Louisa Bennet - Monty and Me

‘Bloody kids!’ I hear him say.

He disappears from view and Dante returns.

‘Knock again,’ I say.

‘My beak’s getting sore,’ Dante complains, but follows my instructions.

I hear Larry, his voice angry. ‘Right, you little bastards, I’m going to give you a bloody good hiding.’

The door opens wide and a skinny man, with a face like a whippet and legs like a chicken, stands there in his burgundy nylon dressing-gown. Larry Nice has been smoking weed and is enveloped by an acrid fug. Initially, that’s all I can smell. It’s overpowering. I remember Paddy’s killer smelt of it too, so I stand my ground, bedraggled, a filthy grey, on his soggy doormat.

Larry gawps at me. ‘What the f—’

I jump up, pressing my nose against his skin, but he thinks I am about to bite and he squeals. I knock chicken-whippet man flat on his back. He lies winded on a carpet that stinks of beer, then struggles to push me off him. His slippery dressing-gown is short sleeved and in the struggle my claws scratch his arm, but he has no bite mark. He smells of cheap aftershave and pubs, Rich Tea biscuits and polystyrene. But not that weird, stinky food stench, and not the disease that reminds me of an insect, which I still can’t place. As I charge out of the door and down the steps, I know for certain that Larry Nice did not kill my master.

Rose helped PC Joe Salisbury raise the roller door to Larry Nice’s lock-up on the Truscott Estate, wearing an unflattering blue rain jacket that made her look like a blueberry. Her shoes were soaked through from searching for Monty in the rain. She’d woken to find the dog gone and Kay’s old torch in the garden. How Monty had escaped she had no idea since the exterior doors were shut.

‘This is going to take a while,’ said Salisbury, jolting her from her cogitation.

The garage was packed full of boxes.

Salisbury’s uniform had attracted a small crowd of jeering teenage boys. The oldest, probably eighteen, shouted, ‘Filth!’ and threw a bottle, which hit Rose’s arm, then shattered at her feet. Salisbury was a muscular giant whose mere presence was usually enough to cause troublemakers to think twice. He headed for the perpetrator, who turned to run but Rose got there first. Shoving him into the wall, she cuffed one wrist and then the other before the stunned offender knew what was happening. The rest of the gang scarpered.

‘Name?’ Rose demanded.

‘I ain’t saying nothing.’

‘Hold him,’ she said to Salisbury. She searched his pockets and found a wallet and driving licence. ‘Damien Flannery.’ Rose looked at the young offender. ‘I’m Detective Constable Rose Sidebottom and you’re going to apologise for throwing that bottle at me.’

‘Get fu—!’

‘Language!’ snapped Salisbury.

‘If you apologise,’ Rose continued, ‘I may change my mind about charging you with assaulting a police officer.’

Salisbury gave Rose a questioning look. She ignored it. ‘Well, I’m waiting.’

‘No way.’

‘I’m still waiting,’ she said, cupping an ear.

‘You got it all wrong. The bottle fell. I didn’t throw nothing.’

‘Don’t make me do it,’ she warned.

‘All right, all right.’ Flannery scanned the carpark, checking nobody was within ear shot. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered.

‘Right. Consider this a warning. Now you leave us alone to get on with our jobs, okay?’

‘Yes, detective.’

Salisbury undid the handcuffs and Flannery shuffled off, hands in pockets.

‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’ Salisbury asked. ‘Not even a formal caution?’

‘We don’t want a riot on our hands, and anyway, he’s young. I want to give him a second chance.’

Salisbury shook his head but didn’t argue.

‘Best we get started,’ she said and tore open a box.

‘You handled yourself well just then.’

‘Thanks, Joe.’

Rose had always considered Salisbury handsome, despite a potato-shaped chin hidden beneath a thick beard. At Police College she had developed a crush on him, but it became obvious he was in love with a local nurse so she’d resigned herself to the role of friend. Now he was married, a devoted father to a baby boy, and her closest mate at the nick.

The first few boxes contained flat screen TVs, the next, iPads.

‘Must’ve fallen off the back of a lorry,’ Salisbury joked.

Rose plonked down on a box of a dozen bottles of shiraz, rubbing her arm.

‘What’s the matter?’ Salisbury asked. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘No.’

‘Is this about Operation Nailgun?’

Rose nodded.

‘It’s no secret Leach laid into you. But look on the bright side. He gave you a second chance.’

Rose leaned forward so her forearms rested on the tops of her thighs, and stared at the concrete floor. Leaves from a nearby elm tree blew into the garage and swirled around her soggy shoes.

‘I’ve been a complete idiot, but I’m going to show everyone I can do this. I know I can.’ If she kept telling herself this, perhaps it really would come true? ‘My problem is Pearl. He’s made it clear he wants me gone from Major Crime.’

Salisbury opened a wine box next to her. ‘Gotta say he doesn’t seem very supportive.’ Earlier, Pearl had taken Salisbury aside and loudly instructed him to, ‘Make sure she doesn’t turn this into a bloody fiasco.’ He’d intended her team mates to hear.

‘And he’s supposed to be mentoring me. How perfect is that? Who’s the boss going to believe? Him or me?’

Salisbury moved on to the next box. ‘You’re just going to have to make sure you don’t put a foot wrong. Don’t give Dave any reason to push you out.’

She shook her head. ‘And to cap it all, the dog I rescued from the vet, you know, Monty, has run away.’

‘That dog’s a survivor. I’m sure he’ll turn up safe and sound.’

She covered her face with her hands. Tears were welling up in her eyes. Stop it, you baby! she said to herself.

Salisbury gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. ‘Rose, I think you need a cuppa and some breakfast. Knowing you, you haven’t had anything to eat. How’s about I go get us some?’

Rose couldn’t help but look at him and smile. Salisbury was a firm believer that a cup of tea could help solve almost any crisis. ‘Love a bacon and egg sarnie, and tea would be great. Thanks, Joe, you’re a real mate.’

As Salisbury strode off to the café round the corner, Rose continued the laborious task of opening every one of Larry Nice’s boxes. She shoved yet another wine box aside to get to the back of the lock-up when she heard a clank of metal on metal. Kneeling, she discovered a black backpack that seemed out of place in a sea of cardboard. She unzipped the top of the pack, her hands in disposable gloves. She glimpsed polished silver plates, a silver teapot and candelabra. She immediately called Pearl.

‘That inventory from Salt’s insurer. Any chance it listed some silverware that’s now missing?’

Rose heard him yell across the room to Detective Sergeant Kamlesh Varma, who confirmed that some silverware was indeed missing from Salt’s house and that the fastidious professor had photographed all his precious possessions and sent the images to his insurance company. Varma had these photos.

‘Can you send the photos to me via WhatsApp, sir?’

She received them within seconds and compared them to the contents of the bag. Identical.

‘Well, I think we may have found the missing silver,’ she said to Pearl, spotting Joe returning with breakfast.

‘Don’t touch anything else. I’m on my way,’ said Pearl.