Sparky barked again and stood on the seat as Muckle stopped the vehicle. Muckle’s wife was always nagging him about not letting the dog sit on the seat in their own car, but this mud-plugger belonged to the Wolf family, so as far as Muckle was concerned, Sparky could tear it to pieces.
‘Clive Wolf, baw-bag of the family. I wonder what the wee bastard’s doing in here?’ He put the vehicle in park but kept the engine running. Sparky looked at him in anticipation of some arse-biting, but Muckle held up a hand. ‘No’ yet, boy. If ding dong starts to give us his pish, maybe I’ll let you have an early supper, but keep yourself together. And when I say, Sparky! Get your arse over here! that is not the signal to go and do whatever the fuck you feel like doing. I don’t want anybody to think you’re sticking it up me. I gave Donald a bottle of my best twelve-year-old malt to train you. I think I got the pointy end of the stick.’
Sparky stood on the seat and turned his head one way then the other as Muckle spoke to him.
‘Aye, ya daft bastard, you know exactly what I’m saying. Tilting yer heid like I’m talking Chinese.’ He reached out and rubbed the dog below his ear.
He looked out through the windscreen as spots of rain started to hit it. ‘Magic. I forgot to bring my heavy jacket. If I get soaked and I go in there and that wee fanny is up to no good, I’ll pretend I didn’t recognise him and we’ll truss him up like last year’s Christmas turkey. How about it, boy?’
Sparky barked his enthusiasm, then stood looking out the front of the vehicle and growled again.
‘I know, pal; who buys a red Mercedes like that? Apparently, Clive Wolf does. Maybe he’s got a lassie in there with him. A bit of seclusion. But she mustn’t have set the bar too high if she’s impressed by that dump. Or him.’
The house, made of solid stone, looked like it was a hundred years old. It had been added to many years ago and was comfortable enough if you liked that sort of thing. The view was the money-maker; the loch sat below the house with the hills in the distance. It was secluded and private.
The tenant who had been told the lease wasn’t being renewed was a businessman who had worked from home. Doing what, Muckle didn’t know, but being head of security, Muckle had been called up to the property one Saturday night when a bunch of yahoos from the mainland had come over in their fancy foreign cars and thought that playing music at full blast was going to go down well.
Muckle had shut them down pretty sharpish after Old Man Oliver Wolf had called him. Even he could hear the music from the big house, and disturbing Oliver’s sleep was not a pastime you wanted to get comfortable with.
The music had stopped and one of the friends of the tenant had called Muckle a fat bastard. ‘I might be overweight,’ he had replied, ‘but at least I can go on a diet. Midget.’ While the other guests had laughed at the remark, the small man had taken a step forward. Muckle had let a little bit more of Sparky’s leash slip through his hand and the small man got the message that he was about to become even smaller.
Oliver Wolf had found great amusement in the tenant’s complaint about his head of security, telling the man to fuck off back to the mainland if he wasn’t happy. Words were never minced by Oliver.
‘Right, boy, you ready to go and do some security work?’ Muckle had another glance at Jesus the shotgun and decided against taking it in. He’d need his torch in one hand, which meant only one free hand, and he didn’t want Sparky running about loose while he had the gun. He left it where it was, within easy reach should he need to run back and get it.
Sparky bounded about in the seat. He knew he was at work, because Muckle had bought him a K9 vest to wear and the smart dog soon associated the vest with going to work. Muckle was under no illusion that his Shepherd was as good as a police dog, but when he was straining at the leash, people didn’t stop to think the dog wasn’t highly trained. They saw a mouthful of teeth on legs that could perform cosmetic surgery without anaesthetic.
Muckle clipped the leash to the vest, which revved the dog up. He opened the door, and Sparky was across the seat in a flash and he jumped down, starting to pull.
‘Wait, ya hoor,’ Muckle said, almost missing the driver’s door as he pushed it shut without banging it.
The driveway was semi-circular out the front and Sparky made a beeline for the little area of grass in front of the house, where some bushes were growing in the middle. Sparky watered them before starting to haul towards the front door.
‘Do you want that bloody bark collar on?’ Muckle asked the dog, a threat his wife used in their house when the Shepherd became too rambunctious. As tough as he was, Sparky hated the collar and had soon learned to behave just by the very threat.
He stopped pulling so hard and Muckle made it look like he was in full control as he walked towards the front door of the house. He fished out the set of keys he carried on his rounds when checking on the properties. He looked closely at the front door as the automatic overhead light came on, illuminating the scene. It was slightly ajar, as if Clive had tried to swing it shut
