The Kill Call

28

Back at the office half an hour later, Cooper went to his PC and Googled the motto on the badge he’d found in Eden View. Forewarned is forearmed. It was a common enough phrase, an old adage that he must have heard his parents use time and again.

Google presented several sources for definitions. ‘ Praemonitus, praemunitus. Knowledge of imminent danger can prepare us to overcome it.’ There was even a link to George W. Bush using the phrase in a speech about Iran. Corporate intelligence, cancer research, travel tips on avoiding pickpockets… Not much use.

Cooper clicked through three or four pages of links without success, and was about to give up looking when he saw a different reference. It was a book title, advertised by a seller on ABE, the second-hand book dealers’ site. He clicked on the link and found himself reading a description of the book being offered. A history of the Royal Observer Corps, evidently some branch of the British armed forces. Could that be right?

A fresh search and a few more clicks found a picture of the ROC logo. The figure on the badge was apparently based on an Elizabethan beacon lighter, who used to watch the coast and warn of approaching Spanish ships. And, yes, that was the Corps motto: Forewarned is forearmed.

So there had been a Royal Observer Corps cap badge in Michael Clay’s briefcase, along with the tie and the photograph. Had Clay served in the ROC? And what about the identical badge in Pauline Outram’s jewellery box? Sentimental value, presumably. A former boyfriend? Or had there been women in the ROC? Did it still exist, in fact? Too many questions. But Cooper had an idea there was someone he could ask, who might know those things.

There was obviously more of a local connection to be explored in this case than at first appeared. Patrick Rawson might be Birmingham Irish, but it was only thanks to Pauline Outram that they’d discovered Michael Clay’s origins.

Cooper had almost smiled as Fry had confronted Pauline in that rented house and discovered a fact that might have taken another twenty-four hours for them to turn up.

‘My name is Outram because my mother never got married,’ Pauline had said. ‘Not to Stuart Clay, or anyone else. She died when I was very young.’

‘And you’re from a local family?’ Fry asked, trying to piece together an entirely new angle.

‘Yes.’

‘So how did your mother meet Stuart Clay?’

‘They were neighbours.’

‘What?’

‘Oh, didn’t you know?’ said Pauline. ‘The Clays are from Birchlow originally. But they moved away from the area, and it was only recently I was able to get in touch. Michael didn’t even know of my existence. I was brought up in the name of my adopted parents, and changed it back to Outram when I came of age.’

Remembering it, Cooper really did smile. He felt sure that Fry wasn’t going to like all this.

Fry studied Erin Lacey with a critical eye. They were sitting in the DI’s office, Mrs Lacey being regarded as the distressed relative of a missing person, even if she had been unnecessarily evasive about her father’s movements earlier in the week.

‘Yes, I’m aware of the existence of Pauline Outram,’ she said. ‘I’ve never met her, and I don’t want to. I didn’t realize Dad had gone so far as to provide her with a house.’

‘It’s only leased,’ said Fry.

‘Well, that hardly makes it any better. She has no right to financial support from Dad.’

DI Hitchens straightened his tie, a signal that he wanted to come in on the money issue. That was his thing, financial problems. The word was like a bell to one of Pavlov’s dogs.

‘Is there a problem with money, Mrs Lacey?’ said Hitchens.

‘No. But… well, it’s our inheritance he’s squandering on her. Mine, and my children’s.’

‘I see. You’re worried that your father has been diverting too much money to help Miss Outram.’

‘Far too much. She’s not worth a tenth of it.’

Fry shifted in her chair to get a better view of Erin Lacey’s eyes. She was sitting to one side, so that she could observe her profile and her posture, the little nervous mannerisms that could be such a giveaway. But the eyes were often just as revealing.

‘You say you’ve never met Pauline Outram, yet you seem to have a strong degree of animosity towards her,’ she said.

‘From what I’ve heard, she’s wasted her life. She’s, what… in her late thirties? Dad says she’s never married, never had any children, and never been able to hold down a proper job. I dread to think how she’s been spending her life until now. She was brought up in foster homes, you know.’

Fry instantly felt her attitude to Erin Lacey freezing. In her heart was an iciness deeper than the Arctic Ocean. Professionalism and training barely held her back.

‘That doesn’t’, she said, ‘make her a worthless person.’

In other circumstances, she would have had taken Lacey apart verbally, lain her own history in front of the woman and confronted her with her own prejudices. But that wasn’t what she was here for. Right now, she had to suppress her own feelings, try not to alienate an important witness too much. She felt Hitchens watching her, and tried not to meet his eye.

‘She’s had relationships with all kinds of men,’ said Lacey. ‘And none of them has ever hung around very long. That has to tell you something, doesn’t it?’

Something about the lack of commitment from men, perhaps, thought Fry. But she held her tongue and didn’t say it.

‘Anyway, I don’t think she was a fit person for Dad to be spending money on. She’s not really a member of the family. She was illegitimate.’

‘Do you know what happened to her mother?’ asked Hitchens.

‘I heard that she killed herself.’

‘That’s correct. According to Pauline Outram, she drowned herself in Birch Reservoir. Pauline was only a few months old at the time.’

‘That’s hardly my fault. It doesn’t justify Pauline Outram selling some sob-story to my father when she found out that we had money and she didn’t.’

‘But Miss Outram told us that her father and yours were very close,’ said Fry.

‘Well, that’s true, at least. They were almost inseparable, even though Dad was a few years younger. He told me that’s how they were right back to when they were boys here in Derbyshire. I think that’s probably quite unusual for brothers, isn’t it? Normally they tend to fight a lot – well, I know my two do. But when Uncle Stuart died of pancreatic cancer last year, it broke Dad up. You could see then how close they were. It took Dad ages to get round to sorting out Uncle Stuart’s things, because he just couldn’t face the memories. He found that job very difficult, stayed shut away with his brother’s papers for hours. And this thing with the illegitimate daughter – well, I think this is Dad’s way of trying to express his feelings towards his brother. He can be so naive about people sometimes. So easily taken in.’

‘You think Pauline Outram has conned him in some way? Do you think she’s not really who she says she is?’

‘No. I know Dad did a few checks on her.’

‘Not so naive, then?’

‘I made him do it.’

‘Which means Pauline Outram is your cousin,’ said Fry.

‘I suppose so. But you don’t have to be tied to your cousins, do you?’

Fry sat back, feeling suddenly tired. Erin Lacey’s version of events fit quite closely with the story told by Pauline Outram earlier, though with a different spin, of course. Strange that the two women should feel so diametrically opposed to each other when their fathers had been so close. But then, perhaps that closeness was the sole reason they hated each other.

‘Before I forget, I brought these photos that you asked for, of my Dad,’ said Erin Lacey. ‘I think there’s one here of him and Uncle Stuart together. They’re so alike, Uncle Stuart was like an older version of Dad.’

‘Thank you.’

Fry looked at the photos, remembering the man she’d met earlier in the week, with the strange grey eyes and the wide jaw line. And here were the two brothers, at a much younger age. Michael had probably been in his late teens, Stuart mid-twenties. And Michael Clay did indeed look like a junior version of his brother. But there was a certain amount of contrivance about the similarity. The younger brother had tried to tease his hair into the same style, had adopted the same casual, slouching pose, hands thrust into his pockets. A hero-worshipping younger brother, if ever she saw one.

‘You know, it’s one of Deborah Rawson’s problems, too,’ said Erin.

‘What is?’

‘The fact that Dad has been sensible with his money. She and Patrick have a huge mortgage on that place out at Mere Green. It was rather out of their range when they bought it, if you ask me. They’re desperate to keep up, both of them.’

‘To keep up with the Clays?’

‘Well, they’re not really the same class. Patrick is basically a horse dealer from a family of Irish tinkers in County Offaly. Deborah is the daughter of a garage owner in Handsworth.’

‘You know a lot about them.’

‘They’ve always been keen to socialize with us.’

‘So you had to check them out, too?’

Erin didn’t answer. But Fry was getting signals from Hitchens, and she didn’t press any further. She’d heard enough to form a picture, anyway. It seemed it wasn’t just a question of golf-club syndrome. Deborah Rawson was just as enthusiastic a social climber as her husband, if Erin Lacey was to be believed. And that, as far as Fry was concerned, was quite a big ‘if’.

‘Mrs Lacey,’ said Hitchens, ‘can you give us any other information that might help us to find your father? No matter how insignificant a detail, it could prove useful.’

Lacey shook her head. ‘I don’t think there’s anything I haven’t told you.’

Fry felt her eyebrows rise at that. She didn’t believe it for a moment.

‘If you could try to think back to when you last spoke to him,’ she said. ‘Didn’t he say anything about where he was going, what he was planning to do?’

‘No. Well, I knew that he was coming up to Derbyshire, so he would have been visiting that woman. That’s why he didn’t mention it.’

‘Because he knew you would have disapproved?’

‘I think I have the right to.’

Hitchens leaned across his desk. ‘Mrs Lacey, we have to ask you these questions. Was your father his normal self? Or did he appear depressed, or worried about anything?’

‘Not when he left home, no,’ said Lacey. ‘When I spoke to him on the phone on Wednesday, he was upset about Patrick Rawson’s death, obviously. But I think there was also an element of relief, though he would never have said so. I knew him so well that I could practically read his thoughts. I think Dad was already starting to work out in his mind what Patrick’s death would mean from a business point of view. He was beginning to think about the paperwork, make calls to lawyers, all that sort of thing.’

‘He was planning ahead, then?’

‘Definitely. He’s that sort of man. Conscientious, methodical, always thinking about his work. He was almost itching to get his teeth into the business formalities.’

Hitchens glanced at Fry. People who were busy planning ahead rarely committed suicide, as they both knew.

‘And one final question, Mrs Lacey: Is there anyone you can think of who might have wished your father harm?’

Lacey shook her head again. ‘No. Except -’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, I thank God that Dad never changed his will in favour of the Outram woman. For a gold digger, that would have been a big temptation put in her way, wouldn’t it?’

Before Cooper could explore the Royal Observer Corps any further, Fry came back into the CID room with a disgusted look on her face. That didn’t bode well. He’d seen that look too often, and it had usually ended badly. These days, though, it didn’t seem to matter quite so much. He could survive whatever Fry threw at him.

‘Uh-oh,’ said Murfin, looking up and noticing the same thing. ‘What’s wrong now, I wonder?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You could ask her, if you’re feeling suicidal.’

Cooper got up to follow Fry to her desk.

‘Ben?’ said Murfin, in horror. ‘I didn’t think you really were that tired of life.’

‘So,’ said Cooper, when he faced Fry, ‘what’s the next move?’

She raised an eyebrow, then looked uncertain when it seemed to have no effect on him.

‘Back to square one,’ she said. ‘Back to Longstone Moor, and the two people on horseback caught on the hunt saboteurs’ camera. Back to the hunt themselves.’

‘You can’t still be obsessed with the hunt, Diane?’

‘I am not -’ began Fry. Then she seemed to calm herself. ‘I’m not obsessed with the hunt. But we’re going to start again from first base, we’re going to identify the people Patrick Rawson met. Those riders were either members of the hunt, or they were seen by them.’

‘You’re sure of that?’

‘Ben, as far as I’m concerned, the hunt is all about violence. Even if the violent instincts are dressed up in red coats and following an artificial scent, it’s still about violence. Basic principle.’

‘There must be some way I can change your mind.’

‘I doubt it.’

Cooper realized it was probably true that her mind wouldn’t be changed. But it was no reason for him to stop trying.

‘What about Michael Clay?’ he said.

‘Well, now that we know his family is local, it puts a different complexion on his possible involvement.’

‘Just because he was born in Birchlow?’

‘He must know people in the area,’ said Fry. ‘People must know him. I don’t have to tell you how it works, Ben.’

‘He would have been a young man when his family moved away to Birmingham.’

‘It makes no difference. His roots are here.’

‘I suppose you’re right.’

‘I am right,’ said Fry.

Cooper knew she was right, but it was interesting to hear her argue the significance of someone’s roots. Fry had always seemed to him to be a totally rootless person. She’d been taken away from her parents when she was very young, moved from foster home to foster home, separated from her sister, then finally washed up here in the Peak District, a hundred miles from anywhere that she knew.

‘Some connections might emerge from the family history,’ he said. ‘Did you happen to ask Pauline Outram about the jewellery box?’

‘Yes. She said it was her mother’s. The only thing Pauline inherited from her.’

‘And her uncle’s briefcase?’

‘She has no idea.’

‘So how do you fit the Eden Valley Hunt into this picture?’ asked Cooper.

‘Patrick Rawson was staying at the Birch Hall Country Hotel, and had arranged to meet someone near Birchlow. During that encounter, he was killed, and the hunt were right in the middle of it. Given Michael Clay’s origins in Birchlow, you can’t tell me that’s a coincidence.’

‘No. So, what? Some kind of old family feud that Rawson stumbled into by accident? Could Clay have been the real target?’

‘That,’ said Fry, ‘is what we should be trying to find out.’

Hesitantly, Cooper continued to hang around Fry’s desk until there was no one within earshot. After a moment, Fry looked up at him again. She seemed uneasy, probably because she wasn’t sure what Cooper wanted, or what he was going to say. Silence unsettled her, he’d noticed.

But Fry had no reason to be uneasy. As soon as he’d seen her enter the room, Cooper had been overwhelmed by an impression that she was going through a difficult time. She’d looked so alone and vulnerable.

‘Was there something else you wanted to say, Ben?’ she asked.

Cooper took a deep breath. ‘Just that… I’m concerned about you, Diane. I know it’s difficult going through a stressful time without any support…’

She stared at him. ‘Is that it? Is that what you felt you had to say?’

‘You can feel very isolated. If it were me, I’d be glad of all the support I could get.’

Fry was lost for words for a few moments. ‘Support? From you? What kind of support do you think you can give me?’

Cooper was deterred only for a second. He glanced around the room, made sure there was no one near, moved in front of Fry as she seemed to be about to get up and walk away. There were times for walking away, and this wasn’t one of them.

‘Just talk to me, Diane.’

‘Talk to you?’ she said. ‘Ben, we’re different people, you and me. You have support from your family, you’ve been surrounded by it all your life. I’m sure that’s lovely and warm and fuzzy, and all that. But some of us have grown up without the need for support. We’re strong enough to look after ourselves. So your concern isn’t necessary.’

‘You know, if we’re going to get a forced shake-up in this department, we should stick together.’

‘Are you the shop steward all of a sudden, Ben? I didn’t even know we’d got a trade union.’

‘I’m not suggesting we work to rule or anything. Just – you know, support each other.’

Fry hissed, a sound low enough that no one else in the office would hear it, but piercing enough for Cooper to get the message loud and clear.

‘Ben, I don’t need your support, OK? I’ll be just fine. Go and give your support to someone else.’

‘Think you’ll get support from Superintendent Branagh? It would be like Dracula becoming a vegetarian.’

Fry stood up and began to stack the files back together.

‘I’ll do that, if you like,’ said Cooper.

‘I can do it myself.’

She grabbed her phone off the desk, flicking it open as if to check whether she had any messages, though they both knew it would have rung if she had. He was perfectly familiar with her ring tone. No downloaded pop tunes for Fry, just a few unobtrusive electronic notes like something from the opening of The X Files. Nothing to upset a bereaved relative.

In fact, a strange silence had descended on the CID room. Cooper turned, and saw Detective Superintendent Branagh standing in the doorway. She said nothing, but looked at Fry and raised one eyebrow.

‘Coming, ma’am,’ said Fry.

She went almost eagerly, and Cooper began to wonder whether he was completely wrong, and everyone else was wrong too, about Fry going through a bad time. Maybe it was something else entirely. Perhaps it was quite the opposite.

Before they left, Cooper looked at Superintendent Branagh again. Who would want to hitch their wagon to that kind of horse?