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 is to prove that he’s pinched some of these dogs, especially these pedigrees because they’re worth a bob or two.” I bet you’ve got a list in your back pocket of a load of missing dogs, haven’t you? I’ve heard the stories too. House pets getting lifted all over Crowley by this evil black van.’
He gave Lucy a long appraising stare.
‘I wonder, DC Clayburn, if you’ve actually verified yet whether any of those missing pooches marry up with any of those in my kennels … or are you just guessing that’s the case? Because if it’s the latter, bad luck.’ He laughed again. ‘And to pre-empt your next dumbfuck question … no, I don’t own a black transit van. I’ve got three vehicles, and I’ve got documents for all of them. But don’t bother looking around my place for this mythical black van, because you’ll just make bigger arses of yourselves than you already have.’
DI Stan Beardmore, Lucy’s divisional supervisor, was an easy-going guy in his mid-fifties, short and squat, with a head of neat, snow-white hair, and a habit of wearing shabby tweed jackets over his smart shirts and ties. At present he looked nonplussed.
‘I don’t understand the problem,’ he said. ‘The bastard’s coughed to everything.’
‘Trouble is, he’s right,
