Stop them dead, p.16
Stop Them Dead, page 16
‘No, please do,’ she said, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable. As the vet left the room, she again stroked the puppy, talking to her reassuringly, but saw no reaction from her. Panicking, she worried for an instant that the dog was dying. She placed her hands around its tummy and felt a faint, steady beat. Reassured, she nuzzled her face. ‘You’re going to be OK, Moose,’ she murmured. ‘You’re going to have the best life any dog ever had. We love you so much. The vet’s going to give you some stuff and you’ll be feeling great in a couple of days. I promise!’
The only response from Moose was a baleful attempt again at raising an eyelid. Then Helen Bradley came back into the room, holding the certificate she’d given her, and looking very serious. She put it down on a shelf. ‘This was given to you by the breeder you bought Moose from?’
Her tone of voice made Katy nervous. ‘Yes, it was.’
‘Mr John Peat?’
‘That was him, yes.’
‘Mrs Fairfax, did you pay a lot of money for this puppy?’
‘We did, yes. Two thousand five hundred pounds.’
‘In cash?’
She hesitated, then said, ‘Yes, cash.’
Dr Bradley nodded and was silent for some moments. ‘I’m sorry to tell you – I’m afraid I’ve seen this before.’ She tapped the documents on the shelf. ‘This paperwork – I’m afraid it’s all fake. I don’t think your puppy has had any vaccinations. I’ve just run a computer check on Mr John Peat and his name doesn’t show up on the list of registered breeders.’
She looked at the vet, increasingly concerned. ‘What are you saying?’
‘Well, there are a lot of cowboys in the dog-breeding world at the moment, attracted by the high profits they can make. I’ve seen quite a bit of this recently.’ She raised her hands. ‘I’m not saying this Mr Peat is one, but I have to be frank with you that I’m concerned I can’t find his name anywhere.’
‘Couldn’t he just be someone whose dog has had a litter of puppies?’
‘Well, let’s hope that is the case.’
Katy frowned. ‘And if it’s not?’
Dr Bradley shrugged. ‘There have been a number of instances of people illegally importing puppies, from Eastern Europe in particular, providing fake UK backgrounds, and then selling the puppies, which are often carrying diseases, landing their owners with large vet bills.’
‘You think this could be the case with Moose?’
‘Let’s hope not.’
Katy smiled, then – like a handbrake suddenly pulled on, sharply – a thought stopped her in her tracks. ‘These diseases they have – can they be transferred to humans?’
Bradley shook her head. ‘No, not in my experience.’
‘Good,’ she replied. ‘I’ve just been a little worried.’
‘About what?’
She shrugged. ‘Well, it’s probably just pure coincidence, but our daughter has been unwell since we brought Moose home.’
‘Does she suffer from any allergies?’ Bradley asked.
‘No – but in the dog breeder’s van she was bitten by one of the other puppies; accidentally, I’m sure, but enough to draw blood – and it doesn’t seem to be healing. And she had a temperature the next day – she’s in bed now, not feeling at all well.’
The vet frowned. ‘Has a doctor seen her?’
‘Yes, she thinks it’s a bug that’s going round. She’d been in a public swimming pool – the King Alfred – earlier that day.’
‘She very possibly picked something up there. I think it’s unlikely to be related to the other puppy: dogs generally have clean mouths – I’d be more worried if it had been a young cat.’
‘Good,’ she said with a relieved smile.
‘As it’s the weekend, I won’t get the lab results back on the bloods until sometime on Monday,’ the vet said. ‘I’ll let you know as soon as I hear, but hopefully she’ll have perked up in the meantime.’
‘I’m sure she will,’ Katy said. ‘Are you able to give her the vaccinations she should have had?’
‘Not until she is better.’ Then she hesitated. ‘Look, I don’t want to worry you unduly, but this person you bought her from has clearly lied to you and your husband. He told you she’d been bred in Wales, correct?’
‘That was the impression we had. Why?’
‘I mentioned about illegally imported puppies. If that was the case here, then by law she would need to be quarantined in government-approved kennels.’
‘For how long?’
‘Four months.’
‘Four months?’
She nodded. ‘It sounds extreme, but it’s to prevent rabies from coming into the country.’
Katy shook her head. ‘I’m certain she was bred in Wales. Our daughter would be devastated if she had to go into quarantine. I’ll try to get hold of the documentation from the breeder.’
Dr Bradley looked hard, but sympathetically, at her. ‘Mrs Fairfax, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to alarm you, but if you can’t get the documentation to us by the middle of next week I will have to report Moose to DEFRA – the Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs – and it will ultimately be their decision.’ She studied the results of the SNAP test for a few moments. ‘Well that’s come back clear, so no parvovirus. That’s jolly good news, and she can go home. I’ll write up her notes now and the antibiotics will be ready in a few moments in reception. Please try to avoid her having any contact with other animals as a precaution, just until you get that information from her breeder.’
44
Saturday 27 March
‘Darling,’ Cleo said. ‘I thought you were going to make supper tonight? Early supper and then Netflix you said – that documentary on the extreme climber.’
‘I’m on it,’ Roy Grace said distractedly, looking at his computer screen.
‘It’s after eight o’clock.’
‘Just give me five more minutes. I’ve taken the salmon out, I’ve got everything ready.’
Cleo looked at the kitchen worktops, at her husband’s idea of ready. A bag of frozen peas, some sliced courgettes on the chopping board, a saucepan with potatoes simmering on the hob, purple sprouting broccoli lying beside the steamer and two salmon fillets still crusted in ice, in front of the microwave.
‘So we’re going to eat around midnight?’ she said, a tad tetchily.
‘Please, darling, five minutes, I promise.’
‘I’m putting the timer on.’
Molly began bawling, and Cleo hurried upstairs; she was teething and very grizzly.
Grace focused back on the screen.
On the video Glenn Branson had sent him, a man with pale skin and bulging eyes, wearing a blue and white Seagulls beanie and matching scarf, was dragging a stumbling woman, also wearing a Seagulls scarf and holding what looked like a white stick, along a railway station platform with him. They stopped, as if waiting for a train.
Grace froze the video, thinking how much he resembled the blurry image of the man who had made off with the dog in Hove Park, and about something he’d read earlier on the serials. A reported snatch and grab of two watches from a jeweller in Brighton’s East Street. He called up the serials again on his computer and after a trawl through found the log of the incident, together with a detailed update. A man, his face largely concealed by a scarf and hat, had taken two watches, one of them a gold Rolex, valued at around £10,000, and the other item, a talking watch for the blind valued at around £70. No question that it was Gecko.
Conscious that his five minutes were up, he replayed the last section of the video of the man in the beanie and woman with the white stick, then made a note for tomorrow morning’s briefing meeting.
‘Five minutes!’ Cleo called out.
He jumped up, hurried into the kitchen, and pulled on the apron Cleo had given him for Christmas. On it was printed in large letters, ROY GRACE – MASTERCHEF!
Grabbing bottles of teriyaki sauce, sesame oil and soy sauce from a cupboard, then a bunch of spring onions, a clove of garlic and stem of ginger from the fridge and a sharp knife from the cutting block, he immersed himself in his task, happy for the total distraction from work and to do something different that he also was passionate about.
Fifteen minutes later, with the microwave-defrosted salmon wrapped in foil baking in the oven and the broccoli in the steamer, the timer ticking steadily, and the potatoes soft, Roy felt he had everything under control.
He hurried out of the room, dashed upstairs, returned with a small gift-wrapped box with a ribbon tied in a rather clumsy-looking bow, and presented it, a little sheepishly, to Cleo.
She looked at it with a mixture of surprise and delight, but also a little bemused. ‘What’s this?’ she asked.
‘Open it and see,’ he said, feeling like an excited child. She would like it, wouldn’t she, he was wondering, hoping. Of course she will, she will!
Sitting down at the kitchen table, she asked, ‘Did you wrap this yourself?’
‘Does it show?’
‘I love it, darling, but your wrapping has a style all of its own!’ She untied the bow, then removed the pink paper, revealing a brown box embossed with a name and logo, which she peered at closely. It read, Swiss Watches Direct. Then she looked up at Roy quizzically.
He just smiled back.
She opened the box, with some difficulty, then gasped as she saw what was inside. ‘Roy!’ she said, looking up at him, her eyes shining with delight. ‘This is for me?’
‘That’s the plan!’ he said, beaming back.
‘I love it, I love the colour. It’s exactly the one I’ve really wanted. You didn’t need to do that!’
The silver watch, with a white face and gold and silver link chain, nestled in the white satin cut-out in the box. She put it on her wrist and held it up in awe. ‘How does it look, good?’
He nodded vigorously.
She kissed him, her face lit up with joy. ‘I can’t believe it!’ Then she frowned. ‘Wait a sec, it’s not one of those copies, is it?’
He grinned again. ‘Seriously?’
She shook her head. ‘No. You wouldn’t, I know you wouldn’t. I love it, I absolutely love it. But why?’ She said it with a huge smile.
He shrugged. ‘I wanted to get you something for graduating – something special that you’d always have as a reminder.’
She shook her head, again in awe. ‘How did you know I like this particular one so much?’
‘You don’t remember, do you?’ He smiled again. ‘When we were in London just before Christmas, you looked in the window of a watch shop, and I saw you staring at this watch, a Longines Conquest, right? I could just see in your face that you liked it – really liked it!’
‘Always the detective, even when we’re Christmas shopping!’ she retorted and kissed him again. ‘But these cost a fortune!’
The timer on the broccoli pinged. He hurried over to remove the steamer’s lid, careful not to burn his fingers in the process, to stop it cooking any more. ‘I managed to get a good deal on it.’
She looked at him quizzically, but smiling. ‘How come?’
‘Sheer luck. I think I told you I was in Brighton with Glenn last week for a bail hearing at the Crown Court. We went for a coffee afterwards and I bumped into an old friend – a guy called Ashley Beal – with his wife, Yulia. Ashley and I used to play in a snooker league at the old Brighton Police Social Club – it’s long gone now – and he reminded me that he always used to beat me – I think he’s still playing at quite a high amateur national level. I asked him what he was up to – he was always a bit of an entrepreneur, and he told me he has a very successful online company, Swiss Watches Direct. See where I’m going with this?’
Cleo tilted her head. ‘I think I might.’
‘So, long story short, I asked him if he could get me one of those Longines at a price I could afford. He said no, he couldn’t get it at a price I could afford, but he’d give me his best price.’
‘So we can’t eat for the next two months, but at least I get to wear an amazing watch!’ She was already unstrapping her ancient Apple Watch.
‘That’s much more important than food, right?’
She strapped it on, then held it up and admired it from a different angle. ‘Wow!’ she said. ‘Wow!’
Ten minutes later, seated opposite Cleo at the wooden table in the kitchen–dining room, he watched anxiously as she cut into the salmon, then added some of his cheat sauce – mayonnaise and English mustard – and took a bite.
‘Delicious!’ she said, after she had chewed and swallowed. She admired her watch again, then started cutting off another slice.
‘So you hate it?’
‘It’s horrible,’ she said. ‘The salmon, not the watch.’ She looked at it again.
He grinned and ate a mouthful of the soft, pink fish. After some moments he said, ‘Yep, I have to agree with you. It’s horrible.’
‘Horrible – not!’ she retorted. ‘If you ever decide to quit policing, we could always open a restaurant.’
He grinned again. ‘Yep, and I have the perfect name for it.’
‘Which is?’
‘Mortuary Leftovers.’
45
Sunday 28 March
A few minutes after 9 a.m. on Sunday morning, Roy Grace sat with his team in the conference room, the video, which he’d watched at home last night, playing on the wall-mounted monitor. Glenn Branson had come in, despite Roy’s offer of his taking a day off.
The platform was filling up with fans on their way home but they were able to pick up on the couple. The man with a long, pallid face wearing a blue and white Seagulls beanie and matching scarf, was dragging a stumbling woman, also wearing a Seagulls supporters’ scarf and holding what looked like a white stick, along a railway station platform with him. They stopped, as if waiting for a train.
‘God, he really does deserve his Gecko nickname, doesn’t he?’ Norman Potting asked.
‘Yep, it’s uncanny,’ Polly Sweeney agreed.
‘Yeah,’ Potting said drily. ‘Sussex Police are looking for a pale lizard accompanied by a blind woman. They’ll blend in with the local crowd nicely.’
Several of the team grinned. But, Grace thought, Potting was making a good point – however unintentionally. He turned. ‘Polly, these two would stand out. I’m giving you – and Jack – the action of liaising with the CCTV camera team for any potential sightings of them.’
It would be a massive ask, Grace knew, to trawl through all the cameras. With over four hundred of them recording areas of the city 24/7, and a team of just three CCTV operators, the words needle and haystack came to mind. But they could narrow the parameters by focusing on the cameras around the city’s parks and other dog-walking areas, such as the seafront, as part of their day-to-day business. Grace would set some very strict guidelines to make it a useful task. He was certain this oddball, Gecko, was just a pawn, a hired hand, working for an organized crime group that had muscled in on the new lucrative world of dog crime in all its forms. Maybe if they could establish any kind of a pattern in his behaviour, he could put a surveillance team on him that might lead them to the gang’s HQ.
E-J Boutwood raised a hand and he nodded at her.
‘Boss,’ she said. ‘Something that may be of interest. Last night Newhaven Customs opened a container in a lorry inbound from Poland. On its manifest it was carrying plumbing parts. But this container held ten puppies, a mixture of breeds, many in very poor health. The bill of lading was in the name of a Tom Hartley, with an address in Brecon, in South Wales. Turns out to be just an accommodation address.’
Grace looked confused. ‘Tom Hartley, E-J?’ he quizzed.
‘Yes, sir,’ the DC replied.
Tom Hartley was the name the man had given to him and Cleo at the house in Bournemouth yesterday. He turned to Branson. ‘Glenn, did you get anywhere with Dorset CID yesterday, and their Rural Crimes Team?’
‘Well, yes and no, boss. It’s the reason I thought I’d better come in this morning. I spoke to a very helpful DI there, Caroline Langridge.’
‘Caroline Langridge?’ Polly Sweeney exclaimed, interrupting. ‘She used to be here in Sussex – we joined together!’
‘And she’s all over it, she has a real interest in this area of crime,’ Branson said. ‘She told me they’ve been keeping close contact with Hampshire CID in Portsmouth and Southampton ports for dog imports over the past year, and they seized a container with two dozen smuggled French bulldog puppies a couple of months ago. No doubt from various litters. She assured me she would send someone to check on the address you gave me – Fernlea, at thirty-two Fifth Avenue, Bournemouth, right?’
Grace nodded. ‘Yes, correct.’
‘She called me back at nine o’clock last night to say two officers had attended and the property was in darkness. There was no response from their ringing and knocking on the door and there were no vehicles in the driveway. They carried out a visual exterior inspection and could see no sign of anyone, or any animals inside the house, nor any vehicles in the garage. She asked me if I wanted her to apply for a search warrant and, not wanting to bother you, I told her to go ahead.’
‘Good,’ Grace said. ‘Well done.’
‘She called me back just before midnight, saying officers had entered the premises, on a warrant, at 11 p.m. and had carried out a search but found no sign of anyone or any animals. No baskets, toys, dog food – nothing.’
Grace shook his head. ‘This is not just a coincidence; Cleo and I were there late yesterday afternoon. There were half a dozen puppies and an adult dog but we are not certain she was even the mother of them. Are they all linked together?’ He turned to Stanstead. ‘Luke, you were going to speak to the Airbnb manager and get the Jersey address of the Mr and Mrs Jonathan Jones who had rented Fernlea – did you have any joy?’
‘I did, sir: 47 Bonneville Apartments, Don Street, St Helier.’
Grace wrote it down. ‘The current Chief Officer of Jersey Police is Robin Smith – I know him.’
‘Robin Smith?’ Potting asked. ‘The same Robin Smith who was an ACC here in Sussex?’
