Kill Call (28 page)

‘Prison? For not having the right bit of paperwork for your horse?’

‘You offend the bureaucrats at your peril.’

‘God, I’m beginning to think Matt and Claire were right about easy targets,’ said Cooper, dialling his next call.

‘What, Ben?’

‘Oh, nothing.’

‘… I guarantee, if the gypsies have your horse and you don’t have a passport for it, the police will not take it off the gypsies. Possession is nine-tenths of the law. So off to Appleby they go. I tell people to get the feet post-coded if they breed their own.’

‘What’s a flesh mark?’ asked Luke Irvine, in between calls of his own.

‘A patch of pink skin on the horse’s face. It’s hairless in summer, so it shows up as a distinctive mark.’

‘Thanks.’

‘… I suppose she’s gone for pet food, or glue.’

‘And what the heck’s a Prophet’s Thumb?’

‘A small indentation on the neck. Like a thumb mark in putty.’

‘Really?’

‘If you ask me, that wasn’t really the purpose of horse passports. They were actually for the benefit of the pharmaceutical industry, and the vets. To make sure medicines like Bute don’t have to be withdrawn from market.’

‘Why?’

‘They haven’t been tested to see how long they take to withdraw. So the only way of being certain they don’t enter the human food chain is by not slaughtering any horses that have been treated with them. It’s overkill, almost certainly. But that’s the way our authorities like to do it in this country.’

Then Cooper found one case where a horse had been sent out on loan, but was slaughtered without the owner’s knowledge. How on earth could that happen? He was about to find out.

‘Yes, Starlight was a fourteen-year-old gelding. He’d been with us for about six years, but he was suffering from arthritis, and I decided he’d have to be retired. I browsed some of the local papers, and I came across an advert. It said something like: Wanted. Horse or pony as a companion. Need not be sound. Small fee paid. Knowledgeable home.’

‘Do you still have a copy of the advert?’

‘Yes, I’ll find it for you.’

‘So you contacted the advertiser?’

‘Yes, and arranged to visit her farm to see the facilities. To be honest, I was quite impressed with the set-up. Her idea was that Starlight would be a companion to an in-foal Arab mare she had. I saw the mare, and she was in beautiful condition. The stables were better than mine, and the paddocks were bigger. It didn’t occur to me that I could have anything to worry about. I delivered Starlight on the understanding that he’d be there for a two-month trial period. From the start, I thought it had been made clear that this was a loan arrangement and didn’t involve a change of ownership. I got on well with the woman, and we agreed not to bother with a fee. We kept in touch. I fact, I phoned her a couple of weeks before … well, before it all went wrong. She told me Starlight was fine.’

‘How did you know something was wrong?’

‘I was reading that same newspaper, and I saw a “for sale” advert for the Arab mare. Since Starlight was supposed to be the mare’s companion, alarm bells started to ring. I went straight to the farm, but there was no sign of Starlight. I reported him stolen to the police. They didn’t seem very interested when I explained the circumstances. But it was theft, wasn’t it?’

From the sound of her voice, Cooper could tell that the tears had begun falling as soon as she started talking, and she made no attempt to disguise her distress over the fate of her animal.

‘I kept going back to the farm until I found the woman in, and confronted her. I know I should have got a proper loan agreement drawn up from the start. I realize that now. But she seemed so nice, and the place was just perfect. I only wanted the best for Starlight. It was theft, pure and simple. The destruction of someone else’s property for financial gain. I’m right, aren’t I? I can’t believe that anyone could be so evil. There are just no words to describe what she did. It’s barbaric. If she didn’t want him any more, she could have called me and I would have gladly taken him home.’

When Fry got back to the office, Cooper broke his calls off to give her the details of his last victim.

‘I’ve just phoned the local police in Staffordshire about this one,’ he said. ‘The woman who took the horse was called Annette Wood, and she never denied that she sent Starlight to the abattoir. But she claimed the horse wasn’t on loan to her but was hers to do with as she saw fit. Without any evidence to the contrary, it came down to a question of one person’s word against another’s. And you know how hopeless that is in court.’

‘What about the abattoir?’ asked Fry.

‘They confirmed that a skewbald gelding arrived in a batch of horses delivered to them a week before Christmas. They were brought in by a man who said he was Annette Wood’s brother-in-law.’

‘Patrick Rawson?’

‘Correct. They’d dealt with him before, so they had no reason to be particularly suspicious. In fact, they claimed ignorance in the whole matter. All the police could establish was that the abattoir gave Rawson between four and five hundred pounds for each horse. The correct paperwork was filled out and, as far as the abattoir knew, the horses were signed over by their owner or the owner’s agent. They cooperated with the investigation. There’s no allegation against the abattoir, and no suggestion that the horses were maltreated at any stage.’

‘And no charge against Rawson?’

‘The problem was establishing a chain of events. Without that, it wasn’t even possible to consider pressing charges. Of course, it was mad not to have had a proper loan agreement in writing from the start. It should have specified whose authority was needed before the horse could be destroyed. A verbal agreement is worthless in evidence.’

‘So Rawson did the deal.’

‘That was his speciality – dealing. He would buy and sell, always to his own advantage. He worked with the abattoirs all the time, places like Hawleys.’

So that was at least one woman who had been taken advantage of. All she’d wanted was a good retirement home for her beloved horse in the last years of his life. How many more owners were there who’d had similar experiences? The list of people who had reason to hate Patrick Rawson was growing rapidly.

‘Couldn’t uniforms help with some of this?’ asked Murfin.

‘They’re more used to looking for stolen cars.’

‘In some ways, finding a missing horse ought to be a lot easier than locating a stolen car,’ said Cooper.

‘Why?’

‘Look at this – each horse now has its own passport containing a full description – silhouettes from front, back and both sides, showing the colour and all the animal’s markings. Whether it has a stripe, a blaze or star. Exact placing of whorls and feathers. Its microchip number, freeze brand, its height, age, the colour of its hooves. That should help, surely? You don’t get that level of description for any car.’

‘And you can’t exactly give a horse a re-spray and change its number plates.’

‘Also, it’s possible to consult NED for information on the identity of horses in the UK.’

‘NED? For goodness sake.’

‘The National Equine Database. You can get microchip numbers and freeze brand information.’

‘We’d have to find someone who knows the difference between a skewbald and a piebald.’

Fry was gathering her phone and car keys, pulling on her jacket.

‘Where are you going, Diane?’

‘I’ve still got a call to do on my own list. One of Patrick Rawson’s business contacts: Senior Brothers in Lowbridge.’

Fry couldn’t quite believe Rodney Senior’s appearance. No one still had sideburns like that, surely? They must be a joke. He was probably wearing false ones for a fancy-dress party later that day. Some event with a Dickensian theme. He was going as Mr Micawber, or Bumble the Beadle.

To find him, Fry had picked her way carefully across a muddy concrete yard where several livestock transporters were parked, following the sound of hissing water. Then she saw a cloud of spray rising from one of the vehicles, and found a man in boots and blue overalls at work. She had to call his name twice over the noise to get his attention.

‘Aye, Rawson rang on Monday and said he might need some stock transporting later in the week,’ said Senior, turning off a power hose he’d been using to wash out a wagon. ‘I never heard from him again.’

He had broad, rough hands, which dangled aimlessly at his sides when they had nothing to do. The backs of those hands were astonishingly hairy, and a thatch of hair burst from the top of his open-necked shirt, like the down from an overstuffed mattress. Of course, the sideboards were real, too. Fry had no doubt about it when she got a bit closer to him.

‘Did you think that was odd?’ she asked.

‘Odd? No.’

‘Didn’t you hear that he got killed?’

‘It was on the news.’

‘So?’

Senior just looked at her, as if she was speaking a different language. He didn’t bother to ask what she meant.

‘So you still didn’t think it was odd?’

‘I just thought that whatever deal he was doing must have fallen through. It happens.’

‘But what about the timing? You lost some business through his death, Mr Senior.’

Streams of filthy water ran out of the sides of the transporter and down a steel ramp. Senior gestured at Fry with a yard brush.

‘We’ve had business from Rawson for years, but I wasn’t sorry to hear we won’t be doing his transporting again. I never liked the bloke myself, and I don’t mind admitting it.’

Well, that was some form of communication, at least.

‘What did you object to about him?’ asked Fry.

‘He was a bit too smooth for my liking. Fancy talker, always trying to get one over on you, if you know what I mean. I prefer plain speaking, myself. I gave him a bit of plain speaking once or twice, too.’

‘You had disagreements? Why?’

‘Disagreements? That’s a big word for it. I told him to bugger off a couple of times. He was forever trying to knock us down on price, or put off paying for a few months. That’s no good for a business like ours. If he’d tried it again, I would have told him where to stick it.’

Senior loped up the ramp with his brush, moving in a stooped kind of way as his feet pushed against the ridges in the ramp. Fry supposed they were designed for the hooves of livestock to grip on, but Senior seemed equally at home in his work boots.

‘When he phoned on Monday, he must have told you what he wanted transported?’ said Fry.

‘Oh, aye. Horses. It was always horses with Rawson.’

‘Did he say where you were to pick them up from?’

Senior thought for a moment. She had obviously asked him a tough one, because his brow wrinkled ferociously. With his hairiness, large dangling hands and that slight stoop as he walked, there was a simian look about him. Fry was reminded of an illustration from a textbook on the theory of human evolution. Senior came from somewhere halfway along the scale, just after Homo erectus had stood upright for the first time and lost the sloping forehead.

‘Now then,’ he said, as if that was somehow an answer.

‘Perhaps you wrote it down,’ prompted Fry impatiently.

But Senior shook his head. ‘Nay. I’ll remember. He didn’t give an exact address, just said it was Eyam way. He was supposed to give us the details when he called back. But he never did, you see.’

‘And the horses were supposed to go to …?’

‘Hawleys. Like always.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got this next wagon to do.’

As she watched him lope away, Fry recalled that Homo erectus had borne a fair resemblance to a modern human. The main difference was, its brain was only about three-quarters the size.

As Fry left Senior Brothers’ yard, she wondered what the other brother was like. Probably Rodney was the brains of the outfit.

Though she was picking up bits and pieces about Patrick Rawson’s business activities, she needed to know much more. And she felt sure the man who could give her the information she needed was Michael Clay. A man who was rivalling the Scarlet Pimpernel for elusiveness.

Before she got into her car, she tried his number again. Still on voicemail. What a surprise.

Then, as soon as she ended the call, her phone rang. It was Gavin Murfin, of course. Fry hesitated before she answered it. Lately, Murfin had started to develop the habit of delivering bad news every time he called. It was getting so that she hardly dared to leave the office.

‘Yes, Gavin?’

‘Hey up, boss. Having a good time at Lowbridge?’

‘No,’ said Fry. ‘What have you called me about?’

‘Michael Clay.’

‘Excellent. He’s the man we most need to speak to right now.’

‘Oh. Well, I’m sorry, but it seems that Erin Lacey has changed her mind about her father’s whereabouts.’

‘His what?’

‘His whereabouts. Remember she told us Michael Clay was away on a business trip? Well, she’s telling a different story now. Mr Clay has officially been reported MFH.’

‘Missing From Home?’ Fry sighed. ‘He’s done a runner. That’s a very stupid thing for him to do.’

‘And strange, too, when there’s no evidence against him.’

‘No evidence that we’ve found yet, Gavin.’

‘It could just be a clever ploy,’ suggested Murfin.

‘Oh, right. A clever ploy to cast suspicion on himself.’

‘What do you want to do, Diane?’

‘We’ll talk about it when I get back.’

On her way back to Edendale, news came in that a horse had been badly injured in an RTC somewhere outside the town. Fry had barely managed to calculate that it was directly on her route, before she saw the flashing lights ahead. That was going to mean another hold-up, unless she could find a way round.

Like dogs and sheep, horses came within the definition of ‘animal’ in the Road Traffic Act. That meant you had to report it to the police, if you ran over one. If it was a cat, a badger or a fox, you didn’t. It was strange how some laws stuck in your mind, while more recent legislation had to be looked up and puzzled over for a sensible interpretation every time it came up.

Fry caught a glimpse of the body in the roadway. A dead horse must be an incredible weight. This one looked to weigh as much as a small car, and there was no way it was going to be shifted easily. They’d need a flatbed truck and a winch to get it off the road.