We all looked at Dasher and he grinned back at us, his mouth open and a glint in his eyes.

‘He can come home with me,’ Edie said.

Edie Wren lived in a one-bedroom apartment above a shop on the wrong side of Highbury Corner. It looked like a single woman’s flat – her clothes, her records, her books, all without the imprint of another life. But she wasn’t living alone because there was a camp bed taking up most of the tiny living room.

Edie’s grandmother shuffled off to the bedroom, followed uninvited by Dasher and Stan. Knitting and an emergency pack of Werther’s Originals sat on the bedside table.

‘Lil’s staying with me for a while,’ Edie said, lowering her voice. ‘She hasn’t been doing great since my granddad died. She’s a hearty old thing, but sometimes she has these gaps in her memory. So I’m on the camp bed. Don’t look like that, Max. It’s more comfortable than it looks.’

Scout came out of the bedroom, frowning at the flat.

‘What’s wrong?’ Edie said.

Scout looked at me.

‘You tell her,’ I said. ‘It’s OK to be honest, Scout.’

‘Well,’ Scout said, not wanting to be rude. ‘Your flat, Edie – it’s very nice and all, but it’s, well, it’s a bit … little.’

Edie looked around her single-girl flat.

‘For Dasher,’ Scout said. ‘For a young Labrador-Retriever.’ Dasher was roaming about the flat, his nose twitching at all the new scents. Stan was curled up on the bed with Lil. ‘These dogs love human company,’ Scout said. She closed her eyes and remembered the words. ‘Labrador-Retrievers are a healthy, happy breed but they need regular human contact and a responsible amount of exercise.’

Edie was staring at Scout.

‘She sounds like …’

‘She sounds like the Internet,’ I sighed. ‘I know. But Scout’s right, Edie. It’s not going to work.’

‘It’s a good place, Edie,’ Scout said, with the heart-tugging diplomacy that comes naturally to the children of divorced parents. ‘But it’s too small for a two-year-old Labrador-Retriever mix.’

‘Dasher would tear this place apart if you left him home alone,’ I said. ‘I know you want to help, but he will have trashed the place before you get to the office.’

‘Clos …’ said Scout, struggling to summon the word. ‘Clos … clos …’

‘Claustrophobic,’ I said.

So Dasher came home with us.

Scout was in raptures.

Stan was less keen.

Scout raced across the great empty expanse of the big loft – a space large enough for even a big boy like Dasher to wear himself out – as our Stan settled in the classic Cavalier King Charles Spaniel pose, his head resting on his front paws, casting anxious looks towards Scout and the newcomer.

I scratched the tuft of white fur on Stan’s ruby-coloured chest.

‘You’ll get her back, old Stan.’