THREE OAKS SCOTTISH MYSTERIES BOOKS 1–7 seven totally gripping Scottish crime mysteries, page 1
THE THREE OAKS MYSTERIES
BOOKS 1–7
GERALD HAMMOND
CLICK ON THE BOOK YOU WANT TO GO TO:
Book 1: DOG IN THE DARK
Book 2: DOGHOUSE
Book 3: WHOSE DOG ARE YOU?
Book 4: GIVE A DOG A NAME
Book 5: THE CURSE OF THE COCKERS
Book 6: STING IN THE TAIL
Book 7: MAD DOGS AND SCOTSMEN
This box set was first published in 2024
Lume Books, London
A Joffe Books Company
www.lumebooks.co.uk
DOG IN THE DARK first published in Great Britain in 1989
DOGHOUSE was first published in Great Britain in 1989
WHOSE DOG ARE YOU? was first published in Great Britain in 1991
GIVE A DOG A NAME was first published in Great Britain in 1992
THE CURSE OF THE COCKERS was first published in Great Britain in 1993
STING IN THE TAIL was first published in Great Britain in 1994
MAD DOGS AND SCOTSMEN was first published in Great Britain in 1995
Copyright © Gerald Hammond
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Gerald Hammond to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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Cover art by Imogen Buchanan
CONTENTS FOR ALL BOOKS
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A Note to the Reader
BOOK ONE: DOG IN THE DARK
Author’s Note
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
BOOK TWO: DOGHOUSE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
BOOK THREE: WHOSE DOG ARE YOU?
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
BOOK FOUR: GIVE A DOG A NAME
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
BOOK FIVE: THE CURSE OF THE COCKERS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
BOOK SIX: STING IN THE TAIL
Author’s Note
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
BOOK SEVEN: MAD DOGS AND SCOTSMEN
Author’s Note
Preface
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
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The Lume & Joffe Books Story
Also by Gerald Hammond
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A Note to the Reader
Please note this book is from the 1990s, when social attitudes were very different, and smartphones were not ubiquitous.
BOOK ONE:
DOG IN THE DARK
GERALD HAMMOND
Author’s Note
Once, when writing an article about gundogs, I rashly changed the name of an offender in order not to embarrass its owner. The result, of course, was an indignant lady complaining to the magazine, and to anybody else who would pay attention, that it was certainly not her Bonzo (or whatever the name was) who chased the hare or crunched the pheasant. The details are vague by now but the scars remain.
So let me state that, just as the human characters are fictitious, if any of the canines represented here have ever had real-life counterparts these have belonged to myself or my family. Even so, the resemblances are mostly in name. Let’s say rather that many of the dogs in this story are dogs I would have liked to own.
My own fancy is for Labradors, but Labs are too predictable for such a story as this. In turning over to spaniels, I leaned heavily on the writings of Peter (P. R. A.) Moxon. If my facts are correct, the credit is his. Any errors are all my own.
G. H.
Chapter One
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I glanced over my shoulder to make sure that I was not leaving the judges behind and at that moment the Gun to my right fired a shot.
The stewards with their red flags had allowed the spectators up close for once and a momentary recurrence of stage fright distracted me. When I looked forward again, the low sun was in my eyes. I could not pick up any falling bird against the moving branches and whirling leaves of the wood ahead. Had he missed, or taken a rabbit or a low bird? I had not heard the whirr of a rising pheasant but a stiff breeze was sighing among the dead leaves and in my ears as I turned. We were down to four dogs now. This was only a Novice Stake, but I was in a position to take Mistleton Moonbeam a step further on the long road to becoming a Field Trials Champion. Dear God, I told myself, don’t let me blow it now!
‘Get that bird from here,’ said the nearer judge. He was Joe Little and I had run under him before – a fair judge but sometimes severe. I thought that he knew that I had missed the fall and was giving me a hint. Well, there was nothing for it but to hope that Moon had marked the bird.
The little spaniel had dropped at the sound of the shot. I gave her the signal to go out and she scampered forward, straight as a ruler. I began to breathe again. Short of the trees, she jinked to one side and checked at a patch of brambles. The bird, I decided, was a runner, but she was onto it.
Moon bobbed down and then started back towards me, but instead of the pheasant which I expected she was carrying a rabbit, plucked from its ‘form’ or ‘seat’. There was a snicker of amusement from among the spectators.
My heart pounded. Disaster was very close. If I had to take it from her, we would be put out. I gave her the ‘stop’ whistle and when she squatted down I signalled her to ‘drop it’. She paused and gave me one of her ‘I hope you know what you’re doing’ looks but she released her hold. The rabbit nearly gave me heart failure by crouching for a few seconds as if injured but then bolted for the wood. Moon sat tight, watching it away in disgust. No penalty. There was even a thin spatter of applause.
I gave her a few seconds to forget about the rabbit and then sent her back to her original line. I could only see her head but she seemed to have picked up a scent. She put on a turn of speed and vanished into the wood.
There was nothing to do but wait. She could have scented another rabbit – they were almost as thick on the ground as the leaves in the air and she would have had the scent of rabbit fresh in her sensitive nose – but there are times when you can only trust the dog.
‘It fell near the big clump of gorse,’ the judge said at last.
I only nodded. Give her a little more time, I told myself. She had passed close downwind of that gorse. If a shot bird had been in there, even in that blustery wind, she would surely have scented it. But there was dead ground between the gorse and the trees. If I whistled and if the bird were a runner, I might be handling h er away from it . . .
Her white markings showed through the undergrowth. She was coming back. She emerged into the open with a cock pheasant struggling in her jaws and returned to me at a gallop, her stump of a tail an almost invisible blur. She delivered the bird sitting – an unnecessary refinement but one which usually pleases the judges. Before wringing its neck, I held it up so that the judges could see that it was alive – it has been known for an unscrupulous competitor to go through the motions of killing an already dead bird in order to distract the judges’ attention from the damage inflicted by a hardmouthed dog.
Joe Little checked between the feathers, looking for signs of shot. ‘I think we’ve seen enough,’ he said and the other judge nodded. They conferred.
Ten minutes later they announced their findings. Moonbeam was the outright winner. I was too elated to take in the other placings and the Certificates of Merit, but there would be time enough to read the details later in the sporting press. I thanked the host and his head keeper, went up to receive our award and then slipped away. Moonbeam danced all the way to the car. She knew that she had done well. Perhaps my mood had communicated itself and she certainly knew that her evening feed was due, but dogs develop an uncanny instinct for competition. She would have been much less boisterous if we had been unplaced.
There was a large hotel a few miles down the road. I pulled in, as much because I was exhausted and chilled through by the wind as to cadge some hot water for Moonbeam’s dinner. It was a place of fake antiques and with oak beams stuck on as an afterthought, but it was warm. I ordered the lightest snack on the menu for myself and then carried Moon’s dinner outside. When the kennel-meal had soaked up most of the water I fed her in the back of the car.
‘You’re a clever little bastard,’ I told her. ‘We’ll try to get you an entry in an Open Stake next month, and if you do well in it we’ll maybe find you a handsome husband and take a litter off you in the spring. You’ll enjoy that,’ I assured her. But she was intent on guzzling her dinner and responded only with a token wag of her docked tail. At other times, she gave me her full attention and all the loyalty in the world. I only wished that she could give me a little of her appetite.
My own snack was waiting for me in the bar. I carried it to a corner table and settled down. There was soporific Muzak playing and I could easily have leaned back and fallen asleep. I never felt less like eating but I knew that only food would give me the energy to face the long drive home.
I was pushing the last of the food around my plate when a figure loomed between me and the lights of the bar. I looked up. Joe Little was standing over me. ‘I thought I recognised your car outside,’ he said. ‘Do you mind if I join you?’
‘You’re welcome to,’ I said. I was not feeling much like company just then, but to alienate a prominent judge would be about as advisable as insulting one’s dentist.
He went back to the bar and returned with a laden tray, put down a substantial meal and a pint for himself and then pushed another pint in front of me. ‘It is lager you’re drinking?’ he asked.
‘It is.’ I had reservations about drinking another pint on top of the half-pint I had had already, but I could probably leave some of it behind without being too obvious about it. ‘Thank you. But I should be buying you the drinks.’
He laughed and shook his head. Amusement sat well on his square but kindly face. ‘That would smack of corruption,’ he said. ‘And there’s no need for any quid pro quo. That’s a good little bitch you have there. If you do your part, she’ll make Champion within another year, you mark my words. You earned the win, between you. Am I right in thinking that you already have a winner? Champion Mistleton Sunbeam,’ he added, in case I had forgotten.
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Sunbeam and Moonbeam. They’re full sisters. My sister-in-law named them.’
‘One of my clients saw her in last year’s Championship Stake. Very impressed, he was. If you’re thinking of breeding from her, he wants you to put a dog pup aside for him and train it.’
‘I thought you only went in for Labradors,’ I said.
‘Not so much of the “only”,’ he said with a snort of laughter.
‘All right, I thought you specialised in Labradors.’
‘You spaniel men think that when God had created the springer and its near relatives he should have knocked off for a dirty weekend.’
‘I have always suspected that he did,’ I said.
‘And Labradors were the result.’ Having scored a good point, Joe took a pull at his pint and beamed at me. ‘Many a Labrador owner keeps a spaniel or two for the dirty work. What do you say?’
‘Sunbeam’s in pup now,’ I told him.
‘The sire?’
I told him and he whistled. ‘I bet that cost you an arm and a leg,’ he said.
‘Not really. He has pick of the litter. Your client can have second choice if he confirms straight away.’ I was waking up again, warmed by our talk. I finished my snack and began on the pint of lager.
‘I’ll tell him.’ Joe was silent for a minute while he made some inroads into his steak and chips. ‘Ever thought of turning fully professional?’ he asked suddenly.
‘Yes, of course I have,’ I told him. ‘Three or four people have been after me to train dogs for them.’
‘Then why don’t you?’
‘There’s no space for expansion where I am. I’m living with my brother and his wife. If I could find a suitable place within my means . . .’
Until then he had only been keeping the conversation going rather than letting it lapse into one of those awkward silences, but I saw his interest quicken. ‘If you mean that,’ he said, ‘there’s a place for sale near me. A farmhouse and barn with a few acres around them, not going at a giveaway price, but reasonable.’
I had heard such words rather often during the previous year, from friends. Frequently they had been used to describe an overpriced slum with inadequate ground space and much dangerous traffic nearby. But Joe Little had his feet on the ground and he knew the world of dogs. I felt a stirring of cautious interest. ‘There’s reasonable and reasonable,’ I said. ‘It would have to be very reasonable to be anything other than a pipe-dream. I have a small pension and a little capital, but I’d have to build kennels and lay out some money on bitches. I don’t know . . .’
‘It’s up to yourself,’ he said, ‘but I think you could make it.’ He talked on, juggling figures in the air from his considerable experience – capital, turnover, profit. He made them sound very convincing, but my tired mind refused to take them in. ‘One good thing about dogs, the generations come around quickly,’ he went on. ‘With people, you wait nearly twenty years; but if you keep the bitches from your first two litters you’ll have a breeding stock from a very good line in a few years. Sooner, if you do a little trading.’
‘You make it sound very easy,’ I said. ‘And in normal circumstances you’d probably be right. But I honestly don’t think that I’d have the stamina to start something like that from scratch.’
He nodded sympathetically. ‘I heard that you weren’t keeping well. Amazing how good a grapevine the trials world has. But, in fact, it shows. You were in the army, weren’t you? Stopped an Argy bullet in the Falklands?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘As a matter of fact—’
He was not listening. ‘But you’ve been walking around all day today. If you can walk, you can train. That’s what you’re good at. You enjoy the training side above anything else, or am I wrong?’
He seemed to have me weighed up. ‘How do you know that?’ I asked curiously.
‘Instinct.’ He stopped and thought about it. ‘Your bitch works as though she was trained by somebody who had his heart in it. That’s as well as I can put it. Let me tell you something.’ He put aside his knife and fork and pointed at me. ‘Never mind what anybody else tells you, if you can train, you can make a living, because that’s where the money is. The puppy-factories have ruined the bottom end of the market but pups from winning strains always sell. Trained dogs sell better. How many Best English guns have you seen around?’
‘Quite a few.’
‘All right, so a good gun will last for ever. But how many Range Rovers do you see?’ I opened my mouth to answer but he rushed on. ‘Hundreds. A man’s a fool if he’ll pay that much for a car and grudge a tenth of the price for a good dog. He’ll get a damned sight more pleasure out of the dog. And then there’s always the other kind of a fool with a bank account who’ll pay you to undo the mistakes he’s made with his own dog. Get yourself a partner with a little capital, take on a kennel-maid for the rough work and you’re in business. You might not make a mint, but you’d have a good life and a steady income.’
