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They were about to call it a day and head back to the station a bit early when Gerry Masterson rang A
“Where are you?” Gerry asked. “Where are you right now?”
“Wensleydale,” said A
There was a pause at the end of the line. For a moment, A
“Have you visited Stirwall’s yet?”
“No. We’re saving them for tomorrow.”
“You’re not so far away.”
“No, but—”
“I’m sorry to do this, guv, really I am, but I think you should go there now.”
“Gerry, what’s going on? It’s been a crap day, to put it mildly.”
“I know, I know. And I’m sorry. But I’ve been checking reports and speaking on the phone all day, and Stirwall’s reported a penetrating bolt pistol stolen about two years ago. We need more details.”
A
“It needs an official visit. There’s always something else comes up you’d never think of on the phone. Employee records, for example. Someone might have some names for us. Besides, you’re a senior officer on the case.”
A
“I’m really sorry.”
“Forget it. Got a name for us?”
“Ask for James Dalby. He’s the head supervisor, and he’s there waiting for you.”
As A
“What’s up, Dougal?” she asked. “Hot date tonight?”
“Something like that,” said Wilson. “Actually, it’s my sister’s eighteenth-birthday do. We’ve booked a table at that new steak restaurant in town.”
A
“Aye. Smelling like an abattoir, no doubt.”
“Well, you’ll be eating steak for di
“Ha-ha,” said Wilson, then he scowled and looked out of the window at the dark gray moors.
Soon the long squat shape of Stirwall’s loomed before them. There had been complaints that it had been built too close to the nearby village, and residents complained of the smell and noise at all hours of the day and night. But it was still there, still operating. Stirwall’s was one of the larger abattoirs in the area, too, with vans coming and going at all hours, stacks of boxes on pallets in the yard.
They parked in the area marked vISITORS and asked the first worker they saw where they could find James Dalby. He pointed to the front doors and told them to turn left up the stairs and they’d find Mr. Dalby’s office on the first floor.
They thanked him and walked toward the open entrance. The outside of the building was surrounded with lairages, as one of the workers at the previous slaughterhouse had called them, holding pens where the animals languished awaiting slaughter. At the moment, some of them were full of lowing cattle and others were being sluiced out according to health regulations before another batch was led in.
The smell got worse inside. And the noise. As each animal came individually through a chute from the lairage, it was rendered unconscious by a knockerman’s bolt gun, then strung up by its hind legs on a line. Three monorails of dead animals slowly moved down the length of the abattoir. At each stage of the way, slaughtermen performed their specialized tasks, such as slitting the throat for bleeding, spraying with boiling water to loosen the skin, then the actual ski
A
Dalby was a roly-poly sort of fellow in a rough Swaledale jumper, with a ruddy complexion and a shock of gray hair. “Sit down,” he said. “Sit down. I apologize the place is such a mess, but I don’t get a lot of visitors.”
A
“I’ve just been speaking with a DC Masterson,” said Dalby. “Nice lady. Terrible business, this, though. One wonders where to begin.”
“How large is this operation?” A
“Stirwall’s is a large abattoir,” Dalby replied, leaning back in his swivel chair and linking his hands behind his neck. “We employ about a hundred perso
The lambs, A
“We manage to keep busy. We’ve a good number of meat processors to supply. Not to mention butchers and supermarkets.”
“As you’re aware,” A
“That’s right,” said Dalby, nodding gravely. “We did report the theft to the police at the time.”
“What exactly were the circumstances?”
“It was a penetrating bolt pistol. This model.” He took a loose-leaf binder from his desk and flipped to a picture for her. It was exactly the same as the kind the forensics people said had killed Morgan Spencer.
“Where was it kept?”
“There’s a metal cabinet fixed to the wall down on the floor where we keep all our stun guns.”
“Locked?”
“Of course.”
“Who has keys?”
“Well, I do. The supervisors do. And the knockermen and slaughtermen, of course. I mean, to be honest, almost anyone down there can get to them if he wants.”
“That sounds very secure.”
Dalby gave her a suspicious look. She knew her sarcasm wasn’t lost on him. Nor was it appreciated. “It worked,” he said. “We’ve only had the one theft in sixty years.”
“It’s enough,” said A
Dalby narrowed his eyes and peered at her. He didn’t look so roly-poly anymore. “You don’t approve of what we do, do you?”
“Whether I approve or not is irrelevant.”
“Right. Yes. I thought so. You’re one of them there vegan tree huggers, aren’t you?”
A
“Right, the bolt gun. Well, as I said, it’s the penetrating kind.” He leered. “Know what that means?”
A
Doug Wilson looked up from his notes. “I wouldn’t use i