Stop Them Dead, page 7
Until today, crimes involving dogs, whether theft or unlicensed puppy farming or importation, would not have been considered serious enough for his Major Crime Team to become involved, but Ruddle’s murder was a game changer. It had become his top priority, and not just because the Chief Constable was now taking a personal interest. Roy Grace hated any form of cruelty to animals, and he especially loved dogs, both for the amazing creatures so many of them were, and for all they meant to the people who owned and loved them.
In the space of just a few hours, three separate incidents involving dogs had been reported in Sussex. In addition to Ruddle, there was the tip-off Tom Cartwright had of a van containing puppies found in Hastings, as well as the serial he had read earlier of the woman in Hove Park whose dog had been stolen.
The latter was seemingly the least significant. But, as he had often discovered during his past investigations into murders carried out by crime gangs, that old phrase, a chain is only as strong as its weakest link, so often proved true. With drugs, the street runners were the low-hanging fruit, the easiest people to arrest – mostly young, dispensable people, they carried the risk, while the overlords sat safely out of sight and in the belief they were out of reach. Except, occasionally, a runner would squeal in exchange for a reduced sentence, and arrests could start to be made much higher up the chain, in a kind of domino effect, as more scumbags – none of them principled – were prepared to rat on their masters when they realized the length of sentences they were facing.
Maybe it was the same with dog-snatchers, he pondered. Some lowlife given a list of dogs to look out for by an active gang? If he could find them, maybe it would take him higher up the chain. To Tim Ruddle’s killers?
He called Stanstead, who answered immediately.
‘Luke, I read on the serials an incident of a woman who reported her dog stolen in Hove Park earlier today – around 10 a.m. We need to action a visit to her.’
‘Yes, boss.’
As he ended the call, an alert on his private phone indicated an incoming text. He looked at it and saw it was from Cleo’s sister, Charlie. A photograph of a bunch of cute chocolate brown and white puppies with huge floppy ears. Beneath was her message.
Roy, look at these spaniels! You told us you were looking at getting another dog. I know you were thinking a rescue dog but these are the cutest! I found them on the internet, and they look like they’re really well cared for by a nice breeder – I just spoke to her, a lovely lady. They’re near Bournemouth. Would be ideal for you and Cleo. She’s asking £2.5k, a good price at the moment – some charge up to £4k. Could you get any time off to see them? She says they will go quickly! I’ll be free later. XX
Grace winced at the price, but he knew just how much the cost of dogs had shot up recently – and was still rising. He had been wanting a spaniel type for some time, because of their temperament – they were supposed to be particularly good with children. He and Cleo had both wanted a rescue dog ideally. But, given the current investigation, he thought it might be worth going to see how it was all set up to help him understand that world better. Immerse himself in the detail and gain some insights. There was no way he could take time out today. Nor tomorrow; he needed to focus one hundred per cent on Operation Brush. He texted back:
Can you ping me the details, I’ll make an appt for the weekend? xx
As he sent the text he reflected, sadly, that his football team, Brighton and Hove Albion, were playing a home match on Saturday. When his son Bruno had been alive, he would have moved heaven and earth to have been able to attend a game with him. But since his tragic death, much though he loved the team, he hadn’t wanted to go to the Amex stadium – not yet anyway, it brought back too many painful memories.
Charlie texted back the details.
As he took another sip of his coffee, his phone rang. It was Luke Stanstead, with the name, address and mobile phone number of the woman whose dog had been stolen in Hove Park this morning, Sara Gurner.
Thanking Stanstead, he glanced at his watch. He needed to prepare for the press conference with the ACC, but he had enough time. He dialled Sara Gurney’s number. It rang for some moments, then went to voicemail. He left a message asking her to call him back as soon as it was convenient.
19
Thursday 25 March
‘Moose is so gorgeous. I LOVE HER!’ Bluebell squealed.
Chris Fairfax, driving along the country road back towards Brighton, glanced in the rear-view mirror at his daughter, on the back seat, cradling the little ball of blonde fur to her face. She looked so happy, so utterly rapt, and he felt a deep, incredible wave of love for her. He reached out his left hand and squeezed Katy’s, shot her a glance and smiled. Although she squeezed his hand back, he saw the doubt beneath the veil of her thin smile. ‘I thought he was a nice guy, that breeder, didn’t you? Genuine.’
‘He genuinely knew how to charge.’
‘That’s the going price for these puppies now, we know that. But he didn’t seem like one of those rogue puppy farmers or importers we’ve read about.’
‘If you say so,’ she replied, sounding unconvinced. Then she turned round to face her daughter and was relieved to see the bleeding from the nip on her nose had stopped. ‘She’s your responsibility now, you know that, don’t you? You’ll have to feed her before you go to school and then again after you get home. And after she’s had her second set of vaccinations, we’ll have to take her out for walks every day.’
‘I know that, Mummy!’ Bluebell said, sounding quite indignant. ‘And I will, of course I will – oooooh, she’s just licked the end of my nose!’
Turning back to her husband, Katy exchanged another glance with Chris, grinning. Yep, sure, they were both thinking. Just like Bluebell had promised to look after her gerbils, Snuffle and Sniffle, then had got bored of them after a few months. The same with her rabbit, Tipsy, and the same with her budgie, Rocky. It had fallen to them both to feed the creatures and clean out their cages while they were alive, and no doubt in a couple of months or so, when Bluebell moved on to something else she wanted, they’d be the ones feeding and walking Moose.
But for now, Chris’s heart was so filled with love for his daughter, he didn’t mind, he really didn’t. She brought them such happiness and contentment, and all he wanted was to make her the happiest little girl in the world. And, hey, it would be great to have a dog in the house again, now they’d all got over their grief at losing their beloved and oh-so-gentle German shepherd, Phoebe, who’d had to be put down just before Christmas.
‘Ouch!’ Bluebell suddenly cried out, in a kind of mock anger.
‘What, darling?’ Katy asked.
‘She’s got very sharp teeth, Mummy! They’re so tiny but very sharp!’
‘She’ll lose those baby teeth and get her grown-up teeth soon enough.’ She turned again to face her daughter.
Bluebell raised the puppy’s black upper lip with her finger, to reveal a row of tiny white incisors. ‘Look at those!’
‘They need to be sharp, darling, dogs have to be able to chew meat.’
‘Moose’s not going to eat meat,’ she said indignantly. ‘She’s going to be like me. Anyhow, the man said she likes the dog biscuit food.’
Chris said nothing, concentrating on his driving. Bluebell had been vegetarian for the past six months. His fault, he knew – if he could call it a fault. They’d been following a slatted lorry, on foreign plates, crammed with sheep. It was heading towards Newhaven port and Bluebell had asked if the sheep were going on holiday. Both Chris and Katy firmly believed they should always tell their daughter the truth, so he had told her that no, they weren’t going on holiday, they were going to be sold for meat somewhere in Europe.
Bluebell had begun crying, and from that moment on had resolutely refused to eat any kind of meat – and got angry at her parents when they did. So their home had become pescatarian, and increasingly vegetarian and vegan. Katy was quite happy, Chris less so, and although he accepted the regime at home, whenever they went out to dinner he pointedly went for the meat options on the menu, both for starters and mains.
‘I think Moose is hungry!’ Bluebell announced.
‘We’re nearly home,’ her father said. ‘Fifteen minutes.’
‘I’ll put some Savlon on that bite when we get home.’
‘It’s fine, Mummy!’
‘I read that one of the most poisonous bites in the world – apart from some snakes – is a human one,’ Chris said. ‘Far worse than a dog bite!’
‘Maybe, but we don’t know what diseases that puppy might be carrying,’ Katy replied.
‘Peat said his dogs have had all the vaccinations,’ Chris said.
‘Let’s hope so,’ Katy said, eyeing Bluebell’s nose yet again.
‘What’s that meant to mean?’
‘You liked him and trusted him, I wasn’t convinced.’
‘But the puppy’s gorgeous, right?’
‘I think we should take her to Dr Bradley and get her checked out if she’s still local.’ Dr Helen Bradley was the vet who had cared for Phoebe and had eventually put her to sleep.
‘And spend another three hundred quid on her fees and whatever she gives her?’ Chris quizzed. ‘Why don’t we just see how Moose is over the next few days?’
Katy gave a reluctant nod.
20
Thursday 25 March
Shortly before 4 p.m., Roy Grace ended a call to RSPCA Inspector and case officer Kirsty Withnall. She was providing him with a list of all Persons of Interest they had on their current records in the world of illegal puppy dealing and importing in the counties of Sussex, Surrey, Hampshire and Kent. But also, further afield, she had alerted him to a number of suspect puppy farms in Wales that they currently had firmly on their radar.
As he made notes in preparation for the evening briefing on Operation Brush, his job phone rang, the display showing a number he didn’t recognize.
‘Roy Grace,’ he answered. And heard the voice of a well-spoken middle-aged woman.
‘Detective Superintendent Grace? This is Sara Gurner. You rang me earlier today and I do apologize for only now getting back to you. I’ve had a terrible day.’
‘I can imagine,’ he said. ‘My wife and I are big dog lovers – and I was shocked when I heard about what happened to your dog.’
‘Well,’ she replied. ‘I’m happy to say that all’s well that ends well.’
‘Really – tell me?’
‘I had a phone call an hour ago from a taxi driver, a very nice gentleman called Mark Tuckwell. He’d seen my labradoodle, Zulu, standing in the middle of the Old Shoreham Road. He swung his taxi across the road, blocking the traffic, jumped out and somehow managed to grab him by the collar and get him into his car. He really deserves a medal! I can’t imagine what would have happened if he hadn’t done that.’
Grace could imagine and it didn’t make pleasant thinking. The Old Shoreham Road was one of the major thoroughfares through the city for any vehicles travelling east or west, especially lorries heading towards Shoreham Harbour or destinations beyond. It claimed the lives of pedestrians and cyclists annually, and a dog would stand little chance. ‘That is very good news indeed,’ he replied.
‘I honestly thought after he was taken this morning, I would never see him again,’ she said, sounding quite emotional.
He gave her a moment to compose herself then asked, ‘Ms Gurner, can you tell me exactly what happened this morning? Any details at all that you can remember – did you see the person who got out of the van and picked up your dog?’
‘Only from a distance,’ she replied.
‘What were you able to see?’
‘He was very pale, not tall – and he had one of those woollen hats on.’
‘A beanie?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘A beanie, that’s it.’
‘Anything else about him? About the way he walked?’
‘Not really, no, it all happened so fast. I – I thought at first what a nice man, he’s stopped Zulu from running out into the road. Then I couldn’t believe it – he put him in his van and drove off.’
‘And that was it?’ he asked.
‘I – I ran after the van.’
‘Can you remember any details about the van?’
‘It was white with black and orange lettering. I think it might have had the name of a plumbing company but I can’t be sure.’
‘Would you know what make it was?’
‘No, I’m sorry. It was – you know – a typical van.’
‘Did it have windows in the side?’
‘Only at the front, I think.’
‘So it was a panel van?’
‘I honestly don’t know.’
‘Did it have windows in the rear?’
She hesitated. ‘You know, I really can’t say. I – I was so shocked.’
‘Can you think of any reason why the man who stole him let him go?’
‘No, none.’
‘Has your dog been neutered?’
‘Yes, he has been.’
He thought for a moment. ‘Ms Gurner, I’m very happy that you are now reunited with your dog. But your experience could be very valuable to us in preventing further thefts of dogs. If one of my team contacted you, would you be willing to be interviewed in more depth?’
‘If it prevents someone else from going through the nightmare I’ve suffered today, absolutely, Detective Superintendent.’
‘Thank you, Ms Gurner. Please give Zulu a hug from me.’
‘I will, oh I absolutely will!’
Smiling, Grace made a mental note for her to be formally interviewed. Often, through carefully posed questions, trained cognitive witness interviewers could coax valuable details from a witness’s subconscious.
There was silence for a moment. Then he heard Sara Gurner’s voice saying, ‘Did you hear that, Zulu? Detective Superintendent Grace instructed me to give you a hug!’
As soon as he hung up, he dialled Glenn Branson. When he answered, Grace said, ‘I want to take another ride out to see Sharon Ruddle – we’ll put the briefing back to 7 p.m. – meet you in the car park in five?’
‘I’ll be there.’
21
Thursday 25 March
Gecko was freezing his nuts off in his thin leather jacket, in the biting wind, in the middle of Stanmer Park. He was impatient and growing increasingly desperate as he watched the old man being tugged this way and that by the young dog on the extender lead.
He’d been discreetly following the stooped man in his shapeless tweed coat, flat cap and scarf for almost an hour, waiting for the moment when there was no one else around. But there were other dog walkers, joggers, cyclists, as well as a dad who had now appeared with his small child, attempting to fly a kite. The old man was constantly shooing other dogs away. A lot were interested in this schnauzer, and her tail was up very high. She was flagging it from side to side, which indicated she could be trying to disperse her scent and attract these males because she was on heat. Exactly what he was after! He would strike when the old man was back at his car, he decided.
But when? Time was running out. He checked his cheap little watch again. At least, he reflected, Elvira couldn’t see it too well, although she could of course feel and smell it. One day he’d have a nice, swanky watch on his wrist, a shiny Rolex, and then he’d let her feel it with pride – and smell that it was gold . . . One day, when his boat came in.
Come on, come on, old man, you shouldn’t have a young dog like that, you should have an old one, like yourself.
For the past few hours he had been cruising the city’s parks in his van, which was now re-branded Fleming Digital Services. He’d trawled Wild Park, Queen’s Park, Preston Park, St Ann’s Well Gardens, Hove Lawns and Wish Park. No schnauzer or poodle matching the photograph Mr Jim had given him in any of those. But here, in the vast space of Stanmer Park, he’d finally got lucky. The right dog, he was certain. If he was right and she was a bitch that hadn’t been spayed and was on heat, Terry Jim would be very pleased. Perfect!
Except, not quite perfect, as it was now 3.45 p.m., giving him barely an hour and a half to drive the dog over to Appletree Farm, get paid, and dash back to the Brighton Lanes, in rush-hour traffic, in time to buy the talking watch for Elvira before the shop closed. Tight. Stuff could go wrong. Stuff always did go wrong, story of his life.
From his vantage point behind a large oak, he saw the old man pull the dog hard on the extender lead, as another dog ran towards her. The man shouted something, wisps of grey hair batting around either side of his flat cap, as he yanked the handle, pulling the schnauzer back down the sloping grass. God knows why he had such an energetic dog, Gecko wondered. And one not spayed?
Now the schnauzer stopped, squatted on her haunches and was dumping. The old man took an interminable time to bend down with his plastic bag and pick up the mess. Time that was running out, the gauge almost on empty. Gecko checked his watch yet again.
Fucking come on!
Finally, the old man headed down towards a line of parked cars. No other dog walkers in sight. Gecko stiffened, slipped his hand in his pocket, took out the tiny, clear plastic container with the airholes he had punched and looked at the spider he’d captured earlier today. Amaurobius ferox. The black lace-weaver. An inch across, with its bulbous sac, people confused it with the false widow, but this one didn’t have a venomous bite. He popped it in his mouth and felt the tickle on his tongue as it scurried around.
He followed the man. The time to strike would be when he was distracted, putting his dog in the car. Gecko planned to walk up to him, open his mouth, and when the man recoiled in shock at the sight of the spider, push him over, grab the lead – good that she was on a lead – and outrun the oldster to his van.
