Mad Dogs

by Robert Muchamore

  While the constable stayed inside consoling his wife, Joe ambled down the garden to unlock his shed.

  ‘Used to hang the pole on them hooks by the poolside,’ Joe explained, as he opened the shed and retrieved a long pole with a crook on the end. ‘Trouble was my grandkids were too fond of whacking each other with it.’

  Hunt gave a friendly nod as he took the pole from the elderly man. Joe stepped back, but kept his eyes fixed on the pool as the policeman guided the pole through the murky water. Joe was tired after the flight home and his wife was in a state, but he wasn’t unhappy: retirement had proved underwhelming and a dead body in the pool was a hell of a story for the golf club.

  After scraping across the floor of the pool, Hunt tucked the hook under the dead man’s arm and gave him a gentle pull so that he could see his face. The motion was enough to disturb gases in the decomposing body and a string of large bubbles rose up and broke the surface of the water.

  ‘Maybe you should go back inside,’ Hunt said.

  ‘I dealt with bodies for forty-five years, man and boy,’ Joe smiled. ‘This ain’t nothing much.’

  Rapid identification of the body could make a difference if the crime was recent. But the face was horribly bloated and the eyes bulged.

  ‘He’s been down there a while,’ Joe said knowledgably. ‘Ten or twelve days at a guess.’

  ‘I reckon you’re right,’ Hunt said, as he pulled the pole out of the water. ‘His girlfriend reported him missing early last week.’

  ‘So you know who he is?’ Joe asked.

  ‘Fairly certain,’ Hunt nodded. ‘I’ve only seen a passport photo and that body’s in a state, but it all seems to fit together.’

  *

  The two mission controllers and three agents had agreed to meet up in a grotty hotel suite at a motor lodge on the edge of town. James and Bruce were the last to arrive.

  ‘Had to wait ages for our bus,’ James explained. Then he looked at Chloe, who was propped on the end of a double bed. ‘How did it go with the ethics committee last night?’

  ‘Two-hour conference call,’ she groaned. ‘They’ve given us another seven days, but all the murders are making them jittery.’

  Michael looked up at James. ‘Did you hear they pulled another Runt out of a swimming pool this morning?’

  James shook his head. ‘Anyone we know?’

  ‘Aaron Reid,’ Michael said.

  ‘The guy who wrote the list?’ Bruce gasped.

  ‘The very same,’ Michael nodded. ‘He wrote seven names, plus his own on that list for Major Dee. He’s the third one to turn up dead and nobody knows where the others are.’

  ‘Either dead or in hiding,’ Maureen said.

  ‘Any news on the cars that got burned out near the Green Pepper on Saturday?’ Bruce asked.

  ‘Runts out for revenge most likely,’ Chloe said. ‘You and James both seemed pretty sure that it wasn’t Sasha’s men.’

  ‘Breaking car windows isn’t exactly his style, is it?’ Bruce said. ‘Major Dee might have tried starting a war, but the Mad Dogs aren’t biting.’

  ‘Sasha’s sitting back while Dee does his Runt murder spree,’ James explained. ‘He’s hoping that Dee will slip up while he concentrates on the more serious business of making money.’

  Bruce nodded. ‘But he’s livid about what happened to the football club, so I’d bet my left nut that he’s got a plan.’

  ‘I get the impression that the ethics committee are looking for closure on this mission,’ Chloe said. ‘Some of us have been working this job for more than three months. We’ve learned a lot about the structure of the gangs and passed tons of information on to the police, but they’re worried about the violence and uncomfortable with the amount of criminal activity you three are getting involved with. If we don’t get a breakthrough soon they’re going to pull the plug.’

  ‘Wasn’t there some plan to have a rummage inside Sasha’s house?’ Michael asked.

  ‘We’re on it,’ James nodded. ‘Now that the Mad Dogs’ clubhouse is burned out, anyone who gets injured during a game is sent over the road and Sasha’s missus takes a look at it – she used to be a nurse. We haven’t sorted the details, but we’re going training tomorrow night and if one of us fakes an injury, the other one can go over with him and take a peek in Sasha’s office.’

  ‘It’s a big house,’ Bruce added. ‘So if we get caught, it’s easy to say that we were looking for the bathroom and went through the wrong door.’

  ‘That all sounds fair enough,’ Chloe said. ‘But Sasha’s a dangerous man, so I want to be close by in case something goes wrong.’

  ‘And how’s the surveillance on the hard front going?’ Maureen asked.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Bruce said. ‘It’s boring going through the tapes every day, but we’re getting good information on who’s coming and going and what makes them open the front door. Sasha seems chuffed.’

  ‘Good,’ Chloe said. ‘Have you got any indication about when Sasha’s going to make his move?’

  James shook his head. ‘He’s obviously waiting on information from one of his informants.’

  ‘Well I hope he hurries up,’ Chloe said. ‘I’d say we’ve got another week; two if we’re lucky.’

  33. GLASS

  James didn’t realise how important Mad Dogs FC had been to Sasha Thompson until it was destroyed. The clubhouse and changing rooms could be replaced, but frightened players couldn’t. Sasha had told the media that the assault on his club was unprovoked and nothing to do with a rumoured gang war between himself and a Jamaican rival, but nobody was buying it.

  Sasha had always looked after his players, especially the first-teamers who were amongst the most pampered in non-league football. Everything was laid on for them: transport, clean kit, meals after games, professional coaching and even fifty quid in their pockets if they won a match.

  A few remained loyal and turned up for training after the attack, some disappeared quietly; while braver souls risked Sasha’s ire by asking to have their player registrations transferred to rival clubs. Either way, there weren’t enough registered players to produce a side and the local branch of the Football Association suspended the Mad Dogs first team from its league after they failed to put out a team for three consecutive matches.

  The death of the youth teams was even more spectacular. With rumours of more attacks, no parent would send their kid out in a Mad Dogs kit, and twenty teams – from table-topping under-seventeens to giggly under-nine girls – vanished overnight.

  All that remained were the two Sunday sides: veteran players and gangsters, reinforced by the most loyal talent from the first team and the senior youth squads.

  There were eight grass and two all-weather pitches in the park where the Mad Dogs trained. Tuesday-night training usually attracted fifty adults and up to a hundred kids, but tonight’s meeting had an air of desperation. Fewer than two dozen men gathered around the burned-out clubhouse, and several of those were Sasha’s goons dressed in suits rather than football kit.

  Drizzle spiralled in the floodlit air, whilst the van that had once ferried the first team between matches was parked on the edge of the pitch with its rear doors open so that people could toss in their coats and dry kit for after training.

  ‘Thanks for coming, son,’ Sasha said, hugging Bruce with genuine affection as he stepped up to the wooden bench. ‘I really appreciate you sticking by us.’

  ‘No worries boss,’ Bruce said, as he pulled a notepad from the pocket of his tracksuit bottoms and passed it over. ‘We came straight from the flat. That’s a list of everyone arriving and leaving at the hard front up till five this afternoon.’

  ‘Good man,’ Sasha said, then turned to James. James lacked Bruce’s talent with a football, so he only got a pat on the shoulder and a thank you.

  ‘Incoming,’ Savvas shouted from a few metres away, as he spotted a man walking across one of the unlit pitches.

  Although it seemed unlikely that the Slasher Boy
s would launch another attack with the Mad Dogs on high alert, everyone was aware of the war and Sasha had armed lookouts just in case.

  ‘Hold still,’ Savvas shouted ferociously as the man came nearer.

  The man stopped walking and raised his hands in the air. ‘It’s me, Chris Jones.’

  ‘Chrissie,’ Sasha purred fondly as he waved the man forward.

  James didn’t know who it was and asked Wheels, who’d turned out dressed for football in order to win back some of the credibility he’d lost with Sasha.

  ‘He’s a local councillor,’ Wheels explained in a whisper. ‘He coached Mad Dogs under-fourteens and both his boys play – or at least played – for the club.’

  ‘What can I do for you, councillor?’ Sasha asked, as he embraced the balding man warmly. ‘Any chance of seeing your boy Marcus in a Mad Dogs shirt? We could use his height at the back.’

  The councillor smiled awkwardly. ‘I’ll come straight to the point, Sasha. Everyone has been talking: the council, some of the players’ parents and the old first-team boys. We’ve got some of the best pitches in the country in this park. Mad Dogs was probably the biggest club in the area from under-sevens right up to county league.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll get it back,’ Sasha grinned. ‘Insurance is trying to wrangle out of paying for the clubhouse, but I’ve got my lawyer on it. Once the publicity dies down, the players will start coming back.’

  ‘Maybe,’ the councillor said uncertainly, ‘but the council owns these pitches and we want to see them used. We don’t want players drifting back in a few years’ time when our kids have grown up; we want to see football on these pitches next week.’

  Sasha sounded put out. ‘Then tell ’em to put their kit on and come here to play.’

  The councillor cleared his throat and tried not to sound nervous. ‘Sasha, you’ve done a magnificent job supporting youth football in this community, but your erm … your reputation has become a millstone. With a new chairman and committee, Mad Dogs FC could be back on its feet within—’

  Sasha grabbed the councillor by his lapels and butted him in the face.

  ‘You bloody what?’ Sasha shouted, as the councillor stumbled back with blood spewing out of his nose.

  ‘Be reasonable,’ the councillor begged, shielding his face as Sasha closed him down and punched him in the face.

  ‘This is my club,’ Sasha screamed. ‘I’ve lived across the street my whole life. Before I started Mad Dogs the grass was a foot high and you couldn’t walk two steps without hitting a Coke can or sinking into a pile of dog shit.’

  Sasha was much larger than his opponent and his next blow hit the retreating councillor in the stomach, making him crumple forward into the mud.

  ‘Think you’re smart with your council seat and your phone calls behind my back?’ Sasha shouted. ‘Well, let’s see where it gets you.’

  As James and the rest of the Mad Dogs looked on, Sasha raised his football boot out of the mud and stamped hard. Further blows rained down on the councillor’s head and torso until he was balled up in the mud, with a gaping wound in the back of his head.

  ‘Happy now, mate?’ Sasha boomed, as he took a short run up and finished the councillor off with a kick in the guts. ‘There’s no Mad Dogs FC without me and anyone who can’t live with that can piss right off.’

  It was the most one-sided beating James had ever seen. Even worse, Sasha’s cronies just gawped as Sasha loomed over the unconscious councillor. Half a minute passed while Sasha caught his breath, but it seemed longer.

  ‘I reckon he’ll live.’ Sasha smirked as he finally backed away. ‘Take him to the hospital and keep an eye on him. If he comes round and starts mouthing off, remind him that I know where his old mum lives.’

  Most of the onlookers were tough guys who’d seen their share of violence. But nobody knew how to act as Savvas and a couple of other flunkies picked the councillor out of the mud and dragged his limp body towards the car park.

  ‘What are you all standing around for?’ Sasha yelled, as he waved towards the pitch. ‘We’re a football club, so go play some bloody football.’

  Nobody was going to argue. The coach to the defunct first team blew a whistle and everyone who was dressed for football headed on to the pitch.

  ‘Stone-cold psycho,’ Junior said admiringly, as James turned around and realised that his friend had arrived and stood right behind him. ‘I can think of a few people I’d like to do that to … My dickhead of a parole officer for starters.’

  James had been trained to deal with all kinds of situations, but what Sasha had just done made him feel he’d been punched in the guts.

  ‘Is that the worst he’s ever done?’ Bruce asked.

  Junior shrugged. ‘Worst I’ve seen, but I’ve heard much nastier stuff. Anyway, listen, I know you boys have been earning for that surveillance job. I’m so broke, could one of you lend us thirty quid?’

  ‘You already owe me fifty,’ James said.

  ‘Come on,’ Junior begged. ‘Sasha won’t put any work my way. My mum won’t pay my pocket money because I’m supposed to be grounded and I’ve robbed everything out of April’s purse.’

  Bruce tutted. ‘You robbed your own sister? That’s low, man.’

  Junior gave Bruce the finger. ‘None of your business who I rob.’

  ‘Any time today, ladies,’ the coach shouted as he eyeballed the three boys from the centre circle. ‘We’re gonna warm up with some shuttle runs.’

  Junior groaned. ‘This is such crap. This is supposed to be the Sunday league side, fun football. But now we’ve got this Nazi drilling us like he’s still running the first team.’

  ‘Wimp,’ James grinned. ‘The only reason you can’t handle it is because of all that shit you put up your nose.’

  Junior looked behind and saw that Sasha was still around. ‘I’d piss off now, except Sasha would bite my head off; but I swear this is the last time I’m coming down here.’

  As the players lined up along the half-way line to start doing shuttle runs, James realised that Junior wasn’t the only one who felt like he was in the wrong place. The quality players wanted something meatier than pub-league football, the casual Sunday players certainly didn’t want shuttle runs and the youth-team players wanted to be back in a squad with their mates.

  Sasha Thompson could stomp on as many people as he liked, but it wouldn’t change the fact that the Slasher Boys’ attack spelt the end of Mad Dogs FC.

  *

  After twenty minutes the coach was sick of all the moaning and gave up on serious training. He divided the players up into two nine-man teams, gave half of them red training bibs and retired to a bench next to Sasha while they played a match.

  A few minutes into the game, James went into a sliding tackle out on the right. He’d mistimed hopelessly and the former first-team player didn’t even break his stride, but as James stood up he slipped a piece of glass from the pocket of his shorts and drew the sharp edge up his leg.

  He was too chicken to press down hard and the first attempt didn’t even break the skin, but the second try cut into the tight skin around his calf muscle and produced a dribble of blood.

  ‘Owww,’ James yelled, as he looked around for Bruce.

  Bruce had been waiting for James to go down and was on the scene in seconds, offering him a hand up.

  Bruce inspected the wound and tutted. ‘That’s barely a nick, you tart. If you show Sasha that he’ll laugh his arse off.’

  ‘Bugger off,’ James said indignantly. ‘There’s plenty of blood there.’

  ‘Gimme the glass,’ Bruce said, as he looked around.

  Fortunately play continued in a disorganised scrum around the distant goalmouth and the only spectators – Sasha and the coach – had lost interest in this pathetic excuse for a training session.

  ‘I know what you’re like,’ James said, as he palmed the glass over to Bruce. ‘Don’t go mad.’

  Bruce bent forward as if he was concerned about Ja
mes’ injury, then sneakily pressed the jagged edge into the tiny cut before ripping it out in a downward motion.

  ‘What the …’ James said, clutching his agonised leg. He would have yelled out, but he had to cover up because the injury was supposed to have happened when he’d gone down half a minute earlier.

  ‘That looks much better,’ Bruce said, as a torrent of blood poured down James’ leg into his crumpled football sock.

  ‘What have you done?’ James gasped, as Bruce gave him a lift out of the mud. ‘I’m bleeding to death.’

  ‘Don’t exaggerate,’ Bruce grinned, before he ran to the bench.

  ‘What’s up, champ?’ Sasha said disinterestedly, as he looked up and saw Bruce with James hobbling behind him.

  ‘My cousin cut his leg,’ Bruce explained, holding out the bloody chunk of glass. ‘Have we got any first-aid stuff around?’

  By this time James was close enough for Sasha to see the state of his leg.

  ‘I’ll get the first-aid kit out of the van,’ the manager said, much to the alarm of James and Bruce.

  ‘Forget that,’ Sasha said, as he leaned forward and inspected James’ leg. ‘You can’t clean up all that blood without running water. Go over to my place and my missus will fix it up: she was a nurse, she’ll know what to do.’

  34. FOIL

  ‘That worked OK,’ Bruce smiled, as he helped James to limp across the empty car park.

  ‘You’re a git,’ James moaned. ‘You know I’ve got a low pain threshold.’

  ‘That’s just a posh way of saying you’re soft.’

  By the time they reached the main gate, James had walked off some of the pain and didn’t need Bruce’s arm around his back. As they passed on to the street, Bruce ducked behind a tree and grabbed a small backpack Chloe had dumped there half an hour earlier. It contained everything he’d need, hidden beneath a layer of dirty sports kit: a tiny PDA with a built-in voice recorder and camera, a couple of compact listening devices and a stun gun just in case things went wrong.