Free Die Like a Dog by Gwen Moffat

sounded utterly bewildered. ‘But when they put it out on the News – I never thought – I mean, we don’t think it’s that serious – of course, they’re thinking of the sheep ... He’d come back as soon as he realised how people were taking it but I haven’t been able to get hold of him.’ She looked out of the window, blinking nervously. ‘He’s in Liverpool but I don’t know where he’s staying. He’ll be home tonight ...’ Miss Pink waited politely. ‘Normally,’ Gladys continued, ‘he stays at the Adelphi but I rang there and he hadn’t booked a room. He forgot to tell me where he was staying.’ She licked her lips and said, with a pathetic attempt at gallantry: ‘The dogs aren’t dangerous; he’d never have gone away if there was any question of that.’
    Handel Evans came in, removing his beret with a sweep. He inclined his head towards the ladies.
    â€˜I’ve had a thought, mum. I’m taking Brindle out and letting him range –’
    â€˜Oh no, Evans!’
    â€˜He won’t go off, mum. Brindle’s a good dog. It’s the best way of finding Satan: set a dog to find a dog.’
    Gladys hesitated and looked at Miss Pink who, seeing that her opinion was being solicited, if not her advice, asked where he would search first.
    He was grim. ‘First I’d comb the Reserve: do a sweep search like the police does when they’re looking for bodies. I’ve not told you this, mum, but you remember them shots Friday afternoon, when we was talking in the yard? There was shots from up the combe, west of here. I went out to see what there was to see. I had me suspicions. Our land, wasn’t it? Well, I got a mile or so from here, on foot I was, and I heard shots back the way: east, way down towards the village. All them shots was on our land, mum.’
    â€˜Oh, Evans. Really!’
    â€˜I’m taking Brindle. Can I take the master’s shotgun?’
    â€˜No. Definitely not. Not without permission.’
    â€˜He’d give me permission.’
    â€˜He isn’t here. You know better than to ask me that, Evans.’
    â€˜Then I’ll take the dog, mum.’
    It was couched as a statement but they knew it was a question. He wanted her to assume the responsibility. Gladys turned to Miss Pink again. The latter rose from her chair.
    â€˜I’ll come with you, Mr Evans. I want to walk in the Reserve anyway, and this is a neat compromise: to do it under protection.’
    Gladys hesitated. ‘Would you like to return here for lunch?’ she asked.
    Miss Pink accepted with alacrity and went out to her car to change into walking boots.
    Evans emerged from the yard with the brindled Alsatian leashed and cringing. At sight of a stranger it snarled but shrank back at a word from the man. Once in the woods Miss Pink asked: ‘Who thrashed this dog?’
    Evans said with bare contempt: ‘You can’t train Alsatians without you beat them.’
    â€˜So Satan was thrashed too?’
    â€˜Naturally.’
    â€˜I would hope he isn’t alive.’
    â€˜Why’s that, mum?’
    â€˜He might feel free to get some of his own back.’
    A flicker of a smile appeared at the corner of his mouth but it was debatable whether it was contempt or sycophantic appreciation at what he took to be a joke.
    The dog strained at the lead. If it had ever been trained to walk to heel, training was forgotten. Once away from the road Evans slipped the lead, and it loped ahead but, when he shouted, checked and started to take a normal canine interest in the scents of the wood. Miss Pink found this comforting for she had anticipated a kind of monster with no interest in mundane things like rabbits and carrion.
    â€˜He’ll stay with us,’ Evans assured her – or was he assuring himself? ‘He’s a nervous dog.’ But she detected a note of relief in both