The man was nodding as he removed a newspaper cutting from a zip-up pocket. It was Dryden’s feature piece on Jude’s Ferry written ahead of his return to the village with the TA, illustrated by the picture taken from files of the nave of the church, dominated by the crusader’s tomb.
‘So I have you to thank for this, do I?’ He held it up, his thumb on the picture. ‘The name’s Peyton. Henry Peyton.’
‘Right,’ said Dryden. ‘OK. So you got the call too.’
‘Indeed. Last night actually. They saw the picture in last week’s paper, knew the range was still closed until firing started again on St Swithun’s Day, that the church was wide open, so they went in and took what they wanted from the tomb.’
Dryden made a point of never apologizing for anything he’d written unless it was inaccurate. ‘Look. I’m sorry this has happened but…’ He held out his hands, palm up. ‘If these people want to make life difficult they will.’
‘Let’s talk,’ said Peyton, walking away before he got an answer.
Dryden followed him towards a distant hut, distrusting the invitation to chat. Up close the huts were bigger than he’d imagined, crisply painted, exter ior heating- and water-pipes gleaming aluminium. When he stepped inside the heat and smell made him choke. It wasn’t unpleasant, just too close, like pushing your face into cat’s fur.
The guinea pigs covered the floor area, with a few patches of exposed sawdust. A network of pipes ran water to small troughs and automatic feeders. Dryden realized there was a noise, a multi-note high-pitched squeal.
‘’s OK,’ said Peyton. ‘They don’t like strangers. They’ll calm down.’ As they moved down a central corridor fenced off from the animals the noise died down to be replaced by a gentle cooing.
‘How many are there?’ asked Dryden.
Peyton stopped, surveying the hut with proprietorial pride. ‘About three thousand in here. There’s eleven huts. Work it out. Then two huts for the rats, two thousand in total.’
At the far end there was an office with glass panels down to floor level to give an uninterrupted view of the animals. Peyton made coffee in a cafetiere.
The guinea pigs cooed more insistently, some of them gurgling with pleasure as the feeders automatically released pellets of food. The seething mass of twitching fur seemed to vibrate at a common frequency.
‘See how we torture them,’ said Peyton, smiling again. Dryden didn’t smile, aware that the artificial lighting and the gentle hum of institutional happiness were his idea of hell.
‘Who do you sell them to?’ asked Dryden, tired of being patronized. ‘Aren’t they the ones that do the torturing?’
Peyton shrugged, ignoring the bait. ‘Biggest customer prefers to remain anonymous. Commercial drugs developer. But there’s universities too, plenty, that’s why we started up, to meet the academic demand.’
Dryden got out a notebook but left it on his knee unopened. ‘So they rang?’
On the desk a mobile phone buzzed, but Peyton pressed a button quickly to silence it. Outside the animals, startled, chattered their teeth.
‘Yes. Some lunatic extremist faction of the animal rights movement. I am to expect a campaign of terror unless I use your newspaper to announce the closure of the business.’ He laughed, handing Dryden a mug. ‘They haven’t made a good start. They seem to be under the impression they’ve got some bones for which I will consider giving up this business, a business I have fought hard to establish over a quarter of a century. Well, they’re a bit wide of the mark. First. We are a minor branch of the Peyton family. I wish it was otherwise. The money went to America shortly after the Pilgrim Fathers. If I was one of
Dryden pointed outside. ‘On the flag. The sunflower?’
‘Indeed. Same biological family. But as I say, the link is tenuous, we’ve got nothing to do with the American Peytons. Suffice to say any bones they’ve plundered from this tomb are more likely to be carrying your DNA than mine. My first wife died in 1983, clearly something these idiots did know, because they think it’s her bones. Fact is, when Sandra died she was cremated.’
He put his boots up on the desk. ‘So they can turn their precious bones into cuppa soup if they like. They might get a few bob off the Yanks, but they won’t get Sealodes Farm closed.’
‘When they called me, the animal rights people, they said they’d given you a warning, a couple of weeks ago?’
Peyton’s eyes glazed, the bluster frozen out in an instant. ‘They took our dogs. Sorry. Liberated is the term used. We called the police. They got nowhere and we heard nothing from…’ He drank his coffee, which seemed to add to the bitterness in his voice. ‘From these people. I guess they wanted us to stew in our own juices.’
‘Dogs. Family pets or security?’
‘My wife is a breeder of Alsatians. I am, actually, very keen to get the dogs back, as is she. But not keen enough to close the business down.’ Peyton nodded rhythmically, thinking about what he wanted to say. ‘Which I think confirms two things. That while we are dealing with nasty bastards, we are also dealing with amateur nasty bastards. This business means more to me – and incidentally to the fourteen staff here at Sealodes – than three pedigree Alsatians and a pile of old bones.’
‘How’d they get the dogs? Doesn’t sound like an amateur operation to me.’
Peyton met his gaze. ‘No. That is worrying. The dogs are controlled by key words – it doesn’t matter who says them. We did that so that Rosie, my wife, could be away. So – “Saverne” ensures docility. It’s a small town in Alsace. My guess is they knew the word, which means they’ve talked to someone who works here.’
‘Or they work here.’
Peyton ignored him. ‘And they took some stock when they took the dogs.’
‘Stock? You mean animals?’
‘About a hundred of the rats from one of the outside sheds.’
