The Kill Call

11

They called it the Plague Village. Nice name, thought Cooper. Not the sort of thing you’d expect to be used as a selling point for your house in an estate agent’s brochure. Who would want their home to be remembered for an intimate connection with an outbreak of Black Death?

But the name for Eyam must have well and truly stuck by now, since it was still in use more than three and a half centuries after the event. Five-sixths of the village’s population had been wiped out, most of them during one deadly summer in 1666. Along the main street, picturesque little stone cottages displayed plaques in their front gardens, listing the names of people who’d died there, killed by the bubonic plague.

Yes, like all the best disasters, Eyam’s outbreak of Black Death had been turned into a tourist attraction.

Along with thousands of other children, Cooper had visited this village with a school party. It had been a sort of living history lesson, collecting the work sheets from the museum, gawping at the plague tableaux, looking eagerly for the stocks where miscreants had once been pelted with rotten food. Those were his favourite sort of lessons.

Two hundred and sixty people had died when the plague hit Eyam. Yet the rector, William Mompesson, had rallied the villagers to a famously selfless act of isolation. He’d told them that it was impossible for them to escape by running away, that many of them were already infected and carried the seeds of death in their clothes. He told them that the fate of the surrounding country was in their hands. They broke off all contact with the outside world for five months, as the plague cut down the population of Eyam, one by one.

For that, Mompesson had been rewarded with the death of his own wife. Now, hers was the only grave of a plague victim to be found in the Eyam churchyard.

Despite its role as a macabre tourist attraction, Cooper could tell Eyam remained a thriving community. It was good to see a village that still had a butcher’s shop, for example. A high-class butcher’s too, according to the sign. In many villages, the shops had long since gone, the parish church had been converted into a holiday home, and the vicarage was providing bed and breakfast. And, of course, every village post office was now the Old Post Office, selling teas and ice cream instead of stamps and tax discs.

The first address on his list was in Laurel Close, on the outskirts of the village. Cooper could see straight away that Laurel Close was an old people’s housing estate. Quiet and well tended, with stone-faced bungalows standing in neat rows behind well-mown grass, like gravestones in a cemetery. The image was appropriate, really. This could be a place where the main topics of conversation were illness and death, and the latest funeral was the highlight of the week.

Ah, well. No more time to be lost. Cooper got out of his car and knocked on the first door.

Deborah Rawson took a long drag on her cigarette. ‘Let’s get this straight. Are you saying that Patrick was murdered?’

‘We don’t know that for sure, Mrs Rawson.’

‘It’s a bit much to take in.’

‘Yes, of course.’

When Fry arrived at the mortuary in Edendale, she’d been met by a woman in her late thirties. Short hair, a pale, sharp face. Suspicious eyes. Her brother was somewhere around, having made an excuse to get out into the fresh air. Fry couldn’t blame him.

‘I’m sorry to have to ask you questions at a time like this,’ said Fry. ‘But you’re quite sure this is your husband?’

‘Absolutely.’

Fry watched Mrs Rawson carefully, noting the unnatural paleness that indicated shock. The hand holding the cigarette trembled slightly, and the ash was tapped off a little too often. This was a woman trying to pretend to be calmer than she really was.

‘You understand that we need to establish how Mr Rawson died. It would help us a lot if you can give us some information. The sooner we know where to start -’

‘Yes, it’s all right. What do you want to know?’

‘Mrs Rawson, can you tell us why your husband came up to Derbyshire?’

‘He visits horse sales. There’s one in Derby, isn’t there?’

‘Is there?’

‘I think it’s on a Saturday.’

‘Today is only Wednesday.’

Mrs Rawson shrugged. ‘He came up a bit early, then. He must have had some other business to do.’

The woman was well dressed. Expensively dressed, at least. Fry could recognize designer labels, even when they were worn with more aggression than style.

‘And what is your husband’s business, exactly?’ she asked.

‘Patrick has lots of business interests. I could never quite follow all the ins and outs. He owns a share of several companies. You can probably get the names from his papers. Mostly, he buys and sells, then invests the profits in new enterprises. He’s been quite successful over the years. But he’s the kind of man who’s always looking for new things, new ideas to make a profit from.’

Fry had heard lots of people being vague about their ‘business interests’. Usually, it meant they were drug dealers, or running a protection racket, or handling stolen property. Buying and selling? Investing the profits? It sounded as though Patrick Rawson’s business dealings would take a bit of looking into. And was his wife really so innocent, so ignorant? Or was she being deliberately coy about the fact she’d been turning a blind eye to where the money had come from that bought her those nice clothes?

‘We’re going to have to go through Mr Rawson’s papers,’ Fry said. ‘Who keeps his appointments diary?’

‘Well, I suppose he does.’

‘You suppose?’

‘I never got involved in the business, Sergeant. Do you think I work as his secretary, or PA? Did you think I married the boss? Well, I didn’t. Whatever Patrick does in his business is his own affair.’

There was a shrill edge to her voice now that she couldn’t conceal. Fry knew she would have to be careful. People who tried so hard to hide their feelings were often the most likely to crack completely. That made them useless as witnesses.

‘Did he not mention anything about who he was planning to meet up here?’

‘No.’

‘And where were you on Tuesday morning yourself, Mrs Rawson?’ asked Fry.

‘At home, of course. In Sutton Coldfield.’

Fry noted that Deborah didn’t seem to understand the implication of the question. Another sign that she wasn’t thinking quite so clearly as she might?

‘We need to know where your husband stayed when he was up here. Can you tell us that, at least?’

‘Now, I thought you would ask that. Patrick always stays at the same place when he’s in Derbyshire. He says it has a nice golf course.’ She produced a card from her bag. ‘This is it.’

Fry took the card. The Birch House Country Hotel. She wasn’t familiar with the hotel, but judging from the address in Birchlow it must be practically within a golf swing of her crime scene.

‘Did you ever phone Mr Rawson while he was there?’

‘Yes, once or twice.’

‘Actually on the hotel number?’

‘No, I always call his mobile. Why go through a hotel receptionist?’

Why, indeed? Except that it would have established whether Patrick Rawson really was staying where he told his wife he’d be. A jealous or suspicious partner would have thought of that. But not Deborah Rawson, apparently. Fry wasn’t sure she believed it.

‘And the number you called would be this one, which you gave to the local police yesterday?’

‘Yes. That’s the one Patrick used for personal calls, the Sony Ericsson. He had another number for business calls, though.’

‘Oh?’

Fry felt a surge of irritation. If those West Midlands officers had discovered that fact yesterday, her team could already have been tracking down all the calls Rawson had made and received. As it was, she would be nearly a day behind on the job. It was time lost that could never be regained. And all because somebody had failed to ask the right question.

Mrs Rawson gave her the second number. ‘Pat does his business entirely by mobile phone, because he’s always on the move. He might have left the Sony Ericsson behind somewhere, but he would never have been without the iPhone. He hates the idea of missing a business call or an email, and all his contacts are on there.’

‘Thank you.’

So there were two phones missing. This was looking less and less like an accident, or even a mugging gone wrong. Fry itched to get the machinery swinging into action, but there was still no confirmation that Rawson’s death was due to murder. The postmortem would be starting right now, with the bereaved widow safely out of the way.

‘I keep saying “Pat does this” and “he hates that”,’ said Mrs Rawson. ‘I suppose I have to learn to start using the past tense, don’t I?’

‘It will take a while to come to terms with what’s happened,’ said Fry, watching carefully for an emotional outburst, which didn’t come. ‘Would you like me to send for your brother?’

‘No, I’m all right. Really.’

‘Just one more thing for now, then,’ said Fry. ‘Why did your husband attend horse sales, Mrs Rawson? Do you ride?’

‘I’m not keen myself. But we do have some stables at the house in Sutton. Patrick used to buy horses and sell them on. Quiet rides for novices. He had a good eye for that sort of thing.’

‘I see.’

Mrs Rawson looked at her watch. ‘If you want to know anything more about the business, you’ll have to talk to Patrick’s partner,’ she said. ‘That’s Michael Clay. He’s a bit boring, but he’s very good at managing all the paperwork and so on. He’s an accountant by profession. As I said – boring.’

‘I’ll do that,’ said Fry.

And she definitely would. Mr Clay might be a boring accountant, but it was possible that he would also be a bit more forthcoming with the truth.

She escorted Deborah Rawson back down to reception. A man was waiting for her there, a tall and smartly dressed middle-aged man, with unusual grey eyes and a face that was slightly too wide around the jaw line to be called good looking. Fry took him for Deborah Rawson’s older brother, and realized that she didn’t know what his surname would be.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr…?’

The man smiled, creases forming across his cheeks from the too-wide jaw.

‘Clay,’ he said. ‘Michael Clay.’

Fry was so taken aback that she couldn’t at first figure out where she had made a false assumption.

‘I’m sorry. Are you Mrs Rawson’s brother?’

‘No. Dennis is waiting outside. He wanted to have a cigarette. I came to see if I could be any help. I hope that’s all right.’

‘You’re Patrick Rawson’s business partner?’

‘Yes, in some ways. Patrick had other interests that I wasn’t involved in, but we worked quite closely. Has Deborah been able to give the information you need?’

‘Well, not exactly. We haven’t been able to establish why Mr Rawson was in Derbyshire, and who he was meeting yesterday morning.’

‘I can’t help you there either, I’m afraid. Patrick didn’t share the day-today details with me. But if your enquiries do turn up a business connection, please come and see me and I’ll give you whatever help I can.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Michael Clay gave her his business card, and Fry noted the Birmingham phone number. She also noticed the way he hovered protectively over Deborah Rawson as he began to usher her towards the door.

‘I’m not quite clear how you came to be here, sir,’ said Fry. ‘I understood Mrs Rawson’s brother had brought her from Sutton Coldfield.’

‘Yes, he did. Obviously, Deborah called to tell me what had happened to poor old Patrick. And since I happened to be in the area, I thought I’d come along to give my support. It’s going to be a difficult time for her.’

‘Indeed.’

Clay fixed her with his grey eyes. They were strangely cool and almost emotionless eyes, which emitted a great sense of calmness and confidence. He made you feel as though you’d be ready to trust him with your last penny.

But did Fry feel she could believe him? Was she convinced that he happened to be in the area for an entirely innocent reason? Not on your life.

‘I’ll be in touch, Mr Clay,’ she said. ‘Perhaps quite soon.’

Cooper had found himself invited inside number 6 Laurel Close. The resident was an elderly man, probably about eighty years old, but still reasonably upright and mobile, if a little slow. An old soldier, perhaps? Well, if that was case, it would soon come into the conversation.

Cooper had been prepared for residents in these bungalows to take a long time getting to their doors. He knew that stiff joints would have to be levered out of armchairs, walking frames grasped, hearing aids adjusted. And that was before they even got out of their sitting rooms. Then there would be chains on the doors, and his ID to be shown before anyone would talk to him.

All the precautions were justified, too. Laurel Close was the sort of area where distraction burglaries were most common, where opportunist thieves preyed on the elderly, keen to take advantage of their confusion, and their trusting natures.

He was able to hear movement from inside the bungalow for a few minutes before the door chain rattled and the face of the old man peered out.

‘Mr Wakeley?’

‘Aye.’

Cooper showed his warrant card, giving the old man time to scrutinize it carefully. Not so long ago, there had been several incidents of a thief posing as a police officer to gain access to properties just like this, with the intention of rifling the drawers for some OAP’s life savings as soon as their backs were turned.

‘You reported hearing a disturbance on Tuesday morning. Is that right, sir?’

‘Yes, that was me. Responsible citizen, I am.’

The old man laughed, and let Cooper into the bungalow, pointing the way through to a small sitting room. He waved his visitor ahead, and very slowly followed him into the room. He didn’t support himself on a stick or a frame, but moved as if he had all the time in the world, and no one was going to hurry him. Cooper was reminded of a giant Galapagos turtle he’d seen on a natural history programme, determinedly placing one foot in front of the other.

The sitting room was filled with too much furniture, and scattered with framed photographs of smiling family members. Biscuit crumbs lay on the carpet. Cooper could feel them crunching softly under his boots. Near the armchair he was given, the crumbs were thicker. He felt as though he ought to offer to do a bit of vacuuming while he was here.

‘Early in the morning, it was,’ said Mr Wakeley. ‘Folk having a row.’

Cooper felt a surge of interest. It was a small thing, and it might be irrelevant. But every detail should be followed up.

‘You heard people arguing? What time exactly, can you say?’

The old man glanced automatically at a handsome grandfather clock that stood in one corner. The clock dominated the room, completely out of proportion to the size of the bungalow. Cooper guessed it must have been brought from a former home, a house with larger rooms and higher ceilings, where all the rest of the furniture was heavy and dark. But the clock ticked away steadily, a deep thunk of a pendulum echoing gently inside the mahogany case.

‘Eight thirty, or a bit later. I couldn’t be more exact than that.’

‘You were here, in your bungalow? Were people arguing outside in the street?’

Wakeley shook his head. ‘No, I went for a walk. I don’t sleep too well these days, tend to wake up about five o’clock in the morning. There’s not much else to do at that time, I can tell you. No one to talk to, nothing on the telly worth watching. And who wants to sit around with nothing but their own thoughts for company at that time of the morning?’

Not me, thought Cooper. No one was at their best at that time. He decided it might be more fruitful to let the old man talk, rather than trying too hard to pry out the details.

‘So you went out when, Mr Wakeley?’

‘About seven thirty. I used to go out earlier, at first light – cock crow, if they actually allowed anyone to have a cockerel around here. I can’t manage it now.’

‘Was there anyone around?’

‘Not a soul to be seen on the estate, a few cars moving about the village – commuters, I suppose, off to their jobs in Sheffield.’

Cooper looked at the old man. He had probably been quite a fit person once, perhaps even athletic. But now he was the giant tortoise. It would take him half an hour just to get to the end of his street.

‘And where did you walk to, sir?’

Wakeley laughed again, a dry chortle that suggested to Cooper he was making the old man’s day, probably his week. He was starting to think that he’d been given the duff job, the visit to the old fogey who just wanted a bit of attention and someone to talk to for a few minutes. There were plenty of them around.

‘I only got as far as the bench at the corner of the lane,’ he said. ‘That’s my limit these days. I used to hike up Longstone Edge without batting an eyelid, but they seem to have made it a lot higher and a lot steeper these days. I blame the government.’

‘Was it raining at that time?’

‘A bit. But a drop of rain never did anyone any harm.’

Cooper nodded. It was what he’d expected. Mr Wakeley was one of that tough breed who had almost died out, even in Derbyshire.

‘So these people you heard…?’

‘Up on the moor,’ said Wakeley. ‘They must have been a good two miles away. Funny how sounds travels at that time of the morning, when no one’s about. If you get the right sort of weather conditions, you can hear a dog bark at Birchlow.’

‘I see.’

The old man grinned at him, showing a set of fine white teeth that must have come courtesy of the NHS dental service.

‘Nothing wrong with my hearing,’ he said. ‘You young ’uns expect old folk to be deaf as well as daft, I suppose. But my ears are as sharp as yours. Maybe sharper. I never damaged my ear drums with loud music, you see. Children now, they stick those little ear plugs in their ears and walk around with music blasting all day. Now, they’ll be deaf as posts by the time they’re sixty.’

‘If you could just -’

‘Oh, aye. I’m getting round to it. I have to take my time these days, as you can see.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I was just sitting on the bench, being quiet, waiting for the birds to start singing with the light coming up. And there were at least two people, shouting. A man and a woman. They went at it pretty good, too. No doubt they thought no one else was about to hear them.’

‘Could you hear what they were arguing about?’

‘I might have good hearing, but I’m not bionic.’

‘No, of course. So where exactly were they? Could you -’ Cooper had been about to ask the old man to take him to the bench in question and point out the location, but he realized that it would take all afternoon. There were other jobs waiting for him to do. Shame – Mr Wakeley would have enjoyed it. ‘If I showed you a map, could you estimate their position?’

‘I’ll have a go.’

Cooper fetched his OS map from the car and spread it out on Mr Wakeley’s table.

‘You would have been around here?’

‘Yes, the old silk road, that is. The pack horses used to go that way, to get up over the moor. No cars on that road early in the morning.’

‘So the people you heard would be where?’

‘Whereabouts is Birchlow on here?’

‘Here.’ Cooper placed a finger on the map.

‘One of these fields, then. Back of the church, near where those trees are.’

The contour lines on the map showed that the location Mr Wakeley had indicated was on the northern slope of the moor. Because of the lie of the landscape, anyone who had been up and about in Birchlow might not have heard the argument. But there would be direct line of sight to the bench on the old silk road where the old man had been sitting. Clear air, except for the rain that had been falling.

‘Do you know Birchlow?’ asked Cooper.

‘Birchlow? Aye, there’s a lot of history in Birchlow. Some amount of dry rattle there, if you know what I mean.’

‘Skeletons in the cupboard, Mr Wakeley?’

‘More than skeletons. If you shake the cupboard too much, half the village will fall out. But you don’t want old gossip.’

The old man chuckled, and coughed.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Cooper, wondering whether Mr Wakeley didn’t have quite so much toughness, after all.

‘I will be, when I’m dead.’

Cooper smiled. The old man and his clock seemed to be running at different speeds. The clock still ticked away at a regular pace, but Mr Wakeley had slowed down, as if his internal spring was unwinding and losing its tension, no longer able to push his body around at the old rate. He was gradually slipping out of real time.

And one thing was certain. He wasn’t going to find out who had been having that argument in the early hours of the morning by standing here in the sitting room at 6 Laurel Close. He would have to follow the trail closer to Birchlow.

Standing in the residents’ lounge of the Birch Hall Country Hotel, Fry was impressed by a series of oak bookcases lining the wall. While she waited, she peered through the glass to study the contents. Shelves were full of volumes that were clearly more for display, and creating the right ambience, than for reading. Bound volumes of Punch , a complete set of Sir Walter Scott, Who Was Who 1951-1960. Their dark bindings formed an impenetrable wall behind the glass.

She’d obtained a copy of Patrick Rawson’s account from the head receptionist, who had expected Mr Rawson to be staying at the hotel until the weekend. It wasn’t unknown for guests to miss sleeping in their room for a night, but there was always the chance that something regrettable had happened. From the response to her news, Fry wasn’t sure whether the hotel would be sorry to have lost a guest, or relieved that they had a scan of his credit card to settle the bill.

A quick search of Patrick Rawson’s room had been unfruitful. Clothes, yes. Toiletries, of course. But anything that could provide useful information must have been back home, or in his car. She would have to make sure the room was kept locked until a proper search could be conducted.

When her phone rang, she found that it was Gavin Murfin, calling with the first solid information on Patrick Rawson.

‘Has he a record?’ she asked. ‘Anything on the PNC?’

‘A bit of juvenile vandalism,’ said Murfin. ‘Keying cars, mostly – with a special fondness for the more expensive motors.’

‘Oh, early anarchist tendencies, then.’

‘What?’

‘Never mind. I was kidding.’

She could imagine Murfin staring at the phone in amazement. Diane Fry kidding? Cracking a joke? It was almost unheard of. She sighed ruefully.

‘Now we have Patrick Rawson’s mobile phone numbers, we can get hold of a record of his calls.’

‘Did you say “numbers”?’

‘Yes. His wife says he had one phone for personal calls, and another one for business. Sounds like he was the sort of person you’d really hate to be on a train with, listening to him taking two calls at once. I gave both the numbers to Becky.’

‘Right.’ Murfin seemed to turn away from the phone for a moment. ‘I think she’s on to it. So when we get the records for Mr Two Phones, what are we looking for?’

‘Local numbers, in or out. He must have been in touch with someone up here, both after he arrived and in the days before he came.’

‘Got it,’ said Murfin. ‘By the way, we’ve got initial forensics on the Mitsubishi. No prints except Rawson’s and his wife’s.’

‘A shame, but no surprise.’

‘He did leave a paper trail all over the Eden Valley, though, by using his credit card for everything. Hotel bill, restaurant, petrol station… So we know where he slept, where he ate dinner, and which way he was heading. If we hadn’t found him already, we’d have a head start.’

‘There’s a lesson in that, Gavin. If you don’t want to be found, pay cash.’

‘I’ll bear it in mind when I decide to do a runner.’