Stephen Booth - Dancing With the Virgins

Will pulled Dougie’s arm and dragged him reluctantly away. Leach dug into an old canvas satchel and checked the captive bolt pistol that Keith Teasdale had given him. The steel casing of the gun was heavy and solid in his hand.

‘Bloody animal,’ he muttered to the gun. ‘Draining money from me like water. Not any more.’

There was no one in the yard to hear him. He was thinking of the day they had bought the calf at Edendale cattle market. It had been Yvonne herself who had picked it out, and it had been her idea to buy it for the boys. It had been a fine young animal, too, and would have made a handsome heifer. But for weeks, Leach had found he couldn’t bear to see the calf. Its eyes rolled at him accusingly, like the eyes of another bloody martyr; its coat gleamed with the gloss of an extravagance that he couldn’t afford.

Now he couldn’t even stand the thought that the animal was on the premises. He couldn’t concentrate on any of the pressing problems that were piling up on him because of the time he spent dwelling on the calf. It had to be disposed of before he could work out how to get the farm and his life out of the mess they were in. It had to go. It was standing in his way.

‘We’ll sort this out once and for all,’ he said, and snapped a cartridge into the gun.

Finally, the boys dragged the calf, protesting, on a rope halter into the yard.

‘Dad — ’

‘Just shut up. Just bloody shut up!’

He snatched the halter from Will’s hand and led the calf a few feet away. The boys stood fixed to the spot, unable to take their eyes away. Dougie winced and put his hand to his mouth to stifle a cry as his father lashed out with a boot to take the calf’s front legs from underneath it. The animal folded up on to its knees in the dirt with a frightened gasp. As it struggled to regain its feet, Leach stood astride its neck to pin it down and grasped its halter firmly in his left hand. Then he pulled the gun from his pocket and centred the barrel against the top of the calf’s skull, in the centre of its forehead. He worked the barrel through the hair and adjusted the angle between the horn buds. He needed a clear path for the bolt to penetrate the layer of bone and enter the brain.

The calf, sensing the uselessness of its struggles, suddenly relaxed in his grasp, resigned to an inexplicable end.

‘It has to be done,’ said Leach. ‘It can’t go on like this any longer. You’ve got to understand these things. It’s part of your education.’

Leach looked up at the boys. But he barely saw their faces. Instead, he saw a small cloud of dust behind their heads. It was drifting above the stone wall that bordered the lane. Then he became aware of the noise of an engine, and a second later a red Toyota bounced through the pothole by the gate and entered the yard. Leach kept the barrel pressed to the calf’s head, fingering the trigger. He smiled at the thought of the look that would be on his visitors’ faces, when he pulled the trigger in front of them.

Then he recognized Ben Cooper at the wheel of the Toyota and saw Diane Fry get out of the passenger seat as the car slid to a halt. She had a clipboard in her hand, and she didn’t seem to notice the boys or the calf as she walked up to Leach.

Surprised, the farmer let go of the animal. It scrambled away, leaving him standing straddle-legged, with the bolt pistol still in his hand.

‘Mr Warren Leach?’ said Fry.

Leach stared at her, making a tiny, abrupt movement of his head that she could take for a nod.

‘Acting Detective Sergeant Fry, Edendale Police. According to our records, you do not have the required licence entitling you to possess that captive bolt pistol.’

Leach looked at the gun, baffled.

‘I must have forgotten to get one.’

‘We have to apply the rules, I’m afraid, sir.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘You’re in possession of an unlicensed weapon.’ She held out her hand. ‘You’ll be given a receipt. Then you can reclaim the weapon if and when you obtain the appropriate licence.’

‘I don’t believe this. Do you think I’m going to give my gun to you just like that?’

Fry raised her eyebrows at him. ‘Are you refusing to surrender an unlicensed weapon, sir?’

Ben Cooper got out of the car and ambled towards them. He nodded at the farmer. ‘Give it up, Mr Leach. Be sensible.’

The three of them looked at each other for a minute. Fry was beginning to get impatient. Cooper could see her muscles tense. He turned to the boys waiting to one side with wide eyes.

‘Better clear off, lads,’ he said. ‘You really don’t want to see this.’

‘No,’ said Leach. He turned the pistol round and gave it to Cooper. Fry began to fill in a receipt.

‘Now, if you’ve quite finished,’ said Leach, ‘I’ve got work to do.’

Out of tradition, Ben Cooper and Todd Weenink started their evening at the Wheatsheaf. There were three pubs that stood close together around the market place, and three or four more down the side streets that they could take in without walking more than a few yards. But the Wheatsheaf had a whole range of guest beers on the bar, strong ales with names like Derbyshire Black and Old Sheep Dip. Weenink was the one drinking harder and faster, and he soon reached the stage where he wanted to share his personal insights.

‘There’s just no excitement in the job any more,’ he said. ‘Every day you come into work and they tell you to go and detect a burglary or something.’

‘Several burglaries,’ said Cooper.

‘Six burglaries and four car break-ins. Every morning.’

‘And a criminal damage or two, as well.’

‘That’s it. The same day after day. It’s mind numbing. We don’t even get a good ram-raid now. Not for ages.’

Weenink had spilled some beer on his leather jacket, and his sleeve stuck to the table when he moved his arm. Cooper was struggling to keep up with his consumption. He hadn’t seen Weenink drink quite so hard since his marriage had broken up after less than two years. Weenink’s wife had said she hadn’t realized what she was tying herself to. And she hadn’t just meant Todd. She had meant the police service.

‘Ram-raiding has pretty well been designed out in the town centre,’ said Cooper.

‘Well, it’s a shame. They were a bit more exciting than the other crap. All you get now is shoplifting. Where’s the fun in that, Ben?’

They moved on to the Red Lion, a comfortable pub with somebody’s choice of seventies pop music piped discreetly into the bar, and a row of computer games. The landlord knew them both, and they got the first round on the house. It disappeared too quickly for Cooper’s peace of mind.

‘The CCTV cameras have cut out a lot of the other stuff, too,’ he said.

‘Bloody cameras. It’s a bit too much like Big Brother, if you ask me.’

Cooper was impressed by Weenink’s literary knowledge. He wouldn’t have put him down as a George Orwell fan. 1984 was one of Cooper’s favourite novels, along with Lord of the Flies .

Then he frowned. ‘We are talking about George Orwell, aren’t we?’

‘Never heard of either of him,’ said Weenink, and belched. ‘Is he from another division? I suppose you’ve met him at Police Federation meetings, or something.’

Cooper took another sip of beer. So Todd Weenink only read the TV pages in the Eden Valley Times , after all.

The third pub was the Station Hotel. They were heading downmarket now. There was no piped music here, no TV screens or bar meals — only a pool table and salt-and-vinegar crisps, and a jukebox full of heavy metal CDs. The customers all seemed to be wearing old Iron Maiden T-shirts. A woman walked past towards the bar in a pair of leather trousers.