Cooper and Fry Crime Fiction Series Books 1-3: Black Dog, Dancing With the Virgins, Blood on the Tongue

‘Not in here,’ said Wilford.

The three old men climbed carefully out of the cab, creaking as they straightened their legs. Harry put his arm round Sam and helped him down the step until he could support himself with his stick.

‘Bloody hell, what’s that?’ asked Sam as a ripe, musky stench slithered across the yard and grabbed the back of his nostrils. ‘It smells like someone’s been sick and set fire to it.’

‘Ah, that’s the billy,’ said Scrubby. ‘He’s in breeding condition a bit early this year. I reckon the young ‘un can smell him all right.’

A rapid smacking sound was coming from the back of the pick-up. The goat was wagging her tail so fast it was beating a tune on the metal sides. She was straining at her tether until the collar bit into her neck deep enough to choke her. She yelled again when she saw Wilford.

‘Are you going to mate her now? Can we watch?’ asked Sam.

‘’Course you can. I don’t even charge for tickets.’

The goat tugged them over to a low stone building, not much bigger than a pig sty, with an enclosed yard on two sides. The building seemed to be the source of the smell. The three old men bent to peer through a small opening into the gloom of the shed. They could make out something large and hairy moving restlessly inside, pawing at the gate with its hooves and rubbing its head on the walls.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Sam. ‘He’s got a pair of bollocks on him as big as your prize turnips, Wilford.’

The goat looked suddenly as though she might change her mind and go home.

‘Come on, Jenny,’ said Wilford gently.

Together, they pushed the goat into the yard and Scrubby drew back a bolt on the door. They let out a concerted breath as the billy emerged, steaming and snorting. He was twice the size of the young goat, with a powerful chest and a dense, matted coat. He had thick, twisted slabs of horn curling on to the back of his head like gnarled tree roots, and along his spine the hair was going thin, revealing grey patches of flaky skin, tough and wrinkled like the hide of an elephant. The two goats began to circle together, sniffing excitedly at each other’s rear ends. The billy’s top lip curled back to expose his bare upper gum in a grotesque, leering grin as he savoured the scent of sexual promise.

Scrubby was looking curiously at Harry, scratching at his beard and tugging at an old bit of baling twine lashed round the gate of the enclosure.

‘I heard you’re the bloke who found that lass that was murdered over your way.’

‘Aye, news travels well round here.’

‘It’s a bit of a funny do that, isn’t it?’

‘Bloody hilarious,’ said Harry.

‘I saw her picture in the paper. Bashing her head in is about the last thing most young blokes would want to do with her.’

‘Oh aye?’

‘Don’t you think so?’

‘She was only fifteen,’ said Wilford, without looking round.

Scrubby seemed to recognize something in the tone of the reply.

‘I suppose so,’ he said.

In the enclosure, the billy was trying repeatedly to manoeuvre himself into a position to mount Jenny from behind, but the goatling was getting frisky. She was lighter on her feet than the billy, and every time he approached her she skipped away, turning to face him, then trotting off again, her tail wagging provocatively. The billy was growling from the back of his throat with his mouth hanging open, producing a deep moan like a wild animal in pain. He kicked at Jenny with his front hooves, smearing dirty marks on her flanks. As he got more frustrated, he began to gobble excitedly. His tongue flopped out of his mouth and saliva flew. The feet of the two goats were churning up the surface of the enclosure, and dust coated the white hair on their legs. In avoiding the billy, Jenny tripped, stumbled to her knees, got up and skipped away again.

‘It doesn’t look like she’s cooperating,’ said Scrubby.

Sam nodded. ‘Playing hard to get.’

‘She’s only a young ‘un,’ said Wilford. ‘She doesn’t know what’s happening.’

‘She has to stand still, though.’

Scrubby reluctantly climbed over the fence into the enclosure. The billy growled at him, then returned his attentions to the nanny.

Next time the young goat came within reach, Scrubby grabbed her by the neck and pulled her towards him. He twisted her collar until he had her in a stranglehold, with her face turned up towards him and her eyes rolling in alarm. She was panting by now, her nostrils pink and flaring and her sides heaving.

‘You have to do this sometimes with the young ‘uns,’ said Scrubby. ‘They get the hang of it after the first time. The old chap there knows what he’s about, though.’

The billy glared at him once, then took a few short steps and launched himself on to the young goat, digging his hooves hard into her sides and throwing the weight of his hairy body on to her back. Scrubby hung on grimly, tightening the nanny’s collar so that she couldn’t escape. She began to moan and whimper, and her breath came in short gasps. The billy balanced himself on her bony pelvis and thrust into her. The young goat’s back legs buckled, and she began to collapse under his weight. Scrubby hauled her forcibly upwards to keep her off the ground. The billy thrust three more times in rapid succession, then tossed back his head and gradually slid off. It was over.

Scrubby eased his grip on the goatling’s collar, and she began to cough spasmodically. Her legs were trembling and a string of white semen dripped from the bare patch of skin on the underside of her tail.

There was silence for a moment, except for the painful coughing of the goat.

‘She didn’t enjoy that much,’ remarked Wilford in a strange voice.

‘She’s just immature, that’s all.’

‘Is that it, then?’

Jenny crouched and a stream of pale yellow urine hit the dirt. The billy stepped forward to sniff at the stream, then began to lap at it eagerly with his long tongue. The old men screwed up their faces and shuffled uneasily.

‘I’ll just hang on to her for a bit, while he gets his breath,’ said Scrubby. ‘Then he can have another go.’

The three men were quiet in the pick-up on the journey back to Moorhay. The visit to Bamford seemed to have subdued them.

‘Reckon she’ll be all right?’ said Wilford, as they climbed the hill out of the Hope Valley.

‘He looked as though he knows his animals,’ said Sam.

‘It seems hard on them, when they’re so young. She was a bit innocent.’

‘Innocent?’ said Harry. ‘She was screaming for it all the way there, wasn’t she?’

The others nodded uncomfortably, and Sam gave a painful cough. He looked exhausted by the drive, and had lost his willingness to make a joke. Wilford stared grimly through the windscreen until Harry spoke again as they breasted the rise that looked down on to their own valley.

‘I think,’ said Harry, ‘I might tell them a bit of what I know, after all.’

Sam and Wilford nodded again. After that, nobody spoke all the way home. And nobody sang.

14 (#ulink_4d49bddb-530c-5675-af03-f017ad5aac58)

Ben Cooper and Diane Fry emerged from their showers damp and tingling, and drank a fruit juice in the rugby club bar before heading back to Edendale. Cooper had seen a glimpse of Fry’s flat in Grosvenor Road, and he thought he knew why she had been so easy to persuade with an excuse not to go home. But she could not know his own reason, and so far she had shown no curiosity. She did, however, want to talk about work, to go over the day’s results.

‘God, that Moorhay place,’ she said. ‘Is everyone round here as stroppy and awkward as that? The Dickinson man was the worst. Unhelpful or what?’