Die Like a Dog (7 page)

‘What proof is there that it's vicious?'

‘The story is that it's been trained to kill. Judson's man insists on that. Gladys Judson is extremely concerned when the animal breaks out –' she became agitated, ‘– and it will be ravenous by now, Ted; it must be killing sheep. Something has to be done.'

‘That's how they could locate it: by the sheep it's killing. I'll have a quiet word with the chief constable; I can't speak to anyone else when the dog's owned by a magistrate. Should you ring the Judsons first and ask if the animal's been found?'

She hesitated. ‘Would Judson tell me the truth?'

‘If he says they have got it back, try to get that confirmed by someone else: Waring or the postmistress. But try Judson first. We don't want to alert the police unnecessarily. For my money they're going to go up in smoke. Alsatian guard dogs on the loose! What's the Press going to say?'

There was no reply from Parc. Miss Pink rang the Bridge and Waring came to the telephone. To his knowledge the dog had not been found. He sounded harassed. She returned to Roberts who took her place at the telephone. When he came back he told her that Judson had reported the animal missing and that now the police were worried, not least because Ted – a former coroner – was putting his oar in. A news flash would be transmitted as soon as possible, and farmers would be told to report any sheep that appeared to have been savaged by a dog within the last twenty-four hours.

‘I can't see the Welsh farmers trotting up the hill to gather their sheep,' Miss Pink said. ‘And unless they are gathered how can you tell whether any are missing?'

‘They can go round their valley sheep. If the dog's on the mountain there's less danger from him.'

‘What about the danger to hikers and climbers?'

‘Once a dog's started killing, he's an outlaw and he'll shun people.'

She stared at him and he looked uncomfortable.

‘You're talking about sheep dogs,' she pointed out. ‘Have you ever had experience of an Alsatian gone wild? And what about the sheep and lambs?'

‘It's the best they can do, Melinda. What would you suggest?'

‘A regiment with rifles,' she said grimly.

‘They're considering it.'

‘What!'

‘Oh yes. The police really are alarmed. Judson reported it only as a valuable animal that had gone missing. However, most police dog handlers know the history of guard dogs in their area and someone got onto the kennels where Judson's dogs were bred. His animals are savage all right: trained to be, and awkward bastards at that; at least, this black one is. It will be shot on sight. Name's Satan, by the way. You knew that? Not its kennel name, of course. That's Black Diamond of Something or other.'

‘Judson is going to create hell.'

‘That won't do his blood pressure any good. Well, we've done all we can. Shall we go in to lunch?'

At four o'clock Ellen Evans answered the telephone yet again and told the caller to wait because she could hear a car in the yard.

Gladys looked exhausted as she walked across the cobbles. Ellen told her she was wanted on the phone and searched her face avidly, like a person contemplating an exciting meal.

‘Who is it?' Gladys asked, without interest.

‘A lady. Long distance. The police have been calling all afternoon –'

‘What for?'

‘About the dog –'

‘What's it done, Ellen? Tell me.' She was distraught, almost hysterical. Ellen stared.

‘Nothing. They haven't found it.'

‘Then what –' Gladys drooped, looked at a chair, then remembered the telephone. ‘Never mind. Put the kettle on.'

She plodded into the hall. The phone stood on a window sill beside the front door.

‘Hello?' She spoke in her normal telephone voice but as she spoke she was sinking into a chair. She stretched her legs and eased off her shoes.

‘
Mrs
Judson?'

‘Yes. Who is this?'

‘Anna Waring.'

‘Oh.' She sat up, her eyes going to the back of the hall. There was no sound from the kitchen. ‘Yes?' It was polite, neutral.

‘I want to speak to Richard.' Anna sounded as if she'd been drinking.

‘He's not available.'

‘Where is he?'

‘I couldn't say. Would you care to leave a message?' Gladys picked up a pencil.

‘Ask him to call this number as soon as he comes in, will you?' Anna dictated a number. Gladys wrote it down carefully. ‘You'll do that?' There was a trace of anxiety behind the slurred consonants.

‘Of course.'

There was a click and the dialling tone came on the line. Gladys replaced the receiver, looked at the number, tore the sheet from the scratch pad and, folding it in half, put it in the pocket of her skirt.

‘Now, Ellen,' she said brightly, returning to the kitchen, ‘let's have a cup of tea and you can tell me all about those police calls.'

‘They're threatening to shoot 'im, mum,' Ellen's eyes were round behind her spectacles. She'd recognised that voice on the phone – but the dog came first: ‘They're putting it out on the News,' she added.

‘Putting what out?'

‘Why, that we all got to be on our guard, and to watch for savaged sheep. Evans was here. They was talking to him on the phone.'

Gladys said: ‘Go and get the brandy. We'll have a drop in our tea.'

Ellen rushed to the dining room. Brandy! At four o'clock in the afternoon! What next? Really, what ever would happen next? Behind her, Gladys stared at the scrubbed wooden table, fingering the piece of paper in her pocket. A Chester number, she was thinking. Chester?

‘I COULD KILL
Judson,' Waring said.

He looked out of place, idling about the kitchen in the evening.

‘Careful, George.' Lucy's tone was arch but there was a warning in her eyes as she indicated the Indian pantry boy at the sink.

Waring blinked at her then nodded and changed tack.

‘It's that bloody dog. There's not a customer in the bar, not one. Even the visitors have heard by now. If anyone comes in tonight he'll have been travelling since before six o'clock and he won't have a radio in his car.'

‘The dog will be found soon enough –'

The bar bell rang.

‘How much d'you bet they haven't got a radio, that they've been travelling –' He trailed off as he returned to the river room.

It was the police: the occupants of a patrol car. They wouldn't have a drink.

‘You armed?' Waring asked hopefully.

‘We are not,' the sergeant told him. ‘You're twisting the knife, Mr Waring.'

They exchanged meaning looks. Miss Pink came in from the dining room, surveyed the visitors and wished them a good evening.

‘No sightings?' she ventured, and would have been surprised if they'd said yes. ‘Are you armed?' she asked.

When they'd gone Waring said: ‘You can be sure they won't leave the patrol car tonight except when they're parked a few steps from a building. They're only showing the flag. It's a waste of the taxpayer's money. That dog's keeping out of the way.'

‘But isn't it strange that no one's sighted it, let alone reported finding any dead sheep?' A new thought struck her. ‘And although he may have
killed
in a remote place, sheep would go mad with terror over a considerable distance. Wouldn't you think someone would have seen sheep behaving strangely?'

‘Not on the mountain, not climbers; they wouldn't think about it if they did see sheep running. They're not countrymen. And the dog need only have killed once – possibly not at all in the daylight.'

She nodded and sighed. ‘So we just wait for a sighting. What a curious situation. It's done your trade no good, Mr Waring.' She looked round the empty room with disapproval.

‘There are the other guests; five of you, all told, and no doubt the locals will be in later – those with transport, that is.'

She felt his tension and would have dropped the subject, but he had one more comment to make, elaborately casual.

‘My wife chose the right moment to take the weekend off – although I did point out that, in the circumstances, we weren't likely to be busy.'

‘Opportune,' agreed Miss Pink. ‘Will you take a brandy with me, Mr Waring?'

‘That's thoughtful of you, ma'am. A bit lonely, isn't it, with the doors all shut: like being under siege.'

And it goes on, she thought, waking next morning and identifying that thread of irritation which was so curiously associated with the sunshine. Because it was glorious she was the more annoyed. I shall leave, she decided, nothing easier – and then she thought of poor Waring. No doubt the other guests would follow her example, but they would stay if she stayed; really, the situation was insufferable. Then she remembered that there was someone else who must be suffering from more than the irritation of a spoiled holiday, someone who could be feeling rather desperate – -with a killer dog at large.

After breakfast she drove up the glen to call on Gladys Judson. They sat in the drawing room at Parc, the windows opened wide to the sun and curlews and garden scents.

‘Yes,' Gladys admitted, ‘it
is
worrying. How thoughtful of you to call. Richard just had to go away on business.'

She was grey with exhaustion but her manner, if a trifle preoccupied, remained amiable and well-bred.

‘I didn't know you'd lived in Wales,' she went on, ‘but then we've only been here for fifteen years, since his cousin died and Richard inherited the estate.'

‘I've been in Cornwall for longer than that,' Miss Pink said. ‘The climate's better for my arthritis.'

‘Of course. All the houses in west Wales are damp. Richard's books stink of mildew. It's a continuous battle trying to keep things dry: clothes, linen; even our shoes grow a green mould in the wardrobes.'

‘Mine used to do that. You can't believe what a relief it is to live in a dry atmosphere. Comparatively dry.'

Gladys smiled. ‘But Richard won't move house again, and I don't think I'd want to. We've grown attached to this place. Richard's main interest is horses. What he'd really like to do is breed. Arabs. But in these times –' she shrugged, ‘– if we could afford the investment, who could afford to buy Arabs?'

Miss Pink agreed that the times were hazardous and asked if her hostess was a horsewoman.

‘No. I like horses but I'm no good at riding. I never feel as if I have
control.
' She looked out at her flowering shrubs. ‘The garden is my province, that and the house.' She gave the flicker of a smile. ‘I wouldn't want it any other way, I'm quite content. I'm afraid I'm rather old-fashioned.'

‘Oh, but so am I!' Miss Pink was enthusiastic. ‘Values have changed, haven't they?'

‘Everything seems to have slipped – got out of gear.' Her voice dropped. ‘Richard says it's the breakdown of law and order. Do you think that?'

Miss Pink opened her mouth and closed it again. A dog was baying.

‘Could that be –?'

‘No.' Gladys was suddenly haggard. ‘That's Brindle, the other dog. He didn't bark at you because you came in the front way. He's chained at the back. He'll be barking at our handyman.' A sigh escaped her. ‘We keep searching –' Her voice trailed away.

‘Your husband must be very worried.'

‘Not at all.' She sounded utterly bewildered. ‘But when they put it out on the News – I never thought – I mean,
we
don't think it's that serious – of course, they're thinking of the sheep ... He'd come back as soon as he realised how people were taking it but I haven't been able to get hold of him.' She looked out of the window, blinking nervously. ‘He's in Liverpool but I don't know where he's staying. He'll be home tonight ...' Miss Pink waited politely. ‘Normally,' Gladys continued, ‘he stays at the Adelphi but I rang there and he hadn't booked a room. He forgot to tell me where he was staying.' She licked her lips and said, with a pathetic attempt at gallantry: ‘The dogs aren't dangerous; he'd never have gone away if there was any question of that.'

Handel Evans came in, removing his beret with a sweep. He inclined his head towards the ladies.

‘I've had a thought, mum. I'm taking Brindle out and letting him range –'

‘Oh no, Evans!'

‘He won't go off, mum. Brindle's a good dog. It's the best way of finding Satan: set a dog to find a dog.'

Gladys hesitated and looked at Miss Pink who, seeing that her opinion was being solicited, if not her advice, asked where he would search first.

He was grim. ‘First I'd comb the Reserve: do a sweep search like the police does when they're looking for bodies. I've not told you this, mum, but you remember them shots Friday afternoon, when we was talking in the yard? There was shots from up the combe, west of here. I went out to see what there was to see. I had me suspicions. Our land, wasn't it? Well, I got a mile or so from here, on foot I was, and I heard shots back the way: east, way down towards the village. All them shots was on our land, mum.'

‘Oh, Evans. Really!'

‘I'm taking Brindle. Can I take the master's shotgun?'

‘No. Definitely not. Not without permission.'

‘He'd give me permission.'

‘He isn't here. You know better than to ask me that, Evans.'

‘Then I'll take the dog, mum.'

It was couched as a statement but they knew it was a question. He wanted her to assume the responsibility. Gladys turned to Miss Pink again. The latter rose from her chair.

‘I'll come with you, Mr Evans. I want to walk in the Reserve anyway, and this is a neat compromise: to do it under protection.'