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

by David J Gatward

  Mr Slater’s smile didn’t budge, but Matt noticed a twitch in the corner of his left eye. If he was a poker player, it was that kind of tell that Matt would take advantage of to clear him out.

  ‘What about him?’ Mr Slater asked. ‘Haven’t seen him in months.’

  ‘Any particular reason?’

  ‘If there is or isn’t, I can hardly see that it would have anything to do with you.’

  ‘No, you’re right,’ Matt said. ‘It’s just, I was talking with the rest of the team earlier today, and I remembered something from way back. Really had everyone laughing it did, so I just thought I’d pop in, because I realised I’d not seen him around in a long time.’

  ‘How caring of you,’ Mr Slater said. ‘And what was this that you remembered? Or do I not need to ask?’

  Matt smiled as warmly as he could.

  ‘Hens,’ he said.

  ‘You popped in here to ask how our Dean is, and all because of that? It was years ago! How can that have anything to do with anything?’ Mr Slater held up a hand to stop Matt from answering. ‘No, don’t bother, because I’ll tell you how; it doesn’t, does it?’

  ‘Actually, it does,’ Matt said. ‘We’re investigating some pretty unsavoury gambling stuff. The kind that takes part out of sight and under cover of darkness, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘So, you wouldn’t know anything about any illegal activities going on locally, then?’

  Mr Slater’s face was turning red.

  ‘No, I would not!’ he snapped back.

  ‘I’m not accusing you,’ said Matt, remaining calm. ‘I’m simply asking, that’s all. Just doing my job.’

  Mr Slater rose to his feet, slowly, deliberately, and checked his pocket watch.

  ‘And I should be getting back to mine,’ he said.

  ‘In a moment, yes,’ Matt agreed. ‘I won’t keep you much longer, I promise.’

  Mr Slater stuffed his watch back into his waistcoat and sat down.

  ‘Like I said, I have no idea at all where Dean is. And that whole thing with the hens? Not only was it years ago, but it was also the first and last time he ever did anything so stupid.’

  ‘You’re sure about that?’

  ‘I know my son!’ Mr Slater said.

  ‘It would still be good to talk to him,’ said Matt. ‘And look, I know that there’s a few illegal poker games here and there. I’m not an idiot. But I’m not here about any of that. And I’m not here to try and ruin your business either. It’s just that this, what we’re looking into now? It’s not the kind of thing any of us want on our doorstep, trust me. So, if you do know anything, if you know where Dean is…’

  Matt’s voice drifted off. Mr Slater breathed slow and deep, then he leaned forward.

  ‘Do you know how long this business has been here?’

  Matt didn’t answer.

  ‘My dad established it, back in the fifties. I took over when he retired. And I hoped Dean would do the same.’

  ‘Not interested?’

  Mr Slater shook his head.

  ‘No, it wasn’t that. It was more that he was too interested.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘The hens? He genuinely thought it was a good idea. Couldn’t see the problem. Thought I was blinkered, too small-town in my ambitions.’

  ‘So, he wasn’t bothered about the legalities, then?’

  ‘Which is why he’s not in the business now,’ Mr Slater said. ‘He’d be a liability! A pity, really. He had this natural ability with numbers. Could work odds out in a heartbeat.’

  ‘What’s he doing now, then?’ Matt asked.

  ‘Oh, he still gambles,’ Mr Slater said. ‘Just on a bigger scale. Stocks and shares, that kind of thing. Gone all respectable, which is quite the shock. You should see him now, with his expensive car and expensive house and expensive wife and, well, you get the picture. Expensive everything!’ He gestured around the room. ‘All of this? He’s no time for it now. I make a good living, but the money he’s made is eye-watering.’

  ‘So, he’s not betting on hens, then,’ Matt asked. ‘Or dogs?’

  ‘You wouldn’t catch him at a track now,’ Mr Slater said.

  ‘Oh, these aren’t racing dogs, Mr Slater,’ Matt said.

  At this, whatever emotion there was on Mr Slater’s face slipped away like ice from a cliff.

  ‘Where? Where did this happen?’

  ‘I can’t say,’ Matt said. ‘But it did. Now, I’m not suggesting your Dean is involved. But there were others there, that night, correct? He wasn’t the only one involved in putting it together. It would be good if I could speak to them, too.’

  ‘But that’s ancient history,’ Mr Slater said. ‘And it was stupid. You know that as well as I.’

  ‘That I do,’ Matt said. ‘But stupid isn’t always a one-off, is it? Sometimes it happens again.’

  Mr Slater shook his head, rubbed his eyes.

  ‘You know I’ve never been, and would never be, involved in anything like what you’re talking about, don’t you?’

  Matt said nothing.

  ‘The hens thing, yes, Dean was involved, but there were two others that I can recall.’

  ‘And they were?’

  ‘Well, one of them’s dead,’ Mr Slater said. ‘Danny something or other, can’t remember his surname. Car accident somewhere. But then he always did drive like an idiot.’

  ‘And the other?’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,’ Mr Slater said.

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘Andrew Bell,’ Mr Slater said. ‘The vet.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Arthur Black wasn’t feeling very hungry at all. But this had no bearing in the slightest on the considerable pile of food his daughter, Grace, hadn’t just cooked for dinner that evening but also had ladled onto his plate at least fifteen minutes ago now.

  ‘You alright, Dad?’

  ‘Just not that hungry, that’s all,’ Arthur said.

  ‘Hungry or not, you’re eating,’ Grace said. ‘It’s your favourite, too, isn’t it? Mince and potatoes? And those carrots are from my garden.’

  ‘It is, lass,’ Arthur said. ‘And it’s as tasty as always.’

  ‘Then get it down you,’ Grace said, her own plate empty, the gravy mopped up with a slice of bread. ‘There’s pudding, too, you know. Had some rhubarb in the freezer so I made a crumble.’

  Arthur shovelled a fork-load into his mouth. Yep, definitely tasty, but it didn’t make swallowing any easier.

  ‘I know you’re thinking about what happened to Jack,’ Grace said, ‘but the police are investigating now, aren’t they? And I met that officer myself. Grimm, wasn’t it? And he seemed okay.’

  Arthur sat back in his chair, his cutlery resting on his plate.

  ‘They’ll not be able to do nowt, though, will they, Gracie?’ he said. ‘It’s just a dog, isn’t it? Hardly the crime of the century. They’ve other things to be on with, I’m sure. And what if Eric’s involved, eh? What then?’

  ‘You have to leave it to them, Dad. And please don’t go doing anything stupid.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, you!’ Grace said. ‘Everyone knows what Eric is like, but you going round there and accusing him of something isn’t going to help with anything, is it?’

  Arthur said nothing.

  ‘Is it?’ Grace said again, her voice firm.

  ‘It’d help make me feel better, that’s for sure.’

  ‘You’re impossible.’

  ‘I’m old.’

  ‘With you, those two things seem to be one and the same more and more often.’

  Arthur laughed, but the sound had as much warmth as a north wind on a dark, December evening.

  ‘Look, all I’m saying is that a dead dog isn’t going to be high on the list of crimes to be investigated. It just isn’t. We both know that.’

  ‘Regardless, you still need to eat,’ Grace said, standing up with her empty p
late and pointing at Arthur’s. ‘You’ll find it helps if you actually hold your cutlery.’

  Arthur harumphed, leant forward, grabbed a fork, and went in for a few more mouthfuls.

  ‘There, that’s better, isn’t it?’ Grace said, having taken her plate through to the kitchen. ‘I’ll be off then, okay? But I don’t want you leaving any of that, understand? And don’t think I won’t be checking either.’

  Arthur looked up from the table and into the eyes of his daughter. She was giving him her stern look, but it was ruined a little by the faint hint of a grin showing through.

  ‘He was a good dog, was Jack,’ Arthur said. ‘How could anyone want to harm him, or any animal, like that? Just doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t,’ Grace agreed. ‘There’s all kind of folk in this world, and more’s the pity that some of them are complete bastards.’

  Arthur breathed deep, shook his head.

  ‘Anyway, you’ve got Molly, haven’t you?’ Grace said. ‘And she’s not going anywhere, that’s for sure.’

  At the mention of her name, the old dog wagged her tail. Not that Arthur could see her, seeing as she was hidden somewhere in the dark under the table.

  ‘I’ll let myself out,’ Grace said, and then she headed off, leaving Arthur with Molly and his own thoughts for company.

  Later that evening and having managed in the end to eat at least half of what Grace had made him, though unable to touch the ginger cake she’d left for him as well, Arthur was watching television, but thinking of Jack.

  With the visit earlier from that police officer, Grimm, he’d been running through the day that Jack had gone so many times that it was now playing as an endless loop in his head. And everything he’d talked about with Grimm, and then later with Grace, had only served to deepen his belief that the police really wouldn’t have time, or the inclination, to find out what had actually happened. And that if anything was going to be done at all, then it was going to be down to him to do it.

  But what? That was the question bothering Arthur, because the only two people who’d known where he was at and what he was doing had been his own daughter and one of his oldest friends. There was just no way that either of them had been involved. But someone had been, hadn’t they? Someone had been sniffing around, keeping an eye on him, and had known where he would be and what he’d be doing. And they’d come along and taken Jack. His Jack! Snatched him for whatever reason and now the dog was dead!

  Leaning back in his chair, weariness adding a weight to his bones that made him feel like even getting up to head upstairs to bed was an impossibility, Arthur closed his eyes. A nap would do him good. He could head upstairs later, couldn’t he? So, he reached forward for the remote control and went to turn the television off, when a thought struck him, and wrong or not, the thought was enough to have Arthur out of his seat and pacing.

  Grace had been right because she was sensible, he knew that. But at the same time, she didn’t really understand, did she? Sometimes, you just had to get on with something yourself, otherwise, a job wouldn’t be done. And right now, finding out what had happened to Jack was just such a job. He could leave it to the police, of course he could, but where was the guarantee that they’d be able to do anything?

  It was all about evidence, wasn’t it? And sometimes—quite often, he suspected—that evidence just didn’t show up or wasn’t found or couldn’t be used. That was life. But Arthur had his gut and it was telling him something else, letting him know that it was time to take action.

  What he knew so far was that if they took Jack, then they either knew him, and thus were able to take him with no effort at all, or they had no fear of dogs and would think nothing of beating an animal into submission. Because those were the only two ways that anyone would have been able to get Jack out of the Land Rover. Drugs were also an option, he supposed. Regardless, a stranger with no idea how to handle a dog, either fairly or with a harsh hand, wouldn’t have had a chance with Jack and would probably have ended up with a hand chewed off.

  Right now, Arthur’s gut was leading up a path that he knew he would have to explore first or he’d never get to sleep. He had to know, didn’t he? He just had to! He was also aware that if he told Grace or anyone else what he was thinking, they’d have some stern words for him, that was for sure. Grace would just tell him to get to bed, and that was fair enough, but there was no way he could sleep, not unless he knew for sure.

  Before he had a chance to talk some sense into himself, Arthur grabbed his phone and tapped in the number. When the call was over, he sat back and waited, Molly snoring at his feet. Anger was burning in his veins, but he was still tired, and soon he’d dropped off as well, his snoring twisting into the soft thrum of the dog’s slumber.

  A little over three-quarters of an hour later, when the knock at the front door came and woke Arthur from his nap, the old man snapped awake and was out of the lounge to answer it a little too quickly. His head spun as a dizzy spell hit him and he leaned on the wall in the hall to let the wooziness leave him. Then he opened the door.

  The shadows of a dark, star-free night, of a moon hidden behind a cloud, clustered around the figure standing outside just a little too far away to make out. Arthur went to invite them in, but before he had a chance to speak, the figure stepped forward and into the light, blowing in a great plume of sickly-sweet smoke from what looked like a thick hand-rolled cigarette.

  ‘Oh,’ Arthur said in surprise, coughing on the smoke, but then the old gamekeeper’s surprise turned to shock and pain and bright lights inside his head as something crashed into his face and he, in turn, crashed to the floor like an old bag of bones. As he fell, he made a grab for the jackets hanging from the wall, but his weight and momentum were too much, and the hooks they were attached to yanked free from the wall, sending brick dust into the air.

  Dazed, confused, and bleeding from a smashed nose, Arthur pushed himself up onto his elbows. Above him, he saw the figure he’d opened his door to now standing above him, a tall featureless silhouette.

  ‘You … you hit me!’ Arthur spat, rolling over now to push himself back up onto his feet. ‘The hell are you thinking, coming in here and—?’

  Arthur’s brain burst again with bright lights and pain, as something else crashed into his skull, then he was falling, tumbling forwards through the lounge door to land in front of the fire, the embers of which still had enough about them to warm the room.

  ‘Molly…’ Arthur managed, trying to push himself back up to his feet, to defend himself. ‘Get out! Now!’

  Then a thick blackness swept in, swallowing Arthur whole, and the last thing he saw before he passed out, was his old dog quietly, secretly, creeping upstairs.

  Harry was in his flat with Ben and Liz. Dinner was over, the remains of ham, eggs, and chips still on the dining table, and they were now all in the lounge, television on, weariness taking over.

  As days went, it had left a sour taste in Harry’s mouth thanks to the way it had started. He’d spoken with the rest of the team and so far they had little to go on. No, they had even less than that, didn’t they? Gordy, Liz, and Jen had come up with nothing from knocking on doors, not that he’d expected them to, but it was still disappointing. Jim and Jadyn’s report back from the vets had added nothing to what he already knew.

  After another chat with the pathologist, all he knew was what he’d already known: anyone involved in something as deeply unpleasant as dog fighting was going to make very sure that everything about it was a secret. There was that other missing dog, an Alsatian, to check up on, too. Sowerby was sending her report through first thing tomorrow, so he’d have a better understanding then of what she’d found. Blood and soil samples, they sounded good, because it was evidence that could help identify someone, but unless they were able to get a lead on finding that person or persons, then they were no use at all. And that was the problem—tracing a line from what had taken place to the door of those responsible.

 
Matt had met with the farmer on whose land the fight had taken place. All he’d gathered from that was that they’d seen a red vehicle, except they weren’t exactly sure that it was red at all. And Dave Calvert’s cameras hadn’t provided anything useful either, bar badgers running around and generally being low-riding furry hooligans. And that whole thing with the hens? Not only was it ancient history, but the fact that the local and well-respected vet had been involved as a teenager said a lot, mainly that booze had been involved, and not much sense. Still, he’d be following it up himself tomorrow for sure. No stone unturned and all that.

  Harry’s chats with the dog’s owner, Arthur, Arthur’s daughter Grace, and then Phil, hadn’t really helped either, except with the realisation that whoever had taken Jack had to have been known by the dog to have been able to take him in the first place. They clearly all had it in for this Eric bloke, but personal vendettas were hardly the best evidence. Another thing to check out tomorrow, Harry thought, rubbing his eyes, stifling a yawn.

  ‘You look tired,’ Liz said, walking in from the kitchen area to plonk herself down next to Ben.

  ‘She’s right, you do,’ Ben said. ‘Early night, old man?’

  ‘Less of the old man,’ Harry said. ‘And I’m hardly likely to leave you two young things on your own, am I? Not a chance of it! Who knows what you might get up to?’

  ‘Nothing we’ve not done already,’ Ben said, with a wink at Liz.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Liz said, ‘I’m sure we can think of something.’

  Harry said nothing, just sent a stare over at Liz.

  ‘Too much?’ she said.

  ‘A little.’

  ‘Been a tough day, then?’ Ben asked.

  ‘I’ve had better,’ Harry said.

  ‘Yeah, it’s not been the best,’ Liz agreed.

  ‘How’s about we head out for a drink, then?’ Ben asked. ‘A pint down at the Fountain. That’ll do you good.’

  Harry liked the idea, but he wasn’t in the mood.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ll probably grab an early night.’