No Holds Barred (11 page)

He rinsed the mugs, turned the lights off and made his way back upstairs with Taz at his heels, feeling a dozen bruised muscles pull with every step. Tomorrow wasn't going to be much fun. It was Saturday and only a half-day, but, as luck would have it, he was one of the drivers rostered on. He searched his memory; Reg was the other one, so at least he should be spared coming face to face with Boyd for a day or two.

Lying on top of the single cotton sheet, Daniel closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but the combination of aching body and busy mind made the goal a remote one.

The Butcher Boys. A gang of some sort, by the sound of it. The way the poacher had spoken of them made them sound almost like Freemasons. Were they known to the police? If the cottage had had a telephone line and internet access, he'd have been out of bed and Googling the name right away, but, as it was, it would have to wait. Perhaps a call to Tom Bowden would turn up some information. Tom was the son of Daniel's boss in Devon, and a Detective Inspector who had helped him massively in the past.

Turning over, he punched the pillow with his good hand and wriggled so he wasn't lying on a bruise. Sleep remained stubbornly elusive. He was beginning to have some ideas about Taylor Boyd and the possible nature of the gang, and they were none of them pleasant.

The morning dawned clear with the sun climbing steeply into an azure sky. Getting up, showering and dressing was an ordeal for Daniel, whose stomach and shoulder muscles were rebelling against the treatment they'd received.

The face that looked back at him from the bathroom mirror had also seen better days. His jaw was slightly swollen and bore a bruise that was only partially visible under the night's growth of stubble, so he decided to remain unshaven. There was another bruise in his hairline, collected when he'd butted Boyd in the face. That didn't show at all, and its presence was a source of satisfaction, solely because he knew that Boyd must have come off far worse. The only immediately obvious signs of the night's unrest were the graze on his cheekbone and his painfully swollen wrist, now inexpertly bandaged.

Emerging from the cottage after a breakfast of coffee, toast and paracetamol, he found the front garden similarly the worse for wear, a substantial length of its picket fencing flattened and the borders trampled. Across the lane, the top twenty or thirty feet of one of the fir trees in the wood was blackened and split in two where the lightning had struck.

At the side of the cottage, Daniel stood and stared at the cherry tree where, according to Woodsmoke, Taz had been destined to hang helplessly tangled in the net. It looked innocent enough, its branches and twigs sparkling with raindrops, but he had no illusions as to what would have happened if things had gone differently or the poacher not turned up.

On inspection, the net had proved to be made of green nylon cord, thin but incredibly tough and with a mesh small enough to have made it extremely difficult for the dog to chew through. A red weal on Taz's muzzle bore testament to his efforts to do just that and showed how cruelly the cord could burn. Daniel thought it might be some kind of net for fruit canes, but he wasn't sure. It was in the dustbin now.

He whistled to Taz and headed for the car.

‘All right. So, are you going to tell me what's going on?'

It was lunchtime. Daniel had just finished his morning's driving and thankfully returned the keys and paperwork to the office when Jenny had asked him for a word and led the way into the house. Now she squared up to him with a stance that meant business. He attempted a look of innocent enquiry in reply, but she was having none of it.

‘You've got a graze on your face, a bandage on your wrist, you haven't shaved and you're moving around like a geriatric – and a none too fit one at that! Add to that, two smashed headlights on your car. Don't tell me nothing's happened, because I won't believe you.'

‘OK, boss,' Daniel said contritely. ‘The official line is that I went outside in the storm last night to chase away whoever was smashing my lights and fell over the dog. That's what I told Reg.'

‘And the unofficial one?' Jenny turned to open the fridge, from which she produced bread, butter, cheese and a jar of pickle, and began making sandwiches.

‘Well, actually, in a manner of speaking I did.' Daniel said, leaning his behind against the table. ‘But smashing the lights turned out to be a decoy, to lure me out.'

‘Someone attacked you?' Jenny was shocked. ‘Did you see who it was?'

Daniel hesitated, unsure how much he should tell her. ‘There were three of them and they were wearing masks, but I have a pretty good idea,' he said finally.

‘Not Taylor?' Jenny looked as though she didn't really want to hear the answer.

Daniel nodded. ‘And possibly Terry MacAllister, too.'

Jenny frowned. ‘But why? I mean, what did they want?'

‘I think Macca was just there as the muscle, but Boyd was delivering a message. He wants me out of the cottage and preferably out of Wiltshire, too.'

‘Oh, my God! But why?' Jenny exclaimed. ‘Did they hurt you? No, silly question, I can see they did. But, I mean, what's the matter with Taylor? What's he up to?'

‘Well, somehow he seems to have got wind of my visit to Mal Fletcher and George and Marian Coombes yesterday. As to what he's up to, I don't know, but I'm going to make it my business to find out,' Daniel said grimly.

‘But what about the police? Can't they do something? You have told them?' She scanned his face. ‘You haven't, have you?'

‘Er, no.'

‘But why not? You should, you know. You can't just let them get away with it.'

Daniel shrugged. ‘If I'd thought it would do any good, I might have, but, to be honest, there's not much point. It was dark and they were wearing masks. Legally, I'd be on a hiding to nothing, even if it ever got to court, which I doubt. I wasn't even sure who I was dealing with myself, until old Woodsmoke turned up.'

‘Woodsmoke? Was he there?' Jenny looked understandably confused.

‘I think he just happened to be passing. Out to bag himself a little something for his larder unless I'm much mistaken. Lucky for me and even luckier for Taz.' He outlined what had happened with the net.

Jenny picked up her knife and resumed the sandwich making.

‘It seems so wrong that you can't do anything about it.'

‘I know.' Daniel sighed. ‘But I know the way the law works and a good lawyer would throw my testimony out in seconds. Sad but true.'

Jenny made a sound of intense frustration. ‘So, what now? I mean, what do we do about Taylor?'

‘Not much we can do. For the sake of working harmony, I shan't let on that I've recognized him. It'll be interesting to see how they play it on Monday.' He paused. ‘How long has MacAllister worked for you?'

‘Oh, he's been here a while. He was one of the first ones Gavin took on. I always thought he was one of the better ones. Why?'

‘Just wondered. Tell me, have you ever heard of the Butcher Boys?'

She frowned, pursed her lips and shook her head. ‘I don't think so. Who are they?'

‘Well, some sort of gang, I imagine. Woodsmoke mentioned them but he wasn't too keen to elaborate. He got as far as telling me that the Boyds are involved with them, but then he dried up and wouldn't say any more.'

‘A gang? What kind of gang?'

‘I'm not sure yet, but I intend finding out. I tried to ring Tom Bowden earlier, but Fred tells me he's on leave and has his phone switched off. Smart move, that. The only way to get some peace – especially in his job – but not much help to me.'

‘I'm sorry. I mean, when I asked for help, I never dreamed anything like this was going to happen. I didn't want anyone to get hurt. I'll understand if you've had enough – if you'd rather not stay, I mean  . . .'

‘Absolutely not. I've got personal reasons for wanting to get to the bottom of this, now.'

‘If you're sure?' Jenny looked immeasurably relieved. ‘I just feel so guilty.'

‘Well, don't. It's not your fault. Taylor started it, and his reaction to my being here just serves to prove that your suspicions were right and there
is
something going on.'

‘I suppose so.' Jenny put two plates of sandwiches on the table and gestured to Daniel to sit down. Sitting opposite him, she picked up a sandwich, but instead of eating it, she put it back on the plate and looked helplessly at him.

‘Oh, God! How am I meant to go on dealing with Taylor and MacAllister after this?'

‘Best pretend I haven't said anything,' Daniel suggested. ‘I mean, you can't fire them – for the same reasons that I can't take this to the cops. And if you let on that you know, things are bound to get very awkward.'

‘Things already
are
awkward.' Jenny ran a hand through her fringe distractedly. ‘It's just one thing after another. How did everything get so complicated?'

Daniel could think of nothing comforting to say. His own life had been complicated for as long as he could remember.

‘By the way, I noticed Taz has got a nasty place between his toes – probably from the net. He keeps licking it and I wouldn't mind letting a vet just take a look at it. Who do you recommend, round here?'

‘Ever since I can remember, we've always had Ivor Symmonds. Both for the farm animals and the small ones. He's an absolute dear. Getting on a bit now, but I can't imagine him ever retiring. Tell him I sent you.'

Following Jenny's directions, Daniel and Taz found themselves on the doorstep of Symmonds and Son, Veterinary Surgeons, at the north end of Great Ditton's main street, just after three o'clock that afternoon.

The surgery was located in a small courtyard just off the street, the gleaming paintwork and general air of prosperity indicating that the business was doing well.

Inside, red leatherette bench seats lined two walls, and a TV screen high in one corner advertised worming and flea treatments, dog-grooming services and the benefits of pet insurance, on a continuous loop.

‘Mr Symmonds won't be a moment,' the middle-aged, copper-headed receptionist said cheerily from behind a counter set in one wall. ‘Take a seat.'

Instead, Daniel drifted across to the notice board and stood lazily scanning the advertisements and business cards pinned to the cork. Amongst the puppies for sale, dog groomers and walkers and house-sitters advertised there, there were no less than five notices offering rewards for the safe return of lost pets.

‘This seems to be a big problem around here,' he said, turning to the receptionist.

She looked up.

‘Sorry?'

‘Pets going missing. There was something about it in the paper and I've seen several posters.'

‘Yeah, it's awful.'

‘So, what's happening? Are they stealing them for ransom, do they know?'

‘Um  . . . I'm not sure. There was a story in the papers a couple of months ago where this family did get their dog back. The little girl had leukaemia and she was missing the dog so much the parents offered a reward. There was a lovely picture of them all together, afterwards. Lynda found it – you know, Lynda Boyd from the garage. Said she spotted it wandering down the road. Said she was going to donate the money to the dog rescue.'

‘That's nice,' Daniel said, though on recent experience he felt he'd want to see the receipt before he would credit any members of
that
family with charitable actions.

‘Mr Whelan?' A tall, wiry man in his sixties had come into the reception area. He wore camel-coloured corduroy trousers and a checked shirt, and peered over wire-rimmed glasses that perched halfway down his bony, hooked nose. The whole was topped by frizzy mid-grey hair.

‘Yes, that's me.' Daniel whistled to Taz and they followed the vet into his consulting room, where the dog began to pace nervously about, pausing to whine by the door. ‘He's spent too much time in vets' surgeries,' Daniel explained.

‘It's an inescapable fact that most of my clients would rather be somewhere else,' Symmonds observed. ‘I believe I have that in common with dentists.'

Daniel smiled. ‘Are you Symmonds or Son?'

‘Both,' the vet replied. ‘The original Symmonds was my father, so in that sense I am the son, but I also have a son myself.'

‘And is he a vet, too?'

‘Indeed he is. But for the moment he prefers to forge his own path. Can't blame him, I suppose. He's working in Cardiff.'

‘You miss him,' Daniel was watching the older man's face.

‘Of course, but one day he'll be back to stay and then I'll hang up my stethoscope.'

‘Jenny said she thought you'd carry on till you dropped  . . .'

‘No, just till Philip takes over. Then it's the slippers and pipe for me.'

‘You work on your own here?'

‘I have locums. Now, let's take a look at this lad of yours. What's he been up to?'

Symmonds dealt with the cut on Taz's paw competently, finishing it off with a super-neat bandage that he recommended should stay on for at least forty-eight hours, and asking to see him again at that time.

Daniel thanked the vet for seeing him at short notice.

‘That's OK. Anything for little Jenny. Known her family for years. She's been so unlucky, what with losing her first husband and now this.'

‘Yes, more than her fair share.'

As the vet showed him out, Daniel paused by the notice board.

‘What do you make of this, then? All these cats and dogs going missing.'

Symmonds shrugged. ‘It's a bit of a mystery. But I expect you'll find some of those are probably old adverts. I don't know when the board was last sorted out.'

‘I did it last week,' his receptionist spoke up indignantly from her position behind the counter.