Sleeping Dogs

by Chris Simms

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘And you need to keep it quiet from work?’

  Jon thought about the summer before last. When his previous DCI, Mark Buchanon, had kicked him out of his syndicate, Christine Parks was the only other DCI in the Major Incident Team prepared to take him on. And now he was fucking things up again. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Christ, Jon, you want to be careful. Seen the reports about what happened to that squaddie? There are some seriously nasty operators over there.’

  ‘Mate, you’re talking Belfast, Northern Ireland. This is a rural town at the other end of the island. But I need some answers. If they found me in my local park, they know where I live.’

  ‘Don’t piss about – take it to your boss. You need police resources on your side. I’m serious.’

  ‘I will – just once I know who this bastard is. What are my options?’

  ‘What’s the name of the person?’

  ‘All I’ve got is Darragh.’

  ‘Name of the business?’

  ‘Darragh’s nightclub.’

  ‘Great,’ he replied sarcastically. ‘Not using police intelligence is going to severely limit you, especially if it’s Ireland. Companies House is out – it’s for UK-registered businesses only. Same problem for the Land Registry. Tax, too – Department of Work and Pensions is UK only. You’ve got a few options outside the government sector, but they’ll cost you.’

  Brilliant, Jon thought. More money I don’t have. ‘Those being?’

  ‘Private business-information systems. I used to use Dun and Bradstreet, GMP had an account with them. I don’t know what they charge.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘You might get somewhere with a credit-reference agency. Experion or Equifax. Again, it’ll cost you. Then there’s your general open-source stuff.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘The internet. Google the nightclub’s name.’

  ‘Have done. Fuck all.’

  ‘Facebook – that stuff?’

  ‘I can’t see this guy being on them.’

  ‘Then you need to use official channels, mate.’

  ‘I know.’ He glanced in the direction of his DCI’s office. ‘But the incident makes that awkward.’

  ‘Incident? What happened over there? You decked somebody, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, the nightclub owner. And the bouncer. And I stole the security tapes.’

  He heard his colleague snort. ‘Why aren’t I surprised? Jon – take the hit, let your boss know what’s going on.’

  ‘I’m in the last-chance saloon here as it is.’

  ‘Make it official and you can tap into the National Crime Agency. Those boys? They’re akin to the Gestapo.’

  Jon had heard more than one colleague describing the NCA’s powers as draconian. ‘How so, exactly?’

  ‘In my day, it was known as SOCA, yeah? My biggest regret? Not getting in. What they’re allowed to do is incredible.’

  ‘Got any contacts there?’

  ‘Mate – you know I didn’t leave the job on particularly good terms with anyone. Apart from you.’

  ‘Fair enough. Thanks anyway, Maccer, it’s been useful.’

  ‘My pleasure. Let me know what you find out – you’ve got me worried, now.’

  ‘You and me, both.’

  ‘We should go for a beer some time.’

  ‘Yeah, it would be good to catch up.’ He cut the call and rested his chin on the heel of his palm. What else? There had to be something. His eyes went to Parks’s office. Do I just take all this to her now? No, he thought. Not until you’re certain there’s a link.

  His mobile went and he snatched it up. Anonymous. Not Alice, at least, he thought, taking the call. ‘DI Spicer.’

  ‘Detective, it’s Clive Knott from the Intelligence Bureau.’

  ‘Wow – fast work, Clive. What have you got?’

  ‘No vehicle with that registration’s been on the M60 today.’

  ‘Are you sure? Can we check the registration? Maybe we mixed it up.’

  ‘93 G 48561.’

  Jon raised his free hand and pressed his forehead against his knuckles. That means…what? The van was still in Manchester? ‘Maybe it joined the M56 via minor roads. Can the M56 be checked?’

  ‘It has been. I set the search parameters as the M60 and the entire M56. If you want to check Holyhead itself, we’ll need to contact the port authority there. It’s run by North Wales Police, I believe.’

  Jon traced a fingertip across the scar that bisected his left eyebrow. No ferry booked over from Dublin, no return journey, either. Was the van – and its dog – over here all along? Why did it keep to local roads after attacking Punch? Did they know the area? Maybe the connection to Clifden didn’t exist.

  ‘Detective?’

  Jon realised he was still on the phone. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I said, do you want me to put a request into the port authority at Holyhead?’

  ‘No – don’t worry. Thanks.’ He hung up and replaced his mobile next to the framed photo on his desk. The shot was of Holly with her arms round Punch. They were sitting beneath an oak tree on a carpet of autumnal leaves, diagonal beams of sunlight cutting through the branches above.

  He swivelled in his seat and called across the room. ‘Anyone worked any cases that involved dog-fighting?’

  A thin man with greying hair got to his feet. Paul Evans, Jon thought. Been in the Major Incident Team longer than me. ‘I had something last year. You want to get in touch with this guy at the RSPCA. Heads up a unit specifically for the problem.’

  Jon’s mind scanned back to recent news incidents. The little boy over in Liverpool mauled to death. The two guys and a woman caught organising fights in – where was it? Crumpsall? Chadderton? Somewhere beginning with a C. The young girl in north Manchester killed by the dog used to guard her uncle’s pub. And those were just the cases that immediately sprang to mind. He rose to his feet and started across the room, notebook in hand. ‘Do you have a name or number?’

  ‘Hang on.’ The other opened his bottom drawer.

  Back at his desk, Jon contemplated the name he’d just been given. Nick Hutcher, Chief Inspector, Special Operations Unit, RSPCA Inspectorate.

  Seeing the letters RSPCA made him think of Punch again. Fishing the vet’s card from his pocket, he called the number. The same nurse answered the phone. ‘Hello, it’s Jon Spicer here. Just checking on Punch.’

  ‘Oh, still out for the count. But that’s nothing to worry about.’

  He sent a silent thank-you to the ceiling. ‘Right. Sorry – I didn’t get your name.’

  ‘It’s Rebecca.’

  ‘OK, Rebecca. Can I pop in to see him later?’

  ‘We close at six. Visiting after that isn’t permitted.’

  He glanced at the clock on his screen. Half-two already. No wonder my stomach’s rumbling. ‘I’ll try and make it over before then.’ He keyed in his home number to let Alice know he wouldn’t be much longer. She picked up almost immediately.

  ‘Hi, babe, it’s – ’

  ‘Jon! Where are you?’

  He could tell she was moving quickly, voice clipped. Holly was shrieking in the background. He was vaguely aware of getting to his feet, phone pressed to his ear. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Not sure – ’

  He heard the sound of a door opening and his daughter’s cries of distress immediately got louder. ‘There! It’s there!’

  Alice’s voice. ‘What sweetie? What’s there?’

  ‘At the window!’ His daughter’s words were a panic-stricken whine. ‘The monster! It was at the window!’

  Jon ran for the door.

  Chapter 10

  Engine howling, he tore along his street, scanning the front of his house as he drew closer. No sign of anything wrong. The car jerked as he mounted the pavement and came to an abrupt halt.

  Telly-room curtains still drawn. How could she have seen anything at the window? He ran up the garden path. His
key turned but the front door refused to open. Someone had drawn the bolt across. Oh Jesus. Heart beating even faster, he hammered three times. ‘Alice!’

  Movement from beyond the frosted glass and he heard her voice. ‘Sorry, forgot I’d done that.’ The bolt slid back and the door opened.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ he asked breathlessly, eyes cutting to the corridor beyond.

  Her face looked tired and drawn and he could see a damp patch on her beige top. ‘It’s OK,’ she said quietly, stepping back to let him in. ‘She fell asleep on her beanbag. It was all a dream.’

  ‘Oh.’ His arms dropped to his sides. Is this how it will be from now on? A never-ending threat lurking in our lives? He closed the door behind him. ‘You OK?’

  ‘I think so. She’s in there. I couldn’t phone you; she was clinging to me so tight.’

  He looked into the front room. Holly was half-lying on her beanbag, hair ruffled, cheeks damp. ‘Hi sweetie – did you have a bad dream?’

  She looked to the windows. ‘I saw that big dog looking at me.’

  He knelt down and pulled her close. ‘That big dog’s gone. It’s not ever coming back.’

  She didn’t respond.

  ‘Holly? Did you hear me? Daddy called his friends at work. They chased the van with the dog in far, far away.’ A mental image of the M60 materialised. Why hadn’t the van gone on to the motorway? Where had the bloody thing gone? ‘OK, Holly? The dog isn’t coming back.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  He shot a glance to Alice. She was waiting for an answer, too.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘The person driving the van knows we’ll be watching out for him. Daddy wrote down the van’s number plate – and our special cameras will spot the van if it comes anywhere near here. So they won’t ever dare – otherwise they’ll be locked up in prison.’

  ‘Really?’ She angled her body so she could look up at him. ‘They will?’

  He nodded, wishing things were that easy.

  ‘What about the big dog?’

  It’ll be given an injection, he wanted to say. And its body thrown into an incinerator. ‘They’ll keep it in a special place for nasty dogs. In a huge cage where it can’t hurt anything else.’ He felt her body sink back against him and he stroked her hair for a few seconds.

  ‘Like a zoo?’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose so.’

  ‘When will Punch be home?’

  ‘Soon, sweetie. Maybe tomorrow, if we’re lucky.’

  ‘So we can all go to Center Parcs?’

  ‘Exactly – though Punch won’t be doing much running around. You can be his nurse, if you want?’

  She nodded enthusiastically. ‘He can have some of my purple medicine.’

  Calpol, Jon thought. Holly revered the fruit-flavoured syrup. ‘That’s very kind of you.’ He was surprised to hear her let out a giggle. ‘What?’

  ‘Your tummy just did a big grumble.’

  He realised her ear was pressed against his stomach. ‘That’s because Daddy hasn’t had his lunch.’

  Alice uncrossed her arms. ‘Holly? Are you hungry, too?’

  She lifted her head. ‘Can I have tomato soup?’

  It was late afternoon before Jon got an opportunity to call the RSPCA officer.

  The man who answered the phone had a gravelly voice, as if he’d just woken up.

  ‘Hello. My name’s Jon Spicer. I’m a Detective Inspector with Greater Manchester Police. Is this Nick Hutcher?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  Now Jon could discern a hint of cockney in his voice. Probably about fifty, he guessed, maybe a bit younger.

  ‘What can I do for you, Jon?’

  ‘I gather you head up the dog-fighting unit at the RSPCA?’

  ‘Well, it’s a special operations unit. Plainclothes intelligence gathering of commercial cruelty.’

  ‘Including dog-fighting?’

  ‘Anything where someone’s making money from the activity. Dog-fighting’s my thing.’

  ‘I was hoping you could help me, if you’ve got a few minutes?’

  ‘Yup. I’ve got a meeting in quarter of an hour. Where did you say you were calling from?’

  ‘Manchester.’

  ‘That’s what my meetings about. We’ve got word there’s an away kennels currently up there.’

  Jon straightened slightly. ‘Away kennels: what’s that?’

  ‘Like a visiting team. In dog-fighting you have kennels. Fuck all to do with kennels, really. It’s the name the group or person gives themselves. So you’ve got the – I don’t know – Waterloo Kennels were down in Portsmouth. But the guy who was behind that is now dead. Marshall Kennels, Middlesbrough.’

  ‘And Manchester?’

  ‘There’s been a few around the North-West. Chad’s. We’re prosecuting them at the moment.’

  ‘That was the name of the owner?’

  ‘No – the kennels was a farm near Chadderton.’

  Jon clicked his fingers. That case I was trying to recall earlier on. ‘There was a woman – and two blokes.’

  ‘That’s it.’

  Jon could tell the man was smiling.

  ‘Clare Paul,’ he continued with pride in his voice. ‘Nearly broke my nose in the custody suite. We’d taken them to the local nick.’

  ‘Where she punched you?’

  ‘Oh yeah.’ The man didn’t seem in the least bothered; the opposite, in fact. I’m liking you already, Jon thought. ‘No shy flower, then?’

  Hutcher laughed, a sound like sandpaper scraping across brick. ‘You wouldn’t mess. It was when she asked what we were going to do with her dogs. You’re ready for the blokes going ballistic when they hear they’ll be destroyed. Wasn’t ready for her haymaker, though.’

  Jon leaned back. ‘How long have you been doing this, Nick?’

  ‘Twenty-odd years.’

  ‘So what’s this Manchester incident?’

  ‘Intelligence is sketchy. A fight, that’s for sure; but we might have missed it already. I’m travelling up this evening. We’re hoping to know more by the time I arrive.’

  Jon ran a thumb along the stubble on his jaw. ‘Do you know much about the scene in Ireland?’

  ‘Only that it’s bigger than over here. Pit bulls aren’t illegal, for starters. Not being part of Britain, the Dangerous Dogs Act doesn’t apply over there. What you find is a lot of dogs being fought in this country were originally bred in Ireland, then brought across to be fought in this country.’

  ‘Smuggled?’

  ‘No need. Just take them across the border into Northern Ireland – there are no controls – and catch a ferry from there. Give it some pills to calm it down and if anyone asks, it’s a Staffy-Labrador cross. Something like that. It’s not hard to fake a certificate.’

  Jon thought about the white van. I was searching the wrong route. Should have been crossings from Belfast, not Dublin. ‘Is there big money in it?’

  ‘Not as much as the papers would have you believe. A puppy with a ROM that states it’s from a Champion or Grand Champion may go for a few grand.’

  ‘Now you’ve lost me again. ROM being?’

  ‘Register of Merit. If a dog wins three fights, it’s a Champion, five and it’s a Grand Champion. Course, most don’t last that long.’

  ‘The dogs have fighting pedigrees? This is more organised than I imagined.’

  ‘Oh yeah – it’s meticulous. You should see the paperwork we seize. But it’s not really the money that drives these people; it’s their egos. The kudos of having trained up a winning dog.’

  Jon’s mind drifted back to the van. ‘So, a lot of the breeders are based in Ireland.’

  ‘And plenty of fights. Although it’s also big in Belfast, too. Republican kennels versus loyalist kennels. They’ll stop fighting each other to watch dogs doing it.’

  Jon sat forward. ‘You’re saying it’s got paramilitary links?’

  ‘More organised crime. It’s the world these type of people move in, Jon. Engl
and, Ireland: they’re just gangsters – dealing in drugs and all the usual stuff. We raid a fight here, it’s often also being used to trade drugs or stolen goods. When we go in, it’s alongside a lot of you guys. Mob-handed, like. Listen, I’m going to be late for this meeting. What was this incident?’

  ‘It was an attack in a local park.’

  ‘Dog on human?’

  Jon found himself wanting to come clean. Caution held him back. ‘No. Another dog. There was a young girl in the vicinity, though. The violent dog was a really strange breed. Not a pit bull.’

  ‘Maybe a mastiff?’

  ‘Like a mish-mash of all sorts. Mastiff, rottweiler, pit bull.’

  ‘A Molosser.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘The type. Big, sturdy, with huge jaws. Ideal for fighting.’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘I doubt then it’s owned by a kennels. Last thing they want is for their dog to be seen in public. Daren’t risk it being confiscated. People who take their dogs out we class as status group. The type who strut the dog round their estate, frightening old ladies. Maybe will roll their animal with other dogs on a patch of waste ground. A kennels will have invested hour upon hour training their animals – fed them special diets, all sorts. Did you say you were a Detective Inspector?’

  ‘Yes.’ He waited for a response but none came. ‘Why?’

  ‘Seems unusual to have someone of your rank working an attack in a local park. No offence, but we sometimes have trouble getting a handful of constables to assist in a raid where we know, for a fact, the organisers are into all sorts of stuff.’

  Jon closed his eyes for a moment, tired of the subterfuge. ‘It was my dog that was attacked. He’s in the vet’s now, following a blood transfusion.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that.’ Genuine sympathy in his voice.

  ‘Cheers. And the young girl I mentioned? It was my daughter. She was right there.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Nick, this animal, it was advancing towards my girl. I saw it begin to crouch. Do you think it could have been about to attack her and Punch – my Boxer – intervened?’ He listened as the other man drew in breath.

  ‘The prime target of these trained fighting dogs is other dogs. Unprovoked attacks on people are extremely rare, thank God. More likely, your dog was trying to ward it off and bang, the thing went for it.’