style="font-size:15px;"> She turned and tried again to reverse her car. Why wouldn’t people move?
Someone was thumping on her window. The door of her car swung open. She swivelled and her heart did a back flip. Raff was standing over her—six foot two of lethal cop. With dog.
‘I need your help, Abby,’ he growled and, before she could react, there was a dog in her car. On her knees.
‘I need you to take him to the vet,’ Raff said. ‘Now.’
The vet?
The local veterinary clinic was half a mile away, on the outskirts of town.
But she wasn’t given a chance to argue. Raff slammed her car door closed and started helping Mrs Ford steer to the kerb.
There was a dog on her knee.
Abby’s grandmother had once owned a shortbread tin adorned with a picture of a dog called Greyfriars Bobby. According to legend—or Gran—Bobby was famous for guarding his master’s grave for almost fourteen years through the bleakest of Edinburgh’s winters. This dog looked his twin. He was smallish but not a toy. His coat was wiry and a bit scruffy, sort of sand-coloured. One of his ears was a bit floppy.
His eyebrows were too long.
Did dogs have eyebrows?
He looked up at her as if he was just as stunned as she was.
What was wrong with him? Why did he need to go to the vet?
He wasn’t bleeding.
She was due in court in ten minutes. Help.
What to do with a dog?
She put a hand on his head and gave him a tentative pat. Very tentative. If she moved him, maybe she’d hurt him. Maybe he’d hurt her.
He wiggled his head to the side and she tried scratching behind his ear. That seemed to be appreciated. His eyes were huge, brown and limpid. He had a raggedy tail and he gave it a tentative wag.
His eyes didn’t leave hers. His eyes were … were …
Let’s cut out the emotion here, she told herself hastily. This dog is nothing to do with you.
She fumbled under the dog for the door catch and climbed out of the car. The dog’s backside sort of slumped as she lifted him. Actually, both ends slumped.
She carried him back to Raff. The little dog looked up at her and his tail still wagged. It seemed a half-hearted wag, as if he wasn’t at all sure where he was but he sort of hoped things might be okay.
She felt exactly the same.
Raff was back in the middle of the crashed cars. ‘Raff, I can’t …’ she called.
Raff had given up trying to get Mrs Ford to steer. He had hold of her steering wheel and was steering himself, pushing at the same time, moving the car to the kerb all by himself. ‘Can’t what?’ he demanded.
‘I can’t take this dog anywhere.’
‘Henrietta says it’s okay,’ Raff snapped. ‘It’s the only one she’s caught. She’s trying to round up the others. Come on, Abby, the road’s clear—how hard is this? Just take him to the vet.’
‘I’m due in court in ten minutes.’
‘So am I.’ Raff shoved Mrs Ford’s car another few feet and then paused for breath. ‘If you think I’ve spent years getting Wallace Baxter behind bars, just to see you and your prissy boyfriend get him off because I can’t make it …’
‘Cut it out, Raff.’
‘Cut what out?’
‘He’s not prissy,’ she snapped. ‘And he’s not my boyfriend. You know he’s my fiancé.’
‘Your fiancé. I stand corrected. But he’s definitely prissy. I’ll bet he’s sitting in court right now, in his smart suit and silk tie—not like me, out here getting my hands dirty. Case for the prosecution—me and the time I can spare after work. Case for the defence—you and Philip and weeks of paid preparation. Two lawyers against one cop.’
‘There’s the Crown Prosecutor …’
‘Who’s eighty. Who sleeps instead of listening. This’ll be a no-brainer, even if you don’t show.’ He shoved the car a bit further. ‘But I’ll be there, whether you like it or not. Meanwhile, take the dog to the vet’s.’
‘You’re saying you want me to take the dog to the vet’s—to keep me out of court?’
‘I’m saying take the dog to the vet’s because there’s no one else,’ he snapped. ‘Your car’s the only one still roadworthy. I’ll radio Justice Weatherby to ask for a half hour delay. That’ll get us both there on time. Get to the vet’s and get back.’
‘But I don’t do dogs,’ she wailed. ‘Raff …’
‘You don’t want to get your suit dirty?’
‘That’s not fair. This isn’t about my suit.’ Or not very. ‘It’s just … What’s wrong with him? I mean … I can’t look after him. What if he bites?’
Raff sighed. ‘He won’t bite,’ he said, speaking to her as if she were eight years old again. ‘He’s a pussycat. His name’s Kleppy. He’s Isaac Abrahams’ Cairn Terrier and he’s on his way to be put down. Put him on your passenger seat and Fred’ll take him out at the other end. All I’m asking you to do is deliver him.’
It was twelve minutes to ten on a beautiful morning in Banksia Bay. The sun was warm on her face. The sea was glittering beyond the harbour and the mountain behind the town was blue with the haze of a still autumn morning. The sounds of the traffic chaos were lessening as Raff’s attempts at restoring order took effect.
Abby stood motionless, her arms full of dog, and Raff’s words replayed in her head.
He’s Isaac Abrahams’ Cairn Terrier and he’s on his way to be put down.
She knew Isaac or, rather, she’d known him. The old man had lived a mile or so out of town, up on Black Mountain where … well, where she didn’t go any more. Isaac had died six weeks ago and she was handling probate. Isaac’s daughter in Sydney had been into the office a couple of times, busy and efficient in her disposing of Isaac’s belongings.
There’d been no talk of a dog.
‘Can you get your car off the road?’ Raff said. ‘You’re blocking traffic.’
She was blocking traffic? But she gazed around and realised she was.
Somehow, magically, Raff had every other car to the side of the road. Raff was like that. He ordered and people obeyed. There were a couple of tow trucks arriving but already cars could get through.
There was no problem. All she had to do was get in the car—with dog—and drive to the vet’s.
