ah can smell fish and chips."

It was dark, and the streetlights glowed yellow. I followed Weedgie round the corner, and then he dived across the road, causing a taxi to swerve and brake. He and the driver exchanged insults, and then he trotted on. I smiled to myself. Weedgie had no road sense. How easy it would be for a bus to hit him, for instance. Especially if I led him onto the road in front of it. We passed a small park, and Weedgie ran in then emerged a few moments later.

"That's better," he said. "Ah needed a good Jimmy."

"You needed...who?"

"A Jimmy Riddle."

"What?"

"A widdle."

"Huh?"

"A piddle. Ah needed a -"

"Alright, alright, I get the picture." I gritted my teeth. "Too much information."

"You're no' very bright, are ye? Ah don't know how ah'm supposed tae work wi' a daftie like you."

I felt my blood pressure rising and a red mist descending. I took several deep breaths before I could speak. "You do want these fish and chips, don't you?" I pointed across the street with a shaking finger. "There's a café over there. I'll go in, and you wait outside."

The road was empty, and we crossed without incident. Weedgie sat down outside the café, and I entered and joined the queue. A few moments later a woman parked a pushchair outside the shop and came in behind me. I looked through the window and saw a small arm waving out of the pushchair towards Weedgie. He moved closer to it.

I kept one eye on the pushchair outside as I ordered chips for myself and fish and chips for Weedgie. When I emerged, he was saying to the toddler sitting in it, "So ye like Andy Pandy? He looks like a Big Jessie tae me."

"C'mon." I ushered him away. "I've got the chips."

"Righto. See ye, hen." He kissed the toddler, and she gurgled something, gave him a hug, and waved goodbye.

"Let's go to that park," I said, and Weedgie fell in beside me.

"See me? Ah love weans."

"Wayne's...what? Who's Wayne?"

"Naw, _weans._ Kiddies. Wee folk."

"Children, you mean?"

"Aye, that's whit ah said. Weans. They give ye kisses and cuddles and a lick o' their ice cream cone. Weans are brilliant."

My brain hurt. If I had to listen to much more of this drivel I would throw myself under a bus, never mind Weedgie. I counted to ten...and then twenty. We came to the park and found a bench. I ate my chips. Weedgie demolished his fish supper. His eating habits were disgusting, but at least it kept him from talking. We finished our food, I binned the papers, and we set off back to Sadie's'.

When we arrived, we followed the sound of laughter to the lounge. _Bewitched_ was blaring away on a small black and white television. I joined Eric on a saggy velvet settee, and Weedgie leapt onto Sadie's lap in a nearby armchair. Pat took up half of another sofa. She clicked knitting needles and pink wool together at ferocious speed. An hour passed. My brain switched itself off, and I stopped focussing on the screen. And then the outside door closed.

"Only me!" A young female voice sang out.

I froze. Weedgie looked at me. Then the lounge door opened and something impossible happened.

Lorraine Dickinson entered. The missing lodger. My first victim. A twenty-two-year-old woman who had been dead for six months.

The next few minutes were a blur. Lorraine said hello and then ignored me in favour of petting Weedgie and admiring his collar. I began sweating and shivering.

"Are you alright?" Eric frowned.

"I'm...tired." I stood on wobbly legs. "I'll have an early night."

Everyone except Eric was disappointed to see Weedgie leaving with me. My partner followed me out to the hall.

"Whit's wrang?" he asked. "Ye look like ye had a shock."

"I did. I have." I took the stairs two at a time, and he struggled to keep up. When we were in our room, I snapped on the lamp, closed the curtains and paced up and down. "Lorraine Dickinson," I said, my voice flat. "Lorraine Dickinson..."

"Whit? Dae ye fancy her or somethin'?"

I stopped and stared at him then took a deep breath, and it all came out in a rush. "She's dead. I killed her last September. She's buried beneath the floor in a cinema on Redway Road beside three other women."

"Frinkin' balloobies! Are ye sure?"

"Am I sure I murdered her? Hmmm...let me think..." I tried sarcasm, hoping it would mask the growing dread that something had gone wrong.

"Naw, are ye sure it's the same lassie?"

"Of course I'm sure. It's Lorraine."

"Well, how can she be here then?" Weedgie jumped onto the settee and looked at me.

"I don't know!" __ I hissed at him, and he curled his lip. He watched me pace back and forward for a few minutes. Then he jumped into his bed and lay down. He curled into a ball with his head resting on his big fluffy tail. He looked like he was asleep, but his eyes followed me back and forward, all the time. After a while, my head started to ache, and I wanted to rest. I undressed, got into bed and switched off the lamp.

"Nightie-night," Weedgie said.

The night was long, and I didn't get much sleep. Partly because of the dark, unsettling thoughts running around my head. And partly because half an hour after I'd retired, Weedgie joined me on the bed. He stretched out, put his head on the pillow next to mine and snored like a road drill.

After an age, I managed to nod off but woke at six o' clock. The other half of the bed was empty and the door ajar. Had someone let Weedgie out? I thought back to us appearing in the van and how he'd grabbed the steering wheel and avoided the bus. If he could do that, then he could open a door. I rose and put on the paisley dressing gown then crept out of the room. The house was silent.

Then I heard the toilet flush. I peered over the balcony in time to see the bathroom door open, and Weedgie emerge. "What the -?" I reversed back as he trotted up the stairs and we re-entered our room together.

"Did you just use the bathroom?"

"Aye. So?"

"So you're a dog, for crying out loud."

"And? Would ye rather follow me aroon' wi' a pooper-scooper?"

"No, I would not."

"Well, then." Weedgie bounced back onto the bed and stretched out. "Stoap yer greetin'."

Once again, I counted to ten. Then I gathered a pair of jeans and the least offensive shirt from the wardrobe and made my way to the bathroom. I avoided the stained bath and had a wash at the sink, and then got dressed.

When I came back upstairs, Weedgie was sitting on the settee. He looked guilty. "Ah've been thinkin'. Aboot the whole murdered lassie thing and her bein' still alive."

"Yes?" I was desperate enough to listen to him.

"Well, when that red bampot took me awa' fae the kennels yesterday he answered a phone in his motor. It was yin o' they wee things that stick oan the dashboard, and ye don't need to haud them."

"Hands-free."

"Aye, whitever. Anyway, the bampot didnae realise ah could talk then, so he yakked aboot ye, and whit was gaun' tae happen."

I perked up. This was interesting. "Who was Mr Scarlet speaking to?"

"Huvnae a Scooby. Sorry."

I stared at him. He sighed and translated. "A Scooby-doo. A clue. Ah don't ken. Ah don't know."

"Right. Fine. What did he say?"

Weedgie looked even guiltier. "Somethin' aboot reprogrammin' ye. Then yer life would be rubbed oot."

"Rubbed out? Erased? What, like I've ceased to exist?" My voice rose several decibels.

"Mebbe? Ah thought he'd tellt ye this. Ah thought ye knew yer auld life would be gone."

"My past is gone? Is that what you're saying? I don't exist now?" My head reeled; it felt like the swirling blackness outside the motorway café was now inside my skull.

Weedgie frowned. "It would explain how naeboady seems tae take much notice o' ye. Ah've noticed that. They don't mind much aboot ye. Ye're like a non-person. Mebbe that's so ye can come and go and save folk and no' cause too much bother."

My legs felt weak, and I flopped down next to him. He seemed unsure if he should move closer or further away. He chose to edge further away. I seethed for a while, taking in this new development and trying to control my ego. I wanted to rampage around the room smashing everything in my path and screaming at the top of my lungs. After what seemed like years, I composed myself enough to ask, "How did they reprogramme me?"

Weedgie shrugged as best a dog can. "The red bampot did me, when ah started talkin'. Well, when ah started swearin' at him. He licked yin o' his fingers and pointed it at me. Next thing ah know, ah cannae frinkin' swear. Ah'm telling' ye, it's boomby gloobers."

"I didn't see him point at me."

"He probably did it ahint yer back. He's sneaky that way."

"But he was okay with you talking..."

"Oh aye, he could understaun' me. Him and weans. He must have done something tae you so you could hear me right."

"Children can understand you?" I remembered the toddler in the pushchair. "What about other dogs?"

Weedgie looked at me as if I was mad. "Of course ither dugs can understaun' me. Cats and stuff an' a'. It's jist folk that canny hear us right. Big folk, that is, no wee yins."

Well, you learn something new every day.

There was movement around the house, now. Doors opened. Footsteps sounded on the stairs. The bathroom taps ran. Voices carried back and forward. A radio sprang to life somewhere in the building. Weedgie and I sat in pained silence until seven o' clock and then we went downstairs.

# 5

I didn't think anyone could do much harm to a bowl of cornflakes but I hadn't counted on Sadie. She'd used powdered milk and mixed it using the same method for the previous night's gravy and custard. Small white lumps floated around my plate and stuck to the cornflakes. At my feet, Weedgie spat his onto the carpet. The conversation was sparse and muted. Everyone looked sleepy and seemed to be gearing themselves for another working day. Then Sadie announced that her sister Mary would be coming for the weekend.

"Will she want our room?" I asked in some alarm, but Sadie assured me that Mary would sleep in her small guest room downstairs.

"She doesn't keep good health, and it'll give Don a break. He's been so patient with her in the last few months; the man's a saint."

I immediately took a dislike to Don. A saint...or a potential murderer? A tingling sensation appeared in my stomach. It wasn't entirely due to the burnt toast and stewed tea which followed the cornflakes. I reckoned I had found my potential victim. Weedgie tugged at the leg of my jeans.

"It's her, isn't it? This Mary? She's the yin ye've tae save."

I nodded, annoyed that he'd picked up on it too. I asked Sadie when her sister would be arriving, and she told me sometime after lunch. Then she rose and bustled in and out of the room, clearing the table. Lorraine, Pat and Eric headed back upstairs. I studied Lorraine as she left the room. Resentment built inside me. She hadn't shown the tiniest bit of recognition towards me. This was ridiculous, for crying out loud. I had murdered the girl; the least she could do was acknowledge me.

Another worry surfaced. In the bathroom mirror that morning I had seemed younger than the day before - despite the ridiculous moustache and long hair. I looked about sixteen. Was my age reversing? Would I look fourteen tomorrow? Become younger and younger until I disappeared altogether?

"Whit are ye thinkin'?" Weedgie stared up at me. "Ye look worried again."

I wished he would mind his own business and leave me alone. "I need to go and find out if I exist in 1968. I can't stand this not knowing. I'm going to go to Stella's house and my old workplace."

"Wha's Stella?"

"My wife. She lived with her aunt before we married. I met her last autumn. She should recognise me. You stay here and see if you hear anything else about Sadie's sister."

"Ye cannae jist leave me here. Ah'm yer dug, ye've got tae look efter me."

Sadie came back in then and picked up Weedgie's bowl. I took my chance. "Sadie, would you mind keeping an eye on Weedgie while I go out? I won't be long, I'm, er, looking for a job and it would be better if I didn't take him with me."

Sadie's face lit up. "Of course, Mark. I'll be delighted to look after him."

"Frinkin' jinkin' ploopy," Weedgie said, then added with a sneer, "Mark _._ "

I let this go, smiled and thanked Sadie, then left and drove across town. I knew exactly where to go. I needed no map to get there. My old life. My old haunts. Haunts? A voice in my head told me I was now a ghost haunting them. I dismissed it. I concentrated on the roads and the van's frisky gears. Finally, I arrived at Cleveland Drive.

Oh, fantastic.

A small, dark man in a red suit was leaning against the gate of number seventy-two. He strolled over as I parked the van. I wound down the window, trying to look casual and steady my heartbeat which had risen to an alarming rate.

"Where's Weedgie?" Mr Scarlet looked inside the cab and raised an eyebrow.

I sighed. "Back at the boarding house where we're staying. Spying on the landlady."

"And why are you here?"

I considered lying, but something told me he already knew the answer. "I want to know what's happened to me. I've met my first victim, and she should have died six months ago. No-one seems to remember much about me after they meet me. I'm getting the horrible feeling I don't exist." I stared him out. He laughed. Birds flew out of trees all around us and took off into the sky.

"Go back to Weedgie, Marty. You belong together. You're a pair. A team."

My hands tightened on the wheel. "I want answers."

"You're not in any position to call the shots." His voice was icy; the pale blue eyes turned to steel. Behind him, I saw a figure opening the gate to my old house.

Stella.

I was out of the van and running towards her before Mr Scarlet knew what was happening. She looked the same; small with bobbed fair hair and pale skin. Nondescript. Boring, even. Why had I married her? For the house, of course; her elderly aunt's Victorian villa which would be hers in two years. I loved that house. "Stella, hi, it's me." I touched her shoulder, and she jumped, turned and shrank away.

"Who are you?"

"It's me." I heard desperation creep into my voice. "Marty. Martin Hollis. You know me, Stella."

She shook her head and backed off along the pavement. "I'm sorry, you must have me confused with someone else. I don't know you."

"Steven, how's Steven?"

She turned to me, suspicion in her eyes. "How do you know Steven? You don't know us. If you don't leave me alone, I'll call the police." She turned and marched away.

Well. This wasn't the meek little Stella I'd known and tolerated until I got my hands on the house. What had happened to her? I thought for a moment. I should try and find Steven, her son. He'd be at school right now.

"Not a good idea." Mr Scarlet was right behind me.

"Don't _do_ that." I jumped away, heart thumping even faster, then barged past him and climbed back into the van. To hell with him. I would try the picture house where I'd worked. "Yeeargh." He was sitting on the seat beside me. "Get out of the van."

"The picture house where you worked will open later this morning. Mr Granger is the manager and your old boss. He will be in the office. The projectionist will be organising the reels for the matinee. His name is John McCall, and he has worked there for five years. There are no bodies buried under any floorboards. They've never heard of you. If you go there mouthing off the way you did to your so-called wife they will __ call the authorities. That would be embarrassing for us, and you'll be vaporised into black nothingness for eternity."

Right at that moment, the black nothingness seemed like a good option. I struggled to control my breathing. "I have a few questions." I hoped I sounded reasonable. I had a horrible suspicion my voice sounded like Minnie Mouse in a wind tunnel. "Why do I look younger than yesterday?"

Mr Scarlet sighed. "I told you. You're ageless."

"That doesn't answer it for me."

"Okay. You'll settle at the age which is most appropriate for you. That might be the time when you seemed normal. Before you entered serial killer mode." He sounded bored. "The age you were before you gave in to all the dark thoughts. The ones that wouldn't go away. The thoughts that grew stronger and stronger over the years until you met Stella. And then the thoughts became a reality."

My head swam. I took a few deep breaths. "Will I ever exist again? My past is gone, I don't seem to have ever been here...how...can I...?" I struggled with this one. It was a biggie.

"That all depends on you." Mr Scarlet looked out of the window at a squirrel which scampered up a tree beside the road. "Do your job here, and you will get another chance. I did explain that to you."

"So...I save this Mary person...and then I have to save some other people...and then...can I be born again? Or can I start again and re-live my old life?"

A smile escaped Mr Scarlet's stony expression. He turned his pale eyes to me, and I saw myself reflected in them. "Your old life is gone, Marty. Accept that, and you'll move on a lot faster. Once The Committee is satisfied with your performance, then you will get your reward."

I swallowed. "Which is...?"

"Another chance. That's all I can tell you. Now get back to Weedgie. He'll be missing you. I told you, you're a team." The smile became a grin, showing rows of sharp, pointy teeth.

And then something so blindingly obvious and awful finally occurred to me. "This is hell, isn't it? I'm in purgatory. I thought the motorway café was hell, but it wasn't. This is it."

Mr Scarlet mimed applause. "Well done, Marty. But there isn't one definitive hell, you know. This is your version."

I knew it. I was destined to spend eternity with Weedgie. Hell couldn't get any worse than this.

Mr Scarlet watched me with amusement. "You know, Marty, I'm going to give you some help here."

I didn't want to trust him. I couldn't let my guard down. But I desperate for some crumbs of comfort. From any source. "Oh, yes?"

He looked down at his black nails then back at me.

"Your hell is Weedgie's heaven. He loves it; he's having a great time. You could change and love it too. Think about it. It's up to you."

And then he was gone.

"That's it?" I said out loud to the empty space he'd occupied. "That's your idea of help? Enjoy my own personal hell? Well, that's bloody fantastic." I started the van and crunched gears, cursing and mumbling to myself as I drove back to the boarding house. I was in a living hell. The alternative was black nothingness. And they expected me to knuckle down and accept this? Turn my hell into heaven? No way. They had underestimated me if they thought I would buy all that cobblers.

I parked outside Sadie's door and sat, gathering my thoughts. The Committee wanted me to save people so I would have to do that. They hadn't mentioned saving Weedgie, though. My original plan for his disposal seemed to get better by the minute. I'd get shot of him, and then this living hell would become more tolerable. I could put up with it until I got my reward.

This felt better. I had a plan.

"Yoo-hoo, Matty!" This was Pat, waving as she approached the van. I got out, and she stopped and smiled at me. "You'll never guess," she said. "The boss and most of the staff are laid low with food poisoning. The office is closed 'til Monday."

"Fantastic," I said. "Food poisoning, brilliant."

She led the way up the stairs, opened the door and then laughed. "Listen to that. Weedgie's howling the place down."

We entered the hall, and I heard the radio and Weedgie singing along to a Beatles' song. Pat joined in, and I looked at her. "You've got a great voice," I said and meant it. "You should sing with a band or something."

She blushed but looked pleased. "Thanks. I love music. Don't know if I'd have the courage to sing in public, though."

Pat and I tracked the noise to the kitchen at the back of the house. Sadie was baking at the table, and Weedgie sat beside her. Sadie started when we opened the door and clutched a floury hand to her heart. I wondered what culinary torture she was preparing and if I could find a reason to eat out that night. But the sister would be there so I'd have to attend the meal. Damn. Sadie turned the radio down and tidied away her baking things. Weedgie tried to catch my eye, but I ignored him. Sadie removed a tray of biscuits from the oven. Pat told her the good news about work.

"Oh dear," Sadie said. "That's awful."

Pat looked like she was about to say something else, then glanced at me and stayed silent.

"We'll let you get on," I said. "Come on, Weedgie, time for walkies."

Weedgie and I left the kitchen and headed down the hall to the front door. The traffic would be building up outside; the perfect time to put my plan into action. We went out onto the street, and then Weedgie spoke.

"Did ye find oot if ye existed?" He looked up at my expression as I stalked along. "That'll be a 'naw', then. Ach well, never mind. Ye're here, noo. And it won't be long tae this Mary comes and then we can suss oot how tae save her."

I tensed, watched the oncoming traffic. A bus eased away from the pavement, gathering speed. The driver checked his wing mirrors. Here was my chance. Three...two...one... "C'mon." I launched myself into the road, and Weedgie followed. I heard the hiss and screech of air-brakes and saw a flash of red as I dived clear. I turned. There was no sign of Weedgie. The bus stopped in the middle of the road, the driver's face red with anger. He pushed down his window and yelled at me.

"You bloody idiot! Watch where you're going - I could have killed you!"

"Sorry," I said. But you didn't kill me. No, you killed -

"Haw, numpty! Did ye no' learn how tae cross the road when ye were a wee boy?" Weedgie was by my side, shaking his head and pursing his big lips. "Lucky ah'm nippy oan ma feet."

He carried on to the opposite pavement, and I trailed after him.

Strike one.

Next try, I'd time it better.

# 6

We trawled the streets for an hour or so. Weedgie looked about and sniffed. I watched the traffic and led Weedgie towards busier roads. Finally, I hit the jackpot. We landed on a wide street with a traffic island in the middle. Scores of taxis nipped back and forward between buses. I pointed across the street. "Hey, Weedgie," I called him back to me. "There's a café over there. Let's go, and I'll get us some sandwiches. We can have lunch in a park somewhere."

"Braw." Weedgie waved his bushy tail as I led him to the pavement edge.

I needed to gauge this one correctly. Here we go. Two buses. Yes. I strode forward with Weedgie at my side and jogged to the centre island. I turned to look. The first bus sailed by and then the second. I craned my neck and searched for a brown furry body lying in the road. Then I glanced down. And did a double-take.

Weedgie sat beside me. "Whit're we lookin' for?" he said, following my gaze. "Ye're no' yin o' thae sad flinkers that like watchin' buses, are ye? Dae ye like trainspottin' an' a'?"

"Aargh." I bunched my fists and clenched my teeth to stop myself screaming out loud. "C'mon, you." I spun round and launched myself into the second lane of traffic. There was a screech of brakes. I lost my balance, bounced off the side of a taxi, and tipped into the back of an open-topped sports car.

"Hey! What the - ?" The driver scowled at me as I flailed about, legs in the air. He was big and brawny, wearing a tweed sports jacket and smoking a pipe. "I don't take hitch-hikers. Get out of my car." He swung the car to the pavement, and I scrambled out. My face flamed.

Weedgie stood on the pavement outside the café. "Ah'm gonnae pretend ah'm no wi' ye. Numpty."

I lurched past him on unsteady legs, entered the café and joined a queue at the counter. My head reeled as the reality of the past day and a half caught up with me. Weedgie was right; I was a non-person. No-one remembered my name. No-one thought I was attractive. Sadie had barely noticed me when I asked about the room. She hadn't even asked for a reference. Pat and Eric weren't interested in me. My first victim was alive, and presumably, all the other ones were existing, too. I'd lost the ability to harm anyone...except myself.

I knew the score now. Message received loud and clear. If I tried to get Weedgie killed, I would be the one ending up in hospital. Or worse. Loneliness swamped me. I shuffled forward in the queue, thoughts whirling, telling myself to change. I had to become a different person if I wanted to survive. I had to become a _better_ person. Damn. I wondered if there was somewhere I could book myself in for a frontal lobotomy.

I came back out five minutes later. Weedgie was on his hind legs, front paws resting on the window ledge of a small shop. The sign above the door said they repaired shoes, cut keys and did engraving. I stopped beside him and looked at a display of pet tags. Most of them were round silver discs, but Weedgie gazed at one shaped like a bone. He looked up at me. "Haw, Marty, get us yin o' thae wee bones for ma collar, would ye? And pit ma name oan it."

I looked closer at some of the tags engraved as samples: Rover, Fido and Bonzo. What the hell. My life couldn't get any worse. I went in and almost passed out from the smell of glue and rubber then emerged a short while later, spaced-out, carrying a silver bone with 'Weedgie' written in bold print. I fastened it on his collar while he grinned in delight. I avoided looking at his too-human teeth and said, "You called me Marty."

"Did ah?" He looked shifty. "Must have been a slip o' the tongue. I meant tae say 'numpty'. Cheers for the bone, though. Whit sandwich did ye get me?" It turned out he preferred the one I'd got for myself.

Ten minutes later, I sat on a bench in front of a small flower garden with Weedgie beside me. I surrendered my sandwich and contemplated his in return. I'd lost the will to live. I'd also lost any appetite I had, so Weedgie forced himself to eat the second sandwich too. Then he sat and stared at me.

"What?" I said, avoiding his gaze.

"Ye're awfy quiet," he said, then cocked his head, "And ye look a bit younger."

I seethed in exasperation. Was there anything this damn dog didn't notice? And then I felt a jolt inside me and something cleared in my head. "I'm sixteen years, three hundred and sixty-four days old."

"Jings bangs." Weedgie's eyebrows shot up to his quiff. "That's awfy specific. Why dae ye say that?"

"Because the day before my seventeenth birthday, my parents died in a car crash."

"Aye?" The eyebrows came down. "Bummer."

I started to speak. I felt the need to talk about it, and this was the first time I had told a living soul. Or a talking dog. "It was a horrible time. The night before they died, my parents had a huge row. My mother found out my father had been seeing another woman. They shouted at each other until midnight, then my father slept in the spare room."

My head drooped and tears pricked my eyelids. "The next morning, my mother had a doctor's appointment. She didn't drive; hardly any women did in those days. My father took her. They must have argued in the car. He lost concentration and pulled out in front of a lorry. They were both killed." I paused and buried memories returned. The kindly policeman who'd broken the news. The funeral. The empty house and sudden loneliness. My eyes filled up.

Weedgie pursed his lips and gave a low whistle.

"Frinkin' balloobies." He shook his head. "Ye'd better brush up yer Green Cross Code, then, if ye don't want tae go the same way. Ye nearly got blootered by twa buses this mornin'."

He jumped down from the bench and walked away. "C'moan," he said over his shoulder. "Let's go back and see if Mary's there."

I stood, the familiar rage rising as I seethed at him. A large stone lay at my feet. What would happen if...? I swooped, picked up the missile and threw it at Weedgie. Then I stood and watched it curve away from him. It pinged off a lamp post, ricocheted from a wall, and hurtled back towards me. "Aargh." I ducked, and it sailed over my head and bounced into the gutter.

Weedgie looked at me. "C'moan, numpty," he yelled. "Stop mucking aboot."

I trailed behind him. This was becoming my default position. I tried to focus on the job ahead and forget how isolated I felt. I needed to turn this whole thing around. "Try harder, Marty," I said under my breath. "Try harder..." We walked on in silence and arrived back at Sadie's an hour later. Classical music played in the lounge. Pat was on the settee, knitting slowly, a frown on her face.

"Hi." I sat on the armchair opposite. "What're you knitting?" She held up a pink shape which told me nothing. "Lovely."

"It's for my niece," she said. "Damn, another stitch has gone." Her frown grew deeper as she slid the knitting from the needle and unwound part of it. I watched as she hooked it, stitch by stitch, onto the second needle.

"There's something up wi' her," Weedgie said. "She was happy as Larry this mornin'. Ask her whit's wrang."

I sighed. "Whit's - I mean, what's wrong, Pat? You don't seem happy."

Her sigh was deeper than mine. "Oh, it's nothing." She shrugged. "I overthink sometimes."

"Aye, me too," Weedgie said.

I gave him a look which said _yeah, right_ and turned my attention back to Pat. She avoided my gaze and concentrated on her needles. Something was worrying her but if she wouldn't tell me, then what could I do?

"Ah'm awa' tae the kitchen," Weedgie said, heading out the door. "Ah'll see if Sadie's finished thae biscuits she mixed this mornin'. She was daein' twa lots o' them; they smelled guid."

"You've just had lunch -" It was out before I could stop myself. I cringed.

Pat looked up in surprise. "I couldn't eat much." She smiled sadly. "Wasn't very hungry."

"Me neither." I doubted I would ever be hungry for Sadie's cooking. "When's the sister arriving?"

"Mary? Sadie got a phone call; she's tidying up in the kitchen. They should be here soon."

"They?"

"Don's bringing her. They've got a car."

I remembered that owning a car was a big thing in the sixties. You had to have a decent wage to afford one. "What does he do?"

"He's a manager at a big manufacturing firm," Pat said. She rolled up her knitting. "They make glasses."

"Pint glasses? Whisky glasses? Lemonade glasses?"

"Trust a man to think of alcohol first." She smiled. "Spectacles. Eye-glasses. That sort of thing."

"Oh." Boring. "Is Mary her younger sister or older?"

"Oh, younger, by four or five years."

The door opened, and Weedgie came back in, eyebrows almost at his nose. Sadie was behind him, looking cross. "Mike, please keep your dog out of my kitchen. It's most unsanitary." The doorbell rang as I was processing this development. "Oh, that'll be Don." Sadie rushed off towards the front door, and Pat followed her.

I looked at Weedgie. "What did you do?"

"Nothin'. Ah didnae dae a thing. Sadie was happy for me tae be there this mornin' when she was mixin' and stuff. And noo she throws me oot."

"What did you do?" I said again.

He sighed. "Sadie brought a' these wee ginger biscuits oot the oven and tellt me they were for this Mary that's comin'. She put them oan a metal rack and then wan fell on the flair."

"And you saw your chance," I said.

"Well, ah never got the chance." Weedgie was indignant. "Ah thought she wouldnae want tae gie that yin tae her sister, being on the flair and a' so ah went tae get it. She grabbed ma collar, and jist aboot strangled me."

I suppressed a grin. Strike one for Sadie.

"Then she threw me oot and chased me back in here. Ah don't ken...weemin." He growled to himself.

"Let's go see this potential victim." I hoisted myself out of the armchair and Weedgie followed me into the hall. The front door was open, and Pat hovered behind Sadie. Sadie ignored her. We stopped beside them and saw a couple climb slowly up to the front door, the woman supported by the man. From the way she moved you would have thought she was climbing Everest. I studied her, and the tingling feeling grew stronger.

"It's her; it's her, Ah ken it!" Weedgie bounced with excitement.

"I know, I know," I said, and Pat turned and looked at me. I smiled, cringing again, and stood back to let the couple enter the hall. The woman was

thin, but I could see she was beautiful. She had a slight look of Sadie around the mouth, but apart from that, they bore no resemblance to each other. Mary had large, expressive green eyes and dark brown hair. Her face was heart-shaped, and she wore a pale blue skirt and jacket which emphasised her slim figure. Beside her, Sadie looked large and uncouth. She had squashed herself into a tight, patterned dress and her ankles bulged over high-heeled court shoes. I felt she'd made an effort to compete with Mary. Sibling rivalry; the younger sister eclipsing the elder one?

"She's a right stoater," Weedgie said. "Braw."

I assumed 'stoater' was a compliment. Then I noticed the man who was with Mary. "He's some poser," Weedgie said, and I had to agree. The man was tall, the same height as myself, with brown hair, waved back from his face. He was clean-shaven and smooth-looking in a dark grey suit. His chin dimpled, and his jaw was square. He looked like a Hollywood actor, playing the concerned suitor.

Sadie gestured to us all and turned to the couple. "Mary and Don, you know Pat. And this is..."

I forced a smile and held out my hand before she renamed me again. "Marty Hollis. Pleased to meet you."

"Don Steele." His handshake was crushing. "And this is my wife, Mary." Mary's handshake was limp and dry. She smiled wanly, and I noticed deep shadows under her eyes.

"I've just moved in," I said, then sighed as Weedgie tugged at my trouser leg. I pointed at him. "This is Weedgie."

"Oh, what a nice dog," Mary said, bending to pat him, then wincing at the effort. As she straightened up, I took a chance and dived at a suitcase Don was holding.

"Let me take that for you." I grabbed the handle. "Where is Mary's room?"

"Oh, er..." Sadie wavered between accompanying us or being the gracious hostess. The latter won out. "Mary knows the way," she said, turning to usher Don towards the lounge. "Do come on through and I'll bring some tea. You must be tired after driving through all that traffic..." Her voice trailed away. I watched Pat follow them, looking unsure of herself. Weedgie had no such doubts. He bounded after Sadie and Don. I turned back to Mary.

"This is very kind of you." She led me through a door into a living room which caused my jaw to drop. And not in a good way. I saw floor-to-ceiling peacock blue velvet curtains with gold tasselled tie-backs and a matching settee with scores of gold-fringed velvet cushions. The walls were gold flock with a pattern of swirly leaves intertwined with huge red roses. The carpet was green and gold overlapping squares. My eyes swam.

Mary picked her way between small tables with spindly legs. These held an assortment of crystal ornaments, mainly shepherdesses, but with a few collie dogs. We dodged round over-stuffed tasselled armchairs. Finally, we reached another door and Mary opened it to reveal a tiny room with a single bed and a small chest of drawers. "Here we are," she said, and I put the case down on the floor.

"Well, this is...basic." I smiled at her.

She smiled back. "Sadie likes her gold and tassels. I prefer this room; I used to stay here quite often before I became ill. It's a nice treat for me."

"What's wrong with you?" After I'd asked I realised this was quite rude. "Sorry. I'm nosey."

"It's quite alright." Mary took off her jacket and hung it in the wardrobe. "I don't mind. I wish I could give you an answer. My doctor is unsure, he thinks I've picked up a flu virus, and I can't shake it off. I keep being ill and I ache all over. I try not to moan too much, for Don's sake. He's been my rock."

I'm sure he has, I thought, as I looked at her pale face. Flu virus? I didn't think so. Unknown illness or slow poisoning?

I was willing to bet Don Steele had taken out a massive life insurance policy on his wife.

# 7

I accompanied Mary back to the lounge where tea was set out on a coffee table. Sadie sat beside Don on the settee. Pat perched on the edge of an armchair with Weedgie at her feet. He stared at Don. Mary sank into the other armchair, and I pulled up a round leather pouffe and sat beside my partner.

"Well, now we're all here; let's have some refreshments." Sadie smiled around the room, scowled at Pat, and started to pour tea and coffee. I watched Don, trying to get a handle on him. He was poised, confident, and completely at ease. He helped Sadie hand out plates. He asked Mary if she needed another cushion. He reached over to pat Weedgie on the head. "Do have one of these; they're freshly made." Sadie held out a plate piled high with small round biscuits.

I took one. "Haw, whit aboot me?" A growl came from beside me. I snatched another biscuit and slipped it down to him.

"Oh, look, Weedgie likes my home baking," Sadie said, as he crunched. "Isn't he sweet?"

I could have supplied a better adjective.

"So noo it's fine for me tae eat yin o' her biscuits," Weedgie said. "Huh. Weemin."

"Mmmph!" Don made a face and spat out a mouthful of biscuit into his hand. We all stared. "Sorry. It's ginger. I can't stand it."

"That's true," Mary said. "Makes him sick. Me, I love it." She finished her biscuit and took another.

"Oh dear," Sadie said. "I didn't realise, Don, I'm sorry. Here, have a custard cream instead." She handed him another plate, piled high with cheap yellow biscuits. He looked at her, then declined and fed the rest of his ginger biscuit to Weedgie.

"I'm such a boring eater," he said, with a smile at his wife. "Mary loves herbs and spices and garlic and flavourings, and I eat the blandest meals. It's a throwback to good old British nursery food, potatoes and butter, custard, tapioca..."

Sadie joined in to express her hatred of frogspawn tapioca. The conversation revolved around everyone's favourite and least-liked food. Pat was the only one who didn't contribute; she sat and nibbled her biscuit, a frown on her face. I looked at Weedgie and tried to catch his eye, then Don spoke and ended the debate. "I should be getting back; I have to drop into the office before we close." He drained his tea and stood up.

Sadie stood with him. "What a shame you have to leave us, Don," she said, while Weedgie and I exchanged glances. The would-be murderer was escaping. I did some fast thinking.

"Where do you work, Don?" I said. "I'm looking for a job right now, and I wondered if there were any vacancies?"

"Oh." He looked me up and down, raising an eyebrow which reminded me of Mr Scarlet. "Well, we may have something coming up in distribution soon. Can you operate a forklift?"

"Yes," I lied.

"Well, then, pop round and have a word with Mr Jenkins on Monday morning. If he likes you, he'll keep you in mind."

"Can't I come with you now?" I stuck on my best eager expression. He was taken aback and couldn't come up with a reason to refuse.

"You are keen." He forced a laugh. "Well, I suppose you could come along...if you can make your way back here."

"No problem." I smiled at his discomfiture, and he turned away and addressed Sadie.

"Before I go I'll visit the...er..."

"Cludgie," Weedgie said. "The bog. The lavvy."

"The bathroom," Don finished.

"Of course, Don, you know where it is," Sadie said, as Don kissed Mary on the cheek.

"Goodbye, my dear. I'll be back on Sunday evening."

"Goodbye." Mary looked almost tearful. She took his hand and squeezed it.

Don left the room, and Sadie began clearing up. Pat rose and helped her. I waited a few moments after they'd both gone and then crept down the hall to the kitchen, Weedgie at my heels.

"Whaur are ye gaun?" he said, and I held a finger to my lips as we approached the kitchen door. Pat's voice was audible.

"Sadie, I am _so_ sorry," she was saying, "I don't know what made me say that. Please forgive me."

"Well, Pat, I was hurt and insulted by your comments. But I daresay we can put this unpleasantness behind us and not mention it again. I trust you haven't told anyone?" Sadie's tone was sharp.

"No, no I haven't. I want us to be friends again, Sadie. I'm sorry."

"Fine. We'll say no more about it."

I signalled to Weedgie, and we crept away again and waited by the front door. "Whit's up with Sadie and Pat?" Weedgie said. "They fell oot or somethin'?"

"Well, Pat was apologising. And I don't know what about, but I have an odd feeling it may be important. We'll have to find out."

Weedgie grinned his Mick Jagger grin. "Listen tae us. Like proper detectives aff the telly. Starsky and Hutch. Morse and Lewis. __ Columbo and...his dug."

"Do you watch a lot of television?"

"Aye. The kennels had satellite TV in the main buildin'. Ah used tae go there a lot and watch it, efter ah'd figured oot how tae open ma kennel. It was braw. Ah like a' the car chases. Dae ye think we'll get tae dae ony car chases?"

I had a mental image of Weedgie 'accidentally' thrown from our speeding van. "Maybe."

"Whit dae ye think aboot him, then? This Don. Ah think he's makin' her ill. Ah think he's poisonin' her."

For crying out loud - did this dog have to upstage me at every turn? How had he come to the same conclusion? "Well, that's what I suspect," I said. "But how did you think of it?"

Weedgie frowned. "'Cause that's whit ah would dae if ah wanted tae murder someboady. Make it look like an accident or like they'd been ill. Mary's ill." I looked at him and wondered if he ever thought of getting rid of me.

"Righto, then." Don appeared in front of us with Sadie behind him. She frowned at Weedgie.

"Weedgie can stay here with me," she said. "Don won't want him messing up his nice new car."

"Oh, he can sit on my knee," I said, happy at the prospect of Weedgie messing up Don's new car. "He'll enjoy the walk back." Weedgie looked at me in surprise and grinned.

"Braw," he said. "Can ah stick ma heid oot the windae?"

I thought that might be dangerous. "'Course you can," I whispered to him as we followed Don out of the front door and down the steps. Sadie stood in the doorway.

"This is a nice big motor," Weedgie said, looking at Don's car.

"Ford Zodiac," I said. "Is it new?"

"Yes." Don unlocked the driver's door and climbed in. "Three-litre engine, automatic. She's a beauty, isn't she?" He leant across and unlocked the passenger door, and we got in. The front seat was a long bench, and I sat by the window and wound it down.

"There you are," I said to Weedgie as he climbed onto my knee. "Plenty of fresh air." Be sure to stick your head out as far as possible.

The engine thrummed into life, and we sailed away from the kerb. Don waved like royalty to Sadie who stood and watched until we'd turned the corner at the end of the street.

"How old are you, Marty?" Don said.

Wow. He'd remembered my name. I wondered what age to say. Thirty-five? Almost seventeen? Or something a bit older?

"I'm eighteen," I said, and Weedgie cast me a sidelong glance then went back to lolling his head out of the window.

"You look older than that," Don said. "Must be all the hair. I'm afraid you'll need a haircut if we give you a job. We run a tight ship, you know. Everything neat. Everything spick and span."

"What does your company make?" I said, and he laughed.

"Oh, it's not my company, Marty, I wish it were. I'm the manager. We make optical lenses for spectacles. We have a manufacturing side - more like a laboratory, actually - and a warehouse for distribution. The company's doing very well; we're expanding across London. That's why I said there would be a post in distribution soon. You'd have to start at the bottom, work your way up."

"Ask him aboot Mary." Weedgie brought his head inside the car. "And shut that windae. Ma een are watterin'."

I sighed and wound the window back up. Don reached over and ruffled Weedgie's fur. "Let him sit on the seat," he said. "I don't mind. I like dogs."

I shoved Weedgie off my lap, and he sat between us and stared straight ahead through the windscreen. "I'm sorry your wife is ill," I said, giving Don a sideways glance. "She told me no-one knows what's wrong with her."

Don's face hardened. "Bloody doctors..." He shook his head. "I've tried the NHS and __ Harley Street. They all say the same thing. A virus. I wish she'd get better, Marty. I hate seeing her so weak and sick."

Weedgie and I exchanged a look. Either this guy was innocent, or he was a Hollywood actor. "It must be hard at home," I continued. "Looking after Mary. Do you cook the meals?"

He looked embarrassed. "Er...no. I get a...caterer in to do that. Once a fortnight. We have a large freezer, so the caterer makes two weeks' worth of meals and labels them. I take them out and heat them up."

Heat them up...and add something to Mary's portion?

Weedgie and I exchanged another look.

"Well, here we are." Don swung the car between two large wrought-iron gates. We stopped in a space beside the front doors of a large, modern building. A sign in front of the parking space read 'Mr Steele'. We got out, and I looked up at a sea of windows set in a square concrete building. It said Watkins & Scott in large black letters above the doors.

Weedgie looked up and frowned. "Watkins and Scott," he said. "Where have ah seen that afore? Ah've seen it somewhere; the letters were smaller, but..."

"You can read?" I said, and he gave me a withering look.

"'Course ah can read. Whit dae ye think ah am, a daftie?"

"Smart building, eh?" Don looked proud. "State of the art workshops, natural light, spacious rooms. Come inside for a moment, and I'll have Mr Jenkins come by and take you to the warehouse."

Weedgie and I followed him into an airy reception, with blue armchairs and glossy pot plants. A desk stood to one side, and a young woman with dark hair tied back in a loose ponytail sat behind it. She had perfect make-up and polished red nails. "Good afternoon, Mr Steele," she sang out as we passed.

"Afternoon, Stacey," Don replied as he pressed a button on the first of two lifts at the back of the reception area. I made a mental note to try and speak to Stacey if I could; quiz her about the state of his marriage.

The lift whizzed us silently to the top floor. Then we followed Don along a carpeted corridor to another, smaller reception area. There was a desk here too, but the woman behind this one was older and wore no make-up or nail polish. She frowned at the sight of Weedgie and myself. "Mr Steele...?" She looked quizzically at him, and he smiled.

"This is Marty and Weedgie," he said, looking at me and gesturing to the woman. "And this is Marjorie, my life-saver; or personal secretary, as her proper title is." Marjorie blushed. "Bring in some coffee, would you, Marge? And a bowl of water for Weedgie, please." Don passed her desk and swept through the door behind it while we followed, and I wondered about Marge. __ Was she more than a personal secretary? She could be the reason Don wanted Mary out of the way.

Don's office had windows on two sides with fabulous views of the city. I crossed the expensive carpet and looked out. Weedgie arrived beside me and stood on his hind legs to see.

"Here you go, boy." Don came over and scooped Weedgie up into his arms, then stood beside me and held him up to look at the view. "Stunning, isn't it? I never tire of looking at London. Mary loves it, too. She often comes here and, well, she often used to."

His voice trailed off as Marjorie came in with a tray of coffee and biscuits and a small bowl of water. She set the coffee down on a table near Don's desk and put the water on the floor. Don placed Weedgie back on the carpet, and he had a noisy drink. Don laughed, and Marjorie smiled.

"He's a great dog," Don said to me.

"Yes, he is." I smiled at them both.

"Get Allan to come up here, would you, Marge? Thanks." Don gestured for me to have a seat and Marjorie nodded and left the room. I sank into a low-slung metal framed chair, and Weedgie sat at my feet. Don handed out coffee and biscuits and fed a few to my partner before Marjorie returned with an older man in tow. He had slicked-back greying hair and wore a brown cloth coat.

"Allan, this is Marty. He's eighteen, though he looks about twenty-five, and he may be right for us in the warehouse. I'd like you to take him round it, give him a tour and then bring him back here. Alright?"

I stood, and Allan Jenkins looked me up and down and fixed a wary smile on his face. "Right you are, Mr Steele," he said. "Come along, lad." I walked with him to the door while Weedgie followed.

"Weedgie can stay here with me," Don said. "We'll keep each other company, eh, boy?" Weedgie looked up at him with wide eyes, then ran over to me.

"Don't leave me wi' this frinkin' murderer!" He grabbed at the leg of my jeans. "He might try an' kill me!"

Chance would be a fine thing.

I prised his teeth away. "It's alright, Weedgie, I'm coming back." I gave Don an apologetic look. "He's a bit nervous with people he doesn't know. He'll be fine." I moved away and slipped through the door after Allan. I closed it on Weedgie's furious rant. "Ya frinkin' plinky poopy! See you, when ah get ma teeth intae ye...!"

"Sorry," I said to Allen and Marjorie as I went past. Marjorie smiled, and Allan snorted. He took me to a staircase further down the corridor, and we descended in silence. No lifts for the workforce then.

"So...how long have you worked here, Mr Jenkins?"

He scowled at me as if I had no right to ask. "Man and boy," he said. I tried again.

"Is Mr Steele a good boss?"

"Yes."

"Do you ever see Mrs Steele?"

"Yes."

By this time, we had reached the ground floor, and he took me through a set of doors at the back of the building. We crossed a small courtyard and approached an old building made of red brick with long windows. I figured he wasn't going to gossip about Dona and Mary, so gave up asking. A side-door led us into a cavernous room. Each wall held rows of pallets laden with boxes. Allan pointed out various sections as we marched past. I feigned interest until we finished the tour. "Well, thank you, Mr Jenkins." I shook his hand and smiled at his bemused face. "I'll find my way back to Mr Steele's office."

I left him standing in the middle of the warehouse, scratching his head. I hurried out of the side door, crossed the courtyard and nipped round to the front of the building. Now I could try Stacey.

I entered the main reception and smiled at her. She smiled back, seeming unsure of where she'd seen me before, so I explained, and she looked relieved. "Phew, thank goodness for that. For a moment I thought I was seeing double or you had a twin."

I laughed and chatted about the new building. Then I admired her nails and brought the conversation round to the Steeles. "I'm lodging with Mr Steele's sister-in-law. I met his wife today. Lovely woman, isn't she?"

"Oh, yes," Stacey said, a dreamy look on her face. She then went on to enthuse about her boss's marriage. What a gentleman he was. How happy they were, and she hoped she could be that happy someday. When I got a word in edgewise, I asked if she'd heard of any problems between Don and Mary. She denied this. "He's devoted to her. He's been so worried about her illness."

I gave up, made my excuses, and escaped back upstairs to chance my luck with Marjorie. She frowned at me when I asked if the Steeles got along or not. "Mr Steele is my employer, and I do not gossip about him or his wife." She turned away and began typing. I took the hint and went back to Don's office.

To my astonishment, Don was sitting behind his desk with Weedgie on his lap. They both looked at me as I entered the room and then Weedgie spoke:

"We've got it a' wrang, Marty," he said. "Don's innocent. It's no' him."

# 8

"What?" I said.

"I beg your pardon?" Don said.

"Numpty." Weedgie rolled his eyes.

"Look, Marty, I'm glad you and Weedgie came with me today, and I hope we will have a job to offer you soon. Let me drive you both back to Sadie's." Don smiled his movie star smile.

"Thanks." I returned the smile and then frowned at Weedgie. "That would be lovely."

"This will be the first weekend we've been apart since Mary became ill." Don waited until Weedgie had jumped to the floor then he stood. "It was good of Sadie to offer and give me a break but the truth is...I'll miss her."

I didn't know what to say. I stood, feeling awkward, while Don collected his briefcase and hat. Then we went outside where he spoke to Marjorie about finishing some letters. Weedgie and I headed for the lift. "What's the idea?" I demanded, as soon as we were out of earshot. "Why do you think he's innocent?"

"Well, ah was feart at first," Weedgie began, then seeing my face, he sighed and translated. " _Scared_. Ah was scared at first 'cause you jist balloobied aff and left me wi' a murderer." Here he stopped and glowered at me, and I felt a tiny particle of some feeling that might have been...guilt? I considered this. It wasn't good.

I looked at Weedgie. "Yes...sorry," I found myself saying. "I thought he might say something when you were there. Anyway, you're this big fierce dog, aren't you? I didn't think you'd be scared."

"Humph." He looked away. "Aye, ah _am_ fierce. And don't you forget it. Onyway, he started talkin' tae me. Folk dae that a' the time; talk tae dugs. Tell us things they wouldnae want their mammy tae ken. They don't ken we can understaun' them, but when we try an' talk back, they ignore us. It's frinkin' annoyin'. Dugs can gie ye guid advice."

"Alright, alright," I said. "What did Don say?"

"He was greetin' an' talkin' aboot Mary and how he loved her and he wanted her tae get well, and he was that worried -" Weedgie broke off as Don appeared and pressed the lift button. I took another look at him, at the worry lines etched onto his brow and thought about his manner all afternoon. It could be an act, but why act in front of a dog with no-one else there to see?

"I'll drop in with you when we get there," he said. "See Mary again, and perhaps Sadie will invite me to stay for dinner." I bit back a comment about how desperate he must be to eat as he went on;

"Yes, Sadie certainly can cook. Her dumplings are spectacular."

At my feet, Weedgie burst out laughing. I changed the subject. The lift arrived. Don and I talked about cars on the journey to the ground floor and then out past Stacey to the car park. I admired the Zodiac again, and Don asked if I'd like to drive.

I slid behind the wheel and Don got in the passenger side. Weedgie jumped onto the seat between us and off we went. Don gave directions and then reached onto the back seat for a small transistor radio. He switched it on, twiddled the dial and music blared out. Weedgie's ears shot up, and he joined in with a Rolling Stones' song.

"Weedgie, for God's sake!" I yelled above the racket, and Don laughed. Apart from the noise, the impression was a bit too eerie for me. Weedgie sighed. Then he bobbed about in time to the music, humming under his breath.

"You two are just what I needed today," Don said, grinning and shaking his head. "What a tonic. You know, I might get a dog for Mary...she'd like that. It could give her a boost." It was on the tip of my tongue to say he could have Weedgie, but something stopped me. That feeling again...guilt. Or something else this time? Good grief, don't tell me the stupid mutt was starting to grow on me?

I concentrated on my driving. Don and Weedgie murdered a few more popular songs together. By the time we arrived back at Sadie's I was sure my eardrums were bleeding. We went through to the lounge where Pat and Eric were playing cards. Pat seemed distracted, and Eric gathered up the cards as we I sat down.

"Your game's off today, Pat." Eric grinned at her. I noted the change in his appearance. He wore jeans with an open-necked shirt and sweater and looked years younger. I had the sudden feeling that Eric wasn't meant to be a clerk in an accountant's office...but what could I do about that?

"Hello, Don." Pat smiled and petted Weedgie. "Nice to see you again. Are you staying for dinner?"

"I hope so. Is Sadie in the kitchen?" Don stood up. "I'll go and ask her and say hello to Mary. How has she been?"

"She stayed in her room," Pat said. "We haven't seen much of her."

Don headed for the kitchen and Weedgie followed him. "Ah'm away tae see whit she's massacrin' for tea." He disappeared through the doorway, and I took the chance to ask about Don and Mary.

Pat was eager to chat, and Eric shuffled the cards and played patience. "Don and Mary have been married for years, but you'd think they met yesterday, the way they are with each other. It was love at first sight, I'd say."

"Do they have any children?" I kept my voice casual.

"No, they don't. Mary had a series of miscarriages, and they gave up. There was some talk of adoption before Mary got sick. Sadie and Colin didn't have children either."

"How long were Sadie and Colin married?" I asked for the sake of not appearing obsessed with Don and Mary.

Pat frowned in concentration. "She married a few months after Mary, so...roughly the same length of time. I never met her husband though. He died a year before I moved in here."

"What did he do?" I couldn't have cared less but wanted to keep the conversation going and didn't know what else to ask about Mary and Don. Everyone seemed to think they were the perfect couple. Pat talked away, and I tuned out until I heard the words 'Watkins and Scott'. "Sorry, Pat," I interrupted. "Isn't that where Don works?"

She laughed. "I told you a minute ago. Colin and Don worked together. They came up through the company, but Colin wasn't management material. Sadie tried pushing him in that direction, but he wasn't keen. Don became Colin's boss."

"Did Sadie tell you all this?"

"Yes."

"You must be good friends." I noticed Pat's expression change.

"We were. But then me and my big mouth..." She made a face.

"What?" I remembered the conversation she'd had with Sadie in the kitchen. "What did you say?"

"Oh...nothing. It's all in the past now, anyway. We're still friends." Her words sounded a little hollow, and I suspected her friendship with Sadie had cooled. I wondered what she had said to cause bad feeling between them. Had she criticised Sadie's cooking? I grinned to myself. She wouldn't dare.

Voices approached — Sadie chattering, and Don laughing. They appeared in the doorway, and Sadie smiled at us. "Dinner's ready," she said. "If you'd all like to come through." My heart sank. Eric and Pat went ahead, and I asked where Lorraine was.

"At her parents' for the weekend," Pat said. "She's hardly here. She's about to move out and share a flat with one of her friends."

I felt relieved. I didn't want to face Lorraine over the weekend. But we had to discover if Don was innocent of Mary's attempted murder. I pondered how to achieve this as we all sat round the table. Weedgie's bowl sat at my feet, and he appeared beside it.

"Ah went tae see Mary," he said. "Jeez-o, Sadie's living room." He shook his head. "Decorated by a colour-blind pervert." I stifled a grin as Sadie brought the first course in and dished it out. Tomato soup. Weedgie licked his. "We're awright. It's oot a tin."

Mary entered the room as everyone started to eat and Sadie jumped up and set a place for her. "Please carry on; don't stop on my account." Mary sat down and smiled around the table. "I've already had some soup in my room; I wanted company. Darling, I thought you were off fishing with Peter?"

"We're going up to his cottage later tonight," Don said. "I thought I'd say another goodbye first."

"Oh, you two lovebirds," Sadie said, and we all smiled.

"Are you going away for the weekend?" I asked Don.

"Yes," he said. "My friend has a cottage, not too far outside London but near a river. We're going to fish and then come back and lie about what we caught."

Everyone laughed, and Eric told a story about a disastrous fishing trip he'd been on as a teenager. He was entertaining and a good mimic as he regaled us with different accents and voices. He seemed to have come alive since leaving the working week behind.

Eric finished his tale, and then Weedgie looked up from his empty bowl, and I burst out laughing. "Whit?" he said, frowning. "Whit is it?"

Pat looked down and giggled. "Weedgie looks like he's wearing lipstick." The tomato soup had stained the fur round his mouth, and now he looked like Mick Jagger in drag.

He scowled at the group. "Aye, right, frinkin' hilarious."

"Come on, Weedgie, I'll give you some water." Sadie rose from the table to clear the plates, and I leapt up too.

"I'll help you," I said, and ignored her protests. Weedgie and I followed her to the kitchen where she poured him a bowl of water. He lapped it up, washing the red stain away. I signalled for him to follow me outside and we left and stood together in the hallway. "I've been thinking about Don," I said. "And I'd like him to be innocent, but we have to prove it."

"Aye. Ah suppose." Weedgie frowned. "Whit aboot this caterer that makes a' the meals? We should see if they're kosher. You don't want tae ask Don, though."

I considered this. "No...then Don would know we were suspicious." I thought back to the conversation in Don's car. "He was a bit awkward about it, wasn't he?"

"Embarrassed that he couldnae cook?" Weedgie suggested.

"This is 1968," I reminded him. "Real men don't cook. How can we find out about the caterer without him knowing?"

"Find oot whaur Don an' Mary live," Weedgie said. "Ask the neighbours."

"Good thinking." Despite myself, I had to acknowledge that Weedgie and I were working well together. Mr Scarlet's words came back to haunt me; A pair. A team.

"You keep them talking at the table," Weedgie said. "Ah'll look for an address book or somethin' Sadie might have."

"Right." I watched him head to Sadie's living room. Then I returned to the kitchen where Sadie was dishing out something covered in thick pastry.

"Oh, Mark - Marty," she said. "Be a dear and take some of these through for me, will you?"

"No problem." I helped her transport the main course to the dining room where the conversation centred around travel. Pat declared that she'd love to see the world and Eric stared into space with a dreamy look on his face. I sat back down, and a few minutes later Weedgie arrived by my side.

"Jings bangs," he said. "Ah've OD'd oan velvet." He looked down at the pastry in his bowl. "Whit the frinkin' jinkies is this?"

I glanced about. The conversation was loud and animated; no-one was looking our way.

"Not sure," I whispered. "Some kind of pie. Did you have any luck?"

He nodded, then moved some pastry around with his nose. "Found Sadie's address book," he said. "Mary and Don, Twelve Fortesque Crescent, Kensington. Sounds posh."

"Hope you didn't leave teeth marks on it," I said as I repeated the address in my head.

"Naw, ah didnae, and ah doubt ah'll be leavin' mony here, either." He chewed on a piece of pastry. "Ye could mend a dry stane dyke wi' this."

"Try and eat a bit for politeness sake." I forced myself to swallow a lump of some unidentified vegetable. "Tomorrow morning we'll head out to their house."

"We'll need yin o' thae alphabet books," Weedgie said, then looked up at my blank face and explained. "Ye ken whit ah mean...it's got a' the streets in it."

"Ah," I said. "An A to Z."

"You need an A to Z?" Pat looked at me, and I blushed, wondering how much she'd heard. "You can borrow mine."

"Thanks." I stood and lifted my plate and Weedgie's bowl before anyone could see how little we'd eaten. Everyone else was clearing their plates. "I want to take Weedgie out tomorrow, go for a drive."

In the kitchen, I scraped the remains of our meals into the dustbin. Weedgie looked at the cooker and then turned to me. "Bad news. She's daein' custard again."

"Right, that's it. C'mon." I led him back to the lounge. "We're out of here." I stuck my head round the door. "No pudding for us, thanks, Sadie," I said. "We're off for a walk. Nice to meet you, Don."

"You too, Marty," Don said. "May see you again on Sunday evening when I come for Mary."

I smiled and waved and then Weedgie and I made our escape onto the street. We walked to the small park where we'd eaten chips the night before. Then we sat on a bench and thought out loud. "Ah hope it's no' Don," Weedgie said. "Ah like him. But if it's no' him, then it must be somebody in that hoose, and ah like them a'."

"What about someone at Don's work?" I said. "Marjorie? Classic secretary in love with her boss." I got no further as Weedgie interrupted.

"Naw, she came in the room when you left. Don was still greetin' but she didnae notice. Asked if she could finish early 'cause her husband had phoned and surprised her wi' a dinner oot the night. Some hotel he'd booked for their anniversary. She was a' excited. Couldnae have cared less aboot Don."

"Oh." I tried not to get angry. There went one of my theories.

"And Stacey? That lassie at the desk doon the stairs? She was wearin' an engagement ring."

"Was she?" I hadn't noticed. The damned dog seemed to see everything I didn't. My second theory fell by the wayside.

"I can't see a motive for the foreman," I said. "Unless he's in love with Mary."

"Would he no' be poisoning Don, then?" Weedgie curled a lip. "Yer theories are mince."

"My - ?" I glared at him, unsure of what he'd said but certain I'd been insulted. Then I saw the stunned expression on his face as he gazed over my shoulder. I turned to look.

Mr Scarlet leant against a nearby tree.

"Well, well, well," he said. "The great detectives."

# 9

"What do you want?"

We stood and faced him.

"Isn't this nice." Mr Scarlet's smile held more than a hint of a sneer. "You're a team. Didn't I tell you this?"

Weedgie looked at me. I bit my lip and stayed silent. Mr Scarlet walked up to us. "The Committee chairperson was checking the minutes of the last meeting." He sighed. "And they overlooked something important. Whatever you discover, you can't go to the police or anyone in authority."

"What?" I frowned. "Why not?"

"Because that would draw attention to yourselves and you have to remain in the background. You have no past, no connections with anyone living. It has to stay that way. You have to be anonymous."

"So whit happens then?" Weedgie wanted to know. "How dae we stop the murderer?" Except he said; 'murrdurrurrr'.

"What?" Mr Scarlet said. "Stop the _what?"_

"The killer," I said. "Can't you understand English?"

"Scottish," Weedgie said. "If ye don't mind."

Mr Scarlet frowned and crossed his arms. "You must have someone else inform the authorities. And you both fade into the background."

"No way," I said. "We do all the work, and someone else gets the glory? I don't think so."

"Aye," Weedgie joined in. "That's no' fair."

"Deal with it," Mr Scarlet said. "Or find yourselves in black nothingness forever."

I clenched my fists. "I'm not fading into any background. I was famous, you know."

" _In_ famous. There's a big difference."

"People wrote books about me."

"Some people write dreadful books. And some people read any old rubbish."

"People admired me."

He shook his head and laughed. Weedgie gulped and shuffled closer to me. Mr Scarlet's voice was low and scornful. "People _despised_ you, Marty. Decent people wouldn't give you the time of day. The only people who _admired_ you were sad, lonely misfits with no real friends. The sort of people whose neighbours would say, 'Oh, whats-his-name? I didn't know him. He was quiet. Kept himself to himself.' You know the type, Marty. Losers. Like you."

He stepped back, pushed up his jacket sleeve and glanced at a large silver wristwatch. "I have to go. Remember what I said. No glory."

And then he was gone.

A frustrated growl escaped me. I strode away from Weedgie and paced up and down. Then I imagined all the horrible, painful things I could do to Mr Scarlet. Finally, I slumped back on the bench, and Weedgie jumped up beside me. "Ah don't like that wee red flinker. He's a bampot. He didnae need tae be nasty tae ye; ye're no' a loser."

I forced a smile, looked down at my hands. "Thanks. I don't like Mr Scarlet either, Weedgie, but he's in control of our lives. We have to play by his rules, or we're finished." Weedgie sighed and hung his head. We sat there until the sun set and streetlights came on and then I realised something pretty scary.

Mr Scarlet's pronouncement about Weedgie and myself had come true.

We were a pair. We had become a team. One which was united against Mr Scarlet...but a team, nonetheless. He'd played his hand well and timed his assaults to perfection. And now Weedgie and I relied on each other for our existence. I considered the black nothingness for a moment. It still seemed quite attractive. Then I sighed and stood up. "C'mon, Weedgie, let's get back. We need to talk this through. If we have to involve someone else, then who's it going to be?"

"We cannae tell Sadie," Weedgie said. "She'll be pure horrified. And she likes Don."

"What about Pat?"

"Don't think she'd believe us...she's too nice."

"That leaves Eric."

"He disnae like me."

I remembered Eric's look of disgust the first time he'd seen Weedgie. It was similar to the look on my face when I first saw him. I had a moment of regret about that.

"He seemed shocked to see you that first time," I said. "He might be scared of dogs. He hasn't been nasty to you, has he?"

"Naw, suppose no'."

"He'll have to do, then. We'll get him on his own tomorrow after we've been to Don's house. That's if we've got some proof. We have to get that before we involve Eric."

"Righto, partner." Weedgie grinned his too-human grin at me, and we walked back to Sadie's. On the corner of the street opposite ours, there was a phone box. I caught a glimpse of bright blonde hair inside it.

"Hey, look over there," I said. "Is that Pat?"

Weedgie squinted through the darkness. "Aye, it's her. Why's she in a phone boax when there's a phone in the hall? Sadie's put up a wee sign that says ye can use it if ye pay for the call."

"C'mon. We'll pretend we were walking back this way. We might accidentally hear part of her conversation."

"Ah like yer style." Weedgie trotted beside me as we dodged traffic and headed for the pavement opposite while I silently acknowledged the irony of helping my partner avoid accidents or injury, now, and hoped he would do the same for me. We approached the phone box as the door swung open and Pat stumbled out, hand over her mouth. She stared at us, her face chalk white.

"Pat? What is it?" I stepped forward and supported her before her legs buckled. She leaned against me and stared down at Weedgie as if she'd never seen him before. "What's wrong?"

"Jill. I phoned Jill. My friend." She gulped. "Friend at work." She took a deep breath while I remembered.

"Of course. People had been ill at your work. You got the day off. Food-poisoning, wasn't it?"

She nodded, and tears streamed down her face. "Mr Nicholson – Bernard - our boss. He died."

"Oh." I frowned. "That's dreadful. Was he an old man?"

"Forty-two." She shook her head. "He had a heart condition, but it's not right. It's not!"

Weedgie and I exchanged awkward looks. Had Pat been in love with her boss? It looked that way. I cast around for something to say. "Your friend, Jill, is she alright?"

"Yes. Yes, Jill's fine. She was like me; she didn't eat any..." Pat tailed off, her frown deepening, and then I saw fear in her eyes.

"What is it? What're you scared of?"

"Nothing. No-one. I don't know. Oh, I _don't know_... _!_ " She pushed away from me and ran down the street. Weedgie took off after her but slowed down when he realised she was heading back to Sadie's. I caught up with him, and we arrived behind her. She stumbled through the front door and made for the stairs.

"Pat!" I tried to stop her, but she shook me off and carried on.

"Jings bangs," Weedgie said when she was out of sight. "She was lucky, then, her and her pal. They didnae eat whatever caused the food-poisonin'." He looked at me. I bit my lip, shook my head.

"No," I said. "Don't think that."

"Well, whit else can ah think? We're talkin' aboot poisonin', and someone died at her work. Dae ye think she was practisin' oan them? Did she take some food in tae her work and tell her pal no' tae eat it?"

I sat down on the bottom stair.

"It can't be Pat," I said, looking to check no-one was listening. "It can't. She's upset about her boss. I think she was in love with him."

"She could be a guid actress. Mebbe she saw us comin' and put oan a show for us ootside the phone boax. She's been weird a' day."

"I don't know, Weedgie, I can't think straight." I stood up. "Let's go and say goodnight to Sadie. I need some sleep."

We walked to the lounge where jazz music was blaring from a record player. Sadie and Mary shared a settee while Eric sat in an armchair. They all held glasses of sherry and the two women were laughing at something Eric had said.

"Boys, you're back!" Sadie flung her arms open, and Mary giggled some more. I realised they were both a little drunk. "You're looking miles better," I told Mary. Her face flushed, and her eyes were bright.

"I've had a small sherry." She hiccupped. "Think it's gone to my head. It's the best tonic I could have, being here with Sadie. It's like we're girls again. It's fun, though I'm feeling a bit tired; it's what I need."

Weedgie went over to Eric, sat in front of him, and stared up at his face.

"You know," Eric said, looking down at Weedgie. "I've been a bit wary of your dog because I'm allergic to them. I usually come out in big red lumps, and my eyes close up, but I've been fine with Weedgie." He reached out and patted Weedgie's head, then examined his hand. He tried again and grinned. "I'm cured."

We all laughed and then Sadie asked if I'd seen Pat. I told her Pat had come in and gone upstairs and that we were going to retire now. I said goodnight to everyone, and then we left the room. Sadie came out behind us, and we climbed the stairs together.

"I'll see if Pat is coming for a sherry," she said. "Mary wants to catch up with her."

"Mary seems a lot better," I said. "She seems to have more energy than she did this afternoon when she arrived."

"Must be my home cooking." Sadie grinned. "Sometimes a change of scene can work wonders. Well, goodnight, then."

We were on the first landing. Sadie headed for Pat's room and knocked on the door, and we carried on upstairs to our room. I closed the curtains and switched on the lamp, and then Weedgie picked up his water bowl and dumped it at my feet.

"Ah need clean watter."

"Alright." I sighed and took the bowl. He watched through the bannisters as I descended the stairs to the bathroom. Sadie was still outside Pat's door.

"Come on, Pat," she was saying, "You can tell me. Whatever's wrong, you can tell me. Don't cry."

I entered the bathroom and filled Weedgie's bowl. When I came back out, Sadie was standing at the top of the staircase leading back down. "She won't speak to me." She frowned and looked worried. "Has she said anything to you?"

I considered what to do. If Pat was guilty - and it looked bad for her - then Sadie deserved to be warned. I resolved to say something; but not too much. There was still no proof.

"She's had a shock," I said. "Her boss died. It happened after the food-poisoning she told us about."

Sadie looked stunned. "Food-poisoning killed him?"

"Well, he had a condition, heart trouble, so Pat said. That would make it more dangerous for him. But they were all sick, remember? She said so this morning."

"Oh, well, yes. Goodnight then..." Sadie drifted off down the stairs as if in a dream. I returned to our room and put the bowl on the carpet. Weedgie had a drink and then sat back and looked at me.

"Here's a thought," he said. "If Pat poisoned folk at her work, why would she tell us aboot it? Why no' keep schtum?"

"She thought it would look like food-poisoning. She didn't think anyone would die."

Weedgie went over to his red furry bed, jumped inside and sat down.

"Ah cannae believe it's Pat. Why would she want tae kill Mary?"

"She's in love with Don?"

"Ye said she's in love wi' her boss. Are ye saying she's in love wi' them baith?"

I sighed. "Maybe Pat _was_ in love with her boss, and they fell out, so she poisoned him..."

"But she was greetin'. Unless that was an act, like ah said. But still..." Weedgie frowned, "Somethin' disnae add up..."

"No," I agreed. "It's the time frame. Mary's been ill for months so if Pat's the poisoner -"

"Pat the Poisoner." Weedgie laughed. "That's some name. Like Happy Families, only no'."

"She's been dosing Mary with poison for a while," I carried on. "How has she managed that? She would have to go to Mary's house."

We both thought for a minute and then announced in unison:

"The caterers."

"Aye." Weedgie's ears shot up. "She lied aboot bein' a typist. She works for the caterer."

"We'll find out tomorrow at the house." I felt happier as I started to undress. We were getting somewhere.

"We're the A-Team," Weedgie said in an appalling attempt at an American accent.

"The A-Minus Team, more like." I laughed and got into bed.

"Nightie-night."

I switched off the lamp. "Night, Weedgie."

Damn...what was happening to me? I was beginning to like Weedgie, and what was worse, I found the thought comforting. I had no-one else in the world now, and we had to stick together. I decided there and then that I may as well take Mr Scarlet's advice and try to enjoy the experience.

I sighed to myself.

Here lies Martin Hollis...serial saver.

Ten minutes later, Weedgie jumped onto the bed. He circled four or five times then flopped down and stretched out, head on the pillow next to mine. Two minutes later, he was snoring.

I made a mental note to buy earplugs.

# 10

I woke with a start to pale sunlight filtering through a gap in the curtains and the sound of the toilet flushing. Weedgie trotted into the room as I donned the paisley dressing gown. "Pat's gone oot."

We crossed to the window, I drew back the curtains, and we looked out. Pat stood on the pavement below wearing blue slacks, ankle boots and a shiny black coat. She held a small suitcase in one hand and hailed a passing taxi with the other. I struggled to open the window and Pat jumped into the cab, and it sped off. Weedgie and I looked at each other.

"She's gone away for the weekend?" I suggested.

"She never said, did she? Must have decided quick."

"Damn." I gathered underwear, jeans, a white shirt and the flowery waistcoat. "I'm going for a quick wash, and then we'll hit the trail."

"Ah've got something tae dae an' a'."

Weedgie ran off down the stairs. Ten minutes later, I emerged from the bathroom and returned to the bedroom to collect my wallet and the van keys. Weedgie was nowhere in sight. I went downstairs to the ground floor and met Sadie and Mary in the hallway.

"Good morning," I said. "Off out somewhere?"

"We're going to have a seat out at the back," Sadie said. "It's not much of a garden, but it gets the sun."

"We have our breakfast out there," Mary said. "It's lovely and quiet first thing in the morning."

"Saturday is DIY breakfast." Sadie smiled. "Help yourself to cereal, and if you want toast, I've left bread on the kitchen table."

I followed them into the kitchen, thinking that Mary looked peaceful and relaxed. Her time with Sadie seemed to be helping her. I hoped Don was enjoying his fishing trip.

The back door was beside a walk-in larder and, as they passed, Sadie drew a curtain across the front of it. "It's a bit untidy," she said. "I could do with having a good old spring clean."

"Oh, me too," Mary said. "I haven't had the strength to do much at all these past few months. I've been in my bed or an armchair. Don's been doing all the cooking, and I'm sure our kitchen will need a good scrub down."

"Don't you be trying anything like that." Sadie wagged a finger at her. "Let Don put on his rubber gloves and get stuck in." They went out, laughing together. There was still no sign of Weedgie. Where was that dog? I went through to the dining room, and he trotted in behind me and dropped a set of keys at my feet.

"Mary's keys," he said. "Am ah guid or whit?"

"You're good," I said in surprise. Good _and_ devious. A winning combination. I scooped up the keys. "Mary thinks Don is cooking all her meals. He hasn't told her about the caterer. We'll have to find out why. Want to get breakfast on the way?"

"Aye." Weedgie headed for the front door, and I followed, pocketing Mary's keys as I went.

"Oh, damn," I said, as we settled in the van. "I forgot to ask Pat for her A to Z."

"Look in yer glove box," Weedgie suggested. "Ye never ken..."

I opened it, looked inside and took out a brand new A to Z. Weedgie peered inside the glove box with a frown. "Nae gloves. That's a disappointment."

I looked up Don and Mary's address. "Okay...we can take the ring road, and there's a greasy spoon I know rather well about ten minutes away."

"Braw." Weedgie wriggled in anticipation as I started the van and moved off. Fifteen minutes later, we sat outside Bert's Café. I tucked into a large, greasy breakfast while Weedgie enjoyed half of it beneath the table. Vans and lorries pulled up around us and men in overalls and dungarees trooped in and out of the café, fortifying themselves for the day ahead with artery-clogging fry-ups and mugs of industrial-strength tea. No-one had heard of cholesterol in 1968.

A few of these workmen glanced my way and muttered 'hippy' and 'layabout.' Then I heard one of them say, "'Oi, darlin'. Can I buy you a cup of tea?"

I looked up at him, and his face fell. He blushed bright red and hurried inside as his mates joshed him about fancying a feller. "It's the hair," Weedgie said. "And that Big Jessie waistcoat. Flooers. It's got _flooers_ oan it."

"Embroidered flowers are very hip in 1968."

"Aye, right..."

"Let's get going." I finished the last fried tomato, glad I'd paid up front and didn't need to re-enter the café. Traffic was beginning to build up, but I pulled away and managed to nip in front of a line of cars. I reckoned it would take half an hour to get to Fortesque Crescent. I expected Weedgie to chat away, but he was quiet. "Musing on our case, partner?" I drawled in my bad attempt at an American accent. He sighed, and I glanced over in surprise. "What's up?"

"The red bampot. Last night." Weedgie looked at the dashboard. "He said somethin' tae ye aboot us bein' a team. Like he'd tellt ye already. Afore last night." He turned to look at me. "Had ye seen him afore last night?"

"Well, yes," I said. I felt uncomfortable, remembering the morning before. "He appeared yesterday when I went to see my wife. Well, the woman who _had_ been my wife." I realised Weedgie felt suspicious. I hadn't told him about Mr Scarlet. Of course, I'd still been intent on getting rid of my partner at that point. He was right to feel suspicious.

I had to convince him I was on his side. I spoke slowly, choosing my words. "I should have told you yesterday, but I was upset. Upset and angry. He made me feel that this is my own version of hell and...I'd started to realise my old life had disappeared. You knew that, though." I glanced at him again. He had confessed to hearing Mr Scarlet discussing me on the phone. I hoped we were equal now.

"Yer ain version o' hell?" Weedgie's lip curled back. "Is that whit ah am?"

Yes. Definitely. One hundred percent.

"No, of course not," I said with as much conviction as I could muster. "Saving people is my idea of hell. Well, it _was,_ but I'm changing. I know I have to save people now and I want to do it with you. You're my partner. You and I are a team. He told me that. I didn't quite believe him, then." I wasn't sure if I'd said enough, or said the right things.

Weedgie turned away and pursed his lips. "But ye're sure noo?"

I nodded. "I'm sure. And I'm sorry I didn't tell you I'd seen Mr Scarlet. I didn't want to worry you." We stopped at traffic lights, and Weedgie turned back to me. I looked at him; at the Elvis quiff, the too-big brown eyes and the Mick Jagger mouth.

My own version of hell.

And he was all I had in the world.

"Ye're awright, Marty." Weedgie nodded. "We're a team."

Relief. Relief and ridiculous happiness. And then blaring horns and curses from taxi drivers as the lights changed to green. "Numpty," Weedgie said with a sly grin, as I found first gear and moved off. We spent the rest of the journey murdering Beatles songs together. I found I didn't care who saw me singing with a dog.

Boy, was I changing.

"Here we are." I turned into a wide, tree-lined street. "Fortesque Crescent. Number twelve's down a bit. I'll park here, and we'll nip along and go in as if we own the place."

"Big posh hooses," Weedgie said, looking at the row of Georgian houses. Each had a smart wrought-iron railing around the front and stairs leading down to a basement. There were three stories to each house. "The wee sister's daein' better than the big yin."

"Yes, Mary seems to have chosen the right sort of husband," I said as we climbed out and stood on the pavement. "Unless he's trying to kill her, that is. Let's go."

We marched along to number twelve, and I dug the keys from my pocket and checked the front of the building. No alarm. Good. A minute later, we were inside the hall. I closed the front door, and we looked around. Weedgie's nose twitched. "Kitchen's doon here." He led me down the hall, turned left and we found the kitchen. Lemon and white floor tiles and lemon-coloured units around three walls. The fourth wall held an enormous Aga hosting the biggest kettle I'd ever seen. "Here's the fridge." Weedgie stopped in front of a bulbous white monstrosity. "Will it have the freezer in it?"

"No." I hauled the door open. "Only an ice-box." I flipped the lid down. "Fish fingers. There are always fish fingers in these things."

"Ye couldnae fit much mair in there," Weedgie said. "Whaur's the freezer he was talkin' aboot?"

I spotted a door in the back wall and opened it. "Scullery." I looked around. "Aha." I stepped down into the cold room, and Weedgie joined me. We approached a large chest freezer thrumming to itself against the far wall.

"Frinkin' balloobies." Weedgie's eyebrows shot up. "Ye could hide a deid boady in there nae bother."

I had been about to lift the lid, and now I hesitated.

We looked at each other. Weedgie gulped. I grimaced. And then I raised the heavy lid and saw...frozen peas. More fish fingers. And dozens of plastic boxes filled with a variety of different coloured substances.

"It's the caterer's stuff." Weedgie stood on his hind legs and placed his front paws on the rim of the freezer. "Jings bangs, it's frinkin' freezin'." He dived back down, and I pulled out some of the plastic containers. They were labelled using pieces of paper written in biro and held in place by elastic bands.

"Look at these." I placed them on the floor by Weedgie's paws. "Some have the initial _M,_ and some have _D._ "

"Don and Mary." Weedgie screwed up his eyes and read some labels, "D - mince pie, D - cauliflower cheese, M - chicken curry, D - casserole, M - spicy stew."

"What do you bet the ones with _M_ are all poisoned?" I said. "But how can we prove that?"

"Well, ah'm no tryin' ony." Weedgie backed away. "But it has tae be someboady close who kens Mary likes spicy things, and Don likes plain borin' things."

I had to agree. Pat was still looking good for it. I bent and removed two of the labels, one with _M_ and one with _D._ "I'll keep these to compare handwriting. Y'know, this catering company doesn't seem very professional. You would think they'd have printed labels, wouldn't you?"

"Aye." Weedgie watched as I loaded the boxes back into the freezer and shut the lid. "Somethin' wi' their name oan it. Mebbe there's a leaflet lying aroon'."

We returned to the kitchen, and I looked through the drawers. There were no adverts for caterers.

"We'll have tae ask the neighbours," Weedgie said. We left the kitchen, crossed the hall, opened the front door and got the chance sooner than we expected. A large, stern-faced woman was standing on the doorstep, arms akimbo, eyebrows raised. "Jings bangs. Whit a torn-faced auld biddy." Weedgie shuffled behind me and peeped out at her.

"Who the Dickens are you?" demanded the harridan as we stepped out and I closed the door and locked it.

I decided on the bold, upfront approach. "Marty Hollis at your service, Madam." I gave her my best smile and held out my hand. She ignored it.

"And why are you in my neighbours' house?"

"Don asked me to pop round and check he'd turned the Aga off. He's gone fishing for the weekend," I said. "His sister-in-law is my landlady. And you are...?"

She gaped at me. "Oh. Er, Mrs Thomson. Number twenty-five." She shook my hand now, with a grip that would have crushed steel.

"Lovely to meet you, Mrs Thomson." I winced and wiggled my fingers. Then I looked across the street; her house was directly opposite. "You might be able to help us."

"Us?" She looked puzzled. "You and who else?"

"Heh, heh, heh. Ya numpty."

"Me and my dog." I looked at Weedgie, and she followed my gaze and took a step back. "I meant to say; you could help _me_. Don forgot to give me the name of the caterer he uses, and I need it today. Would you happen to know who it is?"

She frowned. "Caterer? I didn't know he used a caterer. Do you mean for parties? They haven't entertained much recently. Mary has been ill."

"The caterer comes in once a fortnight and cooks for them. Have you seen a van?"

Weedgie and I watched while she thought this through. I saw something flicker in her eyes.

"You've remembered?" I said, and she hesitated.

"Well...no. I haven't seen a van or anything like that but, once a fortnight..."

"Yes?" I leant forward.

"Aye?" Weedgie stepped forward.

"Every second Monday morning Don takes Mary out to see some specialist. They have lunch somewhere and come back at three. After they leave, a woman arrives in a taxi and goes inside. She's always carrying heavy-looking bags, and she stays there for an hour or so and then she leaves."

"Frinkin' nosey auld biddy," Weedgie said. "She's like MI5."

A woman...looked like our suspicions were on the money. "What does she look like?" I said, waiting for a description of Pat.

"Oh, I'm not sure. She usually has a headscarf worn quite low, and her collar turned up. Sometimes she wears dark glasses. Ridiculous things to wear in the middle of winter."

"So she's been coming for a while now?"

"Since the New Year anyway, I would say."

That fitted in with the start of Mary's illness. The poisoned meals must have taken effect over a few weeks, and the symptoms would worsen each time Mary ate one. I took a deep breath. "Does she have blonde hair? Bright blonde?"

"No...I'm pretty sure it's dark. Once her scarf blew back, and I saw it."

"Could it have been a dark wig?" As Mrs Thomson frowned and looked confused, something else occurred to me. "Could it have been a man dressed as a woman?"

This was a step too far for Mrs Thomson. Her eyes widened, and her voice rose several octaves. "Certainly not, young man. I can assure you; there are _no_ men dressed as women in Fortesque Crescent."

She flounced across the street, into number twenty-five. The door closed with a slam. I turned to Weedgie.

"What do you think? Pat in a dark wig?"

"Could be...hing oan, there's a wee scabby dug next door." He bounded over to the railings and looked down at the basement. I followed and saw a small terrier gazing back up at us from the basement window. "Get us doon there, Marty, and ah'll see if that dug saw onythin'."

I lifted Weedgie up and over the railings with some difficulty – he was no lightweight - and set him down on the stairs leading to the basement. He trotted down and headed to the window. To my astonishment, the terrier reached up and opened it from the inside. Weedgie and his new acquaintance held a muttered conversation. I listened to Weedgie's side and heard _wummin,_ _dark-haired_ and _scarf_ before he trotted back up the stairs.

"See ye, pal." He called as I braced myself then hefted him back over the railings. The terrier closed his window again.

"Well?" I said as we hurried back to the van. I had a feeling Mrs Thomson had witnessed Weedgie's visit to the terrier's property and was calling the police. Or MI5.

"Much the same as the auld biddy. He's seen a wummin in a scarf. He didnae see her hair. He said she smelled like mince."

"Maybe that was her perfume." I unlocked the van, and we climbed in. "Eau de Mince."

We sat together and stared out of the windscreen.

"It doesn't look too good for Pat," I said. 

# 11

I started up and pulled away from the kerb. "That dog you spoke to," I said. "I couldn't understand him."

Weedgie snorted. "Wha d'ye think ye are? Doctor frinkin' Dolittle?"

"So...it's only you I can understand. Well, some of the time, anyway."

"Think yersel' lucky. Ye're the only human apart fae that red bampot to get the benefit o' ma scintillatin' conversation."

There was no reasonable response to this, so I decided to change tack and return to the subject of Don and Mary. "Okay," I ventured when we'd travelled about a mile back towards Sadie's. "Mary's been ill for two or three months. That's the same length of time a woman has been coming to their house and supplying poisoned meals. Don tells Mary he's cooking the meals. The poisoner knows what kind of food Mary likes. People get food-poisoning at Pat's work, except for Pat and her friend Jill. Pat's boss dies."

"Pat and Don are in it thegither," Weedgie said. "Don's gone away for the weekend and so has she. Mebbe they're away thegither."

I thought about this and had to admit it sounded feasible. "But why has Don kept quiet about the so-called caterer?"

"He disnae want suspicion falling oan him."

"So why tell Mary he's doing the cooking?"

"He's poisonin' her. If she dies naeboady will ken who did the cookin'."

"But she's talking about it; telling Sadie. I heard her."

Weedgie frowned, bushy eyebrows lowered. "He must be countin' oan it bein' mistaken for an illness. That's whit everybody thinks."

"Then why keep taking her to doctors?"

"But it's different yins each time - the auld biddy said so, and she should know. Frinkin' MI5. Each doctor's come up wi' a different idea aboot whit's wrang wi' her. That way she dies afore anyboady gets suspicious and figures it oot."

I shivered, despite the warm day and the heat inside the van. "It's horrible. Calculating and horrible."

Weedgie shot me a look. "And this fae the fella that killed nine folk."

"Yes, well, I never poisoned anyone and let them suffer for months. I strangled people..." My voice trailed off as I realised this didn't sound as reasonable as I'd hoped.

"Aye, ye were such a gent."

"Could you be any more sarcastic?"

"Ye want me tae try?"

I clamped my lips shut; counted to ten. And then to twenty. My budding affection for Weedgie was dangerously close to disintegration. God, he was irritating. How was I supposed to take this lack of respect and not throw him out the window?

To stay alive, I told myself. To keep going until I get my reward...whatever that is. I concentrated hard. I drew on whatever inner strength I had. Then I forced myself to be enthusiastic. "Okay, then," I said, with more than a hint of desperation. "What now?"

"Dinner. Ah cannae think oan an empty stomach."

"Lunch? I can't take you into cafes unless they've got tables outside. And few have."

"Pubs. Ye can take me intae pubs. Get us a pub lunch, eh?"

With a sigh, I looked around and spotted The Rose & Crown a bit further down the road. It was part of a row of shops, and there was a space right outside. I parked and observed the cardboard notice stuck in the window. "This does pub food, though it might be worse than Sadie's."

"Doubt it." Weedgie shuffled along the seat, ready to jump out with me. "She must be in the Guinness Book o' Records. Maist lumps in a bowl o' custard - nae contest."

We entered the pub and adjusted our eyes to the gloom and cigarette smoke. I found a table in the corner then went up to the bar and ordered and paid for two steak pies with chips and a pint of lager. When I returned to the table, Weedgie was sitting below it, peering up at me.

"Ye're drinkin' and drivin'," he said. "Could ye no huv got a hauf pint?"

"This is the sort of pub where you get beaten up for ordering a half pint." I looked at the scarred linoleum and dented stained copper tables. "I won't be surprised if we get passed the Black Spot. I'll drink half of this."

"Ah'll drink the ither half if ye want."

"No thank you; you're bad enough sober."

When the food came, it was delicious. The barmaid cooed over Weedgie and brought him a bowl of water and a bigger dish for his steak pie. We ate in silence, and I thought about our next move. Pat's friend Jill might be the way forward. If we could track her down, she could tell us about the food poisoning at their work.

We finished our meal and headed out to the van. As I opened the door, Weedgie said, "Ah think we should try and see this Jill. The yin that works aside Pat."

Damn. He'd done it again. "And how do you propose we do that?" I asked, trying to keep the acid from my voice.

"Get intae Pat's room and look for Jill's address." Weedgie looked at me like I was simple.

Double damn. I hadn't even worked that one out.

I was silent for the rest of the journey. I tried to conjure up the burgeoning feelings I'd developed for Weedgie. Then I worked on dismissing the violent fantasies which had resurfaced in my head. I needed to backtrack. We were a pair. A team. "The A-Minus Team..." I murmured.

"Aye, that's us." Weedgie grinned at me, and I bit back an answering smile. I didn't want to think that Weedgie could make me like him whenever it suited him. But it seemed that he could. Dear God, I was being manipulated by a talking dog who looked like Mick Jagger and sounded like Billy Connolly.

I thought wistfully of the black nothingness again and drove on in silence.

Back at the house, all was quiet. I gave Weedgie Mary's keys to return, and he trotted off to her room. When he came back, I found a note from Sadie on the hall table. It said that Pat and Eric were out, she was going shopping, and Mary was resting in the garden.

"Braw." Weedgie bounded for the stairs. "Let's go."

On the first floor, we stopped outside Pat's door, and I tried it. "Locked. We may need to find Sadie's spare keys," I said. "She's bound to have a duplicate set somewhere."

"Hey, dae ye think she goes in oor rooms when we're oot?" Weedgie looked worried. "Mebbe she tries on yer Big Jessie blouses."

"Hang on." I had an idea, fished about on top of the doorframe, and found a key. "Bingo." Moments later, we were inside Pat's room, and I guessed her favourite colour was peach. Peach walls, peach woodwork, frilly peach curtains at the window. A dressing table sported a matching peach curtain strung round the front. A giant teddy bear sat on the bed.

Weedgie eyed it up. "Ah could take that nae bother," he said. "Gie it a guid tannin'."

"Leave it alone," I said. "We don't want her to know we've been in here." And I didn't want to know what 'tanning' meant. I pulled back the curtain at the dressing table and opened the top drawer. It groaned with eyeshadow, spilt face powder, nail polish and hair curlers. A small ring box nestled among the curlers and I picked it up.

"Look at this." I opened the box. A small diamond twinkled from a delicate gold setting. "An engagement ring. Wonder what happened?"

"Mebbe she poisoned him. See an address book?"

I rummaged some more and sent up a cloud of powder which made Weedgie sneeze. Then I spotted a small black book, fastened to a larger notebook by an elastic band. I removed the rubber band and opened the notebook first.

"Recipes." I thumbed through it, and Weedgie came closer for a look. "Biscuits, sponges, cakes...seems to be full of baking ideas. D'you think Sadie lets her use the kitchen?"

"Disnae need tae." Weedgie jerked his head, and I turned to see a Baby Belling on top of a wooden cupboard. It had two rings on top and a small oven. "That would dae."

I looked through the address book. There were only six entries, and two of them were Pat's doctor and dentist. I tore a page from the notebook and found a pen in the drawer. I copied down the addresses and phone numbers for Bernard Nicholson Insurance Co. and Jill Wright.

"No' mony friends," Weedgie said.

"No," I agreed. I pocketed the page and put everything else back the way we'd found it. Then we went back out, and I locked the door and replaced the key.

"Now to see Jill." I led the way back down the stairs and out to the van.

"Shame Eric's gone oot," Weedgie said, climbing aboard. "We were gaun tae tell him."

"We still don't have any proof," I said. "Remember we're the only ones who think Mary's being poisoned."

"Aye." He pondered this. "Mebbe we'll have a better idea efter we talk tae this Jill wummin."

I drove on with the A to Z on the seat beside me, stopping now and then to check we were heading in the right direction. Jill's address turned out to be in a block of high-rise flats. I drove into the car park and reversed into a parking space.

"Frinkin' balloobies." Weedgie peered up through the windscreen. "Whit floor is she oan?"

"She's number sixty-eight. I hope the lift's working."

It wasn't. We stood inside a tiled hallway and looked at the Out of Order notice taped to the metal door. Weedgie sighed and turned to the stairs. "Ah don't suppose ye'd cairry me up there?"

"You don't suppose right." I opened the door to the stairwell and leant in. I looked at the railings disappearing skywards and felt dizzy. "We should phone her first."

"Aye, she might no' be in."

We headed off to look for a phone box. "I spent a week in the twenty-first century," I said. "What I wouldn't give for a mobile phone right now."

The first box we came to had been vandalised and the money box emptied. Ten minutes later, we found one that worked. Weedgie squashed in beside me, and I dialled Jill's number. No reply. "I'm glad we didn't go all the way up there," I said as we wandered back to the van. "Let's wait a bit and see if she turns up."

"Haw, look." Weedgie bounded towards a football lying on the scrubby grass next to the flats. "Fancy a kick aboot?"

"A kick...?" Good grief, this was ridiculous.

He nudged the ball over to me, and I gave it a half-hearted kick in his direction. He pounced on it, flipped it into the air and headed it back. It flew past me and bounced off the side of the van. "Goal!" He jumped around in circles.

Forget Mick Jagger. This dog was Pele.

For the next ten minutes, I struggled to gain control of the ball. Weedgie ran rings round me. He scored four more goals against the side of the van.

"Hey, mister! Sign 'im up for Arsenal." The voice belonged to a passing youth who had stopped to watch. His girlfriend stood beside him cracking gum. Behind them, a woman approached, carrying a string bag full of groceries.

I smiled at the couple. "Arsenal couldn't afford him," I said, which made them laugh. Then I approached the woman as she opened the door to the block of flats. "Jill?" I said. "Jill Wright?"

"No, sorry." She stopped as the couple walked on. "I'm Isobel Taylor. I live on Jill's floor, though. She should be in."

"I phoned, and there was no reply."

"She's probably next door at Mrs Wylie's. Why don't you come up and try?"

Weedgie abandoned the football and joined me, and we followed her inside. To my surprise, she pulled the sign off the lift door and pressed the button. "It's working fine. Some of us use this sign now and then to stop kids mucking about in it. They fall for it every time."

I exchanged rueful glances with Weedgie. Then the lift arrived, and we sailed up to the seventeenth floor. Weedgie shook his head. "Jings bangs. Ma lugs are gowpin'."

I had no idea what _gowping_ meant, but my ears were popping. I was glad to escape the lift but careful not to look through the window at the end of the hallway. I liked the view from Don's office window, but that had been at a manageable height. This was aeroplane flight-path territory. Isobel pointed to a door. "That's Jill's flat," she said. "The Wylie's are number sixty-seven."

I thanked her and watched her go into number sixty-five, then we headed for Jill's flat. As we approached, the door next to hers opened, and a woman came out. "Bye, Sarah!" she sang out as she closed it behind her and turned towards us. "Oh! You frightened me." She looked about Pat's age. She had reddish-brown hair backcombed to within an inch of its life. White plastic earrings the size of doughnuts dangled from her ears. She wore a red mini dress teamed with white tights and matching shoes with a small stiletto heel. A white hair band completed the look.

"Frinkin balloobies," Weedgie said. "It's Minnie Moose."

"I'm sorry; we didn't mean to startle you." I smiled. "It's...er..." I wondered how to broach the matter.

"Ask her aboot Pat," Weedgie said.

"Have you seen Pat?" I said. "Is she staying with you?"

"How do you know Pat?" She frowned.

"I'm Marty. I've moved into Sadie's. This is Weedgie, my dog." As usual, he had the effect I'd aimed for and missed; making someone relaxed and friendly. She bent down and petted him.

"You're Jill, Pat's friend," I continued. "She left in a hurry, and I thought she'd come here...you're a good friend of hers?"

"Jill Wright." She straightened, held out a hand and we shook. "Pat and I work at Nicholson's Insurance together. We've been there since we left secretarial college. Come inside, and I'll put the kettle on. Marty, did you say?"

I nodded, relieved at the turn events had taken. We followed Jill into a stark, modern flat with white gloss furniture and shaggy carpets. Weedgie ran to the window and jumped up on his hind legs for a look. He whistled. "Whit a view. Marty, come and see."

I stood beside him and managed a glance. "Lovely." I turned away, feeling as if we were in a bird's nest swaying high in a giant's beanstalk.

Jill disappeared into a small kitchen, and we heard her putting the kettle on. "Tea or coffee?" she shouted, and I plumped for coffee then sat on a rather hard chair to wait. Weedgie sat by my side and looked up at me.

"Pat works aside Jill," he said. "She _is_ a typist...no' a caterer."

I nodded in frustrated agreement. "Yes; not sure how that fits in..." I tailed off as Jill appeared with a cloth and wiped the coffee table in front of us.

"How do you like it at Sadie's place?" she asked. "She's a good cook, isn't she?"

I checked for signs of sarcasm and found none.

"Mmm," I said. "But Pat cooks too, doesn't she? Or bakes, at least."

"Oh yes." Jill sat down opposite in a chair shaped like a bowl. "She makes lovely cakes. And her gingerbread is heavenly."

"Right." I nodded and took a deep breath. "And does she bring any of her cakes into work?"

"Yes. We usually have something nice for our tea break. I buy something now and again, but we all prefer Pat's baking."

"What about Thursday?" I hoped I sounded casual. "Did she bring cakes in then?"

Jill blinked and looked upset. "Thursday was Bernard's birthday. That's Mr Nicholson, our boss. We had a party after work, in the office, with wine and nibbles and then tea and coffee and Pat's baking. She brought some lovely cinnamon buns; she'd never made them before."

"Did they taste nice?" I held my breath. In the kitchen, the kettle started to whistle. Jill struggled out of the chair with all the grace of a giraffe exiting a sports car and went towards the noise.

"I don't know," she said. "Pat and I never got to try them. They went like, well, hotcakes." She disappeared into the kitchen, and we looked at each other.

"There ye go," he said, "Pat brings in poisoned buns and makes sure neither o' them get ony."

"But why? Why make people at work ill?" I lowered my voice.

He thought about this. "Whit if it was only wan person she wanted tae make ill...and the rest was so it would look like an accident? Like food-poisonin'?"

"You could be right," I said. "It makes a kind of sense. But who was Pat aiming to hurt? Is she after more than one person? I mean, she's targeting Mary, too...but she can't be the caterer. Unless she's bribed someone to take the poisoned meals there every fortnight." I was silent for a moment, and then a horrible thought struck me.

"Oh my God, Weedgie - she's a serial killer."

# 12

"Frinkin' balloobies." Weedgie's eyebrows shot up, and he stared in horror. Then Jill came back carrying a tray and humming the theme to Goldfinger.

"I do like a bit of Shirley Bassey, don't you?" She smiled as she set a coffee pot, cups, saucers, plates, milk jug and sugar bowl on the table in front of us.

"Ah like the whole o' Burly Chassis," Weedgie said.

"Help yourself, Marty." Jill disappeared back into the kitchen, and I poured coffee in a daze. Beside me, Weedgie shook his head.

"Pat. A serial-killer. Ah cannae believe it; she seems that nice."

"I was nice," I said. "Women liked me."

"They don't seem awfy fond o' ye, noo." Weedgie gave me a sly smile. "Some o' them cannae mind yer name."

"I don't see many bitches flocking around you," I retaliated, stung by his remark.

"Haw, that's no' a nice word tae use aboot lady-dugs. You wash yer mooth oot wi' soap."

Jill was clattering about in the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards. I leaned towards Weedgie and smiled. "Are you gay?"

"Naw ah'm no'." He was scandalised. "Ah'm fae Glesca." He sniffed. "Ah'm jist no' that bothered aboot winchin', tae be honest."

"Winching? What does...oh, never mind, I don't think I want to know." He smirked, and my temper rose. "Have you been...done?" My turn to smirk at him.

"Done?" He looked puzzled. "Whit dae ye mean?"

"Nothing." I wasn't going there. "My mistake. You're just not that bothered about...lady-dogs."

"Aye, that's right." Weedgie nodded. "Ah'd rather have a fish supper."

I was smiling at this when Jill returned with a large platter of biscuits and found a place for them on the table. She handed me a side plate and gestured to the biscuits. "Go on," she said. "Lemon cookies. Take one for your dog."

"Thanks." I obeyed, took a cookie for myself and gave one to Weedgie. Jill balanced her cup, saucer, and plate. Then she lowered herself back into the bowl-shaped chair. Weedgie and I watched in fascination until she settled. Then we started to eat.

The lemon cookies were delicious. "These are braw." Weedgie licked bits of cookie out of the shag-pile carpet. "Dae we get ony mair?"

I finished eating mine. "That was lovely," I said. "May we have another one?"

"Please do," Jill said. "I've got loads."

I took another two cookies, gave one to Weedgie and poised before biting into mine. "Did you bake these yourself?" I asked, then took a mouthful. I sighed as the biscuit melted on my tongue. I savoured the delicate taste of lemon.

"No," Jill replied. "Pat made them."

"Gakk!"

"Pthaw!"

Weedgie and I spat half-chewed pieces of cookie onto the shag-pile. Jill stared at us. "Is everything alright?"

"Um, yes, sorry. That went down the wrong way." I dived to the carpet and picked up remnants of cookie, then leaned towards Weedgie and lowered my voice. "These must be okay - she's not ill."

"I'm sorry, did you say something?" Jill looked alarmed. I sat up again and smiled at her.

"Do you feel okay? Pat said everyone at work was ill and someone died." Weedgie and I stared at her.

A tear rolled down her cheek. "I've been trying not to think about it." She sniffed. "But it was awful. Our boss, Bernard, died yesterday. Betty at work called me to tell me and then Pat phoned and I told her. She was distraught. They were engaged, you know."

"Who?" I thought about the ring in the box.

"Pat and Bernard. Oh, it was years ago. He called it off and married someone else. Pat was devastated, I don't think she ever got over that." She sipped her coffee.

"Do you know where she is?" I said.

She hesitated. "She phoned this morning. She's in a hotel, but she asked me to keep the name to myself, so I can't tell you. She said she needed time to think, sort something out."

"Is she coming back?"

"Oh, yes." Jill frowned. "She'll have to, won't she? We've got work, though I'm not sure what will happen now. Bernard's wife might sell the company. We could be out of a job."

"What will you do?" A single woman in her thirties, who had worked in the same office since leaving college. I imagined she'd be out of her depth in the big city looking for somewhere to work.

"I've been offered a job as a dancer on a cruise ship," she said, and my eyebrows shot up. "I dance in a club on Saturday nights; that's why I'm wearing this." She giggled. "Eric laughs at this outfit - calls me Minnie Mouse."

Weedgie snorted.

"Eric?" I said. "Is that your boyfriend?"

"You'll know him," she said. "Lives at Sadie's. That's how I met him, through Pat. It was his friend Johnny who offered me the job."

"Eric who works in the accountant's?" My face must have given my thoughts away because she laughed again.

"I know. It's such a boring job. Eric hates it. I keep trying to persuade him to return to his first love."

"Which is...?" Stamp collecting? Train-spotting? Watching paint dry?

"Music. He's a brilliant musician. Johnny's a drummer, and he's putting a band together to play on the ship. He's got the contract for a year. Johnny is in charge of entertainment, generally. He can hire who he likes."

"Are you going to do it?"

"You know...I might." She stared past us out of the window. "The last two days have shown me that life can be short. If chances come your way, you need to take them. I'd hate to leave Pat behind, though, especially if the company closes."

"Did she hate your boss, then? Because he broke off their engagement?"

"Ohno." Jill shook her head. "She still had a soft spot for him, even after all those years."

I finished my coffee. There didn't seem any point in asking anything else. "Thanks for the coffee and cookies. Can we give you a lift to your club?"

"Oh, thanks, but Eric is coming over later to take me."

"Eric has a car?"

"No." She looked sheepish. "We go on the bus."

"Ah. Right. Well, 'bye then." We started for the door.

"Oh, wait a minute." She dived into the kitchen then returned with a carrier bag. "Here, you can give this to Pat. She left it at work, and I brought it home."

I peered into the bag and saw an empty plastic container. "No problem. I'll pass that on."

We left the flat, summoned the lift and whooshed down to the ground floor, ears popping as we went.

"Eric's a musician?" Weedgie said as we headed for the van. "Whit does he play, the spoons?"

"I know, I can't quite imagine it either."

We discussed Eric's unlikely career for a while. We imagined him playing the triangle, or a comb and paper. Weedgie suggested the bagpipes or a kazoo. But we knew we were putting off the moment when the conversation returned to Pat. Finally, I took the plunge. "It looks even worse for Pat, now. She made cakes and took them to work on Thursday. She and Jill didn't have any, and they were the only ones who weren't ill."

Something else occurred to me, and I looked at the plastic bag sitting beside me on the seat. "Jill gave me Pat's container, the one she took into work. It's the same kind as the ones in Don's freezer. I know it's a long shot, you can buy those things in Woolworth, but still..."

"Let's have a shufti." Weedgie stuck his head in the bag and hauled out the plastic box. He set it down on the seat, and his ears shot up in surprise. "Frinkin' balloobies."

"What? _What?_ " I tried to look and negotiate a corner at the same time; it wasn't a success, and we bounced off the kerb.

"Oof." Weedgie and the plastic box landed on the floor. "Ya numpty. Yer drivin's pure mince."

I swung the van over to the kerb and hauled on the handbrake. Weedgie jumped back onto the seat with the box in his mouth. "Look." He set it down beside me, and I saw why he was excited. A piece of paper stuck to the lid with sticky tape. Written on it in biro, was: M - Cinnamon Buns. "It's the same writin'," Weedgie said. "Isn't it? Is it? It is, isn't it?"

I fished out my wallet and found the label from Don's freezer which said: M - Spicy Stew. I held it beside the one on Pat's box. "The _M_ 's identical. And the _S_ looks the same too."

Weedgie sighed. "It's her right enough."

"Yes, looks like it." I put the label back in my wallet and returned the box to the carrier bag. "We have proof now to give to Eric."

I put the van into gear and moved away again. "Will he use it, but?" Weedgie sounded worried. "His girlfriend is Pat's best mate, and he likes Pat. He might no' want tae dae onythin'."

"We'll have to take that risk. What else can we do? We can't go to the police." This saving people lark was more complicated than I'd thought. Despite the odd moment of fury with Weedgie, I didn't rate the black nothingness as an option.

Two streets from Sadie's, we spotted Eric gazing into a shop window. "Whit does that shoap sell?" Weedgie said. "Baws?"

I laughed and parked the van behind Eric. He was so engrossed in the window he didn't notice us. "It's a pawn shop," I told Weedgie. "Those three balls are the sign they all have. Let's go and see what Eric's so interested in. We can sound him out about Pat while we're at it."

We came up behind Eric and stood for a few moments before he became aware of us. He jumped then laughed and pointed to a large amp. It sat in the centre of the display, surrounded by musical instruments. Acoustic guitars, a saxophone, a flute and a set of bongo drums. "Sadie would love it if you bought those." I pointed to the drums.

He grinned. "Yes, I'm almost tempted. But it's that amp I've got my eye on. I've saved the money, but I need the guitar to go with it."

I had an idea. I glanced at Weedgie.

"Are ye gonnae tell him we went tae see Jill?" he asked and I nodded.

"I've come from your girlfriend Jill's," I said. "I'm worried about Pat. It seems she's gone to a hotel for the weekend, on her own. Did you know about that?"

He looked puzzled. "No, I didn't. How do you know Jill?"

My quick-thinking psychopathic lying came in handy sometimes. "I met Isobel Taylor. My parents knew her years ago. She lives on the same landing as Jill. I am worried about Pat. Didn't you think she was acting strange yesterday?"

He looked thoughtful. "I suppose. But people had food-poisoning at her office. She's worried about that."

"Her boss died yesterday," I said. "The man who broke off her engagement. The food-poisoning killed him."

"Really?" He looked shocked. "Well, that's why she would be upset, then. That's terrible."

"Look, Eric." I glanced at my watch and then back at the amp in the window. "I know you have to go and pick up Jill tonight. I'll give you a lift there after we've taken this amp back to Sadie's."

"What?" He blinked at me. "But I couldn't possibly buy that." He looked at the amp again. "I'll never use it."

"Yes you will," I said. "I've got a surprise for you back at Sadie's."

"Ye have?" Weedgie was curious.

"C'mon, let's go in." I ushered Eric through the door into the shop. "Get your wallet out." Fifteen minutes later, we staggered back out, carrying the amp between us. Weedgie danced around our feet, threatening to trip us at any moment. We made it to the back of the van and put the amp inside.

"I say, this is exciting," Eric said. "I've been eyeing that up for months and couldn't make up my mind. We'd better smuggle it past Sadie."

"With a bit of luck, she'll still be out," I said as we all piled into the front of the van. I started it up, and we headed home. Sadie was still out, so we struggled up to Eric's room with the amp, then I told him to come upstairs with us. When he entered our room, the first thing he saw was the guitar.

"Oh, my, that's a beauty." He picked it up and looked at me. "A brand new Stratocaster. Do you play in a band?"

I shook my head. "I don't play at all, Eric. I'm not musical. Someone gave me that guitar. You can have it."

"What? No, I couldn't." His body language said he definitely could, as he cradled the guitar in his arms. "You must let me pay you."

"No way," I said. "You either take it as a gift or not at all."

"This is very generous of you, Marty." He strummed the guitar. He grinned. His face flushed. He fiddled with the tuning pegs and tried a few chords. "Hey, come back downstairs, and I'll set up the amp."

We trooped back to his room, and five minutes later, he treated us to some blues. Weedgie's head bobbed from side to side. "He's no' bad. Can he dae 'Ten Guitars'?"

I didn't know how to begin the conversation about Pat. I couldn't come right out and say she was a poisoner, so I decided on a more roundabout approach. "Does Pat have a boyfriend?" I asked, and Eric stopped playing and looked at me in surprise.

"Er, you're a bit young for her," he said. "Pat tends to go for older men."

"Like Don, for instance?" Weedgie and I watched his reaction.

"Don?" He looked confused. "Mary's husband? What do you mean?"

I sighed. Time to spell it out. "Are they having an affair?"

"No. They are not. Pat doesn't go after married men or split couples up." He shook his head. "She knows what it's like to get dumped for someone else. I had a broken engagement before I came here and Pat's been a good friend to me. And to Sadie."

"Have you eaten Pat's baking?" I tried a different tack. "Jill said she took some into work."

He looked bemused. "Yes, I've eaten loads of Pat's recipes. She's always trying out something new. I've got a tin of her shortbread here somewhere if you'd like to try some."

"No thanks, Eric, that's okay," I remembered the plastic box I'd left in the van. "You carry on playing; I have to fetch something out the van. Tell me when you have to leave for Jill's, and I'll give you a lift."

"I will." He turned his attention back to the guitar. "And thanks again, Marty."

"You're welcome." Weedgie and I went downstairs, and he waited in the hall while I retrieved the carrier bag from the van. When I came back inside, Mary appeared from Sadie's side of the house, looking sleepy.

"Oh, hello boys." She patted the top of Weedgie's head and looked at the bag in my hand. "Is that a present for me? How lovely."

"No," I said, taking the container out to show her. "It's for Pat."

Mary laughed. "I was teasing." She looked closer at the top of the box. "Oh, is that one of my labels?"

"Your labels?" I stared at her.

"Don makes up meals for the freezer, and I volunteered to do the labels. I wrote out loads for _M_ and _D_..." She frowned and stared harder as if she was trying to remember something. "No, that can't be mine. How odd." She shrugged and turned away towards the kitchen. "Oh well. Think I'll make myself a nice cup of tea before Sadie comes back. See you later, boys."

# 13

"Is that no' clever?" Weedgie said as we watched her disappear through the kitchen door. "Ah mean, clever in a sleekit way."

"Sleekit?"

"Sly."

"Why can't you say _sly?_ "

"Because ah'm sayin' _sleekit,_ " Weedgie spoke as if I were three years old. "Don lets Mary think he makes the meals - which we cannae prove - and she writes the labels for them. That makes it look like Mary made the meals, doesn't it?"

"It looks like she's poisoning herself," I said, and then a suspicious thought slid into my head. "You don't think she is, do you?"

"She could be, ah suppose...mebbe she found oot aboot Don's affair, and she's daein' this tae make him feel guilty."

"Oh, for crying out loud." I held my arms up in frustration. "Now I don't know what to think."

Weedgie sighed. "Naw. Ah still think someboady's trying tae kill her. That's how we're here, mind? Tae stoap it?"

"But we don't know who to stop. We should take the night off. We'll be better detectives on a Sunday."

"We should keep that boax." Weedgie nodded towards the plastic container. "It's evidence."

"You're right. I'll stash it in our room. Back in a minute."

I nipped upstairs and put the carrier bag in the bottom of the wardrobe then returned to the hall as the front door opened and Sadie staggered in with an armful of bags. Something smelled of vinegar. My taste-buds twitched. "Fish and chips," she said with a grin. "No cooking tonight, come and get it!"

I decided that 'no cooking tonight' were the sweetest words ever to pass Sadie's lips. Weedgie bounced up and down on the spot, tongue lolling. Mary emerged from the kitchen carrying a teapot. Eric trotted down the stairs and helped Sadie with her bags. Then everyone headed to the dining room. Plates were heated. Cutlery came out of the drawer. We sat at the table and Weedgie settled in his usual position by my feet. His Wedgwood bowl overflowed with a large fish. "Braw," was his only comment before he tucked in.

I ate my meal in a trance, oblivious to the conversation around me. I wondered when Pat would return. Could I prove she had baked poisonous cakes and taken them into work? I needed to connect Pat to Mary's illness – and I had no idea how.

After dinner, Eric went off to change and returned wearing a natty blue suit.

"Jings bangs," Weedgie said. "It's a Burton's dummy."

"Nice suit," I said to Eric, while Weedgie added:

"If ye're in a Tarantino film or a shop windae."

"Thanks." Eric smiled as I tried to keep a straight face.

We left in the van a few minutes later. I kept the conversation on safe topics. We discussed music and the nightclubs Eric and Jill liked. We dropped him off at the flats where she lived, and Weedgie turned to me. "Ah'd like tae go tae a nightclub. Could we no' go wi' them?"

"No, we couldn't." I sighed. "They wouldn't let you in, and anyway, we're supposed to be keeping a low profile. You trying to do the Twist on some dance floor is not a low profile."

"Hmmph. Suppose ye're right."

He sat and stared out of his window as I drove away. And then I realised I was stuck on a Saturday night with nowhere to go and no-one to go with apart from Weedgie. Could the black nothingness be much worse? I drove about until I found the edge of a park and stopped the van. We sat for a while and then I said, "Those cookies of Pat's were good, weren't they?"

"They're easy enough tae make," Weedgie said.

I snorted. "Oh yes? You could make cookies, could you?"

He straightened. "Aye, ah could. Ye get yer butter, caster sugar, thallium sulphate, the yellow bit oot an egg, plain flour -"

I looked at him. "What? What was that?"

"He sighed. "The yellow bit oot an egg, whit dae ye cry it -"

"No, no. Before that. Something sulphate?"

"Butter, sugar, thallium sulphate -"

"Yes, that. Thallium sulphate." I frowned. "Never heard of that. What is it?"

"Don't ken. White pooder. Ye don't use much."

"Is it like baking powder?"

"Ah suppose." Weedgie made his strange attempt at a shrug. "Ye mix a' that up and that's yer basic cookie dough. Then ye add yer flavourins."

"Ooh, hark at you." I grinned. "Fanny Craddock."

"Haw, there's nae need for that kind o' language. Wash yer mooth oot wi' soap." He shook his head and muttered. "And ah'm the yin that's no' supposed tae swear..."

"It might be worth going back to Don's company for another look. I know it's closed for the weekend, but it might help. Or not." I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel.

Weedgie looked at me and frowned. "Ah've remembered ah forgot somethin'. Ah mean, ah've forgotten something ah should've remembered. Och, somethin' was there, and noo it's awa'."

"Never mind, it'll come back to you," I said. "Let's see if there's a football in the back and we can have a kick about this park." As soon as the words left my lips I thought, w _hat the...?_ Then I told myself I'd only suggested this because I needed some exercise to work off the fish and chips.

"Braw."

We climbed out and walked to the back of the van. I opened the doors and found a black and white football rolling around.

"Whoaft. Frinkin' stoatin'."

I spent the next hour chasing the ball. Weedgie kicked it, headed it and dribbled it between my legs. When I noticed we'd gathered a small audience of dog-walkers and youths, I figured it was time to leave. I decided it wouldn't be worth a trip through Saturday night traffic to Don's company, so we drove back to Sadie's and headed up to our room. I refilled Weedgie's water bowl and put out more crunchy bones for him.

"Ye're getting' better at yer dug-ownin' duties," he told me.

"Wish I was getting better at working out how to save Mary," I said, and he stopped crunching bones and stared at me.

"What?"

"Ah've remembered," he said. "The writin'. Ah ken whaur ah saw it."

"What writing?"

"Don's work. Watkins and Scott. Ah saw it afore. It was wee writin'."

"Where did you see it?"

"On the wee boax. The thallium sulphate boax."

"Are you sure? Where did you see this box?"

"Doonstairs." Weedgie jerked his head towards the door. "In Sadie's kitchen. Ah read it when she was bakin'. Ah read a' the boaxes and packets."

"The cookie recipe," I said, and he nodded.

Something felt wrong, but I couldn't quite work out what...

"The fur oan ma neck's staunin' up," Weedgie said. "Ah've got a funny feelin' aboot this."

"Me too." I started pacing up and down. Weedgie climbed into his furry bed, sat down, and watched me.

"Don's company make lenses," I said, as I passed him.

"Aye," Weedgie said.

"And Sadie has a box with their company name on it." I turned and came back.

"Aye. It was oan a label. Stuck oan the front."

"They don't make the powder? The thallium sulphate?"

Weedgie thought about this as I passed again.

"Naw." He shook his head. "It was a plain boax wi' that sticker oan the front an' a funny wee drawin'."

"Why would Don's company use baking powder?" It didn't make sense. I stopped pacing and faced Weedgie.

"What was the funny wee drawing?" I said, and he sniggered.

"Ah love it when ye try tae speak Scottish."

"The drawing?" I frowned at him.

"Awright, keep the heid. It was a wee face and some bones like thae yins." He nodded towards his crunchy bones, and I thought _a face and bones_...

"Oh my God," I said. "A skull and crossbones? Was that it?"

"Aye. Like pirates have oan their flags." Weedgie stood up, bushy tail wagging. "Whit does that mean?"

"It means we've found what goes into Mary's food, Weedgie," I said. "It means thallium sulphate is poisonous."

"Frinkin' balloobies." Weedgie jumped out of his bed and started pacing up and down in the opposite direction to me. We paced, we passed each other, we paced, and we turned. We paced, we passed each other, we paced, and we turned. We paced, we didn't quite manage to pass each other, and I tripped over Weedgie and fell flat on my face. "Ooyah." Weedgie jumped away.

I groaned and turned onto my back. Weedgie pounced. "Ooof." He landed on my stomach and chest and stared down into my face.

"Ah saw Sadie put that pooder in the biscuits," he said. "How did ah no' stoap her? Ah should've stoapped her."

"You...didn't...know...what...it...was." I tried to draw a breath. "Would...you...get...off...me?"

"Magic word?"

"Please..." Forced through gritted teeth.

He jumped off, and I took a deep breath and sat up.

"Does Sadie ken whit the pooder is?" Weedgie said in a quiet voice.

"That, dear Weedgie, is the question." I put my head in my hands. "How could she not know? It's got a skull and crossbones on the front."

"Well, ah didnae ken whit that meant. Ah thought that was jist for pirates."

"But you're a dog...who watches too much TV." I stood up. "I can't believe she didn't know what she was putting into..."

"Whit? Ye've thought o' somethin'. Whit is it?"

"There are two reasons why she would put that poison into her baking," I said, thinking as I spoke. "The first one is; Don gave her the box, told her it was special baking powder or something, and she's using it innocently."

"Aye, that could be right." Weedgie wanted to believe this. "She would dae that - she likes Don." He paused and looked at me again, then winced. "And whit's the second reason?"

"You know the second reason." I looked him in the eye. "Sadie knows damn well what the powder is and she's poisoning Mary." There was a silence which seemed to last forever. Weedgie looked down at the carpet and sighed. I sat on the settee and put my head in my hands again. Finally, Weedgie cleared his throat. I raised my head and looked at him.

"We ate thae biscuits yesterday," he said.

My eyes widened, and I clutched my stomach. "Are you okay? Are we okay? Do you feel ill?"

"Naw, ah'm fine, and so are you." He rolled his eyes. "Listen. She made twa lots o' thae ginger biscuits. And she didnae put that pooder in the first lot. She took the thallium sulphate box oot the larder afore she mixed up the second lot."

"So...we ate the first lot?"

"Aye. Everybody except Don."

"Because he doesn't like ginger..." I hesitated.

"Or he thought they had poison in them." Weedgie finished the sentence for me.

"Does he know about the poison? Is he in it with her?"

"Well, the boax comes fae his company. He could have thought Sadie brought the poisoned biscuits by mistake, so he spat his oot."

Something else occurred to me. "Sadie stopped you from eating one of those biscuits; the one that fell on the floor. She didn't want you poisoned."

"Aye." Weedgie sighed again. "Ah like Sadie. Ah wish she was innocent, but ah don't think she is."

"No," I said. "It doesn't look like it. What I'm wondering is - where do Don and Pat fit in?"

"Ah'm wonderin' how much poison Sadie's got in that larder. Ah think we should go and see whit's there."

"It's dark now." I closed the curtains and switched on the lamp. "We'll need a torch."

Weedgie looked around. "There's wan there."

I followed his gaze and saw a big rubber torch lying on the bedside table. "How do they do that?" I said. "We don't get everything we wish for, do we?"

"Naw," Weedgie said. "Jist the stuff we need."

"What about the football, then?"

He looked at me. "We needed that."

"What for? To muck about with?"

He continued to stare. I began to feel unnerved.

"We needed that tae have a laugh thegither. It was a laugh; was it no'?"

"I suppose. Well, for you it was; making me run about like an idiot. But it didn't have anything to do with helping Mary."

"But it helped us tae be pals."

Good God, he believed we were friends.

I stared at him and then, with a flash of bewildered horror, realised he could be right. I had played football with him because he liked it and to cheer him up because he couldn't go to a nightclub. I was behaving in a way that brought back memories.

I sighed.

"Whit?" Weedgie's eyes seemed to bore into me, and before I knew what I was doing, I opened up to him.

"Before my parents died, I had friends; I was happy and outgoing, and then...I changed. I closed off to people. On the surface, I looked normal and happy, but I never had friends after that. Not one."

"Until me." Weedgie grinned. "Ah'm yer new pal."

Weedgie and I as friends. This was scary. I decided to ignore the feeling and forced it to the back of my mind. Then I took a deep breath and channelled my inner TV cop. "Okay, partner," I drawled, picking up the torch. "Let's go hit that larder."

"Ah'll cover ye. A' the best cops say that." Weedgie trotted out of the room and down the stairs, and I followed. "Don't ken whit it means, but..."

We reached the ground floor and heard the strains of Sadie's television. "Wonder if they're both in the lounge?" I said.

Weedgie crept along the passage, and I stayed close behind. When he got to the lounge, he stuck his head round the door. I heard the sound of gunfire and jumped in fright. He reversed back to me. "They're baith in there, watchin' a gangster film." He grinned, and the image of Sadie toting a gun faded from my mind.

"Here goes." I led the way down to the kitchen. "Operation Larder." When we got there, I switched on the torch and crept past the table towards the back of the room. Weedgie stayed in the doorway.

"Ah'll be the lookoot," he said. "If Sadie comes ah'll shout ye."

"Okay." I carried on towards the larder. I pulled the curtain aside and slipped behind it into a cold, musty-smelling space. The shelves held cartons, tins, boxes and bags of food. There were baking supplies and finished cakes, biscuits and sponges. On the bottom shelf, I found six plastic containers filled with baking; all with the letter _M_ on the labels. These held ginger biscuits, treacle buns, orange cupcakes, ginger buns and coconut cookies.

Then I found duplicate containers of cinnamon buns, orange cupcakes and treacle buns, labelled with a _D_. Separate lots for Don and Mary. So he would know which ones to feed her.

I dug out my wallet and compared the writing with the labels from Don's house. The _M_ and _D_ looked identical and the other letters similar. Mary wrote the labels for the containers in their freezer. Had Sadie copied them for the baking containers? Picking up one of the _M_ containers, I tugged at the label, thinking we should keep it as evidence, but it was glued on.

"Damn," I said under my breath as the label tore across the middle. I shone the torch and saw an older sticker beneath it. This one read: Choc Chip Cookies and had a different initial at the top. I squinted and turned the box this way and that, trying to make it out. It looked like a _C,_ but I couldn't be sure. I pressed the torn label back as best I could and returned the box.

Then I took a deep breath and searched for the thallium sulphate. Ten minutes later, I was still looking with no sign of a small box or anything with a skull and crossbones on it. I shone the torch on the top shelves and saw cardboard boxes from a wholesaler, each holding a dozen tins of fruit. One had peaches, the next strawberries; the third had pears. I squinted behind the strawberries. A fourth box held custard powder.

I turned away, disappointed. Sadie had panicked after Pat's boss died and got rid of the poison. She probably had enough in those containers of cakes and biscuits to finish Mary off.

I moved towards the curtain, and something nagged at me: a strong feeling that I'd missed something. I turned back and played the torchlight on each shelf. As it rose higher, the feeling intensified. Finally, I stopped at the box of tinned strawberries. I reached up and hefted the box down to the floor, the tins clunking inside as I moved it.

"Whit're ye daein' in there?" Weedgie's frantic whisper rang out. "Playin' frinkin' steel drums?"

I shone the torch on the box filled with custard powder. Who needed that much custard? I had to stand on tiptoe to reach it so Sadie would have to use a chair. An awkward thing to do every time you wanted to make lumpy custard to go with your tinned fruit. Why not put it on a lower shelf?

I eased the box forward and then braced myself for the weight of twelve tins of custard and lifted it off the shelf. It was so light I fell backwards.

"Have ye found it?" Weedgie's voice was right beside me.

"Aargh." I jumped back. His head was sticking through the gap at the side of the curtain. "You nearly gave me a heart attack."

"Wheesht." He frowned, looked behind him and vanished. I heard Sadie's voice saying something about a cup of tea, and then the kitchen light came on, and I was trapped.

# 14

I froze crouched over the box of custard powder. How could I explain myself if Sadie opened the curtain? Secret craving for custard? Addiction to tinned fruit? And then I heard a scuffling sound and Weedgie shouted, "Run, Marty!"

"Weedgie! Bring that back - my best tea towel!" Sadie's voice faded from the room. I lifted the box of custard powder and then stopped, set it back down again and tried to open it. There was sticky tape over the flaps on the top. Why would Sadie do that? All the other boxes were open.

I picked at the edge of the tape, wishing I had longer nails. A small piece came away. I scrabbled for the end again, cursing under my breath. After an age, I managed to pull back most of the tape. Then I dug my fingers under one of the flaps and tugged. It bent back enough for me to see a smaller white cardboard box inside. What on earth...?

I reached down with both hands and wrestled with this second box, opening the lid and peering inside. There were ten small brown boxes inside the white box. I lifted one out, and my breath caught in my throat as I read the white label: Thallium Sulphate, Watkins & Scott, 24 Carlton Place, London. Below this, the skull and crossbones leered at me.

I opened this box and pulled out a brown glass bottle, half-full of white powder. It had the same label and skull and crossbones on the front — no prizes for guessing where the rest of the thallium sulphate had gone.

I shoved the bottle into my shirt pocket. Then I put the empty box back inside the white one. I closed the flaps on the outside carton as best I could and lifted it back up onto the shelf. I'd hefted the tinned strawberries in front of it when I heard Sadie's voice again. "You are a naughty boy." She sounded more amused than angry, and I guessed she'd managed to retrieve her tea towel. I grabbed my torch, switched it off, and stood behind the curtain. Then it swung back, and Weedgie's head appeared. I jumped like a Mexican bean.

"Frinkin' balloobies." He rolled his eyes. I shrugged. Then he backed away, and I heard another scuffle.

"Weedgie! My oven glove! No!"

This time I was out like a shot as soon as her voice faded. I skirted the table and trotted out into the hall. Then I tucked the torch inside my shirt and approached the lounge door. Sadie backed out tugging on one end of the oven glove. Weedgie, on the other end, eyed me balefully.

"Aboot frinkin' time." He released his end of the glove and Sadie fell back into me. I grabbed her, feeling myself recoil as I touched her. I wanted to accuse her there and then, in front of Mary, but I held my tongue.

Mary appeared in the doorway and laughed. "He's in a playful mood tonight," she said, petting Weedgie. "We're going to have a cup of tea and some of Sadie's delicious cookies. Would you like to join us?"

"No thank you."

"Nae frinkin' way."

"I'm...er...having another early night," I said. "Thanks all the same."

I wanted to tell Mary not to eat anything. Then I realised that if Weedgie and I were there, Sadie would have to use the safe cookies. "On second thoughts," I said, with a smile, "I am rather peckish. Weedgie and I would love to join you."

"Whit? Are ye mental?" Weedgie grabbed the bottom of my jeans and tried to drag me away.

"Let me help you in the kitchen, Sadie," I shook my leg and gave Weedgie a meaningful look. "I can bring the cookies through."

He let go, looked at me and then realisation sank in. "You found the poison," he said. "Didn't ye?"

"There's no need." Sadie tried to usher me into the lounge, but I held firm.

"Nonsense. Least I can do. Weedgie, you keep Mary company while I help Sadie."

"Aye, aye, captain." Weedgie nudged Mary back inside.

"It's almost as if he understands you," she said.

"Isn't it?" I smiled and followed Sadie into the kitchen.

"Where do you keep the cookies?" I said, pretending to look around the room. She dived into the larder. I held my breath, hoping she wouldn't find the container with the ripped label, but she reappeared almost immediately. She'd chosen the two containers labelled _D_ ; orange cupcakes and treacle buns.

"No cookies?" I asked.

"We finished them earlier," she lied cheerfully. "I'll have to bake some more." She filled the kettle and set in on the cooker. As she lit the gas, I wandered towards the larder.

She looked over. "Would you get the cups and saucers, Marty?"

"Of course." I veered away and crossed the room to a cupboard with a glass front where I could see the crockery she wanted. "You're a good baker, Sadie. You could show me how to make some of your biscuits."

"Oh, you don't want to be baking." She laughed. "Find yourself a nice girl who'll do all that for you."

I remembered Sadie's husband who'd died two years earlier. "You must miss your husband," I said. "Did you bake for him?" It was an innocent question, to make conversation and ease the awkwardness I felt in her company. The reaction from Sadie was unexpected.

"No!" Her voice raised. I heard panic. "I did not. Colin didn't have a sweet tooth." And then I realised two things. First: she was lying about baking for her husband. And second; the old label on the container in the larder, beneath the one I tore — the initial _C_.

Sadie had poisoned Colin.

I looked at her as she heated the teapot and decided I had to stay calm and keep the conversation neutral.

"Weedgie and I had a game of football in a park tonight," I said.

"Oh?" Relief was obvious in her voice. "Who won?"

I set the cups, saucers and plates on a tray. "Who do you think?" I forced a grin and tried not to wince as she laughed. "One of us is the new Bobby Charlton, and it's not me."

"Are ye awright?" Weedgie appeared in the doorway. I bit my lip to stop myself from replying and nodded instead. He stayed and watched Sadie fill the teapot while I carried the tray through to the lounge. Mary had turned the sound down on the television, and I caught a glimpse of Edward G. Robinson in a fedora. He pointed his gun at another man in a fedora. I wished I had a gun right then, but I knew one wouldn't materialise; I couldn't hurt anyone. I smiled at Mary, and she helped me set out the tea things.

Sadie and Weedgie arrived a few minutes later. Then we settled down to demolish the orange cupcakes. They tasted good. Between bites, Weedgie stared hard at Sadie and muttered, "Frinkin' murderer."

And then I reached for the teapot and heard a _thunk_. Everyone looked my way and then down at the torch lying on the floor. I thought fast. "I'm taking Weedgie out again," I said. "It's dark. And you never know who's hanging about at night."

"We do have streetlights." Sadie bristled and forced a smile. "This is a good area, you know."

"It's a lovely part of town," Mary said. "So peaceful and yet handy for shopping."

Sadie drew her a look which was less than kind. I picked the torch up and signalled to Weedgie. "Well, thanks for the tea." I smiled at Sadie and Mary. "We'll be off."

"Bye, then." Sadie carried on drinking tea, and we made our escape. Out on the street, I said, "Sadie's jealous of Mary. Did you see the way she looked at her? Mary and Don are in a much better part of London, with a bigger house. Sadie must feel like the underdog."

"Hey, don't bring dugs intae this." Weedgie trotted beside me. "Whit aboot the poison?"

I produced the bottle, and he nodded. "That's it. That's whit she put in the cookies."

I told him about the box disguised as custard powder, and the amount of thallium sulphate Sadie had. Then I told him my theory about Sadie's husband.

"Jings bangs." He stopped dead in his tracks. "How dae ye think she did him in?"

"I don't know. We'll try and find out, but we need to speak to Pat before Don comes back tomorrow." I yawned. "I'm tired. Let's go back and try to sleep."

We headed back to Sadie's in silence. When we entered the hall, we heard Edward G. Robinson again. "She's in there watchin' that film wi' Mary, pretending everything's hunky dory," Weedgie grumbled as we climbed the stairs. "She's frinkin' twa-faced. Naw - three-faced." I agreed that Sadie was not what she seemed. We entered our room, and I closed the curtains, switched on the lamp and took the bottle of thallium sulphate powder out of my pocket. I put it in the carrier bag beside Pat's baking container, and then I undressed. Weedgie flopped in his furry bed and looked at me.

"We've no' got long," he said. "Ah can feel it. Time's runnin' oot."

I slid under the covers, turned off the lamp and waited for the onslaught. Ten minutes passed. "What's up?" I said into the dark room. "This bed not good enough for you?"

"Ah thought ye would sleep better by yersel'," came the reply. "Ye always toss and turn. Keeps me awake."

"Keeps you...? Well, your snoring keeps _me_ awake."

"Ah don't snore."

"Yes, you do."

"Ah'm telling' ye, ah don't."

"And I'm telling you – oof." He was on my chest, breathing on me. I braced myself and then recoiled in horror as he began licking my face. "Uuh – yeeugh. Get...off!" I tried to brush him away.

"Heh, heh, heh." He bounced over and lay down beside me. "That was yer guidnight kiss."

"Thanks," I said. "But you shouldn't have...you really __ shouldn't have. Uurgh."

I drifted off to the sound of his sniggering. Then I had a disturbing dream where Sadie had a scratchy beard and was trying to kiss me. I woke at seven to the sound of the toilet flushing, then Weedgie returned from his morning visit to the bathroom. I realised, worryingly, that I now regarded this as normal behaviour. I rose, washed, and dressed in blue corduroys, a white cheesecloth shirt and two strings of love beads.

"Could ye be a bigger Jessie?" Weedgie shook his head as I returned to the room. "Would ye no like some dangly earrings tae go wi' thae beads?"

I looked around; had a sudden feeling. "We have to pack. Get our stuff in the van, ready for a quick getaway once we unmask Sadie and Don. It has to happen tonight."

"Righto," he said. "Wonder whaur we'll end up next?"

"Who knows?" I dragged the case out from beneath the bed; preferring not to think about what would happen next. For all I knew Mr Scarlet had lied and we were heading for black nothingness anyway. I kept these thoughts from Weedgie as I packed away my clothes and toiletries. I squashed the torch and his furry bed on top, and then Weedgie joined me, and we sat on the lid to close the case. I packed his bowls into the carrier bag with the redundant dog food and the remaining crunchy bones.

"We never got that tin-opener," I said. "I thought that was something we needed, yet it didn't appear."

"We didnae need it," Weedgie said. "You gave me some o' your scran. And ye bought me chips."

"Scran?" I looked at him and shook my head. "You should come with subtitles. Or a dictionary at the very least."

I opened the wardrobe again and took out the carrier with Pat's empty container and the poison inside. "Our evidence against Sadie and Pat," I said. "You know, I still can't -"

The sound of the telephone ringing stopped me short. Weedgie and I looked at each other, and the hair on the back of my neck started to rise. We heard Sadie shuffling out into the hall below, and the ringing stopped. "It's for us; I know it." I stepped out onto the landing and Weedgie followed.

"Who'd be phonin' us oan a Sunday mornin'?" he said. "Is it Don?"

I shrugged and then backed away as I heard footsteps on the stairs. I closed and locked our bedroom door and started down with Weedgie close behind. On the first floor landing, we came face to face with Sadie.

"Oh!" She jumped and clutched her heart in fright.

"Yeargh." I stepped back, giving an involuntary shudder.

"Frinkin' balloobies. It's a giant fruit trifle." Weedgie hid behind me.

Sadie had rollers in her hair covered by a hairnet. Her face was devoid of make-up but slathered in greasy white cream. She sported a lurid pink quilted dressing gown and matching fluffy slippers. "It's the phone," she said when she'd got her breath back. "For you. It's Eric."

"Eric?" I hadn't expected this. "Where is he?"

She shrugged and started back downstairs. We followed. "Don't know. He says it's urgent."

When we reached the hall, she yawned. "I'm off back to bed for my Sunday lie-in."

She shuffled through the door to her part of the house, and I picked up the receiver.

"Hello? Eric?"

"Marty." He sounded excited but nervous. "You have to come over here."

"Why? Where are you?"

"At Jill's. Pat's here; she wants to speak to you, she's upset. She won't talk on the phone."

I looked down at Weedgie and grinned. "Right. I'll be over as soon as I can. See you." I hung up and raced back upstairs, Weedgie puffing behind me. Once we were in our room, I told him what Eric had said.

"Jings bangs. It's happenin'. We're gaun tae find oot the truth."

"Here's hoping." I gathered up the case and carrier bags. "Let's put these in the van before we go. I'll hang onto the keys meanwhile, but with a bit of luck, we'll be leaving Sadie's house for good tonight."

# 15

We made it out of the building without alerting our landlady. I put our belongings in the back of the van then we piled into the front with the carrier bag holding Pat's container and the poison. I started the engine, accelerated like a madman, and we took off with a screech of rubber.

"Gaun' yersel' Marty." Weedgie jumped about the seat beside me. "Wish we had a caur tae chase."

"As long as the police don't chase us." I took the corner on two wheels, and we raced towards Jill's flat. Sunday morning traffic was quiet, and the streets of London sped past. I noticed we were low on petrol and stopped at a filling station where a pleasant young man filled the tank and offered to check the oil level and tyre pressure.

"Jings," Weedgie said. "They don't dae that for ye nowadays. An' the price o' petrol - it's like thirty pee a gallon."

"What do you know about petrol stations?" I asked as we took off again.

"Seen them oan the telly."

"I'm glad you don't have access to the internet. I dread to think what you might see there."

"Oh, ah've got ma ain Facebook page. Six hundred and sixty six pals." I glanced at him, and he grinned. Damn. I never knew when he was kidding.

Ten minutes later, we pulled into the car park outside Jill's block of flats. I took the carrier bag with the container, and we headed for the outside door which – luckily - was unlocked. In the hall, I ripped the Out Of Order notice from the front of the lift, and we stepped inside. The door closed and I pressed the button for the seventeenth floor. Nothing happened. I tried again — still nothing.

Weedgie and I looked at each other. "Awnaw," he said. "Ye're no' tellin' me...?"

I sighed, pressed the button to open the door and then had a mild panic attack when it stayed shut. I jammed my finger on the button. Weedgie shoved me aside. He jumped onto his hind legs and pressed both front paws on every button he could reach. "What -?" I stumbled back as the lift shuddered and clanked upwards. "How did you know to do that? Oh, don't tell me..."

"Seen it oan the telly."

When we reached Jill's floor, I leapt out of the lift as soon as the doors opened. "I'm taking the stairs back down." Weedgie rolled his eyes and muttered something about a big Jessie.

Jill opened her door and beckoned us inside before I had the chance to knock. She was still wearing her Minnie Mouse outfit. Her dress was crumpled, and her hair lurched sideways. One false eyelash was missing. She looked like she'd slept in an alley.

"Heard the lift," she said. "Hoped it was you. Listen." She hesitated outside the door to her living room. "Pat's saying some strange things. I don't know if Bernard's death has upset her more than I realised or..." She shrugged.

"Don't worry." I patted her shoulder. "I know what she wants to say to me." Her confession. Aiding and abetting Sadie in murdering her sister. We entered the room. Pat perched on the settee with Eric while another man sat on the floor beside Jill's bowl-shaped chair. He looked the same age as Eric and Pat, with dark hair as long as mine and three more strands of love beads.

"Another Big Jessie," Weedgie said in disgust.

Everyone looked tired and dishevelled, and Eric clutched a cup of cold coffee. He rose, and I sat down next to Pat. "I'll make us fresh coffee and toast," he said. "None of us has slept much, and I'm hungry."

"Eric and I got a lift home with Johnny," Jill said, flopping into her chair. "Oh, this is Johnny, by the way." She gestured to the other man, and he and I exchanged nods. "It was past midnight, but Pat was sitting outside the flat waiting for me. We've been talking and talking, and she asked for you. I can't make sense of what she's saying."

I turned to Pat who looked wan and shell-shocked. She stared straight in front of her at the carpet. I touched her arm. "Pat?" I said. "What did you want to tell me?"

She raised her head and turned towards me. Her eyes filled with tears. "I killed him." She burst out and started to sob. "It...was...my...fault."

"She keeps saying that, over and over," Jill said. "I think she means Bernard. Is that right, Pat? I've told you that wasn't your fault -"

I held up my hand to stop Jill, and she stared at me in surprise. Then I looked at Pat. Her sobs had turned to long shuddering breaths as she tried to speak.

"It was the cinnamon buns, wasn't it?" I said. She nodded and bit her lip.

"The cinnamon...?" Jill frowned and looked from me to Pat. "You mean the ones we had on Thursday?"

"Except you didn't have them, did you? And you and Pat were the only two people who didn't get food poisoning." I reached for the carrier bag and took out the plastic container. "This is Pat's, isn't it?" Jill nodded, and I showed it to Pat who shook her head.

"It's yours, Pat. You took the buns to work in this container. Is this your writing on the lid?"

Pat was still. She looked straight into my eyes and took a deep breath. "That's why I wanted to talk to you," she said, her voice shaky but clear. "I can't get my head round this. I've been sitting in a hotel room since yesterday morning trying to make sense of it all. You're a stranger. You can look at this and not feel involved."

I frowned. "What do you mean? What doesn't make sense?"

"That's not my box." She gestured towards the container. "And they weren't my cinnamon buns."

The penny dropped. "They were Sadie's."

She nodded. "Sadie was teaching me to bake, giving me recipes. I took cakes to work quite often, but I still wasn't as good as her. She would give me some of her baking now and then to take. I -" she stopped and looked embarrassed.

"You told everyone Sadie's cakes were yours?" I guessed, and she nodded again. "On Thursday..." I stopped and let her continue.

"I took in Sadie's baking for...for Bernard's birthday." Her voice dissolved into pained silence. Eric reappeared with a tray of coffee. Jill struggled from her chair and helped him clear a space on the coffee table. Then she headed into the kitchen. I decided to wait until Pat was ready to talk again. I took a cup of coffee and sipped, my mind going round in circles.

Sadie's baking; not Pat's. The question was, did Pat know what she was taking into work? Her reaction at that moment said not. I glanced at Weedgie but failed to catch his eye as there was now a plate of custard creams on the table by his nose. Jill returned carrying a platter of toast and placed it on the coffee table. She sat down in the tortuous chair again, and Eric flopped on the carpet at her feet.

"Gie us some toast, Marty." Weedgie shuffled over and sat down beside me. "Ah'm Hank Marvin."

"The guitarist from The Shadows - oh, right. You're starving." I winced and looked around, but no-one reacted. They all looked like zombies.

"Heh, heh, heh. Numpty." Weedgie said through a mouthful of toast.

For the next fifteen minutes, we sat and ate toast and drank coffee. Jill made a second pot. We had another cup. And then the caffeine kicked in, and everyone became livelier. I turned to Pat again. "Tell us what happened on Thursday."

She sat up and took a deep breath. "On Wednesday night I tried to make cinnamon buns from Sadie's recipe, but I burnt them. I went to ask her if I could take some of her baking instead, but she'd gone out to bingo. I knew she wouldn't mind, so I went looked in the larder. She had two boxes of cinnamon buns so I thought it would be fine for me to take one."

"And you took this box." I gestured to the plastic container I'd placed on the settee between us. She nodded.

"Yes. It was the nearest one."

"Did the other one have the same label?" I asked, "Or did you put the label on this box yourself?" I watched her as she replied;

"No, the labels were on the boxes already. Sadie must have put them on."

"Wednesday night," I said. "You took the box with the label that said _M_. Did the other box of cinnamon buns have the label _D_?"

"Yes, it did." She looked at me in surprise. "How did you know?"

"I'll tell you later. Did you tell Sadie you'd taken the box?"

She shook her head. "I didn't get the chance. She's always late back from bingo. I was tired and went to bed. In the morning she was rushing about and then she went out shopping. So I took the buns and went to work."

"And neither Jill nor you ate any of the buns?"

"No. We were making teas and coffees and chatting. When we came back into the office, the buns were all gone. Everyone laughed at us for being too slow."

"You forgot to take this back with you." I tapped the container.

"Yes. I rushed off to catch the bus. Jill spotted it and brought it home with her."

"What happened on Friday morning?" I asked.

"I went to work, but only the caretaker was there. Then Bernard's wife called in to say he was sick. So was everyone else. They closed the office, and I came back to Sadie's."

"Then you and Sadie fell out," I said. "You were miserable after that."

"Yes. When I came back in with you - remember, I met you outside in your van - we went into the kitchen and Sadie was baking. That reminded me of the buns. After you'd left, I told her I'd taken them and joked that they might have made everyone ill. She rushed into the larder and then went mad. I've never seen her so angry. She asked me for the box, and I realised I'd left it at work. I didn't know then that Jill had brought it back here with her."

"Did you talk to Sadie about the buns again?"

"No." She sighed. "Apart from apologising over and over. Sadie was so frosty with me. I couldn't understand why she was reacting like that. Then I wondered if the buns _could_ have made everyone ill. I looked at the recipe, but there was nothing unusual in it." She shook her head.

I looked at Weedgie. "Tell them," he said. "Show them the wee bottle."

"There was an extra ingredient in those buns," I said, and everyone looked at me. I watched Pat's face as I brought the thallium sulphate out of the bag. She frowned in puzzlement. I held the bottle up.

"What is it?" Jill wanted to know.

"Thallium sulphate," I said, still looking at Pat.

She was confused. "What's that? I've never used that in a recipe before."

"I'm glad to hear it," I said, and then she leaned forward and squinted at the label.

"Is that a skull and crossbones?" Her voice rose to a pitch audible only to dogs. Weedgie grunted and shook his ears.

"Wait a minute." Johnny looked excited. "Thallium sulphate. Yes, that's what they used at that club I played in on a Friday night when I sat in with that skiffle band."

"The Pied Pipers?" Eric said.

"That's them. They split up last year."

"I heard they'd changed their name."

"What about the thallium sulphate?" I said, interrupting their musical stroll down memory lane.

"The club had rats. They called in some pest control guy. And that was what he used."

"Are you sure?" Jill's eyes were like saucers.

Johnny nodded. "I read the label on the box he had. Joked with the guy that it sounded like a Shakespearean actor."

"Oh my God." Pat clamped a hand over her mouth and looked like she might faint. I gestured to Jill, and the two of us helped Pat to her feet.

"The window." Jill steered Pat towards it, and I wrestled with the catch. It opened a few inches then stuck. "Safety window. Only opens so far, in case you fall out. Here, Pat, try and get some air. You've had a nasty shock. We all have."

"I'll say." Eric looked at me. He seemed to have grasped the salient facts. "Who did Sadie intend to poison, then? She didn't expect Pat to take those buns into work with her, so who was she going to give them to?"

I returned to the settee, held up the plastic container and pointed to the label. " _M_ ," Eric read out loud and then looked at me, face pale with shock. "Bloody hell, Marty - she's been poisoning Mary."

# 16

There was a stunned silence and then everyone began talking at once. Under cover of the commotion, Weedgie and I held a mini-conference. "Ye need tae let Eric find everythin' oot," Weedgie said.

"I know. I need to figure out how."

"Let him go and look in the larder."

"And he'll find the hidden box with the poison?"

"Aye."

"Then what?"

"We need tae find oot if Don's involved."

An idea began to form in my mind. "Eric," I said when the noise had died down a bit. "You and Pat should come back with me to Sadie's. Act as if nothing's wrong. If we get the chance, we'll look for more poison. I'll bet she's got more than this one bottle."

"Where did you find that?" Eric asked.

Pat wandered away from the window, still looking faint, and flopped down on the settee.

"I went into Sadie's larder to get some cakes for supper last night and found the bottle in there," I said.

"I don't think I can go back and be normal," Pat said.

"You have to," Jill said. "Think of Bernard. Do it for him."

Pat nodded then sighed. "Okay. I'll give it a try."

"Good for you," Johnny said, looking at her with admiration. I had another thought then and wondered how to make it a reality. I looked at my watch. "It's ten o' clock," I said. "If we go back now Sadie will be there. If we wait until after lunch, then she might have gone out. We'd have a better chance to look around if she wasn't there."

"You're right," Eric said. "And now I'm wondering if Don knows what's happening to Mary."

I exchanged a glance with Weedgie and then told everyone about my conversation with Don.

"So Don tells Mary he cooks their meals, but in reality, some so-called caterer is making them?" Jill said. "That's sneaky."

"I think Sadie is the caterer," I said, not wanting to divulge the fact that I'd questioned the neighbour. "It makes a horrible kind of sense. The only thing I can't figure is, why is she doing it? Why does she hate Mary so much?"

"I can tell you that," Pat spoke in a sad, flat voice. "I was Sadie's first lodger after her husband died. We used to spend evenings together, and one time we had too much to drink. I told her about Bernard, and she told me about Don."

We were all agog. "What about Don?" I said.

"Sadie's house is the family home, and after their parents died, she and Mary lived there. Mary was going out with Colin -"

"Sadie's husband?" I interrupted, and Pat nodded.

"Mary worked in a florist, and Sadie was unemployed. Colin worked at Watkins and Scott, and he told Sadie about a vacancy for the manager's secretary. She got the job. The manager at that time was old Mr Watkins, but he retired soon after, and Don got his job. He was always more ambitious than Colin."

"Don inherited Sadie," Eric said.

"Yes, she became his secretary and fell in love with him."

"Was Don in love with her?" This was Johnny, whose interest amused me as he didn't know any of the people involved.

Pat shook her head. "No. Hardly noticed her, she said, though she tried her best to make him like her. She offered to work at home one night. Then accidentally-on-purpose forgot the paperwork, so Don had to bring it out to the house."

I saw where this was heading. "He met Mary."

"Yes. Fell madly in love and six months later they got married."

"Sadie must have felt hurt," Jill said.

"She married Colin not long after that," Pat said. "It was a rebound marriage for them both. He never got promoted, and she gave up her job, so they didn't have much money. Don bought Sadie's half of the house and let her live there cheaply. She lets out rooms for extra cash."

"How did Colin die?" I said, and Eric looked at me.

"You think she killed him off?" he said. "The same way?"

"He...he was ill, so she said." Pat frowned, trying to remember. "I never met him...oh, God, this is awful. I thought she was my friend."

"She is," I said. "She's a friend who happens to be a murderer."

"But why now?" Eric said. "Why not bump Mary off when she first met Don?"

"Who knows?" I shrugged. "She's gone mad over the years, decided to get rid of her husband and have another shot at Don?"

The conversation went round in circles for a while. Everyone put forward their theory about Sadie. Why she had flipped and what they thought we should do. Johnny suggested calling the police. Jill agreed. Pat and Eric wanted to be sure that Sadie was guilty. Finally, everyone fell silent. The mood was tense. Jill pointed out to Eric and Pat that they'd have to find somewhere else to live.

"Sadie's going to prison. She's guilty. I don't care what you say." Jill frowned at them both. "And even if Don is innocent and he becomes the landlord, do you want to stay in that house? I know I wouldn't."

Pat grimaced. "No. I don't think I would either...not after all this...and Bernard." She bit her lip.

Eric sighed. "You're right, Jill. It's time to move on."

I took my chance and leant towards Johnny. "You're the drummer who's trying to put together some entertainers for a cruise ship, aren't you?" I said.

"Yes." He nodded. "I'm trying to persuade Jill to come and be a dancer."

"Well, Eric's a good guitarist," I said. "He's got a guitar and amp now. And Pat has a great voice. You've got a band right here."

"Wow...hadn't thought about that." He looked around the group. "I know Eric used to play. Didn't know he was still into it. Hey, Eric."

I rose and cleared away the cups from the coffee table. The conversation took a tentative new turn. Jill persuaded Pat that a break from the past would be a good move for them all.

Weedgie appeared beside me. "Ye'll have tae take me oot. Ah need a Jimmy Riddle."

"Oh. Right." I looked at my watch then picked up Sadie's empty container and the bottle of thallium sulphate. I put them in the plastic bag then handed it to Eric. "I'm taking Weedgie out for a walk. It's gone eleven. Pat and Eric, I'll meet you down in the car park at twelve, and we'll go back to Sadie's – bring the carrier bag with you. Johnny and Jill, it was nice meeting you."

Everyone nodded and then returned to the topic of the cruise ship. The idea looked like it could become a reality. Weedgie and I left the flat, and he headed for the lift.

"Ohno, I'm not getting back in that," I said, walking to the stairway. "I'm taking the stairs."

Weedgie sneered. "Ya big feartie." He stood on his hind legs and pressed the button. I dived through the stairwell door and ran down the stairs, determined to get to the ground floor before him. Ten flights later, I was dizzy and out of breath. I had to stop and rest before staggering the rest of the way. Finally, I stumbled through the door into the hall where Weedgie sat waiting. He sighed, shook his head, and rolled his eyes.

Damn. He could be sarcastic without even speaking.

I wobbled past him, and he followed me outside. Church bells rang out nearby. The sun struggled to appear. In the distance, a woman walked a small poodle. It seemed surreal that London was having an ordinary Sunday morning.

"That was nice, whit ye did up there," Weedgie said. "Sayin' they could go and work oan the boat. Ah hope they dae that." He sniffed at a few car tyres, and we crossed the car park area to some grass. "Ah'll miss Pat, but. And Eric. Efter we save Mary we'll no' see ony o' them again, will we?"

"No." I kicked at a stone. "I suppose not."

"Ach well." Weedgie sounded resigned. "We'll meet different folk next place we go tae."

I thought about that for the next few minutes as we wandered around. I wondered if people would remember us after we'd gone. Hard to forget a dog who looked like Weedgie, but still...

By the time we'd come round in a circle and arrived back at the flats I felt low. Weedgie looked up at me. "Haw, ye've got a coupon that would turn milk. Cheer up."

"Coupon?" I was almost scared to ask.

"Fizzog." He grinned at my blank look. "Face, Marty. Yer face would turn milk soor."

"Oh." I looked at him, tried to smile.

"Ye've got me," he said, reading my mind again. "Whit other pals dae ye need?"

I laughed despite myself.

"That's better." He nodded. "Yer fizzog was startin' to gie' me the heebie-jeebies."

We stood beside the van, and the sun made an appearance. In the distance cars and buses moved along a busy street. A group of children played football on the grass at the other side of the flats. Weedgie watched them.

"Go on and join in," I told him. "I'll give you a shout when Pat and Eric get here."

"Naw, ye're awright." He shook his head. "Ah'll stay here wi' you." He sat down by my feet.

And then I did the strangest thing: I bent down and scratched the top of his head. He jumped and looked up at me in surprise. I snatched my hand away and felt myself go bright red. Neither of us spoke. To my relief, the door to the flats opened, and Pat and Eric appeared. Weedgie and I did the British thing of pretending the awkward moment hadn't happened. I opened the van doors. "Righto," I said to Weedgie, and he jumped in, followed by Pat and Eric.

I got behind the wheel and looked at everyone. Eric was next to me, clutching the bag with the poison and empty container, then Pat with Weedgie on her lap. "This will be weird," I said. "Spying on Sadie. But it has to happen."

"I know," Eric said. "It still seems a bit...unreal."

"Oh, it's real enough."

I drove out of the car park. The journey back to Sadie's was a silent one; each of us preoccupied with different thoughts. When we arrived, some instinct made me park the van in the next street. "Let's walk from here," I said. "See if she's in."

We trooped round the corner to Sadie's front door, and Eric pointed up the street. "Look," he said. "Isn't that Sadie and Mary, heading off that way?" Two figures walked arm in arm; Sadie supporting Mary as they made their way along the pavement.

"They'll be heading for the park," Pat said. "Sadie and I sometimes go for a walk there." She bit her lip, no doubt realising she and Sadie would never go anywhere together again.

"Let's go." I ushered everyone up to the door. "We'll need to be quick, in case Mary gets too tired, and they come back."

We piled into the hall and shut the door. Eric held the bag with the poison and the container. "We're looking for more poison, aren't we?" he said. "We should try the larder."

"Good thinking." I nodded. He headed off, and I followed him and Pat along the corridor to the kitchen. Weedgie trotted beside me, grinning to himself. Eric was going to be the hero here. I found I didn't mind.

In the kitchen, Eric handed the bag to Pat then pulled back the curtain and peered into the larder. "Where did you find the bottle?"

"Up there." I pointed towards the top shelf and the boxes of tinned fruit. Eric lifted the strawberries and the pears down. We all peered into the boxes.

"What about that box back there?" Pat squinted upwards, trying to see. "Custard powder. Let's look in there."

The box was brought down and opened. I feigned surprise and shock at the nine bottles of thallium sulphate. "Don't haud yer breath for an Oscar," Weedgie said.

I pointed to the rows of plastic containers. "Look," I said. "These all have labels for Don and Mary. Oh, is that one torn?"

Pat lifted the container with the label I'd half-torn off, and pulled it back to see what was underneath. Her face paled. "It says _C_." She swallowed. " _C_ for Colin. Oh, my God, she did poison him."

"This is grim," Eric said, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. "We have to call the police."

"She could deny everything," I said. "Or invent some excuse. And Don could be in on it. Remember his lies about the caterer?"

"I thought of something," Pat said, frowning. "Sadie apologised to Don on Friday when he spat out the ginger biscuit. She said she hadn't realised he didn't like ginger. Well, that's rubbish: she knows all his likes and dislikes. He gave her a funny look at the time."

I thought back and remembered the incident. "Sadie must have been trying to make us all think she didn't know about Don's likes and dislikes. She doesn't want anyone to suspect her. You think Don's innocent, don't you?"

Pat nodded. "He's a good person. And he loves Mary."

"You thought Sadie was a good person," I reminded her.

"So I did." She slumped back against the shelf. A heavy silence followed. Then the phone rang, and Eric raced off to answer it. Pat, Weedgie and I crossed to the kitchen door and listened to his side of the conversation.

"Don?" He turned towards us and gestured to the receiver. Pat and I exchanged glances and moved closer, Weedgie right behind us.

"Uh-huh. Mmm. No, they've gone out for a walk. Right. Yes. No problem. Bye."

He put the receiver down and breathed a huge sigh. "Don's coming back. He'll be here in an hour."

"He hasn't had much of a weekend away," I said.

"He missed Mary, and he's worried about her." Eric looked from Pat to me and back again. "I believe him. I don't think he's got anything to do with this."

"So what do we do now?" Pat said.

Weedgie tugged at the leg of my cords.

"Ah've got a plan," he said.

# 17

I almost responded out loud. My partner sighed.

"Let's put the boxes back on the shelf but keep the poison out," Eric said. "That way, she can't use any more. We'll have to tell Don somehow." He and Pat returned to the kitchen. I crouched down beside Weedgie.

"We need tae set a trap," he said. "Find oot if Don's innocent."

"What kind of trap?"

"Use the biccies. Have a tea pairty. See if Don eats the yins meant for Mary."

"Genius. Why didn't I think of that?"

"'Cause ye're a numpty."

"Thanks."

"Nae bother."

We headed to the kitchen, where Eric and Pat were closing the larder curtain. Eric held the white box full of thallium sulphate. "I'll stash this in my room," he said, taking the bag from Pat. "I'll keep all the poison and the empty container together to show Don."

"Weed - I mean, I have an idea," I said and suggested the tea party. "We'll surprise Sadie so she can't take control. We can have everything set up when she gets back. What do you think?"

"Yes," Eric said, nodding. "I can see how it would work. I'll hide the poison behind the settee in the lounge instead, and we can get the coffee table set out."

Pat took charge of crockery. Eric hid the bag of evidence behind the settee. Then he helped me remove the baking. Finally, the coffee table sat ready for six people. I had all the _M_ -labelled containers. I opened them and set out treacle buns, orange cupcakes and coconut cookies.

"Better watch Weedgie doesn't try some," Pat said.

"Whit does she think ah am?" Weedgie said. "A daftie?"

"He'll be fine," I reassured her. "We have to make sure no-one else tries one, either. I hope Sadie doesn't call our bluff. She might let Don eat some, to look innocent."

Pat shook her head. "She wouldn't risk anything happening to him. She went to all the trouble of using separate labels so he would be safe. She'll give herself away."

"Let's hope so." I fetched the _D_ containers _:_ these contained treacle buns and cinnamon buns. I laid them beneath the coffee table beside the empty _M_ containers.

"We're all set," Eric said. "Now we can boil the kettle."

"I'll do that," Pat said, and we heard a key turn in the front door. We froze and then looked at each other. Weedgie trotted out to the hall.

"It's Lorraine," he called over his shoulder.

For a moment I thought 'Lorraine who?' and then I remembered; my victim who wasn't.

"It's Lorraine," I said to Pat and Eric, then added; "I think."

She sashayed into the room, and her bouncy energy clashed with our sombre atmosphere. "Hey," she said. "What's up?" She reached for a coconut cookie.

" _No!_ " Three voices hailed her in unison. Pat took the cookie from Lorraine's hand and replaced it on the plate. Then she wiped her hand on the back of the settee.

"What on earth...?" Lorraine looked at us all in turn. I couldn't meet her gaze. I felt wrong-footed and awkward.

"It'll take too long to explain," I said. "We're waiting for Sadie."

"So am I," Lorraine said. "I saw her and Mary at the end of the street when we passed in the van. I need to tell her I'm moving out."

"What?" Eric said. "You're moving out today?"

"Yes." She grinned and pointed a thumb over her shoulder. "My mate Joyce's brother and his cousin brought me back in her brother's van. They're helping me move my stuff to Joyce's. I'm going to be sharing with her."

Pat and Eric exchanged rueful glances.

"Looks like everything's changing around here," Pat said with a sigh. "For everybody. Marty, what will you do?"

"Oh, I'm moving on," I said. "I have to leave soon. Today."

"What about the police?" Eric said. "They'll want a statement from you; I would imagine."

"Oh, you can sort all that out," I said. "I don't want to be involved with the police."

"What's going on?" Lorraine frowned. "Why are the police coming?" She looked at me. "Are you a criminal?"

"Huh, Weedgie said. "If ye only kent, hen."

Everyone looked at me. I did some quick-thinking and even quicker lying. "It's Weedgie," I said, and everyone's gaze shifted to him.

"Whit?" He scowled at me. "Ye cannae blame me, ya flinker."

"I stole him," I said. "From a cruel policeman. So I can't be involved with them."

"He's a police dog?" Lorraine made a face at Weedgie. "No offence, but he looks more like a stray mongrel from the pound."

"Whit? _Whit?_ Ya plinkin' cheeky wee flinker! Ah'll have ye ken ah'm _mixed-pedigree_ -"

I interrupted Weedgie's rant. "This guy mistreated him. I couldn't stand to see it, so I stole him. They'll want to arrest me because Weedgie belonged to a policeman." I looked at Pat, and her expression softened.

"Oh, Marty," she said. "That's wonderful. You rescued a poor, dumb animal."

"Haw! Wha are you cryin' dumb, ya frinkin' ploopy -" Weedgie launched himself at Pat, and I grabbed his collar and stopped him mid-flight. "Get aff me, ya roaster."

Then strange voices sounded in the hall behind us. Eric left the room, and I heard him greet Lorraine's friends. Pat moved to the door, and I released Weedgie. He shook himself and glowered at her, muttering under his breath. I glanced over my shoulder at Lorraine in time to see her pick an orange cupcake from the table and bite into it.

"No!" I leapt towards her and grabbed her by the shoulders. "Spit that out _\- spit it out!_ " I slapped her hard between the shoulder blades. She coughed, spluttered and spat out the piece of orange sponge. Pat rushed up and took her arm.

"Lorraine, please come away from here. I can't explain now, but you have to leave."

"I'm trying to." Lorraine glared at me. "I wanted a quick bite, but this nutter attacked me."

"Saved your life, you mean," Pat said. "Did you say Sadie was at the end of the street?" She steered Lorraine towards the door. "Marty, we need to keep Sadie away from here 'til Don arrives. I'll make pots of tea and coffee."

"No worries, I'll hold her off." I pushed past them and headed for the front door, Weedgie at my heels. Eric was directing two young men and a young woman up the stairs, and Pat thrust Lorraine after them.

"We'll miss you, Lorraine," she said. "Leave a note with Joyce's address, and we'll keep in touch. Eric and I will be moving on too."

"To the high seas," Eric said with a grin. It looked like the cruise ship was on, then. Lorraine climbed the stairs behind her friends and Pat headed for the kitchen. I opened the front door and looked out. Sadie and Mary were strolling past the row of shops and heading for home. A scruffy white Transit van sat outside and then Don's Zodiac appeared and purred to a halt behind it. I went down the steps to the pavement, waved to him, and turned to Sadie and Mary. Mary's looked strained while Sadie's expression brightened as Don emerged from his car.

Lorraine's friends spilled out of the house carrying suitcases and cardboard boxes and opened the van's rear doors. Don stopped to wait for Mary. Lorraine came out holding a lamp and converged with her friends at the back of the Transit.

Weedgie appeared beside me. "Ye stopped Lorraine scoffin' that wee fairy cake. Ha. Ye saved yer first victim." He shook his head and grinned. "Ye're gaun saft."

"Didn't stop to think," I said, watching her as she laughed and joked with her friends. "It just happened."

"Ya big saftie," Weedgie said in a sing-song voice. "Big Jessie saftie." I made a face at him and turned back to Sadie and Mary. Then I saw a taxi speeding along the street towards us, the driver looking in his rear-view mirror at his passengers. His hands moved off the wheel. His mouth opened and closed in what I guessed to be a tirade against the government and what he would do if he were prime minister.

A warning shot of adrenaline surged through me. I moved towards the white van. I picked up speed. I darted past Don as Lorraine slammed the door shut and then lost her balance. With a shriek, she stumbled into the road.

The taxi driver jolted into action and slammed on his brakes. I grabbed Lorraine's arm and hauled her back towards the pavement. With a nanosecond to spare, the taxi missed her and slewed to a halt. Lorraine and I tumbled onto the kerb.

"Frinkin' jinkies." Weedgie bounded up and stared at me. "Ye did it again."

The next few minutes were a blur. The taxi driver apologised. Lorraine stammered her thanks. Sadie and Mary stood beside Don, shaking their heads. Lorraine insisted she was fine and everyone went inside. Then Lorraine explained her departure to Sadie and hoped she would find someone else to take her room.

"Oh, don't worry, dear," Sadie said, smiling with kindness I suspected was for Don's benefit. "It's been lovely having you stay here. You must keep in touch."

Lorraine promised to do that. She gave Pat her new address then helped her friends with the last of her belongings. We all stood in the doorway and waved as the white van lurched away. It was a surreal moment, saying goodbye to my non-victim. I looked at Weedgie and shrugged. Then I turned to Eric and Pat.

Time for action.

"We've set out tea and coffee in the lounge," Eric said to Sadie, Mary and Don. "Do come on through."

"Splendid." Don smiled at Mary and kissed her. "I missed you, darling; decided to come back early and get you." She smiled. Sadie observed this exchange with a blank expression and then took Mary's arm and steered her away from Don.

In the lounge, Eric hovered around while Pat sat on the edge of an armchair. Sadie and Mary took the settee. Sadie was too busy directing covert glances at Don to notice the cakes on the coffee table. I gestured to Don to take the remaining armchair.

"I'll grab a pouffe," I said, startling Weedgie as I pulled the round leather monstrosity closer to the table and perched on it. Then I looked from Eric to Pat, hoping Eric would take charge.

He did. "I hope you don't mind, Sadie," he said, standing at the foot of the coffee table and pointing to it. "But we've brought out some of your _delicious_ baking."

"What?" Sadie tore her gaze from Don and looked first at Eric and then at the table. Her mouth fell open, and she turned pink. "You've brought out what? My _baking?_ " Her voice rose several decibels as she scanned the plates and their contents.

"Yes," Eric said, reaching below the table and lifting two of the empty _M_ containers. "The buns and cookies were in these." He held the containers up so we could all see them and Sadie's face turned bright red.

"No," she said, "We can't eat these."

"Nonsense." Eric lifted the plate holding the treacle buns. He turned to Don, who picked up his side plate and looked at the cakes.

"Don, would you like a treacle bun?" Eric said as Pat, Weedgie and I held our breath.

"Delighted." Don picked the largest one. "Treacle is one of the flavours I _do_ like, and Sadie's baking is the tops."

"No!" Sadie leapt to her feet and dived round the coffee table to his side. The bun was touching Don's lips when she snatched it from his hand.

"What the - ?" Don looked at Sadie in bewilderment and Mary's shocked gaze travelled between them both. Eric, Pat and I exchanged tense looks. Weedgie stared at Sadie, brows lowered. I reached below the table and brought out the container of cinnamon buns with _D_ on the label.

"These buns are...stale," Sadie said, her voice shaky. "You can't eat these, Don."

"What about these, then?" I said, holding up the container. "Cinnamon Buns. They're the same as the ones Pat took into work with her. Only they're not the same, are they, Sadie? This label says _D_. That's _D_ for Don."

"What?" Sadie's voice was faint. Her gaze locked onto the container, and I could see her mind working furiously. The tea party was turning into a nightmare. How could she lie her way out, now?

Eric fetched the bag of evidence and removed the container Pat had taken into work. He held it so everyone could see the label. "The cinnamon buns Pat took into work were in this container," he said, walking round to stand beside Don. "This one has the letter _M_ on it. _M_ for Mary."

Don and Mary floundered; they stared at Eric and me and then at Pat. Sadie swallowed and licked her lips, eyes darting towards the door. I took a step forward and blocked her way. "What's wrong, Sadie? You seem very uncomfortable."

"What is going on?" Don said. "Is this a joke?" He looked at Sadie. "What's the matter? You look terrified."

"And so she might." Pat finally spoke, her voice bitter. "Because of her, my boss is dead."

Mary gasped, and Don spluttered. "What on earth do you mean? Pat, you're talking in riddles."

Sadie spun on her heels, darted behind me and rushed out of the door. I swore and ran after her, only to see her charge into her living room and slam the door in my face. The key turned in the lock. I pounded on the door, and Weedgie arrived beside me and began scratching at it. "Sadie, ya frinkin' murderin' boomby! Come oot here tae ah bite ye!"

"She's not coming out any time soon." I gave the door a furious kick and then turned and headed for the lounge. Weedgie and I arrived as Eric was saying:

"And the cakes and meals she made for Mary have this stuff in them." He handed the bottle of thallium sulphate to Don, who took it with trembling fingers.

"My God..." His face was ashen. "Oh, my god..."

"So...what you're saying is..." Mary's voice shook. "Sadie's been...poisoning me?"

# 18

"It looks like it," I said, with a grimace. "There's no easy way to say this." I turned to Don. "Is Sadie your caterer?" I had to repeat the question, as he was staring at the thallium sulphate as if in a trance. Weedgie crossed to the armchair and nudged his leg.

"Oh...er." Don swallowed, tried to focus on me. "Yes. Sadie offered to teach me to cook soon after Christmas. I wanted to surprise Mary with home-cooked meals, but I wasn't successful. So Sadie made meals for me to freeze. I would pretend they were mine until I could cook them myself. But then Mary got ill."

He looked at his wife. Mary shivered. "Sadie brought me home-made cakes and biscuits after Christmas." Tears filled her eyes. "I ate them. It wasn't long after that I was sick. I never made the connection."

"Then Sadie offered to come and make a batch of meals every fortnight. I told Mary I was cooking meals for us and freezing them. She wrote the labels for me." Don looked at Mary. "I don't know why I kept on pretending I'd made them. I wanted to impress you. It was stupid."

Pat, Eric and I exchanged looks. "We know you had nothing to do with this," Eric said, bringing out the box with the remaining nine bottles of poison. "But Sadie had these. They've got your company name on them."

Don took the box and almost dropped it. His hands shook as he laid it down on the table. "We use this...this stuff. He stared off into space and frowned. "When Sadie worked for me, she was responsible for stocktaking. She must have stolen this back then and covered her tracks."

"Why would she want to...to get you out of the way?" Pat asked Mary, stumbling over the words, her voice gentle. "She must have planned this for ages."

I found the container with the torn label and showed Don the initial underneath. "She made sure the boxes with _D_ on them held safe baking so you could eat them. The ones with _M_ are poisonous. She tried to copy Mary's writing so no-one would suspect her. But look at this. Could _C_ be for Colin?"

"He was ill." Mary shrank back into the cushions on the settee. "The doctors were unsure what it was, like with me. Eventually, they said pneumonia. Oh, Don. Sadie killed him!"

Mary sobbed. Don crouched down and put an arm around her shoulders. He looked up at Eric. "Before Colin became ill, I gave my half of this house to Mary, so she owns the whole property, now. She wanted to give the house to her sister, but I persuaded her not to; it would be something to fall back on if I ever lost my job. So she made a new will instead and left it to Sadie."

"Did you tell Sadie this?" Pat asked Mary, who nodded. Pat looked at me. "So Sadie knew if anything happened to Mary the house would be hers."

I frowned. "But why poison Colin then and not Mary?"

"Sadie's the only one who could tell us that," Eric said. "They fell out over the will? Or she didn't want to share the house with him if she inherited it. She took that poison years before, though; she must have had the idea in the back of her mind since then."

"Sadie's in love with you," Pat told Don.

Mary and Don looked at each other. Mary's eyes were tear-stained and Don's troubled. "We knew that," Don said. "It was a joke between us."

"It doesn't seem funny now," Mary said.

"We told Sadie at Christmas that we were thinking of adopting a child," Don said. "That could have triggered the...madness. Sadie thought Mary would change her will and cut her out."

"Jings bangs," Weedgie said. "The things folk dae for money."

"You need to get Mary to a hospital," Eric said. "Take one of the bottles with you, and they'll know what to do."

"Yes." Don stood and helped Mary to her feet. "I don't know if I can drive, though." He looked at me.

I looked at Eric. "I can't drive," he said.

"Okay," I said. "I'll take you. Eric, you'd better come too and direct me."

"Don't leave me here with Sadie." Pat leapt to her feet, alarmed. "It's because of me she got found out. Poor Bernard. I hope the police don't think I had anything to do with that."

"We'll all go," Eric said and picked up the half-full bottle of thallium sulphate. We made our way out to the hall. Sadie's door was still locked.

"The police," Mary said, as we headed down to the pavement, "Do we have to tell the police?"

We all looked at each other. Don opened the car door and helped Mary into the back. Then he and Pat climbed in and sat on either side of her. Eric, Weedgie and I filled the front seat. "Mary, she tried to kill you," Pat said. "She may have killed Colin, and she was responsible for Bernard's death. We can't forget about that."

Mary began crying. I started up the car and drove off. We were an odd group of passengers, each absorbed in thoughts about Sadie and what had happened. I put my foot down, Eric pointed left and right, and we had a clear run to the hospital. I stopped at the entrance to the casualty department, and Eric went inside with Don and Mary. Pat clambered out, saying she would find a phone and update Jill and Johnny.

I moved the car to the car park and then it was just the two of us. We sat for a few moments looking out of the windscreen. Nurses in starched white uniforms and black capes marched past and entered the hospital. "Ooh, matron," I said finally, and Weedgie grinned.

"We've done it," he said. "We saved Mary's life."

"Well, I hope so. If the doctors can do something."

"Aye, they'll help her." Weedgie was adamant. "She'll be fine. This is whit we're here for - tae save Mary."

I wished I shared his optimism and blind faith in Mr Scarlet and The Committee, whoever they were. I didn't voice my fear that this was all my personal hell and it would end badly for me and everyone else involved. We waited for over an hour and then Pat and Eric came and found us.

"They've started something called chelation." Eric frowned at Pat who continued;

"Yes, it looks hopeful. They're giving her this stuff which binds itself to the poison and then it can leave her system. But she'll be in the hospital for a while."

"That's good." I breathed a sigh of relief.

"Ah tellt ye." Weedgie looked smug.

"And they've contacted the police," Eric said, causing me to sit bolt upright and Weedgie to jump in his seat.

"What? When are they coming?" I shrank back down in my seat. And then a black and white police car swerved into the hospital grounds and stopped at the main doors. Two policemen got out, straightened their hats and entered the building. "Time for Weedgie and I to leave." We got out of the car, and I gave the keys to Eric. "It's been great meeting you both."

"Where will you go?" Pat asked.

Good question. I wish I knew the answer. I shrugged. "Who knows? We'll be fine, and I hope you go on the cruise ship with Johnny and Jill."

"We're planning to," Eric said, and Pat grinned.

"Goodbye, then." I felt a pang of regret when Pat kissed Weedgie and myself. Eric shook hands and cuddled Weedgie. Then we walked away towards the hospital gates.

"Whit happens noo?" Weedgie said as we emerged onto a busy street.

"I imagine Mr Scarlet will find us." I began to walk along the street. "Meanwhile, we should find a café with tables outside and catch up on lunch."

"Braw idea." Weedgie's ears pricked up. He trotted beside me. We passed shops and small businesses and then spotted a café situated back from the street. A small enclosed area at the front held four tables. I sat down, and Weedgie positioned himself below the table, and I ordered pie and chips for us both. Once again, the waitress took an instant liking to Weedgie and brought him a bowl of water. I settled for a coffee, and we passed a pleasant hour or so watching the world go by.

Then we wandered around a few more streets. The sky clouded over. Rain fell like a power shower on full-blast. We dived for shelter in a doorway, and I suggested finding our way back to the van.

"It's in the next street from Sadie's. We'll be okay if the police are at the house," I said. Then I realised something. "We left her locked in her rooms. What if she's gone?" Weedgie pursed his lips, and I made the mistake of looking at him right then. Mick Jagger to a T. Give him a tambourine, and he could sing 'Sympathy for The Devil'. I tore my gaze away.

"It's funny," he said. "Ah ken she's a murderin' flinker, but ah still like her. Ah wouldnae be too bothered if she did get awa'.'"

I sighed. I knew what he meant, but it still didn't make it right. "This is weird," I said. "I never used to think like this. Well, I did before..." I tailed off and looked at him.

"Afore yer seventeenth birthday," he supplied for me and then continued. "Ye ken, ye have changed since Thursday. Ye've saved Lorraine and Mary, and ye've been nice tae me. Ye've looked efter me like a real dug owner. Ah appreciate that."

Guilt swamped me, and for a few moments, I couldn't speak. The rain eased off. I left the doorway, and Weedgie followed me. We crossed the road and entered a small park. "Well, you've changed a bit too," I told him, desperate to shift attention.

"Oh, aye?" He looked quizzical.

"Yes. You haven't been swearing quite so much."

His ears shot up. "Frinkin' balloobies. Are ye jinkin' sure?"

"Well...maybe not."

The rain returned, and we darted beneath an oak tree and discussed our options. We decided our van would provide shelter, at least.

"Ah hope that red bampot hurries up and finds us," Weedgie said. "Ah'm getting' cauld."

After an age, the rain tailed off and we emerged, damp and miserable. "Which way?" I wondered out loud. "The A to Z is in the van."

"Maybe they'll gie us another yin," Weedgie said, but no street atlas arrived.

"Guess we've had our map quotient for this trip," I said. "Come on, let's start walking and hope we're going in the right direction." We trudged on. I spotted a bus stop with a timetable and stopped to look. None of the street names meant anything to me.

"It's tea time noo," Weedgie said.

"What, you're hungry again?"

"Ah'm a growin' dug, ye ken. Ah'm peckish, ah could dae wi' a wee snack."

With a sigh, I led him along the road until we found a dingy pub called The Otter. We entered, and I bought beer and crisps. "This is braw." Weedgie slurped his beer from the glass. "Like pals doon the pub havin' a pint."

"I can't believe I'm doing this." I wished Mr Scarlet would materialise there and then. I looked round the pub and saw hardened drinkers. Small, grimy old men hunched over whisky glasses holding the kind of cigarettes that stained your fingers to the knuckle. I wondered how they would cope with the twenty-first-century smoking ban, and pictured their outrage and confusion. Then I came back to reality, startled by a loud burp from Weedgie

"Pardon." He licked his lips and grinned. "No' a bad pint, that."

I fed him the rest of the crisps. We were attracting stares, especially from three Neanderthals slumped behind a table in the corner. They wore leather jackets and jeans; their greasy hair slicked back. The first was enormous and hulking with one big eyebrow bulging over his broken nose. The other two were small and skinny with bad skin and even worse teeth. I mentally christened them The Missing Link and Dumb and Dumber.

"Come on, let's get out of here before the three stooges in the corner ask for a photograph."

We headed for the door. Weedgie slowed long enough to stick his tongue out at the trio. He blew them a raspberry. "Subtlety is your middle name, isn't it?" I said as we walked away from the pub.

"Naw," he said. "It's Gallus."

"Really?"

"Naw. Wish it was, but."

I grinned, shook my head, and we carried on. The sky darkened, dusk fell, and streetlights blinked on around us. We walked along endless pavements. Then we were in a less than presentable part of town where small shabby houses gave way to Victorian factory buildings and soot-blackened chimneys. I stopped and considered our options. A narrow cobbled street headed away to the right. It looked hopeful.

Shadows jumped and shifted. I began to feel uneasy. I turned back to look for Weedgie and spotted him sniffing at a lamp-post, his image reflected in a puddle nearby. It looked like a murky surrealist painting: Salvador Dali's depressed period. I knew how he felt.

"C'mon," I said, and crossed to the narrow street. "This looks like it might double back and take us somewhere better." Without waiting for him, I strode off. Tall brick buildings flanked the cobbles. I kept my head down. The uneasy feeling intensified. Then I ran out of walking surface. I blinked in surprise at the wall in front of me and realised the hopeful-looking street was a dead end.

"Oh, great." I turned round then stopped, heart rate accelerating. Standing yards away were the Missing Link and his two companions from the pub.

And they didn't look friendly.

# 19

"Well, well." One of the two skinny ones stared me out. "You were down our boozer flashin' a load of cash, weren't yer?" I thought of my ever-full wallet. If money was what they wanted, they could have it. I reached into my back pocket and all three tensed. That's when I noticed one of the skinny guys had a heavy-duty chain in his hands; the kind used to secure a motorbike. He swung it in front of him, and it clanked off the ground a few feet from my boots.

I jumped back a step. "I've got money." I held up my left hand and grabbed my wallet with my right. It wouldn't move. I used both hands and tugged to no avail. What was happening? How could it jam in my pocket? I broke out in a sweat. "My wallet seems to be...um...stuck." I gulped. Was this Mr Scarlet's idea of a joke?

All three exchanged looks and sneers. I glanced from one to the other. The Missing Link had seemed pretty big sitting down; now he towered over me with hands the size of coal scuttles. "You havin' a laugh?" He rumbled in a voice that made my fillings shake. The second skinny guy sniggered. I heard a click, saw a flash of steel and realised he had a flick knife. Bloody hell. A giant thug and two twiglets with a chain and a knife. How could I get out of this one?

I feinted to the left, and The Missing Link lumbered closer, blocking my escape. Dumb and Dumber closed in, and the chain swung back and forward like a pendulum. I stepped back and found myself against the brick wall. The flick knife swooped close in a wide arc, I jerked my head away and cracked the side of my skull on the bricks behind me.

For a moment I saw flashing lights and stars and heard birds singing. And then my vision cleared and I took my chance. I lunged forward, grabbed the chain and pulled its skinny owner into the path of The Missing Link. "Hoi!" He lost his balance. They both stumbled. I darted to my right as the third one stuck out his foot, and then I went flying, skidding on my hands and knees on the cobbled street.

The knife slashed past my neck, and dozens of love beads sprang free. I tried to roll away, but huge hands grabbed the back of my shirt, and I jerked upright. The knife pressed against my neck. They crowded round, and I smelled whisky on their breath.

"Alright, pretty boy." The one with the chain sneered at me. "We've had enough of you." His eyes were bright, and his face flushed. He looked over his shoulder at the deserted street. Then he turned to the one holding the knife. "Do 'im, Gerry. _Do 'im!_ "

At this point, most people's lives flash in front of them - but The Committee had erased my existence. So all that flashed in front of me was the knife and a sneaking suspicion that my life hadn't been that great, anyway. And now it was about to end for the third time in an alley with three morons who needed breath mints. I steeled myself and waited for the knife to pierce my skin.

And then I heard a yelp of pain from The Missing Link. His grip loosened. Brown fur flashed past, and Weedgie launched himself at Dumber and bit his wrist. Another yelp of pain. The knife fell. "Run, Marty!" Weedgie dodged away then jumped over the chain. I twisted out of The Missing Link's grasp and took off down the street like an Exocet missile. I skidded round the corner and raced back the way we'd come, towards houses, pubs and people. Two streets further on, Weedgie streaked past me shouting over his shoulder as he went:

"Ye run like a Big Jessie!"

I caught up with him five minutes later at the corner of a busy road outside a cinema. Queues jostled for pavement space with pedestrians. A group of teenagers piled out of a café. The jukebox inside gave a brief glimpse of their taste in music. Bob Dylan: 'The Times They Are A Changing'. You could say that again, Bob. My times were changing, and I still wasn't sure it was for the better.

We walked on, and then stopped in front of a launderette and got our breath back. I looked at Weedgie, a strange mixture of feelings swamping me. The sensation of losing control grew stronger by the minute.

"Thank you," I managed to say before tears threatened.

"Och, nae bother. Don't mention it." Weedgie sat down beside me and watched people going by. I gulped air a few times and tried to steady myself. I wondered how I would have reacted if the situation had been in reverse. Would I have stepped in and risked my life to save Weedgie? I couldn't answer the question. And that bothered me.

"Why did you do it?" I said, conscious that my voice was shaking, "That moron could have stabbed you."

Weedgie looked up and held my gaze. "Ye're a numpty." His eyes misted over, and he turned away and stared along the street. "But ye're _ma_ numpty. Ye're ma owner, and ye're a' ah've got."

A silence stretched between us. Conflicting emotions battled inside me. Sobs caught in my throat. I gasped for air. Somewhere in my mind, I berated myself for being soft and girly. I asked where my serial killer cool had gone. And then one feeling grew in strength and fought its way to the surface. It challenged me to ignore it. I struggled to push it down, and then I caved in, and it surged over me.

A tsunami of guilt.

What kind of low, twisted person had I been? Weedgie rushed in and saved me with no thought for himself. Despite my actions. Despite my dark thoughts. I didn't exist in an egotistical bubble anymore; I had a partner. A brave one. And partners looked out for each other - only I hadn't. Horror and shame welled up alongside the guilt. Everything threatened to spill out. And then the dam burst and I blurted:

"I tried to get you killed under a bus."

"Whit?" Weedgie looked at me, and his expression changed. "Aye, right." He smiled. Then he frowned. His eyes swivelled to my left, and he stared into the middle distance for a few moments. Then he froze. "Friday. Thae busy streets." He turned huge eyes to me. "Ye kept walkin' oot intae the traffic. Ye wanted me tae get run ower."

He whimpered, blinked away sudden tears and then leapt up and barged past me. "Weedgie!" I made to follow him, and he dashed into the road. There was a screech of brakes, and a car swerved. I held my breath, my heart in my mouth, and hoped against hope that he was alright. Then I saw a scruffy brown shape racing along the opposite side of the street and sighed in relief.

I took off after him, weaving around cars and taxis, craning my neck to see where he'd gone. Two minutes later, I realised I'd lost him.

"Weedgie, Weedgie, where are you?" I ignored strange looks from passers-by and kept walking and calling his name. I paced along the next street. Then the next. There was no sign of him. I reversed and paced other streets, crisscrossing as I went. I looked into doorways and pubs. I checked the alleys and side streets.

Weedgie had vanished. And it was my fault.

I wandered the streets for the next few hours, cold and miserable, desperate for a glimpse of him. Finally, I accepted the inevitable: I would never see him again. Two days ago that thought would have had me jumping for joy. "Come on, Mr Scarlet!" I stopped and shouted into the night air. "Is this your idea of an ironic ending? Is this supposed to be funny?" Two women in heavy coats and clear plastic rain bonnets passed. One muttered something about letting those lunatics out the asylum. I hung my head, trudged on round a corner, and there was our blue van.

My spirits rose. I ran towards it, fumbling for my keys. I opened the back doors and saw...our luggage. Weedgie's bag of food and the football brought fresh tears. I slumped on the floor of the van and sat there. Then I dragged myself to my feet. I walked to the next street, wondering if he had found his way back to Sadie's. I stopped short at the sight of a police car parked at the kerb, then I turned and headed back to the van. I climbed in the back, curled up and fell into an exhausted sleep.

A passing milk float woke me. I lay for a while, my limbs stiff and my head full of pictures of Weedgie. I imagined him cold and alone, sleeping rough somewhere. Or shut in some building where no-one could hear him. I tortured myself with these thoughts until I couldn't stand it any longer. Then I climbed out of the van and walked to the next street.

The police car was gone. I hurried along to Sadie's, and let myself in. "Hello?" My voice rang out in the empty hall. All the doors were open, including the one to Sadie's part of the house. I walked into her living room and navigated the oceans of velvet and tassels until I reached Mary's bedroom. Her belongings were still there.

I came back out and then entered the room next door. It held a four-poster bed draped in a lilac velvet bedcover. Matching tasselled curtains hung at each corner. It looked like the velvet and tassels had galloped here from the living-room and bred. Next door was a small bathroom. It boasted a pink bath mat, pink towels, and a pink pompom poodle covering the spare toilet roll. You could say Sadie had class. But you'd be lying.

I retreated to the other half of the house and wandered through it. I called Weedgie's name. No-one answered. I trudged upstairs. I had a final wash in the bathroom and then forced myself to take a look in the room we had shared. One of Weedgie's crunchy bones peeped out from under the settee. I backed out onto the landing, telling myself I wouldn't cry.

"For God's sake; you're a grown man." I thundered down the stairs, crossed the hall and charged straight into Don coming in the front door.

"Marty." He looked a lot happier than when I'd seen him last. "Hey, where did you get to?"

"Long story," I said. "How's Mary?"

His face broke into a huge smile. "She's going to be fine. Luckily she only had small, irregular doses of the poison, so they'll get it out of her system. The police think the buns Pat took into work by mistake had a much higher dose through them. Sadie was stepping up her campaign this last week, by the look of things."

"We got here in time then," I said and then, seeing Don's confused look, continued. "What about Sadie?"

"She's gone. Took her passport and ran. She could be anywhere. I'm here to get Mary's things and then I'm getting a locksmith to change the locks."

He looked down and around us and then back at me. "Where's Weedgie?"

I made a face. "He ran away. I can't find him."

"Ohno, that's awful. He's such a likeable little chap. I'll keep a lookout for him, and if he comes back here, I'll hold onto him for you."

"Thanks, Don." I made for the door. "If I don't find him I'll check back here. I hope everything works out for you and Mary. Bye."

"Bye, Marty. I hope you find Weedgie."

I hoped so too. I left Sadie's and wandered back to the van. I climbed behind the wheel and thought for a moment. Where might Weedgie go? Then I remembered the park where we'd eaten chips. It was somewhere to try if nothing else.

I arrived at the park gates a few minutes later. There was no sign of Weedgie. I walked inside and sat on the bench where we'd dined and discussed tactics for saving Mary. That seemed a long time ago now.

"Do you have B.O.?"

The voice startled me. I jumped, then turned and saw Mr Scarlet standing a few feet away. "I wondered since you seem to be all alone. Where is your furry fiend - I mean, friend?"

I stood and faced him. Anger rose. The old violent feelings resurfaced. "I don't know where Weedgie is," I said through gritted teeth. "But you probably do. Do you enjoy torturing me?"

He raised both eyebrows, then shook his head and tutted at me. "The only one torturing you is yourself, Marty. I have no idea where your dog is. He is your responsibility, not mine."

I looked away. "I'm hoping Weedgie comes here. I need to apologise to him."

"Well, I'm afraid you've run out of time." Mr Scarlet looked at his big silver watch. "Next victim is waiting."

"Well, they'll have to wait," I said. "I'm not going without Weedgie."

"Aw, now, isn't that sweet." His tone dripped so much sarcasm he needed a towel. "Marty loves his little doggie-woggie."

"Don't let Weedgie hear you call him that," I said. "He'll do a Jimmy Riddle up your leg or bite your bahookie."

"Are you on hard drugs?" he said, looking alarmed. "Because you appear to be talking gibberish. I'm here to tell you that your next journey begins in five minutes and you have a choice."

"What?" I was suspicious. "What's the choice?"

"Since you appear to have mislaid your partner then you can go on ahead, by yourself -"

"I told you, I'm not going without Weedgie."

"It's rude to interrupt, Marty. The second choice is for Weedgie to go on by himself. And since he is absent, then it looks like you will have to choose the first option. You go on alone."

"And what happens to Weedgie if I do? Does he stay on here in 1968? Will you find him a good home? Can I come back and get him?"

"So many questions...and one answer. No. To all of them. If you go on, then Weedgie is vaporised into black nothingness for eternity."

"Wha...?" My voice cracked. "But...but that's...and what happens to me if Weedgie goes on alone?"

"The same. Black nothingness." He studied his black nails for a moment and then looked at me. "I told you that you and Weedgie were a team. You broke up that team, Marty. So what would you like to do?"

"Something painful to you. This isn't fair."

"Deal with it. Time is ticking on."

I hung my head, considered my options.

There was only one choice to make.

"Let Weedgie go on and have another chance. I choose black nothingness."

Mr Scarlet's face lit up. I wanted to punch him. And what harm could it do now? I stepped forward. "You know what you are, don't you?" I said. "You're a..." I stopped. Every insult, every curse, every horrible word I'd ever heard deserted me. Except one. The only one which fitted the bill. The only one I wanted to use. "You're a bampot _."_

Then my anger and energy evaporated. I stood defeated. Mr Scarlet's smile widened.

"So let me get this straight." He ticked off on his fingers. "One: you want to forfeit your right to go on, and you accept an eternity in black nothingness. Two: you want to give your chance to Weedgie and let him live. And Three: I'm a bam pot."

"Too frinkin' right ye are." Weedgie appeared behind me and trotted past Mr Scarlet. "C'moan, Marty, shift yer bahookie'."

"Weedgie! What -?" A wave of joy coursed through me, almost lifting me off my feet. I dived after him; we reached the van, jumped in and sat side by side. I took a deep breath. "I am sorry. The old me wanted to be rid of you. The new me wants you here."

"Ah, ken. Ah heard whit ye said tae that red flinker. He found me last night and brought me back here this mornin'. Tellt me to go for a walk roon the park and ah'd get a surprise."

"He what?" I stared. "He told you...? He set me up. He knew how I would react."

"I can read you like a book, Marty." Mr Scarlet appeared on the pavement beside the open driver's door. "Unfortunately, you're a book which gets discontinued from a library, goes to a charity shop, fails to sell, ends up in a fifty pence sin bin, then is recycled as toilet paper." He slammed the door. "Get a move on."

Weedgie and I looked at each other and then out through the windscreen. The London street in front of us disappeared, replaced by a massive ball of swirling blackness.

I had a sudden, horrible thought.

I wound down my window. Mr Scarlet tapped his watch. "That stuff out there." I pointed to the swirling blackness. "How do we know that's not black nothingness?"

"Here, that's a point." Weedgie dived onto my lap and stuck his head out of the window.

Mr Scarlet sighed. "That is swirling blackness. Black nothingness is a _completely_ different thing." He rolled his eyes and disappeared.

Weedgie moved off my lap and shuffled back along the seat. I wound the window up, we looked at each other, and I took another deep breath.

"Okay, here goes." I started the engine and put the van into first gear. The swirling blackness began making me dizzy. I blinked to clear my vision. It didn't work. I shook my head. That didn't work, either.

My partner gave me a look. "Get oan wi' it."

I released the clutch...and stalled the engine.

"Damn." I sighed and then winced as Weedgie leaned towards me, rested his head on my shoulder, gazed into my eyes and whispered:

"Numpty." 
What happens next...?

OUT NOW

___Turn the page to read the first chapter._

# 1

"Whoa." I dropped out of thin air, hit a hard surface and rolled onto my back. Dull grey sky flashed past before the world slowed down and stopped spinning.

"Frinkin' balloobies." Weedgie landed beside me and staggered a few steps. "Jeez-o, their landin' gear's frinkin' pants."

_Whump!_ A battered brown suitcase missed my head by inches. I took a deep breath, sat up and looked around. I saw a narrow, rutted road with a grass verge. Trees were bare. Endless fields flowed away in every direction.

"We seem to be in the countryside."

"Nae shooby, Sherlock." Weedgie turned towards me. "You should be oan _Mastermind_. Specialist subject: 'The Frinkin' Obvious'." Then his ears shot up.

"What?"

"Jings bangs, bloompin' goompies."

"What?" I was starting to feel panicky. " _What?_ "

"Have ye seen yersel'?"

I looked down and inhaled sharply. My feet were sporting scruffy black hobnailed boots. Above the Artful Dodger footwear, I wore dark blue trousers made from a thick, rough, scratchy material. Then a grey jacket made from something even more horrible. I unbuttoned this to reveal a white collarless cotton shirt and black braces.

"Galluses," Weedgie said. "Tae haud up yer breeks."

"Braces," I said. "To hold up my trousers."

"Aye, that's whit ah said. Have ye seen yer hair? Creeshie-heid." Weedgie grinned his Mick Jagger grin then launched into his scary laugh. "Heh, heh, heh."

"My hair?" My hands flew to my head. My ears were bare. I'd always worn my hair long, it was thick and blond, and I liked the rock star look. We'd come from 1968 where my hair had reached my shoulders. Now there was a draught around my neck. I groped behind my ears. My hair was shorn into my head and felt rough and uneven. My fingers travelled upwards, and I got an even bigger shock.

"What the -?" The hair on top of my head was longer and combed to the side. This couldn't be right. Weedgie smirked.

"It looks like someboady put a puddin' bowl oan yer heid and cut roon it." He grinned.

Gingerly, I touched the top of my hair. It was slicked into place with something that reminded me of the brilliantine my dad used to wear on his.

"Ye could fry chips in that." Weedgie's grin widened.

I sighed and looked at him. He was still wearing the collar he'd forced me to buy him in 1968 - black leather with silver spikes around it.

"How come you get to wear the same collar, but I get chopped and changed depending on the year we're in? That's not fair."

"Life's no' fair. Deal wi' it. C'moan, we'd better get gaun."

I scowled at him. Then a suspicious thought floated into my head followed by the inevitable truth: in this personal hell, Weedgie got to look cool while I looked like a pillock.

"Where to?" I got to my feet and picked up the case. It was fastened with an old brown belt, adding 'tramp' to my 'Victorian-pickpocket-urchin' look. My mood dipped further south. "We're in the middle of nowhere."

"The road goes doonhill. That looks guid tae me."

"It's probably _all_ downhill from here."

I followed Weedgie. The road curved around and down, reminding me of a helter-skelter I was forced to go on when I was five. I'd been sick at the end of that, and I felt nauseous now, wondering what was ahead of us. It didn't feel positive. Five minutes later, Weedgie's ears shot up again.

"Ah can see smoke," he said. "Somethin's oan fire."

"With a bit of luck, it'll be wherever we're staying." We rounded a large tree, and Weedgie stopped and stared.

"Lums."

"What?" I stopped beside him and followed his gaze to the valley ahead. "Oh – chimneys." Weedgie gave me a dirty look. Plumes of smoke rose from a cluster of dingy grey buildings huddled together like nervous patients in a dentist's waiting room, trying to ignore the whine of the drill. I knew how they felt.

"Coal fires," I sighed. "We're not in the twenty-first century, then."

"Ah've seen them oan the telly," Weedgie said. "Ye poke them wi' a metal stick and wee bits jump oot and set fire tae yer carpet." Weedgie was born in a dog home in Glasgow and lived in a kennel until Mr Scarlet bought him for me. The kennel staff had satellite TV in their living-quarters, and Weedgie discovered how to open his pen and sneaked off to watch hours of it. I suspected he'd also stolen the remote control.

"That must be where we're going." I hefted the suitcase from my right hand to my left and tried to summon some enthusiasm. The sooner we got started the sooner we could leave again. "Let's go and see who we're supposed to save."

We walked on until we reached the edge of the buildings; two rows of five grey cottages with slate roofs, facing each other across a narrow road. The whole effect was charcoal drawing with a cold, wet teabag dropped on top.

A stone sign on the grass verge read; 'Brambledowne'. We stared glumly at the village.

"Jeez-o, it's awfy wee," Weedgie said. "Ye'll no' get Wi-Fi and drive-thru burgers here."

He looked around and then turned to me with a delighted smirk on his face. I braced myself. "See that?" He jerked his head, and I looked into the nearest field. A traditional straw figure rested against a pole; tied together with twine and dressed in a baggy old black suit and battered felt hat.

"A scarecrow?" I frowned at him, and his smirk widened into a grin. "What about it?"

"It's better dressed than you."

I sighed, counted slowly to ten then made a face at him and stalked ahead towards the first cottage. The street was empty. I stood for a moment feeling like a cowboy stepping out at high noon, and then I marched on. Twenty seconds later, I was at the other end of the street. Weedgie came trotting up to me.

"Is it jist me...or are we bein' watched?"

I turned towards the nearest cottage, and the dingy lace curtain twitched. A glance at the one opposite produced the same effect.

"Nosey besoms," Weedgie sniffed. "Gie them the fingers."

"I'll do no such thing. And stop talking to me in the middle of the street – they'll think I'm loopy."

"They'll no' be far wrang, then. Stop talkin' back tae me."

"You stop talking to me first - oh, God, you're doing this on purpose, aren't you?"

"Heh, heh, heh." He shook his head. "It's almost nae fun windin' you up. Here, mebbe there's a reason they're gawpin' at ye."

I raised an eyebrow, waited for this latest gem.

"They're mebbe stunned by yer sartorial style and state-o'-the-art hairdo."

The old familiar anger popped up to say hello. Before I could stop myself, I swung the suitcase at him. It jerked upwards and soared over his head. Then it pulled me around in a circle until I lurched sideways and fell over. Weedgie's laugh rang in my ears.

"Frinkin' brilliant. They'll no' think ye're sane noo." He shook his head then looked around and brightened up a bit. "Ah'm away for a blether wi' that big cuddy."

"Big...?" I watched as he trotted over to a nearby field where a carthorse looked over the gate. "Oh...kay." I struggled to my feet, counted to ten again and found I still wanted to throttle Weedgie. This train of thought was dangerous; we had to stay working as a pair, or it was black nothingness for eternity.

I turned away from the street and looked instead at a large house on high ground facing the others. It had a walled garden at the rear and a small patch of grass and a low wall at the front with a gate in the middle. Outside the wall, two flowerbeds sloped down to face the street. They were bare and forlorn, perfectly matching the mood of the village and myself.

Weedgie's laughter reached my ears followed by a braying from the horse. I didn't need to be Dr Dolittle to work out the jist of _that_ conversation. I looked at the village again and shivered. The whole place was starting to creep me out.

"Cheers, Gary." Weedgie left the horse and trotted over to me. "Gary says this big hoose had an auld geezer livin' in it 'til a fortnight ago when this family moved in. Maw, paw and a grown-up wean. A bloke. Gary disnae like him - says he's a right piece o' work."

"Oh well, if Gary the carthorse says it then it must be true." I stared uneasily back at the house.

"Whit are ye thinkin'?"

"You don't want to know."

"Aw, come oan, Marty. Ah was jist kiddin' ye oan aboot yer breeks and that. Tryin' tae cheer ye up. Ah thought we were pals?"

He looked up at me with his too-large brown eyes and I found my resolve melting. He was too good at this; tugging my heartstrings when it suited him.

"Ah'm your dug noo. We've only got each other, mind. And ye don't want tae go back tae being a psychopath, dae ye?"

Good question. Life had been a lot easier then.

"I don't think I have that choice any more, do you?" I sighed.

"That's ma boay." He grinned his Mick Jagger grin and jerked his head towards the house. "Let's go see whit's whit, eh?"

"I suppose. Let's see whit - what's whit - what. Oh, for heaven's sake."

I marched towards the house and was halfway there when a loud voice hailed us:

"You there! What do you want?"

We turned to see a woman in her late fifties. She wore a headscarf and wrap-around apron over a grey jumper and woollen skirt. She stood outside the last cottage on the left, arms akimbo, thin face scowling. Her accent was coarse but had a lilt to it. Her frown deepened.

"Are you deaf, boy? I said, what do you want?"

"Nane o' yer business, ya crabbit frinker."

I stepped between Weedgie and the woman.

"Good afternoon, Madam," I began, but she laughed mockingly and put her hands on her hips.

"Afternoon? It's half past nine in the morning. Are you stupid, boy? Can't you tell the time?"

"Here, this wummin's pure hardcore." Weedgie's tone was almost admiring. "She's a right nippy sweetie."

"Have you gone dumb? You look as stupid as that mangy cur beside you."

"Whit?" Weedgie's tone changed. "Whit did she ca' me - a _cur?_ And mangy? _Mangy?_ Ah'm no frinkin' havin' that! Here you, wummin, ah'm _mixed-pedigree_ , ya frinkin' wee -"

"Weedgie! No!"

He launched himself at the woman. I dived forward. She stepped aside, reached behind her, and grabbed a broom.

"Mangy beast." She swiped hard and caught Weedgie round the head, following it up with a blow to my back.

"Ooyah."

"Ow."

We both leapt away, and Weedgie staggered a few steps.

"Ah'm seein' stars." He shook his head. "An' bright lights. Jings bangs."

He keeled over and lay still.
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FROM THE AUTHOR

Thank you for buying and reading this Marty and Weedgie book. I hope you enjoyed it. The series is great fun to write, and the serial element keeps my brain lively. For this reason, it helps to read the books in order. It may also help to stock up on custard creams.

The character of Marty Hollis first appeared in a YA book: _The Next One_. If you want to know more about his past, that's where to start. Marty stuck in my head and refused to leave so I decided he would have his comeuppance via Weedgie. Weedgie is an amalgam of dogs I have owned and dogs I have known - plus an image I once saw of a terrier with human teeth. Like Marty, this idea stayed in my head and became Weedgie's most memorable feature. So far, Mick Jagger hasn't sued.

Many thanks to everyone who has taken the time to leave reviews, I appreciate every one. The Marty and Weedgie fan base is growing worldwide. I am delighted to hear from anyone who has a question, suggestion or wants to say hello.

<https://angelacowan.com/>
