No Holds Barred

by Lyndon Stacey

  As the echoes of the thunder rolled away across the forest, Taz’s deep bark cut through the noise of the deluge, and Daniel’s heart sang.

  SEVEN

  With the advent of the German shepherd, apparently fit and spoiling for action, both men took a rapid step backwards.

  The bigger of the two glanced nervously from the dog to the man beside him, as if for guidance, and his partner prudently decided to call it a day, gesturing over his shoulder towards the waiting vehicle.

  Holding his hands out, palms forward, the man then began to back slowly away, with his burly sidekick keeping pace. Their eyes never left the dog, who matched each of their steps with a menacing forward step of his own.

  In the lane, someone gunned the engine of the vehicle with the spotlights and, hearing the sound, the two men began to hurry – stumbling, with curses, over the broken fence in their efforts to beat a hasty retreat.

  Daniel commanded Taz to stand, to stop him following the men out into the lane and possible danger. Moments later, he heard the vehicle’s doors slam shut, and with a roar and a scream of tyres, the pick-up accelerated past the cottage and away down the road. There was another squeal of tyres as it took the corner where the roads joined, and gradually the sound of its engine faded into the night. In the absence of the spotlights, darkness descended, broken only by the sporadic flickering of the waning storm.

  Taz stood barking at the departing vehicle until he could no longer hear it, then turned and began to cast around the trampled garden, snuffling excitedly at the multitude of smells.

  ‘Hey, fella,’ Daniel said gruffly. ‘Come ’ere.’

  His eyes were adjusting to the gloom now and he could just make out the gleam of Taz’s eyes as the shepherd turned towards him. The next moment, the dog was beside him, flattening his ears with delight and butting Daniel gently with his shoulder as he fawned around his legs.

  Daniel took a step backwards and sat down heavily on the bench. Throwing his arms round the dog’s neck, he buried his face in the sodden fur.

  ‘Don’t you ever do that to me again, you hear? Thought I’d lost you, you old bugger!’

  The dog twisted in his grasp, trying to lick his face, and suddenly Daniel found himself overbalancing sideways. He put out a hand to save himself and ended up half sitting and half lying on the cinder walk in front of the cottage. Rivulets of rainwater were streaming along the path, but Daniel’s jeans couldn’t get any wetter and the effort to move was all at once too great. As the adrenalin in his system ebbed away, it felt as though there wasn’t an inch of his body that wasn’t bruised. He leaned back against the wall, closed his eyes and listened to the steady downpour, Taz’s panting and the gurgle of water bubbling into overfull drains.

  ‘Best get inside, I reckon,’ a voice suggested in a broad Wiltshire accent.

  Daniel started, eyes snapping open. Not six feet away stood the shadowy figure of a shortish man wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a long, bulky coat.

  His first thought was to curse his own stupidity for forgetting the man who’d wielded the net – but then logic cut in. Surely they wouldn’t have left one of their number behind, and, anyway, Taz wasn’t making a sound. Was it likely that he’d calmly accept the proximity of someone who had attacked him just minutes before?

  ‘Need a hand?’ The shadow moved a step or two closer, and this time Taz did growl protectively.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Daniel said with doubtful veracity. ‘I can manage, thanks.’

  With the aid of the bench, he made it to his knees and from there to his feet, where he stood swaying gently with one hand on the wall.

  ‘Did you see another man around?’ he asked, straining to see into the darkness. ‘Round the side there?’

  ‘Reckon I did. Took this offen ’im,’ the man said, holding up what looked like a swathe of material.

  The net.

  Even as recognition dawned, Taz backed away with a frenzy of barking, and the man prudently tossed the mesh to one side.

  ‘Reckon he’s learned his lesson,’ he observed. ‘Won’t get caught like that again.’

  ‘I hope not. And thank you. Let’s go in.’ Daniel moved stiffly towards the door, the wet cinders squidging between his bare toes, but when he looked back, the man in the hat hadn’t moved.

  ‘Won’t you come inside? Until the rain stops, at least.’ In spite of the warmth of the night, Daniel had started to shiver violently and he longed to get inside and dry off.

  ‘Reckon I don’t mind the rain,’ the man said, but he followed Daniel as far as the doorway nevertheless, where the light fell on gaunt, weathered features and brown eyes in the shade of the hat brim. He could have been anything from fifty to seventy years old, and was no more than five foot six tall, wearing a long stockman’s coat that reached to ankles encased in worn leather walking boots.

  Daniel’s practised eye noted the coat’s suspiciously bulging inner pockets – poachers’ pockets, and never more aptly named, he suspected. He was almost certain he was looking at the locally famous Woodsmoke, of whom Jenny had spoken.

  ‘I can do coffee,’ he offered. ‘But I’m afraid I haven’t anything stronger.’

  The wizened face split into a grin that would have had any self-respecting dentist recoiling in horror, and he patted his breast. ‘I allus come prepared,’ he said.

  Daniel stood back and beckoned him through to the kitchen, and after a moment’s hesitation, Woodsmoke stepped inside.

  ‘Have a seat. I’ll put the kettle on and then change these jeans …’ Daniel’s voice trailed away as a small, grey, lurchery face peered through the front opening of the poacher’s long coat at knee level. ‘Hello, little one.’

  ‘Thass Gypsy,’ Woodsmoke said with no hint of apology. ‘She goes everywhere.’ Carefully arranging the heavy pockets of his coat to each side, he sat himself on one of the wooden chairs and the whippet-sized bitch crept out and curled up on his feet.

  Minutes later, when Daniel came back downstairs in clean jeans and a T-shirt, his hair towelled dry, the kitchen bore an aroma like a bonfire on an autumn day – an earthy mixture of leaf mould and smoke. Woodsmoke had made two mugs of coffee, and a flat-sided, green glass bottle stood on the table between them.

  ‘Didn’t put it in yourn, lessen you was one of them teetotallers.’ His tone and the curl of his lip left Daniel in no doubt as to his opinion of such people.

  Daniel shook his head, thanked him and, without peering too closely at the bottle, the label of which had long since disintegrated, tipped a couple of glugs into his coffee. The resulting brew made its way down his throat with a comforting burn, and for the first time since waking to hear the stones against his window, Daniel began to relax. He wished he could give Taz something similar but he guessed it was all in a night’s work for the dog, who had followed him upstairs and back down, and now lay on the floor half under the table, busily washing his front paws. He and Gypsy were studiously ignoring one another.

  ‘Reckon you need to get some ice on that.’ Woodsmoke gestured at Daniel’s right wrist, which was badly bruised and swollen from the forearm to the fingers.

  Daniel retrieved a bag of frozen peas from the icebox of the fridge and wrapped it round his injured arm in a dishcloth.

  ‘I can’t thank you enough for what you did for Taz,’ he said then, taking a seat across from Woodsmoke. ‘I thought they were going to kill him.’

  ‘If t’ad been Boyd, he would ’ave,’ the poacher grunted. ‘Evil that one. Pure evil.’

  ‘Ricky, you mean?’

  ‘No. T’other un. Taylor. You knew t’was him, spite of the masks, didn’t you?’

  ‘I guessed,’ Daniel confirmed.

  ‘Ar. They’re a bad lot, the whole crowd of ’em, but Taylor’s the worst. Jenny’s man should never ’ave got mixed up with he.’

  ‘Jenny says Gavin isn’t from round here and didn’t know the family.’

  Another grunt. ‘Soon learned. What’s his beef with you, then?’<
br />
  ‘He thinks I’ve been asking questions about him.’

  ‘An ’ave you?’

  Daniel sighed. ‘One or two, maybe, on the quiet.’

  Woodsmoke harrumphed. ‘Not quiet enough, seemingly. Got eyes and ears everywhere, that fambly. There’s not much goes on they don’t hear about.’

  ‘So it seems. So, what happened back there – with Taz, I mean?’

  ‘Matey was gonna haul him into the tree. Didn’t ’spect ter find me there, did he? Reckon I give ’im the fright of his life!’ Woodsmoke chuckled appreciatively at the memory.

  ‘Into a tree? Are you sure?’

  ‘’S’what it looked like.’

  ‘Did you see who it was?’

  ‘Reckon not. Come up behind ’im and put my hand on his shoulder, I did. He didn’t hang around fer no introductions.’

  ‘I don’t suppose he did,’ Daniel said with a slight smile.

  ‘Reckon his heart weren’t in it.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Well, Boyd, see, he woulda told ’im ter clobber the dog, not string ’im in a bloody tree! Lucky he was more interested in you, I reckon.’

  ‘Lucky for who?’ Daniel enquired morosely. Now that the sustaining effect of the adrenalin had cleared his system, a grinding discomfort was taking over, reminding him, with each movement, of the efficacy with which Boyd, if Boyd it had been, had wielded his baseball bat.

  Woodsmoke grunted again. ‘Woulda killed the dog, Boyd would. Seen ’im do it afore.’

  ‘You’ve seen him kill a dog?’ Daniel’s ears pricked up. ‘Whose?’

  Suddenly, it seemed as if the poacher regretted having said so much. He shrugged and took a long swig of his coffee.

  ‘Reckon I disremember.’

  ‘I’d really like to know …’

  ‘Wouldn’t do yer no good, I reckon. ’S’all over an’ done with.’

  Sensing that the older man had said all he was going to, Daniel changed the subject, careful not to let his frustration show.

  ‘Was it you the other day? Watching me from the wood?’

  ‘Mighta bin.’

  ‘Why didn’t you come over?’

  ‘Not in general sociable,’ Woodsmoke said. ‘Juss wanted to see what manner of man you wuz. Heard you sent the Boyd nipper packing.’

  ‘With a little help from Taz,’ Daniel admitted, adding casually, ‘The Boyds have got dogs at the scrapyard, I gather. Rottweilers, aren’t they?’

  ‘The girl tell you that, did she? Sue? Never could keep her mouth shut. Bet she didn’t tell you about the others though, did she? The ones you can’t see.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nuthin.’ All at once, Woodsmoke wouldn’t meet Daniel’s eyes, and this time Daniel let his exasperation show.

  ‘But you must have meant something, else why say it?’

  The older man finished his coffee in one long swallow and stood up.

  ‘Didn’t mean nuthin’. Juss ramblin’. Folks’ll tell you I’m daft in the head, an’ maybe they’re right. Reckon you don’t wanna take no notice of what I say.’ He stood up and headed for the door, the little lurcher once again hidden under his coat.

  Daniel followed him. ‘You’re no more mad than I am. What are you scared of ? Who are you scared of ? Is it Taylor Boyd?’

  Woodsmoke turned sharply.

  ‘Iss not just him! You don’t know what you’re messing with. There’s dozens of ’em – hundreds. People you don’t expect. They come from all over. There’s nuthin’ you can do ’cept keep your head down and pretend you don’t see nor hear nuthin.’

  He made to move away again, but Daniel caught hold of his coat sleeve.

  ‘What are you talking about? What people?’

  Woodsmoke paused and, without turning, said reluctantly, ‘Reckon there’s plenty others, but Boyd’s lot calls theirselves the Butcher Boys. But I never told you that and no one can prove I did.’

  As the little woodsman disappeared into the darkness, Daniel locked the front door of the cottage and returned to the kitchen. A glance at the clock told him it was a quarter to four. Hard to believe that so much had happened in such a short time.

  He rinsed the mugs, turned the lights off and made his way back upstairs with Taz at his heels, feeling a dozen bruised muscles pull with every step. Tomorrow wasn’t going to be much fun. It was Saturday and only a half-day, but, as luck would have it, he was one of the drivers rostered on. He searched his memory; Reg was the other one, so at least he should be spared coming face to face with Boyd for a day or two.

  Lying on top of the single cotton sheet, Daniel closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but the combination of aching body and busy mind made the goal a remote one.

  The Butcher Boys. A gang of some sort, by the sound of it. The way the poacher had spoken of them made them sound almost like Freemasons. Were they known to the police? If the cottage had had a telephone line and internet access, he’d have been out of bed and Googling the name right away, but, as it was, it would have to wait. Perhaps a call to Tom Bowden would turn up some information. Tom was the son of Daniel’s boss in Devon, and a Detective Inspector who had helped him massively in the past.

  Turning over, he punched the pillow with his good hand and wriggled so he wasn’t lying on a bruise. Sleep remained stubbornly elusive. He was beginning to have some ideas about Taylor Boyd and the possible nature of the gang, and they were none of them pleasant.

  The morning dawned clear with the sun climbing steeply into an azure sky. Getting up, showering and dressing was an ordeal for Daniel, whose stomach and shoulder muscles were rebelling against the treatment they’d received.

  The face that looked back at him from the bathroom mirror had also seen better days. His jaw was slightly swollen and bore a bruise that was only partially visible under the night’s growth of stubble, so he decided to remain unshaven. There was another bruise in his hairline, collected when he’d butted Boyd in the face. That didn’t show at all, and its presence was a source of satisfaction, solely because he knew that Boyd must have come off far worse. The only immediately obvious signs of the night’s unrest were the graze on his cheekbone and his painfully swollen wrist, now inexpertly bandaged.

  Emerging from the cottage after a breakfast of coffee, toast and paracetamol, he found the front garden similarly the worse for wear, a substantial length of its picket fencing flattened and the borders trampled. Across the lane, the top twenty or thirty feet of one of the fir trees in the wood was blackened and split in two where the lightning had struck.

  At the side of the cottage, Daniel stood and stared at the cherry tree where, according to Woodsmoke, Taz had been destined to hang helplessly tangled in the net. It looked innocent enough, its branches and twigs sparkling with raindrops, but he had no illusions as to what would have happened if things had gone differently or the poacher not turned up.

  On inspection, the net had proved to be made of green nylon cord, thin but incredibly tough and with a mesh small enough to have made it extremely difficult for the dog to chew through. A red weal on Taz’s muzzle bore testament to his efforts to do just that and showed how cruelly the cord could burn. Daniel thought it might be some kind of net for fruit canes, but he wasn’t sure. It was in the dustbin now.

  He whistled to Taz and headed for the car.

  ‘All right. So, are you going to tell me what’s going on?’

  It was lunchtime. Daniel had just finished his morning’s driving and thankfully returned the keys and paperwork to the office when Jenny had asked him for a word and led the way into the house. Now she squared up to him with a stance that meant business. He attempted a look of innocent enquiry in reply, but she was having none of it.

  ‘You’ve got a graze on your face, a bandage on your wrist, you haven’t shaved and you’re moving around like a geriatric – and a none too fit one at that! Add to that, two smashed headlights on your car. Don’t tell me nothing’s happened, because I won�
�t believe you.’

  ‘OK, boss,’ Daniel said contritely. ‘The official line is that I went outside in the storm last night to chase away whoever was smashing my lights and fell over the dog. That’s what I told Reg.’

  ‘And the unofficial one?’ Jenny turned to open the fridge, from which she produced bread, butter, cheese and a jar of pickle, and began making sandwiches.

  ‘Well, actually, in a manner of speaking I did.’ Daniel said, leaning his behind against the table. ‘But smashing the lights turned out to be a decoy, to lure me out.’

  ‘Someone attacked you?’ Jenny was shocked. ‘Did you see who it was?’

  Daniel hesitated, unsure how much he should tell her. ‘There were three of them and they were wearing masks, but I have a pretty good idea,’ he said finally.

  ‘Not Taylor?’ Jenny looked as though she didn’t really want to hear the answer.

  Daniel nodded. ‘And possibly Terry MacAllister, too.’

  Jenny frowned. ‘But why? I mean, what did they want?’

  ‘I think Macca was just there as the muscle, but Boyd was delivering a message. He wants me out of the cottage and preferably out of Wiltshire, too.’

  ‘Oh, my God! But why?’ Jenny exclaimed. ‘Did they hurt you? No, silly question, I can see they did. But, I mean, what’s the matter with Taylor? What’s he up to?’

  ‘Well, somehow he seems to have got wind of my visit to Mal Fletcher and George and Marian Coombes yesterday. As to what he’s up to, I don’t know, but I’m going to make it my business to find out,’ Daniel said grimly.

  ‘But what about the police? Can’t they do something? You have told them?’ She scanned his face. ‘You haven’t, have you?’

  ‘Er, no.’

  ‘But why not? You should, you know. You can’t just let them get away with it.’

  Daniel shrugged. ‘If I’d thought it would do any good, I might have, but, to be honest, there’s not much point. It was dark and they were wearing masks. Legally, I’d be on a hiding to nothing, even if it ever got to court, which I doubt. I wasn’t even sure who I was dealing with myself, until old Woodsmoke turned up.’