Snared (8 page)

Chapter Twenty-One

Y
ou’ve been quiet.” Karen put her cutlery down.

Vicky took a drink, finishing her can, and put it back on her tray. “Sorry. I’m just preoccupied.”

“What with?”

“I couldn’t find Forrester and decided to go to Fife. Considine was being a wanker about it.”

“Do you think Forrester minded?”

“Doubt it.” Vicky rubbed at the knot in her neck. “I don’t trust Considine, though.”

“Me neither.” Karen took a drink of Dr Pepper. “You owe me one for the CCTV, by the way.”

“Have you got anything?”

“Nothing. Been through the CCTV and the Auto Number Plate thingy. And nothing on the building owners either. They said they’ve been looking for new tenants for that unit for over a year. The security guard was supposed to have gone round it once a week to check on it.”

“Okay. That’ll be your hourly update for Forrester to pass up the way, I suppose.”

“Can’t believe they’re making us do that.”

“It’s a big case, Kaz. You know the rules.”

“I still think you owe me one.”

“That’s what a DC does. Sorry.”

Karen smirked. “I know what a DS does.”

“What?”

“Flirting. I saw you with MacDonald over the road.”

Vicky coughed. “It was just coffee.”

“You don’t drink coffee.”

“Okay, it was just coffee and Diet Coke.”

“I’ll remind you when you shag him.”

Vicky sat back and folded her arms. “We’re going to be working quite closely together. We were establishing a rapport.”

“Is that what you call it? You’re blushing.”

“Stop it.” Vicky picked at her pasta, eating a final mouthful before dumping her cutlery onto the plate. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sounds personal.”

“It is.”

“Fire away, then.”

Vicky took a moment. “I bumped into my friend Liz last night. You know her?”

“Think so.”

“Well, she’s trying to get me to go on a date with some guy who’s just moved in next door.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“I don’t know.” Vicky clenched her fists, tugging nails along her palms. “Liz tries to do the best, you know? I just wish she’d stop interfering. It’s like people think I can’t cope.”

“You can cope, Vicks.”

“Can I?”

“You’ve done this all of Bella’s life. It’s not easy this job, especially having to babysit clowns like Considine. Looked like you’ve got him whipped into shape at the briefing.”

“Well, there’s that, I suppose.”

Karen shook her bottle of Dr Pepper, the dark liquid fizzing up to the lid just before she tightened it. “What’s this guy like?”

“I don’t know much. He’s a teacher. Liz says he gets on well with her husband.”

“Dave Burns, right?”

“Aye, him.”

“Dave’s all right. My Colin used to play squash with him. He’s a good judge of character. Can’t play squash for toffee, though.” Karen pushed her hands across the table. “But, of course, you’re interested in DS MacDonald?”

“No!”

“Shut up, of course you are.”

“Seriously, I’m not.” Vicky stared up at the ceiling, thick extract pipes leading from the kitchen to just above the nearest window. “What do you think I should do?”

Karen shrugged. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

“She was talking about tomorrow night.”

“Go for it.”

“What about Bella, though?”

“We can take Bella, Vicks. Give your mum and dad some tim
e off.”

“I’d appreciate it.” Vicky smoothed down her skirt leg. “Look, I don’t know if Bella’s ready for it.”

“Focus on yourself for once, Vicks.”

“You know me. I can’t think of anything but the distant future.” Vicky tried to swallow and failed, her throat tight and thick with tears. “I always think about how I’m letting her down with it just being me on my own.”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” Karen reached across the table, warm fingers wrapping around Vicky’s blocks of ice. “Think of it this way. Bella could maybe do with having a father figure around.”

“I never thought of that.”

“Just make sure you get some action, okay?” Karen laughed. “Your knicker drawer must be like an Ann Summers clear-out sale. You must get through a lot of batteries.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

V
icky picked her phone up from the desk. No more prevaricating. She texted Liz.
About date — can make it.

The phone lit up with a reply.
Gulistan at 7. OK? L

Vicky replied,
Okay
, before chucking her mobile in her bag. She cleared her throat to loosen the knot in her neck.

She looked around — the adjacent desks were empty. Still no Zoë or Considine. She got out a sheet of paper and jotted down everything she knew about the case.

Animal cruelty seemed to be the clear motivation, at least from the notes left at the crime scenes. That they were all sent by the same people was a fairly safe assumption, even ahead of Considine’s forensic searches. She’d nothing to dispute the fact they were linked, and the sighting of the black car at all three sites backed it up.

The Cupar case, though . . . She just didn’t know. Assuming a link, they were both motivated by revenge against people who’d committed publicly known acts of animal cruelty.

Dumped a cat in a bin? You get stuck in a bin.

Made your dogs breed too closely? You get forced to have sex with your brother.

Thinking of it that way, Rachel had to be the target. They hadn’t found anything on Paul so far — he just seemed like an ordinary bloke, with no enemies and nothing against him on public record.

She picked up the photocopies of the notes and read through them again.

We have your wife. She is safe. Do not worry. Much.

We have your husband. He is safe. Do not worry. Much.

See? They’re fine. Not so nice, is it?

The first two were ambiguous. No political or moral messages there.
Not so nice, is it?
It had to be against Rachel. Rachel was a dog breeder. Attempting to force her to have sex with a close family member — genetically, even if they weren’t necessarily on friendly terms — seemed close to what Gary Black said she was making her dogs do.

She dug out her copy of the newspaper articles relating to the case. The top one had an interview with the manager of a dog rescue centre, Alison McFarlane. She seemed to insist dog breeding was a form of cruelty. “
‘They should be strung up
.
’
”

Vicky stared out of the window for a while, watching the traffic slowly shift down the Marketgait. Definitely worth speaking to her.

Considine slumped in his chair, chewing gum, his face flushed red. “Afternoon.”

“Have you been to the pub?”

Considine smirked. “Just been out for a ramble.”

“A ramble?”

“Yeah, Friday afternoon rambling club. Me, Kirk and Summers go for a ramble every week.”

“Sounds like a pub trip to me.”

“Okay, fine but it was just the one. I’ll be fine by the time we knock off.”

Vicky pointed to the desk next to her. “Seen Zoë?”

“Who?”

“The IT analyst.”

“I thought that was your daughter and it was ‘bring your kids to work day’.”

“Christ, Stephen, Bella’s only four.”

“Sorry.” Considine yawned. “Do you need me this afternoon?”

“It just so happens I do.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

T
he Tayside Animals! kennel was just round the corner from the police station on Brown Street, the side of the building filled with the
Ta!
logo in purple.

Vicky nodded at the sign as they walked up. “Says a lot about Dundee that it’s got two kennels really central in the town.”

“Aye, but the dogs are making an absolute racket.” Considine stopped and pointed at the sign next door for a halal meat packer. “Suppose they can just chuck them in there when they don’t get rehomed.”

Vicky grabbed his shoulder. “If you ever say that again, I’ll get you done on a disciplinary.”

Considine held up his hands. “Sorry.”

“Don’t you even think of
speaking
in there, let alone joking like that. It wasn’t just the one pint, was it?”

“It was.”

Vicky stood glaring at him. “I should get you breathalysed.”

“Sorry, Sarge. Have I touched a nerve?”

“I had a dog from Brown Street when I was growing up. Sonic.” Vicky felt a sting in her stomach. “
Never
joke about that sort of thing, especially on a case like this.”

“Sorry.” Considine bowed his head. “Was he from in there?”

Vicky shook her head. “No, we got
her
from the council one up the road.”

“Look, I won’t do that again.”

“You might want to think about your rambling club, okay?” Vicky entered the corrugated iron building through the main door, flashing her warrant card at the receptionist. “We’re looking for
Alison
McFarlane. Is she here?”

“She’s in the middle of a meeting just now.” The receptionist crossed her arms. She wore a set of green scrubs with darker epaulets on the shoulders.

“When will she be free? I need to speak to her.”

“Can I ask what it’s about?”

Vicky showed her a copy of the newspaper article. “We’re looking into this case again. I wondered if she might be able to assist.”

The receptionist got to her feet. “I’ll see when she’s free.” She went through a door behind the desk.

Considine leaned against the counter. “I’m sorry about what I said there.”

Vicky avoided eye contact. “Don’t sweat it.”

“I’m serious. It was out of order.”

The receptionist reappeared. “She’ll see you now.” She lifted up a partition and led them through to an office. She knocked on the door and waited, looking through the window to the yard. Rows and rows of dog cages, with only one family looking around, a mum and dad with a surly teenager.

The office door opened and six females all left the office, dressed similarly to the receptionist.

The receptionist left them to it and Vicky led Considine inside.

Two women sat across a desk, the computer on one side surrounded by a selection of small pot plants, their leaves covering the beige monitor.

Vicky smiled, her gaze dancing between them. “Alison
McFarlane
?”

“That’ll be me.” The older of the two pushed her keyboard away as she stood. She was a good few inches taller than Vicky, her spiky blonde hair streaked with grey, skin aged from a working life clearly spent outdoors. She offered a hand.

Vicky shook it. “Thanks for seeing us.”

“Not a problem.” Alison gestured at her colleague. “This is Yvonne Welsh. She’s really the brains behind the operation.”

Yvonne blushed. Even sitting, she appeared taller than Alison. Her auburn hair was knotted into a ponytail, a chunk on the left braided. She waved her left arm around the room, her t-shirt sleeve lifting just enough to reveal a tattoo on her toned bicep, a cartoon cat raising its paw. “This is Alison’s place, really. I just help out, that’s all.”

Vicky sat in one of the chairs, which was still warm from the meeting. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

Alison grinned. “We try our best. We don’t have as many dogs as the council one just up the road but we don’t put them down if they’re not rehomed. That’s incredibly important.”

“I didn’t realise they did.”

“It wasn’t many, to be honest. Usually a result of age or temperament. We managed to get them to stop and give us the dogs at risk. We’ve managed to build up a network throughout Tayside which fosters any overspill we’ve got. Since we started in ninety-seven, no dog in Dundee’s been put down as a result of not being able to be rehomed.”

“That’s quite some achievement.” Vicky showed them the
article
. “Do you remember this?”

“Of course.”

“We’re investigating the abduction of the breeder in this article, Mrs Rachel Hay.”

Alison put a hand to her mouth. “Oh my goodness. Is she okay?”

“She’s in hospital.”

“Good God.”

“We’re looking for anyone who may have a particular bone to pick with Mrs Hay. The comments you made in this article were quite inflammatory. You said,
‘
They should be strung up.’
”

Alison exchanged a look with Yvonne before coughing. “I was just making a wider point about dog breeding. There are more than enough animals to go around.”

“Stringing someone up’s quite similar to locking them naked in a cage, I’d say.”

“I understand.” Alison made a steeple with her fingers. “People making money out of the poor animals makes my blood boil. We were heavily involved with this particular case. That was the third or fourth case of NME we had from their kennel.”

Vicky opened her notebook. “Why were they brought here?”

“We provide a service for dogs suffering from congenital defects. I’m not the expert on this, but I’d say NME is caused by inbreeding in pedigree dogs, especially pugs with their limited breeding stock.” Alison looked away. “I hate that term.”

“If it’s not you, who would be the expert on this?”

“Yvonne here’s certainly an expert on treating these animals. Most vets just put them down but she’s developed a way of helping them manage the symptoms so the dogs’ lives are extended by a few months, sometimes up to a year.”

“I see.” Vicky focused on Yvonne, whose eyes were locked on the window. “Ms Welsh?”

Yvonne swallowed as she made eye contact. “Sorry, I’m not good at speaking with people. I understand animals. People, I just don’t get.”

Alison smiled. “We’ve almost managed to domesticate Yvonne.”

Yvonne glanced at Alison then Vicky. “Pugs are particularly prone to inbreeding. We see quite a lot of it, usually in the sma
ller dog
s.”

“Which dog species are we talking about?”

Yvonne scowled. “A dog
is
a species. I’m talking about
breeds
.”

“Sorry. What breeds then?”

Yvonne took a deep breath. “Specialist breeds like pugs are really heavily bred.”

“What do you mean by heavily bred?”

“It means there are so few of them they have to breed mothers with sons, brothers with sisters, stuff like that. As I said, we’ve had a fair few pugs in here.”

Alison narrowed her eyes and let out a sigh. “People usually bring them in when they realise the cost of keeping the animals alive. They pretend to have found them. I’ve not done it yet but we could actually trace these dogs back to purchases.”

“How would you prosecute the owners?”

“We’ve partnered with the SSPCA a few times. They’ve got a dedicated legal team. We’re much more at the coal face of dog care.”

Vicky tapped her pen on her notebook. “I’ve heard this NME condition mentioned a few times. What is it?”

Yvonne rubbed at her eye. “Basically, their brains get inflamed. We can’t cure it but, as Alison says, we can help the dogs. Normally, they get put down within weeks of diagnosis but, with some medication, we can help them live a bit longer. And not in pain.”

“How do they catch it?”

“It’s hereditary.”

“So if there was a — I don’t know how to say this — dodgy
breeding
pair?”

Yvonne nodded. “Dodgy is putting it mildly. If one of the dogs has it, it’s likely the pups will get it.”

“This sounds like a very specific condition.” Vicky scanned the article again. “You said all breeding is evil.”

Alison sat back in her chair and fiddled with her necklace. “
Particularly
pugs, though.”

“Why do you say that?”

Alison sat forward. “Do you know much about biology?”

“Very little.”

Considine raised a hand. “I did it at uni.”

Alison inched further forward. “Basically, all dogs are grey wolves that have been selected for morphological features present in a small part of their DNA.”

Considine nodded. “How they look, basically. If loads of dog breeds were bred over and over again through generations, you’d end up with a kind of wolf thing.”

Alison beamed. “Precisely. Dogs’ve been bred to be machines over the years, much like cattle and horses. Hunting dogs or Collies or Bull Mastiffs, for instance. They’ve been selectively bred for certain characteristics. A Jack Russell is small because it’s bred to go down rabbit holes. They’ve just picked very small dogs over and over again.”

Vicky frowned, close to losing the trail. “What about pugs?”

Alison slumped back in her chair. “Pugs are different entirely. They’ve been bred purely for size and looks.”

“So, you find a dog that looks strange and mate it with another one that looks similar?”

“Yes. Do that enough times and eventually you’ll get a pug.”

Vicky scribbled a diagram in her notebook. “Did you rehome a dog to Gary Black’s family?”

“I don’t normally comment on such matters, but if it helps your case then so be it.” Alison brushed some fluff off her shoulder. “They took one of our more needy dogs, a cross between a chocolate Lab and a Collie who only had one eye. They gave us a good donation, for which we’re eternally grateful.”

Vicky sat back and stared out of the window, across the pound — the family from earlier had been joined by a couple walking a black Alsatian. She turned back to Yvonne and Alison. “Do either of you know anything about any domestic terror cells?”

Alison glowered at her. “We’re not that sort of place.”

“I asked if you knew anything about them, not if you were involved.”

“I think you should leave.”

“And I’m quite tempted to take you to the station for further questioning.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Alison stared at her hands. “We’ve surely given you more than enough of our time?”

“I’ll be the judge of that. Can you account for your whereabouts between four p.m. on Wednesday and midnight yesterday?”

“I was working here. Yvonne can vouch for me.”

“We were both here.” Yvonne stood up, tugging at her braid. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do. We’re just helping animals.”

“I understand.” Vicky noted it. “I just want to make sure you’re not harming people at the same time.”

“The less we have to do with people, the better, believe me.”

Vicky licked her lips and got to her feet. “Very well.” She put a business card on the desk. “We may be back, but please give us a call if anything comes to mind.”