Stop them dead, p.15
Stop Them Dead, page 15
‘What do you mean?’ Gecko said stroppily. ‘You couldn’t see the match, I was having to tell you what was happening.’
‘I liked the atmosphere,’ she said, hurt.
‘The atmosphere? Brighton lost. All those Leicester City fans gloating? What’s to like about that?’
‘Just being with you,’ she said and squeezed his hand. ‘I like you telling me what’s happening. You’re my eyes.’
‘Right, yeah,’ he said, without squeezing hers back. ‘There were too many coppers for my liking.’
‘What’s your problem with coppers? They’re just doing their jobs to keep us all safe, aren’t they?’
He gave a little grunt of a laugh. ‘You think that’s what they do? That’s why they were there?’
‘I do. My mum always told me if I had a problem to ask a policeman for help.’
He sneered. ‘Oh yeah, sure. Excuse me, Mr Plod, I’ve got a problem. Ha!’
A train was approaching.
‘You’re in a very funny mood today,’ she said.
‘I got pressures at work. Targets.’
‘Your sales targets?’
‘Yeah, sales targets, sort of.’
‘But you work for a charity, Marion, rehoming dogs. How do they come up with targets?’
‘Well – you know – so many people have bought dogs during Covid, then they find they can’t cope with them.’ He had to raise his voice against the approaching train, the clatter of its wheels, the screech of its brakes, and the tannoy announcement.
‘BRIGHTON TRAIN. THIS IS THE BRIGHTON TRAIN.’
Helping Elvira aboard, holding her stick for her, they entered a busy carriage. He guided her to a seat someone had given up for her and he stood beside her as the train began moving again. ‘I’ve gotta find the right dogs, the right matches.’
‘I’m sure you’re wonderful at it,’ she said. ‘Because you care.’
Her watch announced, in a quiet, robotic voice, ‘Four fifty-eight p.m.’
She found his hand and stroked it with her finger. ‘You wanted me to come, I didn’t want you to waste money on a seat for me, but you were the one who insisted. I was happy for you to go alone and meet up with your mates for a pie and a pint.’
He put his arm on her shoulder. ‘Yeah, I did. I wanted to show you that you can lead a normal life, despite, you know . . .’
‘Despite that I’m becoming a little more blind every day?’
‘I don’t mind about that, I’ve told you. I love you. I’ll always love you, I’ll be your eyes. And if you go deaf, I’ll be your ears, too.’
She punched him playfully. ‘I am not going deaf.’
‘Pardon?’
She punched him again. ‘Haha!’
The train rolled forward, gathering speed. As it did so Gecko looked out of the window at the platform. No sign of any police officers.
‘We’re going to change at Brighton then get off at Preston Park and walk five minutes to your house. Then I’m going to take you to bed.’
She shook her head. ‘No, Marion my love, that’s not going to happen.’
‘Oh?’
She shook her head again, grinning. ‘I’m going to take YOU to bed.’
41
Saturday 27 March
Normally, having gone into the office in the morning, to catch up while the phones were silent, Saturday afternoons were Chris Fairfax’s favourite time of the week. As a season ticket holder, he’d be either at the Amex, supporting his team when they were playing a home game as they were today, or watching sport on television, then maybe collecting Bluebell from a party, and looking forward to going out to dinner with Katy and some friends.
But today, Bluebell was upstairs in bed, feeling too unwell to even play on her iPad, and Katy was fretting about her steadily rising temperature. He’d stayed home, also worried about his daughter, despite Katy having urged him to go to the game and unwind, and telling him it was just a bug as the doctor had said, and it was best if she just took her meds and slept it off.
Moose lay silently in her basket on the floor of the lounge in front of him. Chris watched a rugby match on television and, every five minutes, checked the score on the Albion game against Leicester City, on his iPhone, with an increasing sense of doom. They were now 2–1 down. He had the irrational and frustrating thought, familiar to so many fans, that if he had been there to cheer his team on, maybe the result would be different.
Tomorrow was a whole day off work to look forward to. If Bluebell was feeling better he planned to start with a long bike ride – perhaps along the cycle track into Brighton and then beyond, or instead head west, past Shoreham Harbour and towards Worthing. Followed by a nice lunch at home, or maybe brunch – the three of them – in one of their favourite casual places, and then taking Bluebell out on her roller-skates along the promenade or the undercliff walk at Rottingdean.
Katy had already made the call to cancel the dinner at the Gingerman in Brighton that they had really been looking forward to. She didn’t want to leave Bluebell at home, in her current condition, in the hands of a babysitter and he agreed with her. Instead they’d decided they would order a takeaway from the Giggling Squid, their favourite local Thai.
Just as the Welsh forward had possession of the ball and was sprinting towards the touchline, the puppy suddenly stood up and began to retch.
Then she vomited.
Shit. ‘Darling!’ he called out, rushing to the kitchen to grab some paper towels. ‘Darling!’
‘What?’ Katy shouted from upstairs.
‘There’s something going on with Moose,’ he called out.
She came running down. ‘What – what is it?’
He told her what had just happened, as he mopped up the slimy vomit. She went over to the puppy, which looked balefully at her. ‘My lovely, what is it, are you not feeling right?’
The puppy vomited again, a small amount of green slime.
‘I think we should take her to the vet,’ Katy said. ‘I’m worried, she’s not kept down any food. I was just googling stuff – there’s a horrible thing called parvovirus that kills puppies if they don’t get immediate treatment.’
‘Do you think she has that?’ he asked, alarmed.
‘I don’t know, but we can’t chance it. I’ll ring the vet before they close.’
Chris winced as Leicester City hit the post and Brighton were still losing 2–1 with less than two minutes, plus injury time, left. The Albion needed a miracle.
‘I’ve managed to get her an appointment, but it’s in thirty minutes. Do you want to take care of Bluebell and I’ll go with Moose?’ Katy said.
‘I’ll take her if you like?’ he offered.
‘No, it’s fine – just check on Bluebell every half an hour. Her temperature’s still high at the moment.’
‘Despite the meds Dr Dixon-Smith prescribed?’
Katy nodded, looking very concerned. ‘Yes, I’ve given her all the doses.’
‘They probably need more time to kick in.’
‘Hopefully,’ Katy said, as she scooped up Moose in her arms. ‘My poor baby,’ she said. ‘We’ll get you better!’
‘Sure you don’t want me to come with you?’ Chris asked.
‘And leave Bluebell alone in the house?’ she retorted, more witheringly than she had intended.
‘I mean, get the babysitter?’
‘You’re the babysitter,’ she said, and left.
42
Saturday 27 March
It wasn’t until they were almost home that Noah fell asleep. As the Alfa bumped and lurched along the potholed cart track towards their cottage he woke again.
‘Why can’t we have Wally?’ Noah whined for the umpteenth time.
‘We will find another Wally,’ Cleo said.
Roy and Cleo exchanged a glance, then Roy said, firmly, ‘We’re not having that dog, Noah. As Mummy said, we’ll find another.’
For whatever reason, his tone of voice delivered. Noah fell silent again.
As soon as they were back in the house, he rang Glenn Branson for another update.
‘Don’t ask the Albion score, boss,’ he said. ‘It’ll only put you in a worse mood.’
‘I know it,’ Grace replied. ‘I made the mistake of looking on my phone. Has anything good happened this afternoon? Or does the whole world fall over when I take some down time?’
‘Not when you leave your top man in charge, it doesn’t.’
Perching on the arm of a sofa, stroking Humphrey, who had jumped up onto it, Grace managed a thin smile. ‘Convince me?’
The dog affectionately nuzzled his head against Roy’s chest. Humphrey might be bolshy on occasions, but hey, so were humans. And he really loved this creature. Although originally he was Cleo’s dog, who she’d got from a rescue centre long before they’d met, he was their dog now and over the past couple of years he had been Roy’s constant companion, whether at home or out on his runs across the field.
‘The House-to-House Team has identified a farm that might be of interest to us. Good old Clifford Keele, again,’ Branson said.
‘His place?’ Grace asked. ‘Clifford must be older than God now.’
‘Yeah, I hear he’s pretty gaga. Lives in a cottage with a carer – his missus died a couple of years ago.’
‘How sad – hope we sent flowers.’
‘Haha! So, his daughter, Rula, married to Terry Jim – Big Jim – runs the show now with her charmer of a hubby. They’ve a big spread out near Hailsham. On the surface, these days they’re legit.’
‘They wouldn’t know the meaning of that word,’ Grace said.
‘Nope. Emily Denyer’s been taking a look at their tax returns – at least what they put in – and she says they don’t chime with the kind of money commercially driven agricultural families are making these days – which is very little. British farmers are struggling even more than ever post Brexit. They are all under pressure and apparently it’s driving one or two into organized criminality.’ He paused again. ‘Still with me?’
‘I haven’t fallen asleep, yet.’
‘So,’ Branson continued, ‘what they have on the surface is a crop-based farm. Potato, sweetcorn, rapeseed, employing locals. They’ve a vested interest in the local community turning a blind eye to what’s going on, so it seems they play the whole feudal lord thing, sponsoring the November 5th village bonfire and the annual fete – all that kind of stuff. Part of their strategy for keeping the community onside and distracted from what they are really up to.’
‘Which is what?’ Grace asked.
‘Intel from East Sussex CID is that they’re into illegal waste, tyre dumping, and the usual drugs importation and distribution, as well as growing cannabis – for medical purposes, naturally. Covid closed down a lot of their drug-dealing opportunities, so it seems they may have been turning to others, muscling in on the traditional crimes of some other groups. Metal theft, catalytic converter theft, copper from new-build houses and boilers. Then they spot the rising prices of dogs. Maybe they’ve a few themselves, but they realize dogs have become a goldmine. They start nicking the popular breeds and mating them. Bingo! A pair of sprockers could have a couple of litters a year. Fifteen to twenty puppies at two to three grand a pop? Big money.’
‘Yep,’ Grace said.
‘And hey, what do you know? For the same money dealing in drugs, where they could be looking at ten to fifteen years inside if nicked, they can trade in puppies. The sentence for that is six months at the very worst. More likely a fine than a custodial sentence.’
‘What’s the name of Big Jim’s place, Glenn?’
‘Appletree Farm.’
‘Sounds idyllic.’
‘Not if you see the drone footage, boss. It’s a tip. There’s about four family generations living there, some in cottages, some in caravans. A whole mixture, hens, pigs, mostly scrap metal. It’s long been subject of monitoring by East Division Intelligence officers – they suspect it of farming cannabis on a commercial scale and a possible crystal meth factory.’
‘Our own home-grown Breaking Bad?’
‘Could well be. Big Jim’s two sons from a former relationship, Dallas and Scott, are both in the business today. Big Jim’s wife, Rula, has a daughter, Darcy, who lives and works there too. She seems the only legit member of that family. Dallas Jim has his own farm, Scott lives with his partner in a cottage on Big Jim’s spread, he’s pretty quiet. Both brothers have recently been granted licences to breed dogs, issued by East Sussex County Council. They’re doing everything they can to keep their noses clean, to the outside world at any rate.’
‘Good work, Glenn,’ Grace said.
‘There’s something else that might be relevant.’
‘Tell me?’
‘You mentioned your interest in Marion Willingham? AKA Gecko, who was possibly spotted at the Amex today and then lost?’
‘I did.’
‘Looks like he may have been picked up again. I’m going to ping you some CCTV footage. Have a look then call me back.’
‘I’ll do that,’ Grace said.
43
Saturday 27 March
Moose sat almost motionless on the vet’s examining table, with a sad, lost look in her half-closed brown eyes. Katy stood beside her in the tiny consulting room, stroking her and trying to reassure her.
The vet, Helen Bradley, a lean, energetic woman in her late thirties, stood beside the table, stroking the puppy’s head. She and Katy had a good rapport, especially since Dr Bradley had done so much to make their previous dog, Phoebe, comfortable in her last months.
‘You are beautiful, Moose, aren’t you, eh? You really are! But you’re a bit under the weather, you poor thing.’
She inserted a rectal thermometer and held it with one hand, while continuing to stroke her with the other. ‘So you’ve not been feeling great for a couple of days, have you?’ She glanced at Katy, who nodded. ‘Might be she’s missing her mother or siblings. Have you changed her diet?’
‘No, the breeder gave us a small bag of her kibble, and we’ve bought some more of the same brand.’
After some moments she removed the thermometer and studied it for a moment. ‘Mmm,’ she said. ‘She is running quite a high temperature. Let’s see what’s going on.’
She put the thermometer into a sterilizing unit, then popped her stethoscope into her ears and listened to the puppy’s chest. Moose barely raised her eyelids to look at her. Next, she pulled her mouth open and studied the inside. Then she spent a considerable amount of time feeling all around her body, while the docile creature barely reacted. Finally, she turned and smiled at Katy.
‘It’s so hard to know how animals are really feeling,’ she said. ‘Children – and adults – can tell us where something hurts, or how rubbish they’re feeling, or how queasy. We can only take an educated guess with these little things.’ She shrugged. ‘She’s a gorgeous puppy.’
‘She is,’ Katy echoed.
‘So, you’ve only had her two days, you say?’
‘Yes, correct.’
‘Where did you buy her?’
‘Well, she was from a breeder we found online – he said he was based near Carmarthen.’
Immediately she noticed the frown on the vet’s face. ‘What was his name?’
‘John Peat. We were willing to drive to Wales to see her, but he said there was no need, he was in the Sussex area with other puppies, and he would bring this one over for us to take a look at – with no obligation if we didn’t like her for any reason.’
Her frown deepened. ‘Where did you meet this Mr Peat?’
Sensing the disapproval in her tone, she said, ‘In a pub forecourt. Mr Peat gave us her vaccination certificate and paperwork. I’ve brought it all with me in case you wanted to see – it’s in the car.’
‘I would like to see it. I’d like to know what vaccinations she has had. Did this breeder say whether she’s been chipped?’
‘Yes,’ Katy said, pleased to be able to give her some positive news.
‘Good. I’m going to take a sample of blood and get an analysis from the lab which will test for a range of common diseases. Meanwhile I’ll do a faecal antigen test – what we call a SNAP test. It’s just a little sample of her poo – she won’t feel anything. Hopefully it’s just a bug she’ll get over – I’ll give you some antibiotics.’
‘Do you think it might be parvovirus?’
She shook her head. ‘Parvovirus is very much around at the moment, and I will know from the SNAP test results, but I don’t think she has it – she’s not displaying those symptoms. Which is a positive in one way, because parvovirus is a very nasty thing and often fatal for puppies of Moose’s age.’
‘Oh God,’ Katy said anxiously.
‘Well, let’s not worry too much at this stage. You said she’s been running around in your garden?’
‘Yes?’
‘Is it secure or do any other animals go in there?’
‘It’s walled. One of our neighbour’s cats does come in from time to time to do its business there.’
‘She could have picked up some bacteria in your garden, maybe from the cat or a bird dropping – or anything. At her age she has a very weak immune system.’ She smiled. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be back in a sec.’
The vet went out of the room and returned a few moments later with a small black object, the shape and size of a knuckle-duster, with a green LED screen in the middle. She gripped it in her right hand, switched it on, then moved it around the back of Moose’s neck. Then she frowned. ‘The breeder told you she’d been chipped?’
‘Yes, very definitely.’
She held up her hand to show her the instrument. ‘This is a microchip scanner. It’s not picking anything up. It’s possible of course the chip could be faulty, but he should have tested it at the time.’
‘Shall I go and get the vaccination certificate?’
She nodded. Katy ran out to the car, and hurried back, holding the certificate and paperwork. She handed it all to the vet.
Dr Bradley studied the documents for some moments then, frowning again, said, ‘Do you mind if I take these to my office for a couple of minutes?’
