“Fucking perv,” Murray muttered to himself.
While waiting for a suitable gap to appear in the fast-moving traffic, he saw Clarke remove a pile of loose change from his trouser pocket and start drip-feeding it into the meter beside his car. With a final loving stroke of the car’s roof, Clarke set off in the direction of the nearest MacDonald’s.
Murray didn’t bother rushing back. Instead, he walked straight by the police station’s entrance and carried on until he reached the park entrance a little further along. Despite being wrapped up in a winter coat and thick scarf, he was absolutely bloody freezing, but after having spent most of the morning in a smelly interview room with the odious solicitor and his pongy client, he badly needed some fresh air to clear his head so he decided to brave the cold for a little longer.
He found an unoccupied park bench, sat down and lit up a cigarette. Letting out a smoke-filled sigh of contentment, Murray pulled his collar up, leaned back and watched the world go by.
Unsurprisingly, there was hardly anyone else around. In fact, other than a skinny woman walking a shivering Chihuahua along the footpath, and a bearded man who was being dragged towards her by a powerfully built English Bull Terrier, he had the park all to himself.
The Bull Terrier was a mean-looking bastard, with piggy eyes and a set of teeth that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the mouth of a Great White shark. Apart from a splodge of brown on one side of its face, the dog’s coat was white, and he was reminded of Bullseye, the dog owned by Bill Sykes in the film Oliver!
The woman with the little Chihuahua must have realised that the dogs were locked on a collision course because she suddenly did a quick about-turn and started heading back the way she’d come, dragging the confused animal behind her.
Wise move, Murray thought. That evil-looking fucker would eat your scrawny mutt for breakfast.
Stubbing out the cigarette, Murray ripped open the bag of cheese and onion crisps and started stuffing them into his mouth. He was just tipping in the dregs when the Bull Terrier appeared beside the bench, sniffing at his food and licking its lips. He was on one of those extendable lead things, and his owner was lagging way behind.
“Sod off, you ugly git,” Murray said, shooing him away with his hand. “You’re not getting anything from me.”
The dog stopped sniffing, growled deep in its throat, and then abruptly squatted next to his foot and began to defecate.
“Really!” Murray said, drawing his feet away to avoid them being crapped on. He turned on the bearded man, face flushed with anger. “Your dog’s got the whole park to take a shit in, so why are you letting him do it right next to me?”
The man shrugged apologetically. “I’m awfully sorry,” he said, blushing with embarrassment. “I’m looking after him for my neighbour while he’s on holiday. Only been gone a couple of days and already I can’t wait for him to come back.”
The dog had finished its business and was now jumping up at the bench, trying to steal Murray’s chocolate bar from the plastic bag.
“Can’t you control the damned thing?” Murray complained, snatching the bag away before the dog could get a good grip on the chocolate.
“I’m trying,” the man grunted, fighting a losing battle to bring the dog to heel, “but he’s very strong and incredibly stubborn. He just doesn’t listen to a word I say.”
Murray was gobsmacked. “Well try harder,” he ordered. “You can’t go around letting your dog shit on people’s feet.”
“I’m really sorry about the poo,” the man said, sounding crestfallen. “Did any of it land on your shoes?”
Murray quickly checked. “No, but that’s not the point, is it? Look at the mess he’s made. Kids play in this park.”
“Don’t worry,” the dog walker reassured him, “I’ll pick it straight up.” He reached into his coat pocket and produced a clear plastic bag. “I always come prepared.”
Steam was coming off the turd, and the smell wafting up was worse than some of the decomposing corpses he had dealt with. “Oh my God!” Murray said, fanning his nose. “What are you feeding him on? Dead rats?”
The bearded man grinned sheepishly. “Bronson can be a bit stinky at times, can’t you boy?” he said, reaching down to ruffle the Bull Terrier’s neck fur. “If you think that’s bad, imagine how I feel, being stuck in the same bedroom with him every night.”
Glancing down at the dog, who had grown bored and was now sitting next to his temporary master, Murray suppressed a shudder. “Rather you than me,” he said.
Holding his breath, Mr Beardy bent down to scoop up the dogshit and then, trying not to get any over his hands, clumsily tied the bag as tightly as he could to keep the rancid smell locked inside.
“There, all done,” he said, holding it at arm’s length. He looked around, trying to locate a bin, but there were none in sight. “Oh dear,” he moaned. “Looks like I’m going to have to carry this all the way home.” The bag was sagging under the weight of its unpleasant content, and he was clearly worried that it might not survive the journey.
He eyed Murray imploringly. “Don’t suppose you know where the nearest bin is, do you?”
“No, I bloody don’t,” Murray snapped, wondering why Mr Beardy was still standing there like a gormless idiot. Perhaps he was hoping that Murray would offer to dispose of it for him.
Not much chance of that happening, Murray thought, scoffing at the very idea.
But then he had his Eureka moment.
◆◆◆
His watch said it was almost 4 p.m.
Garston moved away from the bay window and let the curtains slide together. It was growing steadily darker outside and the streetlights had just come on, bathing the street in a pale-yellow glow. The intermittent rain that had been falling all
