'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.'
'Is Chepstow handling the profiling?'
'Not completely. The TV people have asked for samples so they can use a private lab.'
'And you still have the nail-scrapings from the girl?'
'Yes, we've already done a profile on them.'
'Have you given First Call a sample?'
'No. We refused, but they've got the profile.'
'Are they happy with that?'
'They'll have to be.'
'So why do they need a Barraclough sample? Why can't they let you do the whole job? Don't they trust you?'
'Probably not, but we have different agendas. They want to televise the process and we won't allow them in here, so they're using the private lab. And they want to beat us to it, of course. It's all to do with the great unwashed's craving for excitement. We want to get to the bottom of a murder and possibly defend the police's reputation, they want a story, preferably one that shows police incompetence.'
I thought about his words for a few seconds and decided to come clean with him. 'The dead man's daughter is an acquaintance of mine,' I said, 'so I have a slight personal involvement. She'll be there and I'm worried she'll find it upsetting.'
'Hmm, I imagine it will be. I'd keep her well back if I were you. He'll be a skeleton by now and there might be a certain amount of disrespectful conduct when we're down the hole, trying to find all his bits and pieces.'
'Rather you than me,' I said.
'It's a living.'
'Thanks for your help, and we'll see you at midnight.'
'See you then. Oh, and just one other piece of advice.'
'Fire away.'
'Your friend. I'd keep her upwind of the grave if I were you.'
Chapter Eleven
I went home and put a packet of Chorley cakes and a bottle of flavoured water in the car. The route was simple enough: A hundred and eighty miles down the M6 and M5 to J13 and follow the signs. No need to write that
