Stop them dead, p.29
Stop Them Dead, page 29
There was so much fury boiling inside him.
Bastard.
You don’t do that and get away with it. Not in my world you don’t, Mr Shirtless Jim. In my world you will play by my rules. You vile tosser.
Then his phone began ringing, and he saw on the display it was Katy.
Letting go of the wheel and reaching his right arm across, perilously, for a few seconds, he stabbed the hands-free answer button.
‘Hi, baby,’ he answered, suddenly back in the real world.
Katy was sobbing hysterically down the phone. ‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘Oh God, no. Chris, you have to stop them, you have to stop them.’
‘Stop who, darling?’ he asked as calmly as he could, his nerves tight as razor wire at the stark terror in her voice.
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m just east of Hailsham.’
‘Why – why are you there? Oh Jesus, I need you here.’
‘I’ll explain later – stop who, darling? Who do I have to stop?’
‘Your voice sounds strange, are you all right?’
‘What’s going on?’
‘They’ve come to take Moose.’
‘Katy, I’m driving, I’m going to pull over, just bear with me a second. They’ve come to take Moose? Who has come, why?’
‘They’re going to euthanize her.’
‘Euthanize her? You mean kill her?’
‘Yes!’ she yelled back hysterically. ‘KILL HER.’
85
Tuesday 30 March
There was no answer at number 20. Erin waited at the kerb for two cars to pass before she approached number 18. This was the house that most interested Grace – because of the big grab-handle at the top of the steep flight of steps to the front door.
He knew some elderly people had balance issues. But he also reckoned that, for someone with impaired vision, the top of these steps would be a scary place.
He saw Erin press the doorbell. Wait. Knock. Wait. Press the bell then knock again.
After some moments, the door began to open, slowly, cautiously. Then a woman’s face appeared.
‘Go in tight, Mark,’ Grace asked.
As the camera zoomed in, Grace could see without any doubt this was the woman who had been with Gecko at the Amex Stadium. Her glasses had lenses as thick as bottle-glass. Her voice, plain, a flat Brighton twang like an Estuary accent toned down, but pleasant and eager to please, came through the speaker. ‘No, sorry, I’ve not seen any cat.’
‘Does anyone else live here who might have seen her?’
‘My boyfriend. He loves animals, too, I’m sure he’d have said. Although he’s more of a dog person.’
‘Any chance of a word with him?’
‘He’s out, working.’
‘What time will he be home?’
‘It varies – he works for a dog charity and it all depends what situations they have. Could be any time between 6 and 8 p.m. I’m sure he’d have said if he’d seen a cat in the garden.’
‘What’s the name of the charity?’ Erin pressed.
‘Umm – I – actually – it may sound daft, I don’t know the actual name. Something like the East Sussex Dog Rescue Association at Raystede, I think.’
As Erin thanked her and moved on to the next house, Grace phoned Luke Stanstead, asking him if he could find any charity of a similar name.
‘I’ll check right away. I’ve just got the electoral register information back on the Kingsley Avenue houses, sir,’ Stanstead said.
‘Immaculate timing, Luke,’ Grace replied. ‘I’m looking at number 18 as we speak. What do you have on it?’
After a brief moment, the researcher replied, ‘The current owner/occupier is a Ms Elvira Joan Polkinhorne. There’s no one else on the register recorded as living there. She has owned the house since 2016.’
‘Ask Emily Denyer to take a look at her finances – does this woman have a mortgage and does she earn enough to cover the monthly charges?’
‘I just googled her name while we were talking, sir. She has a bit of a profile on LinkedIn – she’s registered blind and works on a helpline for a tech company.’
‘OK, speak to the company and see what they can tell you about her.’
Ending the call, Grace watched Erin crossing the road once more. He called Mark Taylor and told him she could end the charade after a couple more houses – he doubted Elvira Polkinhorne could see much beyond the end of her nose. Then he asked him to let him know the moment Gecko returned to the house, and when he did, to be fully prepared to keep him under surveillance when he left again.
Taylor assured him he was ready, with a team of three surveillance cars and a motorcycle standing by. Once they had eyes on Gecko, they would be keeping them on him, 24/7.
Thanking him, Grace looked down at the section of the map showing Appletree Farm and the yellow line around its approximate borders. Another yellow line enclosed Long Acre Farm.
‘Planning a raid, chief?’ Potting asked.
Grace nodded. ‘I am, but not yet. We know the Jim family by reputation. They’re vile but not stupid. When we strike, we need to stop them dead. We need to know exactly what we’re doing and who and what we’re looking for. From the intelligence we’ve gathered, this farm is now our number one target. I want to make an arrest for Tim Ruddle’s murder, and for what looks increasingly like Lyndsey Cheetham’s murder, too. And I’m very concerned about her co-worker, Rosalind Esche. Terry Jim’s a confident bastard, always reckoned he’s untouchable. He’s spent too many years playing the You can’t put a finger on me, I’m an innocent member of the community and I know my rights card. We have time on our side. I don’t think he’s going anywhere, anytime soon.’
‘The lorry from Poland that got busted last night with the consignment of puppies for him – that didn’t ruffle any feathers?’ Branson asked.
Grace shook his head. ‘Apparently not. The bill of lading had them consigned to him, but like pretty much all the rest of the documentation, that was forged. We got the Polish lorry driver to send a text to Terry Jim to say the consignment of hay was delayed.’
Potting gave him a sideways look. ‘This Terry Jim and his son are starting to sound like the proverbial bad pennies.’
Grace looked up at both detectives. ‘I spoke to the Forensic Gait Analyst, Haydn Kelly, earlier and asked him if we put a drone up above Appletree Farm, could we get any useful information from anyone we spotted moving around. He said, from the footprint casts and photographs he took at the Ruddles’ farm on the morning after the murder, he’d have a good chance of picking anyone out from the aerial footage, if directly overhead.’
‘A drone’s a smart idea, boss,’ Branson said. ‘Could give us an aerial map of the farm without the Jims being aware, if it’s high enough.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Friend of one of my exes got photographed skinny dipping by a drone,’ Norman Potting said.
‘Unfortunate for them,’ Branson replied.
‘It was,’ Potting replied. ‘She was with her new husband’s best friend, in his pool.’
86
Tuesday 30 March
Normally a cautious driver, and as a Brighton solicitor, Chris Fairfax always kept strictly within the speed limits, ever mindful of the Argus. In a city that increasingly prided itself on its Green culture, its principal newspaper liked few things better, on a quiet news day, than to name and shame prominent citizens who flouted its traffic laws.
But at this moment, Chris didn’t care. He drove like the wind, ignoring the burning pain in his nose and forgetting his plan to stop at a chemist. He just had to get home, to Katy, to help in any way he could.
Euthanize Moose?
Bluebell would be devastated.
No way.
He was heading downhill, in slow traffic, towards the roundabout near the end of the Cuilfail Tunnel in Lewes. Cursing the queue of traffic ahead. ‘Come on, come on, come on, Jesus!’
So slow.
He was so desperate to get back, he contemplated for a second recklessly overtaking the whole damned lot, in the oncoming lane, and even began moving out, until a lorry thundering up the hill deterred him and he swerved back in.
He followed the single-line traffic through the tunnel and as he emerged on the far side his phone rang again. It was Katy.
‘Are you far?’ she asked. ‘I’ve told them you’re on your way but – I – oh Jesus.’ Her voice exploded into tears.
‘Ten minutes,’ he lied.
On the A27 dual carriageway he hogged the fast lane. In his mirror he saw a flash. Maybe it was a camera, but he didn’t care. Nothing mattered any more but getting home.
Trying to calculate the fastest, most traffic-free route, he arrived in Hove, and turned into their road. And for the first time slowed down, right down.
Ahead, down to the right, he saw a whole cluster of vehicles. All parked outside their house.
What???
As he drew closer, he saw a marked police car which was double-parked, a white van with blue and white RSPCA markings, a dark grey van and several unfamiliar cars all lined up in front of the house. Several neighbours were out in the street, gawping.
Then, and his heart felt like it had been wrenched around in his chest, he saw Katy, standing, almost defiantly, in the porch, arms crossed, her back to the front door. Several people, including two uniformed police officers, stood on the pavement in front of the garden gate.
Chris pulled into the kerb, several houses back, switched off the engine and ran towards Katy, weaving through everyone in his path, still holding his handkerchief to his nose. ‘Darling!’ he said, throwing his arms around her.
‘We can’t let them do this,’ she said, hugging him tightly back. ‘Oh my God, what’s happened to you?’
‘I’m fine, it’s nothing. I’ll tell you later,’ he said dismissively. ‘What the hell’s going on?’ he asked. ‘What’s this damned circus?’
‘Mr Fairfax?’
A woman’s voice, serious, polite but not friendly.
He turned and saw a police officer, brown hair clipped up, slim figure bulked out by all her equipment. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m PC Traynor. My colleague, PC Norton, and I are here at the request of Public Health England, DEFRA, the RSPCA and Trading Standards to ensure the safe handover of your golden doodle puppy to the RSPCA.’ She turned and indicated a man in his early forties, dressed in a dark jacket, white shirt and black tie. He had a kind but no-nonsense face, framed by dark hair combed slick and flat. ‘This is Inspector Hopkins from the RSPCA. Your wife, understandably, did not want to hand your dog over until you were here to approve it.’
‘That’s not what I said,’ Katy insisted.
Chris looked at the PC. ‘What is all this about handing our puppy over? And what are you all doing here?’
The RSPCA inspector moved towards him. ‘Sir, I can appreciate you are feeling a bit overwhelmed.’
‘You’re not joking.’
Hopkins gave him a hesitant smile. ‘Our understanding is that your daughter is in the Royal Alexandra Hospital, after being bitten by a puppy last week?’
‘Correct,’ he said sharply, aware that all eyes were on him.
‘Very unfortunately your daughter is presenting symptoms of rabies, which is a notifiable disease. The hospital has – as they are obliged by law – notified the authorities of this. The protocol in this situation is for any animal that may have been in contact with your daughter to be examined, quarantined and, if necessary, destroyed.’
‘Destroyed? Why the hell do you have to destroy our dog?’ he asked.
‘The only certain test for rabies in an animal is to take fluids from the brain stem and that can only be done postmortem.’
A scraggy-haired, cadaverous-looking man in his fifties suddenly stepped forward. He was dressed in an ill-fitting grey suit that hung from his shoulders as if he’d put it on without removing the coat-hanger and wore scuffed grey shoes. He held up a sheet of paper. ‘Mr Fairfax, I’m Dominic Fortnam from Trading Standards. We have a court seizure order for your dog, Moose.’
Chris stared back at him levelly. ‘Mr Fortnam, you would be quite within your rights to enter our home and remove our dog, Moose, and subsequently euthanize her, if she had bitten our daughter, resulting in the subsequent possible rabies diagnosis. But Moose did not harm our daughter, it was another puppy in the breeder’s van that nipped her nose. And as I understand it, our daughter may be presenting symptoms, but the diagnosis has not been confirmed.’
‘And you can prove that your puppy, Moose, did not bite your daughter, can you, Mr Fairfax?’ the Trading Standards Officer said pedantically.
‘Can you prove she did?’ Chris retorted.
87
Tuesday 30 March
The Trading Standards Officer reacted uncomfortably to Chris Fairfax’s reply. ‘Sir,’ he said, addressing him as if he were talking down to a child. ‘It is the duty of every responsible citizen to ensure we keep England free of rabies – you as a lawyer must understand that more than most.’
‘I do, Mr Fortnam, and I know the law better than most, too. There’s something called innocent until proved guilty – maybe you’ve not heard of that? You can’t just turn up at our home, mob-handed, brandishing a bit of paper and claim it gives you the right to seize and destroy our dog. Shall we get that straight?’
Dominic Fortnam looked at him hesitantly. ‘I—’
Chris interrupted. ‘The puppy that bit our daughter’s nose was one of two she looked at in a van belonging to someone we now know to have been a rogue breeder, who gave us the false name of John Peat. The dogs were in separate cages. The law states that if our puppy was in close contact with the one who bit Bluebell, which she likely was, then she doesn’t need to be destroyed, but can be kept in isolation in kennels for a quarantine period. Correct?’
The officer looked at him and nodded. ‘That is the case, yes. We can take your puppy, Moose, to quarantine kennels at Heathrow Airport, if you are prepared to meet the costs.’
‘Which are?’
‘About two thousand pounds for the quarantine period.’
‘How – how long in quarantine?’ Katy asked.
‘Four months,’ the Trading Standards Officer said.
‘Jesus – what are we going to tell Bluebell – she’s desperate to see her?’ Katy said.
‘We’ll think of something, darling,’ Chris said, knowing that was the least of their problems at this moment. Then, looking back at the officer, he said, ‘That’s fine.’
‘But there’s another consideration, Mr Fairfax. And this is one you and your wife need to discuss very carefully.’ Fortnam sounded more sympathetic than officious now. ‘If we did euthanize your puppy we’d be able to establish if she is infected with this disease very quickly, which might speed up the diagnosis of your daughter.’
Chris looked at him, as he put his arm around Katy. ‘Moose did not bite our daughter. You’re not going to achieve anything by killing the dog – don’t you understand? If you’re seriously worried about stopping rabies coming in, you need to find this breeder – and fast. You’re dealing with someone who cares about one thing only and that’s money.’
Fortnam turned and looked at the posse behind him, then turned back to Chris. ‘Mr Fairfax, you are correct. If you and your wife are prepared to pay the quarantine fee, then you can hand the dog over to us, and one or both of you follow us to the Heathrow kennels, where you can sign the relevant documentation. Are you willing to do that?’
Chris looked at Katy and she nodded fervently.
They went into the house, closing the front door behind them. ‘Well done, darling,’ she said.
‘No, well done, you, you’re the one who stopped them taking Moose. If you hadn’t done that, by the time I got here they’d have gone. I should have mentioned my visit to Appletree Farm but I was too focused on losing Moose. I’ll report it to the police. How was Bluebell when you left her?’
‘Asleep. Dr Shah was saying that maybe she needs to be moved to London, to the Hospital for Tropical Diseases. But . . .’ She fell silent.
‘But what?’
‘He doesn’t think they have any more knowledge of rabies than he does. He’s trying to get hold of a doctor in America who saved the life of a girl with it a few years ago.’ She blinked, her face bleak. Then she grabbed a carrier bag from under the sink and began to throw Moose’s toys and chews into it.
‘It’s all we can do,’ Chris said. ‘I’ll go with them to Heathrow; you go to the hospital. Once Bluebell is better, we can take her up to see Moose in quarantine.’
‘Four months is a long time for a puppy,’ Katy said. ‘Bluebell won’t be able to bond with her, not properly.’
‘So are you saying there’s no point in spending two thousand pounds and waiting four months – that we should let her be euthanized and we find another puppy for Bluebell?’
‘If Bluebell survives, Chris.’
‘What? Why did you say that?’
‘Are you in denial?’
‘I’m not in anything.’
She dropped the sack of goodies for Moose on the floor and glared at him.
‘She has rabies and she’s dying, Chris. Our darling daughter is dying of a disease there’s no cure for.’
‘Twenty people have survived it, Katy. If that number have survived then there is a cure. There must be.’
She looked back at him. There was trust in her eyes, a desperate, needy trust. She said nothing.
88
Tuesday 30 March
Roy Grace and Glenn Branson, along with several other members of Operation Brush, gathered around the oval table, watching the video screen intently.
High-resolution footage from a drone showed a spread of farmland, some of the fields ploughed, some with sheep or cattle grazing. In the centre was a farmhouse with several vehicles outside, stables to the right and a row of long, ugly, concrete outbuildings beyond. And slightly further away what looked like an area of pigsties, with porkers wandering or wallowing. There were other buildings of varying sizes dotted around, as well as a messy assortment of caravans, mobile homes, cars and vans, some obviously roadworthy, others in various states of repair.
