THE GOBLIN
Lynda La Plante

Carol Mary Edge was sentenced to eight years for the manslaughter of her mother. In prison she had been closely monitored for the first two years and given sporadic sessions with a prison psychiatrist. A plump, lank-haired girl, she was well behaved but sullen and uncooperative. She changed radically when she was transferred to an open prison and, with other girls, put to work in the garden. Part of her duties was caring for the inmates' 'pet corner'; they had a goat, three guinea pigs and two rabbits. By the time Carol was released there were ten rabbits and the girls had bred over three hundred more and sold them on to the local pet shop.

On her release Carol had eighteen months of weekly visits with a parole officer; having no living relatives it was the parole board that arranged her accommodation and a job at an MFI store. Carol was still overweight but she had muscle tone from working in the prison garden and she was very strong. Her dark hair was almost to her waist, worn in a braid down her back. She had made a few friends in prison, but none she intended to see again. Instead, she was determined to start a new life, listing as preferences for future employment anything to do with animals. Sometimes the customers at MFI were like aggressive animals themselves and she loathed her job. Carol constantly badgered her parole officer to find her alternative work.

After two years, Carol left the MFI store to work as a kennel maid at Battersea Dogs Home. She moved to a small one-bedroom flat on a large council estate near to her new job. Via the animals Carol saw at first hand the results of abuse on the creatures taken into care but she also recognized that with careful training, love and patience they could be healed and new homes found for them. She saw the tragic cases of the strays that were never taken and eventually ended up being put down. Equally heartbreaking were the dogs returned from their new homes; all her love and patience had not been enough and they had savaged their new owners, or been too boisterous and so were rejected and brought back to eventually be destroyed.

Carol learned from these dumb creatures the need to be accepted as 'normal'. Being sweet-tempered and obedient secured them a safe existence. She watched her own behaviour more at the kennels than at MFI. Eight years as a guest of Her Majesty had resulted in Carol picking up from the other inmates their relish at using foul language and so she made a great effort to not swear. The time spent working alongside the vets and qualified kennel maids made her determined to gain some qualifications but, sadly, she failed the written examination to move up a notch from basically cleaning out the cages and walking the dogs. She took home the canine magazines and dog show newsletters as bedtime reading. In one of the magazines she found an advertisement for an experienced receptionist at a veterinary practice in Highbury, North London.

Carol applied for the job, and used her free afternoon for the interview, which was taken by the present receptionist, who was pregnant. It was a large practice, run by two vets, Peter Frogton and Miles Richards, and two female veterinary assistants. They had a large open plan reception area with a high desk and clean tiled floors. There were three consulting rooms for the vets to examine the sick animals, behind which were the cages for overnight stays. The cages were close to a large well-equipped operating room.

Carol was asked to fill in a 'previous employment' form and if she was suitable she would be asked to meet both the residing vets. Carol took the form home and spent hours poring over each question, writing down her replies on a notepad so she wouldn't make any mistakes when filling in the form itself. Previous employment and letters of recommendation worried her: prison, MFI and eighteen months washing down dog shit was not exactly the best CV even though it was only to act as a receptionist. The current pregnant one had implied that there was often a lot more to the job and it could even entail assisting the veterinary nurses.

Carol went to the head kennel maid at Battersea, mentioned the possible job and asked if they could give her a letter of recommendation. They would be very sad to see her leave but knew that the wages were very low and, understanding that if there was a possibility of something more lucrative for her, they would of course give her the letter.

'To Whom It May Concern' was signed by the administration officer and stated that in the two years Carol had worked for Battersea she had been methodical, caring and willing. She also had shown a very sympathetic and intuitive knowledge of the dogs, gaining their trust quickly and helping in their rehabilitation and training.

Carol went to a local print shop, carefully printed out the headed notepaper and then copied the letter inserting nine years for two. As she was still only twenty-six years old, it would appear that she had gone to work for the kennels on leaving school. She was no longer required to visit her parole officer and from her mother's estate she now had ten thousand pounds in the bank.

Carol waited to hear from the veterinary clinic and eventually received a letter asking her to come into the surgery to meet the two partners. She spent a lot of time shopping for new clothes, neat skirts and blouses, a couple of jackets and two pairs of court shoes. She was impressed by her own appearance, her long hair neatly braided, her new business suit; she even had a small briefcase. 'Yes', she thought, 'I look the fucking business!'

It was love at first sight: Peter Frogton was charming and very good looking, if older than she had expected. He was fifty-two with dark hair greying at the temples, slim, about five feet ten, and dressed in tweeds, but the pale blue tunic was what really made him stand out. The high collar enhanced his blue, dark-lashed eyes and he had a lovely gentle manner. The other partner was younger, blond, knew he was attractive. He was not all that interested in Carol. He seemed to be in a hurry and kept looking at his watch; he didn't even stay to show her round. Mr Frogton did, and then sat and had a cup of coffee with her, asking her about herself, and did she feel she could cope with reception duties. Carol said there would be no problem as she had worked on a secretarial course before leaving school. It was a lie. But by the time she returned home she was elated; she had the job, starting the following Monday.

Carol had never been so happy and the job was beyond her wildest dreams. Working at the desk taking appointments and phone calls was nerve racking to begin with but within a week she was relaxed and very competent. She also began assisting the training veterinary nurses and a number of times worked late with either one or other of the partners. It was a very busy practice and the patients ranged from a mouse with a broken foot to birds and snakes but mostly it was the cats and dogs that needed treatment. Carol kept her white uniform pristine and she even bought a pair of white nurse's shoes to make herself look more efficient.

At night Carol studied the veterinary medical books, the journals and news circulars. Her whole life revolved around her work and her dreams of becoming closer to Mr Frogton. She had never had a relationship with anyone, had never really had any sexual urges until now. Carol at no time showed her infatuation but retained a very professional presence. However, she was becoming sure that Mr Frogton was falling in love with her. She knew this by certain small things that he did: when he wore a flower printed tie, it was a signal. On Valentine's Day he bought her a box of chocolates – that he also bought them for all the other women made no difference; he would have to do that so no one knew his intentions towards her.

Carol was careful when asking questions about his private life but when she discovered that he was divorced, and quite recently, it was yet another signal: he had instigated the divorce because of his feelings towards her. She was loath to ask too many questions about his personal life as she didn't want anyone becoming suspicious of their relationship.

Every day was a bonus. She became more and more indispensable, working late, arriving before she was required to be on duty. Frogton made her even more certain of their growing love affair when he asked if she would take the keys to the surgery home with her. This meant that she could open up for him, as she was always so early and it would be a relief for him to know she was there.

On a number of occasions when they were operating on the sick animals she offered to help out and proved so invaluable that Frogton started to ask for her specifically to assist him. It was yet another sign of his love. If he wrote a memo for her she treasured it as a love token. To her, a simple message that read 'call owner first thing in the morning', actually meant, 'I am desperate for the morning, to be near you!'

Carol would help Frogton into his smock and pass him his mask, and he was so patient and caring, always explaining what he was doing and why. She began to scrub up her hands the way he did, snapping on the rubber gloves in an identical manner, even wearing a mask. Bit by bit she began to know all the names of the different surgical instruments, always ready and waiting to pass them to him. One day he said to her that he felt she was more adept than his actual veterinary nurse. His compliments made her flush, not with embarrassment but with passion; she was by now adoring of his every move.

Carol made sure she was on good terms with the nurses and she tried to be nice to Miles Richards but she didn't like him. He used to get a little tetchy with her when she was supposed to be on reception and instead was with Mr Frogton. The practice was a very busy one and they also sold customers dog food, cat litter and certain over-the-counter non-prescription treatments for fleas and ticks. Part of her job was to reorder and restock, plus take all the appointments and oversee the daily surgery requirements. The medical supplies were kept locked in a secure cabinet in the office but Carol was often asked to check if they were running low and then to make a note for either vet to order more.

Hilda was the other receptionist, a middle-aged friendly woman, and Carol made sure they remained on good terms. Come nine o'clock in the morning there were at least six or seven clients and their animals, and it would continue all day until evening. Sometimes they had late night surgery, early starts in the morning for the operations but Carol never once complained. Often she would take over Hilda's duties, as she was invariably late, so their friendship grew over the months.

Christmas 1972, and the surgery had a little tree, decorated by Carol, who had brought in small wrapped gifts for everyone to place beneath the tinfoil-covered base. It was just the tree. Miles had felt that would be all that was necessary but all the cards they were sent by their patients Carol threaded on to a ribbon and pinned up around the reception desk. It was, she felt, going to be the happiest Christmas of her entire life. The staff were to break for the Christmas holiday on the 24th December and reconvene on the 27th, with another break for New Year, and the rota of those required for emergencies was to be discussed. Miles had booked a holiday for all the Christmas period, leaving for St Moritz on the 24th and not returning until January 6th. This had caused a little friction between the partners, and then Frogton agreed to take his vacation later in the year and not take a Christmas break; thus he could work over the holiday period for any emergencies. He asked if Carol had made any plans and when she said that she hadn't, and was prepared to work over the entire holiday, he kissed her, not on the lips, but on the cheek. (He couldn't have kissed her lips as there were other people there to witness his show of affection.) Frogton made her heart beat so hard it almost burst her uniform.

'You are so special, Carol, thank you. I really appreciate your loyalty; you have proved to be irreplaceable.'

That night she couldn't sleep, going over and over every detail in her mind, his beautiful sweet kiss, every word he had said. She was irreplaceable! It was to her a sign of her lover's commitment to her, and the following day she received another as Mr Frogton arrived with his gifts to place beneath the Christmas tree. One was prettily wrapped in gold paper with gold ribbon and had a small gift card that said 'Happy Christmas, Carol, with love. Peter.'

Christmas Eve surgery went on until eight fifteen, then the doors were locked and out came two bottles of champagne. All the staff were gathered, except Miles who had already taken off for his Christmas break. They gathered round the tree as Mr Frogton played Father Christmas, handing round their gifts; for Carol it was the best time she had ever had in her entire life. She sipped her champagne, her face glowing. Mr Frogton had virtually drunk a bottle himself and was in high spirits as he produced a sprig of mistletoe and held it above his head, laughing. Carol stood on tiptoe to kiss him and he swung her round in his arms before he planted a kiss on her forehead. She knew he couldn't kiss her lips as before, not in front of everyone, but she flushed with happiness and kept her arm around his waist as he insisted everyone open their presents.

The leather bound desk diary with his initials in gold was, he said, the most perfect present. Carol's fingers shook as she carefully opened her gift from him. First she folded the gold paper neatly, then wrapped the gold ribbon round her fingers. She wanted to treasure every second, then she sat down to open the small leather box. The eighteen-carat gold charm bracelet took her breath away. Mr Frogton came and sat beside her, taking the bracelet from her and pointing out some of the charms. There was a tiger, a funny little train, a locket in the shape of a heart, a monkey, a tiny pair of ballet shoes and a cross.

'Do you like it?' Frogton asked.

'Oh yes, yes I do,' she murmured, reading so many messages of his love into each charm.

Frogton patted his pockets and produced a small envelope. 'They were all on the bracelet when I bought it, so I decided that I'd get one extra charm that is especially just for you.'

'Oh,' was all she could utter.

'Open it,' he said smiling.

With trembling fingers Carol opened the envelope and tipped into the palm of her hand a small goblin sitting on a toadstool, with a gold loop on its back to attach it to the bracelet.

'Do you like it?' asked Frogton. 'He's an antique charm.'

'Oh yes, it's perfect.'

'Do you want me to put it on the bracelet for you?'

'Oh yes, thank you.'

Mr Frogton went to the counter, found a small pair of scissors and prised open the ring on the goblin's back, then hooked it on to one of the bracelet's links. Hilda stood by, watching. She found it touching the way Carol was so flushed, her cheeks bright pink.

'Isn't that lovely' she said, and Mr Frogton, delighted by his own gift, passed it to Hilda.

'It has quite a history, it belonged to an elderly aunt.'

Carol had to take a deep breath to control her emotions. An aunt – this meant the gift was very special, a family treasure, and he was giving it to her!

Hilda, much to Carol's annoyance, held up the bracelet for everyone to see, and they clustered round.

'Some of the charms look very old.'

'But the goblin's new,' Carol blurted out, wanting to snatch it away from Hilda, but she couldn't get near to it. Hilda now had it draped over her own wrist.

'. . . and it's very heavy, is it gold?'

Frogton laughed, and said he doubted it was of great value. He was still beaming, but by now glancing at his watch, anxious to leave.

Hilda passed the bracelet back to Carol; she wanted to snatch it, never let it go, but she managed to keep control of her emotions. The bracelet, the little goblin, were to her a declaration of his love. No one else had been given such a special, thoughtful and expensive gift.

Mr Frogton then bade everyone a happy Christmas and said he would have to go as he still had some last-minute shopping to do. Carol hurried to fetch his coat, holding it out for him.

'Are you spending Christmas here or going off somewhere special?' he asked.

'Yes,' she said and added, 'to my family, my mother is very elderly.'

'Well, have a wonderful time.'

He kissed her cheek and then bade everyone goodnight.

Carol was almost the last to leave. Hilda was putting on her coat, then picking up bulging grocery bags to take home, ready to prepare Christmas dinner.

'You're welcome to come and spend Christmas day with us, Carol,' she said.

'That's nice of you, Hilda but I've got family commitments, and I'm on the emergency callouts and Mr Frogton's bound to need me to help as he's working over the holiday.'

'All right then, you have a wonderful time. He must certainly think a lot of you; that was a really lovely present.'

Carol continued collecting all the Christmas wrapping paper and putting it into a black rubbish bag, but not her own paper from her present; that she would keep always. The cages were all empty and the surgery was silent as she turned off the lights, almost ready to go home.

'I'm off then,' Hilda said as she headed for the door, then, just as she was leaving, she chuckled, 'I hope it doesn't come early; she must be close to having it. He said he thinks it's a boy.'

'What?'

'The baby, Meryl's, you know, you took over her job. I suppose they'll get married, might even do it this summer.'

Carol was not that interested, just eager for Hilda to leave; she liked being alone in the surgery, especially sitting in Mr Frogton's section, looking over his things, tidying his desk.

'His divorce was through months ago, so he won't be able to get out of it,' Hilda laughed.

Carol frowned. 'Who are you talking about, Mr Richards?'

'No dear, Mr Frogton, didn't you know, it's his baby.'

Whatever Hilda said after that, Carol didn't hear; she was hardly able to stand upright her legs were shaking so badly.

'Happy Christmas,' Hilda called out as the door closed, missing Carol sinking to her knees, tears streaming down her cheeks.

No matter how many times she tried to persuade herself that Hilda could be mistaken, she knew it was the truth. He had betrayed her, kept this bitch and the fucking baby a secret. He had lied to her, the bastard had egged her on, teased her with his kisses and smiles.

All over the Christmas break, Carol's fury built. She couldn't eat and hardly slept thinking about how she had been betrayed and how she could make him pay for it, and then she began to feel better as the plan started to take shape. She never took off the bracelet; the jingle of the charms was a constant reminder. It was irritating because the goblin's pointed finger kept sticking in her wrist, like a pinprick, but she even liked that; it kept reminding her of his betrayal.

Christmas came and went and she continued working and behaving normally, smiling and helpful. The arrival of Frogton's baby son created quite a party atmosphere in the surgery, everyone congratulating him and bringing gifts for the little boy. Carol bought a small teddy bear, removing the attached warning: 'Not suitable for small babies' as the eyes were glass and attached by a lethal drawing pin. Secretly she had been fermenting in pain and the arrival of the baby made it worse. At long last she was ready; she would make Peter Frogton pay for his betrayal with his life. She was sure he had bought the fucking bracelet for his whore, she'd probably disliked it, some of the charms were horrible and the gold heart didn't even open.

She left for work at exactly the same time as she usually did. It was only a twenty-minute walk to the clinic and today was an early start. It was always early on Tuesdays and Thursdays as that was when the more complex operations were done. When they were completed, the clinic would open for other business at nine. Mrs Dart the cleaner wasn't given keys, so Carol had to let her in.

Carol had spent weeks preparing for this morning. It was imperative that she was above suspicion. By this time Carol had a rudimentary knowledge of the sedatives used for the animals and she had decided to soak a rag in halothane, as well as lacing Frogton's morning coffee with the Halcyon tablets she had been prescribed for insomnia. In preparation, Carol had been stealing small amounts of halothane from the cabinet for weeks.

Carol had specifically chosen this morning, as there was a Dalmatian, a Rottweiler and a Jack Russell to be put to sleep. The veterinary mortuary van would call for the collection of the animals' carcasses before surgery. The animals would be placed in heavy black plastic bags with their weight and a description attached and then carried on a small gurney to the rear entrance, ready to be driven to the incinerator. There were occasionally grieving owners who asked for their pet's ashes but Carol knew the three that morning had no owner's requests. She was safe, and she had already made an excellent copy of the death certificate for a Great Dane called Felix who had been put to sleep a month earlier. There would be four bodies removed to the incinerator from the Miles and Frogton Veterinary clinic: three canines and one human.

The careful planning of the murder had given Carol a strength of will she never realized she had. She was sure there was no hint of her turmoil, her fury or her pain. She was certain that no one guessed her intentions, least of all Peter Frogton. She was just as certain that she was going to get away with it. It was all in the planning and she had spent night after night making lists, destroying them, only to begin another the next night until she knew everything by heart.

Walk to work.

Open surgery, check operation room.

Prepare Peter Frogton's coffee.

Present morning operations.

Brew fresh coffee, wash out Frogton's mug.

Wait for the drugs to take effect.

Cover his mouth with the soaked rag.

Prepare animals for mortuary.

Kill Peter Frogton.

Place his body in mortuary bag.

Open rear door.

Place bags on gurney.

Re-lock the back door.

Open mail.

Let in Mrs Dart.

Get ready for morning surgery.

Let out Mrs Dart.

Open front door ready for morning surgery.

The lie she would tell Hilda had changed a few times. First Peter had been taken ill, then he had been called away on an emergency, then he had given her the perfect reason for him not being there. As he was now a proud father and had not taken time off at Christmas, he and his 'whore' were going on holiday. The bitch had already left for their rented villa. Frogton had arranged to leave straight after surgery; it was perfect. The practice would be run in his absence by Miles Richards. The fact that Frogton was not returning, not ever, would therefore not become an issue for two weeks and she had booked her own two-week vacation to begin during Frogton's absence. Even if the police were called, they would find no motive, no evidence. Peter Frogton had just disappeared off the face of the earth. Carol had even watched a television documentary detailing just how many people do disappear without trace and the amount was astonishing. She also watched all the television cop shows and knew it was imperative she leave no trace of what had happened, so cleaning up had to be done very methodically.

Carol was on hand for the disposal of the two large dogs and Frogton helped her carry them to the rear door for collection. He was tired, complaining of being kept up all night by his new baby, and couldn't wait to get away. She watched as he sipped his coffee; he didn't even taste the Halcyon. The small Jack Russell was carried from his cage. He had been sedated during the night but there was little hope that he would recover, so he was quickly injected and died peacefully on the table. Frogton was removing his rubber gloves ready to scrub and wash his hands at the sink; as he bent forwards he stumbled and then held on to the sink with his hands, leaning forwards.

'Christ, I feel terrible,' he muttered.

Carol moved behind him with the hammer. She hit him on the back of his skull, hard. He gasped, turned towards her, his face registering total shock, even more so when he saw her draw back her hand with the hammer ready for another strike. He made a grab for her wrist but she kicked him to his knees and she hit him again on the side of his temple. She then dragged his body to lie face forwards and covered his gasping mouth with the rag soaked in halothane; he gasped a few times, then lay still. She'd used the entire contents of two phials – one would have been enough but she wanted to make sure, very sure, he was dead. She had to wait fifteen minutes, her hand pressed to his throat, a towel left over his face. Feeling for his pulse and satisfied he was dead, she stripped off his clothes; first his blue tunic, then his T-shirt and trousers, his socks, shoes and underpants. She placed everything carefully into a carrier bag, then she bent over his naked body and tied his hands behind his back, looping the rope round his ankles and drawing his legs almost back to his arms. She then rolled his body over and began to ease the thick black bag round him, securing it at the top. For safety she wrapped a second bag round him, this she tied with strong thick string, and then attached the label. 'Great Dane. FELIX, aged ten years. Owner Mrs Thompson,' and the address. She dragged the bag to the back door and propped it up beside the two other dead animals.

Carol was sweating as she returned to the table to lift the Jack Russell's corpse and stuff it into the black bag ready for collection. She froze when the doorbell rang and rang; whoever it was kept their hand on the bell. Carol took deep breaths, wiped her face and straightened out her uniform.

The woman was peering into the surgery, her hands cupped to see inside. Carol faced her.

'We're not open yet.'

'I have to see Mr Frogton, it's urgent.'

'He's not here, you just missed him. He's gone . . .'

'You have to let me in. PLEASE, open the door, please I have to talk to you, talk to someone. OPEN THE DOOR.'

Carol had no option but to unlock the door. 'What do you want?'

'It's about Jack, I have to see him.'

'Who?'

'My dog, I have to see him, he's here.'

'What dog?'

'Jack, the Jack Russell, my sister brought him in two days ago, he'd been run over. A Jack Russell, I have to see him, she said they were putting him to sleep, I have to see him.'

'I'm sorry you can't.'

'But you don't understand, I've been away, my sister was looking after him, I have to see him. IT'S IMPORTANT, I HAVE GOT TO SEE HIM.'

'But you can't.'

'Why not, he's here isn't he?'

'Well yes, he was, but I'm sorry . . .'

'Is he dead?'

'I'm afraid so, we couldn't save him, his injuries were too . . .'

'Can I see him?'

'Pardon?'

'Is he still here?'

Carol was in a state; she couldn't get rid of the hysterical woman who was now sitting in one of the surgery chairs, crying, blubbing and sobbing loudly, saying over and over that she just had to see him.

'Did he have a brown right ear or was it his left?'

'Pardon?' Carol snapped.

'My Jack Russell had a brown left ear; Battersea Dogs Home said they've got a Jack Russell stray, handed in two days ago. It could be Jack, do you see? Maybe my sister brought in the wrong dog. They don't open until ten, so if I could just see the one you've got here, it might not be my Jack, he's run off before. I think he was trying to get to my house, so maybe the dog that got hit by the bus isn't mine. He wasn't wearing a collar, was he? My sister said he didn't have a collar on. My Jack had a collar.'

Carol checked her watch; any minute now the mortuary van would be here.

'Wait here please,' she said, and hurried into the operating section. She had to stand for a moment to get her breath, then she opened the bag, lifted out the Jack Russell, snatched the towel from the floor and carried him into the surgery.

'Oh my God! Oh my God! He's dead. Is he dead?'

'Yes, Mr Frogton put him to sleep this morning.'

'But you said he wasn't here.'

'I said he'd just left. Now is this your Jack Russell or not?'

The woman peeked at the dog curled in the bloody towel and then howled, 'No, no it's not mine, that's not Jack, oh thank God, thank God. You see he's got a black ear, not brown, my Jack's ear is brown. Oh thank you, thank you, I'm sorry to have bothered you.'

Carol, with the dead dog in her arms, ushered the woman out and then locked the door. She kept on repeating to herself that it was all right, everything was all right, she was just fifteen minutes behind schedule.

The mortuary man arrived two minutes later. Carol had to help him carry the three bags to his van. She had not had time to put the Jack Russell into his mortuary bag or fill in the form, but rather than delay getting rid of Frogton she decided she'd take the dead dog and Frogton's clothes to the local dump.

The mortuary van driver signed them out. The Rottweiler, the Dalmatian and, lastly, heaving up the body of Frogton, he signed for the Great Dane.

'They don't have long lives, do they, these big dogs?'

'No, their hearts are quite small,' she said with relief as the doors closed.

'I've got fifteen to collect all over London this morning. Do you want any ashes brought back?' he asked, heading for the driving seat.

'No, no ashes required,' she said, wishing he'd drive off and let her get down to cleaning up and getting rid of the clothes and the bloody Jack Russell.

Carol watched the van drive off, then returned to the final clearing up. She washed down the table, took off her soiled uniform and stuffed it into the same bag with Frogton's clothes and the dead Jack Russell. She then went to the sink and cleaned up the blood from Frogton, where he'd bled from the hammer blows. She wiped it clean, replaced the hammer with the tools in the back room, returned and gave the room a once over with her eyes.

'Shit,' she snapped.

The charm bracelet was just beneath the sink; somehow when Frogton grabbed her he must have broken the chain. On her hands and knees she snatched it up and checked all the charms were there. There was one missing, the fucking goblin.

'Fuck, fuck, where is the fucking thing?'

She sat back on her heels, her eyes roaming the room, but she couldn't see it. With the flat of her hand she felt under every surface, on top, down the sides; she began to pant with fear. The charm was not in the operating room. She even went back to reception, searched every inch of it, then back to the operating room and re-searched but there was no effing goblin. The reception phone rang, jangling her nerves. She snatched it up.

'Yes?'

She listened. It was Battersea Dogs Home; they had received a call from a very distraught woman who had lost her Jack Russell.

'Yes, she came here, then she left; it wasn't her Jack Russell, it was another Jack Russell.'

'Did it have a collar on it?' asked the persistent kennel maid at the end of the line.

'No, it was hit by a bus, it had internal injuries and Mr Frogton put it to sleep.'

'Could you describe it?'

'What?'

'We have a young man here who's lost his Jack Russell. He says it's got a black ear, on the left. Is that the one you have there? Only the stray we've got here has a brown ear, brown left ear.'

'Yes, it's got a black ear and a sort of brown spot over its right eye,' Carol snapped.

To Carol's fury she was left waiting as the kennel maid went to talk to the young man. When she came back she asked if the dog was still at the surgery.

'Yes, it's still here.'

'He's coming right over, can you keep it there?'

'It's dead.'

'Yes, you said, but he wants to make sure it's his dog, and if it didn't have a collar and it fits his description . . .'

Carol sighed. 'No. No, I'm sorry, he can't come here.'

'Is that you, Carol?'

'What?'

'This is Barbara, remember? We worked together? I knew you'd got a job at the clinic. I didn't recognize your voice. Is it OK for the boy to come over, he's so upset, Carol. CAROL?'

Carol closed her eyes and took a deep breath. 'Yes, he can see it, but he had better come over right now.'

Carol slammed down the phone. 'Fucking dog, the fucking stupid fucking dog.'

Carol checked her watch; her whole schedule was off now with this fucking Jack Russell and she had to get rid of it before fucking Hilda or anyone else turned up for surgery.

At eight o'clock the doorbell went again. Carol steamed out and snatched it open. He was red haired with round owl glasses and wearing a dirty anorak.

'Can I see if you've got Rex?' he asked, gulping, almost in tears. Carol nodded and went and brought him the dead dog still wrapped in the bloodstained towel.

'Yes, yes, that's Rex,' he said, then burst into tears.

'Do you want to take him?' she asked brusquely.

He nodded, holding out his arms, and she passed over the dog wrapped in the towel.

'You can keep the towel,' she said, opening the door to usher him out. In fact, it was quite useful that he wanted to take it. She wouldn't have to dump the dog along with the bloodstained clothes.

'I'll bury it at my Grandma's. She's got a garden,' he said, blinking, his eyes watering behind his owl glasses.

'Fine, thank you, goodbye.' She shut the door, then had to open it again as the cleaner appeared.

'Morning, Carol, love, I'm ever so late today, my other job had left the place in a right state so I had a lot of cleaning.'

Carol didn't wait to listen as Mrs Dart prattled on while she got out her cleaning equipment. By now she was way off schedule; she was supposed to have taken the clothes to the dump. All she could do was bundle them up and hide them under the counter until it was time for her to go home. She'd wasted time searching them for the charm and now it was almost eight thirty and the surgery would be open soon. Mrs Dart washed down the floor in reception, dusted and watered the plants, all with a non-stop conversation to herself. She even washed the floor in the operating room, clanking her bucket and mop.

'Can you hurry it up, Mrs Dart? It's almost time for surgery. Mrs Dart?'

Mrs Dart was still dusting when the first customer arrived. Carol couldn't believe it; they were fifteen minutes early. She felt almost as sick as their parrot! But at last Mrs Dart left. Carol itched to ask her if she had found her goblin but decided against it.

Miles arrived to start his surgery and the day began. As Carol answered the calls, she could feel the bag close to her legs under the counter. It was a full morning, and come lunchtime she put the plan back on schedule.

'I'll get off at lunchtime, going on my holiday, unless I'm needed. I wouldn't mind leaving at twelve thirty.'

'You do that love,' said Hilda as she proffered a coffee; she managed at least three mugs every morning. 'You've done enough good turns, so you go on off.'

Hilda stepped aside as Carol collected the bag and made to leave.

'Did the mortuary van come this morning?' Miles asked as he appeared at his surgery door.

'Yes.'

'Frogton got off sharpish, didn't he?'

Hilda murmured that she had not actually seen him, as he'd gone before she arrived.

'Can you get him on the phone, Hilda? It's this German Shepherd; I don't know what tests he's done and I can't find the X-rays.'

Carol was at the door, listening, as Hilda called and then replaced the phone.

'No answer and his answerphone's not on. I'll try again but I think they were all going straight to the airport.'

'I thought she had already left?' Carol said, feeling her colour drain.

'No, she changed her mind. They were all going together – well, with the baby she didn't want to travel by herself. It's understandable.'

Miles, irritated, snapped as he returned to his cubicle, 'Just try and contact him, Hilda. I really need to speak to him.'

'The X-rays are on his desk, second drawer are the details I think you'll need,' Carol said, hovering, eager to leave.

'Thank you, Carol, we'll miss you, but have a good holiday.' Miles stood at his doorway.

Hilda waved as Carol smiled and walked out.

'Bit inconvenient, isn't it?' said Miles, 'Carol taking off the same time as old Froggie; makes us very short staffed.'

Hilda nodded, then said Carol had booked her break a good while ago, just after Christmas. She turned, smiling at the baby photographs pinned up on their noticeboard. Frogton's son, born January 4th.

'Be nice for them both to get away with the new baby,' Hilda said, checking down the appointments; they had a very busy day ahead.

Carol slammed her front door shut. She tipped out the clothes, she felt in all the pockets, in the cuffs, everywhere, but found no charm. No fucking goblin. She then tipped everything into the sink and poured bleach over the clothes and shoes. She waited until they were almost shredded before she put on rubber gloves to ring the remains out and put them back into the bag, the shoes' rubber soles were sticky, the suede coming apart. She then went into the bathroom. The smell of bleach made her feel sick so she ran the shower, picked up the towel and was about to put it on the heater rail when she stopped. 'Shit. Fuck shit, the fucking towel!'

She closed her eyes; the bloody Jack Russell! She'd wrapped it in a towel, the blood-covered towel, fucking shit! She was now certain the charm must have caught on the fluffy cotton towel; the fucking goblin had to be with the dead bloody Jack Russell dog.

Carol called the dogs' home, and got the boy's address. Shit, shit, he'd said he was going to bury it at his grandmother's house! Fuck shit, how the hell was she going to find that address?

At the surgery Hilda thanked a woman, Mrs Palin, and as soon as she left looked down the entries. Miles appeared, ushering out a very elderly woman with an equally ancient cat in a cage.

'Just feed her once a day, small portions, and she should be fine.'

He leaned in to Hilda as the elderly woman paid her, 'Just a check-up, won't need to see Mitzie again.'

He returned to his surgery, gesturing for a young boy to carry in his pet mouse. Hilda gave the receipt to the woman and put the money into the till before she went back to Mr Frogton's lists. Something didn't quite make sense; Mrs Palin had come in to thank them as she had now got her Jack Russell back, and he was none the worse. But they had no record of it being released from the clinic. They did have a Jack Russell but, according to Frogton, it was doubtful it would survive the night. It was scheduled to be collected for the mortuary.

Frogton's girlfriend had called three times wondering where he was as they were due to catch a flight and were going to miss it. Hilda said he had left in the early morning and she had no idea where he was, just as she had no idea why Carol had not made any mention of the Jack Russell's recovery and signed him out. There would be quite a bill to be paid. It was very unlike Carol as she was usually so methodical. Hilda went into Miles' surgery.

'You know we had that Jack Russell in, been in an accident on the Seven Sisters Road, just by Holloway prison, bus ran over it; this woman came in with it, it wasn't hers, said it was her sister's.'

'What?' Miles said, checking over X-rays.

'Well, a woman, the woman's sister, just came in to thank us, she said she's got him home and he's none the worse.'

'What?'

'That's what she said, he's fine, none the worse.'

'What?'

Miles went to the X-ray drawers, drew out a set and pinned them up.

'None the worse?' he said, pulling a face. 'He's got a fractured pelvis, two broken back legs and damage to his kidneys and collar bone!'

'Well that's what she said; came in to thank Carol but we were so busy I couldn't really talk much to her. He was going to be put down this morning.'

'Well miracles do happen, but that's beyond me, and I'm afraid this old boy's in very bad shape, I think he should be put out of his misery.'

Miles was referring to the German Shepherd, both back legs were dragging and he had a congenital spinal deficiency that left his lower back weak.

'Better call his owners, and did you get hold of Froggie?'

'No I didn't, and Mary's been calling; she's a bit frazzled as they're going to miss the flight.'

Miles returned to the X-ray of the Jack Russell, frowning; there was no possible way this dog could be, as his owner had stated, 'none the worse'. He was in a wretched condition.

'Who was the bill made out to?' he asked.

Hilda had returned to reception.

'What?'

'I said who was the bill made out to for this Jack Russell?'

Hilda looked confused.

'I don't know, there doesn't seem to be a record of it!'

Carol had got rid of the clothes, tied in a tight bundle of newspapers and tossed on to a dumpster. She had also made headway in discovering Owl Glasses' grand-mother's address. Calling the boy, his friend had answered and given the address; it was actually not far from Carol's flat, in Highbury, so she went straight there.

Carol rang the doorbell and waited for what seemed an age before it was opened by a small shrivelled woman in thick-lensed glasses, like her grandson's. Carol explained that she worked at the local veterinary clinic and had handed over the Jack Russell.

'Yes, he came here with it,' she said, peering up at Carol, who was head and shoulders taller than her.

'Has he actually buried it?'

'Yes, in a shoebox in the garden.'

'I'm very sorry but I'm afraid I will have to dig it up.'

'You must be joking; it's dead.'

'Yes I know but we had a call from Battersea Dogs Home and it seems there is some confusion regarding the ownership of the dog.'

'But it's dead; it was Kevin's pet.'

'Yes, I am sure it was but I need to verify its markings, if it has a black or brown left ear, or if it is the other way round.'

'Oh, I dunno, Kevin's not here, he's at college.'

'I can do it, if I could just be shown where he is?'

Carol sighed with relief as the old lady let her in and led her down a dingy dark hallway, through an old-fashioned equally dark kitchen and into the small back garden. The garden was overgrown with weeds and rubbish, old bicycles and an old pram minus its wheels. Bottles and Coke cans littered the base of the wall that backed on to the street.

'Kids chuck things over the wall,' the old lady said in disgust, 'but he's buried by the tree. You can't miss it; we've only the one tree anyway.'

'Do you have a shovel?'

'No, I got a trowel; that's what our Kevin used.'

Carol smiled, waiting by the tree as the grandmother went to find it. The freshly dug mound had a small handmade wooden cross; printed on it in black felt-tipped pen was 'REX'. The grandmother returned with her trowel.

'Do you know if Rex was still wrapped in the towel?'

'I don't know, love. You'd have to ask our Kevin but he put him in a shoebox, I know that. He worshipped that little dog.'

Carol got down on her knees; she told the old lady that she should go back inside, then she started to dig.

Kevin had not dug a deep hole; it was only about six inches down and the earth came away easily. Carol eased up the shoe box; it was small and she was certain that the towel and the dog could not have fitted into the box together. As she lifted the lid she saw she was right; there was no white bloodstained towel, just Rex.

Carol stamped on the earth to flatten it back into place, then she re-fixed the cross. Kevin's grandmother was standing at the kitchen door.

'I don't suppose you know what Kevin did with the white clinic towel do you?'

'The trowel?'

'No, Rex was wrapped in a white TOWEL when I gave him to your grandson.'

'Oh, I don't know where that is; you'd have to ask our Kevin. Do you want it back?'

'No, I don't think so but do you know if he found anything else?'

'What else?'

Carol tried to smile. 'It's nothing, never mind, and thank you, I'm sorry to have bothered you.'

Almost as an afterthought she asked if she could wash her hands which were covered in dirt. She stood at the kitchen sink, the old grandmother hovering, as she washed and soaped up her hands. She looked around for something to dry them on. There was a plastic washing basket in the corner. If Carol had just moved a shirt aside she would have seen the clinic towel but instead she dried her hands on a tea towel with a large picture of Wonder Woman's face printed on it.

Carol sat in the darkness; she went over and over everything in her mind. She sighed; she was probably getting things out of proportion. Even if the charm was found, so what? It was true everyone knew it belonged to her; they'd all seen Mr Frogton give it to her for Christmas. She was sure it wouldn't mean anything; she had simply mislaid it. If anyone asked for it or found it, all she had to say was she had lost it. It was only a charm. Nevertheless it niggled at her and she was unsure what to do. If she went and spoke to Kevin it would be suspicious, never mind incriminating. Digging up his bloody dog had been bad enough, and now if Kevin went to visit his grandma she'd obviously say something about her wanting the stupid fucking towel.

'Fuck fuck fucking shit,' she muttered, as the phone rang; it had rung a few times since she'd been home but she hadn't answered. No sooner had it stopped ringing than it started up again. She snatched it.

'Yes?'

'That you, Carol?'

'Yes.'

'This is Miles Richards.'

Pause.

'Are you there?'

'Yes.'

'We're all a bit worried about Peter. He's not shown up and he's supposed to have gone on holiday. Did he mention anything to you?'

'No.'

'Was he all right this morning?'

'Yes.'

'What time did he leave the surgery?'

'Just after eight, maybe eight fifteen.'

'I see, well sorry to bother you. Goodnight.'

Miles replaced the phone. He was alone in the surgery, waiting for the owner of the German Shepherd. He checked his watch, impatient to leave but at the same time concerned about his partner. It was so out of character and he hoped there hadn't been an accident. None of the hospitals they'd called had him registered. He turned to see the dark outline of a figure in the glass door. He opened it.

'Froggie?'

It was the owner of the German Shepherd who had asked to see him one more time before he was put to sleep. He was very calm, gently holding the big dog's head in his lap, stroking him. After a while he got up. The big dog struggled to rise to his feet but couldn't stand.

'Good boy, stay, stay, Hank, there's a good chap.'

Miles waited patiently, shaking the man's hand. Still he maintained control of his emotions.

'Been a good pal to me, I'll miss him. It'll be painless?'

'Yes but I feel that it is the best, or should I say the kindest, thing to put him out of his misery.'

'Right, yes, well, thank you for seeing me, and just send me the bill for Hank. Thank you.'

Miles put in the call for the mortuary wagon to do a pick-up the following morning. It was on answer machine, so he left the usual message and details, describing the dog. He then replaced the receiver and picked up the report book to enter the details ready for the morning. The last entry was for a collection that morning: Dalmatian, Rottweiler and Great Dane. He frowned; there was something wrong. There was a fourth dog listed, in Frogton's handwriting, a Jack Russell, but only three dogs had been taken!

Miles went into Frogton's office and sat behind his desk checking his diary; he read the report of the injured Jack Russell brought in after it had been found in the road. Also listed were the dog's injuries, its markings, that it had no collar and had been brought into the surgery by the owner's sister, who was taking care of the dog.

Miles shut the book. He recalled Hilda saying the woman had collected her dog and that it was fine. He remembered joking with her, saying it must have been some kind of miracle because the dog was so severely injured that his partner had earmarked it for being put to sleep, even booking a place for it in the mortuary van. He picked up the phone and dialled.

Carol stared at the ringing phone. Her hand reached out, then withdrew; there was something ominous about the way it was ringing. She went to bed; tomorrow she would get the bus for the coach station, then she would have two weeks in the Lake District.

The mortuary attendant collected Hank the following morning. Miles had every intention of speaking to him about the previous day's collection but they had an emergency, so he was busy in surgery. By now the police had been contacted about the disappearance of Peter Frogton and enquiries about him had begun. No one had seen him since the previous morning's surgery, so Carol became a vital witness to be questioned but no one knew where she was, just that she had gone on two weeks' holiday. It was suggested that perhaps they might have gone together but this was dismissed by all the staff.

One week later and there had been no sighting or contact by Peter Frogton and no clue as to his whereabouts was forthcoming. It was a mystery because he had no money problems, no domestic problems; he was, everyone said, delighted with his new baby boy and his distraught girlfriend could shed no light on any reason why he would disappear. No bank card had been used, no cheques had been cashed, he seemed to have no enemies. His car was left at his home; it was due for an MOT so he had caught the bus to work on the last morning he was sighted. For two weeks the enquiries continued with no results; no one came forward, even after the local papers had published a request for any information.

By the time Carol returned to work, the police still had no motive, nothing that gave them so much as a clue as to why the senior partner had disappeared. Carol appeared stunned when told. She said he had been perfectly normal the last time she had seen him. He had said he was looking forward to his holiday and he had left earlier than arranged as he was not driving. She even shed a few tears; it was dreadful to think something bad had happened to such a lovely man!

Carol was by now certain she had committed the perfect murder. She went about her duties as diligently as always, the first to arrive, the last to leave. They were expecting a new partner to join the practice, as Miles could not deal with the clinic on his own. It appeared on the surface as if Peter Frogton had never worked there but he had and in six months the memory of him had not faded. Carol had intended moving on to somewhere else but decided against it; she felt that safe.

Then the idiot woman with the fucking Jack Russell returned, and now her bloody dog was sick and running a high temperature. She was almost as hyper as she had been when she'd called round to make sure the dead dog wasn't her fucking dog.

Miles was allocated the bitch and went into his surgery with the woman talking at screech level. Carol could hear her hysterical voice going on and on about how she had almost lost him once, had even presumed he was dead but that nice girl at the desk had shown her the other dog, and it wasn't her dog because it had the wrong coloured ear. The pitch of her voice allowed everyone waiting in the surgery to hear how she had gone to Battersea Dogs Home and met this poor boy who had an almost identical Jack Russell, but his had a black ear and her Jack had a brown, and this poor boy was weeping because it wasn't his dog at Battersea but her naughty boy, and then this poor youngster had to identify his dead dog at the clinic.

Carol maintained her calm, staring fixedly at the appointments as the screaming bitch was led out, Miles assuring her that her dog was going to be fine but he just wanted to keep the little chap in for the night. The surgery continued until after six and Carol couldn't wait to leave; seeing that woman again had really unnerved her.

'Could you stay for a moment, Carol?' It was the way he said it, like he had something important to discuss.

'Sorry, Mr Richards, not tonight,' she said, avoiding his eyes. She felt as though they were boring into her head as she went out of the surgery door. She gave a furtive glance back through the glass door panel but he wasn't even looking at her; he was on the phone.

Miles thumbed through the old appointment diary, back six months, as he held on for the caller. He then jotted down the address and stared into space. He went back to checking operations, interns, the dogs to be put down, and then he paused, flicked forwards then backwards over the dates. In the past eight months they'd had only one Great Dane, brought in for surgery with cancer of the bowel. Felix had not survived the intricate operation and died under anaesthetic. He was already old for a Dane, at ten years. They had treated eight other Great Danes, but none had been in for either an operation or had, according to the records, died within the time frame. So which was the Dane taken on the morning with the Dalmatian, and the Rottweiler and what had happened to the injured Jack Russell? Had it been claimed? There was no record, and no bills had been made out for the time it had been in the surgery, no X-rays had been taken. Mrs Palin had said a boy had been at the dogs' home, worried about his Jack Russell, so maybe they could shed some light on it all.

Miles contacted the dogs' home, found out Kevin's address, called him, and he agreed to see him at his grandmother's house.

Kevin answered the door. He had food stains round his mouth and his owlish glasses looked crooked. His grandma stood behind him, saying this was ridiculous, they'd already sent one woman to dig it up; it'd be rotting by now.

'It was my dog, it was Rex,' Kevin said, agitated.

Miles tried to make light of it, saying he was sure it was his dog but he needed to ask Kevin some questions about when he had collected the corpse from the veterinary clinic.

Miles stood in the old kitchen, the rotting carcass now in a large hat box. He was very perplexed about the fact someone from his clinic had been to the house, had dug up the dog! It didn't make any sense, unless there was some hidden agenda.

'I promise you will have Rex returned. I just need him for a few days, and I am not here about any vet fees. He wasn't given to you in this box, was he?'

'No, he was wrapped in a mucky towel. I think it's still in my toolbox. Gran was going to wash it but I used it to wipe some chain lube off my bike.'

Miles waited while Kevin fetched the towel, now streaked with oil stains as well as the dark red bloodstains that had turned rust brown.

'Thank you, I really appreciate your help.'

'There was something else,' Kevin said flushing. 'It was caught in the towel.'

Miles nodded. Kevin looked even more embarrassed.

'I gave it to my girlfriend, it was like a charm, you know, off a bracelet. It was about so big.' He indicated with his fingers how small the charm was.

'Does she still have it?' Miles asked.

'I dunno, we broke up. Is that what this is all about? I think it was quite old, like antique gold but it was very small, a little man I think, like a pixie.'

Miles hesitated; he didn't understand the significance of the charm because he had been the only one not present at the Christmas gift exchange.

At the police station, the detective in charge of Frogton's disappearance looked into the hat box with distaste.

'What is it?'

'It's a dead Jack Russell dog and its body was wrapped in this towel that belongs to the clinic. The kid also found a gold charm of a goblin, you know a charm that hangs off a bracelet. I called Hilda our other receptionist and she recalls Peter Frogton giving it to Carol last Christmas. She said it was a little goblin, not a pixie, a gold goblin sitting on a mushroom.'

'Does he still have it?'

'No, he gave it to his girlfriend but they broke up and she threw it away; well, that's what she said. It was a goblin but she couldn't remember if it was sitting on anything.'

Miles remained at the station for two hours going through all the details about how dogs were collected for the incinerator by the mortuary company. The dogs were burnt and the bones and fragments crushed so there would be no remains left. It was possible that Peter Frogton was murdered, his body taken in the place of a Great Dane and incinerated. The Jack Russell was supposed to have been incinerated that same morning but Kevin had collected it for burial in his grandmother's garden.

There was a very long pause. Miles was flushed red in the face while the police officer grew paler by the minute.

'Jesus Christ, you think she put your partner in a doggy bag?'

Before they arrested Carol, they checked her background and discovered her previous prison record. This made for a lot of embarrassment, as they should have been more thorough.

'Apparently she lied to us on her letter from her previous employers. She had only worked there for two years,' Miles said to a stunned, white-faced Hilda. 'Before that she was in prison.'

'Prison?' Hilda stuttered, hardly able to take it all in.

'She murdered her mother,' Miles said quietly.

'What, Carol did? But she couldn't have done, she was going to spend Christmas with her.'

'Well she lied, Hilda, Carol lied to all of us; she apparently hit her mother over the head with a hammer.'

'No, surely not, her own mother?'

'Yes, that's what I was told.'

'Why?' Hilda asked in a shocked gasp.

'No idea, they didn't tell me,' Miles said flatly.

Carol was arrested at the surgery at nine fifteen on May 3rd 1972 and subsequently charged with the murder of Peter Frogton. She never gave an explanation, nor did she admit her guilt or deny it; she appeared totally disinterested in the whole proceedings. Without a body and with not one witness, it was doubtful they would be able to make the charge stick. At the time DNA testing was not used and although the white towel might have Peter Frogton's bloodstains on it they could also have been the Jack Russell's.

The police had removed the gold charm bracelet as part of the evidence, noting that it was minus the goblin. They subsequently interviewed Kevin's girl-friend. She was evasive and tearful but then admitted she had lied. She hadn't thrown the goblin away; she said she had thought Kevin might ask for it back and she wasn't going to give it to him. The detective looked at the small gold charm in the palm of his hand. The little goblin sitting on a toadstool was identified as the charm given to Carol by Frogton; when shown to Hilda, she confirmed it was definitely the same one.

During Carol's final interrogation she had become increasingly abusive, often laughing at some private joke she never shared with anyone. The detective held up the charm bracelet, letting it dangle.

'Does this belong to you, Carol?'

No reply.

'This was a gift to you from Peter Frogton, wasn't it?'

No reply.

'This charm was attached to this bracelet by Peter Frogton. It was a Christmas gift to you, wasn't it?'

No reply.

'Will you look at this little charm? It was on this bracelet when you killed Peter Frogton.'

No reply.

'Carol, will you look at this charm and tell me what it is?'

At last there was a response; she looked up, her eyes like ice chips, and she let out a high pitched screech.

'It's a fucking gold Jack Russell dog, you cunt.'

Carol never admitted killing Peter Frogton. She was found mentally unfit to stand trial and sent to Broadmoor, a prison for the criminally insane. The bracelet was tagged, bagged and listed as evidence, then stored in the police station's evidence lock-up, with the goblin re-attached in case it got lost.