No Holds Barred (26 page)

Against all the odds, Daniel was inside and, for the moment, could breathe again.

The barn was not big, less than half the size of the one on Colt's Hill, with a mezzanine at the door end, which was probably a hayloft. In the centre of the ground floor was an enclosed area about twelve feet square with walls formed of laminated boards, screwed on to angle-iron stakes that had been driven into the earth floor, and rubber mats underfoot. This improvised pit was brightly lit by spotlights positioned around the eaves, and, by contrast, the viewing area around it was shadowy and dark, which suited Daniel very well.

There must have been forty or fifty men round the outside of the square, two on opposite sides obviously running books on the upcoming fights. They were doing a roaring trade, as most of those present seemed to be pushing forward, eager to place their bets. Anxious not to stand out in any way, Daniel joined the crush, finally putting a bet on a dog called Reckless in the first bout.

The man immediately behind him in the queue snorted derisively.

‘Like throwing your money away, do you?' he asked, but before Daniel could formulate a response, one of Reckless's supporters took up the dog's defence and much good-humoured heckling ensued.

Relieved to have the attention lifted from him, Daniel moved away and took up a position standing on a ring of hay bales that had been laid against the barn walls.

‘Friend of Roy's, are you?' a voice enquired beside him.

Daniel stayed silent, hoping whoever it was hadn't been talking to him, but moments later an elbow nudged him and the question was repeated.

‘Oh, sorry,' he said, glancing at the unsavoury-looking character beside him. ‘No. A friend of Ricky's.'

‘What do you think of that new dog of his, then? Have you seen it? Think it was the eighth wonder of the fucking world, the way he goes on about it, wouldn't you?'

‘Haven't seen it yet,' Daniel admitted. ‘I've been away for a week or two. Just got back.'

After another couple of comments about dogs that were due to fight that evening, Daniel's unwanted new acquaintance clearly decided he was poor value as a viewing companion and moved away to talk to someone else.

Another potentially sticky moment passed. Daniel breathed deeply and considered whether he might be getting soft. He'd done a fair bit of undercover work when he'd been at Bristol Met and, in a skewy way, enjoyed it. But then it was different when you had the full support of a police force behind you. Now he was on his own, unless you counted the old poacher waiting outside. At least, he hoped he was still waiting  . . .

There was a stir of excitement, the crowd parted and the fat man with the crate pushed his way through. He stepped over the barrier and into the makeshift pit before putting the crate on the ground. Moments later another man followed with two rough-coated black terriers under his arm. It seemed the evening's entertainment was about to begin.

The fat man bent down with a wheezing effort to open the door of the crate, and a buzz of excitement went round the barn as what must have been at least two dozen brown rats spilled out into the pit, immediately scurrying round the edges, searching for a way out.

The two dogs became frantic in their efforts to escape their owner's clutches, as instinct kicked in and the urge to kill drove all other thought from their minds.

‘Give you fifty to one on the rats!' someone called out.

‘Fuck off !' came the reply from elsewhere. ‘The dogs'll slaughter 'em. I'll put a pony on the Patterdales clearing up in two minutes.'

The challenge sparked a frenzy of betting on whether rats or dog would triumph, and how long it would take. Daniel listened, trying hard to keep his face impassive, when, in truth, the whole scenario disgusted him. He wondered if the fat man had caught the rats, or whether the poor things had been bred for this cruel end. Although he knew wild rats were the carriers of disease and were present in epidemic proportions across the country, it was no fault of theirs and didn't excuse using them in this way.

After what seemed an age, during which the terriers continued to wriggle and yap furiously, and the rats milled around and around in search of a way out, the last bets were laid and the contest got underway.

The man with the Patterdales bent over to hold them just above the ground, their legs paddling furiously, and on the signal of another man, who held a stopwatch, the dogs were released and the slaughter began.

The terriers needed no second bidding. They were ruthless and efficient killers, dispatching the rodents with a bite and a flick of the head that sent them flying through the air to land limp and broken, feet away. The dogs didn't have it all their own way, however. Several of the rats, finding themselves cornered, turned on their hunters and latched on to their faces, necks and paws, drawing blood that spattered the wooden walls as the Patterdales shook and broke the backs of yet more of their number.

Daniel knew from his research that, in times gone by, single dogs would be put in pits with so many rats that sometimes, by sheer force of numbers, the rats
did
prevail. He was glad that this wasn't part of the current evening's sport because, little as he relished seeing the rats slaughtered – it was at least quick – he doubted his ability to stand by and watch a dog gradually overcome and killed by a horde of rats, whilst men stood by waiting to time the moment of collapse.

The noise in the barn was deafening; the blood lust of the men as all-embracing as that of the terriers, and they crowded the barriers, urging the dogs on. Daniel hung back on the fringes and hoped they were too engrossed in the action to notice the swift and stealthy use of his mini camera.

Finally, the massacre came to an end and the two dogs circled the pit sniffing the rats' bodies for signs of life before standing panting in the centre of their scene of triumph, tongues lolling and blood seeping from numerous tiny bite wounds.

The man with the stopwatch announced the time taken, and all at once the focus was on collecting the money from bets placed.

‘Awesome!' The man next to Daniel exclaimed enthusiastically. ‘I'm going to get me some Patterdales.'

Daniel was saved the trouble of replying by the interruption of another man, who was adamant that a good Jack Russell would give the Patterdales a run for their money any day.

He wandered away to distance himself from the chatty man. The less he had to talk, the less likely it was that he would give himself away.

To one side of the pit, first aid was being administered to the terriers' wounds. Daniel watched from a distance for a moment, noting the extensive and professional-looking kit the handlers seemed to have at their disposal. He doubted that even a vet would have been better equipped.

The ring was cleared with a broom and shovel, and, in due course, two dogs were led in, already lunging at one another and snarling through their muzzles.

To Daniel's knowledgeable eye, the animals were classic pit bulls, their well-muscled frames clothed in jackets bearing their names, like boxers parading in the ring. The darker of the two dogs bore the name Reckless – the one Daniel had bet on.

The handlers let their dogs stand nose to nose for a minute or two, shaking their collars. The encouragement was completely superfluous. The dogs couldn't have been more hyped up, and the crowd wasn't far behind. At the pitside, the self-styled bookies took bet after bet, and then, when the buzz of anticipation had almost reached fever-pitch, the dogs' coats, collars and muzzles came off and the handlers held them on what Daniel guessed were some kind of quick-release leads.

Someone counted them down, the dogs were loosed and a battle of primeval, snarling ferocity commenced.

Daniel watched, sickened, as the two dogs fought. What disgusted him most was the bestial behaviour and appearance of those at the pitside. You couldn't blame the dogs for fighting. They were hapless pawns, bred and trained to enhance their natural aggressive instincts by men who got their kicks witnessing the suffering of another being. In his mind, it was the worst form of cowardice.

Hoping all eyes were on the battle in the pit, he palmed the key ring camera again and lifted his hand high to snap off a couple of pictures of the crowd.

The two dogs were well matched and fought each other to a standstill. Finally, with torn flesh and bloodstained fur, Reckless prevailed, catching the other dog in a vice-like grip around the throat and holding on until his opponent's legs buckled beneath him and he slumped to the ground.

The response from the crowd was a mixture of cheers and groans, and the dogs' handlers climbed into the pit to retrieve their animals. Reckless staggered with exhaustion as he was paraded round the pit by his crowing owner. The other dog lay where it had fallen until his handler picked up the limp body and made his way out.

Daniel had seen more than enough and would have been happy to leave, but he hadn't yet managed to get an incriminating photo of Ricky Boyd. If he could do that, he would at least have gained something worthwhile from the appalling episode he'd witnessed.

His luck was in. It seemed the next bout was the highlight of the evening: a match between Ricky's new dog and that of the man known as Roy. From the posturing and strutting, Daniel guessed this was a grudge match and was the whole reason for Ricky setting up the meet.

The proceedings followed the same format as before. The two dogs were paraded, goaded and then set upon one another. Ricky's dog, Razor, was the bigger of the two by some way, but Daniel thought he was carrying a little too much weight for peak condition, and he heard the same opinion voiced by others around the barn.

Sure enough, after an impressive start, Razor seemed to flag, and the smaller dog, which had been riding the storm with his chin tucked into his chest, began to show his mettle. As the minutes passed, Ricky's dog grew less and less able to defend itself, and its sleek pale fawn coat became streaked with blood from the many lacerations it had sustained. Hopelessly outclassed, and with desperation in its eyes, it tried to turn away from its relentless attacker, and several of the onlookers called to Ricky to withdraw it and let it fight another day.

‘He's not fit, mate! Get him out,' one shouted, but many more jeered at Ricky's discomfort, and he became furious with rage and disappointment, leaning over the wooden barrier and yelling at his exhausted dog to get stuck in.

Razor couldn't do it. Head down and breath rasping through his throat, he finally collapsed in the corner of the pit, the smaller dog worrying at him and trying to pull him away from the protecting wall.

With an oath, Ricky leapt into the pit, but Daniel's momentary optimism that he was going to do the right thing and save his dog from further punishment was dashed as he set about the animal with his boots, screaming at it to get up and fight.

His actions produced a mixed response. The other dog's handler jumped in to drag his own fighter away; there were a few boos, and some onlookers laughed at Ricky's efforts.

‘Always was a bad loser,' someone called out.

Daniel started to move forward through the crowd, aware that by intervening he risked discovery, but no longer able to stand the sight of such needless cruelty.

‘Not so much of a Razor as a steak knife!' a man shouted as Daniel elbowed his way through the last row of spectators. With an almost manic expression on his face, Ricky took a flick knife from his pocket, released the blade and slit his dog's throat. Tossing the bloodstained body aside like an old coat, he wiped the blade on his jeans and pocketed it.

‘That's a couple of grand down the drain,' someone commented. ‘Wouldn't like to be him when Taylor finds out.'

‘No point keeping a loser,' another voice replied.

‘Too young. Shoulda waited,' was the opinion of a burly man at the pitside.

Daniel halted at the barrier, trying to stifle the urge to leap into the ring and plant his fist in Ricky's face. A couple of deep breaths restored reason. The dog was beyond his help now and, as satisfying as it would be, the action would undoubtedly draw down on him the kind of attention that would lead to his unmasking.

Ricky would have to wait.

As the dogs were removed and the excitement died down, Daniel made his way back to the obscurity of the darker fringes. He'd seen more than enough. It was time to go.

It seemed, however, that leaving wasn't going to be as easy as getting in had been.

At the rear of the crowd once more, he edged towards the barn door, trying not to make his intention obvious. He was still some feet away, however, when another man passed him and slouched towards the exit.

All at once the bouncer materialized and put out a hand to stop the man.

‘And where might you be going, sunshine?' he asked.

‘Just need to get some air.'

‘Not with that, you don't,' the bouncer said and turned his hand over to make a beckoning gesture. ‘Come on, you know the rules. You should have given that up before you got on the bus. How did you get it in?'

Sulkily, the slouching man handed over an expensive-looking, slimline mobile phone. ‘Had it in the waistline of me boxers,' he said with a touch of cockiness.

‘Pity. It looks a nice phone,' the bouncer commented, turning it over in his hand. The next moment he had dropped it on the floor and ground it into the dirt with his heel.

‘You can't do that!' the slouching man exclaimed, red-faced.

‘Done it. Run along now and, next time, do as you're told.'

The slouching man pushed past the bouncer in a childish show of rebellion, and the big man chuckled as he watched him go.

Daniel wasn't laughing, though. He not only had a phone on his person, he had the mini camera. If that were to be found, he would be in big trouble. Needing time to think, he edged away from the doorway and joined the fringe of the crowd once more.