No Second Chances: A British police dog-handler mystery (Daniel Whelan #4)
Lyndon Stacey
In loving memory of my mum, Pat, without whose support I might never have followed this path.
Also in recognition of the many amazing people who work tirelessly to rescue and rehome the discards of the greyhound racing world.
ONE
The sun had dropped behind the hills and the light was fading as Daniel approached Abbots Farm. It had been a long day; one when it felt as though anything that could go wrong had done. At gone six o’clock, this was his last drop of the day and it was with relief that he swung the TFS delivery lorry into the driveway between the granite gateposts.
The gates were open, which was unusual, but it suited Daniel as it saved him getting out to use the intercom or enter the security code. The truck’s wheels strummed across the round bars of the cattle grid and onto the quarter-mile gently curving stretch of tarmac that led to the house and stable yard.
‘Nearly finished, Taz,’ he said over his shoulder. The German shepherd dog had given up on the day over an hour ago, disappearing behind the seats to curl up on his beanbag, with his nose tucked into his bushy tail.
Suddenly, a flash of white caught Daniel’s eye and a low-running shape bounded out of the gloom to his left-hand side on a collision course with the front wheels of the lorry.
Swearing, he slammed on the brakes and swerved right. The big tyres squealed in protest as the vehicle shuddered to a halt, half on and half off the drive. The liver-and-white spaniel whose appearance had triggered the evasive action had darted away and now stood looking up at the cab, tongue lolling and eyes shining green in the beam of the headlights. Moments later, it was joined by another dog that paused for a moment then bounded away, head down and tail wagging furiously, no thought in its head besides hunting.
Daniel knew the dogs. They belonged to the owners of the house and he was pretty sure they shouldn’t be out on their own at this time of day, especially with the gates standing open. He pulled the handbrake on and climbed down from the cab, picking up Taz’s lead and feeling in his pockets for the treat pouch from which he occasionally rewarded him. As he did so, the German shepherd, instantly awake, stepped through from behind the seats and made to follow.
‘You stop there, mate,’ Daniel told him and reluctantly, the dog did so, eyeing the lead with eagerness. A lead usually meant action for him, and to be told to stay was a disappointment.
Stepping down onto the grass at the side of the lorry, Daniel noticed a chill in the air. It was early October and the Indian summer was finally giving way to autumn. Although the days remained warm, the evening temperatures had begun to drop significantly.
Any worries about the dogs being troublesome to catch were swiftly banished, for as soon as his feet touched the turf, the spaniel that had run out in front of the lorry came fawning around him, muzzle split in a grin and tail a blur of white.
‘Hello, Bailey. What are you doing out here by yourself? Does your mum know where you are? I bet she doesn’t.’ Daniel fed the dog a treat and deftly looped the rope slip-lead over its head. Moments later, seeing its mate eating, the second spaniel loped over with hope in its eyes.
‘Hello, Scotch. Have you come to join the party?’ Daniel asked. While the second dog crunched on its biscuit, Daniel took hold of its collar and then led them both towards the cab. Hoisting them in, one by one, he spoke a sharp word to Taz, who was inclined to take an indignant view of the invasion, and the bigger dog retreated with bad grace to his position behind the seats, grumbling when one of the spaniels thrust its head through to investigate. Daniel couldn’t blame his dog. Spending a large part of every weekday in it, he viewed the lorry as his own territory and the two newcomers were clambering all over the seats in their habitual springer spaniel frenzy.
‘Sit down!’ he told them firmly but with little optimism as he put the lorry into gear and resumed his journey. To his surprise Scotch and Bailey did as they were told, sitting bolt upright on the seat and panting at what seemed an impossible rate, their breath spreading a fuggy warmth through the cab. Daniel opened the window a little wider.
Abbots Farm was a stone-built manor house nestling in a secluded valley on the edge of Dartmoor and surrounded by around twenty or so acres of its own pasture and woodland. Business consultant Harvey Myers lived there with his wife, Lorna, although for much of the time, Harvey was away, working.
Since he had been driving for Tavistock Farm Supplies, Daniel had made regular monthly deliveries to the address, and it wasn’t long before he and Lorna realized that their paths had crossed several years before, when she had worked as a civilian for the Bristol Metropolitan Police; the same division Daniel had served in.
The drive passed through a second gateway onto a sweep of gravel in front of the building, and normally Daniel would have driven past the house to the stable yard, where he would unload his delivery of horse and dog food and bales of wood shavings into the large stone barn. Today, however, he found his way partially blocked by a black Transit van with darkened windows parked untidily outside the white-painted front door.
Daniel pulled up behind it and, telling Taz to stay put, climbed down from the cab once more, followed in scrambling confusion by the two spaniels. The front door stood open, which explained why the dogs had been running free, and knocking on the paintwork, he called out, ‘Lorna?’