by Ed James
Vicky tapped her pen on her notebook. “I’ve heard this NME condition mentioned a few times. What is it?”
Yvonne rubbed at her eye. “Basically, their brains get inflamed. We can’t cure it but, as Alison says, we can help the dogs. Normally, they get put down within weeks of diagnosis but, with some medication, we can help them live a bit longer. And not in pain.”
“How do they catch it?”
“It’s hereditary.”
“So if there was a — I don’t know how to say this — dodgy breeding pair?”
Yvonne nodded. “Dodgy is putting it mildly. If one of the dogs has it, it’s likely the pups will get it.”
“This sounds like a very specific condition.” Vicky scanned the article again. “You said all breeding is evil.”
Alison sat back in her chair and fiddled with her necklace. “Particularly pugs, though.”
“Why do you say that?”
Alison sat forward. “Do you know much about biology?”
“Very little.”
Considine raised a hand. “I did it at uni.”
Alison inched further forward. “Basically, all dogs are grey wolves that have been selected for morphological features present in a small part of their DNA.”
Considine nodded. “How they look, basically. If loads of dog breeds were bred over and over again through generations, you’d end up with a kind of wolf thing.”
Alison beamed. “Precisely. Dogs’ve been bred to be machines over the years, much like cattle and horses. Hunting dogs or Collies or Bull Mastiffs, for instance. They’ve been selectively bred for certain characteristics. A Jack Russell is small because it’s bred to go down rabbit holes. They’ve just picked very small dogs over and over again.”
Vicky frowned, close to losing the trail. “What about pugs?”
Alison slumped back in her chair. “Pugs are different entirely. They’ve been bred purely for size and looks.”
“So, you find a dog that looks strange and mate it with another one that looks similar?”
“Yes. Do that enough times and eventually you’ll get a pug.”
Vicky scribbled a diagram in her notebook. “Did you rehome a dog to Gary Black’s family?”
“I don’t normally comment on such matters, but if it helps your case then so be it.” Alison brushed some fluff off her shoulder. “They took one of our more needy dogs, a cross between a chocolate Lab and a Collie who only had one eye. They gave us a good donation, for which we’re eternally grateful.”
Vicky sat back and stared out of the window, across the pound — the family from earlier had been joined by a couple walking a black Alsatian. She turned back to Yvonne and Alison. “Do either of you know anything about any domestic terror cells?”
Alison glowered at her. “We’re not that sort of place.”
“I asked if you knew anything about them, not if you were involved.”
“I think you should leave.”
“And I’m quite tempted to take you to the station for further questioning.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Alison stared at her hands. “We’ve surely given you more than enough of our time?”
“I’ll be the judge of that. Can you account for your whereabouts between four p.m. on Wednesday and midnight yesterday?”
“I was working here. Yvonne can vouch for me.”
“We were both here.” Yvonne stood up, tugging at her braid. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do. We’re just helping animals.”
“I understand.” Vicky noted it. “I just want to make sure you’re not harming people at the same time.”
“The less we have to do with people, the better, believe me.”
Vicky licked her lips and got to her feet. “Very well.” She put a business card on the desk. “We may be back, but please give us a call if anything comes to mind.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Considine held the door open. “What do you think?”
Vicky walked towards her desk. “I doubt they’re involved.”
“You seemed to think they were.”
“I was just being grumpy. I thought we were getting somewhere, but it’s not likely they’re doing this.”
“Their alibi’s funny. Just the pair of them to vouch for each other’s whereabouts. I never like that.”
Vicky rolled her eyes. “Do you want to check up on it, then?”
“Aye, all right.” Considine nodded towards Zoë, sitting at her desk, Beats headphones on, lost in a video playing on her laptop. “After I’ve finished briefing young Zoë. Better prospect than following you around all day.”
Vicky folded her arms. “What are you saying?”
“You’re too old for me.”
“Sure she’s not too young?” Vicky shook her head and sat at her desk, throwing her coat on the back of her chair. She scowled at Zoë. “I was looking for you earlier.”
No response.
“Zoë, I was looking for you before lunch.”
Nothing.
Vicky tugged at her t-shirt. “Zoë?”
She jumped. “Shit. Sorry.” She tugged her headphones off, dumping them on the desk. She stabbed her finger in the direction of her laptop. “I found something.” She pressed one of the laptop’s media keys and the video went back to the start.
The screen went dark. A light switched on, revealing the cage in the industrial unit.
Vicky pressed a finger against the screen. “Is this Rachel and Paul?”
Zoë nodded. “Think so.”
The camera focused on Paul as he staggered around in the cage, gagged and smeared with excrement.
Rachel lay on her front behind him, staring into space.
A black leather-gloved finger pointed in front of the camera at Paul. “There he goes. He’s just about ready. You’ll see why they call it doggy style.” The distorted voice was deep — the laptop’s speaker struggled to replicate the sound.
Another voice with the same effect but slightly higher. “Right.”
“What’s up?”
“Nothing.”
The camera moved closer to the cage. The hand reached out and started rattling the frame. “Go on, boy, get it up her.” The hand pointed at the cage. “What’s he doing?”
“This is a bit too cruel.”
“They’re animals. There’s nothing cruel about this.” The gloved hand rattled the cage again.
Paul glowered and bared his teeth at the camera.
The video bleached white with a loud clicking sound then shot back to darkness before recovering the image of them in the cage. The clicking came again but the hand was by the cage now. There was a Taser at the bottom of the shot.
“Don’t make me use this again.”
Paul’s gaze moved from the Taser to his sister as she lay prone in the cage. He started breathing faster, on the edge of hyperventilation.
“Christ’s sake. We’ll never get these two to breed at this rate.” The Taser sparked again — the gloved hand held it jammed against the bars. The voice kept laughing throughout, the sound deep and unnatural.
The camera tracked Rachel crawling to the far corner of the cage, tucking herself into a foetal position.
“Want to be a good boy?”
Paul glared at the camera again, a primal moan coming from his chest.
The screen froze on Paul’s wide eyes staring at the camera. Text appeared across the image.
Dog Breeding Is Evil.
Siblings don’t have a choice whether they’re bred with each other.
The 10,000 pugs in the UK have the genetic diversity of 50 individuals.
Meanwhile, 9,000 dogs a year are put down because homes can’t be found.
The video ended.
Head spinning, Vicky turned to Zoë. “Where did y
ou find this?”
“I was up in the Forensics area. Got speaking to one of the guys and he helped me with a few things. I got this on the dark net.”
“Who posted it?”
“I’m not sure we’ll find out.” Zoë sniffed. “The dark net’s all about hiding. It’s designed for pirates and child pornographers avoiding people like us. While we’re getting better at catching people, it’s not as simple as some idiot tweeting racist shit at Stan Collymore. These are people who love to hide.”
Vicky tapped the laptop screen. “Can you do anything with the voices?”
“They’re scrambled, ma’am.”
“Can you descramble them?”
“I’ll try. Anything else?”
“Just find whoever posted it.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Forrester swallowed as the video finished on the screen in his office. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. He looked over at Vicky. “You told us there was a camera, didn’t you?”
“Paul thought there might have been one.”
“This isn’t good.” Forrester stretched his back out before frowning at MacDonald. “You think this is terrorism, Mac?”
“Not sure, sir. Dark net, right?”
“Aye.”
“Until about ten minutes ago, I doubt any of us knew it even existed.”
“Vicky?”
“If they’re posting it there, they’re preaching to the converted. Terrorists don’t tend to do that.”
“Go on.”
“I’m struggling to see why they’d go to the bother of doing this video, only to release it to a small group. I don’t know how many people will see that but it’s not exactly spreading their message, is it?”
“Nothing about this makes sense to me.” Forrester leaned further back in his chair. “What was the flashing thing?”
“It’s a Taser overloading the sensor on the camera.” Vicky handed him a print Zoë had obtained. “If you remove the cartridge it doesn’t send the spikes out, just acts like a cattle prod. Paul Joyce thought they were using a cattle prod.”
“Unbelievable.” Forrester took a deep breath. “Who did this?”
“We don’t know, sir. I’ve got Zoë checking just now.”
“Just as well we got her in.” Forrester drummed on the desk. “Let’s get back to the real world. Did the CCTV at Dryburgh show anything, Mac?”
“Nothing so far, sir. Likely be Monday before we get anywhere.”
“And the street teams?”
“Nothing so far on that, either.”
“So, we’ve got nothing?”
“Basically, yes.”
“Bloody hell.” Forrester sat up again. “How’s the Fife case review going?”
MacDonald scowled. “Not well. This DC Reed guy documented everything, and I mean everything. Considering it was a relatively minor crime at the time, they really went to town.”
“Nothing wrong with that, Sergeant. At least we won’t have to open old wounds if we get a link.” Forrester scratched the back of his head. “So we reckon it’ll be Monday before we’ve got a decent picture of the case?”
MacDonald nodded. “And that’s with most of our team working this weekend.”
“Christ, as if my OT bill isn’t high enough already.”
There was a knock on the door.
Zoë stood there, clutching her laptop and tugging her hair round her ear. “I think I’ve got something useful.”
Forrester motioned towards the third chair in front of his desk, between Vicky and MacDonald. “Have a seat. Zoë, is it?”
“It is, sir.” She perched on the front of the chair, laptop resting on her knees. “I’ve found IP addresses of seven users of the forum the video was posted on.”
Forrester leaned forward, arms folded. “So we can trace them?”
“Yes, sir. No messing about — this is genuine. I’ve had them double-checked by Edinburgh and the Met.”
“So, one of these people posted the video?”
Zoë bit her lip. “No. These are users of the forum it was posted in. It’s a message chain called Animal Rites — as in last rites — on a forum called xbeast. These are people who’ve posted comments.”
“Right, right. Do you know who posted the video?”
Zoë shook her head. “No, sir. That’s still masked. Can’t get through it. Doubt I ever will.”
“Go on, then. These seven people you’ve found?”
“I’ve got three in the Dundee area and four in Fife.”
“At least they’re local, I suppose. Mac, can you get the Fife boys on it?”
“Will do, sir.”
Forrester leaned forward. “Tell me about the Dundee three.”
Zoë checked her laptop. “Two users have the same IP. I’ve traced it to a location on the Perth Road. The other is matched to a flat in the Hilltown.”
Forrester got to his feet, hands in pockets. “Vicky, can you do the Hilltown? Mac, can you do the Perth Road once you’ve told our Fife cousins what’s what?”
“Will do, sir.”
Forrester patted Zoë on the shoulder as he passed. “Thanks for this. This is so good I’m going to report it to Raven in person right now.” He left them in the room.
Zoë closed her laptop, fingers tight around the case. “Does he touch everyone like that?”
Vicky laughed as she got up. “Believe me, it’s a good sign.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Vicky waited in Considine’s car, looking down the Hilltown. They were parked by a patch of waste ground across from a bookie’s and two takeaways. “That it over there?”
Considine checked his notebook then nodded. “That’s the address Zoë gave us.”
“Sheltered housing?”
“Aye.”
A panda car pulled in a couple of spaces over from them.
Vicky got out and walked over, crunching across the loose gravel.
“Vicky Dodds.”
Vicky nodded recognition at PC Woods. “Afternoon, Colin.”
“Afternoon.” Woods thumbed in the car at his colleague. “This is PC Soutar.” Then he gave her the up and down. “Lost my wife, have you?”
“Karen’s back at the station. I’ve got a new monkey to dance when I grind the organ.”
Considine scowled at her. “I resent that.”
“Just keep your mouth shut and don’t stop dancing, Stephen.”
Woods got out of the car and took off his hat. “So what’re you needing proper coppers for this time?”
“We’ve traced an IP address to a Brian Morton.” Vicky got out her notebook, waving it in the direction of the flats. “We understand he lives in the ground floor flat there.”
Woods grinned at his colleague. “This is the sort of muck detectives get up to while we’re doing the proper work.”
Soutar nodded. “So I see.”
Vicky narrowed her eyes at them. “We need to bring him in for questioning, that’s all. I just need you to help apprehend him.”
Soutar frowned. “You got a warrant?”
“Just had it approved, aye.”
Woods rubbed his hands together. “Lead the way then, Vicks.”
Vicky walked back to the street and traced the line of the road down the hill. The flat entrance was on Ann Street, a dark wood door with a ramp leading up. She pressed the buzzer for flat two, holding it for a few seconds.
“Yo?”
Vicky raised an eyebrow at Considine, who glanced away. “This is the police. We need access to your property.”
“Not without a warrant.”
“We’re in possession of a warrant to access this property. We’re looking for a Brian Morton.”
The line went quiet for a few seconds.
Vicky pressed the
buzzer again. The door clicked open. She nodded at the door. “Come on.”
Inside, a man stood in the doorway to flat two, muscular arms folded. Navy jeans with a shirt and jumper combo. He pushed his glasses up his nose. “How can I help?”
Vicky flashed her warrant card. “Can we come in?”
The man shook his head. “Not until I see that search warrant of yours.”
Vicky handed it over. “Mr Morton, we’ve got reason to believe you’re involved in a kidnapping.”
He licked his lips. “This isn’t me.”
“Aren’t you Brian Morton?”
“I’m just visiting. That’s my brother.”
“What’s going on, John?” A buzzing came from the hall behind. A mobility scooter appeared with a morbidly obese man sitting on it, his jowls sagging, the fabric of his shell suit stretched tight.
“It’s the police, Brian.” John Morton lowered his head to his brother. “Have you been an idiot on the internet again?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Vicky sat in the interview room, staring at the lawyer. “Ms Nelson-Caird, your client needs to start co-operating with us.”
Kelly Nelson-Caird looked to be in her mid-thirties, her mouth seeming to lag behind her brain. She tapped a finger on the table. “Mr Morton hasn’t committed a crime, Sergeant.”
Vicky glanced at Considine, who was still silent as instructed. “If you’ll let him speak, I might be able to determine that for myself.”
“Very well.” Nelson-Caird snorted. “Can you please outline the offences you believe my client may have committed?”
Vicky laid her hands on the table and focused on Brian. He was heavily out of breath and sweat dripped from his lank hair, only adding to the stench. She didn’t want him to keel over there and then but he clearly knew something. “Very well.”
Nelson-Caird sat back and folded her arms. “Please continue.”
Vicky leaned forward on both elbows. “Mr Morton, we’ve brought you in for questioning because your internet account was used to access a message board called xbeast. In particular, it accessed a user forum called Animal Rites. Are you following me?”
