Napoleon Bones by Jenny Hobbs

Author:Jenny Hobbs
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781415205389
Publisher: Penguin Random House South Africa
Published: 2013-05-15T16:00:00+00:00

DOGS OF WAR

THE CAPE TIMES HAD A PAGE 1 HEADLINE on Monday morning: BRAZEN HEIST IN CITY CENTRE. Four perps had hidden in a doorway to intercept a dawn delivery to a diamond cutter’s workshop, then pulled balaclavas over their faces before disarming two dozy guards and forcing them to hand over a consignment of rough diamonds.

The Station Commissioner had scheduled a meeting of the Central Dog Unit that morning, and was in a state of fury when she stomped into the rec room, muttering, ‘Those damn Blackjacks.’

‘Are we being assigned to the hunt, ma’am?’ Malone was a dog handler with buck teeth and an over-supply of testosterone.

‘No! Today is about dog fighting. I will not have it on my patch. Got that? It’s savage. Dangerous. Those pit bulls will attack anyone if they get out – kids and drunks first. Your job before next weekend is to find out where the fights are held so we can crack down on the bastards who run them. We’ll also need vantage points for video evidence.’

The Station Commissioner glared at us in turn. Four handlers and their partners, four dogs and Constable Elise.

‘I thought dog fights only happened in the old days,’ she said.

‘Hayi khona.’ The Station Commissioner’s glare intensified. ‘Every Sunday. Organised dog fighting is a big money spinner in the townships. The saying goes, “No job? Get a pit bull.” SPCA reckons there are over a hundred breeders, owners and trainers in the Western Cape.’

‘Those brutes need training?’ someone asked.

‘Sure. The puppies may come from an aggressive bloodline but they aren’t born violent,’ she said. ‘They’re taunted and pumped full of steroids so they’ll attack anything and anyone. Owners goad them into a rage before pushing them into a pit to fight. Sometimes to death.’

Big G felt my shudder and his hand tightened on my neck. Spike’s shoe was jiggling. ‘Like gladiators,’ I heard him mutter.

‘There are secret pits everywhere,’ the Station Commissioner went on. ‘In backyards, hidden in the dunes and cemeteries, in empty swimming pools. Men and boys stand around enjoying the sport and betting which dog will kill or maim the other one.’

A growl started deep in my throat. Big G said, ‘They call this a sport?’

‘It’s also for status, like “My dog’s better than yours.” Puppies bred from champion fighters earn more every time their fathers win.’

‘Who are these guys, ma’am? Gang members?’

‘And gamblers. Even professionals. Take a good look at the men on the cellphone footage I’m about to show you. Sit down, please.’

There was a scraping of chairs as the handlers settled themselves to face the screen on the wall. What we saw made me sick to my stomach.

Two raging dogs thudded into each other, snarling and biting, clamping their jaws on and worrying until there was torn flesh and frothing, bloody spit. When they wouldn’t let go, their owners jammed sticks between their teeth to break the deadlock. One had a raw, red stump where his ear had been. When he shook his

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