"What is it? The dog fight?"
"Yeah."
I did some shopping and went home. Sleeping in the afternoon is something I rarely do, but I could get used to it. I set the alarm for three hours and crashed on the bed, with the curtains open and the sun warming my legs. I fell asleep imagining that I was on a Caribbean beach, with Rosie on the next sun bed and an attentive waiter hovering nearby in case either of us felt the need for another pina colada. I never heard the alarm, the three hours was nearer five and I awoke shivering with a mouth like a hamster's nest.
I cleaned my teeth, had another shower, changed my clothes and put the ready meal I'd bought in the oven. Lamb in a rosemary sauce, with roast potatoes and dumplings, to be followed by bread and butter pudding. I had a can of lager while it cooked, and I was looking for somewhere to stand the glass when I saw the video.
Sometimes we do things without making a conscious decision. Our genes take over, do what they think is right or necessary for the future of the human race. An individual's feelings don't come into it. Natural selection in action? I don't know. I just knew that right then was an inappropriate time to be watching that particular video. It was wrong, it was unnecessary, it could have waited. But my arm reached out, my fingers opened the box and shoved the cassette into the machine, and I sat down and pressed the play button.
There was a blizzard of noise on the screen, quickly followed by a parade of dogs, close up and full frontal. They barked and snarled and slavered at the camera, held back by tattooed arms and hands hooked through their studded collars. A narrator told us their names: Tyson, The Wrecker, Tojo and Jaws.
The attention span of the target audience was measured in seconds rather than minutes, so they didn't waste any more time. We saw a dog inside the familiar chicken run, restrained by a chain threaded through its collar as it struggled and fought in a violent frenzy to be attacking something off camera. The camera panned slowly to the right and zoomed in on the object of the dog's fury. A wire cage sat in the middle of the run, with a cat inside it. The creature stood on its claws, back arched, tail erect, staring at the demented dog. As we watched, a rope on top of the cage pulled taut and lifted its protection away, leaving the cat exposed. A second later the chain through the dog's collar was slipped and the chase was on.
The cat reared, hissing and spitting, its claws extended and teeth bared. You saw it as it was: a wild animal stripped of its veneer of domesticity. It looked ferocious, straight from the jungle, but no match for the dog. As the dog attacked, the cat turned to flee, but there was nowhere to go. It swerved left as it hit the side of the enclosure and the dog blundered into the wire, recovered, and continued the chase. The cat headed into a corner, realised its mistake and climbed the wire.
The dog leapt and grasped it by the tail. The cat screamed and fell to the ground, turning to face its tormentor. The dog went for a better hold and its jaws clamped round the cat's back, severing its spine. The poor creature turned, its rear end paralysed, and raised one defiant claw as the dog finished it off with a bite to the head. As it shook the carcass a spray of blood arced away from it and the dog trotted proudly round the enclosure, stump of a tail wagging, more blood trailing on to the concrete floor from the lifeless body dangling from its jaws.
"Fifteen seconds," I heard someone announce, and there was a smarter of jeering from the audience.
The next cat was a long-haired Persian type that had eaten too many chocolate drops and had never faced anything more threatening than Jerry Springer on daytime TV. Instinct kicked in as the cage was raised and the leash slipped, but it was no contest. The cat turned as it reached the wire, losing fur off its back as it dodged the snapping jaws, but the next time it tried the manoeuvre the dog cut the corner and grabbed a leg. The cat rolled on its back and tried to fight but dogs like that don't feel pain and it ignored the flashing claws and went for the cat's belly.
"Eight seconds," the MC told the jeering audience, and Tojo was declared the winner of Cats against the Clock.
After that it was dog versus dog.
I ate the meal but didn't enjoy it. The last big case I had involved someone strangling young women. I couldn't reconcile my feelings for the animals with those I had for the girls. Perhaps it was impossible, futile to try. Perhaps it was the perpetrators I should focus on. I didn't know. Nobody did. It was a shit world with some shit people in it, that's all you could say. I went for a walk around the estate for some fresh air. The weather was changing, as promised by the forecasters, and the threat of thunderstorms had passed. People were saying we needed the rain. They're never satisfied.
Rosie rang. She was still at the vicarage and staying another night. She'd come home Wednesday, she told me.
"Thank you for coming down, Charlie," she said. "I was really pleased to see you. The vicar, Duncan, is very nice, but he's still, you know, a caring professional."
"Did you hold a service?"
"Yes. They had the coffin back by ten a.m. The grave was filled in again before I knew anything about it. There were just the three of us, including the vicar's wife, then they left me alone for a while. I said my goodbyes, Charlie. Now all we have to do is wait for the DNA results."
"Have they said how long it will be?"
"No. As soon as possible, that's all. What about you?"
"No. They can do it in a day, if necessary, but they charge extra. They're always busy, and this isn't an active enquiry, so it will be low priority, but they'll do their best."
We chatted for a while and I remembered an advert I'd seen in the Events column of the Gazette.
"Did you ever get to play the part of Mustard Seed?" I asked.
"Mustard Seed? No, I had to drop out."
"It just happens that A Midsummer Night's Dream is on at the Leeds Playhouse this week. It's the RSC. How do you feel about going to see it on Saturday, if I can get the tickets?"
"This Saturday?"
"Mmm." I was worried about the memories it might revive. People are irrational about some things; they look for something to blame. If Shakespeare had never written that particular play Rosie would not have stayed on at school on the fateful day, therefore her father might still be alive.
She was silent for a while, before saying: "I'd love to, Charlie. It will be wonderful, a real treat, and I need a treat. But what about the gala? Isn't that this weekend?"
"Sunday," I replied. "No problem."
"Have you finished the paintings?"
"Not quite. I'll have to spend some time on them. Hey, listen to this: the uniformed branch always have a display at the gala, and this year they were hoping to do something different. We tried to convince them that they'd look good all dressed up as cowboys, but they've refused."
"I think that's a great idea. You could go as Wyatt Earp, Charlie. You'd look splendid in a frock coat."
"Noway."
"Oh, go on!"
"Noway."
"Spoilsport."
"Thanks for ringing, Rosie. You've brightened my day, and it's good to hear you sounding happier."
"Well, things are moving, aren't they?"
They were, but I wasn't sure in which direction. "I'll try for those tickets," I said.
I slept well. I didn't expect to, but I fell straight into a contented sleep and was deep in the arms of Morpheus when the alarm woke me, early Wednesday morning. Had I been deep in the arms of Goldie Hawn I would have hurled it through the window, but it was only sleep and it had rained through the night, the sky was clear again and Charlie Priest was ready to raise hell amongst the thieves and robbers of Heckley.
He wasn't ready for what was waiting for him.