Chapter 8 – The Squeeze

“Go and sort your affairs out and be back here by close of work-span.”

“So, you’re arresting me?” said Mas. “That’s it?”

“We’re detaining you until we find a more convincing fit, you’re suspect number one.”

“Knia, you know that’s insane as well as I do.”

“Do I? And that’s Chief Knia to you.”

“What’s my motive?” Mas thumped his chair back.

“We’ll think of one. Beat it. I’m giving you the last half of the work-span while I finish the interviews. Anyone else would think you constitute a flight risk. Consider yourself lucky.”

Mas tutted, stood and went to the door. The smell of Bobbins, mostly stale alcohol from the night before, met him in the doorway.

“Lucky, lucky, lucky,” said Bobbins cheerfully.

“Get bent,” said Mas, fists clenched.

He left the constables’ station and punched the next scent post he came to. Not scenting as such, but as he shook his paw it dripped blood. That felt like today’s scent statement. That smug bastard Bobbins had to be involved in this somehow, or why would he gloat? But Mas knew to make a scene in front of Knia would close any doors to Bobbins being a suspect after he was proven innocent. If.

A waft of warm, soapy air hit him where he was stood. This top street, parallel to the Quayside, but far away from it, was called Bath Street. He contemplated how to spend his half-span. Enough hints had been dropped for him to know he needed some form of rudimentary hygiene. But she hadn’t let him go for that, had she? She could’ve had him in a holding cell now if they were looking for someone to pin this on. She’d genuinely given him a break and he wasn’t going to waste that time erasing smells.

When he got to Bobbins’ shop, it was all locked up, or at least as was possible for a makeshift collection of doors and slabs of wood, metal, and plastic. But Bobbins locking up was unusual. He was always a rogue, but usually he never chose to hide that. Maybe, just maybe. Mas thought about just kicking the door in, but leaving a trail would be ill-advised at this point. He found himself a stiff piece of reed and picked the large lock instead. When it fell away, he walked in. Nothing too unusual to smell, Air-sense put everything roughly where it should have been. Mas could smell light acidic tones from behind the counter. Curious. He made his way through to the room in the back where Bobbins tested out any new acquisitions. Definite scent of lemon. On the bench was a rudimentary set of apparatus, various sized flasks, and tubes. A rack of test tubes. And everywhere that lemon smell. Mas ran his hand along the bench: sticky wooden top and something on it. A parchment. Mas ran his fingers over it. Numbers and words in a neat, curly script. Not Bobbins then. If not his, then whose? And what was it? He pulled up a stool and hoped that his unknowing host's interrogation would take a while.

Carefully running his pads over the flowing script, he tried to read the words as much as feel for the writer. Thoughtful, that was what struck him. The context came quickly: a list of ingredients, followed by a series of guesses at how to get the list of ingredients to combine. He snatched up the paper and ran out of the hut. One person to check with and he could be out of the mire.