I listened. It was his alert bark—someone was inside the house. I reached tentatively for the doorhandle. It was still locked; if someone was in the house, they didn’t get in through the front door which could only be opened with the key.

My training kicked in and I backed away from the door. I reached automatically for my gun—but of course it was locked in the gun safe at the station. Taking the porch steps two at a time, I sprang down to the car. From the glove compartment, I retrieved my retractable baton. At least it was something.

Keeping low, baton extended, I took shelter behind the car and pulled the phone from my pocket. I dialled triple zero and in a low voice reported a possible break-in to the operator. I knew it would take my colleagues at least ten minutes to get to the farmhouse. My training told me to wait it out, but Waffles was inside and my instinct to protect him put up a fight.

All of a sudden, there was a break in Waffles’ continuous barking, followed by a sharp crack and a piercing yelp. My heart leaped into my throat.

Was that a gunshot?

I had never heard a dog make that kind of noise before.

Without thinking, I sprinted from behind the car to the side of the house. Staying in the shadows of the jasmine vines, I crept along until I came to the verandah at the side. From that vantage point, I could see the French doors of the sitting room were wide open. The glint of broken glass on the wooden deck suggested someone had smashed their way in.

As I crept closer along the edge of the verandah, thankful for the dark, I could hear the sounds of crockery breaking. Waffles’ whine was pitiful; I felt adrenaline surge through me like venom. Whoever hurt my dog would pay.

Finally, I got close enough to get a proper look inside. My eyes widened at the destruction of Nan’s house. Some people broke in to steal; others broke in to destroy. Inside the house was mayhem—someone was wrecking the joint. I was almost at the door when one of Nan’s precious teacups flew past me and smashed against the far wall. I looked around frantically for Waffles but I couldn’t see him. I could hear him, though: a heartbreaking whine of pain.

I wasn’t going to stand in the shadows and let this happen.

With a practised hand, I flicked the baton so it extended then burst into the room. Behind the bench, with Nan’s teapot in his hands, was Bob Shepherd.

‘I wouldn’t do that.’ My voice was dangerously calm.

‘Bitch!’ he snarled. ‘You’ve killed my son.’

My sharp intake of breath was involuntary. ‘He’s dead?’