Cameron White pulled
out a free newspaper and peered through the letterbox of fifteen,
Beecham Road. He'd promised the owner he'd look in on the old man's
dog but hadn't expected entry to be quite so taxing. “There's a
whole mountain of stuff in front of the door.”
“I'll try round the
back, shall I?” Peters held his hand out for the keys and White
dropped them into his palm. “I'll come with you. There'll be no
opening this door.”
“Aye, sir.” Peters
led the way through the gennel. “What sort of dog was it? A
collie?”
“So he said.”
“I'm surprised it's
not barking.”
They reached the back
door, a half-paned council standard. White looked at the three keys.
There was a one to a mortice lock, one to a security lock and what
looked to be a padlock key. He slipped the mortice key into the lock
and opened it cautiously, aware there was supposed to be a dog
inside. He racked his brain for the name. Timmy? No. “Toby? Here,
boy.”
The door swung open,
but they both took a step back.
“Blimey. That whiffs
a bit.” Peters covered his face and breathed through his hand. “I
thought our man had enough problems with a broken limb. It smells
like something died in there.”
White got out a
handkerchief to cover his face. “A policeman's lot, sergeant.”
“Yes sir. And I put
up with it all.”
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