Blood Sport: A Yorkshire Murder Mystery (DCI Harry Grimm Crime Thrillers 7)

by David J Gatward

  ‘What do you think, then?’ Harry asked eventually, breaking the silence if only to hurry the morning along because he was getting hungry now, and something told him that getting back to Hawes would very much involve grabbing something for breakfast. The kind of something that Police Constable Jenny Blades would frown at.

  ‘I think that the kind of people who were involved in what happened in that barn should be…’

  The pathologist’s voice faded and she closed her mouth, sucking in a deep breath through her nose.

  Harry noticed her face twitch a little as she clenched her jaw, a storm of anger raging in her eyes.

  ‘Oh, I’m with you on that,’ Harry said, stuffing his hands down into his jacket pockets and guessing at the thoughts now playing on the pathologist’s mind. ‘Dog fight, then?’

  Sowerby gave a short, sharp nod.

  ‘I’ve had a quick check of the body. All that blood, I thought maybe it had been shot and crawled in there, then been attacked by something else.’

  ‘And?’

  Sowerby breathed slow and deep through her nose, as though trying to keep herself calm.

  ‘I’m no vet, but I’m fairly confident the poor thing died of its wounds,’ she said. ‘There are teeth marks, claw marks, it was ripped apart. It’s a proper mess.’

  ‘It is that,’ Harry agreed.

  ‘I’m assuming the dog that won was taken back by its owner,’ Sowerby said. ‘Though what state the poor animal was in, I can hardly imagine. The blood outside the barn shows movement, so could be from that animal, its own wounds. Honestly, what the hell is wrong with people?’

  ‘And what kind of dog is it that was in the barn, then?’ Harry asked.

  ‘We’ll need a vet to tell us that,’ Sowerby said. ‘The damage was too bad for me to really tell, but I’m guessing some kind of spaniel.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A spaniel,’ Sowerby said.

  ‘Can’t be!’ Harry said. ‘For a start, it looks too big to be a spaniel.’

  ‘Well, regardless of the size, it certainly looks like one,’ Sowerby said, and Harry noticed an edge to her voice. ‘The colouring of it, anyway. Though it is hard to tell, what with all the damage.’

  ‘Look, I’m not questioning what you think you’ve seen, but—’

  ‘But what?’ Sowerby replied, and Harry heard a knife’s edge in her voice. ‘I’m just telling you what I think! Obviously, we’ll need a vet to have a look as well. But maybe you’re an expert at this, too?’

  Harry was keen to keep Sowerby on-side and had a feeling that the early morning wasn’t doing either of them much good. They were both tired, Sowerby more so, Harry thought, considering the journey she’d done.

  ‘That’s not what I meant,’ he said.

  ‘Isn’t it? Then what did you mean, exactly?’

  Harry paused, breathing deep through his nose.

  ‘It’s just that a spaniel, well, it’s not a fighting breed by any stretch of the imagination, is it? And they’re sort of a smallish medium-sized dog, aren’t they? Which isn’t what we found in there.’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ Sowerby said. ‘Which makes me wonder how it ever ended up here to die like this in the first place.’

  ‘There’s a vet in Hawes,’ Harry said, deciding to say no more about whether or not it was a spaniel they’d found in the barn. Because really, there was just no way that it could be. Dog fighting gangs were organised, secretive. They bred dogs specifically for fighting. And they absolutely didn’t use spaniels. So, just what the hell was this? It didn’t make sense.

  ‘A vet? Good,’ Sowerby nodded. ‘You know them, then?’

  Harry shook his head.

  ‘Not really, no. Don’t own a pet myself, or livestock for that matter. Or any kind of living creature, actually, though sometimes I find something at the back of the fridge that comes close. Most of the team are pretty set on me getting a dog, though.’

  Sowerby laughed. It was a sound Harry had never heard before and he found himself staring at her.

  ‘And that’s funny, is it?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m just trying to imagine what kind of dog you’d suit,’ Sowerby said.

  ‘Well, don’t,’ said Harry. ‘Because it won’t be happening.

  ‘You’ve resisted, then?’

  ‘I have,’ Harry said.

  ‘Why?’

  Harry went to answer, but then his voice caught somewhere in the back of his throat, because now, when he came to think of it, he wasn’t really sure. The old arguments of no time, nowhere to exercise it, no one to look after it if he was away, well, they didn’t really ring true anymore.

  ‘Work,’ he said eventually. ‘I’m busy, too busy for a dog. That’s why.’ Harry saw the smallest of smiles break through onto Sowerby’s face. ‘What?’

  ‘Doesn’t one of your PCSOs have a dog?’

  ‘Yes,’ Harry said. ‘Fly. I mean, Fly’s the dog, not the PCSO. That’s Jim. Who owns Fly.’

  ‘And Fly’s with him most of the time, isn’t he?’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘Then you’re just making excuses,’ Sowerby said.

  ‘It’s not an excuse, it’s a sensible reason. Well considered and thought through.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do say so,’ said Harry, then quickly if not exactly subtly, got the conversation back onto what they were actually there for in the first place. ‘So, you’ll see the vet, then?’

  ‘I’ll stop by there on my way through,’ Sowerby said. ‘Have a word with them about it all. They’ll need to do a full necropsy on it.’

  ‘I’ll pop by to have a chat with them as well when they’re done.’

  ‘Good,’ Sowerby said. ‘A report’s only so good, isn’t it? Sometimes it’s best to have it straight from the horse’s mouth, as it were.’

  Harry hadn’t heard the term necropsy for a long time but knew that it was simply the same investigation as an autopsy, only one performed on animals.

  ‘That reminds me,’ he said and pulled from a pocket the evidence bag containing the dog collar he’d found in the barn by the remains.

  Sowerby took it from him and held it up for a closer look.

  ‘I’m assuming you’ve taken the number?’

  ‘I’ve not rung it yet, though,’ Harry said. ‘That’s my job for this morning. Not one I’m looking forward to, either.’

  ‘I’m surprised this was here at all,’ Sowerby said, holding the bag up between them.

  ‘So am I,’ Harry agreed. ‘A clear mistake on the part of those involved, I’m hoping.’

  Sowerby stowed the evidence bag away.

  ‘Well, thanks for coming over,’ Harry said.

  ‘No thanks needed,’ Sowerby said. ‘It’s my job as much as it is yours.’

  ‘Funny way to make a living though. For both of us, I mean,’ Harry said. ‘Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to do a normal job.’

  ‘Normal?’ Sowerby asked. ‘What’s that, then?’

  ‘You know, nine to five, simple office work, a few meetings here and there about things you can forget about as soon as you go home.’

  ‘Not sure something like that is for people like us,’ Sowerby said.

  ‘People like us?’

  ‘We’re not as dissimilar as you may think,’ Sowerby said. Before he could reply, she turned from Harry and walked over to her car. ‘I’ll be in touch as soon as I can. And I’ll get someone to forward the photographs over as soon as I get into the office.’

  ‘Great, thanks,’ Harry said.

  Sowerby loaded up the boot of her car then climbed in behind the steering wheel. She started the engine and sent the window down into the door, glancing up at Harry as she did so.

  ‘On the one hand, I know it’s just a dog,’ she said, ‘but that kind of cruelty? It’s more than just a random act of violence, isn’t it?’

  ‘Very much so,’ said Harry and noticed how the pathologist’s knuckles were turning white as she
gripped her steering wheel.

  ‘To do that, though, to force animals into a death match, for entertainment? I mean, why?’

  ‘Lots of reasons,’ Harry said. ‘Though usually, it boils down to money.’

  ‘There are kinder ways to make it,’ Sowerby said.

  ‘Kinder, yes, but not necessarily easier,’ Harry replied.

  ‘That’s a very bleak viewpoint.’

  ‘I’m a very bleak person,’ Harry said.

  At that, Sowerby rested her eyes on Harry’s.

  ‘Which is why I’m thinking whoever did this should be more than a little worried. And also why you really should get a dog.’

  Harry said nothing, and that was enough.

  As Sowerby drove off, Harry turned back to look at the barn. Something terrible had happened there, but to him, it wasn’t simply about the one dog they’d found dead. Because he knew deep down that there was no way that what had taken place here was a random event.

  Something like this, it took a fair bit of organising to put together. You had to find a suitable location, have access to dogs, know how to keep such activity out of sight of the law. That meant there were a good number of people involved, men and women who found pleasure and profit in the suffering of animals. But there was something else here, too.

  If the dog was a spaniel, then that had Harry thinking that perhaps this wasn’t as well-organised as similar cases he’d faced. Right now it didn’t make any sense. Not just the cruelty, but the way all the details sat together uncomfortably. Harry wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a very bad one indeed.

  Whatever had happened, Harry knew that those involved were the kind of people who were the lowest of the low. Weak people who got a kick out of killing something that had no chance of fighting back and who, he had no doubt at all, not only got off on it, but were convinced it made them tough.

  Harry was already looking forward to proving them very, very wrong.

  Chapter Four

  PCSO James Metcalf was the first to arrive at the office that he and the rest of the team used in the Community Centre in Hawes. He was early, having been up since six to help his dad around the family farm. Fly was with him, and as Jim unlocked the door, the dog slipped into the room and under a table onto a large cushion. He was a sleek animal with a black and white coat that rippled with the taught, young muscles underneath, and which shone in the sunlight when he was out on the fells helping to bring in the sheep. It was the night which best suited the dog though, Jim thought, when under a clear sky of stars the milky light of the moon would spill across the fells, catching Fly’s movements like the scales of a silvery fish in a dark pool.

  The room smelled a little stale from the day before, so he opened a window and allowed some cool air to rush in. He caught the scent of the moors and breathed it in, forever convinced that not only was it good for you, but that there was probably no air like it anywhere else in the world. Then it was over to get the kettle on, check the fridge for milk, and to have a nosy around the various information boards which hung from the walls, jostling for space with various other notices and procedures and posters.

  For Jim, life in the dales was all he’d ever known. He’d grown up on a local farm, gone to school here, had friends up and down the dale. He’d had friends move away to university, to find work, but other than the training he’d had to complete for the role he now fulfilled, Jim had stayed put. The grass, as far as he was concerned, was plenty green enough on his side of the fence, thank you very much, so that was exactly where he was staying. He had no plans to move and couldn’t see that he ever would, either.

  Now, as a Police Constable Support Officer, he saw himself as not only fulfilling the role of providing a visible police presence in the area, but as someone who was there to help the community, to serve the people around him, many of whom were as close as family. Which was why, months after it had happened, he was unable to shift the guilt he felt about the still-open case of the murder of an old school friend, Neil Hogg. Neil was one of the ones who’d moved away. Except, he’d somehow stumbled into a darkness out there which had then followed him home, and that Jim hadn’t known about until it was too late.

  The board on this particular crime was up on the wall, the investigation still classed as ongoing, regardless of the fact that the whole thing seemed to be a complete dead end. Add to this the fact, the case was wrapped up in sheep theft, a crime that up and down the country the police as a whole seemed to have little if any success with scoring convictions on, and it only seemed to be more and more hopeless as time ticked by. But Jim knew that he wouldn’t let it go and that the rest of the team wouldn’t either.

  The kettle clicked off and Jim made himself a brew then went to stand again at what they all called Hoggy’s board. Front and centre was the face of his friend, staring out into the room from a small collection of photos on loan from Neil’s parents. Jim had bumped into Alan, Neil’s dad, just a couple of weeks ago. The man looked older since the loss of his son, Jim thought, and there was an emptiness behind the smile he’d offered. It was as though Neil’s early and violent death had torn a ragged hole in his soul that was impossible to heal.

  Alan had invited Jim over, the unspoken reason behind the request not only to ask about the investigation but to give him and his wife a chance to talk about their son again, to relive the life they all remembered. As yet, though, Jim had avoided going over, coming up with excuses, putting work in the way.

  Staring at the board, Jim shook his head at how little there was on it, because in the months after what had happened there had been no leads, everything a dead end. Everyone knew that what had happened to Neil was linked to what had taken place at Jim’s parents’ farm, that Neil had been involved in the theft of a flock of sheep Jim’s dad had spent years breeding into a prize-winners. The assumption was, that Neil had not only fed information back to a gang he’d somehow got involved with in Darlington, but also kept Jim himself away from the farm that fateful night. And now he was dead, a loose end tied up in the worst possible way.

  As well as some photos of the crime scenes, both of Jim’s farm, and also Neil’s car, where his body had been found, various other bits of information were dotted around, detailing lines of investigation, relevant information, but nothing really led anywhere.

  Neil had been killed by a single shot to the head with a .32 calibre bullet. The skin around the wound had been scorched by the round being fired, so it had been at very close range. So far, though, knowing that hadn’t given them any way of finding out who had fired the gun. Unless they found the gun, and if at all possible the person who fired it, that wasn’t helpful. And as for DNA at the scene, all they’d found was Neil’s.

  Forensics had also identified that after being shot, Neil’s clothes and car had been searched. Though, whether the murder had found anything or not was impossible to ascertain. As was what exactly they’d been looking for in the first place. The whole thing was one big dead-end, at the end of which was the corpse of a friend.

  Jim sensed the pain of his grief bubbling up just a little too much, a sting at the corner of his eyes from the threat of tears. He took a deep breath and turned away and heard the thump of Fly’s tail as the dog stared up at him.

  ‘I’m alright, lad,’ Jim said, looking down at the dog. ‘Don’t you worry.’

  But the dog did worry, of that Jim was sure, because the animal seemed to have a sixth sense, as though it could read him better than any human. It was uncanny, but it was also helpful when they were out together working the sheep, because Fly was now starting to understand what Jim wanted before he whistled or called a command, and the more they worked together, the closer their bond became.

  Jim took a seat over by Fly and reached down to stroke his head, his eyes drawn again to Hoggy’s board, his friend’s eyes staring back at him.

  ‘You’re right,’ Jim said, looking down at Fly. ‘I’ll do it today, okay? I’ll visit Neil’s parents, I promise.’r />
  ‘Talking to yourself again, I see.’

  Jim turned to see Detective Sergeant Matt Dinsdale standing in the doorway. He was, as he had been known to say himself, comfortably built. However, thanks to his love of the outdoors, which included being a volunteer member of the local mountain rescue team, he managed to burn off most of the calories he took in during the often daily visits to either Cockett’s for some cake, or one of the local cafés for a bacon butty.

  ‘Not to myself, to Fly,’ Jim said.

  ‘Not sure that’s any better.’

  ‘He’s a good listener,’ said Jim. ‘Plus, he doesn’t talk as much bollocks as you.’

  Matt laughed, the jubilant sound warm and cheerful.

  ‘No, that’s a fair point, right enough,’ Matt said. ‘But then who does and to such a high standard? No one, Jim, that’s who.’

  ‘How’s Joan?’ Jim asked, ignoring Matt’s rambling.

  ‘Massive!’ Matt replied, then mimed a huge invisible belly on top of his own. ‘I mean, she’s properly enormous. Never seen anything like it in my life. She’s coming up on seven months now and I’m pretty sure she’s going to be giving birth to the world’s most enormous baby.’

  Jim laughed, not just at what Matt had said, but at the thought of the man being a dad. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that he’d be brilliant at it, but at the same time, everyone had a suspicion that not only would Matt’s approach to fatherhood be as big and bold and open-hearted as the man himself, it would also be a little unconventional.

  ‘You do know that babies can’t be fed cheese and cake, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course I do!’ Matt said. ‘All the more for me, then.’

  Jim saw Matt’s eyes flick over to Hoggy’s board.

  ‘None of us have given up on it, you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘I do,’ Jim said. ‘I’m going to head over to see his mum and dad later today. Isn’t that right, Fly?’

  The dog’s tail thumped.

  ‘Wish we had more you could tell them,’ Matt said. ‘Losing a child, I don’t see how you can ever get past that.’