"Why did he ask you?"
"Because he'd seen a film I'd made for Grainger's. It was a training video and I'd produced it. We did it all ourselves, from the camera work to making copies. I was proud of it and took a copy home to give to my parents. I was on it for a few seconds, doing the introductions. He must have seen it there."
"Did you look at his video?"
"Yes. I thought it was going to be pornographic, but it was only a dog fight. The production was terrible, a typical home video." ' "Ott yadogfight?"
"They're animals, Inspector. Wolves, underneath. We don't have the sentimental views about them that ybu have.": "You copied the video for your cousin." : "Yes.",
"So where does Grainger come in?"
"He wanted a copy of the training video to have a look at. I wasn't in my office so he went in my drawer and found the wrong one. That night it was all he could talk about. He… it… he was… you know…"
"It turned him on."
"Yes." She was blushing, but she still managed a defiant stare.
"And afterwards?" I asked. At his age there's always a lot of afterwards.
"He wanted me to take him to a fight. My cousin arranged one a fortnight later and we went. He was full of it, excited. He suggested organising a better one, more professional, and videoing it properly. We had all the equipment at Grainger's. Since then we've held one almost every month. He took over the betting, with him as the bookmaker. He loved every minute of it. The cats were his idea."
"The cats?"
"Yes. Cats against the Clock, he called it."
I dreaded to think what Cats against the Clock was, but no doubt all would be revealed when I watched the video. I turned to Dave and asked him if he had any questions.
"Yes," he replied, shuffling in his seat. "Where does Sebastian fit into all this?"
"Sebastian?" she echoed.
"Your distant cousin. Sir Morton's home help."
"He doesn't come into it."
"How did he get the job?"
"It was years ago. He worked for Grainger's and made assistant manager, but he wasn't qualified to go any higher and he wasn't happy. Mort mentioned that he wanted a Man Friday and I suggested Sebastian. It's worked out very well, I'm told."
"But Seb isn't part of the dog fighting club?"
"No, he…"She hesitated.
"He what?" Dave prompted.
"He doesn't believe in all that."
"All what?"
"The old ways. Our parents made the break and he doesn't like being reminded of his background."
"Are you saying he's ashamed of it?"
"Yes."
"But you're proud of yours?"
She stared at him with her big gypsy eyes. "Yes, I am."
According to the 1911 Protection of Animals Act the organiser of the dog fight was looking at six months inside, except that we don't put anyone away these days unless it's at least his tenth offence. There was some gobbledygook about procuring and/or receiving money that we might have been able to nail Grainger with, but it looked as if we'd have to settle for a hefty fine. He'd be shamed in open court, with his name in the papers — that was the main punishment. It would make the nationals and we'd field a few plaudits for stamping out the evil business. Kids and animals. Actors don't like working with them but to us they're all in a day's work.
Jeff and Pete came in, grinning like a pair of truants at an afternoon match, closely followed by a uniformed sergeant. I looked past them at the sergeant and swivelled round in my chair to face him.
"You'll get lost up here, Max," I said.
"I could always ask a policeman, if I could find one," he replied. "Message for you, Charlie. Thought I might catch you downstairs but I missed you. It could be important."
I reached out and took the telephone report sheet from him. It was short and sweet. From Miss Barraclough, to DI Priest, personal. "Gone to Uley. The exhumation is scheduled for midnight tonight."
"Bugger," I sighed.
Max left us and Jeff said: "Bad news?"
I turned the sheet round and offered it to him. "Not sure. Depends what the result is."
He read the words and gave it back to me. "Were you hoping to go?"
"I'd have liked to."
"You can still do it. There's plenty of time for you to drive there."
I gestured towards the pile of yellow file jackets on my desk, each bulging with the blank forms that needed completing before we could put the dogfighters in front of a magistrate. "What about this lot?"
"We can manage, can't we, Pete?"
Pete shrugged. "Yeah, no problem. Where were you hoping to go?"
"To an exhumation in Gloucestershire. It's the father of a woman I know. Jeff'11 tell you all about it."
"Get yourself off, then. We'll have a word with Mr Wood and manage this lot. It's just a matter of taking statements and letting them go, isn't it?"
I thought about it for a second or two. "I'm a bit worried about Sir Morton," I said, pursing my lips and shaking my head. "He was sounding off about it not being his idea and all that. He could be at risk of violence from the others if we let him out. Some of them are really mean types. It would look bad if anything happened to him, wouldn't it?" The codes of practice said we should release them all as soon as possible after they'd been charged, but there were exceptions. We could hold someone if there was a chance that they would interfere with witnesses, or if we ran out of time, or if we considered them to be a danger to others or be in danger themselves.
"Mmm, I see what you mean," Jeff agreed with a knowing nod. "Now you've mentioned it I did hear a few threats being muttered. In that case perhaps we should hold him overnight, for his own safety."
"Just what I was thinking, Jeffrey."
"OK. We'll leave him 'till last and see how it goes."
"Cheers," I said. "I really would like to be at this exhumation but I'll make a couple of phone calls first."
Rosie didn't answer and she doesn't own a mobile. Inconvenient but another reason to like her. After that I rang a Gloucester number and spoke to the coroner's officer in charge of the exhumation. She'd cleared all the legal obstacles and orchestrated interested parties so that the whole thing would run smoothly at midnight tonight. She was an ex-police sergeant and had no objection to my attending, even though the case was well outside my jurisdiction. I didn't explain my interest and she didn't ask.
"Presumably First Call are paying," I said.
"You bet," she replied.
"Why midnight? And why so hastily arranged?"
"Their request. We would normally have organised it for first light, about 5 a.m., but they asked for the midnight slot. It's the witching hour. They'll be able to show the church clock at that time and superimpose hooting owls on the soundtrack. We're normally seen as a bunch of obstructionists but they were in a hurry and the family member had given her permission, so we were happy to accommodate them. It shows us in a good light and the publicity for the office won't do us any harm. You know the score: everything stops for the great god television."
"And the TV crew'll be able to go there straight from the pub," I said, "instead of having to drag their hungover bodies out of bed at four in the morning."
"You're a cynic, Inspector."
"A cynic? Moil Never."
The next call was to the Home Office laboratory at Chepstow, where I eventually found myself speaking to the scientist who was handling the case. He suggested that he ring me back.
"So what's the game plan?" I asked after wte'd confirmed that we were talking about the Barraclough case.
"Not much of a plan," he replied. "We dig down to the coffin and then decide on the next step. Ideally, if it's in a good condition, we'll remove the whole caboodle and take it to the path lab, but after thirty years that's unlikely. We'll have a spare coffin standing by, a big one, and we'll probably have to lift everything into that. The best place to find uncorrupted DNA will be in the bones. We'll get what we want while it's in the lab and have the coffin back down the hole by lunchtime."