The Day of the Jack Russell (Mystery Man) by Colin Bateman Page A

what’re you looking for in there and has it anything to do with what you think is missing in here? Mystery Man, are you listening to me?’
    I came back into the doorway. ‘I haven’t sneezed.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘What am I allergic to?’
    ‘ Everything .’
    ‘When we were out the back, there was no smell of pee. Usually there is. Damp weather like we have tonight usually makes it more pungent.’
    ‘What are you . . .?’
    ‘And then in the kitchen, no bowl on the floor, that’s fair enough, a neighbour might be looking after him, but you’d expect there to be some food in the cupboards. Do you see what I’m driving at?’
    Alison gave me a look. ‘The Jack Russell?’
    ‘Yes, the Jack Russell. I’m allergic to dogs, you know that.’
    Alison folded her arms. ‘Oh this will be good, I’m sure. Wait, let me try and second-guess you. The Jack Russell being a witness to the murders is now on the run scared for his life. We have to bring him in so he can identify the murderer by barking once for yes that’s him and twice for he looks a bit like that but not quite, maybe try him with a beard. Or maybe Marple has him banged up in some canine Guantanamo Bay; maybe he’s being denied a doggy lawyer; maybe the late lamented Jeff ought to start a campaign to get him released.’
    ‘Finished?’
    ‘Yes. Okay. So how does the bloody dog being missing contribute to our understanding of the case?’
    I shrugged. ‘I was only pointing out a difference . I don’t see that it contributes anything to the solving of the case.’
    ‘Right. Brilliant. Do you not think we’d be better spending our time . . .’ She sighed. ‘You are so annoying. And FYI, Mystery Man, the Jack Russell is dead.’
    ‘How do . . .?’
    ‘He is no more. He is an ex-Jack Russell.’
    Her eyebrow rose ever so slightly and a glint appeared in her eye. She was challenging me. For those few moments the murders no longer mattered. How Alison, with her inferior intellect and intimate knowledge only of bangles and comics, could have deduced the fact of the dog’s demise based on one photograph and our current location defied logic. I quickly reviewed the evidence and immediately concluded that I had, almost literally, been barking up the wrong tree. Forensics officers had hoovered up every single doggy hair, which is why I hadn’t sneezed. Yet there was no dog bowl in the kitchen, no dog food in the cupboards. Outside, there was no smell of dog pee. The only evidence for the existence of the Jack Russell was its photograph. It therefore seemed obvious that I had misread the photograph. The sign of a good detective is one who isn’t afraid to re-examine the evidence and change his mind.
    ‘The dog was already dead,’ I said. Alison looked disappointed, but not, I think, surprised. ‘That was a photograph of a stuffed Jack Russell.’
    ‘Correctimundo. They bought it at a car boot sale just for a laugh. Everything about them was a laugh, right up to the point where they got bludgeoned to death.’
    ‘Okay. Dead dog. Let’s file that under irrelevant. Can we go now?’
    ‘Go? Man, dear, I’ve hardly started.’
    And she was serious. I had to admire her commitment, though I didn’t share it. I didn’t like being in this house of the dead, in a dangerous neighbourhood where they would beat you to a pulp first and probably not ask questions later. My stomach cramped suddenly and I winced.
    ‘I think I need to . . .’ I thumbed upstairs.
    ‘Just like a burglar. You do that. I’ll concentrate on evidence-gathering.’
    Although it wasn’t in itself sarcastic, there was a sarcastic way about her that wasn’t attractive. She was understandably in love with me, but that would wane, given time and experience. If the child proved to be mine – and I had every intention of seeking scientific confirmation – and presuming that the courts would sympathise with her, then I would have to find a way of getting it away from her. No Alibis