Belinda Bauer - Finders Keepers

‘We’ve worked out the merger with the Midmoor.’

Coffin nodded, waiting for more.

‘We’ll have joint Masters, and their whipper-in has agreed to go part-time with Alistair Farrell. But I’m afraid we’ll lose the name.’

This was a bitter blow. Took could tell by the way Coffin almost blinked. There’d been a Blacklands Hunt on Exmoor for a hundred and forty-odd years. Never fashionable, but there .

‘The good news,’ Took continued more cheerfully, ‘is that Malcolm Bidgood has room for one more in kennels—’

‘Huntsman?’

‘Assistant huntsman.’

No such thing . Coffin didn’t say it, but they both knew it. Forty years and he was being demoted to kennelman. Like some work-experience boy up for the summer holidays from Bicton College.

‘We’ll be based at their kennels,’ Took hurried on, relieved that the worst was over. ‘But I don’t want you to have to hurry out of here, Bob. This is your home, and I made sure it was part of the deal that it won’t be sold until next season, so you’ve got plenty of time to sort things out. I was very clear about that.’

Bob Coffin didn’t thank him, but nodded briefly and glanced at the cottage.

‘Sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings.’

Coffin nodded once more. ‘What of the pack?’ he asked.

‘Ah yes. The pack. Mr Stourbridge says we’ll take three couple. He trusts you to pick the best of them, but they did say nothing over three years old, please.’

‘What of Rufus?’

‘Nothing over three. I did ask. And I’ve been calling round all week but nobody needs the others. Bloody shame.’

‘Nobody needs ’em,’ said Bob Coffin. It wasn’t a question, but Took answered it anyway.

‘That’s right.’

‘What’ll I do with ’em then?’

Took looked surprised. Surely that was self-evident? But Bob Coffin just looked confused. He wasn’t going to make him say it, was he?

Apparently he was. The passive-aggressive little caveman.

‘Well, I’m afraid we’ll have to dispose of them, Bob. Terrible shame, but there you go.’

‘Shoot ’em, you mean?’

Took was surprised that Coffin was surprised. God, anyone would think he’d never shot an animal in his life. Like there wasn’t a constant stream of ribby horses and broken-legged cows to dispatch in the big shed. Not to mention the old hounds – every season there were five or six who could no longer keep up and had to go to the happy hunting ground, courtesy of a .22 handgun. The old bugger wasn’t going to get all weepy on him now, was he?

‘Yes,’ said Took. ‘We’re all going to suffer a bit, I’m afraid. I can ask Nigel to come up to help you, if you like.’

Coffin looked away across the meadow to where the pied backs of the sixty hounds could be seen through the chain-link, tails high and curved and waving like happy flags as they milled around the giant slabs of raw cow.

‘Shoot ’em,’ he said softly.

‘That’s right,’ said Took briskly. ‘Nothing you haven’t done a thousand times before though, is it?’

‘Not to fit dogs.’

‘Look, they exist to do a job and now they’re out of work. We have to be realistic about this, you know.’

‘The whole pack,’ said Coffin quietly.

Took started to lose patience. ‘They’re hounds , Bob, not pets , for fuck’s sake! They’re not bloody children! You don’t love them.’

Coffin said nothing – he continued to look away towards the yards through the first stinging flakes of sleet.

Took collected himself and cleared his throat. ‘Look, I did my best. Been calling round all week. Packs like to breed their own now, you know that.’

Coffin said nothing. Took decided to stop grovelling and treat him like the hunt servant he was. ‘So you don’t want me to send Nigel up?’

‘No,’ Coffin said.

‘Right,’ said Took, and strode back to the Range Rover, leaving his flattened cigarette butt to show where he’d been.

When Mr Took left, I chose the three couple for the Midmoor.

Connor, Dancer, Patch, Boatman, Rusty and Rumble.

The rest I shot.

Better to do it before I could think about it too much, see? Didn’t take more than an hour. I took ’em to the big shed in their couples, so I’d have the chain to hold ’em still by, but they were all good dogs.

Rufus was a bit hard. Only natural, him being the best and all, and a favourite. But – strange to say – the worst was a little bitch called Frankie. Nice little maid with a funny way of wrinkling up her snout to smile at you. Got that from her mother, Bella, who got it from her mother, Fern. Frankie was almost the last to go. The pack was already piled up in a corner of the shed when her and Bumper followed me in. Both put their heads down and licked at the blood on the floor so I shot Bumper quick, then put the muzzle against Frankie’s head next, as it was held low by the chain between them.

Before I could pull the trigger, Frankie twisted to look up at me, and smiled.

JONAS WOKE ON a cold cement floor with the smell of dogs and disinfectant strong in his nose, and icy hands on his chest. It was dark, even though he wasn’t blindfolded, and he was dimly aware of a man bending over him, tugging his clothes off. Jonas flailed weakly, hoping to connect, but found he couldn’t feel his own arms – didn’t know where they were or what they were doing.

The hands were firm but not hurtful. They quickly stripped him, and Jonas became sick and panicky at the thought that he couldn’t stop what was happening to him, however bad it got… He felt his adult self dissolving around him like sugar in water. The terror in his chest was the terror of a small boy. The strength of a man drained from him and he knew once more the weakness of the very young and vulnerable.

Then the dark figure bent forward and looped something around Jonas’s throat. Something to hold him. Something to hold him down …

He tried to cry out, tried to jerk away, tried to fight back, but he was a fish flopping about on dry land.

‘Ssshh now,’ said the man. ‘Ssssshh. There’s a good bay.’

Jonas was a child again, and he was helpless.

And then – right under his chin – he felt the click that locked the collar around his neck.

New roadblocks were set up. More officers were drafted in from other force areas and even from the neighbouring Devon & Cornwall Police, whose patch bled into Exmoor to the northwest. As they arrived, Reynolds sent them straight to the woods to join the hunt… for what and for whom he was not completely sure.

Davey Lamb was returned to the bosom of his family. His brother was not. Rice hoped she never again had to watch two human beings disintegrate in front of her eyes the way that Lettie Lamb and her mother did when they realized Steven was still missing.

Jonas Holly’s home was searched. First to check on Em’s claim that he had indeed disappeared along with Steven Lamb – a fact supported by the open back door and the abandoned wheelbarrow half-full of weeds and hedge-trimmings. Then a more careful search was made as a matter of procedure, because allegations had been made and should therefore be investigated. Emily Carver seemed like a sensible girl, but her secondhand accusations smacked more of grudge than fact. Rice reminded Reynolds that she had personally demanded proof from Steven Lamb of any wrongdoing by Jonas and he’d been unable to provide it.

‘I know,’ said Reynolds. ‘But it does seem unlikely that someone has managed to snatch a teenaged boy and a good-sized police officer at the same time. I’m duty bound to take it somewhat seriously.’