Stolen. Paul Finch
Lucy Clayburn – continued to watch through her night-vision scope but reached out a hand and squeezed his shoulder with a firm, hopefully reassuring grip. ‘Don’t worry, we’ve got this.’
‘There’ll be some rough customers.’
‘That’s why we’ve got the Tactical Aid Unit with us. They’re mostly ex-military. They like nothing better than a ruckus.’
Geraldson nodded and smiled, eyes gleaming wetly as more headlights rolled across the hide, shining fleetingly on his face.
By Lucy’s estimation, about fourteen vehicles had now arrived at the cottage. Each one would likely be carrying more than one dog. So that would be twenty-eight animals at least, not counting any that were already being kept on site. The RSPCA were anticipating thirty-two in total, which would provide a straightforward knock-out contest. The members of this ring were clearly anticipating a long night.
As the vehicles pulled up haphazardly in the farmyard, a bulb sprang to life outside the ramshackle building to which it was attached, and a man slouched out. He was heavy-set and bearded, in a ragged green sweater and khaki pants. One by one, the parked vehicles opened, and men disgorged from them: generally at least two, sometimes as many as five. Like the guy from the cottage – whom Lucy had already identified as Les Mahoney – they mostly wore outdoor-type clothing: khaki, camouflage fatigues and such, though there were a few leather jackets among them, and a bit of oily denim.
‘Christ,’ Geraldson breathed. ‘There’s more than I expected.’
‘We’ll be fine,’ Lucy replied.
As a rule, when you were facing big numbers, quite a few of them weren’t looking for legal entanglements and would scarper at the first opportunity. That was when they were most vulnerable; all you had to do was pick them off. Though, looking at these guys – and she turned the super-zoom dial on her scope – there might be as many fighters as runners. She saw shaved heads, scarred faces, scuzzy tattoos. For once she was glad the sixty officers from the TAU were parked in a layby in their troop-carriers a little way down Wellspring Lane.
She continued to observe the men as they greeted each other with high fives and bear-hugs, before swaggering over to Mahoney and thrusting at him the wads of banknotes that made up their admission fees.
Another cop came into the hide behind her. It was PC Malcolm Peabody, once Lucy’s probationer when she too had been in uniform. He was still only young, but a tall, rangy lad, with short red hair, a freckled face and jug-handle ears. Currently, he wore heavy-duty body-armour, plus a ballistics helmet with its visor raised and strap tight under his chin.
‘Sergeant Frobisher says everyone’s in position,’ he said quietly.
‘Everyone except you, Malcolm,’ Lucy replied, thinking that if it suddenly kicked off, she didn’t want handy lads like Peabody anywhere other than the front line. ‘There’s not enough space for all of us in here. Go back to your LUP and stay sharp.’
Peabody nodded and stooped back out through the low, narrow entrance.
None of them knew what the hide had originally been constructed for. It might indeed have been a wildlife observation point in the past. But it made a perfect OP for today: a flimsy, flat-roofed wooden hut, partly dug into the ground so it had an earthen floor, its exterior covered with vegetation, which, at the tail-end of summer, partly obscured the horizontal viewing port at the front – partly, but not completely.
Its interior was so restricted that it could only contain two with any comfort. But it gave an excellent view of the farm cottage, some fifty yards beyond the trees, and the open grassland to the east of it, where at this hour nothing stirred save a couple of tethered ponies munching the cud.
An increasingly excited canine yelping drew Lucy’s attention back to the cottage, where the rear doors to vehicles were now being opened and muzzled dogs brought out on chain leashes. Even through the zoom-lens of her scope, and with the whole of the farmyard area lit up, many of them were already so horribly scarred from battles past that their breeds were unidentifiable, but by their lean, squat, muscular frames she reckoned they’d be fighting species of old: pit bulls, Staffies and the like, an impression enhanced by the thick muzzles they wore, and their steel-studded leather harnesses.
Lucy shook her head.
Mahoney now walked across the farmyard, his guests following, though they kept their four-footed charges well apart from each other. As most of these animals, if not all, had been trained through years of brutal abuse to despise other dogs on sight, they were already snarling and rearing, having to be forcibly restrained.
Geraldson watched through a pair of binoculars.
‘Savages,’ he whispered.
‘Yeah, well, don’t worry,’ Lucy replied. ‘Tonight, they’re going to learn what it means to be chained and caged.’
At the other side of the farmyard, perhaps fifty yards from the cottage, there was another clutch of outbuildings, all in a similarly dilapidated condition to the main house. The largest had clearly once been a barn of some sort; it was an ugly brick and concrete structure, but its roof had evidently caved in some time ago, because while the rest of it was rotted and flimsy, that was relatively new, made from sturdy sheets of corrugated steel.
Mustn’t have the guests getting wet if it rains, Lucy thought.
Mahoney went into the barn first, through a side-door. Lights came on within, and then he re-emerged on the east-facing side, pushing open a large pair of timber doors, through which the men and dogs now trooped. It was difficult to be sure what went on after that, because once the majority were in there, all Lucy could see through the open doors was a chaos of bodies milling about, the dogs still grizzling and snarling at each other.
She lifted the radio mic to her lips but refrained from issuing an order, relying on her ears to tell her what was going on. When the snarling and grizzling gave way to full-on barking, that would mean that muzzles had been removed, and when the men also began shouting, the first bout would be in progress.
A person Lucy hadn’t seen before entered the farmyard, almost certainly Mahoney’s wife, Mandy. She was a slatternly, overweight woman wearing sandals, jeans that were too tight for her, and a baggy, semi-transparent cheesecloth shirt that barely concealed her naked, pendulous breasts. Ratty grey hair hung past her shoulders, and she had a pudgy, porcine face, tinging red as she made cumbersome trips back and forth from the cottage to the barn, hefting crates of beer.
‘Shouldn’t we go now?’ Geraldson asked quietly.
‘No,’ Lucy said firmly. ‘Just wait.’
She leaned forward, almost pushing her head through the greenery curtaining the aperture. But it was pointless. She couldn’t see the woods stretching away to the right of the hide and fringing the open pasture. She’d simply have to trust that Sergeant Frobisher, who was on secondment from Area, would have everyone adequately concealed but also primed for action, so they could jump up and move in the instant she gave the word. There were other lying-up points around the one-time farm: behind the stone walls bordering the eastern end of the pony paddock, sixty yards further away than Lucy’s own position; and in the trees on the west side of the farm buildings, though the lads over there had needed to dig in further back because it was open woodland and there was a risk of their being seen. So Frobisher’s team would be the first into action, and they’d need to make a very rapid approach.
An explosion of barking suddenly sounded from inside the barn. Geraldson gazed at Lucy, white-faced, a globule of fresh sweat trickling down his nose. She raised a hand for calm but leaned closer to her mic. ‘Clayburn to TAU, over?’
Static crackled, before Inspector Rick Crawley, heading up the TAU, responded. ‘Go ahead.’
‘Tine to move, sir. Can you block the gate on Wellspring Lane, over?’
‘Roger, received.’
Lucy glanced at Geraldson, who nodded wordlessly,