by John Dean
‘What the hell is that?’ breathed Crowther.
‘I am afraid that it’s poor old Robbie,’ said Harris quietly, reaching out to gently stroke the dead animal’s flank. ‘Or what’s left of him.’
‘You reckon he was killed by the bloke who did for Meredith?’ asked Crowther in an appalled voice.
‘No, these kind of injuries were inflicted by an animal. A dog, presumably.’
‘Yeah, but surely no dog is capable of inflicting injuries like that?’ exclaimed Crowther.
‘Depends what they are trained to do.’
‘Trained?’
‘You can train a dog to do whatever you want,’ nodded Harris, looking up at the others with a grim expression on his face. ‘And this one, gentlemen, is as dangerous as they come.’
The rescuers digested the information for a few moments then Bob Crowther glanced nervously along the valley.
‘Bloody Hell, Hawk,’ he said, ‘you don’t think that it’s still…?’
His voice tailed off. Everyone knew what he was thinking.
CHAPTER THREE
‘What a mess,’ said Matty Gallagher, looking down at the body of Trevor Meredith’s pet lying among the bracken. ‘That’s some dog done that.’
‘Which is why he’s here,’ replied the inspector, nodding at the uniformed officer standing nearby on the slope, constantly scanning the valley, a marksman’s rifle in his hand.
‘I’d be happier if he had a bazooka.’
‘It’s a dog, not a bleeding elephant,’ said Harris.
It was shortly after 6.30 and a break in the weather had allowed a helicopter to take off from the RAF base further down the valley, bringing with it Gallagher, a forensics officer, the Home Office pathologist and the sharpshooter from the force firearms unit. After hovering for several minutes, debating the safety of a landing, the pilot had finally been able to set down on a flat patch of grass out on the moor but, with the light fading and the wind starting to lift again, he had warned all on board that they had less than an hour. The pilot made no secret of his unease at the situation in which he found himself – he was already regretting making the landing – and now twenty five minutes later, he was agitating to depart.
In the copse, the forensic investigator and the pathologist, conscious that time was short, were working quickly to complete their initial findings: neither wanted to be left behind on the hillside, particularly not with a dangerous dog on the loose. Besides, with the rain starting to fall harder again, they knew that every drop wiped away what evidence there was. The decision having been taken to airlift Meredith to the mortuary at Roxham General Hospital, most of the search and rescue team had already started the trek back to their vehicles parked on the road several miles away, each man nervously scanning the landscape for any signs of the animal as he walked. Only Bob Crowther and his deputy, Mike Ganton, had remained at the scene and they were now standing in the copse, awaiting their instructions as they shot anxious glances across to the helicopter standing on the moor. Although neither man had said anything, each knew that, sharpshooter or not, the other was calculating how quickly they could sprint to the aircraft if the animal reappeared.
‘So do you think the dog will come back?’ asked Gallagher, unable to conceal the unease from his voice.
‘You should be more concerned about the nutter that did for Trevor Meredith.’
‘Yeah, I know that,’ said Gallagher and looked nonplussed for a few moments. ‘It’s just that – I dunno, there’s something about the thought of a dog doing something like that….’
His voice tailed off and he looked at the inspector, but Harris had turned to stare across the darkening valley and did not reply. It was almost as if he had not heard. The ensuing silence allowed Gallagher to survey his boss. They were different in just about every way and few places brought out those differences more than the northern hills. Jack Harris, in his mid-forties, tall and muscular, face strong-jawed, blue eyes piercing and thick brown hair without a hint of grey, was at home in the valleys and on the moors. A man not given to conversation, Harris sought out every possible opportunity to spend time in the hills, revelling in their silence and their solitude.
Gallagher hated silence and solitude. A decade younger, he was stocky, black hair starting to go bald and displaying the first flecks of grey, giving him the appearance, a colleague had once said, of an ageing monk. More sociable and open than the inspector, Gallagher loved to talk so had always struggled with his colleague’s reluctance to elaborate on what he was thinking. During his time in the Metropolitan Police, before heading north to work in Levton Bridge, the sergeant had been used to detectives who discussed their theories in cases, but getting Jack Harris to explain anything had always been a difficult task. And now, there, on that rainswept hill beneath those thunderous skies, Matty Gallagher was surprised to discover that what he needed now, what he really did need, was for Jack Harris to talk to him, to offer some kind of explanation, to offer some kind of reassurance. Suddenly, the sergeant felt very small.
Noticing his sergeant’s uneasy demeanour, Harris smiled at him: the gesture took Gallagher by surprise as it always did on the rare occasions that the inspector displayed warmth to another human being.
‘Don’t worry, Matty lad, even if it does return, Scoot will smell him a mile off.’ Harris nodded at his dog, who was rooting through the bracken down by the stream, apparently now unconcerned by what had happened. ‘You any good at climbing trees? Did they have them in London?’
Gallagher stared at him – you never knew when the inspector was joking, usually because he wasn’t – then gave a rueful grin when Harris winked. After enjoying the rare joke, the sergeant’s expression grew serious again as he looked back down at Robbie, the blood matted on his fur.
‘So, what kind of a dog did this, do you think?’ he asked.
‘One that was specially trained.’
‘The thought had occurred,’ nodded Gallagher. ‘You ever been to a dog fight?’
‘Unfortunately, I have,’ said Harris. ‘It was back in Manchester. I’d not long been a DI….’
Even from where they were standing, the officers could hear the baying of the crowd from inside the warehouse as they watched the bull terriers tearing each other to shreds in the makeshift ring, its floor now stained with blood. Jack Harris felt his stomach churning as he heard through the darkness the agonized shriek of one of the animals and the cries of triumph from the crowd as the battle reached its final stages. It was shortly after 11 p.m. and four RSPCA officers, supported by more than fifty uniformed police officers and detectives, were standing on the edge of an industrial estate on the eastern fringes of Manchester, amidst workshops most of which were dark and boarded up. Harris assumed that was why the gang had chosen the place: less chance of being seen.
Looking across to the warehouse, the officers saw, illuminated by dim lights shining through grimy windows, the vague shapes of animated men waving their hands in the air as they urged on the fighting dogs. Not that the officers needed to see inside to know that the place was crowded: outside the building was parked a fleet of 4x4 vehicles. A computer check had already revealed that some of them belonged to a number of well-known local villains. At least one of the vehicles was stolen.
Trying to blot out the sounds of the fight, the detective inspector’s mind went back to the reason for his presence there. A RSPCA inspector called Ged Maynard had requested police back-up for a raid which would mark the culmination of a protracted investigation by the organization into dog fighting in the area. The RSPCA had received information that a dog fight was going to be staged in the warehouse that night and that thousands of pounds were likely to be waged on the outcome. Maynard would not reveal where the intelligence came from, hinting that his informant’s life would be at risk if word of his identity leaked out.
Jack Harris had been delighted when he was given the task of co-ordinating the police support operation. Not surprised, though: during the lo
ng months of the investigation, he and Maynard, a wiry man in his mid-thirties, had grown to know each other well, Harris giving his RSPCA colleague as much information on local criminal figures as he felt he could. Maynard had been pleased to receive it: although such inquiries were RSPCA responsibilities, he knew that Jack Harris had a passion for investigating animal crime and the two men had met on a weekly basis, sometimes even more often, as they gradually pieced together the identity of the gang behind the fights.
Following Maynard’s latest call, Harris had spent several days planning the raid and his knowledge of the kind of people who were involved meant that he was not in the mood to take risks: among the police contingent were experienced dog handlers and armed officers under orders to shoot the bull terriers if need be. Jack Harris knew the effect that bloodlust could have on an animal. He had also suggested that they could shoot some of the villains as well and the firearms inspector had chuckled, his laughter fading away as he saw the expression on the detective’s face. ‘I assume,’ he had said, ‘that you are joking?’ ‘Assume what you want,’ Harris had replied.
A particularly loud roar from the crowd in the warehouse dragged the detective’s mind back to the job in hand.
‘I think,’ he said, looking at Maynard, ‘that we have heard enough. Time we put an end to this sick little game.’
‘I want Radford,’ said Maynard.
‘Only if I don’t get to him first,’ said Harris.
Maynard nodded and the officers moved forward quietly, tension etched into their faces, expressions that mixed apprehension with disgust at what they would find. The screams of the wounded animal had shaken many of them as they waited. Villains they could handle, crazed dogs were a different matter entirely.
‘OK,’ said Harris, as the raiding party started to fan out to secure the perimeter of the warehouse, ‘let’s get this done.’
With raucous shouts of warning, the uniformed officers barged their way through the doors and poured into the building. For a few minutes, all was chaos as men hollered in anger and lashed out at the police while others tried to escape, only to be apprehended, some wrestled to the ground, arms wrenched behind their backs to enable handcuffs to be forced on. Watching the scene unfold, Jack Harris had a sudden sense of danger and whirled round to see a large man running towards him, holding an iron bar above his head.
‘Drop it!’ shouted the inspector.
The man kept on coming and Harris, moving rapidly and instinctively, a legacy of army training, swayed to one side and brought his knee up hard and fast into the man’s midriff. With hardly a sound, the man sank to the floor, the blood drained from his face and the metal bar clattered to the ground. Two uniforms quickly apprehended him and Jack Harris gave a shake of the head, muttered the word ‘amateur’ and turned back to continue his perusal of the scene.
As some sort of peace returned, and those arrested ceased struggling while those who had managed to escape the building melted into the shadows, Jack Harris stepped forward towards the ring that had been created in the middle of the floor. Heart pounding and stomach turning again, he hardly dared look and momentarily he closed his eyes. Eventually, he forced himself to open them and gave a small sigh at what he saw: lying amid the bloodstained dust on the floor was a bull terrier that had suffered horrendous wounds. It was obvious even from several feet away that it was dead. Harris turned a heavy gaze to the other dog, which stood on the far side of the ring, eying the inspector balefully, slavering as it did so. Bloodstained and trembling, a livid fire in its eyes, foam flecking its mouth, the animal snarled as it saw Harris move towards it.
‘Give it up, fella,’ said the inspector quietly, holding out a hand. ‘Your fighting days are over.’
The dog eyed him uncertainly for a few moments then gave a snarl and lunged forward, teeth bared. A single shot rang out and the animal jerked backwards, its legs giving way as it sank to the floor. For a couple of seconds, it struggled to stand again before keeling over again, this time lying still. Tears in his eyes, Jack Harris walked over and knelt down beside the animal. Battling his emotions, the inspector reached out a hand and gently stroked its flank, which moved ever so slightly: it was, he imagined, the only kindness that the dog had known for a long time. Maybe ever. How many boots and lashes had been used, he wondered, to turn it into the creature it had become? With the slightest of sighs, the dog breathed its last. Jack Harris closed his eyes for a moment then turned and looked up at the marksman.
‘Sorry, Jack,’ the man said. ‘I know how you didn’t want to … I mean, you did say….’
‘I know,’ nodded Harris wearily. ‘I know.’
Suddenly consumed by fury, and with the shrieks of the dogs still ringing in his ears, the inspector jumped to his feet and, spotting a familiar face among the arrested men being taken out to the police vans, he strode rapidly outside.
‘Wait a minute,’ he said to one of the uniformed officers, pointing at a burly dark-haired man in his late thirties. ‘I want to talk to this one.’
Harris walked up to the man until their faces were but inches apart.
‘Gerry Radford,’ he said in a soft voice laced with menace, ‘I am going to make sure you wish you were never born.’
‘No wonder he’s such a mess,’ said Gallagher after listening to the story and glancing down at Robbie. ‘They’re crazy, those dogs.’
‘Yeah, but only because people make them that way.’
‘I guess so.’
The sergeant looked up towards the copse, where the pathologist and the forensics officer were deep in conversation with the rescue team leaders: Gallagher assumed it was about moving Trevor Meredith. Taking a few steps down the slope and glancing to his right, along to where the valley opened out on to moorland, Gallagher saw one of the helicopter aircrew tapping his watch then holding up five fingers. The sergeant gave the thumbs-up signal.
‘Running out of time, guv,’ said Gallagher. ‘So, are we safe to assume that the owner of the dog that killed Robbie was the bloke who did for Meredith?’
‘Not sure there’s any other possibility.’
‘Bye, he must have fought like a tiger to protect his master,’ said the sergeant, perusing the dog’s injuries again. ‘Gives a new meaning to man’s best friend.’
‘Didn’t have you down as a dog man,’ said the inspector approvingly.
‘We had a dog when I was a kid in East London.’ Gallagher hesitated as if struggling with something. After a few moments, he continued, ‘One night, I took him for a walk and some youths approached me, wanted my money.’
‘What happened?’
‘When I said I didn’t have any, the biggest lad said he would knife me.’ Gallagher shook his head at the memory. ‘I was absolutely terrified. That’s when Jake – that’s what we called our dog, Jakey-boy – he stepped between the two of us and growled. Showed his teeth, the works. The big lad went for him with the knife.’
‘And?’
‘Jake bit him. Kid howled like a stuck pig. Next thing I know, they were legging it off down the street.’
Harris smiled at the image but the sergeant’s expression remained solemn.
‘Thing is,’ he said, ‘the next night the same gang jumped a kid from the next street and he wasn’t so lucky. Ended up on a life-support machine. I often wondered, you know….’
He did not finish the sentence and there was a few moments’ silence.
‘Anyway,’ said Gallagher, suddenly embarrassed and eager to move on, ‘that’s my theory about why Robbie….’
His voice tailed off as he noticed Crowther and Ganton emerge from the woodland, carrying the stretcher bearing Meredith’s corpse. Crowther looked over to them and nodded in the direction of the helicopter.
‘Something tells me that they’ve called our flight,’ said Harris.
The detectives fell in behind the stretcher as the rescue leaders bore it down the slope. As they approached the aircraft, one of the crew walked across to meet them.<
br />
‘He OK to fly?’ he asked, glancing at Scoot who had appeared from the bracken.
‘He’ll be fine,’ said Harris. ‘Can we take the dead one as well?’
‘Not sure about that,’ said the crewman dubiously. ‘From what I saw, it’s a bit of a mess. Can’t you pick him up in the morning? It’s only a dog, after all.’
‘But one who is now evidence. I’ve arranged for a vet to check him over tonight. Besides,’ and Harris looked at the crewman, ‘I think Robbie deserves a bit of respect after what he did for his master, don’t you?’
The crewman gave a slight smile and nodded.
‘I’ll get a blanket,’ he said.
Five minutes later, the helicopter was flying fast and low across the moors as the gathering gloom began to shroud the hills in darkness once more.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘This is ridiculous,’ said Alison Butterfield, glancing across the table at the veterinary surgeon as he examined the remains of Trevor Meredith’s pet. ‘A complete waste of time.’
‘What is?’ asked James Thornycroft, peering up at the young detective constable over his spectacles.
‘This is,’ said Butterfield, unable to conceal her disgust. ‘We get a murder and what do I end up with? A post-mortem on a dog. There’s more important things to worry about than what happened to some mutt.’
‘They deserve as much respect as humans.’
‘You sound like my governor. I mean, if I’d wanted to work with the sodding RSPCA….’ Butterfield left the sentence unfinished.
‘Perhaps,’ said the vet quietly as he looked up at her, ‘such views would be better kept to yourself, Constable.’
