Die Like a Dog Read Online Free PDF Page B

below the road conifers and splashes of colour showed among the hardwoods. There was the grey stone of a chimney, a flash of sunlit slates; this was the Judsons’ house, Parc. She hoped that the dogs were securely chained, felt a sense of outrage at the hope and then reflected that, viewed objectively, it was indeed monstrous that one couldn’t enjoy a walk in a Welsh combe for fear of attack from a wild beast. Deep in thought she heard the click of a latch; bearing down on her was a solid woman in winged spectacles and a blue overall. Behind her and the gate the white walls of a cottage were framed between clumps of lupins. They were opposite the end of the Judsons’ drive and Miss Pink uttered the thought that most concerned her:
    â€˜Good morning. Are the dogs loose?’
    The woman gaped, then recovered herself.
    â€˜No,’ she said, taking the other’s measure. ‘Are you calling on Mrs Judson?’
    â€˜Not at the moment, but in any event I feel easier now that I know where the dogs are.’
    â€˜If they were loose Mrs Judson would have phoned me. I look after them.’
    â€˜The dogs? Oh, you help in the house.’ Miss Pink smiled at the euphemism. ‘And you’re –’
    â€˜I assist Mrs Judson.’ The tone was a rebuke. ‘I’m Mrs Evans.’
    â€˜Ah. I met your husband.’ Miss Pink was bland.
    â€˜He is the bailiff for the estate,’ said Mrs Evans. ‘I’m sorry about the dogs. Evans has seen to it that it won’t happen again.’
    â€˜I’m sure he has,’ Miss Pink murmured.
    â€˜Guard dogs are essential,’ she was informed. ‘You don’t know who’s about these days.’ Behind the butterfly frames the eyes were cold. ‘It’s all over, isn’t it? Riots, looting, arson. I feel like going out and buying an Alsatian myself, that I do. We’ll all be murdered in our beds, I tell Evans. Heavy metal, did you see? Cowards in public, of course, but Evans was as well coming home in the car. You don’t walk up this lane at night alone no more.’
    â€˜Heavy metal?’ Miss Pink was bewildered.
    â€˜In the hall last night. You were there. You saw.’
    â€˜I saw a punk rocker: green and orange hair.’
    â€˜Heavy metal,’ Mrs Evans corrected firmly. ‘They carry knives, bicycle chains, ball bearings for throwing under horses’ hooves, hoses for stealing petrol. I blame it on the TV. Copy-cat violence. No one’s safe. We’ve got it here, you know. Oh yes,’ she nodded sagely, turned and looked meaningly up the valley. ‘What can you expect with parents like they got? Single parent families!’ She gave a snort of contempt and turned back to Miss Pink. ‘I’ll say no more. You’ll see if you’re here for any length of time.’
    â€˜You have no children yourself.’
    Mrs Evans’s face was suddenly tragic. ‘No. No children.’ She looked pointedly at Miss Pink’s left hand. ‘I’ve quite enough to do looking after a husband.’
    Now who, Miss Pink thought, moving on with a feeling of release, smelling the wholesome honeysuckle again: who lives further up the valley?
    She came to the house soon enough, or rather, its drive: docks and dandelions pushing through the tarmac, a sagging gate with no name, an avenue of yews that had not been clipped for years. The house was invisible beyond the yews.
    After that there was a ruin with a mountain ash growing from the remaining chimney stack, and nettles halfway up the walls, while just past it a tolerable surfaced track climbed the wooded slope. It was marked with the imprint of wide tyres. She turned uphill and lengthened her stride. Almost immediately she saw a nest box and realised that she must still be within the bounds of the Reserve. A flycatcher flitted to the hole and slipped inside. As she watched, it reappeared and rushed off without a glance