Limestone Cowboy

by Stuart Pawson

  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 wen
t 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. Sir Morton.”

  “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.”

  “Only a dog fight?”

  “They’re animals, Inspector. Wolves, underneath. We don’t have the sentimental views about them that you 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’ll 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 pay
ing,” 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? Moi? 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 we’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?”