Cooper turned on the wipers to clear it, so that they could see the car park. There were no other vehicles, not even passing on the road. He almost turned the ignition on to drive back to Edendale, disappointed in what Mark had brought him out here to say. But something held him back. ‘There’s more to it than that,’ said Mark. ‘Things I haven’t told you.’ Suddenly, Cooper felt that old surge of excitement rising through his chest, leaving him short of breath. ‘Mark? What are you talking about?’ ‘Dogs,’ said Mark. ‘What?’ ‘I think it might be dogfighting.’ ‘You’re joking. Does that still go on?’ ‘Oh, dogfights take place every week, somewhere. And it’s on the increase. The RSPCA have made a few prosecutions, and a few fights are broken up now and again. The thing that’s most difficult for these people to find is a safe venue. There’s money in dogfighting - a lot of cash changes hands in bets on the dogs. Just by renting his shed and keeping his mouth shut, Leach could have been doing quite well out of it, whether he joined in or not. The winning dogs are worth something, too. But the losers - sometimes the losers just die from their injuries.’ ‘How do you know about this sort of thing, Mark?’ ‘There’s a Rangers’ liaison group with the RSPCA.
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They showed us a video once that had been seized by their Special Operations Unit. It was sickening. These people film the fights so that they can show off the success of their dogs to buyers, you see. This one had been filmed in the attic of a house somewhere, with armchairs and an awful blue carpet and a colour TV in the corner. They normally use pit bull terriers. Those things are bred for fighting, and nothing else.’ ‘It’s illegal to breed pit bulls,’ said Cooper. ‘Since the Dangerous Dogs Act, they all have to be neutered. The breed should be dying out by now.’ ‘Oh, sure. And is cancer dying out, too? How much time have your people got to go round the Devonshire Estate checking whether anybody’s breeding pit bulls in the kitchen or out the back in the garden shed?’ ‘Not a lot.’ ‘And the police in Sheffield and Manchester have even less time, I suppose.’ ‘So you think they’re using Ringham Edge for dogfights? Are these local people involved?’ ‘They come from all over the place. A lot from the Manchester area, I think. If Warren Leach has a dogfighting pit in there, he’ll be mixing with some pretty unpleasant people. And they won’t take kindly to anyone sticking their nose into what’s going on.’ A Peak Park Ranger’s Land Rover pulled into the car park for a few minutes. Mark looked at the driver, but didn’t seem to recognize him. The thin red stripe on the silver side of the vehicle could have been a streak of drying blood, caught in Cooper’s headlights.
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‘It was the captive bolt pistol that made me think I was right,’ said Mark.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The point is, those dogs will fight and fight until they’re half-dead. You can’t take them to a vet, because - like you say - they’re illegal. And you don’t put an animal like that out of its misery by wringing its neck. You need to have somebody there with a gun, or preferably a captive bolt pistol, if you can get hold of one. They’re a lot safer than having a free bullet flying around inside a shed somewhere. Dangerous, that is.’ ‘I can see that.’
‘Very dangerous,’ said Mark. ‘That way, somebody could get themselves killed.’
The Land Rover drove off again. Maybe the Ranger had just stopped to use his radio or to have a drink of tea from his flask. Maybe he was checking on the Toyota. Everybody was suspect these days. Cooper watched the vehicle’s lights heading further west, following the tight bends until they disappeared into a dark band of conifers. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a sudden flicker of movement, and saw a stoat run across in front of his bonnet into a clump of gorse.
‘I know this spot,’ he said. ‘It’s the place they call Suicide Corner.’
‘That’s right. It’s where all the suicides come.’ Mark pointed up the valley towards Castleton and Mam Tor. ‘Owen says the view sometimes makes them change their minds.’
The unstable slopes of Mam Tor looked like a melted chocolate cake in the darkness. Erosion of the soft shale
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underneath its gritstone bands meant that its sides were in continual movement, long cascades of stone sliding and slithering into the valley, where the landslips had closed the A625 many years before. Now cars struggled over Winnats Pass to where the River Eden and the River Hope sprang up on the bleak moorlands of the Dark Peak. The locals called Mam Tor the ‘Shivering Mountain’. Its vast, soft outline dominated the head of the valley. And on the very summit, the defensive ramparts of a Bronze Age hillfort could clearly be seen against the sky, even from this distance.
‘I don’t want to see Owen here,’ said Mark. ‘He might not change his mind.’
‘Mark … ?’
‘I think Owen ‘s involved. He must be.’ ‘But why?’
‘He’s worked in that area a long time. He must have noticed what I noticed. But he’s never said anything to me about it. He always talks about Warren Leach as if they hate each other, but I’m not sure about that.’
‘There seemed to be no love lost between them when I was there,’ said Cooper.
‘I know. But I’m almost certain that Owen goes down to the farm on his own sometimes, when he should be somewhere else. I think that might have been where he was when I found the woman on Ringham Moor. It was the TIP that made contact with him in the end, you know. I couldn’t get through to him. I think he was away from his radio.’
‘I can’t see it. Not Owen.’
Mark looked at him. ‘I knew you wouldn’t believe
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me. You want to defend him, like everyone else. You think Owen’s a good bloke. They all say that - Owen Fox is a good bloke. Well, he is. But I think he’s got mixed up in something he shouldn’t have done, and now he’s frightened and he can’t see any way out. I don’t like the way he’s been talking these last few days. He is a good bloke. And he’s done a lot for me. I want to save him.’
‘And how exactly are you going to do that?’ asked Cooper.
The young Ranger wound the window down a few inches, just enough to let the cool wind in and blow away the fug they had built up in the car.
‘I want you to arrest him,’ said Mark, ‘before he ends up here. I want you to keep Owen away from Suicide Corner.’
Diane Fry jumped up from the cushion, banging her head on the metal roof as a burst of flame lit up the quarry. A small explosion rocked the van and the blast echoed backwards and forwards off the rock walls. ‘What the hell was that?’
She pulled the sheet aside to look through the cab. Black smoke poured into the sky, and the air was filled with an acrid smell and the sound of sizzling, like a huge barbecue. The blaze was clearly petrol-assisted, and it flared dramatically for a few moments before dying to a hiss.
In the light from the flames, she saw something begin to creep over the quarry edge. Whatever it was, it slid in
