Chapter Thirty
Thirty
Hound
At my feet, a small, brown dog is staring up at me. It has a shag haircut, and it’s hard to discern anything of its face other than a button nose and the merest suspicion of a shiny bottom lip. When I bend down to peer at its collar in the gloom, I see a large brass tag with a phone number and one word.
TED.
I’m withdrawing my hand when a soft tongue curls around my wrist.
‘Well, halloon there, Ted,’ I whisper, using the Loor vernacular.
An underbite appears, displaying the tiniest crooked white teeth. Is he smiling?
He certainly looks as if he’s happy to see me.
I reach down and scratch him behind the ear, and he immediately flops onto his back and raises his hindleg to offer me his belly, which I also scratch.
Nemo has never met a dog. This must be what he could smell and what made him flee to the top of the bookcase. He detected the stench of tiny canine.
It seems a friendly tiny canine, despite Nemo’s prejudice, which is somewhat comforting because I don’t think a serial killer could possibly own a dog like this; it’s too well-socialised.
Still, there’s someone sleeping in this room, and I’d like to know who. And also, why.
Without warning, there’s a hiss from the direction of the bookcase. Ted jumps to his feet, spots Nemo on top of the bookcase and begins barking furiously.
Safely out of reach, Nemo doesn’t even flinch, but it’s the sort of high-pitched bark that seems to drill into my temporal lobe.
The lump in the bed moves. I hear a groan and the creak of bed springs. A striped lighthouse lamp is turned on.
Sitting up in bed is a man.