‘What d’you mean, “get out” – we can film from here!’ said Robin. She didn’t like the look of the crowd, nor was she enjoying the growls, yelps and howls issuing not only from the arena, but from surrounding vehicles.
‘If I can get footage of faces, we’ve got a prosecution, but I want the car facing the road in case I need a quick getaway. Stay here and keep the doors locked.’
Before Robin could protest further, Strike had got out of the car. Robin watched him walking away towards the crowd, moving carefully over the rough ground. As far as Robin could see, she was the only woman present.
She turned the Land Rover around so that its nose was pointing back towards the road. Only then did she remember that Murphy had texted her while driving, so she took out her mobile.
This is a great fucking Valentine’s Day.
‘Whose fault’s that?’ said Robin angrily, throwing her mobile down and craning around to watch the mass of silhouetted men that Strike had now joined.
Given his height, Strike had no difficulty seeing what was going on in the centre of the baying crowd. Two enormous dogs, one grey, one brindle, both bandy-legged with blunt noses, were locked together in the dirt, rolling and snarling and already bleeding. Many of the men watching were filming. Strike took out his own mobile and switched to record.
The visibility was poor, because the headlights were angled to shine on the dogs, not the men, but he thought he recognised the shadowy face of Plug’s friend from the train. The man who’d had the ledger in Ipswich was accepting cash from a couple of latecomers. By shifting position, Strike isolated his target and zoomed in on Plug while the latter cheered and punched the air, goading the dogs on. Strike could see two knots of men in the crowd, fighting to control the pair of dogs who were due to fight next, both of them muzzled and almost too powerful to hold.
In the middle of the ring, the grey, which had a torn face, was now gripping the brindle dog by the neck. As Strike watched, life and blood started to drain from the brindle, its legs twitching ever more feebly as blood flooded from its jugular. At last, a shaven-headed man entered the ring, making a boxing referee’s ‘it’s over’ slashing motion with his arms. Half the crowd, including Plug, roared their approval, while the other half booed. The owner of the grey dog ran forwards with two other men; they prised the animal’s jaws off the corpse, succeeded, after some difficulty, in muzzling it, and pulled it out of the makeshift ring by a heavy chain lead.
Strike kept filming as the dead dog was dragged out of the arena by two more men. Plug was bantering with friends on either side of him. One of the owners of the dogs who’d be next to fight was kicking his animal in the ribs, laughing as it became steadily more enraged.
‘Who’re you?’ demanded a voice beside Strike.
‘Fuck’s it got to do with you?’ said Strike, deliberately aggressive, looking down at a broad, much-tattooed man with face piercings.
But he thought it might be time to leave. Slipping his mobile back into his pocket, he set off back across the dark and uneven ground, squinting to try and make out the Land Rover.
‘Oi!
Strike sped up as best he could, yet trying to exercise caution; he didn’t want to trip, not with dogs that dangerous behind him. There was more confused shouting, but he thought he heard,
‘
Robin spotted Strike in silhouette, moving as fast he dared over the rough ground. She flung open the car door, but as she did so, she saw a gigantic bulldog-like creature, illuminated by the flashlights of an oncoming group of men, which had been unmuzzled and released, and was heading straight for Strike.
‘
‘FUCK!’
Robin scrambled out of the car. The shadowy figures of the sprinting men were growing larger, but she aimed the pepper spray at the mauling dog’s face and squeezed at short range. With a frantic yelp, the half-blinded dog released its grip.