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invisible cord dragged her onto the
pavement. She circled and weaved, then turned right and moved slowly towards
the end of the cul-de-sac.
    Harkness
stood and joined the two firemen, all of them breathing softly as if any sound
might disturb this delicate instrument. The dog paused at the gate of number
twelve, glanced down the driveway, took one short, hard breath and barked once,
twice. Harkness felt the blood pounding in his temples and dared to imagine
that the case could be this simple and this grotesque. He trotted after the
firemen, for a second failing to understand one’s smirk and the other’s slowly shaking
head as something let loose a banshee howl full of spite and menace.
    The
dog barked again but, at a command from its handler, sat and ignored the
provocation. The cat on the driveway of number twelve continued to arch and
fizz as if glued to a live rail. Then, perhaps recognising something in
Harkness’s eyes, it tucked in its tail and ran to the back of the house, a
marvel of grace and stealth but for the frantic jingling of the bell on its
flea-collar. 
    The
dog was urged away from the gate and encouraged to once more scour the ground
for any whiff of accelerants, that magic trigger that would win her approval,
food and play. Harkness fell into step with McKay, willing the quaking in his
chest to subside.
    “She
was spot on last time, but it’s not an exact science,” said McKay, examining
his palms. “Most of the time, we get nothing. Unless we’re in someone’s house
and we’re expecting to find it. Which I don’t suppose is that useful right
now.”
    “Last
time?”
    “Byron Street.”
    “That
was really the last time? That’s two years ago.” Harkness shook his head and
rubbed a hand over yesterday’s stubble.
    “’Fraid
so. Nice dog though.”
    “Yes.
Charming.”
    The
dog was sweeping the pavement next to Slowey’s Fiesta, attracting the attention
of a grey-haired woman in the passenger seat. Slowey seemed to be reaching for
something in the foot-well. A bark made Slowey start and glare with an
inquiring flex of the eyebrows at the three men staring at him.
    The
dog circled the car’s rear bumper, stood to attention there and barked again
with a note of finality. A trail of greasy and fragrant delight had dripped
from the petrol cap and was without doubt an accelerant. Her job was done and
her treat was long overdue.
    “Sadly,
he’s got a good alibi,” said Harkness. “Perhaps Gretel can write her own
statement.”
     
     
     
    “I’ll
get her prints some other time,” said Slowey, as they watched Marjorie waving
at them in regal fashion from the back of a departing taxi.
    “What
did you make of her?” said Harkness, allowing himself a cigarette and relishing
every filthy, toxic particle as his heart slowed to walking pace. He blew a
lungful of stale air through the Fiesta’s open passenger window, grateful he
could no longer smell his own breath, and slotted the lighter back into the
dashboard. The smoke dispersed slowly, the air sluggish and thick with other
poisons.
    “Sad
and mad but not bad. Didn’t really get to the bottom of her story but she
didn’t like her neighbours. Mind you, cooped up in that house with mentalist
son and crippled husband, or vice versa; that’d make me twitchy. She’s the only
witness so far though, and she saw nothing, just heard gravel.” 
    “As
your supervisor, I really should address some of your training needs,
particularly when it comes to disrespectful terms for the otherwise enabled.
What about the ranting man?”
    “Interesting.
Keith Braxton, not so solid citizen of this parish. Form for fighting but not
much else, lives over the road. Thoroughly enjoyed himself tonight. Not long
before closing time at the Friars Vaults, he sees Dale Murphy getting thrown
out. Dale’s tanked up and fighting with ‘some scrote’. Keith doesn’t like Dale
on account of him being a prison officer. He doesn’t like coppers either,