It's always the same. You spend weeks gathering disparate pieces of evidence, hoping that one day they will arrange themselves into some sort of order, like the stars in a galaxy, and when it happens you get this feeling that starts in your toes and gradually creeps upwards until your whole body is tingling.
"Yes," he replied, "he's called Brown, Damian Brown."
Chapter Ten
The problem with High Clough farm was that it was on the highest piece of ground for miles, so there was nowhere we could set up an observation post. The comprehensive school headmaster was hiking in the Dolomites, but we'd sweet-talked the school secretary into letting us have a look at the records. Damian Brown lived at High Clough farm, and the secretary wasn't at all surprised that he was in trouble. Anything else she could have done to put him away for a long time was ours for the asking. We drove back and forth on the lane that went near the farm and eventually decided on an unofficial lay-by used as a rubbish dump by the fairies. It's easy to blame townies for coming into the country to dispose of the odd three-piece suite, but they don't leave the weedkiller drums and fertilizer bags.
"You can see the end of the track that leads to the farm," Dave said.
"And a transit parked here won't attract attention," I added.
X-ray 99, our helicopter, was making slow passes over the moor, about a mile away, as if on a search. It worked its way towards the farm and as it passed over we heard the frantic barking of dogs over the thrum of the chopper's blades. It banked away, the sun flashing off its sides, to resume its search on the other side. After a minute or two stooging around for the sake of credibility it turned and sped off towards its base near Wakefield.
"When will the photos be ready?" Dave asked.
"They've promised them for this afternoon."
The Browns were a big, extended family, Dave had discovered, and Sebastian and Sharon were tenuous relatives. One branch still lived in the style of travellers, even if they were permanently settled on a council site; another had abandoned the old ways a couple of generations ago and lived in a more conventional manner. This side of the family was fully integrated with local society. Two were solicitors, some owned small businesses and a few had criminal records, including Sebastian. He'd done three months for credit card fraud. High Clough farm was the home of the latest member to come under our scrutiny: Damian.
"So Sharon was happy to talk to you?" I said.
"She came round after a few minutes. I think she's proud of her romantic gypsy origins."
"Except they're not gypsies, they're tinkers," I said.
"Gypsies, tinkers, Romanies, travellers, they're all the same, nowadays."
"Whatever, she managed to break away from it and get an education."
"That's true." We both knew that illiteracy was a very useful characteristic for some people when trying to negotiate their way past modern living's more oppressive obstacles, like income tax returns, court warrants and job applications.
"Did you ask if they ever had family get-togethers?"
"Yeah, weddings mainly. She said they had great parties."
"I bet. C'mon, let's go."
The pictures showed High Clough farm to be a tumbledown dump, falling apart after years of neglect. If it hadn't been for the Land Rover Defender parked outside we'd have thought the place was derelict. Hill farmers have been encouraged to diversify to stay solvent, and, like so many of them in this part of the world, High Clough had diversified into rusting farm machinery and old tyres. Mr Wood came down to the CID office and we all poured over the pictures.
"You reckon this is where they hold the dog fights, do you?" he asked.
"No. I think they're involved, but whether they stage the fights I don't know."
"It would be the ideal place," Dave said.
Jeff Caton was peering at the photos through a big magnifying glass. "There's a chicken run," he said, "on the paved area in front of the house."
"It's a farm," I told him. "They keep a few chickens."
"There's a big chicken run next to the barn. With real chickens. You can see them. I reckon this other one is where the dogs fight."
"Outside?" I wondered aloud.
"Why not, especially this weather?"
"No reason. I'd just assumed it was an indoor sport."
"The idle boasts of a retarded boy and a chicken run outside the front door are not enough for a search warrant," Gilbert said, "but we might manage twenty-four hour surveillance."
I thought about it. "No need for twenty-four hours," I said. "Not if they hold the fights in daylight. And I don't suppose they have them in the early morning. Ten till ten should cover it."
"Look at this," Jeff said, and we all turned to him. The chopper had taken pictures as it approached the farm, from a fairly low angle, and others as it passed directly overhead. We'd concentrated on the overhead ones, to study the layout of the buildings, but now Jeff was looking at one of the oblique views.
"What is it?"
"There's some cages, four of them," he said, "down the side of the barn. If you look carefully you can see that whatever are in the middle two are looking at the chopper." He passed me the magnifying glass.
I could see two pale smudges against the gloom of the cage interiors, like two faces painted by an impressionist with a deft dab of the brush. "Rabbits?" I suggested after studying them.
"No, they're not rabbits. Look at the ears."
Dave took over. After a few seconds he said: "They're cats. That's what they are: cats."
I was in my office, clearing up and determined to go home on time, when Rosie rang.
"You sound despondent," she said after I'd introduced myself.
"Hello Rosie," I replied. "It'll soon pass now I'm talking to you."
"Are you working hard?"
"Not really, just musing on the behaviour of some of my fellow men."
"The producer telephoned me a few minutes ago," she said without further ceremony. "The coroner has signed a warrant giving permission for my father's body to be exhumed and the chancellor of the diocese has given his approval."
"Oh," I said. "And are you pleased?"
"Of course I am. Now we can do the tests."
"Have they given you a date?"
"No, but he wants to do it as soon as possible."
I bet he did. "So it's all up to the DNA."
"Yes, that's right. It's all up to the DNA."
I let that thought hang in the air, then said: "If you're not doing anything tonight, Rosie, do you fancy that Chinese?"
"Oh, yes, I'd like that. Thank you."
"Do you mind if we make it early? I'm starving."
"That's fine by me."
"I'll pick you up."
We didn't bother with the banquet, that's for special occasions, settling for a pair of dishes from the a la carte menu. Rosie was her old self: witty and mischievous, happy that things were moving along. She told me a few of the things that the school-children had said, like the boy who thought the Atlas Mountains were stockpiles of school books, and I related a few of my own about our clients.
"One youth who was given a community service order thought he'd been given a community singing order," I said. "He asked which church choir he'd be in."
"One of my pupils, a girl this time, wrote in her exam paper that the European Market was held in Brussels every Wednesday afternoon."
"It's the quality of the teaching that does irV' "Oh, definitely."
I paid the bill and took her home. On the way we saw the police helicopter in the distance, its searchlight on as it quartered the ground.
"They're having a busy day," I said. "We had them out this morning."
"Aren't you going to dash over to see if you can be of any assistance?"
I glanced at her, then back at the road and at her again. "No way," I stated.