fill the vacuum.
‘I’m Detective Constable Sparkington and this is Detective Inspector Priest,’ Dave began. ‘We have reason to believe you are in possession of a dangerous dog, namely a pit bull terrier, and may be in contravention of the Dangerous Dogs Act of 1991. Mind if we come in?’
‘Er, yeah,’ he replied. ‘It’s a pit bull cross. I always keep ’im on a chain and muzzled when we go out.’
‘Where is he now?’ I asked.
‘Down in the cellar. That’s where I keep ’im. Must be fast asleep or he’d be barking ’is ’ead off.’
‘What’s he called?’
‘Bruno.’
‘Can we come in?’
I’ve seen worse flats lived in by the brightest and best that the education system throws up, so I was mildly surprised by Bratt’s downstairs room. The difference, I thought, was that he was a long-term tenant, not just passing through. He sat on the settee, which he’d recently vacated if the copy of the People strewn across it was anything to go by, and Dave and I made ourselves comfortable on hard chairs that didn’t match. There was a faint odour of dog and cannabis in the room.
‘Do you have a job?’ I asked.
‘Not properly,’ he replied. ‘Barman at the Lamb … the Lamb and Flag. Three nights, that’s all.’
‘The Lamb and Flag,’ I echoed. ‘You may be able to help us there. Have you ever come across Andy? He drinks in the Lamb, we’re told.’
‘No. Never heard of ’im.’
‘He deals in the occasional motor, if that helps.’
‘No, sorry.’
‘Do you draw benefits?’ Dave asked.
Bratt coloured up and stared down at his knees. ‘Yeah, some. Is that what it’s all about?’
‘No, we’re not interested in your benefits. We’re here about the dog. Where was it at about six o’clock on Saturday evening?’
‘With me, I think. Yeah, with me.’
‘What were your movements?’
He’d driven over to the Sylvan Fields to see his Uncle Carl and taken Bruno along for the ride.
‘So who can corroborate that you were there?’
‘Audrey can.’
‘What relation is Audrey?’
‘Sean’s half-sister.’
‘And Sean is …?’
‘Carl’s half-brother.’
I grinned at him, asking: ‘Can you do us a chart with all these on?’
He grinned back. ‘Blame Sean and Carl’s mother. She has seven kids from six different dads, including one set of twins.’
‘Do you bother with birthdays?’ I asked.
‘No.’
‘So did you come straight home or did you stay?’
‘I stayed. She was … you know … upset.’
Yeah, I thought. Upset like the crew of Apollo 13 were when the ’chutes opened. So the caring Mr Bratt stayed to comfort her.
Dave said: ‘Is Bruno difficult to handle? Could anyone handle him?’
‘No. Just me. They’re OK, dogs like ’im, but you can’t trust ’im. You’ve got to let them know who’s t’boss.’
‘Why do you keep him?’
‘Protection. Nobody’s touched my car since I got Bruno. And he’s a good pet. I like dogs. You knowwhere you are with them.’
‘And you don’t with people?’
‘No.’
Dave said: ‘Do you ever lend him out?’
He looked puzzled, then said: ‘No, never.’
‘Not even to your Uncle Carl?’
‘No.’
‘Could he handle him?’
‘No. Well, only on a lead and muzzled.’
I wondered if it was the dog that wore the muzzle or Uncle Carl. I said: ‘So Bruno only goes out with you?’
‘That’s right.’ He looked awkward as he said it.
I turned to Dave, who pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. ‘Where were you on the morning of last Tuesday? That’s the fifteenth, if it helps.’
He shuffled his feet and hunched his shoulders. ‘No idea. Nowhere special.’
‘Try harder.’
‘In bed, I s’pose. I don’t get up until about ten on a Tuesday. I’m normally still a bit hung over.’
‘What about Thursday third of May?’
‘No idea. Well, here, I s’pose. I never go anywhere except to Uncle Carl’s and the Lamb. Walk in the park, sometimes, that’s all.’
Dave read out
‘I’m Detective Constable Sparkington and this is Detective Inspector Priest,’ Dave began. ‘We have reason to believe you are in possession of a dangerous dog, namely a pit bull terrier, and may be in contravention of the Dangerous Dogs Act of 1991. Mind if we come in?’
‘Er, yeah,’ he replied. ‘It’s a pit bull cross. I always keep ’im on a chain and muzzled when we go out.’
‘Where is he now?’ I asked.
‘Down in the cellar. That’s where I keep ’im. Must be fast asleep or he’d be barking ’is ’ead off.’
‘What’s he called?’
‘Bruno.’
‘Can we come in?’
I’ve seen worse flats lived in by the brightest and best that the education system throws up, so I was mildly surprised by Bratt’s downstairs room. The difference, I thought, was that he was a long-term tenant, not just passing through. He sat on the settee, which he’d recently vacated if the copy of the People strewn across it was anything to go by, and Dave and I made ourselves comfortable on hard chairs that didn’t match. There was a faint odour of dog and cannabis in the room.
‘Do you have a job?’ I asked.
‘Not properly,’ he replied. ‘Barman at the Lamb … the Lamb and Flag. Three nights, that’s all.’
‘The Lamb and Flag,’ I echoed. ‘You may be able to help us there. Have you ever come across Andy? He drinks in the Lamb, we’re told.’
‘No. Never heard of ’im.’
‘He deals in the occasional motor, if that helps.’
‘No, sorry.’
‘Do you draw benefits?’ Dave asked.
Bratt coloured up and stared down at his knees. ‘Yeah, some. Is that what it’s all about?’
‘No, we’re not interested in your benefits. We’re here about the dog. Where was it at about six o’clock on Saturday evening?’
‘With me, I think. Yeah, with me.’
‘What were your movements?’
He’d driven over to the Sylvan Fields to see his Uncle Carl and taken Bruno along for the ride.
‘So who can corroborate that you were there?’
‘Audrey can.’
‘What relation is Audrey?’
‘Sean’s half-sister.’
‘And Sean is …?’
‘Carl’s half-brother.’
I grinned at him, asking: ‘Can you do us a chart with all these on?’
He grinned back. ‘Blame Sean and Carl’s mother. She has seven kids from six different dads, including one set of twins.’
‘Do you bother with birthdays?’ I asked.
‘No.’
‘So did you come straight home or did you stay?’
‘I stayed. She was … you know … upset.’
Yeah, I thought. Upset like the crew of Apollo 13 were when the ’chutes opened. So the caring Mr Bratt stayed to comfort her.
Dave said: ‘Is Bruno difficult to handle? Could anyone handle him?’
‘No. Just me. They’re OK, dogs like ’im, but you can’t trust ’im. You’ve got to let them know who’s t’boss.’
‘Why do you keep him?’
‘Protection. Nobody’s touched my car since I got Bruno. And he’s a good pet. I like dogs. You knowwhere you are with them.’
‘And you don’t with people?’
‘No.’
Dave said: ‘Do you ever lend him out?’
He looked puzzled, then said: ‘No, never.’
‘Not even to your Uncle Carl?’
‘No.’
‘Could he handle him?’
‘No. Well, only on a lead and muzzled.’
I wondered if it was the dog that wore the muzzle or Uncle Carl. I said: ‘So Bruno only goes out with you?’
‘That’s right.’ He looked awkward as he said it.
I turned to Dave, who pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. ‘Where were you on the morning of last Tuesday? That’s the fifteenth, if it helps.’
He shuffled his feet and hunched his shoulders. ‘No idea. Nowhere special.’
‘Try harder.’
‘In bed, I s’pose. I don’t get up until about ten on a Tuesday. I’m normally still a bit hung over.’
‘What about Thursday third of May?’
‘No idea. Well, here, I s’pose. I never go anywhere except to Uncle Carl’s and the Lamb. Walk in the park, sometimes, that’s all.’
Dave read out
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