Stolen. Paul Finch
said, ‘you understand that you remain under caution?’
Mahoney nodded. Still in the scruffy, rancid clothes they’d arrested him in, still smelling of sweat and cigarettes, he slouched on the other side of the interview room table, grinning.
Lucy rolled back the sleeves of her sweater and got the ball rolling. ‘For the benefit of the tape, we’re in Interview Room 3, Robber’s Row police station. I’m DC Lucy Clayburn, in company with acting DC Tessa Payne. This is the interview of Leslie Mahoney. Interview commencing –’ she glanced at the clock on the wall ‘– 11.15pm.’ She watched him carefully. ‘So, Mr Mahoney … how was your day?’
Mahoney guffawed with laughter. ‘That’s a funny one, I must admit.’
‘No more effing and blinding?’
He shrugged. ‘Just caught me at a bad moment, that’s all.’
‘The moment you’re referring to, of course, was the moment when you were arrested outside your home tonight, at 39, Wellspring Lane. Isn’t that correct?’
‘Yeah … that’s correct.’
‘I’m guessing you’re also aware why you’ve been—?’
‘Let’s not fuck about, love. You’ve got me for running professional dog-fights.’
Lucy remained cool. ‘You don’t seem too concerned.’
‘It’s a bang-up job, isn’t it? You caught us at it red-handed, so yes … before we have to go through all that boring question-and-answer shit, I was causing the dogs to fight, I was receiving admission fees from the attendees, I was accepting bets on the outcome, I did possess premises and equipment adapted for use in dog-fighting, I was in possession of videos … and so on and so on.’
He grinned again, showing brown, scummy teeth, his ragged beard dotted with saliva.
‘Where’d you get the dogs from?’ Lucy asked.
‘Don’t own any dogs,’ Mahoney said. ‘I just organise the fights.’
‘I’m not talking about the thirty-plus fighting-dogs we recovered from your property,’ Lucy said. ‘We’ve yet to establish exactly who their owners are. I’m more interested in the seventeen dogs we found in kennels at the back of your barn. And in the thirteen dead dogs we found in what looked like an improvised mortuary.’
‘You’re talking about the bait dogs.’ Mahoney caught Payne’s mingled look of contempt and bewilderment. He chuckled at her. ‘Surprised, darling? I bet most of the poor sods you lock up are rarely this forthcoming, eh?’
‘So where did you get them?’ Lucy asked again.
‘I bought them. Or got them from rescue centres.’
‘So, they are yours?’ Payne said. ‘Even though you just said you don’t own any dogs.’
Mahoney looked amused again. ‘Fuck off, kid … they’re not real dogs, are they? Strays, mutts. God knows what kind of parentage most of them had. Every one a fucking mess.’
‘They were certainly a mess when you’d finished with them,’ she retorted.
Lucy glanced sidelong at her. Tessa Payne was a recent recruit to Robber’s Row CID, having done her initial uniform work out of Cotehill Crescent. She was sporty and fit – apparently a top athlete – but was also a college graduate, possessing the sort of sensitivity you rarely found in the police at one time. At present, she seemed calm, but Lucy could tell that she had no love for Les Mahoney.
‘If you’re talking about the dead ones, I was doing them a favour,’ Mahoney said. ‘You think ordinary vets don’t do the same thing … put some creature that’s beyond repair out of its misery?’
‘Ordinary vets normally do it in a clinical environment,’ Payne said. ‘In a humane way.’
Mahoney looked puzzled. ‘What could be more humane than a quick smack on the noggin?’
‘So you’re admitting killing the thirteen dogs in the shed,’ Lucy said.
‘Yeah, sure.’
‘With this?’ She placed the mallet on the table between them. It was now enclosed in a sealed plastic evidence bag.
‘Yep.’ Mahoney didn’t even bother checking it. ‘That’s it.’
‘So, as well as the gym – we saw your swim-tank and your training treadmill – you also provide a bait dog service? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Correct.’
‘Fighting-dog owners come and visit you, and presumably for more cash, you’ll put one of your bait dogs in the pit … so the fighting-dog can get a lot of practice in?’
‘That’s about the gist of it, yeah.’
‘The other dog doesn’t stand a chance, does it?’ Payne said. ‘Don’t bother answering that, by the way … we’ve seen the outcome for ourselves.’
‘Look … why are you pretending you care?’ Again, the prisoner looked amused. ‘You’re a fucking rozzer. Kicking the shit out of people is part of your job description. And that’s people … not dumb fucking animals, brainless mongrels that no one fucking wants.’
‘So, you took possession of them,’ Lucy said, remaining focused. ‘By buying them, or … excuse me if I smirk, rescuing them.’
‘Correct.’
‘All done officially?’ Payne asked.
‘Absolutely. Paperwork straight and everything.’
‘There were certainly some dogs in your kennels that didn’t look as if they’d ever seen the inside of a rescue centre,’ Lucy said.
Mahoney tried to think. ‘Suppose there were one or two pedigrees. Yeah.’
‘Where’d you get those from?’ she asked.
‘Those were the ones I bought. Owners couldn’t look after them any more, or they were moving away, or a family was splitting up or something. Sad, eh? Like it’s not bad enough, the kids seeing their mum and dad separating, and then they get their pets taken off them too. But who cares, really? I mean, come on … pets. Soppy, poofy things. Fucking toys pretending to be dogs.’
‘You bought them?’ Lucy said, seeking confirmation.
‘Again, I’ve got all the documents.’
Which they would no doubt soon find, Lucy reminded herself. In addition to the dog-fighting offences, she’d also arrested Mahoney on suspicion of theft – i.e. having stolen the missing dogs – which had empowered them to perform a thorough search of his premises. Right now, as Lucy and Mahoney spoke, Malcolm Peabody and one or two other uniforms were still down at Wellspring Lane, going through the property inch by inch.
‘Do you want to know what’s really funny, though?’ Mahoney said.
‘Funny?’ Lucy replied.
He leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘You’ve come in here thinking: “Gonna teach this bugger a lesson. He’ll try and wriggle out of it, but we’ve got him. Gonna fucking wallop him.” And yet … I’ve not tried to wriggle out, have I? I’ve coughed to it. Because you and me both know the worst I’m going to get for this is six months.’ He grinned again, mouth filled with brown, shovel-like teeth. ‘Like I said, I could use the holiday.’
He sat back again, his grin broadening.
‘Done you like a pair of brain-dead kippers, haven’t I?’ he said. ‘Because you now reckon you’re going to lay a few theft charges on me. You’re thinking, “The only chance we’ve got of sticking this bastard somewhere the sun doesn’t shine