The Trouble with Dogs

Prologue

A bruised grey sky promised rain as Ralph Connolly locked his front door, looking forward to the quiet morning he wasn’t going to get.

He opened the door of his vehicle recovery truck. ‘C’mon Sandy, let’s see what’s waiting up on Pickup Bank.’

The white and tan Jack Russell leapt up and scrambled in. He climbed in after her, swung the truck off his drive, and headed out of town. Best part of the job, this. No busy motorways, nobody asking daft questions or needing a lift home. Collect the joyrider’s burnt-out shell and dump it in the scrap yard. Easy money.

At Pickup Bank viewing point, clipboard tucked under one arm, Ralph lowered himself out of the cab. Sandy jumped out and began checking which dogs had passed by since her last visit. A gusty breeze bowed the tussocks of moorland grass around the pot-holed parking area. He shivered and reached for his high-vis jacket. While fastening it, he noted another burnt-out car ten yards away. Not on my list, it can stay there. He looked across the valley to the Jubilee Tower.

Built by locals, boldly declared their 1896 victory, which had secured their free right of access in ‘The Battle of the Moors’, the stone tower stood proud over the stark green and purple moorland. A shaft of weak sunlight crept across the moor, bathing the tower in a golden glow for a few seconds before a squally downpour swooped in behind it, drawing a veil across the hilltop monument.

He took a deep breath of the cool, fresh air and smiled. Best view for miles. God can keep Yorkshire. I’ll settle for this any day.

The rain reached him, stinging his face. He pulled up his hood and focussed on inspecting the torched Golf he was collecting, confirming the registration. Satisfied, he returned to his truck to manoeuvre it into position. He looked around for Sandy. Where’s she got to? He tossed his clipboard back into the cab.

‘Sandy? Come on, lass.’

He turned toward her barked response. She was at the driver’s door of the other car; a blackened, twisted shell.

‘Come on, Sandy, we’ve got work to do.’

Sandy barked her response, then whimpered, but refused to leave the car, now jumping up at the door.

What’s got into her? Is that a Fiesta? What’s in there? He walked towards the car. As he did, the breeze shifted direction. The vile smell engulfed him, and he threw up.

Chapter One

Matt - Blackburn, Lancs. Friday a.m., September 1992.

Some days, he had to fight his demons just to walk through the door. DCI Matt Hawker checked his elastic band was on his wrist and entered the draughty Victorian building that was Blackburn Central Police Station. He negotiated his thoughts and his route to his desk. It was not one of those days.

Matt hung his black leather bomber jacket on its regular hook. Muttering about untidiness, he neatly stacked the witness statements Liz had dropped onto his desk, otherwise empty bar the phone and a framed photo of his wife and two children. He pulled a plastic bag from his pocket and removed a cloth moistened with dilute disinfectant. After wiping over his chair and desk, he sat and picked up the photo. Lost in his thoughts for a moment, he smiled and replaced the photo. Aye, she’ll be fine.

He took a pencil from the regimented line in his stationery drawer, opened the first statement, and began reading, absent-mindedly checking the point was sharp. Almost. Taking his sharpener, he gave the pencil a quick twist, carefully deposited the shaving in the bin and returned the sharpener to its place. Glaring at the pencil, he sighed.

DS Frank Jeremies knocked on his open door.

‘You okay, Boss?’

‘Err, aye, grand. What’s up?’

‘Looks like we’ve got a fresh one.’

‘How d’you mean?’

‘Just had a call from Ralph.’

After Frank’s brief explanation and confirmation he had called out the troops, they headed for the car park.

Tossing Frank his car keys, Matt said, ‘Since you’re so bloody organised, you can drive.’

Matt had never asked Frank to drive his new Cavalier SRi before. After he slid in, Frank moved the driver’s seat a notch closer. Matt noticed a flicker of a smile cross Frank’s face. We’re the same height. Bloody hell! Am I getting fat? Another slippery slope.

He wanted the journey time to recall a cold case from five years ago: a man burned beyond recognition on the moors above Darwen. Never even identified him. Hope it’s not a repeat. Don’t want anyone else making the connection yet. Last thing we need is some hungry reporter jumping to conclusions. Best get this sorted fast.

He tried to look ahead of a large lorry that had slowed their progress. ‘Aren’t we near that turning?’

‘Next right, opposite the Grey Mare Inn.’

‘That place still open? There’s nowt around here for miles, just moorland and a few lost sheep. Probably why they chose somewhere so remote.’

‘What? To open a pub?’

‘No, Frank, to burn a body.’

As they arrived at the isolated parking area, the sky turned a shade darker. SOCO had arrived, uniform had closed the road and were taping off the crime scene.

Matt left Frank to talk to Ralph, who was waiting in his recovery truck. As another shower swept in, Matt pulled up the zip of his bomber jacket and donned a pair of latex gloves. He surveyed the grim scene on a cold, wet moor: two burnt-out car shells, muddy potholes, and soggy litter scattered around. Bloody mess. What a miserable spot to pop your clogs in. He took a deep breath, checked his elastic band again, braced himself for what was to come, and headed straight for the blackened Fiesta shell.

‘How do, Harold? What’ve we got?’

Harold Roberts, the rotund divisional surgeon, stood with his head just inside the driver’s side window. He turned, swept back his over-long, greying fringe, and tucked it into the hood of his coverall. Matt thought he resembled the Old English Sheepdog from the TV commercial. He wasn’t alone, having heard Harold’s nickname bandied about the station.

‘Give me a chance, Matt; not long arrived myself. Not a pretty sight, this one. What I can say is he’s male, stabbed and burned, and this likely happened late last night. Body’s still warm, but so is the car. Not stabbed here, though.’

‘How’s that, then?’

‘No blood pool. The pathologist may discover more later. Looks like there’s the frame of an attaché case on the passenger seat, but no murder weapon yet.’

Matt stepped closer, looking directly at the car for the first time. Anticipating the intrusive thoughts and suppressing the urge to walk away, he recounted the words of his therapist. Nothing abnormal here you haven’t seen before. You are in control. Now ready, he leaned to look into the car.

The smell of roasted human flesh made Matt gag. That trigger sparked a vision. He saw a heavily charred, smoking corpse with an eyeless, grinning face. Bloodied beetles and centipedes crawled in and out of the facial orifices and gross, bubbling blisters around the torso.

Leaning back, Matt gripped the door of the Fiesta and closed his eyes, resisting the urge to run. He pulled and let go of his elastic band to snap him back to reality and dismiss the vision. Turning away and taking a deep breath, he steeled himself once more. He cautiously glanced again, now seeing the actual human-shaped congealed mass of burnt flesh and ashes. How the hell does Harold know it’s a bloke, let alone been stabbed? Viewing the dead always saddened him, but despite banishing his intrusive vision, he still found this one repulsive. He sighed, now feeling guilt for being repulsed. Scanning the rest of the car, he saw nothing but scorched metal and ashes.

He pulled back. ‘Ugh. Never gets any easier. I really don’t know how you do this job. We’ll see what SOCO come up with.’

‘Not much else for them to go on, or me, for that matter.’

‘Ta, Harold. Let us have your report as soon as. No delays, please.’

Relieved to step away, Matt looked around. Two white-clad SOCOs were struggling to erect a tent over the Fiesta. Two more were hunched over something near the edge of the viewing area, trying to shelter it from the rain, whilst another was leaning into the car’s tailgate. He asked, ‘Who’s senior SOCO here?’

Ken Watson, the diminutive chief of the Blackburn Scenes of Crime Officers, emerged from under the tailgate. ‘That would be me, Matt,’ he barked, ‘and I’d appreciate it if you’d stop contaminating my crime scene. Let’s move away from the car.’

‘Sorry, Ken. You all look the same, kitted out,’ Matt said as they took a few steps back. ‘Seems more like your crime scene’s contaminating me. I can cope with viewing a body. Lord knows I’ve seen too many already, but this one…’

‘I know.’ Ken softened his tone. ‘We never get used to that smell.’

‘Owt you can tell me?’

‘Little more than Harold. Not your usual twoccer, this.’

‘How d’you mean, other than him up front?’

‘They just open the petrol filler, stuff a rag in, light it, and scarper; like that Golf over there. Not this one; they’ve poured at least a gallon of petrol in there before torching it. Look at what’s left: not much of the body, certainly no clothes, nothing else inside the car except metal and ashes, and the shell is visibly twisted. It must have been damn hot. They also removed the number plates. Whoever did this intended leaving no clues, but we’d better conduct a search for the murder weapon in the adjacent fields, just in case.’

‘We’ll have a chat with uniform. Let us have your initial report as soon as you can. I want this one sorted fast. Oh, when you get the bonnet open, let us have the VIN.’

‘Assuming they haven’t filed it off.’

‘Any chance we can do that now?’

‘Look at this!’ Ken snapped, pointing back to the car.

Matt turned to see the two SOCOs still securing the tent protecting the car from the weather.

‘I’m in the middle of gathering delicate ashes that this rain or even a gust of wind could destroy. The rain isn’t helping the rest of the scene either, and neither are you. I’ll do it once I’ve recovered everything I can from inside the car.’

Matt held his hands up. ‘Okay, Ken. Understood. Preserve the evidence. But that’s my only obvious lead, and we need to get cracking.’

Ken returned to the car as Frank strode over. ‘This one’s horrible, Boss. Ralph’s in a right state. What’ve we got?’

‘Bugger all yet, except his breakfast, and I don’t fancy that. You’re right; looks professional, without remorse. Most evidence destroyed in the fire. All we know is the body’s male and were stabbed elsewhere, but if they meant it to look like suicide, they failed.’

‘Oh? Why’s that?’

‘They left the car sideways on to the view. Anyone contemplating suicide would park facing the view because it were the last thing they wanted to see. Otherwise, why bother driving up here? Mind, they chose this spot well; it’s quiet up here. Look down the road; we’re hardly causing a traffic jam.’

Frank turned to see the road traverse the steep slope at a gradual incline before turning to plummet straight down towards Hoddlesden. No vehicles were in sight.

‘Ralph’s collected a few burnt-out cars from here over this year, usually hot hatchbacks abandoned by joyriders.’

‘If it weren’t for him collecting that Golf, it could’ve been days before we heard owt about this one. Once nature took its share, there’d be nowt much left of him. He could’ve easily ended up in the crusher, with no-one the wiser, poor sod.’

‘He said nobody’s walked by since he returned from calling us. I’ve told him to go home and get some rest. He knows to keep schtum.’

‘Grand. Have a word with uniform to search for the knife. Best door-knock the locals as well. Tell them not to mention the body. If anyone asks, we’re cracking down on joyriders.’

‘Shouldn’t take long; only a few places up here.’

Frank briefed the uniform inspector, then joined Matt at his car. ‘All organised. Back to the station?’

‘Aye. Nowt else we can do here and me kecks are sopping. When we get back, check MisPer - any with a Fiesta - and stolen vehicles for the last week. I’ve asked Ken for the VIN. We’ll soon find out whose it is. Someone must be missing this bloke and his car.’

Chapter Two

Alan ­– Thursday, PM, two months earlier

‘That weldmesh, Dad, it’s a good earner, isn’t it?’

Alan Chance glanced at his sixteen-year-old son. They were returning from delivering rolls of weldmesh fencing to Bradley’s place in Wales. Having dropped off the pickup at the hire shop, Alan was driving his estate car to their farmhouse on the outskirts of Blackburn.

‘Dead good, son. Half the breeders in the country have bought some. Been mad for it. That was Bradley’s third load. Why’re you asking?’

‘I know how you get it, like most stuff you sell.’

‘Oh?’

‘It doesn’t bother me, but is that why you and Mum argued so much and why she left us?’

Alan looked more closely at Sam. Here we go. I wondered how long it’d be.

‘It’s not as simple as that. Your mum knew how I made my living when we met. Trouble is, I can’t just drop all those deals, favours, and contacts. Too many people rely on you, d’you know what I mean? The longer things went on, the more we drifted apart. Us splitting up really was for the best.’

It was his other ventures that caused Elaine to leave him last year. Alan’s associates often demanded he did things outside his comfort zone. Elaine just couldn’t cope, although she never knew how dangerous they really were.

‘I know Mum misses being with us and Katy misses her a lot.’

‘You had the choice; you could’ve lived with her.’

‘We’d have had to change schools and lose all our friends. Mum understood.’

Alan glanced at Sam. ‘Are you two having second thoughts now?’

Sam shrugged. ‘Do you think you’ll ever get a proper job?’

‘Can’t see it now; too long under the radar. It’s complicated.’

Alan drove into the farmyard, relieved to end the conversation. Long before Alan bought it, the farm’s land was sold off to create an industrial estate, which now surrounded what remained. The stone house was 200 years old, but Alan had never bothered researching it. It had the required accommodation, the outbuildings for storage, and particularly for kennelling his German Shepherd dogs. Showing them was a hobby he had begun during his youth in Manchester, well before meeting and marrying Elaine.

Katy, two years younger than Sam, was sitting at the kitchen table when they walked in.

‘How’d it go? What’s Bradley’s place like?’

‘It went great, love,’ Alan replied. ‘We didn’t see much. Had to get the pickup back in time. The kennels and house looked dead good, but then it’s all brand spanking.’

‘What about the quarantine kennels?’

‘They’re top, really professional; must’ve cost a fortune. Mind you, he can afford it; the prices he charges for pups and stud fees. No idea where his quarantine customers will come from; it’s in the middle of nowhere.’

‘Weren’t there any dogs in them?’

‘A couple, besides the ones he shows in Germany, but he’s still finishing the last blocks. Anyway, what’ve you been up to today?’

‘Nothing special; just spent the day at Sarah’s.’

Alan smiled, thinking Elaine probably took her there, but she wouldn’t mention that. ‘How’s your big sister, then?’

‘She’s great. I’m thinking of knitting something for their baby when it’s born.’

‘You’ve time; that’s still a few months off. Now, we’d better think about tea.’

‘I’ve already made chili and I’ve had mine, so I’ll put some rice on for you.’

‘I’ll sort that,’ said Sam, and turned to the stove.

Alan walked into the dining room, unlocked a drawer in his oak desk, and pulled out a cash box. He added today’s nine hundred pounds to the cash already in there, sitting alongside a bulky sealed envelope. He would normally transfer some to his safe under the dog runs, where he kept his other valuables, but not while the kids were around. Besides, there’ll be more cash tomorrow.

He returned to the kitchen. Sam had set two places at the table and was busy at the stove.

Taking a beer from the fridge, he asked, ‘D’you want one? You’ve earned it today.’

‘I’ve got some cola here, thanks, Dad. This’ll be ready in a minute.’

Later, Alan and his kids watched the news on TV, but Alan’s mind was elsewhere. Tomorrow, he was up early again, carrying out a more stressful task in Hull. The one part of his life he hated, but he had no choice other than do their bidding. At least the money came in handy. He heard the weather-forecast come on the TV, snapped out of his thoughts and paid attention to tomorrow’s weather for the East Coast. They predicted a fine day.

‘I’m off to bed. Up early, out at seven. I’ll wake you when I leave. Sam, can you feed the dogs and clean the kennels?’

‘Okay, Dad.’

‘I’ll do some washing and ironing,’ said Katy.

‘Thanks, love. Make sure all the dogs get a proper walk, and they’ve got plenty of water. I’ll be back around five, all being well.’

Alan wondered about the consequences of it not going well, then abruptly dismissed the thought. It had to go well. He had no other choice.