The Kill Call

25

Friday

When she arrived at West Street next morning, Fry found Murfin motionless at his desk, staring into space.

‘Watch it, Gavin. If you’re not careful, they’ll replace you with one of those cardboard policemen.’

‘Sorry.’

‘And it might even be an improvement.’

Fry knew she didn’t need to explain what she meant. A few months ago, life-size cardboard police officers had been placed at businesses across the division in a bid to deter shoplifters. Ten cardboard cut-outs of a beat officer. According to the subsequent press releases, the cut-outs had reduced the number of reported thefts from stores, thieves thinking at first glance that the image was a real officer. It had become part of office lore that it was so easy to be confused.

Cooper laughed. ‘I think you’re safe, Gavin. You know the Chief Super said cardboard cut-outs can never replace real officers.’

‘Well, that’s what he told the press.’

Fry recalled that the senior management team were in a meeting again this morning. She imagined them talking about optimizing performance outcomes at the point of delivery. There must be something about becoming a senior manager that destroyed your sense of irony. That was the only reason Gavin Murfin got away with what he did.

She turned to the files on her desk. Still no news of Michael Clay’s whereabouts. He certainly hadn’t returned her calls, but that would have been too much to hope for. It was probably time to step up the efforts to find him. Her elusive witness was starting to look downright suspicious.

So what else was there? Horse Watch had sent a list of the latest horse thefts in their area. The thefts went back a few weeks, but there weren’t too many of them. Lucky, because all the owners would have to be spoken to.

Fry surveyed her team. Come to think of it, Murfin had some of the characteristics of a horse, like falling asleep standing up.

And then there was the envelope full of enhanced photographs from the lab. These should be the shots of the depressed fracture to Patrick Rawson’s head.

Fry took the photographs out of their envelope and glanced at the first one. Patrick Rawson’s skull, shaved and cleaned under bright laboratory lighting. The flash had cast just the right amount of shadow and perspective on the head injury, outlining the depression in the bone as if it had been a crater on the Moon.

Apart from one obliterated and smashed end, the bloodied sides of the depression formed a distinct pattern, an almost perfectly preserved shape. There was no medical knowledge necessary. Fry recognized it immediately.

‘It’s a horseshoe,’ she said. ‘His skull was crushed by a horseshoe.’

Fry called Dermot Walsh at Trading Standards, and was struck by how different he sounded on the phone. She would never have pictured him the way he actually looked.

‘Thank you for the briefing yesterday,’ she said.

‘I was glad to share what we have. I hope it was useful. There are a lot of upset victims out there who never got justice. Not against Patrick Rawson, anyway.’

‘We’re particularly sensitive to crimes involving animals in this country aren’t we?’

‘Well, I don’t know,’ said Joyce. ‘We learn a lot of things from the USA. Horse thefts have been rising dramatically in the States. There are substantial dollars to be made in the legitimate market, and virtually nothing to lose in the black market. A horse can be stolen, slaughtered, packaged, shipped to Europe, and served up on a plate before a ranch owner realizes the animal is missing. That’s fast cash. And any method of earning fast money makes its way here sooner or later.’

‘Are the Americans as fond of their horses as we are?’

‘A few years ago there was a scandal involving a group of individuals running a charity that was supposed to be “adopting” horses rescued from inhumane conditions. It turned out they were then shipping the horses off to Japan to be slaughtered for food. A lot of people were horrified that they’d contributed money to a charity fighting animal abuse, only for the animals to be sent off to be killed. Cue much outcry, little girls walking in protest lines and so on. Fines and prison sentences for the perps. That hasn’t happened here yet, so far as we know.’

‘I wanted to ask you – can any horse be sold for human consumption?’

‘No, it depends whether the owner has made a Section Nine declaration.’

‘In the horse passport?’

‘That’s right. The trouble is, once you’ve signed “not intended for human consumption”, a Section Nine declaration can’t be changed. Of course, what I mean is – it can’t be changed legally.’

‘And if a horse doesn’t have a passport?’

‘It’s stolen. You should treat a horse passport like the log book of a car. Never buy a horse without one and always check it’s in order before you pay.’

‘Frankly, I’m amazed that people can still be duped when all these regulations are in place,’ said Fry.

‘Oh, you’d be surprised how many people don’t bother to check in the excitement of the moment. You want to look at your new horse, not at boring old paperwork. Just like you want to get in your new car and take it for a drive. You’re more interested in what’s under the bonnet than what’s in the log book. It’s the same with a horse.’

‘What’s the penalty for not having a passport?’

‘A maximum five thousand pounds fine,’ said Walsh, ‘or imprisonment for up to three months, or both.’

Had she heard that right? Five thousand pounds? It was more than many thieves and other petty criminals were fined, even after repeated appearances in Edendale magistrates’ court. Fry wrote it down just to be sure that she remembered it properly.

‘I wanted to ask you about something you said yesterday,’ she said.

‘Yes.’

‘You mentioned that Patrick Rawson had tried to blame the allegations against him on rival dealers.’

‘That’s right, he did.’

‘I’m wondering if there were any particular rivals who might have had a grudge against him.’

‘Of course you are,’ said Walsh. ‘That makes sense. Well, I’m sure there must have been a few over the years. We didn’t really go into that as a serious possibility, you know. It was just Rawson trying to weasel his way out.’

‘I understand that. But if there was any chance…?’

‘I’ll have a trawl through the intelligence, and send you any names I come up with.’

‘Thanks. It’s appreciated.’

‘Can I ask how Patrick Rawson died?’ said Walsh.

‘It seems his head was kicked in by a horse.’

‘That’s the rumour I heard. Poetic justice, if you ask me.’

‘So the results from the postmortem suggest that Patrick Rawson’s head injury was caused by a blow from a horse’s hoof. The impression of the steel shoe is quite clear in his skull.’

‘He was kicked in the head by a horse?’

‘Or trodden on, while he was already on the ground.’

‘An accident, then,’ said Cooper. ‘An accident, after all.’

But Fry didn’t look too sure. ‘We can’t assume that. We won’t know for certain until we’ve established the sequence of events. And that means tracing the people who were present when he was killed. I’d be very interested to hear their account of the incident. And their explanation of why they rode off and left him to die, if it really was an accident. Even if there was no intention to kill, they could still find themselves facing manslaughter charges.’

Cooper was flicking through the list provided by Horse Watch. Brief details of missing and stolen horses, with phone numbers for the owners. No names, which was a pain. It made you look inefficient from the start when you had to ask an IP’s name.

A 14.2 hh chestnut mare of unknown breed, fifteen years old, suffers from arthritis. Very friendly. Taken from a farm near Buxton.

Dutch Warmblood mare, grey, 15.2 hh, thoroughbred in appearance, very well mannered and friendly. Stolen from a field in Derbyshire.

They all represented someone’s valued animal, often a friend. These were animals that had never been recovered. Who knew what might have happened to them?

There was another list circulating in the office, too. The complainants against Patrick Rawson and his associates in the Trading Standards investigation. There were even more of those, and they all had to be spoken to. But at least Dermot Walsh had supplied full names and addresses.

‘Which one of those is the most local?’ asked Fry, looking at Walsh’s list of aggrieved horse owners.

‘Just a second,’ said Cooper. ‘Yes, this one. Naomi Widdowson, Long Acres Farm.’

‘Widdowson?’

‘That’s right.’ Cooper looked up at the tone of Fry’s voice. ‘And an address near Eyam, too. Is there something in particular we should ask her, Diane?’

‘No,’ said Fry. ‘I’ll take that one myself.’

Cooper shrugged and passed her the details, then went back to his list from Horse Watch.

Piebald gelding, only owned by IP for six weeks, therefore no photos. Black and white, 15.3 hh, five years old. Stolen while on loan as companion horse.

Irish Draught gelding, grey, 16.1 hh, eleven years old, suffers from navicular and coffin joint arthritis. Stolen while on loan.

Stolen while on loan? Why did that crop up more than once? Was it common?

He sighed, anticipating the emotion and anger he was about to encounter, and began to make some phone calls.

Long Acres Farm wasn’t really in Eyam at all. It was a nominal address for an out-of-the-way holding that looked to be a lot closer to Birchlow than to Eyam. But Fry wasn’t surprised. That was typical of the eccentric way the parish boundaries were drawn in this part of the world.

Fry was certainly no expert on farming, but she thought Long Acres looked too small to be a farm. There were stables and a few paddocks, certainly. But nowhere near as much land as the Forbes owned at Watersaw House. This was on a much smaller scale, more run down, the surroundings much less pristine and tidy. Fry could see that she and Murfin would have to cross a makeshift drainage channel and a yard that had yet to be brushed out and washed down since the horses had passed through. She guessed there must be a shortage of willing stable girls on the Widdowsons’ payroll.

Jackdaws shouted and chattered in the trees as they stood by the car and looked at Long Acres. Large, muddy puddles lay between them and the house.

‘Come on, Gavin,’ said Fry.

‘Oh, shit.’

Naomi Widdowson had blonde hair tied back in a ragged ponytail. Dyed blonde, of course. Fry couldn’t often be fooled about that, but even someone like Gavin Murfin must have been able to see those roots. Naomi struck Fry as a bit hard-faced, her skin a bit too weathered. That was probably due to spending too much time outdoors.

‘Mrs Widdowson, is it?’ said Fry, showing her ID.

‘Miss. What do you lot want? I don’t like you being here.’

Fry tried to ignore the belligerent reception. It was something you got used to after a while, even from people you were trying to help. She looked around the yard, with the stone house to one side and the stables on the other, a row of horses’ heads peering out at her from around their hay racks.

‘Nice place. Do you live here alone?’

‘No. It’s my mum’s house really. My boyfriend Ade helps me with the horses. And there’s my little brother, Rick. But you knew that, didn’t you?’

‘No. That’s why I asked.’

‘It isn’t Rick you’re looking for, then?’

‘No – you, Miss Widdowson. We had your name from Dermot Walsh, of Trading Standards. You were interviewed some time ago as part of their investigation into fraudulent trading in horses.’

‘Oh, that,’ said Naomi, with a shrug.

‘You can’t have forgotten it.’

‘No. She was a mare that a woman had on loan from me. When the passport scheme came in, this person forged my consent on the application and got a passport for my horse, in her name. And then she sold the mare on. In foal, too. But it’s all over and done with. Someone got a rap on the knuckles. And then they were free to go off to rob some other poor sod.’

‘You weren’t satisfied with the outcome?’

Naomi laughed bitterly. ‘That doesn’t even deserve an answer. There are still a lot of con merchants out there,’ she said.

‘Speaking of which – did you ever come across Mr Patrick Rawson?’

‘No,’ said Naomi.

‘You never met him?’

‘No. But he’s one that people talk about a lot.’

‘People?’

‘Horse people. Whenever a few of us get together, at a meeting or an auction, or something. His is a name that comes up. There used to be a piece on a website, warning against him. But he got a lawyer to make us take it down. Threatened to sue for slander.’

‘Libel,’ said Fry.

‘What?’

‘That would be libel, not slander. A published form of defamation.’

‘Oh, thank you for the legal nit-picking. How is trying to protect other people from a con man a crime? That’s what I want to know.’

‘It depends how it’s done,’ said Fry.

Naomi sneered. ‘You lot are bloody useless. You and those Trading Standards people. You never did anything to Rawson. He got away scot free.’

Fry tried to stay calm. ‘We’re trying to help, you know.’

‘Oh, yeah? It’s not the first time we’ve had trouble, and I don’t suppose it will be the last. Sometimes, it makes you feel like giving up.’

‘You still have horses, though.’

Naomi’s face softened when she looked at the heads hanging over the loose-box doors.

‘Yes, three. We had a bit of luck, actually. We bought a nice piebald filly, about thirteen hands. Halter broken and completely adorable. The owners said they were having to sell Bonny because they’d lost their land to flooding. We paid twelve hundred pounds for her.’

Murfin whistled quietly. But Fry still wasn’t surprised. These horse people were so far out of her orbit that nothing they did was going to make sense. She might as well just accept it.

‘Where did you buy him?’ asked Fry.

Naomi looked at her contemptuously. ‘I just said she was a filly.’

‘Oh. She, then?’

‘At Derby. We got her at the horse sales.’

Fry looked along the line of loose boxes. She remembered Gavin Murfin doing that in Sutton Coldfield. Here, she wasn’t sure what it was supposed to tell her, except that horses ate hay, which she thought she probably knew already.

‘I see you have one empty stall.’

‘We had a nice old gelding, but he got bad with arthritis. I really cried when he was PTS.’

‘PTS?’

The woman sneered again. Fry was getting tired of that expression now.

‘Put to sleep,’ said Naomi.

‘Oh, you mean killed.’

Her face froze. ‘We have our horses put to sleep humanely, when it has to be done at all.’

‘I’m not suggesting you don’t do it humanely, Miss Widdowson. But, let’s face it – whatever way you do it, they’re still dead, not asleep.’

Somewhere, a tune started up. A loud, irritating noise, high-pitched and tinny. It was a familiar tune, but it seemed to be coming from one of the stables, and it took Fry a moment to recognize it. Then the noise stopped just before the zap of laser guns came in. The Star Wars theme. It conjured up images of Han Solo and that big, hairy Wookiee – what was his name?

‘Yes, that’s my brother,’ said Naomi, as a heavily muscled young man peered over the half-door, clutching his mobile phone to his ear. ‘That’s Rick.’

‘Good morning, sir,’ said Fry.

Rick Widdowson merely nodded, and went back to whatever he’d been doing in the depths of the stable. Perhaps it was uncharitable to think that he’d only been keeping his head down until it became clear he wasn’t the subject of the visit.

Murfin had walked over towards the horses and was clicking his tongue at them. The animals stared at him as if he was mad. He clearly wasn’t carrying anything edible. Or was he?

‘What are their names?’ he called.

Fry winced. It was the way you’d ask a doting mother the names of her triplets. These were just animals, after all, weren’t they? Yet Naomi Widdowson didn’t bat an eyelid.

‘That’s Bonny at the end. Baby is the one in the middle. And the gelding is called Monty.’

‘Thank you.’

Taking the cue that Murfin had given her, Fry looked at Naomi again.

‘Does the name Rosie mean anything to you?’

‘No.’

‘I mean a horse, not a person.’

‘Still no.’

‘What about the horse that was fraudulently traded?’

Naomi shook her head empathically. ‘She was called Star. What is this about, anyway? Is there a reason for you being here, or did the police just have some time to spare in between harassing motorists?’

Fry smiled. ‘How would you describe Patrick Rawson? Was he a plausible sort of man? What did he look like?’

Naomi opened her mouth, then shut it again. She glowered at Fry, angry now. ‘I told you, I never met him. What sort of trick are you trying to pull?’

‘Are you a member of the Eden Valley Hunt?’

‘Me? Are you kidding?’

‘Could you tell me where you were on Tuesday morning, then?’ asked Fry.

‘What are you saying?’

‘It was a simple question.’

‘If it’s any of your business, I was here, on my own. I work part-time at the Devonshire Hotel in Edendale, but Tuesday was my day off this week.’

She said it in the tone of somebody accustomed to being asked for an alibi. If you told the police you were on your own at the time, then nobody could be asked to back up your story and get the details wrong. It was difficult to prove a negative.

‘And I think I’ve heard enough now,’ said Naomi. ‘If that’s all you have to say, I’d like you to go.’

Fry turned to leave. Then she stopped, as if to ask one more question.

‘Widdowson is quite an unusual name. Are you related to the huntsman of the Eden Valley Hunt?’

‘John? He’s my cousin.’

‘I see.’

‘What?’ said Naomi. ‘Is that a crime as well?’

Murfin sniffed dismissively as they got back to the car. ‘If you ask me, that woman has spent far too much time talking to her horses, and not enough time learning how to make conversation with other human beings.’

‘She was certainly a bit lacking in social graces,’ said Fry.

‘She smelled, too,’ said Murfin bluntly.

‘I’ve got so used to that smell in the last few days that I didn’t really notice, Gavin.’

‘Well, don’t forget to check the soles of your shoes before you go back into the office.’

‘Oh, God,’ said Fry, recalling her interview with Superintendent Branagh. ‘You’re right.’

‘And did you notice her fingernails?’

That was something Fry had noticed. Black, every one of them. That was due to too much mucking out, or too much time spent running her fingers lovingly through the coats of horses.

‘Gavin, did we ever get results from forensics on the prints from that gate on Longstone Moor?’

‘No, we didn’t. I’ll give the lab a nudge.’

‘Yes, with a cattle prod.’