‘Dangerous, whoever they are…’

‘Headquarters insist on psychobabble. Assessing risks. The killer’s mental state. Does he pose a risk to human life? Little kids wouldn’t stand a chance.’

His stomach lurched again, thinking of Violet, eager, trusting, reckless, more like Lizzie every day. If she’d lived, would his sister have children? Stella’s daughters were older, played in the village with friends. Were any children safe? With a headcase like this on the loose, all parents lived in fear.

Shrinks and profiles could wait. Right now, they had to clear the site, leave nothing for the hovering ghouls and vultures. Tape fluttered, red and white, warning onlookers to keep away. They did not. Half a dozen or more perched on the by-pass bridge. Some had climbed trees. They were all chattering, texting, filming. Cautions cost time and money, supplies of both were in freefall. On site, they’d almost finished. Blood and other debris had been collected and bagged. Faint and almost shapeless footprints had been measured, recorded. On hard frozen snow, the prints had made little impression, didn’t look like any kind of shoe. No spikes, no chains… Casts might reveal more. Fighting revulsion, Lazonby forced himself to take one last look at what was left of the dog. Torn guts had spilled their contents. The stench of blood and bowels was sickening, foul in the pit of his stomach, but his own record must be made, the bizarre scene of crime report dictated. He was still giving orders, warning the two young constables, daring them to breathe a word. Not the press, not TV, not any of their friends. They’ll know soon enough, but for godsake, don’t invite them. The ban was futile and he knew it. Young officers had to obey him. Nobody else would. Journalists were hungry for new stories, preferably not sex, celebrities, politics or God, in any combination. The latest Arctic weather was no longer remotely interesting, though it must be somebody’s fault. The tabloids would love this latest horror. In grisly forensic detail, so would all the posh papers. Serial killers never went out fashion. Silence of the Hounds? Killing only dogs, this one was weirdly different and remarkably skilful too. There was something for everybody. Bunny huggers could weep, bunny boilers could taste the blood and gloat. Ordered to move on, onlookers took hundreds of grisly photos, flashed them across the world. Florists should be happy, but where would the dog-adoring British public lay their wreaths? Around street corner doggy-bins?

PC Phoebe Carlyle was comforting one of the onlookers, a woman, sobbing, sickened. She’d come too close, seen too much. Gently, Phoebe led her away. She’d taken charge of the woman’s own dog, a white miniature poodle. Bewildered and trembling violently, the poodle cowered at Phoebe’s feet. They were moving to a nearby car. Phoebe handed over the dog. The woman managed a faint smile. One distressed onlooker, carefully managed, her name taken. Lazonby approved. Now he was watching the other new constable, PC Sam Bellingham. Sam shuffled his puppy feet, size twelves at least. Imperceptibly, the boy withdrew a guilty hand from his phone, resisting the all too human need to share this horror. Nothing had been said, no discipline breached, this generation talked round the clock, wired to the world. Silence and discretion were hard lessons to learn. Phoebe said:

‘More deaths than one, sir? This wasn’t a frenzied attack. Every one of those injuries could have been fatal, but the point is, they’re clean. Surgical cuts. He knew exactly what to do.’

Six A grades said Oxbridge, every kind of Maths, and Physics, Chemistry, Biology. Joker in the pack was Law. Phoebe’s quiet tenacity baffled most adults. Quietly, tenaciously, Phoebe insisted on the police. Degrees could wait, sometime or even never. Wait and see… If she was good, the police might even fund her. Right now, she’d learn her job. Over the past couple of months, Lazonby had been trying to get the measure of Phoebe. She never argued, never disobeyed, asking questions so rarely, they had to be answered. PC Carlyle treated him as an equal. She wasn’t supposed to do that. Lazonby almost smiled and the girl read this as encouragement. He could guess what was coming next, so close to what Stella had said.

‘I wonder how they’ll decide the cause of death? Loss of blood, obviously, but which wound? They all look fatal. Heart ripped out, but when? Someone seriously disturbed… Is there a risk his next victim could be human?’

‘Or the one after that.’ Sam had found his voice. He too had chosen the old, straight from school route into policing. PC Bellingham knew exactly what he wanted. Like his granddad and two uncles, he wanted to be a cop, here, in the world he knew.

More photos… Lazonby turned away, not squeamish, just sickened by the brutality. The dog, a cocker spaniel this time, had been drawn, quartered, flayed. Before any of these careful assaults, its dappled brown throat had been cut. Phoebe seemed to be struggling. So far, her self control was steely, but the girl did care, did feel pain, did rage against the pity of it. Tears welled but they didn’t flow. Lazonby saw and admired her self-control. Mad or merely bad, whoever had done this needed to be caught, asap, taken out of circulation. Prison or special hospital? He didn’t care what they called it, so long as the doors were locked. Others seemed to. On late night TV and Radio 4, the usual suspects argued about the failure of prison, the need for hope, for rehab, and even, for godsake, a prisoner’s need to live a normal life. Doing things like this? Right now, his team had to remove the bloody mess that used to be a dog. Tarmac would be easier to work with. He didn’t envy them… When the snow melted, blood would seep at last into the soft earth. No blood-red poppies would grow. In the hill country, poppies were yellow.

Phoebe couldn’t watch any longer, haunted by her own fears. The words had to be said. ‘Next time, it could be a child…’

Sam knew what had to be done.

‘We need to catch this villain. Find him, put him away, soon as, and keep him there. No parole. He’s not just sick. He’s dangerous. Sometimes, you’ve got to lock ’em up, throw away the key, and think about the rest of us. Protect the public, I mean… Heathcliff hanged Isabella’s dog. Not right in the head, see… He smashes Earnshaw’s head against t’slate floor, over and over. Times change. Headcases and villains don’t. Either way, you lock ’em up.’

Hard business minds thought Eng. Lit was a waste of time… Sam had studied Wuthering Heights, knew all about psychopaths now. Lazonby watched grimly as the dog’s remains were loaded into the van. Two of his team had arrived on mountain bikes. The others had shared one Land Rover. Now his eyes were on the youngsters. Phoebe was thinking far too much, her thin face too pale, lips almost colourless. For her, the hideous possibility was already real, a child, tortured and killed like this, made less than human, just as the dogs were barely dogs. Mutilated before or after death? Star pupil, Phoebe was on form, asking, almost eagerly, how they would know? According to all the books, injuries inflicted after death wouldn’t bleed, but this was different. Did the rules apply? It looked as if the still-living body had been torn apart. Blood loss had been massive. Cellular analysis might indicate how death had begun. Lazonby had written exsanguinated because no other word was appropriate. That was what had happened, every last drop of blood drained from the pale flesh. Answering his rapid questions, explained that each injury would have to be examined, possible weapons identified, the motive considered. If the victims had been human, they might call in a profiler, but for dogs…? Sam shrugged.

‘Motive? He’s a psycho, isn’t he? Bloody maniac. Descriptive, Sir, not swearing.’

Phoebe looked at him thoughtfully, wondering whether to challenge the pronoun. Sam grinned.

‘OK, sexist, unfair to blokes. In the interests of equality, she’s a psycho. Eats dogs for breakfast… More likely to be a bloke though, isn’t it, Sir?’

Lazonby rather liked being addressed as ‘Sir’. It no longer made him feel old. Newborn, his daughter had done that, over a year ago. Now Nicki was pregnant again. Which meant, surely, that they were grown-ups, real parents with nearly two children. Teachers in jeans started the ‘call me Tony’ rubbish, and look where that led. Teenage constables expected to call him Sir, expected distance, expected authority. One day, it would be their turn. Phoebe was the marked high-flier. Not a betting man, his own money was on PC Bellingham, a youngster with the sense to know his destiny. Sam was born to be a copper, expertly designed by nature for country crime. There was just one danger. Headquarters might try to fill his head with ideas, urge him to chase promotion, take more and yet more exams. Phoebe would be perfect for all that. Lazonby liked the girl well enough, but was she in the right place? Or even the right job? The brains and beauty combo wasn’t her fault but it didn’t do her any favours. Try as she might, local villains wouldn’t take her seriously and every officer in the county would want to sleep with her. Some of them would try.

Sam stood as close as he dared to the place where the dog had been. The body was gone, the drenching blood remained.

‘Turns me up, Sir, just thinking about it… The sooner we catch that headcase the better.’

Phoebe said, ‘He or she, what if they aren’t a headcase?’

Lazonby was listening, watching. How would Sam respond? Ridicule? Acceptance? Interest in a point of view? Sam, who’d struggled with two A levels, passed with honours. Phoebe had asked the question and it was Phoebe he answered, not anybody else. As if they were quite alone, he said, calmly,

‘The old mad or bad thing? Sane but evil? Ian Brady, the headcase in Broadmoor, Myra Hindley, evil killer, banged up? I don’t care. Not my job and never will be. Leave that to the shrinks and the lawyers. This psycho, sicko, evil bastard tears dogs limb from limb. The first two, it was only the DNA tests proved they used to be dogs. There’s your answer. Our job is catching the bastard. If you want to be a shrink, go off to uni and get a First.’