Maxwell's Chain by M.J. Trow Read Free Book Online Page A

that. And DNA the blood from round his mouth. We’ve swabbed that. We also need to get a breed, if we can. Add it to the door to door. People remember dogs.’
    The door of the laboratory squeaked open and swung shut. Another smell vied with that of dog. It was Donald, Astley’s assistant, borne in on a waft of McDonald’s All-in All-day Breakfast Special. Donald had something of the Incredible Bulk about him these days, except that he wasn’t green and nobody liked him anyway, whether he was angry or not.
    ‘Donald,’ Astley said waspishly, glancing at the lab clock. ‘Glad you could make it.’
    ‘No problem,’ said Donald, licking his fingers and doing up his gown in a complicated movement made possible only through long practice. ‘I was in the area anyway. Morning, Mr Hall.’
    Hall could never work out whether Donald was extremely bright or extremely stupid. It may have been that even Donald didn’t know.
    Astley turned to his assistant. ‘We have here two bodies, one, over there,’ he tossed his head in the girl’s direction, ‘and the other, apparently more urgent, here.’ He gestured at the dog.
    Donald looked closely. ‘Greyhound cross,’ he said. ‘Hmm, I’d say probably with something like an Airedale, something like that. About two hundred pounds worth of dog there, I’d guess.’
    ‘Pardon?’ Hall and Astley said together. Then Hall went solo.
    ‘Do you mean people pay for mongrels like that?’
    ‘Well,’ Donald said. ‘Not a mongrel specifically, you see. It’s a cross-breed, but we know what breeds. A greyhound,’ he traced the line of the dog’s back and tail, ‘and an…mmm, I still think Airedale.’ He held up the dog’s matted head, showing the tell-tale square jaw and alert ears. ‘People buy them for the temperament, both placid and loyal, in this case. Other crosses are bred for viciousness – Staffordshire and, well almost anything. Or for working; any of the terriers and say a cocker. They can be a bit nasty-tempered, but good for ratting, say.’
    ‘And you’re an expert in this how, exactly?’ Astley spat. Not only did his lab smell like the aftermath of Crufts, but now Donald was effortlessly holding the floor. It was not a situation with which Astley was particularly familiar.
    ‘Oh, my granddad has a farm, just outside Lewes,’ he said. ‘He has a few cross-breeds and I got interested.’
    Hall interrupted. ‘So, you could trace the breeder?’ he asked.
    ‘Not likely,’ Donald said. ‘You could trace the owner, though.’
    Astley rolled his eyes. ‘That’s what we’re trying to do, Donald,’ he said, condescendingly.
    Hall was less sceptical. He was impressed by the big man’s knowledge, so carelessly shared. ‘How?’
    ‘Well,’ Donald said, moving away towards the sink, to wash the dog off his fingers. Even he had limits. ‘He’s chipped, isn’t he?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ asked Hall. ‘Is he?’
    ‘Yeah,’ said Donald. ‘Most vets do it free these days and I think I could feel it, little tiny thing, there, on his neck.’ He waved chubby fingers in the direction of the animal.
    ‘And what does this chip tell us?’ asked Hall. He had no pets. They required emotional attachment and he only had just enough to go round his family.
    ‘Well, the chip doesn’t tell us anything. But it tells us the chip company it’s registered with and they can tell you the address, all that stuff, if only the owner has kept it up to date.’ Donald smiled through the last, slick traces of his All-day Breakfast.‘It’s a start, though, isn’t it?’
    Hall almost smiled, as much at Astley’s discomfiture as at the progress he was suddenly making. But the DCI had a reputation and he checked himself. ‘It certainly is, Donald. It certainly is. What do you do to read this chip?’
    ‘Get a vet in. They’ve got a scanner that reads the information.’
    Astley threw up his hands. ‘Not content with a dog, Henry, you’re now filling my lab with