No sooner had Micky disappeared through Mr Singh’s swing doors, than Duke came limping around the corner. Duke was a cross between a Great Dane and a mastiff on one side and … well … something else … on the other, something huge, something a darker shade of black than any ordinary dog. His powerful body was battle-scarred and his massive head hung low. He’d have been perfect casting for The Hound of the Baskervilles.

By now Jacko was frantic, lead stretched taut, choking himself on his collar in a frenzied attempt to lunge across the road at Duke, who, oblivious of his presence, barged his way through Mr Singh’s swing doors like a gunslinger heading into a saloon. Inside the shop was a stand of pick’n’mix, the bowls of sweets set temptingly at toddler height, the lids easy for a doggy snout to nudge aside. I began to count.

I’d only reached six when Duke emerged from the shop pursued by Mrs Singh in her sari and green cardigan, yelling ‘Bad dog! Bad dog!’ whilst hitting him across the back with a broom. She might as well have stroked him with a powder puff for all the notice he took. He flopped down on the pavement and concentrated on spitting out a shower of shiny sweet wrappers.

‘He always goes for the Quality Street!’ she informed me indignantly and scurried back inside.

I crossed the road to Duke and squatted, taking his great head in my hands. He let me have it, surrendering it to me as if it was too heavy and he was glad to be relieved of its weight. I stared into the dull fire of his amber eyes and we had a quiet word together while I massaged his torn ears. This was too much for Jacko, who was yelping and snarling, apoplectic with rage.

‘Will you shut up, you suicidal little dog?’ I hissed in his direction. If Duke turned on him he’d have no more chance than a rat. Fortunately, Duke wasn’t interested in terminating Jacko’s existence. His only object in life was to follow his master, who came out of the shop at that moment. Micky didn’t speak, he rarely did, but he nodded at me and gave what passed for a smile: a creasing of the wrinkles around his eyes, a movement in the grizzled fungus of his beard. Duke got to his feet and limped after him. Once he’d disappeared from view, Jacko deflated slowly like a bristling balloon and I went into the shop to buy Maisie’s lemon drops and mollify Mrs Singh.

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘We go to view for auction tomorrow, me and Paul. Juno, you come with us, yes?’ It was Nick’s voice on the phone. I’d just come in from walking the Tribe and had to think a moment. ‘It’s Wednesday tomorrow. Am I not coming to work for you?’