‘More than likely. They’re usually well organized.’
Once, when Cooper had been on hunt policing duty as a uniformed officer, one group of saboteurs had turned up with something called a ‘gizmo’, a sort of modified loud-hailer which played tapes of hounds in cry to distract the pack away from the quarry. He’d watched them drive along a dirt track in their van, playing their gizmo, with the hounds running towards them from a field away and loping along behind their wheels. And then there were the ubiquitous sprays — cans of Anti-mate, or a home-made brew concocted from citronella or garlic — anything that would mask the scent of a fox.
These days, of course, the hunt only followed a fox-based scent mixed with vegetable oil, laid by followers.
‘Tarmac and concrete won’t hold scent for long,’ said Cooper. ‘Wet ground provides good scenting conditions, but not in heavy rain — the scent gets washed away.’
‘Just like our DNA and trace evidence.’
‘Yes.’
Of course, it wasn’t always a scent that attracted the hounds. The hunt wasn’t riding through local villages to exercise the pack any more, not since someone’s pet cat had been killed by them early one morning. You’d think the sight and sound of a few dozen hunting dogs would be enough of a warning to a cat, let alone the scent. Cooper could smell these hounds himself.
‘Now, if we get among the horses, Diane, remember that a red ribbon on the tail of a horse means it’s liable to kick, so avoid passing behind it.’
‘Don’t worry. I have no intention of getting behind a horse ever again.’
‘Oh, I heard.’
Fry changed the subject rapidly.
‘Hunts are always policed, whether there are protestors or not. And we do make arrests sometimes, don’t we?’
‘The hunts expect it.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘You’ll find every hunt supporter carries a Countryside Alliance membership card. If they get arrested, they’ll use their right to a telephone call to phone the CA legal team. So they get expert legal advice from the word “go”.’
‘There’s the huntsman now,’ said Fry.
‘You recognize him?’
‘Yes, I’ve spoken to him. John Widdowson.’
‘Widdowson?’ said Cooper. ‘That reminds me, Diane — there was something I meant to mention to you.’
‘What?’
‘There was a Naomi Widdowson on Walsh’s list of complainants in the Trading Standards investigation. But she was also one of the IPs on the Horse Watch list. I know you told me those calls weren’t so important any more, but I didn’t like to leave the job half finished, so I tried again. It turned out she was the owner of the Dutch Warmblood mare. Miss Widdowson. She sounded a bit annoyed when I told her who I was.’
‘When did you speak to her?’ asked Fry.
‘Yesterday morning, while you were out with Gavin.’
‘I see. Well, she was annoyed because we’d just visited her and got her back up.’
‘Oh, of course.’
‘Just a minute,’ said Fry, ‘This Dutch — ’
‘Warmblood.’
‘What was its name?’
Cooper hesitated. He was always nervous when faced with that tense, expectant expression from Fry. Every time, he felt as though he might be going to let her down.
‘Its name?’ he said. ‘I didn’t ask.’
Fry groaned. ‘Who’s on duty this morning? Luke Irvine or Becky Hurst? Whoever it is, give them a call and get them to check. Right now, Ben.’
‘I’ll have to get out of these woods,’ said Cooper. ‘There’s no signal here. I’ll walk back down to the car.’
Almost as soon as Cooper had left her alone, Fry became aware of several figures in balaclavas appearing silently through the trees. They were carrying pickaxe handles and baseball bats. She stood facing them, hand on her extendable baton, ready to fight if necessary, but knowing there were too many of them.
Motion attracts, she kept telling herself. If you stay completely still, they don’t see you, even if you’re right out in the open. It’s movement that the eyes notice. The instincts of an animal. Motion attracts.
For two minutes, nothing seemed to happen. Fry tried to take in as many details as she could. Four men, she counted. Camouflage jackets, black balaclavas, only their eyes showing, like bank robbers anxious to avoid security cameras. But there were no cameras out here, no witnesses to identify them later. Only her.
Though it was broad daylight, and the woods couldn’t be more different from the back streets of Birmingham, her mind overlaid the scene with memories of a dark night. She felt as though she could sense other bodies, further back in the woods, watching, laughing, waiting eagerly for what would happen next. Voices murmuring and coughing in the darkness.
Something had stirred up the images that she always tried to keep buried. Today, once again, those dark forms seemed to loom around her, smudges of silhouettes that crept ever nearer, reaching out towards her. They merged with the trees, like creatures that had risen from the undergrowth.
She remembered the movements that crept and rustled closer, the reek of booze and violence. She was waiting for the taunting laughter, for that familiar voice to break into her mind, coarse and slurring in its Birmingham accent. ‘She’s a copper.’
Some form of communication seemed to take place between the men around her. One of them stared at her keenly, as if he knew her, or would know her again if he saw her.
And then they slipped away through the trees as quickly as they’d come. Fry breathed a sigh of relief, and realized that her hand was starting to cramp where it had been gripping the handle of her ASP.
She thought of calling in the incident. The group had been armed with baseball bats and pickaxe handles, after all. But her reluctance stemmed from her fear of being a bad witness, a dread of expending her colleagues’ time and effort for no worthwhile result.
She also knew she’d recognized the first man, just as he’d recognized her. She felt sure he was the same hunt steward who had stared at her on Tuesday as she’d waited for the hunt to go by.
But there was a difference. On Tuesday, she hadn’t been able to recall where she knew him from. Her powers of recognition had failed her.
This time, she knew who exactly he was.
‘Diane?’ The voice was Cooper’s, instantly reassuring.
‘I’m here.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Did you see them?’ she said. ‘The hunt stewards?’
‘No,’ said Cooper.
She stared at him, not sure whether she could believe him. Whose side was he on, after all? The realization that she had no one she could trust made her suddenly, irrationally angry.
‘Why did I come to this place? Why do I put up with these people?’ She gestured at the people down on the road, at the hunt kennels, at the whole world in general. ‘Horse-eating, fox-hunting, baseball-bat-wielding Neanderthals.’
Cooper gazed after her in amazement as she strode off. ‘That’s a bit unfair.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘Diane,’ called Cooper, ‘don’t you want to know? Becky Hurst has come up with some information for us.’
Fry stopped. ‘And?’
‘We have to get moving, if we want to make a quick arrest.’
