Martin eased his way around the interior of the mill, got his nose out and began blood-hounding as soon as he heard the van with a broken exhaust labour its way out of the yard, the rattling, the putt-putting, until eventually the sounds faded away. He picked up Mandy’s scent and sniffed along the ground. The sawdust perfume was redolent of Cabbage, but he dismissed the thoughts and, like a good Ginger, he remained focused and soon he arrived at a*****e-room. The scent went directly into it.
The previously detached voices got louder, there was movement and a bigger light flooded the space. Martin could hear the voices, but couldn’t make out what they were saying. He padded, like his middle name, Stefan, to the side of the store, which was clad with roughly sawn timber boarding and nosed a
