The Grass is Greener (13 page)

‘Take Elsa there.'

She glanced at the piece of paper. Above the address located in Northbridge was a name, The Quiet Gentleman.

‘It's a pub,' Peter went on to explain.

It had to be the same place in Northbridge he'd mentioned to Bronwyn.

At Claudia's pointed look, he added, ‘It's not dangerous, I promise you. It has a good reputation, besides being a public place. Go in the middle of the day if it makes you feel better and give Elsa to the manager. His name is Frank Jerome.'

Her eyes narrowed on him. ‘And then what?'

‘And then I can put this all behind me.' Peter frowned.

‘Put
what
behind you?'

‘None of your business.'

Claudia glared at him. ‘It is very much is my business if it causes you to threaten my friends.'

‘Look,' he glanced nervously at the doorway, where the guard was standing, ‘Elsa and her pups are very valuable. They are part of a deal I made with someone else.'

Claudia frowned. ‘A stud owner.'

‘Yes,' he said tightly. ‘Bronwyn was very helpful with caring for Elsa but now I think it's in her best interest to give Elsa back.' He leaned forward. ‘Her
very
best interest.'

Claudia did not like the way he kept glancing at the guard by the door. The guard had his back to them but he was close enough to hear what they were saying. All her lawyer senses were on high alert. It felt like Peter Goldman was being cautious because he was talking about something illegal. She decided to try a different tack.

‘The stud owner wouldn't happen to be Leon McCall, would he?'

If Peter had been pale before, he now had no colour at all. He pursed his lips together. ‘I have no idea what you're talking about.'

‘Bruce Carle is a friend of his, isn't he?' Claudia pressed. ‘Seems to me like you've been in a bit of trouble with Mr Carle. That's why you're in here, isn't it?'

‘Bruce Carle,' Peter began bitterly, ‘is a brainless thug who –'

‘Also happens to be a murderer.' Claudia tapped her foot. ‘He's not scared of going above and beyond for his employer.'

Peter was silent.

‘You're going back to Casuarina soon,' Claudia continued tentatively. ‘What will Leon McCall do if he doesn't get his pups?'

Anger and perhaps fear made Peter Goldman foolish. ‘It's too late, Leon knows Bronwyn Eddings has his pups. Bruce would probably have passed that on by now. He'll get Elsa back one way or another.'

Claudia's heart sank.

So Bruce had roughed up Peter to find out where Elsa was and Goldman had given up her friend's name.

Nice.

So what was she supposed to believe? Organised crime was after Bronwyn and her pregnant bullmastiff? It seemed like a little too much bad luck even for Bronwyn, who, let's face it, was always getting drawn in by people like this.

The other question was, why?

It did seem like an awful lot of trouble for one dog and its puppies. Why were they so valuable?

What was an illegal activity that involved dogs? Bullmastiffs in particular?

In this case, her past participation in animal rights protection stood her in good stead. Of all the sickening activities conducted to amuse the criminal mind, blood sports were her least favourite.

‘Ugh! This is not about
dog fighting
, is it?'

The prison guard turned around and gave them both his full attention.

The sport was an abomination. Dogs raised in cruel conditions and made to fight each other to the death or face torture from their owners. Words could not describe the
disgust she felt. So typical of the coward, to prey on innocents who couldn't protect themselves – to wage pain for pleasure or gambling.

Peter seemed to shrink into himself at her accusation. ‘Don't be a fool. Elsa is not a fighting dog. You've met her, haven't you? She wouldn't hurt a fly.'

‘Doesn't mean she can't breed with one, does it?' Claudia said. ‘She's a nice big size, good breed for that sort of sport.'

Peter's eyes darted nervously once more towards the prison guard, who was starting to get very interested in their conversation. ‘All conjecture,' he said to the guard rather than to her. Claudia ignored the remark.

‘Was that your deal, Peter? Perhaps you owed Leon McCall money and you couldn't pay, so you let his stud mate with your dog.'

This explained the vicious-looking scar on Elsa's back. Peter refused to speak further. He kept his gaze firmly fixed on the window, which was not a very good avoidance tactic given it was closed and the blinds were drawn. She could completely see his weakness. The selfishness. The willingness to sacrifice the wellbeing of innocent animals to live to play again. He was a skinny, pathetic white-collar criminal who had taken too many shortcuts. He may not intentionally seek out violence but now it had come to collect him. As far as she was concerned dog fighting was worse than any other crime he was already in jail for, and if she could add it to his record she would in a heartbeat.

‘Do you think that if you don't answer my questions you are safe from the law?' Claudia hissed. ‘Just because you don't tell me what I want to know doesn't mean I won't keep digging until I incriminate you and anyone else involved in this disgusting sport you happen to be part of.'

She turned on her heels to go. It was only then that Peter called after her.

‘Try your luck if you must. It'll get you nowhere.'

The second she got home that evening she called Bronwyn. Her best friend had to know what was going on. There was no way they could send Elsa back now. If anything, they had to somehow round up this dog-fighting ring. It was the only way Leon McCall would stop looking for what was owed to him.

It was way past dinnertime, so she didn't think she'd be interrupting a meal with her parents present. As it turned out, Bronwyn was in the middle of a poker game with Chris.

‘When did your brother get to be such a flirt?' Bronwyn asked. ‘He's far more outrageous than he used to be …'

‘You mean when Jack was around,' Claudia said bitterly.

‘I suppose so.'

‘He's had to adapt to his wheels and I guess he reckons that means being larger than life. He doesn't mean half of what he says.'

‘Oh, I know!' Bronwyn laughed. ‘Considering I've seen him make the same comments to some of your mother's female restaurant staff. He seems to have turned into quite the Don Juan.'

Claudia rolled her eyes. ‘Yeah, maybe, but that's not why I called.'

Bronwyn's voice turned serious. ‘No, I can imagine. How did things go with Peter?'

‘Not good.' She quickly outlined the interview and the conclusions she had drawn from it. When she was done, there was silence.

‘Are you still there?'

‘I think I'm going to be sick.'

Claudia shut her eyes. ‘Just breathe. Count to three. And then you'll feel like helping me put these bastards away instead.'

As if on cue, Bronwyn burst out, ‘There is no way in
hell
I'm handing Elsa over to anyone. He really had me fooled, Claud. He looked so devastated when he was telling me that his wife wanted to put Elsa down. I really believed him. I even felt sorry for him.'

‘He probably was devastated!' Claudia responded bitterly. ‘It's likely he was pretty scared about not being able to pay his debt. He had to complete the transaction to avoid the fury of Leon McCall. Hell, the guy is in prison and McCall was still able to get him bashed up.'

‘Are you absolutely sure it's dog fighting we're talking about here?'

‘No, that's just my suspicion. I need further proof and, honestly, I don't know how I'm supposed to get it.'

Bronwyn sucked in a breath. ‘In the meantime, I've got organised criminals trying to locate Elsa. Claud, you've got to see if you can dig up more on this. What about that pub? Is that a lead of some sort?'

‘Yeah,' Claudia bit her lip, ‘I'll see what I can do. Can you sit tight for a little longer?'

‘Sure, but should I tell your family about this?'

‘Hold off.' The last thing she wanted was her blind father and brother in a wheelchair getting too brave. ‘I'll see what I can dig up first.'

 

Unfortunately Claudia had absolutely no luck with her investigation on Bronwyn's behalf. The pub actually turned out to be rather nice. Not dark and dingy at all, with huge windows letting in a lot of light at the front. Just to be ultra-safe, she went to visit it one lunchtime during work hours. Using the local bus service, Northbridge was only a five-minute ride out of the city.

The pub had an immediate cowboy feel to it when she walked in the door. A polished dark wood bar ran the length of the left wall with timber floorboards and stools to match. All the spirits and wine were visible behind the bar on shelving that reached to the ceiling. Automatically, she searched for her family's label and was relieved not to see it there. She'd rather Oak Hills wasn't supplying a ring of animal tormenters if they could possibly help it.

As it was lunch hour, the pub was three-quarters full with a variety of patrons, from a wizened old man and his wife to a couple of guys in suits clearly from the accounting firm down the street. There were the usual ‘no hopers' around the pool table, covered in tats and leather with no jobs to go to. There was also a bunch of young women enjoying a birthday lunch – at that table the alcohol was flowing freely.

Claudia went straight up to the bar where two men were serving drinks and taking orders for meals. She looked at the menu – a blackboard on the wall. The dishes were a little heavy for her taste but she had to order something. The man who walked over to serve her was in his early twenties. Dark hair, black T-shirt, jeans, heavy silver chain around his neck.

‘I'll, er … I'll have the beef burger please.'

‘With salad or fries?'

‘Definitely salad.'

‘Did you want a drink with that?'

‘Um … a Diet Coke.'

‘Sure.'

After she paid him, he turned to get her Coke out of one of the waist-high bar fridges and frowned.

‘Hey, Frank!' he yelled up the counter, ‘we're out of Diet Coke.' He turned back to Claudia. ‘Is normal okay?'

She nodded hastily, glancing back towards the man he had addressed. A man who yelled out ‘Noted, Jet' in response.

So that was Frank Jerome.

He was significantly older than the man called Jet, who was serving her. Probably early forties, with a gut that slightly sagged over his belt. The black T-shirt and jeans certainly flattered his figure much less. He wore his hair long and sported a beard. It was hard to say whether he looked like a dog-fighting ringleader, though who knew what a man with a fetish for animal abuse typically looked like? She supposed she couldn't straight-out ask him if he was or if he knew Leon McCall because that would break her own anonymity. As far as Leon
and his guys were concerned, Bronwyn Eddings was their girl. Claudia Franklin wasn't featuring on their radar yet and she was hoping to keep things that way.

She ate her lunch quietly in a corner of the bar, spending the time observing the room, which, frustratingly, didn't turn up much. Frank and his mate ran a smooth bar, with the exception of the lost Diet Coke order. The patrons weren't acting suspiciously either and none of them had dogs with them.

After lunch, she headed out the back of the pub where the toilets were located and had a quick glance into the oily kitchen on the way through.

Apart from a few obvious hygiene issues that would horrify her mother, Claudia didn't think she could catch them out on anything else. There was one more door, right at the end of the corridor, which led outside to the back of the building. With a quick glance around to make sure no one had noticed her, she stepped over the threshold and into what seemed to be a private car park. It was bitumen right up the side of the restaurant, fenced all around and gated at the top – clearly a separate spillover car park that wasn't being used. Right by the door she had just come out of was a brick shed with a roller-door entrance but no windows. There was a blue skip bin sitting beside it, currently empty.

With another surreptitious glance about she tried the roller-door handle. Locked. This garage or storeroom was the only place she hadn't been able to check properly. If it was full of extra tables and chairs then she'd have to admit defeat, but if there were dogs inside …

She shuddered, remembering the horrific cases she had heard of in the news and read about on the internet. Dogs being chained up for hours on end, sometimes not fed properly, to bring out their aggression. Some owners injected their dogs with steroids to bulk them up or make them mad for a fight. She could not understand how anyone could tolerate this abuse, let alone inflict it themselves in the name of sport.

Urged on by these thoughts, she put an ear to the roller door, trying to hear movement.

‘What are you doing back here?'

With a start, she spun around, her heart slamming against her ribcage.

‘Er … Hi.'

It was Frank, with a garbage bag full of empties over this shoulder. He'd stepped out of the back door and was eyeing her crossly. Hastily, she shuffled away from the roller door.

‘I … er … was just looking for the toilet,' she said quickly, hoping the tremor in her voice didn't give away the fact that her heart was beating so fast she was starting to feel light-headed.

‘Well, it's not in there,' he snapped, walking towards her and dumping his load in the skip bin. ‘It's back inside on your left.'

‘Of course. I'm blind as a bat sometimes.' Smiling rather ineffectually under his steady glare, she hurried past him inside to the ladies bathroom. Passing through the swinging door, she swiped a hand over her damp brow as she caught sight of her frazzled appearance in the mirror.