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Prologue

The mist started to seep through the woods as we searched the undergrowth.

‘Any sign of him?’ I radioed through on my walkie-talkie.

‘Nothing. Over,’ crackled the reply.

My heart sank. We’d been searching for hours but still nothing.

We moved forward in an orderly line, one step at a time, sweeping the undergrowth for any sign of life. Bourne Woods in Frensham, Surrey, isn’t somewhere you would want to get lost.

I could only imagine how Cody must be feeling. Terrified. Alone. I just prayed he was still alive after a night in the cold and the rain.

The rotting leaves squelched under my boots. The brambles clawed at my trouser legs. I blew into my cupped hands to keep them warm, the hot air rising into the January cold as puffs of steam.

‘Torches, everyone! Over.’ I gestured to Liam, M and Olivia, who were spaced fifty yards apart from each other.

We switched them on at the same time, their beams cutting through the gloom like lightsabers.

We’d searched three square miles but still had five to comb through before nightfall. The deeper into the forest we ventured, the darker, the more sinister and eerie it became. Luckily everyone was wearing luminous jackets or we would have lost one another.

‘Stay in formation. Over.’ I reminded everyone to keep the line strong.

Suddenly, the ground dropped away beneath me. I lost my footing and slid uncontrollably into a ditch. I reached out my hand to break my fall, cutting it on the razor sharp brambles. I yelped with pain.

‘Tom, are you okay?’ Liam cried.

He peered over the ridge and I stared up at him. I was plastered with mud and up to my knees in ditch water. ‘All part of the job.’ I smeared the grime onto my trousers. I didn’t have time to worry about a few grazes.

As I scrambled back onto dry land, my torch caught something next to my boot. I crouched to get a better look, pulling away ferns and branches. My heart leaped.

‘I’ve found something!’ I shouted, over the walkie-talkie, to Olivia and M.

‘Receiving. We’re on our way!’

Five minutes later I had my team surrounding the piece of evidence.

‘No doubt about it, it’s a print,’ M confirmed.

‘Looks like he came this way,’ I chipped in.

Cody had been through the ditch at some point in the last twelve hours. We searched the immediate area for more signs. We just needed another print to point us in the right direction.

‘Anything?’ I called hopefully.

‘The rain’s washed it all away!’ Disheartened, Liam prodded the mushy earth with a stick.

He was right: last night’s heavy downpour was making our search even more challenging.

I pulled out the Ordnance Survey map and rested it on the trunk of a fallen tree. It must have been hit by lightning, I thought, judging by the burn marks lacerating the trunk. It was a huge old thing, coated with moss and fungi, its roots splayed like the tentacles of an octopus.

Everyone leaned in, alert and ready to plot our next move. Where we searched next would be vital to Cody’s survival. We had a lot of area to cover and limited boots on the ground to do it before darkness set in.

‘So we know he’s heading this way,’ I said, drawing my finger along the map.

A splatter of rain hit my forehead and ran down my face. As soon as I wiped it away, another arrived. Pretty soon the drops were ricocheting off the map onto our jackets.

A rainstorm was the last thing we needed. It would wash away any remaining evidence, and if Cody was trapped or injured it would increase the risk of him catching hypothermia.

I shuddered as I zipped up my coat to my neck. ‘Quick, let’s all get in line again and start working our way towards the clearing,’ I instructed, pointing into the distance.

As we fought our way through the rain and the brambles I had an unnerving feeling that something terrible had happened to Cody. Maybe someone had snatched him. He was only young – he wouldn’t stand a chance.

The crackle of the radio sliced through my thoughts.

‘Tom, I’ve found something!’ It was Olivia’s voice and she sounded worried.

I bounded across the woods, weaving through the bracken, ducking and diving over and under fallen branches. My boots were slipping and sliding across the ground.

M and Liam were already there, crowding around. I could tell by their worried faces that it was bad news.

‘I found this,’ Olivia said, pointing to the red object.

I picked it up and held it between my thumb and forefinger. It was Cody’s collar.

Somehow the two-year-old black and white collie cross had lost it. I pointed my torch into the gloom, wondering how we were going to find him.

CHAPTER ONE

Barking Mad

Hi, my name’s Tom Watkins, and I’m a pet detective.

I find missing pets for a living, anything from a cat or a budgerigar to a dog or a tortoise. No animal is too small or too big for me to track down and rescue. I do it because I love animals and because I want to help people.

Pets aren’t just animals: to many families, they’re like children, and what wouldn’t you do to see your child returned home safely?

I wasn’t always a pet detective. I used to be a copper. I now apply the skills I learned in the police force to finding missing and stolen animals. I run Europe’s largest, and most successful, pet detective agency. I have fifteen staff, a fleet of animal search response vehicles – or pet-mobiles, as I like to call them – a twenty-four-hour missing-pet rescue hotline, up to a hundred lost-pet cases added to my online database each day by owners needing my help. I’ve reunited thousands of pets with their owners through my detective skills. No fewer than 150,000 have registered a lost or found pet on my website over the years.

I use all sorts of equipment on my searches, anything from thermal-imaging cameras (to spot cats hiding in dark sheds and garages) and walkie-talkies to Dictaphones (to record the sound of the owner’s voice). My detective methods are just as colourful and unusual: I’ve flown a plane with a banner over Surrey to help find a missing terrier and I’ve filmed a Crimewatch-style reconstruction of a dog-napping to prompt witnesses to come forward.

But it didn’t start off like that. Far from it. In the beginning I didn’t even have a magnifying glass, just a can of dog food and a map of Wolverhampton.

It was April 1999 and I was feeling down in the dumps. I’d left the police force with no clue about what I wanted to do with my life. One night I was sitting on the sofa with a cup of tea and turned on the radio to the local station – Beacon FM. I’d been a regular listener since I’d won one of their phone-in competitions a couple of years back.

After the commercial break, a woman started speaking. She sounded distressed and my ears tuned in. A member of the public, she had called in to say she had spotted an Afghan Hound roaming the streets of Wolverhampton. She described the dog as wet, bedraggled and starving.

From my limited knowledge, I knew an Afghan Hound wasn’t the sort of dog to be wandering the streets without its owner. It was large, a pedigree, the kind you were more likely to see at Crufts. Had he slipped his collar? Had he been stolen and escaped his captors? I could take myself out of the police force, but the copper was still inside me.

I carried on slurping my tea. About fifteen minutes later another announcement was made. The dog had been spotted! It wasn’t in the Penn Fields area any more, it was now in Perton – it had legged it another few miles.

The reports were coming in thick and fast. I was glued to the radio. I didn’t want to leave the house for fear of missing a detail.

That night I lay in bed gazing up at the ceiling. My mind was working overtime, worrying about where that dog might be now. It was springtime, so it got pretty nippy outside when the sun went down. I hoped the poor thing would find shelter for the night. And I couldn’t silence the inquisitive side of me. Why hadn’t the owner come forward? As it was a pedigree, it was hard to believe it didn’t belong to someone. I thought about the places it had been seen. I turned on the bedside lamp, pulled back the duvet and jumped out of bed.

I opened my wardrobe, which was brimming with my clothes, but beneath the shirt rail was a large cardboard box. I reached in and pulled it out. It was heavier than I remembered.

It had been three years since I’d touched it, since I had left West Midlands Police. I peeled back the sticky tape and started rooting around the various bits and bobs I’d cleared from my desk until my fingers had a grip on what I was after: the A to Z – an essential piece of equipment for any bobby walking the beat.

I flicked through until the page opened on the city of Wolverhampton. I felt a spike of adrenalin as my investigative skills were reignited.

‘He was seen here,’ I mumbled, under my breath, tracing my finger across the page. ‘And here … and here.’ I continued to mark the locations where the dog had been spotted.

I held the map at arm’s length and examined the evidence. Were the places randomly scattered across the city or was there a pattern?

‘He’s moving westwards!’ I exclaimed. ‘So, he’s going to be on this side of the city rather than that side …’ I jabbed my finger on the spot where he was most likely to be.

When I woke up the next morning I turned on the radio. I couldn’t wait for an update. The same thing happened again: people were spotting the Afghan Hound but nobody could catch him. And then came the offers of help. Business owners from Wolverhampton were ringing up to make donations to anyone who could catch the stray dog.

The owner of Luigi’s on the high street wanted to give a pasta or pizza meal to the person who could help. Joan, who ran a florist, was the next kind-hearted person to call. She was offering a beautiful bouquet to the person who could rescue the hound.

The donations warmed my heart, but the sightings made for uncomfortable listening. I couldn’t bear the thought of that potentially injured dog wandering the streets, alone and frightened. I felt compelled to do something. I wasn’t bothered about the meal and the bunch of flowers. I just wanted to rescue that suffering animal. So I picked up the phone, dialled the hotline and spontaneously invented a name for my business.

‘My name is Tom Watkins. I’m a former police officer. Now I run Animal Search UK, which is a national pet detective agency based in the Black Country. I’ll find this dog.’ The Black Country is a term used to describe where I lived in the West Midlands. During the Industrial Revolution, it was a hub of coal mines, iron foundries and steel mills producing a high level of air pollution.

The presenter’s voice rose an octave in surprise. ‘Animal Search UK? I’ve never heard of that!’

‘It’s a relatively new organization, but it’s the biggest in the UK.’

Technically that was true – it was the biggest in the UK because nobody else had done anything like it before. I was the UK’s first pet detective.

The radio presenter was lapping it up. ‘Great one, Tom. Tell us how you plan to find the dog.’

I hadn’t got that far! I had to think on my feet. ‘I’m going to send out one of our patrol cars.’ Patrol cars? I’d shocked myself.

‘Lovely! Keep us posted with updates,’ the presenter chirped.

As soon as I hung up I felt a tremor of nerves. Thousands of people were now counting on me to save the dog. Not to mention that I’d just become a real-life Ace Ventura pet detective.

All I had was a Fiat Panda and a motorbike, and I couldn’t do the search using either of those. How would I transport the dog to safety once I’d found it? I was full of confidence that I would be transporting the Afghan Hound to safety. There was no way I was going to let it wander the streets any longer.

As soon as I got off the phone I went to a company who rented vans. But as I was seriously strapped for cash, I had to think on my feet again. I told the man in Reception that I was from a pet-search organization, and negotiated a deal whereby if he lent me a van for the day, I’d give his company a plug on the radio. I couldn’t quite believe what I was saying but somehow being media savvy came naturally.

Amazingly he agreed, so I collected the van and went to call on an old friend of mine. Alan worked at a petrol station in Dudley. We’d become friends when I’d been coming in to fill up my tank at two a.m. after late shifts. We used to have a good old chinwag in the early hours.

I pulled into the garage just as Alan was finishing his night-shift. I wound down my window and shouted, ‘Jump in! We’re going on a dog search!’

Alan, who hadn’t had a clue that I’d be dropping in, shook his head to make sure he wasn’t imagining what I’d just said. ‘What are you talking about?’ he said, rubbing his bleary eyes as he stepped into the daylight.

‘Just get in. I’ll explain on the way.’

Alan was nineteen, a little chubby, shorter than me, with dark hair and a smiley face. He was a friendly chap and a real good laugh.

Just as we were about to drive off, I remembered some essential dog-search equipment we would need. I dashed back into the petrol station and reappeared balancing a tower of dog food cans in my arms. I had a bottle of water wedged under one arm and a plastic bowl under the other.

Alan’s face was even more bemused. I tipped everything into the back of the van and jumped behind the wheel. ‘We’ll need bait to lure the dog,’ I said.

‘Will you please tell me what’s going on?’ Alan begged.

I indicated, turned onto the road and briefed him on Operation Dog Rescue. I explained the story that had unfolded over the past couple of days on the radio. ‘This dog is clearly in a bit of a pickle. We need to catch it, so it can be returned to its owner or given veterinary attention. It’ll be very thirsty after days on the trot, hence the bottle of water.’

Alan was brimming with questions. How were we going to track the hound down? If we did manage to find it, how would we catch it?

I didn’t have all the answers, but I had a hunch my years as a copper would pay off. My experience had taught me it was essential to know what you were up against. In this instance, Wolverhampton and a large dog that could get about quickly. I didn’t know the area at all, so we cruised around for a bit, getting our bearings. Our starting point was the street the dog had last been seen in, on a housing estate not far from the city centre.

Within half an hour, we struck gold.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a large, long-haired dog crossed the road right in front of us. It was going at quite a pace.

‘That’s him!’ I screeched to a halt.

My heart was pounding. By the time we had parked, jumped out and grabbed the dog food, though, the hound had vanished.

‘I thought we had him!’ Alan said, staring into the distance.

So did I. I couldn’t believe our luck that we had stumbled upon him so quickly. But I should have known it wasn’t going to be a piece of cake.

‘Now, let’s try and conduct this search in an orderly—’

‘There he is!’ Alan yelled. He’d caught sight of the dog in an alleyway between two houses.

‘Quick!’ I shouted, scampering after him. All order and police formality flew out of the window.

As we closed in on the runaway, I signalled to Alan that he should slow down. I didn’t want to scare the animal with our approach. I could see now that it was a he, and he was terrified. The radio reports had been true – he was thin. Bedraggled and frightened, too. His long hair was matted with mud and water. His eyes were wide and he was trembling.

‘It’s okay, boy, we just want to help you,’ I said, as we edged forward.

‘Alan, dog food.’ I waved to my sidekick to deposit our ‘dog trap’.

‘Yes, boss,’ he said, emptying the contents of the can onto the pavement. He spread it out so it wasn’t in an unappetizing lump.

We stood back, hoping the dog would come towards it, so we could gently grab him. We were both poised to pounce.

He was clearly hungry, but when he walked up to the dog food, then sniffed it, he turned up his nose in disgust and carried on. His elegant hair would have swished around his long legs if it hadn’t been so matted.

‘Quick!’ we both shrieked.

Alan got on his hands and knees and scraped the dog food off the pavement and back into the can. A couple walking along the pavement flashed us a surprised look.

‘No need to be alarmed, we’re trying to catch a dog!’ I panted, as we tore off down the street.

The problem was, of course, that we were no match for the Afghan Hound’s long legs. He was the hare and we were the tortoises.

Alan must have scraped the dog food off the pavement at least six times over the next two hours. There were just a few chunks left in the tin and we didn’t have another in reserve – the rest were back in the van.

‘Where is the van?’ I looked around, scratching my head. I suddenly realized I had no idea where we were. We’d run miles from where we’d parked, but before I had time to worry, we were off again. This time we took a left along a main road. The cars were whizzing past, and I felt extremely nervous for the dog’s safety as he bounded ahead. He appeared unsteady, as if he might step off the pavement at any moment.

‘We need to keep our distance,’ I yelled, above the noise of the traffic.

I didn’t want to frighten him into the path of a passing car. The poor chap was like a drunk driver, weaving across the pavement. Suddenly he put one paw onto the road.

‘Noooo!’ I yelled. But I was too far off to stop him.

BEEEEEEEP, tooted the approaching car.

Luckily the hound thought better of it and returned to the safety of the pavement. He then sprang into life and legged it down a side-street on the left.

‘Here we go again!’ Alan spluttered, as we took off in hot pursuit.

I was completely out of breath by the time we turned into a cul-de-sac. I bent over double with a stitch. I wasn’t used to so much exercise!

We’d followed the dog to a derelict 1950s red-brick house. The windows were boarded up with sheets of wood. The grass was overgrown and littered with rubbish, such as takeaway cartons and beer cans. The door had been kicked in by what I assumed had been youths or squatters.

Having caught my breath, I approached with caution. ‘Stay behind me.’ I flagged Alan back.

For a split second I thought I was back on the police force. I instinctively reached for my walkie-talkie, which would have been attached to my belt.

I stuck my nose through the front door and was hit by a strong smell of urine and stale booze. It was hard to see anything because it was dark in there, except for a few shafts of light streaming through the gaps between the window boards. They beamed onto the concrete floor, like spotlights. I wished I’d had a torch on me – something I would have always been armed with as a constable.

I could make out some graffiti on the wall and there appeared to be the charred remains of what looked like a campfire. There was a grubby sofa in the middle of the room. Its cover had been torn to shreds, the springs poking through.

I turned to call to Alan, but he was less than a foot away, hot on my heels. He was keen as mustard to be involved. I was used to situations like this, but it must have been new and exciting for him.

I heard something crunch underfoot, followed by a rustling noise from the back of the room. Was that a shadow moving? If it was our Afghan Hound, I wasn’t letting it escape this time.

‘Use those boards to block the door,’ I told Alan.

I edged my way forward into the darkness.

‘Can you see him?’ Alan whispered from the doorway.

I heard the dog before I saw him. He was panting heavily, no doubt from dehydration. I placed the bowl on the floor and filled it to the brim with water. Some of it sloshed out, spreading across the concrete.

I took a few steps back and held my breath.

‘Come on, boy,’ I encouraged him.

Slowly but surely, the weary dog padded towards the bowl of water. He stepped into a shaft of light, his eyes reflecting brightly.

His energy levels had dropped dramatically. He crouched over the bowl, his shoulder blades poking through his fur like spears. His eyes were heavy and sad, as if he was fighting to keep them open.

‘That’s it, boy!’

My heart lifted as he managed to take a few laps of the water, slurping it up noisily before sloping back to his corner of the room.

‘What are we going to do now?’ Alan asked.

Good question. We had a bit of a problem on our hands. There was no way we were going to be able to lead such a fragile animal all the way back to the van. Especially as we didn’t know where the van was! We couldn’t contact the owner because the dog had no collar with an ID tag. I pulled out my mobile and rang the radio station in the hope that the dog owner had come forward at the eleventh hour. No such luck.

‘How are you getting on there, Tom?’ the presenter enquired.

I was live on air!

‘The dog is secure, safe and uninjured.’ I updated the listeners.

But the buzz I’d had when I was first on the radio had gone. I felt disheartened. What I wanted to say was I couldn’t believe that no one had claimed the dog. I’d looked into his big brown eyes – I couldn’t believe there wasn’t someone out there desperately missing him. He might have been bedraggled but, with a wash, food and a rest, he would look magnificent. The owner might not have been listening to the radio station – that was always a possibility.

I didn’t know what to do other than draw on my experience as a copper. In a similar situation I would have called on the dog warden to help trace his owner or rehome him. At least the warden would have the equipment to scan the dog for a chip to see if he had an owner.

It must have been around two p.m. when the van pulled up outside the derelict house. ‘All right, mate,’ I said, coming out to shake the warden’s hand. Alan was watching over the Afghan Hound, blocking his exit.

The sound of the opening of the cage door – the sliding of the metal bolt – sent a shiver down my spine. This wasn’t how I wanted it to end. The warden fetched his metal pole, which had a noose at one end to capture the dog. It looked like a medieval contraption, but it wouldn’t cause the animal any pain: it was more to protect the warden from being bitten – animals can behave unpredictably when they’re frightened.

I led the way into the building and left the warden to get on with his job. The hound was so weak by this point that he didn’t put up a fight. He stood motionless, his elegant lion head bowed, as if all the life had been beaten out of him.

I finally got a good look at him as he was led past us into the van. The poor chap was trembling, his tail between his legs. It was heartbreaking to watch.

‘What’s going to happen to him?’ I asked, concerned.

‘We’ll get him looked over by the vet first, check if he’s been chipped, then go from there.’

‘Okay, mate, thanks for coming out.’ I sighed, sad that I couldn’t do more.

The warden gently lifted the dog into the back of the van. He secured the cage and shut the door. I could see little black eyes staring helplessly at me through the window. I wanted to do something, but my hands were tied.

It was at that moment I knew what I wanted to do with my life. I wanted to reunite owners with their missing pets. I wanted to make a career that combined my love of animals with my investigative skills. I was going to become a pet detective and be the best in the world at it.

But I still had a lot to learn …

CHAPTER TWO

Fur Cop

Watching the helpless Afghan Hound being led away by the dog warden had reminded me of my days as a copper. It took me back to those emotional moments at the police kennels when I’d had to say goodbye to the dogs I’d made friends with.

My station in Halesowen, near Dudley, had a few kennels, which were used to house strays that members of the public had handed in. The police saw it as a burden to receive those dogs, so no one paid them any attention. The door was shut behind them. They had a bowl of water and a bowl of food and that was it. It was like a mini prison for sometimes up to twenty-four hours, until the dog warden picked them up at four the next afternoon.

I felt sorry for them being locked up in concrete cages. On my break I made a point of going to see them, to give them a stroke and a cuddle and sometimes take them for a little walk. One day I took two for a leg stretch and they both slipped their collars. I was running around the car park trying to catch the rascals. I’ve only got ten minutes left of my break! I’d better get these dogs back in their cages before someone notices, I thought, as I panted around the yard. It was a nightmare, but in the end I recaptured them. Luckily no one saw or I would have been under questioning.

My colleagues used to take the mick out of me for being so soft, but I’ve always been an animal lover. Ever since my mum brought home a puppy when I was fourteen. We named her Maggie.

Maggie was a mix between a sheepdog and a spaniel – a mongrel, if you like. She was adorable, with her little wavy ears, her glossy black and white coat, and her four white socks. Mum would never admit it, but she’d bought Maggie as a ‘softener’ after the blow of her divorce from my dad. I shared her with my three sisters, Naomi, Charlotte and Hannah, but it’s fair to say she was my dog. I took her for walks. I fed her. Maggie slept on my bed every night. She liked to curl up in a tight ball at my feet, with her nose tucked into her flank. Her deep sighs of contentment and gentle snoring would send me to sleep.

She meant the world to me. She was intelligent, loving – Maggie was my rock. Since Mum had left Dad, I’d felt a bit lost and I’d cuddle Maggie for comfort. She’d lie on the floor with her head on her left paw, panting, and I’d stroke her tummy while we watched the telly. I used to talk to Maggie, run through my quandaries and problems with her. I’d cuddle her and say, ‘What would you do about this, then, Maggie?’ Of course she couldn’t answer me as a person would, but she showed me she cared by licking my nose, jumping up or pawing my leg. She’d show her support by gazing up at me and wagging her tail.

I loved playing tennis with her. My mum’s house had a big wall outside and I used to whack the ball against it. Maggie would retrieve it within seconds. She’d drop it at my feet, poised for me to serve again.

One of my biggest worries was losing her. I was always terrified of letting her off the lead when we went for walks in case I never saw her again. When I did let her go, I watched her like a hawk.

Maggie was there for me when I was sixteen and joined West Midlands Police. She supported me through my two years of training as a cadet and then as a constable – or bobby, as we were called back then.

At seven a.m., on my way home after a long night-shift, I’d stop at the corner shop to pick up some milk and Midget Gems to share with Maggie while I wound down watching breakfast TV. She would greet me after a tough shift with an enthusiastic tail and a lick to my face. I couldn’t communicate with people as I could with Maggie. There was something about animals – their unconditional love and loyalty – that I hadn’t found in any person.

Not surprisingly, my love of dogs spilled over into my job as a copper, which explains why I was down at the kennels, looking after the stray dogs whenever I had a spare moment.

But canine company wasn’t the only thing I gained from the force. I wouldn’t be where I am today if I hadn’t spent all those years as a bobby. The police force was like a degree in life. I learned about human interaction, about investigation, about being organized, professionalism, infrastructure, logistics and communication.

The headquarters were in Birmingham, but I worked as a PC in Halesowen and Stourbridge, next door to each other. Mostly I walked the beat through the town centre in Stourbridge and drove around in my marked car. I dealt with everything from stolen bikes and serious assaults to burglaries, road accidents and pub fights.

Although I’m a big guy at six foot one, and quite sturdy on my feet, I was always a bit of a wimp in my dislike of violence. My strength was my ability to talk through situations rather than going in aggressively, as some coppers would. I took control in a diplomatic way.

Sadly, as time went on, I started to become disillusioned by the justice system. I felt frustrated that we spent all our time catching the bad guys only for the courts to let them off. Even though the police force was incredibly organized, there was much that I found difficult to cope with – primarily there weren’t enough bobbies on the beat so our lives were thrown into jeopardy while we were arresting criminals. The final straw came when one of the defendants, Jimmy, at a criminal trial I was involved with threatened to slit my throat right under the judge’s nose for grassing him up.

I didn’t sign up for this, I thought, as I raced on my motorbike from the court to my mum’s house in Dudley. I was sick with worry. What was Jimmy going to do? I feared he would track me down.

As soon as I screeched to a halt on Mum’s driveway I rang the inspector at Dudley police station. I explained I’d been in court and what had happened. He agreed it was a concern and reassured me that his boys would pay ‘passing attention’ to my mum’s house. It’s called ‘passing attention’ when a police officer takes a regular drive-by to keep an eye on a place.

‘What’s happened, love?’ Mum came into the living room, clearly anxious. She’d overheard my conversation with the inspector.

‘It’s nothing to worry about, Mum,’ I lied. ‘I’ve had a bit of trouble at the courthouse so I’ve asked the station if they’ll keep an eye out for us.’

Mum’s eyes widened like saucers.

‘Honestly, Mum, it’s nothing to worry about,’ I insisted, placing my hand on her arm reassuringly.

‘Okay, love,’ she said hesitantly. ‘Tea will be ready in a minute.’

I found it a challenge to mask my fears as we all sat around the table for supper. I was on tenterhooks, listening for any noise that might indicate trouble. I watched the telly from a chair by the front window. Every twenty minutes or so I would pull back the curtain and survey what was going on outside.

I struggled with terrible thoughts about what that bloke might do to my family in revenge. He was a nasty piece of work. I turned to Maggie for support. ‘So what should I do about this?’ I asked my best friend.

She was stretched out in front of me, resting her head on her paws. She let out a little whimper, then pulled herself to her feet and came to my side.

‘I’m going to need your help, mate,’ I said, stroking her head and scratching behind her ears.

She ‘woofed’, as if to say, ‘No worries, I’m here if you need me.’

As I made my way up the stairs to bed, Maggie was hot on my heels. ‘Stay!’ I said, pointing to the hallway by the front door.

She tilted her head and let out a snuffled whine. Maggie had spent every night on my bed since we’d got her eight years earlier.

‘I need you to stay on guard for us tonight,’ I explained.

She didn’t know why I was asking her to sleep in front of the door, but she realized, because I’d asked her to do so, that it must be important.

‘Thanks, mate.’ I gave her another stroke, then climbed the creaky stairs.

That night, not surprisingly, I hardly slept a wink. Any slight noise jolted me awake.

It was 2.32 a.m. when I woke to the hum of a car engine outside our house. My window was juddering. The beam from the headlights had crept through my curtain and was projecting a light across the ceiling. My heart was in my mouth. I could hear Maggie’s paws scratching on the floorboards downstairs, which meant she was wide awake and also wondering who was outside. I crept downstairs on tiptoe, doing my best to reduce the noise of the squeaky stairs. I didn’t want to alarm my mum and sister unnecessarily.

Maggie was waiting for me, ears pricked. She appeared agitated. She followed me through to the living room, where I peeled back the curtain onto the street outside.

From the dull glow of the streetlights, I could make out a man behind the steering wheel of a red Vauxhall Vectra. A woman wearing a black coat, skirt and heels got out of the passenger door.

‘No need to worry, mate.’ I turned to Maggie. It was just a neighbour being dropped off after a night out.

Maggie slept downstairs for a week until the dust settled.

But the scare had left a bitter taste in my mouth. This guy was my breaking point – the last in a long line of arrests that had ended up with the criminals getting off. We were continually undermanned, under-resourced and under-protected.

The next morning while I was on my rounds I made a snap decision. I didn’t want to spend another moment of my life doing something I didn’t believe in. I was going to quit the police force and use the valuable set of skills I had acquired for a greater good.

At that moment I had a flashback to my interview for the cadets all those years ago.

‘So, Tom, why do you want to join the police?’ the chief inspector had asked.

I’d answered with five simple words: ‘I want to help people.’

That was my goal then, and it was still my goal.

One way or another, I was going to help people.

Tom Watkins with Ruth Kelly

THE REAL PET DETECTIVE

True Tales of Pets Lost and Found

VIKING

Prologue

CHAPTER ONE

Barking Mad

CHAPTER TWO

Fur Cop