‘A life of quiet desperation,’ said Nightingale. I knew it was a quote, but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of asking who’d said it.
Chief Inspector Seawoll, whatever else he was, was no fool. We could tell that his Murder Team had done a thorough job – there were smudges of fingerprint powder on the phone, the door handles and frames, and books had been pulled off bookcases and then put back upside down. The last seemed to annoy Nightingale more than was strictly appropriate. ‘It’s just carelessness,’ he said. Drawers had been pulled out, searched and then left slightly open to mark their status. Anything worthy of note would have been noted and logged into HOLMES, probably by poor suckers like Lesley, but the Murder Team didn’t know about my psychic powers and the vestigium of the barking dog.
And there was a dog. That, or Skirmish had a taste for Pal Meaty Chunks in Gravy, and I didn’t think his quiet life had been quite that desperate.
I called Lesley on her mobile.
‘Are you near a HOLMES terminal?’ I asked.
‘I haven’t left the bloody thing since I got here,’ said Lesley. ‘They’ve had me on data entry and bloody statement verification.’
‘Really,’ I said, trying not to gloat. ‘Guess where I am?’
‘You’re at Skirmish’s flat in Dartmouth bloody Park,’ she said.
‘How do you know that?’
‘Because I can hear DCI Seawoll yelling about it right through his office wall,’ she said. ‘Who’s Inspector Nightingale?’
I glanced at Nightingale, who was looking at me impatiently. ‘I’ll tell you later,’ I said. ‘Can you check something for us?’
‘Sure,’ said Lesley. ‘What is it?’
‘When the Murder Team tossed the flat, did they find a dog?’
I heard her tapping away as she did a text search on the relevant files. ‘No mention of a dog in the report.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘You’ve made a valuable contribution.’
‘You’re so buying the drinks tonight,’ she said and hung up.
I told Nightingale about the absence of dog.
‘Let’s go and find a nosy neighbour,’ said Nightingale. He’d obviously seen the face in the window too.
Beside the front door an intercom system had been retrofitted above the doorbells. Nightingale barely had time to press the button before the lock buzzed open and a voice said, ‘Come on up, dear.’ There was another buzz and the inner door opened, behind a dusty but otherwise clean staircase that led upwards, and as we started up we heard a small yappy dog start barking. The lady who met us at the top did not have blue-rinsed hair. Actually I’m not sure what blue-rinsed hair would look like, and why did anyone think blue hair was a good idea in the first place? Nor did she have fingerless mittens or too many cats, but there was something about her that suggested that both could be serious lifestyle choices in the future. She was also quite tall for a little old lady, spry and not even slightly senile. She gave her name as Mrs Shirley Palmarron.
We were quickly ushered into a living room that had last been seriously refurnished in the 1970s, and offered tea and biscuits. While she bustled in the kitchen the dog, a short-haired white and brown mongrel terrier, wagged its tail and barked non-stop. Clearly the dog didn’t know which of us it regarded as a greater threat, so it swung its head from one side to the other barking continuously until Nightingale pointed his finger at it and muttered something under his breath. The dog immediately rolled over, closed its eyes and went to sleep.
I looked at Nightingale, but he just raised an eyebrow.
‘Has Toby gone to sleep?’ asked Mrs Palmarron when she returned with a tea tray. Nightingale jumped to his feet and helped her settle it on the coffee table. He waited until our host had sat down before returning to his seat.
Toby kicked his feet and growled in his sleep. Obviously nothing short of death was going to keep this dog quiet.
‘Such a noisy thing, isn’t he?’ said Mrs Palmarron as she poured the tea.
Now that Toby was relatively quiet I had a chance to notice that there was a lack of dogness about Mrs Palmarron’s flat. There were photographs of, presumably, Mr Palmarron and their children on her mantelpiece, but no chintz or doilies. There was no dog basket by the fireplace, and no hair ground into the corners of the sofa. I got out my notebook and pen.
‘Is he yours?’ I asked.
‘Lord no,’ said Mrs Palmarron. ‘He belonged to poor Mr Skirmish, but I’ve been looking after him for a little while now. He’s not a bad chap when you get used to him.’