Albert caught up to Rex and gathered his lead. In the back area outside of the marquees, a mix of portable generators, storage containers, and delivery vans were parked on the grass and there were dozens or maybe even hundreds of ropes pinning the marquee in place. Each represented a trip hazard in the poorly lit service area beyond the part of the venue the public were meant to see. Rex kept trying to go under the ropes, forcing Albert to tug him back. ‘You need to go around them not under them,’ he attempted to explain.
Rex was sort of listening, but he’d caught a scent and wanted to explore it, his nose all but switching off his hearing as the alluring smell pulled him onward. It wasn’t food he could smell, although there were plenty of food smells here, it was something else, something to do with one of the injustices he’d suffered today. He wanted to follow his nose to the source and see if he was right.
Struggling along in the dark behind his father, Gary was trying to catch up so he could turn his father around. This wasn’t the evening he had planned at all. A few minutes ago, the old man wanted to get back to the bed and breakfast for a bath and an early night. Now they were off playing super sleuths in the dark again. Was this how his younger brother, Randall, came to get whacked on the head?
Albert heard Gary call out his name, ‘Dad!’ but when he turned around to look for him, he was nowhere to be seen.
Frowning into the dark at the unexpected absence of his son, his eyes were drawn down when a bout of inventive swear words exploded upward from the grass.
‘Is that you, Gary?’
Rex heard the sounds of complaint coming from his head height and caught the metallic tang of blood on the air.
‘Yes, Dad. Of course it’s me!’ hissed Gary.
‘Are you alright? Did you trip on one of the pegs?’
Rex came back past his human’s legs to find Gary lying facedown on the ground. He had a cut to his head which Rex licked much as he would any other wound.
Still trying to fight his way out of the rope which was now tangled about his body, the assistance from Rex was not well received. ‘Arrrgh! Get off, dog!’ Gary complained.
Albert waited patiently for his son to stop swearing and get back to his feet. When he finally stood up a few seconds later, the small amount of light they had showed dark liquid coating Gary’s forehead.
‘You seem to have cut yourself, son.’
‘You think?’ Gary snapped uncharitably. ‘I fell over a guy rope and hit my head on the next peg in line when I fell. This place is a deadly spider’s web of lethal trip hazards and the ground is soaked because Rex created a flour bomb here earlier. What on Earth are we doing, anyway?’
Albert wriggled his lips, pondering his next move. Gary wasn’t a little boy anymore, but he was still his son and he was hurt and upset. Mostly Gary was upset that his dad felt a need to investigate when he saw a mystery and people in trouble. Albert wasn’t blind to that, but was he to abandon the case now so Gary could watch television? ‘Let’s just get you inside and get that cut looked at, shall we? Then we can see what has happened and get back to the bed and breakfast.’ Albert provided his suggestion with an upbeat tone and, of course, Gary cooled his temper and agreed.
Their meandering route to avoid the police might have resulted in Gary falling and cutting his head, but they made it to the marquee and inside without being stopped or challenged.
Coming through the same door they escaped through earlier when the cloud of flour chased them from the marquee, they spotted a sight they might never forget.
Murder?
At the far end of the marquee, where the bakers had their line of oversized mixing machines, a crowd had gathered. It was formed of the bakers, more than four, so some who were not doing the night shift were yet to go home, and the police. They were all standing around the leftmost of the four giant machines, but there was no question why. Sticking up from the top of the machine was a pair of legs. It was almost cartoonish and might have been laughable were it not for the fact that the owner of the legs was not moving. That no one was rushing to get the person out could only mean they were already beyond saving, but the worst of it was that Albert recognised the legs or, more accurately, the shoes.
‘Is that Brian?’ asked Gary.
Remembering his son’s injury, Albert swung around to look up at Gary’s forehead. He had a small, but deep cut which he was holding two fingers on to stem the bleeding. Like all head wounds, it was leaking bright red blood in copious quantities.
Rather than answer Gary’s question, Albert clicked his tongue at Rex, ‘Go ahead, Rex, let’s see what happened.’
Rex was sniffing the air but doing so tentatively because it was filled with a pungent smell of aniseed.
Moving toward the crowd at the far end of the marquee, Albert began to detect a faint smell. ‘Can you smell aniseed?’ he asked his son.
Gary sniffed the air. ‘Yeah, kind of.’
Looking at his son, still holding his head as bright red blood ran over his fingers, he said, ‘I think we should get someone to close that for you. They must have a first
