‘All right. So maybe we have a motive after all?’ I suggested.
Daniel glanced skywards as he thought this through. ‘I see what you mean. Alasdair, it transpires, is no longer an anonymous squaddie with a dog. He’s a social media hero from two years ago, and maybe he knows something, and they’re using the dog to put pressure on him? Look, I know that’s tenuous logic at best. It’s verging on cargo-cult thinking. But kidnappers don’t usually specialise in Clear Thinking 101.’
‘Maybe. I can’t imagine why anyone wants the dog except as a means of getting to Alasdair. But there is a problem with that.’
He took my hand in his and squeezed it gently, something which always sends a shiver of delight up my spine. ‘How do they get a message to him to issue their demands? That really is a problem, isn’t it? He’s staying with me, but I’d be very surprised if anyone knows where I live.’
I patted his hand reassuringly. Daniel’s flat is in an utterly anonymous grey block near the market. Thus far, apparently, not one of his nefarious acquaintances had managed to trace his whereabouts. Daniel had been trained in an exceedingly hard school, and I suppose that ordinary crims are less gifted trackers than Hamas gunmen.
He kissed me and rose. ‘I’m going to make the rounds of the rest of inner Melbourne’s underworld in the next few days. And I may have another talk with Big Charlie. He may not have attacked Alasdair himself, but I suspect he knows more than he’s letting on.’
I stood also and embraced him. ‘Be careful, my love.’
He pressed his body close to mine and kissed me again. ‘I will.’
I watched him depart, then returned to my apartment to feed Horatio. I spent the rest of the evening in quiet contemplation and retired to bed early. My dreams were troubled by barking dogs and the haunted faces of soldiers. Then the scene changed, and I was chained up with my hands above my head. Someone was pushing sandpaper across my face and leering at me.
I awoke, drenched in sweat and fear, to find Horatio washing my face. I switched on my bedside light and hugged him. Normally he would not permit such liberties, but tonight he lay patiently in my arms. I felt his even breathing and relaxed my grip. At once he struggled up onto my pillow and washed himself. Then he pushed his nose against mine and nuzzled me. I stroked his beautiful flank and he relaxed again, tucking his face into his paws. I switched the light off, and subsided into dreamless slumber.
Four am.
I have probably mentioned how I feel about four am. I breakfasted, fed Horatio, fumbled into my baking clothes and felt my way down the stairs.
Jason was there, whistling. He saw me. He stopped whistling. I gestured to him to continue.
‘There must be something wrong,’ I told him, with the poet Frost, ‘in wanting to silence any song.’
‘Er, yeah, Captain,’ responded Jason. ‘Sourdough mixing, olive bread on the go, making pane di casa.’
‘Carry on,’ I said, with a Picardian wave. There was also freshly brewed coffee, I noted gladly. This was going to be a day for high-octane caffeine. I poured a cup and sipped. All that emotion from yesterday was lying heavily on me. I watched Jason as he moved, sure, strong. I could see the muscles in his back shift as he hauled a sack of flour to the mixer. A beautiful piece of nature, healthy, comely, curly-headed and cheeky. Which could so easily be reduced to its component atoms by one improvised explosive device.
‘Cap’n?’ he asked, catching my gaze. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I was thinking about soldiers,’ I said. ‘And wars.’
He grinned at me. ‘It’s not doing you any good,’ he told me. ‘Think about bread instead. Should we make bara brith again today?’
‘Good advice, Midshipman. Bara brith it is, so get out the spices. And later you can have a go at making baklava if you like. Ask Yai-yai for some tips.’
I would much rather think about bread than wars. Thinking about wars just makes me angry and sad, but thinking about baking means that there is, in the end, bread. Which can be eaten.
We baked busily. The Mouse Police displayed their prey. Five mice, one rat and a couple of moths. The moths were not strictly vermin, but I decided that they might have flapped into my precious Mother of Bread and inconsiderately drowned, in that annoying way moths have, which made them a legitimate threat to public health. I distributed munchies and disposed of the corpses.
The bakery filled with the pleasant noise of mixers mixing, Jason whistling, air conditioner whirring and cats crunching. My mood improved.
By the time I let my cats out into Calico Alley, the sun was rising, but there were no distressed soldiers walking down it. Just Ian of the Rising Sun putting on Radio Nippon and speaking politely to the moggies who had collided with his door as he was opening it. And required compensation in the form of tuna, of course. I went back into the scented bakery to sift spices. Cinnamon, cloves, allspice, the perfumes of paradise.
Just as we were settling into our comfortable, unthinking routine, there came a shriek of feline fury, the one that tears eardrums and shatters wineglasses, and a frenzy of barking and yelping.
I ran out into Calico Alley. This hadn’t happened for ages. Most of the local dogs knew enough to stay away from the Mouse Police. The battle-scarred faces, deckle-edged ears, the rolling seaman’s gait all indicated to the wise canine that here was Trouble with a capital ‘T’ and they suddenly remembered urgent appointments in quite another part of town.
However, here they were: two large, lolloping, curly-coated black dogs, bailed up against their door by Heckle, who was shrieking like a soul in torment and had every hair on his scruffy body raised. The poor dogs didn’t dare to move. They had never seen anything like this enraged, heavily armed porcupine. With attitude.
‘Heckle, if you please,’ I said to him as I walked up the alley. ‘They’re just nice dogs and this is a public throughway, you know. And Ian has some tuna scraps with your name on,’ I added.
Ian held out the plate of scraps, and Heckle smelt his favourite fish. I could see him decide, Well, all right then, but you’ve got off lightly: I could beat you with a tram tied to my tail and don’t you forget it, as he snapped his mouth shut, shook himself, and strolled over to the Rising Sun to reunite with his fellow police officer and the tuna.
I swallowed. Now I had to face the owner of the dogs, who might be justifiably annoyed. The poor creatures were shivering. They hadn’t expected something like Heckle to rise out of the cobbles. They’d probably have nightmares.
‘Is that thing a cat?’ asked a pleasant, sceptical voice. A short, dark, very pretty young woman, accompanied by a slightly taller, dark, equally pretty young woman, was opening the shop door. The dogs bolted in, tails between legs, and mobbed their owners, wagging frantically and trying to explain that it wasn’t their fault, the door had been open and it all looked really interesting until suddenly … (sob) … there was this thing …
‘Darlings, sweethearts, it’s all right,’ said one pretty young woman, patting and caressing. ‘It’s not your fault! It’s mine!’ Turning to me, she explained, ‘I left the door open while I put the paper away and they just slipped out. They’re spoodles, so they do tend to be a bit scatty. I’m Marie, and this is Kate.’ She gestured to the other woman then extended a hand.