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Authors: Sally Spencer

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BOOK: The Ring of Death
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‘I assure you, I'm not in the least concerned,' Langley told her, with a creditable degree of conviction, ‘and I have no idea why you should even have mentioned this farm.'
‘I mentioned it because you
own
it.'
‘I most certainly do not.'
‘Not on paper,' Paniatowski agreed. ‘At least, not at first sight. It's actually the property of United Holdings . . .'
‘Well, there you are, then. I have nothing to do with any such company.'
‘. . .  which is a subsidiary of United Holdings (International), which, in turn, belongs to Enterprises Incorporated.'
How had she made the link, Langley wondered miserably. How had she – a mere policewoman – managed to wade through the acres of legal gobbledegook, navigate the scores of dummy companies set up by the best minds in the business, and arrive where she had?
‘And who owns Enterprises Incorporated?' Paniatowski concluded triumphantly. ‘Why, you do!'
‘Perhaps you're right, and I do own this farm of yours,' Langley conceded. ‘But I own a great deal of property, both here and abroad, most of which I've never even seen.'
‘You've seen this,' Paniatowski said firmly.
‘Are you calling me a
liar
?' Langley demanded, going onto the attack.
‘Yes – and that's only for starters,' Paniatowski countered.
‘But that's outrageous! If you repeated it elsewhere, I could sue you for libel – and I would.'
‘You could sue me for
slander
,' Paniatowski corrected him. ‘But only if I couldn't prove it – and I
can
prove it!'
Of course she could prove it, he thought. It would take her no time at all to track down the builders and security consultants who'd done the work on Moors' End Farm – and they would lead her directly back to him.
‘I . . . I need to sit down,' Langley said shakily.
‘Good idea,' Paniatowski agreed. She walked over to the expensive leather sofa and gently patted the arm with her hand. ‘This looks very comfortable – and you might as well grab a bit of comfort while you still can.'
‘What do you mean?'
‘You
know
what I mean.'
Paniatowski stepped aside, and Langley slumped down onto the sofa.
‘Dog fighting is a sport, just like any other,' he said weakly, now it was clear the game was up. ‘It's been patronized by the aristocracy – and even the monarchy. The dogs enjoy it, too.'
‘Enjoy it?' Paniatowski repeated.
‘Fighting comes naturally to them. It's what they're born for.'
‘It's barbaric and it's illegal. And you're going to jail for it.'
Langley's lower lip quivered. ‘I'm more than willing to pay the fine. I don't care how much it is.'
‘You're . . . going . . . to . . . jail,' Paniatowski repeated. ‘The only question is, how long are you going to be inside? That will partly depend on what
I
say at your trial. And what I say at your trial will depend on how much you cooperate with me now.'
‘I'll tell you anything you want to know.'
Paniatowski nodded. ‘Good. Begin by telling me how it all got started.'
‘I suppose it started with the hunt,' Langley said. ‘No, it began even before that, with the Golf Club.'
‘What the bloody hell has any of that got to do with dog fighting?' Paniatowski demanded.
‘Please, let me tell it my own way, so you can see what tremendous pressure I've been under,' Langley begged.
‘So that you can make excuses for yourself as you go along, more like,' Paniatowski thought.
But why
not
let him tell it his own way? If she gave him enough rope, he would probably reveal more than he'd ever have done under direct interrogation. Besides, when she explained what a grovelling wreck he'd been in open court, it would only add to his humiliation.
‘Go ahead,' she said.
‘My difficulty has always been that some of the people who matter in this town knew me before I was rich, so they'll never really accept me for what I've become – what I've
grown into
,' Langley said. ‘Oh, they're nice enough to me at the Golf and Country Club. They even co-opt me on to their charitable committees, if I promise to make a big enough donation. But they don't
like
me. They don't
respect
me.'
‘I find that very hard to believe,' Paniatowski said.
‘And for quite some time, so did I. If I got the occasional hint of it, I managed to persuade myself that I was only imagining things. And then, one day, I overheard one of the other members, who I'd always thought of as one of my closest friends, refer to me as Bumptious Billy.'
‘Shocking!' Paniatowski said.
‘Yes, it is, isn't it?' Langley agreed. ‘I told myself it didn't really matter. They were just townies – no more than jumped-up members of the bourgeoisie. My true friends, I now realized, were my
country
friends – the people who are the real backbone of England.'
‘The landed gentry, like yourself,' Paniatowski suggested, and could hardly believe her eyes when Langley nodded.
‘I had been riding with the Lea Vale Hunt for some time when it was suggested to me that if I financed the new stable block I was virtually guaranteed to be elected as its next master.'
‘And, naturally, you were delighted,' Paniatowski said.
‘Of course I was. Who
wouldn't
want to be the master of the hunt. Unfortunately, things didn't work out as they were supposed to. There was a small dissident element on the committee, and while most of the members
wanted
to elect me as master, they were forced to accept a compromise candidate. It was a big blow, and I don't mind admitting it – and that was when I started developing an interest in dog fighting.'
It is the day after the hunt has appointed its new master. Edward Dunston – accountant and dog-fight aficionado – is amusing himself by sitting at the bar in the Golf Club and watching Sir William Langley, all alone, at a table near the window, getting quietly and desperately drunk. And then it occurs to him that there is perhaps more to be gained out of this situation than the mere sport of observing another man's misery – that if he plays it cunningly, he can solve one of his own little problems.
He gets up and walks over to Langley's table.
‘Mind if I join you, Sir William?' he asks.
Langley looks at him through bleary eyes. ‘No, I . . . sit down.'
‘I was sorry to hear that the hunt elected someone else as its master,' Dunston says, taking the seat opposite him. ‘You must be pretty cut up about it.'
‘Not at all,' Langley replies, unconvincingly. ‘I was the popular candidate, of course . . .'
‘Of course.'
‘. . .  but I was more than willing to step aside for the good of the hunt.'
‘Bloody liar!' Dunston thinks.
‘Well, I think the hunt's made a big mistake and will live to regret it,' he says aloud. ‘But you can't entirely blame the members.'
‘You can't?'
‘Certainly not. Ensuring that the right man's slotted into the right job is always a tricky business, and, more often than not, people get it wrong.' He pauses for a moment. ‘In fact, it's because we're so aware of that particular difficulty that my own little group is taking so long over selecting a leader.'
‘Your own little group?' Langley asks, with some signs of interest. ‘And what little group might that be?'
‘We're planning to establish a dog-fighting club.'
‘But isn't that illegal?' Langley exclaims.
‘Keep your voice down,' Dunston says, glancing across at the barman. ‘Yes, strictly speaking, I suppose it
is
illegal. But that says more about how our rights as Englishmen have been eroded than it does about anything else. Dog fighting is as much a part of the English tradition as fox hunting.'
‘I suppose it is,' Langley says thoughtfully.
‘Anyway, we have most of the elements in place to start the club, but what we're lacking is a
master
.'
‘Do dog-fighting clubs
have
a master?' Langley asks.
‘Of course they do,' Dunston lies. ‘As I said, they're as traditional as hunts. And let me tell you, the master of a dog fight is accorded just as much respect as the master of a hunt – if not more. That's why it's so important to elect the
right
man.' He paused for a second time. ‘Perhaps you can help us out here. Could you – with your wide range of contacts – think of anyone who might fill the role?'
‘Didn't you find it strange that while he was asking your advice on who to appoint, Dunston couldn't see that the solution to his problem was sitting right there opposite him?' Paniatowski asked.
‘Not really,' Langley said dismissively. ‘The man's a
bookkeeper
. He's got a good head for figures, but he's rather lacking in imagination. At any rate, when I proposed myself, he was delighted. He said he already had a property in mind for the venue – Moors' Edge Farm – and that now things could finally get moving.'
‘And you bought the farm with your own money?'
‘Well, yes, as the Master, it seemed only appropriate that I should do so.' Langley paused for a moment. ‘But you do get the point, don't you?'
‘What point?'
‘The whole thing was Edward Dunston's idea, so if anyone's going to be punished for it, it should be him.'
The man was beneath contempt, Paniatowski thought.
‘What did
you
get out of it?' she asked aloud. ‘Did you enjoy seeing dogs being ripped to shreds?'
‘No, not really,' Langley admitted. ‘Sometimes it got so bloody that I had to turn away. But once the fighting was over – once the blood had been spilled – ah, that was bliss!'
‘What happened then?'
‘That was when they had the loyal toast. Everybody there – and I mean every single man-jack of them – would raise his glass or his can of beer in the air and shout, “To the Master!” They were drinking that loyal toast to
me
!'
‘They were laughing at you, just like the men in the Country Club and the hunt,' Paniatowski thought. ‘They were taking your money, and
laughing
at you.'
‘How did Andy Adair come into the picture?' she asked.
‘Adair had only just moved to Whitebridge, but Edward Dunston knew him from dog fights they'd both attended in other parts of the country, and he said that with Adair's experience, he would be the ideal chap to run things for us.'
‘And even though Adair was already working for Forsyth, he couldn't resist the opportunity to make a little bit extra on the side,' Paniatowski thought.
‘One of my bright young officers pointed out that there were no Catholics amongst your members,' she said. ‘Was that Adair's doing?'
‘Yes. He hated Catholics with a vengeance, and he'd only agree to take on the job if we promised to keep them out.'
‘Tell me about Simon Stockwell.'
Langley looked puzzled. ‘There's not much to tell. He was just an ordinary member.'
‘So why did the killer single him out for execution?'
‘I don't know. I didn't give it much thought. Some maniac had killed a member of the club and left his body in my grounds. That alone was
more than enough
to think about, thank you very much.'
‘And Len Gutterridge?'
‘Why are you asking about him?'
‘Because he was killed last night – and so was Edward Dunston. We found them both in the Whitebridge Rovers' stadium this morning – naked and on all fours, just like the others.'
‘Oh, my God,' Langley moaned. ‘This is terrible.'
‘Yes, you're probably right,' Paniatowski agreed. ‘At any rate, Dunston and Gutterridge didn't look too pleased about it. But you still haven't answered my question.'
‘What question?'
‘I can understand why the killer chose Adair and Dunston as his victims – Dunston set the club up, and Adair ran it – but what reason did he have for singling out Stockwell and Gutterridge?'
‘I don't know,' Langley admitted. ‘Unless it had something to do with the dog.'
‘What dog?' Paniatowski demanded.
Len Gutterridge walks into the club with a Staffordshire bull terrier on a lead. The dog seems bemused by the whole situation, yet eager to please the man who brought it out for a walk – and, even to Langley's untutored eye, it doesn't look like the usual fighting dog at all.
Gutterridge brings the dog over to where Langley and Dunston are standing.
‘You're never planning to enter that thing in the fight, are you?' Dunston asks. ‘It's not got the instinct. It'll not last five minutes'
‘It's a good dog, this,' Gutterridge protests. ‘Full of fighting spirit. But no, I wasn't planning to enter it into the fight
myself
.'
‘Well, then?'
‘I thought the club might like to buy it off me. I thought
the club
might like to enter it.'
Dunston and Langley exchange glances. Neither of them wants the club to buy the dog, but Gutterridge – for all that he is as guilty as anyone else in the room – is still a policeman, and it might be wise not to cross him.
BOOK: The Ring of Death
12.7Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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