Stuart Pawson - Limestone Cowboy

But I miss the excitement. Filling in forms and finding the correct path through the ever-moving maze of regulations that beset the most routine, black-and-white investigation is not my idea of being a cop. It used to be fun. Now, you can find yourself on a fizzer if you don't put sugar in the accused's complimentary cup of tea. You are depriving him of his human rights and subjecting him to unnecessary hardship.

End of moaning — I wouldn't want to do anything else. I hung my jacket in the hall and went through into the kitchen, picking up the mail on the way. I was about to put it all in the bin when the postcard fell from between a World of Reading brochure (any three books on the occult for 99p) and a reminder from BUPA that I wasn't getting any younger. The card showed a yacht marina and a sea front, but as I'd never been to Cap Ferrat I didn't recognise the place. The message read:

Dear Uncle Charles,

Having a great time here in Cap Ferrat. Lots of old people but it's really nice. You'd like it. Love Sophie.

The world was ganging up on me, reminding me of my mortality, but I didn't mind. I smiled, pleased that she'd thought of me, and leaned the card against the telephone.

The beef in red wine that I'd bought earlier in Marks and Spencers needed twenty-five minutes in the oven; the vegetables only five minutes in the microwave. I set the oven to 190, switched it on and retrieved Rosie's telephone number from my pocket diary. She answered her phone just as I was beginning to wonder if she was in.

"Hello, Rosie," I said. "It's Charlie Priest, as in Roman Catholic."

"Oh, hello Charlie. How are you?"

"Fine. Top of the world. And you?"

"Not bad."

Hardly the enthusiastic response I'd been hoping for, but I plunged onwards: "Are we still on for tomorrow night? Mr Ho at the Bamboo Curtain is a friend of mine and I can guarantee something special."

"Um, no, Charlie. I'm sorry but I can't make it."

"Oh, that's a disappointment," I told her. "I'd been really looking forward to seeing you. Shall we make it some other time?"

"I'm not sure."

"Well I can't make up your mind for you."

"I know. I apologise for being so wet. I have something to sort out, Charlie. I come with baggage. I'm sorry but maybe we should just leave it."

"At our age, Rosie, we'd've had sad lives if we didn't have any baggage. The secret is to keep it hidden, most of the time.

Mine's in the loft, with a dustsheet over it. I don't look at it very often."

"You're lucky — mine won't go away."

"Maybe you should talk about it."

"No, I don't think so."

"OK," I said. "Let's leave it, but the offer's still open. Write my number down in case you change your mind."

I placed Sophie's card back in prime position, leaning against the phone, and returned to the kitchen. The little red light on the oven was still illuminated so I switched it off. I put the steak in red wine and the vegetables back in the fridge and made myself a mug of tea. I couldn't believe that the hesitant, apologetic woman I'd just spoken to was the same confident, humorous teacher of geology that I'd come to know, if only slightly, over the last twelve Wednesday evenings. Perhaps she'd given me the Misses Eakins' number as a huge joke, or maybe there are two Rosie Barracloughs hiding inside that trim figure. I don't know, I'm only a cop.

"It's a report of a post mortem that the RSPCA have done on a dog."

"A dog?" I reached forward and took the proffered sheet from Mr Wood's hand.

"That's right."

"The RSPCA?"

"That's what I said."

"Why has the RSPCA done a post mortem on a dog?"

"Well, Charlie, presumably because they wanted to know how it died. That's the usual reason for having a PM."

I scanned the two sheets of A4, not understanding most of the terminology but the gist of it coming through loud and clear. The poor creature had died an unpleasant death. I skipped the gory bits and jumped to the conclusions. It didn't mention dog-fighting but the stated that the wounds had been caused by more than one other animal, and there were signs of human intervention: namely the crude stitching of some earlier injuries.

"There are some vicious bastards about," I said, handing the report to Gareth Adey.

"Hanging's too good for them, if you ask me," Gilbert stated. He's a Labrador man.

Gareth placed the report back on Gilbert's desk, saying: "I'll ask the community liaison officer to ask around. It could be gypsies, travellers. There's a new bunch of them down on the Triangle."

"For God's sake don't upset them, Gareth, or they'll start quoting Europe at us. 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 weVe 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.