The Kill Call

17

Thursday

Diane Fry had never quite got used to stepping out of the real world, a world full of living, breathing people, into the cold, sterile environment of the mortuary. The postmortem room was all stainless steel and grey tiles, the smell of disinfectant barely even competing with the odour of carved flesh and exposed internal organs. Whenever she entered these doors, it was the smell that entered her soul.

The Home Office pathologist, Dr Juliana van Doon, was a cool customer herself. Fry supposed you had to be that way, to work in a place like this. For a while, there had been rumours that she was in a relationship with one of the senior CID officers in E Division, but the talk had died down. These days, Mrs van Doon was starting to look tired, perhaps slightly worn around the edges. The skin of her arms looked a little dry, the hair tucked behind her ears was in need of a colour rinse.

‘We have here a well-nourished Caucasian male; physical condition matches the given age of forty-four,’ said the pathologist briskly, when Fry called in on her way to West Street that morning. ‘Height one hundred and eighty-nine centimetres. That’s a fraction over six feet, for the metrically challenged.’

‘Oh, thank you,’ said Fry. ‘That’s a help.’

The pathologist’s tone made her tense up. It sounded like a challenge, and there was nothing wrong with that to start the day, in Fry’s book. For some reason, she and Mrs van Doon had never really hit it off. Maybe it was something Fry had done herself when she first arrived in E Division, but the hostility had never been far below the surface. Fine, if that was the way she wanted it.

‘His weight is eighty-eight kilos.’

‘Mmm. Fourteen stone?’

‘Very good, DS Fry.’

‘Actually, I was educated entirely in metres and kilograms. But I’ve learned to do the conversion the other way.’

‘A triumph of our modern education system,’ said the pathologist.

Fry gritted her teeth, but stayed calm. She tried to concentrate on the individual whose postmortem she was attending. The important person in all of this – the victim. A glance at the body on the stainless-steel table showed her that he was carrying a bit of surplus body fat, but his muscles were reasonably well toned. He had a fading tan that stopped at the waistband line. A holiday abroad not too long ago. His hair was dark, with hardly a speck of grey to be seen. Now that the area had been shaved and cleaned, the damage to the skull was very evident.

‘Strictly speaking, eighty-eight kilos for a man measuring six feet in height is classed as overweight,’ said the pathologist. ‘But he didn’t seem to have had any problems. The heart is sound. An active occupation, perhaps?’

‘He was a businessman,’ said Fry. ‘A company director.’

Dr van Doon shrugged. ‘A sport would have helped to keep him fit.’

Fry thought of how far Rawson had managed to sprint over rough ground when the need arose. It was said that fear gave you wings, but a lot of men of his age would have been doubled up with stomach cramp after fifty yards.

‘I imagine he didn’t smoke either,’ said the pathologist. ‘We can usually tell that pretty quickly when they arrive in here.’

‘Do we have a cause of death?’ asked Fry.

‘Oh, that.’ With a click of her fingers, Dr van Doon moved to the head of the table. ‘For once, Detective Sergeant, your first guess is almost certainly the correct one.’

‘His head was smashed in.’

‘If you want to be technical. I’ve also heard it referred to as an open compound fracture of the skull. Also present are severe scalp lacerations, some loose bone fragments, and part of the skull has been depressed into the brain, causing a cerebral contusion and serious haemorrhaging.’

‘There was quite a lot of blood at the scene,’ said Fry.

The pathologist looked up. ‘That would be the scalp. It bleeds like a swamp, even from a minor laceration. Lots of nice, thick blood vessels in the scalp. No, the fatal damage is internal.’

‘How quickly would he have died?’

‘Very quickly, if he was unlucky. But you can survive for a surprisingly long time with an injury of this kind. Prompt medical attention would have made a big difference.’

‘It appears that he might have collapsed after the initial attack, then come round and run a few hundred yards across a field before he finally died.’

‘Perfectly possible. Though I would imagine he was staggering rather than running. The human body does have a surprising capacity for physical activity when the brain is fatally damaged.’

Fry was starting to feel a need for fresh air.

‘Can we get an idea of what caused the damage?’

‘Well, we’ve pieced the shattered bone back together, and the area has been photographed under a range of lighting sources. I think you might have a chance of identifying the weapon from the pattern of the depression.’

‘Excellent.’

‘I hoped you might think so.’

Fry looked at the body again. She was still no nearer to knowing what Patrick Rawson had been doing at the barn on Longstone Moor when he met his killers.

‘Is there any sign of sexual intercourse prior to death?’

The pathologist gave her a look of distaste. ‘You have all the best ideas, don’t you, Sergeant?’

Fry returned her stare. ‘That’s something we have in common, then.’

‘Well, the answer is “no”.’

‘Thank you.’

Cooper sat at his desk in the CID room, watching Gavin Murfin studying himself in a hand mirror, rubbing his fingers over his cheeks.

‘What are you doing, Gavin?’ asked Cooper.

‘Wondering whether I should grow a beard,’ said Murfin. ‘It’s such a pain, shaving in the morning, and it’s getting quite fashionable again. What do you think? Would it suit me?’

Cooper looked at him critically. He had some sympathy with the idea. His own electric shaver always seemed to leave a dark shadow that had turned into stubble by evening. If he left off shaving for a day, he looked like a dosser within twenty-four hours. Great for going undercover.

‘Gavin, you’d look like Vincent van Gogh,’ he said. ‘Except your hair’s the wrong colour and you’ve got too many ears.’

Murfin sighed and put the mirror away. ‘Thanks for the advice.’

Fry came through the door briskly, like a woman who had already started the day with a series of minor triumphs.

‘Morning, Gavin. Anything happening?’

‘Yes, Deborah Rawson’s brother has been on local TV news in the West Midlands this morning,’ said Murfin, winking at Cooper.

‘Doing what?’ said Fry.

‘Paying tribute to his brother-in-law. He says he was a dearly loved husband, highly respected by his friends and business colleagues alike, and he will be a great loss to the community in Sutton Coldfield – I quote.’

‘The press will be chasing us for a statement on what progress we’ve made in the enquiry,’ said Cooper.

Murfin nodded. ‘They’ve been chasing already. Mr Hitchens has dealt with some requests from the press office this morning.’

‘But we can’t even confirm it’s a murder enquiry until we get the postmortem report.’

‘That won’t bother the press. Anyway, West Midlands are sending us up a tape of the interview.’

Fry looked at the juniors, DCs Becky Hurst and Luke Irvine. They had been hanging on Murfin’s words as if he was some kind of oracle. But, under Fry’s glare, they became busy with their work.

‘What is this thing about paying tribute to victims?’ said Murfin. ‘What did Patrick Rawson do that was so great, apart from getting himself killed? Which is something any idiot can do, if you ask me.’

‘What do you mean, Gavin?’ asked Cooper.

‘Well, it beats me why people pop up on TV all the time paying tribute to their relatives just because they’ve died suddenly. Being a victim doesn’t actually make you a more worthwhile person, does it? Not in any form. Getting attacked or killed doesn’t make you brave, or good, or clever. Now, getting through life and not being a victim – that’s something to crow about.’

‘That’s a damn cold way of looking at things.’

‘Cold? It’s reality, mate. Reality always was a bit on the cold side.’

‘Speaking of which, I called by the mortuary this morning,’ said Fry. ‘That’s about as cold as you get.’

‘How is the lovely Dr van Doon?’

‘Helpful as usual. The head injury was the cause of death, as we might have known for ourselves from the start.’

Fry found herself drawn to the list that lay on her desk – the one provided by Mrs Forbes, listing the names of members of the hunt and hunt staff who had been present in the area at the time of Patrick Rawson’s death. She could almost smell the reek of horse manure rising from the sheet of paper. And that was despite the fact it wasn’t even the original but a photocopy.

She ran her finger down to the hunt stewards, alert to any bells that the names might ring. There were six of them, led by chief steward Kevin Bell, also known as Kevin Delaney. Oh, that was a great sign for a start, having an alias. Then came Marcus Webb, Adrian Tarrant, Igoris Morinas… Nice to have a bit of cultural diversity in there, though she wasn’t quite sure what culture Igoris came from. Steward number five was Rob Charlesworth, and finally there was Jake Gleeson.

Well, the Gleesons were very well known. A whole tribe of them lived around Edendale, and every single one had a criminal record by their seventeenth birthday, including the girls. They collected ASBOs the way other families collected tokens from cereal packets. But the Gleesons were inhabitants of the council estates. They were more likely to be driving hot-wired cars around the streets than hacking cross-country in a red jacket and breeches.

But then, maybe social origins didn’t matter when it came to hired heavies.

‘Any theories on who those horse riders were, Diane?’ asked Cooper. ‘Or are you still fixated on members of the Eden Valley Hunt?’

‘I’m not fixated on anyone,’ snapped Fry.

‘Well, I just meant to say -’

‘We’ll have to pursue the usual lines. Don’t forget that forensics show there was some kind of encounter at the field barn. And, most significantly of all, Mr Rawson was running away when he met his death. All of that seems to have been planned. The fatal outcome might have been planned, too.’

The room was silent as she spoke. Cooper was surprised how serious Fry was about this case. In fact, how could she be so sure that Rawson’s death was planned? It wasn’t like her to go out on a limb this way, unless she was desperate to create an impression. Well, Fry had been left in charge of the enquiry so far, and he supposed she was keen to make a success of it. At the moment, everyone seemed determined to make a good impression on the new detective superintendent.

‘So we need to find out who Patrick Rawson was meeting. The appeals should go out today, asking the horse riders to come forward. And, of course, the man who made the 999 call.’

‘Is it likely? He must have something to hide, if only the fact that he lifted Mr Rawson’s phone. And, presumably, his wallet.’

‘It’s possible,’ said Fry stubbornly. ‘Also, anyone who stands to gain from Patrick Rawson’s death becomes a potential suspect from now on. We have to make a start on looking into his financial affairs. First glance suggests they’re going to be complicated. Mr Rawson seems to have had a finger in a lot of pies.’

‘Not all murders are committed for financial gain, though,’ pointed out Cooper.

‘Well, it does account for quite a big chunk.’

‘But there’s jealousy, revenge… Probably a few others, more complicated.’

‘Yes. In a way, I was hoping to find that he wasn’t staying at Birch Hall on his own. If there had been a woman involved in his trip to Derbyshire, it would have made everything look a whole lot simpler.’

Fry looked around the team.

‘Any other progress? Gavin?’

‘We’ve still to analyse all his mobile phone records. There are an awful lot of calls over the last week, both in and out.’

‘His wife said he did all his business on his mobile.’

‘Yes, and his car seems to have been his office. We found a charger and a Bluetooth connection in the Mitsubishi. He was obviously the sort of man who liked to talk as he drove. Hands-free, though. He wouldn’t have wanted to risk getting banned for using a hand-held mobile while he was driving. Anyway, we’ve identified a few of the numbers, which look like business contacts. R amp; G Enterprises in Staffordshire. C.J. Hawley and Sons in South Yorkshire. And a more local one, Morris Brothers – that’s just a couple of miles away in Lowbridge. They describe themselves as general dealers.’

‘Keep on it.’

Fry walked to the door, off to brief the DI. She paused, and turned.

‘Are you with us again today, Ben?’

Cooper wasn’t sure from her expression what answer she wanted to hear. He hesitated for a moment.

‘Well, if you want me to be,’ he said.

When Fry had left the room, Murfin leaned across to Cooper.

‘At least that means no HOLMES,’ he said.

‘Not yet. Someone else will have to make that decision.’

Cooper knew that Fry would lose any influence in the investigation if HOLMES was activated. Once that happened, the Home Office protocols would dictate the direction of the enquiry. A collator would arrive from headquarters, and a specialist DS to task teams of detectives. But once you turned HOLMES loose, it could get out of control. It was liable to suck in anything that came within reach, like a basking shark feeding on plankton. Thousands of bits of information went into its jaws and were digested. Maybe they’d be spewed out later on, in some usable form. Cooper shrugged. That seemed to be the theory, anyway.

‘You were in Eyam yesterday, Ben, weren’t you?’ said Murfin, sneaking his mirror out of a desk drawer again.

‘That’s right. And I didn’t finish, so I’m back there again this morning. Do you know it, Gavin?’

Murfin nodded. ‘Oh, yeah. All those lists of dead people by the cottage gates. I never liked that place – it’s creepy.’

DI Hitchens had taken a call from the forensics lab as Fry entered his office. She listened carefully, trying to pick up a clue to the direction of the conversation.

‘News?’ she asked.

‘Yes. The lab have enlarged the images of the hoofprints at the scene. It seems there were some shoe impressions present, after all. Human ones, I mean. Their position suggests that someone stood over the body, but their prints were overlaid and obliterated by the horses. The rain didn’t help, either.’

‘It makes sense,’ said Fry. ‘They wouldn’t be able to take Patrick Rawson’s wallet and mobile phone while they were still on horseback, would they?’

Hitchens nodded. ‘At least we can be sure there was some element of intention. Even if Mr Rawson’s death was an accident, they deliberately decided to rob him, or conceal his identity.’

‘Yes, obviously.’

Fry was becoming exasperated at the DI’s reluctance to upgrade the enquiry. But she had to admit that she hadn’t yet found a single witness, or even any clue to explain Patrick Rawson’s presence on Longstone Moor that morning.

‘Could the lab get enough detail from the shoe impression for an identification?’ she asked.

‘Not a chance,’ said Hitchens. ‘They couldn’t even testify to a size.’

‘These would be riding boots anyway. Smooth soles, aren’t they?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

Hitchens spread his hands on the desk. They were strong, masculine hands, marked only by the small scar that crept across his fingers. Fry had never heard what caused that scar, and it probably wasn’t the right time to ask. She wondered how the DI managed to stay so calm, when she herself was starting to feel the ground shift under her feet. She almost preferred the old Paul Hitchens, the man she’d first met when she transferred to Derbyshire, a young DI with a streak of irreverence and no great respect for authority. What had changed him?

Then it occurred to Fry that Hitchens must already have been through his own series of interviews with Superintendent Branagh. What had been said to him?

‘Have your team come up with anything?’ asked Hitchens, breaking the silence.

‘Nothing substantial.’

Fry filled in the DI with what she had, and waited for him to ask for her assessment of the case. For her, it was simple. Nothing they had learned so far quite explained how Patrick Rawson had ended up lying on a mortuary trolley, with cotton wool stuffed in his ears to plug the trickle of cerebral fluids.

‘Yes, I agree,’ said Hitchens. ‘So what is your next move?’

‘What happened to Deborah Rawson?’ asked Fry. ‘Did she stay over in Edendale?’

‘No, she went straight back down to Sutton Coldfield. We offered to find her overnight accommodation, but she wasn’t interested. Her brother drove her home.’

‘Did she show much interest in the direction of the enquiry?’

‘In how her husband met his end? As much as you’d expect. Mrs Rawson didn’t really ask many questions. She seemed to take it for granted that we’d keep her informed. Which we will, of course.’

‘Yes, but that often isn’t good enough for bereaved relatives. They demand answers.’

Hitchens shrugged. ‘It takes different people in different ways. There’s often a period of shock, when they seem cold and lacking in any reaction. The questions might not come into her mind until later. You watch – another twenty-four hours, and we’ll find we can’t get rid of her.’

‘So who’s going to examine Rawson’s house?’

‘I thought you might like to do it. West Midlands have put a watch on the place for us.’

‘I’ll be looking for indications of what Mr Rawson’s business was in Derbyshire, and who he was meeting.’

‘Yes, that’s what we want.’

‘And another chat with Mrs Deborah Rawson, I think,’ said Fry.

Hitchens nodded. ‘I’ll let West Midlands know you’re coming.’

As Fry headed back to the CID room, Luke Irvine met her in the corridor. She found Irvine touchingly young and eager. She supposed she might have been like that herself once, when she first got a chance to take off the uniform and work as a detective, back in Birmingham. Uniformed officers thought CID got all the excitement and the glory. But when you’d worked behind a desk for a while with your groaning case-load and your stack of Narey files, you soon learned the truth.

‘Sarge, you know we’ve been finding whatever we can on Patrick Rawson’s background,’ said Irvine.

‘Yes, Luke?’

‘Well, the PNC shows that he has no criminal record as an adult, but I checked intelligence, and his name was flagged up by another agency – Trading Standards.’

‘Trading Standards? So, what? Has Mr Rawson been a bad boy in his business dealings? Sold something that breached the Trade Descriptions Act?’

‘No, not exactly. He was entered in intelligence as a known associate of some dodgy characters Trading Standards got convictions for about two years ago. I rang the case officer, by name of Dermot Walsh. He’s coming in to talk to us about it this morning.’

‘So soon?’

‘He’s very keen,’ said Irvine. ‘It’s funny, but he sounded quite pleased to hear about what had happened to Mr Rawson.’