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.’
18
Dermot Walsh came in to West Street with a female colleague he introduced as Daksha Patel. They were an odd pair — Patel small and elegant, Walsh built like a prop forward, square and broad-shouldered, his neck padded
