Sleeping Dogs

by Chris Simms

  ‘That wasn’t needed,’ Sean said under his breath.

  Devlan shrugged. ‘Rank bitch.’

  ‘We don’t need any more trouble.’

  ‘From her? What could she do?’

  ‘Still…’

  The sound of another plane taking off started to fill the room. Devlan reached for the bottle of Bushmills on the bedside table.

  As he took a swig, Sean sat up. ‘We need to ring your dad.’

  Wincing, Devlan lowered the bottle. ‘I know, just…not yet.’

  ‘Don’t make it any worse than it’s going to be. You have to tell him what’s happened.’

  His companion closed his eyes. ‘I…fuck!’ He swigged sharply. ‘I can’t believe she’s dead, Sean.’ He glanced sorrowfully at his mate before staring at the bottle. ‘Can’t believe Queenie’s dead.’ He reached for a crumpled shopping bag on the bedside table. Visible through the clear plastic was a tennis ball, its wool-like surface frayed and torn from where Punch had chewed it. He swung it before his face like a pendulum.

  Sean watched him for a while. ‘Were you going to stop Queenie from going for that little girl?’

  The other man was deep in thought.

  ‘Devlan?’

  His head turned. ‘What?’

  ‘Were you going to stop Queenie from going for that little girl?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Sean glanced at the bag. I was watching in the van’s rear-view mirror, he thought. You let Queenie get to within striking distance of her. ‘When you took that Boxer’s tennis ball, it was to give Queenie his scent. The Boxer was meant to die, not some wee lass.’

  Devlan raised one corner of his mouth in the semblance of a smile. ‘Ach – that young girl was in no bother.’

  Sean didn’t reply. The Boxer was the family’s pet, he thought. That little girl would have had the dog’s scent all over her. ‘Give us a nip.’ He held his hand out, face now sombre.

  The bottle of whiskey was passed across. Sean took a good gulp, placed it on the bedside table and looked out of the window. Another plane had begun to take off. ‘This place is doing my head in.’

  Devlan swung his legs off the bed and stood. ‘Come on, we’re going out.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Out.’

  ‘Where out?’

  ‘For a wee drive.’

  ‘In what? We’ve got no car.’

  ‘Since when’s that a fucking problem?’

  Chapter 17

  As they walked towards their cars, Jon turned to Nick. ‘So where are your tip-offs coming from?’

  ‘Little weasel in Newcastle who’s well into the scene. We got him last year for causing cruelty to an animal. Normally they’d take the fine and carry on as normal. But this guy was carrying a two-year suspended sentence for something else.’

  Jon nodded. ‘Start snitching or go to prison.’

  Nick smiled. ‘He’s my bitch, now.’

  ‘What’s he told you about this visiting kennels?’

  ‘Not a lot. They’ve fought their dog in Newcastle, Birmingham and now, it appears, Manchester. Looks like it’s ripped apart everything thrown at it, so far.’

  ‘Was your man at any of the fights?’

  ‘No. Was meant to be at the Newcastle one, but had to miss it because he was in hospital. Got problems with his kidneys, poor thing.’

  ‘He’s no idea where this visiting kennels are from?’

  Now at their vehicles, Nick reached for his keys. ‘I can try and call him en route.’

  ‘That would be great.’ Jon unlocked his Mondeo. ‘Just keep behind us. Basically, we’re going round to the bottom of the M60.’

  They’d barely made it back on to the main road when the sound of Jon’s mobile filled the car. He nodded at the cup-holder where the handset was positioned. ‘Rick?’

  His partner huffed as he reached down. ‘What am I – your bloody secretary? Sort your hands-free kit, would you?’

  Jon thought about the instruction booklet for the equipment. He hadn’t got further than the opening paragraph congratulating him on his purchasing decision before he’d given up. ‘I don’t know,’ he mused, ‘you might look quite fetching in a wig and skirt. Nothing too high, though – I don’t like tarty.’

  Rick was looking at the screen, his middle finger raised at Jon. ‘It’s Parks.’

  ‘Take it,’ Jon said quickly.

  ‘Hi boss, it’s DS Saville here. Jon’s driving. Yes, of course I can.’

  Jon glanced to his side and saw a faint smile spreading across his partner’s face.

  ‘OK, OK,’ Rick nodded. ‘Just that link? What a relief. We hope to be back in an hour or so. See you then.’ He cut the call and turned to Jon. ‘Darragh de Avila has no link to any recognised paramilitary organisation over there. He doesn’t feature on any intelligence system – not with the NCA and not with JTAC.’

  The Joint Terrorism Analysis Centre, Jon thought. The body charged with keeping tabs on international terrorist risks. ‘He didn’t show up on anything?’

  ‘Only two incidents which the police in Ireland had logged.’

  ‘Being?’

  ‘Suspected dog-fighting.’

  Jon glanced across. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘A couple of raids on premises he owns near Clifden. But not enough evidence to press charges.’ He placed Jon’s phone back in the cup-holder. ‘A relief, yes?’

  Jon let his breath out through both nostrils. ‘Big relief. Massive, in fact.’ His thoughts turned to Punch. So it was simple revenge. Just because I made the guy look like a fool in his own nightclub. Well, the bastard will look a lot worse than that if I ever get my hands on him. He made an effort to relax his grip on the steering wheel, pushing the thoughts of payback from his head. ‘Could you give Alice a call? Let her know the good news.’

  Back at the playing fields, Jon swung his vehicle on to the verge, leaving room for Nick to park behind him. The two uniforms were back in their patrol car, which now had a white scene-of-crime van parked alongside it. As Jon climbed out, he heard Nick’s car door shut behind him.

  ‘Some more info for you.’

  Jon turned round. ‘You got through to him?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s whining and moaning, saying he can’t show too much interest in the touring kennels. He’s lying, though. They’ll all be chattering about this animal.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘It came over as a Grand Champion. Now it’s taken out three other dogs. That’s the making of a legend. After what it did to the dog we just saw, no one dares risk their animal against it. Now people will want to breed off it or they’ll want it dead. Another thing – I asked him for a description of the animal. A Molosser with a stripy coat were his words.’

  Jon leaned against his vehicle. ‘You said it came over as a Grand Champion.’

  ‘Probably a kennels from Ireland. My man said a friend who was at the Newcastle fight reckoned that’s what their accents were.’

  ‘Whose?’

  ‘The dog’s owners.’

  ‘Did he say how many of them were there?’

  ‘Just two.’

  Jon felt a flicker of excitement. ‘Don’t suppose he got any names?’

  ‘They all hide behind nicknames. Rustler, The Sergeant, Oddbod, bullshit like that. The kennels are called Clock-on. Don’t ask me how you spell it – sounds Irish, though. One of the blokes had a Gaelic-sounding name, beginning with D.’

  Jon dipped his head, eyes fixed on Nick. ‘Darragh?’

  The RSPCA officer frowned. ‘Might have been. You want me to check?’

  ‘Please.’

  Nick removed his mobile from his fleece and pressed a few buttons. ‘It’s me.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘I know, I know. You’re ill. These Irish kennels. Was the name Darragh? Maybe? That’s no fucking use to me. Keep your ears open. Anything else on this, my phone rings with your name on the screen, OK?’ He cut the call and hunched a shoulder. ‘Says it might have been. One of those w
eird Irish names, were his exact words. He’ll ask his mate next chance he gets.’

  Darragh, Jon thought. It had to be him. He felt the tingle in his spine he always experienced when closing in on a suspect. ‘Want to see the animal?’

  ‘Too bloody right.’

  Jon paused at the patrol car’s window. ‘Anyone in the surrounding houses see anything?’

  The driver looked up. ‘Afraid not. Curtains drawn, tellies on.’

  The sun was now about as high as it was going to get – perhaps a third of the way up the pale-blue sky. Their shadows stretched far away behind them as they made their way across. Twenty metres off from the burned-out van, Jon realised who the scene-of-crime officer was. Nikki Kingston. Shit. How long, he wondered, since that thing happened between us?

  His mind went back to the night in the Bull’s Head. Five years? More? They’d been trying to catch a serial killer dubbed the Butcher of Belle Vue. The name came about because the killer removed large swathes of his victims’ flesh before dumping their bodies on waste ground around that part of the city. Nikki was working the forensics. He couldn’t help a small smile of pleasure catching the corners of his mouth. Apart from the flirting around, she was brilliant at her job. When she had come up with a key piece of evidence, what was meant to be a congratulatory kiss had escalated into something more. Jon remembered her look of irritation when he’d pulled his head back.

  She was wearing a white oversuit and was on her knees, examining where the van’s registration plates had been removed. She leaned back on her haunches, then, by pushing a hand down on the van’s bumper, laboriously rose to her feet. Bloody hell, Jon thought, she’s pregnant. A tiny part of his chest twinged.

  She saw him approaching and something flitted across her eyes. Moving to the perimeter tape, she pushed the hood off her head. Dark corkscrew curls sprang out.

  Your hair, Jon thought, it gets me every time. ‘Nikki – it’s been a while.’

  ‘Hello, Jon,’ she answered with the faint hint of awkwardness. ‘It has.’

  He couldn’t stop his eyes from dropping. Even beneath the voluminous folds of the forensics suit, her swollen stomach was obvious. He considered her raucous sense of humour as he wondered what to say. ‘You been on the pies?’

  She placed a hand on her bump, blowing a strand of hair away as she did so. No wedding ring, he noticed, waiting for her riposte.

  ‘Only when you leave any.’ She directed a meaningful glance at his belly.

  Jon looked down at his waistband with dismay. No way I’m getting a paunch, he thought. He heard her laugh.

  ‘That had you worried.’

  Now feeling sheepish, he raised his chin. She was looking at Rick. ‘Good to see you.’

  Rick stepped forward, smiling. ‘You’re looking great, Nikki. How long before…’

  ‘Ten weeks,’ she smiled back, eyelids lowering at the thought. ‘Ten weeks before I can put my feet up.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘Not in stirrups, mind. On the bloody sofa. If I pop on my first day of maternity leave, I’ll be so pissed off.’

  Jon grinned. The woman was five foot two of infectious spirit. ‘Nikki, this is Nick Hutcher, he’s chief inspector of the RSPCA’s dog-fighting unit. Can he take a look at the beast?’

  ‘Be my guest.’ She started walking away, speaking over her shoulder as she went. ‘If a girly’s that big, I dread to think what a boy’s like. Its knackers will be the size of two tennis balls.’

  The RSPCA officer had a bemused expression on his face. ‘She’s got a way with words. I was thinking as we drove over; why did they abandon it?’

  Jon weighed things up. Time to lay my cards on the table, he thought. ‘I’m fairly certain this animal is the same one that attacked my dog yesterday. And the Irish connection could fit with some people I suspect might be looking to level scores with me.’

  Nick scratched at his head. ‘You need to explain.’

  ‘I caught up with the van the animal jumped into. The driver must have realised I’d seen the vehicle’s registration – which, incidentally, was Irish. They also knew I’m police.’

  Nick’s gaze went back to the vehicle. ‘Was it was dumped in a hurry, then?’

  ‘So much so, they didn’t think to check what that strange-looking building with the tower was on the other side of the fence.’ He nodded at the fire station.

  Nick whistled. ‘You’re saying you got a good look at their vehicle – forcing them to get rid. Except that left them with the dilemma of what to do with their dog.’

  ‘And,’ Jon added, ‘I’d got a very good look at that, too.’

  Nick was silent for a second. ‘If they made the decision to sacrifice the animal, that wouldn’t have been easy. If this is the Grand Champion everyone’s talking about, any litter from it would have been worth thousands.’

  Rick shifted his weight from foot to foot.

  ‘What are you thinking, mate?’ Jon asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I can appreciate the two blokes in the van needed to make themselves scarce, but surely there was an alternative to killing their prize dog?’

  Nick shrugged. ‘They certainly wouldn’t have wanted any other kennels getting their hands on it. Maybe it was the only option they had.’

  ‘How would it have been done?’ Rick asked.

  ‘All these people have a vet’s kit. A first-aid pack to stitch up any damage sustained during the fights. Probably gave it an overdose of painkillers. Kindest way to do it.’ He gave Jon a cautious look. ‘If I were you, I’d sort out some precautions.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I know these types and, believe me, they will be fucking furious.’

  ‘Good,’ Jon grunted. ‘I intend to cost them a lot more, yet.’

  Nick’s eyes narrowed. ‘I can believe that.’ He approached the rear doors, leaned forward and was silent for a few seconds. ‘What an incredible physique. You said it was light on its feet?’

  Jon stepped closer. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Yet it’s got such amazing muscle bulk in the shoulders and neck.’ He hooked his fingers into its mouth and prised the stiff jaws apart. ‘My God – the size of those incisors.’

  Jon looked away. Those things were clamped on my dog’s throat.

  ‘See the gaps between each one?’ Nick asked, struggling slightly to close and reopen the jaws. ‘Inverted scissor bite. Its jaw muscles extend up and round the top of the head: this thing is really quite alarming.’ He straightened up. ‘What will happen to it?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ Jon answered. ‘The incinerator?’

  ‘Could I take it? We can store it at one of our centres while I try and work out what – if any – breed it is.’

  ‘You’re welcome to it.’ Jon turned away. ‘I’d be happy to never set eyes on it again.’ Nikki was near the driver’s cab bagging up some evidence. ‘Anything?’ he called, wandering across.

  She shook her head. ‘Not a lot. Some bits of newspaper from under the floor mat. But that’s about it.’

  ‘Any details visible on them?’

  She examined the fragments through the thin layer of clear plastic. ‘A date; sixth of June.’

  ‘Recent, then,’ Jon replied, stopping at her side so he could look over her shoulder. His eyes slid to the thick curls just inches from his face.

  Nikki squatted down and clipped the lid of her equipment box closed. ‘Sorry to not be of any more use. What’s it all about, anyway?’

  Jon waved a hand. ‘It was, er…’ He glanced to the rear of the vehicle where Rick was chatting quietly to the RSPCA officer. ‘It was my dog. The animal in the back of the van attacked my dog.’ His eyes touched hers.

  ‘Your Boxer? Punch?’

  He nodded, looking again at the vehicle to avoid her face. She held up a hand and he reached down to help her to her feet. ‘Is he all right?’ she asked, letting her fingers slip slowly from his.

  ‘Hopefully.’ He heard the faint tremor in his voice and cleared his throat. ‘H
e’s being cared for at a vet’s.’

  ‘So now you’re trying to figure out who owns the van?’

  ‘That’s the idea.’

  ‘I bet it is,’ she breathed. ‘So.’ Her voice picked up. ‘Family OK?’

  Hardly, he thought. My wife’s so wired she’s about to snap and my daughter’s having nightmares about that thing in the van. ‘Good, thanks.’ He nodded at her tummy. ‘We’re expecting our second in a couple of months.’

  ‘Really?’ Nikki’s smile didn’t quite convince. ‘And how’s Alice?’

  Jon thought about her having to spend the day at her mum’s, unable to remain in her own house. I should ring her, check everything’s fine. ‘She’s doing well. And you?’ He struggled to phrase the question. ‘Is…how’s the daddy-to-be handling it all?’

  Nikki shrugged nonchalantly. ‘I wouldn’t know. When I said I was keeping it, he ran a mile.’

  ‘That was good of him.’

  She let out a little snort. ‘Better off without him. You know me – I always pick them.’

  The observation hung between them and Jon looked away. ‘Well…we’d better press on.’ He pointed at the equipment box containing her evidence. ‘Let me know, yeah?’

  ‘Will do.’

  Jon walked back to the rear of the van. ‘Rick, we should get back to the station. Nick? How do you want to play it?’

  ‘I’ll get a work vehicle sent over from our nearest rescue centre to collect the carcass. Then I’d better return to those kennels.’

  ‘Can you find your way back?’

  ‘Satnav.’

  Jon nodded. ‘Are you sticking round Manchester?’

  ‘For tonight. Then back down to Sussex.’

  Jon thought of the RSPCA officer sitting in a sterile hotel room. ‘I’d offer to take you out for a beer, but with all this business with my dog…’

  ‘Don’t worry. Two of the guys based up here are showing me a particular pub. The Marble Arch? Apparently it brews its own beers.’

  Jon pictured the venerable old boozer with its ornately tiled ceilings. ‘Your colleagues have good taste.’

  Nick smiled. ‘That one called Mark? He loves the cider they do there.’

  ‘Well, another time, it would be a pleasure to take you out myself.’