There was no sign of Hamlet, which sent a thrumming unease into my veins. I checked the cardboard box which was his current preferred sleeping place, vastly favoured over his expensive bed, but there was no sign of him.

The back door was slightly open – not ajar, but not completely closed. I thought I heard voices coming from the garden.

I grabbed my friction lock baton from my harness, crept to the far side of the kitchen, and peered out of the window.

Someone was standing in the garden, the light from the kitchen highlighting their edges.

Dad?

What was he doing? I was about to push open the door and go to him, but I stopped. His body was rigid and stone-still. And someone else was there.

Dad’s voice was audible through the slightly open door, sounding husky and anxious. ‘Put him down now.’

I looked to the far end of the garden, where the light from the kitchen barely reached.

A man. Standing in the shadows. Wearing a black balaclava. Holding something.

A flash of white from the thing he was holding. I gasped.

Hamlet. He was holding Hamlet.

I twitched with the urge to run into the garden, but stopped myself. These people had knives and had killed pets. It would only take a second for the bastard to slit Hamlet’s throat right in front of us and escape into the shadows. At the moment he was hesitating.

Clutching the baton, I ran into the hallway, unlocked the front door, and dashed out. There was a path which went around the side of the house, and brought you into the garden from the rear. If I could get down there, I’d be behind the man.

I gasped. I’d trodden on a stone. Luckily the path down the side of the house was paved. I slowed as I got nearer to the gate into the garden.

I could hear low voices. Dad and the man talking.

‘Get me a hundred quid and maybe I won’t kill the stupid cat.’

Then Dad’s voice. ‘Come on, you know you won’t get away with this.’ Why wasn’t he just getting some money?

‘I mean it,’ the man said. ‘I know it’s the detective’s cat. The one that’s protecting Violet’s murderer.’

‘Hold on,’ Dad said. ‘She’s not protecting anyone. You’ve got it wrong.’

My grip tightened on the baton. I crept forward. The wooden gate was open. The man had his back to me.

Dad looked in my direction. His eyes widened and his mouth opened a fraction. I frowned at him and put my finger to my lips. He looked away, back to Hamlet, who was struggling in the man’s arms.

I raised the baton, stepped forward and brought it smashing down on the man’s head.