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Dylan liked dogs. Most dogs, at least. The sort he didn't like were Rottweilers weighing in excess of a hundred and fifty pounds. Like the one showing him yellow sharklike teeth right now.

"Okay, Sunshine, we're keeping this gate between us." Dylan tried to speak with authority, to show it who was master here.

The dog already knew who was controlling the standoff and it wasn't Dylan. Mud puddled around the creature's enormous feet as it emitted a menacing growl that shook its well-muscled body.

"Right. I can stand here all day," Dylan said.

The evil-eyed creature came a step closer. Still growling. Still putting Dylan at the top of the day's breakfast menu.

Dylan couldn't really stand here all day. Rain was soaking through his jeans, and a force eight was threatening to knock him off his feet.

The house he was trying to reach looked like something from a child's painting. Square and built of red brick, it had four symmetrical windows, two on the ground floor and two above. The front door was in the middle of the windows, and a chimney was dead centre in a red-tiled roof. A curl of smoke twisting skyward completed the picture.

That front door was about twenty yards from the gate. Dylan wondered if he could find a stone to throw at the door and alert the occupant's attention. Another thought came—

"Right, Sunshine." Dylan wandered into a lane where a vehicle had churned up deep ruts in the mud. He picked up a stone and hurled it the length of the garden at the side of the house. "Fetch!"

The dog simply curled its lip and gave a warning growl.

"Fallen for that one before, have you?" Dylan asked.

A large blue-and-white painted sign told him he was outside the Pennine View Rescue Centre so he couldn't even hope he had the wrong property. Another sign begged for donations. Anything from blankets to pet food and cash was welcomed.

"Hello!" Dylan called as a figure, it was impossible to guess the gender, came into view at the corner of the house.

"Trudy, are you up to your old tricks? Come here, sweetheart." It was female, and she walked up the path, laughing at Dylan's plight. "Don't worry about Trudy. She only wants to play."

Who in hell's name would christen the evil creature Trudy? Probably the same person who thought Dylan was daft enough to open the gate.

"It looks like she'd rather have breakfast than play," he said.

"Nonsense. She'd play all day." The woman fondled Trudy's ears. "Wouldn't you, sweetheart?"

"I'm looking for Mrs. Kaminski," Dylan said as the woman reached for the gate.

"Oh, my—" A shocked hand went to her mouth. "You must be Mr. Scott. You're early. Thank you. I mean, thank you for being early. Thank you for coming at all. Sorry, I'm Mrs. Kaminski. Sue."

She thrust out a hand. The closed gate was still between them, the way Dylan would like to keep it.

"Good to meet you, Sue. I'm Dylan." He shook her hand.

She nodded at his car, a 1956 Morgan in Daytona Yellow. "Is that what the best private investigators are driving?"

"It's what I'm driving."

"Aw, isn't it pretty?"

He was about to explain that under no stretch of the imagination could his pride and joy be described as pretty when she yanked open the gate. The dog lunged. Dylan sucked in his breath, waiting for the crunch of teeth on bone, but the dog merely sniffed at his sleeve and wagged its vast backside in greeting.

"You see?" Sue said. "You're friends already. Come into the house, Mr. Scott. Dylan. This rain's getting heavier. We'll be soaked through."