‘Lucy, they’re just dogs. We’ve got a longer list of missing people who we haven’t even got time to look for.’

‘That’s not the point.’ She shook her head. ‘We’ve got enough to charge him with the dog-fighting stuff. But unless we can hit him with a decent theft charge too, he’ll get a tap on the wrist and then go home laughing.’

‘He had one or two pedigrees in his collection, didn’t he?’

‘Yes, but I’ve already checked and none of those marry up with anything registered as missing.’ She spread her paperwork on the desk and indicated a section that she’d previously drawn a square around in biro. It contained printed details, and a poor-quality black-and-white photo of a fluffball dog. ‘I was hoping to find this one, at least. Petra. A dyed-pink Toy Poodle, she disappeared two months ago from a back garden in Cotely Barn. Her owner reported a mysterious black van in the vicinity that evening.’

Beardmore rolled his eyes.

‘The point is that Petra originally cost her owner £650 when first purchased,’ Lucy said.

‘She definitely wasn’t in Mahoney’s kennels?’ Beardmore asked.

‘I think we’d know if we’d found a dyed-pink poodle.’

‘What about that shed where the dead ones were?’

Lucy shook her head, grim-faced. ‘She wasn’t there either. There’s another thing though. When Petra went missing, she was wearing a pink leather collar with diamond studs in it … that alone was worth two thousand quid. Ridiculous expenditure on a dog, I know. But if we could do Mahoney for that, he’d get a few extra months, if nothing else.’

‘And would it be worth it? For a few extra months?’

Lucy shook her head. ‘Stan … if you’d been there. If you’d seen what we saw …’

‘Okay, I know, I know.’ He looked frustrated. ‘I agree it’s a bag of shit … a bastard like Mahoney deserves the book throwing at him. He’d go down for five years if it was up to me. But we don’t make the law, Lucy. We just enforce it.’

‘I need something else. That jewelled collar at least—’

‘Excuse me, DC Clayburn,’ a voice interrupted. ‘There’s someone to see you out front.’

It was Daisy Dobson, one of the civilian employees who worked the station’s front desk. She was a tall, statuesque girl, with a mess of blonde hair and a permanently sour countenance. She might still have made a good impression in her smart shell-blue uniform, but she was also in the habit of chewing gum noisily. She stood impatiently awaiting a response.

‘Is it important, Daisy?’ Lucy asked. ‘Only … I’ve got a whole raft of prisoners.’

Daisy chomped on but didn’t move away. ‘I don’t know whether it’s important or not.’

‘In that case get rid of them,’ Beardmore replied. ‘We’re busy.’

‘It’s a nun,’ Daisy said.