Surely it can't be this easy? Andrew McGarthy repeated the same question, over and over in his head, in time to the breathless pounding of his boot-clad feet on the empty pavement. With every breath, his heart felt fit to burst, and as he rounded the corner, it shot into his throat. There, there was what he had tried so hard to escape from; shattered glass twinkling on the floor, like sinister shooting stars on the dull ground; the incessant moan and wail of the police sirens, sounding horribly out of key as two hit the same note; people shrieking, sobbing, staring. A little dog, lying on its side, two beautiful, glittering eyes staring blankly up at the moon, absorbing the ethreal glow.
Of course, the crime scene wasn't to do with the dog. It was to do with the thirteenth combustion this month. The dog, the poor little creature had been tied to the shop entrance when the glass front had spilled into the air, almost fluently, with the unmistakeable jangling-type sound that could only accompany glass. One paticularly nasty-looking, jagged piece had hit the mutt in the underside of its belly, scoring a long, deep, dark hole which was oozing dark blood in a deathly calm puddle on the road.