Which they would no doubt soon find, Lucy reminded herself. In addition to the dog-fighting offences, she’d also arrested Mahoney on suspicion of theft – i.e. having stolen the missing dogs – which had empowered them to perform a thorough search of his premises. Right now, as Lucy and Mahoney spoke, Malcolm Peabody and one or two other uniforms were still down at Wellspring Lane, going through the property inch by inch.

‘Do you want to know what’s really funny, though?’ Mahoney said.

‘Funny?’ Lucy replied.

He leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘You’ve come in here thinking: “Gonna teach this bugger a lesson. He’ll try and wriggle out of it, but we’ve got him. Gonna fucking wallop him.” And yet … I’ve not tried to wriggle out, have I? I’ve coughed to it. Because you and me both know the worst I’m going to get for this is six months.’ He grinned again, mouth filled with brown, shovel-like teeth. ‘Like I said, I could use the holiday.’

He sat back again, his grin broadening.

‘Done you like a pair of brain-dead kippers, haven’t I?’ he said. ‘Because you now reckon you’re going to lay a few theft charges on me. You’re thinking, “The only chance we’ve got of sticking this bastard somewhere the sun doesn’t shine is to prove that he’s pinched some of these dogs, especially these pedigrees because they’re worth a bob or two.” I bet you’ve got a list in your back pocket of a load of missing dogs, haven’t you? I’ve heard the stories too. House pets getting lifted all over Crowley by this evil black van.’

He gave Lucy a long appraising stare.

‘I wonder, DC Clayburn, if you’ve actually verified yet whether any of those missing pooches marry up with any of those in my kennels … or are you just guessing that’s the case? Because if it’s the latter, bad luck.’ He laughed again. ‘And to pre-empt your next dumbfuck question … no, I don’t own a black transit van. I’ve got three vehicles, and I’ve got documents for all of them. But don’t bother looking around my place for this mythical black van, because you’ll just make bigger arses of yourselves than you already have.’

DI Stan Beardmore, Lucy’s divisional supervisor, was an easy-going guy in his mid-fifties, short and squat, with a head of neat, snow-white hair, and a habit of wearing shabby tweed jackets over his smart shirts and ties. At present he looked nonplussed.

‘I don’t understand the problem,’ he said. ‘The bastard’s coughed to everything.’

‘Trouble is, he’s right, isn’t he?’ Lucy replied from the other side of the connecting office between Custody and the front desk. She whipped a folded print-out from the back pocket of her jeans. ‘I’ve got a whole raft of animals here that aren’t accounted for.’