Chongo adjusted his trench coat – he'd had a quick check of the scene, and it was clear that there was more than daisies in this garden. In fact, Chongo couldn't work it all out. What in carnation was that flying past? A flying cat?

Maybe he'd smoked one too many funny one that afternoon. Just his luck, crawling about in the mud, climbing over fences, peering into windows. Everyone else home. Families, baked dinners, warm fires. And here he was, chasing some weirdo in a cape, sneaking through chickenshit. This was no life.

Chongo was just about to pack it in, when a familiar sound sent a shiver down his hairy back. A laugh, he knew that voice.. what?