There were three used cereal bowls on the table, an empty mug, half a slice of cold toast and an open jar of Lime Shred. Next to the Lime Shred were my feet. I could just see them over the top of the Jobs page of the local rag. They deserved a new pair of socks; a pair without holes.

I took a bite from the toast and aimed the crust at the bin. Perhaps I should apply for the hospital cleaning job. Or maybe the kitchen assistant. I flicked over the page: Bicycles for Sale, Apartments to Let, Lost and Found. I scanned the columns. They were a whole lot more interesting than the stack of dirty dishes waiting for me on the draining board.

I nearly skipped the missing dog ad; the print was small and I reckoned the message would be as interesting as a note to the milkman but the words £50 reward grabbed my attention like a money-off voucher on a packet of soap flakes. The pound sign was big and the number had a nought on the end. Fifty pounds would buy a new pair of socks and leave enough change for the first instalment on a dishwasher. I read the ad slowly, then I wrote down the name and address: Miss Constance Clark, 23 Kitchener Close.

It was 9.30 already and I needed to act fast. Striding upstairs two at a time, I scooped an armful of kids' clothes from the dirty washing basket and bundled them into the washer before pulling on my trainers. Then I reached for my duffle-coat, straightened the hall mat and thrust my hand into the jug on the windowsill where I keep my loose change. I dropped the coins into my handbag along with a shopping list, my comb and a couple of ball-points. I always carry a loaded handbag.

Kitchener Close was a road to nowhere on the wrong side of town. I pulled up my collar and headed west along Fore Street, past the Chinese takeaway, past Bob's Second-hand Furniture Emporium, past the steamy windows of the all-night launderette. A fine drizzle began to fall, glistening on the pavements like grease on a fried egg. I hung a right at the junction with Montgomery then made a left into Wellington Way. Identical brick houses lined the street and a hundred satellite dishes gazed into space, waiting for something to happen. It would be a long wait in this neighbourhood. I spotted the dead end sign that marked the entrance to Kitchener Close.

Number 23 looked pretty much like its neighbours; neater, perhaps, and maybe the nets were a little whiter. A light green Ford Fiesta stood out front with its rear windows wound down. The carpets were missing from the back and rust bubbled along the door sills. I hoped C Clark could lay her hands on the fifty.

I rang the bell and waited. Curtains twitched across the street. I waited some more. I could hear someone moving at the back of the house and the sound of crockery chinking in a sink. Something was being cleared away; something I wasn't meant to see.

I walked round back and hammered on the kitchen door. Slowly it opened, just as wide as a saleman's foot.

"Phyllis Marlow," I said. "I've come about the dog."

A face appeared, pinkly powdered and surrounded by a tight perm. Two startled eyes caught mine then glanced back towards the sink.

"Don't worry," I said. "I've seen dirty dishes before."

The door opened further and I stepped into Constance Clark's kitchen. Then I stepped back and wiped my feet on the mat. This floor hadn't seen a dirty mark in years. I guessed the worktops hadn't either. A faint smell of disinfectant hung in the air like fear in a dentist's waiting-room.

Miss Clark turned towards the bone china teapot that was keeping company with a milk jug on a blue formica tray. She seemed to be making her mind up about something.

"Tea?" she asked.

I looked at my watch.

"It's a bit early for me," I said. "What the hell, I could use a drink. Easy on the milk and no sugar."

She was wearing a two-piece in heather tweed with a chain store blouse tightly buttoned to the neck. Her fingers pleated the collar while she waited for the kettle to boil.

"Tell me about the mutt," I said. "The one you've lost."

"It's my neighbour's dog; Mr Jeffrey from number 21. I offered to look after him while Mr Jeffrey was on holiday but he's just vanished. I let him out into the garden to do his business and when I went to call him in again, he'd gone."

I sat down at the kitchen table, but not before taking a long look out the window. The back yard was as neat as the house; no dead leaves, no weeds, no dog poop. Two pieces of green carpet hung from the line that stretched the length of the concrete walk. Miss Clark poured a slug of milk into my cup and topped it with amber liquid. Then she poured a large one for herself.

"The trouble is," she went on, "Mr Jeffrey is coming home tomorrow and what am I going to tell him? I've got to get the dog back."

"Do you have a photo?" I asked.

She took a long pull on her tea. "I'll get one for you. It's in the other room."

Miss Clark returned with a picture of a plump yellow puppy wrapped up in toilet paper. The face was familiar. I'd seen this babe before. Somewhere.

"His name's Prince," she said, "but he's grown up since this was taken. He's a fully grown Labrador now."

I folded the picture and slipped it into my pocket. Had the mutt wandered off in search of a good time or were the dognappers back in town? One way or another, I was going to find out and I knew just the woman to help me. Alison Booker. Sergeant Al Booker of the County Constabulary.

Twenty minutes later I was sitting in an interview room, looking into the steel grey eyes of the toughest cop this side of Haslemere. Below the eyes was a nose that had felt the business end of a football hooligan's boot and below that, a gnarled set of teeth gnawed on a mangled Digestive. The teeth paused and a couple of crumbs hit the floor.

"You want a biscuit?"

I nodded.

There was a table between us, the kind you stub out your fags on when no one is looking. Booker pawed at her jacket, drew out a frayed wrapper and pushed it across to me. There was one biscuit left and I took it.

"So this Clark dame wants her dog back. What's it to me? Lost dogs are two a penny in this town and who gives a damn?" Booker stared sadly at her fingernails. They looked okay to me; nothing a manicure couldn't put right.

"It's not her dog, it's her neighbours and he's going to be sore as hell when he finds his precious pooch has gone walkabout."

"Better give me a description," Booker sighed, "and I'll run a check with the pound."

I reached for the picture and spread it on the table.

"Looks kinda familiar," said Booker. "He ever been on TV?"

"Not so far as I know. Belongs to a guy named Jeffrey over on Kitchener Close.

Sergeant Booker pushed her face close up to mine and threw me a look that would send drug barons running for their mummies. I wanted to confess to something but I didn't know what.

"You mean Ron Jeffrey?" she snarled. "Ron Jeffrey, Clerk to the Council, from number 21?"

I shrugged my shoulders.

She looked at me again and her mouth cracked into a smile. Then the smile exploded into a volley of laughter and I caught a spray of oatmeal shrapnel right in the neck.

"This ain't no picture of Ron Jeffrey's pooch," she said. "Ron Jeffrey's dog is a Jack Russell terrier and as mean a son-of-a-bitch as ever ate Pal. Took out a postman only last week and he's got a record for fouling as long as your arm."

"So why isn't he in the pound with other delinquents?"

"Hey, get real, kid. No-one messes with the Clerk's dog if they want the library van to keep calling or their bin bags collected come Monday. Stay out of this one, Phyllis, or you'll find your house in Band H before you can say Council Tax."

"Just one more thing, " I said. "The name of the postman who got bitten."

Booker looked thoughtful. "Do you want a ticket for the Police Bring and Buy?"

I counted out the cash.

"Pat," she said. "Patrick McNally. Lives over the Co-op on South Street. Had the nicest little arse a girl could wish for till that crazy canine took a chunk out of it. He's still on sick leave, I've heard."

South Street wasn't far but I caught a bus anyway. My feet were aching. I needed a pee. Not a popular dog, Prince. Not the sort of dog most people would offer to look after. And not a Labrador, either.

Outside the Co-op, a thin shaft of sunlight toyed with a couple of empty Coke cans before coming to rest on the grimy back of a life-sized plastic dog. The dog was yellow and it was laughing. I dropped ten pence through the slot in its head and climbed the concrete steps at the side of the building.

McNally was at home. He was dressed for a morning on his own and looked like he'd just come out of the shower. His dark hair was still wet, tousled at the front where he'd rubbed it with a towel, and a navy bath robe hung just loose enough to tell his legs went right up to his Y-fronts. A bottle of beer stood open on a sideboard and Keith Richards was doing something with a bass guitar that sent shivers down my spine.

"Phyllis is the name," I said. "Phyllis Marlow."

McNally flashed me smile I could feel in my jeans. He nodded towards the sofa, filled a glass with beer and reached over to put it beside me. I sat on my hands. Then I told him my story. I told him about the lost dog ad, about the Labrador turned Jack Russell, about Ron Jeffrey and the Town Council. I told him about the holes in my socks, the fifty pound reward, the dishwasher I hadn't got, the two kids I had got and the ex husband I didn't want. I sipped his beer and told him how badly I needed to use his bathroom.

A shadow passed across McNally's face. It looked just as good in the shade. "You'd be doing a lot of people a favour if you didn't find that dog," he said. "But I promised Miss Clark."

"Think about my backside."

I thought about McNally's backside. I thought about it for quite a while.

"And it yapped," McNally continued. "Yap, yap, yap, from daybreak to dusk. Drove the neighbours wild."

"I need the fifty quid," I said. "And I need to use your bathroom right now." I stood up and headed for a door that looked promising.

For a man with a sutured buttock, McNally was fast on his feet. Before I could reach the handle, I felt his grip on my shoulder and found myself eye to nipple with 6'4" of rippling muscle.

"You left a wet towel on the floor?" I snapped, or maybe you don't want me to see the ring round your tub? For Chrissake, get out of my way, I'm desperate."

I shoved hard but McNally wouldn't budge. Mick Jagger stopped singing. Silence. You could hear a pin drop. I could hear a dog whining. It sounded close by.

"Wrong door," said McNally. "That's the kitchen. The bathroom's over there."

Suddenly I wanted to see McNally's kitchen. I wanted to see it real bad. I dodged to one side, shot out an arm and turned the handle.

The smell hit me first, then the dog. With his claws clattering frantically on the slippery floor, he hurtled through my legs, across the sitting-room and onto the arm of the sofa.. From the way he sank his fangs into the upholstery, I guessed he didn't like chintz. And I guessed that pretty soon he'd be feeling the same way about denim.

"Up here," shouted McNally. He was perched on the sideboard between a six-pack and a bowl of fruit. "Come on, make a run for it."

But I had plans and they didn't include camping out on high furniture with a half dressed postman.

"Take off your bathrobe," I ordered.

The dog's ears locked on to my voice. He stopped chewing. Then he spat out a mouthful of foam rubber and fixed his eyes on my ankles. A little shudder of delight rippled down his flanks. I was flattered.

"Here poochy poochy," I called.

He didn't need an invitation. He was in mid air already, his upper lip curled back to reveal a set of incisors that could sever a rat's neck at first bite. I swung back my arm and waited till I could see the whites of his whiskers. Then I let him have it with the full weight of my handbag. It was a good shot.

"Quick," I shouted. "Throw your robe over him."

Swooping from the sideboard like a ready-plucked buzzard, McNally bundled the snarling mass of teeth and claws into a blue towelling parcel. He pushed the parcel back into the kitchen and closed the door.

"Prince?" I asked. It was a good question, I thought.

"Well sure as hell it isn't Lassie," said McNally. "Lassie doesn't bite postmen or chase my aunt's cat away. That was the last straw; she was fond of her cat, Aunt Connie. We had to do something."

"So Aunt Connie, Miss Clark I mean, offered to look after Prince so she could nab him?"

"Yup. Then she brought him round here in the back of her car."

"Why the ad in the paper?"

"To make the loss look genuine. How were we to know some crazy broad in a duffle-coat would come poking her nose in?"

Through the door, the muffled sound of a bin bag being disembowelled suggested Prince had regained his composure.

"What are you going to do with him?" I asked.

"That's up to you," said McNally. "My brother said he could use a ratter on his farm back home. But if you want your fifty quid, he's all yours."

I thought about Aunt Connie and her cat. I thought about the yapping and the crapping and the bent council clerk. And I took a long look at the bulge in McNally's underpants where the surgical dressing was taped to his bum.

"You any good at washing up?" I asked.

The socks would have to wait. Unless, of course, Constance Clark wanted her cat found.