The Spotted Dog Read online

Ma’ani laughed. It was like water splashing in an underground sea cave. ‘Yair, well. I’m here on God’s work too, son. Feedin’ the poor’s what we do. What do you think you’re doing that’s so important?’ The mighty hand waggled his captive slightly, and gently lowered him until both feet were on the footpath. But the iron grip on his hoodie, at the scruff of the neck, did not loosen.

  Jordan recapitulated his sorry tale of Hunt the Heretic and Ma’ani laughed again. ‘What do we do with this bloke, Aunty Corinna?’

  I shook my head in frustration. ‘I don’t know, Ma’ani. Short of clubbing him to death, it looks like he’s going to keep on coming.’

  ‘I could cook him and eat him for you,’ he suggested. ‘It’s no trouble, really. I could turn him into a hangi.’

  ‘That is a very kind offer, Ma’ani. I’ll think about it.’

  Jordan unleashed a torrent of what seemed to be frenzied Latin, and Ma’ani bent his ear to listen. Then he grinned.

  ‘Right. So yer a Catholic, are ya? You’re coming with me, son. I’m taking you to see Sister Mary. She’s a Catholic, too, and she’s in damn big with God. Youse can explain yourself to her.’

  I handed Ma’ani the sack of bread we reserved for the Soup Run, and he hoisted it over one mighty shoulder. With the other hand, he picked up Jordan again, without any apparent effort, and carried him off into the growing dawn.

  Jason and I looked at each other. My apprentice grinned at me. ‘Problem solved, Captain?’

  ‘I hope so, Midshipman. And we may as well begin with the bread. Today’s specials: fig, almond and apricot sourdough, and potato bread.’ I paused, remembering where he had been yesterday. ‘And you can try your hand at baklava.’

  ‘Aye-aye, Captain!’

  And so we slipped into our routine. Autopilot is a dangerous thing when surrounded by large ovens, but we did all the standard things and admired our handiwork busily turning itself into yeasty delights. The potato bread was simple enough. The fig, almond and apricot I had done before, and I knew what changes to make so it would not get too soggy. When all the breads were well underway, I turned to my midshipman.

  ‘Jason? Ready to show me what you learnt yesterday?’

  ‘Yai-yai says I’m getting the hang of it,’ he told me proudly.

  Yai-yai was right. I admired considerably as Jason removed three sheets of filo pastry from the fridge and laid them out. I noted with approval the fact that each sheet had a damp tea towel spread over it to keep it from drying out and flaking. He combined almonds, walnuts, caster sugar, cloves and cinnamon in a bowl, and seized a sharp knife and held it up next to his mouth. Last week I had caught him putting it between his teeth like a pirate’s cutlass. I had forbidden this, and he understood why. This was his Pretend-I’m-A-Pirate moment and, so long as the gesture remained incomplete, I was okay with it. He winked, and I nodded tolerantly. He whipped off the first tea towel, smeared the surface with unsalted butter, sliced the sheet into three, and expertly shovelled on the nut mixture. Almost before I knew it, he had a huge aluminium tray filled with baklava cigars.

  Removing a tray of bread, he loaded his confection into the oven. ‘Fifteen minutes, Captain,’ he sang out, and I set the timer accordingly.

  After that, I watched him make up a syrup with lemon zest, cinnamon sticks, cloves, sugar and water. Finally, he produced a large plastic jar filled with crushed pistachio nuts and shook it like a maraca. ‘Yai-yai says these come from Aegina,’ my apprentice told me. ‘They used to be pirates, but after Greek independence they decided to grow pistachios instead.’

  ‘I’m sure their neighbours appreciated the career change,’ I suggested.

  When the timer went off, Jason slipped the tray from the oven, poured his syrup over the baklava and topped it with a thick dusting of pistachio crumbs.

  ‘Most people put the pistachio in the middle,’ Jason informed me. ‘But Yai-yai says not to overdo it. A little pistachio goes a long way.’

  I reached out for a slightly burnt one at the edge and bit into it. Feeling his eyes fixed on my face imploringly, I took my time before speaking.

  ‘Jason, that is truly excellent,’ I told him. ‘It is possible that they were a little too long in the oven, but even so, I’ll bet there’s none left by closing time.’

  ‘It’s hard to scale up with baking time,’ he commented, leaning back against the sink. His hand took another of the slightly burnt cigars and devoured it. ‘Yep. Yai-yai said twelve minutes, but I thought fifteen because our ovens are bigger and I’m making more than she would. It’s triple the quantity she makes. Should I have gone for twenty?’

  ‘Too long. Maybe seventeen. But a brilliant first try, Midshipman. By the by, how are things at Cafe Delicious?’

  Jason nodded. ‘All right. Seventeen minutes next time. Del is fine now that their computer is clean again. Taz, Rat and Gully took care of it.’

  ‘Was there any indication of who was responsible?’ I wanted to know.

  ‘Nah, these guys don’t leave prints. Just standard ransomware, though. Gully said he could clean it off with his eyes shut.’

  This was probably true. Of the three members of Nerds Inc., Gully was the most dreamy. Of late, he seemed to be sleepwalking. The result, no doubt, of too many late nights staring at monitors, laptops and phones. Taz had decided to specialise in Android, which I assume is to do with phones. Rat had branched out into the ills and ailments of something called Ubuntu. I didn’t ask. But Gully still did what Gully always did, which was to vacuum up computer viruses and malware better than anyone else. But if we didn’t know where the ransomware had come from, then we didn’t know if it was related to any of our other mysteries. Of which we had far too many for my liking, I thought, frowning as I recalled Jordan’s reappearance.

  ‘All right, Midshipman. Potato bread, ho!’

  ‘Aye-aye, Cap’n.’

  By one o’clock we had finished for the day. I dismissed my workforce, keeping back a dozen of Jason’s baklava cigars. We had sold around fifty, but they still needed a little fine-tuning. He had gone back to see Yai-yai with two of the remaining cigars, to see what she thought of them. And I made up a platter of six and carried them to Mrs Dawson’s apartment.

  She answered my knock at her door, still in her dressing-gown. Well, well. Now here was an unexpected turn of events. She seemed flushed, and more relaxed than I had ever seen her. There was a certain Something in the air it seemed to me. She ushered me into the dining room and disappeared into the kitchen to make a pot of tea. Presently I was joined by Professor Monk, also in his dressing-gown, and looking complacent and happy.

  ‘My dear, how splendid to see you looking so well,’ he ventured.

  ‘And you also,’ I returned without a hint of insinuation in my voice, or so I hoped.

  I laid the platter of baklava on the dining room table, and the Professor sniffed appreciatively.

  ‘Jason’s latest experiment?’ he enquired.

  I nodded.

  ‘Splendid. And how are things at the Cafe Delicious?’

  Before I could answer, Mrs Dawson entered with a pot of tea. She poured tea and disbursed baklava, while I brought them up to speed with yesterday’s doings at the cafe. I then told them about the return of the prodigal early this morning.

  Mrs Dawson pursed her lips, and Dion Monk’s eyebrows raised a full centimetre. ‘How extraordinary!’ he exclaimed. ‘What a persistent young man he is. But you say he is now neutralised as a threat to my apartment?’

  ‘That may be so …’ Mrs Dawson leant back in her chair and beamed at him. ‘But let us not forget that the second burglar is still at large.’

  ‘Indeed not,’ I put in, eyeing them both. There were odd undercurrents to this conversation. ‘The second break-in could not possibly have been Jordan, so it is not safe for you to return to your apartment as yet.’

  ‘Ah,’ he answered mildly. ‘Well, in that case, if I may trespass on your hospitality a little longer, my dear …?’
/>   ‘Indeed you must. I insist upon it.’

  They exchanged a look best described as melting and I had the distinct feeling that I wanted to be elsewhere, as soon as possible. However, I had one more question to put to them.

  ‘Professor, have you had a chance to talk to Philomela?’

  He shook his head. ‘No – at least, I have attempted to, but all we have achieved is an agreement to speak when she feels up to it. I rather gained the impression that she is mute by means of trauma rather than disability. But that is still a formidable obstacle. When she is ready to converse with me, she will call. Until then …’ He sighed. ‘Oh dear. I do hope to have an end to these irruptions into our quiet, blameless lives. And this Maori enforcer? He will keep young Jordan suppressed?’

  ‘Oh yes. Ma’ani did offer to cook him and eat him, which seemed to make an impression.’

  ‘I remember hearing about the liberation of East Timor,’ Professor Monk said. ‘Apparently one of the Indonesian commanders was very unhappy about it. So the Australians crept into his tent one night and left an army badge pinned to his pillow. And because the Maori cannot help but go one better, they did what I believe is termed a creepy-crawly next night and left a knife pinned to the ground on one side of his pillow and …’ He paused.

  ‘Oh no. Really?’ I could see where this was going.

  ‘Oh yes. And a fork on the other side. I think a recent reputation for cannibalism can be very useful when used sparingly. Sister Mary might be more effective in doctrinal matters.’

  ‘I really hope so. But all the doctrine in the world is better when bolstered with bowel-knotting fear.’ I rose. ‘Thank you for the tea, Mrs Dawson. I must go and rest.’

  And with that, I left them to their own company, let myself into my apartment, and curled up with Horatio. I was asleep within minutes.

  I woke up suddenly and uncomfortably, threshing around in the blackness. Horatio protested, and I heard him jump down onto the carpet in offended silence. I glanced at my digital clock and saw it was 2.11 am. What sort of time was that?

  I checked my phone. Daniel had not called. No one had called. I had slept for nearly twelve hours, and theoretically I should be bounding out of bed, ready to take on the day and wrestle crocodiles if necessary. Instead, I felt as though someone had beaten me about the head with a shillelagh with nails in it.

  Horatio jumped back onto the bed and mewed at me. I switched the bedside light on. Normally after such a rude awakening he would be eager to go back to sleep, but he stayed in a crouch, staring pointedly at the door. ‘What’s wrong, little friend?’ I whispered. I touched his flanks. His whole body was tense. Quivering.

  This wasn’t good. I put on my dressing-gown, tied the cord around my middle and looked around for a weapon. In the absence of anything resembling a shillelagh, I grabbed a folded umbrella, grasped it firmly in my left hand and gave it a few practice twirls. My expensive girls school had provided me with many opportunities in sport and recreation. The only one I enjoyed was fencing. It had only been offered for one term, but I had taken my revenge on many of the slim bullies who were astonished to discover that the despised Fat Girl had quicker reflexes than they did, and packed a weighty left-handed punch with a foil. I often wondered if I had been responsible for fencing’s removal from the curriculum. But my reflexes were still adequate, and they might be needed now, because my ears had detected stealthy movements in the next room.

  And there was more. Unbelievably, I heard the sound of quiet singing, or possibly humming. It was very soft, as though someone were playing an Arabic instrument at the bottom of a very deep bathtub. The same little phrase, droning on and on but starting from a lower point each time. I froze – not out of fear, because by this point I was very angry indeed and was wanting to spread it around a little, but to await the optimum moment. When the droning hum subsided gradually into silence, I prepared to act.

  Urged on silently by my cat, I paced across my bedroom carpet, opened the door and flicked on the living room light. I took in the scene with mounting alarm. My bookcase was half-empty, and books and DVDs were strewn all over the floor. Standing in the middle of the floor, holding a substantial torch in one hand, was a black-clad ninja. Black trousers, black skivvy, black mask, black slippers. Only the hands and a pair of deep brown, fathomless eyes were visible. They blinked.

  ‘All right, Mr Ninja. Hands up!’ I bellowed.

  I ran across the room to stand between him and the exit. Yes, I know: the safer option would have been to encourage whoever it was to leave. But a boiling rage had erupted inside me. I had had altogether enough of this nonsense, and someone was going to be very sorry. The eyes followed mine. The chin nodded. He – I had to assume it was a he – lifted the torch and waved it in menacing circles. I slid towards him and jabbed him in the chest with the end of the umbrella. It must have hurt, for he grunted, and danced away towards the bathroom. I managed to stab him again in the side as he moved. My bathroom had a double-sided lock. If I could lure him in there I could turn the key on him and imprison him until help arrived. But his eyes flicked over the lock with the key still in it, and he pirouetted away from the door and back towards my bedroom.

  ‘Stay out of there!’ I growled. No ninja was going anywhere near my cat!

  I moved to block his passage to the bedroom door, and he darted at once towards the front door. I managed to land another jab in his stomach, and he fell to the carpet. I knelt over him and reached for the ninja mask, and what I saw beneath made me gasp with a feeling of vast, numbing surprise. Then I was headbutted with an old-fashioned Glasgow kiss, and all the lights went out.

  Philomela: Now that an opportunity has presented itself, I find I am not ready. But the Professor is a kind man. I will tell him everything. Soon.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A very ancient and fish-like smell.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, THE TEMPEST, ACT 2, SCENE 2

  My alarm went off, and I reached out to suppress it. Instead of my bedside table, my groping hand touched carpet. Since when had I installed carpets on my nocturnal furniture? Oh. I hadn’t. What Rupert Brooke has styled the rough male kiss of blankets were entirely not in evidence anywhere to hand. The smooth male kiss of Daniel was also not apparent. I wished it were. The light appeared to be on, so I opened my eyes cautiously, ready to close them again on general principle if the prospect were too dire. Why was I lying on the floor? Most importantly, why did I feel as though I had experienced the entire percussion ensemble of the Melbourne Symphony Orchestra playing toccatas and fugues on my battered body?

  Since I appeared to be still alive, I groaned. The last time I had woken up on the carpet had been when my former husband James had introduced me to tequila. This was not something for which I had volunteered. In any marriage there is generally one person being held hostage by the other’s mood swings, and sooner than watch him pout like a disappointed toddler I had done my wifely duty. I had sucked that lemon, licked that salt, and slowly melted into a cactus-flavoured heap on the floor. Next morning he had complained of a hangover, and I had nursed him with liquid infusions and as much sympathy as I could muster. Which, given that my own head felt as though it had been bathed in the interior of a Hawaiian volcano, was not very much.

  I lay where I was and attempted some form of recollection. Little by little, the events of the preceding night leaked back into my mind like a muttered confession. Disturbed shelves, check. Books and DVDs no longer on floor. My nocturnal visitor had put them back, though (as far as I could tell) out of order. My eyes flicked to the front door. Mr Ninja had thoughtfully shut it behind him. I remembered that he wore a mask, and that I had made a determined effort to remove it. When I had accomplished this, I thought I remembered feeling shock at the face beneath it: sufficient to throw me off guard and give my burglar an undeserved opportunity to knock me out. Unfortunately, all I could remember was the surprise. Of the features revealed beneath the mask, I recalled nothing.

  My han
d patted around me, and touched fur. I looked beside my prone body to discover my devoted Horatio, hunched up and alert, next to me. I stroked his head and ears, and he mewed at me. This wasn’t his usual morning mew of: What do we want? Breakfast! When do we want it? Now! This was solicitude, pure and unalloyed by personal greed. He began to purr. Then he wriggled northwards and began to wash my face. This was a thing he did on occasion, when he thought I needed it. I never really knew whether he was telling me I love you, human! or I’m going to keep doing this until you feed me.

  After a couple of minutes of tender exfoliation I dragged myself to my feet. Panadol and cold water seemed to be called for, and I availed myself of both. Horatio wrapped himself around my ankles and mewed up at me again. Are you all right? he wanted to know. And what about breakfast, now I have fulfilled my maternal duties?

  I went to the kitchen, fed him kitty munchies and a small tin of fish (extra rations for standing guard over me beyond the call of duty), turned the kettle on and checked my apartment quickly. So far as I could tell, nothing was missing. My handbag was untouched. Whatever he wanted, he had not found it. I made coffee, inhaled the bitter, bracing scent of roasted pick-me-up and considered my predicament.

  Point the first: surely not Jordan King again? I thought this highly unlikely. He had shown no interest in me at all. He had displayed a truly Jansenist contempt for women in every fibre of his repellent body when we had spoken. He might suspect me of hiding the Dead Sea Scroll of Doom or whatever it was, but those who have been suppressed by Polynesian giants tend to stay that way. And Sister Mary should have him well in hand. She intimidates most people. I have seen her cow and berate a government backbencher without breaking stride. While I am by necessity unfamiliar with religious zealots, surely the Jordan Kings of the world would be all the more likely to hearken to the admonitions of nuns.

  Point the second: did Jordan King have an accomplice? Was Mr Ninja his backup? Or was this related to one of our other mysteries? And if so, which one? The missing dog? The Gospel of St Joseph? The Café Pandamus ransomware?