The Running of the Deer Read online

“Miranda, grab that off him.”

  Miranda Hunter was a quick study, so in the space of seconds she’d weighed up the potential benefits of obeying her temporary boss, versus her likely physical injury if she attempted to prevent the chocolate and caramel feast from entering Liam’s maw of a mouth. Safety won out.

  “Sorry, sir, too risky.”

  Craig gave a grunt of disgust at her disloyalty. The emotion was heightened by Liam’s unsubtle wink at the inspector and his obvious lack of sympathy for Craig’s angst.

  “What’s the problem, boss? I eat all the time.”

  “I’m aware of that, and that’s between you and your arteries, but you’re not eating in my car.”

  Liam’s guffawed. “I always eat in your car!”

  “Not in my new one you don’t. I don’t want it turning into a pigsty like the last one.”

  The D.C.I. scoffed at the words. “Oh, aye, and whose fault was that? It looked like you had ten people living in the boot by the time you ditched it.”

  “Exactly my point.”

  Now, how long Craig had been planning his next action might never be revealed, but the exchange had been accompanied by the lowering of his electric window, Liam’s bluster usefully covering the noise, and, as they turned sharp right approaching the entrance to the farm where the local veterinary surgeon had his office, the D.C.I. lurched sideways and Craig moved swiftly to seize the Mars Bar and hurl it out, leaving the chocolate treat disappearing in their rear view mirror and Miranda Hunter not knowing whether to laugh or hide.

  Craig saved her the trouble of deciding, unable to stop himself chuckling at Liam’s immediate offence.

  “Let me out! I’m going back for it.”

  But Craig was already accelerating away, so Liam tried a threat instead.

  “Littering’s a crime.”

  “Arrest me then.”

  At that moment Craig stopped listening, focusing instead on the impressive driveway they were travelling down. Its smooth sandy soil was flanked on either side by stretches of white fence, bordering two fields full of horses so beautiful that they seemed almost wild. When they’d reached the end, he stopped the car and drank in his surroundings before turning back to his deputy, braced for the onslaught.

  To his surprise Liam said nothing, pursing his lips as tightly as a Victorian temperance chartist and climbing out, making Craig feel immediately guilty and rush to try and soften the blow.

  “I promise when the car’s not new anymore you can eat chocolate in it.”

  The D.C.I. wasn’t mollified, exiting the car in silence and striding towards a sign that said ‘Raymond O’Boyle, D.V.M. Veterinary Surgeon.’

  Miranda was still sitting in the back seat, shaking her head in astonishment.

  “You think we’re odd, Inspector?”

  “That’s not the word I’d use, sir.”

  Craig shrugged and motioned her to climb out.

  “You’ll have got used to us by the end of the case. Then you’ll be sorry to see us go.”

  He didn’t hear her response.

  By the time they arrived at the sign, its owner had appeared and was already speaking to Liam. Craig extended his hand to shake.

  “D.C.S. Craig, and this is Inspector Hunter. D.C.I. Cullen, you’ve already met.”

  The thirty-something man nodded cheerfully at the local inspector. “Hi, Miranda. You coming to the St Patrick’s dance on Saturday night?”

  “I might do.”

  It was accompanied by a blush that said the two were more than just acquaintances. Craig already had enough squad romances to deal with in Belfast, so he moved the conversation swiftly along.

  “I understand that you have ten deer heads, brought here yesterday by the police.”

  O’Boyle shook his head. “Sorry, no. I don’t. I viewed them at the scene when I was called, but they were collected and taken to a government facility almost immediately.”

  Craig’s forehead furrowed. “A government facility? Where, and what sort? And who authorised them to take the heads?”

  In lieu of answering, the vet turned towards his office, but instead of entering it he walked down an alleyway that Craig hadn’t noticed at its side. It led to a two-storey brick extension, and while Craig hadn’t had sufficient time to imagine what its interior might have looked like, he would never have pictured the stainless-steel equipped, sealed room that they found.

  The detective gazed around him, impressed.

  “This is very high tech.”

  O’Boyle nodded. “We’re a farming community and animals are worth big money. We take good care of them.” He jerked his head towards a filing cabinet. “I also look after the dogs and horses for the whole police force, and any endangered wildlife-”

  Miranda cut in. “As well as all the small animals and horse racing stock. There are a lot of breeding stables around about.”

  It added up to a man who knew what he was about. O’Boyle moved on, opening an inner door. It led them into a room filled with X-Ray screens.

  “You got X-Rays of the deer heads?”

  The vet shook his head. “Sorry, no time before they commandeered them. Just some photographs.”

  He flicked on the lights at the bottom of the screens and they appeared. The images had been taken from different angles and distances and showed dull-pelted animal heads, each severed from its body with a rough blade. When they’d looked for long enough O’Boyle switched off the screens and ushered the police officers from the extension.

  “It’s too cold in here to talk. Let’s go to my office.”

  They followed him into the main surgery where he handed around hot drinks and began to talk.

  “OK. From the brief look I had I’d say that they were all Red Deer, and the nine that were hollowed out had been dead for decades-”

  Craig cut him off. “All killed at the same time?”

  “No. I’d say they were killed in batches. Some had been killed a long time ago, say thirty or forty years ago, and some slightly more recently, perhaps in the last ten to twenty years. But I couldn’t say how long exactly without taking a closer look. The tenth one, the one that wasn’t hollowed out, had been killed very recently, probably around the same time as the boy. What I can tell you is that all the deer were stags. In Red Deer that means males of at least five years old. And they were all killed in the early to mid-spring, if that’s any use to you?”

  Miranda looked at him quizzically. “How do you know that, Ray?”

  “Because they all had mature antlers. Antlers are only found in males and they lose them in the late spring and then start to regrow them. So, for the antlers to have been as full as they were, they would’ve had to have been killed not long before the end of spring.”

  Miranda raised a point. “Spring equinox?”

  “That’s not for another ten days.”

  Craig frowned, not sure whether the information meant anything or not and unable to think of a useful question on it, so he just noted it and moved along.

  “How were they decapitated?”

  The veterinarian shuddered. “Slowly and painfully, while the animals were still alive.”

  Craig was getting fed up with the sound of his own voice, so he looked to the others to chip in. Liam still had his lips pursed sulkily, so Miranda obliged in his stead.

  “How do you know they were alive, Ray? And do you know what they used to kill them?”

  “Blood coagulation in the small vessels says that they bled out slowly. An immediate death wouldn’t have left any time for the blood to clot. That rules out a clean shot to the heart, and we know there were no shots to the heads, so either they were stabbed or shot accidentally somewhere in the trunk and took time to die from it, or it was done deliberately so they would suffer a slow death.”

  “And removing the heads?”

  “They used a large knife in a hacking motion, so the animals would definitely have suffered, unless they were sedated first.”

  Craig fel
t nauseous and he was missing his deputy’s expertise, all the more so because Liam knew a lot about animals, having grown up on a farm. There was only one thing for it.

  He rose to his feet.

  “Would you excuse me one moment?”

  Before O’Boyle could answer he was out the door and into the reception area, where he’d spotted a vending machine. Much rummaging for coins later he reappeared in the office and pushed a Bounty Bar roughly into Liam’s hand.

  “They didn’t have any Mars Bars, so that was all I could find. Of course, you know you’re behaving like a big child, don’t you?” When there was no answer he gave a sigh of defeat. “Now, will you please tell us what you think?”

  Liam was wise enough to allow himself only a small smirk of triumph before he slid the chocolate bar into his pocket and turned towards the vet.

  “Who owns the deer?”

  “Strictly speaking no-one. They’re wild. In the past, some Duke or Earl would probably have laid claim to them, cheeky bugger, but we don’t have many of those now. There are four main breeds in Ireland, although some have interbred. Red Deer form the largest group, followed by Fallow, Sika and Muntjac. The Red Deer has been living wild here since three thousand B.C., mostly around Kerry, the other breeds were mainly brought here between the twelfth and seventeenth centuries. Deer are a protected species in Ireland under the Wildlife Act of seventy-six, amended in two thousand.”

  “What about in the UK? I suppose… strictly speaking… that’s where we are.”

  The distinction stuck in Liam’s throat; he was a United Irelander through and through. The moment he’d asked the question something else occurred to him.

  “Here, that’s a point, boss. How do we find out if the deer came from the south or here? And more importantly, will they have to carry a deer passport once Brexit’s done its thing? The thing is, where would they keep it? Maybe they could be specially bred to have pouches like kangaroos.”

  Craig rolled his eyes. They’d been debating Brexit for twenty months in the squad-room and there was at least another year’s worth of jawing to go. But now wasn’t the time for that discussion, so he ignored Liam’s constitutional shit-stirring and turned back to the vet, who was still smiling at the kangaroo quip.

  “Are the rules different in the UK?”

  O’Boyle nodded.

  “Yes, slightly, depending on the region. But generally, wild deer are to be left alone unless they’re destroying crops, and even then there are very strict rules about what you can do. I’m not up to speed on them, but I can-”

  Craig waved him down. “Don’t worry, our analysts will check them out.”

  He nodded Liam to continue. He’d bribed him to speak with chocolate, so he intended to get his money’s worth.

  “OK, so where are they usually found in the north and how do they live?”

  “West and north-west mainly, usually in the uplands and forests. You see a lot of them around here. Red Deer are primarily grazers: grass and heather, especially in winter, and dwarf shrubs if there are any. If the weather’s harsh enough they can migrate to nearby farmland to feed on the crops, usually at night, but I haven’t heard of that around here. Have you, Miranda?”

  She shook her head. “Not since I’ve been here, and believe me, the farmers wouldn’t be slow to complain if it had happened. They moan if there’s a ‘Y’ in the day. I’ll check the records to see if it ever happened in the past.”

  Craig nodded. Before they could rule out some local Old MacDonald running rampant with a shotgun decades’ before, they needed to check.

  Liam went on with his questions.

  “Does anyone keep track of them? Counting them, I mean, like they do with rare birds.”

  The vet’s heavy eyebrows shot up. “You mean tagging them?”

  “Aye. You know, like the way they put rings round bird’s legs.”

  O’Boyle and Hunter burst out laughing simultaneously.

  “Have you seen the size of some of these animals? This isn’t Bambi we’re talking about, you know. They could kill you.”

  Liam flushed slightly. “Ach, well, I didn’t think about that.”

  “Especially during rutting season in September and October. You wouldn’t want to get between a stag and a doe then. Especially while they’re-”

  Craig waved him down. “Point taken.” He changed the subject. “Have you seen anything like these decapitations before?”

  The vet shook his head. “Not in my time, but I’ve only been here five years. The vet before me, Anders Lokken, still lives locally, so maybe you should ask him?”

  “Great. Write down his address, please, and the location of the government facility as well, if you know it. We need to pay them both a visit.”

  Liam had another question. “Lokken? That’s not from round here is it?”

  O’Boyle gave a smirk. “Nope, he’s Norwegian, but he’s been here a long time. And I should probably warn you, he’s a wee bit weird.”

  “Weird how?”

  The vet glanced at him mysteriously. “You’ll see.”

  As he continued scribbling, Craig re-ordered his schedule: one, retired vet, two, call Davy, three, check out the government facility, and finally check in with John and Des back at the morgue.

  ****

  The C.C.U.

  Aidan Hughes didn’t have the sense that God had given him, or even enough of it to regret his rash words when they were out. Whether it was stupidity or a deliberate belt and braces approach to his decision to give up smoking, marching back in to the squad-room and announcing, “I’ve given up”, within Nicky’s earshot, gave the statement the weight of a signed surrender at the close of war.

  To the recipients’ ears those words were final, irreversible unless you sought renewed bloodshed; irrevocable without a fresh declaration of conflict. Whether the D.C.I. knew that or not was something that there would be time to ponder later, but as the word “given” emerged from Aidan’s mouth, Annette knew instantly what would follow and shook her head frantically to prevent him doing something that he would regret. Not that he would ever regret giving up smoking, of course she was all for that; she’d been a nurse for years and seen the damage that it did. The memory of an old man who was dying of lung disease lifting his oxygen mask to suck on a cigarette despite the danger of the gas setting him on fire had always remained with her.

  That pensioner had been their poster boy for desperation and addiction, and she would never wish anyone that she cared about to end up the same way. But, while of course she wanted Aidan to quit smoking, she didn’t want to see him caught in a trap, and telling Nicky, telling anyone that he had given up in fact, might well create one for him. It was a recipe for him being advised, nagged, guilted and chastised, not to mention pilloried if he slipped even once, never mind failed.

  But too late, the words were out now, and she wondered whether Aidan realised that there was no way back. So, before Nicky, already on her feet and halfway across the floor, could make him seal the deal in blood, Annette appeared beside the D.C.I., placed her hand beneath his elbow and suggested firmly that they take a walk.

  They were ten floors down in Barrow Square before Aidan realised that it wasn’t about a case and that he had absolutely no idea why he and Annette were heading for the river. When they reached the edge of the Lagan the ex-nurse spoke first.

  “Congrats on giving up, but you shouldn’t have done that.”

  The D.C.I.’s long, perma-tanned face creased in a puzzled frown. “Done what?”

  “Told Nicky. Told anyone in fact. You’d have been better just deciding to give up and doing it quietly.”

  “Why?”

  Her eyes widened at his naivety.

  “Because now Nicky will make your life hell if she even catches a whiff of smoke off you! What if you weaken and have a sneaky one? What if you even stand beside someone else when they’re having a quick puff? She’ll smell it right away, and then it’ll be lectures and dirty looks an
d she’ll be off buying you nicotine patches and books and stuff. Not to mention what Liam will do once he hears you’ve quit. He’ll start taking bets on the date that you fail!”

  Aidan’s face fell as the reality of what he’d done hit home. “Oh, hell…”

  Annette nodded solemnly. “My advice would be to go straight back up and say you were only joking, then I can help you privately to give up. I was a nurse for thirteen years and I did some addiction counselling. Mike will help as well if you need it. There’s lots of things you can do: your GP, hypnotism, counselling, nicotine patches and gum, etcetera. You could buy some of those on your way home.”

  She turned and started walking back to the C.C.U., beckoning him to hurry.

  “Quickly now, before it sets like concrete in Nicky’s brain. Because if it gets to that point, then you really will be sunk.”

  Chapter Eight

  The Police Mortuary. Tyrone.

  John Winter encircled the child’s frail wrist with his thumb and forefinger, shocked to find it a loose fit. The boy’s teeth and bone growth said that he was mid-teens, but his size and weight were those of a much younger child, and the laxness of his skin said that the cachexia hadn’t just been a recent state of affairs. Wherever this nameless adolescent had lived his last years he had been almost starved.

  The pathologist swallowed hard for a moment and searched for his composure, using it to propel him systemically through the external examination portion of the PM. Like all medical students he’d resented the seemingly endless lists and procedures that he’d been forced to memorise, but it was at times like this that rote-learning and protocols came into their own. When emotion threatened to throw you off course they kept you moving steadily ahead. But still…

  He allowed himself a moment’s break, lifting his eyes from the young body on the table to look again at X-Ray screens. The images made for grim viewing; every rib had a break somewhere in it, and the only long bones to survive unfractured were the boy’s femurs, their density even in a child this slight sufficient to survive whatever pressure he’d been subjected to as he’d taken his final breaths.