The FOP Transit saw us coming and pulled across the lane. The passenger got out and directed our convoy into the dirt drive that led to High Clough farm, as nonchalantly as if he were on crossing duty. We bounced up the drive, dust billowing from the vehicles in front, gravel rattling underneath us.
"Oh, my springs," I complained.
"Oh, my giddy aunt," Dave said.
"Oh, my sausage sandwiches," Pete added as we bounced out of a particularly deep hole.
"Don't be sick in my car," I snapped, glancing at him through the rear-view mirror.
The buildings were arranged in a quadrangle. The house was single storey with a stone flagged roof encrusted in two hundred years'-worth of lichen and moss. From either side there sprang outbuildings with sagging doors and roof tiles awry. Grass grew from gutters and drainpipes hung away from walls. Apparatus with mysterious applications stood in every corner, rotting away on punctures tyres: Heath Robinson contraptions for spinning, shredding, flinging and spreading, and uses I didn't want to know about.
They heard us coming and started to dash for the shelter of the buildings. Our OSU Transit tore straight into the middle of the quadrangle and the crew baled out and started running. Jeff was right about the chicken run. A mean-looking bull mastiff-type dog with a black patch over one side of its face was leaping and snarling inside it, bouncing off the wire in its frantic desire to be part of the action and tear something apart. Another dog, equally enraged, was inside a small cage against the wall, where we'd seen the cats. I said a little prayer about the strength of wire netting and looked for someone not too physical to chase.
A few of the participants gave themselves up, turning to meet their attackers, arms raised. Others were "followed inside and dragged out, protesting. I saw a figure run to a door, find it locked and run into an open outhouse. A figure I thought I recognised.
I stood gaping at him for a moment, not believing my eyes, until I saw one of the OSU officers emerge from the house leading a woman by the arm. I jogged over to the outhouse as one of the PCs from the pandas looked inside, and put my hand on his arm.
"This one's mine," I whispered.
It was a pig sty. There were two stalls inside with fat sows asleep in them. I tiptoed past, looking into the corners while my eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom. The stink of ammonia made me weep and my feet squelched in the muck on the floor. The next stall had quarter-grown piglets in it which dashed squealing to meet us, hoping we were bearers of food. The next one was used for storage, with several long planks leaned up in the corner. He was pressed against the wall, trying to make himself invisible behind them, while the ordure on the floor lapped over the tops of his highly polished brogues. The PC produced a torch and shone it on him.
"Hello, Sir Morton," I said. "It looks as if you're in the shit."
He was a knight, after all, so I handcuffed his hands to the front. "I can explain, Inspector," he protested. "This is all a mistake." I put my finger in front of my lips to hush him. "Not now," I said, and led him out into the sunshine.
Sharon Brown was standing near the transit, also in handcuffs, with a group of men. Some wore flat caps and dirty jackets, with collarless shirts; others were in leather jackets, smart trousers and enough gold ornamentation to pay off the national debt of a South American republic. I stood Sir Morton near my car and brought Sharon to join him. They faced each other without speaking.
"You wanted a word," I said to him.
"Er, yes, Inspector. I was saying, this is all a mistake. I've never done anything like it before. I was appalled by what I've seen, totally appalled."
"Well, you'll be able to explain all that when we take a statement from you back at the station." I led him over to a panda and removed his handcuffs, saying: "I don't think these are necessary, do you?" and placed a protective hand on his head as he ducked into the car, all for the benefit of the watching Sharon.
I was walking across to talk to the OSU sergeant and congratulate him on a job well done when I saw one of the uniformed PCs sitting on his heels, looking at something between the cages.
"What is it?" I asked, stooping beside him.
He was young but no doubt he'd seen some unpleasant sights in his short career. Sometimes it's not what you expect that gets through to you. His face was ashen as he looked up at me and moved aside.
Blood and fur, that's all I could see. A matted mass of blood and fur. Then a tail became visible, and an eye and the gory socket where its partner should have been, an ear and a leg. Underneath was the head of another creature, its jaw torn off, the teeth exposed like a saw blade. They were the cats we'd seen in the photos of the cages.
"Sorry, Claudius," I whispered. "I just wasn't quick enough."
We took Sir Morton and the desirable Sharon to Heckley and most of the others to Halifax, although Ms Brown looked anything but desirable with her mascara resembling the run-off from a coal tip, her lipstick like she'd been smacked in the mouth with a ketchup bottle and her expression one of loathing for us. Within half an hour I was removing her cuffs and telling her to sit down at the table of interview room number one. Dave was with us.
' "Did the cats put up much of a fight?" I demanded. "I don't know what you mean."
"Are you saying they weren't thrown to tHe dogs?"
"I'm not saying anything." "Do they hold dog fights at High Clough farm?"
"I don't know."
"Proud of yourself, are you?"
"I've done nothing to be ashamed of."
"Watching dog fights nothing to be ashamed of?"
"I'm saying nothing."
"Do you want a solicitor?"
"No."
"You'll need one, when I've finished."
"I don't want one."
"Do you think Sir Morton won't be asking for a solicitor? Do you think he won't be telling us all about it — from his point of view, of course. You heard him, Sharon, wheedling his way out of it before we'd gathered our breath. Soon you'll all be in front of the magistrate, who he probably plays golf with. I assume he does play golf, occasionally. The prosecuting barrister is probably the grand master of his lodge, and the judge, if he ever reaches a judge, will probably hold shares in Grainger's. I assure you, Sharon, that Sir Morton certainly won't be saying nothing. He'll be singing like a…"
I was choosing between a canary on hemp and a Welsh wedding when there was a knock at the door and a PC poked his head in.
"Have a word, Boss?" he said.
Outside he handed me a video cassette in its box. "Found these at the farm. Seven of them, all the same. It's a dog fighting video, almost certainly recorded there, with evidence to suggest they were doing mail order."
I thanked him and went back inside, carrying the video. "Put some tapes in, Dave," I said. "We'll do this properly."
It was his idea," she told us. "It… it turned him on."
"His? Who's he?"
"Mort.SirMorton."
"That would be Sir Morton Grainger?"
"Yes."
"So one day, right out of the blue, he said: 'Let's organise a dog fight and video it?'"
"No."
"What, then? Perhaps you'd better start at the beginning."
Her instinct was to tell us nothing, leave it to us to prove what we could. Admit nowt, say nowt, remember nowt; that was the creed. But she knew that her lover boy had a different armoury of defences, and he'd be pulling every string he could to put the blame elsewhere. Perhaps this was another of the old values that had served its time.
"It was… a couple of years ago," she began, hesitantly, her confidence gone, feeling for the words. "My cousin telephoned me, asked me to do him a favour."
"Which cousin was this?"
"I'm not saying."
"OK. Go on."
"He wanted me to copy a video he had. I didn't know what was on it."