Little Sister by David Hewson

unexpectedly warm.
    ‘Oh my. We’ve got Sherlock Holmes on the premises.’
    Van der Berg grinned and winked. Everyone else in Marken had been so reticent and nervous at his presence. This woman didn’t seem nonplussed by him at all.
    ‘And they let a cook bring their dog to work,’ he added.
    ‘Rex is my only companion these days. He don’t like being left on his own. Besides some of the girls here adore him. What else they got? He only acts funny with strangers.
Rex!’
    The dog crouched down on its front paws and wagged its tail. Van der Berg did what Vos had taught him with Sam. He bent down, held out the back of his hand, let the dog sniff it then, slowly,
very visibly, lifted his fingers and stroked his head.
    ‘My Rex is the best judge of character I know,’ Bea Arends said. ‘If he likes you then I reckon you’re OK.’
    ‘Flattered. I don’t suppose you’ve any idea what’s been going on here? Where Simon Klerk might be?’
    Her expression changed, becoming fierce once more.
    ‘I’m just a cook. What would I know? Of that man or anything else . . .’
    She stuck a floury fist on her right hip. A woman with something to say. That was obvious.
    ‘I’ve no idea. That’s why I asked.’
    ‘Simon Klerk’s wherever he wishes to be. That man’s like the rest of them. Does as he likes. And no one in there . . .’ She nodded at the admin block.‘ . . .thinks
to stop him.’
    The dog was getting restless for no obvious reason, tugging at his chain, whining in a soft high tone like a puppy.
    Suddenly the whimpers turned frantic. Rex was up then, leaping for the woods. With both hands on the heavy lead she fought to jerk him back. Van der Berg went over to help but before he could
get there the German shepherd was free, bounding towards the trees.
    ‘Rex!’ Bea Arends yelled. She stamped her right foot and Van der Berg saw, to his surprise, that she was wearing wooden clogs. ‘He never behaves like this. Never. Good as gold
usually.’
    There was a face at the window in the admin block. Visser. Then Veerman and Simon Klerk’s wife joined her. Interested in the commotion. Perhaps worried too.
    ‘He must have seen something. Or smelled it,’ the detective said. He threw his cigarette on the grass and set off for the woods.
    The spinney was dank with the stink of mould and decay. Rex was easy to track. In its frenzy the animal had carved a clear path of flattened weeds and grass straight through.
    Van der Berg followed, Bea Arends behind. The small dark wood enclosed them both. He felt nervous for some reason and found himself pulling his phone out of his pocket. A quick glance showed the
signal had vanished entirely at this distant edge of Marken.
    ‘Rex!’ the woman called.
    They emerged from the spinney onto a narrow line of shingle running to the water’s edge.
    The dog wasn’t barking any more.
    ‘Naughty boy!’ she cried.
    Van der Berg looked both ways. Back to the village, barely visible here. Then to the finger of land that ran into the lake towards the colourful outline of Volendam on the horizon.
    The German shepherd had stopped at the edge of the wood close to the point at which the dyke rose from the pebble shore like a round green vein.
    ‘Best leave this to me,’ he said.
    ‘That’s my dog,’ the woman objected.
    ‘He’s found something.’
    Twenty steps or so it took and then they were there.
    ‘Rex,’ the woman said softly, close to tears.
    Gingerly, aware of the animal’s strength and mood, Van der Berg bent down and picked up the leather loop at the end of the lead.
    ‘I can manage that,’ Bea Arends insisted, snatching it from him.
    She pulled. The dog turned and snarled madly at both of them, showing a set of sharp fangs.
    They were white and bloodied.
    ‘Oh my God,’ the woman said and put a hand to her mouth.
    Van der Berg looked. Rex had found a shallow grave. There was a body in it, one pale naked arm dragged out of the sandy earth by Rex’s busy jaws.