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something when Cooper stood up and spoke, a note of urgency in his voice.
    ‘We need to examine these bones as soon as possible,’ he said. ‘We also need some light down here. George, see if you can rig up a generator on the surface. We can run cables down here and fix up some lights so we can see what we’re doing.’
    Kim had remained silent but now she got slowly to her feet, eyes fixed on the pile of bones before her. When she spoke her voice was low, subdued.
    ‘I think George is right. They are children’s skeletons. But where are the heads?’

 
     
     
     
Ten
     
    The dog snarled as the chain was pulled tight around its neck. It wore a heavy muzzle over its jaws and thick white saliva hung like glutinous streamers from its teeth.
    The dog was a bull terrier. Small and stockily built but possessing tremendous strength, its black body was slightly more streamlined than average but it lacked none of the musculature which made the breed so powerful. As it tugged on its chain the hair at the back of its neck rose in anticipation.
    ‘Keep still, you bastard,’ snapped Rob Hardy, jerking the chain once more, almost pulling the dog over.
    As he spoke, Hardy looked past the men near him to where another group of men were gathered, and amongst them he recognized Vic Regis. He was also holding a dog, another terrier, a brindle dog which was slightly smaller than Hardy’s but no less ferocious in appearance. It too resembled a spring about to uncoil with tremendous ferocity. The dog was making little noise except for the low breathing which Hardy could hear. It reminded him of damaged bellows.
    Another man sat on one of the hay bales which had been used to construct the makeshift arena. He was in his early thirties, tall and thin-faced with a pitted complexion and dark stubble which defied even the sharpest razor. His eyebrows were also thick and bushy and met above the bridge of his nose, giving him the appearance of perpetually frowning. He was holding a thick wad of money in his tattooed hand.
    ‘Vic wants to lay a side-bet of fifty quid,’ said Mick Ferguson, scratching one cheek with the rolled-up cash. ‘Just between you and him.’
    ‘I’ll cover it,’ said Hardy without hesitation. ‘I’ve been training this dog for three months. Even I’m scared of him.’
    Ferguson laughed and held out his hand for the ten fivers which Hardy pulled from his pocket.
    ‘Are you in for a slice of that too?’ Hardy asked.
    ‘What do you think?’ Ferguson said. ‘I set up these little shows, don’t I? I reckon that entitles me to some of the proceeds.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Come on, let’s get started.’
    Ferguson got to his feet and walked to the centre of the fighting area. The old barn smelt of damp straw and neglect, mingling with the more pungent odour of sweat from both humans and animals.
    He guessed that there were a dozen other men besides himself in the dilapidated barn. Its beams were seething with woodworm and the roof leaked when it rained, but the place was perfect for its present purpose. It was about three miles out of town and half a mile from the nearest road. Motorists driving to and from Longfield came nowhere near it, and anyone who thought of turning into the old dirt track was usually discouraged by the sign on the heavy gate which proclaimed PRIVATE: KEEP OUT.
    Ferguson thought how lucky he had been to find this place. Up until then he hadn’t dared to stage dog-fights within a twenty-mile radius of Longfield. The coppers in the area knew him well enough already. He’d done a two-year stretch in Strangeways for theft and another six months for receiving. They’d also lifted him for GBH on one occasion, but the case had been dismissed for lack of evidence.
    The idea of dog-fighting had come to him after attending a coursing meet one Sunday morning. Two of the greyhounds, after killing the hare, had begun fighting between themselves and one had been blinded in the ensuing battle.