by Chris Simms
‘Christ.’ Rick’s voice was now serious. ‘What type of breed is it?’
‘No idea,’ Jon answered, jumping down onto the grass and reaching for his notebook and phone. ‘But I know a man who might.’ He keyed the number in. ‘Inspector Hutcher? DI Spicer, here.’
‘Hello, Jon. Nice crisp morning here in Manchester.’
‘Whereabouts are you?’
‘Somewhere called Blackford Bridge, not far from Bury. Know it?’
‘Roughly.’ He turned to Rick. ‘Your mobile has a decent camera, hasn’t it?’
Rick nodded.
Jon spoke into his phone once again. ‘Could me and my partner pop over? We’re taking some photos and I’d like you to see them.’
Chapter 16
Jon peeled the blackened gloves off, hands immediately feeling colder as damp skin made contact with chilly air. ‘I reckon about nine stone,’ he said, thinking how much effort it had taken to slide the carpet with the remains of the massive dog nearer to the van’s doors.
‘Christ. Plenty of adults don’t weigh that much,’ Rick replied, examining the photos on his phone as they walked back to the edge of the playing fields.
The two uniforms climbed out as they got closer. ‘Find what were you looking for?’ asked the driver.
‘I think so.’ Jon answered. ‘Scene-of-crimes are on their way – can you two remain here until they arrive?’
The constable exchanged a quick glance with his colleague. ‘Sure.’
Of course you can, thought Jon. Sitting in a toasty-warm car, listening to the local radio station – a morning’s work doesn’t get much easier. ‘Only one of you actually needs to be here – the other can start knocking on doors.’ He circled a finger at the houses which surrounded the playing field. ‘I’ll let you two toss a coin to see who does the footwork. We shouldn’t be long.’
Half an hour later, they were making their way along a main road bordered by a tree-lined slope. Jon looked into the woodland, glimpsing a dirty brown river in the valley below. The road kinked to the left, signs for Bury Golf Course on the bend.
‘A few hundred metres more,’ Rick announced, eyes on the street atlas. ‘Meadow Road.’
Jon slowed the car as a turning came into view. ‘This?’
Rick craned his neck. ‘Yup.’
They turned into a road with a moderate incline that was in severe need of a new layer of tarmac. The car’s heater was on and, as they negotiated the many potholes, an unpleasant odour began to fill the vehicle.
‘That’ll be the sewage works,’ Rick commented.
They descended further into the valley, a row of low circular-shaped concrete structures coming into view on their right. After another fifty metres, they reached a fork.
‘Left here,’ Rick announced, folding the A to Z shut. ‘It’s at the end.’
Jon continued along the overgrown lane until a derelict mill came into view. It was a familiar sight: eight or so floors, row upon row of smashed windows, vegetation spilling over from collapsing gutters, a tall chimney with the name of the mill owner spelt out in white bricks down the side. Knowles and Son. A common name for the region, Jon thought, reflecting on how dynasties rose and fell. I wonder what the descendants of the millworkers do now? Probably employed by the local Tesco’s. He pictured a line of women toiling at the tills, hands repeating the same movement over and over again. Not that different to what the previous generations did.
A police vehicle and several unmarked cars were parked at the open gates. From somewhere nearby came the sound of rushing water. With the river so close, Jon thought, the mill had probably been powered by a waterwheel. A massive thing mounted on the rear of the building.
To the side were several large sheds. A police officer was warily approaching. ‘Yes, gents?’
Jon removed his warrant card. ‘DI Spicer, DS Saville, MIT. Is Nick Hutcher about?’
‘Right – he said you were on your way. The fight was in here.’
‘Was?’ Rick asked.
‘We missed it,’ the officer responded. ‘Place was deserted when we arrived.’
They rounded the corner and Jon saw the low buildings were arranged to form a three-sided courtyard, the open end of which was closed off by a very new chain-link fence.
Jon stared through the strands of metal. In the far corner two tyres were suspended beneath a crude wooden frame. The rubber was ripped and frayed. Overhead, thick cables had been attached from one side of the courtyard to the other. Dangling from each one was a thinner wire ending in a karabiner-type clip. The doors to two of the outbuildings were open.
The officer pointed. ‘The one on the far side.’
Jon and Rick slipped through the open gate and made their way over. A group of three men were inside. Jon knocked a couple of times on the rotting door frame. ‘Nick Hutcher?’
A tall, craggy-faced man with short greying hair and a kink in his nose turned. He was wearing jeans and a dark-green fleece. ‘DI Spicer?’
Jon nodded. ‘And DS Saville. Good to meet you, Nick.’ He looked about. ‘I take it this was a kennels?’
‘That and a fight venue,’ the RSPCA officer answered. There was a hint of weariness about him, as if he’d seen enough scenes like this to last a lifetime. But when they shook hands, his grip was strong. Plenty of fight in the bloke yet, Jon thought.
‘How’s your dog?’
Jon dropped his hand. ‘Hanging in there. Stable, they said this morning.’
‘A terrible thing to have happened. I’m sorry.’
Taking in breath, Jon nodded. ‘He’ll pull through. I’m more worried about the effect it’ll have on my little girl.’
Nick shook his head. ‘Bloody animals. The owners, that is,’ he added hastily. Jon held a hand towards his partner. ‘This is Rick.’
Hutcher gave Rick’s hand the same treatment. Jon held back a smirk as his colleague tried to suppress a look of discomfort.
‘What’s this for, then?’ Jon asked, turning to a treadmill.
‘To get their stamina up,’ Nick replied. ‘They’ll run the dogs on it, raising the incline, increasing speed. Can’t exactly exercise them in the local park, after all. Once they’re in the pit, there’s no place to hide – the animal has to be in good shape.’
‘And the set-up outside?’ Jon asked.
‘All part of it. The tyres you saw hanging above the ground are for biting on.’ He led them outside and pointed to the tyres’ frayed edges. ‘They can do a lot of damage, Molosser breeds.’
Jon tried not to think about what had happened at the golf course.
Rick pointed to the overhead cables. ‘And those?’
‘Dog runs. See the wire hanging down? Each animal has its collar attached to the clip at the bottom. The looped end allows the dog to run back and forth below the cable – but not off to the side to attack its neighbour.’
‘Very organised,’ Jon stated. ‘Have you got whoever owns the premises?’
‘Nah. Probably rented to someone whose details will turn out false. Even if we get who it is, we can only charge them with keeping a premises and possessing training equipment. The actual fight’s already taken place.’
He took them over to the other open doorway. The poorly lit room smelled of blood. In the middle of the floor, waist-high panels of chipboard had been arranged in a square.
Jon approached the construction, noting the closely spaced screws running down each corner. It had been built to withstand a battering. He peered over the barrier at the carpet lining the floor of the pit. Patches of blood covered it and he saw spatters on the inner walls. He probed at a particularly thick smear with a knuckle. Dry but with a little give at the centre. ‘When was it, do you reckon?’
‘Within the last forty-eight hours, I’d say.’
In one corner, a white line ran across the carpet to form a triangle with the base of the two converging walls. He looked at the opposite corner and saw the same marking there.
‘The pit
must be twelve feet in diameter with walls two and a half feet high. Only people allowed in the ring are the referee and each dog’s trainer,’ Nick announced grimly. ‘The ref will call time out and one dog is released. It has to cross its scratch line into the main part of the arena, showing its desire to fight. Generally, they meet around the middle like a pair of steam trains. The ref allows fighting to continue unless some issue like fanging occurs.’
Rick looked to his side, eyebrows raised.
‘When a dog puts a tooth through its own lip, impeding its ability to bite,’ Hutcher elaborated. ‘They’ll use breaking sticks to prise their jaws apart. Each dog is returned to its corner and the problem sorted. Then the other dog is released first and it must come out of its corner to show willing. The fight goes on until a dog won’t cross its line, is killed or the trainer withdraws it. The referee has no power to stop a fight.’
Jon pictured the encounters. ‘Don’t the dogs ever go mad and start on the people also in there?’
Nick gave a sad shake of his head. ‘Unfortunately not. At least not with pit bulls. They’re man-friendly. They can be easily trained to never go for a human. We bust one kennels in Stoke where the owner had a Japanese toza patrolling the pit bulls’ cages. You see, the pit bulls would probably wag their tails and allow themselves to be stolen. The toza, on the other hand, had been trained to go for anyone who wasn’t the owner. Took a sleeping dart before we could go in.’
Jon placed his elbows on the edge of the pit and stared into it. ‘They just keep going?’
‘To the death. And all to please their owner. Anything to please the twisted piece of shit who’s sick enough to play on the animal’s loyalty.’
Hearing the venom in the man’s voice, Jon glanced to his side. Nick was surveying the blood-soaked scene with disgust. ‘Got dogs yourself?’
Nick looked at him. ‘Sorry?’
‘Have you got any dogs?’
He thought for a second. ‘Seven, at the last count. The downside of spending too much time in rescue centres.’
Jon smiled. Thought you had.
‘With non-pit bull breeds,’ Nick continued. ‘You can never predict what the animal will do. They might flip and latch on to the ref, they might refuse to fight. Makes betting awkward.’
The thing that got to within a couple of feet of my daughter was no pit bull, Jon thought. ‘The creature I’m interested in, it was a fighter, no doubt. But when the whistle came from the back of the van, it released my dog immediately.’
‘That’s strange,’ Nick murmured. ‘Just a whistle was enough?’
Jon nodded.
‘And it wasn’t a pit bull?’
‘No – not pure, anyway.’
The RSPCA officer gestured to the door. ‘Let’s get in the light so I can see these photos. Setting other breeds against each other is definitely a trend we’re seeing more and more of. Tozas or mastiffs crossed with pit bulls. Canary dogs are another one that’s increasingly popular. But as I said, you never know what type of animal will result. For a dog to be in the middle of an attack then release on a whistle: not even pit bulls will do that.’
‘Well,’ Jon replied. ‘This one did.’
As they stepped back into the courtyard they saw another couple of men entering through the gate. They were gripping the corners of some heavy-duty plastic sheeting. ‘Found one, chief,’ the stockier man puffed, struggling with the weight. Jon saw the skin on his bald head was bright red.
Nick immediately started across. ‘Where was it, Mark?’
‘In the ravine at the edge of the river. The vegetation was all crushed where it had rolled down.’
They placed their load on the floor and opened the sheeting. Lying on the expanse of plastic was the carcass of a large, fawn-coloured dog. Its head was the shape of a mallet – almost as wide as it was long. A muscular neck then merged with a broad chest. Jon tried to assess its height – probably about half a metre. Its pig-like eyes were partly open and Jon saw they had the dull, milky gaze of something that had been dead a while. ‘I’d say it’s been there over twenty-four hours. If this was the summer, there’d be fly infestation by now.’
Nick nodded in agreement. ‘It wasn’t in much shape,’ he stated, kneeling down and pressing a finger into the blubber on its torso. ‘Poor thing took a hammering. Obviously didn’t want to give up, though.’
Jon’s eyes lingered on the deep rips to its shoulders, head and neck. Dried blood and dirt matted its fur. ‘What do you reckon was cause of death?’
Nick continued to stare downwards. ‘My guess is it lost too much blood – it’s strength would have failed and the other dog would have got it by the throat. Probably suffocated.’
Jon raised his face to the sky, focusing on a cloud in an attempt to keep the image of Punch pinned to the grass from his mind.
‘Or the owner finished it off,’ the bald-headed one said. ‘These people won’t waste time and money on a losing dog.’
Jon took another quick look at the corpse. ‘Recognise the breed?’
Nick rubbed a hand against his chin. ‘Canary dog crossed with a mastiff, I’d say. Historically, Canary dogs have been bred for their aggressiveness. Pair that with the bulk of a mastiff and you’ve got one formidable animal.’
‘But not formidable enough for what it was up against,’ Jon whispered. ‘Must weigh ten stone.’
‘And the rest,’ the bald inspector who’d carried it up replied, wiping sweat from his shiny pate. ‘Nearer twelve, my guess.’
Nick turned his head to look up at Jon. ‘The word we got was there’s a visiting kennels doing the rounds with some kind of exotic breed. Its owners were prepared to give away a twenty percent advantage in body weight, which is unheard-of on the circuit.’ He got back to his feet with a wince. ‘Bloody knees. Let’s see these photos of your animal.’
Rick brought up the first image and presented his handset to Nick. ‘Just brush the screen to bring across the next picture.’
Nick examined the image for a few seconds. He held the phone closer then further away. He looked to his colleagues. ‘Ever seen something like this before?’
They crowded round, eyes on the little screen. Each one shook his head.
‘Well proportioned,’ the bald one commented. ‘Arched ribcage, retracted stomach. Almost like it’s built for distance running.’
‘With neck muscles like that?’ a colleague replied. ‘Look at the bulk around its shoulders and the folds on its throat. Only loose bit of flesh on it.’
‘Double chins,’ Nick stated, glancing at Jon. ‘Ideal protection. Bit like a lion’s mane: stops an attacker getting to the throat.’ Slowly, he brushed through the other images.
‘Curious markings on the legs.’ The bald one held a finger to the screen. ‘Almost brindled.’
‘It was covered in stripes like that,’ Jon said. ‘Apart from a mask of black covering its face. And it was agile. When it ran back to the van it was incredibly light on its feet. It took off a good distance from the doors, sailed straight inside. More like a pounce, it was.’
Nick worked his way back. ‘Bitches are normally less bulky.’
Jon looked at him. ‘You mean it’s a female?’
‘It is. Another feature that’s odd is the extremely long tail – tapers to a very fine point. Unusual.’
‘Why?’ asked Rick.
Nick handed the phone back. ‘You’d expect it to be docked, that’s all. One less thing for another dog to get hold of. The ears have been cropped to little points, but the tail was left alone.’ He shrugged.
Jon crossed his arms. ‘So, any idea what it is?’
Nick looked directly at him. ‘You know what? Not a fucking clue. Can I see this thing in the flesh?’
The deep rumble was more of a vibration, juddering through the walls and up from the floor. Beyond the double-glazed window of the hotel room, the plane’s climb was so laboured it seemed on the brink of giving up and falling back to earth.
Sl
ipping one foot into a high-heeled shoe which was beginning to split down one side, the girl popped a mint in her mouth and turned to the pair of single beds. ‘That’s eighty quid, then.’
Devlan and Sean stared at her with uninterested expressions. Both wore only boxer shorts. Nervously, she placed a hand on one hip, eyes moving between them.
Eventually Sean swept his straggly auburn hair back and looked across to the other bed. ‘Come on, you tight bastard, pay her so she can piss off.’
Devlan raised a hand and scratched at the cropped hair on his head. ‘Me? Why me? All I got was her bony arse cheeks digging into me.’
‘All expenses paid,’ Sean smiled. ‘If I came on this tour, you said it was all expenses paid.’
Devlan lowered his arm and examined the thick Celtic pattern tattooed round his bicep. ‘Don’t remember that including whores.’ He reached for the wallet lying on the small table between the two beds while continuing to speak to his friend. ‘Can’t believe we just shared a spit-roast.’
‘You never wore rubbers,’ the girl stated. ‘It was twenty more each for bareback – I told you that.’
He didn’t bother looking at her, two twenties dangling from his fingers. ‘Wait until the boys back home hear about this.’
She crossed her arms. ‘Eighty.’
He was off the bed in an instant, one hand grasping her throat as he marched her backwards across the room. ‘Eighty you reckon? Eighty?’ She didn’t resist, a look of defeat on her face as she was shoved against the wall. ‘Eighty, is that right?’
She shook her head, lips moving soundlessly as her cheeks reddened.
He relaxed his grip, and as she opened her mouth to drag in air, he stuffed the two notes between her lips. ‘You’ll take whatever I give you, right?’
She nodded, eyes downcast.
‘Good girl. Now fuck off.’ He pulled the door open.
Removing the crumpled notes from her mouth, she stepped into the corridor. Smirking, he slammed the door shut and jumped back on his bed.
