Nick is not a dog person. He's never had a pet (Esmerelda doesn't count: he has repressed that memory) and he's never wanted a pet. Even if he did want a pet, the last pet he would want is a big floppy dog in mourning. A dog is like a child. He grows on love (not on dog food, Nick, not even the one he really likes). You need to look deep into his wet soulful eyes while his warm head rests on your knee and tell him that you love him, and let him tell you, too. Nick doesn't want to do that. He wants a tarantula or an iguana - a creature with dignity and poise and cold unblinking eyes that steady a man's nerves and steel his resolve, not melt him into a puddle; a creature that doesn't drop hair in his BMW or rip up the carpet; a creature that doesn't live on love and pats and soppy kisses.

Bart is a dog at risk, a homeless pup on the mean streets of Pittsburgh since Judge Stanton's untimely demise. He's destined for a life of skulking outside restaurant kitchens begging scraps for his supper, if Cruella DeVille doesn't snatch him first to make a stylish twin-set out of his pelt (and even if she doesn't, Mr Burns surely will). Bart's in luck, for here comes Nick, walking in places we've never seen him before, perhaps on his way to the local cafe for his morning muffin, trying to run from doggy love but there's nowhere to hide.

Meanwhile (because there's always a meanwhile), Alvin wants Nick to come to the 12.30 meeting and have lunch afterwards to "talk about things". Nick really doesn't want to do that. He said he didn't need help and he means it. Alvin's not only offering his ear, he's offering lunch, phone numbers and self-help reading material in the form of a well-thumbed paperback. Nick returns it six months later in exactly the same condition. At least he avoided having to talk about things.

Alvin has a client called Ted with freakish hair who has amazing adventures on the number 41C bus on Tuesday or Saturday, thanks to Mr Whisper the water sprite who lives in his head. Alvin and Laurie set about changing the world, just like in the old days. One thing leads to another and before you know it they're finishing each other's sentences and feeling reckless. Then they kiss. Moving right along...

Mrs McGregor is the mother of the disappeared of the title. (The title has plural mothers, and since Ted is about to "disappear" into The System, perhaps it also refers to his mother, not that she cares.) I still haven't figured out if Nick learned anything at all from Mrs Braczyk: he again forgets to introduce himself but for once resists the temptation to snap, "What's your point?" as Mrs McGregor relates a sad tale about buses and cars and going to Canada. Nick knows by now that you never can trust these poor dears, and suspects that Mrs McGregor may have done away with her own daughter. Probably baked her into a pie. The detective thinks not, and asks Nick to tell her that she's in his prayers. Hands up if you think Nick passed on that message? Anyone?

The detective has nothing better to do with his morning than immediately put out a final worldwide missing persons report, and in under 24 hours young Jane Doe in Amsterdam has seen the report, stubbed out her joint, hatched a wicked scheme, got birthmarks and scars tattooed on her body, packed her bags, put her furniture in storage, cancelled the milk, turned herself in to the Dutch authorities, and jumped on a flight to Pittsburgh where she falls early next morning into the welcoming arms of a desperate mother who thinks she wants to become a veterinarian and keeps making her tea. Nick smells a rat. (Doris runs screaming.) Grace is unimpressed by his sunlit hair and a nice set of X-rays, and Mrs McGregor throws him out for spoiling her fun. He turns out to be right, of course, because all those deliciously suspicious looks can't be for nothing. (Oh! And the little smiles he keeps giving her drove me NUTS.) But Mrs McGregor just wants to go back to her crawlspace and bring down what's left of her daughter.

Burton has some Good Stuff this week. He's being so introspective that he can't breathe. He looks back on his life and sees nothing in his work that he's really proud of. I feel his pain. I mean, I don't want to look back on my life and discover that the only thing I'm proud of is managing to resist that seventh grapefruit Ruski, New Year's Eve, 1999. After listening to Burton wax lyrical on being of service to mankind (and dogkind too, I suppose), I felt ready to throw myself on a Japanese whaling harpoon or give up electricity so I could sponsor a small African hamlet or something. Honestly, I almost picked up the phone and made the call! Then I realised that I'd get really grumpy if I had to live without a functioning hairdryer, so I switched off a couple of lights and put some change in the charity box at the supermarket checkout instead. (I think I just saved half an illiterate dancing Vietnamese sun bear with leprosy! Cool!)

But seriously (what?) - isn't it a pleasant surprise to watch Nick being so affectionate - and I don't just mean with Bart, although I had to chuckle as he continued chatting with him even behind closed doors. Nick's never been one to waste words, and certainly not on something that doesn't have opposable thumbs and a spine that ends at the coccyx, but he must be doing something right to set Bart's tail a-wagging like that. What I really meant was his heartfelt encouragement to Burton about being a judge, spoken almost offhandedly as though the words shouldn't be necessary. Then Burton calls Judge Handley a tough-ass and you can hear the unspoken loving concern: "Don't worry, son, if he wants to get tough with you, he'll have to get through me first." You can bet Nick knows it, too (as long as he stays away from lawyers, guns, money, etc).

But this is Bart's story, so let's find out his fate. (As if!) Nick has found him a doggy person who will adopt him, and there's three kids, a yellow lab and an acre property in with the deal. But there's a problem with the youngest kid, who smells funny, and Bart makes a run for it. Back at number 27, who should turn up but that nice young man in the suit who took him to visit the judge in hospital, drove him home afterwards and let him sit up front and beep the horn. "On the one paw," thinks Bart, "this guy really cares about which dog chow I prefer" - (not realising he'd eat mouldy navel fluff if it was on the menu) - "so he must really care about me. On another paw, I have this nagging suspicion that he may take issue with my doggy kisses and hand me over to Animal Protection Services once he discovers I'm not house-broken." One thing is clear: a dog just doesn't know where he stands with Nick Fallin. But Bart, who can only count to two paws, has to stop there. And in the end, it doesn't even take the crook of Nick's finger to beckon the beast. What a handsome pair they make as they wander off into the sunset together.

Don't know about you, but I'm kind of glad Judge Stanton didn't prefer pugs.

* Brings Bart to visit Judge Stanton in hospital.

* Tries to make Burton feel good about himself, his work and the firm.

* Makes a stylish HOME WANTED poster for Bart. (Ever heard of email, Nick?)

* Wants Bart to have the dog chow he really likes.

* Inclines his head just so and takes Bart home with him.

• Nick doesn't like dogs.
• Judge Handley now has Nick's case.
• Burton told Judge Stanton that Nick is ten times the lawyer he'll ever be.
• Burton thinks Nick may have fallen apart, given 3 - 5 years in jail.

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