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been better if we’d
rehearsed it.”
    “They’re
dead, aren’t they?” Her shoulders sagged and tears ebbed along the creases in
her face and onto the knuckle pressed against her teeth. “I’ve lied,” she spat,
the fine spray merging with the dimples of the car’s cheap trim. “I’m weak and
stupid and now they’re dead because of me.”
    Slowey
goggled, glanced at his notes and prodded his wilting brain into recalling what
he’d said to her. Then, as if he were stalking some twitchy prey, he lowered
his voice to a whisper and inched slowly towards her.
    “Let’s
have the truth then, Marjorie. We can’t bring them back, but we can still help
them. I’m going to stay here and look after you but let’s have the truth.”
    He
slid his notebook into the foot-well as if he were surrendering a gun. She
nodded, shoulders hunched, and opened her mouth to speak but found only thick
sobs. Slowey draped a hand over her shoulder, but the jagged bones neither
flinched nor yielded. Then something flexed inside her and her spine was
straight again, her chin high and she was blowing hard into the tissues.
    “I’m
alright, it’s alright.” She opened her eyes wide to show him that the
storm-clouds had blown over. “I didn’t particularly like them, that’s all. I
know that sounds silly. But I heard some footsteps on their gravel, five
minutes or so before I knew there was a fire. I heard a sort of sloshing noise
and something like tearing and feet running away. I could have looked, could
have done something, anything, but I didn’t. I just thought, they’ll be having
a fight or a party or being a nuisance and I won’t be disturbed, not this time.
And now look. I could have phoned someone.”
    A
bark from the world outside punctured their bubble. Slowey glared at the
gawping men and the dog that seemed to be stalking his car. Marjorie, voice
dwindling, was holding her breath and twisting to follow the dog’s orbit.
     
     
     
    Gretel
bounded from the van and into the cul-de-sac, eyes glossy with joy and head
held high, the better to drink in the sights, sounds and, most vitally, smells.
Her new, bespoke shoes, the latest in canine kevlar, scuffed the pavement, but
this didn’t stop her tail from flickering fast enough to make her wobble from
side to side. As she drew close to number thirteen and the history of the blaze
changed from mere odour to explosion of sensation, she cast longing glances at
her handler and tugged at the lead to make him understand her joy.
    Harkness
looked on from his perch on the footstep of a fire engine. He’d discarded the
protective gear and tried and failed to restore order to his suit, which had
become a coordinated set of sweat-sodden rags. Swigging from a bottle of warm
water, he raised a hand to acknowledge a nod from the dog handler.  He’d
briefed McKay and needed this opportunity to watch, think and remain conscious.
    The
dog, introduced to Harkness as a Spaniador, was a sleek, black missile of
curious energy. As gregarious as one parent and as frantic as the other, the
breed had proved ideal for the sport of sniffing out all manner of lethal
substances, from cocaine hidden under windowsills to unleaded petrol
unwittingly carried away on the hands and clothing of arsonists.     
    Off
the lead now, and at a gesture from the handler, the dog swept the driveway,
tail swinging like a metronome and head down, nose hoovering up and filtering a
panoply of chemicals.  The snuffling intensified at the doorstep and in the
hallway, and she retraced her steps and repeated the exercise before standing
erect in the door frame and issuing a resounding bark that must have been
borrowed from a bigger dog.
    A
tickle behind the ears was gratefully received, but the hoped for snack or toy
was not forthcoming. The dog was coaxed back onto the driveway and invited to
track the odour backwards. For long minutes, she found hope in every displaced
pebble, every drowned weed, then an