“Yes, Sergeant.”
“If you see Anderson, don’t try to tackle him alone. Spring your rattle.”
“I can handle him, Sergeant!” Duff sounded hurt.
“You’re injured,” Watters said. “Anderson will see that right away. If you see him, spring your rattle. Scuddamore, you’re with me.”
Aware he was weaker than usual, Watters led the way to Anderson’s cottage, fighting the pain in his back and now also in his shoulder. He heard the Camperdown clock strike ten, wondered what had happened to the morning and pushed on.
The dogs were gone from Anderson’s garden with the runs empty but the canine smell still predominant. Watters climbed the wall, gasping with pain, and rolled into the garden. Scuddamore followed, more agile, landed on his feet, and looked around.
“I smell whisky,” Scuddamore said.
“In
