Most valuable of all was the list of names of Sussex and Surrey crime gangs known to be involved in the illegal trafficking of dogs. The Sergeant finished his litany by saying, ‘I’m currently in Hastings, sir. We’ve had a tip-off about some illegal puppy breeding on an estate. We don’t have specific information where yet. Would you like me to keep you updated, sir?’

  ‘Very definitely, Tom,’ Grace replied. ‘Any intel on any area of puppy farming or dog theft, please call me right away.’

  Tom Cartwright assured him he would.

  16

  Thursday 25 March

  After pulling the gate closed behind him, Gecko drew the van up outside the black front door, behind Mr Jim’s massive American pickup truck.

  After a few moments, the door opened and Mr Jim came out, walking in his usual swaggering stride. He was dressed the way Gecko had always seen him, shirtless despite the season, in baggy jogging bottoms and gum boots. A big man, with a shaven head, both arms heavily tattooed, and sporting several gold earrings, his bare chest was flabby, nothing to be proud of, Gecko thought.

  He did not have any idea of Mr Jim’s age, but had long guessed him to be around sixty. He lowered the window as he approached the passenger side of the van, but to his surprise, Mr Jim walked straight past and entered a long corrugated-iron shed to his left. A moment later, Mrs Jim strode imperiously out of the front door and straight towards him, her daughter, Darcy, not far behind, keeping a low profile.

  Dressed in a hacking jacket over a roll-neck pullover, jeans and riding boots, Rula Jim was a similar age to her husband but a good foot shorter, with a pinched weather-beaten face carrying a permanently angry expression. Her short hair, the colour of motor oil, looked like she styled it by ironing it, a forelock hanging low to one side over her forehead, just above her left eye.

  She approached the van and peered in, looking first at the barking dog then at Gecko. Then more closely again at the dog. Her eyes were the colour of dangerous ice on a pond.

  The dog, sensing something, maybe hope, maybe malevolence, suddenly stopped barking and instead gave a little whine.

  ‘What is this thing, Marion?’ she asked in her deep voice.

  Gecko cringed. He hated his name. His mother, obsessed with John Wayne, whose birth name was Marion Robert Morrison, had christened him Marion in one of her many moments of being off her head on drugs. It had been a constant source of embarrassment and teasing at school. But Mr and Mrs Jim insisted on calling him by his real name instead of Gecko, the one he had adopted to hide his shame.

  ‘It’s what you ordered me to get, Mrs Jim,’ Gecko said, trembling and perspiring. But even as he spoke, he could tell his paymaster was less than impressed.

  ‘We requested you to bring a male poodle. This is just a mutt, a mongrel. Are you a complete idiot?’

  The dog barked at Mrs Jim. It had decided it didn’t like her any more than Gecko did.

  ‘I – I thought – I checked against the photographs you gave me, Mrs Jim.’ His hands felt clammy.

  ‘Are you a total moron?’ she asked, ignoring the barking. ‘Get out of the van.’

  Make yourself useful, be helpful, always say yes, Gecko murmured silently, terrified. Terrified he might be taken to the pigs.

  ‘Get out!’ Mrs Jim raised her voice. ‘Are you deaf as well?’

  Gecko put the window up and got out of the van, leaving the dog inside it, barking.

  ‘Wait there,’ she instructed before shouting, ‘Terry, I need you here, please. Terry!’

  Barely able to speak through his fear, he blurted, ‘Really, Mrs Jim, I was sure – I checked the photographs so carefully. I thought he was a poodle, just like you wanted. I—’

  ‘Terry!’ she yelled again just as he reappeared from the shed. ‘Have a word with this idiot will yer, luv?’

  ‘Mum,’ Darcy said, reluctantly getting involved. ‘Leave it, for God’s sake just leave it. I hate that you do this.’

  ‘What seems to be the problem?’ Terry Jim said angrily as he reached them, elbowing Darcy out of his way. ‘What’s this prick done now?’

  Mrs Jim strode on powerfully ahead, seemingly as oblivious to the rain as she was to the conversation, entered the breeding compound and stopped at the next shed along. Gecko and Mr Jim followed. She slid open the door and ushered them inside, into the stench of urine and faeces and the sound of piercing yapping.

  Gecko stared through the bars of the rows of tiny cages as he followed Mrs Jim past each of them, all containing various-sized puppies on a concrete floor thinly covered in soiled straw. At the far end in a cage on its own, as if in solitary confinement, sat a forlorn-looking adult male, surrounded by excrement, some fresh, some desiccated. It didn’t look like its cage had been cleaned in days.

  ‘Marion, take a very good look at this schnauzer. He won Best of Breed at Crufts two years ago. We’re talking quality. All you had to do was to find either a mate for him or for the poodle over there and you failed, you stupid man. You’ve brought us a doodle, a bloody doodle!’ She turned and her upper lip slid up to reveal a row of yellow teeth. She was smiling, Gecko realized, but it was a smile of anger like a crevice that had opened in her face. He’d once kept a crevice spider as a pet, but he’d never put it in his mouth because he knew it was poisonous, and he hadn’t wanted it biting him. She looked over to Terry, encouraging him to take over.

  ‘Listen, prick. Do you want to keep finding dogs for us, or would you rather help feed our pigs?’

  Gecko shook nervously. ‘I – I want to keep working for you, Mr Jim, sir.’

  Terry Jim lifted Gecko up against the wall by his throat, almost choking the pale, gangly man, and held him there.

  ‘Can’t you leave him alone?’ Darcy muttered at Terry, disgusted. Then to her mother, who completely ignored her, ‘Mum, stop him, get him to stop!’

  ‘Listen, young lady,’ Terry Jim snapped, his pointed finger inches from his stepdaughter’s face. ‘You better remember whose side you are on here, and where you sleep at night. Quit your namby-pamby woke bully nonsense. I’ve heard enough of it. I suggest you fuck off back to shovelling the shit out of the kennels. And leave us adults to sort this out. Rula, tell her, for fuck’s sake. Get her out of here. NOW.’

  ‘Darcy, luv, go on, you heard him. There’s nothing here for you to do.’

  Terry drew closer to Gecko and tightened his grip.

  ‘Get. Rid. Of. This. Rubbish. And bring me something I want. A poodle. Male. Entire. Or a schnauzer. Female. You know, one that’s going to make me some proper money. It’s not that hard, is it? Better still, bring me both. Or do you want to get acquainted with sty number 9, you complete fucking waste of space?’

  ‘I – I understand, how do you suggest I get rid of that one, Mr Jim?’ Catching his breath as Terry released his neck.

  He gave him a withering glare, but seemed, at least, a little calmer. ‘Whatever, I don’t care, it’s your problem.’

  ‘OK, I’ll take it back to Brighton and throw it out.’ He hesitated. ‘It’s my girlfriend’s birthday. I have to buy her a present. Would you – could you – sort of pay me – you know – sort of in advance?’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Marion, you think I give a shit about that? How very sweet she is, having a birthday. If you need money to buy her a present, then bring us what we want.’ He looked at his watch. ‘You have plenty of time. Shops don’t shut until at least 5 p.m. Now fuck off.’

  Then as if to reinforce it and stamp her authority, Rula added, ‘You heard, Marion, off you fuck.’ She smiled again and this time there was real warmth. Like steam from the crater of a volcano.

  17

  Thursday 25 March

  ‘Are we nearly there yet?’ Bluebell, strapped in the rear of the Audi, asked. She wore a pink hooded anorak, jeans cut off just below the knees that she had recently insisted on wearing, along with her beloved trainers with black uppers and thick white soles.

  ‘Are we really sure about this, Chris?’ Katy asked.

  Checking the satnav, then glancing in the rear-view mirror, Chris Fairfax called out to his daughter, ‘Ten minutes, darling!’

  He glanced at the car clock. It was 4.15 p.m. They were heading on the A24 dual carriageway, north of Horsham, on schedule for their rendezvous.

  ‘Ten minutes, ten minutes!’

  ‘I am having big doubts,’ Katy said. ‘We don’t know anything about this puppy.’

  Trying to laugh off her concerns, he said, ‘Look, we’ve got this far, darling, we can’t go back now. I’m sure it’s all good.’

  ‘Only,’ she said dubiously, ‘all that stuff I’ve been reading online and in the papers, about unscrupulous gangs trading in puppies – that’s exactly what we’re doing now.’

  ‘Doing what – what do you mean?’ he asked.

  ‘That whole piece I read out to you last weekend, in the Sunday Times, you weren’t really listening, were you? You said you’d read it later, but you didn’t, right?’

  ‘I’m sorry, no, but I will read it.’

  ‘It talks about meeting breeders in lay-bys and other places. I was looking at one puppy forum and it said you should always visit the home and meet the parents of the puppy – and assess the conditions there.’

  ‘Yup, well, we know that, and we discussed that’s a little easier said than done right now. We’ve been looking for a doodle puppy for over a month now – all of them were sold before we even contacted the breeders. And at insane prices – we’d have saved a fortune if we’d bought one a year ago, before the pandemic got going.’

  ‘Well, we didn’t, and that’s an awful way to look at it,’ Katy said.

  ‘This puppy Bluebell likes has been bred in South Wales – that’s a six-hour drive each way. We’ve Zoomed the breeders and the couple seem like really nice, genuine people. They showed us the parents and the whole litter and they look like they’re well cared for. And Bluebell likes her.’

  ‘I LOVE her!’ Bluebell said excitedly.

  Chris and Katy looked at each other and smiled. He shrugged. ‘So, what’s the worst that could happen? We buy a dog that’s not the mix of doodle we thought – does that matter? We’re not interested in showing her – we just want a family pet that we love.’

  ‘I’ve already named her!’ Bluebell shouted.

  ‘You told me in the pool you have! But we all need to agree on it. What is your suggestion?’

  ‘Moose!’

  ‘Um, no, my love,’ Katy said.

  ‘Yes, Mummy. Please. Because she’s got big eyes and ears! Please, please, please!’

  ‘I quite like Moose actually,’ Chris said.

  ‘You do?’ Katy quizzed.

  He shrugged. ‘It’s different. And if Bluebell likes it – hey, why not?’

  ‘MOOSE!!!’ shouted Bluebell. ‘MOOSE! MOOSE! MOOSE!’

  ‘OK, OK, Moose it is. If . . .’ his wife cautioned.

  ‘If what, Mummy?’

  ‘If we are happy with her, OK? If Mummy and Daddy feel there’s something not right and we’re not happy with her, then we’ll find another puppy, all right?’

  ‘We will be happy with her. I will love her!’

  Chris, concentrating on the directions, barely heard her. The turn-off was coming up in under a mile. He tuned his wife and daughter out, pulling over into the left lane, and slowing as the satnav counted down. Even so he nearly missed the turning, braking sharply and swinging left.

  ‘Do you have to drive so fast?’ Katy admonished.

  He bit his tongue. With nine points on her licence for speeding, she was a fine one to talk. ‘Sorry.’

  They were heading down a twisty lane. They passed a sign to a farm shop, then a couple of cottages and immediately ahead he saw a pub sign to the right. The Dragon.

  He braked and turned into the forecourt, looking for a grey van. He drove slowly past rows of parked cars, and then through into the overflow parking area at the rear, and saw what he thought might be it, a silver Volkswagen van parked up against a fence onto farmland. The driver was sitting behind the wheel smoking a cigarette, which he tossed out of his window as Chris pulled up alongside.

  The three of them climbed out of the Audi and a man in his fifties, with a shock of unnatural-looking silver curly hair, dressed in dungarees and a Shetland sweater, came around to greet them, all smiles. He held out a meaty hand with grimy nails and in a strong Welsh accent said, ‘Mr and Mrs Fairfax, it is very nice to meet you in the flesh, as it were! I am John Peat.’ Then he kneeled and charmed Bluebell by shaking her hand and saying, ‘Now you must be the boss of the family. I am right to think that?’

  ‘I am!’ she said. ‘I am the boss.’

  ‘Of course you are! And the boss will have the prettiest puppy I’ve ever seen. Good as gold these puppies are, and they slept all the way. I don’t think you’ll ever find a better one. All the parents have really lovely temperaments.’

  ‘I’m going to call mine Moose,’ Bluebell told him.

  ‘That’s a great name,’ Peat said. ‘Let’s have a look at them, shall we?’

  He slid open the side door of the van. Bluebell climbed excitedly inside, followed by her parents. Chris wrinkled his nose at the smell of damp fur mixed with a faint whiff of urine.

  There were six cages, three of them empty. One contained a blonde ball of fluff. The puppy immediately jumped up, putting its paws against the bars and whining.

  ‘This is the golden doodle,’ Peat said.

  ‘Awwww!’ Bluebell exclaimed.

  In the next cage was a brown dachshund, looking up gloomily. ‘She’s taken, I’m delivering her later today,’ he said.

  In the third cage along was a tiny Staffordshire bull terrier puppy, jumping up and down, throwing itself against the wide cage bars and yapping excitedly.

  Bluebell kneeled in front of it. ‘Hello!’ she said. ‘You are lovely, aren’t you!’

  ‘Would you like to hold her?’ Peat asked. ‘She’s still available too.’

  Bluebell nodded vigorously.

  He opened the cage, grabbed the wriggling puppy, and placed it in Bluebell’s arms.

  She looked down at it and, an instant later, the puppy bit her on the nose.

  ‘Owwwww!’ Bluebell yelped.

  The breeder stepped forward, grabbed the puppy from her and put it back in its cage.

  ‘Owwwwww!’ Bluebell yelped again. A tiny ribbon of blood trickled down from the bridge of her nose. Katy immediately dabbed it with her handkerchief, put some spittle on it and dabbed again.

  ‘Naughty dog!’ Bluebell admonished, pulling away from her mother’s attempt to dab her nose again and turning back to the cage with the blonde ball of fur. ‘Can I hold her?’ she asked Peat.

  ‘Of course, poppet!’

  As Katy dabbed her daughter’s nose again, Peat lifted the golden doodle puppy from its cage and handed it to Bluebell.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, hugging and stroking the soft fur.

  The puppy opened a droopy eye and, as Bluebell held it to her face, a tiny pink tongue shot out and licked her lips. She giggled in delight.

  Chris Fairfax looked at his wife. She smiled and raised her eyebrows and he knew exactly what that meant. Then he patted the breast pocket of his sleeveless puffer jacket. Checking he could feel the two thousand five hundred pounds of banknotes he had stashed in there.

  ‘Moose!’ Bluebell said.

  Neither of them had ever seen their daughter look so happy.

  ‘I’ve brought along some food for her,’ Peat said. ‘Enough for the next three days or so. And I have her vaccination certificate. She’s a beautiful puppy, so friendly. I’m sorry to be saying goodbye to her, honestly I am. I think I told you over the phone that my wife has been very torn about letting her go – and I have too. But you seem good people, so we are comfortable with that. And now I’ve met you I’ll be able to tell her that she has gone to a really good home, a truly loving home.’

  Chris looked at his wife and saw her shrug. Her OK shrug.

  He pulled the cash from his pocket.

  18

  Thursday 25 March

  After ending his call with Tom Cartwright, Roy Grace got himself another coffee, then returned to his office. When he started any homicide investigation, one of his first considerations would be to pose himself three questions – which he had done earlier today as he stood in the farmyard looking at Tim Ruddle’s body.

  Why him?

  Why here?

  Why now?

  He took a sip of the coffee, knowing he was overdosing on caffeine, but after his almost total lack of sleep, he reckoned he was going to need plenty of the stuff to get him through the rest of the day.

  He wrote in his investigator’s notebook, Why him? And thought hard about that question. Could Ruddle simply have been the wrong place, wrong time victim of a random burglary, or was there more to it? It was more likely the farm had been targeted. He also needed to ensure that the couple had not become involved in any criminal activity. From his conversation with the man’s wife, Sharon, he felt it unlikely. She came across as a decent person and he got the impression that she and her husband were simply trying to make a living, diversifying their farm and adding other income streams to help make ends meet.

  But as he well knew, if people became desperate, they would sometimes take dangerous risks. Emily Denyer was looking into the Ruddles’ finances and, if there was anything that raised a warning flag, he was pretty confident she would find it. He jotted down a summary of his thoughts then turned to the next question.

  Why here? On the surface, the answer was obvious, because that’s where the dogs were. Again, he needed to see what Emily Denyer came up with.

  Why now? Most likely because the thieves knew they had to take the puppies before they had all been collected by their new owners, which was due to happen the following week. But how did they know that? Guesswork that most puppies get picked up at eight weeks old, or had they been watching the place? Or did they have insider information – and if so from whom? One of the customers? Where had they been advertised? The seventy-one-year-old farmhand, Norris Denning, was the only employee. But, as had been established at the briefing, he had no previous criminal record. That did not rule Denning out, but in Grace’s view it made him unlikely to be a suspect.