To Kill A Mocking Dog

By Angela Cowan

He’s traveling through time to save lives. But he’d rather go back to snuffing them out...

Marty Hollis will never rest in peace knowing he fell short of a double-digit body count. As if his broken killing streak wasn’t infuriating enough, cosmic forces bring him back from the dead and pair him up with a motor-mouthed canine with a thick Glasgow accent. Given the choice to spend eternity saving lives or suffering in a void of nothingness, Marty reluctantly steps through time into his first mission.

Now stuck in the year 1968 with his snarky, TV-addicted mutt, Marty is horrified to discover his new gig makes it impossible to hurt a fly. So it’s with a heavy heart that he sets off in search of the victim whose murder he must prevent. But as the duo quickly learns, killing people is easy—but keeping them alive is a bloody nightmare!

Can Marty and his sarcastic sidekick save the day before they’re both doomed to oblivion?

To Kill a Mocking Dog is the first book in the wacky Marty and Weedgie Time Travel Books mystery series. If you like crazy characters, surreal adventures, and a dash of suspense, then you’ll love Angela Cowan’s laugh-out-loud tale.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Angela Cowan
• Release date: Aug 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005175870

Angela Cowan

I'm Angela Cowan, a writer and artist from Ayrshire, Scotland. I love mysteries and crime fiction, and Agatha Christie is my heroine. I created Marty Hollis, a dead serial killer, teamed him with a talking Glaswegian dog called Weedgie, and sent them on time-travelling adventures together. There are eight books in the series and I would describe them as cozy and humourous. Each book is set in a different year and place, and there is a strong serial element to the novels, so they are best read in order.When I'm not writing, I create pop art paintings and talk to my Labradoodle, Elvis. So far, he hasn't answered back...

Book preview

2

Good to see you two getting on so well. Mr Scarlet appeared beside the table. If you’d like to follow me to the swirling blackness then you can be on your way. Any questions?

Yes. Loads. And all ridiculous.

Whose life will I be saving? I fell into step beside Mr Scarlet, and we marched towards the exit, Weedgie’s claws clicking on the linoleum as he trotted behind us.

I don’t know. It’s difficult to plan exactly, with the way human beings change their minds right, left and centre. All we know is wheels are set in motion, and an innocent person is doomed. You’ll know who it is when you meet him or her.

That’s it?

That’s it. He opened a glass door and stood back. Good luck.

Er…thanks. I stepped forward then stopped and stared out at the swirling blackness. Weedgie stood beside me. We looked at Mr Scarlet.

Step out, and you’ll arrive. He waved a hand out through the door.

Step out…into swirling blackness. Right. I took a deep breath and a tentative step, then Weedgie grabbed a mouthful of my jeans and tugged me forwards.

Yow! We were falling, swirling, spinning. All I could see was inky blackness and Weedgie’s grinning face drifting by every few seconds.

Oof. I landed on the padded seat of a moving vehicle.

Frinkin’ jinkies. Weedgie appeared beside me.

My hands wrapped around a huge steering wheel. I looked through the windscreen. A red number nine bus headed straight for us.

Whit the -? Weedgie bounced onto my knee. He grabbed the wheel and wrenched it to the right, and we careered past the shaken bus driver and his startled passengers.

Get off. I wrestled the wheel back before we took out a row of parked cars. Then we swerved about like a drunken fly before I found the brakes and slowed us to a shuddering stop by the kerb. Would you mind getting off my knee? I said through gritted teeth. Then I squinted over the top of Weedgie’s head and tried to see where we were.

Have ye passed a drivin’ test? Weedgie half-turned and gave me the evil eye. I noticed he had big, hairy eyebrows like caterpillars. They rose towards his quiff.

Ha, ha. That’s so funny. Chased many cars, have you?

Oh, oh, ah’m laughing inside, so ah am. Whaur d’ye think we are? He turned back to the windscreen, and I craned my neck and looked around.

Big city. Could be London. Could be anywhere. Backstreets, Victorian houses, railings, not that many cars…hmmm…

Whit? Whit are ye hummin’ at?

The cars. They’re all… I looked ahead, then turned and peered through the side windows. We were in a large blue van of some sort, with a wooden dashboard and round dials. Weedgie moved off my lap onto the long seat beside me.

They’re a’ whit? They jist look like caurs tae me.

I felt smug and knowledgeable and duty bound to assert my superiority over him. "Well, that’s where you’re wrong, Weedgie, old pal. I swept my arm across the view of the street through the windscreen. These cars are in the style of the nineteen sixties; some are earlier. Look at the large, bulbous bonnet on that green car over there. That’s late fifties, early sixties. See the chrome bumpers and the small round wing mirrors on those two black cars across the street…"

Jings bangs. Ya numpty.

I jumped. A small man with a moustache stood on the pavement beside us, staring in some concern. He tapped the window, and I wound it down. Then I realised I was sitting in a van talking out loud while gesturing and pointing for the benefit of a dog.

Excuse me, young man - are you alright?

Naw, he’s no’. Weedgie bounced back onto my knee and stuck his head out of the window, causing the man to retreat a step or two.

Shush. I panicked and grabbed Weedgie. Bad enough talking to myself but with a talking dog? We’d end up in a circus.

It’s awright, calm doon, he cannae unnerstaun’ me. He’ll jist think ah'm a normal dug.

I doubted that. I looked at the man and smiled as best I could. I’m fine, thank you. I was, er, practising a speech for…a wedding.

Oh, I see. He looked relieved, stepped forward again and patted Weedgie on the head. Thank goodness for that. For a moment I thought you were a bit mad. You know, your dog looks rather familiar.

Is there anywhere near here to stay? I said. I’m looking for a room. Somewhere that takes pets.

The man considered this. There’s a rooming house round the corner; you could try there. Or there’s a newsagent in the next street if you want to look through the local paper.

Thanks. I wound the window back up, forcing Weedgie to beat a hasty retreat back onto the seat. The man gave a small salute and walked away.

So I’m the only one who can understand you? I blew a sigh of relief.

Aye. Bummer for me. You‘re the only yin ah’ve got tae talk tae.

This is…weird. You’re a dog, but you look kind of human. I stole another look at him. You’re not Mick Jagger, are you?

"In the name o’ the wee man - whit the hinkin’ jaloobies are ye oan aboot? Ah’m a dug. Right? Mick Jagger? Mick Jagger?"

Okay, okay. I was careful this time. I kept still and spread my hands in a placatory gesture. "I’m curious, that’s all. You’re not any recognised breed, are you? You must be a mongrel. Aargh."

Weedgie was back on my lap, face inches from mine, lips curled. I pressed myself into the headrest.

"The word is mixed-pedigree."

Technically, that’s two -

"No' if ye spell it wi’ a hyphen. Pal."

Right. Okay. Mixed-pedigree it is.

More like nutter-psychopath. Weedgie retreated across the seat, and I tried to relax and breathe again. Then I looked down. I wore orange corduroy jeans and brown suede Chelsea boots, topped by a cream velvet shirt with a frill down the front. Huh…? What… I yanked the rear-view mirror around and peered into it. I looked about eighteen. My blond hair was long and shaggy. I had a droopy moustache. Good grief. What happened to me?

Aye, well, ah didnae want tae say…but ye look like a big lassie. Apart fae the ‘tache. Weedgie looked thoughtful for a moment. Mind you, that last kennel maid ah had. He shuddered. Mair masculine than you; though that wouldnae be hard.

I reeled in my temper and my escalating nervousness. Let’s go outside and explore. Hopefully, I wouldn’t get beaten up for looking so girly on whatever streets were out there. Weedgie followed me onto the pavement. Another big red bus went by, with Piccadilly Circus on its destination board. Yes. We’re in London. London’s hip and happening. Less chance of getting beaten up for wearing this shirt… I hadn’t meant to say all that out loud.

Weedgie snorted. But mair chance o’ gettin’ bitten by me for bein’ a Big Jessie.

No. There will be no biting. Remember who I am.

Aye, the Big Jessie in the lassie’s blouse.

I’m the person who will be feeding you - if you’re lucky.

Jings bangs. Ya numpty.

This time it was two young women with upswept hair, identical red Macintosh coats, and white knee-length boots.

Ah…hello, ladies.

Weedgie sat down and wagged his long, bushy tail.

What a cute dog, the woman on the left said. Is he yours?

No, I said automatically, and then hesitated. I mean, yes, I suppose.

Jings bangs balloobies, Weedgie said. Ya numpty.

He doesn’t have a collar, the second woman said. Are you sure he’s yours? You were shouting at him. They crouched down. Weedgie shuffled over and let himself be petted and cuddled, giving me dirty looks over his shoulder.

God, I hated that dog. I’ve only just got him, I said, trying to sound happy about the fact. I need to get him a collar and lead.

Ye’re no’ puttin’ ony lead oan me, pal. Weedgie’s eyebrows came down over his eyes. The two women drew their hands away.

He’s growling at you, the first one said. He doesn’t like you.

The feeling was mutual.

We should take him to the police station, the second woman said. Hand him in as a stray.

Yes, her friend said. That’s a good idea.

I couldn’t believe my luck. Well, that might be for the best, I said. Mr Scarlet could hardly blame me if someone took Weedgie away. I could say I’d done my best to stop them. He’d never know.

Then Weedgie leapt up and galloped down the road. He disappeared around the corner, and the women backed away, shaking their heads.

"Oh…great. I took off after him, cursing. I rounded the corner, and there he was, sitting on the pavement halfway along the street. I stalked towards him, fury rising along with my blood pressure. I’d had enough. He would never embarrass me again. A large stick lay in the gutter, and I picked it up and raised it above my head. I stepped up to Weedgie. I’ve had enough. You stupid, ugly -"

Oh, look, Bobby isn’t that lovely. The nice man loves his little doggie so much, doesn’t he?

I looked up, startled, to see a woman standing nearby, holding a small boy by the hand. They both smiled at me. I looked down. Weedgie held the stick in his mouth. I was crouched beside him, my arms around his neck in an embrace.

It’s so nice to see someone being affectionate to their pet, the woman said, then lowered her voice. Although I’m not sure kissing him is very hygienic.

Bleeugh. I leapt to my feet and wiped a hand across my mouth. Weedgie dropped the stick on my foot. Ow. I hopped away. Bobby giggled.

Mwah. Mwah. Weedgie made kissing noises at me. I took a few deep breaths, counted to ten and then limped back. I noticed we were beside a row of shops.

Is there a pet shop near here? I asked the woman, who laughed and pointed right behind her to Pets Paradise. Weedgie rolled his eyes. I stifled a sigh. Right. Thanks.

You’re welcome. Going to buy a nice treat for your dog? Her voice faltered at the expression on my face and then she grasped Bobby’s hand tighter and dragged him away. I marched into the shop, followed by Weedgie.

Morning. A pale-looking man in a beige dustcoat stood behind the counter.

Good morning. I indicated Weedgie. I’d like a collar and lead -

Nae lead. Ah tellt ye.

I gritted my teeth. I’d like a collar, please.

Certainly, sir. This way, please. The assistant led us down an aisle to a rack filled with dozens of collars in various sizes and colours. I picked out a gleaming pink one.

Ye’ve got tae be kiddin’.

Er…he’s a boy-dog, isn’t he? the assistant said. Perhaps blue would be a better choice?

Ah’m no wearin’ that – haw.

I swooped down and fastened the collar around Weedgie’s neck. He glowered at me. Take this Big Jessie collar aff ma neck.

I don’t think he likes it very much, sir. The assistant backed away.

Ah’ll bite ye. And I’ll piddle up yer leg ony chance ah get.

Weedgie and I locked eyes and stared each other out. Then I unfastened the collar and hung it back up.

Gie’s that wan wi’ the spikes. Weedgie nodded towards the end of the rack and a thick black leather collar with silver spikes. With a sigh, I took it down.

Well, that’s certainly a more masculine choice, sir. And the top of our range. Only the best for your dog, I see. The assistant beamed in delight as I fitted the collar on Weedgie.

Great. Now he looked even more psychotic.

That’s mair like the thing. Ye’ll need tae buy me dug food, but. And bowls. And get me some o’ thae wee crunchy bones. Ah like them.

I plastered a fake smile on my face and wandered the aisles, followed by Weedgie. I gathered an armful of dog food, crunchy bones and two gleaming metal bowls. Then I wondered how I was going to pay for everything. As soon as the thought entered my head, I felt something weighing down my back trouser pocket. I dumped everything on the counter. Then I groped inside the pocket and found a black wallet stuffed with banknotes.  Result. Thank you, Mr Scarlet and The Committee.

The assistant began ringing everything up on the big metal till. Weedgie seemed transfixed by the kerching sound it produced. He turned his left ear towards it each time it sounded. I glanced down at him, wondering how much of this weirdness he understood. And then I reminded myself that Weedgie was a talking dog and a significant part of the weirdness. He looked up at me and stuck out his tongue. I turned away and noticed a newspaper lying behind the counter.

Is that today’s paper? I said, May I have a look?

Certainly, sir, here you are. The assistant stopped ringing up Weedgie’s food and handed me the Daily Mail. I ignored the headlines - something about the Royal Family - and focussed on the top of the page.

Thursday the twenty-first of March, 1968, I read aloud, then frowned.

Whit? Weedgie stared at me. Whit is it?

I’ll tell you in a minute, I muttered.

I beg your pardon? The assistant handed me a large carrier bag with my purchases inside, and I handed over some notes.

Nothing. Sorry.

Jings bangs. Ya numpty.

I thanked the assistant and ushered Weedgie out of the shop onto the pavement. We stopped beside the window, which held a display of pet beds.

Here, ye never got me a bed. Ah need a nice, comfy bed. He gazed wistfully at the large, furry, red monstrosity taking up most of the window. That’s a stoater.

Be quiet and listen. This is 1968.

Weedgie was huffy. Aye. So?

I’m alive in 1968. I mean, I was alive before I died in 1970. I was thirty-three in 1968. So…is there two of me now? Could I meet myself?

Two o’ ye, Weedgie said, rolling his eyes. Frinkin’ balloobies. Is yin no’ bad enough?

3

So, whit were ye daein’ in 1968...murderin’ folk? Weedgie sat on the pavement and stared at me. I found I couldn’t quite meet his too-large brown eyes, and I didn‘t know why. It felt odd.

Well, I started in September ‘67 after I met my wife and continued until my death in 1970. I couldn’t help a note of pride appearing in my voice. Nine people in three years; not a bad average.

And wha did ye murder?

"Nine people. My wife. Stepson.