by Ed O'Connor
Primal Cut
ED O’CONNOR
For Esme & Isabel with love
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Pituitary Puree
Dogfight
First Touch
Appetiser
Dressing the Meat
Wisdom and Industry
Redemption
About the Author
Also by Ed O’Connor
Copyright
Pituitary Puree
1.
Leyton, East London
December 1995
Common wisdom remembered brain paste. The old ladies of Silvertown would tell you. The porters at Smithfield market would tell you. No doctor would tell you, but what do they know? Any idiot can read a book. And knowledge is not the same as wisdom.
Cockney women used to mash up the pituitary glands of cows and smear the paste on toast. They said it helped people with mental illness, that it made their minds more alert. In the days before the National Health Service and the pick and mix drug cocktails of modern psychiatric healthcare, such remedies were commonplace in the East End. Ideas spread by chatter in the doorways of terraced houses and the corners of gloomy pubs, through anecdotes and recipes: mother to daughter, father to son.
Science had failed the Garrods. To Bartholomew, the brain paste was a desperate measure. Although it had its compensations: when mashed up with boiled potatoes, milk and oil it tasted vaguely of corned beef. He hoped the strange pituitary chemistry would help his brother’s screaming fits, his lapses of memory and behaviour. Raymond’s outbursts were making him a liability and his prescription pills were useless. Bartholomew knew that his brother needed full time care but refused to have him committed. Besides, the government were closing psychiatric hospitals across the country – he had researched the subject. Ray would have to be cared for in the community.
Bartholomew tried to be optimistic. This new mash was stronger, more concentrated than his previous efforts. And the pituitary glands it contained were not only taken from cows.
‘Put your bib on Ray. I don’t want no mess today.’
‘Yes Bollamew,’ said Raymond Garrod, unable to enunciate the complexities of his brother’s name. ‘Ah ate some bit of this mash before I think.’
‘This is better mash – stronger mash.’
Bartholomew Garrod used a serving spoon to scoop a large serving of mash for his brother. Ray’s eyes glowed with excitement as the grey pile of food slapped onto the plate in front of him. Ray ate happily, oil running down his chin.
‘Delicious Bollamew,’ Ray grinned between mouthfuls.
Watching his brother eat made Bartholomew hungry himself. He felt a sudden desire for steak. He left his brother at the table and headed down the narrow staircase to the rear of his butcher’s shop. He pulled back the handle on the door of the freezer and turned on the light.
An hour previously, he had placed some unsold beefsteaks on a shelf at the back of the freezer. They were still soft. He picked the largest he could find and licked the cold surface of the meat. The tang of beef blood was unmistakeable. Beef was his favourite. Beef was noble. He drew strength from it. Chicken flesh gave him speed and flexibility. Pork gave him cunning. Beef gave him power.
Lying against the wall of the freezer was the decapitated body of the woman he had killed. Most of her blood had ebbed down the drainage duct at the centre of the freezer room although some had frozen around her. Bartholomew looked at the body wondering what to do. He had always been surrounded by death. She was just another carcass, albeit a headless one. He realised that her continued presence in his freezer was becoming problematic. The council often did spot checks on butcher’s shops. Their inspectors could close down disreputable establishments and he did not want to sully the good name of ‘Garrods Family Butchers’. Besides, it was probably unhygienic.
He slammed the freezer door shut and returned upstairs.
Common wisdom remembered brain paste and other horrors too. It also recalled saucy Jack cutting the whores of Whitechapel and the murder of Jack the Hat. Common wisdom remembered the firestorm of September 1940 that incinerated hundreds on the Silvertown Way. It recounted the ‘Bermondsey Horror’ and the crimes of John Christie.
Now there was another story to tell.
The Leyton Ripper was murdering people for their meat.
Dogfight
2.
Wednesday, 9th October 2002
Balehurst, Cambridgeshire
It had been a brutal fight. For nearly thirty minutes the two Staffordshire bull terriers had snarled and torn into each other. Now Rampage was dead and the gathering was breaking up. Keith Gwynne climbed over the makeshift wooden boarding into the fighting ring. The area was about twenty feet in diameter and divided into two halves by a scratch line made from silver masking tape. The floor of the fight ring was covered in rotting carpet. This gave the dogs extra grip.
Gwynne knelt on the carpet next to the dead body of his dog. Rampage had fought poorly to begin with. The large ring and the screaming audience had unsettled the dog. It had backed away from the line, uncertain and angry. Gwynne had wondered for a moment if his new fighter would be ‘up to scratch’. However, once their handlers had left the ring, the two dogs had fought with unbridled ferocity. Its money-making potential aside, Gwynne believed there was something fundamentally beautiful about dogfighting. In his sterile world of supermarkets and televisions, carrier bags and speed cameras, the bloody savagery of his hobby reminded him he was still alive.
Rampage had acquitted himself well. Eventually, the superior fitness of Bob Woollard’s pit bull had proved to be the difference between the two animals. Woollard’s dogs had a well-deserved reputation as ‘stayers’: they were better trained and better fed than most of their competitors. Gwynne lifted the heavy carcass of his dog into a black dustbin bag.
‘He was a game little bastard in the end then?’ Bob Woollard observed from the other side of the fence. ‘Thought he was going to piss himself to start with.’
Gwynne tied the bag and looked up. ‘The lights freaked him out. All these people. This was his first fight in the ring. He’s done a few small contests but nothing in a ring as big as this one.’
‘He was game though,’ Woollard conceded. ‘Gave old Gizmo a good scrap.’ Gizmo was Woollard’s favourite dog: a prize fighter worth over a thousand pounds.
‘Win some, lose some.’ Gwynne tried not to let his disappointment show. ‘I suppose you want paying then?’
‘You’re a gentleman, Keith.’ Woollard clambered over the wooden boarding to collect his ‘purse’.
‘Four hundred right?’
‘That’ll do nicely.’
Gwynne pulled a roll of banknotes from his jacket pocket and peeled off the requisite amount. ‘If we carry on like this I might have to get a proper job.’
‘Now that would be a first!’ Woollard grinned. ‘Times are hard for all of us Keith. How much income tax did you and your pikey pals pay last year? Sometimes I feel that I’m funding the whole British Government on my own.’
‘Don’t make me laugh. You bloody farmers are raking it in,’ Gwynne grunted.
‘You reckon?’
‘Of course. The bloody EEC pays you not to farm these days. Whatever genetically modified crap that you do manage to produce, it buys off you!’
Woollard shrugged. ‘It’s the “European Union”, Einstein, and do you think I’d be buggering around with the likes of you if I was creaming it in from the Common Agricultural Policy? I’ve got significant overheads.’
‘Haven’t we all?’ Gwynne finished counting out his money and slapped the wad into Woollard’s extended hand. ‘I’ve lost my best dog and four hundred quid.’
; Woollard looked at Gwynne for a second, feeling an unexpected pang of sympathy. ‘The problem with you pikeys is that you haven’t got no system.’
‘System?’
Woollard lit a cigarette. ‘Take old Rampage there. He was a mean little sod when he got going. He showed courage. He had potential.’
‘Not anymore.’
‘And that’s because you didn’t bring him on right. There was a stage in that fight when he was getting on top but he faded. That’s your fault not the dog’s.’
‘How come?’
‘What do you train him on?’
‘You mean other animals?’
‘Yeah.’
‘He’s fought some other dogs.’
‘Let me guess. You warmed him up on a couple of poodles and a cocker-fucking-spaniel. I bet you nicked some asthmatic domestic pet that was so fat it couldn’t even clean its own arsehole.’
Gwynne shifted uneasily. Woollard was uncannily close to the truth. ‘What does it matter how you bring them on?’
‘A professional boxer doesn’t spar against hairdressers, mate. They train. You got to work your dog. Build his stamina. Train him at fight intensity. It’s the only way to make money in this game.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Come with me, leave that thing here.’ Woollard left the ring and gestured for Gwynne to follow. The two men made their way through the chattering crowd of drinkers – Woollard’s friends and farm employees – that had watched the fight. They left the barn then crossed the stable yard to the main farm building. In the hallway was a large wooden cupboard leaning awkwardly against the side of the staircase. Gwynne assumed it was some tasteless family heirloom. However, as always Woollard was full of surprises. The farmer heaved the cupboard to one side revealing a door in the panelling behind it. Woollard unlocked it and took Gwynne inside, leading him downstairs to the basement.
‘Here you are mate,’ Woollard said as he turned on the light. ‘Perfect preparation prevents piss-poor performance.’
Inside were five cages. Two contained Staffordshire bull terriers, next to them were two American pit bulls. The final cage held a large, menacing Tosa. The dogs began to bark furiously. Gwynne looked around the room. There was a long shelf along the back wall that held a number of video boxes, marked with dates and locations. He picked up one that was annotated ‘Gizmo, Essex June 2002’.
‘I try to video the fights,’ Woollard observed. ‘It’s a good training resource. Sometimes people like to buy them as a souvenir.’
‘Did you video tonight?’
‘One of my boys did. Want to buy a copy?’
‘No thanks.’ Gwynne moved to the centre of the room. ‘Is this a treadmill?’
‘Yep. It’s for training the dogs. Stamina building. Stick them on that for two hours a day. Makes them hard as nails.’
Gwynne shook his head. He realised that Woollard was right. The man had a ‘system’. Rampage and Gwynne’s other contenders had been fighting beyond their class. ‘Is that why the fighting ring is so big then? Is that because you know your dogs have better stamina?’
‘Partly.’ Woollard thought for a moment, wondering how far to admit Gwynne into his confidence. ‘I don’t just fight dogs there though.’
‘What? You mean you run some bare knuckle too?’
‘Sometimes. You fancy yourself as a welterweight then, Gwynne?’
‘Do me a favour. I couldn’t punch a bus ticket.’
‘As I thought. Shall we depart then?’ Woollard showed Gwynne the open door. ‘The lesson has ended. By the way, tell anyone what you’ve seen in here and your remains will end up fertilising my crops.’
Gwynne was thoughtful as they returned to the barn. He had a fertile, creative mind, particularly where money was concerned.
‘Do you fight the Tosa very often?’ he asked Woollard, referring to the Japanese fighting dog he had seen in the basement.
‘Rarely. Conspicuous breed. If you’ve got American pit bulls you can pass them off as Irish bull terriers or some other bollocks. A Tosa is distinctive. There’s not many of them about.’
‘I suppose there’d be good money in staging that. Unusual fight, eh?’
Woollard smiled. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve got a Tosa?’
‘No, but I might know someone. He’s got a Tosa just like yours. It’s an older dog but it could still do a job. I’m thinking maybe I could organise something for you.’
‘Out of the kindness of your heart?’
‘Obviously not.’
Woollard frowned. ‘I don’t know. I’m not big on getting strangers involved.’
‘What if I could spice it up for you? Maybe do it as a double-header?’
‘You’ve lost me.’
‘This guy I know. He’s an ex-fighter himself. Big, hard bastard. Maybe we could fight the Tosas then have a bare knuckle afterwards.’
Woollard suddenly showed a flicker of interest. ‘How heavy is he, this mate of yours?’
‘Eighteen stone – maybe more.’
Woollard cupped his hands to his mouth and called over to one of the group of drinkers standing at the entrance to the barn. ‘Oi! Lefty! Get over here.’
A huge farm labourer looked up and wandered over. Lefty Shaw was a notorious local hard man. Gwynne knew him by reputation. Shaw revelled in his title as ‘the hardest man in Balehurst’.
‘What’s up boss?’ he asked Woollard, towering over the two men.
‘We might have a fight for you, Lefty. Gwynney here reckons he knows a contender.’
‘That right?’ Shaw stared down at Gwynne. ‘I hope he’s bigger than you mate.’
Gwynne tried not to be intimidated. ‘He’s not as tall as you but I’d say he’s heavier. Got a neck like a fucking tree trunk. He’s got some form. He told me he used to do pub fights in London.’
‘How old is he?’ Woollard asked.
‘Mid-fifties.’
Shaw laughed a heavy, humourless laugh. ‘Old age pensioner!’
‘He’s a mean bastard. Trust me. It’d be worth your while.’
Woollard had heard enough. ‘All right. Speak to your mate. Let’s say a purse of five hundred for the dogs and a grand for the bare knuckle.’
‘What’s my cut for organising it?’
‘How about I give you back a ton from tonight’s purse?’
Gwynne nodded his agreement.
‘I’ll expect to hear from you then,’ Woollard said. ‘Don’t forget to take your dog with you.’
Gwynne retrieved Rampage and slung the remains into the back of his car. He checked his watch. It was just after 10 p.m. If he hustled, he could be in Heydon before closing time. He had a proposition to put to George Norlington, the bed and breakfast tenant at the Dog and Feathers. His old Fiat threw shaky beams of light onto the farm trackway and turned out onto the main road.
From a concealed position behind a hedgerow, DI Mike Bevan watched the car leave the farm and noted down its licence plate. He had been forced to move from his observation point opposite the farm courtyard about an hour previously. Bob Woollard didn’t just own fighting dogs. He also owned a Rottweiler guard dog. This formidable animal caught his scent on the wind and had begun barking furiously in his direction. Fortunately, the dog was chained up and its owner engaged inside the barn. Nonetheless, the unwelcome attention had forced Bevan to relocate. Unable to gain photographs of the activities taking place within the barn, he contented himself with taking the licence plates of all those in attendance. The clock was ticking on Bob Woollard. Bevan was building a case that he hoped would put the farmer away for a long time.
3.
The Dog and Feathers was busy for a Wednesday night. The pub was trying hard to attract a wealthier clientele: young couples and families that bought dinner and bottles of wine rather than just pints. Some of the old locals found the pub’s change of character disconcerting. As a new arrival, George Norlington couldn’t care less. He sat in a corner of the pub quietly studying the Cambridge E
vening News and the New Bolden Gazette. Keith Gwynne saw him immediately.
‘George! My old mate. How are you?’
The man he knew as George Norlington looked at him. ‘What do you want?’
‘What are you reading?’
‘I’m reading about a psychiatric hospital as it happens. Which is where I should be put after buying that miserable, broken down excuse for a van off your mate.’
Gwynne sensed hatred in Norlington. He desperately didn’t want to upset the man. ‘Let me buy you a drink. I’ve got a business proposition.’
‘I’ve got a pint. Say what you have to say then piss off.’
Nervous, Gwynne outlined the details of the double-header. Norlington listened quietly.
‘I don’t like to fight the dog no more. He’s getting old,’ Norlington observed.
‘It’s big money, George. You don’t want to live in a grotty flat behind a pub forever, do you?’
Norlington stared at Gwynne blankly. ‘It’s a temporary arrangement. I won’t be up here for long.’
‘You can make fifteen hundred quid for a night’s work. That has got to be worth your time.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
Gwynne noticed Norlington’s massive, rough hands resting on the newspapers. His fingertips were stained red, dark lines of dried blood had collected under his nails. Norlington was a huge man. A shade under six feet tall with short greying hair but still powerfully built with heavy arms and a bull neck.
‘I think you’d win the bare knuckle,’ Gwynne continued. ‘Lefty Shaw is a big lad but he’s thicker than pig shit. You’d have the edge of experience.’
Norlington downed the remains of his pint and stood up. ‘Saturday suits me. You arrange the details. I’m in here Friday night. Come find me then.’
‘Understood.’ Gwynne watched Norlington push his way out of the pub. A few bumped drinkers turned angrily but bit their lips when they saw the size of the man barging past them. Smiling, Gwynne made his own way to the bar and ordered a pint of Stella Artois lager.