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Authors: Stuart Pawson
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would be issued to local radio stations and the local weekly newspapers, starting with the Heckley Gazette, and tomorrow we would hand-deliver a questionnaire to every supermarket manager within the circle.
“What about the public health people?” somebody asked.
“Tricky,” Mr Wood replied. “I’ll talk to them in the morning and ask them to bear with us. The supermarkets are probably out of order but I’ll ask them to turn a blind eye if it helps the investigation. So far the managers have been most co-operative, haven’t they, Charlie?”
“Yep. Very helpful.”
“Good. Can I leave it with you?”
“No problem.”
“That’s my boy. There is one other thing. Another dead dog has been found. There are some photos on my desk and they’re horrific. Let’s not lose sight of that one, please.”
Everybody mumbled their assent and Mr Wood left us to it.
“Three volunteers, please,” I said. “One to write the statement, one to liaise with HQ to create the questionnaire and one, maybe two, to list every supermarket in the circle. Then we can get straight on with it in the morning. So far whoever is tampering with the tins is using low-tech means. The warfarin was an escalation and could have led to a fatality. If they get their hands on something like strychnine or arsenic we could be looking for a murderer.”
Hands were raised and I delegated the jobs. As the others were leaving Jeff Caton said: “Why does killing dogs pull at the heartstrings more than poisoning some poor soul with rat poison?”
“Because we’re a nation of animal lovers,” Pete Goodfellow told him. “That’s why we have a royalsociety for animals but only a national society for children. But can anyone explain why dog-fighting is considered less morally defensible than hunting foxes? With the dogs it’s one on one, whereas with foxes…”
“Whoah!” I said, holding up a hand. “Let’s leave the morality and ethics out of it and stick to the law. We’ve enough on our plates. C’mon, let’s go home.”
“Why…” Dave began, looking thoughtful, “why don’t you ever see white dog turds these days? That’s what I want to know.”
“What?” I said.
“White dog turds?” Jeff queried.
“Yeah. White dog turds. Once upon a time dog turds used to be white. Not all of them, just some.”
“Gerraway!”
“It’s true. They used to be the best ones. When they were dried they floated better than the others.”
“Floated? What were you floating them for?”
“We used to have races, on the canal. The white ones always won.”
“You had dog turd races on the canal?”
“Yes. Didn’t you?”
“No!”
“Charlie did, didn’t you?”
“Um, no,” I replied. “I had a scale model of the Queen Mary.”
“Only a scale model?” Jeff asked.
“It was half-scale,” Pete told him.
“Radio-controlled,” I said.
“How were these dog turds propelled?” Jeff wondered .
“We threw stones at them.”
I said: “Why didn’t you make them into little galleons with a cocktail stick and a square of paper?”
“A cocktail stick!” Dave exclaimed. “A cocktail stick! We didn’t have cocktail sticks.”
“You should have asked. We’d’ve let you have our used ones.”
Jeff said: “If you didn’t have cocktail sticks how did you eat your stuffed olives?”
“Stuffed olives!” he exploded. “We didn’t have stuffed olives. We had a stuffed cat, to save on the food bill.”
Jeff: “Was it on wheels?”
Pete: “Did it catch many mice?”
Dave: “Only stuffed ones.”
“Home!” I shouted. “Some of us have a meal to cook. Let’s go.”
Chapter Four
Altogether we found twenty-one recorded incidents of tampering, all in Grainger’s stores, which was a determined effort to make mischief by anybody’s standards . It looked as if the early efforts – the dye and the tin-puncturing – had not had the required effect, so more drastic measures had been adopted. But how many suspect tins
“What about the public health people?” somebody asked.
“Tricky,” Mr Wood replied. “I’ll talk to them in the morning and ask them to bear with us. The supermarkets are probably out of order but I’ll ask them to turn a blind eye if it helps the investigation. So far the managers have been most co-operative, haven’t they, Charlie?”
“Yep. Very helpful.”
“Good. Can I leave it with you?”
“No problem.”
“That’s my boy. There is one other thing. Another dead dog has been found. There are some photos on my desk and they’re horrific. Let’s not lose sight of that one, please.”
Everybody mumbled their assent and Mr Wood left us to it.
“Three volunteers, please,” I said. “One to write the statement, one to liaise with HQ to create the questionnaire and one, maybe two, to list every supermarket in the circle. Then we can get straight on with it in the morning. So far whoever is tampering with the tins is using low-tech means. The warfarin was an escalation and could have led to a fatality. If they get their hands on something like strychnine or arsenic we could be looking for a murderer.”
Hands were raised and I delegated the jobs. As the others were leaving Jeff Caton said: “Why does killing dogs pull at the heartstrings more than poisoning some poor soul with rat poison?”
“Because we’re a nation of animal lovers,” Pete Goodfellow told him. “That’s why we have a royalsociety for animals but only a national society for children. But can anyone explain why dog-fighting is considered less morally defensible than hunting foxes? With the dogs it’s one on one, whereas with foxes…”
“Whoah!” I said, holding up a hand. “Let’s leave the morality and ethics out of it and stick to the law. We’ve enough on our plates. C’mon, let’s go home.”
“Why…” Dave began, looking thoughtful, “why don’t you ever see white dog turds these days? That’s what I want to know.”
“What?” I said.
“White dog turds?” Jeff queried.
“Yeah. White dog turds. Once upon a time dog turds used to be white. Not all of them, just some.”
“Gerraway!”
“It’s true. They used to be the best ones. When they were dried they floated better than the others.”
“Floated? What were you floating them for?”
“We used to have races, on the canal. The white ones always won.”
“You had dog turd races on the canal?”
“Yes. Didn’t you?”
“No!”
“Charlie did, didn’t you?”
“Um, no,” I replied. “I had a scale model of the Queen Mary.”
“Only a scale model?” Jeff asked.
“It was half-scale,” Pete told him.
“Radio-controlled,” I said.
“How were these dog turds propelled?” Jeff wondered .
“We threw stones at them.”
I said: “Why didn’t you make them into little galleons with a cocktail stick and a square of paper?”
“A cocktail stick!” Dave exclaimed. “A cocktail stick! We didn’t have cocktail sticks.”
“You should have asked. We’d’ve let you have our used ones.”
Jeff said: “If you didn’t have cocktail sticks how did you eat your stuffed olives?”
“Stuffed olives!” he exploded. “We didn’t have stuffed olives. We had a stuffed cat, to save on the food bill.”
Jeff: “Was it on wheels?”
Pete: “Did it catch many mice?”
Dave: “Only stuffed ones.”
“Home!” I shouted. “Some of us have a meal to cook. Let’s go.”
Chapter Four
Altogether we found twenty-one recorded incidents of tampering, all in Grainger’s stores, which was a determined effort to make mischief by anybody’s standards . It looked as if the early efforts – the dye and the tin-puncturing – had not had the required effect, so more drastic measures had been adopted. But how many suspect tins
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