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you won that half-marathon.”
    “What’s up?”
    “It’s just that … well … we all seem to have had a bit of a nasty surprise this morning. I wondered if you—”
    “Yes, I got one too,” she interrupted. “Some nutter. Best to ignore it.”
    And that was the extent of her conversation. Stuffing her headphones back in her ears, she and the inexhaustible red setter took off.
    “You don’t think it’s Kath, do you?” Mrs Surfer Dude suddenly asked Collie Woman. “I couldn’t bear it. Not after the business with Spike.”
    “No!” said Collie Woman, looking worried. “Surely not…”
    “It couldn’t be. That would be awful!” cried Mumsiewumsie.
    “Spike?” I asked. “Who’s Spike?”
    Everyone fell silent. Mrs Surfer Dude’s eyes were wide with anxiety. Mumsiewumsie picked up Malcolm in one arm and Stanley in the other, as if to protect them from some unseen danger. The ball-obsessed collie was brought to heel. Hamlet and Gertrude were clipped onto leads. One by one, the dog owners melted away, darting furtive, anxious glances over their shoulders as they left the park.

dermot o’flannery
    The following morning an article appeared in the local paper. Mrs Surfer Dude must have called the news desk as well as the police, because there was a photo of her and her husband with Jessie on the front page, holding a bag of poo and looking disgusted. It was only then that I learnt their real names: Gabbie and Grant Robinson. He worked for an outdoor pursuits centre; she was employed by the RSPCA.
    It must have been a very slack news day, because the next thing we knew the local TV station had sent a crew to cover the story. When we took Bertie for his morning walk we saw a car and a van parked on the tarmac near the park gates. A crowd had gathered to watch the excitement.
    The presence of cameras might not in itself have been riveting, but the fact that the reporter was Dermot O’Flannery was enough to grab my attention.
    “Look!” I said to Graham. “It’s him.”
    “Who?” asked Graham.
    “Dermot something. His wife got bashed by a burglar, do you remember? It was about six months ago, I think.”
    “Yes, it was.” Graham frowned, trying to recall the details. “He went to pieces afterwards, didn’t he?”
    “Yes – threw himself into her grave at the funeral. And then he burst into tears on live TV while he was reading the headlines. It was dead embarrassing.” I was vague on the precise details of the murder case, but I remembered that incident clearly enough – it had been a pitiful sight and afterwards he’d lost his job as the station’s anchorman.
    But it looked like he was beginning to scrape the shattered fragments of his life back together. He was clearly having to start at the very bottom of the career ladder again, though – doing an item on dog poo was hardly the cutting edge of investigative journalism.
    Nevertheless, Dermot O’Flannery seemed extremely nervous. He looked pale and kept swallowing anxiously, as if he was about to interview an assembly of world leaders.
    By the time Graham and I arrived at the park, a whole pack of interviewees had assembled. Byron’s bow-tied owner was beating about in the bushes, although there was no sign of his beagle. Mumsiewumsie was sitting on a bench near by with Malcolm and Stanley, feeding them treats. Collie Woman was throwing a ball for Sam. The small Spanish woman with the large Great Dane was talking to the short, fat owner of the long, thin dachshund. One of the TV crew had jotted down their names and addresses and they were all ready and willing to tell Dermot their story, but he didn’t seem very keen to begin.
    Graham and I casually sidled over to Mr and Mrs Surfer Dude, aka Grant and Gabbie Robinson. I’d asked Mrs Biggs about the mysterious Spike incident but she’d only paled and said she didn’t want to discuss it, so I was hoping to overhear something interesting. They were discussing Dermot O’Flannery, or at