by John Dean
‘You can hardly know him that well. He’s only been here four mon—’
‘I have told you before about stirring up unnecessary trouble. You know what people are like up here. Concentrate on the job in hand.’
Harris glared at him but decided not to argue the point.
‘So what else are you doing?’ asked Curtis, ‘because at the moment there is precious little to tell the media.’
Harris sighed: his instinct had always been to keep things away from his superintendent wherever possible because it prevented him from interfering in investigations. However, on this occasion the inspector realized that he needed to offer his superior officer something that suggested an element of progress, even if it was only an unsubstantiated theory.
‘We suspect Meredith may have been investigating dog fighting,’ he said.
‘It doesn’t always come down to animals, Jack.’
Harris groaned inwardly at the comment, realizing that he had made a tactical mistake, and decided to try another tack.
‘We also know that Meredith was involved in an illegal poker game at the King’s Head,’ he said in an attempt to divert the superintendent’s attention. ‘Apparently there’s money owed by several of the players.’
‘Weak.’
‘What?’
‘I am not sure I can see a game of pub poker leading to murder, Jack. No, much as it galls me to say it, I prefer the dog fighting line of inquiry at this stage.’
‘Really?’ Harris could not contain his surprise.
‘It sounds feasible and if he was involved, he was taking a massive risk. Knowing him as I do, I imagine he would have been well out of his depth.’
‘I didn’t realize you were buddies,’ said Harris. ‘He a member of Rotary as well?’
‘Actually,’ said Curtis coldly, ‘the club made a couple of donations to the sanctuary.’
‘I thought you detested dogs.’
‘I do,’ said the superintendent, glaring at Scoot who was now licking himself. ‘It was someone else’s idea. However, if you are right, it might explain this.’
He reached for his in-tray and produced a fax.
‘It came overnight from the RSPCA. They want you to go down to Roxham this morning. As you can see, they’re bringing in a couple of senior officers from outside the area to talk to us. A woman called Jackson and a special investigator by the name of Maynard.’
‘I know him,’ nodded Harris. ‘Good man.’
‘In which case,’ said Curtis, handing over the piece of paper, ‘you might like to ask him why he forgot to tell us exactly what our Mr Meredith was up to.’
Harris scanned the contents of the message, nodded gloomily and got up to go. Five minutes later, chastened by his conversation with the superintendent and irritated that he had been out-manoeuvred into giving away much more information than would normally be his intention, a glowering Jack Harris walked down the first-floor corridor and stalked into the CID office. Only Butterfield was there, sitting at her desk and about to open a large brown envelope.
‘You all right, guv?’ asked the constable, noticing his expression.
‘Am I ever after I’ve been in with the President of the Rotary Club?’
Normally, the comment would have elicited a chuckle from the detective constable but these were not normal times and Alison Butterfield knew it.
‘Are we in trouble over this Farmwatch thing?’ she asked.
‘Depends who shouts loudest,’ shrugged Harris, slumping heavily in a chair. ‘The one good thing is that Curtis is as worried about his gonads being squeezed as I am. Has Matty been on yet?’
‘Yes, just. From home. Wants to know if you still want him to stay down there and stand in for you at the PM. I think he rather hopes the answer is yes. I don’t think he fancies being around Levton Bridge when the flak starts flying.’
‘It seems that I will have to go to Roxham after all. And I want you to come down with me.’
‘Guv?’
‘We have to talk to some people who’ve got some information about Meredith.’
‘Brilliant,’ said Butterfield. with a gleam in her eye. ‘Who is it? Gangland informants?’
‘Not quite,’ said Harris, with a slight smile. ‘It’s a couple of RSPCA officers.’
Butterfield’s face fell.
‘The RSPCA?’ she said in a hollow voice.
‘I knew you’d like it,’ said Harris, heading out of the office, his voice coming from the corridor. ‘If you’re lucky they might let you have a nice puppy to take home.’
Butterfield scowled and glanced down at Scoot, who was sitting in the doorway looking at her: the constable could have sworn that he was laughing.
‘And you can shut up,’ she grunted.
As the dog trotted after his master, the constable remembered the envelope in her hand and, still annoyed, ripped it open, using such violence that she tore off the top corner of the top sheet. Cursing her clumsiness, she was about to extract the piece of paper when Harris reappeared.
‘Whilst I remember,’ he said. ‘When I was talking to Dennis Soames last night, he gave me some interesting information. There’s a poker ring after-hours at the King’s Head. According to Dennis, a couple of the players were Meredith and Thornycroft.’
‘Now that is interesting.’
‘Yeah, it is,’ said Harris, picking a piece of paper out of his suit jacket pocket and handing it over to the constable. ‘The DI’s back today so I am going to get her to look into it, but in the meantime can you look at this list of names and see if anyone leaps out at you? Leave it on her desk when you’ve finished. I’ve got a couple of things to sort then we’ll get off to Roxham. I’ll see you out the front in five minutes. Be warned, there’s a load of journos out there so keep your mouth shut.’
Butterfield nodded and, as Harris disappeared again, Butterfield ran her eye down the list of names on the list, walked across the room and placed the piece of paper on the DI’s desk. The constable realized that she was still holding the brown envelope and carefully extracted the documents, fearful of damaging them further. As she read the top sheet, her eyes widened and she fished out the rest of the papers. Scanning their contents rapidly, her eyes glinted.
‘Guv!’ she shouted excitedly, running out of the room and chasing down the corridor. ‘I think you’d better see this. It’s the stuff they sent up from Bolton overnight. It could explain why James Thornycroft was playing poker.’
‘Now that’s even more interesting,’ breathed Harris as he flicked through the sheets. ‘When we get back, you and I should have a little chat with our friend Mr Thornycroft. I think we can say with some confidence that he may just get himself drummed out of the Rotary Club. Ah, the shame of it, Constable, the shame.’
‘You’ll never be invited to join now.’
‘Indeed not,’ said Harris.
The detective constable could not remember ever having seen Jack Harris look so happy as he beamed at her and started to walk down the corridor again. As Butterfield watched him disappear round the corner on the way to his office, it struck her that she had never heard him whistle either.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Just as the inspector’s Land Rover left the market-place, heading for the detectives’ appointment in Roxham, Butterfield’s mobile phone rang. Two minutes later, the detectives had turned round and made their way to the other side of the town and were pulling up outside Levton Bridge Dog Sanctuary, which stood on the outskirts in a field wedged between the last of the new houses and the nearest farm. As the officers got out, they could hear barks and whines of the dogs housed within the complex.
‘So was this place going to close or not?’ asked Butterfield as they walked up the path.
‘You heard Barry Ramsden, he reckoned it was all pub talk,’ said Harris, as they walked towards the green cabin that acted as a reception. ‘I mean, would a politician lie?’
Butterfield grinned. Entering the cabin, the officers were greeted b
y a fresh-faced young girl wearing a chunky sweater and jeans. She smiled at Butterfield.
‘Hello again,’ she said.
The constable nodded but did not say anything.
‘We are here to see your deputy manager,’ said the inspector, flashing his warrant card. ‘Jane Porter. She’s expecting us.’
‘She’s sorting out breakfasts,’ said the girl, pointing to a door. ‘I’ll take you down.’
‘Thank you,’ said Harris.
The girl led the officers out into the sanctuary and between the rundown concrete blocks, their walls chipped and grimy, the odour of urine rank and strong. But the inspector’s eye was not drawn to the condition of the buildings, rather the narrow caged enclosures, each one occupied by a dog. Every type imaginable was there, from Labradors to terriers, Bedlingtons to lurchers. Some came up to the wire and looked hopefully at the passing detectives, others glared and bared their teeth. One or two retreated to the back of their cages and growled when they saw Scoot, who peered through the bars with interest.
‘We take them from all over the valley,’ explained the girl. ‘And even further – we had one in from Carlisle last week.’
‘It’s a disgrace,’ said Harris, visibly moved, as he was every time he visited.
‘It is certainly heartbreaking sometimes,’ agreed the young receptionist as she led them along the path. ‘But we do our best to give them a good life.’
She looked at Butterfield, as if seeking her approval of their work, but the constable was eying the dogs dispassionately.
‘Do you rehouse them all?’ asked the constable, sensing that the girl was waiting for her to comment.
‘As many as we can.’
‘And the rest?’
‘We have to put them down, I am afraid.’
‘What’s the story with that one?’ asked Harris suddenly, pointing to a collie staring hopefully at them through the bars.
‘That’s Archie,’ said the girl, pausing for a moment, seemingly fighting back strong emotions. ‘I’m sorry, it’s just that he reminds me of poor Robbie. It’s terrible what happened to him yesterday.’
‘And to Trevor,’ said Butterfield.
‘Yes, yes,’ said the girl, nodding vigorously, ‘yes, of course, to poor Trevor as well. Of course. Yes.’
But it did not sound convincing.
‘So what’s Archie’s story?’ asked the inspector.
‘He belonged to a retired couple. Trouble is,’ and she crouched down and let the dog sniff her fingers through the bars, ‘they were too soft with him, didn’t train him properly. One day he jumped up at a pensioner in the market-place. Archie didn’t mean to hurt her but she ended up in hospital with a broken arm so the owners got rid. Brought him here.’
Harris sighed as the dog looked up at him, its tail wagging frantically.
‘Tragic,’ he said, glancing at Butterfield. ‘Absolutely tragic.’
Butterfield shrugged: as a farmer’s daughter, she had never been particularly attracted to dogs. They were there to do a job, her father had always said. It was an attitude she had taken into adult life. And for all she liked Scoot, she would never say she cared for him particularly deeply. Indeed, she had been the only one who had declined to sign the protest petition when Curtis tried to ban him from the police station. Not that she had told the DCI that, although she was pretty sure that he knew.
‘Tell me,’ said Harris, ‘what was Trevor Meredith like?’
‘I’m not sure I should say.’ The young receptionist was suddenly guarded. ‘I mean, he was my boss.’
‘This is a murder inquiry, though,’ said Harris. ‘I would rather you did not hold anything back.’
The young girl nodded.
‘I didn’t like him,’ she said. ‘He was not a very friendly man.’
‘What do you—?’
‘There’s Jane,’ said the receptionist with relief, as she pointed to a thin dark-haired dungaree-clad woman in her mid-thirties who was approaching them along the path, struggling to balance four dog bowls in her arms.
‘Here, let me help you,’ said Harris, taking a couple of them.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You must be Detective Chief Inspector Harris.’
‘I am. You asked to see us.’
‘I did,’ said Jane Porter. ‘We’ll just deliver these bowls then we can talk.’
‘The good constable here was just reminding me that there was talk of you moving,’ said Harris as they walked along the path between the blocks.
‘Yes, there was, a few months ago,’ nodded Porter, as they stopped at one of the enclosures, inside which sat a couple of miserable-looking mongrels, ‘but it didn’t come to anything. I did ask Trevor about it but he said not to worry. Will you wait here a moment, please, while I sort their breakfasts?’
Five minutes later, the three of them were sitting in the manager’s office back at the main reception, cradling mugs of tea. Scoot was curled up by the door. As Jane Porter took the seat behind Trevor Meredith’s desk, Harris looked around him and, mindful of Gallagher’s comments the night before, was immediately struck at how impersonal the walls were. No pictures of Meredith’s family, no thank you letters from customers, no pictures of Robbie, nothing.
‘So, what did you want to tell us, Miss Porter?’ asked Butterfield, noting the inspector’s reverie and always eager to show herself capable of seizing the initiative when the opportunity arose.
Jane Porter looked uncomfortable.
‘Go on,’ said Harris, ‘I am sure you are not in trouble.’
‘I think I might be, actually. You see,’ and she glanced at Butterfield, ‘I lied to you last night, Constable.’
The detectives exchanged glances.
‘In what way?’ asked Harris.
‘Your constable asked me if I knew of any large terriers that might have gone out in recent weeks.’
Butterfield nodded. ‘And you said no.’
‘Which was a lie.’
‘Go on,’ said Harris.
‘It was a few weeks ago,’ said Jane Porter, her voice quiet now, ‘I was working late, down in the bottom block. One of the dogs had damaged her run and I was trying to sort it out. I am sure that Trevor did not even know I was there. If you ask me, he had no idea what happened here after four o’clock.’
‘Four o’clock?’
‘He never stayed after four. Not exactly the hardest of workers was our Trevor.’
‘So what happened?’ asked Harris.
‘I heard voices. When I came out, I saw them standing further up the path.’
‘Saw who?’
‘Trevor and this large man. He was shaven-headed and looked really unpleasant so I went back into the block. I did not really want them to see me. To be honest, I felt scared.’
‘Do you know who the man was?’ asked Harris.
‘No, but I did hear Trevor ask him if he had had a good journey up from Manchester.’
‘Are you sure about that?’ asked Harris.
‘Yes, I am – besides, he talked with a Mancunian accident.’ She gave a slight smile. ‘He sounded like Liam Gallagher.’
‘God help us,’ murmured the inspector. ‘Then what happened?’
‘They were looking at Sabre.’
‘Sabre?’
‘I know,’ and Jane Porter smiled, ‘not a great name. I misread the form and for the first couple of days I called him Sailor. No wonder he was bad-tempered. He had only come in a couple of weeks before. He was a bull terrier, a cross-breed – nasty-looking thing. He was missing part of his ear like he’d been in a fight.’
‘Are you certain?’ said Harris sharply.
‘Oh, yes, I will never forget Sabre. I love all dogs, Inspector, I really do, but I was dubious about us taking him – you can’t trust those kind of breeds.’
‘Where did he come from?’ asked Harris.
‘He was found wandering the streets down in Ingleby. Went for another dog in that little park so the dog warden brought hi
m up here. I assumed that we would arrange for him to be put down as soon as possible.’
‘But he wasn’t put down?’
‘He should have been, you can never rehouse dogs like that. He had this wild look in his eye and no one could approach him. None of us went into his run. I’m sure he would have gone for us.’ She shook her head. ‘I have done this job for fifteen years, Chief Inspector, and I have never met a dog I couldn’t handle, but Sabre – Sabre was different.’
‘Do you think he was like that because he had been bred for fighting?’
She hesitated then nodded.
‘The thought did occur to me,’ she said. ‘I mean, you do hear stories.’
‘Indeed you do. So, do I assume that the man took him away?’
‘Yes. I peered through a crack in the door and saw them go into the run and come out with Sabre on a leash and wearing a muzzle. He was trying to get away but the man was stronger than he was. I could not see that well but I think he kicked Sabre a couple of times – I heard the dog cry in pain.’
‘Did you not try to stop them?’
‘I know I should have,’ she said, in a voice little more than a whisper, ‘but I was too scared. As I said, I could not see very well, but I am pretty sure that the man handed over some cash to Trevor.’
Harris stood up and walked over to look out of the office window, smiling as he saw the young receptionist taking Archie for a walk down one of the paths, the collie straining on the leash in his enthusiasm.
‘So what happened next?’ asked Harris, turning back into the room.
‘I must have sat in there for the best part of half an hour until I was sure they were gone. I was shaking. I’m pretty sure that Trevor did not know I was there because he had locked up and put the alarms on and his car was gone.’
‘Did you ever challenge him about it?’
‘Yes, the next morning. I had to, the staff were asking where Sabre had gone. I didn’t tell him what I had seen, but I did ask him why Sabre had disappeared.’
‘And he said?’
‘He said he had taken him to the vet to be put down. He seemed very calm about it, but I never saw any paperwork confirming it. Mind, Trevor was not very good at the paperwork side of things.’
