The problem with High Clough farm was that it was on the highest piece of ground for miles, so there was nowhere we could set up an observation post. The comprehensive school headmaster was hiking in the Dolomites, but we'd sweet-talked the school secretary into letting us have a look at the records. Damian Brown lived at High Clough farm, and the secretary wasn't at all surprised that he was in trouble. Anything else she could have done to put him away for a long time was ours for the asking. We drove back and forth on the lane that went near the farm and eventually decided on an unofficial lay-by used as a rubbish dump by the fairies. It's easy to blame townies for coming into the country to dispose of the odd three-piece suite, but they don't leave the weedkiller drums and fertilizer bags.
"You can see the end of the track that leads to the farm," Dave said.
"And a transit parked here won't attract attention," I added.
X-ray 99, our helicopter, was making slow passes over the moor, about a mile away, as if on a search. It worked its way towards the farm and as it passed over we heard the frantic barking of dogs over the thrum of the chopper's blades. It banked away, the sun flashing off its sides, to resume its search on the other side. After a minute or two stooging around for the sake of credibility it turned and sped off towards its base near Wakefield.
"When will the photos be ready?" Dave asked.
"They've promised them for this afternoon."
The Browns were a big, extended family, Dave had discovered, and Sebastian and Sharon were tenuous relatives. One branch still lived in the style of travellers, even if they were permanently settled on a council site; another had abandoned the old ways a couple of generations ago and lived in a more conventional manner. This side of the family was fully integrated with local society. Two were solicitors, some owned small businesses and a few had criminal records, including Sebastian. He'd done three months for credit card fraud. High Clough farm was the home of the latest member to come under our scrutiny: Damian.
"So Sharon was happy to talk to you?" I said.
"She came round after a few minutes. I think she's proud of her romantic gypsy origins."
"Except they're not gypsies, they're tinkers," I said.
"Gypsies, tinkers, Romanies, travellers, they're all the same, nowadays."
"Whatever, she managed to break away from it and get an education."
"That's true." We both knew that illiteracy was a very useful characteristic for some people when trying to negotiate their way past modern living's more oppressive obstacles, like income tax returns, court warrants and job applications.
"Did you ask if they ever had family get-togethers?"
"Yeah, weddings mainly. She said they had great parties."
"I bet. C'mon, let's go."
The pictures showed High Clough farm to be a tumbledown dump, falling apart after years of neglect. If it hadn't been for the Land Rover Defender parked outside we'd have thought the place was derelict. Hill farmers have been encouraged to diversify to stay solvent, and, like so many of them in this part of the world, High Clough had diversified into rusting farm machinery and old tyres. Mr Wood came down to the CID office and we all poured over the pictures.
"You reckon this is where they hold the dog fights, do you?" he asked.
"No. I think they're involved, but whether they stage the fights I don't know."
"It would be the ideal place," Dave said.
Jeff Caton was peering at the photos through a big magnifying glass. "There's a chicken run," he said, "on the paved area in front of the house."
"It's a farm," I told him. "They keep a few chickens."
"There's a big chicken run next to the barn. With real chickens. You can see them. I reckon this other one is where the dogs fight."
"Outside?" I wondered aloud.
"Why not, especially this weather?"
"No reason. I'd just assumed it was an indoor sport."
"The idle boasts of a retarded boy and a chicken run outside the front door are not enough for a search warrant," Gilbert said, "but we might manage twenty-four hour surveillance."
I thought about it. "No need for twenty-four hours," I said. "Not if they hold the fights in daylight. And I don't suppose they have them in the early morning. Ten till ten should cover it."
"Look at this," Jeff said, and we all turned to him. The chopper had taken pictures as it approached the farm, from a fairly low angle, and others as it passed directly overhead. We'd concentrated on the overhead ones, to study the layout of the buildings, but now Jeff was looking at one of the oblique views.
"What is it?"
"There's some cages, four of them," he said, "down the side of the barn. If you look carefully you can see that whatever are in the middle two are looking at the chopper." He passed me the magnifying glass.
I could see two pale smudges against the gloom of the cage interiors, like two faces painted by an impressionist with a deft dab of the brush. "Rabbits?" I suggested after studying them.
"No, they're not rabbits. Look at the ears."
Dave took over. After a few seconds he said: "They're cats. That's what they are: cats."
I was in my office, clearing up and determined to go home on time, when Rosie rang.
"You sound despondent," she said after I'd introduced myself.
"Hello Rosie," I replied. "It'll soon pass now I'm talking to you."
"Are you working hard?"
"Not really, just musing on the behaviour of some of my fellow men."
"The producer telephoned me a few minutes ago," she said without further ceremony. "The coroner has signed a warrant giving permission for my father's body to be exhumed and the chancellor of the diocese has given his approval."
"Oh," I said. "And are you pleased?"
"Of course I am. Now we can do the tests."
"Have they given you a date?"
"No, but he wants to do it as soon as possible."
I bet he did. "So it's all up to the DNA."
"Yes, that's right. It's all up to the DNA."
I let that thought hang in the air, then said: "If you're not doing anything tonight, Rosie, do you fancy that Chinese?"
"Oh, yes, I'd like that. Thank you."
"Do you mind if we make it early? I'm starving."
"That's fine by me."
"I'll pick you up."
We didn't bother with the banquet, that's for special occasions, settling for a pair of dishes from the a la carte menu. Rosie was her old self: witty and mischievous, happy that things were moving along. She told me a few of the things that the school-children had said, like the boy who thought the Atlas Mountains were stockpiles of school books, and I related a few of my own about our clients.
"One youth who was given a community service order thought he'd been given a community singing order," I said. "He asked which church choir he'd be in."
"One of my pupils, a girl this time, wrote in her exam paper that the European Market was held in Brussels every Wednesday afternoon."
"It's the quality of the teaching that does irV' "Oh, definitely."
I paid the bill and took her home. On the way we saw the police helicopter in the distance, its searchlight on as it quartered the ground.
"They're having a busy day," I said. "We had them out this morning."
"Aren't you going to dash over to see if you can be of any assistance?"
I glanced at her, then back at the road and at her again. "No way," I stated.
As I parked outside her gate Rosie asked me if I was coming in for a cuppa.
"Is there any chocolate cake left?"
"There might be."
"In that case, yes please."
The weather was changing and the temperature had dropped. Rosie shivered and switched on the gas fire, and went somewhere to turn up the thermostat. I stood behind her in the kitchen as the kettle came to the boil, wanting to put my arms around her. She cut the remains of the cake into two uneven halves and gave me the larger one.
"How long have you lived here?" I asked when we were seated in the lounge, her on the settee, me in an easy chair. She gave me a potted history of her movements, first of all living in a succession of rented accommodations before splashing out, rather late in life for a first-time-buyer, on the bungalow.
"You did the right thing," I said. "The only advice my dad ever gave me was to get on the housing ladder, as soon as possible. It was good advice."
But a stupid thing to say, I thought, even as the words came out. It killed the conversation for a few moments.
"I bought at a bad time," she said, eventually. "Prices were high."
"There's never a good time," I told her. Profound words straight from the financial pages. "Just think of all those grotty flats and bedsits, where your rent goes straight to pay for the landlord's villa in the Bahamas."
"Yes, I had a few of those." She refilled our cups, then said: "When… when I left Gary — he was called Gary — I moved to Derby, landed a teaching job there. Supply teaching, not permanent. I had a horrible bedsit. Peeling paper, damp walls, the lot. Why I stayed so long I can't imagine."
"What was Gary's problem?" I ventured.
"Gambling. He was a gambler. You don't back horses, do you?"
I shook my head. "It was a courageous thing to do," I told her. "Making the break like that, moving on. It's a pity more women don't do it."
"They're trapped, Charlie, that's why. And it didn't feel courageous at the time." She put her cup down and sat in silence for a while. I was about to mention that we might have had a breakthrough with the dog fighting saga when she said: "I had a breakdown, Charlie. I lost the plot, completely."
"What sort of a breakdown?"
She heaved a big sigh that said she'd let the genie out of the bottle and there was no getting it back in. "I don't know. What sorts are there? I moved to Derby, into this awful bedsit, with nothing but the clothes I wore and what I could stuff into a Ford Fiesta. I worked one term as a supply teacher and then it was the summer holiday. I didn't know if I'd have a job when it was over. I was so lonely I just… gave up. I sat in that ghastly, smelly room and cried my eyes out for three weeks. I didn't wash, didn't eat, didn't take any interest in the outside world. I just let everything close in on me. I wanted to die, Charlie, but wasn't brave enough to do anything about it."
"What happened?"
"Nothing. One day, I thought, what am I doing? Nobody was going to come and sort me out, I had to do it myself. There was nothing organically wrong with me, I wa's fairly young, had a brain, could find work almost anywhere. I took a shower and found some clean clothes, went out and did some shopping. I telephoned the headmaster and he said he couldn't offer me a permanent position just yet but there was plenty of work for me. I took him at his word and had an expensive hair-do, complete with silver streaks. Oh, and I put the deposit on a new car. Watch me go became my creed."
"And eventually you moved to Yorkshire."
"I landed a permanent post, and it was further away from him. I told you I came with baggage, Charlie. Now you know what I meant."
"That's not baggage, Rosie," I assured her. "It's what gave you those tiny little creases in the corners of your eyes when you smile, that's all. It's what goes towards making you a caring human being. It's… it's all part of the recipe that made Rosie Barraclough, and why I find her so damned attractive."
She looked at me, her chin trembling. "Do you, Charlie?"
I moved over to her, engulfed her in my arms, held her tight. "Yes," I said. "Yes I do. All that's behind you. You're with me, now."
We sat like that for a long while as it grew dark around us. I tipped her face towards mine and kissed her on the lips. I wanted to stay the night, but didn't ask. There was a ghost watching us, the ghost of her father. Soon we'd dig him up, do the tests and discover the truth. Win or lose, we'd come through it together. I drove home praying that he'd not done the deed, just so I could see the happiness it would bring Rosie. If he really were the murderer then it would be up to me to make her happy. I could do it, I was confident of that. It would just take a little longer, that was all.
I always go into the office on a Saturday morning, to clear up any paperwork and prioritise any jobs that came in overnight. Friday night brings out the worst in some people. I hadn't left home when the phone rang. It was Dave.
"Have you heard?" he asked.
"Heard what?"
"About us, last night?"
"Us? Who's us?"
"Me, Pete, Jeff and Don."
"You went to the brass band concert."
"That's right, but we had a spot of bother on the way home."
"Oh no," I sighed. A spot of bother could only mean one thing: drinking and driving.
"It's not that," he assured me, reading my mind. "It's something else."
"Go on."
"Well, we didn't stay until the end. We'd heard the set piece three times and that was enough. We decided to come a bit nearer home and have a drink. Heading along the Heckley Road, towards the Babes In The Wood, Pete just happened to notice that we were following a convoy of four-wheel-drives. Three of them. Suddenly they all slowed and turned off into this little lane that didn't look as if it led anywhere. We called in the Babes and had a couple of pints. When we came out Pete said 'I wonder what they went up that lane for? Let's go see what's up there.' He was driving and Don encouraged him so off we went. After about a mile we found the three off-roaders, parked and empty."
"Aliens," I said. "They'd been abducted by aliens."
"You're nearer than you think," Dave replied. "We assumed they were poachers, but then we saw these lights in a corn field, wandering up and down. We waited for ages but they just kept on wandering up and down, so we telephoned Dewsbury and told them all about it. We thought that maybe they were looking for badgers."
"What did Dewsbury do?"
"They sent in the heavy mob, and the helicopter, and they were all arrested. Seven of them. They thought it was great fun, laughing and joking and taking the piss."
"So what were they up to?"
"Crop circles. They were making crop circles in the corn. Said it would create interest in the area, generate publicity, help the tourist trade and all that."
"Ha ha! And what did your colleagues from the Dewsbury force have to say to you?"
"They suggested, very politely, that in future we restrict our activities to Heckley and district."
"They can do them for criminal damage. It's a face-saver. Not much of one but a result just the same."
"No they can't."
"Why not?"
"Because it was their own chuffing field, that's why."
We get a fair number of UFO sightings around Heckley. Apparently there's a vortex somewhere up in the hills. That's a fault in the structure of the Earth that allows magnetic energy to leak out, providing a source of power for alien spacecraft. They hover overhead and recharge their power packs. Foggy nights are particularly propitious, as this allows the energy to flow more freely. It also conveniently blurs the evidence. Anybody with more than half a brain puts the sightings down to the police helicopter with its Night-Sun searchlight on, or airliners groping their way towards Manchester airport, or to too many Carlsberg Specials, but they could be wrong. The Great Crop Circle Massacre was destined to be written into the annals of Her Majesty's East Pennine Police Force, and those involved would be spoken of in hushed tones for the rest of their careers. I had a couple of hours in the office and went home to work on the paintings.
Sophie and Digby came to visit, on their way to her parents', and Digby said it was nice to see me again and it had been really generous of me to run Sophie home last week, which made me glad that we weren't holding the conversation in front of her mum and dad. Tea and coffee were refused but they insisted on seeing the paintings. Digby thought they were great, and appreciated the irony of the beautiful poetry and the careless lover's doodles. He offered to ask his father to make a telephone bid for them, but I said they weren't that good and discouraged him.
The troopers on observation at High Clough rang to tell me that all was quiet. They were in regular contact with the control room but I'd told them to give me the occasional call. The Land Rover had left at nine and returned two hours later. The postman had driven straight past.
Rosie had never visited my house but I'd have to invite her round soon, so I did a big clean-up, right through to the oven and the tops of the doors. I had a cleaning lady, once, but when she told her husband I was a cop he stopped her coming. He must have been scared she'd reveal more than she ought when we shared the obligatory pot of tea. Sunday I did all the usual Sunday things: cleaned the car; went to the supermarket; drove past the church and cursed the traffic jam near the garden centre. I rang Rosie and left a message, said I was just wondering how she was, but she didn't come back to me. Not much moved up at High Clough.
Mad Maggie Madison, one of my two female DCs, was back at work on Monday morning after a fortnight in Tenerife. She looked fit and tanned and had lost a couple of pounds.
"You look well, Maggie," I said when I saw her. "Good holiday?"
"Brilliant, thanks. Have you missed me?"
"You'd never believe how much. It's been unbridled sexism for the last two weeks. We desperately need the woman's touch."
"Saveeta still on her course?" she asked.
"My little bit of Eastern promise? Yeah, she's another week to do."
"Uh!" Maggie snorted. "You're as bad as the rest of them."
I met Gareth Adey on the stairs as we went up to Mr Wood's office for the morning briefing and he said something about my boys being busy on Friday night. I resisted the urge to tip him over the banister. They were already in there when we knocked and entered: Dave, Jeff, Pete and Don; the Crop Circle Four. Dave winked at me and Gilbert wore the expression of a father who has just learned that his teenage son has rodgered the vicar's wife: a struggle between anger and amusement.
"Have you heard about this lot?" Gilbert asked, looking at me.
"I've heard the expurgated version."
Gareth, in his usual smug manner, said: "I'd rather not intrude into private grief."
"What do you reckon we should do with them?" Gilbert asked.
"Latrine duties," I said. "Put them on latrine duties for three months. Maggie's back so we won't miss them."
"We could do it, Boss," Pete replied. "We'd have the cleanest bogs in the division, guaranteed. We could put those little blue things in the cisterns, and maybe even have a few flowers."
"I could supply the flowers," Jeff said. "Grape hyacinths would go well with the blue water. We'd need some vases, though."
"Coffee jars would do," Pete suggested. "Not plain ones. Those fancy Kenco ones. We could start collecting them."
"OK, OK," Gilbert interrupted, holding up his hands. "We'll spare you the latrine duties. But could we please have a little less gallivanting round the countryside like a bunch of cowboys? Dewsbury are threatening to sting us for the cost of the operations support unit and the chopper. Now, haven't you any work to do?"
They trooped out through the door, Dave at the rear. He paused, one hand on the handle, turned and said: "That might be an idea, Mr Wood."
Oh no, I thought. Don't say it, Dave, whatever it is, please don't say it.
"What's that, David?" Gilbert asked.
"What you said about cowboys. It might be an idea for the gala. They could dress up like sheriffs and their deputies. Lawmen and all that. It might go down well with the kids."
Gilbert looked doubtful, started to voice his misgivings, but Gareth interrupted him. "Um, well, in the absence of any other suggestions, Mr Wood, it might be worth considering," he said, as I glared after Dave as he pulled the door shut behind him.
I was thinking about a mid-morning coffee when the man himself brought me one. "You're a mind reader," I said. "Pull up the chair," and placed two beer mats on the end of my desk. "Gareth took the bait," I told him.
"He'satwat."
"That's no way to talk about a senior officer. So, how did the weekend go?"
"Terrific, Chas. He's a good lad, I really liked him."
"That's what I thought. They called to see me on the way." I sighed inwardly: with a bit of luck that disclosure would eliminate the need for any more untruths.
"He plays rugby, and he's devoted to Sophie. He asked me if he could marry her. Can you believe that? He actually asked me. Bet that doesn't happen too often, these days."
"That's great. So they're engaged?"
"I suppose so. He didn't have a ring or anything."
"What does Shirley think?"
"Oh, she's over the moon one second, tearing her hair out the next. She spent all last week doing the house, now she scared stiff about meeting his parents. They seem to be quite well off."
"That's good. What are they called?"
"I knew you'd ask that, so I wrote it down." He pulled a pay-and-display ticket from his pocket. "Here we are: Merriman hyphen Flint."
I said: "Wow! That's a mouthful."
"That's what I thought. Sophie says they own half of Somerset."
It was nearly my undoing. I thought Sophie had said Shropshire, so I responded with: "You mean Sh… Sh… Sh… she's, er, she's marrying into a wealthy family?"
"It looks like it."
"Good for her."
"That's neither here nor there, Charlie. They looked good together, and she's 'appy That's all I care about,"
He asked me about my weekend and I was blustering again when the phone rang. How the crooks we work with keep track of their various subterfuges escapes me. Perhaps they're cleverer than I think they are. It was Control.
"Things are happening up at High Clough, Charlie. Four vehicles have arrived in the last fifteen minutes."
"That's interesting. Tell the OSU to start their engine and tell the FOP to give me a ring."
Five minutes later the pair in the Transit were telling me that another three vehicles had arrived. "That'll do," I said. "Stay put and direct the heavy mob straight in when they arrive. You watch out for escapees."
The operations support unit used to be called the task force. We had one van with a sergeant and six PCs standing by, all in heavy riot gear. I told them where to rendezvous with my team, in a lay-by about a mile from the farm. I raised an armed response unit off the motorway, because there was certain to be a shotgun at the farm, plus two pandas and three unmarked vehicles with my lads in them. A video cameraman was in one of the pandas, with a bobby to act as his personal bodyguard as he recorded the scene. The chopper was up above. It's compulsory, these days. What did we do before Heinrich von Helicopter invented the craft that made him into a household name? On the drive over I told Dave to let the RSPCA know what was happening.
We were the last to arrive at the rendezvous. I jumped out and briefed the OSU sergeant, who didn't think they'd meet any resistance. We agreed that the best tactic would be to tear straight up the drive and block their vehicles in. The only other way out was to leg it over the fells.
"Let's go!" I shouted, because I get all the best bits.
The FOP Transit saw us coming and pulled across the lane. The passenger got out and directed our convoy into the dirt drive that led to High Clough farm, as nonchalantly as if he were on crossing duty. We bounced up the drive, dust billowing from the vehicles in front, gravel rattling underneath us.
"Oh, my springs," I complained.
"Oh, my giddy aunt," Dave said.
"Oh, my sausage sandwiches," Pete added as we bounced out of a particularly deep hole.
"Don't be sick in my car," I snapped, glancing at him through the rear-view mirror.
The buildings were arranged in a quadrangle. The house was single storey with a stone flagged roof encrusted in two hundred years'-worth of lichen and moss. From either side there sprang outbuildings with sagging doors and roof tiles awry. Grass grew from gutters and drainpipes hung away from walls. Apparatus with mysterious applications stood in every corner, rotting away on punctures tyres: Heath Robinson contraptions for spinning, shredding, flinging and spreading, and uses I didn't want to know about.
They heard us coming and started to dash for the shelter of the buildings. Our OSU Transit tore straight into the middle of the quadrangle and the crew baled out and started running. Jeff was right about the chicken run. A mean-looking bull mastiff-type dog with a black patch over one side of its face was leaping and snarling inside it, bouncing off the wire in its frantic desire to be part of the action and tear something apart. Another dog, equally enraged, was inside a small cage against the wall, where we'd seen the cats. I said a little prayer about the strength of wire netting and looked for someone not too physical to chase.
A few of the participants gave themselves up, turning to meet their attackers, arms raised. Others were "followed inside and dragged out, protesting. I saw a figure run to a door, find it locked and run into an open outhouse. A figure I thought I recognised.
I stood gaping at him for a moment, not believing my eyes, until I saw one of the OSU officers emerge from the house leading a woman by the arm. I jogged over to the outhouse as one of the PCs from the pandas looked inside, and put my hand on his arm.
"This one's mine," I whispered.
It was a pig sty. There were two stalls inside with fat sows asleep in them. I tiptoed past, looking into the corners while my eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom. The stink of ammonia made me weep and my feet squelched in the muck on the floor. The next stall had quarter-grown piglets in it which dashed squealing to meet us, hoping we were bearers of food. The next one was used for storage, with several long planks leaned up in the corner. He was pressed against the wall, trying to make himself invisible behind them, while the ordure on the floor lapped over the tops of his highly polished brogues. The PC produced a torch and shone it on him.
"Hello, Sir Morton," I said. "It looks as if you're in the shit."
He was a knight, after all, so I handcuffed his hands to the front. "I can explain, Inspector," he protested. "This is all a mistake." I put my finger in front of my lips to hush him. "Not now," I said, and led him out into the sunshine.
Sharon Brown was standing near the transit, also in handcuffs, with a group of men. Some wore flat caps and dirty jackets, with collarless shirts; others were in leather jackets, smart trousers and enough gold ornamentation to pay off the national debt of a South American republic. I stood Sir Morton near my car and brought Sharon to join him. They faced each other without speaking.
"You wanted a word," I said to him.
"Er, yes, Inspector. I was saying, this is all a mistake. I've never done anything like it before. I was appalled by what I've seen, totally appalled."
"Well, you'll be able to explain all that when we take a statement from you back at the station." I led him over to a panda and removed his handcuffs, saying: "I don't think these are necessary, do you?" and placed a protective hand on his head as he ducked into the car, all for the benefit of the watching Sharon.
I was walking across to talk to the OSU sergeant and congratulate him on a job well done when I saw one of the uniformed PCs sitting on his heels, looking at something between the cages.
"What is it?" I asked, stooping beside him.
He was young but no doubt he'd seen some unpleasant sights in his short career. Sometimes it's not what you expect that gets through to you. His face was ashen as he looked up at me and moved aside.
Blood and fur, that's all I could see. A matted mass of blood and fur. Then a tail became visible, and an eye and the gory socket where its partner should have been, an ear and a leg. Underneath was the head of another creature, its jaw torn off, the teeth exposed like a saw blade. They were the cats we'd seen in the photos of the cages.
"Sorry, Claudius," I whispered. "I just wasn't quick enough."
We took Sir Morton and the desirable Sharon to Heckley and most of the others to Halifax, although Ms Brown looked anything but desirable with her mascara resembling the run-off from a coal tip, her lipstick like she'd been smacked in the mouth with a ketchup bottle and her expression one of loathing for us. Within half an hour I was removing her cuffs and telling her to sit down at the table of interview room number one. Dave was with us.
' "Did the cats put up much of a fight?" I demanded. "I don't know what you mean."
"Are you saying they weren't thrown to tHe dogs?"
"I'm not saying anything." "Do they hold dog fights at High Clough farm?"
"I don't know."
"Proud of yourself, are you?"
"I've done nothing to be ashamed of."
"Watching dog fights nothing to be ashamed of?"
"I'm saying nothing."
"Do you want a solicitor?"
"No."
"You'll need one, when I've finished."
"I don't want one."
"Do you think Sir Morton won't be asking for a solicitor? Do you think he won't be telling us all about it — from his point of view, of course. You heard him, Sharon, wheedling his way out of it before we'd gathered our breath. Soon you'll all be in front of the magistrate, who he probably plays golf with. I assume he does play golf, occasionally. The prosecuting barrister is probably the grand master of his lodge, and the judge, if he ever reaches a judge, will probably hold shares in Grainger's. I assure you, Sharon, that Sir Morton certainly won't be saying nothing. He'll be singing like a…"
I was choosing between a canary on hemp and a Welsh wedding when there was a knock at the door and a PC poked his head in.
"Have a word, Boss?" he said.
Outside he handed me a video cassette in its box. "Found these at the farm. Seven of them, all the same. It's a dog fighting video, almost certainly recorded there, with evidence to suggest they were doing mail order."
I thanked him and went back inside, carrying the video. "Put some tapes in, Dave," I said. "We'll do this properly."
It was his idea," she told us. "It… it turned him on."
"His? Who's he?"
"Mort.SirMorton."
"That would be Sir Morton Grainger?"
"Yes."
"So one day, right out of the blue, he said: 'Let's organise a dog fight and video it?'"
"No."
"What, then? Perhaps you'd better start at the beginning."
Her instinct was to tell us nothing, leave it to us to prove what we could. Admit nowt, say nowt, remember nowt; that was the creed. But she knew that her lover boy had a different armoury of defences, and he'd be pulling every string he could to put the blame elsewhere. Perhaps this was another of the old values that had served its time.
"It was… a couple of years ago," she began, hesitantly, her confidence gone, feeling for the words. "My cousin telephoned me, asked me to do him a favour."
"Which cousin was this?"
"I'm not saying."
"OK. Go on."
"He wanted me to copy a video he had. I didn't know what was on it."
"Why did he ask you?"
"Because he'd seen a film I'd made for Grainger's. It was a training video and I'd produced it. We did it all ourselves, from the camera work to making copies. I was proud of it and took a copy home to give to my parents. I was on it for a few seconds, doing the introductions. He must have seen it there."
"Did you look at his video?"
"Yes. I thought it was going to be pornographic, but it was only a dog fight. The production was terrible, a typical home video." ' "Ott yadogfight?"
"They're animals, Inspector. Wolves, underneath. We don't have the sentimental views about them that ybu have.": "You copied the video for your cousin." : "Yes.",
"So where does Grainger come in?"
"He wanted a copy of the training video to have a look at. I wasn't in my office so he went in my drawer and found the wrong one. That night it was all he could talk about. He… it… he was… you know…"
"It turned him on."
"Yes." She was blushing, but she still managed a defiant stare.
"And afterwards?" I asked. At his age there's always a lot of afterwards.
"He wanted me to take him to a fight. My cousin arranged one a fortnight later and we went. He was full of it, excited. He suggested organising a better one, more professional, and videoing it properly. We had all the equipment at Grainger's. Since then we've held one almost every month. He took over the betting, with him as the bookmaker. He loved every minute of it. The cats were his idea."
"The cats?"
"Yes. Cats against the Clock, he called it."
I dreaded to think what Cats against the Clock was, but no doubt all would be revealed when I watched the video. I turned to Dave and asked him if he had any questions.
"Yes," he replied, shuffling in his seat. "Where does Sebastian fit into all this?"
"Sebastian?" she echoed.
"Your distant cousin. Sir Morton's home help."
"He doesn't come into it."
"How did he get the job?"
"It was years ago. He worked for Grainger's and made assistant manager, but he wasn't qualified to go any higher and he wasn't happy. Mort mentioned that he wanted a Man Friday and I suggested Sebastian. It's worked out very well, I'm told."
"But Seb isn't part of the dog fighting club?"
"No, he…"She hesitated.
"He what?" Dave prompted.
"He doesn't believe in all that."
"All what?"
"The old ways. Our parents made the break and he doesn't like being reminded of his background."
"Are you saying he's ashamed of it?"
"Yes."
"But you're proud of yours?"
She stared at him with her big gypsy eyes. "Yes, I am."
According to the 1911 Protection of Animals Act the organiser of the dog fight was looking at six months inside, except that we don't put anyone away these days unless it's at least his tenth offence. There was some gobbledygook about procuring and/or receiving money that we might have been able to nail Grainger with, but it looked as if we'd have to settle for a hefty fine. He'd be shamed in open court, with his name in the papers — that was the main punishment. It would make the nationals and we'd field a few plaudits for stamping out the evil business. Kids and animals. Actors don't like working with them but to us they're all in a day's work.
Jeff and Pete came in, grinning like a pair of truants at an afternoon match, closely followed by a uniformed sergeant. I looked past them at the sergeant and swivelled round in my chair to face him.
"You'll get lost up here, Max," I said.
"I could always ask a policeman, if I could find one," he replied. "Message for you, Charlie. Thought I might catch you downstairs but I missed you. It could be important."
I reached out and took the telephone report sheet from him. It was short and sweet. From Miss Barraclough, to DI Priest, personal. "Gone to Uley. The exhumation is scheduled for midnight tonight."
"Bugger," I sighed.
Max left us and Jeff said: "Bad news?"
I turned the sheet round and offered it to him. "Not sure. Depends what the result is."
He read the words and gave it back to me. "Were you hoping to go?"
"I'd have liked to."
"You can still do it. There's plenty of time for you to drive there."
I gestured towards the pile of yellow file jackets on my desk, each bulging with the blank forms that needed completing before we could put the dogfighters in front of a magistrate. "What about this lot?"
"We can manage, can't we, Pete?"
Pete shrugged. "Yeah, no problem. Where were you hoping to go?"
"To an exhumation in Gloucestershire. It's the father of a woman I know. Jeff'11 tell you all about it."
"Get yourself off, then. We'll have a word with Mr Wood and manage this lot. It's just a matter of taking statements and letting them go, isn't it?"
I thought about it for a second or two. "I'm a bit worried about Sir Morton," I said, pursing my lips and shaking my head. "He was sounding off about it not being his idea and all that. He could be at risk of violence from the others if we let him out. Some of them are really mean types. It would look bad if anything happened to him, wouldn't it?" The codes of practice said we should release them all as soon as possible after they'd been charged, but there were exceptions. We could hold someone if there was a chance that they would interfere with witnesses, or if we ran out of time, or if we considered them to be a danger to others or be in danger themselves.
"Mmm, I see what you mean," Jeff agreed with a knowing nod. "Now you've mentioned it I did hear a few threats being muttered. In that case perhaps we should hold him overnight, for his own safety."
"Just what I was thinking, Jeffrey."
"OK. We'll leave him 'till last and see how it goes."
"Cheers," I said. "I really would like to be at this exhumation but I'll make a couple of phone calls first."
Rosie didn't answer and she doesn't own a mobile. Inconvenient but another reason to like her. After that I rang a Gloucester number and spoke to the coroner's officer in charge of the exhumation. She'd cleared all the legal obstacles and orchestrated interested parties so that the whole thing would run smoothly at midnight tonight. She was an ex-police sergeant and had no objection to my attending, even though the case was well outside my jurisdiction. I didn't explain my interest and she didn't ask.
"Presumably First Call are paying," I said.
"You bet," she replied.
"Why midnight? And why so hastily arranged?"
"Their request. We would normally have organised it for first light, about 5 a.m., but they asked for the midnight slot. It's the witching hour. They'll be able to show the church clock at that time and superimpose hooting owls on the soundtrack. We're normally seen as a bunch of obstructionists but they were in a hurry and the family member had given her permission, so we were happy to accommodate them. It shows us in a good light and the publicity for the office won't do us any harm. You know the score: everything stops for the great god television."
"And the TV crew'll be able to go there straight from the pub," I said, "instead of having to drag their hungover bodies out of bed at four in the morning."
"You're a cynic, Inspector."
"A cynic? Moil Never."
The next call was to the Home Office laboratory at Chepstow, where I eventually found myself speaking to the scientist who was handling the case. He suggested that he ring me back.
"So what's the game plan?" I asked after wte'd confirmed that we were talking about the Barraclough case.
"Not much of a plan," he replied. "We dig down to the coffin and then decide on the next step. Ideally, if it's in a good condition, we'll remove the whole caboodle and take it to the path lab, but after thirty years that's unlikely. We'll have a spare coffin standing by, a big one, and we'll probably have to lift everything into that. The best place to find uncorrupted DNA will be in the bones. We'll get what we want while it's in the lab and have the coffin back down the hole by lunchtime."
"Is Chepstow handling the profiling?"
"Not completely. The TV people have asked for samples so they can use a private lab."
"And you still have the nail-scrapings from the girl?"
"Yes, we've already done a profile on them."
"Have you given First Call a sample?"
"No. We refused, but they've got the profile."
"Are they happy with that?"
"They'll have to be."
"So why do they need a Barraclough sample? Why can't they let you do the whole job? Don't they trust you?"
"Probably not, but we have different agendas. They want to televise the process and we won't allow them in here, so they're using the private lab. And they want to beat us to it, of course. It's all to do with the great unwashed's craving for excitement. We want to get to the bottom of a murder and possibly defend the police's reputation, they want a story, preferably one that shows police incompetence."
I thought about his words for a few seconds and decided to come clean with him. "The dead man's daughter is an acquaintance of mine," I said, "so I have a slight personal involvement. She'll be there and I'm worried she'll find it upsetting."
"Hmm, I imagine it will be. I'd keep her well back if I were you. He'll be a skeleton by now and there might be a certain amount of disrespectful conduct when we're down the hole, trying to find all his bits and pieces."
"Rather you than me," I said.
"It's a living."
"Thanks for your help, and we'll see you at midnight."
"See you then. Oh, and just one other piece of advice."
"Fire away."
"Your friend. I'd keep her upwind of the grave if I were you."