The Balance of Guilt (21 page)

He didn’t let on that another story had already fallen into his grateful arms. Ali Tanton had rung. She was upset, crying down the phone, and it took a few minutes to calm her. The spies were still refusing to let her see John’s body, or to release it for burial and she wanted to speak out about the way she was being treated. The thought of another exclusive, and one which included criticism of the spooks, was far too enjoyable to resist.

It would give him something to do at least, because it didn’t look like he would be needed on the investigation. Adam had called a little earlier. The surveillance on the suspects had revealed nothing. All were behaving absolutely normally.

‘Surely that means Ahmed still has to be the prime suspect?’ Dan asked. ‘By a process of elimination.’

‘Yep,’ Adam replied. ‘But the problem remains I don’t have anything like enough evidence to think about charging him and it’s looking more and more likely that tomorrow I’ll have to let him go. Unless you’ve got any ideas?’

‘Nope. I’ve been thinking about it all day and I haven’t got a thing. I keep going back to the arcade and what he was doing in those seconds when he disappeared. I’m sure there’s something we’ve missed.’

‘Like what?’

Dan sighed. ‘Don’t know,’ he said resignedly. ‘I’ve been going through the list of names and numbers on Ahmed’s phone too, but I haven’t come up with anything there either.’

With a supreme effort at tolerance and self-sacrifice, Dan had paid a quick visit to the Geeks. It was like babysitting two particularly annoying children, but without the reward of pay.

‘Dan, Dan the TV man’s back!’ was the cackled greeting. There were a couple of spins around on their chairs and a high-five, but in terms of substance Flash and Gordon could make nothing of the list. Their conclusion was that there was too much information. The names and numbers could hide just about anything. Yes, there may be a hexadecimal code, but if so it was lost in the mass of letters and digits. To find anything, they would need a better idea of what they were looking for.

Wasting time was bad enough, Dan reflected. But having the empty moments filled with irritants was worse by far.

Adam’s tired voice on the phone said, ‘I guess we’ve hit a dead end, haven’t we?’

‘I fear you’re right. So, what next?’

‘I’ll keep working on it. You keep thinking about it. But for now, I’m going home. I need to see Tom and Annie. I could do with a hug.’

Dan slowed to a jog and called to Rutherford. The dog was sniffing at the Children’s Play Area, a forbidden zone. He came sprinting over and Dan grabbed him and gave him a cuddle.

There had still been no reply to the texts to Claire and Sarah. Maybe he’d got the messages entirely wrong and both women had taken offence. He wouldn’t put it past himself. Dan wondered whether to send them another text when he got back to the flat. Maybe, but knowing him it would just compound whatever sin he had committed. It was an important, but hard learned lesson in life; how often silence was by far the best policy.

Still, at least he hadn’t needed a beer today. He would go home, have a bath and an early night. The run was making him feel pleasantly tired. It had been a hell of a few days.

Rutherford was sniffing at some bushes on the edge of the park. Dan whistled, but the dog didn’t move so he started walking over. It was time for the reassurance of home.

‘Come on idiot,’ he called, peering through the gloom. ‘What are you up to?’

The dog was eating something, chewing hard. ‘Hey!’ Dan called. ‘What have I told you about not touching the things you find? You don’t know what they might be.’

Rutherford ignored him and kept munching. Dan jogged over, still calling. The dog turned, his eyes flashing in the half light. Dan was sure he saw fear in them.

‘What is it?’ he called. ‘What’s the matter boy?’

Rutherford stood absolutely still. Not even his tail moved. Saliva was frothing at his mouth. He let out a little yelp, took a faltering step forwards, then another, staggered, and dropped onto his side.

The hollow thud was a sickening sound.

Dan fell beside him. The dog’s breathing was fast and ragged. Dan ran a hand over his head, then placed it onto his chest. Rutherford’s heart was racing.

‘Shit, shit, shit!’ Dan heard himself yell. ‘No, please no.’

In the grass, by the bushes, were a couple of pieces of raw steak. They were covered in pellets. They looked like the kind his neighbour used to kill slugs. Irresistible, but potentially lethal to dogs, Dan always took great care to make sure Rutherford went nowhere near them.

Slug pellets. A renowned dog poison.

Rutherford let out another little yelp. His breathing was growing more shallow. His mouth was frothing, the foam of bubbles gathering across his cheek. Dan heard himself moan.

He tapped at the dog’s face, then again, harder this time. No reaction. He tried again.

Still no response.

From the canopy of a tree, a hidden crow cawed.

Rutherford blinked, his eyes flickered and slipped slowly closed.

I
T WAS THE LONGEST
night Dan could remember.

The lingering sicknesses of childhood, the slow minutes waiting for the deaths of close relatives, even those five months ago, that evening with Claire, so filled with bitterness and bile, even that didn’t compare. Then, it was adults, able to understand what they were going through, to accept each had some part in the pain they shared. Then, he had the comfort of beer, the great blue sofa in the flat and his beloved dog. Now he sat alone, in a vet’s surgery, staring at an innocent animal as he lay stricken on the operating table.

Rutherford was alive. But Cara, the young vet, had gently tried to prepare Dan for what might yet come to pass.

‘He’s holding in there. But it’s touch and go.’

The question was almost impossible to ask. ‘Be honest with me – please. Just how touch and go?’

She fiddled with a lock of her blonde hair. ‘He ate quite a few of the pellets. That’s the problem with them. They’re irresistible to dogs and they’re very toxic. Slug pellet poisoning is something vets see a lot of. We’ve often tried to talk to the manufacturers about changing the mix of chemicals, but …’

‘How damned touch and go?’ Dan heard himself shout.

She put a hand on his shoulder and looked into his eyes. ‘In his favour, he’s a big dog, he’s fit and we treated him quickly. Against him – he’s not as young as he was and his system’s taken quite a battering. I’d have to say it’s about, well … fifty-fifty.’

Fifty-fifty. The toss of a coin. Red or black on a roulette wheel. The turn of a card. To determine the fate of his wonderful dog.

Fifty-fifty.

And for a pessimist such as Dan, that sounded like a death sentence. He gathered his breath, thanked Cara and sat hunched over, gazing at Rutherford.

He had at least had one stroke of luck. On the off chance that Claire or Sarah should text while he was out running, Dan had taken his mobile. Over the past couple of years Cara had treated Rutherford for a series of minor ailments, usually the dog managing to injure himself while out walking. Once he’d poked himself in the eye with a stick, then, just days later, cut himself on some rusty barbed wire. On another occasion he’d somehow contrived to get a piece of wood stuck in his throat.

One of her best customers was how Cara described the clown of a canine, as she fussed over him. Dan had got her on television a couple of times, when
Wessex Tonight
needed animal experts to interview, they’d become half-friends and she had given Dan her mobile number in case of need.

That night he had so very much needed. When she’d managed to decipher what he wanted through the tears and breathless, stuttering sentences, she had responded and fast, getting to the stricken dog within minutes. She’d had to slap Dan to make him realise she was there and to force some rationality into him.

Together they carried Rutherford to her van and she drove to the surgery. Dan sat with him, in the back, stroking the dog’s head the whole way. He was barely conscious, occasionally opening a flickering eye, then closing it again, the bubbles of froth still forming around his mouth. Cara braked hard at some traffic lights, making Dan hit his head hard on a shelf, but he hadn’t noticed. He could perceive nothing but his dog, hovering in the twilight hinterland between life and death.

When they got back to the surgery Rutherford started twitching, his legs and head shifting spasmodically. Even his beautiful tail was jerking back and forth. All Dan could do was hold his paws and stroke them.

‘He’s fitting,’ Cara said. ‘Come on, quick, help me get him inside. We don’t have much time.’

They carried the dog’s dense weight into the surgery and placed him gently on the operating table. Dan had to focus on each step, so badly was he shaking. Rutherford was anaesthetised and put on a drip, and that was about all Dan understood of what was going on.

Cara explained she was trying to make him rest while the treatment flushed the pellets from his system. There was something about chemistry, and canine biology too, but none of this registered. All Dan could see was his unconscious dog, lying on a metal slab, a drip pumping chemicals into his body.

He had no idea of time. He was wearing his running kit, just shorts and a T-shirt, could sense the prickly sweat drying on him, but didn’t feel cold. All he could see was Rutherford, prone, on the operating table, his breathing so shallow it was near to imperceptible.

‘There’s nothing you can do,’ Cara said, her face a sympathetic smile. ‘It’s just a question of waiting now.’

‘Uh huh.’

‘That’s all we can do. Just wait.’

‘Uh huh.’

‘It’s OK to go home if you want to.’

‘Uh huh.’

‘I’ve put him deep under. He doesn’t know you’re here. He doesn’t know anything and he’s not suffering. There’s nothing you can do for him at the moment.’

‘Uh huh.’

‘You might as well go home, really.’

‘Uh huh.’

‘You’re going to stay, aren’t you?’

‘Uh huh.’

Cara had left Dan a spare set of keys to the surgery.

‘I’m going to go home and get some sleep. I’ll be back first thing in the morning. I’ll keep my mobile by my bed. Just call if you need anything.’

‘Uh huh.’

‘It might be best if you go home and get some rest. You’ve had a terrible shock.’

‘Uh huh.’

‘Look, if you do decide to go home, just lock up the doors and give me the keys back in the morning.’

‘Uh huh.’

She’d left, locking the surgery behind her. And Dan had sat and watched Rutherford, counting each one of the dog’s shallow breaths.

The half-light of the surgery picked out the sleek beauty of his fur. There were so many colours in his coat. Dan wondered why he had never properly noticed them before. Black and white, brown and buff, tan and grey. He was an autumn dog.

On the subject of which, Christmas wouldn’t be long in coming. Dan would have to do a proper shop and make sure he bought a big turkey. It was Rutherford’s favourite and he deserved it. Unlike humans, he never grew fed up with the endless seasonal leftovers. Dan suspected Christmas was the dog’s happiest time of year. There was the fresh poultry to look forward to, and his master could usually be guaranteed at least a few days free from Lizzie’s tyrannical reign for plenty of walks.

Perhaps that was what he was dreaming of, as he lay on this slab of a table. Turkey and winter walks.

Dan blinked back the blurring in his eyes and focused on his dog. Rutherford’s claws needed cutting. The curves of nail were growing just a little too long, made that sharp scrabbling noise when he turned on a pavement or the kitchen floor. Dan would have to get that sorted out. He couldn’t have his beloved dog looking anything less than his best.

How he had changed since those puppy days. Then, the young Rutherford had been a shy and meek creature, sniffing hesitantly around the flat on his first homecoming, always with an eye to his new master, anticipating disapproval. But he had soon grown into a confident and fine dog, athletic and strong.

Until tonight.

Dan wiped away another wave of tears. His brain registered a thirst. There was no beer, here in a vet’s surgery in the middle of the night. And how he could have done with one, and another, and another. He found the sink and slurped some water from the tap.

He circled the metal table. Rutherford’s colourings were almost perfectly symmetrical, just a couple of sprays of his tan coat spoiling the balance. A puff of black fur floated from his tail. Dan reached out and caught it, was going to put it in the bin, but hesitated and instead placed it in the pocket of his shorts.

He noticed he was shivering. The T-shirt he wore was damp and clammy. Dan stripped it off, found a towel, dried his body, then wrapped it around his shoulders. He took a white coat from the wall, put that on too and laid another over his legs.

Rutherford twitched, just the slight motion of a paw. Dan was on his feet in an instant. The dog’s eyes were still closed, his breathing slight, but it was a hint of life, an expression of his fighting spirit, a good sign.

It had to be.

Dan ran a gentle finger over the dog’s flank. ‘Come on old friend,’ he whispered. ‘Keep fighting. Pull through for me. Please. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

He turned away and walked around the white and sterile room. Posters for worm treatments. Lists of symptoms to look for with a variety of dog ailments. Cabinets of wipes and instruments, packets and bottles of pills and tablets.

Car headlights flared through the surgery, spinning shadows. Dan sat back down, rested his head in his hands, then got up again, walked to the sink and splashed water onto his face.

He looked back at the table. Rutherford’s nose was oddly dry, more so than Dan had ever seen before. A memory surfaced of one of the dog’s most annoying habits. If his master had the cheek to oversleep, a damp and insistent nuzzle was the standard alarm call. Dan almost smiled, but the expression wouldn’t come.

He took out his phone. Its display said the time was just after midnight. Still no messages from Claire or Sarah.

It was late, very late to call, but how he could do with a hug. He found Claire’s number, hesitated, then rang. Her answer machine clicked straight in. She was in bed, asleep, no doubt. Dan didn’t leave a message.

He found Sarah’s number. It rang and she answered quickly. Somehow, he knew she wouldn’t be asleep.

‘Hello tiger,’ she chirped. ‘I was wondering when I’d hear from you. It’s a bit late, but it’s always a pleasure.’

‘Sarah, I could do with your help.’

She heard his pain and her voice changed. ‘What’s the matter?’

Dan found a constriction had formed in his throat. He gulped it away and explained.

‘Do you want to come round?’ she asked. ‘You’re very welcome. I’ll look after you.’

‘I can’t leave. I need to stay here with him. I was hoping – I was wondering …’

‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

Dan stood up again and rested his head on Rutherford’s side. He could hear a heartbeat, but it was faint, so horribly tenuous, such a faltering link to life. He felt the tears forming again, wiped them away and sat back down. A shiver sparked through his body.

Headlights at the windows. A car door opened. Dan got up, let Sarah in and led her to the operating room. He had no thought about how he must look, dressed in trainers, shorts, a towel and a white coat. She was wearing boots, tight jeans and an even tighter black top.

Together, they stood looking at Rutherford. ‘It’s not exactly the way I wanted you to meet him,’ Dan managed, before his voice broke. She reached out and hugged him hard. He closed his eyes and let her, felt her warmth encompassing him.

‘You poor, poor thing,’ Sarah soothed. ‘You must be feeling dreadful. Let me look after you.’

She cuddled him more, stroked his hair, started to push herself rhythmically against him and tried to find his lips.

‘Sarah, this is a vet’s surgery,’

‘Mmm, could be fun, eh?’

Dan tried to free himself. ‘Look, I’m sorry, it’s nothing against you, but I’m not exactly feeling my best at the moment.’

She gave him an alluring pout. ‘You sure?’

‘Very.’

Sarah ruffled his hair. ‘It was worth a try. OK then, tell me what happened?’

Dan got himself another drink of water, then told her about the run in the park and the steaks.

‘He was poisoned?’ she said, appalled. ‘How horrible. Do you think whoever did it was trying to get Rutherford, or just any dog? Whoever would do something like that?’

Dan recoiled at the merciless impact of realisation. The possibility had simply not occurred to him. In the shock of what happened all he had thought about was Rutherford, how to try to save him and whether he would live or die.

Now a new understanding took hold, spreading fast through his mind. And with it, a firing flame of anger.

‘Are you OK?’ Sarah was saying. ‘You’ve gone white.’

‘Yeah. Listen, there’s something I need to do. I’m sorry, I don’t want you to think I’m not grateful for you coming out here, I really am, but there’s just something I need to do. I need to do it now and I need to do it alone. Would you mind?’

She got up from the chair. ‘Dan, what the hell’s going on?’

‘I – I can’t tell you at the moment. I will explain, but it’ll have to wait a day or two.’ He led her firmly towards the doors, opened them, and with a careless afterthought planted a kiss on her cheek. ‘I’ll give you a ring.’

She got into her car and drove quickly off, didn’t wave. Dan hardly noticed. He walked back to the operating table. Rutherford was still prone, unmoving. Another blade of anger stabbed at him.

Dan picked up his mobile and called El.

‘Mate, you OK?’ came the sleepy reply.

‘Yeah, kind of. Listen, tonight, were you doing as we arranged?’

‘Yeah.’

‘The whole night?’

‘No, not all of it. I was there until you left the flat with your dog. You had your gym kit on. I figured you were out running and that you’d be fine in a public place.’

‘Did you get anyone?’

‘There were a few people coming and going. I did get the feeling this one guy was checking the flat when he walked past, but that was about it.’

‘Did you snap him?’

‘Yeah, of course. Hang on, I’ll get me camera.’

Dan could hear a scrabbling at the end of the phone. Finally El said, ‘Right, hang on, just spooling through. Alright, got him.’

‘Describe him to me.’

El did. Dan leaned back on his chair, then tilted his head and screamed wild abuse at the ceiling. He stood perfectly still for a few seconds, and then let it vent once more. The seething, boiling, septic, venomous and bubbling rage.

Dan strode around the surgery, shouting and yelling. He pounded his fists on the wall, kicked out at a bin. It went spinning and clattering across the floor. He followed it with another kick, then another, pitting its shiny surface with dents. He fell to his knees and pummelled his knuckles into it, drugged and demented with dizzying fury.

He grabbed for the taps, ran the water ice cold and plunged his head under it, opened his eyes and watched the droplets cascade from his face. He gripped the sides of the sink until his hands turned white.