There was a thick pack of paper at the bottom of the box, though, and I frowned at the chink of metal against metal I heard when I dug around. I pulled out the paper first and came up with a stack of dusty magazines that must’ve been old even when my dad died. I only glanced at them before fishing around and finding a metal chain at the bottom, which I frowned at for a long moment. Looking back at the magazines, the pieces came together in my head, and I realised what they were and what this meant. I swore under my breath, but it must have been loud enough for Phil to hear.
“What’ve you got there?” he said. Instinctively, I moved the magazines away from him, blocking his line of sight, but he’d already seen the chain in my other hand, and he blinked. “Uh, not sure that’ll be much use to you.”
He looked at me sideways, and I tried to read his expression, but his guard was up, and it was difficult to tell what he was thinking.
“This is the National Dog Report,” I said, holding up one of the homemade magazines slowly.
Even if I hadn’t recognised the title itself, I would’ve been able to tell from the format of the shoddy, faded magazine what it was. These publications were illegal, but it didn’t stop dogfighting groups from distributing them, boasting about which dogs were doing well in fights at the time.
His eyes moving from the magazine to my face, Phil gave me another look I couldn’t quite decipher, but it was both questioning and wary.
“That’s what it says on the front, yeah,” he said hesitantly.
I expelled a sigh and put the magazines down, rubbing a hand through my hair. At the same time, as much as I badly wanted to believe that these weren’t my dad’s, my reason told me that there was a strong chance of it. He’d moved in these kinds of circles, and he was good friends with Matt, who we knew had been linked already to dogfighting. It made rational sense, but that didn’t stop a stab of both disappointment and anger towards my father from rising up. I couldn’t afford to show those emotions here, though, not when I suspected Phil of being involved, too. I wanted him to think that I was used to this kind of thing, not that it shocked and appalled me.
I cleared my throat and put the magazines back in the box, beginning to repack my dad’s things so that I’d have a task to focus on. I could feel Phil watching me and wished that I knew what he was thinking.
“Is there any of this you want?” I asked him.
“If you’re offering,” he started before pausing. I turned to look at him and almost startled at the intensity of his stare before he blinked and looked away. “Well, I’ll take the chain, mate, if you don’t want it. Can’t imagine you’ve got much use for it save locking up your bike, aye?” He gave a weak laugh.
“I guess I don’t have a need for it right now,” I said as if I was mulling it over. I met his gaze as I passed it over. “Suppose you’ll find a use for it in the garage?” I said, fully aware that my words were loaded, the elephant in the room looming over us.
I think he’d twigged by now that I was fully aware of what dogfighting was and what the chain had been used for, but he was clearly still deciding whether he wanted to say anything aloud.
“Maybe not at the garage,” he said finally, and I lifted my eyebrows.
I went back to packing up the boxes and pointedly didn’t look at him as I said evenly, “Chain like that would be good for keeping a dog in check.”
There was a heavy silence, and I hoped that I hadn’t pushed too far but kept my gaze on what I was doing.
“Are y’messing with me?” Phil said, and I looked up sharply. He was looking at me with narrowed eyes. “You really know about this stuff?”
My heart rate had picked up as we talked, and it was beating hard now, making my palms sticky. I took even breaths and told myself to stay steady. Whilst I was fully used to dealing with pressure on the job, I wasn’t trained to do this sort of lying. Still, I’d done my fair share of telling edited truths in the interview room when I was trying to tease facts out of a person despite their reluctance to cooperate. Thinking in those terms made me feel immediately calmer, and I met Phil’s eyes steadily.
“I might,” I said after a moment as if I wasn’t sure that I could trust him.
“I guess it makes sense, what with your dad being involved, like,” Phil said slowly, his eyebrows raised.
I was glad that he’d come up with an explanation for how I’d got involved without me having to spin anymore lies. My dad had actually kept me deliberately away from his visitors and his projects when I was younger, so I had no idea that he’d been caught up in this. Picturing him sitting in his old armchair and reading those sick magazines or, worse, actually going to a dogfight made my stomach go tight, and I regretted the wine I’d drunk earlier.
I gave Phil a shrug as if I didn’t consider the whole thing very important.
“I’ve not been involved in anything for a long time,” I said, continuing to pack up the boxes, though I made myself move slowly. I’d finally got Phil onto the subject I needed to talk to him about, and I intended to get everything I could out of him.
“But you were, though? Involved?” he said, perking up again. The wary look slipped off his face and was replaced by his usual peppiness.
I gave another casual shrug. “I knew my dad was into it, like, but I wasn’t probably into it.” I sent him a glance and made it clear with my expression that I was curious, but I didn’t ask him any direct questions. Better that he offer up the information himself if he was willing to than for him to feel like I was digging for it.
“I mean, did you know people, though? You must’ve known who your dad hung around with,” he pressed.
“So what if I did?” I challenged.
“You owe me one, mate,” he said with a touch of defensiveness. “I sorted the house out and everything, didn’t I? I had your back when you needed it.”
“I’m helping you out with your books. And anyway, I didn’t know that mates kept score of that stuff,” I tossed back.
I didn’t want to roll over too easily, but my nerves were buzzing, and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself focused. I had the upper hand now that Phil thought I had something he wanted, and I needed to hold on to that advantage.
“Yeah, no, they don’t, o’course,” he stammered, looking shamefaced for a moment before he barrelled on. “But come on, help me out here, Dee-”
My phone ringer interrupted him going off loudly, and I could’ve spit with anger. Phil had been about to tell me exactly what he was after, and now the flow was disturbed. With a dark frown, I tugged my mobile from my pocket and was about to jab the ‘reject’ button when I saw who was calling. It was Stephen. My finger hesitated above the screen for a second before I stood up.
“I have to take this,” I told Phil before accepting Stephen’s call and striding out of the room without waiting for Phil’s answer. “The station better be on fire, Steph. I’m in the middle of something here,” I snapped down the line.
“I wouldn’t call if it wasn’t urgent,” he said, the tension in his tone bringing me up short.
“What is it?” I asked, a flash of worry going through me. My first thought was for Sam, but that was illogical, and I shook my head.
“The LACS officer got jumped. He’s had to be taken into hospital.”
I cursed quietly. I was painfully aware that I was only out in the hallway, and Phil could no doubt hear every word of what I was saying if I spoke too loudly or if he were to move closer to the door. So I kept my voice down and tried to make sure that nothing I said to Stephen could give Phil any clue about who I really was.
“Will he be alright?” I asked Stephen quietly.
“I don’t know any more than what I just told you. Ross said that she tried to call you, but you weren’t answering, so she called the station.”
I remembered now that I’d set my phone to silent before I’d come to Phil’s house. Stephen’s call had been allowed through because I’d set up my phone like that in case he needed
to contact me urgently like he just had. Other calls like Ross’s wouldn’t have been able to get through. I rubbed my eyes with the heel of my hand, grimacing at the gritty feeling from the dust in the loft.
“Did she say why she contacted us?” I said finally, careful not to use Ross’s name within Phil’s earshot.
“No, but she said that we should come to the hospital. I guess she thinks he’s got something he can tell us.”
“Alright, I’ll meet you there,” I said finally.
If we didn’t know what condition the LACS officer was in, we better get over there quickly. I wasn’t sure exactly why Ross had called us when she’d been leery of keeping me in the loop before, but maybe something had changed her mind since then. Regardless, I was grateful. Considering what I was attempting to do right now, I could really do with talking to the LACS undercover officer and seeing what he might have to say that could help me.
Working undercover wasn’t my field of expertise by even the largest margin, and yet I’d ended up as the person best-placed to give it a shot. It was still early days, and I didn’t know how far I would be able to get with infiltrating the dogfighting happening in and around York, but I was determined to give it my best shot. Any advice I could get on how to achieve that would be warmly welcomed, I thought wryly.
Stephen and I finished up the call, and I took a brief moment to compose myself, pinching the bridge of my nose. A headache was building behind my eyes, and the wine hadn’t helped. I didn’t have any time to waste, though, so I tucked my phone back into my pocket and headed back into the sitting room.
Phil looked up a little guiltily from where he’d been reading one of the dogfighting magazines. I was relieved to see that he’d been engaged with those, rather than listening in on my conversation, not that I thought I’d given anything away.
“I have to head off,” I said with a grimace of apology.
“Bad news?” he questioned. He set the magazine he’d been holding back into the box and helped me pack up the remainder.
“Not great news, no. A colleague of mine is in hospital.”
I’d learnt through all the police interviews I’d done over the years that with lying, it was better to keep as close to the truth as was safe. That way, you were much less likely to get caught out later on when they asked you something unexpected. I didn’t think that this bit of news was too telling for Phil to know, and it perfectly explained why I needed to dash off.
“Sorry to hear it, man. Hope they’re alright.”
“Thanks, Phil. I appreciate it and all of this.” I nodded towards the boxes. “You didn’t have to keep it all these years.”
“Yeah, well, like I said, I forgot about it, really. But I always did admire your dad, and I didn’t want to chuck it all out, y’know? Man like that deserves to be remembered.”
I gave him a slightly stiff smile at that and nodded. I had complicated feelings on the subject of my dad, and I was pretty sure that my recollection of Aaron Mitchell wasn't anything similar to Phil’s. He had something of a hero-worship complex for my dad when we were younger, and I didn’t think that had changed over the years. Now wasn’t the time to dissuade him of my dad’s hero status, though, not when that could be the very thing that was making him trust me so much more than he should have been.
He helped me carry the boxes out to my car and load them in the boot. I’d left the thick chain in Phil’s living room since he’d requested to keep it and, if I hadn’t needed it as evidence, I would have been more than happy to never see it again. As it was, I nipped back into the house, claiming to have forgotten something, and took a quick picture of the chain on my phone. I double-checked it for anything that might make it remarkable or identifiable as my father’s, but it looked like any old mass-produced chain that I could have picked up from Halfords, so I left it there on the floor.
Phil stood at the door and raised a hand as I drove away, a heavy weight lifting from my shoulders as I left. My hands shook slightly, and my heart was hopping all over the place inside my chest. I was usually more composed than this, but the personal nature of all this and what was at stake was getting to me. I couldn’t see the boxes that’d been loaded in the car’s boot, but I felt like I could feel them as a physical weight in the back of the car, a heaviness lodged in my gut.
I blew out a breath and concentrated on making my way over to the hospital. I’d have time this evening to think over everything that Phil had told me, but for now, I needed to focus on the next task at hand. The hurt and anger that had been building up inside me ever since I found those dogfighting magazines amidst my dad’s things would have to wait.
It was a Friday and, though it wasn’t the evening yet, that always made for a busier time at the hospital A&E. Still, I made it to the front of the reception queue before too long, and a nurse came to show me up to the room where the LACS agent was recovering. Stephen had texted me with the guy’s name, Freddie Snell, but I knew nothing more than that.
Without realising it, I must have been imagining someone my own age when I entered the hospital room because I was surprised by the older bloke laid up in bed. He had a neck brace on, and the sight of a long cut on his forehead stitched up made me wince in sympathy. He seemed to be asleep as I stepped quietly inside, giving the nurse a silent nod of thanks before she left, but he must have only been resting because he opened his eyes as I approached. Stephen wasn’t in the room, but a woman I didn’t recognise was sitting on the other side of Snell’s bed, and she got to her feet when she saw me there.
“Kate Ross,” she introduced herself, reaching out to give my hand a firm shake.
“DCI Darren Mitchell.” I gave her a nod before looking over towards the injured man on the bed. “And you must be Freddie Snell,” I said, not wanting to seem like I was ignoring him.
He gave a minute movement of his head that might have been a nod before wincing.
“Aye, that’s me,” he said, his words thick with a Yorkshire accent that was much stronger than mine.
There was also a deep rasp to his voice that might’ve come from damage to his throat done in the attack or from smoking for many years, I couldn’t tell. He wore a thick beard that was streaked with white, and there was a craggy, ruddy look to his features that reminded me of the faces of farmers who’d spent their whole lives out in the wild. He looked a little like Gaskell, actually, but I guessed that Snell was a good few years older than my previous superintendent, and I felt all the more sorry for the guy.
Getting injured was never fun, but I knew from experience that getting knocked around in a fight in my twenties was nothing like it was in my thirties when everything seemed to ache more the next day, and the cuts took all the longer to disappear. I imagined that it only got worse as you passed fifty, and Snell looked to be comfortably on the other side of that milestone.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t meet you both in better circumstances,” I said. Ross gave a nod of agreement and gestured for me to take a seat in the only other chair in the room.
“Your colleague’s stepped out, gone to get us some coffee,” she told me.
“I hope he gets me one.” I tried to lighten the tone even slightly as I sat down, and Ross twitched a slight smile.
The situation was too serious for it to last long, though, and Snell’s obvious injuries were a painful reminder of what the bloke had suffered.
“So what happened?” I asked, glancing between Snell and Ross. Snell seemed to find it too sore to talk right now, so Ross took the lead.
“It was a hit-and-run car accident. It’s lucky that Freddie wasn’t driving any faster, or it could’ve been much worse,” she said, and she and Snell shared a heavy glance.
“What do we know so far?” I asked.
I couldn’t imagine that Ross would’ve called Stephen and me here unless Snell’s injury had something to do with the dogfighting, so I waited for her to explain further.
“We suspect that it wasn’t an accident at all, but a delibera
te hit. Freddie only narrowly got out after his cover was blown, and they don’t take kindly to spying in those circles.”
“I can imagine.”
Stephen came into the room with his hands full of coffee cups, and he gave me a nod when he saw me.
“He can have mine,” Snell grunted from the bed when Stephen tried to offer him a hot drink.
“You sure?” I checked but didn’t argue too hard. I was gasping for a kick of caffeine and something warm to drink.
There was a brief silence as Ross took a sip of her drink, pulling a face at the hospital coffee, and Stephen leaned his shoulder against the wall seeing as I’d stolen his chair. My coffee was too hot to drink, but the smell was comforting in itself, even if it was on the weak and watery side.
“Do we have proof about the hit-and-run? Or any ideas about which of the dog-fighters it might’ve been?” I ventured to ask. I was grateful that Ross had invited us here to meet Snell, but I wasn’t yet sure exactly what she wanted from us in return.
“Proof that it wasn’t an accident? Yes, the CCTV is pretty clear on that. But we have no proof yet that it was dog-fighters, or who-”
“It was them,” Snell said gruffly from the bed, his voice hard.
“I know, I agree,” Ross assured him before she looked between Stephen and me. “Your superintendent filled me in on what you’ve been trying to do and what progress you’ve made.”
“Aye?” I said, lifting my eyebrows. I was surprised that Rashford and Ross had been in touch.
“She called to give me an update, and I appreciated that,” she continued, making it clear that she’d have rather heard from me personally.
“And that’s why you invited us?” Stephen asked.
She gave a nod, her gaze turning to focus on me. “To be frank, you’re an unknown to me, detective. I wasn’t sure about having you involved, but I’ve known Arabella for several years, and she seems to think well of you.”
Moving Target (A DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crimes Book 6) Page 16
