Chapter Eighteen
A key clanged in the lock of the holding cell. “Right, you’re free to go,” said a young pink-eared police constable, his tone indicating that he didn’t care one way or the other if the prisoner was set free or left to rot. The door swung open and the PC stood there gawping as Thelonious hopped down from the bench, snapping chewing gum between teeth that looked as if they’d been subjected to one too many sweets. Had Thelonious not been on the wrong side of the cell door, he might’ve asked the lad if he’d ever heard of a toothbrush. Why, he’d seen cleaner choppers on his foraging cousins that lived in the wild!
His short legs felt unsteady beneath him, and he stopped for a moment to rub his backside with the pads of his paws, trying to ease the discomfort from having to si
