SIXTEEN

‘This belong to anyone?’ Dek held out a small leather collar upon which several ominous dark stains could be seen.

Across the room, Reg looked up from his paper and the colour left his face.

Dek had arrived late in the drivers’ room that Friday morning, with the aim, Daniel instantly suspected, of making just such an impressive entrance.

‘Looks like it belongs to a small dog,’ Boyd suggested, clearly enjoying the moment. ‘Say – a Jack Russell, or something. Didn’t you used to have a Jack Russell, Reg? Whatever happened to it? Ah, yes, I remember. You lost it. Very careless, I always thought.’

Dek laughed with Boyd, but Macca had the grace to look a little uncomfortable.

‘That’s enough!’ Daniel said sharply as Reg threw the paper aside and surged out of his chair, a tortured expression on his face. He snatched the collar from Dek and turned it over in his hands.

‘Where did you get it?’

‘Found it. Lying beside the road. Like you do,’ he added airily.

Reg squared up to him, his lower jaw thrust forward like a bulldog. At fully six inches shorter than the younger driver, it would have been comical if the circumstances hadn’t been so tragic.

‘What have you done with him, you bastard?’ he growled.

Dek backed away, holding his hands up in mock fear.

‘Steady on, old man. You’ll have a heart attack or something. I thought you’d be pleased to have his little collar back again.’

‘Yeah, you should be thanking him,’ Boyd put in. ‘Save you buying another one for the next pooch, unless you decide to get a proper dog.’

Reg cast them both a look of loathing, pushed past Dek and left the room.

‘Give you a kick, did it?’ Daniel asked mildly. ‘Upsetting an old man. Make you feel good?’

‘Ah, shut up!’ Boyd answered. ‘You can go and hold the silly old fart’s hand if you want.’

Daniel got to his feet.

‘Well, I certainly prefer his company to yours,’ he commented on his way to rinse his coffee cup.

He found Reg in the depot yard, leaning on the gate, waiting for the warehouseman to finish loading his lorry.

‘You all right, mate?’

Reg didn’t turn his head.

‘I shouldn’t let them get to me, I know, but I couldn’t help it. They caught me on the hop.’

‘As they meant to.’

Reg sighed. ‘What makes people like that? So needlessly unpleasant.’

‘Something missing in their little lives,’ Daniel said. ‘That’s what I’ve always thought. Trying to prove themselves. I’m sorry about Skip.’

‘Thanks. It’s been a week. I didn’t really think I’d ever see him again – but a part of you keeps hoping, doesn’t it?’

Daniel put a hand on the older man’s shoulder briefly, then moved away.

When Daniel finished work on the Friday evening, he found a note from Woodsmoke tucked under the windscreen wiper of his car. It had been written with a none too sharp pencil and said simply, Need to see you, urjent. Will wait at the stables. W.

There was no suggested time, but doubtless Woodsmoke knew what time the lorries normally returned, so Daniel turned round and headed straight for the stableyard.

When he reached the yard, Sue was coming out of one of the boxes.

‘He’s round there,’ she said, jerking her head in the direction of Barn Field.

Daniel carried on through past the stables and found Woodsmoke leaning on the field gate, still attired in his long coat and hat, in spite of the heat of the afternoon.

‘Hi. What’s the problem?’ he asked.

‘No problem,’ Woodsmoke grunted. ‘Just heard something I reckon you’d be innerested in.’

‘OK?’ Daniel waited.

‘Can’t say for sure that it’s true, cos you never in general get to hear of these things, but I thought it was worth telling you.’

‘Right.’

‘Word is there’s a meeting on tonight.’

‘Is there so?’ Daniel was suddenly very interested. ‘And where did you hear this word?’

‘I wuz in The Fox at lunchtime, an’ I reckon they thought I wuz asleep. I might even have led them to think I wuz, come to that,’ he said with the suspicion of a twinkle under the brim of the hat. ‘It were that Boyd nipper. He told this other fella he had a mind to try his dog out. The other one, he said to count him in and he knew a few others who’d come along, iffen he wanted.’

‘Did you catch where and when?’

‘Reckon it wouldn’t be much good telling you iffen I hadn’t,’ Woodsmoke observed.

Daniel couldn’t argue with that. He waited.

It seemed almost as if the old poacher was reluctant to give up this last bit of information; he was enjoying the moment too much. But eventually he did so. ‘Nine o’clock. Radpole’s Barn.’

Daniel frowned, taken aback. He’d been hoping Woodsmoke would name the salvage yard. ‘So, where’s that?’

‘Way out yonder,’ the older man said, waving an arm towards the fields on the horizon. ‘You’d never find it in a month of Sundays, I reckon. Course, I could show you, iffen you wanted.’

‘I expect I could find it on a map. No need for you to get involved.’

‘Happen you could find it, but then what? You can’t go barrellin’ up there in your car. They’ll be watchin’ the track, sure as anything. You need to come at ’em unexpected, across the fields.’

‘OK. Where shall I meet you, then?’

‘I reckon you know the barn on Colt’s Hill.’

That had been the one where Daniel and Drew had found the rats in the pit. He nodded.

‘Meet you there, half eight, if you like. Will you come on the liddle pony?’

‘If Jenny agrees.’

Daniel’s conversation with Woodsmoke left him with a great deal of food for thought. Even though instinct urged him trust the old poacher, he couldn’t completely banish the suspicion that Woodsmoke had been allowed to overhear the arrangements being discussed in The Fox and Duck. Dog-fighting rings were customarily obsessive about security. The whereabouts of meets were not normally disclosed, even amongst the supporters’ network, until perhaps half an hour before the event, when a text message would go out to selected members of the group, to spread the word to the waiting punters. In extreme cases, those attending would be collected and taken to the venue in minibuses. To think that Taylor Boyd would have been so careless stretched credibility.

On the other hand, thinking back, Woodsmoke had described the man he’d overheard as ‘that Boyd nipper’. Did that mean it had been Ricky, rather than Taylor, who had let the information slip? That would certainly be more believable, and the very fact that he had access to that privileged knowledge meant that the Boyds must indeed be key players in the Butcher Boys fighting ring. Why tell Ricky, though? In their shoes, there was no way Daniel would have trusted the hot-headed youngster with such potentially dangerous information.

Was it possible that the Butcher Boys somehow suspected Daniel was interested in their activities and were laying a trap? If so, that would also presuppose that they knew of his friendship – if such it could be termed – with Woodsmoke. There were a lot of ifs, but one way or another Daniel couldn’t feel easy with what he’d learned.

Whatever his misgivings, if there was any chance the information was kosher, he couldn’t risk passing up such an opportunity. He would meet Woodsmoke, but, knowing how these gangs operated, he would take absolutely no chances.

Eager to show off his blossoming riding skills, Drew took no trouble to hide his disappointment that Daniel proposed to go out without him that evening, and for a few minutes it seemed that a full-on strop might be in the offing. Jenny stepped into the breach, however, with the suggestion that she take all the children to the local bowling alley for the evening, a manoeuvre that earned her Daniel’s heartfelt gratitude.

‘Thanks,’ he said, out of Drew’s hearing. ‘I owe you.’ He had told her the purpose of his excursion.

‘Indeed you do,’ she said. ‘And I’ll collect, believe me. But, Daniel – be careful, won’t you? I don’t think I could handle another tragedy just now.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll listen to my inner coward, I promise.’

Twenty past eight found Daniel stepping down from Piper’s saddle in the lee of the barn on Colt’s Hill. After a day of hot sun and blue skies, the evening had become overcast and a blustery wind sprung up. He’d left Taz at the farmhouse. The dog had been just as disappointed as Drew but had accepted his fate more philosophically, merely watching Daniel’s exit with lowered ears and reproachful eyes.

‘You’re here, then.’ Woodsmoke’s sonorous tones broke in on Daniel’s thoughts. ‘Wasn’t sure you’d come.’

As Daniel turned, the poacher looked momentarily taken aback but recovered quickly. ‘Iffen you’re thinking of going in amongst ’em, reckon you’d do well to think again,’ he suggested.

‘I’ve no plans as such but I like to be prepared,’ Daniel said. He’d used a change of clothes and his box of tricks to subtly alter his appearance, topping the effect off by tucking his hair under a beanie. He’d been fairly pleased with the result and Woodsmoke’s reaction confirmed his success.

‘You said it was the Boyd nipper you overheard. Did you mean Ricky?’

‘Arh. The young un.’

‘I’m surprised they’d trust him with that kind of information.’

Woodsmoke nodded. ‘Thought on that. Reckon it’s his shooting match.’

‘You think Ricky organized it himself ?’

‘Thass what I said.’

‘So how far is this barn from here?’ Jenny had thought Radpole’s Barn was a good distance away, on the neighbouring farm, and had loaned him Alfie the cob for Woodsmoke to ride.

Daniel had been surprised. ‘Can he ride?’

‘Oh, yes. He used to have a hairy little pony that he rode everywhere until it died about ten years ago,’ she had told him.

‘Take about half an hour,’ the poacher said now, in answer to Daniel’s query. ‘A sight less iffen that black-and-white creature is for me.’

‘It is.’ Daniel held out the reins.

‘A good girl, that Jenny,’ Woodsmoke said approvingly.

‘So where’s Gypsy?’ Daniel asked as the older man settled into the cob’s saddle and arranged his long coat over the animal’s back. With his wide-brimmed hat, he looked like a gaucho from the plains of Argentina.

‘Left her back home. Reckon she’s in the family way,’ he grunted.

Woodsmoke looked quite at home on the horse, although he declined to go faster than a jog, claiming that he was ‘too old to want to shake up his vitals’. Even so, they reached the barn in only a little over fifteen minutes, tethering the horses and continuing on foot when they were nearing their goal.

They approached to one side of the barn where the cover was thickest, Daniel following Woodsmoke without a word, bowing to his knowledge of the locality. The poacher moved through the dense woodland like a wraith, his feet in their soft-soled boots making no sound, even though the ground beneath the trees was littered with twigs. Daniel had spent a good deal of his childhood shadowing the gamekeeper on the estate that bordered his own home and as a youngster had thought himself something of a woodsman, but Woodsmoke put his efforts to shame. When they were close to the edge of the clearing, yet still hidden by a stand of bracken, they hunkered down and observed the scene.

Radpole’s Barn was a structure that had seen better days. Built of timber that had gone silvery with age, topped off with a mossy tiled roof, it stood in a woodland clearing with nettles growing thickly against its walls. Nearby stood the remains of a second building that had fared even worse over the years and was in a state of dereliction, its tin roof caved in on one side.

There was no doubt that Woodsmoke’s information had been correct. Their current position was level with the double doors at the front of the barn, with a good view of anyone entering or leaving. Parked untidily in front of the building were several vans, a minibus with darkened windows, and two or three pick-up trucks. A number of rough-looking individuals loitered nearby, smoking and talking in overloud voices. One even held a muzzled dog on a rope, which he kept pushing with his foot, laughing when it eventually whipped round at him. Daniel guessed a search of the vans might yield other potential fighting dogs.

In spite of Woodsmoke’s warning, he hadn’t come this far to watch tamely from the outside if there was any chance that he could get inside, but he knew he’d have to time his move well.

As they looked on from the sidelines, Ricky Boyd came to the door of the barn and stepped outside, looking away down the track and then at his watch. Another man appeared by his side and said something. Ricky shrugged and again looked down the track, before taking his phone from his pocket and making a call. It looked as though Woodsmoke had been right. The meeting was Ricky’s baby, and Daniel doubted that his father and brother knew anything about it.

‘He says five minutes. He’s just down the road.’ Through a lull in the general conversation level, Ricky’s voice carried to the watching pair as he pocketed his mobile.

All of a sudden, two men pushed past them in the doorway, one holding the other in a kind of armlock. Half a dozen others followed and stood watching and cheering as a rough-and-tumble fight ensued.

‘Did you invite all these people?’ Ricky asked his companion uneasily, raising his voice to be heard over the noise. ‘I didn’t expect so many.’

‘Most of them. Relax. It’s cool.’

At this point, Daniel and Woodsmoke heard a vehicle approaching along the track, and a few seconds later a silver van with tinted windows roared into the clearing and pulled up in front of the barn, sliding impressively on the loose gravelly surface.

All at once, the fight was over, the protagonists slapping each other on the back as they got to their feet and everyone turning to look at the newcomer. A fat, unshaven man emerged from the silver van, hitching up a dirty pair of jeans and waving a hand at Ricky before opening a sliding side door and taking out a large carrying crate with a mesh door. There was a cheer from those assembled, and within moments everyone in the clearing was following him into the barn, Ricky and the fat man in the forefront.

Without a word, Daniel rose to his feet, stepped through the bracken screen and tagged on to the end of the shuffling queue. Behind him, he faintly heard a bitten-off exclamation from Woodsmoke.

Just inside the doorway stood a muscle-bound bruiser, and Daniel’s heart skipped a beat or two until he realized that it wasn’t Macca. Although the man was presumably there as a bouncer of sorts, he hardly spared a glance for Daniel, looking past him to see if there were any further punters before he closed the door.

Against all the odds, Daniel was inside and, for the moment, could breathe again.

The barn was not big, less than half the size of the one on Colt’s Hill, with a mezzanine at the door end, which was probably a hayloft. In the centre of the ground floor was an enclosed area about twelve feet square with walls formed of laminated boards, screwed on to angle-iron stakes that had been driven into the earth floor, and rubber mats underfoot. This improvised pit was brightly lit by spotlights positioned around the eaves, and, by contrast, the viewing area around it was shadowy and dark, which suited Daniel very well.

There must have been forty or fifty men round the outside of the square, two on opposite sides obviously running books on the upcoming fights. They were doing a roaring trade, as most of those present seemed to be pushing forward, eager to place their bets. Anxious not to stand out in any way, Daniel joined the crush, finally putting a bet on a dog called Reckless in the first bout.

The man immediately behind him in the queue snorted derisively.

‘Like throwing your money away, do you?’ he asked, but before Daniel could formulate a response, one of Reckless’s supporters took up the dog’s defence and much good-humoured heckling ensued.

Relieved to have the attention lifted from him, Daniel moved away and took up a position standing on a ring of hay bales that had been laid against the barn walls.

‘Friend of Roy’s, are you?’ a voice enquired beside him.

Daniel stayed silent, hoping whoever it was hadn’t been talking to him, but moments later an elbow nudged him and the question was repeated.

‘Oh, sorry,’ he said, glancing at the unsavoury-looking character beside him. ‘No. A friend of Ricky’s.’

‘What do you think of that new dog of his, then? Have you seen it? Think it was the eighth wonder of the fucking world, the way he goes on about it, wouldn’t you?’

‘Haven’t seen it yet,’ Daniel admitted. ‘I’ve been away for a week or two. Just got back.’

After another couple of comments about dogs that were due to fight that evening, Daniel’s unwanted new acquaintance clearly decided he was poor value as a viewing companion and moved away to talk to someone else.

Another potentially sticky moment passed. Daniel breathed deeply and considered whether he might be getting soft. He’d done a fair bit of undercover work when he’d been at Bristol Met and, in a skewy way, enjoyed it. But then it was different when you had the full support of a police force behind you. Now he was on his own, unless you counted the old poacher waiting outside. At least, he hoped he was still waiting  . . .

There was a stir of excitement, the crowd parted and the fat man with the crate pushed his way through. He stepped over the barrier and into the makeshift pit before putting the crate on the ground. Moments later another man followed with two rough-coated black terriers under his arm. It seemed the evening’s entertainment was about to begin.

The fat man bent down with a wheezing effort to open the door of the crate, and a buzz of excitement went round the barn as what must have been at least two dozen brown rats spilled out into the pit, immediately scurrying round the edges, searching for a way out.

The two dogs became frantic in their efforts to escape their owner’s clutches, as instinct kicked in and the urge to kill drove all other thought from their minds.

‘Give you fifty to one on the rats!’ someone called out.

‘Fuck off !’ came the reply from elsewhere. ‘The dogs’ll slaughter ’em. I’ll put a pony on the Patterdales clearing up in two minutes.’

The challenge sparked a frenzy of betting on whether rats or dog would triumph, and how long it would take. Daniel listened, trying hard to keep his face impassive, when, in truth, the whole scenario disgusted him. He wondered if the fat man had caught the rats, or whether the poor things had been bred for this cruel end. Although he knew wild rats were the carriers of disease and were present in epidemic proportions across the country, it was no fault of theirs and didn’t excuse using them in this way.

After what seemed an age, during which the terriers continued to wriggle and yap furiously, and the rats milled around and around in search of a way out, the last bets were laid and the contest got underway.

The man with the Patterdales bent over to hold them just above the ground, their legs paddling furiously, and on the signal of another man, who held a stopwatch, the dogs were released and the slaughter began.

The terriers needed no second bidding. They were ruthless and efficient killers, dispatching the rodents with a bite and a flick of the head that sent them flying through the air to land limp and broken, feet away. The dogs didn’t have it all their own way, however. Several of the rats, finding themselves cornered, turned on their hunters and latched on to their faces, necks and paws, drawing blood that spattered the wooden walls as the Patterdales shook and broke the backs of yet more of their number.

Daniel knew from his research that, in times gone by, single dogs would be put in pits with so many rats that sometimes, by sheer force of numbers, the rats did prevail. He was glad that this wasn’t part of the current evening’s sport because, little as he relished seeing the rats slaughtered – it was at least quick – he doubted his ability to stand by and watch a dog gradually overcome and killed by a horde of rats, whilst men stood by waiting to time the moment of collapse.

The noise in the barn was deafening; the blood lust of the men as all-embracing as that of the terriers, and they crowded the barriers, urging the dogs on. Daniel hung back on the fringes and hoped they were too engrossed in the action to notice the swift and stealthy use of his mini camera.

Finally, the massacre came to an end and the two dogs circled the pit sniffing the rats’ bodies for signs of life before standing panting in the centre of their scene of triumph, tongues lolling and blood seeping from numerous tiny bite wounds.

The man with the stopwatch announced the time taken, and all at once the focus was on collecting the money from bets placed.

‘Awesome!’ The man next to Daniel exclaimed enthusiastically. ‘I’m going to get me some Patterdales.’

Daniel was saved the trouble of replying by the interruption of another man, who was adamant that a good Jack Russell would give the Patterdales a run for their money any day.

He wandered away to distance himself from the chatty man. The less he had to talk, the less likely it was that he would give himself away.

To one side of the pit, first aid was being administered to the terriers’ wounds. Daniel watched from a distance for a moment, noting the extensive and professional-looking kit the handlers seemed to have at their disposal. He doubted that even a vet would have been better equipped.

The ring was cleared with a broom and shovel, and, in due course, two dogs were led in, already lunging at one another and snarling through their muzzles.

To Daniel’s knowledgeable eye, the animals were classic pit bulls, their well-muscled frames clothed in jackets bearing their names, like boxers parading in the ring. The darker of the two dogs bore the name Reckless – the one Daniel had bet on.

The handlers let their dogs stand nose to nose for a minute or two, shaking their collars. The encouragement was completely superfluous. The dogs couldn’t have been more hyped up, and the crowd wasn’t far behind. At the pitside, the self-styled bookies took bet after bet, and then, when the buzz of anticipation had almost reached fever-pitch, the dogs’ coats, collars and muzzles came off and the handlers held them on what Daniel guessed were some kind of quick-release leads.

Someone counted them down, the dogs were loosed and a battle of primeval, snarling ferocity commenced.

Daniel watched, sickened, as the two dogs fought. What disgusted him most was the bestial behaviour and appearance of those at the pitside. You couldn’t blame the dogs for fighting. They were hapless pawns, bred and trained to enhance their natural aggressive instincts by men who got their kicks witnessing the suffering of another being. In his mind, it was the worst form of cowardice.

Hoping all eyes were on the battle in the pit, he palmed the key ring camera again and lifted his hand high to snap off a couple of pictures of the crowd.

The two dogs were well matched and fought each other to a standstill. Finally, with torn flesh and bloodstained fur, Reckless prevailed, catching the other dog in a vice-like grip around the throat and holding on until his opponent’s legs buckled beneath him and he slumped to the ground.

The response from the crowd was a mixture of cheers and groans, and the dogs’ handlers climbed into the pit to retrieve their animals. Reckless staggered with exhaustion as he was paraded round the pit by his crowing owner. The other dog lay where it had fallen until his handler picked up the limp body and made his way out.

Daniel had seen more than enough and would have been happy to leave, but he hadn’t yet managed to get an incriminating photo of Ricky Boyd. If he could do that, he would at least have gained something worthwhile from the appalling episode he’d witnessed.

His luck was in. It seemed the next bout was the highlight of the evening: a match between Ricky’s new dog and that of the man known as Roy. From the posturing and strutting, Daniel guessed this was a grudge match and was the whole reason for Ricky setting up the meet.

The proceedings followed the same format as before. The two dogs were paraded, goaded and then set upon one another. Ricky’s dog, Razor, was the bigger of the two by some way, but Daniel thought he was carrying a little too much weight for peak condition, and he heard the same opinion voiced by others around the barn.

Sure enough, after an impressive start, Razor seemed to flag, and the smaller dog, which had been riding the storm with his chin tucked into his chest, began to show his mettle. As the minutes passed, Ricky’s dog grew less and less able to defend itself, and its sleek pale fawn coat became streaked with blood from the many lacerations it had sustained. Hopelessly outclassed, and with desperation in its eyes, it tried to turn away from its relentless attacker, and several of the onlookers called to Ricky to withdraw it and let it fight another day.

‘He’s not fit, mate! Get him out,’ one shouted, but many more jeered at Ricky’s discomfort, and he became furious with rage and disappointment, leaning over the wooden barrier and yelling at his exhausted dog to get stuck in.

Razor couldn’t do it. Head down and breath rasping through his throat, he finally collapsed in the corner of the pit, the smaller dog worrying at him and trying to pull him away from the protecting wall.

With an oath, Ricky leapt into the pit, but Daniel’s momentary optimism that he was going to do the right thing and save his dog from further punishment was dashed as he set about the animal with his boots, screaming at it to get up and fight.

His actions produced a mixed response. The other dog’s handler jumped in to drag his own fighter away; there were a few boos, and some onlookers laughed at Ricky’s efforts.

‘Always was a bad loser,’ someone called out.

Daniel started to move forward through the crowd, aware that by intervening he risked discovery, but no longer able to stand the sight of such needless cruelty.

‘Not so much of a Razor as a steak knife!’ a man shouted as Daniel elbowed his way through the last row of spectators. With an almost manic expression on his face, Ricky took a flick knife from his pocket, released the blade and slit his dog’s throat. Tossing the bloodstained body aside like an old coat, he wiped the blade on his jeans and pocketed it.

‘That’s a couple of grand down the drain,’ someone commented. ‘Wouldn’t like to be him when Taylor finds out.’

‘No point keeping a loser,’ another voice replied.

‘Too young. Shoulda waited,’ was the opinion of a burly man at the pitside.

Daniel halted at the barrier, trying to stifle the urge to leap into the ring and plant his fist in Ricky’s face. A couple of deep breaths restored reason. The dog was beyond his help now and, as satisfying as it would be, the action would undoubtedly draw down on him the kind of attention that would lead to his unmasking.

Ricky would have to wait.

As the dogs were removed and the excitement died down, Daniel made his way back to the obscurity of the darker fringes. He’d seen more than enough. It was time to go.

It seemed, however, that leaving wasn’t going to be as easy as getting in had been.

At the rear of the crowd once more, he edged towards the barn door, trying not to make his intention obvious. He was still some feet away, however, when another man passed him and slouched towards the exit.

All at once the bouncer materialized and put out a hand to stop the man.

‘And where might you be going, sunshine?’ he asked.

‘Just need to get some air.’

‘Not with that, you don’t,’ the bouncer said and turned his hand over to make a beckoning gesture. ‘Come on, you know the rules. You should have given that up before you got on the bus. How did you get it in?’

Sulkily, the slouching man handed over an expensive-looking, slimline mobile phone. ‘Had it in the waistline of me boxers,’ he said with a touch of cockiness.

‘Pity. It looks a nice phone,’ the bouncer commented, turning it over in his hand. The next moment he had dropped it on the floor and ground it into the dirt with his heel.

‘You can’t do that!’ the slouching man exclaimed, red-faced.

‘Done it. Run along now and, next time, do as you’re told.’

The slouching man pushed past the bouncer in a childish show of rebellion, and the big man chuckled as he watched him go.

Daniel wasn’t laughing, though. He not only had a phone on his person, he had the mini camera. If that were to be found, he would be in big trouble. Needing time to think, he edged away from the doorway and joined the fringe of the crowd once more.

When the hand descended on to his shoulder, he almost jumped out of his skin.

‘What are you doing here?’ a voice demanded in his ear.