It was only as he reached the entrance to his mews that a more disturbing thought came to him. If Karl Arrowood learned the truth, was it his own safety which should concern him?

Bryony Poole waited until the door had closed behind the final client of the day, a woman whose cat had an infected ear, before she broached her idea to Gavin. Sitting down opposite him in the surgery's narrow office cubicle, she shifted awkwardly, trying to find room for her long legs and booted feet. "Look, Gav, there's something I've been meaning to talk to you about."

Her boss, a bullet-headed man with shoulders that strained the fabric of his white lab coat, looked up from the chart he was finishing. "That sounds rather ominous. Not leaving me for greener pastures, are you?"

"No, nothing like that." Gavin Farley had taken Bryony on as his assistant in the small surgery just after her graduation from veterinary college two years ago, and she still considered herself lucky to have the job. Hesitantly, she continued. "It's just, well, you know how many of the homeless people have dogs?"

"Is this a quiz?" he asked skeptically. "Or are you hitting me up for a donation to the RSPCA?"

"No… not exactly. But I have been thinking a good bit about the fact that these people can't afford care for their animals. I'd like to do some-"

She had his attention now.

"Bryony, that's extremely admirable of you, but surely if these people can afford a pint and a packet of ciggies they can bring a dog in for treatment."

"That's unfair, Gavin! These people sleep in the street because the night shelters won't take their dogs. They do what they can. And you know how much our costs have risen."

"So what can you possibly do?"

"I want to run a free clinic every week, say on Sunday afternoon, to treat minor ailments and injuries-"