The Dog Sitter Detective Takes the Lead E-Book

Antony Johnston

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Dog Sitter Detective
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 358

Beschreibung

Gwinny Tuffel is preparing for her first acting role in a decade in the West End, but she is dog-sitting on the side to keep the wolf from the door. So, when ageing rock star Crash Double needs help with his Border Collie, she jumps at the chance. After all, looking after the charming Ace on Crash's Little Venice houseboat shouldn't be an onerous task. But that's before the singer's dead body surfaces during the annual Canal Carnival festivities. While the police dismiss the death as an accident, Gwinny suspects murder most foul. With a medley of suspects and some far-fetched motives to make heads or tails of, it is up to Gwinny, with Ace's on-the-ground knowledge, to make sure the killer faces the music.

Leseprobe

3

The Dog Sitter Detective Takes the Lead

ANTONY JOHNSTON

For rescue workers and foster carers everywhere

CONTENTS

TITLE PAGEDEDICATIONCHAPTER ONECHAPTER TWOCHAPTER THREECHAPTER FOURCHAPTER FIVECHAPTER SIXCHAPTER SEVENCHAPTER EIGHTCHAPTER NINECHAPTER TENCHAPTER ELEVENCHAPTER TWELVECHAPTER THIRTEENCHAPTER FOURTEENCHAPTER FIFTEENCHAPTER SIXTEENCHAPTER SEVENTEENCHAPTER EIGHTEENCHAPTER NINETEENCHAPTER TWENTYCHAPTER TWENTY-ONECHAPTER TWENTY-TWOCHAPTER TWENTY-THREECHAPTER TWENTY-FOURCHAPTER TWENTY-FIVECHAPTER TWENTY-SIXCHAPTER TWENTY-SEVENCHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHTCHAPTER TWENTY-NINECHAPTER THIRTYCHAPTER THIRTY-ONECHAPTER THIRTY-TWOCHAPTER THIRTY-THREECHAPTER THIRTY-FOURACKNOWLEDGEMENTSBY ANTONY JOHNSTON ABOUT THE AUTHORCOPYRIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

I missed the first phone call from Crash Double because I was upstairs trying to dig myself out from under my mother’s old clothes before I suffocated under a pile of wool and plastic.

Honestly, Monday mornings.

My phone was on the kitchen table and set to silent because I wasn’t expecting anyone to call. With a couple of hours to spare until rehearsal, I was determined to make a start on my mother’s seemingly endless wardrobe. She had never been an extravagant figure, and I didn’t remember her wearing half of the clothes I now stood facing. But there they were, row upon row of dresses and blouses and skirts and more, gathering dust and packed so tightly they threatened to burst out of the wardrobe in this third-floor spare room. There could have been a passage to Narnia back there and I wouldn’t have seen it. After she died, my father could never bring himself to discard her clothes, so he simply shrouded them in plastic. I sometimes thought he expected me to wear them but that was about as likely as me twirling down the King’s Road in a tutu.

So I reached in to remove a dress from the rail, because if I’ve learnt anything from fixing up the house I inherited it’s that you have to start somewhere, and they did. Burst out of the wardrobe, that is. With me underneath.

As I clambered out from under the squeaking plastic, it was becoming clear that sorting out this tailored abundance would take more than a quick hour or two. I abandoned it with a promise to return when I had more time, because today I had an important rehearsal to attend.

Not that all rehearsals aren’t important, but this was to be my first major role since coming out of retirement. I’d given up acting to care for my father, and assumed I’d never go back. But when he died after a decade of illness, it turned out he’d burnt through all the money he’d made in the City, and there was nothing left. I’d have to resume working, which was easier said than done for a sixty-year-old woman who hadn’t been in front of a camera or audience for ten years. Nevertheless, I was determined to give it a go, and since landing a new agent I’d had several auditions. Mostly for the role of ‘quiet grandmother who has one good line if she’s lucky’, admittedly, but work is work. And now I’d landed a meaty part: Melanie, frustrated daughter of Margory and long-suffering mother to Michelle, in a new play at the Sunrise Theatre called Mixed Mothers.

After freshening up and changing into a standard rehearsal outfit of pullover, slacks and flat shoes for comfort, I returned downstairs to gather my things. That’s when I finally picked up my phone and saw a call from an unknown number.

I didn’t think much of it. There had been a time when my friend Tina was the only person I could reliably expect to call my mobile, while calls on the house phone had invariably been doctors or officials discussing my father’s care. Those calls ceased with his death, and I’d considered removing the landline altogether because now everyone lives on their mobiles, don’t they? I did, especially as I’d also begun dog-sitting to make ends meet (auditions are all very well, but they don’t pay). My number had quickly spread through the dog owners’ grapevine and now calls from strangers weren’t unusual.

Normally, though, they left a voicemail. No such luck here, so I assumed it was a scammer and tossed my phone, keys and purse in my handbag.

I hadn’t yet worked out how to get the towering piles of old Financial Times in the hallway to the recycling, so I stepped carefully around them and checked myself in the hallway mirror. Still short and grey, but not in bad shape considering. Then I stepped out onto Smithfield Terrace where a fresh spring breeze blew down the street. I took a sweet breath and smiled, my mind on nothing but making a good impression at rehearsals.

Which is why I jumped several inches in the air when a familiar sharp voice behind me called out, ‘Guinevere, my dear. Are you well?’

The black-clad Dowager Lady Ragley, my next-door neighbour and stalwart defender of Chelsea house prices, had somehow left her house and approached me without making a sound.

‘Very well, thank you, my lady,’ I said, forcing a smile. ‘In fact, I’m going to first rehearsal for my next role. I’m appearing at the Sunrise, you see.’ It was a small theatre, to be sure, but the Dowager was easily dazzled by celebrity. I lived in vain hope that she might one day be impressed enough by my career to stop badgering me about house repairs.

‘How lovely,’ she said, the information immediately dismissed. Instead, she gestured with a thin, white-cuffed wrist to my house. ‘I wonder if you’ve given any further thought to your façade.’

I fought to stop my eyes rolling and stepped back to take in the frontage. Really, it didn’t need that much work. OK, some of the window frames were a little worse for wear; yes, the guttering and drainpipes needed attention; sure, there was missing ironwork on the basement stair. But it was hardly threatening to collapse onto the pavement.

‘All on my list,’ I reassured her, tapping my head to indicate where said list was stored. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get to it before—’

A piece of first-floor render chose that moment to succumb to the spring breeze and claim its freedom. In silence (mine aghast, hers triumphant) we both watched it break away and skitter down the stone, to land on my front step as if mocking not just my words but my very thoughts.

The Dowager faced me with a silent, stony glare. I almost would have preferred her to be smug.

‘I’ll call someone right away,’ I said quickly. Unable to resist, I added, ‘Unless you can recommend a builder personally, of course.’

Her nostrils flared, offended by the suggestion that she might deign to fraternise with tradesmen. She turned on her heel and said, ‘I have full confidence you’ll deal with it, my dear,’ then disappeared inside her house, somehow slamming her door in silence.

Suitably chastened, I pulled out my phone and prepared to call a builder. Except, of course, I knew no more builders than Lady Ragley did. I’d have to seek a recommendation.

Trudging toward Sloane Square Station, the spring breeze seemed to have turned sour.

CHAPTER TWO

I arrived at the Sunrise ten minutes before rehearsals were due to start, yet somehow still felt late. Finding the communal green room empty, I dropped my bag and coat on a free table and hurried through corridors towards the stage. Voices sounded from out front. Had I got the time wrong? Being late to first rehearsal wouldn’t make a good impression.

I weaved past stagehands in the wings and emerged to find the principal cast huddled with the director, Simon. He had his arm around the shoulder of a young woman, and everyone smiled while she took a group selfie on her phone. I was still very much on the outside of acting scene gossip, having ignored it altogether for the past ten years, so I had no idea if this was Simon’s daughter, his latest wife, a PA, or whatever. But they were clearly on good terms, so I decided I should make an effort.

Ted, the actor playing the eternally patient husband Martin to my harrassed mother Melanie, noticed me step on stage and discreetly cleared his throat. The others turned like a pack of startled meerkats then parted so I could approach Simon and his blonde companion.

I took the initiative and walked forward confidently. ‘By my watch I’m early, but seeing you all here makes me wonder,’ I laughed, and before anyone could contradict me, I put out a hand to greet the young woman. ‘Good morning. You’ve met everyone else, so you might have already guessed I’m Gwinny.’

‘Oh yeah, of course,’ she smiled, handing her phone to Simon. ‘This is so good of you, thank you. I’m Violet, obviously.’

‘… Obviously,’ I agreed, envying the confidence of youth. She probably had a million followers on social media, so why wouldn’t it be obvious?

(I know what social media is, I’m not a Luddite. My new agent had suggested I create a profile and get involved, to let people see ‘the real Gwinny’. But when I spent an hour looking around, it seemed what people really wanted to see was either beautiful young people posting pictures of themselves in sunny locations, or angry old people arguing with each other about today’s tabloid frenzy. I doubted there was an audience for back pain, varicose veins and house renovations.)

‘Let’s begin,’ said Simon, clapping for attention. ‘Places, please.’

I reached for my lines then remembered I’d left my bag backstage. Ted and I weren’t on until scene three, though, so I’d have time. As everyone scurried to position, I passed him in the wings and whispered, ‘I need to get my lines from the green room. Cover for me, I’ll be back in a minute.’

Before he could reply, a stagehand handed me a stack of pages. I thanked her and flipped through to scene three, only to find it wasn’t there. ‘Darling, I think you’ve got these mixed up,’ I called after her. ‘These are for—’

‘Places, Gwinny, places!’ Simon bellowed from his seat facing centre stage. ‘Get with it, you’re in scene one now.’

Confused, I turned back to the opening pages and scanned in vain for my character. Had there been rewrites already?

‘Sorry, Simon, I don’t see Melanie in the opener. Are these definitely the latest sides?’

‘What? No, you’re Margory. Violet is playing Melanie.’

I was so still I could have won a prize. Vaguely aware that everyone else had frozen too, I glanced over at Violet. She stood in the wings, suddenly fascinated by her own script.

‘Say that again?’

The director sighed theatrically. ‘You’re playing Margory now. The grandmother. Violet is playing Melanie, the mother. For heaven’s sake, didn’t anyone tell you?’

Blood rushed to my cheeks. I fought to keep my voice steady as I walked downstage to the footlights and said, ‘Who, Simon? Who exactly would have told me? You’re the director.’

‘Yes I am, and that’s why I’ve made the decision to recast with someone closer to the character’s age. Now don’t fuss, Gwinny. Find your mark and let’s go.’

I did, and proceeded to stumble my way through unfamiliar lines and an unfamiliar headspace for the first run-through. I kept reminding myself that I was no longer a star, or even much of a recognisable character actor. I should have known that landing a central role so soon was too good to be true. This was what I’d dreaded most about resuming my career: having to start back at the bottom of the ladder, like a struggling young actress all over again but with several decades of accumulated aches, pains and wrinkles to contend with.

I didn’t blame Violet. Assuming she wasn’t sleeping with Simon, she’d done nothing more than be a pretty ingénue. Yes, she was twenty years too young for the part, but make-up could take care of that. In her position I would have done the same.

At lunch break I found a private area and called my agent, ‘Bostin’ Jim Austin.

‘Bostin Agency,’ he answered in his thick Brummie accent. Bostin was a nickname he’d acquired at school in Birmingham, apparently local slang for brilliant. It takes all sorts.

‘It’s Gwinny. What the hell’s going on with Mixed Mothers? They want to recast me!’ Furious, I related what had happened while Jim patiently tutted in all the right places.

‘Believe me, I would have told you if I’d known about it,’ he said when I finally paused to breathe. ‘But I don’t think there’s much I can do.’

‘Surely it’s a breach of contract,’ I sputtered. ‘Margory has a quarter of the lines Melanie does. Are they at least going to pay me the same?’

He hesitated. ‘Now there’s an idea. Leave that with me. The thing is, do you really want to cause a fuss?’

There was that word again. ‘I’m hardly being an unreasonable diva. I was cast in a role, and I expect to play it.’

‘I get that. But now you’ve been re-cast, and a woman of your experience knows that sometimes happens on small productions. Especially when they can suddenly get a big name from TV.’

‘She’s practically a teenager. How has she been around long enough to be any kind of name?’

‘Are you serious? Didn’t you watch Eastenders last year?’

‘Last year I was somewhat busy caring for my dying father.’

After a pause he said, ‘OK, I apologise for that. But if we’re going to work together, I need two things. First, you have to take more of an interest in the business. Second, if I can be frank, remember that you’re basically starting over from scratch, and with a handicap. You don’t want a reputation for making trouble.’

I seethed quietly at being called a troublemaker when none of this was my doing. But I knew exactly what ‘handicap’ he meant. There was no shortage of older women vying for stage parts, thanks to the lack of decent roles on TV. If word got around that I was difficult to work with, or even (gasp!) ungrateful, I’d be consigned to the do-not-hire pile.

‘Five minutes,’ came a shout from the corridor.

I pushed my anger deep down inside, took a long, slow breath, and said, ‘All right, deal.’ Struck by sudden inspiration, I added, ‘By the way, I don’t suppose you happen to know any good builders? My house needs a bit of work.’

‘I do, actually. Just had our loft done, and quite reasonable too. I’ll text you his number.’

Before I could ask whether Bostin Jim and I shared a definition of ‘quite reasonable’, he ended the call. I threw down my phone and reread grandmother Margory’s lines.

At ten past four I stepped out of the stage door and was assaulted by a black Labrador. Thankfully it was a loveable attack, all wagging tail and lapping tongue, so I crouched to greet him and fuss his ears. ‘Hello, Ronnie,’ I said between licks.

Ronnie belonged to my friend DCI Alan Birch, retired, formerly a senior detective in the Met and presently standing behind his dog as it tried to drown me. Seeing Birch there, stoic and grounded, it struck me how like a faithful Lab he was himself. We’d become friends by tripping over a murder case, when Tina had been accused of killing her husband-to-be. With Birch’s help I uncovered what the police had failed to, unmasking the real murderer, and through it all his loyalty had never wavered. Tall and wide-shouldered, with grey cropped hair and a full moustache, he couldn’t look more like an ex-policeman if he tried. But beneath a firm brow he had the most delightful bright blue eyes, and wasn’t to be underestimated.

Nevertheless, glad as I was to see a friendly face, it was a surprise. ‘I don’t recall telling you when I’d finish today,’ I said. I wasn’t entirely sure I’d mentioned rehearsals at all.

‘You didn’t.’ He tapped his nose and winked. ‘Asked one of the staff.’

‘Once a detective, eh?’

‘Guilty as charged. How’d it go? Did you knock ’em dead?’

I almost laughed at his turn of phrase. There had been several times today when I’d have gladly knocked someone dead. ‘To be honest, I’d rather not talk about it. Can we discuss something else?’

‘Sorry, didn’t mean to pry. Lesson learnt.’ He looked like a scolded schoolboy, and I relented. Like most people who’ve never seen behind the showbiz curtain, Birch would never understand how mundane it is ninety-nine per cent of the time. If all you see is the final film cut, the TV broadcast, or the two hours spent onstage, it’s natural to think the entertainment business is, well, entertaining. But behind the performances lie hundreds of unseen hours of planning, auditions, rehearsal, logistics, administrative blather, bad food, more rehearsal, more logistics, worse food … not to mention the simple tedium of sitting around waiting for someone to shout ‘go’ so you can finally walk on set and do your job.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s hardly digging ditches for a living. But the life of a jobbing actor is not filled with jet-set glamour.

‘Tell you what,’ I said, falling into stride beside him as we walked away from the theatre, ‘if you promise not to interrupt, I’ll regale you with the whole sorry story. Now, where are we going? St James’s?’

‘Right enough, then if Ronnie needs more, maybe over into Green Park.’

We continued on, and as promised I told him the whole story, from being buried under my mother’s old clothes to my surprise recasting. I could practically feel him shaking with outrage on my behalf, wanting to interject. But he held it in, directing his grunts and gruff outbursts at Ronnie instead as the Lab pulled this way and that, sniffing at every square inch of his surroundings in case they were edible.

I finished my tales of theatrical woe, and admittedly felt better for having shared them with someone else.

‘So that’s my day,’ I said. ‘Please tell me yours was more normal.’

‘Nothing but, ma’am,’ he said briskly. ‘Breakfast, walk, lunch, walk, Escape to the Country, and here we are.’

Nobody would accuse Birch of being loquacious, but after forcing him to hold it in for so long I’d expected a verbal uncorking, not an appointment schedule.

‘Who’d you have lunch with?’ I asked, trying to get a little more out of him.

He responded with a confused look. ‘Ronnie, of course.’

I sighed. After a lifetime in the Met, he was much better at asking questions than answering them. Much like how he couldn’t stop addressing me as ‘ma’am’, because I apparently reminded him of his old detective chief superintendent.

It was nice that Birch didn’t speak unless he had something to say, but it meant that I still didn’t know much about him. He was a widower; he enjoyed the theatre; he lived in a modest, orderly house in Shepherd’s Bush, over which his late wife Beatrice cast a long and enduring shadow; and that same shadow kept his wedding ring firmly on his left hand.

‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ I said.

Without hesitation he replied, ‘Most people think CID coppers automatically outrank uniform, but that’s not true. For example, a desk sergeant is superior to a detective constable regardless of plain clothes.’

I laughed. ‘I asked for that, but it’s not what I had in mind. Tell me something about yourself I don’t know.’

‘Oh,’ he squeaked. ‘Um, well …’

Before he could answer, my phone spoilt the moment by ringing.

I pulled it out of my handbag to silence it, and recognised the same unknown number that had called earlier. ‘Scammer,’ I explained, showing Birch the Unknown Caller display on the screen. ‘They already called me this morning—hey!’

Before I could protest, he took the phone from me, jabbed the Answer button, and growled angrily, ‘Look here, this is DCI Birch of the Met. Delete this number immediately or there’ll be trouble.’

Birch wasn’t averse to occasionally using his old rank when it could be helpful, but I was in two minds about this response. On the one hand, even if he was tilting at windmills asking a phone scammer to care about the law, it was a gallant gesture; he all but puffed out his chest as he spoke, which I wasn’t complaining about. On the other hand, he’d snatched my phone without asking and assumed I needed him to fight my battles, which is precisely the sort of thing I will happily complain about.

‘Oh, very funny,’ he continued. ‘Pull the other one, sunshine.’ Then he ended the call and handed my phone back.

‘What on earth did they say?’ I asked, curiosity winning out over annoyance.

‘Claimed to be Crash Double. You know, Bad Dice singer. Classic band.’

After deciphering Birch’s habitually clipped phrasing, I did indeedknow who he meant. Bad Dice was an Irish rock group from the 1970s, all long hair and loud guitars. Crash Double, their lead singer, was a notorious hip-swinger whom I’d briefly met once or twice at showbiz parties long ago. I realised this was something I did know about Birch. During a previous visit to his house, I’d noticed a collection of rock music records in his lounge, which had surprised me because to look at him you’d think he listens to nothing but marching bands.

‘They still tour, don’t they?’

‘Absolutely. Saw them the year I retired. Great show. Not cheap, mind.’

‘Why on earth would a scammer pretend to be an old rock star—oh.’ Even as I said it, I came to my senses. ‘Did it sound like Crash Double’s voice? On the phone?’

‘Oh, yes. Excellent impersonation.’

‘And is Mr Double by any chance a dog owner?’

Birch shrugged. ‘Unknown. Can’t say I’ve seen him about.’

I was about to call the number back and find out when my phone buzzed again, displaying the same number. Staying well away from Birch’s kleptomaniacal hands, I answered the call and wondered if I should ask for Crash or Mr Double. Fortunately, he spoke first.

‘Look, is this Gwinny Tuffel or not?’ asked a deep voice with a light Irish accent. ‘I took this number on good faith, but if I’ve been set up for some kind of prank—’

‘Not a prank, I assure you. Gwinny speaking, and I apologise for my presumptious friend.’ I glared at Birch, but he’d already turned away to focus on pulling Ronnie out of a bush. A squirrel popped out of the top and scurried up a nearby tree, completely unseen by the Lab.

‘He’s a nutcase, is what he is. Said he was a copper! Anyway, my name’s Crash Double, I sing in a band called Bad Dice.’

‘Yes, I know who you are, um …’ I still didn’t know how to address him. ‘What should I call you?’

He laughed. ‘Crash is fine. Listen, I need a dog sitter for Ace. Got a gig over the weekend, so I’ll be away for a few days. Normally I’d ask my wife, but she went and got herself a boat cat.’

‘I’m sorry, did you say boat cat?’ Birch shot me a baffled look. No doubt, hearing only one side of the conversation must have been confusing. Mind you, I could hear both sides and wasn’t much the wiser.

‘Yeah. You know, a cat. On her boat. A boat cat. What would you call it?’

Fair enough, he had me there. Although what her boat had to do with it, I couldn’t guess. I shook confusion from my head and asked, ‘What dates, exactly? And whereabouts do you live?’

‘On … a … boat,’ he said slowly, as if talking to a child. ‘In Little Venice.’

CHAPTER THREE

I’ve never been what you might call a water person. Some people long to cruise the world or imagine living out their days on a yacht. My father was a little that way; it’s why he and my mother are now both scattered in the Tegernsee. But the most time I’ve ever spent continually on a boat was when that French musician came over in the nineties to perform at Docklands and I was invited onto a VIP barge for a close-up view. Naturally, this being London it promptly rained and blew a gale, and we could barely hear over the plastic rustle of our promotional rain ponchos supplied by the record label. Was the fact they had them prepared in advance sensible or suspicious? I could never decide.

Anyway, suffice to say I won’t be joining my parents in a Bavarian lake. Bury me under a tree, at least that’s useful.

So when Crash Double said he lived on a houseboat on the Regent’s Canal, I wasn’t as impressed as I think he hoped. But I could use the money, and after Thursday morning’s rehearsal Mixed Mothers paused for the bank holiday weekend anyway. I caught the Tube to Warwick Avenue Station and from there followed Crash’s directions, walking a short distance to the main bridge junction at Little Venice.

To my right shone the triangular Pool where three canals meet. Tourist barges moved to and fro on the water but what caught my eye were the dozen or so narrowboats lined up side by side against the canal path, their occupants busily hanging bunting across their roofs. I had a sense of déjà vu, having seen something similar on my one previous trip to Little Venice many years ago.

Turning left took me onto Blomfield Road, then past the junction house and down to the canal path, finally to stand before a tall locked gate declaring this part of the canal for residents only.

I was a few minutes late, but so was Crash, assuming he was the tall, rangy man sauntering towards me along the path. Actually, swaggering is a better description; he had the confident gait of a singer, born of being worshipped for two hours onstage every night. Besides an occasional picture in the paper, I hadn’t seen him for more than twenty years. I’m not much of a music person either, you see. It all tends to go in one ear and out the other.

Crash Double (Birch had told me with a tap of the nose that his real name was Shaun Donnelly, ‘But even his family calls him Crash,’) wasn’t a conventionally handsome man. Heavy eyebrows, a long nose, pointed chin and hair that had long ago flown the coop, for which he compensated with a white goatee. He was all bones, with barely a scrap of meat on him and, I couldn’t help noting, no bum whatsoever. Flat as a billiard table. Nevertheless, he had the same bright-eyed presence as a good leading actor and a charisma that swept aside concerns about photogenic looks and made the simple t-shirt, scarf and faded jeans he wore seem like designer clothes. Come to think of it, they probably were.

Dog and owner were well-matched. By his side, collared but not on a lead, padded a dutiful Border Collie with a rough tricolour coat, mismatched brown-and-blue eyes, and asymmetrical ears. Eine poppen, eine floppen as my father would have said in deliberately comedic bad German. In a breed competition, Ace’s non-standard features would only win a wooden spoon. But in combination with his canny expression, effervescent tail and enthusiastic grin, they somehow made a very charming dog.

‘Gwinny,’ said Crash with a smile, taking a key from his pocket to unlock the gate. ‘Actually, have we met?’

‘Many years ago, darling. Parties.’ I slipped inside and crouched down to greet Ace as Crash locked the gate behind us. The Collie sat of his own volition and extended his nose to sniff me out – or more precisely the small bag of treats I’d brought in my handbag. ‘Nothing wrong with your sense of smell, is there?’ I looked to Crash for guidance. ‘Any allergies?’

‘No chance. This one’s a canine Hoover.’

I held the treat in my open hand and offered it to Ace. He was practically drooling for it, but didn’t take it until I said, Good boy, go on. Then he scooped it off my hand with his tongue and swallowed it immediately. ‘Did you even taste that? It hardly touched the sides!’ I laughed and fussed him behind the ears. He fixed me with his bright blue eye, and grinned to give me an unexpectedly close and comprehensive look at his teeth. They were in excellent condition and his warm breath smelt fine. ‘How old is he?’

‘Six. Prime of his life, like us.’ Crash winked and turned to lead me along the canal towpath. Ace forgot all about his ear skritches, hurrying to catch up and fall in alongside his owner. I wasn’t surprised. Thanks to my father being a soft touch with the local rescue, our family had owned or fostered a full house of dogs over the years including a Border Collie named Daisy he’d brought home, enthusing about the breed’s sharp intelligence. As if to prove him right, Daisy quickly divined that the ranking member of our household was in fact my mother and from then on hardly left her side.

‘You don’t keep him on-lead?’ I asked.

‘Never needed one,’ said Crash. ‘He’s collared and tagged, but that’s to keep the warden away. Ace would never run off.’ We reached the first houseboat along the path, a large black structure. Crash stopped and turned to me. ‘So, have you not been to Little Venice before? You sounded unsure on the phone.’

‘I attended the Canal Carnival once, years ago. That was very jolly, all the boats and bunting. Is that what they’re doing over in the Pool today?’

‘Bingo,’ said Crash with a curled lip. ‘You’re about to attend your second Carnival, and you’re welcome to it.’

‘Not a fan?’ I recalled the event as loud, colourful and happy. All the narrowboats had been strung with flags, buskers and street entertainers passed round the hat, fast-food vans kept everyone fed and many boats were opened to the public to educate them about this quintessentially British way of living.

‘I hate every minute. Tourists everywhere, screaming kids, people gawping in your home. Luckily the bank holiday is the anniversary of our first proper gig in Dublin. So, every year we play two nights at the Olympia to celebrate, mostly fan club tickets. It’s a great vibe and it gets me away from here while all this crap is going on.’

I had a sudden recollection of a past interview with Bad Dice on TV. ‘Don’t I remember you saying you were doing your last ever tour twenty years ago?’

‘What can I say? It’s a long tour.’ He adopted a lopsided grin that had no doubt broken many a girl’s heart.

‘So these Dublin shows aren’t your only concerts?’

‘God, no. You must understand, sales aren’t what they used to be, even for a so-called classic band like us. It’s all I can do to keep my head above water, pardon the pun.’

‘Then you must go away often,’ I said, alert to the possibility of a repeat client. ‘Who looks after Ace normally?’

Crash gestured along the canal, lined on both sides with permanently moored houseboats. ‘My wife’s along there. She’s always been up for it before but now she’s got Lilith. The boat cat.’

I remembered the confusing phone call earlier but still felt unenlightened. ‘Can we go back a few steps? You and your wife live on a boat, and you have a dog, but she’s also gone and bought a cat? I’m not really a cat person, so you’ll have to leave instructions for me while you’re away.’

He looked puzzled, then laughed heartily. ‘Ha! OK, we’ve got our wires crossed here. First of all, we don’t live together. This is mine.’ He rapped his knuckles on the side of the large black houseboat. ‘She’s my third wife, you see.’ He smiled expectantly.

‘Um, congratulations?’

‘No, no,’ he laughed. ‘She’s my third wife … and my first, and my second. Get it?’

The funny thing about fame and notoriety is that when you have it, suddenly everyone knows the intimate details of your private life. It’s intrusive, and you wish they’d leave you alone … but it also means you can assume everyone you meet knows those details.

Of course, eventually the papers and gossip columns lose interest and they really do leave you alone. Then you regain your private life, but at the cost of a serious blow to your ego.

Despite his fame, though, all I knew about Crash Double was that he sang in Bad Dice. I tried to let him down gently.

‘Darling, I’ve been off the scene for too long. Caring for family, you understand. Indulge me.’

He produced a set of keys from his pocket. ‘We’re on our third go-around, for old times’ sake. But if we tried living together again, we’d be onto the third divorce instead, you know?’ I didn’t, having never married let alone divorced, but nodded politely. ‘I’m down here, she’s up there, and she can’t be looking after Ace any more. I’ll introduce you later.’

The black houseboat occupied prime position at the head of the canal, and was also the largest. To be honest it barely resembled a boat at all, being a boxy shape and twice the width of a normal narrowboat. It was also twice the height, thanks to an unusual second-floor section along a third of its length. Crash saw me look up and shrugged.

‘Eighteen months of fighting with the residents’ association that took. Worth it, though. Grand views.’

He unlocked the front door and led me inside (or should I say on board?). It struck me that I’d never set foot inside a proper houseboat before. I’d been on a regular narrowboat once or twice, but this was on a different order of magnitude.

The most immediate and obvious difference was the front door, which opened from the side facing the path, and this narrow entrance hall into which we’d stepped, with stairs leading up to that second floor. But then Crash led me into the lounge (which he explained boaters call a saloon) and I gasped. First, because there was more space to move about in here than in the whole of a normal barge. Second, because you couldn’t actually move about for the mountains of paraphernalia. Records, CDs, old videotapes, band memorabilia and more filled the room, threatening to trip anyone unwary enough to put a foot wrong.

A somewhat worn-looking sofa sat against one wall, while against another stood an upright piano, watched over by framed gold discs mounted on the wall. Facing it was a spirits bar with a polished wooden counter. In one corner stood a single bookshelf whose contents alternated between wellness guides and historical biographies: Churchill, Napoleon, Mandela, the usual suspects. There was no TV, I noted, so I resolved to bring a jigsaw puzzle with me for entertainment.

Opposite the sofa, tall French windows dominated the centre of the wall facing the canal. To one side of them was a stereo that looked worth more than my house. On the other side lay Ace’s bed, on which he’d flopped down as soon as we entered the saloon and where he now methodically tore up pieces of cardboard.

‘Every few days I get a box from Choudhury up the road,’ Crash explained. ‘When I go out, Ace dismantles and shreds it to cope. Did you know collies can have autism? I can’t be sure if it’s that, but he definitely suffers from separation anxiety. Pity I can’t give him a Xanax, you know?’

I nodded in sympathy. Separation anxiety is a hard thing to deal with, especially in Border Collies, who need mental stimulation as well as physical exercise. I noted with approval that Crash kept a plastic box of toys next to Ace’s bed, including flying discs, ball launchers and even some puzzle feeders.

‘Better he destroys a cardboard box than your sofa, eh?’

‘Exactly. He loves having a job to do, and it gives him something to focus on instead of worrying. I’ll walk up to Choudhury’s and get a new box tomorrow morning to occupy him until you get here.’

Beyond the spirits bar lay an open-plan kitchen (the galley, apparently) where a chrome-top stove gleamed. Was Crash an assiduous cleaner or just someone who never cooked? The pitifully bare cupboards suggested the latter, holding little more than dog food, multipacks of crisps and energy bars.

Further on, a corridor led first to the bathroom and then Crash’s bedroom. I braced myself for silk sheets and a mirrored ceiling, but to my pleasant surprise I found cosy rumpled bedclothes with a thick woollen throw, a spartan wardrobe and a second dog bed for Ace. On reflection, black satin probably didn’t go well with a rough-coated tricolour dog. A dresser stood by a window overlooking the water, piled high with male grooming products. Wedged into its mirror frame was an old paparazzi photo of Crash with a young woman on his arm. She looked familiar. A late-night Channel 4 presenter, perhaps? I didn’t feel I knew him well enough to ask.

Finally, we returned to the entrance hallway, and I realised along the way that no windows faced the path. Aside from the front door, every view outside faced the water, presumably to maintain his privacy. So as we climbed the stairs to the second floor, where he’d boasted of ‘grand views’, I anticipated easy chairs, a sun lounger, perhaps even a yoga mat to fit my impression of him so far: an ageing rock star who left the business end to other people while he walked his dog, basked in gold discs and nostalgia, and did yoga every morning to feel better about takeaway the night before.

Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t begrudge him. He’d earned it, and God knows I wouldn’t turn it down if it came my way.

But my expectations were confounded when I entered what appeared to be a hi-tech recording studio. Synthesiser keyboards lined the room, all hooked into one of those big recording consoles bristling with knobs and switches. Two large speakers stood on either side of what I assumed was the main desk, with a large computer monitor, a keyboard and more dials and buttons. Beside them sat a large mobile phone, in a photo case printed with a picture of Ace. Underneath the desk stood a huge metal-cased computer and in front of it an expensive Aeron chair. Finally, a dozen different microphones stood around the room on adjustable stands, ranging from old-fashioned crooner models to the kind of high-precision ‘shotgun’ mics I was familiar with from TV.

‘Are you sure you have enough equipment?’ I asked cheekily.

Crash smiled. ‘You can never have enough.’ He pointed out a series of small mesh circles embedded in the walls. ‘There are mics hooked up around the room, too, for when inspiration strikes.’

‘I’ll be sure not to sing in the shower, then.’

He laughed. ‘Don’t worry, they’re not permanently recording. But it’s an easy one-touch control. See?’ He pressed a button on the desk to demonstrate, but nothing happened.

‘I’m sorry, was that supposed to do something?’ I asked.

‘Oh, it did. Watch.’ He pressed another button next to it, and suddenly I heard my own voice asking, ‘I’m sorry, was that supposed to do something?’

As I took all this in, Ace padded up the stairs, deftly squeezed past me and walked over to his third and final bed, nestled under one of the synthesiser stands, from which he watched us and lazily wagged his tail.

Crash laughed. ‘Here, you’ll enjoy this. Take a seat.’ He gestured for me to sit in the Aeron. I did, watching him carefully as he leant over me to wake the computer with a password, then tap and click on things. The desktop was a jumble of files, and when he started using some music software it all went entirely over my head. But Crash whizzed around the screen, very familiar and comfortable with it all.

Suddenly a traditional Irish reel began playing from the speakers. Crash stepped away as Ace’s ears pricked up and the dog practically leapt off his bed to meet Crash halfway. He sat, waiting for a signal …

And then they danced.

Well, that’s being kind and seeing it through a dog-lover’s eyes, I suppose. But as I watched, Crash led Ace with a gesturing hand, turning around and weaving the dog between his legs, all in time to the rhythm of the music. It was a long way from Crufts, but it was delightful nonetheless and got even better when Crash began singing along in Gaelic. Neither he nor Ace missed a beat.

Abruptly the song stopped and Crash knelt down to give Ace a ruffle around the neck and ears. The Collie panted with delight but clearly could have gone for another song or ten. Crash gave him a treat, smiling all the time. Then he leant over me, put the computer back to sleep and picked up his phone.

‘Something new I’ve been working on. All these years and I never did anything traditional, you know?’

‘So you miss Ireland?’ I asked as we returned downstairs.

‘God, no,’ he laughed. ‘Miserable, cold, damp place. I couldn’t wait to get away. But the nostalgia kicks in as you get older. You’ll see.’

I could have reminded him there was only a decade between us but whether he was merely being polite or really did think I looked younger than my age, I wasn’t about to contradict him.

After seeing that mess of files on his computer, the state of the lounge made more sense. At least an agile dog like Ace could easily navigate the precarious towers of memorabilia. Crash unlocked the French windows with a key and pulled them open; they looked directly out onto the canal through an exterior guard rail.

‘This room would be great for parties if you tidied up a bit,’ I said. ‘Do you have a cleaner …?’

‘Sure and I’ll just call Bono round for dinner. No, I’m flattered, but my partying days are over and I like the place as it is. Although I should get that rail removed.’

‘I assumed it was to stop Ace from jumping in the canal.’

Crash laughed. ‘I suppose that’s a bonus, but actually it was to stop idiots like Johnny from getting hammered and falling in.’

Presumably he meant the Bad Dice guitarist, Johnny Roulette. I remembered Birch enthusing about him after Crash had called me in the park.

‘Has that actually happened?’

‘More than once, until I had the rail installed. But like I say, those days are over.’

‘The partying, or Johnny’s drinking?’ It was a mischievous question, but I’d known enough actors who fell prey to the bottle over the years to understand the problems it could cause.

‘Both.’ He looked troubled for a moment, then his easy smile returned. ‘Let’s show you round the walk.’