Primal Cut E-Book

Ed O'Connor

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Seitenzahl: 439

Beschreibung

Eight years ago, the national tabloids had a feeding frenzy over the 'Primal Cut' killings. The Garrod brothers, East End butchers, had turned their expertise to rendering human flesh. The case made DS Alison Dexter notorious. She identified the murderers and ended their orgy of killing, but in the process took what Bartholomew Garrod most valued: his brother's life. With her career in ruins and her personal safety in jeopardy, Dexter was transferred to Cambridgeshire. Now Dexter finds herself drawn into an investigation probing the underbelly of the area's crime scene - bare-knuckle boxing, dog fights and murder. As she gets closer to the truth, it's clear Garrod hasn't forgotten the debt she owes him - he wants his pound of flesh and will do whatever it takes to get it.

Leseprobe

Primal Cut

ED O’CONNOR

For Esme & Isabel with love

Contents

Title PageDedicationPituitary PureeDogfightFirst TouchAppetiserDressing the MeatWisdom and IndustryRedemptionAbout the AuthorAlso by Ed O’ConnorCopyright

Pituitary Puree

1. Leyton, East London December 1995

Common wisdom remembered brain paste. The old ladies of Silvertown would tell you. The porters at Smithfield market would tell you. No doctor would tell you, but what do they know? Any idiot can read a book. And knowledge is not the same as wisdom.

Cockney women used to mash up the pituitary glands of cows and smear the paste on toast. They said it helped people with mental illness, that it made their minds more alert. In the days before the National Health Service and the pick and mix drug cocktails of modern psychiatric healthcare, such remedies were commonplace in the East End. Ideas spread by chatter in the doorways of terraced houses and the corners of gloomy pubs, through anecdotes and recipes: mother to daughter, father to son.

Science had failed the Garrods. To Bartholomew, the brain paste was a desperate measure. Although it had its compensations: when mashed up with boiled potatoes, milk and oil it tasted vaguely of corned beef. He hoped the strange pituitary chemistry would help his brother’s screaming fits, his lapses of memory and behaviour. Raymond’s outbursts were making him a liability and his prescription pills were useless. Bartholomew knew that his brother needed full time care but refused to have him committed. Besides, the government were closing psychiatric hospitals across the country – he had researched the subject. Ray would have to be cared for in the community.

Bartholomew tried to be optimistic. This new mash was stronger, more concentrated than his previous efforts. And the pituitary glands it contained were not only taken from cows.

‘Put your bib on Ray. I don’t want no mess today.’

‘Yes Bollamew,’ said Raymond Garrod, unable to enunciate the complexities of his brother’s name. ‘Ah ate some bit of this mash before I think.’

‘This is better mash – stronger mash.’

Bartholomew Garrod used a serving spoon to scoop a large serving of mash for his brother. Ray’s eyes glowed with excitement as the grey pile of food slapped onto the plate in front of him. Ray ate happily, oil running down his chin.

‘Delicious Bollamew,’ Ray grinned between mouthfuls.

Watching his brother eat made Bartholomew hungry himself. He felt a sudden desire for steak. He left his brother at the table and headed down the narrow staircase to the rear of his butcher’s shop. He pulled back the handle on the door of the freezer and turned on the light.

An hour previously, he had placed some unsold beefsteaks on a shelf at the back of the freezer. They were still soft. He picked the largest he could find and licked the cold surface of the meat. The tang of beef blood was unmistakeable. Beef was his favourite. Beef was noble. He drew strength from it. Chicken flesh gave him speed and flexibility. Pork gave him cunning. Beef gave him power.

Lying against the wall of the freezer was the decapitated body of the woman he had killed. Most of her blood had ebbed down the drainage duct at the centre of the freezer room although some had frozen around her. Bartholomew looked at the body wondering what to do. He had always been surrounded by death. She was just another carcass, albeit a headless one. He realised that her continued presence in his freezer was becoming problematic. The council often did spot checks on butcher’s shops. Their inspectors could close down disreputable establishments and he did not want to sully the good name of ‘Garrods Family Butchers’. Besides, it was probably unhygienic.

He slammed the freezer door shut and returned upstairs.

Common wisdom remembered brain paste and other horrors too. It also recalled saucy Jack cutting the whores of Whitechapel and the murder of Jack the Hat. Common wisdom remembered the firestorm of September 1940 that incinerated hundreds on the Silvertown Way. It recounted the ‘Bermondsey Horror’ and the crimes of John Christie.

Now there was another story to tell.

The Leyton Ripper was murdering people for their meat.

Dogfight

2. Wednesday, 9th October 2002 Balehurst, Cambridgeshire

It had been a brutal fight. For nearly thirty minutes the two Staffordshire bull terriers had snarled and torn into each other. Now Rampage was dead and the gathering was breaking up. Keith Gwynne climbed over the makeshift wooden boarding into the fighting ring. The area was about twenty feet in diameter and divided into two halves by a scratch line made from silver masking tape. The floor of the fight ring was covered in rotting carpet. This gave the dogs extra grip.

Gwynne knelt on the carpet next to the dead body of his dog. Rampage had fought poorly to begin with. The large ring and the screaming audience had unsettled the dog. It had backed away from the line, uncertain and angry. Gwynne had wondered for a moment if his new fighter would be ‘up to scratch’. However, once their handlers had left the ring, the two dogs had fought with unbridled ferocity. Its money-making potential aside, Gwynne believed there was something fundamentally beautiful about dogfighting. In his sterile world of supermarkets and televisions, carrier bags and speed cameras, the bloody savagery of his hobby reminded him he was still alive.

Rampage had acquitted himself well. Eventually, the superior fitness of Bob Woollard’s pit bull had proved to be the difference between the two animals. Woollard’s dogs had a well-deserved reputation as ‘stayers’: they were better trained and better fed than most of their competitors. Gwynne lifted the heavy carcass of his dog into a black dustbin bag.

‘He was a game little bastard in the end then?’ Bob Woollard observed from the other side of the fence. ‘Thought he was going to piss himself to start with.’

Gwynne tied the bag and looked up. ‘The lights freaked him out. All these people. This was his first fight in the ring. He’s done a few small contests but nothing in a ring as big as this one.’

‘He was game though,’ Woollard conceded. ‘Gave old Gizmo a good scrap.’ Gizmo was Woollard’s favourite dog: a prize fighter worth over a thousand pounds.

‘Win some, lose some.’ Gwynne tried not to let his disappointment show. ‘I suppose you want paying then?’

‘You’re a gentleman, Keith.’ Woollard clambered over the wooden boarding to collect his ‘purse’.

‘Four hundred right?’

‘That’ll do nicely.’

Gwynne pulled a roll of banknotes from his jacket pocket and peeled off the requisite amount. ‘If we carry on like this I might have to get a proper job.’

‘Now that would be a first!’ Woollard grinned. ‘Times are hard for all of us Keith. How much income tax did you and your pikey pals pay last year? Sometimes I feel that I’m funding the whole British Government on my own.’

‘Don’t make me laugh. You bloody farmers are raking it in,’ Gwynne grunted.

‘You reckon?’

‘Of course. The bloody EEC pays you not to farm these days. Whatever genetically modified crap that you do manage to produce, it buys off you!’

Woollard shrugged. ‘It’s the “European Union”, Einstein, and do you think I’d be buggering around with the likes of you if I was creaming it in from the Common Agricultural Policy? I’ve got significant overheads.’

‘Haven’t we all?’ Gwynne finished counting out his money and slapped the wad into Woollard’s extended hand. ‘I’ve lost my best dog and four hundred quid.’

Woollard looked at Gwynne for a second, feeling an unexpected pang of sympathy. ‘The problem with you pikeys is that you haven’t got no system.’

‘System?’

Woollard lit a cigarette. ‘Take old Rampage there. He was a mean little sod when he got going. He showed courage. He had potential.’

‘Not anymore.’

‘And that’s because you didn’t bring him on right. There was a stage in that fight when he was getting on top but he faded. That’s your fault not the dog’s.’

‘How come?’

‘What do you train him on?’

‘You mean other animals?’

‘Yeah.’

‘He’s fought some other dogs.’

‘Let me guess. You warmed him up on a couple of poodles and a cocker-fucking-spaniel. I bet you nicked some asthmatic domestic pet that was so fat it couldn’t even clean its own arsehole.’

Gwynne shifted uneasily. Woollard was uncannily close to the truth. ‘What does it matter how you bring them on?’

‘A professional boxer doesn’t spar against hairdressers, mate. They train. You got to work your dog. Build his stamina. Train him at fight intensity. It’s the only way to make money in this game.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Come with me, leave that thing here.’ Woollard left the ring and gestured for Gwynne to follow. The two men made their way through the chattering crowd of drinkers – Woollard’s friends and farm employees – that had watched the fight. They left the barn then crossed the stable yard to the main farm building. In the hallway was a large wooden cupboard leaning awkwardly against the side of the staircase. Gwynne assumed it was some tasteless family heirloom. However, as always Woollard was full of surprises. The farmer heaved the cupboard to one side revealing a door in the panelling behind it. Woollard unlocked it and took Gwynne inside, leading him downstairs to the basement.

‘Here you are mate,’ Woollard said as he turned on the light. ‘Perfect preparation prevents piss-poor performance.’

Inside were five cages. Two contained Staffordshire bull terriers, next to them were two American pit bulls. The final cage held a large, menacing Tosa. The dogs began to bark furiously. Gwynne looked around the room. There was a long shelf along the back wall that held a number of video boxes, marked with dates and locations. He picked up one that was annotated ‘Gizmo, Essex June 2002’.

‘I try to video the fights,’ Woollard observed. ‘It’s a good training resource. Sometimes people like to buy them as a souvenir.’

‘Did you video tonight?’

‘One of my boys did. Want to buy a copy?’

‘No thanks.’ Gwynne moved to the centre of the room. ‘Is this a treadmill?’

‘Yep. It’s for training the dogs. Stamina building. Stick them on that for two hours a day. Makes them hard as nails.’

Gwynne shook his head. He realised that Woollard was right. The man had a ‘system’. Rampage and Gwynne’s other contenders had been fighting beyond their class. ‘Is that why the fighting ring is so big then? Is that because you know your dogs have better stamina?’

‘Partly.’ Woollard thought for a moment, wondering how far to admit Gwynne into his confidence. ‘I don’t just fight dogs there though.’

‘What? You mean you run some bare knuckle too?’

‘Sometimes. You fancy yourself as a welterweight then, Gwynne?’

‘Do me a favour. I couldn’t punch a bus ticket.’

‘As I thought. Shall we depart then?’ Woollard showed Gwynne the open door. ‘The lesson has ended. By the way, tell anyone what you’ve seen in here and your remains will end up fertilising my crops.’

Gwynne was thoughtful as they returned to the barn. He had a fertile, creative mind, particularly where money was concerned.

‘Do you fight the Tosa very often?’ he asked Woollard, referring to the Japanese fighting dog he had seen in the basement.

‘Rarely. Conspicuous breed. If you’ve got American pit bulls you can pass them off as Irish bull terriers or some other bollocks. A Tosa is distinctive. There’s not many of them about.’

‘I suppose there’d be good money in staging that. Unusual fight, eh?’

Woollard smiled. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve got a Tosa?’

‘No, but I might know someone. He’s got a Tosa just like yours. It’s an older dog but it could still do a job. I’m thinking maybe I could organise something for you.’

‘Out of the kindness of your heart?’

‘Obviously not.’

Woollard frowned. ‘I don’t know. I’m not big on getting strangers involved.’

‘What if I could spice it up for you? Maybe do it as a double-header?’

‘You’ve lost me.’

‘This guy I know. He’s an ex-fighter himself. Big, hard bastard. Maybe we could fight the Tosas then have a bare knuckle afterwards.’

Woollard suddenly showed a flicker of interest. ‘How heavy is he, this mate of yours?’

‘Eighteen stone – maybe more.’

Woollard cupped his hands to his mouth and called over to one of the group of drinkers standing at the entrance to the barn. ‘Oi! Lefty! Get over here.’

A huge farm labourer looked up and wandered over. Lefty Shaw was a notorious local hard man. Gwynne knew him by reputation. Shaw revelled in his title as ‘the hardest man in Balehurst’.

‘What’s up boss?’ he asked Woollard, towering over the two men.

‘We might have a fight for you, Lefty. Gwynney here reckons he knows a contender.’

‘That right?’ Shaw stared down at Gwynne. ‘I hope he’s bigger than you mate.’

Gwynne tried not to be intimidated. ‘He’s not as tall as you but I’d say he’s heavier. Got a neck like a fucking tree trunk. He’s got some form. He told me he used to do pub fights in London.’

‘How old is he?’ Woollard asked.

‘Mid-fifties.’

Shaw laughed a heavy, humourless laugh. ‘Old age pensioner!’

‘He’s a mean bastard. Trust me. It’d be worth your while.’

Woollard had heard enough. ‘All right. Speak to your mate. Let’s say a purse of five hundred for the dogs and a grand for the bare knuckle.’

‘What’s my cut for organising it?’

‘How about I give you back a ton from tonight’s purse?’

Gwynne nodded his agreement.

‘I’ll expect to hear from you then,’ Woollard said. ‘Don’t forget to take your dog with you.’

Gwynne retrieved Rampage and slung the remains into the back of his car. He checked his watch. It was just after 10 p.m. If he hustled, he could be in Heydon before closing time. He had a proposition to put to George Norlington, the bed and breakfast tenant at the Dog and Feathers. His old Fiat threw shaky beams of light onto the farm trackway and turned out onto the main road.

From a concealed position behind a hedgerow, DI Mike Bevan watched the car leave the farm and noted down its licence plate. He had been forced to move from his observation point opposite the farm courtyard about an hour previously. Bob Woollard didn’t just own fighting dogs. He also owned a Rottweiler guard dog. This formidable animal caught his scent on the wind and had begun barking furiously in his direction. Fortunately, the dog was chained up and its owner engaged inside the barn. Nonetheless, the unwelcome attention had forced Bevan to relocate. Unable to gain photographs of the activities taking place within the barn, he contented himself with taking the licence plates of all those in attendance. The clock was ticking on Bob Woollard. Bevan was building a case that he hoped would put the farmer away for a long time.

3.

The Dog and Feathers was busy for a Wednesday night. The pub was trying hard to attract a wealthier clientele: young couples and families that bought dinner and bottles of wine rather than just pints. Some of the old locals found the pub’s change of character disconcerting. As a new arrival, George Norlington couldn’t care less. He sat in a corner of the pub quietly studying the Cambridge Evening News and the New Bolden Gazette. Keith Gwynne saw him immediately.

‘George! My old mate. How are you?’

The man he knew as George Norlington looked at him. ‘What do you want?’

‘What are you reading?’

‘I’m reading about a psychiatric hospital as it happens. Which is where I should be put after buying that miserable, broken down excuse for a van off your mate.’

Gwynne sensed hatred in Norlington. He desperately didn’t want to upset the man. ‘Let me buy you a drink. I’ve got a business proposition.’

‘I’ve got a pint. Say what you have to say then piss off.’

Nervous, Gwynne outlined the details of the double-header. Norlington listened quietly.

‘I don’t like to fight the dog no more. He’s getting old,’ Norlington observed.

‘It’s big money, George. You don’t want to live in a grotty flat behind a pub forever, do you?’

Norlington stared at Gwynne blankly. ‘It’s a temporary arrangement. I won’t be up here for long.’

‘You can make fifteen hundred quid for a night’s work. That has got to be worth your time.’

‘I’ll think about it.’

Gwynne noticed Norlington’s massive, rough hands resting on the newspapers. His fingertips were stained red, dark lines of dried blood had collected under his nails. Norlington was a huge man. A shade under six feet tall with short greying hair but still powerfully built with heavy arms and a bull neck.

‘I think you’d win the bare knuckle,’ Gwynne continued. ‘Lefty Shaw is a big lad but he’s thicker than pig shit. You’d have the edge of experience.’

Norlington downed the remains of his pint and stood up. ‘Saturday suits me. You arrange the details. I’m in here Friday night. Come find me then.’

‘Understood.’ Gwynne watched Norlington push his way out of the pub. A few bumped drinkers turned angrily but bit their lips when they saw the size of the man barging past them. Smiling, Gwynne made his own way to the bar and ordered a pint of Stella Artois lager.

George Norlington walked across the pub garden to the door of the small flat he was renting. His Tosa dog barked and leapt at him as he entered the hallway. It scurried excitedly around his feet. Norlington made his way into the little bed-sitting room. The room was crowded and dirty, piled high with old newspapers and dirty clothes. He ordered the dog to sit down in the cardboard box it slept in and fell back on to his uncomfortable bed. George chewed over the offer Gwynne had made. It was risky. He had tried to remain as inconspicuous as possible since arriving in Cambridgeshire a few months previously. A prize fight with an audience could be problematic. However, fifteen hundred pounds was a great deal of money. It was enough to pay for a false passport when his actions made such a thing necessary. He reached into the back pocket of his trousers and withdrew a folded piece of newspaper. Carefully, in the dim yellow light of his claustrophobic little room, George Norlington unfurled the page. It was a newspaper cutting from the East London Advertiser. He stared at the words for some time, unable to go to sleep.

4. Thursday, 10th October 2002

At 4 p.m. the following afternoon, DI Alison Dexter emerged from Peterborough Crown Court, blinking into the sunlight. The trial had been an arduous process: the culmination of five months of intensive police work. She had been the fulcrum of the investigation and it had drained her stamina. Dexter wondered for a moment if this was how the future would be: with each case more demanding and exhausting than its predecessor. She buried the thought before it had a chance to infect her.

At the foot of the steps was a small group of journalists and a local television news camera crew. Dexter disliked the public exposure that sometimes accompanied her job. She usually shunned press conferences, preferring to delegate to more junior officers. Seeing her image on TV or in the newspapers embarrassed her. More importantly, it made her vulnerable. Dexter always tried to resist the opportunity to raise her head above the parapet. However, on this occasion, contact was unavoidable. George Gardiner from the New Bolden Echo recognised her first.

‘Sergeant Dexter!’ he barked. ‘Can we have a quick word?’

Dexter stopped opposite him and tried to smile. ‘It’s Inspector now, George. Maybe you’d get promoted too if you got your facts right.’

Gardiner grinned. ‘Could you give us a comment on the case please? You must be happy with the outcome.’

Dexter shifted uneasily as a local BBC news crew swung their camera towards her. ‘I can read you our official statement. “New Bolden CID is delighted with this verdict. Nicholas Braun, of Gorton Row, Peterborough, is a danger to women and we hope that tomorrow’s sentencing will reflect the gravity of his offences”.’ Dexter had been planning her statement as she left the courtroom – she was rather pleased with its fluency.

‘Could you comment on the nature of Mr Braun’s offences,’ Gardiner continued, ‘and perhaps explain how you caught him?’

‘I won’t comment on the assaults specifically other than to say that they were brutal attacks carried out on women in their own homes. Explaining how we identified Mr Braun is a little complicated. Read the court transcripts. It’s all in there.’ Dexter tried to move through the group but her path was blocked. Still the TV camera bore into the side of her face.

‘Inspector Dexter,’ asked a female journalist with a microphone, ‘Suzy James from BBC East. Is it true that you took DNA samples from an entire factory in New Bolden?’

‘It’s certainly true that we confirmed Mr Braun was the rapist using DNA sampling,’ Dexter nodded.

‘What would you say was the turning point in the investigation?’ Suzy James continued.

Dexter took a deep breath. ‘Two women raped by Braun had been shopping on the afternoons they were attacked at the Hypermarket on Argyll Street, New Bolden. Both were followed as they drove home. Braun attacked them as they unlocked the doors to their homes and pushed them inside.’

‘You said in court that the timing of the two attacks was a vital clue?’

Dexter winced at the corny expression, recognising suddenly that Suzy James was never likely to win a Pulitzer Prize. ‘Both attacks took place between 1 and 2 p.m. on weekdays. That led us to believe that the perpetrator worked nearby and was opportunistically attacking women during his lunch break.’

‘Why couldn’t any of the victims identify him?’ Gardiner interjected.

‘If you were in court, George, you’d know he wore a mask.’

‘Yeah,’ Gardiner sniffed, ‘you said he wore the mask of a cartoon character. Can you tell us which one?’

Dexter shook her head. ‘No. It’s an unnecessary detail that you will sensationalise.’

‘How did you identify the killer’s place of work?’ James asked.

‘Our forensic analysis showed tiny fragments of copper on the victims. Microscopic amounts. Research showed us that it was the type used in complex electronic components. That led us to look for engineering companies in the immediate vicinity of Argyll Street. As you probably know, there’s only one. We took a chance and DNA tested all the employees of that company.’

‘Was the company Meredian Components?’ asked Gardiner.

‘Yes.’

‘Did Braun give his sample voluntarily?’ another journalist asked.

‘Eventually.’

Dexter noticed that Nicholas Braun’s brother Henry was staring at her from the other side of the road, unseen by the journalists. She had seen him in court glaring at her when she had given evidence. His neatly pressed white shirt seemed incongruous with his savagely shaved head.

‘Are you linking Braun with any other unsolved sexual offences in the area?’ James asked.

Dexter looked directly at her. ‘Braun’s been found guilty of three rapes and nine indecent assaults. At the moment we have no reason to link him with any other cases.’

‘Did you interview Nicholas Braun’s wife during your investigation?’ queried Gardiner.

‘We did.’

‘Did she know about her husband’s behaviour?’ he continued.

‘No, she didn’t,’ Dexter lied. ‘I have to go now. New Bolden CID will make a formal statement after sentencing tomorrow.’

Dexter finally pushed through the pack of reporters. A TV camera followed her across the main road to her car, which was parked in Draper Street – a narrow side road. As she sank gratefully into the driver’s seat of her Mondeo, feeling the weariness rising behind her eyes, Dexter saw that the news pack had now surrounded Henry Braun. He seemed to be enjoying his new celebrity status. Dexter had suspected him of involvement in his brother’s crimes but had been unable to prove it. She tried not to feel frustrated: putting Nicholas Braun away had been a satisfactory result.

The car roared to life as Dexter accelerated out of Peterborough and headed south towards New Bolden and she realised that for the first time in months she was free of cases: that she had a second to reflect. She opened the driver’s side window and allowed the bitterly cold East Anglian air to wash over her. It served a purpose. As she drove into the outskirts of New Bolden twenty minutes later, Dexter felt as if the brutalities of Nicholas Braun and the stresses of the trial had been, for the most part, blown out of the back of her head.

She decided not to return to the police station. A free evening was an increasingly rare commodity for Alison Dexter and she resolved to make the most of it. First she would go to the gym, then buy a bottle of red wine and crash in front of her video of ‘Guns ’N Roses Live at Wembley’.

5.

Fifteen miles away, Keith Gwynne finalised the arrangements for Saturday’s double-header with Bob Woollard. The Tosas would fight at 9.30 p.m. The main event would follow shortly afterwards.

‘I don’t want your boy crying off,’ Woollard stressed over the phone. ‘If he does, then you are responsible for covering the purse.’

The thought made Gwynne’s heart flutter briefly. ‘He’ll be there, Bob.’

‘Good. He better be as good as you say he is. I have a very select audience coming to this one. If Lefty flattens him in the first ten seconds we might have to put you in the ring to kill some time.’

‘I’m telling you, Bob, this bloke will be a handful. He’s fucking enormous. You should see the size of his hands.’

‘Doesn’t mean he’s got a good chin though – just because he’s a monster. I’ve seen a lot of fat lads peg out the first time they ride a proper punch.’

‘This bloke isn’t fat. Trust me, Bob.’

Woollard laughed at the thought. ‘That will be the day, Gwynney.’

Gwynne paused for a moment, choosing his next words carefully. ‘Bob, you know that hundred notes you promised me for sorting this one for you?’

‘I do but don’t think you’re getting any more.’

‘I know. I know. I was wondering if you’re interested in wagering it.’

‘You never learn do you, Keith? Go on then, what are you after?’

‘A simple bet. I’ll stick the hundred on my boy to beat Lefty. You offer me some odds. If I win, you pay me the stake plus the odds. If I lose, you don’t have to pay me at all.’

‘How can I offer odds on a fighter I’ve never seen?’ Woollard asked.

‘You’re confident old Lefty can do the business, aren’t you?’

‘He’s never let me down before,’ Woollard mused. ‘OK. I’ll offer you evens on your boy knocking out Lefty.’

‘That’s not very generous. You just said he’s never been beaten!’

‘Take it or fucking leave it.’

‘I’ll take it.’

Gwynne put the phone down and wondered if he had done the right thing. In some ways Woollard was right: he was a mug punter, betting had gripped him like an infectious disease. He could never resist an opportunity to chuck away his money. On the other hand, two weeks previously he had seen George Norlington labouring at a local farm; throwing 100kg sacks of cattle feed and scarcely breaking sweat. That sight had awed him at the time. Now it gave him great confidence.

6.

At 5.45 p.m. an exhausted Alison Dexter gave up on the cycling machine that she had occupied for the previous twenty minutes. The gym was crowded and, tiredness apart, she was beginning to find the drifting, invasive eyes of men tiresome. Furthermore, the machines were starting to bore her. She decided to give up.

After a quick shower, Dexter walked into the lobby of the sports centre and bought herself a Lucozade from a drinks dispenser. As she drank from the cold bottle, she became aware of shouting from the main sports hall. Interested, she climbed a flight of stairs to the main viewing gallery and took a seat. A five-a-side football match was taking place between two female teams. Dexter quickly realised that it was actually a five versus four match as one of the teams seemed to be missing a striker. Dexter loved football. A refugee from East London she had the game – and West Ham United Football Club – in her blood. That was only one of the reasons she found her attention fixed on a particular player: a blonde woman wearing the latest West Ham shirt.

The match was of a reasonable standard. Dexter began to think that this might be a better form of exercise than pounding away at a cycling machine in front of MTV. She glugged at her Lucozade and wondered if her motives were appropriate.

As the game scuttled to a close at 6 p.m. and the players began to head for the changing rooms, Dexter tossed her empty bottle away and walked down from the viewing gallery. The girl in the West Ham shirt was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs.

‘Don’t suppose you play do you?’ she asked in a strong London accent.

‘I’m sorry?’ Dexter replied uncertainly.

‘We’re always a player short. I saw you watching. I thought you might be interested.’

Dexter’s eyes drifted and evaded. ‘I haven’t played for a while.’

‘Don’t matter. It’s about having a laugh.’

Dexter nodded. ‘I see you’re a Hammers fan.’

‘Born and bred. Yourself?’

‘The same.’

‘No way!’

‘I’m from Walthamstow originally,’ Dexter said, warming to her theme. ‘Then I lived in Leyton.’

‘Whereabouts?’

‘Wilmot Road.’

‘You are joking me?’

‘No.’

‘I grew up on Dawlish Road.’

‘By the primary school?’

‘I went there as a kid. I’m Kelsi, by the way. Kelsi Hensy.’

‘Alison Dexter.’

There was an awkward moment as the two women considered the peculiar coincidences. Kelsi broke the silence.

‘So can we expect you next week? We can have a drink afterwards. Talk West Ham and stuff.’

Dexter thought for a second. ‘Yeah. I’d like that.’

‘5 p.m. meet here. We play on Mondays and Thursdays,’ Kelsi smiled. ‘Bring your shin pads. It gets a bit tasty sometimes.’

‘See you then.’

‘I look forward to it,’ said Kelsi Hensy as she pushed open the door of the women’s changing room.

Dexter left the sports centre hurriedly, afraid that she had exposed some terrible vulnerability, afraid that logic might suddenly catch up with her in the car park.

7.

DI John Underwood sat in a meeting room on the first floor of New Bolden police station. He looked out at the scrap of lawn and the forlorn-looking hedgerow that enclosed the station perimeter. A group of birds dropped and twisted across his field of vision, playing in the air, illuminated by electric light. The image made him smile: it was reassuring that a pointless universe could still permit pointless enjoyment. However, that same universe had given him a lump on the underside of his ribcage – a lump that he feared was far from pointless.

The door opened and DI Mike Bevan from Scotland Yard’s Special Operations Executive stepped inside.

‘John! I’m so sorry to keep you waiting.’

‘No problem. I’ve been bird watching.’

Maybe it was just gristle.

‘Your photocopier must have been designed by Fred Flintstone. It’s taken twenty minutes to copy ten pages.’

Underwood gestured for Bevan to join him at the table. ‘So how was your night in the undergrowth? Make any new friends?’

‘Just a Rottweiler the size of a pit pony.’

Bevan handed over the folder he had spent the previous half hour trying to copy. Underwood opened it. Inside were a handful of gloomy photographs and Bevan’s typed report of his activities. Underwood considered one of the photographs: it showed a group of men in discussion outside a barn.

‘Recognise any of them?’ Bevan asked.

‘Bob Woollard obviously,’ Underwood commented, ‘but you knew that already.’ He turned to another image that showed a slightly built man dropping a dustbin bag into the boot of his car. ‘This could be a little twat called Keith Gwynne. I can’t make out any of the others.’

‘I ran a DVLA check on the car. It does belong to a Keith Gwynne. Address 3 Simpson Road, Balehurst. That’s an old council property. I checked and Gwynne doesn’t live there any more.’

‘I know Gwynne. He’s a pikey. A slippery customer. Always on the make. He sells, he thieves, he gambles. We arrested him two years ago for selling hooky video recorders. Got a fine and a suspended sentence if memory serves me. Frankly, I’m not surprised to see his ugly mug there. Dog fighting is right up his grotty little alley. Try the gypsy site on the other side of Balehurst. I bet he’s living there with all the other detritus.’

‘Will do. What do you know about Woollard?’

Underwood sat back in his chair. ‘He is a different animal altogether. I checked his file after our initial conversations. He was arrested at a cockfight outside Cambridge in 1992. He got a warning and a fine. There was no suggestion that he had either organised the event or that he owned either of the birds. Next time he crossed our radar screen was for drunk driving last year. He’s divorced which doesn’t surprise me. We heard rumours that he beat up on his missus but she wouldn’t support an investigation.’

Bevan nodded. ‘We first heard about him in connection with a different case. We were looking at a syndicate based in Ireland that was exporting horses illegally to the UK. In 2001, the RSPCA had complaints that Woollard was mistreating his horses. Tying them up, not feeding them properly. Problem was that whenever they turned up, there was no sign of anything. It’s like he knew they were coming.’

‘There is a diabolical cunning about the bloke, that’s for sure,’ Underwood nodded. ‘He acts the dumb innocent but he’s bloody clued up about his rights. Why did the RSPCA contact you?’

‘Two reasons. Firstly, they are constrained legally. They have limited powers under legislation. My group has a bit more latitude. Secondly, one of their inspectors visited his farm randomly six months ago. There was no one about. She had a snoop in his barn and found a big square of carpet on the floor. She thought she could see blood on the carpet but before she could check it out, Woollard turned up. He was abusive, pushed her around a bit, scared the shit out of her by the sounds of it. She claims he shoved her up against a wall and stuffed his hand down the front of her trousers. Nothing came of it though. Anyway, I made a connection between the Irish syndicate and Woollard. Once I started looking, I saw that he isn’t just into maltreating horses.’

‘Why is the carpet significant?’

‘Experienced dog fighters sometimes use carpet in their fighting rings. It gives the dogs extra grip so that they can inflict more damage on the opponent. It makes it a more exciting spectacle.’

‘And you can throw the carpet away after a fight,’ Underwood added. ‘Dispose of the blood evidence.’

‘Absolutely,’ Bevan agreed. ‘Except it seems on this occasion Woollard got sloppy. That’s when we got involved.’

‘Have you got enough for us to go in with a warrant and strip the place?’ Underwood asked.

‘Not yet. These photos don’t prove anything. I couldn’t get any closer because of his sodding great Rottweiler shouting the place down.’

Underwood thought for a moment, then looked again at the picture of Keith Gwynne. ‘He’s the weak link. Gwynne is small time and not that intelligent. He is not a proper crook. We could pull him in and put the frighteners on him.’

‘We’d have nothing concrete to work with. As soon as we let him out he’d be on the phone to Woollard and we’d have no chance of a result.’ Bevan thought for a second. ‘What other pies does Gwynne have his fingers in?’

Underwood shrugged. ‘You name it. He does up old cars and flogs them. He used to drive around in a beaten up 1950s ambulance. Like I said, he’s a chancer.’

‘You said he was a gypsy?’

‘That’s right.’

Bevan scratched his head. ‘Does he have ponies? Most of them do.’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Let’s check. If he does, I might have a way to get closer to him. I might need you to let me have a couple of plods for the day though.’

‘Shouldn’t be a problem. Now we’ve put this Braun character away, there should be some uniforms about who’d fancy hassling a pikey.’

‘Good. I will drive up to Balehurst and have a look around. I’ll try to become a familiar face.’

‘Fine. I’ll sort you two uniformed officers. How much can I tell them?’

‘Bare minimum.’

‘Understood.’

Bevan got up from the table and shook Underwood’s hand. ‘I appreciate your help, John.’

‘To be honest, Mike, I’m happy to be involved. They don’t give me anything substantial to work with these days.’

‘The famous Inspector Dexter?’

‘I’m flapping in her slipstream.’

‘I’ve heard a bit about her. She was at the Met before? A bit of a ball breaker.’

Underwood smiled at the description, imagining Dexter’s volcanic reaction if she had heard Bevan’s comment. ‘A victim of her own success,’ he observed.

‘I’ll tread carefully,’ Bevan winked at Underwood as he left the room.

Underwood suddenly felt bad for bantering about Dexter. She was too obvious a target for his frustration. That his protégée had outstripped him was disconcerting but, like Twain’s self-made man, he had no one but himself to blame for his own lack of success. He looked out of the window at the scrappy station garden: a pool of light in the darkness.

The birds had gone.

8.

Alison Dexter’s interview with Suzy James was screened on the BBC local news that night. Kelsi Hensy started with surprise as the image of her new football recruit appeared in front of her. She stopped eating her tea and listened much more carefully to the news than was her custom. Dexter looked uneasy in front of the camera, she thought; pretty though. Kelsi watched intently as the camera trailed Dexter’s footsteps to her car. The screen then filled with the grim visage of Henry Braun whose large yellow teeth certainly weren’t pretty.

‘This is a miscarriage of justice,’ Henry Braun snarled into the camera. ‘My brother has been thevictimof a witch-hunt by New Bolden CID. The behaviour of Inspector Dexter and her team has been a disgrace. They are arrogant bullies. An innocent man has been convicted today.’

In a different part of Cambridgeshire, in his squalid room piled high with newspapers and smelling of dog food, George Norlington watched the news too.

9. Friday, 11th October 2002

At 11.15 a.m. the following morning, Nicholas Braun was sentenced to twelve years imprisonment for three rapes and a string of indecent assaults. In the back of the crowded courtroom, Dexter clenched her right hand in triumph. The sentence had justified her efforts. After a moment’s thought, she felt a terrible twist of guilt. Twelve years would mean little to Braun’s victims: the women whose lives he had ruined. Dexter wondered how she had become so de-sensitised. Previously, she might have blamed her own brutal, lonely upbringing but over time had become bored with self-pity. Perhaps the job itself was hammering her emotions out of shape. She remembered how it had almost destroyed John Underwood. Maybe now her own personality was being re-fashioned. Dexter was uncertain of what she was changing into. The idea disturbed her.

She drove back to New Bolden police station in a curious mental state, for once forgetting her plans for the day. Her mind was focused on Kelsi Hensy and on the confusion of emotions that she engendered. Dexter was sliding. She had always tried to channel emotion, to dam it and draw intellectual energy from its controlled flow. And yet, that strategy had not worked: she was alone. Her appetite for information was her greatest strength and her greatest weakness. She needed it like some addictive drug. All her decisions were based on a cold evaluation of information. Dexter decided that she needed to know more about Kelsi Hensy.

Returning to New Bolden CID, Dexter nodded at John Underwood through the glass wall that separated their offices. She found the transparency intrusive and angled her computer screen away from Underwood’s gaze. She logged in and, after a moment’s delay while her system rebooted, accessed the Cambridgeshire police online records. Within a couple of minutes she had ascertained that no one called Kelsi Hensy possessed a criminal record.

Ashamed of herself, but driven on, Dexter tried an alternative but more obvious source of information. She ran an Internet search using ‘Kelsi Hensy’ as a search descriptor.

It produced twenty-seven search results. Dexter scanned through the list, her eyes eventually coming to rest on a headline from a computer trade magazine: ‘ComBold appoints new Head of Communications’. Dexter double-clicked on the article and read carefully as it appeared on her screen.

‘Cambridgeshire-based Internet security firm ComBold have appointed Kelsi Hensy, 34, as Director of Communications. This is an internal appointment. Ms Hensy previously worked in a junior capacity within the Communications Department.’

Dexter scrolled down the page. There was a small photograph of Kelsi Hensy sitting in her new office at ComBold next to her contact details. Dexter wrote them down on her blotter. There was a knock at her door; without looking up she quickly closed down her Internet connection and Kelsi Hensy’s smiling face disappeared from her screen. When she looked up, Underwood was already in her office.

‘Good result today then,’ he ventured.

‘Very. Good riddance to that toerag,’ Dexter smiled back.

Underwood sensed guilt. Dexter never smiled. He decided to let it go. ‘I met with Mike Bevan yesterday.’

‘Is he making progress?’

‘Of sorts. He’s asked for some resources.’

‘Fine.’

Now Underwood was convinced that something was wrong. Dexter was fiercely protective of her departmental resources and yet she hadn’t even queried his statement. He had been observing Dexter’s personal life from a distance. He liked to think of it as taking an invisible responsibility for her. The bitter truth was he had nothing else to fill his dark imagination. Something had clearly upset her: he would endeavour to find out more.

10. Leyton, East London December 1995

To his surprise, Alan Moran found that he was still alive. He was aware of the cold first, his right side felt like stone. Then he remembered the pain. He was standing in the dark; leaning against what felt like a refrigerator wall. His unusual circumstances disorientated him. He tried to move but found that the pressure around his neck was being caused bysomekind of leather strap – like a collar.

His eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness. A rope led from his collar upwards, disappearing into blackness. His hands were tied behind him. Alan resisted the urge to panic. He was ex-army. He tried to keep a cool head. His memories of the previous evening were scattered in the jumble of his semi-conscious brain. The nightclub had shut at two. He’d had a quick drink with a few of the other bouncers then walked down Church Road to the junction with Leyton High Road. He’d turned left up towards Midland Road Station. He remembered going under the rail bridge and smelling the stale piss of Leyton’s tramps; he recalled the sound of a car door slamming. He had crossed the High Road and headed towards his flat in Abbots Park Road. There the trail of memories ended.

He wondered if he had offended someone important. Smashed up some little wanker outside the club without realising his importance. The East End had changed beyond recognition in his lifetime but there were still some toes you didn’t tread on. Had he battered some relative of the Cowans’? Or the Moules’? Was this payback time? Alan strained against his bindings.

Suddenly, a terrible high-pitched screaming started outside the room. The noise intensified andwaspunctuated by the sound of a fist crashing against a steel door. Then Alan heard another voice: a man, remonstrative, half-threatening. The screaming suddenly stopped. A bolt slid back on the refrigerator door. The room was suddenly filled with electric light.

Ray Garrod ran straight up to Moran, jumping up and down in excitement.

‘Give me the pen, Bollamew. Lemmee do the pen. You promised me.’

Alan Moran looked at the huge figure of Bartholomew Garrod standing in the doorway.

‘Listen, mate,’ he gasped against his collar, ‘there’s been some misunderstanding.’

Bartholomew stepped towards him. In close up, Alan half-recognised the huge, rutted face as it stared impassively back at him.

‘I don’t know who you work for but I’ve done nothing.’ Alan now saw that he was in a huge refrigerator. Sides of beef and pork hung in neat lines next to him. There were sausages, chops and steaks on shelves around him.

Bartholomew Garrod didn’t say anything. He handed his brother a permanent marker pen, taking care to remove the cap because he knew it posed problems for Ray. Scarcely able to contain his excitement, Ray Garrod grabbed Alan’s head with his left hand. With his right he drew two diagonallinesacross Alan’s forehead. They intersected directly in the centre. Bartholomew watched his brother’s careful artwork. Moran’s crossed forehead now reminded him of the Scottish flag.

‘What are you doing?’ Moran spluttered in surprise and fear. He had done a tour in Northern Ireland. He had heard stories about what IRA snatch squads had done to Squaddies. He didn’t want to lose an eye or his kneecaps or his bollocks.

Bartholomew Garrod brought up the poleaxe that he held in his right hand. It had a steel head fixed on a wooden shaft. The steel had been sharpened to a point. Bartholomew rested the point of the axe head on the intersection made by the lines on Moran’s forehead.

‘This won’t hurt much. There are no nerves in your brain.’

With that, he drove the sharpened axe head straight through Moran’s forehead. He held it in position for a few seconds, maybe ten, until the body eventually relaxed. Ray Garrod clapped happily as blood plopped gratifyingly onto the stone floor.

‘That was an old-fashioned “stunning”, Ray. We used a poleaxe but they have bolt guns for that now.’ Bartholomew felt the impressive muscle bulk of Alan Moran’s twitching body.

‘A bolt gun?’

‘That’s right. They make a hole with the gun. But sometimes they have to pith it.’

‘Pith it?’

‘Yep. They feed a metal stick into the hole and scratch up the brains a bit. To make sure the animal is dead.’ Bartholomew looked around for one of his meat knives. ‘Now we have to bleed it you see. Blood has bad stuff in it so we drain that out then the meat will keep longer.’

Bartholomew Garrod made a vicious incision across the front of Moran’s neck below his collar. The body was hanging forward in its harness and it began to haemorrhage impressively. Bartholomew slid a steel bucket under the blood flow to collect it.

‘Blood’s not all bad though, is it Ray?’

Ray was staring at the filling bucket. ‘Why’s that, Bollamew?’

‘Well, we can make bread with it, can’t we?’

‘Blood bread.’

‘That’s right,’ Bartholomew said. ‘Seven parts rye flour, three parts blood. Very tasty it is too.’

‘And black pudding, Bollamew, don’t forget that.’

‘We could make some blood sausage if you like.’

Bartholomew knew that the organs had to be removed in a specific order before he could remove the primal cuts. He would need to consult his ‘Handbook of Meat’ for that information. He haddecidedto use the procedure for cattle: swine slaughter was altogether more complicated.

He checked his watch. He had two hours before he had to collect the day’s stock from Smithfield. They could dump the remains on the way there.

Just beyond Bow Industrial Park is a deserted scrap of land where the River Lea narrows. There’s a bridge that crosses the river, leading out onto Dace Road. The Garrods parked their butcher’s van on that bridge at 5.30 a.m. It was a desolate spot, bitterly exposed to the winds raking across Stratford Marsh. A council notice fluttered on a broken streetlight. The noise was unsettling to Bartholomew Garrod. While Ray slept in the passenger seat of the van, exhausted by the night’s excitement and weighed down with a heavy meal, Bartholomew hauled two dustbin bags full of Alan Moran from the back of his van. With an effort he heaved them, one by one, off the edge of the bridge. They splashed and sank without trace into the filthy water.

Bartholomew paused to regain his composure. His hot breath twisted in front of him. The notice still fluttered. He ignored its irritating rattle and climbed back inside his van. He would be a little bit late for his Smithfield pick up; perhaps if he gunnedtheengine and got lucky with the traffic, he could make up time.

Apparently meaningless moments can have disproportionate effects. An extra ten minutes in bed might make you run over the child you would otherwise have missed; reading your partner’s emails might make you want to murder someone you’ve never met; watching a television programme might save your life.

Bartholomew Garrod made a mistake at 5.31 a.m. on the morning of 7th December 1995. He didn’t read a council notice. The notice said that, as part of an urban regeneration project, the River Lea was to be cleaned from Walthamstow Marshes to Bow. Old oil drums, supermarket trolleys and other rubbish would all be hauled from the river’s murky depths in an attempt to revitalise it. Work was to start on the Leyton stretch at 9.00 a.m. on the 10th December.

It was a tiny mistake that was to have disproportionate consequences for the Garrods and for the then Detective Sergeant Alison Dexter.

11. Saturday, 12th October 2002

The ring was set up. Woollard had put down a new circle of old carpet. There was a smaller group of punters than normal. Woollard had marketed the evening as something of a special event. He didn’t want anyone there that he didn’t trust.

Norlington led in his Tosa from the car. It was a large animal, about 150 pounds, well fed and powerful. The dog stayed close to him, uncertain at the strange faces and unfamiliar smells.

‘He looks like a game animal,’ Woollard said with a smile, ‘good bones.’

‘He’s a strong dog,’ Norlington replied. ‘You’ve fought him a lot before?’

‘A couple of times. Essex.’

Keith Gwynne had joined them. ‘I see you’ve been introduced. Fuck me! That’s a big dog!’

The dog stared blackly at Gwynne. Norlington gently massaged the dog’s muscular neck to keep him calm.

‘Hard to find Tosa fights these days,’ Woollard observed. ‘Does he have a name?’

‘I call him Tyndall.’

‘Weird name. Where’d you get him?’ Woollard asked. ‘You can’t import them now.’

‘I won him in a fight out at Clacton about two years ago. I put his owner in hospital,’ Norlington replied.

‘If you fought him in Essex you must have come across Jack Whiteside. He fought Tosas out of Maldon.’

‘I don’t think I’ve met him.’

‘He was a top man Jack. He died just after millennium night. Some toerag cut his throat. Can you believe that?’

‘I haven’t heard of him. I would have remembered that. When are we weighing the dogs?’

Woollard exchanged a glance with Gwynne. ‘Didn’t Keith tell you? We’re not bothering with a weigh-in?’

‘Then we don’t fight. The rules say there has to be a weigh-in.’ Norlington was unhappy at the flouting of this convention.

‘Look, my dog’s a little heavier than yours. So what? I’m not daft. Your dog is more experienced. He’s got scars and white fur all over his face. That means he’s seen a lot of action. My dog is a first timer. It all evens out,’ Woollard insisted. ‘It’ll be like a “game test” to see if he’s got a future in the pit.’

‘I don’t like it,’ said Norlington angrily, ‘I’ve been fucking set up.’

‘Look,’ Woollard responded, ‘I’ll up the purse for the bare knuckle by two hundred notes. Seventeen hundred quid! It’s easy money. These people have paid good money. Tosa fights are a special attraction. Don’t let me down, George, I was told you were a man of your word.’

Norlington thought for a second. ‘Seventeen hundred then. Don’t bend any other rules either.’

Woollard nodded. He looked Norlington over, studying his fearsome hands and battered face. ‘We’ll do the bare knuckle straight after. Big Lefty fancies his chances.’

Norlington nodded. ‘Shall we get on with this then?’

‘Take him into the ring now, Kev!’ Woollard boomed to one of his farm lads. ‘Go and fetch Karl in.’

Norlington took Tyndall into the arena. The dog’s claws scratched against the carpet. In one or two places, Norlington noticed that the carpets had been torn up: through the gaps he could see the exposed and unforgiving concrete floor. Tyndall was beginning to get agitated, sensing what was about to come. Norlington whispered quietly into the dog’s ear as they waited.

A moment or two later, Kev returned with Tyndall’s opposition. Immediately, Norlington knew that the fight was lost. Woollard’s Tosa was enormous: at least thirty pounds heavier than