No Birds Sing

by Jo Bannister

  Donovan saw his last best chance disappearing and yelled after him – ‘Charlie!’ – his voice soaring.

  Gates murmured, ‘Andy,’ and the boy hit Donovan again where Charlie had. It wasn’t a comparable blow but it was enough to take his breath away. By the time he had it back he could hear the car’s engine dwindling down the lane.

  ‘Just us now,’ said Gates softly. ‘And the dogs.’ Andy brought them from next door, a chain in each hand. Neither was muzzled, restrained only by collars like plough-harness, the chains making wild music as they pulled and tossed. But this wasn’t a match situation, and though they were excited to be on the move the dogs weren’t looking for a fight.

  ‘And the other one,’ said Gates.

  Andy secured his brace to a handy bracket and left again. Donovan heard mingled snarls and shouts and hoped for the best, but Andy returned with Brian Boru.

  Gates was watching Donovan’s face. ‘You’ve seen pit-bulls at work, you know what they can do to one another. I imagine you’ve also seen what they can do to people.’

  Donovan’s lip curled thinly but he said nothing, damned if he’d give Gates the satisfaction. He’d gone into this knowing he could get thumped; if he got bitten instead it might mean tetanus shots instead of X-rays but it would be the same freckled Irish nurse at Castle General dressing his wounds and lecturing him on his lifestyle. He thought he could take anything Gates could do to him.

  Gates saw him think it and the V-shaped smile was brilliant. ‘What – you think I’m bluffing? Winding you up for the pleasure of seeing you sweat? I’m sorry, Donovan, you were right the first time, when you told Charlie I was going to damn near murder you. Well, nearly right.’

  He pivoted on his heel, gazing at the dogs. ‘See those, Donovan? Those are three of the best fighting dogs in Britain. I include your Brian because I know potential when I see it. I’d put serious money on any one of them to beat any other dog on the circuit.

  ‘But anything palls eventually, even dog-fighting. And then you start wondering, is that all they can do? Dogs have been used to hunt elk, and lion, and bait bears and bulls. And hunt men. Could my dogs do that? Could they tackle the cleverest, most dangerous game of all?’ Again he looked to Donovan for some reaction; again his only reward was the dew gathered on Donovan’s lip.

  He shrugged lightly. ‘In theory they could. Dogs with no training at all have turned on and killed human beings so a trained fighting dog should have no problem. A quarry with no jaws to speak of, puny muscles, throat and belly exposed – it ought to be a foregone conclusion. But for the psychology. In their heads, dogs take the orders and men give them. Half their training has been about obedience, about accepting men as their pack leaders. Now I’m asking them to forget all that and kill a human being in cold blood.’

  Donovan had been a policeman long enough to hear a lot of threats: if he’d taken them all seriously he’d have been a nervous wreck. Most threats were like a dog growling, an attempt to avoid rather than start a fight. Like dogs, people who wanted to hurt you didn’t waste time on threats – they went straight for the throat.

  ‘All right,’ he said with a kind of world-weary nonchalance, ‘What do you want?’

  Gates blinked. ‘Want?’

  Donovan licked dry lips. ‘What is it you want? My chief could be here any time so you’re not doing this for fun. There’s something you want, something you think I can get for you. What is it? Tell me, let’s see what we can do before one of them dogs gets loose and bites somebody.’

  Gates was genuinely delighted. ‘You do, don’t you – you really think I’m saying this to frighten you! Why? For a safe passage? I don’t need you for that, there’s no one out there. Maybe Mr Shapiro will get here eventually; but I’ll be long gone and so, I’m afraid, will you.’

  Donovan shook his head, the black hair dancing in his face. ‘Come on. Gates, talk to me. I know you’re pissed off, I don’t expect to get out of this scot-free. You want me to say I’m scared? OK, I’m scared. I’m going to get hurt here, I don’t know how much; damn right I’m scared. But kill me? You don’t need that any more than Charlie does. They get you for killing a copper, they throw away the key. You’d have a bad time in jail.’

  ‘I’m not going to jail,’ Gates said calmly. ‘That’s why you have to die, Donovan. If it was a question of punishment I could settle for less, but you’re a danger to me as long as you live. From a wheelchair, from an iron lung, you’d tell Mr Shapiro things I don’t want him to know.

  ‘I’m sorry to be brutal but it’s too late for us to start considering each other’s feelings. I have to kill you; that being so, I intend to find out what these dogs can do. It’s a chance I may never have again. I want to see how they solve the problem of killing a man.’

  He gave an apologetic little shrug, as if he wasn’t sure of the etiquette, the right thing to say next. ‘It shouldn’t take long. Supremacy isn’t an issue: once they accept that you’re fair game it’ll be like killing a sheep – quicker, because you won’t be running away. A few minutes should do it. The terminal wards are full of people who wish they could get it over that fast.’

  Finally Donovan believed. Gates meant exactly what he said. He wasn’t bluffing, he wasn’t out to trade, he wasn’t going to change his mind. This was where it ended: in screams and in blood. Donovan had seen it, knew what it was like when those jaws ripped into living flesh. A few minutes? – maybe. But minutes like those defied measurement on any clock.

  His mouth was so dry he had trouble getting the words out ‘Untie me?’

  ‘Don’t be absurd.’

  But Donovan wasn’t thinking of escape, only of getting it over. He knew now that Gates wouldn’t be satisfied with kicking his lights out, that he meant to kill him and to kill him this way. But Donovan didn’t want to hang by his hands while the dogs leapt for him, tearing his flesh. With his hands free he still couldn’t make a fight of it but on the ground he’d die quicker. ‘For God’s sake, man! How much do you reckon I owe you?’

  Gates had no compassion. He didn’t mind how long it took, how much trial and error. But he was concerned that the dogs might be inhibited by the fundamental difference between men and all their natural prey: that men go upright. If they could drag him down they would make their kill, but Gates was worried they would continue to consider the man taboo as long as he hung over them. This was a unique opportunity – he couldn’t try again if he got it wrong. He nodded slowly. ‘All right’

  He needed to protect himself until the dogs took over. There were some tools just inside the door, rusted past identification except for a pitchfork. Distastefully brushing away the cobwebs he took it up. ‘Cut him down, Andy. Leave his hands tied.’

  Donovan staggered as the weight came off his arms but the pitchfork brought him up short. Numb with fear, it never occurred to him that the quickest way out of this was simply to keep going. He backed off, his bound hands before him, his eyes flickering between Gates and the puzzled fretful dogs. His breathing was ragged and under his clothes his body ran with sweat.

  Accustomed to handling unreliable animals, Andy edged cautiously round him. Both he and Gates seemed to expect Donovan would do something. But fear disarmed him. All he could do was back away and hope to hang on to the contents of his stomach.

  ‘All right,’ Gates said softly from the door. ‘Slip the dogs.’

  ‘One at a time or all together?’

  ‘All of them,’ said Gates with a shudder. ‘You won’t want to go back in once the action starts.’

  But Andy didn’t share the older man’s dread. He was a skilled handler, better than many men who’d been doing it longer, and he took pride in that. These dogs were part of him, their strength, their fury and their triumphs were all his. He wasn’t afraid of anyone while he had such allies. He hooked the chains off the collars and the dogs milled round his legs. His lip curled disdainfully as Donovan stumbled back till the wall ended his retreat.

  The dogs padde
d after Donovan with more curiosity than aggression, smelled his fear but couldn’t work out what it meant. Sunk protectively in the fleshy folds of their faces, agleam with unexpected intelligence, their eyes pinned him to the wall.

  Andy gave a chuckle. ‘They don’t know what to do. Come on, you useless lot, a man’s nothing but a big rabbit standing on his back legs – he’ll come apart just the same. Come on, do what you’re trained for!’ He aimed an encouraging boot at a muscular backside.

  The shouts, the insults, the fear and excitement building in the byre struck a chord of familiarity in the dogs. Oh – that was what it was about, was it? They understood that, understood all about fighting – they just weren’t sure what it was they were meant to fight. The milling became increasingly energetic and agitated, the animals snapping and snarling at each other in their confusion.

  Then one, bolder or meaner than the others, reached a decision. Circling behind the pack he pirouetted on his back feet and launched himself into the air with all the strength of his powerful, agile body.

  Fifty metres away in the darkness of the wood the badgers surfacing from their setts paused a moment in their business and raised their heads, startled by a man’s screams echoing round the little cluster of buildings that had stood for so long silent.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  After she’d spoken to her father, Liz sat in the dark, debating whether she should listen to Gail Fisher’s broadcast. She had no wish to. She knew Fisher wouldn’t deliberately make things worse, but the bare facts were sensational enough. Liz had managed to keep her feelings under control thus far, but inside the edges remained steak-raw and even at her most optimistic she knew they must for the foreseeable future. Being talked about on the public airwaves would be an unpleasant experience.

  But she thought she ought to listen. Inevitably the talk of the town tomorrow, she needed to know exactly what had been said and how much of the gossip was innocent exaggeration and how much malicious embroidery. She decided to grit her teeth and tune in. In a way, it was easier having the house to herself. She’d have hated someone listening along with her, sympathizing.

  In the event the decision was taken out of her hands. As she was fiddling with the radio the phone rang; clicking her tongue impatiently she lifted it and said, ‘Can you make this quick?’ – and then her insides curled up with the fear that it might be Brian.

  It was Shapiro. He sounded taken aback. ‘Sorry?’

  Liz sighed. ‘Sorry, Frank, I was expecting – someone else. What is it, your ram-raiders struck again?’

  ‘No, but they have been sighted. The car Keith Baker saw? – it’s heading north on the motorway with Scobie maintaining a discreet surveillance. I thought you’d like to help me pull it in.’

  Fleetingly she considered telling him about the broadcast; but it was too much like fate stepping in. She’d tell him later, when it was too late for either of them to listen. ‘I’ll pick you up at the office.’

  By the time she’d collected Shapiro and the area car for back-up, Scobie was reporting developments. The vehicle he was following had pulled into a service area and the two occupants, a large man and a young girl, had gone into the café. Scobie had used his initiative, and the hoof-pick attachment on his Swiss Army knife, to immobilize their car before following.

  When he saw a knot of people, half of them in uniform, coming purposefully across the concourse, Charlie knew the game was up. He finished his tea then spread his hands on the Formica table-top. ‘Remember,’ he said dully, ‘you say nothing.’

  But Patsy wasn’t a career criminal, couldn’t accept the risk of imprisonment with the same glum fatalism. She leapt up from the table, spilling her drink, and took off through the concourse like a hot prospect for The Oaks.

  Liz could hardly have hoped for a better antidote to her own problems. Slapping her handbag against Shapiro’s chest she said firmly, ‘Mine,’ and set off in pursuit.

  A rack of paperbacks and a cardboard cut-out chef went flying as they scattered startled travellers. An amiable drunk was still trying to decide if he’d really been pushed aside by a snip of a girl moving like an express train when he was definitely pushed aside by a woman moving if anything faster.

  They swept through the sweets and tobacco, through the souvenirs and novelties, on past the wash rooms, between the slot-machines and children’s rides. Beyond the rocking-horses and space-ships beckoned the black glass square of the back door. Once through it Patsy had the whole of the lorry park in which to lose herself. Insofar as she had a natural habitat, motorway lorry parks were it.

  Not for the first time in racing history the prize was won in the last furlong by the best farrier. Patsy was wearing boots. Liz had on her lace-ups, and they felt like part of her. As Patsy snatched for the back door Liz grabbed a handful of frizzy fair hair and swung her in a crisp arc against the wall. With what breath she had left she gasped, ‘You, my girl, are nicked.’

  The expression Honour Among Thieves had never made much impression on Patsy. Her only motive was self-interest, and she was still just young enough to blame that on other people. Perhaps a decent up-bringing wouldn’t have turned her into the Singing Nun, but now there was no way of knowing. Now she was the Planet Patsy surrounded only by hostile space, and she put herself first, last and everywhere in between because no one else gave her any priority at all.

  She’d been there, just outside the door, when the policeman begged for Charlie’s help. She’d said nothing because, then, she quite literally didn’t care whether Donovan lived or died. The situation was different now. She needed something to bargain with. ‘I can help you! You know a guy called Donovan? Tudor’s going to kill him. You can stop it, but you’ll never find them in time without me.’

  Liz’s racing breath caught in her throat. Scenarios flashed across her eyes. She loosed the girl’s hair, fastened both hands in her lapels and lifted her until they were nose to nose. With infinite menace she growled, ‘I’ve had a difficult week and I’m not in the mood for this. Why don’t you tell me everything you know before I accidentally drop you head first into the Magic Roundabout?’

  The time for discretion was over. The little convoy raced for the cottage with every light flashing, every siren wailing, every corner taken at speed and preferably on two wheels. Scobie adored it: this was what he joined the police for!

  Even in the dark Patsy took them straight there, pointing out the byre as Liz stopped the car. The swinging headlights picked up the big dark 4x4 and, behind it, Donovan’s van.

  ‘Well, it’s the right place,’ said Liz. ‘And they haven’t left yet. Everybody watch out for those dogs: if they’re on the loose we may have to wait for Armed Response to deal with them.’ She’d let PC Stark drive, spent the short rough trip on the radio getting help. Gates and the boy she’d have tackled, but not the dogs. Patsy had left the cottage too soon to know how Gates intended to use them, but the mere fact of their presence here demanded caution despite the urgent need to find Donovan.

  ‘Remember who brought you here,’ whined the girl.

  Liz turned on her an unforgiving stare. ‘Don’t worry, Patsy, nobody’s going to forget your part in this.’

  The prisoners were driven away then Liz shouted after Scobie, ‘I want Armed Response back here fastest. If they haven’t left when you reach Queen’s Street, put a bomb under them.’

  Shapiro glowered. ‘I should have thought of that sooner. I knew Gates had fighting dogs, I should have realized we’d need some way to neutralize them. Well, we’ll just have to manage till the firearms get here. The uniforms have truncheons: you and I had better find something to carry.’ He raised his voice. ‘And if one of those things comes at you, beat its brains out first and we’ll agree a story for the RSPCA later.’

  There were five of them, the two detectives and three uniforms. It had been a matter of grabbing whoever they could without turning Queen’s Street into the Mary Celeste.

  Armed with a torch and a stout
stick from the woodpile, Liz moved towards the byre. She knew the risks, but if she didn’t go first then either a man nearing retirement or a junior officer would. And in an odd way recent events had not so much cowed her as made her reckless. She was just about ready to face another assailant: with her wits about her and a length of kindling she could begin getting her own back.

  The door of the shed was ajar, hemmed with light. She listened a moment but heard nothing. She glanced back: the men with her were ready. ‘If they’re in here, try not to let them by. If they get as far as the wood we’ll never find them.’

  Someone ventured, ‘Shouldn’t we wait for the guns?’

  ‘With DS Donovan in there?’

  The hand on her arm was Shapiro’s. He said quietly, ‘Liz, if he is—’

  She knew what he was saying, rounded on him furiously. ‘I know. But certifying death is a doctor’s job, and even they reckon on being in the same building when they do it! Now, if everyone’s ready—?’ She flung the door open.

  No maelstrom of thick bodies, thick legs and snapping jaws hurled at her. The single dusty bulb hanging from the low roof, reinforced by the torches crowding the door, revealed no movement of any kind. But a sickly-sweet pungency hit her in the nostrils and there was something lying on the floor.

  Prepared as she was, it took her a moment to be sure it was a man. The clothes were torn to rags, dark and heavy with blood. Through the rents gaped ragged flesh. He lay on his back, face destroyed, arms flung wide. Even through the shock that struck her as odd until she realized they’d done it – the dogs – grabbed at his flailing hands and tugged him between them like children fighting over a toy.

  ‘Oh, dear God,’ whispered Shapiro. Liz felt him sway against her.