Limestone Cowboy by Stuart Pawson Read Free Book Online Page B

I’ve spoken to the local RSPCA inspector and he thinks it’s more organised than they’re capable of.”
    I said: “He’s underestimating the travellers if he thinks they’re not organised. Halifax prosecuted a gang a couple of years ago for badger baiting and they found maps with badger sets marked on them that went back for a hundred years. They hand them down, along with the caravan and the Royal Doulton crockery.”
    “Well, spread the word. It’s a distasteful business and I’d like to see it stamped out.”
    “Will do,” I said. “Is there anything else?”
    “No, I don’t think so. Are you on with the poisoning ?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Keep me informed, please. There is one other thing. It’s more in your court, Gareth, but you might have a few ideas, too, Charlie. The annual gala. To be honest, I’m a bit fed up of seeing the dogs jumping over walls and biting someone’s arm, and I suspect everyone else is, too. The purpose of our involvement is to win public approval, particularly that of the young public. We need a fresh approach, something that appeals to the kids. Have a think about it, will you?”
    We both nodded our understanding of the problem but I fled as Gareth started to voice a few of his ideas.
    “Gather round, kiddie-winks,” I said as I breezed into the CID office. “Uncle Charlie wants a word with you.”
    Chairs were turned, newspapers stuffed away, computer cursors clicked on Save.
    “Two things,” I said. “First of all we’ve had an outbreak of organised dog-fighting. Keep your eyes and ears open, ask around, you know the form.”
    “It’s gyppos,” someone said.
    “Possibly. Have a word with any you know, they’re not all into it.”
    “Some were prosecuted in Halifax a couple of years ago.”
    “That’s right, but what happened to them?”
    “Fines and probation, but they were never seen again.”
    “That’s why they’re called travellers.”
    “OK,” I said, “the second thing is this: it’s Heckley gala on bank holiday Monday and, as usual, our uniformed branch will be putting on a display of their skills for the delectation and excitement of the public.”
    “Lucky public,” someone muttered.
    “Don’t knock it,” I said, “or they might ask us to do it. The point is, Mr Wood has realised, after all these years, that a slavering Alsatian pretending to bite someone’s arm off does not draw the crowds like it might have done in 1936. We need a new theme for the show; something that might engage the attention of our younger citizens and thereby point them on the path to righteousness.”
    “You mean something that will scare the shit out of the little bastards?”
    “That’s what I said, isn’t it?”
    “I could organise a dog fight,” one of them suggested . “There’s this bloke I know, down at the pub…”
    “By younger citizens, ’ow young are we thinking?” Dave Sparkington asked.
    “Not sure. The younger the better, I suppose.”
    “OK. So how about all the woodentops dressing up as Teletubbies? That should bring ’em in.”
    “Most of them are the right shape already,” someone observed.
    “Teletubbies are old hat, it’s the Fimbles now,” one of my more intellectual DCs informed us, and that opened the floodgates. What had been a sensible, constructive conversation about ways of addressing a pressing social issue degenerated into mockery. I told them I’d pass their contributions to Mr Adey and dragged Sparky down to the car park.
    The press were waiting there, swapping stories, flicking their cigarette stubs towards the Super’s Rover, seeing who could land one on the roof. The hospital had gone into full defensive mode, issuing a statement saying that the Ebola scare was caused by a non-self-inflicted overdose of rat poison and they’d come flocking back like hyenas to a kill. They switched into professional mode as we emerged from the door and demanded to know how many deaths we’d covered up. I referred