Sherlock the forensic fire dog who can sniff out evidence of arson – a year after it happened
Complete with bespoke bootees so he doesn’t hurt his paws, meet . . .
AS I stepped beyond the police tape, surveying the twisted metal and charred wood all around, it was difficult to imagine that this had been a thriving city shop just a few hours earlier.
A catastrophic fire had raged through the building, so fiercely that two firefighters were in hospital with critical injuries — two of my colleagues. In my job, that’s the news we dread most.
I’m a fire investigator with London Fire Brigade. I’ve been in the role for more than five years, but for almost all of that time I’ve had a partner — one with much keener instincts and sharper skills than mine could ever be. My partner is called Sherlock.
Sherlock is a detective. He doesn’t wear a deerstalker hat or smoke a pipe, though. He’s a working cocker spaniel, and he has abilities that are jaw-dropping — as is his 100 per cent success rate. Sherlock’s role is to investigate the cause of a fire, tracking down traces of accelerants (any substance used to accelerate the spreading of a fire).
His extraordinary nose can detect the presence of lighter fuel or other inflammatory liquids used by arsonists, a after they were used.
He is a bundle of trouble when he’s off-duty, with a penchant for gobbling socks and digging up flowerbeds. But when Sherlock is at work, he is focused on the job.
Arriving at the burned-out shop in Tottenham, North London, I donned my protective white Tyvek suit to recce the site before calling in my canine partner. It was clear I stood no chance of being able to gather evidence about the fire using my eyes alone. The building was a shell with chunks of masonry and broken glass underfoot, which could pose a danger to Sherlock.
‘Come on, Rockster,’ I told him, using his nickname as I took him out of the van. ‘It’s a bit of a mess in there, so you’ll have to wear your boots.’
I reached for a set of four dog bootees and began to pull them on to his paws, fastening the Velcro tabs.
HE wasn’t pleased. He’d worn these several times before but reluctantly, and protested by walking weirdly as if he had pillows strapped to his pads.
I talked to him constantly as we approached the site, giving him reassurance in a calm voice: ‘Now, Sherlock, you’re going to have to take this one steady, mate.’
I raised my voice a little, indicating that he was about to receive an instruction, and bounced his favourite tennis ball in my hand — a promise of the reward to come when he’d done his work.
‘You’re a good dog,’ I said clearly, priming him. And then came the trigger phrase: ‘Find the bomb!’
There was no bomb amid the ashes, but we use that phrase because the dog is unlikely to hear it unless he is at work. His job is to find not explosives, but traces of petrol, lighter fluid, or anything else used to start a blaze.
Sherlock set off at what seemed like 50mph, but soon slowed as his nose lifted to sift the smells.
The shop, with the ceiling down and the wreckage of metal racks everywhere, was a bigger space than Sherlock had searched before. But he seemed undaunted and when we came to the ice cream cabinet his stance changed — he did one of his little dances and then froze.
He’d found something! I signalled to the scene of crime officers and gave Sherlock cuddles and praise. His eyes looked imploringly for his ball, but he couldn’t have that until the job was completed.
If ignitable fluid had been used to start this fire, Sherlock and I could not afford to miss it. Our evidence could prove crucial not only to the investigation but in court.
I was beginning to imagine how the ferocity of the blaze had overwhelmed my colleagues: inflammable liquid would have boosted the explosive energy of the fire, causing the temperature in the room to spike sharply.
Fuel in the air over the firefighters’ heads would have combusted, turning the room orange, in what is called a ‘flashover’ — spontaneous ignition of all the contents in the room.
The crew in their full kit must have been sweating, and this sudden temperature increase would have caused a boil-in-the-bag effect, with multiple burns. The thought was horrific.
Methodically, Sherlock continued his search. On the remains of a sofa on the third floor, he pointed to discarded cloths. And in the thick debris on the floor he found a can of lighter fuel — nothing unusual about that, except the shop hadn’t stocked this brand. It could be a huge clue.
In the end, the search took two full days. Sherlock was tireless. when we packed up and returned to the van, he had his beloved tennis ball firmly in his mouth. ‘You’ve earned that, mate,’ I told him.
we stopped at the local park, where he chased his ball madly for a while before getting down to some hole-digging under a tree. He broke off to look up at me from time to time, mud crusted in his straggly beard.
No wonder, I said to my wife Kate when we got home, that our girls Emma and Olivia, now six and eight, call Sherlock ‘daddy’s naughty friend’.
He first came to us on July 12, 2013, when he was two — handed over by my mate and fellow fire investigator dave Arnold, who was retiring.
I desperately wanted to be a dog handler, and there had been months of interviews as I auditioned for this moment. dave had warned me it was impossible to imagine what a change Sherlock would mean to our family life, and he was right — a chunky, furry ball of power-packed chaos that landed in the living room and tore through every room in the
house in top gear. He powered into the flower beds, scattering earth and bulbs, nuzzling into the ground like a pig searching for truffles. Dirt flew up at all angles and, when he surfaced for air, his face was peppered with muddy splodges, his brown eyes spinning with joy.
He broke off to inspect his kennel, with his favourite pink duvet already installed, and several chewable new toys. We’d decided to give him outdoor quarters, not only because of the tales we had heard of Sherlock’s destructive streak, but because he is a working dog: to keep him as a pet would have confused him.
Once Sherlock was asleep in his kennel that evening, Kate and I surveyed the devastation. What had once been raised flower beds were heaps of spoil. In the house, everything in his path had been hurriedly relocated — ornaments, lamps, anything that could be swept away by his swishing tail.
He’s a food thief, too, even stealing the gingerbread house from the Christmas table.
Kate and I have known each other since we were at school, and she’d been married to me for nearly a decade. Now, as I was laughing about Sherlock’s crazy energy, she was giving me a funny look.
‘Paul,’ she said, ‘you think I’m not used to living with a whirlwind like Sherlock, but can’t you see how similar the pair of you are? Neither of you can sit still.’ My dog has changed my personality, though. Before he joined me at Dowgate Fire Station in the City Of London, I was a bit of a loner at work, as often happens with fire investigators. While the others are fighting fires, I’m searching for clues and liaising with other agencies. But when I got Sherlock, I felt like I was part of a team again.
One night we received a call for an emergency response to a blaze at a car dealership in Shepherd’s Bush, in which luxury vehicles had been destroyed. It was pitch black when we arrived and the rush hour hadn’t started, so the danger that evidence might be displaced by the public was reduced — provided Sherlock and I worked quickly.
We searched away from the dealership, following a path that bordered the car pound and went into a park. If you put yourself into a criminal’s mindset, it was the perfect route for a swift exit.
Sherlock picked up a scent well before we reached the smouldering vehicles. His body language changed from just bobbing along, to excited with a purposeful stride, when we were still 600 yards away. I couldn’t see a thing — a black dog in complete darkness — but when I broke out the flashlight I couldn’t believe my eyes.
He had latched on to a pair of latex gloves, apparently discarded. Not only was the trace of accelerant a valuable find for the CID team, but the gloves could have DNA on them, which could lead to a suspect. This was credible evidence, and once again it was Sherlock who was the specialist detective at the crime scene.
Cocker and springer spaniels are energetic, intelligent and highly inquisitive by nature, making them the obvious breed for this work. And of course, their sense of smell is beyond exceptional.
Clive Gregory, who picked out Sherlock as a puppy — and has pioneered the use of fire dogs in the London Fire Brigade — tells me that his one regret was not taking on Sherlock’s brother as well.
Unfortunately, the budgets are not available to provide every brigade with a dog. There are three dogs — Sherlock, Roscoe and Murphy — working in London.
The dogs don’t go to every job, though service dogs would, for example, have been present in some capacity after the Grenfell Tower fire. But they would never be sent into a building until a fire had been extinguished and cooled.
There’s always more to learn for both of us. New techniques and theories are constantly being developed, and we need to prove that we merit our licence to practise with the Brigade by passing a certification test every year.
The first test was a very stressful day, but Sherlock’s presence was a huge help. I had a top-of-the-class student as my best mate.
The test was a series of challenges, starting with a line of eight gallon-sized paint tins, with holes drilled in the tops and charred items such as rubber and wood inside. In one, we were told, there was an ignitable fluid which had been burnt. Sherlock had to identify it.
I had complete confidence in him. This dog can sniff out a drop of lighter fluid on a burned carpet, or a rag used to wipe hands clean of petrol and discarded hundreds of yards away.
BUT on our first run, Sherlock didn’t react. There’s no mistaking this dog’s excitement when he gets a positive trigger. His tongue lolls, his eyes shine, he stamps and dances, and a whole lot of snorting goes on. When the scent is very strong, he sneezes.
But this time, he showed nothing. The examiner stared at me, eyes cold, arms folded. I was about to ask if we could try again, when I remembered that this test wasn’t just about Sherlock. They also wanted to know how well I worked with my dog. And that meant trusting him. ‘It’s a blank, sir,’ I reported. ‘No accelerants present.’ Another test was set up. Another blank. Despite the pressure I felt to go back and search again, I trusted my partner. The rule was simple: the dog is always right.
Then came a third test, and this Sherlock skipped past the first seven tins and stuck his nose to the eighth as if it was magnetised. ‘Indication for target substance, sir,’ I reported calmly.
The examiner’s granite facade cracked. ‘That dog is amazing,’ he said in admiration. ‘I can see why you were so cocksure just now. You’re a superb team.’
Adapted from Sherlock: the Fire Brigade dog by paul Osborne, published by Century at £12.99. to order a copy for £9.74 (offer valid to May 17), visit www.mailshop.co.uk/books or call 0844 571 0640. p&p free on orders over £15.