One last case

“They brought him out of retirement for one last case,” old Johnson told me down the Industrial Filter one evening.

 

“Your old sniffer dog? Rover? I thought he’d lost his sense of smell.”

 

“No, he was as good as ever the day he retired. Just not needed any more.”

 

“Not needed? Don’t they need them for explosives, drugs and stuff?”

 

Old Johnson paused on his pint, holding it mid-air, as if undecided what to do with it having lifted it so far.

 

“Oh, Rover was never any good at that. In training he once ignored an entire lorry full of drugs, and instead seized a passing old man with a black pudding in his luggage.”

 

“Really? But you worked with him for years. How did he ever get through training? Did he cheat at his exams?”

 

“Ah, but you see, that was what he was good at, the offal. That illegal black pudding would have got through if it hadn’t been for Rover. No other dog could detect offal like he could.”

 

“Offal? Was offal ever a crime?”

 

“Oh sure. The use of offal for human consumption was illegal for nearly twenty years following the BSE thing. There was a massive illicit trade, worth millions.”

 

“So that’s what you did. You sniffed out offal.”

 

“For seven years. Me and Rover. We were the best in the business, won awards for it. Not so much as an unregistered haggis got past us in all that time. Then the ban got lifted, trade in offal became legal, and there was no need for Rover. But now the old team are back together.  For one last case.”

 

“How come?  Are new criminal gangs muscling in on the illicit offal market?”

“No I told you, offal’s no longer banned. No, this is the big one. I probably shouldn’t even be telling you.” His voiced dropped to a whisper. “It’s anti-terror.”

 

“Anti-terror? How exactly does an ageing offal-sniffer-dog combat terrorism?”

 

“Oh, you may laugh,” he said, pausing to drain his pint and look at his empty glass the way Rover probably learnt to look at his empty bowl, all round-eyed neediness. I signalled to the landlord for two more of his finest…..

 

“You may laugh,” he continued, “but this is big. Rover could end up saving thousands of lives. Like the 17th January bombing in Basingstoke.”

 

“17th January? Basingstoke? There’s never been a terrorist attack in Basingstoke. I know that for a fact, I’m keeping a bottle of champagne aside for the occasion.”

 

“Exactly,” he said, ignoring my joke in much the same way as my wife does, and slurped his newly-arrived pint.

 

“Is this an anti-terror thing? Are you speaking in code so that I can’t understand you?”

 

Old Johnson sighed, like an old cop having to explain basic litter-tray etiquette to his new partner.

 

“There wasn’t a bombing in Basingstoke on the 17th January because a sniffer dog found the bomb just hours before it was due to go off.”

 

“That wasn’t on the news.”

 

“Of course it wasn’t. They never found out who planted it. They don’t want the public thinking that there are terrorists out there leaving bombs and getting away with it.”

 

“So, Rover’s going to stop the destruction of Basingstoke? How, exactly? Has he learnt to sniff out bombs?”

 

“No, he’s still a specialist.”

 

“In offal.”

 

“Not just in offal, no. That’s the point. He’s been recruited especially to stop the Tripe Bombers.”

“The Tripe Bombers?” I looked at my phone, checking it wasn’t 1st April, though the first nip of winter was already in the air, not to mention the rust-red autumn ales we were drinking.

“I got called into the office, you know, The Office, with the Big Man. And he’s there with a whole swathe of suits from the anti-terror unit. Not even the standard terror people, a secret unit within the terror unit. I probably shouldn’t be telling you.”

 

“They needed you to combat terror.”

 

“Well, I was the only one who could handle Rover. He’s a quirky little dog. Of course I haven’t worked with a dog for years, not since Rover retired, I can’t get on with other dogs. I’ve been stuck in the office, doing paperwork mostly.”

 

“Let me just get this straight,” I said, in my three-pints-in voice. “You’re a police dog-handler, but you can only handle one dog, and the one dog you can handle can’t sniff any of the usual things, like drugs, explosives, just offal and tripe. And the two of you have been recruited by the top anti-terror force in the UK?”

 

“I told you. The Tripe Bombers. It’s a massive case.”

 

“And what do they do, these Tripe Bombers?”

 

“Well,” old Johnson enjoyed another swig of beer, “They leave bombs in public places, shopping centres, offices, sports facilities, attached to tripe. So far Rover’s found all three of them.”

 

“Rover’s found three bombs?”

 

“Well, so far they’ve all been hoax calls, you know, dummy runs, just tripe sans bombs. But their strategy is clear, and the next call could be the real thing. Another Basingstoke.”

 

“Like Basingstoke, but with added tripe. Doesn’t Rover get confused by your smell?”

 

“My smell? Are you saying I smell of tripe?”

 

“I don’t mean that, only I saw your wife buying tripe in the butcher’s the other day. Doesn’t Rover confuse you for a bomb if you’ve had tripe for tea?”

 

“Rover’s a bit better than that, he knows I’m not a terrorist. Besides, I’ve never eaten tripe in my life, just the thought of it turns my stomach, and Barbara’s a veggie these days, doctor’s orders. It must have been her dopple-ganger you saw.”

 

“It’s a strange case,” I mulled. “A terrorist gang, going around hiding tripe and then phoning the authorities.”

“It is a strange case,” interrupted Johnson, “and it will be my last case. I’ve already decided, whatever the outcome I’m following Rover out of the force.”

 

I raised my glass. “To your last case.”

 

“No, no, no, let’s not raise a toast to that,” Old Johnson said, “that’s clichéd. I’ve a better one. To seeing that the tripe bombers get their just deserts.”

 

We clicked glasses.

 

Just three days later Old Johnson was dead. The first victim of the Tripe Bombers.